The Fields of Death r-4, page 39
part #4 of Revolution Series
Roving bands of Cossacks and peasants were happy to oblige and butchered any French soldiers they came across. The wounded on the remaining wagons were crushed in together, and when a man died, or was deemed to be beyond help, he was thrown over the side to die in the mud or be crushed under the following vehicles. The remaining horses were little more than skeletons, and the lame animals were butchered where they fell, to be torn to pieces by frenzied mobs. Some men were even unhitching the horses from the wagons of the wounded and leaving their comrades behind, ignoring their pitiful pleas not to be abandoned. And all along the line of march lay the abandoned spoils of the campaign, amid the discarded weapons, spiked guns, carts, wheelbarrows and wagons.
When the army reached the Dnieper river on the first day of November, Napoleon gave the order to halt to give the rearguard time to catch up. There was ominous news from further ahead. Russian forces were marching to block the crossings over the Berezina river, a hundred miles from the border with the Duchy of Warsaw.
As night fell the temperature dropped below zero and kept dropping. Having read the day’s despatches and written his responses, Napoleon climbed down from the campaign wagon and strode over to the fire that had been lit for him by a section of guardsmen. They now stood around the perimeter of the light cast by the flames, muskets slung over their shoulders as they stamped their feet, trying to keep warm as they stood guard. A servant brought a bowl of onion soup and a small loaf to the Emperor, who sat on a campaign chair a short distance from the fire. As he sipped at the hot soup he saw hundreds more fires dotted across the surrounding countryside and trailing back towards the eastern horizon. A half-moon hung in the sky, providing a thin illumination of the dark bands of forests and cleared swathes of farmland that stretched out on either side of the army. In the distance there was a brief outbreak of musket fire, then silence, and finally the long low howl of a wolf, taken up by others, which continued until a fresh rattle of musket fire scared them off.
Napoleon felt something cold prick his cheek, and blinked. Then a pale fleck floated lazily past his face and settled on his thigh. Another followed, then more, and he looked up into the night sky to see a sudden swirling motion against a bank of clouds drifting slowly across the heavens, obscuring the moon and stars. A low wind began to blow, fanning the flames of the fire. Napoleon heard footsteps nearby and turned to see Berthier approaching, a worried expression on his face.
‘I had hoped we might reach Smolensk before the snow came, sire.’
Napoleon took another sip of onion soup. ‘So did I. Now all we can do is pray that it doesn’t last.’
Neither man spoke as they watched the veil of snow close in across the landscape, slowly blanking out the fields and forests as it began to settle on the ground like a funeral shroud.
Chapter 35
6 November 1812
Berthier looked up from the despatch that Napoleon had handed him to read. ‘It seems to have been handled efficiently enough. The Paris garrison has stamped down on the traitors, and, as you say, General Malet is clearly a lunatic.’
‘Lunatic or sane, he deserved to be shot, along with the others,’ said Napoleon as he shuffled his stool closer to the stove. Outside the barn a blizzard was blowing, adding to the snow of the previous days. The imperial headquarters had struggled on until after dark before reaching the barn and the handful of sheds that were the only shelter the scouts had been able to find for the night. A stove had been fetched from the imperial baggage and one of the carts was broken up for firewood, providing enough for the stove and a small blaze outside where the sentries drawn from the Old Guard were huddled.
As twilight settled over the snow, painting the winter landscape in a pale blue hue, the headquarters staff had encountered a messenger on the road to Smolensk. The sealed despatch bag had only been opened once Napoleon had eaten and warmed himself by the stove. There was a message from the Minister of Police marked Most urgent, which Napoleon read first.
The minister reported that there had been an attempt by some senior army officers to seize power. The ringleader was General Malet, a longstanding opponent of the Emperor who had been committed to an asylum. Somehow, he had managed to escape. Arriving in Paris with a forged army despatch, he had declared that Napoleon had died in Russia, and managed to persuade a number of officers to join his cause. It was only when the military governor of Paris refused to believe the news that the plot was foiled and the culprits were arrested, tried and shot.
‘Well, it’s over now.’ Berthier folded the despatch and placed it in the document box of correspondence that had been read. ‘From the sound of things it stood no chance of success.’
‘You’re missing the point,’ Napoleon said wearily. ‘I don’t doubt that Malet and his friends would have failed. The soldiers in Paris would never have gone over to them. What worries me is that so many officials were prepared to believe that I was dead.’ He looked earnestly at Berthier.‘Don’t you see? It does not take long for my hold on power to slip when I leave Paris for any length of time.’ He was silent for a moment, staring at the beaten earth between his boots.‘It seems that my presence is needed in Paris as soon as I have led the army to safety for the winter.’
‘Sire,’ Berthier responded with a warning glance, and then looked round at the other officers in the barn. Some were hunched over campaign tables, busy writing orders, while others collated the latest strength returns, a task that daily revealed the increasing peril of the Grand Army as the number of men in each corps dwindled. Satisfied that he would not be overheard, Berthier continued. ‘You must remain with the army for as long as possible. While you are with us there is still some hope for the men. They trust you, sire. They know that you will lead them out of this frozen wasteland. But if you leave . . . if you abandon them, then whatever is left of their fighting spirit will die. The army will dissolve. We have to save as many of them as possible, else there will be nothing to stand between our empire and the forces of Russia when the next campaign season begins.’
Napoleon frowned at his chief of staff. ‘You exaggerate the danger, as ever, Berthier. What makes you think these conditions affect the enemy any less than us, eh? The Russians are still men. They feel the cold. They grow hungry as they outmarch their supply lines. I dare say that, even now, Kutusov is sitting in his headquarters listening to a doom-mongering subordinate of his own. The Russians will be in no better condition to continue the war than we are when the spring comes.’
‘You are wrong, sire,’ said Berthier. ‘The Russians are living within their supply lines. Their men have food when they need it, and are not obliged to try to carry it with them every step of the way.’
‘Nor will we be when we reach Smolensk!’ Napoleon snapped back. ‘There are rations enough there for all the men. The city has strong defences. The army could winter there while I return to Paris, and when the spring comes we will be within striking range of St Petersburg. If the loss of Moscow does not move the Tsar to seek peace, then perhaps if we take his new capital he will begin to see reason. If that does not work we shall take his cities one by one, and burn them, until he comes to terms.’
Berthier shook his head. ‘I am no longer sure that the loss of all his cities would weaken his will to resist. In any case, if the Grand Army, or what’s left of it, remains in Smolensk then it runs the risk of being trapped there during the depths of winter. And all the time the enemy will be drawing on his reserves to increase the size of the armies gathering against us. Come spring they will be ready to close the trap around Smolensk and compel the army to surrender, or perish. There would be no army for you to return to, sire.’
Napoleon lowered his gaze and stared at the flickering orange rim round the iron door of the stove. Berthier was right. He could not afford to quit the army when the morale of the men was so fragile. Yet he was gravely concerned about the situation in Paris - and not only Paris. The Prussians could not be trusted, nor could many of the other lesser allies in the German Confederation. Then there was Spain, where French control of the country was slipping from his hands, as Wellington and the accursed Spanish rebels continued to run rings around Napoleon’s marshals.
He felt the burden of it all weigh on his heart like a great rock. His empire needed him everywhere. He was fated to be either a ruler directing his wars from a distance, or a general leading his soldiers at the front, far from the capital. A man could not do both, he mused, and then smiled to himself. Perhaps not a man, but a Napoleon? Only history would tell.
‘Sire?’ Berthier interrupted his thoughts.
‘What is it?’
‘Your orders. Will the army halt at Smolensk?’
Napoleon was still for a moment and then shook his head. ‘You are right. It is too exposed. We will fall back on the depot at Minsk. Meanwhile, send a message to Marshal Victor. His corps is still intact. Order him to advance towards us. He is to keep our lines of communication open at all costs. I cannot afford to be out of touch with Paris.’
‘Yes, sire.’
Leaning towards the stove, Napoleon held out his hands and spoke softly. ‘The campaign is lost, Berthier.’
‘Yes, sire. I know.’
‘Then all that remains to do is get as many men out of Russia as possible.’
The Emperor and the Imperial Guard reached Smolensk on the ninth day of November. The stock of supplies for the Grand Army was far lower than Napoleon had anticipated. Not nearly enough to feed his men through the winter, or even until the end of the year. As the following formations reached the city, they were issued with all the food they could carry. Many of the men had had hardly anything to eat for weeks, and ignoring the orders of their officers they gorged themselves, leaving little to sustain them as the army marched on, crossing to the south of the Dnieper and leaving Smolensk behind.
Napoleon and his staff attempted to reorganise what was left of the army. There were now less than forty thousand front-line troops. Murat’s cavalry had almost ceased to exist and the officers were ordered to hand over their horses so that a small force could be scraped together to confront the menace of the Cossacks. The six thousand survivors of Ney’s corps took over the rearguard and rested a few days in the city to allow the wretched column of stragglers to pass by, looting what little food was left in the depots and houses of Smolensk in the process.
Early on the seventeenth, the same day that Ney had been ordered to quit Smolensk, the vanguard came up against a strong Russian force blocking the road. The sky was the colour of lead above the thick gleaming white layer that blanketed the stark landscape. A mile ahead of the Grand Army was a low rise where the Russians waited, infantry and a handful of guns to the centre and thousands of Cossacks drawn up on each flank. Napoleon regarded them through his telescope and then conferred with Berthier.
‘I would estimate perhaps twenty thousand all told.’
‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied a moment later. ‘I agree.’
‘They must be pushed aside.’ Napoleon bit his lip. There was only one remaining formation in the Grand Army strong enough to complete the task. If they failed then all was lost. He turned to Berthier. ‘Tell General Roguet to have the Guard form a battle line across the road. Here.’ He stabbed a finger towards the ground.
As the faint glow of the sun climbed behind the clouds the men of the Imperial Guard marched up the road and then turned and filed across the snow to take up their positions. In front of them, the last of the artillery horses hauled twenty guns into place and the crews clumsily began to load the weapons with numbed fingers. As Napoleon watched the preparations he saw that his elite corps had suffered the same privations as the rest of the army. The guardsmen were bearded and filthy, their mud-stained uniforms in tatters, and strips of cloth had been tied round their boots and hands in an attempt to keep their feet and fingers warm. Yet they formed ranks as neatly as if they had been on parade in the courtyard at the Tuileries. Napoleon could not help feeling proud of these men, who had served him through many campaigns. This moment was what they had been saved for. At the Grand Army’s darkest hour it would be the Imperial Guard who would fight to preserve them all.
A series of dull thuds from the Russian line announced the start of the battle, as the enemy cannon opened fire. General Roguet gave the order for his guns to reply as the last battalion of the Guard took its place in the line. For fifteen minutes the guns of both sides exchanged fire, their shot kicking up short-lived fountains of white as they grounded in the snow. Now and again a shot struck home, smashing a gun and striking down some of its crew. The men of the Imperial Guard artillery soon warmed to their task, grunting with effort as they laboured to load and fire their guns, and their superior training quickly showed as they silenced one enemy gun after another, while only two of their own were put out of action.
‘That’s the spirit!’ General Roguet grinned as he sat on his horse beside Napoleon. ‘First round to us, sire.’
Napoleon nodded, clasping his arms about his torso as he hunched his neck down into the muffler wound thickly about his neck.‘Tell your men to concentrate their fire on the infantry now.’
‘Yes, sire.’ Roguet spurred his mount forward through the snow towards his general of artillery. Moments later the first French shot began to fall into the dense ranks of the waiting Russian infantry as Roguet returned to his Emperor’s side. Each time a ball struck home it caused a swirl of bodies, deep into the heart of the Russian lines. Yet they calmly closed up the gaps and held their position. For an hour they endured the punishment, until the general of artillery reported that his ammunition was running low. The Guard’s dwindling convoy of supply wagons was still some miles further down the track leading to Smolensk.
‘Then send the infantry forward, General,’ Napoleon ordered.‘Order them to clear that rise and then push the enemy back to the south and open the route for the rest of the army.’
‘Yes, sire.’
Shortly after the last of the guns had fallen silent the order to advance was given. The drums beat the rhythm and the leading companies of each Guard battalion stepped out towards the enemy, their boots making only a soft crunch as they broke through a thin crust of ice atop the snow. After a short delay the following companies rippled forward, following the tracks left by their comrades, until over seven thousand men were closing on the enemy. Napoleon heard the blare of a distant horn and then the note was picked up and repeated along the Russian line as the Cossacks surged forward, hooves kicking up sprays of snow as they brandished their lances and let out their war cry.
A moment later Napoleon saw the Guards halt. The flanking battalions steadily formed squares and then the entire formation stood its ground as thousands of Cossacks came charging across the flawless blanket of snow towards them. Up went the muskets, levelled at the oncoming riders, and the French officers held their fire, waiting as the shouting wave of riders surged closer, no more than a hundred paces from the guardsmen, then fifty. Napoleon felt his guts tighten in anticipation. Then the entire front rank of the French line fired with tiny stabs of flame and the sudden bloom of a band of smoke immediately to their front. From his position, Napoleon had a clear view over the smoke and saw the foremost Cossacks cut down, men and horses tumbling amid the snow. At once the front rank of guardsmen went down on one knee and angled their bayonets towards the enemy. The second line raised their weapons, paused, and then another volley crashed out as another wave of musket balls scythed down more of the enemy.
The horsemen facing the front of the French line drew up, hesitating as they saw hundreds of their comrades sprawled in the snow around them. On the flanks, however, they had suffered few casualties and they spilled round the corners of the French squares, only to be met by more volleys from the companies covering the flanks of the Imperial Guard’s line. The charge broke, and the Cossacks turned their mounts away and galloped back to the rise. General Roguet ordered the squares to resume their original formation and then the Guards reloaded their muskets and continued their advance, halting as they came within range of the waiting Russian infantry. There was one exchange of volleys and scores of the leading battalions of guardsmen went down, and then the charge went in. The stolid courage of the Russians did not long endure as Napoleon’s veterans cut through them, stabbing and clubbing their way forward. Within a minute the enemy broke and ran, tiny dark figures scattering across the snow.
Roguet’s men took control of the rise, turning to the south to confront the clusters of Cossacks who had re-formed, and the two sides watched each other warily, just beyond musket range. Napoleon nodded with satisfaction. The road was open again and the army could make for the last crossing over the Dnieper at Orsha. After that, there was only one more river to cross before the final leg of the retreat to the Niemen.
For the rest of the day Napoleon remained with Roguet as the Guard continued to confront the Cossacks. Behind the guardsmen, the rest of the army tramped along the road. The snow was quickly compacted and the surface ice gleamed as the ragged French soldiers trod warily, trying to avoid slipping over. Behind the Guard artillery came the other battalions who had not taken part in the brief battle and a few hundred horsemen, all that remained of the thousands of finely mounted heavy cavalry that had advanced into Russia mere months before. Then came the gaunt figures of Prince Eugиne’s corps, some battalions reduced to less than fifty men still following the colours topped by the gilded eagles. No more than five thousand men remained of the forty-five thousand who had crossed the Niemen in June. Behind Eugиne’s corps came the ten thousand of Marshal Davout, who had led the largest formation on the campaign. Fewer than one in seven still marched behind their eagles. Following Davout was the long, ragged mass of stragglers, the wounded and the camp followers; women wrapped in cloaks, some clutching the hands of children who stared down apathetically as they staggered on. Some distance behind them, perhaps as much as a day’s march, was the rearguard commanded by Marshal Ney.
