Napoleon Bonaparte: A Life

by Alan Schom

  Chapter Thirty-Six – The Saxon Campaign

  ‘I will sacrifice a million men yet if necessary. Honor before all.’

  “All the women and wives were truly to be pitied,” ex-Queen Hortense of Holland commented on the French invasion of Russia. “The whole of France seemed to be in Russia. Our wishes, fears, and hopes, all were on that campaign. Never before had the nation found itself so cut off from its defenders, and the great distance from the theatre of war itself merely made it all the more frightening for us.” And then came Napoleon’s twenty-ninth Grand Army Bulletin, describing his defeat. “What a reversal from our mighty position in the world. What a blow to our national pride! This great northern Empire [Russia], which had earlier retreated before us, now instead sent back to France the debris of its wreckage, its amputees, wounded, and shell-shocked, but although fugitives, they remained conquerors in our eyes.”

  A shocked and dismayed Hortense added, “Only our deep pain equaled the greatness of our disasters. Everyone was in mourning. For so long confident in, and used to, obeying one man alone, France found itself as depressed as it was astonished by the news of its defeat, but nevertheless gradually pulled itself together, ready again to face the future.”

  As Napoleon had hoped, his presence in Paris checked the full effect of that fateful bulletin. “His sudden return, his firm, confident attitude stopped our despair. One heard no more whispers [of his fall]. We felt too humiliated to complain, and national pride would not permit us to dwell on the sacrifices we had made.” As for Napoleon, “He seemed tired, lost in thought, but not beaten...Never was he more master of himself than in difficult or unhappy times.” And it was true. His superior intelligence always seemed to overcome an immediate setback, however grave, putting physical distance between himself and the event in order to better view the catastrophe, in this case, the loss of more than half a million men and the collapse of his empire.

  “So worried by what I had read, I asked him if the Army’s disaster had indeed been as cruel as the Army Bulletin had announced. He replied, obviously deeply pained, ‘I told the complete truth.’” But it was far from the whole truth, far from the ultimate truth, for in fact this war, too, had been quite unnecessary. The world, even the French people, had wanted peace, desperately so, but instead he alone had demanded more bloodshed. Nor had the bulletin stated that from a purely technical, logistical viewpoint, that entire campaign had been ill conceived and pathetically executed, beyond even his capabilities.

  And yet just a few weeks earlier, Hortense recalled, “Never had the annual winter carnival of 1812 been so brilliant,” everyone having such utter faith in Napoleon’s invincibility. “The balls and parties following one another in rapid succession seemed by their very din and activity to drown out the reality that we had just launched the greatest military expedition ever seen. France was happy, our friends dancing, all our ambitions having been reached, our every wish fulfilled.” But then came the weeks of waiting and finally the news of the great setbacks. “Gradually the brilliant, gay carnival turned more somber, everyone more worried as time passed.” The balls went on, because they always did, but the numbers of those present declined noticeably, the almost wanton, frenetic gaiety extinguished.

  Napoleon retired to Versailles and the Trianon for a fortnight to sort out his affairs in peace and solitude. But no sooner had he arrived than he was again thrown by his horse, a repetition of the accidents at Vienna and before crossing the Niemen to Moscow. It augured ill for the superstitious, and this time he was forced to spend several days in bed. It was a good place for reflection, however, and Hortense, who visited him, thought it would prove fruitful. “Our misfortunes in Russia had been so grievous that I now had no doubt that, under the circumstances, the Emperor would renounce any further grand projects...I had not the slightest doubt that he would now make the greatest personal sacrifices in order to bring peace, a peace demanded by France and indeed the whole of Europe,” she noted.

  “Madame, you who know the character of the emperor so well, tell me honestly, do you think we can hope for a European peace from him at last?” Prince Karl von Schwarzenberg, the new Austrian ambassador, asked her. Yes, she told him, even if he needed just one more nominal victory in the field to save face. But Hortense was utterly wrong. It seemed that in spite of his Russian débâcle, his portentous third fall from a horse, so symbolic of present events, in fact, disregarding one and all, he had no interest in peace, for that would mean concessions, losses, and admission of poor judgment.

  Napoleon had not given up, although he had made some drastic decisions. If he had learned one thing from the Russian campaign, it was that he could not carry out two wars in two different theaters simultaneously. Thus on January 4, 1813, he ordered War Minister Clarke to instruct El Rey José Bonaparte to withdraw from his capital of Madrid and from Castile, and to move his temporary new GHQ far to the north, on the main road to France, at Valladolid. At the same time Napoleon consented to allow him to be his own master at last, his own commander in chief, permitting him to rid himself of the arrogant Marshal Soult — “this wretch” as Joseph called him — who was being recalled to France. Now Joseph was to concentrate on quelling the north, consolidating everything from Valladolid to the Pyrenees. What Napoleon did not tell his elder brother, however, was that this was the end of his rule, the end of the French in Spain. Nor did he inform him that he would shortly be writing to Fernando VII, still Napoleon’s state prisoner at Talleyrand’s luxurious castle at Valençay, that “the present state of affairs within my empire has made it necessary for me to bring my Spanish affairs to a close.” A new treaty recognizing him in place of Joseph as king of Spain would be drawn up as soon as the English quit the country. Napoleon, who rarely trusted anyone, least of all one of his own brothers, was hardly about to apprise Joseph of his fate:

  I have sacrificed thousands, hundreds of thousands of men, in order that he [Joseph] should be able to reign in Spain. It was a mistake on my part to have thought my brothers necessary in order to assure my dynastic rule. My dynasty is now assured without them. It will be guaranteed in the future come what may, simply by force of circumstance. The existence of the empress alone now assures its continuation...It therefore no longer makes the slightest difference to me that Ferdinand will be replacing Joseph,

  Napoleon confided to Roederer. As usual he blamed his failures on his family. “All the setbacks in Spain,” he told Clarke, “are the result of my misplaced trust in the king [Joseph],” failing to point out that not only had Joseph been against the invasion in the first place but had strongly objected to being removed from Naples to come to this country, to assume a crown he did not want, and moreover, that for the past four years the French field commanders in Spain had been following Napoleon’s orders, not Joseph’s.

  The fact of the matter was that the entire Iberian campaign had been as ill-conceived as the Russian one (not to mention that little Egyptian miscalculation), and it had started from the very beginning: Junot defeated by Sir Arthur Wellesley at Vimiero on August 30, 1808; then Soult chased from Portugal in May 1809; followed by Marshal Victor’s defeat by the same Wellesley at Talavera on July 27-28, 1809. Viscount Wellington, as he was known thereafter, next defeated Masséna at Bussaco on September 27, 1810, chasing him from Portugal the next year, followed by his conquest of Fuentes de Oñoro on May 4, 1811. Nor had 1812 improved the French situation, beginning with Wellington’s capture of Ciudad Rodrigo on January 19, and then of Badajoz, even temporarily seizing Joseph’s capital as a result of his victory over Marmont at Salamanca on July 22, while Marshal Soult was forced by the Spanish to lift his siege of Cadiz. Indeed the only French general to triumph in arms now was Marshal Louis-Gabriel Suchet, who captured Valencia from the Spanish.

  And, finally, in 1813, Napoleon at last realized that he could no longer fight the whole of Europe at once, not even an English army of forty thousand soldiers in Spain, at least while the one general he always underestimated w
as in command, Arthur Lord Wellington, who had stoutly defeated every general and marshal sent against him.

  The unfortunate Rey José left Madrid for the last time on March 17, 1813, and within three months’ time on June 21 would suffer ultimate defeat at Vitoria, putting an end to the French occupation of the Peninsula — but only after losing between 250,000 and 300,000 French lives, all for nought.

  The Spanish decision had been long in the making, in part because Napoleon did not know what to do with Joseph, who if deprived of his Spanish crown had to be provided with another, or at least with something equivalent. But suddenly Europe, French-occupied Europe, was shrinking daily before Napoleon’s very eyes. The only alternative would have been to make Joseph regent, but that was out of the question now, with Marie-Louise and his son and heir, the king of Rome, having altered that situation.

  That in turn brought other complications. The excommunicated Napoleon wanted Pope Pius VII, confined at Fontainebleau since June 1812, to sign a revised Concordat with France and perform the coronation ceremony, first for Empress Marie Louise, and then for the king of Rome. Regardless of the absurd situation, everything had to look legitimate in the eyes of the world. Although the pope did initially give in under duress and sign the Concordat on January 25, 1813, he immediately regretted it, on learning of Napoleon’s premature announcement of the event before even clearing it with him. The pope resisted many sticky issues outstanding between the Vatican and Paris, including the procedure for the nomination of bishops and supervision of higher church personnel, and the pope adamantly refused to move the Vatican to Paris as Napoleon now demanded. But so confident was Bonaparte that he had already arranged to buy the Château de Crachamp at Avignon for the pope.

  On March 24 the pope suddenly declared his opposition to the new Concordat. The document had, he announced, “torn his spirit” and in consequence, “with the help of God we desire that it be completely broken.” Nor did he have any intention of anointing and performing the coronation ceremony of Marie-Louise and of Napoleon’s beloved son. Thunderstruck, a furious Napoleon ordered his carriage in the Cour du Cheval Blanc, never to see the pope again, whom he eventually released from his French prison on January 21, 1814.

  Napoleon decided that he could manage quite nicely without his brothers or even the pope and ordered a senatus consultum officially recognizing Marie-Louise as regent, celebrated at a ceremony at the Elysée on March 30, 1813. She would rule in his absence, advised by a special Regency Council. Although Article VIII of the Imperial Constitution in fact denied the regency to a woman, Napoleon simply overruled it. As for Joseph, by the summer of 1813 he was back in France, Napoleon ordering him to isolate himself at Mortefontaine with his wife. Like Louis, Lucien, and Jérôme, brother Joseph was a failure and an embarrassment.

  For the first time in his imperial career, on returning from a major military campaign, Napoleon had not received hearty congratulations on yet another splendid victory. Instead eyes were awkwardly averted in the great man’s presence. His own courtiers and officials did not know what to say, what to do. Thus no one was more taken aback than Napoleon himself when early in January he received a most extraordinary letter from brother Louis Bonaparte, who had apparently been temporarily awakened from his literary hibernation at Graz:

  Deeply grieved by [what I have just heard of] the suffering and losses inflicted on the Grand Army after the long series of successes that have carried your arms to the North Pole itself, and knowing how terribly pressed you are at present, and how urgent it is to assemble all the defenses possible, and as furious preparations are apace for the terrible struggle that will shortly continue, and therefore convinced that there has never been a more critical moment for France, for your reign, for you personally, I come, sire, to offer the country of my birth [sic] and to you, despite my poor health, whatever assistance I possibly can, provided that I am permitted to do so with honor.

  Napoleon was staggered. This letter was almost as much of a shock as the loss of Russia itself! Even more amazing, he replied positively to Louis. “Mon frère, I have received your letter of January 1 and greatly appreciate your kind sentiments...Return here as quickly as possible and I shall receive you, not as a brother whom you offended [when King of Holland], but as the brother who brought you up.” By Napoleon’s standards it was the warmest letter he had written anyone in years.

  Bonaparte immediately informed his equally amazed mother of Louis’s extraordinarily change of heart, and she more than seconded Napoleon’s invitation that Louis should return to “hearth and home.” “I, as your mother, order you to do so, as it is necessary [for Napoleon].”

  That did it. Louis’s mood, which changed as abruptly as the weather over the Hebrides, replied sullenly: “Why, my dear mother, always repeat the same old things to me? I can only return to Holland [as King], not France.” This was how he interpreted offering “assistance.” He then closed: “Not another word on the subject.”

  That was too much for Napoleon. The imperial invitation to Paris was withdrawn, and Louis returned to his poetry. Months later, as a good patriot during the Saxon campaign, Louis could no longer bear to reside in Graz and moved to Basel, where he penned fresh poems: “Absence,” “Regrets,” “Hopes,” and “Doubts.” Only on receiving on November 3, 1813, the news of Napoleon’s later defeat did Louis finally return to France, staying at his mother’s residence at Pont-sur-Seine. “If he is coming as King of Holland, and persists in this fantasy of his, I cannot receive him in Paris...Let him remain with her ‘incognito,’” Napoleon instructed Archchancellor Cambacérès. “I should rather see Holland handed over to the House of Orange than to my brother.” “I have renounced the country of my birth, absolutely everything,” Louis wrote to Napoleon, and now “I find myself without a country, without friends, and without even a roof over my head.” All the countries the French had invaded and occupied under Napoleonic rule had been thoroughly stripped of their assets. No two countries had been hit harder than Holland and brother Jérôme Bonaparte’s once-thriving Kingdom of Westphalia.

  Napoleon had not only extracted the usual “war reparations,” gold, artworks, jewels, and stashes of fine wines in ancient princely cellars, but had destroyed much of the economy through the implementation of the Continental System, completed by the constant flow of new financial demands that by January 1813 had left Westphalia with an empty treasury and its national debt beyond any means of control. In addition Napoleon had milked the kingdom for his own private treasury and family needs, to the point that Jérôme had been forced to sell all national and royal properties. What is more, Napoleon had insisted that Jérôme produce an army corps of twenty-five thousand for the Russian invasion, of whom only 5 percent returned.

  As a result there had been several attempts at revolt, all of which Napoleon had naturally blamed on Jérôme’s incompetence and frivolity. Knowing only too well how irresponsible and shallow a young man Jérôme was, Napoleon had nevertheless wedded him (bigamously) to Catherine of Württemberg. Catherine was as light-headed and as insouciant as her prodigiously unfaithful husband, living for the same glitter, pomp, and constant schedule of plays, masked balls, and dazzling bejeweled presents. In addition Queen Catherine, like Josephine, easily became hysterical. In January 1813, therefore, when the full impact of the destruction of Napoleon’s Grande Armée was felt in Westphalian commercial and royal circles, Catherine panicked, fearing the vengeance of advancing armies from the east, be they Russian or Prussian.

  Westphalia of course bordered on the much reduced western Prussian frontier at the Elbe River, less than two hundred miles from Berlin. Minuscule Prussia, literally halved by Napoleon, in turn now acted as a buffer state between the Kingdom of Westphalia and Napoleon’s Grand Duchy of Warsaw farther to the east. Westphalia’s southeastern frontier was opposed (or supported, depending on one’s viewpoint) by the Kingdom of Saxony, with its capital of Dresden less than one hundred miles from Westphalian territory. Due north of West
phalia lay the state of Mecklenburg and the much smaller enclave of Swedish Pomerania, both bordering the Baltic. A little farther to the northwest stood the Hanseatic cities of Hamburg, Bremen, and Lübeck, while only about a hundred miles directly north of Jérôme’s capital of Kassel on the River Fulda was King George III’s private state of Hannover (now in French hands, of course). Napoleon had originally carved out the Grand Duchy of Berg, which was in turn absorbed into the Kingdom of Westphalia.

  Westphalia therefore stood as the linchpin of Napoleon’s north German defenses, both controlling the Confederation of the Rhine and protecting French possessions from any hostile incursions from the east, from the other side of the Elbe. That Napoleon should have placed the shallowest, least intelligent, and least reliable of his brothers on that throne was the folly of follies. In the early days of 1813 Napoleon depended more than ever on the stability and dependability of any state in his realm. Yet Westphalia, as a result of his own imaginative financial extortions and Jérôme’s total administrative incompetence, was in a highly unstable state.

  By January 1813 relations between Paris and Kassel could not have been worse. Napoleon still could not forgive the humiliation of Jérôme’s abandonment of his army at the beginning of the Russian campaign the previous year. Jérôme, who had been attempting to correspond with Napoleon ever since, had met a wall of total silence. The coronation of the infant king of Rome, scheduled in Paris, in March 1813 should have been an ideal time for the mending of relations, except that Napoleon denied the Westphalian royal family an invitation.

  On January 11 Jérôme’s chamberlain, who was in Paris on official business, took the opportunity to bring up a new matter that took Napoleon by surprise. Queen Catherine wanted to come to Paris urgently. Rumor was rife of “enemy forces” driving westward toward Berlin. Catherine was terrified — she had already fled earlier during the Dörnberg plot — and wanted to leave immediately. The queen not only desired to come to Paris but in great state, which would mean being received officially and at the frequent state functions held at the Tuileries. Napoleon wanted none of this. As for the alleged danger of approaching enemy forces, that, he insisted, was nonsense, and he would not issue an invitation to his sister-in-law.