The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 220

Chapter 220: The Crown Prince’s First Battle

Naftzai Mountain Range.

Semiz ordered the adjutant beside him, “General Kehler requests us to double the number of scouts and eliminate all nearby Tunisian rabble.”

“Yes, Commander!”

The adjutant had just departed when a messenger rode swiftly down the seemingly endless ranks of Albanian mercenaries, delivering a report to Semiz’s aide-de-camp.

The aide broke the seal, read it once, and bowed slightly toward Semiz. “Commander, the Bey of Tunis issued a statement a few days ago, opposing our intervention in Tunisian affairs. He is furious about our suppression campaign. Additionally, he mentioned requesting help from his French brothers to block our army.”

“Pay it no mind.” Semiz sneered dismissively. “Tunisian rabble becoming brothers with Europeans? They are a disgrace to the Islamic world!”

The aide stored the report and added, “Pasha, Tunisians have traded with Europeans for years. It’s no surprise that the French presence in their territory influences them.”

“I also heard that these Tunisian rabble have started calling themselves the ‘descendants of Rome.’ Truly laughable.”

“All the better. It will make killing them even more satisfying,” Semiz said, raising his whip. “Issue the order—accelerate the march! I want those rabble to regret their rebellious behavior!”

...

“Look! That’s His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince!”

Among a column of cadets wearing white uniforms, black tricorn hats, and carrying the latest model of Auguste fire cap guns, someone shouted while pointing to a figure in the distance.

At once, the orderly ranks descended into excitement. Soldiers gazed eagerly toward the figure, their voices rising in unison: “It really is His Highness! He’s here to fight alongside us!”

“I see him too! Long live His Royal Highness!”

“Long live the commander!”

“His Highness will lead us to victory!”

“Look, he’s walking, just like us!”

Only after officers rushed up and down the lines, barking orders, did the troops reestablish their formation and resume their march.

Joseph, hearing the cries, waved to the soldiers, eliciting another wave of thunderous cheers.

He turned to glance back at the column stretching up the hillside, his heart swelling with heroic resolve. This was his Imperial Guard Corps, and he would join them in battle for the first time.

Perhaps in the future, he would lead them across Europe, etching glorious chapters into history.

“Your Highness, you truly don’t need to fight alongside the army,” Berthier murmured beside Joseph, eyeing the fervent troops. “The enemy outnumbers us three to one this time—it’s far too dangerous.

“Your appearance has already boosted morale immensely. Even if you stayed in a safe location, the soldiers would still feel your presence.”

He glanced northward cautiously. “If you agree, we could head toward the coast right now. In less than three days, you could board the navy’s ships.”

“Hmm? Ships?” Joseph raised an eyebrow. “The nearest warships should be in the port of Bizerte. Why would they be here?”

Berthier lowered his gaze. “Lieutenant Colonel André and I believe you should not risk participating in combat. We contacted the allied fleet, and they dispatched ships to shadow us…”

Joseph smiled wryly and shook his head. “I know you mean well, Lieutenant Colonel Berthier, but that truly isn’t necessary.”

He gestured toward the advancing column in white uniforms. “This is my corps. I’ll be leading them into battle often in the future. This is merely the beginning.”

Joseph understood well that in an era where survival was determined by war, he must become a competent commander. Only a king skilled in warfare could bring prosperity and strength to his nation.

Although he lacked experience in commanding battles, he had to stay with the troops, showing them that their Crown Prince was not content to sit in the Palace of Versailles and enjoy luxury. Instead, he would fight and endure hardship alongside them. Only then would this army become his loyal guard, his foundation of power.

Moreover, while he was not yet proficient in warfare, he possessed numerous modern ideas and historical military examples to draw from, enabling him to offer valuable suggestions for strategy and tactics.

For example, his preemptive strike strategy this time would significantly reduce casualties and secure strategic initiative. He would determine the overall direction while leaving the details to military geniuses like Berthier, learning the art of war from their actions.

Berthier, after further persuasion attempts, finally gave up when the Crown Prince remained resolute.

As a last effort, he said, “Your Highness, at least return to the carriage.”

Joseph cast his eyes toward the unique terrain of the Atlas Mountains—gentle hills covered with pale yellow hard soil, dotted with sparse, low plants no taller than 20 centimeters. The landscape was stark, open, and desolate.

The army lacked luxurious, shock-absorbing "jewel-type" carriages. Traveling over this terrain in a carriage was akin to enduring torture.

Joseph had tried riding, but after just one day, his thighs had developed large blisters from the unfamiliar strain, forcing him to march on foot. Unexpectedly, this greatly boosted morale, proving to be an unintentional advantage.

As dusk fell, the drums of the Imperial Guard Corps shifted to a different rhythm before gradually ceasing alongside the bugles.

Company officers directed the soldiers to their designated rest areas—scouts had already surveyed the terrain ahead and marked suitable overnight spots.

After a simple dinner, the soldiers relaxed for half an hour with singing and drinking—wine being an essential ration, though not enough to cause intoxication—before laying out their blankets and sleeping under the open sky.

Spacing about half a meter apart, the soldiers resembled neat little squares, forming a unique "carpet" over the Atlas Mountains.

Inside the officers’ tent, Joseph sipped vegetable and beef soup while Berthier and others pored over maps, discussing battle plans.

“Since the day before yesterday, we’ve encountered more and more Algerian scouts. It seems their main force isn’t far from here,” said the cavalry regiment commander.

Berthier pointed to the western side of Naftzai. “We’ll reach this area tomorrow. Be prepared for a skirmish at any time.”

A nearby major chuckled. “The Algerians probably think we’re still in Tunis. They won’t expect us to be right under their noses.”

Berthier smiled and nodded. “His Highness’s strategy will undoubtedly catch them off guard. I can’t wait to see their faces when they encounter us.”

Indeed, Joseph’s plan was to use offense as defense. Leveraging the Imperial Guard Corps’ rapid mobility, they had marched 110 kilometers in three and a half days, advancing from Tunis to the Algerian-Tunisian border.

There, on a battlefield of his choosing, he intended to ambush the Algerian army during their march.

The Algerian force, which had departed a week earlier, had just reached east of Annaba, covering only 170 kilometers so far.

Berthier suddenly remembered something and turned to a nearby staff officer. “Where is the Moulin Corps?”

“Here.” The staff officer pointed to a location on the map west of Bizerte. “They’re about a day’s march away from us.”

Berthier frowned slightly and looked toward Joseph. “The Algerian forces are very close to us now and could discover us at any moment. It’s unlikely that Lieutenant Colonel André’s infantry will make it in time for the first battle.”

The Moulin Corps, though an excellent representation of the traditional French army, lagged significantly behind the Imperial Guard Corps in terms of marching speed. Only about 400 cavalry from the Moulin Corps managed to keep pace with the Guard, while the infantry trailed far behind.

Joseph made no specific comment. As a novice officer, he knew his authority in battle was limited.

“This is your prerogative, Commander,” Joseph said respectfully.

Though Berthier might not rival "top-tier tacticians" like Lannes, Soult, or Masséna in command skill, he was solidly in the middle tier of Napoleon’s marshals. Handling the Algerian Guard should be well within his capabilities.

“Thank you for your trust, Your Highness,” Berthier replied with a slight bow. He then turned his gaze to the map. “The terrain slopes uphill to the northwest of Naftzai. I believe it would be advantageous to engage the enemy here.”

Joseph studied the contour lines on the map. The Tunisian Mountains lay south of Annaba, meaning the route from Algiers to Tunis generally allowed for a downhill advantage. However, the section near Naftzai leading toward Bizerte featured a series of intermittent hills, creating a slightly lower terrain favorable for their strategy.

Lieutenant Le Drian of the cadet corps nodded in agreement. “The terrain here is indeed advantageous. However, our scouts haven’t yet pinpointed the location of the Algerian main force…”

Before he could finish, the rapid sound of hoofbeats broke the silence. A reconnaissance cavalryman entered the tent hastily and announced loudly, “Your Highness, Lieutenant Colonel, we’ve spotted a large enemy force, likely over 10,000 in number. Based on their attire and weapons, they appear to be Albanian mercenaries.”

“Only about 10,000?” Berthier asked with a frown.

“We’re not certain, Lieutenant Colonel, but the estimate shouldn’t be far off.”

Unbeknownst to them, this discrepancy was due to the Albanians’ eagerness to pillage Tunis. Their relatively faster pace had caused them to leave the Algerian Guard several kilometers behind.

Semiz, confident in his position deep within Algerian territory, had allowed them to proceed unchecked.

Berthier questioned the scout for specific details about the enemy’s location, then quickly measured distances on the map. He turned to the senior officers in the tent. “They’re only about 20 kilometers away. By tomorrow noon at the latest, we’ll likely engage them.

“If their forces are fragmented, this presents a rare opportunity for us!”

...

Ambush in the Atlas Mountains

In the barren expanse of the Atlas Mountains, five riders dressed in light-yellow Ottoman-style robes, with loose trousers and curved-toe boots, galloped westward along the northern slopes.

Suddenly, the leading rider raised his hand, signaling for a halt, and spoke in low French, “Enemies ahead!”

The other four immediately scanned the horizon, spotting three or four Algerian reconnaissance cavalry.

The Algerian riders had noticed them as well. With disdain for the so-called “Tunisian rabble,” they let out a derisive howl, drew their curved sabers, and charged in a line.

The “Tunisian rabble” reacted swiftly, veering toward the right front while retrieving short-barreled carbines from their saddles.

As the two sides rapidly closed the distance, the “rabble” fired a volley at the nearest instant.

One Algerian rider was thrown sideways, his foot caught in the stirrup, dragging him hundreds of meters before he came to a stop.

The “Tunisian rabble,” well-trained Imperial Guard cavalry in disguise, smoothly holstered their carbines and drew sabers. Under their commander’s lead, they curved around, redirecting their charge toward the Algerians’ rear.

Caught off guard, the Algerian riders panicked and hastily pulled left on their reins to pursue.

At that moment, the “rabble” suddenly swerved right, transforming the skirmish into a figure-eight chase.

The Algerians were visibly flustered. In the brief instant when the two forces passed each other, two Algerians were slashed down. The remaining rider, struck with terror, turned his horse to flee.

In cavalry combat, bravery was paramount. The first to retreat usually became prey—an easy target for a sword swing. Striking backward while riding, however, was nearly impossible.

The “Tunisian rabble” chased relentlessly, closing the distance within four or five hundred meters before cutting down the final Algerian.

The victorious riders, their faces brimming with excitement, returned to the battlefield to scavenge. “They actually charged at us—how thoughtful of them!”

“Sergeant Aubin, will these four kills earn us a promotion?”

“Hmm, Blanche took out two, so he’ll definitely make sergeant. As for you, I don’t think you got anyone, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“Damn it! Let’s keep moving. We’ll probably run into more scouts ahead.”

The five Imperial Guard cavalry, disguised as Tunisians, quickly mounted their horses and resumed clearing out enemy scouts along the edges of the designated battlefield.

Similar scenes unfolded across the region. Berthier had dispatched half his cavalry, disguised in Tunisian attire, to hunt enemy scouts. With 400 Moulin Corps cavalry in reserve, he had no concerns about exhausting his forces.

This strategy caused the Albanian mercenaries to sense that something was amiss. However, they dismissed the harassment as minor disturbances from Tunisian tribal factions.

It wasn’t until they were within five kilometers of the Imperial Guard Corps that Semiz realized the opposing force was a formidable army numbering in the thousands. On the open Atlas Mountain plains, this distance allowed for direct observation of the enemy through telescopes.

The Albanians, still in marching formation, scrambled as Semiz hastily ordered them to form battle lines. The officers passed down the orders, triggering a cacophony of shouting and neighing horses.

Contrary to cinematic depictions of war, real battles never saw soldiers immediately lining up like machines upon command. In the 18th century, merely relaying the order to form battle lines to every soldier took over 20 minutes for the 13,000-strong mercenary force.

Once the soldiers began aligning, chaos ensued—troops jostled for position, blocked each other’s paths, or struggled to locate their officers.

Meanwhile, the Imperial Guard Corps was fully prepared. As they approached within two kilometers of the enemy, the vanguard halted while the rear ranks moved to the sides, forming a line nearly 30 rows deep, each row consisting of roughly 100 soldiers.

Within ten minutes, the formation was complete.

Drums roared as dozens of drummers marched forward in unison, leading the infantry battalions, who advanced swiftly behind them.

Meanwhile, the Albanian mercenaries had barely finished assembling into a semblance of order when the Imperial Guard Corps closed the gap to 500 meters.

On a nearby hillside, Berthier lowered his telescope and signaled to the messenger. “Order the infantry to adopt combat formations. Artillery, commence firing.”

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