Read The Fields of Death Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
The Fields of Death (18 page)
The Austrian gunners turned away from their weapons and ran for the shelter of the nearest squares, throwing themselves flat at the feet of the kneeling front rank as the latter’s muskets came up, ready to fire into the approaching cavalry. The face of the closest Austrian square abruptly disappeared behind a line of gunpowder smoke and several more of the cuirassiers were cut down. The rest plunged on, riding into the smoke.
The squares of the enemy’s front line held firm, and the French horsemen were forced to flow round them, fired on as they galloped past. Some tried to lean from the saddles and slash at the Austrians with their swords. Others, more cool-headed, sheathed their blades and drew out their pistols, firing back at point-blank range. All the time, the Frenchmen were steadily cut down and the wounded trickled back across the body-strewn fields towards the French lines. The second wave of horsemen opened ranks to let them pass through, and then moved forward to add their weight to the survivors of the first charge.
‘They’re being cut to pieces,’ Berthier said. ‘They can’t break those squares.’
‘No. But that is not necessary,’ Napoleon responded coolly. ‘Just as long as they pin those Austrians in place, long enough for us to reorganise our lines.’ He looked round at his reserve formations. ‘We’ll need all the guns from the Imperial Guard. Line them up with Eugène’s batteries. That’ll give us over a hundred pieces to blast the enemy with. See to it at once.’
As soon as the guns were in place, Bessières withdrew his battered cavalry divisions and there was another brief lull as the enemy squares formed back into lines and then advanced, en masse, towards the waiting Italians of Prince Eugène, and the hurriedly assembled battery defending the centre of the Grand Army. With a thunderous roar the guns tore into the enemy lines, carving bloody paths through the leading ranks. Napoleon could only wonder at their discipline as the Austrians closed up the gaps and continued at a steady pace, muskets sloped.
‘My God, Berthier, those men are fearless.’
Berthier nodded, eyes fixed on the terrible carnage being wrought by the continuous blasts of the French guns. Over a thousand men must have been cut down before they came within musket range of the French line. Still their discipline held as their officers gave the order to shoulder their weapons and take aim on the French. Their first volley whirred through the dense smoke hanging in front of the cannon, striking down scores of the gunners. A second volley did as much damage, and there was a brief pause before the first company of Imperial Guardsmen were ordered forward to serve the guns. They slung their muskets over their shoulders and did as they were bid by the artillerymen who had survived the initial volleys.
The two lines stood their ground, the French guns and muskets of Eugène’s men answered by the massed volleys of the Austrians. Napoleon watched the mutual slaughter without expression. Thousands had fallen, and all the time more were struck down, falling upon the heaped bodies of their comrades. It was a small mercy that the smoke became so thick that it hid the true scale of the horror from the men locked into a mechanical ritual of firing and reloading as swiftly as they could. The carnage amongst the gun crews in front of Napoleon’s position numbed his staff officers, who sat in their saddles and watched the bloody spectacle in silence.
For nearly an hour the firing continued. In that time Napoleon had news that Masséna had managed to form his men up in front of Essling and was starting to push the Austrians back. The cannon on Lobau island were firing across the river into the enemy’s flank, and under attack on three sides they could only endure so much before falling back. On the other side of the battlefield Marshal Davout was also steadily pushing the enemy back. Napoleon glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost noon. He turned to Berthier.
‘It seems that the enemy’s attacks have been checked, and the last of their reserves are committed to the battle. Now is the time for us to mount our own assault, break the Austrian line and defeat the army of Archduke Charles.’
The Emperor’s chief of staff looked round the battlefield. ‘Sire, we have few enough reserves of our own. Would an attack be prudent?’
‘Prudent?’ Napoleon shook his head in pity. ‘Have you no faith in me, Berthier?’
Berthier lowered his gaze.
Napoleon continued. ‘Send orders for the army to attack along the entire line. The main blow will be delivered there.’ He raised his hand and pointed to the ground west of Aderklaa.
‘Yes, sire. And who is to have that task?’
Napoleon thought a moment.‘General MacDonald. His men are the freshest troops we have on the field.’
‘They are also some of the most inexperienced,’ Berthier countered.
‘Even so, they will win the battle for me. What greater glory could a new soldier ask for? Tell MacDonald to form his men up to attack.’
Hundreds of cannon rumbled along a battle line that stretched from the Danube to Wagram, and then down the line of the Russbach river, a distance of nearly eight miles. Opposite the Austrian centre, General MacDonald led his men forward. Eight thousand of them, their battalions arranged in a huge square formation. As soon as the drums beat the advance, the formation marched forward. The men were sweating freely in their stifling uniforms. The ground before them was a patchwork of trampled fields, strewn with bodies and abandoned equipment from two days of fighting. The dead had begun to corrupt in the midsummer heat and the air was thick with the stench of decaying flesh, blood and shit. Clouds of flies and other insects created a steady drone as they gorged themselves.
Ahead, the leading ranks could see the enemy artillery crews hurriedly repositioning their guns as they spied the new threat through the thinning clouds of gunpowder smoke.
‘MacDonald’s men will make a fine target, sire,’ said Berthier. ‘That square of his will be impossible to miss.’
Napoleon did not respond, but just continued to watch intently as the first of the Austrian batteries opened fire. The range was long, and they had loaded the guns with roundshot. The heavy iron balls grounded with a puff of dry soil a short distance in front of the leading battalion before ricocheting through the ranks, mowing down every soldier in their path. More guns opened up and MacDonald’s division began to lose scores of men with each minute that passed. Their progress across the plain was marked by a bloody trail of dead and wounded. As they came within range of case shot the nearest guns unleashed a devastating hail that wreaked even more slaughter on the diminishing French ranks.
Berthier shook his head in wonder. ‘My God, they can’t take much more of this.’
Napoleon sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘Pray that they do.’
The square staggered on, coming in range of the Austrian skirmishers, who added their fire to the cannon. MacDonald had already lost half his men, Napoleon estimated, yet still they advanced into the teeth of the enemy’s cannon and muskets. At last the survivors were close enough to the enemy line to fire their first volley in reply. The leading battalions deployed, loaded and raised their muskets, and fired at the nearest enemy guns and infantry formations. Napoleon felt a moment of blissful vengeance as the distant figures of Austrian artillerymen were cut down beside their guns.
MacDonald ordered the square to advance again and it pressed on, pausing to fire another volley before bayonets were fixed and they charged into the line of Austrian infantry waiting beyond.
The terrible tension of waiting for the division to get into action gave way to anxiety that MacDonald’s men had suffered too many casualties to carry the day. Napoleon nodded to himself as he made a decision.‘Berthier, we need every available man to support MacDonald! We must send forward what is left of Eugène’s reserves, and also the Imperial Guard.’
Berthier raised his eyebrows. ‘But sire, then we will have no reserves left. Nothing to face Archduke John should he reach the field.’
Napoleon gestured towards the two battalions assigned to guard the headquarters. ‘That will be our reserve. Send them to cover our right, and order the rest forward to save MacDonald, before it is too late.’
As the reinforcements swiftly advanced over the torn-up plain, Napoleon read through the latest reports from the other sectors of the battlefield. Davout and Masséna were driving back the Austrian flanks and Wagram had been taken by Prince Eugène and his men. Satisfied that the battle was tilting in his favour, he turned his attention back to the centre. With the aid of the fresh troops Napoleon had sent him, MacDonald was pushing steadily through the Austrian centre. Both sides were exchanging volleys at point-blank range and bodies lay in heaps across the battlefield. The arrival of the Imperial Guard proved to be decisive. After delivering one volley, they charged the Austrian line. There was a brief and bitter struggle and then the enemy broke, thousands of their men scrambling away towards the shelter of the hills running along the edge of the plain to the north.
At long last the Austrian army had been broken in two.
Napoleon stared at the fleeing enemy, too exhausted and too bitter at the cost of the battle to feel any triumph. As the enemy began to pull back the French battalions did not pursue them. The men’s strength had gone. The heat of the two days and the numbing slaughter they had witnessed meant that they had reached the end of their endurance. There was nothing further that could be done with them, Napoleon realised. Any pursuit of the Austrians was out of the question, especially with Archduke John’s army at large. He could only sit on his horse and watch the enemy make their escape, all the while burning with frustration.
Berthier spoke tonelessly. ‘A victory then. My congratulations, sire.’
‘Victory?’ Napoleon blinked his aching eyes and scanned a landscape of shattered buildings, heaps of bodies and the mangled remains of those caught by the full blast of artillery fire. Amid the carnage, the survivors stood, or sat, in a daze, some drinking from their canteens as they slaked their day-long thirst. ‘If this is victory, then I wonder can France ever afford such a victory again?’
Chapter 11
Schönbrunn, 23 October 1809
A chill wind was blowing across the parade ground outside the yellow and cream walls of the palace, a short distance from Vienna. Overhead the sky was grey and threatened rain. Even so, the display had attracted the usual crowd of people from the city who had paid for tickets to view the spectacle of the Imperial Guard marching in formation, to the tunes struck up by their bandsmen. Some had come to see Napoleon, curious to gaze upon the great man of the day. For most it was the only chance they had to see him since the French Emperor rarely ventured out in public, and then only to attend the opera or theatre, where he sat to the rear of his private box, giving the audience no more than an occasional glimpse of him.
Napoleon stood on the steps of the parade ground, watching his troops march past. It was ten days since the Austrians had finally signed a peace treaty with France. The negotiations had dragged on for months following the battle at Wagram. Emperor Francis had cavilled over every point, playing for time. Napoleon decided that Austria had to be punished, and the eventual agreement forced Emperor Francis to hand portions of his land to France, the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, Bavaria and Russia. Emperor Francis was also required to recognise Joseph as the legitimate King of Spain and to restrict the size of the Austrian army to no more than one hundred and fifty thousand men.
That, Napoleon smiled to himself, had done much to diminish any future threat that might be posed by Austria. As a final reminder to Emperor Francis of the new balance of power that existed between Austria and France, Napoleon had delayed his withdrawal from Vienna. Today’s parade was to be one of the last reviews before the Grand Army began its march back to the Rhine.
The last company of guardsmen stamped to a halt at the end of the line and then a silence fell across the parade ground as Napoleon surveyed the men before him. Four regiments of the Old Guard, the finest soldiers in his army. He gazed fondly at them, even though he kept his severe expression fixed. Many of these men had fought for him at Marengo and Austerlitz. To join their ranks a man had to have served a minimum of five years and fought in two campaigns. That was before they were even considered for selection. The men stared directly ahead, many sporting extravagant moustaches and beards. Their uniforms were clean, their white cross-straps a brilliant white, and their buttons gleamed, due to long hours of careful application of tripoli powder. Their tall bearskin hats and proud bearing made the men seem larger than other soldiers and Napoleon knew that their appearance alone on the battlefield was enough to unsettle an enemy. When they went into action they were utterly fearless and ferocious and only the finest of their foes ever dared to hold their ground against the Imperial Guard.
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