Chapter 190: Members of the Grand Army (3)
Chapter 190: Members of the Grand Army (3)
“Gentlemen of France! You fire first!”
“No, no, we thank you but must decline! The Russian gentlemen who have traveled such a long distance should fire first!”
“Hahaha!”
“Hahaha!”
If people of later generations heard this, they would likely tilt their heads and ask, “What kind of nonsense is this?”
Yet seven kilometers north of Vecchio in October 1793, officers from both sides waved their hats and shouted such things across the battlefield.
The truth was simple: with the miserable accuracy of muskets in line warfare, the side that fired first was at a disadvantage. Thus, when battle began, officers on both sides politely yielded the first shot to the other.
While time passed in this strange stalemate, the heart of Alexander Suvorov, Commander-in-Chief of the Russian forces, burned with anxiety.
“If the port is blocked, we are finished.”
He was restless.
The sea already belonged to the French. Even if Admiral Ushakov had managed to damage the French fleet, Toulon—the French naval base—lay only a short distance away.
The moment ten or so warships finished repairs there and rushed to Corsica to blockade Vecchio, the Russian army on this cursed island would slowly wither away with no path of retreat.
By then it would be too late to do anything.
No matter what, Suvorov had to push the enemy back to the mainland now.
As he brooded over this grim thought, an officer rode up from the front line.
“Field Marshal.”
“What is it?”
“The French say they will fire first.”
“I see.”
At least that was something fortunate.
Just as Suvorov thought so, an unusual sound reached his ears from the sky.
Whoooooosh!
“This is…”
“Shell! Artillery!”
“Take cover!”
“Protect the Marshal!”
Boom! Boom!
Iron masses falling from the sky tore through the Russian formation, turning several unlucky soldiers into red and green pulp.
“These dishonorable cowards! No chivalry at all! Instead of bullets they fire artillery!”
“What chivalry? If you’ve marched into another country’s land with dirty boots, you should be prepared for this. Besides, we never specifically said what we would shoot.”
Suvorov erupted in anger, while across the battlefield Napoleon merely laughed.
But Suvorov had no way of knowing that, so he could only bark orders at his men.
“Where did that fire come from?!”
“The ridge! At least thirty guns!”
“Thirty!”
Thirty guns—almost the entirety of the enemy’s artillery strength.
Revealing their hand from the beginning—what unexpected fortune.
Was it a mistake born from the enemy commander’s inexperience?
Or a trap laid by the enemy commander?
Suvorov hesitated.
But no matter how he considered it, the situation facing the Russian army was too urgent to ignore an opportunity to cripple the enemy artillery.
The French Navy might appear at sea at any moment.
And the hostility of the occupied civilians was growing by the day.
Once he thought that far, Suvorov hardened his resolve.
“Prepare the cavalry! Send the Chasseurs as well—take the ridge!”
“Ura!”
If they captured that damned artillery battery, the battle would be theirs.
“Chasseurs, open fire!”
“Send them to join dead Pyotr!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Aaagh!”
“Ivanov is down!”
“Advance! Advance! Capture the battery! Ura!”
As the Russian soldiers climbed the slope, the French Chasseurs guarding the battery showered them with bullets like a restaurant owner generously serving food to loyal customers.
“The enemy cavalry has dismounted! We are too heavily outnumbered!”
“Uraaa!”
Once the Russian cavalry dismounted and joined the attack, the French were gradually pushed back.
“Good. We’ve drawn them in far enough. Artillerymen, listen! Disable the guns and retreat!”
“Yes!”
While the Chasseurs bought time, the French artillerymen hammered wooden spikes into the cannon touchholes to render the guns unusable, then fled quickly toward the main army.
“Our flag is raised over the enemy battery! The artillery position now belongs to Russia!”
“Although the enemy disabled the cannons before retreating, their artillery strength is effectively broken now, Your Excellency.”
“Good. All forces—launch a full attack.”
Bwoooo! Ba-bam! Ba-ra-bam!
“Ura! Russia! Ura! Tsar!”
As the Russian military band sounded their horns, a green tide of soldiers began advancing toward the blue ranks of the French army.
Captain Jean Lannes watched them approach with a stern expression and raised his hand.
“First rank, aim.”
“Aim!”
Click. Clack.
At the sergeant’s command, the soldiers lowered their muskets and leveled them horizontally at the approaching Russians.
Moments later—
“Fire.”
“Fire!”
Bang!
“Urk!”
“Gah!”
The moment Captain Lannes lowered his hand, hundreds of bullets struck the Russian front ranks and dropped most of them instantly.
“Russian Ura!”
Bang!
The Russians returned fire once before charging the French line with bayonets gleaming.
“Major Lucas.”
“Huff… huff… What is it, Captain Lannes?”
“Remain calm. Our infantry will protect you.”
“Damn it, that’s easy for you to say. We’ve only fired cannons at sea.”
“Well, if we break here we fall into the river. Our army doesn’t know how to swim. You’re not slacking because you can swim, are you?”
“…Fine! We’ll do it!”
Major Jean Étienne Lucas, first officer of the Guillaume Tell, bit his lip and raised his sword.
“All sailors! Prepare to fire! Captain Lannes—open the line!”
“Infantry, open ranks!”
“Lannes! Now!”
Major Lucas and Captain Jean Lannes at the front line—and Napoleon watching through his telescope—shouted simultaneously.
“Fire!”
The infantry opened a gap, and through it the naval cannons Napoleon had borrowed from the Guillaume Tell roared.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Grapeshot.
Countless iron balls the size of children’s marbles blasted forward with a deafening roar.
“Ghk!”
“Aaaagh!”
“Grr…!”
Ten seconds.
Only ten seconds for the Russian soldiers who had been charging with bayonets to become something that had once been human.
“W-what…?”
“Second volley!”
The sailors fired again into the rear ranks of the shocked Russians.
“Ah…!”
“Run! Run!”
“Stop! Stop! Deserters will be shot!”
Witnessing men turned into pulp before their eyes—twice in a row—the Russian soldiers finally broke and fled.
“Lieutenant Colonel Poniatowski!”
“Yes, Commander Bonaparte.”
“Are the Poles ready?”
“Commander, the Polish people have been ready since the day Warsaw was taken.”
“Good.”
Napoleon smiled.
“Wipe them out.”
“As you command.”
Józef Poniatowski drew his cavalry saber.
“Poles! Rise!”
Behind the low hill, countless Polish cavalry who had been kneeling with their horses rose to their feet.
“Poles! Raise your lances! Charge!”
“Rip those ungrateful Russians apart!”
“King Jan Sobieski! Bless our Winged Hussars!”
With pistols at their waists and long lances in their hands, the cavalry surged forward over the hill.
More than a thousand warhorses thundered across the ground as their riders roared.
“The Winged Hussars have arrived!”
“The Winged Hussars are here!”
“Polish cavalry rides!”
“Enemy cavalry ahead! Form square!”
“The losses are too great! We can’t form a square!”
“Aaaagh! Run!”
The Russian formation had already been shattered by repeated artillery fire.
With soldiers lying on the ground as torn masses of flesh, forming a defensive square was impossible.
The distance closed instantly, and the cavalry lances flashed in the sunlight.
“Die, invaders!”
“Aaagh!”
“Mercy!”
One soldier was lifted into the air on the tip of a lance.
Others, lucky enough to avoid lances and pistols, were instead struck by charging warhorses.
Bones snapped with sickening cracks.
“Send word to Masséna and Lannes. Advance the infantry.”
“Yes, Commander Bonaparte!”
“Advance! Sing the marching song—La Marseillaise!”
The French military band sounded their horns, and the soldiers marched forward in rhythm.
Arise, children of the fatherland, the day of glory has arrived!
Against us rises the bloody banner of tyranny!
To arms, citizens!
March on, march on!
What do they want, these hordes of slaves?
These traitors and plotting kings?
For whom these vile chains prepared?
For us, Frenchmen!
Liberty, beloved liberty,
Fight with your defenders!
Tremble, tyrants and you traitors,
If we fall, new heroes will rise to fight you!
“Infantry! Charge! Drive them all back!”
“Charge!”
Bayonets stabbed into stragglers left behind by the cavalry.
Shots rang out against those trying to flee.
The blue tide of the French army rolled forward against the Russians.
“Hold them! We must cover the retreat to the city!”
“Russian cavalry dies here today!”
“Gr-grapeshot! Aaaagh!”
Even the last Russian reserve returning from capturing the howitzer battery was shattered.
Napoleon succeeded in pushing the enemy entirely back into the city.
“We advance to the front of Vecchio.”
“But Commander, if this becomes urban combat our casualties will be severe. And the troops that defended the western sector have entered the city as reserves.”
“That’s why I said to the front, not inside. Our Russian old man might have a heart attack otherwise.”
Better to leave them an escape route.
When a cornered rat starts biting the cat, things become unpleasant.
“…Our losses are severe. Eight thousand casualties, one thousand missing.”
“Most of the artillery has been captured. We no longer have the means to project firepower.”
A terrible defeat. A complete defeat.
No one said the word aloud, but everyone understood.
The expeditionary army was finished.
With half their veteran troops lost, nothing could be done.
Trapped inside the city, the Russians had only two choices: die slowly here or evacuate as many men as possible and flee.
Finally Suvorov spoke.
“We withdraw.”
“Field Marshal…”
“Enough. This is entirely my responsibility. I was inferior to the enemy commander. I was the one who walked into his trap. Kutuzov, you bear no blame.”
Suvorov continued.
“How many ships remain in the harbor?”
“Five frigates belonging to the Imperial Navy.”
“How many men per ship?”
“If packed tightly… perhaps one thousand.”
“Five thousand…”
Five thousand out of twenty thousand.
Only a quarter could return home.
“I have no face left before the Tsar.”
“Can I come out now?”
“No. Stay there one more day.”
“Damn it.”
Guillaume de Toulon.
One more night sleeping alone on the ship.