Brandt turned his back on the chaos as a roll of thunder echoed across the valley and billows of smoke punctured the earthworks of Fond des Vaux. He traced the path of dots against the clear blue sky and watched the tightly packed Austrian column ripple at the impact of the round shot. A crescendo of artillery answered them. The Austrian guns had the range of the entrenchments and had begun their reply. Movement ahead caught Brandt’s attention. The Duke’s staff had re-appeared; three mounted officers raced down the slope, one of them with wild blonde hair streaming from under a slightly crumpled bicorne. Messages went to von Diepenbroick and Oberst von Klinkowström, 1st and 3rd Brigade commanders respectively, before the bellow of the French battery across the valley drew his attention. Looking down the line Brandt watched the younger Volgraf and Bachmeier chatting to the Major, their laughter carrying between the cannonade. To his left at the other end of the battalion line, Neuberg cut a lonely figure.
The colonel had not asked for this command but on the death of the previous incumbent, Colonel Dohman, von Diepenbroick had ignored regimental tradition and requested that Jacob Neuberg take the post. He was a good man but received only perfunctory support from his senior officer, Major Volgraf, a man slighted by the appointment. To add to Neuberg’s woes, there had been a personal disagreement with Field Marshal Freytag somewhere in the recent past. Second Battalion had been given every menial task on the march from Hanover. The men had taken to christening themselves as Esel Soldaten, donkey soldiers and beasts of burden. Rioting at Halle had exacerbated matters. Rumes had restored pride. Perhaps today would bring glory?
Brandt turned to Schafer, “Keep an eye on the men, Christian. I’m going to speak to the Colonel.”
His senior lieutenant nodded solemnly and Brandt set off, passing Captain Thalberg. He thought of asking his counterpart to cast an eye over Schafer but immediately quashed the idea. Besides, Thalberg was transfixed by the brilliant flashes of flame and thickening white smoke from the French positions. Instead the two men merely nodded and Brandt stalked through the long wheat, slick with dew that would soon burn off. Neuberg grunted acknowledgement at his approach; both men settled in silence to watch the progress of events and the progress of the horseman who barrelled towards them.
“Morning sir,” von Bomm’s mount slid to a halt, a glistening sheen on her flanks from the efforts of the day.”
“Morning, von Bomm. What’s the news?”
As Neuberg spoke, the thunder of artillery rang out, much closer and from positions on the far side of the hill.
“Perfect timing; the French have infantry and five batteries dug in across the Rhonelle. That’s three more than we knew of. We are going to try and force a crossing but not until we have gained a foothold. It’s thick with enemy skirmishers on our side of the river. The Duke thinks our cavalry will scare them off but from what I can see the slope is a bit of a drop.”
A squadron of British light dragoons that had been forced to one side at the expense of the Austrian artillery now outstripped the struggling horses of the gun battery and headed to the crest. Another messenger raced along from the south, from where the sound of gunfire could be heard. Spotting von Bomm the figure waved; on returning a few minutes later, the rider spurred his mount toward the group.
Christopher Belvedere rode with the grace and ease that his compatriots in the 11th Dragoons had shown as they had maintained parade ground formation when scything past the artillery. Brandt marvelled at the splendour of the horse and finery of the officer’s uniform which had not been apparent the night before. Belvedere touched his Tarleton helmet, a thick crest of black-horsehair, which shone in the sunlight, surpassed in grandeur only by the enormous plume of white feathers and turban band of buff silk with golden gilt strands which ran along its base.
“Morning sir, and what a jolly fine one it is. Magnificent sight isn’t it?”
“Good morning, Lieutenant?”
“Apologies, sir. I thought you may have met yesterday. This is Lieutenant Christopher Belvedere, Lord Belvedere, of the 11th Dragoons.”
“I’m just a humble Lieutenant here. On the Duke of York’s staff for my sins at present. Came over with the Duke of Cambridge and think my Colonel must have wanted shot of me as I was off to the staff before I knew what had hit me.”
“Well we do send all of our best men to the staff, Belvedere, so don’t despair. Usually, anyway…” Neuberg added dryly, casting a glance at von Bomm.
“So, what can you tell us?” Neuberg added.
“Well, your chaps are staying put until we have cleared the slope; an hour maybe more. The Hanoverian Light Brigade has reached the far bank of the Rhonelle somewhere over there. Our guns are pounding Villers-pol.” Belvedere waved his arm south to the track that he had earlier ridden, “and the Austrian infantry are all held in reserve.”
Behind the road and stretching back towards Préseau, eleven huge battalions of Austrian infantry, each nearly a thousand men strong were sluggishly deploying.
“Do you think it will take an hour to clear the French from the slopes?” Neuberg asked, aware of the weight of manpower that waited to be unleashed.
“Perhaps not sir, my chaps will skirmish them out,” Belvedere spoke confidently.
“Skirmish them out?”
“Yes sir; that’s why the Duke sent for them. We pride ourselves on our skirmishing abilities in the 11th,” Belvedere seemed a trifle piqued at the doubt in Neuberg's voice.
“That is the second time I have heard such cavalry modesty this morning.”
Brandt and the two messengers looked rather quizzically at Neuberg but the colonel continued.
“That may be so, Lieutenant, but we have three grenadier battalions here who train for this sort of fighting.”
An uneasy silence settled over the four men.
“Has anyone seen an actual map of the terrain?” Neuberg asked, watching the action in the distant fields.
“No sir,” the messengers replied in unison. The bombardment on the far side from Fond des Vaux had started to thicken, more Austrian guns adding to the chorus of allied firepower.
“We have the sketch maps from the Austrian scouts. Adequate but I’m sure now that our cavalry and the 11th are here, the quality of intelligence will improve,” von Bomm added, trying to help.
“Let us hope so,” Neuberg muttered, “so what are we doing on the flank at Villers-Pol?”
“Doing sir? I’m not sure I understand?” Belvedere said.
“Are we to advance there and attack the flank of the batteries ahead of us? Seems logical to me but I am only a Colonel, of course.”
“No sir, not yet. We are to hold our ground. My God, I have the orders here. Apologies gentlemen!”
The now flustered light dragoon spurred his mount back towards the track towards the Light Division and the captured crossing at Maresches.
Valenciennes: 23rd May 1793
“Look, there he goes, off again; how many more times?”
Jackson crouched again and trained his telescope to the right.
“More than three, I’ll wager.”
“Is it a wager?” Jackson’s interest perked up.
The middle telescope was unoccupied, but the third telescope was occupied by the burly frame of Trevethan.
“Your stake from last night’s backgammon or should I say my rightful winnin’s?”
“Your winnin’s? By the heavens, you miserable Cornishman, I was faithfully followin’ a general order.”
Trevethan swore an oath that carried to a group of officers pouring over the series of orders for the allied attack but none looked up.
“I say three more attempts before he is back here,” Trevethan hissed.
“I say he gives up at two.”
The men watched the horse of Sir John Murray with interest as it again began to zigzag across the battlefield through a compressed mass of battalions, Austrian and British. Behind these, brown coated Austrian artillerymen idled on sunflower-yellow limbe
red guns, waiting to join their colleagues already deployed and firing on the French. There was a traffic jam and little apart from Sir John Murray was moving.
How the trouble had begun was unclear. Perhaps the guides had lost their way in the fog, but both regiments were now in advance of their allocated positions and blocking the deployment area of the infantry. The cavalry had been told to form up east of the villages of Curgies and Saultain; somehow the Hanoverian Life Guards had been positioned thirty yards ahead of the Imperial cavalry. To the Austrian hussars it was a slight which could not be ignored: they advanced, nearer to Curgies. The Hanoverians, not to be outdone, waited for the Austrians to halt and then advanced again, no more than five yards ahead. The gauntlet had been thrown down and troopers engaged in mocking insults across the narrowing gap. A series of small advances followed and then to the Imperials’ horror, a steep scarp appeared out of the mist; an off-shoot arm of the Rhonelle. The hussars wheeled right to avoid it and drew level with the church at Préseau on the flat of the plateau, the other side of the scarp. Both regiments of cavalry were now two hundred yards ahead of their line of deployment. The Hanoverians matched the move but were forced left by the hedged gardens of Saultain. Murray had come to forbid any further advance but neither colonel would retire. Six hundred yards of deployment area for the columns of Abercrombie’s British and Count Ferraris’ Austrians had been reduced to less than thirty.
Twenty more minutes and three more attempts by Murray and an Austrian staff officer at cajoling the hussars and the Lifeguards yielded a deployment space that allowed the log-jam of troops to move. The artillery was given preference and by seven they had made the ground that should have been theirs an hour earlier. Grumbling gunners worked to unlimber heavy twelve-pounders as the French begin their first salvo, casting black looks at the mass of horsemen who were trying to skirt the edges of the ravine in twos and threes, desperate to find wider ground to deploy in.
The two men carried on watching as Abercrombie’s brigade spilt out onto the right of the narrow opening and Ferraris’ Austrians formed out to the left behind the massed Austrian batteries. Both cavalry regiments had finally found a space to deploy but only a half squadron frontage; at least they could provide some protection to the gunners but if the French guns had the range then their brinkmanship would carry a deadly cost.
Trevethan scanned the earthworks, admiring the placement of the redoubts; he imagined the battery officer observing the fall of shot, making corrections while the gunners vented the guns and prepared to load death into their barrels. Murray returned, having found a path through the fields that ran alongside the track where tightly packed columns of foot-sloggers waited for the orders to advance. Prince Josias emerged from the group of staff officers and nodded flustered gratitude towards the British Chief of Staff who mustered a hollow smile in return as he dismounted. The unoccupied telescope swung to watch the unfolding deployment, relieved that at last thin lines of redcoats had begun to deploy in battle formation.
“What was all that about, sir?” Trevethan broke the silence.
“Rank stupidity over a point of honour; I doubt we have heard the last of it.”
“Couldn’t have tried just one more time, could you?” The Cornishman added under his breath. He had lost the bet.
The French guns had found the range of the densely packed Austrian columns which waited patiently behind the guns. The mass writhed and constricted, white specks of dead and dying soldiers deposited in fields of yellow-green adolescent wheat. Behind the three men, a polite cough disturbed the silent observation, a servant bore a tray of delicate glassware filled with white wine and each of the British staff accepted a glass. Prince Josias stood in the midst of his staff and made a toast, first in German and then in hesitant English, the last words punctuated by the latest bombardment from the massed battery of French guns. With that, breakfast was announced. There was little to do until the guns had done their work.
Three hours passed slowly in an uncomfortable silence. Growing casualties from the white-coated infantry made for unpleasant viewing. Fortunately, the French had yet to turn their weight against the redcoats. Now that Major-General Abercrombie had extended his right flank to the north of the ground ahead of Saultain, the British lines represented a target that lacked any depth. Sensibly the British commander had deployed his men in open order to negate the worst of any barrage. Trevethan had escorted Jackson to wander along the Austrian lines and inspect a column of pontoons and flying bridges waiting for their moment of need. Only once the word had been sent for the infantry to advance through the guns and up the long slopes towards the redoubts did Trevethan returned to the telescope. Distant Austrian columns and thin British lines had begun to climb the gentle slopes; he could just perceive movement in the French earthworks.
“Somethings ‘appenin’, can’t quite make it out…”
Murray moved back to the middle telescope.
“They are removing the guns, your highness,” he said in fluent German, then added sharply “Cavalry. There, either side of the redoubts.”
On the distant hill a regiment of green-jacketed dragoons had deployed, previously concealed behind the crest-line. The pair of leading battalions had halted. With the press of infantry behind, ten battalions deep behind them, the leading Austrian and British battalions lacked the room to deploy into square. Their only hope lay in the weight of fire-power deterring the French. If either battalion broke the carnage that the French could inflict would be catastrophic. One of Josias’s aides, a young officer in a tall, yellow square-topped czapka seized the third telescope and began a rapid commentary of events. Trevethan stood back and the Prince stepped forward to watch. The dragoons though had paused; the infantry, less than three hundred yards away, braced themselves for the decisive moment.
“What do you think?” Jackson had sidled next to Murray.
“The French are trying to save those guns.” He paused, partly listening to the stream of commentary while watching the unfolding events. “Oh now, this should be very interesting.”
The French dragoons advanced another fifty yards down the slope as a succession of ochre-coloured limbers appeared, each towing bronze barrelled cannon; Distant blue dots of infantry flooded in to man the redoubts, a battalion’s tricolour planted in the rear of the earthworks marked their arrival. The allied cavalry, keen to atone for their morning’s efforts, chose the moment of hesitancy to pounce; the sky-blue jacketed Esterhàzy advancing in precise lines. The lancer officer’s commentary rang with praise, detailing how three squadrons would form for the attack while the other three would be held in reserve. He mentioned nothing of the Hanoverian Life Guards, whose manoeuvres matched those of the Austrians, stride for stride.
“I bet the Hanoverians ‘ave at them before the Austrians,” Trevethan muttered.
“Double or quits m’boy?” Jackson whispered, aware that such a bet might be seen in bad taste.
Allied cavalry continued advancing, left and right; still the French dragoons hesitated. The last of the limbers disappeared over the crest as speckled dashes of smoke and the distant crackle of musketry drifted across the open valley. The enemy that had manned the redoubt was firing too early, musket rounds ineffective against the Austrian and British, who still held their fire, though the threat from the French cavalry receded as each moment passed.
The lines of hussars and Life Guards began to trot forward in perfect unison; if the colonels of each regiment held enmity for each other, they clearly respected the grand theatre of the moment. The transition between the trot to the gallop was seamless on either flank; the allied cavalry charged as one. The French dragoons facing the Austrians broke fleeing back over the crest as the wave of Esterhàzy horsemen dipped their sabres and broke into the blood curdling yell of the charge.
On the slope opposite, the cavalry facing the Hanoverians finally cast off their collective paralysis and charged, trumpets signalling the attack. The first French squadron moved forward
, a second then third squadron following hard on the heels of the first; at no more than fifty yards distance, the leading enemy dragoon squadron slowed visibly, riders pulling mounts left and right, all cohesion lost. The Life Guards were on them in an instant.
From the observers around the telescopes there were exhilarated yelps of encouragement, as an arrowhead of red-jacketed figures crashed its way into the lines of green-jacketed dragoons, driving the leading French squadron back up the hill. Fresh squadrons of enemy horsemen crested the ridge from the reverse slope, trapping those French dragoons who attempted to flee the fury of Hanoverian sabres. Duels broke out along the line but the Life Guards’ momentum could not be checked; in less than a minute the recall was sounding along the French lines.
The enemy had fled.
A cheer rolled along the line of the mass of Austrian and British infantry and white columns and red lines broke in a wave of fury on the French redoubts of Fond des Vaux. A few minutes later, the lone tricolour which marked the position was struck. Murray checked the time on his pocket watch.
“A little after ten-thirty; good work, good work indeed.”
An hour later, Prince Josias led his staff across the valley to inspect the captured positions held earlier that morning by the French. In the ground beyond the redoubt, an overturned limber lay stricken. Around this, scores of enemy soldiers who had been taken prisoner tended to dying comrades, baking in the glare of the morning sun amongst the trail of bodies which marking the passage of the Esterhàzy.
The hussars’ progress had only been arrested by the steep scarp beyond the ridge; a second French battery on the next plateau was revealed, pouring fire into the Austrian ranks, forcing their withdrawal to the shelter of the ridge. The French cavalry had plunged into the scarp; a mad descent into the Rhonelle towards the safety of the plateau beyond which left a pile of broken bodies. The Hanoverian Life Guards, having also pursued their opponents to the scarp, found themselves facing a wall of infantry on the opposite bank. The enemy had begun to retreat from their positions at the Fond des Vaux at the first sight of the allies that day.
The King of Dunkirk Page 6
