March 23rd, 1797.

The French dragoons charged relentlessly toward the bridge, their eyes fixed on the prize—a vital passage that stood between them and their ultimate objective. As they thundered forward, a storm of lead hailed down upon them, unleashed by the Austrian forces entrenched at the bridgehead.

Leading the charge was a man of legendary reputation, Thomas-Alexander Dumas, known to his enemies as the Black Devil. His determination was unwavering as he spurred his steed forward, his aide-de-camp at his side. The crackle of musket fire filled the air, and chaos engulfed the bridge.

Suddenly, tragedy struck as a bullet found its mark, piercing the aide-de-camp's shoulder. The man stumbled, the pain etched across his face. In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, Dumas became the sole target of the Austrian snipers.

Bullets whizzed through the air, leaving trails of death and destruction in their wake. One struck Dumas with a flash, and he tumbled onto the cobblestones of the bridge, seemingly lifeless. The Austrians rejoiced, their cheers ringing out in triumphant exultation.

But the Black Devil was not so easily vanquished. Summoning every ounce of his strength, Dumas rose from the dirt, defiance burning in his eyes. With a weary arm, he grasped a musket and returned fire with deadly accuracy. The Austrians, momentarily stunned by his resilience, surged forward with renewed determination.

Dumas, his wounds throbbing with pain, stood his ground, becoming an immovable wall on the bridge. His saber became an extension of his will, slashing through the enemy ranks with masterful ferocity. Every swing of his blade cleaved through flesh and bone, sending Austrians tumbling into the river below.

Though his head and thigh were slashed by enemy blades, Dumas refused to yield. The battle became a symphony of violence, each clash of steel echoing with the determination of a warrior who refused to be broken. The Austrians, witnessing the relentless fury of the Black Devil, realized their perilous situation and panic began to infect their ranks.

Just as it seemed that Dumas would be overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers, French reinforcements surged forward. The Austrians caught between the anvil of Dumas and the hammer of the oncoming French cavalry, saw their only path to survival in retreat.

Breathing heavily, his body battered and bloodied, Dumas was approached by a concerned French cavalryman. Blood trickled down his face and sides, a testament to the wounds he had endured. The cavalryman urged him to seek immediate medical attention, but Dumas refused, his eyes blazing with determination.

"Let me borrow your horse," Dumas demanded.

The cavalryman hesitated, his fear palpable, but he knew better than to deny the man who defeated a lot of Austrians on his own. With trembling hands, he dismounted and handed over the reins. Dumas wasted no time, mounting the fresh steed with a surge of energy.In a thunderous charge, Dumas spurred his borrowed horse forward, his battle cry reverberating through the air. The fleeing Austrians found themselves pursued by a relentless force, their panic only fueling Dumas's determination. Into the dense woods they fled, but they could not escape the grasp of the Black Devil and his inspired comrades.

For hours, the forest became a theater of capture, as Dumas and his fellow soldiers hunted down the retreating Austrians. In their wake, they left a trail of defeated foes—1,500 prisoners of war.

After the grueling hours, they retreated back to their headquarters in Udine, which is located in northeastern Italy.

As the night descended, blanketing the city of Udine in a shroud of darkness, the weary soldiers made their way back to their headquarters. The flickering glow of oil lamps illuminated the narrow streets, casting dancing shadows on the ancient walls.

Dumas, wincing in pain, guided his horse through the winding streets of Udine. Every jolt of the horse sent a sharp pang through his wounded body, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on. His mind was focused on one thing—reporting to his commander.

He arrived at the headquarters in Udine, where the Generals of the Army of Italy were gathered. Dismounting from his horse, his legs trembling from exhaustion, he made his way through the imposing doors.

He navigated the corridors, his worn boots echoing against the stone floor. Finally, he reached a set of grand doors guarded by two stern-faced soldiers. With a nod of recognition, they allowed him passage into the commander's room.

The room was dimly lit, a single candle casting flickering shadows on the maps and documents strewn across the table, standing next to it was General Berthier. Sitting behind the desk was Napoleon Bonaparte, wearing a stern expression with a gaze fixed on him.

Dumas approached, his steps faltering slightly from exhaustion, but his eyes held an unwavering determination. He saluted his commander.

"You called for me sir?"

"I did," Napoleon confirmed, his piercing gaze scanning Thomas-Alexander Dumas from head to toe. The name resonated in his mind, evoking the image of a remarkable man—the first black General of the French Republic, a warrior who had single-handedly faced an entire Austrian squadron and emerged unscathed. Yet, the pages of history bore the stains of attempts to diminish Dumas's achievements, to whitewash his legacy, and allow others to claim credit. Napoleon, too, acknowledged his own complicity in this narrative, but he was not the Napoleon Bonaparte who had forsaken this gifted General, who let him to wither away.

Napoleon was deeply moved by Dumas's story—a man of unwavering loyalty to his country, yet betrayed by it. The realization struck him with profound regret, recognizing the tragedy of wasted potential. He vowed to himself that he would not repeat the same mistake that Napoleon Bonaparte had made. This talented man, Thomas-Alexander Dumas, would not be forsaken by him.

"You are badly injured. You sure you don't want to get medical attention first before we proceed?"

"No sir…" Dumas replied, his breathing ragged. "I'm fine, just make it quick."

"You watch the words coming out of your mouth, negro." Berthier said sharply.

Napoleon slammed his hand on the table, interrupting Berthier and shooting him a disapproving glare.

"That's enough, Berthier!" he thundered. "I will not tolerate such disrespect in my presence, and when did I give you permission to speak?"

"I apologize, General Bonaparte," Berthier stammered, his face turning pale.

"So, Monsieur Thomas-Alexander Dumas," Napoleon began. "I have heard of your heroic exploits earlier, and I must say, I am deeply impressed. It is with great honor and recognition of your exceptional valor that I hereby promote you to the rank of General of Division."

Dumas stood tall as the weight of Napoleon's words washed over him.

"I accept this promotion with gratitude and unwavering dedication, General Bonaparte," Dumas replied, his voice steady despite the fatigue that threatened to engulf him. "I am ready to fulfill my duty and fight alongside you to remove the Austrians from Italy."

Napoleon nodded approvingly. "You are dismissed, General Dumas, see to it that your wounds are properly attended to. We have much work ahead of us, and I expect you to be in top condition when we face the Austrians again."

With a final salute, Dumas turned on his heels and left the commander's room.

As Dumas left the room, Murat entered the room, carrying an envelope.

"General Bonaparte, there is a letter for you."

"Who is it from?" Napoleon asked.

"It was from Monsieur Antoine Lavoisier," Murat replied as he handed him the envelope.

Napoleon grabbed the envelope and tore it open, quickly scanning the contents. His eyes widened in shock, and a flicker of distress crossed his face. The room fell silent as the weight of the news settled upon him, and the once confident visage of Napoleon transformed into a mask of grim determination, evident to Berthier and Murat.

"What is it, General?" Murat asked, his tone careful.

"My wife…I need to get back to Paris."