The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  The fortress remained defiant despite the events of the last few days. That morning, twelve hundred French infantry had launched furious attacks through the dawn mists toward the Austrian lines, to capture or destroy the Austrian guns and break the siege. Like many of the attacks in the last few days, it had been unexpected and come perilously close to success. The action defied the logic of the moment.

  Everywhere else, the French were withdrawing. From Raismes, St. Amand and Onnaing, they had retreated to strong defensive positions around Anzin, Camp Famars and Valenciennes itself. The Army of the North was temporarily rudderless again.

  In the final hours of the action at St. Amand, General Auguste Dampierre, driven perhaps by the consequences of failure, had rallied twice beaten French battalions for a final assault to breach the defensive positions of Clerfayt. The Austrian Count had held his nerve and trained every cannon on the imposing massed columns that threatened to overwhelm the thin lines of white-coated infantry. In the fury of round shot that pummelled the advancing troops, Dampierre had been mortally wounded, a cannonball severing his leg below the knee. His death was a catalyst for the columns to break. Dampierre may have been an unwilling army commander but he was held in the highest regard by the rank and file of the army.

  Overnight the French army had withdrawn, but not before burying their commander and erecting a monument of muskets and round-shot built around a solitary tricolour; at this shrine hundreds of soldiers had placed votive offerings in a show of affection. Mack had witnessed the earthen mound, adorned with bicornes, bonnets de police and dark-green wine bottles.

  The colonel spurred his horse on, in the certain knowledge that such affection would be sadly lacking at the moment of his own death. But he was not driven by popularity, only by results. As such the rest of the journey, from St. Amand to the Austrian lines at Condé, was spent mulling over the problems of the campaign to date and the attack on Valenciennes to come.

  The tranquillity of the ride was punctured with the steady barrage that the Austrian guns were hurling against the dogged enemy fortress. Batteries of heavy twelve-pounders had been deployed; a train of heavier siege artillery was coming but that was two weeks away and earmarked for the siege of Valenciennes, the more imposing challenge. Communications with the Prussians were more strained than usual over the debacle in the Forest at Raismes.

  The same attack, where the Austrians had reportedly failed to tell von Knobelsdorff of the strength of the French deployment, the Prussian General compounded the error by failing to mention to the Duke of York, that the enemy’s infantry were supported by a well-posted gun battery.

  Consequently, York had given short shrift to von Knobelsdorff over Raismes and was reported to be sulking with his own Hanoverian Corps Commander, over some incident at Rumes.

  To add farce to tragedy, the Prince of Orange had arrived with a corps of Dutch troops, demanding participation in the invasion of France.

  While this might cause mirth and easy ammunition for men like Baron Thugut, the poisonous adviser to the Emperor, it presented Mack with uncalled for challenges. The colonel could feel the dull throbbing of another headache forming over his right eye.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rejoicing and recrimination.

  Seeburg: 21st May 1793

  Bubbles rose to the surface of a broad, battered vat, releasing a fetid odour worse than the stench that had greeted Krombach when he returned to the dirty canvas tent, after morning sentry duty. He left fellow redcoats sheltering from the rain and making their own preparations for battle. Another spring shower swept in as he joined a group of cavalrymen waiting to have sword edges and points sharpened.

  The young redcoat watched with fascination as the blacksmith’s boy trotted past the line of soldiers, to poke at the boiling glue made from animal fat and scavenged waste. Sniffing the concoction with satisfaction, he nodded at Krombach and took the boots from him, turning them over to examine the splits in the soles in both. Deftly he smeared a thick layer of the viscous sludge onto each sole, followed by replacement patches. In the past few days Krombach had little opportunity to find a cobbler in the camp; the boots were damaged beyond the skills of any of the Twenty. The boy trimmed back the surplus material, examined each boot and handed them back to the redcoat.

  “Put on…press foot down…should last you for a couple of weeks,” the boy smiled as if these were phrases he had learnt by rote.

  “Thank you.”

  Krombach pressed his foot hard into the wet turf and watched small new bubbles of glue forced out by the pressure. He sat down and examined them again. If he could scrounge some nails, he could finish the repair himself. Battle was coming. Replacement boots would not be easy to come by beforehand.

  Live and he might scavenge a new pair.

  If these were the last boots he was ever to wear, at least he would have dry feet. He handed the boy a coin for his troubles and went in search of his friends to lighten his mood.

  Years of selling at fairs and festivals had not been wasted: Reifener was making a small fortune. He stood on the back of one of the Corps supply wagons addressing the growing crowd of redcoats. Either side of him two lanky soldiers toiled, passing out pairs of Flanders clogs to redcoats who had handed over a thaler to the baker turned shoe seller.

  “Ten pairs left, three small, seven mediums; who wants them? You’re out of luck if you’ve got big feet. Might make you popular with the ladies but you will have to make do with the army’s boots until the next delivery!”

  Krombach witnessed the scene with disbelief. He had left the Pinsk brothers for an hour while he had joined the line of soldiers at the blacksmith’s and now they were taking part in some form of open profiteering. A few moments later and Reifener was turning over empty crates.

  “All gone, sorry boys; nothing now until next week.”

  A press of disgruntled soldiers hurled insults in the direction of the baker’s boy turned soldier but most knew Reifener’s worth lay beyond the delicious meals he could concoct and his network within the Twenty. Reifener had become the conduit for goods and contraband, a fact that Krombach had chosen to overlook. Even Volgraf had conducted business with the privateer redcoat in the last few days and Sergeant Gauner had been chosen by the Major to settle the terms of trade.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Krombach had pushed through the thinning ranks and reached the wagon. Reifener defaulted to a wide grin bordering on the look of a village fool, unaware of the cares of the world.

  “Just selling some clogs. Our boots are falling apart so a friend got hold of some of these and asked me to sell them. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “A friend? Selling from a back of a Corps Wagon? Glad the Provosts didn’t catch you!”

  “Actually...I...um…gave them a couple of pairs first. They seemed quite happy; said they had more pressing matters to attend to.”

  “And your friend, does he work for the Commissary General now?”

  Reifener began some tuneless whistling through a broad smile, punctured by gurgles of laughter. Krombach turned his attention to the Pinsk brothers, both helping to stack the empty crates, ready for the return trip.

  “And as for you two, what are you doing getting involved in all this?”

  “It’s all above board…well sort of. Don’t be so sour ‘Bastion, besides two weeks’ pay for two hours work.” Henry spoke working swiftly, casting glances across the sea of heads that populated the Hanoverian camp.

  “And,” said Tomas, “we saved you a pair.” He held a thick wooden clog on either side of his face. “Look what you’ve done to my poor ears. I’ve had to listen to you droning on for hours about those boots of yours. Besides it’s the fashion of the season for every soldier of taste and quality,” aping his most aristocratic air while gently throwing each of the shoes in the general direction of Krombach’s head.

  “They’re comfortable ‘Bastion and compliments of our ‘friend’,” Reifener added
, as if that resolved the discussion.

  There was little doubt that the friend was Sergeant-Major Winckler, now attached to the British Commissary General’s office. ‘Old Boots’ selling new shoes; Winckler rarely missed a trick.

  “Cheer up, Krombach. I’ve almost missed your high moral standpoint on all matters; almost,” Tomas quipped and jumped down from the wagon followed by Henry. Both wore regulation white trousers, rolled up to the calf, resplendent with new wooden clogs.

  “Just like we used to wear on the farm, comfortable as you like,” Henry clapped Krombach on the shoulders, “you can thank me later.”

  A track ran through the middle of the sea of canvas tents heading straight for the wagon and either side the sea of redcoats parted. Company Sergeant-Major Roner strode through the mass of men, his eyes fixed on the four figures around the wagon.

  “Andreas now might be a good time to disappear,” Henry said, through the side of his mouth.

  Reifener had already spotted the potential danger and questions that might provoke uncomfortable answers. With considerable skill, he released the brake and the pair of heavy horses jolted forward, onto the cobbled track. Roner’s eyes followed the passage of the wagon and then resumed their fixed gaze at Krombach, sandwiched between the tall brothers. He halted; the soldiers around him stopped, eyes avoiding direct contact with the sergeant.

  “Soldiers of 2nd Battalion, hear my words! Form up for parade and Holy blessing at three o’clock.”

  He paused to turn and then stopped, observing sixty or seventy soldiers, each with trousers rolled up, proudly displaying new Flanders clogs.

  “And get those ‘things’ off your feet. You are soldiers, not peasants!” Roner stared coldly at the Pinsk brothers and Krombach before turning again and marching back towards the headquarters tent of 2nd Battalion.

  “Oh great,” Krombach shook his head. “The only man who has more clout within the Company than Gauner now thinks we are despoiling his men. Can this day get any worse?”

  “Well look on the brighter side,” Henry offered, “parade and religious service means only one thing; we won’t be sat on our arses this time tomorrow, we are headed for the front.”

  “And that is supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Yes. Why not? This time tomorrow you could be dead so none of this will really matter.”

  The three exchanged grim smiles and parted; Tomas loped off in the direction of the 1st Grenadiers and Krombach and Henry Pinsk returned to their canvas home to prepare their kit and Reifener’s, hoping that he would return before the hour was up.

  Seeburg: 21st May 1793

  Each of the guests was introduced to the Duke of York. Captain Werner Brandt waited his turn in the warmth of the afternoon sunlight. The redcoats had reached the Austrian camp in the early hours of that morning and Brandt marvelled at the speed at which such preparations permitted a feast by five in the afternoon.

  A long table, running perpendicular to the command tent was laden with joints of mutton, beef and venison under thin muslin screens. Tureens of soups, game pies, fresh breads and thick wedges of butter sat cheek by jowl. Bordering these, porcelain plates, each layered with broad dark-green leaves into which, fruits, nuts, and all manner of delicacies were arranged. Set in front of the Duke’s main tent, immaculate standard-bearers stood at attention. The colours of one of the battalions of the Foot Guards and the newly arrived British cavalry stood alongside those of the Hanoverians, which had just been blessed in the mercifully short service that Freytag had insisted upon.

  The rich aromas made Brandt salivate. He, Major Volgraf and Surgeon Harris had been brought as guests of Colonel Neuberg. The invite had been the parting gift of von Diepenbroick, promoted to major-general and sent to command 1st Brigade. An ally of Neuberg’s was gone. The commander of 1st Brigade could hardly intervene in the matters of 3rd Brigade. The feast was an attempt to iron out the recent problems between the Hanoverian and British commanders, the reminder of boundaries overstepped.

  Rather unexpectedly, the Duke stood on a small travelling chest deposited by a Foot Guards corporal and motioned for silence.

  “Gentleman forgive me. I know what terribly bad manners it is for a host to not remain at his own party but events have got rather ahead of us.”

  Faces squinted in the afternoon light, keen to hear the words.

  “I had considered cancelling but could not let such fare go to waste. My staff has excelled themselves in trying circumstances.”

  Brandt observed more nodding from the sea of heads.

  “I must attend a meeting now with Prince Josias and General Knobelsdorff. It is…” He paused, about to check his pocket watch but Murray, his chief of staff spoke first.

  “Just after five, sir.”

  “Good… Good. We shall take our leave of you. Return to your posts by nine please, gentlemen. Expect your orders by eleven this evening at the latest. After our victory, I promise we shall reconvene as I should very much wish to make your acquaintance. For now, please accept my apologies as I must quit this place though my stomach wishes it were not so.”

  Murray and a group of officers hastily followed the path of the Duke who departed with the merest nod in the direction of Freytag.

  “Thank God. Less standing on ceremony and more for the rest of us; don’t be shy gents, tuck in.”

  Brandt turned to his right to see a heavy-set man with broad shoulders scooping up a healthy slice of game pie. There was kindness in his voice, even if Brandt found his English dialect a bit difficult to follow. Auburn sideburns enclosed a thick mop of black-hair, rebellious steel-grey streaks sprouted along the temples and a fine mist of perspiration had formed on the reddened folds of a high forehead.

  “Major, have you no shame?” von Bomm feigned mock indignation at the size of the portion that the Cornish engineer had cut for himself.

  “Ah, no, not really,” Stephen Trevethan smiled.

  “Leave some for the infantry. We have to do the fighting and dying, you know.”

  “Well, us engineers have to do the thinkin’. Brain power takes food or didn’t your expensive tutors ever tell you that?”

  The engineer turned to Brandt. “Staff officers, the idle rich, you know. Well mostly. As it happens, Old Erich here is alright. Bit of a war hero already.”

  “So it seems,” said Brandt, swiftly helping himself to the remains of the delicious-looking pie in front of him.

  Von Bomm made the introductions and Trevethan, having wiped a greasy smear of food from the side of his face shook Brandt’s hand. The three exchanged experiences drawing an eager crowd.

  Lieutenant Christopher Belvedere, of the 11th Dragoons was one of those, listening with enthusiastic glee, a delicate pencil thin moustache stretching as a broad smile spread easily over a youthful face adorned with perfectly swept jet-black hair. Stood next to von Bomm, the pair would have been enough to be the talk of any society ball. The cavalryman had only been appointed to the Duke’s staff in the last few hours and had taken every opportunity to question von Bomm in the lull between conversations.

  “Ah, here comes a fine gentl’man to bore us all with just how many cattle it takes to win the war.” Trevethan waved a fork in an exaggerated manner towards a tanned one-legged man who strode stiffly towards them.

  Brandt had struggled with the engineer’s accent and found the quick-fire exchanges between Jackson and Trevethan even more challenging. He and von Bomm listened to the running commentary from Belvedere, finding the cavalryman’s mixture of German and English easier to follow than the roguish insults that the Engineer and Commissary-General exchanged.

  When von Bomm came to tell the story of the battle of Rumes, Brandt found himself drawn into the conversation due to Erich’s easy style of commentary. Naturally the grenadier officer sought to play down his own part in the battle but Brandt had assured the listening officers that without von Bomm's actions, all would have been lost. The infantry captain looked beyond the immedia
te circle to see if Colonel Neuberg could hear the recount of the adventures and would affirm Brandt’s assertion but the colonel stood out of ear shot and stony-faced, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling British Guards officers.

  “Bloody fools, I feel sorry for your colonel having to endure that lot. Bad enough that they hang around at head-quarters thinking the sun shines out of their collective arses. See what you two are going to have to put up with,” Trevethan gestured towards von Bomm and Belvedere, “if I see either of you acting like those stuck-up …”

  Jackson cut across Trevethan’s tirade before he could launch himself into another invective against the landed gentry of the redcoat officers and Henson-Jefferies in particular, whose cackling laughter was audible above the small talk.

  “Lieutenant Belvedere… No relation to the Belvederes in Ireland?”

  “No, sir, my family hails from Cumbria. We have a few thousand acres of land there; good farming country.”

  The cavalryman spoke absent-mindedly, his concentration drawn towards the choice of cheeses to accompany a succulent seed-cake. Unable to decide, he loaded his plate to the point of indecency.

  “Farming people, then?” Trevethan asked, raising his eyes in mock horror and the plate of food accumulated by the dragoon officer.

  “Sadly not, well not directly; we have an estate manager. My father, the Earl, had little interest in that.”

  “The Earl?” Trevethan asked.

  “Yes. I’m Lord Belvedere but please don’t call me that. Belvy will do. Lord Belvedere makes me sound like one of those stuck up…What was the word you were looking for, Major?”

  Jackson burst into laughter and clapped Trevethan hard on the back, others joining in at the obvious good-natured embarrassment of the Cornish engineer. Von Bomm was asked to finish his colourful narrative of Rumes but of the last moments he admitted that he could remember little.

  “All I saw was this pair of hands reaching through the smoke. If they hadn’t been there, I would not be here now. I don’t even know who saved me but I owe him my life and these continued good looks.”