They stood still for a moment, before Napoleon risked a glimpse over his shoulder. The tail end of the group of staff officers was disappearing back into the communication trench. A dull thud drew his attention back just in time to see the earth erupt from the ground a short distance from his boots.
‘Time, I think, to take cover.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come on then.’ Napoleon turned and hopped down into the battery, quietly pleased with the little display he had put on for Carteaux, and more importantly, Fréron and Saliceti. When they had recovered from their shock they would be sure to recall his courage and imperturbability in the face of enemy fire. That was the kind of stuff reputations were made of. Napoleon looked round at Junot and mimicked. ‘
At least I won’t need any sand to blot the ink
. Lieutenant, you must have balls of iron.’
Junot grinned, and Napoleon punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Just as well; you’re going to need them.’
Chapter 77
As November began the weather turned. Cold rain fell, and the men were soaked through as they worked on two more batteries in front of Fort Mulgrave. The ground turned to mud and the work slowed as men waded through slick and churned muck to dig out drainage ditches and attempted to prop up the walls of the partially completed batteries. Then, at last, on the fifteenth day of the month, the rain stopped, the skies cleared and Napoleon gave orders for fresh ammunition to be brought up from the stockpile in Ollioules. But when the first keg was opened, it was at once apparent that the powder was damp, ruined by being left out in the rain of the previous week.
Napoleon scooped up a handful of the useless gunpowder. He rubbed some between his fingers and cursed as he sensed its stickiness. Looking up at Junot he muttered, ‘When I find out which one of those incompetent bastards of Carteaux’s is responsible for this, I swear I’ll kill him.’
Junot remained silent, not wishing to worsen his commander’s foul temper. Napoleon stared at the powder for a moment before he suddenly flung it back into the keg and kicked it over. As he wiped the residue from his hands on to his coat he forced himself to try to calm down. ‘Send for some more. Make sure it’s sound before they bring any down to the guns.’
‘Yes, sir. Any orders for the men?’
‘Orders?’
Junot nodded at the useless kegs of gunpowder. ‘We can’t continue the bombardment until that’s replaced, sir.’
‘No,’ Napoleon responded sourly. ‘Tell the men to stand down until further orders.’
‘Stand down.Yes, sir.’
‘I’m returning to camp. Send word as soon as the replacement powder turns up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Back in his tent Napoleon sat at his map table and examined his plans for the deployment of further batteries. It had been less than two months since he had been placed in command of the artillery and already he had constructed nine batteries to the west of Toulon, with plans for another four. His original force of three hundred men had swelled to nearly fifteen hundred, still hardly enough to service more than a hundred artillery pieces surrounding Toulon. As a result Saliceti had recommended his promotion to acting lieutenant colonel, and Napoleon was awaiting official confirmation before he had the epaulettes sewn on to his coat. It had been a meteoric rise, Napoleon prided himself, but the army was still little closer to taking the port. The slow process of breaking down the defences of Fort Mulgrave gnawed at his impatience. As did the refusal of General Carteaux to make the fort his priority. Even now, only two battalions of infantry were entrenched alongside Napoleon’s guns. They were only there to protect the batteries, not to spearhead any assault on the fort when the time came.
Having pushed his plan to the representatives at every opportunity, Napoleon had recently resorted to sending a confidential letter to the War Ministry in Paris, complaining in bitter terms about the incompetence of General Carteaux, and the urgent need for his own plan to be adopted if Toulon was to fall before the end of the year. The letter had been sent off in a moment of rashness and now Napoleon feared that he had overstepped the mark. Carteaux had powerful patrons amongst the Jacobins, and the general would not be likely to forgive such a slight, if he discovered it.
As he leaned over the table and ran his hands through his hair, Napoleon became aware of a commotion outside his tent. Men were shouting to each other and in the distance came the faint pop of musket fire. With a sigh, Napoleon rose up wearily and made his way outside. The men were taking full advantage of the change in weather and had rigged clothes lines from tent pole to tent pole to dry their sodden uniforms and bedding. Faint wisps of steam rose above the camp as Napoleon made his way across to look down the slope towards Fort Mulgrave. Just beyond the outer ditch he could see a small cluster of men, some in French uniforms, the rest in scarlet. Napoleon glanced round and caught sight of Captain Marmont watching the incident through a telescope.
Hurrying over to him Napoleon called out, ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Marmont turned and saluted his colonel. ‘Seems some of our pickets got a bit carried away and went too close to the fort. The British sortied out to capture them. Now they’re giving them a good hiding.’
‘Let me see.’
Napoleon took the proffered telescope and trained it down towards the fort. In the magnified circle of the eyepiece he clearly saw the French soldiers on their knees being kicked and struck with the butts of muskets by their captors.
‘What’s that all about?’
‘I can guess.The pickets are close enough to swap insults with the British. One thing leads to another and that’s the result. But it’s not going down well with our men, look.’
Marmont indicated the trenches facing the fort. Soldiers were climbing up, with muskets in hand and gesturing angrily towards the enemy. The cries of their rage carried up the slope and, as the two officers watched, more and more men emerged from cover and began to edge across the open ground towards the fort. Napoleon shifted the telescope back towards the British. He could see them stop their beating and look round at the Frenchmen moving towards them. Then a redcoat sergeant lowered his pike and drove it into the chest of one of his prisoners.
‘Bastard!’ Napoleon breathed in sharply, then looked on in horror as the sergeant gestured to his men and they began to bayonet the rest of their captives. ‘The bastards are murdering our men!’
A great cry of outrage rose up from the surrounding French soldiers and all at once a tide of blue uniformed men charged towards the enemy position.
‘Oh shit!’ Marmont smacked a fist against his thigh.‘The fools! What do they think they’re doing? We must stop them.’
‘No.’ Napoleon’s mind was racing. He felt the thrill of opportunity coursing through his veins. ‘No. This is it.This is our chance. Come on!’
He grabbed Marmont’s arm and pulled the captain after him as he ran headlong down the slope. As they passed by clusters of tents Napoleon shouted at the men to grab their weapons and follow him.
Ahead, the first wave of French soldiers had reached the outer ditch and were swarming through the obstacles, angrily wrenching them aside as they went after the redcoats who had killed their friends. His heart pounding, Napoleon urged himself on as fast as his legs could go. If only enough men would go forward while their fighting blood was up. If a senior officer could get there fast enough to take advantage of the situation, then anything was possible. He reached the Battery of Men-Without-Fear and paused on the breastwork to shout at the gunners still inside.
‘Grab a weapon and follow me!’
Then he was off, charging forward amongst the men streaming towards the fort. Along the ramparts puffs of musket fire appeared amid the figures of men entangled in desperate hand-to-hand fighting. Napoleon reached the ditch, scrambled down the steep slope, narrowly missing the sharpened points of a spiked wooden frame set in the mud at the bottom. A few of the men were already wounded and making their way down from the rampart as Napoleon started to climb on hands and knees. All along the rampart on either side, the French were struggling to break into the fort. The desperate faces of redcoats were visible above the parapet as they thrust with their bayonets or swung their muskets like clubs. Both sides went for each other like wild animals. As he climbed amongst the men locked into the desperate struggle, Napoleon drew his sword and raised it as high as he could.
‘Forward!’ he cried out. ‘Forward! Follow me!’
Thrusting between two of his men he grasped the top of a gabion and hauled himself up and into an embrasure.The fort was laid out before him, and in the brief time he took to glance round Napoleon saw that this rampart was sparsely defended, but more men were forming up on the far side of the fort near the enemy’s accommodation bunkers. There wasn’t much time before the enemy reinforced this side of the fort.
‘Colonel!’ Marmont shouted close by. ‘To your left!’
Napoleon was aware of the blur of scarlet as he twisted round and just had time to sweep his sword across to ward off the bayonet thrust. The spike of steel clattered away and stabbed into the wicker wall of the embrasure. Napoleon punched the hilt of his sword into the face of the British soldier and the man fell back with a grunt, dropping his musket. Napoleon paid him no more attention and jumped down inside the fort, frantically waving at the men immediately behind him to follow. On either side small groups of Frenchmen were also inside the rampart and chasing after the enemy who ran before them. Only a few British troops with stout hearts faced the enemy, fiercely determined to defend their fort and their honour. Beyond, their comrades were hurriedly forming a firing line, ready to counter-attack the French and drive them from the fort. Napoleon turned to look for Marmont and saw him a few paces away, clambering over the rampart.
‘Captain! Get a message back to the general. Tell him we’ve taken the wall. Tell him to send more men and the fort is ours. Go!’
Marmont nodded, turned back and dropped out of sight. Napoleon stared round frantically, assessing the situation. Scores of French were over the rampart, a mass of soldiers, leaderless and disorganised, and now showing signs of confusion and fear as their earlier rage was wearing off. Many were artillerymen, armed with little more than stakes and knives.Those that carried muskets had discharged them at the enemy in the initial assault. Napoleon realised he had to form up his men immediately; get some order and restore discipline before they melted away when the well-ordered ranks of redcoats advanced towards them.
Nearby a volunteer sergeant had clubbed a redcoat to the ground and was now going through the man’s pockets. Napoleon grabbed his arm and harshly tugged the man away from his looting. ‘Get the men ordered! Form them in line, those with muskets at the front.’
The man looked back blankly, and Napoleon shook him. ‘Form the men up! Understand?’
Awareness returned to the sergeant and he nodded, turning away to bellow orders at the men milling about across the rampart. Napoleon turned the other way, found some more sergeants and Lieutenant Junot, and passed on his instructions. Slowly, too slowly, the mob was shoved and cajoled into a rough line just below the rampart, and as more men spilled into the fort they were rushed into place alongside their comrades. Napoleon gave the order for all those that had muskets and ammunition to load up and hold their fire until ordered. As the air filled with sound of ramrods driving home the powder cartridges and musket balls, Napoleon knew that if they could just hold the wall long enough for Carteaux to feed organised and fully armed units into the fight then Fort Mulgrave would be captured.
From the far side of the fort a drum roll echoed across the interior. As Napoleon watched, the British line rippled forward at an even pace, closing on the French with muskets still resting on their shoulders. Napoleon could not help smiling in admiration at the coolness of the enemy.Then the smile faded at the realisation of the imminent danger he and his men were in. He drew a breath and shouted the order.
‘Advance your muskets!’
Those in the front line thrust their weapons out at an angle towards the enemy.
‘Raise muskets!’
Up and down the hurriedly formed line the muskets rose up, butts held firmly into the shoulder and right thumbs poised over the firing hammers.
‘Cock your weapons!’
As the ratchets clicked along the line one man’s nerves overwhelmed him and he fired his weapon immediately.
‘Hold your fire, damn you!’ Napoleon shouted in the direction of the puff of smoke that betrayed the man’s position. ‘Hold your fire until I give the order!’
Opposite them the British line halted, little more than fifty paces away. Close enough that Napoleon could make out the individual features in their faces and the face of the officer who had found a mount in all this confusion and now towered over his men. The British officer barked an order and the redcoats lifted their muskets from their shoulders and advanced them towards the enemy in a bristling hedge of deadly steel. Napoleon raised his sword.
‘Prepare to fire! … Fire!’
The French volley went off in a ragged flurry of explosions that instantly wreathed the air in front of them in a temporary veil of sickly yellow smoke. The men in the rear ranks cheered, but as the smoke dissipated the cheering quickly died in their throats. Only a handful of the enemy had fallen and now it was their turn to fire. The redcoat officer gave his orders with stentorian precision; up came the muskets, back went the cocking hammers, then there was a short pause and a dreadful quiet hung over the fort, save for the moans and feeble cries of the injured.
The redcoat officer shouted an order that was instantly swallowed up by the roar of a massed volley as flames stabbed out from the British muzzles and they were obscured from view by a thick bank of smoke. The volley swept through the French line like a hailstorm and the air around Napoleon was filled with the sharp whip and thud of musket balls as they shot past or struck his men. The head of a man in front of Napoleon snapped back and dissolved into a messy pulp of bone, brains and blood that splattered across Napoleon’s face and chest like hot rain. Then came the gasps and cries of the victims, and as Napoleon wiped his face he saw that scores of his men were down and the rest looked at the carnage about them in horror.