Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Napoleon felt his stomach clench tightly as he was gripped by a familiar rage at the thought of his old enemy, defying him from behind the wooden walls of the Royal Navy. It was a perverse freak of geography that had separated England from the rest of the continent by that narrow, unbridgeable channel. From behind that cursed channel, England, a nation of petty businessmen, mocked him. But for that strip of water, it would all be over. England would be occupied, its fleets broken up, and Europe would be enjoying peace under the leadership of France, and Napoleon, and his heirs. Instead, the war continued, slowly eating away at the flower of French manhood down in Spain.

There was scarcely any good news from Madrid. Just endless lists of casualties and demands for more men, supplies and gold. Spain was like an open festering wound in the side of his empire, Napoleon decided. Worst of all, his marshals seemed to have got it into their heads that their English opponent was some kind of military genius. It was clear from their reports that they had begun to fear Lord Wellington. Even though the forces commanded by the marshals outnumbered the English, and could outmarch them, it seemed that when the English general was forced to fight the courage of Napoleon’s marshals withered and they were too nervous to finish off the fox that they had successfully cornered. If only there was time for him to go to Spain and face this English aristocrat himself, Napoleon thought bitterly. He would manoeuvre Wellington into a trap and crush him in short order. The thought of proving to his marshals how groundless their fears were was most appealing. He would triumph where they had wavered, and he would prove before all Europe that he was the finest general of the age, or indeed any age.

But there was little chance of finding the time to campaign in the Peninsula, Napoleon realised. There was an empire to rule, and enemies to be faced here in Paris, as well as the other great capitals of Europe. If there was going to be a war between France and Russia then he would need to bend his full concentration towards preparing for that conflict. It would be a struggle on a gigantic scale. As his mind grappled once again with the complexities involved in an invasion of Russia, Napoleon briefly wondered if it could be done. The distances concerned were greater than any he had led an army before. There would be a huge wastage of men, horses and wagons, long before he could engage the Tsar’s armies, or, failing that, seize St Petersburg or Moscow and dictate his terms for peace from one of the Tsar’s palaces.

Napoleon knew that there would not be enough men in France to fill out the ranks of the army he would need. He would be forced to depend upon contributions from his allies. Meanwhile, over a quarter of a million of his soldiers were tied down in Spain. It was maddening. Napoleon clenched his fist and frowned, and then he felt his stomach knot again, tightly, and the now familiar pain stabbed into his guts. Overwork and too much anxiety – that’s what caused the stomach pains, according to the imperial surgeon.

The last of the captured colours passed by the reviewing stand and the parade was over. He thrust all thought of war from his mind and turned to his Empress. He took her hand and squeezed it gently, smiling as she turned to look at him with a questioning arch in her finely shaped eyebrows.

‘I hope you are not cold, my dear. You have been sitting here for over two hours.’

‘I am warm enough.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘It pleases me to be at your side.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘I suspect you are being kind to me. I should think only soldiers, and those who want to be soldiers, enjoy such parades.’ He leaned closer to her and nodded in the direction of Kurakin and Talleyrand. ‘Others, however, evidently find such occasions a bore.’ Napoleon suddenly released her hand and straightened up. ‘Is that not right, Talleyrand?’

Talleyrand turned quickly, his face wearing its usual neutral expression. ‘Pardon, sire?’

Napoleon rose from his seat and gestured to Marie-Louise. ‘I was explaining to the Empress that not all men feel comfortable in the presence of soldiers. Men like yourself, and Ambassador Kurakin there.’

‘I am not uncomfortable, sire.’ Talleyrand gave the faintest of shrugs. ‘It is just that I find that my tastes, and manner of conversation, have little in common with the sentiments of those in the military.’

‘Is that so?’ Napoleon enquired frostily, then pointed towards Talleyrand’s deformed foot. ‘But for that I am sure you could have served your country in a more useful capacity than you have endured.’

‘I think the word is enjoyed rather than endured, sire.’ Talleyrand bowed his head. ‘In either case, I am sure that soldiers and statesmen alike would prefer to repair to the palace than remain here in the cold.’

‘Soldiers are hardened to such temperatures,’ Napoleon responded with contempt. ‘As are Russians, eh, Kurakin?’

The ambassador nodded. ‘Indeed, sire. The winters are so harsh in Russia that only those born and bred to it will ever survive there.’

Napoleon stared at him. ‘You think so?’

‘I am sure of it, sire. A man would be a fool to fight a campaign in the depths of a Russian winter.’

He held the Emperor’s gaze and both men were silent for a moment before Napoleon suddenly smiled and turned back to Talleyrand. ‘The mere mention of Russia is making me feel cold. Come, let’s go inside.’

With the Empress on his arm, Napoleon led his guests from the reviewing platform across the courtyard to the doors leading into one of the reception chambers. A long dining table had been laid for the guests and polished cutlery, crystal and porcelain gleamed from end to end. Napoleon took his place at the head of the table, the Empress at the foot, and once they were seated the rest moved towards their assigned places. Footmen stood behind each chair, smoothly pulling them out and easing them back under the guests as they sat down. Talleyrand, Metternich and Kurakin had been placed close to the top of the table and as several imperial servants entered carrying steaming tureens Napoleon lifted his nose and sniffed.

‘Onion soup! Now there’s a hearty dish to warm a man through.’

‘That, or a rare brandy,’ commented Talleyrand.

Napoleon wagged his finger. ‘Your fondness for fine things is a weakness, my friend.’

Talleyrand smiled, and no more was said until the soup had been served and a good-natured hubbub of conversation gradually rose around the table. Napoleon waited until he could be sure that his words would not easily be overheard by any but the intended recipients, and then turned to Kurakin.

‘Tell me, Ambassador, does the Tsar really think that I do not know that he has all but abandoned the trade blockade against England?’

Kurakin slowly lowered his spoon as he composed a reply. ‘Sire, you can rest assured that the Tsar is aware of his obligations. However, he wonders how you can insist on Russia’s keeping faith with an agreement when you yourself break it when it suits the needs of France. There is something of a double standard being applied here, is there not?’

Napoleon felt his veins burn with irritation at the man’s bold exposition of the tensions between the two rulers. Yet it would be hard to defend the trade deals in boots and uniform cloth that had been conducted between France and England, two nations implacably at war.

‘It was a question of expediency. France benefited more from the arrangement than England. And if it was to the benefit of France, then it is also to the benefit of her allies.’

‘That is an argument that applies equally to Russia, sire. Or, indeed, any of the other nations that count themselves amongst your allies. On that basis, one might ask what is the purpose of maintaining the blockade? Since it is an open secret that the blockade is flouted by every nation in Europe.’

‘You are wrong, Kurakin. I have tens of thousands of customs officials enforcing the blockade in every port in France. Elsewhere, my soldiers enforce it. If only my cousin, the Tsar, would enforce the blockade as diligently, we could force England to sue for peace within the year. Once there is peace, there will be no further need for the blockade and we can all reap the rewards of unrestricted trade again.’ Napoleon leaned forward and emphasised his next words. ‘But we must bring England down first. That is all that matters. All that stands between us and an age of prosperity for both our nations. You tell him that.’

‘I will tell him, sire.’

‘See that you do. And remind him that when we first met, at Tilsit, it was I who offered the hand of friendship. I could have chosen to continue the war and crush the Tsar’s armies, but I was merciful. I chose peace and offered to share the spoils of Europe. For that,Alexander owes me a debt of gratitude.’ Napoleon’s tone hardened. ‘Instead, he insults me. He lies to my face, while all the time conspiring to steal away my lands piece by piece. Like a common thief.’

Talleyrand cleared his throat. ‘Sire, I hardly think this is the place to broach such matters. Later, in private, would be better.’

Napoleon shook his head. ‘No. I want the matter settled as soon as possible. I’ve spoken my mind; now let the ambassador carry the message back to his master.’

‘Sire,’Talleyrand turned in his chair so that he could face his Emperor more directly, ‘it would be wiser to confer with your advisors before agreeing on the form of any message to be sent to the Tsar. That would reduce the impact of any . . . inflammatory language, before it does any harm.’

‘Damn your diplomatic niceties!’ Napoleon snapped. ‘This has gone on long enough. Either the Tsar is a friend and ally, or he isn’t. I demand to know which path Alexander chooses.’

‘I am sure the Tsar wants peace,’ Talleyrand continued calmly. ‘Isn’t that so, Kurakin?’

The ambassador nodded, keeping a wary eye on Napoleon’s darkening expression as he did so. ‘Sire, with your permission, may I try to explain the Russian view of the situation?’

Napoleon took a calming breath and folded his arms. ‘By all means.’

‘Very well. When Russia looks towards Europe she sees an unbroken line of nations under the sway of France. She sees French troops in towns and fortresses along much of the frontier. We are not blind to the aspirations of the Poles towards becoming a fully fledged nation, with French encouragement. The antipathy between the Poles and Russia is as old as history and you would place a bitter enemy on our doorstep, sire.’

Kurakin paused and gently pushed his unfinished soup away from him. A servant nimbly reached round to remove the bowl as he continued, ‘Then there is the matter of the damage the Continental Blockade is causing to our economy. Every day the Tsar is deluged with petitions from merchants who are suffering because of France’s efforts to strangle trade with England. Even if the Tsar turns a blind eye to those who flout the blockade, our trade still suffers as French officials intervene further down the chain. Sire, it seems that you would beggar the whole of Europe to defeat the English. While I am confident that your imperial majesty will succeed in humbling England, we in Russia are looking to the future. With England reduced, what then will France aspire to? There are Bonapartes and Bonapartists on thrones across Europe. Your majesty is a man of ambition. We ask ourselves if such a man can ever be satisfied with what he already holds.’ Kurakin leaned back in his chair, his explanation concluded.

Talleyrand and Metternich glanced from the Russian to Napoleon, nervously trying to read his reaction.

Napoleon felt the blood drain from his face, and a cold rage seized his body, making his hands tremble. How dare the Russian accuse him so boldly? How could the Tsar betray the amity that Napoleon had so carefully contrived between the two of them? It was clear that every concession made to Russia had been taken as a matter of right. This was no alliance of mutual interest. It was the Tsar whose ambition was unbridled. He took everything and gave nothing. Why, when France had last faced Austria the campaign was over and peace declared long before the Tsar’s army had marched to assist his ally. Even then, the Tsar had taken the opportunity to snap up some of the Austrian lands bordering Russia. The fruits of a victory paid for by French blood, Napoleon concluded bitterly. He glared at Kurakin, tempted almost beyond endurance to explode and expose the duplicity of the Tsar, and those who lied on his behalf . . .

With a great effort, Napoleon held back his anger. This was not the time. His tirades were a weapon to be deployed with care. More often than not they were calculated to have a specific effect. Uncontained rage could be as dangerous to himself as it was frightening to others, if it then caused advisors to be restrained, and provoked enemies to revenge.

Napoleon glanced outside. Dusk was falling over the city and soon it would be dark enough for the fireworks. They were scheduled to begin after the dinner was over, but Napoleon’s suppression of his anger had left him feeling brittle and impatient. Abruptly, he waved to the chamberlain in charge of the entertainments and the man came hurrying over.

‘The dinner is over,’ Napoleon announced.

‘Over?’ The chamberlain raised his eyebrows. ‘What of the other courses, sire?’

‘They will not be needed. Pass the word to the officer in charge of the fireworks. I want the display to begin in thirty minutes.’

‘Yes, sire, but—’

‘But?’ Napoleon frowned at him and the chamberlain lowered his gaze nervously.

‘Yes, sire. As you command.’

The man bowed and backed away the regulation number of steps before turning to issue the orders to the staff waiting the tables. As soon as the Emperor’s guests had finished their soup the bowls were whisked away, and when the last of the waiters had filed out of the room the footmen stepped up behind the chairs. The chamberlain rapped his rod on the tiled floor and the conversation quickly died away.

‘At his majesty’s command, the banquet is over and his majesty is pleased to request that his guests now repair to the river terrace in preparation for the fireworks.’

The guests glanced at each other, surprised that the banquet to celebrate the coronation of the Emperor amounted to no more than a bowl of soup. At the head of the table, Napoleon abruptly rose to his feet, sweeping the napkin from his lap. The footman behind him just caught hold of the chair in time to prevent it from falling back, or scraping in an undignified manner. The Empress rose quickly and then the rest of the guests got to their feet. Napoleon turned to the footman.

‘Bring me my coat and hat.’

‘Yes, sire.’

As soon as he was well wrapped against the cold of the evening Napoleon led the way through the palace to the long wide terrace overlooking the Seine. Guardsmen were spaced at regular intervals overseeing the braziers that provided a little light and warmth for the small crowd filing out on to the terrace. As the crowds packed along the river bank saw the figures emerging from the Tuileries they let out a great cheer and the sound continued along the river, far beyond the range of those who could see the imperial party.

The Emperor and Empress took their seats, and once the other guests were in place he pulled out his pocket watch. Angling the face towards the nearest brazier he read the time, and then he replaced the watch in its fob. There were still ten minutes to go before the half-hour was up.

Napoleon coughed at the sharpness of the night air. ‘Tell them to start.’

The chamberlain opened his mouth slightly, then quickly nodded and hurried away. There was a band just below the terrace and a sudden beating of drums silenced the guests and the crowds. The pounding rhythm echoed off the surrounding buildings as tens of thousands of people waited excitedly for the spectacle to begin. Then the drums stopped, and a moment later the band struck up the Marseillaise. Along the river the people joined in and sang with full hearts as they were caught up in the thrill of the occasion. As the last note faded away there was a brief flicker out on one of the barges, then a flare of sparks and a brilliant thread of light as a rocket shot up towards the overcast sky with a harsh hiss. It exploded in a cloud of star-like sparks that briefly illuminated the scene below, and the crowd let out a collective sigh of pleasure. More rockets whooshed into the sky and burst overhead. On the two flanking barges, carefully arranged combinations of fireworks gushed fountains of red and white sparks into the air to accompany the rockets, and all the while the band continued to play patriotic tunes, competing with the crackle and detonations of the fireworks.

Napoleon watched the display with little pleasure. His mind was still concentrated on the accusations that the Russian ambassador had made against him. Every now and then, he glanced to his left and saw the profile of Kurakin, lit up by the lurid glare from the display. The Russian had overstepped the mark. In doing so, he was clearly repeating the views of his master back in St Petersburg. If that was the case, then Alexander was spoiling for war, despite any protestations to the contrary. In that light, every slight and snub that Napoleon had received at the hands of the Russians, every breach of the terms of their alliance, every expansion of Russian power over new tracts of land, was all calculated to provoke France into open conflict.

He felt a moment’s sadness at the memory of the friendship he had shared with the Tsar at Tilsit. For a time there he had felt a fondness for the Russian ruler, as an elder brother might feel for a sibling in need of guidance and a good example. Now he had been rejected, and, worse, the Tsar seemed bent on becoming the dominant voice in Europe, brooking no rival.

Across the water on the centre barge, a giant N flared into life and the Emperor’s guests applauded appreciatively. On the opposite side of the river, the letter was reflected in the water of the Seine and the crowd lifted their voices in a vast, deafening cheer.

Napoleon shifted in his chair and turned towards the Russian ambassador. ‘Kurakin!’

The man looked towards him, and Napoleon raised his voice so that as many as possible of his guests would hear. He stabbed his finger towards the ambassador. ‘You have enjoyed the spectacle?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Good. I want you to tell your master, the Tsar, that it is clear to me that he wants war with France. That is the only explanation behind all that he has done to undermine our alliance. He has proved himself a false friend. You tell him that if he wants war with France then he will have his war. I swear by all that is holy that I will wage it on a scale beyond anything that Europe has ever seen.’

THE RUSSIAN CAMPAIGN 1812

Chapter 23

Paris, January 1812

Talleyrand looked up from the document and gently stroked his chin with the tips of his fingers while he digested the information.

‘Well?’ Napoleon’s voice broke into his thoughts. The Emperor was seated on the other side of the large table in the planning room of the Tuileries palace. A built-up fire blazed in the grate, casting a warm glow about the room, but not enough warmth for Talleyrand, sitting on the far side of the table. Behind him the tall windows overlooked the courtyard. Snow had fallen and blanketed the cobbles with an even layer, broken up now by the ruts of a handful of carriages and the footsteps of sentries. An icy wind was blowing across the city, occasionally rattling the windows and moaning across the chimney, causing the fire to flare and flicker.

‘What do you think?’ Napoleon pressed.

‘This list.’ Talleyrand tapped the document lightly. ‘This list of grievences, sire. What do you hope to achieve by presenting this to the Tsar?’

‘It will serve to remind him of all the agreements he has broken. It will provide the basis for a new agenda when we meet to renew our alliance.’

Talleyrand looked up. ‘A meeting has been arranged, then?’

‘No. Not yet. It is my hope that when the Tsar reads through the list of grievences and realises that the likelihood of war is very real, he will come to his senses and agree to negotiate.’

‘On these terms?’Talleyrand nodded at the document. ‘You say here that you demand that Russia enforces the Continental Blockade to the fullest extent. Our ambassador in St Petersburg says that there is a great deal of anger over the issue. Moreover, there are many in the Tsar’s court, and also officers in his army, who are openly demanding war with France. I suspect that Alexander is living in daily fear that some coterie of malcontents is already plotting his murder and preparing the way for a more belligerent ruler. Either way, war is a distinct possibility.’

‘It is more than possible, Talleyrand. It is inevitable, unless the Tsar bows to my demands.’

‘I see. Then this document is designed to provoke him into declaring war.’

‘I suspect that he will choose war as the lesser of two evils.’

Talleyrand stared at him.‘In my experience war is always the greatest of evils.’

‘You say that because you are not a soldier. There is more to war than death.’

‘Oh, yes, so I have heard. In addition to death, there is the devastation and despoiling that follows in the wake of an army. Hunger, looting, rape, torture and massacre. Not to mention the huge cost in gold that it takes to wage war on the scale that you envisage.’

Napoleon stared back at him. ‘You speak like the consummate civilian you are. If it were left to the likes of you, then every nation would be crawling on its belly, prostrating itself to its neighbours.’

‘If international affairs were left to my kind, I suspect that there might be an end to the curse of war that has blighted humanity throughout history, sire.’

‘Then you are a fool, Talleyrand. The history of mankind isthe history of warfare. Men have always fought each other. They always will. Which means that the primary quality in all men is their adeptness at war. Anything else is subordinate to that need. You speak of diplomacy as if it were an art in itself. It is not.’ Napoleon leaned forward as he continued. ‘Diplomacy can only succeed in so far as it is backed up by force. For all your fine words, do you really think that you could persuade other nations to do as we wish if they did not fear the military consequences of defying us? Your kind merely provide the illusion that the affairs of nations are governed by discussion. Such delusion merely flatters the weak and undermines the strong. Any man who cannot see through such a charade fails to grasp the fundamental reality. Power defines progress. Nothing else.’

‘Then why do you have need of men like me, sire? Why waste time with diplomacy if you have such contempt for it?’

Napoleon smiled thinly. ‘Even if we are little more than brawling barbarians wrapped in fine clothes, the idea that we might be something better than that is a comforting solace to the common man. If it serves my purpose to indulge such an idea then I will do so without hesitation.’

Talleyrand considered this for a moment and shook his head. ‘There we differ, sire. You see, I believe that we are not barbarians. That we are capable of barbaric acts is beyond question. Therefore, it behoves the best of men to persuade the rest to embrace civilised values, for the long-term good of all. That is the sacred duty of the good and the great, in my view.’

‘No doubt you feel that I am not of that class?’

‘On the contrary, sire. I have always known that you possessed one of the most brilliant minds of our age, despite the disadvantage of humble origins. I do not mean that as a slight on your character. I admire you for what you have achieved. When I first met you, before your campaign in Egypt, I counted it a blessing for France that young men of such promise were available to serve her interests and see that the ideals of the Revolution lived on. Then, when you became First Consul, you dragged the governance of France into the modern age, as well as securing her safety from foreign powers on the battlefield. Your achievements were prodigious, sire. When the Peace of Amiens began I felt sure that you were about to lead us into a new golden age. But then the war resumed, and has plagued France ever since.’

Talleyrand paused and a look of sadness crossed his features. A rare expression of feeling, Napoleon noted, as the other continued. ‘It is my fear that you have lost the sensibility of a just ruler, and that you have been seduced by the glory and power of military command. At present it seems that France is being ruled according to one principle – that of facilitating the waging of war. That, sire, is a perversion of power.’

The two men stared at each other. Napoleon was quite motionless as he considered this astonishing interpretation of his character and motives. It would be easy to dismiss Talleyrand from his presence, and yet Napoleon said nothing. There was much to despise about this aristocrat, yet he had always proved to be an effective and useful sounding board to refine Napoleon’s thinking. But there was something more. Despite all the treachery of the past, the Emperor still felt an affection of sorts for Talleyrand. They were both products of the Revolution. Talleyrand had as much of a hand in Napoleon’s rise to power as any man, and he in turn had benefited from the generosity of Napoleon, first as Consul and then as Emperor.

Talleyrand broke the tense silence. ‘Sire, do you remember Tilsit?’

‘Of course. It has been much on my mind lately.’

‘Then you will remember the high hopes we had for the future. The war with the Tsar was over. Better still, when you and he met, man to man, there was a mutual regard for each other, was there not? I recall how he looked up to you, as a man of destiny. On your part, there was a certain fondness.’

‘What of it?’ Napoleon cut in tersely. ‘What is your point?’

‘You must reach an accommodation with the Tsar. You must do everything that you can to rekindle that mutual regard, and affection. There must be peace between you. Great nations must find ways to live alongside each other, or they will surely tear each other to pieces.’

‘You speak of compromise,’ Napoleon replied with disdain. ‘Compromise is nothing but the death of a thousand cuts. It bleeds a great man of his determination, of his sense of direction, of his sense of purpose, until he is nothing but a petty schemer hanging on to power by his fingertips. When that happens he is no longer great, but a figure of ridicule, and finally pity. That much I understand, Talleyrand. As does Alexander. And only one of us can be permitted to dominate the rest of Europe.’

Talleyrand settled back in his chair and his expression resolved into its usual inscrutability. ‘Then there will be war between you and the Tsar. You have resolved to carry it through. I can see that now. So what is the point of this list of grievances? If Alexander agreed to answer them, it would change nothing. You would still be determined to wage war on him.’

‘Of course. But this way, it forces him to accept the blame for the war.’

‘He is the Tsar. What does he care about the moral burden of such a responsibility?’

‘Nothing. The list of grievances is not for his eyes alone. I intend to have it published in every newspaper across Europe. I want no one to doubt that the coming war is being instigated by the Tsar. I want all Europe to see Alexander as a relentless threat to their existence. And when they do, then all the kings and princes of Europe will unite behind me, and we shall combine our strength into a vast army that will lay waste to Russia and put an end to the threat that she poses.’

‘I see.’ Talleyrand nodded.‘I see it all.’ His chair ground faintly on the polished floorboards and he rose to his feet.‘I must take my leave of you, sire. There is nothing more I can say. There is no point in our conversing on matters of policy again, for I can see now that you will lead France to ruin and you will not heed any opinion that runs counter to your will.’ He bowed his head. ‘I bid you goodbye.’

‘You will not leave,’ Napoleon said coldly. ‘I have not dismissed you.’

‘You have dismissed reason, sire. So what is the purpose of any further dialogue between us?’

‘You will not leave until I say!’

Talleyrand gazed back and Napoleon could not discern a trace of fear in either his eyes or his voice as he replied, ‘As you command, sire.’

He remained standing and Napoleon lowered his hands below the edge of the table so that Talleyrand would not see them clenching and unclenching, as if they were already clamped around the man’s throat.

‘Damn you,’ Napoleon growled. ‘Get out. Go. Out of my sight!’

‘Yes, sire.’ Talleyrand bowed his head, backed away and then turned to make his way out of the room, walking in the studied manner that he had developed to help conceal his deformed foot. The footman outside the Emperor’s study had a practised ear, and opened the door at the sound of approaching footsteps. Talleyrand passed through and turned out of sight without once looking back.

‘Send for my chief clerk!’ Napoleon shouted.

As he waited, Napoleon turned to the fire and gazed into the flames. He knew that he had lost Talleyrand’s ear for ever. There was nothing between them now but open enmity. The man would have to be placed under close watch in future, and if there was any proof of treachery, dealt with.

The sound of footsteps drew Napoleon’s attention to the approaching clerk and he turned away from the fire and indicated the document on the table.

‘Take that. Have it copied and sent to every newspaper in France. Have more copies sent to every court in Europe. Every newspaper. Every division headquarters in the army. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The clerk swallowed nervously. ‘I shall have to call in every available man on my staff, sire.’