“I know who that was,” said Brandt, struggling under the effects of one more glass of wine than he had promised himself. “Hang on, I have it. Krombach, that boy Krombach; bit of a scoundrel but my wife thinks he is a prospect.”
A silence settled across the group and then more furious laughter laden with innuendo.
“Not like that! Katerina can see the good in just about anyone. Give me a cut-throat and she would find a reason not to let the man swing from the nearest tree.”
Von Bomm was trying to remember. “Is he that lad you sent as a messenger? He was kissing that pretty little thing in the square in Celle?”
“Yes, that’s the one. My Company Sergeant tells me he is involved in some scheme selling those Flanders clogs that the soldiers have started wearing.”
“Well give me scoundrels every time; a toast, ‘To Scoundrels and Stuck-ups’, whichever you may be.” Trevethan thrust out an over-full glass of port and others met it heartily, knowing the moment for leaving this oasis of merriment drew ever nearer.
Artres: 22nd May 1793
Exhausted soldiers slouched in grass between the two earthworks, soaking up the warming sunshine, three hard days of labouring behind them. The field defences reinforced the ridge that overlooked Valenciennes, covering both the road from the south and the eastern plateau through which the Rhonelle cut a steep scar. Crossing the Rhonelle was no barrier; getting out of the steep-sided gulley under fire would be almost impossible.
Jean-Baptiste Mahieu had watched a shepherd boy drive his flock across from the far bank, some pausing mid-stream to drink, others taking advantage of the shade in the steep sides of the ravine to graze. Eventually the flock had fought its way up an impossibly steep slope, lined with ridges of eroding soil. The scantest of allied reconnaissance would mark the area as hopeless to assault.
Along the ridge overhead, he could see black muzzles of cannon silhouetted against the pale blue of the evening sky. Hundreds of camp fires were set on the reverse of the ridge so that the enemy would not be gifted the army’s disposition.
Earlier that day, the battalion had received a party of dignitaries and the Black Lions had formed three lines for an impromptu parade. Carnot was well known to the men, the new commander of the army, less so. Every soldier knew of the woman who rode with the party of dignitaries. The ‘Princess of Valenciennes’ as the Governor’s niece had been christened had become the soldiers’ favourite.
François Joseph Drouot de Lamarche, greying hair and stooping in the saddle, looked like a man weary with age, looking a decade older than his sixty years. His hearing had clearly failed as Carnot, riding next to him, felt the need to shout the fact that the new earthworks had been left to the very last moment, to conceal their presence, as far as possible from the enemy.
Behind the pair rode Ferrand, the commander of the Valenciennes garrison, who had resisted the overtures of Dumouriez. If Valenciennes had fallen perhaps France would have too. The men had cheered Carnot, Lamarche and Ferrand but without much gusto.
However, the last pair of riders confirmed the speculation that was rife across the camp. The woman’s beauty had been exaggerated to wild extremes as soldiers were wont to do. With one rumour she was a raven-haired beauty, in another she was rustic blonde with richly tanned flawless skin. The rumours had not done that beauty justice.
Juliette, Countess du Marboré bore the name Courtois, a fiction that would surely end soon. The last of the dye had washed out and natural blonde hair had emerged; a fact that appeared to matter little to the man whose horse trotted in step with hers. Maurice Caillat had found every reason to escape the confines of the Army du Nord and again visit Valenciennes. He had fallen in love with Juliette at their first meeting. On his part, the matter had been impossible to conceal.
The Countess however had done nothing to return or even acknowledge his affection. If she could control when the mask of her identity was to finally be stripped away, there might yet be control over events in Paris.
The threat from Genet remained. Dumouriez had fled and his chief of intelligence, The Spider, had reinvented himself as the most loyal of Republicans. If Juliette was the hunted, she was equally determined to be the huntress. She doubted that Genet had confessed the depths of his own complicity in the failed alliance with Austria. Her own involvement had placed her in mortal danger and Julian Beauvais in the depths of a Paris prison. Only her cunning could save her lover from the spectre of the guillotine. The days ahead would determine whether she and Julian might survive the wake of the deserter Dumouriez. Such realisation made her toss back her head, like the proud stallion that she rode as thousands of blue-coated figures roared their approval.
The loudest cheers had been reserved for the Princess of Valenciennes.
Seeburg: 22nd May 1793
The backgammon game was disturbed by the strains of barked instructions that reverberated from the camp around them. Major Trevethan and Brooks Jackson had consumed most of a bottle of port and the balance of a cake that one of the Guards’ orderlies had brought to their table. Trevethan nudged his counterpart to observe the progress of Murray followed by a barrage of oaths as he neared the two men.
“Is there much in that bottle?”
Both men exchanged a glance; it was unlike Murray to drink. Jackson handed the bottle and a spare glass from a silver tray next to the backgammon board. The British Chief of Staff pulled up a chair, poured freely and then made for the remains of the cake.
“I’m bloody famished; God that was hard work.”
“Everything all right?” Trevethan asked.
Murray looked care worn.
“No, everything is not. We have our orders; that really is the sum of the good news.”
“And the bad?” Jackson asked.
“You really want to know? I hardly know where to begin. Of the plan, personally, I have little confidence, neither it seems do our Allies. Prince Josias has either dismissed Colonel Mack or the man has been taken ill; no one is saying. Prince Hohenlohe is acting as an impromptu Chief of Staff. There are nine different attack columns, only three of which aim at Valenciennes. The Austrians are also attacking Anzin, the Prussians attacking a location I couldn’t even find. Even the bloody Dutch have come out of the woodwork to attack somewhere.”
Murray exhaled a deep breath, drank and then continued.
“2nd Brigade is transferred to the command of Prince Josias. We have Austrian cavalry and infantry deployed between the Guards and the Hanoverians. No-one has the faintest idea on the ground or the potential enemy deployments. We know of one grand battery but there may be more. And don’t ask me to show you this on a map because there isn’t one. Our orders came with a sketching of the terrain and that’s it. And to make matters worse…” Murray drained the glass and thumped it on the table, “Hohenlohe himself is coming like Moses from the mountain to hold the Duke’s hand tomorrow. Of course, that’s not how it’s being portrayed but we will have a Prussian Prince and Austrians orderlies sticking their noses in all day. God knows what the King will make of it, half of our line infantry being syphoned off in the first action. As for Dundas and Horse Guards, both will be bloody apoplectic. If it goes wrong, everyone at home will be casting around for a scapegoat.”
“You’re not wrong there, James me boy!” Jackson agreed.
He too had been on the receiving end of increasingly terse communiqués from London, accusing him of going ‘native’ on the plan to control the impetuous nature of the Duke of York. Jackson had seen little evidence of that and had long since given up on the politicking in preference to actually performing the task of Commissary-General with all of his skills.
“And for my sins, I’m to join Prince Josias’ staff and oversee the duties of the 2nd Brigade. The Duke insisted. Frankly, I’m glad he did. It would be a bad start if our boys were blamed for any occurrence tomorrow when the intelligence is frankly amateurish.”
“Sounds as if someone’s in for a busy day,” Trevethan utt
ered, returning his focus to the board to allow Murray a chance to clear his head and the port to offer momentary comfort. A winning position against Jackson was a rarity and a fair collection stood in two piles which would soften the blow of the losses of previous days.
“Oh, I forgot to mention. You are both attending the camp of Prince Josias with me.”
Murray checked his pocket watch. “We are to leave tonight at eleven. That’s three hours. See you both then.”
With that the Duke’s Chief of Staff pushed himself wearily from the chair and headed into the warm evening air.
Neither Trevethan nor Jackson had expected to be called on the next day. Both men had been ordered by the Duke to review the supplies needed for the next three months. It was unclear as to whether the campaign might end in Paris or Dunkirk. The King had yet to give clear direction. Dundas, the meddling Minister of War, still pressed for the Dunkirk option. Should that prevail then a supply depot on the Flanders coast would need to be established to undertake a siege. Both men had agreed that such work could be carried out at the civilised hour of nine o’clock the following morning.
“Bugger!” Trevethan broke the silence that had descended with the exit of Murray.
“You said it, brother. Best leave our bets standing for a later date.”
Jackson, who was losing the final game, picked up his coins with an alacrity that surprised Trevethan.
“You Devonian scoundrel. Have you got no bloody shame, man?”
“Just following orders from the Chief of Staff. I can’t help the timing of that.” Jackson shot Trevethan a look of such innocence, blue eyes sparkling in the evening light.
“You’re a pirate Brooks, an absolute bloody pirate!”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Finest of Cavalry.
Valenciennes: 23rd May 1793
The redcoats advanced surrounded by a thick early-morning mist. Ahead Krombach could hear the whispered hiss of waiting scouts.
“Wer da?”
An officer’s voice gave the reply but at any moment the anxious redcoats in the column expected to hear German replaced by a French challenge. Strands of thick brown hair were plastered by early morning sweat across Krombach’s brow. Three inches short of six feet tall, yet taller than most of the redcoats around him, his youthful frame was lean and muscular from a handful of years of working on his father’s fishing fleet before enlisting with the battalion. At nineteen he was one of the youngest recruits but his travels with his uncle across Hanover, Holland and France had shown something of the world but not taught him to hold his drink. The redcoat’s head pounded, thick with wine from the night before which six hours of marching had not shifted.
The orders to strike camp had come at nine the previous night. After completing the chores of packing the tents into the company wagon, he had packed a small cut of pork in grease-paper and purloined some extra bread that Reifener had received from his uncle’s bakery; luxuries to add to the essentials of the next day. A blue-stained wooden water canteen was full; his cartridge bag contained sixty tightly wound white packages. Gauner and Richter had stalked the company in the light of the campfires checking each soldier’s equipment. The men had paraded two hours later; Company Sergeant-Major Roner carrying out his own inspection. In the light of camp fires, shadows of battalions marched away; 2nd Battalion waited, then the order came and they too headed into the night.
Behind them, camp fires were left burning; the baggage and the Twenty were left behind. Whatever the soldiers carried now would see them through until the small comforts of campaigning caught up with them again. Krombach shivered against the chill of the morning, vaguely aware of the brightening of the day. The hushed command to halt was given and the battalion snaked to an ungainly stop. The sound of hundreds of pairs of boots crunching to a halt disappeared out into the ether. How could the French fail to hear the arrival of the army?
Neuberg strained his eyes in the improving light. From his saddle, he could make out most of the column ahead but little beyond it. For a short while during the night von Bomm had reined his horse in, chatting briefly to the colonel, explaining the situation as best he knew it.
Two attack columns were to fall on the enemy. The northern, Prince Josias’, would pin the enemy in place. York’s, the southern one, would sweep south of Préseau, cross the Rhonelle at Artres, and destroy the enemy that Prince Josias was to engage; sixteen battalions of infantry, eighteen squadrons of cavalry and four batteries of guns heading towards an assembly area somewhere in the morning light. The plan, designed by Colonel Mack, was now being overseen by Prince Hohenlohe, and von Bomm had heard little about the man to inspire confidence.
The colonel had seen von Bomm twice more, his horse thundering down the line and cutting through the grain fields at the side of the road. There was another attack going in elsewhere; the 1st Grenadiers and two regiments of dragoons had been posted as a flank force to cover the left of the Hanoverian attacks, seizing a village in the execution of this task. Neuberg detected a hint of regret in von Bomm’s voice when the young officer spoke of the 1st Grenadiers; staff duties had moments of high excitement but the longer von Bomm stayed away from the battalion, the harder it would be for him to return. To the right of the marching battalions a dark smear began to take shape and as the wall of mist parted, three regiments of Austrian cavalry, deployed in columns of half-squadrons were revealed. In the stillness of the dawn, Neuberg watched row upon row of the Emperor’s men and marvelled at the sight.
The Hanoverians came to a halt, in line with the lead squadron of Austrian heavy cavalry and were ordered to stand at ease. The colonel watched Major Volgraf trot over and share his pipe with some of the Austrian officers. Half an hour passed and no orders, then another messenger, a blue-cloaked British dragoon raced past. Volgraf left the Austrians and trotted up alongside Neuberg noting the passing of the young lieutenant with acerbic interest.
“Bit early for such energies? You don’t think the whole plan has unravelled already, do you?”
“You are more likely to know that than me, Johann; who are our neighbours?”
“Emperor Francis 1st Regiment of Cuirassiers; they consider themselves the finest cavalry in the Austrian army, perhaps the world. Thought I would be gentlemanly and share a pipe; seems they are forbidden from lighting theirs on the march.”
“Quite right too,” Neuberg commented.
Volgraf sent a jet of smoke spiralling skyward, ignoring the comment.
“They reckon we are in for a hard day’s work. The French are cowards. The will pepper us with artillery and disappear on the ether the moment we get within musket range. Of course, an enemy on the run is music to a horseman’s ears. The Austrians will cut them down in droves; apparently it’s all about keeping a straight arm once you have stuck your man and letting momentum do the rest as you ride past.”
Volgraf mimicked the motion as he spoke.
“Modest bunch, aren’t they? Perhaps you have missed your calling, Johann?”
“I’m not sure I would wish to stand in their way, sir.”
Volgraf added the final word as if it sounded an afterthought. An uncomfortable silence settled over the pair. In the distance to their right the sounds of men and horses became audible a mile away, perhaps more.
“The other column?” Volgraf asked disinterestedly.
“Let’s hope so, or we are in deep trouble.” Neuberg sensed the column moving ahead. “Return to your station please, Major. It seems we are moving again.”
“Sir,” Volgraf nodded, with elegant horsemanship his mount stepped back three paces then swung around; within moments the column was restored to its advance towards the Rhonelle. Neuberg looked north to where rough rectangular shapes were beginning to form out of the thinning mist. Hopefully it was the village of Préseau and the sounds from across the plateau were Austrian and British columns deploying to attack a massed battery.
A cloudless sky burned away the vestige of ground mist that had
shrouded the landscape. Second Battalion, following the instructions of a staff officer, had taken its position at the foot of a slope covered in thick green stalks, swathes of which had been crushed by the progress of thousands of other redcoats. Eleven battalions stood like scars on a hillside which rose in a gentle incline to the crest, four hundred yards distant. Brandt checked his pocket watch, seven o’clock; the attack was two hours overdue. Ahead, twenty men from 10th’s 1st Battalion joined redcoats from other brigades, disappearing over the ridge in skirmish order; Orders were passed for every battalion to stand at ease.
Brandt watched a dozen horsemen accompany the Duke in the skirmisher’s wake, picking out the figure of von Bomm among the entourage. With the rider’s disappearance there was little else to do but watch the spectacle unfolding a mile away to the north-east at Fond des Vaux. Here strong earthworks glinted with bronze barrels in the strengthening sunlight. Earlier a screen of thick trees which ran back towards the grey slate roofed church at Préseau had masked the deployment of Prince Josias’ forces to 2nd Battalion, but now their deployment on the slope provided a perfect platform for the full spectacle of the Allied deployment and assault. The road the 10th had travelled along turned a sharp ninety degrees and veered right towards Préseau, disappearing away into the trees; for now, there was a line of communication between the two attacks at least.
Still more allies arrived, forming up left and right in the fields behind the Hanoverians, ordered off the road and into positions amongst the crops. Cavalry columns now flooded along the flanks of the Hanoverians, halting somewhere behind 2nd Battalion’s position; Austrian heavies to the right, the blue of British light dragoons to the left. Into a rapidly diminishing space an Austrian battery made hard work of finding a passage through the British horsemen. The congestion began to resemble the chaos of a badly organised parade. Brandt half expected Roner and any number of Company Sergeant-Majors to break ranks and scream order into the mildly comical scenes as cavalry and infantrymen clumped together, all semblance of formation lost, so that the struggling limber teams could progress.
The King of Dunkirk Page 5
