The Fields of Death r-4, page 42
part #4 of Revolution Series
‘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 voltigeur thrust 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.
