The Fields of Death

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘The Elbe, then,’ said Murat.

  Napoleon thought briefly and shook his head. ‘That is too much of a risk. Too long a front. We have to assume that the enemy will be able to get over the Elbe. If they manage to cross in more than one place then the front will collapse. What we need is a base from which we can concentrate our forces and then strike in any direction.’ He leaned forward over the map, and pointed. ‘Leipzig. It’s a large city, connected to good roads, and will give us the advantage of interior lines if the enemy does advance from more than one direction. Thoughts, gentlemen?’

  None of the marshals demurred and Napoleon nodded, the decision made. ‘Very well, then the army will be ordered to concentrate at Leipzig.’

  As the year moved into October the Grand Army’s position grew steadily worse. Blücher and Bernadotte were operating in concert to the north, while General Bennigsen’s Army of Poland was advancing from the east. The Army of Bohemia had bypassed Dresden and was forcing Murat back on Leipzig. As Napoleon read the reports he could not help but marvel at the scale of the coming struggle. A quarter of a million Frenchmen and a handful of allied contingents were facing nearly four hundred thousand Russian, Austrian and Prussian troops.

  It was early in the afternoon as Napoleon entered Leipzig. The sound of cannon fire from the south told him that Murat was fending off the vanguard of the Army of Bohemia. The people of the city had learned that a great battle was imminent and were hurrying from their homes clutching whatever valuables they could carry. Some went east, but most went west, Napoleon noted. Clearly they judged that he would win the day and did not want to get caught on the wrong side of a pursuit once the battle was over.

  His escort cleared a path for his carriage through the refugees, some of whom stopped to marvel at this glimpse of the great Emperor of France. The carriage and squadron of hussars trotted through the city, passing soldiers forcing their way into shops and houses to find food and secure a comfortable billet, and soon reached the Grand Army’s headquarters in Leipzig’s chamber of deputies. Berthier and his staff had arrived at dawn and occupied the clerks’ hall, immediately settling down to work to ensure that the army’s communications would flow efficiently once the battle was under way.

  Napoleon greeted Berthier and then sat heavily in a chair beside his chief of staff’s desk. ‘Have the cavalry patrols located Blücher and Bernadotte yet?’

  ‘Not yet, sire.’

  ‘Even if they have joined forces, they are at least three days’ march from here. That will give us a chance to tackle the Army of Bohemia before they can intervene. I intend to give battle in two days’ time. The line of hills to the south of the city is ideal for artillery. That will be where we take up our position. The plan will be the same one we used at Dresden. Pin the enemy centre in place while we envelop their flanks. The army will use tomorrow to move into position so that the attack can begin the following morning.’

  ‘Very well, sire. And what about our northern flank?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘If Blücher should appear, then we will need to block him, else he will cut the road to the west and fall on our rear.’

  ‘We are safe from Blücher. He will not reach us until after the battle,’ Napoleon replied dismissively. ‘But you are right to be cautious. Marmont’s corps can guard the northern approaches until the battle is under way. If there is no sign of Blücher he can march south and add his weight to our right flank.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier nodded, relieved. ‘I will give the orders at once.’

  Two days later the dawn was cold and misty and the soldiers of the Grand Army quietly took their places along the line of hills either side of the village of Wachau. Opposite them, across the rolling countryside south of Leipzig, the Army of Bohemia spread out across a wide front. Even before Napoleon and his escort reached his forward command post there was a deep roar of guns as the enemy opened fire.

  ‘It seems that they have attacked first,’ Napoleon said to Berthier. ‘Very well, that serves our purpose. Let them expend their effort and then we shall take them with a counter-attack.’

  The highest point along the line of hills was called the Galgenburg and it was here that the headquarters staff had prepared the Emperor’s command point. The ground underneath his boots trembled from the exchange of artillery fire for the first half-hour and then the enemy batteries began to fall silent as the first waves of infantry advanced towards the French line. Vast columns of men marched forward beneath the national colours of Austria, Prussia and Russia, straight into the hail of case shot from the massed guns of the Grand Army. Gaps appeared in the enemy’s leading battalions as men were smashed away, but the ranks closed up and the battalions came on without missing a step. Shortly before the waiting French infantry they halted to deploy into line, still under fire from cannon, and then began the deadly business of musket volleys as the two armies set about each other in earnest.

  From his high position Napoleon followed the battle with satisfaction as the enemy attack made little progress. Here and there, the allies broke individual French battalions, but elsewhere their units crumbled away under the weight of French fire, and withdrew in disorder. The enemy took the village at Wachau at ten o’clock, and then it was retaken by French infantry after a bloody mêlée in the narrow streets which were left strewn with bodies, the neatly painted walls spattered and smeared with blood.

  As midday approached it was clear that the enemy attack was spent and the battle had settled down into a deadly process of attrition.

  Napoleon had seen no sign of the approach of Marmont’s corps to take its place on the right wing of the French line, where it would be needed to swing the balance in Napoleon’s favour once the time was right to launch the counter-attack.

  ‘Berthier!’

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘Have there been any messages from Marmont?’

  Berthier checked his log book. ‘None, sire.’

  ‘Then where is he? He should have reached his position an hour ago. Find out. Tell him I want him here, or he may cost us the battle.’

  ‘At once, sire.’

  At noon the French attack began as General Drouot, the commander of the artillery, gave the order to open fire on the enemy centre. The range was long and the gunners used round shot, but even so the heavy iron balls smashed deep into the enemy regiments formed up opposite the Galgenburg. On either side of the battery the French army began to advance, the infantry pausing to unleash volleys at close range before charging home with the bayonet. All along the battlefield Napoleon saw that the enemy was steadily being forced to retreat, giving up all their earlier gains, and then more ground as they were pressed back towards their reserves. On the left flank, Murat unleashed his cavalry in a great sweeping arc intended to cut behind the enemy line.

  As the attack drove forward, Napoleon heard more cannon fire, this time from the north. He became concerned as it rapidly intensified. Leaving the command post, he mounted his horse and galloped down the reverse slope of the Galgenburg and past the suburbs of Leipzig, making for the sound of the guns. Two miles north of the city was the village of Möckern, where the smoke from scores of guns was rising up in the still air. Spurring his horse on, Napoleon came across the first of the wounded, stumbling back from the battle raging to the north of Leipzig. It was Blücher, Napoleon realised. He had come up on them more quickly than Napoleon had calculated.

  Marmont was directing his corps from a hill a short distance outside Möckern when Napoleon found him. The French still held the village, but the rest of the line had been forced to give ground. To the north Napoleon could see long columns of infantry and cavalry marching up to join Blücher’s vanguard.

  ‘Why the devil didn’t you report this?’ Napoleon barked in response to Marmont’s salute. ‘Did you not think the arrival of Blücher was a matter of some importance?’

  ‘Sire, I was ordered to hold my ground by Marshal Ney. I assumed he would inform you that I ha
d been attacked.’

  ‘Ney?’ Napoleon shook his head in frustration. ‘Never mind. Can you hold Blücher back until tonight? You must buy me time.’

  Marmont glanced over his line. ‘I can hold them for two, maybe three hours, sire, but they are growing in strength all the while.’

  ‘Do whatever you can to delay Blücher. Then fall back to the outer defences of the city.’

  Marmont nodded. Napoleon stayed with him for another half-hour, until he was confident that Marmont’s men showed no signs of breaking, then he turned his mount south and returned to the main battle. It was past five o’clock before he reached the command post. Berthier greeted him with a worried expression and made his report. ‘The attack is stalling, sire. The enemy have more reserves than we thought. We have pushed them back the best part of a mile, but no further. We can’t break through and our own reserves have been exhausted. Only the Imperial Guard remains.’

  ‘Then why weren’t they sent forward?’

  ‘I didn’t have your authority to give the order, sire. It was in the battle orders that they could only be deployed by you.’

  Napoleon sighed with exasperation that he had been distracted by events at Möckern at the critical point of the main battle. It was too late to do anything now. The light was starting to fail and night would be upon them in little more than an hour. He clasped his hands tightly together behind his back and mastered his frustration before he could give the necessary orders to Berthier.

  ‘Call off the attack. Order all commanders to withdraw. Once they break contact they are to retire on Leipzig.

  The Grand Army fell back on Leipzig under cover of darkness, forming a defence perimeter around the edge of the city. The strength returns sent in to headquarters indicated that the day’s fighting had cost twenty-five thousand men, and it was likely that the enemy’s losses had been somewhat higher, mainly due to the bloody failure of their initial attack. That was of little comfort to Napoleon now that the enemy’s armies were closing in on Leipzig. There was no longer any possibility of fighting them one at a time, and no hope of defeating them en masse. Retreat to the Rhine was the only course of action lying open to Napoleon now, and the knowledge weighed heavily upon his weary mind.

  The following day there was only skirmishing as the allied armies moved into position, preparing for a simultaneous assault on the city. Napoleon took advantage of the delay to send his baggage across the river that ran to the west of Leipzig. The ground on the far bank was composed of a low-lying marsh, crossed by a causeway, and it was clear that there was a danger that the army would be caught in a bottleneck if it collapsed under the coming onslaught. That night, Napoleon revealed his decision to retreat to his marshals.

  ‘It seems that we have another Berezina, gentlemen.’ Napoleon smiled thinly. ‘We are outnumbered two to one. Our ammunition is running low. We must evacuate the city. We will start pulling men out of the line from midnight. MacDonald, Lauriston and Poniatowski will form the rearguard and keep the enemy at bay until the rest of the army is over, and then fall back themselves. In order for the evacuation to succeed, it is vital that the men cross the river and the causeway in good order. The rearguard will be covered by our guns on the far bank, and when the last men are across the bridge will be blown. Berthier will send you orders when it is your turn to cross the river.’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘That’s all there is to say, gentlemen, except good luck.’

  A light rain began to fall during the night, and it helped to conceal the sounds of the retreat as the horses, guns and men of the Grand Army filed across the river Elster. When dawn broke, half the army was still in the city, and in order to buy more time Napoleon sent an officer to the enemy to offer an armistice, spinning out the negotiations for as long as possible. Eventually the allies became aware of the ruse and sent the officer back, and began their attack shortly afterwards. There was little to gain from remaining in Leipzig and Napoleon mounted his horse and made his way through the streets to the crowded approaches to the bridge.

  Once he reached the causeway Napoleon dismounted to observe the final phase of the evacuation as the soldiers pressed forward eagerly, despite the angry shouts of the engineer officers struggling to ensure that the men did not dangerously crowd the bridge. Napoleon approached the officer in charge of the demolition of the bridge as he supervised the laying of the fuses.

  ‘You are certain that the charges are sufficient to destroy the bridge, Colonel . . .’

  ‘Montfort, sire.’The officer smiled nervously. ‘Colonel Montfort. Yes, indeed, sire. There’s enough powder under the arches to blow it to pieces twice over.’

  Napoleon nodded. ‘That’s good. You understand your orders?’

  ‘Yes, sire. We light the fuse the moment the last of the rearguard is over.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Napoleon regarded the man carefully. Montfort’s left hand was twitching at his side. Napoleon patted him on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly. ‘Just do your duty, Colonel, and we’ll all be able to thumb our noses at the enemy, eh?’

  The soldiers continued to file across the bridge as the last hours of the morning passed, until only the rearguard, some twenty thousand men, remained on the eastern bank. The sounds of fighting gradually drew closer to the bridge but Poniatowski reported that the rearguard was falling back in good order. Then, shortly before one o’clock, a party of Austrian soldiers appeared at the windows of a house overlooking the river. At once they opened fire on the men crossing the bridge. The range was long, and most of the rounds cracked into the stonework or zipped over the heads of the intended targets. Only a handful of men were struck, but it still caused a ripple of panic amongst those packed on the bridge.

  Napoleon saw the danger at once and hurried over to the nearest gun covering the bridge, close to the position where the engineers stood by their fuse.

  ‘Sergeant! You see that house there?’ Napoleon pointed across the river, and a moment later there was a flash and a puff of smoke from one of the windows.

  ‘I see ’em, sire.’The sergeant nodded.

  ‘Then traverse your gun and put some case shot through those windows,’ Napoleon ordered.

  ‘With pleasure, sire.’

  As soon as the gun was laid, and the elevation screw adjusted, the sergeant ordered his crew back and touched the portfire to the fuse cone. The field gun kicked back as a short jet of flame stabbed towards the house. Glass shattered and plaster exploded from the wall, splashing down into the river below. As Napoleon had hoped, the enemy musket fire ceased for an instant, but then a musket barrel appeared at the window and a shot was fired. The ball smacked into the bridge close by Colonel Montfort and he cried out as a stone chip grazed his cheek.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he shouted, eyes wide with fear.‘The enemy are on us!’ He turned quickly to one of his men, no more than a youth, holding the smouldering taper. ‘Light the fuse! Do it now!’

  Then he turned and scrambled up the bank, brushing past Napoleon as he ran along the causeway. Another shot struck the surface of the river close to the young engineer and he ducked and lit the end of the fuse.

  ‘No! Don’t!’ Napoleon shouted, thrusting out his hands.

  There was a bright flare, and then the spark raced along the fuse, hissing and spitting like a demon as it followed the loops of cord towards the central arches of the bridge. One of the guardsmen escorting Napoleon grabbed his sleeve and hauled him away.

  ‘Take cover, sire!’

  They stumbled across the bank of the river, making for the shelter of a low stone wall. The guardsman heaved Napoleon over the wall and dived after him, just as there was a blinding flash that shot jets of flame and smoke into the air. The concussion hit them with a deafening roar. Napoleon glanced up and saw chunks of masonry, men and limbs blasted into the air, where they hung for an instant before tumbling back down. A slab of paving smashed through the tiled roof of the house adjoining the wall.

  For a moment Napoleon sat on his hands and knee
s, stunned by the ferocity of the blast. Then he scrambled up and looked over the wall. The central arches of the bridge had gone and the water beneath was churning as the lighter bits of debris rained down. A gap nearly a hundred feet wide had been blown out of the bridge and on either end the stonework was scorched black. Further back the bodies of his men lay heaped on the cobbles of the roadway. Here and there a dazed survivor struggled to free himself from the bloody carnage. On the far bank a crowd of men stood and stared, aghast. Their only escape route from Leipzig was gone. A collective groan reached Napoleon’s ears from across the river.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ the guardsman muttered. ‘They’re fucked.’

  Napoleon nodded. Already he could hear the sounds of musketry increasing in intensity as the enemy pressed forward against the French rearguard. Some of the men on the far bank looked round anxiously and then the first of them threw down his musket and struggled out of his backpack. Stripped down to shirt, breeches and boots, he clambered down into the current and struck out for the opposite bank. More followed suit, some clinging to small kegs and other items that would give them buoyancy. Most made it across, heaving themselves up on to the grassy bank either side of Napoleon. Some, poor swimmers or injured, were carried away by the current, and thrashed for a moment before being dragged beneath the surface by the weight of their uniforms and equipment.

  ‘Look!’ The guardsman thrust out his arm. ‘Look there, sire. It’s Marshal Poniatowski!’

  Napoleon scanned the far bank and quickly caught sight of the marshal, his left arm in a sling, urging his horse through the throng, accompanied by a handful of his staff officers. All around him the French soldiers were throwing down their muskets and waiting to be taken prisoner. Poniatowski reached the edge of the river and reined in, gazing down at the men attempting to swim across the current. He looked up, in Napoleon’s direction. For an instant Napoleon stared back, his first impulse bitterness to see the capture of such a fine officer. Just when France needed every worthy man, to save her from her enemies.