Chapter 429: Show Them What a Real Army Is Like
The battlefield on the eastern side of Annaba was littered with the bodies of the so-called "French soldiers"—most of whom were actually "tribal warriors" trampled to death in their panicked retreat.
Kahler put down his binoculars and narrowed his eyes. Could it be that losing to the French last time was just a fluke? Maybe they weren't as formidable as he had thought? Or perhaps the more skilled French general didn't come to Annaba this time?
He hesitated for only a few seconds before ordering the officer beside him:
"Send the order: Have the Gorssa Corps and the left-wing cavalry pursue the fleeing enemy! Move the artillery forward to the middle line!"
He was convinced that this wasn't some feigned retreat by the French. After all, with hundreds of bodies scattered across the battlefield, who would stage such an elaborate ruse at such a high cost?
Soon, a deep horn sounded from the Algerian ranks. Led by their officers, over 3,000 infantrymen, supported by cavalry, charged towards the "retreating" French positions.
On the other side, Lefebvre watched in surprise as the Algerian forces advanced. The Prince had only intended for the tribal warriors to get a taste of the battlefield's "atmosphere," but this unexpected development would make their task much easier—an open battle was far simpler than a siege.
He immediately ordered the Tunisian soldiers, who had been standing by, to drive the "tribal warriors" forward to observe the battle, while turning to his aide and saying:
"Alright, now let's show them what a real army looks like in battle."
"Yes, Colonel!"
Sfik, the nephew of the Waqrumah tribe's chief, was trembling all over as he was forced at knifepoint to head back towards the battlefield.
It was nothing like what he had heard—the Algerians were terrifying! Moments ago, the man next to him had been blown apart, with pieces of his innards even splattering into Sfik's mouth. Just recalling that hot, bloody taste made him retch again.
"What... what are we doing? Are they really sending us back into battle?" the man beside him stammered, his eyes wide with fear. "No! I'm not going..."
His words were cut short as a Tunisian soldier kicked him hard, silencing him.
Sfik continued to walk forward, trembling. Suddenly, someone handed him a telescope.
"Do you know how to use it?" asked the officer.
Sfik instinctively nodded, and just then, the sound of steady drumbeats emerged from the ranks beside him. The next moment, the neat lines of French infantry began to move as one, marching unhesitatingly toward the Algerians.
The officer pointed to the north, shouting:
"Look over there!"
The "tribal warriors" all turned to see a cloud of dust in the distance, where several dozen horses were pulling something towards the enemy lines.
Sfik remembered the telescope in his hand and quickly raised it. He saw that it was a group of cannons being brought forward.
The cannons were advancing straight towards the Algerians—at least from Sfik's perspective, it seemed like they were practically on top of each other.
Then, a large number of soldiers jumped down from the wagons and, with swift and practiced movements, began to unstrap and set up the cannons.
Almost simultaneously, Algerian cavalry, brandishing their scimitars, charged toward them—after all, one of the cavalry's primary duties was to eliminate enemy artillery.
But those cannons erupted in flames, making Sfik's heart skip a beat. The charging Algerian cavalry fell like blades of grass before a scythe, cut down by a storm.
At such close range, the grapeshot fired from the cannons was devastating.
The cavalry, shaken, hesitated and then turned to flee.
This was a battle of morale and willpower. If the Algerian cavalry had continued to charge through the cannon fire, the artillerymen would likely have been overrun. But this was clearly beyond their capability.
The Algerians had never expected the artillery to stand its ground against cavalry. With the cavalry in retreat, the entire left flank was now exposed to the Guards Corps' horse-drawn artillery.
The five six-pound cannons immediately switched to solid shot and unleashed a concentrated barrage on the Algerian infantry, just 200 paces away.
These poorly trained Algerian soldiers held out only a few minutes longer than the "tribal warriors" before they, too, began to retreat in chaos under the withering fire.
Kahler was dumbfounded—how had he gone from having the upper hand to this in less than half an hour?
He hastily ordered his officers to regroup the scattered soldiers and send the second line of infantry forward. However, before his orders could reach the front, the French Guards Corps' assault column, covered by skirmishers, was already upon them.
Sfik and the others were herded to the flank of the battlefield. The constant roar of cannon fire filled his ears as he watched the "Roman soldiers" in white uniforms, who, after running a few steps, swiftly formed a straight line.
The drumbeat suddenly stopped, and the officers of the Guards Corps simultaneously pointed their swords forward, giving the order to fire.
At a distance of less than 20 paces, the Guards Corps' volley tore through the Algerian ranks, sending up a spray of blood. Screams and groans filled the air as shattered bodies littered the ground, the stench of blood heavy in the air. Many more Algerian soldiers, now panicking, fled in all directions, some quickly trampled underfoot by their own comrades.
Sfik stared blankly, muttering a single word over and over—Hell!
The Guards Corps' infantry, like precise killing machines, quickly reloaded their muskets and, with the beat of the drum, advanced ten paces before unleashing another deadly volley.
The second Algerian line, already shaken by the fleeing soldiers, lasted only ten minutes before they, too, broke and fled, followed by the third line.
Kahler could see the gleam of French bayonets with the naked eye now. He turned to his aide and shouted:
"Where are the Moroccans? Why haven't they reinforced us?"
The aide hung his head and gestured towards the horses:
"Sir, you should retreat while you still can..."
Two kilometers to the west, Said, the commander of the Moroccan Black Guard, watched the rapidly collapsing Algerian forces through his telescope and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
Thank goodness he hadn't agreed to help Kahler—after all, this was just the French vanguard, and they had already shattered over 10,000 Algerian soldiers. With another 20,000 French troops behind them, joining the battle would have been suicide.
He wasted no time in signaling to the officer beside him:
"Agourld, order a full retreat immediately."
In fact, after learning that the British had ceased their support, he had already anticipated that this war was lost. That's why he had advised the Sultan to retreat to the Tlemcen Fortress last week.
Although the Sultan's orders had not yet arrived, he knew the Sultan would agree to the withdrawal—without British backing, Morocco could never afford to go to war with France. It was a fight they simply could not win.
(End of Chapter)
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