Chapter 401: Courage of the Common People
The Moroccan Black Janissaries fought with considerable discipline. Under the officers' command, their line formation swiftly rotated to face the approaching French reinforcements.
Nearly a thousand black soldiers, arranged in a four-row line formation, surged directly towards the French forces, urged on by the blare of bugle calls.
Ney himself stood at the very front of the infantry, drawing his saber and pointing it towards the dense ranks of dark-uniformed soldiers opposite him. He exclaimed loudly:
“Don't be afraid,” he declared. “They're nothing but captured slaves; they have no idea how to fight! Just fire your muskets like you did in training, and they'll flee in no time!”
Despite his words, the disciplined ranks of the Moroccan soldiers showed they were rigorously trained, and their combat effectiveness was not to be underestimated.
Soon, the Moroccan forces closed to less than 80 paces. Some of Ney's soldiers, in a moment of panic, had already fired prematurely.
Fortunately, the panic did not spread. When the two sides were about 60 paces apart, Ney finally brandished his sword decisively:
“Fire!”
Over 200 Charleville 1763 model flintlock muskets unleashed a ragged volley of fire, causing the Moroccans to pause their advance momentarily. But almost immediately, they resumed their push forward.
“Don't be afraid!” Ney remained at the very front of the formation, braving enemy fire as he loudly encouraged their morale. “Keep your hands steady and reload as quickly as possible. Our reinforcements will be here soon; these slaves won't be able to do a thing to you!”
The 200 soldiers under his command, who only recently had been farmers, watched their officer stand his ground without a trace of fear, and felt their spirits settle considerably. Following the command of the drums, they exchanged fire with the Moroccan Janissaries from a distance of 40 paces.
Bullets whizzed constantly past Ney's ears, followed by piercing screams from behind him.
He turned his head to see at least two dozen men had been hit, their bodies torn open by the bullets. They writhed on the ground like fish thrown onto the shore.
The surrounding soldiers, covered in their blood and viscera, froze in place, unsure what to do. Some, in their immense terror, began to shuffle backward.
“Hold your ground!” Ney exclaimed, picking up a fallen soldier's musket and beginning to load it. “Remember the oaths you took when you came here! Just hold out for another half hour, and you can return home laden with honor! Your families and countrymen will be proud of you, and your stories will be told among your neighbors!
“And all of it, damn it, starts with your loading hands! Get moving, quick!”
He then turned to the fewer than 300 Tunisian soldiers on his flank:
“Had enough rest, have you? Follow my command, fire together!”
He quickly loaded his musket and aimed at the advancing dark faces. Spurred on by his example, the French soldiers finally tremblingly began to pour gunpowder into their musket barrels, while the Tunisian soldiers raised their muskets once more.
“Aim—”
“Fire!”
Ney let out a loud shout and pulled the trigger simultaneously.
A volley of crackling gunshots erupted behind him. The Moroccans, who were almost upon them, had not expected the French to be able to organize another synchronized volley. Nearly 30 men immediately toppled over, and soldiers on either side of the fallen instinctively turned their backs, trying to avoid the bullets.
“Excellent! You did it!” Ney's voice was hoarse, yet he still shouted with all his might, “Keep reloading, don't stop!”
There was no wind near the battlefield, and thick gunpowder smoke obscured the French soldiers' vision. This ironically prevented them from being overly terrified. As long as Officer Ney was still by their side, that meant the situation wasn't too dire.
The Tunisian soldiers beside them also began sporadic firing, and after this heavy blow, the Moroccans surprisingly began to retreat.
Hearing the sound of enemy footsteps recede, the French and Tunisian soldiers who had remained standing, even if they had been on the verge of soiling themselves moments before, now let out a cheer of relief.
Ney was about to let out a sigh of relief when he faintly heard a 'thud-thud' sound from both flanks. His pupils constricted.
The Moroccans were closing in from both sides.
They had barely managed to withstand the frontal assault. If caught in a pincer, they would undoubtedly collapse immediately.
He closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross over his chest, pondering which flank to counter-attack. Retreat was out of the question; at such close range, turning their backs on the enemy would be suicide. Attacking one side, however, might buy them a little more time.
‘He just didn't know if these soldiers could adjust their line formation in time...’
He muttered to himself, but not a single thought of surrender crossed his mind. He had grown up hearing his veteran father recount tales of the Seven Years' War, and he despised cowards who surrendered. He always believed he was the one who could fight the enemy to the very last moment.
Ney rushed back and forth, loudly ordering the officers to turn the soldiers north.
However, in just over ten minutes, he heard the clamor of Arabic voices behind him.
He looked at his soldiers again; they were still huddled together in disarray. The Tunisians were even worse.
Such a formation was impossible to fight in. A chill ran down his spine. ‘He hadn't expected his first true command in battle to also be his last...’
Just as he was preparing to charge the Moroccans in a desperate, final stand, the rhythmic thud of hooves emerged from the south.
‘Have enemy cavalry joined the fray?’
He shook his head with a grim smile, drew his saber, and pointed it towards the smoke:
“Come on, I'm not afraid of you!”
After a moment's wait, the Moroccan attack seemed to slow. Then, faint, almost inaudible gunshots could be heard from their rear.
Though Ney didn't know what was happening, he immediately seized the opportunity and desperately urged his soldiers to reform their ranks.
The gunpowder smoke finally dispersed. Ney quickly stood in his stirrups and looked south through his telescope, seeing a troop of cavalry in white uniforms harassing the enemy's flanks and rear, forcing the Moroccans to tighten their formation defensively.
‘It's those nobles!’
For the first time in his life, Ney didn't find those noble lords quite so detestable. He turned to his soldiers and exclaimed excitedly:
“Our reinforcements have arrived! Victory is ours!”
Shanel urged his mount, 'Flying Crossbow', forward, sweeping past the Moroccan formation. He raised his carbine and pulled the trigger at the dark-skinned enemy.
From a distance of over 80 paces, the short carbine had no real killing power, but its loud report could certainly intimidate the enemy.
As over 150 noble cavalrymen galloped past, then wheeled around to reform their ranks, the Moroccans were thrown into disarray by this sudden attack and soon chose to retreat.
Moreau ordered his soldiers to gather closer to their own men, and quickly spotted Ney in the crowd.
He approached, elegantly tipped his hat, and smiled:
“Lieutenant, it seems you were surrounded by the enemy. Fortunately, I arrived just in time to save you all. How about that, aren't we impressive?”
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