Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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‘Did the driver survive?’ asked Berthier, breaking the silence. ‘Did anyone see?’

Napoleon stared at the bridge. Three trestles had gone, leaving a large gap in the centre. Already, Eblй and most of his engineers were running towards the bridge while other men grabbed long poles and rushed on to the smaller bridge to try to fend the wagon away from its slender trestles.

‘Sire, look there.’ Berthier pointed towards the huge crowd of stragglers and camp followers that had gathered beyond the second bridge. A great cry had risen up when they saw the collapse of the bridge. All at once they pressed forward, sweeping aside the cordon of soldiers set to contain them, and began to scramble along the bank towards the remaining bridge.

‘What do those fools think they are doing?’ Napoleon asked furiously. ‘There’ll be chaos. They’ll destroy everything.’

The mob rushed the end of the bridge, sweeping aside the engineers. In amongst the press of people there were a few carts and wagons and their drivers lashed the horses on, trampling scores of people in their attempts to get on to the bridge. Already the first of the mob were on the planking, hurrying over towards the western bank. They were the fortunate ones. In a matter of moments a dense press was pushing forward on to the narrow strip. Everyone was acting for themselves and the merciless shoving was already thrusting individuals over the edge to splash into the river below. Napoleon could see the planking begin to bow under the pressure and knew that there was little time to save the bridge. He turned quickly and shouted an order to the captain of the company guarding the headquarters.

‘Get your men down there now! Clear the bridge. I don’t care how you do it, but clear that crowd away from the bridge!’

The officer ran towards the bank of the river, bellowing at his men to follow him. They ignored the broken stream of individuals that had made the crossing and now bustled past them, and stopped a short distance from the head of the tightly packed mob on the bridge. The captain hurriedly ordered his men into line, and they raised their muskets into the faces of the crowd bearing down on them.

‘Get back!’ the captain shouted. ‘Get back, or we will fire on you!’

Those at the front of the mob tried to halt, but the pressure behind them was relentless and they were thrust forward.

‘Front rank!’ the officer cried out. ‘Fire!’

The muskets spat out flames and smoke into the dusky afternoon and several bodies collapsed on to the planking.

‘Second rank! Advance and fire!’

Another volley crashed out, cutting down more, who tumbled over the bodies of the first to fall. A cry of panic rose up from the front of the mob and they tried to turn and scramble back to the eastern bank, against the continuing pressure from those still desperate to escape over the river. Napoleon felt sickened as he saw a man in the greatcoat and shako of a voltigeurthrust aside a woman with a child bundled into her arms. She staggered to the edge of the bridge and screamed as she fell. Many more were being pushed into the Berezina as the Guards continued to fire at the unyielding mob.

Gradually, some awareness of the danger on the bridge began to filter back through the crowd and at last those still on the eastern bank began to draw back, slowly giving ground as they retreated towards the streets where they had been waiting shortly before. The captain ordered his men to cease fire and they advanced, bayonets lowered, keeping a short distance from the retreating crowd. At length they reached the end of the bridge and spread out, forcing the crowd away. It was no easy task, as many had perished in the crush and their bodies lay heaped on the ground around the bridgehead.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Berthier exclaimed as he stared ashen-faced at the scene. Below the bridge several bodies were caught up in the trestles. A few individuals were still alive, clinging to the posts, calling for help. Nothing could be done for them and within minutes the icy water caused the last of them to relinquish his grip. ‘What a massacre. What did they think they were doing?’

‘Panic,’ said Napoleon. ‘We can expect more of that in the hours ahead. Make sure that the ends of the bridges are well guarded, and the routes leading to them as well. See to it at once.’

As the light faded the engineers repaired the gap and began the grim task of dragging the bodies away from the end of the other bridge to clear the route leading on to it. Once the last of the soldiers had crossed the bridge and only Victor’s corps remained on the eastern bank, General Eblй did his best to get some of the civilians and stragglers across. But night had fallen and there were flurries of snow in the bitterly cold air, and many refused to stir from the warmth of their fires.

In the early hours,Victor informed Napoleon that the Russians were beginning to push forward against his entire line. The sound of cannon fire increased in volume and soon even the distant sound of musket fire could be heard from the Emperor’s headquarters. Dawn brought a fresh fall of snow with thick flakes swirling about the crossing and mercifully muffling the sounds of fighting from where the rearguard was struggling to hold back the enemy.

‘How is the vanguard doing?’ Napoleon asked Berthier.

‘They have reached the end of the causeway and deployed to guard it from flank attacks, sire. Ney’s men are holding the southern approaches to the crossing and the rest of the army is advancing along the causeway.’ He paused. ‘We’ve been lucky the Russians haven’t pressed us more closely.’

‘Indeed. Time to call in Victor. Inform Eblй he is to fire the bridge the moment the rearguard is across.’

‘Yes, sir, and what of the civilians?’

‘They will have to cross as best they can before the bridges are destroyed.’

Throughout the day, the engineers and the first formations from Victor’s corps tramped over the bridges, together with a steady stream of non-combatants. The fighting drew ever closer to the river and as the light began to fade General Eblй took a speaking trumpet and called across the water to the silent mass still huddled about the fires on the far side.

‘The bridge will be cut within the next few hours! I beg you to cross while you can!’

Napoleon shook his head as few seemed to heed Eblй’s warning. ‘They had their chance,’ he told himself softly.

As the sun set into a blood-red haze on the horizon,Victor reported to Napoleon. He had not shaved or slept in days and looked haggard.

‘The enemy will reach the bridge within the hour, sire. I have no horses left for my remaining guns. The crews have been ordered to fire off their remaining rounds, spike the guns and fall back. There are three battalions holding the edge of the village. They will follow as soon as the order is given.’

‘You have done well, Marshal.’

‘My men have done all they could, sire. But the Russian guns will be in range of the bridge at any moment.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon stared across the river into the gathering gloom. ‘Then don’t delay. Give the order now.’

‘Yes, sire.’

As Victor returned across the river the engineers were hurriedly coating the timbers of the bridges with pitch, and the acrid smell made Napoleon’s nose wrinkle as he waited for Victor and the last of his men to fall back. Then they appeared, trotting down the street and over the smallest bridge, a company at a time. The last battalion retreated facing the enemy, and then hurried over. Last of all came Victor himself, sword in hand until he reached the western bank and sheathed it.

A silence fell over the scene as the last of the engineers abandoned their brushes and pots of pitch, and then Eblй raised his speaking trumpet again.

‘For the love of God! Escape while you still can!’

The civilians seemed to be too exhausted and lethargic to respond, and Eblй sadly lowered the speaking trumpet and gestured to his men to proceed with their orders. Torches were applied to the pitch and the flames licked out along the length of the bridges as the fire quickly caught and spread.

There was a drone through the air and a howitzer shell burst amongst the crowd in a bright flash. At once they struggled to their feet and ran for the bridges. More shells burst amongst them with lurid explosions of red and orange, the shell fragments cutting down scores of the tightly packed bodies at a time. The fugitives made for the bridges, trying to protect their faces from the flames as they ran towards the far bank. A few made it across, some on fire which the engineers hurriedly smothered. Others, blinded by the heat, stumbled over the edge and fell into the river. Some were desperate enough to plunge into the water, but few were strong enough to wade or swim across and the cold killed them before they reached the western bank. Flames reached high into the evening sky, reflected in the surface of the river, and the crackling and bursting of wood was accompanied by shrill screams of panic from the mob trapped on the far side.

Bit by bit, the planking and trestles collapsed into the water and, as the fire began to die down, the crowd fell silent and stared in numbed horror at the ruined bridges. The Russians had ceased fire as soon as they saw that most of the French had escaped and a terrible quiet fell over the scene.

The imperial headquarters had already set off down the causeway. Napoleon took one last look at Studienka and then climbed on to his mount. With a click of his tongue he urged the horse into a trot and made his way alongside the survivors of Victor’s corps, heading towards Vilna.

Chapter 37

Molodetchna, 29 November 1812

The haggard remnants of the French army was stretched out along the road to Vilna. The snow fell steadily, drifting against the last of the abandoned vehicles, and the corpses of men and horses, until they were mercifully covered over, hiding the dead and the detritus of the army from those who still lived.

A handful of units remained together, mostly for self-protection rather than through discipline or any sense of duty. They marched with bayonets fixed, with little ammunition remaining in their haversacks, warily watching the surrounding countryside for any sign of the Cossacks who were following the column. Occasionally the horsemen would attack, with a sudden series of war cries as they dashed from concealment to rush any defenceless French soldiers, or civilians. They did not bother to discriminate between the two as they cut them down and then searched the corpses for anything of value. The Cossacks had learned to leave the formed units alone and often stood by, within musket range, letting them shuffle past.

Once again the snow had compacted and frozen so that the passage of the Grand Army was marked by a long, winding gleam of ice that was treacherous underfoot. The temperature continued to fall and had not risen above freezing since they had left the nightmare of the Berezina river behind them. The nights were bitter and dawn, when it came, was bleak. Any men, horses or equipment left in the open were covered in a heavy rime of frost. Increasingly, those who could not find shelter for the night did not survive to see the dawn. Only that morning, Napoleon had passed a peculiar scene by the side of the road. A soldier, a woman and two children were sitting around the remains of a small fire, built in the lee of a crumbling wall. They sat, cross-legged, wrapped in blankets, the children leaning into their mother with their heads resting against her, as if asleep. But they were unaturally still, and Napoleon stopped to look at them.

‘Frozen to death,’ he muttered as he stared into their white faces, wondering at the peaceful expressions on all four. ‘Frozen to death,’ he repeated in horror, before spurring his horse forward again.

That night, the headquarters staff and the Imperial Guard halted at Molodetchna. The soldiers found billets in the village and tried to scavenge some scraps of meat and vegetables to make soup, while the Emperor and his staff took over the village’s one tavern. The Russian armies were mostly behind them and so now the battle was for survival. Regular communications had been re-established with Warsaw and an escorted courier sent by the Minister of Police had arrived in the village earlier in the day. In addition to the official messages, Savary had instructed his official to brief the Emperor on the dangerous situation in Paris.

Napoleon had retreated to the tavern’s kitchen with Berthier to hear what the man had to say in private. A small cauldron was steaming over the cooking fire and the tavern’s owner was peeling vegetables to add to the stock.

‘Out,’ Napoleon said to him, pointing at the door.

The tavern keeper shook his head and pointed to the cauldron. Napoleon clicked his fingers and then pointed to the hilt of his sword before he repeated his order. ‘Out!’

Once the door had closed, he turned to the courier. ‘What’s alarming Savary so much that he has sent you all the way out here?’

‘You already know about Malet’s attempted coup, I take it, sire?’

‘I know. Savary’s last report was that he had rounded up the plotters and dealt with them.’

‘That’s right. The problem is that the rumours of your death have still been circulating around the Paris salons, and amongst the army officers in the capital. The situation is made worse by the reports that are starting to filter back from Russia, mostly letters from soldiers in the rear echelons who have heard rumours of a disaster befalling the army. Of course, the newspapers are continuing to put out the official line that all is well and that your imperial majesty has bested the Tsar. Many people still seem willing to trust the newspapers but it’s clear that they need proof that you are alive, sire. Better still, they need to see you in person. They also need to know what has happened in Russia. It’s the only way we can quell the rumours and cut the ground from under those who might be plotting against the regime.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon nodded and rubbed his eyes for a moment as he thought through the implications of the news.

Berthier coughed. ‘Once the full scale of our losses is known, there is going to be trouble unlike anything we have seen before. There’s hardly a family in France that won’t be grieving over the loss of a brother, a husband or a son, sire. Your enemies in the capital will use this, and your absence, to call for your abdication.’

Napoleon opened his eyes and stared at Berthier.‘What do you think I should do?’

His chief of staff met his gaze firmly. ‘I think you should return to Paris, sire. While there is still time to prevent the traitors and royalists from stirring up any more trouble. You have lost the campaign. There is no more reason for you to remain in Russia.’

‘Lost the campaign,’ Napoleon repeated. There was a time, only a month before, when he would have denied it. Now he felt completely worn out, and almost numbed by the scale of the disaster that had engulfed the Grand Army. The mistake was not in the plans that he had made. How could it be? Every last detail had been accounted for. No, the fault lay in the nature of the Tsar. He had not behaved as any rational ruler would have done. It was Alexander’s inhumanity that Napoleon had failed to take into account. Only in that was Napoleon at fault. He drew a deep breath and nodded.

‘It is over. I have done all that I can for the army. All that remains for them now is to reach the Niemen and cross to safety. I am not needed here.’

Berthier looked relieved, and so did the courier. The latter quickly took advantage of the Emperor’s decision.‘The minister hoped that you would return to Paris, sire. He assumed that there would be some final matters that would require your attention before you left the army behind. In which case, he asked me to request that you issue a despatch stating that the campaign is over and that you are returning to Paris imminently. To allow us to hold our position while we wait for your arrival,’ he explained.

Napoleon looked at him closely. ‘Is it as bad as that?’

The courier looked down and did not reply.

‘Tell me the truth,’ Napoleon said firmly. ‘There is nothing for anyone to gain by sweetening the message.’

‘Very well, sire. It is the minister’s opinion that unless you return to Paris within the month, he cannot guarantee that there will be a throne for you to return to. He needs a despatch from you to prove that you are alive, and also to put an end to the rumours concerning the fate of the army. It will shock the nation, sire, but even bad news is better than no news.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon nodded. ‘Thank you.’

Once the courier had left the room, Napoleon sent Berthier for some paper and a pen. With a weary sigh, he dipped the pen into the ink pot and began to draft the despatch Savary had requested.

29th, Bulletin of the Grand Army. His imperial majesty, Napoleon, Emperor of France, King of Italy, is pleased to inform his people that the campaign in Russia is complete. The valiant men of the Grand Army, the largest gathering of allies ever to set out on such an adventure, has marched across the trackless expanses of Russia to humble the Russian Tsar and prove to him that the will of the Emperor, and all France, will not be denied. Defeated in battle, and having lost his most important city, the Tsar, against all the dictates of justice and humanity, refused to end the war. Accordingly the Emperor, having been refused the victory that all right-thinking men will agree should have been granted him, was obliged to order his army to withdraw to the territory of the Duchy of Warsaw.

Napoleon paused, mentally composing the next section with care.

Due to the deceitful nature of the enemy the army was tricked into remaining in Moscow until the start of the autumn. Within days of setting out, the weather became unusually cold and the lack of sustenance derived from the lands through which the army marched, in concert with the swift onset of winter, has resulted in a considerable loss of men. The Emperor shares the grief of his people at the sacrifice of so many valiant soldiers. He trusts that their families will take some comfort from the knowledge that they died heroes, giving their lives for the glory of their countrymen.

Napoleon continued by giving a casualty figure that was half the true amount. Even this would cause great consternation in France, but the full total must wait until he had returned and could break the news in person. He wrote about the dreadful climate and offered rousing descriptions of the battle at Borodino and the heroic crossing of the Berezina. He described the glorious achievement of Marshal Ney and the band of heroes in his rearguard as it fought its way through the Russian army to re-join the Emperor. Napoleon concluded with a final sentence to allay their fears. His majesty’s health has never been better.

Setting down his pen, he called for Berthier to copy his draft into a legible hand and then signed and sealed the document before giving it to Savary’s courier.

‘Leave at once. Tell the minister I will follow you as soon as I can.’

A fresh blizzard blanketed the Russian landscape over the following days and the army grimly continued its retreat, heads down and leaning into the wind as it buffeted the shambling columns, as well as the civilians who had survived the Berezina crossing and had escaped the attentions of the Cossacks so far. Napoleon had ordered Berthier to make secret preparations for his departure for Paris, and when the foul weather lifted five days later, as the army crept into Smorgoni, he decided the time had come.

The marshals of the army were summoned from their billets into his presence that evening. They had been told that they were required for a briefing on the army’s progress towards the Niemen, and slumped wearily down into the chairs set around a long table in the town’s guild hall. Napoleon had given instructions for his last stocks of wine and brandy to be fetched and the marshals gratefully helped themselves as they waited for the last of their number to arrive. Ney was commanding the rearguard again and had the furthest to travel, and he did not reach the town until late in the evening. He unbuttoned his snow-flecked coat and slung it across a side table as he joined his companions, smiling at the sight of the brandy.

‘Ah! Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.’ He poured a generous glass and downed it in one, then coughed to clear his burned throat.‘Needed that! Nothing like brandy to put fire back into a man’s belly.’

Napoleon waited until Ney was seated and then rapped his glass on the table. ‘Quiet, if you please.’

The marshals settled back into their chairs and looked at him expectantly. Napoleon was too weary to waste time with any preamble praising their efforts and promising rewards when they all returned to France. He drew a deep breath and began in a flat tone.

‘It is my conviction that the army has made good its escape. Though it is hungry, there are more than enough rations at Vilna to feed the men and provide sufficient supplies to reach the Niemen. Therefore, I am no longer required here. I am, however, urgently needed in Paris where our enemies are trying to stir up sedition and revolt against all that we have fought for. With that in mind, I have decided to leave the army. A covered sledge, together with a small escort of Guard cavalry, stands ready to convey me to Warsaw. From there I should be able to continue the journey to Paris by carriage.’ He looked round at them, waiting for a reaction.

‘Bless my bloody soul.’ Ney shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re abandoning us.’

‘I have no choice.’

‘Really?’ Ney smiled thinly. ‘It seems to me that you do.’

‘Then it is a choice that is forced on me by circumstance. Does that please you better?’

‘Oh, it makes no odds to me, sire. It is you who will have to live with the decision.’

‘I do what I must for France,’ Napoleon replied testily.

‘Who will take command of the army?’ asked Davout.

‘The King of Naples.’ Napoleon nodded at Murat.

‘Me?’ Murat looked surprised, and then could not help smiling that he had been singled out from the other marshals, even if the command was little more than an empty title.

Davout puffed his cheeks. ‘Might I ask your majesty why Murat is chosen for this honour? I would imagine he has enough responsibility already, co-ordinating the army’s cavalry.’

‘What’s left of it!’ Ney barked, then poured himself another glass of brandy. ‘Shouldn’t tax his mind too much, eh?’

Murat scowled at him as Napoleon explained.

‘As King of Naples, Murat is the ranking officer. My decision has been made, Davout. You and the others will accept it.’

‘As your majesty commands.’ Davout bowed his head.

‘That’s right.’ Napoleon looked round the room. ‘Gentlemen, it is vital that you do not breathe a word of this to anyone outside this room. The army’s morale is already as low as it can be. It would be dangerous to let them know that I have left. As far as the men are concerned I have fallen ill, nothing too serious, and am confined to my campaign wagon. The truth can be told only once the army has reached Vilna. By then it should make little difference. The Russians are having to endure the same hard conditions and I doubt they will be in any shape to attempt to bring us to battle. The only danger will come from the Cossacks. But if the men are fed and armed and stick together they will come to no harm. Those are your orders.’

He paused. ‘Now the hour is late and I must prepare to leave. There is no time for any questions. It only remains to say that it has been an honour to be your commander, gentlemen. There is no finer body of officers in the world. I am sure of it. When the history of this campaign is written, you can be sure that your heroic deeds will be remembered long after the last of us is dead.’ He stood up and raised his glass to them. ‘My friends, I salute you. When I next see you, I hope it is somewhere warmer.’

The marshals rose from their chairs, and one after the other they came forward to grasp the Emperor’s hand. Ney was last.

‘I wish you a safe journey, sire.’

‘And I wish you would take greater care of your life, Ney. On the battlefield you are my right hand. I have already lost too many friends. Don’t give me further cause to grieve.’

‘I will do my best to survive. I always have, sire.’

Napoleon could not help smiling. ‘If only all the politicians in Paris shared your capacity for dishonesty, my dear Michel.’

Ney frowned until he got the point and then smiled back.‘Sort them out, sire. Then come back to the army. It’s where you really belong.’ He released the Emperor’s hand, strode over to the side table to collect his coat and left without looking back.

The sledge was waiting at the edge of the village, in a private yard guarded by the ten-man escort. Napoleon left headquarters before dawn, dressed in a plain coat and wearing a thick woollen cap in place of his familiar bicorne. A scarf was tied round his face to conceal his features and he carried a large satchel as he followed General Caulaincourt through the dark streets, crunching across the snow. Napoleon had decided it was best if he travelled in disguise, posing as Caulaincourt’s secretary. That way they would be able to pass through French units without arousing any undue attention. More important, if they passed by any allied troops of dubious loyalty they would not be tempted to take Napoleon prisoner and offer him to the Russians in exchange for some reward.

Capture by the enemy was a possibility, if the Cossacks were bold enough to take on the escort. In that event, Napoleon had resolved to kill himself. A phial of poison hung from a chain round his neck, and it would be the work of a moment to snap the top and pour the contents down his throat. The imperial surgeon had assured him his death would be certain, and swift.

Caulaincourt approached the sledge, a small cabin with glass windows perched on a heavy set of iron-rimmed runners. There was a small bench for the driver and six horses were harnessed to the pinion just below the front of the vehicle. At the sight of Caulaincourt the driver hurried to the door and opened it with a neat bow. Napoleon managed to stop himself from getting in first and waited deferentially as the general climbed in before him. The driver shut the door behind them and Napoleon found himself squeezed in beside Caulaincourt on an upholstered leather seat. There was a narrow-lipped shelf opposite and Napoleon placed his satchel on it. Caulaincourt pulled a thick bearskin from under the shelf and placed it over their legs, drawing the edge up to their chests.

‘We won’t be able to move much and we need to stay warm. One of the officers at headquarters told me it had dropped to twenty degrees below zero last night.’

Napoleon nodded, huddling down under the covering, trying hard to draw himself to the kernel of warmth that still remained in his torso.

Outside there was a sharp cry and a crack of a whip and the sledge lurched forward. Once it was in motion the ride was surprisingly smooth, and apart from a faint hiss from the runners the only noise was the soft beat of the horses’ hooves on the fresh snow. The dawn was cold and the snow had a blue tinge. Already the leading elements of the army had set out. The lieutenant commanding the escort called out for those ahead to clear the way. Looking out of the window Napoleon could see the men lining the road, ice crusted on the scarves wrapped over their faces, as little plumes of exhaled breath swirled around their heads. Within the hour they had passed through the vanguard and the way ahead was clear. The sledge slowed as the horses struggled up a small rise and Napoleon leaned towards the window and opened it to look back down the road. A blast of freezing air knifed through his headgear and he narrowed his eyes.

Some distance behind the sledge was the head of the column, and beyond that a thin trail of figures which wound its way back to the east. The soldiers shuffled along in a motley collection of small bands, interspersed with handfuls of men and even the odd isolated figure. Napoleon shut the window and settled back down on to his bench, glad at last to be quitting Russia, the graveyard of the Grand Army.

Chapter 38

Arthur

Ciudad Rodrigo, April 1813

It was a fine spring day and the trees in the garden courtyard of the town’s monastery were covered in new leaves. Though the air was cool, it was dry and refreshing and Arthur breathed it in deeply before turning away from the window to begin briefing his generals. He felt vitalised as never before since he had arrived in the Peninsula. He knew it was true of his men as well. Once in winter quarters they had begun to recover from the retreat that concluded the previous year’s campaign. Their morale was further enhanced by the issue of brand new tents throughout the army, as well as a surfeit of food, wine and tobacco. More reinforcements had arrived to swell the ranks and every ranker and officer was fortified by the news of Bonaparte’s crushing defeat in Russia.

‘Gentlemen.’ Arthur smiled as he looked round the table at his senior commanders. ‘There has never been a more propitious time to take the war to the French. The balance of power in Europe has shifted decisively in our favour. Our ally, Russia, has now been joined by Sweden and Prussia in the crusade against the Corsican Tyrant. I suspect that Bonaparte’s relations with his Austrian father-in-law may soon take a turn for the worse.’

The officers laughed and Arthur indulged their good spirits for a moment before he raised a hand to quieten them. ‘With Bonaparte scraping together every man that can hold a musket so that he can take the field in northern Europe, our role in the Peninsula has assumed a new significance. My agents report that over twenty thousand of the enemy’s best soldiers have been withdrawn from Spain to fill out the ranks of the Emperor’s northern army. In addition, Marshal Soult has been recalled to Paris. By these measures, Bonaparte has made our task easier. At the same time, the French have been forced to abandon southern Spain, and their remit, such as it is, only runs through the eastern and northern provinces. Even then, tens of thousands of French soldiers are tied down suppressing local insurrections and chasing bands of resistance fighters. Over the winter we have been reinforced to over eighty thousand men, and our Spanish allies have promised twenty thousand more to swell our ranks.’