06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6)

by Andrew Wareham

  The hussar captain was a good ten yards ahead of his men, leading the charge by example, he probably thought, waving his sabre in broad sweeps and bellowing some sort of encouragement to the troopers. He was bringing his horse to the gallop already, a good furlong out, far too soon. There was at least one old hand in the front rank of the yeomanry, arm out to hold his men back, keeping them to a walk in fact, letting an increasing gap form between his troop of local friends and acquaintances and their new, Paris-appointed leader.

  “Command is yours, Colonel Osten.”

  Osten shouted his orders, watched critically as his three ranks facing the charge took their proper stance.

  The first rank fixed bayonets and waited. When the galloping captain had reached one hundred yards they cocked their locks and brought their pieces to the shoulder, delayed a few more seconds and fired their volley before dropping to one knee and presenting their blades at the officially approved angle.

  “Oh, very good, Colonel Osten. Steady and very correct.”

  More than sixty muskets had been levelled and fired at the one man, at a distance of seventy or so yards. His horse was down and unmoving, and he was flat beside it. The front rank of the yeomanry was just reaching his position, looking at the shattered corpses and then at the second rank of muskets, coming to the shoulder. They halted uncertainly, clumped together loosely, looking uneasily at each other.

  Septimus heard a voice yell something and watched as they responded by turning their horses’ heads and kicking at their flanks. They left far faster than they had arrived.

  The gendarmes had halted, now shifted aside to allow the yeomanry through. An officer started forward, slowly, waving his hat and shouting.

  “He asks permission to come and talk, milord.”

  “Please allow him into the square, Colonel Osten. Warn your officers to stay alert, sir.”

  Septimus did not move, allowed the captain of the gendarmes to dismount and walk to him.

  “We have met before, captain. As I remember, you pledged to take no part in this war and, as a result, I forbore from action against you. You would seem to be in breach of that parole, sir. There are many who would regard that as a hanging matter.”

  “My family and the women and children of my men were at threat, milord. It seemed to me that you might hang me, but that was nothing compared to what might – would – happen to the families.”

  Septimus waved a hand in disgusted dismissal.

  “I must have done the same, sir. Forget that I spoke, if you would be so good. Who was the source of those threats? Will you be safe now?”

  “The man lying in his own blood, sir. I do not know if he is dead. I will send my most reliable sergeant to discover whether that is so, and ensure that any shortfall may be corrected.”

  “Well put, sir! Will there be another come in his place?”

  “I must send a report to Paris of his death. If the Emperor wins his war in the Low Countries, there will be another; if not, not. I suspect that the authorities in Paris will wait until they discover what has occurred on the field of battle before they take action. For the while, sir, I shall take command of those of the men here who will remain under arms, and with your permission, use them to keep order in the immediate area.”

  “That seems satisfactory to me. Colonel Osten, would you agree?”

  “Certainly, milord. If the gentleman can maintain public order in Dunkirk, and perhaps discourage the privateers from sailing, then he will be performing a valuable service.”

  The pair exchanged bows, puzzling Septimus a little, but that was none of his affair, he thought.

  “What of the revenue men, sir?”

  “They did not wish to be here, sir, and will not remain very long. I am concerned about the yeomanry, however; they have broken and may turn brigand. Some, the enthusiasts, of whom there are a number, may try to make their way to join the Emperor’s army; others who did not wish to leave their homes will return to them; a few will perhaps model themselves on the guerrillas they saw in Spain and attempt to raise the countryside, both for and against the Emperor, perhaps destroying those who will not support them.”

  “I am afraid that you must try to solve that problem, Captain. I cannot.”

  “It may be so that I shall discover the location of a band, sir. May I beg assistance if that should be the case?”

  “Colonel Osten?”

  Osten nodded; he would release a company or two if the occasion arose. The pair bowed to each other again and the gendarme rode off.

  “Have you met that man before, Colonel Osten?”

  “I know him, milord. He was of a family not so far from my home; we were schoolmates, not unfriendly. He left to go to the Emperor’s wars and ended up as a provost. From that to gendarme when the peace came was obviously a simple move. He is honest in himself, milord.”

  ‘Honest, but on the other side to you, sir’, Septimus thought. He wondered, for a few seconds, how difficult life must be for those who had to remake their existence after so many years of upheaval. What it would have been like to have experienced such conflict in one’s homeland – that he could not imagine, he could not stretch his understanding of people to that extent.

  He turned his attention back to the palisade and the troops behind it; that was a far simpler problem to solve. He took up his telescope, called Captain Forsythe to him.

  “I believe I can pick out the facings of at least four different battalions inside that little fortalice, Captain Forsythe. For numbers, I would not say two thousand. What’s your opinion?”

  “Four battalions of infantry, sir, and I believe I can pick out six emplacements containing small cannon, and ununiformed men, who might be sailors. Not the easiest of tasks to attempt an escalade, sir.”

  “Not with eight hundred men, Captain Forsythe. We withdraw, I believe. If we move immediately, we may give the impression that we have come to an agreement with the horse soldiers, that we shall shift in one direction while they take the other…”

  “An encouragement to any enthusiasts there may be to venture in pursuit of us, sir? What an excellent idea!”

  “I think so. Lieutenant Rowlands, I would like you to take a message to the 4th and 9th. Mr Porteous, go to the artillery, if you would be so good. Just a short delay while I write my orders. Mr Tanner, the dragoons should be somewhere inland of us; if you can find them, give Major Maartens this message.”

  The 12th reversed their track, shouldering arms and marching away in good order; the gendarmerie disappeared over the hill and the officers inside the palisade shrugged their shoulders and wondered just what had happened. The French colonel, acting-brigadier, in command could count, discovered the 12th to be little more than a third of his numbers. If a report went back to Paris that he had been challenged by a single battalion and had chosen to do nothing, then he would soon find himself in hot water. He had a choice, he thought. He knew that the Emperor was soon to march to battle, and that he had a habit of winning far more often than he lost; if he did nothing and the Emperor won again, his people would be asking questions of him that he would not be able to answer. If the Emperor lost, then he would be able to claim that he had never supported the usurper. Was the Emperor likely to lose?

  He decided that the Emperor would at least do enough to retain the throne of France. He gave the orders to march three of his battalions out in pursuit of the Dutch-Belgic forces. He also sent a messenger to Paris, with instructions not to ride too fast, with a report of all that had happened so far. He drew the messenger, one of his lieutenants to one side.

  “If, on reaching Paris, you discover the Emperor to have marched north, then return with your despatch undelivered. Do not report to the Army. If he is still in Paris, then you must discover whether there is an expectation that he will march, or whether he is negotiating with the British and Austrians and Prussians. You will only deliver the despatch if you are certain that the Emperor will retain power. If he is to fight in Belgium,
we can wait until we discover who has won. Then you will take a despatch – not necessarily this one – to the victor. We must take some care to belong to the right side.”

  “But, sir, can there be any doubt that the Emperor will win?”

  “No. Of course not. But any loyal man will wish to hear of that victory before committing himself too rashly. I am marching now, because I believe the Emperor will win. You are riding slowly, because I do not believe too strongly.”

  The Brigadier left his artillery and the sailor-militia behind, the guns because he lacked the horses to draw them, the sailors because they lacked the discipline to control themselves when out from under his direct eye. He left his second-in-command with a battalion and strict orders to instantly hang any sailor who misbehaved – he did not wish to return victorious over the Dutch-Belgic rabble to discover his home countryside sacked.

  Septimus made a slow pace, very deliberately. Instead of fifty minutes march and ten rest to the hour, he permitted the rate to drop to forty and twenty, hopefully allowing the pursuit to close on them and to develop a contempt for their discipline.

  “Slowly does it, Colonel Osten. The Frogs have still to decide what they will do when they catch up with us. If they form line while we continue to march, they will be left looking very silly. They will eventually realise that they must detach a battalion at the double to loop around us and form a block to bring us to a halt.”

  “What do we do, milord?”

  “March. All depends on timing, and I do not know how it will work.”

  Three hours on the march and almost eight miles traversed and they crossed the frontier, fairly close to an area of woodland.

  “Rest under the trees, Colonel Osten. Our men to appear to be so unfit that they must take the weight off their feet for an hour at least. They may make fires.”

  The order was given, the sergeants warned to let no man take his boots off and to be ready to form their lines at the bugle call.

  The pursuit halted as well, dithered a few minutes before forming a double line on either side of the roadway and commencing a very slow advance.

  “They hope, Colonel Osten, that we will not observe the third battalion sloping off to their right. There they go, do you see? They are about to circle around these woods and form a block across the road behind us.”

  Colonel Osten could not see that to be a very good idea, suggested they might wish to forestall them.

  “Let us wait, Colonel Osten. Warn your men to be ready at a minute’s call.”

  “They are ready, milord.”

  They waited, increasingly impatiently. A half an hour, time for a battalion at the double to travel more than two miles, and to be short of wind as well, and there was a sudden blare of noise perhaps half a mile distant, on the far edge of the woodland.

  “No more than platoon volleys, Colonel Osten, and a mix of lighter fire, carbines and pistols, I do believe, and that, sir, is a cavalry trumpet. I do not know the call?”

  “It is the ‘harry’, sir. The pursuit of the broken infantry. Major Maartens, I presume?”

  “I hoped Lieutenant Tanner would have brought him to the rendezvous, Colonel Osten. Form line, if you would be so good, and advance. Loaded, of course.”

  The French were barely a quarter of a mile distant, had come to an abrupt halt. The orders were being given for a pair of squares, were hastily countermanded as the line of infantry appeared.

  “At the double, milord?”

  “I think so, Colonel Osten. Let us see what the gentlemen will do.”

  The dragoons appeared on the flank, one half of them at the gallop, ruthlessly breaking the fleeing infantry, ensuring that they would not reform that day, if ever. The remainder were held to a fast walk, in a double rank, very obviously ready to draw swords and set about the two battalions in their lines.

  “They must form square, milord, or they will be rolled up from the flank. If they do, our volleys will cut them to pieces.”

  “An interesting conundrum for their commanding officer, Colonel Osten. I know what I would do; a pair of squares, one holding, one falling back, alternating. Not easy at best, far more complicated for our presence – I wonder just how experienced a professional their man is?”

  “He will not be of the best, milord. If he was good, then he would have been called to Paris to command a regiment in the Emperor’s army of invasion.”

  “I agree, Colonel Osten. In fact, my little scheme depends on him being a second-rater.”

  “What do you hope him to do, milord? Too late, milord – he has chosen what I must think to be the worst possible course.”

  The two battalions had about faced and were running in the hope, presumably, of reaching another patch of woodland, a good two miles distant.

  “There goes Major Maartens, Colonel.”

  The dragoons were on the heels of the infantry, were just overtaking the slowest, their long, straight swords outstretched, lancing into the backs of the running men, one after another. The trumpets were yipping their shrill calls to the charge, adding to the panic.

  “A horrible sight, milord. I saw the field at Vitoria, in Spain, milord, when your heavy cavalry got into the retreat and turned it into a rout. Bigger than this, of course, but no more vicious. Will you call them off, milord?”

  Septimus shook his head.

  “Not yet, Colonel Osten. They must not reform before they reach the safety of Dunkirk. I want the burghers of the town to see a bloodied, defeated, broken mass in terrified flight. By tomorrow evening, I want every man in Dunkirk to know that they are on the losing side in this war. The privateers must look at the evidence of the Emperor’s failure – as they will see it – and must choose to stay home. There are other camps of locally raised militias and yeomanry, and they must hear of the defeat we have visited upon their colleagues in arms – and wonder how soon before their turn comes. We face at least eight thousand men, Colonel Osten, possibly more – they must be persuaded that they do not wish to fight our three thousand, that they should simply tag along behind us as we retreat.”

  Colonel Osten understood – it was not butchery for its own sake, for simple and sadistic pleasure.

  “Advance at the march, milord?”

  “Yes. There is an amount of tidying up to do, I fear, Colonel Osten. Oh, now look at what that fool is doing!”

  The French colonel, or brigadier, whichever he might be, had formed his military family into line abreast, was charging eight strong at the dragoons, a gesture, Septimus presumed, of noble defiance.

  Major Maartens’ men were professionals, knew exactly what to do. A sergeant shouted and a section of a dozen pulled carbines from their buckets and fired a neat volley at twenty yards, emptying five saddles. Carbines held in their left hands, they took horse pistols and fired again at no more than ten feet distance, blowing the remaining three to the ground. They dismounted to reload and to make sure of their men, and to run their hands through their pockets, officers often worth the trouble.

  “And as a result, Colonel Osten, his men no longer have officers to lead them! Irresponsible in the extreme!”

  “But very noble, milord. The course of honour – the bloody fools!”

  “Take prisoners, Colonel Osten. Send the wounded back to Nieuwpoort, if practical. Does your bugler know the recall for cavalry?”

  Major Maartens was waiting the order, it seemed. His trumpeter took up the call and the dragoons slowly responded to the order, bringing their horses back across the bloody field, many of the men finding the need to dismount and walk, occasionally bending over when they passed a prosperous-seeming body.

  “Most creditable, Major Maartens! What would be your estimate for the butcher’s bill, sir?”

  “As always, milord, more frightened than hurt – they will be running for the rest of the day, and the night as well for many of them! For the first battalion, milord, we actually made contact with two companies, and they took perhaps fifty dead and so wounded as not to su
rvive, and another twenty perhaps with flesh wounds. Dragoon swords kill when they hit cleanly, milord – more than a yard of heavy blade swung hard from a running horse does much damage. As regards the other two battalions – looking at the field, I see perhaps two score down – they will not live. A few more will have crawled into cover and will not be picked up. Say another fifty in total, milord. The officers, of course, who chose to be silly, them in addition – their business, milord! Of perhaps one thousand and five hundred in the three battalions – dead one hundred, wounded two score, running and never to be seen again – a lot!”

  “Good. They are broken, and the word will soon spread to the other battalions along the coast here. Did you take losses?”

  “There will be some – horses putting a leg into a rabbit hole the most common cause of casualties. Very few, however.”

  “Good. More marching, I fear, Major Maartens. We must make our way back to the little fort these people came from, and then demand a surrender of the single battalion remaining. Do you know the location of the artillery?”

  “Both batteries are at the rendezvous, milord. They had set themselves in position to deal with the marching battalion in the event that we were late – we arrived only minutes before the French, milord. It was a rather tight affair!”

  “But, you achieved all that I had begged of you, sir – much to my pleasure, and gratitude! Would you send a message, begging them to limber up and join us here?”

  Septimus allowed the men an easy march – they had traversed this section of road too many times in twenty-four hours. They spent the night some three miles distant from the palisaded camp, arrived two furlongs from the gates at dawn.

  “Mr Smit, Mr Blankenburg, please to announce our presence.”

  The ten eight pounders fired ball and the two howitzers lobbed a shell apiece into the centre of the camp.

  “Better than Reveille for waking them up, Colonel Osten!”

  “There seems to be an amount of panic and confusion in the camp, milord.”