Seated in the clean, bright, spacious enlisted mess, Masséna, Suchet, and the freshly bathed recruits were enjoying their first lunch since entering the Champagne Composite Regiment. The meal was generous—at least to most soldiers’ eyes: black bread as the staple; mashed potatoes with fresh vegetables; half a fish; a hard-boiled egg; a meat-and-vegetable stew; and raisins as a sweet.

  Under the regiment’s logistics rules, a marching ration was one and a half pounds of bread per day, half a pound of fresh or canned meat, 2 ounces of dried fruit or other sweets, and a small amount of cheese or butter. Outside combat there was one bottle of wine per day; in combat this was cut to half a bottle, with strict limits on when it could be consumed.

  “Everything’s fine—pity there’s no Bordeaux wine,” Masséna remarked. He likely did not know that even in the officers’ mess, wine was limited to a small glass per head, and only at dinner.

  Suchet snorted and ignored the complaint, tearing at the black bread and gulping the stew. The business at the Garonne had worn him out. For the rich boy, taste no longer mattered; filling up did.

  “Eat while you can. Who knows what torment comes next,” an old soldier said, thumping the youngster’s back and laughing.

  Off to one side of the drill-ground, the former cavalry comrades—Penduvas, Finic, and Villed—gathered under a tree after lunch to chat. At the regiment’s founding, all three had been promoted up to sergeant. Soon after, Penduvas was transferred to the new gendarmerie, while Finic and Villed stayed with Lieutenant Hoche’s cavalry troop.

  Among the horsemen who followed the prosecutor south to Bordeaux, almost everyone held at least a sergeant’s stripe. Advancement was fastest, however, for the subject of their talk—their old mate, now acting Captain Saint-Cyr (substantive rank still sergeant).

  “Finic, my friend, you really mean to accept Saint-Cyr’s invitation? To that Caribbean colony full of ‘black men’ and yellow fever?” Villed asked again.

  Finic only nodded, hard.

  Villed sighed and exchanged a glance with Penduvas. Since last month’s news that Finic’s mother—bedridden for five years—had died, he had grown ever more silent. His father was already gone; his elder sister, long married, could no longer tend the home. With no ties left, Finic resolved to leave France and try his luck overseas.

  Saint-Cyr had also promised to get Sergeant Finic a temporary commission as Lieutenant to command a company—even a battalion. As an important piece the prosecutor was laying in the colonies, he was allowed to recruit a ten-man team in camp and ship to Saint-Domingue with full kit.

  Saint-Cyr had likewise invited Penduvas and Villed to join the colonial force at Cap-Fran?ais, but both declined politely. Their parents were alive, and younger siblings needed them; they would not go so far as the Caribbean, 6,000 kilometers away.

  France long saw itself as a continental power. Though its kings had pursued colonies since the Age of Discovery, emigration was scant—far behind Britain across the Channel. Those who did go were often Huguenots and other Protestants oppressed by the Catholic order, alien to Paris’s ruling class—one reason France fared poorly in the overseas duel with Britain.

  Their rueful talk did not last. A great, booming voice rolled over from the field. Penduvas, Finic, and Villed stiffened as one. No mistake: the Prussian giant, Second Lieutenant Augereau, was about to put the infantry recruits through their paces.

  On the parade-ground, the recruits sensed something amiss and adjusted their stance. They could barely form ranks; many still whispered like a swarm of restless flies.

  “Hey, look how tall that big fellow is!”

  “Damn it, we’re supposed to call him ‘sir’!”

  “Aha—I remember, he commands First Company.”

  “Right, right! Must be Captain Augereau here to take recruits!”

  …

  Hearing the disrespect, Macdonald, standing near the rear, frowned and meant to scold them—until Chassé caught his arm and gave a small shake of the head. This was orientation, not duty; there was no need to stick their necks out.

  “Enough! On your feet!” barked Masséna from the front rank. The sudden shout froze the ground. Even Suchet—usually ready to contradict him—snapped to attention.

  Second Lieutenant Augereau halted 3 meters from the front line, coolly watching over 500 recruits—mostly farmers’ sons—making a poor show without officers and NCOs to steady them. Disappointed, but not despairing; at least one man had stepped up for the regiment’s honor.

  From the shade, Sergeant Penduvas strode out to introduce the officer: “This is the commander of First Company, Second Lieutenant Augereau. From today he will serve as instructor to the recruit depot.”

  “Hurrah—hurrah!” the men cheered as common folk do—not how a trained army should.

  “Silence, clowns!” Once in the role, the burly Prussian’s voice drowned hundreds.

  Anger made the scars on Augereau’s face writhe, devilish. The ranks fell mute, cold with fear.

  He stepped forward two paces and swept them again with his sharp gaze. “You rabble salute your officers. You do not cheer—unless after a victory!”

  Shame-faced, they lifted right hands and fumbled through a salute, looking more like circus jesters than soldiers.

  “Enough—trash!” he snapped. “For once, I thank that slow-moving quartermaster—since you have no regulation dress yet, I’ll not accept any salute from you. You don’t deserve my return of it.

  “Sergeant Penduvas tells me you dislike restraint—fidget, talk back. That displeases me. From this moment, such things end. Orders are to be obeyed—promptly, unconditionally, to the letter. The unit will learn discipline and move in step—or the enemy will kill us, not we the enemy! Do you understand?” His roar all but split the front rank’s ears.

  “U…understood…” The answer was feeble and uneven.

  “Damn it—I heard nothing! Are you sickly Turks, or Spanish flies in heat?”

  “Understood!” The chorus came together, but still too soft.

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  He kept at them, lashing with words until the fifth shout finally rang out crisp and even. He nodded, grudgingly.

  It was Day one for 513 trainees—the start of their hardship. After the talk came the inspection. With Penduvas, Finic, and Villed in tow, the instructor moved through the ranks and kicked nearly 200 slackers—ill-dressed, whispering, out of stance—out of line.

  Second Lieutenant Augereau ordered the offenders to run twenty laps of the 400-meter track with 20-kilogram packs, no rest allowed—or lose dinner. The gendarmes would enforce it.

  Macdonald, Chassé, Masséna, and Suchet were also called out. The instructor looked them over, then eased his tone and smiled: “Given your superior bearing in ranks, I appoint you acting commanders of four recruit companies.”

  Macdonald, Chassé, and Masséna—old hands—knew instructors like Augereau always had tricks in the bag. Only Suchet, guileless as ever, looked thrilled, grateful for the “promotion.” For now, it was strictly temporary; once folded into the battalion, it might earn a real sergeant’s stripe.

  “So,” Augereau went on, “as company leaders, when your men are punished for breaches of discipline—what do you do?”

  “We know, Instructor!” the three veterans answered in unison. Suchet lagged a beat—until Masséna’s discreet kick prodded him to repeat the line. Augereau saw and let it pass.

  Soon, each drew a 20-kilogram pack from a tent at the edge of the field, slung it on, and trotted off with the punished men for twenty laps. The unpunished recruits were to remain at attention—javelin-straight under the noon sun—until their leaders and mates returned.

  At some point, Lieutenant Hoche came up beside Augereau, handed him a glass of lemon water, and nodded toward the four loaded leaders on the track. “Those four are the boss’s special concerns? Leave two for the cavalry?”

  Since the regiment’s formation—and with transfers of Augereau and Saint-Cyr, plus the gendarmerie standing up—the cavalry lacked good NCOs. Even after Lieutenant Hoche promoted a batch, it wasn’t enough.

  Augereau drank, then first nodded, then shook his head. “Sorry, sir—none for you. Chassé and Macdonald will command Second and Third Company; Masséna will be Second’s deputy, as the boss seems minded to post Lieutenant Chassé to the gendarmerie as chief. As for Suchet, word is he’s a university graduate; after this camp, he’ll serve at HQ as a staff officer. Er—what’s a staff officer, exactly?”

  “Per the boss’s order, the regiment will set up an operations staff section—one field-grade chief of staff over several operations officers. They draft plans and assist the commanding officers in control,” Lieutenant Hoche explained.

  His three months in Paris were not only artillery; he had studied organization and logistics as well. The staff system, first seen in the French Army as early as Louis XIV (so some argue), had grown ever more complete after a century of war.

  He remembered something and smiled. “I just heard from the boss—Officer Training Course, Phase 2, restarts in seven days. Congratulations in advance, Lieutenant.”

  “And to you—Captain,” Augereau grinned, flattering the boss’s first confidant. He himself was second; Captain Senarmont, off in Paris and Metz raising an artillery company, would be third or fourth.

  By the Colonel’s order, any officer slated for promotion must complete focused short-course training: not only combat skills, but political and moral formation. For Phase 1 and 2, Lieutenant-Colonel André would be the chief examiner; specialists would teach tactics, while André took political analysis, ideological drill, and strict sanitation.

  There might be a Phase 3, even Phase 4, before the regiment moved to the Marne. André’s aim was plain: to stamp the regiment through and through with his mark—from company, platoon, and squad leaders, down to NCOs and privates.

  Most recruits in Bordeaux were farmers’ sons. To strengthen loyalty, André proposed that the Bordeaux Wine Merchants’ Chamber give preference to soldiers’ families; he even coordinated with local vineyard owners to reduce tenant rents by 20–30%. The benefit applied only to households with sons serving in the Champagne Composite Regiment.

  Two hours later, the punished men finished their laps and fell back in. At Sergeant Penduvas’s dismissal, the recruits and their four acting company leaders were given a twenty-minute break.

  “Up, now!” panted Masséna, giving the “dead-on-the-grass” Suchet a kick. He lowered his voice: “If you don’t want your stripe pulled in twenty minutes—and another twenty laps—get up. Now.”

  The rich boy’s temper had cooled. Perhaps hungry for rank, he took the old hand’s advice—stood up, and squared himself away.

  Chassé and Macdonald walked over—time to know their fellow officers. Though Masséna and Suchet were civilians before enlistment, their acting posts marked them as men with prospects.

  They had barely traded a few friendly words when Chassé, sharp-eyed, saw Captain Moncey heading their way. He snapped upright and called out, long and loud: “Company—attention! Salute the officer!”

  They came to attention and saluted as one.

  “At ease, gentlemen,” Captain Moncey returned the salute with a smile and moved on—he was looking for Lieutenant Hoche and Second Lieutenant Augereau. Late September already; the regiment would march north next month. He meant to invite both to his home.

  “No problem—have you invited the Colonel?” Augereau asked, casual but shrewd. Private gatherings weren’t banned, yet it was wise to let the boss know.

  Moncey nodded, then sighed. “Lussac says the Colonel’s schedule is booked into next month. It’ll be hard. But the boss said he’ll try to stop by for a glass.”

  “Bring those four?” Hoche meant the four acting company leaders laughing outside the field.

  “So long as they’re off duty, bring them. And Saint-Cyr, Penduvas, Finic, Villed.” Captain Moncey added, “By the way, the boss promised me ten cases of Lafite this morning.”

  …

  The twenty-minute rest was soon over. Second Lieutenant Augereau blew the assembly whistle. The men moved sharply; four companies dressed their lines; no whispering now. All eyes fixed on the scarred instructor, awaiting the next order.

  Satisfied, Augereau stepped up and gave a belated welcome: “Men of Bordeaux, thank you for volunteering for the Champagne Composite Regiment. From our first meeting I saw you were strong and sound—sons of farmers on the Garonne. You know how to build your bodies. But strength alone does not make a good soldier. You must also obey orders and respect discipline. Only then will you cheer one victory after another—instead of throwing your lives away.”

  …

  Since August André had been petitioning in Paris for the Champagne Composite Regiment to receive an official line designation from Comte de Tour du Pin, Minister of War, in hopes of regular pay and supply. He did not expect success. The ministers still served at the pleasure of Louis XVI; their loyalty was to the Tuileries, not to the Manège (the Constituent Assembly).

  Even so, placing the regiment on the National Guard rolls had clear advantages. Beyond controlling officer appointments, André could shape the unit as he wished—arms, uniforms, tactics, and regulations—provided he himself found the money.

  At the Assembly, the ultra-left deputy Buzot had demanded the regiment copy the National Guard and set up soldiers’ committees at company level, allowing privates to recommend company- and platoon-grade officers and NCOs—“liberty, equality, fraternity.” Before André in far-off Bordeaux could reply, Marquis de Lafayette blocked it.

  As mediator between King, Assembly, and People—a “chief minister” trusted by the King under constitutional monarchy—Marquis de Lafayette saw it as a thinly veiled attack on his regularization of the Paris National Guard (the volunteers), a slur that he was building a soldiers’ dictatorship—“France’s Cromwell.”

  After sharp exchanges in the hall, Deputy Buzot—out of arguments—fell back. On Lafayette’s side stood a host of allies from the Club of 1789 (forerunner of the Feuillants): Sieyès, Talleyrand, Comte de Mirabeau, Bailly, Barnave, the Lameth brothers, and others.

  Meanwhile, Buzot found few friends among the ultra-left. Even the nearby deputies Pétion and Robespierre sat tight-lipped. President Prieur clearly favored André—his fellow Rémois—and warned Buzot not to mix private grudges into affairs of state.

  “Why the silence?” Buzot raged back at the Jacobin Club. “You wanted a force pledging itself to the Assembly—this regiment is perfect—so long as you strip André’s influence!”

  Pétion and Robespierre exchanged a glance and said nothing, waiting for the storm to blow out.

  Brissot, having heard the story, explained:

  “Money, my friend. The Constituent Assembly has a fatal defect—it holds no purse. It cannot even cover members’ stipends without asking others. National revenue sits in the Finance Ministry and obeys the Tuileries; local taxes belong to local authorities; remittances to the central Assembly are paltry—by early October this year, under 2,000,000 livres.

  “A few days ago I learned from a friend that André’s submission to the Minister of War puts the regiment’s budget over 3,000,000 livres. Granted, much padding may be there; still, I believe the true cost is not less than 2,000,000. Tell me, Buzot—will you pay it yourself, or will the Assembly?”

  The Radiant Republic.

  5 chapters in advance of the Royal Road schedule. You can find it here:

  https://www.patreon.com/cw/wentaj

  free to read on Royal Road as always, so there’s absolutely no pressure — this is just for readers who want to be a little ahead and help me spend more time writing and researching this series.