Citizen Emperor (9 page)
Authors: Philip Dwyer
Bonaparte had not lost all interest in Josephine; it was simply that his ardour had cooled, to be supplanted by another, more powerful aphrodisiac – power.
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As he had during the first Italian campaign, he wrote to Josephine on a regular basis, but the passion that had characterized his previous letters had gone. ‘I am at Geneva, my dear friend,’ he wrote on 9 May. ‘I will leave here this night . . . I love you very much. I wish you to write to me often and to remain convinced that my Josephine is very dear to me. A thousand lovable things to the little cousin; tell her to behave, do you hear?’
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Bonaparte was not referring to a relative of Josephine’s. The letters were still warm and affectionate, but much more restrained, the tone a far cry from the heady days of the earlier campaign. Josephine was no longer going to inspire him in the coming battles. In fact, the relationship changed dramatically over this period so that the roles were reversed, with Josephine the jealous partner, crying, sulking, orchestrating scenes over Bonaparte’s peccadilloes.
‘Calm on a Fiery Horse’
The crossing of the Alps has been immortalized in David’s portrait, executed after the successful completion of the campaign. Bonaparte refused to sit for the painting but a true likeness was never the objective of Napoleonic portraiture.
Jacques-Louis David,
Le Premier Consul franchissant les Alpes au col du Grand Saint-Bernard
(The First Consul crossing the Alps at the summit of the Grand Saint-Bernard), 1801.
When David proposed painting him with a sword in his hand Bonaparte replied that battles were no longer won with swords. He wished to be portrayed ‘calm on a fiery horse’.
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David complied with Bonaparte’s request – it was a question of representing the heroic nature of the feat – and we see him on a rearing horse pointing to some distant summit, spurring his men on to victory, the wind pushing him forward as his cloak swirls around him. In fact, there is not one but five versions of the painting.
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The original, completed in four months between September 1800 and January 1801, has Bonaparte wearing an orange cloak riding a bay horse. David realized later that the portrait had neither Bonaparte’s eyes nor his mouth, which he rectified in the version commissioned by the King of Spain.
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Later versions though have Bonaparte looking sterner and less serene. One copy could be seen in St Petersburg in 1802 for the entry price of a rouble.
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The horse is white, brown or speckled depending on the version painted by David’s students, one of whom, François Jean-Baptiste Topino-Lebrun, along with the sculptor Giuseppe Ceracchi, was later executed for conspiring to take Bonaparte’s life. The one most often used as an illustration has Bonaparte wearing a red cloak on a black and white horse. Bonaparte particularly liked the painting, which was endlessly repeated in cheap popular engravings, as well as on medals, tobacco boxes, fans and other household objects.
The painting is an idealization – indeed it came under criticism from some quarters for being too theatrical
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– in the tradition of sovereigns on horseback that had existed since Titian’s portrait of
The
Emperor Charles V on Horseback
. David’s painting also bears a remarkable resemblance to Jean-Baptiste François Carteaux’s portrait of Louis XVI done in 1791.
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David’s work is certainly more dramatic than Carteaux’s. Movement is captured in the flowing cape in a way that makes Carteaux’s painting look like a still life. This type of iconography was habitually used in portraits of kings. Bonaparte was now appropriating a monarchical topos, putting himself on the same level as the European monarchs.
At the centre of the painting is Bonaparte in heroic pose, pointing towards some unseen goal. The painting does not focus on the Alpine crossing itself, even though the onlooker is reminded of previous crossings – the names of two other figures who performed the same feat, Hannibal and Charlemagne (Karolus Magnus), are carved into rock in the bottom left-hand corner, along with Bonaparte’s, making the parallels all too obvious. The painting is, therefore, about both Bonaparte as hero and Bonaparte as statesman. The wide-eyed horse over which the First Consul has complete control, judging by the expression of composure on his face, symbolizes the French state, and perhaps the Revolution itself,
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a metaphor that would have been obvious to observers at the time. The mane and tail of the rearing horse are both swept forward in the same direction as Bonaparte’s hair. Man and animal, or Bonaparte and the state, are driving forward.
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The bayonets barely visible in the distance represent in some respects the Revolution marching forward, but now significantly relegated to the background.
When news of the crossing reached Paris on 5 June, ‘it electrified all the good citizens at the same time as it disconcerted dissidents of all parties’.
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The police report for that day showed that two individuals who had spoken out against Bonaparte were thrown into the ponds in the Tuileries gardens. But the euphoria did not last long. Eight days later, news arrived that Genoa had fallen to the Austrians. The mood in Paris changed dramatically. The First Consul bore the brunt of the blame, at least in the cafés, clubs and literary societies. Bonaparte was jealous of Masséna, Jacobins claimed, which is why he had not come to his aid. Public confidence was badly affected; peace seemed even further away.
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The crossing of the Alps had been of enormous strategic importance because it enabled Bonaparte to attack the Austrians in the rear at Marengo. A preliminary battle was fought at Montebello on 9 June. After that, no further news reached Paris, increasing anxiety about the outcome of the campaign. All eyes were turned towards Italy. A police report pointed out that the ‘unique object’ of people’s concern was whether Bonaparte was dead or alive.
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3
Italy and the Consolidation of Power
‘In God’s Name, Return if You Can’
A story about the military planning that predated the second Italian campaign has Bonaparte lying on the floor of his study in the Tuileries, stretched full length over a map of Italy, sticking coloured pins into it, before announcing, ‘I will engage him [Melas] here – on the plain of Scrivia [not far from Alessandria].’
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The anecdote is almost certainly apocryphal and was meant, like much of the propaganda surrounding Bonaparte’s military prowess, to demonstrate his genius at predicting where to strike the enemy, entirely in keeping with the image of invincible general that he was still in the process of constructing.
The decision to march on the fortified city of Alessandria was made at the last minute, only after Bonaparte had reached Milan and learnt of the capitulation of Genoa. As the French approached the village of Marengo, Melas withdrew his forces into Alessandria.
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It was an unexpected thing to do. Although the forces in question were roughly equal – around 31,500 French troops compared to about 34,000 Austrian – the Austrians enjoyed superiority in both cannon and cavalry, both of which could be put to devastating use on the plain around Marengo. It led Bonaparte to conclude, mistakenly, that Melas must have been contemplating a withdrawal before the troops liberated by the ending of the siege of Genoa had been able to join him. He was possibly encouraged to think along those lines by an Austrian spy.
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Bonaparte also accepted at face value the assertions of a staff officer that the Austrians had pulled up their pontoon bridges across the River Bormida, between Marengo and Alessandria. This reinforced the idea that Melas was indeed withdrawing. If Bonaparte had made effective use of his light cavalry to reconnoitre the area he would have discovered that this was not true. As a result, Bonaparte, convinced that Melas would have to head either north to cross the Po or south towards Genoa, sent out two divisions to block the Austrian retreat in those directions: General Desaix, at the head of General Boudet’s division, with around 5,300 men, was to head south and block the road to Genoa; while General Lapoype, with around 3,400 men, was sent north towards Valenza on the Po. This reduced the French forces now facing the 34,000-strong Austrian army, with over a hundred cannon, to about 24,000 men and only fourteen cannon.
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Melas had not been thinking of withdrawing at all. Instead, he had already decided he would attack Bonaparte early on 14 June across the three pontoon bridges, and along a sixteen-kilometre front.
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It took Bonaparte some time to realize what was actually happening. Uncharacteristically, he dismissed reports of the Austrians attacking one of his generals, Claude-Victor Perrin (known as Victor), as a rearguard action designed to disguise the main army’s retreat. He did not appreciate the extent of the Austrian attack, and hence his own mistakes, until late in the morning. It was only then that he sent off messages to Desaix and Lapoype in desperate tones to join the battle. ‘I thought to attack the enemy,’ he scribbled to Desaix. ‘He has attacked me first. In God’s name, return if you can.’
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If there is some doubt about the actual wording, the tenor of the message was clear. A note reached Desaix about one in the afternoon when he was about twelve kilometres from the field of battle. The troops under his command marched, ran, marched again till they reached the battlefield about five o’clock in the evening.
They arrived in the nick of time. Bonaparte had managed to check the Austrian advance on the right flank, but in order to do so he had had to commit all his reserves as well as the Consular Guard, a formation of elite troops that had been created in November 1799 to protect the executive (it would be transformed into the Imperial Guard in May 1804). On the left flank, things were much worse. Victor’s troops, who had been fighting for over six hours and had run out of ammunition, had begun pulling back in some disorder, despite attempts by Bonaparte, riding about in the middle of the ranks, to rally the troops. At four o’clock in the afternoon, the ageing Melas (he was seventy-one), slightly wounded and exhausted by the day’s fighting, received a round of applause from his officers and returned to Alessandria to rest.
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He thought his presence for what he assumed would be a mopping-up operation was no longer necessary and he handed over command to the chief of staff, General Anton Zach, who paused to organize a column of 6,000 men before launching it through Marengo. At this point, the battle
had
been lost by Bonaparte; with no reserves left and diminishing ammunition, he would have been unable to withstand the onslaught.
It was then that Desaix’s men arrived behind Victor’s troops. Even now the Austrians should have won the day, but for a lucky coincidence. Desaix, at the head of his troops, urged the left flank forward. At that precise moment, a French cannon shot caused a number of Austrian ammunition wagons to explode. The Austrian grenadiers faltered while two quick-thinking French officers took advantage of the situation: General Kellermann (the son of the victor of Valmy in 1792) led a 500-man cavalry charge against the Austrian flank; and General Marmont rushed to the front lines with eight cannon and began to fire canister shot into the Austrian lines. Desaix was shot dead at the beginning of the French counter-attack, but the damage to the Austrians was already done. Galvanized by the arrival of reinforcements, the French counter-attacked along the line, and by six o’clock the Austrians were in full retreat.