Swiss northeast.
Glarus.
Blücher muttered curses for nearly half an hour. At last, seemingly worn out from cursing, he grabbed the bottle from the wooden table and gulped down a mouthful of wine.
It was weak, almost devoid of any taste of alcohol.
He glared at the attendant beside him, about to start cursing again, but then suddenly slumped back into his seat. "There's no more alcohol, is there? How much food do we have left?"
The legion's staff officer hurriedly replied, "If distributed at two-thirds rations, it will last another four days, General."
Blücher waved a hand. "Give the soldiers their normal rations. Send someone to contact Massena. We can surren—"
Before he could finish, two Hussar officers came galloping over and shouted excitedly, "General, we found a Swiss convoy transporting an estimated twenty thousand bushels of wheat. It is currently on the north side of Woodvine Valley."
Blücher sprang to his feet. "How many troops are guarding it?"
"Only a little over a thousand soldiers in the vicinity, General."
"So few?" Blücher frowned. "It must be a French trap."
He had established layer upon layer of defenses using the mountains around Glarus. The French Army had never dared launch a direct assault, and this might well be an attempt to lure him out.
The Cavalry Captain said, "General, it is a quarter of a mile from the enemy's defensive line. We believe the enemy was simply transporting it too slowly and did not want to let the Swiss people enter their camp."
Blücher hesitated for only a few seconds before turning to wave at the messenger. "Have Major Kleist intercept that convoy. Tauentzien Corps will provide cover."
"Yes, General!"
There was a short gentle slope between Woodvine Valley and Glarus. If they charged down from there without warning,