La Chanson de la Victoire (The Song of Victory): La Petite Arpenteuse (Non, SV, you are a General of France in the Napoleonic War!)

[Alexander Sturnn]

Le Renard du Rhin


General Jourdan's POV

He could see that his Men were nervous. That much was obvious, even without watching them closely through his Spyglass.

The Tension within the Army of the Rhine could not be denied. It lay thick in the air and any Officer with an eye for such things could see it.

It was understandable, really. Not only had they just now retreated back across the River, but now a massive Prussian Army was coming after them, marching in thick Columns and Lines of black-clad Troops. Their Bayonets gleamed in the Sun. The almost obnoxiously loud blaring of the Prussian Instruments as they played a Marching Song did it's part to gnaw at the nerves of his Soldiers, even as they holed up in the defensive Positions they had constructed.

They should have more faith, really. Bluecher was now right where Jourdan wanted him.

Fighting this giant Army head-on would be difficult at best. Attacking them in their own defensive Positions would have been suicide.

But having them come to them now, marching straight into the Trap he had set up these last few days?

Oh yes, THAT was were it all came together.

"Looks like they fell for it. Now we can only hope our Men can hold", he remarked.

Saint-Cyr, standing next to him on a small hill overlooking the soon-to-be Battlefield, nodded. "We have prepared as best as we can. Now we'll see if it was enough. My Cavalry is ready to launch a Counterattack at a moments notice."

"Good, good." Jourdan looked at the Prussians through his Spyglass, smirking as he saw the small Gaps in their Lines and the weary Cavalry guarding the Flanks. "Looks like Vandamme and Durand did a Number on them already. I'm sure they'll keep it up too."

Jourdan had to admit, he had been skeptical of Captain Durand and the Amazonian Volunteers in General. While General...while Empress Therese had proven that Women could stand their Ground on the Battlefield as much as any man, it was not easy to shake off long-held views and Notions about the Roll that Women were allegedly supposed to play. But by God, Durand's brillaint Leadership of her Cavalry and the performance of the other Volunteers had changed his mind. He was glad to call these Women his Soldiers.

"As am I. Now we-"

Whatever Saint-Cyr was about so say next was drowned out when the roaring Thunder of the Prussian Artillery sounded across the Rhine as they opened fire. The French Cannons responded in kind. And as the first shots found their marks and the screams of wounded and dying Soldiers arose, the Battle had truly begun.

***​

Captain Jean-Baptiste Calvet's POV


Well, we're just neck-deep in the the fucking mud now, aren't we?

That was Calvet's first thought as he looked at the Corpse of Colonel Gerard, who's head had just been torn of by a Prussian Cannon-Ball.

It was not an unfounded comparison. Their current Situation was nearly as unpleasant as the days when he had to help his Father digging ditches even when the rain was pouring down and the mud threatening to drown them. The Mud, in this case, being the Prussians.

It was not looking good on the left flank of the Army of the Rhine. While their forces had held out for most of the day, the Prussians were now concentrating their attack on them. They had already been pushed back under the relentless Prussian Assault for a few hundred Meters while suffering bad casualties...and now their Colonel was dead. Gerard, the old Bastard, had kept the Regiment from breaking by shouting and waving his Sword, his Presence inspiring the Men to hold firm.

And now he was dead.

Already, Calvet could see the Men of his Regiment looking frightened and nervous upon seeing their beloved Colonel bite the dust. Despite his rapid rise through the Ranks and his relatively young age, he had been a Soldier for long enough now to know when Troops where at a breaking Point. And his Regiment had reached it.

If nothing was done now, they would break and run. If they broke and run, the Prussians would exploit the resulting Gap in their Lines. If they exploited that, the left flank of the Army might be obliterated

And if that happened, then they could all kiss their Asses goodbye. And the Prussians would be free to invade France once more.

Calvet looked at his Friend, Sergeant Gaston, who had accompanied him throughout the entire War so far. But even he, usually good at coming up with Solutions, looked lost right now. Calvet wrecked his brain on what to do...but before he could find a Solution to their Dilemma, someone beat him to the Punch.

"SOLDIERS OF THE 54th!!!"

Calvet looked up to see Major Michel Dubreton standing next to the corpse of Colonel Gerard. The Man seemed to have lost his cap in the fighting, a bleeding cut could be seen on his cheek and his face was stained black from Gunpowder. But his eyes blazed as he held the Standard of their Regiment in one Hand and his Sabre in another while shouting at the Soldiers.

"ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO RUN NOW?! THE DAMN PRUSSIANS STUMBLED RIGHT INTO OUR TRAP AND NOW YOU WANT TO JUST LET THEM WIN?! DO YOU WANT THEM TO RAVAGE OUR COUNTRY AGAIN AND KILL OUR FAMILIES?! DID WE GET RID OF THE TYRANT ROBESPIERRE AGAIN ONLY TO NOW FALL TO INVADERS?!? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!?"

Calvet could see that his Words were awakening something inside the men around him. The fear in their eyes began to fade, replaced by a mixture of anger, determination and mounting resolve as they listened to the Majors words.

He was honestly surprised. He had thought of Dubreton as a bit of a fop who had studied War in an Academy prior to the Revolution rather then experiencing it firsthand. His almsot gentle looks and demeanor hadn't done much either to convince him of the Major's capabilities.

But this? Rallying his wavering troops while grabbing the Regimental Standard and waving it, even in face of the advancing foe? If this didn't prove that the Bastard had some thick Steel under the silk, he didn't know what did.

And so, Calvet answered the Majors question with the same word as Gaston and many of the other Soldiers around them: "NO!!!"

"THEN FORM BACK UP IN RANKS AND GIVE THEM HELL!!", Dubreton roared.

Taking Command of his Platoon, Calvet rallied them back in line with the others as they turned around to face and advancing Prussian Regiment. Gaston and the other Sergeants worked quick to close the Ranks where fallen Soldiers had left gaps. The Soldiers, rallying around their Major, stood firm once again.

"NOW...PRESENT!!!", roared Calvet as the other Captains did the same. Their Soldiers raised their Muskets, aiming at the advancing Prussians. Then, they finally came in range. "FIRE!!!"

The front ranks of the Prussian Regiment became almost invisible to the French thanks to the smoke of their Muskets. But Calvet could see that the Salvo had been devastating. Almost every man in the front two ranks seemed to have fallen over, wounded or dead. The Prussians were reeling backwards, shocked by the damage of the Salvo, as the French already reloaded. Looking around quickly, Calvet could see that the Prussians seemed to have been halted at other points on the left flank as well. And then, a Trumpet cut through the air.

The French Soldiers cheered as General Saint-Cyr's Cavalry smashed into the Prussians. Caught in Line-Formations and without time to form a Square, the black-clad Soldiers were trampled under the Hooves of the Horses or hacked to pieces by Sabres. No Infantry in the World could've stood in that Situation. And so, the Prussians began to fall back, even as their attempts to retreat turned into a rout back to the River.

"GOOD JOB, MEN!!", Dubreton shouted. "NOW'S YOUR TIME! ADVANCE!! VIVE L'EMPEREUR!!! VIVE L' FRANCE!!!"

Taking up this Battlecry, the 54th Line-Infantry Regiment advanced togetehr with their comrades. And Calvet couldn't help but smirk. How quickly the tide could turn...

***​

General Bluecher's POV


It had all gone straight to hell.

Bluecher grit his teeth as he saw the carnage on the other side of the River. It had all looked so simple: Pursue the retreating French over the River, smash them all and then advance further into the Heart of France.

Instead, he had fallen right into that cursed Jourdan's Trap. They had not found a disorganized and retreating Enemy on the other side, but instead a well-dug in Army just waiting for them to march into their Fire.

"That damn Fox has played me for a bloody Fool!", he cursed as he looked through his Spyglass.

It was not looking good. At first, he had thought he could break through the Enemy's left flank as his boys had started to kick the Frog Eaters asses there. Instead, his Attack had been utterly routed by a massive Cavalry-Charge after their initial success. And now, his Troops where being pushed back. From what he could tell, his Losses had been far greater then those of the Froggies. The Rhine was stained red with the blood of many good Prussians, their corpses floating in the Water.

Maybe if even more French Cavalry wasn't threatening their Flanks at any second, he could've still turned this around. But with them there, he could only sent more Troops into this Meatgrinder. And that was a loosing strategy.

He sighed as he put away his Spyglass. "Send out the orders to Gneisenau and the others", he told his Aide. "We're retreating. Looks like the Frog Eaters win this Round."

As his Aide ran off to send out the Messengers, Bluecher once again looked through his Spyglass. Off in the Distance, on a hill, he could make out figures in French Uniforms overseeing the Battle as well. He was sure that this was Jourdan and his own General-Staff. How utterly pleased they must feel right now in their success.

And grudgingly, Bluecher had to admit that they had every right to feel that way. While his Army would not be destroyed by this defeat, it was beaten back and would have to dig in and wait for Reinforcements. His Plan of smashing through French lines and advancing into their Heartland was thwarted for the foreseeable Future. They would not be a Threat to France again for a while yet.

Dammit!, he thought. I came here hoping to beat up that Amazon Therese Auclair, avenging the defeat of old Brunswick...and instead I get tricked like a Chicken by a Fox!

He grumbled as he put away his Spyglass. "Diese Runde geht an dich, Jourdan, du verdammter Fuchs", he said. "Aber ich komme wieder, verlass dich drauf!" (Translation: "You win this Round, Jourdan, you damn Fox. But I'll be back, you can count on that!")

***​

General Jourdan's POV


Across the River, the Fox of the Rhine smiled as he watched the retreating Prussians.

You're welcome to try again another day. And I'll be waiting for you.




A.N.: Hope you all liked this.

Btw, Dubreton, Calvet and Gaston are all Minor Characters from Sharpe, both the Books and the TV-Miniseries. Right now, they all serve in the same Regiment in the Army of the Rhine.
I'll use more Sharpe-Characters in future Omakes if I find fitting Opportunities.

 

[Alexander Sturnn]

L'Aigle


He sat upon his Throne, his beloved wife by his side, and looked out over the Court that was gathered in celebration. Flags and Weapons adorned the Walls as the Nobles of his Kingdom were chatting and eating, celebrating the News of their Queens pregnancy.

He looked at his wife, who returned his smile in a way that once more made his heart flutter. What had he ever done to deserve the love of this Goddess among Mortals? She was more then just his Queen and future Mother of his Children. She was his equal in every way. His Partner in the Throneroom and on the Battlefield. And he found joy in that.

His eyes wandered over to her belly, which had begun to swell with the new life growing inside of it. They had achieved much together, had unified their Homeland and defended it from outside Invaders. And they would do much more yet. Their Son would inherit a vast and powerful Realm, with a strong Economy, a stable Society, a firm Administration and a mighty Army.

And then...he would surpass them both.

He could see it now...his Son marching east at the Head of his Armies, conquering all in his Path until the ends of the Earth, toppling Empires and smashing Armies. The Leaders of the World would bow their heads in submission to him and the People would cheer his Name in the streets, cementing him as the greatest Ruler this Earth had ever known. A glorious Golden Era lay ahead of them all...and their Son would one day bring it.

Yes, he could see it as he put a hand on his Wife's belly. They would lay the Groundwork, etching their Names into History...and their Son would only have to stretch out his hand to take the World for himself. Already, he could hear the chants of the People as they celebrated his glorious Reign.

Alexander the Great...Ruler of all that he saw.

Yes, that Name would ring throughout History...





Napoleon blinked as he slowly set up in his bed. Through the slit in his tent, he could see that the sun had just barely risen. It was still early in the morning.

The Emperor of the French People climbed out of his bed and began to put on his Uniform. Despite his relatively short sleep, he felt fresh and full of Energy.

Perhaps that was because of the Dream?

Napoleon shook his head. He had had this Dream quite a few times now, ever since he had learned of Therese's Pregnancy. It always went the same way: He was Philipp of Macedon, spending time with his pregnant Wife...and thinking about the glorious Future that would await their Son, Alexander the Great.

He was not someone who believed in Superstitions, but...could there perhaps be more to this recurring dream then it seemed?

Napoleon snorted in amusement. Brian and Therese would laugh at him for thinking he had prophetic Dreams or such. And they would probably be right. There was more use to place ones faith in your own Skills and that of those around you then in dreams or Prophecy.

And yet...

Napoleon paused. He found that he could not help but be enamored with the Idea behind it. That there was a glorious destiny awaiting his and Therese's Child.

Their Child, be it a Son or a Daughter, would learn from the finest Tutors in all of France. He and Therese would teach them the Arts of War and Statecraft alike. And one day, when their time came...they might surpass them both.

It was a beautiful thought. To leave behind as Legacy and Inheritance for his Children not just a powerful and stable Nation, but a World that would be theirs for the taking. To lay the Foundation for a glorious Dynasty and Empire that would last through the Centuries.

But one had to be careful with such wishes. After all...Alexanders Empire, for all it's Glory, had not survived it's Rulers untimely death.

Napoleon shook his head, chasing these thought out of his mind. Now was not the time to get lost in Dreams of what might be. Now, they had a Nation to save.

Jourdan had done well at beating back the Prussian Main Army. Lannes and Davout had shattered the Austrians and Prussians in Italy and the Netherlands respectively. Spain was no threat anymore and the Royal Navy was too busy hunting Fleets across the Seven Seas to conduct coastal Raids or amphibious Invasions. Russia was somewhat of a concern, but right now, Alexander I. seemed to commit the bare Minimum of his Forces to the Coalition. All over the Fronts, the Armies of France had taken the Initiative.

Now all that was left was to push back and knock their remaining foes out of the War. And then, finally, it would be time to return home and see to the matters of State...as well as Family.

Napoleon couldn't help but smile. He wished he could be present for the birth of his Child...but he took consolation in the thought of returning home to embrace both it and his Wife.

He couldn't wait to end this War. Therese was waiting for him, after all...as well as the little new Life that might one day determine the Future of France.

He looked forward to seeing them both.


A.N.: There. Hope you all like it.

Up next, tomorrow: Sharpe's Rescue.

 

[Alexander Sturnn]

Sharpe's Rescue, Part 1


The Sound of Trumpets signalling retreat had come at once as a relief and a shame.

The battered Regiments of Redcoats and Sepoys continued to march in their orderly retreat from the Battlefield, even as Cannonballs and a few stray bullets were fired after them, the shots thankfully missing and bouncing over the Ground. The Soldier's faces, stained black by Gunpowder, showed both exhaustion and defeat, their shoulders sagging as much from tiredness as from demoralization.

The Battle had almost been a complete Disaster. They were supposed to march on Seringapatam and finally put an end to the Kingdom of Mysore and it's Ruler, Tipu Sultan, one of the greatest Enemies of the British in India.

Instead, impending Triumph had turned into catastrophe. Tipu had obviously learned from his last defeat a few years prior and had rigorously trained his Troops to fight and counter British Tactics.

The rapid fire of his Infantry and Cannons had torn through the British Lines while his Cavalry had harassed and struck at their flanks. Everything had fallen apart when a Battalion of the East India Company's Troops on their left flank had broken under the Pressure, opening a gap to Tipu, which the Sultan had ruthlessly exploited. Caught between his charging Cavalry and advancing Infantry, the British Situation became more and more untenable by the second.

And then, a shout had sounded through their ranks that sealed the outcome of the Battle once and for all.

"GENERAL HARRIS IS DEAD!!!"

The death of their Army's Supreme Commander shattered all hopes of turning the Battle around as the already waving morale of the Troops took an even greater hit. That things did not spiral into complete Annihilation had only been thanks to the quick thinking of the Generals Sir Arthur Wellesley and Sir David Baird. Baird had told his younger Counterpart to gather all the Men he could and retreat while he was still able to. He would stay behind with 5.000 Men to cover their withdrawal.

"I know I won't survive this Battle", Baird had told Wellesley. "But at least I can make those Indian Fuckers pay and buy the rest of the Army time to get out of this shit. I won't surrender and give that fat little Bastard another Chance to let me rot in the Dungeons of Seringapatam. Me and my Men will fight to the end! So go, Wellesley! Save this Army and show that you deserve your Rank!"

These Words still echoed in Wellesley's mind as he looked back over his Shoulder, even as he was riding away from the Battlefield among a few other Officers on horseback. In the distance, he could hear the roar of Muskets and Cannons and see the flashes of muzzles firing their deadly payloads. Baird was selling his life dearly, but he could not hold out forever. Wellesley could only pray that it would be for long enough.

He felt a stab of remorse in his gut. Despite Baird's thinly veiled Antagonism towards him, perceiving him as an Upstart who only got as far as he had because of his Brother Richard being the Governor-General of India, he had respected the gruff Scotsman as a capable Leader. His loss would be a harsh blow to the already faltering British Efforts on the Subcontinent.

It was a cruel twist of fate. A few years ago, their eventual domination of India had seemed dead-certain. And yet now, after a very short time, it looked like all of India might be lost to the Crown, with the Natives pushing the East India Company and their Allies back to the Coast on all fronts. This defeat against Tipu was only the latest blow to their Efforts...but certainly one of the harshest so far. And now here he was, the highest-ranking surviving Commander of a defeated Army.

Wellesley shook his head. There was no use in wallowing in self-pity. They had been defeated. Now it was his Duty to ensure that the surviving Troops could live to fight another day.

His eyes wandered over his Men. He couldn't help but feel a certain amount of pride. Even now, with Indian Cannonballs raining after them and their Morale hanging by a Thread, they conducted an orderly retreat. It was in no small Part thanks to the Officers and Sergeants fighting hard to keep the men in line. His eyes wandered especially to his old Regiment, the 33rd Regiment of Foot. He could see the Captains and Sergeants keeping order in their respective Company's with effectiveness, if not always with clear discipline.

For a second, his eyes came to rest on a tall, blonde Sergeant with a few stubbles on his chin as he shouted at the Soldiers, spurring them to keep marching in ordered lines and not lose their nerves. He seemed familiar somehow...

Right, now he remembered, the Man's Name was Sharpe. He had been promoted to Sergeant last year, after distinguishing himself on a Scouting Mission where he had accompanied Colonel McCandless and Lieutenant - now Captain - Lawford. They had returned with vital Information of the Enemy Forces after a harrowing Journey that apparently involved them being captured multiple times and even thrown to a wild Tiger to be torn apart...only for Sharpe to kill the massive cat with a well-placed shot even as it lunged at him. Both Lawford and McCandless had praised Sharpe in their report, insisting that without his Skills, they all would've died. Wellesley himself had signed the Order promoting Sharpe to the rank of Sergeant.

While at first he had not been sure about the Promotion - Sharpe had been sentenced to 2000 Lashes with a Whip after punching another Sergeant, although he had only received 202 of them before his Sentence had been suspended due to Lawford requesting that he accompanied him and McCandless on their Mission - he could now see that Sharpe was at least competent at his Job.

Perhaps even a bit TOO competent, judging from what the new Colonel of the 33rd had told him. Apparently, Sharpe had displayed Leadership Skills beyond that of a mere Sergeant. McCandless too had privately let slip his Opinion that the Man might deserve another Promotion.

Wellesley shook his head. Now was not the time to think about such things. And besides, promoting someone from the Rank and File to an Officer, while not unprecedented, rarely ended well. Their own Men tended to not respect them and their fellow Officers, most of whom had bought their Ranks, more often then not looked down on them with disdain. They either died quickly or drank themselves to death. Not to mention that such a Promotion required either the Soldier in Question officially buying his rank - practically impossible, given their meager pay - or committing an act of incredible bravery that justified a Field Promotion.

Besides, he had many other things to worry about. Not only were they still within range of Mysore-Artillery, but Squadrons of Tipu's Cavalry, mostly Lancers, were swarming in the Distance on their flanks, waiting for an Opportunity to harass their Forces but also to catch and cut down any stragglers they might find.

Wellesley straightened himself in his saddle. Thoughts of what lay in the Future could wait. For now, he needed to get his Army out of here...and make sure that Baird's Sacrifice had not been in vain.



A.N.: I decided to split it up into multiple Parts. For now, have a first look into the mind of the future Duke of Wellington. Even in defeat, he carries on.
Up next, tomorrow: Richard Sharpe and the Man who can not be killed ("It says so in the Scriptures!").

 

[Alexander Sturnn]

Sharpe's Rescue, Part 2


"Left, right, left, right! Come on, you worthless Scum, march as if the Lord himself ordered you to! And keep marching if you don't want to end up eaten and shat out by Tigers!"

The barking Voice of the Sergeant with the ugly scar on his neck drove the Soldiers forward, as well as the fear of the Enemy they were now rapidly leaving behind. The 33rd Regiment of Foot marched at a fast pace, but still slow enough to keep Order in their ranks.

"Don't you dare fall out of Line! Any Bastard who falls out of Line will get whipped until he can't walk anymore and then left behind for the Enemy to kill! It says so in the Scriptures!"

Sergeant Richard Sharpe just rolled his eyes at Hakeswill's shouting. He hadn't read the Bible - he hadn't had the Opportunity ever since Lawford and McCandless taught him how to read and write on their Scouting Mission - but he was pretty sure that the Sergeant was full of shit whenever he said that.

Hakeswill's head whirled around to look at him, eyes narrowed, as if he had somehow sensed Sharpe's thoughts. Perhaps he even had. Sharpe was not sure if Obadiah Hakeswill didn't have some sort of sixth sense that allowed him to feel it whenever somebody was thinking or talking badly about him. It would certainly suit his malevolent Character.

Ever since he had recruited Sharpe into the 33rd Regiment years ago, Hakeswill seemed to have had it out for him. While the Sergeant tormented all Soldiers in the Regiment, he always was quick to target Sharpe first and foremost. And Sharpe had a pretty good Idea why that was: Unlike almost everyone else, he had never let himself be intimidated by Hakeswill. No matter what the Sergeant tried, Sharpe had always refused to submit to his Machinations and met his loud shouting and twitching face with a defiant stare rather then by averting his eyes. He refused to cower in fear before the likes of Hakeswill. He knew the kind of man the almost bald Sergeant was: A Thief, Liar, Rapist and Murderer. He had met plenty of his Ilk growing up in the Streets and had learned that by following their Rules, you only gave them Power over you. So he refused to do that.

Of course, that had gotten him into trouble more then once, since Hakeswill always tried to find new ways to make his life hell. Be it by stealing the Firestone of his Musket and then accusing him of having sold it or by stealing things from Officers and then hiding them in Sharpe's bag to frame him. Thankfully, Sharpe had managed to parry all these Attempts...until the last one.

While the Wounds on his back from the 202 Lashes had healed, the Scars would always remain there: A bitter reminder of how Hakeswill had finally gotten under his Skin enough to goad him into punching him. After Sergeant Bickerstaff had been wounded in a fight, it had for a long while looked as if he would die, leaving his Wife Mary a Widow. Hakeswill, who always tried to blackmail the Soldiers with pretty wifes into handing them over to him for some "fun", had long since lusted after her. And the Widow of a Soldier did not have many Options or Chances to escape. Bickerstaff knew that. So he had all but ordered Sharpe to protect her even as he lay wounded in his tent. And Sharpe had done so, always deflecting Hakeswills attempts to creep up on her. Finally though, the Sergeant had had enough. He had first caught Sharpe seemingly alone and had then gloated about how he would not be able to protect Mary forever. How he would get her, rape her and then sell her off to a Whorehouse for good Money once Bickerstaff finally died.

That last part had really pissed Sharpe off. His mother had been a whore. And though she had died while he was still young, he remembered her kindness and her smile towards him...and his burning hatred for the Pimp who had all but beaten her to death when she couldn't make enough Money. The thought of Hakeswill sending Mary, whom Sharpe had grown to genuinely like, off to face such a fate had just been too much. In his anger, he had punched the Sergeant in the face...and had instantly been arrested by Morris, the corrupt Captain of Sharpe's Company in the 33rd and Hakeswills closest Ally, who had already lain in wait for him. Sharpe could only suspect that Hakeswill had promised Morris either a go at Mary herself or a cut of the Money from selling her. Probably even both.

Morris had made sure that he was sentenced to 2000 Lashes for punching a Sergeant, essentially a Death Sentence. Thankfully, Lieutenant Lawford had believed him when he told him what really happened and managed to convince General Wellesley to suspend the Sentence after he had received only about a tenth of the Lashes in exchange for accompanying Lawford and a Colonel of the East India Comapny, a Scotsman named McCandless, on a Scouting Mission.

That Mission, while harrowing and almost killing them all more the once, had finally turned things around for him. Not only had he been taught how to read and write, but he had impressed Lawford and McCandless enough that they spoke highly of him to Wellesley after giving their Report.

Granted, he HAD saved their lives from a wild Tiger.

Anyway, not only had he been promoted to Sergeant and thus been put in a Position where Hakeswill couldn't just bully him around anymore, but Bickerstaff had survived his Woudns...and told Hakeswill in no uncertain terms to stay away from his Wife if he valued his Balls. Grumbling and reluctantly, Hakeswill had complied. Of course, he clearly blamed Sharpe for his Plan failing. And Sharpe was certain that sooner or later, his Enemy would try to have him killed again.

But by God, he would be ready for it.

"Hey, Sharpie! Eyes up ahead, don't you think?!"

Sharpe looked aside. Hakeswill had snuck up on him as he was lost in thoughts. His wide eyes stared into his own.

"You're slacking off on the Job, Sharpie!", he cackled. "Thinking while you should spur on the Soldiers? Not a good look! If an Officer saw that, you'd lose your Stripes again pretty quickly! That would teach you not to be so arrogant!"

"Don't see you telling our Men to march faster either", Sharpe countered with a snort. "Practice as you preach, Obadiah."

"Preach? Preach? I ain't a damn Priest, Sharpie! Those robed fuckers squeal and die easily, just like Piggies!", Hakeswill said with an almost sick grin. "I'm the Man who can't be killed! You and everyone else here can die in the blink of an eye. But me, I'm immortal, Sharpie! Decause the Spirit of my Mother watches out for her little Obadiah! It says so in the Scriptures!"

Sharpe scoffed. The annoying Part was, he wasn't sure if Hakeswill was just talking nonsense as usual there. The Sergeant had an unnatural talent to dodge death. In the battle just now, Sharpe had seen a Volley of Muskets from Tipu's Men cut down everyone in a whole row of Soldiers...except for Hakeswill, who stood completely unharmed amidst the Corpses and cackled about how he could not die. And from what other Soldiers had told him, that was only the latest in such Episodes. The earliest one being Hakeswill being hung for Thievery as a twelve year old...and surviving. The ugly scar on his neck was where the Rope had dug into his flesh. And yet, he had not died. Hakeswill had survived the Gallows themselves and from that day on he had build himself a reputation as being unkillable.

As full of shit as Hakeswill was...Sharpe couldn't help but wonder if maybe there was some truth to his Words.

"You should look out for yourself, Sharpie", Hakeswill said now in a low tone, his grin vanishing. "McCandless and Lawford won't always be around to pamper you. And when that happens, you may quickly find yourself in a shallow grave. You may be Sergeant now, but I say you're an arrogant Upstart who needs to be taken down a peck. So stop being all smug, because you'll go to hell sooner or later!"

"Maybe you'll go there first, Obadiah", Sharpe countered with a smirk. "After all...Morris isn't here anymore to protect you either."

Hakeswill's face twitched - another habit that was a leftover from his hanging from the Gallows - as his eyes narrowed and he grit his teeth. He knew that Sharpe was right, as much as he hated to admit it. Captain Morris was now dead, his head ripped clean off by one of Tipu Sultan's cannonballs in the Battle they were now retreating from.

No one would mourn the overweight, corrupt and greedy Bastard. Not even Hakeswill, he was just upset that his greatest accomplice and protection had died. Morris had covered up many of Hakeswills crimes in exchange for receiving a Cut from the Money he made and for Hakeswill keeping the Men in Line through fear. And as good as Hakeswill was at sucking up to Officers, it was unlikely that the next Captain would be so willing to go along with his Crimes.

Yes, Morris death was a good thing. Sadly, it was also just about the ONLY good thing about today.

As Hakeswill slunk away, grumbling all the while about Sharpe and his arrogance, the younger Sergeant thought back to the Battle he had fought in today. It had been his first Field Battle...and it had been a resounding defeat. Tipu Sultan clearly knew what he was doing. He had beaten their Forces back, killed General Harris and almost destroyed their Army. And now, what was left of them retreated, leaving behind 5.000 men under Major-General Baird to cover their withdrawal.

No wonder the Soldiers all looked glum. Today had almost been a total Disaster.

Sharpe looked aside toward the now Leader of their Army: General Sir Arthur Wellesley, who was riding next to the marching Regiments amidst a group of Officers. He hadn't interacted much with Wellesley, but he remembered him as a capable Commander from his Time as Colonel of the 33rd. A bit cold and distant, but he knew what he was doing.

Sharpe only hoped that he could lead an Army just as well. Not to mention save it from complete Annihilation.

At least they should be out of range from Tipu's Cannons now. If those brave Bastard under Baird held out for a while longer and if their Men kept marching, then they should be able to-

A loud, howling sound interrupted him. It sounded like something was flying high through the air. Looking up, Sharpe's eyes widened as he saw glowing red dots high in the sky flying towards them.

"ROCKETS!!!", he shouted in warning.

The Men barely had time to react before the long-ranged Projectiles finished their descent and smashed into the Ground where they exploded.

Indian forces seemed to LOVE using Rockets, Tipu in particular. Thankfully, while loud and scary-sounding to Animals and those who had never seen them before, the things tended to be terribly inaccurate. Most of the Rockets Tipu's Army had fired after them impacted somewhere between the marching Regiments or far in front of them, exploding without causing much damage. One or two hit the Center of a Regiment, killing and wounding a few Soldiers, but not enough to break up marching cohesion.

One incredibly lucky Rocket, however, hit it's mark as if guided by destiny itself.

The Projectile detonated RIGHT in the middle of the Officers that General Wellesley was riding with.

The Shrapnel and Explosion killed three men and four horses, wounding a few others and causing the Animals to buck in fear, whine or outright panicking and running around, scared both by the infernal noise and the smell of blood.

General Wellesley had not been wounded. But his Horse had been hit by several pieces of Shrapnel right in the butt.

The Steed went crazy with pain and fear, bucking wildly and running off, carrying the General with him who was hanging on for dear life as he was distancing himself ever more from his Army. Then, about three-hundred Meters away, the Horse finally threw Wellesley off of his back before continuing it's mad dash away.

Sharpe, who had seen everything, was already running towards the fallen General, ignoring the shouts and confusion behind him. He knew that Wellesley was now out of the effective range of Muskets. And their Enemies knew that too. A Squadron of five Horseriders in the distance, part of the Units Tipu had dispatched to harass their flanks, was already advancing towards the General, eager to kill or capture the perceived straggler.

If nothing was done, the Army could lose their last remaining General...and with that, their best hope to keep things together and get out of this mess alive.

And Sharpe would be damned before he let one lucky Rocket and five prancing Cavalry-Men be the doom of him and his Comrades.



A.N.: DONE. Part Three to follow tomorrow. I hope you all like this one too.

 

[AvidFicReader]

A Deluge of Letters

Matteo Anselme Severin considered himself a simple man. He had given most of his adult life in service to France, and a loving family, if one he had seen far too little of while deployed. He had raised three sons who also served, all having risen as officers, with his middle boy having served under the now-empress herself!

Strolling along the main street of Biffontaine at the head of a company of militiamen, he was surprised to see a rider in military uniform riding up the road. It was rare for military couriers to make their way out into the ass-end of the Vosges, typically only for- aha! He must be bearing letters from Denis Martin! Rather strange that the courier is making such haste in the snow, most couriers were more leisurely in delivering personal letters.

"Sir, are you Sergeant Severin of the Vosges Militia? If so, then I have several letters for you, including one of great importance."

"Aye, that'd be me, corporal. Just let me dismiss my men. Patrol's almost over anyway."
Turning to his company, Matteo shouts his orders in his best sergeant voice: "Company, fall out! Dis-missed!"

"Very well, sir. And I was instructed to await your reply for the last letter."

"All right, all right. Follow me to the tavern over there. Give me chance to glace over my son's letters before I get to the big important one."

After a brisk walk in the winter air, Matteo sits at a table nursing a warm mug of cider. As he presumed, most were letters from Denis Martin, some dated to the summer. It was not surprising; regular post while on campaign was a rare thing. Most urgent mail was in the form of orders and reports, and couriers would often have to hunt down an army on the march. Added to that was the general exhaustion and business while on the march which often saw simple and mundane tasks pushed off in favor of the daily tasks of campaigning.

"Sicily conquered in two battles? Their army nigh destroyed? Ah, to be young again. Picked up a stray? Well, all the better if he proves capable of learning. Hmm... Phht! Ah, that burns! Bwahahaha! Oh, that idiot king! Loses his army and half his patrimony in a day, then decides to declare war against the same enemy while they're half a week's march away? It's no surprise his subjects overthrew him! Oh, and Denis Martin was made General de Brigade! From sergeant to General de Brigade by thirty! Ah, he truly exceeds my expectations as my chosen heir! Oh, and Louis Marceau is on detached duty? Must be something interesting. That, or garrison duty, haha! Hmmm? Genoa, a glorious charge on the Austrian flank, capturing a standard... blown up?! Little Charlie saw combat?! What in God's green earth is going on down there?"

"Er, sir? The last letter? I require your reply."

"Right, right." Matteo distractedly waves off the corporal, poring over the fancy-looking letter. "Monsieur Severin, yadda yadda yadda... Investments in Lorraine, ironworks, sites near mines and rivers for ease of supply and transportation... Entrust you to organize the men... Heh, it reads more like a military dispatch than a job offer. Yours sincerely, Therese Auclair Bonaparte. Ah, no wonder. It seems she got married. I'll have to send her a wedding gift."

"W-wait, sir, you know the Empress?"

"What? What do you mean, empress? Last I heard, she was General de Division, in command of Le Armee d'Orient?"

"With all due respect, sir, but where have you been? The wedding and coronation was back at the end of August!"

"I've been out here in the damned mountains, son! I'm sure you've noticed, but we don't get a lot of traffic all the way out here, and we're practically up against the border with Wurttemberg. That and I'm busy putting the militia through it's paces! Hmm, looks like I'll have to retire- again."

"You're just going to drop everything to fulfill the request of someone you've never met... sir? Even though you didn't know she was the Empress?"

"Corporal, that woman is the daughter of the man who saved my life, my son's life, and the men of my regiment over a decade ago. That, and the way she wrote it, the job sounds more like soldiering than work! Well, Auclair certainly picked the right sergeant for the job!"

"Dear Lord, those poor laborers."

"What was that, corporal? Come with me, we'll just run over to my house to let the family know and I'll write my response."

"Of course, sir, let me just get me horse-"

"I said we'll run, so we're damn well running! Besides, this should be nothing to a young soldat like you!"

"But sir, the snow is up to my knees!"

"Are you complaining soldat? Because that sounds an awful lot like complaining. Come on, corporal! One, two, three, four, one, two-!"

"Oh, God, why? I thought I left all this behind after boot camp!"

Spoiler: A/N

Poor corporal courier. Papa Severin is a (retired) sergeant. You can take a man out of the army, but you can't take the sergeant out of the man. As for Therese's letter, I figured she wrote personal letters to Brian, and everything else was military correspondence. Orders, dispatches, requests for supplies and troops, etc. So when she writes a personal letter/job offer to someone she's never met, she defaults to military mode.

If Papa Severin got the job offer like a normal person, he'd have no clue what he's doing. But couched in a military framework, he's securing sites with good access to supply routes and resource caches, as well as organizing labor battalions and making sure they can work cohesively. Well, he knows how to do that, but the workers might experience an abbreviated boot camp, and value working in France to a life in the army.

Also, a brief series of Papa Severin reactions to the highlight reel of what the Army of the Orient/Naples has been up to since he last saw them on n Toulon.

 

[Alexander Sturnn]

Sharpe's Rescue, Part 3



Sharpe ran over the Field, clutching his Musket tightly and trying to guess the Distance between him and General Wellesley and the General and the Riders. Their Horses had started to take up speed but where still about 400 or 500 Meters away from their Target. He, meanwhile, had whittled down the Distance to roughly 150. Much closer then the Riders, but they were on Horseback while he wasn't. Not to mention that either way, the Distance was still too great for him to fire accurately.

As he ran, he looked closely at the Riders. He couldn't see much from the Distance, but he recognized that three of the five were not armed with a Sabre or Sword, but with a Lance. Many Indian Warlords employed Lancers in their Cavalry and Tipu was clearly no exception.

Sharpe remembered what one of the Veterans had told him about fighting Lancers. "Those Fuckers are deadly in Melee", the Soldier had said. "Their Lance has far more range then a Sabre and unlike that one, you can't just block it. If they manage to get you, it's pretty much over. But if you can evade the Lance Point, then their fancy tool becomes about as useful as tits on a horse. They can't really fight with these things in other ways then stabbing and so, if you manage to dodge the Point, you can slice them up good with a Sabre or a Bayonet."

Sharpe had no Sabre, only his Bayonet, his Musket and about twenty Bullets. But while he considered himself a fast Loader, one time managing to make five Shots a Minute, he would be lucky to get even two shots off before the Riders reached him, even if he first made it to Wellesley.

Speaking of the General, he was slowly getting back up. He seemed to have hurt his left shoulder in the Fall, judging by how he grabbed it with his right hand. Shaking his head, no doubt trying to orient himself, he looked up...and saw the Riders approaching him ever faster.

While Sharpe couldn't see Wellesleys face, his back being turned towards him, he could imagine the fearful look in his eyes. The General drew his Sabre with his right hand and took a stance. He must've realized that trying to outrun these Horsemen on foot was futile, so he was preparing to fight, despite surely knowing how little Chance he stood.

Sharpe was now about 50 Meters away from Wellesley, while the Riders had closed down the distance to about two-hundred Meters. Despite his Muscles burning, Sharpe willed his legs to run even faster.

The Distance shrunk down further. Forty Meters...thirty...twenty...ten...!

Finally, when he was less then ten Meters away from Wellesley, he stopped and raised his Musket to his shoulder, taking aim. The Riders were now less then 100 Meters away from the General, spurring their Horses to charge, lowering their Lances and drawing their Sabres. He could now make out the triumphant expressions on their Faces, certain that they could slay or capture both the British General and the lone Redcoat who had been running towards him. Sharpe took careful aim, letting the Riders come just a bit closer. Then, praying to God for aid, he pulled the Trigger.

The roar of the Musket sounded over the Field as smoke partially obscured his sight...but he could still see the Man he had aimed for, the foremost Lancer, fly out of the Saddle as if hit by a fist before crashing into the Ground, blood spurting out of his chest.

One down, four to go.

Sharpe immediately sat the Musket back down and began to reload it. Maybe he could get one last shot in before the Riders came close.

"Sharpe?!", he heard Wellesley shout in confusion. The General only just how had realized he was there. Sharpe was a bit taken aback by the General still remembering him, but he pushed that aside.

"No time for talk, Sir!", he shouted after he put Bullet and wadding into the barrel before drawing his ramrod to cram it further in. "Concentrate on these Bastards!"

The Riders were almost upon them when Sharpe finished reloading, tossed the Ramrod aside and took aim once more. Since the Riders were so close now, he didn't need to aim too carefully. His second shot also hit it's mark, with a second Lancer falling out of the Saddle, blood running from his head.

But by now, the Riders were much too close to fire a third time. In fact, there wasn't even time to properly fix his Bayonet to the Musket. So, Sharpe tossed the Musket aside and drew his Bayonet like he would a Dagger. He had done all he could to even the odds, but things were still looking grim, seeing as it was three Horsemen against one Redcoat and one wounded General.

The first Horsemen, armed with a Sabre, charged at Wellesley, who prepared to defend himself. The second Rider with a Sabre was still a few dozen Meters away, having legged behind for some reason. But the last remaining Lancer was charging straight at Sharpe, his Lance lowered with it's tip glinting wickedly in the light of the Indian Afternoon Sun.

Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as Sharpe looked at the Lance Point. He focused all of his concentration on the Weapon, the Words of the Veteran ringing in his ear. "Dodge the Point...dodge the Point...dodge the Point...!"

If he dodged too early, the Lancer would have time to adjust his aim. And if he dodged too late...well, he was pretty much dead then. So he had to time it just right.

Sharpe stood his ground, despite all instincts screaming at him to run now. Then, just as it looked like the Lance was about to skewer him...he moved. Sharpe twisted his upper body to the side...and the deadly Weapon just narrowly missed him by a few inches. He could see the Lancers eyes slowly widen as his Horse took him closer.

He had dodged the Point. Now was his Chance!

Sharpe grabbed his Bayonet tightly...before ramming it into the Lancers side with all the strength he could muster.

The Rider stiffened and screamed before Sharpe pulled and caused him to fall out of the saddle, his Lance falling to the side, even as his Horse ran on without him. Pulling the blood-stained Bayonet out of the flesh, Sharpe watched as the Man writhed on the Ground in Agony as a puddle of blood formed under him. He would probably die soon from blood-loss. Even if not, he wasn't a threat for now.

Another scream caused him to whirls around. The second remaining Rider had fallen out of his saddle, blood flowing from a deep wound in his side. Wellesley stood next to his now riderless Horse, panting and his Sabre and Uniform drenched in blood, though it did not seem to be HIS blood in either case...except for a gash on his right shoulder, where the other Man's Sabre must've hit him.

The final Horseman was now charging towards Sharpe, his face betraying both shock and anger at the rapid deaths of all of his comrades and his Sabre raised high to strike. Sharpe thought feverishly. He had no loaded Musket, no Sabre and just one Bayonet. Not to mention he was exhausted from the running and the fight. And Wellesley was unlikely to be much of a Help, given his injured shoulders. So how could he get best out of this alive?

Then, on the Ground, his eye fell upon the Lance that the Lancer he had just defeated had dropped. And instantly, an Idea came to his mind. He rushed to the Lance, grabbed it with both hands, planted the blunt end into the ground and pointed the Tip at the charging Horseman. The Momentum of the Man's Horse didn't allow him to stop or change course, close as he was. And so, the Tip of the Spear skewered the Horse's chest.

The steed rose up on it's hind-legs and whinnied in pain before collapsing to the side and throwing it's Rider off. The Man hit the Ground and, cursing in an Indian Language, tried to get back up. But Sharpe was already upon him. The Sergeant had once more grabbed his Bayonet and, before the Indian could react, rammed it right into his throat.

The Horseman's eyes widened as he gagged, choking on his own blood. His eyes rolled back into his head before his body went slack.

Panting, Sharpe rose up again. Five Horsemen had charged at him and General Wellesley...and now all five were dead, four killed by his hand and one by the General's.

Against all odds, they had survived.

"S-sharpe...?"

Sharpe turned around to face General Wellesley. The Man was panting as well, but not as badly as Sharpe had. He also looked with wide eyes at the Sergeant and his blood stained Uniform.

"Y-you...you saved me...", he muttered in slight awe. "By God...you SAVED my life...!"

Suddenly, Sharpe felt incredibly awkward, his ears burning. He wasn't used to someone looking at him with awe or gratefulness, much less someone with such a high rank as General Wellesley.

"Just...just doing my duty, Sir", he muttered.

Wellesley looked over the field, eyeing the four Horsemen he had slain. He seemed to struggle to say something else...but before he could, the sound of more hooves coming their direction could be heard.

Thankfully, it was a Unit of British Cavalry, coming their way from the still retreating Army. Apparently, someone else there had finally noticed the Generals absence and sent a Squadron out to retrieve him.

Sharpe snorted. Typical...they came too late to the fight, but would probably brag the loudest about "winning" it. Still, if nothing else, they would be able to get them out of here and back to the Army.

Looking back at General Wellesley, the man still looked as if he was trying to find a way to say something to Sharpe. But finally, he just shook his head and nodded towards the Cavalry, signalling him to prepare to mount and ride back.

Sharpe just gave a quick salute. If the General really wanted to talk to him, he could always do it later. And if not, well, then that was just how it was.



A.N.: Part Three is done, detailing this Timeline's Event of Sharpe saving Wellingtons life. Fourth and final Part tomorrow, followed by a separate Omake from the perspective of Tipu Sultan and his Allies.

 

[Alexander Sturnn]

Sharpe's Rescue, Part 4


"Sharpe...you are either the bravest man God has ever put upon this Earth or the most foolish. Or both."

Colonel McCandless shook his head as he, Sharpe and Captain William Lawford waited outside of General Wellesley's tent. The General was inside, speaking to the surviving Colonels and his own Aides about what to do now.

The Sun was now beginning to set in the east. The Army had made good marching time in the past few hours, putting a healthy distance between themselves and Tipu's Army. Their Cavalry was scouting behind them to check if the Sultan was pursuing them. But with any luck, dealing with General Baird's Rearguard had tired his Army out, in combination with the battle. If everything went well, they should reach friendly territory again soon enough.

"What on earth were you thinking?!", the almost sixty years old Colonel continued his scolding. "Going up against five Cavalry Men on foot?!"

"I was thinking that if I didn't do it, we'd lose our last remaining General and probably all die!", Sharpe countered irritably. "Sir", he quickly added.

McCandless huffed but said nothing more. The older Scotsman seemed to acknowledge his point. Lawford raised both hands, trying to calm the situation. "We know why you did what you did, Sharpe. You can't deny that it was incredibly reckless, however, even if it ended well."

Sharpe grimaced. Now it was his turn to concede on a Point. What he had done HAD been very risky. If he had slipped up only once, both he and Wellesley would now doubt be dead now. Fighting Cavalry on foot was dangerous enough, but to go up against odds of two to five? A shiver ran down his spine. He would be lying if the Picture of him getting skewered by a Lance of getting his face sliced up by a Sabre didn't flash through his mind every now and then.

He had been lucky. VERY lucky.

But he had made it. General Wellesley was saved, he was still alive and the Army had retreated in good Order.

After making it back to their Lines with the Squadron of Cavalry, Wellesley had ordered Sharpe to stay with McCandless and Lawford, both of whom had greeted them upon returning, for the time being. He wanted to talk to him later once all was settled. He retook command of the Army and soon enough, they were even out of the range of Tipu's Rockets. After a few hours of marching, they had finally set up camp near a River. With patrols assigned to keep watch, what was left of the Army took a much needed rest. Still, a gloomy atmosphere was hanging over the Camp. The recent defeat and the all but assured death of General Baird and 5.000 Comrades had shaken the Army's morale to the core. Sharpe knew how they felt, for he did much the same.

But they were alive and would live to fight another day. Sharpe tried to find solace in that fact.

He looked upon Wellesley's tent. "I wonder how much longer they'll stay in there. And what Wellesley even wants from me."

McCandless and Lawford exchanged a knowing look. They had a pretty good guess what the General would do, but didn't say anything out of worry they would raise Sharpe's hope in vain.

McCandless put a hand on Sharpe's shoulder. "We'll see soon. And as for them still being in there...well, they need a good plan on how to get back to British Territory as fast as possible. No doubt Tipu has already defeated our Rearguard. He'll march here tomorrow at the latest, if he isn't already on the move." The Scotsman sighed. "Poor Boys...and poor Sir Baird."

"No chance of him surviving then?", Lawford asked.

McCandless shook his head. "Even if he survived the Battle, he probably won't live long. He was already lucky to survive his first time in Tipu's Prison." He sighed. "The Sultan of Mysore is a great Ruler, but a bad Enemy. And he hates the British with a burning Passion. I've seen how he treats Prisoners of War, especially British ones. He even refuses basic Prisoner Exchanges most of the time. Most of them, regardless of rank, get executed quickly, either by the hands of his Jettis of by being thrown to his beloved Tigers. Barring a miracle, I don't think we'll ever see a single one of them alive again."

Lawford and Sharpe remained silent, the young Captain looking particularly queasy. As much as last year's Scouting Mission had hardened him a bit, he still had some trouble dealing with the harsher realities of war. Like that sometimes, you were fighting a ruthless Bastard who cared little about the "Rules" of War.

The tent opening interrupted their thoughts. A Group of Colonels excited the tent, talking with each other as they walked away. Then, one of Wellesley's Aides stepped outside and looked at the three of them. "Sergeant Sharpe, the General wishes to see you. Colonel, Captain, you may come in as well."

The three of them rose up and followed the invitation. Sharpe tried his best to keep a neutral expression as they entered the tent, trying hard not to give his rising nervousness away. What if Wellesley actually wanted to punish him? Technically, he had left his Regiment without permission. Could he be punished for this? Hanged or shot as a Deserter?

He shook his head, banishing these thoughts, as he, Lawford and McCandless came to a halt in front of Wellesley's desk.

The General was wearing a bandage around his left shoulder, where a Sabre had hit him. He looked up from the Document he had been reading at the three Men.

"...Sergeant Sharpe. Colonel McCandlees. Captain Lawford", he said with a nod.

A short, awkward silence followed. Wellesley seemed to struggle to find what words to say. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked at Sharpe. "Sergeant Sharpe, I...I thank you for what you did. You saved my life. If not for you...I would be captured or dead now."

Sharpe fought to keep his expression neutral and his cheeks from reddening. It was clear that this whole Situation was awkward for both of them. Officers as high as Wellesley and Soldiers as low as Sharpe rarely interacted so directly with each other. Neither of them really knew what to say to each other.

"I...I just did my duty, Sir", he finally said.

"...You did more then that", Wellesley said, breathing a small sigh of relief that this awkward phase of the procedure was over over. "Now then...you have done me a good favor. Unfortunately, I'm now about to do you a damn bad one."

Sharpe's eyes widened as Wellesley reached under his table...and placed an Infantry-Officer Sabre and a Telescope on it, both polished and blinking.

"Sergeant Richard Sharpe...on account of both your Leadership Skills and your incredible act of Bravery, I hereby promote you to the Rank of Ensign. You may take this Sabre as an official sign of your rank. A proper Uniform will be handed to you as soon as possible."

The World seemed to fade away as Sharpe looked at the Sabre. He had done it. Against all odds, he had done it. Ever since McCandless and Lawford had taught him how to read and write on that damn Mission last year, he had dreamed of making the Jump from the Ranks to Officer. Of wearing a Sabre and of having that Bastard Hakeswill salute to him, never again being forced to pay this Scum any false respect. He had dismissed it as a fleeting dream, an impossibility, a fanciful wish that would never come true. But it had always remained with him.

And now here he was. Wellesley had said it himself. He was an Officer now, Ensign Richard Sharpe!

Shaking his head, he returned his Attention to Wellesley, who was clearly not quite done.

"This", Wellesley gestured to the Telescope, "is a personal Gift from me. For...saving my Life." He cleared his throat, some of the awkwardness earlier having returned. "It is the work of Matthew Burge, from London. An excellent tool, Sharpe." His eyes seemed to pierce Sharpe's soul. "On the battlefield, an Officer's eyes are one of his best Weapons. I trust it will serve you well."

Sharpe slowly took both the Sabre and the Telescope, afraid he might let it fall and break. Only then did he notice the plaque that had been placed onto it. In gratitude A.W. February 23rd 1795.

"I...", Sharpe struggled to find words. He finally just saluted. "Thank you, Sir."

"Don't thank me yet, Ensign Sharpe", Wellesley muttered. "As I said, I think I did you a damn bad favor with this." He shook his head. "You may leave now. Colonel Wallace is already awaiting you. A few Positions in his Regiment have been left vacant after the last Battle. For now, you are transferred from the 33rd to the 74th."

Sharpe saluted. "Yes, Sir." With that, he left the tent.

Wellesley watched him leave with a heavy sigh. "This won't end well", he told Lawford and McCandless. "It was the only reward that matched his deed...but by God, I fear I have doomed the poor Man. You know how it goes with Battlefield Commissions. The Soldiers don't respect them and the other Officers look down on them. They always start to drink themselves to death."

McCandless cleared his throat. "With all due respect, Sir...but perhaps you are judging a bit too early here. The Captain and I know Sharpe. Only time will tell what comes from this...but personally, I think he may positively surprise you yet."

"So do I", Lawford agreed.

"...Then let us hope your faith in Ensign Sharpe is warranted", Wellesley said, looking at the entrance through which Sharpe had vanished. "For his own sake."

***​

Colonel Wallace was already waiting for Sharpe. "So, you are my newest Officer, Sharpe?", the Scotsman asked.

"Yes, Sir", Sharpe nodded, still a bit overwhelmed by it all.

Wallace nodded and briefly shook Sharpe's hand. "Welcome to the 74th. My men are a bit of a clannish sort, like all good Scotsmen...but if you do well, I'm sure they'll accept you in time."

"I hope so, Sir", Sharpe said.

"Sharpie! Hey, Sharpie!!"

Sharpe and Wallace turned around to see none other then Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill coming towards them, accompanied by a few Soldier of the 33rd. Hakeswill had a wide grin on his face, looking insufferably pleased with himself.

"You left your post during the march, Sharpie!", he cackled. "Trying to desert, eh? You know what happens to deserters, Sharpie! I already told the Colonel I'd bring you back to the Regiment so that he could decide your punishment. Not that there's much of a Decision! Lined up at a Post, a Squadron of Man aiming their Muskets at you, Bang, Bang and then you'll be dead! That's what happens to cowardly Deserters like you, Sharpie! It says so in the Scriptures!"

Wallace cleared his throat, looking at Hakeswill with no small amount of disdain. "I'm afraid, Sergeant, you are quite mistaken about what happened. Sharpe here did NOT desert. He in fact saved General Wellesley's life and perhaps the entire damn army."

Hakeswill's face twitched as he looked rather confused. "B-beg you Pardon, Colonel, Sir?"

"You heard me well enough, Sergeant."

"B-but...but I have been ordered to arrest him, Sir!", Hakeswill protested.

"You may have been ordered to arrest Sergeant Sharpe", Wallace replied coldly. "But not Ensign Sharpe."

"Ensign?" Hakeswill's his face twitched uncontrollably and his eyes went wide as they darted around between Sharpe and Wallace. "E-ensign?!"

A cold smirk came to Sharpe's lips as he began to walk towards Hakeswill. "Yes, Obadiah. ENSIGN. General Wellesley has just now promoted me. Which means...I am now your superior."

"S-sharpie? An ENSIGN?!" Hakeswill's voice was now shaking. The Sergeant was clearly trying to deny reality...but the Sabre that Sharpe was carrying and the nod of agreement from Colonel Wallace were a clear proof.

Sharpe now stood in front of Hakeswill, looking down on the smaller Man. "You will call me 'Sir', Obadiah."

"Y-you can't be an Ensign! You can't be an Officer!", Hakeswill stammered.

"But I AM, Obadiah. I am Ensign Richard Sharpe now. I will carry a Sabre and wear an Officer's Uniform. And you will salute to me and call me 'Sir'. NOW."

Hakeswill's face twitched. His eyes looked at Sharpe with both fear and hatred. Usually, he would try to deny the truth for much longer. But with Colonel Wallace watching, being caught in the act of insubordination to an Officer would spell bad news. With a gulp, he looked up at Sharpe, the man he had tormented and tried to kill for such a long time...and finally saluted. "Y-yes Sir, Ensign Sharpe, SIR!", he barked, his body still shaking.

Sharpe smirked. "Very good, Obadiah. Now...go back to the Colonel and tell him what really happened. And I would advise you to be truthful. Or else maybe next time, YOU will be the one tied to a post receiving 2000 Lashes!"

Hakeswill all but fled the Scene, hurrying away to the 33rd, the men accompanying him following with all haste.

Sharpe looked after them and couldn't help but feel Triumph surging through his veins. He had made the Jump to Officer. Sure, that brought new Challenges with it, like being in a new Regiment that may be reluctant to accept him. And no doubt Hakeswill would not let this defeat and humiliation slide. Sharpe knew he would need to watch out for more attempts on his Career and his life by the vengeful Sergeant. But he was prepared to stand his ground and fight, like he had done in the recent Battle and when he had saved General Wellesley. If he kept fighting with determination, he could take on these new challenges just as well as his old ones.

As he followed Wallace to the 74th, he looked back over his shoulder on the General's tent. His thoughts went back to him saving Wellesley's life. That had already changed his life forever. He would always keep in mind this act of bravery that had at once ended his old life and started a new one, opening so many new roads for him to travel.

He would always remember Sharpe's Rescue.



A.N.: First set of Sharpe-Omakes is now...DONE.
It was a ton of fun writing this. Richard Sharpe is one of my favorite Characters in all of Fiction and his Series, both TV and Books, are just AWESOME. It was great fun to bring these Characters to life on my own after reading about them for so long.
I hope you all had as much fun reading as I had writing. I will return soon with Omakes about other People and Places...but rest assured: Until his road ends one way or another, even in this Quest Ensign Richard Sharpe will march again.

 

[Alexander Sturnn]

Le Tigre de Mysore


It was finally over now.

Tipu Sultan, Ruler of Mysore and faithful Servant of Allah, walked among his Generals and Advisors as they inspected the Battlefield. It had been a hard-fought battle, but Victory was at long last theirs. They had defeated the Invaders and inflicted heavy casualties on them before they were forced to retreat. His Men had fought like the Tigers they styled themselves after, proud and deadly, tearing through the Redcoat Ranks like a claw through the flesh of it's prey. Until, finally, the British and their Allies realized the hopelessness of their Situation and sounded the retreat, leaving behind thousands of dead and a Rearguard of 5.000 Men to hold the Line.

The only black mark on their record today was that they had not been able to crush the Infidels in their entirety. Instead, said Rearguard had fought with a courage and valor that even Tipu, for all his hatred of the British Invaders, couldn't help but respect. These 'Scotsmen', as one of his Advisers had called them, had held out for over two Hours before finally succumbing to the furious assault of the Mysore-Forces. Almost none of them surrendered and only a few were captured alive. Those would soon be sent to be executed - either by the Sultan's feared Jettis or by his beloved Tigers.

The Commander of these Men was not among them. In fact, Tipu and the Group accompanying him were currently looking at his Body.

The Man, a Major-General, was lying amidst his fallen Soldiers. His Uniform was torn by Bayonets and Sabres, but his own blood-stained Sabre was still grasped by his Hand, even in Death. From what his Soldiers had told the Sultan, the Man had fought to his dying breath, shouting Orders to his Troops, hurling Insults at his Foes and commanding from the Front until finally, a Bullet had pierced his chest and ended his life.

What was strangest to Tipu, however, was that he had seen this Man before.

"...I know him", the Sultan told his Advisors in Persian, his favored language. "He was captured by my Father in Battle shortly before I took the Throne and was held in the Dungeons of Seringapatam after that until fours years later, when he was released. He was one of the few Captives there who never lost his spark of defiance. I could see it in his eyes when he glared at me as I announced his release."

Colonel Jean Gudin, the French Advisor assigned to his Court and Liaison for foreign Troops serving in his Army, responded back in Persian as well. "I recognize him from the Reports. Major-General Sir David Baird, one of the Commander of the British Army invading Mysore. Apparently, he was eager for this Command, wishing vengeance upon his Majesty for the time he spent in the Dungeons of Seringapatam."

Tipu nodded slowly. Vengeance was a fantastic Motivator, for Faithful and Infidels alike. No wonder this Man had held the Line with such resolve. He would've rather died then be captured by him again.

Another one of his Generals cleared his throat. "With the Deaths of him and General Harris confirmed, the Leadership of the British Army in Mysore should fall to the third Commander, Sir Arthur Wellesley. A young Man, by all accounts...and the Brother of the current British Governor-General of India."

Tipu's eyes narrowed. "Young he may be, but the retreat he commanded was swift and effective. Our Troops are too exhausted to pursue the Infidels today. They have built up a lead and I am not sure if we can catch them again before they retreat back to Soil under the control of their accursed Company."

The Generals and Advisors remained silent, none of them disagreeing with their Ruler. Frankly, they were just glad that they had managed to keep him from joining the fight himself as he had wished to.

Tipu was a small and overweight man, but his Courage could not be denied. Not to mention that he was an excellent shot, if not an excellent re-loader. Then again, that was what he had his Servants for. Still, it was better that he had kept out of this Battle and merely observed it. The fighting had gotten rather brutal and none of them wished for their Ruler to die.

The Sultan shook his head. Then, a smile came to his lips. "However...despite this setback, this Battle has been a major Victory. And one desperately needed after our defeat in the last War." He looked at Colonel Gudin with respect. "Colonel...your aid in retraining our Forces has proven instrumental to our Victory today. It was thanks to the Changes in our Doctrine you proposed that we were able to Win this Battle. You have done a great service to Mysore."

Colonel Gudin shook his head. "I thank you for your high praise, your Majesty, but ultimately the true Credit must go to your Soldiers and Generals. Had they not implemented my proposed Reforms and carried out the Battle Plans so well, I doubt we would've won."

"Be that as it may, you have fulfilled your Duties as my Advisor and done me and all of Mysore a great service. Tipu Sultan does not forget his Friends and faithful Allies, Gudin, just like he does not easily forgive his hated Enemies." A small smile came to the Sultans lips. "I will see to it that you are rewarded...and that your Superiors in France will be informed of your good Work."

Despite Gudin trying to keep a neutral expression, Tipu could practically see the Man's chest swell with joy. He knew that Gudin had had a hard time adapting to India at first after the French Republic had sent him as Advisor and Liaison to Tipu's Court. But, after a while, he had settled in. Tipu had at first been reluctant to listen to his Proposals, not quite trusting another European Infidel. But after thinking about his last defeat against the British, he realized that accepting the aid of their greatest Rivals, who knew them and how they fought, may be very valuable.

The French had proven themselves as good Allies in his eyes. While not putting forth too much direct aid, with the accursed British Navy controlling the Seas, their Military Advisors had helped him reform his Army into a tool that could match the Invaders truly blow for blow now. And with their Efforts across all of India falling apart, judging by the Records...perhaps it was time to think in bigger Terms then just Mysore and it's surrounding Areas.

As Tipu looked over the Battlefield, taking in the Picture of his Victory, he began to envision a free India. One that was truly liberated from the British Infidels. Where the accursed East India Company had been driven into the Sea, never to threaten their way of life and their culture again.

Perhaps he was thinking too far ahead. But with the British on the retreat all across the Subcontinent... He might even consider an Alliance with his old foes, the Maratha. Despite their Enmity, they were arguable the most powerful Indian Faction opposing the British. If they worked together...his dream just might become reality.

Of course, such Alliances would not last forever. Tipu had little doubt that, if the British were expelled, the Indian Warlords would soon begin to fight each other again. But perhaps he could maneuver himself into a Position where he could take the best Advantage of the fighting and reap the most benefits, thus gaining a significant lead on his potential future Rivals.

His eyes wandered over to Gudin. Perhaps these Rivals may even include the French. While they had proven themselves valuable Allies and while Tipu had grown fond of some of the Reforms and Ideals brought fourth by their Revolution - going so far as to plant a "Tree of Liberty" in his Royal Garden, putting on a red cap and referring to himself as 'Citizen Tipu' for a time - he was not sure if they could be trusted after the British were defeated. Their Interests aligned for now, but that didn't have to remain the case. Especially not with their constantly shifting Government these day. In fact, hadn't they become an Empire most recently? Could they really be trusted to withdraw from India if the British were expelled?

Tipu had no Interest to replace the British Infidels trying to conquer India with French ones. He would work with them...but he would be on Guard and watch out for the slightest hint of Treachery. If they wanted to Trade and remain equal Allies, great. But he would not allow another European Nation to amass the amount of Power and Influence in India as the East India Company had.

But all that was still in the future. For now, Tipu once again looked over the sight of the Battlefield, basking in his Victory.

A dangerous smile came to the Sultan's lips. The Tiger of Mysore had wounded his Prey and sent it running.

Soon it would be time to pounce and go in for the kill.



A.N.: Done.
Tipu Sultan was a WILD and interesting Character. I highly recommend you read up a bit on him. Pragmatic and cunning, a highly capable Ruler, beloved by many of his People. He was a devout Muslim, preferring to speak Persian to any Indian Language, ruling over a Hindu-Majority and was rather tolerant to most Religions. However, he was also pretty ruthless towards his Enemies. He hated the British in particular for their aggressive pushes into India and the checks they put on his own personal Ambitions. He was one of their greatest foes in India. And while he mostly practiced Religious Tolrance, he cracked down pretty hard on the Christian Minority in his Kingdom. He also had a habit of refusing Prisoner exhanges of even high-ranking Captives. Again, the British got the shortest end of the stick here - Tipu just really hated them that much. Most British Captives of his did not survive long, being thrown either to his Tigers or executed by his private Executioners, the Jettis: Tall, muscular Men who could snap their Victims necks or drive nails into their Skulls with their bare hands.
Many accounts of his more brutal acts are likely fabrications or at least exaggerations by the Brits who were trying to portray him as a Monster, thus justifying their Wars against him. But there is no denying that he did some pretty gnarly stuff.

A complex and highly interesting historical Figure, to say the least. I hope you enjoyed this small look into the mind of the Tiger of Mysore.
Also, Colonel Gudin is another minor Character from the Sharpe-Series, an Advisor to Tipu sent by the French Republic to India a few years ago. Tipu and the French got along rather well, mostly because of their mutual Attitude of 'Fuck the Brits!'. The Story I told of Tipu being somewhat inspired by the Revolution, including the whole 'Citizen Tipu' Thing is, in fact, true. He really tried his best to make this Alliance work. Heck, one of the Hopes for Napoleon's Invasion of Egypt in OTL was to find a way to link up with Tipu and send him direct Military Aid. Of course, that never went anywhere and Tipu Sultan died in 1799 when the British and their Allies took his Capital of Seringapatam. By all accounts, he personally fought in this final Battle, standing among his Troops and firing at his Enemies with Muskets that were reloaded by his Servants. It's not clear how exactly he died, but it's likely he went down fighting to his last breath against his most hated Enemies.

See ya next time when the Muse strikes me to do an Omake for this amazing Quest.

 

[AvidFicReader]

A Less Than Restful Recuperation

General de Brigade Denis Martin Severin sat in his sickbed, forcing himself not to scratch the healing injuries beneath his bandages. According to the sawbones in charge of his care, he was in for a long recovery. The bomb that had blown him up had killed a dozen men, and had it not been for the armored vest he wore beneath his coat, he would have caught a large splinter with his heart. Severin had given a dozen prayers of thanks for the divine inspiration that brought the idea of the vest to his mind after the Battle of Mayence.

Still six months of recuperation and only light duties would drive the former sergeant mad with boredom. As well, he had heard about a certain group that had acquitted themselves superbly during the battle. It seems both commendations and a chewing out was in order.

"Papa! There you are! We've been looking all over for you when we heard you got exploded!"

"Tch, it figures that Brigadier Baguette survives getting blown up, of all things."

"Charlie, wait! Don't just jump on him! He's still healing!"

"Oh, right. Don't wanna hurt papa... But papa must be invincible! Didn't Colonel Sheelie say he survived getting hit by a cannonball?"

"That's Colonel Geroux, Charlie. His given name is Achille. And however strong the general is, he's still a man, and a cannonball beats a man every time."

"Colonel Heckie says the men of the Guard of made of steel, and steel is super strong, so doesn't that mean that papa is made of steel too?"

"I don't think it works that way, and Colonel Bouchard is named Hector, not... Heckie."

"I don't know, Charlie, if Brigadier Baguette has a head made from a solid block of steel, that might explain things."

"Not. Helping, Julian."

Well, lads, as much fun as it is listening to you banter, I heard some interesting news from Nick after I woke up. Something about the Chasseur battalions wrote their name in Austrian blood. Battalions Grenouille and Puce, was it?"

"Aye, general!"

"Quite an achievement, cutting apart an Austrian division and killing one of their generals. Especially since they were so very far from where they were deployed."

"Aye, general."

"Tell me, Louis, what did we speak of when I asked why you wished to join the army?"

"I-"

"One of the first things I explained to you was that in the army, you are always being told what to do. You told me you understood, and chose to do so anyway. With that in mind, what in the name of the Lord made you think disobeying orders, for a second time, was a good idea?"

"Sir, I felt that I could do more good for the army with two battalions of chasseurs in the field than out of range on the battlements."

"Oh, so you thought you knew better than your commanding officers, did you? Abandon the plan and cover yourself in glory?"

"No sir! Well, not only that, sir."

"Explain your reasoning, ensign."

"With the Austrians and the Army of Italy focusing all their manpower and attention on Fort Tenaglia, there were far too many soldiers to man the battlements, and I thought we could use our advantages in range and maneuver to harass the Austrians and take some pressure off the Guard's flank attack. It worked, perhaps a bit too well."

"Let me guess, you picked off the fanciest hat you could see, and kicked the hornet's nest?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have sharper eyes and a steadier hand than most adults, Louis. You killed an Austrian general, one of their high nobles. Of course they'd throw thousands of men at you to avenge him."

"I see. Well, I employed the chasseur tactics that miss Evelyn taught us, leveraging range, accuracy, terrain, cover and concealment to bleed the Austrians on their advance. It was effective until the skirmishing forces expended their ammunition. Fortunately, we were able to lure them into prepared positions, and using rotating volley fire and flanking attacks, we broke them and ran them down with steel. By that point, General Murat had free reign of their camp and the rest of the army was stuck in."

"Well, congratulations, Ensign Capet, you are the ten-year-old with the biggest body count in Europe, and it only took leading two battalions and your closest friends into mortal peril. While what you achieved was incredible, it was also incredibly foolhardy and reckless. Not to mention, you ended up undermining the attack you tried to support."

"What?"

"There was a damned good reason the chasseurs were in Fort Tenaglia. Massena's boys took a beating before we arrived. They barely escaped their doom at Milan, and they led a fighting retreat from there to Genoa. They were demoralized and suffering from defeat after defeat. Nick promised a contingent of elite troops to stiffen them and boost their morale. When you up and disappeared on them, we had to pull Abel's division off the attack to redeploy them to Fort Tenaglia to keep our promise and keep Massena's boys in place. So the attack went off with six thousand less men than planned, and more of them got away, even with all the havoc that damned dapper dandy unleashed. And now I can't help but respect that bastard!"

"U-understood. sir."

"So, Louis, you get to write letters to the family of every man who was killed under your orders. And for the next month, you'll be on kitchen duty. Hope you like cutting onions and peeling potatoes!"

 

[AvidFicReader]

The Decision in Italy

General de Brigade Denis Martin Severin was currently not at all happy. "Damned sawbones want me to stay off my feet for six months? I'll go mad before then! Don't they know there's a war on? We've been chasing the Austrians since Genoa, and their morale and organization must be hanging by a single thread."

The echoing boom of cannonfire in the distance perked Severin's ears up, the promise of battle drawing him from his sickbed. Gritting his teeth to work through the pain, the general dons his vest and coat before striding out of the medical tent. Commandeering the nearest horse, he mounts up and rides to meet his Imperial Guard. His left arm still in a sling, Severin guides the borrowed horse to where he can see the Guard's colors. Joining his colonels on a small rise, he looks over the battle in progress.

All of II Corps is laid out in a battle line stretching across the fields between the nearby village and a castle to the north, with Estienne's battery in the center hammering the Austrian center. Leclerc's cavalry is split, guarding the flanks, while Murat's cavalry mills about in reserve, though they seem to be drifting to the right. Looks like the prissy prancing pony ponce wants to get in on the action and rush the castle before the Austrians can seize it to anchor their wavering lines.

"Achille, Hector, is the Guard ready to move?"

"Severin! I thought you were out for the rest of the campaign with your wounds?"

"Hah! And miss what's looking to be the last battle of our campaign? Not on your life, Hector!"

"Severin, Davout is beginning his advance."

"Aye, looks like Joly and and Mathieu to punch through the center with Estienne's support, and Perrot on the left and Abel on the right. Looks like Horsey-boy wants to get stuck in; he's been drifting to the right for the last few minutes. Get our cavalry and chasseurs into that village behind the Austrians on the double. If we break them here, we can cut off their retreat, pin them up up against that river behind the village."

"According to the maps that village is named Marengo."

"Right, get those lads into Marengo. Tell them to hold it and deny the crossing to the Austrians. As for us, we're going to roll up their flank. And as much as I despise that dapper dandy, the man knows how to command cavalry. If he sees the chance, he'll do his part and roll up the Austrian left. Hector, take Garde du Nord and swing around that vineyard. Block their line of retreat and force them to run for Marengo. Attack if you think it practical. Achille, we're leading Garde du Sud through that vineyard. We're going to smash into their flank just as Perrot gets them tied down. I hope you all had your onions, because we're going to play that song at full blast to signal the attack."

"Aye, Severin. I'll see it done. Rider, take this dispatch to Ensign Capet!"

"All right, Severin. Just like Mayence, right?"

Dismounting from his borrowed horse, Severin joins Garde du Sud as they creep through the vineyard onto the Austrian right flank. The thunder of artillery in the distance a deep bass line to the rattle and crackle of musket volleys, accompanied by a chorus of shouts and screams of men from both sides. For a moment, Severin deeply misses de Lisle. The man could take the sounds of a battlefield and transform it into a beautiful orchestration. When the wars are over, he would leave the army and devote his life to music. Then, the moment passes.

Watching the pace of the battle for a few seconds longer, Severin waits for the Austrians to unleash their next volley.

"Now, signals, now!"

The previously silent vineyard bursts into a fanfare of bugles, shortly joined by drums and thousands of voices as the men of Garde du Sud picks up the Song of the Onion. At the signal, Gard du Nord advances at triple time in assault column from the cover of the vineyard to a position directly behind the Austrian right. Coming to a halt, they wheel right as if on parade, and unleash a volley directly into the rear of the Austrian line. As they begin to reload, Garde du Sud charges from the vineyard with lowered bayonets gleaming in the sun. Severin joins the charge, wielding a borrowed entrenching spade like a hand axe, having not had time to pick up his pistol and saber from the camp. In spite of his wounds, he is among the first to draw blood from the Austrians, with the words "No onions for those dogs!" on his lips.

Fixed from the front, fired upon from the rear, and receiving a bayonets charge in their exposed flank, the Austrian right folds like a wet newspaper. Murat, not to be left out of the actions, spurs his cavalry into a charge on the Austrian left. According to one of his lancers, he spoke: "That bastard Severin! He seeks to steal the glory that by God's rights belongs to me!" With both flanks breaking under overwhelming force, the Austrian center gives way under the unrelenting pressure of Mathieu and Joly's assaults.

As Austrian resistance collapses, and with nowhere to run, they have no recourse but to surrender or die. The destruction of the once-victorious Austrian Army of Italy is complete on the fields of a sleepy Italian village by the name of Marengo.

Spoiler: A/N

Historically, for units with extremely high morale, it was not uncommon for wounded men to go "reverse AWOL" and escape hospitals to rejoin their units. One famous unit with multiple such cases was the Japanese-American 100th/442nd RCT in Italy in WWII.

Anyway, back to the battle. @Magoose confirmed with me by PM that this was the equivalent of OTL 1800 Marengo, where Nappy B nearly lost, then came back to win it hours later, and where OTL, the Song of the Onion is alleged to originate. It was the next major battle after the Siege of Genoa (there was a smaller skirmish several days before where Lannes beat back an Austrian column). So, have some maps:

Spoiler: Marengo Maps

The first is a clean map without troop deployments. The second is from the OTL battle, but it has the location of the vineyards. OTL, the Austrians launched a surprise attack against Nappy B and forced him to fall back. In this timeline, Davout and his posse chased down and caught up to the Austrians, and they were arrayed from the south of Castel Ceriolo to the north of the western vineyard. The lineup and temperaments of II Corps officers is here, and Murat was placed in reserve towards the right in anticipation of slipping between Castel Ceriolo and the Austrian left (a vineyard is, shall we say, less than ideal ground for cavalry). Severin ran his cavalry and chasseurs to Marengo along the New Road by way of La Spinetta (top map, route labeled Austrian Retreat on bottom map).