THE GENERALS

by Simon Scarrow

  The sound of the drums and the cheers of the approaching royalists echoed round the buildings facing on to the Carrousel, and then one of the men close by Napoleon thrust out his arm.

  ‘Here they come!’

  Chapter 6

  The royalists spilled out of the avenue leading from the Rue Saint-Honoré and flowed into the Carrousel. At the head of the mob came a white-coated officer in a gaudy feathered hat. He was clutching a standard from which the sodden Bourbon colours hung limply. Behind him were a score of drummer boys, beating out a deafening rhythm. The men following them made no attempt at holding a formation as they strode boldly across the square towards the palace. The blue-coated militiamen were armed with muskets, as were many more of the royalist volunteers. The rest of the mob were armed with staves, axes, clubs and knives.Their cheering reached a climax now that their enemies were in sight.

  Napoleon stood up and drew his sword, raising it high above his head. ‘Prepare to fire!’

  On either side the muskets came up, thumbed back to full cock, and the defenders squinted down the long length of their barrels towards the dense mass of rebels advancing towards them. The royalists made no attempt to stand in line and fire a volley. All along the front of the crowd there was a constant stabbing of flames and puffs of smoke as they fired freely. There was no chance to reload as those behind pressed the first rank on.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Napoleon bellowed, keeping his arm erect. On either side musket balls whipped through the air, or splintered the wooden material in the barricade with sudden loud crashes. Close by, a young grenadier’s head snapped back in a welter of blood that spattered across Napoleon’s cheek as the body tumbled back on to the cobbles.

  ‘Hold steady!’ Junot shouted from nearby.

  The crowd surged forward, the white-coated officer waving the banner from side to side to try to loosen its waterlogged folds and inspire his men.They were now close enough for Napoleon to see that he was an older man with a powdered wig beneath his bicorn hat.

  When they were a scant fifty paces from the palace gate, Napoleon swept his sword arm down and roared out the command. ‘OPEN FIRE!’

  As the muskets spurted flame and smoke in a rolling volley the gun crews lowered their portfires on to the firing tubes and the cannon roared out, belching fire and great plumes of acrid smoke as they discharged a torrent of grapeshot into the mob. At once the infantry and the gun crews hurried to reload their weapons.

  For a moment all sight of the rebels was lost in a thick bank of rolling gunpowder smoke. Then as the breeze dispersed it Napoleon could see the terrible impact of that first volley. The four cannon had cleared great lanes into the mob and left scores of dead and injured sprawled on the ground, and all along the front of the crowd many more of the rebels had been struck down by musket fire. Only one of the drummers was still beating his instrument. The others, like most of the crowd, stood aghast at the devastation around them. The cheering had died in their throats and they stopped dead. As the cries and screams of the wounded filled the air the spell was broken and the white-coated officer thrust his banner above his head.

  ‘Charge! For France and the monarchy!’

  He broke into a run, and the braver souls in the crowd surged forward after him, heading straight towards the barricaded gate, and Napoleon beyond. The two officers’ eyes met for an instant and then Napoleon turned to give a fresh order to his men. ‘Fire at will!’

  The defenders fired on the crowd in a long, rolling crackle of shots that echoed back from the surrounding buildings and then the cannon boomed out again, dashing swaths of men to the ground. Miraculously the royalist officer still lived, and he paused at the barricade to plant his banner before he drew his sword and swept it overhead to rally his nearest men.

  ‘Come on! One charge and the palace is ours!’

  Junot calmly drew and cocked his pistol, stepped up to the barricade, thrust the weapon towards the man’s chest, and fired. The royalist fell back, a livid red stain spreading across his white coat. His sword clattered to the ground as the standard slipped and fell into Junot’s grasp. At once he snatched it and threw it on to the ground a short distance behind the barricade.

  ‘First blood to us, and one colour already taken,’ he called out to Napoleon.

  But Napoleon’s attention was fixed on the enemy. He was standing with the nearest cannon directing the crew to aim to the left, where a section of the mob, having managed to escape the earlier blasts of grapeshot, was edging towards the barricade.The sergeant in charge of the gun stepped back and fired the weapon. The concussion from the blast punched into Napoleon’s ears as the cone of deadly lead shot cut the leading ranks to bloody shreds. All the time the infantry on either side of Napoleon loaded and fired their muskets into the mob at point-blank range, cutting the rebels down. Slowly, the mob stopped moving forward. A few amongst them still had the presence of mind to fire back, and some of them just waved their weapons and screamed with fury or tried to sound defiant as they cried their royalist slogans. But already scores of them were falling back, wide-eyed with horror at the slaughter and terrified of sharing the fate of the dead and mangled littering the cobbles of the Carrousel. The panic spread through the crowd like a wind rippling across a field of wheat and then they were all in retreat, more falling all the time as Napoleon’s men continued to fire after them.

  He waited until only a handful of the rebels were left, huddled down behind the wagons in the square, before he gave the order to cease fire.The last patches of smoke cleared and revealed to the defenders the full scale of the destruction they had caused. The ground in front of the palace was covered with the still forms of the dead and the writhing bodies of the injured. Blood pooled around them, and lay splashed over clothes and flesh. Thin cries of agony and low moans rose from the carnage.

  ‘Good God, what have we done?’ muttered one of the gunners.

  ‘Our duty,’ Napoleon responded curtly.‘And when they come back for more we must do it all over again. And again, until we break their will to continue this treachery. Now then, reload the cannon and stand by.’

  The gunner nodded, still dazed by the awful scene stretching across the square, but carried out his orders as efficiently as if he were on an exercise. Napoleon rose up and called out to the rest of his command.

  ‘Reload!’

  The sound of ramrods rattling in the musket barrels briefly interrupted the cries of the injured and then all was still once more along the barricade in front of the palace. A quick glance either side showed that only five of his men were down, with a handful of wounded who were being helped inside the palace to the dressing station in the grand entrance hall. Napoleon quietly summoned Junot.

  ‘Go to Barras.Tell him that we’ve repulsed the first attack. My guess is they’ll try one of the other strongpoints next. Barras is to send runners to the other commanders to let them know we’ve beaten off the first attack. That should help to stiffen their resolve.’

  Junot ran across the courtyard and disappeared into the palace, and Napoleon settled down to wait for the enemy to make their next move. The royalists wasted little time, and half an hour later there was a sudden burst of musket fire from the direction of the Riding School, punctuated by the dull blasts of cannon. For a moment the soldiers around Napoleon turned to face the noise with anxious expressions. The sounds of the assault soon faded away with a last crash of cannon fire that told them the defenders still held their position.

  A few moments later Junot came hurrying back to Napoleon.

  ‘They’re coming back this way! Up the Rue Saint-Honoré.’

  Napoleon thought for a moment, pulling at his ear lobe. The royalists had been driven back twice already, and much of the fight must have been beaten out of them. Very well, this attack must be the last. This was the decisive moment, and when they broke they had to be pursued without mercy so that the rebellion would be utterly crushed.

  Napoleon snapped an order to Junot. ‘Find Maj
or Murat. I want him and his men mounted and ready in the courtyard, out of sight of the barricades.They are to wait there for my order to move. Once they have the order they are to clear the Carrousel and pursue the enemy as far as they can. They are to take no prisoners and show no mercy to those traitors. Make sure he understands it. I want that mob out there to be in no doubt about the cost of defying the government.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Junot nodded, then ventured a question.‘And what if we don’t hold them back? What are the major’s orders then?’

  Napoleon shook his head. ‘It won’t come to that . . . But, if it does, then Murat is to cover our withdrawal to the palace, and then look to his own survival.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Junot saluted and ran off, leaving Napoleon staring out across the barricade. It was possible that they might not beat off another attack, Napoleon considered briefly, then he shook his head irritably. No.There was no question of defeat. Junot was a fool to even think it.

  The sound of the royalists marching back along the Rue Saint-Honoré grew louder and then the head of the column entered the Carrousel again. It was clear that someone had taken charge of the attackers this time, as a line of militia men formed across the square and, at the command, advanced steadily towards the palace. The rest of the mob spilled into the space behind the front line and cheered them on. Napoleon drew a deep breath.

  ‘One last effort, lads! Make every shot count.Aim true and kill as many of the bastards as possible! Long live the republic!’

  Some of the soldiers echoed his call before turning to face the enemy with intent expressions. The militia battalion reached the edge of the zone carpeted with bodies and discarded weapons and slowed down as they stepped over their fallen comrades. They halted fifty paces from the barricades and then their commander bellowed the order to prepare their weapons. The cocks clicked back, and the weapons came up at the order to present.

  ‘Keep down!’ Napoleon called out.

  The defenders ducked behind the barricade.The order to fire was instantly drowned out by the crash of the volley and smoke immediately obliterated the militia as their musket balls rapped home against the barricade or whirred overhead. A sharp cry sounded to Napoleon’s right but he ignored it and rose up to give his orders.

  ‘Make ready! Open fire!’

  Once again the muskets and cannon crashed out into the square, and so thick was the bank of smoke this time that the effect of the volley was not visible. As his men reloaded their weapons Napoleon heard the militia commander give the order to charge. Most of the defenders fired blindly into the smoke, until vague shapes flitted into sight and then burst through the smoke right in front of the barricade. Five or six men appeared directly before the cannon beside Napoleon and drew up wide-eyed at the sight of the muzzle gaping before them. An instant later the portfire touched the fuse and the men were shredded into bloody ribbons by the grapeshot.

  The militia appeared all along the barricade, bayonets thrusting towards the defenders as the government troops rose up and defended themselves, using their bayonets or wielding their muskets like clubs. Napleon’s sword was in his hand and his heart beat wildly as he stepped up to the barricade. To his left a grenadier was locked in a duel with a stocky man in a black cap, their bayonets scraping as each tested the other’s strength.With a snarl the militiaman thrust the other’s weapon aside and made to thrust his point home. Napoleon slashed his sword down on to the barrel and the point thudded harmlessly into a meal bag, tearing the material open instantly.The grenadier swung his butt up, smashing it into the militiaman’s face, and he collapsed with a grunt. The grenadier grinned and nodded his thanks to Napoleon before turning to face the next attacker.

  For a moment Napoleon found that he had no one to engage. He glanced to both sides and saw that, even though his men were holding the line, the rest of the mob were piling into the rear of the militia battalion and soon the sheer weight of numbers must overwhelm the defenders.

  Junot appeared beside him. ‘Hot work.’

  ‘Where’s Murat?’

  ‘He’s entering the courtyard, over there.’ Junot gestured with his arm.

  ‘Then tell him to charge now. Now, or the fight is lost!’

  When Junot had gone, Napoleon stepped back from the line and filled his lungs.‘Grenadiers! Gunners! Fall back to the palace! Fall back!’

  His men obeyed at once, as best as they could. Some ran back from the barricade, others retreated with their weapons levelled, ready to fight off their pursuers. In the thick smoke along the fighting line the militia did not immediately realise what was happening and there was a moment’s delay before a triumphant cheer swept through their ranks and they began to clamber over the rough barricade and charged after the government troops. Napoleon raced at the head of his men, making for the stairs that led up to the main entrance. He sprinted to the top and turned round to face his soldiers.

  ‘Form up here! Quickly, damn you!’

  The men turned and hurriedly shuffled into several ranks, bayonets lowered to receive the royalists streaming across the courtyard. More and more of them filled the open space, anxious to butcher the men who had caused them such grievous losses earlier on. But they never made it as far as the stairs. The sound of horses’ hooves clattering across the courtyard stopped them in their tracks, the cries of triumph dying in their throats as they turned to see a line of hussars sweeping towards them, long curved blades resting on the riders’ shoulders as they picked up more speed. At their head rode Murat, tall and imposing in his saddle. A short distance from the fringe of the loose mob he raised his sword into the air, then arced it down and leaned forward as he spurred his mount on.

  The royalists turned and fled for their lives, throwing down their weapons as they ran, fighting with their comrades to get away from the dreadful fate carving its way through their ranks. From the stairs the defenders jeered their enemy. True to their orders Murat’s men showed no mercy as they hacked and slashed at the men running before them, cutting them down in droves. Then they reached the line of the barricade and the slowly dissipating powdersmoke, leapt their mounts over the barrels and meal bags, and were swallowed up in the haze. And the sounds of the pursuit drifted away from the palace, across the square and back up the avenues running between the Rue Saint-Honoré and the River Seine.

  Napoleon was suddenly aware of how cold and tired he felt and his sword hand trembled as it struggled to retain its hold on the hilt. As he sheathed the blade there was a clatter of footsteps behind him and Napoleon turned to see Paul Barras hurrying down the steps towards him, arms stretched as he smiled widely.

  ‘Bonaparte! My dear Bonaparte! You’ve done it! They’re running like the treacherous cowards they are. Murat will cut them down like vermin.’ He reached Napoleon and flung his arms round his shoulders. ‘France is saved. Thanks to you. All thanks to you.’

  Around them, the soldiers turned away from the grisly carnage of Murat’s pursuit and cheered, some of them raising their hats up into the air on the ends of their bayonets as they joined in the cheers for their commander standing a few steps above them, in the embrace of the most powerful man in France.

  Chapter 7

  Over the next two days the royalists’ rebellion crumbled as the government troops hunted them down. Most had already fled into the suburbs and surrounding countryside where they could do no more harm. With the centre of Paris back under government control Barras moved quickly to disarm every quarter of the city, even those that had stayed loyal. All firearms, pikes and swords were to be handed in to the local town halls. As the people of Paris began to emerge back on to the streets Paul Barras announced his triumph to the National Assembly. He paraded the officers responsible for crushing the attempted coup, and publicly thanked them for their assistance in defeating the royalists. But even as he did so, Napoleon suddenly realised that not one of them had been singled out by name. Barras was determined to seize all the glory for himself, and would have done without an inter
vention from one of the deputies, who rose to his feet to propose a vote of thanks to ‘General Bonaparte’. Struggling to hide his irritation, Barras conceded the vote. By the end of the next day all Paris knew of the brilliant officer who had saved France from the Bourbons, and to spare the people the confusion of explaining that Bonaparte was only in fact a brigadier, Barras rushed through his promotion to full general.

  So it was that, a week after the storms of grapeshot had swept clear the ground in front of the Tuileries palace, Napoleon was sitting in a large, comfortably appointed office overlooking the same square. He found it hard to believe the improvement in his fortune that had occurred in the last few days. Barras had appointed him second in command of the Army of the Interior. On his greatly enhanced pay he had been able to move out of his squalid rooms in the slum quarter, and into a fine official residence in the hôtel de la Colonnade in the centre of the city. He had servants, a new carriage and horses and a beautifully cut new uniform, albeit lacking in the ostentatious gold braid that Major Murat seemed so fond of. No longer the obscure officer of artillery, Napoleon was now the most talked about man in Paris, invited to almost every ball and salon in the capital. Napoleon smiled to himself. Even the conceited Madame de Staël had condescended to send him an invitation to visit her house. Life was good, he mused. All he lacked now was an army posting worthy of his talents and ambition. That, and perhaps a wife.