‘Then it is a shame for us both that Murat has decided to deny us his good services,’ Napoleon responded bitterly. It was only two weeks before that the news had arrived from Italy. Marshal Murat, the Emperor’s brother-in-law, whom Napoleon had gifted the kingdom of Naples, had defected to the allies. There had been little of the rage that Napoleon might once have given vent to when he first heard of Murat’s’s treachery. Anger had swiftly given way to contempt and disgust. Napoleon fervently hoped that he lived long enough to have his revenge. Not just on Murat, but on the newly recrowned Ferdinand of Spain as well. Despite the treaty he had signed with Napoleon at Valenзay, Ferdinand had failed to keep one of the promises he had made so earnestly and Spain was still at war with France.
Revenge would have to wait, he reflected. That was a luxury he must deny himself, until the invaders had been driven from French soil. The allied armies remained divided, advancing boldly across northern and eastern France, confident in the strength of their numbers. As a consequence he been able to strike at their overextended columns several times since he had taken command of his forces at the end of January. Although the snow, and the subsequent mud, had hampered the movements of both sides, Napoleon held the advantage of support of the French people, who turned out to help heave the guns through the mud, or sabotaged bridges and obstructed roads to delay the enemy wherever they could. If they no longer showed unrestrained joy and loyalty in his presence, then at least he could rely on them to hate and resist the enemy.
At present, Napoleon needed every shred of assistance that could be mustered for his outnumbered soldiers. While he marched with Ney against the Austrians of General Schwarzenberg, Marmont was attempting to hold the approaches to Paris against two Prussian armies. Napoleon was already contemplating the need to abandon the capital to its fate and concentrate all his forces for one bold, massed attack sweeping across the lines of communication of his enemies. It would be a desperate measure, but there was no hope for any other strategy - military or diplomatic - should Paris fall to the enemy. The allies had just announced that they were resolved to agree a single peace with France and there was no longer any question of reverting to the pre-Revolution borders, under the rule of Napoleon. His reign was forfeit, and the allies would dictate their terms to France, if they were victorious.
Napoleon cleared his throat and addressed Ney calmly. ‘Sebastiani’s patrols reported that the main Austrian column is twenty miles to the north. We are facing their rearguard. If we can advance quickly enough to force a battle then we shall overwhelm them. There is nothing for you to be concerned about.’
‘I’m not concerned for myself, sire,’ Ney responded testily, and gestured towards the columns of guardsmen waiting for the order to advance. ‘But we cannot afford to risk the few men we have left to face the enemy.’
‘We will lose some,’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘The trick of it is to make sure that they lose more, far more, than we do.’
‘They can afford to, sire.’
‘Not indefinitely. As long as we are resolved to fight the invader, we have the advantage of interior lines of supply, and a unity of resolve and purpose, something that no alliance ever truly has. So we shall continue to drive a wedge between them, until their alliance shatters.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
Napoleon forced a smile. ‘Come now, my dear Michel, surely the bravest of the brave has not lost the desire to fight?’
‘Do not doubt my courage, sire. But I am a man of sound judgement too and I question what we are doing here.’ He paused, then shook his head wearily. ‘You should have accepted their offer of peace.’
Napoleon looked at him coldly. ‘It is too late for that. We must do what we can with the tools at hand. Now, order your men to cross the river.’
Ney’s lips compressed and he stared at his Emperor briefly before tugging his reins and spurring his horse over towards the leading formation of Friant’s guardsmen.
Early in the afternoon Napoleon crossed the bridge and re-joined Ney and the Guard as they approached the village of Torcy-le-Grand, nestled in rolling farmland. Ahead of them, dotted across the countryside, rode the cavalry patrols, ever watchful for a sign of the enemy. From the east a distant crackle of small arms carried on the chilly air and Napoleon pointed in the direction of the sound.
‘Have that investigated at once. The enemy is supposed to be in the south.’
‘Yes, sire.’
While Ney sent an order forward to Sebastiani, Napoleon turned his attention to the men of the brigade he was riding alongside. They were soldiers of one of the recently raised units. There was a leavening of veterans, denoted by the chevrons on their sleeves, but most were new recruits, selected from the training camps to join the Imperial Guard directly. The only battle experience they had was the last few weeks of campaigning. A few men raised cheers for the Emperor as his horse trotted by, but most either just glanced at him, or stared at the ground in front of them as they tramped on, bending under the burden of their muskets and backpacks. The strain of forced marches through the cold days and nights of winter was evident in their grim and numbed expressions. These men must endure the hardships of the campaign better than their enemies if they were to win victories and save France, and their Emperor’s throne.
Never had the odds been so heavily weighted against him, Napoleon reflected. And yet he felt the thrill of the conviction that he must somehow win. Sheer force of will had led him to dominate Europe, and he would die rather than bow to lesser men.
The sound of firing increased and Napoleon looked to the east, where a regiment of Sebastiani’s hussars were galloping towards a low ridge in the direction of the guns. Beyond them, silhouetted against the overcast sky, were the vedettes who had fallen back. A twinge of anxiety clenched in the pit of Napoleon’s stomach. There was not supposed to be any threat from the east, according to the intelligence reports. Yet something had caused the cavalry screen to fall back, and Sebastiani to concentrate his cavalry.
With a dull clop of hooves Ney trotted up and reined in. ‘Seems like the patrols missed an enemy column, sire. It’s only to be expected, given how little cavalry we can field.’
‘Don’t make excuses for your officers,’ Napoleon snapped.‘Someone will answer for this incompetence.’
Ney looked at him sourly. ‘Then let it be me, sire. The men are only as good as their commander.’
‘Do not dissemble with me, Ney. Why, if I took your line of argument to its absurd conclusion, then I should be the man ultimately responsible.’
Ney said nothing for a moment, then looked back towards the ridge and spoke quietly.‘Those responsible will always be held to account, one way or another.’
Before Napoleon could reply the sounds of bugles cut through the chilly air. As the last of the French vedettes and patrols trotted back towards the main column the first of the enemy appeared. They wore the plumed helmets of cuirassiers, and the heavy coats that covered their breastplates made them seem large and formidable. Squadron after squadron appeared along the crest, and reined in.
Marshal Ney immediately halted his column and turned them to face the threat as Sebastiani’s cavalry retired to the wings of the line of infantry. The artillery was still stuck in mud on the far side of the river and Napoleon cursed the lost opportunity to give the Austrian horsemen a savage pounding. His bad mood increased as a battery of horse artillery joined the enemy on the ridge, and soon the stubby barrels of howitzers were presented to the Frenchmen.
‘Now we’re in for it,’ Ney muttered, and glanced down the line. ‘I pray that the men hold firm.’
A moment later there was a brief series of flashes and puffs of smoke, and after a short delay the sound of the enemy’s howitzers carried down the slope, sharper than the bellow of cannon. There was a burst of orange and red just above the heads of a company of infantry a hundred paces to Napoleon’s left, and several men collapsed as if slapped down by a giant hand. More shells burst above the men, or slammed down into the muddy ground, fuses sputtering before they detonated, sending a spray of mud and fragments of iron slicing through the surrounding men. As the Austrian gunners reloaded and fired as quickly as they could, the casualties mounted along the French line, and Napoleon noticed that the men were slow to close up and fill the gaps as they stared fearfully at the howitzers.