Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

The Albanian Army Commander Semiz saw the French infantry line begin to move, and then glanced at his own disorganized infantry mass, his face instantly turning ashen.

What were the cavalry doing?! In annoyance, he raised his telescope and looked toward the north side of the battlefield, only to see hundreds of Albanian Cavalry charging toward the thin ranks of the French infantry. n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

The French stood their ground like a rock and unleashed a volley. The leading two or three dozen cavalrymen immediately tumbled to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Then there was a faint sound of a cannon firing. Semiz couldn’t locate where the cannon was, but he saw something that appeared to be an arm with a shoulder attached to it flying into the air amidst a spray of fresh blood.

Since the Albanian Cavalry had not formed ranks, the charge was stretched out over more than two hundred meters, with those further from the French seemingly frozen by the cannon’s roar and their comrades’ screams, promptly turning their horses to flee to the sides.

Semiz saw some dead horses, driven by inertia, crash into the defensive lines of the French flank, causing some disarray. A few riders who couldn’t control their mounts also charged in, but were immediately impaled by French infantry bayonets.

No more cavalry followed, and the French ranks quickly closed again.

Semiz cursed under his breath, "These cowardly Albanians! If they had charged 50 more steps, the French main force would have had to fall back to support the right flank!"

However, morale is influenced by many factors, and once it collapses, unless one can exit the battlefield for regrouping, it is extremely difficult to recover.

Immediately after, the French Cavalry completed their formation and came thundering down the gentle slope from the north.

Seeing this, the Albanian Cavalry fled even more quickly. That four-pounder cannon switched to solid shot and kept firing at their retreating forms, blasting up cloud after cloud of bloody mist.

On the main battlefield, the line of the Guard Corps infantry continued its steady advance, maintaining an almost perfectly straight line nearly a kilometer long, radiating an unstoppable and awe-inspiring pressure.

By this time, the Albanian left flank, after dozens of rounds of furious bombardment by the French artillery, was nothing but shredded flesh and spilled blood, already ruptured with a vast gap.

A company of skirmishers from the Guard Corps broke from the ranks, checked their weapons according to the manual, and then three drummers struck up the drums, marching forward with heads held high.

Hundreds of soldiers immediately followed in sparse formation.

On the right flank, Lefevre led a volley with his men aimed at the enemy cavalry’s rear and, realizing the enemy had fled too far to be pursued, turned his head to see that a general attack had already begun in front of him.

He immediately ordered his troops to form up and, after requesting instructions from his own captain, led his skirmisher company into the battle at the front.

The soldiers on the Albanian side watched the approaching French with horror and gave up trying to form ranks, beginning to fire their weapons in a panicked attempt to shoot the enemy across from them.

However, with the accuracy of flintlock guns, unless firing in a concentrated volley, hitting the target was a matter of faith.

The line of the Guard Corps infantry kept advancing until they were about 70 steps from the enemy, then halted on the officer’s command and quickly reorganized their formation.

Then the company commanders crisply issued orders: "Ready!"

"Aim!"

"Fire!"

A perfectly synchronized flash of gunfire erupted from the infantry line, and nearly a thousand bullets tore into the Albanian mercenaries’ ranks.

"Reload! Second rank, step forward three paces!"

"Ready!"

"Aim..."

The long line of the Guard Corps functioned like a well-oiled machine; one rank of soldiers stepped forward three paces, fired a volley, then reloaded on the spot.

The rank behind stepped forward and repeated the process, then reloaded.

And so on...

In this way, under the intense pressure of concentrated fire, the infantry line swiftly closed the distance to less than 50 steps from the mercenaries.

The dreadful power of the caplock gun was fully displayed — each volley from the infantry line claimed nearly a hundred mercenaries.

The enormous casualties caused continuous desertions in the front ranks of the Albanian Army, and the already unformed lines became even more pockmarked.

The most stubborn hundred-man units still resisted on the spot, while the majority of the soldiers, under the pressure of gunfire, began to retreat backward, and some had already run to the rear, wrestling with the enforcers.

The whole formation had completely turned into a tattered rag strewn across the Atlas Mountains.

At the gap in the Albanian left flank, a company of French skirmishers spread out over forty meters wide, crept forward with bended knees, and occasionally stopped to take potshots.

Just as they had advanced thirty to forty paces, laughter boomed from behind: "Anatole, you’re too by-the-book. There’s hardly any enemy opposite us; we should cut through at the fastest speed!"

Captain Anatole turned and saw Lefevre’s skirmishers form into five columns and quickly passed by him, hurtling toward the Albanian positions.

"You guys... we are skirmishers..."

Lefevre left him with, "The only creed of a skirmisher is to be flexible. See you!"

Watching as Lefevre’s men reached the breaches first, Anatole straightened up and shouted to his own company, "Close into columns! Advance swiftly!"

Lefevre’s company almost bumped noses with the Albanians before he ordered them to deploy on the spot. In the process, more than ten ferocious mercenaries wielding spears charged at them, several of whom were shot down by a lieutenant in charge of cover, who then pushed back the rest with bayonets.