Authors: Simon Scarrow
THE GENERALS (69 page)
Moreau thought it over. ‘Lecourbe commands one of my best divisions.’
‘That is why I need his men.’
‘Of course.’ Moreau nodded. ‘I will reinforce Berthier, as you suggest. Now, if you don’t mind, Bonaparte, I must go. I have to leave for my army at first light. I will send you word the moment I begin my campaign.’
‘That would be appreciated, General.’
The small meeting broke up as Talleyrand took his chance to leave with Moreau. Once they had left, Berthier stared at the door that had closed behind them.
‘I don’t trust those two.’
‘Nor do I,’ Napoleon agreed. ‘But I need them both, and I dare not antagonise Moreau, not until it is clear to every French soldier which one of us is the master. So I must win this campaign, Berthier. If I lose, those two will throw me to the wolves.’
Chapter 53
The air was as clear and fresh as any Napoleon had ever tasted and he breathed deeply and filled his lungs as he gazed down the length of the Great St Bernard Pass. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was sinking behind the mountains to the west, making the snow-capped peaks appear blue in the watery light that remained. Napoleon gazed back along the narrow track he had ascended. A long line of soldiers, dark against the snow, snaked down into the treeline. Here and there several men struggled to help mules and horses haul small wagons and empty gun carriages up the slope. The barrels of the cannon, the most awkward of burdens to be taken over the pass, had been tied securely into hollowed-out tree trunks, each one harnessed to a hundred men who were tasked with hauling them up the pass, and then gingerly steering them down the far side.
It had been Marmont’s idea, and Napoleon felt pleased that his choice for the Army of Reserve’s artillery commander had been vindicated. So many of the officers who had served with Napoleon since the early days had turned out to be fine commanders, in spite of humble origins in many cases. Men like Masséna, and Desaix. Thought of the latter made Napoleon smile. A day earlier he had had news that Desaix had broken the blockade of Egypt and returned to France. Napoleon had sent for him at once; a man of Desaix’s talent could be vital to the success of the present campaign. That was the real triumph of the revolution, Napoleon thought with a slight nod. A man might rise as high as any on the basis of merit alone, and not because of some accident of birth. That was why France would win, in the end. For what nation could hope to stand against a nation of men free to pursue their ambitions?
For a moment the cares and concerns of leading an army were forgotten as Napoleon marvelled at the view afforded him from the top of the pass. To one side of the track the hospice of St Bernard squatted in the thick snow, and its monks stood at the entrance passing bread, cheese and wine into the hands of the soldiers as they tramped past, wrapped in coats and blankets, hands in gloves or bound with strips of cloth to save them from the cold, and frostbite. Napoleon watched as a company of the Consular Guard stood and ate their rations, stamping their feet and breathing plumes of steamy breath into the gloomy blue twilight.
Even though Napoleon was wrapped in a large fur coat he felt the sting of the icy air, and the perspiration that he had shed in the final climb up to the top of the pass now chilled his skin.
‘God, it’s cold,’ he muttered.
Junot turned to him. ‘Sir?’
‘I think we’d better get moving again, before it gets dark.’
‘Yes, sir. A lodge has been prepared for us a few miles down the path. We will eat and sleep there.’
Napoleon nodded. For the soldiers there would be no shelter. They would only rest when they reached the treeline, having marched for over two days in the numbing cold with no chance to sleep.
The staff officers moved on to the track and began the descent. Napoleon swapped greetings with the soldiers who made way for them as they passed. Despite their exhaustion he was pleased to see that they were still in high spirits and greeted him with the same rough informality the men had used when he took command of his first army. As night folded over the mountains they proceeded by the light of the braziers that had been set up at regular intervals. Soldiers clustered round each blaze, stretching out their hands to the flames until they were moved on by a sergeant or an officer. At last Napoleon and his small group of staff officers reached the lodge, a solid timber construction with a few small shuttered windows. It smelt musty, but a fire had been built up by the men sent ahead to prepare the shelter for Napoleon. A simple meal of onion soup steamed in a cauldron and the new arrivals fell on it hungrily.
As Napoleon sipped at the scalding brew he read through the reports from the leading division of the army, commanded by Lannes. The news was not good. Thirty miles further on, the valley became very narrow at the village of Bard. Above the village, on a rock, was a fortress with a strong garrison whose cannon covered the route into Italy. Lannes had taken the village without any difficulty, but the fortress was impregnable. Leaving a small force to cover the enemy, Lannes had taken his infantry on a winding track around the fortress and was moving on towards Ivrea. Lannes would be vulnerable without artillery and Napoleon felt his heart sink a little at this first obstacle to his plans.
Time was more important than ever. Shortly before leaving Geneva he had received news that the Austrians had attacked Masséna and divided the Army of Italy. While half the army was driven back towards the French border, the rest, along with Masséna, were under siege in the port city of Genoa, caught between the Austrian army and the Royal Navy. Even though Masséna was short of supplies, Napoleon had sent an order to hold on until the middle of June, long enough to divert the enemy’s attention away from the Army of Reserve closing on them from the Alps. It was a bad situation but Napoleon was reassured by the fact that Masséna was in command at Genoa. He could be counted on to fight for as long as possible.
However heroic Masséna might be, Napoleon reflected, everything depended on getting the Army of Reserve into position in the shortest possible time, and the delay at Bard might yet cost him dearly. He set his spoon down with a sharp rap on the table and stood up. ‘Junot, Bourrienne, come with me. We must keep going. The rest of you follow first thing in the morning.’>
He led the way outside, and explained briefly about the situation at Bard as they continued along the icy track, joining the dark string of soldiers trudging south.The night sky was clear and stars gleamed brilliantly in the velvet heavens as they marched as fast as they could. As soon as the ground became level and firm enough to ride a horse, Napoleon and the others commandeered some mounts from a cavalry regiment and rode on, passing Aosta before dawn and from there following the Dora Baltea river towards Bard where they arrived at the headquarters of General Berthier late in the afternoon.
Napoleon saw at once that Lannes had not exaggerated the problem presented by the fortress. It completely dominated the ravine through which the main route passed. Berthier pointed out a number of shattered wagons and cannon littering the track below the fortress, togther with the bodies of several horses and men.
‘We tried to get some artillery and supplies through to Lannes last night, sir. But they heard us, and rolled some burning faggots into the ravine and shot the column to pieces. The only other route past the fortress is up there, sir. The engineers have started work on widening the track, but it will take several days.’
Napleon followed the direction indicated by Berthier and saw a string of tiny figures picking their way along the side of a cliff. There was not even room for a horse, he realised. That meant that, with the exception of the infantry, the army was bottled up by this fortress and its garrison of no more than a few hundred.
‘Well, we must make an attempt to assault the fortress,’ Napoleon decided. ‘Tonight.’
‘We already tried a direct assault two days ago, sir. The only approach to the fort is up that road from the village. The road is covered by several guns and they cut our men down with grapeshot before they even got near the walls.’
‘Then we might have a better chance under the cover of darkness,’ Napoleon responded. ‘And while the enemy are distracted by the attack, we’ll try to send another column through the ravine. I admit it’s risky, but we have to get the guns through to Lannes.’
Berthier opened his mouth to protest, but he saw the familiar set expression in his superior’s face that indicated there would be no further discussion of the situation. Berthier turned to his staff with a sigh and gave orders for the attack.
Two hours after the sun had set behind the mountains and darkness has filled the valley, Napoleon and Berthier stood on a small spur of rock to watch the assault.An infantry battalion, with several ladders, was already picking its way up the road from the village. Each man was carrying only his musket and a cartridge pouch, although none of their weapons was loaded yet, in case some fool fired by accident and alerted the garrison. Down in the village, a column of supply wagons and a battery of limbered guns were ready to move forward the moment the attack began. Once night had fallen, engineers had crept down the road, smothering it with straw and dung to muffle the sound of the vehicles’ wheels, which had been wrapped in sacking.
A blazing wicker bundle suddenly flared up on the gatehouse of the fort and then it arced out across the road, landed in a shower of sparks and began to roll down the slope, illuminating the attackers as they dived aside to avoid being mown down by the flaming ball. At once the Austrian guns blasted a storm of grapeshot into the ranks of the French infantry racing towards the walls with their spindly-looking ladders. As Napoleon watched, scores of his men were struck down by the withering fire from the fortress and only a small party reached the outermost bastion and threw their ladder up against the wall. But they died to a man in the crossfire from the other squat towers that projected from the wall.
Napoleon turned his attention to the road that passed down the ravine.The column there had been ordered to move forward the moment the firing began. It was too dark to trace their progress amid the snow-laden trees that ran beside the track, and Napoleon nodded his satisfaction with that. If the Austrians missed them, then Lannes would have enough artillery to continue his advance. But even as the thought passed through his mind, more flaring bundles tumbled down from the fortress and the startled men driving the wagons and gun carriages were lit up in the red glow the flames cast across the gleaming snow on the ground. Tiny stabs of light rippled along the wall as the defenders fired their muskets down into the ravine.
‘At least their guns can’t be trained on the road immediately below the fortress,’ Napoleon commented.
‘They don’t need guns,’ Berthier responded grimly. ‘Look there.’
A spark, like a star, arced down towards the road and a moment later there was a brilliant explosion as a grenade blew up close to one of the gun limbers, dropping all but the lead horses. By some miracle the driver escaped injury and stood up and stared down at his dead and dying horses in their traces.Then he was hit and toppled to one side and lay still on the ground.
Napoleon had seen enough to know that the attack and the attempt to sneak past the fortress had failed.
‘Berthier, call your men back, and whatever is left of the supply column down there. We’ll have to try something else, or try it again tomorrow night.’
Berthier gestured towards the fort.‘We’ll never take that place by force, sir. Perhaps we should have chosen a different route.’
Napoleon’s eyes narrowed as he replied, ‘What help is that observation to me now, eh? We are here, Berthier, and we concentrate our minds on what is before us. Nothing else matters. So, pull your men back, rest them, treat their wounds, and send them back against the fort tomorrow. As for the artillery, we’ll have to try again tonight. This time with just two guns. We’ll set off at midnight.’
‘We?’ Berthier looked at him sharply, his face dimly visible by the loom of the snow.
‘Yes. I’ll be going with the guns. I have to reach the vanguard as soon as possible.’
Berthier was silent for a moment, while he considered protesting that Napoleon should not take such a risk. But he knew his commander well enough to realise any such protests were pointless. They always had been since that suicidally brave charge at Arcola. Berthier nodded wearily. ‘Yes, sir.’
Napoleon turned away and softly crunched through the snow as he made his way down to the village of Bard where a room awaited him in the modest inn by the small square in the heart of the village. He sat and warmed himself by a fire as he drank some soup and then, leaving orders that he should be called at eleven thirty, he closed his eyes and eased himself back in a chair. He did not sleep. His mind was filled with a torrent of thoughts: anxiety about the stability of the government he had left in Paris; the threat presented by General Moreau’s popularity throughout the army; Josephine, naked, with arms outstretched towards him, then a fleeting image of her in another man’s arms; he banished the image from his mind and hurriedly concentrated on the current campaign.
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