He sighed heavily. Once the campaign was over, and Austria had been humbled, then he would have to deal with the matter of providing his empire with a successor, no matter how much pain that would cause him, and Josephine. Duty and destiny must prevail over emotion, he resolved.
He was disturbed by the arrival of a young dragoon officer who stood to attention and saluted as he stood before his Emperor.
‘What is it?’ Napoleon snapped.
‘Sire, Marshal Masséna sends his compliments and begs to inform you that the Austrians are beginning to withdraw from Essling.’
‘Are they now?’ Napoleon frowned. It seemed that Archduke Charles had finally realised the danger of his situation and was starting to extricate his army. ‘Tell Masséna that he is to press forward at once. He is to push the enemy back, and stay in contact with them. They must not be allowed to escape, or be given any respite. Masséna must drive all before him. Now go!’
‘Yes, sire!’
Throughout the afternoon the French soldiers pressed forward, driving the enemy back across the plain. The last clouds had long since gone and the sun blazed down from a clear blue sky. But while there was serenity in the heavens, the Marchfeld was marked by great banks of rolling gunpowder smoke and the litter of war. Bodies of the dead and wounded lay strewn in the trampled grass, together with discarded equipment, shattered gun carriages and lame or abandoned horses that grazed between the corpses. The air was heavy from the heat, and reverberated with the sounds of cannon and the lighter crackle of musket fire.
Late in the afternoon Napoleon and his escort rode forward to assess the situation. He stopped by a small church on a dusty road heading north from Aspern, and climbed its tower with Berthier. There was little space at the top, and they had to squeeze past the old bronze bell before they could open the shutters and look out over the battlefield. Both men raised their telescopes and slowly swept them along the French line, taking in the formations of men and horses advancing under their tricolour and imperial eagle banners. They were dark against the shimmering gold of wheat fields, and the verdant green of meadows.
Napoleon could see that his army formed a giant wedge, driven into the centre of the Austrian line. He felt the familiar excitement tingle in his scalp as he viewed the over-extended enemy.
‘Berthier, do you see?’
‘Sire?’ Berthier lowered his looking glass and waited patiently while his Emperor briefly examined the battlefield once again before he lowered his own glass and turned round with a cold smile.
‘Berthier, we have them, provided we strike swiftly. Come!’
Napoleon led the way back down the narrow steps of the tower and they emerged in the cool plastered nave. Striding across to the altar, Napoleon swept the ornaments aside.
‘Let me see the map.’
Berthier unfasted the strap of the leather document case hanging from his shoulder. He took out the map, unfolded it and spread it across the altar. Napoleon leaned forward and stared at it a moment, eyes darting across the features, and then he nodded.
‘Our line extends thus.’ He drew his finger east from the Danube, towards Wagram, and then angled it south, along the length of the Russbach river. ‘The enemy’s right wing hinges on Wagram. Masséna can pin their right, Oudinot and Davout can strike against their left, and then we use our reserves to punch through, here.’ He tapped the map. ‘At Wagram. If we succeed, then we can turn and trap their right flank against the Danube and annihilate a third of Archduke Charles’s army.’ His eyes glittered.
Berthier studied the map a moment. ‘But what of Archduke John, sire? What if he appears on our flank? It could be dangerous.’
Napoleon shook his head. ‘Send a cavalry division to screen our flank. If he nears the battlefield before we have dealt with his brother, they can hold him off while we defeat Archduke Charles.’
‘Very well, sire. What time shall we begin the attack?’
Napoleon took out his watch. ‘It’s five o’clock. We should begin no later than seven. That gives us the best part of three hours of daylight to break the Austrians. The orders have to be sent out no later than six.’ Napoleon took off his jacket and threw it to the side of the altar. ‘To work, Berthier!’
The massed guns of the Grand Army opened fire on the enemy just after seven that evening. Napoleon watched with satisfaction as solid shot ploughed through the dense enemy formations. Then their own guns replied, smashing gaps in the French columns waiting for the order to advance. Once he judged the Austrian centre was beginning to waver under the intense bombardment, Napoleon gave the order for the attack to begin. As the French guns fell silent, the drums began a deep rolling beat and the infantry closed up on the waiting Austrians. Again, the long smears of dense smoke spread across the landscape, shrouding the battle, and Napoleon waited with the Imperial Guard, just behind Eugène’s corps.
As the sounds of the assault rose in a crescendo Napoleon rose up on his stirrups and strained his eyes to see how the leading division was progressing. Eugène had chosen General MacDonald, the descendant of an exiled Scottish aristocrat, to lead the way with his division of Italian soldiers. In the fading evening light, Napoleon could just make out the distant figures of his men beginning to enter the streets of Wagram. He nodded approvingly.
‘I have misjudged MacDonald’s men. I had feared they might lack the elan of French men, but look at them now. Charging in like lions!’
‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied, looking up from the first reports that had arrived from the other sectors of the battle line. He cleared his throat nervously and addressed his Emperor. ‘Sire, Oudinot and Davout are taking heavy losses.’
‘Of course they are. It’s to be expected in a frontal attack.’
‘But the enemy are holding their ground, sire. Our columns have been stopped in their tracks. And they’re losing men.’
Napoleon’s brow creased and he thought for a moment before responding. ‘It does not matter. The battle will be decided at Wagram. Once we have that, the enemy’s spirit will break. I know it.’
As he watched MacDonald’s men advance into the town Napoleon felt a glow of triumph kindle in his breast. The Grand Army was on the cusp of another great victory. Once Austria was defeated he would make sure that they would never again dare to defy France and her Emperor. But harsh terms in any treaty would not be enough. Napoleon intended to find a way of tying the destiny of both nations together.
A sudden intensification of musket fire from the direction of Wagram broke into his thoughts.
‘Sounds like MacDonald has run into some determined opposition,’ Berthier commented.
‘Archduke Charles must have reinforced Wagram. Even he isn’t so stupid that he does not see a danger when it stares him right in the face. Still, it’s of no consequence. Eugène will reinforce his leading division in turn. The Austrians will run out of reserves before we do.’
‘You are right, of course, sire.’
Napoleon raised his nose and continued to gaze towards Wagram, trying to discern how the battle was going. Then the first Italian casualties began to limp out of the town, making their way back towards the rest of Eugène’s corps formed up a short distance ahead of Napoleon and his staff. After the walking wounded came those who were being helped to the rear by their comrades and Napoleon regarded them coldly, always suspicious of unwounded men who fell out of the battle line, for any reason. There were always men who took advantage of a comrade’s injury to duck out of the fight. Soon the trickle emerging from the town became a flood; some had even abandoned their weapons in their haste to get away.
‘Bloody cowards!’ a voice called out from the front rank of the nearest battalion of the Old Guard.
‘Silence there!’ a sergeant bellowed. ‘I’ll have the balls of the next man who opens his mouth!’
The veterans stood and watched as hundreds of men from MacDonald’s division streamed out of Wagram. The sounds of fighting began to diminish, and a faint cheer rose
up in the distance.
Berthier glanced anxiously at his Emperor. ‘Sire, it seems that they have broken.’
‘Nonsense!’
And yet still they came, running back towards the rest of their division. Napoleon felt his temper rise at the sight of such mass indiscipline and cowardice.‘Why doesn’t somebody rally those bastards? Before they disrupt the rest of the corps.’ Napoleon craned his neck towards the cluster of standards that marked the position of Prince Eugène and his staff. ‘For God’s sake do something!’
The remnants of MacDonald’s division emerged from Wagram, closely pursued by the jubilant Austrians, who shot down the fleeing Italians, or bayoneted them on the ground, without a shred of mercy. Mad with fear, the Italians raced towards the safety of their steadier comrades, pushing aside the leading ranks and breaking up the formation. Berthier nodded towards the scattered figures fanning out as they fled from Wagram.
‘They’re coming this way, sire. We should order the Guard to open ranks and let them through.’
‘No,’ Napoleon said firmly.‘We cannot afford to let that rabble throw the Guard into chaos. Order the men to fix bayonets.’
‘Sire?’
‘Do it!’ Napoleon snapped. ‘At once.’
‘Yes, sire.’
As the command was relayed through the battalions of the Old Guard standing in the front rank, the long triangular spikes of steel rasped from their sheaths and clattered into the locked position over the musket muzzles. Napoleon and his officers retired behind the leading battalion and watched as the sergeants gave the order to advance bayonets. A wall of lethal points was presented to the Italians fleeing towards the Guard. At the sight of the threat, and the cold and contemptuous expressions on the faces of the veterans, they turned aside and ran for the gaps between the French units. As the last men of MacDonald’s division hurried by, the pursuing Austrians drew up at the sight of fresh enemy units.
With parade-ground precision the Imperial Guard unleashed several volleys that cut the leading enemy wave to shreds. A handful of gallant Austrian officers attempted to rally their men and re-form their ranks to return fire, but they were swiftly struck down and lay with the rest of their men in heaps scattered across the bloody ground. The Austrian soldiers began to fall back, and soon they were running to the shelter of the houses on the edge of Wagram. In the failing light those French battalions that had been disrupted by the men of MacDonald’s division had re-formed, and stood ready to advance once again.
‘Shall I order Prince Eugène to counter-attack?’ asked Berthier.
Napoleon shook his head. ‘It’s too late. It will be dark within half an hour.’ He puffed his cheeks in frustration. ‘Call off the attack. Order all formations to fall back and make camp for the night.’
Once the last of the fighting had died away and an uneasy quiet fell across the plain, Napoleon summoned his marshals to his headquarters to discuss his plans for the next day. First, however, the Emperor made a last visit to the bridges to ensure that the supply trains had begun to cross from Lobau island. The pontoon bridges sagged under the weight of the long, heavy artillery caissons, and the lines of wagons carrying ammunition for the men of the infantry and cavalry. The engineers had placed lanterns along the length of each bridge and the flickering glows undulated up and down as the vehicles passed by.
Satisfied that the men of the Grand Army would not be short of supplies for the next day, Napoleon returned to his field headquarters at the church. The cluster of staff officers and escorts that stood around the entrance revealed that his senior officers had already arrived. Dismounting, Napoleon handed the reins to a groom and hurriedly returned the salutes of the men on either side of the church doors before entering the building. The sound of voices came from the altar, and by the light of a handful of candles burning in brackets on the walls Napoleon saw his marshals gathered there. Marshal Bernadotte’s voice carried clearly over the subdued talk of the others.
‘I’m telling you, it was a wasted opportunity. The Emperor delayed his attack for too long, and he should not have attempted to attack along the whole line.’
‘Really?’ Davout responded drily. ‘And what would you have done in his place, I wonder?’
There was a pause and the other marshals stopped talking. Bernadotte cleared his throat and replied, ‘If I had been in command of the army, we would be celebrating a great victory at this moment. I would have used a special manoeuvre that would have defeated the enemy. I would have . . .’
Napoleon decided he had heard enough, and strode towards the altar. As the marshals stood to attention, he waved them down.‘No time for formalities, gentlemen. We have a battle to plan.’
Everyone clustered around the altar and Napoleon stared at the map before them as he gathered his thoughts. ‘We have every reason to be pleased with today’s achievements, my friends. The Grand Army’s crossing of the Danube caught our enemy by complete surprise. All that remains is for us to deliver the final blow and crush Archduke Charles.’
There was a brief silence before Davout cleared his throat and tapped the line of the Russbach river. ‘Sire, what is the latest intelligence of Archduke John’s position?’
‘Our cavalry patrols report no sign of him for twenty miles, south and east of here. He need not concern us.’
‘What if Archduke John does reach the battlefield, and attacks our flank?’
‘If, if, if.’ Napoleon frowned. ‘I told you, Archduke John does not concern us. He is not near enough to intervene.’
Davout nodded slightly. ‘If you say so, sire.’
Napoleon felt a slight giddiness as he struggled to contain his fraying temper. It had been some days since he had had a proper night’s sleep. He had been constantly awake for almost all that time, and his limbs were heavy. It took some effort to think clearly. He rubbed his eyes and then looked round at his officers. ‘Gentlemen, you may return to your commands. Berthier will issue your orders during the night.’
After the marshals had left the church Napoleon decided to move his headquarters closer to the decisive sector of the coming battle. Leaving Berthier to arrange for his staff to follow on, Napoleon mounted his horse and rode north of the village of Raasdorf to stop on a small knoll a short distance behind Masséna’s right flank. In the darkness, he could just make out the faint outline of columns of men massing in readiness for the coming attack. When the first battalion of the Old Guard arrived to secure the Emperor’s new command post, Napoleon had the drummers stack their instruments to make a shelter for him. Then, with a rolled greatcoat for a pillow, he lay down to snatch a few hours’ sleep.
Berthier gently shook his shoulder at three in the morning and Napoleon blinked his eyes open, his mind still vague with exhaustion. A guardsman holding a lantern stood behind Berthier.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s past the third hour, sire.’
Napoleon eased himself up and then rose stiffly to his feet, pressing his fists into the small of the back as he stretched his spine. ‘Is the army in position?’
‘Yes, sire. All corps headquarters report that they will be ready to attack by four.’
Napoleon glanced round. Even though it was still dark he could make out the vague masses of men slowly forming their ranks. The cool night air was restless with their muted conversation and the shuffling tramp of their boots. He could feel their tense excitement at the prospect of the coming battle. There was some anxiety and fear there too: a certain edge in their voices. Napoleon turned back to Berthier and forced a smile.
‘All goes well. Our leading divisions will fall upon the enemy while they’re still eating their breakfast, eh?’
Berthier nodded, with a nervous chuckle. ‘Yes, sire.’
‘I wish I could see Archduke Charles’s face when he realises we have stolen a march on him a second time in as many days.’
Napoleon called for some bread and water and sat on a pile of firewood as the army continued to form up arou
nd him. Over to the east a faint glow presaged the coming dawn. Moment by moment Napoleon began to see more and more detail of the surrounding countryside, and the tens of thousands of men standing ready. He rose to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his jacket, and took out his watch.
‘Ten minutes to four,’ he muttered.
There was a sudden thud of cannon fire to the south-east and Napoleon and his staff officers turned to look.
‘That comes from the direction of Davout’s corps.’ Napoleon frowned. ‘What the devil is he up to? The orders were for the attack to begin at four. This is the work of some glory-hunter with an itchy trigger finger. Well, whoever it is, he’ll have to answer to me when the day is over.’ He turned abruptly to Berthier. ‘No point in waiting for four now. Send orders to all corps to begin the attack at once.’
‘Yes, sire.’
The distant cannon fire quickly swelled into a continuous rumble as the skirmish line began to filter forward towards the enemy. Then, with a deafening crash, the guns of Masséna’s corps opened fire on the Austrian centre, pounding the village of Aderklaa, a short distance from Wagram in the blue-hued light of the predawn. As the bombardment continued, Napoleon watched the officers of the leading infantry columns ride up and down their ranks, shouting encouragement to the men.
Berthier appeared at his side with a nervous expression.
‘What is it?’
‘Sire, a message from Davout. He is under attack.’
‘Under attack?’
‘Yes, sire. The enemy have fallen on his right flank. He is being driven back.’
The Fields of Death Page 11
