Major Thibault marches at the rear of the column as the road twists and turns up into the French Alps. They are making for the capital, Paris. It is not much of a column. Little more than a thousand men, and only a few horses.
Napoléon’s garrison from Elba has been joined by soldiers from the fort at Antibes where they landed on the coast. They have been marching for many days. The road narrows as it climbs into the mountains, and patches of ice have turned to a constant sheet that coats the road with white and makes it treacherous underfoot. Even the sturdy mules slip and stumble, and although Thibault rode one for part of the journey, here it is too dangerous.
They brought two cannon from the fort at Antibes, but the weapons slithered from the road many days ago and have been left lying in a frozen gully. So too their carriages. Much worse is the fate of their horses, their hooves unable to find traction on the icy road. The horses are splendid animals, fearless in the face of musket and cannonfire, hardened on the battlefields of Europe. But too many times on this deadly climb Thibault has heard the agonized scream of an injured animal, followed by the sound of a musket. Then silence.
Napoléon’s escape from the island was straightforward. L’Inconstant, a brig hired by Thibault, met them at Cavo, then sailed for the French mainland.
Already the light in the sky is dimming as the day draws to a close. The sun is an orange ball, looking for a place to hide amid the mountains.
They crest a steep rise onto a small plateau close to the village of Laffrey. The ground is flatter here, and although still icy, less treacherous.
The low sun throws their orange-rimmed shadows out across a frozen lake to the right of the road. An early-spring frosting of ice, nothing more, not strong enough to bear the weight of men or horses. The lake hems them in against the mountainside. It is a good place for an ambush. Even as Thibault thinks this, the column comes to a halt. Word quickly rustles down the line: soldiers block the path ahead.
“It was to be expected,” Thibault says to the man at his side. “The garrison at Grenoble would surely have been alerted to our route.”
“Then we will march forward and drive these vermin from the path,” Count Cambronne says.
“Might I respectfully remind you, General, of our orders,” Thibault says. “These soldiers are our brothers, merely doing their duty.”
“That is Napoléon’s opinion,” Cambronne says.
“They have chosen their arena well,” Thibault says. “We are pressed into this narrow pass, while they have the luxury of the meadow.”
To their left, woods rise steeply in tides of snow-covered trees. To their right is the smooth ice of the lake. With such a narrow front the column will be able to bring only a few muskets into the battle at any time, whereas the Grenoble troops can spread out across the width of the meadow, bringing many guns to bear on the narrow road.
“We make formation and march forward,” Cambronne says.
“We would march to our deaths,” Thibault says. He stands high on his stirrups and raises a spyglass to his eye.
“You forget,” Cambronne says, raising his own spyglass, “we march with God on our side.”
“God may be on our side,” Thibault says, “but the devil has more muskets.”
“Shoulder your muskets or be fired upon.” The voice carries to them from a man on horseback in the front ranks that face them.
“A major,” Cambronne says, lowering the spyglass. He snorts, as if to rid himself of a bad smell. “I will not waste my time. You go, Thibault. Tell him to get out of our way.”
Thibault moves slowly through his own lines, which ripple to let him through. These are the Old Guard. The elite of the French army, loyal to their exiled emperor. Veterans of Italy, Russia, and the Peninsular War. There is a constant rustling sound as the men feel for paper cartridges in their pouches.
“Shoulder your muskets,” the Grenoble major demands again, but stops as Thibault appears at the front of the column.
“Whom do I address?” Thibault asks.
“Major Lansard of the fifth infantry regiment.”
Another officer, in a colonel’s uniform, also on horseback, moves forward through the ranks behind the major. “Tell your men to shoulder their muskets.”
“Like you, we are soldiers of the French army,” Thibault says. “We are not enemies. I beg you to stand aside.”
“I cannot do that,” Lansard says. “I am set to my duty. Retire or be fired upon.”
“Your duty to whom?”
“To the king,” Lansard says.
“Then let me talk to him, face-to-face. I presume the king travels with you?” Thibault says. “Or does that plump piglet yet wallow in his trough and preen before mirrors in Paris?”
“Retire, monsieur, I cannot ask again,” Lansard says.
“You have spine, Major, but we will not retire,” Thibault says.
He begins to move forward. Behind him the soldiers of the Old Guard advance at the same pace.
“Advance no farther,” Lansard shouts.
“Make ready,” the colonel shouts. The muskets of the Grenoble men are raised into the air.
Thibault is within pistol range now, and Lansard draws his sidearm and cocks it, but leaves it pointing at the sky.
“Present,” the colonel shouts, and his men lower the muzzles of their weapons to aim at Thibault and the Old Guard behind him.
Thibault senses rather than sees the ripple in the lines behind him and turns, expecting to see Cambronne, but it is the prisoner of Elba who is making his way forward.
A man of average height, but dwarfed by the tall men of the Old Guard. One hand tucked into his waistcoat, which protrudes, potbellied. His unpowdered hair falls to his shoulders. His nose is royal, his eyes are deep-set, his complexion is sallow.
The guns of the Grenoble men waver, then lower as they recognize the familiar shape in his customary gray greatcoat and bicorne hat.
From somewhere in the rear of the column a voice calls out, “Vive l’empereur!” The cry is taken up by others. “Long live the emperor!”
There is a clatter as muskets drop to the ground and suddenly Napoléon is gone, disappearing amid a whirlwind of blue uniforms as the soldiers of Grenoble surround and embrace him.
“Take up your eagles again, for your emperor has returned and France shall once more rise to greatness!” Thibault shouts.
In shock and confusion the Grenoble colonel turns his mount and canters away, with just one disbelieving glance back over his shoulder.
The crowd parts and Lansard emerges on foot, the soldiers moving away from him as he approaches.
He draws his sword, touches it briefly to his hat, then reverses it, offering it hilt-first to Napoléon.
Napoléon takes the sword, but immediately reverses it and offers it back to Lansard.
“You, Major, had the spine to stand against Napoléon!” he says. “I am sure such courage would find a place in the emperor’s army.”
Lansard says nothing, bowing his head.
Napoléon nods. “How many men have you?”
“Six thousand in the garrison,” Lansard says. “And four thousand more in Draguignan.”
“Then tomorrow we march for Paris,” Napoléon says.