The Albanian commander, Semiz, watched as the French infantry line began to advance, and his face turned ashen. His own troops were still in disarray, far from being battle-ready.

“What are the cavalry doing?!” he angrily raised his binoculars and looked toward the northern part of the battlefield. He saw hundreds of Albanian cavalry charging at the thin line of French infantry.

But those French soldiers stood firm like a rock, unleashing a volley of musket fire. The front ranks of the Albanian cavalry were immediately cut down, with dust rising into the air.

Then there was a faint cannon shot. Semiz couldn’t spot the cannon, but he saw something that looked like a severed arm flying into the air amidst a spray of blood.

Because the Albanian cavalry hadn’t formed a proper formation, their charge was scattered over 200 meters. The riders further back were spooked by the cannon fire and the screams of their comrades, and they quickly veered off to the sides.

Semiz watched as some of the dead horses, driven by momentum, crashed into the French infantry’s right flank, causing some disruption. A few riders who couldn’t control their horses also charged in but were quickly bayoneted by the French soldiers.

But there were no more cavalry behind them, and the French line soon reformed.

Semiz cursed under his breath, “Cowardly Albanians! If they had just pushed 50 more steps, the French would have been forced to fall back to support their right flank!”

But morale is a fragile thing, influenced by many factors. Once it breaks, it’s nearly impossible to restore without pulling back to regroup.

Meanwhile, the French cavalry had finished forming up and were now charging down the slope from the north.

The Albanian cavalry, seeing this, fled even faster. The four-pounder cannon switched to solid shot, firing into their retreating ranks and leaving a trail of blood and gore.

On the main battlefield, the French Guard Corps continued to advance steadily, their line stretching nearly a kilometer long, moving in a straight line with an unstoppable momentum.

By this time, the Albanian left flank had been utterly decimated by dozens of rounds of French artillery fire, leaving behind nothing but blood and gore. A gaping hole had formed in their line.

A French skirmisher company stepped out from the main formation, checked their weapons according to the manual, and then three drummers began to beat their drums as they marched forward.

A hundred soldiers followed, spreading out in a loose formation.

On the right flank, Lefebvre ordered his men to fire two more volleys at the retreating Albanian cavalry. Realizing they couldn’t catch up, he turned and saw the main French line had launched a full assault.

He immediately ordered his company to form up and, after consulting with his battalion commander, led his skirmishers into the main battle.

The Albanian soldiers, terrified by the approaching French, could no longer maintain their formation. Some began firing wildly at the French.

But with the inaccuracy of flintlock muskets, firing without a coordinated volley was almost futile.

The French Guard Corps continued to advance until they were just 70 paces away from the enemy. Then, on the officers’ command, they halted and quickly realigned their ranks.

The company commanders shouted in unison, “Ready!”

“Aim!”

“Fire!”

The line erupted in a synchronized blaze of musket fire, with nearly a thousand bullets ripping into the Albanian mercenaries.

“Reload! Second rank, forward three steps!”

“Ready!”

“Aim…”

The Guard Corps’ line functioned like a well-oiled machine. One rank of soldiers stepped forward, fired a volley, and reloaded in place. The rank behind them immediately advanced to fire, followed by the rank behind them.

Under this relentless firepower, the French line advanced to within 50 paces of the mercenaries.

The devastating power of the new flintlock muskets was on full display—each volley from the French line claimed nearly a hundred Albanian lives.

The heavy casualties caused the Albanian front line to falter, with soldiers fleeing in terror. Those who remained attempted to resist but were quickly overwhelmed, leaving the formation in complete disarray.

Some of the most determined Albanian units held their ground, but most were either retreating under the relentless French fire or had already fled to the rear, where they were struggling with their own officers trying to keep them from deserting.

The entire Albanian line had disintegrated into a patchwork of broken units scattered across the battlefield.

In the gap on the Albanian left flank, a French skirmisher company spread out across 40 meters, crouching as they slowly advanced, occasionally stopping to pick off targets.

After advancing about 30 or 40 paces, they heard a loud, rough laugh from behind them: “Anatole, you’re too by-the-book. There’s hardly any enemy left here; we should push through quickly!”

Captain Anatole turned to see Lefebvre’s skirmishers forming up into five ranks and quickly moving past his men, charging directly into the gap in the Albanian lines.

“We’re skirmishers…”

Lefebvre shouted back, “The only rule for skirmishers is flexibility. See you on the other side!”

Anatole watched in surprise as Lefebvre’s company pushed deep into the enemy lines. He quickly ordered his own men, “Form up into a column! Charge forward!”

Lefebvre’s company advanced to within point-blank range of the Albanians before ordering his men to spread out. A group of determined Albanian spearmen charged at them, but Lefebvre’s men, led by a quick-thinking lieutenant, shot several of them down and bayoneted the rest.

Two minutes later, Lefebvre’s company had formed a somewhat ragged line.

“Aim!”

“Fire!”

At Lefebvre’s command, 30 muskets fired in unison. Seven or eight Albanian mercenaries were struck down as if hit by invisible punches, while the others panicked and fled.

Lefebvre led his men deeper into the Albanian lines, then ordered them to pivot southward, toward the left flank of the enemy position, continuing to fire and press inward.

By this time, Anatole’s company had caught up and formed a line to join the fight on Lefebvre’s flank.

The Albanian line, already teetering on the brink of collapse, was now under attack from two sides. Nearly 10,000 mercenaries were being overwhelmed by just 3,000 French soldiers, unable to mount any effective resistance and steadily falling back toward the southwest.

This was not just a result of superior tactics but also of the vast difference in soldier quality and weaponry.

The French artillery, under Berthier’s orders, began to concentrate their fire on the center of the Albanian line. With nearly 10,000 men spread out across the barren plain, it was almost impossible to miss.

Soon, Semiz saw his left flank completely collapse, and the French forces had maneuvered into a position to envelop his troops, forcing them into the kill zone of the French artillery.

With a grim expression, he turned to his adjutant, “Send the reserves forward. Order a full retreat!”

The reserve force under Fathis consisted of about 1,200 men. They had been stationed at the rear of the battlefield and were now fully formed up and beginning to advance.

But Berthier had no intention of letting them retreat in an orderly fashion.

Seeing the disarray in the enemy ranks through his binoculars, he ordered, “Recall the cavalry and prepare to pursue the fleeing enemy. Have the infantry charge with bayonets.”

“Yes, sir!”

Through his binoculars, Joseph saw the two companies that had broken through the enemy’s left flank and nodded approvingly. “Who commands that northern company?”

Berthier replied, “Your Highness, the smoke is too thick to see their flag.”

Joseph, observing the situation, offered his suggestion, “It looks like the enemy is retreating. Perhaps we could send those two companies around to cut off their escape.”

Berthier hesitated. After all, it was only two companies, about 200 men.

“Your Highness, if they try to outflank the enemy, they might run into their reserves. They’re too few in number.”

Joseph nodded, “I was just thinking out loud. Don’t let me interfere with your decisions.”

On the front lines, the Guard Corps infantry stopped just 30 paces from the enemy and fired one final volley before fixing bayonets.

As the drumbeat intensified, the officers drew their swords and shouted, “Charge! For the King!”

“For the Prince!”

“Charge!”

The white-clad infantry line surged forward like a tidal wave, crashing into the Albanian mercenaries. The mercenaries were already in complete disarray, and many had no will to fight—those who did couldn’t hold their loose, uneven formation.

The front ranks of the mercenaries were quickly impaled on French bayonets, and the screams of the wounded filled the air. Those who had been retreating slowly now turned and ran for their lives.

Lefebvre, still leading his company in an orderly advance, suddenly noticed the enemy was fleeing en masse.

He paused for a moment, then shouted to the nearby captain, “Anatole, it looks like the enemy is running!”

“Then let’s chase them!”

Lefebvre looked to the west, shaking his head, “We’re deep in the enemy’s rear. We should try to cut off their retreat.”

“Huh?”

“Are you coming with me?”

“What are you planning?”

Lefebvre smiled and turned to his messenger, “Order the company to form a column and avoid engaging the enemy. We’ll march west as quickly as possible!”

Meanwhile, the Albanian reserve force under Fathis had formed a neat line and allowed several “Oks,” or regiments, to pass through. Then they saw the white-clad Guard Corps soldiers charging toward them with bayonets fixed.

“Aim! Fire!”

Fathis shouted, ordering his men to fire, even though some of their comrades were still in the line of fire.

A volley of musket fire erupted, and thick smoke billowed into the air. Dozens of Albanian mercenaries and French soldiers fell to the ground.

The Guard Corps’ charge was momentarily halted.

The frontline battalion commander saw that the Albanians were still capable of organized resistance and frowned slightly.

He was about to order his troops to regroup for a volley when he heard someone shout from the south, “Don’t be afraid! They can’t shoot more than twice! In the Prince’s name, follow me!”

Standing in his stirrups, the battalion commander saw a company charging recklessly toward the Albanian line.

“That’s Davout?” He recognized the flag and clenched his riding crop in frustration. “That reckless fool! If the enemy…”

But before he could finish the thought, he heard shouts from the right flank, “Let them see what the Guard Corps is made of! Charge!”

The battalion commander turned and saw four or five companies following Davout’s lead, charging into the enemy lines.

He quickly signaled his messenger, “Order them to fire and cover the advance!”

The Albanian mercenaries were among the most feared in the Ottoman Empire. Despite the French Guards’ overwhelming momentum, they managed to reload and raise their muskets.

Fathis shouted desperately, “Fire! Fire now!”

A volley of musket fire erupted.

As he charged, Davout heard something whizz past his ear. He instinctively turned and saw his sergeant, half his face gone, spin around and collapse into the grass.

The mercenaries’ volley had killed over 30 men—a small number for a 3,000-strong force but a significant psychological blow.

Davout’s eyes reddened with rage, and he shouted, “They don’t have time to reload! Charge! Avenge our brothers!”

In reality, they were still over 50 paces away, and the enemy might have had time for another volley. But Davout knew that retreating now would lead to even greater losses.

It was do or die.

The soldiers who had wavered followed Davout’s lead, and the cadets, seeing their fallen comrades, charged even more fiercely.

The Albanian reserves fumbled to reload, but as the white-uniformed soldiers closed to within 20 paces, they lost their nerve.

Some tried to brace for a bayonet charge, others called for spearmen—yes, the Ottoman army still used this close-combat unit. But most simply turned and fled.

Fathis personally executed two deserters but couldn’t stop the rout.

Before Davout’s bayonet could reach anyone, the Albanian rear guard had dropped their weapons and fled in a panic.

“Don’t let them escape!” The young Davout waved his hand, his eyes fixed on the mounted Fathis as he drew his pistol and fired.

After scattering the Albanian cavalry, the Guard Corps’ horsemen paused briefly to rest their mounts before forming up to pursue the fleeing enemy.

In a pursuit, cavalry always takes the lead.

With the cavalry joining in, many Albanian mercenaries were quickly overtaken and forced to surrender.

The largest group of fleeing mercenaries, comprising three regiments, had retreated nearly a mile and could barely hear the shouts of their pursuers.

Just as they began to breathe a sigh of relief, they saw a white “line” on the hillside ahead.

It was Lefebvre and Anatole’s companies, who had formed a line to block their retreat.

(End of Chapter)

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep