“There will be – the damned fools forgot to install a back gate! They either climb the palisade or come out towards us. Rapid fire, Mr Smit, Mr Blankenburg!”
The palisades began to fall, opening the camp to the possibility of canister.
“Cease fire!”
There was a white flag waving vigorously.
An hour sufficed to agree terms. The French paraded and stacked their muskets in ceremonious surrender then marched, empty-handed, onto the road for Dunkirk, pledged not to fight without exchange, which could not possibly be organised inside two months, by which time it would be redundant.
“Two months will see this business done and dusted, Colonel Osten.”
There was a slight delay for the English idiom to be translated.
“You mean, milord, that by then one side or the other must have prevailed?”
“Exactly, sir. There will have been a great battle, almost of a certainty, and the Duke of Wellington will have met the Emperor for the first time. I am of the opinion that the Duke will win; he is in the prime of life and is a great soldier. Bonaparte has been great, but I believe he was broken in spirit in Russia – his wild adventure gave him his first ever taste of failure and I do not think he can recover to be the man he was. Wellington will give him a drubbing and he will be forced to retreat. Once Bonaparte is seen to be defeated, then the wolves will gather at his back – the politicians of Paris will sharpen their knives, that I do not doubt.”
Colonel Osten was not so sanguine, but he did not see how the Emperor could survive the forces arrayed against him. Even if he defeated Wellington – which would demand a hard fought series of battles, he thought – he would be so weakened that he could not live against the Russian and Austrian armies that would by then be in the field.
“Whichever, Colonel Osten, two months will suffice to display the reality. We should, I think, march towards Dunkirk, in the hope of closing the port. I have it in mind to set your regiment down with the artillery on the road just on the Dutch-Belgic side of the border. Locate a defensible point and rest for a day or two. I think you have played your part and your men have marched sufficiently for a week or two. The 4th and the 9th should do for the advance on Dunkirk.”
“And, milord, for the rapid retreat that must immediately follow? You would not wish me to hold the river otherwise.”
Septimus laughed.
“It is just possible that the other locally-raised troops will call for a truce and for parley, Colonel Osten. I suspect they are far more likely to decide they outnumber me four and five to one and seek revenge. I would wish them to do so, of course.”
“Why, milord?”
“Success is measured by the butcher’s bill, Colonel Osten. Kill a couple of hundred? Very minor, even if one achieves a wholesale surrender of the foe. Kill two or three thousand in a protracted series of minor battles – far more impressive, sir! Defeat an invasion? Well done, my good and faithful! Do remember, sir, that we are fighting the French, but that my greatest enemy must be the Prince of Orange!”
“And I am seen to be in your camp, milord. I shall share your fate, I suspect. Let us, then, milord, proceed to war, and condemn Slender Billy to the obscurity that is natural to him.”
“Well said, sir!”
The dragoons pressed forward while Septimus awaited the arrival of the 4th and 9th, coming across stragglers from the recent action and sending them back as prisoners – mostly. A few showed fight and were ruthlessly cut down, Major Maartens assuming those who would not surrender to be inveterate Bonapartists and therefore a menace to civilisation, as such to be extirpated.
In sight of Dunkirk itself, on flat land which gave a clear view of the town and harbour, Major Maartens came across newly dug trenches, the earth still raw, the shovels still flying, and a brigade of infantry backed by naval guns. The wise dragoon did not choose to face fortifications and artillery, however green and newly emplaced; he retired before the first gun fired.
A despatch rider reached Septimus, still waiting for the arrival of the other two battalions, informing him that the port was held.
“Go back to Major Maartens, trooper. My compliments and he is to hold at a distance, remaining in sight of the trenches, retiring on me as soon as a column – or cavalry – marches. Beg him to send a picket out to his left – inland – to watch for troops concentrating on the town.”
Colonels Jansen and Steenkirk rode in, their regiments marching in good order behind them.
“Welcome, gentlemen! How many miles are left in your men today?”
“Two hours, sir. Five miles and set up a camp, milord.”
“Excellent. There are small streams just on the French side of the border, crossed by fords and little bridges. I would like you to halt at the most convenient of these and create a defensible camp – it is not impossible that there will be a force moving out from Dunkirk which might reach us soon after dawn. Major Maartens will be doing his best to keep us informed, but cavalry may be able to circle around him, or ride from inland, out of his sight entirely.”
“We could fort up in the fishing village that showed friendly when last we were here, milord.”
“Only if we are forced to the sea, Colonel Jansen. I would wish to fall back along the road, stopping and fighting where possible, cutting up the French until we finally reach the 12th and the guns, holding there long enough to bloody the pursuit, and then slowly to Nieuwpoort. Reaching the town, we fight from street to street, utilising the militia and their small guns as well and sucking the French in and tying them down, eventually unable to advance or retreat. There will be ships of the Royal Navy – possibly mortar vessels with their huge guns, if all goes well.”
The two colonels showed enthusiastic – there was the chance of defeating an enemy far superior in numbers, and that must be very useful to them in their later careers, during the years of peace.
They marched, the men understanding that they were heading towards safe camping grounds for the night and very willing to stretch out as a result.
They came to a canal in less than their two hours, halted on the Belgian side, the colonels suggesting to Septimus that it was almost ideal.
The waterway was more than twenty feet wide, not especially deep, but just too much so to be waded. There was a towpath, raised by a couple of feet, sufficient for men to lay behind and fire from cover. There was a single, narrow stone bridge, a cart width and arched up so that a barge could pass underneath; the cavalry did not exist who could charge across it. There was no other bridge in sight in either direction.
Septimus knew from his map that the canal terminated at a small harbour four miles distant on the coast. Presumably the barges carried agricultural produce to coasters at harvest time, brought goods from up and down the coast into the inland villages the rest of the year. It was an adequate obstacle.
“Be sure that your men fill their water bottles, gentlemen. It will be hot tomorrow, by the looks of the sky.”
The orders had already been given.
“Firewood, milord?”
There were clumps of willow along the course of the canal and what looked like an orchard half a mile or so distant on the other side.
“Take the willow. Do not permit men to venture across the water tonight, gentlemen. Those might be cherry trees, of course, and cherry burns well… No. The risk is excessive. If we receive a message from Major Maartens and march towards him tomorrow, then take wood as we pass the trees. That looks like farm buildings behind the orchard – they may well have stacks of firewood available, and we are on the French side of the frontier. But not until we hear from Major Maartens.”
Colonel Jansen possessed a telescope, was surveying the land in front of them, turned his attention now to movement on the road.
“I think, milord, we will hear from the gentleman within the next half an hour. I would hazard a guess that is him just coming into sight. Heavy cavalry, certainly, milord.”
“4th on this side of
the bridge, 12th to the right, four companies up, four to reserve, gentlemen. It may not be our dragoons, or they might have company in close attendance.”
Ten minutes of scurrying and the men were disposed of correctly, loaded and tucked away in cover or standing in their ranks two hundred yards back from the bridge, ready to form an echelon of company squares, more effective against a few squadrons of cavalry than larger, half-battalion squares.
The cavalry approached at an easy canter, no attempt to push their horses, no obvious pursuit; they were recognised and waved across, Major Maartens leading them in double file across the bridge.
“Good evening, milord! I would expect action soon after dawn, milord. We were followed – at a distance – by a small squadron of hussars, yeomanry by the feel of them, who sent riders back when it became clear that we were taking the road in column of route. I would imagine that there would be foot on the march soon, if not already. They are located just a few miles south, milord.”
Septimus expressed his pleasure at the information, called Jansen and Steenkirk to him.
“Cooking fires, gentlemen – bright and large to show our presence, and burning overnight so that scouts will know we have not left. Be ready for company in the morning. The bridge is yours, Colonel Jansen. How will you hold it? It is not to be broken, of course – we want a pursuit.”
“An empty cart from the commissary, milord. Upside down at the top of the arch, and two platoons behind it and to either side of the bridge. They will hold against a Forlorn Hope charging to clear the obstruction.”
“Very good. Major Maartens, at dawn, lead your men inland along the canal, discover the next crossing and show yourself there, as a discouragement. Withdraw to the road after two or so hours, acting at your discretion.”
There was a flurry of shots in the middle of the night, the platoon on the bridge quickly falling into volley fire on their corporal’s command, then dropping back into the shelter of the cart.
“Find out what that was, Mr Porteous.”
The ensign ran from his little tent, was back in five minutes.
“The lieutenant said that scouts came up to the bridge, sir. He was given the word from the picket on the bank of the canal and fired at the movement as soon as he spotted it. He thinks there are two lumps down on the ground, but he won’t send men forward in the night.”
“Very wise of him, Mr Porteous. If they are dead, they will still be there at first light. If they ain’t, they can call a surrender or make their own way back to their people. No gain to risking our men in the darkness.”
“I could go out, sir, to identify them by their uniform.”
“No. It will be useful to discover whether they are regulars, I will admit – but not so useful as to risk a life finding out. I will not make any great changes to my orders if I find them to be veterans, though I am assuming them to be militia. The thing is, Mr Porteous, that if they are men grown - even only very recently so – then they will have been conscripted during the war. Even militia will have a degree of experience in the ranks, and many will have fought hard campaigns. They are not like English militia – they are not green clodhoppers who know not which end of a musket the powder goes into.”
“But, there is only one place the powder can go, sir!”
“Exactly, Mr Porteous.”
“Beg pardon, my lord… but, what do they do next?”
“Wait, I would imagine. They have discovered that we are holding the bridge. They will have seen that it is a small, narrow affair. Now, they have to decide how to cross the canal. If they use guns, they are more likely to destroy the bridge than to clear it. Was it me, then I would be sending horse to the coast, to the little harbour we are told is there. I would loot the boatyard for timbers – there ought to be one even in a tiny place - and put them on a boat, ideally a barge; more than one if they are to hand. Then it’s make my own bridge a mile or two down from here, using the timbers to deck over the barges temporarily, and march my people across quietly unmolested. I, of course, have no need for the glory of a battle – although I am doing my best to arrange one, as you know. If I do not succeed in bringing on a pursuit and then, of course, the trivial matter of defeating it, well, I shall be minorly put out. I have my peerage and some money and land and can sink into comfortable obscurity; winning a battle will give me employment of some sort in future years. But think of a French militia colonel, Mr Porteous. He must believe that the Emperor will succeed in his endeavours – so he is and will remain insignificant; but, if he falls upon an English or Dutch-Belgic army of invasion and defeats it, then he will be noticed by Paris as having done a good job. He will be brought to Bonaparte’s attention and will be generously rewarded – the Emperor is lavish to those who serve him well. Even more than is the case for me, the Frenchman needs a battle.”
Porteous nodded thoughtfully.
“That means, my lord, that he must attack head on. Crossing the canal elsewhere will cause us to fall back, but will achieve very little for him.”
“Exactly, Mr Porteous. He needs a battle and I would like to accommodate him with one. He must take greater risks than I do. Because of that, our lesser force will have chances to defeat him. Go to sleep for another two hours, now - we shall be busy in the morning.”
Atkins was stood at the rear of the tent, listening quietly.
“Pistols for dawn, Atkins.”
“Coffee an hour before, sir. Some toasted bread, sir?”
“A little more than that, if you could. There will be small chance of stopping for a meal during the day, I suspect. It’s clouding up. Do you think it will rain?”
“High and thin, that cloud, sir. it will burn off in the first hour of the day, sir. Might be a bit of a fog, mind you, sir. These wet lands are a bugger for mists in spring, sir.”
“Remind me to pass the word to fire off loaded muskets at dawn, Atkins. Many will have damp priming and will need to fire off two or three times to set off their charge.”
“These lads won’t know that, sir. Willing, but tedious green, sir.”
Man of Conflict Series
Book Six
Chapter Nine
“French column in sight, sir. Still in route formation.”
“Thank you, Mr Porteous. Tell me as soon as they do something.”
Septimus returned to his breakfast. Atkins had done him proud with fried potatoes – boiled first and sliced into rounds – and fried eggs and some sort of sausage. Not proper English sausages, but tasty enough. He must have been busy at the fire for two hours and more; he had made coffee as well, and had toast to follow.
The watching men were to a great extent envious, but also knew that he thought there was time and to spare and nothing to worry about. The word of the English milord’s fighting prowess had spread through his brigade and there was a general feeling that he knew exactly what he was doing. If he was unconcerned, they need not fear the outcome of the day.
“Thing is, Mr Porteous, that men run away or fight depending on how they feel. If they decide they are going to win, nine times out of ten they do; if, on the other hand, they see that their officers are worried they will lose, then that’s what will happen – because they believe that the officers know more than they do. So, Mr Porteous, we show willing. Go on out there and take your sword to the grindstone, if you can find one. Make a show of putting an edge on the blade, telling the armourer that today is the first time you will use it and you want to tickle up a few of the Frogs as they run.”
“Yes, sir. Will they run, sir?”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to, and one side or the other must do so. Yes, they are in an inferior position which more than cancels out their numbers. We are to give them a thrashing today, Mr Porteous. Once we have done so, we shall withdraw and leave them to chase us to the next ground of our choosing.”
Ensign Porteous could not quite understand why they would chase after a defeat.
“Their Emperor has no tolerance for the weak
and incompetent and disloyal, Mr Porteous. French soldiers and sailors can only be defeated by treachery, so he says. They must win if they are honest and, above all, loyal. If officers report defeat, their chance of surviving is thin. Even if they are not sent to court-martial, they will be posted to a hell-hole and their careers will be destroyed, and their families, I am told, may be punished; the father of a defeated young colonel might find himself thrown out of a post he had held well for years for being ‘unreliable’. So, a loss in battle is no more than a temporary setback, and they will endeavour to reverse it, normally with slight success.”
“That is foolish, sir. They will have taken casualties in their first encounter, and will be weaker when they force battle a second time.”
“If they cannot find reinforcements, certainly so, Mr Porteous. If they are thoroughly beaten, they will withdraw reluctantly and slowly and will offer the victors the opportunity to complete the job – which is foolish in the extreme. They are forced to the attack, always to advance. That has the advantage to us, I am told, that they cannot quite comprehend the tactical withdrawal. We are retiring before them – therefore, in their understanding, we are in defeat. They cannot work out that we are going backwards by simple choice, that the plan was always to do so. A smaller force can do better in defence than in attack, especially when it is the better trained. Britain is a richer country than France, Mr Porteous, and has more gunpowder to hand. We put our men to the butts to build their skills, for having the powder to burn off. Our men fire live in practice, probably at least ten times more than the French. For militia, the figure is likely to be far more. That makes a great difference in the field.”
Ensign Porteous had never considered that point. The thought that the richer army was the more likely to win was rather disturbing as well.
“The soldier who fires better, for having practised, is more likely to win, you say, sir. What of fighting spirit, sir, and honour?”
“Excellent things in themselves, Mr Porteous. Much to be recommended. I tend to prefer a volley, well together and the muskets pointed straight if I am to kill an enemy. There is a great deal to be said for the regiment, of course – the men must know they are the best, and part of a good regiment that don’t lose – but more than that? Not for me, I think.”
06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6) Page 19
