Far Flies the Eagle (17 page)

“She's changed and so have I. It began when I saw them burning the villages on the way back from Vilna. Do you know how it feels to destroy your own country, and condemn your own people to starvation and death? And now Moscow.…”

“That's not your fault,” she pleaded. “You couldn't help what happened.”

He held her hand against his cheek, and after a moment he said, “I ordered it. It was nothing to do with the French.”

“What! Oh, my God.…”

“I ordered Rostopchine to set fire to it,” he said, looking at her. “Napoleon will have no winter quarters now.”

He stood up suddenly and winced.

“My legs hurts,” he said. “I came here to forget all this for a few days. I wanted to be happy with you as we used to be, just for a little while.”

She rose and came close to him and shook her head.

“Our happiness wasn't something you had for a few days and then forgot,” she said. “It was always there, Alexander, because we loved each other. That's gone now. Not from me, never, but from you. But if you want me, I'll do my best to please you.”

She reached up and kissed him on the mouth. At the same moment his arms closed round her, and she remembered that this was all familiar, this was the first years of their relationship before Tilsit. This was the man she had known then, a man making love to a woman he was not in love with.

‘And yet it's not the same,' she thought. ‘Because even his passion isn't quite real; this resurgence of sex is only an escape—it won't last.'

The next morning he was feverish and the erysipelas rash covered his leg.

Within a few days he returned to St. Petersburg for treatment, and it was several weeks before Marie Naryshkin saw him again.

Napoleon stayed within a few miles of Moscow for five weeks, quartered in a country estate at Peterskoie. The flight from the Kremlin made a far deeper impression on him than anyone suspected; in his long experience of battle and horror, nothing approached the terror of that night when the orderly woke him and he looked out of his window to see a blinding glare thrown off by hundreds of fires. The streets were walled in by flame the whole sky glowed, a horrible roaring interspersed by the crash of blazing buildings deafened him as he hurried out of the Palace, part of which had already caught alight. The heat and smoke were suffocating; he remembered the frightful beauty of millions of fiery sparks whirling above his head in the current of the wind.

Men were running through the streets, cursing because the city's fire engines had all been partially put out of order and there was no way of fighting the fires. Some formed lines passing water in buckets and helmets; the contents were flung into the flames with an ineffectual hiss. Others tried isolating the burning buildings, clearing the streets and rooftops of everything inflammable. A few were intelligent enough to dynamite in the path of the fire, but the measures were totally inadequate to the problem.

The Emperor's staff had the greatest difficulty in getting him out of the city; he tried rallying his troops, shouting orders above the roar and thunder of the flames, blinded by smoke, coughing and roasted by waves of heat.

The officer who had woken him seized him by one arm and began urging him towards a carriage. “For God's sake, Sire,” he shouted, “do you want to be killed here? For God's sake …”

He was almost pushed inside, and the terrified horses bounded forward and began racing out of the city and across the bridge.

He saw a big building burning as he passed it, and heard the high whinny of horses and the shouts of men; it was a converted stable, and his troopers were trying to coax and drag the horses out. Already the roof and upper floor were seething with flames. With a splintering crash that rocked the carriage, part of the building collapsed, burying horses and men in a tomb of fire.

Outside the walls he ordered the carriage to stop, and alighted. Within minutes, members of his staff joined him, and the little group waited by the banks of the Moscova, watching the sprawling mass of flame leap higher as a strong wind whipped it from one district to another, their faces scorched by the heat even at that distance.

At dawn the whole of Moscow was burning or in blackened ruins, and the fires continued for the next three days.

A lot of equipment and most of the stores vital to feed the army had been destroyed; though the peak of incendiarism had been reached, fresh fires still erupted as the old ones died, lit by the reprieved convicts and partisans whom Rostopchine had ordered to stay behind.

The French Army spread out over the surrounding countryside, pillaging and suffering daily losses from bands of Cossacks who swept down on stragglers.

At his headquarters at Peterskoie, Napoleon waited, obstinately refusing to advance on St. Petersburg or begin retreating to the south before the winter came. Alexander would give in, he insisted, and there was a ferocity in his manner that forbade contradiction.

The Russian Army was defeated, their Capital captured and burnt to the ground. They would have to make peace! And to prove it, he sent emissaries to the Czar proposing an armistice.

They had been friends, and the memory of that friendship prompted him to offer them reasonable terms. His promise to leave Turkey to Russia still held good.

The wording was conciliatory and yet proud. Alexander answered that he would never make peace while a French soldier remained on Russian soil. He also ordered his General Kutozov not to negotiate with any envoy from the enemy.

There was consternation at Peterskoie; Napoleon raged and swore, his staff stood round in an awkward silence, waiting for him to calm down. The situation was much too dangerous to waste time abusing Alexander, who was safe in St. Petersburg. Thanks to the attempt to secure a truce, it was too late to march on the Northern Capital.

It was Ney who approached the Emperor.

“Sire, we can't stay here any longer. There's no food and only canvas shelter for the army. We've got to move back.”

“The weather's quite mild,” Napoleon snapped. “We have time enough.”

“We should still move, Sire,” Ney insisted. Napoleon looked at the other Marshals and they nodded.

“Very well then. We'll confer here within an hour. I want to study our position.”

When they came to the meeting the Emperor was good humoured and full of confidence. He showed them the map, tracing a line with his finger from the Moscow area southwards towards Lithuania.

“We'll retire through here. The weather is milder there and we'll be in our winter quarters before the cold sets in. And in the spring, gentlemen, we will return!”

On the 19th of October he left Peterskoie, and the Grand Armée, now numbering 115,000 men, began retiring towards Malo-Jaroslavitz, a town some fifty miles from Moscow. And at Malo-Jaroslavitz the French vanguard found a Russian army waiting for them.

Napoleon's stepson, Eugène Beauharnais, was in command of an Italian corps; they were imprudent enough to engage Kutuzov's forces, and the old General struck like a tiger. The corps suffered terrible casualties, and Josephine's son returned to fling himself at the Emperor's feet and implore him not to risk a battle.

“They're too strong, Sire,” he insisted. “God knows we fought well enough, but we hadn't a chance! I've lost most of my men.…” He was almost in tears.

“What do I care what you've lost,” Napoleon shouted, suddenly.

“Am I to run from a pack of mujiks led by that old idiot who didn't even know how to dispose his forces at Borodino? Don't risk a battle! You incompetent fool, snivelling over a few casualties—get out of my way, do you hear! Maps, Berthier, get me my maps, don't stand there idling!”

Berthier did as he was told; the big table was cleared and the shabby campaign maps spread over it. Murat, Ney and Poniatowsky crowded round the Emperor. He glared down and struck the table with his fist.

“We've got to engage them,” he said. “How else are we going to get out by the route I showed you?”

“We can't, Sire,” Ney said, quietly. “We're in no condition to take on a large army. Eugène here says the Russians are well equipped with cavalry and artillery. They've been waiting for us; they're fresh and well fed. Our men are hungry and worn out. If we have to fight Kutuzov now, we'll leave our army at Malo-Jaroslavitz. There'll be no return in the spring then.”

Napoleon's face was white; he tore at his uniform collar as if it were choking him.

“Berthier!” he demanded. “Well?”

His Chief of Staff nodded. “I agree with Ney, Sire.”

The Emperor swung round on Poniatowsky. “And you?”

“I wouldn't answer for my men in a heavy engagement, Sire. Ney is right.”

Napoleon's voice cracked with anger. “Murat! What do you say?”

Murat straightened and the old reckless grin appeared.

“I say, fight!” he said. “We've never run before.”

After a pause the Emperor looked round. “The rest of you still counsel retreat?”

As he asked them, he knew he had made a mistake. He was right, and so was Murat; the same leonine courage and daring was in them both, the same dislike of taking the prudent course. Fight, fight, his instincts urged. Don't listen to them, fight!

But Berthier and Ney and Poniatowsky were shaking their heads; so was Marshal Bessière who had joined the discussion.

“Avoid them, Sire. It's the only way till we get our forces properly organized.

He turned from them without answering, staring down at the map; there was a long silence. Then he spoke.

“As you insist, Gentlemen. We retreat. Back over the way we came.”

They smelt Borodino before they saw it. A strong wind carried the sickening stench of putrefaction over the countryside; the advance guard of the French Army marched through the old battlefield, pressing the ragged sleeves of their uniforms against their faces to keep out the smell rising from over 70,000 unburied corpses strewn over the slopes and in the woods. Cannon rusted, sinking into the grass, the bodies of French and Russian soldiers rotting by them. There were dead horses, surrounded by black clouds of evil flies; hundreds of weapons were scattered over the ground, and everywhere bundles of rags proclaimed the remains of the men who had fallen or died of wounds. The horror of the place was increased by the gentle twittering of many birds. The French marched slowly, not a voice was raised above a whisper; for some reason the sight paralysed them, even the veterans of many wars, so that while each man wished to get out of the place as quickly as possible, the general marching tempo slackened. Ney muttered to one of his officers as they rode.

“This will do more to lower morale than a major defeat.… Give the order none of the men should water their horses or drink from that stream. It's poisonous.… And post extra pickets to-night.”

“Surely the Russians won't attack here, Sir,” the officer said. He grimaced and immediately buried his nose in a large handkerchief again.

“Not the Russians,” Ney replied. “Deserters. We'll have hundreds after this.”

Slowly the huge cavalcade of men, horses and wagons passed through the green sloping ground of Borodino, crossing the polluted stream, seeing the blaze and thunder of the battlefield transformed into a silent stinking graveyard, where the long grass stirred and the trees gave shelter to the remains of brothers, comrades and the enemy. Many of the young recruits fell out during that march and vomited.

The Emperor rode at walking pace, staring ahead of him. He was familiar with the aftermath of battle and it no longer moved him. Death meant nothing to him, less for himself than anyone else; he realized the effect it must have on his troops, and made a mental note to enforce the death penalty for any man found abandoning his weapons or lowering the general morale. As he rode his head sank lower; he might have been asleep. Those who knew him well recognized it as his only indication of despair.

“It's snowing again,” Catherine exclaimed. “No messenger will be able to get through to-night.”

She was at Tver with Alexander; they were sitting together in the same drawing-room where she had heard the news of Bagration's death. She got up and walked towards the window.

“It's no use, the glass is coated, I can't see outside.”

“He'll come,” Alexander said. “But you needn't wait up with me if you're tired.”

“I'm not tired! I'm as anxious as you are. It's just that I've always hated waiting.”

She moved round the room, restlessly touching the ornaments, her long velvet skirts swishing after her. The large room was warmed by two log fires that burnt in grates at each end; the Czar sat in an old French armchair before one of them, looking into the flames.

Suspense and the atmosphere of the Court at Petersburg had driven him to Tver and Catherine. The rest of his family were uncomfortable and strained with him, remembering their disloyalty during the worst phase of the war; now when victory seemed near, they were fawning and anxious; he hated them all, fled the stiffness and etiquette of Palace life and came to Tver. Catherine's company was a stimulant; the knife-edge relationship which had grown up between them was a challenge and a comfort. He needed her, and now she needed him.

They were both alone; he had chosen isolation by leaving Marie, and it had overtaken her when Bagration died. It was rumoured that he spent his nights praying and reading the Bible in his room, and known that his sister occupied hers with debauch; but in effect they were equally lonely. Consequently they turned to each other, driven by anxiety and by grief. It was a grotesque alliance, for they had only the will to win in common; but each had the fascination of brilliance and each succumbed to it, little by little, without understanding why. Neither of them was capable of family affection for the other; it seemed ridiculous that any blood tie united them.