Authors: Simon Scarrow
Fire and Sword (11 page)
‘No, sire. I would imagine that he has little enemy contact to report at this stage.’
That was true enough, Napoleon reflected. Murat’s light cavalry would only be sparring with the Austrian scouts for a few days yet. Not until the two armies approached each other would more substantial actions be fought and more definite intelligence gathered. Nevertheless, the whereabouts of the Russian armies marching to Austria’s aid concerned Napoleon greatly. Everything depended on dealing a mortal blow to General Mack before he could be reinforced.
‘Very well, but I want to know the moment we hear from Murat.’
‘Yes, sire.’ Berthier nodded and hurriedly scribbled a line in his notebook.
Napoleon watched his chief of staff approvingly. Now that the campaign had begun he would have the critical facts about his army at his fingertips, thanks to the detailed notebooks that Berthier kept at the field headquarters. Each day every regiment’s strength returns and location would be updated so that the Emperor would be able to control his huge army and time its movements with precision.
Napoleon felt his heart swell with pride at his achievement. Truly there was no finer instrument of war than the Grand Army.
Marshal Lannes came riding up the slope towards him and saluted as he reined in.With a grin he swept off his hat and gestured towards the French host crawling across the landscape. ‘Quite a sight! Never seen anything so fine in my life, sire.’
‘Let’s hope the Austrians feel the same.’ Napoleon returned the grin. ‘What is the mood of your men?’
‘Never better, sire. For the most part.’ Lannes smiled wryly. ‘Of course there are the usual grumblers, but they’ll never be happy. You know what the veterans are like. They’ll moan about their boots, the rations and the weather, and blame it all on their officers. But the moment you march ’em on to the battlefield they can’t wait to carve a path through the enemy.’
Napoleon looked him in the eye and lowered his voice as he spoke. ‘And you, my old friend, how do you feel?’
‘Sire?’
‘Do you share the men’s confidence? Do you think we can defeat our enemies this time?’
Lannes returned his look with a faint expression of hurt and surprise. ‘Of course we can defeat them, sire. If you have planned this war, and you are there to lead us into battle, then how can we fail?’
Napoleon stared into his comrade’s face, searching for any sign of insincerity. Lannes had been with him since the very first campaign in Italy. His face still bore the faint scar from the wound he had received as they had charged the bridge at Arcola. Napoleon recalled the other battles they had fought, as well as the hardships shared during the terrible marches across the deserts of Egypt. Lannes had stood by his side when Napoleon had snatched power from the corrupt politicians of the Directory, and he was there again in the second Italian campaign and the desperately close battle at Marengo. Napoleon nodded to himself. Lannes was as much a friend as a follower, and when so many had fallen along the way, a friend was to be valued indeed. Especially one so brave and blunt as Lannes.
Napoleon suddenly leaned towards Lannes and punched him lightly on the shoulder.‘My dear, dear Marshal! You are right. How can we fail? We have the best soldiers and by far the best leaders of men in Europe. Leaders like the great Marshal Lannes himself.’
The Gascon beamed with pleasure at his Emperor’s praise and then nodded. ‘Yes, sire. I shall never let you down.’
‘I am counting on that, old friend. But please do me one favour.’
‘Anything, sire.’
‘Try not to get yourself wounded, or killed.’
Lannes laughed. ‘That rather depends on the enemy.’
‘Well don’t give them any assistance, Lannes. You are a marshal of France. Your men will need you throughout the coming campaign. I will need you.You can let your subordinates lead the charges.’
‘But sire!’ Lannes protested. ‘I was a grenadier long before I was a marshal.’
‘No buts. I cannot afford to lose any of my best officers.’
Lannes frowned, and replaced his hat firmly before grumbling. ‘Very well, sire. If that is your order.’
‘It is. Make sure you obey it. Now you may return to your corps, Marshal.’
‘Yes, sire.’
Lannes bowed his head and turned his horse away, then spurred it into a trot as he descended the slope and rejoined his staff. Berthier watched him go for a moment before muttering, ‘A fine man, that.’
Napoleon watched the retreating figure of the marshal before he responded. ‘One of the very finest.’
The Grand Army’s columns tramped swiftly east. The soldiers rose before dawn, shivering as they shouldered their packs and shuffled into their companies, their breath pluming in the first grey glimmer of light. Around them came the snorts and whinnying of horses being saddled and harnessed for the day’s march. Then, one by one, the regiments, brigades and divisions of each corps began to tramp forward. The infantry marched on either side of the route, with the wheeled traffic of wagons and artillery moving along the tracks and roads. As the sun rose the men cast an eye over the surrounding countryside, the youngest amongst them looking earnestly for any sign of the enemy, while the veterans turned their experienced gaze on the small villages and farms they passed through, minds focused on foraging, and, if the opportunity arose, a discreet looting expedition under cover of darkness.
Every two hours the order was given for a brief rest and the men lowered their packs and muskets and slumped down. Those that had pipes lit them while the air filled with animated conversations about the coming battles and the prospects for victory. Then an order would be barked out and the men hurriedly re-formed ranks and waited for each brigade’s band to strike up a tune to get them on their way again. Sometimes it was a rousing patriotic piece, but more often a song that had become popular in the ranks, and the soldiers sang lustily as they marched on. Then, at noon, the army halted, and once the men had fallen out and made the best of whatever shelter was available, they were free to forage for the remainder of the day.
The fine weather lasted to the end of September before dark clouds closed in from the north-east and an icy wind swept across Bavaria, bringing with it rain that quickly turned to sleet and brief flurries of snow. Now the men of the Grand Army marched forward in sullen silence, collars pulled high and mufflers tied over their shakos as they trudged into the wind with bent heads. As October began, in the freezing cold and wet, Napoleon realised that the new conditions would hamper the march east and might give his enemies time to recognise the threat and turn to meet the Grand Army. So he gave the order for the army to swing south and march as quickly as possible for the Danube.
Five days later, French troops began to appear along the northern bank of the great river and they seized every bridge and ferry that could be found before pouring across. Napoleon, riding with the leading divisions of Lannes’s corps, made for Augsburg, the town he had chosen for his field headquarters. He had spent much of the previous days in the saddle as he had moved from corps to corps to ensure that his marching orders were being rigorously applied. When night fell the Emperor and his staff were still some ten miles from Augsburg, so Napoleon decided to stop at the camp of one of Ney’s divisions.
At the sound of the approaching horsemen the pickets emerged from the shadows on either side of muddy track and advanced their muskets warily.
‘Halt!’ a deep voice bellowed out. ‘Who goes there?’
Napoleon was riding with a handful of staff and six cavalrymen from the guard, one of whom now bristled angrily at the challenge and stood erect in his stirrups to shout a reply.
‘The Emperor!’
There was a brief silence before the voice called back. ‘Bollocks! What’s the password?’
The guardsman swore under his breath and then bellowed, ‘Move aside, you fools, before we ride you down!’
‘That’s enough!’ Napoleon snapped. ‘They’re only doing their duty.’
The guardsman stiffened. ‘Sorry, sire. But they shouldn’t address the imperial party like that.’
‘Really?’ Napoleon smiled wearily.‘Do you know what the password is?’
The guardsman breathed in sharply and hissed, ‘No, sire.’
‘Why not?’
The Emperor did not wait for a reply from his shamed escort, but spurred his horse on and trotted towards the line of dark figures barring his path, warily watching the dull gleam of their raised bayonets. His escort hurried after Napoleon as he reined in a short distance from the picket.
‘And who are you?’ asked Napoleon.
‘Fuck me,’ the voice muttered. ‘It is him!’ A moment later a burly sergeant stepped forward and saluted.
‘Sorry, sir. But we had to chase off some Austrian dragoons earlier today. Can’t be too careful.’
‘At ease, Sergeant. You did well to challenge us. I’d have had you broken back to the ranks if you hadn’t. Now then, what is this unit?’
‘Sixty-third regiment of the line, sir. Dupont’s division.’
‘Dupont?’ Napoleon recalled that the previous day General Dupont’s four thousand men had attacked an enemy force four times their size in order to force a crossing of the Danube, and suffered heavy losses as a result. Now that he looked round the men of the picket, Napoleon could see that some of them were bandaged. Kicking his right foot from its stirrup, he swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. He turned to face the sergeant, a huge man with several days’ growth of beard darkening his chin.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sergeant Legros, sir.’
‘Legros, eh? And why do you not address your Emperor correctly? It is sire, not sir.’
‘If you please, sire, you were my general before you became my Emperor.’
‘Your general?’
‘I served with you in Italy, in ninety-five, sir . . . sire.’
‘Ah!’ Napoleon smiled and grasped the sergeant’s arms. ‘One of the first of my comrades. There are all too few of us left, Legros. And you may call me sir, if you wish.’
Legros smiled. ‘Yes, sir.’
Napoleon glanced round at the other men. ‘From the reports, your division had quite a fight.’
Legros nodded. ‘We buried some good men yesterday. But the enemy buried more.’
Napoleon nodded with satisfaction and then nodded towards the small fire burning a short distance down the road. In its glow a man was hunched over a cauldron stirring the contents with a long wooden ladle. ‘Would you share some soup with your general?’
‘It would be an honour, sir,’ Legros bowed his head and turned to lead Napoleon towards the fire. He called out to his corporal to take charge while he entertained the Emperor.With a quick gesture to one of his escort to take the reins of his horse, Napoleon strode quickly to catch him up. As they approached the man at the cauldron a number of other soldiers sat up. As soon as the first of them recognised the man at their sergeant’s side there was an excited whispering and they jumped to their feet and stiffened to attention.
Napoleon raised a hand to them. ‘Easy there! Just an old comrade come to warm himself at your fire, and share rations, if there is any soup to spare.’
As he stepped into the orange loom of the crackling blaze Legros took a battered bowl and spoon from his kit and proffered it to the Emperor. Even though rations were short, it was clear the sergeant felt honoured to share his supper with Napoleon.
‘Thank you.’ Napoleon took the bowl and turned to the man at the cauldron. ‘May I?’
‘Yes, sire!’ The man instantly passed over the ladle. Leaning towards the steaming cauldron, Napoleon dipped the ladle in and gave the stew a quick stir before scooping up a portion and pouring it into his bowl. He returned the ladle and took up his spoon. Raising the bowl he gave it a cautious sniff, and found that the warm hearty smell was to his liking, particularly as he had eaten nothing since dawn. He took a spoonful and blew carefully across the surface before he sipped. It was hot, but not so hot as to burn his mouth, and he swallowed it eagerly before looking up at the expectant faces surrounding him. More and more shadows were emerging from the darkness as word spread through the camp that the emperor was present.
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