The Battle

by Patrick Rambaud

  before it had broken, early the previous day. He would have liked to have left her a present: that little cross of chased silver, set with diamonds, which he had worn round his neck since Spain. It took his mind back to Saragossa, a few months before, when a Spanish chaplain guarding the shrine of Nuestra Senora del Pilar had offered him a fortune if he spared their lives. Almost five million francs worth: gold crowns, a topaz pectoral, a cross of the order of Calatrava in enamelled gold, portraits, the little cross . . . He undid his jacket and shirt, grasped the piece of jewellery with his right hand and snapped the chain with a sharp tug. Walking towards the sandy riverbank, he threw it with all his might into the Danube, which was still rising. Then he stood for a long time beside the roaring torrent.

  On the same bank of the Lobau, about a kilometre to the west, in the brushwood where the main pontoon bridge came out, Lejeune and his friend Perigord were waiting for the repairs to be finished. Pontoneers and sailors of the Guard had been working continuously, and several had drowned in spite of the precautions and their own experience. The truth was that materials were in short supply and, instead of constructing the bridge anew, they were simply patching it together. Berthie'r's two aides-de-camp observed with distress the river's unrelenting savagery, its eddies and waves rolling at the speed of a tidal bore, and the uprooted tree trunks smashing into the fragile edifice. Breakwaters should really have been erected upstream: barricades of piles and chains, like dykes, to break the current and hold back - or at least slow down - the trees and the terrible triangular craft that the Austrians were

  still launching against the bridge. These projectiles were even deadlier at night, despite the lanterns hung from poles, and the torches. By the time they saw a floating island covered in foliage or one of the trees transformed by the speed of the current into battering rams, it was almost always too late. They had trouble knocking them off course and they were constantly returning to sections which they had only just finished repairing. The work dragged on interminably.

  Suddenly, Lejeune made out strange, moving shapes which seemed to be struggling in the dark, choppy waters. He wondered what the Archduke's strategists had come up with this time, but then he recognized an entire herd of stags which had been driven from the forests by the flooding and were floating downstream, their heads and antlers above the water. Some of the animals became entangled in the ropes, others were washed up on the island and every soldier thought to himself as he saw them, 'Here's some meat coming our way, just in the nick of time . . .' A large stag had managed to right itself as it clambered out of the reeds and, soaked to the skin, shook itself a few paces away from Lejeune, as trusting as a farm animal. Soldiers from some regiment or other - they were only in shirt sleeves, but armed with bayonets which they held like knives - instantly ^ surrounded it. Perigord and Lejeune walked over to the cluster of men. The stag was watching them, a tear at the corner of its eye, as it realized that its death was imminent.

  'It's very strange,' commented Perigord. I've seen this a hundred times out hunting. A stag that has been run to ground wall draw itself up to its full height, strike a haughty pose and shed a tear to make the hunter take pity on it.'

  'You have a sense of how things should be done, Edmond,' said Lejeune, 'try to at least give this creature a dignified death.'

  'You're right, my dear friend. These beggars only know how to kill men.'

  Perigord pushed his way through the circle of soldiers, 'The animal is out of breath, gentlemen, but leave it to me. I can take this in hand so that the meat won't be spoiled.'

  With a single, well-aimed sword cut, Perigord opened the stag's throat. It trembled on its thin legs and then collapsed, its tongue hanging out and its eyes opened wide, with that tear still at one corner.

  The soldiers seized hold of their prey and cut it into quarters which they were going to grill. They were hungry. Lejeune turned on his heel and, after wiping his sword on the grass, his friend followed. An unkempt sergeant-major ran up to report, 'That's it! The bridge has been made fast.'

  'Molto beneF shouted Perigord, imitating the Emperor's voice.

  'Thank you,' said Lejeune, who was now able to send a messenger to Vienna with his letter to Anna.

  'Are you coming, Louis-Francois? Let's go and inform His Majesty.'

  They mounted their horses which their grooms were holding a little way off in a clearing reserved for the officers. The latter weren't singing any more, as on the day before. Lying on the ground in their greatcoats, they gazed at the starless sky and the last sliver of a crescent moon. Some of them stroked the grass distractedly, as if it was a

  cat's back or a woman's hair. Half asleep, they dreamt of civilian life.

  In his bivouac, with his hands behind his back, the Emperor was bent over the maps which Coulaincourt had weighed down with pebbles to prevent them blowing away. He was pondering the coming battle. Fortune, it seemed, was on his side. Against the same Austrians, worn out by a day's fighting, he was going to send new, alert troops. He would launch them all into an attack against the enemy's weakest and most depleted point, the centre, as he had announced to his headquarters staff over dinner. When Lejeune and Perigord arrived to report that the bridge was repaired at last, the news didn't even give him pleasure. It was as he had anticipated. From now on, events would unfold according to his plan, which he could modify depending on circumstances and with his customary speed. Napoleon felt strong. He gave orders for the troops on the left bank to cross the Danube and take up position on the approaches to the plain. Caulaincourt and Roustan, his Mameluke, helped him hoist himself into the saddle so that he could witness the march past of the fresh regiments. As they were doing so, a shot rang out and a bullet smashed into the bark of an elm, grazing the Emperor. There was a flurry of panic. An Austrian marksman, hidden at least two hundred metres away, had aimed at the Mameluke's white muslin turban.

  'Why are you fretting?' asked the Emperor. 'If you hear the whistle of a bullet, that's because it's missed you!'

  Surrounded by his escort, he took the road to the main

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  bridge. In the middle of this cluster of horsemen in uniforms sewn with gold thread — who, for dramatic effect, he asked to remove their plumed hats and salute the reinforcements - the Emperor watched the arrival of his soldiers. The three divisions of grenadiers led by Oudinot crossed first, then Count Saint-Hilaire's division, the three brigades of cuirassiers and carabineers under Nansouty and the remainder of the Imperial Guard, and finally the artillery. There were more than a hundred cannon and they could see the roadway sinking below water level under the weight of the caissons and powder kegs.

  At three o'clock in the morning, the Austrians started their bombardment again. At four o'clock, as day broke, resumed.

  Five

  THE SECOND DAY

  'What peace in death! Like Iphigenia I shall miss the light of day; but not what it reveals/

  Demi-jour, Jacques Chardonne.

  Fog covered the plain. A red sun rising above the horizon stained the countryside the colour of blood. Aspern was still burning. Black, acrid smoke fanned by an insistent wind curled into the air in thick whirls. A few crouching figures warmed themselves at the campfires. Colonel Sainte-Croix shook Massena by the shoulder. The marshal, who had snatched two hours of sleep on the ground between trees felled by cannon fire, stood up, threw on his grey cloak and started yawning and stretching. He looked at his aide-de-camp, inclining his head because the young man was barely taller than the Emperor, but slighter in build and fair-haired and smooth-cheeked like a young woman. From the look of him, one would never have guessed what energy he possessed.

  'Your Grace,' he said, 'we have just received a delivery of ammunition and powder.'

  'Have it distributed, Sainte-Croix.'

  'It's been done.'

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  'So we're going back in, are we?'

  'The 4th of the Line and the 24th Light Infantry are crossing the sm
all bridge and marching to join us.'

  'Let's not wait. We have to take advantage of this fog to recapture the church. Tell Molitor to muster the survivors from his division.'

  The drummers sounded the assembly and the battalions re-formed, joined by a number of well-schooled horses who cantered up even though they were riderless. Massena stopped a hussar's chestnut horse, whose rider was probably dying on the plain, mounted it unaided, adjusted the reins to his length and set it prancing in the direction of Aspern. All around soldiers got to their feet, chilled to the bone and dazed from too little, broken sleep, and groped their way over to the stacks of muskets to collect their weapons. Numbed by fatigue and the proximity of death, they seemed like ghosts, silent and noiseless. They fell in behind Massena as he headed for the start of the main street. It was impossible to see more than ten metres ahead. The church, which had been held overnight by one of Baron Hiller's brigades under the command of Major-General Vacquant, was lost in the smoke and mist. The only sound was the echo of hooves and the tramp of boots. Massena drew his sword from its scabbard and, with the point, silently indicated the course the remains of Molitor's division was to follow. In columns they passed the houses on the main street and regrouped behind the trees and ruins surrounding the central square.

  'Do you see what I see, Sainte-Croix?'

  'Yes, Your Grace.'

  'Those scum have demolished the wall round the cem-

  etery and the close! We can only attack them out in the open! What do you make of it :>

  'We have to wait for Legrand and Carra-Saint-Cyr's troops, at least to have the advantage of numbers.'

  'And by then the fog will have lifted! No! The fog is our protection. Let's attack!'

  A thousand half-awake voltigeurs broke into a run, heading for the church that been transformed into a stronghold. In the thick fog, with bayonets levelled, they tripped over corpses from the day before, and stumbled in holes dug by the enemy shells.

  The Austrians had anticipated the attack and they opened fire from every angle, even from the charred remnants of the bell tower. Again and again, soldiers crumpled face first onto the ground. Between the tombs of the cemetery and the rubble of its low wall, the voltigeurs glimpsed a major on horseback waving a standard fringed with gold. A tightly packed troop of Austrians dashed out to surround him, and with a shout, charged forward to run the French through. Everything is permitted in hand to hand combat. Some held their muskets like sledgehammers, others like scythes or larding needles as they tore one another's guts out, roaring at the top of their voices. Others stood back for a second to observe their opponents, then hurled themselves forward. Any soldiers that fell were instantly pinned to the ground, and everyone splashed and floundered in human entrails, oblivious to the sound of death rattles, killing so as not to be killed, colliding at full pelt, tearing at flesh with fingernails and teeth, blinded by earth thrown in their eyes and, in the fog that enveloped them all, never realizing the danger they were in until it was too late.

  Patric

  Massena consulted his aide-de-camp's watch, as Sainte-Croix fumed with impatience. 'Our men are losing ground, Your Grace!'

  He pointed to a tattered band who were falling back, carrying or dragging wounded men smeared with blood. 'Let me go forward, Your Grace!' Sainte-Croix urged.

  'Your Grace, Your Grace! Stop making my ears ache with your Your Gracel I'm the Duke of what, exactly, eh? An Italian hamlet, a symbol?' In a mocking tone, he added, 'I don't call you Your Excellency the Marquis the whole time, do I now, my little Sainte-Croix?'

  Sainte-Croix gripped the pommel of his sword so hard his knuckles went white. His father had indeed been a marquis and Louis XVI's ambassador in Constantinople, but although his family had intended him for a diplomatic career, Sainte-Croix had always felt drawn to military life. He had been employed very young by Talleyrand before enrolling, by special favour, in one of the regiments the Emperor had formed of emigres and former nobility. Massena had singled him out and taken him onto his staff.

  'You should keep an eye on those nerves of yours, Sainte-Croix, if you want to take command. You saw a hundred voltigeurs falling back, did you? Well, so did I.'

  'I could lead them back into battle, if you'd only give the order!'

  'So could I, Sainte-Croix.'

  Massena explained to the young colonel that the point was to wear down the Austrians, who were as exhausted by the previous day's righting as they were, while waiting for the fresh regiments to arrive. Sainte-Croix was twenty-seven, and more impetuous than experienced, but he learnt

  quickly. He had a real gift for soldiering. The stories of the Iliad had thrilled him as a child. For many years he had wanted to rival Hector, Priam and Achilles, imagining their javelin fights under the ochre ramparts of Troy when the gods became the accomplices of those ferocious, magnificent giants, fleet-footed despite the weight of their armour and greaves. On this morning he thought he saw Achilles in his wolfskin coat and helmet adorned with boar's tusks, that glorious brigand whose lies the goddess Athena admired. Then Sainte-Croix heard drums and he looked around. Red plumes were emerging from the fog. It was Carra-Saint-Cyr's fusiliers arriving.

  Lejeune had the unpleasant feeling that he was vanishing into a grey cloud. He no longer recognized the road from Lobau to Essling, ridden a hundred times the day before; hedges and trees loomed up in front of his horse at the last moment and he had lost all his bearings. He walked his mount forward, guiding himself by the noises closest to him. A rustling to his left, probably in the direction of the plain swamped by fog, put him on his guard. He drew his sword and reined in his horse. A blurred shape stirred within his reach. He called out in French and German, but, getting no answer, rie assumed it was a threat and rode hard at the vague shape, slashing all about him with his sabre. It was only a large bush, shaken by the wind. Covered in leaves and twigs which he'd hacked off, Lejeune felt relieved and ridiculous. Eventually he saw a gleam of light and cautiously headed towards it, without slackening his grip on his sword. The light disappeared as he rode

  closer. In the fog, which was starting to break up into wisps, he came across a party of cuirassiers trampling on their night's fire to smother it.

  'Soldiers,' Lejeune said, 'I have to go to Essling, by order of the Emperor! Show me the quickest way.'

  'You're too far forward on the plain,' a captain said, his cheeks grimed with stubble. Til give you an escort. My men could find their way round here blindfold.'

  Captain Saint-Didier grumbled as he buckled his belt. Despite orders, bivouac fires were still flickering a hundred metres away.

  'Brunei! Fayolle! You, and you two over there! Go and impress upon those imbeciles that every fire has to be put out!'

  'I'll go with them,' said Lejeune.

  'As you wish, Colonel. Then they'll take you to Essling . . . Fayolle! Put on your breastplate!'

  'Thinks he's invulnerable, Captain,' Cuirassier Brunei said, as he jumped on his horse.

  'That's enough of that nonsense!' growled Saint-Didier, adding in a quieter voice for Lejeune's benefit, 'I can't blame them, the general's death has shaken them badly • .

  Fayolle strapped on his breastplate and Lejeune watched him. This was the fellow he'd had words - and even come to blows - with when he'd had tried to loot Anna's house. The cuirassier hadn't recognized him. Fayolle picked up his carbine mechanically and heaved himself into the saddle. The six horsemen set off towards the camp fires. When they were fairly close and the silhouettes could be seen more clearly, they recognized, with a start, the brown uniforms of the Landwehr. A group was eating beans

  straight from the pot, while others were polishing their muskets with handfuls of leaves. The Austrians hadn't time to realize that they were surrounded by French troopers and, thinking they were outnumbered, they stood up and held out their hands to show that they were unarmed. Before Lejeune could give an order, Fayolle had spurred his horse and hurled himself into the Austrians. With his carbin
e he blew out one man's brains and then, bellowing with rage, he sliced off another's raised hand with a sweep of his sabre.

  'Stop that madman!' ordered Lejeune.

  'He's taking revenge for our general,' said Brunei, with an angelic, heavily ironic smile.

  Lejeune urged his horse alongside Fayolle's and as Fayolle was about to plunge his sabre into an Austrian curled up in a ball on the ground he caught his wrist from behind and twisted it. The two men came face to face, panting heavily, and Fayolle whispered, 'We're not at a ball now, my little colonel!'

  'Calm down or I'll kill you!'

  With his left hand, Lejeune pointed his horse pistol at the cuirassier's throat.

  'You want to break my jaw again?' 'I can't wait.'

  'Go on then, you're the one with the epaulettes!' 'Fool!'

  'Sooner or later: it makes no difference to me.' 'Fool!'

  Fayolle shouldered himself free and his horse shied away to the side. During this brief altercation, the cuirassiers had rounded up their defenceless prisoners. Three of them

  had managed to get away during the quarrel, but the others had meekly given themselves up, relieved that their righting had come to an end.

  'What shall we do with these birds, Colonel'' asked Brunei, who had dismounted to try the beans in the pot.

  'Take them to Staff Headquarters.'

  'What about you.' Aren't we taking you to the village : '

  'I don't need a whole troop. He knows the way.'

  Lejeune pointed to Fayolle who was catching his breath, slumped over the neck of his horse.