Chapter 1238: The Bustling Armory
Oudinot said with a grimace, "Must we just wait for the Prussians to surrender? I don't want to waste a couple of weeks in this godforsaken place."
They had previously sent Blücher two weeks' worth of food, and if eaten sparingly, it could last him nearly twenty days.
Masséna frowned, beginning to seriously consider the necessity of storming the Prussian defenses.
However, inflicting casualties on his soldiers simply to save a mere couple of weeks would be equally ill-advised.
As he hesitated, a messenger galloped up, calling out loudly, "General, an enemy force has appeared east of Basel!"
Masséna and the others felt their hearts leap with joy. Although they didn't understand why the Coalition Forces had suddenly decided to rescue Blücher, at least their efforts hadn't been in vain.
"Immediately inform General Sérurier to move towards Basel," Masséna instructed the messenger. "Tell the soldiers to prepare for battle."
Their ambush site was less than nine kilometers from Basel; the enemy would encounter them as soon as they left the city.
Meanwhile, Picton, eager to demonstrate an active effort to rescue the Prussian army, did not allow his troops to linger in Basel.
He had already received orders from the Duke of York to establish a defensive line near Basel to prevent Masséna's Legion from leaving Switzerland.
He had long discussed the defensive positions with his officers, choosing a spot ten kilometers southeast of Basel.
There, the Jura Mountains and the Rhine River converged, creating a narrow strip of land only three kilometers wide. Artillery positions could also be set up on the Jura Mountains to their side, making it an ideal blocking point.
Even if the French army broke through the line at great cost, he could retreat to Basel and hold out there for another ten days or so without issue.
If Masséna knew of his battle plan, he would praise him greatly, for he too had chosen the very same location.
Picton still believed the French army should be besieging Blücher in Glarus—located in east-central Switzerland—and even if the French were planning an ambush, it would most likely be in the nearby area from Volhynia to Lake Zurich.
After all, Blücher still had nearly 60,000 soldiers, while the French army had just over 50,000 men; to prevent the Prussians from breaking out, they certainly wouldn't dare to be too far away.
The following noon.
Hundreds of Hesse soldiers, assisted by horses, laboriously dragged seventeen cannons of varying sizes along a muddy track.
The ground here had previously been as hard as stone, but two days of continuous clear weather had caused the frozen soil to melt, turning it into a quagmire of mud.
Accompanied by the squelching sounds of hooves pulling out of the mud, the artillery commander of Picton's corps squinted at the hillside ahead and said to his chief of staff, "Feirich, is that our designated position?"
The latter quickly unfolded a map, and after some measurement, nodded. "Yes, General."
"It is indeed an excellent..." The officer was halfway through his sentence when he suddenly saw a flash of fire on the hillside, followed by a deafening roar. A volley of dark shapes instantly tore apart dozens of artillerists beside him.
One Six-Pounder Cannon was even flung seven or eight meters away, crushing its entire crew until a horse's body stopped it.
"Artillery! Scatter!" Feirich shrieked.
...
In the northern French city of Charleville.
Inside the workshops of the famous Charleville Armory, the rhythmic hum of steam drills and milling machines intertwined.
Dozens of artisans gathered around the machines, meticulously filing and polishing the components in their hands, occasionally taking out tools to make measurements.
It was clear, however, that their hands trembled slightly, and their faces were flushed with excitement.
For at that moment, His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince, was inspecting the workshop.
Viscount Monbeuil, the armory director, gestured attentively towards the assembly line. "Your Highness, all components undergo a second round of quality control before being sent here, primarily to measure tolerances...
"You see, these are the artisans responsible for final assembly...
"Currently, the armory operates on a shift system, allowing us to produce rifles around the clock, with breaks only for machine maintenance and repairs."
Of course, this was mainly due to Charleville having gas pipelines laid at the end of last year, providing the armory with ample lighting; otherwise, processing precision equipment at night would be very difficult.
"Last month, we produced five thousand percussion cap muskets and eleven hundred rifles. This month, we anticipate increasing production by around ten percent."
Viscount Monbeuil hurried forward a few steps, pointing towards the flatbed carts bustling in and out of the workshop door. "All firearms will be sent from there to the wood shop, to have handguards, stocks, and the like installed.
"After that, they undergo inspection, are packed into crates, and sent to the front lines.
"Oh, and thanks to the Verdun train station, these firearms will reach Strasbourg just four days after leaving the factory..."
As he spoke, a flatbed cart in the distance suddenly swerved sideways, hitting the shins of a shorter worker ahead.
The person immediately tumbled to the ground, letting out a shriek. "Ah..."
The two workers who had caused the accident quickly rushed forward to help him up, but instead of apologizing, they scoffed. "Hah, you're walking too slowly."
"Kahn, I told you, you're better suited to cooking at home than working here..."
The short worker, who had been knocked down, rubbed his leg as he got up, bowing repeatedly to the two, and muttered softly, "Yes, yes, I'll be faster next time."
A stout worker nearby, who was carrying firearms, rushed over. He bent down to check the short worker's leg and declared, "Kahn, don't blame yourself. I saw it, they pushed it crooked, that's why they hit you."
From a distance, Viscount Monbeuil heard his voice, and his expression grew frantic; a cold sweat broke out on his brow as he bowed deeply to Joseph and said, "Your Highness, well, you know, many of the young men in the city have gone to war.
"To ensure production, I had to... bring in some, ah, laborers.
"Please rest assured, all firearms are blessed and sprinkled with holy water by priests before leaving the factory. They have guaranteed that no bad luck will ever taint them..."
Joseph looked on, somewhat surprised, at the two workers in the distance. From their voices just now, he could tell they were women.
Across Europe, women were only engaged in a handful of professions such as milking, weaving, laundry, and nursing—the last of which was only available in France, spearheaded by Perna—as for working in factories, that was even more impossible.
Especially with weapons; many believed that weapons touched by women would lose their potency or become inaccurate.
He interrupted the armory director.
"How many female workers are there here? Don't be nervous, it's nothing to worry about."
The latter, head bowed, stammered:
"There are... one hundred and twenty of them, Your Highness."
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