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Chapter 1215: The Oriole Behind

Pirot's chief of staff checked his pocket watch and turned to remind him, "General, it is nearly nine o'clock."

Pirot nodded, his expression solemn. According to the plan, he was to launch a simultaneous attack with Blücher at ten-thirty that morning.

Back when he was still a colonel, he had fought under Napoleon's command. The memories of bullying the Austrian army alongside the French were still fresh in his mind.

Now, however, he was to face the French army in a direct confrontation.

He felt as if he were about to step into a gladiatorial arena to fight a lion for his life.

"Fortunately, that man isn't here," he muttered under his breath, puffing out his chest to project an air of confidence.

"That man," of course, referred to Napoleon.

"Tell the men to prepare for battle," he signaled to his messenger. "We will surely emerge victorious."

Meanwhile, ten kilometers southeast of Pirot's legion, a messenger tipped his hat to Colonel Joubert, the commander of the French Engineering Corps.

"Please tell General Ney that the Sardinians are in the river valley to his southwest. There are over twelve thousand of them."

"Understood, Colonel."

Joubert turned to Montalto, the commander of the Parma forces beside him. "They should be making their move soon. Let us prepare to depart as well."

At ten-thirty sharp, the thunder of artillery echoed through the Gotthard Pass.

Blücher's legion pushed their final four 6-pounder cannons to the very front. The Royal Grenadier Battalion braved certain death to charge the French defensive line.

But in less than twenty minutes, they were forced back by the heavy French cannons, leaving nothing behind but a field carpeted with corpses.

Blücher glared at his watch and roared, "Where are those Sardinian fools? Why haven't they attacked yet?"

Fearing a missed opportunity, he waved over an officer. "Major Olfers, take five squadrons of Hussars and support the Grenadier Battalion. Resume the offensive!"

"Yes, General!"

Beside the river valley, about three kilometers from the pass, the chief of staff looked at Pirot anxiously. "General, the Prussian army has already engaged the French. We..."

The general raised a hand, cutting him off. "Wait. Let the Prussians draw more of their fire, or we might never reach the French positions. We only have one chance to strike."

Nearly half an hour later, Pirot finally gritted his teeth and ordered, "Advance as planned."

Over ten thousand Sardinian soldiers immediately surged out of the valley, charging straight toward the French forces outside the pass.

However, they had barely covered two kilometers when a rhythmic drumbeat suddenly drifted from a nearby thicket. A line of white-clad infantry materialized before them.

Through his telescope, Pirot spotted the colors of the French 52nd Infantry Regiment. He frowned and signaled his chief of staff. "Go and tell the French that we are here to reinforce the defenses at the pass."

The officer departed and did not return.

An ill omen stirred in Pirot's heart, but when his Hussars reported that there were fewer than two thousand Frenchmen ahead, his confidence surged back.

"Order Colonel Ferrini to charge! Drive the French back!"

The Sardinian cannons began to spit fire. Two lines of infantry rapidly closed the distance with the French forces in their path.

At that moment, several thunderous explosions rang out, leaving Pirot's ears ringing.

'I don't think I brought that much artillery...' The thought had barely crossed his mind before he froze. The sound was coming from the wrong direction!

He whipped his head around just as a succession of roars echoed again.

This time, he heard it clearly—the cannons were firing from his flank and rear.

Two panic-stricken riders galloped toward him, shouting at the top of their lungs, "General! Our rear guard is under attack!"

Pirot's face went pale instantly. "Who is it?"

"It looks like the French, General."

Currently, all forces in Northern Italy had adopted French-style white uniforms; at first glance, it was truly difficult to tell them apart.

"Damn it! How could this happen..."

Pirot scrambled to personally command the nearest two infantry regiments to set up a defensive line on the spot, but it was clearly too late.

Joubert's Hussar battalion sliced into the Sardinian left flank. Eight French columns slammed into the rear of Pirot's center force almost simultaneously.

Further back were the infantry lines of the Parma army. With the French leading the way, their morale was high and their fighting spirit was ablaze.

Meanwhile, the Sardinian frontal assault suffered a head-on blow.

Though the French numbered only two thousand here, their firepower was ferocious and their lines were tight. They swiftly repelled Ferrini's first wave.

And then, there was no second wave.

Routed soldiers fleeing from the Sardinian rear crashed into Ferrini's formation, shattering his ranks.

Upon realizing they were being sandwiched by the French, the Sardinian vanguard began to break and flee as well.

On Blücher's side, after sacrificing over three thousand men in a desperate attempt to break through, he finally heard the long-awaited sound of artillery from the south.

"Those Sardinian bastards finally showed up! No sense of time at all!" he cursed venomously before ordering his largest offensive yet.

Over two thousand Prussian infantrymen, covered by three cavalry squadrons, surged toward the pass—the maximum number the narrow terrain could accommodate. The general had promised them a reward of two hundred Thalers for everyone if they broke through the French lines.

"Spread out as much as possible! Don't be afraid!" a Prussian officer shouted, pointing south. "Do you hear that distant cannon fire? That's the Sardinian army hitting the French from behind!"

"The enemy's lines will be in chaos soon! Victory is ours!"

The Prussian soldiers erupted in roars of agreement. With bloodshot eyes, they charged forward through the whistling shells.

But they had covered less than two hundred meters when the encouraging artillery fire from the distance ceased without warning.

The Prussians exchanged confused glances, their pace instinctively faltering.

A dozen shells tore through their ranks. Blood mist filled the air instantly as severed limbs were tossed in every direction.

There was no sign of chaos in the French defensive line. Their bombardment remained as dense and accurate as ever.

Blücher gritted his teeth and pressed the attack until past three in the afternoon, but he never heard another peep from the Sardinians.

Finally, the horrific casualties made the Prussian soldiers recoil in fear. Even though officers executed several men for cowardice, they could not organize another charge.

Blücher exhausted every curse word he knew on the Sardinians.

At this point, his army had only about a week's worth of food left. Switzerland was extremely barren, and he had managed to scrounge very little around Altdorf. If they couldn't enter Northern Italy, the only outcomes would be mutiny or surrender.

The air was thick with the agonizing wails of the wounded. His officers watched him with numb, hollow expressions.

Blücher finally let out a heavy sigh and muttered a low command, "Retreat. Back to Altdorf."