Poupard, Alain, and hundreds of other men gained the top of the crude sand wall. Panting, they paused briefly at the top, then fired point blank at the Turks grouped on the other side. Captain Clément joined them in an undignified manner: propelled by a hand on his buttocks pushing him from behind, and a voice shouting, “Get on up there, Mon Capitaine, and leave some Turks for me!” Clément recognized Claude’s voice, ever an impatient man.
Shouting encouragement to one another and those behind them, they drove down and into the Turkish ranks with their bayonets extended, and their gristly work began. The French soldiers had seen the rows of heads mounted on spikes all along the redoubt, placed there by the Turks to terrify them as they approached. Unfortunately for the Janissaries it had the opposite effect. The French veterans were incensed.
“No quarter! Forward, forward comrades! Pour La France!” came the shouts from all around. Poupard and Sergeant Émile were among those who took up the cry.
The artillery barrage had shaken the Turks. The appearance of the horse artillery at close quarters and their speed and accuracy had distracted the Turkish gunners so that they had been totally ineffective in mounting a response. Now the appearance of blue and green coats on the top of the redoubt startled the Turks long enough for the French soldiers behind the first rank of infantrymen to clamber up and reinforce them at the top. It became a savage hand-to-hand battle; but Poupard and his comrades, Gérard, Sergeant Émile, Claude and the others in the company led by Captain Clément, who was using his saber to good effect, were battle-hardened soldiers with a cold hatred in their hearts. They were going to avenge their comrades at any cost.
The company of men who had survived the retreat across the desert, now stayed together and exacted their revenge. They presented a bristling, impenetrable array of bloody bayonets that deflected wildly swung sabers and poorly aimed pikes, then stabbed with deadly accuracy at exposed Turkish bodies. They and the line of men behind them reloaded and fired so rapidly that the crash and flame of musket fire seemed almost continuous. Sergeant Émile worked alongside his comrades, grunting, cursing, and sweating, and sometimes snarling at his victims with the rage of battle, as he and they worked their bloody trade.
Sometimes a Turk was lucky with either a pistol or a musket and a French soldier would stagger and begin to fall, but his comrades would snatch at his cross straps and haul him unceremoniously back behind them, then they would close ranks, whereupon, if anything, the bayoneting became even more savage.
While the Turks displayed wild courage as they defended their positions it soon became evident to them that they could make little or no impression on the steady, mechanical thrust and stabbing tactics of the veteran French soldiers, behind whom others poured a relentless hail of lead. The noise of gunfire, the smack of lead on flesh and bone at close range, and the screams and sobs of the wounded was overlaid with a growing pall of choking, acrid gun smoke.
Before very long the dead and dying lay in colorful, bloody heaps over which the Infantrie and Grenadiers tramped, bayonetting those who still lived to ensure they were not going to be a problem from behind. Although it seemed like an eternity to the men fighting, the whole engagement had only taken a few long minutes since the first columns broke through. Now they were followed by the rest of the brigade as Général Lanusse saw his opportunity and ordered them in.
Sergeant Émile was hoarse from shouting and the cloying smoke that made his throat raw. “Stay close,” he rasped, “do not stray. Stay close! Reload! Reload!”
His comrades did, along with hundreds of the other troops of infantry, and they stayed close together in the confusion of the battle, always pushing forward and closing ranks whenever one of their men fell. Inevitably the barricades began to fall apart as men behind the front ranks tore at them with picks and shovels to open up a gap to allow the cavalry and horse gunners through.
The infantry would halt every now and then at a bellowed command from the Captain.
“Halt! Front rank kneel. Fire! Reload. Rear rank Fire! Reload. Forward!”
The men would fumble for a cartridge, bite off the end, pour the dark gray powder down a scorching hot barrel then using the paper of the cartridge as a wad ram it behind the powder then a lead ball was hammered home after that. The men spat out the residue of the paper from bone dry mouths and parched cracked lips. Then the hammer was cocked and fine powder shaken into the pan.
A short pause, then the shout: “Tirez!” The deafening crash of muskets at close range and the sharp jolt of the recoil. Roils of smoke, then a hoarse shout from the captain. “Avancez.” The men stamped forward one, two, three paces with their bayonets leveled, driving into the massed ranks of the screaming and roaring Turks in front of them. The smell of blood and shit, vomit and sweat mingled with the smoke, clogging the nostrils of the living, making for the putrid stink of hell.
There was no quarter expected nor given by either side, and the Turks resisted fiercely. Very often one of the Janissaries, screaming to Allah, would hurl himself at the bristling array in a mad charge, screaming and slashing with his sword, only to be spitted by one or other of the advancing men who, with a snarl of his own, would stab the man with his long bayonet. The Janissary would fall and be trampled by those French soldiers behind as they marched forward, some slipping to their knees in the puddles of blood and the entrails of the gutted. The Turkish line held their makeshift defenses for some time before the concentrated weight of the French numbers began to tell, and then the defense crumbled and quickly become a rout.
With triumphant shouts Lanusse’s brigade clambered over the half demolished redoubts and the trenches while the Turks fled the area. Worse was to come for the Janissaries, however, for the fall of the western side distracted their comrades in the center, and before long Général Lannes' division, taking advantage of the confusion, broke through and the rout of the entire first line of defense began.
Chapter 13
The Rout
Thousands of the Turks were slaughtered as they turned and fled the first redoubt. They fell in bloody piles of bodies as the French poured fire into their retreating backs with no mercy whatsoever. They initially fled towards their comrades in the second line of defense but when most of them were denied admission because the French were so close behind them, they died. The French soldiers shot them down, so the tide of fleeing men swerved and took to the sea. The screams of the wounded and dying filled the air all around the combatants, but the French were implacable and drove on.
It soon became a stampede; Janissaries abandoned their weapons and equipment, then died before they could get to the water. Those that could make it were screaming and clawing at one another as they tried to reach the gunboats which were standing out from the beaches.
Earlier that day, Sir Sidney Smith had ordered the ships to send boats to stand off from the sea shore and on Lake Maadieh with cannon and carronades, with orders to harry the French on their flanks.
Seeing the defenses on the west side begin to crumble, Sir Sidney called over to the other boat commanders to bring the British boats round to the west of the peninsula and to get closer to try to arrest the French progress. The men on his boat pulled hard to bring the boat within fifty yards of the shore. As bullets began to zip past them, Sir Sidney ordered the gunners to fire at clusters of the French army, who were forming up in the space between the two defense lines.
The junior officers on the other boats lined up with his, and their guns opened up, adding to the deafening din and dense smoke of battle. Squinting through the smoke, Sir Sidney tried to assess the situation on the shore. To a certain extent the gun boats were successful and the French began to take casualties. But they moved rapidly out of the way, and then the men on the boats beheld an awful sight. The Turks on the first redoubt had been routed long before the gun boats were able to do much good, and they were now between the British and the French. The British had to cease firing or risk killing their own allies.
; Thousands of the Turkish men rushed to the beach on the west side, preferring to take their chances with the sea over the ferocious and vengeful bayonet-wielding French soldiers. They ran screaming and howling into the water where a very few were able to reach the boats. Sir Sidney and his men were suddenly preoccupied with saving Turkish lives as men pleaded from the water for help. They hauled as many as they could onto the boats, but there were many others who could not even swim out as far as the boats, so they drowned in relatively shallow water, as those in front were pushed further out or trampled under foot. Either way they perished, and the sea was clogged with a solid mass of drowned or drowning men whose bodies began to sink to the bottom. Only a few were able to survive long enough to be hauled aboard the gun boats, almost swamping them in the process.
It became impossible for the British gun boats to provide any useful firepower as they ran the risk of simply adding to the destruction of the Turks who obstructed their access to the French.
Worse was to come, for the French light artillery galloped up to the dunes and with cold efficiency unlimbered their guns at practiced speed and began to fire grapeshot into the water all around the boats. Then the captured guns still in the first redoubt were hauled around and their well directed fire was added to that of the cavalry. It soon became obvious that the position of the boats had become untenable. The water all around them was alive with water spouts from gun fire and the panicked splashing of drowning men.
Sir Sidney, seeing that it was a hopeless cause, shouted to the boat crews to pull away and waved the others off. They had no choice, with the water being churned up all around them by shot and shells and the desperate, shrieking Turks reaching for them and threatening to overturn the boats. The crews thankfully and energetically applied themselves to the oars, and although impeded by the wet and wailing Janissaries on board, they managed to pull their boats out of immediate danger.
Appalled, Sir Sidney and his men watched the mass of Janissaries drowning before their very eyes as they pulled away. Although he was outwardly calm he was seething with anger, for the Turkish gun boats had refused to come around the peninsula to join his own boats on the west side where they were most needed. He was sure they could have prevented the rout and perhaps saved the day. The combined firepower of all the boats in one place would have easily out-matched that of the French horse artillery. But those boats were now far out of reach on the other side of the peninsula where they were useless.
He ordered his boatswain to row towards the area behind the second line of defenses and waded ashore with some sailors as a body guard to try and make for the Pasha’s tent. He was met by Major Bromley and some marines who had managed to evade the French and get back to the relative shelter of the second redoubt. They were panting and angry at what they had witnessed.
The group of British soldiers and sailors could not make much progress because all around them was chaos. Frightened, wailing slaves and servants mingled with leaderless Janissaries to block the way. The opulence of the camp area was in stark contrast to the madness, filth and gore of the defense lines. Then the gun fire intensified at the second line of defense. The Turks on the walls and barricades screamed defiance and fired off irregular volleys from their muskets, while their remaining cannon banged away at the approaching enemy. Sir Sidney noted with professional disgust how slow they were to reload. His own sailors or the Marines would do much more damage.
Sir Sidney and his small escort hurried towards the redoubt just in time to see the French repulsed, whereupon any remaining discipline the Turks might have had was lost. Thinking the French were beaten, they scrambled down from the redoubt, screaming and howling their battle cries, abandoning their positions to rush back into the area between the defense lines to hack and dismember the dead and wounded French soldiers who had been left behind.
Sir Sidney and his men watched appalled as the Turks mutilated the dead, but then one of the men called over to him.
“Sir! Look over there!” He pointed to towards the first redoubt. “It’s the cavalry, they’re getting ready to charge!”
Sir Sidney stared over to where the man was pointing, and sure enough he could see clearly that the French cavalry were rapidly forming up just inside the gaps of the first redoubt and indeed were about to launch themselves at the Turkish soldiers who were preoccupied with their gristly tasks.
“We cannot defend this place on our own, Sir Sidney. I am sure that those Frenchies will find the gaps, or make their own and get through. There is no one to stop them, Sir!” Major Bromley shouted over the deafening noise of battle all around them.
“You are right. Where is the Pasha? He should damned well be here!” Sir Sidney snapped with a grimace of disgust. He was shocked that the Pasha had not been at the front of his forces, as then he might have been able to restrain the madness of his men. A catastrophe was unfolding but Sir Sidney and his men could do nothing about it. The time had come to leave and try to take the Pasha with them.
He looked behind him towards the largest tent in the encampment and pointed. “We must see if we can get to him and persuade him to defend the line ... or leave with us,” he called, beginning to run towards the tent.
*****
Général Lannes' division, once over the first defenses, turned towards the western beaches to link up with Lannuse and establish a firm grip on the flank of the Turkish lines.
There was a pause while they regrouped, then at a shouted command the French hurled themselves at the second line of defense. These proved to be better built and manned by more determined Janissaries, supported by several British officers and Marines. This time the French soldiers, exhausted by their previous efforts, could not make it past the Turks on the banks.
Captain Clément, along with Sergeant Émile and his troop, were to the forefront of that attack, but they were tired and moved slowly. Casualties began to mount. Gérard caught a bullet in the chest and fell without a word, while Poupard and another fell back wounded. Their comrades seized the three wounded men by their epaulettes and cross straps and dragged them to a space behind them. They knew what would happen should they be left out in front.
The others fired up at the men on the top of the redoubt to keep the Turkish heads down, while the front line attempted to scramble up the slopes. There were many more Turks there than had been on the first redoubt, and their concentrated firepower was too much. The French began to waver.
Émile and his comrades heard the bugle call to retreat, and Captain Clément reluctantly waved his men back with his bloody sword. All the companies executed the retreat in good order, falling back across the blood-soaked, corpse-strewn sand to the first redoubt, where they formed up and faced the enemy while reloading. Émile and another seized Poupard by the shoulder epaulets and dragged him along with them; others along the line pulled as many wounded as they could to safety behind their line.
“We do not leave you behind!” Émile croaked through a mouth that tasted like ashes. He had no illusions as to what the Turks would do to his comrade should they find him. He was right. This retreat was a signal for the Turks to sally forth and begin to behead those French soldiers who were either dead or left wounded on the field. They totally disregarded the French assembled in front of them while they carried out their gristly activities. Their exultant shrieks and the bloody butchery of the wounded and the dead resembled the actions of demons who had temporarily escaped from hell, observed with disgust and rage by the French officers and men gathered at the trenches they had formerly overrun.
The Turks showed no discipline whatsoever, rushing about in a random manner, ignoring the French as though they had already been defeated. But Murat was also at the opening to the first line of defense with his cavalry. He saw an opportunity and seized it.
“Suivez moi! Pour La France!” He shouted, brandishing his saber. Calling upon his men to follow him he put spurs to his mount and led them at a ferocious charge into the space between the two lines, catching th
e Turks completely by surprise.
They had been so preoccupied with their looting and mutilating the dead that they barely heard the thunder of horses’ hooves until it was too late. The cavalry used their heavy sabers with awful efficiency, hacking and stabbing, then running the fleeing Turks down with their horses, crushing them under the iron-shod hooves of their mounts. Within minutes the field was cleared of living Turks. All were either dead, wounded, or fleeing for their lives.
Slashing their way through the massed Turks, Murat and his horsemen arrived at the second line of redoubts and trenches, already being abandoned, and swept over or through the gaps blown by their artillery with minimal resistance from those still manning them. Within a few minutes the second line of defense was wide open, allowing the French infantry to pour through or over and capture the guns, while the cavalry proceeded on to the now exposed Pasha’s encampment.
The cheering French Infantrie and the Grenadiers were out for blood and almost no one they encountered on their way to the fort was spared. Clément and his men led the charge, screaming and yelling like madmen, but they ran in a solid group that bristled with blood-stained bayonets. Turks fled before them, knowing that there would be no quarter given by this implacable foe. Despite the need to scatter the enemy and the temptation to break ranks to hunt them down individually, Émile and his companions remained disciplined and grouped together, as did the other companies around them.
Listening to their NCOs and officers, who roared hoarse commands over the din of artillery, the howling balls and the deafening crash of musketry all around, they now advanced at the trot to pause, fire and reload, then move forward and fire again. When close pressed they used their bayonets with devastating effect. Sergeant Émile parried a clumsy lunge from a desperate enemy, then thrusting in and twisting, then stamping on the body that would not release the bayonet. Dragging it free, he called his men to close ranks with their comrades. They obeyed, all with blades dripping with gore and blood-bespattered uniforms. They were caught up in the blood lust of battle and vengeance.
Midshipman Graham and the Battle of Abukir Page 11