There was a brief silence before General Lannes thumped his fist down, clattering the cutlery and dishes around him. ‘Shit!’

‘Quite,’ Napoleon responded. ‘As of yesterday, Masséna was still discussing terms. That will hold an element of the enemy in place around Genoa, but the bulk of their army is now free to face us. The question is, will they try to slip past us and reestablish their lines of communication with Austria, or will they fight?’

‘Fight?’ Lannes snorted. ‘They’ll run all the way back to Mantua and duck down behind the walls.’

Napoleon nodded.‘I agree. In which case we must make them fight.As soon as possible, before they can concentrate their forces. Lannes, your division is closest to Masséna.You will cross the Po at once and march on Genoa. Make contact with the enemy as soon as possible. The rest of the army will force march to catch up with you. Desaix!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There’s no more time for tall tales.’

Desaix grinned. ‘No, sir.’

‘Then you will take two divisions and set off after Lannes. Gentlemen!’ Napoleon stood up and leaned forward across the table, resting his weight on his knuckles. ‘If we can bring the enemy to battle then this campaign can be decided in a matter of days, weeks at the most. Make sure you let every man in the army know it.’ He poured himself a glass and raised it. ‘To victory!’

Marching through driving rain the Army of Reserve crossed the Po and closed on the enemy. As they marched Napoleon read the reports from Murat. It was clear that the Austrians were advancing north from Genoa towards the fortress city of Alessandria. If they reached it first then they could make for the north bank of the Po and threaten Napoleon’s supply lines leading back through the Alpine passes. Then, on 13 June, Murat’s scouts reported that the enemy was retreating on Genoa.

‘Are you certain?’ Napoleon stared at Berthier in surprise.

His chief of staff gestured to the map that covered the table between them. All the latest sightings of enemy formations had been pencilled in. ‘It’s difficult to be sure, sir. The enemy cavalry is stronger than ours, and is doing a good job of screening their army. But, from what Murat’s scouts are reporting, I can think of no other explanation.’

‘Then we must stop them, at once.’ Napoleon leaned over the map and stabbed his finger at one of the blue boxes Berthier had marked on the map earlier. ‘Desaix . . . Order Desaix to march south towards Novi. He is to try to hook round and cut across their line of march. If he can do that, then we can close the trap on Melas.’

Berthier glanced up with a questioning look. ‘Are you sure that’s wise, sir? To divide our army when we’re so close to the enemy?’

Napoleon patted him on the shoulder. ‘Berthier, if our enemy was advancing, then of course I would concentrate our strength. But he’s not. He’s in full retreat, and we cannot afford to let him escape us. If Melas does reach Genoa then we’ll be obliged to lay siege to the town and the campaign will drag on for months. So,’ he tapped the map, ‘we’ll make for this village, Marengo, while Desaix blocks his line of retreat. Then we will have our battle.’

Berthier stared at the map. ‘I hope so, sir.’

The next morning dawned clear and bright and Napoleon rose early. He was in high spirits. Patrols had been sent towards the small enemy force covering the bridge across the Bormida river. On the far bank, the reports said, lay the bulk of the enemy’s army. Now that he knew where they were, it only remained to cross the river and fight the battle. If things went true to form, the Austrians would be preparing defensive works and waiting for the enemy to come to them, Napoleon mused, as he leaned over the map. He ate a leisurely breakfast, making notes for the coming battle.

He looked up at the faint sound of a few cannons being fired, over towards the Bormida. The sounds did not increase in intensity and he put it down to a skirmish around the bridgehead between the enemy and General Victor’s men, and turned his attention back to the map. Around him the tents of Watrin’s division stretched out in ordered ranks. After the tiring marches of recent days the men were enjoying their rest and their relaxed chatter and singing drifted across the camp. At length, Napoleon was satisfied that he had worked out the details of his attack and was about to call for Berthier when a staff officer strode up towards his table and saluted.

‘Message from General Victor, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘He asks you to come at once. The enemy is attacking.’

‘I know. I heard the guns earlier. I’m sure that General Victor can contain the enemy’s bridgehead.’

The officer shook his head. ‘General Victor says the entire enemy army is crossing the river.’

Napoleon stared at him for a moment and then laughed. ‘Oh, come now! The man must be exaggerating. The Austrians wouldn’t dare . . . surely.’ A cold feeling of anxiety pricked the base of his spine, and he stood up. ‘Oh, very well, I’ll have a look. Fetch Junot and have our horses readied.’

As they rode up the road towards Marengo, Napoleon was still thinking over the plans of his attack, and was frustrated that he had not been able to commit them to paper. If this alarm proved to be over little more than a feint to cover the Austrian retreat on Genoa, then General Victor would deserve a firm dressing down for wasting Napoleon’s time instead of dealing with the matter on his own. He reached the far side of the village and rode up to the small rise that gave fine views towards the Bormida.There he suddenly reined in, his back stiffening as he surveyed the flat plain in front of him. A mile away, the men of Victor’s corps, some ten thousand men, were forming up to face the enemy. A short distance beyond them, and spreading out along the bank of the Bormida river, were dense columns of Austrian infantry marching directly towards the French lines. To the right large cavalry formations kicked up clouds of dust as they edged towards the French flanks. His experienced eye calculated that over thirty thousand of the enemy must be across the river already. Within moments they would attack, and the anxiety he had felt shortly before now became fully fledged fear for the fate of his divided army, surprised by the sudden advance of the Austrians.

He turned to Junot. ‘A message to Desaix.Take it down.’

While he waited for Junot to take out his notebook and pencil Napoleon cast a last look at the enemy wave closing on the thin ribbon of Victor’s men, and he felt rage at himself for underestimating his enemy so fatally. He turned back to Junot, saw that he was ready, and dictated. ‘I had thought to attack Melas. He has attacked me first. For God’s sake come back to the army if you still can. Or all is lost . . .’

Chapter 54

Marengo, 14 June 1800

The Austrian attack rolled forward just as Lannes’s and Murat’s hastily roused divisions began to arrive on the battlefield. Napoelon glanced at his watch. Just gone eleven in the morning. The enemy would have enough time to break the French army and begin a pursuit long before the fall of night obliged them to break contact. He clenched his fist and struck his thigh.

Why did I not see this?

They were outnumbered at least two to one. Worse still, the Austrians completely outgunned them and their cavalry was better mounted and far more numerous. Already they were manoeuvring to Napoleon’s right towards the village of Castel Ceriolo. The flat dry landscape around Marengo would be ideal for large, sweeping movements of cavalry and Napoleon saw at once that his goal in the imminent battle was not to achieve a victory, but simply to avoid annihilation.

A signal gun fired from the Austrian forces massed to the west and, an instant later, the batteries formed up in front of the infantry spat tongues of flame and were instantly swallowed up in a bank of smoke. A moment later the sound of the discharge rolled across the battlefield like thunder as roundshot carved bloody paths through the ranks of Victor’s men.