The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  Napoleon nodded, clasping his arms about his torso as he hunched his neck down into the muffler wound thickly about his neck.‘Tell your men to concentrate their fire on the infantry now.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ Roguet spurred his mount forward through the snow towards his general of artillery. Moments later the first French shot began to fall into the dense ranks of the waiting Russian infantry as Roguet returned to his Emperor’s side. Each time a ball struck home it caused a swirl of bodies, deep into the heart of the Russian lines. Yet they calmly closed up the gaps and held their position. For an hour they endured the punishment, until the general of artillery reported that his ammunition was running low. The Guard’s dwindling convoy of supply wagons was still some miles further down the track leading to Smolensk.

  ‘Then send the infantry forward, General,’ Napoleon ordered.‘Order them to clear that rise and then push the enemy back to the south and open the route for the rest of the army.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  Shortly after the last of the guns had fallen silent the order to advance was given. The drums beat the rhythm and the leading companies of each Guard battalion stepped out towards the enemy, their boots making only a soft crunch as they broke through a thin crust of ice atop the snow. After a short delay the following companies rippled forward, following the tracks left by their comrades, until over seven thousand men were closing on the enemy. Napoleon heard the blare of a distant horn and then the note was picked up and repeated along the Russian line as the Cossacks surged forward, hooves kicking up sprays of snow as they brandished their lances and let out their war cry.

  A moment later Napoleon saw the Guards halt. The flanking battalions steadily formed squares and then the entire formation stood its ground as thousands of Cossacks came charging across the flawless blanket of snow towards them. Up went the muskets, levelled at the oncoming riders, and the French officers held their fire, waiting as the shouting wave of riders surged closer, no more than a hundred paces from the guardsmen, then fifty. Napoleon felt his guts tighten in anticipation. Then the entire front rank of the French line fired with tiny stabs of flame and the sudden bloom of a band of smoke immediately to their front. From his position, Napoleon had a clear view over the smoke and saw the foremost Cossacks cut down, men and horses tumbling amid the snow. At once the front rank of guardsmen went down on one knee and angled their bayonets towards the enemy. The second line raised their weapons, paused, and then another volley crashed out as another wave of musket balls scythed down more of the enemy.

  The horsemen facing the front of the French line drew up, hesitating as they saw hundreds of their comrades sprawled in the snow around them. On the flanks, however, they had suffered few casualties and they spilled round the corners of the French squares, only to be met by more volleys from the companies covering the flanks of the Imperial Guard’s line. The charge broke, and the Cossacks turned their mounts away and galloped back to the rise. General Roguet ordered the squares to resume their original formation and then the Guards reloaded their muskets and continued their advance, halting as they came within range of the waiting Russian infantry. There was one exchange of volleys and scores of the leading battalions of guardsmen went down, and then the charge went in. The stolid courage of the Russians did not long endure as Napoleon’s veterans cut through them, stabbing and clubbing their way forward. Within a minute the enemy broke and ran, tiny dark figures scattering across the snow.

  Roguet’s men took control of the rise, turning to the south to confront the clusters of Cossacks who had re-formed, and the two sides watched each other warily, just beyond musket range. Napoleon nodded with satisfaction. The road was open again and the army could make for the last crossing over the Dnieper at Orsha. After that, there was only one more river to cross before the final leg of the retreat to the Niemen.

  For the rest of the day Napoleon remained with Roguet as the Guard continued to confront the Cossacks. Behind the guardsmen, the rest of the army tramped along the road. The snow was quickly compacted and the surface ice gleamed as the ragged French soldiers trod warily, trying to avoid slipping over. Behind the Guard artillery came the other battalions who had not taken part in the brief battle and a few hundred horsemen, all that remained of the thousands of finely mounted heavy cavalry that had advanced into Russia mere months before. Then came the gaunt figures of Prince Eugène’s corps, some battalions reduced to less than fifty men still following the colours topped by the gilded eagles. No more than five thousand men remained of the forty-five thousand who had crossed the Niemen in June. Behind Eugène’s corps came the ten thousand of Marshal Davout, who had led the largest formation on the campaign. Fewer than one in seven still marched behind their eagles. Following Davout was the long, ragged mass of stragglers, the wounded and the camp followers; women wrapped in cloaks, some clutching the hands of children who stared down apathetically as they staggered on. Some distance behind them, perhaps as much as a day’s march, was the rearguard commanded by Marshal Ney.

  Napoleon stared down his telescope for any sign of Ney’s corps beyond the last dots of the final stragglers still trying to keep up with the army, but saw nothing but an almost empty winter landscape. With a feeling of anxiety he shut his telescope and turned to General Roguet.

  ‘Have your men re-join the column. Close up the stragglers as best you can.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ Roguet nodded. ‘What about Ney? Do you intend to halt the army and let him catch up?’

  ‘No. We must not stop. We have to reach Orsha before the enemy, or they will deny us the crossing.’

  ‘Sire, I can leave a few battalions behind to hold the road open and wait for Ney.’

  ‘The Guard are the very last of our reserves. I cannot afford to risk losing a single man of them unnecessarily.’

  Roguet shook his head in protest. ‘But, sire, if we abandon this position then the Cossacks will close the road behind us. Ney’s corps will be cut off.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ Napoleon replied, and then forced a smile. ‘My dear Roguet, if any man can survive this retreat, it is Michel Ney. You can count on it.’

  Roguet looked back down the road to Smolensk. ‘I hope you are right, sire.’

  ‘Trust me. Now then, General, order your men to join the column.’

  Roguet bowed his head wearily and walked his horse away from the Emperor towards the dark lines of his men still facing the distant clusters of Cossacks. Napoleon stared at the enemy with loathing for a moment. The Cossacks were like animals. There had been many reports of the atrocities they had perpetrated on stragglers or small groups of prisoners they had captured. Only the day before a group of foragers had been rounded up and forced into a barn which was then set on fire. As a consequence the imperial headquarters had issued an order that no prisoners were to be taken. In any case, Napoleon reflected, there were too few men to guard them and no food to feed them with. Literally no food. Already there were rumours that some had turned to cannibalism. Napoleon’s expression turned to disgust at the thought. He did not believe the rumours, he told himself. Men did not do such things.

  He shook off the thought and turned towards Smolensk one last time as the dusk closed in across the land, dimming the snowfields to ever darker shades of grey.

  ‘Good luck, Ney,’ he muttered, and turned his mount, spurring it into a trot in the snow alongside the column as he rode to catch up with his headquarters.

  The vanguard marched hard, driven on by the knowledge that it was in a race to reach Orsha before the enemy could take the town and block the crossing. Two days after the battle the Imperial Guard reached the town and hurriedly set about fortifying the bridgehead across the Dnieper. Over the next days the rest of the main column trickled in and took shelter in the small town, crowding into the buildings and barns to get out of the bitter wind and snow. The small stocks of food in Orsha were soon exhausted and the rear elements of the Grand Army were forced to beg whatever scraps they could from their comrades.
There was still no sign nor any word from Ney, and once the last of the stragglers had passed into the town the sentries kept an anxious watch for the first of the Cossacks that were sure to be close behind.

  The staff of the imperial headquarters had taken over the town’s corn exchange and were gathered in the main hall where a fire burned in a vast stone fireplace constructed from blocks of granite. The road to Warsaw had been cut once again and the latest reports from the cavalry patrols brought more bad news.

  ‘The Russians have sent columns round our flanks to cut us off from the far bank of the Berezina,’ Napoleon told his staff and senior commanders as they stood before him. He paused before delivering the next blow. ‘They have taken Minsk.’

  A groan went up around the hall. The supplies stockpiled at Minsk would be denied to the French army. Napoleon raised his hands and called for silence so that he could continue. ‘It is clear that they will make for the bridges and fords around Borisov. If they can hold them in strength before we arrive then there is no question about the outcome. The Grand Army must surrender or face annihilation. Therefore, I must ask for another great effort from the men. We must cross the Berezina as swiftly as possible.’

  He paused and his tone softened. ‘I know how you must feel. We have been running from our pursuers for over a month now. It seems that there is always one more river we must cross to escape. I don’t doubt that your men will despair when they hear the news. The ordeal is not over yet. A hard march lies ahead of us, but when we cross at Borisov it is only another week’s march to Vilna where there is food enough for the whole army, as well as coats, boots and drink. Tell that to your men. Tell them it is there for the taking, if they can make the effort.’ Napoleon paused and looked round the room. He was sad to see the resignation in so many of their faces. They were beyond calls to patriotism and appeals to the heart now. But they must still be open to reason, he decided. He drew a deep breath.‘Tell them whatever you like, as long as it inspires them to keep marching. When that fails, use force.’

  He gave them a moment to let his words settle in their weary minds. ‘We will have to do all that we can to increase the pace, gentlemen. To that end it is necessary that we leave behind all our heavy vehicles and any unnecessary baggage. We will keep the guns, limbers and ammunition carts only. Every wagon, carriage and cart is to be left behind. They will be burned, together with any supplies that we can no longer take with us.’

  ‘What about the wounded?’ asked Berthier.

  ‘The walking wounded can stay with the army. The rest will be left here, together with any who volunteer to remain behind to look after them.’

  There was a silence as the officers digested the order, then Roguet cleared his throat. ‘Sire, that is a death sentence. We know what the Cossacks do to their prisoners.’

  ‘Then we must hope that the Russian regulars enter the town first,’ Napoleon replied. ‘But, just in case, we must ensure that every man is left with the means to escape captivity. The choice is theirs. There is nothing else we can do for the seriously wounded.’

  Roguet shook his head, but kept his silence. Davout asked the next question.

  ‘What about the engineers’ pontoons, sire? Are they to be burned as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Davout frowned. ‘But, sire, if the enemy take Borisov then we will need the pontoons to make our escape across the river.’

  ‘They’re not necessary,’ Napoleon replied. ‘The temperature has not risen above freezing for the last five days. It is likely to get colder still, in which case the river will freeze. Hard enough for us to cross the Berezina wherever the ice is thickest.’

  ‘That is taking quite a risk, sire,’ Davout protested. ‘If the Borisov crossings are denied to us, and the ice cannot bear the weight, then . . .’ He shook his head.

  ‘That’s why we need to move as fast as we can.’ Napoleon clasped his hands together behind his back and concluded the briefing. ‘Pass the orders on to all officers. All the vehicles are to be gathered in the market place. Half the remaining draught horses are to be butchered and the meat distributed to the men. Only our soldiers, mind you. Any civilians are to look to their own devices. The army will march at dawn.’

  All through the night the wagons and other vehicles were dragged out of the town and pushed tightly together. Kindling was piled beneath the axles. The injured were carried into the buildings and made as comfortable as possible on beds, mattresses and piles of straw. Those who carried them tried to block out their comrades’ desperate pleas not to be left behind. The weakest horses were led to the cattle market and slaughtered, and the army’s butchers hurriedly stripped the carcasses of meat and placed the chunks in barrels to distribute to each surviving battalion of the army. An hour before dawn, as the men were roused from their billets in readiness to begin the next march, the engineers set light to the vast jumble of vehicles and the flames licked high into the sky as the first glimmer of the coming day lightened the eastern horizon.

  It was at that moment that the alarm was raised. An officer from the battalion tasked with the last watch of the night came running into the corn exchange and breathlessly announced that a column was approaching Orsha. Napoleon quickly countermanded the order to begin the march and told Roguet to have the Guard ready to repel an attack. Then, with Berthier, he followed the officer through the streets to the eastern side of the town and climbed the tower of a small church. The officer commanding the watch battalion was already in the tower, gazing towards the sunrise. He turned and saluted as his Emperor panted up the steps and joined him.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Napoleon, somewhat surprised to see a captain in charge of the battalion.

  ‘Captain Pierre Dubois, sire.’

  ‘And how old are you, Dubois?’

  ‘Twenty-one, sire.’

  ‘What happened to your colonel?’

  ‘We lost him, and most of the other officers, at Borodino, sire. I took over command from Captain Lebel in the second week of the retreat.’ Dubois paused and looked at Napoleon anxiously. ‘I meant the second week of the march, sire.’

  Napoleon smiled and patted his arm.‘Easy there, Dubois. It’s all right to speak the truth to your Emperor. Now then, where’s this column of yours?’

  Dubois led the way to the tower window. The shutters had been bolted back and a light breeze flapped the corners of Napoleon’s coat as he squinted into the half-light. The church was close to the river and as Napoleon glanced at the bridge, no more than fifty paces downstream to his right, he could see small ice floes gliding down towards the large stone buttresses. Dubois pointed to the road on the other side of the river. The handful of wooden houses on the far bank had been burned to deny the Russians any cover if they approached the town while the French were still occupying it. Beyond the charred ruins the road to Smolensk stretched out for a mile before it disappeared into a forested vale. A dark band slowly edged out of the vale, and raising his telescope to his eye Napoleon could just make out the figures of a column of infantry marching towards Orsha.

  ‘Russians?’ asked Berthier.

  ‘Can’t tell yet.’ Napoleon rested the telescope against the side of the window frame to steady it and then squinted. It was most likely that it was the vanguard of Kutusov’s army, hurrying forward to force Napoleon to turn and fight while the flanking Russian columns made for the Berezina. The tail of the column had emerged from the vale, and Napoleon waited a moment to see what would follow. But there was nothing. No more columns, guns or Cossacks. Just what appeared to be a strong battalion of infantry. The column marched steadily towards the bridge. Down below in the streets the first companies of the Imperial Guard were entering the buildings surrounding the end of the bridge and smashing open the windows and knocking rough loopholes in the walls with picks. Others dragged furniture out into the street to form a barricade across the bridge.

  ‘Very strange,’ Berthier muttered as he watched the column approach.‘They have to know t
hat we are here, with all that smoke from the fire. But surely they would not dare to attack us on their own?’

  ‘Assuming they are Russian,’ Napoleon replied. He glanced through the telescope again. The head of the approaching column was now no more than half a mile away. At that moment, a small gap in the clouds opened on the horizon and sunlight flooded across the landscape, picking out a gleaming form at the head of the column. An eagle.

  Napoleon felt a surge of relief and joy fill his heart as he lowered the telescope and beamed at Berthier. ‘It’s Ney!’

  ‘Ney?’ Berthier shook his head. ‘Impossible. The rearguard was cut off. There must have been thousands of Cossacks between Ney and the rest of the army.’

  Napoleon’s smile faded.‘That explains why there are so few of them. But come on, we must greet him.’

  They hurried down the stairs and out into the street. The stern expressions of the guardsmen preparing to defend the town turned to disbelief and joy when Captain Dubois shouted the news that Ney had survived. Napoleon and Berthier edged round the barricade and hurried across the bridge. They stopped on the far side as the head of the column came into view a short distance away. The men were marching in step, muskets resting on their shoulders: the very picture of military efficiency were it not for the rags holding their boots together. At their head marched Marshal Ney, a musket slung across his shoulder and a scarf wrapped over his feathered hat and tied under his chin. Several days’ growth of red beard covered his jaw and cheeks. Twenty paces from the Emperor he stepped to the side of his men and bellowed, ‘Rearguard! Halt!’

  The column stamped forward a pace and stopped.

  Ney stared at them a moment and then bellowed, ‘Rearguard! Long live Napoleon! Long live France!’

  They echoed his cheer with full throats, and as the echo of their cry died away Ney turned to Napoleon. ‘Permission to return to main column, sire?’