The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 88

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‘Sire! Look out!’ Berthier yelled, urging his horse between Napoleon and the Cossack who had pressed through the ring behind them. Napoleon swung round to see the Russian’s wild expression as he drew back his lance to strike. The point came forward, foreshortened and deadly, like a snake striking, and Napoleon swept out his telescope, just managing to knock the point aside. Then the pony slammed into the flank of Napoleon’s mare, nearly knocking him out of his saddle. He swayed briefly before grimly tugging on his reins and clamping his legs round the horse’s girth. Berthier struck back, slashing his blade down on to the man’s shoulder, shattering the collar bone and shoulder blade with a sharp crack. The Cossack dropped his lance, snatched the reins aside with his good hand and raced away, barging between the men struggling around Napoleon.

‘Thank you, Berthier,’ Napoleon panted, his heart pounding with fear and excitement. Berthier smiled, then both men heard a distant trumpet note sounding across the fields. They turned and saw a squadron of Guard cavalry charging into view round a bend in the road.

‘Hold on!’ Napoleon shouted to his officers. ‘Hold them back!’

The skirmish intensified as the Cossacks strove to cut their foes down before they were saved by the reinforcements. Another officer fell, pierced through the chest, the bloody point bursting through his back less than three paces from where Napoleon sat on his mount. He recoiled involuntarily at the sight, then the lance was yanked back and the officer swayed in his saddle, groaning in agony, before he began to slump forward. Another cried out as a lance pinned his arm to his side, passing on into the Frenchman’s ribs. Napoleon quickly rose in his stirrups to see that the dragoons were spurring into a charge to save their Emperor, pounding down the road in a muddy spray, their swords held high and glittering in the sunshine.

A sudden shout behind Napoleon caused him to swivel in his saddle, just in time to see another Cossack making for him, lance ready to strike.

‘No you don’t!’ a voice shouted back and an officer spurred his horse between the Russian and the Emperor. As the Cossack thrust the officer threw his sword into the man’s face and grabbed at the shaft of the lance with both hands. The Cossack clung on but with a swift, powerful jerk the staff officer wrenched the other man from his saddle and sent him crashing to the ground. A savage thrust to the throat with the lance finished him off.

The approach of rumbling hooves drew Napoleon’s gaze away from the officer who had saved him and he saw the Guard cavalry charging up to the mкlйe. They were hand-picked men mounted on the best of horses, and they charged down those Cossacks who could not turn and flee in time. The rest disappeared across the field into the woods, pursued by the galloping Frenchmen.

‘Who is he, Berthier?’ Napoleon nodded towards the officer holding the lance. The man was no older than thirty, blond and with fine features.

‘Colonel Eblй, sire. An engineer.’

‘Then see to it that the colonel is promoted to general. A brave man, that.’

‘We will need all of his kind in the weeks ahead,’ Berthier responded quietly.

Napoleon frowned. He wanted to upbraid his chief of staff for his pessimism, but he knew that Berthier was right. Glancing round at the forests on either side, he could already see mounted figures stealing back towards the tree line, watching them. Abruptly, he turned his mount back down the road and a moment later Berthier fell in alongside him.

They were silent for a moment as Napoleon glanced from side to side.

‘I think we may have to reconsider our route,’ he said.

Back in the campaign wagon, Napoleon pulled a map of the Moscow approaches from its case and spread it out across the folding table. He leaned forward on his elbows and examined it briefly, then nodded to himself. He tapped his finger where the name of Maloyaroslavets was marked.

‘We dare not take the whole army across the river using a single span. It would take too long, and if the enemy can bring forward sufficient strength to attack the bridgehead then we could be stuck here while Kutusov approaches from the east.’

‘That is a possibility, sire,’ Berthier agreed. ‘But if the ground on the far side is held by a few bands of Cossacks and the remnants of the column that Eugиne forced aside, then I would say it is worth the risk. If the army gets over the Lusha then there are few natural obstacles between us and Smolensk.’

Napoleon thought a moment and then shook his head. ‘It would take only a few cannon to sweep the bridge and there would be a panic. We would lose thousands - men I cannot afford to lose. No, the army cannot cross here.’ Napoleon traced his finger across the map. ‘We’ll head north, back to the Moscow-Smolensk road.’

Berthier sucked in a breath. ‘But that will cost us six days, sire. We can’t afford to lose so much time.’

‘Time is irrelevant if there is no army left to make use of it.’ Napoleon straightened up and rubbed his back. Even though he had slept little in recent days he felt something of his old energy returning. His stomach was no longer hurting, he realised.

He continued to stare at the map. It was possible that Berthier was right, he conceded silently, and the march north would cost him six days, but the danger of attempting to cross the Lusha outweighed Berthier’s fears.

A sudden gust of wind caused the map to flap where it wasn’t clipped to the table. Napoleon shuddered and turned to one of the orderlies waiting outside the carriage. ‘Find me a warm coat.’

Several days later, the army re-joined the road to Smolensk and passed through the battlefield at Borodino. There had been no time to bury the vast number of dead men and horses when the Grand Army had pursued Kutusov in the direction of Moscow after the battle six weeks before. Since then the corpses had swollen, putrefied and been scavenged by packs of wolves that had been drawn from many miles around by the scent of death. Amid the ravaged bodies was the litter of war: abandoned muskets, shattered gun carriages, cavalry helmets and breastplates, cleaved by musket and cannon fire.

‘Good God . . .’ Berthier muttered as he gazed around the desolate landscape as the headquarters column passed through. He sat opposite Napoleon in an open carriage.

‘An ugly scene,’ Napoleon nodded, and then wrinkled his nose.‘And a foul stench, even now.’

He turned in his seat to look back along the column snaking across the battlefield. Although the men looked lean and ragged, they still kept hold of their muskets and packs. As Napoleon watched, he saw hundreds of them break ranks and hurry across to the rotting horses to see if there was any meat to be gleaned, no matter how rancid. It was a sobering sight and Napoleon turned away, settling himself down in his seat and shutting his eyes. He did not sleep, but anxiously reflected on the steady disintegration of the Grand Army.

Earlier that day one of Murat’s troopers had brought the Emperor a report from the rearguard. The reports of conditions at the rear of the army were hard to believe. Davout’s corps had taken over the rearguard, and he informed the Emperor that as many as thirty thousand stragglers and camp followers were clogging the road behind the main body of the army. Most had abandoned their weapons and the strongest formed bands and preyed on the weak, stealing their food and clothes and leaving them to die. Starvation was killing hundreds every day. Men dropped by the side of the road and stared into space, waiting for death.

Roving bands of Cossacks and peasants were happy to oblige and butchered any French soldiers they came across. The wounded on the remaining wagons were crushed in together, and when a man died, or was deemed to be beyond help, he was thrown over the side to die in the mud or be crushed under the following vehicles. The remaining horses were little more than skeletons, and the lame animals were butchered where they fell, to be torn to pieces by frenzied mobs. Some men were even unhitching the horses from the wagons of the wounded and leaving their comrades behind, ignoring their pitiful pleas not to be abandoned. And all along the line of march lay the abandoned spoils of the campaign, amid the discarded weapons, spiked guns, carts, wheelbarrows and wagons.

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