Karol Wlodzislaw gasped sharply as he rose from the neck of his mount. He swiftly turned his amber gaze upon Michal Grzdyl, who quickly returned his hand from his friend's back to his reins. "We're getting close, Sergeant." The uncharacteristically serious tone and dark expression on his countryman's face suggested that Karol had been suffering from his night terrors again. The promise of combat wiped any memory of it away from Karol's mind, instead nodding in thanks before looking through the curtain of rain that cascaded off his colpack*, at the back of the French Officer who had collected them from their quarters.
____
He didn't recognize the grey-eyed man, but he did recognize the braids of an officer, so even if the fellow was an artilleryman, his orders needed to be heeded. Especially when he came with a note from Dabrowski demanding compliance.
"Eskadra, uwaga!*" Karol sharply called as they both entered the enlisted barracks. The effect it had on the lazing cavalrymen was that of a whip on a resting pack-horse, eliciting a flurry of motion as men quickly toed the line in front of their accommodations and stood upright, perhaps expecting inspection.
It wasn't often that Karol used his authority to attain compliance, his easy-going manner and imposing height generally enough to get his section in line. Perhaps it could be forgiven that a few of the men sneered in mild amusement that they were interrupted on account of a foot-slogger.
They disappeared as Karol followed this Bonaparte along the length of the line, an… Aura of command surrounding the latter, causing backs to stiffen and Michal to mutter about "not having enough time to freshen up his spiffy, green uniform." Karol noted that some of the new men hadn't quite finished threading the red braid of the regiment's elite company into their uniforms and colpacks. He mentally created a list of who he needed to rectify on the matter.
Satisfied, Napoleon turned and meandered to the middle of the barracks, hands clasped behind his back. He allowed the cavalrymen to stew, the only sound coming from the mild storm outside. Karol glanced pointedly at the artillery officer, then caught his own mistake and returned to scanning the line. Finally, Napoleon spoke. "Soldats. As of this moment, you are over a thousand kilometers from home, occupied by monarchists and foreigners. This night, I will bring you one step closer to the liberation of your home."
____
Karol untied his mount's reins from Michal's, then pressured his horse onward. The sound of hooves slamming into mud heralded his approach, the Pole sliding into place beside Napoleon while allowing the Corsican to have a slight lead on him. "Pan*, the artillerymen caught up to us. Should my section continue to escort them once we get into position?"
Napoleon almost lazily glanced back at the green-clad dragoon, before cooly returning his gaze to the front, chiding his mount to pick up the pace as fingers of sunlight began to creep up from the horizon. "What would you suggest I command?" Karol's response was quick in coming. "Allow a wing of the squadron to take and hold the gatehouse, while the rest of us clear a path for your cannons. Despite the popular support the enemy possesses, we can take and hold any positions of strategic importance before the rest of the garrison can organize or before any harm comes to your crewmen." He didn't need any time to think about it. His dragoons* were the best suited to pacifying the town once they gained entry.
The Corsican simply grunted, though the Pole couldn't discern whether it was dismissive or satisfied. "Your grasp of French is quite advantageous, Sergeant…?" Karol blinked in mild surprise. "Sergeant Vlod-zis-lav*, mój dowódca*. One of the Bishops back home taught me how to read Dumas." Napoleon chuckled, perhaps bemused by the suggestion that a man of the Catholic Church would bother to teach a Polish farm boy how to read the Three Musketeers.
___
"Oh? Quite the shock, I'm sure." Father Rudinski intoned as he read Karol's review of the lessons of Psalms, carefully flipping the pages of his old Bible to compare the text with his student's writing. "Tak! I knew the foal was pregnant, but mister Grzdyl wasn't home, so I was worried that if something happened, he would blame it on me." Rudinski took his eyes off the pages to stare at his student, idly noting in the light of his solar that his pupil was trying and failing to fashion a handlebar mustache. He expected that it would fill out in a month or so. "Has your godfather ever attached unjust blame to you before?"
Karol smiled somewhat impishly. "Generally, when Michal gets into trouble, mister Grzdyl says it is because I was too lazy to pay attention to his shenanigans and stop him." Father Rudinski let out a huff of amusement, completing their ritual when the subject of the Grzdyls was brought up.
Rudinski nodded in satisfaction before closing his Bible and handing Karol's papers back. "You've become quite good at translating Latin, young Wlodzislaw." The young man's smile widened. "I hope it pleases our Lord." The Bishop returned the smile, though more strained than his exuberant student.
"Karol, my son… You have a keen mind and a pious heart. There is a place in His Church for you, and much room for you to grow within it. Why have you, instead, chosen to ride to the aid of the godless revolutionaries in France, of all places?" Karol's smile disappeared, a blank look hiding the sting of betrayal. "Father, please, my wisdom has been doubted enough by my mother."
Rudenski leaned forward in his seat, his hand emphatically gesturing as he spoke. "I know you seek Polska's freedom. Young Michal has been foolish enough to make it very plain that you both intend on leaving with any like-minded young men. Surely you understand that the Church has the best chance of removing the yoke of the foreigners?"
___
Karol had stared at Father Rudenski for a long moment, before leaving the room and escaping with Michal in the morning. None of the young men Michal had approached met with them at their meeting place. Karol could take a guess at what happened to them, and his imagination was not charitable to their odds of surviving the occupiers' custody.
The sun rose up to about the same height as it had that morning. The dragoon exchanged a look with Michal. His childhood friend nodded reassuringly and Karol responded in kind. He could only pray that it wasn't an omen.
"Arrêt! Qui va là?" A disembodied voice shouted as the column approached the town of Toulons, the sun behind them and turning them to silhouettes. "Heirs to the Sun King's* glory!" Napoleon shouted back. There was a moment of silence as the penultimate time approached. Karol checked to ensure his carbine was primed in its holster. His grasp tightened around the lance* in his hand, given to him as a symbol of his position as Sergeant. His saber weighed heavily against his hip. Then the gate began to open, and the Polish dragoons flowed past Napoleon like water.
"Hey, you're going too fa-!" Karol lowered the tip of his lance, the wood of the haft rising heavily against his armpit. He stood in his stirrups and rose in his saddle, before rearing back and slamming his lance forward and into the chest of the officer who had come to greet the "reinforcements."
The blade was caught in the ribcage of the officer, causing the haft to snap just below it. Karol pulled back on the reins of his mount, dropping the broken lance and unsheathing his saber while his horse reared back and whinnied sharply. He raised his blade to catch the attention of his squadron, metal catching the glint of the sun as the impetuous dragoons and surprised guardsmen began to whirl together into a maelstrom of chaos. "The hands of God guide us homeward! Attack!"
The big Pole turned aside a thrust from the bayonet of the closest enemy, before a fellow dragoon (he couldn't see if it was Michal) rode the man down and the rest of the formation began to push back the small section of guardsmen that had escorted the royalist officer. Karol's mount cantered to the side, the man himself glancing about to quickly ascertain the severity of the situation.
It was grimmer than originally planned for. Apparently, the enemy had gathered to receive their reinforcements and revel, which meant that there were a great deal of mildly intoxicated enemy troops with bits and pieces of their kit and weaponry crowding in from the streets connecting into the gatehouse. Speaking of the gatehouse, there was-
Flashes of light accompanied by smoke and the crash of discharging firearms erupted from the firing ports in the gatehouse, cutting down a score of dragoons. Karol saw his lieutenant go down, now laying face down and motionless on the cobbled street. He felt his blood go cold and chills descend down his spine. "If the men know he's fallen… If they lose their nerve at this critical juncture… God help me."
"First platoon, I am assuming command!" Karol bellowed as he quickly sheathed his blade and procured his carbine, gritting his teeth as the Corsican slipped through the partially opened gate with a handful of his own men, second platoon's leader, and a few dragoons and made a beeline for the entrance to the gatehouse.
As Napoleon and his men disappeared into the building and the sound of fighting streamed out from the firing ports, Karol took aim at a man waving a sword about and shouting very loudly. He wasn't wearing his jacket or braids, but blue-blooded officers had a way of making themselves known, Karol found. He gently squeezed the trigger and kicked a stirrup on one side of his horse, moving to the side of the street so that more men could move forward to push back the now leaderless, but still growing, multitude of off-duty guardsmen.
Karol began the process of reloading his carbine, reaching into his cartridge box. "Section Two, cycle out, dismount, and form ranks!" He bellowed, causing a wing of his men to stream out of the melee ahead. The advance stalled as they procured their carbines and formed the skeleton of a firing line. "Section Two, take aim! Section One, cycle out!" The remaining horsemen promptly retreated through the openings in the formation. Michal passed by Karol, sticking his tongue out at his friend and offering him a bloody-handed mock salute.
"Section Two, fire!" The dismounted dragoons unleashed the destructive power of their firearms as soon as their comrades cleared their line of fire, discharging their payloads almost point-blank into the enemy. Karol watched one enemy soldier execute a macabre dance as he was shot once, twice, thrice, before a round that shattered their jaw caused them to fall. It was indicative of the damage wrought upon the enemy formation, screams of pain and calls for retreat being heeded by some, and ignored by others.
Karol finished reloading as the dragoons, both mounted and dismounted, surged forward to dispatch the remaining guardsmen. He turned back towards the gatehouse, looking for a signal that it was captured so that the cannons could be rolled into the town. He was just in time to catch the sight of Napoleon's fight spilling out onto the wall to the side of the gatehouse. He was flanked by two guardsmen, one with a bayonet fixed on his musket and covered in the blood of the Polish officer who had accompanied the Napoleon and lay bleeding next to him.
The Corsican kicked back his bladed opponent, before procuring his pistol and quickly shooting him. The guardsman fell off the wall, evening the odds before the remaining royalist pressed against Napoleon. He was forced against the wall as the foeman applied his musket against his throat, seeking to choke the life out of the artillery officer while remaining too close to allow the use of his sword.
The guardsman stiffened and let out a cry of pain as Karol fired into his back, allowing Napoleon to push him away and kick the foeman from the fortifications. The Corsican and Pole caught each other's gaze through the gunsmoke. They exchanged nods, before Napoleon turned and gestured for the cannons to be brought up to the crewmen waiting outside and Karol tended to his men.
"Company, our officers have been neutralized! I am assuming command! Second platoon, clear a path for the cannons! First platoon, mount up and follow me!" The plan had called for the artillerymen to move through the streets of Toulon to neutralize any strongpoints of enemy resistance. As it was, they would be too disorganized to mount a counterattack, and so would be compelled to surrender or be destroyed. That left the shore guns.
They rode hard for the shore batteries, before dismounting one street over. The crewmen were just getting ready to operate their cannons, anticipating the approaching sails of Republican ships and making ready to support the British flotilla that rested by the shore. The first and only warning they received of an impending attack was the hail of bullets that were fired from the street corner. The survivors ran as the platoon of dismounted dragoons came roaring down the street, their Sergeant at the head of the formation.
"That Napoleon fellow knows his business! 'Sides the gate, we're really doing this!" Michal shouted, an exultant smile on his face. "Focus, brothers! We're not done yet." Karol warned. He sheathed his sword and absent-mindedly began to reload his carbine, taking a moment to inspect the cannons, then the position of the battery overlooking the sea. He scowled, before pointing at the nearest duo of dragoons. "You, and you. Find Bonaparte or collect however many artillerists that you can get your hands on and bring them here. These aren't loaded and we need experts to fire these things. Go." "Tak, pan!" The youngest of the two acknowledged, before they ran back the way the platoon had come.
"The rest of you, set up defens-!" Karol was interrupted by the sight of Michal's sternum erupting in a fountain of blood, a look of surprise on his friend's face as he stumbled into the parapet behind him. Royalist guardsmen were steadily advancing up the street, firing and reloading as they went. A reasonable strategy, considering they had the initiative, numbers, and firepower.
"COVER!" Karol roared, as he ducked behind one of the cannons, the remaining dragoons spreading out to find shelter behind cannons, crates, and storefronts. The Sergeant couldn't see his friend from where he was. He waited a moment for the pings of balls hitting the side of the cannon he was resting behind to subside, before rising, picking a shape, and firing. He couldn't tell if he managed to make the hit, as he slipped behind cover once more just as enemy soldiers continued firing upon him.
Karol glanced across the street, catching sight of one of his men reeling back as they took a musket ball to the shoulder, before the top of his head and colpack was removed by a follow-up shot. Another of his fellows let out a shrill scream as he fell behind a crate from a round to the gut. One of his remaining comrades left the cover of a salon to grab the wounded dragoon and drag him back into cover. He succeeded in his goal, even as he had to limp the last yard as a round flew through his thigh.
"Michal! MICHAL!" Karol shouted for his friend as his shaking hands stuffed powder and shot down the barrel of his carbine. He could hear the Frenchmen shouting commands and screaming in pain as the Poles returned sporadic fire on the advancing Royalists. "Someone get Michal into cover!" The Sergeant commanded. The response was immediate. "MICHAL'S GOOOOONE!" A panicked scream emanated from behind the cannon closer to his friend's… Corpse.
___
"France?" Karol repeated lamely. Michal rolled his eyes, before handing Karol the drink he ordered. "Dziękuję*, Amelia." The barmaid smiled before rewarding her lover with a chaste kiss and returning to the rest of the tavern's patrons. Karol accepted the mug of Krupnik.* "They might have gotten rid of their king, but no one will tolerate their new regime. How could they help us?"
Michal dramatically sighed before downing a portion of his beverage. "Ye of little faith." Karol huffed in disbelief at the sheer cheek of such a statement directed at him, of all people. "Look. They've been setting up, uh… Sister Republics? Yeah, those. They've been setting up friendly regimes where they can get away with it. More than that, some old Polish army officers are going there to set up units to help." "Why?"
Michal leveled a thoroughly unimpressed look at Karol. "Why, he asks. Educated by the Church, and this gopnik can't put two and two together. Because what's good for France, is bad for the occupiers. What's bad for the occupiers…"
___
Karol stared at the side of the artillery piece, hands tightly grasping his carbine. His friend had fallen, likely choking on his own blood, while he sat here cowering rather than being there for him. He couldn't let anymore of his men fall, not like that. "Can you still fight, trooper?" A pained gasp. "No! I can… Still move, though!" "Throw your carbine over. Michal's too, if you can manage it."
Karol put his carbine aside, just in time to catch his downed comrade's weapon. The lack of gun safety being exhibited in this exercise did not cross Karol's mind. "Here's... Michal's too, Sergeant!" After placing the second carbine down and affirming his readiness, the final carbine sailed over the cannon. With that, he picked himself off his derriere and sat in a crouch. "'I will sing a song to thee, O God; upon a psaltery and an instrument of ten strings will I sing praises unto Thee…'"
Karol stood, aimed at the foremost guardsman, and fired. That shape fell. He was shouting out his prayer now. "'It is He that giveth salvation unto kings, who delivereth David, His servant, from the hurtful sword!'" The dragoon Sergeant disregarded the fire that was now being directed towards him, simply leaning down and procuring the second loaded carbine. "'Rescue me and deliver me from the hand of strangers, whose mouth speaketh vanity and whose right hand is full of falsehood!'"
Karol rose up again and fired, another shape falling. "'That our sons may be as plants full grown in their youth,'" He could hear his troopers firing with increasing intensity. "'That our daughters as cornerstones, polished after the similitude of a palace…'" He reached down and plucked up the final loaded carbine and stepped out from behind the cannon. "'That our garners may be full, affording all manner of store-'" A sharp pain in his side. He ducked behind the next cannon in the battery, where he found another of his fallen brothers.
Karol grabbed the dead man's weapon, checked the firelock mechanism to ensure it was loaded, and rose once again. He shouted out his faith all the louder. "'THAT OUR SHEEP MAY BRING FORTH THOUSANDS, AND TENS OF THOUSANDS IN OUR STREETS!'" He fired again, yet another shape falling. The enemy stopped for a moment, an officer shouting for bayonets to flush out the paltry few dragoons that opposed them.
"'THAT OUR OXEN MAY BE STRONG IN LABOR!'" Karol dropped the carbine and unsheathed his sword. A trooper across the street rose up from behind his cover, fired, and fell. Another followed suit, unsheathed his sword, and bounded up from cover to cover in tandem with his Sergeant's position. Those who were still able-bodied followed their example. "'THAT THERE BE NO BREAKING IN, NOR GOING OUT; THAT THERE BE NO COMPLAINING IN OUR STREETS!'"
Karol heard more French behind him as he advanced upon the Royalists, who began to give ground. He felt a sudden hotness fly past his head, but continued to move towards the enemy. His voice echoed across the street as he extolled his god. "'HAPPY IS THAT PEOPLE FOR WHOM SUCH IS THE CASE; YEA, HAPPY IS THAT PEOPLE WHOSE GOD IS THE LORD!'" Though wordless, what was left of his men roared alongside him, would have died alongside him for the position they held… If canister shell didn't fly down the middle of the street and mow down the majority of the Royalists. Through the carnage, Karol could see what remained of them turn and run.
The dragoon turned his gaze rearward. There stood Napoleon beside his signature weapon, a crewed artillery gun. More of his men moved into the area, moved to the cannons in preparation for the naval battle to come. The man himself gestured for the gun he had brought to be limbered and relocated, before walking over to Karol.
"Sergeant Wlodzislaw. You appear to be wounded." Karol glanced down, and noted the spreading patch of dark red over the right side of his abdomen. "Tak." He affirmed in Polish. As if it gave the wound power to be acknowledged, the large dragoon began stumbling on his feet, before the shorter Corsican steadied him and helped him into a seated position. "I will ensure your dead and wounded will be dealt with, Wlodzislaw… Men such as you should be groomed for future service. I have use for talented men." With that, Napoleon turned and marched back to the shore battery as the French and British navies met.
Karol managed to stay conscious long enough to witness the Polish dragoons and French foot soldiers observe the destruction of the British fleet, and lift up their weapons in salute. Not to God, or country, but to Napoleon. The echoes of "Viva la Napoleon," and "Niech żyje Napoleon*," reverberated through his head as he was moved to a field hospital. In the private frankness of his mind, he couldn't say the man didn't deserve the idolization...
