The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  “Always the first item to be lost on campaign; if we used the leather that was wasted on stocks for boots, maybe we wouldn’t need so many new pairs of those.”

  Forty-five leather neck stocks were missing or broken, only boots were in a greater shortage. Trousers, tunics, socks, these the men could make running repairs with. Boots had been replaced by Flanders clogs and the army would turn a blind eye to that. The stocks would be replaced; each man would be docked the necessary cost to replace the item. Whatever the price, it was worth it for the weeks of pain-free movement than each redcoat would enjoy.

  “Perhaps you should apply for the General Staff, sir?”

  “Why? Am I doing such a bad job as a battalion commander?” Neuberg raised an eyebrow and offered a wry smile to Brandt.

  “We are all still alive, sir. After nine weeks on campaign I will settle for that.”

  Neuberg grunted a laugh, “High praise indeed. How’s Second Company holding up?”

  “The men are better for the baggage catching up. The mood is good. Pay has arrived and their bellies are full. The sick list is on the other side of that sheet but I have rested those who suffered on the march. What do you think the next move will be?”

  “Don’t know. Screening Valenciennes and getting to grips with the French is logical. The enemy might retreat to the gates of Paris. It’s our luck that we will be selected to form part of the besieging force here. Plenty of hard work and a few frayed tempers, no doubt.”

  Neuberg examined the sick list and then continued.

  “Von Bomm was here half an hour ago, he didn’t have any news yet. Oh, except that he is to return to battalion duties. That pup from the Guards that Captain Baumann tried to replace Erich with is to take von Bomm’s staff post. Erich is returning to the 1st Grenadiers, all sins forgiven.”

  “That is genuinely good news.”

  “Take a couple of hours off and catch up with him, Werner. We are going nowhere. Leave Schafer in charge. How is he shaping up?

  The offer surprised Brandt. It wasn’t unwelcome. Quite the opposite, there was an unfinished letter to Katerina and children. Soon they would hear of a battle and he needed to assure them of his survival.

  “He will be alright, sir, given time.”

  “I wonder how much of that we will get?”

  Brandt returned to where 2nd Company were camped and found von Bomm entertaining Lieutenant Schafer and some of the battalion’s junior officers, with tales of life at headquarters. Lord Belvedere listening on enthusiastically; Von Bomm broke off as soon as he spotted Brandt.

  “Attention now gentlemen, the Captain has arrived and we must return to our air of solemnity.”

  “Shut up, Erich.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  Von Bomm stood rigidly to attention, his face a mask of concentration as he tried to suppress obvious laughter. Belvedere had joined in the absurdity, aping the pose of von Bomm.

  “Permission to speak, sir?” the cavalryman chirruped.

  “He’s not got you doing this as well?”

  “The 11th would be honoured if you would join our patrol of Valenciennes. We took the liberty of clearing the matter with the Colonel earlier.”

  Now the letter would not be finished until lunchtime at least but in truth Brandt was not in the mood for completing it. A few hours on horseback were not his preferred choice of relaxation but at least he would share von Bomm’s company and that was an unexpected pleasure. They rode in strengthening light to where eighteen troopers and a young subaltern, called Paston, of the 11th Dragoons were preparing for their duties. Brandt had peered at a sketch map which the young officer had used to brief his unexpected guests. The outline of the western plateau bore a passing resemblance to a giant whale in the act of plummeting to the depths. To the right of the tail sat Valenciennes, wedged in between a series of plateaus, at the confluence of the Scheldt and Rhonelle. Along the whale’s back a series of crosses had been drawn, each marking the location of a patrol. The dragoons were to replace the men posted the previous night. In single file, they followed a track which descended from the plateau at Famars; crossed the Scheldt at a small ford were the river was dammed; and then rose entering the mouth of the whale-shaped plateau, arriving into fields dotted with the camp fires of the Prussian army.

  The first three exchanges of patrols along the edge of the western plateau were uneventful but Brandt had found the ride as close to being enjoyable as he could dare to describe it. The track had widened and he and von Bomm were chatting about the news of his impending return to the grenadiers, when Belvedere reined his mount back to their place in the column of riders and pointed at movement on the horizon.

  “One of our scouts, moving fast. There!” he pointed, “Do you see?”

  Between the campfires and thousands of dark-unformed shapes moving between the cooking fires a rider could be seen, still six hundred yards away and closing fast along the track that the dragoons were using.

  “Your eyes must be good Belvedere. How can you tell he is one of yours?”

  “Trade secret, sir,” Belvedere smiled at Brandt and then gently tapped at a small field telescope pouched in a small cylindrical case attached to a thin leather strap wound tightly around his lavish scarlet and gold officer’s cross-belt.

  They watched the rider report to the patrol commander and moments later a hand signal followed and the horsemen moved from a walk to a steady canter.

  “Shouldn’t you go and see what’s going on?” Brandt forced the words out while concentrating on trying to rise and fall with the rapid movement of the horse.

  “No, sir, it would be considered bad form; unless you are ordering me, of course?”

  Brandt grunted tersely, “I’d just like to know that this agony is justified!”

  Von Bomm caught Belvedere’s gaze and rolled his eyes heavenward in feigned exasperation. Belvedere nodded, smoothly nudged the flanks of his mount and effortlessly accelerated through the uneven ground to the side of the track towards the head of the column. Within two minutes he had dropped back, his mount once again matching the speed of the two Hanoverian men.

  “Hope you have brought your best duelling pistols, a chance of some action, it seems,” Belvedere spoke excitedly. “Two of our patrols followed a group of French dragoons into the Vicoigne Forest. The Prussians spotted them too. They have sent a whole regiment in from the south and another from the north to flush them out. The subaltern in charge told number four patrol to wait for our arrival and has taken five and six patrols to hunt the French himself. That’s the spirit, eh? Anyhow let’s see if we can find the Frogs.”

  “I thought we were just going to replace the patrols?” Brandt’s heart sunk at the idea of extending the morning’s effort to include a fruitless search in thick woodland.

  “Not with our men out there somewhere; Paston is using his initiative. Damned dangerous in an officer normally but very much in the tradition of a Prince Albert’s man.” Belvedere spoke with obvious pride. The 11th were Prince Albert’s own dragoons and von Bomm had already received a regimental history from the peer in crushing detail.

  “Indeed,” von Bomm nodded to Belvedere before turning to Brandt. “Sir, your lack of adventure is appalling at times, you know,” flashing a broad grin and taking no small amusement at Brandt’s discomfort. The reply, a series of curses, was lost on the morning breeze.

  Two hours of searching the paths in the forest had not revealed the French or the missing 11th Dragoons. The canopy of elm and ash, perforated by shafts of sunlight, kept the woodland to a pleasant temperature but the effort of riding had drenched Brandt in a slick sweat. Then there was movement ahead and around him, British dragoons waited, fixed on the unfolding action ahead of them. Brandt’s eyes had long since adjusted to the dim light and background of mottled greens but his right hand had reached awkwardly across to his scabbard as he spotted the silhouettes which broke the line of trees ahead of the patrol. The word was passed back and he
re-housed the blade, feeling just as clumsy, and then turned to watch and wait.

  Prussian cavalry, hussars draped in heavy, black capes, had emerged silently from thick undergrowth on either side of the British. Paston raised his left arm to show the white cloth strip that the allied cavalry had taken to wearing as a recognition marker, then trotted towards the hussars, followed by Belvedere, to exchange information. Brandt heard little of the conversation but it was apparent that the Prussian officer was firmly in control of the situation. A few moments later, the British officer signalled for the patrol to turn about and Brandt nudged his mount, Neuberg’s spare horse, which managed the tight turn with rather more grace than the rider. Brandt now found himself along with von Bomm at the head of the column. A flushed-looking Paston, accompanied by a solitary Prussian hussar and a pair of British troopers, worked their way through the trees to the front of the column. The cavalry set off and von Bomm moved ahead in order that Belvedere could fall alongside Brandt.

  “Well that was all a bit embarrassing.” Belvedere spoke quietly so only that Brandt and von Bomm could hear. “Seems our friends had been following us for ten minutes; the good news is that our missing men are accounted for. They got a little lost and wandered into a Prussian patrol. Seems we might have got a little lost too. The kindly Prussian pointed out in no uncertain terms that we were making enough noise to raise the dead. Poor old Paston took it on the chin. It’s been suggested that this work isn’t for amateurs so we are being given a guide for our own ‘protection’.”

  “Typical Prussians!” Brandt replied. “Overbearing, pompous and blunt.”

  “And careless with their women,” von Bomm added.

  Belvedere looked at the Hanoverian men for an explanation.

  “Ignore him.” Brandt replied.

  “When the Captain is feeling less bashful, he might tell you how he stole his wife from under the nose of a Prussian Colonel, all in the service of good King George, too; I’m so proud of him.”

  “Shut up, Erich!”

  “Let’s save it for the camp-fire one evening, when he has had a glass or two,” von Bomm whispered to Belvedere.

  “I’m sure there is a vacancy for an officer to command the regimental baggage train, von Bomm. Perhaps I should forward your name?”

  Von Bomm did his best to look suitably crestfallen but cast a sly wink in the direction of Belvedere, who could not help but return a smile at the infectious grin.

  Twenty minutes of riding brought the patrol back to the clearing where the dragoons had entered the Forest of Vicoigne. Ahead lay the humped scarp of the Western Plateau and the patrol turned left and headed for the road that led to Valenciennes. The Prussian corporal, who had led them back towards the allied lines, turned after making a perfunctory salute to Paston and trotted back into the darkness of the forest.

  The patrol climbed the slope and turned right to follow the road, now bustling with infantry and guns along the plateau to strengthen the investiture of Valenciennes. Brandt followed Belvedere and von Bomm and the three men peeled left in order to watch Prussian twelve-pounders being manoeuvred into position. Brandt checked his pocket-watch. It was a little after nine-thirty and spirals of dirty black smoke were already rising from inside the walls of the city, courtesy of the work of Austrian gunners. Belvedere scanned the walls with his telescope and then passed the leathered cylindrical lens to Brandt. The amplified view brought the French gunners, who had brought their guns to bear in the direction of a Prussian battery, into focus; the artillery-men worked at a leisurely pace, then the batteries were lost in a white-walled wreath of smog. By the time Brandt had lowered the telescope, the projectiles had impacted, cutting thick scars through wheat fields but falling at least one hundred yards short of the Prussian gun crews, who were working quickly to unlimber their heavy weapons to add to the bombardment of the town. He made to pass the field-glass to von Bomm but the other two had already turned their horses and were studying events in the direction of the forest.

  “What do you make of that, sir? Could be those French dragoons.”

  Brandt turned the horse and trained the glasses along the wood line. A party of a dozen dark green horsemen came into view, riding hard across undulated wheat fields, making for the road that led from Anzin to Valenciennes. Behind them, perhaps twenty black-capped Prussian hussars were hard on their heels.

  “What do you think?” Brandt handed the telescope back to Belvedere.

  The two groups of riders were moving across the front of the three observers. Around them Prussian infantry and gunners had turned to watch the chase, still three quarters of a mile distant. More Prussian cavalry came from a point in the woods further ahead of the French and the dragoons looked as if they would be trapped. Sunlight glinted off drawn sabres. Three French horsemen had veered right and were heading directly to Valenciennes, having given up on making the Anzin road. Behind them, the other dragoons had formed a rough battle line and were preparing to charge the hussars who had appeared to their front. Belvedere trained the telescope.

  “Well, well, well. This morning’s fox, it seems.” He scanned left to right, settling on the party of pursuing Prussians who had first appeared. They had ignored the French dragoon line and kept a steady course on the three remaining horsemen.

  “Oh, now that is interesting! Our friendly Prussian captain from the wood, no less,” Belvedere snapped the telescope shut with a resolve in his eyes then studied the road to their right that ran to Valenciennes.

  “Gentlemen, I don’t take kindly to the 11th being referred to as amateurs; would you care to see if we can’t teach that Prussian some manners?”

  He turned but Brandt had already raked his heels into the flanks of his horse and was barrelling down the road in his awkward riding style. There was something about the Prussian manner that infuriated the Hanoverian captain; he lent forward in the saddle, attempting to cushion each impact of the gallop, the wind whipping through his hair and stinging his eyes. Brandt turned his head; the French riders had spotted the new threat to their escape route; two of them peeled off and headed towards Brandt but misjudged the distance. In an instant Belvedere was onto the first of the Frenchmen but Brandt could see no more of the action, his concentration taken up with the physical act of staying upright in the saddle. He was ahead of the French rider and suddenly the thought struck him that he might have to wield a sword on horse back. There was fifty yards to go to the crossroads, he would make it there before the Frenchman and have a few seconds grace. He would draw his sword, after that he would fight and do his best to not slice his own horse’s ears off in the process!

  The crossroads was positioned four hundred yards from the northern gate at Valenciennes. Brandt pulled the horse to a halt and then turned to face his opponent. The Frenchman, closing fast, was slim and lithe in the saddle but at thirty yards distant and still travelling at the gallop, the animal bucked and stumbled in the uneven ground; horse and rider disappeared into a cloud of dust. There was an audible groan; Brandt stopped his peering through the dust-cloud to turn the horse in a semi-circle. The ramparts were full of blue-coated soldiers, who had been busily cheering on the flight of the dragoons across the plateau. Now, muskets bristled and puffs of smoke rippled from the battlements; he eased his mount further from the walls and towards the settling dust-cloud where a horse struggled in the long grass. It did it its best to raise itself onto three legs and hobbled blindly in the direction of Valenciennes as if from memory, a right foreleg twisted and badly broken.

  Further along the plateau Prussian cavalry had surrounded Belvedere and von Bomm, one French dragoon lay dead and another had already offered his sword to the British dragoon. A second cluster of Prussian horsemen were closing on Brandt. The infantryman slithered from the horse, glad for his feet to be on firm ground. He let the reins go and reached to draw his sword at the very moment the Frenchmen rose from the grass, ten feet ahead of him. He saw an outstretched arm, smoke and the hollow punch of a musket ba
ll that whistled past his right temple. Brandt bellowed, dipped his shoulders and charged, catching the dragoon in the mid-rift. They tumbled, intertwined. Brandt sat up pinning the Frenchman to the floor. He drew back a fist to punch the enemy cavalry-man into submission and found himself looking into the eyes of a blond-haired woman. She wrestled for the pistol but Brandt moved a knee and pinned her arm.

  “I don’t think so, Madame,” feeling a sense of relief wash over him.

  The woman hurled a series of insults at him in rapid succession, some of which he understood, the rest of the words he considered were likely to be uncomplimentary.

  Brandt studied the woman and then realised that his bodyweight was probably crushing her. He flicked the pistol away, stood up and offered the French-woman his hand. Briefly, she lay before him like the spoils of war, drawing in deep breaths, before uncoiling an arm and allowing Brandt to pull her up. He scooped up the pistol and found his bicorne which had become a casualty of the tumble in the wheat.

  “Captain Brandt, Madame. 2nd Battalion, 10th Regiment, Hanoverian infantry.”

  She nodded in acknowledgement and turned to look at the horsemen, rapidly closing in on their position. Brandt was relieved to see von Bomm in the group. If anyone knew what to do with a woman prisoner, it was Erich. She removed her dragoon helmet and ran hands through shoulder length blonde hair and spoke slowly hoping that Brandt would understand.

  “My name is the Countess of Marboré. It seems I am your prisoner, Captain Brandt,” her voice seductive and teasing as she offered her hands to him, bound tight by imaginary bounds. The redcoat felt his face redden at such a coquettish and brazen display in this moment of danger.

  The Prussian officer made the ground first, slowing his horse to a walk before effortlessly dismounting. With an air of supremacy, he strutted towards the countess and Brandt.

  “Captain Wolf, von Glotz Hussar regiment.” He clipped a polite bow in the direction of Brandt.