Chapter 240: The Second Lieutenant of Corsica
Second Lieutenant Buonaparte's mind was fixed on the orders from Paris: he didn't need the consent of a superior officer when suppressing a riot.
More importantly, if he successfully quelled the current uprising, he could very well earn a promotion.
He came from a minor noble family on Corsica, and without any unexpected opportunities, the rank of Second Lieutenant would likely be the pinnacle of his military career.
He had to seize this chance!
He gazed at the frenzied rioters, tightening his grip on his sword hilt, and thought to himself, 'If only I could drag the cannons here.'
But his company's cannons were still in Valence, and the colonel would certainly never agree to him bringing them into town. Given the colonel's ambivalent attitude towards the uprising, he wouldn't even approve of him suppressing it.
Soon, the rioters spotted the soldiers, but instead of fearing them, they began pelting the small contingent with stones.
Second Lieutenant Buonaparte ducked to avoid a stone, only to hear a soldier behind him cry out in pain.
He looked at the arrogant rioters, frowning slightly, then turned and whispered a few instructions to the sergeant beside him. The sergeant immediately circled behind the line, hugging the wall as he ran towards the opposite side of the street.
"Halt!"
He then ordered a non-commissioned officer to step forward, who, as per custom, shouted warnings at the rioters, demanding they disperse immediately.
Their response was a volley of even more stones.
The Second Lieutenant moved to the left end of the line, and barked out orders:
"Prepare!"
"Fire into the air!"
A loud crack echoed.
The gunshot startled the rioters, but when they realized it wasn't aimed at them, their bravado instantly returned.
"These soldiers don't dare shoot us!"
"There are so few of them, nothing to fear!"
"Drive them away, then let's go to Baron Lorette's house."
"Stone them to death!"
Just then, another group of rioters appeared from around the street corner. The two groups merged, now numbering over 500 people, shouting and throwing stones as they surged towards the soldiers.
The Second Lieutenant glanced back to see his soldiers' movements distorted by tension—after all, they were artillerymen, not particularly skilled at fighting with flintlock muskets—but he remained composed as he directed them:
"Don't just stand there, reload!"
Just as five soldiers were successively injured by stones, and the rioters were only sixty or seventy paces away, the sergeant finally reached the opposite side of the street.
Without pausing to catch his breath, he immediately fired a shot as the Second Lieutenant had instructed, then shouted at the top of his lungs:
"Second Lieutenant, Colonel Raynald is here with a thousand men!"
His voice was booming, and the rioters heard him clearly. A wave of panic immediately swept through them, and they stopped, looking around frantically.
Second Lieutenant Buonaparte seized this brief window of opportunity, turning to urge his men in a low voice:
"Reload quickly! Faster!"
The rioters, after all, were an undisciplined mob. While they were still searching for "Colonel Raynald," the fifty artillerymen finally finished reloading.
Buonaparte brandished his sword and pointed it at the rioters:
"Advance five paces!"
"Prepare!"
"Aim!"
"Fire!"
From a distance of just over fifty paces, the artillerymen unleashed a synchronized volley. Though only six people were hit, the thunderous gunshots and screams of agony stunned the rioters.
At the same time, the sergeant on the side street fired another shot, and yelled out:
"Run! Many soldiers are coming!"
"Ah, there are thousands of them! If you don't run now, it'll be too late!"
Second Lieutenant Buonaparte, for his part, decisively ordered:
"Fix bayonets!"
"Charge!"
He led the charge, at the head of his line of soldiers, rushing towards the rioting crowd.
The sheer force of their advance made the rioters truly believe that a large army had arrived, and they recoiled in fear. When the two sides were still more than twenty paces apart, the mob turned and fled in a panicked rout.
...
As the uprisings in the southern provinces gradually subsided, Paris, however, was engaging in an entirely different kind of propaganda.
The front page of the Paris Business Journal daily featured headlines like "Riots Still Spreading in the South" and "Local Garrisons Cowardly, Allowing Rioters to Rampage Unchecked."
Other newspapers also followed suit, depicting the southern provinces as utterly devastated, and the army as cowardly, afraid to protect local order.
Any news about the riots that deviated from this narrative was intercepted by the Press and Publication Bureau.
Given the speed of information dissemination in that era, even if someone investigated the matter later, it would be difficult to ascertain whether the riots had actually ended more than ten days earlier than reported.
Beginning January 25th, the major newspapers began heavily reporting on "The Crown Prince Personally Leading the Army South to Suppress the Riots" and "The Paris Legion Deploying to Western Provinces to Respond to the Riots."
In reality, the Guards Corps was already only two days' march from Montpellier.
The long-anxious citizens of Paris finally saw a glimmer of hope, eagerly anticipating good news about the Crown Prince suppressing the rebellion every day.
...
In the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district of Paris, Madame Hébert's villa was hosting a secret salon.
All attendees were influential Capitalist Nobility of the day, along with a small number of enlightened Old Nobility.
Mirabeau was delivering an impassioned and stirring speech:
"Traditional noble privileges are no longer fit for this world! Those bloated, greedy, and lazy noble lords, who only know how to exploit their privileges, year after year, preying upon the wretched tenant farmers. They bring nothing but misery, backwardness, and shame to this nation!
"How many people have been ruined, left homeless, even starved or succumbed to illness, all because of their extravagant and worthless lives! Yet, they remain engrossed in balls and banquets at Versailles.
"The Old Nobility's privileges must be abolished! No one shall be a parasite upon the nation!"
Bailly immediately rose, raising his arm excitedly:
"Abolish Old Noble privileges!"
Vergniaud, Gensonné, Varennes, and others also stood up:
"Even tenant farmers have a right to live well!"
"Completely abolish serfdom! Farmers need freedom!"
"Yes! Freedom and the right to exist!"
Mirabeau gestured for the impassioned crowd to quiet down, and continued:
"His Royal Highness the Crown Prince said that the riots in the western and southern provinces present a rare opportunity for us! We must unite and launch an attack against those parasites! Let us forge a hopeful future for France!"
Vergniaud's eyes gleamed:
"What does His Highness want us to do?"
Mirabeau produced the documents Joseph had given him, and dozens of people immediately gathered around.
"Abolish all corvée labor for tenant farmers, and nullify all their obligations to their lords."
"Cancel noble privileges for hunting, pigeon rearing, rabbit breeding, and fishing. Abolish the milling tax, the oven tax..."
"Abolish seigneurial courts; all disputes should be heard by a court of law..."
"Enact a 'Grain Yield' decree. Landowners with estates exceeding approximately 67 hectares must meet a prescribed per-acre yield."
Bailly looked at Mirabeau, puzzled: "What's this 'Grain Yield' decree all about?"
"His Highness said it's the fundamental basis required for developing industrial enterprises..."
...
January 27, 1789.
Montpellier.
On a rise 6 kilometers west of Count Sérurier's estate, Joseph was delivering a speech to a group of journalists and nobles.
Some of these journalists had followed him from Paris, while others were locals from Montpellier, summoned two days prior by heralds.
"Behold this magnificent army!" Joseph gestured towards the Guards Corps in the distance, declaring firmly and confidently, "They will quell this uprising with the utmost speed, restoring order to the southern provinces."
Meanwhile, by a distant, dense forest, a group of three or four hundred individuals, who appeared to be peasants, but carried old flintlock muskets, was quietly advancing towards Count Sérurier's estate.
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