Valenciennes was a town in ruins; only officers were permitted to enjoy what little there was to see for the duration of the rest of the day. However, working parties of soldiers had been sent in to help begin to make the fortress town function again. In the late afternoon, Trevethan and Belvedere had followed the first supply wagons to bring food and medical supplies to the remaining population. Later that afternoon, the Princes would visit. The Duke of York had been given the honour of leading the royal procession, Prince Josias and General Knobelsdorff would follow and there was even a rumour that the Prince of Orange was riding south to claim his place in the proceedings. None of that mattered to the Cornishman, he and Belvedere picked their way through streets littered with fallen masonry and the detritus of war with a clear goal. The British needed maps and Trevethan headed to the Governor’s quarters in the hope that there might be something of use there but once the pair had found the former residence of Ferrand, a search of the spartan quarters revealed nothing of any value.
“Damn’d unlucky, Major.”
“Well it was a long shot. We will have to ask London to come up with something. Again. But Dundas’ record on such matters is pretty poor.” Trevethan scratched his head.
“There was a bookshop on the way in. Are you game to search there?”
“Of course, sir, but are we really that desperate. For maps, I mean.”
“Yes, man, we are!” Trevethan paused. “Sorry, Lieutenant, I keep forgetting you are a Lord.”
Belvedere chuckled. “Do I need to be more pompous? My father always said I really didn’t carry the family tradition too well.”
“You might want to work on treating me with a bit more contempt,” Trevethan replied dryly, “they really won’t let you back into your Gentleman’s club if they know you have been discoursing freely with common folk!”
“Too true, I hadn’t thought of that! Still, while I’m still a humble Lieutenant, I’m duty bound to discuss matters with you. Perhaps when I rise to the ranks of Colonel, I could ignore you then? If that’s alright with you, of course?”
“Belvedere, you’re as daft as a foolish virgin! You’ll go far in this army. Come on, let’s find the book shop.”
The two men headed back down through the series of stone staircases and found their way back onto the main street but missed a turning in the now busy streets. Patrols of Austrian grenadiers and British Foot Guards passed by, to ensure that the working parties of allied troops would not descend into looting. The men turned into the main square and found two bodies dangling from a tree, a message nailed into the trunk underneath.
“Deserters from the 14th. Seems we have wasted no time in exacting justice.” Belvedere read the note and the two men turned to try and fix their bearings but with so many damaged buildings and debris strewn roads it was proving a challenge. The pair passed a church, its doors opened, hundreds of bodies piled inside, the dead with the dying, as women tended to the injured in the filth of a makeshift hospital. Belvedere recoiled in horror, turning away to retch as the stench engulfed him.
Trevethan took the cavalryman by the arm. “Why don’t we try over here?” the Cornishman spoke softly, shielding the officer from that vision of purgatory.
By now the crowd in the main square had swollen; many citizens who had gone over to the allied lines choosing to return as soon as the French army had left the fortress. A column of British Guardsmen entered, formed into two lines in the square and then slowly advanced left and right to create a patch of clear ground. Around the two men shouting and celebration burst out. In the distance they could see the Duke of York, followed by Prince Josias. Between the cheers, a voice shouted out taken up by hundreds of others.
‘Salut, Salut le Roi du Valenciennes.’
The two Englishmen turned away, pushed through the crowd, and found the street that they had used to enter the square earlier. Behind them, a rather embarrassed Duke of York was being hailed as the King of Valenciennes.
Caesar’s Camp: 1st August 1793
“Have you ever fished, Monsieur?”
The words were spoken with a thick Irish brogue. Representative en Mission Valloton shook his head and waited for the inevitable story.
“When I was a boy on the banks on the river Liffey, now I wasn’t always the best-behaved child you understand, but I was a demon with the fish. Great big worms as bait; the bigger and juicer the better; you follow me now?”
Valloton did not. He had left Paris with clear instructions from Robespierre, orders written in the spidery writing of Genet, the Minister’s new favourite. The Army of the North ‘MUST’ resume the offensive. With his orders came the instruction for the immediate arrest of Custine and the promotion of Charles Edward Jennings de Kilmaine to the post of army commander.
Except that Kilmaine had flatly refused the post.
Valloton had threatened and cajoled but Kilmaine was unmoved. Eventually a deal had been brokered. Kilmaine would command but only until a replacement had been found. A man of noble birth who had forfeited land and title and sworn his life to the revolution, Valloton had consented and written to Paris. The Representative would be with the army for one month and already he prayed to whichever deities would listen that his time with the army would soon be over and he could return to the comfort and certainty of Paris. Even though public executions had reached record heights in the previous month, it was at least a world he understood.
“To be frank, sir. I don’t understand. The words of the Committee are quite clear. You must attack. At once.”
“Valloton, Valloton, Valloton, m’boy. Fishing doesn’t work like that. You need patience. Cast your line, wait…wait.” His voice lowered and eyes as blue as the uniform he wore were lowered to meet Valloton.
“Only when that fish is hooked, do you pull it in. Maybe it will fight, but you keep pullin’ an’ pullin’ until you wear the beastie; and when the fight is gone from it, only then, do you bash its brains against a rock and take home the prize to your daddy.”
Kilmaine’s face, covered with a thin beard of perhaps a fortnight’s growth, broke into a broad smile.
“Now, a toast, Valloton, a toast.”
“What are we toasting, Sir?”
“Why a successful fishing trip, to be sure.”
Valloton nodded reluctantly and drew a heavy breath.
“As you wish but you had better explain the matters to me again. You know I must write to the Committee, it is my duty. It is in both our interests for your decision to be understood, clearly.”
“Of course, m’boy, of course.”
Kilmaine unrolled a thick parchment and began to talk through the dispositions of his forces while Valloton hastily wrote a series of notes. Caesar’s Camp had taken its name from the legend that Julius Caesar had drawn his legions into its environs during the conquest of Gaul. Kilmaine could see why. To the north the way was barred by the river Sense, south of the town of Arleux. What crossing points there were had been covered by fieldworks and artillery. To his east, Cambrai had been fortified and the Scheldt River ran as a wall: bridges there had either been destroyed or turned into killing grounds. The Army’s right rested on the heights of Bourlon and thick woods which would make any allied outflanking manoeuvre slow and costly. To their west lay the road to Arras and bridges over the Agache, which protected the rear of the position.
Paris estimated that Kilmaine had some sixty thousand men at his command but the Irishman was far too shrewd to agree to such numbers. As many as twenty-five thousand were posted along the irregular quadrilateral of rivers, woods and high ground that made up the camp. Of the rest, thirty-five thousand men, were happy to be posted on the defensive. The allied army was sixty to seventy thousand strong, the troops of a better quality in every arm. An attack would be disastrous: the last disaster that would befall the Revolution. Once the ‘North’ was beaten, Paris was ten days march away.
But Kilmaine had a plan, at least Carnot had a plan and Kilmaine liked it the moment that
he read it. Caesar’s Camp was the bait. The Allies were bound to strike for it. But the British wanted Dunkirk too, all of this was already known from friends of the revolution in London. Either before or after the Allies next attack, their armies would separate. Only when that happened, the Army of the North would strike and by then, with any luck, a new man would be in charge to land the fish.
Valenciennes: 2nd August 1793
“What are we waiting for now?” Trevethan flicked his handy at an angry wasp which darted back to try and land on the sliced apple on his plate but only ended up disappearing into the froth of a jug of ale.
“Bugger…” The Cornishman attempted to fish out the insect with his knife and having done so settled it onto the floor to dry off, only for Jackson to stamp on it with his wooden right peg.
“Bloody things are a nuisance, worse than woodworm.”
“That’s one of God’s creatures, you heathen Devonian!”
“It’s been swimmin’ in your beer, probably doin’ it a favour.” The Commissary General returned to raking over the remains of a meat-pie. “Anyway, you should enjoy this; I doubt you and I will be sat on our arses for much longer.”
The pair sat in the shade of the open tent used by the Duke as his headquarters; officers came and went but none of significance. The Duke and Murray had been locked in discussion at the Austrian camp for most of the morning. The previous night, Craufurd, who had spent the last few months as an adjutant to Prince Josias had brought a secret document to the Duke. Whatever it had contained, it led to a rider being dispatched that evening. Both waited for the return of Murray and a clue as to what was going on.
“Reminds me of Antwerp. When was that? March? April?” the Cornishman asked.
“Beginning of April, I have a journal somewhere. I try and make an entry every time I balance one ledger or another.”
“In Antwerp, they couldn’t agree. Not really. If Austria said ‘White’, Prussia would scream ‘Black’ and we are left trying to produce a ‘Grey’ that all sides could at least equally dislike. Do you think this time will be any different?”
“What’s got into you, man? You aren’t planning to return and study politics or philosophy when all this is done, are you?”
Trevethan snorted a laugh, “Not likely. I just want to deal in certainties. Right now, the only certainty seems to be we have a sow’s ear and we won’t be makin’ a silk purse any time soon.”
Murray reappeared two hours later, his face as careworn as either Jackson or Trevethan could remember. He passed the two men with the merest nod and carried on into the tent, drew up a chair and began to write a report, fiercely scratching out words as the feathered quill danced above the paper. Once written he sealed the dispatch and headed out past the tent to find a messenger. Trevethan and Jackson exchanged glances but both men settled into the tasks they had taken up after lunch, Jackson writing a new list of requirements of Dundas and Trevethan in calculating where siege artillery might be placed in the strip of land between the beach and the Great Moor, should the artillery ever arrive of course. Jackson had considered asking Murray if the messenger might wait in order to add his own dispatch to that which he presumed was heading to London, but the Chief of Staff had not spoken a word to either man and it did not seem an opportune time to raise the subject, as Murray disappeared with the same haste in which he had arrived.
It was closer to six in the afternoon when the Duke, Murray and several of the junior officers returned. Suddenly the tent was full of life and gossip. Murray pulled a chair next to the two men and delivered the news to them. He puffed out his cheeks and sipped on a large tankard of beer that had been brought for him. The other two men received similar glasses and sat around to listen to the Chief of Staff.
“Well that was most entertaining, gentlemen. I hope you have used your free time well. Once we have received the blessing from London, we are off.”
“North?” Trevethan asked.
Murray shook his head.
“South-west, a place called Caesar’s Camp, a French stronghold. The Army of the North has been sat there for weeks while Valenciennes was left to fend for itself. Prince Josias had hoped that the siege might draw it out, of course, as well as capturing here.”
“So, what has been agreed?”
“One last attempt to bring the French to open battle. Then we take Dunkirk while the Austrians mop up some of the smaller forts here, perhaps invest Lille? Then when we come back, push on to Paris.”
“Why not Paris now?” Jackson interjected.
“Politics, everyone is playing a game. Last night the Austrians told us that they will forgo their control of Flanders and Liege in return for control of Alsace.
“And how does that affect us?” Trevethan looked blankly from Murray to Jackson, who shrugged shoulders with equal mystification.
“Because they want it kept secret from Prussia, which puts us in an awkward spot in more than one way.” He paused but both men looked blankly back at him.
“Austria wants to offer Flanders and Liege to France. It’s an obvious ploy to sway whichever Bourbon head ends up being crowned, most likely the Count of Provence until the boy Louis is old enough, should he live, of course. It stops Prussia expanding to the west. What’s more it makes us look like we are settling a grievance in grabbing Dunkirk and will cause bad blood with Prussia, when they find out we have agreed to all of this.”
“And this is one afternoon’s work for the staff? I’d be worn out!”
“No, the Austrians have been pulling our strings for a while now. To make all this palatable, we are to receive ten thousand men to help us secure Dunkirk. Dundas won’t let the idea go, says it plays well with the masses.”
“And what of actually just finishing the war?” Trevethan asked, “Or was that a little too obvious.”
“Oh no, Prussia is all for it. Knobelsdorff would be on the road this evening. He knows something is up. I imagine in a few days, we will know the Prussian price for future co-operation. No doubt Austria is doing a deal with them now.”
“A free hand in Poland?” Jackson asked.
“Who knows? Nothing is free with Thugut. Let’s just get this bloody war over and get home,” Murray drained his tankard.
“Amen to that.” Trevethan and Jackson raised mugs in unison as a toast.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Caesar’s Camp.
Villers-en-Cauchcies: 7th August 1793
Powder blue sky was stained by choking brown dust which rose steadily from sixty thousand soldiers heading south. The land had been parched of rain for the best part of a month and the road that the Allied army travelled over had been ground to a fine powder which penetrated everywhere. Again, Krombach found himself staring at the pack of the man in front, eyes streaming from the dirty air in which he and the rest of 2nd Battalion marched. Now considering themselves veterans of such journeys, many of the men wore neckerchiefs over noses and mouths, to filter out the worst of the cloying air.
It had taken six days since Valenciennes had fallen for the army to move: no-one was certain why. Rumours abounded of course and men cast bets on the day and direction of their leaving Valenciennes. Krombach listened to Henry’s recounting of events, which had unwittingly pitched Krombach on a collision path with Sergeant Gauner.
It seems that redoubtable sergeant had used the information about Dunkirk to bet with a sergeant from Third Guards that the army would head north next, a heavy wager so Pinsk had heard. This was in addition to a series of daily bets, in the days before the fall of Valenciennes, concerning the prowess with which the two companies would dig their part of the parallels. The most fractious of these had seen some of 2nd Company and the British guardsmen come to blows. Only the intervention of a Guards officer from the Duke’s staff brought order and saved serious injury.
No wonder Gauner had wanted any useful information. Besides the idle curiosity, he was using this to make a few extra Thaler. The Guards sergeant had been better informed
and Henry had helpfully suggested that Krombach might want to avoid Gauner for the next few days, or possibly the rest of Krombach’s life!
Another reason for the wait might have been the arrival of new men. The pack that Krombach's eyes were fixed on was that of a farm hand from just east of Celle, who had volunteered in March when work was short. Soon the harvest would be ready and it was a very sad faced boy who had fallen in next to Krombach. Thorben Trost wanted nothing more than to be home for the harvest.
After four hours of marching, his neckerchief was drenched in sweat. The battalion had halted on the edge of a small French village settled in between fields of golden wheat and scattered woodland. Redcoats, in various stages of exhaustion, had fallen out at the command of Neuberg and lay in the verges of fields, trying to find the slightest shelter from the sun. Trost had lurched forward and it had taken all of Krombach’s remaining strength to keep the stocky farm-hand from collapsing. Pinsk arrived and together they had dragged the new recruit and sat him on the side of the road. They were joined in a few moments by Reifener, who looked more as if he had rolled in dust, every part of his body coated in the brown chalk of the French road. Around them, redcoats were cutting through the fields, following the example of other men.
“Water?” Pinsk asked, looking across the waves of wheat as soldiers disappeared into a fold in the landscape.
“Seems as if they know something; here, give me your water bottles.” Krombach motioned to Reifener and Pinsk. Behind them Trost vomited then wiped his face clean.
“Trost, sip some water, then share your food out. It’s what we do.”
A thick head of ginger-brown hair nodded in understanding, the farm-hand trying in vain to reach around for his canteen. Reifener knelt to help him, easing the bottle strap over his shoulder, and then helping Trost to drink.
The King of Dunkirk Page 17
