Chapter 1157: Major Napoleon
Napoleon clutched his head in agony, muttering under his breath, "God! If only I hadn't disobeyed those military orders, I should have been the one in Egypt.
"Just imagine it—the endless desert, the Pyramids at my back, smashing those barbarians with cannon fire! What a thrilling war that would be! God, I would have gone even as a common soldier, just to be part of the fight..."
He was a soldier to his very core. His life only felt full in the midst of one campaign after another. Since arriving on this tiny island, every passing second had been a form of torture, driving him to the brink of madness.
Désirée suddenly reached out and grasped his hand. "Boney, do you only care about your cannons? You haven't even kissed me yet."
"Forgive me, I let my excitement get the better of me." Napoleon smiled and walked around the table, taking her by the waist. "I have missed you every single day."
Désirée turned her face away, remaining silent for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh. "Boney, the truth is... my father wants me..."
Her voice choked with emotion. "He wants me to marry Baron Crouzet."
Napoleon released her abruptly, recoilng as if he had been burned. "Why? Who is this man? Is Mr. Clary so eager to toss me onto the scrap heap?"
Désirée grabbed his hand again, tears streaming down her face. "Father says this place is your grave... I, I've managed to delay him for six months with every excuse I could find, but I really can't hold out much longer, Boney..."
In the past, he had been enamored by her beauty and her family's wealth. He had assumed she would never leave him, but this news struck him like a physical blow.
"Disgraceful... what a disgrace! No, this is all my fault!" Napoleon slammed his fist onto the table. "If it weren't for my stupidity back then, we would have been married long ago... I destroyed everything with my own hands."
In truth, after his promotion to general, he had begun to feel that Désirée was beneath him. Now, however, he wanted nothing more than to keep her forever.
"No, Boney! You didn't mean for this to happen..."
Napoleon's voice was low and desperate. "I beg of you! For the love of God, don't marry that baron! Just give me a little more time! I swear, I will provide a stable life for you..."
"It's no use, I only have three days." Désirée shook her head repeatedly. "If you were even a common soldier, I would marry you without hesitation. But here, in this 'grave,' we have no future."
She wiped away a tear. "I only came here to see you one last time before I step into the abyss..."
'A common soldier...' Napoleon repeated the words subconsciously. 'A soldier? Yes, a soldier.'
The image of Major Garrel flashed through his mind. An idea suddenly took hold, and he turned urgently to Désirée. "I won't let you down!"
Two hours later.
Napoleon stood before Garrel with his head bowed. "Please, I beg you to deliver this letter to the Crown Prince! I swear I will spend the rest of my life making up for my past mistakes..."
Garrel tucked the letter of repentance into his pocket and looked toward the far end of the vineyard. "You should thank Mademoiselle Clary. It was her contributions to the education system in Paris that moved the Crown Prince to consider giving you a chance."
Napoleon's eyes widened, and he nodded fervently with excitement. "I am grateful for His Highness's mercy! Even if he makes me a common soldier, I will accept it!"
"His Highness has given you two choices." Garrel watched him closely. "First, you can go to Mantua to manage the logistics depot of the fortress. Second, you can go to Saint-Louisiane as a battalion commander."
Napoleon thought for only two seconds before declaring loudly, "Please tell the Crown Prince that I wish to go to North America!"
Garrel nodded.
According to the Crown Prince's instructions, if Mr. Bonaparte chose Italy, he was to be kept on Elba for several more years. As the former commander of the Army of Italy, Napoleon still held significant influence there. A desire for Mantua would mean he still possessed a "restless heart."
Garrel stood up and handed a folder from the General Staff to Napoleon. "Then, Major Bonaparte, please enjoy your remaining time with Mademoiselle Clary. We depart in two days, sailing directly for New Orleans."
...
Sarakhs, on the northeastern border of Iran.
A column of Cossack cavalry stretched for several kilometers. Leading their horses, the men dragged their weary feet through the desert sand.
Every couple of hundred meters, a horse would collapse and die.
Indeed, this Russian army, tasked with the monumental mission of invading India, had been without supplies for three consecutive days.
In this desert terrain, a lack of food and water was far more lethal than an enemy artillery barrage.
The commander, General Nikolai Bakhov, turned listlessly to his staff officer. "Still no word from Merv?"
Merv was a city northwest of Bukhara, responsible for the logistical support of this leg of the Russian expedition.
The staff officer looked equally drained. "Not yet, General. I sent another group toward Merv this morning. There should be a response soon."
Bakhov glanced at the dunes ahead. "How much further to Herat?"
"About three days' march, General." The officer hesitated before adding, "In our current state, it will likely take four."
A nearby officer grumbled quietly, "If those supplies don't arrive, we'll all be buried in this desert in four days..."
Bakhov raised his hand to strike the man with his riding crop but decided not to waste the energy and slowly lowered it.
The complaining officer continued to mutter, "If I die in this godforsaken place, Anton and Oleg won't even have enough for their university tuition. Damn it all."
Another officer behind him chimed in, "Lieutenant Colonel Muravyov, stop crying poverty. Your family owns over eight hundred acres of land."
Muravyov slumped over his saddle, shaking his head. "It was fine before, but now with the 'Local Administrative Tax,' I can't even save a thousand rubles a year.
"When I left Orenburg, I heard rumors that the Emperor might soon levy a 'Special Tax.' Listen to that—they didn't even bother to give it a proper name. I bet it's another one of 'the Barber's' schemes."
The officer behind him urged his mount forward to pull up alongside him. "True, even the nobility have to pay taxes now. It's even harder for someone like me with very little land. Those tax inspectors would love to hang us upside down just to see if any gold coins fall out."
Like all Russian officers, they were victims of Paul I's reforms.
The nobility, who previously enjoyed tax-exempt status, had seen their privileges revoked and were forced to deal with new tax burdens.
At the same time, Paul I was strictly investigating "phantom soldiers" and the embezzlement of military pay. He had dispatched officers from his own guard to inspect the ranks, counting every single soldier personally.
While his intentions were not misplaced, Russian military salaries were the lowest in Europe, and officers were expected to cover the costs of their own equipment and ammunition supplies.
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