Текст книги "The Generals"
Автор книги: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 45 страниц)
Chapter 53
The air was as clear and fresh as any Napoleon had ever tasted and he breathed deeply and filled his lungs as he gazed down the length of the Great St Bernard Pass. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was sinking behind the mountains to the west, making the snow-capped peaks appear blue in the watery light that remained. Napoleon gazed back along the narrow track he had ascended. A long line of soldiers, dark against the snow, snaked down into the treeline. Here and there several men struggled to help mules and horses haul small wagons and empty gun carriages up the slope. The barrels of the cannon, the most awkward of burdens to be taken over the pass, had been tied securely into hollowed-out tree trunks, each one harnessed to a hundred men who were tasked with hauling them up the pass, and then gingerly steering them down the far side.
It had been Marmont’s idea, and Napoleon felt pleased that his choice for the Army of Reserve’s artillery commander had been vindicated. So many of the officers who had served with Napoleon since the early days had turned out to be fine commanders, in spite of humble origins in many cases. Men like Masséna, and Desaix. Thought of the latter made Napoleon smile. A day earlier he had had news that Desaix had broken the blockade of Egypt and returned to France. Napoleon had sent for him at once; a man of Desaix’s talent could be vital to the success of the present campaign. That was the real triumph of the revolution, Napoleon thought with a slight nod. A man might rise as high as any on the basis of merit alone, and not because of some accident of birth. That was why France would win, in the end. For what nation could hope to stand against a nation of men free to pursue their ambitions?
For a moment the cares and concerns of leading an army were forgotten as Napoleon marvelled at the view afforded him from the top of the pass. To one side of the track the hospice of St Bernard squatted in the thick snow, and its monks stood at the entrance passing bread, cheese and wine into the hands of the soldiers as they tramped past, wrapped in coats and blankets, hands in gloves or bound with strips of cloth to save them from the cold, and frostbite. Napoleon watched as a company of the Consular Guard stood and ate their rations, stamping their feet and breathing plumes of steamy breath into the gloomy blue twilight.
Even though Napoleon was wrapped in a large fur coat he felt the sting of the icy air, and the perspiration that he had shed in the final climb up to the top of the pass now chilled his skin.
‘God, it’s cold,’ he muttered.
Junot turned to him. ‘Sir?’
‘I think we’d better get moving again, before it gets dark.’
‘Yes, sir. A lodge has been prepared for us a few miles down the path. We will eat and sleep there.’
Napoleon nodded. For the soldiers there would be no shelter. They would only rest when they reached the treeline, having marched for over two days in the numbing cold with no chance to sleep.
The staff officers moved on to the track and began the descent. Napoleon swapped greetings with the soldiers who made way for them as they passed. Despite their exhaustion he was pleased to see that they were still in high spirits and greeted him with the same rough informality the men had used when he took command of his first army. As night folded over the mountains they proceeded by the light of the braziers that had been set up at regular intervals. Soldiers clustered round each blaze, stretching out their hands to the flames until they were moved on by a sergeant or an officer. At last Napoleon and his small group of staff officers reached the lodge, a solid timber construction with a few small shuttered windows. It smelt musty, but a fire had been built up by the men sent ahead to prepare the shelter for Napoleon. A simple meal of onion soup steamed in a cauldron and the new arrivals fell on it hungrily.
As Napoleon sipped at the scalding brew he read through the reports from the leading division of the army, commanded by Lannes. The news was not good. Thirty miles further on, the valley became very narrow at the village of Bard. Above the village, on a rock, was a fortress with a strong garrison whose cannon covered the route into Italy. Lannes had taken the village without any difficulty, but the fortress was impregnable. Leaving a small force to cover the enemy, Lannes had taken his infantry on a winding track around the fortress and was moving on towards Ivrea. Lannes would be vulnerable without artillery and Napoleon felt his heart sink a little at this first obstacle to his plans.
Time was more important than ever. Shortly before leaving Geneva he had received news that the Austrians had attacked Masséna and divided the Army of Italy. While half the army was driven back towards the French border, the rest, along with Masséna, were under siege in the port city of Genoa, caught between the Austrian army and the Royal Navy. Even though Masséna was short of supplies, Napoleon had sent an order to hold on until the middle of June, long enough to divert the enemy’s attention away from the Army of Reserve closing on them from the Alps. It was a bad situation but Napoleon was reassured by the fact that Masséna was in command at Genoa. He could be counted on to fight for as long as possible.
However heroic Masséna might be, Napoleon reflected, everything depended on getting the Army of Reserve into position in the shortest possible time, and the delay at Bard might yet cost him dearly. He set his spoon down with a sharp rap on the table and stood up. ‘Junot, Bourrienne, come with me. We must keep going. The rest of you follow first thing in the morning.’>
He led the way outside, and explained briefly about the situation at Bard as they continued along the icy track, joining the dark string of soldiers trudging south.The night sky was clear and stars gleamed brilliantly in the velvet heavens as they marched as fast as they could. As soon as the ground became level and firm enough to ride a horse, Napoleon and the others commandeered some mounts from a cavalry regiment and rode on, passing Aosta before dawn and from there following the Dora Baltea river towards Bard where they arrived at the headquarters of General Berthier late in the afternoon.
Napoleon saw at once that Lannes had not exaggerated the problem presented by the fortress. It completely dominated the ravine through which the main route passed. Berthier pointed out a number of shattered wagons and cannon littering the track below the fortress, togther with the bodies of several horses and men.
‘We tried to get some artillery and supplies through to Lannes last night, sir. But they heard us, and rolled some burning faggots into the ravine and shot the column to pieces. The only other route past the fortress is up there, sir. The engineers have started work on widening the track, but it will take several days.’
Napleon followed the direction indicated by Berthier and saw a string of tiny figures picking their way along the side of a cliff. There was not even room for a horse, he realised. That meant that, with the exception of the infantry, the army was bottled up by this fortress and its garrison of no more than a few hundred.
‘Well, we must make an attempt to assault the fortress,’ Napoleon decided. ‘Tonight.’
‘We already tried a direct assault two days ago, sir. The only approach to the fort is up that road from the village. The road is covered by several guns and they cut our men down with grapeshot before they even got near the walls.’
‘Then we might have a better chance under the cover of darkness,’ Napoleon responded. ‘And while the enemy are distracted by the attack, we’ll try to send another column through the ravine. I admit it’s risky, but we have to get the guns through to Lannes.’
Berthier opened his mouth to protest, but he saw the familiar set expression in his superior’s face that indicated there would be no further discussion of the situation. Berthier turned to his staff with a sigh and gave orders for the attack.
Two hours after the sun had set behind the mountains and darkness has filled the valley, Napoleon and Berthier stood on a small spur of rock to watch the assault.An infantry battalion, with several ladders, was already picking its way up the road from the village. Each man was carrying only his musket and a cartridge pouch, although none of their weapons was loaded yet, in case some fool fired by accident and alerted the garrison. Down in the village, a column of supply wagons and a battery of limbered guns were ready to move forward the moment the attack began. Once night had fallen, engineers had crept down the road, smothering it with straw and dung to muffle the sound of the vehicles’ wheels, which had been wrapped in sacking.
A blazing wicker bundle suddenly flared up on the gatehouse of the fort and then it arced out across the road, landed in a shower of sparks and began to roll down the slope, illuminating the attackers as they dived aside to avoid being mown down by the flaming ball. At once the Austrian guns blasted a storm of grapeshot into the ranks of the French infantry racing towards the walls with their spindly-looking ladders. As Napoleon watched, scores of his men were struck down by the withering fire from the fortress and only a small party reached the outermost bastion and threw their ladder up against the wall. But they died to a man in the crossfire from the other squat towers that projected from the wall.
Napoleon turned his attention to the road that passed down the ravine.The column there had been ordered to move forward the moment the firing began. It was too dark to trace their progress amid the snow-laden trees that ran beside the track, and Napoleon nodded his satisfaction with that. If the Austrians missed them, then Lannes would have enough artillery to continue his advance. But even as the thought passed through his mind, more flaring bundles tumbled down from the fortress and the startled men driving the wagons and gun carriages were lit up in the red glow the flames cast across the gleaming snow on the ground. Tiny stabs of light rippled along the wall as the defenders fired their muskets down into the ravine.
‘At least their guns can’t be trained on the road immediately below the fortress,’ Napoleon commented.
‘They don’t need guns,’ Berthier responded grimly. ‘Look there.’
A spark, like a star, arced down towards the road and a moment later there was a brilliant explosion as a grenade blew up close to one of the gun limbers, dropping all but the lead horses. By some miracle the driver escaped injury and stood up and stared down at his dead and dying horses in their traces.Then he was hit and toppled to one side and lay still on the ground.
Napoleon had seen enough to know that the attack and the attempt to sneak past the fortress had failed.
‘Berthier, call your men back, and whatever is left of the supply column down there. We’ll have to try something else, or try it again tomorrow night.’
Berthier gestured towards the fort.‘We’ll never take that place by force, sir. Perhaps we should have chosen a different route.’
Napoleon’s eyes narrowed as he replied, ‘What help is that observation to me now, eh? We are here, Berthier, and we concentrate our minds on what is before us. Nothing else matters. So, pull your men back, rest them, treat their wounds, and send them back against the fort tomorrow. As for the artillery, we’ll have to try again tonight. This time with just two guns. We’ll set off at midnight.’
‘We?’ Berthier looked at him sharply, his face dimly visible by the loom of the snow.
‘Yes. I’ll be going with the guns. I have to reach the vanguard as soon as possible.’
Berthier was silent for a moment, while he considered protesting that Napoleon should not take such a risk. But he knew his commander well enough to realise any such protests were pointless. They always had been since that suicidally brave charge at Arcola. Berthier nodded wearily. ‘Yes, sir.’
Napoleon turned away and softly crunched through the snow as he made his way down to the village of Bard where a room awaited him in the modest inn by the small square in the heart of the village. He sat and warmed himself by a fire as he drank some soup and then, leaving orders that he should be called at eleven thirty, he closed his eyes and eased himself back in a chair. He did not sleep. His mind was filled with a torrent of thoughts: anxiety about the stability of the government he had left in Paris; the threat presented by General Moreau’s popularity throughout the army; Josephine, naked, with arms outstretched towards him, then a fleeting image of her in another man’s arms; he banished the image from his mind and hurriedly concentrated on the current campaign.
Napoleon pictured the map of the Alps and northern Italy, superimposing his forces on the landscape, and those of the enemy gleaned from the latest intelligence reports. He shook his head as he saw that the delay at Bard would give the enemy plenty of warning that the French army was attempting to cut across their communications with Austria. If they moved as slowly as they had done in the past, then there would still be time for Napoleon to concentrate his army and face the enemy on favourable terms. If, however, General Melas seized his chance, he could defeat the French forces piecemeal. The spectre of defeat haunted his thoughts and made rest, let alone sleep, impossible over the following hours.
Napoleon took a last look at the dark mass of the fortress looming above the ravine. The roar of cannon fire from the French lines rumbled across the valley, echoing back from the sides of the surrounding mountains. More than enough noise to help conceal the sound that the gun carriages and their limbers would make in the next few minutes.
‘Time to go,’ he muttered to Junot. ‘Ready?’
Junot nodded.
Around them were the men of the hussar squadron Napoleon had chosen to act as his bodyguard while he rode to join Lannes at Ivrea. Behind the mounted men, two four-pounder horse-guns were ready to move off, harnessed to the best horses that could be found in the artillery train. This time Napoleon had decided to gamble on speed, rather than subtlety. His heart beat against his breast like a caged eagle as he lifted his chin from the fur collar of his coat and called out, ‘Advance!’
He spurred his horse forward. Junot and the hussars followed him, and behind them the tackle and timber of the guns jingled as they slowly gathered speed and caught up with the trotting cavalry just as they emerged from the village on to the track running into the gorge. Napoleon glanced up at the fortress, and could just make out the line of the battlements against the sky. They rode on, into the gorge, and the rocky spur jutting out from the cliff opposite the fortress forced them towards the enemy. Just as they came to the point closest to the walls there was a faint shout, audible even above the boom and echo of the French guns.
Napoleon steered his mount to the side and reined in.
‘Go! Go!’ he shouted to the hussars and then again to the artillery riders as they came up. Above them, flames flared up and once more a wicker bundle roared down the cliff. This time Napoleon was almost beneath it, and the sight was terrifying. He kicked his heels in and raced after the others, and there was a crackling thud and explosion of sparks as the bundle landed close behind him. Shots cracked from the wall above and he heard them whip down into the snow on either side as he leaned forward and rode on, urging his horse to gallop as fast as it could until he had passed beyond the loom of the burning wood and caught up with the others. More blazing bundles roared down towards them like fiery comets as they passed through the ravine, but they stayed just ahead of where the enemy guessed they must be and only one of the shots fired wildly into the darkness from the fortress struck home, into the haunch of one of the hussars’ horses. It reared up with a shrill whinny before its rider regained control and urged it on with whispered curses.
Once clear of the gorge they rode on for another half-mile, the cannon jolting across the rough track, and then Napoleon gave the order to slow down and continue at a walk. He paused, with Junot, to look back towards the fortress.
‘We did it!’ Junot shook his head in wonder. ‘We did it, sir.’
Napoleon grinned. ‘Did you ever really doubt that we would?’
‘The thought crossed my mind.’
‘Ha!’ Napoleon reached over and slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Come on then. We must find Lannes and get these guns to him.’
As June began, over fifty thousand of Napoleon’s men had crossed the Alps and were massing north of the River Po.The fort at Bard was still holding up his artillery train and the army had only a handful of cannon that had survived the hazardous passage of the gorge.A few more cannon had been taken from the enemy garrisons following the capture of Ivrea, Pavia and Milan. As Napoleon entered the city the Milanese turned out in their thousands to cheer the arrival of the French army.
Napoleon turned to Junot with a smile. ‘Seems that any grievances they might have nursed from the last time I was here have been forgotten.’
Junot nodded as he gazed warily round at the crowd. ‘Let’s hope they remain friendly long enough for us to defeat the Austrians.’
‘Of course. Now smile and wave at your adoring public, as any good liberator should.’
The following night, as Napoleon and his staff settled into the mansion formerly occupied by the Austrian governor of the city, a messenger arrived from Murat, scouting ahead of the main army with his light cavalry. The hussar was exhausted and mudstained, and as he took the dispatch from the man Napoleon ordered that he be fed and given good accommodation for the night. Once the messenger had gone, he returned to the dining table where the staff officers were noisily celebrating the capture of Milan: the latest prize to fall to the French army in this campaign that seemed to be succeeding so gloriously once they had left the Alps behind them.Their spirits were even higher now that Desaix had joined them, and was entertaining his comrades with tales of his adventures in Egypt.
Napoleon broke the seal and quickly scanned the contents.
He read it again, more slowly, before folding it and setting it down on the table. Picking up his fork he rapped the side of the tureen in front of him. The conversation died away instantly and the gold-braided officers turned towards him, some still smiling.
‘Gentlemen, Murat has captured some dispatches sent from General Melas to Vienna. It seems that General Masséna has been obliged to surrender Genoa.’
There was a brief silence before General Lannes thumped his fist down, clattering the cutlery and dishes around him. ‘Shit!’
‘Quite,’ Napoleon responded. ‘As of yesterday, Masséna was still discussing terms. That will hold an element of the enemy in place around Genoa, but the bulk of their army is now free to face us. The question is, will they try to slip past us and reestablish their lines of communication with Austria, or will they fight?’
‘Fight?’ Lannes snorted. ‘They’ll run all the way back to Mantua and duck down behind the walls.’
Napoleon nodded.‘I agree. In which case we must make them fight.As soon as possible, before they can concentrate their forces. Lannes, your division is closest to Masséna.You will cross the Po at once and march on Genoa. Make contact with the enemy as soon as possible. The rest of the army will force march to catch up with you. Desaix!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There’s no more time for tall tales.’
Desaix grinned. ‘No, sir.’
‘Then you will take two divisions and set off after Lannes. Gentlemen!’ Napoleon stood up and leaned forward across the table, resting his weight on his knuckles. ‘If we can bring the enemy to battle then this campaign can be decided in a matter of days, weeks at the most. Make sure you let every man in the army know it.’ He poured himself a glass and raised it. ‘To victory!’
Marching through driving rain the Army of Reserve crossed the Po and closed on the enemy. As they marched Napoleon read the reports from Murat. It was clear that the Austrians were advancing north from Genoa towards the fortress city of Alessandria. If they reached it first then they could make for the north bank of the Po and threaten Napoleon’s supply lines leading back through the Alpine passes. Then, on 13 June, Murat’s scouts reported that the enemy was retreating on Genoa.
‘Are you certain?’ Napoleon stared at Berthier in surprise.
His chief of staff gestured to the map that covered the table between them. All the latest sightings of enemy formations had been pencilled in. ‘It’s difficult to be sure, sir. The enemy cavalry is stronger than ours, and is doing a good job of screening their army. But, from what Murat’s scouts are reporting, I can think of no other explanation.’
‘Then we must stop them, at once.’ Napoleon leaned over the map and stabbed his finger at one of the blue boxes Berthier had marked on the map earlier. ‘Desaix . . . Order Desaix to march south towards Novi. He is to try to hook round and cut across their line of march. If he can do that, then we can close the trap on Melas.’
Berthier glanced up with a questioning look. ‘Are you sure that’s wise, sir? To divide our army when we’re so close to the enemy?’
Napoleon patted him on the shoulder. ‘Berthier, if our enemy was advancing, then of course I would concentrate our strength. But he’s not. He’s in full retreat, and we cannot afford to let him escape us. If Melas does reach Genoa then we’ll be obliged to lay siege to the town and the campaign will drag on for months. So,’ he tapped the map, ‘we’ll make for this village, Marengo, while Desaix blocks his line of retreat. Then we will have our battle.’
Berthier stared at the map. ‘I hope so, sir.’
The next morning dawned clear and bright and Napoleon rose early. He was in high spirits. Patrols had been sent towards the small enemy force covering the bridge across the Bormida river. On the far bank, the reports said, lay the bulk of the enemy’s army. Now that he knew where they were, it only remained to cross the river and fight the battle. If things went true to form, the Austrians would be preparing defensive works and waiting for the enemy to come to them, Napoleon mused, as he leaned over the map. He ate a leisurely breakfast, making notes for the coming battle.
He looked up at the faint sound of a few cannons being fired, over towards the Bormida. The sounds did not increase in intensity and he put it down to a skirmish around the bridgehead between the enemy and General Victor’s men, and turned his attention back to the map. Around him the tents of Watrin’s division stretched out in ordered ranks. After the tiring marches of recent days the men were enjoying their rest and their relaxed chatter and singing drifted across the camp. At length, Napoleon was satisfied that he had worked out the details of his attack and was about to call for Berthier when a staff officer strode up towards his table and saluted.
‘Message from General Victor, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘He asks you to come at once. The enemy is attacking.’
‘I know. I heard the guns earlier. I’m sure that General Victor can contain the enemy’s bridgehead.’
The officer shook his head. ‘General Victor says the entire enemy army is crossing the river.’
Napoleon stared at him for a moment and then laughed. ‘Oh, come now! The man must be exaggerating. The Austrians wouldn’t dare . . . surely.’ A cold feeling of anxiety pricked the base of his spine, and he stood up. ‘Oh, very well, I’ll have a look. Fetch Junot and have our horses readied.’
As they rode up the road towards Marengo, Napoleon was still thinking over the plans of his attack, and was frustrated that he had not been able to commit them to paper. If this alarm proved to be over little more than a feint to cover the Austrian retreat on Genoa, then General Victor would deserve a firm dressing down for wasting Napoleon’s time instead of dealing with the matter on his own. He reached the far side of the village and rode up to the small rise that gave fine views towards the Bormida.There he suddenly reined in, his back stiffening as he surveyed the flat plain in front of him. A mile away, the men of Victor’s corps, some ten thousand men, were forming up to face the enemy. A short distance beyond them, and spreading out along the bank of the Bormida river, were dense columns of Austrian infantry marching directly towards the French lines. To the right large cavalry formations kicked up clouds of dust as they edged towards the French flanks. His experienced eye calculated that over thirty thousand of the enemy must be across the river already. Within moments they would attack, and the anxiety he had felt shortly before now became fully fledged fear for the fate of his divided army, surprised by the sudden advance of the Austrians.
He turned to Junot. ‘A message to Desaix.Take it down.’
While he waited for Junot to take out his notebook and pencil Napoleon cast a last look at the enemy wave closing on the thin ribbon of Victor’s men, and he felt rage at himself for underestimating his enemy so fatally. He turned back to Junot, saw that he was ready, and dictated. ‘I had thought to attack Melas. He has attacked me first. For God’s sake come back to the army if you still can. Or all is lost . . .’
