Omens on a Bad Wind: a Napoleonic TL.
Ch 2, Pt 11.
Part 11: Pre-Preemptive Strike
March, 1800. Strasbourg, France.
Alexander Suvorov was not, in fact, dying. Not yet anyways. His health had taken a turn for the worse over the winter, to be sure, but it had not yet deteriorated to the point of crippling him. His new command in the Austrian Army seemed to have rejuvenated him somewhat.
Said army now sat at a critical juncture. Massena was marching past him against the Archduke, and Soult had swung north as well, blocking any potential intercept. In doing so, however, they had opened up a gap in their defensive line. If he could get through the gap, there was practically nothing between him and Paris. The question was if his men were up to the task.
They were not his men, his Russians. Korsakov commanded them now, down to the south. Suvorov had spent most of the winter familiarizing himself with his new command, but there were still many growing pains and teething troubles. He spoke German well enough to communicate with his subordinates, and being a Count of the Holy Roman Empire (a title he had gained during the Russo-Turkish War just over a decade earlier) helped to legitimize his position as the army’s commander, but there were still many Austrians that chafed at being lead by a foreigner in a nominally Austrian Army. On top of that, the soldiers themselves were not fully familiar with their new commander: the bond between grunt and officer had not been fully forged.
Realizing that such things were beyond his control, Suvorov set out on the 3rd. Going north was not viable, as Massena and Soult’s combined forces outnumbered him 2:1. Straight west was hardly better: doing so would simply march him straight in Soult’s main body, who were dug in at Nancy. Suvorov had faced significantly worse odds before and emerged victorious, but he didn’t plan on simply bludgeoning himself against the French Army. No, he had much grander designs.
Soult received news of this movement by the 4th. The direction of movement shocked him. The French had planned almost exclusively for Suvorov to turn north to try to intercept Massena. They hadn’t expected the Russian to launch an offensive of his own. The first thing Soult did was to recall the forces he had sent to Saarbrucken. He had the same messenger then continue on to inform Massena of what was happening. He then ordered his men at Dijon to move up and intercept Suvorov before he could advance unopposed. They were not to engage in a set-piece battle under any circumstances. Rather, they were to harass the enemy supply lines and pick off isolated units. While they did that, Soult would move west to get between Suvorov and Paris.
The problem with this plan: the French troops that were now assigned to this harassing action were mostly raw recruits, and their officers were similarly inexperienced: most of the Army of the Lorraine’s veterans, both grunts and mid-level officers, were with Soult in the north. The majority of those in the south had never seen combat. Lacking in training on how to properly harass an enemy, and taught only the basics of mounting a holding action, when they were sent out against the Austrians, things immediately went wrong.
March, 1800. Strasbourg, France.
Alexander Suvorov was not, in fact, dying. Not yet anyways. His health had taken a turn for the worse over the winter, to be sure, but it had not yet deteriorated to the point of crippling him. His new command in the Austrian Army seemed to have rejuvenated him somewhat.
Said army now sat at a critical juncture. Massena was marching past him against the Archduke, and Soult had swung north as well, blocking any potential intercept. In doing so, however, they had opened up a gap in their defensive line. If he could get through the gap, there was practically nothing between him and Paris. The question was if his men were up to the task.
They were not his men, his Russians. Korsakov commanded them now, down to the south. Suvorov had spent most of the winter familiarizing himself with his new command, but there were still many growing pains and teething troubles. He spoke German well enough to communicate with his subordinates, and being a Count of the Holy Roman Empire (a title he had gained during the Russo-Turkish War just over a decade earlier) helped to legitimize his position as the army’s commander, but there were still many Austrians that chafed at being lead by a foreigner in a nominally Austrian Army. On top of that, the soldiers themselves were not fully familiar with their new commander: the bond between grunt and officer had not been fully forged.
Realizing that such things were beyond his control, Suvorov set out on the 3rd. Going north was not viable, as Massena and Soult’s combined forces outnumbered him 2:1. Straight west was hardly better: doing so would simply march him straight in Soult’s main body, who were dug in at Nancy. Suvorov had faced significantly worse odds before and emerged victorious, but he didn’t plan on simply bludgeoning himself against the French Army. No, he had much grander designs.
Soult received news of this movement by the 4th. The direction of movement shocked him. The French had planned almost exclusively for Suvorov to turn north to try to intercept Massena. They hadn’t expected the Russian to launch an offensive of his own. The first thing Soult did was to recall the forces he had sent to Saarbrucken. He had the same messenger then continue on to inform Massena of what was happening. He then ordered his men at Dijon to move up and intercept Suvorov before he could advance unopposed. They were not to engage in a set-piece battle under any circumstances. Rather, they were to harass the enemy supply lines and pick off isolated units. While they did that, Soult would move west to get between Suvorov and Paris.
The problem with this plan: the French troops that were now assigned to this harassing action were mostly raw recruits, and their officers were similarly inexperienced: most of the Army of the Lorraine’s veterans, both grunts and mid-level officers, were with Soult in the north. The majority of those in the south had never seen combat. Lacking in training on how to properly harass an enemy, and taught only the basics of mounting a holding action, when they were sent out against the Austrians, things immediately went wrong.
ANNOUNCEMENT TIME:
So when I started this TL back in November, I was cautiously optimistic. I thought maybe I would get a few readers and responses. 16 pages and 300 responses later, I couldn't be happier with how things have turned out.
Which brings me to the point of this announcement: thanks to @aegis03florin and @Xenophonte, this TL has been nominated for the 2017 Best Colonialism and Revolutions Era TL!
Thank you all so much for this incredible honor. I'm just happy to be here. Off the top of my head, thank you to @Jürgen , @Veranius , @Samuel Von Straßburg, @Mrstrategy , @aegis03florin , @Xenophonte , @The Zeppelin , @Taloc13 , @generalurist and all the dozens of others that have followed and supported this TL.
And now, before you all go to the polls, a quick preview of the next part (I'm experimenting with a new writing style; more prose-y):
And now I have to worry about Suvorov. While he outnumbers me by a factor of 4, as well! The General let out an exasperated sigh. Ever so slightly, he regretted taking this assignment. He would have preferred to stay under Massena, but the Savior of the Republic had been transferred to the Army of the Reserve. Soult, his successor on the eastern border was a good man, and a good commander as well, but he was by no means Andre Massena.
He had also left him practically on his own, and now Lecourbe was facing down an entire Austrian Army. Of course, his orders reflected the bad hand he had been dealt, and Claude held no ill will towards his superior, but he still felt, well...a bit fatalistic. Here he was, badly outnumbered and with a weak army, somewhere west of the village of Vesoul.
Again, Thank You all so much for your support. It has meant so much to me the past few months.
So when I started this TL back in November, I was cautiously optimistic. I thought maybe I would get a few readers and responses. 16 pages and 300 responses later, I couldn't be happier with how things have turned out.
Which brings me to the point of this announcement: thanks to @aegis03florin and @Xenophonte, this TL has been nominated for the 2017 Best Colonialism and Revolutions Era TL!
Thank you all so much for this incredible honor. I'm just happy to be here. Off the top of my head, thank you to @Jürgen , @Veranius , @Samuel Von Straßburg, @Mrstrategy , @aegis03florin , @Xenophonte , @The Zeppelin , @Taloc13 , @generalurist and all the dozens of others that have followed and supported this TL.
And now, before you all go to the polls, a quick preview of the next part (I'm experimenting with a new writing style; more prose-y):
And now I have to worry about Suvorov. While he outnumbers me by a factor of 4, as well! The General let out an exasperated sigh. Ever so slightly, he regretted taking this assignment. He would have preferred to stay under Massena, but the Savior of the Republic had been transferred to the Army of the Reserve. Soult, his successor on the eastern border was a good man, and a good commander as well, but he was by no means Andre Massena.
He had also left him practically on his own, and now Lecourbe was facing down an entire Austrian Army. Of course, his orders reflected the bad hand he had been dealt, and Claude held no ill will towards his superior, but he still felt, well...a bit fatalistic. Here he was, badly outnumbered and with a weak army, somewhere west of the village of Vesoul.
Again, Thank You all so much for your support. It has meant so much to me the past few months.
There's threads in the appropriate forum that have the word vote in the title.
Ch 2, Pt 12
Part 12:The First Blows
March, 1800. Eastern France.
“General Lecourbe!”
Claude Lecourbe looked up from the map he was studying. It had been two days since his men had set out from Dijon. In even that short span of time, he had discovered the myriad deficiencies of his command. The new recruits were just that: new. They had little discipline, had received little more than basic training. Their officers were little better.
And now I have to worry about Suvorov. While he outnumbers me by a factor of 4, as well! The General let out an exasperated sigh. Ever so slightly, he regretted taking this assignment. He would have preferred to stay under Massena, but the Savior of the Republic had been transferred to the Army of the Reserve. Soult, his successor on the eastern border, was a good man, and a good commander as well, but he was by no means Andre Massena, and there was a good amount of friction between Lecourbe his new superior. Soult, good as he was, lacked the spark that had made Massena into France’s Greatest Hero. Not that Lecourbe himself had the spark, but there was a good amount of friction between the two.
The biggest part of this friction was Soult dividing their forces, and now Lecourbe was facing down an entire Austrian Army by himself. Of course, his orders reflected the bad hand he had been dealt, and Claude held no ill will towards his superior, but he still felt a bit...fatalistic. Here he was, badly outnumbered and with a weak army, somewhere west of the village of Vesoul, and with no support coming any time soon. It wasn’t a good situation.
“Sir?”
“It’s nothing, Lieutenant. Report.”
“Our scouts have made contact with an Austrian force at the village of Lure. The reports state that they seem to be a scouting group.”
Lecourbe took this information in. Suvorov, apparently, had made it through the Vosges much faster than expected. Damn it. There goes my terrain advantage. Unless…
“How close is the rest of the Austrian army?”
“...Unknown, sir.”
“Merde.”
A plan was forming in Lecourbe’s mind, but...no. No time for delays. This might be our best chance to do some damage.
“Tell the commanders to prepare to march on Lure.”
“Sir?”
“This might be our only shot at hitting the Austrians before they can just walk over us. We have to hit them now. With any luck, the ones at Lure are isolated. If we can whittle them down now, it’ll be our best chance. Now move! We have to get going, or else we’ll have a disaster on our hands.”
“Yes Sir.”
______________________________________________________________________________
The French arrived at Lure on the 7th. From his position, Lecourbe could see what the scouts had been talking about. The Austrians here were all light troops or mounted, the definite markings of scouts. Good. Luck might be on the side of France for once. He ordered his men forwards. Time for battle
Orange: Austrian Scouts
Blue: French
Joseph Radetzky was anxious. His commanding officer, the legendary Alexander Suvorov, had explained the plan very carefully, and Radetzky himself had full faith in it. Still, he was purposely separated from the rest of the army, if only by a handful of miles, and was being used to bait the trap.
Instinct told him to pull back, into the cover of the Vosges. If he was on his own, he would have done so. But he had a part to play, and he needed to play it well. Hold his ground, Suvorov had told him, just long enough for the French to invest their forces. Then pull back, and the trap would be sprung.
______________________________________________________________________________
The Battle of Lure began at approximately 11:00 am, March 7th, 1800. The French, despite being largely under-trained conscripts, knew enough about combat to at least attempt an encirclement. Their flanks swung around, trying to cut off Radetzky’s line of retreat. Their attempts were clumsy and ill-organized, and never truly threatened the Austrians. But no Radetzky played his part well. Allowing the French to swing around would help to improve the illusion that he was badly losing the battle, sucking more and more of their forces in. Soon enough, it was time to spring the trap.
______________________________________________________________________________
“Sir! The Austrians are retreating!”
Claude Lecourbe cursed under his breath. His encirclement had been only partially successful. But instead of completely trapping the Austrians, the noose had never been completed, and now his foe was escaping eastwards.
To be perfectly honest, he would be happy with the current results. His men had proved competent, and the Austrians were on the run. There would be nothing wrong with simply calling it a day. But...if these scouts were allowed to report back to Suvorov, he would lose any advantage he had left. Not only that, but pursuing would allow him to establish a presence in the Vosges, whose terrain of thick woods and rolling hills would be perfect for a harassment campaign.
In the end, there really wasn’t a question of what to do.
“Press them! We will pursue!”
______________________________________________________________________________
The French were pursuing him. Good. If Suvorov had kept to his word, he should be just about to…
“Colonel Radetzky!”
Radetzky smiled. The Russian, through illness and old age, had come through. The village of Ronchamp had been heavily fortified, with barricades along the roads and cannons on the barricades. The roadblock was ready. Now for the rest.
“Good job with the defenses, men. The French are right behind me. Let’s give them a proper welcome, shall we?”
Red: Austrian Main Body.
The Battle of Lure was never really in doubt. After baiting the French back to the fortified village of Ronchamp, the trap slammed shut. Austrian troops came down from the hills on both of Lecourbe’s flanks, while other blocked his line of retreat. Of 20,000 French troops committed to battle, less than a quarter managed to stumble away back towards Vesoul, and many of them were chased down in the ensuing pursuit. The rest were dead or captured. Austrian losses were less than 2500, the majority of those coming during the initial baiting action.
With Lecourbe dealt with, a whole world of possibilities opened up.
______________________________________________________________________________
Jean-de-Dieu Soult was worried. Lecourbe’s command had been destroyed, with only a handful of troops managing to stumble back into his camp at Langres. From the tales that trickled in, Lecourbe had been baited into a trap, and now Suvorov was all but unopposed.
This terrified Soult. Even more terrifying, no one seemed to be quite sure where the Russian was headed. He had clearly left the Vosges, but after that there was little to go on. Reports by the locals all seemed to contradict each other. Would the Austrians march on Paris again? Would the march south to link up with Korsakov and smash Murat? Head straight west and join with the Royalists? They might even turn north, and try to cut Massena off from the rest of the Republic. There were too many possibilities. And Soult had to choose which one to act on.
March, 1800. Eastern France.
“General Lecourbe!”
Claude Lecourbe looked up from the map he was studying. It had been two days since his men had set out from Dijon. In even that short span of time, he had discovered the myriad deficiencies of his command. The new recruits were just that: new. They had little discipline, had received little more than basic training. Their officers were little better.
And now I have to worry about Suvorov. While he outnumbers me by a factor of 4, as well! The General let out an exasperated sigh. Ever so slightly, he regretted taking this assignment. He would have preferred to stay under Massena, but the Savior of the Republic had been transferred to the Army of the Reserve. Soult, his successor on the eastern border, was a good man, and a good commander as well, but he was by no means Andre Massena, and there was a good amount of friction between Lecourbe his new superior. Soult, good as he was, lacked the spark that had made Massena into France’s Greatest Hero. Not that Lecourbe himself had the spark, but there was a good amount of friction between the two.
The biggest part of this friction was Soult dividing their forces, and now Lecourbe was facing down an entire Austrian Army by himself. Of course, his orders reflected the bad hand he had been dealt, and Claude held no ill will towards his superior, but he still felt a bit...fatalistic. Here he was, badly outnumbered and with a weak army, somewhere west of the village of Vesoul, and with no support coming any time soon. It wasn’t a good situation.
“Sir?”
“It’s nothing, Lieutenant. Report.”
“Our scouts have made contact with an Austrian force at the village of Lure. The reports state that they seem to be a scouting group.”
Lecourbe took this information in. Suvorov, apparently, had made it through the Vosges much faster than expected. Damn it. There goes my terrain advantage. Unless…
“How close is the rest of the Austrian army?”
“...Unknown, sir.”
“Merde.”
A plan was forming in Lecourbe’s mind, but...no. No time for delays. This might be our best chance to do some damage.
“Tell the commanders to prepare to march on Lure.”
“Sir?”
“This might be our only shot at hitting the Austrians before they can just walk over us. We have to hit them now. With any luck, the ones at Lure are isolated. If we can whittle them down now, it’ll be our best chance. Now move! We have to get going, or else we’ll have a disaster on our hands.”
“Yes Sir.”
______________________________________________________________________________
The French arrived at Lure on the 7th. From his position, Lecourbe could see what the scouts had been talking about. The Austrians here were all light troops or mounted, the definite markings of scouts. Good. Luck might be on the side of France for once. He ordered his men forwards. Time for battle
Orange: Austrian Scouts
Blue: French
Joseph Radetzky was anxious. His commanding officer, the legendary Alexander Suvorov, had explained the plan very carefully, and Radetzky himself had full faith in it. Still, he was purposely separated from the rest of the army, if only by a handful of miles, and was being used to bait the trap.
Instinct told him to pull back, into the cover of the Vosges. If he was on his own, he would have done so. But he had a part to play, and he needed to play it well. Hold his ground, Suvorov had told him, just long enough for the French to invest their forces. Then pull back, and the trap would be sprung.
______________________________________________________________________________
The Battle of Lure began at approximately 11:00 am, March 7th, 1800. The French, despite being largely under-trained conscripts, knew enough about combat to at least attempt an encirclement. Their flanks swung around, trying to cut off Radetzky’s line of retreat. Their attempts were clumsy and ill-organized, and never truly threatened the Austrians. But no Radetzky played his part well. Allowing the French to swing around would help to improve the illusion that he was badly losing the battle, sucking more and more of their forces in. Soon enough, it was time to spring the trap.
______________________________________________________________________________
“Sir! The Austrians are retreating!”
Claude Lecourbe cursed under his breath. His encirclement had been only partially successful. But instead of completely trapping the Austrians, the noose had never been completed, and now his foe was escaping eastwards.
To be perfectly honest, he would be happy with the current results. His men had proved competent, and the Austrians were on the run. There would be nothing wrong with simply calling it a day. But...if these scouts were allowed to report back to Suvorov, he would lose any advantage he had left. Not only that, but pursuing would allow him to establish a presence in the Vosges, whose terrain of thick woods and rolling hills would be perfect for a harassment campaign.
In the end, there really wasn’t a question of what to do.
“Press them! We will pursue!”
______________________________________________________________________________
The French were pursuing him. Good. If Suvorov had kept to his word, he should be just about to…
“Colonel Radetzky!”
Radetzky smiled. The Russian, through illness and old age, had come through. The village of Ronchamp had been heavily fortified, with barricades along the roads and cannons on the barricades. The roadblock was ready. Now for the rest.
“Good job with the defenses, men. The French are right behind me. Let’s give them a proper welcome, shall we?”
Red: Austrian Main Body.
The Battle of Lure was never really in doubt. After baiting the French back to the fortified village of Ronchamp, the trap slammed shut. Austrian troops came down from the hills on both of Lecourbe’s flanks, while other blocked his line of retreat. Of 20,000 French troops committed to battle, less than a quarter managed to stumble away back towards Vesoul, and many of them were chased down in the ensuing pursuit. The rest were dead or captured. Austrian losses were less than 2500, the majority of those coming during the initial baiting action.
With Lecourbe dealt with, a whole world of possibilities opened up.
______________________________________________________________________________
Jean-de-Dieu Soult was worried. Lecourbe’s command had been destroyed, with only a handful of troops managing to stumble back into his camp at Langres. From the tales that trickled in, Lecourbe had been baited into a trap, and now Suvorov was all but unopposed.
This terrified Soult. Even more terrifying, no one seemed to be quite sure where the Russian was headed. He had clearly left the Vosges, but after that there was little to go on. Reports by the locals all seemed to contradict each other. Would the Austrians march on Paris again? Would the march south to link up with Korsakov and smash Murat? Head straight west and join with the Royalists? They might even turn north, and try to cut Massena off from the rest of the Republic. There were too many possibilities. And Soult had to choose which one to act on.
Writing Update Time!
So...I went on surprise vacation all of last week, and couldn't get much writing done. I did however, get a lot of outlining done. So to make up for the lack of updates, a quick preview of what's to come, by way of part titles:
13:A Meeting of Frenchmen
14:Where in the World is Alexander Suvorov?
15:In Defense of the Republic
16:Nelson’s Heir
17:Shuffling the Sides
18:Seek-and-Destroyed
19:Igniting the Powderkeg
20:Two Legends
21:On Ne Passe Pas!
22: Death Rattle of the Sick Man
23:Last Dying Breath
24:Some Small Village in Belgium
25:Self-Preservation, National Salvation and a Lost Generation
26: Desert Storm
Sorry for the non-update, I just felt like I should get something out after two weeks gone. Thanks for all the support, I'll see you when again when I've actually written something
.
So...I went on surprise vacation all of last week, and couldn't get much writing done. I did however, get a lot of outlining done. So to make up for the lack of updates, a quick preview of what's to come, by way of part titles:
13:A Meeting of Frenchmen
14:Where in the World is Alexander Suvorov?
15:In Defense of the Republic
16:Nelson’s Heir
17:Shuffling the Sides
18:Seek-and-Destroyed
19:Igniting the Powderkeg
20:Two Legends
21:On Ne Passe Pas!
22: Death Rattle of the Sick Man
23:Last Dying Breath
24:Some Small Village in Belgium
25:Self-Preservation, National Salvation and a Lost Generation
26: Desert Storm
Sorry for the non-update, I just felt like I should get something out after two weeks gone. Thanks for all the support, I'll see you when again when I've actually written something
.
Ch 2, Pt 13.
Part 13:A Meeting of Frenchman.
March, 1800. Avignon, France.
… and therefore, I must ask that you return to France as soon as is practicable. The situation on the Continent has spiralled wildly out of control. Your aid in the Republic’s preservation would be indispensable. I believe that the people, currently living in fear of the so-called ‘government’ that infests Paris, would rally behind you at the mere whisper of your return.
-Lucien
The Younger Bonaparte put down his pen. Now this...this was truly a desperate plan. The chances of it actually working were slim, if not nothing at all. The missive would have to get off the mainland, first off, not an easy task with the Royal Navy prowling off the coast. If it got past the blockade, it would still have to make it across the Mediterranean, evading more British ships and those of the Neapolitan allies, the only potentially friendly port before reaching Egypt being Malta, which hadn’t been heard from in months and easily could have fallen in the interim.
Then it would have to make landfall, getting past the Ottoman Navy that was no doubt patrolling the coasts in the Middle East, and make its way to his brother. Assuming both that dear Napoleon bothered to read the letter and that he agreed with its sentiments, the Elder Bonaparte would then have to sneak his way back across the Mediterranean to France. And then he would still have to coordinate forces, build a command structure…
Yes, it was a desperate plan, but for the moment it seemed to be the only one available. Despite their best efforts, the French heartland remained firmly under Fouche’s heel. Oh, they had been gaining strength, to be sure: defectors, deserters, criminals and others of such ilk, but the Republican forces (and their Royalist allies) were still badly outgunned and outmanned. They needed something more to attract the people to their side. That could either come from despair, like another battlefield defeat, or hope, like Massena had given them at Orsay. Lucien hoped for the latter, and hoped that his brother might be able to provide it.
And so the desperate plan. Lucien’s brother remained popular with the people, his exploits in Italy and now Egypt becoming legendary, symbols of hope for the French people as their fortunes collapsed elsewhere. Of course, it didn’t hurt that there was almost no contact with the Armee d'Egypte anymore, and almost all of the stories were half-whispered rumors that were at-best third hand accounts. It allowed every minor victory to be inflated to the likes of Cannae or Thermopylae.
Lucien was lost in these thoughts, when he was disturbed by a knock at his door. Opening it, he was confronted by one of the young men that the Republicans used as scouts and provocateurs in the surrounding countryside. His face was grave.
“Monsieur Bonaparte...he’s here. Murat, that is. His scouts are approaching the city by the east road.”
The young man fidgeted, nervous. Lucien sighed. This would complicate matters. He had known, of course, that Fouche would send someone eventually. But perhaps there was an opportunity to be found here. Murat, he knew, was a former Jacobin, and might be...convinced of the validity of the Republican cause.
“Monsieur?”
Lucien turned back to the young man. Really, he was little more than a boy, and looked the part: he was shaking in his shoes. Putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder, he gave him a reassuring smile.
“Thank you for informing me of this. Go tell the leadership council. I need to find a horse.”
______________________________________________________________________________
Of every potential scenario that Joachim Murat had thought up once he started moving his army towards Avignon, this was not one of them. A lone rider had been encountered by his scouts, carrying a flag of truce and asking (apparently rather politely) to speak with him personally. More surprisingly, the rider was none other than Lucien Bonaparte himself. Now, as Murat rode out with the rest of his staff and guards to meet the Republican leader, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy. This could easily be a trap, of course, but something else was nagging at him…No time to worry about all of that. Here was the Younger Bonaparte. It was time to see what he wanted.
“Bonaparte.” He nodded to the younger man. “I assume it is too optimistic of me to believe that you are here to discuss terms of surrender.”
“Yes it is. I wouldn’t have anywhere to intern you or your men if you did so. No, I am here simply to ask a question of you, General Murat.”
“Which is?”
“Why are you here?”
“Is that it? You could have sent someone else to ask that for you. But no, you have come out here yourself. Do not try my patience, Bonaparte. May I remind you that I have an army, and you do not. In fact, I could arrest you at this very moment, and you could not stop me.”
“So why don’t you? What is stopping you, General Murat? What is stopping you from gunning me down, gunning the rest of the Republicans down, gunning down anyone in France that stands up against the bastard that’s taken over Paris? What prevents, at this very moment, you from going into Avignon and slaughtering my fellows to a man? What stays your hand?”
Bonaparte had dismounted from his horse, and now stood next to Murat’s mount. He knew the risk he was taking. Lucien was, in fact, terrified of what he was doing, but he saw his chance. Looking the General straight in the eyes, he took his chance.
“We both know what stays your hand, General. You stay your hand because you know that Fouche has betrayed us. You know that your enemy is not here in Avignon. The Austrians have taken Alsace. The Russians and Italians are crossing over our border near Nice. The British are encamped in the Netherlands. So many armies threaten our nation. So why, I ask you, do you march against your fellow Frenchmen? Frenchmen with few arms and fewer rounds to fire from them?”
Lucien breathed in slowly. Do not show fear. You must have strength. For France, have strength. He focused on Murat’s face. It was a perfect mask of calm. No anger yet. That’s good, at least. Lucien breathed out, even slower. For France.
“I know that you have orders to arrest me. You’ve probably been ordered to round up all of my followers as well. And if you decide to carry it out, we couldn’t possibly stop you. But I ask you, here and now...go back east. Defend our border. Protect France from its enemies without. I ask this of you because I know your reputation, General. I know that you would never betray the Republic. But if, for whatever reason, you must act on your orders, then I ask that you cut me down now. I have no desire to live in a France that would do so. My only request in that case would be that you look me in the eye as you do so.”
Lucien stopped again. Murat’s face was still unreadable. He worried that perhaps he had overplayed his hand. But everything he had said was true. He would rather die than let France fall to tyranny, and if Murat was against him, Avignon would fall, regardless of what preparations the the Republicans had in store. But if Murat was with him...if Murat was with him, then France had hope.
And so Lucien waited for a response, looking into the unreadable eyes of Joachim Murat.
March, 1800. Avignon, France.
… and therefore, I must ask that you return to France as soon as is practicable. The situation on the Continent has spiralled wildly out of control. Your aid in the Republic’s preservation would be indispensable. I believe that the people, currently living in fear of the so-called ‘government’ that infests Paris, would rally behind you at the mere whisper of your return.
-Lucien
The Younger Bonaparte put down his pen. Now this...this was truly a desperate plan. The chances of it actually working were slim, if not nothing at all. The missive would have to get off the mainland, first off, not an easy task with the Royal Navy prowling off the coast. If it got past the blockade, it would still have to make it across the Mediterranean, evading more British ships and those of the Neapolitan allies, the only potentially friendly port before reaching Egypt being Malta, which hadn’t been heard from in months and easily could have fallen in the interim.
Then it would have to make landfall, getting past the Ottoman Navy that was no doubt patrolling the coasts in the Middle East, and make its way to his brother. Assuming both that dear Napoleon bothered to read the letter and that he agreed with its sentiments, the Elder Bonaparte would then have to sneak his way back across the Mediterranean to France. And then he would still have to coordinate forces, build a command structure…
Yes, it was a desperate plan, but for the moment it seemed to be the only one available. Despite their best efforts, the French heartland remained firmly under Fouche’s heel. Oh, they had been gaining strength, to be sure: defectors, deserters, criminals and others of such ilk, but the Republican forces (and their Royalist allies) were still badly outgunned and outmanned. They needed something more to attract the people to their side. That could either come from despair, like another battlefield defeat, or hope, like Massena had given them at Orsay. Lucien hoped for the latter, and hoped that his brother might be able to provide it.
And so the desperate plan. Lucien’s brother remained popular with the people, his exploits in Italy and now Egypt becoming legendary, symbols of hope for the French people as their fortunes collapsed elsewhere. Of course, it didn’t hurt that there was almost no contact with the Armee d'Egypte anymore, and almost all of the stories were half-whispered rumors that were at-best third hand accounts. It allowed every minor victory to be inflated to the likes of Cannae or Thermopylae.
Lucien was lost in these thoughts, when he was disturbed by a knock at his door. Opening it, he was confronted by one of the young men that the Republicans used as scouts and provocateurs in the surrounding countryside. His face was grave.
“Monsieur Bonaparte...he’s here. Murat, that is. His scouts are approaching the city by the east road.”
The young man fidgeted, nervous. Lucien sighed. This would complicate matters. He had known, of course, that Fouche would send someone eventually. But perhaps there was an opportunity to be found here. Murat, he knew, was a former Jacobin, and might be...convinced of the validity of the Republican cause.
“Monsieur?”
Lucien turned back to the young man. Really, he was little more than a boy, and looked the part: he was shaking in his shoes. Putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder, he gave him a reassuring smile.
“Thank you for informing me of this. Go tell the leadership council. I need to find a horse.”
______________________________________________________________________________
Of every potential scenario that Joachim Murat had thought up once he started moving his army towards Avignon, this was not one of them. A lone rider had been encountered by his scouts, carrying a flag of truce and asking (apparently rather politely) to speak with him personally. More surprisingly, the rider was none other than Lucien Bonaparte himself. Now, as Murat rode out with the rest of his staff and guards to meet the Republican leader, he couldn’t help but feel uneasy. This could easily be a trap, of course, but something else was nagging at him…No time to worry about all of that. Here was the Younger Bonaparte. It was time to see what he wanted.
“Bonaparte.” He nodded to the younger man. “I assume it is too optimistic of me to believe that you are here to discuss terms of surrender.”
“Yes it is. I wouldn’t have anywhere to intern you or your men if you did so. No, I am here simply to ask a question of you, General Murat.”
“Which is?”
“Why are you here?”
“Is that it? You could have sent someone else to ask that for you. But no, you have come out here yourself. Do not try my patience, Bonaparte. May I remind you that I have an army, and you do not. In fact, I could arrest you at this very moment, and you could not stop me.”
“So why don’t you? What is stopping you, General Murat? What is stopping you from gunning me down, gunning the rest of the Republicans down, gunning down anyone in France that stands up against the bastard that’s taken over Paris? What prevents, at this very moment, you from going into Avignon and slaughtering my fellows to a man? What stays your hand?”
Bonaparte had dismounted from his horse, and now stood next to Murat’s mount. He knew the risk he was taking. Lucien was, in fact, terrified of what he was doing, but he saw his chance. Looking the General straight in the eyes, he took his chance.
“We both know what stays your hand, General. You stay your hand because you know that Fouche has betrayed us. You know that your enemy is not here in Avignon. The Austrians have taken Alsace. The Russians and Italians are crossing over our border near Nice. The British are encamped in the Netherlands. So many armies threaten our nation. So why, I ask you, do you march against your fellow Frenchmen? Frenchmen with few arms and fewer rounds to fire from them?”
Lucien breathed in slowly. Do not show fear. You must have strength. For France, have strength. He focused on Murat’s face. It was a perfect mask of calm. No anger yet. That’s good, at least. Lucien breathed out, even slower. For France.
“I know that you have orders to arrest me. You’ve probably been ordered to round up all of my followers as well. And if you decide to carry it out, we couldn’t possibly stop you. But I ask you, here and now...go back east. Defend our border. Protect France from its enemies without. I ask this of you because I know your reputation, General. I know that you would never betray the Republic. But if, for whatever reason, you must act on your orders, then I ask that you cut me down now. I have no desire to live in a France that would do so. My only request in that case would be that you look me in the eye as you do so.”
Lucien stopped again. Murat’s face was still unreadable. He worried that perhaps he had overplayed his hand. But everything he had said was true. He would rather die than let France fall to tyranny, and if Murat was against him, Avignon would fall, regardless of what preparations the the Republicans had in store. But if Murat was with him...if Murat was with him, then France had hope.
And so Lucien waited for a response, looking into the unreadable eyes of Joachim Murat.
Update Time.
I think that this TL will be going on Hiatus. Long story short, I started writing another TL in the ASB forum (you can find the link in my signature), and as awesome as he is, Napoleon Bonaparte is not as fun to write as people fighting a Balrog. In other words, I'm on a bit of a fantasy/medieval kick (for which you can blame Tolkien, Peter Jackson and the people that make the Total War games), and I'm not really focusing on Revolutionary France when I can focus on Mordor. And honestly, I think my writing for it is better: it's more novelish, I guess, and I like that it feels a lot more personal.
This won't be permanent; one day, the people of France shall once again march in defense of their nation, the Ottoman powderkeg will explode and I will return to the year 1800 to finish what I started. But for now, I'm stuck six centuries earlier trying to figure out how to make the Pope fight the Witch King. Until then, thank you for all the support for this TL. Sorry for stopping (for now) on a cliffhanger.
The Revolution will come again.
I think that this TL will be going on Hiatus. Long story short, I started writing another TL in the ASB forum (you can find the link in my signature), and as awesome as he is, Napoleon Bonaparte is not as fun to write as people fighting a Balrog. In other words, I'm on a bit of a fantasy/medieval kick (for which you can blame Tolkien, Peter Jackson and the people that make the Total War games), and I'm not really focusing on Revolutionary France when I can focus on Mordor. And honestly, I think my writing for it is better: it's more novelish, I guess, and I like that it feels a lot more personal.
This won't be permanent; one day, the people of France shall once again march in defense of their nation, the Ottoman powderkeg will explode and I will return to the year 1800 to finish what I started. But for now, I'm stuck six centuries earlier trying to figure out how to make the Pope fight the Witch King. Until then, thank you for all the support for this TL. Sorry for stopping (for now) on a cliffhanger.
The Revolution will come again.