Five days later.
French outposts positioned along the low ridges beyond Sidi-Ferruch had spent the previous days expanding the perimeter. Trenches had deepened. Gun pits reinforced with packed sand and timber. Supply routes between the beach and the forward line were already marked by wagon tracks and trampled scrub.
At dawn, the air felt heavy.
A thin haze hung over the plain of Staouéli, flattening distance. Beyond the cultivated fields and scattered olive groves, shapes gathered.
Algerian banners.
Columns forming.
Drums carried faintly on the wind.
Inside the French forward camp, bugles cut through the morning quiet.
Infantry companies formed in staggered lines rather than tight ranks. Officers moved down the rows, adjusting intervals. The lesson of the landing had already settled in: spacing meant survival.
Marshal Davout observed from a slight rise behind the first line.
