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‘Oh, shit,’ the guardsman muttered. ‘They’re fucked.’
Napoleon nodded. Already he could hear the sounds of musketry increasing in intensity as the enemy pressed forward against the French rearguard. Some of the men on the far bank looked round anxiously and then the first of them threw down his musket and struggled out of his backpack. Stripped down to shirt, breeches and boots, he clambered down into the current and struck out for the opposite bank. More followed suit, some clinging to small kegs and other items that would give them buoyancy. Most made it across, heaving themselves up on to the grassy bank either side of Napoleon. Some, poor swimmers or injured, were carried away by the current, and thrashed for a moment before being dragged beneath the surface by the weight of their uniforms and equipment.
‘Look!’ The guardsman thrust out his arm. ‘Look there, sire. It’s Marshal Poniatowski!’
Napoleon sca
Napoleon cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted,‘Swim for it!’
He saw Poniatowski nod and turn to his officers. The nearest shook his head and there was a heated exchange before Poniatowski waved his uninjured hand dismissively, grasped his reins and spurred his mount down the bank into the river. The horse slithered the last few feet and splashed into the water, kicking out for the far bank. Poniatowski leaned forward, urging it on as he clung to the reins with his good hand. Napoleon watched, willing them on. Enemy soldiers further along the river bank were busy firing at the hundreds of Frenchmen in the current, struggling to escape captivity. Spouts of water leaped into the air amid the splashing from flailing arms and legs. Just as the marshal reached the middle of the river his horse was hit in the neck. There was a welter of blood, and the animal thrashed wildly, rearing up in the water. Poniatowski was thrown from his saddle and Napoleon watched helplessly as the man’s head surfaced a short distance downstream from the stricken horse. The Pole managed a few desperate strokes with his good arm, and then slid beneath the whirling eddies and splashes of the surface and was gone.
Napoleon desperately looked for any further sign of him, to no avail, and then took a deep breath. Poniatowski was lost to him, together with scores more of his most experienced generals and over twenty thousand men and all their ca
The campaign was lost. The thought struck him like a physical blow, dazing him momentarily. This was the kind of crushing defeat he had inflicted on his enemies in the past. He had been humbled. Napoleon felt sickened by the realisation. There was nothing he could do to save his empire east of the Rhine. The Grand Army would have to retreat, leaving behind tens of thousands of men still holding out in the towns and fortresses of Prussia and the other German states.
He needed time to prepare for what was to come. The war to hold the French empire together was lost. Soon, very soon, Napoleon and his battered and weary men would be forced to fight for the very survival of France.
Chapter 45
Arthur
St-Jean-de-Luz, 10 November 1813
As he rode through the camp of the Light Division that night, Arthur could see the good humour in the faces of the men, lit warm and red by the glow of the camp fires. The week’s fighting had gone well and Soult’s line of forts barring the way into France had been successfully stormed with a combination of courage and audacity that had warmed Arthur’s heart. The allied army had crossed the Bidassoa and Nivelle rivers and crossed the enemy’s border. They were now settling in for the night on French soil, and the thought filled Arthur with pride. Even so, he was already pla
Arthur smiled to himself. What Bonaparte might order and what reality might permit were two very different things. His intelligence officers had picked up rumours from French prisoners that the Emperor had suffered a serious reverse at the hands of England’s European allies. Since the rumours came by way of letters received by the soldiers opposed to Arthur, it was difficult to know how much store to place in them. The enemy’s censors were well practised in concealing bad news from their people, and the French newspapers that had come into the possession of Arthur’s staff officers carried no hint of any setback. On the contrary, the cheaply printed news bulletins spoke only of Bonaparte’s continuing mastery over the hordes of the Tsar and his incompetent allies. Arthur had grown used to the lies, as indeed had most Frenchmen, he noted with a smile. It had even become a catchphrase amongst the French - to lie like a bulletin.
If Bonaparte had indeed suffered a serious defeat then he would be hard pushed to reinforce the army under Marshal Soult that was facing Arthur. Which was just as well, since Soult already had nearly as many men, and more artillery and cavalry, than Arthur. A few years before, Arthur would have been far more cautious about taking the war on to enemy soil before his lines of communication were securely guarded. As things stood, the enemy still held Pamplona, and Marshal Suchet and his army were still in the field in the region of Valencia. However, Suchet showed little sign of stirring from what had become his personal fiefdom, and the garrison of Pamplona was under siege by a Spanish army. Accordingly, Arthur felt the risks were acceptable. In any case, his political masters in London had allowed the allied army’s swift advance and spate of victories to go over their heads and had insisted that Arthur proceed with an invasion of France.
Thus it had always been during the war in the Peninsula, he sighed wearily as he crossed the bridge and entered the town gate of St-Jean-de-Luz, touching the brim of the oilskin covering his cocked hat in response to the salutes of the sentries. His caution and careful pla
He stopped a civilian for directions to the mairie where Somerset had been sent to set up the army’s headquarters. The man briefly registered a look of surprise when Arthur addressed him in French, but he seemed almost unconcerned by the presence of so many English soldiers in his town. He turned and pointed towards the end of the street, where it appeared to open on to a small square. Arthur thanked him and walked his horse on. As he clopped into the square he noted with approval that a number of provosts were patrolling the area, keeping a watchful eye on the soldiers to ensure that they did not breach Arthur’s orders concerning respectful treatment of French civilians and their property. More than ever he was dependent upon the goodwill of the locals. The allied army was no longer liberating a people from an invader. Now the allies were the invaders and Arthur knew it was vital that his men did nothing that might provoke the French civilians.