From up close, the ancient structures appeared even more staggering—impossible in their width and height. André could not help but gawk as they approached the base of the nearest pyramid. But his eyes were quickly pulled from the pyramid to the desert in front of him; a group of enemy horsemen who had lain in wait behind the pyramids now rode out, taking the French completely by surprise. At this close distance, the ferocity of their battle cries was even more chilling. The numbers here were more favorable for the Mamelukes, with no river to fence them in against French rifles and bayonets.
“Follow me!” General Dumas raised his sword and turned his horse to meet the oncoming enemy. The front of the French squadron smashed into the Mameluke cavalry. In this melee, sand and dust churned up in all directions. André wiped his stinging eyes in order to see the enemy before him.
The first two enemy horses flew past him before he had time to swing his saber. A third slowed his pace as he rode toward André. He met the Mameluke’s scimitar and just barely parried the strike, slashing back as his horse sidestepped another rider racing past.
The warrior struck again, this time swinging overhead, and André fended off the enemy’s slash with his own saber. His horse lurched back, knocking André temporarily off balance. André looked down, surprised by the sudden movement, and saw that a Mameluke pistol shot had struck his horse in the chest.
André swore as he felt the horse stumble, struggling desperately to stay on its feet. Capitalizing on this distraction, the Mameluke slashed at André, the blade just barely missing his right shoulder. Beneath him, André’s horse grunted in agonizing pain, pawing at the earth with legs that André knew would soon give out. He wheeled his horse around, willing it to carry him out of the melee. If he fell here, he would be easy prey for the slashing blades and crushing hooves that thrashed all around him.
With a painful effort, the horse obeyed. The horse limped for several paces, clearing mount and rider from the clash of flesh and steel. At a distance André deemed safe enough for a quick pause, he dismounted and looked at his beast. The creature was screeching in agony, losing blood at an unsustainable pace, and so André pulled out his pistol and took mercy on the poor animal. Now he was without a horse in a mounted engagement, far from friendly lines. At least he still had his pistol and his saber. He dropped to one knee, panting as he quickly loaded another ball, dropping it into the barrel of his pistol and ramming it into place.
He took a quick survey of his surroundings. His best chance, he decided, was to find some high ground, perhaps on the side of one of these massive structures, and wait for a mount to become available. It was only a matter of time before one of the nearby horses lost its rider in the mayhem. But before he had taken a dozen paces, he saw another Mameluke rider approaching. The man looked down on him with black eyes, his mouth opened wide as he trilled out his war cry.
André rolled to his left, ducking at the last minute out of the horse’s path. He stumbled to his feet but realized he had dropped the pistol as he dodged. He clawed at the sand, hoping to find it somewhere in front of him, but there was no time, for the warrior had turned his light-footed beast and was charging again. This time, André did not move quickly enough, and the blade of the warrior’s saber slashed his right leg, cutting through layers of pants and flesh. André buckled, clutching his thigh. Now he surely could not out-duel this man mounted on an Arabian. Instinctively he reached for the pistol on his belt. Empty. A cold sensation settled over him—he would die on this sand.
“Valière!” André looked up and saw General Murat approach, his own pistol held aloft. The general aimed the weapon at the enemy and fired. The Mameluke rider sat upright for a moment, then a sudden spasm shook his body. He slumped sideways, slowly sliding off his exhausted horse. André shut his eyes, relief washing over him, momentarily forgetting the excruciating pain in his thigh. The Mameluke was dead and André was wounded but saved—by General Murat, of all people.
“Valière, you’re wounded.” Murat hopped down from his horse and helped André up. “Can you make it onto the horse?”
André looked down at his bleeding leg; standing was a sudden agony, and he abandoned the idea of jumping into a stirrup.
“Fine.” Murat walked with the reins in one hand and guided André, hoisting his other arm over his shoulders, toward a narrow lane alongside the massive pyramid before them.
“Wait.” André turned. Seeing his saber not ten feet away, he hobbled over and picked it up, sliding it into his scabbard.