Chapter 184: Corsica (7)
Chapter 184: Corsica (7)
A probing battle.
In other words, an encounter battle.
No matter how one described it, both the French and Russian armies knew that the clash the previous day had merely been a warm-up before the real battle began.
Thus, it was only natural that murmured discussions drifted out of the Russian army’s staff tent.
“What are the casualties?”
“Thirty dead, and about twice that number wounded.”
“If we lost a hundred men fighting the French instead of those ragtag Polish militias or the Turk kebab fellows, that’s actually fairly cheap.”
“Indeed it is, Suvorov.”
The field marshal, now over sixty years old, slowly circled the table in the center of the tent where a map lay spread out.
What was the enemy commander—the twenty-four-year-old enemy commander—thinking right now?
Was he planning to set up artillery on the ridge and hammer the axis?
Or were the batteries merely supporting elements for a general offensive?
Would he attack at all?
Or was he hoping the Russian army would simply wither away from supply shortages?
“Kutuzov. How much ammunition remains?”
“Enough for three major engagements with the enemy.”
“And artillery shells?”
“The same.”
“Not bad.”
Three opportunities to test ourselves in battle meant the logistical situation was still comfortable.
In that case—
“What about food?”
“I have ordered the start of ‘local requisition’ beginning today. Since it is harvest season, we should be able to sustain ourselves for several months without additional supplies.”
“Hm. Good.”
Ammunition, the lifeblood of an army. Artillery shells. Even food.
For now, they had plenty.
Brigadier General Bonaparte, was it?
You brat. I don’t know whether your plan is to starve us out or force a decisive battle, but this Suvorov has spent forty years in battlefields filled with gunfire and blades. Do you think I’ll fall for the shallow schemes of some youngster?
September, 1793.
Harvest season for wheat.
Just as farmers everywhere gather the fruits of their labor at the end of the agricultural year, the farmers of Corsica were busily collecting the crops they had nurtured all year across the golden fields.
“Hey, Lorenzo! How’s the harvest this year? Any good?”
“About the same as last year. Still, looks like we’ll manage to get by.”
“Ah-ha! So you’re saying you still won’t be getting married this year either! You could just say ‘I’ll remain a bachelor again this year!’ Why twist your words like that?”
“If teasing me gets you free bread or something, then go ahead. Otherwise why are you acting like more of an asshole every day?”
While the two childhood friends worked busily sweeping the golden grain with their sickles—
“Huh? What’s that?”
“…? Why are you staring at the mountains instead of working?”
“Hey, Lorenzo. Aren’t those Russians? Why are they here?”
“Russians?”
“Over there.”
Lorenzo straightened his aching back and followed the direction his friend pointed.
Sure enough, several soldiers in green uniforms were walking steadily toward them.
As they approached, the sunlight gleamed menacingly off their blades.
Without realizing it, Lorenzo and his friend felt their palms sweating around the farm tools in their hands.
“Greetings. I am Ensign Petrovich of the Russian army.”
“Ah… yes…”
The officer barely acknowledged the farmers’ greeting before pulling out a scroll from his coat and reading aloud a long passage in incomprehensible Russian.
“Sir… we’re just farmers. We don’t understand Russian. Could you please explain it in French like you did when you introduced yourself?”
“It’s simple. In the course of protecting Corsican independence, the Russian army must requisition certain supplies.”
“Re… requisition?”
Lorenzo and his friend glanced at each other briefly before turning back to the officer.
“If it’s requisition… how much?”
“Hmm.”
The officer paused before pointing toward the wheat they had harvested all day.
“That much will do.”
“…Are you joking?”
“If you take all of that, what are we supposed to eat!?”
Without thinking, Lorenzo raised his finger toward the officer’s face.
Instantly, the soldiers behind the officer rushed forward and leveled their bayonets at him.
“W-what are you doing!?”
“Привет! Вы сейчас говорите о крепостном праве? (Hey! Are you talking back like a serf?)”
“What the hell are you saying! Speak French!”
“Рядовой Иванов! остановка! (Private Ivanov! Stop!)”
At the officer’s sharp command, the soldier lowered the bayonet that had been aimed at Lorenzo’s chin.
“My apologies. But the field marshal’s orders are orders.”
“But that—!”
Lorenzo and his friend wanted to protest further.
But fearing the gleaming bayonets might truly pierce their stomachs this time, they held back.
“Ivanov! Vladimir! Strip everything edible from there to here!”
“Yes, Lieutenant!”
Foreign soldiers they had never seen before began picking up the wheat Lorenzo had spent an entire year cultivating with care.
“No! Stop! That’s next year’s seed grain!”
“To hell with that. What the hell is this bastard babbling about?”
“Urgh!”
A heavy military boot slammed into Lorenzo’s lower stomach.
He collapsed to the ground clutching his abdomen.
“Cough—!”
“Lorenzo!”
The Russian soldiers ignored the Corsican lying on the ground and continued gathering armfuls of golden wheat.
“Look at this bastard. Living in such a big house but whining over a few grains of wheat?”
“Ptui! Damn luxurious French frogs… Heh, Lieutenant! Next time let’s bring the whole platoon and loot the place!”
“Good. Men, we return.”
It seemed the Russian soldiers would not go hungry anytime soon.
—
“Teacher Paoli! The Russians! The Russians!”
“Teacher! Lorenzo even lost his seed grain! What is he supposed to plant next year?”
“Is this the independence you promised us?”
“What—what is the meaning of this!?”
“Oh. Teacher Paoli. What seems to be the problem?”
“What seems to be the problem? What seems to be the problem? WHAT SEEMS TO BE THE PROBLEM?! Marshal Suvorov! Corsica is not your colony! We are clearly an independent state! This is nothing short of colonial plunder!”
Even as Pasquale Paoli shouted in fury, Suvorov did not even blink.
“Teacher Paoli may not be familiar with military affairs, but requisitioning is quite common in wartime.”
“…What?”
“Do you not want the Russian army to defeat the French? If you cannot even provide volunteers, then keep quiet and provide supplies properly.”
“Uh…”
The political leader of Corsica could no longer protect his own people.
“The Russian army has begun requisition operations.”
“The Corsicans’ anger toward the Russians is considerable.”
“Criticism toward Pasquale Paoli, the leader of the Corsican independence faction, is also increasing.”
“That’s good news. If they’re going to throw themselves into the pit willingly.”
Napoleon replied after refreshing himself with a sip of wine.
It had only been two or three days since the requisitions began, yet the reaction was already so intense.
Just how brutally were the Russians stripping the island?
“Release some of our surplus supplies to the locals. And deploy the gendarmerie in Ajaccio day and night to keep our soldiers under strict discipline. This war will not be fought with guns and swords—it will be a war of public opinion.”
“…A war of public opinion?”
“That’s right.”
If the French simply waited, the Russians would keep scoring spectacular own goals.
And once the Corsicans grew disgusted with the Russians’ harsh civil policies, they would naturally think:
At least the French are better.
These people had lived their entire lives in Corsica.
They knew the terrain so well they could navigate it with their eyes closed.
If Napoleon won them over, he would not even need scouts—information would come directly to him.
“Let’s just sit tight like this for one month.”
Soon enough, the people who had once burned his house would come kneeling before him, begging for salvation.
Napoleon poured himself another glass of wine and drank with satisfaction.
Ah. As expected of Guillaume’s wine collection.
It never disappointed.
When I return to Paris, I should quietly take a few more bottles.
Italian Peninsula.
Neutral state—the Republic of Genoa.
“A dispatch from the patrol frigate! The enemy fleet has entered the Ligurian Sea, about 100 kilometers north of Corsica!”
“How large?”
“Thirteen ships of the line! Estimated composition: one first-rate and twelve third-rates!”
“…Thirteen ships of the line? Are you certain?”
Vice Admiral Fyodor Ushakov, commander of the Black Sea Fleet, asked his adjutant again to confirm what he had just heard.
“Yes, Admiral. That report came from our patrol frigate.”
“Hm. One hundred guns on the first-rate, and more than sixty guns on each of the others… The French Navy still has that kind of strength?”
According to the French naval officers who had defected to Russia, the French navy had supposedly collapsed completely.
‘The French navy? Completely ruined! It’ll be half a century before they recover!’
Yet this situation suggested something very different.
“The French really are masters of exaggeration. If they had exaggerated a little less, perhaps that revolution of theirs wouldn’t have happened.”
“Indeed, Admiral.”
“Anyway, once we smash this fleet, the Mediterranean will become a battlefield between Britain and Russia alone.”
Ushakov rose from his seat.
“Are preparations complete?”
“Yes! The flagship St. Paul is ready.”
“Good. Then we sail. The wind favors us—we can head south quickly toward the enemy.”
“Hurrah!”
Riding the southern wind, the eleven ships of the line of the Black Sea Fleet departed from the harbor of Genoa.
“A report from the scouting vessel! The Black Sea Fleet has left Genoa!”
Horatio Nelson nodded and spoke to his adjutant.
“Good. Raise the signal flag.”
“What signal shall we send?”
“Hmm…”
Nelson stroked his chin for a moment.
Then he looked at the French tricolor fluttering atop the mast and spoke slowly.
“France expects that every man will do his duty.”