Tyger (29 page)

With confidence born of an unbroken tradition of Prussian military discipline and success, he had declared war on the French empire, his well-trained armies outnumbering Bonaparte’s rag-tag allies and auxiliaries, but it was a fatal misjudgement. Impatient for glory, he did not wait for the distant Russians to join and two giants faced each other on the battlefield.

Bonaparte moved on them efficiently. In the twin battles of Jena and Auerstedt he succeeded in encircling and comprehensively obliterating his opponent in a victory so complete it effectively removed Prussia as a player from the world stage.

Within nineteen days of those opening scenes, Emperor Napoleon was riding into Berlin a conqueror. Two members of the Prussian royal family had been mortally wounded on the battlefield and the rest were in headlong flight, with the pitiful remnants of the army. Only the approach of winter and the need to consolidate his triumph kept Bonaparte from continuing.

The Russian Army, marching heroically through the mud and snow, reached the frontier in Poland and dug winter quarters opposite the French lines in preparation for the spring. Surviving Prussian generals had pulled together something of an army but it was a shadow of what it had been and joined the Russians very much as the lesser partner, von Hohenlau agreeing to serve under their commander, Bennigsen.

It couldn’t last: even in the freezing hell of a Polish winter manoeuvres turned into aggressive thrusts and the two armies became locked together in a bitter struggle on the plains of the Vistula around a little village called Eylau.

Gürsten shuddered at the memory—it had been only a few months ago and he recalled it as yesterday. A titanic ebb and flow of hundreds of thousands over treacherous terrain in the cruel bitterness of howling snowstorms. Forced marches and last stands against merciless artillery as stolid Russian peasant soldiers came on against the unbending will of Bonaparte in a conflict that lasted agonising days.

It stopped Bonaparte in a bloody stalemate but at what cost? Never again did he want to see the ghastliness of frozen corpses and piteous wounded strewn over the wreckage of battle, some piled together, others littering the landscape in every direction. In the fields around Eylau alone no less than fifty thousand casualties lay in an appalling scene of slaughter.

Then Bennigsen, suspecting a trap, had retreated and yielded to Bonaparte. Since then it had been a steady falling back.

Bennigsen had taken the centre of the line, with von Hohenlau and the Prussians on his right, the Austrians tying down Massena on his left, and as spring turned to summer they had contested every mile, every yard as they fell back towards Königsberg.

There, the royal family and government in exile had set up on the last piece of unconquered Prussia and that was the situation now: a straggling line across East Prussia with vast armies manoeuvring and clashing in savage encounters, half starved and desperate.

Somewhere out there as they supped, not far beyond the enemy lines, Bonaparte held state in his forward imperial headquarters, controlling his marshals and their divisions like chess pieces. Victor, Soult and Davout, Murat and Ney, young sons of the revolution, determined on glory and fame at any cost.

Gürsten pulled himself together and told his friend, “Bennigsen stands—he must. He’s too many enemies at court to show cowardice.”

That much was safe to say. Tsar Alexander was too ambitious by half: if it were in his interest to turn his coat he would, and with it take all the military resources of Russia.

“And we?”

“We face Victor and his seven divisions with our one and a half. But, yes, we’ll stand. I know von Hohenlau, one of the best. Old school from the glory times. If he gets orders to stand, he will, count on it.”

“He’s on the march, Klaus.”

“Orders to extend to the right to meet the sea and stop Victor turning his flank.”

“Risky.”

“Yes.”

Gürsten downed the last of his schnapps. “If you’ll excuse me, Willy, I really must rest.”

At first light he was a-horse, with von Hohenlau’s acknowledgement to Bennigsen, riding across the adjacent field in the damp, misty morning to the rutted Liebdorff road east.

At first he made good time, threading through the tents and artillery parks of von Hohenlau’s rear until he reached the deserted countryside beyond, where he turned parallel to the lines.

Breaking into a canter he relaxed into the rhythm of the movement—until an hour further on something intruded into his senses. It was deathly quiet but on the air there was the faintest disturbance. He reined in and tried to listen above the snorting and snuffling of his horse. Wanting to hear better, he dismounted and walked away a little.

Over to the southwest, in the direction of the lines, there were signs of vague disorder, rising dust and the faint, muffled sounds of battle, an engagement of sorts—well to the rear, where it had no right to be. He knelt down, put his ear to the ground and heard the subliminal thunder of many horses.

He felt a cold wash of fear. It could only be that the French had observed the Prussian move to the sea and, knowing that their line would be stretched, had thrown a flying column in the other direction to smash a wedge between the allies.

It would be heavy cavalry first to punch through—that was what he must be hearing—and it was open country: they would be moving fast.

He looked around helplessly—the road stretched on for miles, nothing in sight on these God-forsaken plains. A wind-breaking hedge followed the road and on the far side there was a ditch, the field beyond nothing but a mass of wild-growing nettles.

The drumming of hoofs was now viscerally perceptible. Cavalry warhorses would soon catch his slightly built mount, but if he was seen on foot out in the open he’d be instantly cut to pieces.

The skyline was now stippled with movement, trumpets braying faintly amid a ragged tapping of musketry. In an agony of despair he tore loose his sabretache and dived into the base of the hedge, wriggling frantically until he reached the ditch the other side.

It was running in jet-black slime and oozed effluvium. As the drumming turned to thunder he ripped the dispatches to pieces and thrust them deep into the mud then snatched a look through the hedge.

The whole horizon to his front was alive with galloping cuirassiers in shining breastplates and their distinctive curved, plumed helmets, intoxicated with the charge that had carried them deep into the enemy lines. Their heavy sabres glittered in the wan sun; each had hate on his face.

There was only one chance: he crouched, then thrust himself face down into the ditch and lay still.

The thunder turned into an avalanche of noise—in the next few seconds he would either live or die. The terrible hoofbeats grew louder, overwhelming—then strangely cut off as the cavalrymen launched themselves over the hedge to crash down beyond the ditch and away.

He kept deathly motionless, his back crawling as he tensed for a casual brutal hacking with a sabre as they passed over him. It went on and on until the last stragglers had gone.

It had worked: he was grateful for his concealing dark blue uniform, its frogging and ornamentation out of sight under him. If he’d been seen it was likely he’d been taken for a stale corpse not worth the sticking.

He knew better than to make any move just yet for they’d penetrated deeply and must now regroup and return. Sure enough, they milled about in the field for a space and then, with hoarse shouts and a blare of trumpets, made off in a body to the south.

Still not daring to stir he waited until the jingling tumult had died away and carefully raised his head.

They were nearly out of sight and he got to his feet slowly, surveying the trampled hedge and field. His horse was lost, of course, and he faced the prospect of a long tramp in his heavy riding boots until he saw the beast about a quarter of a mile away, calmly cropping the nettles.

Heart still thudding he mounted and rode off at desperate speed back whence he’d come.

He burst in on von Hohenlau, who was surrounded by excited staff officers; obviously his news was not unexpected. He told a distracted Scharnhorst the details, then withdrew to change his filthy uniform.

When he returned there was a different atmosphere: a grave and serious quiet.

“Sir?” he enquired, of a despondent artillery
hauptfach
.

“They’re through—Soult threw five squadrons of heavy cavalry at our left and he’s pouring a column of his finest through after them. Klaus, it means we’re cut off from Bennigsen—and we’ll have to shorten our lines to face the bastards.”

Always it was the same: a restless probing of the front, and at any weakness, Bonaparte would pounce, sending instant marching orders to a tried and trusted marshal and supporting orders to others. It took masterly staff-work but Bonaparte’s veterans could be relied on.

Later in the evening, when lamps threw soft gold on tired faces, and supper lay uneaten, worse news came.

“Sir. Soult is deep into our lines. We’ve now reports that he’s wheeling left—sir, he intends to cut us off, isolate us. We must pull back, retire on Kreuznicke.”

Scharnhorst nodded slowly. “It must be done quickly.”

Von Hohenlau shook his head. “No.”

“Sir?”

“My last orders were to stand and that is what I will do.”

“Sir, if we don’t retire we’ll be cut off, encircled! We must—”

“Silence! Have I not a staff officer with a shred of honour? We’ve lost communication with our field commander, whose orders to us were to stand fast. He’s in the belief that we’ve obeyed his last order and therefore remain in post to halt any advance in this sector. Do we now as Prussians betray that trust?”

“If we are surrounded we will be put to the siege and—”

“Sir! This is of no account. Recollect, if you will, that Pomeranian Kolberg still defies the tyrant under siege, near two hundred miles behind Bonaparte’s lines. Are we so craven that we fear to do the same?”

Scharnhorst pulled himself erect. “There is a difference, sir, which it would be folly to overlook.”

“Yes?” von Hohenlau snapped, his expression flinty.

“At Kolberg they are two, three thousand. Here we are sixteen thousand. Without we have supply and—”

“Noted. And dismissed. We do not move. I shall want plans to safeguard our perimeter and take all necessary steps by daybreak.”

“Very well, Generalleutnant.”

By mid-morning it was clear that the French had achieved their objective—the Prussians were now isolated from the rest of the line and were left to their own resources for rations, ammunition and stores.

An entire division and more—how long could it last?

Gürsten received a summons to Headquarters. Von Hohenlau and Scharnhorst were together conferring and looked up to regard him gravely.

“Flügelleutnant Gürsten, I know your father and your uncle. It is because of them I feel able to make the request I do.”

“Sir?”

“Our situation must be made known to the higher authorities, in detail, that decisions may be made.”

“I understand, sir.”

“This is a mission of the utmost importance and of extreme peril.”

“Sir.”

“You will pass through the enemy lines and make your way to Königsberg.”

“Not to Feldmarschall Bennigsen, sir?”

“To Königsberg—to His Majesty and his ministers. There you will lay before him our entire disposition. If he gives leave for me to retire I shall do so but, on my honour, will obey no other.”

“I will do it willingly, sir.” The odds of his slipping through an alerted besieging force were slim but the stakes could not be higher.

“How you will achieve this must be left to you, Herr Gürsten. If there’s anything we can do to assist …”

Outside he set out to find his friend.

“I honour you for it, Klaus, with all my heart,” Engelhardt murmured, shaking him by the hand. The two sat down and began to plot.

Towards evening, a shabby figure and another in a junior officer’s uniform made their way to the last outposts before the enemy.

Near a pig-sty there was an old out-of-use wooden barrel. Gürsten was helped into it and after it was upended his friend left.

In the suffocating black airlessness Gürsten crouched and waited. Voices rose and fell. He heard muffled commands and the rumbling of a wagon or two—then quiet.

Hours came and went. His cramped body was a torture but there was no alternative.

Longer. It must be getting close to daybreak by now.

Then … voices.

He couldn’t make them out and strained to hear. Hoarse, peasant muttering. Polish—no, some other … If he chose wrongly, it could be a vile death from some looting band.

It wasn’t meant to be like this!

The plan had seemed a good one: this spot was contained within a salient of the Prussian perimeter that was scheduled to be drawn in as lines were shortened, leaving him concealed in his barrel. As the French pressed in it would be overtaken and he’d find himself behind their line, at which he’d safely give himself up, a Prussian deserter.

He froze in shock as someone casually kicked against his hideaway, then heard a distant impatient order—in French.

With a convulsive heave he capsized the barrel and scrambled out before a goggling soldier in a French uniform. He lifted up his hands and gave a twisted smile as the man shouted, bringing at the run a French
poilu
, a sergeant.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Gürsten drawled, in deliberately bad French. “I’ve had enough of being on the wrong side. I’m giving it away.”

“Ha! You left it a bit late,
fripouille Prussien
. We’re going to wipe the floor with you lot before long. Still, if you’re coming over we’ll find some use for you. Take him to the adjutant.”

With a pair of soldiers on each side he was marched to the rear. He knew he would be interrogated but was prepared.

“I’m Corporal Baker Höpfner of the third Potsdamers—but precious little could I bake!”

They quickly lost interest in one who could have no knowledge of the larger picture and he was handed on to others to process.