Chapter 189: Members of the Grand Army (2)
Chapter 189: Members of the Grand Army (2)
It felt eerie.
The air in his homeland of Russia was certainly colder, yet in terms of sheer eeriness, the air of the Mediterranean was unmatched.
It felt as though someone was watching him in the darkness where no one should be, licking their lips.
Private Dmitri of the Russian Imperial Army suddenly remembered the days when he hunted rabbits with his grandfather back home.
His grandfather, who had been close with Cossacks who lived as nomads, would always roast the rabbits they caught over a campfire while telling him interesting stories—legends of the nomads, terrifying tales of the Tatars.
Among those stories, the one that came to mind most clearly now was about hunters and prey.
“Prey never lets its guard down, Dmitri. That’s the instinct of prey. Since they never know when they might be attacked, their nerves stay constantly on edge.”
When Dmitri glanced down at his green uniform sleeve, goosebumps had risen all over his skin.
Damn it. Standing guard at an outer post before dawn, away from the main camp, was making all kinds of pointless stories surface in his mind. Why did grandfather have to tell stories like that…
“Hey, Dmitri.”
“Private! D! M! I! T! R! I!”
Snapped out of his thoughts by the voices of his seniors, Dmitri shouted sharply.
“You’re from Saint Petersburg, right?”
“Yes, sir!”
“I heard you can write too.”
“Heh, this guy Dmitri is a real elite. An elite.”
“Hey, Dmitri.”
“Private! D! M! I! T! R! I!”
“They say women in Saint Petersburg smell like roses. Is that true?”
“Th-that is not true!”
“Kid’s no fun.”
These senior soldiers—serfs conscripted from rural villages all across Russia—treated the city-born Dmitri like a toy for their amusement.
After entertaining themselves with their toy for a while, the seniors began taking out various curious items they had gathered during the day from their pockets and bags, comparing them proudly.
“Whoa, what’s this? That bright red thing—some kind of ruby gemstone? Jackpot!”
“Heh. I got a pocket watch.”
“You even know how to read the time?”
“Who cares? I’m selling it in the market anyway. As long as it ticks properly, that’s enough.”
Those items certainly had not existed earlier that morning.
If the seniors were comparing them like that, there was only one explanation.
“Uh…”
“What’s wrong, Dmitri? Ah, you’ve got something hidden too? Show us.”
“Th-those are looted goods, aren’t they? The Field Marshal clearly forbade looting…”
“What?”
The seniors exchanged glances with each other, then spoke as if the idea were ridiculous.
“You capital-born bastards really live in a flower garden. Maybe your kind lives warm and well-fed all the time, but farmers from rural villages like us bury villagers who starved during Rasputitsa every year.”
“That’s right, Dmitri. Don’t judge us too harshly. We need to grab a little extra when we can just to survive the taxes our landlords squeeze out of us.”
“…Yes.”
These were soldiers?
This was a band of brigands, not an army.
Back in Saint Petersburg, the recruiting officers had shouted, “For the glory of the Russian Empire and the Tsar!”
But what stood before Dmitri now was not glory—only barbarians obsessed with plunder.
Closing his eyes tightly in disgust, Dmitri opened them again.
“…Huh?”
Huh? Huh? What?
The senior soldiers who had been gathered around the lamp only moments ago were now lying on the ground, twitching—just like the rabbits struck by his grandfather’s arrows.
“Corporal! Why are you—”
Dmitri could not finish the sentence.
Dozens of eyes reflecting the light of his lamp stared at him from the darkness.
“Cet ami est-il le dernier? (Is this friend the last one?)”
“Oui. (Yes.)”
A man stepped forward among those eyes.
He looked utterly like a beggar. Aside from his underwear, he was practically naked, his clothes nowhere to be seen.
He twirled the dagger in his hand.
“Bonjour.”
“Eeeek! Mmmph!”
“Now, now. If you make too much noise, we’ll be disappointed.”
The French soldier who clamped a rough hand over Dmitri’s mouth spoke in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“H-how do you speak Russian…?”
“I used to work in trade. Picked up quite a few languages.”
The man continued.
“You look young. I doubt you have even the slightest desire to end your life here on foreign soil.”
Dmitri nodded frantically.
“Good. Then André Masséna will show you a way to live.”
Tell us everything you know.
“E-excuse me?”
“Didn’t you hear? Tell me everything you know about where the Russian army has placed its outposts.”
Ah… that…
As Dmitri’s eyes rolled nervously, the man quietly pressed the dagger against his stomach.
“N-no! I’ll tell you everything! I actually wanted to talk!”
“Very good. What’s your name?”
“D-Dmitri.”
“Good, Dmitri. Let’s have a pleasant conversation.”
André Masséna smiled warmly and slid the dagger back into his belt.
“The advance unit led by Colonel Masséna has neutralized the enemy observation post, Commander.”
“Fast. What time is it now?”
“Exactly three in the morning. There are about four hours left until dawn.”
“Good. Very good.”
Napoleon nodded.
Everything until now had been for this moment.
In order to face the enemy where he wanted and when he wanted, he had removed every option available to the Russians and driven them into this position.
“Launch the rafts and cross the river quickly.”
“Yes, Commander.”
The rafts that had been built beforehand in the mountains where the enemy could not see them were carried down the slope one by one and placed on the river.
Soldiers, cavalry horses, and artillery were loaded onto the rafts.
“Let’s see how you handle this, old man.”
The dawn air of his homeland Corsica felt wonderfully refreshing.
“Adjutant.”
“Yes, Field Marshal.”
“What exactly am I looking at?”
“That is…”
When the adjutant could not answer, Suvorov waved him away.
“…Bold. Very bold.”
It was the boldness of a young commander.
Over the course of a single night, the enemy commander had crossed the river rapidly and formed a battle line advancing south toward Vecchio before dawn.
That force looked to be around twenty thousand men.
Since the enemy had concentrated their main force here, there was no longer any reason to maintain defensive lines on both fronts.
“Tell Kutuzov to withdraw from the western defensive line and establish a new defensive line centered on Vecchio in case of emergency.”
“Yes, Field Marshal.”
After sending the messenger, Suvorov gathered his officers.
“Gentlemen. The enemy has crossed the river, but nothing has changed. They have placed themselves with their backs to the water. We will follow the principles of war and push them into the river to drown!”
They had missed the chance to strike while the enemy was crossing.
But that did not mean the battle was lost.
The enemy still had the river at their back. If Suvorov pushed them just once, the French would be driven into the water.
“The enemy has only one advantage over us—artillery. Therefore, we must locate the enemy artillery positions above all else. Any questions?”
“None, Field Marshal!”
From the previous battle, they had learned the French possessed roughly twenty to thirty cannons. How?
After forty years on the battlefield, you could estimate such things just by being shot at a few times.
If they could identify where those thirty cannons were positioned, they could neutralize the enemy’s greatest advantage—firepower.
“Once the artillery positions are identified, the cavalry will lead the assault and seize them. If we capture the batteries, this battle is ours!”
“Ura!”
Eighteen thousand soldiers of the Russian Imperial Army marched north from Vecchio toward Napoleon’s army.
“Commander. The enemy is approaching.”
“I can see that.”
Standing atop a high observation hill overlooking the battlefield, Napoleon lowered his telescope.
“Send word to Captain Lannes. Tell him if he wins this battle, I’ll promote him to lieutenant colonel.”
“A two-rank promotion at once?”
“Well… perhaps we can ask the Finance Minister at the harbor for a favor.”
If Guillaume blessed him, silver thread would bloom on those empty epaulettes and two stripes of overlock would appear.
That was the rank of lieutenant colonel in the French National Guard.
Two years ago, the same friend had even advanced Napoleon himself to the rank of general ahead of schedule. Asking for a favor for a talented officer or two might be possible if he talked persuasively enough.
“Friendship really comes in handy at times like this.”
“Now, now. That makes me sound like some political officer.”
…If you wear stars on your shoulders and call the Finance Minister “brother,” that does make you a political officer.
But Pétain, the orderly officer, was not foolish enough to say such things aloud.
Napoleon, unaware of the thoughts of the man standing beside him, handed over a freshly printed order.
“Take this to the howitzer battery on the mountain.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Pétain mounted behind a cavalryman and rode quickly toward the artillery position.
The howitzer battery originally established to bombard the enemy axis had naturally moved across mountains and rivers to a new position as the enemy shifted.
The artillery officer commanding the battery frowned the moment he read the order.
“Does the commander really mean this?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is practically telling us to attract the enemy’s attention.”
[Begin firing once the enemy formation reaches a distance of 1 km. Chasseurs will be sent as escort.]
Exposing such a valuable battery like this—what good could come of it?
Enemy infantry would rush here like mad.
But an order was an order.
And if escorts were provided, complaining would hardly be worthy of a French artillery officer.
“Very well. Tell the commander we will follow his orders.”
“Yes!”
“What did he say?”
“He said he will obey the order.”
“Excellent.”
Napoleon smiled.
Eighteenth-century line tactics were, frankly speaking, almost identical in every army.
Infantry fought the main battle.
Cavalry pursued retreating enemies to expand the victory.
Artillery provided supporting bombardment.
Since his days at military academy, Napoleon had been deeply skeptical of this system.
Why shouldn’t artillery be the main force?
Artillery devastates the enemy with accurate fire.
Cavalry charges to throw them into confusion.
Then infantry advances and sweeps everything away.
That was the picture Napoleon envisioned.
“Send another messenger to Lannes. Tell him to make sure our Major Lucas and the sailors do not get nervous.”
“Yes, Commander!”
The Corsican campaign would become the foundation for the battlefield Napoleon envisioned.