DISCLAIMER: I do not own history or the Napoleonic Wars. A Song of Ice and Fire and Game of Thrones belongs to George R.R. Martin.
- - - CHAPTER III - - -
JÉRÔME II
298 AC
The festivities were quite... suffice to say, ecstatic. It was the first celebration he had witnessed with these, Robart had introduced, Northerners. And truly, they were as enthused as the elder was once Robart showed them of his gifts, and among them, the other members of their hamlet's councillors. With that mind, they celebrated far into the dusk, and once the hour of the bat had passed, the men were all but drunk and weary of their senses.
Before the celebration, he was promptly introduced to the other elders. Robart of the Wolfswood was one of many, for the elder had stated that no lowborn nor smallfolk—their unique terminology for the common peasantry—claimed a surname. Only in their rise to prominence, or if they are of noble birth, could they claim their household's name.
Jérôme surmised that it would be... difficult should two of the same lowborn status retain too similar names, and would prove troubling in addressing one or the other.
They are composed of five elders, including Robart. He was introduced to each one. There was Warrick, Cerran, and funnily enough, two Brydans of the Wolfswood. One was an older, if frail gentleman, living his middle years, and white and grey strands streaked on thinly layered black hair. The other was younger, in his prime from what Jérôme had gathered from visual inspection alone, a little taller but shorter than himself, and sported a thin cropped beard with a brunette's crown. It was so that they were referred to as Brydan the Older and the Younger respectively, and surely, the tradition would continue as each successive generation lived. As far as he knew, neither were related. It just happened both had the same name.
With that done, all four had also given their thanks to the lost Prince Napoléon, as he had come to introduce himself as the younger brother of their Head of House. And afterward came their "banquet."
The feast had consisted of naught but simple dishes. Not too dissimilar, perhaps, to the foodstuffs available to the laborers and farmers of France. In addition to that, his more communal subjects within the boundaries of his Kingdom. There was roasted chicken and geese, for they were most common of poultry available to the settlement, as well as hunted boar, their wilder counterparts frequenting the deep forestry throughout the contiguous holdings of the Kingdom of the North. Jérôme had barely held his tongue, for fear of offending his hosts. The name was... daringly uncreative. He kept it to himself, however.
Apart from this collection rotisserie meats, there was also an amalgamation of fruits and vegetables. Robart had recounted that there was not such a feast for a long time, since the village's previous bout of harvest festivities. Jérôme had asked why, and he was shocked at the response.
Unlike the normal phases of the four seasons that were in the years of the Gregorian calendar, Robart revealed that they were, at current, living in the precipice of the so-called Great Summer. It had been so proclaimed that it was the longest of the sun's reign, nearing its tenth year slowly but surely, if perhaps some turns of the moon from thereon. It was a shocking piece of revelation to him, that a summer would last so long. It was... preposterous.
He hadn't believed it at first, of course, but there was some... strangeness to this land. Jérôme was sure of it. He sensed it with all his being. The King of Westphalia had yet to fathom an answer to his predicament. There was no telling how he came to be here in the forest, and meet Englishmen who don't know England, and spoke in droves about their Northern kingdom and lords and castles.
They were history in his realm, that the lords and kings of antiquity beget the leading nations of the modern world, and they of the past. And yet, the rabble had explained to him, that the lords of old reigned, and even more so, were they unfamiliar to him.
He knew of the Plantagenets, of the Lancasters, Yorks, and of the Tudors, and their deep-rooted ancestry from the bosom of France, where the ancien régime held sway, and those before it. Of the Capetians, the House of France, and it's cadet descendants. Anjou, Orléans, Bourbons, Courtenay, Valois, Burgundy, and among others. To Jérôme, he knew of them well, for were it for them, then there would be no French Emperor. All, and their posterity, had led to the exact moment when the second Bonaparte son took the French crown, and made the realms his Empire.
The Prince Napoléon knew not of Starks, Boltons, Mormonts, Glovers, Umbers, Reeds, and Manderlys. He knew not of the Riverlands, the Vale of Arryn, and of the Westerlands, the Reach, the holdings of the Crown, nor the easternmost kingdoms of the Stormlands and the southernmost Dorne, and the seemingly Barbaric corsairs that he likened with the "reaving" Iron Islands to the far west.
It was all too much for him, once Robart had explained in lengthy clarity, save for the man's lack of grace with his grammars. He was a learned man, but not that of a proper university. "I was no maester," he had claimed, but Jérôme concluded he had known enough for his round of questioning.
Robart was a veteran of many a battle, as it turns out, albeit as one of the members of the conscripted levies. In particular, the elder served, alongside his colleagues, in such wars. To name some of them were called "the War of the Ninepenny Kings" and the most recent of "Robert's Rebellion". He had probed for further details about such warring, from the factions involved to the figures revolving the wars. Jérôme had a newfound respect for the man who had welcomed him so, perhaps even without the payment in gold bullion. The man, as the Prince had observed, was honorable and true.
Much had been opened to his mind, and Jérôme took a moment for himself to recollect and contemplate deeply. It was not pleasing to assail the mind with such possibilities. Perchance, this was not his brother's dealings, but rather, the ploy of some misguided and cruel deity. He had seen a Light before, when he became lost to the world, and landed upon such an uncanny land, foreign from his home and kingdom.
Mother had always reminded him of the goodness of the Lord in Heaven, ever since Father had passed away and left them to rot in Corsica. In spite of this, he was like his elder brothers: lacking heavily in an inclination towards the holy and divine. And yet, he considered the involvement of the gods or God beyond.
Silly and foolish, all of it.
Jérôme resolved to speak of it no more until he was clear of the village, and he was assured by the more knowledgeable maesters of Torrhen's Square. Their order, as explained, consisted of the more knowledgeable men of this world. Men of the sciences and lore. Robart was all too kind to furnish him with further counsel in that regard.
Tallhart, he practiced. It belonged to the masters of that castle. The name practically rolled off his tongue smoothly and without mishap. He still marveled at the phenomena. With his Corsican, French, and what he understood of the German Deutsch, being multilingual was very much worthwhile.
Once he was ready, he faced the music once more, and decided in feigning the role of a lost prince coming from the east. Essos, they said. He supposed that sufficed for them. The feast was in full course.
With the food came the ale. "Never a feast without meat and mead," Robart had remarked initially, once the women of the settlement served chilled autumn and strong black beer to the attendants. Each of the men drank fervently and rapidly drained their mugs, as they sang of songs that were all but strange to him.
There were many a ballad sung throughout the affair, such as "The Night That Ended," "The Winter Maid," and more popularly "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," in intoxicated and sluggish performances, as the other men neared a dozen or so cups. Jérôme had managed only two, and it was due in part to the taste. God Almighty, was it strong. Too strong to his liking. Comparatively so, the common German lager was in most cases stronger. Jérôme had sampled those once, and found out that his buds were meant for the more elegant winery of the French brew. Of course, this has remained so for a long time. The Empire was the world's beacon in wine and champagne.
The last song, Jérôme had to confess, had some appeal to it. It was a clear favorite to the locals. There was some difficulty in averting himself from joining along the drowsed melodies. Despite his new propensity to use the 'common' tongue amidst their company, and he held true to his native French and Corsican, humming himself tunes from the homeland.
He had somehow enjoyed the feast, even if it seemed disorderly, and quite frankly, mundane. It compared nothing to the charm and beauty of the modern ball or gala. But, what was to be expected?
Yet, there were not the restrictive customs like those of the high court. He needed not to follow the restrained mannerisms of a man of his status, forced to give his platitudes and pleasantries and cater with yes men and would-be vultures. There was no necessity for the grandeur and splendor.
Alas, there was some charm to the festivities of the plebeian. Was this what freedom was like?
He soon dismissed himself by the turn of midnight, he had bid Robart and the others adieu for the witching hours. They had looked at him strangely, not familiar with the word, and much to his amusement, the folk had neglected to implore upon the meaning and had instead addressed his farewell with rambunctious laughter. As much as their drunken stupor accosted him some of his dignity, he had enjoyed their company. He still had an image to maintain, after all.
The Prince Bonaparte had been provided kindly with temporary quarters for the evening—in the form of a separate guest room from within the sizable yet humble shack of Robart's kin. Despite the rather sparse decor and coarse nature of the small room, and the unbearable discomfort of a plain, straw mattress—for his back had grown accustomed to feather beds in the years of his family's rise and reign—he had been thankful for it nonetheless.
Jérôme glanced to the side, his personal gear resting on an old, sturdy chair. The sheathed saber was propped up against the wall, awaiting to be unholstered. He leaned a little, and with the scabbard at arm's reach, grabbed it along its body and promptly set the weapon on his lap. Ignoring the blend of wood, leather and brass, he slid off scabbard to uncover the weapon within.
Noticeable at first was the three-bar guard, the dark leather grip, and inspection marks of the blade's brass hilt. The single-edged blade emerged from the sword's spathe, revealing a smooth and murky texture. The steel, as he had surmised, possessed the most unique of designs: other than a dark tint, there was an intricate and distinctive pattern of banding and mottling—almost like flowing water. It was a most curious finish, he thought. He wondered why it was, and how had this strange metal come to replace the steel he was more familiar with. Jérôme further inspected the blade's appearance, pivoting it from side to side, and considered the markings of the saber's maker along the back of the blade.
The prince slid the blade back into its cover, and set the weapon aside, returning it to its resting place. He moved on to the pistol, nestled in it's belt, with both a holster and ammunition pouch. Just as he did with the aforementioned saber, Jérôme scanned the small arm with scrutiny. The AN XIII French Cavalry pistol, known colloquially as the Model 1805, was an improved model of the prior 1766 Model and the Year 9 design. It has an 8 inch octagonal-to-round barrel has a .69 calibre barrel and an overall length of 14 1/2 inches, providing the cavalryman more ease in drawing and loading during combat. The highly-polished steel used in the barrel is made of tempered steel with a tight breech plug. The grip is reinforced with a steel spine with a brass pan. The pistol's wooden stock was highly varnished. Instead of a barrel band catch that is inlet into the wood, which weakens the stock, the band is instead secured by a brass tongue held by the front lock screw. A more exposed ramrod, shortening the stock, allows the cavalryman's gloved hand to draw it more easily. The lock is made with strong durable springs and has a case-hardened frizzen that throws good sparks. Lastly, Jérôme noted the production offered here is, like he had with the saber, stamped with the appropriate proof, inspector, and controller markings for the St. Etienne Imperial armory in 1812.
While not entirely learned in the barebones specifications of the flintlock, he had basic understanding of it's design and the inner mechanical functions. The prince surmised a majority of firearms worked as such. Satisfied with his inspection, the French Prince returned the gun to the holster. Truly, he had tired himself out. Tuning out the gradually fading noise of outside's festivities, Jérôme opted to finally get some rest.
He almost fell asleep as soon as his head had laid down similarly crafted makings of a pillow, stitched together haphazardly with patches and skins. There was nothing but the thin woven canvas, which is the bed's provisional tack, that separated him from a thick layer of dried stalks of grain, coupled with chaff, husks, leaves and rushes. The palliasse, thankfully, also came with it's own blanket. Albeit, of animal fur and skin. He covered himself as he settled in, even with the heat from a nearby kiln.
The nights in this place have proved colder than the late autumns of Paris, even if the natives claim the lengthy reign of the summer sun.
— — x — — X — — x — —
The former King of Westphalia elected to stay a few more days in the comfort of the lonely village, and used his time there to gather information. Apart from asking questions to Robart, he probed further from the others on the topic and state of the North, and by and large, the Seven Kingdoms. It was mostly general information, but it sufficed. He had learned of the great keep of "Winterfell", retained as the ancestral seat of House Stark, and the other major households and settlements of the North. And then they moved southward. It seems the capital was the city so-called "King's Landing", ruled by the lords of the Stormlands. And then there were many others, much too numerous to list off the top of his head. All the more reason that he needed a maester. And after he would do this investigation, Jérôme figured no harm in interacting with the locals.
He had become fond of them. As hard as it was to get by, they still worked. If not for themselves, they did it for their families and friends. There were all manners of modest and spartan laborers, from butcher to hunter, fisherman to felter, and forester to woodsman. Here, life was simpler—life was humbling—yet was just as complex. He saw it in a way he had not observed before.
There was a scratching behind his head that he could not make sense of. What was it? He hadn't the faintest clue, but it was still there—waiting to open his mind the day he realizes his folly.
After his last night, he arose at the dawn's crow of a distant rooster. He had been all too familiar of that sound, ever since his time in campaigns. And now, in his mornings here ever since.
Jérôme straggled from his meager berth, and his morning further greeted him with a soft rapping from the wooden door. "Your Grace," a muffled voice belonging to a woman from the other side greeted. "There is food to break your fast. I've brought water for your wash."
He opened the wooden portal to reveal a girl in her late teens, Ren, carrying a pail of clear steaming liquid and a cloth. Jérôme offered a smile in return. "Thank you," he replied, accepting the items. "Where is your father?"
"He is outside with the mule. He would like to see you off, along with the other elders," she answered.
Jérôme brought the pale and washcloth inside to rinse his hair and face, at least for now, with the clear lack of plumbing in the cottage. He changed from the night dress, provided kindly by Ren's mother and smelly as they were, and changed into his royal garments.
Jérôme's daily regalia, as King, consisted of a white uniform with black facings, golden embroidery and epaulets, with footwear of dark pitch boots. He further donned a dark blue sash and was further adorned with his highest merits. The Grand Crosses of the Legion of Honour, Order of the Iron Crown, and Order of the Crown of Westphalia were to name a few of these distinctions. Robart's kindly wife had offered to wash these as well, and without much choice other than stinking his only pair of clothes, he relented.
Refreshed from the morning wash, he readied his effects before exiting the room. He approached the oaken table, where an aging mother and daughter sat together, chatting. They stood in his presence.
He gestured with a hand to have them return to their rest. "Please, my ladies," he insisted. "You need not to do that."
"Your Grace," the mother, Minella, addressed. "Help yourself. There is plenty to go around."
Accepting the invitation without much fanfare, as he had done with the meals from his yesterdays, he took a seat across from the mother and daughter, and took an appropriate portion of the prepared foodstuffs. A collection of barley oatmeal, hard bread, and fried salmon from the streams consisted of this morning meal. It was humbling, and yet in his circumstance, plentiful. He washed it down with the provided dark brewed ale, and thanked the pair profusely for their hospitality. The Prince, used to the luxurious facets of the ballroom feast, has grown accustomed to the basicity of the peasant's diet. He frowned at the word.
Giving his gratitude once again, he bid the women farewell before departing the humble abode. Outside, his senses failed him, and was assaulted with an amalgamation of stink, shit, and piss. He braved the reek with all his might, and greeted the waiting Robart, with a tall boy with a fluff of brown hair beside him and an assortment of folks minding their duties for the day. With Robart, as expected, were his fellow band of elders—hardly village officials, but they made do with what they had.
"Good morning, Your Grace," the elder beamed, the boy beside him grasping the rope lead attached to a similarly stark restraint. The halter held in place the hairy mule in question: the telltale breeding between two distinct species. A short and thick head, elongated ears, a dark brown coat, thin limbs, small narrow hooves, and a short mane, the equine creature was an ass in all but name, yet their size and body, among other features, betrayed their physical mannerisms shared with the gallant and majestic horse. A leather saddle sat on it's back, with a wrapped sleeping bag, two satchels, and a wineskin pouch towards the front, all on a clothed pad to assure the mule's comfort. Robart had insisted that he equip the mule with the necessary equipment and provisions, as a final favor, for the prince's enormous and generous payment.
"Robart, gentlemen," he greeted with a smile himself. "A good morning to you. I see that my mule is ready."
"He's a good one, Your Grace. Take care of 'im," the man happily commented. "'Tis a shame you could not stay any no longer. We would not keep you here, of course." The others nodded their agreements. At that, the Prince smiled. It has been quite a fair.
"I must thank you again, Robart. For everything," he said. "My thanks to your family and village as well. You have been great hosts, far better than I might have to strangers."
"It is no matter, Your Grace. We are indebted to you," the wizened figure retorted. "You have given as much for the mule. It is only honorable that we do the same." He turned to the tall boy. "Go on, Pat. Give the good Prince his ride."
The youth obeyed, and offered the lead. "Thank you, Your Grace."
The Bonaparte nodded and took the harness from the boy and mounted what meagre belongings he had in his possession. Then he himself climbed atop the humble steed. Muscle memory demonstrated a grace in the way he rode the mule, as if it had been ingrained to him since his earlier years.
Saying his final goodbyes, and the villagers theirs, he rode off from the hamlet he had called home for the past week, and sauntered off into a lonesome dirt path. The direction southwards, according to Robart, should bring him to the "woodsroad" along the Wolfswood. The stretch could take a few days at his pace, as a true horse surpassed the limits of a mule. Jérôme arrived at the topic of measurement, when Robart had told him of the distance from here to the Tallhart seat.
They were similar in many regards. The use of the Imperial system, like the Ancien régime, was another notable aspect of this world and one he was familiar with. Much like time, with their use of seconds, minutes, and hours, though moons were in place of months and the hours were named, unlike the numbered times of Europe and the world beyond. The Revolution brought to use the scientific Metric system, and made matters worse as the public remained stubborn and defiant. The Emperor, namesake and brother, would subsequently resolve this issue, compromising between metric and traditional measurements to develop the customary mesures usuelles. In lieu of these changes and his prior education, he had come to be, at the least, competently knowledgeable of his numbers and arithmetic. Miles and leagues came to him naturally, much like breathing and blinking.
Nearly a hundred miles from Torrhen's Square, Robart's village was nestled in the southern fringes of the Wolfswood, and after a day's ride, the path opened into grassy hills, plaina, and patches of trees of the barrowland. Graves of the ancient First Men, the ancestors of Northmen, dotted the landscape by the hundreds. A major settlement, Robart had said, was the town of Barrowton, further south and into the middling grounds of the aforementioned region.
In a day, Jérôme had surmised, the mule named Buell, could cover twenty-five miles at most, and fifteen at the equine's limits if the climate or land was the least favorable. Still, the Wolfswood was flatter and he could traverse the forests faster. The earlier he departed the forestry, the better, as his newfound villager friends had warned him of predators and roving bandits. The Wolfswood wasn't named as such without a reason. Packs would surely be more prevalent in the latter hours, and he hoped to be away by the end of the day. Gangs of thugs and thieves was simply another reason that he arrived sooner rather than later.
As luck would have it, after an uneventful half-day of trotting and sparse passerbys, who regarded his apparel with surprise, he had reached the woodsroad in good time and continued down the larger road. There, the rest of the day's journey was to be a peaceful egress from the Wolfswood. Ultimately, it was not so. The fates had something else in mind. If the astounded faces of the men and women that went by was anything to go by, then it was a foreshadowing. A cruel joke by God himself.
The sun, from the forest's canopy of oak, evergreen and black brier, was enough of a hint that dusk was nearing, despite the thick shade. Buell had brought him to the naked eyes' range of a wooden cart towards the side, bare of it's intended cargo and damaged beyond repair, and the rotting carcass of a horse. He bid the mule to approach carefully in a slow stride.
Jérôme brought out his pistol for good measure, and prepared the firearm as he would, training from his days in the French Navy and beyond ingrained into his membrane.
He rotates the pistol's hammer into half-cock. The sear fell into a safety notch on the tumbler, which should prevent accidental discharge. He proceeded to load through the muzzle end of the flintlock with black powder from the powder flask, followed by a lead shot, and rammed the combination down with the 1805's provided rod. Finally, he primed the flash pan with a small amount of finely grounded gunpowder, and closed the frizzen in good order. His weapon primed and loaded, Jérôme returned it to his holster once he needed to draw.
As they came closer, Jérôme could smell the stench of death, fresh as it is. This was only recently, if not, a few hours prior.
Then he heard rustling from around the bushels and tree stems. Dark silhouettes hidden within the shade darted from the treeline. And before he could give the cue for his steed to flee, he was already surrounded. A combination of sharp and blunt blades was a signal for Buell to release a frightened and distressed whine. He counted a dozen swords. Rough-looking men, with a variety of patched rags, leather, and chainmail, seemed eager with their latest catch of the day.
"Looks like we got a fancy one, boys!" a boastful and hoarse voice announced, and the men cheered. He looked around and found him, whom Jérôme supposed was the leader, and was just as rugged as the rest of his men. A protruded nose, gnarly black teeth, dirtied skin and hair, and an almost despicable complexion that made his semblance to a troll. He was tall for a thief, and that made the Bonaparte all the more cautious. "What're you then, eh? Ne'er seen those before," he said, pointing at his precious finery with sharpened steel.
"You some lord's son? A fat-arsed merchant's beget?" the line of inquiry continued, as if the Prince would answer. His lips were shut, and he didn't motion to answer the chief among thieves. "No matter," he dismissed, grinning. "We'll be takin' that skirt off yah. It might sell well with those bloated ninnies."
"Now, get down," the brigand commanded with a domineering audacity. With not much option, between a sword in his stomach or an arrow to his chest, the Prince swallowed his pride and followed suit. The mule whined a bit before silencing and grunting. "Hands up and step away from the ass. We won't want you hurting your pretty little face with that knife of your's," the burly man added. He did so reluctantly. "We'll be takin' the purse and your pretty sword as well."
"Look, I don't want any trouble," Jérôme conceded, which only served to signify his surrender. A bloody end was all he needed.
Sheathing their swords, a pair of the muggers motioned towards him with feral glee painted across their faces, confiscating Jérôme of his satchel, holster and belt. He grinded his death as the items drifted apart from him. The leader was handed the satchel, grabbing the bag and spilling out the contents. He found his pouch of coin—Jérôme's only specie in terms of money—and threw the rest of his possessions to the dirt ground. A grin stretched on the man's features with the jutting snout as the clinking sound of the coinage wriggled as he shook the pouch, and then fervently opened it to reveal the glistening glimmer of gold.
Pocketing the small bag, the band's master took notice of the Jérôme's saber, but ignored it, having no familiarity nor interest in curved blades. He did, however, take heed of the strange club—the prince's pistol—and took it out of it's holster.
"What's this then?" the man said, waving the pistol around, "some sort of hammer?" He mocked. Dirt encrusted fingers inspected every part of the club, playing with the mechanisms without much care. There was a sudden click, which seemingly surprised the villain, wondering by what mechanism the sound had been made from. And the man had the mind to look down at the barrel with his bare, right eye. Jérôme's eyes widened at the telltale sound of a hammer being pulled into full-cock. The safety lock was off, and the prince almost stumbled in a rush to stop the damned fool.
"Wait! Don't—"
His alarm went through deaf ears, and perhaps a dead pair as well. There was a slip of fingers, and before anything could be done, the thief pulled the flintlock's trigger.
All Hell broke loose.
The Model 1805 delivered it's payload in a set combination of happenstance. With the trigger pulled, the hammer was released, the flint tip striking the frizzen, opening it and striking the exposed priming powder. The contact between flint and frizzen produces a shower of sparks, directed into the gunpowder at the flashpan. With the powder ignited, the flash passes through the vent, a small hole in the barrel, that leads to the combustion chamber. The main powder charge is further ignited, discharging the 0.69 calibre round lead ball from out of the muzzle.
Rather inaccurate weapons, the effective range of the average small arm was twenty-five meters, and a good marksman good reach up to fifty. With the lack of length and windage, and thus preventing the bullet to straighten out before exiting the muzzle, unlike longer smoothbore muskets, the 1805 was as inaccurate as it's predecessors. The least injury it could give you was a bruise, and at it's best—wounds that'll require some amputation if one was lucky, or a slow, agonizing death if the aim was true.
Though, at point-blank range, the pistol was devastating and effective against weak, flimsy, soft, and exposed flesh.
A split second after the discharge, blood, shattered bones, and brains were splattered onto the air, as the resounding crack of the pistol reverberated across the forest. The beasts of the ground and birds of the air fled away from the unknown danger. It was the first they have heard of it, and it would not be the last.
Jérôme flinched at the exploding sound of the thief's head, while a red mist of blood and innards covered the bandits in a radius of carnage. The pistol dropped harmlessly from lifeless hands, having delivered it's payload, and the tall man fell backwards from the force of impact. Dark red liquid spurted from the ruined head, no longer a distinguishable form and mangled beyond remedy.
"By the gods!" some yelled. It was a sound neither had heard in their entire lives. They'd rather hear it a second time. The bandits stood there shocked, mouth agape, and frozen. Certain persons stank of piss and shit, and may have soiled themselves in the commotion. Buell the mule, startled, ran away down the road. None paid attention to the beast, and all eyes were on the Prince.
Without delay, Jérôme dashed towards his pistol and saber, unsheathing the blade, and aimed the firearm at the remaining men that had stood their ground.
Once the shock had worn off, they readied their steel, with anger portrayed on their hideous mugs, snarling like rabid dogs. "Sorcerer! Demon!" one concluded. "You'll pay for that, dog!" another screeched. "The Others take you!" A littany of various other expletives were directed his way, which the Prince was all but happy to ignore.
"Do so, and you'll be joining your friend," Jérôme threatened with a venomous tone, unlike his previous careful disposition, the pistol still aimed and the dark smoky saber by his side. The others seemed to stagger at the sight of the weapon, their fury leaving them for a moment, though clearly irated that they could do nothing, lest the fire-spitter cleave their heads open as well.
The stand-off seemed to last for a while, the armed men circling the King of Westphalia like a pack of wolves waiting to attack. He remained vigilant for an advance, outnumbered yet took advantage of the clear fear that was still woven on their faces. The pistol was, for all intents and purposes, useless. He could not reload. Not now, when barbarians surrounded his every side. The others stayed their bastard and longswords, for fear that their lives would end in a flash, and hesitant to make their offensives.
Was this truly his end now? Dead at the hands of some highwaymen? The fates were cruel in this regard, for it would have been a terribly short life. A brief thought crossed his mind, suicidal as it may be, but he will have died with dignity. For Catharina. For Elizabeth. For little Bo.
Tempting fate was dangerous, but just as unwieldy and unreliable it is, his destiny would have him remain in the land of the living. When he was ready to meet the Creator, the unthinkable had happened.
The unmistakable rumbling on the ground could only mean one thing—horse, in a valiant, disorderly gallop, towards their position. A war cry could be heard as a charge of cavalrymen came to his rescue. Mounted combatants, wearing mail, plate and chain coif, carried a mixture of crude halberds, pole axes, and lances, as they brought their steeds onto the fleeing bandits, who had the right of mind to drop their blades and flee into the trees. Like a knife through butter, the cavalry were quick to rid the roads of such an infestation—the criminals melted at the rapid assault of horsemen.
Jérôme felt himself in a fantasy, where stories of knights, damsels, and dragons were reality. Though now that the ultimate fate was yet to befall the prince, he stood stunned as cavalry chased off the brigands, treading on the body of the faceless brute. Quickly, he gathered his things and plucked his purse from the bloody corpse, and collected the strewn items on the ground. With satchel, holster, and scabbard all in order, he prepared himself for an inevitable meeting with his rescuers.
Once the criminals had been dealt with, the company of lanciers returned, brandishing but deferring their weaponry in perceptible vigilance. They meant no harm, and neither did the Bonaparte. Ahead of them was a man of his middling years, with a flowing head, and a moustache and beard of blonde, and fair complexion, sat atop an armored courser. A layer of chain and leather was worn underneath a surcoat and cloak of furs and green cotton. His sigil bore three trees, perhaps coniferous, and were dyed green over a background of brown. A golden clasp adorned his cloak, and featured an emblazoned tree, much like his sigil. Grey-blue eyes considered Jérôme, curious as to his presence and the man clambered down his steed for closer inspection.
The others checked on the bodies, and namely, the corpse with its head blown open.
"What has happened here?" the blond man questioned, overlooking the bodies.
"This man, Ser..." one of the cavalrymen acknowledged, inspecting the desecrated head, "he's face… it's gone."
"Vicious ends for vicious men," the knight remarked, "...he will not be missed." He turned to Jérôme.
"My thanks, good Sir," the prince greeted. "If it hadn't been for you, I would have surely been dead sooner."
"Are you harmed?" the bearded blonde inquired, with a somewhat genuine regard for his well-being, if only briefly.
"Fortunately not," he replied. He glanced at the dead body. "Clearly, more fortunate than him. Might I ask who you are, Sir?"
"Ser Helman of House Tallhart."
At that, the prince was surprised. He has not expected the head of a masterly house to be so distant from his seat. Robart's additional particulars detailed Ser Helman's title and office as 'Master of Torrhen's Square.' Belonging to high gentry, his household was by no means a noble family, but was instead vassals of a vassal. A powerful vassal, if any. As such, he was no lord.
"And who might you be, my good man? These parts are not suited for the lone traveller," the Tallhart patriarch asked. "The Wolfswood Brotherhood is not so casual in their plunder," he further told, gesturing at his clothes. "Those are strange robes. Are they Essosi?"
"I'm afraid not," Jérôme acknowledged. "My name is Jérôme-Napoléon, of the House of Bonaparte. Simply, you can call me Jérôme. In my homeland, I am a prince of my people. I do not hail from here."
Stupefied, the Tallhart knight regarded the stranger foreign name and the Frenchman's features. The others were visibly confused as well. Yet, his mastery over the common tongue would have any man with a good ear fail at discerning his true birthplace. "But how? You speak Common flawlessly. You lack an accent," the horsed blonde pointed out. "You say you are a prince?"
Jérôme nodded.
"The Wolfswood is a strange place for a prince to appear. Do you have proof?" the Tallhart further probed, and like any man would, was careful to trust so foolishly.
Jérôme thought hard, and realized a simple solution. He brought out his pouch of Napoléons and took a single coin, and offered the golden piece. Squinting his eyes at such an oddity, and suspicious of some malicious intent, Ser Helman took the gold. "What do you suppose I should do with this?"
"Look closely, Ser," the prince suggested.
Raising a brow, he did so as instructed. Upon afar, the gold was no different from a golden dragon. A closer inspection of the coin would reveal the distinct absence of the three-headed draconic beast of the previous reigning monarch from the tail side, nor did it feature the head of a Targaryen king. The obverse was embellished in place of the Dragon kings was an entirely different head, strange words, and to note, "NAPOLÈON" flanking the portrait. The reverse was graced with branches surrounding a "100", legends of foreign grammar, and among other things.
"Ser?" one of his bannermen approached. Tallhart passed over the coin and the man examined it himself. "This isn't a gold dragon," he noted. It was proof enough that the youthful man with the strange clothes did not belong here.
"It is not," the knight dismissed. He turned to Jérôme.
"Mayhaps this coin is a mummery, and yourself a mummer. Who are you really?" Ser Helman asked again, returning the coin.
"As I said—I am Jérôme Bonaparte," the French prince retorted, firm and determined, and took back the gold.
This the Master of Torrhen's Square contemplated with care, and for some time. "The coin—it bears your name. You are a king?"
"Yes. Of another realm. The resemblance may confuse you, Ser. The portrait belongs to my namesake."
"Your father?" the knight assumed.
Jérôme shook his head, amused. "It is my brother's. I hold him as my second name. You may call it a mother's intuition."
"Where do you head?"
Jérôme looked in the distance. "Home, wherever it is. For now, your keep, Ser Helman."
"What would you need of my castle then, Prince Jérôme?" the Tallhart knight further requested. There was a reluctance in the use of his true title, but he ignored it. It would only be right for the knight to be skeptical.
"The village I have come upon, from deeper into the woods, Ser. They were kind enough to give me food and shelter, and have hosted me for the past few days. Robart, an elder, has advised me to come to Torrhen's Square. I do not know much of these lands, apart from what Robart has told me. A maester might help me in my predicament. I wish to find home," Jérôme answered, hoping that would satisfy the knight.
This the Tallhart man thought of heavily.
"Aye. I see no harm in you speaking with Maester Arren," he stated. Helman nodded his head. "If you will, I would ask for your trust as I would offer mine, my home and keep."
"You would have it, Ser Helman. I only wish to find a way back to my realm and I would not misplace your trust," the Prince responded. "I would pay you back for your hospitality to cover the costs."
"Very well," Tallhart offered. "A would give you a horse, but the nearest stable, I'm afraid, is by the Square. You may saddle with one of my serjeants."
Jérôme sighed in relief. "Thank you, Ser."
Ending their conversation on that note, though it was clear Helman had many other questions for him—and no doubt, as a manner of soft interrogation—Jérôme, through sheer luck once again, was spared the discomfort of riding the horse with another.
Another company of cavalry had joined their ranks, reporting their findings of a similar sweep. The belligerent robbers were of a roving nature, and divided themselves into smaller bands—one such encounter was Jérôme's close call with death. While they were deterred for their crimes, as per 'the King's peace', and several survivors had been taken as prisoners, the bodies were thrown haphazardly onto accompanying carriages, Jérôme was pleased to see that Buell had been recovered.
Claiming that the mule belonged to him, Tallhart had conceded it as his rightful property, as the horse-donkey equine had been nearby. Jérôme had also offered to pay for it just to be reunited with the mule, but the knight saw no need.
Before he mounted his steed, Helman approached the pair.
"If you will forgive a cynic man, Prince Jérôme," Tallhart greeted. "It would not be my nature to trust a man's words lightly, without sound evidence to prove otherwise. I will have questions for you on the journey to the Square."
"And for good reason, Ser. I have my own queries as well," Jérôme said in assurance. "I would not expect any sane man to believe too quickly. As they say—trust, but verify."
"Aye," came the response. "I do believe we had started on the wrong foot."
Jérôme gave a smile. "Nonsense, Ser. It was only right for you to question a man's sanity if he told others he was a prince or a king out of the blue. If it would grant you the satisfaction, then it is my great pleasure to meet you, Ser Helman of House Tallhart," he assuaged.
"And my delight, Prince Jérôme, of the House of Bonaparte. Well met," the blonde answered in kind. While he butchered his surname, Jérôme appreciated the effort on the man's part. They had only met briefly, after all.
Once Jérôme sat upon Buell, the knight had one last thing to ask.
"If I may, Prince Jérôme. We had heard a strange sound—as if it was the crack of thunder—before we came upon you and the banditry. It… it was what had drawn us here. There were no dark clouds nearby… and the man who lost his face," Helman pondered. "What was it?"
Jérôme had almost forgotten about that. "A contraption, Ser. It is a common weapon from my land. It is why that fellow over there lay dead, with his head split open..." he started, feeling for the molded bump on his leather satchel with one hand, "We call it a pistol."
NAPOLÉON III
1st of October, 1812
The staff's central pavilion consisted of several round and rectangular ridge walls. Canvas, interspersed with linings of either gold or patterned dark military greens with drooped wavy flaps. Here, the Marshal established temporary quarters for what remained of the esteemed French general staff. A conversation in private had allowed the generals, both Emperor and Marshal, the opportunity to gain on perspectives.
The corps had been, most similar to Napoléon's case, in the most disorderly and bedraggled condition when the army came into its senses. Soreness was the widespread ailment across the field, while others were resolute in their will and braved the pains to help their fellow soldiers. None knew what had happened, or why it had. A shock overcame the Third when they anticipated a Russian attack, to be quick and merciless and at the army's weakest moments, and they braced for the inevitable. But none such assault came.
And then they began to panic. There were several accounts of mutiny and attempted desertion, but words alone were enough to swiftly deal with such attempts. They were in a foreign land, and they did not know what lay beyond.
In his absence, it had been Ney's responsibility as Marshal to assure the encampment, order, and integrity of the III Corps d'Armée. And the men did their duty, as France had expected of them. But it had taken them some time. Now several weeks into their landing here, the camp had flourished to some semblance of order, but were apprehensive about their futures—lost as they were with not a hint of direction for the homeland. Ney, as a result, ordered vanguard, patrol, and search parties to make for the mountains, forests, and fields. This only confirmed their suspicions that they were somewhere else entirely, and their findings and reports drafted onto a rough overview of their immediate surroundings.
The most obvious and immediate change was the apparent nonexistence of the Kolocha river. A tributary of the Moscow river, itself flowing into the Oka, and then finally the Volga, the body deposited it's mixture of thaw, rain, and subterranean into the Caspian Sea, while feeding through forests, forest-steppes and steppes. Additional absences included the northern New Smolensk and southern Old Smolensk roads, the two paths that connected it through the towns of Shevardino and Seneyonovskoye, as well as Valuyevo, Borodino, and Gorki. In fact, none of that landscape was here. Nor was the rest of Russia. The world then, perhaps, was also replaced.
Napoléon had seen fit to call it madness, and the Marshal was all too eager to agree.
The lands that now surrounded them were substantial in scale, though it was clear that the Russian frontier were larger. A great body of water lay to the east, as their instruments told of direction, while to the west was that great, unidentifiable mountain range. To the north were snow caps, and yet to be explored further, but Ney had made the initial grounds for additional investigation. The south lay warmer climates, from which the great dirt road stretched far. As it had with the previous patrol, more token companies were to be sent out, at the behest of the Emperor. A most useful measure at such a crisis.
Napoléon had commended the distinguished general, and would do so with the other officers, with their initiative on the matter. Surely, if they had not, then the remnants of the Grande Armée would have been nothing else but fractured rabble and roving banditry.
Once the situation of his return had settled, and the attitudes at the bivouac had somewhat calmed—though their enthusiasm were with warrant and it pleased him greatly—Napoléon had convened with the Marshal and the other divisional generals concerning the present state of affairs. Their primary meeting place was a more sizable double-pole tent, with open coverings and taking the shape of a rectangular and oval form. The French tri-color, on both pole ends, flew proudly in the fall breeze, while the corps and regimental standards were posted, bearing their bronze imperial eagles. Members of the garrison stood vigilant in their guard while the staff congregated on matters of late.
Circumstances had been handled carefully, first and foremost. Confined to meager numbers, his great army was reduced to a fraction of it's formerly gargantuan size. Add to that were the unknown whereabouts of the rest of his Marshals and their corps. The III Infantry Corps was a diverse union of various nationalities: while a significant and majority portion were of French blood, there were also Croatians, the Portuguese, and the Germans of Württemburger. They too were represented in the council of staff, and Napoléon was glad of it.
He would not stand by as his great army—or what little of it was left—was to be disunited due to something as frivolous and trivial as representation. And in spite of a difference in culture, language, and among other human limitations, a greater, more common cause was bestowed unto them in a time of substantial difficulty.
The illusion of mystery, with regards to their presence here, was dissolved when Napoléon had brought up and acknowledged the force behind their miracles. From the corps' transference into a realm none knew had existed, to the Emperor's fantastic reversal of age and youth, and their separation from the rest of the Grande Armée. It had been the so-called Light, benevolent or having committed such an act in malicious intent. In either way, none of the generals would know, and neither did Napoléon. What wisdom he and the others could offer were but similar narratives and descriptions of the events beforehand.
Talk of the Five Trumpets, as it had been known for some time, which had spelled and declared their doom. Of the First, burning forests and grass fields. Of the Second, the river Kolocha was crimson blood. The Third realized the falling of the stars, while the sun was blotted out from the sky and darkness encompassing the world whole with the Fourth tone. And then came the Fifth, upon which locusts tormented many a man present. And then after the hellish landscape—insurmountable pain, throbbing and writhing the bodies of man before their consciousness were drained from them with a swift smiting of the French army. Many had, of course, had substantiated these occurrences with a correspondence to the prophecies of the Book of Revelations. The apokalypsis and End of Times. Men who had their spirituality in value among his officers, which were an impressive number, had brought their copies of the Scripture, old and new, in confirmation. The deficit of a Sixth and Seventh blast was put into question. Many remained doubtful of the true nature of their transportation, as men were of a questioning nature.
In truth, the Bonaparte patriarch was indifferent. While himself a severe skeptic of religion, and not a friend of the Church, Napoléon had been hard-pressed to assume that such signs were of supernatural nature, and beyond even the measures of man. If then the Light was a manifestation of the Creator, it had intervened in his campaign. Whoever it is, whatever it was, it was an element of the story that the majority had agreed was the most likely culprit. The Bonaparte had the inkling that those with extreme affinity for religion, whomever, made their assumptions. That the campaign to Russia had been a slight to the Trinity, and God had damned them to the Nine Hells with all His Wrath. Though they didn't dare voice their opinions, they were on the right of it.
Russia might have been an error on his part. Come what may, the intentions of the Light are unknown, when men of fore had dealt greater crimes in their lifetimes when Napoléon only sought an Empire for his people.
And when talk of these fanciful allegories and parallels to Christian faith, pagans, myths, legends, and other such frivolities, a down-to-earth approach had been cleared for more immediate and pressing concerns. The topics of organization and logistics came forth with, which the Emperor far favored over their talks of such fantastical subjects. Their discussion had mounted on the numbers of the III Corps d'Armée. Général de brigade Louis Anne Marie Gouré, Ney's l'état-major, had guaranteed and accounted for the entirety of the corps and explained as it was, before and after the Trumpets.
The staff, as clear, was intact. The three primary divisions of the Third included the 10th, 11th, and 25th Württemberg Divisions. Respectively, they were under généraux de division François Roch Ledru des Essarts, Jean-Nicolas Razout, and Jean Gabriel Marchand. The light cavalry division was commanded by général de division Frédéric Auguste Beurmann, a former cavalry officer of the Emperor's very own chasseurs à cheval of the Imperial Guard. The reserve and artillery parks, encompassing the entirety of the divisions, were under général de division Louis François Foucher du Careil, while nominally direct command fell on Colonel Marie Claude Bernard Varriee. The artillery park was subsequently commanded by another officer apart from the main reserves—Colonel Francois Louis Mengin. A torrent of names with their ranks and authority were exchanged as further down the line, the basic battalion, battery, and squadron were explained in detail. Though he could not recall many of them by memory, Napoléon attempted his hardest to consider these capable men of import towards the fulfillment of their duty here, just
as any soldier contributed to their roles as cogs in a well-oiled machine.
Guns and equipment were expendable. The sons of France, here with him today, were irreplaceable. This was one thing that he would not forget, without fail.
In a rough estimate of their current forces, the corps possessed fifteen thousand men, including non-combatants and support companies, as mentioned beforehand. Dozens of infantry regiments with their attached batteries were scattered onto larger, organized brigades that made up the bulk of a division's fighting force. The divisions, each mayhaps in the range of three thousand to five thousand souls, of the corps were significantly smaller than the average fighting force, thanks to the hammering effects of the campaign, and they now would fight with reduced numbers should such circumstances arise. The inspection of the corps' cavalry division, divided further into 9th and 14th brigades, approximated a number of capable war horses nearing two-thousand, and a similar figure of cavalrymen.
As for support services, Napoléon valued its indispensable use for the continued function of the Grande Armée remnant. Military engineers in the form of the artillery parks; logistical companies that handled the inventory of equipment, supplies, rations, and gunpowder; medical staff that utilized the full advantages of flying ambulances and mobile hospitals with available surgeons, medics, and doctors; and finally, communications, which primarily involved standard bearers, musicians, dispatches conveyed riders, homing pigeons, observation balloons, and the ingenious Telegraph Semaphore system—a true testament to propagation of technological advance due to military conflict. Finally: on the topic the artillery parks and reserves. They were equipped with seventy-five guns along the batteries, and even still, many of them were separated into their specific commands. These guns, the main arsenal of the Third, were of a combination of lighter 4- to 6-pounder Gribeauval pieces and the heavier 8-, 12-, and 24-pounders, and were key military and strategic assets in the field of battle.
Munitions, equipment, foodstuffs, and supplies came in next. And this, the staff pondered heavily. In one of the more advantageous interventions after the blast of the Trumpets, the Light had sought to supply the forces of the III Corps d'Armée with further wares in food, gunpowder, and among other war materiel. The Third would be fully stocked for a campaign in the scale of the one he pursued in Russia, but of great failure was his anticipation of the sordid state of the Slavs and their roadwork. The dense network of highways and paths of Europe, combined with the concentrated populations and agriculturally dense regions of central Europe served the Grande Armée well in its campaigns. Rapid forced marches dazed his the Austrian and Prussian armies, foregoing the necessity of heavy supply trains, as foraging was used to great effect by the French men-at-arms in previous clashes with the Coalition.
As he had observed, alongside his other generals, Napoléon had the opportune chance to make adjustments to the functionaries and mechanisms of the corps. The Russian campaign was bordering on utter failure with a lack of additional insight on the frontier's infrastructure, climate, and seasons. Napoléon had studied his best with Russian's geography, and Charles XII of Sweden's invasion during the years of 1708 to 1709. In a rush to bring General Kutuzov and Tsar Alexander to heel, he had forsaken his own words: an army marched on its stomach. There wasn't much time for changes. The frontier was not kind to the French expeditionary force: a lack of proper roads made forced marches a struggle, and had to make do with a severe lack of supplies, as twenty train battalions—comprising of around eight thousand vehicles—tasked with the supply of the entire French great army were themselves strained by such an affliction. Slower train battalions meant the army starved, and foraging was of no use. The thinly populated and lackluster realm of the House of Romanovs made for a poor setting to relinquish this starvation. Men from the rearguard starved while the whole front received what little was available, which only served as a catalyst for his race to Moscow. There, the men would be replenished and he would see his victory. The army was handicapped, limping it's way slowly across Russia, and Napoléon had not the mind to turn back.
A grave and terrible error, it had been, and the Emperor could only imagine, fearfully, at what may have been if he had continued his campaign—an otherwise exercise in futility.
With a flippant distribution of their available resources, they could see the corps survive up to a month without foraging. Napoléon had elected not to waste resources as they were. Serious rationing and further foraging could extend their tenure from sixty days to seventy and more once such operations were in place. The existing quartermaster staff had been assigned such duties, in a manner that would conserve their resources at best.
The absence of Berthier and the Army General Headquarters was a severe loss, as it had been the main apparatus concerned with the supplies of the Great Army. Yet another curse they had been bestowed by the Heavens' intervention.
Primary logistics aside, foraging and hunting will be their main source of food in the meantime. The staff had assured that the vegetation was lush and plentiful, as there had already been parties set aside for acquiring the needed foodstuffs. Venison was the most common meat, as well as pork from wild boars. Though, it was a challenge—other hunters from bears to wolf packs were a nuisance. Some had already been injured. Though, they had yet to establish a true bearing on their surroundings, apart from what the encampment already knew. Signs of civilization were naught but a muddy, dirt road with the width of two carriages abreast, the ruins of the village and the tower with the golden battlements from Napoléon's first night, and then settlements to the south. Ney and the others, of course, had steered clear of settling the encampment close to the road, and instead opted for a more distant location. And here, they were securely entrenched and defended, deeper into the plains, away from possible belligerents, and hidden with treks of trees and patches of loose forestry. But their place here would not do. It was far too remote. The Third must establish themselves some place else if there was to be any opportunities for action. Of course, he could not forget. As alien as this place was, it was foreign land. The French Empire, as it exists in this new world, is in shambles. Napoléon would have to form a new foothold here if the first vestiges of the Empire were to last.
As mentioned earlier in their council, the signs of settlements alone, even from the village ruins and the reports from the south was enough of a hint that in this world, civilization exists. To what extent? The Emperor of the French knew not. They must know more.
Speaking of which…
Once the subject of logistics had been settled, they proceeded to future plans of action. Patrol actions would continue to gather more information, and Napoléon took special interest in the affairs of their southern flanks. If reports had been accurate, a sizable fortress had been spotted, according to Ney from recent reconnaissance, further south of their position. The marshal had approximated it to be tens of miles, perhaps a hundred or so, from their current position.
But that had seemed the least bit pertinent to their other discovery.
It had been explained to him then that, truly, it was no longer their world. This was something else, entirely, much as it is preposterous. Companies had matching, verbal reports of a massive structure to the north, beyond the village ruins: across the blanket of snow had stretched a wall made miraculously of ice and frost, several hundred feet in height from descriptions, that crawled from both sides of the horizons, seemingly extending beyond eyesight. And there had been no doubt. Similar, short expeditions were repeated to confirm suspicions, and the multitudes of witnesses affirmed them all the same.
He couldn't believe it initially, for it seemed so nonsensical at first...
Where in God's name were they?
It was clear as day that the French Army could not simply stay idly by in the middle of nowhere.
They must fight.
— — — x — — — X — — — x — — —
It had been the afternoon then, when the dusk was finally settling in, that Napoléon had been afforded the opportunity to rest. Yet, there was much to do all the same. The smell of dinner pervaded throughout the air, as columns of smoke steadily streaked the darkening orange sky. It had since gotten colder.
At Napoléon's insistence, Ney had kept his quarters, while the Emperor opted for an altogether different tent to be made for his use—significantly smaller, and more in line with that of general's living space rather than that of His Imperial Majesty. It didn't matter to him.
The items he had collected before remained aside at a table, belonging to an assortment of bivouac furniture that was designed to be mobile, practical, and easily placed or put away. It was a standardized ensemble for all his officers, including a Marshal's place of rest. He had taken to sitting onto the portable camp bed, designed by a Monsieur Marie-Jean Desouches, a locksmith he had come to hire from Paris. It was a delight to his eyes, and the Emperor of the French made himself comfortable.
Though seemingly, that tranquility would only last for so long.
One of the aides-de-camp to Ney had arrived and excused himself for the disturbance.
"Apologies, Your Imperial Majesty, for the intrusion," Jean-Pierre Bresson de Valmabelle said, the Emperor recalling his name from one the officers present at the meeting. A Chevalier and Warrant Officer-Commander, he was likely to have made brigadier general once Borodino succeeded. Unfortunately, the Fates had something else in mind. "I have urgent news. One of our patrols has captured a group of men by the dirt road. Marshal Ney has instructed me to inform you."
Captured? For whatever reason? "Lead me," he simply ordered, and the officer complied readily.
Napoléon had also been made to acknowledge the people that lived here. "Common rabble", they were described, with rags and stitched cloths for garments. They looked more like peasants, and few had come to traverse the dirt road. The highway had seemed empty when they were traveling earlier, and it seemed that way for the near month the Third had appeared and stayed. The patrols avoided them, and at times, the rare sight of a carriage or caravan would traverse the thoroughfare. They had seemed to travel to and fro the lone settlement found near the base of the massive wall. Perhaps it was not a wall at all? He had yet to wrap his mind about such a wonder.
When, of course, the news had come that they had captured some of the natives here… Napoléon had been determined to know as soon as possible. He would not waste time.
Near the edge of the bivouac, the captured prisoners were bound in iron shackles and guarded by garrison troops. Ney, the general officers, and the company commander gathered there, awaiting the Emperor's arrival. Once they were made aware of his presence, they had greeted him. He had returned that gesture in earnest.
"Our apologies to disturb your rest, mon général," Ney had again given his apologies, to which Napoléon had simply waved away. "One of our patrols had been assaulted by these belligerents on their return," the Marshal continued. The company commander, by the name of Jean-Michel Rochefort, stepped forward, "It is my regret, Your Majesty, that one of the men had been killed in action." The major faced the ground solemnly, "We could not save him from his wounds."
"What was his name, commander?" he inquired.
"Thaddée Philidor, mon général. He… he was a good man… a good soldier. He had family back home," the commander answered, with a tone of sadness. Napoléon could only nod. It was bad enough a good man had lost his life. But to never again face his children? That was… a terrifying feeling.
The Emperor could only reminisce the last time he had laid eyes upon his beloved François.
He shall make a good Emperor, perhaps better than he did. He had his mother by his side, after all. Napoléon trusted Marie would do right by him.
"And we will honor him tonight, Major," Napoléon declared. "His sacrifice will be the first of many. Let it not be in vain."
The commander inclined, an indication of understanding. He will fight harder, he thought. If not for me, then for his brothers. For France.
Napoléon turned to Ney. "These… belligerents. Have we a comprehension of their purposes?"
"We do, Sire," the Marshal replied. "Though there was much confusion initially when we had first tried to communicate."
The Emperor's brows furrowed.
"They spoke English."
Napoléon's initially stern platitude had disappeared into a frown. I don't understand, was this not another world? He came at the assumption the natives here, human as they were, would speak a dialect so close to the mother tongue of that damnable Irish upstart.
"English, you say? Not some other language?"
Ney could only bob his head in agreement. "It is strange, mon général. I was under the assumption that English would be a distant, unknown language."
And yet, here they are.
"And how have they come to speak to you?" Napoléon addressed Major Rochefort, while stealing a glance at the bound prisoners, gagged by cloths. They were perhaps a rambunctious crowd, being the only reason the Emperor could think at the moment.
Before the Major could answer, one of such gags had managed to slip off from the mouth of a prisoner. He yelled some vulgar expletives, that Napoléon could not mistaken as anything other than English. But the issue was not his rather colorful use of the tongue, no. It was the fact that Napoléon had understood.
"You sons of fucking whores! Let us go, in the name of the King!"
Napoléon slowly rolled his head to the side as the burly, roughly faced man in leather armor screamed at the top of his lungs like a Vandal, demanding to be released at once. The others winced. He looked back at Ney, himself visibly shocked.
"We could understand them, Sire…" the Major said hesitantly, "...and they understand us."
AN: I do apologize for this rather… late update to the story. My first year of college had just begun, and with current affairs, I've been pretty distracted from continuing this story. I will try my best to update it from time to time, since it is something I would still like to fulfill.
This chapter was pretty meaty, and I found the portion with Jérôme to be the hardest to write. I've written, re-written, and removed chunks of it to hell and back, and it was practically in Writer's Block hell for the past few months. Then, college work occupied most of my time. Spring break gave me much needed time to relax, and well, write out the rest of the story.
With all else said and done, I hope you liked this chapter. Until next time!