Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
The Fields of Death (35 page)
Even as the series of marches and counter-marches and bloodless confrontations became a source of discontent for the rank and file, Arthur was steadily preparing the ground for the following year’s campaign. His requests for more reinforcements, particularly cavalry, had been agreed by the government. A siege train of good-quality heavy guns was landed at Oporto and then laboriously hauled overland to Almeida where supplies of ammunition and rations were being stockpiled. When the time came for the allied army to advance again, they would be properly supplied, and ready to batter down the defences of any fortress that stood in their way.
Chapter 22
Paris, 2 December 1811
Even though the night was raw and cold, much of the population of the city had turned out to celebrate the anniversary of the emperor’s coronation. The crowds lined the banks of the Seine, waiting in excited anticipation for the fireworks display to begin. Three barges had been anchored in the middle of the river, opposite the Tuileries palace. By the light of carefully shielded lanterns the crowds could make out the dim figures making the final preparations. The display marked the end of the day-long celebrations to mark the eighth year of Napoleon’s reign. At dawn a battery of twelve-pounders had thundered out a salute from the heights of Montmartre. Each boom had echoed across the roofs of Paris, slick and glistening in the light mist that coated every surface with damp.
Early that morning, the battalions of the Imperial Guard had begun to march into the city from their billets in the suburbs. Their route was lined with crowds, cheering proudly as the elite soldiers in their towering bearskins marched past in neat ranks to the rhythm of the patriotic music played by each battalion’s band. Interspersed between the infantry were squadrons of Guard cavalry, large men in shining high boots and breastplates, mounted on powerful horses whose coats were brushed to a satin gleam.
A reviewing platform had been erected in the great courtyard of the Tuileries where a more select audience had been permitted into the palace grounds to witness the military parades that took place in the afternoon. On the platform sat Napoleon, his Empress, and senior members of the court, as well as guests from the courts of the other Euopean powers.
One by one the battalions of the Old Guard marched past with their muskets shouldered, campaign stripes adorning their immaculate uniforms and medals pinned to their breasts. After the guardsmen came a small party of junior officers, each man carrying one of the Prussian, Austrian and Russian standards captured in the campaigns of the previous years.
Napoleon turned his head slightly to glance at Prince Metternich, the Austrian Foreign Minister. Metternich’s normally curly hair was plastered to his head by the faint drizzle, yet his expression of resentment was clear to see and it warmed Napoleon’s heart. Never let the Austrians forget that they had been humbled by Napoleon whenever they had dared to wage war on France. Beyond Metternich sat the Russian ambassador, Kurakin, his head inclined towards Talleyrand as the two exchanged a few muttered comments. The Russian turned at that moment, and met Napoleon’s stare. He smiled faintly and bowed his head to the French Emperor before turning his eyes back to the captured standards passing by. Talleyrand pursed his lips and looked directly ahead as he slowly twisted his walking stick.
Napoleon turned his face back towards the passing flags, acknowledging the salutes of his officers automatically, but his mood had been soured by the sight of the two men conversing. What was that devil, Talleyrand, up to now, he wondered. It was possible their exchange of comments was innocent enough, but with the steadily growing rift between France and Russia Napoleon was inclined to be suspicious of every Russian, and those they chose to associate with. Only a few months earlier the Tsar had increased the import duties on French goods yet again, at the same time as he continued to turn a blind eye to the English goods that were being landed at Russian ports. And now the Tsar was protesting about the presence of French troops in Poland, and demanding that Napoleon agree to his annexation of some Polish territories that bordered Russia. This, on top of his demand that Napoleon give him a free hand in the crumbling Turkish empire. The reports from the ambassador to St Petersburg spoke ominously of the growing anti-French feeling at the Russian court. Increasingly, there was talk of war with France and a new alliance with England.
Napoleon felt his stomach clench tightly as he was gripped by a familiar rage at the thought of his old enemy, defying him from behind the wooden walls of the Royal Navy. It was a perverse freak of geography that had separated England from the rest of the continent by that narrow, unbridgeable channel. From behind that cursed channel, England, a nation of petty businessmen, mocked him. But for that strip of water, it would all be over. England would be occupied, its fleets broken up, and Europe would be enjoying peace under the leadership of France, and Napoleon, and his heirs. Instead, the war continued, slowly eating away at the flower of French manhood down in Spain.
There was scarcely any good news from Madrid. Just endless lists of casualties and demands for more men, supplies and gold. Spain was like an open festering wound in the side of his empire, Napoleon decided. Worst of all, his marshals seemed to have got it into their heads that their English opponent was some kind of military genius. It was clear from their reports that they had begun to fear Lord Wellington. Even though the forces commanded by the marshals outnumbered the English, and could outmarch them, it seemed that when the English general was forced to fight the courage of Napoleon’s marshals withered and they were too nervous to finish off the fox that they had successfully cornered. If only there was time for him to go to Spain and face this English aristocrat himself, Napoleon thought bitterly. He would manoeuvre Wellington into a trap and crush him in short order. The thought of proving to his marshals how groundless their fears were was most appealing. He would triumph where they had wavered, and he would prove before all Europe that he was the finest general of the age, or indeed any age.
But there was little chance of finding the time to campaign in the Peninsula, Napoleon realised. There was an empire to rule, and enemies to be faced here in Paris, as well as the other great capitals of Europe. If there was going to be a war between France and Russia then he would need to bend his full concentration towards preparing for that conflict. It would be a struggle on a gigantic scale. As his mind grappled once again with the complexities involved in an invasion of Russia, Napoleon briefly wondered if it could be done. The distances concerned were greater than any he had led an army before. There would be a huge wastage of men, horses and wagons, long before he could engage the Tsar’s armies, or, failing that, seize St Petersburg or Moscow and dictate his terms for peace from one of the Tsar’s palaces.
Napoleon knew that there would not be enough men in France to fill out the ranks of the army he would need. He would be forced to depend upon contributions from his allies. Meanwhile, over a quarter of a million of his soldiers were tied down in Spain. It was maddening. Napoleon clenched his fist and frowned, and then he felt his stomach knot again, tightly, and the now familiar pain stabbed into his guts. Overwork and too much anxiety - that’s what caused the stomach pains, according to the imperial surgeon.
The last of the captured colours passed by the reviewing stand and the parade was over. He thrust all thought of war from his mind and turned to his Empress. He took her hand and squeezed it gently, smiling as she turned to look at him with a questioning arch in her finely shaped eyebrows.
‘I hope you are not cold, my dear. You have been sitting here for over two hours.’
‘I am warm enough.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘It pleases me to be at your side.’
‘Really?’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘I suspect you are being kind to me. I should think only soldiers, and those who want to be soldiers, enjoy such parades.’ He leaned closer to her and nodded in the direction of Kurakin and Talleyrand. ‘Others, however, evidently find such occasions a bore.’ Napoleon suddenly released her hand and straightened up. ‘Is that not right, Talleyrand?’
Talleyrand turned quickly, his face wearing its usual neutral expression. ‘Pardon, sire?’
Napoleon rose from his seat and gestured to Marie-Louise. ‘I was explaining to the Empress that not all men feel comfortable in the presence of soldiers. Men like yourself, and Ambassador Kurakin there.’
‘I am not uncomfortable, sire.’ Talleyrand gave the faintest of shrugs. ‘It is just that I find that my tastes, and manner of conversation, have little in common with the sentiments of those in the military.’
‘Is that so?’ Napoleon enquired frostily, then pointed towards Talleyrand’s deformed foot. ‘But for that I am sure you could have served your country in a more useful capacity than you have endured.’
‘I think the word is enjoyed rather than endured, sire.’ Talleyrand bowed his head. ‘In either case, I am sure that soldiers and statesmen alike would prefer to repair to the palace than remain here in the cold.’
‘Soldiers are hardened to such temperatures,’ Napoleon responded with contempt. ‘As are Russians, eh, Kurakin?’
The ambassador nodded. ‘Indeed, sire. The winters are so harsh in Russia that only those born and bred to it will ever survive there.’
Napoleon stared at him. ‘You think so?’
‘I am sure of it, sire. A man would be a fool to fight a campaign in the depths of a Russian winter.’
He held the Emperor’s gaze and both men were silent for a moment before Napoleon suddenly smiled and turned back to Talleyrand. ‘The mere mention of Russia is making me feel cold. Come, let’s go inside.’
With the Empress on his arm, Napoleon led his guests from the reviewing platform across the courtyard to the doors leading into one of the reception chambers. A long dining table had been laid for the guests and polished cutlery, crystal and porcelain gleamed from end to end. Napoleon took his place at the head of the table, the Empress at the foot, and once they were seated the rest moved towards their assigned places. Footmen stood behind each chair, smoothly pulling them out and easing them back under the guests as they sat down. Talleyrand, Metternich and Kurakin had been placed close to the top of the table and as several imperial servants entered carrying steaming tureens Napoleon lifted his nose and sniffed.
‘Onion soup! Now there’s a hearty dish to warm a man through.’
‘That, or a rare brandy,’ commented Talleyrand.
Napoleon wagged his finger. ‘Your fondness for fine things is a weakness, my friend.’
Talleyrand smiled, and no more was said until the soup had been served and a good-natured hubbub of conversation gradually rose around the table. Napoleon waited until he could be sure that his words would not easily be overheard by any but the intended recipients, and then turned to Kurakin.
‘Tell me, Ambassador, does the Tsar really think that I do not know that he has all but abandoned the trade blockade against England?’
Kurakin slowly lowered his spoon as he composed a reply. ‘Sire, you can rest assured that the Tsar is aware of his obligations. However, he wonders how you can insist on Russia’s keeping faith with an agreement when you yourself break it when it suits the needs of France. There is something of a double standard being applied here, is there not?’
Napoleon felt his veins burn with irritation at the man’s bold exposition of the tensions between the two rulers. Yet it would be hard to defend the trade deals in boots and uniform cloth that had been conducted between France and England, two nations implacably at war.
‘It was a question of expediency. France benefited more from the arrangement than England. And if it was to the benefit of France, then it is also to the benefit of her allies.’
‘That is an argument that applies equally to Russia, sire. Or, indeed, any of the other nations that count themselves amongst your allies. On that basis, one might ask what is the purpose of maintaining the blockade? Since it is an open secret that the blockade is flouted by every nation in Europe.’
‘You are wrong, Kurakin. I have tens of thousands of customs officials enforcing the blockade in every port in France. Elsewhere, my soldiers enforce it. If only my cousin, the Tsar, would enforce the blockade as diligently, we could force England to sue for peace within the year. Once there is peace, there will be no further need for the blockade and we can all reap the rewards of unrestricted trade again.’ Napoleon leaned forward and emphasised his next words. ‘But we must bring England down first. That is all that matters. All that stands between us and an age of prosperity for both our nations. You tell him that.’
‘I will tell him, sire.’
‘See that you do. And remind him that when we first met, at Tilsit, it was I who offered the hand of friendship. I could have chosen to continue the war and crush the Tsar’s armies, but I was merciful. I chose peace and offered to share the spoils of Europe. For that,Alexander owes me a debt of gratitude.’ Napoleon’s tone hardened. ‘Instead, he insults me. He lies to my face, while all the time conspiring to steal away my lands piece by piece. Like a common thief.’
Talleyrand cleared his throat. ‘Sire, I hardly think this is the place to broach such matters. Later, in private, would be better.’
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