The Fields of Death r-4, page 51
part #4 of Revolution Series
As midday approached it was clear that the enemy attack was spent and the battle had settled down into a deadly process of attrition.
Napoleon had seen no sign of the approach of Marmont’s corps to take its place on the right wing of the French line, where it would be needed to swing the balance in Napoleon’s favour once the time was right to launch the counter-attack.
‘Berthier!’
‘Sire?’
‘Have there been any messages from Marmont?’
Berthier checked his log book. ‘None, sire.’
‘Then where is he? He should have reached his position an hour ago. Find out. Tell him I want him here, or he may cost us the battle.’
‘At once, sire.’
At noon the French attack began as General Drouot, the commander of the artillery, gave the order to open fire on the enemy centre. The range was long and the gunners used round shot, but even so the heavy iron balls smashed deep into the enemy regiments formed up opposite the Galgenburg. On either side of the battery the French army began to advance, the infantry pausing to unleash volleys at close range before charging home with the bayonet. All along the battlefield Napoleon saw that the enemy was steadily being forced to retreat, giving up all their earlier gains, and then more ground as they were pressed back towards their reserves. On the left flank, Murat unleashed his cavalry in a great sweeping arc intended to cut behind the enemy line.
As the attack drove forward, Napoleon heard more cannon fire, this time from the north. He became concerned as it rapidly intensified. Leaving the command post, he mounted his horse and galloped down the reverse slope of the Galgenburg and past the suburbs of Leipzig, making for the sound of the guns. Two miles north of the city was the village of Mцckern, where the smoke from scores of guns was rising up in the still air. Spurring his horse on, Napoleon came across the first of the wounded, stumbling back from the battle raging to the north of Leipzig. It was Blьcher, Napoleon realised. He had come up on them more quickly than Napoleon had calculated.
Marmont was directing his corps from a hill a short distance outside Mцckern when Napoleon found him. The French still held the village, but the rest of the line had been forced to give ground. To the north Napoleon could see long columns of infantry and cavalry marching up to join Blьcher’s vanguard.
‘Why the devil didn’t you report this?’ Napoleon barked in response to Marmont’s salute. ‘Did you not think the arrival of Blьcher was a matter of some importance?’
‘Sire, I was ordered to hold my ground by Marshal Ney. I assumed he would inform you that I had been attacked.’
‘Ney?’ Napoleon shook his head in frustration. ‘Never mind. Can you hold Blьcher back until tonight? You must buy me time.’
Marmont glanced over his line. ‘I can hold them for two, maybe three hours, sire, but they are growing in strength all the while.’
‘Do whatever you can to delay Blьcher. Then fall back to the outer defences of the city.’
Marmont nodded. Napoleon stayed with him for another half-hour, until he was confident that Marmont’s men showed no signs of breaking, then he turned his mount south and returned to the main battle. It was past five o’clock before he reached the command post. Berthier greeted him with a worried expression and made his report. ‘The attack is stalling, sire. The enemy have more reserves than we thought. We have pushed them back the best part of a mile, but no further. We can’t break through and our own reserves have been exhausted. Only the Imperial Guard remains.’
‘Then why weren’t they sent forward?’
‘I didn’t have your authority to give the order, sire. It was in the battle orders that they could only be deployed by you.’
Napoleon sighed with exasperation that he had been distracted by events at Mцckern at the critical point of the main battle. It was too late to do anything now. The light was starting to fail and night would be upon them in little more than an hour. He clasped his hands tightly together behind his back and mastered his frustration before he could give the necessary orders to Berthier.
‘Call off the attack. Order all commanders to withdraw. Once they break contact they are to retire on Leipzig.
The Grand Army fell back on Leipzig under cover of darkness, forming a defence perimeter around the edge of the city. The strength returns sent in to headquarters indicated that the day’s fighting had cost twenty-five thousand men, and it was likely that the enemy’s losses had been somewhat higher, mainly due to the bloody failure of their initial attack. That was of little comfort to Napoleon now that the enemy’s armies were closing in on Leipzig. There was no longer any possibility of fighting them one at a time, and no hope of defeating them en masse. Retreat to the Rhine was the only course of action lying open to Napoleon now, and the knowledge weighed heavily upon his weary mind.
The following day there was only skirmishing as the allied armies moved into position, preparing for a simultaneous assault on the city. Napoleon took advantage of the delay to send his baggage across the river that ran to the west of Leipzig. The ground on the far bank was composed of a low-lying marsh, crossed by a causeway, and it was clear that there was a danger that the army would be caught in a bottleneck if it collapsed under the coming onslaught. That night, Napoleon revealed his decision to retreat to his marshals.
‘It seems that we have another Berezina, gentlemen.’ Napoleon smiled thinly. ‘We are outnumbered two to one. Our ammunition is running low. We must evacuate the city. We will start pulling men out of the line from midnight. MacDonald, Lauriston and Poniatowski will form the rearguard and keep the enemy at bay until the rest of the army is over, and then fall back themselves. In order for the evacuation to succeed, it is vital that the men cross the river and the causeway in good order. The rearguard will be covered by our guns on the far bank, and when the last men are across the bridge will be blown. Berthier will send you orders when it is your turn to cross the river.’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘That’s all there is to say, gentlemen, except good luck.’
A light rain began to fall during the night, and it helped to conceal the sounds of the retreat as the horses, guns and men of the Grand Army filed across the river Elster. When dawn broke, half the army was still in the city, and in order to buy more time Napoleon sent an officer to the enemy to offer an armistice, spinning out the negotiations for as long as possible. Eventually the allies became aware of the ruse and sent the officer back, and began their attack shortly afterwards. There was little to gain from remaining in Leipzig and Napoleon mounted his horse and made his way through the streets to the crowded approaches to the bridge.
Once he reached the causeway Napoleon dismounted to observe the final phase of the evacuation as the soldiers pressed forward eagerly, despite the angry shouts of the engineer officers struggling to ensure that the men did not dangerously crowd the bridge. Napoleon approached the officer in charge of the demolition of the bridge as he supervised the laying of the fuses.
‘You are certain that the charges are sufficient to destroy the bridge, Colonel . . .’
‘Montfort, sire.’The officer smiled nervously. ‘Colonel Montfort. Yes, indeed, sire. There’s enough powder under the arches to blow it to pieces twice over.’
Napoleon nodded. ‘That’s good. You understand your orders?’
‘Yes, sire. We light the fuse the moment the last of the rearguard is over.’
‘That’s right.’ Napoleon regarded the man carefully. Montfort’s left hand was twitching at his side. Napoleon patted him on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly. ‘Just do your duty, Colonel, and we’ll all be able to thumb our noses at the enemy, eh?’
The soldiers continued to file across the bridge as the last hours of the morning passed, until only the rearguard, some twenty thousand men, remained on the eastern bank. The sounds of fighting gradually drew closer to the bridge but Poniatowski reported that the rearguard was falling back in good order. Then, shortly before one o’clock, a party of Austrian soldiers appeared at the windows of a house overlooking the river. At once they opened fire on the men crossing the bridge. The range was long, and most of the rounds cracked into the stonework or zipped over the heads of the intended targets. Only a handful of men were struck, but it still caused a ripple of panic amongst those packed on the bridge.
Napoleon saw the danger at once and hurried over to the nearest gun covering the bridge, close to the position where the engineers stood by their fuse.
‘Sergeant! You see that house there?’ Napoleon pointed across the river, and a moment later there was a flash and a puff of smoke from one of the windows.
‘I see ’em, sire.’The sergeant nodded.
‘Then traverse your gun and put some case shot through those windows,’ Napoleon ordered.
‘With pleasure, sire.’
As soon as the gun was laid, and the elevation screw adjusted, the sergeant ordered his crew back and touched the portfire to the fuse cone. The field gun kicked back as a short jet of flame stabbed towards the house. Glass shattered and plaster exploded from the wall, splashing down into the river below. As Napoleon had hoped, the enemy musket fire ceased for an instant, but then a musket barrel appeared at the window and a shot was fired. The ball smacked into the bridge close by Colonel Montfort and he cried out as a stone chip grazed his cheek.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ he shouted, eyes wide with fear.‘The enemy are on us!’ He turned quickly to one of his men, no more than a youth, holding the smouldering taper. ‘Light the fuse! Do it now!’
Then he turned and scrambled up the bank, brushing past Napoleon as he ran along the causeway. Another shot struck the surface of the river close to the young engineer and he ducked and lit the end of the fuse.
‘No! Don’t!’ Napoleon shouted, thrusting out his hands.
There was a bright flare, and then the spark raced along the fuse, hissing and spitting like a demon as it followed the loops of cord towards the central arches of the bridge. One of the guardsmen escorting Napoleon grabbed his sleeve and hauled him away.
‘Take cover, sire!’
They stumbled across the bank of the river, making for the shelter of a low stone wall. The guardsman heaved Napoleon over the wall and dived after him, just as there was a blinding flash that shot jets of flame and smoke into the air. The concussion hit them with a deafening roar. Napoleon glanced up and saw chunks of masonry, men and limbs blasted into the air, where they hung for an instant before tumbling back down. A slab of paving smashed through the tiled roof of the house adjoining the wall.
For a moment Napoleon sat on his hands and knees, stunned by the ferocity of the blast. Then he scrambled up and looked over the wall. The central arches of the bridge had gone and the water beneath was churning as the lighter bits of debris rained down. A gap nearly a hundred feet wide had been blown out of the bridge and on either end the stonework was scorched black. Further back the bodies of his men lay heaped on the cobbles of the roadway. Here and there a dazed survivor struggled to free himself from the bloody carnage. On the far bank a crowd of men stood and stared, aghast. Their only escape route from Leipzig was gone. A collective groan reached Napoleon’s ears from across the river.
‘Oh, shit,’ the guardsman muttered. ‘They’re fucked.’
Napoleon nodded. Already he could hear the sounds of musketry increasing in intensity as the enemy pressed forward against the French rearguard. Some of the men on the far bank looked round anxiously and then the first of them threw down his musket and struggled out of his backpack. Stripped down to shirt, breeches and boots, he clambered down into the current and struck out for the opposite bank. More followed suit, some clinging to small kegs and other items that would give them buoyancy. Most made it across, heaving themselves up on to the grassy bank either side of Napoleon. Some, poor swimmers or injured, were carried away by the current, and thrashed for a moment before being dragged beneath the surface by the weight of their uniforms and equipment.
‘Look!’ The guardsman thrust out his arm. ‘Look there, sire. It’s Marshal Poniatowski!’
Napoleon scanned the far bank and quickly caught sight of the marshal, his left arm in a sling, urging his horse through the throng, accompanied by a handful of his staff officers. All around him the French soldiers were throwing down their muskets and waiting to be taken prisoner. Poniatowski reached the edge of the river and reined in, gazing down at the men attempting to swim across the current. He looked up, in Napoleon’s direction. For an instant Napoleon stared back, his first impulse bitterness to see the capture of such a fine officer. Just when France needed every worthy man, to save her from her enemies.
Napoleon cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted,‘Swim for it!’
He saw Poniatowski nod and turn to his officers. The nearest shook his head and there was a heated exchange before Poniatowski waved his uninjured hand dismissively, grasped his reins and spurred his mount down the bank into the river. The horse slithered the last few feet and splashed into the water, kicking out for the far bank. Poniatowski leaned forward, urging it on as he clung to the reins with his good hand. Napoleon watched, willing them on. Enemy soldiers further along the river bank were busy firing at the hundreds of Frenchmen in the current, struggling to escape captivity. Spouts of water leaped into the air amid the splashing from flailing arms and legs. Just as the marshal reached the middle of the river his horse was hit in the neck. There was a welter of blood, and the animal thrashed wildly, rearing up in the water. Poniatowski was thrown from his saddle and Napoleon watched helplessly as the man’s head surfaced a short distance downstream from the stricken horse. The Pole managed a few desperate strokes with his good arm, and then slid beneath the whirling eddies and splashes of the surface and was gone.
Napoleon desperately looked for any further sign of him, to no avail, and then took a deep breath. Poniatowski was lost to him, together with scores more of his most experienced generals and over twenty thousand men and all their cannon, equipment and stores.
The campaign was lost. The thought struck him like a physical blow, dazing him momentarily. This was the kind of crushing defeat he had inflicted on his enemies in the past. He had been humbled. Napoleon felt sickened by the realisation. There was nothing he could do to save his empire east of the Rhine. The Grand Army would have to retreat, leaving behind tens of thousands of men still holding out in the towns and fortresses of Prussia and the other German states.
He needed time to prepare for what was to come. The war to hold the French empire together was lost. Soon, very soon, Napoleon and his battered and weary men would be forced to fight for the very survival of France.
Chapter 45
Arthur
St-Jean-de-Luz, 10 November 1813
As he rode through the camp of the Light Division that night, Arthur could see the good humour in the faces of the men, lit warm and red by the glow of the camp fires. The week’s fighting had gone well and Soult’s line of forts barring the way into France had been successfully stormed with a combination of courage and audacity that had warmed Arthur’s heart. The allied army had crossed the Bidassoa and Nivelle rivers and crossed the enemy’s border. They were now settling in for the night on French soil, and the thought filled Arthur with pride. Even so, he was already planning the next stage of his campaign. Bonaparte was unlikely to tolerate the damage done to his prestige by the incursion across the border from Spain. The French Emperor would be sure to order his forces to hurl Arthur and his soldiers back across the frontier.
Arthur smiled to himself. What Bonaparte might order and what reality might permit were two very different things. His intelligence officers had picked up rumours from French prisoners that the Emperor had suffered a serious reverse at the hands of England’s European allies. Since the rumours came by way of letters received by the soldiers opposed to Arthur, it was difficult to know how much store to place in them. The enemy’s censors were well practised in concealing bad news from their people, and the French newspapers that had come into the possession of Arthur’s staff officers carried no hint of any setback. On the contrary, the cheaply printed news bulletins spoke only of Bonaparte’s continuing mastery over the hordes of the Tsar and his incompetent allies. Arthur had grown used to the lies, as indeed had most Frenchmen, he noted with a smile. It had even become a catchphrase amongst the French - to lie like a bulletin.
If Bonaparte had indeed suffered a serious defeat then he would be hard pushed to reinforce the army under Marshal Soult that was facing Arthur. Which was just as well, since Soult already had nearly as many men, and more artillery and cavalry, than Arthur. A few years before, Arthur would have been far more cautious about taking the war on to enemy soil before his lines of communication were securely guarded. As things stood, the enemy still held Pamplona, and Marshal Suchet and his army were still in the field in the region of Valencia. However, Suchet showed little sign of stirring from what had become his personal fiefdom, and the garrison of Pamplona was under siege by a Spanish army. Accordingly, Arthur felt the risks were acceptable. In any case, his political masters in London had allowed the allied army’s swift advance and spate of victories to go over their heads and had insisted that Arthur proceed with an invasion of France.
Thus it had always been during the war in the Peninsula, he sighed wearily as he crossed the bridge and entered the town gate of St-Jean-de-Luz, touching the brim of the oilskin covering his cocked hat in response to the salutes of the sentries. His caution and careful planning had ensured British success, so far. His country was grateful to him, and his army trusted him, the latter being by far the more valued by Arthur. No amount of titles, spoils of war and parliamentary votes of thanks ever made a better general of a man, nor a better man of a general, he reflected.
He stopped a civilian for directions to the mairie where Somerset had been sent to set up the army’s headquarters. The man briefly registered a look of surprise when Arthur addressed him in French, but he seemed almost unconcerned by the presence of so many English soldiers in his town. He turned and pointed towards the end of the street, where it appeared to open on to a small square. Arthur thanked him and walked his horse on. As he clopped into the square he noted with approval that a number of provosts were patrolling the area, keeping a watchful eye on the soldiers to ensure that they did not breach Arthur’s orders concerning respectful treatment of French civilians and their property. More than ever he was dependent upon the goodwill of the locals. The allied army was no longer liberating a people from an invader. Now the allies were the invaders and Arthur knew it was vital that his men did nothing that might provoke the French civilians.
