When thousands of Russian soldiers slowly emerged over the horizon like dark clouds, Prévédiche had not expected such overwhelming fear to rise in his heart.
But the pride of being a nobleman made him force his back straight. He muttered, "Damn it, is your Courage really less than that of those farmers and peddlers?"
He had heard that the Sixth Army Corps had suffered more than five thousand dead in less than half a month, yet they still clung stubbornly to this place.
Accompanied by a shriek, a cannonball smashed into the ground over thirty meters ahead of him, then bounced and rolled toward him.
The Second Lieutenant's command came from beside him: "Ready—"
Prévédiche squeezed his eyes shut and raised the August 1798 Rifled Gun in his hands.
At a French Army artillery position a kilometer behind and to his flank, Gaizika reached with his right hand for a basket containing five shells. With the slightest exertion, he felt searing pain from his left arm, which hung from a sling across his chest.
He turned to glance at the flag to the south. It was said that the Crown Prince had also come to the front lines. Gritting his teeth, he lifted the shells and jogged toward the Twelve-Pound Cannon not far away.
Vincent, his face blackened by gunpowder residue, loudly called out a string of firing parameters before beginning to adjust the elevation of the cannon before him.
One-third of this Artillery Company's men had been transferred to the Horse Artillery—the latter had been ambushed by Cossack Cavalry five days ago and suffered considerable losses—so Vincent had no choice but to fill in as an artilleryman himself.
Gaizika set the shells beside him. From the Infantry Line not far away came the voice of an Honor Representative encouraging