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Chapter 1212: Stirring Up Venice

Across a battlefield over two kilometers wide, muzzle flashes twinkled like stars within the French skirmisher swarms. Countless high-speed, spinning Minié balls tore into the ranks of the Austrian soldiers, repeatedly shattering the momentum of their charge.

Several Austrian infantry regiments in the center managed to press forward until they were less than thirty paces from the French lines, but they could hold no longer. They began to cast aside their weapons and bolt, turning their backs to the enemy in a desperate bid for survival.

The soldiers on the flanks fared even worse, abandoning the assault after advancing a mere ten meters.

There was simply no helping it; the French firepower was too overwhelming.

The accuracy of the rifled muskets was terrifying. Nearly every four or five shots resulted in a hit.

Moreover, reloading the Minié balls was remarkably quick and easy. The projectiles were simply dropped into the muzzle and given a few quick thrusts with the ramrod, making the process virtually identical to that of a smoothbore musket.

In that brief, brutal charge, the Austrians lost nearly two thousand men. The first rank of their infantry line was particularly devastated, with over half the soldiers being struck down.

Werneck, surrounded by his personal guard, fled in haste toward the southwest. His final command shouted over his shoulder was to "order the reserves into defensive positions."

Moments later, Major Nansouty led over seven hundred Hussars in a sharp cut into the Austrian left flank.

Since this side had been the first to collapse, the soldiers were already in a state of total chaos. The cavalrymen traversed through their broken ranks with ease, their sabers flashing as they cut through the fleeing infantry.

Terror gripped the Austrian left. To avoid the charging horses, the men began running blindly southward, directly across the path of the retreating center.

Six or seven thousand soldiers collided in a mass of confusion, pushing, shoving, and trampling one another. Screams of agony filled the air, turning the field into a vision of a living hell.

The French skirmisher swarms then began to fan out toward the flanks, forming a lethal semi-circle around the Austrian forces.

The Austrian Ferman Legion, tasked with covering the retreat, was so paralyzed by the carnage before them that they didn't even dare to engage. After a few symbolic volleys, they immediately retreated to the west.

Moreau did not order a pursuit. His objective was to use localized penetrations and flanking maneuvers to disrupt Archduke Charles's rear. He needed to conclude engagements quickly and move on, or risk being encircled by the enemy's superior numbers.

After all, he had only brought thirty-three thousand men, while there were a hundred and eighty thousand Austrian troops stationed throughout the Venice region.

Well, likely less than a hundred and seventy thousand now.

The Austrian soldiers on the field who failed to escape in time quickly opted to surrender. The vast plains were soon covered with men kneeling in submission.

Moreau checked his pocket watch. Barely two hours had passed since the start of the engagement.

At five o'clock in the afternoon, the French dumped the captured weapons and uniforms of the Austrian prisoners into the nearby Bacchiglione River and then dispersed the men in small groups.

Savary, his face flushed with excitement, reported the day's successes to Moreau. "We've killed at least four or five thousand, perhaps seven thousand. You know how it is, General—it's impossible to count them all in this mess."

"The prisoners we just dispersed numbered over ten thousand. We captured five officers at the rank of Major or above."

"The only regret is that Werneck managed to slip away."

Moreau smiled faintly. "It doesn't matter. His corps is finished."

Nansouty, standing nearby, asked, "General, where to next?"

Moreau paused for a moment before replying with a question. "If you were His Highness Charles Louis, which location would you be most worried about us hitting?"

Nansouty answered without hesitation, "That would be Treviso, General. It's his most critical logistics and supply hub."

Moreau nodded. "Then we go to Treviso."

He gestured to a messenger. "Have the men rest where they are. We move north at dawn. Also, notify the corps of Victor and Macdonald to rejoin the main force."

"Yes, General!"

The following morning, Moreau linked up with Macdonald's corps on the western side of Vicenza. Together, the two forces—totaling twenty-six thousand men—hurried toward Treviso.

Two days later, upon reaching the town of Cornuda, they launched a half-hearted assault and were repelled by the two thousand Austrian defenders stationed there.

Immediately afterward, they marched ten kilometers further north before abruptly pivoting west and crossing the Brenta River.

By now, they were deep in the heart of Venetian territory, over ninety kilometers from Verona, but a mere forty kilometers from Trento to the northwest.

Elsewhere, Victor had led five thousand men in a sweep around Montecchio, but he hadn't encountered a single enemy. In his panic, Werneck had fled westward, inadvertently avoiding Victor's blocking force.

When Victor received Moreau's order to regroup and heard news of the major victory, he felt a wave of frustration.

He hadn't marched far when he spotted an Austrian corps of over fifteen thousand men passing to his north.

After deliberating with his staff for a long time, he concluded that a hasty attack would likely result in heavy casualties. Reluctantly, he moved his men eastward to hide and let the enemy pass.

By noon the next day, when Victor's corps set out again, he realized they were only about ten kilometers from Padua.

A thought suddenly struck him, and he looked back toward the west. "That Austrian force yesterday... couldn't they have come from Padua?"

The staff officer nodded. "It is indeed possible, Colonel."

Victor hesitated, then commanded, "Send word to General Moreau. Tell him we won't be joining the main force just yet. We're going to take a look at Padua first."

The staff officer was shocked. "But... isn't that technically disobeying orders?"

Victor waved him off. "The primary objective of this raid is to tie down as many Austrian troops as possible. The General granted us the right to act on our own discretion."

"We are already quite far from the main body, and trying to reach them might lead us right into other enemy forces."

"It's better to scout Padua. If there's no opening, we'll return to Mantua. At the very least, we can keep the enemy guessing."

The next morning, when scouts returned from Padua reporting that the city seemed to have very few defenders left, Victor's eyes lit up with excitement.

Outside a small town on the southern side of the Gotthard Pass, two men dressed as traveling merchants rode their horses into a farmhouse. They whispered to the 'farmer' in the courtyard.

"Yesterday, fighting broke out at the Gotthard Pass. We saw the French massing over ten thousand troops there, along with dozens of heavy cannons. 'The Boss' wants you to get word to the 'Big Client' as quickly as possible."

The farmer quickly repeated the message to ensure accuracy, then harnessed a horse and galloped toward Lake Garda.

Two days later, he arrived at the northern reaches of the Mincio River. With practiced ease, he hid in a small village. Once night fell, he boarded a small boat that had been waiting by the riverbank and rowed across.

Under the dim moonlight, the soldiers in the nearby forts never even noticed him.

In Verona, a major stronghold north of the Mantua Fortress and the headquarters for the Austrian Army of Italy, Archduke Charles frowned at the map, focusing on Trento.

"What do you think the French are actually trying to achieve?" he asked Radetzky, who stood beside him.

Just two days ago, the French Crown Prince had led his army on a bypass around the western side of Lake Garda, heading north along the narrow mountain paths of the Alps.