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A staff officer brought him a basket of cold chicken and some small loaves of the dark German bread that Napoleon had little liking for. As he ate, the enemy guns began to open fire on St-Cyr’s batteries as they unlimbered and soon a large-scale artillery duel had developed, the deep roar carrying across the battlefield.
‘There has not been much progress in the centre,’ Berthier observed. ‘I fear the attack might be forced to a halt, sire.’
‘It might.’ Napoleon nodded, then jabbed a half-eaten chicken leg towards the Pirna road. ‘Until Vandamme threatens their rear. Then the centre will break.’
‘I trust it will, sire.’
‘It will.’ Napoleon took another bite, chewed swiftly and swallowed. ‘Any news from Vandamme?’
‘The last despatch was timed two in the morning, sire. He had run into the enemy outposts.’
‘Then let us hope he had the sense to drive on through them and march to the sound of the guns here at Dresden.’
As the rain continued, the sound of musket and ca
At length, Napoleon took a deep breath. ‘The army has done all it can for today, Berthier. This rain is bogging us down. Give the order to break off the attack. The men can spend another night under cover, and the enemy in the open, and we’ll see how quickly their spirit breaks tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘And I want reports from every division. Butcher’s bills, and the number of enemy captured and their casualties. By nightfall. There’s another day of battle to prepare for,’ he concluded irritably. ‘Tomorrow we will finish this.’
The rain finally ended as dusk shrouded the battlefield and mercifully concealed the bodies and limbs stuck in the sprawl of mud churned up by the passage of many thousands of men, horses and heavy wooden wheels. The men of the Grand Army marched back to their billets, weary and wet but still in fine spirits, unlike the long column of prisoners that was escorted over the Elbe to spend yet another night in the open. Berthier collated the battle reports that came in from across the army and presented the final assessment to his Emperor as he sat wrapped in a blanket and close to a brazier set up in the nave. It had been several days since Napoleon had slept well, and exhaustion, together with the damp conditions, had combined to give him a slight fever. He trembled as he huddled over the fire.
‘Sire, do you wish me to send for your surgeon?’ Berthier asked anxiously.
‘No. It will pass. Besides, I can rest after tomorrow.’ Napoleon’s face contorted for a moment and then he sneezed.
‘Shall I order some soup for you, sire?’
Napoleon shook his head. His stomach was acutely uncomfortable and the idea of any food at all made him feel queasy. He glanced up at Berthier and nodded towards the papers in the latter’s hands. ‘Are those the reports?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Give me the summary.’
‘We have taken some twelve thousand prisoners, and after the body count, allowing for the usual proportion of wounded, the enemy suffered a total loss of over thirty-five thousand men. In addition, we have taken twenty-six guns, and thirty ammunition wagons.’
‘And our losses?’
‘No more than ten thousand, sire.’
‘Good . . . good.’ Napoleon concentrated for a moment. ‘If Vandamme can keep pressing them for the direction of Pirna, then they will break when we renew our attack tomorrow.’ He sneezed again, and then waved Berthier away. ‘I will try to rest. You may wake me if there is any important news, or any sign of movement from the enemy.’
‘Yes, sire.’
Once Berthier left him, Napoleon reached for some more wood to put on the brazier, and then wrapped the blanket tightly about him and shut his eyes. He felt truly wretched - his body strained beyond the point of endurance. His body had become weak, far weaker than it had been in the glorious early years when he had been lithe, and tough, and lack of sleep and long marches had been as nothing to him. The years had marked him, as had the burdens of being a ruler. As he leaned towards the fire he felt the pressure of his stomach on his thighs and was struck by a sudden sense of revulsion at the sorry state of his physique. The thin sallow face of the young general had become almost spherical, with an unseemly roll of flesh forming under his chin. He tired too easily, and the effort of climbing the cathedral tower had left him gasping for breath by the time he reached the top. The present campaign must end soon, he reflected, before his failing health incapacitated him. If not, then he in turn would fail the army, who depended on him to guide them to victory.
If ever there was an implacable tyrant in this world, he mused miserably, it was time. The remorseless army of time, in its serried ranks of hours, days and years, swept all before it. The greatest general was as powerless as the rawest recruit in the face of such an enemy, and all men were doomed to defeat.
Napoleon was bracing himself to climb the tower again when a message came in from one of the cavalry pickets. The allied army had withdrawn. Only a small rearguard remained, covering the line of retreat.
‘Damn them!’ Napoleon growled. ‘They outnumber me and still they run. Cowards.’ He turned away from the tower steps and went over to the map table. ‘Do we know which direction they are headed?’
‘Yes, sire. South, towards Bohemia.’
‘Then we must effect a pursuit immediately. They have several hours’ lead on us. The Grand Army must be ready to advance this morning. Murat can take the cavalry forward to harass them, and try to slow them down.’ Napoleon quickly examined the map. ‘We must send word to Vandamme. If he can reach Teplitz before the allies emerge from the mountains then they will be caught between Vandamme and us. The campaign is still ours to win.’
Berthier set the headquarters staff to work as they drafted the orders for the pursuit. Murat’s cavalry were the first to move off, trotting south towards the Heights. Behind them the infantry of Victor’s corps were forming up outside the city ready to march when a new message arrived at headquarters. The despatch was handed to Berthier by one of his aides and he read it quickly before he glanced up anxiously and hurried over to Napoleon.
‘Sire, Marshal Oudinot has retreated to Wittenberg.’
‘What?’ Napoleon turned swiftly. ‘What is he doing there? He promised me that he would be in Berlin four days ago. Why has he retreated?’
‘He reports that he was defeated by a superior force outside Berlin on the twenty-third.’
‘And he has run back to Wittenberg, rather than hold our northern flank.’ Napoleon gritted his teeth. ‘The fool has left the way open for the Prussians to march on Dresden. Damn him! Damn him!’
Everyone in the nave fell quiet as Napoleon shouted. They watched him nervously as he fought to control his temper, glaring at the map and balling his hands into fists. Berthier was silent for a while, then swallowed and cleared his throat.
‘Sire, what are your orders?’
‘Just a moment. I must think.’ Napoleon closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. This news changed everything. The great advantage that had been won over the largest allied army would be worthless if the Grand Army was forced to abandon the pursuit in order to turn and face the new threat. Conversely, Napoleon could leave Dresden garrisoned and continue the pursuit, but if the city fell then he would lose his supply base and be cut off from France. He seethed with fury at Oudinot’s incompetence.