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Let's try to figure this out. And for this,

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we're going to take you back in time to a crucial

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moment in Napoleon's life. The

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year is 1815. It's

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the 7th of March, just after six in the morning.

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We're in the Alps, in the southeast of France. In

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the morning sun, no cap peak

2:21

loom

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over a column of men and horses, as

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it moves along a narrow mountain path. Hooves

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and boots, stamper,

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steady rhythm, punctuated with

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the clatter of kits and arms and parts.

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Napoleon's collar is turned up against the alpine

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shell. He breathes

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in the pine-centered air.

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There's nowhere he'd rather be. He's

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with his men. They're marching towards

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their besties. They're a few in number.

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Napoleon has commanded much greater

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forces, but they are he. He

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senses a change in pitch in the

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voices ahead. And the steady stamping

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of the men's feet is flowing, then stopping,

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as word

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travels back through the ranks, royalist.

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Some spits the word out with distaste.

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But there's fear, too. Napoleon can always

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sense it. He breathes out slowly,

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straightens his back, and pushes through his men

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to the front of the column.

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No one says a word. He

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can hear a stream, snow-heavy

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branches creaking, and his own boots

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crunching on the path, otherwise, silent.

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The royalist soldiers have formed a defensive position,

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some kneeling, some standing. Their muskets

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are raised, and they

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are pointing at him. He thinks

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he sees Thomas's smile or snarl.

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He throws back his head, stretches out his arms, and

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roars, if you want to kill your emperor,

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here I am. And wait for the

3:48

shot.

3:57

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3:59

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