October 27th – October 31th, 1799

Once their position on Islovak was fixed, the republican army —supported by Kottac and his men— began their long march towards Patolovsk.

Fall was upon them, and although there still was no snow in sight, the winds were cold, the rain was heavy, and the diseases brought on by the new season, unforgiving. The soldiers had to wrap their muskets with cloths to keep them dry, and were unable to open their leather ammunition pouches during the downpours. Which made their sabers and bayonets the only means of self-defense while they carried on with their duties.

The fight against the humidity, the cold, the mud, the fog, and the overall harsh weather proved to be tougher than any battle they'd ever faced.

By the time they reached Patolovsk. the Castigatio legion was tired, underfed, and most of its soldiers were sick —either battling colds, skin infections on their sore feet, or frostbite—.

To make matters even worse, they arrived to what could only be described as mountains of smoking ruins.

The Ruhmnians had set nearly all of the city on fire, destroying their hope of surviving by looting the stores and homes around them, before leaving along with the civilians.

Food was scarce. Water was scarce. Reliable heat sources were scarce. And every day, the air was getting colder.

Francis knew they were in a bad spot. But retreating now wasn't an option. Not only he knew that, but all of the other officers around him did too.

So, with Kottac's help, they devised a last minute plan to resist their enemy's latest blow, and keep moving forward towards the capital anyway.

Firstly, they would deal with logistics. They needed to draw up an inventory of all of their current materiel and food. Secondly, they would stablish a supply route between Patolovsk, Islovak and their homeland. Thirdly, they would scout the surrounding towns and smaller cities for goods, and then retrieve them, no matter how.

—We can't advance until all of this is done —Lugo agreed with Kottac, and then promptly divided his generals according to said tasks.

Francis and his men were sent to loot Vyacheslav, a small settlement to the east. They returned from the trip on the afternoon of the 31th of October, exhausted by the long walk, and mostly empty handed. The town where they were sent to had also been burned and destroyed beyond recognition. There wasn't a lot there to save.

However, before he could walk inside Patolovsk and accept their defeat, the general had a last minute idea. Although he could not find more than a few sacks of rice, biscuits, and sugar on the ruins themselves, maybe he could use his skills as a retired gardener for good, and find other needed resources in the woods around him. After all, he did recognize a lot of trees, bushes and plants around the area, and knew that some of their fruits and leaves were edible.

So, he came up with a mental list of items to search for. Bitter berries. Ruhmnian peas. Krasny Chestnuts. Pine nuts. Hazelnuts. Dark ferns. Shallow potatoes. The roots of the Alkornat trees.

They didn't have enough substance to keep a soldier going for the whole winter, but they'd give him the required energy boost to reach the capital. And so, Francis began to explore the wilderness, and turned to nature for help. He taught his men what to look for, what to be wary of, and filled his carts with whatever goods he could find around the trees.

Him and general Santerre were the only ones to return to the city with their heads held high, and with enough food to feed their men for more than a week.

Francis' plan, when he initially joined the army, was to keep his past unknown. He didn't want to divulge his knowledge without a good reason to. He also didn't want to discuss his life as a gardener, serving a Duke, too much. But right now, he only cared about his soldiers, and raising their chances of survival. So, when they began to ponder out loud the true origin of his farming skills, and began to question him and his unmatched ability to improvise solutions to complicated problems, he decided to open up about his previous life as a civilian. He told them all about his previous profession, his struggles, and how he'd managed to rise through the ranks of the army as fast as he had.

The chat, mixed with the good food he'd provided his men, kept their spirits up. And also made other soldiers wonder how on earth his brigade was so happy and chirpy whilst facing the horrible situation they were in.

Soon, even Lugo was curious about his actions earlier in the day. And as the night closed in, the field marshal invited him inside his private tent, to talk.

—I've heard about you, general Forestier. All good things, I'm pleased to inform. Chief general Linières says you're the only man of honor that he knows in this army. Major general Obermann constantly praises you for your bravery and your quick wit. And all of the common men who serve under you speak of you highly... as if you were a legend to them.

—I'm nothing of the sort, monsieur.

—Oh, but you are, general. You saved general Arquette's life back when he was a captain. You saved eighty plus men during the Battle of the Graveyard, in Anjou. You were of crucial help to win the Twin Mountain's Ambush. You captured general Bautzen and the duke of Alvern during the Storming of Montpierre. And you blew yourself and a ship filled with gunpowder up to defend Novoa Beach, and protect the coast of our country. You've been an infantry soldier, a hussar, and a sailor. All in the span of three years.

—I only fulfilled my duty, monsieur. Nothing more.

—And you are humble, Laupin did warn me about that —Lugo laughed, and shook his head in disbelief—. Please remind me, how old are you?

—Thirty-nine years old.

—Really? —the man's surprised face became even funnier to look at—. I'd thought you'd be older. And pardon me, but you do seem older.

Francis could have answered by saying that he did feel like an elderly man. That after living through so many different incarnations of himself, during all these harsh years of blood, sweat and tears, his soul already felt ancient.

Instead, the decided to brood about his maturity at a later date.

—It's the moustache's fault —he smiled briefly, and the marshal laughed again.

—It may be so, general. Have you considered shaving it?

—I'm afraid I'm quite fond of it, monsieur. I grew it during my days as a hussar. And I've kept it since. It helps me during the cold weather. Keeps the air I breath warm.

—I've heard Luckner talk about that myth —Lugo pointed out—. Does it really work?

—I haven't gotten a really bad cold since I started to grow it, monsieur, so I think it does.

—Then I think I must grow one too —the marshal gestured to the chair in front of his desk—.  Anyway, please, sit down... Although talking about your charming face is fun, there is something else I need to discuss with you. And it's the reason why I brought you here.

Francis followed the man's order, and made himself comfortable in his seat. Lugo then served him a couple of fingers of a mysterious green liquor, that smelled strongly of mint and other macerated herbs.

He sniffed the substance a couple of times before deeming it safe, and drinking a small sip of it. It didn't seem poisonous, so he assumed it wasn't. Thank heavens, he was right.

—How may I help you, monsieur? —Francis asked next, lowering the glass.

—Oh, I haven't called you here to assign you any new missions, general. Our plan is to stay still for a while, until more provisions arrive. What I called you here for is to thank you for your service, and to give you this... —the marshal removed one of his own medals from his uniform, and handled it to the retired gardener—. That, general, is the Étoile de San Michel... A medal that was given to me by my father, and that was abolished during his time, not mine... So currently, it is worthless. But its value does not lie on its status. It lies on its history. This was given to ordinary men who rose through the ranks of the royal army through their own efforts and merit, and reached the highest title available to them: Commander. It was the only medal that the monarchy awarded to commoners. And I want you to have it.

—Monsieur...

The marshal leaned forward and his whole face tensed up:

—If you say a word about this I'll make sure you're guillotined myself, so I ask of you to keep this secret until the day you die, but... there's something you need to know —the look in his eyes went from serious and stern to touched and pained—. Gregoire is my son.

—Who?

—General Arquette. He is my son.

—He...

—Unofficially, that is. I had a... liaison, outside of my marriage, years ago. And then the poor boy was born out of it —the marshal looked away for a few seconds, then back at Francis—. I've cared for him since I found out about it, and I have never run away from my duties as his father, but... I've done it all in secret. Because I have no other choice. So please...

—Your story is safe with me, monsieur.

—Good. That's... good —Lugo sighed with relief—. But yes, he is my son and you... you saved him. You brought him back to me. To his brothers, his sisters, his wife, to his kids... And I've been wishing to meet you, Forestier, for a good while now. To thank you in person for giving him back to us, and to applaud you for all of the other impressive and meaningful things you've done in behalf of our country —the marshal grabbed Francis' hand, which still held onto the gift he'd just received—. I know you aren't too fond of wearing medals, but... I wish you'd wear this one, general. If anyone deserves it, it's you.

The former gardener gulped, then slowly covered Lugo's palms with his free hand, and patted them.

—Alright, monsieur —he nodded shortly—. Because you've given me this with such kindness, I will wear it.

—Good —the marshal's happy smile returned—. Then stand up, young man, and let me do the honors.

The general again, did as he was told. He released himself from Lugo's grasp, stood up, walked to the middle of his tent, and straightened his posture. His superior then retrieved the medal from him, and pinned it onto his coat.

The green, white and gold colors of the medal were beautiful, this Francis had to admit.

—There we go... —his superior mumbled, then eyed him up and down—. Now you look like the hero you are.

—Monsieur, I'm not...

—I'm a father, you saved my son. Of course you are a hero to me —Lugo insisted, then bowed slightly, as if to prove his point.

Francis, always the gentleman, bowed back. And once he went back into his own tent, he stared at the star for over half an hour, before deciding to honor his promise, and adding it permanently to his uniform.

Not to display his power or greatness, but to remind himself, during these hard times, what he really needed to be fighting for: the lives of his men, and the wellbeing of their families.