The Last Eagle: Redux

King of Rome

THE LAST EAGLE​

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PROLOGUE:
KING LOUIS XVI​

January 21st, 1793

Paris was burning. That was what crossed King Louis’ mind as he stumbled up the scaffolding, escorted by the guards. What could his rampant people seek to achieve? Destruction? Madness? They were at war with all Europe- how could they possibly seek victory? The Bourbon knew that this final act of defiance was for naught; his people would be punished when the armies of the monarchs came rolling across the countryside into Paris. This fire would be extinguished, along with thousands of souls. King Louis did not want that fate for his people, but the destiny of the nation was no longer in his hands.

Atop the scaffolding King Louis drew in a breath and proudly made his way over to the guillotine. The crowd around him was numerous, though temporarily drowned out by the drums. He sadly looked out over them, seeing their anger and resentment manifest itself in their gestures and expressions. They had misunderstood him from the beginning. His attempts to be gracious and kind- even to reform had all exploded back in his face and now here he was.

The executioner moved towards the guillotine, having been sure that the king would not attempt to flee.

“The Chevalier de Longval gets to send us to our grave? Surely there is irony.”

“It is Citizen Sanson, sire.” He sheepishly replied.

“Ah, I see.”

The drums stopped, and the crowd actually quieted with the drums. Everyone was anxiously awaiting their monarch’s last moments. Louis felt a momentary weakness, and almost felt like breaking down and pleading with the people. Surely a direct appeal from their king could sway their hearts?

No, no. It was too late, and the people were not in charge here, whether or not they realized it. Louis looked for strength wherever in his mind he could find it, and his familial pride came surging to him. Here he was, Louis XVI, son of the family that had produced Philip Augustus, Saint Louis, Henry IV, Louis XIV! He was a Bourbon. If this was to be last act, he would go to death as a Bourbon King should.

All the weakness and doubt left the man, and in their place was a strength and resoluteness that he had never quite felt. “I die perfectly innocent of the so-called crimes of which I am accused. I pardon those who are the cause of my misfortunes. My wish is that you, my people, do not suffer my same fate! I pray for you all.”

Perhaps the people were somewhat stunned by the monarch’s firmness in the face of certain death, for none reacted right away. Louis was going to seize the opportunity to admonish the Revolutionaries, but someone ordered the drummers to begin once more.

King Louis offered a quick prayer asking God to forgive his soul and his people. He knelt down, and gently closed his eyes. The screams returned as the drumming quickened. “Kýrie, eléison,” The king whispered to himself.

The blade crashed down, and the curtain was truly raised on the Revolution.
 
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King of Rome

CHAPTER I: The Long Road to Arcole​


GENERAL BONAPARTE​

December 1793

The dust clouds around Little Gibraltar eventually subsided- the British and their allies remained entrenched and the fortifications were steadfast though battered. The artillery officer grimaced, and looked down at the topographical map. His finger traced the outline of the French trenches and then moved steadily up to Little Gibraltar. His plan was now the only viable solution to the problem. If he had been in command from the beginning Toulon would already been in French hands, but the stumbling generals had made a mockery of the siege to the point where Paris had grown concerned enough to send more troops and support to what should have been a quick conflict. Finally though there was at least gotten a commanding officer who recognized his merit.

“Colonel Bonaparte! A message from Generals Dugommier and Lapoype.” A messenger ran over and handed over the paper.

Napoleon Bonaparte opened the note and read the hastily scrawled and turned to the messenger. It had taken a long time, but their faith was now with him. “Tell the generals I will be ready, and that I am glad that they are following the course. We shall be ready” He tore up the letter and returned his glare up to the fortifications that composed Little Gibraltar: they were the stone, mortar, and wood that blocked him from showing the world his glory.

*​

Bonaparte could not find much sleep while the men prepared themselves as quietly as they could under the cover of darkness. The British might be able to spot some of the activity, but it would surely be difficult to ascertain what exactly the French were doing down in the trenches. As the minutes passed and midnight grew closer, the artillery officer could help but think about all those who had looked down on him throughout the years: Mother, always sparing with her affection but abundant with her punishments. The schoolboys at Brienne, taunting him about his accent and reading. The socialites and ‘Revolutionaries’ of Paris whom hid their taunts and accusations behind smiles and lauds. Even Paoli- his hero!- had forsaken him for a failure! At midnight, he would smash their conceptions and raise himself higher than the limits of their imagination. Their greatest mistake was going to be that they had underestimated him. They would all soon recognize his glory and genius.

A voice cut through his meditations, “The time is drawing closer, colonel. Lapoype is readying himself.” Bonaparte turned, being dragged back to the present. He nodded, and stood up.

“Soldiers of France, hear me!” He kept his voice as low as he could while addressing his men. “The men in the fortress up there wish to turn back the clock on us! They wish to strike down our rights given to us by the revolution! They wish to rape our motherland and dethrone equality with the tips of their bayonets! I say to them we shall never turn back! I say to them that what our countrymen have fought and died for is more important than my own life! Freedom for all men! Do you stand with me?”

As midnight broke Bonaparte’s men roared in agreement. The colonel drew his sword and climbed out of the trench, followed closely by his troops. The assault was heralded by artillery blasts that shook Little Gibraltar and gave the charging soldiers cover. When Bonaparte and his men came screaming out of the smoke with weapons raised, the British defenders were thoroughly surprised. Bonaparte’s sword sailed through the night sky, striking the soldier closest to him on the fortifications. The French surged forward, and the British steeled themselves. The artillery officer was about to climb the fortifications to lead a strike into the heart of Little Gibraltar when a bayonet slid with sickening efficiency into his thigh. The colonel howled and fell backwards, but one of his men grabbed him, and began to drag him backwards. More men rushed forward as the screams of dying men replaced the thunder of artillery. As blood poured out of his wound, Bonaparte was given a tiny consolation: his plan had succeeded. By daybreak he predicted that Little Gibraltar would be in French hands, and Toulon would fall. His eyes fluttered as more blood left his body, and as his vision went black he managed, “They shall see…”
 
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King of Rome

To those of you who read The Last Eagle: This thread will be a lot different than The Last Eagle. I jumped the gun a bit with that thread, and hit some dead ends, though I am glad it exists as a reference point for this thread. This is not a sequel, it is a reboot. The POD will be different, more attention will be spent on Napoleon, his marshals, and his enemies. I really want to incorporate more of an international perspective with this thread, which I view as my big failure with the other thread. I will try and be objective when considering historical sources, but I will also try and convey the personal biases of the era. More time will therefore be given to the British, Austrians, Russians, etc. I will also try and divide the thread into parts- conveying a sense of time while not always explicitly giving the exact date. Most of the characters in that thread will have a place here. I hope everyone enjoys. Link to the dead thread: The Last Eagle

To those of you who did not read the Last Eagle: This thread is not a sequel, but a reboot of a previous thread- you don't have to read that thread to understand this one. It's completely new and original. It will be dealing with Europe and the World after a more successful Napoleon Bonaparte. I hope you like it.

The timeline will be using multiple reliable historical resources to provide foundations for the plot (only as a consultant resource, no plagiarism). Wikipedia will be used frequently, though not exclusively. Any artwork used will be in the public domain and all credit goes to each respective painter. Book resources include:
Napoleon by Felix Markham
Napoleon's Marshals by RF Delderfield
Napoleon: The Path to Power by Philip Dwyer
Napoleon in Egypt by Paul Strathern
Napoleon's Wars: An International History, 1803-1815 by Charles Esdaile
On War by Clausewitz
1848: Year of Revolution by Mike Rapport
Napoleon III: A Life by Fenton Bresler
(Some of these were recommended to me by users on this forum, and I thank them for that!)

Most maps will be from The Historical Atlas of Europe (http://home.zonnet.nl/gerardvonhebel/), though heavily edited by me myself and I.

Questions, comments, and criticisms are welcome!
 
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King of Rome

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EMPEROR FRANCIS II​


The young Holy Roman Emperor sunk deep into his chair. The news he held in his hand was probably worse than when he received the intent of the Republic two years ago. The so-called ‘Battle of Fleurus’ had seen Prince Coburg fall before the revolutionary hordes, and likely opened up all of Belgium to the French. He dropped the paper and stared at the walls of his study.

“Damn it.” Francis allowed himself a lax moment to vent his anger. Though he was certainly mad at the French, he found his anger drift to his father. Why sign the declaration?! Pillnitz had dragged Austria into a mauling conflict with a seemingly tireless foe; hell, Prussia was barely offering a fight against them! France was running rampant, and Europe was barely lifting a finger to help Francis try and turn back the forest of bayonets.

Though he rued the day his father met the Prussian, his anger slowly drifted towards the slattern in Saint Petersburg. She was the cause of more pain and misery than Francis could have imagined. While she had indeed committed her words towards the crusade against France, she had spent her money and manpower in devouring what was left of Poland. Had Francis had free hands, he would have easily gained a great deal from the final partition. Instead, the fat Tsarina had swallowed all she could, and was probably eyeing the Ottomans. She would not move against the French until Poland settled, and if she thought twice about marching towards Constantinople.

Francis stood up and walked over to the bookshelves, anger flowing through his veins. He realized that without Belgium, the plan to acquire Bavaria was now untenable. All the possibilities of expansion shrank to none; so much had blown up in Francis’ face so quickly. He lashed out and struck the books in the shelves, knocking one off. The emperors’ rage began to abate as he picked up the book- it was a collection of maxims for a prince to copy. The monarch did not remember if he had ever copied this particular text, but he nonetheless searched it for some sort of consultation about his predicament. He opened it up and began to flip through the pages. At the word ‘victory’ he stopped, and read the quote from Aristotle, “I count him braver who overcomes his desires than he who conquerors his enemies: for the hardest victory is over ones’ self.”

The emperor considered the words, and let his rage flow out of him. This was not the way a monarch should react and his anger had achieved nothing. Things were not as bad as he made them- the British were very much involved in the fight, and Belgium could be retaken. He put the book back on the shelf and walked over to his desk. The sovereign took a couple of breaths, and then withdrew paper from his desk. He took out his quill and began to write. Orders had to be given and plans needed to be made if he was to oppose France and keep Russia from gobbling up more land. Francis knew it was possible, though it would be difficult.
 
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King of Rome

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MINISTER PITT​


William Pitt, once mocked for being Britian’s youngest Prime Minister, now felt old. It was not a physical feeling, but a sort of mental and spiritual exhaustion brought on by the many different conflicts plaguing his country. The largest of those conflicts, and the reason he was now waiting to speak to the king, was that of the Revolution in Europe.

For a country as rich and accustomed to being rich as Britain, having strained finances was not an ideal situation. Subsidizing Austria as the Sword on the Continent against the French was not heading in the way Pitt had expected. Though it was a huge drain, it was not enough for the Austrian Minister Thugut who constantly bemoaned the exorbitant interest fees. The Austrians could fend the French off, but it was clear to all who held the upper hand. Prussia was about as useful as lead sails; Fredrick the Great would be ashamed of the non-activity of his army in the face of the aggressive expansion. Russia was even more of a non-factor in containing the French, Catherine was too busy fighting off rebellion in Poland.

And surely the French maelstrom would have repercussions in Ireland. Pitt knew it- something would have to be done to appease the Irish before a rebellion broke out. He had drawn up a plan to unite Britain and Ireland and then allow the Catholic Irish major rights, but that would surely die in Parliament as things stood. Adjustments would be necessary, true, but Ireland could not be ignored in the growing conflict.

Naval supremacy was still in London’s hands though, and blockades were still possible. But as France stretched her shadow far and wide, Pitt feared the possibility of having to oppose all of Europe. Blockading a continent had never been attempted, and he did not want to be at the helm of such an act of desperation. It was far-fetched, but uncertainty had become the name of the game in this unusual time.

“His majesty is ready to receive you, sir.”

Pitt nodded to the attendant and strode into the next room.

The monarch was lazily staring out a window, clad in the uniform of a British soldier. He appeared to have been reading a book, though the novel was now on the floor. Pitt bowed, “Your majesty.”

“Ahh, I was wondering when you would come, Mister Pitt. What do you have for me to sign today what what?”

Pitt walked over, picking up the book on the way. He sat the papers down on King George’s desk, along with the book.

The monarch eyed the novel, “Terrible work that is. By some Savoyard. Cocin I think.”

“Most disagreeable. I have for your majesty’s approval, several appointments we have previously discussed, and a proposition I have created to help ease our burdens.”

The King examined the papers, quickly signing a few, before he came to the proposition. “Trying to balance the books, eh? Are you sure your measures here will not cause too much discontent?”

“I do believe they can be passed in the face of opposition. After all, we are fighting a war.” Pitt’s sly glance elicited a chuckle from the king.

“Very well. You have my somewhat-confidence Mr. Pitt.” He signed the proposition and handed it over. “Away with you now, you scab!”

Pitt smiled slightly, bowed, and walked backwards out of the monarch’s office.
 

King of Rome

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ENVOY VON HARDENBERG​


Damn the French. If it had not been already said by some of the secretaries in the past hour, it was on their minds. Like a slouching monstrosity, Royal France had fallen to its knees and from its maw spewed forth the hordes of Revolutionaries. Some reports stated the French had a million and half men in the field fighting under their bleeding banner; the King had barely lifted a finger to stop them, and now he was going to give them the Rhine. Karl was not necessarily against the French himself when considering Prussia’s other neighbors, but this act of ‘neutrality’ was a veiled concession to the regicidal maniacs who reigned in Paris.

In the back of his mind, however, the diplomatic envoy entertained the hope that Europe had not fully awoken to the threat on their doorstep. Perhaps Russia would stir and join Austria and Britain in their opposition. Even then, if the revolution could not be tamed externally perhaps some sort of internal change could curb the armies of the tricolor… von Hardenberg turned as the door to the office opened and a courier bowed, “I have for you the signed peace accord from the French delegation. All that remains is for Prussia to agree to armistice.”

Von Hardenberg waved the boy over and grabbed the document. The paper in his hands was the official binding agreement, but there were a couple of other points conveniently left off the page.

“By the grace of God and King Fredrick William III, I agree to the accord. Go inform the French delegation.” Von Hardenberg handed the treaty over, and the room burst into noise as the various secretaries and aides began to discuss what had transpired before their eyes. Von Hardenberg stood up, desiring not to partake in the trivial criticism, and walked over to the window of the apartments. As rain gently began to pitter-patter against the glass, he stared up into the stormy night sky.

“A sign of things to come, perhaps?”

Von Hardenberg turned to see Charlotte de Bourbon, staring into the tempestuous sky.

He bowed slightly, “Who knows my lady? Perhaps it is best to wait and see?”

The exiled princess smiled, “I do not think waiting will win my family back its rightful place. But I do not blame you or your monarch; far from it, I would do the same thing if in his difficult spot.”

Karl was discomforted, “What are you saying, princess?”

Charlotte smiled and turned to check over her shoulder, then leaned in close. The diplomat was taken aback by the woman’s perfume which temporarily flooded his senses. “This war is not some trivial conflict that will blow over in a year. Prussia will need to arm herself if she wishes to confront the rising storm, and I see no Fredrick the Great coming to her defense. I do so hope that waiting is a pleasant affair, for I can see now that I must wait a long time to return home. But I think that waiting is a dangerous game, and one that cannot be played in these times. Good evening.”

Before he could respond she spun around and moved towards the doors. The envoy stared, as the princess daintily left the room.

X-X
Thank you Cuauhtemoc!
 
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King of Rome

Haha I will try to do so very very soon RandomWriterGuy. I apologize for having this extended intro, but I really want to show the psychological change in some characters as the story progresses, and to do that there have to be precedent examples of their original states of mind. The changes will not be profound if there is nothing in this tl to compare them to. Plus I like writing and am very pompous.


I heart wolf_brother.
 
Umbric Man

Umbric Man

Your majesty, o King of Rome! This is absolutely wonderful work. Do keep continuing as you see fit. The end result shall always be followed with most interest.
 

King of Rome

Gros_Napolean_Bonaparte_on_the_Bridge_at_Arcole_1796-7.jpg
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GENERAL BONAPARTE​

The victor of Lodi fumed. Had the Austrians not yet seen their clear future? How many times would he have to smash their armies on the fertile plains of Ceasar? Bonaparte had taken a feeble army and turned them into titans, sharpening their swords in the bodies of dead Austrians. His star was truly on the rise, and these half-hearted attempts by the Holy Roman Emperor to stop him were becoming more irritating as time went on. How could they expect to hurt him? His glory was his shield- his destiny was his protector.

General Bonaparte examined the torn-bridge, and watched as the Austrians units prevented the general crossing. Every time his troops surged forward, the white coats would beat them back with shot and smoke. It was like the ocean on the beaches of Corsica; the blue waves would rise, but then recede being chased by white foam. As a child watching such a phenomenon had calmed him, now though each time the human waves rose and fell Bonaparte’s anger grew. The contest was near irrelevant: Mantua would fall, for certain, but it was imperative that Alvinczi could not lend false hope to the remnants of the Austrian Army in Bonaparte’s Italy.

“Muiron, what word is there of Gadan’s advance?”

The young commanding general’s aide-de-camp shifted on his feet, “I have heard nothing of late, sir.”

“This is ridiculous. We should have sent Alvinczi back to Vienna by now.”The general and his aide continued to watch as the brawling dragged onwards. Bonaparte attempted some creative uses of what cannons he had, but the Austrians remained adamant in their position.

Bonaparte ordered up another map of the surrounding region and traced his finger along the river. Doubt never crept into his mind, but a possible alternative route never hurt. “Aha, perhaps we can ford a crossing upstream in this little forested area?”

Muiron, standing next to the hunched over general, fumbled with his words, “C-commander-“

“Be quiet for a moment. I see there is also a point where the river becomes tighter, providing a better crossing. Ah, that will not work; we must take the bridge here. Damn these cartographers, the forest was but a smudge.” General Bonaparte stood up to hand the map to his aide, but found the man to be staring at the Bridge of Arcole. The commanding officer turned his gaze to the bridge as well, and almost recoiled. “No, no!”

Bonaparte dropped the map and ran forwards. Muiron was in close pursuit, shouting something about safety, but the general was far more concerned about his retreating troops. He pushed his way to the front where French soldiers were turning tail and beginning to retreat. Bonaparte yelled as he grabbed men and pushed them back forwards.“Are you men? Turn yourselves back to these dogs and send them home! With me!”

The general ripped the standard from the bearer’s hands and waved it. “With me men of France! Across the bridge!” The commanding officer watched as the soldiers found their nerve and turned back to begin to advance. The general lead the growing charge as the men picked up speed and closed in on the bridge. Muiron was right there in the front, attempting to stand in front of the general, but Bonaparte would have no part of that. His glory was surely still with him and that was more protective than any one man could be. As Bonaparte strode onto the bridge all he could think about was what he was going to do once Austria was brought to heel. Surely he would not turn back- not now. The men behind him were with him to the end, they believed in him almost as much as he believed in himself. If France would not recognize his talent he would make them recognize it.

As the charge hit the middle of the bridge, an odd thing happened. Bonaparte felt someone punch him in the shoulder. He turned to see who would think to do such a thing but found that his legs give out.
What was going on?

The general laid on the wooden bridge, though he could remotely feel a sense of wetness, spreading from his back down to his knees. His eyes became very heavy, and as the world turned black, all he could do was wonder where his glory was as he fell into the abyss.

X-X
Thank you both! Foreign powers and policies will be more closely examined in this tl than the previous.
 
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King of Rome

CHAPTER II: Flight into Egypt​


Slave-ship.jpg


MAJOR SCOTT​

July 2nd 1799

Major Scott leaned against the timber rail. The gentle rocking of the Mediterranean at night was calming and unnerving at the same time. It had affected him just enough to rouse him early, so he decided to come out and take a breath of fresh air. Any day he and his men would be fighting for their lives- whether it be on land or sea and it was nice for some peace and solitude.

“Leftenant, late time to be out. Or perhaps it is an early time to be out.”

Scott sighed and turned to see the first mate. The ragged man was chewing on some fruit while slowly making his way across the deck. He wiped his mouth on his stained sleeve and chuckled, “We are chasing the next Africanus, I doubt that we will catch him on sea. He is a monster on land and that is where we will have to fight him to stop him.”

“It is Major, thank you. You are giving a lot of credit to this Bonaparte. Africanus? I doubt that sincerely.”

The first mate walked over and leaned on the railing next to Scott. “He has defeated all that have opposed him in battle; he died on the plains of Italy and was returned back to defend the Republic.”

The Major almost recoiled, “Very fond language for the French, sailor. I doubt Bonaparte was as close to death as the newspapers would want us to believe. What would happen if I told your captain of this seditious talk?”

“No one is out here besides you and I, so hear my out. I love my country and I will gladly give up my life for the crown in these waters. I will fight whomever I am told, but give me the courtesy to express my little opinion. Tell me the ideas of the Republic do not excite you?”

Major Scott stiffened, “I will not relay what you have told me to your superiors because I am a generous man, but I caution you to guard your thoughts more carefully. The French do not deserve the laurels you so easily place upon their head.”

The other man shrugged, “Look, yonder, major.” He pointed out over the sea.

Scott strained to see what the man was talking about, and was rewarded a moment later when the morning sun began to shine her first rays, “Beautiful…” The two men watched as the sun began its’ ascent, coloring the sky yellows and oranges. In the distance however there was another ship. “Could that be Bonaparte?”

“I do not believe so. It is something worse.” The first mate said, spitting into the ocean.

“What is it?”

“Something wicked. That ship raids the coastal villages around these waters, stealing men, women, and children. A captain considered to vicious for even the Spanish mans that vessel, and makes a fortune in misery and bondage. The Muslims leave him well enough alone.”

Scott stared at the vessel that suddenly seemed all the more ominous. “It must know that we are part of Admiral Nelson’s fleet.”

The first mate nodded, “Have no fear, major. They do not engage any who can afford a real fight. And we will take no action towards them- we have to catch General Bonaparte. Their goals do not interfere with ours.”

The sailor began to hum, and the two watched the dark vessel sail away.

“I disagree with you, sailor. The French have murdered hundreds if not thousands of their own people, and drug Europe down into war. I do not think it is right that so much blood has been shed for their so-called liberty. Their freedom is insincere, and a malevolent force that threatens all around her. I do not fight liberty, I fight warmongering and the promise of death.”

The other man smiled, “We are all entitled to our little opinions.”

X-X

Greatly appreciated Titus Pullo, I definitely will.

I do not want to give away too much cause I’m so smug with myself, but I’m not sure this can be considered a purely “French” TL. Thank you though!
 
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Titus_Pullo

Banned
He lives! He lives! The Ogre Lives!

:)

King of Rome said:
CHAPTER II: Flight into Egypt​



Slave-ship.jpg


MAJOR SCOTT​

July 2nd 1799

Major Scott leaned against the timber rail. The gentle rocking of the Mediterranean at night was calming and unnerving at the same time. It had affected him just enough to rouse him early, so he decided to come out and take a breath of fresh air. Any day he and his men would be fighting for their lives- whether it be on land or sea and it was nice for some peace and solitude.

“Leftenant, late time to be out. Or perhaps it is an early time to be out.”

Scott sighed and turned to see the first mate. The ragged man was chewing on some fruit while slowly making his way across the deck. He wiped his mouth on his stained sleeve and chuckled, “We are chasing the next Africanus, I doubt that we will catch him on sea. He is a monster on land and that is where we will have to fight him to stop him.”

“It is Major, thank you. You are giving a lot of credit to this Bonaparte. Africanus? I doubt that sincerely.”

The first mate walked over and leaned on the railing next to Scott. “He has defeated all that have opposed him in battle; he died on the plains of Italy and was returned back to defend the Republic.”

The Major almost recoiled, “Very fond language for the French, sailor. I doubt Bonaparte was as close to death as the newspapers would want us to believe. What would happen if I told your captain of this seditious talk?”

“No one is out here besides you and I, so hear my out. I love my country and I will gladly give up my life for the crown in these waters. I will fight whomever I am told, but give me the courtesy to express my little opinion. Tell me the ideas of the Republic do not excite you?”

Major Scott stiffened, “I will not relay what you have told me to your superiors because I am a generous man, but I caution you to guard your thoughts more carefully. The French do not deserve the laurels you so easily place upon their head.”

The other man shrugged, “Look, yonder, major.” He pointed out over the sean.

Scott strained to see what the man was talking about, and was rewarded a moment later when the morning sun began to shine her first rays, “Beautiful…” The two men watched as the sun began its’ ascent, coloring the sky yellows and oranges. In the distance however there was another ship. “Could that be Bonaparte?”

“I do not believe so. It is something worse.” The first mate said, spitting into the ocean.

“What is it?”

“Something wicked. That ship raids the coastal villages around these waters, stealing men, women, and children. A captain considered to vicious for even the Spanish mans that vessel, and makes a fortune in misery and bondage. The Muslims leave him well enough alone.”

Scott stared at the vessel that suddenly seemed all the more ominous. “It must know that we are part of Admiral Nelson’s fleet.”

The first mate nodded, “Have no fear, major. They do not engage any who can afford a real fight. And we will take no action towards them- we have to catch General Bonaparte. Their goals do not interfere with ours.”

The sailor began to hum, and the two watched the dark vessel sail away.

“I disagree with you, sailor. The French have murdered hundreds if not thousands of their own people, and drug Europe down into war. I do not think it is right that so much blood has been shed for their so-called liberty. Their freedom is insincere, and a malevolent force that threatens all around her. I do not fight liberty, I fight warmongering and the promise of death.”

The other man smiled, “We are all entitled to our little opinions.”

X-X

Greatly appreciated Titus Pullo, I definitely will.

I do not want to give away too much cause I’m so smug with myself, but I’m not sure this can be considered a purely “French” TL. Thank you though!
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