The Campaigns of Napoleon

by David G Chandler

  The situation on both flanks was soon far from Napoleon’s liking. He had not envisaged Soult being severely mauled so soon, nor had he anticipated that Friant’s division to the south would receive such early attention from Tolstoi’s cavalry. Two courses of action were open to him; he could either counterattack immediately against the Russian left to ease the pressure on Friant and try for a quick decision, or order the IVth Corps and Lasalle to pull back, thus trading space for time in the hope that Ney and the rest of Davout’s corps might thus be given time to arrive in force. For a short while a tactical pause hung over the battlefield—during which the rival batteries renewed their muffled thunder. Then the Emperor made up his mind. Considering that Bennigsen would order Tutchkov to renew his attack on the outnumbered Soult and make a drive for Eylau itself, and that there would consequently be no time to pull back the French left to a new line, Napoleon ordered Augereau’s corps, part of la masse de décision, to advance without delay against Tolstoi’s positions and create a diversion. He was to be accompanied on his right by St. Hilaire’s division, which was further instructed to link up with Davout’s deploying columns (by this time Morand’s division was coming into view behind Friant). As Davout’s command was not yet fully on the scene, this launching of Augereau and St. Hilaire against the Russian left was somewhat premature, but Napoleon hoped that the move would assist Soult and Friant and prepare the way for the whole army to pivot around Eylau before falling with crushing strength on Bennigsen’s left.

  Without a demur, the gallant though ailing Augereau, a scarf wound round his head beneath his cocked hat, accompanied by his staff which included Captain Marbot, set off to carry out his mission. The VIIth Corps (some 9,000 strong) swept forward into a raging blizzard of snow. Unfortunately, its commander was a very sick man; the previous day he had asked Napoleon for permission to hand over his command, but had been persuaded to remain one day more in his post. Perhaps partly as a result of this, the wrong formation was selected for the advance. Under the prevalent weather conditions of snow and blizzard, the two divisions should have gone forward in close column, as this formation would have assisted them to keep in contact. In the event, however, the leading brigade of each division advanced in deployed order, followed at some distance by the second brigades drawn up in square. Not altogether surprisingly, all sense of accurate direction was soon lost, and contact with St. Hilaire’s men on the right was forfeited also. As a result of this, Augereau’s men veered away from their designated objective, Tolstoi’s divisions, and made straight for the center of Sacken’s position, where the gaping muzzles of the Russian 70-gun battery waited to receive them. As the French unwittingly marched to their doom, they also came under fire from the blinded French artillery, and then, shortly after 10:00, the Russian guns opened up. Shot and shell tore remorselessly into Augereau’s troops at point-blank range, inflicting frightful casualties. Meanwhile, St. Hilaire’s division had come up to Tolstoi’s position, but was, of course, far too weak to effect a breakthrough on its own.

  By 10:30

  A.M., Napoleon’s fortunes were in a decidedly precarious position. On his left, Soult was now back on his original starting line, still hard pressed by Tutchkov. In the center, Augereau’s corps had virtually ceased to exist, while St. Hilaire had also been brought to a standstill. In the far distance two long infantry columns supported by many squadrons could be seen advancing from the Russian reserve in the direction of Augereau’s survivors, and a further swarm of Russian cavalry was also making for the isolated St. Hilaire. An ugly and dangerous gap was thus appearing in the center of Napoleon’s line, and all the French attacks had come to naught. Both initiative and the advantage still clearly lay with Bennigsen.

  As the minutes passed, the situation continued to deteriorate. Doctorov’s reserve infantry fell with the bayonet on Augereau’s shattered units and drove them back, with one exception, to the cemetery of Eylau, where Augereau did his best to re-form his survivors. According to Marbot, these totaled only some two or three thousand men. Alone in the midst of “no man’s land” stood one regiment, the 14th of the Line, formed up in square on top of a small mound, surrounded by hordes of the enemy. It was obvious to all that it would only be a matter of time before this brave unit ceased to exist if it continued to stand its ground, and Augereau sent aide after aide to order the major in command to retire immediately while there was still a chance. One after another, however, the messengers were killed. “Forward another officer!” shouted Augereau, and it was Marbot’s turn. He fared better than his predecessors and succeeded in reaching the isolated regiment. But already their position was past redemption. “I can see no way of saving the regiment,” said the battalion commander. “Return to the Emperor and give him the farewells of the 14th of the Line which has faithfully carried out his orders, and take him the Eagle he gave us which we can no longer defend; it would be too terrible to see it fall into enemy hands during our last moments.”37 This gallant officer then tried to break the gilded eagle from its staff for easier carrying, but before he could bear off his precious burden, Captain Marbot found himself surrounded by Russian infantry “gorged with spirits,” and soon fell gravely wounded to the ground. Shortly thereafter the 14th was overrun, and the worst fears of its acting-colonel were realized as the prized eagle was borne off in triumph by the Russians. However, a proportion of the regiment managed to escape—perhaps as many as half—and Marbot’s vivid story has certainly lost nothing in the telling.

  While this grisly drama was drawing to a close, another column of Russian infantry, between four and six thousand strong, penetrated into the very streets of Eylau itself, and at one point were dangerously near to the Emperor and his staff, who had been using the church bell tower as a vantage point. Indeed, Napoleon was saved from probable death or capture only by the devotion of his personal escort, who flung themselves at the Russians and unhesitatingly sacrificed their lives, thereby winning a brief respite and giving two battalions of the Imperial Guard time to come pounding up to the rescue from beyond the town.

  Alarums and excursions of this type were sufficient to prove the weakness of the French center and the peril in which it stood, and it behoved Napoleon to resort to an extreme expedient to retrieve the situation. Apart from his jealously conserved Guard, the only men still available were the 10,700 troopers of Murat’s cavalry reserve. These were now ordered (at about 11:30

  A.M.) to take position in the shattered French center and charge the looming Russian columns.

  Nothing could have been more to the taste of the dashing Grand Duke of Berg. In marvelous fettle 80 squadrons of splendidly accoutred horsemen swept forward over the intervening 2,500 yards. It was one of the greatest cavalry charges in history. Leading the attack rode Dahlmann at the head of six squadrons of chasseurs, followed by Murat and the cavalry reserve supported in due course by Bessières with the cavalry of the Guard. The troopers of Grouchy, d’Hautpol, Klein and Milhaud swept forward in turn. First, Murat’s men swept through the remnants of the Russian force retiring from Eylau before dividing into two wings, one plunging into the flank of the Russian cavalry force attacking St. Hilaire’s embattled division, the other sabering its way through the troops surrounding the square of dead men at the scene of the 14th Regiment’s last stand. Even then the impetus of this fantastic charge did not slacken. Driving forward, the two cavalry wings crashed through the serried ranks of Sacken’s center, pierced them, re-formed into a single column once more in the Russian rear, and then plunged back the way they had come through the disordered Russian units to cut down the gunners who had done so much harm to Augereau’s men. As the stunned Russians attempted to re-form their line, a relieved Napoleon ordered forward the cavalry of the Guard to cause more disorder and thus cover the safe retirement of Murat’s weary but elated squadrons. “Heads up, by God!” cried Colonel Lepic of the Mounted Grenadiers of the Guard to his men as they waited their turn, sometimes ducking the bursting shells. “Those are bulle
ts—not turds!”38 Behind the “big boots” charged six squadrons of Mamelukes and chasseurs. Their task was soon successfully accomplished, but at the cost of heavy casualties.

  For a loss of 1,500 men, Murat had won Napoleon a vital respite in the center which would also enable Davout to make the full weight of his corps felt. The horsemen of France had also relieved the pressure on Augereau, St. Hilaire and, indirectly, on Soult. Even more important, the gallantry and effectiveness of this attack put fresh heart into the tiring French infantry and disguised from Bennigsen the true weakness of the French center. It was now noon, and the Russian general had already lost his best opportunity of clinching a notable victory by seizing Eylau and then rolling up the French line. Napoleon had good cause to be grateful to his cavalry arm, which now, perhaps for the first time in the history of the Grande Armèe, came indisputably into its own as a finely tempered and practically irresistible battle weapon. In this emergence of l’arme blanche into glory, one factor of great importance had been the requisitioning of magnificent chargers from Prussia at the close of the previous campaign. The wiry Russian horses proved no match for these mounts.

  Although the French had now survived the worst crisis of the battle, the day was still far from over. Some say that Napoleon should have used his battalions of the Guard to exploit Murat’s success in the center, but this the Emperor refused to contemplate. He knew that the Prussian Lestocq might yet succeed in eluding Ney and arrive on the battlefield ahead of his pursuers, and to guard against this possible contingency Napoleon felt bound to retain his Guard in a fresh condition. However, this did not mean that the French line should remain in idleness. Davout was now fully in position, so at 1:00

  P.M. Napoleon launched him forward (with St. Hilaire on his left) in a broad encircling move around Tolstoi’s open flank. Elsewhere on the battleline, Murat and the remnants of Augereau’s command were ordered to occupy the center, while Soult’s weary divisions were instructed to hold their ground, but attempt no forward action. All afternoon the battle raged on the southern flank, and slowly but surely Davout forced the Russians back until Bennigsen’s line resembled a hairpin. About 3:30

  P.M., it appeared that the Russian line was about to break, but then, in the very nick of time, who should appear on the threatened flank but the Prussian corps commanded by Lestocq.

  Napoleon’s midday apprehensions thus proved only too justified. Lestocq had indeed succeeded in eluding Ney, who only received Napoleon’s order of recall (sent off at 8:00

  A.M.) at two in the afternoon. The marshal had no idea that a large-scale battle was already raging to the south of his position, because the deadening effect of the falling snow and the influence of an adverse wind prevented the roll and thunder of the cannon from reaching his ears. Lestocq, on the other hand, received earlier messages of recall from Bennigsen, and by dint of hard marching and skilfull rear guard actions, the Prussians came up through Schloditten from Althof slightly after one in the afternoon, and after a brief rest proceeded to pass behind Bennigsen’s wearying line to fall on Davout’s open flank near Kutschitten slightly after four o’clock. Lestocq had swollen his own 9,000 men by sweeping up many parties of Russian stragglers making their way from the field, while Generals Kamenskoi and Bagavout seized their chance and rallied further forces to launch a supporting attack on the Prussian right. New determination flooded into the breasts of the warriors of Holy Russia, and step by step, the IIIrd Corps was forced to relinquish the ground it had captured. Once again the fortunes of battle appeared to be swinging back in the Russian favor, and in the deepening dusk, Napoleon strained his eyes to the north ever more anxiously for some sign of Ney, the only man who could now retrieve the French fortunes.

  At last, at seven in the evening, the first troops of the VIth Corps made a belated, but no less welcome, appearance at Althof. Throughout the afternoon, Ney’s march to the battlefield had been seriously hampered by Lestocq’s rear guard, but now, at the eleventh hour, the greater part of his 14,500 men were appearing on the scene. Ney lost no time in sweeping forward to capture the village of Schloditten from Tutchkov at about 8:00

  P.M., but in the end the Russians managed to regain control of the place as Ney drew off to take post on the left of Soult’s corps. The arrival of this timely reinforcement put fresh heart into the French soldiers in their turn, and by ten o’clock the Russian counteroffensive had been brought to a standstill and a condition of stalemate reigned over the whole length of the battlefield. Fourteen hours of continuous fighting had failed to produce a result, although the cream of both the French and Russian armies lay dead or—if wounded—freezing to death on the bloodstained snow.

  The Battle of Eylau, February 8, 1807. A romantic reconstruction of Murat’s famous cavalry charge against the Russian center. Note the uniforms of the Russian grenadiers on the left. It is, however, dubious whether Murat (wielding riding crop) reached such personal close quarters with the enemy on many occasions.

  Fortunately for Napoleon, his adversary’s nerve broke first. At eleven that night Bennigsen held a council of war at Anklappen to decide on the best course of action. Several generals pleaded with him to hold his ground and reopen the struggle the next morning, but Bennigsen had already spent many hours in the saddle and his endurance was at an end. The arrival of Ney’s relatively fresh corps had proved the last straw. The Russian commander in chief therefore made up his mind to abandon the field, rejecting his subordinates’ advice, and from midnight onward the Russian columns began to draw away covered by a rear guard of Cossacks. It was only at three in the morning that this movement was noticed by Soult’s shivering outposts, but there was no question of mounting an immediate pursuit. The French army was in no condition to move another yard.

  So ended the grisly and inconclusive battle of Eylau. The losses and suffering had been horrific. Napoleon claimed that the Grande Arniée had lost 1,900 killed and 5,700 wounded, but this is a case of blatant propaganda, justifying the cynical phrase, “to lie like a bulletin.” Even the most optimistic French commentators put the French losses at 10,000 men, but this would still appear to be far too conservative a figure. The true extent of the havoc wrought by the cannonballs, sabers and bayonets of the Russian soldiers will never be known, but it may in fact have been as high as 25,000 casualties, or one man in three. The Russians had suffered rather less heavily, losing probably 15,000 troops, including a proportion of Prussians. Nevertheless, it had been the most gory struggle for many a year, and Napoleon was hard put to represent the outcome as a French victory in spite of the propaganda machinery at his disposal. However, it could be accurately claimed that the French were left in battered possession of the field, and Bennigsen’s winter offensive had been beaten back, though not decisively.

  Of course, Napoleon was not personally deluded about the scale of the drubbing he had just experienced. As he admitted to Soult the next day: “Marshal, the Russians have done us great harm,” to which the gallant old soldier replied, “And we them, our bullets were not made of cotton.”39 Napoleon’s soldiers were equally aware of their narrow escape. “Cette retraite des Russes nous fit grand plaisir,”40 recorded St. Chamans, one of Soult’s aides. According to Pasquier, another survivor of the fray, the outcome was not known until early the next morning. “The uncertainty about the outcome of the day was so great that both sides ordered a retreat during the hours of darkness. Marshal Davout, who spent the night with the most advanced troops, confided to someone who shortly after told me that he was on the very point of beginning his retrograde movement when an officer arrived from the picquets to tell him that loud noises were emanating from the enemy camp…. Putting his ear to the ground he [Davout] recognized the distinct sounds of cavalry and guns on the move, and as the noise was receding…. He no longer doubted that the enemy was in full retreat.”41 This news was at once relayed to the Emperor, who thereupon decided to hold his ground.

  The Battle of Eylau, February 8, 1807: the afternoon battle


  For reasons of state, however, Napoleon decided to misrepresent the outcome. “The Emperor was exceedingly anxious that everyone should view that event as he himself viewed it,” records Bourienne, who obediently circulated 2,000 copies of the “official” account of Eylau amongst the Hanse towns.42 Writing to Fouché from Osteröde on 28th February, the Emperor revealingly wrote: “Spread the following reports in an un-official manner. They are, however, true. Spread them first in the salons and then put them in the papers—that the Russian army is greatly weakened—that the Russian army demands peace.”43 The words “They are, however, true” are very significant. Was Napoleon reaching the time when he began to believe his own propaganda? This trait, which became most marked from 1812 onwards, was probably already beginning to warp his judgment. What is certain, however, is that the Emperor lost little time in attempting to make a scapegoat out of Bernadotte—the villain of Jena—for the “doubtful success of the day.” It is true that Bernadotte never appeared on the scene, but Napoleon’s claim that he received a direct order to do so from the hand of General Hautpol was a little too contentious for even Bourienne to accept at its face value, for Hautpol failed to survive the day, perhaps a little too conveniently. If Bernadotte can be severely censured for his conduct on the day of Jena-Auerstadt, he was almost certainly blameless on this occasion. But inevitably the new imputation was bitterly resented by the Duke of Ponte Corvo, and this, no doubt, contributed to his decision five years later—as Crown Prince of Sweden—to throw in his lot with Napoleon’s adversaries.