The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘I see.’ Napoleon nodded and rubbed his eyes for a moment as he thought through the implications of the news.

  Berthier coughed. ‘Once the full scale of our losses is known, there is going to be trouble unlike anything we have seen before. There’s hardly a family in France that won’t be grieving over the loss of a brother, a husband or a son, sire. Your enemies in the capital will use this, and your absence, to call for your abdication.’

  Napoleon opened his eyes and stared at Berthier.‘What do you think I should do?’

  His chief of staff met his gaze firmly. ‘I think you should return to Paris, sire. While there is still time to prevent the traitors and royalists from stirring up any more trouble. You have lost the campaign. There is no more reason for you to remain in Russia.’

  ‘Lost the campaign,’ Napoleon repeated. There was a time, only a month before, when he would have denied it. Now he felt completely worn out, and almost numbed by the scale of the disaster that had engulfed the Grand Army. The mistake was not in the plans that he had made. How could it be? Every last detail had been accounted for. No, the fault lay in the nature of the Tsar. He had not behaved as any rational ruler would have done. It was Alexander’s inhumanity that Napoleon had failed to take into account. Only in that was Napoleon at fault. He drew a deep breath and nodded.

  ‘It is over. I have done all that I can for the army. All that remains for them now is to reach the Niemen and cross to safety. I am not needed here.’

  Berthier looked relieved, and so did the courier. The latter quickly took advantage of the Emperor’s decision.‘The minister hoped that you would return to Paris, sire. He assumed that there would be some final matters that would require your attention before you left the army behind. In which case, he asked me to request that you issue a despatch stating that the campaign is over and that you are returning to Paris imminently. To allow us to hold our position while we wait for your arrival,’ he explained.

  Napoleon looked at him closely. ‘Is it as bad as that?’

  The courier looked down and did not reply.

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ Napoleon said firmly. ‘There is nothing for anyone to gain by sweetening the message.’

  ‘Very well, sire. It is the minister’s opinion that unless you return to Paris within the month, he cannot guarantee that there will be a throne for you to return to. He needs a despatch from you to prove that you are alive, and also to put an end to the rumours concerning the fate of the army. It will shock the nation, sire, but even bad news is better than no news.’

  ‘I see.’ Napoleon nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Once the courier had left the room, Napoleon sent Berthier for some paper and a pen. With a weary sigh, he dipped the pen into the ink pot and began to draft the despatch Savary had requested.

  29th, Bulletin of the Grand Army. His imperial majesty, Napoleon, Emperor of France, King of Italy, is pleased to inform his people that the campaign in Russia is complete. The valiant men of the Grand Army, the largest gathering of allies ever to set out on such an adventure, has marched across the trackless expanses of Russia to humble the Russian Tsar and prove to him that the will of the Emperor, and all France, will not be denied. Defeated in battle, and having lost his most important city, the Tsar, against all the dictates of justice and humanity, refused to end the war. Accordingly the Emperor, having been refused the victory that all right-thinking men will agree should have been granted him, was obliged to order his army to withdraw to the territory of the Duchy of Warsaw.

  Napoleon paused, mentally composing the next section with care.

  Due to the deceitful nature of the enemy the army was tricked into remaining in Moscow until the start of the autumn. Within days of setting out, the weather became unusually cold and the lack of sustenance derived from the lands through which the army marched, in concert with the swift onset of winter, has resulted in a considerable loss of men. The Emperor shares the grief of his people at the sacrifice of so many valiant soldiers. He trusts that their families will take some comfort from the knowledge that they died heroes, giving their lives for the glory of their countrymen.

  Napoleon continued by giving a casualty figure that was half the true amount. Even this would cause great consternation in France, but the full total must wait until he had returned and could break the news in person. He wrote about the dreadful climate and offered rousing descriptions of the battle at Borodino and the heroic crossing of the Berezina. He described the glorious achievement of Marshal Ney and the band of heroes in his rearguard as it fought its way through the Russian army to re-join the Emperor. Napoleon concluded with a final sentence to allay their fears. His majesty’s health has never been better.

  Setting down his pen, he called for Berthier to copy his draft into a legible hand and then signed and sealed the document before giving it to Savary’s courier.

  ‘Leave at once. Tell the minister I will follow you as soon as I can.’

  A fresh blizzard blanketed the Russian landscape over the following days and the army grimly continued its retreat, heads down and leaning into the wind as it buffeted the shambling columns, as well as the civilians who had survived the Berezina crossing and had escaped the attentions of the Cossacks so far. Napoleon had ordered Berthier to make secret preparations for his departure for Paris, and when the foul weather lifted five days later, as the army crept into Smorgoni, he decided the time had come.

  The marshals of the army were summoned from their billets into his presence that evening. They had been told that they were required for a briefing on the army’s progress towards the Niemen, and slumped wearily down into the chairs set around a long table in the town’s guild hall. Napoleon had given instructions for his last stocks of wine and brandy to be fetched and the marshals gratefully helped themselves as they waited for the last of their number to arrive. Ney was commanding the rearguard again and had the furthest to travel, and he did not reach the town until late in the evening. He unbuttoned his snow-flecked coat and slung it across a side table as he joined his companions, smiling at the sight of the brandy.

  ‘Ah! Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.’ He poured a generous glass and downed it in one, then coughed to clear his burned throat.‘Needed that! Nothing like brandy to put fire back into a man’s belly.’

  Napoleon waited until Ney was seated and then rapped his glass on the table. ‘Quiet, if you please.’

  The marshals settled back into their chairs and looked at him expectantly. Napoleon was too weary to waste time with any preamble praising their efforts and promising rewards when they all returned to France. He drew a deep breath and began in a flat tone.

  ‘It is my conviction that the army has made good its escape. Though it is hungry, there are more than enough rations at Vilna to feed the men and provide sufficient supplies to reach the Niemen. Therefore, I am no longer required here. I am, however, urgently needed in Paris where our enemies are trying to stir up sedition and revolt against all that we have fought for. With that in mind, I have decided to leave the army. A covered sledge, together with a small escort of Guard cavalry, stands ready to convey me to Warsaw. From there I should be able to continue the journey to Paris by carriage.’ He looked round at them, waiting for a reaction.

  ‘Bless my bloody soul.’ Ney shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re abandoning us.’

  ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘Really?’ Ney smiled thinly. ‘It seems to me that you do.’

  ‘Then it is a choice that is forced on me by circumstance. Does that please you better?’

  ‘Oh, it makes no odds to me, sire. It is you who will have to live with the decision.’

  ‘I do what I must for France,’ Napoleon replied testily.

  ‘Who will take command of the army?’ asked Davout.

  ‘The King of Naples.’ Napoleon nodded at Murat.

  ‘Me?’ Murat looked surprised, and then could not help smiling that he had been singled out from the other marshals, ev
en if the command was little more than an empty title.

  Davout puffed his cheeks. ‘Might I ask your majesty why Murat is chosen for this honour? I would imagine he has enough responsibility already, co-ordinating the army’s cavalry.’

  ‘What’s left of it!’ Ney barked, then poured himself another glass of brandy. ‘Shouldn’t tax his mind too much, eh?’

  Murat scowled at him as Napoleon explained.

  ‘As King of Naples, Murat is the ranking officer. My decision has been made, Davout. You and the others will accept it.’

  ‘As your majesty commands.’ Davout bowed his head.

  ‘That’s right.’ Napoleon looked round the room. ‘Gentlemen, it is vital that you do not breathe a word of this to anyone outside this room. The army’s morale is already as low as it can be. It would be dangerous to let them know that I have left. As far as the men are concerned I have fallen ill, nothing too serious, and am confined to my campaign wagon. The truth can be told only once the army has reached Vilna. By then it should make little difference. The Russians are having to endure the same hard conditions and I doubt they will be in any shape to attempt to bring us to battle. The only danger will come from the Cossacks. But if the men are fed and armed and stick together they will come to no harm. Those are your orders.’

  He paused. ‘Now the hour is late and I must prepare to leave. There is no time for any questions. It only remains to say that it has been an honour to be your commander, gentlemen. There is no finer body of officers in the world. I am sure of it. When the history of this campaign is written, you can be sure that your heroic deeds will be remembered long after the last of us is dead.’ He stood up and raised his glass to them. ‘My friends, I salute you. When I next see you, I hope it is somewhere warmer.’

  The marshals rose from their chairs, and one after the other they came forward to grasp the Emperor’s hand. Ney was last.

  ‘I wish you a safe journey, sire.’

  ‘And I wish you would take greater care of your life, Ney. On the battlefield you are my right hand. I have already lost too many friends. Don’t give me further cause to grieve.’

  ‘I will do my best to survive. I always have, sire.’

  Napoleon could not help smiling. ‘If only all the politicians in Paris shared your capacity for dishonesty, my dear Michel.’

  Ney frowned until he got the point and then smiled back.‘Sort them out, sire. Then come back to the army. It’s where you really belong.’ He released the Emperor’s hand, strode over to the side table to collect his coat and left without looking back.

  The sledge was waiting at the edge of the village, in a private yard guarded by the ten-man escort. Napoleon left headquarters before dawn, dressed in a plain coat and wearing a thick woollen cap in place of his familiar bicorne. A scarf was tied round his face to conceal his features and he carried a large satchel as he followed General Caulaincourt through the dark streets, crunching across the snow. Napoleon had decided it was best if he travelled in disguise, posing as Caulaincourt’s secretary. That way they would be able to pass through French units without arousing any undue attention. More important, if they passed by any allied troops of dubious loyalty they would not be tempted to take Napoleon prisoner and offer him to the Russians in exchange for some reward.

  Capture by the enemy was a possibility, if the Cossacks were bold enough to take on the escort. In that event, Napoleon had resolved to kill himself. A phial of poison hung from a chain round his neck, and it would be the work of a moment to snap the top and pour the contents down his throat. The imperial surgeon had assured him his death would be certain, and swift.

  Caulaincourt approached the sledge, a small cabin with glass windows perched on a heavy set of iron-rimmed runners. There was a small bench for the driver and six horses were harnessed to the pinion just below the front of the vehicle. At the sight of Caulaincourt the driver hurried to the door and opened it with a neat bow. Napoleon managed to stop himself from getting in first and waited deferentially as the general climbed in before him. The driver shut the door behind them and Napoleon found himself squeezed in beside Caulaincourt on an upholstered leather seat. There was a narrow-lipped shelf opposite and Napoleon placed his satchel on it. Caulaincourt pulled a thick bearskin from under the shelf and placed it over their legs, drawing the edge up to their chests.

  ‘We won’t be able to move much and we need to stay warm. One of the officers at headquarters told me it had dropped to twenty degrees below zero last night.’

  Napoleon nodded, huddling down under the covering, trying hard to draw himself to the kernel of warmth that still remained in his torso.

  Outside there was a sharp cry and a crack of a whip and the sledge lurched forward. Once it was in motion the ride was surprisingly smooth, and apart from a faint hiss from the runners the only noise was the soft beat of the horses’ hooves on the fresh snow. The dawn was cold and the snow had a blue tinge. Already the leading elements of the army had set out. The lieutenant commanding the escort called out for those ahead to clear the way. Looking out of the window Napoleon could see the men lining the road, ice crusted on the scarves wrapped over their faces, as little plumes of exhaled breath swirled around their heads. Within the hour they had passed through the vanguard and the way ahead was clear. The sledge slowed as the horses struggled up a small rise and Napoleon leaned towards the window and opened it to look back down the road. A blast of freezing air knifed through his headgear and he narrowed his eyes.

  Some distance behind the sledge was the head of the column, and beyond that a thin trail of figures which wound its way back to the east. The soldiers shuffled along in a motley collection of small bands, interspersed with handfuls of men and even the odd isolated figure. Napoleon shut the window and settled back down on to his bench, glad at last to be quitting Russia, the graveyard of the Grand Army.

  Chapter 38

  Arthur

  Ciudad Rodrigo, April 1813

  It was a fine spring day and the trees in the garden courtyard of the town’s monastery were covered in new leaves. Though the air was cool, it was dry and refreshing and Arthur breathed it in deeply before turning away from the window to begin briefing his generals. He felt vitalised as never before since he had arrived in the Peninsula. He knew it was true of his men as well. Once in winter quarters they had begun to recover from the retreat that concluded the previous year’s campaign. Their morale was further enhanced by the issue of brand new tents throughout the army, as well as a surfeit of food, wine and tobacco. More reinforcements had arrived to swell the ranks and every ranker and officer was fortified by the news of Bonaparte’s crushing defeat in Russia.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Arthur smiled as he looked round the table at his senior commanders. ‘There has never been a more propitious time to take the war to the French. The balance of power in Europe has shifted decisively in our favour. Our ally, Russia, has now been joined by Sweden and Prussia in the crusade against the Corsican Tyrant. I suspect that Bonaparte’s relations with his Austrian father-in-law may soon take a turn for the worse.’

  The officers laughed and Arthur indulged their good spirits for a moment before he raised a hand to quieten them. ‘With Bonaparte scraping together every man that can hold a musket so that he can take the field in northern Europe, our role in the Peninsula has assumed a new significance. My agents report that over twenty thousand of the enemy’s best soldiers have been withdrawn from Spain to fill out the ranks of the Emperor’s northern army. In addition, Marshal Soult has been recalled to Paris. By these measures, Bonaparte has made our task easier. At the same time, the French have been forced to abandon southern Spain, and their remit, such as it is, only runs through the eastern and northern provinces. Even then, tens of thousands of French soldiers are tied down suppressing local insurrections and chasing bands of resistance fighters. Over the winter we have been reinforced to over eighty thousand men, and our Spanish allies have promised twenty thousand more to swell our ranks.’


  ‘Would that I live to see the day when the blackguards march with us,’ Picton cut in with a surly expression. A number of officers grumbled in agreement.

  ‘Then I am delighted that your wish should be granted with such celerity,’ Arthur replied.‘Two Spanish divisions will be joining our army within the next few days.’

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ said Picton. ‘Bloody people have been more of a hindrance than a help ever since we fetched up on these shores.’

  Arthur turned to Somerset and nodded towards the large easel standing to the side of the table. It was covered with a loose sheet, and Somerset carefully removed it to reveal a map pinned to a board. The map indicated the territory of northern Portugal and Spain, stretching from the Atlantic to the Pyrenees. Two red labels marked the positions of the allied armies that had been forming up in readiness for the coming campaign. One was based at Ciudad Rodrigo, poised to advance along the road to Salamanca, as had happened the previous year. The other was just south of the Douro, in the north-eastern corner of Portugal.

  Arthur strode over to the side of the map and could not help smiling at his officers. ‘I know that some of you are perplexed by the division of the army at the start of the coming campaign. You may be glad to know there is method in my apparent madness. The Russian campaign has changed everything. Before news of the scale of Boney’s defeat reached me it had been my intention to advance towards Madrid once again. But now I believe it is within our power to put an end to French control of the Peninsula before the end of this year.’

  The officers around the table exchanged surprised looks. General Beresford was the first to respond.