The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 80
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The marshals nodded. Then Davout spoke.
‘Sire, whatever the soldiers believe, we can be sure that our enemies in Europe will present this as a defeat. We have to be careful that defeat is not turned into catastrophe.’
‘What do you mean?’
Davout folded his hands and stared down at them thoughtfully. ‘It is no secret that many of our allies contributed their contingents under duress. We know that we can’t trust the Prussians. If this campaign goes against us, then I fear that Frederick William may well change sides and join the Tsar. If he does, then he will not be the only one.’ He looked up.‘Sire, the overriding priority now is no longer to defeat the Russians. It is my conviction that that is no longer possible. What matters is survival. That means we must save as many men, horses and guns as we can. They will be needed to hold our ground in Europe when this campaign is over.’
There was a silence around the table, before Ney laughed. ‘Ever the optimist, Davout! Damn it, man, you paint the blackest of pictures.’
‘Sometimes the picture is black,’ Napoleon replied, glancing at the portrait at the end of the room. ‘In any case, the decision is made. The army is to abandon Moscow, on the nineteeth. Return to your commands and prepare your men to march. Berthier will send each of you your orders for your place in the line of march.’
Napoleon sat on his mount, surrounded by his staff, as the column trudged by under a leaden sky of gathering rain clouds. The army had set out at first light, but the days were growing shorter and dusk was settling over Moscow before the tail of the huge column had cleared the city. Marshal Mortier commanded the rearguard, and his men were busy spiking the guns that had to be left behind in the city because there were no longer sufficient horses to draw them. Mortier’s soldiers were also tasked with destroying any stocks of powder and weapons that might be of use to the enemy. Afterwards, they would set off, covering the rear of the army.
As Napoleon watched his men pass by, they still offered a cheer as they saw him, but they were no longer the men of the Grand Army that had crossed the Niemen nearly six months ago. They looked more like a procession of beggars in their tattered uniforms and the assortment of coats and jackets they had looted from Moscow. Many were laden down with the more burdensome spoils of war, and the route was already lined with discarded paintings, mirrors and laquered boxes, left in the mud.
In amongst the columns of infantry were wagons and carts filled with the wounded, whatever rations could be gleaned from Moscow, and yet more spoils. The vehicles, and the army’s remaining guns, were drawn by skeletal horses and mules, their ribs clearly delineated under the loose folds of their hides. It was the same for the cavalry, Napoleon noted sadly. The gleaming mounts that had been spurred on across the steppes were now mere shadows of the finest cavalry in Europe. Thousands of troopers no longer had mounts, and marched as infantry, their carbines slung over their shoulders.
He watched them for a while, then took a last glance back towards the Moscow skyline. His heart filled with a bitter hatred for the Tsar. Tugging the reins, Napoleon turned his mount to follow the column snaking back the way it had come as the first cold drops of rain began to fall.
Chapter 31
Arthur
Madrid, 12 August 1812
The bells of the great church of Nuestra Seсora de la Almudena rang out across the city, but were scarcely audible above the din of the crowd lining the streets down which the British troops marched as they made for the royal palace. Despite its being the hottest part of the year, the Spaniards had turned out in their tens of thousands to greet the liberator of Madrid. A battalion of the Coldstream Guards led the way, in carefully patched uniforms, fresh tripoli on their cross belts and buttons polished to a glassy shine. Next came a squadron of the German dragoons who had scattered the last division of Marmont’s army the day after the battle at Salamanca. And then, together with his staff, came Arthur, mounted on his favourite chestnut horse, Copenhagen. He had dressed for the event and left his plain coat and hat at headquarters. Instead he wore his red coat, adorned with gold lace. On his left breast he wore the medals and stars of the titles that he had won over the years. A new bicorne sat on his head, with a plume of white feathers lining it from front to back.
‘I feel like a damned stuffed goose,’ he called to Somerset, who rode to his side and slightly further back. ‘All done up for a Christmas banquet.’
Somesert laughed, doffing his hat to a group of Spanish ladies who were sheltering beneath parasols as they watched the procession from a balcony. ‘Just as long as you look the part, my lord. After all, the Spanish government has conferred upon you the title of the supreme commander of all Spanish forces.’
‘A measure that will be of supreme indifference to almost every Spaniard under arms, I can assure you.’
‘Be that as it may, my lord, you have won their hearts, and the Spanish deserve to see a conquering warrior, not some chap in a coat who might as well be a country doctor when all is said and done.’
‘Country doctor?’ Arthur sniffed. ‘Well, at least my appearance does not seem to concern our fellows unduly.’
He sat stiffly in his saddle as he rode with all the dignity he could muster, occasionally turning to one side or the other and raising a hand to acknowledge the crowd’s cheers, which only prompted a further burst of wild cries and frantic waving of strips of cloth in the red and gold of Spain. It was an impressive reception, Arthur mused. The previous day, Madrid’s population had greeted the army with hysterical joy, pressing bottles of wine and gifts of bread, pastries and dried sausage into the hands of the first soldiers to enter the suburbs. For their part the soldiers had grinned as they nodded their gratitude and responded with the few words of Spanish they had picked up. Today’s procession to the royal palace was a much more formal affair, but had taken on the air of a wild public holiday.
The hated French had gone. As news of the crushing defeat at Salamanca reached King Joseph, he hurriedly packed up his valuables, and a heavily guarded convoy of French officials left the city a few days before the arrival of the allied army. A large column of Spanish collaborators left with them, to avoid the growing bloodlust of the mob. The French were heading south-east to Valencia, where Joseph sought the protection of Marshal Suchet.
Even so, the allied army was short of supplies, the men were tired and many of Arthur’s senior officers were out of action due to injury and sickness. There was little more that could be achieved by pursuing Marmont, and the liberation of Madrid would be an effective blow to French prestige across Europe. It would also help to raise morale back in Britain, where the new Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, was working hard to generate political support for Arthur’s campaigns in the Peninsula.
Arthur felt his mind reeling with the possibilities that the victory at Salamanca had opened up for future operations. But that was work for later. For the present he was content to play the part of the liberator of Madrid, and as the royal palace came in sight along the avenue he raised his hat from his head and held it high as he swept it round towards the sea of ecstatic Madrileсos, cheering as they waved their strips of cloth in wild abandon.
As soon as Arthur stepped inside the tall doors of the balcony he gestured towards a footman bearing a tray of glasses of water. The cheers of the crowd filled the room almost as loudly as they filled the plaza outside. The midday heat beating down upon Madrid had caused Arthur to perspire freely under his scarlet woollen jacket. Once he had removed his hat and wiped a dribble of sweat from his brow, he downed two glasses of the chilled water in quick succession. Then he allowed a servant to remove the ribbon across his shoulder and the other around his waist before unclipping his sword belt, undoing the buttons of his jacket and slipping it off.
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