‘I see,’ Arthur replied evenly. ‘Might I ask where you stand on the matter, my lord?’

Castlereagh indicated a large folder of reports on his desk. ‘I have been reading through the material on your brother’s term of office, and frankly, I can see why some might argue that his policies were not justified.Take the war against the Mahrattas as an example.The costs of that venture seem to vastly outweigh any perceivable benefits for the Company, and Britain. One might almost suspect that the real reason for fighting the Mahrattas was little more than personal glorification. It must be tempting for any Governor General to make his mark on so broad and unblemished a canvas as the lands of India. Who can blame him?’ Castlereagh paused, and when he continued there was ice-cold steel in his tone.‘Nevertheless, the financial, and human, resources of the East India Company are not the playthings of the ambitious. Your brother will be called to account when he returns, and if he fails to explain himself to the satisfaction of Parliament he will be ruined . . . utterly. Now, I am not a vindictive man, Sir Arthur, and I see no reason why the disgrace of your brother should afflict you, or the rest of your family. Particularly if you should co-operate with the inquiry into your brother’s actions.’

Arthur cleared his throat and stared directly at the Secretary of State for War. ‘This is Britain’s darkest hour, my lord. We are fighting for our survival, against a tyrant and his hordes. We are not simply another one of Bonaparte’s enemies. We are the last hope of Europe. If we are defeated, then all other nations opposed to France will lose heart.’ He leaned forward. ‘That is why we must do everything we can to strengthen Britain’s power around the world. If Richard had not taken the bull by the horns and strengthened our hold on India, then we would have been forced to contest every inch of the ground with the French and their allies. It is my belief . . . my utter conviction . . . that Richard was justified in his policies, and it is nothing less than a scandal that his political foes are seeking to ruin him. If Bonaparte ever defeats Britain, it will be due as much to the misdirected efforts of envious Englishmen as to his armies.’

He sat back in his chair with a defiant expression. Lord Castlereagh’s lips were pressed into a thin line as he stared back. Neither man spoke for a moment, then Castlereagh rose from his chair.

‘We have said all that needs to be said for now, Wellesley. I sincerely hope that you will not live to regret your decision to stand by your brother.’

Arthur smiled. ‘The longer the war goes on, the less likely it is that I will live to regret any decision, my lord. A prospect that few politicians have to face, I’ll warrant. I bid you good day.’

Chapter 6

Napoleon

Boulogne, August 1805

The encampment of the army tasked with invading Britain spread out for miles in all directions. From the top of the signal station Napoleon could make out row upon row of the shacks and shelters that his men had constructed across the countryside. Interspersed with the camps were the areas cleared for parade grounds, artillery parks, supply stockpiles and horse lines. Over a hundred thousand men were poised to board the invasion barges in ports along the coast.

Below the signal station the harbour was filled with clumsy flat-bottomed transports. According to the senior naval officer at the port, the vessels handled badly and were too exposed to the elements. His opinion was of little concern to Napoleon. As long as the barges were capable of crossing the channel to Britain that was all that was required of them. But before that crossing could be undertaken there was the small matter of clearing the path of the opposing fleet.

The wind suddenly howled round the signal station tower for a moment, threatening to dislodge Napoleon’s hat, and his hand flew up to hold the brim firmly until the gust had passed. He waited a moment to be sure, then raised his telescope and rested it on the edge of the wall that ran round the top of the tower. He slowly tracked across the choppy white-capped waves out over the sea until he found what he was looking for.

A British frigate was cruising along the coast in a languid fashion, under topsails in the strong breeze. A handful of tiny figures could be seen climbing the rigging to make adjustments to the trim of the canvas that bloomed from the highest spars. Napoleon watched the warship for a moment, as it gracefully went about and put in a tack away from the coast.The same ship had been patrolling the approaches to the harbour for months, in an unceasing routine that varied only minutely according to weather conditions. Napoleon shifted the direction of the telescope towards the horizon and after a short search found the neatly spaced line of white topsails of the rest of the blockading squadron.At least ten ships of the line stood watch over the French port, great towering slabs of oak pierced by two or three lines of gun ports. Between them those ships carried twice as many cannon as the army surrounding Napoleon, and of greater weight too. As the situation stood, if the invasion fleet attempted to cross the Channel in the face of the British navy it would be blown to pieces long before it reached the English coast.

The situation was about to change, Napoleon reflected with satisfaction as he straightened up and closed his telescope with a snap. For months now the scattered squadrons of the French navy had been breaking out of their ports and heading across the Atlantic to a secret rendezvous off the coast of Martinique. If all went according to plan, AdmiralVilleneuve would wait until he had forty ships of the line under his command. Then he would recross the ocean and fall upon the English Channel fleet with overwhelming force, and crush the enemy. Even if he failed to defeat them,Villeneuve would be able to clear the Channel for long enough to cover the invasion fleet.

Napoleon turned to his chief of staff. ‘Still no word then, Berthier?’

‘No, sire. Nothing in the morning despatches.’

‘No signals from Paris? Nothing relayed from the watch station at Ushant?’

‘I’m afraid not, sire.’

Admiral Villeneuve and his fleet were overdue. Napoleon turned to gaze out over the sprawl of shelters and tents of his army and slapped his thigh in frustration. A month earlier he had secretly quit Italy and travelled across France to be with the army by the time the French fleet appeared in the Channel. After his spectacular coronation in Milan he and his court had toured the great cities of northern Italy, moving from one civic reception to another, surrounded by cheering crowds who were delighted to be free of the iron fist of the Austrian empire. But all the time, Napoleon was thinking of his plans for the invasion of Britain. With luck, the enemy would think that he was still in Italy even as the army was boarding the transports, ready to cross the narrow channel under the protection of Admiral Villeneuve’s fleet.

But luck, it seemed, was against him, Napoleon mused. That timid fool Villeneuve had failed to carry out his orders so far. The admiral had been present at the Battle of the Nile when Nelson’s warships had annihilated the French fleet. Ever since thenVilleneuve had been in awe of the British navy. On several occasions in the past year Napoleon had been driven to frustration and rage by the admiral’s failure to put to sea, even when wind and numbers were on his side. It was only by directly threatening to dismiss Villeneuve that he had finally got his way. Napoleon pressed his lips together. Most of the navy’s senior officers had been purged during the revolution, and the weak-minded Villeneuve was one of the few that remained. Otherwise he would have been removed from his post long ago.