• • •
It was in the early Italian campaigns that Napoleon’s military philosophy and habits first became visible. He believed above all in the maintenance of strong esprit de corps. Although this combination of spirit and pride is by its nature intangible, he knew an army that had it could achieve wonders. ‘Remember it takes ten campaigns to create esprit de corps,’ he was to tell Joseph in 1807, ‘which can be destroyed in an instant.’83 He had formulated a number of ways to raise and maintain morale, some taken from his reading of ancient history, others specific to his own leadership style and developed on campaign. One was to foster a soldier’s strong sense of identification with his regiment. In March 1797, Napoleon approved the right of one, the 57th, to stitch onto its colours the words ‘Le Terrible 57ème demi-brigade que rien n’arrête’ (The Terrible 57th demi-brigade which nothing can stop), in recognition of its courage at the battles of Rivoli and La Favorita. It joined other heroic regiments known by their soubriquets such as ‘Les Braves’ (18th Line), ‘Les Incomparables’ (9th Légère) and ‘Un Contre Dix’ (One Against Ten) (84th Line) and showed how well Napoleon understood the psychology of the ordinary soldier and the power of regimental pride. Plays, songs, operatic arias, proclamations, festivals, ceremonies, symbols, standards, medals: Napoleon instinctively understood what soldiers wanted, and he gave it to them. And at least until the battle of Aspern-Essling in 1809 he gave them what they wanted most of all: victory.
On campaign Napoleon demonstrated an approachability that endeared him to his men. They were permitted to put their cases forward for being awarded medals, promotions and even pensions, after which, once he had checked the veracity of their claims with their commanding officer, the matter was quickly settled. He personally read petitions from the ranks, and granted as many as he could. Baron Louis de Bausset-Roquefort, who served him on many campaigns, recalled that Napoleon ‘heard, interrogated, and decided at once; if it was a refusal, the reasons were explained in a manner which softened the disappointment’.84 Such accessibility to the commander-in-chief is impossible to conceive in the British army of the Duke of Wellington or in the Austrian army of Archduke Charles, but in republican France it was an invaluable means of keeping in touch with the needs and concerns of his men. Soldiers who shouted good-naturedly from the ranks would often be rewarded with a quip: when, during the Italian campaign, one called out a request for a new uniform, pointing to his ragged coat, Napoleon replied: ‘Oh no, that would never do. It will hinder your wounds from being seen.’85 As Napoleon told Brune in March 1800: ‘You know what words can do to soldiers.’86 He would later on occasion take off his own cross of the Légion d’Honneur to give to a soldier whose bravery he’d witnessed. (When Roustam, his Mamluk bodyguard, attempted to sew Napoleon’s cross onto his uniform, Napoleon stopped him – ‘Leave it; I do it on purpose.’87)
Napoleon genuinely enjoyed spending time with his soldiers; he squeezed their earlobes, joked with them and singled out old grognards (literally ‘grumblers’, but also translatable as ‘veterans’), reminiscing about past battles and peppering them with questions. When campaign marches halted for lunch, Napoleon and Berthier would invite the aides-de-camp and orderlies to eat with them, which Bausset recalled as ‘truly a fête for every one of us’. He also ensured that wine from his dinner table was always given to his sentries. Small things, perhaps, but they were appreciated and helped breed devotion. His constant references to the ancient world had the intended effect of giving ordinary soldiers a sense that their lives – and, should it come to that, their deaths in battle – mattered, that they were an integral part of a larger whole that would resonate through French history. There are few things in the art of leadership harder to achieve than this, and no more powerful impetus to action. Napoleon taught ordinary people that they could make history, and convinced his followers they were taking part in an adventure, a pageant, an experiment, an epic whose splendour would draw the attention of posterity for centuries to come.
During military reviews, which could last up to five hours, Napoleon cross-examined his soldiers about their food, uniforms, shoes, general health, amusements and regularity of pay, and he expected to be told the truth. ‘Conceal from me none of your wants,’ he told the 17th Demi-Brigade, ‘suppress no complaints you have to make of your superiors. I am here to do justice to all, and the weaker party is especially entitled to my protection.’88 The notion that le petit caporal was on their side against les gros bonnets (‘big-hats’) was generally held throughout the army.
Proper care of the wounded was a particular concern, in part because he needed them to return to the ranks as quickly as possible, but also because he knew how important prompt medical treatment was for morale. ‘If he happened to meet with convoys of wounded,’ recalled an aide-de-camp, ‘he stopped them, informed himself of their condition, of their sufferings, of the actions in which they had been wounded, and never quitted them without consoling them by his words or making them partakers in his bounty.’89 By contrast he regularly upbraided doctors, most of whom he regarded as quacks.
Napoleon learned many essential leadership lessons from Julius Caesar, especially his practice of admonishing troops he considered to have fallen below expectations, as at Rivoli in November 1796. In his book Caesar’s Wars, which he wrote in exile on St Helena, he recounts the story of a mutiny in Rome: Caesar had laconically agreed to his soldiers’ demands to be demobilized, but then he addressed them with ill-concealed contempt as ‘citizens’ rather than ‘soldiers’ or ‘comrades’. The impact was swift and telling. ‘Finally,’ he concludes, ‘the result of this moving scene was to win the continuation of their services.’90 Far more often, of course, he lavished praise: ‘Your three battalions could be as six in my eyes,’ he called to the 44th Line in the Eylau campaign. ‘And we shall prove it!’ they shouted back.91
Napoleon’s addresses to his troops were posted up in camp on billboards and widely read. He enjoyed firing off series of statistics, telling the troops how many victories they had won in what length of time and how many fortresses, generals, cannon, flags and prisoners they had captured. Some of these proclamations might sound vainglorious, but they were written for the often uneducated soldiers. Napoleon flattered his troops with references to the ancient world – though only a tiny minority would have been conversant with the Classics – and when with a special flourish he compared them to eagles, or told them how much their families and neighbours would honour them, he captivated the minds of his men, often for life.
Napoleon’s rhetorical inspiration came mostly from the ancient world, but Shakespeare’s St Crispin Day’s speech from Henry V can also be detected in such lines as ‘Your countrymen will say as they point you out, “He belonged to the Army of Italy.”’92 The avalanche of praise he generally lavished on his troops was in sharp contrast to the acerbic tone he adopted towards generals, ambassadors, councillors, ministers and indeed his own family in private correspondence. ‘Severe to the officers,’ was his stated mantra, ‘kindly to the men.’93
Efficient staff-work helped Napoleon to ‘recognize’ old soldiers from the ranks, but he also had a phenomenal memory. ‘I introduced three deputies of the Valais to him,’ recalled an interior minister, ‘he asked one of them about his two little girls. This deputy told me that he had only seen Napoleon once before, at the foot of the Alps, as he was on his way to Marengo. “Problems with the artillery forced him to stop for a moment in front of my house,” added the deputy, “he petted my two children, mounted his horse, and since then I had not seen him again.”’94 The encounter had taken place ten years earlier.
6
Peace
‘Winning is not enough if one doesn’t take advantage of success.’
Napoleon to Joseph, November 1808
‘In my opinion the French do not care for liberty and equality, they have but one sentiment, that of honour . . . The soldier demands glory, distinction, rewa
rds.’
Napoleon to the Conseil d’État, April 1802
‘Everything leads me to believe that the time for peace is now upon us and we must make it when we have the chance to dictate the conditions, provided they are reasonable,’ Napoleon wrote to Paris on April 8, 1797.1 The negotiations with what he called ‘this insolent and arrogant court’ began on April 15, with the Austrian plenipotentiary the Marquis de Gallo pedantically demanding that the pavilion where they were to take place be officially declared neutral ground. Napoleon happily conceded the point, explaining to the Directory that ‘this neutral ground is surrounded on all sides by the French army, and is in the middle of our tents’.2 When Gallo offered to recognize the existence of the French Republic, Napoleon told him that it ‘did not require or desire recognition. It is already as the sun on the horizon in Europe: too bad for those who do not wish to see it and derive the benefit of it.’ Gallo persevered, clearly thinking he was making a concession when he said that Austria would recognize it ‘on condition that the Republic preserved the same etiquette as did the King of France’. This allowed Napoleon to make the irreproachably republican remark that since the French ‘were completely indifferent to everything concerning etiquette, it wouldn’t matter to us to adopt the article’.3
Napoleon believed his hand would be considerably strengthened if only Generals Moreau and Hoche would cross the Rhine. ‘Ever since history has commenced to chronicle military operations,’ he told the Directory on April 16, ‘a river has never been considered a serious obstacle. If Moreau wishes to cross the Rhine, he will cross it . . . The armies of the Rhine can have no blood in their veins.’4 If French troops were on Austrian soil, he said forcefully, ‘we should now be in a position to dictate peace in an imperious manner’. In fact Hoche did cross on April 18, the very day the preliminaries were signed, followed by Moreau two days later. They then discovered to their great chagrin that they would have to halt their armies while their rival negotiated the peace.
Napoleon adopted an equally imperious manner in dealing with a threat that seemed to be arising from the ancient city-state of Venice, which was keen to guard its independence but hadn’t the armies to ensure it. On April 9 he wrote to Doge Ludovico Manin demanding that Venice choose between war and peace. ‘Do you suppose,’ he said, ‘that because I’m in the heart of Germany I’m powerless to cause the first nation in the universe to be respected?’5 Although the French did have some legitimate complaints against Venice – which leaned towards Austria, was arming rapidly and had opened fire on a French frigate in the Adriatic – Napoleon was undoubtedly bullying the state when a few days later he sent Junot to demand a reply within twenty-four hours to his letter. Matters got far worse on April 17 when Verona, part of the Venetian Republic that clearly hadn’t learned the lessons of Pavia, Binasco and Modena, staged an uprising in which between three and four hundred Frenchmen, many of them wounded soldiers in hospital in the city, were massacred.
‘I will take general measures for all the Venetian mainland,’ Napoleon promised the Directory, ‘and I will issue such extreme punishments that they won’t forget.’6 Bourrienne later recorded that, on hearing of the insurrection, Napoleon said, ‘Be tranquil, those rascals will pay for it; their republic has had its day.’7 At 2 a.m. on Wednesday, April 19, 1797 – although it carried the official date of the previous day – Napoleon signed the Preliminaries of Leoben. That it was he rather than a plenipotentiary from Paris who negotiated and signed the document was a significant indication of how the balance of power with the Directory had tipped in his favour. This was not the final comprehensive peace treaty between France and Austria, which wasn’t to be signed until October at Campo Formio, but Napoleon would negotiate that too. Under the terms of Leoben, Austria ceded the duchies of Milan and Modena as well as the Austrian Netherlands to France. Austria agreed to recognize ‘the constitutional limits’ of France – which the French considered to extend to the Rhine – while France recognized the integrity of the rest of Francis’s empire. Secret clauses forced Austria to renounce all her Italian possessions west of the Oglio river to the Cispadane Republic, but in compensation she would receive all the mainland territories of Venice east of the Oglio, as well as Dalmatia and Istria, while Venetian lands west of the Oglio would also go to France. Napoleon was simply assuming that he would be in a position to dispose of Venetian territory before the treaty was ratified.
Outwardly it looked as though Austria had done well, since the left bank of the Rhine was to be agreed at a future date and the territorial integrity of Austria itself was respected. Defending his negotiations, Napoleon told the Directory that Bologna, Ferrara and Romagna ‘will always remain in our power’, because they were ruled over by France’s sister-republic based in Milan. Less persuasive was his argument that ‘By ceding Venice to Austria the Emperor will be . . . obliged to be friendly towards us.’ In the same letter he told the Directory bluntly that they had got everything wrong from the very start of the Italian campaign: ‘If I had persisted in marching on Turin, I should never have crossed the Po; if I had persisted in marching on Rome, I should have lost Milan; if I had persisted in marching on Vienna, I should perhaps have lost the Republic. The real plan for destroying the Emperor was the one I adopted.’ Napoleon’s next remarks must have sounded implausibly disingenuous: ‘As for myself . . . I have always considered myself as nothing in the operations I have directed, and I pushed on to Vienna after having acquired more glory than is necessary to be happy.’8 Asking for permission to return home, he promised: ‘My civil career shall resemble my military career by its simplicity.’ He was surely imagining himself as the ancient hero Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, who returned to his farm and plough after saving the Roman Republic, and since these were semi-public reports, the non-secret paragraphs of which were published in the Moniteur, it is likely that he wrote these lines as much for public consumption as for the enlightenment of ‘those scamps of lawyers’ in the Directory, who nonetheless approved the terms of Leoben by four to one, with only Jean-François Reubell – who thought the terms too harsh on Austria – opposing.
In the course of the negotiations, the Duke of Modena tried to bribe Napoleon with 4 million francs not to depose him. According to the not altogether reliable Bourrienne the Austrian negotiators, Gallo and General Count von Merveldt, even offered him a German principality, to which Napoleon replied: ‘I thank the Emperor, but if greatness is to be mine, it shall come from France.’9 At the time, Austria seemed to be content with the Leoben terms. Gallo’s only complaint was trivial, that he ‘wished it to be transcribed onto parchment and that the seals should be bigger’, which Napoleon duly accommodated.10
On April 20 the Venetians played directly into Napoleon’s hands by opening fire on and killing a French sea captain called Laugier after he had illegally moored his vessel near the powder-magazine on the Venetian Lido. This gave Napoleon the justification he needed for what he was going to do anyway: demand that Venice expel the British ambassador and pro-Bourbon French émigrés, hand over all British goods, pay a 20-million franc ‘contribution’ and arrest Laugier’s ‘assassins’ (who included a noble-born Venetian admiral). Napoleon ignored the doge’s promise of reparations for the Verona massacre, saying his envoys were ‘dripping with French blood’. Instead, he demanded the evacuation of Venice’s mainland territories, which he needed to have under his control before the secret Leoben clauses could come into effect. Meanwhile he encouraged revolts in Brescia and Bergamo, and on May 3 he declared war. The Verona massacre was punished by the payment of 170,000 sequins (around 1.7 million francs) from the city, and the confiscation of everything in its municipal pawnshop valued at more than 50 francs. There were garrottings and transportations to French Guiana in South America, where the revolutionary government had taken to sending its undesirables. Church plate was expropriated, as were pictures, collections of plants and even ‘seashells belonging to the city and private individuals’.11
Only ten days into his war with Venice, Napoleon inspired a coup d’état in the city. Using the secretary of the French legation, Joseph Villetard, to undermine the oligarchy there with threats of French retribution, the doge and senate – whose forefathers had once held the mighty Ottoman Empire at bay – meekly abolished themselves after 1,200 years as an independent state. They too tried to bribe Napoleon, this time with 7 million francs. He replied ‘French blood has been treacherously shed; if you could offer me the treasures of Peru – if you could cover your whole dominion with gold – the atonement would be insufficient: the lion of St Mark must lick the dust.’12 On May 16, 5,000 French troops under General Louis Baraguey d’Hilliers entered Venice as ‘liberators’ and the four bronze horses that may once have graced Trajan’s Arch in Rome were removed from the portico of the Basilica di San Marco and taken to the Louvre, where they remained until they were returned in 1815.
The treaty with the new pro-French puppet Venetian government stated that it should furnish three battleships and two frigates to the French navy, pay a ‘contribution’ of 15 million francs, provide twenty paintings and five hundred manuscripts, and hand over the mainland territories that France wanted to divide between the Cispadane Republic and Austria. In return, France offered professions of ‘eternal friendship’. All of this was done without the Directory’s involvement. At the start of the 1796 campaign, Napoleon had not been allowed to sign the armistice with Piedmont without the permission of Saliceti, who (though sympathetic to Napoleon) was nominally a commissioner of the Directory. Since then he had signed four major peace agreements on his own authority – with Rome, Naples, Austria and now Venice.
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