Excerpts from Chapter 21: Holocaust At Boradino

'Like an earthquake' - disaster for the 106th - Dutheillet storms a flèche - an unprecedented stream of wounded generals - Morand's attack - two sorts of wound - a gap in the Russian centre - 'send in the Guard!' - 'why doesn't he retire to the Tuileries?' - Ney’s picnic - Ouvarov's diversion - the dying cavalry - Montbrun is killed - storming the Great Redoubt - 'take this fool away' - Thirion. comforts a doomed recruit - cavalry struggles - 'won't this battle ever end?' - thousands of dead and dying men

The first shot is fired at 6 a.m. Once again Lariboisière and his staff have

'gone to the I Corps' 12-pounder battery, which was to open the firing. At this signal all the batteries along the whole line opened up; and the enemy wasn't slow to reply.' At that moment General Lariboisière, throwing a glance at the officers who were with him, caught sight of his son Honoré, who'd been seconded for such service. He reprimanded him severely and ordered him to withdraw, but it was easy to see he was more filled with a tender concern for him than for the rules of the service. Only half-obeying his father's orders, poor Honoré, a trifle confused, retired and stood a few paces away, behind a little silver birch wood to our right. Then we went on to III Corps' battery, where General Fouchier was.'

That first shot had been followed by a second. Then - after a horrible silence - the guns on both sides explode, in a whirlwind of shot and shell the like of which no one has ever seen. Soltyk, watching from a few paces behind Napoleon, has

'never heard anything like it. At moments the uproar was so terrible it was more like broadsides discharged from warships than a land artillery engagement.'

Others think it's 'like an earthquake'. To Dr von Roos, busy moving his dressing-station forward to 'a gully in places thick with bushes and through which flowed a small, easily jumpable stream' [the Semenovskaya] it's 'as if all Europe's voices were making themselves heard, in all its languages'.

The losses on the long march have compelled Napoleon to pack his centre, not with infantry, but with Murat's four cavalry corps. And that's where General Pajol has drawn up his light cavalry division, brigade behind brigade. At the second discharge Captain Biot, sitting his horse beside him, sees

'a horse running along our front, its rider thrown on to its cruppers. I recognized poor Colonel Désirad. A Russian roundshot had taken off his cranium. From then on we were uninterruptedly assailed by roundshot and grape. Everything that fell beyond the second line went on to strike the third; not a shot was lost.'

As usual, the Russian gunners are aiming too high. And roundshot at the very limit of their trajectory come bouncing along the grass at Napoleon's command post. Boulart, standing there with his batteries not a hundred paces away, even sees some pass over the Emperor's head: 'Captain Pantinier, commanding a battery of Friedrich's division, was killed near to and even behind us, before his division came into line.'

But already the first move is being made. Borodino village, a kind of salient on the hither side of the stream, is held by a crack division of Jägers of the Russian Imperial Guard. Only a narrow plank bridge over the Kolotchka links it with its supports. And at 6.30 Delzon's division, headed by the 106th Line in column of platoons, is seen moving to the attack 'with unbelievable speed'. Already the leading Italian battalions have only 200 yards to go. Clearly the salient is completely untenable. And the Jägers are ordered to set fire to the village and evacuate it. Although ,the limit of the 106th's orders' is to capture the village, nothing can restrain it from chasing the Jägers as they, annihilated by the Italian guns, are retreating helter-skelter over the bridge. On the slope beyond, leading gently upwards to the distant Great Redoubt, three other Russian regiments are arrayed. But the 92nd Line, coming up in support and 'listening only to the voice of the guns, advances at the double, crosses the bridges and attacks the three hostile regiments.’ Hurrying over the bridge to recall them, General Plauzonne, their brigade commander, is killed. And in the same instant the impetuous 92nd are shattered by a massive counter-attack. After which the remains of Delzons' two regiments withdraw into the burning village, which the Russians don't bother to try and recapture.

Each side has taken a pawn.

Simultaneously with this tactical move on the left an all-out frontal assault is being delivered by I Corps on the right. Its objective is the two southernmost flèches. Lejeune, standing only a few yards to the rear of Napoleon's command post, sees how Compans, preceded by a barrage from 108 guns whose sudden torrent of shells causes

'the peaceful plain and silent slopes to erupt in swirls of fire and smoke, followed almost at once by countless explosions and the howling of cannon shot ripping through the air in every direction, has the honour of being the first to cross his infantry's fire with the Russians. Directing it at their centre to the left of the Passarevo wood, it was his task to mount the heights and carry the flèches barring his passage.'

In no time at all his heads of columns

'have disappeared into a cloud of dust infused by a reddish glow by the radiant sun. The deafening sound of our cannonade was interspersed with a sound that seemed like a distant echo, and came from the batteries on the left around Borodino [and] from beyond the woods to our right',

where Poniatowski is advancing towards the village of Utitza.

'The guns's roar and thunder, the crackling and crashing of musketry, the whining and soughing of roundshot large and small, the screams of the wounded and dying, oaths in every language during cavalry and bayonet attacks, the words of command, the cornet signals, the fifes and drums and thereto the masses' wave-like motion backwards and forwards in a smoke of gunpowder, shrouding friend and enemy alike in an obscurity so deep it was often only from the rows of flashing flames one could make out the enemy regiments' positions or their batteries as they came riding up - the impression of all this went through the marrow of one's bones. Anyone who claims to go into enemy fire without an oppressive feeling is a poltroon.'

This being in high degree a journée, Lejeune and his colleagues, too, are doubtless wearing their white fox-trimmed sky-blue pélisses, their tight-fitting double gold-striped scarlet trousers, and their gold-chevroned arid white ostrich-plumed hussar helmets. From Napoleon's command post he sees the 57th enter the right-hand flèche at the pas de charge. And soon it seems to Sous-lieutenant Dutheillet, who's in the thick of it, that his men (6th Coy, 6th Bn) aren't merely fighting but actually winning the battle single-handed:

'The Russians had made a few abbatis which were charged and carried by our last three battalions, while the two first turned them to the right. To our left we'd a redoubt [flèche] which was firing murderously at us. Being at the regiment's left and one of the closest to the redoubt, I began shouting: "at the redoubt, let's march against the redoubt!" And together with some of our battalion's officers and two or three hundred men I flung myself at it. The Russians, seeing our resolution, retired. We entered the redoubt, pursuing them for more than 200 paces beyond our conquest. Meanwhile our colonel has been told of our success and he sends the regiment's fat major Liègre (or Liégre) to command the men who've taken the redoubt. I can say without fear of contradiction that I was one of the first, and was following the Russians, ready to receive the reinforcements behind them, when Major Liègre, a brave old soldier, seeing we weren't by any means numerous enough to repulse the enemy, massed with their cavalry in the ravines, sent us the order to come back into the redoubt to defend and keep it. For a while longer we resisted his orders, wanting to pursue the enemy, and telling the officer he'd sent to us: "Have us supported by other troops." But Major Liègre hadn't any.'

For the rest of the 57th, busy with the wood to its right, is feeling ill-supported. Dutheillet’s company, attacked by artillery and fresh Russian troops, repeatedly beats them off. But Major Liègre falls dead at his feet, killed by grapeshot. 'General Teste's ADC Suffered the same fate; and by this time I was so short of footwear I stripped the unfortunate ADC, still not cold, of the boots he had on his feet to put them on my own!' The Russians 'like the brave soldiers they were' renew their attacks on the flèche:

'A brave officer of that nation, seeing his men about to fall back, placed himself across the entrance to the redoubt and did everything he could to prevent them leaving it, but was shot through the body. Our men rushing forward with the bayonet, I ran towards this officer to protect him if he was still alive; but he died shortly after. I took his belt as a souvenir of his courage, and the men shared the rest of his equipment.'

The flèche. so brilliantly captured by the 57th and then lost again to the Russian 7th Combined Grenadier Division is the southernmost. But soon all the terrain the 5th Division has gained is lost, as three Russian cavalry regiments sweep Compans’ men on to his supports, Dessaix's 4th. As this happens Compans, already wounded in the left arm two days ago, is hit again, this time in the shoulder by a musket-ball. This second wound is serious, and Dessaix has to take over both divisions:

'To follow Compans' division's movement we'd had to descend rather a steep slope 1rom the plateau, through dense thickets. Hardly had we emerged from the wood than General Dessaix receives orders to take command of Compans' division. Accompanied only by Captain de Bourget, Lieutenant Magnan and myself , he galloped to its head. We got there just as the first redoubts had been taken by storm. They were nothing but redans - i.e., chevron-shaped campaign works not closed at their throat, in such a way that the enemy's second line swept their interior with the sharpest musketry and grape. So it was a lot harder to gain a foothold and stay there than to have stormed them. Also, the 5th Division's troops had been massed behind these works and in folds of the ground, as far as possible to shelter from fire while waiting until fresh attacks were made. General Dessaix, whose great personal courage one had to recognize, remained a few instants totally exposed beside one of these redoubts, examining the Russian units’ position and movement. And I was near him, contemplating the same view, when a musket-ball came and smashed a bottle of brandy he'd taken care to provide himself with in one of his saddle’s pistol holsters. It was more than he could do not to exclaim angrily, turning to me: "I owe that to your damned white horse!"'

And indeed, Girod de l'Ain concedes, his horse was of a brilliant whiteness and a target for enemy skirmishers:

'During the few moments we had halted there Captain du Bourget, for better shelter, had pushed his horse into the ditch of the redoubt. Having seen us dash off ahead at a gallop, he'd tried to follow us. But hardly had he emerged from the ditch than he was hit by a roundshot and fell dead.'

By now Compans' plan for a two-pronged attack seems to have been forgotten. Napoleon sends Rapp to take over his ravaged division, and Dessaix returns to his own, which by now has moved up into the first line. But almost immediately Rapp too is hit

‘several times within the space of all hour; first slightly, by two musket-balls, then in the left arm by a roundshot which carried away parts of my coat and shirtsleeve, leaving my bare arm showing. At that moment I was at the head of the 61st Regiment, whose acquaintance I'd first made in Egypt. Soon I received my wound: it was a shot in my left thigh, which threw me off my horse. This was the twenty-second time I'd been wounded during my campaigns. I felt obliged to leave the field, and informed Marshal Ney to that effect, whose troops were mingled with mine. General Dessaix, the only general of this division who hadn't been wounded, took my place.'

But soon it'll be Dessaix's turn. Girod de l'Ain goes on:

'We’'d advanced a certain distance and were standing in column on the edge of a wood stretching away to our right, when we saw a charge of Russian cuirassiers coming at us like a tempest. They weren't exactly aiming at us, but at a battery of 30 of our guns which, under cover of our advance, had come and taken up position a little to our left rear. Although this charge suffered from our fire as it passed us, it didn't slow it down, no more than the discharges of grape from our battery, which it overthrew out of the cuirassiers' reach sabring those gunners who weren't able to throw themselves down between the wheels of the guns and ammunition wagons. But soon, thrown back in disorder by some French squadrons, they again passed across our column's flank and again suffered under our fire and the bayonet thrusts of a crowd of our soldiers who, leaving the ranks, ran out in front of them to cut off their retreat.'

To the French it seems there are about 1,500 cuirassiers, of whom

‘scarcely 200 got back to their lines. All the rest, men and horses, remained on the ground. I don't recall our taking a single prisoner. They only wore breastplates, and these, like their helmets, were painted black. Hardly had the cuirassiers disappeared than, a little way off, we caught sight of a mass of infantry which had advanced under shelter of their charge, Left exposed and isolated after the cuirassiers’ retreat, it had halted. And in the same instant we saw it as it were swirling around itself and then retiring in some disorder. As it did so, however, it, in turn, unmasked a battery, which sent us several volleys of grape, causing us considerable losses. It was also at this moment that General Dessaix had his right forearm shattered by a roundshot. Lieutenant Morgan and I took him to the rear until we were out of range of the enemy's fire.'

Le Roy, on Davout's staff , is following him about the left Centre of the French front. And at 8 a.m. or thereabouts Davout's horse is killed under him, badly bruising and stunning its rider. In no time a rumour reaches headquarters that not merely his horse but the unpopular marshal himself has been killed. But Davout comes to; refuses, though badly bruised, to relinquish his command; and sends Le Roy back to IHQ to give the lie to the rumour:

'I went to tell the General Staff, which I found close to the famous redoubt we'd taken yesterday. The Emperor was seated on the reverse slope of a ditch, his left elbow resting on it. With his right hand he was observing the enemy's movements through his telescope. I heard him tell an ADC: "I furry up and tell Ney to advance."'

Le Roy is surprised to notice that a whole Guard grenadier regiment with plaqueless bearskins and red plumes is clad in white; and assumes, wrongly, they're the Westphalian Royal Guard. Then he returns to the scrum. It's at the very moment he gets there that Dessaix's arm is shattered by a musket-ball. And he is immediately replaced by General Gérard, 'a man of sense and merit, who by his sang-froid and his ability consoled us for the loss we'd sustained'.

And in fact an unprecedented stream of wounded high-ups is flowing back towards Larrey's dressing-station, established in the rear of the Imperial Guard. Accompanying their wounded general, Girod de I'Ain and his other ADCs encounter

'several surgeons coming forward to attend to the wounded, among others the King of Naples' chief surgeon, who gave our general first aid. After examining his wound he strongly advised him to allow his forearm to be amputated. Larrey, who followed immediately after, was of the same opinion, insisting even more strongly that the general should resign himself to it. For the rest, it was Larrey's system on campaign - it system he applied for excellent reasons - to amputate any gravely fractured limb. So he told the general: "Doubtless we might have some chance of success if we tried to save your arm. But for that you'd need a long period of quite special care and resources you can't reasonably count on on campaign and in a country like this, a thousand leagues away from your own. Numberless fatigues and privations still await you and you're running the risk of fateful accidents, whilst within a fortnight you can be sure of your amputation wound forming a perfect scar."'

But Dessaix remains 'deaf to these exhortations and unshakeable in his determination to keep his arm.’ The wounded Rapp is there too:

'I had my wound bandaged by Napoleon's surgeon, and that prince [sic] himself, came and visited me: "How are things going? You never get off unscathed!" "Sire, I think it'll be necessary to unleash your Guard." "I'll take care not to; I've no desire to see it destroyed. Furthermore it isn't needed. I'm sure to win the battle anyway."'

That Rapp should make such a suggestion so early in the day shows how impressed he is by the Russian resistance.

Knowing that Dessaix's two brothers, one a doctor, the other a commandant, will soon be with him, Girod de I'Ain leaves him in a place of safety with the lieutenant, and returns to the firing line. There he places himself at the disposition of General Friederich, who's taken over;

'In rejoining the division I found Colonel Achard of the 108th a little to the rear of the position it had occupied. With him he only had a handful of men and his eagle, "That's all that's left of my regiment," he told me sadly.'

Nor has the 4th division gained any more ground. 'Nothing important had happened in my absence.' Friant's division, too, has been standing massed in support. But now he, too, is hit; and has to hand it over to General Dufour, his senior brigadier.

Up at the front the slaughter is horrible. Voltigeur-corporal Dumont of the 61st Line is hit in the upper arm by a musket-ball. 'Soon afterwards my wound began to pain me, and I went to the ambulance to have the ball extracted.' he hasn’t gone many paces before he meets the regiment's pretty Spanish cantinière Florencia:

'She was in tears. Some men had told her that nearly all the regiment's drummers were killed or wounded. She said she wanted to see them, to help them if she could. So in spite of the pain I was suffering from my wound I made up my mind to accompany her. We were walking amidst wounded men. Some moved painfully and only with difficulty, others were being carried on litters.'

Suddenly, as they pass near to one of the flèches, Florencia starts to utter heart-rending cries:

'But when she caught sight of all the drums of the regiment strewn on the ground she became like a madwoman. "Here, my friend, here!" she screamed. "They're here!" And so they were, lying with broken limbs, their bodies torn by grapeshot. Mad with grief, she went from one to the other, speaking softly to them. But none of them heard. Some, however, still gave signs of life, among them the drum-major she called her father. Stopping by him and falling on her knees she raised his head and poured a few drops of brandy between his lips.'

But at that moment the Russians try to retake the flèche,

'and the firing and cannonade began again. Suddenly the Spanish woman cried out with pain. She'd been stricken by a ball in her left hand, which crushed her thumb and entered the shoulder of the dying man she was holding. She fell unconscious.'

Dumont, with his one good arm, tries to carry her back to the baggage and ambulance; but it's more than he can do. Fortunately,

'a dismounted cuirassier came by, close to us. He didn't have to be asked. Only said: "Quick! we must hurry, this isn't a nice place to be." In fact the bullets were whistling around us. Without more ado he lifted up the young Spaniard and carried her like a child. She was still unconscious. After walking for ten minutes we got to a little wood where there was an ambulance of the Guard artillery. Here Florencia came to her senses. M. Larrey, the Emperor's surgeon, amputated her thumb, and extracted the ball from my arm very cleverly.'

By now about two or three hours have passed. And still no significant progress is being made, either in the centre or on either wing. After the 92nd's and the 106th's destruction in front of Borodino village, Eugène, ‘whose skirmishers had just dislodged the Russian chasseurs from among the bushes in front of the main battery and along the banks of the Kolotchka’, had been ordered to mount a full-scale attack on the Great Redoubt. And the Italian Royal Guard is standing in reserve 'on the left of the Kalotchka, so as to be able to move to right or left in case its presence becomes necessary.’ Its adjutant-major can't resist the temptation to go and have a look at what's going on:

'Still too young to have been present at one of these famous battles, and hitherto only in a position to have seen combats, certainly sanguinary ones but where no such great masses had figured, only partial actions, sieges, engagements of 10,000 to 18,000 men, how often I've longed to be witness to and be an actor in so gigantic a conflict!'

So he and two other officers get Colonel Moroni's permission to mount the ridge in front of them, where the Italian guns are firing:

'Never in my life shall I forget the sublime impression yielded by the view of this long and vast carnage. No viewpoint could have been more favourable than ours. At a glance we embrace the sinuosities of the terrain, the folds of the ground, the positions of the various arms, the actions engaged on all hands. A marvellous panorama! Far off I see a very thick wood that makes me think of Tasso's and Ariosto's beautiful descriptions. Out of it spurt at each instant great jets of flame accompanied by terrible detonations. Then, under cover of these whirlwinds of fire and smoke, deep masses are deploying to advance under cover of no less terrible a fire. The sun flashes on the arms and cuirasses of infantry and cavalry marching to meet each other. At this moment the 30th Regiment, led by General Bonamy, goes to the attack.'

And of course the 'Dromedary of Egypt', despite his leg wound of the previous evening, is at his post:

'We draw up our battle line at a level ten feet below the plain, which is masked by the ravine's ridge; and General Morand orders us to march against the enemy's great battery [i.e., the Great Redoubt]. Passing along the line to encourage the men and coming in front of my company, he sees I've been seriously wounded: "Captain," he says to me, "you won't be able to keep up, retire to the colour-guard." I answer him: "General, this day holds too much attractions for me not to share the glory this regiment is going to win." "I see you for the man you are," replies the general, taking me by the hand. And passes on along the battle line amid the roundshot falling from all quarters.'

As for Laugier, who call 'see it all as a spectator at a circus might make out what's going on in the ring below him', he's seized with an 'indescribable anxiety. I can't take my eyes off this group of heroes. The men's turnout is admirable.' François' regiment

'gets the order to advance. Arrived on the ridge of the ravine, at half-range from the Russian battery, we're crushed by its grapeshot and by the fire of others taking us in flank. But nothing checks us. Like my voltigeurs and despite my wounded leg I skip and jump about to let the iron balls go their way as they come rolling into our ranks. Whole files and half-platoons are falling under the enemy's fire, leaving broad gaps.'

Now Césare de Laugier's aesthetic ecstasy

'suddenly gives place to a feeling of pity. This unhappy regiment which I've just been admiring is letting itself be massacred, and fresh Russian batteries have just been placed to reply to the Italian ones on the heights where I am.'

Captain François, skipping about among the roundshot, goes on:

'General Bonamy, who's at the head of the 30th, orders us to halt in the midst of the grapeshot. He rallies, and on we go, at the pas de charge. A Russian line tries to stop us. We fire a regimental volley at thirty paces and pass over it. We rush toward the redoubt and try to get in through the embrasures. I enter just as one gun has fired. The Russian gunners receive us with blows of their handspikes and ramrods. We fight them man to man and find them to be formidable adversaries. A great number of Frenchmen fall into the wolfpits pellmell with Russians who're in them already. Once inside the redoubt I defend myself against the gunners with my sabre and slash down more than one.'

Looking on from the vantage point of the Bavarian Chasseurs, massed with the rest of Ornano's cavalry behind Borodino village, von Muraldt sees even Eugène, normally so stolid and unemotional, carried away with enthusiasm. He 'waved his hat in the air and cried "The battle's won!"'

All Colonel Griois, waiting with his guns in a dip in the ground with Grouchy's cavalry, can see is immense quantities of smoke rising over the enemy position; but he hears all the more. And he too assumes that the great fieldwork has been taken:

'A grenadier who'd been wounded in this attack came back, covered in blood and drunk on glory, to confirm for us this happy success which, by opening the enemy centre and separating his two wings, seemed to decide the victory for us.'

Such indeed is the 30th's impetuosity that François and his men have

'overrun the redoubt by more than 50 paces. But not being followed by our division's other regiments - with the exception of a battalion of the 13th Light, who're supporting us, they too are at grips with the Russians - we're forced to beat a retreat, recrossing the redoubt, the Russian line - which has sprung to its feet again - and the wolfpits. In this way our regiment is shattered. We rally behind the redoubt, always under enemy grapeshot, and attempt a second charge. But not being supported we're too few to succeed. And with only eleven officers and 55 men we retire. All the rest have been killed or wounded. The brave General Bonamy, who'd never quit his post at the head of the regiment, has been left inside the redoubt.'

Suffering from no fewer than fifteen wounds, bleeding and helpless, Bonamy has only saved his own life by shouting out "I'm the King of Naples!" Believing him, they take him to Kutusov's headquarters, three miles behind the battleline, where the Russian commander-in-chief, completely out of touch with the stupendous conflict, is spending the day lunching and chatting with his handsome young staff officers. Kutusov calls for a surgeon, but otherwise pays him no special attention.

'I'd been through more than one campaign,' François, back on the slope in front of the Grand Redoubt, goes on,

'but never had I found myself in such a bloody mêlée or up against such tenacious soldiers as the Russians. I was in a deplorable state, my shako had been carried away by grapeshot and the tails of my coat had remained in their hands. I was bruised all over, and the wound in my left leg was hurting dreadfully. After a few minutes' rest on a plateau where we'd rallied, I fainted from loss of blood. Some voltigeurs brought me round and carried me to General Morand who'd been wounded in the chin by grapeshot. He recognized me, gave me his hand and when he'd been bandaged signed to a surgeon to attend to me.'

Realizing the triumph has been premature, it seems to Griois that the 30th have failed for lack of adequate support:

'At about the same time a mass of Russian cuirassiers charged on our right, and from where we were we could see it was causing a certain amount of disorder.'

And in fact Eugène has to send Gérard's division to support Morand's right, which is being briskly counter-attacked by two Russian dragoon regiments. As they chase the remnant of the 30th down the slope and lunge at its reserves Césare de Laugier admires the way the 7th Light (Sergeant Bertrand's regiment)

'instantly forms square, lets the dragoons advance and then opens a well-nourished fire by files, which in the twinkling of an eye covers the terrain with men and horses, dead or wounded, forming a new barrier around these brave battalions.'

Griois too sees this mass of cavalry promptly driven back and overthrown, leaving

'the whole esplanade in front of the entrenchment covered by its dead. Half an hour later even sharper firing and hurrahs told us the Russians were still in the works.'

Hearing the Italian Royal Guard ordered to stand to arms, its adjutant-major, still casting lingering glances over his shoulder, goes back to his post.

In the little ravine of the Semenovka whose waters are flowing red with blood, surgeon Roos, with cannon-balls flying overhead and plunging deep into its reverse slope or else rolling towards him down the forward one, is tending his Saxon, Westphalian and Württemberger wounded, 'and even Russians'. He's noticing how deep wounds caused by flying shell fragments, even though they often tear whole chunks out off limbs, etc., bleed very little; whereas cutting wounds do so profusely:

'A cuirassier of the Saxon bodyguard, all extraordinarily big man, presented such a wound in his left buttock. The muscles, torn away, revealed the bared femur from the knee to the big trochanter. The wound wasn't bleeding. The Saxon showed himself full of energy. He said: "My wound is terrible, but I'll cure quickly because I'm healthy and have pure blood!" A very young officer of the same regiment seemed less confident. He wasn't robust, like the other. He was fine and delicate. A musket-ball had passed through the deltoid. It wasn't the pain that made him complain, but the fear of being crippled, the certainty of not being able to count on anyone helping him, and the distance he was at from his own country. I felt full of compassion for him and if we'd been in Dresden, instead of at Borodino, I'd have been only too glad to have placed him in his mother's care.'

This morning all Roos has had to eat has been a mouthful of bread, given him by another surgeon who's borrowing his instruments, washed down with a gulp of cold water from the stream:

'The numbers of wounded turning up were enormous. Other surgeons had joined us. Thanks to their collaboration we were able to give more active help. Many of these unfortunates died on the spot. Ambulances were evacuating those who'd been given first aid. The doctors hadn't been told in advance which point they should evacuate their wounded to, as in other campaigns.'

It's at just such a dressing-station that Captain François is having his wound attended to:

'The doctor comes over to me and examines my wound. Thrusting his little finger into the hole made by the musket-ball, he seizes his lancet, makes the usual cross on each hole, and puts his probe right through my leg between its two bones. "Lucky wound, this," he says, pulling out some splinters. Then he gives me first aid and tells me to go to the army's ambulance at Kolotskoië,'

where the wounded can already be counted 'in thousands'.

In the centre, meanwhile, a third battle is raging around the flaming embers of Semenovskaya village. Against it - together with the Great Redoubt it's the key to the whole Russian position - III Corps is being thrown in, in wave after wave. Evidently its attacks are overlapping those of I Corps, for Captain Bonnet, too, sees as his objective 'three redoubts' - which can only be the Bagration flèches:

'By it movement to our right we fling ourselves across some bushes and come close to the first redoubt, which is carried by our leading troops. Whereon the regiment marches on the second, its four battalions in line one behind another. Half-way between the first and the second redoubt Commandant Fournier is wounded, and I take command of the battalion - reform it in column, the right on the ditch of the redoubt we've already taken. I've got the flag. I'm awaiting the moment to act. The colonel comes up to me on foot and I ask his permission to send the flag back to that part of the corps which was close to the first redoubt and on the fringe of the copse from which we're emerging. It was done.'

But unfortunately after five minutes Russian sharpshooters

'arrive in good order a little to the left, and it dense column to our right. I deploy my battalion and, without firing, march straight at the column. It recoils. When carrying out this movement we were so exposed to grapeshot from the guns in the village that I saw my battalion falling and being breached like a crenellated wall. But still we went on.'

Reaching the edge of the ravine that separates the village from the crest of the ravine, the l8th Line runs headlong into another column

'which is marching gravely and without hurry. All that's left on its legs of the 4th Battalion makes a half turn, and we withdraw slowly, firing on this column, and re-enter the redoubt. But the place, being open on their side, isn't tenable. I'm the last to jump up on to its parapet, just as a Russian's about to grap my greatcoat. In one leap I jump the ditch. They must have fired 20 shots at me, almost pointblank, without hitting anything except my shako. We withdrew as far as to the bushes near the first redoubt.'

No sooner have the l8th taken refuge in the bushes than they're repeatedly charged by Russian cuirassiers. And it isn't until about midday that the Russians finally evacuate the ruins of what, a few hours before, was the village of Semenovskaya.

A sort-throat, a bad cold, migraine and an agonizingly overfull bladder are no friends of a commander-in-chief at the crisis of his fortunes. Soltyk, only about 30 or 40 paces away from Napoleon, is observing him closely. Not paying the least attention to the Russian shells which now and then explode nearby,

'now he'd sit down on the ground; now walk to and fro quietly humming a tune, sometimes mechanically putting his hand in his waistcoat pocket to take out some pills he'd been prescribed against his cold. His face simultaneously expressed preoccupation and impassibility. He also addressed a few brief words to members of his suite, telling them to take his orders to the battlefield.'

At one moment the Polish General Kossakowski 'having picked up a Russian grape cartridge with old rusty brown iron, whose wounds are said to be the most dangerous', and holding it up

'as evidence of Muscovite foul play, went up to him and showed it to him, adding that all means were fair against such enemies. The Emperor replied vivaciously: "Oh, I don't give a damn for them!" Then added immediately: "But that Stuff Won't carry far."'

How much can he see of the vast conflict going on at his feet? Only Ney's corps and 'almost all the cavalry assembled under Murat', thinks Chlapowsky, who's standing not far away with his squadron of the 1st Polish Lancers. He too thinks the Emperor is ill: 'now walking up and down, now sitting on his folding chair. At no moment did he mount his horse.' Lejeune, making comparisons with Wagram, Essling, Eylau and Friedland, is astonished not to see him 'deploy the activity which produces success.' The rumour that the Emperor isn't well also reaches Dr Flize, medical officer in one of the Guard regiments:

'Not once did Napoleon mount his horse during the whole battle. He walked on foot with his suite of officers, passing ceaselessly to and fro. A steady stream of adjutants took his orders and rode away.'

One of them is Lejeune:

'Returning from all my missions I always found him there sitting in the same posture, following all the movements through his pocket spyglass and giving his orders with imperturbable calm. But we weren't so happy as to see him, as formerly, going to galvanise with his presence the points where too vigorous a resistance made success doubtful. Each of us was astonished not to find the active man of Marengo, Austerlitz., etc. We didn't know Napoleon was ill and that it was this that was making it impossible for him to act in the great struggles taking place under his eyes, exclusively in the interests of his glory. We weren't very satisfied; our judgements were severe.'

Boulart, standing among his guns, horses and ammunition wagons a few yards in front of his command post, sees the Emperor himself, 'his arms crossed on his chest, walking agitatedly to and fro in a small space in the very centre of my own battery. Farther off, groups of officers and generals were standing spyglass in hand. In previous battles the Emperor had produced spectacular effects by one of his characteristic masterstrokes. Now we were living in hope of seeing his face light up with the same exultation as it used to do in his heyday. But on this occasion we waited in vain. At one moment he moved a little further down the slope and, telescope still in hand, lay in a reclining posture on a bearskin rug. Sometimes he'd walk to and fro, his hands behind his back. Mostly he sat on his folding chair peering through his fieldglass or with a gesture summoning Berthier and exchanging a word or two with him.'

...

1812: March On Moscow: Table of Content

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