Already the British had driven them back from the narrow gap and more of their men were spilling round the flanks.With a sick feeling Napoleon realised they could not hold them here. The only chance lay on the rampart.
‘Pull back!’ he shouted. ‘Pull back to the rampart!’
The grenadiers slowly gave ground as they continued to fight for their lives. As soon as he heard the order, General Dugommier scrambled down from the rampart, drew his sword and hurried over to Napoleon’s side, just as the knot of Frenchmen were surrounded by the enemy. Now they would have to fight their way back to the rampart.
‘Any sign of Muiron?’ Napoleon asked.
‘No.’
‘Shit …’
‘So it would appear.’ Napoleon saw the general’s teeth glimmer in a quick smile. ‘Come on, Colonel. Let’s show them how well Frenchmen can die.’
Dugommier shouldered his way into the fight, and began to hack and slash at the enemy. Napoleon shook his head in admiration for the old soldier, then tensed his muscles and strode towards the enemy. It was strange, some small rational part of his mind reflected, how afraid he was and yet he felt a sense of release. The plan no longer mattered. His career no longer mattered. There was a brief image of his family and he felt a stab of guilt for the grieving he would cause, and then all thought was gone as he bared his teeth and threw himself at the nearest enemy soldier.
Outnumbered, they edged towards the rampart, but every step of the way, more and more of the small group were cut down and splashed into the mud where they were finished off with the butt of a musket, or quick thrust of a bayonet. Napoleon, unable to take his eyes off the enemy swarming about him, sensed the rise of the ground under his boots and realised they had reached the rampart and there was no further room for retreat.This was where he would die.
‘Come on, you bastards!’ he shouted, beckoning to the enemy with his spare hand. Two of them responded, working towards him. One lunged and as Napoleon swung to parry the attack, he realised it was a feint. Before he could recover his balance the second man half sprang, half slithered towards him. Napoleon swung his sword back and just managed to deflect the point against his guard with a ringing blow.The blade was knocked low, but still found its target. Napoleon felt the impact, like someone had kicked him with all their strength, and then there was a white-hot stab of agony in his left calf as the bayonet tore through his muddy breeches and ripped into his flesh.
He cried out, and then cried out again as the enemy wrenched the bayonet free and drew it back for a direct thrust into the French officer’s chest. As the point of the bayonet came forward, Napoleon raised his arm to try to ward the blow off. A dark shape came between them with a scraping clash of steel as General Dugommier hacked at the barrel of the musket, knocking the weapon from the enemy’s grasp. He hacked again, this time at the soldier’s shoulder, and the man crumpled to the ground. Even as Dugommier snarled in triumph he gasped as the other soldier who had attacked Napoleon stabbed at him from the side, thrusting the point of his bayonet through the general’s sleeve and pinning his sword arm against his ribs. As the bayonet was wrenched free Dugommier collapsed beside Napoleon with an agonised gasp. Napoleon groped for his sword and raised it, trying to protect them both as the enemy closed round, ready to finish them off.
There was a cry from above and behind, then more shouts.The British paused, and stared over the heads of the two French officers in alarm. Then they drew back and raised their weapons as they concentrated on a new danger. Napoleon glanced round. All along the rampart he could see the dark shapes of men clambering over and streaming into the fort. He tugged the general’s sleeve in excitement.
‘Careful!’ Dugommier flinched. ‘That’s my bloody wounded arm!’
‘Sir! It’s Muiron, and the rest of the column. We’re saved.’
Dugommier glanced round. ‘Muiron … Thank God.’
Chapter 81
The reinforcements swept through Fort Mulgrave, routing any attempt by the British to resist such overwhelming odds. Those that didn’t surrender fled over the eastern ramparts and ran down the track towards the forts still in British hands at the end of the small peninsula. As dawn broke, the rain finally began to ease, and Napoleon limped along the track towards L’Eguillette with the small artillery train he had improvised from the guns captured at Fort Mulgrave. A rough dressing had been tied around his calf, and even though he walked with a stick to support his leg, every step was agony. There was no time to waste. No time to recover, he admonished himself. The first phase of his attack had succeeded, but the two forts at the end of the peninsula had to be seized before the enemy could recover their nerve and rush reinforcements forward to defend them.
But even as Napoleon and his guns reached the crest of the hill overlooking the two forts it was clear that events were outstripping the detail of his plan. A steady stream of boats was moving to and from the forts and the allied warships anchored in the harbour of Toulon. At first Napoleon’s heart sank and he slumped against the carriage of the leading gun. They were too late. The enemy was massively reinforcing the garrisons of the two forts. Then he realised the boats heading towards him were empty, and those heading away were laden with men and equipment.
‘My God … they’re abandoning the forts.’ He shook his head in wonder as Junot came towards him, laughing as he gestured towards the boats.
‘Sir. Look! They’re running away!’
‘Yes, I can see. But I can hardly believe it.’
Junot slapped his hand down on the barrel of the cannon, all trace of weariness gone from his mud-spattered face. On the slope around them the remains of the battalions who had participated in the assault on Fort Mulgrave looked on in astonishment as the enemy continued their evacuation. Junot suddenly turned to Napoleon.
‘Sir. What are your orders?’
‘Orders?’
‘Shall I give the order to attack? If we set the guns up we can pound them as they escape.’ Junot’s eyes gleamed at the thought. ‘Or should we send the infantry in?’
Napoleon shook his head. There had been enough killing. Nothing could be gained from further loss of life. ‘Leave them.’
‘Leave them?’ Junot frowned. ‘Sir, they’re the enemy. It’s our duty to kill them.’
‘I said leave them!’ Napoleon snapped, and instantly regretted it. Junot was simply overexcited. The lieutenant had performed well during the night and did not deserve a public dressing-down. Napoleon forced himself to smile. ‘Junot, a word of advice. Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.’
‘Sir?’
‘Look.’ Napoleon raised his stick towards the forts. ‘He’s quitting the field.We don’t need to attack. If we do, what happens if he decides to reinforce the defenders? Then all is lost. Sometimes you gain more by doing nothing.’
Junot nodded faintly. ‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Good. Then send a message back to the general and let him know what’s happening.Tell him we’ll take the forts as soon as the enemy have left.We’ll have our guns in position and covering the inner harbour as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Junot saluted and hurried away to find a horse to ride back along the track towards Fort Mulgrave.
As the morning wore on the enemy was allowed to complete the evacuation without interference.The last detachment to leave spiked the guns and set off the powder still remaining in the magazines. The explosion made the ground shudder for a moment beneath Napoleon’s feet and he glanced up in time to see one of the buildings in Fort L’Eguillette disintegrate in a bright flash and then the fort was covered in a dense swirling cloud of smoke and dust. As soon as the last boat of redcoats pulled away from the fort the French soldiers marched in and raised the revolutionary flag. Napoleon set them to work at once, ordering his men to move aside the spiked guns so that those in his hurriedly acquired siege train could be hauled into position to open fire across the harbour. As the exhausted soldiers laboured Napoleon sat in the highest tower of the fort and watched events unfold on the other side of the harbour through a telescope.
Shortly after noon a cloud of smoke appeared above the dockyard and flames licked up from the naval workshops and warehouses. In the following hours the allied frigates took on boatloads of soldiers and civilians, and it was clear that the enemy intended to abandon the port, destroying as much of it as possible before they quit Toulon. Out to sea the great ships of the line of the Royal Navy looked on helplessly as their commander did not dare expose them to the French batteries that could sweep the inner harbour with heated shot.
As soon as the first of his guns was ready Napoleon gave the order to open fire and the French kept up a harassing bombardment while the daylight lasted.The fires in the dockyard continued to burn through the dusk and into the night, illuminating much of the port in a hellish orange hue. More fires bloomed amongst the captured warships that the enemy was forced to leave behind and then, as the flames reached the powder deep in the hulls of the ships they blew up in a series of blinding flashes, unleashing a succession of deep roars that echoed round the harbour.
At midnight, Lieutenant Junot joined Napoleon in the tower and they watched the destruction in shocked silence.
At length Junot muttered, ‘God help those poor souls over there.’
Napoleon turned to him with a curious expression. ‘They’re our enemy, Junot. This is what war is about.’
‘I realise that, sir.’ Junot shrugged. ‘But I cannot help feeling pity.’
Napoleon considered this for a moment before he replied, ‘War is a terrible thing. The best we can hope for is to fight it efficiently, so that the result comes quickly and as few people die as possible. To that end we cannot afford pity, Junot.’
‘You may be right, sir.’ Junot stared back across the harbour and continued softly. ‘But God help them anyway.’
When the sun rose the next morning, the dockyards still smouldered and the charred skeletons of buildings and warships stood gaunt and black against the distant grey mass of Mount Faron. There were no enemy ships left in the inner harbour and out to sea Napoleon could just discern the faint white smudges of the sails of the British fleet slinking off in humiliation.
Just after nine o’clock Junot directed his attention to the heart of Toulon. Raising the telescope, Napoleon panned across the red-tiled roofs until he saw a flash of white and blue: the flag of the Bourbons, slowly being hauled down from its mast above the port’s garrison. A moment later, the tricolour rose up in its place, lifted to the breeze and unfurled.
‘It’s over then.’ Napoleon felt strangely empty, and tired. After so many weeks of planning for this moment, of dedicating his every waking moment to the fall of Toulon, there was little sense of triumph, merely exhaustion. ‘We’ve won.’
‘This is your victory, sir.’ Junot smiled. ‘It was your plan, and it succeeded far better than anyone could have hoped.’
‘Thank you, Junot.’
They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs and as they turned to look Captain Muiron emerged from the staircase and approached them. He was smiling as he stopped and saluted. Then he drew a sealed envelope from inside his filthy jacket and offered it to Napoleon.
‘Dispatch from representatives Saliceti and Fréron, sir.’
Napoleon broke the seal, scanned the message, then reread it more slowly before he finally looked up.
‘It seems I am to be promoted to brigadier.’
‘Congratulations, sir,’ Junot grinned. ‘It’s no more than you deserve.’
Napoleon looked at the letter again.Three months ago he had been a lowly captain, struggling to find a patron. Now, he was to be a brigadier. That was a swift rise for a soldier by any standard, and he wondered just how far such a man might go in this world.
Chapter 82
Flanders, May 1794
Lord Moira’s reinforcements had landed in Ostend just in time to abandon the port. The French had broken through the Austrian line and were threatening to cut the reinforcements off from the rest of the British Army, itself already in full retreat towards Antwerp. Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wesley reined his horse in and sat for a moment watching his regiment march past.The men of the 33rd Foot seemed to be in fairly good spirits, given that they were about to make a forced retreat across the face of the advancing enemy columns. That would change after a hard day’s march. Most of the men were seasoned enough, but like other regiments in the rapidly expanding army, there was a leavening of raw recruits - men who were either too old, or little more than boys; men who had poor constitutions or were simple in the head. Arthur felt some pity for them. In the days to come they would suffer the most and be the least likely to survive.
He twisted round in his saddle and looked back down the road to Ostend. A thick column of smoke rose lazily into the air above the depot. Lord Moira had given orders to burn all stores and equipment that could not be carried by his men and wagons. To Arthur, it seemed like a scandalous waste. Much of the equipment was brand new and was going up in smoke even before it had been used. But there was no helping it. How much worse it would be to permit the equipment to fall into French hands.The French offensive had caught the allies by surprise and now they were in complete disarray and falling back before the fanatical armies of the revolution. It was hard to believe that the fortunes of war could be reversed so comprehensively. Only a year ago the Austrian army, after inflicting a number of defeats on the French, could have rolled across the north of France and stormed Paris - the heart of the revolution. But Prince Frederick Saxe-Coburg had been content to inch forward across a wide front, and now the allies were paying the price for his indolence.
‘Keep the pace up there!’ a sergeant yelled at the men marching at the rear of the column. ‘Unless you want a French bayonet up your arse!’