“Captain, we have met little and it is a great pity that I had not made your acquaintance before Rumes. You have had little military experience before, I take it?”
“As much as any man, Colonel. I’m not aware of many who had seen battle before last week, unless fighting amongst themselves counts,” Baumann offered an insincere smile, seconded by Major Volgraf’s snide laughter. There was an obvious reference to 2nd Battalion’s misdeeds at Halle but Colonel Neuberg chose to ignore it.
“And how did you make your decisions during this battle?”
“I had with me a sergeant of many years’ service. I’m not ashamed to say that there was an occasion where I privately consulted him. But now I have seen action, such council is no longer necessary. An officer must command alone.”
“Wise counsel indeed Captain, choosing an experienced man but tell me, when did you agree your plan of action with Lieutenant von Bomm?”
“When he returned from his watch in the church tower, sir.”
“I see,” Neuberg nodded, “and had any reserves been spotted at this point?”
“No sir, but we were confident in either the arrival of the Colonel or men from Tournai.”
“I noticed, after the battle, that the Farmhouse roof was still intact. It was a low building. How did you plan to see these reserves?”
“I saw no reason to destroy the property of the villagers. I had a runner keeping in communication with the lieutenant,” Baumann replied, his voice firm.
“I sent that runner. Pinsk was my man!” von Bomm interrupted but Neuberg simply raised a hand for silence.
“It was a difficult situation, Captain, a testing day was it not? A battlefield is a confusing place.”
Baumann nodded at the words, while glaring at his opponent.
Neuberg continued. “Outnumbered, having fought off one attack, you took control, made a plan. A plan that involved a reserve, that you only knew would come because of blind faith and if they did you could not be certain of either their time, composition or where they might deploy. You had no clear idea of the strength of the enemy or their dispositions because you never went to check. Would that be correct?”
“I didn’t need to. I’d sent the lieutenant! I shouldn’t have….”
Neuberg held up his hand again cutting across Baumann.
“Do you trust this man? Did you before Rumes? Did you trust the man that you and the honourable men of Hanover label as insubordinate and cowardly?”
“Well, I…it...it isn’t that simple!”
“Yes, it is.”
“I cannot answer. Damn it, Colonel Franke, I refuse to answer that!” Baumann’s head had tilted from one direction to the next but Franke sat impassively.
“It’s tricky because, if you didn’t trust his judgement, then you endangered every man at Rumes by letting him detail the enemy positions and in drawing up your plan upon his word alone. Of course, if you did trust him, it makes little sense that you should question his judgement on a battlefield where he has made an effort not only to strengthen his positions to their fullest but also observe the movements of the enemy,” Neuberg held the gaze of Baumann before turning to Franke “Thank you, Colonel, I have nothing further to ask.”
The grenadier colonel shuffled the manuscripts before him.
“Captain Baumann, these are testimonies from some of the men who fought alongside Lieutenant von Bomm. They are full of nothing but praise and admiration for his leadership…”
“You are going to trust the obvious conspiracy of private soldiers against those of an officer?” Volgraf cut in, clearly appalled at the insinuation.
Colonel Franke’s moustache twitched involuntarily at the outburst.
“A sergeant whose opinion I trust, yes. But then the Captain can hardly object to that. I also have the testimony of the company doctor, even of the enemy officer who set the building alight. There are several curses in it but he wishes that, with your bravery, you were French, Lieutenant von Bomm.”
Colonel Franke could find little fault with the lieutenant's actions. Had ‘Broken Tail’ house fallen, there was every prospect of the flank of the grenadiers being overwhelmed and the battalion destroyed before the Austrians had checked the French.
One letter lay unopened amongst the pile of documents. It was written in a hand that von Bomm immediately recognised: General Murray, the chief of staff to the Duke. Franke made a show of opening the letter and for the first time since they had taken a seat, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes had returned.
“To Colonel Manfred Franke, Commander of 1st Grenadiers. The Duke wishes to commend your battalion for its coolness under the severest duress, 1st May. The Duke has seen fit to report the matter to His Majesty and wishes to draw his Majesty’s attention to the actions of Lieutenant Erich von Bomm, staff officer to the Duke of York, for his bravery in gaining this victory. We look forward to a suitable captaincy being found for the Lieutenant once his tenure at headquarters is served.”
Franke rested the note on the table.
“There, that settles everything. The spoils of war are shared. Captain Baumann and ensign Stumpf, you may return to your post. Major Volgraf, you and the honourable gentlemen of Hanover can decide whether to simply sweep this matter aside or glory in the fact that one of our officers will be mentioned in a dispatch to the king. Lieutenant von Bomm, I understand that you have yet to eat? Perhaps you and your guests would care to join Colonel Neuberg and myself in a light supper before your return to headquarters in the morning? That is all, gentlemen.”
The officers rose as one and the three men on the side of the table trooped out in the evening sunlight; von Bomm sank back into his seat then looked at the faces around him, each man smiling at the officer’s confusion.
“You have fine friends, Erich von Bomm, fine friends, that’s all I can say!” Neuberg offered his hand and von Bomm rose to accept.
“Captain Brandt and Surgeon Harris can be thanked for those testimonies. Brandt tracked down that French officer and Harris the company doctor.”
Von Bomm’s head turned to each, to see the broadest of smiles.
“Couldn’t very well let that pup get the best of you, boy,” Harris said in a gruff Derbyshire accent.
“But how did the Duke of York find out?”
“It seems I still have a few friends of my own,” Neuberg chuckled.
“And enemies too. You might want to keep this, Colonel.”
Franke walked around the table and passed Volgraf’s letter to Jacob Neuberg. He scanned the names but didn’t need to search very far to see the one that he had expected to find.
The honourable gentlemen of Hanover would clearly be powerful adversaries.
Valenciennes: 7th May 1793
A stillness invaded the room through the narrow window of the bed-chamber in the fortress town of Valenciennes. A single candle glowed, quietly dying. Juliette, Countess de Marboré, willed it to live, not for the comfort of the light but for what it represented. She counted the seconds, slowly, deliberately. If it lasted to one hundred, she would see Julian again and all would be well.
At sixty-two it had struggled; twenty seconds later the room was plunged into a darkness which consumed the letter, half-written, and left Juliette alone with her thoughts. Momentarily, panic overwhelmed her. She couldn’t remember Julian’s face clearly, even though it made an impression on all who saw it. To her handsome and reassuring; many others might recoil in horror at the dead right eye and vivid vermilion scar that ran from chin to temple. Captain Julien Beauvais of the 3rd Dragoons would have been considered a handsome man before an Austrian bayonet had torn the right-hand side of his face open. He had led a charge to rescue General Dumouriez from an ambush hacking down a dozen soldiers before the shock of his wound forced him from the field.
Beauvais had paid a high price for loyalty to his General.
In return, Dumouriez had betrayed them, betrayed France too. Now Julian was held in the depths of the Conciergerie
, a prison for enemies of the Revolution and Juliette was in hiding, under the protection of Jean Ferrand, the Governor of Valenciennes.
CHAPTER TWO
Tests of co-operation.
St Amand: 8th May 1793
Swarms of flies danced in the pools of sunlight that pierced the canopy of elm and ash fighting to dominate one another and command the sky-line of the Raismes Forest. Thick skeins of vapour evaporated from dense undergrowth either side of a narrow track, muddied from hundreds of pairs of feet. Scattered along the path, pools of water, testament to the rains of the night before, swelled a thick reddish-brown. Beyond the barricades there was no obvious sign of life; no movement, save the eternal motion of insects.
The bodies that lay scattered in the vegetation or strewn along that path were dead: there were no wounded, the best scavengers from the Black Lions had seen to that.
First the white-jacketed Austrians had attacked and been defeated. Then dark blue-coated Prussians had attacked. Both battalions had fought in the same style, struggling to form three-ranked lines in the close undergrowth. It had not been a contest but execution pure and simple. The Austrian line approached to within sixty yards before breaking. Twenty minutes later the Prussian line was felled within forty yards of the eight hundred muskets of the Black Lions. When what remained of the enemy tried in vain to find a passage around the field defences of felled trees and earthen banks, a concealed half battery of eight-pounder guns spewed enfilading canister fire, shattering the remaining enemy.
Jean-Baptiste Mahieu, sergeant of the 14th Nationals, the Black Lions, cared little for the tactical reasoning, despite Captain Davide having spent the previous evening patiently making a series of etched drawings with a stick in the soft earth. Encirclements and breakthroughs were of little interest to Mahieu. Food, ammunition and clean muskets for 6th Company were his priority; strategy was a luxury for officers. He stalked the line of kneeling soldiers: checked flints; engaging in small talk; always casting an eye in the direction of the path. The Grison brothers, the best looters in the company, grinned at him as he passed their position.
“Good haul lads?” he whispered.
Fabien proudly opened a coarse cloth-bag, heavily stained. A pair of ornamental snuff boxes nestled in a bounty of coins and bloodied teeth with gold fillings.
“Efficient as ever; we’ll share it with the boys once we are done.”
That was the Company’s rule: those who lived shared in the profits of victory.
In the distance, the hollow popping of musketry became audible again, as it had before the Austrian and Prussian attacks. Moments later, blue-coats were running back, grinning heavily, sliding over the rough bark of the defences and rejoining the lines. A young lieutenant approached Captain Davide and Mahieu paced over to hear the report.
“Redcoats, sir, a battalion. Two companies in skirmish order, the rest advancing in close order. They seem to know what they are doing, so I brought the men in rather than risk losing them.”
Davide nodded. “Good work and a good decision. How long do you think until they arrive?”
The man, still panting heavily, drank from a hip flask. “A few minutes at most; the line is in open order but still making heavy going of it. The skirmishers are fifty paces ahead at most. They didn’t get excited and chase us, I’m not sure if they are the British or Germans.”
“You did right and we’ll know soon enough; report to the Colonel, exactly as you have told me. Have your men ready to fill any gaps in the defences when the redcoats attack.”
The officer nodded and headed off left, down the track that the Black Lions had made in the forest which ran broadly parallel to their defences.
Davide beckoned Mahieu over.
“We have guests imminently, who might actually know how to attack in a wood; go and tell the gunners that we will be expecting skirmishers and open order infantry.”
Mahieu nodded. Twenty years spent in King Louis’ army, five of those fighting redcoats. They would know how to fight in this terrain: the American war had taught them that too. He stooped, aware that his old white royalist uniform would stand out, passing other white jackets amongst the dark blue of the new republican uniform and followed the muddied path that led to the concealed guns.
The open order lines of guardsmen disappeared into the darkness of the tree line three-quarters of a mile to the right of the position of 2nd Battalion. The 10th were far removed from any immediate prospects of action. Against azure blue skies clouds of musketry and cannon-fire drifted, chased away by the breeze which had driven away the morning showers. Conversations drifted in the ranks around Krombach: speculation of the action that was happening elsewhere. Further left, a mile or more away, the Austrians and the French were fighting around Raismes. Another couple of miles left and to the north-west, the Prussians were in action, the sounds of their battle carried on the wind.
The King’s Germans were the hinge between the Allies. No general had come to explain the matter to them, Gauner had said as much in one of his campfire speeches the night before; most of the company had listened in. Neither Captain Brandt nor the Colonel were around to confirm or correct Gauner. Rumour had it that both men had left to visit the 1st Grenadiers to intercede over the treatment of Lieutenant von Bomm. Fresh artillery fire from the woods that the British had entered dragged Krombach’s mind away from the previous evening and the threat that Sergeant Gauner posed. The battalion was posted on a gentle slope, the green wall of the Forest of Raismes dominated the landscape ahead of them. Puncturing the tree line was a single road which led south to Valenciennes and either side of this the French had laboured to build earthen field-works for a battery of eight guns and a few hundred men. It was that artillery which now spoke, hurling round shot across fields green with spring crops.
Each gun fired three rounds, wreathing the earthworks in a dense white smoke which slowly dispersed. The salvo battered down crops well short of the 10th’s position. On its cessation a chorus of mocking cat-calls and ironic applause broke out along the lines of the Hanoverians. Krombach joined in heartily, wolf-whistling his derision towards the French. As he did, a horseman raced past. Redcoats followed the passage of a familiar figure who rode towards Oberst von Klinkowström, Commander of 3rd Brigade, who stood surrounded by a group of officers, busily scanning the French positions through a brass telescope mounted on a tripod.
Having delivered the message from the Duke of York to von Klinkowström and being given nothing other than a grunt of acknowledgement, von Bomm made to return down the slope but then checked his chestnut mount and eased her into a gentle trot towards the position of 2nd Battalion to find Brandt.
“Good to see you, Erich. What’s the news?”
“Not much. We are to sit on our backsides while the Guards clear the wood. Once they do, the Duke will attack the line, with the balance of the Guards Brigade. Presently, we are being given a bit of a cold shoulder.”
There were much greater spats than the one between von Bomm and Baumann; the English engineer Trevethan had furnished the details.
On the evening of the relief of the grenadiers’ position at Rumes, the Duke of York and Field Marshal Wilhelm von Freytag, Commander of the Hanoverian Corps, had barely spoken. A regiment of light dragoons and a battery of horse guns had been ordered to Rumes to aid the infantry. Freytag had countermanded the order, fearing a surprise attack by the French with his own forces strung out on the march, deciding that the Austrian cavalry who were already riding to Rumes would be enough.
When news of the countermanding was made known to the Duke, Trevethan had described the young prince as being incandescent with rage. The order had been sent again with clear instructions that it was to be complied with explicitly. The 9th Dragoons arrived at Rumes some three hours after they had first set eyes on the town. An enemy beaten and ripe for pursuit had made good their escape. Since that evening, the Hanoverian staff had not attended the Duke’s table. Whether that was from York’s bidding
or Freytag’s, Trevethan could not say, but there was a clear schism.
Brandt had listened in disbelief at the tale.
“Thank God they have you there to smooth things over, eh?” Brandt smiled anaemically.
“Isn’t it just! Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I came to thank Neuberg and you, of course. Where is the old man?”
“Talking to von Diepenbroick; trying to sort out the numbers that will be transferred to your boys,” Brandt pointed further along the slope to where 1st Battalion stood.
“And Erich, don’t worry. You’ll be back with the Grenadiers in no time; this will all blow over, wait and see. The colonel would be delighted to swap you for Volgraf or Bachmeier but there is no way of getting rid of them, sadly.”
“Same old troubles?” von Bomm asked, checking over Brandt’s shoulder, to ensure their conversation remained private.
“Nothing new. Volgraf, I expect it from, firmly in his uncle’s pocket. Bachmeier has fallen in step with them. Thalberg's harder to read. Friendly enough but clearly not decided which way the wind is blowing, yet.”
“Almost makes my problems with Baumann seem quite straightforward. Thanks Werner, you always know how to cheer me up. And thanks again for all that you said to Colonel Franke.”
Brandt waved the acclamation away, “Whenever I’m in trouble, I know that you will repay the favour.”
“You, in trouble? That will be the day!”
With a wry smile, von Bomm touched his Korsisch, the wide-brimmed infantry hat that had become the new and rather despised headdress for the 1st Grenadiers, remounted and urged his horse further along the line to seek out Colonel Neuberg. His eyes caught a steady stream of walking wounded leaving St. Amand woods. Flashes of musketry illuminated the dark interior outlining silhouetted movement. Moments later, a second Guards battalion could be seen disappearing into the dark foliage. Matters were clearly not going to plan.
Condé: 12th May 1793
The King of Dunkirk Page 3
