Somerset was enjoying the spectacle and slapped his thigh with glee each time one of the rockets exploded just above or amongst the enemy. The effect on the enemy’s morale was far in excess of the damage caused and soon the column had been stopped in its tracks as men and horses scattered as each rocket corkscrewed towards them with a shrieking roar.
Arthur reached into his saddle bucket for his telescope and trained it on the disrupted ranks of the French column. He sought out the enemy general and could not help smiling as he saw him shake his fist and shout at his men. Each time he began to reassert control a fresh rocket undid his work and in the end he snatched off his hat and threw it on the ground in frustration. After enduring half an hour of the bombardment he finally gave in and the column turned about and hurried back down the road towards Bayonne. The Portuguese troops could only see the line of men in front of them, and they let out a great cheer as soon as the enemy re-formed their columns and hurried after their comrades.
Arthur lowered his telescope with a satisfied smile. ‘Well, that’s that. I shouldn’t think we’ll have any further difficulty with the bridgehead. You may tell General Hope that his blockade of Bayonne can begin the moment his corps completes the encirclement of the city.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘As for us, we’ll re-join Hill.’ Arthur’s smile faded as he considered the next phase of the campaign. ‘Then it’s back to hard marching. This time, we’ll run Soult down and defeat him once and for all. With the south of France in our hands and the north falling to the allies then our friend Bonaparte will be caught in the middle. Let us hope the man has the sense to admit defeat.’ Arthur stared at the French bodies littering the road to Bayonne and continued quietly, ‘By God, Somerset, I want nothing more than to see the end of the slaughter that has been carried out in his name.’
Chapter 48
Napoleon
Paris, 24 January 1814
A cold blue hue covered the city as dusk gathered. Napoleon stood back from the window of his office in the Tuileries and looked over the public square in front of the gates. Only a handful of people still wandered across the cobbled expanse in ones and twos, huddled into their coats as a chilly wind blew across the city. Several beggars squatted outside the gates, hoping to get a few coins from those who passed by, trying to catch sight of the Emperor. There was little chance of that, Napoleon thought bitterly. The risk of some madman taking a shot at him was too high. After his return to Paris, three weeks after the disaster at Leipzig, Napoleon’s police minister, General Savary, reported that he had uncovered a number of conspiracies.
Most were harmless enough - coteries of disgruntled aristocrats sending letters denouncing Napoleon and declaring their loyalty to the Bourbon cause. They were kept under watch and any contacts they made duly noted. Other plots were more dangerous. Groups of army officers planning to compel the Emperor to sue for peace, or have him forced from power. The minister’s agents were busy compiling evidence against them in readiness to make arrests. Such officers were destined for a dank cell in a far-flung prison, or to be placed up against a wall in the cool light of dawn and shot. Then there was the minority of traitors who planned to kill Napoleon, and his heir too if possible. There was little common cause between the groups. Some wanted the restoration of a Bourbon monarchy. Others wanted a return to the values and institutions of the early years of the Revolution. And there were those who merely wanted revenge for a past grievence.
Whatever their causes, Napoleon did his best to ensure that he was protected against them all and did not expose himself to danger any more than was necessary. Since his return he had seldom ventured outside the Tuileries, save for visits to St-Cloud to see the Empress and his son. There was a beleaguered air about the palace, and the Parisians no longer gathered in vast crowds to acclaim their Emperor. Most of them were already looking to the future, making sure that they did not openly support a regime that might well fall at any time. Yet the grip of Napoleon’s reputation, and the optimistic pronouncements of the newspapers, ensured that the people dared not openly question whether the Emperor’s days were numbered.
He turned slowly away from the window and crossed the room to his desk. Tomorrow he would be leaving the capital to return to the army, or what was left of it, he mused bitterly. After Leipzig the exhausted soldiers had been forced to make one retreat after another, pressed back by the allied armies who clung to their heels like hunting dogs scenting the kill. By the end of the year France had a mere eighty thousand men to hold off nearly four times that number across a front that stretched from the North Sea to the Alps. In Italy Prince Eugène, also outnumbered, was holding on. In the south Soult was struggling to contain the recently promoted Field Marshal Wellington, who had crossed the frontier into France.
Napoleon smiled briefly. Soon Wellington would be taken care of. Two months earlier he had signed a treaty with Prince Ferdinand, returning the Spanish crown to him in exchange for an alliance against Britain. Once Ferdinand’s grip on power was assured, then his soldiers would turn on the British and Wellington would be compelled to retreat. That would free Soult and his army to march north.
Even so, more men were needed to fill out the ranks of the Grand Army and Napoleon had issued an edict calling for over nine hundred thousand men to defend the motherland. Scarcely a tenth of that number had answered the call, Napoleon mused angrily.
‘What do they want?’ he muttered. ‘A fat Bourbon king on the throne? Aristocrats to bleed them dry? The priests of Rome claiming their tithes? Why won’t they fight to save themselves?’ He thumped his fist down on the desk and repeated loudly, ‘Why?’
Those who had joined the army were poorly equipped due to shortages of muskets and uniforms. The cavalry regiments were the worst affected of all, as there were so few remounts available in France.
The door to the office clicked open and a clerk nervously looked in.
‘What is it?’ Napoleon barked.
‘I - I thought I heard you call for me, sire.’
‘No. I was just thinking aloud. Go away . . . No! Wait. Have my brother and generals Savary and Berthier arrived yet?’
‘No, sire.’
Napoleon frowned. ‘Well, send them in the moment they reach the palace. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sire.’
The clerk bowed his head and backed out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him.
Although Joseph and General Savary knew the reason why they had been summoned, Napoleon wanted to ensure that they had a full grasp of his intentions for the governance of France, in case anything happened to him. Berthier would take over the management of the war in the absence of the Emperor. The years of constant warfare and the exhausting task of translating the Emperor’s commands into orders and providing him with the minutest details of the strength and location of every unit in the Grand Army had exacted their toll on Berthier. After Leipzig he had returned to France a broken man and had only just returned to light duties. Some of the other marshals were still recovering from wounds received at Leipzig. Those still serving in the army were tired of war and some had openly urged Napoleon to sue for peace. Murat had withdrawn to his kingdom in Naples and was ominously silent, not having replied to a single request from his imperial master for help in the defence of France.
The door to the office opened again and the clerk entered. ‘General Savary, Marshal Berthier and his highness Joseph are here, sire.’
Napoleon stared at him. ‘They arrived together?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘In the same carriage?’
‘I don’t know, sire. They were together when they entered the anteroom.’
‘I see.’ Napoleon felt a sudden stab of suspicion. If they had arrived together then it was obvious they had travelled to the palace together. Why? What reason could they have for meeting before attending their Emperor? Napoleon breathed out slowly. He was in danger of seeing conspiracies everywhere.
‘Sire?’
Napoleon realised the clerk had been waiting for his response. He nodded. ‘Show them in.’
The clerk disappeared and a moment later there came the sound of footsteps. Joseph led the way. Savary wore a plain dress jacket as he had since taking the post of Minister of Police. Berthier was also wearing civilian clothes. Napoleon had grown so accustomed to seeing him in uniform that it came as something of a surprise. Berthier looked pale and thin and his hair was streaked with grey. Napoleon nodded towards the chairs lining one side of the room. ‘Bring them over and be seated.’
He waited until the three men had taken their places and settled before he continued. ‘I have done all that I can to prepare the army for the present campaign. France has provided me with all that she has left to defend her sacred soil, and I will find and defeat our enemies and send them reeling back across the Rhine. Let no man be in doubt of that.’ He glanced at each of them, daring them to defy his will. ‘Tomorrow, at first light, I will ride to join the army. While I am gone, you, my brother, will be appointed Lieutenant Governor of my realms. That is why I have recalled you to Paris.’
Joseph nodded steadily. ‘You may rely on me, sire.’
‘As I did in Spain?’
Joseph flushed but kept his mouth shut to prevent any expression of his hurt and anger. Napoleon felt no desire to offer his brother any comfort. The situation was too perilous for forgiveness.
‘This time, you will confine yourself to civil affairs. General Savary will act as your eyes and ears in the public and private salons of Paris. If there is any dissent, or open opposition to the regime, then the general will deal with it, using whatever powers and force are required. General Savary’s authority in maintaining order and quashing my enemies is absolute, is that clear?’
Joseph nodded.
‘Good.’ Napoleon turned to Berthier. ‘I require you to take charge of recruiting soldiers for the campaign, and making sure they are equipped. Do you accept?’
‘Of course, sire,’ Berthier replied quietly. ‘I have never failed in my duty to my country. However . . .’
Napoleon’s brow tensed. ‘However?’
There was a brief pause before Berthier cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly. ‘Sire, I have followed events as best as I can during my convalescence. The war is going badly for France. Two days ago I heard that Ney, Victor and Marmont had been forced to retreat beyond the Meuse.’
‘That is correct,’ Napoleon admitted.‘It was expedient to do so. They are retreating on to their lines of supply, while the enemy is extending theirs with every pace that they advance. I would prefer to have taken the offensive, but strategic exigencies prevent it. So, we lure them into a trap. At present they have divided into three armies, each of which can be defeated, provided that I can keep them apart and deal with each in turn.’
Berthier shut his eyes and shook his head gently before he responded. ‘But, sire, you will suffer attrition with each battle, and the odds of winning become less favourable. Besides, many of the regiments in the army are under strength. To stand any chance of defending France you must find far more men.’
‘Which I am in the process of doing,’ Napoleon replied defiantly. ‘Once King Ferdinand ratifies the peace treaty between Spain and France then tens of thousands more men will be available. And more, as soon as Murat sends reinforcements from Naples. Meanwhile, there are two divisions forming at Lyon. They will march north to reinforce me the moment I call on them.’
‘They are merely boys and invalids, sire. Many of them have still not been issued full uniforms, or muskets. They cannot be considered as front line units.’
‘We are all in the front line, Berthier. Every soul in France has been in the front line from the moment the enemy crossed our border. But rest assured, I will only fight delaying actions until the moment I can attack each of their armies at an advantage.’
‘Even if that means retreating as far as Paris, sire?’
‘Even that,’ Napoleon conceded.
Berthier slumped back in his chair. He sighed. ‘Then we must make ready the capital’s defences, sire. The people need to be prepared for the worst. We must lay in rations to feed the population and the garrison, mount every spare cannon on the walls and in the forts.’
‘No.’ Napoleon shook his head.‘If the people think that Paris will be attacked then it will only result in panic and strengthen the hand of those traitors who seek to bring France low. There will be no attempt to prepare any defences. As far as the people are concerned, they are safe from the enemy. Is that perfectly clear?’
‘Yes, sire,’ Berthier replied patiently. ‘But if, for the sake of argument, the enemy are able to advance far enough to attack Paris, what then?’
‘Then there will be no attempt to abandon the city. The garrison and the people will resist the invader to the last breath, and if necessary we must bury ourselves under its ruins.’
There was silence in the room as Berthier stared at the Emperor, then exchanged brief glances with the others. He cleared his throat. ‘Sire, that is not a strategy. There is no honour, or purpose, in a ruler dragging a civilisation down to destruction. After what happened to Moscow we can be sure that the Tsar would happily destroy Paris in revenge. We cannot risk the capital, or its people, in this way. Either you give the order to prepare Paris for a siege, or, if you decide that it cannot be defended, it must be declared an open city.’