Mohammad meanwhile warned that our three thousand companions were not enough. “At every village there are rumors the Turks are massing against us,” he warned. “More men than stars in the sky.
There are troops from Damascus and Constantinople, Ibrahim Bey’s surviving Mamelukes from Egypt, and hill fighters from Samaria.
Shi’a and Sunni are joining together. Their mercenaries range from Morocco to Armenia. It’s madness to stay with these French. They are doomed.”
I gestured to Najac’s scoundrels. “We have no choice.” General Kleber, of course, was trying to find this Turkish host instead of evade it, hoping to flank it by coming down from the Nazarene highlands. “Passion governs,” old Ben liked to say, “and never governs wisely.” And indeed Kleber, competent as generals go, had chafed as a subordinate to Napoleon for a full year. He was older, taller, stronger, and more experienced, and yet the glory of the Egyptian campaign t h e
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had been won by the Corsican. It was Bonaparte who was featured in the bulletins sent home on the Egyptian campaign, Bonaparte who was growing rich on spoils, Bonaparte who was making possible great new archeological discoveries, and Bonaparte who ruled the mood of the army. Even worse, at the Battle of El-Arish at the beginning of the Palestinian campaign, Kleber’s division had performed indifferently, while his rival, Reynier, had won Napoleon’s praise. It didn’t matter that Kleber had the stature, bearing, and shaggy locks of the military hero that Bonaparte lacked, and that he was a better shot and a better rider. His colleagues deferred to the upstart. None would admit it, but for all his faults, Bonaparte was their intellectual superior, the sun around which they instinctively revolved. So this independent foray to destroy Ottoman reinforcements was Kleber’s chance to shine. Just as Bonaparte had broken camp in the middle of the night to strike the Mameluke at the pyramids before they were fully ready, so Kleber decided to set out in the dark to surprise the Turkish camp.
“Madness!” said Mohammad. “We’re too far away to surprise them.
We’ll find the Turks just as the sun is coming up in our eyes.” Indeed, the path around Mount Tabor was far longer than Kleber had anticipated. Instead of attacking at 2:00 a.m., as planned, the French encountered the first Turkish pickets at dawn. By the time we had drawn up ranks for an assault, our prey had time for breakfast.
Soon there were swarms of Ottoman cavalry dashing hither and yon, and Kleber’s ambition began to be tempered by common sense. The rising sun revealed that he had led three thousand troops to assault twenty-five thousand. I do have an instinct for the wrong side.
“So the ring
The three of us gaped at the huge herd of menacing cavalry, horses half swallowed by the tall spring wheat as their riders pointlessly fired guns in the air. The only thing that prevented us from being overrun immediately was the enemy’s confusion; no one seemed to be in charge. Their army was stitched from too many corners of the empire.
We could see the rainbow colors of the various Ottoman regiments, 1 7 8
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great trains of wagons behind them, and tents pitched bright as a carnival. If you want a pretty sight, go see war before the fighting starts.
“It’s like the Battle of the Pyramids all over again,” I tried to reassure. “Look at their disarray. They have so many soldiers they can’t get organized.”
“They don’t need organization,” Big Ned muttered. “All they need is stampede. By barnacle, I wish I were back on a frigate. It’s cleaner, too.”
If Kleber had proved rash in underestimating his opponents, he was a skilled tactician. He backed us up a hill called Djebel-el-Dahy, giving us the high ground. There was a ruined Crusader castle called Le-Faba near the top that overlooked the broad valley, and the French general put one hundred of his men on its ruined ramparts.
The remainder formed two squares of infantry, one commanded by Kleber and the other by General Jean- Andoche Junot. These squares were like forts made of men, each man facing outward and the ranks pointing in all four directions so that it was impossible to turn their flank. The veterans and sergeants stood behind the newest troops to prevent them from backing and collapsing the formation. This tactic had baffled the Mamelukes in Egypt, and it was about to do the same to the Ottomans. No matter which way they charged, they would meet a firm hedge of musket barrels and bayonets. Our supply train and our trio, with Najac’s men, were in the center.
The Turks foolishly gave Kleber time to dress his ranks and then made probing charges, galloping up near our men while whooping and swinging swords. The French were perfectly silent until the command rang out to “Fire!” and then there was a flash and rippling bang, a great gout of white smoke, and the closest enemy cavalry toppled from their horses. The others steered away.
“Blimey, they have more pluck than sense,” Ned said, squinting.
The sun kept climbing. More and more enemy cavalry poured into the gentle vale below us, shaking lances and warbling cries. Periodically a few hundred would wheel and charge toward our squares.
Another volley, and the results would be the same. Soon there was a semicircle of dead around us, their silks like cut flowers.
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“What the devil are they doing?” Ned muttered. “Why don’t they really charge?”
“Waiting for us to run out of water and ammunition, perhaps,” Mohammad said.
“By swallowing all of our lead?”
I think they were waiting for us to break and run—their other enemies must be less resolute—but the French didn’t waver. We bristled like a hedgehog, and they couldn’t get their horses to close.
Kleber stayed mounted, ignoring the whining bullets, slowly riding up and down the ranks to encourage his
