The Fields of Death - Scarrow Simon - Страница 92

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Roguet shook his head, but kept his silence. Davout asked the next question.

‘What about the engineers’ pontoons, sire? Are they to be burned as well?’

‘Yes.’

Davout frowned. ‘But, sire, if the enemy take Borisov then we will need the pontoons to make our escape across the river.’

‘They’re not necessary,’ Napoleon replied. ‘The temperature has not risen above freezing for the last five days. It is likely to get colder still, in which case the river will freeze. Hard enough for us to cross the Berezina wherever the ice is thickest.’

‘That is taking quite a risk, sire,’ Davout protested. ‘If the Borisov crossings are denied to us, and the ice cannot bear the weight, then . . .’ He shook his head.

‘That’s why we need to move as fast as we can.’ Napoleon clasped his hands together behind his back and concluded the briefing. ‘Pass the orders on to all officers. All the vehicles are to be gathered in the market place. Half the remaining draught horses are to be butchered and the meat distributed to the men. Only our soldiers, mind you. Any civilians are to look to their own devices. The army will march at dawn.’

All through the night the wagons and other vehicles were dragged out of the town and pushed tightly together. Kindling was piled beneath the axles. The injured were carried into the buildings and made as comfortable as possible on beds, mattresses and piles of straw. Those who carried them tried to block out their comrades’ desperate pleas not to be left behind. The weakest horses were led to the cattle market and slaughtered, and the army’s butchers hurriedly stripped the carcasses of meat and placed the chunks in barrels to distribute to each surviving battalion of the army. An hour before dawn, as the men were roused from their billets in readiness to begin the next march, the engineers set light to the vast jumble of vehicles and the flames licked high into the sky as the first glimmer of the coming day lightened the eastern horizon.

It was at that moment that the alarm was raised. An officer from the battalion tasked with the last watch of the night came running into the corn exchange and breathlessly announced that a column was approaching Orsha. Napoleon quickly countermanded the order to begin the march and told Roguet to have the Guard ready to repel an attack. Then, with Berthier, he followed the officer through the streets to the eastern side of the town and climbed the tower of a small church. The officer commanding the watch battalion was already in the tower, gazing towards the sunrise. He turned and saluted as his Emperor panted up the steps and joined him.

‘What is your name?’ asked Napoleon, somewhat surprised to see a captain in charge of the battalion.

‘Captain Pierre Dubois, sire.’

‘And how old are you, Dubois?’

‘Twenty-one, sire.’

‘What happened to your colonel?’

‘We lost him, and most of the other officers, at Borodino, sire. I took over command from Captain Lebel in the second week of the retreat.’ Dubois paused and looked at Napoleon anxiously. ‘I meant the second week of the march, sire.’

Napoleon smiled and patted his arm.‘Easy there, Dubois. It’s all right to speak the truth to your Emperor. Now then, where’s this column of yours?’

Dubois led the way to the tower window. The shutters had been bolted back and a light breeze flapped the corners of Napoleon’s coat as he squinted into the half-light. The church was close to the river and as Napoleon glanced at the bridge, no more than fifty paces downstream to his right, he could see small ice floes gliding down towards the large stone buttresses. Dubois pointed to the road on the other side of the river. The handful of wooden houses on the far bank had been burned to deny the Russians any cover if they approached the town while the French were still occupying it. Beyond the charred ruins the road to Smolensk stretched out for a mile before it disappeared into a forested vale. A dark band slowly edged out of the vale, and raising his telescope to his eye Napoleon could just make out the figures of a column of infantry marching towards Orsha.

‘Russians?’ asked Berthier.

‘Can’t tell yet.’ Napoleon rested the telescope against the side of the window frame to steady it and then squinted. It was most likely that it was the vanguard of Kutusov’s army, hurrying forward to force Napoleon to turn and fight while the flanking Russian columns made for the Berezina. The tail of the column had emerged from the vale, and Napoleon waited a moment to see what would follow. But there was nothing. No more columns, guns or Cossacks. Just what appeared to be a strong battalion of infantry. The column marched steadily towards the bridge. Down below in the streets the first companies of the Imperial Guard were entering the buildings surrounding the end of the bridge and smashing open the windows and knocking rough loopholes in the walls with picks. Others dragged furniture out into the street to form a barricade across the bridge.

‘Very strange,’ Berthier muttered as he watched the column approach.‘They have to know that we are here, with all that smoke from the fire. But surely they would not dare to attack us on their own?’

‘Assuming they are Russian,’ Napoleon replied. He glanced through the telescope again. The head of the approaching column was now no more than half a mile away. At that moment, a small gap in the clouds opened on the horizon and sunlight flooded across the landscape, picking out a gleaming form at the head of the column. An eagle.

Napoleon felt a surge of relief and joy fill his heart as he lowered the telescope and beamed at Berthier. ‘It’s Ney!’

‘Ney?’ Berthier shook his head. ‘Impossible. The rearguard was cut off. There must have been thousands of Cossacks between Ney and the rest of the army.’

Napoleon’s smile faded.‘That explains why there are so few of them. But come on, we must greet him.’

They hurried down the stairs and out into the street. The stern expressions of the guardsmen preparing to defend the town turned to disbelief and joy when Captain Dubois shouted the news that Ney had survived. Napoleon and Berthier edged round the barricade and hurried across the bridge. They stopped on the far side as the head of the column came into view a short distance away. The men were marching in step, muskets resting on their shoulders: the very picture of military efficiency were it not for the rags holding their boots together. At their head marched Marshal Ney, a musket slung across his shoulder and a scarf wrapped over his feathered hat and tied under his chin. Several days’ growth of red beard covered his jaw and cheeks. Twenty paces from the Emperor he stepped to the side of his men and bellowed, ‘Rearguard! Halt!’

The column stamped forward a pace and stopped.

Ney stared at them a moment and then bellowed, ‘Rearguard! Long live Napoleon! Long live France!’

They echoed his cheer with full throats, and as the echo of their cry died away Ney turned to Napoleon. ‘Permission to return to main column, sire?’

‘Permission granted!’ Napoleon laughed. He strode forward and clasped Ney’s arms. ‘My God, it is a fine thing to see you again. How on earth did you manage it?’

‘A moment, if you please, sire.’ Ney turned back to his column and drew a deep breath. ‘Rearguard . . . Fall out! Get some food and some rest. You’ve earned it!’

The men broke ranks and filed past Napoleon and the two marshals. Despite their bearing as they approached the town Napoleon could clearly see that they were at the end of their endurance. Ravaged by hunger and exhaustion, their eyes were sunken in dark sockets and their cheeks looked pinched as they walked stiffly over the bridge. The guardsmen cheered them as they entered the town, embracing their comrades and shoving their own meagre rations into the newcomers’ hands.

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