Hallucination
That afternoon, the anti-French coalition prepared for a total assault. Their army of 700,000 finally split into legions. Though unintended, 100,000 Dutch troops marched north toward the Moselle River, while 150,000 Austrian and Prussian regulars organized their artillery and cavalry. The 350,000 Italian mercenaries hired in Prussia's name formed ranks for the siege.
"The first to place a ladder against the walls gets 100,000 francs! The first to climb atop them gets another 100,000 here!"
With classic, reliable promises, they steeled themselves for the siege. The minor states of the Holy Roman Empire wedged their forces among the Italian mercenaries, preparing likewise. They dismantled supply wagons, using the materials to build ladders. As dusk fell, 400,000 mercenaries stood ready with torches in hand. The Austrian and Prussian troops watched from behind the artillery.
Metz's defenders prepared boiling oil and grapeshot atop the walls to greet them. Once the sun fully set, the 400,000 infantry extinguished their torches and vanished into the darkness. Yet in the eyes of Metz's garrison, their ranks lingered like an afterimage—a silhouette of 400,000 against the black. The rustle of grass mimicked footsteps, and in that razor-edge tension where dozens of ladders might appear any second, "Artillery fire—commence!"
The coalition's barrage began. Cannon roars echoed only three times. Shells struck Metz's concrete walls and slid harmlessly down, or buried themselves in the earth before the ramparts.
"Counter-battery fire!"
Metz's defenders, having gauged distances before nightfall, unleashed indirect fire. Distant impacts rumbled, but nothing seemed to hit. Still, they kept pounding away. If they stopped, the enemy's guns could advance and lob shells over the walls into the city. The ravelin gunners lit up the field with incendiary arrows before the moat, firing grapeshot toward any sounds.
Clop-clop—roar!...
Between the opposite ravelin, from the main gate they'd least suspected, came the thunder of hooves and cheers. Sounds of crossing the moat, slicing water. Distant, perhaps a detachment, the noise faint—but audible, and that mattered.
"Enemy crossing the moat! Those at the gate, brace for blasts—focus defenses there! Artillery! Lob grenades at the main gate moat! Don't worry if the gate takes damage! Fire!"
Recalling the 400,000 they'd glimpsed before dusk, the garrison poured fire onto the gate. Grenades packed lethal punch, but couldn't kill hundreds at once. A dud might claim one; lucky, two or three. An explosion could shred twenty or thirty nearby. Against 400,000 mercenaries, they'd need at least 20,000 rounds to stop them. The defenders unleashed hundreds of grenades on the gate moat and surrounds with genocidal fury.
It shattered the gate's hinges, toppling it outward.
"Gate's down! First Infantry Company—rally to the main gate! Triple phalanx formation! Artillery—cease grenades! Watch for friendly fire! Use incendiaries to secure sightlines—grenades only on confirmed clusters! Damn, nothing visible... Third Company, direct fire on the breached gate! First and Second, aimed shots the instant you spot them! Legs first!"
The defenders swarmed the gate with do-or-die resolve to halt 400,000—but
"Why isn't anyone coming?"
Beyond the gate lay only burning fields.
"Hold position. First Company, fix bayonets and brace for shock. We'll scout at dawn."
Metz's garrison stayed vigilant through the night against possible ambushes. As dawn broke and the sun rose, voices cried from the ravelin:
"Nothing before the main gate!"
With that, Metz's 6,000 defenders collapsed.
"Then what the hell did we fight last night?"
"We'll find out now."
Colonel Henri, Metz's wartime mayor and garrison commander, dispatched scouts to the gate. They found nothing—no enemy corpses, no weapons. Not even the thousands of ladders the 400,000 had held. No owners for those dozens of hoofbeats at the gate. In the grenade-ravaged plain, the scouts discovered only a few of their own duds.
July 15, 1781
600,000 routed troops marched east. From dawn to dusk, nonstop flight left even the horses exhausted. The anti-French coalition had no choice but retreat. They crumbled before a concrete structure of mere scrap—not rebar.
18-pounders couldn't pierce 10 centimeters of curved walls. Even battle-hungry generals knew pushing a siege against intact walls defied common sense. Feigning attack, the coalition withdrew.
"Field Marshal, sir. Powder and shell count complete. 1,380 rounds for long-range barrage; 2,110 for field battle. Long-range limited by powder to 1,380; field by shells to 2,110."
"Understood. The detained merchants?"
"Marching with us."
"Keep them secured."
Two months' expedition yielded nothing; morale hit rock bottom. Mostly Italian unemployed to start, it hadn't been high—but defeat without combat bred utter pessimism, the sense nothing would work. Worse, the detained merchants to prevent leaks wailed injustice, heads-down Italian mercenaries stung by conscience as they trudged.
"The ironworks. Passing here, I thought all would go smoothly. All illusions."
"You did your best, Field Marshal."
"Best isn't enough—it needed results."
Loudon touched the ironworks building, lost in thought. Long-abandoned, frames warped, cast-iron rods protruded. Rusted orange from dampness.
"Damn it!"
Thwack!
Unable to contain his rage, Loudon punched the wall.
"Sir, let me bandage that."
"Hah... thanks."
He'd hit hard; blood flowed from his knuckles.
Creeeak.
"Recall all ironworks repair crews and local levies to home."
Loudon's army camped on nearby plains for rest, summoning the levies and engineer teams left to repair the works. But no matter the messengers, no levies appeared.
"3,000 levies vanished? No raid—just gone?"
"Yes, sir. Camp, warehouses, bills accounted for—but key personnel missing. Suspect mass desertion."
"Absurd. Soldiers, maybe—but officers and NCOs? Local levies wouldn't know front-line mood."
"Can't rule it out. Some weapons left behind." The messenger showed an officer's saber, soldiers' muskets and bayonets from the camp. "Just bodies gone. Some tents had uniforms on beds."
"Don't speak ill omens. No man-eating monsters here."
He brushed it off calmly, but it was dire. Cut-off local foraging had forced the Metz siege lift. If no bandits or roads—but unit issues—ambush loomed. No lax camp; stay alert.
"Perfect—ask that farmer there."
"I'll send a French-speaker."
Loudon's aide dispatched a northwestern Italian mercenary to query the farmer on the levies. Grumbling, the mercenary approached in French—but the farmer grinned and
Bang!
Raised a hidden rifle from the potato patch, firing at Loudon.
Bang! Rat-tat-tat!
At the first shot, as if waiting, Lorraine farmers and workers popped from potato leaves with rifles, prone in ditches or wells, taking aimed shots.
"Ambush! Farmers attacking us!"
Loudon miraculously survived a bullet by his ear, stunned a mere farmer hit him at 80 meters.
"Farmers too skilled! At engagement start, multiple company commanders down! Lieutenants and ensigns now leading."
"Damn—who trained these peasants?! A general?"
Prone on open ground without cover, Loudon watched. Reload after shot: 25 seconds. Sharpshooter level. Hitting 80m targets, dropping bullets in—not rolling. One conclusion.
"Sharpshooters! French regular sharpshooters! Prussian Jäger rifles—don't engage!"
Loudon barked orders, but 600,000 barely understood—400,000 Italians. The German-speakers lay dead, heads pierced. Farmers targeted flashy officers, calling in French:
"Soldiers! Dragged conscripts! The unwilling! Drop arms, surrender—you live!"
Terrified Italians surrendered wholesale; one farmer took a dozen POWs. French-speaking Italians relayed to the rest, urging capitulation. Surrenders snowballed; one farmer bagged thirty.
"Fall back to ironworks! Don't shoot walls! Use facilities for irregular fight!"
Hearing Loudon, rear cavalry wheeled toward the works—but saw the building tilting, ready to collapse.
"Cavalry—inside now! Recoverable units to works interior!"
"Field Marshal! Building's leaning!"
"Your eyes are! Don't block entrance—horses first! Artillery—conserve shells, cover inside! No engagement! Save ammo!"
July 15, 1781: Anti-French coalition's 600,000 crumbled to Lorraine's ~1,000 farmers.