Chapter Thirteen- The Emperors' Battle
"Are you quite certain Napoleon is here, this time, Marshal?" Franz's voice, wheezy and reedy, nevertheless crackled with something like glee at the prospect of facing down his enemy agaain.
"Emperor, Marshal... one of our scouts saw the man himself walking among the cannon, bolstering the French morale. Napoleon's there, sir." Bosch spoke up, desperately wishing for something to drink; the Austrians had been on meager rations for the last two weeks, and even the hardiest man was beginning to feel it.
"Emperor, you wished this battle on me. Command us. We are surrounded and outnumbered, our troops are dispirited and ill fed. How do you propose that we salvage something like a surviving army from this, let alone a victory?" Melan demanded, red in the face with anger. "We've lost, emperor. Napoleon has bested us. We march without friends. England sits safe in their island, the Prussians sit across the Rhine on their hands, the Russians don't concern themselves with anything west of Prussia... we are ALONE!" on this last word, Melan's voice reached a high point, punctuated dramatically by a stray cannon shot hitting near the command tent.
Franz II Habsburg, ruler of the Austrian Empire, stared his recalcitrant marshal in the face for several minutes. Eventually, not even Melan could match the sheer hate-filled drive in those eyes. "Marshall... you say the men are dispirited. Would they march behind their emperor?"
"My emperor?"
"Give me a horse, Melan, and I will lead my children to hell and back if need be, but I promise you the road there lies through Napoleon!" Franz gestured wildly at the easily-visible command tent of the French, flying Napoleon's standard.
"I can't let you do that, Emperor. That would be suicide. Allow me." This was Bosch speaking up. Bravery was a factor in his sudden volunteerism. Extreme thirst and somewhat of a desire to let it all end was another.
Franz looked at the younger general for the first time without scorn. "Commendable, General... but this isn't your battle. The men will follow an Emperor. They may follow a Marshal. But for the job they have to do, a general simply won't do it. No, this is my burden to bear."
And so it was, fifteen minutes later, that Franz II, who had never been in a battle in his life, sat upon a magnificently gleaming white horse, resplendent in a crisp military uniform. Even the French gunners seemed to pause.
The trumpets blew, and Franz began a trot past the Austrian lines, to the French.
The Austrian soldiers looked on in amazement, then, by twos and threes, then the whole line stormed out of their positions to follow their emperor. At last, belatedly, the trumpets blew, and the balance of the Austrian army began a thundering charge up a shallow incline, heading straight for Napoleon's command tent.
The respite did not last long; in seconds, French cannon began sighting on the magnificent white charge barrelling at them, as did most of the sharpshooters in the French positions. A blizzard of shot and ball raged around Franz, but he just kept going. And so did the soldiers. 400 yards, then 250, the grey mass streamed ever closer to the blue line of French.
Then, at last, the white horse fell to earth, whinnying madly. The Austrian charge began to waver, then slow. But up popped Franz II, beautiful uniform now muddied and torn, but still undaunted; with his own recently-found drive, he waved his sword at the nearest Austrian troops, and screamed something.
It may have been, "For Austria." It may have been, "For God and Emperor Franz." It may even have been, "To Paris."
Whatever it was, it convinced the Austrians, and none of them speak about the Battle of the Vosges any more, by unwritten rule. Franz leading the way, the Austrians resumed the charge, coming closer, and closer to the amazed French infantry. At a close distance, the Austrians stopped and began to form squares for an assault; but Franz, reacted to some instinct, turned around and rallied them. An alert french infantryman shot Franz at that instant; but Franz merely looked down, picked up his now-blown-off sword arm with his still attached arm, and charged headlong into the French works.
The Austrians followed seconds later.
It was decided in a matter of minutes, that charge. The French, seeing the spectacle of an emperor driven with such unholy rage as to shrug off amputation to lead his troops into the fray; no man could stand against troops so inspired. And they broke. By companies at first, but soon the whole strong portion of the French line fell back faster, and faster, developing into a rout.
Seeing the imminent danger, Napoleon rallied his troops in the center. But, as blind Fate is wont to play games with fate, at that instant a lucky artillery gunner landed a shell near the Emperor Napoleon. Who laid on the ground, and did not get up. At this last, the French had had enough. Weeping, the Frenchmen who had been close fell back in staggers. Their tearful accounts of the fall of their ruler in turn infected all those French who heard it with the dread disease panic, and more retreated in the face of the desperate Austrians. The Battle of the Vosges had been lost by the luck of the draw and the lives of two emperors.
And what of Franz? Well, history only records his valiant charge up to the French lines. The more complete ones talk about his state funeral in Vienna the month afterwards, and his sainting by a Pope who had, himself, known the terror of Napoleon. None record his body, found mangled and beaten past almost all recognition, in the second line of French earthworks.
Few also record the true cost of the Battle of the Vosges. For not only two emperors died that day. In the battle and ensuing panic, close to 150,000 troops on both sides died that day in sunny northern France. Marshal Melan and his aide, Bosch, survived to return to Vienna; both retired, shortly after. The larger impact, though, was the complete collapse of both the French and Austrian empires; both, shaken by the bloodshed caused by the feud of the two emperors, resisted all efforts to replace a Habsburg- or a Bourbon- on the throne.
A new day had dawned on the bloody Vosges hills.
