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Tregembo, assisting Mullender at the table. He sliced into the white meat of the fowl’s breast.
    â€˜It seems that a pitched battle was fought between considerable forces of French and Russians at a place near Königsberg called . . . Eylau, or some such . . . is that sufficient, Mr Rogers? Doubtless,’ he continued, turning again to Mount, ‘it is noted upon your atlas.’
    A chuckle ran round the table and Mount flushed to rival his coat. He had been greatly teased about his acquisition of a large Military Atlas, purporting to cover the whole of Europe, India, North America and the Cape of Good Hope to a standard ‘compatible with the contemplation, comprehension, verification and execution of military campaigns engaged in by the forces of His Majesty’. Armed with this
vade mecum
, Mount had bored the occupants of the gunroom rigid withinterminable explanations of the brilliance of Napoleon’s campaign in Prussia the previous year. The double victory of Jena-Auerstadt, which in a single day had destroyed the Prussian military machine, had failed to impress anyone except James Quilhampton who had pored over the appropriate pages of the atlas out of pity for Mount and was rewarded by a conviction that the likelihood of a French defeat was remote. The completeness of the cavalry pursuit after Jena seemed to make little difference to the naval officers, though it had brought the French to the very shores of the Baltic Sea and reduced the Prussian army to a few impotent garrisons in beleaguered fortresses, and a small field force under a General Lestocq. Mount’s admiration for the genius behind the campaign had led him to suffer a great deal of leg-pulling for his treasonable opinions.
    â€˜And the outcome, sir?’ persisted Mount. ‘You spoke of a check.’
    â€˜Well, one does not like to grasp too eagerly at good news, since it has, in the past, so often proved false. But the Russians gave a good account of themselves, particularly as the French were reported to have been commanded by Napoleon himself.’
    Drinkwater looked round their faces. There was not a man at the table whose imagination was not fired by the prospect of real defeat having been inflicted on the hitherto triumphant Grand Army and its legendary leader.
    â€˜And the Russkies, sir. Who was in command of them?’
    Drinkwater frowned. ‘To tell the truth, Mr Mount, I cannot recollect . . .’
    â€˜Kamenskoi?’
    â€˜No . . . no that was not it . . .’
    â€˜Bennigsen?’
    â€˜You have it, Mr Mount. General Bennigsen. What can you tell us of him?’
    â€˜He is one of the German faction in the Russian service, sir, a Hanoverian by birth, something of a soldier of fortune.’
    â€˜So your hero’s taken a damned good drubbing at last, eh Mount?’ said Lallo the surgeon. ‘ ’Tis about time his luck ran a little thin, I’m thinking.’ Lallo turned to Drinkwater, manifesting a natural anxiety common to them all. ‘It
was
a victory, sir? For the Russians, I mean.’
    â€˜The Swedes seemed positive that it was not a French one, Mr Lallo. It seems they were left exhausted upon the field, but the Russians only withdrew to prepare positions of defence . . .’
    â€˜But if they had beat Boney, why should they want to prepare defences?’
    â€˜I don’t know, but the report seemed positive that Napoleon received a bloody nose.’
    â€˜Let us hope it
is
true,’ said Quilhampton fervently.
    â€˜And not just wishful thinking,’ slurred Rogers with the wisdom of the disenchanted.
    â€˜Napoleon’s the devil of a long way from home,’ said Hill, laying down his knife and fork. ‘If he receives a second serious blow from the Russkies he might overreach himself.’
    Drinkwater finished his own meat. The uncertainty of speculation had destroyed his