The Fields of Death (13 page)
Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
With all Europe watching the conflict, Napoleon was determined to make another attempt to cross the river, and this time the result would be very different.
Every soldier that could be spared had been summoned to Vienna, where the army steadily increased in size until over a hundred and sixty thousand men had gathered to take part in the attack on Archduke Charles. The troops left to guard the army’s communications with France were thinly stretched and if only one more of the European powers chose to intervene on the side of Austria then there would be little to stand in their way.
Meanwhile Lobau was turned into a fortress. By the end of June over a hundred and thirty cannon were sited in batteries covering the far bank. Two strong bridges had been constructed across the main channel of the Danube as well as three new pontoon bridges. Stakes had been driven into the river bed upstream of the bridges to ensure that they would be protected from any Austrian fireships or floating rams. There was to be no dependence on a single, vulnerable bridge across the river this time.
The enemy had made no attempt to intervene. The French had even managed to land a force across the river to seize the salient on which the hamlet of Mühlau stood. Within hours the French engineers had thoroughly fortified the village and mounted powerful batteries in redoubts to cover the approaches. The enemy had reacted with their usual plodding deliberation and by the time a column had arrived to retake the village it was clear to Archduke Charles that it would cost him far more men than the village was worth and he opted to enclose the salient within the wider system of fieldworks designed to contain any French attempt to break out on to the Marchfeld. Napoleon had been careful to ensure that the Austrians saw the construction of the elaborate series of batteries to cover a landing between Aspern and Essling. Moreover, the elite Imperial Guard had loudly paraded opposite Mühlau, and two additional bridges had been constructed to the salient. The enemy could hardly be in any doubt where Napoleon’s blow would fall.
Which was as well, he mused to himself as he strolled further along the bank of Lobau island with Masséna. For it was all an elaborate ruse, calculated to draw the enemy’s attention away from the true direction in which the French would strike. Already, ten pontoon bridges had been constructed out of sight of the Austrians, ready to be towed into position on the night of the attack. It was these bridges that Napoleon and Masséna were choosing positions for as they made their way along the eastern end of the island in their borrowed jackets.
Napoleon paused to survey the opposite bank once again. A party of Austrian soldiers were bathing in the shallows, their laughter and sound of splashing carrying clearly across the water. Beyond the Austrians the bank sloped gently up to higher ground.
‘What do you think?’
Masséna stared across the river for a moment before he nodded. ‘Looks good to me, sire. The river bed must be firm there, and our guns will be able to negotiate the far bank easily enough.’
‘I agree. Mark the position.’
They worked their way steadily along the bank, choosing the points where the ground was most solid and the bank posed no obstacle to the swift crossing of the river. When the last site had been marked on the map they turned to make their way back across the island to the Emperor’s forward headquarters. Behind the screen of forests that surrounded the heart of the island sprawled a vast camp. Marshal Oudinot’s corps had joined Masséna’s men, and once night came Davout’s thirty-five thousand soldiers would swell the ranks of the army waiting to be unleashed on the unsuspecting Archduke Charles. Obedient to their strict orders the men had not lit camp fires, and sat quietly resting. Some were stretched out asleep, others were cleaning their weapons, the cavalry rasping whetstones along the edges of their sabres. Although no orders had been issued for any attack, the concentration of so many men was evidence enough that their Emperor was preparing for an imminent battle.
As they walked through the camp Napoleon felt the keen sense of anticipation amongst his soldiers. So different from little over a month earlier when the army had been thrust back on to the island by the Austrians. Napoleon’s brow creased into a frown as he recalled the scene. The survivors of the battle had slumped on the ground in exhaustion. Thousands of injured men had been forced to spend two nights in the open, and hundreds had died from their wounds and been buried in a mass grave on the south of the island.
Eventually the wounded had been evacuated to Vienna, including Marshal Lannes, whose legs had been smashed by a cannon ball. With both legs shattered the imperial surgeon, Dr Larrey, had no choice but amputation. Napoleon had gone to his friend’s side after the operation and found the veteran of many campaigns lying on a bed in a small chapel. A thin sheet covered Lannes and his arms lay at his sides. The sheet fell flat to the bed from his thighs down. Lannes was in a troubled sleep, his face slick with perspiration, as Napoleon and Dr Larrey entered the room.
Napoleon turned to Dr Larrey and asked quietly, ‘What are his chances of surviving?’
‘Good enough. The marshal has a strong constitution. Provided there is no corruption of the wound, the stumps will heal in time.’
Napoleon nodded. ‘Keep me informed of his progress.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Napoleon glanced back through the door and felt a great sadness over the knowledge that the courageous and utterly dependable Lannes would never again be at his side during a battle. It would be hard for a man so full of vitality to accept life as a cripple, Napoleon realised. As he closed the door, he wondered if it might not have been kinder if Lannes had been killed outright.
Marshal Jean Lannes died eight days after he had been wounded. The pain of his loss still burned in Napoleon’s heart. He had wept at the news, and the army had been stunned. Many had seen Lannes in the front rank in battle and had been steadied by his example. He had risen from amongst their ranks and had shared their perils and their wounds, and they openly grieved for him as the news spread through the ranks.
Jean Lannes would be avenged, Napoleon vowed silently as they approached a group of sergeants sitting beside the track running across the camp. The men had a small keg of brandy with them and a haunch of cured venison. One of them looked up as Masséna and Napoleon passed by.
‘Hey, friends, join us for a drink?’
Masséna was about to refuse the offer when Napoleon nudged him and smiled a greeting. ‘Why, yes. Thank you.’
Masséna shot him a surprised glance, but Napoleon simply pulled his cap down a bit further as he sat on the crushed grass. After a moment’s hesitation Masséna joined him. The sergeant who had invited them held out two battered copper cups and lifted the keg to pour a small measure into each. Napoleon raised his cup. ‘Good health!’
The other sergeants, ten or so of them, raised their cups to return the toast and then, after a sip of the fiery liquid, Napoleon wiped his lips and asked, ‘So what unit is this, then?’
‘First battalion, Eighty-second regiment of the line. In Friant’s division.’
Napoleon nodded. ‘Davout’s corps, then. Only just arrived.’
‘Not only that,’ the sergeant continued, ‘but only just formed. The battalion’s marched here from the depot at Lyons.’
Another sergeant cleared his throat and spat on to the ground beside him. ‘Most of the recruits are just boys.’
‘And what about you lot?’ asked Masséna. ‘What’s your service record?’
‘Us?’The first sergeant laughed.‘Up until a couple of months ago we were just customs officers. Then the call-up comes from Paris. The Emperor needs a new army and his recruiters are scouring France for discharged veterans, National Guard officers and NCOs, and finally, at the bottom of the barrel, us. That’s why I asked you to join us.’ He pointed at their jackets.‘You’re from the Imperial Guard. You must have seen a thing or two.’
Masséna nodded.
‘Then you must have been here when the army last went up against the Austrians.’
‘Yes.’
‘The army newspapers say that it was a tactical withdrawal after the enemy had been given a good hiding. Of course, no one believes a word of it. From what we’ve heard, it was a bloody disaster. Is that true?’
Masséna glanced at Napoleon, who was still for a moment before he nodded discreetly. This was a rare chance to hear what his soldiers really thought. Freshly arrived from Lyons, it was likely that none of them had ever set eyes on their Emperor. Most of the paintings and prints that were to be found around the country had him bedecked in glittering uniforms. They would not guess his identity, for now at least.
Masséna looked at the sergeant and nodded. ‘It was a hard fight, and yes, they drove us from the field. We lost good men, thousands of them.’
‘How did that happen?’
Masséna shrugged. ‘We advanced too far too quickly and the reconnaissance was sloppy, and somehow the cavalry patrols managed to miss spotting the Austrian army. That’s how.’
‘Then it’s like we were told,’ one of the others intervened. ‘The Emperor fucked up.’
Napoleon sensed Masséna freeze by his side, and he coughed and leaned forward.‘Careful, that’s dangerous talk. I wouldn’t let any officers overhear such an opinion. But, for what it’s worth, the Emperor made a mistake. I doubt he’ll make the same one again.’
‘Really?’ The sergeant raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you think so?’
Napoleon gestured at the vast camp surrounding them. ‘Every preparation has been made. I doubt there’s any army in the whole of Europe that could beat us now.’
‘I’m not worried about other armies. I’m worried about the one that’s waiting for us on the other side of the river. They’ve beaten us once. They’ll be thinking they can do it again.’
‘Then they’re wrong,’ Napoleon replied, and jerked his thumb at Masséna. ‘We’ve fought ’em before. Trust me, the Austrians can be beaten, and they will be beaten.’
The sergeant still seemed doubtful. ‘Well, I hope you’re right. God knows we need to beat them and end this war. Let’s hope this time we can have a real peace at the end of it all. Perhaps we’ll live to see the day when the Emperor has finally had his fill of war. All I want is peace, and the chance to go home to my family.’
‘Peace, and the chance to go home?’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘I’m sure that’s what the Emperor wants as much as the next Frenchman. The question is, will the other nations let us have peace?’
‘No chance,’ the sergeant replied bitterly. ‘War is all that kings, tsars and emperors understand. They love the uniforms, and pushing tokens round on maps, and all the time it’s the lot of common people to die. I thought the Revolution was supposed to put an end to all of that. We got rid of the King, and the aristos. Now look at us. Dukes, princes and barons as far as the eye can see, and Napoleon sitting on top of it all with his crown. What’s changed, tell me that?’
The first sergeant laughed.‘Ignore him. Pierre’s just an old-fashioned Jacobin. He’s always grumbling. I wonder . . .’ He looked eagerly at Masséna and Napoleon. ‘You must have seen him. What’s he like?’
‘The Emperor?’ Masséna puffed his cheeks at the awkward situation. ‘Well, he’s just a man, like any of us here. He may be Emperor when he’s in the palace in Paris, but here, in the field? Here, he’s a soldier. He takes his risks with the rest of us.’
‘And what about you?’ asked the sergeant called Pierre, staring directly at Napoleon. ‘What do you think?’
Napoleon stared back at him for a moment, tempted to reveal his identity, but at the same time loath to break the illusion that they were all comrades. He set down his cup and stood up, punching Masséna lightly on the shoulder. ‘I think it’s time we got back to our battalion. It’s going to be a busy night.’
Masséna handed back his cup and stood up. ‘Good luck to you all.’
‘And you,’ the first man nodded back.
‘What do you think?’ Napoleon asked quietly, as he and Masséna strode off.
Masséna glanced at him. ‘Sire?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Masséna. I’m talking about what those men said. Are they right? Have I betrayed the Revolution and simply created a new form of tyranny?’
‘You are talking about politics, sire, and I am a soldier. It’s not my field.’
‘You are evading the issue.’ Napoleon laughed softly. ‘When a man fears to speak the truth then he does indeed live in a tyranny. It seems that the sergeant was right.’
‘King or emperor, what difference does it make?’ Masséna responded. ‘The fact is, France is at war and it is the duty of every soldier to fight for his country. When the fighting begins there is no place for questioning the cause of it.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Besides, what use have I for peace? It would do me out of a fine living.’
Napoleon looked at him and shook his head. ‘Marshal Masséna, you have a brutally practical way of looking at life. Even so, I must admit I had hoped that a little idealism burned in your heart.’
Masséna shrugged. ‘I’ll leave idealism to the philosophers, sire. As long as there’s fighting, fucking and fortunes to be made, I am your man.’
‘And what if I make peace? What of your allegiance to me then?’
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