An American Inventor in Paris:
- Thread starter Cwenhild
- Start date
So glad seeing this back! Honestly the Brits are in for a pounding and I'm looking forward to it!
Looking at a map (I don't know this region at all) it seems that the British are out of position here and not really blocking the advance to London. Couldn't Napoléon just bypass (and screen) them by crossing the Medway somewhat upstream (or just threaten to do so and bait them into a trap), even more so with local mastery of the seas (and thus ability to interdict Wellesley's resupply at Chatham)?
Also, was Wellesley really the top British commander at that time (i.e. before the Spanish campaign)?
Also, was Wellesley really the top British commander at that time (i.e. before the Spanish campaign)?
Hi thanks for the reply. Anyway Looking at a modern map of the area, (I'm afraid I don't have an 1805 map of the same area) Napoleon plans to employ a double envelopment strategy on Wellesley. With 1st Corps doing a feigned assault on the British right at Borstal, which according my my google map would be in the area of the modern M2. The British frontlines would be deployed along a 3 mile stretch southeast of Rochester which would start from the area what is now Rochester Independent College to Borstal. KI'm not sure exactly what bridges were in existence in the area in 1805, but the plan would be to have one of the Corps envelop the British by crossing into what is now Peter's bridge, marching up Formby road and attacking the British right at Borstal while Bernadotte keeps up the appearance of a full attack keeping the British busy. Wellelesy plans to make a last stand at Rochester Castle, in which case the French will just bypass it.
The rest of Europe must be stun seeing the British homeland being invaded and the main enemy of the French finally being brought to its knees.
Without British funds or military support, I can see resistance in mainland Europe against France being low or relying on Russia.
Without British funds or military support, I can see resistance in mainland Europe against France being low or relying on Russia.
To those of you who have been reading my story, I apologize for the lack of updates. Between midterms and related college term paper deadlines, I just haven't been able to update as often, but rest assured this will not fall through the wayside and I have been writing and making the necessary research and edits to this timeline and that an update is coming soon.
To everyone closely following this thank you again.
To everyone closely following this thank you again.
Take your time! I know how stressful college stuff can get so do what you need to do!
Man you just started this story in September and you already have over 10 chapters of a really well done story with completely different characters each portrayed humanly and compellingly, all while trying to portray accurately a successful french sealion from a military standpoint
Like what the heck how do you do a character-driven story about the invasion of Britain in two months while keeping up with college, deadlines and personal life? Even if we were to take for granted the "1 chapter per week" challenge some of the more prolific authors here do(and I myself as an author can attest that it shouldnt be taken for granted, I have much more free time and its still difficult as fuck to put stuff out) you still would have exceeded it with the number you currently have
Describing it as an herculean effort is only appropriate really(or a napoleonic one if we wanna get cheesy)
So, thank you for your story, its been awesome and I think I can say safely that it blew everyone away(much like London, probably) so I dont think anybody will hold it against you that you need time to keep going while managing your own life, which is much more important
Just take care dude
Good luck with college, Im confident you'll do great and speaking for myself I'll keep following this story for as long you plan on keeping updating it, because I think its really that good
Like what the heck how do you do a character-driven story about the invasion of Britain in two months while keeping up with college, deadlines and personal life? Even if we were to take for granted the "1 chapter per week" challenge some of the more prolific authors here do(and I myself as an author can attest that it shouldnt be taken for granted, I have much more free time and its still difficult as fuck to put stuff out) you still would have exceeded it with the number you currently have
Describing it as an herculean effort is only appropriate really(or a napoleonic one if we wanna get cheesy)
So, thank you for your story, its been awesome and I think I can say safely that it blew everyone away(much like London, probably) so I dont think anybody will hold it against you that you need time to keep going while managing your own life, which is much more important
Just take care dude
Good luck with college, Im confident you'll do great and speaking for myself I'll keep following this story for as long you plan on keeping updating it, because I think its really that good
Chapter 15: Opening Salvos: Clash At Cemetery Knoll
Chapter 15:
Opening Salvos: Clash At Cemetery Knoll
Heads up gentlemen, those are bullets not turds! ( Col. Louis Lepic, Mounted Grenadiers Imperial Guard Cavalry, Battle of Rochester 1805)
Borstal, 3:30 PM
It was late afternoon when the vanguard of 1st Corps reached the outskirts of Borstal village. Borstal Road's thoroughfare was flanked by a haphazard assortment of weathered cottages and gnarled trees, the cobblestones, worn smooth by years of passage. The landscape on either side of the road transformed into a patchwork of fields and hedgerows, concealing the impending clash. The road was a well beaten path and bore the marks of the troops who had marched upon it earlier. Here, a horse's hoof print was imprinted in the mud; there, a shattered caisson lay abandoned and the remnants of a British artillery crew lay strewn around a knocked-out howitzer bearing the obvious trauma of having been taken out by a French artillery canister. The howitzer, now rendered useless, stood as a mute witness to the rapidity of the French advance, Its wheels half sunken into the churned mud. The metallic tang of spent gunpowder lingered in the air, blending with the acrid scent of death that enveloped the scene.
The macabre narrative unfolded further as the French company advanced, revealing a gruesome scene of a detachment of fallen British soldiers lying where they fell, frozen in the grotesque choreography of death. Crimson uniforms stained even darker with blood clung to lifeless limbs, some still clutching their Brown Bess in a grip of death. Lifeless eyes stared into the void, their gaze forever fixed on the haunting specter of war. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and a swarm of flies buzzed incessantly around the festering corpses. Death had cast its grim shroud over the fallen soldiers, transforming them into macabre sculptures in contorted and exaggerated forms as rigor mortis set in-hastened by the frigid late afternoon of autumn. They were relics of an earlier skirmish and a hasty retreat by the British as they rallied at Borstal, now forming an integral part of Wellesley’s right flank. The dust and gravel underfoot crunched with each step of Bernadotte's 1st Corps.
The soft earth beneath thousands of soldiers, horses and artillery wagons yielded slightly, a tell tale sign of the changing seasons and the myriad footsteps that had trodden this path. The road was a winding artery leading to the heart of the village of Borstal, which was quiet now, but belied the fact that it was held by a sizeable British division on Wellesley's right flank. A mounted Bernadotte peered through his spy glass, the village unfolding before him in a panorama of strategic significance. Napoleon's orders resonated through his mind like a constant drumbeat. Attack the British right flank until Davout's 13th Corps could arrive from the south to complete the encirclement. The clarity of the directive did little to quell the storm of emotions and thoughts swirling within Bernadotte's mind. His hopes, tethered to the promise of a decisive victory that could reshape the course of the campaign, flickered like distant candle flames in the wind.
A courier from Davout’s headquarters at Wouldham had, in fact, informed Bernadotte that the 13th Corps had begun crossing the pontoon bridges that were rapidly constructed overnight, and that Davout, at this moment, was marching north. Additionally, Davout, in a bold and decisive move, had launched an attack further south in Halling, where a British division under John Moore had been routed.
The tidings brought a glimmer of relief to Bernadotte, knowing that the encirclement strategy was underway. The news added a sense of dynamism to the broader theater of operations, reinforcing the notion that the French forces were orchestrating a coordinated assault on multiple fronts.
The dispatch from Davout's headquarters painted a picture of a strategic masterstroke, with the 13th Corps executing its part in the encirclement plan while simultaneously achieving success in a direct engagement. As Bernadotte absorbed this intelligence, it fueled a renewed sense of purpose, knowing that the broader campaign was unfolding according to the carefully crafted design. The ripple effects of Davout's successes infused the French with a surge of confidence as they continued their advance toward the critical engagement at Cemetery Knoll. To further complicate the British predicament, Marshal Jean-de-Dieu Soult's 3rd Corps positioned itself at the center, strategically situated between the Borstal road and Lanne's 5th Corps, the latter facing the British left flank southeast of Rochester forming a formidable front that threatened the British left flank.
However, the prospect of executing a successful flanking maneuver filled Bernadotte with a sense of anticipation and perhaps a bit of anxiety— the potential for glory on the battlefield, a commendation from the Emperor, and the realization of strategic brilliance. Yet, fears lingered in the recesses of his thoughts, like shadows cast by the waning sun. The uncertainties of war, the fog of battle that obscured even the best-laid plans, whispered doubts in the stillness of Bernadotte’s mind. What if the British don't fall for his feigned assault? There was the possibility that the village was occupied by a larger British force. His own scouts had indicated the village and the cemetery were held by a brigade of anywhere up to four regiments of infantry. Bernadotte feared he could be marching into a trap. What if the British proved more resilient than anticipated? What if the encirclement did not unfold as planned? The weight of responsibility pressed on him, a burden carried not just for personal ambition but for the lives entrusted to his command. Unlike some of Napoleon's more fervently loyal commanders, Bernadotte's approach was usually one of caution, a trait that often set him apart in the eyes of the Emperor.
Napoleon, known for his bold and aggressive military tactics, often found Bernadotte's more measured approach to be a source of frustration. Bernadotte's caution was not born out of timidity but rather a strategic mindset that sought to minimize risks and ensure the well-being of his troops. This difference in approach, while at times earning him the reputation of being one of Napoleon's less aggressive marshals, had also spared his forces unnecessary losses in previous campaigns. This cautious demeanor had occasionally strained the relationship between Napoleon and Bernadotte. The Emperor, with his penchant for decisive and rapid maneuvers, sometimes viewed Bernadotte's hesitancy as a lack of ardor. Bernadotte in turn, harbored a sense of independence and a desire to preserve the lives of his men, even if it meant deviating from the Emperor's more aggressive directives.
On this day however, Bernadotte deciding that facing the British in an all or nothing bid was preferable to facing the emperor’s wrath, now endeavored to dislodge the British from the village with brute force.
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Through the lens of his spyglass, the details of Borstal village came into sharp focus. The quaint cottages, their thatched roofs seemingly untouched by the hands of time, stood juxtaposed against the distant cemetery knoll, situated on the outskirts of Borstal and occupied by a sizeable British force, its presence etched against the canvas of the approaching dusk. The fortified church where the British defenders held firm would have to be taken. The cemetery presented a formidable obstacle to the advancing French forces, as it lay directly in front of Borstal. Cemetery Knoll, a rise adorned with weathered tombstones, stood as a haunting sentinel between the French vanguard and the heart of Borstal. The gravestones, cloaked in shadows, took on ghostly shapes, their silhouettes seemingly reaching out from the ethereal realm to grasp the living. The air was thick with the musty scent of moss-covered stones and the indefinable perfume of decay. Tombstones jutted out of the ground haphazardly, providing sporadic cover, but it was clear that death had already claimed many on this field and Bernadotte couldn't help but shudder at the sight. The strategic placement of cannons behind its walls and between the rows of crosses and gravestones on the cemetery grounds, and the embrasures that offered a vantage point for musket fire, indicated a well-thought-out defensive strategy. Smoke lazily curled into the sky, evidence of the British presence and the defensive preparations undertaken by the occupying forces.
The British infantry, with their unmistakable red coats and gleaming muskets, presented a formidable front. The two-rank system, a hallmark of British military tactics, showcased the precision and discipline for which they were renowned. The front rank, with their bayonets menacingly glinting, could deliver a devastating volley before stepping back to reload while the second rank advanced to take their place The effect was a visually striking display of military might. The redcoats, aligned in perfect order, created a wall of scarlet and steel against the backdrop of the cemetery.
It was a strategy that had proven effective in countless battles, and as the French forces approached, the British infantry stood ready to unleash the lethal precision of their disciplined ranks.The terrain along Borstal road, winding its way toward Cemetery Knoll, was varied and presented both challenges and opportunities for the advancing forces. The road itself provided a relatively firm and predictable path. Yet, the surrounding countryside, with its occasional dips and rises, presented natural obstacles that could be strategically exploited or prove to be tactical pitfalls.
As Bernadotte's 1st Corps pressed forward, the rhythmic cadence of marching boots echoed in synchrony with the distant beat of war drums—a prelude to the imminent confrontation. Amidst the disciplined march, the air was filled with the lively strains of fifes and drums.
The fifers, their instruments adorned with tricolor ribbons, skillfully danced through the intricate melodies of "Aux Champs." The standard marching cadence of the French army. The high-pitched trill of the fifes and the resonant beat of the drums created a soul stirring melody that reverberated through the ranks. The composition, with its martial spirit, served not only as a cadence for the soldiers but also as a source of inspiration and unity.
The fifes, with their crisp notes, interwoven with the resonant drum beats, created a tempo that propelled the French columns forward. "Aux Champs'' instilled a sense of purpose and determination in the soldiers, each step resonating with the cadence of the patriotic anthem. The French were eager for a fight and the relative absence of any real fighting since the landings at Sandwich Bay had only made them more so.they’d invade hell if the emperor so ordered it.
Sergeants barked crisp commands, their voices cutting through the ambient sounds of nature, orchestrating the company's advance with military precision. The metallic jingle of musket slings added an unsettling undertone to the march, a dissonant melody that hinted at the marshal symphony, barked crisp commands, directing the company's advance with a precision that mirrored the military tempo. "Left wheel, march!" The command was sharply delivered by gruff sergeants as the company executed a precise turn, aligning themselves with the subtle curve in Borstal road.
The muffled thud of boots on the road resonated as the soldiers flawlessly adjusted their formation. As the company approached a section of uneven ground, NCOs called out, "Steady step, watch your footing!" His instructions emphasized the importance of caution, ensuring the soldiers maintained their cohesion while navigating the natural obstacles.
At the forefront marched the men of the 94th infantry line regiment, their blue uniforms a stark contrast to the somber hues of the approaching dusk. Behind them, the 63rd and the 27th infantry regiments of the 3rd Brigade followed. The entire 1st Corps, now marching in unison, boasted an imposing force of around 25,000 troops.
Jean Baptiste Drouet’s 1st Division was deployed in the standard French attack formation with their front arranged in battalion columns. The battalion columns allowed for a more rapid and orderly movement of troops, enhancing the speed at which the French forces could respond to changing conditions on the battlefield. The intervals between the battalions provided a degree of spacing, reducing the vulnerability of the troops to concentrated artillery fire or devastating volleys from the enemy.
Preceding the battalion columns were the voltigeurs. These troops operated in open order, scouting and engaging the enemy at a distance before the main force closed in. Their role was crucial in disrupting enemy formations, providing intelligence on enemy positions, and sowing confusion in the ranks.
Picard and van Marizy's cavalry brigades, vital components of the 1st division's mobile striking force, found their positions strategically allocated on the flanks. Picard's cavalry took station on the left flank, while van Marizy's brigade secured the right. Their deployment allowed for swift maneuvers, exploiting opportunities or responding to threats on the peripheries of the advancing infantry.
The 1st and 2nd artillery companies, recognizing the need for optimal firing positions, established themselves strategically between the advancing infantry columns. Their placement facilitated responsive artillery support,elevated ground to maximize the reach and effectiveness of their cannons.
Lowering his spyglass and inhaling the crisp autumn air, Bernadotte made an educated guess on the disposition of the British at the cemetery, he was convinced it was defended by a battalion-sized line infantry supported by cannons, but the village itself was held by a division, at least.
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Pierre Dumont's heart raced as he and his comrades from the 94th Line Infantry advanced up the incline toward the village of Borstal. The thud of French artillery echoed through the landscape, reverberating in Pierre's chest with each booming discharge. The sky was painted with streaks of smoke as French cannonballs soared overhead, creating an ominous symphony of destruction. The glare of the afternoon sun caused him to squint his eyes. Fear gripped Pierre, its icy fingers winding through the fabric of his resolve, but beneath that fear simmered an exhilarating surge of adrenaline. This would be his first taste of battle, his first "party" so to speak. The token British resistance during the march from Sandwich Bay to Canterbury didn't count and neither did occasionally flushing out the anglais-tireurs from farm houses. Of course, not knowing if a round of musket ball fired by an enemy that refused to show himself had your name on it or not brought on a palpable anxiety all its own, and it was far from the glorious vision of war he had once held.___________________
Pierre's ears rang with the cacophony of battle—the sharp crack of musket fire, the distant wails of wounded soldiers, and the thunderous explosions of artillery rounds colliding with the British position. The impact of cannonballs sent debris flying through the air, and the ground quivered beneath Pierre's boots with each explosive detonation. Smoke tendrils snaked through the air, obscuring visibility. Cemetery knoll, a tranquil resting place, also occupies an important position on the British right flank, and it stood in the way of Bernadotte's advance towards Wellesley's right and the cemetery needed to be taken. Tombstones shattered into fragments under the relentless assault, and the ground was churned into a morass of mud and torn vegetation. The eerie silence of the cemetery was periodically shattered by the desperate cries of wounded men.
The vivid colors of autumn were muted by the haze of battle, and the once-serene cemetery transformed into a nightmarish landscape. The taste of gunpowder lingered on his tongue, a bitter reminder of the violence that enveloped them. Pierre's senses were overwhelmed, assaulted by the dissonant melody of destruction that unfolded around him. The combination of sights, sounds, and smells created an indelible impression—an experience etched into his memory as he pressed forward, one hesitant step at a time, into the heart of the maelstrom that was Cemetery Knoll.
The weight of the musket on his shoulders felt like led and the distant reverberation of war drums blended into a surreal symphony that churned his stomach. The grim awareness and the thrill of impending combat blended into a contradictory cocktail of emotions that only the crucible of battle could distill. The very real possibility of death surged through his mind and every nerve in Pierre's body tingled. His white linen overalls, heavy and coarse, were now caked with mud and torn at the seams. As was his canvas gaiters, once white, were also soiled with mud and grime. His square- toed hobnailed boots though worn at the soles from the incessant marching, has at least held out. Other soldiers weren't so lucky. Corruption was rampant within military contractors and suppliers, and footwear quality varied, especially as the demand for uniforms increased and the desire to shirk quality control went with it. Some soldiers from other regiments were nearly barefoot- the cardboard soles having fallen apart.
Overcast skies hung heavy with gray clouds, casting a muted pallor over the dipping sun, as the smoke and haze from French guns only added a spectral aura that settled upon Cemetery Knoll. A chill permeated the air, hinting at the approach of dusk. Occasional gusts of wind carried a biting edge, rustling through the leaves and creating an eerie melody that added to the sense of anticipation. Pierre felt cold despite the two jackets he wore, and the weight of the knapsack on his back, only threatening to buckle his trembling knees. To the sides of Borstal road, the landscape alternated between open fields and patches of woodland. Trees, their branches devoid of leaves in the approaching autumn, cast elongated shadows in the afternoon light. The occasional dilapidated fence or ancient stone wall marked the boundaries of fields, adding to the picturesque yet foreboding scenery. Pierre's gaze shifted between the ground beneath his boots and the silhouette of the British position ahead. The cemetery loomed like a foreboding monument.
Pierre's eyes widened at the sight of the impact of the French canister shot exploding over the heads of the British soldiers on Cemetery Knoll. In the fleeting moment before chaos ensued, time seemed to slow, allowing Pierre to take in the horrific tableau with grim detail.
The canister shot, a lethal cone of death, disintegrated in mid-air, its metal casing tearing apart with an ear-piercing shriek. The projectiles within, deadly shards and musket balls, fanned out in a gruesome conical formation, cutting through the air with malevolent intent.
The air crackled with the deadly symphony of destruction as the lethal spray tore through the British ranks. Bodies crumpled under the relentless onslaught, their forms twisted and contorted in agonizing poses. Pierre felt a profound sense of dread as he advanced, navigating the brutal aftermath of the canister shot's impact. The once defiant British soldiers lay strewn across the knoll, their collective silence echoing the brutality of war. The stench of gunpowder permeated the air, creating an indelible olfactory imprint that would linger in Pierre's memory.
The British responded in turn. A cannon atop the knoll roared, unleashing its own fiery breath, and the whizzing projectile cut through the air, narrowly missing Pierre's section. In that tense moment, Pierre's mind raced with anticipation. Pierre's gaze fixed on the distant artillery position. He knew it was only a matter of time until the well drilled British gunners adjusted their sights. The looming threat of a British cannonball tearing through the ranks made Pierre shudder.
The sound of musketry, distant yet steadily growing louder, indicated that battle had commenced elsewhere- further west. Pierre's breath quickened, a visible vapor in the cool evening air. His senses heightened, capturing every detail—the scent of damp earth, the distant cries of birds silenced by the approaching storm, and the salty tang of his own sweat.
The wind whispered through the gnarled branches of ancient trees, creating an otherworldly symphony that underscored the gravity of the impending clash. The rolling terrain offered little cover, and as the French troops approached closer to within musket firing distance, the dread Pierre felt within him only continued to mount.
Pierre Dumont's gaze swept across the knoll, counting the tombstones and crosses that now stood as silent sentinels against the backdrop of encroaching darkness. His eyes occasionally drawn upward to the majestic regimental standard eagle perched ahead of the rank and file. The golden eagle, with its wings outstretched and talons poised, seemed to embody the spirit of the regiment, a guardian watching over them in the face of impending conflict. The approximate number of British troops defending Cemetery Knoll was elusive, their positions concealed in the folds of the undulating landscape.
Pierre's thoughts involuntarily drifted to memories of Canterbury, just two nights prior. The image of Ann, the English woman whose house he and his comrades—Francois and Antoine—had been billeted in, played in his mind like a flickering candle flame in the encroaching darkness. Her warm hospitality had been a brief respite from the rigors of military life, and the contrast between that tranquil night and the impending battle heightened the surreal nature of his emotions. Longingly, Pierre thought of the quaint English house, its hearth crackling with warmth, and Ann's smile that had momentarily eased the burdens of war. The sense of dread was now entwined with a pang of nostalgia, a fleeting connection to a world beyond the immediate horizon of conflict.
Yet, as his mind wandered to Canterbury, thoughts of his parents in Saint-Mer-Eglise surfaced. The familiar sights and sounds of the farm, the rolling fields, and the harvest season played like a bittersweet melody in his mind. The separation from his roots, the impending clash, and the uncertainties of war forged a complex cocktail of emotions within him. Passing thoughts of desertion had briefly come across his mind at Chatham just the night before, and the mere thought of it had shamed him. Now as the impending clash loomed, he felt just a tinge of regret. Maybe slipping quietly into the night wasn't such a bad idea after all? The thought came as a whisper in his mind, as though even imagining it risked being heard by his comrades. In any case, it was too late now. Besides, where would he go? He was after all on an island where he doesn't speak the language, if the French authorities don't catch him, then certainly the hostile English will, and at this point, the former was preferable. Even if by some miracle he managed to make it back to Normandy,the gendarmerie patrolled the French countryside looking for deserters. Though it was unlikely he’d be shot for a first offense, the thought of being chained to a cannon ball while performing hard labor in camp didn’t quite appeal either, not to mention the dishonor. No, Pierre was determined to see this thing through, he prayed that if death came for him,he hoped that it would be quick.
Francois, newly promoted to corporal, now marched in the first section of the battalion column, and now held a crucial role in maintaining order and discipline within his section. Now marching at the front. The burden of his new responsibility was not lost on him and he attempted a wry smile that barely concealed the tension in his eyes, "Well lads, it looks like our autumn stroll through the cemetery has taken an unexpected turn, hasn't it?"
Francois's attempt at humor which would have normally elicited a few laughs from their comrades, was only met with silence, the levity was punctuated by the distant roar of cannon fire. The thought of dying in a cemetery brought with it a sense of macabre irony if not the sick convenience of fighting for a plot of land full of dead people. The possibility of joining them momentarily didn't quite sit well with Pierre who was two ranks behind his friend Francois. In spite of the wave of nausea he felt welling up in the pit of his stomach, he managed his own attempt at gallows' humor. "Aye, what's a little twilight skirmish among friends?” After a brief pause to reign in his quivering voice, he added, “Perhaps the dead would appreciate a change from the monotony."
Finally, a few uneasy laughs rippled through their section. The absurdity of joking about ghosts in the midst of battle provided a peculiar release, a momentary diversion from the more tangible dangers that lurked on Cemetery Knoll.
"Enough of your chatter, you two. Barked a gruff Sergeant, Emile Aubert, his eyes glinting with a stern resolve. " There are living foes ahead!"
Pierre and Francois fell silent, their banter silenced by the authoritative tone of the sergeant.
The sergeant's gruff demeanor, honed by years of command, carried an unambiguous message — the impending battle demanded a focus that transcended the levity of their usual camaraderie.
Now within musket range of cemetery knoll the air became rent with the crackling of musket fire. Pierre could feel the change in the atmosphere, the tension escalating with each step. The British, entrenched on the knoll, had unleashed their first volleys, and the whistling of musket balls filled the air.
The French battalion chief's voice rose above the din, shouting orders to maintain formation and advance steadily. "Forward!" he bellowed, the command carrying over the tumultuous sounds of battle. In response, the battalion maintained its surge forward with a coordinated movement.
Sergeants echoed the commands, their voices cutting through the cacophony of battle. The battalion, disciplined and drilled, responded to the shouted directives, adjusting their pace and aligning to face the looming threat on Cemetery Knoll. Smoke billowed from the British musketry being fired in volleys obscuring Pierre’s view in the second rank. He flinched at each cannon shot and at each crack of musket fire, and he fought back every human instinct to run. He could see the determination in the eyes of his comrades, the shared understanding that this advance was but a prelude to the storm that awaited them on Cemetery Knoll.
As the 94th Infantry Regiment approached, the shadows seemed to coil around the tombstones, casting ominous shapes on the uneven ground. The wind carried echoes of distant voices, as if the fallen, whose names adorned the stones, were silently murmuring warnings to those who dared disturb their eternal slumber as the chaos of battle raged around Pierre Dumont and the battalion column’s relentless advance.
Over the cacophony of musket fire and the distant thunder of cannons, the battalion chief's shouted orders cut through the clamor."Form firing lines!" came the directive, a crucial command that signaled the transition from a steady advance to a deadly exchange of musket fire. Pierre, positioned in the second rank, heard the order relayed by the company sergeants, their voices urgent and authoritative.
"Chargez armes!" The first command resonated, prompting Pierre to bring his hand behind the stock down to his cartridge box. Though his hands quivered, his fingers swiftly grabbed hold of a cartridge.
The disciplined rhythm of the French battalion continued, each soldier performing the sequence with well-practiced efficiency.
The metallic click of bayonets fixed to musket barrels resounded through the air as the men prepared for the imminent volley but a chilling whirr of incoming lead fired from the British lines tore through Pierre’s section felling several men. A sharp crack echoed perilously close to Pierre's ears, leaving an unsettling ringing sensation that momentarily disoriented him. A lead projectile had narrowly missed its mark, grazing the air with a screaming whisper.The sickening realization of how close he had come to joining the fallen sent a shiver down Pierre's spine. He felt his own mortality more now than he ever did and it pressed upon him with an almost tangible force.
The French firing lines stayed in formation and the sergeants continued with the musket drill commands to return fire as quickly as possible before the next round of British volleys. Chargéz armes!"
The front ranks brought their muskets to the shoulder, the barrels leveled at the British positions on Cemetery Knoll. The rear ranks, having stepped forward during the firing sequence, readied themselves to follow suit.
"Ouvrez le bassinet!" Pierre's hand moved with a fluid motion, retrieving the cartridge and preparing for the subsequent steps. 'Dechirez cartouche!' cut through the chaos, a harsh command signaling the moment to tear the cartridge open. Pierre's hands, coated in a mixture of sweat and dirt, moved with a practiced urgency. Gripping the paper casing, he tore it open with a swift, controlled motion. The torn paper fluttered down, caught momentarily in the updraft created by the ongoing musket fire. Pierre's fingers deftly worked to expose the powder within, the contents now vulnerable to the elements as the odor of freshly exposed gunpowder assailed his nostrils.
Pierre looked down, pouring the powder into the musket pan, the contents catching the glint of dying sunlight.
Suddenly, Pierre, mid-motion with his cartridge, flinched at the incoming rumble of cannon projectiles. A British cannon, strategically positioned on the cemetery to unleash havoc upon the advancing French columns, belched another payload. This time the crew had successfully readjusted their fire, and the iron ball in an instant collided with a tightly packed French column, the impact sending shockwaves through the bodies of the soldiers. Limbs shattered and bodies tossed aside like ragdolls. The chilly air was pierced by the even chillier gut-wrenching screams of the wounded. Pierre was momentarily frozen by the horror unfolding around him.
The artillery duel between the British and French intensified, creating a nightmarish symphony of destruction that reverberated across Cemetery Knoll.
As Pierre resumed the drill, his hands moved mechanically, but his eyes reflected the haunted expression of a man caught in the midst of a relentless tempest. The brutality of war, starkly illuminated by the dying sunlight, etched itself into Pierre's memory with a cruelty that no amount of training could prepare him for.
"Fermez le bassinet!" The order was screamed by a sergeant With a swift motion, Pierre closed the frizzen, securing the priming. The drill continued seamlessly with "L'arme a gauche," guiding the soldiers to bring their muskets to the left side, creating a tight and coordinated firing line.
"Cartouche dans le canon," the order rang out, prompting Pierre to swiftly load the cartridge into the musket barrel.
The soldiers executed each movement in unison. "Tirez la baguette," saw the ramrod drawn and used to seat the bullet. "Remettez la baguette" followed, as the ramrod was returned to its place. "Armes" brought the muskets back to the shoulder, "Joue" directed them to bring the musket to the cheek, and finally, "Feu!" With the final command, a simultaneous discharge of muskets erupted from the French firing lines. Smoke billowed, momentarily obscuring the view as the soldiers unleashed a deadly fusillade toward the entrenched British forces. The deafening roar of musketry mingled with the agonized cries of wounded men, creating a symphony of destruction that reverberated across the battlefield.
With a surge of adrenalin, Pierre squeezed the trigger, unleashing a torrent of fire and smoke from the muzzle of his own musket. The deafening discharge echoed in the chamber of his mind, mingling with the cacophony of thousands of other muskets roaring in unison. Smoke billowed around him, momentarily obscuring his vision, but Pierre felt the seismic impact of the volley coursing through his body. It was a visceral experience, the kickback from the musket reverberating through his arms, a stark reminder that he had become an instrument of death in this grim symphony.
As the smoke dissipated, revealing the battlefield in its gruesome reality, Pierre's eyes scanned the scene, his gaze now attuned to the nuances of the battlefield, fixed upon the distant silhouette of the British lines. The redcoats, resilient in the face of devastation, were regrouping for another volley. The precision of their discipline stood in stark contrast to the chaos and carnage that surrounded them.The metallic glint of bayonets caught the dying light, a chilling reminder of the deadly intent that lurked within the enemy ranks. It was a moment suspended in time, the interlude between volleys, where both sides prepared to unleash the fury of lead and steel upon one another.
A tense anticipation gripped Cemetery Knoll, each man acutely aware of the impending storm. The intermingling scents of gunpowder and blood hung heavy in the air, a nauseating cocktail that permeated the senses. Pierre's eyes narrowed, his senses heightened, as he braced for the inevitable.
In the tumult, Pierre heard. Francois' voice cut through the chaos as he relayed the commands from the sergeants. His presence, marked by a mixture of dark humor and steadfast resolve, offered a momentary reprieve from the gravity of the situation. As the deafening roar of musketry subsided, Francois spurred his section forward, urging them to reload with practiced efficiency.
A second round of British volleys tore through the French ranks, the crackling discharge of musketry mingling with the pained cries of wounded men.
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Seated on top of his horse, 1st Division General Jean Baptiste Drouet surveyed the unfolding chaos on the battlefield.Drouet's gaze swept over the French columns engaged in the fierce struggle for Cemetery Knoll. Drouet's staff officer, a seasoned veteran with a weathered face that mirrored the battles he had witnessed, spoke with a sense of urgency. "General, the British artillery has a clear line of sight over the entire field. Our columns will be torn apart before they even reach the slope." Drouet’s gaze fixed across the battlefield, the undulating landscape dotted with tombstones and broken fences. The British defenses, entrenched on the knoll indeed, presented a formidable obstacle for the advancing French columns. Drouet nodded thoughtfully, "Indeed, their positioning provides a significant advantage. Direct assault could be costly."
"Perhaps a feigned attack on the center," the staff officer suggested, "to draw their attention, while sending a flanking force to neutralize the cannons. It might create a window for the main assault."
Drouet considered the proposal, his mind working through the intricacies of the plan. "A diversion in the center, yes. But we must time it precisely. If the flanking force doesn't move swiftly, the diversion will crumble, and we'll be left exposed."
As Drouet pondered the details of the plan, his sharp eyes caught sight of a hussar cavalryman-a lieutenant, by what he could make out of the two gold chevrons on the trooper's pellise sleeves. The hussar officer was frantically galloping towards him with a sense of urgency. The hussar's swift approach suggested the delivery of crucial information or orders that could influence the unfolding strategy. Drouet raised his hand, signaling the hussar to halt as he reined-in his horse before the general. It was then that A British cannonball crashed into the ground just a few yards away, the explosion sending dirt and debris flying into the air.
The shockwave rippled through the ranks, and the hussar's steed reared up momentarily unbridled. The rider quickly brought the frightened beast under control, calming it amidst the swirling smoke and reverberations of artillery. Unfazed, the hussar officer's gaze remained steadfast on the task at hand, and without missing a beat, he guided his horse towards Drouet. The animal's nostrils flared, its breath visible in the chilly air. The hussar saluted crisply.
“Sir, message from Marshal Bernadotte. He orders you to advance all three brigades of the 94th Regiment of Line. " the messenger shouted over the din of battle.
Drouet, acknowledging the urgency in the hussar officer's message, nodded sharply.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Deliver our gratitude to Marshal Bernadotte.”
As the hussar prepared to depart, Drouet recognized him. The chaos of battle seemed to momentarily recede as he peered through the haze of smoke at the young officer.
"You are Lacroix, are you not?" Drouet inquired, his voice cutting through the chorus of musketry and artillery.
The hussar, momentarily surprised by the General’s recognition, straightened in his saddle and replied, "Yes, sir. Adhemar Lacroix, 6th Chasseurs-à-Cheval.”
Drouet gave a slight nod of approval. "Your name has reached the ears of more than a few in the corps, Lieutenant Lacroix. Your swift delivery at Chatham did not go unnoticed.”
With a salute, Lacroix wheeled his horse around, and as the thunder of artillery continued to reverberate, the hussar officer spurred his steed and galloped off towards Bernadotte.
Drouet's gaze narrowed as he weighed the risks. He turned to his staff officer and began issuing commands. "Coordinate with the division commanders. Have them prepare for a bayonet attack in the center. Simultaneously, send orders for the flanking cavalry to move swiftly and neutralize the artillery."
The prospect of a bayonet charge added a new layer of intensity to the already ferocious battle. Drouet, a seasoned officer, understood the gravity of the situation. The fate of the engagement hinged on the success of this bold maneuver.
Spurring his horse forward, Drouet's gaze swept across the field yet again towards the stubborn British lines at cemetery knoll, assessing the unfolding drama of battle.
With urgency evident in his voice, he struggled somewhat to be heard over the din. "Prepare for a bayonet charge!" he barked at his staff officers.
The staff officers swiftly conveyed the orders to the regimental commanders, who, in turn, relayed them to their men. The drums, previously sporadic in their cadence, now thundered to life with a primal rhythm, echoing across the battlefield. La Charge, the unmistakable call to arms, resonated through the ranks, stirring the soldiers' hearts with the promise of imminent action.
The men quickly understood the signal. The rhythmic beat of the drums infused them with a surge of adrenaline as they tightened their grips on muskets.
The air crackled with anticipation as the French columns readied themselves for the impending bayonet charge.
Drouet, atop his steed, surveyed the transformation sweeping through the 94th Regiment of Line. The sight of disciplined soldiers preparing to meet the enemy with cold steel was a testament to the martial spirit that coursed through their veins. The orders had been given, the drums had sounded, and now, with a shared understanding of the impending assault, the French infantry prepared to descend upon Cemetery Knoll like a torrent of death and fury.
The three brigades, aligned like a spearhead, began to move forward with a disciplined precision. The rhythmic thud of marching boots, punctuated by the metallic clinking of bayonets, signaled the impending onslaught.
Cemetery Knoll, no longer a tranquil resting place exuded a palpable energy—an amalgamation of the living and the dead. The graves, some adorned with tattered remnants of funeral wreaths, seemed to bear witness to the countless souls that had passed into the great unknown. The ground, uneven and softened by years of decay, yielded a disconcerting softness underfoot, as if the earth itself held the secrets of generations. The chill in the air heightened the eeriness of Cemetery Knoll, each breath a reminder of the thin veil separating the tangible and the intangible. As the 94th prepared for the clash, their hushed whispers and the muffled sounds of equipment created an unsettling counterpoint to the stillness of the graves.
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Col. Louis Lepic preparing his mounted grenadiers at the Battle of Rochester.
Colonel Louis Lepic grimaced in pain as he mounted his saddle. His arthritis, aggravated since the landings at Sandwich Bay, had been particularly brutal. Despite his affliction, he had spent his time recuperating in Canterbury, under the care of Doctor Dominique-Jean Larrey. Now, as he surveyed the scene from the saddle, his two squadrons of Mounted Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard were under relentless British artillery fire emanating from the ominous Cemetery Knoll.Col. Louis Lepic preparing his mounted grenadiers at the Battle of Rochester.
Colonel Louis Lepic, though no longer in the first flush of youth, possessed a vigor and determination that belied his age. Born in 1765, Lepic had witnessed the tumultuous events of the French Revolution and the rise of Napoleon Bonaparte. He began his military career at 16 joining a dragoon regiment and quickly rising to the rank of squadron commander distinguishing himself in Italy.
By the time he assumed command of the pretigious Mounted Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, he had already earned a reputation as a seasoned and capable officer. His military exploits in various campaigns, from Italy to Egypt, had forged his character and solidified his commitment to the ideals of the French Republic.
The recent affliction of arthritis, a consequence of the wear and tear of numerous campaigns, did little to dampen Lepic's spirit. His time under the care of Doctor Larrey in Canterbury was a brief respite, and now, as the thunder of artillery echoed around him, he found himself once again at the forefront of battle.
The sharp cracks of cannons echoed through the air, and Lepic could feel the reverberations in his bones. His men flinched and crouched low on their horses, remained on standby, waiting for the command to charge. Lepic's eyes scanned the field, gauging the situation. The British defenses on Cemetery Knoll posed a formidable challenge, but Lepic's determination burned bright.
As he settled into his saddle, Lepic rallied his men with a characteristic blend of humor and authority, "Heads up, gentlemen! Those are bullets, not turds!" The dry remark elicited a few chuckles from his troopers, a brief levity in the midst of the looming battle. The pain in Lepic's joints was momentarily forgotten as he prepared to lead his Grenadiers into the heart of the fray.....
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It's back! So glad seeing this returning! Looking forward to how you're gonna have this battle play out.
Just discovered this TL today, and it is amazing! Loving the character work and attention to detail - really captures the feel of early 19th century warfare. Can't wait to read more!
Makes me want to go see "Napoleon" this weekend (although I've been told it rivals "Jurassic Park" in the area of historical accuracy...)
Makes me want to go see "Napoleon" this weekend (although I've been told it rivals "Jurassic Park" in the area of historical accuracy...)
Thank you. I will try to post chapter 16 as early as this week. And speaking of Ridley Scott's Napoleon it was bad. And I went in wanting to give it a chance. By his own admission he didn't even consult historians. So what we got was his own anti-Napoleon pet project.
I'm still debating whether to turn this battle into an Austerlitz or a sledgehammer Eylau, or what Wellesley's fate will be. After seeing the arrogant prick in Ridley Scott's movie, should I have him fall off his horse while high tailing it back to Rochester castle and get trampled by French hussars? Or get captured later after the fall of London wearing a woman's dress while trying to board a ship to Canada?
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Anything is fair in love and war, as long as he gets put on his knees and delivered like a prized fish at Napoleon's feet, I would be happy to see it.I'm still debating whether to turn this battle into an Austerlitz or a sledgehammer Eylau, or what Wellesley's fate will be. After seeing the arrogant prick in Ridley Scott's movie, should I have him fall off his horse while high tailing it back to Rochester castle and get trampled by French hussars? Or get captured later after the fall of London wearing a woman's dress while trying to board a ship to Canada?
In terms of historical accuracy yes there were issues but personally I thought the film overall was excellent in my opinion. just shows everyone can view the same things differently lol 😊Thank you. I will try to post chapter 16 as early as this week. And speaking of Ridley Scott's Napoleon it was bad. And I went in wanting to give it a chance. By his own admission he didn't even consult historians. So what we got was his own anti-Napoleon pet project.
I'm still debating whether to turn this battle into an Austerlitz or a sledgehammer Eylau, or what Wellesley's fate will be. After seeing the arrogant prick in Ridley Scott's movie, should I have him fall off his horse while high tailing it back to Rochester castle and get trampled by French hussars? Or get captured later after the fall of London wearing a woman's dress while trying to board a ship to Canada?
EDIT: I will add here, that i have noticed disconnect between those that went expecting a movie about his career versus those that new going in that this would focus more on his relationship with Josephine. So if you haven't seen it without spoiling too much, expect more focus on this relationship with her and his personality in general rather than a focus on his career. There is of course focuses on key battles but the battles themselves are not as indepth as say Gettysburg or Waterloo movies.
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Weren't be surprised if he brought to Napoleon in his undies after he captured by some enlisted who took the opportunity to loot him of everything valuable 😆After seeing the arrogant prick in Ridley Scott's movie, should I have him fall off his horse while high tailing it back to Rochester castle and get trampled by French hussars? Or get captured later after the fall of London wearing a woman's dress while trying to board a ship to Canada?
Are we going to end up with the Catholic Jacobite claimant, the cardinal Duke of York I think, on the Irish throne?