Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

‘Wonderful news, sir. It’s all across England and no one speaks of anything else.’

‘Really?’ Arthur replied drily, and then tapped the message. ‘Do you mind?’

‘What? Oh, yes. I apologise, sir.’

The lieutenant stood stiffly, biting his tongue, as Arthur casually broke the seal, unfolded the document and began to read. Somerset, sitting at a smaller desk in the corner of the room, could barely contain his curiosity. When Arthur had finished he looked up.

‘Good news indeed.’ He turned to Somerset. ‘It seems that our eastern allies crossed the Rhine three days before Christmas. They have begun the invasion of France. Bonaparte has too few men to do anything but mount a fighting withdrawal.’ Arthur lowered the letter. ‘The time to act is upon us, and our allies urge us to renew our offensive. However, we cannot advance while the weather and the ground are against us. In the meantime, then, we must prepare the army to break camp and march against the French. No later than the middle of February.’

‘What about the roads, sir? What if they are still impassable?’

Arthur considered the possibility for a moment. ‘When the finishing line is in sight, then damn the mud! We shall have to advance in any case.’

The following month Hill’s corps left their winter quarters and advanced to screen the activities of the rest of the army. At the same time a flotilla of hired boats and small ships made their way up the coast from St-Jean-de-Luz to the mouth of the Adour. The weather had moderated, clearing the sky and adding to Arthur’s good humour now that the campaign was under way again. Under the cover of the guns of a frigate and a battery of cannon on the south bank of the Adour, the engineers began to anchor the craft side by side in the estuary and lay down a wooden road across their decks. The far bank was lightly defended, and the enemy fell back the moment the first roundshot came their way.

Towards the end of the first day the bridge was nearly complete and a Portuguese brigade had been landed on the far shore, together with a handful of guns and a rocket battery. Arthur had crossed the river to oversee the establishment of the bridgehead when there was an exchange of musket fire from the road to Bayonne. A moment later a soldier came trotting back to warn that an enemy column was approaching. Colonel Wilson, the commander of the brigade, immediately formed his men up across the road ready to defend the small party of engineers constructing the landing stage on the north bank. The guns and the rockets were in place on a small mound overlooking the river and Arthur gestured to Somerset to follow him and rode up to the two batteries for a better view.

To the east the road snaked between undulating ground, and Arthur could see tiny puffs of smoke as the Portuguese skirmishers exchanged fire with the light infantry advancing in a line in front of the main French column.

‘A division, I should say.’

‘And cavalry, there, towards the rear, sir,’ Somerset said quietly.‘Could cause us some difficulty.’

Arthur looked towards the boat bridge. There was still a gap of a hundred yards between the anchored boats and the river bank. The last of the vessels still had to be edged into position and then the bridge would have to be laid across the decks. It would be at least another three hours before the first troops could march across the Adour. That meant standing and fighting, or giving the order to abandon the bridgehead until a larger force could be landed by boat to drive the French away. If the north bank of the Adour was lost it might take days to retake it. Arthur saw Colonel Wilson glance back at him, and he composed his face and remained still to give Wilson the chance to make the right decision. There was a pause, then Wilson turned back towards the enemy and ordered his men to advance to where the ground was more open and they would have the space to deploy into a line long enough to bring every musket to bear on the approaching enemy.

No more than ten minutes later the Portuguese skirmishers came trotting back down the road and took up their position at the left of the line. From his position Arthur could see the French skirmishers now, steadily advancing across country until they came within range of the Portuguese line. They had little time to harass Wilson’s men before the rest of the French column came up, marching swiftly. The commander of the leading brigade halted his column and began deploying opposite the Portuguese.

‘This should be interesting,’ Somerset commented. ‘Let’s hope our allies can stand their ground alone.’

‘They will,’ Arthur replied firmly.‘They are seasoned men, as good as our own line infantry. Besides, they are not entirely alone.’ He gestured towards the guns and rockets. A moment later the artillery battery fired its first rounds. The range was short, and the ground wet enough to absorb much of the energy as the solid iron balls struck the earth, kicking up wedges of turf before coming to a stop just short of the enemy. The captain in charge of the battery, Mosse, instructed his crews to increase the elevation and the next shots fell on target, carving their way through the French line.

Arthur turned his attention to the rocket battery. Their launch troughs were supported by a simple iron A frame which could be quickly raised or lowered by means of a sliding bolt to change the angle at which they were fired. The crews had loaded the first rockets and now stood back, the sergeants holding the cords that triggered the flintlock firing mechanisms.

Turning back towards the battle lines Arthur saw that the French had made no attempt to advance yet.

‘What are they waiting for?’ asked Somerset.

‘Their cavalry. Once they reach the head of the column I should imagine they will attempt to get round Wilson’s left flank. If that happens, then his brigade will be forced to form square. That’s when their infantry will advance. This could turn to the enemy’s advantage, unless something is done.’ He tugged his reins and walked his mount over to the rocket battery’s commander.

‘Hughes, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your rockets can fire up to two miles, I believe.’

‘That’s right, sir. Of course they will not be accurate at such a range.’

‘They are not accurate at any range,’ Arthur replied tersely. ‘So we should be thankful the enemy are providing us with such a large target. Now then, you see the enemy’s cavalry?’

Lieutenant Hughes glanced to the east and nodded.

‘Then aim for them, if you please. Let us see what your contraptions can achieve.’

The officer grinned and touched the brim of his hat before turning away to order his men to align their launch troughs towards the distant target. When all was ready he gave the order for the first rocket to be launched. The sergeant gave his firing cord a sharp tug, the flintlock snapped shut with a spark and the short fuse sputtered for a few seconds before the charge was ignited. With a harsh, hissing roar the rocket leaped from its trough with a brilliant jet of fire and cloud of smoke. Arthur watched the spiralling path of the rocket as it rose to the top of its arc and then curved down towards the French column. It exploded with a flash and white puff some distance above the enemy. Arthur saw several of the soldiers struck down by shrapnel, while others ducked, forcing the column to stop.

‘Very good!’ Arthur grinned at Hughes. ‘That’s put the wind up them. Kindly continue your good work.’

‘With pleasure, sir.’

The second rocket went wildly astray, over the river where it slammed into the water close to the boat bridge. Hughes looked sheepish before he turned back to supervise the next rocket. He had better fortune with the following two, which burst on the ground, the first into the infantry column, the second right in the middle of the cavalry regiment, striking down at least a dozen and scattering a hundred more as the horses bolted from the unfamiliar weapon. At the same time the artillery battery had continued to punish the French line which still had not moved, and was standing waiting for the cavalry. A distant boom drew Arthur’s attention to the southern bank of the Adour where more allied batteries were positioned. The range was long but the enfilading fire was soon doing great damage as each shot ploughed into the enemy’s left flank.

Somerset was enjoying the spectacle and slapped his thigh with glee each time one of the rockets exploded just above or amongst the enemy. The effect on the enemy’s morale was far in excess of the damage caused and soon the column had been stopped in its tracks as men and horses scattered as each rocket corkscrewed towards them with a shrieking roar.

Arthur reached into his saddle bucket for his telescope and trained it on the disrupted ranks of the French column. He sought out the enemy general and could not help smiling as he saw him shake his fist and shout at his men. Each time he began to reassert control a fresh rocket undid his work and in the end he snatched off his hat and threw it on the ground in frustration. After enduring half an hour of the bombardment he finally gave in and the column turned about and hurried back down the road towards Bayonne. The Portuguese troops could only see the line of men in front of them, and they let out a great cheer as soon as the enemy re-formed their columns and hurried after their comrades.

Arthur lowered his telescope with a satisfied smile. ‘Well, that’s that. I shouldn’t think we’ll have any further difficulty with the bridgehead. You may tell General Hope that his blockade of Bayonne can begin the moment his corps completes the encirclement of the city.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As for us, we’ll re-join Hill.’ Arthur’s smile faded as he considered the next phase of the campaign. ‘Then it’s back to hard marching. This time, we’ll run Soult down and defeat him once and for all. With the south of France in our hands and the north falling to the allies then our friend Bonaparte will be caught in the middle. Let us hope the man has the sense to admit defeat.’ Arthur stared at the French bodies littering the road to Bayonne and continued quietly, ‘By God, Somerset, I want nothing more than to see the end of the slaughter that has been carried out in his name.’

Chapter 48

Napoleon

Paris, 24 January 1814

A cold blue hue covered the city as dusk gathered. Napoleon stood back from the window of his office in the Tuileries and looked over the public square in front of the gates. Only a handful of people still wandered across the cobbled expanse in ones and twos, huddled into their coats as a chilly wind blew across the city. Several beggars squatted outside the gates, hoping to get a few coins from those who passed by, trying to catch sight of the Emperor. There was little chance of that, Napoleon thought bitterly. The risk of some madman taking a shot at him was too high. After his return to Paris, three weeks after the disaster at Leipzig, Napoleon’s police minister, General Savary, reported that he had uncovered a number of conspiracies.

Most were harmless enough – coteries of disgruntled aristocrats sending letters denouncing Napoleon and declaring their loyalty to the Bourbon cause. They were kept under watch and any contacts they made duly noted. Other plots were more dangerous. Groups of army officers planning to compel the Emperor to sue for peace, or have him forced from power. The minister’s agents were busy compiling evidence against them in readiness to make arrests. Such officers were destined for a dank cell in a far-flung prison, or to be placed up against a wall in the cool light of dawn and shot. Then there was the minority of traitors who planned to kill Napoleon, and his heir too if possible. There was little common cause between the groups. Some wanted the restoration of a Bourbon monarchy. Others wanted a return to the values and institutions of the early years of the Revolution. And there were those who merely wanted revenge for a past grievence.

Whatever their causes, Napoleon did his best to ensure that he was protected against them all and did not expose himself to danger any more than was necessary. Since his return he had seldom ventured outside the Tuileries, save for visits to St-Cloud to see the Empress and his son. There was a beleaguered air about the palace, and the Parisians no longer gathered in vast crowds to acclaim their Emperor. Most of them were already looking to the future, making sure that they did not openly support a regime that might well fall at any time. Yet the grip of Napoleon’s reputation, and the optimistic pronouncements of the newspapers, ensured that the people dared not openly question whether the Emperor’s days were numbered.

He turned slowly away from the window and crossed the room to his desk. Tomorrow he would be leaving the capital to return to the army, or what was left of it, he mused bitterly. After Leipzig the exhausted soldiers had been forced to make one retreat after another, pressed back by the allied armies who clung to their heels like hunting dogs scenting the kill. By the end of the year France had a mere eighty thousand men to hold off nearly four times that number across a front that stretched from the North Sea to the Alps. In Italy Prince Eugиne, also outnumbered, was holding on. In the south Soult was struggling to contain the recently promoted Field Marshal Wellington, who had crossed the frontier into France.

Napoleon smiled briefly. Soon Wellington would be taken care of. Two months earlier he had signed a treaty with Prince Ferdinand, returning the Spanish crown to him in exchange for an alliance against Britain. Once Ferdinand’s grip on power was assured, then his soldiers would turn on the British and Wellington would be compelled to retreat. That would free Soult and his army to march north.

Even so, more men were needed to fill out the ranks of the Grand Army and Napoleon had issued an edict calling for over nine hundred thousand men to defend the motherland. Scarcely a tenth of that number had answered the call, Napoleon mused angrily.

‘What do they want?’ he muttered. ‘A fat Bourbon king on the throne? Aristocrats to bleed them dry? The priests of Rome claiming their tithes? Why won’t they fight to save themselves?’ He thumped his fist down on the desk and repeated loudly, ‘Why?’

Those who had joined the army were poorly equipped due to shortages of muskets and uniforms. The cavalry regiments were the worst affected of all, as there were so few remounts available in France.

The door to the office clicked open and a clerk nervously looked in.

‘What is it?’ Napoleon barked.

‘I – I thought I heard you call for me, sire.’

‘No. I was just thinking aloud. Go away . . . No! Wait. Have my brother and generals Savary and Berthier arrived yet?’

‘No, sire.’

Napoleon frowned. ‘Well, send them in the moment they reach the palace. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sire.’

The clerk bowed his head and backed out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

Although Joseph and General Savary knew the reason why they had been summoned, Napoleon wanted to ensure that they had a full grasp of his intentions for the governance of France, in case anything happened to him. Berthier would take over the management of the war in the absence of the Emperor. The years of constant warfare and the exhausting task of translating the Emperor’s commands into orders and providing him with the minutest details of the strength and location of every unit in the Grand Army had exacted their toll on Berthier. After Leipzig he had returned to France a broken man and had only just returned to light duties. Some of the other marshals were still recovering from wounds received at Leipzig. Those still serving in the army were tired of war and some had openly urged Napoleon to sue for peace. Murat had withdrawn to his kingdom in Naples and was ominously silent, not having replied to a single request from his imperial master for help in the defence of France.

The door to the office opened again and the clerk entered. ‘General Savary, Marshal Berthier and his highness Joseph are here, sire.’

Napoleon stared at him. ‘They arrived together?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘In the same carriage?’

‘I don’t know, sire. They were together when they entered the anteroom.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon felt a sudden stab of suspicion. If they had arrived together then it was obvious they had travelled to the palace together. Why? What reason could they have for meeting before attending their Emperor? Napoleon breathed out slowly. He was in danger of seeing conspiracies everywhere.

‘Sire?’

Napoleon realised the clerk had been waiting for his response. He nodded. ‘Show them in.’

The clerk disappeared and a moment later there came the sound of footsteps. Joseph led the way. Savary wore a plain dress jacket as he had since taking the post of Minister of Police. Berthier was also wearing civilian clothes. Napoleon had grown so accustomed to seeing him in uniform that it came as something of a surprise. Berthier looked pale and thin and his hair was streaked with grey. Napoleon nodded towards the chairs lining one side of the room. ‘Bring them over and be seated.’

He waited until the three men had taken their places and settled before he continued. ‘I have done all that I can to prepare the army for the present campaign. France has provided me with all that she has left to defend her sacred soil, and I will find and defeat our enemies and send them reeling back across the Rhine. Let no man be in doubt of that.’ He glanced at each of them, daring them to defy his will. ‘Tomorrow, at first light, I will ride to join the army. While I am gone, you, my brother, will be appointed Lieutenant Governor of my realms. That is why I have recalled you to Paris.’

Joseph nodded steadily. ‘You may rely on me, sire.’

‘As I did in Spain?’

Joseph flushed but kept his mouth shut to prevent any expression of his hurt and anger. Napoleon felt no desire to offer his brother any comfort. The situation was too perilous for forgiveness.

‘This time, you will confine yourself to civil affairs. General Savary will act as your eyes and ears in the public and private salons of Paris. If there is any dissent, or open opposition to the regime, then the general will deal with it, using whatever powers and force are required. General Savary’s authority in maintaining order and quashing my enemies is absolute, is that clear?’

Joseph nodded.

‘Good.’ Napoleon turned to Berthier. ‘I require you to take charge of recruiting soldiers for the campaign, and making sure they are equipped. Do you accept?’

‘Of course, sire,’ Berthier replied quietly. ‘I have never failed in my duty to my country. However . . .’

Napoleon’s brow tensed. ‘However?’

There was a brief pause before Berthier cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. ‘Sire, I have followed events as best as I can during my convalescence. The war is going badly for France. Two days ago I heard that Ney, Victor and Marmont had been forced to retreat beyond the Meuse.’

‘That is correct,’ Napoleon admitted.‘It was expedient to do so. They are retreating on to their lines of supply, while the enemy is extending theirs with every pace that they advance. I would prefer to have taken the offensive, but strategic exigencies prevent it. So, we lure them into a trap. At present they have divided into three armies, each of which can be defeated, provided that I can keep them apart and deal with each in turn.’

Berthier shut his eyes and shook his head gently before he responded. ‘But, sire, you will suffer attrition with each battle, and the odds of winning become less favourable. Besides, many of the regiments in the army are under strength. To stand any chance of defending France you must find far more men.’

‘Which I am in the process of doing,’ Napoleon replied defiantly. ‘Once King Ferdinand ratifies the peace treaty between Spain and France then tens of thousands more men will be available. And more, as soon as Murat sends reinforcements from Naples. Meanwhile, there are two divisions forming at Lyon. They will march north to reinforce me the moment I call on them.’

‘They are merely boys and invalids, sire. Many of them have still not been issued full uniforms, or muskets. They cannot be considered as front line units.’

‘We are all in the front line, Berthier. Every soul in France has been in the front line from the moment the enemy crossed our border. But rest assured, I will only fight delaying actions until the moment I can attack each of their armies at an advantage.’

‘Even if that means retreating as far as Paris, sire?’

‘Even that,’ Napoleon conceded.

Berthier slumped back in his chair. He sighed. ‘Then we must make ready the capital’s defences, sire. The people need to be prepared for the worst. We must lay in rations to feed the population and the garrison, mount every spare cannon on the walls and in the forts.’

‘No.’ Napoleon shook his head.‘If the people think that Paris will be attacked then it will only result in panic and strengthen the hand of those traitors who seek to bring France low. There will be no attempt to prepare any defences. As far as the people are concerned, they are safe from the enemy. Is that perfectly clear?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied patiently. ‘But if, for the sake of argument, the enemy are able to advance far enough to attack Paris, what then?’

‘Then there will be no attempt to abandon the city. The garrison and the people will resist the invader to the last breath, and if necessary we must bury ourselves under its ruins.’

There was silence in the room as Berthier stared at the Emperor, then exchanged brief glances with the others. He cleared his throat. ‘Sire, that is not a strategy. There is no honour, or purpose, in a ruler dragging a civilisation down to destruction. After what happened to Moscow we can be sure that the Tsar would happily destroy Paris in revenge. We cannot risk the capital, or its people, in this way. Either you give the order to prepare Paris for a siege, or, if you decide that it cannot be defended, it must be declared an open city.’

Napoleon stared at his subordinate, momentarily surprised by his boldness. If Berthier, of all people, dared speak to him this way, then his power over his followers was not as firm as he had supposed. It would be best to affect a conciliatory aspect, he concluded.

‘It is possible that the enemy may advance as far as Paris,’ he conceded. ‘It might be prudent to avoid giving battle in the streets, if there is an advantage to be sought from doing otherwise. But you are right, my dear Berthier, it would be better to avoid unnecessary civilian casualties. After all, they pay taxes.’ He chuckled, and the others smiled thinly in response. ‘You have your instructions, gentlemen. I place my complete trust in you to keep order during my absence. Savary, Berthier, you are dismissed.’

The two officers rose from their chairs and left. When they had gone, Napoleon eased himself back with a sigh, and then smiled at his older brother. Joseph returned the smile hesitantly.

‘It is a comfort to me to know I can rely on you, Joseph. I can trust you with my empire while I go to fight the enemies of France. Can I also trust you to take care of my wife and son?’

‘Of course.’

Napoleon scrutinised his brother. ‘We are so unalike, in many ways. You are a man of considered opinion, and of gentleness. I was wrong to impose the crown of Spain upon you. It was too heavy a burden. I see that now. I should have used your talents more wisely.’

‘I have served you as well as I could, whatever you asked of me.’

‘I know. I have always been grateful to you for that.’

‘Even when you have not shown it?’

Napoleon smiled sadly. ‘Even then.’

The injured note in Joseph’s tone was clear and for a moment Napoleon could not look his brother in the eye. Instead he reached for the decanter of wine and poured two glasses, carefully sliding the first across the table towards his brother. ‘Tell me honestly, what do you advise me to do?’

Joseph stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. ‘The war is lost. The allies have offered you terms – generous terms under the circumstances. Why don’t you accept them, while there is still time to keep your throne?’

Napoleon stroked his brow. It was true that some, at least, of his enemies were prepared to discuss peace on fair terms. Both England and Austria had offered to end the war if France accepted the frontiers that she had at the outbreak of the Revolution. Napoleon would be permitted to retain his throne, but would have to renounce his authority over the Confederation of the Rhine, as well as all his lands in Italy. He shook his head.

‘No. If I accepted such a peace the people of France would never forgive me. Besides, the Tsar and the King of Prussia would not accept peace on those terms. They want my head. In any case, you are missing the vital point.’

‘Oh?’

‘The allies are divided into two camps: the interests of England and Austria are inimicable to those of Russia and Prussia. That is why they are keen to offer peace. They need France – they need me– to keep the balance of power in Europe. That is their weakness, which I intend to exploit. Don’t you see, Joseph? If I can keep the war going long enough then the alliance against me must break. They will turn on each other and I shall be saved. Then I can make peace with whom I choose. On my terms.’ He smiled coldly. ‘When I have won, history will judge that I am right.’

Joseph shook his head.‘I fear that you are mistaken. You are chancing everything on the hope, the faint hope, that your enemies will set upon each other before they defeat you. It is madness to take such a risk when they offer you peace.’

The burden of the last months of frantic activity weighed heavily upon Napoleon, and the prospect of a bitter dispute with his brother made him feel weary and heavy-hearted. He sighed. ‘I have made my decision. My plans. I will not change them now. I do not deny they may go awry, but I do not feel that destiny has abandoned me yet. So, brother, I will go to war, and you and the others will govern France in my stead. Can I depend upon you?’

Joseph nodded wearily.

‘Then the matter is settled. Save one final duty I ask of you.’

Joseph’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is it?’

‘It is possible that I may be defeated. That I may even be killed on the field of battle. In either event I could not bear the thought of my son being raised as an Austrian prince. I would rather his throat was cut. Do you understand? Under no circumstances is he, or his mother, to be allowed to fall into enemy hands, alive.’

Joseph could not hide the look of revulsion that instinctively rose up in response to the request. ‘I am not a murderer.’

‘It is not murder. It is mercy that I ask of you. If the worst happens, then spare my son, my flesh and blood, the indignity of denying his true identity. I ask you to promise me this. Swear to me that you will give the order. On your honour.’

‘No!’ Joseph raised his hands. ‘Ask anything of me but that.’

Napoleon glared at him for a while, then slumped back into his chair. ‘Very well. I shall have to ask another. But it pains me that you of all people should deny me this comfort before I go to war.’

‘It pains me that my brother, of all people, should ask me to commit such a monstrous act.’ Joseph stood up abruptly. ‘Now, if you no longer require my presence, sire, I will leave.’

Napoleon stared up at him coldly. ‘Then leave.’

His brother turned and strode towards the door, opening it swiftly and closing it loudly behind him, without once glancing back at Napoleon. The room was silent, save for the low moan of the wind outside as it gusted over the darkened city.

Chapter 49

Arcis-sur-Aube, 20 March 1814

The engineer officer approached Napoleon and Marshal Ney and saluted. ‘The bridge is repaired, sire. The army can cross as soon as you give the command.’

‘Well done, Captain. You and your men have pleased me. Pass on my thanks to them.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The engineer’s pleasure at the compliment shone from his face. He swallowed nervously. ‘And . . . and I’m certain they wish you a swift victory, sire.’

‘That may take somewhat longer to achieve.’ Napoleon smiled thinly. He turned to Ney, instantly banishing the other man from his thoughts. ‘Send Sebastiani and his cavalry across first. They are to press forward and screen the bridgehead. The Guard can cross next.’

Ney bowed his head to acknowledge the order, then replied,‘We still can’t be certain what strength we face to the east, sire. What I wouldn’t give to have Murat and his men with us now. Such fine cavalry . . .’ Ney glanced quickly at his Emperor and the latter’s dark expression instantly stilled his tongue.

‘Then it is a shame for us both that Murat has decided to deny us his good services,’ Napoleon responded bitterly. It was only two weeks before that the news had arrived from Italy. Marshal Murat, the Emperor’s brother-in-law, whom Napoleon had gifted the kingdom of Naples, had defected to the allies. There had been little of the rage that Napoleon might once have given vent to when he first heard of Murat’s’s treachery. Anger had swiftly given way to contempt and disgust. Napoleon fervently hoped that he lived long enough to have his revenge. Not just on Murat, but on the newly recrowned Ferdinand of Spain as well. Despite the treaty he had signed with Napoleon at Valenзay, Ferdinand had failed to keep one of the promises he had made so earnestly and Spain was still at war with France.

Revenge would have to wait, he reflected. That was a luxury he must deny himself, until the invaders had been driven from French soil. The allied armies remained divided, advancing boldly across northern and eastern France, confident in the strength of their numbers. As a consequence he been able to strike at their overextended columns several times since he had taken command of his forces at the end of January. Although the snow, and the subsequent mud, had hampered the movements of both sides, Napoleon held the advantage of support of the French people, who turned out to help heave the guns through the mud, or sabotaged bridges and obstructed roads to delay the enemy wherever they could. If they no longer showed unrestrained joy and loyalty in his presence, then at least he could rely on them to hate and resist the enemy.