Chapter 78 Arrival To The Front

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March 25th, eight o'clock in the morning. Napoleon and his aides-de-camp rode their horses toward Nice, the Army of Italy Headquarters. Along the way, they engaged in conversation to pass the time.

"Wait... General Bonaparte," Junot exclaimed, unable to hide his astonishment, "you were the inventor of the steam locomotive that we rode yesterday?"

Napoleon smiled at Junot's reaction. "Yes, indeed," he confirmed. "I took an interest in engineering during my time in the artillery. It's remarkable what technology can achieve."

Marmont chimed in, his disappointment evident in his tone. "Junot, you should have done some research about our General before meeting him. It's standard procedure."

Rubbing his head in embarrassment, Junot replied, "I... I don't know. I'm not particularly keen on reading scientific journals, much less about someone."

"You are shameless, Junot," Marmont clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "At the very least, you should be aware of his achievements in Toulon, considering you participated in that battle."

Junot's face brightened with recognition. "Of course, I know," he said eagerly. "I saw General Bonaparte barking out orders as our cannons wrecked the British fleet."

Napoleon listened attentively to Junot and Marmont's exchange, appreciating their banter. It reminded him of the camaraderie he had experienced among his fellow soldiers during the early days of his military career.

"That being said, I'm still worried that the Generals there may not accept you."

Marmont's statement caught Napoleon's attention, causing him to interrupt the conversation. He turned slightly in his saddle, his gaze fixed on Marmont.

"What do you mean by that?" Napoleon asked, his tone tinged with curiosity and a hint of concern. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure they had some privacy amidst the open road.

Marmont exchanged a brief glance with Junot before sighing softly. "Well, General Bonaparte, it's no secret that your appointment as Commander of the Army of Italy was politically influenced."

Sérurier paused his pacing, his face flushed with frustration. "Forgive me, General Augereau. I can't help but feel restless. The news of General Bonaparte's appointment has left me unsettled. Why would the Directory appoint someone who is younger than us, someone with limited experience in warfare? I must admit, I don't even know him. Oh, how far the French have fallen if ranks are so easily manipulated."

Masséna leaned forward in his seat and clasped his hands together. "General Sérurier, let's not jump to conclusions. We have all heard of Bonaparte's triumphs in Toulon and his recent victories in Saorgio and the royalist in the 13th of Vendemiaire. His reputation precedes him, and it would be unwise to underestimate his abilities."

Sérurier sighed, his frustration evident. "I understand that, General Masséna, but it still feels like a blow to our own accomplishments. We have dedicated our lives to the service of France, fought battles, shed blood, and earned our ranks through years of experience. And now, we are to be led by someone who has risen through the ranks swiftly, thanks to his political connections."

Augereau interjected with a hint of skepticism. "Politics and military leadership don't always go hand in hand. We have seen many generals fail despite their political influence. However, Bonaparte has shown promise, and his records speak for themselves. After all, he is the one who expelled the British from Toulon and weakened their influence in the Mediterranean Sea. Nevertheless, I must admit that I have my reservations about this young general and whether he can effectively lead the Army of Italy."

As they were having their talks, another person entered the premises, startling the three generals.

"Oh, General Berthier. You are assigned as Chief of Staff for our new young general. What do you think about him?" Sérurier asked.

"I don't know, General Sérurier," Berthier simply replied. "I haven't met the man personally, but I have heard of his exploits. He is a promising commander. Why did you ask?"

"Well, General Berthier, do you find his appointment acceptable? A twenty-seven-year-old, barely French, taking over command of the Army of Italy because he saved the government?" Sérurier asked.

Berthier paused for a moment, considering his response carefully. He knew that his words held weight, and he needed to choose them wisely.

"General Sérurier, I understand your concerns and those of the other generals. It is natural to question the appointment of someone relatively young and inexperienced. But we must not overlook General Bonaparte's accomplishments. His victories in Toulon, Saorgio, and the suppression of the royalist uprising in Paris are not to be taken lightly."

After saying that, a military officer entered the premises. "Generals, The Commander of the Army of Italy, General Napoleon Bonaparte, has arrived."

Augereau and Masséna rose to their feet, their gazes fixed at the hall where Napoleon Bonaparte along with his aides-de-camp were emerging.

As soon as Napoleon stepped foot in the drawing room, the four generals rose to their feet, their gazes fixed upon him. With synchronized movements, they performed a salute, raising their right hands to their foreheads in a swift motion.

Napoleon, observing the generals' salute, nodded in appreciation and reciprocated with a salute of his own. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the distinguished figures before him.

"Now, let's begin the planning," Napoleon said.