Revolution

When I was a hot-blooded young rebel, I often lamented that I wasn't born in the era of swords and knights. But now, I have become a cavalry lieutenant as I wished, with a splendid uniform and a shiny saber, yet I cannot find any joy in it.

In September 1785, I successfully passed the graduation exam at the Paris Military Academy. Under my father's arrangement, I was forced to become a cavalry lieutenant. I remember in another world, a long time ago, my father insisted on me going to military school. Adults always like to treat their children as puppets, directing them to dance. It's absurd!

The day before parting ways, Napoleon and Alexander were assigned to serve in the La Fere Artillery Regiment in Valence; Lyon, Hoss, and I were to go to Brittany. I found Napoleon and we walked together on the parade ground in the afternoon.

She was wearing a blue top with embroidered cuffs, a delicate silver button sewn onto the collar, and blue breeches. Both of us wore shoulder boards symbolizing the rank of lieutenant. The shoulder boards had golden tassels and bright red ribbons attached

"I really don't want to be separated from you," I confessed to her. "But fate can be so cruel."

"It's okay, you're more suited to be a cavalryman than an artilleryman," Napoleon replied.

I casually took her sword, drew it out, and watched as the sunlight sparkled on the sharp blade.

"Do you know," Napoleon said, "there was a time when the instructor mocked my homeland, and I pointed at my sword sheath, telling him, 'The scabbard belongs to France, but the blade is mine.'"

"I heard about this feat, but unfortunately, I didn't witness it with my own eyes."

Napoleon responded with a smile.

I looked at her smile, feeling heavy-hearted. Despite France treating Napoleon well, the shadow of Corsica always loomed between her and France like an impenetrable ice wall.

I sighed, sheathed the sword, and handed it back to her. "Napoleon, wielding an unsheathed sword can easily harm the innocent unintentionally and even oneself sometimes."

Napoleon nodded thoughtfully, taking the sword. "I will remember your advice."

We walked the remaining path side by side. When the time came to part ways, I stood quietly in place, watching her fade into the distance under the bright autumn sun.

Time flows like water, passing continuously. It has been four years since I parted ways with Napoleon. Although our correspondence has never ceased, her image and laughter have gradually blurred in my mind. During these four years, I have spent most of my time studying, only riding horses and wielding swords when necessary. Yet, in 1788, I was still promoted to the rank of captain.

My promotion despite my lack of focus on military duties seemed to provoke the heavens. Shortly after I was promoted to the rank of captain, an unforgettable hailstorm struck France, with brutal temperatures that nearly claimed my life. Under the pounding of hailstones, vast farmlands yielded no harvest, and half of the country's granaries stood empty. Bread prices soared, and the entire France was plagued with starvation.

On a day in June 1789, my unit was placed on high alert. The military camp no longer smelled of alcohol and sweat but of gunpowder. The prostitutes no longer roamed between the tents, searching for clients.

A few days later, Lyon and Hoss came to my room, speculating on who we would be fighting against. Lyon stood by the table with folded arms, looking disinterestedly as Hoss explained his self-proclaimed theories next to the map on the wall. Throughout it all, I kept my gaze on the ominous sky outside.

"I'm just thinking," I replied, my eyes still fixed on the darkening sky.

In June 1789, I knew who our enemy was and understood the mission of our troops. We were not heading to the distant borders to confront foreign armies but to the streets of Paris to massacre the French people. As far as I recall, in 1789, King Louis XVI convened the Estates-General in an attempt to tax the Third Estate to alleviate the government's financial crisis, but it ended in failure. The enraged king not only went back on his word, imposed taxes by force, but also prepared to mobilize troops to dissolve the parliament. Thus, the French Revolution, a bloodbath in France, began.

"Look outside the window, Lyon," I said gloomily.

"Why look outside the window?" spoke Hoss. "We should focus on the map now."

"You clueless fool, look outside the window," I said quietly. "Under the iron-gray sky, dark clouds gather, thunder rumbling and lightning flashing."

"A storm is coming," Lyon remarked.

"Yes," I turned to Lyon, "it will be a grand storm that sweeps through France, shaking Europe."

"Don't be so dramatic, it'll probably just be a heavy rain," Hoss quipped, glancing at the dark clouds outside.

My head started to ache. "I'm not talking about the weather, okay?"

In early July, the troops left the camp, marching day and night towards the capital, undeterred by wind and rain. After a grueling ten-day journey, we arrived on the outskirts of Paris on July 14th, faintly hearing the booming of cannons from the city.

The next morning, the cannons fell silent. The rebellious masses had stormed the Bastille. Louis XVI, with no other options, had to concede, and power fell into the hands of the Constituent Assembly. Although the troops had traveled a long way and missed the battle, I felt no regrets, only relief and gratitude.

"Damn it, we ended up making a wasted trip," Hoss complained during dinner that evening.

"Have you ever thought about death?" I uttered these words unconsciously, surprising even myself.

Silence fell over the dining table.

After a moment, I continued, expressing my inner fear. "Imagine this: a young man with ambitious dreams and exceptional talents, who, after years of study at the military academy, becomes an outstanding officer. Yet, in his first battle, he is struck by a bullet in the heart and dies with regret. All his efforts would have been in vain. Isn't that too tragic, too unfair?"

"Efforts may indeed end up in vain, Marcus," Lyon reached across the table and gently patted my shoulder. "But we must never give up because of that."

As we made our way back to the camp, we received more grim news. King Louis XVI and his queen had been imprisoned. The loyal Swiss Guards had all perished, their bodies brutally mutilated by the mob. The officer who relayed these gruesome details to us trembled uncontrollably as he recounted the vile acts.

In 1790, I was once again promoted, leaving Lyon and Hoss behind, and heading to Paris with the rank of Major to command a squadron of dragoons, with the main task of maintaining public order. It was not a dull job by any means. After the outbreak of the revolution, the security in Paris plummeted, with thieves and pickpockets running rampant in the city. Every day, there were grotesque bodies found on the streets or in the canals.

I had encountered some nuns collecting donations for the church in the morning, only to learn of their murders in the evening. The church was looted, and priests and nuns met gruesome ends at the hands of the attackers.

"Find the culprit and bring them to justice!" I roared at my subordinates.

But all I received in response was cold, indifferent stares. They simply didn't care. In the storm of revolution, there was no room for religion.

Yes, France had welcomed the revolution, but what followed was violence, slaughter, war... like a Pandora's box opened, with no glimmer of hope shining in this chaotic land.

On a snowy morning in the midst of winter, I received a letter from Napoleon. I eagerly tore it open and began to read by the cold light streaming in from the window.

Marcus, I have abandoned the idea of Corsican independence. Through the efforts of myself and other Corsican patriots, the French Constituent Assembly has declared: Corsica is an indivisible part of the French Empire, and the people of Corsica enjoy the same rights as all French residents. I intend to use the French Revolution to change the fate of Corsica.

Upon reading this, I couldn't help but smile. A snowflake drifted in from the window, landing on the letter and smudging the elegant handwriting. I continued reading.

At first, everything went smoothly, but tensions rose as Pascal, who had returned from exile in England, came back to his homeland. Corsica became divided between two opposing forces: one that supported the old local military and administrative systems and the other that staunchly advocated for the principles of the French Revolution.

I found myself in serious political disagreement with my hero Pascal. He advocated for complete liberation of Corsica from French occupation and the transplantation of the British political model to Corsica, while I supported the resolutions of the French Constituent Assembly and embraced the democratic system of France. I believed that the French Revolution had created the conditions for Corsica's development.

The following exchanges were just some trivial pleasantries. Napoleon was about to confront his childhood idol, tearing off the mask of civility and resorting to open conflict. As for Pascal, I knew nothing about him. But I had no doubt that Napoleon could easily swallow this opponent like breakfast without even a burp.

Setting the letter aside, I gazed silently as more snowflakes drifted down, gradually blurring the ink on the paper. The whole of France was awash in the bloodshed of this tragic revolution.

I am witnessing history, not the history inscribed in textbooks by ink and printing presses, but a living history written with blood and life.

What should I do?