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

[Tjakari]

Jes it is quiet along the Rhine. Too quiet.

Click to shrink...

Impromptu Omake: Summer Morning On the Rhine

The exercises that Thérèse had recommended weren't doing much for her physique. That was the honest truth.

However much la générale may have contested the point, Charlotte's progress had been pitifully slow.

A word of reassurance here or there and some practical advice just wasn't quite the motivation that Thérèse thought it was.

It was helpful, sure. A change of form to an exercise could cause injuries if one wasn't careful. If nothing else did, Charlotte's wrists thanked Thérèse for their good health; elewise she couldn't have continued trying as long as she had.

The rest of her was hardly as thankful.

Though In her mind, continuing at all had to be some form of gratitude.

Perhaps it was a cruel joke or perhaps it was just a test, but the progress of a boy half her age with just a practice sword had been something of a blow to what was left of Charlotte's confidence. In her physical aspects, at least. The image of the young Louis playing around in the yard like he'd found his calling was just as likely to inspire a fond smile as it was spark a bout of melancholy.

The last few weeks had done a great deal to reinforce a number of self-regarding prejudices. Were it not for the titaness (and she would use no less a word for her guardian angel) looming over her like an aegis, she'd almost believe that to be a woman was to be helplessness incarnate.

It would have been easier to quit were she in another's care, someone more traditional, someone Charlotte was less attached to.

She'd have been more than happy to leave the exercises to Louise; boys are more fit for this kind of toil anyways, she thought.

But here she was, on a summer morning, the dirt digging into her palms, as she dragged herself through her painful morning rituals. If only Thérèse weren't so damned earnest, so kind; she could just go back to her tent and revel in her reading.

But no.

That woman could not be denied.

She cared too much, had done too much.

The girl supposed that the price for that kindness was the pain in her sinews, the raw aching in the arms and elsewhere.

In light of a whole number things that crept at the edge of her mind, this was hardly a price at all.

True, her regimen was thorough, but it wasn't a death sentence. She might not be swinging any swords, but her stamina was growing by the day. And most of all, she would live, she was living.

She tried very well not to forget that.

On days like these, there were no daydreams of Versailles.

No flashbacks to the mobs.

No passing thoughts of her mother. Or her father for that matter.

The therapeutic functions of the exercise were something that Charlotte hadn't thought to put to words, not yet.
But, she understood the effect this time had on her.

She quite liked it. The only shame was the process to get there.

The aching and the moving and the working kept her mind occupied. So long as the body was exhausted, the mind had no time to indulge her fears and deeper desires, impossible desires.

That off her back, she was starting to feel alive again.

The threats in the world hadn't been this far away in a long time. Since they've been in Metz, the future has been brighter.

It was nice to let the tears lie for once.

 

[Magoose]

A Moment In Life: Brian Auclair:

You felt a strange pain in your leg, a pain that was a sinking feeling of being lost and shot. You had not felt that pain in a very long time, since you were a boy when you were lucky to stay in one home for longer than a month.

It was the pain of fear and anxiety in your legs. A pain you had sworn to never feel again when you continued your work as a surveyor… and then as an officer. It was a remarkable skill to have, not having any fear. It gave the men confidence, it gave you confidence.

It made you seem like more of a giant than you already were. A man without fear.

Yet you always had the thoughts of doubts, of lies you told yourself, as you prepared for battle, of prayers for God to grant mercy onto your soul for absolution.

But here, in Paris, in this shinning city, all you saw was a festering rot, set to tear itself apart. The men fought in the streets for bread, the woman sold themselves for wine and the children steal away what little from the stalls that are not completely broken by the taxes and levy's demanding them for the war effort.

It disgusted you. What rewards were worth a people to suffer in perpetuity, while men die and suffer in battle and war.

The ideas of the republic, the ideas of men being treated as equals… was something so beautiful on paper, to espoused by the like-minded academics who wanted to see such a change.

America had seen success across the ocean after all. Why couldn't a great and powerful nation like France be any different?

The answer was in the Vendee. People who wanted the old ways to stay, not because they were oppressive, which they certainly were, but because they were not new, not foreign… not radical. They saw the king, not just as a man, a servant of the state, but as a near god, endowed by God to rule… they were seen as better than normal people.

Of course, while the folly they had was quite innumerable… these people had never experienced change on this magnitude… and it frightened them.

Now here… you would do what you can to help people… perhaps to see them change, and grow, and see themselves not as servants of the state, but as the state itself.

A nation was it's people. The only way a people could survive such turmoil was to have the ability to change… and if that change did not become accepted by the people, they should have the right to change.

The Rest of Europe certainly did not accept the French people deciding that they did not want a monarchy.

Although, executing the king certainly didn't help the rest of Europe see the new republic as nothing more then a jump up revolt.

It does not matter now… you had a duty to fulfill for France.

And it would be a duty you would gladly fulfill.

 

[SzechuanSauce]

I got one, hope you guys like it.

Thoughts of the Common Soldier

It was near midnight in the camp of the Army of the Vendee, and common sense would indicate that it was a good time to sleep, yet overwhelming joy and pride at their glorious victory has overtaken any sense of sleep in the army. Men were cheering, drinking, making merry and dancing for all to see, it was a joyous occasion and they were not ashamed to show their joy.

Near a campfire, you would find your soldiers, the brave men who made this victory, who made this outpouring of joy possible for all to enjoy, they basked and celebrated in it.

Many children would be conceived that day, some taken care of better than others.

"For the republic boys, for the republic!" A soldier near the fire cheered, joy in his face, and a drink in his hand, as happy as could be.

"FOR THE REPUBLIC!!" The soldiers around him cheered, obviously sharing in the jubilance.

"What do they fight for boys?" The joyful soldier shouted, "They fight for a king, they risk their life for one spoiled noble! Clearly, what they lacked in ability, they didn't make up for it in intelligence!" The soldiers around him laughed,remembering how easily the Royalists broke.

"What do we fight for!? We fight for the republic! For freedom! For France! Viva la France!"

"VIVA LA FRANCE!!"

The joy and jubilance spread like the plague, infecting most of the soldiery, yet there were a few outliers in the joy.

Immune from the joy was one Henri Leblanc, a blonde soldier with a plain face sat quietly at the side of the fire, no trace of joy on his young face.

"What's wrong Henri?" A friend of his asked him, noticing he was not in happiness like everyone was, "Chin up, mon ami, this is a time of joy!"

"Perhaps for you." Was his sullen response, "I for one did not take joy in shooting my people."

"Oh, don't be too worried about that, if memory serves correctly, most of them ran, so you shot very few of our people, if that is any consolation."

"Not particularly, but still." Henri held his face with his left hand, obviously in a contemplative mood, "Why are we doing all this? Why am I obliged to shoot my own people?"

"Didn't you hear our loud, drunken friend over there?" He pointed to the previously yelling soldier, who was, as described, still yelling and still very drunk, "We fight for freedom, we fight for the republic."

"And why would I fight for any of those?" Henri asked pointedly, obviously not taken in with the lofty ideals of the revolution, "The republic hasn't done anything for me, and I've never known freedom to lower the price of bread, nor offer me shelter."

"As far as I can tell, it's only more of the same." He continued bitterly, "Once, we were told to fight for god and king, now we're being told to fight for freedom and the republic."

His friend didn't know how to respond to that, not expecting him to be so bitter, "We're fighting for something bigger than ourselves." He offered as an explanation.

"And you think that god and king isn't bigger than either of us?" He countered, "Every soldier in this damnable war is fighting for something big, for king, for the republic, for order, its all the same."

Henri then stood up, obviously tired of arguing over this and in need of rest, "I'm telling you, Jean." He said as he doused the fire with water, signifying the night was over for him, "Don't be so loyal to ideals, they don't feed you, nor do they offer you anything worthwhile."

"Perhaps you can be loyal to General Bonaparte?" He offered as a final comment for the night, "He's given us victory, drink and glory, certainly did more for us than the king ever did, or what the republic is currently providing."

 

[Magoose]

A Very Merry Christmas:

The feast was a quiet affair after a very quiet mass. You had not left the camp, staying instead with the recruits to partake in the mass of Christmas eve. The officers, particularly Severin himself, led the mass in perfect Latin, despite the priests asking him to stop. The few Protestants within the army chanted away biblical passages in French during many moments of long prayers, but the mass itself was a peaceful affair.

You had forbidden any theological discussion, besides prayers and the reading of the holy bible, for those that were literarily inclined, to prevent any sort of unrest or mutiny, just to be safe.

The local clergy, both catholic and protestant, were in attendance and offered their services to any soldier that needed it.

And many needed it, after the long months of training and drilling and the worries about the future.

You had been tired, and trying to keep the army in order so that things would go smoothly. But you had feared there would be violence between the two separate branches.

Until Sevrin started to sing a song that reminded you of home.

O come, divine Messiah!




The world in silence waits the day




When hope shall sing its triumph,




And sadness flee away.





Dear Savior haste;





Come, come to earth,





Dispel the night and show your face,





And bid us hail the dawn of grace.





O come, divine Messiah!





The world in silence waits the day





When hope shall sing its triumph,





And sadness flee away.





O Christ, whom nations sigh for,





Whom priest and prophet long foretold,





Come break the captive fetters;





Redeem the long-lost fold.





Dear Savior haste;





Come, come to earth,





Dispel the night and show your face,





And bid us hail the dawn of grace.





O come, divine Messiah!





The world in silence waits the day





When hope shall sing its triumph,





And sadness flee away.





You come in peace and meekness,





And lowly will your cradle be;





All clothed in human weakness





Shall we your Godhead see.





Dear Savior haste;





Come, come to earth,





Dispel the night and show your face,





And bid us hail the dawn of grace.




O come, divine Messiah!




The world in silence waits the day




When hope shall sing its triumph,




And sadness flee away​

While Sevrin's singing could have been improved upon… the army had joined him in peace and sang carols for the rest of the day and into the night.

And on the day of noble grace, with snowfall in the very ways, the men cried out with a glorious cheer.

"Merry Christmas brothers!" Were all that could be heard.

 

[Magoose]

Letter to Therese: From Napoleon

General Auclair,

I write this message out of conflicted gratitude, not only that I long to meet you again, but hope that, in the future, so that we may discuss matters of professional interest, on how to wage war against the enemies of France.

General Kellerman speaks highly of you, in any conversation about you, an astute scholar, a magnificent surveyor, and a skilled commander, brilliant, but inexperienced, and the rigors of command are something that you will master in time.

The news from Aimes filled me with many conflicting feelings, both for your safety and for the safety of France. I was relieved by you not only surviving the battle, but your army rushing into the defense and saving the day, again.

The nickname the men call you, the Fire Fighter is well earned and it is clear that any promotion that may soon be granted to you will be well earned.

But I must discuss a personal matter in this letter. The matter of where your interests lie after the war. This war will end, sooner than later I hope. I personally hope that we can discuss matters of mutual benefits if we were to meet again in person.

However, if it involves any sort of financial assistance, know that I will be happy to absorb part of the cost with my salary to help you achieve whatever endeavor that you may find yourself partaking in.

Respectfully, and courteously.

Napoleon Bonaparte.

AN: TBH, I really wasn't trying when writing this, mostly because I'm writing Chapter 1 of a True La Chanson Novel.

Hopefully with fewer philosophy discussions and politics, and more character development and drama.

Hopefully.

 

[mouli]

The Price of Admiralty

Bay of Biscay, 1794​

The ship is the privateer Lorelei out of Brest, and the sea is the choppy dark water of the Bay of Biscay. The coast is the rocky mass of Brittany and the storm-tossed Atlantic coast of France, and the good ship Lorelei looks for convoys as she flies the drapeau tricolore.

"Ships ahead, mon capitaine!"

The captain puts eyeglass to eye and sets the privateer to tack ahead, wind and wave throwing spray onto the quarterdeck as the cannons run out. The bosun's drum beats the call to arms as the crew scrambles to stations. Lieutenants shout over the rumbles of the guns and the creaking of the hawsers, senior mates and gunnery chiefs bawling out their juniors and sighting down the chasers as the captain takes the wheel.

The convoy ahead is sixteen sail, merchants and frigates alike. The convoy ahead flies the Union Jack, escorts tacking towards the Lorelei and shepherding the troopships towards Torbay as the weather begins to turn. The ships ahead bellow out cannon fire, shot and shell marking the waters as the Lorelei claws ahead.

The captain laughs, the bosun drums, and the lieutenant draws his blade. The midshipmen clutch their rosaries and the conscripts their crosses, and the Lorelei's bow-chasers begin to find the range as they reply. The English part as if to rake from either side and their merchantmen attempt to tack towards the rocky shore, and the captain has none of that.


The stern chase takes ten minutes, the terrible raking broadside of the English frigate named Enyo leaving fourteen dead and thirty crippled on the upper decks as Lorelei thunders out her rage. The bow-chasers mark off a merchant ship, the stern chasers reply to the Enyo, and the broadside fires on the troopship Mersey in a great rolling barrage.

Away goes the Enyo to the stern, clawing back and turning into the wind. Towards the lovely Lorelei comes the convoy, frigates and troopships alike unmasking their broadsides as she closes. The English begin to find the range, and aimed fire splinters the bowspirit and marks the sails even as above them flies the tricolor.

Up goes the captain's blade, and out goes the sharpshooters' fire. Down comes the captain's blade, out go the cannon from their ports, and the Bay of Biscay hears the song of the Lorelei.

More than one broadside comes out, and the captain's cabin is raked by Enyo's bowchasers while the convoy's reply flies true. Lorelei's lower decks feel the splintering cracks of impacting cannon fire, her upper decks the whine of grapeshot and sniper fire. Blood comes from the men, powder from the broken casks on deck, and sand to keep the surface walkable.

The screams intermingle with the drumbeats of the bosun, and out go the cannon once more under the shouts and pikes of the gunnery chiefs.

The crosses and the rosaries lie in blood and sand and death as the rum and pikes come out, grape loaded in the lighter guns and double-shot in the heavier. The privateer takes no prizes today, no quarter does she give nor ask.

Lorelei passes through the column of ships as she takes their fire, and between the bow of the troopship Mersey and the stern of a freighter does she go. The guns fire off almost deliberately as she passes, shot after shot raking their decks and splintering their hulls as she passes, sharpshooters reaping a terrible toll on the quarterdecks the entire time. Up goes the captain's blade pointing to the coast, and away goes the Lorelei to La Rochelle with the English firing on her all the while.

The dead are counted, the dead are buried, and the crippled given what aid can be spared. The doctor's drunk, the barber-surgeon wounded, and two lieutenants dead. The powder's wet with blood and the conscripts murmuring prayers, but intact is the rum.

Out comes the captain's pen, and out comes the rum, and even as the Lorelei clears the coast of France and enters La Rochelle she flies the drapeau tricolore with a veteran crew. She leaves behind fifty dead and a hundred crippled, her privateer's hull marked by gunfire and warranting six months in the yards.

She leaves behind most of a dead English infantry battalion and a crippled transport carrying supplies, and damns the expedition to the Vendee.

Glory says the captain, chuckling to himself. Alive say the midshipmen, now blooded and not liking it. Again says the Admiralty, and they hope it works with the English now warned and waiting.

@Plausitivity let me know if it's appropriate or has to be removed.

 

[Magoose]

In Flanders Field:

(Charles François Dumouriez POV)

You studied the maps closely as the spring rain poured onto the dikes and countryside of the Netherlands. The dikes had been secured quite quickly, the destructive tactics that could have flooded the entire region, and your army dealt with.

The Dutch forces that were still fighting your onslaught were… well, they were few and far between, their morale shattered, their organization, nonexistent. Any leadership that may have been able to organize a defense, were prisoners in his camp or fleeing with their king to Prussia, to cower like dogs, their punishment their destroyed honor, their lost homes, and the humiliation of being beaten.

The Austrian forces, what little that survives Amiens and your rampage through the Low Lands, were routed to Austria proper. You had let them go because you could not spare the forces to give chance, not with the… Dutch needing to be quelled.

You had remembered in the histories that the Netherlands used to be part of the French kingdom, their identity not different from the French.

They would become part of the French dominion again. Perhaps it was an ambition to leave a legacy… Mayhaps you knew that the wars started with the foundation of the republic, and the death of Louis was only the beginning.

You knew that France was indefensible with its current borders. The Prussians could march through the Netherlands and nothing could stop them. Not without forcing battle, not without allowing them to March into France.

The Rhine was a much better location to defend from. A boundary that could be fortified… a boundary that could repel most attacks from the east.

Perhaps… you could make preparations.

"General." A colonel saluted as he appeared before you. "The King is within our Grasp… shall we take him?"

"No… let him run… we have more pressing matters to attend to. Make sure the others know my orders."

"What orders sir?"

You pointed at the river Rhine. "We are building a wall Colonel… a wall of water and canon. A wall, where the Prussians will not pass."

AN: A little hint on what exactly our favorite general is doing.

Hint: Kicking All the Ass!

 

[AvidFicReader]

Quartermaster's Dillema

Denis Severin stared dumbfounded at Claude de Lisle.
"Merde! Are you serious? How much have you been drinking, man?"

"Shut up! I haven't drank at all today, you hyperactive man-child! And I'm entirely serious!"

"But what the hell are we supposed to do with all of them? And how in the Lord's name did we end up with a hundred tons of onions?!"

"Well, the standing agreement with the local merchants and villages is that the army buys their available fresh produce to supplement the rations delivered from the capital. But given the season and the levee en masse, the doubling of mouths in the army, combined with the loss of farmhands, led to, well, this." de Lisle shrugs and waves his arms helplessly.

"But a hundred tons? The soldats will mutiny before we're shot of them. Hell, the cooks might cry themselves to death, cutting all those onions! Lord have mercy, for the soldats shall not!"

"You're being dramatic, Severin! We can serve them soups, add them in stews, we can fry them; there are limitless preparations! Besides, aren't you the one always complaining how bland the standard rations are? Onions have strong flavor and scent! The soldats ought to be happy for something to spice up their meals!"

"Even so, de Lisle, soldats will always find something to complain about without something to keep them occupied, and with the gentle pace of the training, they will have more energy than usual to spare. And with so few sergeants to rein them in, they'll get up to some mischief, mark my words!"

"Nonsense, the taste of onion shall invigorate the men! Why, you could threaten the worst trainees with onions being withheld from their meals! That ought to motivate the louts!"

"Really, man, must I ask La Generale to confiscate your spirits again? We don't want a reprise of the screeching of the damned at night!"

"Relax Severin, you're worrying too much! We'll just have to get creative and cunning about it. In fact, I'll bet you anything the men will come to love the onions."

"You're on. Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all."

------

"All right, men, another lap around the field then rapid fire drills! *Crunch* Well, get to it, what are you looking at?"

"Eh, capitan, are- are you-?"

"Spit it out corporal, can't you see I'm enjoying my snack? A little something to tide me over 'til supper."

"-are you crying, sir?"

"... The rain must be spoiling your vision. Best get a move on before the rain turns the field into a mire!"

A confused private whispers to another, "But there's not a cloud in the sky!"

"No, private, it's definitely raining. What are you all looking at? Never seen a man eat an onion before? Real men eat them like fruits!"

"Has the capitan lost his mind?"

"Rumor has it he smokes black powder instead of tobacco, and drinks the blood of Prussians instead of alcohol. Since we haven't seen battle in a while, the capitan must be... on edge."
Many rumors and gossip spread among the soldats as the company left the field.

Severin mutters to himself, "This was not the best idea I've ever had. Bedamned onions."

------

Barging into the artilleryman's tent, Severin announces himself with a booming inquiry.

"de Lisle, tell me we've seen the last of these bedeviled onions! It's been months! I want to eat something else!"

"Actually, Severin, I won the bet. I've had requests from the regiment commanders for more onions. Something about "keeping up morale" and "they'll mutiny if we run out."

"What? I suppose the Lord only knows how things will turn out. So we'll be having onion everything for the foreseeable future, then."

"Not just that, but you lost the bet!"

"Merde! Save me from lush artillerymen!"

"So I thought long and hard about what would bother you the most, and I noticed that you refused to wear a hat, even through winter, just wrapped your head with a scarf like a Moslem. So! Your forfeit is you have to wear this lovely hat! I made sure it's within regulation for officers too, so you haven't any excuse not to wear it."

"de Lisle, how can you be so cruel as to make me wear such a monstrosity? I only barely managed to tolerate that bedamned hat by the end, and it died a noble death at Mayence! I took it as a sign from the Lord that myself and hats simply are not meant to be! Beside, I still mourn for that damnable thing's premature demise. To force me to wear that gaudy eyesore would be beyond the pale!"

"Come now, you petulant man-child, it's been nearly a year since your last hat 'died' at Mayence! It'll keep the weather off you and allow the men to spot you more easily!"

"Allow Prussian jaegers to shoot me, more like, and I'm still in mourning! It's in bad taste, I say!"

"Well, if that won't convince you, this latest episode with the onions did inspire me to write a song..."

"Is it a catchy marching song?"

"I thought you might like it. It goes like this-"

"Wait, no! Don't sing!"

A/N: A small "welcome back" omake from me. And also because I wanted this song several years early.

 

[Tjakari]

Venice Roll: 17

I missed writing these and I need to get some writing practice in before I forget how to. I hope this gives the thread something to pad out the dry spells.

Recap of the last two parts of the Venice Sidestory:

Spoiler: LRM So Far

The year is 1793.​

The former King of France has been executed only a few months ago and the city/state of Venice is broke.

Their government is a convoluted mess of councils ranging anywhere from hundreds of members to only a handful of men. All these bodies are in the hands of the old men who've run the city for centuries. And for the most part, they feel no need to govern the state any differently than they have been. Even as their possessions overseas lay vulnerable to raids from Barbary Pirates, their people are enslaved, and the state can't afford one warship.

A minority of the city's leaders, a faction called the "Xovanes" for their comparatively young age, had introduced plans to get the money needed to rebuild Venice's military either through loans from the British or by a tax on the city's richest families. All plans were struck down.

In light of the wars with the French, this is seen as outrageous, suicidal and by some even treasonous.

And in due time, the men that introduced the plans were censured, cast out from the government, and finally blacklisted by the nobility. For this, the Xovanes are now known affectionately by most of the city as as the "Tongueless", for being legally silenced.

As political outcasts, they found themselves cultivating a following amongst the common people as well as impoverished nobles. Large gatherings at inns, bars, and even some churches have won over the people. Few had warm feelings for the city Fathers and with trade shrinking, the economy getting worse every day, the stress in the city is building to a fever pitch.

Where the government maintains it's strongest hold, it is no longer safe for Xovanes to travel through, for fear of being picked off. Likewise no official from the government is welcome near the farthest edges of the city and the port in particular, especially near The Arsenal where the Xovanes have been holding up rather than their family properties.

After two months of an ongoing political crisis, it's only a short matter of time before the Xovanes are all arrested, exiled, or assassinated.

They know this.

An insurrection, successful or no, is now only a few poor decisions away.

---

La Repubblica Moribondo - 1793 Part 2.5 (May-June)
Venezia
End of Magio - Early Giugno, 1793

It Fell Off A Boat​

After the bodies of a few dozen of their friends had been found in the canals, it became very clear that compromise wasn't going to be possible under the present situation.

How some late-night vent sessions had turned into, what was apparently, rebellion was a mystery to many. That the old men would be out for their blood so quickly seemed almost impossible to many of the men gathered in the Osteria. For weeks on end, even as they complained bitterly, much of their planning revolved around appeals to more moderate family members, silent sympathizers in the Major Council, men who owed them money, men who owed them service.

All solutions they saw to their predicament were civil. Corrupt? Perhaps. If that's how you see nepotism and quid pro quos. But no matter what, they assumed that they would all be alive at the end of this.

Most especially, the informal leader of the faction: a short, smiley man by the name of Paulo Basadonna. With the loudest voice in the Maggior Consiglio and lots of nice family connections, he had been the flag bearer for the Loan-and-Tax proposal and once they were all cast out of genteel Venetian society, he served as the face for the Xovanes. It was a good fit for him, he had a way with words, deep pockets, and he was a good drunk.

In the streets that practically made him a saint.
That good nature of his probably won over more support in the city than any esoteric appeals to patriotism, strength, or Venice's rightful place on the oceans. Charisma can do that.

Charisma can also make a bleak situation seem trivial.

The mood after the Venetian Senate's formal denouncement was especially dour. For many, that had been the moment that drove home how isolated they were. With that hanging over their heads, they were on borrowed time before the warrants came for their arrests. Many men drank themselves half to death from the fear of it and even just drank themselves stupid to escape the dread. It was not a good night be at the Osteria.

So, when the talk of the meetings the days afterward finally turned from curses and brooding to actual plans of action, none questioned when Paulo spoke up about going directly to the Patricians to negotiate on their behalves. Eager as they were to just be home, and done with this mess, they hung on his every word like a promise.

"My Uncle is a part of the Quarantia, I can talk to him." he would say or, "The Doge owes my father-in-law a favor. We can use that."

Little things like that.

In the alcohol-laden atmosphere of the Osteria, his last-hour plotting sounded like genius and did a great deal to convince the men closest to him that there was a way out of their drunkard's exile. If they had a way back, it would have to be through him.

Once they had their titles, had their gag orders removed, and made their peace with the various councils, then maybe there'd be a second chance to do what they had set their sights on in the first place, just getting some damned ships built.

How things had gotten so derailed from just raising money for the republic was beyond the lot of them at the time. The ridiculousness of it all on its own seemed reason enough that it was time make peace and come to a settlement.
If they had to lie and say they learned their lessons, then so be it, if it stopped all this nonsense.

The longer this went on, the worse the trade situation would be and likewise this kind of instability invited attacks from the outside.

Succinctly stated, "Venice needs to build." Those were the parting words of Paulo Basadonna as he left the safety of the shipyards with a retinue of some choice men to hopefully get them out of the dog-house and calm down the city.

As he saw it, the entire situation was a farce, like an overblown family spat about a big purchase. It wasn't worth all this trouble.

With that good spirit in tow, the departed left their compatriots near the port with some hope for a reconcile.

That hope turned to bile when the bloody mess of Paulo Basadonna floated down the canals with his tongue cut out.

 

[AvidFicReader]

Official Unofficial Staff Meeting

Severin, Infantry Captain of the Army of the Rhine, its notorious drillmaster, sat with fellow staff officers de Lisle and Chamans in the latter's tent. An invitation had been extended to Murat, but the man was so enamored with his horses and training his cavalrymen, he had declined. This get-together was something of an unofficial meeting for the overworked staff officers of the Army of the Rhine, and perhaps Chamans would have to be a bit more insistent with Murat next time.

Severin took a long pull of the ale he was nursing. Frenchman he may be, but good wine was too expensive, and he preferred good German beer to cheap French wine, especially so close to the frontier. It also served to keep de Lisle to getting soused too quickly, lest he regain the desire to sing. Severin shuddered; he feared no man, but de Lisle's singling voice was an entirely different matter.

As Chamans finished pouring his wineglass, he spoke up:
"Well, gentlemen- and Severin- shall be begin?"

"By all means, Chamans, does that joke of yours even get old?"

"Now, now Severin, you yourself acknowledge you are no gentleman. And Chamans, why am I drinking this German swill when you are having proper French wine?"

"My friend, you know exactly why. Even la Generale set an edict restricting you alcohol intake. We would want a repeat of the last... occurrence, would we?"

"Meaning you got drunk off your arse and started that screeching you do instead of singing. Do you have a clod of dirt in your throat, Claude?"

"Diplomacy, thy name is Severin." A frustrated sigh from Chamans, "at least you didn't open your mouth while the Prussian envoy was here."

"Hah! That hoity-toity ponce? He probably spoke more polite French than I do! And- oh come off it de Lisle, you write good songs, great even, you just can't sing worth a damn."

"Ahem, back to the matters at hand?"

"Fine, yes, the supply situation is good, we no longer subsist solely on onions-"

"Praise the Lord!"

"- shut up Severin- and in terms of uniforms, powder and shot, we are trending positive, even with wear and expenditure from extensive training. As for our absent equestrian friend-"

"You mean the horse fu-"

"Severin! Continue, Claude."

"While I am sure of the fine details, Murat has managed to arrange for appropriate fodder and horses for his cavalry."

"Thank you Claude. Severin, must I wash your mouth out with soap? How you keep your uniform impeccable after all those hours rolling around in the mud with your soldats, I have no clue."

"Well, Chamans, I've gotten the original lads rather well-drilled, if I do say so myself. Not too shabby for frontier militia and reservists. I'd be more than confident putting our lads up against any equal number of regulars and coming out on top. As for the men from the levee en mass, if be willing to letting them do any of the jobs required of soldiering. There's still room for improvement, but that will take time and more training. And you Chamans? How is the artillery coming?"

Slowly. Officially, most of the army's requisition budget went toward outfitting and training Murat's cavalry. He's done excellent work with them, too. But it has been at the expense of the artillery arm."

"And unofficially?"

"Unofficially, the Swiss merchant has provided the Army of the Rhine 26 cannon for specie or bullion. By his account, they all fell off the back of a wagon. He is selling hundreds more to the government at quite a steep price. But France is in dire straits, surrounded by enemies and lacking cannon. It is a poor deal, but one we must accept."

"Damn the Swiss, always proclaiming their neutrality, holed up that mountain fortress they call a country. You can't invade them, so you have to do business with them, the louts."

"You seem to be rather bitter about the Swiss, Severin," says Chamans over his glass of wine.

"My father was acquainted with an american officer by the name of Brannigan, he always went on a rant about how you could never trust a man who was neutral. I suppose that always stuck with me. That and the Swiss as so aggressively neutral, and that merchant doesn't help to dispel the stereotype. Come to think of it, the Swiss love gold, they make such intricate clockwork devices, and they live in the mountains... could they be the dwarfs referred to in the old norse sagas?"

"Where did that come from Severin? And you call me a drunk who can't sing?"

"Just an idle musing. But you can always trust the Swiss to put their own interests first, they just pretty it up and say they want nothing to do with anything."

"How cynical of you Severin? Where's that boisterous ex-sergeant who wrestles in the mud with soldats?"

Before Severin is able to reply, a runner calls for him with a message, apparently urgent.
"Excuse me friends, something seems to have come up."

"Strange, since when has Severin gotten such important news that didn't concern us? He's not the most discreet of men."

"Chamans, that man has vexed me since we have met. He can lead and train infantry, and he's good at it, but dealing with him in person can drive you to drink! Oh God, Severin has made me a drunk!"

"My friends, I have some concerning news. My man there happened to be near la Generale's tent just as General Jourdan came storming out after having a row with our petit arpenteuse. His parting words were something along the lines of "I hope I will see you again," but the corporal said it was delivered menacingly."

"Oh. Oh, dear. Given how well everything else is going... hmm, la Generale swore me to secrecy, but it seems it will me imminently relevant. She wrote an unofficial letter of protest regarding the plans for military adventurism in the east."

"East, if it were a campaign across the Rhine, I'd have to know, regarding provisioning and supply. There's no way... Unless... You mean that absurd rumor about India?"

"Precisely. She discussed the expedition with me, and disected the plans. Apparently, she sent the letter under a pseudonym, but high command, Jourdan especially, is quite familiar with her penmanship and diction."

"So they knew it was her from the start. And they are... displeased."

"The bastards in high command were probably offended by someone without military academy training poking giant holes in their pet project, and decided to promote her to the most distant and dangerous posting possible. Well, technically, since they could be sending her to Haiti or Guiana, or even China."

"India, by way of Egypt. Do they expect Le Bretagne to ignore the undoubtedly massive transport and supply fleets such an endeavor would absolutely require? Even if the army makes landfall in Egypt, there's no guarantee the supply convoys will go unmolested. Imagine being cut off from supply in the desert. No wine..."

"Dear Lord in Heaven, all of that sand. So coarse and rough. It gets everywhere."

"And what do you have against sand, Severin?"

"I fought at Yorktown, a coastal town. Sand gets into everything and especially places you don't want. I can only imagine marching and fighting in a desert will be worse."

"We'll need to make provisions for lighter uniforms to deal with the heat."

"I've also heard that it can get devilishly cold at night."

"Water will be essential, especially with dried and salted provisions. Given the threat of the Royal Navy, can we even count on regular supply, if at all? We may have to source everything locally."

"I'm not familiar with the customs of moslems, but one thing I do know is not to mess with a man's taxes or his religion. Chamans, what are you pondering that makes you look so constipated?"

"Get your mind off my bowels, Severin! Aside from military matters we'll need to hire local guides and translators, we'll need to negotiate with local tribes and acquire maps. And there are those ancient wonders of the Pharaohs, so we may wish to bring scientists and archaeologists. All of the considerations are giving me a headache, and we aren't even looking at the details yet!"

"The ruling moslems in Egypt, the Mamluks, right? Didn't they out fight the Mongols on horseback? Why are you looking at me like that? I'm not an idiot, I know things! I might not be a gentleman, but I know a lot of military history!"

"Apologies, Severin, I mistook you for a loudmouthed meat-headed simpleton of a soldier. Apparently, you do know things. I stand corrected."

"Ow. That hurt me Chamans. That hurt me right here." Severin sarcastically replies, rapping his knuckles on the metal plate sewn into the vest over his heart."

"Well, Chamans, Severin, if we're going to Egypt, then we'll probably be getting more officers. One of us will have to step up as la Generale's chief of staff. Who do you think-"

"Not it!"

"Really, Severin, this is a why I had that impression of you, rudely interjecting while others are speaking."

"Come off it Chamans, you know I'm not even an option. Chief of Staff has to be good paperwork and has to talk to other staff officers without offending them. There's no way it could be me. I'm just a sergeant that was promoted too far and too fast."

"Don't put yourself down, man! As much as you rib me for my singing, you are an excellent trainer and infantry commander. As someone who rose through the ranks, you are familiar with what the soldats must deal with and know how to motivate them. I've met formally trained infantry officers that couldn't get as much out of their men as you can from 'frontier militia and reservists,' Severin. Chaman's ought to be Chief of Staff. He's able to keep the two of us under control, and he's had experience running the army while la Generale was recuperating."

"I- I can't argue with that. You two are just trying to get out of more work, aren't you?"

"What? Jealous that you'll be stuck doing paperwork and making nice while I get stuck in? Already missing the chance to bloody your saber like at Mayence?"

"S-shut up, you blithering imbecile!"
Chamans covers his stutter by finishing his glass of wine.

"We'd best get back to work, given the looming task before us, gentlemen."