‘The bridge will be cut within the next few hours! I beg you to cross while you can!’
Napoleon shook his head as few seemed to heed Eblй’s warning. ‘They had their chance,’ he told himself softly.
As the sun set into a blood-red haze on the horizon,Victor reported to Napoleon. He had not shaved or slept in days and looked haggard.
‘The enemy will reach the bridge within the hour, sire. I have no horses left for my remaining guns. The crews have been ordered to fire off their remaining rounds, spike the guns and fall back. There are three battalions holding the edge of the village. They will follow as soon as the order is given.’
‘You have done well, Marshal.’
‘My men have done all they could, sire. But the Russian guns will be in range of the bridge at any moment.’
‘I see.’ Napoleon stared across the river into the gathering gloom. ‘Then don’t delay. Give the order now.’
‘Yes, sire.’
As Victor returned across the river the engineers were hurriedly coating the timbers of the bridges with pitch, and the acrid smell made Napoleon’s nose wrinkle as he waited for Victor and the last of his men to fall back. Then they appeared, trotting down the street and over the smallest bridge, a company at a time. The last battalion retreated facing the enemy, and then hurried over. Last of all came Victor himself, sword in hand until he reached the western bank and sheathed it.
A silence fell over the scene as the last of the engineers abandoned their brushes and pots of pitch, and then Eblй raised his speaking trumpet again.
‘For the love of God! Escape while you still can!’
The civilians seemed to be too exhausted and lethargic to respond, and Eblй sadly lowered the speaking trumpet and gestured to his men to proceed with their orders. Torches were applied to the pitch and the flames licked out along the length of the bridges as the fire quickly caught and spread.
There was a drone through the air and a howitzer shell burst amongst the crowd in a bright flash. At once they struggled to their feet and ran for the bridges. More shells burst amongst them with lurid explosions of red and orange, the shell fragments cutting down scores of the tightly packed bodies at a time. The fugitives made for the bridges, trying to protect their faces from the flames as they ran towards the far bank. A few made it across, some on fire which the engineers hurriedly smothered. Others, blinded by the heat, stumbled over the edge and fell into the river. Some were desperate enough to plunge into the water, but few were strong enough to wade or swim across and the cold killed them before they reached the western bank. Flames reached high into the evening sky, reflected in the surface of the river, and the crackling and bursting of wood was accompanied by shrill screams of panic from the mob trapped on the far side.
Bit by bit, the planking and trestles collapsed into the water and, as the fire began to die down, the crowd fell silent and stared in numbed horror at the ruined bridges. The Russians had ceased fire as soon as they saw that most of the French had escaped and a terrible quiet fell over the scene.
The imperial headquarters had already set off down the causeway. Napoleon took one last look at Studienka and then climbed on to his mount. With a click of his tongue he urged the horse into a trot and made his way alongside the survivors of Victor’s corps, heading towards Vilna.
Chapter 37
Molodetchna, 29 November 1812
The haggard remnants of the French army was stretched out along the road to Vilna. The snow fell steadily, drifting against the last of the abandoned vehicles, and the corpses of men and horses, until they were mercifully covered over, hiding the dead and the detritus of the army from those who still lived.
A handful of units remained together, mostly for self-protection rather than through discipline or any sense of duty. They marched with bayonets fixed, with little ammunition remaining in their haversacks, warily watching the surrounding countryside for any sign of the Cossacks who were following the column. Occasionally the horsemen would attack, with a sudden series of war cries as they dashed from concealment to rush any defenceless French soldiers, or civilians. They did not bother to discriminate between the two as they cut them down and then searched the corpses for anything of value. The Cossacks had learned to leave the formed units alone and often stood by, within musket range, letting them shuffle past.
Once again the snow had compacted and frozen so that the passage of the Grand Army was marked by a long, winding gleam of ice that was treacherous underfoot. The temperature continued to fall and had not risen above freezing since they had left the nightmare of the Berezina river behind them. The nights were bitter and dawn, when it came, was bleak. Any men, horses or equipment left in the open were covered in a heavy rime of frost. Increasingly, those who could not find shelter for the night did not survive to see the dawn. Only that morning, Napoleon had passed a peculiar scene by the side of the road. A soldier, a woman and two children were sitting around the remains of a small fire, built in the lee of a crumbling wall. They sat, cross-legged, wrapped in blankets, the children leaning into their mother with their heads resting against her, as if asleep. But they were unaturally still, and Napoleon stopped to look at them.
‘Frozen to death,’ he muttered as he stared into their white faces, wondering at the peaceful expressions on all four. ‘Frozen to death,’ he repeated in horror, before spurring his horse forward again.
That night, the headquarters staff and the Imperial Guard halted at Molodetchna. The soldiers found billets in the village and tried to scavenge some scraps of meat and vegetables to make soup, while the Emperor and his staff took over the village’s one tavern. The Russian armies were mostly behind them and so now the battle was for survival. Regular communications had been re-established with Warsaw and an escorted courier sent by the Minister of Police had arrived in the village earlier in the day. In addition to the official messages, Savary had instructed his official to brief the Emperor on the dangerous situation in Paris.
Napoleon had retreated to the tavern’s kitchen with Berthier to hear what the man had to say in private. A small cauldron was steaming over the cooking fire and the tavern’s owner was peeling vegetables to add to the stock.
‘Out,’ Napoleon said to him, pointing at the door.
The tavern keeper shook his head and pointed to the cauldron. Napoleon clicked his fingers and then pointed to the hilt of his sword before he repeated his order. ‘Out!’
Once the door had closed, he turned to the courier. ‘What’s alarming Savary so much that he has sent you all the way out here?’
‘You already know about Malet’s attempted coup, I take it, sire?’
‘I know. Savary’s last report was that he had rounded up the plotters and dealt with them.’
‘That’s right. The problem is that the rumours of your death have still been circulating around the Paris salons, and amongst the army officers in the capital. The situation is made worse by the reports that are starting to filter back from Russia, mostly letters from soldiers in the rear echelons who have heard rumours of a disaster befalling the army. Of course, the newspapers are continuing to put out the official line that all is well and that your imperial majesty has bested the Tsar. Many people still seem willing to trust the newspapers but it’s clear that they need proof that you are alive, sire. Better still, they need to see you in person. They also need to know what has happened in Russia. It’s the only way we can quell the rumours and cut the ground from under those who might be plotting against the regime.’