Far Flies the Eagle (16 page)

Murat and his troops approached the city walls late that afternoon. They rode down the long road, raising clouds of dust, and as they approached the bridge over the Moscova there was no sound except the clatter and jingle of their own progress. It was quite warm by then, and Murat wiped his sweating face with a flowing lace handkerchief. He had been told what to say to the deputation of nobles which Napoleon confidently expected to be there to meet the invaders. Murat was to send them back to the French camp where the Emperor would address them and promise to respect their city. Murat, who was indifferently educated where any foreign language was concerned, had brought an interpreter with him.

Still they rode on and he glanced up at the high walls for some sign of life. “
Sacré Dieu,
” he said to himself, “a cannonade would be better than this damned quiet.”

At four o'clock he entered Moscow.

The streets were empty except for a few frightened peasants who ran away as the cavalcade approached. Some had been looting the houses which were also empty. Murat sent scouts into the centre of the city and they reported a few shots fired from behind the red walls of the Kremlin, but the defenders had scattered after the first French volley. The signs of a mass flight were everywhere; the gates leading out of Moscow had been jammed with troops, civilians and transport within an hour or two of Napoleon's advance; there had been chaos at bridges where the traffic had become hopelessly jammed. This was the story told by those they caught and questioned. It appeared that the remnants of Kutuzov's army had evacuated Moscow, taking the nobles and administration with them, leaving a few thousand peasants to run through the deserted city, looting.

As he listened to the reports of his scouts Murat heard the sudden discordant pealing of the Kremlin bells ringing for vespers; a cannon pounded the Kutafyev Gate of the Kremlin, where some peasants had barricaded themselves in and were sniping at the invaders as they surrounded the Palace. The noise was a feeble echo in the silence that enveloped Moscow; the shouts of the soldiers who were entering the houses were reedy and unreal; the majestic churches towered above them, shining like buildings in a mirage, and the bells pealed out the prayer of many centuries to a city that was empty except for the stream of invading troops who were pouring into it. Murat spurred his horse forward and rode towards the Kremlin; he was frowning, and shouted angrily to one of his aides to ride ahead and stop the troops despoiling any of the State rooms before the Emperor's arrival.

Messengers went back to the French camp and informed Napoleon that the enemy had abandoned their capital; there would be no deputation, no triumphal entry. Moscow was empty.

The following day Napoleon rode into the city. He crossed the bridge over the Moscova river and passed through the outskirts, watched by a straggling crowd of gaping peasants. He entered by the ancient Spassky Gate, glancing up at the Ikon of Christ which the Muscovy Czar Alexis had placed there in 1626. Murat and a large escort received him; he dismounted and walked slowly into the Kremlin buildings.

He was oddly silent while Murat talked. He passed from room to room, looking round at the tapestries, the priceless furniture and ornaments, even the velvet and gold throne under its canopy, which had all been left intact.

“They're a religious people,” he remarked. “Every other building was a church and this place is like a church too. Where are the Czar's apartments?”

It was explained to him that there were two Royal suites in the Kremlin; one in the newer part built by the Empress Elizabeth in the eighteenth century, and the traditional rooms in the old wooden buildings built by the first Czars. The later quarters were far more suitable.

“I will go to the old Palace,” Napoleon said. “Take me there.”

He entered the old Granovitia Palata, followed by a crowd of officers all staring at the small proportions of the old State dining-room, the frescoed walls, Byzantine representations of the life of Christ and Biblical scenes, the old oak benches round the walls, the throne where every newly crowned Czar received his subjects' homage.

Few among them were impressed; it was gloomy and small, a dim light was diffused through the old talc windows, and several officers began contrasting it with the glories of Versailles and The Tuilleries.

Napoleon said nothing. They returned and mounted the staircase leading to the Terem Palace, built by Michael, the first of the Romanovs, in the seventeenth century.

Here the Emperor's silence spread to his entourage as they walked from one low, frescoed room to another, their footsteps echoing. They crossed the red-walled Throne room, and Napoleon paused before the crude chair in which Michael Romanov had sat to hold audience.

“The State bedroom is through here, Sire,” his Grand Marshal Duroc whispered, and then wondered why he had lowered his voice. He coughed and said firmly, “The room is not suitable. I understand these quarters are never used except on very important State occasions. I assure you, Sire, you would be much more comfortable in the other building.”

Napoleon looked at him. “There will never be a State occasion in Moscow's history more important than this one.”

They were standing on the threshold of the Czar's bedroom. It was a small room, sparsely furnished, the gilded walls and ikons gleamed in the dim light. An old, carved, four-poster bed stood in the centre of the room.

“I shall make my quarters here, Gentlemen,” Napoleon said. He looked round at them and smiled. Immediately the tension broke. They were no longer aware of the sound of their own footsteps, whispering when they spoke; laughter and talk and noise echoed through the old building. Duroc went over to inspect the bed when his master's back was turned, and then wrinkled his nose in disgust. It was as hard as a board.

The army bivouacked in Moscow that night; it came into the city like a hungry flood and dispersed like a flood, forming rivulets of men searching the houses for loot, food, shelter and women.

There was little violence to the few inhabitants they found; it was a good-natured occupation, achieved without the bloodshed that makes a conquering army so savage to the people who have withstood them. The troops were mildly destructive, especially where they discovered well-stocked cellars. One officer received a report that three of his men had died as a result of rifling a cellar, where they had swallowed the contents of some bottles they found hidden there. The bottles contained vitriol. The officer shrugged, and wondered why anyone kept vitriol in a cellar instead of wine. Then he repeated the Emperor's order forbidding looting, and forgot about it.

By the 16th Napoleon had taken up residence in the modern Kremlin apartments; the army was settled in; fed, refreshed and assured of proper shelter. The Emperor had made a tour of the city; one of the first places he visited was the Church of St. Basil, the church he had seen from the top of the hill. It was magnificent, he said. Magnificent. But they were short of space and could not afford to be sentimental. The church was stripped of its ornaments and put to use as a stable. Even then Napoleon didn't admit that his motive was neither expediency nor sacrilege, but jealousy.

He had begun to feel tired, a real sign that he was confident and felt he could afford to relax. He went to his bedroom and took out the portrait of his son, the little King of Rome. In the privacy of Alexander's old room the Emperor kissed the picture.

“For you, my son,” he said. “When I've made peace with Russia, you shall be Emperor of France, ruler of Europe. Your mother and I shall live as private persons. God knows, I'm nearly tired of war.…”

His exhilaration over the fall of Moscow was comparatively calm; the strain had been greater than anyone realized, even himself. He had won and he was thankful, as thankful as he was triumphant, though he still clung to the atheism of his revolutionary youth. He owed a debt of gratitude to himself first and then to the men who had fought with him. To that splendid coxcomb Murat, whose vanity was only equalled by his courage, to the incomparable Ney, to the tenacious Davoust, Berthier the organizer, Poniatowsky, the Marshals and soldiers of France.

He repressed an impulse to thank the God in whom he didn't believe, and began thinking of the man he had beaten, the former ally who had dared to challenge him to war. He remembered a particularly offensive phrase which had been repeated to him: “The Emperor of All the Russias will be formidable at Moscow, terrible at Kazan and invincible at Tobolsk.” Rostopchine, Governor of Moscow had written that, and the words had become a slogan. Brave words indeed, Napoleon thought, from the man who had fled and left his city intact for the invader.

A few patriots had tried setting light to some of the wooden buildings and been shot; most of them seemed to be convicts that the Russians had allowed to escape from jail during the evacuation.

He turned over in bed and yawned, missing Marie Louise. There wasn't a woman in the place fit for his bed. A strong wind rattled the windows of his room and outside the night was very dark; a pale half-moon hung in the sky. Napoleon pulled the covers over himself and fell asleep.

He woke with someone shaking him and shouting in his ear. Blurred by sleep he pulled himself upright; one of his aides was standing by his bed. The first thing Napoleon realized was that he could see the man's face, the room was full of light.

“Your Majesty! Sire, for God's sake get up!” he was shouting. “The whole of Moscow's on fire!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Alexander had gone to his palace on an island in the Neva, and lay there ill. He was feverish and erysipelas had broken out on his leg. He stayed in his own room reading dispatches and writing to his sister.

Moscow, where he had been crowned, where the inhabitants had come to offer their property and their lives to him in the first days of the war, was a flaming hell. Rostopchine had transmitted his orders and the incendiaries left behind had carried them out. Napoleon had only just escaped the blazing Kremlin with his life; the French had been forced to evacuate the city after four days of fighting the fires which swept through the wooden buildings, fanned by a strong wind. They had dynamited parts of the Kremlin and many ancient buildings before they withdrew, while the stores and shelter they needed for the winter burnt in front of them. The news was received with horror in St. Petersburg, and Alexander had promptly blamed the disaster on the French.

Constantine and the Dowager Empress had besieged him to make peace. His brother had stamped up to him in the Winter Palace and shaken his fist in his face.

“This is your doing,” he had yelled. “You would have war! Moscow is lost, next he'll march on Petersburg and murder us all I Make peace, I tell you, make peace or what happened to Papa can happen to you …”

He had defied them. Without Catherine none of them would do anything, and Catherine had kept her word. She wrote to him every day, reminding him of his promise never to capitulate, begging him to get back the love letters she had written to Bagration and which must not fall into other hands.… He could guess the kind of letters Catherine Pavlovna had written to her lover and he sent for them at once.

Even Catherine hadn't guessed what he had done. She wrote abusing the French for their destruction of Moscow and berated her own family like a tigress for wanting an armistice.

Alexander left for the peace of Kamenoi Ostrow on the islands, and sent for Marie Naryshkin to come with him.

He never accused her of anything, though he knew of every infidelity she had committed; he needed comfort and companionship, and whether Marie amused herself with a few lovers was of no importance to him. He had neglected her, she was a very sensual woman—what did it matter.…

For the first few hours she was strained with him, talking trivialities. He watched her, puzzled and disappointed.

“Marie, what's the matter with you? Didn't you wish to come here?”

She paused and looked at him.

“Of course, Sire, I was only trying to amuse you … if you're bored.…”

“I'm in no mood to quarrel,” he said wearily. She never called him Sire except when she was angry. She sat down in a chair and then got up again and began walking up and down.

“I'm sorry.” she said. “It's so long since I've seen you I feel like a stranger.”

She realized that she was weakening; he was in the wrong, but once again she couldn't keep her bitterness alive when he was with her. She wanted to be reconciled; she wanted to go to him because he looked tired and white and ten years older. She still loved him hopelessly, and at that moment the knowledge that she would never mean very much to him again hardly seemed to matter.

He didn't answer, so she said, “I know what an anxious time you've had. I only wanted to be near to help you.”

“You can help me now,” he said. “I told you once you could do what you pleased as long as you never left me; it was years ago, here on the islands, do you remember?”

“I remember. But I never thought you meant it. I've taken you at your word, Alexander, you know that?”

“My dear Marie, I'm not angry. God knows you must have been lonely and I don't blame you.”

She laughed unhappily. “Do you know, I only did it to make you jealous! Isn't that ridiculous? Oh, what's happened to us? We used to be so happy together. I know you're out of love with me, but can you just tell me why? Is it my fault?”

He held out his hand to her; she came over to him and caught hold of it, kneeling beside his chair.

“Too much has happened, Marie,” he said slowly. “We're all changing.”

“Not me,” she interrupted, “I haven't changed, I'll never change towards you.…” But he went on without listening.

“We've all changed through this war. Even Catherine, my sister. Falling in love with Bagration and losing him … she's standing by me now, Marie, when she could overthrow me to-morrow if she wanted to. Not that she'd last long,” he added.