Chapter 183: Corsica (6)
Chapter 183: Corsica (6)
After pointing his baton at the map for quite some time and delivering a long explanation, Napoleon Bonaparte slowly swept his gaze across the senior officers gathered before him.
“So—what do you gentlemen think?”
At the commander’s question, everyone fell silent for a moment, resting their chins on their hands or staring at the floor or ceiling while murmuring thoughtfully.
“Any opinion is acceptable. Even if it’s raw and unrefined, speak freely.”
I give you my word—no petty grudges, no retaliation.
With the commander speaking so plainly, the golden star on his shoulder gleaming brilliantly, the officers gradually lifted their eyes and looked at Napoleon.
Finally one officer raised his hand and spoke.
“So… according to your hypothesis, Commander, the Russian Imperial Army is nothing more than a second-rate force with terrible marksmanship and poor training?”
“That’s correct.”
“Isn’t that exactly what the royalists were thinking two years ago at Amiens?”
Colonel André Masséna, now the infantry regimental commander of the National Guard and a veteran who had fought under Napoleon with the makeshift volunteer regiments at Amiens, shrugged his shoulders.
But the moment Masséna finished speaking, Napoleon shook his head.
“What are you talking about? Unlike them, I have perfectly valid reasons.”
“I’m not sure where these ‘perfect reasons’ are supposed to be.”
“First. If they are so confident in their attack, why would they inconveniently place a lake on their own left flank and a stream in their center, restricting their own movement?
Second. A firefight naturally results in fewer casualties than a bayonet charge, so why rely on bayonet charges? They may be suitable for finishing a shaken enemy or forcing a rout, but launching them at the very start of battle defies logic.
Third. Why bring barely ten artillery pieces when their force size requires more? No matter how strong infantry may be, when a cannonball lands, dozens of men turn to mush all the same.”
Napoleon raised one finger at a time as he spoke.
With each point he made, more officers began nodding in agreement.
Masséna’s words were not without merit. Napoleon understood that as well.
There was nothing more dangerous than underestimating the enemy. History was filled with generals who had ruined wars through arrogance.
But now—
For some reason, Napoleon felt strongly that his hypothesis was true.
“Commander, then should we order the troops to prepare for an attack immediately?”
“No. Why would we attack?”
“…Pardon?”
The officer who asked the question blinked in confusion.
After all, the commander had just spent the last several minutes explaining why the Russians were incompetent. Surely it was time to launch a general assault and crush them.
“You.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“If we possess the greater advantage, why should we throw ourselves against the enemy?”
“…Pardon?”
“Think about it. The food we eat, the gunpowder, the ammunition—where do they come from?”
“…From the mainland.”
“Exactly. They are shipped all the way here from Toulon. Now let me ask a different question.
The enemy. Where do the Russians get their food, gunpowder, and ammunition?”
“Uh…”
Seeing the officer hesitate, Napoleon smiled and clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“They’ll probably loot food from the local population. As for powder and ammunition, the Black Sea Fleet will have to deliver them. But with our warships roaming the sea, the longer we delay, the more their ammunition will run short. And if the British smash the Russian fleet, even better.”
“…If they resort to looting, the locals will grow increasingly hostile.”
“Exactly. Between the Russians who plunder like devils and the French who bring their own food—who do you think the locals will favor as time goes on?”
The difference between an expeditionary army and a defending army.
Defenders fight comfortably in their own land.
Expeditionary armies must maintain supply lines across great distances—unless they crush the enemy quickly and seize the enemy’s supplies.
Even Frederick the Great, the god of war himself, could not escape the tyranny of logistics. The longer a campaign dragged on, the worse it became for the invading side.
That was why he favored decisive battles.
To be honest, French doctrine itself had originally relied heavily on “local requisition.” Bread from the locals, cattle from the locals, wagons from the locals…
But Guillaume had thrown a fit.
“What do you mean requisition? That’s just looting!”
After countless sleepless nights wrestling with numbers, he had managed to establish a supply line stretching hundreds of kilometers—from Paris to Toulon, and from Toulon to Corsica.
Since the supplies were already arriving, there was no reason to argue further.
After all, receiving supplies meant the army could fight without angering the locals.
What could be more merci beaucoup than that?
“Then… what do you intend to do? Wait until the locals rise in revolt?”
“No. Deploy all the howitzers we brought and establish batteries on the ridge 1.5 kilometers west of the enemy’s axis. Only the field guns will remain on the plain.
And keep grapeshot loaded in the field guns at all times. Send all solid shot to the howitzer batteries.”
The enemy’s axis stretched across the plain beside the mountains.
If howitzer batteries were set up on the ridge and began firing down, the Russians would grow desperate.
They could not send cavalry up the mountain easily. Even if they tried to seize the batteries, it would take considerable time.
And during that time, the French could break through the weakened right flank with artillery support.
Of course, Napoleon had no intention of giving up the batteries for free.
If the Russians committed five thousand men, he might reluctantly withdraw. Until then, they would not get them.
Napoleon had no desire whatsoever to shout “Hee-hee, I’m an idiot!” while charging headfirst into the enemy’s defensive line.
“Colonel Masséna.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“You said earlier you weren’t certain about my hypothesis.”
“…Yes, that’s correct.”
“Tomorrow at noon I’ll give you two battalions. Engage the enemy lightly on their right flank. But no melee combat. Fight strictly at range.”
“Understood, Commander.”
Even if one believed a hypothesis was correct, certainty required evidence.
And when that hypothesis became a conviction shared by everyone present—
Napoleon’s spear would pierce straight into Suvorov’s chest.
“So they’ve built a defensive line?”
Perhaps that defensive line would become the Russians’ grave.
If the Russians wished to survive, they would have to grind their teeth and abandon the position they had worked so hard to construct, coming out to clash with the French army.
“Gentlemen. A truly exceptional operation is one that forces the enemy into only one inevitable choice.”
Commander Napoleon Bonaparte. End of briefing.
After the officers departed, the orderly Pétain approached Napoleon quietly.
“Um… General? May I ask something?”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Corsica is your homeland, isn’t it? If what you said is true, the Russians will abuse the local population…”
Napoleon fell silent for a moment before answering slowly.
“…They were the ones who tried to burn me alive by setting fire to the house where my father, my mother, and our whole family lived.”
And the more atrocities the Russians commit, the greater my influence in Corsica will become.
Napoleon swallowed the final sentence instead of speaking it aloud.
The innocent orderly Pétain bowed his head immediately.
“I—I’m sorry, General! I didn’t know…”
But Napoleon was already staring somewhere beyond the tents.
When he had first become a brigadier general, the world had seemed so beautiful.
But human ambition was sly.
Before he knew it, a desire to climb even higher had begun to grow in his chest.
Major General. Lieutenant General. General.
And eventually, Commander-in-Chief of the National Guard.
To reach that position, he would need a solid power base supporting him.
Of course, Guillaume was already backing him. And given Guillaume’s personality, he would never allow a gem like Napoleon to waste away in the countryside.
Still, the more insurance policies one had, the better.
The unwavering support of hundreds of thousands of Corsicans would be the first step toward becoming Commander-in-Chief of the National Guard.
…Tonight, the North Star seemed to shine especially brightly in the distant sky.
Late August, 1793.
Eastern plains of Corsica.
“1st Battalion forward! Maintain formation at 300 meters!”
“Colonel Masséna, the enemy is approaching.”
“I know. Captain Lannes, take command of the 2nd Battalion and guard the right flank. Don’t form a line—make retreat easier.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
After giving orders to Captain Jean Lannes of the 2nd Battalion, André Masséna observed through his telescope the tide of green uniforms marching steadily toward his troops.
“Not jägers. Not grenadiers. Just regular infantry. Adjutant! Are the enemy batteries silent?”
“Yes, sir!”
“…Strange. Why haven’t they fired yet, even though we’re within range?”
“Perhaps the commander’s words last night were true.”
“…Hmm.”
Masséna trailed off.
Commander Napoleon was certainly exceptional.
At Amiens he had surveyed the battlefield at a glance and issued orders instantly—something an ordinary man could never do.
But the moment someone became overconfident in their brilliance and sent others to die, that person became worse than a common fool.
Masséna hoped his superior would never become that kind of incompetent.
“Adjutant. Tell the 1st Battalion to open fire at two hundred meters—farther than the manual recommends. Just give them a scare.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
When the adjutant delivered the order, the 1st Battalion prepared for sequential firing.
Front rank kneeling.
Second rank standing.
Third rank ready.
“Fire!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The thunder of gunfire echoed across the sky, and several of the advancing green uniforms collapsed.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The French fired twice more.
Yet the Russians continued silently pushing their soldiers forward.
“Colonel! Enemy infantry at 150 meters!”
“…Change ranks and fire again.”
“But if we let them approach further, it may turn into melee combat—”
“No. We must verify the commander’s hypothesis.”
The adjutant rode again to deliver the order.
Once reloaded, the battalion fired another volley.
More green uniforms fell to the ground.
Still, the Russians did not return fire.
They simply marched closer.
“120 meters!”
“One more time.”
“80 meters!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
During five volleys from the French, the Russians continued marching forward in line formation.
Finally they raised their muskets all at once and fired.
“URAA!!!”
“Th-they’re charging!”
With empty muskets clutched tightly in their hands, the Russian infantry surged forward.
“Form melee ranks!”
“No—withdraw! Maintain column formation and pull back! Adjutant! Tell the 2nd Battalion to provide covering fire!”
“Yes, sir!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Even before the order fully arrived, the 2nd Battalion under Captain Jean Lannes calmly fired into the charging enemy’s left flank.
And only then—
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The Russian artillery finally opened fire.
“…Bonaparte was right. Bonaparte was right! They hate firefights! Withdraw both battalions! Raise the signal flag and request support fire from our howitzer batteries!”
Even before Masséna’s signal flag rose—
Napoleon’s howitzer batteries roared to life.
The first probing engagement of the campaign came to an end.
“Something feels strange.”
“What do you mean, Suvorov?”
“My instincts tell me something is wrong.”
“He’s just a twenty-four-year-old boy.”
“…Hmm.”
At Kutuzov’s remark, Alexander Suvorov lowered his telescope and let out a low murmur while watching the skirmish.