Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow, during the spectacularly savage winter of 1812, was a catastrophic end to his invasion of Russia. Of an estimated army of over 500,000 men who set out in June that year, less than 40,000 (these figures vary considerably depending on the sources used) returned. The Emperor, generally depicted in paintings of the retreat as being on horseback, actually travelled in his campaign carriage.
Napoleon enjoyed telling ghost stories. Here he features in one.
The cold.
My God, he’s never felt anything like it.
And he - unlike the soldiers of his ruined army,
still moving at midnight through snow and ice,
desperate to put distance between themselves
and the pursuing Russians -
is at least in a carriage,
lit, however partially, by the warm light of lamps,
comforted by a fur rug over his lap and legs,
isolated from the worst of the outside;
the only sound being the thud of the hooves
of his cavalry escort.
He has, for many miles,
passed the time by having,
one by one,
the marshals and generals
of what’s left of the Grand Armée,
join him in the carriage.
This gives them welcome warmth
and him some conversation - a chance to
take his mind off the current disaster
by planning his next move; the
counter-attack, the fresh campaign
when this cursed winter finally turns to
Spring next year.
Now alone, having worked his way
through the higher ranks,
he decides, for some light relief
and as a gracious gesture to show
appreciation of their efforts,
to have a junior officer
join him instead.
Raising the blind,
he looks into the darkness
which is, at last, cut through
by bursts of light, for
the convoy is approaching an outpost
of French troops, a cantonment
guarding the route
back to the west,
supposedly passing on supplies
from home, yet in reality barely coping
against the depredations of
the appalling weather and bands of Cossacks.
The fires, around which sentries huddle,
are dangerously enticing, but he knows
he dare not stay, however tempting the flames.
He accepts a glass of wine,
wolfs down some food that, even here,
is presented on an exquisite china plate,
while the horses are changed.
That there are any here is in itself
a remarkable achievement,
given the loss to starvation
of most of the animals that
were used in the invasion of Russia.
A few words with a courier,
a scribbled note given to
an aide-de-camp,
and then it’s time to move on.
At that moment he sees,
emerging from the darkness into
the light of the fires,
a young man,
in a cavalry officer’s uniform,
but on foot.
Perfect.
A gentleman, so someone he can talk to;
young, and therefore impressionable.
The Emperor enjoys the adulation
of the young, though the idealism
of youth will have taken a battering
in this campaign.
And yet, that itself
is an opportunity.
For though his reputation
risks being as shattered as
his once-magnificent army,
he’s confident that, within the confines of
this sturdy yet elegant vehicle,
his face made more
beguiling by candlelight,
he will be able to win back
the young man’s confidence,
to ensure (his pride allows him to believe)
the continued devotion due from
a junior officer to the general
who has, through his own genius,
raised himself to the
greatest throne in Europe.
He speaks to the nearest guard,
a sergeant known both
for his splendid physique
and his devotion to his Emperor.
The sergeant obeys, beckoning to the
young man, who is in any case
walking towards the carriage,
despite the cordon of guards thrown around it,
as if he is somehow expected;
as if he has a rendezvous.
The sergeant asks him to surrender
his sword before entering the carriage,
but Napoleon leans towards him, smiling:
‘Sergeant! The lieutenant’s sword
is pledged to my service!
What possible threat
could one of my own soldiers be?’
The sergeant bows his head
and waves the young man
forward, though his eyes,
shielded beneath his
helmet, show a bitter mistrust,
mixed with an instinctive envy
of the comfortable ride
now promised to this
well-born young nobody.
Once the young man has settled in his seat,
Napoleon gives an order,
the carriage door is shut,
the escort remounts,
a trumpet sounds and the cavalcade
continues its journey.
The Emperor is just deciding how to
open the conversation when,
against all protocol,
but with a disarming boyishness,
the officer speaks first.
‘Thank you for asking me to join you, Majesty.’
‘Think nothing of it! I was looking forward
to some fresh company.
Your arrival was providential.
I hope your conversation is
as elegant as your appearance…’
‘I shall try not to disappoint you, Majesty.
May I start with a question?’
‘That would be a second breach of etiquette,
but we’re in the field, not in Paris, so please go on…’
‘Does Your Majesty enjoy ghost stories?’
Napoleon laughs. An open,
unguarded laugh
that seems to strip the years from him.
For a moment he is again
a dynamic young general on
the cusp of his career,
rather than the careworn master of Europe.
‘I do, as it happens. And we
are in the perfect place to tell
them! Candlelight,
a small yet cosy setting.
Outside, by contrast,
is darkness. Snow.
And the frozen corpses of two armies…’
‘Yes, Sire. Your carriage is escorted by the
dead as well as the living.’
Despite himself, Napoleon shivers.
But he won’t allow the boy to see
his momentary discomfiture.
His voice, when he responds,
is as light as he can make it.
‘That sounds like the perfect start to
such a story; though I prefer to be the one to tell them,
as you’ve no doubt heard.’
He is accustomed to a world of flatterers.
‘Yes, Sire, I‘ve heard that, but tonight I’ll
be the narrator.’
‘Really? Apart from the theatrical pleasure
of telling a good tale, do you actually believe
in ghosts, Lieutenant?’
‘I do.’
‘And that they haunt the place of their death?’
‘And those who killed them. Wherever they may be.’
‘Then Alexander had better hide himself!
The Tsar has brought this war on his people.
Perhaps his soldiers’ spectres
are even now flitting through the
palaces of St Petersburg?’
‘They do not flit. They ride on the wind.’
‘Then the windows of Alexander’s palaces
must be rattling in their frames.
How he must tremble!’
‘As should you, Majesty.’
‘Me? I have nothing to fear from
the souls of my soldiers.
Have I not led them,
and those who went before,
from victory to victory across
the plains, cities and mountain ranges of Europe?’
‘Yet this retreat, Sire? No glory
for them, here. Surely, doom
would be a better word?’
‘Doom and glory march together.
Striving for the latter often
unleashes the former.’
‘How do you deal with it?’
‘The trick is not to panic.
True, when angered in everyday life
I give way to rage,
but when challenged on the battlefield,
or in any moment of real crisis
I have what some people consider
an unnatural ability to remain calm.
I lost the battle of Marengo in the morning,
but by refusing to concede the fact,
I finally won it in the afternoon.
This campaign has been more problematic,
shall we say, but I shall return to
France, raise fresh regiments,
resume the war.’
‘You will, but your doom will follow.
It cannot be shaken off.’
Napoleon is astonished -
and, despite himself, amused - at the boy’s audacity.
’You foresee the future, Lieutenant? I
thought ghost stories are only concerned
with what has already happened?’
The young man makes no reply.
‘Come, now!
A loss for words seems unlike you.
But then, having said that,
I know almost nothing about you.
Not even your name!
Normally it would have been
announced when you were
presented to me, but tonight
no such formalities took place.
You simply appeared out of the darkness…’
This, too, is met by silence.
‘You do know your own name, Lieutenant?
‘François.’
When no surname is provided,
Napoleon raises an eyebrow.
François blushes.
‘Though I cannot expect Your Majesty
to speak to me as a friend,
or as a child’ - here he pauses, uncomfortably -
‘François will suffice as an introduction.
For now.’
Just his Christian name! A further surprise,
another breach of protocol, but delivered
with what the Emperor now thinks of
as the boy’s trademark charm.
‘Only kings and emperors - or saints! -
are known solely by their first names, but let’s
let that pass in the camaraderie of the carriage…
Very well, you’re a dashing young man called François,
who sees the future. What’s your success rate
with predictions?’
‘You are the only person I have
spoken to this way… Sire.’
‘And what brings you to such an action?
Telling fortunes at fairs or in theatres
means giving the credulous
what they want to hear.
Yet you give me not hope, but a warning.
Verging on a condemnation.’
‘I’m here to bring you face to face with the truth.’
‘No, I’ve invited you in here to entertain me.’
‘My favourite tutor once told me that
entertainment is whatever takes
our minds off the present.
In that respect, Shakespeare’s Hamlet,
a doomed prince confronted by his father’s ghost,
is as helpful a distraction
as bawdy jokes or theatrical comedies.
Whatever I reveal will, in that sense,
entertain you. For it will certainly
take your mind off
the present catastrophe.’
‘A joke would do that far better
than warning of fresh troubles to come!
Any other monarch
would have had you thrown
into the snow at this point!’
‘You’re not any monarch. You’re
the conqueror of Europe. The man
who's redrawn the mind and
changed the soul of France forever.
You are greater than the kings
you’ve defeated and have an
inalienable bond with those
who serve under you…
Which is why Your Majesty won’t have me
turned out into the night.’
Clever, thinks Napoleon.
Piles on some fulsome praise but
doesn’t back down from being frank
(or cheekily familiar, as his courtiers
would describe it). Withdrawing
from too advanced a position,
but not conceding any significant ground.
A skilful strategist -
surely a future general!
‘Your confidence is justified.
I like you! God knows why,
but I do. Now, if you’re going
to chill my blood with talk of doom
and disaster, I’d better arm myself
with a glass of brandy. You’ll join me?’
‘Thank you, I will.’
The Emperor takes two glasses
from a small cabinet, then fills
them with brandy. He passes one
to the lieutenant, then raises his own
to propose a toast.
‘To history!’
The lieutenant smiles. The first time
Napoleon has seen him do so. It
seems to brighten the carriage.
‘To history!’ François replies.
‘Young man, I chose well when I invited you
to join me. We make good company together.’
‘I hoped we would. Which why I approached
you in this wilderness.’
‘Yes, a lucky chance for both of us.’
‘Not chance, Majesty.’
‘More mystery! If not chance, then what?
Fate?’
‘Fate is a good word for it.’
Very well, thinks Napoleon. I’ll humour him.
I wanted an unusual travelling companion -
I can hardly object when he turns out to be one.
Besides, I like him.
‘Fate’s certainly a better word than doom.
The brandy must be doing you good!
Now, tell me what it is you see…’
François seems about to speak. Instead,
looking uncomfortable, he takes
another sip from his glass.
‘Ah! Foolish of me!’ jokes the Emperor.
‘Brandy’s all very well,
but I see you’re waiting for me
to cross your palm with silver!
Come, François! Give me your hand!’
‘No need for money, Majesty…
I’ll tell you what will happen.
There will be an alliance against you…’
‘I’ve defeated many.’
‘This new one will defeat you.’
‘And then? A tumbril like that poor fool, King Louis?’
‘No. An exile.’
‘Then there’s still hope!’
‘One you’ll fulfil. To start with.
A return to France, from the Mediterranean.
The eagle flying from the coast to Paris
in a blaze of glory.’
‘Hah! I told you! Back to glory, indeed!’
‘Yet it all ends in thunder and fury
on a battlefield south of Brussels.’
‘A shame. I’ve always liked Brussels.
The Grand Place by candlelight is the most
beautiful square in Europe. Will I die?’
‘We all die.’
‘Yes, yes. But on the battlefield?’
‘No. Another exile, a distant land.
An early death but immortal fame.’
‘Like Achilles?’
‘Like Alexander.’
‘You are a flatterer, after all.’
‘Truth doesn’t have to be depressing.’
‘That’s better! I knew the brandy
was a good idea!
Now, as the wind is in my favour at the moment,
perhaps you have some other news?
My dynasty. My son, the King of Rome.
When I am gone,
who rules on his behalf until he
is old enough to take my throne?’
‘He doesn’t take it.
He dies in his mother’s country,
aged twenty-one.
An Austrian prince, not a French Emperor.’
Napoleon looks stricken. Not just for
his plans, but for his son. The boy’s
only a year old, but he loves him
more than anyone else he has ever known.
More even than Josephine, whom he
steeled himself to divorce in order
to marry a young, fertile wife;
an Austrian princess…
‘Twenty-one? So young? ‘
‘Yes.’
‘The cause? A war? An assassin?’
‘Several wars. All yours.
And the assassin, in a way
is you. You see, Majesty,
his fate is a punishment,
decreed against you.
The destruction of your dynasty,
rendering pointless all your efforts,
all your achievements.
Unjust, of course, to the boy;
but the most dramatic way, it is thought,
to make you pay for your hubris and the
death of so many other innocents;
none of whom had enjoyed the
privileges your son will,
in his brief existence.’
‘Other innocents? Soldiers aren’t innocents!’
‘No, but the civilians who perish in
any war are. Their ghosts need avenging,
even more than those of the conscripts
who lost their lives following your eagles,
your standards, across the continent.
Followed, fought and died
so your family could be
put on thrones from Spain to
the Rhine. Those we are
leaving behind in Russia,
as well as those who went before,
buried on the battlefields of Austerlitz
and Wagram, or lying on the
seabed off Cape Trafalgar.
With your son’s death
your line is as dead as them.
You will have fame, of the
sort people read about in books,
or see in statues, but
your flesh, your line,
your living legacy,
will be extinguished.’
‘But in his short life? Is he a good man?
A noble prince?’
‘People, generously, seem to think so,
though he dies before he can
be corrupted by power,
so who knows how
he might have turned out?
For he has the everyday
sins of all men, of course…’
‘A fine man, then. Who loves his father,
as a good son should?’
‘Your reputation, your legend.
It is all he has of you.
He yearns to have more
than shadowy childhood memories.
To have known you as an adult.
Which is why, on his death,
it is decided that as some
small compensation to him
for being destroyed to punish you,
he be given that chance.
Even though it would mean,
of necessity, a second death.’
‘Heavens! Mystery has its charms,
especially on a journey like this,
but I was expecting a ghost story,
not some bizarre marriage between
prophecy and speaking in riddles…’
‘It’s not a riddle, Majesty. Like most things in life,
it’s simple if you look clearly enough.’
‘But look where? Out into the darkness?
Or at your palm, even if not crossed with silver?’
‘Eyes are the window of the soul, they say.
Try there.’
‘You’ve looked at mine, in an unusually
frank manner. Bravely, one might say,
given our difference in rank…’
‘Yes, but in the semi-darkness
of candlelight, and at a slight distance.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Perhaps now is the moment
for us both to look closer,
one final time.’
‘Final?’
‘The carriage will stop soon.’
‘Really? Another prediction?’
‘Basic military knowledge, Sire.
We’re due to reach another checkpoint.
At which I must leave you.’
‘That’s for me to decide -
and I won’t hear of it!
I’m enjoying this, strangely enough!
I’ve never met anyone like you -
and God knows, I’ve met enough
characters in my time.
You must stay!’
‘Sadly, I’m not permitted.’
‘By whom? I’m the Emperor.
No-one overrules me!’
‘Not yet. Though the day will come.’
The Emperor smiles.
‘If I had a regiment of fortune tellers,
I would make you their general!’
‘Please, Majesty. Draw nearer.’
Napoleon starts to lean forward, then something
makes him hesitate.
François speaks again, an urgency in his voice.
‘Your eyes have the intensity
common to all your family,
but with that special gleam
that sets you apart
from your brothers and sisters.
The glint so many artists
have tried but failed to capture.
Please, Majesty,
come towards me,
so I may see them more clearly.’
The Emperor does so,
thinking to himself:
‘What an extraordinary boy!’
He looks closely.
The eyes he searches have the intensity
of the Mediterranean,
but they’re not those
of a Corsican, or an Italian.
So what is he supposed to see, to learn?
He turns his head away, briefly,
as if to refresh his vision,
then looks again.
If this riddle can be solved
by observation, as the boy suggests,
then he will search until he finds it -
just as he pores over military maps
until he reaches a winning strategy.
The boy’s eyes have something well-bred,
an element of command about them,
yet are also distinctly kind, gentle.
They are the eyes of someone
who hasn’t had to struggle;
eyes from which ambition and anger,
Napoleon’s own most dominant characteristics,
are entirely absent.
What is clear, however, is that
François’s eyes are shining,
now, with tears -
but, thinks Napoleon, tears of excitement
rather than sadness.
He has seen such tears
on the faces of hard, fearless
men when presenting them
with well-earned medals.
’You see a lot, Majesty,
but not enough.
Think of your home.
Of the Empress.
Imagine greeting her,
on your return to Paris.
Look into her eyes - and then,
as if it were only moments away,
rather than a thousand miles,
imagine entering the nursery
to hold your infant son in your arms.’
Suddenly the extraordinary intensity,
the almost hypnotic intimacy of the moment
is broken by the shout of sentries,
the loud reply of the captain
of the cuirassiers
and the almost immediate slam of soldiers
presenting arms: the outside world
violently breaking in on the two men,
as the carriage jolts to a halt.
The abrupt stop throws Napoleon forward.
As he lurches, he reaches out to steady himself,
his left hand landing on the young man’s knee.
His right hand still clutches the brandy glass,
clenched so hard in his surprise at suddenly
being thrown off-balance that the delicate crystal breaks,
cutting his hand, which bleeds profusely.
As this happens, their faces are brought
together, only inches apart,
while the candles, shaken into
producing a sudden gust of light,
illuminate both men more clearly than before.
François gently removes the glass
from Napoleon, placing it
on a small ledge beside the door.
Ignoring the blood dripping
onto Napoleon’s jacket, he takes,
briefly, both of the Emperor’s hands in his own
before releasing the left hand while
still clasping Napoleon’s wounded right,
not as a doctor would a patient’s,
but as a man might when
he meets a long-lost friend.
Moved by this gesture,
tears springing to his own eyes,
Napoleon focuses on the boy’s again,
blending an intense scrutiny
with a mental picture both of his wife and his son.
The connection is easy for him, as the King of Rome
has his mother’s eyes.
A fraction longer and then he sees the truth.
He knows the eyes.
The riddle, the mystery, the predictions, make sense.
He understands.
Appalled, he involuntarily yells out
in horror and astonishment.
As he does so, the carriage door
is thrown open by the sergeant,
who has heard the shout
and dashes in to save his sovereign.
Shocked by the scene before him,
he sees the Emperor,
blood splashed on his jacket,
his face absolutely white,
like a death mask,
his hand gripped
by the young officer he had been
instantly suspicious of when he approached
the carriage earlier that night.
The officer whose uniform is French, but
whose fair hair, previously hidden under
the helmet he had only removed when
inside, with the door firmly closed,
immediately implicates him as a foreigner -
probably a Russian -
whose sword hand (or, in this confined space,
more likely that which wielded a dagger)
is now smeared with the Emperor’s blood.
The foreigner’s face,
in contrast to Napoleon’s,
is flushed, excited, triumphant, even.
‘Thank God, I have met you, Father! Thank God - and farewell!’
Assuming the worst,
as he has been trained to do,
and desperate to prevent
any further harm to the Emperor
from an obviously deranged assassin,
the sergeant places the pistol he drew as he dismounted
against the young man’s head and,
the Emperor’s next scream
convincing him of his diagnosis,
he pulls the trigger,
instantly killing the boy,
while spraying blood,
brain tissue and pieces of skull
across the carriage.
The bullet, as it emerges
from the shattered head,
only just misses the Emperor,
who has vainly hugged
François to him, in an attempt
to save him from what he saw
was about to happen.
‘My boy! My boy!’
Napoleon looks at the sergeant
with an anguish that freezes the man
more than the wind and snow
whipping around him.
Has the Emperor, the bravest of generals,
been driven mad by this assault?
Stunned, the sergeant is pushed aside
by the captain of the escort.
‘Majesty! My God, how did this happen?’
‘How?’ An uncanny stillness now defines the Emperor,
a calm, a quiet tone of voice
in complete contrast to his recent screams;
a sort of blankness of expression
that only those closest to him in battle
had ever seen or could ever imagine
in such circumstances.
A pause, and then he answers:
‘I invited him, Captain. He came to me,
from the darkness, and now he is dead.’
‘We’ll take the bastard away and leave him for the wolves.
Let’s get the Surgeon-General to have a look at you, Majesty,
and…’
‘No! This… this is not what it seems…
I am not harmed. Or not in any way you would recognise…
Get an officer to pick a party
of eight soldiers from these…’
He points at the large group
of infantrymen who
are running towards the carriage.
‘And bury the boy.
Here. Now.
Here’s some money…’
He wraps a handkerchief round his injured hand
then scoops gold coins from a drawer under
his seat and presses them into the captain’s hands.
‘This is for the burial party. Get an officer to find a priest,
to read a short service.
Then they must fire a volley over the grave.
His name was François.’
‘Surname, Sire? Title? Rank? What should we…’
‘You wouldn’t believe me. Have him referred to as François,
a man dear to the Emperor’s heart.’
‘But Majesty, the man tried to kill you!’
‘Quite the contrary, I assure you.’
The captain looks at him as if he’s gone mad.
‘Majesty, the shock, it’s understandable, but..’
‘More understandable than you can possibly imagine.
And more shocking. Let me get some fresh air, a moment.’
Napoleon steps down onto the frozen ground.
‘We’re at a camp, I see.
There are fresh horses here?
We can’t expect these poor creatures
to pull this vehicle in such weather for long…’
‘By some miracle, yes. See, they’re bringing them over, now.’
‘Good. I have always believed in luck, Captain.
From tonight, I believe in
miracles, too.
Change the horses at once,
then get me out of here.’
Seeing the officer's confusion,
and not wanting any more questions,
Napoleon instinctively realises he needs to bring
some sort of normality to the situation.
The captain thinks François was an assassin? Very well.
‘Speaking of horses, I think, Captain,
it would be sensible,
given what’s just happened,
if you could find some more cavalry -
lancers, hussars, anyone -
to increase the size of my escort.
One such incident is one too many.’
The order has its effect; the captain is
relieved to have a common-sense command
that produces a practical solution to an
understandable threat.
‘At once, Majesty!’
He speaks to a local officer about
the burial party and sends a messenger
back down the line to request reinforcements.
Some minutes later, things arranged, he reports back.
‘The major,’ he points at a nearby officer,
‘will organise the burial, Majesty.
A detachment of lancers will be here shortly.’
‘Excellent.’
‘We’ll clean the carriage of blood while the horses
are being swapped over…’
‘No. Leave it. All of it. I’m used to blood.’
‘Would you like someone
to accompany you, Majesty?
After such an event I’m sure you’d…’
‘No, I need to think. In quiet.
Strangely enough, the blood will help.’
‘Of course, Sire. After what happened
you’ll need some rest.’
‘Captain, after what happened, I will never
have a moment of real rest again.’
At this, the Emperor climbs,
wearily, back into the carriage.
A few minutes later the captain gives
a brisk order and, his cuirassiers
now accompanied by a dozen
Polish lancers, the carriage seems to shudder,
in memory of what has happened,
or anticipation of what has been foretold,
as much as from the physical effort
of restarting the journey.
As it leaves, almost hidden
by the throng of cavalry around it,
the burial party, hating being in
the open at night, but looking forward
to spending the gold
when they reach France again,
take to their task as quickly as possible.
Though the incident will appear
in no history books, the four of them
who eventually survive
the remaining battles
of Napoleon’s career
talk of it for years afterwards,
in the inns of their
home towns and villages.
The detail that most sticks
in their minds, and astonishes their listeners,
is that the Emperor,
having handed over the coins,
takes a small pair of scissors from
a gold-trimmed box near the door,
then comes over to the body
of the assassin and gently,
tenderly even, cuts an un-bloodied
lock of the young man’s hair
before returning with it to the carriage,
whose horses are then whipped
into action, the captain of the escort
as keen to leave the body behind as
the work party are to bury all trace of it
beneath the ice-hard Russian soil.
And the sergeant?
The man who had saved his
monarch from the assassin?
That, say the survivors,
was the oddest thing.
The Emperor never said a word
of thanks to him, and indeed told
the captain, at daybreak, he never wanted
to see the man near him again.
The sergeant, always the most loyal of men,
who’d spent his adult life in the Emperor’s service,
on hearing the instruction
gave his horse to a wounded infantryman
there and then, strode out towards the edge
of a forest that bordered the line of march,
stood to attention some distance from the trees
and shot himself.
‘And what about Napoleon?’ asks
one of the youngsters, listening to
the story for the first time.
Did he feel guilty at this suicide?
Did it play on his mind?
‘Funny you should mention that’,
replies the grizzled old veteran.
‘No-one told him about it, because
he’d said he never wanted anything
to do with the sergeant again, but
I and my mates reckon he must
have got wind of it, somehow.’
‘Why’s that?’ asks the boy.
‘Well, ’cause a cousin of mine
was in the Imperial Guard in those days.
He said Napoleon passed by
later that very morning and that he’d
never seen anyone looking so pale,
so distracted. Almost as if the
Emperor had seen a ghost…’
MENU
Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow, during the spectacularly savage winter of 1812, was a catastrophic end to his invasion of Russia. Of an estimated army of over 500,000 men who set out in June that year, less than 40,000 (these figures vary considerably depending on the sources used) returned. The Emperor, generally depicted in paintings of the retreat as being on horseback, actually travelled in his campaign carriage.
Napoleon enjoyed telling ghost stories. Here he features in one.
The cold.
My God, he’s never felt anything like it.
And he - unlike the soldiers of his ruined army,
still moving at midnight through snow and ice,
desperate to put distance between themselves
and the pursuing Russians -
is at least in a carriage,
lit, however partially, by the warm light of lamps,
comforted by a fur rug over his lap and legs,
isolated from the worst of the outside;
the only sound being the thud of the hooves
of his cavalry escort.
He has, for many miles,
passed the time by having,
one by one,
the marshals and generals
of what’s left of the Grand Armée,
join him in the carriage.
This gives them welcome warmth
and him some conversation - a chance to
take his mind off the current disaster
by planning his next move; the
counter-attack, the fresh campaign
when this cursed winter finally turns to
Spring next year.
Now alone, having worked his way
through the higher ranks,
he decides, for some light relief
and as a gracious gesture to show
appreciation of their efforts,
to have a junior officer
join him instead.
Raising the blind,
he looks into the darkness
which is, at last, cut through
by bursts of light, for
the convoy is approaching an outpost
of French troops, a cantonment
guarding the route
back to the west,
supposedly passing on supplies
from home, yet in reality barely coping
against the depredations of
the appalling weather and bands of Cossacks.
The fires, around which sentries huddle,
are dangerously enticing, but he knows
he dare not stay, however tempting the flames.
He accepts a glass of wine,
wolfs down some food that, even here,
is presented on an exquisite china plate,
while the horses are changed.
That there are any here is in itself
a remarkable achievement,
given the loss to starvation
of most of the animals that
were used in the invasion of Russia.
A few words with a courier,
a scribbled note given to
an aide-de-camp,
and then it’s time to move on.
At that moment he sees,
emerging from the darkness into
the light of the fires,
a young man,
in a cavalry officer’s uniform,
but on foot.
Perfect.
A gentleman, so someone he can talk to;
young, and therefore impressionable.
The Emperor enjoys the adulation
of the young, though the idealism
of youth will have taken a battering
in this campaign.
And yet, that itself
is an opportunity.
For though his reputation
risks being as shattered as
his once-magnificent army,
he’s confident that, within the confines of
this sturdy yet elegant vehicle,
his face made more
beguiling by candlelight,
he will be able to win back
the young man’s confidence,
to ensure (his pride allows him to believe)
the continued devotion due from
a junior officer to the general
who has, through his own genius,
raised himself to the
greatest throne in Europe.
He speaks to the nearest guard,
a sergeant known both
for his splendid physique
and his devotion to his Emperor.
The sergeant obeys, beckoning to the
young man, who is in any case
walking towards the carriage,
despite the cordon of guards thrown around it,
as if he is somehow expected;
as if he has a rendezvous.
The sergeant asks him to surrender
his sword before entering the carriage,
but Napoleon leans towards him, smiling:
‘Sergeant! The lieutenant’s sword
is pledged to my service!
What possible threat
could one of my own soldiers be?’
The sergeant bows his head
and waves the young man
forward, though his eyes,
shielded beneath his
helmet, show a bitter mistrust,
mixed with an instinctive envy
of the comfortable ride
now promised to this
well-born young nobody.
Once the young man has settled in his seat,
Napoleon gives an order,
the carriage door is shut,
the escort remounts,
a trumpet sounds and the cavalcade
continues its journey.
The Emperor is just deciding how to
open the conversation when,
against all protocol,
but with a disarming boyishness,
the officer speaks first.
‘Thank you for asking me to join you, Majesty.’
‘Think nothing of it! I was looking forward
to some fresh company.
Your arrival was providential.
I hope your conversation is
as elegant as your appearance…’
‘I shall try not to disappoint you, Majesty.
May I start with a question?’
‘That would be a second breach of etiquette,
but we’re in the field, not in Paris, so please go on…’
‘Does Your Majesty enjoy ghost stories?’
Napoleon laughs. An open,
unguarded laugh
that seems to strip the years from him.
For a moment he is again
a dynamic young general on
the cusp of his career,
rather than the careworn master of Europe.
‘I do, as it happens. And we
are in the perfect place to tell
them! Candlelight,
a small yet cosy setting.
Outside, by contrast,
is darkness. Snow.
And the frozen corpses of two armies…’
‘Yes, Sire. Your carriage is escorted by the
dead as well as the living.’
Despite himself, Napoleon shivers.
But he won’t allow the boy to see
his momentary discomfiture.
His voice, when he responds,
is as light as he can make it.
‘That sounds like the perfect start to
such a story; though I prefer to be the one to tell them,
as you’ve no doubt heard.’
He is accustomed to a world of flatterers.
‘Yes, Sire, I‘ve heard that, but tonight I’ll
be the narrator.’
‘Really? Apart from the theatrical pleasure
of telling a good tale, do you actually believe
in ghosts, Lieutenant?’
‘I do.’
‘And that they haunt the place of their death?’
‘And those who killed them. Wherever they may be.’
‘Then Alexander had better hide himself!
The Tsar has brought this war on his people.
Perhaps his soldiers’ spectres
are even now flitting through the
palaces of St Petersburg?’
‘They do not flit. They ride on the wind.’
‘Then the windows of Alexander’s palaces
must be rattling in their frames.
How he must tremble!’
‘As should you, Majesty.’
‘Me? I have nothing to fear from
the souls of my soldiers.
Have I not led them,
and those who went before,
from victory to victory across
the plains, cities and mountain ranges of Europe?’
‘Yet this retreat, Sire? No glory
for them, here. Surely, doom
would be a better word?’
‘Doom and glory march together.
Striving for the latter often
unleashes the former.’
‘How do you deal with it?’
‘The trick is not to panic.
True, when angered in everyday life
I give way to rage,
but when challenged on the battlefield,
or in any moment of real crisis
I have what some people consider
an unnatural ability to remain calm.
I lost the battle of Marengo in the morning,
but by refusing to concede the fact,
I finally won it in the afternoon.
This campaign has been more problematic,
shall we say, but I shall return to
France, raise fresh regiments,
resume the war.’
‘You will, but your doom will follow.
It cannot be shaken off.’
Napoleon is astonished -
and, despite himself, amused - at the boy’s audacity.
’You foresee the future, Lieutenant? I
thought ghost stories are only concerned
with what has already happened?’
The young man makes no reply.
‘Come, now!
A loss for words seems unlike you.
But then, having said that,
I know almost nothing about you.
Not even your name!
Normally it would have been
announced when you were
presented to me, but tonight
no such formalities took place.
You simply appeared out of the darkness…’
This, too, is met by silence.
‘You do know your own name, Lieutenant?
‘François.’
When no surname is provided,
Napoleon raises an eyebrow.
François blushes.
‘Though I cannot expect Your Majesty
to speak to me as a friend,
or as a child’ - here he pauses, uncomfortably -
‘François will suffice as an introduction.
For now.’
Just his Christian name! A further surprise,
another breach of protocol, but delivered
with what the Emperor now thinks of
as the boy’s trademark charm.
‘Only kings and emperors - or saints! -
are known solely by their first names, but let’s
let that pass in the camaraderie of the carriage…
Very well, you’re a dashing young man called François,
who sees the future. What’s your success rate
with predictions?’
‘You are the only person I have
spoken to this way… Sire.’
‘And what brings you to such an action?
Telling fortunes at fairs or in theatres
means giving the credulous
what they want to hear.
Yet you give me not hope, but a warning.
Verging on a condemnation.’
‘I’m here to bring you face to face with the truth.’
‘No, I’ve invited you in here to entertain me.’
‘My favourite tutor once told me that
entertainment is whatever takes
our minds off the present.
In that respect, Shakespeare’s Hamlet,
a doomed prince confronted by his father’s ghost,
is as helpful a distraction
as bawdy jokes or theatrical comedies.
Whatever I reveal will, in that sense,
entertain you. For it will certainly
take your mind off
the present catastrophe.’
‘A joke would do that far better
than warning of fresh troubles to come!
Any other monarch
would have had you thrown
into the snow at this point!’
‘You’re not any monarch. You’re
the conqueror of Europe. The man
who's redrawn the mind and
changed the soul of France forever.
You are greater than the kings
you’ve defeated and have an
inalienable bond with those
who serve under you…
Which is why Your Majesty won’t have me
turned out into the night.’
Clever, thinks Napoleon.
Piles on some fulsome praise but
doesn’t back down from being frank
(or cheekily familiar, as his courtiers
would describe it). Withdrawing
from too advanced a position,
but not conceding any significant ground.
A skilful strategist -
surely a future general!
‘Your confidence is justified.
I like you! God knows why,
but I do. Now, if you’re going
to chill my blood with talk of doom
and disaster, I’d better arm myself
with a glass of brandy. You’ll join me?’
‘Thank you, I will.’
The Emperor takes two glasses
from a small cabinet, then fills
them with brandy. He passes one
to the lieutenant, then raises his own
to propose a toast.
‘To history!’
The lieutenant smiles. The first time
Napoleon has seen him do so. It
seems to brighten the carriage.
‘To history!’ François replies.
‘Young man, I chose well when I invited you
to join me. We make good company together.’
‘I hoped we would. Which why I approached
you in this wilderness.’
‘Yes, a lucky chance for both of us.’
‘Not chance, Majesty.’
‘More mystery! If not chance, then what?
Fate?’
‘Fate is a good word for it.’
Very well, thinks Napoleon. I’ll humour him.
I wanted an unusual travelling companion -
I can hardly object when he turns out to be one.
Besides, I like him.
‘Fate’s certainly a better word than doom.
The brandy must be doing you good!
Now, tell me what it is you see…’
François seems about to speak. Instead,
looking uncomfortable, he takes
another sip from his glass.
‘Ah! Foolish of me!’ jokes the Emperor.
‘Brandy’s all very well,
but I see you’re waiting for me
to cross your palm with silver!
Come, François! Give me your hand!’
‘No need for money, Majesty…
I’ll tell you what will happen.
There will be an alliance against you…’
‘I’ve defeated many.’
‘This new one will defeat you.’
‘And then? A tumbril like that poor fool, King Louis?’
‘No. An exile.’
‘Then there’s still hope!’
‘One you’ll fulfil. To start with.
A return to France, from the Mediterranean.
The eagle flying from the coast to Paris
in a blaze of glory.’
‘Hah! I told you! Back to glory, indeed!’
‘Yet it all ends in thunder and fury
on a battlefield south of Brussels.’
‘A shame. I’ve always liked Brussels.
The Grand Place by candlelight is the most
beautiful square in Europe. Will I die?’
‘We all die.’
‘Yes, yes. But on the battlefield?’
‘No. Another exile, a distant land.
An early death but immortal fame.’
‘Like Achilles?’
‘Like Alexander.’
‘You are a flatterer, after all.’
‘Truth doesn’t have to be depressing.’
‘That’s better! I knew the brandy
was a good idea!
Now, as the wind is in my favour at the moment,
perhaps you have some other news?
My dynasty. My son, the King of Rome.
When I am gone,
who rules on his behalf until he
is old enough to take my throne?’
‘He doesn’t take it.
He dies in his mother’s country,
aged twenty-one.
An Austrian prince, not a French Emperor.’
Napoleon looks stricken. Not just for
his plans, but for his son. The boy’s
only a year old, but he loves him
more than anyone else he has ever known.
More even than Josephine, whom he
steeled himself to divorce in order
to marry a young, fertile wife;
an Austrian princess…
‘Twenty-one? So young? ‘
‘Yes.’
‘The cause? A war? An assassin?’
‘Several wars. All yours.
And the assassin, in a way
is you. You see, Majesty,
his fate is a punishment,
decreed against you.
The destruction of your dynasty,
rendering pointless all your efforts,
all your achievements.
Unjust, of course, to the boy;
but the most dramatic way, it is thought,
to make you pay for your hubris and the
death of so many other innocents;
none of whom had enjoyed the
privileges your son will,
in his brief existence.’
‘Other innocents? Soldiers aren’t innocents!’
‘No, but the civilians who perish in
any war are. Their ghosts need avenging,
even more than those of the conscripts
who lost their lives following your eagles,
your standards, across the continent.
Followed, fought and died
so your family could be
put on thrones from Spain to
the Rhine. Those we are
leaving behind in Russia,
as well as those who went before,
buried on the battlefields of Austerlitz
and Wagram, or lying on the
seabed off Cape Trafalgar.
With your son’s death
your line is as dead as them.
You will have fame, of the
sort people read about in books,
or see in statues, but
your flesh, your line,
your living legacy,
will be extinguished.’
‘But in his short life? Is he a good man?
A noble prince?’
‘People, generously, seem to think so,
though he dies before he can
be corrupted by power,
so who knows how
he might have turned out?
For he has the everyday
sins of all men, of course…’
‘A fine man, then. Who loves his father,
as a good son should?’
‘Your reputation, your legend.
It is all he has of you.
He yearns to have more
than shadowy childhood memories.
To have known you as an adult.
Which is why, on his death,
it is decided that as some
small compensation to him
for being destroyed to punish you,
he be given that chance.
Even though it would mean,
of necessity, a second death.’
‘Heavens! Mystery has its charms,
especially on a journey like this,
but I was expecting a ghost story,
not some bizarre marriage between
prophecy and speaking in riddles…’
‘It’s not a riddle, Majesty. Like most things in life,
it’s simple if you look clearly enough.’
‘But look where? Out into the darkness?
Or at your palm, even if not crossed with silver?’
‘Eyes are the window of the soul, they say.
Try there.’
‘You’ve looked at mine, in an unusually
frank manner. Bravely, one might say,
given our difference in rank…’
‘Yes, but in the semi-darkness
of candlelight, and at a slight distance.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Perhaps now is the moment
for us both to look closer,
one final time.’
‘Final?’
‘The carriage will stop soon.’
‘Really? Another prediction?’
‘Basic military knowledge, Sire.
We’re due to reach another checkpoint.
At which I must leave you.’
‘That’s for me to decide -
and I won’t hear of it!
I’m enjoying this, strangely enough!
I’ve never met anyone like you -
and God knows, I’ve met enough
characters in my time.
You must stay!’
‘Sadly, I’m not permitted.’
‘By whom? I’m the Emperor.
No-one overrules me!’
‘Not yet. Though the day will come.’
The Emperor smiles.
‘If I had a regiment of fortune tellers,
I would make you their general!’
‘Please, Majesty. Draw nearer.’
Napoleon starts to lean forward, then something
makes him hesitate.
François speaks again, an urgency in his voice.
‘Your eyes have the intensity
common to all your family,
but with that special gleam
that sets you apart
from your brothers and sisters.
The glint so many artists
have tried but failed to capture.
Please, Majesty,
come towards me,
so I may see them more clearly.’
The Emperor does so,
thinking to himself:
‘What an extraordinary boy!’
He looks closely.
The eyes he searches have the intensity
of the Mediterranean,
but they’re not those
of a Corsican, or an Italian.
So what is he supposed to see, to learn?
He turns his head away, briefly,
as if to refresh his vision,
then looks again.
If this riddle can be solved
by observation, as the boy suggests,
then he will search until he finds it -
just as he pores over military maps
until he reaches a winning strategy.
The boy’s eyes have something well-bred,
an element of command about them,
yet are also distinctly kind, gentle.
They are the eyes of someone
who hasn’t had to struggle;
eyes from which ambition and anger,
Napoleon’s own most dominant characteristics,
are entirely absent.
What is clear, however, is that
François’s eyes are shining,
now, with tears -
but, thinks Napoleon, tears of excitement
rather than sadness.
He has seen such tears
on the faces of hard, fearless
men when presenting them
with well-earned medals.
’You see a lot, Majesty,
but not enough.
Think of your home.
Of the Empress.
Imagine greeting her,
on your return to Paris.
Look into her eyes - and then,
as if it were only moments away,
rather than a thousand miles,
imagine entering the nursery
to hold your infant son in your arms.’
Suddenly the extraordinary intensity,
the almost hypnotic intimacy of the moment
is broken by the shout of sentries,
the loud reply of the captain
of the cuirassiers
and the almost immediate slam of soldiers
presenting arms: the outside world
violently breaking in on the two men,
as the carriage jolts to a halt.
The abrupt stop throws Napoleon forward.
As he lurches, he reaches out to steady himself,
his left hand landing on the young man’s knee.
His right hand still clutches the brandy glass,
clenched so hard in his surprise at suddenly
being thrown off-balance that the delicate crystal breaks,
cutting his hand, which bleeds profusely.
As this happens, their faces are brought
together, only inches apart,
while the candles, shaken into
producing a sudden gust of light,
illuminate both men more clearly than before.
François gently removes the glass
from Napoleon, placing it
on a small ledge beside the door.
Ignoring the blood dripping
onto Napoleon’s jacket, he takes,
briefly, both of the Emperor’s hands in his own
before releasing the left hand while
still clasping Napoleon’s wounded right,
not as a doctor would a patient’s,
but as a man might when
he meets a long-lost friend.
Moved by this gesture,
tears springing to his own eyes,
Napoleon focuses on the boy’s again,
blending an intense scrutiny
with a mental picture both of his wife and his son.
The connection is easy for him, as the King of Rome
has his mother’s eyes.
A fraction longer and then he sees the truth.
He knows the eyes.
The riddle, the mystery, the predictions, make sense.
He understands.
Appalled, he involuntarily yells out
in horror and astonishment.
As he does so, the carriage door
is thrown open by the sergeant,
who has heard the shout
and dashes in to save his sovereign.
Shocked by the scene before him,
he sees the Emperor,
blood splashed on his jacket,
his face absolutely white,
like a death mask,
his hand gripped
by the young officer he had been
instantly suspicious of when he approached
the carriage earlier that night.
The officer whose uniform is French, but
whose fair hair, previously hidden under
the helmet he had only removed when
inside, with the door firmly closed,
immediately implicates him as a foreigner -
probably a Russian -
whose sword hand (or, in this confined space,
more likely that which wielded a dagger)
is now smeared with the Emperor’s blood.
The foreigner’s face,
in contrast to Napoleon’s,
is flushed, excited, triumphant, even.
‘Thank God, I have met you, Father! Thank God - and farewell!’
Assuming the worst,
as he has been trained to do,
and desperate to prevent
any further harm to the Emperor
from an obviously deranged assassin,
the sergeant places the pistol he drew as he dismounted
against the young man’s head and,
the Emperor’s next scream
convincing him of his diagnosis,
he pulls the trigger,
instantly killing the boy,
while spraying blood,
brain tissue and pieces of skull
across the carriage.
The bullet, as it emerges
from the shattered head,
only just misses the Emperor,
who has vainly hugged
François to him, in an attempt
to save him from what he saw
was about to happen.
‘My boy! My boy!’
Napoleon looks at the sergeant
with an anguish that freezes the man
more than the wind and snow
whipping around him.
Has the Emperor, the bravest of generals,
been driven mad by this assault?
Stunned, the sergeant is pushed aside
by the captain of the escort.
‘Majesty! My God, how did this happen?’
‘How?’ An uncanny stillness now defines the Emperor,
a calm, a quiet tone of voice
in complete contrast to his recent screams;
a sort of blankness of expression
that only those closest to him in battle
had ever seen or could ever imagine
in such circumstances.
A pause, and then he answers:
‘I invited him, Captain. He came to me,
from the darkness, and now he is dead.’
‘We’ll take the bastard away and leave him for the wolves.
Let’s get the Surgeon-General to have a look at you, Majesty,
and…’
‘No! This… this is not what it seems…
I am not harmed. Or not in any way you would recognise…
Get an officer to pick a party
of eight soldiers from these…’
He points at the large group
of infantrymen who
are running towards the carriage.
‘And bury the boy.
Here. Now.
Here’s some money…’
He wraps a handkerchief round his injured hand
then scoops gold coins from a drawer under
his seat and presses them into the captain’s hands.
‘This is for the burial party. Get an officer to find a priest,
to read a short service.
Then they must fire a volley over the grave.
His name was François.’
‘Surname, Sire? Title? Rank? What should we…’
‘You wouldn’t believe me. Have him referred to as François,
a man dear to the Emperor’s heart.’
‘But Majesty, the man tried to kill you!’
‘Quite the contrary, I assure you.’
The captain looks at him as if he’s gone mad.
‘Majesty, the shock, it’s understandable, but..’
‘More understandable than you can possibly imagine.
And more shocking. Let me get some fresh air, a moment.’
Napoleon steps down onto the frozen ground.
‘We’re at a camp, I see.
There are fresh horses here?
We can’t expect these poor creatures
to pull this vehicle in such weather for long…’
‘By some miracle, yes. See, they’re bringing them over, now.’
‘Good. I have always believed in luck, Captain.
From tonight, I believe in
miracles, too.
Change the horses at once,
then get me out of here.’
Seeing the captain’s confusion,
and not wanting any more questions,
Napoleon instinctively realises he needs to bring
some sort of normality to the situation.
The captain thinks François was an assassin? Very well.
‘Speaking of horses, I think, Captain,
it would be sensible,
given what’s just happened,
if you could find some more cavalry -
lancers, hussars, anyone -
to increase the size of my escort.
One such incident is one too many.’
The order has its effect; the captain is
relieved to have a common-sense command
that produces a practical solution to an
understandable threat.
‘At once, Majesty!’
He speaks to a local officer about
the burial party and sends a messenger
back down the line to request reinforcements.
Some minutes later, things arranged, he reports back.
‘The major,’ he points at a nearby officer,
‘will organise the burial, Majesty.
A detachment of lancers will be here shortly.’
‘Excellent.’
‘We’ll clean the carriage of blood while the horses
are being swapped over…’
‘No. Leave it. All of it. I’m used to blood.’
‘Would you like someone
to accompany you, Majesty?
After such an event I’m sure you’d…’
‘No, I need to think. In quiet.
Strangely enough, the blood will help.’
‘Of course, Sire. After what happened
you’ll need some rest.’
‘Captain, after what happened, I will never
have a moment of real rest again.’
At this, the Emperor climbs,
wearily, back into the carriage.
A few minutes later the captain gives
a brisk order and, his cuirassiers
now accompanied by a dozen
Polish lancers, the carriage seems to shudder,
in memory of what has happened,
or anticipation of what has been foretold,
as much as from the physical effort
of restarting the journey.
As it leaves, almost hidden
by the throng of cavalry around it,
the burial party, hating being in
the open at night, but looking forward
to spending the gold
when they reach France again,
take to their task as quickly as possible.
Though the incident will appear
in no history books, the four of them
who eventually survive
the remaining battles
of Napoleon’s career
talk of it for years afterwards,
in the inns of their
home towns and villages.
The detail that most sticks
in their minds, and astonishes their listeners,
is that the Emperor,
having handed over the coins,
takes a small pair of scissors from
a gold-trimmed box near the door,
then comes over to the body
of the assassin and gently,
tenderly even, cuts an un-bloodied
lock of the young man’s hair
before returning with it to the carriage,
whose horses are then whipped
into action, the captain of the escort
as keen to leave the body behind as
the work party are to bury all trace of it
beneath the ice-hard Russian soil.
And the sergeant?
The man who had saved his
monarch from the assassin?
That, say the survivors,
was the oddest thing.
The Emperor never said a word
of thanks to him, and indeed told
the captain, at daybreak, he never wanted
to see the man near him again.
The sergeant, always the most loyal of men,
who’d spent his adult life in the Emperor’s service,
on hearing the instruction
gave his horse to a wounded infantryman
there and then, strode out towards the edge
of a forest that bordered the line of march,
stood to attention some distance from the trees
and shot himself.
‘And what about Napoleon?’ asks
one of the youngsters, listening to
the story for the first time.
Did he feel guilty at this suicide?
Did it play on his mind?
‘Funny you should mention that’,
replies the grizzled old veteran.
‘No-one told him about it, because
he’d said he never wanted anything
to do with the sergeant again, but
I and my mates reckon he must
have got wind of it, somehow.’
‘Why’s that?’ asks the boy.
‘Well, ’cause a cousin of mine
was in the Imperial Guard in those days.
He said Napoleon passed by
later that very morning and that he’d
never seen anyone looking so pale,
so distracted. Almost as if the
Emperor had seen a ghost…’