I am about to interject a description of the soldier types, etc., after all this time.
- Nagagutsu Kumage Bōshi
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Part 1
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The vanguard of the army, consisting of a long procession of infantry, cannons, wagons loaded with supplies, and civilians, is preceded by cavalry rushing through the path.
Their duty is to ensure the safety of the route, prevent the main forces from being ambushed by the enemy, ascertain the enemy's positions, and gather intelligence on their movements. Just as they attempt to gather intelligence, so too does the enemy, often deploying cavalry units to interfere and conceal their own movements. In battle, they may receive orders from Bonaparte to charge into the enemy lines or pursue fleeing enemy units and break them apart.
Cavalry conducting reconnaissance missions prioritize swift action and are not primarily concerned with engaging and defeating enemy forces. They are relatively lightly equipped, riding agile horses, and are referred to as light cavalry. In France, they were also known as chasseurs. Conversely, heavy cavalry, wearing armor and riding larger horses, charge into enemy formations on the battlefield, using the force of their horses and strikes from above to crush the enemy.
About ten light cavalrymen of the French army were nearing a bridge over a tributary of the Saole River. The road was well-maintained, with sparse trees along the river, providing good visibility. To the right of the path, the river stretched out, while to the left, there were sporadic golden wheat fields, lush green meadows, and the wide expanse of the sky. Riding through this landscape, the breeze was refreshing, easing the tension felt by the soldiers leading the entire army.
"We've advanced about five kilometers from the main force, but there's no sign of the enemy."
"Perhaps our advance was too fast for them to have time to react."
Captain Thomas Berte, leading this unit, conversed with his adjutant as they moved. As the adjutant noted, they had been separated from the main force for a while now without encountering any signs of the enemy. Occasionally, one or two riders followed them at a distance, seemingly observing, but they were unarmed and not wearing armor, resembling civilians. While this complete lack of resistance was somewhat eerie, since the mission was progressing smoothly, there was no choice but to proceed cautiously without letting their guard down.
Further ahead, about two kilometers away, they spotted a massive gray rock sitting by the side of the road, with four cavalrymen loitering nearby. Captain Berte squinted his eyes; he had naturally good eyesight. They were dressed in earth-colored garments with bright crimson trimmings, lacking helmets or any metallic shine. Like them, the enemy seemed to be light cavalry. One held a spear of about two to three meters in length, while the rest carried bows and seemed clearly aware of their presence, appearing to await their approach.
"Finally showing themselves, Captain."
The idyllic tourist-like atmosphere that had momentarily enveloped the unit dissipated, replaced by a surge of adrenaline coursing through their bodies. It was the moment of battle.
"They seem eager too. Alright, one of you, go back and inform the rear... Auguste, it's you."
"U-understood, Captain!"
The soldier named Auguste, though disappointed at not being able to participate in the upcoming battle, didn't utter another word. Instead, he simply turned his horse around and galloped back the way they came. Even with the odds at nine to four in their favor, it was still a battle to be reckoned with.
"Alright! Show them the strength of French cavalry!"
Berte drew his saber, and the soldiers followed suit. Observing this, the enemy charged straight towards them on horseback.
"Let's give them a taste of our might!"
"Take 'em out!"
The French soldiers responded with shouts, urging their horses to increase speed and forming a line formation.
The first strike came from the French side, as musket shots were fired from horseback. However, hitting targets from the unstable platform of a horse was challenging, and the shots were more for intimidation. Yet, the enemy showed no signs of faltering, nor did their horses react to the gunfire; they charged straight ahead. As the French cavalry tightened their grips on their sabers, preparing for close combat, the Axeland cavalrymen maneuvered their horses, reversed their direction, twisted their upper bodies, and released a volley of arrows. Out of the three sharp arrows shot, one pierced through a soldier's arm, eliciting screams. Another volley followed, this time hitting a different cavalryman's horse. The pain caused the horse to rear up and abruptly stop, throwing the cavalryman off and slamming him onto the ground.
"These bastards!"
Captain Berte fired his gun in desperation, but it missed its mark. Three riders wielding bows swiftly circled around the French cavalry, shooting arrows. Despite their attempts to retaliate, the Axeland cavalry's horses were faster and more enduring, maintaining distance.
A rider wielding a spear swiftly approached, thrusting it forward. The speeding thrust pierced through a French soldier's chest, silencing him before he could even scream.
"Henri's down! Captain, these guys are seasoned fighters! And their horses are good!" the adjutant shouted while reloading his gun.
"Gather round! Don't chase them! Form up!"
If they were to charge after the archers shooting from a distance, they'd immediately be met with a spear thrust from the riders. However, if they stayed in formation, they'd be vulnerable to arrow fire. They managed to retaliate with gunfire, but it was difficult to hit the fast-moving cavalry.
"Captain, at this rate, we'll all be done for! Argh!"
As the adjutant screamed in pain with an arrow lodged in his right thigh, Captain Berte made the decision to order the unit to retreat.
"Fall back! Li—!"
In that moment, a sharp arrow pierced his throat, and his last words were choked out in blood before turning into silence. As blood flow to his brain was cut off, and his consciousness rapidly faded into darkness, Captain Berte prayed to the gods for his subordinates to escape safely.
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Part 2
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"Captain Berte's reconnaissance unit has encountered the enemy and engaged in combat!"
Auguste, dispatched by Captain Berte, arrived at the midpoint between Berte's reconnaissance unit and the main French army, where he reported to the commander of the light cavalry unit, Murat. His horse was sweating, its chestnut coat shining white.
"How many enemy troops?"
"About four riders, sir."
"Half of Berte's squad. Perhaps the first victory of this battle will be his. He's a lucky one."
With about 50 subordinates, Murat received Auguste's report and smiled cheerfully. His laughter echoed in the blue sky, contagious to his subordinates.
"Alright. Let's go see Captain Berte's performance. Send a messenger to Commander Bonaparte of the main force. 'We have encountered the enemy and they shall be vanquished.' Auguste, guide us to Captain Berte."
A messenger selected from Murat's unit raced his horse to the rear, while the rest, led by Auguste, proceeded forward. Not a single soul doubted the victory of the French army.
. . .
"What the hell...?"
Heading towards the landmark boulder, Murat and the French soldiers encountered a scene they had not anticipated. Three horses lay scattered, their blood spattered across the ground. The surrounding grass was trampled, indicating the frantic movements of hooves. The familiar scent of gunpowder mixed with blood filled the soldiers' nostrils.
"It's evident there was a battle. But where are the bodies? Where's Berte's unit?"
Murat's usually confident demeanor faltered slightly, his lips forming a grim expression, reflecting his inner turmoil.
"Ah... Sir, look at that!"
One of his subordinates exclaimed in shock, drawing Murat's attention. Pointing ahead, they saw four bodies tied to wooden stakes driven into the ground. Judging by their attire, they were undoubtedly French soldiers.
Murat rushed towards the bodies, dismounting from his horse to examine each face.
"They killed Berte."
As he recognized one of the faces among the dead, Murat felt his blood boil. There were marks on Berte's throat resembling the puncture of a sharp blade. Berte wouldn't have lost in close combat. He must have been shot with arrows. Moreover, the enemy archers must possess considerable skill. Murat quickly deduced as much.
"Commander..." Auguste, shocked by the deaths of his comrades, spoke up. "Louis, Charles, Henri..."
He murmured the names of his fallen comrades, but they remained silent, slumped in gravity's embrace. There would never be a response.
Beside Auguste, who sat down powerlessly, Murat contemplated another matter. There were four bodies, and excluding Auguste, Berte's unit had nine riders. Where were the remaining five? Had they managed to escape, or were they captured? If they had escaped, they would undoubtedly flee towards us. Perhaps they panicked and fled in the wrong direction. If they were captured, the enemy couldn't have fled too far with prisoners. If they knew their escape direction, they might catch up. Tying the bodies to stakes as a display—was it intended as a threat to them? The fact that the battle took place here also raises questions.
"Auguste, did the enemy unexpectedly encounter you and your group?"
"No. We confirmed each other's presence from a few hundred meters away."
"Right. There's no way we'd be ambushed in such an open area with such a clear view. So, the enemy knowingly charged in despite being outnumbered. They must have been quite confident in their skills. Or perhaps..."
Murat ordered his adjutant to bring a map.
"A kilometer from here is a bridge on a tributary of the Saole River. If we were to wait there, we could cover the numerical disadvantage. Yet, they deliberately charged into this vast plain, facing twice the enemy. Why?"
Even if they could have won against double the enemy, that's just hindsight. A regular commander wouldn't actively seek out a battle against double the enemy. There must be a reason. Was it just reckless bravery? Or...
"Buying time...?"
"Buying time?" the adjutant repeated Murat's words.
"The bridge. It's right there. They're stalling time to keep us busy while they're burning the bridge."
It's a common practice in battle to buy time by blocking the path of the enemy army. This time, in particular, Bonaparte's army began to move faster than usual in this world. Just as it took time for Cloumille to gather her army, it would take the same time for the enemy to do the same. They need to buy time to prepare for a full-scale battle. As for the enemy, they will want to buy time by dropping bridges.
"Then..."
"Look. There's no smoke rising from there yet. The bridge should still be intact. Linger here and the enemy's playing right into their hands. Everyone, get ready to move forward. We'll secure the bridge."
Murat had the bodies of the French soldiers untied from the stakes before leading everyone towards the bridge. While he wanted to hurry as much as possible and urge the horses to full speed, considering the impending battle at the bridge, he couldn't push the horses too hard. They advanced at a steady pace, ensuring the horses didn't tire but maintained a swift and steady progress.
. . .
After marching for a while, Murat's unit reached the Saole River tributary bridge—known locally as the Sao-Zao Bridge—coming into view. The river narrowed, barely 30 meters wide, with a slightly accelerated flow. Nevertheless, it was a leisurely flowing river, with water only reaching up to an average person's waist. Infantry and cavalry could wade through the river to cross to the other side if needed. However, the French army needed to secure this bridge intact. While infantry and cavalry could cross, heavy cannons and wagons loaded with supplies couldn't traverse the river. They needed to pass through the bridge.
As Murat had anticipated, near the bridge, about ten cavalrymen and around thirty infantrymen were present, unloading hay, dry branches, and jars possibly containing oil to prepare for burning the bridge. However, there was no sign of the captured French soldiers.
Whether they had been under surveillance or noticed by the sound of hooves and dust, the enemy stopped their work, seemingly waiting for Murat and his men. Although Murat's side outnumbered them, there was no sign of them backing down.
"They're here. Draw your swords!"
"Yes, sir!"
Murat unsheathed his saber, giving the signal. His adjutant led about twenty horsemen, rushing towards the enemy's left flank. Murat led the remaining thirty horsemen, circling around to the right. If the enemy crossed the bridge to flee, that would be fine. But if they intended to defend, they could be attacked from both sides.
Seeing the split French cavalry, the enemy divided as well, with the cavalry heading towards Murat's group and the infantry guarding the wagons, ensuring they weren't vulnerable from behind.
Murat keenly observed the approaching cavalry. One horseman wielded a lance, while the other nine carried bows. They were adept at using short bows suited for mounted combat. While it might have little effect on armored cavalry, it could be deadly for French light cavalry clad in cloth or leather. Berte must have fallen to such an attack.
"Don't let them focus their aim. Disperse!"
Murat gave the signal, and the light cavalry skillfully maneuvered their horses, further splitting into two groups. They maintained their distance, drawing the enemy's attention, and gauging the timing to shoot their carbines.
Seeing the French cavalry split, the Axeland horsemen also dispersed, each engaging one French horseman. Their horses were more agile, and they quickly aimed and shot arrows as they closed in. Shooting arrows from horseback required skilled training and was not something one could master overnight. It was a testament to their well-honed skills.
A horseman armed with a spear charged directly towards Murat. Wearing a helmet resembling a great helm, his face was concealed.
"I see. This is your tactic—letting the scattered cavalry divert attention while you deliver the blow."
As the charging horseman approached, Murat also thrust forward with his saber. While the spear had the advantage of length, Murat didn't seem bothered by it.
As the spear thrust aimed for his chest, Murat dodged it on horseback, avoiding the blow. Then, taking advantage of the exposed right hand of the vulnerable enemy, he smoothly slid his saber. He was confident he could sever the hand from the wrist. However, the saber emitted a harsh metallic sound and returned a hard impact to Murat's right hand. In that case... He continued sliding the saber across the arm, intending to slash through the gaps in the ribcage. But even that was thwarted by something hard—a metal obstruction.
"You bastard. You're wearing armor under your clothes!"
Having failed with his passing strike, Murat urged his horse forward without losing speed. The Axeland cavalry wore armor to protect against attacks such as sabers, spears, and bows. Once, French cavalry had also worn such armor. They used to charge towards enemy formations, lance in hand, clad in shining plate armor. However, the development of firearms rendered such armor either useless or highly impractical, leading French cavalry to discard their armor.
"Well, that makes sense..." Murat chuckled bitterly. In this world without guns or cannons, if sabers and bows were the weapons of choice, then armor would naturally be effective. If it was effective, then it should be worn.
"Don't pursue them! Regroup! Form up!"
Murat raised his saber high, signaling his subordinates to regroup. It seemed that individually and in terms of horsemanship, the enemy was superior. The archers likely wore armor, just like the spearmen he had just encountered. Even if they managed to catch up due to the difference in horse quality, a saber strike wouldn't be fatal. Therefore, blindly chasing after them was not a wise move. It was better to gather and engage in a shootout with carbines.
The thirty horsemen gathered, while the remaining twenty, led by the adjutant, positioned themselves to provide cover fire with their rifles. They circled around at a brisk pace to avoid becoming easy targets while trying to pick off the enemy with gunfire. The Axeland cavalry galloped around, shooting arrows, encircling between the two clusters of French cavalry. The outer and inner circles spun around, kicking up dust.
Even for skilled archers, hitting moving cavalrymen with arrows was not an easy task. Additionally, French cavalry guns scattered smoke upon firing, obscuring the line of sight. This made aiming inaccurate for both enemies and allies, but it worked more to the disadvantage of the Axeland cavalry. While getting hit by an arrow might not immediately render someone combat ineffective, a shot from a cavalry gun could shatter bones, even if the soldier wore armor. Furthermore, arrows were less effective in terms of quantity compared to bows, as they took up more space.
Nevertheless, French cavalrymen were also wounded by the arrows, and the number of casualties with bleeding injuries gradually diminished their combat effectiveness.
"You cowards! Are you only capable of fighting like rabbits hiding in their burrows? If you have the courage, come at us one-on-one!"
A high-pitched, feminine voice emanated from the Axeland cavalrymen.
"What's that? What are they saying?"
While riding along the inside of the gathered cavalry, Murat called over an interpreter. This interpreter was a communicator with the spirits sent by Cloumille to Bonaparte.
"They're cursing. Calling us cowards."
"What!?" Murat reacted to the interpreter's words.
"It's a cheap provocation. Shall I convey it?"
The adjutant tried to calm him down.
"Is it that spearman who's mouthing off?"
"Yes. He's asking for a one-on-one duel."
"I'll accept!"
"My lord! What if anything happens to you? What should we do with the unit?"
"Idiot. I'm not going to lose. I am Joachim Murat."
"I understand. However..."
"Interpreter! Tell them I accept! I'll thrash them according to their own customs!"
"My lord!"
"We can't continue like this. The casualties from the arrows are increasing. We don't know if the enemy has reinforcements. Let's settle this once and for all."
. . .
It was a strange sight. The two armies, who had just engaged in intense gunfire and arrow exchanges, were now lined up, each watching their respective commanders step forward with bated breath.
On one side stood Murat, dressed in a lavish ribbed coat with extravagant gold embroidery on a rich emerald base, his pelisse draped over his left shoulder. Although eye-catching, his attire offered little defense. On the other side stood a cavalryman, holding a spear, clad in armor reinforced with chainmail and iron plates, with a brown base adorned with bright crimson trim.
"My name is Thaore the Spear. Lord of Saoredule!"
Thaore, the man with the spear, announced, but Murat couldn't understand his words. However, it sounded like a pre-battle declaration, so Murat lifted his saber vertically, offering a salute of respect.
"Not even introducing yourself. A lawless ruffian who doesn't know manners. Here I come!"
"Thaore the Spear" pointed his spear and urged his horse forward. Murat responded by advancing his horse at a brisk pace, aiming for a passing strike. Slashing would be blocked. So...
As the distance closed, Thaore unleashed a spear strike aimed precisely at Murat's heart. A skilled strike that would have surely ended Murat's life without him even feeling death approaching. But Murat, with an agility beyond ordinary men, avoided it with a slight movement of his upper body. Among the soldiers on both sides, murmurs of admiration leaked out. It was a movement that was almost beautiful. Dodging the spearhead, Murat, riding past in the blink of an eye, raised his body and struck Thaore's helmet with his saber. With a loud clang and sparks flying, Thaore dropped his spear and staggered before losing his balance and falling off his horse.
A shocked silence filled the space between the two armies. In an instant, cheers erupted among the French cavalrymen, while the Axeland cavalry watched in disbelief.
Murat responded to the cheering allies with a smile of satisfaction, waving his hand, then elegantly approached the fallen Thaore. Apparently, although still alive, Thaore seemed unsteady on his feet, likely due to a severe blow to the head, unable to stand up and slumped over.
"Well, looks like I won, huh?"
Through the interpreter, Murat had his words translated, extending a generous hand to the slumped Thaore as the victor.
"Ugh... Ah... Magnificent... strike..."
Thaore removed his helmet, revealing a magnificent braid of red hair that looked like crimson blood. The face, painted red with blood from the forehead wound, was undoubtedly that of a woman.
"You're... a woman!?"
"And what if I am?"
"If I had known, I would never have aimed for your head!"
Murat's proud expression quickly clouded over, his face turning into that of a child scolded for mischief.
"Why?"
"To mar the face of a woman... what a dishonor!"
"You're saying strange things. You..."
"Strange? Strange...?"
"Is there a difference between a male and a female knight? Are you asking whether your opponent is a man or a woman every time you fight?"
"Well, no..."
"You've won. I'll surrender as promised. I'll arrange for my family to send the ransom soon, but I'll be your prisoner for a while. By the way, what's your name again...?"
"...Joachim Murat."
"I see."
Murat was taken aback. He had accepted the challenge to a duel himself. But he never expected Thaore to actually surrender.
"I have two questions. The French soldier who was with us. Did your men kill them?"
"No. That was Lord Carlnontal with the short spear. He crossed this bridge earlier and withdrew to the capital. Your soldiers? They were leading a few of them."
"Prisoners, then. Another thing, why tie up the soldiers like that? Was there a need for such a display?"
"A display? Wasn't that the warrior's funeral rite?"
"Funeral rite? Is that your tradition?"
"Why do you ask such obvious questions? ...I heard that Cloumille is accompanied by soldiers from beyond the River of the Sun, but they seem to be from a country that knows little of reason."
"........."
"Joachim Murat. Your horsemanship was impressive. You must be born into a prestigious family."
"Prestigious family? Of course. I'm the son of a respectable innkeeper."
"Innkeeper!? You're not a lord? Not a noble?"
"That's right."
"And such a person rides a horse and fights. What a thing..."
"Is it so strange?"
Murat secured the bridge over the Saole River and captured more than 40 Axeland soldiers. This seemed to be the first achievement of the army, now renamed the Grande Armée, under Bonaparte.
Watching the Axeland soldiers who surrendered their weapons and became prisoners, Auguste felt a sense of unease. They were the ones who had killed and injured their comrades, and had just been fighting each other a moment ago. Yet, once they put down their weapons, they seemed unperturbed, as if nothing had happened.
"Doesn't it bother you, Auguste?" Murat said, holding a small bottle of liquor in his hand.
"Yes. We were supposed to be fighting each other. Our comrades were also killed. Yet, can they accept it?"
"Well, it's not easy to accept. We're at war, after all. It's different from street thugs fighting. Should I mutilate those who lay down their weapons and throw them into the river? I don't like that kind of thing. That's just murder. War has to be like a magical, sparkling brilliance of brave soldiers... or something beautiful, at least, to me."
"I don't see it that way. To me, war offers no salvation, no brilliance. You saw it, didn't you? Captain Berte's corpse. War looks like that to me. You and the other soldiers, being so calm, it's incomprehensible to me..."
"Drink up, August. That's fine."
Murat handed the bottle of liquor to Auguste.
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We will start a new part in the next chapter. Thank you for reading.
If you'd like, I would be delighted to receive feedback on the work or comments related to Napoleon, etc. Your rating points would be further encouragement for me.
- Nagagutsu Kumage Bōshi