Chapter 221: Victory of the Few
Semiz, the commander of the Albanian army, saw the French infantry line formation begin to advance, then looked at his own disordered mass of infantry, and his face instantly turned ashen.
"What are the cavalry doing?!" He angrily raised his telescope and peered towards the northern flank of the battlefield, only to see several hundred Albanian cavalry charging towards the thinly spread French infantry.
But the Frenchmen stood firm like a reef, unleashing a volley. Twenty or thirty cavalrymen in the front rank immediately tumbled to the ground, kicking up clouds of dust.
Then came the faint boom of a cannon. Semiz couldn't spot the cannon, but he saw something that looked like an arm with half a shoulder fly into the air amidst a spray of blood.
Since the Albanian cavalry had not formed up properly, their charging formation stretched thinly for over two hundred meters. The cavalry further from the French were clearly spooked by the cannon fire and the screams of their comrades and promptly reined in their horses, scattering to the sides.
Semiz watched as some dead warhorses, propelled by inertia, crashed into the French flank defense line, causing some disorder. A few individual cavalrymen who couldn't control their horses also charged forward, but were immediately impaled by French infantry bayonets.
However, no more cavalry followed, and the French line quickly closed ranks again.
Semiz cursed under his breath, seething, "'These cowardly Albanians! If they'd pushed just fifty meters further, the main French force would have had to retreat to support their right flank!'"
Morale, however, was influenced by too many factors; once it broke, it was extremely difficult to restore unless troops could withdraw from the battlefield to regroup.
Seeing this, the Albanian cavalry immediately fled even faster. The 4-pounder cannon, having switched to solid shot, continuously pounded their rear, shattering into sickening sprays of blood.
On the main battlefield, the Guards Corps infantry line formation continued its steady advance, the nearly one-kilometer long line holding almost perfectly straight and exuding an irresistible, intimidating aura.
By this point, the Albanian left flank, under dozens of rounds of relentless bombardment from French artillery, was left with nothing but shattered flesh and foul blood strewn across the ground, and a massive gap had already formed.
A skirmisher company from the Guards Corps stepped out of the formation. After checking their weapons according to regulation, three drummers beat their drums, and they marched forward with heads held high.
Over a hundred soldiers immediately followed in a loose formation.
On the right flank, Lefebvre commanded his men to fire two volleys at the retreating enemy cavalry. Realizing the enemy had fled too far to be caught, he turned and saw the main assault had already begun.
He immediately ordered his men to regroup. After consulting his battalion commander, he led his skirmisher company into the frontal engagement.
The Albanian soldiers watched the approaching French with terror. They no longer bothered to form ranks, as some began to frantically fire their weapons at the enemy.
However, with the accuracy of a flintlock musket, unless dense volleys were employed, hitting a target was largely a matter of faith.
The Guards Corps infantry line formation advanced until they were seventy meters from the enemy, only then halting at their officers' command and quickly straightening their ranks.
Immediately, the company commanders uniformly barked orders: "Ready!"
"Aim!"
"Fire!"
A uniform flash erupted along the infantry line formation as nearly a thousand projectiles tore into the ranks of the Albanian mercenaries.
"Reload! Second rank, three paces forward!"
"Ready!"
"Aim..."
The long, narrow Guards Corps line formation operated like a precisely tuned machine. One rank of soldiers stepped three paces forward, fired a volley, then reloaded in place.
The rank behind them immediately advanced, fired another volley, and reloaded.
Then the next rank stepped forward...
In this manner, under the relentless pressure of their concentrated fire, the infantry line formation quickly closed in, reaching a distance of less than fifty meters from the mercenaries.
The terrifying power of the percussion cap muskets was fully demonstrated. Each volley from the infantry line claimed the lives of nearly a hundred mercenaries.
The enormous casualties caused a continuous rout of soldiers from the Albanian front, and their as-yet-unformed line became even more ragged and broken.
The most resilient few hundred-man units still resisted in place, but most of the soldiers began to retreat under the relentless hail of bullets. Others had already fled to the rear and were clashing with the disciplinarian squads.
The entire formation had completely disintegrated, resembling a tattered rag spread across the Atlas Mountains.
At the gap in the Albanian army's left flank, a French skirmisher company spread out over forty meters wide, crouched low and slowly advanced, pausing occasionally to fire sniping shots.
Just as they had advanced thirty or forty meters, a hearty laugh echoed from behind them: "'Anatole, you're too dogmatic. There aren't many enemies over there; we should push through as fast as possible!'"
Captain Anatole, the one addressed, turned and saw Lefebvre's skirmisher company, formed into five columns, sweeping past him at a quick pace, straight towards the Albanian positions.
"'You... but we're skirmishers...'"
Lefebvre tossed back, "'A skirmisher's only creed is flexibility! See you!'"
Anatole watched anxiously as Lefebvre's men, arriving later, pushed ahead and plunged into the gap in the enemy lines. He quickly straightened up and shouted to his company, "'Form columns! Quick assault!'"
Lefebvre's company was practically in the Albanians' faces before he finally ordered them to deploy in place. During this, a dozen fierce mercenaries, armed with long spears, charged forward, but a second lieutenant, commanding a squad responsible for covering fire, shot down several of them, then used bayonets to ward them off.
Two minutes later, Lefebvre's company had formed a somewhat untidy line formation.
"Aim!"
"Fire!"
At Lefebvre's loud command, over thirty percussion cap muskets unleashed a volley.
Seven or eight nearby Albanian mercenaries instantly crumpled as if struck by an invisible fist, grunting as they toppled backward. The others frantically turned and fled.
Lefebvre led his company several tens of meters deeper into the enemy lines, then ordered his line formation to turn south, towards the left flank of the Albanian positions, and began to advance, firing and compressing inward.
At this point, Anatole's company also caught up and deployed into a line formation behind and to his flank, joining the battle.
The Albanian army, already faltering on the main front, was now in even direr straits. Nearly ten thousand mercenaries were being overwhelmed by three thousand Guards Corps soldiers and continuously recoiled towards the southwest.
This was not only due to the Guards Corps' more effective tactical deployment, but also to the immense disparity in troop quality and weaponry.
The Guards Corps artillery, under Berthier's command, began to shift their bombardment towards the center of the Albanian positions. With nearly ten thousand men spread across the open wasteland, hardly any aiming was needed to ensure the cannonballs would find their marks.
Soon, Semiz watched his left flank completely collapse. The French had formed a pincer movement, squeezing a large number of his soldiers into the center of the battlefield. And that was precisely where the French cannons were relentlessly pounding.
His face grim, he said to his aide, "'Send Fattash forward to hold the line. Order a general retreat!'"
Fattash's unit, the Albanian army's general reserve, comprised around 1,200 men. They had previously been positioned behind the main battlefield and had already completed forming their ranks. Now, they began to move forward in an orderly fashion.
However, Berthier had no intention of allowing them a leisurely escape.
He observed the enemy's disordered state through his telescope and said to his aide, "'Recall the cavalry and prepare to pursue the routed enemy.
"'Have the infantry line formations launch a bayonet charge.'"
"'Yes, sir!'"
Joseph, watching through his telescope, saw the two companies that had cut into the enemy's left flank and nodded approvingly. "'Whose companies are those on the northern side?'"
Berthier replied, "'Your Royal Highness, the gunsmoke is too thick; I can't make out the flags.'"
Joseph observed the battle's progression and offered his thoughts. "'It looks like the enemy is preparing to retreat. Perhaps those two companies could push deeper into their rear to cut off their escape route.'"
Berthier hesitated for a moment. After all, they were just two companies, barely two hundred men.
"'Your Royal Highness, if they flank from the rear, they might run into the enemy's reserves. They are too few in number.'"
Joseph nodded. "'I was just thinking aloud; don't let me interfere with your judgment.'"
On the main front, the Guards Corps infantry line formation delivered a final volley from less than thirty meters away from the enemy, then fixed bayonets.
As the drumbeats became unprecedentedly rapid, the frontline officers brandished their sabers towards the enemy and shouted, "'Charge! For His Majesty the King!'"
"'For His Royal Highness the Crown Prince!'"
"'Charge!'"
The white-clad infantry line formation immediately crashed into the Albanian mercenaries like a surging wave. The latter had long since dissolved into a chaotic mass and lacked the courage to engage. Even if they had the courage, their loose and fragmented formation made it impossible.
The mercenaries at the very front were instantly cut down by bayonets, their screams rising in a cacophony. Those who had already been retreating were utterly terrified, and their slow retreat turned into a headlong dash.
Over with Lefebvre, who had still been orderly firing and advancing, suddenly found the enemy had abandoned resistance and began to flee rapidly to the west.
He paused, slightly stunned, then turned to the company commander nearby. "'Anatole, it seems the enemy is running!'"
"'Then let's pursue them!'"
Lefebvre looked west and shook his head. "'We are the deepest into enemy territory. At this moment, we should try to cut off their retreat.'"
"'Huh?'"
"'Want to come with me?'"
"'What are you going to do?'"
Lefebvre smiled and turned to his aide. "'Order the entire company to immediately form columns and don't get entangled with the enemy. We're heading west at top speed!'"
On the Albanian side, Fattash's general reserve had formed an orderly line formation. They allowed several "Oaks" — that is, regimental soldiers — to pass, and then saw the white-uniformed Guards Corps charging forward, bayonets flashing.
"'Aim! Fire!'"
Fattash, disregarding that many of his own men were still in front of him, frantically ordered his troops to open fire.
A volley of explosions rang out. Thick gunsmoke billowed into the air, and dozens of Albanian mercenaries and Guards Corps soldiers fell to the ground.
The Guards Corps' charge immediately slowed.
The frontline battalion commander, seeing that the Albanians had actually organized a formed resistance, couldn't help but frown slightly.
He was about to regroup his troops for a firefight with the enemy when he heard someone shouting from the southern flank, "'Don't be afraid! They can only fire two more shots at most! In the Crown Prince's name, follow me!'"
The battalion commander, standing up in his stirrups, through the lingering gunsmoke, saw a company, like a herd of wild buffalo, charging towards the Albanian lines without slowing.
"'Davout?' He recognized the company's flag and clenched his riding crop in alarm. 'That reckless fellow! What if the enemy...'"
As the thought crossed his mind, he heard a responsive shout from the right flank, "'Let them see what cadets can do! Follow me, everyone, charge!'"
The battalion commander turned his gaze and saw four or five companies closely following Davout, rushing towards the enemy lines in a bayonet charge.
He quickly waved vigorously at his aide, "'Order them to provide covering fire!'"
The Albanian mercenaries, indeed one of the Ottoman Empire's most formidable fighting forces, though stunned by the Guards Corps' overwhelming momentum, still gritted their teeth and completed reloading, raising their muskets once more.
Fattash urgently roared, "'Fire! Quickly, fire!'"
A dense flash of gunfire instantly erupted.
As Davout ran, he heard something whistle past his ear with a 'whoosh'. He instinctively turned his head just as he saw half of his sergeant's face torn away. The sergeant's body spun around from the impact of the bullet and fell into a pile of weeds.
The mercenaries' volley inflicted over thirty casualties. While this was minor for the several thousand-strong Guards Corps, it delivered a significant psychological blow to the soldiers.
Davout, his eyes bloodshot, did not slow his pace and yelled with all his might, "'They won't have time to reload, everyone! Charge! Avenge our brothers!'"
In reality, they were still over fifty meters from the enemy, and the enemy might still get another shot off. But he knew that if they retreated now, they would suffer even greater losses.
They had to fight with all they had!
Hearing Davout's words, the soldiers who had felt a surge of fear immediately matched his pace. And the cadets not far away, seeing their fallen comrades, charged even more fiercely than before.
The Albanian reserves began to reload in a fluster, but when the white-clad uniforms appeared twenty meters away, they could no longer maintain their composure.
Some took up positions, ready to resist with bayonets, while others turned to call for the spearmen—yes, the Ottoman army still retained this close-combat unit. But more still nervously retreated backward.
Fattash personally cut down two deserters, but was utterly unable to stem the tide of the rout.
Before Davout's bayonet could even reach an enemy, the Albanian rearguard had already dropped their weapons and were frantically fleeing backward.
"'Don't let them escape!'" The young Davout vigorously waved his hand backward. He himself fixed his gaze on Fattash, who was mounted on a horse, drew his pistol, and fired at him.
After the Guards Corps cavalry had dispersed the Albanian cavalry, they briefly regrouped—mainly for the horses to recover their strength—then formed ranks and pursued the fleeing enemy.
In a pursuit, cavalry always formed the main force.
With these several hundred cavalry joining the chase, the Albanian mercenaries were quickly overtaken in droves and knelt to surrender.
The largest group of fleeing mercenaries, amounting to three "Oaks" of troops, after retreating for nearly a mile, could no longer clearly hear the shouts of their pursuers.
Just as they were about to breathe a sigh of relief, they suddenly saw a thin white "line" on the hill ahead.
It was Lefebvre's and Anatole's two companies, deployed in a line formation.
Comments