3. Chapter 3

Victory belongs to the most persevering.

Jacques considered that quote as he marched in a column of over thirteen thousand men. They were heading east, away from their encampment and to wherever Marshal Ney had decided they should go. This had come with many groans; people had gotten used to living in camp. It had been weeks since Jacques had marched in a proper column. For the men of his company, however, it had been months.

Even from just a few weeks of disuse, Jacques could feel the toll that soft living had taken on his legs. Before this, he could have marched all day without complaint. Now, even a dozen miles felt like it was going to kill him. He could only imagine the pain that the men of his company were feeling. His men, he reminded himself.

They had been stragglers in Russia. Men with no companies to follow and no officers to bark at them. Because of that, they hadn't marched as quickly as the regulars during the retreat. They always straggled behind the main column, taking breaks whenever they saw fit. They were no longer used to a proper army march.

Now in this foreign world, the former stragglers were told to assemble into a column and march twenty miles in full kit with only a few short breaks to rest. Jacques, as the newly promoted sergeant of his company, had to keep them going. To that end, he strode up and down his company's column, shouted words of encouragement, and did his best to look like what a sergeant was meant to look like. He was still working on that last part.

Jacques didn't have a horse, he was a sergeant not an officer after all, and most horses were dedicated to pulling artillery or scouting with cavalry. Even their captain didn't have a horse. Jacques marched alongside his men and suffered all the same. After five miles, he could feel the soreness in his legs. After ten, he was ready to drop. After fifteen… Jacques felt nearly mutinous.

But Jacques couldn't show his displeasure. He was the company's one and only sergeant. He was supposed to be a role model for the others. He was supposed to be invincible.

So, Jacques bit his lip and kept marching. There was no road where they went. The place where that strange gateway had spat them out was surrounded by open fields of grass, small patches of forest, and a few villages. The small villages they had foraged at only had tiny dirt paths, not suited to marching an army on, so they marched through fields. Infantry like Jacques's company had few problems marching through open grassland, but the artillery and baggage train suffered from the lack of road.

As if to confirm that thought, a shout to halt the column traveled up from different officers until it reached Jacques's company and they too halted. Jacques let out a sigh of relief. Some cart had probably gotten stuck somewhere. They had a few moments to relax.

Men leaned on their muskets. There was some idle chit chat, but most just took the moment to rest.

"Sergeant Duclos."

Jacques suddenly straightened his back and wiped any exhaustion from his face. "Yes, sir?"

Lieutenant Vernier approached him. Like Jacques, he had also been recently assigned to his position. He'd been the second lieutenant of another company in one of the old regiments, but desperation for officers had pushed him into Jacques's company where he was now the only lieutenant.

"Captain Courbis just spoke to the chief of battalion, we're only a few miles from our destination. Inform the men." The lieutenant then strode away before Jacques could so much as nod.

If there was one thing Jacques didn't like the most about Lieutenant Vernier, it was his abruptness. Then again, maybe it was his tinge of arrogance. Or perhaps his disregard for the company's hardships. Or his disregard in general. Or his smug look. Or his surprise night inspections.

Jacques decided there were a great many things he didn't like about Lieutenant Vernier.

He shook himself out of his thoughts and turned to his company. The soldiers near to him had already overheard the lieutenant and looked grateful. The others were curious over what had been said.

"Just a few more miles, men!" he shouted.

There was a ragged cheer from the exhausted company. Jacques shared their relief.

"Sergeant," a boyish voice called to him.

He turned and saw Corporal Vidal standing perfectly at attention despite the exhaustion clear on his face. Jacques cleared his throat and replied, "Yes, corporal?"

"It's Private Léger, sergeant. He's saying some things about disobeying orders and not marching further. A few of the others are listening."

Jacques racked his brain trying to put a face to the name he'd just heard. He was trying to learn all the men serving under him, but he'd only had a short time to do it. Léger was a cobbler from Paris if he recalled correctly. Or maybe that was Lazard? It didn't matter.

"Take me to him."

Vidal led him down the column to near the rear where his company ended and another company was just a little bit behind. A group of men were out of formation, listening to someone speak.

"The Marshal's gone crazy, driving us like a herd of sheep. What'd he do if we all just stop? Ain't nothin that-" Jacques's arrival cut short a spirited speech.

Jacques looked at the man who'd been speaking and gathered he was Léger. An awkward silence filled the air. Men stared at him, so Jacques swallowed any hesitancy about his position as sergeant.

"Oh, don't mind me, please continue," he said casually. It came out a little more forced that Jacques had hoped for, but it still got the message across.

Léger gained a sudden interest in his boots.

Jacques considered his options. On one hand, he was the company's sergeant and was thus expected to yell and beat the men into following orders. Sergeant Levett had done that, and it had kept the company relatively intact through Russia. On the other hand, Jacques hated Sergeant Levett. Everyone in his old company hated Levett. Jacques didn't want to be hated.

He decided on a different approach.

"Do you want to die in this place?" Jacques asked the men listening to him.

There wasn't any audible response and he felt his gut drop.

"Do you want to die in this place?!" he repeated.

A few of the men muttered "No, sergeant," and that was enough for Jacques.

"We are in a land that has never been explored before. A land that is not on any map ever made and with a name no one has ever recorded. The Emperor does not know where we went. Your families in France do not know where you are. If we die here, no one will find us. So I will ask you again. Do you want to die in this place?!"

A more resounding "No." filled Jacques with the confidence to continue.

"The only way that we return to France is if we stay alive, and the only way to do that is to follow orders. This land is full of maniacs hungering for our blood. There are two armies of them just waiting for the chance! Now, Marshal Ney has a plan to kill those bastards before they kill us, but it requires us to follow his orders. That means marching twenty miles today and twenty more tomorrow. So unless you want to die in this place, shoulder your damned muskets and be ready to march!"

Silence spread when Jacques finished his little speech. The men didn't cheer, but they did listen. They hefted their muskets onto their shoulders and got back into the column to march. Even Léger followed Jacques's order.

Corporal Vidal followed Jacques as he walked back to the head of the marching column. His stomach felt like it was fighting a battle inside him, and Jacques just barely stopped himself from heaving up its contents.

"How do you know Marshal Ney's plan will work?"

Jacques looked at Vidal. "What?"

The corporal looked a bit sheepish. "How do you know we'll kill the bastards before they kill us, sergeant?"

Jacques considered the question for a moment. "I don't know. I haven't even been told what his plan is. I suppose you just need to have a little faith."

"Faith?"

"Faith in Marshal Ney," Jacques explained. "Faith in his plan. Faith in our abilities as soldiers, and faith that we can beat the enemy. It's all about faith," he said, suddenly feeling much wiser and more experienced than he really was. "I've got faith that my musket will fire when I pull the trigger, and Marshal Ney has faith that our platoon will kill the enemy when he uses us on the battlefield. Without faith we can't do anything."

"And you have faith the Marshal will keep us alive?"

Jacques felt more confident than he had in a long while. "Yes, I do."

The corporal looked like he had something more to say, but an officer yelled for the column to prepare to march again, and he had to run back to his place with the others. Someone had probably gotten the cart holding them up unstuck, and Jacques prepared himself for another few miles of marching.

Marshal Ney gazed out at the lines of tents that housed his corps. It was night and cook fires dotted the encampment. The faint sound of officers arguing drifted to his ears. His command staff were in the tent behind him, discussing the finite details of his plan to make sure everything was perfect. Ney took a moment to think.

His body was sore. Not quite as sore as some of the former stragglers, perhaps, but still sore.

Ney and his officers had marched on foot earlier that day. They could have ridden on horses which would've made the entire ordeal much easier, but Ney had decided against it. His corps only had three hundred horses in total. As much as Ney would have liked to ride a horse, they were desperately needed by the cavalry and artillery. Besides, sharing the hardships of his men was good for morale, even if it was bad for his health.

They had made better time than Ney had expected. There was no road for his men to march on, so they'd gone over grass fields. He thought the baggage and artillery would've slowed them down more, but he was wrong. They reached their destination before the sun was even beginning to set. Ney usually didn't like being wrong, but this time it was a welcome relief.

Ney looked at where he'd chosen to camp, a massive grass field neatly bisected by a stone road. That road had been their destination. It was large enough that an army could march on it and solid enough that his artillery wouldn't cause any problems by moving along it. It was also the same road that two enemy armies were marching along, one to the north and one to the south. It was the road on which his plan would be enacted.

Ney put aside his thoughts and turned to enter his command tent.

"I'm still not happy with the split," General Rousseau grumbled. "Messier's force should have some cavalry with it."

General Brunelle disagreed. "We have no horses to spare. The Marshal's force shall need every cavalryman we can give it so that they can ride down the enemy."

"I concur with Brunelle," Colonel Feraud said. "It's bad enough that we have hundreds of cavalrymen being forced to fight as infantry. To split the little cavalry we have would make it useless."

"Then more cannons," Rousseau argued. "Messier is expected to hold against a force twelve thousand strong with only four thousand of our own men. Our scouts still haven't been able to discern if the enemy has artillery of their own."

"Perhaps, you'd like to risk your neck doing reconnaissance!" Feraud snarled. "They have far more cavalry than we do; our scouts can't get close without being cut down!"

Rousseau sighed. "I am not blaming your men for our situation, only stating a fact. We do not know if they will have artillery, so we must prepare for if they do." He moved his gaze to General Brunelle. "And that means they need more cannons."

Captain Delon chose to pipe in at that moment, "We've only got twelve cannons total. Ney will need at least ten to crush the northern force quickly. Messier can make do with two."

"Ney will have nine thousand men with him to win that battle. The northern force isn't any bigger than the southern one. Surely Ney can afford two less-"

"I will make do with two cannons," Messier interrupted.

Rousseau rubbed his head. "And if they have their own artillery?"

"They won't," Ney suddenly said. His officers looked at him as if they had only just noticed his presence. "The only artillery they have the technology for is wooden catapults meant to target castles. Nothing they have is accurate enough to be used as field artillery."

"I see," General Rousseau conceded. "And four thousand of our men will be enough to beat twelve thousand?"

Ney shook his head. "They don't need to beat the enemy, they just need to delay." He looked at Messier. "Give me three days. One to locate the northern force, one to destroy it, and one to return. Can you do that?"

Messier considered Ney's words before nodding.

Ney clapped him on the shoulder then addressed the rest of his officers, "We march at first light tomorrow. Messier will stay here to buy us three days. We shall not fail him. Long live France!"

The officers echoed him, "Long live France!"

It was evening when the enemy finally showed their faces. By then, it had been two days since Marshal Ney had taken most of the army with him north, leaving Jacques's regiment and one other under the command of General Messier to await the southern enemy.

General Messier had made good use of that time. Every man, officers included, was told to pick up a shovel and get to work. They took a position on the big stone road that was slightly elevated and formed a small hill. From this vantage point, a series of earthworks were dug. Sappers directed men to form dirt ramparts which would shield men from missile fire and create an easily defendable barrier in the coming battle. Some sappers even tore up stones from the road and used those to reinforce the ramparts. Other men spent their time whittling away at cut trees to create wooden stakes capable of stopping a cavalry charge in its tracks.

Two days earlier, Jacques had felt nervous at the prospect of facing a force three times their size, but now he felt anticipation. Let them come! he thought as he gazed at the bounties of their hard work. Dirt walls fortified the hill, and sharpened stakes covered their flanks and rear. It was a massive trap just waiting for the enemy to walk into.

Let them come!

When they finally did come, the enemy was clearly not expecting them. From his position atop an earthen rampart, Jacques got a good view of their marching column. It was slow, unenthusiastic, and had men lazily out of formation. He watched all of that immediately transform when they got a look at what was ahead of them. A fortress made of earth blocking the road.

If Jacques had been closer, he was sure he'd have spotted men shitting themselves.

Enemy officers immediately got men formed up into battle formations. It was intriguing for Jacques to watch.

The enemy didn't deploy into multiple thin lines or columns with skirmish lines screening them like the French did. Instead, they formed up into three extremely dense lines of armored infantry. The first line was clearly the least experienced, judging from their less disciplined formation and less expensive looking equipment. Behind the first line, the second line seemed to be those of average experience. Finally, at the very rear, the third line was clearly the veteran soldiers who all wore metal armor and stood in neat rows.

The sun was beginning to set, and either the enemy commander was feeling hasty or he severely underestimated the French defenses. The enemy ordered forward their first line of men and the battle began.

Jacques looked at the setting sun; the enemy would only have time for one assault then darkness would fall and they would have to retire until tomorrow. Trying to attack at night was something even the best trained armies couldn't do reliably.

Jacques checked his musket. It was a good practice to do before firing; the last thing he wanted was for it to misfire in the middle of battle.

Then Jacques checked on his men. They were all lined up on the ramparts with good firing positions and even better cover. Somewhere in their midst was Captain Courbis, but Jacques couldn't see where the captain was. Lieutenant Vernier also stood with them, waving his sword and occasionally shouting something. He supposed it was supposed to inspire the men, but Jacques didn't feel inspired.

A violent cough shook the air, drawing Jacques's attention.

One of the cannons had just opened up and sent its deadly payload spiraling into the enemy. A red streak suddenly appeared in the enemy's first line and Jacques knew they'd scored a hit. The enemy formation was visibly shaken.

The deep throated boom of a second cannon rang Jacques's ears.

This one was closer, and Jacques noted that the sound of cannon changed depending on how far away it was. This sound reminded him of Borodino. Of the Russian guns which they had repeatedly tried to take at bayonet point. That had been a bloody day.

The sight of another red streak in the enemy line drew him away from Borodino. This time, they were on the defensive. This time, the enemy was charging their positions.

Jacques gazed at the enemy assault. Their line had been shaken by the cannons, but it continued forward. More booms and coughs echoed through the air, but it was clear now that cannons alone would not break them. The enemy assault entered musket range.

"Make ready!" he and dozens of other sergeants from other platoons shouted. Men cocked their muskets.

"Present!" Thousands of muskets were pointed at the enemy.

Jacques felt a tinge of pity for the enemy. They were trying to kill him and his men, but at the same time they were painfully unaware of what they were facing. What came next must have been a nightmare for them.

"Fire!"

Almost four thousand muskets cracked at once, and a cloud of smoke exploded out from the ramparts. Through the smoke, Jacques saw hundreds drop in sync as if let loose by an invisible puppet master. Screams reached his ear.

The result was everything Jacques had hoped for and more. The enemy line dissolved into panic, wounded men shrieking from the ground while some stood dumbfounded and others ran for their lives. French cannons fired again, adding insult to injury with canister shot that scythed through the survivors of the musket volley.

There was an attempt by enemy officers to rally their men. They shouted and whipped men back into formation, and they would have succeeded at stopping the rout if, fifteen seconds after the first volley, the French had not let loose a second.

Jacques felt his musket kick into his shoulder and watched the enemy flee in terror. Enemy officers were unsuccessful at reforming their men after that. Many of them fled themselves. The few brave ones who remained were picked off by French voltigeurs.

The sun slowly disappeared over the horizon, and Jacques knew the day's fighting was over.

"They're not so tough," Corporal Astier said later that night. Campfires had appeared all around the French camp, and men were enjoying warm meals around them. Astier's comment reflected the general mood of the camp. "A couple days of that and we won't even need the Marshal to come back for us."

"If they give us a couple days of that then they're not very clever," Jacques laughed. "They underestimated us and got punished for it. They won't do that again."

"What'll they do then?" Corporal Vidal asked.

Jacques shrugged and went to climb the dirt ramparts. Vidal and Astier followed him and together they gazed at the campfires springing to life in the enemy encampment. If Jacques had his math correct, they still had another day before Marshal Ney returned to rescue them. He wondered what the enemy would throw at them in that time.

"We'll just have to find out," he muttered.

On Ney's second march in this strange land, he chose to ride a horse. It wasn't because his body was sore or because he didn't appreciate the hardships his men had to endure, but rather he was expecting to find the enemy at any moment, and being mobile would greatly improve his ability to command.

His officers also rode horses with General Rousseau and General Brunelle riding alongside him and Colonel Feraud scouting ahead with the cavalry. Only Captain Delon was on foot, choosing to walk with his artillery train at the rear.

Three days, Ney reminded himself. One to find the enemy, one to destroy him, one to return.

It was evening when they found the enemy. Colonel Feraud came riding furiously back to the main column and reported that the enemy were just a few miles up the road. It was too late in the day for a battle, so they camped for the night. A few sentries spotted the enemy trying to scout them out in the dark, but they were driven off with little trouble.

The following morning, Ney had his corps deploy for battle. Nine thousand infantry and three hundred cavalry arrayed themselves on a relatively flat plain. His artillery took position on a small hill that gave them an excellent line of fire and placed them in range to hit any part of the battlefield.

Columns of blue and white uniforms dotted the field. These were his fusiliers, who would march forward in column then rapidly deploy into a line before engaging the enemy. Ahead of them, a spread out collection of skirmishers would screen them from enemy fire. Most infantry were deployed forward under General Rousseau, but Ney kept back one regiment under General Brunelle to serve as his reserve for when the time came to strike a decisive blow.

Next to Ney was his cavalry led by Colonel Feraud. He only had about three hundred horses, so Ney couldn't afford to risk them. He kept the cavalry in reserve where he could easily lead them himself if he needed to.

Facing them was the enemy army. They deployed in a formation completely foreign to Ney, though he presumed it was standard for the commanders of this world. Infantry were arrayed in three dense lines with the least experienced in the front and the most experienced in the back. Ahead of them, two thousand heavily armored cavalry were formed into one massive wedge pointed at the French army.

Ney rode down to where his fusiliers were deployed in columns. He went to the center where the most men would be able to hear him.

"Men! I've never been one for speeches, but the enemy are there," Ney pointed to the wedge of enemy cavalry, "and we're going to go kill them! Remember that when all's said and done, you are soldiers of the Emperor's Grande Armée, and they are a pack of savages! They fight with sticks and stones while you have the musket and bayonet! There are some historians who claim the Roman Empire was the greatest empire in history. I expect you to prove them wrong!"

With over nine thousand men on the battlefield, there was no way for Ney's voice to travel to all of them, but gradually men recited what he said, passing it to different regiments until most had gotten the gist of his speech. Ney drew his sword for all to see. He slashed it down.

General Rousseau nodded at Ney. He shouted "Battalion columns prepare to advance! Ordinary pace!"

To Ney's left, a distant grumble of thunder sounded out. Captain Delon had opened up with the cannons. The battle began.

Ney rode his horse back to where he held his cavalry back. A good position where he could oversee the battle.

Ahead, the enemy had decided to advance to meet Ney's infantry. The massive wedge of cavalry was trotting forward, intent of smashing the French center.

"You there!" he picked out one of the cavalrymen behind him. "Ride to Captain Delon and tell him my orders are to ignore the infantry and focus all fire on the cavalry!"

The man galloped off, and Ney continued to watch the battle unfold. Enemy cavalry were approaching in good order. They would reach his infantry within perhaps three minutes.

Ney heard another rumble of thunder and saw cannonballs carve their way into the enemy cavalry. Packed tight in their wedge, the cavalry were perfect targets for French artillery. Each shot killed at least a dozen men and horses which then impeded the cavalrymen behind them and caused absolute chaos in the wedge.

The enemy cavalry were no longer approaching in good order. Chaos and confusion forced them to slow their advance. More cannonballs streaked into the wedge.

The cavalryman Ney had used as a messenger returned to report that Captain Delon had affirmed his orders.

In spite of the artillery, the enemy cavalry wedge trudged forward. They were now coming close to French infantry. Ney didn't need to give orders here. His officers knew what to do. Ney watched the columns of blue infantry hurriedly arrange themselves into hollow squares. The heavily armored cavalry had clearly never seen an infantry square before because they charged straight at them.

Ney saw plumes of white smoke, heard the distant cracks of muskets, and observed men die. A volley was unleashed into the enemy wedge. Three seconds passed. A second volley was unleashed into the enemy. The enemy fled.

Two thousand cavalry had charged in their massive wedge, but only a few hundred were able to ride away. Musketry and cannonfire had slaughtered the others.

French fusiliers reloaded their muskets then were ordered back into marching columns. They advanced once more.

Jacques turned to one of the cavalrymen behind him. "Ride to Captain Delon, and tell him to redirect fire to the back line of their infantry!"

The back line was the enemy's most veteran units. Cannonballs did not discriminate between veterans and the inexperienced, they would die all the same.

Ney could feel the climax of the battle was coming. He considered deploying his reserves, but decided against it. The enemy still had their own reserve. He needed to be patient. The time would come eventually.

The enemy commander apparently still felt confident after the loss of his cavalry. Ney watched the first two infantry lines begin marching forward with a cloud of what he presumed to be skirmishers in front of them.

French infantry met them. Ney saw the thick columns disappear into thin lines of men which spread out. In front of them, French skirmishers began to engage the enemy skirmishers.

The skirmishers did not fire in volleys but rather at their own will. They utilized cover and spread out to avoid enemy fire.

From the moment they began firing, it was clear the French skirmishers had an advantage over enemy skirmishers. Ney watched through his spyglass. The enemy skirmishers were archers and crossbowmen. French skirmishers had muskets.

Overwhelming fire forced the enemy skirmishers to retreat. They fled from the French musketry, running haphazardly into the line of infantry approaching from behind them. This caused disorder among the enemy ranks and they had to slow their advance in order to reorganize themselves.

By then, the French lines were in range.

The first and second ranks of French infantry fired together. Thousands of muskets cracked at once. A massive volley of lead was thrown into the enemy infantry and decimated their ranks.

The enemy broke into a charge. Their disciplined march disappeared and thousands of men sprinted as fast as they could to reach the French line before a second volley could hit them.

They failed. A second volley slammed into them, and their charge faltered.

With his spyglass, Ney could see parts of the enemy infantry immediately retreat upon receiving a second volley. In some places it was orderly, well managed and obviously with permission from their officers. In others it was chaos, men fleeing in terror and trampling one another.

Still, in a few places the enemy infantry did not falter. They kept going through the musket fire and reached the French line. Ney had to applaud their bravery. They were met by French bayonets.

In a straight fight, there would be no question about who would win in a melee. The enemy wore armor, carried shields, and were heavily drilled on fighting in a melee. They would slaughter unarmored fusiliers.

This was not a straight fight.

The enemy had been withered by musket fire, and demoralized by their fleeing comrades. They were not ready for a French counter charge with bayonets. Ney observed that the enemy fought for less than a minute before being routed by the French. Some escaped, others were bayoneted as they fled.

Ney grinned. The first and second lines had been routed against his men. Now they were being rounded up by the third line and forced back into formation. Now was the climax. Now was where the battle would be won.

The enemy commander once more ordered his infantry forward.

They came all at once this time. The enemy was leaving no force behind, not even his elite third line. This assault was their last gambit to break the French line. They committed their entire reserve.

Ney turned. "Feraud, I need your fastest rider!"

Colonel Feraud shouted, "Calvet get up here!" and a hussar with a finely bred horse approached.

Ney looked at the man. "Ride to General Brunelle! Tell him to take his regiment and march double time to the far left flank of our line. When the enemy engages our men, he is to roll up their line from the left flank and rout the enemy. Do you understand?!"

Calvet nodded. "Yes, sir!"

"Then go!"

The hussar raced off to find General Brunelle. A minute later, Ney saw Brunelle leading his regiment at a breakneck pace to reach the left flank. Ney had just committed his infantry reserve.

The enemy infantry were walking rather than marching. Ney knew they were saving their energy for when they got near to the French infantry. They'd walk until the first volley then break into a sprint to reach the French before the second. They were learning.

Ney prayed that General Brunelle would be quick enough to save the line.

"Sir!" Colonel Feraud called out.

Ney glanced at him.

"Enemy cavalry has regrouped!" he yelled while pointing to a small formation on the far left. It was not the two thousand strong wedge that had tried to charge Ney's center, but rather a couple hundred horsemen in a block.

"Damn them!" Ney cursed. "They're going to try to impede Brunelle long enough for their infantry to crush our line." He looked to one of Feraud's dragoons and shouted, "Ride to Captain Delon, and tell him to redirect his artillery to their cavalry! He is to cease fire after five minutes!"

The dragoon nodded and rode off.

A minute later, the cannons opened up on the enemy cavalry. Ney grabbed his pocket watch, a small golden piece he'd picked up in Austria, and noted the time. Then he turned to Feraud's cavalry.

"The outcome of this battle depends on us, men!" Ney drew his officer's saber. "With me! For France!"

The cavalry cheered, and drew their swords as well. Ney began riding to the left flank with the cavalry behind him.

It took them four minutes to reach the left flank at full gallop. General Brunelle was right behind them with his infantry, and the enemy cavalry was waiting just out of musket range, ready to pounce given the opportunity.

Ney watched a cannonball plow into their formation, killing at least six, then another miss by just a few yards. If he had the time, he would've just used the cannons to wipe them out, but Ney did not have time. Brunelle's movements could not be delayed even by a few minutes. Ney would have to shield him.

He checked his armaments. Two pistols and his saber. Each pistol would give him one shot, but then he would have to rely on his saber. Reloading would be akin to suicide.

Ney watched another cannonball hit the enemy cavalry then checked his pocket watch. The enemy had been battered by the bombardment, but not routed. Five minutes had passed, now it was time to go.

He raised his saber into the air. "Long live France!"

"Long live France!"

Ney spurred his horse forward. The cavalry followed him.

They approached the enemy, and for the first time Ney could see them clearly. From a distance they all just looked like little specks, but up close he could see them. He saw the terror on their faces, the fear that all men had during battle, and the determination to survive. He saw this as they counter charged with their horses and the two forces became destined to collide.

It happened in an instant. Ney's saber crashed into someone's throat, horses rushed past him, and he found himself in the middle of a mass of men.

French cavalry intermingled with enemy cavalry, and everything became a confused melee. Men and horses cried out from the ground. Blood was spilled.

Ney faced a man in armor with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. He used his saber to parry the man's sword then cut back. The enemy blocked him with his shield and nearly caught Ney on the counter cut. Only a last second parry saved Ney from death.

A bead of sweat trickled down Ney's face. His heart pounded.

The man thrust at Ney with his sword. Ney's saber lashed out with a well timed riposte and it caught the man's torso. That would have ended the fight, if the man had not been wearing armor. Instead, all it did was anger the man.

A series of cuts and thrusts came at Ney, and he was forced on the defensive. Parry here, block that, cover low, deflect that, parry and riposte high. Ney's saber parried the man's last cut and landed a heavy blow on his helmet. It didn't kill the man, but it dazed him.

There was a moment of respite as the man regained his bearings. Ney used that moment to draw one of his pistols. He placed it against the man's breastplate and squeezed the trigger. It kicked and the man fell from his horse.

Ney breathed deeply. Around him it seemed the French had gained the upper hand. The enemy lost too many men to cannonfire, and they were outnumbered by French cavalry.

The melee was over, the enemy began to flee. Ney drew his second pistol. He took aim at a fleeing enemy cavalryman and pulled the trigger. The cavalryman dropped out of his saddle moments later.

Ney then rode to be free of friendly cavalry. He found a spot with a good vantage point and gazed out over the battlefield. A feeling of relief washed over him when he spotted enemy infantry fleeing in terror from the French. General Brunelle had made it in time. His attack from the left flank had rolled up the enemy line, routing them thoroughly.

"Feraud!" he yelled.

"Yes, sir?" the colonel replied. His uniform was immaculate, but his saber was drenched in blood.

"Take command of the cavalry. Pursue those infantry to the last man!"

Feraud gained a vicious grin. "Yes, sir!"

Jacques woke to Corporal Vidal standing over him, shaking him awake. He blinked and then groaned when he realized it was still an hour before the camp was supposed to wake.

"The fuck is it, corporal?"

Vidal looked hesitant. "Well… it's… just..." He took a deep breath. "You need to see this, sergeant."

Jacques yawned and got to his feet. He grabbed his musket before following Vidal up to the ramparts. He looked to where Vidal pointed. His eyes widened.

"What the hell is that?"

Vidal shuddered. "See what I mean, sergeant?"

Jacques nodded. Just outside the enemy encampment were four things standing for all to see. It was… difficult to describe. They were like men, but larger and misshapen. They were not men, and Jacques didn't know what to call them. Giants? Ogres? Trolls? His mind went to the old folk tales his mother used to tell him.

Jacques blinked and tried to think of a course of action. "Does General Messier know?"

"Sergeant from another company went to inform him."

Jacques nodded. That was good. The general would know what to do.

"Think they're going to attack us, sergeant?" Vidal asked.

A lump formed in Jacques's throat. He imagined one of those ogres walking right over their earthworks and scooping up men to swallow whole. He pushed aside that image and cleared his throat. "Probably. No other reason to bring them here."

"Will we be alright, sergeant?" Vidal asked with a slight tremble in his voice.

No, he thought but instead said, "Yes." Jacques took a deep breath. "Everything will be fine. We just need to have faith."

"Faith…" Vidal whispered.

"That's right. Just a bit of faith."

It was two hours later when the enemy began their first attack. By then, every man in General Messier's force had seen the ogres. In those two hours, a wave of fear descended over the men. Some even talked about fleeing, but Jacques had put an end to that. General Messier had spent that time speaking with the artillery crews. Jacques could only presume it was about the ogres.

The enemy advanced very differently from how they'd come the previous day. Instead of arranging themselves into three lines, they formed into four columns each positioned behind one of the four ogres. Jacques understood immediately. The ogres were acting as cover for the regular men to reach the ramparts.

An order must have been given by the enemy commander because all at once the ogres began lumbering forward. They made it into cannon range, and the familiar coughs and booms of French artillery filled the air.

One of the ogres was hit by a cannonball. The ball entered its shoulder and nearly tore off its arm. It became panicked and crushed a dozen of the men behind it before the enemy got their ogre back under control.

They came closer, and the cannons fired again.

Another shot hit one of the ogres. It tore through the thing's stomach and dropped it dead right there. The other three ogres saw their comrade die and went into a rage. They began stepping on enemy soldiers and kicking columns of men.

The enemy infantry, no longer in control of their monsters, fled from the battlefield.

It took six hours before the enemy had regained control of their ogres. Jacques had watched in amusement as men had slowly approached the monsters and rubbed strange bottles of liquid onto them. Sometimes it worked, most times it resulted in a crushed man.

The mood in the French camp had grown considerably lighter, and some men even started betting on if an ogre would crush their handler. The dread that these monsters would be attacking them soon enough faded.

"I'll give them this," Corporal Astier said as he, Vidal, and Jacques looked over the ramparts at the enemy. "They're persistent bastards."

The enemy was attacking again. Once more, they marched in columns behind the ogres. There were only three of the monsters left, so the enemy was packed into three massive columns. Directly behind each of the ogres, a group of men carried large pikes which were used to prod the big beasts forward and keep them from repeating what had happened last time.

Jacques's platoon manned the ramparts as the enemy started marching. The two cannons began firing again. Cannonballs were lobbed at the ogres. A few of them hit, but the enemy used their pikes to keep the monsters moving forward.

"Why do they want to kill us so badly?" Vidal wondered. "The hell did we do to them?"

French cannons continued to fire. Each time a hit was scored, a massive cheer rose from the men on the ramparts.

"They're savages, they don't need a reason," Astier spat.

One of the cannons sent a cannonball into an ogre's throat. It dropped the big beast onto the ground, and the men in the column behind it quickly fled. The other ogres were forced to keep marching by the pikes at their backs.

"M-men!" Lieutenant Vernier suddenly shouted. Jacques hadn't noticed that the lieutenant was with them. "Have c-courage men!"

Very few seemed to appreciate his words.

The ogres moved into musket range, and Jacques felt his stomach drop. He checked his own musket before opening his mouth and shouting, "Make ready!"

"Present!" Dozens of other sergeants were echoing his words. A bead of sweat crawled down the side of his face.

"Fire!"

Jacques's heart skipped a beat as he felt his musket kick into his shoulder and smoke plume out across the ramparts. The earth trembled. The two ogres dropped to the ground, dead.

A feeling of relief that sprouted up in Jacques was crushed when he saw enemy infantry sprinting towards them. The ogres had absorbed the first volley. Now the infantry could charge the ramparts.

"Reload!" he screamed with a terror he'd scarcely ever felt before. "Reload or we're all dead!"

It took fifteen seconds for Jacques to reload his musket. Some men were quicker, others slower. When the French fired again, it was not as one volley but rather in panicked bursts as groups of men finished reloading at different intervals. Enemy soldiers fell, but it was not as impactful or terrifying as a single volley, and it did not cause them to retreat.

Jacques knew he did not have time to reload for a third shot. Instead, he made sure his bayonet was tightly fitted to his musket and prepared to receive a charge. Men around him followed his example.

He saw the charging enemy and imagined what he would do. They all wore armor on the torso, but had exposed arms, legs, necks, and faces. Thrust high, catch them unexpected. They all carried big shields. Not a problem, they'll have to drop them in order to climb up the rampart. They all had spears. No different from bayonet fighting.

The enemy reached the rampart and began scrambling up it. Like Jacques expected, they dropped their shields in order to climb up the dirt wall.

A man peaked his head over the rampart, and Jacques faced him. Jacques thrust his bayonet into the man's face before he could react. The man's body tumbled down the rampart.

There was a distant cough as a cannon let loose canister shot into a mass of infantry.

Another man heaved himself up the rampart, so Jacques stabbed him in the neck. There was a look of shock on his face before he slid off Jacques's bayonet and fell from the ramparts.

To his right, Lieutenant Vernier used his sword with the grace and fluidity of someone who had taken many fencing lessons, but he was alone and men began to surround him. Vernier was stabbed in the back while performing an impressive parry.

Three more men climbed the rampart, and Jacques realized this position was becoming untenable. Terror gripped him.

He slammed the butt of his musket into one of the men's face then ran from the ramparts. Other men were doing the same across the earthworks. Enemy soldiers soon controlled the fortifications, and Frenchmen were fleeing.

"Long live France!" a shout came from behind Jacques. It was echoed by dozens of other men.

Jacques jerked his head at the shout. General Messier himself had yelled it. He had his sword in hand and a company of grenadiers at his back. They charged the enemy infantry.

Jacques suddenly felt ashamed. He was fleeing from the enemy. It was cowardice. He was supposed to be a sergeant. Sergeants didn't flee.

"Long live France!" Jacques shouted. He stopped running and turned back to face the ramparts. "Drive them back! Kill them all!"

His shouts and General Messier's presence reversed the retreat. Men who'd just been fleeing in terror charged with vigor at the enemy. Corporal Vidal and Corporal Astier picked up the shouting, "Long live France!"

Jacques charged with his bayonet pointed forward. He thrust it into the throat of the first enemy he saw. Another faced him, and he batted their spear point away before thrusting into that man's face.

That was apparently all it took for the enemy to lose their foothold. The French countercharge drove enemy soldiers back down the ramparts.

Jacques gasped for air. What the hell happened? Where are the enemy reinforcements? How did we take the ramparts back so quickly?

All of his questions were answered when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted columns of blue uniforms entering the battlefield. The Marshal did it.

Across the battlefield, enemy soldiers were streaming away from the French positions. They were fleeing heading back to their encampment, unaware that French cavalry was on its way to slaughter them like cattle. No doubt their army would not make it off the battlefield.

This was a long chapter and an absolute joy to write. Despite this, I can't help but feel I might have done the battles a bit of a disservice by perhaps making them too short and over too quickly. Oh well.

In this chapter there was not only one but two battles. I tried to use realistic battle tactics and campaign strategy to make them as close to reality as I could. There are probably some flaws that some people will be able to point out because I'm not perfect, but I think I did an ok job.

Finally here's a short glossary of some of the terms I used:

"Long live France!": This is a battle cry/cheer that most people probably know better by the actual French "Vive la France!"

Ramparts: These are fortifications that form a wall for men to hide and shoot behind. The ones in this chapter are made of dirt and thus also are referred to as "earthworks." They usually have a ditch dug in front of them which requires enemy soldiers to have to climb up in order to get to the men behind the ramparts.

Sappers: Napoleonic combat engineers who do a variety of tasks such as clearing roads, demolition, and building fortifications.

Voltigeurs: French light infantry who performed in a similar role to chasseurs but did not form their own regiments. Every line regiment had a voltigeur company as part of it, providing it with dedicated light infantry and making it more flexible.

Once more, thank you for reading this story. I do appreciate feedback, just keep in mind I'm a very inexperienced writer. I managed to get this chapter out faster than expected, but I don't know how long it will be until the next one because I'm very busy.