Far Flies the Eagle (15 page)

“There's a conspiracy against me,” he said quietly, still staring at her. “There are people who think I should be deposed in favour of you.”

He paused, and saw a flush rise in her face and die away.

“That's all Napoleon needs now; a Palace Revolution in Petersburg, that's what he's hoping for. Then he'll emancipate the serfs in the occupied areas, and that will be the signal for a general rising all over Russia. The day that happens, what was done to the Bourbons in '92 will be repeated here. If the conspiracy succeeds and you take my place, you won't last a month on the throne.”

“I know of no conspiracy,” she said coldly. She was in danger and she knew it, but her brain was numbed to any impression but the one that Bagration was dead. There was a plot in which she was implicated; Alexander had found out, and Alexander was most dangerous when he was calm like that; he was capable of anything. She'd need all her wits to save herself, but all the time her attention kept wandering; she listened to him almost vaguely, her head throbbing with one sentence. ‘Bagration is dead.… I'll never see him again. He's dead.…'

“All my life I've tried to avoid hurting you, Catherine,” he was saying. “Papa's death always saved you until now. But now even that won't stop me. I'll have you imprisoned and I'll have you put to death if necessary. Listen to me, I mean what I say. Nothing matters to me now but to save Russia and defeat Napoleon. Compared with that your life isn't worth a kopeck. Unless you swear to me that from this moment you'll be loyal. Give me your oath, Catherine, and save yourself. Bagration died for Russia; he died in agony,” he said brutally. “Remember that, remember that 40,000 of our people died with him to protect Moscow from Napoleon.”

He caught her by the shoulder and suddenly shook her. She was staring up at him, the mocking mouth a little open, her eyes filling with tears.

“In agony,” she repeated.

“He lived for days,” Alexander told her. “You've never seen a battlefield, but I have. You've never seen men dying of wounds, rotting with gangrene, screaming for someone to shoot them and put them out of their pain.…”

She wrenched herself free of him and shrieked. “Stop, stop for God's sake! He didn't die like that … he didn't …”

“He did,” Alexander said mercilessly. “He fought and died while you were plotting treason. But you'll be loyal now, Catherine. He was brave and honourable and he loved you. He'd tell you to swear that oath to me.”

She was crying with terrible abandon, sobbing and choking with her hands covering her face. Slowly he went back to her and held her against him, thinking that the grief of this arrogant and evil woman was the most painful thing he had ever seen in his life. She had no resources, neither religion nor self-control to help her; for once that implacable nature had weakened and admitted human love; the result for her was mortal. He had won and he knew it. “Stop now,” he said gently. “You'll make yourself ill.”

She drew away from him and sat on one of the spindle-legged ebony sofas.

“He always said I underestimated you,” she said at last. “And he was right. It was a damnable habit he had of always being right.”

She leant back and closed her eyes, utterly exhausted; her face was yellow and drawn like a death mask.

“He was a very great soldier and a great patriot,” Alexander said. “He will never be forgotten.” He came and sat beside her and she opened her eyes to look at him.

“You have won, my brother,” she said. “I want nothing now but revenge on Napoleon. He slighted me years ago, and he took from me the only person I've ever cared for in my life. From now on, my aim is yours; to drive Napoleon out of Russia!”

Alexander clasped his hands and looked at them.

“My aim is to drive him out of France,” he amended.

She half smiled as she glanced at him; she was outwardly quite calm again, only her hands betrayed her, for they were pulling her lace handkerchief to pieces.

“I believe you'll be as ruthless as I would like to be in your place. And now I believe something else; I believe you'll win.”

He nodded gravely.

“I know I shall win,” he answered. “Will you help me, Catherine?”

She lifted his right hand with the enormous Royal sapphire on it and kissed the ring.

“From now on, your sister is your subject. I swear it.”

“And my friend and counsellor,” he insisted.

“That too, if you wish.”

“I wish it,” he answered. He bent and kissed her cheek.

“Good night, my sister. God comfort you.”

He left her and the lackey escorted him to his bedroom, where a fire blazed and everything had been prepared. His valet dozed in a corner, and the Czar called him to undress him. Within half an hour he lay in the big bed, the brocade curtains drawn, shutting out the firelight. He closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately for the first time since the fall of Smolensk. He woke at dawn and sent for his secretary who followed him everywhere, and dictated a brief order to Count Feodor Rostopchine, the Governor of Moscow.

The slopes and woods round Borodino had been the scene of the bloodiest battle fought for a hundred years. At dawn on September 7th the French Army was drawn up for the attack; officers and men were ordered to wear their best uniform, a roll of drums preceded the Emperor's special proclamation.

They would be victorious, it said, and each man would be able to declare with pride,' I was in that great battle before Moscow.'

Overhead the sky was very blue, the sun rose, shining in the face of the attack, and on the six-mile front of Kutuzov's defence line, men waited in the redoubts, by the gun batteries, in the entrenchments and pine woods of the Utitza Forest for that attack to begin.

It began with a fierce barrage, and then the French line began to move forward. Ney's corps was posted in the central position; his guns opened a terrific fire as the men advanced towards the outer Russian defences on the plain; to the right Davoust pushed towards the high slope of the Great Redoubt with its massed batteries of cannon, protecting the army of Prince Bagration, while Prince Poniatowsky led his men into the Utitza woods.

In the face of murderous fire and a most obstinate defence, the redoubts on the plain were overwhelmed, and Ney turned to help Davoust and Murat in the attack on Bagration's position.

Again and again they advanced, captured the smaller redoubts and were driven back; a great mass of infantry struggled on the sloping ground and fought hand-to-hand in the woods. Davoust's horse was killed under him, Murat directed his infantry as well as the cavalry while the Marshal lay unconscious. By noon they were being fiercely counterattacked by the Russians. A very hot sun blazed down on the dark masses of men, and a thick column of smoke rose up from a burning village, set alight by French artillery fire.

An urgent message was sent to Napoleon. “Bring up the Imperial Guard!” Ney, fighting desperately near the Great Redoubt, bellowed with rage at the Emperor's refusal. The infantry were exhausted, they were in danger of losing all the ground so dearly won.

It was late afternoon when the defenders saw an extraordinary sight. Below the Great Redoubt a glittering mass of cavalry appeared. The Cuirassiers, their breastplates gleaming, magnificent in their uniforms of scarlet, gold and blue.

They began to approach at the trot, led by Murat, King of Naples; as the defenders' guns opened fire, the trot became a gallop; line after line of horses went down, but the rest burst through into the outer defences, sabreing the gunners and riding down the Russian infantry.

While the issue was still undecided, the cavalry of Marshal Grouchy followed up that bloody slope and the Great Redoubt was taken.

Cossacks engaged them and were driven back after the most savage cavalry fighting of the war; no quarter was given to prisoners or wounded in that desperate fight to drive the French back down the slope, but Bagration's troops couldn't stop the impetus begun by the Cuirassiers, their ranks blasted by terrible casualties. During the battle Marshal Grouchy fell, severely wounded; after hours of bitter fighting, the Cossacks were driven back in confusion and the order was given to retreat.

Under a shelter of heavy gunfire, the Russian lines began to withdraw, leaving the Eagle standards of France to be carried into the heart of the Russian defences. By the end of the day the battle was over, and Napoleon sent for his Marshals.

They were dirty and exhausted, Murat's magnificent uniform was spattered with blood and torn in several places, and Ney, whose personal valour that day earned him the title of Prince of Moscow, was hatless, filthy with dust and sweat, too tired and sickened after the carnage he had seen to resent Murat's perpetual grin. When they entered Napoleon's tent he embraced them. He radiated energy; in spite of a heavy cold, his whole manner was charged with fanatical excitement. He looked at them and laughed.

“Ah, my children,” he exulted. “We've won, we've won! Ney, Murat, I saw what you did to-day, and my good Grouchy. We've won,” he repeated. “Do you remember our dinner before this battle? I gave you a toast then, Borodino. I'll give you another. Orderly! Bring wine for the Marshals, hurry!”

“Sire, there is hardly room to walk for all the dead,” Ney said slowly. “Ours and theirs.”

Bonaparte glanced at him. “I know,” he answered. “You're tired, Ney. Take your wine.” He lifted his own glass and addressed them. The candles blazed up as a sudden draught caught them from the tent flap; the shadow of Napoleon rushed up the canvas wall with the proportions of a giant.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I give you a second toast. Moscow, and the end of the war!”

“Moscow!”

“When shall we reach it, Sire?” Marshal Murat asked.

Napoleon put his glass down. “Within seven days. We march to-morrow morning.”

Early on the 14th of September the leading French columns reached the top of the Hill of the Sparrows. Immediately a shout went up, and an officer of the Imperial Guard turned and galloped back to where the Emperor rode with a large suite.

“Your Majesty, Your Majesty, Moscow! You can see it from the hill-tops!”

Napoleon urged his horse forward and came galloping up between lines of cheering troops.

“
Vive L'Empereur! Vive L'Empereur!
”

Word had flown from mouth to mouth. ‘Moscow, we've reached Moscow.…'

He had kept his promise to them, given them victory as he had always done, and now at last they would have proper quarters, warmth, shelter and food. The cavalry reined in and the infantry stood cheering as he rode among them and then suddenly drew up on the crest of the hill.

It was another cloudless day, brilliant with cold sunshine, and below the Hill of the Sparrows the Holy City of Moscow lay before him like a multi-coloured jewel.

The hundreds of gold-painted cupolas shone against the background of blue sky; the delicate oriental towers, the red and yellow buildings, the dark crimson walls, and the minaret towers of the Kremlin itself were perfectly clear. He shaded his eyes with his hand and stayed on the hill crest looking down for several minutes, thinking that the enormous building with its fantastic design of nine cupolas must be the famous Church of St. Basil, whose architect had been blinded by the Czar Ivan IV so that he could never build another like it.

Moscow.

Napoleon said it aloud. That moment on the hill-top was the greatest in his life and he knew it; the triumphal entry into the city, the Banquet in the Kremlin, all the means he had devised to humiliate his enemies would never match that first sight of Moscow from the top of the hill. It was over; he had won the war. He had never admitted even to himself that the Russian campaign had been the most strenuous and anxious of his career. He hated the easy victories, the occupation of one burnt-out town after another, pursuing a phantom army who occasionally turned, fought like demons and then disappeared again.

The whole affair was almost eerie, even the country itself had begun to get on his nerves; the poverty, the miserable peasants who fled before them, more like animals than men with their tangled hair and beards, the women muffled in ragged shawls with their blank faces and cowed eyes; everywhere silence and suspicion, and the sickening smell of smoke drifting to meet them, the smoke of hovels and great houses set alight with the same purpose.

He hated the queer poetic place names, the orientalism which obtruded everywhere. Remembering the cultured, elegant Alexander, it seemed impossible to reconcile his rule with such a country.

‘But that,' he thought, ‘was my mistake. He looks like a European, he
is
a European by blood, but in his own country the traditions of Europe might belong to another planet. He has the mind of an Eastern potentate, and I persisted in treating him as a European monarch.

‘Only now, seeing the capital of his country, do I realize that neither he nor his people belong to Europe at all.…'

He turned his horse's head and rode back among his men, acknowledging their cheers. The faces along that road were burnt brown by months of sun and wind, but they were thin from hunger; some of the men wore dirty bandages, and many of the infantry were already barefoot.

They cheered and waved their muskets; hungry and dirty and tired out, their spirits bounded at the sight of the little figure on the grey horse, the Emperor who rode and fought amongst them and had brought them to victory again.

Murat came galloping up to meet him; he reined in sharply, pulling his horse on to its haunches; he swept off his plumed hat and bowed low from the saddle.

“I have just heard,” he said. “
Vive L'Empereur!
Moscow at last!”

“At last,” Napoleon repeated. “As my brother-in-law and King of Naples, you will take the first detachment of troops and enter the city. I'll make my entry to-morrow, unless they show signs of resistance.”