The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  “Brandt, Captain, 10th Hanoverians.”

  “Thank you for capturing the last of the dragoons. They led us a merry dance last night; killed four of my men.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Captain.”

  Wolf shrugged. “These things happen in war. However, once I return them to my commander, justice will be meted out.”

  “They are prisoners of war, Wolf.”

  “We do not recognise the revolutionary government. Some will hang no doubt. That army is no more than a gang of brigands in uniforms.” Wolf’s face betrayed no emotion. “It would be a pity to hang such a prize but justice should have no favourites. You agree?”

  Brandt was irked by the superior tone struck by the Prussian cavalryman. By now a dozen horsemen had surrounded Brandt, Wolf and the Countess; von Bomm and Belvedere in their number.

  Wolf held out his hand in the direction of Juliette, “So, if you please, Captain?”

  “I am sorry, Captain Wolf, but you cannot have this person as your prisoner.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Because I have already promised to return the Countess of…”

  “Marboré” Juliette returned Brandt’s sideways glance with the hint of a smile, understanding more of the conversation than she seemed prepared to admit.

  “…the Countess of Marboré her freedom under a flag of truce. She has been caught up in an incident outside of her control,” Brandt briefly looked to von Bomm and then at Belvedere.

  “Lord Belvedere, do you have a handkerchief?”

  “Yes, sir, of course. Clean and pressed.” Belvedere fished into a saddle-bag and produced a square of silk, monogrammed, which he leaned down and handed to Brandt, who unsheathed his infantry sword and proceeded to wrap the handkerchief around the hilt of the sabre. The captain of the von Glotz watched Brandt tie a tight knot before offering his opinion.

  “Such chivalry; worthy of a Prussian, no less. But I am afraid that I cannot permit you to return that woman. The French were captured in our woods and as such she is a prisoner of King William of Prussia.”

  “Then King William can get off his fat ass and come and sort this out. But until that happens, the Countess is free to return to her own lines, by the grace of George, Elector of Hanover.”

  The Prussian hussar’s eyes narrowed. “I could cut you down on the spot for such an insult.” Wolf snarled.

  “In plain view of the rest of your army? I don’t think so, Wolf. Besides it would be the last thing you ever did on this earth.”

  Wolf’s hand moved to his sabre and the blade was partially withdrawn when he heard the heavy click of a pistol being cocked. Von Bomm, who had positioned his horse behind the hussar captain was sat with a duelling pistol couched across his lap, whistling some tuneless melody. He feigned surprise when the eyes of Wolf and the other hussars turned to him.

  “Please, Captain. Do carry on. Best chance I have had for a promotion in weeks. It’s just the spring on this pistol can’t be trusted.” He held it up in his right hand as if to examine the outer casing of the pistol, to reveal a second in his left. Satisfied with the cursory inspection of the weapon, he returned to the conversation with an air of indifference. “As fascinating as all of this is, sir, perhaps we might return the Countess and then return to the battalion, in order that you can complete that letter to your wife?” von Bomm smiled and winked at Juliette who smirked at the obvious thrust of his remark.

  Belvedere pulled his horse and gathering the reins of Brandt's mount offered them to Juliette who accepted and mounted, then handed the reins to Brandt.

  “Time to go sir, I think.”

  Brandt starred hard at Wolf and then turned and led Juliette’s horse, flanked by von Bomm and Belvedere, back to the safety of a besieged town.

  Curgies: 26th May 1793

  Trevethan shuffled nervously from one foot to the other, rehearsing the words in his head, knowing that at some moment he would be called on to make his case on a matter in which he had little professional experience but his instincts told him were right. Besides, it was more than just engineering prowess at stake. The Duke of York wanted a speedy resolution to the matter. At the earliest opportunity the army was to seize Dunkirk. A protracted siege favoured none of the allies.

  The council of war had waited three days to convene; Emperor Francis had forbidden its commencement until Baron Thugut had arrived. Under the canopy filled with uniforms of every hue, Thugut wore a simple black frock coat and black breeches. Only the azure sash bearing the Austrian Imperial cypher told of his rank. Even without the whispered translations from von Bomm, Trevethan could see from the body language of the Austrian generals that Thugut was about as welcome as a dose of syphilis. Every feature of the man seemed exaggerated as if his deathly pale head had been squeezed in a vice. With his pointed chin, high forehead and taut face set in a permanent frown, he cast the vision of a circuit judge who had come to pronounce guilt on the efforts of the last few days. Coal black eyes darted around the room and thin lips twitched in constant motion though he spoke to no-one, reminding Trevethan of a misshapen trout he had once caught while fishing on the river Fowey.

  A delegation of four Austrian generals flanked Prince Josias; to his left, the Duke of York, Murray and the Prince of Orange; to his right, Knobelsdorff and the Prussian staff. At the head of the three tables, an artist’s easel held a sketched map of Valenciennes and its environs. To the side of this, the elderly Prince Hohenlohe waited, fidgeting through a series of scribbled notes and waiting for the signal from Josias. Around the sides of the great tent a mixture of staff officers stood; Trevethan and von Bomm had found a place towards the front of the clutch of British officers.

  The British officers had been briefed by Murray before the meeting. In the three days since the battle, recriminations for the inconclusive nature of the day had circulated, causing the new tensions in the fragile alliance. Privately, the Austrians had blamed the Duke of York for his failure to break into the lines at Artres and the ponderous left hook which had allowed the French to escape. Publicly the failure had been set at the door of Colonel Mack, the plan, ‘too ambitious’ according to the Emperor, in words crafted by Thugut. Prince Hohenlohe had complained of its complexities in administering. Knobelsdorff and the Prussians had no such qualms; they had captured French positions through the bravery that other nations had lacked.

  The engineer listened to the faltering voice of the septuagenarian Prince Hohenlohe, trying to summarise the action of the last few days in a positive light. The General, illustrating the encirclement of Valenciennes, had spoken for only a few seconds before interruption. Baron Thugut’s voice cut across the monotone delivery of the Prince; even before von Bomm could deliver a translation, Trevethan sensed an acidic impatience at the speed of proceedings.

  “Prince Hohenlohe, forgive me but, where is the French army now? How large is the force in Valenciennes?”

  The Prince paused, examined the notes set on a small table by his side, for what seemed an inordinate amount of time.

  “The French have withdrawn some twenty miles, to a place called Caesar’s Camp. Their next step is uncertain but we have troops scouting their positions. As for the garrison of Valenciennes, we are uncertain of its strength, for now. In time these matters will become clear but for every ten shells that we send into Valenciennes, the French reply with one. Perhaps they are conserving their ammunition. We should expect that the city is well garrisoned and well provisioned.”

  “But it must fall?”

  The Prince stared at Thugut, uncertain as to whether the words were a question or a statement.

  “Yes, sir, it must and it will. We have a plan to set before you on that matter.”

  “Then there is no need to offer ‘Parlez’ to Valenciennes or to any other French fortress, is there?” The words, harsh in tone led to more unfortunate shuffling of notes from Prussian officer. The question was a trap, Trevethan knew it and judging by the anxious faces around him, others di
d too. The day after the battle, Knobelsdorff had sent word to the commander of the garrison at Lille offering both an amnesty for the French troops within its walls and the offer of a formal alliance. Barely seven weeks after Prince Josias’ unilateral offer to Dumouriez had drawn scorn from both the Emperor and Prussia, Knobelsdorff had conducted his own secret negotiations. The Duke of York remained stony-faced throughout proceedings, unwilling to be drawn in to this latest controversy and Trevethan was none the wiser to the Duke’s opinions on the matter, other than the pressure to resolve the campaign quickly and seize Dunkirk in the process.

  “I have served my country for many years, sir. I have considered it prudent to explore avenues which may spare bloodshed, if it is done from a position of strength. If a city was to surrender, even an hour before its lot to be decided by the violence of attack, then it would be my Christian duty to spare the lives of the enemy and avoid the death and destruction that would be cast among my own ranks.”

  “Nonsense! Let the cowards burn! Destroy one city and let others learn from that lesson. That’s how we brought the Turks to heel. These revolutionaries are the same godless scum!” Thugut spat the words, daring any voice to contradict him.

  For a few moments an uncomfortable silence settled until Josias spoke quietly to restart proceedings

  “You said that you have the plan for the forthcoming siege?”

  “Yes sir. Count Orlandini has studied the ground and wishes to offer his considerable experience on the matter; I believe that the Duke of York may have some thoughts on the matter too.”

  York nodded but offered nothing further.

  “Good, good, then let’s hear what there is,” Josias issued a warm smile in the direction of a diminutive figure who handed a copy of his plans to Knobelsdorff, Josias and then York, with exaggerated movements of courtly grandeur.

  Orlandini, dressed in a crisp cornflower blue jacket with a thick yellow sash knotted on his left hip, returned to the easel and carefully drew a series of trench lines, parallels, over the map which Hohenlohe had just used, a riot of thick curly hair barely out of place. The Austrian engineer spoke without interruption, quoting the rates at which trenches would be dug; the rate of fire per day needed to suppress the French guns and a projected date by which Valenciennes could be stormed. Trevethan followed the words as von Bomm did his best to translate, finding the rapid pace of the Count’s speech and dialect a challenge. For the majority, it was dry, technical language but to the Cornishman it was fascinating. The only fact that all were interested in was when would Valenciennes fall? Under Orlandini’s plan, it would take forty-nine days and siege proper would not start for another fourteen; heavy guns were being brought up from somewhere along the Rhine.

  Trevethan had calculated a way to get straight to the hornworks but hearing the logic of Orlandini made the Cornishman doubt his own plan. All he knew was what the Duke had impressed upon him; the British could not afford a long siege. The voice of Thugut cut across his wanderings, his tone decidedly warmer in questioning Orlandini.

  “You are experienced in such matters, sir?”

  Orlandini nodded enthusiastically, an infectious smile set on his face.

  “I have served the Emperor for twenty years, witnessed a dozen sieges, personally undertaking the design of the attack in seven of them. It is a sound plan, sir, without the need for unnecessary risk,” Orlandini glanced in the direction of Trevethan, knowing that challenge was coming. Thugut sat back and the unusual sight of a smile creased his pale face as if such an action had taken energy and effort.

  “Good. Good.” Prince Josias rubbed his hands together in excitable glee. “You had something to add, Prince Frederick?”

  The Duke smiled at Prince Josias and then turned and looked at Trevethan, “Major, would you be so kind?”

  Trevethan felt the weight of the gaze of the room on him. His head swam as he pushed past through the swell of bodies to reach the easel where Count Orlandini still stood, cutting a defensive figure at this challenge to his work. Trevethan nodded warmly in the direction of the Austrian engineer but a look of blank indifference met his gaze. Trevethan cleared his throat, gathered his thoughts and looked to von Bomm for moral support. The two men had spent some time going over the words that Trevethan wished to use, in order that very little might be lost in translation. Trevethan had been tempted to read from his notes but had decided beforehand against such a move. Now he began to regret that decision.

  “Sirs, thank you to Count Orlandini for his…”

  “Do you intend to speak in English for the entire time?” Thugut interrupted, von Bomm translated but Trevethan had already absorbed the thrust of Baron’s harsh tone.

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant von Bomm will translate into German but I intend to speak the King’s English.”

  “Hmm!” Thugut grunted. “I have it on good authority that King George prefers the German language.”

  “That may be, sir. I am but a humble engineer and he has only ever spoken English to me.”

  “The language of the peasant it is then?”

  There was an audible tittering from quarters of the room and drawn looks from other sections as the words of Thugut were digested. York looked flushed, merely rolled his eyes in exasperation but gestured to Trevethan to get on with the task. The Cornishman locked the Baron in a gaze which would have unsettled most men but had little obvious effect on the Emperor’s man. Grudgingly, Trevethan broke off his stare and turned to Orlandini.

  “Count, I found your assessment highly professional and enlightening. But have you walked the ground sir?”

  Orlandini followed the translation from von Bomm and then offered a curt bow in respect to the words followed by a shake of the head.

  “Well, sir, I have. Right up to the walls here,” Trevethan jabbed a thick finger on the map, right by the ‘V’ shape of the main hornworks, the thick walls that protected the Eastern gate He turned back and found faces locked on his finger on the map. “I shared some tobacco with a Frenchie officer, yesterday afternoon and went for a stroll right up to the hornworks, the advantages of being a ‘peasant’ I suppose.” Trevethan smiled at York but pointedly avoided the gaze of Thugut and continued before the Baron could intervene.

  “The ground is marshy but there is a stretch right up to here that would suit our purposes,” Trevethan turned and spoke to his fellow engineer.

  “Count, the southern and northern approaches you have planned will have little effect on the hornworks; the artillery in these positions will only be able to bring fire on the walls or shell the city, something that we can do adequately from our current positions,” Trevethan pointed to the nearest set of parallels, drawn on the central approach by Orlandini and the engineer leaned in to examine.

  “We need only put our combined efforts here, build one set of parallels here and be ready to attack within twelve days.”

  Orlandini looked hard at the map again and then looked Trevethan up and down as if trying to decide the veracity of the man; Thugut broke the excited chatter of the room.

  “And how many sieges have you conducted in Cornwall, Major? Roads, I hear, are your speciality. I could certainly have done with your expertise on some of the ones that I travelled on to make this place. Perhaps sieges are best left to those who have earned the right to express their opinion. You might learn valuable lessons if you were to closely observe the actions of the Count?”

  Thugut had done his best to undermine Trevethan while appearing to offer an olive branch.

  Trevethan’s head pounded and he felt his face flush with embarrassment. How could that man know anything about him? Brennan. It must have been Brennan. Men like Thugut left no stone unturned. Feeling like a scolded child, he fought the desire to step forward and land a punch square on the elongated chin of the Emperor’s man, instead he offered a stilted bow in the direction of each of the generals and returned to his position at the side of the tent. As he passed the Duke of York, he was met with a look of gra
titude for his efforts.

  Prince Josias stood up and all those seated around him followed suit.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, most enlightening. Staff officers to leave us, I think,” he motioned to an officer who held the flap of the tent open and bright mid-morning sunlight flooded in, momentarily blinding those who glared directly out.

  “Some refreshments and then a decision on how best to proceed.”

  Knobelsdorff and York nodded in agreement. A unanimous decision would be needed, the alliance needed a single voice but would it be German or English?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cambric

  Estreux: 26th May 1793

  “Don’t just knock like a frightened virgin, kick that door down, you useless turd!”

  Sergeant Gauner’s voice boomed from the other side of the street; Krombach didn’t have to look up to know that the comment was aimed at him. A pair of hands pushed him hard in the back, propelling his face into the door. He turned slowly and squared up to a sneering Fuchs.

  “Come on boy, get a move on. Some of us have work to do,” Fuchs spat the words.

  The company had been ordered to the village of Estreux to gather tools which could be useful for digging. The orders had arrived mid-afternoon, interrupting Krombach’s and Henry’s plan to find Tomas. Schafer had led the company out. Captain Brandt and the Colonel had been summoned to headquarters. No one knew what it was about but Major Volgraf had sent the company on its way with withering instructions for Schafer; collecting tools from peasants, a task even the lieutenant could perform.

  After idle hours around camp fires, rumours that other soldiers had been reaping the spoils of war, this was the moment that Gauner had waited for. The surrounding villages were a potential wellspring; as far as anyone knew Estreux had yet to be exploited. Gauner’s men would do his bidding and cambric, the rich cloth manufactured throughout the area, was a worthy prize that could make a man wealthy. The men of 2nd Company knew better than to question him.