French Empire: But Napoleon IV

Chapter 34 The Situation of the French Army in Xia Long's Camp

On the morning of August 10, 1870, in the French command post of the Châlons barracks in Châlons, the heavy smell of medicine and gunpowder mingled together, dispelling the summer heat and leaving only a suffocating atmosphere of oppression.

The military maps on the wall were densely marked with red and blue pencils, and the creases at the edges recorded the traces of the generals' disputes after the disastrous defeat at the Battle of Walter a few days earlier.

Napoleon III sat on a simple wooden chair, and although it was summer, a heavy military overcoat covered him.

The combination of peptic ulcers and chronic urinary tract disease, along with some mental health issues, caused the French emperor to break out in a cold sweat.

His body was frail due to numerous physical ailments, and his face was so pale that no one would be surprised if he died at any moment.

Violent coughing would break through his throat every now and then, each cough accompanied by undisguised pain, which could be seen from the furrowed brows of Napoleon III from time to time.

The exhaustion from days of war and the stress of the situation had completely afflicted the already frail French emperor, leaving him with a severe illness. He even struggled to lift his hand to read telegrams.

"Your Majesty, an urgent telegram from Paris."

The communications soldier bowed as he entered the command post, holding a telegram in both hands, his movements cautious, as if afraid of disturbing the ailing monarch.

The telegram was sent by Montauban on behalf of the Paris cabinet, and its wording was quite strong, leaving no room for negotiation.

Napoleon III immediately recognized that these were not words Montauban would dare to utter; they were clearly spoken by his wife, Eugénie, through Montauban.

"To stabilize the capital and maintain imperial rule, all frontline legions are strictly prohibited from retreating into the war zone. The Rhine Legion and the Charon Legion must hold their current positions, and Marshal Bazan's troops must defend Metz to the death; as long as they are here, they will hold their positions."

Anyone who retreats without authorization will be punished according to military law. Public sentiment in Paris is running high, the Republicans are stirring, and if the army retreats, chaos will ensue in the capital, and the empire will be in imminent danger.

The telegram made it clear that the troops under McMahon's command who had already retreated were not being urged by Paris to return to fight the Prussian army, but the Bazin Army in Metz could not retreat any further.

This telegram is far better than the countless telegrams in history that repeatedly tried to get Xia Long's army to advance back to the front lines.

But for Napoleon, for a French commander on the front lines, the contents of this telegram were still not good news.

After reading the telegram, Napoleon closed his eyes. If someone looked closely, they would have noticed that the French emperor's fingers were trembling uncontrollably.

Yesterday, he personally ordered the Rhine Legion, which he directly commanded, to retreat in batches to the strategic heartland of the Xialong barracks, in an attempt to avoid the Prussian army's sharp edge, reorganize forces, and adjust deployments.

But today's telegram from Paris has overturned his plans and exposed the extreme vulnerability of the empire under his rule.

The Paris government was right. Napoleon III understood the thoughts of the Parisian people better than anyone else. If he were to truly retreat completely, Paris would likely riot in his honor.

Behind the cabinet's, or rather his wife's, tough directives lay a fear of a Republican riot, but... the dire situation on the front lines allowed no time for delay.

Unable to make up his mind and racking his brains, Napoleon III, after much deliberation, decided to consult with his generals.

"Cough cough cough, te~"

The coughing started again, and Napoleon spat out a mouthful of thick phlegm streaked with blood. He raised his hand to his forehead, his eyes filled with helplessness.

Without replying to the telegram, Napoleon III slowly stood up, leaning on a wooden chair. His heavy military coat slipped down his shoulders, revealing his rather thin uniform underneath. He staggered with each step, and when the communications soldier tried to help him, Napoleon gently pushed him away.

"No need, I'll go see them myself."

The command post was requisitioned by Napoleon III, and the meeting room for senior French generals such as McMahon was set up next to the command post.

As soon as he stepped out of his command post, Napoleon III could hear the arguing clearly audible from inside, even through the door.

A group of French generals of lieutenant general rank and above, almost all of whom held noble titles, were speaking in unusually sharp and piercing voices, clearly indicating a heated argument and significant disagreements.

Instead of going in immediately, Napoleon III stopped in the corridor and glanced out the window.

On the open ground of Xia Long's camp, many First Army soldiers were resting after a bloody battle, a truly shocking sight.

After a major battle, the French soldiers, lacking supplies, were mostly dressed in rags, their blue and white uniforms stained dark brown by the smoke of the previous battle.

Many people had tattered bandages wrapped around their arms and legs, and the blood that had seeped out had dried and turned black. There wasn't even a clean piece of gauze to be found.

Not far away, two young soldiers leaned against a tree trunk, avoiding the direct sunlight while talking in hushed tones. The thin soldier with prominent cheekbones touched the festering wound on his arm.

"Ugh, DuPont, my wound is hurting again. I don't even have iodine. If this continues, it might rot to the bone."

The soldier, referred to as DuPont by his comrades, held half a hard, dark bread in his hand, took a small bite, and swallowed it with difficulty.

Unable to address the issue of pharmaceuticals, DuPont could only join his colleagues in complaining about the state of the military.

"I'm not much better off than you. I only ate half a loaf of bread yesterday. The grain trucks are taking forever to arrive. I heard that the grain from the rear is being prioritized for Paris."

DuPont was mistaken. In fact, the government allocated sufficient funds, but unfortunately, corruption was rampant in the French army. In peacetime, the French army's food and ammunition were barely enough, but once war broke out, the shortage of various supplies became apparent.

Napoleon III, unaware of what the two French soldiers were discussing, turned his gaze toward the nearby stables.

There, a few faint neighs of horses broke the silence, followed by heavy sighs from the soldiers.

A soldier responsible for tending to warhorses squatted on the ground, stroking a warhorse lying on the ground, panting heavily, so thin that it was just skin and bones. His eyes were red with heartache.

"Another horse has fallen. We don't have enough fodder; even the roadside weeds have been eaten clean. The few remaining horses won't last more than a few days. Without warhorses, we can't move our artillery at all. How can we fight against the Prussian cavalry?"

Hearing the soldier's voice, another soldier tending the horses squatted down, looked at the dying warhorse on the ground, and shook his head helplessly.

"We didn't even have enough stretchers, let alone warhorses. The seriously wounded brothers could only lie in the mud without even a clean cloth. Many of them died like that."