Eight o'clock in the morning, May 26th, 1801. At Romney Marsh.
Napoleon stepped out of the tent, his movements weary. He rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the remnants of sleep that clung to him.
The ground beneath his boots was damp with dew, the air crisp and filled with the scent of salty air. The sky overhead was overcast, casting a gray pallor over the landscape. Despite the early hours, the camp was a hive of activity. Soldiers moved with purpose, officers barked orders, and the sounds of horses and wagons punctuated the morning stillness.
He straightened his coat and walked through the camp, an effective way to get one's awake. Even though he could have not slept if he chose to, he found it prudent that he had to take it as today was an important day for the French Army.
"Good morning, Your Excellency, I was about to visit your tent and wake you up," Berthier said as he approached Napoleon.
