Journal of Napoleon Bonaparte

Europe, 1805–1807

March 17, 1805 – Paris

The Republic is buried. France is now an Empire — and Europe, uneasy.

Austria sharpens its bayonets. Russia rattles its sabers. England schemes as ever, hidden behind her seas. They do not understand: this Empire was not born of ambition alone, but of necessity. France cannot return to chaos. I am the wall between order and the abyss.

They think me a tyrant. But tyrants cling to power. I project it.

October 20, 1805 – Ulm

The Austrian army surrendered today. Entire regiments laid down arms, bewildered, broken without a proper battle.

I moved faster than they believed possible — 200,000 men over rivers, through mud, across mountains. I struck not with brute force but with design.

Victory through geometry, not fury.

December 2, 1805 – Austerlitz

Today, I saw the world kneel.

The sun rose through the fog like a god summoned by intention. My army was outnumbered, surrounded by the might of Russia and Austria. But I had studied the ground like scripture. I let them believe I was weak. I lured them to the center — and then shattered them at the flanks.

Columns broke. Cossacks fled. Men drowned beneath the ice of frozen lakes, their cries sealed under winter.

Later, I stood on the battlefield — silent. I had never felt so alive, or so alone. The cost of genius is that no one can follow you there.

They call it the Battle of the Three Emperors.

Only one remained standing.

October 14, 1806 – Jena and Auerstädt

Prussia challenged me. It fell in a single day.

Two battles, two victories. The Prussian army — once the pride of Europe — scattered like crows before cannon.

Berlin lies open. I will walk its boulevards not as a guest, but as master. I will dictate terms in palaces once built to resist me.

They call it domination. I call it correction.

June 14, 1807 – Friedland

Russia now bleeds.

At Friedland, I struck like lightning across a river swollen with death. The Russians fought savagely, but their lines bent beneath my artillery, their courage twisted into retreat. The field ran red with history.

Alexander now speaks of peace. He sees what the others failed to understand: opposing me is not war. It is suicide in slow motion.

July 7, 1807 – Tilsit

I met the Tsar on a raft upon the Neman River.

Two emperors, face to face, speaking as men, not monarchs. He is young, handsome, uncertain. I could see admiration flicker behind his eyes — and envy.

We carved Europe into shapes more suited to our needs. Kingdoms rose and fell with the stroke of my pen. Poland reborn. Prussia humbled. France, at its widest reach.

The map bends under my will. But in the quiet moments, I wonder: can one man truly hold a continent?

Previous chapter

Next chapter