Chapter 93: Foundation Stone (3) Mid-July, 1790.Kingdom of France, near the city of Troyes in the central-eastern region.
"Damn it, at this rate I'm going to collapse from exhaustion under this blazing sun before I even see the enemy. Those opposing-force bastards—are they even training? I can't see so much as a shadow of them."
An officer pulled his canteen from his waist and gulped repeatedly, then spoke as if fed up.
It had already been half a day since they began observing the high ground.
The dawn, which had at least been somewhat cool, had passed, and the sunlight now baked the earth.
They hadn't seen a single person—no, not even anything that could be mistaken for a human silhouette—so the excitement from the first field exercise had melted away under the scorching July sun.
The officer raised his spyglass again and carefully examined the forest far in the distance.
But again, no trace of the enemy appeared.
"Ah, fuck... Hey! Cook! Get lunch ready! We've got to feed the soldiers, don't we?!"
"Yes, Captain Bonaparte!"
Soon, the smell of the food the cooks had poured their hearts into—though it was really just a mixed stew made by throwing hard bread, vegetables, and salted meat into one pot—spread through the entire battery position.
"Captain, you should eat first."
"No. Give it to those punks over there sweating their asses off first."
"Yes, Captain."
Starting with the soldiers who had been standing for half a day beside the cannons—heated by the sun until heat haze shimmered above them—the cooks filled mess tins with the mixed stew and handed them out.
"Captain, it's your turn now. Please take yours."
"Thanks. I'll eat well."
"Haha, yes, sir."
Napoleon Bonaparte tilted his mess tin, about to bring the stew to his mouth.
At that moment—
"Captain! There's strange movement in the western forest!"
"What? Where?!"
Napoleon Bonaparte set the mess tin down and ran out, raising the spyglass toward where a soldier pointed.
"Isn't that opposing-force cavalry loitering over there?"
"...Hold on."
As the spyglass's blurred focus sharpened, a group of soldiers came into Napoleon Bonaparte's view—wearing helmets with black plumes, moving between the trees.
Cavalry with black plumes meant it had to be the opposing-force dragoon regiment.
"H-ha! Half a day of suffering finally paid off! All hands to battle stations! Everyone run to your guns!"
"'All hands to battle stations!'"
"Gun One and Gun Two, load solid shot. Gun Three and Gun Four, load grapeshot. The rest, stand by!"
"What are you doing, you sluggish bastards?! Reload now! Just like the Captain said—loading always gets cut under one minute!"
Non-commissioned officers clung to each gun, shouting as they drove the soldiers on.
"'Yes!'"
From all over, empty cannon barrels vibrated with a low hum.
Even though they were firing blanks without cannonballs, they still had to load the same amount of powder, so it was the sound of soldiers ramming the charge down with ramrods.
"Gun One, loading complete!"
"Gun Two is loaded!"
"Gun Three and Gun Four are done!"
"Good. All batteries wait for my signal."
A smile spread across Napoleon Bonaparte's face as he watched the opposing force through the spyglass.
"Controller, you're watching closely, right?"
From far away, Napoleon Bonaparte's performance evaluation score seemed to be galloping toward him across the earth.
How many seconds would it take?
Five? Ten?
Calmly, he calculated the angle, range, and time to impact in his head.
Then—
"Gun One, Gun Two. Fire!"
Boom!
The two cannons, loaded only with powder, recoiled backward with a thunderous roar.
"All hands, attention! Salute the Commander!"
"Haha. You may omit the salute. More importantly, how is the situation developing?"
Commander Marquis de Lafayette of the National Guard, returning to his position after finishing his meal, spoke to the staff officers filling the headquarters tent.
This large-scale field exercise, which Marquis de Lafayette watched with such care, was extremely important for the newly formed National Guard.
First, it was an exercise they carried out by secretly scraping together coins little by little without letting the Finance Minister—who complained every day that the country had no money and grumbled about disarmament—find out.
Second, now that the former National Guard, which had nearly collapsed due to desertions among its officers and non-commissioned officers, had completed a certain degree of reorganization, they wanted to gauge their current capabilities.
Third, it was to find raw gems buried in mud and bring them to light.
"The front is generally deadlocked, but it seems the White Army has gained a slight advantage after the Blue Army's attempt to use cavalry to strike the White Army's left wing ended up accomplishing nothing."
"...The White Army's left wing—wasn't that the artillery? They rammed cavalry into artillery and lost?"
"It wasn't just a loss. The battalion was ruled wiped out."
Marquis de Lafayette's brow furrowed.
A cavalry battalion being ruled wiped out?
"There must be some special reason. Isn't there?"
"Well... apparently the battalion commander fell from his horse and was taken prisoner by the opposing force."
Fell from his horse. Even so—did they lose fighting capability just because the battalion commander fell?
"...Even if the battalion commander dropped out of the fight, did the soldiers really lose their composure over just that?"
Marquis de Lafayette sighed inwardly.
If they fell into confusion like this even in training, how would they respond in real field battles where commanders were killed or wounded all the time? Marquis de Lafayette himself had been shot before—on the battlefield.
"No, Commander. Even with the battalion commander removed, the soldiers still executed the original plan well and struck the flank. The formation did loosen somewhat, but still."
"...So the soldiers' training wasn't the issue?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Then what was it?"
Marquis de Lafayette spoke, his interest as a soldier piqued.
"According to the controller, Captain Bonaparte, who commands the battery, made an extremely sharp decision. The moment the cavalry formation loosened, he sensed something was off and immediately switched the ammunition to grapeshot and cleanly ground them up."
"How many seconds did loading take?"
"Please wait a moment."
The staff officer found a sheet of paper among a table piled with orders and reports, handed it to Marquis de Lafayette, and spoke.
"The report says the average was fifty-seven seconds."
"...Fifty-seven seconds? You're saying it took under a minute to load? Hah. This one's the real thing."
Marquis de Lafayette grinned as he scanned the report, then asked the young major he had newly appointed as his aide.
"Major Nicolas Davout?"
"Yes, Commander."
"When did you graduate from the military academy?"
"Two years ago, Commander."
Major Davout stood at attention and answered evenly.
"Then have you ever heard the name Captain Bonaparte? It sounds like a similar class year."
"Not the same class year, so I've never spoken with him personally, but I remember he was quite famous—famous enough that you'd know his name even outside his year. And I understand he also has deep ties with His Excellency the Finance Minister."
"Oh? Is that so?"
If soldiers in the National Guard—where most were barely trained—showed that level of proficiency, then it meant he trained his men exceptionally well.
And good judgment was never a failing grade.
If he associated with Finance Minister Guillaume de Toulon, then his revolutionary convictions were solid as well.
It was like rain in a drought.
"He repelled them with grapeshot, so should we call him 'Captain Grapeshot'? Major Davout, when training ends, bring Captain Bonaparte to me. I should meet him."
"Yes, understood."
"Ah, and one more thing. What was the name of that battalion commander who fell from his horse?"
"It was Major Emmanuel de Grouchy, Commander."
In the mock battle conducted under the command of Commander Marquis de Lafayette of the National Guard, mobilizing three regiments, Napoleon Bonaparte's heart pounded fiercely as he watched hundreds of soldiers move in perfect unison under his orders.
Yes—pounded.
Because of the opposing-force cavalry battalion commander right in front of him—captured after falling from his horse just as they had been cutting sharply into the left wing of the battalion Napoleon Bonaparte commanded.
Yes. Because of that battalion commander, dragged in after being captured by a boyish soldier.
"Oh! My long-lost friend! To meet like this! What could this be if not the providence of God?!"
The opposing-force cavalry battalion commander wouldn't stop talking, even while wearing a uniform ruined with dirt from rolling on the ground, both hands thrust high in surrender.
"...You do know we're on opposing forces right now, right?"
Napoleon Bonaparte pressed down on his throbbing temples and spoke slowly.
"Of course! Even if we're opposing forces, how could meeting like this be mere coincidence?! Hahahaha!"
"..."
Napoleon Bonaparte started to say something to Grouchy, who was grinning with both hands raised, but could only shut his mouth in silence.
How was it that this man, Grouchy, hadn't changed at all from his cadet days, even after becoming a field-grade officer?
Captain Napoleon Bonaparte, acting Third Battalion Commander of the La Fère Artillery Regiment, could only shake his head inwardly.
"Hurry up and give your rank and name. I have to submit a report to regimental headquarters."
"No, Napoleon! Why are you being so cold? Why are you speaking formally between us?!"
"Ah, fuck! Just give your rank and name already, you old man!"
"The way you're acting, you're starting to resemble that friend Guillaume..."
"If you spew one more line of bullshit, I'm tossing you into the prisoner camp."
"...First Battalion Commander, Second Dragoon Regiment—Major Emmanuel de Grouchy."
Napoleon Bonaparte moved his pen quickly, writing into the report:
[Opposing-force battalion commander, Major Emmanuel de Grouchy, captured. — Captain Napoleon Bonaparte —]
"See? How nice it is when you answer properly. Now get going to the prisoner camp. It's over that hill."
"N-no. I didn't talk nonsense!"
"Why's a defeated man so damn talkative? Move it, hurry up!"
At last, Grouchy dragged his dirt-caked body away and disappeared in the direction Napoleon Bonaparte pointed.
"Seriously. What a strange man."
It wasn't like he was high on opium or drunk—what kind of commander, in his right mind, drew a sword and charged at the very front, shouting as he ran with his troops?
If it were a real battle worth risking your life, fine—but this was a mock battle.
"Um, Captain? May I go now?"
"Ah, sorry. I got distracted for a moment. You can go back."
"Yes, understood!"
The boyish soldier who had earned merit by capturing Grouchy saluted Napoleon Bonaparte, then turned to leave.
How old was he? Fifteen? Sixteen?
"...Soldier! Come back a moment!"
"Yes? Ah—yes!"
Napoleon Bonaparte called him back.
"You must be hungry after training. Use this to fill your stomach a bit."
"Yes? But isn't this the Captain's portion?"
"I'm already grown. Eating won't make me grow any more. You're still growing, so eat plenty. If you feel that bad about it, go to my tent and bring me a book."
"Yes! I'll bring it right away!"
Breathing in the lingering smell of gunpowder that still hadn't cleared from the battery, Captain Napoleon Bonaparte opened the book the soldier brought and slowly began reading.
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