The Battle

by Patrick Rambaud

  Marshal Bessieres sighed to himself for similar, although secret, reasons. Cold, unusually polite, taciturn, without obvious feelings and beyond suspicion of having committed even the most minor amorous indiscretion, he had managed to shield his double life from the gossip-mongers. He also wore two lockets under his blue and gold coat. One showed his wife Marie-Jeanne, a pious, very gentle lady, who was well regarded at Court: the other his lover, a dancer at the Opera on whom he spent millions - Virginie Oreille, known as Letellier.

  Bessieres's ancien regime appearance, with his long powdered hair swept back from his temples in crow's wings, never gave any intimation of the less than soldierly thoughts that often preoccupied him. When he entered Essling for the first time at General Espagne's side, he immediately glanced up at the clocktower. What a Whitsun! The Holy Spirit wouldn't be coming down on their heads today, but other tongues of fire: the Archduke's shells and roundshot. On the square, the saddled horses were feeding from heaps of barley. Troopers helped one another fasten their breastplates or cleaned their weapons with curtains torn trom the windows of the village.

  'Espagne, go and inform your officers of His Majesty's wishes,' said Bessieres as he dismounted.

  Then he walked thoughtfully towards the church and entered. The choir had been turned into a camp and the remains of two prayer stools were burning in front of the bare altar, which had been stripped of its ornaments. Bessieres stood in front of the crucifix, which soldiers had attempted to prise loose, bent his head, searched inside his jacket and looked at the pictures of his beloveds, a locket

  in each palm. Marie-Jeanne would be attending mass in the chapel of their chateau at Gngnon, while Virginie, at this hour, would be asleep in the large apartment he'd bought for her near the Palais-Royal. And he, what was he doing in this halt-destroyed Austrian church : He was a Marshal of the Empire, torty-three years old. Circumstances had favoured him this far. So much ground covered in such a short time! As a very young member of Louis XVTs guard he had tried to protect the royal family during the August 10th riots. He had never approved ot the Revolution's crudeness, or its subjugation ot the clergy. A suspect himself at one moment, he had been forced to hide in the countryside at the Duke de la Rochefoucauld's before joining the Army of the Pyrenees and then that of Italy as part of Bonaparte's entourage, whose coup d'etat he had assisted, and for whom he had created a praetorian bodyguard which was to become the Imperial Guard ... In an hour, he would be on horseback. His soldiers loved him. His enemies as well. Those monks at Saragossa, for instance, whom he had protected from his own regiments. Had he been born to command' Bessieres couldn't make sense of anything any more.

  Outside, Espagne had already gone into action. He was giving orders, hurrying preparations forward, inspecting horses and weapons. He noticed that some cuirassiers were digging a grave under the elms at the end ot the main street and sent a captain to get this burial over with as quickly as possible. Captain Saint-Didier set oti on foot, without any great urgency.

  Three cuirassiers were finishing digging a hole with spades they'd stolen from a shed. Trooper Pacotte lay white and stiff in the grass.

  'Let's get a move on, lads,' said Captain Saint-Didier.

  'Got to be done, Captain,' was Fayolle's only answer as he drove his spade into the earth piling up round the ditch.

  'We're moving out of this cursed village!'

  'And we're burying our brother, Captain,' Fayolle again replied, 'so the foxes won't gnaw on his bones.'

  'We've got our principles,' added another cuirassier, a strapping blacksmith called Verzieux.

  'What about the fellow you disembowelled yesterday evening in that house: not burying him?'

  'Him!' said Fayolle. 'He's an Austrian.'

  'If the foxes make a meal of him, then at least they'll be his own foxes,' sniggered the third soldier, a small, brown-haired man.

  'That's enough, Brunei!' the captain upbraided him

  'Would you, by any chance, be a religious man, Captain?' asked Fayolle mockingly, stroking the black braces which he'd found in Pacotte's pocket: he wore them round his neck like a cravat, a souvenir or a trophy.

  'In three-quarters of an hour, I want to see all three of you back with your troop!' ordered Captain Saint-Didier, and he turned on his heels. He walked away, disgusted at having to command such brutes.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Brunei asked the others, 'Saint-Didier, that's an aristo's name, isn't it, or am I getting that wrong?'

  'Could be the one who'll save us from the worst of it,' said Fayolle. 'I saw him at work at Ratisbon. He knows his trade.'

  'That's right!' agreed Verzieux, starting to dig. 'I'm sick of those little upstarts fresh from school who are out there

  drilling us, before a fortnight's past, just because they can speak Latin!'

  Behind them, on the banks of the Danube, some gulls started screeching with what sounded like laughter. Favolle grimaced, and threw his brown coat over his shoulder. If even the birds think we're a bloody joke, this isn't getting off to a good start . . .'

  The cavalry regiments quartered in Vienna moved out en masse at the start of the morning and the ground shook as they rode past. Friedrich Staps flattened himself against a wall to give way to some dragoons, who'd spurred their horses to a gallop and would have trampled him without a second glance, then he plunged into the old streets surrounding St Stephen's Cathedral. He pushed open the glazed door of an ironmonger's which had just opened for business and already had a customer, a corpulent, sombrely dressed gentleman, with long, sparse grey hair which bunched up on his collar. The man was speaking French and the wide-eyed shopkeeper was trying to explain in Viennese — that German that sounded as if it was being sung - that he couldn't understand. The Frenchman took some chalk out of his pocket and drew something on the counter, undoubtedly badly because the tradesman remained perplexed. Staps stepped forward and offered his help. 'I have some knowledge of your language, mi, ind if I can be of any service . . .'

  'Ah! Young man, you have come to my rescue!'

  'What have you drawn?'

  'A saw.'

  'You wish to buy a saw?'

  'Yes, a fairly long and solid one with fine teeth that won't bend too easily.'

  Informed of this by Staps, the shopkeeper darted off amongst the boxes and returned with several models which the Frenchman picked up. Staps studied him with curiosity.

  'Sir, I cannot picture you at all as a carpenter or joiner.'

  'And you would be right! Forgive me, I'm in rather a hurry this morning, I haven't even introduced myself: Dr Percy, Chief Surgeon of the Grande Armee.'

  'Do you need a saw to treat your patients?'

  'Treat them! I'd much prefer to do that, but in a battle, one doesn't treat: one repairs, one hunts death down, one cuts off arms and legs before gangrene sets in. Gangrene, do you know that term?'

  'I don't think so, no.'

  'In this heat,' said Percy, shaking his large head, 'a wounded limb quickly starts to rot, young man, and it's best to amputate before the whole body breaks down from within.'

  Dr Percy chose a suitable saw which the tradesman wrapped up: he paid, peeling off a note from a bundle he'd taken out of his bag, pocketed his change, thanked the man and put on a black three-cornered hat with a cockade. Through the shop window, Staps watched him walking towards the Kartnerstrasse where he climbed into a barouche.

  'And for you, sir?' asked the shopkeeper.

  Staps turned and said, 'I need a large sharp-pointed knife.'

  'For carving meat?'

  'Exactly,' he replied, with a faint smile.

  When he left the ironmonger's, Friedrich Staps put the

  kitchen knife wrapped in grey paper in the inside pocket of his wrinkled frock coat and set off at a good rate through the tumultuous city: squadrons were still streaming towards Vienna's gates to take the road to Ebersdorf, the Danube, and the main pontoon bridge. Reaching the pink house in the Jordangasse, Staps found a te
am of bare-chested men, with policemen's caps on their heads, unloading one of the commissariat's covered wagons. Without asking any questions, he followed two of them who were sweating heavily as they carried a huge basket up to the first-floor kitchens. When he walked in, he saw chickens, decanters, round loaves of bread and vegetables piled up on the long dark table. The Krauss sisters and their governess were plucking, chopping, peeling and washing, while Henri Beyle was returning from the pump with two pails of water, despite looking very unwell. Staps took them from him, saying, 'You should rest, you are ill.'

  'That's very kind of you, Monsieur Staps.'

  Then, indicating the foodstuffs with a wave of his arm, Henri explained, 'My colleagues at the commissariat are, as you can see, looking out for my health.'

  'And that of the young ladies.'

  Henri looked at Staps, with his angelic air and ambiva lent smile: this excessively polite boy bothered him. Everything he said could have a double meaning. Should one mistrust him? Why? Henri forgot his suspicions as he heard Anna Krauss joking with her sisters, and realized that he couldn't understand who or what they were joking about. Staps quickly joined in the conversation, speaking German as well, which made him odious to Henri, who was forced to observe their laughter from his end of the table without being able to take part in it. He paled, gritted

  ^ Ram baud

  his teeth and as he tried to stand up, felt faint and started shivering. Suddenly anxious, Anna rushed to hold him up. When she gave him her arm and he felt her warmth against him, Henri blushed as red as a beetroot.

  'He's getting his colour back!' exclaimed Friedrich Staps in French.

  Henri would have liked to have bitten him, the little imbecile.

  With his jacket open and trousers rolled up over mud-caked clogs, Vincent Paradis no longer resembled a volti-guer, nor, quite yet, a scout: one's first guess would have been a civilian in fancy dress. Lejeune's aide-de-camp had had to shake the colonel to wake him up. He yawned and stretched in front of the yellow Danube, which was now unlike any river he had seen before - as broad as a sound and yet, with its whims and sudden violent furies, as unstable as a mountain torrent. The sun was beginning to beat down and Paradis picked up his shako, put it on and adjusted the gilt leather strap under his chin. Who on earth had come up with hats as tall as this? Protected by an officer of the headquarters staff, Paradis felt that he was out of harm's way on the island of Lobau and he was amused by the hustle and bustle he. could make out in the distance, on the other bank, towards the densely packed houses and farms of Ebersdorf. Then he heard music. At the head of the troops filing onto the jolting main bridge, the clarinets of the Imperial Guard had struck up a march of Cherubini's which had been composed for them. Behind came the eagles with outspread wings mounted on diamond-shaped tricoloured standards, then the immacu-

  late grenadiers. No one in the army could stand them, that crowd. They were entitled to every privilege and they showed it. The Emperor's pampering made them arrogant. They never entered the front line except when a battle had ended, to parade amongst the corpses of men and horses; they ate out of individual mess tins, and travelled in carts lined with straw, or cabs, so as not to spoil their uniforms. At their encampment at Schonbrunn , the commissariat had provided him with coppers for warming sweet wine. They wore kerseymere breeches, like the Emperor, tucked into white cloth gaiters, and their commander Dorsenne -an inordinate dandy who kept his black curls set with tongs and had the haughty manner of a salon habitue - regularly inspected the buttons and false pleats of their uniforms and ran a gloved finger over their bayonets to check that they were clean.

  The grenadiers of the Guard advanced in three ranks over the interminable bridge, its planks resting on boats oi unequal shapes and sizes which rocked in the current. As they marched forward with a slow, measured tread, they threw off their cocked hats, which the river whirled out oi sight, and each man untied a case from the knapsack oi the grenadier in front of him, opened it and put on one of their famous bearskins.

  'What a sight!' said Lejeune's aide-de-camp, who was standing behind Paradis.

  'Yes, Lieutenant/

  'That sends the blood racing through your veins!

  'Yes, Lieutenant,' Voltigeur Paradis repeated, not want ing to contradict his benefactors who were keeping him away from the front, but this affected ceremonial got on his nerves.

  No such consideration was ever shown to the foot soldiers: always up to their knees in mud, always hunched under the weight of their weapons, legs aching, backs broken; they slept on the ground, even when it rained, and fought amongst themselves for a warm place not too far from the bivouac fire.

  Lejeune walked towards them, with his hands behind his back, looking morose. It didn't bode well. He took Paradis by the shoulder with an exaggerated display of affection and steered him towards the bank of the island. Suddenly Lejeune jumped backwards: he'd just stepped on a snake slithering between the tufts of grass.

  'Don't be afraid,' said Paradis, smiling, 'it's a grass snake, they only eat frogs and newts.

  'You know a great deal.'

  'So do you, Colonel, just not the same as me.'

  'You have been very useful to me.'

  'I say what I know, that's all.'

  'Listen . . .'

  'You look worried.'

  'T '

  1 am.

  'Oh, that's what it is! I've understood what's up!' 'What have you understood'' 'You don't need me any more.' 'I do...'

  'Well then, what?'

  'The Austrians are going to attack, since the Emperor believes that they will. From now on you'll be of more use in your division.'

  'That's exactly what I understood, Colonel.'

  'I'm not the one who decides.'

  'I know. No one decides.'

  'Take your things . . .'

  The voltigeur returned to the officers' encampment, put on his kit, checked his weapons and his cartridges and without looking back set off towards the small bridge which crossed to the left bank. Lejeune would have liked to have shouted after him that there was nothing he could do, but it wasn't absolutely true, and so he held his tongue, feeling pained, as if he had betrayed a decent lad's trust. And yet they were all risking their skins: here, just as much as in the trenches of Aspern where Paradis was going to join up with Molitor's division.

  'Ah! They're moving! At last! Let's have done with this!'

  Simultaneously anxious and relieved, with that excitement which precedes an engagement before the blood starts to flow, Berthier handed his spyglass to Lejeune to be sure that his eyes weren't deceiving him. They were at the top of Essling's belfry, from where they could take in the entire plain. Lejeune could only confirm what Berthier had seen: the Austrian army was marching down into the plain, its line describing a semicircle.

  'Inform His Majesty at once!'

  Lejeune raced down the wooden spiral staircase, nearly knocking himself senseless against a beam and catching Ins feet in his spurs, across the church, out through the great open doors and into the square, where he found the Emperor sitting in an armchair, leaning his elbows on a table on which he had spread a detailed map ol the region: it showed every relief, almost down to the maze of bridle paths hidden in the wheat.

  ^ Ram baud

  'Sire!' exclaimed Lejeune. 'The Austrians are advancing!'

  'What hour is it?'

  'Midday.'

  'Where are they?'

  'On the hills.'

  'Bravo! They won't be here until one o'clock.'

  The Emperor stood up, rubbed his hands together and good-humouredly called for his minestrone, as a mobile kitchen had anticipated. Cooks' boys stoked the braziers to reheat the broth and threw in the already cooked macaroni, the Emperor constantly badgering them because it wasn't ready. Berthier came up in turn, to repeat the news.

  'Everything is in place.'' asked the Emperor.

  'Yes, sire.'

  Then he drank the soup in large spoonfuls, swearing be
cause it was boiling hot, spilling it on his chin, shouting for the Parmesan they'd forgotten and half-shutting his eyes the better to savour, not the taste, so much as his thoughts. Standing around his armchair, the officers watched him eating, so composed all of a sudden, and their master's sang-froid restored their confidence, even though their throats were knotted in anticipation of . Their orders had been clear: it was now up to them to carry them out to the letter, since everything seemed to have been planned, even their victory. The Emperor knew the Archduke's talents as a strategist, his gift for organization, his tentativeness as well, which he could turn to his advantage. Berthier was pouring out a glass of Chambertin - in response to a flick of Napoleon's hand — when Perigord rode into the square, exhausted, jumped off his steaming horse and announced, 'Sire, the main bridge has this minute broken loose.'