the city the previous day. Two divisions of the Young Guard led the way, marching steadily across the soft ground, pausing to deliver volley fire at any enemy units attempting to stand their ground. Further out, at the end of the French line, the cavalry picked their way across the muddy fields towards the forest that lined the banks of the Elbe and drove off the infantry who had tried to find shelter beneath the trees during the night.
Turning to the other flank, Napoleon watched the columns of Victor’s corps striking out to the west, their left flank on the Weisseritz, while to their right Murat’s cavalry formed line and waited for the order to begin their pursuit, once the infantry had broken up the enemy’s formations.
Within the hour the bridge at Plauen had been captured and covered with a battery of horse guns, severing the link between the allied left and its centre. Thousands of the enemy, caught in the mud and unable to escape in time, were pressed back against the swollen stream and trapped. Victor’s men stopped to deliver several devastating volleys at close range, and then the enemy began to throw down their muskets and surrender. A few hundred tried to cross the current, but lost their footing and were swept away, crying feebly for help before they disappeared from view and were washed down to the Elbe.
In the centre, St-Cyr and Marmont faced the greatest difficulty as they would be heavily outnumbered and the enemy had fortified every village and farmhouse that lay before the centre of the allied army. Sure enough, by eight o’clock they had been fought to a standstill and a thick bank of powder smoke lazily expanded for almost two miles as murderous volleys were exchanged at close range.
At midday the rain began to fall again and there was a brief lull in the fighting as the soldiers of both sides drew back a short distance to re-form their ranks, and steel themselves for the next onslaught. St-Cyr took advantage of the pause to bring his guns forward in readiness to blast his way through the enemy’s front line.
Napoleon rested his elbows on the parapet as he gazed over the battlefield. He felt a peculiar sense of detachment and realised that it was down to the nature of the battle. Aside from a small force of the Old Guard, every man had been placed in the line and there were no reserves for him to send forward if they were needed. His subordinates had clear orders and the enemy lacked the initiative and the will to do anything but sit on the defensive, so there was nothing for Napoleon to do but act as a spectator as his marshals drove in the allied flanks and attempted to break their centre.
A staff officer brought him a basket of cold chicken and some small loaves of the dark German bread that Napoleon had little liking for. As he ate, the enemy guns began to open fire on St-Cyr’s batteries as they unlimbered and soon a large-scale artillery duel had developed, the deep roar carrying across the battlefield.
‘There has not been much progress in the centre,’ Berthier observed. ‘I fear the attack might be forced to a halt, sire.’
‘It might.’ Napoleon nodded, then jabbed a half-eaten chicken leg towards the Pirna road. ‘Until Vandamme threatens their rear. Then the centre will break.’
‘I trust it will, sire.’
‘It will.’ Napoleon took another bite, chewed swiftly and swallowed. ‘Any news from Vandamme?’
‘The last despatch was timed two in the morning, sire. He had run into the enemy outposts.’
‘Then let us hope he had the sense to drive on through them and march to the sound of the guns here at Dresden.’
As the rain continued, the sound of musket and cannon fire began to dwindle. The left flank had been fought to a standstill, but over on the right Napoleon saw that Murat had unleashed his cavalry. The wet ground was making movement difficult and Napoleon slapped his thigh in delight as he saw large pockets of enemy soldiers trapped in the muddy fields surrounded by French cavalry and forced to surrender. By mid-afternoon the enemy’s left flank had all but ceased to exist. But the centre still held, impervious to the frequent attacks that the French soldiers made at bayonet point.
At length, Napoleon took a deep breath. ‘The army has done all it can for today, Berthier. This rain is bogging us down. Give the order to break off the attack. The men can spend another night under cover, and the enemy in the open, and we’ll see how quickly their spirit breaks tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘And I want reports from every division. Butcher’s bills, and the number of enemy captured and their casualties. By nightfall. There’s another day of battle to prepare for,’ he concluded irritably. ‘Tomorrow we will finish this.’
The rain finally ended as dusk shrouded the battlefield and mercifully concealed the bodies and limbs stuck in the sprawl of mud churned up by the passage of many thousands of men, horses and heavy wooden wheels. The men of the Grand Army marched back to their billets, weary and wet but still in fine spirits, unlike the long column of prisoners that was escorted over the Elbe to spend yet another night in the open. Berthier collated the battle reports that came in from across the army and presented the final assessment to his Emperor as he sat wrapped in a blanket and close to a brazier set up in the nave. It had been several days since Napoleon had slept well, and exhaustion, together with the damp conditions, had combined to give him a slight fever. He trembled as he huddled over the fire.
‘Sire, do you wish me to send for your surgeon?’ Berthier asked anxiously.
‘No. It will pass. Besides, I can rest after tomorrow.’ Napoleon’s face contorted for a moment and then he sneezed.
‘Shall I order some soup for you, sire?’
Napoleon shook his head. His stomach was acutely uncomfortable and the idea of any food at all made him feel queasy. He glanced up at Berthier and nodded towards the papers in the latter’s hands. ‘Are those the reports?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Give me the summary.’
‘We have taken some twelve thousand prisoners, and after the body count, allowing for the usual proportion of wounded, the enemy suffered a total loss of over thirty-five thousand men. In addition, we have taken twenty-six guns, and thirty ammunition wagons.’
‘And our losses?’
‘No more than ten thousand, sire.’
‘Good . . . good.’ Napoleon concentrated for a moment. ‘If Vandamme can keep pressing them for the direction of Pirna, then they will break when we renew our attack tomorrow.’ He sneezed again, and then waved Berthier away. ‘I will try to rest. You may wake me if there is any important news, or any sign of movement from the enemy.’
‘Yes, sire.’
Once Berthier left him, Napoleon reached for some more wood to put on the brazier, and then wrapped the blanket tightly about him and shut his eyes. He felt truly wretched - his body strained beyond the point of endurance. His body had become weak, far weaker than it had been in the glorious early years when he had been lithe, and tough, and lack of sleep and long marches had been as nothing to him. The years had marked him, as had the burdens of being a ruler. As he leaned towards the fire he felt the pressure of his stomach on his thighs and was struck by a sudden sense of revulsion at the sorry state of his physique. The thin sallow face of the young general had become almost spherical, with an unseemly roll of flesh forming under his chin. He tired too easily, and the effort of climbing the cathedral tower had left him gasping for breath by the time he reached the top. The present campaign must end soon, he reflected, before his failing health incapacitated him. If not, then he in turn would fail the army, who depended on him to guide them to victory.
If ever there was an implacable tyrant in this world, he mused miserably, it was time. The remorseless army of time, in its serried ranks of hours, days and years, swept all before it. The greatest general was as powerless as the rawest recruit in the face of such an enemy, and all men were doomed to defeat.
Napoleon was bracing himself to climb the tower again when a message came in from one of the cavalry pickets. The allied army had withdrawn. Only a small rearguard remained, covering the line of retreat.
‘Damn them!’ Napoleon growled. ‘They outnumber me and still they run. Cowards.’ He turned away from the tower steps and went over to the map table. ‘Do we know which direction they are headed?’
‘Yes, sire. South, towards Bohemia.’
‘Then we must effect a pursuit immediately. They have several hours’ lead on us. The Grand Army must be
