Epilogue
The passing of booted feet, horses’ legs and
carriage wheels up at the window did nothing to distract Henry
Arbuthnot as he went about his work. He had become so used to the
passing traffic that the window was no more than a source of
illumination to him. Arbuthnot had spent the last five years
working in this large office in the basement of an anonymous house
in Whitehall rented by the Cabinet Office. The rent, like the rest
of the costs of this department, was concealed from the scrutiny of
parliament. Indeed, very few people were even aware that the
department existed at all, and paid little heed to the premises
described by a small, neatly painted sign, as the Oriental Ware
Trading Company. This obscurity pleased Arbuthnot, since the work
of the department was best conducted with as much discretion as
possible.Very few of the senior officers of the army and navy had
any knowledge of the department’s activities, which was ironic,
Arbuthnot reflected, given how often their orders were determined
as a result of the reports produced by the department for Mr Pitt
and his Secretary at War.
Every day Arbuthnot’s subordinates sifted through
foreign newspapers, dispatches from embassies and coded messages
from agents scattered across the known world - an immense amount of
detail that had to be scrutinised for any nugget of information of
value to those who drew up British policy, and to those who saw
that the path of the same policy was smoothed by discreetly
deployed bribery, sabotage, misinformation and, occasionally,
assassination.
A small part of the department’s work was to
provide analysis of military campaigns of British forces, as well
as those of Britain’s allies and enemies, the purpose of this being
to identify ways of improving the operational effectiveness. Even
if this meant swallowing national pride to steal ideas from other
nations. Not that such ideas were often implemented, Arbuthnot
thought sadly. The prejudices of politicians and senior officers
were often an insurmountable obstacle to improving the performance
of the men they sent to war. So the department’s victories in this
field were few and far between, and Arbuthnot had resigned himself
to a gradualist philosophy of placing morsels of intelligence
before his superiors until they understood the issue well enough to
claim the ideas as their own. However frustrating that might be, at
least it ensured that the right decisions were taken, more often
than not. Albeit more often too late than timely. But the
department had to work in the real world where rationality was the
poor second cousin to political expediency.
Part of the department’s analysis of military
activity was intended to provide information on the officers
involved. It was as well to know the strengths and weaknesses of
the men who led the armies of the day, and those who would lead
armies in future years, should they survive the fortunes of war.
Accordingly, thousands of files were kept in the records section in
the building’s cellars, organised by nationality and cross-indexed
by rank and speciality. With the opening of a new war in Europe
Arbuthnot’s department had opened scores of new files in recent
months, several of which had recently been completed and submitted
to Arbuthnot for approval before being placed in the archive.
He had been working through them all morning and
just when the mass of detail and analysis began to pall he had
encountered a file that arrested his attention, perhaps because
Arbuthnot had personally overseen the study carried out on the
disaster at Toulon. The officer’s name was already known to him
from the initial sketchy reports from agents in France, and here it
was again. Brigadier Napoleon Buona Parte, or Bonaparte, as he
signed himself more recently. As Arbuthnot read on it was clear
that the rapidly promoted young man was far more gifted in military
arts than the vast majority of his peers. If the war against France
continued for several more years then this man Bonaparte would bear
watching closely, for he could represent a considerable challenge
to British arms. Arbuthnot finished the report and, after a
moment’s thought, added a comment that the file was to be given
priority status. From now on Bonaparte’s career would be closely
followed by eyes far from his new home in France.
Arbuthnot quickly skimmed back over the
biographical details and was about to close the folder when his
gaze was arrested by a small detail. Nothing of great consequence,
but a coincidence all the same. He reached over for the files he
had read earlier on, sorting through those coded for British
officers until he found the one he wanted: a slim file, still to be
filled out as its subject gathered experience and gained
promotion.
‘Colonel Arthur Wesley,’ Arbuthnot muttered. He
flicked the folder open and ran his eyes down the brief notes on
the first page. The colonel was one of the few men to emerge from
the Flanders débâcle with his reputation intact.A good combat
record and an officer who clearly looked after his men and had
their full confidence. Then Arbuthnot came across the section that
had jogged his memory.
‘Born in the same year,’ he muttered. ‘Raised as
a provincial aristocrat . . . father died early . . . hmm.’ He slid
the two files towards each other. Bonaparte and Wesley. Two young
men with considerable promise. Both of whom were precisely the kind
of men that their nations so desperately needed in the epic
struggle that was to come. Arbuthnot smiled. If the war dragged on
for many years there was every chance that both would be dead
before it was over. But if they survived, if they prospered and won
the promotion they so evidently deserved, that left the fascinating
prospect of what might happen should they ever meet on the
battlefield.
The end of Volume 1