The Generals r-2

by Simon Scarrow

  Cannon fire echoed across the surface of the Nile as the gunboats shifted their aim from the other bank and started to bombard Embabeh, pounding the ramparts. The enemy fusillade slackened as the Mamelukes took cover and the French columns quickened their step as they approached the fortifications. Napoleon ducked instinctively as a roundshot from one of the gunboats whirred overhead.

  ‘Shit, that was close,’ Berthier muttered.

  Napoleon nodded. ‘Hope those bastards on our boats don’t get carried away and forget to cease firing. Time to continue on foot, I think.’

  He slipped down from his saddle and handed the reins to one of his staff officers. An infantry battalion was marching past and Napoleon exchanged a few cheerful greetings with them before falling into step with the captain of the rear company.

  ‘Mind if Berthier and I join you?’

  The captain, a stocky youth, a few years younger than his general, flushed with pride as he saluted. ‘It would be an honour, sir.’

  ‘The honour is ours, Captain. Now, let’s see what your men can do.’

  The last cannon fired from the gunboats just as the colours of the leading battalion reached the foot of the rampart. The grenadier company immediately scrambled up the steep slope, struggling to keep moving in the shifting sand that had been piled up against the ramparts to slow the attackers down. Now that the bombardment from the gunboats had ceased the Mamelukes returned to the ramparts and renewed their fire on the French troops. But it was already too late for them, as the skirmishers in front of the ramparts raised their muskets and fired at any turbaned heads that appeared above the parapet, either side of the assault column. As Napoleon watched, the grenadiers swarmed up the slope, and then hauled themselves over the breastwork to fall on the defenders beyond. The sound of musket fire was replaced with the harsh scrape and ring of bayonets and swords and the wild cries of men fighting for their lives.

  The companies following the grenadiers began to climb up and feed into the fight spreading out along the wall.As Napoleon made his way forward with the last company of the battalion the churned sand gave way beneath his boots and he was breathing hard by the time he reached the ramparts. The bodies of Mamelukes and French soldiers were sprawled on either side. A short distance ahead lay the nearest houses of the village and the Mamelukes were streaming back from the walls into the narrow alleys between the mud-plastered buildings, pursued by French soldiers wildly shouting out their cries of triumph and jeers of contempt.

  Suddenly, there was a loud boom and a cannon ball cut a bloody path through the soldiers who had just entered a street right in front of Napoleon. An instant later the ball struck the inside slope of the rampart a short distance from Napoleon and Berthier, flinging sand over them. Napoleon blinked and brushed the dirt away from his face before running to peer round the corner of the street into the heart of the village, where a cloud of smoke eddied around the monstrous muzzle of a vast gun. Already the Mamelukes were busy ramming another charge down the barrel while two men approached, struggling under the burden of a huge ball. A fearsome weapon indeed, thought Napoleon, but its very size was its biggest weakness. It could cover the street, but it was far too large to be manoeuvrable.

  ‘You!’ Napoleon beckoned to a corporal. ‘Find your company commander. Tell him I want him to work forward down a side street and take that gun. He’s to place a man here to warn others to keep clear. Understand?’

  The corporal saluted and turned away to find his captain, just as the gun boomed out again, this time with greater elevation, so that the ball roared close overhead and Napoleon felt the wind of its passage before it ploughed through a group of men and blew out a section of the breastwork on the rampart.

  ‘Sweet Jesus . . .’ Berthier said softly as he looked up and saw the mutilated bodies and torn limbs that marked the place where the ball had struck.

  Napoleon ignored him, and the carnage behind Berthier, and started forward until he reached the men assembling at the edge of the village a short distance along from the street covered by the gun.The young captain had drawn his sword and was issuing his orders to his men.

  ‘No firing.We go down this alley as fast as we can. Don’t stop for anything. I’ll shoot the first man I see looting. Once we are parallel to the cannon, we’ll take them with the bayonet.’ He paused as he caught sight of his general. ‘Sir, what are you doing here? It’s dangerous.’

  Napoleon grinned. ‘You tell me where it isn’t dangerous today!’

  The men laughed along with their officer and then, as the captain led them into the alley, they followed with bayonets raised. Napoleon and Berthier went after them and Napoleon felt his pulse racing with the familiar feeling of excitement that only came when his life was at risk. He thought briefly of Josephine, and how she might react if he fell in this battle. The idea of her sweet grief spurred him on and he ran headlong behind his soldiers. The captain halted his company at a broad intersection and motioned to them to take cover along the sides of the street. Napoleon crept over to him and squatted down at his side.

  ‘The gun’s down there, sir.’The captain nodded to the corner. ‘Not far.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Napoleon drew his sword. ‘Give the order, Captain.’

  The other man nodded, rose up and drew a deep breath. ‘Company! On your feet!’ He paused a moment as his men gathered themselves, clutching their muskets tightly. Then he raised his sword and swept it down towards the street that led to the gun. ‘Charge!’

  They dashed forward, and Napoleon ran with them, sword held low to prevent it from accidentally stabbing any of his men. As he rounded the corner, he saw the Mameluke artillery crew throw down their equipment and snatch out their curved swords and pistols. There was no time to organise a defence and only a few managed to fire their weapons before the French were in amongst them, thrusting with their bayonets and clubbing at the enemy with the heavy butts of their muskets. It was all over even before Napoleon reached the gun.The Mamelukes had been cut down in the rush and the soldiers finished off the wounded with quick thrusts to the throat or heart.

  As in every other village Napoleon had seen in Egypt, a mosque faced on to the market square and he beckoned to Berthier to join him as he made his way through the arched entrance. Inside it was cool and gloomy and as his eyes adjusted Napoleon was aware of movement across the floor of the building, and saw bodies stretched out before him. A few of the enemy orderlies treating their wounded glanced up with frightened expressions, but Napoleon and Berthier ignored them and made for the base of the tower to climb the steps to the roof.

  From that vantage point they could see out over the entire village and its line of defences. Here and there Napoleon caught sight of his men in the streets or on the roofs as they steadily fought their way through Embabeh. The Mameluke defenders were falling back towards the river bank, and would surely escape to join the rest of their army. If Murad Bey was beaten today, it was vital that he escaped with as few men as possible to continue the struggle. The future of France’s interests in Egypt depended on winning an annihilating victory. Napoleon pointed to a narrow spur of rock jutting out parallel to the river.

  ‘Berthier, see that high ground there? I want that taken as swiftly as possible.’ He thought quickly. ‘Send Marmont. He has a brigade just outside the village. Tell him to cover the bank and hold back any attempt the enemy makes to escape along the river.’>

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Berthier hurried down the steps, leaving Napoleon to pull out his small pocket telescope. He snapped it out to its full extent and turned to see how Desaix was coping on the right flank. The enemy cavalry had drawn back to regroup, but even as Napoleon watched they edged forward, building up speed until they were galloping straight towards the unbroken French squares. He could not help admiring the courage of those gaudily dressed warriors. On another battlefield, against a less professional army, they would have swept all before them. But not today.

  Napoleon turned to look at the
men of Bon’s division drawn up outside Embabeh. It was not long before he saw Marmont’s brigade, nearest the ramparts, turn to the right and begin quick-marching round the perimeter of the village. As it passed the section of the fortifications still in enemy hands the Mamelukes opened fire on the French column and Napoleon saw several fall before Marmont gave the order for his men to break into a run and the column hurried on, kicking up a billowing haze of dust as they made for the low ridge Napoleon had spotted earlier. Already, the Mamelukes had been pressed back to the far side of the village and the first of them were hurrying along the bank of the Nile towards safety.

  Marmont deployed his men into line at once, and then marched down from the ridge to cut off the enemy’s line of escape. As the Mamelukes continued to emerge from the south end of the village they were confronted by a solid formation of French soldiers. One of the enemy commanders rallied his men and they charged Marmont’s brigade. He let them close to within fifty paces before he gave the order to fire and a bank of smoke instantly hid the French from view. Napoleon saw the Mameluke charge stumble to a halt as scores of the warriors were cut down, including the man who had led them.They stood their ground for a moment, drawing their pistols and firing into the smoke. Then another volley tore through them and they broke and ran, in their desperation heading for the only remaining means of escape, the Nile.

  They streamed down the banks, discarding their weapons and as much of their heavy clothing as possible, then plunged into the muddy shallows, wading out to the deeper water before striking out towards the far bank. As Marmont’s brigade advanced towards the desperate fugitives a breathless Berthier re-joined Napoleon on the roof. He looked towards the river, glittering with the spray splashed up by the hundreds of men fleeing into the current. Many were cut down by musket fire from Marmont’s men.

  Napoleon raised his telescope and through the magnifying lens he saw a dozen men chest deep in the muddy river. Some of them lurched forward, trying to swim to safety. A few strokes out and one began to sink, his arms flailing before the weight of his flowing robes and his equipment pulled him under. There was a brief swirl in the water and then no further trace of the man. Another got a little further before he too sank and drowned. Only one of the Mamelukes, more lightly burdened than the others, kept going. The rest, unable to swim, or not daring to, turned and raised their hands. But there was no mercy in the hearts of Marmont’s men.They had seen, or heard of, the terrible fate of those Frenchmen taken by the enemy and were out for revenge. So they lined the bank and shot down the Mamelukes in the river, calmly taking aim, firing and reloading, until finally, as the sound of musket fire petered out, the edge of the Nile was dotted with the glistening hummocks of dead men floating in muddy water streaked with vivid red.

  ‘May God forgive us,’ muttered Berthier.

  Napoleon shrugged. ‘And may Allah forgive them. Do you really imagine they would have treated us any differently had they won?’

  Berthier was silent for a moment and then shook his head.

  ‘Quite.’ Napoleon gazed to the right flank. ‘Besides, it isn’t over yet.’

  Murad Bey was attempting one more attack on the French right, and the afternoon sun glittered on the curved blades of his horsemen as they thundered across the desert towards the French formations. As before, they were met with a shattering volley of musket and cannon fire, cutting down the foremost ranks and littering the ground with the bodies of men and horses, so that the impetus of the charge was broken. But still the Mamelukes came on, closing on the squares and then galloping at full speed along the sides of the formations as they brandished their swords and fired their pistols. All the time their numbers were thinned out by the solid ranks of French infantry firing from behind their impenetrable hedges of bayonets.

  ‘How much longer can they take such punishment?’ Berthier wondered. ‘Surely they must know they cannot win?’

  Napoleon was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘They are as brave as any soldiers I have ever seen, but bravery is not enough to win a battle. As Murad Bey is in the process of discovering.’ He suddenly felt very weary. ‘Let’s hope that he has learned his lesson, before he squanders too many more of those fine men of his. Perhaps he is brave enough to accept defeat.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s possible, sir.’

  ‘Why not, Berthier?’

  ‘These are his lands he is fighting for. We’re the invaders. I doubt he’ll give in, any more than we would if we were defending France from an invader.’

  Napoleon considered this for a moment. Berthier was right about Murad Bey, perhaps, but he had forgotten one thing. Napoleon was a Corsican, and even though he had bound his fate to that of France he knew that, if ever the time came, he would fight any invader with his brains and not his heart.

  ‘They’re breaking off,’ Berthier said in a relieved tone.

  Sure enough, the Mameluke cavalry was drifting away from the French squares, the last to fall back turning and firing their pistols from the saddle before spurring their mounts out of range of the French muskets and cannon that had claimed the lives of so many of their comrades.They withdrew half a mile before re-forming, and for a moment it seemed they might yet charge one more time. But as Berthier and Napoleon watched, the mass of horsemen turned their mounts round and melted away into the large cloud of dust to the south.

  Napoleon pulled his watch from its fob and glanced down. Not even five o’clock, he noted with surprise. The battle had been fought and won in less than an hour and a half. As the sun hung low in the sky, the French army stood their ground on a wasteland, surrounded by thousands of dead and dying enemies. A few hundred of their own lay about them. Yet there were no cheers of triumph, no spirit of elation, just an exhausted sense of relief at being alive, and awe at the vast number of those who had fallen to their guns. Most of all they yearned to slake their thirst in the bloodstained waters of the Nile, and loot the finely dressed corpses that lay all about them in the gathering shades of dusk.

  Napoleon nodded to the far bank of the river. ‘It’s over. Tomorrow Cairo will be ours. Who would have thought that an empire could be won so easily? Wait until all France hears of this!’ He slapped Berthier on the shoulder.

  His chief of staff forced a smile. ‘A battle is won, sir. But the campaign is not yet over.’

  ‘It might as well be.What can Murad Bey do now? Nothing. He is finished. I tell you, Berthier, this is the hour of my triumph. And nothing can diminish it.’

  ‘I hope so, sir. With all my heart.’

  Chapter 32

  The enemy abandoned Cairo during the following night and two days later, on 24 July, Napoleon entered the Egyptian capital. The imams and other leaders anxious to win favour had urged their people to come out on to the streets to welcome the French general and his army. As Napoleon and his staff rode up to the open gateway that gave on to the city’s main thoroughfare the religious leaders, the highest officials and the wealthiest merchants met him at the gate and formally offered him the surrender of the city. Napoleon listened to their speeches through an interpreter and then respectfully accepted the surrender. With the Egyptians leading the way and a smartly turned out battalion from each division following Napoleon and his staff, the procession wound its way through the main streets of Cairo towards the palace of the Pasha.The soldiers with their smart facings and brightly polished buttons marched to the tunes of their bands and sang as they tramped through the baking streets, made more uncomfortable still by the press of bodies of the city’s inhabitants who had come to see the spectacle.

  Napoleon bowed his head graciously to either side as he passed through the cheering crowds. He had been told that the natives measured a man’s status by his finery and wore his best uniform coat, hurriedly adorned with ample gold lace, and a silk sash of red and blue tied about his waist. This was not France, where a man was obliged to demonstrate his pious devotion to duty with no thought of reward if he was to win the affection of the publi
c. They were in a new land, far from home, and needed to win the support of the local people if the influence of France was to spread into the east and encroach upon the territory and trade routes of England.

  Besides, he reflected with a faint smile as he progressed along the streets, he had liked the image he cut in his fine uniform as he had examined himself in a mirror earlier that day. And his pride in his achievements, and those of his army, merited this celebration. In less than a month he had won a new land for France, and his mind churned with phrases and grand figures of speech that he would deploy when he wrote the dispatch to France telling them of the magnificent victory gained in the very shadow of the great pyramids. A fine phrase, he thought. One to note down the moment he had time to return to his papers.

  Of course, he admitted to himself, the remnants of the enemy army still had to be brought to battle and annihilated. But after losing their capital and melting away into the desert it was surely only a matter of time before the fellahin levies returned to their homes, and then Murad Bey would have only a few thousand Mamelukes and Bedouin allies to continue the fight. What chance had they to frustrate French ambitions? Napoleon had already decided to hunt them down and destroy them utterly. Then there would be peace and France could begin to milk her latest conquest, wringing wealth out of Egypt to finance the sinews of war back in Europe. The Directory would be in his debt more than ever. Parisian society would worship him alongside the greatest heroes of France, and - his heart warmed at the thought - Josephine would glow with pride in her husband. One day he would return to her embrace as the great conqueror and they would be the most dazzling couple in Paris.