“Oh, probably! But there is no need for concern, I assure you. We are a long way from Washington or New Orleans or any of those places where the battles were. Hundreds of miles I expect. At least … That is to say I am not sure where exactly. Do you think it matters?”¹

Hadley-Bright dashed outside to find the Duke and tell him that, contrary to what he might have supposed, the French were now in Belgium, but he, the Duke, was not.

His Grace (who happened to be taking tea with some British politicians and Belgian countesses) received the news in his customary imperturbable fashion. But half an hour later he appeared in Strange’s hotel with the Quartermaster General, Colonel De Lancey. He stared down at the vision in the silver dish with a grim expression. “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God!” he exclaimed. “De Lancey, you must write the orders as quickly as you can. We must gather the Army at Quatre Bras.”

Poor Colonel De Lancey looked most alarmed. “But how do we deliver the orders to the officers with all the Atlantic between us?” he asked.

“Oh,” said his Grace, “Mr Strange will take care of that.” His eye was caught by something outside the window. Four horsemen were passing by. They had the bearing of kings and the expressions of emperors. Their skin was the colour of mahogany; their long hair was the shiny jet-black of a raven’s wing. They were dressed in skins decorated with porcupine quills. Each was equipped with a rifle in a leather case, a fearsome-looking spear (as feathered as their heads) and a bow. “Oh, and De Lancey! Find someone to ask those fellows if they would like to fight tomorrow, would you? They look as if they could do the business.”

An hour or so later, in the town of Ath twenty miles from Brussels (or, rather, twenty miles from where Brussels usually stood) a pâtissier took a batch of little cakes from the oven. After the cakes had cooled he drew a letter upon each one in pink icing – a thing he had never in his life done before. His wife (who knew not a word of English) laid the cakes in a wooden tray and gave the tray to the sous-pâtissier. The sous-pâtissier carried it to the Headquarters of the Allied Army in the town, where Sir Henry Clinton was issuing orders to his officers. The sous-pâtissier presented the cakes to Sir Henry. Sir Henry took one and was about to carry it to his mouth when Major Norcott of the 95th Rifles gave a cry of surprize. There in front of them, written in pink icing on little cakes, was a dispatch from Wellington instructing Sir Henry to move the 2nd Division of Infantry towards Quatre Bras with as little delay as possible. Sir Henry looked up in amazement. The sous-pâtissier beamed at him.

At about the same time the general in charge of the 3rd Division – a Hanoverian gentleman called Sir Charles Alten – was hard at work in a château twenty-five miles south-west of Brussels. He happened to look out of the window and observed a very small and oddly behaved rainstorm in the courtyard. It shed its rain in the centre of the courtyard and touched the walls not at all. Sir Charles was curious enough to go outside and look more closely. There, written in the dust with raindrops, was the following missive: