The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

The approach of rumbling hooves drew Napoleon’s gaze away from the officer who had saved him and he saw the Guard cavalry charging up to the mêlée. They were hand-picked men mounted on the best of horses, and they charged down those Cossacks who could not turn and flee in time. The rest disappeared across the field into the woods, pursued by the galloping Frenchmen.

  ‘Who is he, Berthier?’ Napoleon nodded towards the officer holding the lance. The man was no older than thirty, blond and with fine features.

  ‘Colonel Eblé, sire. An engineer.’

  ‘Then see to it that the colonel is promoted to general. A brave man, that.’

  ‘We will need all of his kind in the weeks ahead,’ Berthier responded quietly.

  Napoleon frowned. He wanted to upbraid his chief of staff for his pessimism, but he knew that Berthier was right. Glancing round at the forests on either side, he could already see mounted figures stealing back towards the tree line, watching them. Abruptly, he turned his mount back down the road and a moment later Berthier fell in alongside him.

  They were silent for a moment as Napoleon glanced from side to side.

  ‘I think we may have to reconsider our route,’ he said.

  Back in the campaign wagon, Napoleon pulled a map of the Moscow approaches from its case and spread it out across the folding table. He leaned forward on his elbows and examined it briefly, then nodded to himself. He tapped his finger where the name of Maloyaroslavets was marked.

  ‘We dare not take the whole army across the river using a single span. It would take too long, and if the enemy can bring forward sufficient strength to attack the bridgehead then we could be stuck here while Kutusov approaches from the east.’

  ‘That is a possibility, sire,’ Berthier agreed. ‘But if the ground on the far side is held by a few bands of Cossacks and the remnants of the column that Eugène forced aside, then I would say it is worth the risk. If the army gets over the Lusha then there are few natural obstacles between us and Smolensk.’

  Napoleon thought a moment and then shook his head. ‘It would take only a few cannon to sweep the bridge and there would be a panic. We would lose thousands - men I cannot afford to lose. No, the army cannot cross here.’ Napoleon traced his finger across the map. ‘We’ll head north, back to the Moscow-Smolensk road.’

  Berthier sucked in a breath. ‘But that will cost us six days, sire. We can’t afford to lose so much time.’

  ‘Time is irrelevant if there is no army left to make use of it.’ Napoleon straightened up and rubbed his back. Even though he had slept little in recent days he felt something of his old energy returning. His stomach was no longer hurting, he realised.

  He continued to stare at the map. It was possible that Berthier was right, he conceded silently, and the march north would cost him six days, but the danger of attempting to cross the Lusha outweighed Berthier’s fears.

  A sudden gust of wind caused the map to flap where it wasn’t clipped to the table. Napoleon shuddered and turned to one of the orderlies waiting outside the carriage. ‘Find me a warm coat.’

  Several days later, the army re-joined the road to Smolensk and passed through the battlefield at Borodino. There had been no time to bury the vast number of dead men and horses when the Grand Army had pursued Kutusov in the direction of Moscow after the battle six weeks before. Since then the corpses had swollen, putrefied and been scavenged by packs of wolves that had been drawn from many miles around by the scent of death. Amid the ravaged bodies was the litter of war: abandoned muskets, shattered gun carriages, cavalry helmets and breastplates, cleaved by musket and cannon fire.

  ‘Good God . . .’ Berthier muttered as he gazed around the desolate landscape as the headquarters column passed through. He sat opposite Napoleon in an open carriage.

  ‘An ugly scene,’ Napoleon nodded, and then wrinkled his nose.‘And a foul stench, even now.’

  He turned in his seat to look back along the column snaking across the battlefield. Although the men looked lean and ragged, they still kept hold of their muskets and packs. As Napoleon watched, he saw hundreds of them break ranks and hurry across to the rotting horses to see if there was any meat to be gleaned, no matter how rancid. It was a sobering sight and Napoleon turned away, settling himself down in his seat and shutting his eyes. He did not sleep, but anxiously reflected on the steady disintegration of the Grand Army.

  Earlier that day one of Murat’s troopers had brought the Emperor a report from the rearguard. The reports of conditions at the rear of the army were hard to believe. Davout’s corps had taken over the rearguard, and he informed the Emperor that as many as thirty thousand stragglers and camp followers were clogging the road behind the main body of the army. Most had abandoned their weapons and the strongest formed bands and preyed on the weak, stealing their food and clothes and leaving them to die. Starvation was killing hundreds every day. Men dropped by the side of the road and stared into space, waiting for death.

  Roving bands of Cossacks and peasants were happy to oblige and butchered any French soldiers they came across. The wounded on the remaining wagons were crushed in together, and when a man died, or was deemed to be beyond help, he was thrown over the side to die in the mud or be crushed under the following vehicles. The remaining horses were little more than skeletons, and the lame animals were butchered where they fell, to be torn to pieces by frenzied mobs. Some men were even unhitching the horses from the wagons of the wounded and leaving their comrades behind, ignoring their pitiful pleas not to be abandoned. And all along the line of march lay the abandoned spoils of the campaign, amid the discarded weapons, spiked guns, carts, wheelbarrows and wagons.

  When the army reached the Dnieper river on the first day of November, Napoleon gave the order to halt to give the rearguard time to catch up. There was ominous news from further ahead. Russian forces were marching to block the crossings over the Berezina river, a hundred miles from the border with the Duchy of Warsaw.

  As night fell the temperature dropped below zero and kept dropping. Having read the day’s despatches and written his responses, Napoleon climbed down from the campaign wagon and strode over to the fire that had been lit for him by a section of guardsmen. They now stood around the perimeter of the light cast by the flames, muskets slung over their shoulders as they stamped their feet, trying to keep warm as they stood guard. A servant brought a bowl of onion soup and a small loaf to the Emperor, who sat on a campaign chair a short distance from the fire. As he sipped at the hot soup he saw hundreds more fires dotted across the surrounding countryside and trailing back towards the eastern horizon. A half-moon hung in the sky, providing a thin illumination of the dark bands of forests and cleared swathes of farmland that stretched out on either side of the army. In the distance there was a brief outbreak of musket fire, then silence, and finally the long low howl of a wolf, taken up by others, which continued until a fresh rattle of musket fire scared them off.

  Napoleon felt something cold prick his cheek, and blinked. Then a pale fleck floated lazily past his face and settled on his thigh. Another followed, then more, and he looked up into the night sky to see a sudden swirling motion against a bank of clouds drifting slowly across the heavens, obscuring the moon and stars. A low wind began to blow, fanning the flames of the fire. Napoleon heard footsteps nearby and turned to see Berthier approaching, a worried expression on his face.

  ‘I had hoped we might reach Smolensk before the snow came, sire.’

  Napoleon took another sip of onion soup. ‘So did I. Now all we can do is pray that it doesn’t last.’

  Neither man spoke as they watched the veil of snow close in across the landscape, slowly blanking out the fields and forests as it began to settle on the ground like a funeral shroud.

  Chapter 35

  6 November 1812

  Berthier looked up from the despatch that Napoleon had handed him to read. ‘It seems to have been handled efficiently enough. The Paris garrison has stamped down on the traitors, and, as you say, General Malet
is clearly a lunatic.’

  ‘Lunatic or sane, he deserved to be shot, along with the others,’ said Napoleon as he shuffled his stool closer to the stove. Outside the barn a blizzard was blowing, adding to the snow of the previous days. The imperial headquarters had struggled on until after dark before reaching the barn and the handful of sheds that were the only shelter the scouts had been able to find for the night. A stove had been fetched from the imperial baggage and one of the carts was broken up for firewood, providing enough for the stove and a small blaze outside where the sentries drawn from the Old Guard were huddled.

  As twilight settled over the snow, painting the winter landscape in a pale blue hue, the headquarters staff had encountered a messenger on the road to Smolensk. The sealed despatch bag had only been opened once Napoleon had eaten and warmed himself by the stove. There was a message from the Minister of Police marked Most urgent, which Napoleon read first.

  The minister reported that there had been an attempt by some senior army officers to seize power. The ringleader was General Malet, a longstanding opponent of the Emperor who had been committed to an asylum. Somehow, he had managed to escape. Arriving in Paris with a forged army despatch, he had declared that Napoleon had died in Russia, and managed to persuade a number of officers to join his cause. It was only when the military governor of Paris refused to believe the news that the plot was foiled and the culprits were arrested, tried and shot.

  ‘Well, it’s over now.’ Berthier folded the despatch and placed it in the document box of correspondence that had been read. ‘From the sound of things it stood no chance of success.’

  ‘You’re missing the point,’ Napoleon said wearily. ‘I don’t doubt that Malet and his friends would have failed. The soldiers in Paris would never have gone over to them. What worries me is that so many officials were prepared to believe that I was dead.’ He looked earnestly at Berthier.‘Don’t you see? It does not take long for my hold on power to slip when I leave Paris for any length of time.’ He was silent for a moment, staring at the beaten earth between his boots.‘It seems that my presence is needed in Paris as soon as I have led the army to safety for the winter.’

  ‘Sire,’ Berthier responded with a warning glance, and then looked round at the other officers in the barn. Some were hunched over campaign tables, busy writing orders, while others collated the latest strength returns, a task that daily revealed the increasing peril of the Grand Army as the number of men in each corps dwindled. Satisfied that he would not be overheard, Berthier continued. ‘You must remain with the army for as long as possible. While you are with us there is still some hope for the men. They trust you, sire. They know that you will lead them out of this frozen wasteland. But if you leave . . . if you abandon them, then whatever is left of their fighting spirit will die. The army will dissolve. We have to save as many of them as possible, else there will be nothing to stand between our empire and the forces of Russia when the next campaign season begins.’

  Napoleon frowned at his chief of staff. ‘You exaggerate the danger, as ever, Berthier. What makes you think these conditions affect the enemy any less than us, eh? The Russians are still men. They feel the cold. They grow hungry as they outmarch their supply lines. I dare say that, even now, Kutusov is sitting in his headquarters listening to a doom-mongering subordinate of his own. The Russians will be in no better condition to continue the war than we are when the spring comes.’

  ‘You are wrong, sire,’ said Berthier. ‘The Russians are living within their supply lines. Their men have food when they need it, and are not obliged to try to carry it with them every step of the way.’

  ‘Nor will we be when we reach Smolensk!’ Napoleon snapped back. ‘There are rations enough there for all the men. The city has strong defences. The army could winter there while I return to Paris, and when the spring comes we will be within striking range of St Petersburg. If the loss of Moscow does not move the Tsar to seek peace, then perhaps if we take his new capital he will begin to see reason. If that does not work we shall take his cities one by one, and burn them, until he comes to terms.’

  Berthier shook his head. ‘I am no longer sure that the loss of all his cities would weaken his will to resist. In any case, if the Grand Army, or what’s left of it, remains in Smolensk then it runs the risk of being trapped there during the depths of winter. And all the time the enemy will be drawing on his reserves to increase the size of the armies gathering against us. Come spring they will be ready to close the trap around Smolensk and compel the army to surrender, or perish. There would be no army for you to return to, sire.’

  Napoleon lowered his gaze and stared at the flickering orange rim round the iron door of the stove. Berthier was right. He could not afford to quit the army when the morale of the men was so fragile. Yet he was gravely concerned about the situation in Paris - and not only Paris. The Prussians could not be trusted, nor could many of the other lesser allies in the German Confederation. Then there was Spain, where French control of the country was slipping from his hands, as Wellington and the accursed Spanish rebels continued to run rings around Napoleon’s marshals.

  He felt the burden of it all weigh on his heart like a great rock. His empire needed him everywhere. He was fated to be either a ruler directing his wars from a distance, or a general leading his soldiers at the front, far from the capital. A man could not do both, he mused, and then smiled to himself. Perhaps not a man, but a Napoleon? Only history would tell.

  ‘Sire?’ Berthier interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your orders. Will the army halt at Smolensk?’

  Napoleon was still for a moment and then shook his head. ‘You are right. It is too exposed. We will fall back on the depot at Minsk. Meanwhile, send a message to Marshal Victor. His corps is still intact. Order him to advance towards us. He is to keep our lines of communication open at all costs. I cannot afford to be out of touch with Paris.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  Leaning towards the stove, Napoleon held out his hands and spoke softly. ‘The campaign is lost, Berthier.’

  ‘Yes, sire. I know.’

  ‘Then all that remains to do is get as many men out of Russia as possible.’

  The Emperor and the Imperial Guard reached Smolensk on the ninth day of November. The stock of supplies for the Grand Army was far lower than Napoleon had anticipated. Not nearly enough to feed his men through the winter, or even until the end of the year. As the following formations reached the city, they were issued with all the food they could carry. Many of the men had had hardly anything to eat for weeks, and ignoring the orders of their officers they gorged themselves, leaving little to sustain them as the army marched on, crossing to the south of the Dnieper and leaving Smolensk behind.

  Napoleon and his staff attempted to reorganise what was left of the army. There were now less than forty thousand front-line troops. Murat’s cavalry had almost ceased to exist and the officers were ordered to hand over their horses so that a small force could be scraped together to confront the menace of the Cossacks. The six thousand survivors of Ney’s corps took over the rearguard and rested a few days in the city to allow the wretched column of stragglers to pass by, looting what little food was left in the depots and houses of Smolensk in the process.

  Early on the seventeenth, the same day that Ney had been ordered to quit Smolensk, the vanguard came up against a strong Russian force blocking the road. The sky was the colour of lead above the thick gleaming white layer that blanketed the stark landscape. A mile ahead of the Grand Army was a low rise where the Russians waited, infantry and a handful of guns to the centre and thousands of Cossacks drawn up on each flank. Napoleon regarded them through his telescope and then conferred with Berthier.

  ‘I would estimate perhaps twenty thousand all told.’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied a moment later. ‘I agree.’

  ‘They must be pushed aside.’ Napoleon bit his lip. There was only one remaining formation
in the Grand Army strong enough to complete the task. If they failed then all was lost. He turned to Berthier. ‘Tell General Roguet to have the Guard form a battle line across the road. Here.’ He stabbed a finger towards the ground.

  As the faint glow of the sun climbed behind the clouds the men of the Imperial Guard marched up the road and then turned and filed across the snow to take up their positions. In front of them, the last of the artillery horses hauled twenty guns into place and the crews clumsily began to load the weapons with numbed fingers. As Napoleon watched the preparations he saw that his elite corps had suffered the same privations as the rest of the army. The guardsmen were bearded and filthy, their mud-stained uniforms in tatters, and strips of cloth had been tied round their boots and hands in an attempt to keep their feet and fingers warm. Yet they formed ranks as neatly as if they had been on parade in the courtyard at the Tuileries. Napoleon could not help feeling proud of these men, who had served him through many campaigns. This moment was what they had been saved for. At the Grand Army’s darkest hour it would be the Imperial Guard who would fight to preserve them all.

  A series of dull thuds from the Russian line announced the start of the battle, as the enemy cannon opened fire. General Roguet gave the order for his guns to reply as the last battalion of the Guard took its place in the line. For fifteen minutes the guns of both sides exchanged fire, their shot kicking up short-lived fountains of white as they grounded in the snow. Now and again a shot struck home, smashing a gun and striking down some of its crew. The men of the Imperial Guard artillery soon warmed to their task, grunting with effort as they laboured to load and fire their guns, and their superior training quickly showed as they silenced one enemy gun after another, while only two of their own were put out of action.

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ General Roguet grinned as he sat on his horse beside Napoleon. ‘First round to us, sire.’