‘Berthier!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Halt the men. Then find General Menou. Tell him to take a brigade and storm that fort.’
Berthier saluted and a moment later the officers and sergeants were bellowing their orders up and down the line. While the other soldiers waited, three battalions marched forward and deployed across the track in front of the fort.The gun on the wall continued firing steadily, scoring one hit on the attackers that swept away a file of six men. Menou immediately sent forward a screen of skirmishers to fire at any of the enemy that dared to show their heads above the parapet. Under cover of their comrades’ fire the assault columns quick-marched across the packed sand and scrambled up the crumbling mud walls. From his position Napoleon could see the glint of bayonets and curved swords twinkling in the sunshine as Menou’s soldiers fell upon the defenders. It was soon over and the green flag with a yellow crescent that had fluttered above the ramparts was hauled down and a moment later the tricolour rose in its place.
Napoleon nodded with satisfaction, then gave the order for the column to move forward. They marched past the fort and exchanged cheers with the men on the walls. Menou left a handful of men behind to guard the prisoners and then rejoined the tail of the column as it passed the fort and continued down the track towards Alexandria. By the time they had reached the town the sun had risen high enough to make the air stifling.The men were wearing the same uniforms that they had worn in Europe and were weighed down by five days’ issue of rations and sixty rounds for each musket. Most had already emptied their canteens and their dry throats were further irritated by the dust kicked up by the marching column.
Napoleon and Berthier climbed up on to a pile of ancient masonry to observe the town’s defences while the men deployed for the attack. Closer to the walls they could now see that the stonework was old and small sections around the main gates had fallen down. Napoleon pointed them out with his riding crop.
‘We’ll attack through those.’
Berthier unrolled the map of the town that he had obtained from a French merchant. ‘Ah, yes, the Pompey and Rosetta gates. According to our source, once we’re through those, there are no other defences in the town, sir.’
‘Good. Then let’s not waste any more time. Kléber can attack the Pompey gate, while Bon takes the Rosetta. Give the orders.’
As the French battalions tramped foward, kicking up yet more dust that billowed around and above them, at times obscuring Napoleon’s view of the assault, the enemy began to fire from the walls and bastions, tiny flickers of flame and puffs of smoke indicating their positions. The sunlight beat upon the parched landscape and after a while Napoleon sat down on a small pile of pottery fragments to watch the proceedings. As he squinted into the dusty haze about the gates he irritably swiped at the potsherds with his riding crop. Eventually he could stand it no longer and scrambled down and strode towards the nearest gate, his staff hurrying to catch up with him. Berthier trotted forward and fell into step alongside his general.
‘Excuse me, sir, but where are we going?’
‘Where the fighting is,’ Napoleon grumbled.‘Can’t see a thing from back there.’
‘Is that wise, sir? After what nearly happened at Arcola?’
Napoleon drew up abruptly. ‘Berthier, never question my actions again.’
‘Sir, with respect, you are the commander of an army sent to fight far away from France. If you die, unnecessarily, then you place all these men in danger.’
‘And what if I die necessarily?’ Napoleon shook his head. ‘War is dangerous, Berthier. Would it really be safer for me to stay so far back from the fighting that I could not see the battle? How could I respond in time to the moves of the enemy? I have to go forward, understand?’
Berthier nodded. ‘Very well, sir. But please be careful.’
‘That I can promise with a clear conscience.’ Napoleon grinned. ‘Come on!’
They passed through the Pompey gate and at once Napoleon smelt the thick heavy odour of excrement and decay, a far more pungent and unpleasant stench than even the poorest quarters of Paris had to endure. Just inside the walls they came across the first bodies: two Frenchmen sprawled across the corpse of a well-muscled man in a turban and a flowing tunic. He had four pistols jammed into a wide band of cloth around his waist. In his hand was the scimitar with which he had cut down his two foes. Beside him lay a purse, split open, and a few silver coins still lay on the soiled street where the first wave of French troops had not had time to sweep them all up.
‘One of their Mamelukes, I think.’ Napoleon knelt down beside the body and gently took the blade from the dead man’s hand. The Mamelukes were an elite cast of warriors who were well rewarded by their Turkish masters.The hilt was finely crafted and set with precious stones arranged around a dazzling ruby.
‘Good God,’ muttered Berthier. ‘Is that what I think it is? I’ve never seen such a fine gem.’
Napoleon smiled as he rose and handed him the scimitar. ‘Here. If this is the kind of wealth their soldiers are carrying around then there’ll be rich pickings for France, and for us. Come on.’
They hurried down a narrow, filthy street, following the crackle of musket fire, and soon caught up with one of the attacking columns which had emerged into a large market place. The men had taken cover behind abandoned and upended stalls and carts and were exchanging shots with scores of the enemy defending the walls of a mosque. High up, in the tower, a robed figure shouted encouragement to his brethren, occasionally breaking off to wave his fists at the French troops and scream some kind of abuse at the invaders. Napoleon strode across to the nearest officer, a young captain, and grabbed his arm. ‘What the hell is going on here? Why aren’t you advancing?’
‘Sir, it’s General Kléber. He’s been wounded.’
‘Kléber? Where is he?’
The captain pointed across the market to a group of men huddled in the entrance to a large house.
‘Right.’ Napoleon nodded. ‘Get your men forward, Captain. Tell them to concentrate their fire on that man in the tower. I want him shot down, then you take the mosque. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then get on with it.’
He left the captain and ran over to the house he had indicated. A small party of soldiers stood guard at the entrance and they stiffened to attention as their commander swept past them.
‘Kléber?’ Napoleon called out.
‘Over here, sir!’
Napoleon turned and saw a surgeon gesturing to him as he crouched over a body stretched out on the tiled floor. Kléber stirred weakly as Napoleon squatted down beside him. He had been shot in the thigh and shoulder and his white shirt and trousers were stained with blood. His eyes flickered for a moment as he tried to speak, and then he passed out.
‘Will he live?’ Napoleon asked.
‘Yes, sir. If I can stop him losing any more blood.’
‘Carry on then.’
As Napoleon and Berthier emerged from the building a loud cheer echoed across the market square, and looking up Napoleon saw the body of the muezzin draped over the parapet of the minaret. The defenders of the mosque stopped firing when they became aware of their leader’s death and one by one they began to throw down their arms and wait to be taken prisoner.
‘Good.’ Napoleon nodded with satisfaction. ‘Seems we killed the right man. Let’s hope that’s how things work here.’ For a moment, seeing Berthier’s shocked look, he chided himself for such cold-blooded musing, then he shook the feeling off and began to issue his orders for the capture of the rest of Alexandria.