His plan was based both on Pierre de Bourcet’s Principes de la guerre des montagnes (1775), and on an earlier strategy intended for use in a campaign against Piedmont of 1745 which had been aborted by Louis XV but which had also concentrated on capturing Ceva. Bourcet wrote of the importance of clear planning, concentration of effort, and keeping the enemy off balance. Napoleon’s campaign in Italy was to be a textbook operation in both senses of the term.
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As a result of the sidelining of military efforts in Italy, Napoleon was given only 40,000 francs — less than his own annual salary — to pay for the entire campaign.
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When Napoleon arrived in Nice, therefore, he found his army in no state to move anywhere. It was freezing and the men had no overcoats. No meat had been issued for three months and bread arrived only irregularly. Mules pulled the artillery, since all the draft-horses had died of malnutrition, and entire battalions were shoeless or in clogs, wearing makeshift uniforms often taken off the dead.
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They hadn’t been paid for months, prompting mutterings of mutiny. Fever was rampant, killing no fewer than six hundred men of the 21st Demi-Brigade in twenty days.
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Napoleon’s divisional commanders were immediately impressed by his capacity for hard work. Subordinates could never say they would attend to something and then let it slide, and the staff who had been stationary in Nice for four years suddenly felt the pulsating effect of Napoleon’s energy. In the nine months between his arrival in Nice and the end of 1796 he sent more than eight hundred letters and despatches, covering everything from where drummer-boys should stand in parades to the conditions under which the ‘Marseillaise’ should be played.
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Certainly his demands on Paris were constant, and on April 1 he managed to get 5,000 pairs of shoes delivered. An astonishing number of his letters throughout his career refer to providing footwear for his troops. Although he probably never said ‘An army marches on its stomach’, as legend has it, he was always deeply conscious that it indubitably marched on its feet.
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Napoleon was the first commander to employ a chief-of-staff in its modern sense, and he couldn’t have chosen a more efficient one. With a memory second only to his own, Berthier could keep his head clear after twelve hours of taking dictation; on one occasion in 1809 he was summoned no fewer than seventeen times in a single night. The Archives Nationales, Bibliothèque Nationale and the Archives of the Grande Armée at Vincennes teem with orders in the neat secretarial script and short concise sentences that Berthier used to communicate with his colleagues, conveying Napoleon’s wishes in polite but firm terms, invariably starting ‘The Emperor requests, general, that on receipt of this order you will …’
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His special ability, amounting to something approaching genius, was to translate the sketchiest of general commands into precise written orders for every demi-brigade. Staff-work was rarely less than superbly efficient. To process Napoleon’s rapid-fire orders required a skilled team of clerks, orderlies, adjutants and aides-de-camp, and a very advanced filing system, and he often worked through the night. On one of the few occasions when Napoleon spotted an error in the troop numbers for a demi-brigade, he wrote to correct Berthier, adding: ‘I read these position statements with as much relish as a novel.’
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A keen student of past campaigns, Napoleon knew that Beaulieu was cautious, a flaw he planned to exploit. The Austrian alliance with the Piedmontese was weak, and Beaulieu had been warned not to trust too much to it. (‘Now that I know about coalitions,’ Marshal Foch was to joke during the First World War, ‘I respect Napoleon rather less!’) Even within the Austrian army, the heterogeneous nature of the sprawling Habsburg Empire meant that its units often didn’t speak the same language; the common tongue employed by its officer corps was French. To add to Beaulieu’s problems, he had to answer to the unwieldy and bureaucratic Aulic Council in Vienna, which tended to give orders so late that by the time they arrived they had been overtaken by events. By contrast, Napoleon planned to adopt a daring manoeuvre now known in military academies as ‘the strategy of the central position’: he would remain between the two forces opposing him and would strike first at one and then at the other before they could coalesce. It was a strategy to which he would adhere throughout his career. ‘It is contrary to all principle to make corps which have no communication act separately against a central force whose communications are open’, was one of his maxims of war.
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Though it was a relatively modest engagement, Montenotte was Napoleon’s first victory in the field as commander-in-chief, and was as good for his own morale as for that of his troops. Several of his future battles were to follow the same parameters: an elderly opponent lacking energy; a nationally and linguistically diverse enemy confronting the homogeneous French army; a vulnerable spot which he would latch on to and not let go.
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Another recurring feature was the fast follow-up after victory: the day after Montenotte, Napoleon fought another engagement at Millesimo, a hamlet on the River Bormida, where he managed to prise the retreating Austrian and Piedmontese forces apart. The Austrians wanted to retreat eastwards to protect Milan, and the Piedmontese westwards to protect their capital of Turin. Napoleon was able to exploit their differing strategic imperatives. In order to escape the river valley, both had to fall back to the fortified village of Dego, where on April 14 Napoleon won his third victory in three days.
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A week later at the battle of Mondovì, a town on the River Ellero, Napoleon vigorously fixed the Piedmontese front while attempting a double-envelopment. It was an ambitious and difficult manoeuvre to pull off but devastating to enemy morale when, as now, it succeeded. The next day the Piedmontese sued for peace. This was fortunate as Napoleon had no heavy siege weaponry with which to besiege Turin. One of the reasons why he maintained such a fluid campaign was that he had no resources for anything else. He complained to Carnot that he had been ‘seconded neither by the artillery nor the engineers, as, in spite of your orders, I have not a single one of the officers I asked for’.
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On April 26 Napoleon made a stirring proclamation to his army from Cherasco: ‘Today you equal by your services the armies of Holland and the Rhine. Devoid of everything, you supplied everything. You have won battles without guns; passed rivers without bridges; accomplished forced marches without shoes; bivouacked without brandy and often without bread … Today you are amply provided for.’ He continued: ‘I promise you the conquest of Italy, but on one condition. You must swear to respect the people you deliver, and repress the horrible pillage in which scoundrels, excited by the enemy, have indulged.’
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Napoleon always differentiated between ‘living off the land’, which his army had to do by dint of insufficient supply, and ‘fearful pillage’.
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‘We lived upon what the soldiers found,’ recalled an officer of the time. ‘A soldier never steals anything, he only finds it.’ One of Napoleon’s most competent commanders, General Maximilien Foy, would later point out that if Napoleon’s troops had ‘waited for food till the administration of the army caused rations of bread and meat to be distributed, they might have starved’.
‘Living off the land’ allowed Napoleon a speed of manoeuvre that was to become an essential element of his strategy. ‘The strength of the army,’ he stated, ‘like power in mechanics, is the product of multiplying the mass by the velocity.’ He encouraged everything that permitted faster movement, including the use of forced marches which more or less doubled the 15 miles per day a demi-brigade could move. ‘No man ever knew how to make an army march better than Napoleon,’ recalled one of his officers. ‘These marches were frequently very fatiguing; sometimes half the soldiers were left behind; but, as they never lacked goodwill, they did arrive, though they arrived later.’
In warm weather the French army didn’t sleep in tents at night, because, as a veteran recalled, the armies ‘marched so rapidly that they could not have carried with them all the requisite baggage’.
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Armies moved much faster at the end of the eighteenth century than at the beginning due to improved road surfaces — especially after the recommendations of the French engineer Pierre Trésaguet, in his memorandum on scientific road-building of 1775, were taken up. Lighter field guns, more roads, smaller baggage-trains and far fewer camp-followers helped Napoleon’s armies to move at what he calculated to be twice the speed of Julius Caesar’s.
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In a smart ploy, Napoleon insisted on a secret clause giving him the right to use the bridge over the River Po at Valenza, knowing the news would be leaked to the Austrians and that Beaulieu would send troops to cover the bridge. He actually planned to cross the river near Piacenza, 70 miles further east.
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He had proposed the same invasion strategy then, but it had been rejected by a council of war. Then he added ‘Nothing should ever be decided by this means in an army under [my] command’, and said that these councils were only ever resorted to as ‘a cowardly proceeding’ intended to distribute blame.
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‘Youth is almost indispensable in commanding an army,’ he told Beauregard, ‘so necessary are high spirits, daring, and pride to such a great task.’
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He hoped to quell any quibbles from Paris with cash, promising to levy what he euphemistically termed a ‘contribution’ of several million francs on the Duke of Parma and suggesting one of 15 million francs from Genoa. Such ‘contributions’, once levied right across northern Italy, would allow him to pay the army half its wages in silver, rather than the despised mandats territoriaux, paper money that constantly depreciated in value. Saliceti — for whom Napoleon had found a post organizing the Army of Italy, having clearly forgiven him for the incident in Antibes prison — appears to have hit upon the rather obvious recourse of paying the army first, before shipping the balance back to the cash-strapped Directory. Nothing short of military defeat demoralizes a country so totally as hyper-inflation, and the Directory, led by Barras since Vendémiaire, desperately needed the bullion that Napoleon was to send.
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He was determined that Italy — or at least the parts that had opposed him — would be mulcted not merely of cash, but also of its great art.
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The rulers of those places had every cause to tremble, for many of their finest treasures were destined for the art gallery in Paris known as the Musée Central des Arts from its opening in 1793 until 1803, then as the Musée Napoléon until 1815, and after that as the Musée du Louvre.
The French connoisseurs and curators appointed by Napoleon to choose which objets d’art to remove argued that bringing the greatest examples of Western art together in Paris actually made them far more accessible. ‘Formerly it was necessary to climb the Alps and wander over whole provinces in order to gratify this learned and dignified curiosity,’ wrote the Briton Rev. William Shephard in 1814, but ‘the spoils of Italy are now brought together almost under the same roof, and there thrown open to the whole world’.
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A committed bibliophile, he would declare that he wanted to ‘collect in Paris in a single body the archives of the German Empire, those of the Vatican, of France, and of the United Provinces’.
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Napoleon made a dash for Piacenza in the dukedom of Parma, bypassing several river defence lines and threatening Milan. This was the first example of what was to become another favoured strategy, the manoeuvre sur les derrières, getting behind the enemy. Both the ‘dashes’ for Vienna in 1805 and 1809 and his strategic movements in Poland in 1806 and 1807 were to mirror this original dash to cross the Po.
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After concluding an armistice with the Duke of Parma, whose territory he had so casually invaded, Napoleon sent to Paris twenty paintings, including works by Michelangelo and Correggio, as well as Francesco Petrarch’s manuscript of the works of Rome’s greatest poet, Virgil.
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Yet it was this frenzied spirit — known as ‘the French fury’ — that often gave Napoleon an edge in battle once his harangue had played on regimental pride and whipped up patriotic fervour.
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The storming of the bridge at Lodi quickly became a central story in the Napoleonic legend, even though Napoleon faced only the Austrian rearguard and both sides lost around nine hundred men. It took tremendous courage to charge down a long, narrow bridge in the face of repeated grapeshot cannonades, and several of the officers who led the attacks that day – Berthier, Lannes and Masséna among them – became Napoleon’s greatest commanders. (Berthier acted as chief-of-staff, artillery captain and column commander that day, but it was the last time he was allowed to lead troops in a tactical capacity, as he was rightly considered too valuable to be risked in battle.) From the battle of Lodi on, Napoleon’s men gave him the nickname le petit caporal, in that ancient tradition of soldiers affectionately teasing commanders they admire: Julius Caesar’s men sang songs about ‘the bald adulterer’ (according to Suetonius), Wellington was called ‘Nosey’, Robert E. Lee ‘Granny’ and so on. ‘The little corporal’ was a soubriquet that Napoleon liked and encouraged, emphasizing as it did a republican ordinariness of which he was in fact divesting himself.
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‘I no longer regarded myself as a simple general,’ Napoleon later said of his victory, ‘but as a man called upon to decide the fate of peoples. It came to me then that I really could become a decisive actor on our national stage. At that point was born the first spark of high ambition.’
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Vaunting ambition can be a terrible thing, but if allied to great ability — a protean energy, grand purpose, the gift of oratory, near-perfect recall, superb timing, inspiring leadership — it can bring about extraordinary outcomes.
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The systematic exaggeration of enemy losses and diminution of his own was to be a persistent feature throughout all Napoleon’s campaigns, and had of course been a feature of the writings of the classical authors with whom he was so familiar.
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Napoleon has been criticized for lying in his post-battle reports, but it is absurd to ascribe conventional morality to these reports since disinformation has been an acknowledged weapon of war since the days of Sun-tzu. (Winston Churchill once observed that in wartime, truth is so precious that she needs to be defended by a bodyguard of lies.) Where Napoleon did err, however, was in making the exaggerations so endemic that in the end even genuine victories came to be disbelieved, or at least discounted; the phrase ‘to lie like a bulletin’ entered the French language.
Designing the Model S, Walter Isaacson explains (in his biography of Elon), presented new challenges: 
