The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 204

Chapter 204: Driving Out the Wolf to Devour the Tiger

Russia.

Saint Petersburg.

Crown Prince Paul Petrovich emerged from Catherine II’s bedchamber, glancing back twice reluctantly before finally striding purposefully down the corridor.

It was not that he wished to draw closer to his mother. Quite the opposite—he harbored deep resentment for Catherine II, just as she did for him.

What he found hard to part with was his beloved little angel, Alexandra.

Catherine never cared about his feelings. Ever since she noticed how much Alexandra resembled her, she had kept the child firmly by her side.

Paul found it difficult to see his daughter even once a month.

Previously, he had taken Alexandra to attend the French King's birthday celebration, allowing him to reunite with her for two months. But now that they were back in Saint Petersburg, separation loomed once again.

As he turned dejectedly at the stairwell, a figure suddenly appeared, grabbing his shoulders in a firm embrace. A familiar voice rang out:

“When did you return, my dear brother? How were the Parisian ladies? Did they manage to enchant you beyond measure?”

Paul broke into a smile, shoving his younger brother Alexei playfully while deliberately putting on a stern expression:

“I don’t have as much money to squander on women as you, especially not French women.”

“Ha! And what else would money be for?” Alexei sidled up to him again. “Are you training the troops today? How about we go fishing instead? I’ve got the gear and wine ready.”

Paul continued walking with his chest high and head held high.

“Spare me. I don’t want to end up like a drunken mess floating in the river.”

He referred to an incident from a few winters ago when Alexei insisted on betting who could finish an entire bottle of vodka first while fishing. In the end, Alexei had gotten drunk and fallen into the icy river. If not for the guards’ desperate efforts, he might have been swept away by the current.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to sea tomorrow and won’t drink too much.”

Paul glanced at his brother, who had visibly matured, and gave him a hearty slap on the back.
“Let’s go! Fishing it is!”

...

Inside the Winter Palace, Catherine II lovingly gazed at her granddaughter, her demeanor devoid of the majesty of a ruler. In a gentle voice, she asked:
“Little one, did you enjoy Paris?”

Sitting upright, Alexandra’s face lit up with a delighted smile.
“Yes! It was so much fun. People there wear such beautiful clothes, and I even rode a carousel. Do you know, those wooden horses actually move!”

“Good, good.” Catherine nodded with a smile before asking, “Did you complete the task I assigned you?”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“Then tell me, what kind of person is the French Crown Prince?”

The little girl tilted her head in thought before answering:
“Well, he has very beautiful blue eyes, and he’s very handsome, especially in his dark blue coat. But he always seemed busy. I only saw him two or three times. Oh, and he’s very popular. You can hear his name mentioned everywhere in Versailles. Apparently, he’s done some amazing things... something about building a bank, but I didn’t quite understand it.”

Catherine stroked the girl’s hair, listening as she prattled on. Suddenly, she said:
“So, you think well of him?”

Alexandra nodded earnestly.

Catherine followed suit, nodding as well, before continuing to ask:
“My dear, would you like to live in Paris? I mean, for a very long time.”

The little girl’s eyes widened with excitement at the thought of playing on the carousel every day.
“Really? That would be wonderful!” She quickly thought of something and lowered her head to look at the Tsarina.
“Would you come too? If you don’t, I’ll miss you very much.”

...

North Africa.

The Port of Sfax in southeastern Tunisia.

Inside a towering, beige-colored building, Younes, dressed in a bright red robe, with a white turban adorned by a dark gray feather, a curved sword at his waist, and gray European-style breeches, stood confidently. Gesturing toward the sand table before him, he was speaking animatedly with his officers.

Whatever he said elicited bursts of laughter from the group. Younes’s gaze drifted through the arched window toward the bustling docks, where laborers were unloading large bundles from a ship.

He knew that the cargo included flintlock muskets, along with powder and bullets, freshly shipped from France.

The guards outside had already shouldered these Charleville muskets, exuding an imposing aura.

A sedan chair stopped below the building. A man in his fifties, carrying an ornate scimitar, stepped out, signaled to the guards, and hurried upstairs. Bowing enthusiastically to Younes, he declared:
“Pasha, I’ve convinced that old fox, Deaulun, to bring 600 soldiers to join us!”

Before he could finish, a middle-aged man with a thick beard scowled and objected:
“Imanzade, Deaulun’s men are hardly elite guards. Why bring them here?”

Younes raised his hand to silence him and smiled warmly at Imanzade.
“Anyone loyal to me can earn high rank and rewards, regardless of their origins.”

Imanzade was overjoyed and bowed again.
“Thank you, Pasha! I’m confident I can persuade several factions in the Kaf region. They can supply at least 4,000 troops.”

Younes waved grandly.
“Do it. I’ll remember your contributions.”

“Yes, my most noble Pasha.”

After Imanzade left, the bearded man immediately bowed to Younes and asked:
“Pasha, will you disregard the traditions of the elite guards?”

Younes chuckled.
“Nizamuddin, there are so few elite guards left who uphold those glorious traditions. We must make use of all available resources.

“If Imanzade truly brings back 4,000 men from Kaf, I’ll have an army of 12,000.”

He gestured toward the steady stream of carts unloading weapons.
“With such fine arms, we’ll defeat Ali in no time. Once I’ve become Bey, I’ll naturally restore the elite guards to their former glory.”

In all of Tunisia, with a population of under two million, Ali could muster only about 25,000 troops, many of whom had already defected to Younes.

Moreover, the elite guards had grown so corrupt that they were no longer as formidable as before. Instead, some regional factions boasted stronger fighting capabilities.

Thanks to Imanzade and other loyal subordinates, Younes had rallied thousands of troops within just three or four days of returning to Sfax.

Younes turned back to the sand table. Based on the plan he had discussed with his officers, once he had amassed sufficient supplies, he would march north to capture the fortress at Kairouan, establishing a position to rival Hamid Ali.

He was confident that Ali, who excelled at governance but lacked military prowess, was no match for him.

In one or two years at most, he would surround Tunis and unify the region under his rule.

...

Tunis, Kahil Palace

Hafsa’s slender fingers caressed the lute strings, and the soothing melody resonated through every corner of the palace.

Reclining against a soft cushion, his eyes half-closed, was the current ruler of Tunis—Hamid Ali. He wore only a light shirt suitable for the warm weather, his portly figure at ease.

Holding a chess piece in his hand, he impatiently looked toward the official standing before him with head bowed and asked:
“Slow down. What’s happening in Sfax?”

The official hurriedly replied,
“Great Bey, news just came from there. A local faction has sealed the borders, forbidding anyone from leaving Sfax.”

Hamid Ali tossed the chess piece to a nearby servant and frowned.
“Are they squabbling with neighboring provinces over tariffs again?”

Tunis was a patchwork of competing factions, and it was not uncommon for tribal leaders to block movement over disputes involving trade or taxes.

“That... we’re not certain yet,” the official replied. “The guards sent to investigate haven’t returned.”

“Oh? Are those fools plotting rebellion?” Hamid Ali waved his hand dismissively.
“Send more men, along with my edict. Tell them to stop causing trouble.”

“Yes, Great Bey!”

Once the official departed, the music in the palace abruptly stopped.

Hamid Ali turned to his favorite consort with a soft expression.
“Hafsa, why have you stopped playing?”

The young woman, dressed in a deep green gown, rose and walked to his side. Worry etched her face as she said:
“Pasha, I feel there is something I must tell you.”

“Oh?” Ali chuckled. “What matter is so serious?”

Hafsa gestured for the servants to withdraw before speaking.
“Two days ago, at a gathering I hosted, I overheard the wives of Rume, Ishak Pasha, and a few other guards’ officers discussing their husbands traveling south to meet with a ‘prominent figure.’”

“And what’s so unusual about that?”

“Do you recall Lord Halil’s report a few days ago about large quantities of grain and oats being purchased in the southern provinces?”

Ali nodded. “Yes, I remember.”

Hafsa’s expression grew graver.
“Pasha, I fear a rebellion is brewing in the southern provinces. Perhaps in Sfax itself.”

“A rebellion?” Ali waved her off with a laugh.
“What nonsense are you speaking?”

Hafsa pressed on.
“Do you remember the uprising in Gafsa seven years ago? At that time, the Berber tribes there first stockpiled grain and then blocked movement in and out of the region.”

Ali’s laughter froze, and his demeanor grew serious.

Hafsa continued:
“Pasha, weren’t Rume and Ishak Pasha involved in the rebellion before? It was your brother who pardoned them, wasn’t it?”

Ali’s expression darkened. He was all too aware of their history. Both men had served Younes during the siege of his father, Ibn Hussein, more than two decades ago.

Back then, after his father’s defeat and death, Younes had turned on Ali’s own father, Karamanli Ali, creating the opportunity for Ali and his brother to reclaim Tunis.

Now, with Younes’s former subordinates suddenly leaving Tunis for the south and a series of unusual events occurring there, Ali’s gaze sharpened. Perhaps Hafsa was correct—there might indeed be a rebellion in the making.

At the time, news of Younes’s escape from Algiers had not yet reached Tunis due to the slow communication of the era. In fact, the Algerian council was still debating whether to inform the Bey of Tunis about the development.

...

Hamid Ali deliberated briefly before summoning the commander of the Janissaries, Koja, and instructing him to prepare the army for deployment to Sfax. His orders included investigating any signs of rebellion and scrutinizing Rume, Ishak Pasha, and others.

It wasn’t long before those investigating Rume and Ishak Pasha reported back. Both men had left Tunis the previous day, taking their sons with them.

Koja moved swiftly. By the next day, he led 2,000 elite Janissaries southward while ordering his deputy to gather additional forces.

His luck held. Three days after departing Tunis, his forces encountered a convoy traveling from Kaf to Sfax. The convoy panicked and attacked the Janissaries without provocation.

Koja, prepared for such an eventuality, annihilated the 800-strong Berber force.

Under interrogation, the captured fighters confessed that they had been persuaded by a man named Imanzade to join Younes, whom they referred to as the “true Bey.”

When the news reached Tunis, Hamid Ali was alarmed. He immediately ordered a full mobilization of the Janissaries. Within a week, over 10,000 troops had gathered near the border between Kairouan and Sfax.

...

“Pasha, the French have responded,” an officer reported, striding into Younes’s command tent with a grim expression. “They encountered a storm in the western Mediterranean. The remaining weapons will arrive no sooner than ten days.”

“Ah, merciful Lord, why must you punish me so?” Younes exclaimed, raising his hands toward the heavens in frustration.

Since the arrival of the first shipment of 2,000 flintlock muskets and three cannons at Sfax, no further weapons had been delivered.

Younes’s assembled forces were poorly armed, as Tunis’s best equipment remained with the Janissaries.

Worse still, despite Imanzade’s earlier assurances of support from Kaf’s major tribes, Hamid Ali had unexpectedly dispatched troops southward, cutting off the tribal reinforcements en route.

Now, Younes had fewer than 7,000 men, while Koja had led over 10,000 Janissaries into Kairouan Fortress. The plan to surprise Kairouan was clearly a failure.

Younes stared at the sand table, clenched his fists, and barked out orders:
“Rume, take 1,500 men to the Choukri Valley.”

“Huh?” Rume hesitated. “But, Pasha, Koja already has sentries there.”

“Did you not hear my command?”

“Yes, Pasha!”

Younes then pointed at the bearded Nizamuddin.
“Nizamuddin, position the cannons in the forested area to the east of the valley.”

“Yes, Pasha!” Nizamuddin hesitated before asking cautiously,
“Pasha, who will cover us?”

Cannons were indeed the kings of the battlefield, but in this era of muzzle-loaded artillery, their limited range and slow mobility made them vulnerable to cavalry attacks without infantry support.

“Enough questions.”

Younes snapped, turning back to the sand table and stabbing his finger at its center. Through gritted teeth, he continued:
“Ishak Pasha will lead the cavalry with me.

“Deploy Rabia’s forces west of the valley...

“By dawn tomorrow, we must break through Koja’s defenses! While Kairouan Fortress remains undermanned, we’ll bypass it and seize Susa!”

“Yes, Pasha!” The grim-faced officers in the tent chorused their agreement.

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