The Rosetta Key

Except they hadn’t yet. “There.” Kléber pointed. “Do you see French bayonets?”

I peered until my eye ached. The high grass billowed in the west, but whether from the passage of infantry or wind I didn’t know. The lush earth had swallowed the antlike maneuvering of armies. “It could be a French column, because the high grass is moving. But as you say, how could it come so quickly?”

“We’ll die of thirst if we stay here,” Kléber said. “Or men will desert and have their throats cut. I don’t know if there are reinforcements that way or not, but we are going to find out.” He trotted back down, with me following.

“Junot, start forming columns. We’re going to meet our relievers!” The men cheered, hoping against hope that they were not simply opening themselves to being overrun. As the square dissolved into two columns, the Turkish cavalry became more animated. Here was a chance to swoop down on our flanks and rear! We could hear them shouting, horns blaring.

“Forward!” We began marching downhill.

Turkish lances waved and danced.

Then there was a cannon shot in the distance. The businesslike crack was as French as a shouted order in a Parisian restaurant, so dis-tinct are calibers of ordnance. We looked and saw a plume of smoke drift off. Men began crying with relief. Help was indeed coming! The French began to cheer, even sing.

The enemy cavalry hesitated, peering west.

The tricolors rippled as we tramped down Djebel-el-Dahy, as if on parade.

Then smoke began rising from the enemy camp. There were shots, faint screams, and the triumphant wail of French bugles. Napoleon’s cavalry had broken into the Turkish rear and was sowing panic. Pre-1 8 2

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cious supplies began to go up in flames. With a roar, stored ammunition exploded.

“Steady!” Kléber reminded. “Keep ranks!”

“When they come at us, crouch and fire on command!” Junot added.

We saw a small lake by the village of Fula. Our excitement grew.

There was an Ottoman regiment in front of it, looking irresolute.

Now the officers galloped up and down the columns, giving orders to ready a charge.

“Strike!” With a cheer, the bloodied French swept the rest of the way down the hill and toward the Samaritan infantry that garrisoned the village. There were shots, a plunge of bayonets and clubbed muskets, and then the enemy was running. Meanwhile Turks were fleeing from whatever had appeared in the west as well. Miraculously, in minutes an army of twenty-five thousand was collapsing into panic, fleeing east before a few thousand Frenchmen. Bonaparte’s cavalry galloped past us, giving chase toward the valley of the Jordan. Ottomans were hunted and slain all the way to the river.

We plunged into the Fula pond, slaking our thirst, and then stood wet and dripping like drunken men, our cartridge pouches empty.

Napoleon galloped up, beaming like the savior he was, his breeches gray from dust.

“I suspected you’d get yourself into trouble, Kléber!” he shouted. “I set out yesterday after reading the reports!” He smiled. “They ran at the crack of a cannon!”

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With his instinct for the political, Bonaparte immediately named our near-disaster the Battle of Mount Tabor—a much more imposing and pronounceable peak than modestly sloping Djebel-el-Dahy, though several miles distant—and proclaimed it “one of the most lopsided victories in military history. I want the full details dispatched to Paris as soon as we can.”

I was certain he hadn’t been as prompt in relaying news of the massacre at Jaffa.

“A few more divisions and we could march to Damascus,” Kléber said, intoxicated by his improbable victory. Instead of being jealous, he now seemed dazzled by his commander’s timely rescue. Bonaparte could work miracles.

“A few more divisions, General, and we could march to Bagh-dad and Constantinople,” Napoleon amended. “Damn Nelson! If he hadn’t destroyed my fleet, I would be master of Asia!” Kléber nodded. “And if Alexander hadn’t died in Babylon, or Caesar been stabbed, or Roland been too far behind . . .” 1 8 4

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“For want of a nail the battle was lost,” I piped up.

“What?”

“Just something my mentor Ben Franklin used to say. It’s the little things that trip us up. He believed in attention to detail.”

“Franklin was a wise man,” Napoleon said. “Scrupulous attention to detail is essential to a soldier. And your mentor was a true savant.

He’d be anxious to solve ancient mysteries, not for his own sake but for science. Which is why you’ll now go on to meet Silano, correct, Monsieur Gage?”