Simon Scarrow - Fire and Sword

‘But not them, it seems.’ Napoleon gestured to the tiny distant gleam of the sails of the British frigate keeping watch over the French exercise. ‘If they can cope so far out to sea then surely our men can manage to cover the short distance to the shore?’

‘But, sire . . .’ Desperately, Berthier looked round the other officers for some support, but most avoided his gaze and those that did not hurriedly glanced away, not daring to defy the Emperor. Berthier turned helplessly towards Napoleon. ‘We are doing murder, sire. Signal the ships to end the exercise. I beg you.’

‘Berthier!’ Napoleon snapped. ‘You forget yourself. How dare you challenge my authority? You are to return to headquarters at once.’

‘But sire—’

‘At once!’ Napoleon balled his hands into fists. ‘At once, do you hear?’

Berthier stared back for a moment and then his gaze wavered. ‘As you wish.’

He turned and strode away through the ranks of the silent officers standing behind Napoleon as the latter glanced back towards the sea. The surviving launch had made it as far as the surf and the sailors timed their oar strokes carefully before putting in a spurt as a large wave lifted the boat and carried it towards the beach.The launch grounded heavily and swerved slightly to one side as the terrified soldiers clambered out, splashed into the surf and ran from the sea. Napoleon noted sourly that some had even abandoned their muskets in their haste. A fresh wave caught the stern quarter of the launch and rolled it over on to the last of the men still aboard, crushing them underneath.

To one side, Napoleon heard a sharp intake of breath as Admiral Magon watched the unfolding disaster. Then the Emperor turned his gaze to the other barges stretching out behind the vessel he had been watching. Many more boats had capsized or floundered and hundreds of men were in the heaving waves, fighting for their lives as their heavy clothes and equipment dragged them down. Less than half the launches reached the shore, and as the dazed soldiers staggered out of the surf the officers and sergeants that remained tried to form them up in their companies on the rain-slick sand. Half an hour after the attempted landing had begun the remains of the division stood shivering, while behind them those men who had managed to swim ashore crawled out of the reach of the waves, exhausted.

Napoleon stared at the scene, thin-lipped and silent.Then he turned abruptly to the admiral and said in a low voice, ‘Put an end to this charade, at once. Send the men back to their bivouacs and order the ships back into harbour.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Magon swallowed and forced himself to continue.‘As soon as they have finished picking up survivors from the sea.’

‘What? Yes . . . yes, of course. Take over here, Admiral. But I want a full report on this mess, first thing in the morning. Find out which of your officers were responsible for the shambles and discipline them.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Napoleon did not return the admiral’s salute, but stalked away, head down and hands clasped behind his back. He could sense the fear of the officers and gave thanks for that small mercy at least. None would dare to confront him over the affair, and he would have Fouché see to it that the Paris newspapers made little of the event. Back in his private quarters Napoleon cast off his wet clothes and ordered his manservant to prepare a bath. Then, as he lay up to his chin in the steaming water, he closed his eyes, folded his hands over his chest and began to reflect on the day. There was no question of it. The navy was woefully unprepared to carry out the vital duty of conveying the invasion army across the Channel. The officers vacillated over every decision, and the men had little opportunity to train and carry out exercises, thanks to the vigilance of the British navy patrolling just off the coast.

Napoleon felt a surge of rage sweep through him. Barely thirty miles from where he lay were the shores of Britain. No more than a day’s hard marching. And yet it might as well be three hundred miles, or three thousand, thanks to the wretched stretch of ocean that guarded the country like a moat. As things stood, there was only an outside chance that Britain would ever be invaded. Accepting the point, he suddenly gritted his teeth and thumped the side of the bath.Very well, then. Even if there was no invasion, he would keep an army here, and fill the ports and harbours along the coast with transport ships, just to keep the fear of invasion alive in the minds of the British.That at least would help to divert them from intervention elsewhere. Which was as well, since Napoleon’s thoughts were already turning towards a more pressing situation to the east.

The gale blew itself out overnight and in the rosy glow of dawn the sea was calm and a gentle swell rolled in towards the beach. A few battered launches had survived, washed up amid a tide of fragments from the other boats and the bodies of soldiers and sailors who had been lost the previous day. Small parties of men dragged the bodies up from the surf and laid them out in rows where they could be counted and identified.

Berthier entered Napoleon’s quarters as the Emperor was hurriedly eating his breakfast. Napoleon glanced up, chewing furiously on a slice of ham, and gestured to a chair on the other side of the table before he raised an eyebrow and stabbed his fork towards the sheaf of papers Berthier was carrying.

‘The morning roll call of the division chosen to demonstrate the landing, sire,’ Berthier explained. ‘It appears that we lost over two thousand men yesterday. Of course, some might have been swept up the coast and may yet report back to their battalions. But they won’t amount to many.’

Napoleon swallowed, and took a quick swig of water to clear his mouth. ‘That doesn’t matter now. I summoned you for another reason.’

‘Sire?’

‘I’m calling the invasion off. If Villeneuve ever arrives, he can still take on the British navy.Who knows, by some miracle he may even beat them. Be that as it may, the invasion army is to be reduced to one corps. As for the rest of the army, they must be prepared to march.’

‘March, sire?’ Berthier’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘Where to?’

‘To the Danube, Berthier. It is time to confront Austria.’

Chapter 7

Paris, September 1805

‘Not a very satisfactory state of affairs,’ Napoleon muttered as he eased himself down into the bath. He sighed as Josephine leaned forward on her cushioned stool and stroked his hair. ‘I leave Paris for two months, and that fool Mercurier turns a blind eye while his officials make off with a fortune from the National Treasury. As if that was not enough, Fouché tells me that thousands of those men called up to join the army have taken to their heels and are hiding in the countryside.’ He frowned for a moment and then continued. ‘Well, they’ll soon learn the price of defying their Emperor.’

‘Oh?’ Josephine arched her eyebrows.

‘I have ordered Fouché to track down those who stole from the treasury, and the deserters who betray their country.They’ll be tried and shot, the lot of them.’ Napoleon nodded vehemently. ‘And good riddance. I do not need such distractions on the eve of a new war. I must leave Paris in a few days, a week at the most.’

‘So soon?’ Josephine pouted as she looked down at Napoleon.

He nodded. ‘My dear, we should never have stayed in Paris this last month. It was never my intention.’ He yawned. ‘By now I had hoped we would have been with the headquarters at Strasbourg.’

‘Strasbourg . . .’ Josephine repeated vaguely. ‘A nice enough city, I suppose, but it is not Paris. I sometimes wonder how those provincials cope with such lack of stimulation.’