July 4th, 1797

The city of Mosella was nothing but a small town, filled with small businesses, homes, and people.

Men were short in size, but big of heart. Women were slim as the branches of the trees that grew in that hostile soil, but had a warm and welcoming spirit. Children were fragile, so thin and delicate that even the tiniest of breezes could knock them over, but still found strength to be playful and joyful. Their looks and their lives seemed so scarce, so humble, and yet, most of them lived with all of their might, finding glory amongst misery, and light amidst darkness. Their souls were filled with pride, both for themselves and for the city they were born into.

But, although these qualities might have been inspiring in peaceful times, at the precise moment Francis arrived at the city they were dark reminders of the perseverance of his enemies.

They weren't afraid of death, for their beliefs granted them immortality under the protection of their Lord. They weren't afraid of fighting, because they didn't see their downfall as a loss. They weren't afraid of cruelty, for it was justified to keep their peace, and to defend their centuries old traditions. They were tougher than their bullets, deadlier than their swords, and had a determination unmatched by any foreign enemy.

Captain Laupin seemed to be aware of these facts, and worried about the outcome of their next battle:

—In a normal situation, we would walk into the city in lines, keeping a close formation... but, from what general Marigny has told us, this is the worst thing we could possibly do in here —he walked around in circles, as his men stood up before him, carrying their muskets on their hands, with their backs straight, eyes up, mouths shut—. So our plan will be to split our battalion into small patrols of five men.

—Of five? —one of his auxiliaries asked, quite shocked.

It wasn't common for such a small number of people to be used in battles and missions, because reloading muskets and pistols took a long time, and greater numbers meant greater chances of hitting their foes first.

—Yes. Of five—Laupin insisted—. Each of those patrols will be given one street to take full control of. Try to use your sabers and your bayonets, instead of using direct fire to attack our enemy... At midday, I'll be waiting for all of you at the city's church. That will be our regrouping point. I'll ring the bells, to let you know where its location is... If some of you don't arrive there in at least half an hour, I'm making it clear now: you and your fellow soldiers are dead men. Maim whoever you must, kill whoever you must. But be there in time if you wish to live —he stopped moving, and pointed towards the gardener—. What's your name?

—Francis Alencar, monsieur.

—Francis, you are in charge of the five men behind you —Laupin gave the order, before pointing to the individual standing next to him, and the one after, and so forth, repeating the same words over and over. After he was done, he looked at his cohort, gave them all a small and sad smile, and said:—  God bless us on this day of hardship, and God bless the republic —before turning around on his heels, and walking back into his tent.

Once the captain was out of sight, every single one of his men allowed their shoulders to hunch, their postures to relax, and spun around to meet their buddies for the day.

Francis's group was composed a frail looking boy name Pierre Weller —a seventeen years old carpenter that got dragged into the war as a way to make a better living—, a ragged looking man called Charles "Charlie" Lectoure —a longtime soldier of the royal army, that joined the revolutionary forces once the price of the flour went up—, a blond fellow name Jacques Desaix  —a blacksmith that lost his business after faillling to pay the new higher taxes imposed by the monarchy—, and Séverin Arras —a law student that dropped out of college to fight for his ideals—.

Francis got extremely lucky, and knew immediately that God was watching over him that day. All of his mates shared his same core beliefs, despite not sharing most of his political ideals; killing was only necessary if their own lives —or the lives of their comrades— were in danger, murdering unarmed women and children was off-limits, and stealing was allowed, but food  —not gold— was the priority.

The set of rules may have seemed fair and just in the eyes of a modern enlightened man, but in the eyes of a soldier of the olden days, they were dangerous, and very much debatable. Everywhere they went, food was scarce. Water, a luxury. A change of clothes, a bath, and a peaceful place to lay their heads, a miracle. In those hard times they lived on, stealing was the best way to survive. Killing, the best way of not getting killed. The situation was not helped by the fact that most privates were previously working-class civilians, oppressed by the power of the monarchy, consequentially thrown into poverty and misery thanks to their inability to rule, unnecessary spending sprees, high-cost palace constructions, and childish wars with neighboring kingdoms.

The people's resentment for the royals was as big as the fear they instilled upon them. The ordinary man longed for the sweet-taste of blood, and once he became an officer —receiving as well as the title, the means to execute his revenge against his foes— he did murdered his enemies with no pity or dignity in mind. He slaughtered the nobility and the bourgeoisie with the same rage he slaughtered the poor royalist civilians that stood before him in the open field, not caring about their lives, their families, their friends, and not even about God's horrified eyes, watching over his crimes from above. No, the common man did not care at all. He, who had lost everything he held dear thanks to the childish actions of a fool with a shiny crown, did not care about morality or the weight of his own decisions. He wanted to ruin those who ruined him first, torture the souls that tortured him first, and if war led him to death, he'd welcome it with open arms. Losing his life seemed insignificant, compared to the thought of bringing justice to his own suffering people, and to his own suffering self.

This recklessness made brutality and cruelty become desirable values in the lines of the revolutionary army. Only a handful of men —wishing for the instauration of a republic and for the promise of a fair country— did not participate in the bloodshed, and did not abide to these ruling traits. As it was said before, Francis and his colleagues were a minuscule part of them.

—I hope we can stay close to the woods, near the town's outskirts, because if everything goes to shit we can still run away —Charlie said, as they prepared to march.

—And we'll be able to fire at the royalists from the trees —Séverin added, as their captain returned.

—Men!... —Laupin shouted, capturing their attention—. Choose your paths carefully, and do not waste your bullets! —he continued, walking towards his horse, then sitting over his saddle—. Kill all the royalists you may find in your way!... And I repeat, meet me at the church in the span of an hour! The cavalry boys and I will move first! —he looked at Francis—. You, monsieur, will strike second! I need you near the woods, understood?!

—Yes, captain!

—Do not let any royalists escape! —the captain insisted, before giving instructions to the other groups. Once all of them knew what to do, and where to go, he pulled his sword from the hilt and d pointed it towards the sky—. FOR THE GLORY OF THE REPUBLIC! 

—HURRAH! —the soldiers replied, with angered voices.

Not even a minute later, Laupin was gone. With no time to lose, Francis and his colleagues followed suit, abandoning the camp their battalion had set behind a thick line of cypresses. 

They moved through the tall grass with quick steps, keeping their heads low, and their eyes on the town.

It took them fifteen minutes to reach the first line of wattle and daub houses —all empty, for some strange reason—. They pillaged whatever goods they could find there and talked for a while, discussing what they should they do next, and how would they reach the town's church. In the end, the group came to an agreement:

Since the streets of the town were narrow and, mostly likely, the armed royalists were all hiding on the higher floors and roofs of the buildings, they had no other choice but to move in a straight line, one after the other. Organizing and advancing in a compact, tightly knit formation would be a deadly mistake. They weren't in an open field, staring at a clear and large enemy line. In this scenario, their foes were scattered around, shooting at them from multiple angles. Using the typical close order formation —as their own captain had warned them before— wasn't going to work. They had to improvise.

—I think we should head over there first... —Charlie pointed towards a hut made of bricks and straw—. Then we can maneuver to the left, run towards the street, and take cover behind that tall building over there...

—The one with those washing lines?

—Precisely —he agreed, looking at Francis.

—Let's do it then —the former gardener answered, gesturing with his hand before walking forwards—. Let's go.

They kept moving as quietly as they could, until they reached the hut. As Jacques ran to the small window, to check to see if there were any royalists inside, they began hearing the first shots of the battle echoing from the west. Once the noise of the explosions reached their ears, they also began to see the silhouettes of their opponents in the distance, hiding on the rooftops of the buildings, right as they had assumed they would.

The group suddenly noticed that, if hadn't stopped at the hut and kept walking in a straight line towards the street, chances were they'd all be dead by now.

—Do you think we can kill them from here?

—No, we need to move closer. Our muskets are crap at long distance shots, they won't work —Charlie replied—. I'll try to get those men on the first two buildings first. Cover me.

Before anyone could protest or ask what in the hell he was doing, the soldier ran away from the hut into the open field, and hid his body behind a large boulder, a few feet ahead from the patrol. Francis, speechless at his courage and recklessness, did as he was told. He kept his musket up, and prepared himself to defend Charlie if something went awfully wrong —which of course, it almost did—.

The soldier himself managed to kill his first opponent with a single shot, but ended up revealing his location to the others. One of the young royalists that stood on a rooftop nearby discovered his hiding place and shouted at his buddies to kill him. Soon enough, they started shooting at Charles. Still loading his musket, he became trapped in the incoming fire, without a safe way to escape.

—LET'S GO! —Francis didn't think before running towards his endangered colleague. He pointed his gun at the first farmer he saw standing over the tiles and shot him down. Séverin, Pierre and Jacques followed suit. The last of the standing royalists, climbed down from their position and disappeared inside their homes, probably to reload their guns in a safer spot—. You're okay?

—I'm good, I'm good —Charlie replied, standing up—. I didn't think there were so many of them...

—Neither did I... —the former gardener agreed—. But it doesn't matter, we have to keep moving.

—Let's get to that church at once —complained Pierre, as they continued their walk.

Again, from the west of the town, more explosions, shots and screams were heard. They kept moving, ignoring the desperate pleas for help and the awful smell of charred wood, poisoning the air. 

It was a common strategy in the revolutionary army, to set the buildings where royalists hid on fire. It saved them time and ammunition when capturing a city, and it killed their enemies faster. And although captain Laupin was very much against it, most of his men were not. In fact, from the narrow street they were in, they could already see the dark columns of smoke starting to rise up in sky. Which meant, in simpler terms, that hell was about to break loose.

Knowing that they needed to clear their path so they could make their way safely into the church, Francis kicked the door of the property they'd been previously shooting at. With quick steps and accelerated heartbeats, they climbed the staircase until they reached the last floor. The patrol crossed paths with a considerable amount of women and children on their way up, but chose not to attack them, out of respect and pity. The men they found, however, weren't as lucky. Those who tried to survive by fighting ended up with deadly bayonet wounds, spitting blood from their mouths. Those who tried to escape, lost the race to bullets. Even those who stayed and begged for their lives weren't spared. Because as soon as the revolutionaries left, they would regroup, reload their guns, and swear vengeance over their fallen royalist brothers.

The rebels were learning this lesson daily: compassion was worthless in the midst of a battle, it always led to death. Therefore, they had no choice but to neutralize every farmer they found. 

—Grab those wine bottles —Charlie ordered to Pierre, pointing to a small table to his left—. Does someone have a match?

—I do —Séverin replied.

Francis, understanding what the soldier was about to do before he even said anything, walked around the floor, found a linen shirt thrown over a wooden chair, and torn it to shreds. Then, he rejoined his men and gave them to Charlie, who stuck the pieces of cloth inside the bottles, and grabbed the match from Séverin's hand.

—I'll climb to the roof first —the former gardener commented, pointing a window to his left, from where he would make his way to the top—. We'll be able to see better from there.

—I'll cover you —Jacques promised, reloading his musket.

More screams and shots were heard in the distance. On the other side of the street, a couple of buildings were completely engulfed by flames. They had to hurry.

Francis, with his gun hanging from his back, used all of his strength to pull off his next stunt. He set one foot on the window sill, and pushed himself up, grabbing the outside gutter with his hands, shifting his weight and his position with one swift move. Suddenly, his chest was looking towards the room he was just leaving, and his torso was hanging outside of the frame. Once he was properly situated, he carefully slid through the façade of the building, holding onto the gutter for dear life, until he reached one of the wooden pillars that held the roof up. He climbed it like a monkey and finally reached the top of the construction. Crouching through the clay tiles beneath his feet, he took this time to stare at the city —ignoring the bodies of the dead royalists nearby, unwilling to feel guilty about their fate— and then sighed. All around him there was smoke, rising from the fires and the explosions of gunpowder on the streets below. But the air wasn't completely black yet, and he still managed to see the church they were headed to a few blocks away from their current position.

After spotting it, he looked over the edge of the roof, at the window where he'd come from. Charlie was calling his name.

—Grab them! —the man then threw the bottles of wine they had found up, one by one, before beginning his own climb to the roof. Francis managed to catch most of them, somehow. And once the other solder was standing next to him on the tiles, they used the match to light the makeshift fuses on fire, and threw the bottles over the gables of the neighboring houses, making them burn as well—. Now let's get out of here.

And they did, as a new round of bullets —shot by another group of royalist insurgents— crashed against their side of the building. They made it inside the upper room just in time to hear new voices coming from downstairs. Along with their comrades, they held their muskets up, greeting their incoming enemies with warmth. Once their foes were down, bleeding and groaning all over the place, the group descended to the street, where chaos was rampant.

Women were running, men were screaming, children were crying, and the elderly barely moved, perplexed by the sight of their hometown being completely and utterly destroyed by the rebels. Cannon balls brought down any walls that stood in their way, and made debris fall like rain over their heads. Bricks, wooden slabs, thatch and clay, all pulverized by the strength of each hit. The earth under their feet trembled constantly, and with every step they took, they felt closer and closer to their tombs.

The scenario was terrifying. And as they got nearer the church, the worse the slaughter became. Their fellow infantry soldiers acted as ruthless monsters, murdering innocents with wide smiles on their faces. Their brothers from the light cavalry ran around in circles, slicing civilians in half with their sabers. And each of them had no choice but to join the vicious battle, holding their bayonets forward with rage, murdering anyone who dared oppose them.

They fought like wild beasts for what it seemed was an eternity, trying their hardest not to fully lose their humanity, until the church bells rang as loud as they could and invited more men to join the battle.

The bloodshed was unavoidable. The terror they experienced, unexplainable. And in a fiery inferno, half of the city of Mosella burned to the ground, taking the souls of its inhabitants with it.

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Author Note: So... How is the story going so far? Any thoughts?

Also, here's another old drawing of Francis to accompany the chapter. It was inspired by a nightmare that I had (for those who don't know, I keep having nightmares about war, battlefields and barricades since I was about six years old) and it is quite gory, but I liked the end result anyway: