The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 222

Chapter 222: Victory Through Inferior Numbers

Semiz, the Albanian commander, watched as the French infantry line began to advance. In contrast, his own disorganized infantry formations were chaotic, leaving him pale with despair.

Where were the cavalry? He raised his spyglass in irritation and looked toward the northern flank of the battlefield. There, he saw several hundred Albanian cavalry charging at the thinly stretched French infantry.

The French soldiers, standing like immovable rocks, unleashed a synchronized volley. The front row of two or three dozen Albanian horsemen tumbled to the ground, raising clouds of dust.

Then came the faint sound of a cannon. Semiz couldn’t locate the source, but he saw what appeared to be a severed limb soar into the air amidst a spray of blood.

The Albanian cavalry, lacking formation, were stretched out haphazardly over a distance of 200 meters. Those further from the French line hesitated at the sound of cannon fire and the screams of their comrades, pulling their horses aside in retreat.

Semiz noted that a few dead horses, carried forward by their momentum, crashed into the French defensive line, creating some confusion. A handful of riders, unable to control their mounts, were also forced into the French ranks, only to be promptly bayoneted by the infantry.

However, the French quickly reformed their line, leaving no opportunity for further breakthroughs.

Semiz muttered curses under his breath: "Cowardly Albanians! If they had advanced just fifty more paces, the French would’ve had to pull back to support their right flank!"

But morale is a fragile thing. Once shattered, it is almost impossible to restore without withdrawing from the battlefield for reorganization.

Meanwhile, the French cavalry, now fully assembled, surged forward from the northern slope with a deafening roar.

Seeing this, the Albanian cavalry fled even faster. The French four-pound cannon switched to solid shot, relentlessly pounding their retreating ranks and filling the air with bloody mist.

...

At the front of the battlefield, the French Imperial Guard's infantry line continued its steady advance. Nearly a kilometer long, the formation maintained a near-perfect straight line, exuding an imposing and unstoppable aura.

On the Albanian left flank, relentless bombardment by French artillery had reduced the ground to a bloody mess of torn bodies, creating a massive gap in their line.

A skirmish company from the Imperial Guard stepped forward from the formation. Following their manual, they inspected their weapons before three drummers signaled the advance. They marched forward with confidence.

More than a hundred soldiers followed in a loose formation, moving steadily forward.

On the right flank, Lefebvre ordered his men to fire two volleys at the fleeing enemy cavalry. Realizing they were too far to pursue effectively, he turned to see the central line had launched a full-scale assault.

Immediately, Lefebvre reorganized his unit, sought permission from his battalion commander, and led his skirmishers into the central engagement.

The Albanian soldiers, terrified by the advancing French, abandoned all attempts to regroup. Some fired wildly at the approaching enemy.

However, with the accuracy of flintlock muskets, hitting anything without concentrated volleys was a matter of blind luck.

The French Imperial Guard's infantry stopped within seventy paces of the enemy at the command of their officers. They quickly reformed their ranks.

Then came the crisp orders of the company captains:
"Ready!"
"Aim!"
"Fire!"

The infantry line erupted in synchronized gunfire, sending nearly a thousand bullets into the ranks of the Albanian mercenaries.

"Reload! Second rank, forward three paces!"
"Ready!"
"Aim!"

The long infantry line of the Imperial Guard moved like a well-oiled machine. One rank stepped forward, fired, and reloaded while the rank behind advanced and repeated the process.

Under this intense barrage, the French line closed to within fifty paces of the mercenaries. The devastating firepower of the fire cap guns became fully apparent—each volley claimed the lives of nearly a hundred Albanian mercenaries.

The massive casualties caused a collapse in the Albanian front. Soldiers fled in disarray, their broken line riddled with gaps. The most stubborn units of a hundred men or so continued to resist, but most were retreating under the relentless gunfire. Some had fled to the rear, clashing with their own officers trying to maintain order.

The once-organized formations now lay scattered across the Atlas foothills like torn rags.

...

On the Albanian left flank, where the gap had formed, a French skirmish company extended across forty meters and cautiously advanced. They moved low to the ground, stopping occasionally to fire potshots.

When they advanced another thirty or forty paces, a loud and boisterous laugh came from behind them:
"Anatole, you're being too methodical! There’s hardly anyone left ahead of us—we should rush forward and break through!"

Captain Anatole turned to see Lefebvre's skirmishers forming five narrow columns. They swiftly passed his men, heading straight for the Albanian position.

"You... but we're skirmishers..." Anatole started.

Lefebvre called back as he ran, "The only rule for skirmishers is to be flexible. Farewell!"

Anatole watched helplessly as Lefebvre's men advanced rapidly, cutting through the enemy's left flank. Standing tall, he shouted to his own men: "Form columns! Quick assault!"

Lefebvre’s company advanced to within mere steps of the Albanian mercenaries before deploying into a line. A group of ten or so fierce mercenaries charged them with spears, but Lefebvre’s subaltern led a platoon to fire on them, taking down several. The rest were quickly dispatched with bayonets.

Two minutes later, Lefebvre’s company formed a somewhat irregular firing line.
"Aim!"
"Fire!"

At Lefebvre's command, thirty muskets discharged in unison. Seven or eight mercenaries at close range collapsed, struck as if by invisible hammers. The rest turned and fled in panic.

Lefebvre pressed his men deeper into the Albanian formation, advancing dozens of meters. Then, he ordered a turn to the south—toward the left flank of the Albanian army—and began compressing the enemy while maintaining gunfire.

Anatole's company soon joined them, forming a line on their rear flank and adding pressure to the assault.

...

The already crumbling Albanian center faced disaster. The mercenary force of nearly ten thousand was overwhelmed by three thousand French Imperial Guard troops, retreating further southwest with every moment.

The French triumph was not only a matter of superior tactics but also owed to their soldiers' training and superior weaponry.

Under Berthier’s orders, French artillery turned their fire toward the center of the Albanian line. Nearly ten thousand mercenaries sprawled across the barren plain presented an easy target, with each cannonball finding its mark.

Before long, Semiz saw his left flank completely overrun. The French had executed a pincer movement, herding his scattered forces toward the artillery’s kill zone.

Face pale, he instructed his adjutant: "Send Fates' reserves to the front. Order a full retreat!"

The Fates unit, the Albanian army’s main reserve force of 1,200 men, had been stationed at the rear of the battlefield. Unlike the rest of the army, they were in formation and began to move forward.

But Berthier had no intention of letting them retreat unscathed.

Through his spyglass, he observed the chaos among the enemy ranks and instructed his courier:
"Recall the cavalry. Prepare to pursue the rout.

"Order the infantry to commence a bayonet charge."

"Yes, sir!"

Joseph observed the two companies cutting into the enemy's left flank through his spyglass, nodding in approval. "Who commands the unit on the northern side?"

Berthier replied, "Your Highness, the smoke is too thick to see their banner clearly."

Joseph continued analyzing the battlefield and offered his perspective. "It looks like the enemy intends to retreat. Perhaps those two companies could advance deeper and cut off their escape route."

Berthier hesitated; after all, those were only two companies—barely 200 men.

"Your Highness, if they attempt to flank, they might encounter the enemy reserves. Their numbers are too few."

Joseph nodded. "I was merely suggesting it. Don't let my thoughts interfere with your judgment."

...

On the central battlefield, the infantry of the Imperial Guard unleashed a final volley from thirty paces away. Then, they fixed bayonets to their muskets.

As the drumbeat quickened to a fever pitch, frontline officers raised their sabers toward the enemy and shouted:
"Charge! For His Majesty the King!"
"For His Highness, the Crown Prince!"
"Charge!"

The white-uniformed infantry surged forward like a tidal wave, crashing into the disorganized ranks of the Albanian mercenaries. The latter, already in disarray, lacked the courage—or the cohesion—to face such an onslaught.

The frontmost mercenaries fell instantly to bayonets, their cries of agony filling the air. Those already retreating abandoned all pretense of orderly withdrawal and broke into a panicked run.

...

On Lefebvre's front, his company had been advancing steadily, firing as they went. Suddenly, he noticed the enemy abandoning resistance and fleeing westward.

He paused briefly and called out to a nearby captain. "Anatole, it looks like the enemy is running!"

"Then let’s chase them!" Anatole replied.

Lefebvre, gazing westward, shook his head. "We are the furthest into the enemy's lines. At this point, we should focus on cutting off their retreat."

"What?" Anatole asked in surprise.

"Want to join me?" Lefebvre grinned, then turned to his courier. "Order the company to regroup into columns immediately. Avoid engaging the enemy; we march west as quickly as possible!"

...

On the Albanian side, Fates, leading the army's main reserves, formed a neat line. They allowed a few retreating "oks"—Ottoman battalions—to pass through, only to see the white-uniformed Imperial Guard charging at them with bayonets.

"Aim! Fire!" Fates shouted hastily, disregarding the friendly troops still in the line of fire.

The thunder of muskets filled the air, and thick smoke billowed upward. Dozens of Albanian mercenaries and Imperial Guard soldiers fell where they stood.

The Imperial Guard's charge briefly faltered.

A battalion commander on the front lines frowned as he noticed the Albanians organizing into a proper defense. He was about to regroup his men to engage in a firefight when a voice from the southern flank shouted:
"Don’t falter! They can only fire two shots at most! For the Crown Prince, follow me!"

Standing in his stirrups, the commander saw through the smoke a company charging recklessly at the Albanian line like a herd of wild bulls.

"Davout?" He recognized the company banner and gripped his riding crop in frustration. "That reckless fool! If the enemy—"

Before he could finish his thought, cries erupted from the right flank:
"Show them what the cadets are made of! Forward, all of you!"

Turning, he saw four or five companies following Davout’s lead, rushing toward the enemy in a bayonet charge.

He frantically waved to his courier. "Order suppressive fire to cover them!"

...

The Albanian mercenaries, veterans of the Ottoman Empire’s elite units, gritted their teeth and reloaded despite the overwhelming pressure of the Imperial Guard.

Fates bellowed orders: "Fire! Quickly, fire!"

Another volley of musket fire erupted, dense flashes of light streaking through the battlefield.

Davout, running at the forefront, heard a sharp "zing" by his ear. Turning instinctively, he saw his sergeant’s face torn in half by a musket ball. The man spun in place before collapsing into a patch of grass.

The mercenaries’ volley had claimed over thirty lives. Though not significant compared to the thousands in the Imperial Guard, the psychological impact on the advancing soldiers was immense.

With bloodshot eyes, Davout screamed at the top of his lungs: "They don’t have time to reload—forward! Avenge our comrades!"

Though the enemy was still fifty paces away—enough distance to potentially reload for another volley—Davout knew that retreating now would only increase casualties.

It was all or nothing.

Hearing his words, soldiers who had hesitated moments before surged forward with renewed determination. Nearby cadets, enraged by their fallen comrades, charged even harder.

The Albanian reserves scrambled to reload. But as the white uniforms closed to within twenty paces, their nerves shattered completely.

Some raised their bayonets in a desperate attempt to defend themselves. Others turned to summon spearmen—the Ottomans still retained this traditional melee force. But most simply backed away in fear.

Fates personally executed two fleeing soldiers but found himself powerless to stop the tide of panic.

Before Davout’s bayonets reached the enemy, the Albanian rear line had already abandoned their weapons and fled in terror.

"Don’t let them escape!" The young Davout waved his men forward while drawing his pistol, his eyes fixed on Fates atop his horse. He fired at the Albanian commander.

...

Meanwhile, the Imperial Guard cavalry, having dispersed the Albanian horsemen, paused briefly to rest their mounts before reorganizing to pursue the routed enemy.

In any pursuit, cavalry are the decisive force.

With hundreds of riders joining the chase, many Albanian mercenaries were overtaken. Kneeling on the ground, they surrendered en masse.

Among the largest groups of fleeing mercenaries—numbering roughly three "oks," or battalions—they managed to retreat nearly a mile, the sounds of their pursuers fading behind them.

Just as they began to relax, they spotted a thin white line atop a hill ahead.

It was Lefebvre and Anatole’s two companies, deployed in line formation, awaiting them.

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