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Chapter 1233: The Value of Prisoners

"Were they sent to the battlefield by that parricidal devil?" Naseli asked. Although the Honor Representative's story hadn't yet reached Paul I's death, everyone already guessed who was responsible.

"Yes..." Sergeant Peppard responded quickly, a slight smile on his face. "Don't try to pry information out of me. The true culprit will be revealed tonight. Besides, these people deserve what they get. They came here to destroy France."

Just then, the busy Russian prisoners of war suddenly stopped their work and turned to look west.

Gaizka nervously unslung his rifle. "Are they going to riot?"

The guards at the railway construction site also raised their rifles and shouted, but soon, the Russian prisoners bowed one after another towards a certain spot, respectfully murmuring something.

Sergeant Peppard, who understood a little Russian, immediately frowned. "Princess? Has the Crown Princess arrived?"

Gaizka's eyesight was excellent. He immediately pointed towards the distant retinue. "Over there. Is that the Crown Princess in the purple dress?"

A detachment of court guards escorted Alexandra among the prisoners, signaling servants to bring over baskets of steaming *leba*. Dozens of doctors carrying medicine chests accompanied them.

The Crown Princess gestured to the guards on the site. Before long, thousands of Russian prisoners of war lined up, passing before her one by one.

"These were baked in my own bakery. Eat up," Alexandra said, handing bread to the prisoners. She offered words of comfort, and if she saw anyone injured, she instructed the doctors to treat their wounds.

Seeing the Russian-style embellishments on the Princess's collar and holding the still-warm bread, almost all the Russian prisoners began to silently wipe away tears.

At this moment, it seemed only the Princess still remembered them...

After distributing the provisions, Alexandra walked to a nearby rail crane, lifted her skirt, and hopped onto the operator's platform, which was taller than a man. She then gestured for the Russians to gather around, her clear Russian voice cutting through the cold morning air: "It's good that you still remember me. I remember all of you as well! When I was a child, my father often trained you near Gatchina Palace."

These Russian soldiers had once detested Paul I's training, but after half a month of grueling labor at this freezing construction site, they now considered it the best memory of their lives.

Alexandra continued, "Today, I haven't come to reminisce with you, but to ask you something. Look at the chilblains on your hands, your weary bodies, the wounds beneath your shackles. Have these ever brought you the glory the Tsar promised? My dear brother, that wretched creature who craves power more than his own soul, did not hesitate to make a deal with the devil, exchanging my father's life... for his crown! Yes, he shot Father with a flintlock musket. Every Russian knows there was no candlestick, no accidental fall; he pulled the trigger himself..."

She took a deep breath, and her voice suddenly dropped:

"And now, he sits in the warm Winter Palace, on a gilded throne, using you as bargaining chips, wagering you at the gambling table to gain more power for himself! Undoubtedly, you were lost like a handful of silver coins he casually tossed away, and now you labor day and night here to repay his debts."

"I'm not just here to tear away the lies. I want you all to remember this humiliation—the shame of being deceived, used, and finally abandoned by the man sitting in the Winter Palace! I want you all to live well. I will intercede with the guards here; they will not mistreat you. And you must work diligently until one day you return home—that day will surely come—and then tell everyone you meet the truth about this war. Tell the relatives of the soldiers who could not return to Russia whose hands their blood truly stained..."

Unable to understand Russian, Gaizka watched the Honor Representative expectantly. "Sergeant Peppard, the Crown Princess isn't inciting the prisoners to escape, is she?"

Peppard's Russian was limited, and he only caught bits and pieces, but he still shook his head. "No, she's telling them a story. Much like the one I've been telling you these past few days."

He turned and waved to the soldiers. "Put away your rifles; there's nothing happening here. Let's continue on our way."

The next day, Gaizka saw the rushing river ahead. It was the Rhine River.

In the Strasbourg camp, over two-thirds of the French 23rd Infantry Division's strength had already assembled.

According to the company commander, the remaining troops would arrive the day after tomorrow. At that point, the 23rd Infantry Division would head to Karlsruhe to fight the tens of thousands of invaders commanded by the Briton Picton.

By then, the entire newly formed Sixth Army, numbering 35,000 men, along with their equipment and logistical supplies, had arrived on the east bank of the Rhine River.

...

Meanwhile, Marquis Wellesley was fuming at his officers in Zwickau, a city in western Saxony.

"Snow is no excuse for abandoning supplies in Dresden! The soldiers have been drinking river water for three days; you must bring me the wine immediately!"

A Saxon staff officer's face flushed crimson, and he finally managed to whisper, "General, actually, your logistical convoy was intercepted by the Prince of Hechingen..."

Wellesley froze. The Prince of Hechingen was Archduke Charles's favored general; even if he sent someone to argue, he likely wouldn't reclaim his supplies.

He waved a hand in resignation. "Then tell your men to hurry, before cholera breaks out in the army."

He had marched with the main Coalition forces from Northern Italy for over a month. The soldiers could barely endure, but logistical issues plagued them daily.

Especially when relying on German states like Saxony and Thuringia for logistics, there were always delays, often forcing them to transport supplies over long distances from Vienna.

Not long after the Saxon officer departed, the Duke of York rushed in.

Marquis Wellesley quickly bowed. "Your Highness, what brings you here?"

The Duke of York usually remained with Archduke Charles's main forces, some fifteen kilometers away. He wouldn't have hurried over unless it was truly urgent.

"Emden has been attacked," the Duke of York said, frowning. "And Hanover currently has no available troops."

Emden was a Prussian enclave on the Dutch border, garrisoned by few troops. If the French army seized it, Hanover, the English king's ancestral home, would be in grave danger.

In fact, Lefebvre had been preparing to raid Hanover over two weeks ago, but while his military capabilities were strong, his political and diplomatic skills were truly lacking.

He had left the Flemish Legion in Amsterdam to defend against Sir John Moore's British forces, but then the Dutch revolted, almost coming to blows with the Flemish Legion—the Flemish were, after all, old enemies who had occupied large swathes of their southern territory.

As a result, Lefebvre had no choice but to have Scheyck withdraw to Antwerp first, then he himself parleyed with Moore for a long time before finally managing to drive the remaining British forces to the north bank of Cologne.

Wellesley's expression also grew solemn. "We should request His Majesty William III to dispatch troops as reinforcements."

The Duke of York nodded. "I've already contacted him, but he demands the Coalition Forces help Blücher break out."

"Oh, damn it..."

"Archduke Charles has already agreed to detach twenty thousand troops to reinforce him."