THE GENERALS

by Simon Scarrow

Napoleon rolled off her and lay on his back. They had had this discussion several times before in recent months, and he knew the steps by heart. She would accuse him of sparing her no thought, of no longer being the partner of her soul. He would promise that he would give her all of his attention the moment he could afford the time. He genuinely meant it. He loved her more than ever, but thanks to his public duties there was very little time to share that love with her. But the argument would go round and round until she had obtained a promise to join her at the theatre, or the opera, or spend an evening at one of the salons of Paris.The latter were tiresome affairs where men and women either toadied to him or went out of their way to try to impress upon him their greater intelligence or better breeding. And all the time he would be thinking about the pressing difficulties facing France.

  It was becoming clear that the Austrians had no intention of signing a peace treaty and Napoleon had ordered Moreau to mass his forces on the Rhine. If there was no treaty by December Napoleon had resolved to renew the war.Then there was a fresh outbreak of rebellion in the Vendée, led by the royalist Georges Cadoudal. Fouché had given orders that Cadoudal and his followers were to be hanged on the spot if they were captured. Yet they were still at large and plotting to spread their rebellion, and there were even rumours of an attempt to be made on Napoleon’s life.

  He pressed his head back into his bolster and yawned.

  ‘I bore you then?’

  He swore under his breath and leaned over her. ‘You are the centre of my world, Josephine, but there are demands made of me from every direction of the compass. What can I do? France depends on me, and I cannot ignore her, even for you. Surely you can see that?’

  ‘I can see where your priorities lie well enough.’ She turned on her side, away from him, and Napoleon was left looking at the shallow arch of her spine for a moment before he kissed the nape of her neck.

  ‘As soon as I can, I will spend an evening with you.’

  ‘When?’

  He thought quickly. There was a new production of Haydn’s oratorio The Creation opening in December. He would take her to that, and make a lavish evening of it.There would be a dinner at the Luxembourg, and then the guests would proceed to the Opéra in a convoy of coaches. Napoleon made a mental note of the details and resolved to have Lucien make arrangements for the event first thing in the morning.

  Towards the end of November, Napleon’s patience with Austria finally gave out and he gave the order to General Moreau to march towards Vienna. He was eating dinner with Josephine one evening early in December when they were interrupted by Berthier. Napoleon noticed his chief of staff’s excited smile at once.

  ‘What is it, Berthier?’

  ‘A great victory, sir. The Austrian army blundered into Moreau’s forces at Hohenlinden and was cut to pieces. They lost over eighteen thousand men.’

  ‘What is Moreau doing now?’

  ‘He’s sent two of his generals, Ney and Grouchy, to pursue the Austrians.’

  Napoleon recalled the names from the personnel records in the Ministry of War. Both were aggressive commanders who were far more likely to keep the pressure on the enemy than Moreau. He nodded with satisfaction, before turning his gaze back to Berthier. ‘I want a full report on the battle as soon as possible. Make sure that Lucien gets a copy, and that he gets an announcement into the papers for tomorrow. If all goes well, the war will be over before Christmas. That will give the people more than enough cause to celebrate.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Will that be all?’

  ‘No.’ Napoleon’s eyes glittered as a new thought struck him. ‘Tell Moreau that if he can force an armistice on the Austrians, it is to be signed on Christmas Day.That will be a fine story for the newspapers. And the day before, we shall attend the Opéra.’ He grinned at Josephine. ‘That will give the people of Paris a Christmas to remember for years to come.’

  The carriages set off from the courtyard of the Luxembourg Palace shortly after six in the evening. The First Consul’s carriage led the procession. Those that followed carried friends, including Josephine’s son and daughter, Eugène and Hortense. A cold night had closed in over the capital and a mantle of freezing fog lay across the tiled roofs. Even so, the streets were crowded along the route to the opera house. Details of the procession had been published several days before and the people had turned out in their thousands to catch sight of the First Consul and his wife. Many had already been drinking and the streets echoed to the sound of singing and cheers. Torches had been lit along the route and cast a rosy glow in the fog that added to the gaiety of the scene. A squadron of dragoons rode ahead of the carriages, the breastplates of the riders gleaming, and the horses’ coats shining as they snorted plumes of breath into the night air.

  Napoleon was wearing the scarlet coat of the First Consul, heavily patterned with gold braid. He smiled as he waved to the crowds. He felt happier than he had in many years. Earlier in the day he had received news that the Austrians had asked for an armistice, and guaranteed to sign peace preliminaries as soon as possible. They could hardly do otherwise with Moreau’s army poised to take Vienna. At long last, peace in Europe was in his grasp. And then England would be on her own. Napoleon’s celebratory mood, and that of the people of Paris, were as one. He reached a hand across to Josephine and entwined his gloved fingers about hers. She turned to him, and even though she wore a thick fur coat he felt her hand tremble.

  ‘Cold?’

  ‘No.’ She smiled. ‘Excited. And proud. So very proud of you.’

  The carriage suddenly lurched as it turned into the Rue Saint-Nicaise, pressing them together, and they laughed in surprise, and Napoleon darted his head towards Josephine and kissed her lightly on the lips.

  ‘I love you,’ he said softly. ‘This night more than ever.’

  ‘And I love you.’ She kissed him back and squeezed his hand. ‘I just wish Eugène and Hortense could have shared the carriage with us.’

  ‘I’m sure they are happy enough where they are. Besides, if they were with us, I rather fear that everyone’s gaze would be drawn to them. They certainly have their mother’s fine looks.’

  Josephine shook her head, but smiled all the same at the compliment. Then her eyes lit up as she glanced at something over Napoleon’s shoulder. ‘Oh! Look there!’

  He turned and saw that two small children had climbed on top of a large barrel resting on a wagon, parked at the side of the street. Between them they held up a tricolour flag with his name embroidered on it. Napoleon waved at them and they shouted with delight and waved back frantically. Just before they passed out of sight he glimpsed a glittering spark below them in the wagon. Then the carriage jolted as it passed by and the children and the wagon were gone.

  Josephine chuckled. ‘It seems your public loves you.’Then she noticed the faint frown in his brow. ‘What? What is it?’

  Napoleon shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’

  He leaned out of the window and stared back towards the wagon at an angle. The children were still waving. He shrugged and settled back against the seat cushion. Josephine was still staring at him and he forced himself to laugh. ‘It’s nothing. Really.’

  Outside in the street the world dissolved into a brilliant flash of white, then orange, and an instant later there was a deafening roar, and the carriage was slammed forward as if a giant fist had struck the rear. Napoleon and Josephine were hurled against the seats opposite, amid a shower of broken glass. For a moment Napoleon could hear nothing, and his head felt as if it was stuffed with wool.The light from the torches outside had gone and thick black smoke smothered the street. He shook off the glass and groped towards Josephine, his heart beating in panic and dread. He felt her body, and as she stirred a wave of relief swept through him. His ears filled with a dull roaring sound that slowly resolved into specific noises: the shrill whinny of an injured horse; screams and moans and the shouts of people frantically calling out for their friends and family.

  ‘Napoleon?’ Jose
phine’s voice sounded slightly muffled as she pulled herself up on to a seat and held his face in her hands. He saw that her cheek was bleeding from a cut. She spoke again, and he heard her more clearly this time as his hearing recovered. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine . . . I think.’ Napoleon glanced over his body and flexed his limbs.There was no pain and no blood.Then he turned to the shattered window on his side of the carriage. ‘An explosion. A bomb.’

  At once he recalled the convoy of carriages behind them and pushed down the handle of the door. It swung open and Napoleon scrambled down into the street and stared back along the convoy. The cart and barrel on which the two children had stood to greet Napoleon had vanished.The street was filled with the bodies of people and horses and the shattered remains of carriages. Every window as far as Napoleon could see had been shattered and the buildings immediately around the point of the explosion had collapsed. An officer from the Consular Guard ran up and took his arm.

  ‘Sir! Get back in the carriage.We have to get you out of here!’

  ‘Leave me alone.’ Napoleon gestured towards the blackened figures stirring amid the carnage. ‘Help those people!’

  The officer stared at him briefly and then nodded, turning to his men. ‘Follow me!’

  ‘My God . . .’ Josephine mumbled.

  Napoleon looked round and saw that she had followed him down from the carriage. She stared past him, and then thrust her gloved hand to her mouth as her eyes widened in terror. ‘My children! My children . . . My Eugène. Hortense. Where are they?’

  She brushed past him and ran back towards what was left of the following coaches and Napoleon went after her, his heart heavy with dread. Only a miracle could have spared those caught in the full blast of the explosion.

  Chapter 63

  Napoleon followed Josephine as she went from the remains of one carriage to the next, picking her way over rubble, fragments of wood, shattered limbs, and the carcasses of horses. Some of the bystanders and men of the Consular Guard had found some torches from further up the street and moved over the scene in their search for the survivors.

  ‘Mother!’ a voice cried out and Josephine snapped towards it.

  ‘Eugène! Is that you?’

  A shape waved to them in the gloom. ‘Yes, over here.’

  Napoleon and Josephine clambered across a pile of rubble from one of the collapsed buildings and found that the carriages towards the rear of the convoy were still intact. The horses and driver of Eugène’s carriage had all been killed by flying masonry and splinters from the carriage ahead of them.The door hung on one bent hinge and Eugène beckoned to them desperately. ‘In here. Quickly.’

  When they reached the carriage Napoleon and Josephine looked inside and saw Eugène cradling his sister in his arms. There was a livid streak of blood down the silk material of her dress and she looked up with a dazed expression at her mother and stepfather.

  ‘Oh, God.’ Josephine’s voice caught in a choke before she continued, ‘She’s hurt. Out of my way!’ She hauled herself into the carriage and pushed Eugène to one side as her hands traced the flow of blood up to the torn flesh of the girl’s wrist. A jet of blood arced into the carriage and splashed on Josephine’s cheek.

  ‘Get some pressure on the wound!’ Napoleon snapped as he squeezed in beside his wife. ‘Eugène. Find a doctor. At once.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just do it!’

  Eugène stumbled away and Napoleon hurriedly unwound the fine scarf from round his neck and began to tie it round the injury, as tightly as he could. Hortense gasped at the pain and Josephine glanced furiously at her husband.

  ‘I have to stop the flow of blood,’ he explained gently. ‘It’s her only chance.’

  But even as he spoke the blood continued to well up through the material.

  ‘Mama, I’m cold.’ Hortense’s eyes fluttered. ‘So cold.’

  Her body began trembling violently and Josephine grasped her chin. ‘Oh, God, please, no. Not Hortense. Please God.’ She shook her daughter. ‘Hortense . . .’

  The girl moaned faintly in her throat and her whole body was shaking.

  Josephine glanced up. ‘She needs help.’

  ‘Eugène is finding someone.’

  ‘Mother . . .’ Hortense’s voice was little more than a murmur. ‘I’m cold. Hold me.’

  Josephine drew her daughter in close to her, nuzzling her soft hair as she stroked Hortense’s cheek. ‘My baby . . . My baby.’The first tears glistened in Josephine’s eyes, and rolled down her cheeks, smearing her make-up. Napoleon tied off the dressing and held the girl’s cold hand. Josephine was rocking her daughter gently in her arms, as if the girl was an infant. She continued to whisper endearments and comforting noises until Eugène returned.

  ‘I’ve cleared a path for your carriage, and sent word for a doctor to go to the palace at once.’

  ‘Good boy.’ Napoleon patted his stepson on the arm.‘Now we must get your mother and sister away from here.’ Napoleon eased Josephine away from her daughter, who had passed out. Slipping his hands under the girl’s shoulders, Napoleon turned to Eugène. ‘Here. Give me a hand.’

  The study was lit by the fire alone, and Napoleon sat in a chair staring into the flames as the wood hissed and crackled. He was still smeared with smoke and black smudges, and his formal coat was unbuttoned and hung open. He held a large glass of brandy in his hands. As he gazed into the wavering orange glare at the heart of the fire he saw the explosion, and its terrible aftermath, playing out in his mind, almost as if it was happening again.

  After he had helped carry Hortense back to his carriage and settled Josephine in beside her with her son, Napoleon ordered his driver to return to the Luxembourg Palace at once. Then he turned back to the scene of the attack and helped the men of the Consular Guard to pick through the wreckage looking for any more survivors. It was as bad as any battlefield Napoleon had ever seen; so many of the casualties were women and children. Those closest to the explosion had been blasted to pieces. Fouché had rushed to the site, anxiously searching for his master, and his expression was a picture of relief as he seized Napoleon by the arm.

  ‘Thank God! There are already rumours that you had been killed.’

  Napoleon glanced round the devastated street. ‘I was lucky.’

  ‘No.’ Fouché shook his head. ‘France was lucky. We have to move fast, to quash the rumours. The people have to know that you are unharmed, before anyone tries to take advantage of the situation. Come, sir.’ He gently pulled Napoleon towards the end of the street.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Napoleon muttered.

  ‘To the Opéra.’

  Napoleon stopped dead, and pulled himself free of Fouché’s grasp. ‘The Opéra? After what’s happened? Are you mad?’

  ‘We have to show your face in public, sir,’ Fouché insisted. ‘The Opéra is as good a place as any. And it’s nearby. Come on, sir. There’s no time to waste.’

  They collected some of the Consular Guards as they went and by the time they reached the steps leading up to the main entrance an anxious crowd had spilled out from their seats to try to find out more details of the explosion. The Guards cleared a path through the crowd and Napoleon mounted the steps and turned at the top. At once there was a sound, as if the whole crowd shared a sigh of relief, and then excited muttering broke out before a lone voice cried. ‘ Vive Napoleon!’

  The cry was quickly taken up and echoed off the tall façade of the Opéra. Napoleon raised his hand and waved to the crowd in response to their open affection and relief that he had been unharmed. The cheering continued, minute after minute, until Fouché touched his shoulder and spoke loudly into his ear. ‘I have commandeered a carriage for you, just round the corner. You’ll be taken back to the palace and your wife.’

  Napoleon nodded mutely, then lowered his arm and followed Fouché down the steps and along the front of the Opéra to the corner. The carriage was just past the turning and guarded by seve
ral of Fouché’s mounted policemen.

  ‘You can trust them,’ Fouché said, noticing Napoleon’s expression. ‘You’ll be safe with my men.’

  He helped Napoleon up into the cab.‘I’ll join you once I have given the orders to begin a hunt for the people behind the attack.’

  Napoleon nodded and shut the door. At once the carriage lurched into motion and rattled over the cobbled street as the mounted policemen cleared a path through the crowd, warily looking about them for any sign of further danger to the First Consul.

  At his private apartments, Napoleon went immediately to find his wife. She was in her private sitting room, with her son, her physician and some of her closest friends. Her face was streaked with tears as she watched the doctor tend to Hortense’s wound. Napoleon stared at them for a moment, before the doctor noticed him and called out softly, ‘She will be fine, sir. She’s lost a lot of blood, but she is a strong girl.’