The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  “Here.”

  Reifener handed the bright blue wooden canteen to Krombach, which stood out against the dirty blue of the other three vessels which had been on campaign for the last few months.

  “Leave your packs, I’ll sort some food. I can’t see the Twenty catching up with us until tonight and we might only have half an hour’s rest.”

  The day toiled on under unrelenting heat. The redcoats marched across a baking landscape until exhausted columns of men spilt into farmland that had been designated as the camp for the forces of Hanover. It took another two hours for wagons and equipment to arrive and around six o’clock, Krombach and Pinsk had been joined by Trost and some of the new men to enjoy a thick beef stew and bottles of wine that had been liberated at some point in the boredom of the days after Valenciennes had fallen.

  Neuberg strode past and the men stood to acknowledge the Colonel but he waved them to return to their meals. He had been summoned to 3rd Brigade’s tent to receive orders for the action planned for the next day. After that he intended to see Doctor Wexler and Surgeon Harris. The route march had taken a toll, men from the battalion were ill with the effects of sun-stroke. Along the journey, he had seen bodies lying prone in the fields. The army had made fourteen miles progress in a day but at a cost; Neuberg rather hoped that someone at the Brigade headquarters might know the reason why.

  Caesar’s Camp: 8th August 1793

  “You have to go, Madame. I am most sorry, but we have orders. Please you must leave now before it is too late.”

  Captain Davide tried his best to comfort the elderly woman, who had returned to her Cambrai home on the east bank of the Scheldt, despite the area being cleared two days before. Feebly she attempted to close the door but found the captain’s foot wedged in it and his hands gripped between door and frame to ease it open and prevent injury to the struggling septuagenarian. Mahieu had watched the scene with a large degree of sympathy for the plight of the woman and a small measure of mirth but controlled his voice to command Grison and another of the 14th to help the captain. Valerie Davide, having freed himself from the melee, straightened his jacket and strode towards Mahieu with a nod of appreciation.

  “I can remember a time when women didn’t struggle so much in my company. I can’t say I blame her though. I don’t like these orders one bit. I hadn’t thought we would be protecting France by destroying it.”

  “I take my orders from you; you from the Colonel and the Colonel from whoever controls the army. That’s our lot, sir. We just have to do it and hope some other man knows the reason why.”

  The Black Lions had watched a stream of people, citizens of Cambrai, being turned into refugees in order to prevent the approaching Austrians from crossing the Scheldt. The eastern suburbs of the town were already on fire. From the heights above them, Kilmaine was no doubt watching the ponderous approach of the enemy. A regiment of dragoons had thundered past down the streets out onto the southern plains to slow the left hook of British and Hanoverian troops that threatened to cross the Scheldt somewhere down river. By the time they would reach Cambrai or the French positions at Caesar’s Camp, the Army of the North would have long since left. The Black Lions, the 14th Nationals and the dragoons had the honour of being the rear-guard. And with such honour came the responsibility of razing a French town to the ground to delay the enemy.

  The exhausted redcoats of 2nd Battalion gained the heights above Masnières a little after four in the afternoon. The Duke’s columns had marched for the best part of a dozen hours, striking camp an hour before dawn and aiming a blow at the left of the French positions near Caesar’s Camp. Not that the strategy mattered a jot to those who struggled to put one foot in front of another on a second tortuous day of marching.

  Brandt watched the men of his company fall out and scatter into fields of crushed wheat and barley toward the direction of a large wood to the left of the Hanoverian camp. Every bit of shade was sought out. Soon no doubt, the occasional musket would ring out. Whatever could be added to the cooking pots would be gratefully received, whenever the wagons finally arrived. Other men began the trek half a mile back in the direction of the Scheldt crossing to collect water. Such was the pace set in the advance that the army had barely paused when crossing the river. But it had all been in vain. The French had retreated hours before.

  On the road below that ran parallel to the ridge, the green-jacketed Hessian Chasseurs marched with a purposeful stride. There was an efficient warrior quality about them even after such a gruelling march. In the van of the infantry column came a medical wagon, with a heavily-patched calico cover followed by a further two carrying the battalion’s equipment. Bringing up the rear were the camp women, a hardy group, two or three carrying children strapped across their backs in tight bandoleers of cambric. Brandt wondered how that material had been obtained. There had been rumours of Hessian women raiding houses in Valenciennes the night before the army was due to quit the city. Looking at the burly frames of some of the figures that followed the wagons, he could believe it. In the back of his mind he resolved to one day advise his son never to go to Darmstadt to find himself a wife.

  It was not until around quarter past nine that the summons came for the captain to attend Colonel Neuberg’s tent. Brandt had enjoyed a rare chance to eat with the men and meet some of the new arrivals but the note drew him away from a campfire filled with black humour, in which soldiers eager for information had quickly exhausted Brandt’s knowledge of what was likely to happen next. As yet the captain had little more idea than the redcoats around him. Still Brandt felt the act had eased some of the tensions that had surfaced within his ranks and resolved to eat more regularly with his soldiers, rather than the closeted atmosphere of the officer’s tent. He wondered whether Neuberg’s note might be a summons to reprimand him for missing a dinner but knew the Colonel had far more pressing matters, besides he encouraged his officers to have a greater contact with the men they commanded. As he arrived, the sentry stood to attention and the captain ducked into the tent and was greeted by a bear hug almost before he had a chance to raise himself to his full height.

  “Brandt, m’ boy. Alive and well, I see” Trevethan slapped Brandt on the back for good measure, as if the act of near squeezing him to death had not been enough.

  “The Major has been kind enough to visit and enlighten us with some news from Headquarters,” Neuberg spoke from behind the small folding table that served as the officer’s dinner table and office for battalion administration. Now two thick candles illuminated the Colonel and Major Volgraf who reclined on a chair to the right of the desk.

  “Lies and gossip, mostly.” Trevethan winked.

  “Sir, what news?” Brandt asked in the direction of Neuberg, feeling a dozen paces behind in the conversation already.

  “Well, if you hadn’t chosen to miss a dinner in order to eat with your men, the Colonel wouldn’t have to act as your private secretary now, would he Brandt?”

  Neuberg gave a look of displeasure in the direction of Volgraf but Trevethan interjected, not wanting to be the cause of trouble for Brandt. “With your permission Colonel?” Trevethan continued after the nod of consent from Neuberg.

  “We are heading north tomorrow, to Dunkirk. It’s about the worst kept secret in the army. I dare say the French know it too. However, that’s not my problem for now. Maps and drawings are. Having successfully conducted my first siege,” Trevethan paused grinning heavily, “I am now tasked with a second, slightly trickier, but we shall overcome those obstacles, no doubt. What I need now though, for the balance of the campaign is your boy, Krombach. I take it he is still alive?”

  “Well I have just seen him polish off a huge meal, so apart from a likelihood of severe indigestion, I would say he is alive at least. But I don’t understand. Are we really that desperate for maps?” Brandt looked at the engineer and then the other two officers.

  Trevethan rummaged in his blue jacket, which he insisted on wearing despite the warmth of the evenin
g. Finding the heavily folded paper bearing Krombach’s sketch of the walls of Valenciennes, he proceeded to straighten the creases and then placed it on the desk in front the colonel. “This drawing allowed Count Orlandini and I to plan the position of the mines and how we might attack the walls. Even the Austrian engineer was impressed by it and they are hard taskmasters. I’ve asked London to send cartographers but none have arrived. I have tried amongst the cavalry but well after that affair with the Prussian patrol,” Trevethan paused and looked at Brandt who stared blankly back, “let’s just skirt around you and the Princess.”

  “Countess,” corrected Brandt, “and there wasn’t a ‘me and the Countess’ to skirt around.”

  “Suit yourself,” the Cornishman smiled, “however, our mounted boys did not cover themselves in glory. And they have impressed little in the manner so far on campaign. It’s been found expedient to place a Prussian corporal with every British cavalry patrol that is now sent out, on the basis that our officers might actually learn something. As the horses have all the brains, it might be easier for the Prussians to chat directly to them but I’m just an engineer.”

  “Well, this is a ‘rum situation’, as Belvedere might say?” Brandt offered.

  “Rum, indeed,” agreed Trevethan, “but that is just part of it and I fear if I continue, the mood may turn a little for the worst.”

  “Was that all of the good news?” Brandt looked at the Colonel and then Trevethan.

  The Cornishman looked up at Neuberg.

  “I don’t hold any secrets from my men, Major. You can tell him, or I. And if the situation doesn’t change, the whole army will know soon enough.”

  “True, very true, sir.” Trevethan replied to Neuberg’s words.

  “We think the French might have ten to twenty thousand men in Dunkirk. We don’t know. Prince Josias has seen fit to dispatch ten thousand Austrian infantry with us but no guns. Currently, we have no artillery at all, apart from the regimental weapons and they are about as much use as a butter knife! Even when the guns that London has promised do arrive, we can’t cut off supplies to the city. It would take this whole army and Prince Josias would never allow that. Apart from that, and the fact that we can only attack from one direction with any certainty of not being outflanked, all is well.”

  “Why are we even going to Dunkirk? Why not Paris?” Brandt asked, trying to comprehend the obstacles that lay ahead.

  “Buggered if I know; the powers that be can’t decide. Prince Hohenlohe is tellin’ anyone who will listen that the French are choosing not to fight us either because they have lost the will to fight or they are waiting for a moment of their choosing. If it’s the former then push on to Paris, by all means. But no-one is sure. Paris is ten days march away and yet the Duke was informed last night that Josias won’t advance for fear of the French reinforcing Lille and cutting our two armies in half. So, we will seize Dunkirk while Austria besieges Quesnoy; after that, another conference, I suppose. Can’t say it makes much sense to anyone but them’s the orders m’boy!”

  An awkward silence settled which Neuberg broke by standing and offering Trevethan his hand.

  “Well, good luck, Major. Hopefully our lad can help you out. Brandt, take the Major to find Private Krombach.”

  Mont Cassel: 16th August 1793

  The carriage curtain which screened the open passenger-window was drawn back by Maurice Caillat and the glare of early sunlight flooded in. Across the fields which nestled below Mont Cassel, smoke from a thousand fires rose into the pink sky. The investigator craned his neck out of the carriage to catch a glimpse of the rising ground ahead; the horses would soon be straining at the series of tortuous climbs that would bring Caillat to his new destination. Mont-Cassel was now home to the ‘Army of the North’ but a new man was in charge. Jean Nicolas Houchard, hailed as the ‘Sans-Culottes’ general, the bravest of the brave, had accepted the challenge to lead the army, knowing imprisonment or death at the guillotine were the likely price of failure.

  Caillat had not known what to expect on his return to Paris. Violence and hysteria wracked the streets in the wake of Valenciennes, politicians and the mob blamed their every woe upon the soldiers and generals. Yet in almost equal measure, the Army of the North was to be their salvation too. In the deadly circles of gossip that surrounded the Assembly, Houchard had been mockingly titled ‘the most foolish of the brave’ in accepting such a deadly burden.

  In the three months since they had last spoken Genet had once again ascended Caillat, not that the younger man minded. In some regards it was a relief to have a wiser head to draw some advice from, the first of which had been to forget any notions of clemency towards the Countess of Marboré.

  Serge Genet had been at his most ebullient bringing Caillat up to date with the successes of his own work while Caillat had been trapped in the besieged town. There had been a spate of successful prosecutions, a dozen men had been sent to the guillotine as one-time comrades had rushed to turn on one another. Then Genet had taken Caillat from his new office in the Tuileries across to the Conciergerie, the building that had become a notorious prison for those opposed to the revolution. Caillat could scarcely remember the man he considered a mentor and friend being in such excitement, having sworn Caillat to silence, as he followed the smaller figure into the bowels of the prison. The warmth of the Parisian day was gone and each step brought a penetrating chill, the stench of rotting excrement and death. Caillat held a handkerchief to his nose but Genet pressed on, seeming accustomed to foul odour; along a narrow corridor, a series of small doorways were recessed into the stonework.

  “Each one of these cells could contain a dozen men, if I so wished. Food once a day. Cleaned out once a week. Most don’t survive but it saves the courts a duty! Ah this one… Gaoler…” Genet stopped. “Where is that wretched man now?”

  Along the corridor, the sound of someone stirring from sleep could be heard. Genet called again and a shabbily dressed blue-coated man arrived, cotton trousers once white with thin red and blue patterned lines, were now grubby and stained.

  “This one, if you please and quick about it; he is still alive, I take it?”

  The man grinned a toothless smile and nodded vigorously.

  “Good, keep him that way until justice comes to call. The public must not be robbed of this man’s death.”

  A busy counting off a series of rusted keys, tied together on a leather belt, ended with a grunt of triumph, the gaoler turning towards the two men for signs of their appreciation once the correct key had been found. The heavy door swung open with a shove and another wave of fetid air penetrated Caillat’s handkerchief and caused him to gag.

  “Bring a light and be quick about it,” Genet barked and the gaoler bowed and grabbed at one of the tarred torches which burned dimly on the wall.

  The gloom was illuminated to show a figure, shackled by one hand to a wall, a tall man in the remnants of a uniform, hair and beard long and unkempt. Captain Julian Beauvais, thin and pale rose wearily, shielding his good eye to the brightness of the torch. Around him, a wooden food tray encrusted with the remains of a meal, a filthy blanket that must have been the man’s bed and a privy bucket, which clearly needed emptying.

  “Captain, how are we? Feeling more like talking today?” Genet stayed outside the room. He seemed aware of just how much play there was in the chain which held the shackled hand. “Your silence has been admirable. Pointless, of course but admirable none the less.”

  Genet turned and motioned Caillat forward then continued to speak.

  “Do you remember Citizen Caillat? It was he who came to arrest all the conspirators. We captured most. Some fled abroad and one day we will catch them. Others hid in plain sight, Valenciennes, for example. We have the Countess now, thanks to the work of Caillat.”

  Beauvais said nothing but the look of pure hatred which emanated from the man towards his prosecutors made Caillat feel weak inside, so much so that he took a pace back, stepping on the toe of Genet,
who squealed in pain. The shorter man, now more rotund with Parisian living growled displeasure at Caillat, composed himself and then continued.

  “She is with child. I suppose it’s yours. We shall wait of course until the baby is born and then try you one after another. The mob do so enjoy a love story with a tragic ending. I will send for you only once more. When I do, be ready to confess your part in the evil works of Dumouriez, do you understand?”

  Genet motioned to the gaoler and the door swung shut. The two men had made it to the foot of the steps when they heard an animal howl of rage that echoed throughout the walls of the chamber. Both sped away and only when they had reached the outside was Caillat composed enough to speak.

  “Forgive me Citizen Genet, but I don’t understand.”

  “I thought you would have, a standard technique of investigation, surely?”

  Caillat shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

  “So, Beauvais thinks you have his lover and that she carries his child. But to what end. You mean to send him to the guillotine, surely?”

  “Yes, Maurice, I do.” Genet turned away and looked across towards the Tuileries. “But his silence is of little use. He must implicate others and disassociate me from the treachery of Dumouriez. I have enemies over there, across the water, as do you. Before Beauvais dies his words will exonerate me fully from the stain of association with Dumouriez.”

  The wagon jolted and Caillat’s thoughts were brought back to the task in hand. The orders from Paris were clear. The Army of the North must take the offensive. Robespierre and Carnot had both predicted that the Allies would halt and that their armies would separate. The British were headed for Dunkirk. For now, Paris had been saved. If the British could be defeated and crushed then the campaign in the north could end in swift and spectacular triumph.