I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

Although the Duke of Broglie and his men had just arrived at this new theater of operations, they could not rest for more than a few hours. Time was of the essence, and every hour counted. While Prince de Soubise and the Duke of Broglie were speaking, all of General Hildburghausen’s forces were on the move, passing from village to village toward the east. King Frederick and his armies, as divided as their own, continued to retreat. The prince had received a message from the Imperial General ordering him to do the same with his own troops.

Charles de Rohan-Soubise did not appreciate the tone of this message, but since the Court seemed to have changed its mind and wanted him to place himself under the general's authority, he had no choice but to obey. This happened six days before the Duke of Broglie arrived in Mühlhausen with his valuable reinforcements, while he waited at Lagensalza, a little further south.

The Duke of Broglie left the small house, temporarily transformed into the prince’s headquarters, with the prince and ordered his men to prepare to depart for Erfurt. Though still exhausted from their long march, the men obeyed dutifully despite their pitiful state, as the duke painfully mounted his horse.

Prince de Soubise, his new commander, was already waiting for him at the entrance of the small German town, proudly seated on his magnificent white horse like a Marshal of France. It was a powerful animal with a shiny, clean coat, bright eyes, and full of energy. The prince's saddle and all the horse's equipment were as resplendent as the prince's own attire, with many golden elements. In comparison, Broglie’s horse seemed quite ordinary.

"Forward!"

The cavalry and infantry soldiers accompanying the prince began to march, followed by those of Broglie.

Soon enough, the town of Mühlhausen disappeared completely from view, hidden by the tall trees of the region. Only the prince’s division remained on a poor road surrounded by empty fields, dark forests, shriveled hills, and a few villages that seemed to have been placed there at random.

"Soon," said the prince, riding slowly beside him to match the pace of the foot soldiers, though they were not walking all that slowly, "we will reach Erfurt, where most of the Reichsarmee is stationed. From there, we will go to Weimar, then Dornburg to cross the Saale River. It is one of the many tributaries of the Elbe River. There are not many bridges in the region, and many of them have been destroyed by us or the enemy since the beginning of this campaign. Most of our troops are or will be passing through there to join Naumburg and Weißenfels (note: pronounced 'Veissenfels'). The Count of Saint-Germain is likely at Dornburg."

"Saint-Germain? Who is this? The name is unfamiliar to me."

"Who could blame you? He spent most of his military career abroad, serving other states. However, His Majesty deemed it wise to give him a command ten years ago, shortly after his return to France. He now holds the rank of lieutenant general."

"Well, if His Majesty has decided so, he must be competent," commented the Duke of Broglie in a flat tone devoid of any emotion, certainly not jealousy.

"Competent? Perhaps. I heard that he distinguished himself during the last war while serving the Electorate of Bavaria. Did you know? He also served the King of Prussia! Briefly, though, and well before this war. The man resembles a mercenary, kuku!"

The Duke of Broglie glanced sideways at his officer but refrained from making any comment.

Does he think he’s at Versailles? Why does he speak like that? The more I see him, the less I feel like I’m following a soldier, and more a courtier, good only for pleasing His Majesty.

"Sir," he finally said, "you should not speak that way about your allies and comrades. It would only create tension. Let’s focus, please, on the task at hand."

"You’re right, yes. Hmm. What were we talking about? Ah, yes! Our forces! General Hildburghausen should currently be at the same point as Monsieur de Saint-Germain. We will certainly meet him at Naumburg. At this pace, it will take us six or seven days to get there, between October 22 and 23."

"So late... It is very unusual to still be fighting at this time of year," remarked the duke.

"I know well," sighed the prince helplessly, "but it’s war. We must adapt to the situation. Our men are exhausted, but they can rest as long as necessary once the King of Prussia is in our hands or his army is destroyed."

"Speaking of which, do we know where he is currently?"

"The latest news is that he has retreated to Leipzig. Curiously, he stayed there for a few days as if he were trying to cover the retreat of his troops. Amusing, isn’t it? In this situation, it should be his army that stays behind to cover their monarch. What a strange man."

He is brave. As one might expect from a man of his stature. A warrior king like no other in our time. Certainly, there won’t be any more like him. Sure, it’s courageous, but it’s dangerous. If the king falls, the kingdom suffers. That’s what history has taught us...

The duke stopped talking, not wanting to engage further with this man, and focused on the steady movements of his horse.

I hope all this will be over soon. We need to take our winter quarters quickly.

Despite his behavior, Prince de Soubise was not incompetent. As he had predicted, they arrived near Naumburg on October 23, a week after their meeting, and the next day they were in Weißenfels.

"Here we are in Weissenfels," said Prince de Soubise with some relief, mispronouncing the name of the town. "Let our men rest; we will certainly stay in this town for some time before marching on Leipzig."

"At your orders!" replied a few officers, their uniforms still well-kept despite the exhausting journey.

They had been lucky, as it had hardly rained during this period. In the group they formed, only those on horseback and the formidable French grenadiers seemed in decent condition. The rest of the troops, on the other hand, were in a sorry state. It was too generous to call them troops; it would be more accurate to describe them as a herd in uniform.

The prince vigorously brushed his uniform as if trying to clean it and removed his black leather gloves. He was quickly informed that the Imperial General Hildburghausen was in town but did not intend to stay. He decided to join him and at least exchange a few words. Broglie followed him, and together they presented themselves at Weißenfels Castle.

The castle was located to the west of the small town, marked by centuries of existence, perched on a hill that made it appear more imposing than it actually was. The structure was fairly simple but not without charm. Upon closer inspection, one could easily notice ancient elements, some dating back to the 15th century.

Shaped like a U, access was through the central building. Opposite, on the other side of a small cobblestone square simply called "the castle square," or "Schloss-Platz" by the locals, was a one-story gallery somewhat similar to that of the Luxembourg Palace.

The three wings were pierced with medium-sized rectangular windows on three levels, except in the center of the main wing and the north wing, where two small towers stood. There, three additional levels were added. A very pretty clock indicated the time above the last windows of the central tower, topped by a carillon.

A rather young Imperial officer guided them upstairs and knocked on a door very similar to all the others.

KNOCK KNOCK

“Ja?” said a deep voice, almost aggressively, in a kind of German behind the door.

The officer gently opened the door and briefly spoke in the same language to the occupant. To the delicate ears of the two Frenchmen, these strange sounds resembled curses and maledictions. Although both had received a good education, learning this language was not automatic, even though the Holy Roman Empire was not a small power. It was generally preferred to teach the elites of the kingdom English, Latin, Italian, Spanish, and Ancient Greek. For other nations, the French language was almost mandatory, as it was considered a noble language and the language of diplomacy par excellence.

Finally, the duke and the prince were allowed into the room, which lay beyond a vast, empty banquet hall. The decor was very beautiful, even if one could sense that the best years of this place were long gone. There was even a musty smell, and the decorations had lost their luster.

What a pity, this place isn't bad. The moldings are pretty, and the ceiling is remarkable! This castle must have belonged to someone important.

“Ah,” said the general sent by the Emperor and the Imperial Diet, “Your Highness, Prince de Soubise, you’re finally here!”

The prince did not react to the reproachful tone of this tall, thin man. He wore very sober clothes, the opposite of those worn by the prince, and had a naturally austere face. The Duke of Broglie, meeting him for the first time, estimated that he must be in his sixties. His nose was long and thin; his eyes dark and narrow; his complexion pale and sickly; and his eyebrows thick but well-groomed.

He immediately found in this man a martial aura similar to that of Marshal d’Estrées or Richelieu.

“And you must be Monsieur le Duc de Broglie, correct?” the general asked in flawless French, though with a slight German accent.

“Indeed, Your Excellency. It is an honor to meet you. I have heard much about you. I have also studied the battles in which you participated. Your career is most impressive.”

“You flatter me, sir,” replied the commander with undisguised pleasure. “When you reach my age, I have no doubt your experience will be as rich as mine.”

The Imperial general ignored the prince’s annoyed expression and invited the two French officers to sit across from him. He fetched a fine bottle of wine and poured the wonderful purple, aromatic liquid into glasses of rare elegance. They were his own glasses and his own wine.

As soon as the Duke of Broglie brought it to his lips, a deep flavor exploded in his mouth like fireworks and slid down his throat with great ease, warming him.

What a delicious wine! It must be French! Burgundy, most certainly!

“Gentlemen, I do not intend to linger in this town, so I will be direct. We can take Leipzig with our current forces. His Majesty the King of Prussia’s troops are retreating further and further. We are not entirely sure of the number of soldiers still in the city, but there is no doubt it will not be enough to stop us.”

“Do we know who commands the garrison?” the prince asked seriously.

“Yes. It is the old Marshal Keith.”

“That old bear? That’s troublesome,” Soubise grumbled, running his fingers over his freshly shaved chin. “He is very competent and very stubborn, from what I’ve heard.”

“A Scotsman,” confirmed Hildburghausen as if that explained the temperament. “I don’t think he’ll give up the city as long as he has a single soldier and a bit of powder left.”

The three men fell into a deep silence.

Like many European officers, Marshal Keith had spent most of his life on the battlefield. Born in Scotland, he fought on the Jacobite side (supporters of the Stuart dynasty) in 1715, then served under the banner of the King of France in 1719 before moving under the King of Spain’s command. He then served the Tsars of Russia in 1728, fighting the Ottomans and then the Swedes in two wars! To escape court intrigues, he once again changed masters and came under the banner of Frederick II of Prussia.

If the Count of Saint-Germain was a mercenary, then Keith was their king!

“He is certainly competent, but there are limits to what a man can do. Leipzig cannot be defended, and he surely knows that. He has but few options: either surrender the city or die defending it.”

“Well said, Monsieur de Broglie!” General Hildburghausen replied with satisfaction. “That’s why we must gather our forces and show him our determination to take the city. I’m leaving for Pegau shortly.”

“Pegau?” both French officers said in unison.

“A small town, or rather a village, southwest of Leipzig (19 km away). Monsieur le Comte de Saint-Germain was there yesterday, but he should have already moved on. I ordered him to advance to Markkleeberg, a bit further north (13 km from Pegau and 6 km from Leipzig).”

“And your army, Your Excellency?” asked the Duke of Broglie, mentally placing each town.

“The main body of the Reichsarmee should arrive in Naumburg soon. I’ve ordered it to march on Markkleeberg at dawn tomorrow. Thus, Marshal Keith will have no choice but to realize he stands no chance.”

The general downed his glass of wine in one gulp, a gesture that was quite unrefined, before pouring himself another.

"And King Frederick?" Broglie asked as he savored his glass, which he also finished rather quickly.

"He's still in Grochwitz," the Prince de Soubise quickly interjected, getting ahead of the Imperial officer who was about to respond. "He’s been there since the 21st, according to our reports."

"He hasn't moved?" Lieutenant General Broglie said in surprise, setting his empty glass on the table in front of him. "Isn't he worried about his capital?"

"I suppose he believes he can't change the situation. Who knows?" the prince replied with a shrug. "It’s good for us, and that's all that matters."

"He has sent several of his officers in that direction. But it’s true, there’s nothing he can do to prevent the Austrians from attacking Berlin. Still, I’m wary. He’s usually a decisive man. If Keith is trapped in Leipzig, he might gather his forces and attack us while we’re not prepared to defend ourselves."

A few hours later, the general set off for Pegau. The siege of Leipzig seemed inevitable.