Far Flies the Eagle (13 page)

Barclay de Tolly's army had occupied the ancient city and prepared to defend it, while the forces under Prince Bagration guarded their line of retreat; this at least Barclay had demanded, for he had no hope of holding out against the French. He had been in his headquarters for forty-eight hours, receiving reports from scouts who told of the huge army being assembled on the low hills which ringed Smolensk from the south.

Batteries of cannon were being brought up, men and supplies had been pouring over the bridge which the French Marshal Davoust had managed to build over the Dnieper below the city, and the core of the French Army was gathering in reserve. Marshal Ney, Davoust, the Polish Prince Poniatowsky and the flamboyant Murat himself were in command of the reserves, ready to sweep forward and decide the issue as they had done so often in the great campaigns of the past. Barclay identified each corps and its commander from these reports, and discovered to his relief that Napoleon had not attempted to cut the lines of communication with Moscow or make any effort to bar a possible retreat of his enemies out of the city.

“He's certain of victory,” explained Colonel Ouvarov, and Barclay nodded, scowling down at the maps spread in front of him.

“Intelligence says he believes Bagration's army are joined with us; this is to be the decisive battle, my friend, ending with our annihilation. If I'd given way to the hot-heads completely, that's just what it would be.” He yawned and pinched out the candles which dripped at his elbow. The dawn light was streaming in through the windows. Barclay looked up and suddenly put his hand on Ouvarov's arm.

“Listen,” he said. Both men heard a dull rumbling like approaching thunder; the glass in the window-panes shook slightly.

“Cannon,” Barclay said. “It's the beginning of the bombardment. Get the word to our batteries, keep calm and hold your fire till you see the infantry. And send a message to the commanders of the city outposts. Not an inch of Russian soil must be yielded while one man lives to defend it; those are the Czar's orders! Go now, and hurry!”

While the sun rose slowly, the French bombardment of the outer defences thundered on; buildings collapsed in a roar of masonry and blinding dust, the red finger of fire poked through the ruins and was hurriedly put out; behind the city walls crowds of civilians huddled in cellars, shivering and weeping with terror; they were mostly women and children who had not been forcibly evacuated, the men were with Barclay's troops, armed with ancient firing pieces, knives, pitchforks and even stones. Others, guarding piles of straw, pitch and vitriol, were stationed in buildings at points throughout the city.

By midday the shelling slackened and the Russians in the exposed surburbs of Smolensk crept out of the ruins and took up their posts. The order came through to the Russian batteries. Stand by to fire. Scouts posted in trees and buildings watched the ground before Smolensk through field-glasses, among them Barclay de Tolly himself, whose own headquarters had been hit. There was a series of shouts from each watcher, and then a bugle blew clearly across from the French lines, sounding the Advance. At that moment the host of French infantry began moving across the open ground, their gilt eagle standards shining in the sunlight. “Ah,” breathed Barclay, squinting through his field-telescope. They were coming nearer, shouts of “
Vive L'Empereur
” could be heard from the front ranks who were marching steadily towards the muzzles of the Russian guns.

Barclay beckoned one of his aides, still staring out across the advancing French columns. “Give the order, Open Fire!”

Within minutes an inferno of shot and cannon blazed out from the defenders, thinning the French ranks like mown grass. The rifles of hundreds concealed in the suburbs poured a fusillade of fire into the enemy; Russian gunners fought and sweated, charging, loading, firing. The approaches to Smolensk were black with French casualties, but still the infantry came on. Wave after wave were flattened and thrown back; the sun was high and blazing down before the first stragglers reached the outer suburbs and hand-to-hand fighting began. Slowly, by means of savage fighting, the first line of the Russian defence was dented, then breached, while a mass of reinforcements poured through the gap. Gunners abandoned their batteries to attack the invading troops who leapt down on them; some of the bloodiest engagements of that day were fought out in the gun emplacements, until gradually the Russian frontline fire subsided.

It was late afternoon before the French occupied the southern suburbs, and Alexander's orders had been obeyed with fanatical obedience, only the wounded and dying remained. For a period there was silence, the lull in a battle which Barclay knew preceded a new assault.

“Can I get you some wine, Sir?” The General looked up into the face of a very young officer with artillery insignia on his uniform. The boy was trembling from head to foot with nerves.

“Where have you been most of the day?” he asked.

“In the southern sector, Sir.”

“This is your first bombardment?”

The young officer nodded; he was still shaking while he stood at attention.

“Hm. You're lucky to be out of there alive.”

“I was sent back, Sir, with a message. My commander and the battery crews were wiped out; I couldn't get back to them.”

The boy's lips trembled for a moment and he bit them.

‘Eighteen at the most,' Barclay decided.

“Go and get me some wine before the next assault begins—and something to eat. Get something for yourself as well.”

“Thank you, Sir,” he swallowed. “I couldn't …”

“Then go and ask Count Ouvarov for some brandy. Tell him I sent you. And drink it, boy; that's an order!”

He had only just finished his meal when the first cannonade burst in the centre of Smolensk behind the captured outer lines. Napoleon's batteries had moved up and were shelling the walls and heart of the city before taking it by assault.

It was dusk by then, but the sky was red rimmed with gun flashes; later it became redder still above Smolensk where fire had broken out. The streets were blocked by piles of rubble; above the roar and crash of the bombardment people ran screaming out of blazing wooden buildings. By nightfall Barclay gathered his staff in their temporary headquarters and showed them a map of the city.

His eyes were swollen with tiredness, his uniform covered in dust. His short forefinger stabbed at the map.

“Gentlemen. In another few hours Smolensk will be taken. Our army can stay here and be blown to pieces in the ruins before the French overwhelm us. We've shown them that Russians can fight, and fight to the death this day. But I say now that we withdraw towards Moscow and meet Prince Bagration with our forces intact. Gentlemen, I give the order. Set fire to every house in Smolensk, and then retreat!”

In the French encampment Napoleon was also studying maps. His headquarters was a big tent, lit by dozens of candles; two torches flamed at the entrance where a soldier of the Imperial Guard did sentry duty, and the French standard fluttered overhead. Inside the tent the Emperor ate, slept on a narrow canvas bed, and held conferences with his Marshals. Davoust was by his side, the fierce taciturn man whom nobody liked and everyone respected, Davoust who had built the bridge and set up ovens to make bread for the soldiers of the French Army. Opposite him stood Murat, dressed in one of his elaborate uniforms, glittering with orders and gold embroidery, Murat who had married Caroline Bonaparte, Napoleon's sister, and been made King of Naples. He was also the finest cavalry officer in the Imperial Army. Beside these two the Emperor seemed smaller than ever as he bent over the table on which his campaign maps were spread.

“Smolensk will fall before dawn,” he announced. “The city walls are breached. It will be the end of the war!”

“They certainly fight,” Murat remarked, curling the long hair of his sideburns round his finger. “God knows how many men they must have lost with their whole army cooped up in that inferno.”

“Our own losses are not light,” Davoust said shortly. “We've more than ten thousand casualties so far.”

Napoleon was not listening; men had fallen in thousands that day, he didn't need Davoust to estimate their numbers, he had done so himself and put the figure higher.

He raised his head and looked round him, seeing Murat fiddling with his scented hair, his lips compressed for a moment and then almost smiled. Blustering vulgarian, as vain as a woman where his appearance was concerned, Murat often irritated him. But Napoleon had seen him lead a cavalry charge; for that he forgave him everything.

“Order our troops to go in,” he snapped suddenly. “If we take the place now we can use it for shelter and save some of the stores. Davoust!” The Marshal stiffened to attention.

“Transmit this order to the army. ‘We will advance and capture Smolensk, God and French valour have given us the victory.' Go!”

Davout saluted. “
Vive L'Empereur,
” he said, and went out.

“When do you think the Czar will make peace, Sire?” Murat asked. Napoleon shrugged. “After this, as soon as he can.”

“Shall we occupy Moscow?” Murat smiled, it was a rakish schoolboy's grin; some of his troopers swore that when the Marshal led them he was laughing.…

“Certainly, we'll occupy Moscow. I intend to dictate peace terms from the Kremlin.” Napoleon looked up at Murat. “So far I've treated conquered nations gently, but I'll teach friend Alexander a lesson the whole world will never forget.”

Later he left the tent and rode to a vantage point where he watched his troops storming the walls of Smolensk. He watched in silence, and the silence spread to his Marshals and aides who watched with him. The sounds of battle had died down; only a tremendous crackling roar filled the air and a brilliant red glow spread up into the night sky from the inferno that was Smolensk, the ancient City of Holy Russia. A courier galloped back to the Emperor, his face blackened with smoke, to report that the French Army were advancing into the blazing city without opposition; Smolensk was empty; the bulk of the Russian forces had retreated after setting fire to the town.

CHAPTER SIX

“Either we stand and fight, Sire, or we make peace with Napoleon. The temper of the army and the Court won't stand another retreat.”

Araktcheief stood stiffly when he had said this, and for once his pale eyes looked straight at Alexander. He loved Alexander, if it were possible for the term to be applied to such a creature's feelings, and it gave him the courage to speak as he did.

Alexander was in double danger, danger from internal intrigue which was growing every day; if he resisted this last warning and allowed the foreigner Barclay de Tolly to keep running from the French, he would certainly lose his throne. This was what Araktcheief had just told him. He forbore to mention that the obvious focal point for any traitor was the Grand Duchess Catherine Pavlovna.

She was the fiercest advocate of meeting Napoleon in open battle. Smolensk was lost, a smoking ruin, Russian soldiers had withdrawn again, and to what purpose? Was Alexander going to allow Barclay to abandon Moscow!

Alexander turned to Araktcheief. “You advise this too?” he asked.

“I do, Sire. And I advise something else. Dismiss Barclay and put a Russian in command of the army. It's the only thing you can do now. If we lose Moscow …” He left the sentence unfinished.

“Then everyone is against me,” Alexander remarked quietly. “My mother, my sister, Constantine, my generals, and even you, Alexei. Very well. If I dismiss Barclay the command must go to Kutuzov. Do you believe that he can beat Napoleon?”

“I don't believe anyone can beat him,” Araktcheief answered. “At the moment the danger is here in St. Petersburg, not on the battlefield. If Moscow falls,” he repeated, “God knows what may happen.”

Alexander turned away from him and stared out of the window. The sun was setting behind the Palace roofs, turning the waters of the Neva red. The air was very still.

“Sire, I beg of you,” Araktcheief whispered.

Alexander didn't answer; he walked slowly to his desk, sat down and began to write. Araktcheief stood in silence, waiting.

“This is an order to Barclay to give his command to General Kutuzov. See that it is sent at once. And inform the Court that I have decided to meet the invader in open battle.”

He handed the paper to Araktcheief and looked up at him.

“You may also tell them that if Kutuzov is defeated and Moscow is lost, I shall still continue the war.”

When Araktcheief left him, Alexander's head sank into his hands. He stayed at his desk with his eyes closed, unutterably weary; he had scarcely slept since the fall of Smolensk, studying reports from the battle area until the small hours plotting the advance of the French Army on a huge map hanging on his study wall.

Kutuzov. A prestige General who had participated in the muddles of Austerlitz, a lazy, fatalistic old man whose cunning and contempt for organization had won him the reputation of military brilliance. He was a jealous, cynical man, superstitious and intolerant of interference. He had been jeering at Barclay de Tolly throughout the campaign, waiting like a vindictive old turtle for public opinion to oust the foreigner.

So Kutuzov was to face Napoleon, Alexander thought bitterly. But it was done, and he had no alternative. He knew from all the things Araktcheief had not dared to say, how perilous his position was.

A week later he received a dispatch from the front. It was sent by General Kutuzov, accepting the Czar's gracious appointment to command the armies of Russia, and informing His Majesty that the site chosen for the defence of Moscow was the village of Borodino.

“This time,” Napoleon said, “they are going to stand and fight.”

The Emperor and his Marshals were dining in a large tent in their new camp a few miles outside the village of Borodino. Napoleon sat at the head of the long table with Murat and Marshal Ney on either side of him. Davoust sat farther down, eating steadily and saying little as usual, beside him Prince Poniatowsky, and opposite, Berthier the Chief of Staff with Marshal Grouchy on his left. The food was excellent; a raiding party had found fresh fruit in the neighbourhood for the Emperor's table, everyone had drunk a good deal and their spirits were high. Even Davoust was optimistic, for Napoleon's confidence was infectious that night.