Authors: Simon Scarrow
THE GENERALS (70 page)
Napoleon pictured the map of the Alps and northern Italy, superimposing his forces on the landscape, and those of the enemy gleaned from the latest intelligence reports. He shook his head as he saw that the delay at Bard would give the enemy plenty of warning that the French army was attempting to cut across their communications with Austria. If they moved as slowly as they had done in the past, then there would still be time for Napoleon to concentrate his army and face the enemy on favourable terms. If, however, General Melas seized his chance, he could defeat the French forces piecemeal. The spectre of defeat haunted his thoughts and made rest, let alone sleep, impossible over the following hours.
Napoleon took a last look at the dark mass of the fortress looming above the ravine. The roar of cannon fire from the French lines rumbled across the valley, echoing back from the sides of the surrounding mountains. More than enough noise to help conceal the sound that the gun carriages and their limbers would make in the next few minutes.
‘Time to go,’ he muttered to Junot. ‘Ready?’
Junot nodded.
Around them were the men of the hussar squadron Napoleon had chosen to act as his bodyguard while he rode to join Lannes at Ivrea. Behind the mounted men, two four-pounder horse-guns were ready to move off, harnessed to the best horses that could be found in the artillery train. This time Napoleon had decided to gamble on speed, rather than subtlety. His heart beat against his breast like a caged eagle as he lifted his chin from the fur collar of his coat and called out, ‘Advance!’
He spurred his horse forward. Junot and the hussars followed him, and behind them the tackle and timber of the guns jingled as they slowly gathered speed and caught up with the trotting cavalry just as they emerged from the village on to the track running into the gorge. Napoleon glanced up at the fortress, and could just make out the line of the battlements against the sky. They rode on, into the gorge, and the rocky spur jutting out from the cliff opposite the fortress forced them towards the enemy. Just as they came to the point closest to the walls there was a faint shout, audible even above the boom and echo of the French guns.
Napoleon steered his mount to the side and reined in.
‘Go! Go!’ he shouted to the hussars and then again to the artillery riders as they came up. Above them, flames flared up and once more a wicker bundle roared down the cliff. This time Napoleon was almost beneath it, and the sight was terrifying. He kicked his heels in and raced after the others, and there was a crackling thud and explosion of sparks as the bundle landed close behind him. Shots cracked from the wall above and he heard them whip down into the snow on either side as he leaned forward and rode on, urging his horse to gallop as fast as it could until he had passed beyond the loom of the burning wood and caught up with the others. More blazing bundles roared down towards them like fiery comets as they passed through the ravine, but they stayed just ahead of where the enemy guessed they must be and only one of the shots fired wildly into the darkness from the fortress struck home, into the haunch of one of the hussars’ horses. It reared up with a shrill whinny before its rider regained control and urged it on with whispered curses.
Once clear of the gorge they rode on for another half-mile, the cannon jolting across the rough track, and then Napoleon gave the order to slow down and continue at a walk. He paused, with Junot, to look back towards the fortress.
‘We did it!’ Junot shook his head in wonder. ‘We did it, sir.’
Napoleon grinned. ‘Did you ever really doubt that we would?’
‘The thought crossed my mind.’
‘Ha!’ Napoleon reached over and slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Come on then. We must find Lannes and get these guns to him.’
As June began, over fifty thousand of Napoleon’s men had crossed the Alps and were massing north of the River Po.The fort at Bard was still holding up his artillery train and the army had only a handful of cannon that had survived the hazardous passage of the gorge.A few more cannon had been taken from the enemy garrisons following the capture of Ivrea, Pavia and Milan. As Napoleon entered the city the Milanese turned out in their thousands to cheer the arrival of the French army.
Napoleon turned to Junot with a smile. ‘Seems that any grievances they might have nursed from the last time I was here have been forgotten.’
Junot nodded as he gazed warily round at the crowd. ‘Let’s hope they remain friendly long enough for us to defeat the Austrians.’
‘Of course. Now smile and wave at your adoring public, as any good liberator should.’
The following night, as Napoleon and his staff settled into the mansion formerly occupied by the Austrian governor of the city, a messenger arrived from Murat, scouting ahead of the main army with his light cavalry. The hussar was exhausted and mudstained, and as he took the dispatch from the man Napoleon ordered that he be fed and given good accommodation for the night. Once the messenger had gone, he returned to the dining table where the staff officers were noisily celebrating the capture of Milan: the latest prize to fall to the French army in this campaign that seemed to be succeeding so gloriously once they had left the Alps behind them.Their spirits were even higher now that Desaix had joined them, and was entertaining his comrades with tales of his adventures in Egypt.
Napoleon broke the seal and quickly scanned the contents.
He read it again, more slowly, before folding it and setting it down on the table. Picking up his fork he rapped the side of the tureen in front of him. The conversation died away instantly and the gold-braided officers turned towards him, some still smiling.
‘Gentlemen, Murat has captured some dispatches sent from General Melas to Vienna. It seems that General Masséna has been obliged to surrender Genoa.’
There was a brief silence before General Lannes thumped his fist down, clattering the cutlery and dishes around him. ‘Shit!’
‘Quite,’ Napoleon responded. ‘As of yesterday, Masséna was still discussing terms. That will hold an element of the enemy in place around Genoa, but the bulk of their army is now free to face us. The question is, will they try to slip past us and reestablish their lines of communication with Austria, or will they fight?’
‘Fight?’ Lannes snorted. ‘They’ll run all the way back to Mantua and duck down behind the walls.’
Napoleon nodded.‘I agree. In which case we must make them fight.As soon as possible, before they can concentrate their forces. Lannes, your division is closest to Masséna.You will cross the Po at once and march on Genoa. Make contact with the enemy as soon as possible. The rest of the army will force march to catch up with you. Desaix!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There’s no more time for tall tales.’
Desaix grinned. ‘No, sir.’
‘Then you will take two divisions and set off after Lannes. Gentlemen!’ Napoleon stood up and leaned forward across the table, resting his weight on his knuckles. ‘If we can bring the enemy to battle then this campaign can be decided in a matter of days, weeks at the most. Make sure you let every man in the army know it.’ He poured himself a glass and raised it. ‘To victory!’
Marching through driving rain the Army of Reserve crossed the Po and closed on the enemy. As they marched Napoleon read the reports from Murat. It was clear that the Austrians were advancing north from Genoa towards the fortress city of Alessandria. If they reached it first then they could make for the north bank of the Po and threaten Napoleon’s supply lines leading back through the Alpine passes. Then, on 13 June, Murat’s scouts reported that the enemy was retreating on Genoa.
‘Are you certain?’ Napoleon stared at Berthier in surprise.
His chief of staff gestured to the map that covered the table between them. All the latest sightings of enemy formations had been pencilled in. ‘It’s difficult to be sure, sir. The enemy cavalry is stronger than ours, and is doing a good job of screening their army. But, from what Murat’s scouts are reporting, I can think of no other explanation.’
‘Then we must stop them, at once.’ Napoleon leaned over the map and stabbed his finger at one of the blue boxes Berthier had marked on the map earlier. ‘Desaix . . . Order Desaix to march south towards Novi. He is to try to hook round and cut across their line of march. If he can do that, then we can close the trap on Melas.’
Berthier glanced up with a questioning look. ‘Are you sure that’s wise, sir? To divide our army when we’re so close to the enemy?’
Napoleon patted him on the shoulder. ‘Berthier, if our enemy was advancing, then of course I would concentrate our strength. But he’s not. He’s in full retreat, and we cannot afford to let him escape us. If Melas does reach Genoa then we’ll be obliged to lay siege to the town and the campaign will drag on for months. So,’ he tapped the map, ‘we’ll make for this village, Marengo, while Desaix blocks his line of retreat. Then we will have our battle.’
Berthier stared at the map. ‘I hope so, sir.’
The next morning dawned clear and bright and Napoleon rose early. He was in high spirits. Patrols had been sent towards the small enemy force covering the bridge across the Bormida river. On the far bank, the reports said, lay the bulk of the enemy’s army. Now that he knew where they were, it only remained to cross the river and fight the battle. If things went true to form, the Austrians would be preparing defensive works and waiting for the enemy to come to them, Napoleon mused, as he leaned over the map. He ate a leisurely breakfast, making notes for the coming battle.
He looked up at the faint sound of a few cannons being fired, over towards the Bormida. The sounds did not increase in intensity and he put it down to a skirmish around the bridgehead between the enemy and General Victor’s men, and turned his attention back to the map. Around him the tents of Watrin’s division stretched out in ordered ranks. After the tiring marches of recent days the men were enjoying their rest and their relaxed chatter and singing drifted across the camp. At length, Napoleon was satisfied that he had worked out the details of his attack and was about to call for Berthier when a staff officer strode up towards his table and saluted.
‘Message from General Victor, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘He asks you to come at once. The enemy is attacking.’
‘I know. I heard the guns earlier. I’m sure that General Victor can contain the enemy’s bridgehead.’
The officer shook his head. ‘General Victor says the entire enemy army is crossing the river.’
Napoleon stared at him for a moment and then laughed. ‘Oh, come now! The man must be exaggerating. The Austrians wouldn’t dare . . . surely.’ A cold feeling of anxiety pricked the base of his spine, and he stood up. ‘Oh, very well, I’ll have a look. Fetch Junot and have our horses readied.’
As they rode up the road towards Marengo, Napoleon was still thinking over the plans of his attack, and was frustrated that he had not been able to commit them to paper. If this alarm proved to be over little more than a feint to cover the Austrian retreat on Genoa, then General Victor would deserve a firm dressing down for wasting Napoleon’s time instead of dealing with the matter on his own. He reached the far side of the village and rode up to the small rise that gave fine views towards the Bormida.There he suddenly reined in, his back stiffening as he surveyed the flat plain in front of him. A mile away, the men of Victor’s corps, some ten thousand men, were forming up to face the enemy. A short distance beyond them, and spreading out along the bank of the Bormida river, were dense columns of Austrian infantry marching directly towards the French lines. To the right large cavalry formations kicked up clouds of dust as they edged towards the French flanks. His experienced eye calculated that over thirty thousand of the enemy must be across the river already. Within moments they would attack, and the anxiety he had felt shortly before now became fully fledged fear for the fate of his divided army, surprised by the sudden advance of the Austrians.
He turned to Junot. ‘A message to Desaix.Take it down.’
While he waited for Junot to take out his notebook and pencil Napoleon cast a last look at the enemy wave closing on the thin ribbon of Victor’s men, and he felt rage at himself for underestimating his enemy so fatally. He turned back to Junot, saw that he was ready, and dictated. ‘I had thought to attack Melas. He has attacked me first. For God’s sake come back to the army if you still can. Or all is lost . . .’
Chapter 54
Marengo, 14 June 1800
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