The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  Caillat's new mission was to ensure that the ‘bravest of the brave’ won a victory that would make the world take notice.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Battle Honour.

  Menen: 17th August 1793

  The Duke’s army that moved north to besiege Dunkirk was largely untested. Few of the battalions had experienced anything other than skirmish actions or the briefest of battles at Famars, where the enemy had fled or surrendered by the time the infantry had made the redoubt. If the quality of any of the infantry was yet to be tested in the heat of battle, at least they knew how to march. The redcoats had made the journey around the enemy-held fortress of Lille in good time, and now sweating columns of men began the northwest leg that would bring them to Furnes and then Dunkirk.

  Five thousand British infantry, as many Hessians and nine thousand Hanoverians beat a path along the road. Along with them, three thousand German cavalry. Marching the wake of this force, a further ten thousand Austrian infantry were tasked to create a thin defensive cordon that would keep the forces of the Duke of York and Prince Josias in communication.

  The unwanted honorific of Esel Soldaten had passed to squadrons of British cavalry who found themselves in the rear-guard, where there was little honour to be found in policing the growing disputes between the Hanoverian women folk and camp followers of the Hessians; a task which few envied and to which the cavalrymen were ill-suited.

  It had been increasingly difficult to know what the British cavalry were suited for, of their merits Winckler had been disparaging but pragmatic in equal measure; they were truly hopeless at their duties, but the officers were incredibly rich. For a Sergeant-Major who knew how to source most whims, the British cavalry had been a source of wealth in a short space of time.

  Krombach had found Winckler the evening before. His old Sergeant had delivered a report to the temporary headquarters of the army at Menen, informing Commissary General Jackson of the state of preparations at Furnes. The following morning a detachment of Dutch infantry had paraded and marched south. The two men had watched it go before Krombach had followed Winckler's example in scrounging a breakfast from the Duke’s staff. Krombach had been given the option of a horse but had found a strange enjoyment in the march north, following in the footsteps of the engineer’s mount. Trevethan had told him more than once that he wasn’t a man-servant and that soon enough he would be expected to ride, but for now the young redcoat took a perverse pleasure in the freedom away from the battalion without feeling he had stopped being an infantryman.

  Until he was needed there was little to do, so Krombach found a spot under a sorrowful willow which stood at the entrance to formal gardens which adjoined the chateau being used by the Duke as his overnight residence. He had composed letters to parents and to Maren detailing his new job, stressing to each that it posed little danger. He folded these with relief at a task complete. Distant drums and pipes drifted through the foliage of the willow and within a couple of minutes, three battalions of weary troops had spilt into a large park opposite the chateau; men eager to prepare a lunchtime meal and a brew.

  Curiosity got the better of the young German. He stood, brushed off his uniform and stepped out from the willow’s umbrella of greenery when a mounted figure shot through the open gate of the chateau’s grounds, nearly sending Krombach sprawling. The horseman raced along the path of crushed cinder towards the main house to a stream of curses in the foulest German that Krombach could muster; the Dutch hussar did not even notice.

  The Hanoverian had scarcely made it to the other side of the road when all chaos broke lose. From the chateau a stream of officers called for horses. Instructions were passed and then sergeants began shouting for the British to fall in. Around him, disgruntled redcoats were packing away mess-kit and stamping out camp-fires which had barely had time to take hold; the Foot Guards were on the move again. Krombach edged his way back across the road, dodging the reach of a Colour-Sergeant affronted that a redcoat should be ignoring orders. Only when Krombach had pointed to the green facings of his own jacket was the prospect of temporary conscription avoided.

  As quickly as they had come, the Foot Guards had gone.

  Krombach turned to salvage his musket and back-pack when he saw Sergeant-Major Winckler looking most agitated. Behind him twenty or more guardsmen, the personal staff of the Duke of York’s headquarters were tumbling out of the building, followed by a junior officer, in the process of trying to clip a sword belt around his waist while trying not to trip down the small series of steps that led from the chateau.

  “Every man you can find Sergeant-Major,” The officer whined.

  Krombach looked to see the Winkler blow out his cheeks in mild disbelief.

  “Grab your musket, Krombach. General Lake’s orders; every man, including you,” Winckler paced past, “And me…What a bloody waste this could be!”

  The detachment had followed in the wake of the three infantry columns, a forced march of six miles in a little under an hour and a half to the village of Lincelles. Krombach blew heavily as the small column halted. The officer seemed unclear what to do next, so he formed a double line and the twenty men moved out to form up on the left flank of the Third Guards battalion.

  Ahead a battery of French guns was being deployed on the slope in clear ground to the right of the roadway that led up a shallow incline towards to centre of the village. Behind the artillery a line of blue-coats waited. A second appeared, then a third.

  Krombach, in the front of the small detachment that had now taken its place in the line, loaded muskets in a ragged fashion and then watched the commander of the Guards a dozen paces in front of his men. Major-General Lake drew his sword and then nudged his chestnut mount slowly forward. Krombach’s mind raced as he felt himself walk forward. The Guards were to attack up the slope, into the face of a gun battery, with a superior number of infantry holding the heights and possible reserves beyond the crest. Surprisingly he found himself wondering what Major Trevethan might say when he found out that his cartographer had gone missing, before darker memories of the trench at Valenciennes clouded his mind.

  The French lines were six hundred yards when the initial puffs of white smoke dotted the ridge line followed by the punch and hollow crash of enemy cannon. Black dots appeared low in the sky and sailed over the heads of men in the centre battalion. The next shot would be more accurate. The one after would be deadly canister and there would be slaughter amongst the ranks. The Guards closed; a silent wall of redcoats holding a steady pace.

  At four hundred yards the red lines had reached the foot of the slope. Krombach angled his head and could see the French gunners trying to depress gun barrels to adjust for the shot; the cannon fire more ragged, the enemy was rushing but somewhere along the British line, round-shot had found its mark. Still the Guards advanced, men stepping over bodies of the fallen, ranks closed by stern sergeants. Ahead Krombach could see the French infantry. Soon the blue ranks would open fire and every enemy musket seemed to point at him.

  Adjusting his steps for the steady ascent, the Hanoverian felt his calves strain at the effort of propelling himself on. Images of the night attack at Valenciennes played across his mind but this time the French would have the advantage of the initial volley it would devastate the lines around him.

  Then the miracle happened.

  The French artillerymen fled, pushing their way through the close-ranked wall of infantrymen that had deployed behind the battery. In the chaos, musket fire rippled out from the disordered French battalion that straddled the road. On either side the hillside erupted in smoke as two thousand or more muskets were loosed in the direction of the silent red lines. About him the air whistled with the rush of musket balls. He flinched, falling forward but was unceremoniously pulled up by a hand behind him. The French had fired too high and too early. The line advanced towards a pall of smoke, as it thinned, French infantry could be seen loading furiously. Krombach found himself looking up at blue-coats who were snat
ching worried glances at the advancing redcoats.

  At sixty yards, Lake shouted “Halt!” voice clear and confident, like an officer holding a parade. He turned his horse and joined the redcoat ranks. Enemy muskets offered a staccato response frantic skirmishing by those who had already reloaded. Other blue-coated soldiers stood ready, transfixed like prey by a cobra.

  “Make Ready” Lake’s words rang out and Krombach bought the musket up, fingers opening the plate of the lock and dropping his right elbow, cocking the musket with his thumb as he did.

  “Present.” Automatically his foot slid back into the firing position and he raised the barrel drawing the musket butt firmly into his shoulder.

  The enemy knew what to expect: many had already dropped muskets to turn and flee.

  “Fire!”

  Fifteen hundred muskets rang out.

  There was no need for a second volley. The Redcoats fixed bayonets and screamed their charge as they hurled themselves up the hill towards broken lines of dead and dying enemy.

  The major-general posted a guard on the reverse of the slope at Lincelles; men had been sent to the church tower to observe the French but no sign of a counter-attack came. Once again, the Foot Guards settled in and proceeded to boil kettles for a hot brew. Now every soldier was a guardsman and Krombach found his cup filled and fellow redcoats slapping him and Sergeant-Major Winckler on the shoulder. Krombach shared bread and cheese with the men around him and it was not until he saw the frame of Major Trevethan, riding across the battlefield, did he even think about his new job. Behind Trevethan, a column of dark blue-coated infantry marched at a steady pace. Six battalions of Hessians had come to relieve the Guards. Winckler and Krombach made their way towards the Major, who in spotting them eased his horse towards the pair.

  “Krombach, God help me. If the French don’t shoot ‘e, I will bloody shoot ‘e myself!”

  The young Hanoverian could rarely remember the officer being angry but noticed that when he was, his English was far more difficult to follow.

  “Sergeant-Major, get this man back to headquarters and get him a horse. And make sure he doesn’t think he is suddenly a cavalryman.”

  “Yes sir, of course, sir.”

  “Who ordered you both out here?”

  Winckler winced. “Lieutenant Henson-Jefferies, sir”

  Jefferies was one of Winckler’s better customers, a gentleman with expensive tastes on campaign: long may that continue.

  “Should have known as much; there is a reason they send officers like him to headquarters. The Duke is livid because all his serving staff have gone but he will probably commend the ‘fighting spirit’ of that Guard’s boy. The Dutch have buggered off to play hide and seek in the countryside. Thousands of men out there doing sod all and I only ask for one man to draw some maps; the army can’t even leave that alone.”

  Trevethan eased his horse away, grumbling to no-one in particular. Winckler shrugged at Krombach and the two men headed to retrieve their belongings and make the trek back to Menen.

  Ost Cappel: 21st August 1793

  The fields that stretched from the edges of the single street down to the banks of the River Yser were full of ripening crops. The villagers of Ost Cappel had gone into hiding; few could risk leaving with the harvest only three weeks away, the spectre of starvation loomed if the crops were not gathered. The French troops that patrolled the banks of the Yser, a few hundred yards from the village, gave the populace little confidence. They were not local men and would probably run at the first sight of the enemy. Many of the locals had decided that perhaps, that was not such a bad outcome. At least the harvest would be saved. Still they watched through gaps in shuttered windows, waiting for what seemed inevitable.

  The Allies were capturing villages, cutting the roads between Dunkirk and Mont Cassel. Smoke rose in the morning air from the village of Wormhoudt to the south-west and Rousbrugge to the south-east. Anxious sentries, conscripted soldiers, studied the landscape to the south-east for the scouts who had been sent out towards Bambecque. No signs of war or movement of troops were visible from that direction but if the enemy was already there then the road back to the fortress at Bergues, and safety, was threatened. If Bambecque fell, the village of Rexpoede would be next. The soldiers, Parisians in the main, who had been drafted in the National Guard battalion ‘Bon Consul’ would be cut adrift in an alien landscape where enemy cavalry would have every advantage. The conscripts silently cursed the generals who had posted them to Ost Cappel and abandoned them to an unknown fate. Others, luckier men perhaps, had been left at Rexpoede; nearer to the fortress at Bergues and safety. A few saw the black humour. It could have been much worse; another two companies had been sent to Rousbrugge. Again, the eyes of many of the men in the company looked south-east. At least they had avoided the fate of their comrades who had been sent to hold a forlorn hope of a village on the far bank of the Yser.

  The Hessian troops had broken camp around three in the morning from Poperinghe and followed columns of infantry north-west towards Rousbrugge. Von Schroeder had heard rumours of another bad-tempered meeting between the Englishman York and the Hanoverian Freytag. News of bad blood always spread quicker than the pox. The men had fallen out sometime in May, so he had heard. Despite the best efforts of staff officers on either side, little common ground had been found since. Whatever the truth of the matter, the Hessians marched to war on the strength of whatever plan had been agreed between the pair. The pit of the Hessian captain’s stomach growled; breakfast had been hours ago, although he knew that wasn’t the gnawing feeling that troubled him nor was it the prospect of imminent action. He was ready for that and he trusted the ranks of men alongside whom he marched. When commanders failed to agree the outcome was disaster, sooner rather than later; the American war had taught him that and much more besides.

  The Chasseurs were a dependable battalion; over half the men who had returned from the British war in America remained. Being back in the field had sharpened skills that had rusted with time but von Schroeder knew his men and made a vow to himself as he had the moment before every action. He would take care of his company because no-one else would.

  To the outside world, the Hessians from the town of Darmstadt were wholly expendable mercenaries and the captain kept his orders simple.

  Kill when you have to.

  Steal when you must.

  Move when you’re told.

  An hour after dawn, his battalion followed two squadrons of Hanoverian light cavalry that swung away to the left of Rousbrugge and halted. In open fields half a dozen battalions, Hessians and Hanoverians, formed up behind the Chasseurs. Ahead musketry crackled and the echo of Hanoverian artillery, small calibre battalion guns rolled across the hills: there was no reply from the enemy.

  Around him, von Schroeder's men took the opportunity to swig at canteens or share a crust of Hanoverian bread that had been swiped from a mobile bakery by the women of the battalion. The pause lasted no more than twenty minutes. A messenger had arrived from Freytag. Rousbrugge had fallen, the column could press on. Elsewhere, other columns, Hanoverian and British were attacking other targets but that was of little concern to the Hessian officer who could see little but the road ahead. Looming out of the landscape, were the heights of Mont Cassel, a perfect vantage point for the enemy. The Hessian shaded his eyes to look south at rising fields that led away to Mont Cassel. York and Freytag had better know what they were about, the enemy was certain to be watching every move.

  Rexpoede: 21st August 1793

  The men of the 1st Grenadiers slumped against the low wall that bordered a plot of land overlooked by an ancient farmhouse. Von Bomm had been given fifty men, the best skirmishers from the four companies. First Grenadiers had no specific light company, the whole battalion was trained to fight in skirmish order but Franke had created an ad hoc formation, as much to give his battalion some added flexibility as to solve the enmity that still remained from Baumann towards von Bomm. The Colonel had done h
is best to heal the matter through counsel and cajoling; an independent skirmish company command suited all three men for differing reasons.

  Peering over the wall von Bomm studied the terrain. His men had circled around to the rear of the village taking position at a narrow road junction. No-one was certain as to the strength of the French garrison or whether enemy reinforcements were close at hand. If they were, the road that ran to his left, to Bergues, was the one by which they were most likely to enter. The skirmishers were ordered to prevent that. An added complication had been the attachment of one of the battalion cannons. It had not been popularly received by either the men or Sergeant Hahn and his crew. Most of the redcoats were watching six grenadiers struggle to haul the three-pounder, acting as mules and dragging the cannon by ropes lashed around the trail.

  Von Bomm shook his head in silent disbelief. Any attempt at stealth was nearly impossible however if the crew found a spot to deploy the piece then the rounds of canister would be a significant addition to the fifty Brown Bess muskets. Turning back, he searched the street again, craning his neck to the right. There was no visible movement ahead but the sounds of musketry from the far end of the single road told him that the action had begun. Ahead, a blacksmith’s and a jumble of narrow houses flanked a small church. Beyond that, a road ran north to somewhere and the narrow main road of the village dog-legged away from von Bomm’s view.

  There had been no map available just a local guide who had led the column to Rexpoede. The thought had crossed von Bomm’s mind that this might even be the wrong village but he pushed that aside and concentrated.

  Then, between the musketry there were signs of movement. A cat shot out of a doorway paused in the road and looked right and then raced into a hedge for cover. Men running; shapes came into view. Von Bomm ducked down and whispered in a hoarse voice.