When the Emperor reached Paris, he was in one of his worst moods.
Many causes had combined to mar his serenity. His brother Joseph had
violently found fault with him because he, Napoleon, had remodelled the
government, making it better for the people, and not quite so good for
the nobles and priests. Joseph resented this deeply. He, Joseph, was
King of Spain. He, Joseph, was the proper person to remodel government,
change laws, and manage the country. Napoleon was present merely as a
military expert, a general whose service was temporarily needed to pull
Joseph from beneath the enemy, and lead him by the hand back to the
throne; but when this had been done, Napoleon should have gone away,
leaving Joseph to do in Spain just as he thought best. This view was
not only held by Joseph at the time, but as long as his worthless life
lasted he never wearied of explaining to his friends how Napoleon had
lost him the crown of Spain by “interfering in his affairs” in 1809.
Not less high than this was the estimate which Louis Bonaparte placed
on his “rights” as King of Holland. No sooner had that morose, jealous,
ill-conditioned dolt been placed on a throne by his elder brother than
he arrogated to himself all the prerogatives of a dynastic king. The
“divine right” virus got into _his_ sluggish veins, and he began to
shift on to God the responsibility for such a creature as himself being
a king at all. He wished to rule Holland, not as a fief of the Empire,
not as part of the Napoleonic system, but as a piece of independent
property which had come to him, Louis, through a long line of
ancestors. When Napoleon gave him the crown, the conditions were made
plain. Holland was a part of France; must be governed with reference to
France; the friends and enemies of the one must be those of the other.
In other words, Holland was a planet in the French system, and Louis
a subordinate king. If Louis was too proud to rule as a lesser light
in the system of his great brother, he should have been as frank as
Lucien: he should have refused the crown. But he accepted the splendid
gift, and then violated the conditions. English goods poured into
his markets. To all intents and purposes he became the ally of Great
Britain, for it was her policy which he favored. It was her dearest
object to break down the Continental system, and Louis was aiding her
to the best of his slight ability. Could Napoleon be otherwise than
furious? Had Holland been won merely that England should be enriched?
Had he set his brother on a throne merely to weaken his own empire,
and to set an example of disloyalty to other allies? At a time when
Prussia, Austria, and even Russia were under contract to enforce
the Continental system, was it tolerable that his own brother, in
all-important Holland, should be throwing his ports open to the common
foe?
This cause of trouble, also, was worrying Napoleon and making it hard
to maintain good humor. And even this was far from being all. Murat,
his brother-in-law, was acting almost as badly as his brother. Murat,
who was grand duke, wanted to be king, had coveted the crown of Poland,
had claimed the Spanish throne, and in his disappointment, in both
instances, had fallen into a rebellious mood.
Napoleon had given him Joseph’s vacant throne in Naples; but it
was rumored that he was still discontented, and had been holding
communications with conspirators in Paris. And who were these
conspirators? Talleyrand and Fouché, of course. These restless,
overrated, and chronic traitors had been sagely conferring in Paris,
as they had done previous to Marengo, for the purpose of agreeing upon
a successor to Napoleon, in case he should be killed in battle or
hopelessly defeated.
Nor was even this all: the funds had fallen, the treasury was drained,
murmurs had begun to be heard in France against the expansion of the
Empire; conscriptions, which had been called for in advance of the
legal time, began to be unpopular, desertions were frequent, and “the
refractory” grew ever more numerous. The Spanish war was not relished.
Generals ordered to Spain went, but went reluctantly. They carried no
zeal, none of that buoyant confidence which is half the battle. Troops
ordered there marched, but without enthusiasm. Compared with Italy and
Germany Spain was a barren land. Against armed peasant bands no glory
was to be won; little booty could be expected. Even the Guard grumbled
at such service. As Napoleon was holding a review at Valladolid just
before quitting Spain, the murmurs in the ranks grew so loud that he
lost control of himself, snatched the musket from one of the growlers,
jerked the man out of the line, threatened to have him shot, and then
pushed him back to his place while he sharply lectured the whole troop.
Once more at Paris, Napoleon’s courtiers grouped themselves around him
with the same blandishments as before. A few, a very few, might venture
to speak frankly to him and to tell him the truth, but the many had
fallen into the ways natural to all courts: they spoke, not to inform,
but to please. And foremost among those who came to fawn and to flatter
was “that cripple” whom Josephine said she dreaded, Talleyrand.
Only dangerous to the weak, gifted with no constructive talent
whatever, incapable of sustained labor of any sort, strong only in
sudden emergencies, in the crises of political changes, Talleyrand was
known to Napoleon like an open book. Scorning him, rather than fearing
him, Napoleon’s anger against him now was inflamed to the highest
pitch, not so much because of anything he had done, as because of what
his treachery implied. That so keen-eyed a time-server as Talleyrand
should begin to plot, meant that confidence was shaken in the
Napoleonic power. That the funds should fall, conscripts dodge the law,
allies shirk their obligations, and domestic enemies conspire, were but
various symptoms of the same malady.
When Talleyrand appeared at the levee, Napoleon boiled over. He began
to rebuke the false courtier, began in a moderate tone, but the more
he talked the less he could control himself. All the past perfidies
of this most perfidious of men came to mind, and in bitter words were
hurled at Talleyrand’s head. His venalities, his bribe-takings, his
betrayal of state secrets--they all swelled the torrent of Napoleon’s
excoriation. “You base wretch, you false-hearted minister. _You_
pretend that you advised against the trial of the Duke d’Enghien when
you urged it in writing; _you_ pretend that you advised against the
Spanish war when you urged me into it!”
And at each sentence Napoleon advanced, face distorted with passion,
hand raised in menace, while the guilty courtier slunk back step by
step as the Emperor advanced, until he reached the wall. There he
stood, with Napoleon’s clenched hand in his face and Napoleon’s blazing
eyes threatening death, warning him, as he loved life, to say nothing,
and let the storm pass.
When Talleyrand reached home, “he fell into a kind of fit,” and the
doctors had to be called in. Only a few days elapsed, however, before
he was again at the levee, bending humbly before his master, and ready
again with his fawnings and flatteries. Napoleon’s anger had passed: he
listened to the courtier’s suave phrases with a smile of contemptuous
indifference.
France had given Austria no cause for war. It was not even claimed that
she had. Austria had causelessly provoked two wars already, had got
whipped in both, had lost much territory, much money, much prestige.
She now believed she was strong enough to win back all she had
lost--hence she had mustered her forces and commenced the march into
Bavaria. Her readiness to “begin again” had been accelerated by a bribe
of $20,000,000 paid her by England.
Napoleon had massed troops at the point of danger, but had trusted to
Berthier the direction of their movements. This officer had bungled
matters so badly that the different divisions were widely scattered;
and the troops, conscious that something was wrong, were becoming
demoralized. Summoned by the signal telegraph, Napoleon made all haste
to headquarters. He found the army so ill-posted that he said to
Berthier, “If I did not know you to be true to me, I should suspect
that you were a traitor.”
The Archduke Charles, commanding the Austrians, had seen his advantage
clearly, and was hastening to throw himself between the separate
divisions of the French, to beat them in detail. He commenced his
campaign well, and it appeared certain that he would crush the corps
of Davoust before it could be supported. But the Archduke was almost
superstitiously afraid of Napoleon, and no sooner did he learn that
the Emperor was now in command of the French than the Austrians seemed
paralyzed. Time was given for Masséna and Davoust to support each
other, the one having been ordered to fall back while the other moved
forward. Calculating to the hour when these two wings could support
the centre, the great soldier fell upon his enemy. The risk was great;
for should his two lieutenants fail to come up, all would be lost. But
Davoust and Masséna were not Grouchys: they came, and the campaign was
saved. Never was Napoleon greater in plan and execution than in 1809;
not even in the Italian campaign did he work harder. For a week he was
almost constantly in the saddle, never having time to undress. But in
that week he wrought utter confusion among his enemies, and saved his
empire. At Abensberg, at Landshut, at Eckmühl, at Ratisbonne, he struck
the Austrians blow after blow, and shattered their army, killing and
wounding thirty thousand men, capturing an equal number, and taking
vast spoil in guns, ammunition, stores, war material of all sorts. The
Archduke drew off his broken army on Bohemia; Napoleon marched upon
Vienna, which fell May 12, 1809. The royal family fled to Hungary;
the French Emperor, quartered at the palace of Schönbrunn, made
preparations to cross the Danube. There were no bridges this time for
Lannes and Murat to win by stratagem; the river rolled broad and deep
between French and Austrians; bridges would have to be built, and the
French put across in face of an army ready to dispute the passage.
Had not victory declared for Napoleon, promptly and emphatically at
the opening of the campaign, his ruin would have come in 1809 as it
did in 1814. The national spirit was declaring against him in Germany,
as it had done in Spain. Prussia was honeycombed with patriotic secret
societies, pledged against him; and in anticipation of Austrian
success, the young Duke of Brunswick and Colonel Schill had raised the
standard of revolt. The decisive victory of the French at Eckmühl alone
prevented this abortive effort at a national uprising from being a
success. In the Tyrol, also, the people, intensely Catholic and opposed
to the reforms Bavaria had introduced, rose against the Napoleonic
power, and failed only because the French had been so prompt in
scattering the strength of Austria.
In the crisis, Napoleon’s ally, Russia, had shown little zeal. She sent
a very small army where she had promised a large one; and a general of
their army wrote to the Austrian commander that he hoped they would
soon be acting in concert. Napoleon forwarded this letter to Alexander,
who contented himself with the recall of the writer. But for the heroic
conduct of Poniatowski and the Poles, it seems that the Austrian army
would have succeeded in wresting the Grand Duchy of Warsaw from Saxony.
But Napoleon’s triumphs at the opening of the campaign changed the
aspect of affairs all around. Austrian armies had to be called in from
Warsaw, from Italy, from Bohemia, to concentrate and oppose Napoleon on
the Danube.
Choosing a position below Vienna, where the large island of Lobau
divides the stream into two unequal channels, the French threw bridges
across, and on May 20 commenced passing over, taking possession of
the villages of Aspern and Essling, almost without opposition. Next
day the Archduke Charles made a furious attack, first on Aspern, then
on Essling also. The struggle was very bloody. Only a portion of the
French had passed the river; the Austrians outnumbered them heavily;
and, realizing this vast advantage, pushed it with splendid energy.
Aspern was taken and retaken time after time; and when night put an
end to the carnage, the French held only a portion of the smouldering
ruins. Next day the battle was renewed, the French army still cut
in two by the Danube. The corps of Davoust had not passed, and the
Austrians were doing their utmost to break the bridges, which a sudden
rise in the river already threatened to carry away.
So strong had been the efforts of the enemy to carry Aspern on their
right, that Napoleon guessed they had weakened their centre too much.
He therefore massed heavy columns against it, and began to drive it
back. At this moment came the dreaded message,--“The bridges are gone!”
He might have pressed on and beaten his foe, but Napoleon thought
the risk too great. His columns halted, their fire slackened, and
the orders to retire were given. The wondering Austrians took fresh
courage, and followed the retiring French with terrible effect. Masséna
must hold Aspern, Lannes Essling, until the Emperor could get the army
back to the island of Lobau. Aspern was everything; it must be held at
all hazards.
“Hold your position! It is a question of saving the army--the bridges
are gone!” So ran the despatch, and the grim soldier who held Genoa
while Napoleon planned Marengo, now held Aspern while his Emperor
prepared for Wagram.
Poor Lannes! Brave, unselfish, plain-spoken, leonine Lannes! Here his
long march was to end. The same year that Madame Letitia in Corsica
had begun to rock the cradle of Napoleon, the wife of an humble dyer
in Gascony had begun to nurse the babe who became the Roland of
Bonaparte’s army. He had little education, no influential friends; but
when the Revolution began to sound its tocsin and beat its drum, the
Gascon lad went forth to the wars. From 1791, when he volunteered as
grenadier, he had served without pause and with unsurpassed courage.
Augereau made him colonel for bravery in the Pyrenees; and Napoleon
made him general for brilliant service in Italy. He followed his
chief to Egypt, and was shot through the neck at Acre. On the famous
Sunday of Brumaire he aided in Napoleon’s seizure of supreme power,
and at Montebello fought the prelude to Marengo. He had loved Caroline
Bonaparte, whom Murat won; and had Lannes instead of Murat been the
imperial brother-in-law, much disaster might have been averted. Raised
in rank, made marshal of the Empire, and Duke of Montebello, he was the
same intrepid, ever growing, ever loyal soldier. Great at Austerlitz,
great at Jena, great at Friedland, he was greater yet at Saragossa
where he overcame a resistance which challenged the wonder of the world.
From that ruined city in Spain he had hastened to Germany, and had
been again the right hand of the great captain who so well knew his
worth. Better courtiers there were than Lannes, gallants who better
graced a ballroom, flatterers who could better please the ear. But who
of all the brave men of France could walk the battle-field with surer,
steadier step than he?
Who at heart was more loyal to the chief--who so ready to forsake ease
and comfort and go forth at the call of the chief into rain or snow,
heat or cold, exhausting march or desperate battle? In all the long
record of French heroism, who had done deeds more lionlike than Lannes?
Who was first over the bridge at Lodi, outstripping Napoleon and all,
and slaying six Austrians with his own hand? Who led the vanguard
across the frozen Alps and held the rout at Marengo till Desaix could
come? Who, in this last campaign, had rallied the grenadiers beneath
the blazing walls of Ratisbonne, seized a scaling ladder, when the
bravest held back, and had rushed toward the battlements under a
withering fire, shouting to his halting men, “I’ll show you that I’ve
not forgotten I was once a grenadier!” Who but Lannes had electrified
these troops by his fearless example, and had carried them over the
walls?
At Essling he had been in the thick of the fight, holding his ground
with old-time grip. The slaughter had been immense, and the sight of
the mangled body of General Pouzet, shot down at his side, had affected
him painfully. Sick of the hideous spectacle, he had gone a little to
one side, and had seated himself on the embankment of a trench.
A quarter of an hour later, four soldiers, laboriously carrying in a
cloak a dead officer whose face could not be seen, stopped in front of
Lannes. The cloak fell open, and he recognized Pouzet. “Oh!” he cried,
“is this terrible sight going to pursue me everywhere?” Getting up, he
went and sat down at the edge of another ditch, his hand over his eyes,
and his legs crossed. As he sat there a three-pounder shot struck him
just where his legs crossed. The knee-pan of one was smashed, and the
back sinews of the other torn. General Marbot ran to him; he tried to
rise, but could not. He was borne back to the bridge, and one of his
limbs amputated. Hardly was the operation over when Napoleon came up.
“The interview,” says Marbot, from whose _Memoirs_ this account is
literally taken, “was most touching. The Emperor, kneeling beside the
stretcher, wept as he embraced the marshal, whose blood soon stained
the Emperor’s white kerseymere waistcoat.”
“You will live, my friend, you will live!” cried the Emperor, pressing
the hand of Lannes. “I trust I may, if I can still be of service to
France and to your Majesty.”
The weather was terribly hot, and fever set in with Lannes; on May 30th
he died. In spite of the cares and dangers of his position, Napoleon
had found time to visit the wounded man every day. A few moments after
daybreak on the 30th, the Emperor came as usual, when Marbot met him
and told him of the sad event. The amputated limb had mortified, and
the stench was so strong that Marbot warned Napoleon against going in.
Pushing Marbot aside, the Emperor advanced to the dead body, embraced
it, wept over it, remained more than an hour, and only left when
Berthier reminded him that officers were waiting for orders.
“What a loss for France and for me!” Well may Napoleon have grieved and
wept: here was a gap in his line that could never be filled. Said the
Emperor at St. Helena, “I found him a pygmy; I lost him a giant.”
* * * * *
The bridges connecting the island of Lobau with the bank of the Danube
upon which the army had been fighting were not broken: hence the
troops could be led back to the island. Once there, the position could
be fortified and held, until the Vienna arm of the river could be
rebridged.
This was done. Several weeks were spent in preparations, reënforcements
brought up, larger, better bridges built, and all made ready for
another attempt to cross.
The Archduke Charles, believing that Napoleon would direct his march
upon Aspern and Essling, as before, calmly waited, confident that he
could beat the French as before. On the night of July 4, 1809, while a
terrible thunderstorm was raging, Napoleon began his attack upon the
Austrian position at Essling and Aspern. This was a feint to hide his
purpose of crossing at another place, in front of Enzersdorf.
While the Archduke’s attention was fixed on the two villages first
named, the French made a dash at Enzersdorf, and took it. Several
bridges, ready-made, had been thrown across the river here, and
Napoleon’s army had passed almost before the Austrian knew what he
was about. Then the Archduke drew back into the vast plain of the
Marchfeld, and three hundred thousand men lined up for the great battle
of Wagram. From the roofs and ramparts of Vienna, excited thousands
gazed upon that vast wheat field, yellow in the summer sun, where the
harvester Death was to reap where humble peasants had sown.
For two days the tremendous struggle lasted. The Austrians never fought
better. In sight of fathers and sons, of wives, daughters, sisters,
sweethearts, who would not fight well for home and native land? What
did the Austrian soldier know of the cause of the war? He knew as much
as his masters chose to tell him; and in his heart he believed the
French to be aggressors, tyrants, marauders, come to loot and ruin and
enslave.
So they stood amid the burning wheat in the golden grain fields,
beneath the torrid sun, and fought as Napoleon had never seen them
fight--fought as men fight only when their souls are in it. And far
off on the housetops, steeples, and battlements of old Vienna were
straining eyes, beating hearts, hungry prayers, and the wild hope that
these marauders from France would be scattered as the Turks had been
scattered in that dread time long ago.
But in those olden days Christians could hear the cry of Christians,
could fly to the relief of Christians. What bannered host was that
which had burst like a storm upon the Moslem rear, scattering infidels
like so much dust, bringing salvation to the beleaguered town? Who
but the Polanders and John Sobieski had smitten the Turk and sent the
crescent backward in flight before the cross? That was many and many a
year ago. There would be no “Poland to the rescue!” this time. Poland
had been devoured--by Moslems? No; by Christians. And at the feast
Austria had sat, greedily eating her share.
The shells set fire to the wheat; the smoke and the flame from the
burning grain mingled with the smoke and flame of batteries. Troops
moving to the charge were halted or turned from their course; the
wounded fell in the midst of the blazing stubble, and were burnt to
death or suffocated.
Nothing could withstand the French. The Austrian leader outclassed by
his antagonist, the long trial of strength yielded victory at length
to the better soldier. The efforts made on the wings had weakened the
Archduke’s centre. Masséna, though terribly shaken, was able to hold
the right, while Napoleon massed all his available force to hurl it
upon the Austrian centre. But he must wait. Nothing could be done
until Davoust on the enemy’s left had succeeded. Motionless as a rock,
Napoleon kept his eyes riveted on Neusiedel, a village “which lies high
and is surmounted by a tall tower visible from all parts of the field.”
Davoust must fling the Austrians back behind this village before the
attack on the centre could be made. “At last we suddenly saw the smoke
of Davoust’s guns beyond the tower.” Now the enemy’s left was beaten.
“Quick! quick!” cried the Emperor to Aide-de-camp Marbot, who had come
from Masséna to ask instructions. “Tell Masséna to fall upon whatever
is in front of him, and the battle is won!” All along the line flashed
similar orders, while Macdonald, a hundred cannon blazing along his
front, made the famous charge which broke the Austrian centre.
It was a great fight, a great victory, and great were its results.
Austria sued for peace, and Napoleon, ready as he ever was to end a
war, granted her terms as generous as she had any right to expect. She
lost territory, and had to pay an indemnity; but out of wreck which she
herself had made, her empire came forth practically intact.
As indemnity, she was asked to pay $20,000,000. This was the amount of
the bribe she had taken from England to begin the war.
An indemnity of $20,000,000! How trivial this amount when compared to
the _one thousand millions_ which Bismarck levied upon France. How
modest it looks beside the $330,000,000 which China had to pay to
Christian missionaries and their supporting nations for the riots of
the year 1900!