The Fields of Death r-4, page 38
part #4 of Revolution Series
As Arthur watched them he heard a faint pat on the brim of his hat, then another. Lowering his telescope, he saw that it had begun to rain. The pattering became more general, and then merged into a hiss as the rain fell in earnest, creating a steely veil between the two armies. Arthur glanced up at the sky and saw that the clouds had spread to the horizon. The most distant hills had already been blotted out and those only a few miles off had been reduced to grey outlines.
‘Still no movement from the enemy,’ an officer muttered.
Arthur nodded, and thrust his telescope back into the saddle bucket, fastened the buttons of his cloak, and sat stiffly as he considered his next move. The rain would handicap both sides. The French would have to advance across the muddy floor of the valley before mounting the slope leading up to the allied position. Infantry and cavalry alike would be hampered by the soft ground. At the same time, the rain would increase the number of misfires from Arthur’s men, which would reduce the firepower of his line, a worrying factor given that he was already outnumbered. As he was thinking, Somerset rose up in his stirrups and pointed towards the far ridge.
‘Sir, look there. The French are on the move.’
Arthur raised a hand to shield his eyes from the rain and squinted. Sure enough, the men of the enemy cavalry reserve, massed on the crest of the ridge, were mounting their horses. Then, one squadron at a time, they turned and rode away over the ridge. As the order spread to the other formations, the French army began to withdraw towards their camp.
‘It would seem that rain has stopped play,’ Somerset said.
Arthur nodded and sighed. There would be no battle today. Soult would not be lured into an attack on a strong defensive position. That left only one rational course open to Arthur. He tugged the reins and eased his horse round to face his staff officers. ‘That is it then, gentlemen. The army is to fall back to Ciudad Rodrigo. Somerset.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Stand the army down. They are to return to camp for the night. Inform all divisional commanders that the army is to begin the retreat at dawn. They will have their written orders for the march during the night. That is all. Gentlemen, you are dismissed.’
The disappointment and dejected spirits of his officers were evident in their faces as Arthur watched them turn their mounts away and walk them back to the headquarters at the farm. He shared their sentiments. The army would have returned to the starting point of the campaign, and the failure to take Burgos, the abandoning of Madrid and the discomfort of the long retreat through the months of winter would weigh on the mind of every soldier. Many of them would voice their disgruntlement in letters home as they waited for the winter to pass.
However, Arthur reminded himself, soldiers were always inclined to complain about those things that caused them immediate discontent. In time, when they had rested, and fed well, and been issued with new boots and uniforms, they would recall the glory of Salamanca well enough. And the triumphant entry into the Spanish capital.
Arthur turned his horse back to face the enemy. Even though Soult had deprived him of the day’s battle, he recognised the significance of this moment. Despite his advantage in men, Soult had refused to fight. Bonaparte’s marshals had come to fear him, Arthur noted with satisfaction. They were no longer the masters of Europe’s battlefields. He hardly dared to voice the thought, but in his heart he knew that the tide of the war was turning against France, and against Bonaparte.
Chapter 34
Napoleon
Maloyaroslavets, 25 October 1812
The rain petered out after the first two days of the march, and clear skies and mild weather meant that the French army reached the town of Maloyaroslavets, sixty miles from Moscow, by the end of the fifth day. Napoleon decided to head south-west, towards Kutusov, in the hope that the Russians would fall back, thereby opening up a clear line of retreat towards Smolensk. The news from the other elements of the army was grim. Marshal MacDonald, who had been besieging Riga on the Baltic coast, was facing ever greater numbers of Russians, and the loyalty of many of his own troops was suspect, particularly the Prussians. To the south of the Pripet, General Schwarzenberg and his Austrians were facing twice as many Russians and were being forced back.
Meanwhile, Murat’s scouts were reporting that other Russian forces were closing in from the north, south and east to join Kutusov. There was no denying the danger: the trap was slowly closing around the Grand Army. If Kutusov could block the river crossings along the French line of retreat, then hunger and the cold would ravage Napoleon’s army and Kutusov’s men would finish them off.
The day before, Prince Eugиne had forced his way across the bridge over the river Lusha at Maloyaroslavets and this morning Napoleon, his staff and a small escort of dragoons had ridden out to reconnoitre the western road. Two thousand men were holding the town while the rest of the army waited on the north bank for the order to advance. The sky was clear and the morning air crisp and chilly, so that riders and mounts exhaled steamy plumes as the small party trotted through a shallow vale. Bare fields and the occasional peasant hut lined both sides of the road before giving way to forests that sprawled into the distance in all directions.
Napoleon glanced up at the sky and then spoke cheerfully to Berthier. ‘If this weather holds for another two weeks we shall make good progress to Smolensk.’
‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied, but his tone was cautious and Napoleon turned to look at him as their horses sloshed through a patch of watery mud.
‘You have doubts, Berthier?’
Berthier briefly scratched his stubbly chin. ‘May I speak freely, sire?’
‘Do.’
‘Very well. I cannot help thinking that we should be taking the most direct road back to Smolensk, particularly as the weather is good. The sooner the army falls back on its depots the better.’
‘I agree, my friend. But the biggest challenge facing us at present is to keep our army in being. If I had given the order to retrace our steps there would be no way of concealing from the men that we are retreating. You can imagine how that would affect morale. It is better that we chart a different course, one that allows me to present it to the men as an advance. If they believe that, then I am confident that they are ready to fight on. Do you understand?’
Berthier nodded.
‘Good. Then let’s see if we can find a high point to see the way ahead.’ Napoleon looked round and pointed to a knoll a mile down the track. ‘There.’
He was about to spur his horse into a canter when there was a shout to his left. Napoleon turned. One of the thin screen of dragoons riding fifty paces to the left was pointing to the woods. A group of riders, perhaps fifty men, clutching lances had burst out from amongst the trees and were racing towards the party of Frenchmen. They were dressed in flowing red cloaks and wore black fur hats. Their mounts were smaller and shaggier than the French horses.
‘Cossacks,’ Berthier muttered.
There was another shouted warning from the right and Napoleon and his officers turned to see a second party rushing from the forest on the other flank, angling out slightly to cut the Frenchmen off from the town. The dragoons had drawn out their carbines and were hurriedly steadying their mounts to take aim. There was a puff of smoke and a crack as the first dragoon fired. The shot went wide. As his companions joined in Napoleon saw one of the Cossacks’ ponies tumble over, pitching its rider forward on to the muddy field over which they raced towards the French Emperor and his small party. As soon as they had fired, the dragoons holstered their carbines and drew their swords, spurring their mounts towards the oncoming horsemen. On both sides of the imperial party the Russians charged forward, shouting their war cry as they leaned low over their ponies and swung their lances down ready to strike. The dragoons were heavily outnumbered and swiftly overwhelmed. As the last of them was cut down the Cossacks charged on, straight for Napoleon and his staff officers.
‘Draw your swords!’ Berthier bellowed. ‘Defend the Emperor!’
The ornately decorated blades rasped from their scabbards as the French officers drew out their light cavalry sabres and dress swords and formed a loose ring about Napoleon. A handful of them had pistols attached to their saddles and pulled them out of their holsters, cocked them and held them ready, aiming up at the sky in order to prevent any premature discharges from striking their own side. Napoleon watched the Cossacks race across the open ground towards him, close enough now for him to make out the long moustaches flicking out round each cheek as their lips curled back, mouths wide open as they cheered themselves on.
‘Brace yourselves!’ Berthier called out. ‘Don’t let them get through.’
One of the officers lowered his pistol, took aim, waited until the last moment and shot a Cossack in the chest. The man dropped his lance and toppled from his sheepskin saddle. A rapid succession of pistol shots followed and then the first of the Cossacks reached the cluster of gold-braided staff officers with their feathered and cockaded hats. He thrust out his lance arm and the point shot towards the chest of a young colonel on the topography staff. With a desperate slash the officer parried the head of the shaft and drew his arm back to strike as the Cossack drew level. The sweep of the highly polished blade hissed through the air, but the Russian swung his body to the side and hung low beside the saddle, and the sabre sliced harmlessly over his head.
Napoleon glanced round to see that all his officers were engaged now, locked in an uneven duel with the Cossacks as they jabbed their lances at any target that was presented to them. For their part the staff officers tried their best to parry the strikes and use the greater weight of their horses to force the enemy back, but they were outnumbered and were gradually driven into a tight knot around the Emperor. Napoleon had no pistols nor even a sword, and drew out his telescope, hefting it in his spare hand as he prepared to use it as a club. All around the air was thick with the scrape and clatter of blades on steel points and wooden shafts. The Cossacks had stopped their cheering and now focused intently on their hand-to-hand fight with their enemy, teeth locked in feral snarls. With a gasp, the first of Napoleon’s officers went down, falling from the saddle as the tip of a lance ripped from his stomach a bloody, glistening tangle of intestines. Almost at once he was joined by the Cossack who had struck him down as a sabre cut deep into the Russian’s neck, severing muscle and blood vessels and breaking through the spine. The man flung his arms out, spasmed in the saddle and fell.
‘Sire! Look out!’ Berthier yelled, urging his horse between Napoleon and the Cossack who had pressed through the ring behind them. Napoleon swung round to see the Russian’s wild expression as he drew back his lance to strike. The point came forward, foreshortened and deadly, like a snake striking, and Napoleon swept out his telescope, just managing to knock the point aside. Then the pony slammed into the flank of Napoleon’s mare, nearly knocking him out of his saddle. He swayed briefly before grimly tugging on his reins and clamping his legs round the horse’s girth. Berthier struck back, slashing his blade down on to the man’s shoulder, shattering the collar bone and shoulder blade with a sharp crack. The Cossack dropped his lance, snatched the reins aside with his good hand and raced away, barging between the men struggling around Napoleon.
‘Thank you, Berthier,’ Napoleon panted, his heart pounding with fear and excitement. Berthier smiled, then both men heard a distant trumpet note sounding across the fields. They turned and saw a squadron of Guard cavalry charging into view round a bend in the road.
‘Hold on!’ Napoleon shouted to his officers. ‘Hold them back!’
The skirmish intensified as the Cossacks strove to cut their foes down before they were saved by the reinforcements. Another officer fell, pierced through the chest, the bloody point bursting through his back less than three paces from where Napoleon sat on his mount. He recoiled involuntarily at the sight, then the lance was yanked back and the officer swayed in his saddle, groaning in agony, before he began to slump forward. Another cried out as a lance pinned his arm to his side, passing on into the Frenchman’s ribs. Napoleon quickly rose in his stirrups to see that the dragoons were spurring into a charge to save their Emperor, pounding down the road in a muddy spray, their swords held high and glittering in the sunshine.
A sudden shout behind Napoleon caused him to swivel in his saddle, just in time to see another Cossack making for him, lance ready to strike.
‘No you don’t!’ a voice shouted back and an officer spurred his horse between the Russian and the Emperor. As the Cossack thrust the officer threw his sword into the man’s face and grabbed at the shaft of the lance with both hands. The Cossack clung on but with a swift, powerful jerk the staff officer wrenched the other man from his saddle and sent him crashing to the ground. A savage thrust to the throat with the lance finished him off.
The approach of rumbling hooves drew Napoleon’s gaze away from the officer who had saved him and he saw the Guard cavalry charging up to the mкlйe. They were hand-picked men mounted on the best of horses, and they charged down those Cossacks who could not turn and flee in time. The rest disappeared across the field into the woods, pursued by the galloping Frenchmen.
‘Who is he, Berthier?’ Napoleon nodded towards the officer holding the lance. The man was no older than thirty, blond and with fine features.
‘Colonel Eblй, sire. An engineer.’
‘Then see to it that the colonel is promoted to general. A brave man, that.’
‘We will need all of his kind in the weeks ahead,’ Berthier responded quietly.
Napoleon frowned. He wanted to upbraid his chief of staff for his pessimism, but he knew that Berthier was right. Glancing round at the forests on either side, he could already see mounted figures stealing back towards the tree line, watching them. Abruptly, he turned his mount back down the road and a moment later Berthier fell in alongside him.
They were silent for a moment as Napoleon glanced from side to side.
‘I think we may have to reconsider our route,’ he said.
Back in the campaign wagon, Napoleon pulled a map of the Moscow approaches from its case and spread it out across the folding table. He leaned forward on his elbows and examined it briefly, then nodded to himself. He tapped his finger where the name of Maloyaroslavets was marked.
‘We dare not take the whole army across the river using a single span. It would take too long, and if the enemy can bring forward sufficient strength to attack the bridgehead then we could be stuck here while Kutusov approaches from the east.’
‘That is a possibility, sire,’ Berthier agreed. ‘But if the ground on the far side is held by a few bands of Cossacks and the remnants of the column that Eugиne forced aside, then I would say it is worth the risk. If the army gets over the Lusha then there are few natural obstacles between us and Smolensk.’
Napoleon thought a moment and then shook his head. ‘It would take only a few cannon to sweep the bridge and there would be a panic. We would lose thousands - men I cannot afford to lose. No, the army cannot cross here.’ Napoleon traced his finger across the map. ‘We’ll head north, back to the Moscow-Smolensk road.’
Berthier sucked in a breath. ‘But that will cost us six days, sire. We can’t afford to lose so much time.’
‘Time is irrelevant if there is no army left to make use of it.’ Napoleon straightened up and rubbed his back. Even though he had slept little in recent days he felt something of his old energy returning. His stomach was no longer hurting, he realised.
He continued to stare at the map. It was possible that Berthier was right, he conceded silently, and the march north would cost him six days, but the danger of attempting to cross the Lusha outweighed Berthier’s fears.
A sudden gust of wind caused the map to flap where it wasn’t clipped to the table. Napoleon shuddered and turned to one of the orderlies waiting outside the carriage. ‘Find me a warm coat.’
Several days later, the army re-joined the road to Smolensk and passed through the battlefield at Borodino. There had been no time to bury the vast number of dead men and horses when the Grand Army had pursued Kutusov in the direction of Moscow after the battle six weeks before. Since then the corpses had swollen, putrefied and been scavenged by packs of wolves that had been drawn from many miles around by the scent of death. Amid the ravaged bodies was the litter of war: abandoned muskets, shattered gun carriages, cavalry helmets and breastplates, cleaved by musket and cannon fire.
‘Good God . . .’ Berthier muttered as he gazed around the desolate landscape as the headquarters column passed through. He sat opposite Napoleon in an open carriage.
‘An ugly scene,’ Napoleon nodded, and then wrinkled his nose.‘And a foul stench, even now.’
He turned in his seat to look back along the column snaking across the battlefield. Although the men looked lean and ragged, they still kept hold of their muskets and packs. As Napoleon watched, he saw hundreds of them break ranks and hurry across to the rotting horses to see if there was any meat to be gleaned, no matter how rancid. It was a sobering sight and Napoleon turned away, settling himself down in his seat and shutting his eyes. He did not sleep, but anxiously reflected on the steady disintegration of the Grand Army.
Earlier that day one of Murat’s troopers had brought the Emperor a report from the rearguard. The reports of conditions at the rear of the army were hard to believe. Davout’s corps had taken over the rearguard, and he informed the Emperor that as many as thirty thousand stragglers and camp followers were clogging the road behind the main body of the army. Most had abandoned their weapons and the strongest formed bands and preyed on the weak, stealing their food and clothes and leaving them to die. Starvation was killing hundreds every day. Men dropped by the side of the road and stared into space, waiting for death.
