The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

by Dennis Wheatley

  Gouvion St. Gyr, moody, taciturn, secretive, loathed by all his colleagues, but a man of high intelligence, took over the command. Swiftly he altered all the dispositions, heavily defeated Wittgenstein and took Polotsk. The Emperor sent him his Marshal’s baton.

  A change was now to take place in the Russian High Command. For weeks past, Barclay and Bagration had been engaged in a most acrimonious dispute. The latter, supported by most of the Russian nobility, was unshakeably convinced that they ought to stand and fight and, as far as he was able, without risking the loss of his entire army, he was doing so. But it was much the smaller of the two and, even with the aid of Wittgenstein, he could not repel the overwhelming hordes of French, Prussians, Rhinelanders and Italians. Barclay, on the other hand, although he dared not say so openly, was equally determined not to give battle. Bagration sent complaint after complaint to the Czar about Barclay doing no more than fight rearguard actions. At length Alexander appointed as Supreme Commander over both of them Mikhil Illarionavich Golenisch-Kutuzov.

  The Czar was very far from liking Kutuzov because before Austerlitz he had done his utmost, as the senior Russian General present, to dissuade him from risking a pitched battle with Napoleon. The headstrong young autocrat had flatly refused to accept this advice. In consequence, he suffered a crushing defeat and had been ignominiously chased from the field.

  But Kutuzov, having skilfully fooled the Turks into signing a peace, had returned from the Danube with a reputation second to none in the Russian Army. He and Bagration had been the principal lieutenants of the redoubtable Suvoroff—now almost a legendary figure as Catherine the Great’s most brilliant General—and, of the two, Kutuzov was accounted the greater. He was now sixty-seven, so corpulent that he had to be driven about battlefields in a one-man carriage, and he had had one of his eyes shot out by a Turk; but he was clever, courageous and so wily that he was known as ‘the old fox of the north’. His men adored him, and the great Russian nobles had such faith in him that they continued to exert so much pressure on the Czar that, autocrat though he was, he felt himself compelled to give Kutuzov the Supreme Command.

  For a week after entering Smolensk the Emperor’s refusal to make up his mind about the future, which had caused so much delay in Vilna and Vitebsk, again bedevilled operations. Under Murat and Davout the vanguard pushed forward toward Vyazma, but Napoleon held back the bulk of the army. Once more he felt convinced that he need go no further, as Balashov would be sent to ask for terms; but the Minister of Police did not come. In desperation, Napoleon sent a captured Russian General with a letter to Alexander, pointing out the folly of continuing the war, but received no reply. Again he told his staff that he thought it best to postpone crushing the Russians till next year. They would winter in Smolensk, then take Moscow in the spring.

  But Smolensk was a shambles and the greater part of it in ruins. They had found no large stores of food there, and supplies of all kinds had become scarcer than even far and wide the troops ravaged the countryside, but with little reward for their exertions. They no longer burned the hovels in the miserable villages, because they found them burned already. The Russians were now applying the scorched-earth policy, with the utmost rigour. They were leaving nothing behind which could be of any use to their enemies. Meanwhile, from lack of fodder, more horses were dying every day and more men from wounds they had received, lack of nourishment and dysentery. A constant stream of deserters, now become bandits, trickled back the way they had come. The supply trains and field hospitals still failed to arrive in sufficient numbers.

  At last Napoleon reluctantly decided that, if he wintered in Smolensk, he would risk his army falling to pieces, and that to take Moscow was the only way to compel the Czar to sue for peace. Having summoned up, Victor’s reserve corps of twenty-five thousand men from Poland to hold Smolensk and guard his lines of communications, on August 25th Napoleon and his Guards marched out of Smolensk by the road to Moscow. The die was cast.

  20

  Advance to Desolation

  The great host trudged forward; far out on the left the Prussians, far out on the right the Austrians, both in fair trim because they were advancing through unspoiled country. In the centre, Napoleon’s masses swarmed across the seemingly-endless plain, with its empty barns and burned-out villages.

  One great body of twenty thousand men, at least, never lacked for food—the Imperial Guard—for it was given first call on every supply column that did come up. With bands playing and the Tricolour beneath its Eagles fluttering bravely, it marched out of Smolensk. The Emperor, riding his grey horse, wearing his plain Guides uniform, the undecorated black tricorne hat set squarely on his big head, took the road between the Old Guard and the Young Guard. Behind him rode his staff: Berthier, Duroc, Caulaincourt, his chief secretary Baron Meneval, Rapp and a score of others, with Roger among them.

  Their blue and white uniforms were now dull from dust and stains of travel, but the plumes still waved from their hats, the well-polished scabbards of their swords, their stirrups and the bits of their horses shone in the sunshine. The gold of their belts, epaulettes and embroidery on their coats remained untarnished, the jewels in the Orders on their breasts glittered and scintillated. Whichever way they had been heading they would have been thankful to leave behind the terrible charnel-house that had once been the fine city of Smolensk.

  In the wake of the army there followed another army—the great motley horde of sulters, vivandières, cobblers, sweet-sellers, tobacco pedlars, whores and ragamuffins of all descriptions. Their losses had been nothing compared to those of the armed forces, because they were not dependant on the Commissariat. In times of plenty the soldiers often gave them a share of their rations, but they always took their own supplies in small carts that they drove or pulled themselves.

  One of the Army’s most famous paladins had recently been overtaken by disaster. The Emperor had sent Murat and Ney ahead from Smolensk to endeavour to pin down the enemy, and they had very nearly succeeded. A most bloody encounter had taken place east of Valutina. The plan had been that, while Ney engaged the enemy hotly, Junot with the Eighth Corps, which he had taken over from King Jerome, should outflank them from the north; but he had failed to appear. Murat had galloped off in search of him, and found him with his men halted. Angrily, Murat urged him to attack at once, but Junot said his poor Westphalians were too exhausted. With a part of Junot’s force, the tireless Murat then led an attack himself, but it was too weak and too late. The Russians fought him off and escaped from the trap.

  Junot’s failure to exert himself was, no doubt, due to the head wound he had received in Portugal affecting his brain; for, not long afterwards, he went mad. He had been with Napoleon at the siege of Toulon and served him faithfully for eighteen years. Why the Emperor should have passed over this old friend when first distributing Marshals’ batons, no-one could understand. All through the seven years that had since elapsed, Junot had been hoping to receive his. Now he had lost his last chance of becoming a Marshal.

  Behind Murat’s cavalry screen, many thousands strong, Ney and Davout led the van. The main body followed, reaching Vyazma on August 29th and Gjatsk on September 1st. Four days later they were confronted with a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot-high hill, rising out of the level plain near Shevardino. Kutuzov had made the hill into a big redoubt that had to be stormed before the French could advance further. After severe fighting and at considerable loss, they took it; but it checked them for a day, which was of great value to Kutuzov whose army was working desperately hard to complete a great system of earthworks a few miles further on, either side of the village of Borodino.

  Old Kutuzov was strongly in favour of the strategy advised by Bernadotte and adopted by Barclay, of letting his enemies advance further and further into the illimitable Russian steppe until they were exhausted; but he knew that he could not allow them to enter Moscow without fighting a battle. Had he done so he would overnight have become the most-hated man in Russia, and prom
ptly been deprived of his command.

  For making a stand, the Borodino position left much to be desired, but it was the best available. He disposed his army along it in a shallow, convex curve. The right followed the line of the little Kalotcha river, near the centre rose a steep ridge and to the left the ground sloped away to the valley of Utitza. Crowning the ridge was a great redoubt, in which were massed the Russian guns. Barclay commanded the right and centre, Bagration the left, where lesser earthworks had been thrown up. Having made his dispositions, Kutuzov retired to a farm two miles behind the line, and left his subordinates to fight the battle.

  The Grand Army arrayed itself opposite: Beauharnais’ Italians on the extreme left, Murat’s, Ney’s and Davout’s corps, supported by other formations, in the centre, the Guard on high ground at right centre, in reserve, and on the extreme right, Poniatowski’s Poles.

  For some days Napoleon had been far from well. He was suffering from his old complaint, dysuria, and could pass water only painfully, in driblets. In addition, the dust and damp bivouacs had given him a nasty dry cough, causing him loss of voice and making it difficult to dictate orders.

  His anxieties were many, not least how matters were going on in Spain, where he still had two hundred thousand men tied up. Every few days couriers from the Peninsula reached him with news, and it was rarely good. Now, on the eve of the most important battle of his career, Captain Favrier arrived, having ridden from central Spain in thirty-two days. The despatch he brought reported that Marshal Marmont, one of Napoleon’s oldest friends who, like Junot, had been with him at the siege of Toulon, had been seriously wounded, and that Soult had suffered a crushing defeat by Wellington at Salamanca.

  When the Grand Army had crossed the Niemen, the odds against the Russians had been three to one in its favour. But ten weeks of campaigning had enormously reduced those odds. The Russians had been reinforced by General Miloradovitch’s bringing up fifteen thousand men from the Danube, and Count Markov had reached the front with ten thousand militiamen. Napoleon, on the other hand, had received no reinforcements at all, and his losses in killed, wounded, by disease and starvation and in deserters had been at the least one hundred thousand men. Thus the odds now favoured him only by five to four.

  On the morning of the battle, September 7th, when the two armies faced each other, the Grand Army numbered approximately one hundred and twenty-five thousand, and the Russians one hundred and four thousand. The Russians had nearly six hundred and fifty guns and the Grand Army fewer than six hundred.

  The battle opened by de Beauharnais attacking the Russian right. Soon afterwards Ney and Davout launched their massed infantry against the centre, while Poniatowski endeavoured to outflank the Russian left. The great redoubt was taken, retaken and taken again. For over ten hours the lines swayed back and forth, while two hundred thousand men were locked in conflict and unceasing carnage raged. Murat led his hordes of cavalry in charge after charge, only to have his temporary triumphs wrested from him by charge after charge of Platov’s Cossacks.

  All day the Emperor lay on a bearskin, only occasionally getting up to observe that part of the battle he could see through his spy glass. He gave no orders of importance, only nominating junior Generals to replace senior Generals when A.D.C.s galloped up to report that their commanders had been killed or grievously wounded. About him, covering acres of the grassy slope, sat or lay his grand reserve—the twenty thousand men of the Imperial Guard.

  Late in the afternoon Ney believed that if he received reinforcements he was in a position to break right through the Russian centre. He sent an urgent appeal to the Emperor, begging him to launch the Guard. Roger was standing nearby. He had had one horse shot under him and had the bridle of his second horse over his arm. He had been slightly wounded by a small fragment of cannon ball in the left shoulder, a bullet had carried away his hat and grazed his scalp. His face was blackened by powder and his coat had been ripped down the side by the lance of a Cossack. More than half his fellow A.D.C.s had been killed or laid low, and of the few remaining he was the next for duty. He strained his ears to catch Napoleon’s reply, dreading that he would be despatched back once more through the fog of blinding smoke stabbed by the flashes of bursting cannon shells, over the heaps of wounded and between the overturned guns and limbers, to carry to Ney the longed-for message that the Guard was on its way.

  The Emperor hesitated, Bessières was beside him. Leaning forward, he said, ‘Sire, we are eighteen hundred miles from Paris.’ Feebly, Napoleon nodded. Ney’s plea remained unanswered. The Guard sat on where they were, dozing, smoking their long pipes or playing cards.

  As evening fell, the battle petered out, both armies having become utterly exhausted. The Russians still held most of their positions, what was left of the Grand Army withdrew. It had been the most bloody battle in history, and the carnage was almost incredible. The Russians had lost fifty-eight thousand men and the Grand Army over fifty thousand, including fifty-seven Generals. Over one hundred thousand troops lay dead or dying on the field, and the gallant General Prince Bagration was among the dead.

  Both Napoleon and Kutuzov had intended to renew the battle on the following day; but the latter considered his losses to be so serious that he would not risk it, and withdrew his army during the night. Thus, although in fact the armies had fought each other to a standstill, the Emperor was able to claim a victory. As usual, in his bulletin he greatly increased the Russian losses and minimised his own. Next day, when walking over the battlefield, he remarked that there were five Russian dead for every one of his. The cynical Rapp said, in an aside to Roger, ‘He is mistaking Germans and Poles for Russians.’

  The number of the dead was so enormous that no attempt was made to bury them, but the still-living were gradually collected and the overworked surgeons did what they could for them. In the next few days, by cannabilising units, the Grand Army reassumed the appearance of a well-organised, formidable force of approximately seventy-five thousand men. The advance was then continued and, on the 14th, the main body marched up the western slopes of the Mont du Salut. Spread out below was Russia’s old capital, ‘the Holy City’. It was a lovely day, the spires and domes of Moscow’s three hundred and seventy churches glinted in the sunshine and had the appearance of an array of fairy palaces. The Emperor was still far from well, but greatly relieved to have Moscow in his grasp at last, as he felt certain that Alexander would now sue for peace.

  Murat had been sent on ahead. Kutuzov had withdrawn his main force to Fili, but left General Miloradovitch behind with a strong rearguard. When Murat reached the gates of the city, a Russian officer came out to present what almost amounted to an ultimatum. Miloradovitch requested a temporary armistice while he evacuated Moscow, or he would fight to the last man defending it. Murat agreed his terms and then an extraordinary scene of fraternisation took place.

  The Cossacks had never seen such a resplendent leader of cavalry as the King of Naples. He was wearing a green, fur-trimmed jacket, pink riding breeches and bright yellow boots. His hat sprouted not only ostrich plumes but also a heron’s feather aigret rising from a diamond clasp the size of a pigeon’s egg. His belt and spurs were gold, and in his hand he carried a golden wand with which, instead of a sword, he directed his troops in battle. The hilt of his sabre was encrusted with jewels, and a dozen decorations blazed on his chest. While he gracefully cavorted on his splendid mount, the Cossacks cheered him to the echo, then danced the czardas for him.

  In due course, the Emperor arrived before the gates. In his time he had accepted the surrender of a score of great cities. The Governor had come out with a depressed-looking staff, surrendered his sword, offered the keys of the city on a velvet cushion and begged that mercy should be shown to the inhabitants. Naturally, Napoleon expected this ritual to be performed. Having fumed for a while at the rude Russians for keeping him waiting, he sent Murat in to find out why they delayed. Murat returned with the disconcerting news that the Governor, General Rostopchin
had, even more rudely, ridden off with Miloradovitch and that the greater part of the population had gone with them.

  Grumpily, Napoleon allowed himself to be installed in the Kremlin; but he was by no means depressed. He had remarked that a capital that is occupied by an enemy is like a woman who has been taken prisoner and is being dishonoured. Surely Alexander would not submit to Moscow continuing to suffer such an indignity? Balashov would undoubtedly soon be turning up and this time be ready to accept practically any terms as the price of peace. It was now only a matter of waiting a week or so, then the Czar would have become as much of a puppet monarch as the King of Prussia. French garrisons would occupy all his principal fortresses and the Grand Army would march home in triumph.

  On the evening that the French entered Moscow, a few fires started. No-one was surprised at that, as the troops had lost no time in starting to loot the city and many of them were already drunk; so such accidents were to be expected.

  After their many weeks of privation, Moscow was a bonanza. Not only were there big stores of flour and grain, but all the palaces and four-fifths of the houses had been abandoned by their owners. The cellars of many of them were well stocked with wine and brandy, there were frozen meat, fish and game in the ice pits, cakes, sweets and preserved fruit in the larders. There was hardly a soldier in Moscow that night not glutted with food, and drunk.

  Next day there were many more fires and, under the pretext of saving things from the flames, the troops got down to looting on a grand scale. They ransacked every building, carrying off fine clothes, weapons, jewelled icons, brocade curtains, furniture and even chandeliers. To show their contempt for religion, they stalled their horses in the churches, chopped up for firewood the beautifully-carved panels and stalls and used the altars as dinner tables. The sacred vessels of gold and silver were melted down and the relics of saints thrown out into the street.