Midshipman Graham and the Battle of Abukir

by James Boschert

  “I don’t think it will be that long before our enemy does sally out from this beachhead, and then it will be a very different situation and much harder to control,” he said.

  “Whereas if our army strikes now, the Pasha could be contained in Abukir. His back will be to the sea, and he has nowhere to go unless the British can help him,” Murat said. He was eager to get to grips with the Turks after his success at the Lake. Napoléon nodded approval.

  “Our spies tell us that the ships are anchored a long way out to sea. Perhaps the sea is very shallow at that place. I suspect that if the British ships were able to help they would be much closer to the shore than they are today. Remember how effective they were at Acre?” one of the staff officers ventured.

  No one commented. They remembered only too well how efficiently Sir Sydney had used his ships to support the fortress of Acre. Napoléon himself worried about those vessels. They had been murderously effective against his army.

  “Time is of the essence; we can no longer wait even an extra day for Kléber to appear,” he stated, watching their reaction. No one was prepared to contradict him, but they were clearly unhappy. With Kléber’s additional forces they could assault the defenses with much more confidence.

  It never occurred to Napoléon that he might be defeated by larger numbers behind impregnable defenses. He knew with certainty that he did not have an alternative.

  “We have no choice but to march on Abukir before they can really dig in. To wait for them to sally forth would be a disaster, and that I am not prepared to risk,” he said. “We march on Abukir.”

  There was a collective sigh from his officers. The die was cast.

  The men had marched hard over a hundred miles in four days, but these were hardened veterans who were able to march and fight as few others could. He issued the order to march that very day for Abukir.

  They arrived on June 24th at the base of the peninsula and set up camp in the low hills that formed a protective barrier from Turkish guns. Napoléon rode with his officers to a high point that overlooked the neck of the peninsula and stared at the earthworks thrown up only a league ahead of him. To his relief and that of his men it was clear that the Turks had not exited their beachhead but had remained where they were.

  “They must be very confident that they can hold us,” he remarked to the men around him. “All to the good,” he finished.

  He meant that if the French could defeat them here it would be significant.

  To the professional eyes of his officers the defenses looked makeshift and poorly finished. The officers examined the redoubts through their glasses while they discussed weak points and noted them for future reference. The general conclusion was that earthworks could be torn down or over run by determined men with field guns for support.

  The officers also noted with relief that the defenses on the western side had not even been completed as far as the sea. Général Lanusse, who would be on that flank, issued orders to his officers to note carefully where these weak points were.

  Ignoring the murmurs of his officers, Napoléon turned his telescope out to sea where he could observe the British ships anchored well away from the fortress.

  “Why are they not closer, as they were at Acre? They appear to be too far away to be effective,” he demanded of his staff.

  “It is likely they cannot come closer, Sir,” said one of his aides. “If you look out there, the sea is light colored, almost brown, and hence possibly too shallow for them to come closer.”

  Napoléon smiled with satisfaction. This was sure to be a frustration for Sir Sidney Smith, he surmised. If the British ships were able to bring their guns to bear on the peninsula, as they had done at Acre, it would very hard for the French, but it appeared that their previous speculations were confirmed and the British ships were indeed too far off to bombard his army.

  “The Turks have gun boats on the water, mainly on the east side of the peninsula, Général. They could present a problem for our flanks should we be successful at overcoming the defenses,” another aide pointed out.

  “Then the light artillery need to be aware of this and ready to respond when and if there is occasion,” Napoléon stated. Indeed, there were as many as twenty of the boats, each with a gun mounted in the bows, floating on the water. The larger number were presently on the eastern side. The Turks doubtless had British seamen manning those but they also had a good many of their own.

  “Prepare the divisions for battle. We will attack tomorrow,” he told his men.

  The army marched into place that evening, then settled down for the night. Général Lanusse’s division took the left flank on the west side while Lannes larger division took the right flank, with Murat’s cavalry placed in the middle.

  That evening Napoléon hosted his generals for a Spartan dinner. They were not boisterous, but there was an atmosphere of optimism. On the morrow they would fight and quite possibly die, but their leader was clearly confident that they could overcome serious odds, even though the rules of war usually required that the attacker of a defensive position have more men. In their favor and despite the odds they knew their foe, and there was also the question of vengeance for the deaths of their comrades at the hands of the barbaric Turk. There was an undercurrent of ferocious determination.

  Napoléon wanted to hear from Murat how the battle against Bey had gone and was delighted at the way his general had dealt with the Mamelukes. As they discussed the battle plans he said, “This battle will decide the fate of the world.”

  Murat was puzzled, but decided that he meant that should they win this battle they could then complete the conquest of Constantinople despite the setback at Acre.

  *****

  The French veterans of the Company of Carabiniere Infantrie did as many thousand others had: they settled in that night around fires made from scavenged driftwood. The neck of the peninsula of Abukir was dotted with camp fires, but the army had pickets out and was prepared for anything that might come from the North and the Turkish lines during the night.

  Around one of these fires Private Poupard, Sergeant Émile and their comrades munched on their biscuits and smoked goat’s meat. Some of the men who still possessed a clay pipe lit up and smoked, while others had desultory conversations or stared into the embers of the fire.

  These men, the survivors of multiple battles with the Turk and the Arabs, were as tough as any soldiers can be who have endured and fought against often impossible odds. The flames illuminated their sun-darkened, lean, almost emaciated features that had a wolf-like aspect. The light thrown off the embers gleamed off their dark, deep set eyes, giving them all the look of predators at rest, as they contemplated yet another encounter with the Turk.

  There was not a man among them who had not killed and killed often. To them this was their raison d’être, their very existence, with death a constant companion. They were experts at using their weapons, both the musket and the bayonet. Nevertheless it was always a tense period just before a battle.

  “I wonder how many of those Turks there are behind those barricades?” Poupard pondered out loud. He was the youngest of the group. He had cleaned his musket at least twice now and had checked to make sure that the flint was sharp and produced a good stream of sparks in the pan. He would not pour the precious, fine priming powder into the pan before dawn, to keep it from getting damp. Their musket barrels were as bright as their bayonets, the original dark patina from the factories having been worn away with handling. The wood of their stocks, although chipped, was also polished to a deep brown from much use, while the brass of the butts was dented and scored from contact with sand and rock. Their uniforms were relatively new, having been re-issued for the march into Cairo, but were already sun-faded and dusty from the forced march, while their leather belts and knapsacks were scuffed and in places worn through from numerous campaigns.

  “You can bet there are more of them than us. Nothing new about that. Merde,” Sergeant Émile said as he tamped down
the precious tobacco shreds into his pipe bowl with a scarred forefinger. Then he used his metal spoon to lift a tiny ember from the fire which he placed with great care on top. He drew carefully on the pipe and luxuriated in the bitter taste of the tobacco as he drew it into his lungs. He released a long slow stream of smoke from his nostrils with a satisfied sigh of contentment. Émile had learned that the simple things in life were the most important for a soldier. There was no point in dwelling upon those things he could not change.

  “Well, I suppose they won’t be any different to the ones we met in Jaffa, Acre and those other hell holes,” Gérard said.

  They knew they were every bit as good as their opponents on the battlefield, better in fact, but there was always the nagging thought that the sheer randomness of battle could take down any one of them without warning. The prospect of being wounded and abandoned was something that haunted them all. The Turk was merciless towards the wounded, rarely taking prisoners. The men seated around the fire were stoical about it; they were soldiers of France and whatever their reservations about their commander they at least trusted him to lead them well.

  “Are they just going to throw us at the defenses and hope for the best?” Poupard asked. He was, like his comrades, a survivor of Acre, so he could afford to sound skeptical.

  “Probably. I can’t wait to get at them for what they did to our comrades. Savages, they are. No mercy from these people if you’re wounded, so why should we give them any?” Claude demanded.

  It was one thing to be within a square with the howling Turks all around; it was quite another to move in a column against a redoubt. They all knew this but none spoke of it.

  “I could see those damn and blasted Roast Beef ships out at sea, but they are a long way out. I hope that is where they stay when we get to the barricades,” Andre grunted. “The Goddams destroyed us at Acre.”

  “Cannon fodder, that’s us. We do as we are told and we die … or live, but that’s in the hands of fate. So shut up and get some rest. We are going to be up at dawn. I want every man to have his musket ready and the pan cleaned for inspection. You’ll be showing me your balls, the ones in your pouches, not in your pants, and I want to be sure you have enough powder before we march … or else,” Sergeant Émile told them in his mild voice, but no one doubted the threat.

  He tapped out his pipe put it away carefully into his knapsack, then reached for his blanket and rolled up in it. He was asleep within a minute. Soon after the others did the same.

  The Battle of Abukir

  Chapter 12

  The Battle for Abukir

  In the very early hours of a cloudless dawn on July 25th the French divisions formed up in columns ready to move into the attack. The columns were four men wide and one hundred men long. The order came to fix bayonets and check pans. There was a flurry of activity and the metallic rattle as the long blades were snapped into place on the ends of the muskets. They were all veterans who didn’t need to be told to check their firing pans; they had already done so, and any officer who might have cared to inspect them would have found this to be true. The long lines of blue and green uniforms with white cross belts stood silent and still, waiting for the order to move forward. A chill wind drifted in from the sea, bringing a thin mist.

  The men of Général Lannes' division were well prepared and now that the battle was imminent they were impatient to get on with it. As was customary when the French columns advanced, the start of the march was ordered without drums, but as they began to close with the Turkish lines the drums began to beat so that their approach was accompanied by the ominous sound. The mounted artillery drove in on either side of the columns, ready to dismount, align and fire their rounds moments before the columns began the actual assault of the Turkish lines.

  Behind the columns and mounted artillery, the larger guns opened fire. The crash and boom of their firing announced to the Turks and the spectators in the ships that the battle had commenced. The crews aimed the big guns at the redoubts in front of the marching column, and after some ranging shots they began to pound the defenses to pieces. The heavy balls howled through the air and smashed into the poorly constructed earthworks, throwing up pillars of sand and sending pilings flying into the air. Sometimes a direct hit occurred and several of the Turkish emplacements were destroyed along with the men occupying them; the French artillery was devastatingly accurate. Soon the rear of the French army was shrouded in smoke and the first redoubt was beginning to fall apart in two places in front of the columns of men marching impassively towards them.

  Général Lannes' column made straight for the center of the Turkish defenses. while Général Lanusse made for the uncompleted trenches and redoubts on the western edge of the Turkish lines.

  The way in which the French approached the defenses served its purpose well. Seemingly indifferent to the erratic cannon fire from the first redoubt the columns simply closed ranks on those who fell and kept on coming. It was unnerving for the defenders, who had never before encountered a force of this nature.

  There was no disciplined defense from the Turkish forces. The few British officers, Major Bromley among them, simply could not persuade the Turks to wait for the French to come closer before they opened fire. The result was a lot of defiant shouting and the discharge of muskets from everywhere which had little effect on the remorseless advance. They were no better organized with their artillery. Balls howled harmlessly overhead or plowed into the sand, throwing up sprays of sand and tufts of grass before bouncing to a stop in front of the implacable advance.

  The company commanded by Captain Clément was part of the column that attacked the western redoubt. Sergeant Émile felt his new responsibilities keenly. He, like all his comrades, had done this many times before. The fear that lurked on the periphery of his mind had tentacles that threatened to reach out and take hold of his basic common sense and tell him to flee from this hell. It all had to be suppressed and the objective focused upon; you lived or you died, but your chances were better if you maintained rigid discipline.

  He knew that some of his comrades would fall. Some always did, and when it happened it was almost as though they had not existed. When a gap opened up he and the other sergeants would shout, “Close ranks. Keep marching.” Their comrades forgotten, the men continued to march towards the smoke and the fire.

  Hubert was muttering prayers while Bertrand was swearing out loud as they marched in perfect order towards the sand bank they were to assault. Gilbert vomited, he usually did when they were close to the enemy. He told his comrades that a cleared stomach gave him freedom to act. The firing intensified as they approached the bank and balls hummed overhead or smacked into flesh and bone on either side of them. Armand was struck and tumbled backwards with a cry. His comrades ignored him and marched on. There were men behind the column whose work it was to recover the wounded. The dead would be left where they were but their weapons would be picked up, along with their precious ammunition. French weaponry was in short supply these days.

  The columns were almost at the base of the redoubt. As soon the gunners saw their infantry closing the artillery at the rear ceased firing and the mounted artillery galloped forward to new positions, rapidly dismounted and set up their light guns. In very little time at all they began to fire accurately towards the damaged redoubt to keep the Turkish heads down.

  On a bellowed command from their officers the men in the infantry gave a great shout and charged. The sheer strain of having to continue in the face of the fire directed at them was loosed against the enemy, who now had a face, and the soldiers were feeling murderous. The leaden fear was gone, replaced by a ferocious need to get at the enemy.

  “Kill them! Kill them!” screamed Captain Clément as he led the way, brandishing his sword over his head. They had about twenty yards to run before they arrived at the broken redoubt and the scattered pilings. Captain Clément charged forward, and with loud battle yells the rest of the company charged after him.

  The f
irst obstacles they needed to negotiate were the shallow trenches that had been occupied by Janissaries but which had been quickly abandoned as the horse artillery came within striking distance. The trenches were half full of sand that had fallen in. The blue and green coated Infantry and Grenadiers leapt over these and swept up to the base of the redoubt. Sergeant Émile and his small group stayed together, their section following Captain Clément to the base of the first redoubt on the west with Lanusse’s brigade.

  “I cannot believe that it was only Armand!” the panting Hubert gasped.

  They were all surprised that only Armand had been hit while the rest of them so far had not been even slightly wounded.

  “Hope to God he makes it,” Claude commented, as he glanced up at the top of the berm. They paused to catch their breath for a few moments in this position of relative safety, as the cumbersome guns could not be depressed to fire down upon them. Even now when they were at close quarters the defenders’ fire was sporadic and inaccurate. The brightly dressed Janissaries with their huge mustaches, red turbans and fez, their voluminous pants and embroidered waistcoats looked very fierce. They brandished their curved swords and pikes, screaming invectives at the French clustered at the base of the redoubt.

  But these veterans had met them before and ignored their shrieking, concentrating on their objectives instead. “Do you see those heads up there?” Clément shouted over the din, pointing. They could see the heads of their former comrades on spikes all along the redoubt and a groan of hate began.

  “They are our comrades,” Clément roared. “It is time for revenge! No quarter!”

  Clément ordered some of the company sections to shoot up at the Turks while he and the others clambered over the half destroyed logs and scrambled up sand banks. The whole structure seemed to be makeshift, which was just fine as long as they could get to the top. Their comrades behind them kept up a wicked rate of fire to keep the Turks’ heads down.