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

[Magoose]

The Dwarf and the Giant:

(Brian POV)

You surveyed the routed forces of the royalists, allowing yourself to take in the mass of dead men, women and children that had been killed in the battle, having taken up arms with the British soldiers that were now fleeing the french countryside and back to the sea from whence they came.

Napoleon, on his horse, seemed to tower over most men as he ordered the artillery to keep firing at the still fighting forces.

But as he allowed the battle to end, and the guns fell silent on the french countryside, he dismounted, and stood next to you. "It had to be done." He stated.

You nodded. "A rather unfortunate fact, General." the man next to you was like a dwarf, but then again, most men were tiny compared to you.

Napoleon smiled, but looked at you with concern. "What is on your mind Brian?" He spoke casually, something that took you off guard.

You sighed. "I'm sick of killing our brothers, and fellow frenchman." You pointed in the distance to the survivors throwing down their weapons and surrendering to the advancing infantry. "There are enemies at the gate of France, and we are here, fighting our fellow countrymen."

Napoleon did nothing but stare at the battlefield. "I'd rather fight the traitors in the field of battle, than allow them to stick a dagger into my back." He stated.

"Awfully callus of you?" You shot back. "They would fight the enemies of France, same as us."

"They would not be here if it were not for the republic and the execution of the King." Napoleon stated. "Now there is chaos, bloodshed and destruction in France, and it is up to us to make sure it does not destroy our homeland." He said triumphantly.

You raised an eyebrow. "I hope you aren't insulating what I think you are?" You replied quietly. "We have enough traitors to deal with."

Napoleon nodded. "I trust that we will both have faith in that we believe in General." He replied calmly. "And are willing to fight for it to the end."

His words made you shiver, as he walked away.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You saw Napoleon again as you rested in one of the old Fortresses of Aquitaine. It's keep a Barracks and a strategy room.

One that you both were intimately using for your maneuvers.

And arguments.

Personal arguments.

"Napoleon, why the hell would you be asking me to give my blessing to marry my sister?!" You asked.

Napoleon, the dwarf he was to you, did not seem deterred. "The campaign is almost over, the Vendee is almost secured, I'd rather think a little bit about my future prospects in marriage, and what better woman in all of France, than Thérèse Auclair ?" He asked.

You struggled very hard, not to draw your pistol and duel him for the sake of your sister's honor. He was your commanding officer after all, much to your cringe and dismay. "Any woman." You growled.

Napoleon frowned. "I would have thought you would have been happy with an offer of marriage to your sister. You wish for her to not be able to start a family?"

Your eye twitched. "I'd rather she have the choice, in finding a husband for herself. I am not her father."

"But you are her brother, the man who has the right under the law and custom, to approve of her suitor." Napoleon replied.

"And I'd rather she decide, not me." You stated.

You than walked forward towards Napoleon, and punched him in the face. "You can cite me for insubordination if you wish, but discussing personal matters during a campaign that I want to focus my full energies on, is another thing entirely. I will gladly remove myself from your command if you so wish, if you find that action… preferable to the alternative."

Napoleon, for the first time since you have met the man, seemed unsure of himself as he stood up and adjusted his uniform.

"Agreed." He stated quietly.

Napoleon, for the rest of the campaign… did not bring up your sister, or the prospect of marrying her.

AN: Enjoy.

 

[AvidFicReader]

The Road to Amiens

Severin checked the position of the sun as the Army of the Rhine snaked along the road from Metz to Amiens. They were making good time, but every hour might make the difference. Chamans, as the most senior officer, was leading the column, while Severin accompanied his regiment. The Generale had grown on him, and he did not wish to let her down by being too slow on a route march. While la Generale was politicking in the nest of vipers, Severin had been running the men, veteran and recruit alike, through further drills. From the news brought by the messengers, the Vendee was being 'handled,' the Austrians and Sardinians were massing in Piedmont, but the greatest crisis that the Army of the Rhine could contribute to fixing was the Coalition breakthrough in the Netherlands. First the Mayence on the Rhine, now Amiens on the Somme, what fire would the Army of the Rhine be called upon to put out next? Heh, to think of L'armee du Rhin as the fire brigade of the Republic brought a morbid grin to Severin's face.

"All right, lads, lets pick up the pace! No one wants to leave La Generale out to dry! So let's make good time and show up to save the day! We'll be big damn heroes!"

The men shout their approval and pick up their pace. The Battle Song of the Army of the Rhine spreads rapidly among the men as their spirits pick up. It was enough to put a genuine smile on Severin's face, and he joined in loudly and enthusiastically at the chorus.

----

The cacophony of battle welcomed the Army of the Rhine to the battlefield of Amiens. The lead elements of the infantry and dragoons rushed to add their guns to barricades and drive back the Austrians and Dutch. Severin, near the middle of the column, called for the signalmen to play their instruments as loud as possible, in the hope that knowledge of imminent reinforcements and their guns would encourage the Coalition forces to retire in the dying light of the sun. The rippling cracks of musketry rose in accompaniment to the shouts and screams of men, occasionally drowned out by the boom of cannons and the whistling of incoming shot. Quickly enough, Severin can hear the sounds of battle die out as the Austrians presumably retreat. Things would sound much different if the French garrison was the one to break and rout.

By the time Severin's regiment reaches bivouac and Severin makes his way to the command tent, the battle has truly broken off for the night. Men continued to work in the darkness to shore up damaged barricades and earthworks, while cookfires sprung up throughout the camp. Upon entering the tent, Severin immediately notices the absence of La Generale, though the way the other officers look busy and exhausted, rather than mournful, gives him a smidgen of hope.

"... your reinforcements are sorely welcomed Colonel Chamans, but given the circumstances, I do not expect the men to be able to receive a determined push by the Austrians tomorrow. The garrison was composed mainly of volunteer militia, and I feel certain enough to declare that the men with you are likely the most seasoned soldats of the Republic within thirty miles. And with the condition that General Auclair is in..."

Severin tuned the politician's speech out as he took in the situation. The garrison of Amiens had taken a bloody nose from the Austrians, and given them one in return. La Generale had been wounded twice by cannonfire and shrapnel, and Allied morale had taken a hit. The Coalition could not be in much better shape, given their losses and supply situation. The traditional and expected course of action would be to entrench, delay, and await reinforcement. A less predicable approach would be to launch a spoiling attack. Hit the Coalition camp during the night; burn some tents, burn the stores, kill a few men, keep them on high alert through the night. When morning comes, they would be exhausted, hungry, and in poor shape to dig entrenched Frenchmen from their holes. Severin would give the proposal, and once it was rejected, he would check on how La Generale was doing. If she was well enough, he would spread the word among the men. If not... Severin shuddered and avoided that line of thought. La Generale had become a symbol not just for the army, but for France, and news of her maiming or death would destroy morale. But if she were to recover, then like the Maiden of Orleans, her legend would grow.

 

[Tjakari]

Basically, I asked Magoose and Plaus if I could write some updates for Venice. I figured it could be fun since they're not very involved with the main story, yet. I asked them for a dice roll and Venice rolled a 17 for this quarter of the year.

So please enjoy this April update for Venice, it's the set up for the really juicy stuff. And ask any questions if something is unclear.

---

La Repubblica Moribondo - 1793 Part 1 (April)
Venezia
Aprie, 1793

The People​

Interesting times make men gossips.

It was a fascinating thing to many of the common people, the goings-on of the French.

The "rumor mill" in the city had ceased being a turn of phrase by the spring. The last years had seen to that. The spreading of half-truths and filtered ideas had become quite the cottage industry. Too much had been streaming out of France for it not to.

Tall tales were sold on every corner made the West seem a land of legends. Impossible things seemed to fly in from past the alps. A little bird for a battle, chirps and songs for every head that rolled.

France, for many folk living by the canals, was fantastical place. It wasn't just interesting, it was captivating. And the more things escalated abroad, the deeper the hold went, for everyone from the maids to the babes, the men and the priests and even patricians.

There were stories about a woman general who broke two Prussian armies. A Corsican who sunk an entire British fleet. With their own guns. Cavalry charges that broke a million men and armies that shook cities wherever they marched.

The common people spoke about the latest news from Paris less like a drama and more like an epic. There was always some great calamity going on, a princess dead or a nobleman fleeing, a church burned, and men with their heads flying off. Those close to sea had no shortage of curious things to ponder on.

The civil war in France particularly.

Though little fact ever made it to St. Mark's Republic, the popular imagination did what it would. The gravity of the conflict was all-consuming. For whatever reason, a cord had been struck in the Venetian consciousness. In the city at least.

There was so much there that lay apart from their lives.
They had little reference for so much of it. But it had their attention, all the same.

---

The Priests​

However distant from the Papacy they'd become in the recent years, were of one mind on the Revolution. The Vendee, the coalition, the church could only hope the French madness would finally be at an end. The less anyone questioned the Church's privileges the better.
They had so few left.

---

The Merchants​

Depending on where they've placed their investments (and their private dispositions) either despaired at the news or cheered it on.
And to top it off, the recent events in the Mediterranean had aggravated the Barbary issue. Whether it was true or not, the humbling of the British made for a shift along the African coast. Corsairs grew bolder by the week.
A missing shipment here and there turned very quickly to kidnapped merchants, seized ships, and worst of all, raids. European slaves had become something of a fashion by the full bloom of spring.

---

Jambiri, was the name used by the Corsairs along the coast. It was a word for "shrimps" or "prawns", weak things. Venetians and Sardinians made up most of those. As they saw it, they were the easiest pickings on the Mediterranean, practically defenseless.
With the pickings only getting easier as the British put more ships to their war instead of protecting trade, it was only a matter of time before they stopped picking at stragglers and turned back east. There were much more appealing targets there. There was Corfu, there were the Ionian isles, what was left of the Domini da Mar.

Venetian gold looked bright this time of year and they needed only to take it.

---

The State​

It's just a shame that so much of Venice saw little of that gold.

However wealthy any of the individual patricians may have been, only a fraction of that idle wealth found its way to the state's coffers.

Trade in the Republic had been a long decline for the last 200 years. Manufacturing monopolies in terms of glasses or perfumes had been broken ages ago. La Serenissima had been in competition with empires that straddled the horizon itself, for centuries. And now, to look at it with clear eyes would tell anyone that Venice had lost. Badly.

Individual fortunes be damned, Venice was had no income to speak of. Certainly not in comparison to their neighbors. The good men of the Great Council, and all the other bodies of government had the means between them all to support the treasury, at least for a time. (The richest amongst them could even outfit a small squadron of ships if they so pleased, or even raise a militia) But in these trying times, no sacrifice was forthcoming. Nor any charity.

All in all, there were 2000 seats in the Great Council. While more than a few hundred of those seats lay empty, what was left was filled, nearly to a man, with skinflints, misers and stingy old men. Cliques and alliances were always present, but the body was ineffectively an assembly of rivals.

Working together for anything more than every-day procedure was beyond the most of them.

Especially so when half their colleagues would just as soon use a new tax to raise their own pensions than to strengthen the nation. Though that was hardly the universal position, it was the prevailing force.
Impoverished nobility made up a notable portion of the Council, and they were also those most likely to attend sessions. Given that their privileges were all that many of them had left to their names.

Alas, rich men are as allergic to taxes as proud men are to debt; the Maggior Consiglio, unfortunately for Venice, had no shortage of either.

Besides, any vote in the Great Council required a 600-man quorum.

So, nothing of consequence comes out of the council, nor any of the lesser councils attached to it, and the state continues to wither.

---

That said, the rot in the ship of Venice had not only set in the halls of government, but also the military.

On land, Venice had never cared much for a permanent citizen army, and with so little money to spend, mercenaries are more like to head north for contracts. The only grace la Serenissima was allowed was enough coin to keep their forts and garrisons manned. But that was all.

At sea, Venice had no teeth at all. What money that did come in to the Republic came by sea and on that sea, they were defenseless. So often, had the sea (or its wolves) stolen away the city's commerce with a storm or an attack. Many slaves in Algiers or Tunis had been born by the canals, had apprenticed at the city's glassworks, and so on.

While one cannot fight the sea and win, the same could not be said of the pirates who lived lavishly on ruined men's investments and sold off their children.

If only there were the money for one expedition. One last hurrah, to make the seas safe for Venetian ships again. The idea had been gaining a great deal of traction as of late.

Many of the younger men of the Maggior Consiglio had taken the uptick in slaver's raids as a affront to the national pride. And if there were ever a conversation worth listening to in that tired body, it was heard amongst the Xovane, the "youth" of the council. (Men in their thirties or younger forties)

Though more's the pity that those were only conversations. For now anyway.

La Serrenisima wouldn't be sailing the seas any time soon, or so the old men always replied.
No money for ships meant most of their fleet had to be mothballed or scuttled, and what they could maintain scarcely left the port.

Venice was at the mercy of providence.

And Providence said, "Go to Hell."

---

The Nobility​

And of course, this was all very concerning for at least some of the nobility of the republic. They weren't all fools. But the eldest amongst them were too tired to raise too much of an issue. They had the rest of their lives to sleep away, no time for the crisis at hand or the crises abroad.

The councils of the republic, the Great Council as well as the others, were a meeting place for old men with old grudges and weak hearts.

In the light of recent events, the patriarchs of the City had felt some urge to do one thing or another, but the initiative died on idle hands, weak ears or brittle bones.

The rigors of even setting up a debate in the great council were too demanding for some. So many men had to stay at their homes on account of illness or infirmity that a quorum couldn't be achieved until late in the month.

A slowly growing number of councilors had began talks amongst themselves for rebuilding the Venetian fleet, "But how?" was always the next question. And though the subject was sore, the answer was always a tax and/or a loan. "From who?" depended on who one asked.

The oldest men looked to Vienna.

The pious or foolish looked south, to the Papacy.

As to the youngest members of the Maggior Consiglio? They were enamored with the British.

Recent events had shaken their faith some, but the British Fleet was still the envy of the world. As they saw it, il Inglese were unchallenged. Whether in the Atlantic, or the Mediterranean, they had sails on every wave of the ocean. They wanted that for themselves. That glory.

To look at Venice and compare, one would be brought to tears to think they could once boast the same some centuries past. Once, the sight of their flag on the horizon was a cause for dread. Now it was only a tale of ancestral glory, something for the children to sleep on.

But what was done once can be done again, no?

So went the thinking of the optimists in the Council.

It was simple they would say; all the Republic would need was coin. "Who amongst the council would not sacrifice their fortune for La Serenissima?" came words from a clique in the middle section of the massive body.

"The arsenal is as mighty as ever, we need only a tax or a loan to rule the seas again!"

More than two dozen of the youngest councilors each rose to the occasion to give stirring arguments for their proposals, their compatriots nodding along or shouting their agreement. It was a good show, for things that should come. And they were all clearly impressed with themselves. 50 or 60 men can make a lot of noise on their own, but the rest of the council was a far more muted affair.
Their responses, in the rest of the council were dismissive or avoidant, some may not have even heard that the Xovanes were speaking at all.

The measure for a new tax failed to even go to the floor. Though it was on the agenda, none in the body with working ears would hear of it.

Likewise, a measure looking to the British for a loan hardly came to a vote at all before being struck down. "Foreign entanglements" many said amongst themselves, or "we haven't the men for the wars they'll drag us into, anyways."

The great council was an unwieldly beast, so it was expected.

The leading men of the Maggior Consiglio had made their decisions. The Republic would do nothing.

The old men went back to their homes. The young instead, sought other means.

---

Even if it's not considered canon, these will be a nice little side story.

 

[Tjakari]

Venice Roll: 17

I said I would write omake for bonuses, and I bloody meant it. Merry Goddamn Christmas.

---

La Repubblica Moribondo - 1793 Part 2 (May)
Venezia
Magio, 1793

The Osteria by the Arsenal
​

Something odd had happened following the vote in the Maggior Consiglio.

Over the few weeks from the end of April to the heart of May, the Xovanes took to the streets.

This was no doubt because of their bruised pride at having been largely sidelined by most of their fellow Patricians. The old men didn't hold much malice for them, few had so much as smirked as the "Young Men's Measures" were struck down, but the insult was done.

That their proposals had barely seen the light of day was enough to incite the core Xovanes to bitter anger and the rest to an idling spite. The grudges only grew as attempts at backroom deals yielded no fruit. The old fathers of the Republic refused to meet with even the most moderate amongst them. Not if they meant to discuss matters of state, in any case. After their final private rebuke, their relations to their 'colleagues' had fully turned sour. Either side believed themselves disrespected and there was no reconciling it.

As the Xovane saw it: their proposals were nothing but modest, they went through the proper procedures as far as reason allowed and they were showed deference to their elders, still they were shot down.

This was a travesty. It was obvious the miserable state of Venice was in, that it would be La Serenissima's undoing. The state needed money, the state needed to gather that money someway somehow. The old men were fools if they believed anything less.

And the youngest men of the council said as much to anyone who would hear it.

The street campaign began humbly enough.

When you're humiliated and want to feel like a man, cheap alcohol does just as well as any.

The first night, after exhausting most of their private collections of alcohol, the thirstiest of the Xovanes found themselves drinking near an osteria by the Arsenal. There, for the first time for many of them, they broke bread with the commoners, merchant-sons and barnabotti that frequented the public houses.

Their company hadn't much between them all, but the Xovanes were generous with their coin. They were among friends as far as they were concerned, and friends don't let friends be sober. Especially friends with so much in common.

Rich as they were, the scandal of April had seen to the humbling of many proud men who thought they would have their way. A month ago they had respect and security, now they were waiting for the law to finally make an example of their hubris.

Though the Pregadi had the first word, they would not have the last.

So, they proposed a toast, to anyone who had lost something: a bet, a fortune, a home, a ship, a country or a life, it really didn't matter what exactly, but everyone with a chip on their shoulder joined in with the toast and just as many cursed the Signoria while they were at it. And after buying multiple rounds of drinks, the Xovane and every man with a thirst was sloshed.

Many of the more paranoid among the Xovanes had thought that they'd be sent before the courts before the week was over. Surely, whether for loss of life or loss of property, they assumed they were on borrowed time. Every day that they spoke against the Republic was another black mark on their name.

It wasn't so bad now, but that would change the more people talked about their little evening.

In light of that, they had no reason to be stingy.

---

The message was spread across the city by the bitterest amongst them as well as their even younger commiserates (nobility in their late teens and early twenties) who shared their concerns. There were many who had yet to take any office who were assured that they would have no offices to hold if all remained as it was, that there would be no Venice at all.

The world had seemed to turn itself inside out over the past few years.

Antiquity seemed to haunt the present day like a phantom.
How long before legions sacked their cities?
Or sowed what few fields they had with salt?

So much was unknown and so many unexpected turns spun about in Europe alone. It was hard not to feel dread for the future, it was so precarious and they all knew the time for action was long overdue.

The mania of the times ran deep, and it obviously knew no class or sex or age (save the oldest and most stubborn) because the streets agreed with the sentiment. Songs of calamity whispered along the canals for the remainder of the spring, and soon even the air of Venice turned suspicious. Recent rises in prices and even less business in the port meant everyone in the city was feeling some sort of squeeze. People were losing faith in the Signoria (The Doge and his council). And when word of the Councils' vote on the Rich Men's tax spread around, for once, the people of Venice gave a damn about how little the patricians spared them.

Some even dared to say that they should take what they weren't willing to give.

That the details of government matters were being aired out at every fish market, inn and merchant's stall did not sit well with any of the well-to-do men of the city. Though most of the talk amongst the people was beneath their notice, The Consiglio de Pregadi (The Senate of Venice) wasn't pleased to hear that the contents of a private session of the Major Council was now public knowledge. They immediately censored the leading personalities in the Xovanes faction.

An investigation into all else who had allegedly let state secrets slip only added more and more men to that list.

Though oddly enough, in the present climate being censored by the state was a badge of honor. Every Xovane who made the list was treated like a champion. Overnight, "tongueless" turned into an expression of praise. Any man censored by the Councils was clearly an honest one.

It wasn't long after that that the Xovanes had found themselves formally shut out from even polite company. They were still powerful enough as a group that their properties were safe, but only for a time. Effectively, they were completely cast out of genteel society.

No invitations to balls or dinners were forthcoming, they were the object of all the talk in the highest circles and none were there to defend themselves or quarrel over their good names.

Of family, none even dared to speak a neutral word for their cousins and brothers who were now on the road to ruin. Any sympathy was kept close to home, where rivals had no ears.

Having been left out to sea, the young men did what all privileged people do when they don't get what they want, they sulked.

And when they grew tired of that, they raged.

---

*Barnabotti are impoverished nobles, they have titles but they're broke as a joke and usually keep to themselves if they can manage it. These are times for coming together however, so they're being dragged along by the moment like everyone else.

 

[AvidFicReader]

Rally to the Banner

All told, Severin was glad to be back in Metz. After the brisk march to Amiens to reinforce the garrison against the Austrian and Dutch armies streaming in from the Netherlands, the regular pace of the return trip was downright placid. Especially after that episode with La Generale. La Petit Arpentuse was a solid defensive commander, and her stubbornness stood her well in that role. It did make a headache for her subordinates when trying to ensure her rest and recovery! She was worse about it than his own little one, given her sense of responsibility. That and trying to rush back to Metz merely aggravated her wounds. Hadn't she learned, an army returning from battle victorious had the luxury of time. Time to restock, tend to the wounded, bury the fallen. A victorious army had no need for haste, with the exception of an army headed once more to battle. A truly victorious army need not leave anyone behind as they returned home. He could somewhat understand her feelings, however, what with that Parisian commissioner flapping about like a vulture. Severin's collar always started to itch whenever that commissioner looked his way, and it would stop when Saint-Just would pin another with his stare. Eugh, politics.

From what Severin understood of the grand picture, the Republic had called up enough conscripts to plug the gaps in the northern front, with fresh corpses, if need be. Severin was skeptical of the idea of conscription. He could see the necessity, and quantity had quality of its own, but there was a certain elan that you could find in volunteers that conscripts typically lacked. Between a farmhand who enlisted and a farmhand plucked from the field, the enlistee would always be more motivated. Driven to learn skills, and more diligent in drill and on the march. Whatever their reason, they wanted something strongly enough that they went out of their way to give years of their life in-service to king and country. Well, best not to say that part aloud, but that drive made for better soldiers, in Severin's experience. This was why Severin was taking an unusual interest in the riders and messangers going out. While they were under Chamans' direct authority, Severin's de facto authority despite his rank had the riders snapping to attention at his approach.

"At ease men, just checking on the progress of your mission. Any sign?"

"Not yet, Capitan, the first group has yet to report in. They're scheduled to arrive within the half hour."

"Good, good, I'll be sure to be present for their return. Any activity on the far bank?"

"No, sir, just the occasional woodsman or hunter who leaves when challenged."

"Good to hear. Normally I'd leave it to Chamans to run perimeter security, but he's been much busier with La Generale recuperating. I'll see to it the Chasseurs establish some watch posts in the trees and on the surrounding hills. Maybe make use of those helioliths that arrived with La Generale. That sound good to you?"

"Aye, that'd be a great help sir. If we can free up more riders, we can range further, maybe pick up more units that would have been beyond our reach."

"Right, you lads, when you run into any of those scattered splinters of broken regiments, they'll be tired and downtrodden. They're what's left of the armies that got chewed up and spit out in the Netherlands. They lost and they know it. Don't ask, and no need to rub it in. But feel free to remind them that they've seen battle and lived. That's no mean feat. Even men who turned coward and ran, especially those men, will feel shame. If they've any moral fiber left in them, it'll be burning them up inside. So tell them that L'armee du Rhin is looking for volunteers. Men who are willing to fight, to defend their homes and loved ones, and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with their brothers-in-arms. The bonds of blood we shed on the battlefield are thicker than the water of the womb. The ones that want absolution and redemption will join up right away. Those who've seen enough of death and war won't have the will to fight. Just gently remind them that all who come to us are expected to serve, in some capacity. Whether that be in the battle line, the supply train, or the artillery, we'll find a place for them. If they want it enough, they'll follow us to the ends of the Earth."

"Er, have you been reading poetry again, Capitan?"

"And what if I have, Corporal? I've been trying to come up with some songs about the Battle at Mainz, and now Amiens, since SOMEONE hasn't be writing new songs, isn't that right, de Lisle!"

"Oh shut your face, Severin, we're all busy! Don't you have some soldats to teach how to roll in the mud, or something?"

As the two staff officers get into another silly argument, one of the riders quietly asks the Corporal a question.

"Er, Corporal, should we do something?"

"You must be new, Private. They're always doing this. It's just a bit worse than usual with La Generale out of action."

 

[AvidFicReader]

Sing Write Me A Song, de Lisle!

"Severin, stop being ridiculous! I haven't the time to write more songs, what with all of the orders for new uniforms, equipment and muskets for the levied troops."

"And yet I'm not the one drinking, de Lisle. Think, man! Most of these new men will be conscripts! They'll have been plucked from their fields and told to come to Metz to become soldiers. The original troops of the Army of the Rhine were at least militia that had been scraped together and organized into a formal unit. These men will be lacking in morale and esprit de corps, so what better way to inspire them than with songs of the victories of L'armee du Rhin?"

"Much as I might appreciate your enthusiasm, Severin, not all of us have the limitless energy you are possessed of, and I, for one, would like to spend my evening in relaxation. Do you even know the word, you madman?"

"My friend," says Severin as he slings an arm over de Lisle's shoulder, "you must certainly enjoy writing music, considering you wrote that wonderful march for our victorious army. Why don't I sing it for you to jog your memory. The men certainly like it, they start singing along as soon as they hear it sung!"

Clenched tightly under Severin's crushing grip, de Lisle begins to nervously sweat as he recalls that Severin's version of singing, as with much else the man did, was carried along more by enthusiasm than pure skill. "Alright, alright! No need to burst into song here and now! So how do you propose going about writing songs of our 'glorious victories,' Severin?"

"Aren't you the songwright, de Lisle? But let's start with Mayence. Certainly, we must mention the battles at the bridges. Glorious stands, the both of them. La Generale certainly held better in the North, than I in the South. Oh, but that counter-charge, that's one for the ages!" Severin pauses, then mutters under his breath, "Best not to mention that damned hat, though."

"So, perhaps we start with the Prussians aiming to crush Mayence beneath their jackbooted heels, only to be intercepted by L'armee du Rhin. Oh, and write Brunswick and his lackey as uncreative lackwits, though menacing and imposing at the head of a vast column of tin soldiers."

"Now you're getting into the spirit, de Lisle! But, er, how much into the spirits have you gotten? That bottle looked a lot fuller when I got here. Anyway! Maybe make a pun on gendered nouns? In German, bridges are feminine, what with being supple and supportive and such, but in French, bridges are masculine, vaulting and erect. The men love bawdy imagery, and bawdy puns all the more! And perhaps something about Brunswick going a bridge too far, because he might have been able to force the issue with sheer attrition and weight of numbers if he had focused on one bridge."

"Right, right, bawdy puns, sexual undertones and old Brunny being over-ambitious. 'Man's reach exceeding his grasp' kind of thing, but also blowing his load too soon. Haha! The Germans are always on about the sanctity of the Rhine frontier, but isn't this also France's natural border as well?"

"Yes, this will be wonderful! I can't wait to hear it sung. Well, maybe I'd best be off. You seem to have things well in hand, try not to have too much fun, de Lisle!"

Severin exits de Lisle's tent to the parting words of "Vive L'armee du Rhin!" a chorus taken up by the men within earshot. Severin returns to his own tent to write up a new duty roster and assign the Chasseurs and some signalmen to 'detached sentry duty' in the near future.

--Three Hours Later--

The Metz camp is awoken to an unearthly caterwauling in the early hours of the morning. The entire camp turns out at the cacophony, preparing to go into battle. 'Perhaps this is some godforsaken weapon brought to bear by the Prussians or Austrians, maybe the screeching of rockets?' As waking men rush to join the sentries at the perimeter, several officers rush to investigate the source of the sound.

"Mon Dieu! How could this be?" shouted Severin, as he came into view of the source of the cacophony.

There, braced against the doorpole of his tent, was a clearly sloshed de Lisle, himself the source of the cacaphony. Reeking of liquor and- is that supposed to be singing?- lyrics to the new song he had composed. Feeling remorse and not a small amount of responsibility for de Lisle's state, Severin takes charge in quieting down and sobering up the drunken captain.

"It's no wonder why de Lisle stuck to writing songs, rather than singing, if that's what he calls a singing voice. All right, lads, bring him an bucket of fresh water and an empty bucket. The capitan is in for a rought night."

 

[AvidFicReader]

Mail Call

A new batch of mail had arrived at the Army of the Rhine's camp at Metz, and a rather hefty envelope found its way to one Captain Denis Martin Severin.
"Oh, mail from home. Looks like father's penmanship. Has he already found an answer to my request? That was rather quick of him. I suppose with the threat of rebellion gone, the mail service can be efficient once more. Now, to see what father has to say."

Denis Martin, my son, I write to you with mixed blessings. Your family is in good health, both your little one and wife, and your nieces and nephew. The Winter and Spring were fairly mild, and the passes were clear early this year. Biffontaine remains a sleepy village, but Bruyeres will have something of a baby boom soon, given all the pregnant mothers I saw around the town. We are watchful of Württemberger encroachment across the Vosges, and I run the militia hard, as usual. I have not yet had time to travel to hear news of the wider world, but for the time being, all is well in the Vosges.

However, we have received word from your elder brother, Louis Marceau. He was among the rebels fighting in the Vendee, leading a short company in the absence of highborn officers. I shall have strong words with him regarding service and loyalty, but for now, know that he is safe, and is being reorganized into La Division de la République. The fool boy did not know he was a puppet dancing to the strings of le Bretagne! Of your younger brother, Jules Leo, we have not received any word beyond his posting at Haiti, fighting le Bretagne. It is good that you have taken the fight to the Prussians, for they are a foe we have faced many times through the generations, and you have sated a grudge that has lain in our blood since the time of my own grandfather.

It took a good deal of searching through our ancestral storehouse, but I have managed to find something that matches your request. Apparently, one of my uncles decided that he should serve aboard a Bretagne merchant ship, of all things, and became its quartermaster. He had heard of an unusual gun meant to fight African pirates in their small, swift ships, and it had been rejected by the Royal Navy. It was some sort of repeating cannon built by a English lawyer by the name of Puckle. Not an organ gun or a turret gun, but a sort of revolving chamber with powder and shot already loaded. We have a presumably working model in the storehouse, and I shall bring it to you at Metz. It is the distance of about a hundred miles, and most can by conveyed by barge down the Meurthe from Saint-Dié, Raon-l'Étape, Baccarat, Luneville, and Nancy, then along the Moselle to Pont-à-Mousson and then Metz.

I look forward to seeing you soon, my son,
Mattheo Anselme Severin

Click to shrink...

Severin was of mixed feeling on the contents of the letter. It was good to hear that his family was doing well, and he looked forward to seeing his father again, harsh taskmaster and disciplinarian that he was, and it was good to know his father had found something that might aid the fight for France's survival. He knew it was good that his brother had survived the fighting in the Vendee, but the siblings had nearly faced each other on the battlefield, and had Denis Martin not been returning from leave at home, he could have made it to his original posting in time to fight the Vendee rebels.

Shaking his head and slapping his face Severin steeled himself for the trials ahead. "Father would not appreciate me brooding on this possibility. Time to get the men back to drilling and deploying the Chasseurs throughout the countryside for perimeter patrol and scouting. That should free up more of Chamans' riders to search for survivors and stragglers roaming the countryside." That would be a more productive use of his time.

 

[SzechuanSauce]

Alright, I'll see if I can get a good story out of Davout and Murat arguing, with an appearance by Chamans.

Enough, both of you!

Now, Louis-Nicolas Davout was usually a very stoic man, not quick to anger or to raise his voice in rage, in fact, many found him to be quite unsociable and rude, though that didn't bother him at the slightest. Yet there was one thing that seemed capable of getting a rise from him.

"You damnable eye-sore! Your gaudy outfit burns at my eyes, and your beloved horses are eating at what little supplies we have!"

That one thing was Joachim Murat.

Ever since the prancing dandy man came to his new assignment by way of Napoleon's recommendation, him and Davout had instantly acquired an intense dislike with one other, Davout considering Murat to be an eye-sore, both literally, with his brightly-colored clothing hurting his sensitive eyes, and metaphorically, with his loud antics leading Davout to conclude he was a fool. While with Murat, he considered Davout to embody everything wrong with soldiers, unkempt, rude, demanding and a pain in the ass. It was a wonder the two hadn't killed each other yet.

"Oh Davout, perhaps if you would remove that stick up your ass and dress better, I would not have bothered you. But alas, your allergy to fashion and decency prevents that!"

Though perhaps the time for the two to kill each other was now.

At that, Davout had quickly pulled out his flintlock in rage, ready to strike down this nuisance, while Murat had down the same, both raring to kill the other.

"Enough of this! Both of you, withdraw your weapons, now!

If not for Chamans' intervention.

Chamans would feel a quick headache whenever these two got into an argument with one another, which was unfortunately a frequent phenomenon. The two seemed to find any and all excuses to argue, from serious accusations to the downright ridiculous, from arguments on supply lines to personal attacks against each other's mother, the two had practically argued about everything.

He had heard the two screaming at each other while he was in his tent, and he had quickly scurried off to the sounds of rage, hoping to be there before the army loses men of great potential like Davout or Murat, both great military figures, and he thoroughly believed, both will be integral to France.

After catching both of them in the act, Chamans demanded, "What in God's name are you two arguing about now?!"

The two explained themselves, both of them giving their explanation while never quite fully lowering their weapons. The way Chamans had understood, both of them were at fault, while Murat had been the one to rouse Davout's hidden anger, it was Davout who had escalated the argument into a near duel, and so, as a way for the two to finally stop arguing, he took the two to a nearby drinking establishment and had them discuss their love of the republic, with Chamans knowing they at least have that in common, a great love of the republic. It was that, he hoped, would get them to set aside their differences.

"You bald headed connard! I clearly love the republic more than you!"

"Nay, my love of the republic clearly surpasses yours, you gaudy, ring haired chienne!"

Or perhaps it would be a new avenue for the two to argue about.

Chamans just rubbed his head at their arguing, it seemed his latest efforts have failed. Though he would now keep track of Davout's temper, the man may be a statue most of the time, but when provoked, he was as fiery as a volcano.

He just hoped there was no one else besides Murat who could rouse such great anger from him.

Somewhere, in Jourdan's army.

"Achoo!"

"What's wrong? Did you catch a cold?"

"Nothing, General Jourdan, just a suspicion someone was talking about me." Was the response of one Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte.

 

[SzechuanSauce]

Alright, so I think I got a good plot for Hercule the Bear, hopefully you guys like it.

Be like Hercule!

"Come on men, you call that a battle cry! How do you expect to terrify the enemy with that whimper!"

For the past day, Durand has been hard at work turning the recruits that General Bonaparte and Auclair threatened into the army into a true fighting force, and it has not been an easy time. Where was their Elan?! Where was their spirit?! If they can't even do a battle cry, how can they expect to actually fight?

"If I can be honest sir, that's the best we can do. Perhaps you can give us a demonstration of a proper battle cry?" Was the response of one of the men he was training.

Ah, that was a good idea, show them what a real battle cry sounds like. He had in mind someone who can demonstrate that.

"Hercule! Come here."

Hercule was the unofficial pet of the Army of the Vendee. Quite the sight it was, seeing a bear in the army camps, and more than a few of the newer recruits were scared of Hercule, yet it was truly beloved by the original members of the army. Most of his skeptics thought that Hercule would just go through their supplies, it was a big animal, and it would need to eat a lot, but it had proven itself more than worthy of being there, having the strength of more than any of them made him good for carrying artillery when it was properly trained. Hercule was almost human, it drank, it smoked cigarettes, slept in the tents with the soldiers, wrestled, and won most of the time since it was a bear, and to be honest, bathed more often than the soldiers, leaving it with a better sense of hygiene than most people in the camps.

At the sound of his name, Hercule hurriedly went over to Sergeant Durand, and affectionately sniffed at him, with Sergeant Durand responding in kind by giving him a kind rub on the neck, which made Hercule quite happy, kicking one of his feet in delight.

"Now, Hercule." He said to the bear, whom he was still rubbing on the neck, "I need you to show your elan. Roar for us." He then gave an imitation of a roar, complete with claw fingers, even showing off his battle cry, "VIVA LA FRANCE!!" hoping the bear would understand him.

After a while, and after he finished rubbing Hercule in the neck, it seemed to have understood what he meant, and gave of a ferocious "ROOOAAAAARRRRRR!!"

For most people, the sound of a roaring bear would be utterly terrifying, yet for Sergeant Pierre Antoine Durand, it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

"Yes! Yes! That's it! That's the battle cry I long for!" He shouted out in joy. Finally! A soldier with a proper sense of elan! Who knew the only one with a proper sense of it would be a bear?

He then turned back to his soldiers, who were staring at the scene in front of them, still somewhat bewildered and scared at the thought of a giant brown bear in the camp with them, much less the officers treating it like it was a dog.

"Be more like Hercule here!" He gestured over to the bear next to him, "This bear has the elan you lack!" He shouted to the poor bewildered soldiers in front of him, who never thought they would ever be compared with a bear over their elan.

"Sir, are you seriously comparing us to a bear? If we tried to roar like him, we'd lose our vocal chords!" One of the soldiers shouted incredulously.

"Better no roar at all than to have the roar of a coward!" Was the response they got.

So for almost the entire day, the soldiers were forced to do their best imitating the roar of their pet bear, while said pet bear was showered in drinks, pets and praise.

 

[AvidFicReader]

La Chanson: Generations

Twenty-five thousand recruits. It was a mind-boggling number on the best of days. The number of new recruits brought in by the levee en masse nearly equaled the number of fighting men already a part of L'armee du Rhin. The monumental task of outfitting, bivouacking and feeding these recruits fell on the shoulders of Captains Denis Severin and Claude de Lisle. The latter the purchase and procurement of supplies, while the former, the distribution and allotment of said supplies. Severin was in the process of establishing the recruits into new companies, the prospect of slow, methodical training all but decided among the staff officers of L'armee du Rhin. "T'wouldn't do for the new recruits deserting back to their farms within the first week, after all," was Severin's council. In spite of his advocacy for methodical training, Severin desired little more than to come to grips with the enemy and face him in battle. The fighting at Amiens had little he could directly contribute to, and the last real action he had seen was at Mainz back in April.

The rapid establishment of new companies, battalions and regiments required the stripping of sergeants and corporals from existing units to use as training cadres for the new formations. The established, veteran units of L'armee du Rhin would have to adjust and elevate new non-commissioned officers from the private soldiery, as fresh recruits also filled in losses from battle and transfers. Severin had just seen to the equipage of the latest company of the newly stood-up line infantry regiment when he was hailed by a runner from the gates, informing him of a visitor with cargo.

Marching to said gate, Captain Severin quickly confirmed the identity of the visitor and had him and his cargo waved through security. Personally escorting the wagon to the camp's arsenal, the captain finally greeted the guest in a energetic exchange of manly hugs and shoulder claps.

"It has been quite a few months since I've seen you in person, Father. Welcome to the Metz camp of L'armee du Rhin. We've just gotten a new influx of conscripts from the levee en masse issued by Paris. How was the journey from Biffontaine?"

"Denis Martin, my son! God's blessings be upon you, and are those some new scars I espy? I'm sure your wife shall find them charming indeed once she claps eyes upon you once more. As to the journey, there was some rough going in the Vosges, what with the early melt causing a few minor landslides in the passes. Not much of an issue once I reached St. Die and caught a barge down the Meurthe. And you, an officer! None of our blood have risen to be a commissioned officer in our extensive records. You've surpassed not only my rank but that of your fool elder brother! Now, boy, where are we headed in this fine army camp? I find myself both nostalgic yet glad of my retirement."

"We make for the camp arsenal, such as it is. 'Tis the domain of Capitan de Lisle, an artilleryman and songwriter. He wrote a glorious war song for our army, and has been, er, working, on new songs of our glories at Mayence and Amiens. Just don't ask him to sing; the poor man has not a singing voice, but the clarion call of the Devil's legions."

"Aye, a good marching song can keep an army at a double pace for quite the trek. And you wrote that you got the bulk of your army to Mayence within eight days? With cannon? Not too shabby for a scratch force scraped together out of frontier militia. Good work, my boy."

"I cannot take full credit. Colonel Chamans ensured the roads were clear of partisans and good for travel, and La Generale kept the men to a good pace. I merely had to dissuade some complainers along the way."

"And Mayence, the fighting there had been short but intense, was the word on the road over."

"We had week to prepare and survey the ground. La Generale is known as La Petit Arpenteuse for a reason, and we had time for some fairly elaborate earthworks around the bridges. Chamans was able to do quite a bit of damage with a cavalry raid, and the Prussians made separate attacks at the bridges north and south of the city. La Generale repulsed the northern push with minor casualties, while in the south, the Prussians made decent headway against my force. It was only with a last-second countercharge that we were able to rout the Prussians, while they had nearly gained the bridge. It was... Gå–På at a heightened tempo. Then, we formed up on the western bank and forced the reforming Prussians to give battle. The fighting was a fairly equal exchange of fire and melee, but I was able to march my battalion at barely arms' reach and wheel on the Prussian flank with fire and steel. At that point, the Prussians lost the will to fight. We released the prisoners and released the Prussian commanders on one years' parole. Last I heard, Duke Brunswick lost his position at the head of the Prussian military over the disgrace."

"Hah! That'll do it! The line of Severin has been fighting the Prussians through the ages. Our bloodline carried a grudge through the generations, stretching back to my grandfather for the defeat at Malplaquet. The honorable service of my father, and now you, my son, has wiped that grudge clean. Now, tell me of Amiens."

"Yes, La Generale was returning from Paris with her wards, following some business in the capital, and she rode directly to Amiens in response to the collapse of the front of in the Netherlands. Upon receiving her dispatch, we led the majority of the army to Amiens to stabilize the front, and our cavalry and chasseurs were able to put the Hapsburg and Dutch to flight with a night raid, though the main body of the infantry did not arrive until after dusk. By morning, the front had stabilized and new formations of conscripts were streaming into Amiens, so we returned to Metz to keep watch on the Rhine frontier. With the levee en masse, that brings us to the present."

"Ah, you have succeeded beyond the family's wildest dreams, my son! With your success and your elder brother's foolish actions, you shall be the one to carry the name Severin into the future, in service to France. Viva la France!"

Upon hearing the elder Severin's patriotic cry, the nearby men also take up the call, with cries of "Viva la France!" making an echoing ripple throughout the camp. As the pair near the arsenal, Captain Severin calls for an armorer and gunsmiths to remand the contents of the wagon into their custody.

"Also, father, you never mentioned the details of this... Puckle Gun. What makes it such an extraordinary weapon?" Captain Severin inquires, with the armorers and gunsmiths carefully unpacking the wagon, but leaving an ear open to listen.

"My son, according to the papers that came with the gun, it was meant for all manner of roles, but primarily intended to suppress pirates off the Horn of Africa. Their small, swift boats prey on shipping, and thus a smaller, repeating light cannon to deal with them. Allegedly, this Lawyer Puckle was able to demonstrate the cannon firing 63 shots in nine minutes! Nine shots per minute! Imagine a battery of such guns! The manual demonstrates how to rotate the chambers, and this bit of metal removes the touch pan cap and exposes it to the flintlock mechanism. Crank the handle tight to establish a gas seal, fire, crank back and spin to the next chamber. The only issue I can see is setting it up in the field. Since it was meant as a deck gun, the tripod was as much a fixture, but it can be folded and carried. Not quite as quick to emplace as a field gun, but if you set it up in an armored wagon like the Hussites in the Thirty Years' War, you can avoid most of the issue and have a mobile, elevated firing position."

The elder Severin speaks on about further applications, debating with the armorers and gunsmiths about the Puckle Gun's employment, maintenance, and reproducibility, while Captain Severin absorbs the artillery knowledge and expertise being bandied about. All told, a rather unusual day in the camp of L'armee du Rhin.