He returned to the nave to issue the order and then pulled up a chair so that he could sit by the map table to wait for further news. Surely Murat’s cavalry would scatter the Russians, he thought. After the earlier cannonade and the assaults by the French infantry, the Russians would be badly shaken. The sight of thousands of heavy cavalry charging towards them would be the final straw. Yet the minutes passed and there was no report of a breakthrough. Then, nearly an hour later, a message came from Murat. Incredibly, the Russians had not run. Instead, they had formed squares and steadily retreated to a ridge nearly two miles beyond their initial position. Murat asked for the Old Guard to be sent forward to settle the matter. Napoleon finished reading the note and handed it to Berthier.
‘The Imperial Guard is the only reserve that remains,’ he grumbled. ‘Murat wants to throw them against the Russian cannon. Tell Murat that he and my other marshals must make do with what they have. The enemy are still holding out in the strongest redoubt. We must have that before we advance any further. Bring every spare gun to bear on the redoubt. Eugène’s corps will make the attack from the front, while Caulaincourt’s cavalry advance round the flank to take the redoubt from the rear.’
Berthier nodded.
Napoleon stared blankly at the map and muttered, ‘I will not destroy the Guard. They are the last fresh formation in the army. We are too far from home to risk everything.’
The middle of the day passed as Eugène gathered his forces for the assault on the redoubt. It was two o’clock before four hundred guns opened fire, pounding the embrasures to pieces, dismounting dozens of guns and killing their crews. As Eugène’s men closed on the redoubt the dazed defenders opened fire with the remaining guns while the Russian infantry lined the battered fortifications and fired into the approaching mass. As the French drums beat, the leading ranks surged forward, clambering up the steep sides of the earthwork, and engaged the defenders in a ferocious hand to hand struggle with cold steel and the butts of their muskets.
The shrill call of trumpets added to the sound of the drums as the French cavalry surged round the side of the redoubt and swept aside the line of infantry guarding the open entrances to the rear of the fortification. The garrison was caught between the two forces, and before the hour was out the last of them had been cut down. Not a single prisoner was taken.
Napoleon nodded in satisfaction when he heard the news from one of Ney’s staff officers.‘Good. The time for one last assault is upon us. Tell Ney to advance and the day is his.’
‘Sire, Marshal Ney says that his corps is too exhausted to advance, and he has lost too many men.’
‘Ney said that?’ Napoleon was shocked. Had even his bravest and most aggressive marshal lost heart? ‘Ney?’
‘Yes, sire,’ the officer replied nervously. ‘And he begs you to send forward the Guard. He said to assure you that if they attack now, then what is left of the Russian line will break.’
‘No! No! No!’ Napoleon hammered his fist on the table.‘The Guard stays where it is! Tell Ney, Davout and Murat that they must go forward.’
It was late in the afternoon before the exhausted French soldiers had re-formed their columns. They were grimly resolved to obey the Emperor’s order. All around them lay tens of thousands of dead and wounded men and horses. Before them, on the next ridge, thousands of Russian cavalry stood waiting, screening the remains of the Tsar’s army as it too re-formed its ranks. Once more the French guns belched flame and smoke and heavy iron balls arced across the battlefield to plough through the lines of Russian horsemen. They stood their ground with stolid courage as the French came on. Then the sound of trumpets called out, and the enemy cavalry turned about and trotted away to catch up with their infantry and guns as they left the battlefield.
Ney gave the order to halt, and as the daylight began to fade his men wearily spread out along the crest of the ridge that had been drenched in the blood of so many French and enemy soldiers. Once he was certain there was no danger of any counter-attack, Ney rode back to headquarters to confront his Emperor.
‘The Guard would have made all the difference!’ Ney glared at the Emperor.
Napoleon looked back, pale and sweating from his sickness. Ney had a dressing around his head, darkly stained where his skull had been creased by a spent musket ball. He had also been hit in the thigh and twice in the arm by chips of stone when cannon balls had grounded close to his horse.
‘One final assault by fresh troops would have put the seal on a great victory.’ Ney shook his head. ‘Now they have escaped.’
‘You are wrong,’ Napoleon replied evenly. ‘We have won a great victory today. That is what I have told Berthier to report to Paris. We have met the enemy and swept them aside.’
‘What?’ Ney’s lips curled in contempt. ‘Only a fool would believe that. Some victory.’ He gestured towards the ruined enemy earthworks. ‘We have won a few piles of dirt and the ruins of two villages. The Tsar’s army is still intact and now we will have to fight it again. All because the Guard refused to muddy their uniforms.’
‘The order was mine,’ Napoleon replied coldly as he rubbed his brow. The headache had returned with a vengeance. ‘I take full responsibility for the consequences.’
‘That’s good of you, sire.’
Napoleon ignored the mocking tone and continued, ‘The fact is, we have defeated the Tsar’s army. Even if he has managed to save most of his men, there is nothing that can stop us reaching Moscow now.’
Chapter 30
Moscow, 15 September 1812
Napoleon stood at the window of the Tsar’s private study in the Kremlin gazing out at the historic Russian capital with an expression of horrified awe. His face was lit in the blood-red hue as he stared towards the great swathe of Moscow that was on fire.
He had reached the city shortly after noon, a day after the first of Murat’s cavalry had cautiously made their way through the abandoned streets. The road junctions had been plastered with copies of a proclamation issued by Moscow’s governor ordering the population to evacuate, or face arrest and possible execution for treason. Naturally, many had refused to leave and had gone into hiding, emerging later to enjoy the freedom to break into the wealthiest houses and steal whatever valuables they could find. They had scuttled away, back into concealment, the moment they caught sight of the French troops entering the city. For their part, the hungry, tattered figures of the Grand Army took over where the native looters had left off.
‘Who started the fires?’ Napoleon asked.
‘We haven’t discovered that yet, sire,’ Murat replied. ‘None of the infantry had penetrated that part of the city before the fires broke out, so it might have been the work of some of the cavalry patrols. Or it could have been the Russians.’
‘The Russians?’
‘Why not, sire? They’ve been busy burning crops, villages and bridges behind them as they have retreated.’
‘That’s one thing. But to destroy the most sacred city of your country is quite another. I can’t believe Alexander could do such a thing. Such an act of barbarism.’
Murat shrugged. ‘Perhaps you have underestimated the Tsar.’
Napoleon frowned. Had he misjudged Alexander? Was his opponent a far more ruthless man than he had assumed? If that was the case, then Napoleon had erred more profoundly than ever before. It was an unsettling thought and he hurriedly banished it from his mind as he turned to Murat. ‘What is being done to contain the fires?’
Murat looked surprised. ‘Why, nothing, sire. It’s not our problem.’
‘It will be unless something is done. The army needs billets and food, which they won’t have unless something is done about the fire.’
Murat thought quickly. ‘We’d better use the Guard. Most of the other divisions are looting. The Guard is about the only disciplined unit left at the moment. That is, if you can spare them.’
‘Take them,’ Napoleon replied at once. ‘The fire must be contained.’
Murat no
dded. ‘At the moment it’s confined to the poorest quarter of the city. Most of the houses there are small affairs, made of wood. We should be able to destroy enough of them to create a fire break.’
‘Very well then, deal with it, Murat.’ Napoleon waved a hand to dismiss his cavalry commander. The door closed loudly and Napoleon was alone again. He turned away from the window and began to examine the room, curious to see what it revealed about the Tsar.
The study was lit by a handful of candles burning in a chandelier. Paintings of family members and illustrious ancestors adorned the walls, though not, Napoleon noted, Alexander’s father, Nicholas, who had been murdered by the men who had placed Alexander on the throne. The vast desk, with its ornate marquetry, was empty, as were the document cupboards throughout the Tsar’s suite. Piles of ashes and scorch marks defiled the brilliant marble tiles of the floor where confidential documents had been burned. A long row of bookcases lined the wall opposite the windows and Napoleon ran his finger along the spines of the books. A few shelves contained works in Russian and others contained texts in Latin and German, but the majority of the books were in French. Napoleon smiled at the eclectic range of writings, everything from obscure philosophical tracts to the works of Rousseau and Voltaire. So, the Tsar was a man interested in liberal politics, Napoleon mused. A pity; he might have made a good Frenchman. Then he paused, stared and smiled. On one of the top shelves he had spied some racy romantic novels of the kind hawked around the less salubrious neighbourhoods of Paris.
‘A man of the people as well, then.’ Smiling, Napoleon stretched up an arm to pluck out one of the books. He idly flicked through the opening pages and then placed the book in the pocket of his coat and strode across the room to sit down in the finely carved and upholstered chair behind the desk. Directly opposite him, on the far wall, hung a portrait of Alexander in military uniform, his gloved hand resting on the handle of a curved sword. Napoleon stared at the portrait for a long time before he muttered, ‘Why don’t you surrender? Why? Your army has been beaten. Your greatest city has fallen and now burns. What more can you endure? It is madness to continue the war. You will sue for peace. I know it.’
The fire burned for another three days, consuming most of the city before it died out, or was stopped by the firebreaks the French soldiers had created by blasting entire streets to pieces with powder charges. The air over the city was filled with the acrid stench of burning and smoke still curled into the clear skies for many days afterwards. Only a quarter of the city, including the Kremlin, had escaped the flames, but it was more than enough to accommodate the men of the Grand Army.
After the initial orgy of looting the soldiers were content to make their billets as comfortable as possible while they rested, and enjoyed whatever food they found in the abandoned city. It was an opportunity for the wounded to recover in the comfort of proper beds and not on the overcrowded, jolting bed of an army wagon. Many men used the time to patch their worn uniforms, repair their boots, or find more comfortable replacements. They were happy to believe the proclamations issued from the Emperor’s headquarters that congratulated them on having fought the campaign to a glorious and successful conclusion. All that remained was for the Emperor and the Tsar to negotiate a peace and then the men of the Grand Army could return home, laden with the spoils of war and tall tales of having fought and bested the wild Cossacks of the steppes.
The days passed, and there was no sign of any Russian officials approaching the city to discuss peace terms. Despite the lack of an armistice Murat’s cavalry patrols reported that their Cossack counterparts were happy to fraternise and exchange spirits and other gifts. The only worrying intelligence was that the Russian officer appointed to command the Tsar’s forces, General Kutusov, was marching his men to the west of Moscow, threatening the Grand Army’s communications.
September drifted into October and there was a noticeable drop in the temperature as the end of autumn drew near. Napoleon instructed Berthier to prepare the army to march once more. There was a distant possibility that the Russian army might have to be fought again to shatter whatever was left of the Tsar’s desire to continue the struggle. Still the Emperor waited for the Russians. He expected them hourly, and spent most of his time in the Tsar’s study, waiting to receive the war-weary and dispirited representatives of the Tsar. It was difficult to concentrate his mind on anything else, and in order to cope with the wait Napoleon began to read the romantic novels in Alexander’s private collection, numbingly banal as they were. At mealtimes, his closest comrades were surprised to see the Emperor lingering over his food, picking at it carefully where before he had treated a meal as a necessary waste of time.
On the fifth day of the month Napoleon abruptly gave orders for a delegation headed by General Delacorte, who had once served in the Russian embassy, to be sent to Kutusov to request an audience with Alexander. They returned six days later and Delacorte was brought before the Emperor to make his report. Napoleon greeted him warmly.
‘I am glad to see you have returned safely.’
‘Thank you, sire.’ Delacorte bowed his head.
‘So tell me what happened.’
‘We found Kutusov’s army easily enough and were escorted through his picket lines and on to his field headquarters. He welcomed us, insisting that we dine with him and his officers before we discussed the purpose of our mission. I gave him your letter first, sire, asking that an armistice be agreed while I was given safe conduct and taken to the Tsar. Kutusov refused to let me proceed. He took your letter and said that he would ensure that it was delivered safely into the Tsar’s hands.’
Napoleon frowned. ‘I gave you strict orders to deliver that letter in person.’
Delacorte shrugged. ‘I didn’t see what else I could do, sire.’
Napoleon stared at him for a moment. ‘Very well. Continue.’
‘Yes, sire. We were kept at Kutusov’s headquarters while we waited for the reply. He continued to treat us well, and claimed that he and his men would like nothing more than peace between Russia and France. Then, yesterday morning, there was a reply from the Tsar.’
‘A reply? Then where is it?’
Delacorte hesitated, and then reached into his jacket and extracted a single sheet of paper, folded, without any seal. He handed it to Napoleon, who opened it out and read the short message, written in French in a neat small hand.
To his imperial majesty, Napoleon of France, greetings.
I thank you for your letter requesting me to state my preliminary terms for discussing a peace treaty between our nations. However, I am resolved not to discontinue the state of war between us, and therefore I regret that I must refuse your request. Sadly, I refute your claim that the campaign is concluded. Indeed, this is the moment when my campaign begins. Alexander,Tsar of Russia.
Napoleon lowered the note. ‘Is that all there is? Is there nothing more?’
‘No, sire.’
Napoleon read the note again. ‘This must be a joke.’
‘I don’t think so, sire. I recognise the Tsar’s hand from my days in the embassy. That’s his signature, I am sure of it.’
Napoleon shook his head. ‘Then he mocks me . . . Or his mind is troubled. Yes, perhaps that’s it. After all, his father was reputed to be insane. He must have written this in haste. After the defeat at Borodino and the loss of Moscow his mind is bound to be disturbed. When he has had time to think it over he will write again and accept my offer.’
Delacorte looked at his Emperor in surprise for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, sire. I imagine you are right. Will that be all?’
‘What?’ Napoleon looked directly at him. ‘Yes, you may go. And I thank you for your efforts, Delacorte.’
The general left the study, closing the door softly behind him. Napoleon read the letter once again, then smiled faintly before screwing it up and tossing it into the fire.
There was still no further word from the Tsar three days later and Napoleon summoned Delacorte again and t
asked him with leading another delegation to Kutusov. This time they were not permitted to hand over any letters, and Kutusov brusquely informed them that no further delegations would be received. Once he had dismissed the officer Napoleon sank into his chair and stared down the room towards the portrait of Alexander. He had spent many hours gazing at it already, trying to read the expression the artist had caught.
Napoleon knew that portraits rewarded close study. The sitter would be conscious of how they wished to be presented to those who would view the completed portrait down the years. So they crafted a pose which would embody their virtues, as they saw them. It was the task of the artist to study and amplify his subject’s qualities, yet at the same time a good artist could not resist subtly inflecting his depiction according to his opinion of the person sitting before him.
It might have been a trick of the light, but for the first time Napoleon saw a glint of cruelty in the eyes of Alexander, and the lips were not set in a faint smile of beneficence any more. It was another man who stood before him, no longer the impressionable young ruler who had only recently taken the throne and wanted to improve the lot of his people and be loved by them. An icy chill rose up in the nape of Napoleon’s neck and he shuddered.
A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts and he sat forward and called out, ‘Come!’
The door clicked open. Berthier entered and crossed the room to stand before the Emperor’s desk.
‘What is it?’ Napoleon asked hopefully.
Berthier pulled out a loose leaf folder from under his arm and flicked it open. ‘There are a few issues that I need to bring to your attention, in accordance with your order to prepare the army to march, sire.’
‘Oh?’ Napoleon sank back in his chair.
‘I’ve spoken with the cartography staff, sire, and they calculate that it will take a minimum of fifty days to return to the Niemen.’
The Fields of Death Page 34