Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
The Fields of Death (46 page)
Napoleon pursed his lips. He had expected to lose many men; their sacrifice would be worthwhile if the Russian army were destroyed. ‘Very well, Berthier. Notify me of any further developments.’
‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier bowed and turned to hurry back to re-join his aides. Napoleon thought about ascending the tower again, but there was little point. The smoke would obscure his vision. He was not well enough to mount his horse and ride forward, so he would have to follow the battle on the map. He sat in the nave and waited. An hour later there was a fresh flurry of reports and Berthier read through them with a concerned expression before he approached the Emperor again.
‘The Russians have counter-attacked, sire. Eugène’s division has been driven from the Heights, and Davout has lost control of Semenowska. He has re-formed his men and is preparing for another assault, with Ney in support. Poniatowski has been halted just beyond Utitsa. The Russians have hundreds of guns covering the road.’
‘Very well. Tell Murat to have one of his cavalry corps ready to support Davout, and order Eugène to send three of his divisions across the river to attack the main redoubt.’
As the next hour passed sporadic reports continued to reach imperial headquarters. The fighting around the Russian centre sucked in more and more of Davout’s and Ney’s men. Several of the French generals were lost, and Davout was injured, but he had the wound dressed quickly so that he could continue to lead his men. Still, the Russians held on to the village of Semenowska and the earthworks. Before the third hour of the battle had passed Napoleon was obliged to send Junot’s reserve corps forward to support the attack. Every formation was now committed to the battle, with the exception of the twenty-five thousand men of the Imperial Guard, drawn up on a knoll a short distance from the church.
Napoleon picked up his telescope and gathering his strength he climbed back into the tower to try to gauge the progess of the latest attack on the Russian centre. The entire strength of three infantry corps together with ten thousand horsemen pressed forward, supported by two hundred and fifty cannon. The enemy had also concentrated their artillery in the centre, and more guns savaged the French flank from the largest redoubt. The hills opposite the church were now heaped with bodies and a steady stream of walking wounded limped down the slope to escape the maelstrom of cannon and musket fire around Semenowska and the two smaller earthworks. Slowly, the smoke cleared from the Russian centre and Napoleon realised that the enemy were starting to give ground. Now was the time for the cavalry to push forward and break the Russian line.
He returned to the nave to issue the order and then pulled up a chair so that he could sit by the map table to wait for further news. Surely Murat’s cavalry would scatter the Russians, he thought. After the earlier cannonade and the assaults by the French infantry, the Russians would be badly shaken. The sight of thousands of heavy cavalry charging towards them would be the final straw. Yet the minutes passed and there was no report of a breakthrough. Then, nearly an hour later, a message came from Murat. Incredibly, the Russians had not run. Instead, they had formed squares and steadily retreated to a ridge nearly two miles beyond their initial position. Murat asked for the Old Guard to be sent forward to settle the matter. Napoleon finished reading the note and handed it to Berthier.
‘The Imperial Guard is the only reserve that remains,’ he grumbled. ‘Murat wants to throw them against the Russian cannon. Tell Murat that he and my other marshals must make do with what they have. The enemy are still holding out in the strongest redoubt. We must have that before we advance any further. Bring every spare gun to bear on the redoubt. Eugène’s corps will make the attack from the front, while Caulaincourt’s cavalry advance round the flank to take the redoubt from the rear.’
Berthier nodded.
Napoleon stared blankly at the map and muttered, ‘I will not destroy the Guard. They are the last fresh formation in the army. We are too far from home to risk everything.’
The middle of the day passed as Eugène gathered his forces for the assault on the redoubt. It was two o’clock before four hundred guns opened fire, pounding the embrasures to pieces, dismounting dozens of guns and killing their crews. As Eugène’s men closed on the redoubt the dazed defenders opened fire with the remaining guns while the Russian infantry lined the battered fortifications and fired into the approaching mass. As the French drums beat, the leading ranks surged forward, clambering up the steep sides of the earthwork, and engaged the defenders in a ferocious hand to hand struggle with cold steel and the butts of their muskets.
The shrill call of trumpets added to the sound of the drums as the French cavalry surged round the side of the redoubt and swept aside the line of infantry guarding the open entrances to the rear of the fortification. The garrison was caught between the two forces, and before the hour was out the last of them had been cut down. Not a single prisoner was taken.
Napoleon nodded in satisfaction when he heard the news from one of Ney’s staff officers.‘Good. The time for one last assault is upon us. Tell Ney to advance and the day is his.’
‘Sire, Marshal Ney says that his corps is too exhausted to advance, and he has lost too many men.’
‘Ney said that?’ Napoleon was shocked. Had even his bravest and most aggressive marshal lost heart? ‘Ney?’
‘Yes, sire,’ the officer replied nervously. ‘And he begs you to send forward the Guard. He said to assure you that if they attack now, then what is left of the Russian line will break.’
‘No! No! No!’ Napoleon hammered his fist on the table.‘The Guard stays where it is! Tell Ney, Davout and Murat that they must go forward.’
It was late in the afternoon before the exhausted French soldiers had re-formed their columns. They were grimly resolved to obey the Emperor’s order. All around them lay tens of thousands of dead and wounded men and horses. Before them, on the next ridge, thousands of Russian cavalry stood waiting, screening the remains of the Tsar’s army as it too re-formed its ranks. Once more the French guns belched flame and smoke and heavy iron balls arced across the battlefield to plough through the lines of Russian horsemen. They stood their ground with stolid courage as the French came on. Then the sound of trumpets called out, and the enemy cavalry turned about and trotted away to catch up with their infantry and guns as they left the battlefield.
Ney gave the order to halt, and as the daylight began to fade his men wearily spread out along the crest of the ridge that had been drenched in the blood of so many French and enemy soldiers. Once he was certain there was no danger of any counter-attack, Ney rode back to headquarters to confront his Emperor.
‘The Guard would have made all the difference!’ Ney glared at the Emperor.
Napoleon looked back, pale and sweating from his sickness. Ney had a dressing around his head, darkly stained where his skull had been creased by a spent musket ball. He had also been hit in the thigh and twice in the arm by chips of stone when cannon balls had grounded close to his horse.
‘One final assault by fresh troops would have put the seal on a great victory.’ Ney shook his head. ‘Now they have escaped.’
‘You are wrong,’ Napoleon replied evenly. ‘We have won a great victory today. That is what I have told Berthier to report to Paris. We have met the enemy and swept them aside.’
‘What?’ Ney’s lips curled in contempt. ‘Only a fool would believe that. Some victory.’ He gestured towards the ruined enemy earthworks. ‘We have won a few piles of dirt and the ruins of two villages. The Tsar’s army is still intact and now we will have to fight it again. All because the Guard refused to muddy their uniforms.’
‘The order was mine,’ Napoleon replied coldly as he rubbed his brow. The headache had returned with a vengeance. ‘I take full responsibility for the consequences.’
‘That’s good of you, sire.’
Napoleon ignored the mocking tone and continued, ‘The fact is, we have defeated the Tsar’s army. Even if he has managed to save most of his men, there is nothing that can stop us reaching Moscow now.’
Chapter 30
Moscow, 15 September 1812
Napoleon stood at the window of the Tsar’s private study in the Kremlin gazing out at the historic Russian capital with an expression of horrified awe. His face was lit in the blood-red hue as he stared towards the great swathe of Moscow that was on fire.
He had reached the city shortly after noon, a day after the first of Murat’s cavalry had cautiously made their way through the abandoned streets. The road junctions had been plastered with copies of a proclamation issued by Moscow’s governor ordering the population to evacuate, or face arrest and possible execution for treason. Naturally, many had refused to leave and had gone into hiding, emerging later to enjoy the freedom to break into the wealthiest houses and steal whatever valuables they could find. They had scuttled away, back into concealment, the moment they caught sight of the French troops entering the city. For their part, the hungry, tattered figures of the Grand Army took over where the native looters had left off.
‘Who started the fires?’ Napoleon asked.
‘We haven’t discovered that yet, sire,’ Murat replied. ‘None of the infantry had penetrated that part of the city before the fires broke out, so it might have been the work of some of the cavalry patrols. Or it could have been the Russians.’
‘The Russians?’
‘Why not, sire? They’ve been busy burning crops, villages and bridges behind them as they have retreated.’
‘That’s one thing. But to destroy the most sacred city of your country is quite another. I can’t believe Alexander could do such a thing. Such an act of barbarism.’
Murat shrugged. ‘Perhaps you have underestimated the Tsar.’
Napoleon frowned. Had he misjudged Alexander? Was his opponent a far more ruthless man than he had assumed? If that was the case, then Napoleon had erred more profoundly than ever before. It was an unsettling thought and he hurriedly banished it from his mind as he turned to Murat. ‘What is being done to contain the fires?’
Murat looked surprised. ‘Why, nothing, sire. It’s not our problem.’
‘It will be unless something is done. The army needs billets and food, which they won’t have unless something is done about the fire.’
Murat thought quickly. ‘We’d better use the Guard. Most of the other divisions are looting. The Guard is about the only disciplined unit left at the moment. That is, if you can spare them.’
‘Take them,’ Napoleon replied at once. ‘The fire must be contained.’
Murat nodded. ‘At the moment it’s confined to the poorest quarter of the city. Most of the houses there are small affairs, made of wood. We should be able to destroy enough of them to create a fire break.’
‘Very well then, deal with it, Murat.’ Napoleon waved a hand to dismiss his cavalry commander. The door closed loudly and Napoleon was alone again. He turned away from the window and began to examine the room, curious to see what it revealed about the Tsar.
The study was lit by a handful of candles burning in a chandelier. Paintings of family members and illustrious ancestors adorned the walls, though not, Napoleon noted, Alexander’s father, Nicholas, who had been murdered by the men who had placed Alexander on the throne. The vast desk, with its ornate marquetry, was empty, as were the document cupboards throughout the Tsar’s suite. Piles of ashes and scorch marks defiled the brilliant marble tiles of the floor where confidential documents had been burned. A long row of bookcases lined the wall opposite the windows and Napoleon ran his finger along the spines of the books. A few shelves contained works in Russian and others contained texts in Latin and German, but the majority of the books were in French. Napoleon smiled at the eclectic range of writings, everything from obscure philosophical tracts to the works of Rousseau and Voltaire. So, the Tsar was a man interested in liberal politics, Napoleon mused. A pity; he might have made a good Frenchman. Then he paused, stared and smiled. On one of the top shelves he had spied some racy romantic novels of the kind hawked around the less salubrious neighbourhoods of Paris.
‘A man of the people as well, then.’ Smiling, Napoleon stretched up an arm to pluck out one of the books. He idly flicked through the opening pages and then placed the book in the pocket of his coat and strode across the room to sit down in the finely carved and upholstered chair behind the desk. Directly opposite him, on the far wall, hung a portrait of Alexander in military uniform, his gloved hand resting on the handle of a curved sword. Napoleon stared at the portrait for a long time before he muttered, ‘Why don’t you surrender? Why? Your army has been beaten. Your greatest city has fallen and now burns. What more can you endure? It is madness to continue the war. You will sue for peace. I know it.’
The fire burned for another three days, consuming most of the city before it died out, or was stopped by the firebreaks the French soldiers had created by blasting entire streets to pieces with powder charges. The air over the city was filled with the acrid stench of burning and smoke still curled into the clear skies for many days afterwards. Only a quarter of the city, including the Kremlin, had escaped the flames, but it was more than enough to accommodate the men of the Grand Army.
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