The Battle

by Patrick Rambaud

  A grenadier with shrapnel in his leg dragged himself out of the line of fire. When he fell to the ground, he had snatched up some of the coins the standard bearer, his former neighbour in the line, had hidden in the tolds or his stock. He surreptitiously opened his hand, took a close look at his treasure and muttered bitterly that it wasn't worth anything any more. On i January 1809, the Emperor had had removed from all coinage the motto which still figured on the coins he had picked up:

  UNITY. INDIVISIBILITY OF THE REPUBLIC. #

  Xight fell early on this battle without a victor. Xapoleon and the officers of his household left the tileworks in procession to return to the imperial tent which had been erected the previous day in a grassy clearing on the island. They walked their horses along a track jammed with empty caissons, dismounted cannon, riderless, panic-stricken horses and slow-moving columns of wounded led by the ambulance men. At the abutment of the small bridge, the Emperor turned pale. First he saw a major of cuirassiers weeping silently. Then he recognized Drs Yvan and Larrey bending over a patient who was being laid on a bed of oak branches and greatcoats. It was Lannes, with Marbot propping up his head. His face was livid, disfigured by pain and running with great beads of sweat. A red cloth was wound tightly round his left thigh. The Emperor asked to be

  helped to dismount and. in a few strides, he was at the marshal's side. He crouched down by his head. 'Lannes. mv friend, do you recognize me.''

  The marshal opened his eyes but staved silent.

  'His strength is very depleted, sire." murmured Larrev.

  "But he recognizes me. doesn't he : "

  "Yes. I recognize you.' whispered the marshal, "but in an hour you will have lost your best support . . .'

  'Stapidita'. We'll keep you going. Isn't that right, gentlemen : '

  "Yes. sire.' said Larrey obsequiously.

  'Since Your Majesty wishes it.' added Yvan.

  'You hear them : '

  'I hear them . . .'

  'In Vienna,' said Napoleon, 'a doctor has designed an artificial leg tor an Austrian general . . .' 'Mesler,' said Yvan.

  'That's it. Bessler. He'll make you a leg and next week we'll go hunting!'

  The Emperor took the marshal in his arms. The wounded man whispered in his ear so that no one else could hear. 'Stop this war as quickly as possible, that's what everyone wants. Don't listen to your entourage. They flatter you. they bow and scrape, but they .don't love you. They will betray you. They are already betraying you as it is by always hiding the truth trom you . . .'

  Dr Yvan intervened. 'Sire. His Excellency the Duke ot Montebello is exhausted. He must conserve his strength, he mustn't talk too much.'

  The Emperor straightened up. trowned and stood for a moment contemplating the prone figure ot Marshal Lannes.

  His waistcoat was stained with blood. He turned to Cau-laincourt. 'Let's cross to the island.'

  'The small bridge is barely passable, sire.'

  'Su, presto, sbrigatevil Quick' Hurry! Think of a solution!'

  The Emperor couldn't easily cross a small bridge being reinforced by carpenters, whose efforts were hampered by a constant tide of mutilated soldiers. These unfortunates shook with fever and rage as they jostled one another, clambered over bodies, tried to get out of the way, clung to ropes and moorings which sometimes snapped under their weight, and squabbled and cursed one another. Some could be seen diving into the waves or, without hesitating, spurring their horses into the turbulent river. Caulaincourt had one of the pontoons untied and checked to see that it was watertight and undamaged. He picked ten rowers from the strongest of the Seaman of the Guard, and in the twilight the Emperor stood in the middle of this craft as it drifted two hundred metres downstream in the current, and then beached on the Lobau.

  He walked through the brushwood and over the strips of sand covered with thousands of dying men. They stretched out their arms towards him as if he had healing powers, but the Emperor stared straight ahead, protected by the escort of officers surrounding him. He reached his tent, a large cotton-drill marquee with sky-blue and white stripes. Constant was waiting for him. He helped him take off his greatcoat and green coat. While he was still changing out of the kerseymere waistcoat stained with Lannes's blood, the Emperor grunted between clenched teeth, 'Write!'

  His secretary, sitting on a cushion in the antechamber, dipped his quill in the inkwell.

  'Marshal Lannes. His last words. He said to me, "I desire to live so long as I can be of service to you

  ' "Service to you",' repeated his secretary, scribbling away at his portable writing desk.

  '"And to our France as well." Add that.'

  'I am.'

  '"But I believe that within the hour you will have lost the one who has been your best friend

  Napoleon sniffed. He fell silent. His secretary's quill hung in the air.

  'Berthier!'

  'He is not on the island yet,' said an aide-de-camp standing at the entrance of the tent. 'And Massena? Is he dead?' 'I'm not sure, sire.'

  'No, it's not Massena's style. Have him come here immediately!'

  Six

  THE SECOND NIGHT

  It was a moonless night. Bathed in the pale reddish glow of the last of the fires, the copses and undergrowth on the left bank appeared misshapen and distorted from over the river. The wind had picked up, rustling the leaves in the elms, shaking the bushes and driving heavy black rainclouds across the sky. On the sandy bank of the Lobau, between flattened clumps of reeds, the Emperor was walking with Massena. The marshal had turned up the collar of his long grey coat and sunk his hands in his pockets. In profile, with his short hair fluttering like feathers about his temples, he looked like a vulture. Despite the roaring of the river, the two men could hear the dull murmur of the plain like an echo, the creaking of wheels, the shouts of soldiers and the noise of clogs and hooves striking the wooden roadway of the little bridge close by. Napoleon was speaking in a numb voice. 'Everyone lies to me.'

  'Don't put on that act, it's only the two of us.'

  They addressed each other with the familiar 'tu', as they had done during the Italian expeditions under the Directory.

  'No one dares tell me the truth,' lamented the Emperor. 'Nonsense!' replied Massena. 'There's a few of us who

  ^ Ram baud

  can speak frankly to you. Whether you listen, well, that's another matter!'

  'A few: Augereau, you . .

  'The Duke of Montebello.'

  'Jean, of course. I never could scare him. One night, before a battle, I don't remember which, he barged past the sentry into my tent, pulled me out of bed and shouted in my ear, "Are you trying to make a bloody fool of me.'" He used to question my orders.'

  'Stop talking about him in the past: he's not dead — not yet anyway — and you're already burying him.'

  'He's in a parlous state. Larrey admitted as much to me."

  'You don't die from losing a leg. I damn well had one ot my eyes put out thanks to you, but has that held me back : '

  The Emperor pretended not to hear this allusion to the shoot at which he had blinded Massena in one eye and blamed it on Berthier's clumsiness. He remained deep in thought, then, in a gruffer voice, he said, 'I'm certain the whole army knew of Lannes's misfortune before I did.'

  'The soldiers are fond of him and they're concerned about what happens to him.'

  'Your men as well? Were they demoralized when they heard : '

  'No, not demoralized, but thev were affected. They're brave men."

  'Ah! If only poor Lannes were being treated in Vienna this very minute, in the best possible conditions!'

  'Have him ferried across the river in a skiff.'

  'You're not serious : In this wind and with that current, he'd be tossed about like a cork - it would be too much for him.'

  The Emperor whipped a clump of reeds with his riding crop as he turned the situation over in his mind. A minute or two passed and then, in a firmer voice, he said, 'Andre, I need to pick your brai
ns.'

  'You want to know what I'd do in your placer'

  'Berthier advocates that we take cover on the right bank.'

  'Idiocy!'

  'The major-general thinks we should go so far as to withdraw to the rear of Vienna.'

  'The major-general has no business thinking. Especially not wrongheadedly. And then what? While we're at it, why not go back to Saint-Cloud! If we give up this island, we'll be acknowledging the Archduke's victory, but we haven't lost.'

  'We haven't won either.'

  'We've avoided taking a terrible beating.'

  'Fate is hounding me, Massena.'

  'Archduke Charles has not succeeded: we have kept him at bay, his troops are dog-tired, he has almost run out of ammunition . . .'

  'I know,' said Napoleon, casting a glance at the river. 'It was General Danube that defeated me.'

  'Defeated! Don't be crass! The Army of Italy is going to join up with us. Last week Prince Eugene took Trieste, now he'll march on Vienna with nine divisions, more than fifty thousand men! Lefebvre entered Innsbruck on the nineteenth: as soon as he has finished with the Tyrolese rebels, he'll bring us twenty-five thousand Bavarians . . .'

  'So, we should dig ourselves in on the island?'

  'We've got enough time tonight to have our troops brought over, if we hurry.'

  'Can you guarantee me an orderly retreat''

  'Yes.'

  'That's the spirit! Return to your post.'

  The silence woke Fayolle. Opening his eyes, he realized that the fighting must have stopped when night fell. The cuirassier remained flat on his back, too dazed to sit up and take off his heavy breastplate. Even if he had pulled himself upright, in the pitch dark he wouldn't have been able to see the thousands of bodies covering the plain, each marking the spot where they'd rot and be torn to pieces by crows. He felt his face with his hand, bent one of his legs and then the other: he wasn't wounded, everything seemed to be in order. The wheat still standing swayed in the cool wind and a smell of gunpowder, dung and blood hung in the air. Suddenly Fayolle heard gnawing: something had taken a fancy to his torn espadrilles. He shook his foot. Some sort of rodent with thick fur was attacking the rope sole. The animal ran off. He didn't know what it was called: coming from the slums of Paris, all he knew were rats. He took a deep breath, relishing the strange, self-absorbed feeling of peace that had come over him. Fayolle had always been alone. By turns a porter, a rag-and-bone man and a fortune teller on the Pont Neuf, he had lived a full life by the age of thirty-five, but not a good one. The Revolution hadn't made it any easier. He hadn't even been able to make something out of Barras's reign, though it was a time when every sort of swindle was encouraged. In those days immediately after the Terror, he had set up a stall in the Passage du Perron to sell on stolen goods: soap, sugar, pipe stems, English pencils. Afterwards he'd

  hung around the Palais Royal, where girls solicited in their hundreds in the arcades and wooden galleries built onto them as extensions. On the first floor of one restaurant, the ceiling of the oriental salon opened up and naked goddesses descended from heaven on a gilded chariot, whilst in the adjoining establishment, hetairae massaged their clients in baths of wine. People had told him this, because, with his foxskin cap and hangdog expression, he never stood a chance of being allowed in himself. Instead he made do with watching, hungrily, the girls who advertised themselves with erotic engravings or lifted up their skirts. Some, to appeal to the customer's sense of compassion, walked about with children they'd rented, while others called down to passers-by from above the Cafe des Aveugles, in black hats with gold tassels and satin ballet pumps. They were sublime but they didn't give credit. They gave themselves names out of poems: Betsy the mulatto, Sophie Beau Corps or Lolotte, Fanchon, Sophie Pouppe, the Sultana. Chonchon des Allures ran a gaming house. Venus was a heroine because she had rebuffed the advances of the Count of Artois.

  Fayolle had imagined that his cuirassier's blue uniform with red facings would stand him in good stead with the ladies, or at least give him some impunity in his thieving, but no: he had never got anything except by force or as the spoils of war. He thought back to the pretty nun he'd raped during the sack of Burgos, and the tigress in Castille who'd scratched his face and whom he'd left to the mercy of a brutal Polish lancer. Above all, he thought of the peasant girl in Essling, of her haunting eyes staring back at him from the other side. He shivered. Was it terror or cold? The wind was turning icy. He made an effort to pick up

  his brown coat. As he propped himself up on one elbow, he heard the creak of cartwheels.

  Screwing up his eyes, Fayolle strained to make out shapes in the dark. The glint of bivouac fires in the far distance, towards both the Bisamberg and the Danube, allowed him roughly to guess where the armies were encamped. Who was coming? Austrians? French? What were they doing? What was the cart for? They were coming in his direction, because the noise of the wheels was growing louder and merging with the muffled sound of men's voices and the clatter of metal, but none of this made him any the wiser. Unsure what to do, he lay back down, and concentrated on keeping still. The cart was lumbering towards him. It could only be a few metres away now. Through half-shut eyes, Fayolle glimpsed silhouettes bending over with lanterns. In the faint light he recognized an Austrian grenadier's busby, a branch of leaves sticking up from it like a plume. He held his breath and played dead. Feet trampled through the wheat and stopped beside him. A hand undid his iron breastplate. He felt a man's breath near his face.

  'Hey, there's a good crop over here . . .'

  Hearing these words spoken in French, Fayolle caught the thief by the wrist, making him scream, 'Aaagh! This one's woken up! Help me!'

  'Keep your voice down,' said one of his accomplices.

  Fayolle sat up, leaning on both hands. Two ambulance men stared at him wide-eyed.

  'Not dead, eh?' Fat Louis asked him.

  'He doesn't even look badly wounded,' added Paradis, who was wearing an Austrian busby.

  'What the hell are you up to?' growled Fayolle in an ugly voice.

  'Calm down, friend!'

  'Well, you see,' explained Paradis, 'we're collecting the cuirasses, that's our orders. Mustn't leave anything behind.'

  'Apart from the dead,' Fayolle said scornfully.

  'Oh, no one's said anything to us about the dead. Besides, there's too many of those.'

  Fayolle stood up, took off his cuirass and threw it into the cart.

  'You can keep it,' said Fat Louis, 'seeing as you're alive.'

  The cuirassier wrapped himself in his Spanish coat. His eyes were growing accustomed to the dark and he could see dozens of lanterns scouring the plain. Paradis, Fat Louis and other ambulance men were beating the ground with sticks; whenever they struck the iron of a breastplate, they bent down, unfastened it and stacked it on the cart.

  'Look, this one's an officer, at least. . .'

  At these words of Paradis's, Fayolle walked straight over to him.

  'Do you know him?' asked Paradis, lowering the lantern over a man's face.

  'It used to be Captain Saint-Didier.'

  'He can't have been that old . . .'

  'Take off his cuirass and keep your mouth shut.'

  'Right you are, let's pretend I haven't said a word.'

  When Paradis had finished, Fayolle snatched the lantern out of his hands and crouched down over the captain. He'd been shot through the neck. He looked as if he was asleep with his eyes open. His right hand still held a loaded pistol which he hadn't had time to use. Fayolle prised open the frozen fingers and tucked the weapon into his belt.

  In a clearing on the island ot Lobau. Marshal Lannes was lying on a dozen cavalrymen's coats. Captain Marbot hadn't lert his side tor a minute, watching over him like a wet-nurse, anticipating his needs and comforting him more bv his attentive presence than by anything he said. Lannes babbled and flew into rages, his mind wandering. He thought that he was still on field and gave incoherent orders. "Marbot . . / our Grace :
/>
  'Marbot. if Rosenberg's cavalry take Essling from the rear, trom the forest, Boudet is done tor. "There's no need to be alarmed."

  'There's every need! Send Pouzet to the fortified granary, no. not Pouzet. he has been wounded, better make it Saint-Hilaire. Has that fool Davout sent ammunition across by boat : Xo : What's he waiting for : '

  'You should rest. Your Grace.

  'This is not the time!'

  Lannes gripped his aide-de-camp by the arm. 'Marbot. where is my horse : "

  "He has lost a shoe.' lied the captain. 'We're taking care of it.'

  Marbot answered each feverish question in such a soothing voice that eventually the marshal grew exasperated.

  'Why are vou talking to me as if*I am a three-year-old : I'm wounded. I know that, but it's not as it it's the hrst time! I've already died once, at Saint-Jean d'Acre - don't you remember ; A bullet in the nape ot the neck, that's not just some trifle! And at Governolo. Aboukir, Pultusk . . . At Areola I was hit three times. I survived.'

  'You are immortal. Your Grace.'

  'If you put it like that . . .'

  Lannes shook his head from side to side and tried to moisten his parched lips with his tongue.

  'Give me something to drink, Marbot, I'm thirsty, and then let's launch the grenadiers against Liechtenstein: it's him or us. Do you understand what's at stake here : Oudinot will come up in support . . . Oh, but how black the sun is, my friend, how ill these clouds serve us, you can't see more than ten metres . . .'

  Soldiers brought him a water-bottle drawn from the Danube; there was no drinking water left in the canteen workers' tanks. Lannes drank a mouthful and spat it out. 'That's not water, that's mud! We're like sailors here, Marbot, surrounded by water we can't drink . .

  'I'll find you some clean water, Your Grace.'