He fought his way through to Krasny, where he paused to allow the other corps to catch up, keeping the Russians at bay. ‘Advancing with a firm step, as on the day of a great parade, he placed himself in the middle of the battlefield, facing the enemy’s batteries,’ in the words of Sergeant Bourgogne. Eugène’s and Davout’s corps got through, but Ney was still some way behind. Napoleon could not afford to wait any longer, as Kutuzov was by now threatening to cut his line of retreat to Orsha, and set off at the head of his grenadiers. ‘The shells which flew over were bursting all round him without his seeming to notice,’ recalled one of the few cavalrymen left in his escort. That morning he had told Roguet it was time he stopped playing the emperor and became the general once more.22
On reaching Orsha on 19 November, he set about rallying the remains of his army. He ordered everything surplus to requirements to be burnt – including the portrait of the King of Rome. He forced stragglers to rejoin their regiments and distributed the supplies stored in the town. He was overjoyed when Ney, who had cleverly circumvented the Russian force blocking his path, rejoined him at Orsha. The five days of fighting around Krasny had cost him possibly as many as 10,000 of his best remaining soldiers and more than 200 guns, but he refused to give in to despair.23
‘Although this man was rightly regarded as the author of all our misfortunes and the unique cause of our disaster,’ wrote Dr René Bourgeois, who held profoundly anti-Napoleonic political views, ‘his presence still elicited enthusiasm, and there was nobody who would not, if the need arose, have covered him with their body and sacrificed their lives for him.’ One of his aides, Anatole de Montesquiou, explains that they owed everything to Napoleon’s ability not to show his feelings. ‘In the midst of the overwhelming horrors which seemed to be pursuing or rather enveloping us with the perseverance of fatality, we recovered peace of mind and hope by turning our eyes on the Emperor,’ he wrote. ‘More unfortunate than any of us, since he was losing more, he remained impassive.’ He represented their best chance of getting out of the mess they were in, and his stoicism gave them comfort. ‘His presence electrified our downcast hearts and gave us a last burst of energy,’ wrote Captain François. Whatever their nationality and their political attitude, men and officers alike realised that only he could keep the remains of the army together, and snatch some shreds of victory from the jaws of defeat.24
Napoleon’s glory was their common property, and to diminish his reputation by denouncing him would have been to destroy the fund they had built up over the years, which was their most prized possession. According to the British General Wilson, who was attached to the Russian army, even when taken prisoner, they ‘could not be induced by any temptation, by any threats, by any privations, to cast reproach on their emperor as the cause of their misfortunes and sufferings’. These were about to increase dramatically.25
On 22 November Napoleon learned that his supply base at Minsk had fallen to the Russians. He was momentarily ‘struck with consternation’, and sat up all night talking to Duroc and Daru, admitting that he had been foolish to invade Russia. Another piece of bad news came two days later: the only bridge over the river Berezina at Borisov had been burnt, and a Russian force held the far bank. ‘Any other man would have been overwhelmed,’ wrote Caulaincourt. ‘The Emperor showed himself to be greater than his misfortune. Instead of discouraging him, these adversities brought out all the energy of this great character; he showed what a noble courage and a brave army can achieve against even the greatest adversity.’26
Having learned of a ford some twelve kilometres north and upstream from Borisov, he made a feint to the south and managed to convey false intelligence to the Russians on the opposite bank that he was aiming to make a crossing there, then marched north to the ford at Studzienka. ‘Our position is impossible,’ Ney said to Rapp. ‘If Napoleon succeeds in getting out of this today he is the very Devil.’ Napoleon had regained his composure, and inspired his shattered army to one last act of heroism. He stood on the bank as his sappers dismantled the wooden houses of the village, and 400 Dutch engineers began building a trestle bridge across the river. Stripping off, they worked up to their necks in the icy water, battling the current and avoiding the large blocks of ice being carried along by it. They completed one bridge, a hundred metres long and four wide, and began work on a second as units still capable of fighting crossed and took up defensive positions on the opposite bank, shouting ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ as they marched past. He himself crossed on 27 November, along with most of the units still with their colours. The infantry and cavalry used the first bridge, while the artillery, baggage train and carriages carrying the wounded took the second. The crush of men and horses on the frail structures resulted in many ending up in the water, and when the Russian guns on the eastern bank opened up that afternoon, confusion and panic added to the casualties. Over the whole of that day and the next, the remnants of the army, followed by the mass of stragglers and civilians, struggled across while Marshal Victor’s depleted but still battleworthy corps held off the converging Russian armies. But it could not prevent them from shelling the crush of people and vehicles on the bridges and those waiting their turn to cross, turning the scene into one of indescribable horror, with people being shot, trampled or pushed into the icy water. The Russian forces on the western bank had also come up by now, but they were held off by units of Swiss, Dutch, Poles, Italians, Croats and Portuguese under Oudinot and Ney. That night, Victor crossed with his corps, and in the morning the bridges were destroyed, leaving a considerable number of stragglers and civilians to their fate.27
Napoleon’s bold manoeuvre had extricated him and most of the remaining army from a seemingly fatal trap. Over the three days of the crossing the French had lost up to 25,000, many of them civilians or non-combatant stragglers, and inflicted losses of at least 15,000 on the Russians, all of them soldiers. The operation was not only a magnificent feat of arms; it was an extraordinary demonstration of the resilience of the Napoleonic military machine and of his ability to inspire men of well over half a dozen different nations to fight like lions for a cause which was not theirs.
Buoyed by the miraculous escape and the feeling that they had once more triumphed over the odds, the remnants of the Grande Armée made a dash for Vilna, where they would be safe and where there were abundant victuals. But at this point the temperature sank to a new low, recorded by some as minus thirty-five and a half degrees. Many froze to death during this last march, and those who did not walked in a state described by some as akin to drunkenness, while others were struck with snow-blindness and had to be led.
Napoleon instructed Maret to send away any foreign diplomats, so they should not see the condition of his army, and badgered him for news from Paris, demanding to know why no estafette had reached him for eighteen days. Maret was to spread news of a victory at the Berezina, in which the French had taken thousands of prisoners and twelve standards. Ironically, the next day Alexander held a service of thanksgiving in St Petersburg, having been informed by Kutuzov that he had won a resounding victory on the Berezina. Napoleon could no longer hope to fool people, and on 3 December he dictated the 29th Bulletin of the campaign, in which he described the disaster, finishing off with the phrase: ‘His Majesty’s health has never been better.’ He had to stop playing the general and become emperor once more – which meant he must get to Paris as quickly as possible to reassure his subjects.28
Against the advice of Maret, who said the army would fall apart without him, he decided to leave immediately. Ignoring advice to put Eugène in command, he chose Murat, fearing that his brother-in-law would not obey him and would seize the perceived insult as an excuse to march back to Naples. Napoleon set off on the evening of 5 December, with Caulaincourt, Duroc and a couple of other officers, Roustam, Constant and Fain, escorted by Polish and Neapolitan cavalry. The cold was intense, shattering the wine bottles in Napoleon’s carriage as their contents froze, and cutting a swathe through the escort, which lost a
ll of its Italians along the way. At one point they narrowly missed being intercepted by marauding cossacks. Napoleon had a pair of loaded pistols with him, and instructed his companions to kill him if he failed to do so himself in the event of capture.29
Two days later, having recrossed the Niemen, he felt safe. He transferred to an old carriage mounted on runners, and chatted to Caulaincourt as they sped along, with snow blowing in through the cracks around the ill-fitting doors. He went over the events that had led up to the war, which he repeatedly insisted he had never wanted. ‘People do not understand: I am not ambitious,’ he complained. ‘The lack of sleep, the effort, war itself, these are not for someone of my age. I love my bed and rest more than anyone, but I have to finish the work I have embarked on.’ His conversation kept drifting back to the subject of Britain, the one obstacle to the desired peace; he was fighting the fiendish islanders on behalf of the whole of Europe, which did not realise that it was being exploited by them.30
He had talked himself into a good mood by the time they reached Warsaw on the evening of 10 December, and in order to stretch his legs he got out at the city gate and walked through the streets to the Hôtel d’Angleterre, where the sleigh had been sent on. Nobody took any notice of the small, plump man in his green velvet overcoat and fur hat, which covered most of his face. He seemed almost disappointed.
He continued to talk with animation while dinner was prepared and a servant girl struggled to light a fire in the freezing room they had taken. Caulaincourt had been sent to fetch Pradt, who was struck by the jolly mood of the emperor when he arrived. Dismissing his own failure with the phrase ‘From the sublime to the ridiculous there is but one step,’ he berated Pradt for having failed to galvanise Poland, raise money and furnish men. He said he had never seen any Polish troops during the whole campaign, and accused the Poles of being ineffectual and cowardly.31
His tone changed with the appearance of the Polish ministers he had summoned. He admitted to having suffered a major reversal, but assured them that he had 120,000 men at Vilna, and that he would be back in the spring with a new army. In the meantime, they must raise money and a mass levy in order to defend the Grand Duchy. They stood around getting progressively colder as he paced up and down, warmed by his fantasy. ‘I beat the Russians every time,’ he told them. ‘They don’t dare to stand up to us. They are no longer the soldiers of Eylau and Friedland. We will hold Wilna, and I shall be back with 300,000 men. Success will make the Russians foolhardy; I will fight them two or three times on the Oder, and in six months’ time I will be back on the Niemen … All that has happened is of no consequence; it was a misfortune, it was the effect of the climate; the enemy had nothing to do with it; I beat them every time …’ And so it went on, with the occasional self-justificatory ‘He who hazards nothing gains nothing,’ and the frequent repetition of the phrase he had just coined, and which he appeared to relish: ‘From the sublime to the ridiculous there is but one step.’32
Having had dinner, Napoleon climbed back into his sleigh and set off for Paris. When he realised they were passing not far from the country house of Maria Walewska, in a sudden surge of gallantry he decided to call on her. Caulaincourt had the greatest difficulty in convincing him that not only would this delay their arrival in Paris (and increase the danger that some German patriot might get to hear of their passage and ambush them), it would be an insult to Marie-Louise, and public opinion would never forgive him for going off to indulge his lust while his army was freezing to death in Lithuania.
As they sped on, Napoleon turned over the whole political situation again and again, as though he were trying to convince himself that the Russian campaign had been only a minor setback. ‘I made a mistake, Monsieur le Grand Écuyer, not on the aim or the political opportunity of the war, but in the manner in which I waged it,’ he said, giving Caulaincourt’s ear an affectionate tug. ‘I should have stopped at Witepsk. Alexander would now be at my knees. […] I stayed two weeks too long in Moscow.’33
This was true. Two weeks before Napoleon left Moscow, Kutuzov had no more than about 60,000 men, and was in no condition to engage him; he could have withdrawn down any road he chose. He would have been able to evacuate his wounded and equipment, and get back to Minsk and Vilna before the temperature dropped. Most Russians at the time, as well as observers such as Clausewitz, agreed that the French defeat had nothing to do with Kutuzov and everything to do with the weather. ‘One has to admit,’ wrote Schwarzenberg, who referred to the field marshal as ‘l’imbécile Kutuzov’, ‘that this is the most astonishing kick from a donkey any mortal has ever had the whim to court.’34
39
Hollow Victories
Napoleon reached Dresden in the early hours of 14 December 1812, and stopped at the French minister’s lodgings. He dictated letters to his German allies, and sent an officer to the royal palace to summon the King of Saxony. Frederick Augustus dressed hurriedly and arrived by sedan chair at the French minister’s residence. Napoleon, who had managed to snatch an hour’s sleep, was sitting up in bed. He reassured the astonished king that he would be back in the spring with a new army and asked him to raise more troops. He also borrowed a comfortable carriage from him in which he resumed his journey, pausing only to change horses. At some stops he would not even leave the carriage. At Weimar he leaned out of the window to ask someone to convey his respects to ‘Monsieur Gött’. At Verdun he bought some sugar-coated almonds, the regional speciality, for Marie-Louise, saying that one could not return to one’s sweetheart without a gift. He asked the serving girl whether she had one, and on hearing that she did, asked what was locally considered to be a respectable dowry, promising to send her the sum once he reached Paris.1
Four days after leaving Dresden his carriage trundled up to the Tuileries. It was a few minutes before midnight, and although he was unshaven and barely recognisable in his fur overcoat and cap, he marched into the apartment of Marie-Louise, who was preparing for bed. Before allowing Caulaincourt to go home and rest, he ordered him to call on Cambacérès, to inform him of his return and tell him to announce that there would be a regular lever in the morning.
The 29th Bulletin had been published three days earlier. For over a decade these had contained only tidings of victory, and people were stunned to read an admission of failure. Before they could recover from the shock or start drawing conclusions, on the morning of 19 December the cannon of the Invalides notified them with an imperial salute of Napoleon’s return. The master was back, behaving as though the events of the past few months had been no more than a minor difficulty. ‘I am very pleased with the mood of the nation,’ he wrote to Murat, addressing the letter to Vilna. But by the time he was writing out that address, Vilna was in Russian hands and Kutuzov was attending a gala organised in his honour by the nervous inhabitants.2
On leaving the Grande Armée, Napoleon calculated optimistically that he still had some 150,000 men holding the eastern wall of his imperium, with 60,000 under Murat at Vilna, 25,000 under Macdonald to the north, 30,000 Austrian allies to the south under Schwarzenberg, Poniatowski’s Polish corps and the remainder of the Saxon contingent covering Warsaw, and over 25,000 men in reserve depots or fortresses from Danzig on the Baltic down to Zamość. He was confident of being able to raise 350,000 men and come to their aid in the spring.3
The fiery Murat was magnificent when given a tall order on the battlefield, but, as Berthier pointed out, ‘The King of Naples is in every respect the man least capable of overall command.’ He had failed to hold Vilna, declaring to Berthier before leaving that he was not going to let himself be besieged in that ‘pisspot’. The resulting confusion had prevented an orderly evacuation even by those units still capable of action, and a couple of days later not many more than 10,000 men recrossed the river Niemen. For political reasons it was expedient to keep the King of Naples onside, so instead of a reprimand, Napoleon sent him a friendly note saying that the mood in Paris was positive and reinforcements were on their way.
4
He told anyone who would listen that the outcome of the campaign was due to extraneous factors. ‘My losses are substantial, but the enemy can take no credit for them,’ as he put it in a letter to the King of Denmark. The losses were more than substantial, since some 400,000 French and allied troops had perished or gone missing during the campaign – less than a quarter of them combat casualties. Among those losses were some of the most experienced soldiers, NCOs and officers, the backbone of the army, without whom it would be difficult to rebuild a new one. They included cavalrymen whom it had taken years to train, not only to fight on horseback but also to look after horses. It would take years to replace the more than 100,000 horses, along with the hundreds of thousands of muskets and swords, not to mention the cannon, gun carriages, ammunition wagons, and the vast quantity of harness and other essential equipment.5
The losses did not end there. Méneval’s constitution had been so undermined that he could no longer work, Junot returned a broken man, and many others were badly maimed, mentally as well as physically. It had required all his powers of self-possession, Napoleon explained to Molé, to repress all signs of emotion, but he too had been tried by the experience. ‘I showed a serenity, I might even say gaiety throughout, and I do not think anyone who saw me then could deny it,’ he said to Molé. But it had cost him. ‘Without such command over myself, do you think I could have achieved all I have done?’6
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