Reincarnated as Napoleon II-Chapter 110: The Landing

The first line of French landing boats cut through the shallows in disciplined intervals, oars rising and dipping in near-perfect rhythm. The hulls scraped sand almost together. Before the keels had fully settled, coxswains barked the disembark order.

Infantry stepped down into knee-deep surf.

Water splashed against dark field-gray trousers. Rifles were already in hand, muzzles angled upward to keep them dry. Men moved forward without bunching, boots sinking into wet sand before finding firmer ground higher up the beach.

"Forward. Dress the line."

The first wave advanced fifteen paces inland and halted on a slight rise above the tide mark. Companies extended outward, forming a broad, shallow arc facing the dunes. Machine gun detachments dropped to one knee and began assembling their pieces with practiced speed, tripods locking into place, feed trays aligned.

Behind them, more boats grounded.

The beach filled in layers—second platoons reinforcing the flanks, NCOs adjusting intervals, sergeants stepping behind the line to maintain spacing.

Each man stood with enough room to aim and fire without obstruction.

Beyond the dunes, there was a movement.

Mounted figures, turbans and flowing garments snapping in the wind, horses cresting the sand in staggered lines.

Algerian cavalry.

Behind them, scattered infantry appeared along the ridge, muskets and older-pattern rifles visible in silhouette.

A trumpet sounded from the enemy side.

The cavalry began to descend.

Sand sprayed beneath hooves as they accelerated down the slope, lances lowered, riders leaning forward.

French officers did not flinch.

"Hold."

Rifles came to shoulders in a single motion.

The bolt-action mechanisms were already loaded, five-round internal magazines charged before disembarkation. Front sights aligned against moving targets. Breath slowed. Triggers took up slack.

"At will."

Horsemen in the front rank jerked in their saddles. One pitched sideways before his mount collapsed beneath him. Another rider folded backward, reins slipping from his hands as the horse continued three strides before crashing forward.

French soldiers worked their bolts without looking down.

Metal slid back. Ejected casings spun into the sand. Fresh rounds chambered forward.

The second wave of shots came faster.

Targets were no longer vague shapes. They were individual riders.

Men aimed at chests, at shoulders, at the space where saddle met torso. At distances where smoothbore muskets would have struggled, the bolt-action rifles struck with consistency.

More horses went down.

A rider in the center of the Algerian line reeled in his saddle and disappeared under the bodies of two collapsing mounts. The charge began to lose alignment.

Behind the cavalry, Algerian infantry fired.

White smoke puffed from the ridge. Musket balls whistled overhead or struck low into the sand short of the French line. The range was misjudged.

French return fire adjusted upward.

Ridge silhouettes dropped one by one.

A machine gun team finished locking their assembly.

"Ready."

The gunner sighted into the densest cluster of cavalry still descending the slope.

"Fire."

The weapon rattled in a sustained burst.

Sand kicked up in a jagged line across the slope as bullets stitched through the advancing riders. Horses tumbled into each other. Momentum collapsed into chaos.

The charge broke before reaching half the distance to the beach.

Surviving riders pulled hard on reins, wheeling their mounts away from the killing ground. Some dismounted and dragged wounded comrades. Others fled back up the dunes without looking behind them.

On the ridge, Algerian infantry halted.

They had seen enough.

French rifles continued to fire in controlled intervals, picking off exposed figures attempting to regroup.

At nearly eight hundred meters, men who believed themselves safe behind the crest of sand found bullets snapping past their shoulders or striking into the ridge just inches from their feet.

The difference in effective range was no longer theoretical.

It was visible.

Algerian ranks began to thin not from casualties alone, but from hesitation. Figures ducked lower. Muskets were lowered. Officers gestured frantically, but no second charge formed.

On the beach, French soldiers remained in position, but they too were surprised by the effectiveness of their weapons.

More boats pushed through the surf.

The second and third waves grounded in staggered lines along the widening beachhead. Infantry stepped out, boots hitting sand already marked by the first wave. Officers directed them past the firing line and into assigned sectors. Flags were planted to mark unit positions. Runners moved between companies carrying quick adjustments from battalion commanders.

Behind the rifle line, engineers began working immediately.

Picks struck into the higher sandbank beyond the tide mark. Shovels followed. Men dug shallow firing pits facing the dunes, reinforcing the arc that had already proven effective. Others unrolled coils of rope and marked boundaries for the expanding perimeter.

The first of the 75mm field guns came down next.

On the transports offshore, artillery crews had already rigged the pieces for lowering. Heavy slings were secured around the gun carriages. Cranes swung slowly, lifting the guns clear of the deck before easing them into waiting landing barges.

The barges grounded hard in the shallows.

Gunners splashed forward, guiding the wheels down wooden planks and onto wet sand. Limbers followed, ammunition chests stacked neatly behind them. The guns were dragged by hand and shoulder straps up to the defensive line and angled toward the inland ridge.

Within minutes, the first battery was unlimbered.

Trails were dug into the sand for stability. Sights were adjusted. Shell crates were opened and arranged in clean rows beside each piece. Gunners worked without noise, movements efficient, almost mechanical.

Further down the beach, water supplies were disembarked.

The sealed translucent containers were lowered in nets from the boats and stacked above the tide line. Quartermasters counted each bundle before passing them to logistics teams. Wooden frames were assembled quickly to keep them elevated from the sand. Medical officers inspected seals for cracks or contamination before marking them cleared.

Behind the supply stacks, the first field kitchens were assembled. Canvas awnings were stretched between poles. Fire pits were dug shallow to shield flame from distant observation. Medical tents followed, white fabric stretched tight and marked clearly for wounded intake.

Cavalry transports moved closer once the perimeter held firm.

Ramps dropped with heavy thuds against the sand. Horses were led out one by one, blinking against the bright shore. Some balked at the surf, hooves striking water with hesitation, but handlers pulled steady until the animals found footing. Saddles were secured immediately after landing. Units formed in reserve behind the infantry line, awaiting further orders.

Out at sea, the fleet maintained distance.

Ships of the line held their stations beyond the range of shore guns. Frigates adjusted their positions slightly to guard against any unexpected flanking movement.

It was an organized forward base.

Beyond the dunes, Algerian forces remained at a distance.