The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘I did not say that we would be retreating to Poland,’ Napoleon cut in.

  ‘No, sire, but as chief of staff it is my duty to prepare for all contingencies. ’

  Napoleon was silent for a moment before he nodded.‘You are right. Continue.’

  ‘Yes, sire. Even if we were to leave Moscow at once, we cannot reach the Niemen before the winter sets in. The first snow will fall in November, and the temperatures will drop far below freezing. Our men are still in the uniforms they were wearing for a summer campaign. They need warm clothing, sire. Thick coats, gloves, scarves and boots.’

  ‘Then see to it. Have them issued with whatever they need from stores.’

  ‘Sire, I have already spoken to the chief of the commissary. Dumas has hardly any stock of winter clothing. If your majesty recalls, it was decided not to overburden the supply wagons with unnecessary equipment. It was anticipated that the campaign would be over in time for the army to return to winter quarters in Poland.’

  ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘Whatever clothing Dumas has now has been picked up along the route, as the wagons emptied of rations.’

  ‘A wise precaution.’ Napoleon nodded vaguely. ‘Dumas is a clever fellow.’

  ‘The problem is that there is not nearly enough winter clothing for the entire army. Our latest strength returns give us ninety-five thousand men. Dumas can provide for no more than twenty thousand.’

  ‘Then requisition some more coats, and whatever else is needed.’

  ‘Where from, sire?’

  ‘I cannot believe there is not enough winter clothing to be had in Moscow.’

  ‘The fire destroyed the shopping and warehouse districts,’ Berthier explained evenly. ‘The only clothing that is left is whatever is in the houses that survived. Even then, the Russians took nearly everything with them when they evacuated the city.’

  ‘Then do what you can,’ Napoleon replied tersely. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sire. Murat reports that he has fewer than ten thousand cavalry mounts remaining and many of those are lame, and all of them are short of forage. The same is true for the artillery. The city’s stock of feed was also lost in the fire.’

  ‘Then we must have fresh horses. An army is nothing without cavalry and artillery. Tell Murat to send his men out to buy horses from the towns and villages around Moscow.’

  Berthier took a deep breath.‘Sire, the city is surrounded by Cossacks. In any case, Murat’s patrols report that every settlement within twenty miles of Moscow has been evacuated and torched. There are no horses to be had.’

  ‘Why do you tell me this? What can I do?’ Napoleon waved his arms wide. ‘I can’t just make horses appear!’

  Berthier kept his mouth shut, closed his file and tucked it back under his arm and then stared straight ahead, refusing to meet the Emperor’s eyes. Napoleon tilted his head back and stared at the intricate ceiling mouldings, painted with gold leaf. He smiled grimly. He had a fortune in gold in the army’s war chest, enough to buy all the coats and horses he needed. Now the gold would be little more than a burden if the army was forced to retreat through the harsh Russian winter. He leaned forward and looked across at Berthier.

  ‘Send for my marshals.’

  A servant built up the fire before drawing the long curtains across the window and leaving the study. Outside the night was cold and a chilly wind moaned down the streets of Moscow, bringing with it brief squalls of rain that drove those men of the Grand Army still searching for spoils into the shelter of their billets.

  Inside the room in the Kremlin, Napoleon faced his marshals, bracing himself to admit the truth.

  ‘The Tsar does not want peace. He refuses to even contemplate it.’ Napoleon frowned.‘It seems that he will not admit defeat, in spite of all that he has lost.’

  ‘Why would he?’ asked Davout. ‘Every day that we sit in Moscow and wait on events, his army grows stronger. By now, he will have gathered in men from his garrisons, and from the army that was facing Turkey. Sire, if we are not careful, Moscow will turn from a trophy into a trap.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘There’s no question about it. We must retreat, while we still can.’

  ‘Retreat?’ Ney snorted. ‘When we have won all that we have? Kutusov is still too afraid to fight. That’s why he sits out there and does nothing.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to do anything,’ Davout replied,‘but sit and wait for the winter to do his work for him. Soon this city will run out of food, and then wood for the fires. We shall have to start eating the horses. When spring comes whatever is left of the Grand Army will not be fit to fight.’

  ‘Then we don’t stay here,’ Ney responded. ‘If the Tsar won’t sue for peace when we have taken Moscow, then I say we march on St Petersburg instead. Let’s see how reluctant he is to talk when we burn down the most prized of his palaces.’

  Napoleon smiled sourly. ‘I suspect that it would make no difference to his resolve. Besides, our communications are already stretched enough and it is four hundred miles from here to St Petersburg. It is out of the question.’ He drew a breath. ‘Our position in Moscow is already growing tenuous. The Cossacks have started attacking Murat’s patrols and they are gradually closing in around the city. The road to Smolensk was cut three days ago, and has only today been cleared by General Sulpice . . . The danger is clear enough. I have made my decision. We will quit Moscow and fall back to Smolensk. There are enough rations there to last the army through the winter. It is possible that General Kutusov might feel bold enough to try to block our retreat. If so, he will hand us another chance to crush his army. In any case, that must be the explanation that we give to the army. They must not be allowed to think of this as a retreat. As far as the soldiers are concerned, we are marching out to find and destroy Kutusov. Is that clear?’

  The marshals nodded. Then Davout spoke.

  ‘Sire, whatever the soldiers believe, we can be sure that our enemies in Europe will present this as a defeat. We have to be careful that defeat is not turned into catastrophe.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Davout folded his hands and stared down at them thoughtfully. ‘It is no secret that many of our allies contributed their contingents under duress. We know that we can’t trust the Prussians. If this campaign goes against us, then I fear that Frederick William may well change sides and join the Tsar. If he does, then he will not be the only one.’ He looked up.‘Sire, the overriding priority now is no longer to defeat the Russians. It is my conviction that that is no longer possible. What matters is survival. That means we must save as many men, horses and guns as we can. They will be needed to hold our ground in Europe when this campaign is over.’

  There was a silence around the table, before Ney laughed. ‘Ever the optimist, Davout! Damn it, man, you paint the blackest of pictures.’

  ‘Sometimes the picture is black,’ Napoleon replied, glancing at the portrait at the end of the room. ‘In any case, the decision is made. The army is to abandon Moscow, on the nineteeth. Return to your commands and prepare your men to march. Berthier will send each of you your orders for your place in the line of march.’

  Napoleon sat on his mount, surrounded by his staff, as the column trudged by under a leaden sky of gathering rain clouds. The army had set out at first light, but the days were growing shorter and dusk was settling over Moscow before the tail of the huge column had cleared the city. Marshal Mortier commanded the rearguard, and his men were busy spiking the guns that had to be left behind in the city because there were no longer sufficient horses to draw them. Mortier’s soldiers were also tasked with destroying any stocks of powder and weapons that might be of use to the enemy. Afterwards, they would set off, covering the rear of the army.

  As Napoleon watched his men pass by, they still offered a cheer as they saw him, but they were no longer the men of the Grand Army that had crossed the Niemen nearly six months ago. They looked more like a procession of beggar
s in their tattered uniforms and the assortment of coats and jackets they had looted from Moscow. Many were laden down with the more burdensome spoils of war, and the route was already lined with discarded paintings, mirrors and laquered boxes, left in the mud.

  In amongst the columns of infantry were wagons and carts filled with the wounded, whatever rations could be gleaned from Moscow, and yet more spoils. The vehicles, and the army’s remaining guns, were drawn by skeletal horses and mules, their ribs clearly delineated under the loose folds of their hides. It was the same for the cavalry, Napoleon noted sadly. The gleaming mounts that had been spurred on across the steppes were now mere shadows of the finest cavalry in Europe. Thousands of troopers no longer had mounts, and marched as infantry, their carbines slung over their shoulders.

  He watched them for a while, then took a last glance back towards the Moscow skyline. His heart filled with a bitter hatred for the Tsar. Tugging the reins, Napoleon turned his mount to follow the column snaking back the way it had come as the first cold drops of rain began to fall.

  Chapter 31

  Arthur

  Madrid, 12 August 1812

  The bells of the great church of Nuestra Señora de la Almudena rang out across the city, but were scarcely audible above the din of the crowd lining the streets down which the British troops marched as they made for the royal palace. Despite its being the hottest part of the year, the Spaniards had turned out in their tens of thousands to greet the liberator of Madrid. A battalion of the Coldstream Guards led the way, in carefully patched uniforms, fresh tripoli on their cross belts and buttons polished to a glassy shine. Next came a squadron of the German dragoons who had scattered the last division of Marmont’s army the day after the battle at Salamanca. And then, together with his staff, came Arthur, mounted on his favourite chestnut horse, Copenhagen. He had dressed for the event and left his plain coat and hat at headquarters. Instead he wore his red coat, adorned with gold lace. On his left breast he wore the medals and stars of the titles that he had won over the years. A new bicorne sat on his head, with a plume of white feathers lining it from front to back.

  ‘I feel like a damned stuffed goose,’ he called to Somerset, who rode to his side and slightly further back. ‘All done up for a Christmas banquet.’

  Somesert laughed, doffing his hat to a group of Spanish ladies who were sheltering beneath parasols as they watched the procession from a balcony. ‘Just as long as you look the part, my lord. After all, the Spanish government has conferred upon you the title of the supreme commander of all Spanish forces.’

  ‘A measure that will be of supreme indifference to almost every Spaniard under arms, I can assure you.’

  ‘Be that as it may, my lord, you have won their hearts, and the Spanish deserve to see a conquering warrior, not some chap in a coat who might as well be a country doctor when all is said and done.’

  ‘Country doctor?’ Arthur sniffed. ‘Well, at least my appearance does not seem to concern our fellows unduly.’

  He sat stiffly in his saddle as he rode with all the dignity he could muster, occasionally turning to one side or the other and raising a hand to acknowledge the crowd’s cheers, which only prompted a further burst of wild cries and frantic waving of strips of cloth in the red and gold of Spain. It was an impressive reception, Arthur mused. The previous day, Madrid’s population had greeted the army with hysterical joy, pressing bottles of wine and gifts of bread, pastries and dried sausage into the hands of the first soldiers to enter the suburbs. For their part the soldiers had grinned as they nodded their gratitude and responded with the few words of Spanish they had picked up. Today’s procession to the royal palace was a much more formal affair, but had taken on the air of a wild public holiday.

  The hated French had gone. As news of the crushing defeat at Salamanca reached King Joseph, he hurriedly packed up his valuables, and a heavily guarded convoy of French officials left the city a few days before the arrival of the allied army. A large column of Spanish collaborators left with them, to avoid the growing bloodlust of the mob. The French were heading south-east to Valencia, where Joseph sought the protection of Marshal Suchet.

  Even so, the allied army was short of supplies, the men were tired and many of Arthur’s senior officers were out of action due to injury and sickness. There was little more that could be achieved by pursuing Marmont, and the liberation of Madrid would be an effective blow to French prestige across Europe. It would also help to raise morale back in Britain, where the new Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, was working hard to generate political support for Arthur’s campaigns in the Peninsula.

  Arthur felt his mind reeling with the possibilities that the victory at Salamanca had opened up for future operations. But that was work for later. For the present he was content to play the part of the liberator of Madrid, and as the royal palace came in sight along the avenue he raised his hat from his head and held it high as he swept it round towards the sea of ecstatic Madrileños, cheering as they waved their strips of cloth in wild abandon.

  As soon as Arthur stepped inside the tall doors of the balcony he gestured towards a footman bearing a tray of glasses of water. The cheers of the crowd filled the room almost as loudly as they filled the plaza outside. The midday heat beating down upon Madrid had caused Arthur to perspire freely under his scarlet woollen jacket. Once he had removed his hat and wiped a dribble of sweat from his brow, he downed two glasses of the chilled water in quick succession. Then he allowed a servant to remove the ribbon across his shoulder and the other around his waist before unclipping his sword belt, undoing the buttons of his jacket and slipping it off.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ He breathed deeply. ‘I believe I would have stewed in my own juices if I had been forced to wear that a moment longer.’

  General Alava smiled. ‘It seems that our climate suits no one but the natives.’

  ‘There are more comfortable landscapes across which to wage war,’ Arthur agreed. ‘But for now we will rest the army for a few days. Let the men indulge themselves, and let the locals enjoy their freedom, while I decide what is to happen next.’

  ‘And what will you decide, I wonder?’Alava cocked an eyebrow.‘You have Madrid, but taking the capital - while a great achievement in itself - will not rid my people of the French.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ Arthur admitted. ‘But it has forced them to withdraw to the north and east of the country, and Marshal Soult will have to give up the siege of Cadiz and leave Andalucia, or risk being cut off.’ Arthur took another glass of water and sipped at it thoughtfully. ‘Now that we have our great victory, and have chased Boney’s brother out of Madrid, it would be criminal to squander the favourable circumstances in which we find ourselves.’

  He stretched his arms and then crossed to the huge oak table that dominated the middle of what had once been King Joseph’s library. The most valuable books in the collection had been hurriedly packed into the convoy when the French had fled. Now there were gaps in the shelves, like missing teeth, and hundreds of volumes that had been pulled out and then rejected still lay where they had been dropped on the floor. Most of the rooms in the palace had been ransacked by the palace staff as soon as the French had left, and now the elegant halls and chambers were littered with broken vases and crockery.

  Many of the maps and charts that had been stored in a large rack in the corner of the library had been left behind, and Arthur selected a large-scale representation of the Peninsula and unrolled it across the table, helping Somerset pin the corners down with some of the discarded books. Then he stared at the map thoughtfully. Less than two years ago his army had been crammed into a small sliver of land north of Lisbon, while the French had free range across the rest of the sprawl of land depicted on the map. Now, the French were pressed back into the north and east of Spain. While they still had over two hundred thousand men in their armies, the marshals were bitterly divided and treated Joseph with barely disguised contempt, according to the reports of Arthur’s agents. Moreo
ver, they had been largely abandoned by their master as he pursued his apparently limitless ambitions in Russia.

  Arthur was still astonished by the news of the invasion, and the scale of the forces involved. Just half of the resources Bonaparte had deployed in Russia would have enabled him to settle his troubles in Spain very swiftly indeed. As it was, the soldiers of the Emperor were now forced to fight on two fronts, stretched thinly over hostile terrain with only the most rudimentary of road systems. Unless destiny was perversely overgenerous in the favour it bestowed on Bonaparte, his empire was being stretched to its limits. Here in Spain, Arthur was determined to strike a mortal blow to French aspirations. If the Tsar could do the same in the depths of Russia, then surely this war of wars was drawing towards the final act.

  Arthur focused his mind again. At length he put voice to his thoughts as Somerset and Alava stood either side of him. ‘With Joseph having fallen back on Suchet’s army at Valencia we are faced with the prospect that Soult will at some point come to his senses and join forces with them, in which case we will, as so often before, be outnumbered. However, I believe that we might still be able to hold the centre of Spain if we can be sure that we have contained what is left of Marmont’s strength as far north as the river Ebro. That means taking Burgos.’ He turned to General Alava.‘What do you know of the fortress of Burgos?’

  ‘It is on the main route between France and Madrid. Bonaparte must have recognised its importance, since he ordered a number of improvements to the defences.’ Alava shrugged.‘Though nothing on the scale of Badajoz.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. Might I ask if you have actually seen the fortress since these improvements were made?’

  ‘No,’Alava replied frankly.‘But I have heard enough from my sources to know that Burgos will not present you with much difficulty, my lord.’