“It is without any doubt that the Summer of the Moor remains the greatest favor given to so many, for so long by so few, and in such a short time.” – W.L. Spencer
******
******
Admittedly, this was not the way Masséna had been anticipating the year ending. The plan had been straightforward. For months radicals in the Council of 500 had been demanding that the Grand-Elector do something about “the last blotches of Bourbon tyranny” that ruled in Spain and Naples. Spain was an ally, and so that subject had been carefully finessed. But even the most stubborn conservative conceded that Naples might yet prove a thorn in France’s side, and so had dispatched the orders right after locking up the radicals for sedition.
He’d toasted with Joubert when they had received the order, an easy victory they had said, a distraction from the Austrians they had said. Masséna had thought that the excursion would be good for him, a chance to get some sun, to make a solid name for himself. And it was at first.
The Pope would have protested the French Army marching through Rome on their way south, had he not long since fled for Lisbon. Now the French had simply wined and dined with their comrades in the Roman Republic, and had seen the sights of the eternal city.
When they had finally entered Neapolitan territory, it had been a rude awakening. Oh, the battles had been easy, gone were the days when every battle had been a desperate last stand to preserve liberty. But battles still meant blood and death, no matter how assured the French victory was. To the new recruits it might have been crushing to see their friends die he supposed. But he had long ago made his peace with war.
Their spirits were lifted as they marched further south, winning victory after victory. City after city fell to French arms. Naples itself fell with barely a shot fired, days after Masséna had defeated Ferdinand in battle. Now the fight became one to capture the erstwhile king while a republic was organized in Naples. They had chased him down Italy’s toe, so close yet always behind. At the last possible moment, the Bourbon had slinked away to Sicily.
That had been the high point. There had been no doubt that soon, like the Romans of old, they would sail and conquer the island. Then they would have their final victory.
This hope lasted until the Royal Navy had shown up.
In hindsight it was inevitable, given the vital position Sicily held for British dominance at sea, but it had squashed any hope of conquering the island and capturing the King. Still the British would never be able to fully launch an invasion. There were other battles to fight.
A week later Masséna was assuring himself that the British landings near Reggio Calabria were a mere formality. The rosbif army had tried expeditions before, and they typically fled back to their ships faster then they had disembarked. The Batavians knew this first hand. Yes, the city had to be abandoned, but given the sheer fire power of the British ships, this was also to be expected. All Masséna had to do was bombard them constantly, it had worked at Toulouse (he preferred not to think about how much time and luck it had taken to do so). When word came that a French canon had struck the British headquarters not once, not twice, but three times Masséna had ordered drinks for every man he could find. Only some auxiliaries and disorganized British troops remained.
The next morning a charge had been ordered, only to find themselves surrounded from all sides, and bombarded by Royal Navy canons of all things. Two days later the French center was in danger of collapsing and he was forced to retreat. No matter, this British incursion could be contained, even if it had more supplied now, and time to breath. With the commanders dead it would take some time for the, to regroup, time which Masséna intended to use well.
Masséna was less naïve about his chances after having his right flank collapse at Cosenza. There he’d seen the might of the Coalition Army. Not the just British, but their new commander who arrayed his own troops, under his own command, right at the center. A white splotch holding back the blue amongst the sea of red. The sudden pivot had surprised him, and he was shamefully put to rout.
He’d sent a letter there and then, saying that the British commander was proving tougher then expected and that, while reinforcements would be nice, disrupting British supplies by sea would be an acceptable middle ground. He had instead received a rebuke for being presumptuous and attempting to take supplied from the campaigns near Venice.
He’d sent two letters as he sat in Naples, preparing for his next battle. One was to the Grand-Elector, informing him that should the Coalition prove successful at Naples they might be emboldened to send reinforcements to what had once been a diversion, eliminating the one advantage the French still had, manpower. The other was to Joubert, a personal plea for help, either in the form of troops or political support to avoid a firing squad. Neither had been replied to until he was near the former border, and north had already heard the news of Naples, help was on the way. But for his army not for him.
Upon further consideration Masséna regarded the arrival of British reinforcements as a good thing. Their leader would in all certainty out rank the treacherous yet brilliant scoundrel currently leading the allied forces arrayed against him. Some internal division amongst their enemies would do the French good.
Indeed, the first battle after the reinforcements (at Cassino) had arrived had gone well, only red uniforms lined up opposition to the French. Masséna enjoyed his first taste of victory in a long time, nearly breaking the center, but then some poor private had spotted white uniforms approaching from the woods to the French right. Masséna had decided to withdraw once more, rather then face an attack on his flank by that foreign flag, which Masséna had grown to despise more then the Union Jack.
The reinforcements under Marshal Ney had arrived shortly after the defeat. Ney had been quite blunt in his assessment of Masséna’s “incompetent” leadership, but had consented that Masséna join him for the transition. The Second Battle of Cassino was little more successful then the first, the British had taken the opportunity to reassemble the coalition, now complete with a restored King Ferdinand and an army of Papal loyalists. As they retreated to Rome Ney had not apologized, but Masséna had seen panic in his eyes.
The Battle of the Tiber was a bloody affair, not grand chess moves were seen, which benefited the French, who still held the numerical advantage. The attack was repulsed, and there was much rejoicing. Rome had been saved! But there was still the next attack.
Which made it all the more suspicious when the Allied attack never came. Instead of continuing the march on the eternal city they had turned west, towards the sea. Ney had suspected either an attempt to escape a “lost cause” or an attempt to bypass them vis the Royal Navy and take Rome from the north. So, he chased after them. They were in fact attempting to take Rome from the north, but not via the sea. The French were beaten to the punch, and found themselves one again defending on the Tiber. The battle that ensued was right above Rome itself with the coalition managing to leap across the Tiber and into the city. Ney had gone down fighting, being shot as he tired to scramble up the banks of the river to rally his forces. It was only later that Masséna had realized that the location of the attack had been at the Milvian bridge.
Masséna had led the French east from the chaotic city, then north, back into the protection of Joubert’s Army. The Austrians had launched their own offensive, aiming to aid the front in the south, and relive pressure on the Prussians, who were desperately looking for alternative capitals at the moment.
Joubert found himself in a vice, one that Masséna was glad he did not have to lead the French Army out of. The Austrians were approaching from the east, but a seemingly invincible new enemy was arising in the south. Joubert made the cautious decision and waited, to see which one he needed to face first before committing against either. It turned out to be the southern coalition, who’s notoriety had already spread to France.
And so it came to be that Masséna stood near Parma, despite all of his failures, ready for a fight. His job was simple. The right flank had was occupied by some flimsy Papal Troops, unhappy to be fighting beside the protestant English. Joubert would be attacking there. Masséna would hold the line in the center. Masséna was a little disturbed about how many of his troops were being siphoned off, but who was he to cross Joubert?
Rain fell, enough to muddy the ground in front of him and obscured visibly. His men held firm against some Sardinians, for a while, and from the small scraps of information he could garner Joubert was making some progress but them his men began to shout and was forced to return to his own section. A new enemy had presented himself.
They wore brown uniforms, which was odd. Masséna was not familiar with that particular shade. As they grew closer, and their artillery began to pound away with disturbing accuracy, Masséna noted how the uniforms were splotched. Then he realized they were not brown at all, but white, caked in mud. Months earlier Masséna would have denied them as Austrian. That would be bad enough, the Austrians were supposed to be far away, unable to help their allies in this battle.
But Masséna had just spent months been kicked up the Italian boot by these white uniforms, and they filled him with more dread then an advancing Austrian corps would. He ordered his men to confirm their flag, and just as he feared they bore the Head of a Moor. He had always wondered how they had gotten such uniforms, they shouldn’t have had the money to buy any. There was a rumor swirling that it had been part of their price for leaving their homes, that the British had produced the uniforms as a bribe. Masséna did not believe them, how could the British have known how valuable they would be?
But now was not the time for quibbling about uniforms, now was the time to defend the French center, which was looking increasingly at risk. Masséna readied himself and mounted his horse. He began to shout.
“Ready yourselves! The enemy approaches! Traitors to France, royalists who seek to undo the Revolution! To take your liberty! Fight, your liberty and families depend on it!”
It was not his best speech. Technically speaking these were not royalists, as far as Masséna knew they were as committed to their Republic as he was to his. But they were traitors, they had abandoned the revolution.
In his heart Masséna knew the day was likely lost, Joubert was not going to get his frantic messages, and his men had lost the battle of the wills months ago. But he would not retreat again. He could not retreat again
As he rode towards his fate André Masséna damned many things.
He damned the British Navy.
He damned Ney and Jourbert.
He damned those white uniforms, caked with mud.
He damned that accursed flag, the Moor’s severed head lording over him like a black demon.
He damned the island of Corsica. Traitors to the man.
And he damned that arch traitor, Buonaparte
He’d toasted with Joubert when they had received the order, an easy victory they had said, a distraction from the Austrians they had said. Masséna had thought that the excursion would be good for him, a chance to get some sun, to make a solid name for himself. And it was at first.
The Pope would have protested the French Army marching through Rome on their way south, had he not long since fled for Lisbon. Now the French had simply wined and dined with their comrades in the Roman Republic, and had seen the sights of the eternal city.
When they had finally entered Neapolitan territory, it had been a rude awakening. Oh, the battles had been easy, gone were the days when every battle had been a desperate last stand to preserve liberty. But battles still meant blood and death, no matter how assured the French victory was. To the new recruits it might have been crushing to see their friends die he supposed. But he had long ago made his peace with war.
Their spirits were lifted as they marched further south, winning victory after victory. City after city fell to French arms. Naples itself fell with barely a shot fired, days after Masséna had defeated Ferdinand in battle. Now the fight became one to capture the erstwhile king while a republic was organized in Naples. They had chased him down Italy’s toe, so close yet always behind. At the last possible moment, the Bourbon had slinked away to Sicily.
That had been the high point. There had been no doubt that soon, like the Romans of old, they would sail and conquer the island. Then they would have their final victory.
This hope lasted until the Royal Navy had shown up.
In hindsight it was inevitable, given the vital position Sicily held for British dominance at sea, but it had squashed any hope of conquering the island and capturing the King. Still the British would never be able to fully launch an invasion. There were other battles to fight.
A week later Masséna was assuring himself that the British landings near Reggio Calabria were a mere formality. The rosbif army had tried expeditions before, and they typically fled back to their ships faster then they had disembarked. The Batavians knew this first hand. Yes, the city had to be abandoned, but given the sheer fire power of the British ships, this was also to be expected. All Masséna had to do was bombard them constantly, it had worked at Toulouse (he preferred not to think about how much time and luck it had taken to do so). When word came that a French canon had struck the British headquarters not once, not twice, but three times Masséna had ordered drinks for every man he could find. Only some auxiliaries and disorganized British troops remained.
The next morning a charge had been ordered, only to find themselves surrounded from all sides, and bombarded by Royal Navy canons of all things. Two days later the French center was in danger of collapsing and he was forced to retreat. No matter, this British incursion could be contained, even if it had more supplied now, and time to breath. With the commanders dead it would take some time for the, to regroup, time which Masséna intended to use well.
Masséna was less naïve about his chances after having his right flank collapse at Cosenza. There he’d seen the might of the Coalition Army. Not the just British, but their new commander who arrayed his own troops, under his own command, right at the center. A white splotch holding back the blue amongst the sea of red. The sudden pivot had surprised him, and he was shamefully put to rout.
He’d sent a letter there and then, saying that the British commander was proving tougher then expected and that, while reinforcements would be nice, disrupting British supplies by sea would be an acceptable middle ground. He had instead received a rebuke for being presumptuous and attempting to take supplied from the campaigns near Venice.
He’d sent two letters as he sat in Naples, preparing for his next battle. One was to the Grand-Elector, informing him that should the Coalition prove successful at Naples they might be emboldened to send reinforcements to what had once been a diversion, eliminating the one advantage the French still had, manpower. The other was to Joubert, a personal plea for help, either in the form of troops or political support to avoid a firing squad. Neither had been replied to until he was near the former border, and north had already heard the news of Naples, help was on the way. But for his army not for him.
Upon further consideration Masséna regarded the arrival of British reinforcements as a good thing. Their leader would in all certainty out rank the treacherous yet brilliant scoundrel currently leading the allied forces arrayed against him. Some internal division amongst their enemies would do the French good.
Indeed, the first battle after the reinforcements (at Cassino) had arrived had gone well, only red uniforms lined up opposition to the French. Masséna enjoyed his first taste of victory in a long time, nearly breaking the center, but then some poor private had spotted white uniforms approaching from the woods to the French right. Masséna had decided to withdraw once more, rather then face an attack on his flank by that foreign flag, which Masséna had grown to despise more then the Union Jack.
The reinforcements under Marshal Ney had arrived shortly after the defeat. Ney had been quite blunt in his assessment of Masséna’s “incompetent” leadership, but had consented that Masséna join him for the transition. The Second Battle of Cassino was little more successful then the first, the British had taken the opportunity to reassemble the coalition, now complete with a restored King Ferdinand and an army of Papal loyalists. As they retreated to Rome Ney had not apologized, but Masséna had seen panic in his eyes.
The Battle of the Tiber was a bloody affair, not grand chess moves were seen, which benefited the French, who still held the numerical advantage. The attack was repulsed, and there was much rejoicing. Rome had been saved! But there was still the next attack.
Which made it all the more suspicious when the Allied attack never came. Instead of continuing the march on the eternal city they had turned west, towards the sea. Ney had suspected either an attempt to escape a “lost cause” or an attempt to bypass them vis the Royal Navy and take Rome from the north. So, he chased after them. They were in fact attempting to take Rome from the north, but not via the sea. The French were beaten to the punch, and found themselves one again defending on the Tiber. The battle that ensued was right above Rome itself with the coalition managing to leap across the Tiber and into the city. Ney had gone down fighting, being shot as he tired to scramble up the banks of the river to rally his forces. It was only later that Masséna had realized that the location of the attack had been at the Milvian bridge.
Masséna had led the French east from the chaotic city, then north, back into the protection of Joubert’s Army. The Austrians had launched their own offensive, aiming to aid the front in the south, and relive pressure on the Prussians, who were desperately looking for alternative capitals at the moment.
Joubert found himself in a vice, one that Masséna was glad he did not have to lead the French Army out of. The Austrians were approaching from the east, but a seemingly invincible new enemy was arising in the south. Joubert made the cautious decision and waited, to see which one he needed to face first before committing against either. It turned out to be the southern coalition, who’s notoriety had already spread to France.
And so it came to be that Masséna stood near Parma, despite all of his failures, ready for a fight. His job was simple. The right flank had was occupied by some flimsy Papal Troops, unhappy to be fighting beside the protestant English. Joubert would be attacking there. Masséna would hold the line in the center. Masséna was a little disturbed about how many of his troops were being siphoned off, but who was he to cross Joubert?
Rain fell, enough to muddy the ground in front of him and obscured visibly. His men held firm against some Sardinians, for a while, and from the small scraps of information he could garner Joubert was making some progress but them his men began to shout and was forced to return to his own section. A new enemy had presented himself.
They wore brown uniforms, which was odd. Masséna was not familiar with that particular shade. As they grew closer, and their artillery began to pound away with disturbing accuracy, Masséna noted how the uniforms were splotched. Then he realized they were not brown at all, but white, caked in mud. Months earlier Masséna would have denied them as Austrian. That would be bad enough, the Austrians were supposed to be far away, unable to help their allies in this battle.
But Masséna had just spent months been kicked up the Italian boot by these white uniforms, and they filled him with more dread then an advancing Austrian corps would. He ordered his men to confirm their flag, and just as he feared they bore the Head of a Moor. He had always wondered how they had gotten such uniforms, they shouldn’t have had the money to buy any. There was a rumor swirling that it had been part of their price for leaving their homes, that the British had produced the uniforms as a bribe. Masséna did not believe them, how could the British have known how valuable they would be?
But now was not the time for quibbling about uniforms, now was the time to defend the French center, which was looking increasingly at risk. Masséna readied himself and mounted his horse. He began to shout.
“Ready yourselves! The enemy approaches! Traitors to France, royalists who seek to undo the Revolution! To take your liberty! Fight, your liberty and families depend on it!”
It was not his best speech. Technically speaking these were not royalists, as far as Masséna knew they were as committed to their Republic as he was to his. But they were traitors, they had abandoned the revolution.
In his heart Masséna knew the day was likely lost, Joubert was not going to get his frantic messages, and his men had lost the battle of the wills months ago. But he would not retreat again. He could not retreat again
As he rode towards his fate André Masséna damned many things.
He damned the British Navy.
He damned Ney and Jourbert.
He damned those white uniforms, caked with mud.
He damned that accursed flag, the Moor’s severed head lording over him like a black demon.
He damned the island of Corsica. Traitors to the man.
And he damned that arch traitor, Buonaparte
******
“Oh, the grand Napoleone
He had ten thousand men;
He marched them out, whipped the French,
And he marched them home again.
Now when you're in, you're in,
And when you're out, you're out,
And when you're only half-way in,
You're neither in nor out.” -English Folk Tune
“Oh, the grand Napoleone
He had ten thousand men;
He marched them out, whipped the French,
And he marched them home again.
Now when you're in, you're in,
And when you're out, you're out,
And when you're only half-way in,
You're neither in nor out.” -English Folk Tune
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