Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Napoleon lowered his hands and turned to Berthier. ‘Still no sign of Bagration’s army?’

‘No, sire.’ Berthier shook his head. ‘Nothing in the reports so far.’

‘Hm.’ Napoleon shut his eyes again and concentrated his mind on visualising the disposition of the French columns snaking across the Russian frontier. The fact that Murat’s cavalry had not fallen in with any of the enemy’s outposts was strange, unless General Bagration was already retreating, in which case it was vital to discover the direction he was taking.

‘Sire.’ Berthier broke into his thoughts.

‘What is it?’

‘There’s a new message here from Davout. His cavalry scouts captured some stragglers from Bagration’s army. It seems that they began to march north two weeks ago.’

Napoleon blinked his eyes open and sat up.‘North? Pass me the map.’

Berthier reached towards the rack of map cases and pulled out a large-scale representation of the west of Russia. He unrolled the map across a board and fixed it in place with some pegs before passing it across to his Emperor. Napoleon glanced at the map, then traced his finger north from the last reported position of Bagration’s army.‘Minsk. He’s heading for Minsk.’ He smiled thinly.‘It seems that the Russians are not so easily fooled. They’ve guessed that our main line of advance is to the north of the Pripet. Very well then, inform Jйrфme that his feint is over. He’s to pursue Bagration, and drive him away from the main Russian army. Let him know at once.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘One day into the campaign, and already things are starting to go awry,’ Napoleon sighed wearily. ‘If the Russians are already attempting to link up then it is more than likely that the main army will be retreating on Vilna. Send an order to Murat. He is to take two divisions of cavalry from the reserve and ride to Vilna. He must not occupy the town. He is to observe only and report back if he encounters the main Russian army. Is that clear?’

Berthier nodded and reached for a fresh sheet of paper to write the orders.

‘Good, that’s done,’ Napoleon muttered.‘Now I must get some sleep. Wake me when the headquarters is ready.’ Rising from his desk, he squeezed past Berthier’s table and climbed into the cot at the end of the wagon and pulled the netting curtain closed to keep the insects out. Rolling on to his side, away from the interior, Napoleon banished further thought from his mind and closed his eyes. A minute later, his light snores rumbled in the background as Berthier dabbed at his brow, and picked his pen up again, dipped it in the ink, and continued scratching away.

The main column of the French army marched swiftly on Vilna, where Napoleon hoped for a decisive encounter. Intercepted despatches revealed that the Tsar himself had joined the main Russian army. The news raised Napoleon’s hopes of a swift end to the campaign. The prospect of his capturing the Tsar as well as defeating the army would surely compel the enemy to submit, and Napoleon ordered his army to advance as speedily as possible, even if that meant outpacing the ponderous convoys of supply wagons. But when the French army reached Vilna, they found that the Russians had gone, leaving their supply depot in flames and destroying the bridge over the Vilia river behind them.

There was still one chance to achieve an early blow against the Russians and Napoleon ordered Davout to take his corps to intercept Bagration, while Jйrфme pursued him from the south. Then in early July, while Napoleon waited at Vilna for news of the positions of the Russian armies, Berthier brought him a despatch from Jйrфme.

‘What does my brother have to say?’ Napoleon asked as he lay in a bath in the town’s finest hotel.

Berthier scanned the report and then looked up nervously. ‘Sire, Jйrфme says that his cavalry patrols lost contact with the Russians two days ago, on the third.’

Napoleon sat up. ‘Lost contact? How can they lose contact? Where is Jйrфme?’

‘The despatch was sent from Grodno, sire.’

‘Grodno?’ Napoleon recalled the name from the map and his brow knitted angrily.‘What the hell is Jйrфme doing? Why is his army moving so slowly? That young fool is going to cost us dear. Berthier, take this down. Tell him that it would be impossible to lead his men in a worse manner. He should have been harassing Bagration at every step. Then he might have driven the Russians into Davout’s path. We could have crushed one of the Tsar’s armies. Instead he has let it escape. You tell him that he has robbed me of all that I had hoped to achieve. We have lost the best opportunity ever presented in this war, all because he has failed to learn the most fundamental principles of warfare. Did you get all that?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Send it at once. With luck that might spur the fool into activity. Too late to do much good now, though. Let’s hope he responds with greater alacrity next time.’

There was not to be a next time. The next despatch from Jйrфme’s headquarters was written by Marshal Davout. The Emperor’s letter had caused his younger brother so much offence that he had abandoned the army to return to his kingdom of Westphalia, leaving Davout to assume temporary command of his corps. Despite his anger, Napoleon considered the news a blessing of sorts as he continued his pursuit of the main Russian army.

July brought with it several days of rainstorms that lashed the columns of the Grand Army as it tramped eastwards, driven on by its commander in his desire to find the Tsar and his soldiers and bring them to battle. Within hours every rutted track was turned into a muddy morass that sucked at the boots of the men and the horses’ hooves and slowed the speed of the artillery trains and supply wagons to a crawl. The Emperor’s marshals, aware of his orders to press on at all costs, left a small guard behind to escort the wagons and continued the advance.

When the rains had passed, the sun blazed down on the Grand Army. The roads dried out, and then in place of mud there were choking clouds of dust that clogged the lungs and stung the men’s eyes. Despite the season the nights were cool and the men huddled around their camp fires. Many of the soldiers were unseasoned and the long marches quickly exhausted them. When the rations started to run out they lacked the experience of veterans in foraging and began to starve. Before July came to an end a long line of graves stretched back behind the army, and here and there lay an occasional naked body: stragglers killed and stripped by the bands of Cossacks that began to shadow and harass the French columns like jackals.

Nor were the men alone in their suffering. The horses were equally exhausted, and once the feed had been consumed they were forced to eat whatever green corn they could find as they passed through the sparsely inhabited Russian landscape. At the end of July Napoleon halted the army at Vitebsk to allow the supply convoys to catch up. There, Berthier updated the notebooks that recorded the strength of every regiment in the army. Nearly a hundred thousand men were absent from the lists of effectives. Many of these were sick, some were stragglers, and the rest had died on the march.

After eight days the army continued the advance, and still the Russians fell back, burning crops and destroying farms and villages in the path of the French columns. Then, at last, in the middle of August, the enemy made a stand at Smolensk. For two days Ney’s infantry fought their way into the suburbs of the city, only to see the bridge over the Dnieper river blown up in their faces. The army had to wait another day while the bridge was repaired. By then the Russians were again in retreat towards Moscow.

Napoleon gave the order for the army to halt and rest while reinforcements and supplies came forward. While the weary soldiers scoured the city for food and plunder, Napoleon summoned his marshals to his temporary headquarters to consider the situation. The Russian summer was at its height and the windows of the mansion overlooking the Dnieper were wide open to admit what little breeze there was. The commanders of the central army group were as tired as their Emperor and when Berthier spread the campaign map before them Napoleon could see the dull despair in their eyes as they contemplated the two hundred and eighty miles that still stretched between Smolensk and Moscow.

An orderly served wine, chilled in the mansion’s ice house, and Napoleon waited for him to leave the room before he addressed the others.

‘My friends, we have been obliged to advance far deeper into Russia than I had anticipated. It seems that the Tsar is prepared to sacrifice his entire country rather than face us in battle. The army has been on the march for two months and every day we lose more men and horses to sickness, starvation and exhaustion. The main strike force has been reduced to little over a hundred and fifty thousand men. Today, our scouts have confirmed that General Bagration has succeeded in uniting with the main Russian army. Murat estimates that the Tsar now has a hundred and twenty-five thousand men between us and Moscow.’

Napoleon looked round the table at Berthier, Ney, Murat and Davout. There was a time, when he was younger and unburdened by the duties of an emperor, when Napoleon would have continued the advance without hesitation. And these men would have followed him on the instant. Now? He was no longer so sure of them.

He leaned back, raised his glass and took a quick sip before he continued. ‘A number of choices lie before us. At present the army is reaching the end of its endurance. It is imperative that the men are rested if we are to continue to advance on the road to Moscow, where I am sure the Tsar will turn to fight us. At the same time it would provide us with the chance for our supply convoys to reach us. We will need them to sustain us for the final march to Moscow, as we can be certain the Russians will destroy any stocks of food or forage in our path.’ He paused a moment. ‘There is little doubt that continuing our advance entails a number of risks. Which brings me to a second course of action. We halt now and winter in Smolensk. It would give us time to reorganise our supplies and rest the men so that we can renew the campaign in the spring in easy striking range of Moscow. However, I will not pretend that it will be easy to maintain such a large army as ours through the winter. The last choice is the most difficult. We retreat back over the Niemen and winter in Poland and reconsider the strategic situation next spring.’ Napoleon folded his hands together and looked round at the others. ‘Well?’

‘Retreat is out of the question, sire,’ Ney replied at once. ‘Our enemies would say that we had been defeated. They are already parading our reverses in Spain as proof that France is starting to crumble. I say we press on. One great victory is all we need. Then we can afford to rest and feed our men.’

Murat nodded. ‘Ney is right. We need to end this affair as soon as possible. Even if we did not retreat, and remained in Smolensk, the Russians would portray it as a defeat. Continue the advance, whatever the cost. As long as we chase down the Tsar and crush his army.’

Napoleon nodded as he considered their advice, and then turned to Davout. ‘How about you?’

Davout ran a hand over his thinning hair. ‘As you can see from the map, we are still nearly three hundred miles short of Moscow. The attrition of our men will only increase the further we march. Given our current rate of losses, we will be lucky if we reach Moscow with a third of the men we started out with.’

‘A third is all we need, if we take Moscow,’ Ney intervened. ‘And a third is sufficient to beat the Russian army, if they have the stomach to stand and fight us.’

A frown flitted across Davout’s features. ‘Why should they stand and fight? They haven’t so far. What if they let us take Moscow and refuse to sue for peace? They could continue to draw us on, biding their time while our strength diminishes, and then strike once the odds are on their side. There’s something else to consider, sire. If we suffer a reverse and we’re compelled to retreat, then given the distance involved we might well face a disaster. It is my view that our priority must be to keep the army in being as best we can. It might be prudent to winter here.’

‘Thank you for your honesty, Davout.’ Napoleon put a finger inside his collar to wipe the sweat from his neck. ‘Is there anything you wish to add, Berthier?’

The chief of staff pursed his lips briefly. ‘I fear that Davout is right, sire. Every step we take towards Moscow increases the risk of catastrophe, particularly with the onset of winter. I have spoken to some of our local guides. The Russian winter could kill us all.’

Napoleon considered the situation in silence for a moment. Besides his immediate difficulties there were other concerns. He was far from Paris, and the bad news from Spain concerned him greatly. Worse still, his enemies in France were becoming more outspoken in the absence of the Emperor. The sooner he could return to the capital the better. The fingers of his right hand drummed on the table as he weighed each factor up. In the end it was clear to him that he had more to lose by delaying action than by embracing it. He took another sip of the cooled wine and made his decision.

‘If we continue the advance, I cannot believe that the Tsar would abandon Moscow to us. I am convinced that he will make a stand somewhere on the road from Smolensk. If he refuses to fight then his own people will kill him and find themselves a new Tsar. So he will fight. I will stake the army on that. He will fight and we shall defeat him and take Moscow within a month. Then the Tsar will make peace. What else can he do?’

Chapter 29

Schivardino, 6 September 1812

‘It is a good likeness, is it not?’ Napoleon examined the portrait of his son, then pulled out his handkerchief and cleared his nose as he muttered, ‘Damned cold.’

Around him the headquarters staff and his marshals nodded approvingly as they looked at the painting they had been summoned to view. It had arrived with the latest government despatches and letters in an escorted carriage. Napoleon put his handkerchief away, sniffed, and stepped up to the painting, in its slim gilt frame. He stared at the infant’s face and for a moment the eyes seemed to come alive, gazing fondly at him. Napoleon felt a pang of longing, even though he knew it was a trick of artistic technique. He reached forward and brushed the cheek with his finger. The coarse surface of paint and canvas that met his touch broke the illusion and he stepped back.

‘Take it to my quarters. Hang it by the bed.’

The two servants holding the frame bowed their heads and carefully carried the painting out of the room. When they had gone, Napoleon turned to face his officers. ‘I’ve had bad news from Spain. Marshal Marmont was defeated by Wellington outside Salamanca six weeks ago. It is possible that Madrid has already fallen. Our position in Spain is dangerous. Which means that we must conclude our business in Russia as swiftly as possible, gentlemen.’

He crossed to the large open doors that led out on to a wide balcony. The view from the summer lodge on the edge of the village faced east. Just over a mile away lay the hills where the Russian army blocked the road to Moscow. ‘Out here, if you please.’The officers filed out into the afternoon sunshine. The sky was cloudless and the azure depths inspired a sense of serenity that was not in keeping with the preparations for battle on the earth below.

‘I told you the Tsar would fight.’ Napoleon smiled grimly as he surveyed the Russian lines before him. It was a strong position, and the enemy had made good use of the time to prepare some formidable earthworks to protect the centre of their line. Their right flank was protected by the Kalatsha river, and the town of Borodino on the far bank, and the left by a dense wood and the town of Utitsa beyond. Solid blocks of infantry and cavalry were clearly visible on the slopes overlooking Schivardino and a thin line of skirmishers dotted the brown grass at the foot of the slope, a short distance from their French counterparts. All morning, a group of priests had been parading religious artefacts up and down the ranks of the Russian army and the distant formations had shimmered in the sunlight as they went down on their knees and bowed their heads as the priests passed by.

Even with the latest replacements the French army was now only a hundred and thirty thousand strong. The Russians were estimated to be fielding almost as many men, but still Napoleon felt confident of another triumph for the Grand Army. The Tsar had already handed the initiative to Napoleon by choosing to defend this ground rather than continue his retreat.

Raising his arm, Napoleon pointed towards the centre of the Russian line. ‘That’s where we will strike at dawn tomorrow. We’ll mass our guns in front of those earthworks and pound them to pieces before sending the infantry forward. Prince Eugиne’s corps will drive in their right flank while Poniatowski deals with the left.’ He turned to face his officers. ‘That is the battle plan.’

His subordinates glanced at each other in surprise and Napoleon could not help frowning. The heavy cold of the last few days had left him feeling even more weary than usual. His head was throbbing painfully. He clasped his hands behind his back and tapped a foot impatiently. ‘Comments?’

Eugиne nodded. ‘A frontal attack on those earthworks is going to be bloody work, sire.’

‘Of course. But once we have the redoubts we can crush the Russian centre and destroy each flank in turn.’

‘Sire.’ Davout spoke up. ‘A frontal attack is too dangerous. If we lose too many men then there won’t be any chance of a breakthrough. Even if we did achieve that, there is a danger that we would be too weak to mount an effective pursuit.’

‘I see. Then what would you suggest, Davout? That we wait for the Tsar to attack us? He has shown little sign of any offensive spirit so far.’

Davout shook his head. ‘No, sire. Of course we must attack. But the ground is open to the south. There is nothing to stop us outflanking the Russians beyond Utitsa. Let Murat take his cavalry round the flank and attack the rear of their line while the main assault goes in.’

‘Against any other commander I would agree with you, but not the Tsar. We have him before us. He is willing to give battle and I do not want to give him any excuse to break off and continue his retreat. We must do all that we can to encourage him to remain in front of us. Is that clear?’

Davout shook his head.‘Sire, our cavalry is the finest in Europe. Why did we bring so many of them with us if you are not prepared to use them? This is a heaven-sent opportunity to trap the Tsar.’

‘He’s right, sire.’ Murat nodded. ‘Let my cavalry settle the issue.’

Napoleon raised a hand to his brow. He had decided on a plan, and balanced the risk of heavy losses against the fear that the Tsar would slip away once again. It was too late to change his mind. His head was pounding now, and despite the warmth of the day he felt cold and his body started to tremble. As Murat began to speak again Napoleon raised his hand to stop him. ‘Enough! The Grand Army has its orders, and you have yours. All that remains is to deploy your men in readiness for tomorrow. You are dismissed. Go.’

The rising sun was still hidden behind the hills upon which sprawled battalion upon battalion of Russian troops. The silhouettes and standards of the men on the crests were black against the soft orange hue of the eastern sky. The redoubts bulked huge and ominous in the shadowed side of the hills. The largest was on the right of the line commanding the bridge across the river to Borodino. A ditch lay to the front, then high earth ramparts and scores of embrasures through which the barrels of cannon pointed towards the French lines. The other earthworks took the form of two huge chevrons, their tips thrusting towards the enemy. Napoleon knew that when his infantry advanced the crossfire between the chevrons would be murderous.

He had not slept well. His cold had made it difficult to breathe easily and kept waking him. Now he struggled to think clearly as he beheld the final preparations for the battle. The corps of Ney and Davout stood ready to advance. Ahead of them lay over four hundred cannon, massed in batteries to bombard the Russian earthworks. They had been protected by hastily erected earthworks of their own, but the previous evening Napoleon’s artillery commander, General Lariboisiиre, had informed him that they were out of effective range of the Russian defences. So the guns had been dragged forward in the early hours and now stood out in the open. The reserve, the Imperial Guard, was formed up just outside Schivardino.

The air was still and a few swifts darted low over the trampled grass, sweeping up the first of the day’s insects. Most of the soldiers of both sides stood in sombre silence. A few had got hold of some spirits and attempted to raise a cheer or start some singing, but the sounds soon died away. Napoleon had given orders for the French bands to advance to the first rank, ready to strike up some rousing tunes when the attack began.

Berthier glanced down at his watch and coughed. ‘It’s time, sire.’

‘Give the order.’

Berthier turned to the waiting artillery lieutenant and nodded. The gunner cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted towards the headquarters signal gun. ‘Fire!’

The sergeant in command of the gun leaned forward to apply the portfire to the fuse. Sparks sputtered momentarily and then the barrel shimmered as a long tongue of flame leaped from the muzzle, followed at once by a swirling cloud of powder smoke and a detonation like a thunderclap. There was a short delay and then the first of the batteries opened up with a roar. The others fired moments later and soon the sound was almost continuous as it carried back to the church tower of Schivardino where Napoleon and Berthier had climbed to look out over the battlefield.

On the slopes of the Russian position the heavy iron shot ploughed into the earthworks, kicking up spouts of loose soil. Some shots struck the embrasures, loosening the wicker fascines that sheltered the gun crews beyond. The Russian guns started to return fire and quickly began to score hits on the unprotected French artillerymen. Napoleon saw a gun carriage shatter, the timber spraying splinters all around and felling the six men either side of the weapon. Soon, the batteries of both sides were shrouded in thick smoke and they were firing blind.

To the continuous roar of the cannon was added a new sound: the sharp rattle of drums sounding the pas-de-chargeas the French infantry began to advance along the entire length of the line. To the north Napoleon could see the dark blocks of men from Eugиne’s corps converging on Borodino, on the far side of the Kalatsha. In front of him the leading divisions of Ney and Davout had started up the slopes. Ahead of them advanced the voltigeurs, taking shots at the Russian skirmishers falling back towards the main Russian line.

The batteries in the redoubts ceased firing on the French guns and reloaded with case shot before switching their aim to the dense lines of infantry climbing up towards them. A moment later the first blasts of iron shot ripped through the leading French formations, striking down several men at a time. The fire from the Russian cannon intensified and the infantry hunched down as their officers waved them forward and the drums continued to beat, frantically urging the soldiers on into the hail of destruction sweeping the slopes.

From the church tower Napoleon and Berthier watched the attack’s progress through their telescopes, until Ney and Davout’s men had passed into the gently rolling banks of smoke surrounding the redoubts and out of sight. Below the smoke they could now see hundreds of blue-coated bodies flecking the slope. Napoleon took a deep breath and snapped his telescope shut.

‘Come, there’s little to see here. We can follow the battle better from downstairs.’ He led the way down into the nave of the church, which had been cleared to make way for the imperial staff. A map table had been set up and a handful of junior officers were busy tracking the movements of the army using small blocks of coloured wood as messengers hurried in and out of the entrance bearing hastily written despatches.

Despite the familiar anxiety and excitement whenever he was involved in a battle, the fatigue and illness of recent days weighed heavily on Napoleon. He slumped down on a small bench set into an alcove along the wall of the nave and rested his head in his hands. Outside the thunder of guns continued, and the concussion could be felt even where he sat. An hour after the attack began Berthier came up to him.

‘Sire, there are reports from all corps now.’

‘Well?’

‘Prince Eugиne has taken Borodino and has sent a division across the river to take the Gorki Heights.’

‘No.’ Napoleon looked up. ‘One division is not enough. He must support it, or have them fall back.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘What else?’

‘Davout is attacking the two earthworks to the right of the village of Semenowska. Once they are taken he will turn and attack the largest redoubt on the other side of the village.’

‘Good. And what of Prince Poniatowski?’

‘He has taken Utitsa, sire. However, he reports that there are a large number of enemy infantry and some guns in the woods close to the town. He is sending skirmishers forward to drive them out.’

Napoleon nodded. So far all was going to plan. Once Davout had control of Semenowska and the redoubts he could wheel to the left and drive the Russians back against the river. He glanced at Berthier. ‘What have we lost?’

‘First reports say that the leading formations have suffered badly. One of Davout’s divisions has been cut to pieces and the survivors have fallen back.’

Napoleon pursed his lips. He had expected to lose many men; their sacrifice would be worthwhile if the Russian army were destroyed. ‘Very well, Berthier. Notify me of any further developments.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier bowed and turned to hurry back to re-join his aides. Napoleon thought about ascending the tower again, but there was little point. The smoke would obscure his vision. He was not well enough to mount his horse and ride forward, so he would have to follow the battle on the map. He sat in the nave and waited. An hour later there was a fresh flurry of reports and Berthier read through them with a concerned expression before he approached the Emperor again.

‘The Russians have counter-attacked, sire. Eugиne’s division has been driven from the Heights, and Davout has lost control of Semenowska. He has re-formed his men and is preparing for another assault, with Ney in support. Poniatowski has been halted just beyond Utitsa. The Russians have hundreds of guns covering the road.’

‘Very well. Tell Murat to have one of his cavalry corps ready to support Davout, and order Eugиne to send three of his divisions across the river to attack the main redoubt.’

As the next hour passed sporadic reports continued to reach imperial headquarters. The fighting around the Russian centre sucked in more and more of Davout’s and Ney’s men. Several of the French generals were lost, and Davout was injured, but he had the wound dressed quickly so that he could continue to lead his men. Still, the Russians held on to the village of Semenowska and the earthworks. Before the third hour of the battle had passed Napoleon was obliged to send Junot’s reserve corps forward to support the attack. Every formation was now committed to the battle, with the exception of the twenty-five thousand men of the Imperial Guard, drawn up on a knoll a short distance from the church.

Napoleon picked up his telescope and gathering his strength he climbed back into the tower to try to gauge the progess of the latest attack on the Russian centre. The entire strength of three infantry corps together with ten thousand horsemen pressed forward, supported by two hundred and fifty cannon. The enemy had also concentrated their artillery in the centre, and more guns savaged the French flank from the largest redoubt. The hills opposite the church were now heaped with bodies and a steady stream of walking wounded limped down the slope to escape the maelstrom of cannon and musket fire around Semenowska and the two smaller earthworks. Slowly, the smoke cleared from the Russian centre and Napoleon realised that the enemy were starting to give ground. Now was the time for the cavalry to push forward and break the Russian line.

He returned to the nave to issue the order and then pulled up a chair so that he could sit by the map table to wait for further news. Surely Murat’s cavalry would scatter the Russians, he thought. After the earlier cannonade and the assaults by the French infantry, the Russians would be badly shaken. The sight of thousands of heavy cavalry charging towards them would be the final straw. Yet the minutes passed and there was no report of a breakthrough. Then, nearly an hour later, a message came from Murat. Incredibly, the Russians had not run. Instead, they had formed squares and steadily retreated to a ridge nearly two miles beyond their initial position. Murat asked for the Old Guard to be sent forward to settle the matter. Napoleon finished reading the note and handed it to Berthier.

‘The Imperial Guard is the only reserve that remains,’ he grumbled. ‘Murat wants to throw them against the Russian cannon. Tell Murat that he and my other marshals must make do with what they have. The enemy are still holding out in the strongest redoubt. We must have that before we advance any further. Bring every spare gun to bear on the redoubt. Eugиne’s corps will make the attack from the front, while Caulaincourt’s cavalry advance round the flank to take the redoubt from the rear.’