The Battle Read online

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  VIENNA IN 1809

  In the morning of Tuesday 16 May 1809, a Berline flanked by horsemen pulled out of Schonbrunn and drove at a leisurely pace along the right bank of the Danube. It was an unremarkable carriage, olive coloured, without coats of arms on its panels. As it passed, the Austrian peasants raised their black, broad-brimmed hats, out of caution, rather than respect, because they recognized the officers riding their long-maned Arabs at a trot, a panther skin under their seats, uniforms in the Hungarian style — white, scarlet, heavy with gold — a heron's feather in their shakos: these young gentlemen were the permanent escort of Berthier, Major-General of the occupying army.

  A man's arm appeared through the Berline's lowered window. The Grand Equerry Caulaincourt, who had been keeping his horse abreast of the carriage door, instantly squeezed his mqunt with his knees, removed his cocked hat and gloves with the dexterity of a circus rider, and unbuttoned his jacket to produce a folded map of Vienna's surroundings, which he held out with a salute. A moment later, the carriage came to a halt in front of the yellow, fast-flowing river.

  A Mameluke in a turban jumped off the footman's box, unfolded the step, opened the door and prostrated himself in

  a flurry of exaggerated bows. The Emperor emerged, putting on his beaver-skin hat, its fur scorched by years of ironing. He had slung his frock coat of grey Louviers cloth like a cape over his grenadier's uniform. His breeches were ink-stained, since it was his habit to wipe quill pens on them and there had been an armful of decrees for him to sign before the day's parade. As ever, the Emperor wanted to decide everything himself, to settle in person every one of a thousand matters — from the distribution of new boots to the Guard to the supplying of Paris's fountains with water -matters which, more often than not, bore no relevance to the war he was now waging in Austria.

  Napoleon was beginning to put on weight. His kerseymere waistcoat was stretched tight across a rounded stomach, he no longer had a neck and his shoulders sagged. His blank, indifferent expression only became passionate when he was angry. Today he was sullen, his mouth pinched. When he had heard for certain that Austria was arming herself against him, he returned from Valladolid to Saint-Cloud in five days, riding one horse after another into the ground. Having recently been sleeping ten hours a night and another two in his bath, thanks to the setbacks in Spain and now this further imbroglio, he had recovered all his strength in an instant.

  Berthier had in turn climbed out of the Berline and gone to join Napoleon, who was sitting on the stump of a durmast oak. The two men were almost the same height and they wore the same type of hat; from a distance, they might have been mistaken for one another. But the Chief of Staff had thick, curly hair and a corpulent face which lacked the symmetry of Napoleon's. Together they looked at the Danube.

  'Sire,' said Berthier, biting his fingernails, 'the place seems well chosen.'

  'Sulla carta militare, e evidenteP replied the Emperor, cramming his nostrils with snuff.

  'The depth still needs to be sounded from skiffs . . .'

  'That's your concern!'

  '. . . the strength of the current measured . . .' 'Your concern!'

  Berthier's concern, as usual, was to obey. Loyal and meticulous, he always carried out his master's wishes to the letter and, as a consequence, had acquired enormous power, the self-interested devotion of others and no small amount of jealousy.

  The section of the Danube before them was split into several branches, which slowed its current, and was further broken up by a number of islands covered in meadows, scrub and woods of elms, willows and spreading oaks. An islet between the bank and the largest of these islands, the island of Lobau, would serve as a point of support for the bridge they were going to build. On the other side of the river, at the Lobau's furthest point, they could see a small, level expanse stretching to the villages of Aspern and Essling and .then, rising above the thickets of trees, the two village steeples. Beyond that, an immense plain planted with green crops and watered by a stream that dried up in May, and finally, on the left, the wooded heights of Bisamberg, where the Austrian troops had fallen back after burning the bridges.

  The bridges! Four years earlier the Emperor had entered Vienna as a saviour, its inhabitants running to meet

  his army. This time, when he reached its poorly protected suburbs, he had been forced to lay siege to the city for three days, and even bombard it before the garrison withdrew.

  An initial attempt to cross the Danube near the destroyed Spitz bridge had failed recently. Five hundred light infantrymen of Saint-Hilaire's division, under the command of chefs de bataillons Rateau and Poux, had gained a foothold on the island of Schwartze-Laken, but acting without precise orders or coordination they had neglected to station a reserve company in a large house well placed for protecting the landing of further troops. Half of their men had been killed; the others were wounded or captured by the enemy vanguard stationed on the left bank, which played the Austrian anthem by Herr Haydn every morning to rouse the spirits of the Viennese.

  Now the Emperor had taken personal command. He intended to destroy the Archduke Charles's army, a strong force on its own, before it could link up with that of the Archduke John, which was arriving from Italy by forced march. For that reason, the Emperor had posted Davout and his cavalry on lookout to the west. He gazed at the vast Marchfeld plain on the other side of the river, climbing endlessly to the horizon towards the plateau of Wagram.

  An ordinary sergeant-major, with a white handlebar moustache and clumsily buttoned coat, called out to him in a reproachful voice, not even bothering to stand to attention, 'You have forgotten me, my Emperor! What about my medal?'

  'What medal?' asked Napoleon, smiling for the first time in eight days.

  'La croix d'qfficier de la Legion d'honneur, of course! Eve

  deserved it from the first day I fought as a soldier in your army!'

  'As long as that?'

  'Rivoli! Saint Jean-d'Acre! Austerlitz! Eylau!' 'Berthier . . .'

  The chief of staff noted down the name of the newly promoted officer, Rousillon, with his pencil. He had hardly finished writing before the Emperor stood up, throwing aside the hatchet with which he had been hacking at the oak's trunk. Andiamol I want a bridge by the end of the week. Station some of the brigades of light cavalry in that village behind there.'

  'Ebersdorf,' said Berthier, checking it on his map.

  'Bredorf if you wish, and three divisions of cuirassiers. Get started immediately!'

  The Emperor never gave a direct order or reprimand any more: everything went through Berthier. Before climbing into the Berline, the latter signalled to one of his theatrically dressed aides-de-camp. 'See to it, Lejeune, with the Duke of Rivoli.'

  'Very good, Your Excellency,' replied the officer, a young colonel in the Engineers with tanned skin, brown hair and a striking scar, like a stripe, across the left of his forehead.

  He mounted his Arab, adjusted his black and gold silk belt, brushed a speck of dust off his fur dolman and watched the imperial carriage drive off with its escort. He lingered behind, studying the Danube with a professional eye and those islands pounded by the current. Lejeune had taken part in the construction of pontoon bridges on the Po, in the driving rain, where they had used posts, anchors

  and rafts, but how was one to find purchase in these swirling yellow foam-flecked waters?

  The main branch of the river skirted the island of Lobau on the south. Looking towards the other bank, which they had to reach, Lejeune suspected marshy ground and quagmires which the river, as it rose and fell, would reveal as tongues of sand.

  He turned his highly strung horse in the direction of Vienna. Not far from the village of Eber
sdorf he noticed a sheltered creek where they could float pontoons and boats; on the other side of the copse, they could stack timber, chains, piles and girders — an entire dockyard out of enemy sight. Then Lejeune headed towards the suburbs where the Duke of Rivoli's troops were encamped. Called l mon cousin by Napoleon, this dashing swordsman was greedy, lawless and an inveterate braggart. But he was also a faultless strategist, and, swept along by that hothead Augereau, it was his infantry who had distinguished themselves by storming the bridge of Areola. He was Massena.

  Lannes's corps, along with three divisions of cuirassiers, was quartered in the old town. Massena's, meanwhile, had taken up position facing the suburbs, in open countryside, and the marshal had commandeered a small, turreted baroque palace which had been left abandoned when its owners, a family of Viennese aristocrats, were forced to make for safety in another province or in the Archduke's camp. When Lejeune rode into the main courtyard he didn't need to report himself, since Berthier's aides-decamp were the only members of the Grande Armee entitled to wear red trousers and these served as their passes: their

  responsibility at all times was to deliver the directives of the General Staff — in other words those of Napoleon himself. This privileged position did not, however, endear them to the rank-and-file, and the dragoon to whom Lejeune handed his thoroughbred cast envious glances at the saddle holsters and the saddle braided with gold. All around him on the paving stones slovenly dressed soldiers had dragged out high-backed Gothic seats and chairs upholstered with tapestry from the ground-floor reception rooms. Some of the men were smoking long thin clay pipes, like pirates, and swaggering in front of the bivouacs, feeding the fires with violins and ebony inlay they had torn from the palace furniture. Others were drinking wine from the barrel through straws and throwing punches at each other, swearing, shouting abuse and roaring with laughter. Still others were chasing after a flock of squawking geese and trying to slit their throats with sabres the moment they took off, so that they could roast the birds without needing to draw them first. The air was thick with white feathers and they were throwing handfuls in each other's faces like children.

  Inside the palace, veterans had slashed the family portraits for sport and the canvases hung pathetically from their frames in strips. At the foot of a marble staircase, a gunner dressed as a woman in a voluminous ball gown gave Lejeune directions in a falsetto, while his fellow looters spluttered with laughter. They had rigged themselves out as well, one in a powdered wig which had slipped down over his eyes, the other in a puce-coloured moire frock coat which had split across the back when he put it on. A third was filling his undress cap with spoons and silver-plated drinking cups from a bombe commode which he had kicked in. With a look of disgust, Lejeune went upstairs to the

  marshal's suite of apartments. Smashed porcelain crunched under his boots. In a drawing room opening onto a balus-traded balcony, officers, orderlies and commissaries in civilian clothes chatted as they took their pick of the chandeliers and vases and had their servants pack them away in crates stuffed with straw. On a sofa, a colonel of Hussars was pawing a local farmer's daughter who, like her sisters, had been pressed into a squadron's service. Perched on a rosewood console-table, a valet in white gloves was unhooking a chandelier. Lejeune tapped him on the leg and asked to be announced. 'That's not my job,' the valet said, absorbed in the business of pilfering something for himself.

  Lejeune kicked over the console-table and the valet was left hanging from the chandelier, squealing and sawing the air with his legs, to the great amusement of the assembled company. Applause broke out. A brigadier, suddenly noticing the uniform of the General Staff, was offering Lejeune some German wine in a cup when one of the drawing-room doors flung open. Massena, dressed in a sultan's gown and Turkish slippers, entered, shouting, 'Can't you keep the racket down, you bloody rabble?'

  One-eyed, with a hooked nose set in an otherwise full face and thick black hair cut in a Titus crop, the marshal had a fine, strong voice, but instead of bringing silence, his shout only added to the confusion. Catching sight of Lejeune, the one person behaving with any dignity in the throng, he ordered, 'Come this way, Colonel.'

  Stooping slightly, he turned to go back to his chamber, closely followed by the Emperor's messenger. At a bend in the corridor, Massena stopped dead in front of a massive

  gold and silver-gilt clock. It showed some sort of gong being struck by plump cherubs.

  'What do you think?'

  'Of the situation, Your Grace?'

  'No, no, you halfwit, of this clock!'

  'It looks attractive enough.'

  'Julien!'

  A valet in dark red livery appeared from nowhere.

  'Julien,' said Massena, 'we'll be taking that.'

  The valet carefully picked up the clock, gasping at its weight. When they reached a corner room, Massena sat on the edge of a velvet four-poster bed and at last asked, 'Well then, young man, what are my orders?'

  'To build a pontoon bridge over the Danube, six kilometres south-east of Vienna.'

  Massena was utterly imperturbable, no matter what task he was set. At fifty-one years old, there was nothing he had not suffered or achieved. He was well known to be a thief and said to bear grudges, but, once again, this was an occasion when the Emperor needed his military expertise. As a rule, the marshal despised Berthier's 'dandies' or 'the popinjays', as they were called. The son of an olive-oil merchant from Nice, and, at one stage in his life, a smuggler, he was not a marshal or duke by blood, like those good-for-nothing little puppies plucked from banking houses and aristos' salons — the Marquises Flahaut, Pourta-les, Colbert, Noailles, Montesquiou, Girardin and Perigord: smug, self-satisfied types who kept pommade and toiletries in their cartridge pouches. But Massena made an exception of Lejeune as the only bourgeois in their group - even if he had been taught to salute, like the rest of them, by Gardel,

  the ballet-master at the Opera. Besides, he had a certain talent as a painter which His Majesty admired.

  'Have you reconnoitred the site?' Massena asked.

  'Yes, Your Grace.'

  'And? How wide is it?'

  'Roughly eight hundred metres.'

  'So, eighty boats to support the roadway . . .'

  'I have seen a creek where we could shelter them, Your Grace.'

  'And we'll need posts, let's say nine thousand . . . There's enough forests in this godforsaken country for that.'

  'But also four thousand girders, or thereabouts, and at least nine thousand metres of strong rope.'

  'Yes, and anchors too.'

  'Or fishermen's chests, Your Grace, which we can fill with cannonballs.'

  'When it comes to cannonballs, Colonel, let's try to be economical, shall we?'

  'I'll do my best.'

  'Very well, look sharp, then! Requisition everything that floats!'

  Lejeune was about to leave when Massena detained him with a sudden outburst. 'Lejeune, you're always ferreting about, tell me . . .'

  'Your Grace?'

  'People say that the Genoese have deposited a hundred million in Viennese banks. Is that true?' 'I don't know.' 'Find out. I insist.'

  Someone mumbled under the sheets. Lejeune glimpsed a few strands of hair. With the collusive smile of a horse trader, Massena tore back the embroidered bedspread and,

  grasping a mane of fair hair, yanked upright a young woman who was only half awake. 'Colonel, let me know quickly about that Genoese money and she's yours. She's the widow of a Corsican skirmisher who was disembowelled last week, but she's as buxom and eager to please as a duchess!'

  Lejeune had a low opinion of such wine-shop vulgarity; his impassive expression made this obvious. Oh well, Mas-sena thought to himself, these young prudes will never be real soldiers. He let the young woman fall back onto the silk pillows and said, in a drier tone of voice, 'Go on, then! Cut along to Daru's!'

  Count Daru, the Intendant-General, was in charge of the Imperial commissariat. He had set up his department in a win
g of the Schonbrunn palace, near the Emperor, half a league from Vienna. There, with the help of his biting tongue, he ruled over an entire population of civilians, because it was no longer merely an army that followed in Napoleon's train but a horde, a city on the march, with a baggage train of five battalions to drive two thousand five hundred wagons of supplies and equipment, and companies of bakers, oven-builders, Bavarian masons and almost every other trade overseen by ninety-six commissaries and deputy commissaries. These functionaries were responsible for quarters, forage, horses, carriages, hospitals, provisions; for everything. Daru would know where they could dig out the boats they needed.

  Lejeune rode past the ornamental sphinx that decorated the bridge over the River Wien, and then through a tall gate flanked by two lead eagles on pink stone obelisks.

  He entered the quadrangular courtyard of Schonbrunn, the Habsburgs' less formal summer residence. It lay in the shade of a park, home to a colony of tame squirrels. In the bustle of supply services and battalions of the Guard, he spotted a corporal with green woollen epaulettes. 'Daru?' he shouted at him.

  'That way, Colonel. Past the large pond and under the colonnade on the left.'

  It was a Viennese palace. In other words, it was pompous, baroque, intimate and austere all at once; an imitation of Versailles in ochre, but on a smaller scale and with less attention to symmetry. Lejeune found Daru in the middle of a group of commissaries. He was gesticulating and swearing at one who was wearing an opera hat. Lejeune's arrival was a fresh annoyance. What further demand was going to be made of him now? Dressed in a morning coat buttoned tight over an imposing stomach, with the coat tails hitched up, he put his hands on his hips.

  'Count,' Lejeune began as he dismounted.

  'Come to the point! What impossibility is His Majesty asking of me?'