I am the Crown Prince of France

Shanelle adjusted the Châlons musket slung over his back and hefted a few bags onto his shoulders. He refrained from loading his horse with anything, wanting to give the steed a much-needed rest.

"Jacques!" A familiar young nobleman ran past him, shouting over his shoulder, "Victor wants us to gather immediately, over there! Hurry up!"

Shanelle reached out to grab him. "What's going on?"

"Word is that the Algerians have attacked the border," the other man replied, shaking him off. "Victor says that the main army is downstream of the Majerda River, and right now, only the Tunisians are defending northwest of Bizerte. This is our chance!"

Shanelle hastily straightened his uniform and ran to the distant rally point.

At the front of the disorganized line of nobles, a square-faced young nobleman stood atop a carriage, waving his sword and giving a rousing speech. "General Schérer's main force probably won't be able to intercept the raiding Algerians in time. This is our golden opportunity!"

He gestured vigorously. "My dearest classmates, the time has come to show your superior military skills. If we can reach Tamiré by nightfall tomorrow, we'll achieve great merits and win unparalleled glory!"

Shanelle immediately joined in the cheering. This Victor was a "man of the hour" from their university's law school and was the one who had rallied everyone to fight in Tunisia. Not only students from their Rennes University, but hundreds of young nobles along the way had also joined his ranks. Although Victor held only a lieutenant's rank, bought by his father just before military reforms, he had nonetheless become their leader.

"Hah, just a bunch of braggarts," came the mocking voice of a group of young men in ragged uniforms, some just in shirts, marching past them.

"They haven't even formed proper units, and they're already talking about 'unparalleled glory.' Hah."

"Nobles are always like that, a thousand times better at talking than fighting."

"Let them keep entertaining themselves. By the time they start moving, we'll have already beaten the Algerians to a pulp."

Victor immediately turned towards the head of the group, where a young officer with thinning hair and a gloomy expression sat on horseback, and shouted in displeasure, "Lieutenant Ney, please control your men and stop interfering with our preparations!"

The officer shot him a cold glance before waving to his troops. "Quiet down! Pick up the pace."

"Yes, sir!" the sergeants in the group responded loudly, immediately organizing the soldiers. Their four battered old drums began beating louder, and the entire group fell into silence.

Victor watched the civilian group march off quickly, feeling a bit anxious.

These civilians had traveled with them on the Navy transport ship to Tunisia, numbering around eight or nine hundred. Unexpectedly, they were moving so fast! It seemed that this civilian officer, Michel Ney, had some real skill.

He quickly ended his speech and ordered the young nobles to form up and prepare to head to Tamiré.

Tamiré was the westernmost town in Bizerte. If they could hold it, they could block the Algerian army from advancing deeper into Bizerte.

Stimulated by the mockery earlier, the noble "volunteer army" moved quickly. Within just over an hour, they formed marching columns and set off westward in rhythm with the drums and organ music.

The officers from the Navy transport ship, seeing both groups leave without permission, hurried after them, urging them to report to General Schérer first, but no one paid them any attention.

By the time Shanelle's servant, Matthew, returned to the dock, panting with two sacks of oats on his back, his master was long gone...

Before nightfall, Victor finally spotted the civilians' camp and eagerly spurred his horse forward—the noble unit was almost entirely mounted, with even some servants having horses. Along the way, they had hired local Tunisians to carry their luggage and pull supply carts, so their march was faster than the civilians'.

Ney, who was inspecting the camp, also spotted him and surprisingly took the initiative to greet him. "Lieutenant Moreau, I must say, your speed is quite impressive."

"It's nothing," Victor Moreau nodded at him. "We are the 'Cavalry Regiment Guided by God.' How could we let mere infantry outpace us?"

Ney frowned slightly. "Guided by... God?"

"Oh, it hasn't been officially recognized by the General Staff yet, but this name will surely be remembered by France!"

Victor Moreau wanted to explain that these nobles had joined the army in response to the "Son of God's" call, hence the grand name—since the Son of God was guiding them, it was practically the same as being guided by God.

Ney shook his head at the foolish name, thinking to himself that he couldn't expect much help from the noble lords.

The next morning, as Moreau was preparing to brush his teeth under the first rays of sunlight, he heard the faint sound of drums in the distance. He immediately looked at his servant. "Are the civilians breaking camp?"

"It seems so, Lieutenant."

Moreau immediately picked up a drum himself and began beating it loudly, urgently shouting, "All troops, gather and form up! Prepare to move out!"

...

London.

The Marquis of Wellesley felt slightly more at ease as he read the secret report of the Moroccan-Algerian allied forces' deployment.

Parliament had passed the Prime Minister's proposal the day before, agreeing to trade some Caribbean interests and recognize France's claim over Tunisia in exchange for French non-intervention in India.

And all of this depended on France encountering enough trouble in North Africa.

Now, with 40,000 troops attacking Tunisia from North Africa, he had the leverage he needed.

He would wait for the French cabinet to start discussing reinforcements in North Africa before heading to Paris to negotiate with them.

...

At the Algerian-Tunisian northern border.

A large force of black soldiers, wearing yellow tunics, wide trousers, and carrying Brown Bess flintlock muskets, marched through the mountain pass, stretching nearly two miles.

Said, wearing a trapezoidal red leather cap, looked out towards the distant plains and asked the black officer beside him, "Agord, how far are we from Bizerte?"

"Less than five miles, Pasha."

Said nodded in satisfaction. The cavalry that returned at noon had spotted the main French force downstream of the Majerda River, which was a three-day march from northern Bizerte.

By the time the French realized that the Algerian guards were just bait and turned back to assist, he would have already captured Bizerte.

Afterward, whether to continue east to attack Tunis or turn south to Kairouan, he would hold a significant advantage. Even if things went wrong, he could threaten to burn Bizerte to force the French into a stalemate, putting himself in an almost invincible position.

As long as he could cause chaos in Tunisia for a month or two, he could return to Morocco, and the British would pay him a hefty reward of two million riyals.

(End of Chapter)

Friends, if you want to read chapters in advance, subscribe to my patreon.

Read 20 Chapters In Advance: patreon.com/johanssen10