Chapter 1237: Napoleon's Unexpected Harvest
"Nearly eight thousand people?" Napoleon frowned, telling his aide, "First, send back anyone whose family doesn't have an adult male under 45.
"The rest will run eight laps around the training ground. Anyone who doesn't understand instructions or runs around aimlessly will be dismissed.
"Only the first four thousand who finish will be kept."
He had spent the past few days visiting various tribes and knew that intermittent famines had left many natives in very poor physical condition. These individuals had to be screened out.
Of course, the most crucial factor limiting the army's size was the number of officers available.
The French and Spanish in the colony combined only had 22 officers of middle rank or higher, and fewer than 190 non-commissioned officers.
These officers could at most manage just over three thousand men, and even with some promotions from training, the total number of soldiers shouldn't exceed five thousand.
As for the Native Americans, who had never encountered modern warfare, they were simply not capable of serving as officers.
Three days later, the screening concluded, and four thousand young Native Americans joyfully joined the "Knights Templar"—a name chosen by Father Vigne to enhance the sense of ritual in their crusade against 'heretics'.
And then, Napoleon, a commander renowned for his skill with new recruits, nearly collapsed.
At least half of them had put on their uniforms incorrectly—some inside out or backward, but most had buttoned them wrong.
By noon, the several thousand-strong company still hadn't managed to form a proper line.
More accurately, they hadn't even grasped the concept of "forming ranks."
A few days later, Napoleon simply handed the training over to his deputy, Major Brasseur, and went to stare blankly at the Mississippi River.
Even the most obtuse soldiers he'd ever encountered from the Pyrenees Mountains would be considered geniuses compared to these natives—
At present, the Native American ranks would collapse into a huddled mass after barely a hundred paces.
Napoleon had a premonition that he might ultimately have to fight the Americans with only his 1,800 white soldiers.
Meanwhile, the young Native Americans were also suffering immensely.
During dinner, many were still constantly looking at their hands, softly muttering 'left turn' and 'right turn'.
Inside the officers' tent, Major Brasseur said with a pained expression, "Not even ropes can make them form a straight line... They always seem to be anticipating the moment they can rush forward en masse."
Napoleon sighed, "If it truly won't work, then we'll just have to make them rangers. Their horsemanship isn't bad."
"But we don't have that many horses. And cavalry requires even stricter formations, while they only know how to charge forward like a swarm..."
As they spoke, an attendant appeared at the tent entrance with a man of short stature, adorned with five colorful feathers in his hair and the insignia of a Second Lieutenant—a Native American. "Commander, he says he has something to report to you."
"Let him in."
Brasseur glanced at the native and stated sternly, "I recall saying many times that feathers are not permitted in camp!"
"But it is rest period, Major." The Native American Second Lieutenant quickly sidestepped the issue and said in fluent French, "Actually, I believe some of your training methods are not well-suited for my people."
Napoleon was slightly surprised by his flawless pronunciation, and the fact that he had earned the rank of Second Lieutenant indicated he was no ordinary native.
"What is your name?"
"Serge Otto. But you may also call me by my Native American name—Little Turtle."
Napoleon and Brasseur chuckled simultaneously. "That is indeed an interesting name.
"So, what issues do you perceive with the training?"
Little Turtle bowed politely. "As you can see, most of my people are not adept at forming lines.
"I understand this is a powerful method of combat, but everyone is accustomed to running through dense forests and open plains, and in a short time..."
"Please state your suggestions directly."
"Have the younger warriors gather in the center, and the adult warriors position themselves to the rear and sides... During movement, no drums are needed; the captains, meaning the sergeants, can command using calls. The only thing requiring extensive training should be volleys..."
The next morning.
Napoleon watched Little Turtle command hundreds of Native American soldiers as they let out cries like "Orrorororo" and "Uh-huh" and surged chaotically toward a distant high ground, his brow instantly furrowed into a knot.
But soon, he was surprised to find that these seemingly chaotic Native Americans consistently maintained their spacing, and their movements for advancing and turning were remarkably consistent. Even when entering the woods, they didn't scatter.
'This is very much like...'
Major Brasseur, standing nearby, suddenly remarked, "They're practically trained skirmishers."
"Precisely, skirmishers!" Napoleon's eyes lit up. "It's just that their current positioning isn't optimal for firing and needs to be adjusted according to skirmisher drill regulations."
He looked at Brasseur. "Perhaps we can directly implement the latest Skirmisher Swarm Tactic."
In the afternoon, Napoleon began explaining the coordination between skirmishers and infantry lines to Little Turtle and over a dozen other Native American officers.
These high-ranking tribal members nodded repeatedly as they listened. Their comprehension was clearly far superior to that of ordinary natives.
An aide approached Napoleon and reported, "Commander, Governor Elcano sent word that due to funding issues, the remaining uniforms will take another four months to procure."
Uniforms were not cheap, and currently the colonial government only possessed three thousand sets; the rest had to be purchased from the Americans.
Napoleon looked at the native soldiers in the distance, still wearing their traditional attire but now all donning tricorn hats, and smiled. "Please inform the Governor that uniforms are no longer required."
...
Northeast of the Netherlands.
Emden.
Lefebvre encountered fierce resistance here.
Ten thousand Prussian soldiers had linked up with Moore's four thousand remaining British troops and constructed a defensive line along the east bank of the Ems River.
The French army attempted to force a crossing twice, but both times they were driven back by the enemy's fierce artillery fire.
Gaillard looked through his telescope at the Prussian cannons on the opposite bank and said to Lefebvre with disappointment, "Perhaps we should return to Groningen; it's unlikely we'll find an opportunity here."
The latter shook his head. "We are tying down almost twice our number of enemy troops, so even doing nothing is worthwhile.
"Look, the Dutch will continue to send us supplies."
With British and Prussian forces massed on the border, the Dutch government was now terrified Lefebvre might suddenly withdraw and had therefore taken over almost all of the French army's logistics.
"Very well, I'll follow your lead."
Lefebvre continued, "Recently, many new recruits have been conscripted throughout Wallonia. Perhaps our reinforcements will arrive soon. Then, we'll be able to cross this damned river."
...
Northwestern Switzerland.
The northern foothills of the Jura Mountains.
Masséna gazed down at the base of the mountain and said with a vexed expression, "I didn't expect the Coalition Forces to abandon Blücher as if he were an old boot.
"Damn it, we left him too much food..."
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