Chapter 814: Napoleon's Fight to the Death
Napoleon stood on the waterwheel north of Marengo village, watching through his telescope as Joubert led his soldiers in a charge.
Moments later, they were repelled by the Austrians' well-ordered infantry lines.
Napoleon's heart pounded violently.
He knew full well that Cervoni was already rallying his retreating soldiers, and the Austrian defenses at the village entrance would only grow stronger.
Meanwhile, his flanks under Junot and Sérurier could collapse at any moment.
If that happened, his army would soon be completely surrounded by enemies twice their number.
Lucien came stumbling toward him, breathless:
"Our… our artillery positions have been attacked by enemy cavalry!"
Napoleon was not surprised—he'd realized something was wrong the moment he stopped hearing his own cannons.
His eyes fixed on the Austrian defensive line at the village gate.
That must be Cervoni's last reserve. If he could break through, he could strike at Melas's command post.
But Joubert's corps clearly had little strength left.
Napoleon glanced at his side—barely three thousand recruits remained under his hand.
They were called the reserve, but in truth he had kept them back only so they wouldn't interfere with Moulins's seasoned troops.
He clenched his teeth hard, letting out a low growl.
No—it was not time to surrender!
Even if they were green recruits, he had to try!
He jumped down from the waterwheel, mounted his horse, rode before the young soldiers of the newly formed Vanjer Regiment, and drew his sword high:
"Now, we are only one step away from glorious victory!
I need your strength—to deliver the final blow to the Austrians!
I will charge with you and with our own hands tear the enemy apart!
Come, proud lions of France!"
The recruits stood confused at first, probably realizing they were about to attack but looking at one another uncertainly. Only a dozen officers followed his cry:
"Crush the enemy!"
"Strike the Austrians down!"
Napoleon frowned. With morale like this, breaking through the line seemed impossible.
Then he had an idea. Turning his horse around, he pressed his sword hilt to his chest and spoke in a solemn tone:
"Behind you stands His Highness, the Crown Prince!
Follow me and crush the enemy—
In the name of the Crown Prince!"
This time, there was no hesitation. The soldiers shouted almost by reflex:
"In the name of the Crown Prince!"
"Long live the Crown Prince!"
Many of the training officers were old veterans from the Guard Corps, who often told the recruits of His Highness's glorious campaigns in North Africa and Silesia. The new soldiers idolized the Crown Prince, dreaming one day to join his Guards. Now, hearing "In the name of the Crown Prince," their blood surged—they felt like part of that elite brotherhood.
Satisfied, Napoleon nodded, then spurred his horse toward the Austrian lines at the village entrance.
Drums thundered behind him as three thousand recruits followed with loud cries.
When they were less than two hundred paces from the enemy line, Napoleon heard sporadic gunfire ahead. Lucien caught up with the guards, surrounding him protectively.
Turning back, Napoleon saw his recruits, faces fevered with excitement, charging in a chaotic wave.
He exhaled. Trying to fix formation now would only deepen the chaos.
Instead, he raised his sword and shouted:
"Fix bayonets!"
The drummers sped up their rhythm.
Though inexperienced, the recruits had yet to feel real battlefield fear. Their eyes burned with wild fervor as they clumsily fixed bayonets to their muskets.
Napoleon pushed aside the guards blocking him and advanced at a run:
"Follow me—charge to close combat!
In the name of the Crown Prince!"
Bayonet charges in this era were one of the deadliest tactics—once launched, there was no retreat or reformation, only victory or annihilation.
Even a small hesitation could ripple through the ranks, collapsing morale instantly—even steps away from success.
Thus, few commanders ever ordered such an assault unless desperate or utterly confident.
Now Napoleon had no other option.
Either break through the Austrian line,
or accept defeat.
He refused to fail.
He was the proud eagle of Corsica, destined one day to soar and gaze down upon the world.
He would rather die here than surrender in disgrace.
His stride quickened; Lucien had to jog to stay ahead of him.
A shot rang out—"Pfft!"—a guard beside him took a bullet to the chest. Warm blood splattered across Napoleon's cheek.
He didn't flinch. Gripping his sword tightly, he pressed forward step by step.
Austrian fire grew heavier; recruits fell behind him in wounded groans, but no one stopped. The sight of Colonel Bonaparte striding ahead inspired them beyond fear—leaving only the desperate hunger for victory.
At Joubert's position, Menil pointed excitedly southeast.
"It's Colonel Bonaparte! Look—he's charging!"
Joubert glanced at his exhausted men, hesitated a moment, then gritted his teeth and ordered:
"The skirmishers forward! All others form columns—prepare to charge!"
Thirty paces from the enemy, Lucien and the guards forcibly held Napoleon back. "It's too dangerous—you mustn't advance further!" A commander leading from the front lines might look heroic on screen, but in reality, such recklessness would land the entire guard before a court-martial.
Napoleon had come far enough—the effect on morale was already achieved.
The Austrians fired one final volley, felling more than sixty French soldiers—yet the line did not break.
A young French lieutenant shouted, "In the name of the Crown Prince!" and plunged into the Austrian ranks. Over two thousand recruits surged after him.
The Austrians had no time to reload—panic spread. They met bayonets with bayonets but their spirit faltered.
Fueled by momentum and fury, the French recruits drove into them like a tidal wave, toppling hundreds within moments. Blood sprayed across the Austrian formation as the air filled with cries of "In the name of the Crown Prince!"
Napoleon tore free from Lucien's grasp and shouted to the guard captain:
"Bessières! Forget me—go help them!"
Bessières hesitated for a second, then nodded silently and led thirty guards forward into the brawl.
Close combat imposed a savage psychological terror—staring into the eyes of the enemy, seeing the steel aimed at one's chest, was far more frightening than distant bullets.
That was why such melee fighting usually decided battles in seconds.
In less than half a minute, the Austrian soldiers on the right flank broke into terrified retreat.
(END CHAPTER)
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