the losses to their ranks and the reinforcements flowing to each division. Many believed his generals were downplaying the deaths to typhus and other causes, hoping to escape charges of neglect or mismanagement (and fearing that, undermanned, they would be left out of coming battles). Dr. Larrey mentioned discrepancies between actual and reported number of sick, and one officer wrote darkly of “the cruel way in which [Napoleon] was being deceived by the reports made to him.”
The emperor contemplated stopping at several points during the advance. This was as close as he came to addressing the losses to typhus, as part of an overall plan to give his men a chance to recuperate. The lack of a strong response mystifies the modern mind, but Napoleon was ill-informed and his options were vanishingly small. He also knew that even diagnosing the problem as an epidemic would solve nothing. The army had no proven weapons to combat typhus or any other contagious disease.
For a time the emperor seemed to have settled on a break in the advance. He met with his advisers and unstrapped his sword, clattering it down on a table covered with maps. “The campaign of 1812 is finished,” he told them. “The campaign of 1813 will do the rest.” But soon his mood changed and he lashed out at his coterie, bitterly accusing them of wanting to avoid battle and return to their mistresses in Paris. Napoleon seemed to change his mind by the hour. During one bath, he decided that he must advance at that very moment and dashed out of the water stark naked to give an order. But soon he went back to his maps for further study, countermanding the order.
The emperor took a tour of the hospitals, talking with the sick and wounded, awarding medals and handing out small gifts to the soldiers. Dr. Larrey was close at hand, but Napoleon didn’t speak a word to him as he walked through the wards, an ominous sign. Napoleon kept up a cheerful banter with his men; still, he was clearly appalled at the conditions and the lack of supplies that forced the surgeons to tear up their own shirts for bandages. At the end of the tour, Napoleon erupted in rage at the doctors. “I shall send you back to Paris to care for the inhabitants of the Palais Royal,” he threatened. “You, whom I have charged with tending to the needs of our soldiers, you want to sleep in white sheets!” He even rounded on Larrey and chastised him for the lack of medical supplies. The surgeon in chief took the abuse, but when he finally spoke up to defend himself, Napoleon turned and left. Larrey was furious. He wrote Napoleon a passionate letter detailing the failures of his own supply administration to get bandages and medicine to the front, and the two soon reconciled.
But the strain of the huge sick lists was clearly showing. The surplus of men Napoleon had brought with him had provided a kind of insulation against disaster, but the excess was being burned away. He needed a decisive battle and a surrender soon.
Trying to decide on his next move, Napoleon paced hour after hour, singing snatches of French songs, chatting absentmindedly about the weather, and mumbling questions to aides who happened into his tent. “Well, what are we going to do? …Shall we stay here? …Shall we advance? …How can we stop now on the road to glory?” He was in a dialogue with himself, and one senses that the outcome was never really in doubt. When he finally announced the advance, it was with a sense of fatalism. “The danger pushes us toward Moscow,” he wrote. “The die is cast. Victory will vindicate us.”
His nature, his career, his philosophy all favored boldness. Napoleon decided to pursue.
C H A P T E R 7
The Sound of Flames
T HERE WAS A DRENCHING SERIES OF THUNDERSTORMS ON August 11 as the army marched out of Vitebsk, providing the soldiers with an extra source for drinking water. The supply trains had caught up to the main body of troops in the city, so the
The emperor contemplated stopping at several points during the advance. This was as close as he came to addressing the losses to typhus, as part of an overall plan to give his men a chance to recuperate. The lack of a strong response mystifies the modern mind, but Napoleon was ill-informed and his options were vanishingly small. He also knew that even diagnosing the problem as an epidemic would solve nothing. The army had no proven weapons to combat typhus or any other contagious disease.
For a time the emperor seemed to have settled on a break in the advance. He met with his advisers and unstrapped his sword, clattering it down on a table covered with maps. “The campaign of 1812 is finished,” he told them. “The campaign of 1813 will do the rest.” But soon his mood changed and he lashed out at his coterie, bitterly accusing them of wanting to avoid battle and return to their mistresses in Paris. Napoleon seemed to change his mind by the hour. During one bath, he decided that he must advance at that very moment and dashed out of the water stark naked to give an order. But soon he went back to his maps for further study, countermanding the order.
The emperor took a tour of the hospitals, talking with the sick and wounded, awarding medals and handing out small gifts to the soldiers. Dr. Larrey was close at hand, but Napoleon didn’t speak a word to him as he walked through the wards, an ominous sign. Napoleon kept up a cheerful banter with his men; still, he was clearly appalled at the conditions and the lack of supplies that forced the surgeons to tear up their own shirts for bandages. At the end of the tour, Napoleon erupted in rage at the doctors. “I shall send you back to Paris to care for the inhabitants of the Palais Royal,” he threatened. “You, whom I have charged with tending to the needs of our soldiers, you want to sleep in white sheets!” He even rounded on Larrey and chastised him for the lack of medical supplies. The surgeon in chief took the abuse, but when he finally spoke up to defend himself, Napoleon turned and left. Larrey was furious. He wrote Napoleon a passionate letter detailing the failures of his own supply administration to get bandages and medicine to the front, and the two soon reconciled.
But the strain of the huge sick lists was clearly showing. The surplus of men Napoleon had brought with him had provided a kind of insulation against disaster, but the excess was being burned away. He needed a decisive battle and a surrender soon.
Trying to decide on his next move, Napoleon paced hour after hour, singing snatches of French songs, chatting absentmindedly about the weather, and mumbling questions to aides who happened into his tent. “Well, what are we going to do? …Shall we stay here? …Shall we advance? …How can we stop now on the road to glory?” He was in a dialogue with himself, and one senses that the outcome was never really in doubt. When he finally announced the advance, it was with a sense of fatalism. “The danger pushes us toward Moscow,” he wrote. “The die is cast. Victory will vindicate us.”
His nature, his career, his philosophy all favored boldness. Napoleon decided to pursue.
C H A P T E R 7
The Sound of Flames
T HERE WAS A DRENCHING SERIES OF THUNDERSTORMS ON August 11 as the army marched out of Vitebsk, providing the soldiers with an extra source for drinking water. The supply trains had caught up to the main body of troops in the city, so the
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