At dawn, a thin mist lay over the ancient Flemish plain. Once the sun climbed and the temperature kept rising, the whole veil turned into a transparent haze that curled upward into the sky. There was not a breath of wind. In the fields, the wheat stood as rigid as sentries under orders, not a stalk stirring.

  General Moncey sat on a pure white horse of Arab blood. In his general’s uniform he hunched slightly, eyes narrowed, watching that silent open country with hard attention. Beside him, a major remained equally motionless in the saddle; his boots were waxed to a mirror shine, and his mount stood square on all four hooves, only its mane shifting faintly.

  The gravel road before them wound on in bends: pasture grass to the left, waves of wheat to the right, the occasional bird cutting toward the distant treeline—and beyond that, nothing.

  Behind General Moncey, more than four thousand officers and men were granted one hour to rest in place. They were allowed to use the emergency rations in their packs—hard biscuits and small sachets of raisins—and the clean water in their canteens, filtered and boiled. In the whole column, only the hussar company attached to the infantry brigade for reconnaissance was sent out again and again, searching for any sign of enemy movement.

  On the commander’s left, Major Suchet rode abreast of General Moncey in his role as staff officer. He lowered his telescope and reported, “Reconnaissance cavalry found no trace of Austrian activity on the far side of the woods—within three to four kilometres.”

  Moncey nodded, still saying nothing.

  By order of Sir André, Suchet had arrived at the Army of the North five days earlier with Ouvrard. With them came Lieutenant Colonel Larrey, the medical officer tasked with establishing the Army of the North’s general hospital, along with his physicians and nurses. Doctor Percy (a Colonel) remained at Sedan to set up the field hospital for the Army of Moselle (the central army group). That same afternoon, Major Suchet—now an operations staff officer with the army headquarters—was assigned to General Moncey’s Centre, while Ouvrard was appointed Inspector General of Supply for the Army of the North and granted temporary rank as Colonel.

  The former General Charles Pichegru had been transferred to the left wing as a brigade commander—at his own request. He had applied for it back in Marshal de Rochambeau’s day and had never been approved; once André took hold of the army, he granted Pichegru his original wish.

  Ouvrard also brought news from the Army of Moselle. With the Military Intelligence Office working in concert with the gendarmerie, more than half the middle- and lower-ranking officers had already been won over—among them three senior generals. As for the aloof General Lafayette, he seemed to spend all his energy in a war of words with the cabinet’s Minister of War, or in endlessly accusing the Legislative Assembly of betraying the spirit of the constitution—showing no interest in military affairs, and certainly no desire to strike into the Ardennes. And the man André watched most closely, General Kellermann, had applied in early June to transfer east to the Army of the Rhine, returning to Marshal Luckner’s command…

  Before long, from the direction of the distant woods, several hussars in red cloaks with plumed headgear and bright uniforms came galloping in, whistling loudly. They had just finished a forward reconnaissance. As they rode past General Moncey, the red hussars did not even slow; they merely swept their caps in a jaunty salute and flashed by, throwing up a broad curtain of dust.

  “A pack of mad, ill-trained ruffians,” the major muttered through clenched teeth. Yet in his heart, the reserved young officer could not help envying those hussars—their red embroidered coats, their gold buttons, their swaggering splendour. Compared with the gendarmerie company he had commanded before, they were far more dazzling to look at.

  Moncey did not react to Suchet’s complaint. His mind remained still, his expression untouched by the world around him.

  The northbound detachment—the vanguard of the Centre—had left camp at six in the morning. Two hours later, just as it was about to cross the border, it met a sudden wall of thick fog.

  A hussar scout soon reported that a large body of Austrian cavalry had been sighted five kilometres ahead. Moncey immediately ordered the infantry brigade to fall back into a nearby village and set a defence there. On the other side, the Austrian commander, wary of fighting cavalry in heavy fog, sent only a small group of light horse forward. They probed into a volley, left two bodies behind, and withdrew when they found no opening. Two hours passed; the fog thinned, and the Austrians never renewed the attack.

  At ten in the morning, Moncey ordered the column to abandon the village and continue north. Reports kept coming back: the enemy cavalry had vanished as if swallowed by the earth—perhaps falling back beyond the border to hold Tournai, or shifting east to Mons to join General Josef Alvinczy’s infantry division.

  “Where do you think their observation post is?” the commander suddenly asked his operations officer.

  Suchet stared ahead. “Somewhere we’re overlooking—quietly watching us. For example, the top of that abandoned church bell tower two kilometres ahead on the left. In clear sunlight, with a reflective mirror and nearly twenty metres of height over the ground, they could signal our exact position to Austrian cavalry hidden somewhere within eight kilometres.”

  “Good.” Moncey looked genuinely pleased, and praised the young major. Suchet had grown quickly in the period he spent learning at Chief of Staff Berthier’s side, and he had learned well. Once this battle was finished, Moncey meant to submit a request to pull Suchet out of the army staff and place him directly under his command. The young officer’s ability was enough for Major—regimental command, perhaps more.

  Moncey continued, “And where would that Austrian prince set his ambush?”

  Suchet answered without hesitation. “Five to six kilometres ahead. I remember there are cornfields on both sides of the road. It’s mid-June; the corn is over two metres high—enough to hide men and horses.”

  Before the expedition, Suchet had crossed the border twice with a hussar patrol to reconnoitre the route—terrain, vegetation, landmarks—so he did not need to consult a map.

  “And where should we form our defence?” Moncey asked.

  “One and a half to two kilometres short of the cornfields, there’s a broad open slope. I can’t measure it precisely, but I’d estimate it at roughly twice the size of the football field at the Bacourt camp—perhaps larger. Its length and width are suited for an infantry brigade to form and fight.”

  Suchet went on, “I suggest the brigade forms three hollow squares, regiment by regiment, in an inverted triangle. If we calculate the time the cavalry needs to mount, form, advance at a trot, accelerate, and then make the final charge—hussars generally need six or seven minutes; heavy cavalry usually needs ten to twelve. In that window, we can form properly and, before the first wave hits, deploy twelve guns and smash them head-on with canister.”

  “No.” The commander shook his head.

  “By cavalry custom, the first wave is only hussar probing. So the guns should not be revealed yet—unless that Habsburg prince commits his cuirassier regiment. I’ve heard Sir say their Guard cavalry helmets are made of silver. Ha—at last, a trophy worth taking.

  “Major, pass my orders to the regimental and battalion commanders: have the men check weapons and ammunition boxes. Tell them the rest before battle is over. Have the band start up—make everyone sing loudly, and march with me toward the field of victory… and one more thing: before the fighting begins, have the hussars clear the enemy scouts off that abandoned church tower.”

  “General—what shall we sing?” the staff officer asked, turning his horse.

  “Why, the Army of the North’s war song—Chant du départ,” Moncey said with a smile.

  Chant du départ and the War Song of the Army of the Rhine, born two months earlier at Strasbourg, were sister pieces. Broadly speaking, the former suited campaigning—especially war beyond France’s borders. Chant du départ was also a favourite of Emperor Napoleon, to the point that it became the anthem of the First French Empire. But here and now André had given it another ringing name: the War Song of the Army of the North.

  As for the War Song of the Army of the Rhine, from the moment it appeared it was beloved by provincial sans-culottes and volunteer units. A month later, when five hundred volunteers from Marseille first carried it into Paris, its name somehow changed along the way—and it ultimately became the first anthem of the French Republic: La Marseillaise.

  A few minutes later, with bright fifes and steady drums, four thousand five hundred French soldiers began singing on Austrian Netherlands soil, voices lifted in that bold, rousing marching song—Chant du départ:

  “Sing as we go—victory beckons us,

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  Liberty guides us—we press on!

  From north to south the trumpets ring,

  Chant du départ—the hour of war has come.

  Tremble, enemies of France…”

  They needed that united spirit. When they reached the refrain, the shouting grew fiercer:

  “…The French fatherland calls to us;

  We shall conquer—or we shall die.

  A French soldier must live for honour,

  And for it, a French soldier must sacrifice!”

  …

  On the other side, Austrian cavalry had been trapped in the stifling, damp cornfields, suffering through nearly three hours of waiting—until the French singing finally rolled in, loud enough to fill the sky.

  “Damn those French—at last,” General Charles of Austria spat. His back was soaked through; thick drops of sweat ran down into his boots and pooled there—just as it did for every rider around him. Before battle, the first thing the men needed was not to mount and draw sabres, but to tip out the foul water sloshing in their boots.

  Hearing the French song, Colonel Horton, commander of the hussar regiment, frowned. More than twenty years of soldiering had given him an instinct for the abnormal, and something felt wrong. In truth, that unease had begun hours earlier.

  The French infantry brigade opposite was behaving strangely. Earlier, on the border, when fog and harassment pressed them, the French had formed defence with crisp orders and quick, flawless movement. Now they advanced as if blundering forward, which did not fit that earlier excellence—unless…

  The thought made Horton instinctively want to persuade General Charles of Austria to abandon the raid. He took two steps—then stopped. He remembered the young commander’s repeated warning: oppose the plan again, and Horton would be stripped of his command.

  During the Seven Years’ War, European infantry marched at an average of 72 paces per minute. Frederick the Great, facing encirclement by Austria, France, Russia, and Sweden, forced the Prussians up to 95 to 100 paces per minute. Decades later, in the era of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars, the French Emperor pushed it further, to 120. That produced a divisional or brigade marching speed of 5 to 5.5 kilometres per hour; with decent weather, thirty kilometres a day was routine. Artillery, of course, was slower—about 85 metres per minute—but horse artillery on flat ground and passable roads could still manage roughly 5 kilometres per hour and broadly keep pace with infantry.

  Cavalry, at its limit, could reach 20 kilometres per hour. Normal marching orders held it at 10 to 12. In combat, cavalry speed varied by gait: at the walk, trot, canter, and gallop, it ran roughly 100 metres, 220 metres, 320 metres, and 420 metres per minute; at the charge it was faster still, driven to full speed. The charge was chiefly used for forced marches and rapid raids; in emergencies it meant brutally overdrawing both rider and horse.

  …

  When Archduke Charles of Austria raised his telescope again, he had already received the fact that the abandoned bell tower was no longer sending signals. Without doubt, the scouts placed there had been detected by French hussars; they were likely already dead. But it no longer mattered. The French singing was drawing closer, and now even the rhythm of their boots could be heard. The ambush line was less than half a league away (about two kilometres). A few hundred more steps—perhaps a thousand—and the brilliant victory of the last Tournai ambush could be repeated.

  “Damn it—so close.” The Austrian commander lowered his telescope in anger. On the roof of the abandoned church, he had just seen a chain of coloured flags unfurl—certainly not Austrian. The French reconnaissance cavalry had found something wrong in the cornfields and, from that height, was signalling an alarm to the infantry brigade on the road.

  On the far side, the French halted at once. When the bugle sounded, thousands of men, under their officers’ calls, began converting from marching column into battle formation with calm order, preparing to fight where they stood.

  Archduke Charles guessed—bitterly—that if the French had advanced another one thousand metres, the ambush distance would have been perfect. Now the sprint was slightly longer—still acceptable, and on open ground ideal for a cavalry charge. The only disadvantage was that the approach ran up a gentle incline at a shallow angle; the cavalry would be attacking uphill, which would tax the horses—especially the heavy cavalry.

  “Go tell Colonel Horton—his hussars will probe first.” As he issued the order, General Charles of Austria fastened his helmet and mounted, leading more than a thousand Guard cavalrymen out in a long file, leaving the cornfields where they had hidden for three hours. Not far away, the hussar regiment was already formed; Colonel Horton, in turn, gave the attack order to a cavalry major.

  On the other side, following General Moncey’s prearranged orders, three infantry regiments arranged themselves in an inverted triangle on the open plain. From that moment, the brigade commander’s direct control was temporarily handed to the regimental commanders. Moncey and his staff—Major Suchet, observers, buglers, and the rest—took their place inside the rearmost square.

  Before the bugle finished, each regimental commander rode into the centre of his chosen square. To his left stood the ensign, immovable under the colours; to his right were two elite grenadier companies, drawn from the battalions as a reserve strike force to plug gaps as needed. Several drummers positioned themselves near the commander’s horse, beating different patterns on command—sometimes long and measured, sometimes urgent and sharp.

  Guided by company officers’ whistles and the changing drumbeats, each soldier performed the dead, mechanical movements of formation—complex, yet orderly, each man’s face blank.

  Eight hundred metres ahead, a wave of Austrian hussars in green uniforms came racing in. At first they trotted, then shouted, then accelerated into a hard drive—sabres in hand, backs of the blades up, points aimed toward the blue line of the horizon. They swore to run the French infantry down to the last man.

  Hooves thundered; the earth seemed to tremble. The bugle rang out—cheering the enemy hussars on. In the front ranks of the two forward squares, French infantry who had only just locked their lines flinched at the sudden violence: some instinctively wanted to fall back, some raised muskets without orders, some crouched early with fixed bayonets. The formation began to fray.

  “Gentlemen—don’t be in such a hurry to look forward. Dress the line. The Austrians rushing in to die aren’t here yet.” A tall, fair-haired Lieutenant strode to the front. He drew his sabre, spread both arms wide, and shouted at several tense men:

  “Hey—hey—hey, you again, damn you, Borni. I know you can’t wait to stick your bayonet into an Austrian mare’s fat belly, but for God’s sake, stand up—your wobbling point is about to lift my hat clean off. Poquelin—bloody hell, you’re in the wrong place again. Third rank. Back you go. And you, Kohler—stop grinning and check your cartridge box: thirty-six rounds. Open it and let the Corporal inspect. If one round is missing, I’ll put my sabre through your arse. And you—Dutchman—you’re steady as a rock. If you live to the end of this fight, I’ll reward you properly. Ha. Yes, I know you’re from the Principality of Liège—so what? I like calling you that…”

  The soldiers burst out laughing. The tension thinned; their feet found the drum again; and under their officers’ calls they redressed and settled back into shape.

  Just as in training, Moncey formed each regiment into a hollow square. The three squares were deployed in an inverted triangle, each square six ranks deep (front six, rear six, left six, right six). The initial spacing between squares was kept at five to six metres, to be adjusted by the battlefield commander as the fight required.

  Across the outer corners of the three squares, there were eight points—each gun position meant to receive two to three pieces. The forward edge of the formation would ultimately deploy twelve guns. For the moment, however, the guns still lay disguised as baggage wagons. Under officers’ orders, the gunners at each selected position were piling iron plates, wooden blocks, and dug earth to build up height. By past efficiency, once the platforms and small berms were ready, the gunners could strip the disguise and complete firing preparations within two minutes of receiving the order.

  When the final square closed fully, Suchet snapped his pocket watch shut.

  “Four minutes, twenty-six seconds. Worse than our best record—three minutes, twenty-three.” Then he immediately added, “Of course, this is a real battle. Anything under five minutes is excellent. Let’s just hope our squares can take the next shock from the heavy cavalry.”

  “Don’t forget—we have guns. And three kilometres behind us in the woods, we have Colonel Nansouty’s two light-cavalry regiments,” added Lieutenant Colonel Friant, whose regiment formed the rear square and therefore felt less pressure than the forward two.

  Suchet laughed. “You want cavalry to share your glory?”

  Friant, in his thirties, did not bite. He shot the staff officer a hard look. “I want the Centre to win. Everything else is secondary.”

  Moncey had no patience for their banter. His telescope remained fixed on the Austrian approach. Perhaps unsatisfied with the view, he dismounted and climbed onto a baggage wagon about two metres high. Suchet hurried up after him. Friant went back to his post with a faintly smug air.

  “The Austrians have no guns. No infantry either—only one hussar regiment and one cuirassier regiment,” Suchet said, interpreting the signals coming from the church tower lookout.

  “Distance!” Moncey barked.

  A Lieutenant acting as observer shouted, “Enemy hussars—about three hundred—six hundred metres! … four hundred! … three hundred…”

  At three hundred metres, drums began rattling again like rain. The front rank in each square crouched, muzzles and bayonets outward, bodies braced hard against their stocks.

  At two hundred metres, the second rank raised muskets to aim.

  At one hundred, every soldier could see the hussars’ exaggerated, murderous faces; tension surged again—tempered only by the solidity of comrades at their shoulders.

  At eighty metres, an officer’s voice cracked: “Second rank—fire!”

  Triggers snapped in unison.

  Before the smoke could clear, the second rank began reloading, and the third rank lifted their muskets…

  The first Austrian attack was only three squadrons—about three hundred riders. With practiced horsemanship, they tried to feel out the squares, only to find forests of steel everywhere. At one hundred metres, the boldest hussars drove in—and immediately met the blunt hammer of two volleys.

  Repeated charges failed. Horses screamed, terrified and enraged, rearing and refusing to crash into the bayonet hedge. The riders tried to sweep around the flanks; they found no weakness, no gap, no entry—and instead, each new wave of musket balls cut them down like scythes. Men and horses in the front ranks fell in sheets. In under three minutes, the Austrian light cavalry left more than a hundred bodies in front of the squares, along with dozens of dead horses. The French lost only a handful of men—hit by pistols in bad luck.

  Then an Austrian bugle sounded from the rear. The cavalry circling the squares wheeled away and withdrew, and a sudden roar of cheering rose from the French lines. Several Sergeant Majors armed with long pikes stepped out from the squares. They walked back and forth along the front, lifting their spearpoints and, without mercy, finishing wounded enemies and the horses lying in blood, crying out in misery.

  “Poor bastards,” Borni said—whether he meant the men or the horses was unclear.

  “If we lose, we’ll be poorer than they are,” Poquelin added, pointlessly.

  “Shut up,” Kohler hissed, tense. He had just fired a dry shot—he had forgotten to prime. He reassured himself in silence: at least he hadn’t fired the ramrod out this time.

  The Dutchman remained calm. He glanced at the Lieutenant—reminding his officer to keep his promise, and give him a chance at a promotion to NCO rank after the battle.