Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

For a time, the battlefield to the east of Annaba was strewn with corpses of the French Army—most of which were caused by the trampling of Tribal Warriors as they fled.

Caheller put down his telescope and squinted his eyes, Could it be that their previous defeat to the French people was just an accident, and they were not as fearsome as he had imagined? Or perhaps that more capable French commander did not come to Annaba this time?

He hesitated for only a few seconds before ordering an officer beside him,

"Pass the order, the Golza Legion and the cavalry on the left wing are to immediately pursue the routed enemy! Move the artillery forward, bring it near the center line!"

He confirmed it was not a ruse of the French, pretending to be defeated to lure the enemy into a trap—looking at those corpses strewn about, there had to be at least five or six hundred people, who would pay such a price for a feint and perform it so convincingly?

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Soon, a deep bugle call rose from within the Algiers Army. Algiers officers led more than 3,000 infantrymen, with the protection of the cavalry, charging towards the "retreating" French positions.

On the other side, Lefevre, looking at the approaching Algiers Army, couldn’t help but widen his eyes in surprise. His Royal Highness the Crown Prince had only wanted those tribesmen to experience the "atmosphere" of the battlefield, he hadn’t expected such an accidental harvest—as charging was much easier than assaulting a stronghold.

He immediately ordered the Tunisian Legion soldiers, who had been standing by with the Tribal Warriors, to follow closely behind the Guard Corps as observers, and then turned to a staff officer beside him,

"Yes, sir!"

Spike, the nephew of the clan leader from the Wakruma Tribe, was trembling all over, forced at sword-point to walk back towards the direction of the battlefield.

Contrary to what he had heard, the People of Algiers were terrifying! The man next to him had just burst into pieces, and the splattered entrails even shot into his mouth. Remembering the warm, bloodied taste, he couldn’t help vomiting again.

"What... what are they going to do? Are we going to fight again?" someone next to him asked with wide eyes, terrified, "No! I won’t go..."

That man was kicked hard by a Tunisian soldier, and his words abruptly stopped.

Spike moved forward, trembling, unaware of who had stuffed a telescope into his hand.

"Do you know how to use it?" the officer asked.

Spike nodded subconsciously, only to suddenly hear the rhythmic sound of drums emerge from the army formation beside him. The next moment, the neat lines of French infantry moved as one, without any hesitation charging towards the People of Algiers.

The officer pointed towards the north side, shouting loudly,

"Look over there!"

The Tribal Warriors turned their heads in unison, only to see dozens of horses dragging something through the dust toward the enemy’s position.

Spike remembered the telescope in his hand, hurriedly lifted it to his eye, and found that it was several Cannons.

The Cannons charged straight towards the Algiers Army—at least in his view, the two sides were practically on top of each other.

Then, a large number of soldiers jumped down from the horse-drawn carts, untied the ropes with practiced movements and set up the Cannons.

Almost simultaneously, Algiers Cavalry wielding curved swords charged over—destroying the enemy’s artillery was one of the primary duties of the cavalry.

However, those cannons immediately spat out flames, causing Spike’s heart to twitch involuntarily. The Algiers Cavalry, charging in, were mowed down like weeds in a gale.

That was the terrifying effect of grapeshot at close range.

The Cavalry were clearly frightened, their momentum checked as they turned and scattered in retreat.

This was a contest of morale and willpower. If the Algiers Cavalry had continued their charge despite the gun fire, the artillerymen would likely have been the ones to fall. But that was clearly beyond their capabilities.

The people of Algiers had not expected the artillerymen to stand their ground against the cavalry. Once the cavalry fled, the entire left wing lay exposed before the Mounted Artillery of the Guard Corps.

Five six-pound cannons immediately switched to solid shot and conducted a concentrated bombardment on the Algiers Infantry less than 200 paces away.

The barely trained Algiers Guard, only a little more enduring than the "Tribal Warriors," soon broke rank under the close range cannon fire and retreated in disarray.

Caheller was flabbergasted—in a mere half hour, since he had been so advantageously positioned, how had it come to this?

He hurriedly ordered his officers to round up the fleeing soldiers and called for the second line of infantry to move up. However, before his orders reached the front line, the assault columns of the Guard Corps, under cover of the skirmishers, bore down upon the Algiers Army.

Spike and others were driven to the flank of the battlefield, where his ears rang with the thunderous roar of cannons. He then watched as the "Roman Soldiers," clad in white uniforms, simply turned and ran a few paces before forming up into straight horizontal lines.

The sound of the military drum halted abruptly, and officers of the Guard Corps pointed their swords forward simultaneously, issuing the command to "Fire."

The two armies were at their closest, less than 20 paces apart. As the Guard Corps discharged a volley, clouds of blood mist erupted amidst the ranks of the Algiers forces. Screams and wails followed, the ground was strewn with mutilated bodies, and the air grew thick with the smell of blood. More soldiers from Algiers cried out in panic, scrambling everywhere; many were knocked over by their own men and soon trampled into a bloody pulp.

Spike’s eyes glazed over as he mumbled one word repeatedly—Hell!

The infantry of the Guard Corps, however, operated like well-oiled killing machines, swiftly reloading their weapons, then advancing ten paces to the beat of the drum before unleashing another grim harvest of volley fire…

The second line of defense of the Algiers Army, influenced by the fleeing soldiers, lasted barely ten minutes before they too turned and fled, followed by the third line.

Caheller could now see the gleam of the bayonets from the French infantry with the naked eye. He turned to his attendant and bellowed:

"Where are the Moroccans? Why haven’t they come to our aid yet?!"

The attendant lowered his head and gestured toward a nearby warhorse:

"Sir, it’s best you retreat as soon as possible…"

Two kilometers away to the west, Said, the commander of the Moroccan Black Guard, wiped the cold sweat from his brow as he watched the Algiers forces rapidly crumble through his binoculars.

Thankfully, he had not agreed to Caheller’s request—after all, this was just the vanguard of the French Army that had crushed ten thousand men of the Algiers Guard, with nearly twenty thousand of the French main force yet to engage. If he had gone to aid them, it would have likely been suicide!

Without hesitation, he waved to his African officer:

"Agold, order a full retreat immediately."

In fact, as soon as he learned that the British had ceased their support, he had anticipated that this war was destined for defeat, which is why he had already suggested to the Sultan last week that the entire army should withdraw to the Tremseh Fortress.

Although the Sultan’s decree had not yet arrived, he knew that the Sultan would surely agree to the retreat—without British support, Morocco would not engage in war with France! That would be an unwinnable conflict.

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