The light at the end of the tunnel is the headlamp of the oncoming train. – Murphy
The peasants in Pfaltz revolted, which event meant Marmont and his merry crew would be tied up with that threat, Larry noted. The 5th of March, 1805 brought a surprise announcement – Thomas Jefferson had failed to be reelected President in the United States, giving way to Charles Pinckney. Perhaps that was because he’d failed to purchase Louisiana? Larry was intrigued enough to pause the game and tap on the further-info icon.
Pinckney, who had helped elect Jefferson in the ugly campaign of 1800, had been rewarded with an ambassadorship to Spain. There he spent his time trying to convince the Spaniards to sell the Floridas and corresponding with the French about Louisiana. Nominated by the Federalist Party in 1804, he returned home and – instead of closing ranks in national unity as Jefferson had wished – embarked on an active campaign of opposition. He rode two issues to the presidency: Jefferson’s failure to secure Louisiana and his supposed affair with Sally Hemmings, a slave. The latter issue proved to be fatal, especially once Jefferson lost his famous temper and began denying it.
The question, of course, was what Pinckney would do about Louisiana now that he had won on such a platform.
The generals had managed to scrape up some finery for the event; even the Austrians were carefully groomed, which only made their sunken, wasted faces more poignant. Papers were signed, salutes exchanged, the infantry – such of them as could still stand – were reviewed and then shuffled off to their barracks. They’d be held under guard there until river luggers could bear them down the Mincio and Po to French ships in the Adriatic, and thence to prison camps in France.
Mantua had fallen. Van Driesche stood in the square savoring the moment, but his mood was soon spoiled by the appalling condition of the buildings and their inhabitants. Piles of debris lay all about, proof that some of the few cannon employed had hit something. Other buildings had been pulled down for their wood; trees had been denuded of bark and leaves, which had been eaten. The people were skeletal and waxy-faced, tottering in starvation and bleeding from scurvy.
Fortunately – due to his own planning and that of Massena – the army had abundant supplies to share out, and more coming from Modena and Venice. Uncharacteristically, Massena had taken only half the surrendered Austrian army payroll and had turned the remainder over to agents to use in buying food for the city.
His mouth twisted again. From Massena, that was charity indeed.
And now, battalions had to be encamped and put to work repairing and strengthening the defenses. Food, gunpowder and forage had to be shifted from their old camps and brought up from the wharves. And – equally important – all their siege works must be destroyed, utterly. Because now we are inside, he thought – and the Austrians are coming.
Larry’s mouth tightened into a thin, hard line and Steve and Mike looked at each other in alarm. Larry didn’t often lose his temper, but it got ugly when he did. The glowing announcement hung mockingly on the screen: Austria refuses our generous peace offer.
“OK,” he said slowly. “I guess I knew it would come to this. Prepare your areas for more revolts, guys,” he said, catching their gaze with his own. “We’re going to take Italy from Austria. And we’re going to keep it. No matter what, we’re taking Austria down.”
April 1, 1805. Van Driesche knew something had gone terribly wrong when shouts and explosions woke him from a sound sleep. They’d had a planning session yesterday afternoon, reviewing the latest information from the scouts and deciding on their response. He’d turned in early, expecting to be up at dawn, organizing the movement of troops across the Mincio to Verona.
A figure threw open the door and burst into the room with a lantern. Van Driesche’s hand instinctively went to the holstered pistol by his headboard, but it was only Hans, his valet, gabbling excitedly. He gathered after a moment that the city-folk were rioting and had overwhelmed the barracks guards and set the Austrian prisoners free. The streets were in chaos.
He groaned in disgust; fighting in cities was always ugly and it promised to be even nastier in the dark. But if it was dark outside the window it was too dark, the deep inky moonless black of false dawn that always means dawn is nearer than you think.
He grabbed for his clothes – never let the troops see you flustered – and started making mental lists of what must be done.
Dawn came, morning brightened and the noonday sun beat down on a city crowned with a pall of smoke. The occasional crackle of gunfire and roar of masonry collapsing meant that fighting was still going on somewhere, but most of the city was in hand. The revolt had been neither as numerous or well-planned as it might have been, for which Van Driesche thanked God.
Van Rijs and Massena were motioning to him from the other side of the square, now their impromptu marshalling-yard and command post. They were speaking to a group of obviously frightened Mantovans, probably the city councilors he had earlier sent troops to collect.
They’d panicked, he thought. Either because they’d feared the Dutch were going to hand them back to the Austrians or because they’d known an Austrian army was coming and wanted to look good to their Hapsburg masters. It didn’t matter either way; the hangman’s gallows that would be built on the south side would be busy for weeks. He was certainly not going to recommend clemency, not when he was going to have to watch scores of his soldiers being buried in a land so far from home.
Had they waited until the army had marched out to fight Schwarzenberg and captured the city in our rear, he thought, it would have been very, very nasty. So we must ensure they never, ever try this again. We must teach them what it means to oppose this army. We will teach them to respect us, and they will learn to fear.
Massena looked up from the map. “I have sent word to Augereau and MacDonald, requesting that they break off the siege of Milan and come immediately to our aid. We have supplies enough through the river route to support them. But there is not time to wait for them – the enemy has given us an opportunity, and we must seize it!”
“The Austrians are moving in multiple columns. Schwarzenberg has 35,000 infantry; most are coming down past Lake Garda and a few are at Bassano in the northeast, waiting on Archduke Charles. He’s bringing the artillery and cavalry; they must believe Schwarzenberg doesn’t need any in the mountains. They are separated too far for mutual support. I think we should instruct them as to how the central position may be used.”
Van Driesche felt his lips go back in a snarl. Austria – the ancestral enemy of his people! Spaniards were detestable; the French could be venomous. All had been enemies of his people, and might be again. The Hapsburgs, however, had always occupied a special place in the pantheon of enemies of the Dutch. A chance to strike the Austrians!
“We must secure the city. That will require some time. And the army has been too long in one place; we will not march swiftly nor far until we exercise our legs a bit. Where do you propose to give battle? And what will Napoleon say of our venturing out to give battle instead of defending here?”
“Yes, we must secure the city, but we will move two divisions out immediately. And all of Van Rijs’ cavalry must be concentrated and moved north. The only place to block the road that runs from the Tyrol – here, this line on the map - down the Adige River valley past Lake Garda is Rivoli – and we must reach it before the Austrians.”
“As for Napoleon – well. He sent me here and told me to fight, and fight I shall. If he does not approve I shall be cashiered – and if he approves, perhaps he will make me a Duke!”
(In our history, Massena was created Duke of Rivoli in 1808).
There is something, some sixth sense, which tells us when we are not alone. There is some subtle shift of sound below the threshold of normal hearing, or the faintest trace of odor, or perhaps the tiniest waft of air. Some sense of presence, that makes the deepest animal layers in the brain snarl and whimper in the dark.
The sergeant’s eyes snapped open. He was instantly and completely awake, heart pounding and every sense stretched to the utmost. The room was pitch-black and close with the door and windows shut. He moved the fingers of his right hand fractionally to grip the coverlet…
And the room exploded in light. Only a single lantern, but to eyes straining into the dark it was like staring unfocused into the sun. Before he could lunge for his pistol there was a pricking at his throat that froze him solid – a knife, or a sword perhaps, but lethal either way.
“Gently, gently. There is no time for explanations now, Sergeant,” the shadowy outline of a figure said. “Major Foster will be meeting us at the docks, and we must go to him.”
“Dalal! You’ve given me quite a start!”
“I do apologize, Sergeant – I was unable to resist the challenge. But you must dress, and pack – and bring your weapons, we may be gone for some time.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Dalal! Whatever could excuse your rousting me out at this hour?”
“Friend Harding has spoken, at last. And we know – or think we know – where the treasure may be.”
“Dalal, we never handled more than a dozen barrels. It is impossible that this treasure could be as vast as you claim, or worth all this trouble.”
His teeth flashed in the lamplight. “The bankers and merchants of Dacca have asserted that it is, Sergeant, no matter how much gold they may have hidden themselves and claimed as stolen. And payments from their insurers would bankrupt those insurers, and perhaps bankrupt the government and Crown in the process. So we must recover it, to determine how large it truly is.”
“So Harding was a traitor after all?”
“Oh, no Sergeant. Harding has been going over intelligence with me, and we have been tracing the whereabouts of various men. It is the absence of certain men, and matters whose importance he had not recognized, that is suggestive.”
“Their absence? What might an absence tell you?”
“As much as the absence of a watchdog’s bark in the night-time, Sergeant – but now, we must go!”
“You mean…”
“Come, Sergeant – the game’s afloat!”
Massena had taken the first divisions ahead; Van Driesche and Van Rijs had followed days later. The troops had been eager to set out but had tired quickly, and maintaining discipline on the march and preventing stragglers had been serious concerns.
They’d spent last night outside the arsenal in Verona, and now they were walking across the bridge over the Adige – never march in step across a bridge - then headed northwest up the highway to Rivoli. And ‘up’ was rapidly becoming the operative word; the foothills of the Dolomites rose steeply to the north and the Dutch soldiers were staring at them in amazement. Very different from the dikes of Haarlem, Van Driesche thought. Many of these men had never seen anything higher than a church spire in all their lives.
Messengers were arriving regularly. Massena had settled into a good defensive position atop the horseshoe of the Trombalore Heights on the west bank of the Adige. The Austrians were already skirmishing around his position, but no serious attacks were expected today. Van Driesche had left some detachments in Verona and Legnago, with some dragoons to hold the bridge at Arcola, and he thought they’d have no trouble coming up to Massena’s positions in plenty of time.
Unfortunately, no plan survives contact with the enemy.
“We cannot continue like this! We must decide on a definite line of advance and we must maintain it!” Napoleon was saying.
Larry was shaking his head mulishly. “We haven’t lost anything but a couple of days.”
“Ah! Ask me for anything but time! Either let us concentrate around Mantua, or allow my force to push north into the Tyrol – but in switching back and forth we make no progress toward either.”
“Look! I am not a general! I am a college student! I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? There’s a million Austrians headed for Italy, and I do not know what I am supposed to do here!”
There was a moment’s stunned silence – none of the others had seen the outburst coming – and then Napoleon loosened his body language and lowered his voice. “I would say you have done very well, my friend; never doubt that. If I may suggest? Rather than prompt you for a decision, perhaps we should talk about how to go about making one.”
Larry’s nod prompted him to continue.
South of Rivoli the road crossed back over the Adige to the west bank. Van Driesche had half expected that any difficulty would be there, but it was securely in friendly hands. The difficulty, as the courier explained, was that Massena had gotten himself surrounded.
He warned us, Van Driesche thought. Over and over, he warned us about the perils of getting too fancy with coordination, depending on tricks or relying on predicting the enemy’s plans. And now he’s gotten too clever and he’s holed up on top of a hill with half the army, waiting for us to come dig him out.
The Austrians had gotten clever too – this Schwarzenberg would be a commander to watch out for in the future. They’d marched up faster than Massena had thought they could and begun pounding attacks all across the northern slopes of the Trombalore at dawn. The clever part was they’d put artillery across the Adige from Rivoli and thrown a brigade of troops with mountain experience across Monte Pipalo in the south to keep Massena in – and Van Driesche out.
Massena’s sketch-map of the battle of Rivoli
Van Driesche studied the sketchy map Massena had sent out by courier. The plan looked simple enough: push up the highway and drop off a few men to help shove the Austrians back on Monte Pipalo, then on to Rivoli town. And they’d best get moving; the Austrians had found a little valley in the northeast - Osteria Gorge - and thrown everything they had into it. If they broke through there, the whole position would be lost and half of the army - and a year’s work in Italy – along with it.
Massena spat the grit and gunpowder out of his mouth and swung his sword over his head again to show the company where to come up. He had doubted the courage and ability of these Dutchmen often before today, but no longer. They didn’t have the dash and élan that French troops displayed, but they fought with a stubborn desperation that he had come to admire as the hours wore on. And on. Where in perdition was Van Driesche, anyway?
The little, steep-walled valley in front of him was packed side-to-side with white-coated Austrians. So far, they were averaging an assault about every half-hour, and another two or three would see them breaking through his thin line. He had no reserve left; even the wounded were huddled behind whatever cover they could find and reloading for the able-bodied. But ammunition stocks – and bodies – were giving out.
He’d have sold his soul for two batteries of bronze 12-pounders and a supply of grape and canister.
What he got, instead, was a hand on his arm that pulled him back behind an outcrop just before an Austrian cannonball went humming by. He turned to thank his rescuer, and broke into a wide grin. “At last! I was beginning to think you had stopped for lunch and one of your leisurely pipes of tobacco!”
Van Driesche mopped his brow and tucked the kerchief back into his coat sleeve. “I’ve got Rucker bringing a grenadier battalion up on the left; we can start putting them on top of the wall of the cut. Most of the infantry’s still in the south, opening up the road.”
“And the excellent Van Rijs, and his cavalry? Where is he?”
The Dutch general looked at the packed mass of white in front of them.
“You’re not going to suggest throwing cavalry into that!”
Van Rijs looked into the gorge, then pulled his head back down as bullets whistled overhead. “You can’t be serious! If I ride into that, half the ladies in Italy will be crying by morning!”
“Typical cavalryman. I am serious, Hendrik. So is Massena. It’s not enough to stop them, Hendrik, they just keep forming up and charging. Something’s going to give sooner or later, and if they get through here, it’s all over. We’ve been quietly moving grenadiers up on the top of the cut for the last hour. We’re going to wait for them to charge and hit them with all the artillery and grenades we’ve got left. Then you and your boys go in. Hard.”
“How many of us do you want?”
“How many can you fit in?”
“Stirrup to stirrup, maybe a brigade across, maybe less. That’s narrow, Adolph.”
“Then stack your brigades one behind the other. It’s time to put it all in.”
“But Adolph, if this doesn’t work, surely we’ll need a cavalry reserve!”
“If this doesn’t work, Hendrik,” he said with surprising gentleness, “we’re all dead.”
The foundation of an army is discipline, and one of the basics of discipline is preparation. Every contingency has a plan, everyone is drilled in proper responses, all situations are allowed for. Proper discipline limits surprise.
Surprise is the down side of preparation. Surprise kills. Even battle-hardened veterans can be caught in a situation they don’t expect, and surprised troops often do unexpected things. In battle, unexpected usually equals bad.
These particular units were veteran infantry, recruited in this case from the Serbian mountains, drilled on the Marchfeld near Vienna, baptized in the blood of Turks and honed to a razor’s edge in Poland. They had seen it all, done it all – and if the present situation was grim, well, so were they. They were terrified, of course - men in battle always are – but more afraid of their sergeants than of the enemy. Prepared, in a word, to give battle.
The rolling of the drums and the shouting of the sergeants were temporarily eclipsed as the officers’ swords swung down and the volleys went crashing out, rolling from the center companies to the flanks of each battalion in measured cadence. Then the men began marching forward – the bayonets were already fixed, the heavy muskets held just so at the precise angle that came from long practice, the battalions stacked deep behind them down the valley.
Eyes fixed ahead, bodies braced against the expected leaden storm of return fire, legs moving in unison like a vast centipede. Dreading the wounds and death that surely must come, but braced for it – hardened to it - ready for it. Prepared.
Quite unready for the iron bombs that came arcing over the lip of the cut to explode deep inside the formation, spraying bits of iron with a dragon’s booming roar. It’s human nature, of course, to jump at the unknown, to turn to meet the unexpected threat. To fend off the startled soldiers who are waving their bayonets in your face. Only human to spin around again as the cannon roar – impossibly – from up on the hilltops.
Quite understandable to be confused, disorganized – surprised – when the horsemen appear in the valley’s mouth a hundred yards away or less and spur forward at a trot.
Only human to be surprised, after all.
Only human to give in to that purely human impulse, and run for your life.
Massena was triumphant. “We’re driving them! They’re surrendering in droves, running like sheep!”
Van Driesche was almost too exhausted to care. Now that the battle was winding down, he found his fatigue rising like a flooding river and threatening to sweep him away. “Just don’t let Van Rijs chase them all the way to Innsbruck,” was all he could muster the energy to say.
The peasants in Pfaltz revolted, which event meant Marmont and his merry crew would be tied up with that threat, Larry noted. The 5th of March, 1805 brought a surprise announcement – Thomas Jefferson had failed to be reelected President in the United States, giving way to Charles Pinckney. Perhaps that was because he’d failed to purchase Louisiana? Larry was intrigued enough to pause the game and tap on the further-info icon.
Pinckney, who had helped elect Jefferson in the ugly campaign of 1800, had been rewarded with an ambassadorship to Spain. There he spent his time trying to convince the Spaniards to sell the Floridas and corresponding with the French about Louisiana. Nominated by the Federalist Party in 1804, he returned home and – instead of closing ranks in national unity as Jefferson had wished – embarked on an active campaign of opposition. He rode two issues to the presidency: Jefferson’s failure to secure Louisiana and his supposed affair with Sally Hemmings, a slave. The latter issue proved to be fatal, especially once Jefferson lost his famous temper and began denying it.
The question, of course, was what Pinckney would do about Louisiana now that he had won on such a platform.
The generals had managed to scrape up some finery for the event; even the Austrians were carefully groomed, which only made their sunken, wasted faces more poignant. Papers were signed, salutes exchanged, the infantry – such of them as could still stand – were reviewed and then shuffled off to their barracks. They’d be held under guard there until river luggers could bear them down the Mincio and Po to French ships in the Adriatic, and thence to prison camps in France.
Mantua had fallen. Van Driesche stood in the square savoring the moment, but his mood was soon spoiled by the appalling condition of the buildings and their inhabitants. Piles of debris lay all about, proof that some of the few cannon employed had hit something. Other buildings had been pulled down for their wood; trees had been denuded of bark and leaves, which had been eaten. The people were skeletal and waxy-faced, tottering in starvation and bleeding from scurvy.
Fortunately – due to his own planning and that of Massena – the army had abundant supplies to share out, and more coming from Modena and Venice. Uncharacteristically, Massena had taken only half the surrendered Austrian army payroll and had turned the remainder over to agents to use in buying food for the city.
His mouth twisted again. From Massena, that was charity indeed.
And now, battalions had to be encamped and put to work repairing and strengthening the defenses. Food, gunpowder and forage had to be shifted from their old camps and brought up from the wharves. And – equally important – all their siege works must be destroyed, utterly. Because now we are inside, he thought – and the Austrians are coming.
Larry’s mouth tightened into a thin, hard line and Steve and Mike looked at each other in alarm. Larry didn’t often lose his temper, but it got ugly when he did. The glowing announcement hung mockingly on the screen: Austria refuses our generous peace offer.
“OK,” he said slowly. “I guess I knew it would come to this. Prepare your areas for more revolts, guys,” he said, catching their gaze with his own. “We’re going to take Italy from Austria. And we’re going to keep it. No matter what, we’re taking Austria down.”
April 1, 1805. Van Driesche knew something had gone terribly wrong when shouts and explosions woke him from a sound sleep. They’d had a planning session yesterday afternoon, reviewing the latest information from the scouts and deciding on their response. He’d turned in early, expecting to be up at dawn, organizing the movement of troops across the Mincio to Verona.
A figure threw open the door and burst into the room with a lantern. Van Driesche’s hand instinctively went to the holstered pistol by his headboard, but it was only Hans, his valet, gabbling excitedly. He gathered after a moment that the city-folk were rioting and had overwhelmed the barracks guards and set the Austrian prisoners free. The streets were in chaos.
He groaned in disgust; fighting in cities was always ugly and it promised to be even nastier in the dark. But if it was dark outside the window it was too dark, the deep inky moonless black of false dawn that always means dawn is nearer than you think.
He grabbed for his clothes – never let the troops see you flustered – and started making mental lists of what must be done.
Dawn came, morning brightened and the noonday sun beat down on a city crowned with a pall of smoke. The occasional crackle of gunfire and roar of masonry collapsing meant that fighting was still going on somewhere, but most of the city was in hand. The revolt had been neither as numerous or well-planned as it might have been, for which Van Driesche thanked God.
Van Rijs and Massena were motioning to him from the other side of the square, now their impromptu marshalling-yard and command post. They were speaking to a group of obviously frightened Mantovans, probably the city councilors he had earlier sent troops to collect.
They’d panicked, he thought. Either because they’d feared the Dutch were going to hand them back to the Austrians or because they’d known an Austrian army was coming and wanted to look good to their Hapsburg masters. It didn’t matter either way; the hangman’s gallows that would be built on the south side would be busy for weeks. He was certainly not going to recommend clemency, not when he was going to have to watch scores of his soldiers being buried in a land so far from home.
Had they waited until the army had marched out to fight Schwarzenberg and captured the city in our rear, he thought, it would have been very, very nasty. So we must ensure they never, ever try this again. We must teach them what it means to oppose this army. We will teach them to respect us, and they will learn to fear.
Massena looked up from the map. “I have sent word to Augereau and MacDonald, requesting that they break off the siege of Milan and come immediately to our aid. We have supplies enough through the river route to support them. But there is not time to wait for them – the enemy has given us an opportunity, and we must seize it!”
“The Austrians are moving in multiple columns. Schwarzenberg has 35,000 infantry; most are coming down past Lake Garda and a few are at Bassano in the northeast, waiting on Archduke Charles. He’s bringing the artillery and cavalry; they must believe Schwarzenberg doesn’t need any in the mountains. They are separated too far for mutual support. I think we should instruct them as to how the central position may be used.”
Van Driesche felt his lips go back in a snarl. Austria – the ancestral enemy of his people! Spaniards were detestable; the French could be venomous. All had been enemies of his people, and might be again. The Hapsburgs, however, had always occupied a special place in the pantheon of enemies of the Dutch. A chance to strike the Austrians!
“We must secure the city. That will require some time. And the army has been too long in one place; we will not march swiftly nor far until we exercise our legs a bit. Where do you propose to give battle? And what will Napoleon say of our venturing out to give battle instead of defending here?”
“Yes, we must secure the city, but we will move two divisions out immediately. And all of Van Rijs’ cavalry must be concentrated and moved north. The only place to block the road that runs from the Tyrol – here, this line on the map - down the Adige River valley past Lake Garda is Rivoli – and we must reach it before the Austrians.”
“As for Napoleon – well. He sent me here and told me to fight, and fight I shall. If he does not approve I shall be cashiered – and if he approves, perhaps he will make me a Duke!”
(In our history, Massena was created Duke of Rivoli in 1808).
There is something, some sixth sense, which tells us when we are not alone. There is some subtle shift of sound below the threshold of normal hearing, or the faintest trace of odor, or perhaps the tiniest waft of air. Some sense of presence, that makes the deepest animal layers in the brain snarl and whimper in the dark.
The sergeant’s eyes snapped open. He was instantly and completely awake, heart pounding and every sense stretched to the utmost. The room was pitch-black and close with the door and windows shut. He moved the fingers of his right hand fractionally to grip the coverlet…
And the room exploded in light. Only a single lantern, but to eyes straining into the dark it was like staring unfocused into the sun. Before he could lunge for his pistol there was a pricking at his throat that froze him solid – a knife, or a sword perhaps, but lethal either way.
“Gently, gently. There is no time for explanations now, Sergeant,” the shadowy outline of a figure said. “Major Foster will be meeting us at the docks, and we must go to him.”
“Dalal! You’ve given me quite a start!”
“I do apologize, Sergeant – I was unable to resist the challenge. But you must dress, and pack – and bring your weapons, we may be gone for some time.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Dalal! Whatever could excuse your rousting me out at this hour?”
“Friend Harding has spoken, at last. And we know – or think we know – where the treasure may be.”
“Dalal, we never handled more than a dozen barrels. It is impossible that this treasure could be as vast as you claim, or worth all this trouble.”
His teeth flashed in the lamplight. “The bankers and merchants of Dacca have asserted that it is, Sergeant, no matter how much gold they may have hidden themselves and claimed as stolen. And payments from their insurers would bankrupt those insurers, and perhaps bankrupt the government and Crown in the process. So we must recover it, to determine how large it truly is.”
“So Harding was a traitor after all?”
“Oh, no Sergeant. Harding has been going over intelligence with me, and we have been tracing the whereabouts of various men. It is the absence of certain men, and matters whose importance he had not recognized, that is suggestive.”
“Their absence? What might an absence tell you?”
“As much as the absence of a watchdog’s bark in the night-time, Sergeant – but now, we must go!”
“You mean…”
“Come, Sergeant – the game’s afloat!”
Massena had taken the first divisions ahead; Van Driesche and Van Rijs had followed days later. The troops had been eager to set out but had tired quickly, and maintaining discipline on the march and preventing stragglers had been serious concerns.
They’d spent last night outside the arsenal in Verona, and now they were walking across the bridge over the Adige – never march in step across a bridge - then headed northwest up the highway to Rivoli. And ‘up’ was rapidly becoming the operative word; the foothills of the Dolomites rose steeply to the north and the Dutch soldiers were staring at them in amazement. Very different from the dikes of Haarlem, Van Driesche thought. Many of these men had never seen anything higher than a church spire in all their lives.
Messengers were arriving regularly. Massena had settled into a good defensive position atop the horseshoe of the Trombalore Heights on the west bank of the Adige. The Austrians were already skirmishing around his position, but no serious attacks were expected today. Van Driesche had left some detachments in Verona and Legnago, with some dragoons to hold the bridge at Arcola, and he thought they’d have no trouble coming up to Massena’s positions in plenty of time.
Unfortunately, no plan survives contact with the enemy.
“We cannot continue like this! We must decide on a definite line of advance and we must maintain it!” Napoleon was saying.
Larry was shaking his head mulishly. “We haven’t lost anything but a couple of days.”
“Ah! Ask me for anything but time! Either let us concentrate around Mantua, or allow my force to push north into the Tyrol – but in switching back and forth we make no progress toward either.”
“Look! I am not a general! I am a college student! I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? There’s a million Austrians headed for Italy, and I do not know what I am supposed to do here!”
There was a moment’s stunned silence – none of the others had seen the outburst coming – and then Napoleon loosened his body language and lowered his voice. “I would say you have done very well, my friend; never doubt that. If I may suggest? Rather than prompt you for a decision, perhaps we should talk about how to go about making one.”
Larry’s nod prompted him to continue.
South of Rivoli the road crossed back over the Adige to the west bank. Van Driesche had half expected that any difficulty would be there, but it was securely in friendly hands. The difficulty, as the courier explained, was that Massena had gotten himself surrounded.
He warned us, Van Driesche thought. Over and over, he warned us about the perils of getting too fancy with coordination, depending on tricks or relying on predicting the enemy’s plans. And now he’s gotten too clever and he’s holed up on top of a hill with half the army, waiting for us to come dig him out.
The Austrians had gotten clever too – this Schwarzenberg would be a commander to watch out for in the future. They’d marched up faster than Massena had thought they could and begun pounding attacks all across the northern slopes of the Trombalore at dawn. The clever part was they’d put artillery across the Adige from Rivoli and thrown a brigade of troops with mountain experience across Monte Pipalo in the south to keep Massena in – and Van Driesche out.
Van Driesche studied the sketchy map Massena had sent out by courier. The plan looked simple enough: push up the highway and drop off a few men to help shove the Austrians back on Monte Pipalo, then on to Rivoli town. And they’d best get moving; the Austrians had found a little valley in the northeast - Osteria Gorge - and thrown everything they had into it. If they broke through there, the whole position would be lost and half of the army - and a year’s work in Italy – along with it.
Massena spat the grit and gunpowder out of his mouth and swung his sword over his head again to show the company where to come up. He had doubted the courage and ability of these Dutchmen often before today, but no longer. They didn’t have the dash and élan that French troops displayed, but they fought with a stubborn desperation that he had come to admire as the hours wore on. And on. Where in perdition was Van Driesche, anyway?
The little, steep-walled valley in front of him was packed side-to-side with white-coated Austrians. So far, they were averaging an assault about every half-hour, and another two or three would see them breaking through his thin line. He had no reserve left; even the wounded were huddled behind whatever cover they could find and reloading for the able-bodied. But ammunition stocks – and bodies – were giving out.
He’d have sold his soul for two batteries of bronze 12-pounders and a supply of grape and canister.
What he got, instead, was a hand on his arm that pulled him back behind an outcrop just before an Austrian cannonball went humming by. He turned to thank his rescuer, and broke into a wide grin. “At last! I was beginning to think you had stopped for lunch and one of your leisurely pipes of tobacco!”
Van Driesche mopped his brow and tucked the kerchief back into his coat sleeve. “I’ve got Rucker bringing a grenadier battalion up on the left; we can start putting them on top of the wall of the cut. Most of the infantry’s still in the south, opening up the road.”
“And the excellent Van Rijs, and his cavalry? Where is he?”
The Dutch general looked at the packed mass of white in front of them.
“You’re not going to suggest throwing cavalry into that!”
Van Rijs looked into the gorge, then pulled his head back down as bullets whistled overhead. “You can’t be serious! If I ride into that, half the ladies in Italy will be crying by morning!”
“Typical cavalryman. I am serious, Hendrik. So is Massena. It’s not enough to stop them, Hendrik, they just keep forming up and charging. Something’s going to give sooner or later, and if they get through here, it’s all over. We’ve been quietly moving grenadiers up on the top of the cut for the last hour. We’re going to wait for them to charge and hit them with all the artillery and grenades we’ve got left. Then you and your boys go in. Hard.”
“How many of us do you want?”
“How many can you fit in?”
“Stirrup to stirrup, maybe a brigade across, maybe less. That’s narrow, Adolph.”
“Then stack your brigades one behind the other. It’s time to put it all in.”
“But Adolph, if this doesn’t work, surely we’ll need a cavalry reserve!”
“If this doesn’t work, Hendrik,” he said with surprising gentleness, “we’re all dead.”
The foundation of an army is discipline, and one of the basics of discipline is preparation. Every contingency has a plan, everyone is drilled in proper responses, all situations are allowed for. Proper discipline limits surprise.
Surprise is the down side of preparation. Surprise kills. Even battle-hardened veterans can be caught in a situation they don’t expect, and surprised troops often do unexpected things. In battle, unexpected usually equals bad.
These particular units were veteran infantry, recruited in this case from the Serbian mountains, drilled on the Marchfeld near Vienna, baptized in the blood of Turks and honed to a razor’s edge in Poland. They had seen it all, done it all – and if the present situation was grim, well, so were they. They were terrified, of course - men in battle always are – but more afraid of their sergeants than of the enemy. Prepared, in a word, to give battle.
The rolling of the drums and the shouting of the sergeants were temporarily eclipsed as the officers’ swords swung down and the volleys went crashing out, rolling from the center companies to the flanks of each battalion in measured cadence. Then the men began marching forward – the bayonets were already fixed, the heavy muskets held just so at the precise angle that came from long practice, the battalions stacked deep behind them down the valley.
Eyes fixed ahead, bodies braced against the expected leaden storm of return fire, legs moving in unison like a vast centipede. Dreading the wounds and death that surely must come, but braced for it – hardened to it - ready for it. Prepared.
Quite unready for the iron bombs that came arcing over the lip of the cut to explode deep inside the formation, spraying bits of iron with a dragon’s booming roar. It’s human nature, of course, to jump at the unknown, to turn to meet the unexpected threat. To fend off the startled soldiers who are waving their bayonets in your face. Only human to spin around again as the cannon roar – impossibly – from up on the hilltops.
Quite understandable to be confused, disorganized – surprised – when the horsemen appear in the valley’s mouth a hundred yards away or less and spur forward at a trot.
Only human to be surprised, after all.
Only human to give in to that purely human impulse, and run for your life.
Massena was triumphant. “We’re driving them! They’re surrendering in droves, running like sheep!”
Van Driesche was almost too exhausted to care. Now that the battle was winding down, he found his fatigue rising like a flooding river and threatening to sweep him away. “Just don’t let Van Rijs chase them all the way to Innsbruck,” was all he could muster the energy to say.
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) and your command of the language is really quite extraordinary (I often see you using words that I haven't seen in ages and work perfectly). Mmmmmmm. *sighs contentedly*
