Chapter 181: Corsica (4)
Chapter 181: Corsica (4)
Corsica, Ajaccio.
“The Tsar in Saint Petersburg holds Mr. Paoli’s sacred cause in high regard, and regarding the independence of Corsica…”
Although the Russian in the green uniform standing before him continued pouring out hundreds—no, thousands—of words in heavily accented French, not a single word reached the ears of the Corsican independence leader Pasquale Paoli.
Where… exactly… had everything gone wrong?
– Borrow Britain’s power to drive out the invading French and the pro-French Corsicans assisting them.
– In return, join the British Commonwealth. Nominally serve the British king, and nominally accept a British governor.
– However, even if Corsica joins the Commonwealth, everything will merely be ceremonial. Corsica will obtain real autonomy.
Up to the first objective, all of his comrades had followed him well.
It was a pity they had not managed to burn that trashy traitor family—the Buonapartes—to death. But they had at least reduced the mansion where those bastards were born and raised to ashes, which helped vent some of the anger.
They had even smashed the most influential family in Corsica so thoroughly that the lesser pro-French sympathizers scattered across the island had panicked and fled to France.
In the end, Corsica was left not with cowardly traitors but only with those who genuinely desired independence.
What a wonderful thing that was.
But the moment Paoli presented the second objective—
The eyes of the comrades who had once looked at him with conviction and respect changed into looks of suspicion and contempt.
“Sir, didn’t you say independence?”
“Serve the British king and a British governor? Isn’t that just switching masters—from France to Britain?!”
“You’re not going to tell us to start speaking English next, are you? At least France didn’t demand we change our language!”
Anger, reproach, even sneers.
“Now listen. Whether it’s the Commonwealth or anything else, it’s all merely ‘in name.’ Real sovereignty will belong to us Corsicans. National defense, finances, the judiciary—all the things we’ve never possessed until now!”
Paoli personally stepped forward to explain.
But aside from a handful of stubborn loyalists, he could not stop the way people’s views of him changed.
“Calling the Buonapartes traitors, but isn’t Paoli the real traitor here?! At least the Buonapartes dared to stand up to France for us!”
“Come to think of it, aside from the taxes even mainland French people pay, what exactly has France taken from us?”
“Paoli is definitely trying to sell us to Britain!!”
Seditious remarks and suspicious movements stirred everywhere, and Paoli and his allies struggled to suppress them.
Meanwhile—
[THE TIMES — Guillaume de Toulon, Controller-General of Finance, arrives upon invitation from His Majesty the King of the British Empire and the Prime Minister!]
The man who could be called the head of France had sweet-talked Paoli’s strongest backer with nothing more than a clever tongue.
[THE TIMES — Prime Minister William Pitt: The revolution in France is like a second Glorious Revolution!]
Before anyone realized it, the two of them were practically holding hands in friendship.
The prestige Paoli had built by dedicating his life to the independence movement vanished under mockery that he was simply trying to serve Britain as a new master.
And Britain—whom he had tried to win over even while enduring those jeers—was now completely ignoring him.
So what choice did he have?
“Здравствуйте. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Paoli. I am Alexander Suvorov, Field Marshal of the Russian Empire and commander of the expeditionary force to Corsica.”
“…The pleasure is mine, General.”
Whether the rope he had grabbed was rotten or sturdy did not matter.
Survival came first.
“Kutuzov.”
The round-bodied officer answered when the old general called him.
“Yes, Suvorov.”
“Unless they’re from Saint Petersburg or Moscow, do not station the soldiers near the villages on this island.”
So the soldiers would not become agitated.
Kutuzov silently nodded at Suvorov’s explanation.
Even if Corsica was considered remote and backward by French standards, in Russia it was practically comparable to a glittering city.
No Russian commander wanted the serfs who had spent their entire lives digging in wheat fields to see such developed scenery.
Ignorance was happiness. Humans were creatures who erupted in uncontrollable anger the moment they realized how miserable their own circumstances were. After all, there was a saying—ignorance makes one bold.
The neighbor Ivan might have no place to sleep and beg his landlord for shelter, while I at least have a house—so life is good.
That was how Russian serfs lived, satisfied with their lot.
In some sense, the serfs whose entire wealth consisted of a modest log cabin built through a lifetime of backbreaking labor were better off not knowing their true situation. Even the poorest man in France lived better than a Russian serf.
So soldiers from Saint Petersburg and Moscow—the only places in backward Russia comparable to the centers of Europe—would guard the villages.
The countryside boys would remain stationed out in the field.
“And Admiral Ushakov?”
“The main fleet is stationed in Italy, and some scouting detachments have been split off to patrol nearby waters.”
“Good.”
Suvorov tapped the map with his baton.
“If you were the opposing commander, what would you do, Kutuzov?”
“If he has many jägers, he’ll fight in the mountains at the center of the island. If not, he’ll engage us here, where we’re stationed.”
Corsica’s terrain was eighty percent mountainous.
If the enemy had mountain-trained jägers, they would fight in the mountains. If not, they would choose the eastern coast of the island, the closest thing to flat terrain.
“Which would favor our side?”
“Well… unlike cool Russia, the climate here is humid and hot. The soldiers are already struggling to adapt. If they have to fight deep in the mountains…”
“It would be difficult. Understood.”
Suvorov pointed his baton at the eastern coast.
“We will establish our defensive axis here and prepare for defense.”
“Yes, General.”
A shallow plain about seven to eight kilometers wide stretched there.
Its left flank was protected by a large lake, while a flowing stream ran through the center, creating a natural obstacle ideal for confronting enemies attempting to cross.
The advantage of the invading Russian army was simple.
This was not their land.
Whether this Mediterranean island was lost or regained meant nothing to Russia.
They could simply sit tight here and loot the locals. Meanwhile, the French army—who actually needed to defend the territory—would grow impatient and inevitably hurl themselves against the defensive line constructed by the Russian Imperial Army.
What about Paoli objecting to looting?
For the VIP in Saint Petersburg, victory mattered far more than the fate of that man.
Late August, 1793.
Corsica’s western coast, near the port of Ajaccio.
A quiet dawn.
Shaa—. Shaa—.
Only the sound of waves filled the air.
Far out in the Mediterranean Sea before Corsica, something flickered in the distance and drifted slowly toward the island.
Whenever the waning moon slipped out from behind the clouds, dozens of shadows briefly reflected on the surface of the sea.
Then the moon would hide again, darkness swallowing the Mediterranean once more.
This repeated several times.
Creak—thud.
When the leading shadow finally reached the island, dozens of figures wrapped their muskets in cloth to prevent light from reflecting and crouched low as they rushed onto the sand.
While the advance party climbed the low sand dunes and surveyed the surroundings, one wooden boat after another began sliding onto the shore.
Cannons wrapped in cloth like the muskets.
Horses with bits in their mouths.
And soldiers.
When the final boat touched land, one of its passengers stepped onto the sand and let out a deep breath.
“How long has it been…”
Two years? Three?
If memory served, he had been a lieutenant—or perhaps a captain—back then.
Now he returned to this land with stars on his shoulders.
There was much he wanted to say to this land, but instead Napoleon Bonaparte quietly called his aide.
“Lannes.”
“Yes, General.”
“How long do you think it will take to take Ajaccio harbor?”
“Give me two hours.”
“Good. I’ll give you one battalion. Do not harm the civilians. Take it without bloodshed.”
“Of course, General.”
Quietly.
Swiftly.
“Hey—who’s there?!”
“Shh. Quiet.”
“F-French army! Mmff—!”
“If you stay quiet until morning, we will not harm you. You don’t want to be struck by a sword, do you?”
Under Napoleon’s command, one infantry battalion led by Captain Jean Lannes seized Ajaccio harbor in an hour and a half, advancing with bayonets wrapped in cloth.
“Good mor— Aaaah! The French army!”
“W-what—what is this?”
“What on earth happened overnight…”
The Corsicans who opened their doors hoping to greet another lively morning could not help but scream in shock.
No Corsican could look upon the blue-and-white uniforms filling the square of Ajaccio—the most prosperous place on the island—or the warships in the harbor flying the tricolor flag without being stunned.
When did they arrive?
Were they here for the same reason the Russians had come?
Had they come to avenge France after the Corsicans drove them out?
Everyone held their breath.
Then—
A man stepped out from the center of the French ranks.
Judging by the dazzling medals and gold embroidery decorating his uniform, he was clearly high-ranking.
After observing the townspeople for a moment, the man shouted loudly.
“Bonghjornu, Corsica!!”
“Good morning, Corsica!”
The man called out in Corsican dialect with near-native fluency, then removed his hat and bowed toward the townspeople.
And the residents of Ajaccio instantly recognized that face.
“Ah—!”
“Y-Young Master Napoleone!”
“Buonaparte has returned!!”
One spoonful of joy—at seeing a hometown boy they had once lived beside but had not seen for a long time.
And—
– Napoleone! You finally returned!
– Just how much did you give the French army to receive such lavish treatment?
– What should we do? Will he spare us after we tried to burn his entire family alive?
Another spoonful—fear of their own past, when they had burned his house and driven his family away.
The ratio of those two feelings differed from person to person.
But every Corsican present felt restless and uneasy.
“Why are you all so nervous? Did I call you here to harm you?”
“Y-Young Master. Then why…?”
“Well, since I’ve succeeded and become a general, I thought I should show off a bit to the people of my hometown.”
“…A general?”
Napoleon smirked at the frozen crowd and spoke in warm Corsican dialect.
“I hear there’s been a lot of talk about Mr. Paoli since the Buonapartes left.”
“Ah… y-yes…”
“Well, we’ll discuss the details after I crush the Russian army first.”
“Where is the Russian army?”