Authors: Simon Scarrow
THE GENERALS (72 page)
Desaix quickly took stock of the situation and then pulled out his watch before he turned back to Napoleon. ‘This battle is completely lost.’ Then he raised his head defiantly. ‘But there is still time to win another. My leading division is close behind me, sir. If we can form a new line, before San Giuliano, and put every gun we have to the head of the enemy column, then we can stop them dead in their tracks, and take them in the flanks.’
Napoleon considered the idea for a moment and nodded. Desaix was right. If the army continued to retreat they would only be falling into the enemy’s trap. Their only chance was to turn on the pursuit column and attempt to break it.
He cleared his throat. ‘Very well. One last throw of the dice.’
The late afternoon sun slanted across the fields surrounding San Giuliano. The French line was strung out across the plain in a shallow S formation. On the right flank Monnier and the remnants of the Consular Guard were tasked with holding back the enemy column advancing from Castel Ceriolo. The rest of the army was drawn up facing the road to Marengo. In front of San Giuliano Marmont had massed the remaining eighteen guns, and concealed them behind the stone walls and hedges of the villagers’ smallholdings. Beyond them, Desaix and his men stood ready to attack the enemy column. The battered divisions of Victor and Lannes’ stood formed up parallel to the road, but far enough away to remain out of sight. As they waited for the Austrian column to march into view Napoleon rode down the line to offer encouragement to his troops. Every so often, he halted to deliver the same message.
‘Soldiers! You have retreated enough. The enemy thinks we are beaten! He thinks that he is, at last, our master. He thinks that he has beaten us into a corner like a whipped cur.Well, he should know the danger that comes from cornering a wild beast. He is about to get his arse well and truly bitten off!’
The men raised a laugh, and he moved on, until he reached the survivors of the Consular Guard, drawn up in a neat line. They raised their muskets and presented arms as he reined in before them. Napoleon felt his heart sink as he realised that less than half of the men who had so gallantly marched to Watrin’s rescue still remained. He swallowed and took a deep breath as he addressed them.
‘Men of the Guard, you have proved today that you are the bravest of the brave in the French army . . . in any army. If we win this day then all France shall hear of your courage, and the men of the Guard will for ever hold the place of honour wherever I lead our armies into battle.’ He took off his hat and raised it above his head. ‘Your general salutes you!’
Unlike the other units he had addressed the men stood still, staring ahead as if they were on a parade ground, and there was no outburst of cheers. A sergeant at the end of the front rank suddenly shouted out, ‘Chins up!’
The men strained to raise themselves up to their full height and Napoleon could not help smiling at their fearless and fierce sense of elan. He replaced his hat, wheeled his horse about and galloped back to his command post, just behind the centre of Desaix’s line. They did not have long to wait for the enemy column. With drums beating the pace the Austrians marched straight down the road from Marengo. They did not falter for an instant when they saw the French lines waiting for them before San Giuliano, no doubt taking them for little more than a rearguard left behind to delay the Austrians for as long as possible while the main body of the French army fled.
Desaix shook his head. ‘They’re in for a surprise.’
‘That they certainly are,’ Napoleon replied quietly. ‘Signal Marmont to open fire.’
A staff officer relayed the order to a signalman and the flag fluttered up, held aloft for a moment and then swept down. The artillery crews rose up from their places of concealment and hastily cleared away the straw and cut branches hiding their guns. An instant later the cannon roared into life, belching deadly cones of grapeshot into the leading units of the Austrian pursuit column. Gun after gun fired in a rolling cannonade. The leading companies of the white-uniformed enemy were shredded by grapeshot and as the bodies piled into bloody heaps along the road the column stalled. Shocked by the sudden hail of destruction, they stood and endured the slaughter for some minutes before a senior officer attempted to take control. Slowly, too slowly, the head of the column began to deploy to either side of the road, still under heavy fire from Marmont’s guns, which were being worked as swiftly as their crews could manage. The target was so big there was no need to aim carefully and the guns discharged their grapeshot the moment they were reloaded.
After twenty minutes of terrible carnage, the Austrians were still attempting to draw their men up in a battle line. Napoleon realised that this was the moment to strike the decisive blow.
‘Order Marmont to cease fire. Tell Desaix to charge home!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Berthier nodded.
As soon as the last of the guns fell silent, the leading battalions of Desaix’s men marched through the dense bank of smoke and emerged a short distance from the enemy. Napoleon watched as Desaix ordered his men to halt and volley fire, before they advanced to point-blank range and halted to reload and fire again. Volley after volley rang out from both sides, each one wreaking terrible carnage. As he watched Napoleon sensed that the impetus was quickly draining from the French attack. Unless the Austrians broke soon, he doubted that they ever would.
A sudden sheet of flame tore up into the sky a short distance behind the head of the enemy column and Napoleon saw scores of men hurled aside by the blast. The red flame of the explosion faded and a rolling mushroom cloud billowed above the Austrian lines. He saw a crater in the road and scores of blackened bodies and body parts lay scattered around it.
‘Jesus,’ Napoleon muttered in horror. ‘What was that?’
‘Must have been an ammunition wagon,’ Berthier replied. ‘Lucky shot from our side must have set it off.’
The explosion caused a brief lull in the fighting.The Austrians had turned towards the sound of the blast, dazed and frightened. At that moment a trumpet call sounded from Napoleon’s left and he turned and saw that the small body of cavalry covering the left flank was moving, picking up speed as it surged forward down the side of the enemy column, and then wheeled inwards towards the Austrians, still shaken by the blast.
‘The young fool!’ Berthier said through clenched teeth. ‘He’ll get himself killed.’
Napoleon strained his eyes and realised that the cavalry formation belonged to Kellermann, the son of the hero of Valmy, and one of Murat’s most promising officers. Napoleon shook his head. ‘No, he’s done the right thing. It’s perfectly timed. Look!’
Kellermann’s troopers launched themselves into a charge, trumpets blaring and colours rippling in the wind as they spurred their mounts forward, extending their heavy swords until the glinting blades pointed directly at the terrified Austrians in front of them. A few had the presence of mind to turn and fire their muskets at the charging horsemen; then they were engulfed by the French cavalry and the Austrian column shattered. Men threw down their heavy muskets and ran, fleeing back down the road towards Marengo, and away from the advancing lines of the men of Victor’s and Lannes’s divisions. As far as Napoleon could see the battlefield was covered with white-coated figures streaming away from their French pursuers. Large bodies of men, still in column, laid down their arms and surrendered and their colours were snatched from their hands by jubilant Frenchmen.
As dusk gathered over the battlefield Napoleon made his way forward with Berthier. There was a thick belt of bodies where Marmont’s guns had torn into the leading battalions of the enemy column and then two lines of corpses where Desaix’s men had exchanged volleys with the enemy before they had finally broken. From the earliest reports to have reached headquarters it seemed that over five thousand of the enemy had been killed and an even larger number taken prisoner, along with forty guns, fifteen colours and General Zach, the second in command of the Austrian army. Nightfall, and the presence of strong detachments of Austrian cavalry, had ended the French pursuit and across the plain the exhausted men were re-forming their units and marching back to camp.
Amid all the reports there had been no word from Desaix and Napoleon felt a growing concern for his friend as he edged across the battlefield. Then, just outside the hamlet of Vigna Santa, he saw a group of officers gathered beside the road. Amongst them stood an Austrian general, head bowed in shame. Napoleon strode across the corpse-littered ground towards them and saw that they were clustered about a body sprawled on the ground. Napoleon pushed his way through and looked down.
Desaix lay on his back, head flung to one side, eyes wide open. A bloody hole had been torn through his breast. His sword lay at his side.
Napoleon knelt down. He stared at the body, and his throat tightened. No words came to him. His heart felt heavy and he reached forward and closed Desaix’s eyes as Berthier approached the group.
Berthier clapped his hands together as he gazed round the battlfield. ‘My God! We’ve won! We’ve beaten them. Sir, you’ve won a geat victory . . . sir?’ Then he saw Desaix. ‘Oh, no . . .’
‘Excuse me,’ a voice interrupted, in accented French. ‘General Bonaparte?’
Napoleon glanced up and saw the Austrian officer standing over him in the gloom, holding out his sword, handle first. Rising to his feet, Napoleon faced his enemy. General Zach stood stiffly as he surrendered his weapon.
‘To you the victory, General Bonaparte.’
Napoleon took the sword, noting its finely wrought hilt and jewelled guard. He held it for a moment and then shook his head.
‘The victory is not mine. Had it not been for Desaix I would be presenting you with my sword. No, the victory is not mine. Truly, it belongs to another.’
He knelt down again, and placed the sword across Desaix’s chest, and folded the dead man’s arms across the blade. Then he stood up and pushed his way through the cordon of officers and strode back towards his headquarters before anyone could see the first tears welling up in his eyes.
Chapter 55
Arthur
Seringapatam, May 1799
As the sun rose on Tipoo’s capital, the day after the city had fallen, it revealed the men of General Baird’s assault column still plundering the city and wholly out of control. Smoke billowed up from several fires that were spreading, unchecked by the British forces inside the walls.
As he waded across the south Cauvery river with Captain Fitzroy Arthur looked at the columns of smoke billowing up into the rosy sky with growing anger. His companion sensed his mood and muttered, ‘What the hell does Baird think he’s playing at? If those fires aren’t put out we’ll lose half the city.’
‘Yes,’ Arthur replied quietly. ‘That’s something we’ll have to put right as soon as I take charge.’
He unconsciously touched the bulge in his jacket, where he had put the orders from General Harris authorising him to take command of all British forces in the city. The same orders required Baird and his staff to quit Seringapatam and return to Harris’s camp two miles to the west. Arthur had already given instructions for his regiment, the 33rd Foot, to be formed up and ready for action the moment he assumed command of the forces inside Seringapatam and restored order to end the looting, raping and murder.
By rights, as brigadier of the day, Baird should not be relieved until midday, but General Harris realised that the sacking of the city had to be ended as soon as possible. Baird was not the man to do it. His dislike of Indians generally, and his vengeful hatred of the people of Mysore in particular, meant that he was the very last man in the British army who could be trusted with bringing order back to the city and steering it towards a long-lasting alliance with Britain and the East India Company. By contrast, there was hardly a man more suitable for the job than Arthur Wellesley. He spoke the native tongue, and had the necessary tact and respect to work alongside the people of Mysore. More shrewdly, Harris was aware that the younger brother of the Governor General would be sure to do his utmost to implement Richard’s policy of expanding British power in India by way of treaties, alliances and, where necessary, force. A policy of which Harris wholeheartedly approved.
Arthur and Fitzroy emerged on the far side of the crossing and entered the wall through the breach. Baird had sent word that he had moved his headquarters to the Dowlut Baugh,Tipoo’s palace on the far side of the city. The streets were quiet, as most of the looters were sleeping off the debauchery of the previous night. The inhabitants of Seringapatam were still hiding, behind locked and barricaded doors, hoping that their homes would prove too much of a challenge to the looters and encourage them to search for easier pickings amongst their neighbours. There were some men, more resilient or simply more sober than their comrades, who were still looking for booty, women and drink, and they made no effort to stand to attention and salute as the two officers strode past. For his part, Arthur ignored them.There was no sense in getting caught up in an ugly scene that might well result in harm to him and his companion. The British soldiers were not the only looters on the street. A number of natives were breaking into shops to steal whatever they could while the city was lawless. The situation was made worse by the prisoners who had escaped from the city’s dungeons during the assault.
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