THE GENERALS

by Simon Scarrow

  Berthier stared at the map. ‘I hope so, sir.’

  The next morning dawned clear and bright and Napoleon rose early. He was in high spirits. Patrols had been sent towards the small enemy force covering the bridge across the Bormida river. On the far bank, the reports said, lay the bulk of the enemy’s army. Now that he knew where they were, it only remained to cross the river and fight the battle. If things went true to form, the Austrians would be preparing defensive works and waiting for the enemy to come to them, Napoleon mused, as he leaned over the map. He ate a leisurely breakfast, making notes for the coming battle.

  He looked up at the faint sound of a few cannons being fired, over towards the Bormida. The sounds did not increase in intensity and he put it down to a skirmish around the bridgehead between the enemy and General Victor’s men, and turned his attention back to the map. Around him the tents of Watrin’s division stretched out in ordered ranks. After the tiring marches of recent days the men were enjoying their rest and their relaxed chatter and singing drifted across the camp. At length, Napoleon was satisfied that he had worked out the details of his attack and was about to call for Berthier when a staff officer strode up towards his table and saluted.

  ‘Message from General Victor, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He asks you to come at once. The enemy is attacking.’

  ‘I know. I heard the guns earlier. I’m sure that General Victor can contain the enemy’s bridgehead.’

  The officer shook his head. ‘General Victor says the entire enemy army is crossing the river.’

  Napoleon stared at him for a moment and then laughed. ‘Oh, come now! The man must be exaggerating. The Austrians wouldn’t dare . . . surely.’ A cold feeling of anxiety pricked the base of his spine, and he stood up. ‘Oh, very well, I’ll have a look. Fetch Junot and have our horses readied.’

  As they rode up the road towards Marengo, Napoleon was still thinking over the plans of his attack, and was frustrated that he had not been able to commit them to paper. If this alarm proved to be over little more than a feint to cover the Austrian retreat on Genoa, then General Victor would deserve a firm dressing down for wasting Napoleon’s time instead of dealing with the matter on his own. He reached the far side of the village and rode up to the small rise that gave fine views towards the Bormida.There he suddenly reined in, his back stiffening as he surveyed the flat plain in front of him. A mile away, the men of Victor’s corps, some ten thousand men, were forming up to face the enemy. A short distance beyond them, and spreading out along the bank of the Bormida river, were dense columns of Austrian infantry marching directly towards the French lines. To the right large cavalry formations kicked up clouds of dust as they edged towards the French flanks. His experienced eye calculated that over thirty thousand of the enemy must be across the river already. Within moments they would attack, and the anxiety he had felt shortly before now became fully fledged fear for the fate of his divided army, surprised by the sudden advance of the Austrians.

  He turned to Junot. ‘A message to Desaix.Take it down.’

  While he waited for Junot to take out his notebook and pencil Napoleon cast a last look at the enemy wave closing on the thin ribbon of Victor’s men, and he felt rage at himself for underestimating his enemy so fatally. He turned back to Junot, saw that he was ready, and dictated. ‘I had thought to attack Melas. He has attacked me first. For God’s sake come back to the army if you still can. Or all is lost . . .’

  Chapter 54

  Marengo, 14 June 1800

  The Austrian attack rolled forward just as Lannes’s and Murat’s hastily roused divisions began to arrive on the battlefield. Napoelon glanced at his watch. Just gone eleven in the morning. The enemy would have enough time to break the French army and begin a pursuit long before the fall of night obliged them to break contact. He clenched his fist and struck his thigh.

  Why did I not see this?

  They were outnumbered at least two to one. Worse still, the Austrians completely outgunned them and their cavalry was better mounted and far more numerous. Already they were manoeuvring to Napoleon’s right towards the village of Castel Ceriolo. The flat dry landscape around Marengo would be ideal for large, sweeping movements of cavalry and Napoleon saw at once that his goal in the imminent battle was not to achieve a victory, but simply to avoid annihilation.

  A signal gun fired from the Austrian forces massed to the west and, an instant later, the batteries formed up in front of the infantry spat tongues of flame and were instantly swallowed up in a bank of smoke. A moment later the sound of the discharge rolled across the battlefield like thunder as roundshot carved bloody paths through the ranks of Victor’s men.

  Only a handful of French guns were positioned at the centre of Victor’s line and they spat back their defiance, trading shots with the batteries immediately opposite. All the time Victor’s guns were whittled down by the enemy until, no more than a quarter of an hour after the cannonade had begun, the last French eight-pounder was struck squarely on its carriage and a hail of splinters cut down half of the gun crew. The survivors turned and ran for the lines of infantry waiting behind them.

  The Austrian guns fell silent, then a moment later the sound of drums and trumpets reached Napoleon. Through the dense bank of gunpowder smoke emerged columns of enemy infantry, the sun glinting off their musket barrels and the officers’ gorgets and swords as they waved their men forward. There was a lull in the noise of battle as the enemy came on, and the French waited, grimly. Then, when it seemed that the two lines could not get much closer, Napoleon heard the order to present arms echo down the French line.Thousands of musket barrels swept up and out, aiming at the enemy no more than seventy paces away.

  ‘Fire!’Victor bellowed, his booming voice carrying across the battlefield. Stabs of light and swirls of smoke billowed out along the French line like a ribbon of soiled cotton. From his slightly elevated position Napoleon could see the leading ranks of the enemy column tumble down as the volley of musket balls tore into them. But they held their ground, re-formed and marched a short distance closer before deploying into a firing line. Victor’s men managed to get off two more volleys before the Austrians returned fire. Then the fight was swallowed up in an ever-thickening bank of acrid yellow smoke that hung across the battlefield.

  Napoleon waited until he was certain that the French line was holding along its front, and then rode forward to General Victor. The veteran greeted him with a salute and a wry shake of the head. ‘They caught us out nicely, sir.’

  Napoleon ignored the comment as he returned the salute. ‘You must hold here for as long as possible. Lannes and Murat are moving up to support you. I’ve sent for Desaix.’

  ‘Desaix? He won’t be able to reach us until long after this battle is over.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Napoleon conceded. ‘But he might. Meanwhile we have to hold the Austrians back as long as we can, until tonight at least.Then we’ll concentrate our forces and go on to the attack tomorrow.’

  ‘If there are any forces left to concentrate,’Victor said quietly. He glanced towards his men, now firing by companies in a continuous rattle of musket fire. ‘Besides, we’re going to run out of ammunition before long. Then we’ll be at their mercy.’

  ‘If that happens, we’ll fall back on the main camp and resupply the men from there.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Remember, Victor.’ Napoleon thrust his arm towards the ground.‘Hold here for as long as possible.That is our only chance of surviving this day.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Napoleon wheeled his horse round and rode along the rear of his line. Whenever the men noticed him, a cheer rose up, before the sergeants and officers bellowed at them to face front and keep firing. The first of the walking wounded were already staggering back from the foremost ranks, clutching their bloody injuries as they made for the rear. When he reached the end of the line it was clear to Napoleon that the main weight of the enemy attack was being thrown at
General Watrin’s division, on the right flank. The dead and wounded lay thick on the ground and as the survivors closed ranks, the gaps in between units were growing all the time. So that was the enemy’s plan, Napoleon nodded to himself. Melas intended to crush the French right, then send his cavalry in a sweeping arc to trap the French army against the Bormida and crush them.

  Watrin was having his arm bandaged as Napoleon rode up to the small cluster of divisional staff officers.

  ‘Not serious, I hope.’ Napoleon gestured towards the injury.

  ‘A flesh wound, sir. That’s all. Nothing compared to what’s happening to my men.’ He glanced at the smoke shrouding his line. Only the rear ranks were clearly visible. In front of them the men in the front lines were no more than dim grey shapes, firing, reloading and firing again. ‘They’re carving us up, sir. I doubt we’ll be able to hold this position for another ten minutes.’

  ‘You have to,’ Napoleon replied bluntly. ‘Reinforcements will be on the way.You have to hold the enemy back until they arrive. Whatever the cost. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then God be with you, General.’

  ‘And you, sir.’

  By the time Napoleon had returned to his command post on the raised ground behind Marengo, the Austrians had pulled back their battered assault columns and were preparing another attack. As the smoke dispersed and lifted from the battlefield the perilous situation of the French army was clear for all to see.The ground was littered with the dead and wounded of both sides, but whereas the battered units of Napoleon’s army were spread thinly across the ground the enemy were able to mass fresh battalions to continue the fight, and these were forming up, preparing for the next assault.

  Berthier approached him, clutching a scribbled note. ‘Victor’s men are down to their last few rounds, and we have only fifteen pieces of artillery left. Victor asks for permission to withdraw before the next attack begins.’

  ‘No. He must stay where he is.’

  ‘But, sir,Victor cannot hold them back.’

  ‘Then he must delay their advance for as long as possible.’

  ‘At least reinforce him then. We still have Monnier’s division in reserve.’>

  Napoleon turned and pointed towards Castel Ceriolo. ‘We need Monnier there. He must hold the flanks.Watrin’s division is all but finished. Give the order for Monnier to advance immediately.’

  ‘What about Watrin, sir? Should I pull him back?’

  Napoleon shook his head, even though he knew that Watrin’s division must collapse under the next attack, unless they were supported. But Monnier’s men were the only forces available to send into the battle and they had to hold the flank. Then Napoleon’s gaze fell on the men of the Consular Guard, two thousand strong and every man a tough veteran.

  ‘Berthier, send the Guard forward to support Watrin.’

  His chief of staff was shocked.‘The Guard? But, sir, if the army breaks and routs, who will protect you?’

  ‘If the army breaks then I will be beyond need of protection,’ Napoleon replied quietly as he gripped the hilt of his sword. ‘Send the Guard forward.’

  Berthier nodded solemnly and turned back to his campaign desk to hurriedly write the orders and hand them to the waiting dispatch riders. As the last of them rode off, he returned to Napoleon’s side.

  ‘That’s it then, sir. We’ve no more men to put into line against the enemy now. We’re in the hands of fate.’

  ‘Fate won’t decide this,’ Napoleon replied. ‘It’s a test of courage and endurance . . . And numbers.’

  Berthier smiled mirthlessly. ‘Fate has a way of favouring the bigger battalions.’

  Napoleon did not reply, but stared out over the battlefield at the Austrians surging forward to attack his thinly stretched army. Could they weather another assault, he wondered? If not, then only Desaix could save them from utter destruction.

  After a fresh cannonade the Austrian columns came on again.To the right, opposite the end of Watrin’s division, a large body of cavalry was forming up behind the columns of Austrian infantry. The Consular Guard formed into a square before it marched steadily forward to fill the gap between Watrin’s and Monnier’s divisions.As the enemy saw the guard moving towards them, they turned their attention away from the remnants of Watrin’s division and opened fire on the square. At such close range the veterans were shot down by the score under the withering volleys of the enemy. But each time they steadily closed ranks and continued forward, until at last the order was given to halt, and open fire.

  For the moment the Guard was holding its own and Napoleon turned his attention to the far right of the line. The sacrifice of the Guard had not only taken the pressure off the shaken survivors of Watrin’s division, but also given Monnier the chance to form his men up on the right flank, and now his fresh columns rolled forward towards Castel Ceriolo. As Napoleon had hoped, the Austrians began to break contact with Watrin and the remnants of the Consular Guard as they turned to face the new threat. The firing died away for the moment as the French soldiers fell back a few hundred paces and re-formed their line.

  A rider approached Berthier, and leaned forward to hand him a note. Berthier glanced at it before turning to Napoleon.‘Victor is pulling back, before he is destroyed.’

  For an instant Napoleon was on the verge of shouting an order that Victor should hold his line to the last man, but then cold calm reason asserted itself. Such an order would be madness. Inhuman madness. Instead he nodded. ‘He has done enough.Tell him to withdraw towards the main camp at San Giuliano. Pass the order down the line to all the other commanders.’

  Berthier hurried back to his desk. Now that defeat seemed unavoidable, Napoleon felt a tired calmness fill his body. His men had done all they could to stem the Austrian assault, and it was his duty to try to save as many of them as he could. With luck, Desaix might arrive in time to cover their retreat.The loss of this battle would give heart to France’s enemies, and destroy his reputation. The fault, he accepted, was his own. He had misjudged the character of his opponent - the classic mistake of an arrogant commander blinded by faith in his infallibility. Once news of this defeat reached Paris, his days as First Consul were numbered. Bernadotte and Moreau would circle like vultures ready to pluck the power from his bones.

  The French army retreated from the battlefield, marching back down the road towards the village of San Giuliano. The men trudged along in silence, the injured being helped by their comrades.As they passed him Napoleon noted the exhausted and anxious expressions on their grime-streaked faces and knew that their travail was not over. Glancing at his watch he saw that it was not yet three o’clock in the afternoon, still early enough for the enemy to mount a pursuit. Beyond Marengo he could see that the centre of the Austrian line was forming into a column whose intention was all too clear. Melas was sending his army after them, determined to complete his victory with one final crushing blow to his defeated enemy. He would do it too, Napoleon realised. A short while earlier he had seen a dense cloud of dust on the far side of the river as one of the Austrian cavalry columns moved out to swing round the retreating French and cut off their escape route. A similar force was massing this side of the river, ready to march towards Novi to act as the other pincer arm.

  ‘Sir!’ Berthier called out to him and pointed down the retreating column in the direction of the camp. A small party of horsemen was galloping towards them. At their head was a figure with gold braid on his uniform coat. ‘It’s Desaix!’

  Napoleon made himself smile as his friend rode up and reined in. Desaix had ridden hard and his horse’s flanks heaved like a blacksmith’s bellows.

  ‘Sir, it’s good to see you.’ Desaix gestured to the retreating column. ‘I assumed the worst.’

  ‘I fear the worst is still to come.’ Napoleon pointed out the dust from the enemy cavalry columns. ‘They aim to block our retreat while the main body of the enemy army pursues us down this road. Not a good situation for us, I
fear.’

  Desaix quickly took stock of the situation and then pulled out his watch before he turned back to Napoleon. ‘This battle is completely lost.’ Then he raised his head defiantly. ‘But there is still time to win another. My leading division is close behind me, sir. If we can form a new line, before San Giuliano, and put every gun we have to the head of the enemy column, then we can stop them dead in their tracks, and take them in the flanks.’

  Napoleon considered the idea for a moment and nodded. Desaix was right. If the army continued to retreat they would only be falling into the enemy’s trap. Their only chance was to turn on the pursuit column and attempt to break it.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Very well. One last throw of the dice.’

  The late afternoon sun slanted across the fields surrounding San Giuliano. The French line was strung out across the plain in a shallow S formation. On the right flank Monnier and the remnants of the Consular Guard were tasked with holding back the enemy column advancing from Castel Ceriolo. The rest of the army was drawn up facing the road to Marengo. In front of San Giuliano Marmont had massed the remaining eighteen guns, and concealed them behind the stone walls and hedges of the villagers’ smallholdings. Beyond them, Desaix and his men stood ready to attack the enemy column. The battered divisions of Victor and Lannes’ stood formed up parallel to the road, but far enough away to remain out of sight. As they waited for the Austrian column to march into view Napoleon rode down the line to offer encouragement to his troops. Every so often, he halted to deliver the same message.