Chapter 919: Rebellion
The sans-culotte, a man in his fifties, showed no trace of fear as he scooped up another stone. He strode forward, arm cocked back, and hurled it toward the officer.
Both of his sons had perished on the battlefields of Northern Italy. His life was a hollow shell of misery; he had nothing left to lose and nothing left to fear.
"Wait!" Schérer shouted, waving his hands frantically at the surging crowd. "What are you doing? Fall back!"
No one spared him a glance.
The distance between the sans-culottes and the military line continued to shrink.
The Hungarian officer bellowed once more, "Final warning! Disperse immediately!"
A stone struck the ground scarcely a foot from his side.
The officer let out a cold snort and swept his saber downward. "Fire!"
A dense succession of rhythmic cracks erupted instantly. A great cloud of white gunpowder smoke billowed into the air as a dozen sans-culottes at the front were thrown backward, collapsing in heaps.
Schérer was so terrified that he dropped to the ground, clutching his head, until a companion hauled him up. He checked his body with a frantic downward glance; seeing no wounds, he forced his trembling legs into motion and joined the retreat.
"Why... why did they open fire?"
Incoherent, stuttering words tumbled from his shaking lips.
"I saw a pamphlet saying the Emperor has declared this a riot. He's sent the army to crush it!"
"A riot? We were only presenting a petition..."
"Shut up and run!"
A few minor nobles fled all the way to the outer districts. Seeing no soldiers in pursuit, they were just about to catch their breath when the heavy, rhythmic thud of marching boots echoed from the end of the street.
Before Schérer could even react, hundreds of panic-stricken protesters came charging around the corner toward them.
Behind them, a row of shimmering bayonets appeared at the street's edge.
Gritting his teeth against the ache in his legs, Schérer forced himself to keep running.
However, as the crowd reached the next intersection, they skidded to a halt, looking around in desperation.
A sense of dread washed over Schérer. When he finally reached the junction, he saw that the area was choked with protesters from every direction—at least a thousand people trapped in the bottleneck.
Across the far street, more than two hundred soldiers stood in a grim line, their muskets leveled at the crowd with predatory intensity.
An officer's voice boomed over the din: "By the terms of martial law, you are ordered to return to your homes immediately! Anyone remaining in three minutes will be shot for the crime of insurrection!"
The crowd erupted in a chaotic fervor.
While many lowered their heads and tried to slip away, nearly a quarter of the group continued to push forward, shouting defiantly.
"Don't back down, everyone!"
"The Emperor actually sent these Hungarian curs to murder us!"
"Drive the Hungarians out!"
"We have the numbers! Charge!"
The result was a crushing deadlock. People pushed from the front and back, rendering it impossible for anyone to move in the narrow space.
After about ten minutes, seeing that the rioters remained defiant, the Hungarian officer drew his saber. "Ready—"
Schérer's blood ran cold.
He knew these men wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger.
But with the press of bodies around him, he was pinned in the middle with nowhere to hide.
Amidst the discordant screams, curses, and slogans, he heard the command in Hungarian: "Aim—"
He squeezed his eyes shut and crouched down, clutching his head while muttering a desperate prayer. 'God help me, God help me...'
"Fi—"
The Hungarian officer had barely uttered the first syllable when a sudden volley of gunfire erupted from his flank.
Two Hungarian soldiers on the far right collapsed with muffled groans.
The Hungarian line fell into disarray, the soldiers spinning around in confusion.
Emerging from behind a nearby building were thirty or forty men dressed in Austrian uniforms, frantically reloading their flintlock muskets.
Smoke still lingered around them; it was clear they were the ones who had launched the ambush.
The Hungarian officer was stunned. His orders were to disperse the rioters, but they said nothing about being attacked by fellow troops.
He furrowed his brow and barked in rage, "You fools! Whose unit are you? The rebels are over there!"
The Austrian soldiers finished reloading and raised their muskets again. A Second Lieutenant among them shouted, "We are taking over here! You are to withdraw from Vienna immediately!"
A tense silence lasted for several heartbeats before the Second Lieutenant gave a sharp command: "Aim—"
"Fire!"
The Hungarians, bewildered and lacking orders to return fire against their own, began to fall back in retreat.
However, the crowd of protesters behind them had already surged forward.
The Hungarian soldiers had no time to turn and fire. After a few scattered shots, they were swallowed by a wave of four or five hundred people. Clubs and stones rained down on them like a hailstorm.
The dozens of Austrian soldiers from the flank charged in as well, joining the crowd in beating the suppression force.
Schérer finally found himself free of the press. He pressed his hands against his trembling face, staring at the scene in a daze.
'What is happening? Why did the Emperor send troops to shoot us? And who are these soldiers who saved us? Has the world gone mad?'
A companion beside him gave his arm a sharp tug. "Rabaud! What are you standing there for? Run!"
Schérer jolted back to his senses. He was about to move when he spotted a familiar figure in the chaos.
His eyes widened. He shook off his companion's hand and stumbled toward the street corner, his voice hoarse and cracking as he yelled, "Lukas! Is that you?"
A Hungarian soldier on the ground struggled to swing his musket butt to ward off the demonstrators, and the blow happened to catch Schérer in the leg.
"Ugh..."
As Schérer stumbled in pain, a young soldier dashed over. He caught the older man, supporting him while simultaneously delivering a brutal kick to the Hungarian soldier's jaw.
The moment Schérer looked at his savior's face, his eyes welled with tears.
It was his youngest son.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, he threw his arms around his son, his voice trembling. "Thank God, it really is you! How can you be here?"
The young man gasped in equal surprise. "Father? What are you doing here?"
He guided his father toward the side of the road. "Our instructors told us the Emperor was being deceived and was planning to massacre the citizens. I came with him to stop it. Thank God we arrived in time!"
Schérer froze. "You... you mean those Hungarian troops were truly sent by His Majesty?"
"It seems the Emperor listened to Thugut's counsel. That damned traitorous minister!"
Schérer's lips trembled as he looked at his son. "But... but this is rebellion..."
He suddenly grabbed his son's sleeve. "Come home with me right now. There are so many people here; maybe no one noticed you."
Lukas stood as firm as a post, shaking his head. "Father, so many more people will be killed. I have to save them. I have to save the country."
"You fool!" Schérer hissed in a panic. "You can't save anyone! Come back with me!"
"I just saved you," Lukas said quietly.
Schérer fell silent, his breath hitching.
The young man continued, "Seven or eight hundred recruits have decided to help the citizens. Oh, and we managed to steal the muskets from the training camp—thousands of them."
He gestured over his shoulder.
Schérer looked and saw two horse-drawn wagons distributing flintlock muskets to the people. Some protesters were even scavenging weapons from the fallen Hungarian soldiers.
His eyes filled with pure terror. "No... no, you can't be part of a rebellion. They'll kill you!"
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