Forced to Defeat: Savoy, 1796

Chapter 2: Flight

Antonio watched the warm waters of the Mediterranean splash on the hull of the Alba , his
galley, loaded with many soldiers, most of whom seemed to have a requirement to insult any
sailor they came across, and to be as seasick as possible. And to insult the sailors for making
them as seasick as possible.

“The cowards,” he muttered under his breath. Not low enough, however, for one of the soldiers
heard him.

“Cowards? You call us cowards? I’d like to see you face some 65,000 men flying their cursed
tricolor!”

“And did you even try to defend Piedmont?” Antonio asked acidly.

Unable to take further insult, the soldier let out a cry and flung himself towards Antonio, who
jumped to one side. With that, a full scale brawl erupted, the other men crowding around and
cheering them on. Finally, a sergeant dragged them apart, Antonio with a cut lip and black eye,
the other man clutching his wrist and with a bloody nose.

“I don’t care, who started it,” the sergeant said as they prepared to hurl themselves together
verbally, “Just don’t do it again. Do you understand me, Alberto, Antonio?”

Antonio nodded, as the other man did likewise.

“Good. Then continue understanding it.”

The two men nodded again, glaring at each other.

* * *

April 28, 1796

Victor looked over the port of Caligari.

“Thank god the last of them are off the ships,” he said to Colli, “The way they and the sailors
went for each other in insults and brawls, you’d think we were from two different nations.”

“We are,” Colli said.

Victor looked at him strangely.

“The sailors come from the Savoy of the ports, the soldiers from the Savoy of the castles.”

“I don’t see the difference,” Victor said.

“They do, and they are willing to kill each other for it.”

Victor sighed again.

Just then, a messenger burst into the room.

“Sir, the capital has fallen! Only Sardinia remains against the French!”

Victor cursed. The next few years would be a lot harder.

* * *

1796-1797

Charles Emmanuel IV, King of Savoy, was enraged.

“6,000 good men lost, along with 3 cannon! Curses, how are we supposed to fight the French
with our capital in their hands?!”

“Sir,” an advisor began, “We need to wait; The French have too much of a lead in technology...”

“Then get to the correct level of technology,” Charles said in a deadly serious voice.

“Sir, that will take until at least 1800...”

“1800! 1800!? How in the world can we stand and watch until 1800!”

“I don’t know sir, but we must.”

* * *

Alberto counted himself lucky that he had not been picked to go to the mainland. Danilo had, and
he had not come back. Nor had the fortress.

“Curse it,” he muttered, “How are we supposed to fight the cursed French if we have to fight
them from Sardinia!”

He hated the war. How the heck was he supposed to live on Sardinia? He didn’t think he could
much longer.

* * *

1798-1800

I'll just write, even if no one is there.


Danilo laughed to himself. Alberto probably thought he was dead. Not so.

“I have been sent home on leave,” he muttered to himself, “In a way I never expected.”

He grinned. A Frenchman noticed him. And his tattered uniform.

“Hey, you. Were you in the army? Ah, never mind, you don’t need to tell me. I’ll tell you this,”
he said, grinning himself, “You’re dead. Your country is, too.”

Danilo came close to hurling himself at the soldier, but checked himself. Even if he had a gun,
the French had 5,000 more. Or several hundred thousand more, depending on how you looked at
it.

* * *

“That Frenchman....” Charles said.

“Napoleon?”

“Yes, Napoleon. Who else would I be talking about? He has the nerve... To head the French
Republic?”

“He seems an ambitious man.”

“Sir, other than that, I have good news.”

“Finally?”

“Yes. Our Land Technology matches France.”

“Good! Schedule the invasion.”

* * *

Originally posted by Rhodz
I may be the only one reading, but keep going

Click to expand...

Looks like you are.

Now if only France didn't keep marching Kellerman across Savoy. And if Austria would help me with their plump, fat, armies of 20,000....

April 21, 1801

Antonio glared at the waves. He glared at the soldiers. Most of all, he glared at the palace.
Another invasion scheduled, another invasion canceled. When would they recapture the capital?
Never seemed to be the most likely answer.

That cursed tricolor still flew over Piedmont. It still flew over Savoie. For how much longer? A
lot longer than many think, Antonio thought, if the king is still the coward he is.

* * *

November 7, 1804

Victor Emmanuel practically bounced with glee. For this was the greatest victory Savoy had won
since.... The end of the War of Spanish Succession. The capital was back in their hands. For how
long, he couldn’t tell, but Savoy could finally be ruled from its capital. Victor reasoned it was the
worst defeat yet the French had suffered in Europe, for they had always been on the offensive.


Now, in Savoy, they were on the defensive for the first time in a long time. Victor hoped he
could keep up the momentum.

Yes, I know this is a very long post compared to the rest of the AAR. And yes, this all only describes one battle. Or half of one. Let me tell you this: This was the nearest run battle I've ever seen in EU1 or EU2. And to think, only 18,000 troops on both sides were involved.

Dirt and soot streaked Charles’ face, fitting for an artilleryman. He may have been dirty,
but he was proud. Savoy seemed to stand on his shoulders. He was grateful that home had been
reached, in any case. He patted the small field gun he attended to. It had served him well in the
recent siege. He hoped it would serve him well now. He squinted. A column of dust was rising
on the horizon. That meant troops. French troops.

That column gradually grew closer. He stopped staring. “Men! To your guns!” he called. There
was Sergeant Alex, dependable as always.

“Looks like they don’t aim to let us rest, do they?”

“Surely we’ll be able to work out a compromise,” he replied in good humor.

“Of course! They like rest as much as we do!”

He didn’t answer, for a racket began up front. The French had sent forward their skirmishers to
disrupt the line, like they always did. What they didn’t count on.... Was that Savoy had
skirmishers of their own. Lots of them.

As the foes launched a hail of projectiles at each other, Charles commented, “One would wonder
how they get all that stuff to throw at each other. It should break the supply horses’ backs.”

“One should wonder how you seem to think your comments pass for wit,” Alex replied, as
always giving him a reply which passed for humor among them.

The French light infantry separated, the Savoyans keeping with them. Charles quickly became
weary. Immediately after the skirmishers retreated....

“Here they come!” said several of his men at once.

“Train your cannon on the columns!” he shouted. The French advanced in their usual wide
columns, preparing to smash the Savoyan line under their pressure. But in their past battles they
had light infantry support. And they hadn’t counted on him.....


“Fire at will!”

Cannons roared. Shells slammed into the French column. The French slowed, and came to a stop.
Vicious firing continued. Plenty of men in blue were falling, but the Savoyans’ morale was
getting lower and lower. Would they hold?

* * *

Alberto stood in the line of soldiers, blasting at the French. Men were falling and screaming all
around. Still he stood. If the line lost its coherence, who would defend the capital? No one, he
grimly thought. Still, men in gray fell, but still, they stood. The French seemed surprised they
remained.

The French colonel rode up as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Alberto was glad to give him
one, and shot at him. He tumbled out of the saddle, but Alberto was not sure if it was he who
brought him down. Still, as if to show they were the best soldiers in the world, the French fought
on.

Soon, seemingly to show he was just as brave as a Frenchman, the Savoyan colonel trotted up.
Waving his sword and urging them on, he was just as easy a target as the Frenchman had been a
moment before. He too, tumbled out of the saddle. He cursed. The Savoyans were much more
likely to flee than the experienced French.

Then, out of the blue, more men in gray marched up. Reinforcements had arrived.

* * *

Danilo couldn’t hear over the tramping of marching feet, couldn’t see through the cloud of dust,
so he had no idea how the men realized the battle was up ahead. Regardless of how they did, the
men cheered. Danilo realized they were raw recruits. They hadn’t seen fighting.

The officers, screaming like they always seemed to, shouted for the men to reinforce the Savoyan
line. Not like I need that order, or can see the line. He stormed forward anyway.
Presumably, the forward most men could see where they were going.

Sure enough, there was the line. Sure enough, it was littered with holes. Danilo trotted up and
filled the first gap he could find.

“Funny you should be here, I thought you were dead” said the soldier next to him, who he
recognized as Alberto. Danilo gaped. Then, he opened fire.

* * *

Victor Emmanuel looked at the battle below. From up here, the battle merely looked like a bunch
of gray and blue lines. It seemed that the gray line was wavering. Victor cursed. All his efforts,
gone to waste. The troops in blue still came on. He cursed the Revolution. Suddenly, the fire
redoubled, and the blue line streamed forward.

“Sir, one of his generals screamed, “We’ve got to get out of here!” Cursing again, Victor
mounted his horse.

* * *

Originally posted by Lord Durham
Good work. Nice twist taking Savoy in the NA scenario. Too bad you can't import Eugene. The battle was especially well done. I'll be reading this for sure.

Click to expand...

Thank you very much. Your writing had a lot of influence on it. Hopefully mine compares.

Originally posted by Isaac Brock
What about the War of Austrian Sucession? They whupped the French then too. Still that is 50 years ago.

Interesting AAR. I'd imagine it'll be tough to do much against the juggernaut, but it's nice to see you try.

Click to expand...

Ach, I did not remember the War of Austrian Sucession. Thank you for correcting me. To the second point: I do what I can.

Originally posted by stnylan
lurk lurk

Nice to see you taking things easy.

Click to expand...

Oh yes, I sure am doing the easy thing. I could have taken Orleans.

Originally posted by Newbreed
Savoy, the tiny little country in Southern France? I think I'll read this, only to see what will happen when France actually notices that you're still there.

Click to expand...

Oh, they've noticed.

And thaks for all who replied!

And now, to follow that with something of substance to the AAR: The Great Battle for the Capital: Part II

“Stupid king,” Alberto muttered under his breath, “Fleeing the battlefield like that... The
coward.” He rammed a musket ball in after the gunpowder, took aim, and fired. One of the
surviving officers rode up.

“This section of the line, stay as a rearguard! The other half, fall back!”

Alberto cursed again. He was in the rearguard the lieutenant had shouted at. Grimly, he
accelerated the pace of loading, packing, and firing. The fighting was growing steadily more
ferocious. Suddenly, a ball slammed into his arm. He cursed as the arm crumpled and he dropped
the musket. Another ball hit him in the chest, and he fell.

He was dimly aware that his chest felt on fire, but, it seemed only a passing concern, as though it
were happening to someone else. Everything was going gray, and it slowly faded to black.

* * *

Danilo cursed as he saw his old friend drop into the mud, but he could do little, for he had to
keep his wits about him if he were to survive. The ragged chorus of guns cackling had seemed to
blow out his ears, so he barely heard the shouted order of retreat.

Gladly, he obeyed. He walked backwards, still firing at the enemy, praying he didn’t trip over
anything. The French surged after the retreating line. This seemed to go on, until he nearly did
trip over something. A wall. He gladly took shelter behind it, and started to fight viciously
against the French, who, unlike their opponents, had no cover. But still, their line came on. They
had bravery, whatever else you might say about them.

Finally, when the French got within ten meters of the wall, the recruits’ morale broke, and they
ran. Danilo cursed. He couldn’t very well defend against the French all by himself. He took one
more shot, and joined the flight of the army. It took him a while to realize he had fought for over
a month!

* * *

Charles saw the infantry come over the hill, and he realized it was all over. But he waited. The
Savoyans got to the lowest part of the dip between the hills, and suddenly the French appeared on
the crest. He shouted, “Fire one shot!” The cannon roared, and several lines of French tumbled
back. He then called, “Let’s go!” Sergeant Alex was ready for this order, and together they
hitched the gun to a horse team.

He started to run alongside the horses as the French, cheering, charged over the top of the hill
again. It was too late, though. The Savoyan army would live to fight another day.

* * *

Story: Even the "Grand Alliance" doesn't seem to be much help against Napoleon.

Rath Jones: Yep, I'm transferring from a word proccesor.




Danilo rubbed two sticks together. That, at least, warmed his hands, even if it wasn’t starting a
fire anytime soon. He finally got a pitiful glow, and began to prod it. The glow got brighter, and
slowly, reluctantly, lit up into a full flame.

Achille trudged up. The young private, usually bright and optimistic, seemed darker and
gloomier these days. But a slight, quirky smile seemed to lie on his face. He held up a sack.

“At least the Austrians don’t mind if we forage in Milan,” Achille said, “I got this sack of
potatoes here... For hardly a half of the price the sales woman named.” He grinned.

Danilo grinned too. The potatoes weren’t what he was used to, but they were easy enough to
cook, and even he admitted they made a pretty good and tasty dinner. He had just thrown them in
a pot as Cristoforo walked up. The tall, thin private looked longingly at the potatoes merrily
boiling in the pot.

Hunger made Danilo more defensive than he usually was. “Find your own cooking pot,” he said
in a gruff voice.

Cristoforo’s face fell, but then lit up. “I can pay my way in, Sergeant,” he said. He took out an
old bottle, which looked inviting. Danilo’s face lightened a little.

“Come right on in,” he said. Cristoforo handed him the bottle. Danilo opened the bottle, and took
a swig. It surprised him. “This stuff is excellent!”

“Course it is,” Cristoforo said, looking sly, “It’s a native one, too.”

“You raided a wine cellar?...” Danilo sputtered.

“No... I just got it at a good price. The man was quite willing... Especially after he saw my
uniform.”

“We really aren’t doing that much to endear the city of Milan to us, are we?” Danilo said. The
three of them laughed and passed around the bottle.

* * *

Charles gently patted the horses flank. The horse grunted, but then again, it had been doing that
all day. Charles sometimes questioned the wisdom of his superiors’ decisions. Now was one of
those times. When he said that out loud, Alex, on the other side of the horse, was quick with an
answer, “Come now, what could be more intelligent than retreating to Vienna? Everyone can see
the French are pursuing us viciously.”

Charles laughed, but something caught his eye. He took one of the telescopes.

“Tell me that isn’t a French column.”

Alex took the telescope and raised it to his own eye. “Looks like it.”

“So maybe,” Charles mused, “The superiors might have had some sense this time.”

They looked at each other and grinned.

* * *

“Curses,” Dario said. As chief minister to King Victor Emmanuel, he was facing what amounted
to close to an impossible situation. Only three days before, they had lost control over their capital
to the French. Now... “Bavaria. Curse them.” Bavaria, of all nations, had joined Napoleon’s
coalition with France, Portugal, Denmark and Afghanistan.

And the allies weren’t giving much help. Not that they could. Austria was invaded. Lombardia,
Mantua, and Tirol, lost to the French. However, a single bright spot was in the darkness. The
huge Savoyan border fortress had rebelled against the French and rejoined Savoy, along with its
province.

Dario hoped that somehow he could arrange an attack on the French holding the capital. All he
prayed for now... Was that the 40,000 troops in Savoy and Austria would leave and bolster
Napoleon’s personal campaign in Spain.

A forlorn hope, he thought. Spain was on the verge of collapsing, Austria in shambles, Savoy’s
capital occupied, Prussia fighting a desperate war to simply hold on, and Britain ignoring their
war as best they could... It seemed the whole of Europe was to collapse under Napoleon’s
ambition.

It was already late 1806, 11 years since the first invasion of Savoy. How much longer could war
go on?

* * *

Aldo watched the French soldiers march through the streets of Turin in disgust. Who would have
thought that the French-Even the French led by Napoleon himself-could have captured the
mighty fortress of Savoy. And here, in the middle of that flow of men, came that cursed little
Corsican. A traitor, he thought. Even Corsicans are Italians. He was about to spit in the ground,
but refrained. If the French saw him.....

He walked back inside the house. Ambra, his wife, followed him. She looked as bitter and
unhappy as he did. They both looked over at their sleeping child, Constanzo. He slept soundly,
unaware of the disruption of daily life.

“ I feel sorry for him,” Ambra commented, “He has to inaugurate his 4th birthday... This,” she
said in disgust, waving an arm at the French soldiers, still tramping past.

“Really?” replied Aldo, “I think he’s lucky.”

“Lucky!?” she said in astonishment, “How!?”

“Quite simple. Unlike us... His life will stay the same, Savoy or France.”

“Until he starts to ask why he has less toys, why supper is getter smaller and thinner, why we are
so weary and tired....”

Aldo had no good answer to that. Come to think of it, he had no idea why anyone would visit
such destruction on simple Savoy.

* * *

“Curse it. You’d think 1807 would bring something other than the usual ‘France wins this,
France wins that, France conquers a bunch more land’,” Achille burst out as the Savoyan army
marched through the Austrian Empire.

“It did. Napoleon commanded the army himself this time,” Danilo replied cynically.

“An honor I could do without.”

Danilo simply plodded on. The whole army plodded on with him, waving the white cross on
bright red. This whole maneuver seemed senseless to Danilo. What could be accomplished by
marching from one backwater province in Austria to another backwater province in Austria?

He was tempted to walk right into the king’s face and punch him repeatedly until he got an
answer. He refrained. But it looked so inviting....

* * *

Thank you very much, Wooster. (How did you get that username? )

A note to everyone: This AAR is about to get much slower in pace. Tommorow, the dreaded thing called school starts, and in addition to that, you may have noticed I am starting to get the habit of writing longer and longer passages, so much so that this is beginning to become something like (close to, but not quite there yet) a novella.




Bernardo heard the constables calling out the people of Caligari. He heard them and raised an
eyebrow. “Another royal edict no one will ever listen to,” he predicted. He always looked upon
life this way. Everything seemed to amuse him.

He got out of his small kitchen, a little wearily. The war was taking its toll on him. That bemused
him more than most things. He had never expected a war to affect him. The war didn’t take much
away from his business as a tailor, at least. So long as there were soldiers garrisoned in Caligari,
he’d have orders for all sorts of things.

Now, however, he had to abandon his preparing of the small, frugal lunch he ate, for when the
constables called, you came. Unless you could bribe them.

Like so many other people at the same time, he put on his shoes and stepped out the door.
Heading on fall, the wet season would come soon. Not now though. He, along with such a crowd
as to seem like a captive’s march from one of Napoleon’s battles. It was, in a sense. People were
being escorted by the constables towards the center of the city.

He found his prediction to be true. There was the tall skinny man, who was not only the common
image of, but was one of those annoying clerk-like governors. When the man judged most people
could hear, he began to speak in his annoying voice.

“People of the nation of Savoy. As of today, July 13th, the king, Victor Emmanuel the First,
declares there to be a new tax on imported iron, copper, lead, tea, and foodstuffs, as well as a tax
on every loan borrowed from the royal bank. These measures are to be effective throughout
Savoy,”

“What about the parts the king couldn’t hold?” one of the crowd jeered. The speaker ignored
him.

“and avoiding any or all of them will be punish able by a month imprisonment for each tax
avoided. These,” he continued over the growing unrest of the crowd, “are decided necessary to
fund the attempts to extinguish the current crises.”

The crowd grew more and more unruly. Bernardo watched with fascination and amusement. Why
the king would bother to put such taxes on the people was beyond him, especially as no doubt
with a couple of bribes anyone could no doubt get past these.

“Any attempt of bribery,” the governor said, as if reading Bernardo’s mind, “Will result in one
year imprisonment.” He grew more amused. People merely had to bribe the bribery investigators.

“Why should we pay the taxes if the king can’t even win the war!” one of the crowd shouted
angrily.

“Don’t you want to win the war?” the governor asked, almost whiningly.

“The king can’t win it!” shouted another heckler, “Down with the king!”

Now Bernardo feared that the crowd would grow into a revolutionary mob. He began to edge
towards the outer perimeter.

“Down With The King!” the crowd started to chant, “Down With The King! Down With The
King! Down With The King! Down With The King!”

Finally the constables had enough. At a shouted order from their officers, they lowered their
muskets as one. Most of the crowd ignored them. Not Bernardo, who began to frantically
scrabble for the wall. At a shouted order, the soldiers fired their muskets into the crowd.

The noise was deafening. Bernardo dived for the storefront. The chanting stopped, and a few
screams replaced it. The crowd began to disperse, except for those unlucky few who had been
hit. Those lay broken and bleeding on the plaza. Bernardo thanked the heavens he hadn’t been
shot.

* * *

Aldo sat with Ambra at a handsomely carved table in a dark room at the back of their small shop,
with about a dozen other men. Alfredo, leader of this small band of resistance fighters, stood up
and leaned over the table. “My thanks to our dear Aldo, who lent us this room to meet in,” he
nodded at Aldo. “We all know what happened not long ago. Turin, mightiest fortress in all
Savoy, fell to the French under their emperor, Napoleon.” Several resistance fighters made faces
at the cursed name.

“What we’ve got to do is throw the French out again. Even the short time they’ve occupied us is
too long. Let us resist, rather than watch their boot heel grind us into the ground.”

Aldo found himself agreeing with every word Alfredo said. But he wondered how they would
accomplish it.

“We can see now the king’s armies will not help us here. We’ve got to rise up. Rise up now! If
we can plan it correctly, we need little than determination and ability!”

Aldo thought the latter would come harder. The former....

“I agree with all you have said,” said Aldo’s wife, Ambra, “But we do not need to get
determination. We have it. No one, and I mean no one, in this room, would likely mind dying, if
that meant a free Turin.”

“Well said, my lady,” Ambra blushed and gave a small curtsy, “We have determination in plenty.
What we need is skill. And weapons.”

“My sir,” said Eligio, a deliverer, “I may provide you with all the transportation of muskets,
bayonets, anything you need, in the thousands. I know the back roads. I’ve used them enough.”

Alfredo nodded. “Before that, however, we need a contact in the weapons business. Probably in
Nice. With its port, we can bring in goods easily enough.”

Aldo listened to the preparations with not much interest after that. He was sure of one thing,
though: that the French would have a big surprise in a few months.

* * *

Note that I have made a cast list up at the top post for those of you who can’t keep their
characters straight.

“About time,” Antonio muttered. He looked admiringly at the sleek lines of the Alba. It had been
far too long since she could finally exercise her rowers, her rudder, her mast. He hoped the
rowers would not lose their beat. He could rely on Adolfo, his commander of the rowers.
Walking up and down the deck as usual, Adolfo shouted at rowers going too slow, those going
too fast, and even those who got it right. As far as Antonio could tell, he just liked yelling. He
certainly did it enough.

When he saw Antonio, Adolfo stopped harassing his latest victim and turned to him.

“So, do you know if this is just another aborting invasion, or did the cursed officers peek out
from behind their fingers?”

Adolfo always put him in the mind of a pirate captain. His gruff voice and ill shaven face only
added to it. However rough and broad-shouldered he was, Antonio was a captain, and just as
rough.

“I think they’re really going to do it this time. From what I’ve heard, they have their veteran land
armies coming in through Lombardia.”

“I’d heard that, but didn’t quite believe it.”

“You’re right, but somehow, I’ve got the feeling...”

* * *

Demetrio sought out the shoreline through the fog blanketing the shores of Nice. It was so cursed
foggy, he could hardly see ten feet off the prow of the bow. He mentioned this to Adamo. Adamo
chuckled.

“I see what mean. But for my part, I don’t really want to know, if you know what I mean.”

“I can see what you mean,” Demetrio said, thinking hard, “But I’d rather know what I’m up
against.”

“You will,” said Adamo, feeling the air, “From te feel of it, the fog should blow away pretty
soon. Wind is acting up.”

Sure enough, the fogbank parted to reveal the port of Nice. Demetrio fought down a gasp. The
huge, sprawling port was nothing like his homeland’s capital of Caligari. Church spires and
hundreds of buildings stretched for miles. The boats did not head for the city, though, and he
soon saw why. Even though he had known it, he had not quite believed it. The tricolor flew
above Nice. He chuckled, “That’s our job to take care of.”

After a moment, the anchor splashed down. “To the boats,” an officer cried. Demetrio obediently
clambered down a rope ladder into one of the small, rocking rowboats at the boat’s side, Adamo
at his side. Both of them grunted and let go, landing lightly in their boat. More men came down,
and as the last one landed heavily, rocking the boat even more, they set off.

Oars splashing in the water, the ships lurched forward, crashing hard into the shore.

“Go, go, go!” shouted his sergeant. He went, went, went, splashing ashore. Luckily, no French
awaited them. Now, the lieutenant shouted,

“Establish a perimeter and dig in!”

Demetrio was glad to take his orders, and he, with his fellow marines, began the retaking of their
capital.

* * *