Alternate Generals (19 page)

"Well?" The general snaps even as he smiles. "What are you staring at, son?" And he fills his lungs with the joyous laughter that greets each soldier who's finally come home.

The lay brother set aside the small glass of brandy he had accepted after being seated. It was apparent to him that everyone else in the large room had consumed far more before he had arrived. Berthier wished he had drunk more himself. His journey through the camp of the defeated Prussian and Russian armies had been traumatic. He had not seen so many wounded men, such broken spirit since their defeat by Soult and Davout in 1805. A week ago these men had chased the Grande Armee out of Prussia and into Belgium. But the revolutionaries had turned and dealt them a mauling.

A Frenchman was a strange spokesman for the Royal Alliance's most famous churchman, but no one doubted his devotion after over a decade of service. The small, slight man seemed almost lost among the glittering nobility and general officers that surrounded the well-padded chair he reclined in. His simple, dark clothes seemed almost monastic among the gaudy uniforms.

A bit amused by the attention he was attracting, Berthier smiled meekly in what he hoped was a way befitting the personal secretary of the greatest man of his age. The man whom Europe called the Last Crusader. Two men present were possible heirs to the throne of Russia, one distantly to that of England and Hanover, half a dozen were lesser kings, even a gaudily robed representative of the Ottoman Empire sat in a corner quietly amused at the chaos surrounding the churchman's assistant. In one corner of the inn stood a group of Russian officers. They had hurried forward with only one corps, mostly cavalry, and so lent more moral than real support of the battle. But no nation wanted to not have some presence at what had been expected to be the final campaign against the revolutionaries. Prince Bagration was among them and could be counted as a friend. The rest had stopped murmuring over their maps because they were simply curious to hear tales about the man who had done more than any other in Europe to defend Christianity and Divine Rule. Even the Orthodox Christian Russians were obviously anxious to learn more though the man they were hearing about was not only a papist, but likely to be the next pope. Berthier began talking quietly. He was nervous, but didn't want to show it. His Cardinal was ambitious and wanted the support of the men here. He'd begin with a story familiar to everyone. The famous "whiff of brimstone" in Toulon.

The city of Toulon had been under siege by the godless Directorate for months. Sustained by the British fleet the city had been barely affected by the siege itself. They had invited the British fleet to anchor there and the money gained from supplying that fleet had brought a return of prosperity to a trading center that had been hard hit by the war between France and her neighbors. The fact that no one was collecting any taxes had been a giddy addition to the feeling after years of forced penury from supporting the Directorate's wars. With thousands of British soldiers and sailors present there had been little the Paris government could do until recently. But, after three years, Davout had fought the Austrians to a standstill in the Piedmont and like a reverse Hannibal he had made a dash over the Alps to besiege the city with the two best corps in his army.

"When the Holy Father heard of the withdrawal of so much of the Revolutionary army," Berthier warmed to his story, "he had suspected Toulon was its target. There was little he could do. The army of the papal states was in no condition to venture an offensive and the British, caught in a bleeding war against irregular Spanish forces after their invasion of Spain from Portugal, had no men to spare. What he could do was send priests to replace those who had been slaughtered by the revolutionaries. To head this delegation, perhaps mostly to remove him from Vatican politics, the pope had chosen Monsignor Buonaparte, promoting him to bishop of Toulon." To still his protests Berthier finished the thought to himself. The pope had little to lose. If the city held, them the church had contributed. If it fell, it was unlikely that the irritating young Corsican would return to his never ending machinations within the Vatican hierarchy. This priest was, of course, Napoleon Buonaparte, though then he still used the Corsican form of his name, Bonaparte.

The expatriate hesitated and looked at his audience. There were rumbles of conversation from the Russians and the clink of glasses being refilled everywhere. He was losing them. After the beating they had received the day before, Buonaparte had explained to Berthier in detail why it was vital that their mood be uplifted. The decisions they made tonight could end or even lose the war for the Christian forces. Many of them were near drunk, and all were too nervous to listen to a long story.

"So let me cut to the moment that won the battle." That had them. "Bishop Buonaparte was near the docks when the French assault began. The shelling was horrible, destroying homes and families. There was a panic and the streets filled with mobs seeking only safety. The British couldn't help but react. Even as their regiments were throwing back Davout's columns, their admirals were hurrying to their ships. Roundshot, aimed at the ships, occasionally overshot into those trying to board. As the admirals approached the docks each had to fight their way through thousands of panicky citizens demanding a place on their ships. Each admiral was trailed by servants and wagons full of goods. It was apparent they were planning to leave.

"Buonaparte confronted them, but they pointed to the mob. There was nothing, they explained, that they could do to defend a mob. They would be calling the regiments in within the hour. Every time the bishop tried to argue, they gestured toward the mob, which had by now begun looting the dockside warehouses. I was, I must admit, among this mob, having been in the employ of the city fathers and so was in fear for my life should the city fall. The guillotine may be merciful, but it is not appealing.

"At this crucial point a battery of Royal Horse Artillery arrived at the dock, called back to allow time to load its guns. By grace of His power it was commanded, not by an Englishman, but by a devout Catholic from Ireland. The short bishop hurried over to that officer and spoke with him for some minutes. From their gestures it was apparent that at first the artillery officer refused the Buonaparte's demands. Then, as they continued, he succumbed as so many have, to the young Corsican's determination. Finally he gave the order and his men unlimbered their guns at the edge of the docks. It is a pity this brave man died later that day in the battle to drive the French off the hills overlooking the harbor.

"A red-coated colonel strode over to protest, his opinion obvious from his expression. The young bishop dashed across the dock, literally flinging men out of his path. He intercepted the colonel, and a short time later the man retreated without ever speaking to the artillerists.

"The blast of all six guns was stunning, even among the shot and shell landing among the fleet. There was a brief moment of increased panic which ended in a stunned silence as the mob realized none had been hurt."

Berthier threw up his arms as he had seen Napoleon Buonaparte do there on the dockside. Surprisingly, the gesture once more demanded silence and got it. The clerical secretary continued in a quieter tone.

"Into that silence rose the voice of one man, Bishop Buonaparte. His speech is too familiar to everyone who can read for me to repeat here. He spoke of how the brimstone of Hell, even worse than that which came from the barrel of those cannon, awaited those who betrayed their king and faith. He appealed to the mob as the heroes they would in fact soon be. I recorded that speech, jotting it down in a notebook I carried, even then. His voice resounded and even the sailors on board the British ships, at least those who had his words translated to them, cheered themselves hoarse when his sermon ended.

"The rest, as you know, is history. The mob cheered and rushed to the defense of the city. They arrived just as Davout's troops were breaking through the British lines and threw the revolutionaries back. Bishop Buonaparte continued around the city, beginning each of his fiery sermons with that famous whiff of brimstone, until over half the city's population was pressing outward and only cowards remained behind. My transcription of that sermon was turned to pamphlets that fired the Vendee and brought me to the Cardinal's service.

"The British admirals saw that the situation had changed and ordered their regiments to hold their ground and, finally, attack. Toulon was saved for Louis and the faith. Bishop Buonaparte became Cardinal Buonaparte, the pope's appointed Chaplain to the Armies of Europe and defender of the faith."

There was a general murmur of approval from which Berthier took heart. He had been sent to give heart to these men and prepare for the Cardinal's appearance. It appeared he was doing so. Even the two British liaisons were beaming with approval, forgetting their admirals had been panicking along with the mob.

It was less than an hour before dawn. They would make the decision soon: to send their armies back toward the safety of Berlin and Vienna or join with their allies and revenge the beating they had taken the day before. Cardinal Buonaparte would arrive, as he always did, at just the right moment. There was time for one more sermon. Raising his voice, he smiled at Bagration and received a knowing nod in reply. The prince was one of the few sober men in the room. Blücher had been wounded and sat propped in the corner. It was hard to tell if he was awake or not. None of the Prussian officers had the energy left to investigate and it made no difference. Their defeat at Ligny had been hard on all of them.

Raising his voice to gain everyone's attention, Berthier began.

"It was after Moreau and Davout had joined forces and taken Vienna." The secretary hesitated here. He needed the Austrian's assistance, so he had better not dwell on how they had bungled three battles with the fast marching revolutionary armies.

"Things were quick to change even after Prince Charles' failed attempt to counterattack across Lobau Island and save the city.

"From the Pratzen Heights it was apparent that the French had exposed their flank, or so it seemed. Most credit their plan, if indeed the brilliant deception was planned, to Davout, not old Moreau. The same commanders you faced yesterday at Ligny. The crisis came, as you will remember when Cardinal Buonaparte was completing a mass for the Russian guards on the Pratzen Heights. From his elevated position he may even have been the first to see the blue columns climbing up the hill toward the almost empty plateau. He had just called the battle to stop the godless Directorate a divine crusade for the first time.

"Few who were there will forget the sight of Cardinal Napoleon leading the guard down the hillside on the back of a hussar's borrowed horse and the gold thread of his vestments and cardinal's mitre glowing as the bright sun emerged for the first time that day. The Cardinal's mad dash into the face of the enemy with the colonels of the Russian Guard Infantry and Cavalry regiments to either side has since, as you must have noticed, been the subject of hundreds of paintings and engravings."

Privately Berthier recalled not only how many of those paintings Napoleon Buonaparte had himself subscribed, but how excited the Cardinal had been after his only real experience with combat. Even wounded, he had only left the battle when a young aide to Kutusov led the Cardinal's horse back up the heights over his protests. For some time the Corsican had even considered leaving the church to accept a command in the Austrian army. But eventually Berthier and the others were able to convince him of the folly of his choosing the likely obscurity of a military career over his successful clerical calling.

"The guard, streaming down the hill, fought as madmen, or as the nobles of a noble nation should. The columns halted in confusion, and while the guard was shattered, it took nearly two hours for the revolutionaries to reform."

Cardinal Buonaparte would arrive soon. It was time to end on a note that prepared for that. Standing, raising his glass in salute, Berthier bellowed out, "To Buonaparte and the Sun of Austerlitz," then turning to face the Russians the secretary added, "and Prince Bagration, who saw the danger and met the next French attack on the Heights with his own!"

"To the Sun of Austerlitz," everyone rose and bellowed the traditional toast.

As if he had been waiting for just such an opportunity, and Berthier suspected he had, the Cardinal swept into the room to start a renewed round of cheers. His speech, though he always referred to them as "saddle sermons," roused the gathered generals even further. Finally, a hushed silence descended. Shorter than any other man there, Buonaparte was lost for a moment as he extended his arms outward for silence and strode toward the man who had to decide whether to support Wellington or put the safety of his twice-invaded nation first.

Evidently Blücher had not been asleep, or the recent commotion had awakened him. He looked up, his clear eyes gave no sign of the copious wine he had swilled to soothe pain from his torn back and leg.

"What shall it be, General?" Cardinal Buonaparte asked in a quiet voice. "Victory or Safety?"

No one would fault the elderly commander if he chose to protect his capital. The entire Prussian army was here, having pushed the revolutionaries back from Saxony. If this army broke, and it nearly had the day before, no one would blame him. The spirited Marshall Ney was pressing hard at its rear and the rumble of cannon could be heard now that silence reigned. If the army was caught between the two French forces and Wellington fell before they arrived, everyone knew that the approaching Russians would retreat as before and all of Prussia would be open to another occupation by revolutionary armies.

The silence continued as Blücher met the eyes of his staff. Many had advised retreat. They could await the Russians. Wellington had been unable to even occupy Spain, how could they count on him to face the two greatest generals of their age?