The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  “Bloody officers can’t even entertain us with a decent scrap.” Henry chuckled.

  “Well they have got to look good for the victory parade and their place in history. In a hundred years’ time, they might remember the Duke of York and Freytag, but do you think they will remember Pinsk, Krombach and Reifener.” Tomas replied.

  “I doubt it; unless the French win of course. Then Reifener’s name will live long in the memory as the man who poisoned the army and won the war for the French with his cooking.” Henry quipped.

  Reifener sat bolt upright, “Hey that’s unfair! It was only once, so far.” His voice chortled as he spoke and his attempts to look mildly offended made him even more comical. “Oh,” he gazed up at the position of the sun. “What time would you say it is?”

  The Pinsk brothers craned long necks towards the sun, shielding their eyes. By common agreement it was a little after three.

  “Damn!” Reifener stood. “I’m cooking with the Twenty tonight and I promised them a whole list of essentials. Winckler has them but I need to get them before it’s too late. If I show up without them, Clara and Anna will make my life hell.”

  “Well you had better run around and do your errands.” Tomas suggested, mockingly.

  Krombach looked up, “Wait one moment, I will go with you. I want to speak to Winckler.”

  Reifener looked uneasy but knew that complaining would be of little use. Instead he wandered over to peer over Krombach’s shoulder. The sketch was nearly complete. Krombach had finished the drawing and was putting the finishing touches to an outline of the castle walls, hornworks, palisade and glacis in the top corner, as if viewed by a bird soaring high in the heavens. Their vantage point gave them a view over almost the whole of the fortifications. What Krombach could not see had been calculated from the shape and style of the rest of the building. Tomas came to look too.

  “Actually, that isn’t bad at all ‘Bastion.”

  “Thanks.” Krombach tried not to sound pleased at the compliment. “Here, keep it. I won’t send it home. I don’t want the war to seem any more real than Maren or my parents already imagine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, thank you. Of course, you had better sign it. Just in case you do become a man of fame one day. Then I can say I knew you.”

  “Fame, Pah! More like infamy!” Henry replied. “I think you have forgotten what it’s like to share a tent with him.”

  “What day is it? Or date?” Krombach asked.

  No one knew. One day was much like another.

  “It’s still May, I think.” Tomas offered.

  Krombach scratched his name and dated the sheet, May 1793, handing it over to Henry. Storing away paper and pencils he sprang up and hauled his pack over his shoulders.

  “You coming?” he looked at Henry.

  “Not yet. We still have an hour or two, we are going to stay here for a bit.”

  Krombach smiled, nodded a farewell to the two brothers and loped off to catch up with Reifener who had already set off at a worried gait.

  For Major Trevethan the afternoon had worn on all too slowly. Count Orlandini was proving unyielding in his plans. The cluster of officers had dispersed and Trevethan had decided to ease his frustrations with a bit of manual labour himself. He had patrolled the lines towards the position of the first parallel, spade in hand, working alongside any man who looked like he was flagging, sharing a word and a joke. Still he was unhappy about the direction and the elaborate nature of the plan. He dropped his spade and returned to his jacket, under which his field telescope and tripod nestled safely from the heat of the day.

  Purposefully, he stalked towards a mound where a pair of soldiers slouched. He approached them and nodded a hello, staring at the men, clearly brothers and as near to identical as he had ever seen. The pair smiled in reply watching him as he assembled the tripod and then mounted the telescope. Trevethan surveyed the scene, back and forth. Three days’ work had seen a degree of progress but not enough. With intense concentration he began a series of calculations, numbers that he knew almost by rote. Six weeks would be more like eight with the distance involved, by the time that each set of parallels had been carved out of the landscape. The Cornish engineer tutted wearily to himself and was about to slide the scope shut when he realised that the brothers were still watching him. Stepping back, he gestured towards them.

  “Want to look, lads?”

  Both nodded vigorously, chatting in excited German.

  “I’ve no idea what you are saying but you are most welcome.”

  He smiled as the two jostled for position, until one perhaps the elder and slightly taller, pulled the rank of seniority and had the first look. Trevethan chuckled at the sounds of delight that one then the other made as they trained the telescope on the walls of Valenciennes and then the working soldiers, who were preparing to fall in, after their allotted time of labour. The one that Trevethan had decided was the elder of the two, smiled and nodded his thanks and then beckoned Trevethan to follow him. The engineer smiled and paced over to where the Hanoverian knelt. The man unfolded a piece of paper and showed it to Trevethan.

  “Oh, now that is good. That is very good indeed.” Trevethan studied the layout of the ground, the detail of the contours, holding the page to compare it to the landscape.

  “And this work in the corner, very detailed.” Trevethan followed the overhead outline of the fortifications, with contours set around them. “You?” he pointed at the German.

  The man shook his head. “Nein, Nein.”

  “Him?”

  The man laughed and shook his head again.

  “Who then?” Trevethan gestured holding his hands open, hoping the soldier would understand.

  “Krombach,” the Hanoverian answered pointed to the name of the bottom of the sheet.

  “Um…” Trevethan thought of any German that he had learnt over the last few weeks, but nothing came to mind.

  “Which battalion?” in desperation he plucked at the man’s sleeve, hoping that he would realise he was talking about the facing colour, even though neither man wore his redcoat. The brothers conversed quickly, clearly decoding Trevethan’s words. The elder twin reached into his backpack and grabbed a pencil. On the reverse of the paper he scrawled ‘2nd Btn 10th Hanoverian’. Trevethan nodded. The regiment was familiar but he couldn’t think where from. Trevethan looked at the map again and ran a hand over his trousers searching for a coin. Somebody who could sketch like this would make the planning of the siege much easier. With a proper plan perhaps, he could strengthen the Duke’s hand in getting the current Austrian plan scrapped. No coins came to hand, they were in his jacket.

  “Can I have this?” Trevethan asked slowly, hoping that in doing so the soldier might understand. But the Hanoverian already understood. He pointed to the telescope and the paper, suggesting that the drawing was fair exchange for letting the men use the telescope. For Trevethan, the afternoon had improved beyond measure.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Custine.

  Dunkirk: 30th May 1793

  Carnot slumped on his bed and fought the fog of tiredness that clouded his head. Feebly he pushed his right heel against the thigh of his left boot but the reserves of energy for which the ‘Worker’ was renowned were exhausted. Weeks of working ceaselessly had taken their toll and the events of the previous thirty-six hours felt like a defeat; he slept and only the growling in the pit of his stomach woke him.

  The French engineer had taken as lodgings the top floor of a house near to St-Éloi. The carcass of the building had remained derelict apart from a small section which Carnot had turned into a temporary office and command room. From there he had watched the defences of Dunkirk slowly improve, climbing the tower more times than he cared to remember. The exercise was welcome, as his host Madame Nikolovich, a widow in her late thirties made the most delicious pastries and for a while Carnot had feared for his waistline. Downstairs he could hear the ratt
ling of plates. He would be lucky to escape to the sanctuary of the Church within the hour but sleep had brought an appetite that needed satiating and his mind needed time to piece together exactly what could be reported to Lamarche and what was best avoided.

  It was a little before six in the evening that Carnot finally made the short walk to St-Éloi, the street cast in shadow by the great church tower itself. Two years ago, at this time of day there would have been a steady stream of worshippers for an evening service. Now only Carnot headed towards two sentries at the main door. Both shouldered arms, relieved of something to do in the sleepy heat of the late afternoon. Stepping into the darkness, he was met with a faint glow of twin candles, burning feebly on his desk and a figure slumped asleep over a pew that had been salvaged from the wreckage of the building. Carnot had slept on the same spot himself. Only three other men were permitted to access the building without his permission. From the bulk of the sleeping figure, it was the one who had risked his ship on a plan that had gone badly wrong. Carnot braced himself for the wrath of Arnaud Mahieu, captain of the Perseus. His steps slowed, softened, hoping not to disturb the sleep of Mahieu. Perhaps he could read the bundle of dispatches before having to find the words to explain the failure of Ostend. As he quietly drew back the chair from behind his desk, the body under the blanket growled.

  “You’re late! It’s becoming a habit.”

  “I’m sorry. I…”

  “I know. I heard. I don’t believe it.” Mahieu sat up, the blanket falling away to reveal a creased face and thick overgrown stubble. “But I heard it from Grison. Still, it takes some believing.”

  “Yes, it does. But sadly, it’s true.”

  “But two thousand men? Drunk? It was two thousand, right?”

  “Yes, more or less. A few abstained but the majority just…”

  “…Got pissed while we were left bobbing up and down like port whores.”

  “Did you get to Ostend?”

  “Of course, we bloody got there!” Mahieu stood up and stretched out. “But even if you had it wouldn’t have done much good. There was a Dutch frigate blocking the harbour and then we had a close run-in with a British one. I had to ditch the grenades. Would hardly have believed we were a fishing vessel with those on board.”

  “Oh…”

  “If I hadn’t, I would be having my neck stretched at King George’s pleasure and you wouldn’t have this.” Mahieu reached inside his jacket and handed a crumpled envelope to Carnot. “Not a completely wasted trip. We met friends on the way back. Somebody in London likes us. Always good to have some reliable friends, I have found. If I’m not needed anymore, I’m going to get food and a rest. Any other hair-brained schemes do feel free to call on someone else.”

  Carnot nodded “I’m sorry Arnaud, truly I am. I have to find a way to explain the whole disaster to Lamarche.”

  “Save your breath. He’s gone. Off to Paris, no doubt for a date with Madame Guillotine. I’m sure it will be in one of those,” pointing to the pile of dispatches. “Grison tells me a man called Custine or something like that is in charge now. Perhaps it would be wise to forget this little episode. The Assembly doesn’t seem to be able to deal well with failure; even you aren’t immune from that.”

  Mahieu turned and Carnot watched him go. A shaft of light marked the opening and closing of the door. Only then did Carnot remember that he had news for Mahieu on the whereabouts of Julien Beauvais, a man whom Mahieu had befriended in his exploits for Dumouriez. It was not good news and given the current circumstances, it could wait. Instead, the Worker turned his attention to the pile of correspondence.

  Adam Philippe, Comte de Custine, had indeed been appointed to command the Army of the North. There were already two letters from him regarding the situation after the battle for Famars camp. The army was to retreat and rebuild, Carnot’s advice was being sought along with permission from Paris for the army to take a defensive posture. The second enquired on the likelihood of a strike at the British supply lines to break the siege of Valenciennes by forcing a British withdrawal north to cover the seventy mile route currently protected by the Dutch.

  “Damn. Damn. Damn.” Carnot slumped back in his chair, eyes straying towards the remains of the giant crucifix, where the high altar had once stood.

  “Apologies, Monsieur,” offering up the words in whispered tone.

  The matter could no longer be forgotten. He reached for a pencil and fresh paper and considered how best to explain the last three days. A force of two thousand men had set out to do just as Custine was now suggesting, cut through the Dutch lines at Furnes and Nieuport beyond and seize Ostend for no more than a few hours. In that time the raiders would set fire to as much Dutch and British shipping as could be found in the harbour. The Perseus had sailed with that very intention, compounding the confusion by throwing grenades into unguarded vessels and then slipping away into the night. Reports from locals who had travelled the road from Ostend to Dunkirk told of the poor morale and lack of preparedness of the Dutch troops.

  All of this had proven to be true. A large Dutch force had been driven out of Furnes with ease. The next phase of the operation was to march to Nieuport and beyond to Ostend. All would have proceeded to plan except for one unforeseen problem.

  Plunder!

  Furnes had become a Dutch supply depot. Thousands of bottles of wine and beer had been captured along with a month’s worth of provisions. The men had proved impossible to control and for the best part of a day, French infantrymen ate and drank themselves into a stupor. Only part way through the second day, when Dutch piquets had appeared on the outskirts of the town did the army react. Men filled packs with as much drink as could be carried and stumbled back down the road to Dunkirk in complete disorder.

  At some point today or tomorrow, the battalion commanders would bring details of exactly how many men had returned; plenty had deserted. The Committee for Public Safety had shown little clemency towards the army. Both the colonels and their junior officers faced an uncertain future. Carnot nominally held the rank of a captain. The National Assembly and the Committee of Public Safety were glad of his drive and organisation but only if the prospects of victory could be delivered. For once, he would have to report a painful and personal defeat.

  London: 1st June 1793

  Whitehall was quiet, hot and stuffy. Outside of the Ministry, London thronged to the industry of an early Saturday morning; inside the War Office, Sir Henry Dundas was wreathed in sweat. He had removed his jacket; windows and door were wedged open but to no avail. There was no breeze to be had anywhere in the great city, none that cooled, at least. Across the water, the hot winds of war were blowing and already Dundas feared that matters were out of his control.

  A dozen reports were filed on his desk. He read them in order of seniority only from a sense of duty. The Duke’s reports rarely told him anything worth knowing, at least nothing that he didn’t already know. Murray’s tended to be more incisive but then Murray always wanted something. Today’s was no different; siege preparations for Dunkirk; heavy guns; naval support. How the hell could the man think of that when the army was bogged down in Valenciennes?

  Then there was the small matter of the siege itself. Six to eight weeks! Had the world gone mad? And why hadn’t Jackson warned him of this, even a day earlier? Once York’s report reached the ear of the King, the words became law. But twenty-four hours at least would have given the minister time, time to approach His Majesty and warn him again that a long siege was not in the national interest: better to break from the siege now instead of becoming embroiled in it.

  It was too late.

  Austria and Thugut had out-manoeuvred him and that hurt worse than any run in with Horse Guards. Prince Josias had offered command of the siege of Valenciennes to Prince Frederick, Duke of York; without consulting London or His Majesty, the Duke had accepted. Pulling British troops out of Valenciennes was now impossible, without a complete loss of dignity.

  Worse still, the la
st report from a British officer on the coast, told of a French raid on Furnes, which according to captured French soldiers had been bound for Ostend. Only the copious amounts of wine drunk by the French had saved the British supply lines.

  The war was out of control. Dundas mopped sweat from the folds of his forehead and hid his face in his hands, hoping for some divine guidance. A moment later he returned to Murray’s report.

  “Ships and guns; do they think I’m made of the bloody stuff?” Bitter invective poured into the room. “Dickson! Wake up man. Take a letter, if you please?”

  The ancient clerk braced himself for the torrent that was to follow, as would Murray on receipt of his new instructions. Artillery would not be shipped until the army was bound for Dunkirk and until the vital port of Ostend was defended. No further troops would be forthcoming for this task; there were no more troops to spare.

  Dundas nodded. That should do it. The Duke would have to find a way to move nearer the coast.

  Dunkirk was still the aim of the war; Valenciennes meant nothing.

  Valenciennes: 4th June 1793

  Trevethan stuck a thick finger into his right ear, making as if to clear a build-up of wax.

  “I’m sorry sir, but could you just repeat that.”

  “The Cornish are a little slow on the uptake, sir” Jackson added unhelpfully.

  Trevethan shot him a glance but for once there was little mirth in his eyes.

  “You want me to do what, again?”

  Murray sighed, re-read the document, confirming the order to himself as much as anyone else in the room and then spoke again, quietly and firmly, before the matter got out of control.

  “Go to Ostend. Oversee the construction of some field works and then report back here.”