Reincarnated as Napoleon



It was eleven thirty in the evening on May 27th, 1801, and the setting was London's South Bank.

Inside his tent, Napoleon sat down to write a personal letter to his wife, Ciela. The purpose was to keep her informed about the ongoing situation in Great Britain. He tried to reassure her by predicting that the war wouldn't drag on for more than a month, as he believed that the United Kingdom was falling into internal chaos. Napoleon also took a moment to inform her that he remained uninjured since the beginning of the campaign and expressed how much he missed her and their children.

Finishing the letter, he neatly folded it and placed it inside an envelope. He would have it delivered first thing tomorrow morning to France.

After that, he lay down on his cot, the sounds outside faintly reaching his ears, mostly from the soldiers that were on watch and patrol. He told his generals to wake him up should there be an emergency, which Napoleon hoped there would be none. 

However, just as he was about to close his eyes, he heard footsteps approaching his tent. 

Did he jinx it? Maybe they are just passing by. 

"Your Excellency!"

Napoleon ran a hand over his face and sighed. 

"What is it, Berthier?" Napoleon inquired. 

"We have received a letter from the British Mayor. We need you at the command center tent," Berthier explained urgently.

Napoleon's tiredness evaporated instantly as he straightened up. A letter from the British Mayor was an unexpected development. It could be a sign of a significant shift in the situation. Without further delay, he rose from his cot, swiftly fastened his jacket and tricorn hat, and then exited the tent. 

Arriving at the command center tent, Napoleon saw all of his Corps Generals seated around the desk. 

"What was the letter all about?" Napoleon asked as he took the head of the seat. 

"We haven't opened it yet, Your Excellency," Davout said. "We were waiting for you."

"Give me the letter," Napoleon extended his hand, and Davout promptly handed him the unopened letter from the British Mayor. With a sense of anticipation, he broke the seal and began to read. 

"It appears," Napoleon began, "that the British Mayor is offering a ceasefire proposal. They claim they are willing to negotiate terms of surrender to end hostilities between our forces and theirs."

Murmurs of surprise and skepticism rippled through the room.

"It could be a trap, Your Excellency," Bernadotte warned. "There's no way the British are going to seek an armistice when they openly defied us by blowing up their bridges." 

"I agree with General Bernadotte, Your Excellency," Murat concurred. "The British might be using this for another underhanded tactic of theirs…" 

"Your skepticism is warranted, gentlemen," Napoleon acknowledged, his gaze shifting between Murat and Bernadotte. "But either they are genuine of surrendering or continuing the struggle is a fact that we would determine tomorrow. What is the update from our Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Corps?" 

"There are still three hours away from Windsor, Your Excellency," Berthier answered. "They'll arrive in London at ten o'clock in the morning." 

"And how is the situation of the pontoon bridge?" Napoleon inquired again.

"It would take another seven hours, Your Excellency," Bessierres said.

"Very well, the plan would remain the same. We are going to London tomorrow. The British might have prepared something for our arrival so I want you to inform your men to be cautious. That's all, you are dismissed." 

The Generals saluted and filed out, except for Bernadotte, of the command center tent. 

"Are you still sure that you can lead Bernadotte in your state?" Napoleon asked as his gaze flickered to Bernadotte. 

"A broken leg won't stop me from fulfilling my duties, Your Excellency," Bernadotte replied with determination. 

"I'm just making sure," Napoleon chuckled softly. 

***

Ten o'clock in the morning. The French Army on the South Bank was preparing to cross the sixteen pontoon bridges constructed along the River Thames. 

Napoleon observed the seemingly quiet streets of London through his spyglass, his trained eyes scanning the cityscape for any signs of movement. The lack of activity in the city struck him as peculiar. Did they truly surrender, or were the British planning a tactical surprise?

He knew that London was the ideal ground for urban warfare. Its narrow streets and closely packed buildings could provide ample cover and vantage points for the defenders. Napoleon was not one to underestimate his adversaries, especially in a city as historically resilient as London.

With a deep breath, he lowered his spyglass and turned to his officers gathered around him. 

"We are entering the capital city of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. This is it, gentlemen, victory is now within our reach. Berthier, I want to inform the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Corps to advance." 

"Understood, Your Excellency," Berthier acknowledged the order with a bow. 

Napoleon turned his attention in front of him and pulled his saber out from its scabbard, the polished blade glinting in the morning sunlight. He raised it high, and the officers and soldiers around him snapped to attention.

"Soldiers of France," Napoleon called. "Let us cross this bridge and secure victory for our Republic!" 

The French soldiers let out a thunderous cheer in response and began their march into London. 

The Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Corps were also on the move, marching from the west. 

The two forces never met resistance when they entered London. It was quiet, and deserted, and only the drumming of the boots echoed through the streets.

As they moved deeper into London, Napoleon's officers reported that key points in the city had been secured without incident. It was as though the city had been abandoned by its defenders. The absence of resistance continued to puzzle him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.

But, when Napoleon arrived at the City Hall, he saw a figure in aristocratic clothing standing in front of it. 

"Who among you is the First Consul of the Republic of France?" asked the man.

Napoleon's gaze scanned the buildings that lined the streets to check whether there were snipers or ambushes waiting to strike.

Napoleon's officers exchanged uncertain glances, and it was General Davout who stepped forward, replying to the man. 

"I am General Louis-Nicolas Davout, representing the First Consul, Napoleon Bonaparte. Who are you?"

"I'm Lord Eamer, Mayor of London. I am the one who wrote the letter yesterday to your forces. We ask for mercy as the people of London have already decided its fate." 

"Are you sure? If this is a trick, we will burn London to the ground," Davout threatened. 

"We swear, General. London has surrendered to your forces. If you want, we can call the army defending the city to come out and lay their arms to the ground?" Eamer suggested.

Davout turned to Napoleon, who nodded subtly. 

"Fine, but tell them to do it slowly, if they move in a way we perceive as a threat, we will open fire."

As if on cue, the French infantry aimed their rifle at Lord Eamer.

The tension in the square was palpable as Lord Eamer raised his hand, signaling to the defenders still hidden within the buildings. Slowly, hesitantly, British soldiers began to emerge, their weapons held high above their heads, and they made their way to the square.

Napoleon and his officers watched closely, ready to respond at the slightest hint of treachery.

As the British soldiers gathered in the square, their arms were laid on the ground as a sign of surrender. Napoleon's officers quickly moved to secure the weapons, ensuring that the disarmed soldiers posed no threat.

Napoleon urged his horse to move forward. "Where are their commanding officers?" 

"They are inside the City Hall," Eamer replied. "May I ask who you are, sir?" 

"I'm Napoleon, let's talk inside."