Southeast Tunisia. Tataouine Province, bordered by the sea on one side and the desert on the other.

Ney stood on a high ground, peering through his telescope at the town of Remada. In a low voice, he said, “The scouts’ reports were accurate. The terrain is indeed ideal for deploying the corps. “If we launch an attack tomorrow morning, we should be able to recapture the town by noon.”

“You’re always so full of courage and energy,” said Moreau with a smile, standing beside him. “But my suggestion is that we refrain from attacking for now.”

Ney looked at him, puzzled. “Why not? The town only has 2,500 Ottoman soldiers, and we have 4,000 men. The battle will be over quickly.”

Moreau nodded. “Yes, yes, we’ll win easily and take back an insignificant town. Perhaps we should even send someone to Tripoli to politely inform the Ottomans, ‘Hey, your French friends have arrived.'”

Ney froze, realizing that Moreau had a point. If they attacked Remada, it would surely alert Tripoli, where nearly 10,000 Ottoman soldiers were stationed. The mission was to completely eliminate Ben Jawar, and launching an assault on a well-defended Tripoli could lead to a tough battle.

Moreau patted him on the shoulder, then tugged on his reins to turn his horse around. “We’ve seen the battlefield. Let’s head back.”

Ney, irritated by the haughty noble, spurred his horse to follow and begrudgingly asked, “So what’s your plan?”

Moreau didn’t hide his thoughts from his straightforward partner. “You see, we have 4,000 men, but half of them are new recruits who’ve never seen combat. Some of your soldiers even lack the necessary training.”

Their previous surprise victory at Tamara earned them land grants, which stirred other nobles to flock to Tunisia in search of glory. Meanwhile, the General Staff set up a “rapid training camp” to provide five months of basic training to inexperienced volunteers, who would then be sent to areas with less intense fighting. Those who had served in night patrols or rural militias could have their training reduced to two months.

This “fresh blood” arrived in Tunisia via naval transport, and Joseph placed them under the command of Moreau and Ney, assigning them the task of fighting in Tripoli. However, Berthier, concerned about their inexperience, also sent an experienced advisor to assist the young commanders.

Moreau continued, “With troops like these, a frontal assault on Tripoli could be unpredictable.”

Ney muttered under his breath, “Once our cannons arrive, nothing will be a problem.”

Indeed, Moreau’s forces included several young nobles trained in artillery, many of whom had left military academies to join the fight. This new corps now boasted over 1,200 cavalry, a disproportionately high number, mainly comprised of Moreau’s aristocratic classmates. The Tunisian local government was burdened with the logistics of supporting them.

Moreau nodded. “Cannons can solve some problems, but if we can lure Ben Jawar’s main force out of Tripoli, things would be much easier.”

Ney’s eyes lit up. “You’ve thought of something!”

Though he disliked the cunning noble, Ney respected Moreau’s strategic mind.

“I don’t have a guaranteed plan, but we can try something.” Moreau looked eastward, saying, “Ah, my beloved estate—I wonder how much it produces each year.”

Ney glanced at him disdainfully and muttered, “Are all nobles this greedy?”

The next day at noon, Moreau “requisitioned” a large amount of goods from the nearby town of Medenine. The items had nothing to do with the battle—expensive clothing, jewelry, crafts, and spices. His orders virtually emptied the town.

If it weren’t for the soldiers blocking the town hall, the local officials would have rushed to the governor to file a complaint.

The senior advisor sent by the General Staff was horrified, repeatedly urging Moreau to return the goods or face a court-martial. Ney, however, was accustomed to his partner’s antics. This time, he repeatedly assured the local officials that he had nothing to do with it, placing all the blame on a certain officer named Moreau.

Returning to the “Divine Guidance” cavalry camp, Moreau urged the noble soldiers to donate all their valuables, promising to return them with an additional 40% interest after the battle in Tripoli.

Once the preparations were complete, a lavish convoy of seventeen or eighteen carriages left Medenine, heading south toward the oasis of Ghadames.

The convoy brazenly set up camp near Remada as night fell, drawing the attention of Ottoman cavalry patrolling the town. The soldiers soon reported the sighting, and within hours, nearly a thousand Ottoman soldiers had swarmed the area, quickly overwhelming the convoy’s guards and seizing the carriages.

The leading officer was overjoyed as he listened to reports of the loot—roughly estimated to be worth nearly 100,000 riyals!

He soon learned from the captured merchants that this was just the first shipment from an Italian trading caravan, with nearly seven times more goods expected to arrive at Tataouine Port in half a month.

However, the high value of the goods meant that the convoy would be more heavily guarded. According to the merchant, the Italian caravan had hired French regulars to escort them, numbering possibly a regiment or more—around 2,000 soldiers. Content originally comes from novel⦿fire.net

The officer immediately sent the looted goods back to the town and dispatched messengers to Tripoli with the news.

In Tripoli’s white palace, Ben Jawar’s eyes gleamed with greed upon hearing that goods worth 700,000 riyals were set to land in Tataouine.

Seven hundred thousand riyals was over 1.5 million livres—a sum no warlord could ignore. Especially since the British had only paid a fraction of the promised 100,000 pounds before cutting off communication, leaving him in a desperate situation.

Ben Jawar’s troops were from Istanbul, and if he failed to provide sufficient rewards, they wouldn’t hesitate to replace him with another leader. Ottoman Janissaries had a history of overthrowing rulers, even replacing the sultan multiple times.

After a brief hesitation, Ben Jawar made his decision. He would personally lead 6,000 soldiers, along with the 2,000 stationed in Remada, to raid Tataouine Port.

Recent reports indicated that the French main force was 400 miles away, engaged in battle with the Algerians at Annaba, leaving only about 2,000 French troops in Tataouine.

The port was just over 70 miles from Tripoli, a journey that could be completed in about a week.

Leading 8,000 troops, he was confident of an easy victory.

After seizing the 700,000 riyals worth of goods, he planned to use part of it to bribe officials in Istanbul and retreat to defend Tripoli. If things went wrong, he could leave the defense to his subordinates and escape to Istanbul with the rest of the fortune.

Four days later. As Ben Jawar gazed back at the barren land behind him, he could barely contain his excitement. He was already deep within Tunisian territory, and his scouts reported no sign of any military forces between them and Medenine.

Meanwhile, the Tripoli navy confirmed that a large trading caravan had recently departed from Genoa, heading south.

Moreau hadn’t even bothered to fake a ship, knowing that the bustling Mediterranean trade would naturally provide Ben Jawar with a convenient target to “claim.”

As Ben Jawar’s forces approached a hilly area near Medenine, they suddenly heard chaotic shouting from the front.

Frowning, he asked one of his officers, “What’s happening?”

His column was too long; he was near the rear, almost two kilometers from the vanguard.

Before the officer could dispatch cavalry to investigate, Ben Jawar faintly heard the sound of rapid gunfire.

With some battlefield experience, he quickly realized that there were at least a thousand soldiers firing in volleys.

Where did these enemies come from? He hastily ordered his troops to form defensive lines and personally organized the cavalry to prepare for an attack.

However, before the cavalry could assemble, the ground began to tremble slightly, followed by the sound of galloping hooves, like a sudden downpour hitting a roof.

The Ottoman soldiers froze, staring in the direction of the noise. Soon, they saw a vast wave of white-uniformed cavalry emerge from the hills, sabers flashing as they charged.

Ahead of the Ottoman army, Ney led more than 2,000 soldiers in a neat infantry line, steadily advancing on the enemy.

Thanks to the ample preparation time, he had finally managed to get these fresh soldiers to form a proper battle line.

In the era of flintlock muskets, no marching column could withstand a well-formed infantry line—not even if Frederick the Great himself returned to lead them.

After just three somewhat ragged volleys, the Ottoman soldiers began to flee in all directions.

Meanwhile, Moreau’s cavalry had already cut through Ben Jawar’s rear guard and were regrouping for another charge.

Seeing the chaos among his men, Ben Jawar closed his eyes in despair, then drew his pistol from his belt…

Outside Tripoli. Moreau lowered his telescope and pointed to a large field southeast of the ancient city, beaming as he said to Ney, “See over there? That’s my estate.”

He pointed a little further south, adding, “Ah, and that must be your estate. It looks like we’ll be neighbors for a long time.”

Ney frowned, interrupting him. “Cannons! Can’t you be concerned about when those damned cannons will arrive?”

Though Ben Jawar was dead, the Ottoman soldiers in Tripoli quickly rallied behind a new leader, continuing to defend the ancient city.

Without artillery support, breaking through the city’s defenses would be a daunting task.

“Celestin!” Moreau shouted, “Go check where those damned cannons are!”

While Moreau was distracted, Ney quickly grabbed the telescope and looked southeast, his heart racing with excitement. “God! That land looks even more fertile than the fields back home!”

Over an hour later, the long-awaited cannons finally arrived outside Tripoli.

As the artillery thundered, the soldiers’ eyes gleamed with excitement—if they could capture Tripoli, they too might be rewarded with nearby land.

As soon as a breach appeared in the Ottoman defenses, several companies of soldiers, spurred on by the booming cannons, rushed forward with fervor…

Indian Subcontinent. Salem, in eastern Mysore.

Seated in a luxurious palanquin carried by over twenty men, Tipu Sultan sighed again, gazing at the distant river with a wistful tone. “I wish you could stay here forever. You’ve brought Mysore such great victories.”

Lafayette sighed as well. “I too would love to stay in beautiful Mysore, but you know, the British are stirring up trouble in our Tunisian territories. I must return to fight them.”

Of course, this was just an excuse. In reality, the battles in Annaba and Tripoli were already over. Lafayette’s next destination was likely Versailles, where he would attend a promotion ceremony.

King Louis XVI had already signed his appointment as “Assistant to the Temporary Minister of War.” Although his performance in India had been solid, causing significant losses to the British, he hadn’t achieved a decisive victory. Hence, the “temporary” title.

But even a temporary position was a high-ranking office, and Lafayette could already imagine the fawning faces of those nobles who had once looked down on him.

“Damn the British!” Tipu Sultan angrily slammed his armrest, then shook his head. “I’ll have to face these devils alone from now on.”

Lafayette recalled the Prince’s instructions and quickly leaned in to whisper, “You need not worry. You’ll have other friends to help you.”

Tipu Sultan’s eyes lit up. “You mean?”

Lafayette leaned closer. “All your weapons, cannon materials, medicines, gunpowder, and uniforms will come through the Ottomans. The price will be a bit higher than before, though.”

The Ottomans were Mysore’s traditional trading partners, with numerous fleets exchanging goods. These coastal merchant ships, hugging the shoreline, were nimble and discreet, making it nearly impossible for the British fleet to stop them all.

“That’s wonderful!” Tipu Sultan exclaimed, delighted. “The price doesn’t matter.”

With a population of 18 million and a long history of trade with Europe, Mysore’s treasury was well-stocked.

Lafayette added, “There are two things you must remember.”

“Please, tell me,” Tipu Sultan said, sitting up straight.

“First, you must stockpile large amounts of grain, and preferably ammunition, in Mysore, Seringapatam, Salem, and other key cities.”

Note 1: During this era, nobles were generally trained in horseback riding, swordsmanship, hunting, and other martial skills from a young age. Upon reaching adulthood, they might only need to brush up on marching drills and commands to be combat-ready. Of course, some lazy or unconventional nobles avoided such training, earning the scorn of their peers. (End of Chapter)

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