Fire and Sword

Napoleon dismissed his anger towards his subordinate and concentrated his attention on the battlefield once again. For the moment, the initiative had passed to the Prussians and they had the opportunity to crush Ney, and force the entire French line back to the foot of the Landgrafenberg, if they acted quickly. Already Napoleon could see a dense mass of enemy infantry moving towards La

‘Who would have thought that a Prussian general would take the initiative?’ he muttered to himself.

It was Berthier who noticed it first. He stared over the battlefield for a moment, and then frowned as he spoke. ‘Sire, the enemy have halted.’

‘What?’

Napoleon strained his eyes to make out the details of the battlefield to La

‘What on earth are they playing at?’ asked Berthier. ‘Why don’t they continue to advance?’

‘God knows,’ Napoleon replied, and then swung his telescope across the battlefield. Ney was barely holding his own against the enemy cavalry but the Prussian artillery and infantry that had been advancing to trap his corps had also halted and were standing still, almost within musket range of the nearest French square. At first Napoleon could not understand it. Why would the Prussians throw away such a splendid opportunity to send the French line reeling back? Why delay? What were they waiting for?

Napoleon swept his telescope across the landscape, and then steadied it on a fresh mass of Prussian soldiers approaching the battlefield from the west. He estimated their strength to be at least ten thousand, and smiled as he realised what was happening. The enemy general was waiting for reinforcements before he launched what he hoped would be the decisive attack on the battered French line. So, the Prussians were performing true to form, Napoleon mused. Still the same cautious, plodding foe. Well, they would pay for their foolishness. Indeed, they already were. La

The Prussians continued to take the punishment for the next two hours. Once La

While the duel on the right flank continued, more French troops were arriving on the battlefield and taking position as they waited for the order to attack. As the last of Murat’s cavalry formed up behind the centre of the French line Napoleon glanced down at his watch and saw that it was half an hour after noon. He glanced round at Berthier.

‘Send an order to all divisions. The army is to execute a general attack at one o’clock.’

‘Yes, sire. All divisions,’ Berthier repeated, and then gestured to the neat ranks of the Imperial Guard standing ready behind the Emperor’s command post. The men in the front rank had eager and excited expressions and there was no mistaking their desire to take part in the attack. ‘Does that include the Guard, sire?’

‘No.’ Napoleon shook his head emphatically. He had nearly suffered a defeat at Marengo for want of adequate reserves. In any case, he reasoned with himself, this battle was as good as won and there was no need to commit the veterans of the Guard to the fight. He glanced over at the heavily moustached faces of the nearest men of his elite corps and could see their disappointment at his decision.‘The campaign is not yet over,’ he added loudly enough for them to hear. ‘The grumblers will have the chance to win their share of glory another day.’

On the hour the entire French line began to advance and once more the plateau was engulfed in acrid powder smoke, and the air resounded with the ear-splitting roar of artillery and the crackle of musket fire. For a while the Prussian line held and the men of the Imperial Guard began to mutter bitterly about their inactivity. Napoleon kept his back to the men and resolutely refused to acknowledge their discontent, until a voice cried out, ‘The Guard must advance! For pity’s sake, sire, do not shame us!’

Napoleon turned abruptly and stabbed a finger towards the nearest men. ‘Who said that?’

There was a sullen silence, and then one of the younger soldiers stepped a pace forward and presented his musket. ‘Sire!’

Napoleon strode over towards the man and stood in front of him, crossing his arms as he glared at the soldier. ‘Your name?’

‘Guardsman Bercourt, sire!’

‘So then, Bercourt, you want to charge at your enemy?’

‘Yes, sire. As does every man in the Guard.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, sire.We are the best men in the army. In any army. It is our right to prove our worth in battle.’

‘Your right?’ Napoleon frowned. ‘You are a soldier, you have no rights. Just orders, and you will obey them. Look here, Bercourt.’ Napoleon gestured to the stripes on the man’s sleeve. ‘You have served the minimum number of campaigns to qualify for the Guard.Yet you presume to know how to command the army better than your Emperor?’