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

[Alexander Sturnn]

La Chute; Downfall



25th September, 1795


Night had fallen over the City of Paris. The Streets were empty, the Population not conscripted to defend the City against the Armies that were drawing ever closer to it huddling in their homes and praying to be spared the Horrors of a Siege or a Sack.

Only in the Tulieries Palace, Seat of the Government of the French Republic, light still shone. In one of the meeting Rooms stood the leading Men of this Republic, intently listening to the Reports that had been brought in on this day.

"The Enemy is steadily continuing his March on the City as we speak. They have 45.000 Men under their command, but they are all experienced Veterans, fully armed and ready for Battle. They have enough Cannons to shell the City, enough Cavalry to cut off any retreat and enough Infantry to take Paris by storm. They are lead by Emp-"

Joseph Fouché, who had delivered the report, hastily interrupted himself before speaking the Words that might make the man in front of all of them put him on the Guillotine. Even the mere mention of Napoleon's, Brian's or Therese Au...Bonaparte's Names, much less the Coronation of the first and the last, seemed to throw the First Consul of the Republic into a fit of rage these days.
Maximilian Robespierre glared at Fouché, clearly having noticed his near-faux pas, but quickly motioned him to go on with a wave of his hand. Relieved, Fouché turned his Attention back to the Map of France lying on the table, on which he did his best to recreate the Reports.

"...by the Traitors to the People and the Revolution, Napoleon Bonaparte and Brian Auclair. They have swept aside any Militia Units we had left behind as Rearguards and will reach the City within the next thirty hours."

Robespierre was calm, a form of Confidence formed from a secure grip, even with a war he was not sure to win. "Marmont will finish his training of forces, link with Macdonald in the Field and drive the Traitors south."

Fouché sucked in his breath. Now came the Part of the meeting he had been dreading. He and the other Ministers and Officers in the Room exchanged worried looks. None of them wanted to be the one to break the News to Robespierre...but someone would have to.

Finally, Fouché took a deep breath. "F-first Consul...", he said with hesitation. "General Marmont..."

But it was as if fear strangled him. He was unable to continue. Finally, Emmanuel Marie Michel Philippe Fréteau de Saint-Just took heart and continued.

"When Therese Bonaparte and her Forces reached the Army of the North at Orleans, she walked out alone and delivered a speech to them. After she was done...Marmont and all of his Forces threw down their Weapons, surrendering without a single shot fired. Our Commissars were killed or imprisoned...and the Soldiers either sent home or defected to the Traitors. The Army of the North is no longer on our side."

For the longest time, silence reigned as Robespierre stared down at the map. A wide variety of Emotions flashed over his face. Shock, disbelief, fear...and, above all, burning fury. Then, finally, he reached up with shaking hands and took off his Glasses, placing them on the table.

As he then spoke, he did so in an unbelievably quiet and reserved tone, only a slight shaking in his voice indicating the boiling anger underneath the surface. "...The following stay here in this Room: Saint-Just, Fouché, Coffinhal-Dubail and Bigonnet."

Except for the four Ministers he had just named, everyone quickly vacated the Room. Once the Door had closed, Robespierre's face twisted into a furious snarl.

"THAT WAS AN ORDER!!! MARMONT WAS GIVEN CLEAR ORDERS!!! WHAT GODLESS TRICKERY IS THIS?!?", he shouted as he slammed his hand against the map. "WHAT FOR THE LOVE OF REASON AND DIGNITY IS THIS SHIT?!?"

Saint-Just, Fouché, Pierre-André Coffinhal-Dubail and Jean Adrien Bigonnet all exchanged looks indicating that they really wished they were somewhere else right now as the First Consul continued to rant.

"HOW DARE MARMONT DISOBEY MY ORDERS?! HOW DARE HE SURRENDER TO THIS...THIS FALSE JEANNE D'ARC?!?" Robespierre grit his teeth. "So...so THIS is how far it was come, eh?! The Army has been LYING to me! EVERYONE has been lying to me, even the Ministers!!" He glared at the four men still in the room. "THE ENTIRE ARMY AND THE ENTIRE GOVERNMENT IS NOTHING BUT A BUNCH OF VILE, DISLOYAL TRAITORS!!!"

Saint-Just hoped to calm down his head of state. "My Consul...the Men are not to blame! They are under this spell of that woman!"

"THAT WHORE FROM AVIGNON!!! SHE HAS ONLY GIVEN THIS REPUBLIC CRISIS AFTER CRISIS!!", Robespierre shouted. "A Deceiver and a fool!!"

He paced up and down behind his table, continuing to rant.

"The MILITARY...! These...these TYRANTS dare to think they are better then suited to lead a Nation just because they can lead Armies in the Field?! The real fight of a Revolution is fought in Courtrooms and in Offices!! I should've seen it coming!! For YEARS, the Military has been obstructing me, obstructing the Republic!! Bonaparte, Ney, Kellermann, the Auclairs, Marmont, all the others! NOTHING BUT COWARDS, TRAITORS AND FAILURES!! I SHOULD'VE PUT EVERY LAST GENERAL IN FRANCE ON THE GUILLOTINE, JUST LIKE THE KING AND HIS FAMILY!!!"

"Sir...I must protest! The Military has made credible errors, but there are still those who have shown loyalty, like Macdonald, Soult...and the rest who stayed", Bigonnet dared to object.

"THEY STAYED BECAUSE THEY KNEW I WOULD'VE BEHEADED THEM AND THEIR FAMILIES IF THEY DIDN'T!!", Robespierre roared. "NONE OF THEM ARE LOYAL, NO MATTER HOW MUCH THEY PRETEND OTHERWISE!!!"

Silence settled in the Room as Robespierre, breathing heavily, sat down on his chair. None of the four Minsters dared to move a Muscle. When they looked at Robespierre now...they did not see the ardent Revolutionary whose fiery speeches and limitless passion had enticed tens of thousands to go along with his Proposals and Plans. They did not see the Genius who had easily defended himself in a Trial despite all evidence pointing against him and had walked away free. All they saw was a tired, burned-out Man who by now seemed to run on sheer spite, stubbornness and malice.

"...I was never a General", Robespierre said tiredly. "I never led Armies in the Field." He clenched his fists. "And yet I...and I ALONE fought the hardest to preserve the Republic! To ensure the Freedom of our People and the Triumph of the Revolution!!"

Fouché almost reminded him that without the brilliant Victories of Generals like the Auclairs or Bonaparte, the Enemy would have long since crushed the Republic...but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

"...Traitors", hissed Robespierre. "Form the very BEGINNING have I, and the Revolution, been deceived and betrayed!! This all has been an UNIMAGINABLE betrayal against the Republic of France and it's People!!"

As he looked up at the four Minsters, they all flinched. Because the sheer hatred in the eyes of the First Consul burned with unimaginable intensity. "But they will PAY. All of these vile Traitors will pay!! I WILL SEE EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM BEHEADED AND THEIR FAMILIES DROWNED IN THEIR OWN BLOOD!!!"

The silence that followed that outburst could be heard for miles.

Listening from the outside, Macdonald and Soult made their decision, as did many of the remaining Senior Officers that remained loyal to Robespierre.

Inside the Room, after his last outburst, Robespierre seemed to sink into his chair, bereft of any fire and will.

"...All of my Orders have been ignored. Everyone is deserting the cause of the Revolution", he said quietly. "How can I, under these circumstances, be a Leader?"

Once again, only silence met his Words. The First Consul shook his head.

"It's over", he whispered, his Voice almost breaking. "The Republic is lost." For one last time, he looked up to glare at the four Ministers. "But if you, or anyone else, think I will EVER accept that Corsican Ogre and his Whore trampling over the Revolution and debasing it's Ideals by placing Crowns on their Heads, then you are dead wrong! I'd rather put myself on the Guillotine!!"

He shook his head and looked down. "...Go. Get out", he finally said with a tired, defeated voice. "I have no Orders to give anymore. Do what you want."

Saint-Just put a comforting hand on Robespierre's shoulder and then looked to the others. "I have arrangements to make. The Revolution will survive this setback. For that is all that this madness is: Only a Setback, nothing more."

Fouché said nothing. Deep down, he feared that Saint-Just was deluding himself. And as he looked back before leaving the room, seeing only a tired and defeated Man who had once been the greatest Advocate of the Revolution sitting alone in a Chair, that fear only continued to grow...



A.N.: Well, I promised and @Cyberphilosipher and I delivered. I'm honestly proud of this one. I hope you all like it.

 

[Alexander Sturnn]

Le plus courageux des braves


"COME ON, YOU BASTARDS!!", General Michel Ney shouted as he rose from the bushes, drawing his Sabre. "SHOW THEM WHAT YOU GOT!! CHARGE!!!"

With a furious Battlecry, his Soldiers complied. They rose from the bushes like angry Forest Spirits, their fixed Bayonets glittering in the setting sun, and began to sprint towards the Enemy Position.

The Prussian Regiment he had been tasked with attacking had fortified their position after being cut off from the Rest of their army. Setting up at the foot of a steep cliff, they had thrown up earthworks and hastily dragged a few cut down trees in place to use as makeshift barricades. Now they were scrambling to man their defenses even as Ney and his Men sprinted towards them.

As he ran, Ney couldn't help but reflect how they had gotten here. The Emperor's Plan had been pure and utter Genius, really. He hadn't really understood all of it, never having much of a mind for greater Strategy, but the Results spoke for themselves. The Prussian Army stationed at the Rhine had been shattered into Pieces, the small Contingents that remained either surrendering before the superior French Numbers or making desperate and futile last stands. Like this Regiment here, which had opened fire at the small Party of Officers asking them to surrender.

Ney knew that the War was nearing it's end. This was merely cleaning up.

Somewhere within him, he felt a bit frustrated by that. Aside from managing to smuggle Brian Auclair out of Paris at the start of this all, he hadn't really done anything to really prove himself. Sure, it had been a daring Action, much like his overthrow of the Directory when the damn Bastards refused to pay the Soldiers of France the money they had damn well earned. But the Emperor, Auclair and from what he heard others like Lannes, Murat and Severin as well had achieved incredible feats. Not to mention one young Officer in the Army of Naples apparently doing some crazy stuff as well.

Compared to that, his deeds in this War where rather modest.

...Oh well, there likely would be another War to prove himself, one way or the other. For now, all that remained was to do his Duty for France and Emperor by finishing the task he had been assigned to do.

"HOLD, LADS!!", he shouted, raising his Sabre. The Soldiers came to a halt. "LIKE WE PLANNED!! ONE VOLLEY AND THEN WE STORM THE BARRICADES!! READY...AIM...FIRE!!!"

The roar of the Volley of Muskets tore through the woods. The Salvo hit the Prussian defenders, most of whom were only now starting to get into their Positions on the barricades, killing and wounding many.

Ney smirked. It had been a good call by him to send his Light Infantry forward to dispatch the Prussian Scouts so that they wouldn't be warned of the coming attack. Now he had caught them with their pants down.

"WELL DONE!!", he bellowed. "NOW, FOLLOW ME!! VIVE L'FRANCE!! VIVE L'EMPEREUR!!!"

With that, he ran forward, his Soldiers following behind him.

The Prussians where still reeling from the Volley. But now, their Artillery-Men had manned the two Cannons the Regiment had with them, one on each flank of their fortifications. Ney grimaced even as he ran, seeing the muzzles turned on his Soldiers. Whether they had Canister-Shot loaded or not, being hit by a Cannon from such a close range would be devastating to his men. If his Plan failed-

The Sound of Muskets firing interrupted his thoughts. He smirked with glee as he saw muzzles flash from atop the cliff at the foot of which the Prussians had positioned himself. Scaling said cliff from the other side had to have been difficult, but Captain Calvet and his men had clearly done it. And now they were in a prime Position to target the Enemy defenses.

Ney laughed as he saw the Prussian Artillery-Men slump dead over their guns, hit and killed by the fire from above. Panic and confusion spread amongst the Prussians as they realized that they were now trapped between two Enemy forces. Their Officers tried to maintain order, but their attempts only made them easy to identify for Calvet's Men atop the cliff. Many of them were felled by precise shots, their deaths worsening the growing chaos.

And with the Prussians in such disarray, Ney's men slammed into their defenses.

Only a few of the Defenders managed to fire on the French before they climbed over the makeshift barricades. One of them almost hit Ney, who as always was charging in the front with his men, the Bullet tearing off his hat. But instead of fear, Ney only felt a burning in his veins as he rewarded the Prussian with a Sabre Strike that sliced open the poor bastards face.

Planting a foot on the barricade, he waved his Sabre in the setting sun, not paying on bit of attention to the Bullets zipping around him. "COME ON, YOU SONS OF BITCHES!! CLIMB UP AND THEN KICK THEIR ASSES!!!"

Inspired by their Commanders show of bravery, the French Soldiers doubled their efforts, swarming over the wall and engaging the disorganized Prussians in vicious close quarter combat. But even as Ney jumped down to join the fray, he could tell that their enemy's heart wasn't in it. Demoralized by recent defeats, their resistance was collapsing fast. Many turned and ran, others threw their Weapons away in an effort to surrender. Still, some of them resolved to fight to the bitter end, but where quickly overwhelmed.

Ney himself clashed Sabres with a Prussian Officer, a Captain by the looks of it. Ney had never really gotten any training in fencing, much like he never had any in being an officer. But he was pretty good at fighting. A swift kick to the knee made the Prussian stumble before Ney's Sabre sliced across his wrist, leaving a deep cut and making the Prussian drop his weapon. With his face contorted in Pain, the man raised his uninjured hand, indicating his surrender.

With a smirk, Ney sheathed his blade before looking over the fight. It was over now, the Prussians either dead, surrendered or escaped. This Regiment had been utterly smashed.

He felt triumph surge through his veins as his men began to cheer for their Victory. He looked up at the cliff, where Calvet and his men where celebrating as well. he would congratulate the Captain once he got back down. Without him managing to scale the cliff and take down enemy Artillery and Officers as ordered, this fight might have gone very differently.

Ney smiled. He may not be a Strategic Genius like the Emperor or have the ability to plan a Grand Campaign like Brian Auclair did. But he could come up with some pretty clever solutions on a smaller scale.

And mixed with a hefty dose of bravery...perhaps that was all he and his Troops needed to play their part and survive in this War and those to come.



A.N.: And here is one look at Michel Ney, certified Madlad and Bravest of the Brave. While he didn't manage to do anything THAT impressive in this War (aside from Ninja'ing Brian outta Paris) he surely will get his Chance to shine in the Future.

 

[AvidFicReader]

Restoring Order in the Name of the Emperor

It had been a hard slog, but they had finally met their objectives. The ports and low-lying haciendas had been reclaimed and secured from rebel attacks early on, but it had taken months to retake Cerro de Potosi and reopen for mining operations. The most difficult part was actually getting there. Diego was from a port city, and could only gasp desperately at the thin air of the Andes. Several times on the ascent, his brigade had to halt as whole battalions collapsed from altitude sickness. Still, duty compelled him, and he soldiered on. The men from the highlands did a bit better at the outset, but even the altitude at Mexico City was a mere shadow of that at Potosi. Indeed, so high up was the mining city that there was a constant chill, and some nights saw frost. Much of their work around Potosi was rounding up locals for the mita. Other vital duties included caravan escort up and down the mountains. With banditry on the rise, the crucial food caravans to the mining city required protection, while the valuable silver shipments were a ripe target for brigands.

Thus, Diego was fighting for his life on a treacherous mountain road as the mule train bearing the Imperial quinto had been ambushed. Thankfully, there were few muskets among the brigands, and only a bare handful of his men had been struck by the mercifully inaccurate volley. Fortunately, the company with him were blooded veterans, and they valiantly held back the ambushers with blade and bludgeon. The strangest thing was that the bandits hadn't withdrawn after it was clear their ambush had failed, and his veterans were having trouble putting them down.

The brigand Diego was currently fighting was rather skilled, and with his loose woolen poncho, it was difficult to keep track of his limbs. Not finding an opening, Diego decided to create one. Allowing the bandit to push him back rankled, but it would give him his opening. Seizing upon his perceived advantage, the brigand lunged forward- only for Diego to slash him open from shoulder to hip. At least, that was what should have happened. Rather than a clean cut through cloth, flesh and bone, his sword skittered slightly with the sound of steel on stone. Certainly, the man's poncho had been rent open, but beneath, what appeared to be a cotton vest displayed a gouge near the left collarbone. Curious. The trick had saved him once. Now Diego knew to go for the head. Feigning an overhead strike, the bandit repositions his weapon to parry, only for Diego to twist- and separate his foe's head from his shoulders. Not sparing a moment, Diego darts towards another bandit menacing one of his downed soldiers and relieves him of his head as well. The scene repeats several more times, and as the tide turns decisively against the bandits, what passes for leadership among them calls for a retreat. The soldiers pursue with lead and powder instead of steel- the caravan is the priority, after all- while others see to the dead and wounded.

Inspecting a fallen brigand, Diego makes note of their curious cotton garment. In appearance, it is a quilted cotton vest. Such would offer a modicum of protection against blades or bludgeons. However, it was quite stiff to the touch, and rubbing his fingers together, somewhat gritty. A lick confirms it. Salt. Soaking a cotton vest in brine, then allowing it to dry and reinforce the cloth with salt crystals. Clever, and surprisingly effective. Taking account of the fallen, few had died to bayonet wounds to the torso. As a stabbing weapon, the torso was the obvious target for the bayonet. But unable to find purchase through several layers of cloth and brine, it became all but useless. More and more it seemed that these were rebels, rather than bandits. Disguising themselves as mere brigands was clever. The Viceregal garrison was spread too thin already, so the army was filling much of their patrol duties. And it wasn't the army's job to hunt down bandits, they were there to actually fight rebels, and they had already taken their objectives, so they would move on once the garrison regained their strength.

Diego wondered how many other patrols and caravans had fallen prey to these insurgents, written off as banditry. It seems he would have to order harsher measures. He didn't like it, but his duty was absolute. He was to restore imperial authority in Peru and crush the rebels. He may have to make examples of local populations. He just hoped he would be able to sleep at night.

The first step would be to equip his men with more effective weapons. Perhaps axes or clubs? And this brined cotton armor would be useful, if there would be much more fighting in melee.

Spoiler: A/N

The Mita was a form of labor tax that was used to get miners and porters. The Quinto comes from the Imperial policy of allowing mining as a private venture, but taking 20% (a fifth, thus, "quinto"). Cerro de Potosi was a massive source of Spanish silver that opened in 1545 and continue producing into the 19th century. At one point, it made up 80% of the world's silver production. Most of that was sold to China for their currency reform (going to the silver standard), but a lot went to fund churches and cathedrals, as Spain's many, many religious wars. Cerro de Potosi was also known as Cerro Rico (rich mountain) as well as "the mountain made of silver" and "the mountain that ate men." The city of Potosi sits over 4000 meters above sea level, and at its peak, had a population of 200,000. Think a Wild West mining boomtown, but at 4,000 meters elevation. The climate was unsuitable for agriculture, and most of its food had to be imported. Silver was brought out to the Pacific coast by llama or mule (from there to Panama, across the isthmus, then loaded aboard the Treasure Fleet bound for Europe by way of Havana and the Strait of Florida), though some made its way to the Rio Plata.

As for the cotton armor, it was a real thing. Specifically, quilted cotton armor was soaked in brine, then dried. It was used by the Aztecs, and in some accounts, it was effective enough against steel weapons. While not used in the Andes, perhaps the technique was spread among rebel groups in the Spanish Americas. Perhaps some idiot fell into the ocean and discovered it independently. Even without seawater, you can make a brine solution with rock salt and water, so it can be done in the mountains. I wasn't planning on writing out the logistics of an empire-spanning insurgency! Anyway, I had the brined cotton armor be effective against bayonets because it protects the torso from 'pointy side goes in enemy,' which is what bayonets of the era were. They are also under a loose woolen poncho, which is basically a cloak. And there were dozens of literal sword-and-cloak dueling manuals written in Europe (to obscure enemy vision, entangle their blade, or use a hanging cloak as a literal shield). Of course, Diego is using a katana (glorious Nippon steel! Folded a thousand times!), so he can slash off heads and limbs if torso strikes don't cut it (pun intended).

So Barranca's Brigade is shaping up to be a top-notch formation of assault troops, and their most likely first western/European opponent will be Haiti and Jules Severin, who is working with irregular/light infantry tactics.

 

[Alexander Sturnn]

Les peurs d'un empereur


The Guillotine rose and fell. Rose and fell. Blood splattered across the Podium to the roaring cheers of the bloodthirsty crowd.

He didn't want to look, but the Guards forced him to. With helpless anger, he looked up at Robespierre, who stood next to his Instrument of death grinning wickedly as he egged the People on to cheer louder for the slaughter.

It must've been that mad Bastards cruel revenge to leave him for last, watching his Friends and Family die in front of him. That was the only reason he could imagine why he wasn't put on the Guillotine first.

By now, he wished that he had been.

He had to watch as the life left Brian's eyes, even as they glared with hatred at the mad butcher...how his dear Mother closed her eyes and whispered a Prayer to God before dying...how his Sisters wept bitter tears, but still refused to beg for mercy...how his Brothers gave defiant last words before the falling blade ended their lives...

And Therese...his dear wife had only looked at him with sadness as her lips formed words that despite the chanting of the crowd he could hear clearly: "I'm sorry..."

When the blade fell to sever her head, his heart was sliced in two along with it.

There was no one left but him now. His Family and Friends all lay dead, their corpses tossed aside and their heads displayed for all of Paris to see. Blood stained the Podium and the Guillotine crimson red. And the crowd, the very People they all had fought for, now cheered and roared with glee, happy for the Deaths of the "Tyrants".

He expected to be beheaded now. What else could Robespierre do?

Just then...the blood froze in his veins as he heard the sounds of two Children wailing.

No...NO! Surely not...surely not even Robespierre would...!

But he did. With mounting horror, he watched as Soldiers placed the two crying babies on the Guillotine, their tiny necks lined up with the blade. And Robespierre looked at him, a cruel smirk on his face as he raised his arm to give the executioner his signal.

He screamed with anger, horror and despair as he watched the blade fall...



Napoleon jerked awake, nearly falling over backwards. Panting, he wildly looked around...and found that he was in his Office. The moon shone it's light into the room and onto the desk, which was stacked with documents over which he had fallen asleep.

Sheer, pure relief washed over the Emperor of the French People. The realization that what he had witnessed had not been real after all made him slump over a bit as he wiped the sweat off of his brow.

Still...it had been horrifying. He looked down at the Documents he had fallen asleep over while reading. The Stress of work combined with the worries plaguing him recently must've caused-

A knocking on his door interrupted his thoughts. "Sire? I heard a small commotion. Are you alright?"

Napoleon sighed. "I'm...I'm fine Pierre. You may come in."

Pierre, his loyal Aide and Secretary, entered the Office. His eyes wandered over the desk, stacked as it was with documents. "I take it it has been a long day of work, Sire?"

Napoleon chuckled humorlessly. "You could say that. But I'm almost done. It's just..."

He trailed off as his eyes wandered over the Document he had been reading as he fell asleep.

Right. That one. His Laws regarding Women's Rights in France.

Pierre walked over to the desk, looking closely at his Emperor. He could see the bags under his eyes as well as the uncertainty within them.

"...Is something troubling you, Sire?", he asked.

Napoleon closed his eyes and sighed. Pierre was one of the few People he would ever allow to see him like this. He had known the Man for years now and he had been nothing but respectful, loyal and most importantly trustworthy. While he wouldn't necessarily call Pierre a friend in the same way as Lannes or Brian, he was certainly a confidant of his. One of the few People he could truly open up to.

"...Yes", he finally said. "There is."

He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the sleeping city of Paris. It looked so beautiful and peaceful under the moonlight. It was hard to imagine that not too long ago, Scenes eerily similar to the one in his dream had taken place on it's Streets and Plazas.

He had swore to himself that this would not repeat a third time. That he would BECOME the Revolution and steer it with a guiding hand, keeping it away from dangerous radicalism that had cost so many lives during the last years. France needed a strong, capable leader to bring Stability after the Wars and Chaos of the last years.

For he knew that in the worst case Scenario, his Nightmare may become true. Robespierre was still out there. If he ever managed to return and take Power...then nothing would save his Friends, his Family or himself from the bloody vengeance of the mad butcher. France herself may not survive the resulting Chaos either.

And if he had to restrict certain liberties to make sure that the excessive Violence of the Reigns of Terror could never return, that his Nation and his loved ones where safe, then he would do it.

He believed in the Revolution, he truly did. In his heart, the flame had never truly died. But he had learned that said flame would have to be watched and maintained closely, lest it turn into a raging fire that would burn all of France, as well as his own Family, to cinders. The needs of the Nation must be put before the needs of freedom...or his own personal wishes.

And yet...

His thoughts returned to the Laws regarding Women's Rights...and most importantly Therese's Reaction to them.

In hindsight, he could only call himself a fool. How had he EXPECTED her to react to this? Even if she was the Empress, she would never accept to be the one exception to a Nation-wide law. Of course she would take offense to this.

She didn't seem to be all that angry at him...but she was disappointed.

Somehow, that hurt him far worse then her anger ever could've.

He sighed. There had been a time when he had just been attracted to Therese as an Idea. To her image as the beautiful Warrior Woman and Heroine, who fought to save France and serve her Nation and People.
But by now, he had realized that she was much more then that. Ever since their first Date that evening in Toulon, ever since she had made him give her the promise, he had started to see the real Therese Auclair. While she DID fight for France and her People, she was also a firm believer in the Ideals of the Revolution. She was both kind and strong-willed, intelligent and passionate, courageous and calm. And she was not a Woman who would ever tolerate being treated as lesser then she deserved by anyone.

He had fallen in love with her a second time on that day. And now...

Now that they were married, now that they were the Rulers of France, Napoleon found it harder then ever to keep the promise he had made to her on that day.

He wanted to. He truly, TRULY wanted to. He respected her too much to just break this promise. But...

The bloodthirsty cheers of the crowd from his dream rang through his mind. And as his eyes wandered back to the Documents on his desk, the same Question that had tormented him before he fell asleep ran through his mind again.

If he had to choose between keeping his promise to her as well as abiding by his own Ideals and wishes on one hand and the good of France on the others...what would he choose? COULD he even make such a Choice?

The fact that they had children now only made this more complicated. Napoleon had loved little Alexandre and Roland the second he had laid eyes upon them. The mere thought of them being killed because of his decisions, because he allowed Robespierre's radicalism to seep back into France and poison the Revolution...it was almost too much for him to bear.

He wanted to give the People of France the Liberties that were so long promised to them. But after all that he had seen, could they be trusted with it?

He felt a pang of sadness in his heart as he remembered his own Childhood. He had often looked down in disdain on his Father for abandoning the Ideals of Corsican Independence and embracing French Rule. That had put a strain on their relationship that had lasted until the day his father had died.

But now...perhaps he had judged him too harshly. It was not all that easy to hold onto your Idealism in the face of reality. He wondered how Therese managed to do it?

Shaking his head, he returned to his desk and set down. "I am...worried, Pierre", he finally admitted.

Pierre, who had waited patiently for his Emperor to collect his thoughts, merely raised an eyebrow.

"I am trying to make France stable and secure. To end the Chaos and Radicalism of the past years that lead to Robespierre setting up two Reigns of Terror." He looked up into Pierre's eyes. "But...but I am starting to worry that in doing so, I might become no better then the Ancient Regime was. That I will become just another Tyrant who betrayed the Ideals of the Revolution for the sake of his personal Power."

Napoleon sighed. "I know that me restricting Women's Rights like I did is not a good look in that regard. But...I fear that maybe the Revolution went too far before. That perhaps we have to go slower and more carefully, unless we want it all to collapse again. I know we believed that the Revolution would bring about a better World. That's what we were fighting for. Therese still believes in it, even after all that happened...but reality is seldom kind to such Idealism. And...and I'm afraid now that this better World we all wanted can't exist. What if I by trying to create it, I just invite a third Reign of Terror?" His voice became very quiet. "...What if it only results in the deaths of my Friends and Family?"

Pierre remained quiet for a few minutes, his expression unchanging as he thought this over. When he finally spoke again, it was in his usual calm and collected voice. "...Sire...I'm not a Philosopher. And my understanding of politics, while solid, is not as good as yours. But...if you want to hear my Opinion..."

Napoleon just nodded.

Pierre looked him straight in the eyes. "...Like your Wife, I too believe that a better World CAN exist. But we can only create that World if we are willing to live up to it."

Silence reigned in the Office as Napoleon mulled over what he had heard. After a few minutes, he gave a small gesture to Pierre, dismissing him from the Room. With a courteous bow, Pierre left and and closed the door behind him.

Alone, his eyes once again wandered over the Document detailing his Laws regarding Women's rights. And not for the first time, he recalled Therese's Answer to him saying he didn't believe that a better world could exist.

"That doesn't mean we can't try, Napoleon."

With a sigh, he once again picked up the document to read it over. With his fears, worries and a spark of hope still warring in his heart, he could tell that he wouldn't find sleep for a while yet...



A.N.: And there you go. I hope you all liked it.

 

[AvidFicReader]

A Father's Wartime Experience

It was unfortunate that Denis Martin had not been present for the birth of his second child. Dear Evelyn named her Jeanne Therese, and she was absolutely adorable. But Matteo Anselme Severin was still extraordinary busy, fulfilling the orders set by the now-empress. He had rallied thousands of laborers across all of Lorraine to see her will done. It had been a grueling six months, working through autumn and winter, the rain and snow had caused delays, but Matteo was proud to say that his workers had gotten their parts done ahead of schedule, if only barely.

It reminded him of his time in the army, securing sites with good road and river access, even cutting and widening the poor roads for heavier traffic. He had put the men through a brief approximation of boot camp, and while many complained early on, all were thankful for it by the time the job was done. Months spent raising large factory halls all across the department was gruelling work, but the men were well-paid and fed three hot meals a day. A suggestion by Denis Martin ensuring they were well fed with onions saw his workers extremely motivated, though a rare handful were unable to stomach the sight and smell of onions by the end of their contract. His chosen heir had also included a wonderful ditty that his guardsmen had adopted as their battle song. And so the Song of the Onion had echoed across the hills and valleys of Lorraine on the lips of thousands of workers.

Fortunately, the specialized work of installing the machinery was overseen by experts from Paris, who brought news of the war. Unified under the Emperor and Empress, no longer distracted by the threat of civil war, the armies of France repelled all aggressors. The Emperor himself led an invasion of the Holy Roman Empire, while the Empress' former command (she had been wounded by a coward of a political officer, then had to wait to give birth) had liberated the Batavian Republic in a brilliant lighting campaign, though mud and weather finally slowed them down in the final battles. The Austrians in Italy had been decisively beaten in the field by the Army of Naples, and best of all, the Prussians had been smashed time and again, and one of their high officers had even been captured! Serves those bastards right! The only dark spot was Spain was turning into a right shithole. Their crown up and abandoned the country for their colonies, and left it to rot. Why couldn't it have been a country not on France's doorstep? In any case, France had emerged from the wars victorious, and had leveraged humiliating treaties on their continental foes (aside from Russia, who apparently did fuck all throughout the war) and made peace with the British. Perhaps now he might hear from Jules Leo, stationed in occupied Havana. His youngest had made officer after an impressive showing, and now he was the most senior officer among a freshly stood up battalion.

Regardless of the outcome of the war, the new factories had started up on schedule, the first batches of ammunition delivered on the day the treaty with Prussia had been signed. An auspicious omen, in Matteo's eyes. While the arms plants would continue to produce for months yet, perhaps some of that cheap steel could be used to make farm tools to aid the plight of the common man. Something for the Empress to consider, if she had time to spare from raising her twin boys.

 

[AvidFicReader]

The Long Road Home

Everything itched. It was impossible to scratch beneath his casts, and if he ruined them, it would take days for them to dry to stiffness again. The memory of days on end of forced inactivity itched at Severin's mind. Another thing he was unable to scratch. Not that he could, with both arms in casts and his bandaged leg jostling against the saddle. 'Surely there must be better and faster ways of treatment? Certainly less boring ones.'

"General Baguette, are you... comfortable?"

"Cheeky little shit. I'll manage. I've had worse. After all, Mon Soleil left such deep scratches on my back when Charlie was conceived-"

"Shut up! Shut up! Nope! Not listening!"

With that, Julian rides off to join Louis and Charlie, his teasing aborted as Severin shared too much information.

"Haha, the kid ought to know not to mess with me, for I lack any form of restraint!"

"That certainly is true, you mud-stained footman."

"Oh, Murat, over your fainting spell, already?"

"I'll have you know I had been gravely wounded and bleeding out from this hideous scar marring my face!"

"Sure, sure, have you considered armor? You are the 'First Knight of France,' or so says the news from back home. You can play into the reputation and have better protection. I thank God every day for inspiring me to commission my old vest. Must've saved my life a dozen times over by now. Besides, you can join the 'Shot in the face' club. It'll be a hell of a story to tell when you're rubbing elbows with those high society types."

"Perhaps I shall. You do come up with a good idea from time to time. A stopped clock is right twice a day, after all."

"Oy! I have plenty of good ideas! Nick even had me write them down for High Command to look over!"

"Your brain does seem to work when it comes to military matters, I must grudgingly admit."

"And the rest of the time, it might as well be filled with clouds. Denis, light duty means stay in your room and rest, not go haring off on patrol and getting ambushed by the last competent Austrians in Italy."

"Hey there Nick! And sitting still for days waiting for casts to dry is its own special hell. We should get someone to work on that."

"The surgeons will have had much practice with all of the wars these past few years. Perhaps I shall commission some armor for myself as well. The cost of steel has dropped quite a bit, now that our Empress' foundries have begun operation."

"Right, heard about that from my father. Turns out he was the one in charge of setting everything up for her. I guess he left an impression on her."

"Severin, you've been with the Empress the longest, do you have any insight on what she many have in store for us?"

"Not really, a lot of what she's probably dealing with is the politicking in Paris, on top of taking care of her new children. Twin boys, according to the news."

"Alexander and Roland, was it? A great king and conqueror, and the greatest paladin of France. May they lead France well in the future."

"Hear hear!"

"Denis, were you acquainted with the empress before the war? You were rather accepting of a female general before she built a reputation."

"No, but my wife is one of the deadliest people I know, so I was well aware women could be extremely capable. She had more kills to her name than I did before Mayence! As for Therese, I had met her father back at Yorktown. My father spoke with him more than I, but he did some fancy surveying and positioned our earthworks in such a way that we were practically immune to the British guns. So I recognized the name and the shared profession and figured she'd be decent enough. She's only gotten better since!"

"Remarkably fortuitous. General Davout, what is in store for our glorious army now?"

"We return to France to be reconstituted. While far from combat ineffective, we've lost nearly a quarter of our strength to casualties. While some may recover in time, we will need to recruit or transfer in more men. Massena will receive the Italian volunteers."

"Hope they do better than old Ferd the Third's boys. They folded like pasta at Messina."

"Is everything about food for you, Severin? Italians are pasta, Germans are schnitzel, English are crumpets? Is that about right?"

"Close enough. But Prussians are the wurst! Get it?"

"That was awful. Have you no shame? Your sense of humor has been shot too many times."

"Fuck you, I'm hilarious!"

"So Italians fold like wet noodles, Germans get pounded flat, what about the English?"

"The British are to be treated with the utmost caution."

"What? Nothing derogatory to say about them?"

"Oh, I have plenty to say about them. But my father fought at Minden in Regiment Touraine during the Seven Years' War. Nothing like seeing six regiments of fusiliers in line formation break down three waves of French cavalry."

Silence reigned between the three generals for a long moment, the joking mood gone at Severin's unusual seriousness.

"The way I understand it, the British army only takes volunteers or criminals who choose the army over prison. That means they have the most motivated and hardened men in their army. Whether they be cream or scum, they rise to the top. My father once said, "You can mock the British for the size of their army, but you can't mock them for the quality of their men." I can't disagree, and at Yorktown, they were tenacious opponents. Despite being outnumbered, surrounded, and wracked by disease, they still raided our earthworks in an attempt to drive us off. Killed one myself as we pushed them back."

"Hopefully, we won't have to fight the English in Spain. I would not like to test my cavalry against them if they can do that in line formation. In any case, I hope my visage will not be hideous. Bad enough there was scarring at all."

"Hold your horses, dandy man, ladies love scars. They show character, and you can regale them with the story of how you earned it. Knowing you, it will only make you look more handsome. In fact, you should go explode. That'll give you plenty of scars!"

"Both of you, enough! There's a long road ahead of us, and we generals may have to make the trip to Paris. There were instructions for most of the high officers to make their way there for some reason. Perhaps a debriefing, and delivering reports in person."

"Or perhaps to bestow awards and honors? We all performed exemplary achievements, and I am certain many more generals on the other fronts served with distinction."

"Yeah, we bailed Massena's ass out of the fire at Genoa. We're big damn heroes!"

Davout tosses something at Severin, who fumbles to catch it with his cast-wrapped arms.
"Save your energy to recover, Denis. Have something to keep your mouth occupied."

"What the hell, Nick? Don't go throwing things at a man with both arms in casts!"

"I thought you liked onions?"

"Sure, but not raw! I'd much rather eat them cooked. Eating them raw once was one time too many!"

Spoiler: A/N

Just the Army of Naples boys sharing some banter and reflecting on recent developments on the road back to France. Severn doesn't know the meaning of holding back, and Julian goes: TMI! I actually looked up the history of orthopedic casts for this. The plaster cast we know todays came out of the Napoleonic Wars, but this is a little too early for those developments. The casts in use before the plaster cast was made with cardboard, fabric, wax and parchment, stiffened with a starch solution that took 2-3 days to dry. That's way too long for our favorite hyperactive man-child, thus his musing at the start. Also, obligatory memes and references abound.

 

[AvidFicReader]

A Drink for the Road

Colonel Claude de Lisle, Chief of Staff of the Army of the Orient, rubbed at his tired eyes as he pored over various documents in the former royal archive. The Army of the Orient had waged a lightning campaign through the Netherlands to liberate the Batavian Republic. The Corps system envisioned by Therese had truly proven it's worth, able to march separately at great speed with minimal supply lines, then collapse upon the unwitting foe with startling alacrity. While they had performed astoundingly well, Claude felt this would be his last campaign. Unlike his friend Denis, the life of a soldier did not suit him. With France safe from the attentions of the flock of circling vultures that was monarchist Europe, he felt comfortable in seeking retirement. Claude had seen enough of war and death for a lifetime. He would spend his days writing and composing, and perhaps he might follow Therese's lead and start a business to pad his pension.

The interim commander of the Army of the Orient, for Therese would always be his general, was one Jean Lannes. While in many ways different from Therese, he carried out the campaign with great vigor, smashing column after column with brilliantly executed attacks. Even with their overwhelming success, there had been problems that that dogged their heels the entire way.

With minimal supply trains, the individual corps were able to advance rapidly, but the tempo of their operations sometimes drove men to the limits of their endurance. Denis had drilled them well, but there was only so long and so far men could march and fight with what little forge could be found in the winter and spring months. Potable water was another glaring issue. Laxity in latrine procedures could see a laxity in the army's bowels. Furthermore, on the march, you could never tell how clean a river or pond was, and you never knew if someone took a shit in it upstream. That limited the refilling of canteens to when the corps made camp and could afford the time to boil water, if that. A hard day of marching could easily see an soldier empty his canteen, much less having to fight a battle!

Thus, de Lisle found himself ensconced in the archives seeking the wisdom of the ancients. 'A few decades counted for ancient, right? The "Ancien Regime" was but five years gone, after all.' But back to the matter at hand.

"Records of the Thirty Years' War? No, death and disease was rampant, and France only participated to weaken their rival, the Holy Roman Empire. Medieval records? Was that gibberish even French? Perhaps ye olde timey French, if you tilt your head and squint. Did people even bathe back then? Oh, what's this? A French translation of a 16th century Italian treatise on the Roman Empire? Where's the annotations? Blah, blah, flowery academic speak about how great they were, Roman armies? Promising... He gives only three reasons for the superiority of Roman armies? What a controversial but brave stance. Plentiful levies? Something France can manage. Extensive training in combat and march? Denis could give them a run for their money, I reckon. And lastly, because of their rations? Salt pork, cheese, and... vinegar? That can't be right. Let's see..."

Taking a sip of wine and a moment to rest his tired eyes, de Lisle resumes his reading by flickering lantern light.

"By God, this translated had truly awful handwriting! Let's see... Not literally vinegar, but a drink made from wine vinegar, cut with water, and sometimes with salt and added herbs, whether for flavor or medicinal purposes. Original Latin is posca, and a Byzantine Greek derivative is phouska. Hmm... a mix of water and wine vinegar with a pinch of salt? It would kill parasites and prevent scum from growing in water... It probably tastes awful, but the record mentions flavor additives. Well, it can't hurt to try, and maybe newer ingredients can make it more palatable? Perhaps mint, maybe honey? No, at large scale production, honey would be cost-prohibitive. Maybe sugar? With the war over, shipments have resumed from Haiti, and sugar is also grown in the Azores, Canaries, and Sicily. It can be sourced from allies, at least. Maybe a better name? No one would willingly drink it if they knew it was made of vinegar. Well, that's a problem for future Claude. I'll just finish this bottle and call it a night."

If improving the health of the soldiers and helping them perform better on campaign was the last thing he did for the army, well, that was good enough for Claude de Lisle.

Spoiler: A/N

Before anyone jumps down my throat about hygiene and medicine in the Middle Ages, de Lisle may be educated, but he's a composer and a logistician, not a historian. In any case, people of this era had a tendency to look down on medieval society and their knowledge because of their fetishization of Classical Antiquity (that's why it was called the Renaissance, a rebirth of science and knowledge from the 'Dark Ages' of history). Posca was a real thing, and there are reenactment groups that make it. I'll edit in links to some videos when I get home from work. Also, typed on my phone, so forgive me for some autocorrupt and grammar errors.

Edit: Promo vid from TW Rome 2, at 6:57
Roman Gatorade
Roman legionary food

 

[AvidFicReader]

Idle Chatter on the Road Home

The boys of of the Army of Naples relaxed over their evening meal of onion soup after a long day's march, chatting and sharing idle conversation.

"Julian, why do you call papa baguette? Wouldn't that mean I'm little baguette? Maybe baguette junior?"

"Well, he called me pasta first. That and and he was the first Frenchman I met, and it wasn't exactly the best first impression, what with the burning house and dead parents. All that aside, he has a tough exterior and he's General Davout's blunt instrument. Just like a baguette. Also, something I noticed when doing language lessons with Charlotte was that the French word for bread sounds like the English word pain. And General Baguette invokes both physical and mental pain."

"Is the general really that bad? He's befriended the prickly General Davout, and he's even getting along with General Murat, these days. I suppose it's true that close brushes with death bring people together. After all, they both made a killing over the the course of the campaign."

"Louis, of all the things you could have picked up from General Baguette, why did it have to be his suicidal bravery and his awful sense of humor?"

"Screw you, Julian, that was funny! You just hate that you can't get one over on him!"

"General Baguette does not know the meaning of restraint, both in training and in conversation. I did not need to know how lively his sex life was, among... other details."

"Uh... that's too much information Julian. Now who's picking up bad habits from the general?"

"Um, Louis, Julian? What is sex?"

The two older boys share a horrified look with each other before scrambling over one another to escape the awkward subject.

"Not it!" Swift as the falcon he is named for Louis makes his escape among the cluster of tents.

"Not i- damn it, Louis, get back here! Gah! General Baguette! Charlie has an important question he needs to ask you!"

"Ehe~! It's so funny those two get so uncomfortable about that. It's not like I haven't learned about it from grandpere after mama and papa were too loud that one time he came home on leave."

Poking his head from behind a nearby tent, Louis shouts: "What you you mean 'ehe?' Charlie, you got us all worked up into a panic because you thought it was funny?"

"Yup!"

"... I'm so proud of you. Just don't aim it at me next time. I still have to pay that pasta boy back for scamming me!"

"No promises!"

"Ugh, fine. Now let's go watch Julian make a fool of himself as he tries to talk around the subject with your father."

"Yeah, let's go!"

Spoiler: A/N

I swear, Severin is an awful role model for young children. They pick up all sorts of bad habits from him. Well, at least he isn't a "do what I say, not what I do" sort of parent. Oh, wait.

 

[AvidFicReader]

Returning to Paris

"Ah, fair Paris, the most beautiful city in the world! The metropole from which the light of culture and civilization radiates!"

"Murat, enough, you've been saying the like since the city came into view."

"But of course, mon general. Severin, you glorified footman, you've be suspiciously silent fro quite a while. What rocks do you have tumbling in that skull of yours?"

"Who me, General Fancy Pants? I've just been ignoring you while you prattled on, alone with my thoughts."

"Ah, do not hurt yourself, it would be remiss of me to further handicap you in our next war of wits."

"Ha ha, you're so hilarious, horse hugger. Go jump off a- never mind, I just thought of something. Hey, Nick, Prince Prancing Pony, how do you describe a man who jumps off a bridge in Paris? In Seine! Bwahahaha!"

"Ugh, disgusting. That was worse than your usual fare. Why are you so enamored with puns? They are the lowest form of humor."

"Fuck off, that was hilarious! Besides, puns made on the fly require a quick wit and clever tongue. Yours might be silver, but can you muster a sharp retort in an instant?"

"I prefer conversation with peers of sophistication and wit, no insult intended General Davout."

"Sure, sure, whatever you say, Captain Courser."

"Why- how dare you! May I remind you who has seniority between the two of us! Besides, your uniform is practically the same as from Metz, when you yourself were but a lowly captain!"

"And what you care? I'm not one for overly fancy frills and gold braid. It's be a waste for it to get ruined with bloodstains."

"You should have pride in your appearance and uniform! I'll not tolerate one off the few I consider a peer to be judged for a plain simpleton!"

A brief silence fills the air following Murat's outburst.

"Aww, Fancy Pants, you do care!"

"No! No, I meant as a rival in military skill! I still find you unbearable company, but I doubt you have any equals in infantry command in France, and your foot guards are the most devastating infantry I have ever seen in action, but cavalry is still superior!"

"Right, of course."

"Wipe that smug look off your face, Severin! I swear, once we get to the city, I'll drag you to a tailor's to be fitted for a uniform appropriate for your rank!"

"Denis, we've be summoned to Tuileries Palace by the Emperor and Empress you're dressing up, that's an order."

"Nick, not you too! Fancy Pants got himself shot up because of his damned fancy pants! You remember, Murat! You wouldn't shut the hell up about your face until you fainted!"

"I passed out from blood loss, damnit! Don't misrepresent it to make me look bad!"

"Fine, I'll get the damned clothes. But no monstrosity of a hat! Don't tell de Lisle, but I left his peacock hat to Julian's burning house after Messina."

"What do you have against hats, you blockhead?"

"Have I ever told you the tale of my faithful companion, taken before his time? It's not a story Therese would tell you. He fought valiantly at Mayence, only to be brought low by a stray cannonball."

 

[AvidFicReader]

Havana Besieged

The thunder of cannon and the hammering of cannonballs on stone had been their constant companion for weeks now. The British had announced the declaration of the War of the Second Coalition with the arrival of a fleet outside Havana harbor, immediately blockading the channel and landing an army numbering fifteen thousand men. It was obvious they hoped to reenact the siege of 1762, but they had sorely underestimated the extent of the Spanish fortifications now manned by Haitian troops and local volunteers.

Jules Leo Severin, captain of the Haitian Foreign Legion, found himself commanding the defense of the fortress he had captured all those months ago. His original company had been ground to mincemeat during the fighting, but as the wounded recovered and volunteers enlisted, their numbers had swelled to nearly a thousand men. The legion took any man who enlisted, regardless of skin color or what language they spoke. So long as they were willing to fight and could understand orders in French, they were allowed in. Many washed out from the training, but most were highly motivated. In this, Jules felt they embodied the motto of the revolution, even if things in Europe were going to hell in a hand basket.

The British had established siege lines around both El Morro and La Cabana, though the defenders controlled the high ground on La Cabana. Despite the blockade and the siege, the defenders still controlled the harbor and channel, and were able to resupply the two vital fortresses by sea under the cover of night. The other thing that happened under the cover of darkness was Jules and his men, led foremost by Samson and his sneaky soldiers make life distinctly uncomfortable for the besiegers.

Under a new moon, a troop of twenty Haitians slipped out of their defenses. Creeping slowly to muffle noise, with skin blackened with soot, Jules inched his way towards the British earthworks. Ahead of him, Samson had already opened the throat of the first sentry with his favored farming sickle and was working his way behind the next.

With the promise of imminent bloodshed, Jules could hear his blood rushing in his ears, nearly drowning out the outside world. Stifling the urge to loose a battlecry, he pointedly thought about the night's mission. Their objective was to pilfer or destroy supplies, and if possible, kill men and raise havoc on their way out. For his part of the mission Jules was to destroy the supplies, accompanied by his new lieutenant, Louis Beaumont, the grandson of his new chaplain.

With Samson and his sneaky stabby boys clearing the way, the pair had a fairly easy time slipping into the supply depot. Until they nearly stumbled into the back of a pair of sentries shirking their watch duty. Ducking behind a barrel, Jules peered around it to observe the pair of loafers. Sure, it was late, but to so readily abandon their posts? His professional pride demanded he tear a strip out of their hides like a proper drill sergeant, but he reminded himself of the mission.

Exchanging fumbling gestures and hand signs with Beaumont, Jules directed him to slip around the guards and steal a powder keg to destroy the supplies.

"Man, I hate army life. Bad food, far from home, and worst of all, no female companionship!"

"Shut you mouth, and the only female companionship you get, you pay for."

"It's not like you're any different! And they aren't whores, they're 'ladies of negotiable affections!' Get it right!"

"Ooh, big words, from you. Well, at least it's not the navy. You know what they say about navy life: 'Rum, buggery and the lash' and all that."

"What do you mean, they get booze rations!"

"That's what you focus on?"

"I mean, the rest sounds awful, but you want to pass up free booze? Why do you think we signed on with the militia? King and Country is damned far from home."

At that, the guard starts pulling out a pipe, only for it to be slapped by into his coat by the other sentry.

"You daft idiot! What was going though that fool head of yours that you thought smoking was a good idea! You trying to get us killed?"

"Damn! Overreacting much? I just wanted a smoke!"

"For one, there's black powder not twenty yards downwind, and what if the sergeant caught you? He's tear a strip out of your hide!"

"Fecking sarge, got eyes in the back of his head- hey, was that crate always there?"

"Stop trying to change the subject! Sparks and gunpowder means boom! Get that through your thick head!"

"No, I swear that crate was a few feet to the left just a second ago!"

"Boxes don't sprout legs and wall off, numbskull! Or are you blaming ghosts now- holy shit, it did move!"

" I heard the Frenchies killed thousands of the Spaniards when they took the place. Reckon it's haunted?"

"Definitely. Let's never speak of this again."

"Shouldn't we get an exorcist?"

"Where are we going to find a fat priest in a siege camp? We'll have to ask those Catholic bastards to provide one, and they'll refuse out of spite!"

"Let's just... go. Find another place to be at. Anywhere but here."

The delinquent sentries hurry off at just short of a run, causing the crate to emit muffled laughter.

"Hahaha! Hilarious! I should write father about this once the war's over and those British bastards fuck the hell off."

"Captain! I've got the powder. How long of a fuse did you want to set?"

"A long one, we've got time. I don't think the sentries will be back anytime soon. Also, grab that chest there. If we're blowing all this up, we might as well drink their damned tea while we're at it. Hurry it up, lieutenant, we might back it back in time to watch the fireworks."

"Aye captain. Proceeding to blow their stores to hell."

"Good job. Carry on."

Spoiler: A/N

It's been a while, and since Jules came up in the last update, have a Jules Severin omake. Arguably, Havana (and Cuba as a whole) are a bigger prize for Britain than Haiti proper. The combination of its strategic position controlling access to the Gulf Stream and the Strait of Florida as well as it's fantastic (and fortified) harbor can't be beat. I'd imagine the British would invest the majority of their troops in a Cuban adventure, especially since they were unable to gain a foothold on Haiti, merely blockade it.

Jules and his boys are experimenting with light infantry and guerilla tactics, and I suppose he's enough of a Boogeyman that exorcism will be his running gag. Also, tactical espionage action! I actually looked it up, and commercial cardboard boxes are fifteen years away (otl, at least), even though cardboard has been around for centuries.

Also, technically blackface, but Samson is magnanimously allowing it to let those pasty-skinned losers have a sliver of a chance of keeping up with h on his sneaky squirrel bullshit.