Napoleon General: Mountain Paths

By Benno Schlicker

In the aftermath of the Siege of Toulon, Napoleon emerges triumphant, driving the British from the Midi Region of Southern France. Yet, the shadow of war with Austria looms ominously. While battling external foes, Napoleon faces internal demons: the treacherous political landscape of Paris, the snare of Barras, and a corrupt Directory eager to undermine him.
Despite saving a government that once sought his demise, having him imprisoned during the chilling Jacobin purges post-Robespierre, Napoleon’s resilience shines. His decisive ‘Whiff of Grapeshot’ during the Vendemaire crisis not only earns him accolades and the command of the Army of Italy, holding back Austrians in the rugged terrains of Genoa and Piedmont but also the heart of Josephine de Beauharnais, his legendary love.
Napoleon General: Mountain Paths meticulously chronicles this turbulent era, offering readers an immersive journey into warfare's evolving artistry and Napoleon’s growing genius within it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035827466

Benno Schlicker

Benno Schlicker lives in Adelaide, South Australia. He went to Concordia College Secondary School, and then on to study History at the University of Adelaide, where he completed an honours thesis on the Dutch Revolt, particularly, on the impact of the religious iconoclasm in the towns of the Low Countries and Walloon Flanders, 1555–1566. His knowledge has, to some degree, shaped the cultural and economic background of this series on Napoleon, set a few centuries later.

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About the Author

Benno Schlicker lives in Adelaide, South Australia. He went to Concordia College Secondary School, and then on to study History at the University of Adelaide, where he completed an honours thesis on the Dutch Revolt, particularly, on the impact of the religious iconoclasm in the towns of the Low Countries and Walloon Flanders, 1555–1566. The knowledge of which has, to some degree, shaped the cultural and economic background of this series on Napoleon, set a few centuries later.

Dedication

To Max, my brother, and to brothers the world over. And to my father, a descendant of Würzburg, the ancestral home of the Würtemberg line.

Copyright Information ©

Benno Schlicker 2024

The right of Benno Schlicker to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035827459 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035827466 (ePub e-book)

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First Published 2024

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Acknowledgement

Also by Benno Schlicker:

Napoleon Uprising: The Fall of Tyrants

Napoleon Guillotine: Bayonets of Liberty.

s01s1

Prologue

Island of Saint Helena

South Atlantic, 1825

Napoleon’s mind wandered and drifted like the piece of weathered timber he spied floating slowly towards the shore. It rose upon the crest of a wave which curled ponderously, a clear, foaming, broiling, white lengthening crest that seemed to approach diagonally towards him with a frightful yet tantalising ferocity. The seething wall crashed down on the shore, sending the rotten timber hurtling through the air before smashing into shards on a submerged barnacle encrusted rock.

‘I thought I might find you here,’ he heard the friendly voice of Antoine de Bourrienne chime in behind him.

‘The scene has a certain poignance for me, Antoine.’

‘Yes. I am sure it does,’ Antoine consoled, as he drew closer to his old childhood friend. His written memoirs had been progressing well until Antoine had mention the battle; Castiglione. Napoleon had flowing into a seething rage, like the tide, and stormed out with unbridled anger. He had even left without his old, grey greatcoat; faded and frayed material from years of campaign. It lay still, folded in Antoine’s aging hands now, as his friend approached the cliff-face and placed it gently on his shoulders.

‘So, this is what I am to you, Antoine, another avenue to your own fame and fortune?’ Napoleon asked, hurt. He was constantly being used, he thought in the same suffocating self-pity, that mired his achievements. He was about to pick up a small polished stone and throw it into the broiling sea, when he noticed a host of white shells. One of them grew bright red legs and scurried away into its own forgotten hermitage. Napoleon scowled a grumbling frown.

‘I did not know the battle upset you so. I thought it was a victory.’

‘It was…’ Napoleon paused, feeling that spark rekindle. As Antoine retrieved his parchment and quill, still wet with the upturned ink-pot in the caufaffel. Napoleon suddenly fell back into that dark frown mirroring the thick bank of incoming clouds in the endless horizon. Antoine struggling with the paper, all petticoats and tails, brought a smile to Napoleon’s face.

‘I’m only trying to help, Napoleon,’ Antoine said red-faced, and bothered, as the wind seemed to make a mockery of his efforts. Napoleon laughed as one of the pages blew out to see. ‘Oh blast!’

‘I know, Antoine.’

‘I’ve still some brandy. Come and warm yourself by the fire,’ Antoine said soothingly, as the spray of the sea doused them with the up-draft of the next on-coming wave. The near distant thunder-clouds threatened, and despite the exhilaration of the storm, Napoleon should not like to be caught in it, as it began to rain. The distant rumble and flickering golden glows of thunder, were mesmerising, like the battery blast of cannonry; as if Castiglione itself were approaching before his very eyes.

‘Brandy you say?’

‘A whole bottle.’

‘Very well, very well. Get me up, get me up.’ And with that, Antoine helped him to his feet, and they raced the approaching sheets of pouring rain, lapping at their feet, to the safety of the cottage’s shutters, banging loudly to herald the approaching storm, and then closed the door fast behind them.

Part One

Chapter One

La Valetta, January 1794

The river flowed gradually, as Napoleon looked on from the western side of the river bank. He could see the rolling hills to the north of La Valetta, turning a darker shade of green with the rain and deluge of the previous month. The downpour had been constant since the storming of Toulon; a day burnt into his memory. He felt the same nausea in his stomach at the actions taken in that town towards its citizens, but quickly banished the thoughts, turning his focus towards the mountains to the east. Their powdery white peaks glistened in the mid-morning sun. It was a beautiful sight, majestic and delightful to his Corsican eyes, ever so sullied by dust and dry winds. He loved to see the snow, which was so foreign to the dry brown landscapes of his home. Yet the sight did little to settle the unease residing within him; a burning un-ease not easy to suppress.

He heard some faint footsteps behind him, sliding on the damp dew-covered ground. He turned his head to see his brother Giuseppe walking towards him with his steady, slow gait. Even his brother’s relaxed strides made him jealous; jealous of his brother’s easy pace, born from having seemingly all the time in the world. Time was a precious commodity, as fleeting as the last remnants of mist that were evaporating before the gently rising first glow of sun; dissipating before his very eyes. The few brief moments of still and calm gone in an instant, as his brother sat down beside him, and the white cotton of his breeches dampened slightly on the dew-covered grass. ‘I thought I might find you here,’ Giuseppe remarked with the smallest semblance of care in his voice. Napoleon suddenly felt the familiar pain in his stomach ease briefly, as did the burden from the continual, rampant, incessant speed of events.

‘I needed some peace and quiet,’ Napoleon answered as he turned his face back towards the river, which continued its gentle rhythm. He watched as the debris from upstream flowed beyond his view; fallen branches and leaves dancing upon the currents, gathering pace as they began to sweep around the small bend to the right of his vision.

‘I can understand why,’ Giuseppe responded gently, with a crooning tone. ‘The recent few months have been turbulent to say the least.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Napoleon answered abruptly. Giuseppe waited patiently, the strained silence tainting the surrounds. He had seen his brother like this before, but knew that the silence would not last for long. ‘After all I did, and all I achieved,’ Napoleon groaned suddenly, with the outburst of a rushing torrent. ‘And still I am not recognised by my peers. And furthermore, Caroline de Colombier left anyway. She took the first ship from Toulon with little more than a farewell.’

‘Where did she go?’ Giuseppe asked with tenderness.

‘I advised her to go to the British colonies in the north of the new world. She will be safe there,’ Napoleon complained with disappointment, as he snapped a thin twig in his robust, though stout hands, before hurling the pieces into the river and watching them drift away on the current.

‘You thought taking one of the most fortified cities in southern France would have compelled her to stay?’ Giuseppe asked comically. And then more seriously, ‘… given the Republic’s attitude to her class… given your own sympathies even.’

‘Strained sympathies,’ Napoleon glared at Guiseppe, so much the conservative of the two. It was he that was to become a priest, an eventuality that did not occur with the outbreak of war, and their banishment from Corsica. ‘It should have had her swooning... I don’t understand women,’ he blustered, throwing the next object in his hands, which happened to be a small pebble he was spinning between his thumb and forefinger into the steady stream. It reminded him of those early childhood days in Corsica, and he was pained again at the thought of their lost home.

‘You could not have expected her to change who she was or what she was,’ Giuseppe said with surety. ‘Her breed has left this continent and you can understand why, and can you blame her?’ Napoleon was caught with the mixture of guilt and indecision once again.

‘No. I can’t,’ Napoleon answered sadly, in an only just audible whisper. France was still in dreadful upheaval. Although the army had managed to expel the British from Toulon, and dealt the populace terrible reprisals for disloyalty; having relied on force to maintain control, force was now their only means of governance. Their lofty moral ideals lost in an instant. It was this, as well as his affections being shunned, once again by a woman he loved, that threatened to overwhelm him and plunge him into the deepest of darkest melancholy. He could not blame the Emigres for leaving, nor could he blame Caroline. Yet still the creeping feeling that he was once again being used, now by a horrific regime to further someone else’s ends, fuelled his burning indignation. People were always using his abilities and genius for their own; claiming him and his intellect.

‘We could leave as well…’ Giuseppe suggested quietly, with the hollow supposition of the ardent follower, leaving the possibility of escape linger seductively there. ‘We have served our duty and there are many places in the world yet unexplored.’ Giuseppe looked wistfully out to the sea, the scent of its’ wholesome salt, a gentle cleanse upon the breeze, as was the distant shimmer of blue far off in the distance. It reminded him of that first adventure they took those many years ago, from the coast of Bastia to mainland France, when they were regaled with the tales of pirates from Captain Phillip Reynard’s beguiling, adventurous exploits.

‘Leave! Leave what we have built and strived for? Abandon the army at the front! Could you do that? Cut and run and leave them all behind?’ Napoleon questioned his brother angrily, doubt crossing Giuseppe’s face. He would rather his older brother tell him France was not worth it; and rebuke him for his naivety. But the brief moment of strained silence was enough, enough for him to stay the course, and so Napoleon continued reluctantly. ‘No we must stay, and finish what we started. That is the only way.’ Yet as he said it the British General’s words rang in his ears. ‘At what cost?’ General O’Hara had asked the young Napoleon, while in rusty chains, following the British defeat at Toulon. It had been a barb impossible to remove; nestled in his conscience like some parasite that ever made its presence felt. He still remembered the English ferocity on Mount Caire’s slopes, and their fearsome Highland grenadiers, and once again felt infinitely out of his depth at the task ahead of him. What would it be like, fighting the Austrians on the entrenched hills and redoubts of Piedmont and Genoa? He thought to himself, feeling cold, despite the morning’s gathering warmth.

‘Come and warm yourself in the cottage,’ Giuseppe said calmly, sensing Napoleon’s disquiet. The two stood from the river bank. Napoleon wrapped his jacket more tightly around him, feeling the confidence as he looked down at the newly woven gold-bullion braid cavity-chords. They perched on his shoulders, along with the scarlet collar around his neck, vibrant against the dark navy coat and its shimmering brass buttons. They looked like naval officers, albeit of the field, as was French reputation in artillery. He had elevated himself to the status of a Lieutenant-Brigadier of artillery, awarded the promotion through his own merit and achievement, not bestowed because of a noble name or Bourbon affiliation, but for his actions at Toulon. The thought strengthened his resolve, as they began to walk towards the cottage.

Napoleon had to admire his mother’s tenacity to turn the dilapidated farmer’s cottage into something liveable for his family. Gone were the broken shutters. The holes in the roof were patched up with tarnished pale orange tiles, scrounged from the community of La Valette. The French villagers had welcomed them in their exile from Corsica, particularly when they discovered the rank of Napoleon, and his affiliation with the army stationed at Nice. Letizia had even set about creating her own vegetable patch which was nestled neatly to the left of the cottage, as was her want. She was rather particular, wanting all in its place; perhaps a trait he himself possessed. The fresh dew made the vegetables shimmer in the morning light atop the rich dark earth beneath; the smell of which carried refreshingly as he breathed in deeply. Some hens and a rooster squabbled before them, fluttering their wings with their brief attempts of flight, to avoid the brothers’ purposeful strides. It would have been idyllic, if not for the war raging on the near border, little under a hundred miles away.

Giuseppe opened the cottage door, still in need of a fresh coat of paint to gloss over the rough timbers; aged and weathered from time and neglect. Letizia would see to that as well Napoleon mused. As if anticipating their movements, the door opened to reveal his mother. The tiredness in her face from the worry and concern of having left Corsica had dissipated as their position in the community had become more secure under Napoleon’s protection. Gone were the loose, frail, discoloured skin around her face, and her hair had seemed to retain more of its darker lustre. ‘You should get inside you’ll catch your death of cold in the morning,’ she said sternly with her wanton over-protective nature.

‘Oui. Mother,’ Napoleon humoured her with a smile, glad to see that she had not changed at all. He had braved the dangers of cannon fire, and marched in the front rank to storm Fort Mulgrave and fight its damnable redcoats, some of whom were giant kilted Highlanders from the far off British Isles, and here he was being subdued by the loving stern kindness of his diminutive mother.

‘I have found some coffee, and some eggs,’ she said with utter glee.

‘I can see where you got the eggs from, but the coffee,’ Napoleon exclaimed with surprise. ‘We can’t even get coffee at the front at the moment, so poorly supplied as we are, and here in the middle of a small village you have coffee. Who are the Provincial Administrators? Where are we Guiseppe?’

‘The Middi region Sir,’ Guiseppe answered.

‘The Middi Region… I want names!’ Napoleon joked, with the braggish tone of a mock inquisition by a Republican commissar coaxing a denouncement, but knowing full well where they were, for he had seen to their needs since exile.

‘I’m glad after all these years I can still surprise you,’ his mother said with a small mischievous smile.

‘I was able to pilfer some British tea when we took the town of Toulon. I have yet to acquire a taste for it though,’ Napoleon said as he opened his white leather pack and satchel. ‘But it was better than nothing. How did you find the coffee again?’ the smile of a homecoming nestled comfortably on his face.

‘Come now Napoleon,’ Letizia answered. ‘Am I not allowed some secrets?’

‘Forget I even asked,’ Napoleon answered with a slight blush. It was perfectly understandable, and not worth mentioning. The thought of how his mother had survived for all those many years, even in Corsica, while he was away with the Regiment in Valence made Napoleon feel uneasy. The brief pause was punctuated by Giuseppe’s cheerful voice.

‘And you pilfered some English tea as you were saying,’ Giuseppe said covering the embarrassment.

‘Yes,’ Napoleon stammered back as he quickly fumbled, rummaging around in his bag to bring forth a pair of small paper packages wrapped up with brown twine. A sudden dark cloud descended upon his face, at the brief recollection of what happened in Toulon once the battle was over, but that would not dampen his brief homecoming.

‘I’ve never seen tea,’ Letizia answered amused, reviving Napoleon to the present, with eagerness revealed in the glint of her eye.

‘I’m told you put it in boiling water,’ Napoleon answered with affection. It was all the reward to see his mother smile, and forget the pain of their present circumstances of exile. But if she had known what it had cost, perhaps she would think differently.

‘May I?’ Letizia asked reverently as she motioned towards the two parcels. ‘I have the stove lit already,’ she answered with the softer motherly compassion on her rounded face that he could remember from earlier days.

‘I do believe I couldn’t stop you should I want to,’ Napoleon said with affectionate resignation, as she placed her hands on the parcels and shuffled merrily towards the cast-iron stove, that radiated heat from its’ glowing timbers within. He noticed her hands had become more coloured, and seemed fuller and stronger. There was a sense of strength and independence that perhaps she had not felt in Corsica, that she had now found on the mainland. She gently un-tied the twine, and then un-wrapped the parcel, careful not to disturb the precious dried leaves, and risk their falling like ashes upon the floor. She then poured a portion into the boiling water before Napoleon could stop her.

‘I believe they strain the tea-leaves before it is served,’ Napoleon interrupted with an astute tone that ruffled Letizia, who thence gave her son a prideful glower. ‘… So I’m told,’ her son intimated with an apologetic deferral. Her look was of an angry gun-commander into her sphere of expertise.

‘I’m just glad to have my two sons returned to me,’ she said excitedly. The usual fluid movements he remembered from childhood made a little clumsy by her joyous bustling as she prepared the warm, comforting broth for her boys.

‘I’ll still stick with the coffee,’ Napoleon answered as he smelt the roasted beans, while he drew nearer to the black cast iron stove, and the faint glow of the burning embers within. He poured some boiling water onto the roasted grindings, watching the paste dissipate in a swirl of chestnut. He then poured some for himself and his brother, before walking over to sit next to his brother. He could not stop himself from being busy, and his mind from racing. It was an overwhelming urge to be active, continually active, born from a constant restlessness that had been drummed into him since Valence, perhaps even there already, driving him on. His brother seemed not to have the same urgency, sitting there languidly at the table, as he passed the warm drink.

‘Merci. Napoleon,’ Guiseppe said with gratitude.

‘Industrious as always?’ Napoleon chided with a soft rebuke.

‘Those that wish to lead must first serve. I’m just helping you become a better leader,’ Giuseppe answered cheekily, as Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

‘You would stop at nothing to absolve yourself of your laziness,’ Napoleon said sternly as he sat down with the slightest exasperation, a bit like his mother. The creaking timbers of the wooden chair groaning like his weary bones. Perhaps he was putting on weight. He had barely begun to let the warm drink wash comfortably down his throat, before he heard the unmistakable sound of cavalry approaching from the west of the cottage, from the direction of Toulon. Immediately he stood from his chair, and strode swiftly towards the nearest window. In the middle distance he saw the distinct outlines of four French officers riding towards the cottage. He felt his shoulders slump once more. They needed him again. He rubbed his tired eyes as he took another sip of coffee, and felt its’ warm bitterness revive him, if only for moments. He watched the horsemen come closer and then he began to recognise them each in turn.

Captain Rueben Chevalier led the small party. He was an artillery officer of repute, who had been with Napoleon from the start. He had risen from the dregs of society as a lowly textile weaver in Lyon, where they had first met. Napoleon had noticed his ability and recruited him immediately, during the chaos that spread throughout the country, precluding the Fall of the Bastille now five years hence. With a regretful pang of heartache, he noticed the absence of Captain Rolland de Villeneuve. His heavily bearded face, of unrivalled jocularity, would no longer cheer his sombre moods with his fiery rebukes or resigned grumblings. He had died at Toulon, felled as he stood at his battery by unseen lead from far off artillery in the dark. Killed ignominiously in the night amidst a hail of fire upon the very night they stormed Fort Mulgrave. The loss weighed him down like a stone.

There was also Lieutenant Junot, a young dashing Lieutenant that had arrived with reinforcements after the battle to replenish their numbers. His youthful energy had yet to suffer from the rigours and fatigue of campaigning. But seeing him brought a sense of rejuvenation.

There was also another promising officer. Captain Marmont. An artillery commander who had been assigned to the army as well. He was Italian. Dark brown hair shimmered in the light. He also wore a moustache. They had met briefly at Toulon, it was reputed that he had fought bravely there, but with another regiment. There was something he liked about Marmont: a dependability. He looked a General of Rome, and Napoleon would later call him just that, and here and now with a young Junius Brutus standing beside him in Andoche Junot, it was not so much a stretch to combine the two… perhaps on paper in the enemy’s confused hands atleast… his mind racing again with strategems. He gave a guilty chuckle as he thought of the joke already amidst baffled introductions… ‘Junot Brutus? Why yes I do… General of Rome… not that him over there… Marmont… ahh I was confused… yes because now he has on the side-burns, dreadful English custom, and so shaved his moustache for a new campaign… oh I see.’ Or so the joke would go. Perhaps one day, pending proficiency with artillery, he could hold three flanks with just the two of them, or perhaps more with the threat of just the one. The term was a decoy.

‘Looks like my time of relaxation is at an end now,’ Napoleon said wistfully to himself as he strode towards the entrance of the cottage; he would rather greet them outside than await their beckoning rattle upon the door. To Giuseppe’s credit he stood from his chair and followed his brother’s lead. Napoleon grasped the iron latches and slid them from their rusting sockets; the rasping of the metal bars as they slid, grating in his ever increasingly sensitively ears. The stiff hinges creaking as he pulled the heavy wooden door open. ‘Needs some oil on these hinges Giuseppe,’ he reproached with a seemingly angry tone. Giuseppe felt the full weight of his brother’s commanding presence in the voice, and fearsome, penetrating stare that descended upon his face, giving it a tinge of cruelty, hitherto unseen. In an instant he had transformed into a man of considerable rank. Giuseppe was about to joke, when he thought better of it.

The door opened in time for them to see the four horsemen pull up in front of the cottage, with neighs and snorts. The eruption of loose earth from the now disturbed turf, the soft mud of which, rose up to coat the officer’s once cleanly polished black leather boots, and white breeches.

‘Make sure you keep those unruly animals away from the garden,’ Napoleon boomed out sternly as the officers dismounted amidst the smiles and brief titter of laugher.

‘Napoleon the farmer,’ Rueben answered with a smile from his young face. ‘Who would have guessed?’ he was about to clasp hands as they had before, but the expression on Napoleon’s face, and his new brocade made him think otherwise.

‘Farmer, me? No my mother has the prowess with horticulture, and I’d sooner face a Highlander’s bayonet than her retribution if your horses make a mess of her vegetable garden.’

‘I can well imagine,’ Rueben mocked with amusement. ‘Junot, take the horses to the stables over there.’ Rueben’s confidence had taken on a certain charm, that seemed to fill the void left by the loss of the hairy, cheerful Rolland. Napoleon searched the young man’s eyes, behind which was still the hidden sadness of loss.

‘At once,’ the young Lieutenant answered with a mixture of meek obedience and nervous excitement, as he gathered the reigns and began leading the horses away, amidst the swishing of horsetails, and the soft clop of shod hooves on the sodden ground.

‘There is some tea and coffee waiting inside, and a warm fire,’ Napoleon said invitingly as he gestured for them to follow. Marmont bit the leather finger of his brown leather, riding gloves and pulled it off, obscuring his half smile at the prospect of a warm fire. He had been learning some manoeuvres with the new addition to their artillery. The horse artillery, and their caisson Würsts, a term the Austrians hated, but which engendered a semblance of humour from the young artillery brigade. Their mounted crews upon the ammunition chests, accompanied Napoleon’s former regiment that he still affectionately termed La Ferѐ despite the distinct regulations of it being deemed 1st Artillery Regiment. The rest of the Regiment from Valence, was with Alexandre and Bernhard DeMazi, and Baron Du Teil, the commander of the artillery school. All of whom were fighting to the north.

‘Your hospitality is as grand as your fabled exploits of command,’ Marmont said with the distinct undertone of mockery ringing in his deep voice. They were potential rivals for command after all. His thick locks of dark hair, as well as the lines of burden and responsibility etched onto his weather beaten leather face, making him look older than his early thirties. His stature was most imposing, with heavy broad shoulders, and a thick neck from years working artillery. Even as an officer, he did not shirk the labour of his hands, a trait that engendered their upmost respect. They waited for Junot before they each went towards the cottage to escape the early morning chill.

The warmth of the cottage lightened the officers’ mood, and after some brief introductions they were soon sitting down to face one another. Letizia soon gave her leave with regal airs, which Napoleon found delightfully comical, particularly in her excitement at having gentlemen at her table for the first time in many years; though the expression did not cross his austere features as they began their discussions.

‘So what brings you here?’ Napoleon asked curiously. He was surprised to have had his leave interrupted so abruptly.

‘You have new orders,’ Rueben explained as he rummaged through his coat pocket to retrieve a sealed envelope which he passed to Napoleon with relief. The pale yellow paper felt coarse in his hands, the quality substandard to what he was used to. He took a small silver spreading knife, one small possession from their previous lives, still on the table from the morning’s meal and slid it through the regimental seal, emblazoned with the crossed cannons of 1st Artillery Regiment in its dark red candle wax. The knife carved through the seal, leaving traces of bread crumbs and butter on the envelope. He unfurled the letter within with eager trepidacious fingers and began to read the contents; his restless eyes darting over the paper before him.

‘I have been ordered to Nice to join the Army of Italy,’ Napoleon said tersely, with the smallest semblance of thrill hidden in his expression, unseen by all but Giuseppe.

‘Do you think Marshal Lezare Carnot wants us to attack Piedmont?’ Rueben asked inquisitively.

‘I do not know but the Kingdom of Piedmont is the only state between us and the Austrian provinces of Lombardy and Milan,’ Napoleon stated clearly. ‘Yet I am surprised because we know that to the north, he is planning a spring campaign in the Austrian Netherlands, and Germany.’

‘The last I heard was that he sent General Pichegru with 70,000 men of the army of the Nord into the low-countries, against the Austrians under Clerfait,’ said Marmont with a sombre tone.

‘Oui,’ Napoleon responded. ‘And the army of the Ardenne under Charbonnier and Desjardins are to push through to advance on Mons from the river Sambre. They are to be supported by Jourdan and the Army of the Moselle.’

‘Jourdan?’ Junot asked astounded. ‘I thought Hoche was in command of that army?’

‘He was,’ Napoleon answered astutely. ‘But after the disaster at Kaiserslautern where the Duke of Brunswick routed the army of Moselle he has been recalled and imprisoned by the authorities in Paris.’ The group each shared some nervous glances between each other, Junot gulping slightly. ‘Make no mistake, Monsieurs, Paris wants results at any cost.’

‘With all the planned campaigns in the north,’ Rueben pondered, ‘we won’t have the resources to go on the offensive in Italy.’

‘I agree,’ Napoleon answered. ‘We will be left with very little, which makes me think that our purpose in Nice will be to merely hold the front.’ There seemed a disappointment in Napoleon’s face at the thought. He had poured over the maps of Northern Italy, and he was convinced that it was there that the dead-lock could be broken. He was sure that once Austria was out of the war, the rest would soon follow suit, particularly Prussia who were having to suppress a liberation movement in Poland.

‘So our destiny lies in Nice then,’ Rueben announced with a certain cynicism which drew a reproving glare from Napoleon. It was instantly followed by the sound of Luigi’s distinctly light footsteps. His younger brother entered the room, his boots clicking on the stone floor. Napoleon read the expression on the young man’s face. His younger brother wanted to go with them. It was something they had discussed. Napoleon stared incisively, searching for any boyish whimsy, or adolescent arrogance. Luigi merely walked humbly towards Letizia and began washing some haphazardly placed plates. It hurt Napoleon’s pride to see his youngest brother Luigi, so eager and ready to prove himself, take on the full humility below his station as a Lieutenant, even before the eyes of fellow officers. Napoleon had no choice. Luigi had grown into a strong young man, taller than he himself was, with all the confidence of youth in his invincible eyes. Those talents would not be wasted washing dishes; not his brother. ‘Join us Lucien, it is time that you got to know the other officers you will be serving with in Nice,’ Napoleon said sternly, but with the slightest smile. Perhaps he had found his third Phantom Front General in years to come, or again the one, for he looked just as Junot. Lucien’s eyes sparkled and his face seemed to glow at the words. Adulation and acceptance amongst peers, not least experience soldiers was prized above all else in the young man. He took a seat next to Junot and the two shook hands. Napoleon suddenly felt fear flare up once more inside him. The boy had passed his exams and graduated as a competent artillery officer at Valence, where he himself had trained. But the next few months would see if he was ready, as they began to discuss the orders.

***

The fort at Nice was convulsing with feverish activity, in the late afternoon sun, made more intense by the sight of some soldiers of Piedmont moving from the mountain passes towards the town. The sound of marching boots and the jingle of canteens, and bayonets as soldiers scurried towards the marshalling field to the east, sounded in Napoleon’s his ears, with every stride towards the stone bastions. The sun shone in his eyes as he looked in the direction of the small force of Piedmont soldiers, who had occupied a village not far to the east.

‘It’s a scouting force,’ said General Massena as he tapped the strong stony edifice before him. Napoleon turned to the General of Brigade and cleared his throat, at which point Massena glanced at him. He was a handsome looking man, Italian-Spanish, albeit the noble appearance holding a semblance of discomfort. His short wavy hair was a deep rich brown, of chestnut, and threatened to curl over his ears. It had paled slightly with a waxy dullness to it that bespoke of the lack of time for even him to wash thoroughly, and it would have run sprawling unchecked down his cheeks, if not trimmed by neat-side-burns. The officer before him, however, possessed an unflappable temperament. The growing rings of over-work underneath his clear and determined eyes were a testament to his resilience. To see such a man chaffing from lack of support was painful, as he looked upon the uniform, which seemed more rags at present.

‘The hussars report that a sizeable force of Piedmontese have ventured from the mountains to take the town of Oneglia on the coast,’ Napoleon observed.

‘The British hold that town as well,’ Massena answered assuredly. Napoleon looked behind him and saw his brother Lucien overseeing some artillery men carrying some powder kegs onto a wagon, while others were loading some artillery caissons. He saw Lieutenant Junot and Captain Ruben Chevalier, both barking orders and felt comforted that at least some experienced officers were supporting him. He looked with pride at the young man standing tall in his blue and red artillery uniform; the scarlet collar bold against the fort’s yellow sand-stone floor. A keg of powder fell to the stones, a small split opening up along one of the wooden seams, as it tumbled away, rolling length-ways, before Marmont stemmed its momentum with a steady boot. Luigi suddenly began to harass the man, in his late twenties for his clumsiness. Napoleon winced a little at seeing the mature soldier berated by someone so his junior. Saw the man stand up straighter and then shoot the young officer a fearsome scowl. To Luigi’s credit, his brother stood his ground but if the other officers were not present it could have been entirely different. He determined to talk to his younger brother about his conduct.

‘Major,’ Massena said abruptly, bringing his attention to the situation at hand. ‘What is your view? Should we foray against the Piedmontese and British?’ he asked with the considered appraisal of the self-assured. Napoleon liked being in the presence of one who was willing to listen and then act.

‘I think we should Sir,’ Napoleon answered confirmed. ‘If only to demonstrate our strength and make the British navy and their privateers operating from the port of Oneglia shudder somewhat.’

‘And what of the fact that you have been assigned the task of drawing up an offensive for a possible campaign in the region? By Marshal Lezare Carnot himself no-less?’ Massena queried with a sense of intrigue.

‘A most agreeable co-incidence,’ Napoleon answered as he retrieved the letter from his jacket pocket. Massena looked suspiciously at the young Major, whose propensity to seek advancement had labelled him as ambitious. Napoleon could read Massena’s dislike for the growing interference from idle politicians in Paris, in his commander’s eyes, and tempered his eagerness somewhat.

‘You have some friends in high places it seems young Major,’ Massena insinuated. ‘It has come, no doubt, from the hand of Christopher Salicetti, the deputy on mission himself.’ There was an air of irritation as he pronounced the name with ungracious magnanimity.

‘It has indeed Sir,’ Napoleon responded hesitantly, slightly regretting the gloating tone he had initially used when mentioning Carnot’s name. He passed over the letter with numb fingers from the cold sea wind that threatened to rip it from his fingers. He brought his hands to his mouth and blew some warm air into his cold fingers; enjoying the momentary warming sensation. Massena took the letter and opened it; perusing its contents.

‘You also have another objective defined in here. You are required to ascertain the intensions of the Genoese Republic,’ Massena inquired, as he brought the unfurled parchment below his waist, to better train his eyes on the young man.

‘Yes, that is why we must have a clear path,’ Napoleon answered coolly. ‘I do believe there are some Austrian and Piedmonts diplomats at Genoa. And we should hate for a dalliance to be interrupted by bands of roaming brigands, Sir.’

‘Quite true. It would serve your purposes then?’ Massena asked cynically. ‘For us to foray against the enemy?’ At this Napoleon looked instantly hurt.

‘It would serve all our purposes. Is that not clear?’ Napoleon reasoned with impassioned ferocity. As if seeing Napoleon for the first time, Massena relented, realising the truth in the young man’s ardent face. The guillotine had made commanders wary of orders from Paris, and the deputies who brought them. A truth Massena’s softening expression acknowledged, as he recognised their common interests. This young man was for him.

‘It would,’ Massena conceded, sighing. ‘Furthermore we could free the Genoese grain trade, which we sorely need. With Carnot sending most of our supplies to the armies fighting in the north, our stores are depleted.’ He folded the orders back up and gave them to the young Major.

‘Not just that Sir, but currently Oneglia is a Piedmontese possession in Genoese territory, before any campaign can be launched against Piedmont, it must be taken at the least as a staging point. It would also stop the British navy and their privateers from operating in the area.’

‘Then it’s settled. I suspect we may need to shake the lethargy from the men. A limited campaign would also act as a good introduction to the younger officers.’ Napoleon was most delighted by this response, particularly as he looked once more at his younger brother.

‘I see here you have the rank of a major of artillery now since your exploits in Toulon.’

‘Yes General,’ Napoleon replied.

‘So I shall give you command of a regiment,’ Napoleon fought the smile that threatened to steal his forced demure expression and replace it with excitement. Still the memory of the expedition in Sardinia, and the Ajaccio failure, made his nerves broil to the surface. Infantry was not as easy to command as was supposed. For some of the Federe militia demi-brigades, even marching in a straight line was difficult, not to mention their propensity to desert. It would test his discipline.

‘My most ardent gratitude Brigadier-General,’ he said calmly.

‘A regiment is difficult to manoeuvre,’ Massena said with a reproving stare.

‘I imagine it would be Sir, but I have an excellent infantry major with an impeccable reputation. Major Deleborde is his name,’ Napoleon answered confidently.

‘Deleborde,’ Massena chuckled heartily. ‘That relic from the ancient regime, I didn’t know he still lived. A rather terse sod by all accounts,’ Massena responded with a mixture of delight and surprise. ‘He is reputed to be the hardest Grenadier commander in France.’

‘That’s why I want him commanding one of the three regiments in the brigade I’m attached to. I know artillery but his experience with infantry would be most welcome.’

‘Any other choice officers you want to poach?’ Massena asked with the slightest hint of exasperation creeping into the question.

‘Now that you mention it, Colonels Cervoni and Mouret also served with me at Toulon. I wish them to command the other regiments.’

‘Colonel Mouret is in the 3rd Light Regiment, and I’m having trouble keeping him. They want him fighting on the Rhine. But I think we can hold him for the moment. And for our divisional artillery?’

‘I do believe that is Baron Du Teil’s concern, as Inspector General of Artillery, though his present location necessitates my command of the six artillery companies of 1st Artillery Regiment within the Army of Italy. But I will press him for Marmont, Junot, Ruben Chevalier and Lucien, my younger brother. I served with them also at Toulon.’

‘I thought you would expect as much, with your background.’

‘They can have Muiron and Dommartin. They are capable artillery officers, and bring with them their own entourage of officers. That should placate their concerns. I brought more than one hundred cannon with me from Toulon, along with half a new regiment of well trained and battle hardened artillerymen to man them. All up we have now 240 field pieces in the region, mostly 12 and eight pounders, the bigger pieces I had moved to the coastal batteries, the 18, 24, and 32 pounders moved to the largest fortifications, when I was ordered to organise the coastal defences.’

‘Yes I was told your prodigious efforts in inspecting the coastal forts from here to Marseilles. Suffice it to say that we are now secure from any British ships and their incursions. A most comforting prospect. Though most of those pieces are ill-suited to the mountain terrain. They can fortify the captured coastal towns. But as for the mountain-paths, they will be more of a hinderance,’ Messena answered, cutting Napoleon off before he was about to infer his unbounded knowledge on the subject. There was a momentary pause as Massena’s face became more grave, and he cleared his throat to continue. ‘I was also told that the authorities in Paris have been looking into certain excesses that occurred in Marseilles and Toulon towards the rebels there.’

‘I was not even at Marseilles and was only used as an artillery commander at Toulon, so whatever you have heard I had no involvement in. The same cannot be said of other Generals.’

‘You speak of Carteaux?’ Massena asked curiously.

‘I was not party to any such knowledge,’ Napoleon avoided the question as he felt nervous sweat slide down his neck and into his shoulder blades.

‘Yet it was certainly lucky for you to have been inspecting the coastal batteries when the inquiry was taking place.’ There were once again the narrowing eyes of Massena burying into Napoleon, with their ardent desire for forthrightness.

‘If it was, then it was by pure coincidence,’ Napoleon answered dubiously. Massena made a quiet yet deep reverberating humming noise, pondering the moral quandary.

‘Nevertheless, there is a faction in Paris that has come to challenge the Committee of Public Safety, and those aligned with Robespierre, its leader. Their less than reputable actions have seen denouncements from many parts of the country as I’m sure you’re aware. You knew Augustin Robespierre did you not, the younger brother of Maximillian?’

‘He was depute-on-mission along with Salicetti and Barras, supervising operations in Toulon. I have no other affiliation with them other than that.’

‘Then I suggest you distance yourself from the two brothers as much as possible. You are a promising officer, and God knows we have already lost too many through emigrations and the guillotine.’

‘Thank you for your assurances,’ Napoleon said with gratitude, and not the least amount of relief, given the turmoil and suspicion embroiling high ranking officers of the army. To know now for certain what he had been suspecting from the rumours and gossip from Paris was unsettling, and he felt the same nausea at the thought of such an horrific end. Over one hundred officers had been killed that way in the last year alone and it was an ever present reminder of what faced them if they failed.

‘If that is all, then I will see to organising my brigade. When do you plan that foray into Piedmont?’

‘The day after next, so have all preparations made by then.’

‘I will, Sir,’ Napoleon answered. He saluted with excitement, somewhat hampered by their previous conversation, as he turned and began the descent down the dark ebony stones of the ramparts that marked the outer defences of one of the four star-shaped forts that surrounded the town. Their angular shaped-slopes clung to the earth with solid masonry. The sight as comforting as they were impregnable. Yet soon he was to be venturing forth from the safe of their walls, and the security of the heavy cannon; for the open field and the forces that wanted France’s destruction. He avoided gulping down the build-up of saliva that had gathered as he strode towards the nearby officers to plan the foray.

The countryside of Piedmont opened out ahead of Napoleon as he drank in the beauty of the mountains that emerged from the gentle slopes before him. It was rich, fertile land, untainted and free from the ravages of war. The rolling fields and valleys meandered by as the brigade travelled east towards Genoa. The contours of the land sloped ever-steadily towards the rugged mountain ranges, and their tenuous passes. Napoleon focussed his eyes on the town of Oneglia that lay ahead of them. The town was nestled on the coast five miles from the Ligurian Alps, which towered above the thin, coastal road that wound its way around the Gulf of Genoa, for some forty miles, to the small republic of that same name. Napoleon perused the landscape, seeing the Tanaro Valley ten miles to the west, wedged between the coastal Alps, and the ranges to the north known as the Col de Tende, which marked the natural frontiers between France and Piedmont. The valley was one of the few mountain passes into Piedmont that was traversable for a large army. But with merely a few miles width between the peaks of the Ligurian Alps and the Col de Tende, it was easily defended. Every now and then Napoleon could see the glint of metal shine in the warm Mediterranean sun from atop those ridges, reminding him of the enemy’s impregnable position. But the mountains would have to wait, for now he was tasked with Oneglia, as the town slowly came into view, lingering on the horizon, until their coastal trek brought the two commanders to an overlooking foothill. He watched as the many British ships, some moored at the town’s piers, and others still wrestling the tides out at sea, acclaimed their majesty upon the tumultuous ocean. With so many foes arrayed against their army it would seem an impossible venture.

Oneglia was sheltering the British ships and privateers that had been plundering French Mediterranean trade, and the thought of their being able to land troops to the rear, made Napoleon look instinctively behind him. He viewed the wide arch of the bay, and the columns trudging behind them. Their plight seemed to taint the majestic view, ragged and dishevelled as they were. They had not been paid in months. Five years, the war had raged on, since the Fall of the Bastille, and it had left morale dangerously low, even after the victory at Toulon. Napoleon watched as one of the men kicked a stone in the road, and noticed in horror the wretch’s unshod bloody feet. The fusilier simply continued on barely conscious in his dazed unnourished state, leaving a trail of bloody stones and pebbles in the packed earthen road.

‘Where are all our supplies?’ Napoleon asked with a sour expression, almost impertinently.

‘With the army of the Rhine to the north, we are a secondary concern here.’ Massena took a looking glass from his left saddlebag, and peered through its brass cylindrical length. He had a sheepish look as he avoided the question. ‘Still the town looks barely guarded,’ Massena observed. ‘Take your brigade to the left and provide a screen for the main assault. I still don’t like the looks of those mountains.’

‘Neither do I,’ Napoleon admitted with a nervous look back over his shoulder to the dark green heights, and their snow-capped peaks.

‘If the town offers more resistance, then I want you to march on it from a northerly direction.’

‘What of the artillery? We have sixty field pieces, ten companies in all including the horse artillery, with forty 8 and 12-pounders and twenty 6-inch howitzers.’

‘What do you suggest? That’s your area.’

‘That all the 12-pound cannon be placed on that ridge by the cliff’s edge over-looking the bay. They could possibly reach the nearest British ships from that range. We need to direct their marine artillery from the main assault otherwise they will train every cannon on our advancing column, and we’ll never reach the town.’

‘Hmmm, I hadn’t even considered the marine artillery,’ Massena said appreciatively.

‘This close to the coast they would like nothing more than to pepper our lumbering advance. But if their attention is directed elsewhere then the main assault could advance unhindered.’

‘Won’t that leave your artillery dangerously exposed?’

‘Yes, but only to the heavy ships, and seeing as the wind is coming off the land they will not be able to manoeuvre quickly enough, thus giving our stationary cannons an advantage. It should prevent them from coming too close and attacking our infantry. But if the wind changes, then we have cause for alarm.’

‘And the remaining forty cannon?’

‘Short range field pieces should be fine for the main assault. Still heavier than what the British would have brought with them on land. Unless they have winched their ships cannon to shore, which could be a possibility.’

‘I see your reputation is well deserved. How long will you need for the artillery to