With a burst of hoofbeats in a cloud of dust, the party of Plenipotentiary André rode onto the parade ground, Berthier at his side. At Lameth’s signal, a brisk, lively march sprang up at once.

  When the horses came to a halt, Plenipotentiary André, dressed in full uniform, swung down from the saddle. Smiling, he greeted Lameth and the others who came forward to receive him with conspicuous warmth—handshakes that became hearty embraces.

  “Alexandre, my friend—long time no see! Ha—and you too, Charles, my brother.”

  Only then did Alexandre Lameth

  Times were different now. André was not merely a deputy of the National Assembly; he was also a Plenipotentiary bearing joint authority from both the Assembly and the cabinet—power without limit. Besides the commander-in-chief, he could appoint commanders at every level up to and including division command, and he could dismiss any General deemed incompetent, even sending him before a court-martial.

  Had André arrived alone, he might have spoken and acted with some restraint. But he had brought a 9,000-strong force of his own, and with the cooperation of the former commander, Marshal de Rochambeau, he had smoothly taken over the headquarters of the Army of the North and all internal and external security in its vicinity. A man named Brune had also replaced Charles—who had been transferred to become an infantry brigadier (a Brigadier General)—as head of the army’s gendarmerie, with two light-cavalry regiments under his command.

  So for Lameth, as acting commander, showing a little deference and respect to Plenipotentiary André—so high in station and so heavy in authority—was only natural. There was nothing shameful in it. He had only to look at those who had once belittled, opposed, and hated André: most of them now lay in the abyss of hell, enduring torments fit for purgatory.

  When Lameth introduced the senior officers of the army, André, as always, deliberately focused on those whose names history would remember—men like Alexandre de Beauharnais

  General Beauharnais was an aristocrat born in a French colony in the West Indies. He had served as a deputy to the Estates-General and then to the Constituent Assembly; he was now a major general, and had once been chief of staff of the Army of the North. Yet once Berthier arrived, and at the acting commander’s suggestion, Beauharnais voluntarily resigned as chief of staff and was about to replace the dismissed General Biron—removed for dereliction—to become commander of the right wing of the Army of the North.

  In truth, André did not wish to endorse this appointment. With Moncey already reserved by André as commander of the centre, Hoche was the best man in André’s eyes. However, for the sake of balancing factions within the army and steadying the temper of his subordinates, André still agreed to Berthier’s request. His only hope was that Beauharnais would prove less inept at commanding troops than he was at choosing a wife—Joséphine.

  General Fardel, thirty-eight years old and likewise a major general, had been an infantry-division commander garrisoning the Lille headquarters. His latest appointment was commander of the left wing of the Army of the North. This aristocrat from Strasbourg was short and plain, but a commander of remarkable talent. In another timeline, Fardel—despite repeated exploits—would have been sent to the guillotine, like General Custine, for nothing more than a single failed operation: the counterattack at Mainz.

  In that uniquely feverish period of history, many Generals of noble birth who were loyal to France were not permitted a single failure; otherwise they were treated as traitors to the French fatherland, and the only end awaiting them upon return to Paris was the guillotine. Many Generals of common birth—men like Hoche and Moreau—could enjoy certain privileges: so long as a deputy of the National Assembly was willing to stand surety, they could slip away from the blade with ease.

  Now, André was willing to vouch for these capable, battle-tested, dutiful aristocratic Generals—to grant them more chances and more shelter—on one absolute condition: they must obey André’s command. Otherwise, André would turn on them without hesitation and personally send them to the guillotine at the first opportunity.

  To André, a leader was someone who could analyse, decide with firmness, make use of talent, and conquer the hearts of subordinates. When they hesitated, he would spur them on, guide them, and shape them into a carefully designed, efficient, obedient political machine. But such a thing demanded astonishing endurance and unbroken labour: caution at every moment, and a permanent, intense will to see it through.

  Unlike his cheerful manner of conversation with the Generals, when Plenipotentiary André faced the parade formation commanded by Colonel Oudinot, he straightened to full height and set his face in stern seriousness. In an instant, the entire parade ground grew solemn.

  At that moment, André felt strength flooding his body—endless, inexhaustible. In the soldiers’ hungry eyes, he sensed the air itself thick with the smell of battle. A great conqueror ought to create a succession of wars, seeking the pleasure found in the process—even if it required every political pretext under the sun, or the pretence of impeccable gentlemanly manners. It gave André vitality; it made him forget the hardships ahead.

  Very soon, André began his first address to the Army of the North.

  “My brave soldiers— you lack food and clothing; you have no shoes; you live in hardship and misery. Every day you sacrifice, resist, and endure, and in return you receive hunger and cold, poverty and nothing at all. This is what France owes you. That is why, today, the National Assembly and the War Ministry of the cabinet have sent André to the Army of the North. First, to thank you for your selfless devotion to the fatherland and the people—and to bring you enough food and drink, new uniforms, and fine boots. Second, to lead you into the richest Low Countries in Europe. There you will find fertile provinces, wealthy towns, and beautiful women—all at your disposal.

  “Soldiers—tell me: with such a future before you, can you fail to gather your courage and hold fast?”

  After hearing this speech from their young, fearless leader, all officers and men of the First French Volunteer Regiment brimmed with hope and confidence. Across the square, cries of approval rose in a deafening roar, and the soldiers, as if of one voice, shouted from the lungs, “Yes, Plenipotentiary!”

  But behind them, André’s Generals gathered in a knot, whispering among themselves, plainly displeased by André’s naked doctrine of plunder. At the very least, they thought, it ought to be dressed up—made more decorous, more elegant.

  “Damn it—we are not conquerors, and still less bloodthirsty bandits,” Beauharnais muttered under his breath.

  General Fardel, unwilling to lose his aristocratic composure, took up General Beauharnais’s words. “Indeed. We are peaceful liberators who plant the tree of liberty. We must speak to our brothers and sisters in Europe of liberty, equality, and fraternity!”

  The Generals nodded and echoed him. Acting commander General Lameth, however, seemed not to hear a word. He understood the ruler’s method of mixing grace with severity. From the moment the Plenipotentiary entered the camp, André was soothing hearts and lifting morale—from the Generals down to the ordinary soldiers. Yet one link was still missing: authority. Lameth believed that once this distribution of favour was complete, it would be time for…

  The whispers behind him reached André’s ears in fragments. He merely smiled, unconcerned. Those Constitutionalists aristocrats were always like this—na?ve, endlessly so, whether in domestic politics or foreign war. In peaceful times, it might have been tolerable; men could profit together in cordiality. But in an age of upheaval—once France had been entrusted with the “historic mission” of chastising all Europe’s feudal monarchs—then it was a trial of blood and fire, a contest of life and death. It could not be won by stirring speeches or majority votes.

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  Back in the present, André never offered soldiers airy promises; he offered hard, tangible fulfilment. As the Plenipotentiary’s words fell, wagon after wagon rolled in—loaded with flour, fresh meat, vegetables and fruit, wine, and preserved foods. There were also new uniforms, fine boots, and well-made weapon-belts. The vehicles drew up in orderly sequence along one side of the parade ground: fifteen large wagons covered in white canvas.

  “Soldiers, remember this—this is France’s reward to the brave!”

  That single sentence ignited a fresh storm of cheers. Many men stuck their General-style hats atop musket muzzles and bayonets, waving them left and right while shouting slogans like “Long live André!” The parade threatened to dissolve into celebration.

  André did not mind. For most soldiers, there was no need to grasp lofty principles. To eat and drink their fill, wear smart uniforms, and flirt with pretty girls—those were the immediate pursuits of a good life. The nature of the war and its “mission” had nothing to do with them.

  In the real history of the French Revolution, the French banners of liberty, equality, and fraternity were not widely welcomed at first by the peoples of Europe. Only after the French armies won a series of decisive victories—after they had absorbed the Austrian Netherlands, the United Provinces, and Italy—did the so-called tree of liberty spread across Europe and transform its political landscape.

  So when André saw anxiety on Colonel Oudinot’s face—unease born of the soldiers’ excessive excitement—he merely smiled and shook his head, signalling that this grenadier Colonel need not be nervous. Sometimes, ignorance was the most perfect happiness.

  When the noise gradually subsided and the ranks settled, André continued:

  “I know that in the past month, as you fought and bled in Brabant, the setbacks you suffered brought you not victory and reward, but baseless blame and abuse. For that, I offer my deepest apology. But this is not a failure—at least, it is not your failure.

  “Because certain conspirators misled and deceived the good officers and men of the Army of the North. They robbed you of glory and wealth that were within your grasp; they turned honour into endless shame.

  “Who are they?!

  “They are the cowards who shrink on the frontier and dare not attack boldly!

  “They are the defeatists who watch comrades being surrounded and yet refuse to lift a hand—choosing flight instead of aid!

  “They are the shameless traitors who incite sabotage in the camps and surrender to the enemy on the battlefield!

  “…”

  André raised both hands and then pressed them down slowly; the commotion in the ranks eased at once. He inclined his head slightly toward Colonel Brune. Brune understood immediately and gave a short wave. In moments, two gendarmes brought forward an officer whose hands and feet were bound and whose mouth was gagged.

  Even the generals craned their necks to see. The man kneeling on both knees, hogtied in ropes, was the former commander of the Army of the North’s Saxon Cavalry Regiment—Colonel Gordissal, who had defected to the Austrians. Once handsome and dashing, the cavalry Colonel was now dishevelled, hair in tangles, face pale. In his desperate stare lay fear, helplessness, and regret.

  To seize this defector, the Military Intelligence Office had used multiple clandestine agents hidden in Brussels. They dragged Gordissal off a prostitute’s belly, shoved him into a prepared four-wheeled carriage, and—before the Austrians could react—carried him back across the frontier into France.

  Just as General Lameth had anticipated, after lifting the burden of blame from the Generals and rewarding the dutiful soldiers, it was time for a scapegoat. Earlier, including the commander of the Army of the North, Marshal de Rochambeau, all three wing commanders had either resigned of their own accord or been removed; the thirteen mutineers who had abducted and shot General Dillon had likewise been brought to justice. Now, the wretch raised as André’s sacrifice to open the campaign was the miserable creature before them: Colonel Gordissal.

  Among the senior officers, General Aoste was closest to Gordissal. Seeing his friend’s wretched state, he started forward, intending to plead with Plenipotentiary André. The moment he took a step, Beauharnais and Fardel both seized him and pulled him back.

  “Damn it—are you trying to get yourself killed?” the acting commander, General Lameth, came over as well and hissed.

  Anyone with eyes could see that the defector, Colonel Gordissal, was beyond saving. If Aoste went forward to speak even a sentence in his defence, the enraged soldiers would greet him with bayonets. In wartime, no commander who defected to the enemy could expect mercy; it was iron law.

  Lameth understood as well that André was doing more than rousing morale. He was demonstrating power to the Generals—warning them that André, and André alone, was the supreme authority of the Army of the North; the Plenipotentiary’s will could not be defied, including his plan to continue the offensive into the Austrian Netherlands.

  In fact, André’s move had already shattered the military pact forged at the Charleville-Mézières camp among the three commanders—Marshal de Rochambeau, General Lafayette, and Marshal Luckner. It was plain enough that André carried the combined will of the cabinet, the Assembly, and Paris itself. Unless dismissed for defeat, every man in the Army of the North was forbidden to resist the Plenipotentiary’s orders; otherwise André had the power to send him to a court-martial at once.

  Only a few days earlier, General Lafayette had written to Lameth—his former political ally and rival—hoping the acting commander could take precautions against André’s coming control. But unfortunately, by the time Lafayette’s letter was still on the road, André’s own force had already taken over the defences of the Lille headquarters. Any unstable or suspicious element had been stripped away long before André formally assumed command.

  More than that, André had secretly ordered that Chief of Staff Berthier, and the newly appointed wing commanders—General Fardel and General Beauharnais—be kept at headquarters; he appointed Colonel Brune to supervise the gendarmerie formation (brigade level). He would also send his own men into both wings to “restore order,” under the pretext of strengthening morale—when in truth it was a purge of rivals, and a way to hollow out the authority of local commanders.

  By the time Lameth finally received Lafayette’s letter, it was too late. The only thing left to him was to persuade the officers around him to cooperate with Plenipotentiary André’s work rather than obstruct it.

  As for General Aoste’s impulsive movement, André did not care much. In truth, so long as there was no open disobedience of orders and no defection to the enemy, the Plenipotentiary—holding power of life and death—would show a broad tolerance.

  After learning that the Bohemian corps would no longer take part in the counterattack against the northern army, André felt secure. He knew that, 10 kilometres away, the Austrians had left only a little over 10,000 men, with cavalry no more than two regiments and a brigade. Reliable intelligence indicated that across the entire Austrian Netherlands there were only about 30,000 troops; and because the Military Intelligence Office had successfully stirred Brabantine resentment toward Austrian rule, most Austrian forces were tied down in Brussels, Ghent, Namur, Antwerp, Mons, and Liège—unable, for a long time, to redeploy southward for battle.

  On the Army of the North side, the paper strength was as high as 60,000 (including the 9,000-man relief detachment sent west), but the real effective strength was closer to 40,000. For a month after the war began, many local volunteer battalions still dragged their feet, failing to report to headquarters—citing unpaid wages, incomplete arms, uniforms not yet issued, and a dozen other reasons. The cavalry strength of the Army of the North totalled 8,000: at present, 4,000 were being pulled 5 kilometres away to the village of Rom by General Hoche for reorganisation; another 2,000 belonged to the gendarmerie brigade; the remainder were divided between the left and right wings…

  Back before the ranks, André walked at an unhurried pace to the commander of the First French Volunteer Regiment, Colonel Oudinot. Taking a loaded pistol from a nearby gendarme, he handed it directly to him and issued the order:

  “And now, Colonel—by the Plenipotentiary’s instruction—carry out the execution of the traitor.”

  Oudinot, twenty-five years old, of middle height, with brown hair and a well-built chest, did not hesitate in the slightest. He nodded, stepped behind Colonel Gordissal, raised the pistol slowly, aimed at the junction where the base of the skull meets the first and second vertebrae, and fired without pause. It was the best place for an execution: death at once, and little bleeding.

  Amid the soldiers’ cheers and the blare of the band, André brought this highly unusual parade to its end. At the officers’ meeting that followed, Plenipotentiary André took an official document from Chief of Staff Berthier and personally read out the first order he signed after arriving at the Army of the North:

  Appoint General Berthier as Chief of Staff of the Army of the North;

  Appoint Colonel Brune as commander of the gendarmerie brigade and Chief Judge Advocate, responsible for discipline across the Army of the North;

  Appoint Colonel Laclos as Commander of Artillery, with eleven artillery companies under his authority across the army;

  Appoint General Moncey as commander of the Centre, and General Hoche as commander of cavalry. The Centre would have 20,000 infantry (including the forces of General Aoste and General Lameth the younger), 4,000 cavalry, and seven artillery companies;

  Appoint General Beauharnais (major general) as commander of the Right Wing, with 6,000 infantry, 800 cavalry, and two artillery companies;

  Appoint General Fardel (major general) as commander of the Left Wing, with 8,000 infantry, 1,000 cavalry, and three artillery companies.

  “…In addition, the War Ministry has accepted my request that General Lameth continue as acting commander of the army. As I declared publicly before, the Army of the North must maintain an offensive posture. As for the specific operational plan, it will be read out shortly by Chief of Staff General Berthier.”

  At that, André paused. He swept his eyes over the officers around him. One after another, they avoided his sharp gaze—until the Plenipotentiary asked his final question:

  “I have spoken. Who approves? Who opposes?”

  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.