Marshal Davout watched from his seat as Ahmed el-Kebir walked toward him. Just like other locals in the area, he wore a long white robe, dust-stained at the hem, and a wrapped turban that had come loose from the wind. A narrow sash held the robe at his waist. His sandals were coated with fine gray powder from the shattered walls.
Two attendants followed several paces behind him, carrying nothing but the white banner fixed to a wooden pole.
Davout did not rise.
Colonel Valence stood at his right. A detachment of infantry formed a quiet line behind them.
Ahmed stopped at the designated mark—ten paces from the French position.
He placed his right hand over his chest and bowed his head slightly.
"Sire," he said in clear French. "I am Ahmed el-Kebir, envoy of His Excellency, Hussein Dey of Algiers. I come under flag of truce."
"Where did you learn to speak French?"
Ahmed kept his hand over his chest.
"From trade, Marshal. I have dealt with your merchants for many years."
