“I wouldn’t want his lot; our beloved Field Marshal sees retreat as a form of weakness.” Neuberg watched the horse and rider disappear into the town. “We had better prepare ourselves for visitors, our flank is a little in the air, it seems.”
Freytag had taken the news in a rather calm manner, asked von Klinkowström the strength of the enemy and his estimate until Bambecque came under attack. He scribbled a few salient words from the Oberst’s reply. Satisfied with his grasp of events, he ordered von Klinkowström to prepare the defence of the town from this ‘overwhelming force’, repeating the very phrase that 3rd Brigade’s commander had used to describe the French numbers at Houtkerke. Only when the Oberst had been dismissed did the General let forth a stream of insults to no one in particular; the ferocity of the dark oaths shocked Prince Adolphus and Lieutenant Henson-Jefferies in equal measure.
“Have none of my senior officers the wit to see what is going on? The enemy can’t be in several places at once. I have Wallmoden bleating like an old man and now von Klinkowström acting as if he has been chased by the hounds of hell.”
Prince Adolphus kept an awkward silence, not sure of whether to interject; the eagerness of youth saved him from asking the obvious question.
“What will you tell the Duke, sir? There must be a report. The messenger from the 11th reported seeing enemy cavalry on the road from Furnes after all. If that is true then…”
“Do not proceed to tell me my duty, damn you! Don’t let the infection of defeatism spread into this room or you will be dismissed from my sight, this very instant.”
Freytag locked Henson-Jefferies in a cold gaze before returning to look at the map. The Field Marshal rummaged in braided jacket pocket and withdrew a silk handkerchief which was deployed to dab at beads of sweat that had escaped from a finely curled wig.
“It is a ruse, I tell you a ruse. They want us to move from this position. The centre is the key should the French attack, which I very much doubt,” the last few words were raised, no doubt to underline the impudence of Henson-Jefferies.
“Prince Adolphus. We know that the French are launching spoiling attacks against Dunkirk, to disrupt your brother’s plans to capture the town.”
“Yes, sir,” Adolphus spoke with the same slightly high-pitched nasal tone of the Duke of York.
“And, if we report that we are being ‘overwhelmed’ to the left and to the right, by enemy troops, what might his reaction be?”
“He might break off the siege, send men to us or reinforce his line of retreat.”
Freytag turned around to face the two men.
“Exactly! We would have achieved for the French, what they have failed to do at Dunkirk; break the siege. I have been ordered to hold the line. Wallmoden has received a brigade of cavalry. I expect him to report by tomorrow that matters along the Bergues road are dealt with!”
Freytag turned to Henson-Jefferies.
“And as for that messenger, perhaps there are French scouts on the road but it is a trick. They want us to react. If the enemy had come between us and the Austrians, we would have known. Nevertheless, I am not a careless man. Order one of the Hessian regiments to scout the Yser east from here. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Yes, sir; thank you, sir; my apologies for the interjection,” Henson-Jefferies spoke adeptly, used to dealing with the volatile moods of some of the more eccentric senior Guards officers.
There was an awkward silence.
“Apology accepted. One day, when you are sat in a chair like this, you might remember this moment. Resolve is the watchword of the Commander, never forget it.” The faintest of smiles appeared on the face of Freytag before he turned and concentrated on the sketched map in front of him.
“Write to inform the Duke that the enemy has made feints against our positions, with the intention of breaching the cordon but that the defensive line of the Yser is quite sound,” he paused, and mopped his neck again.
“Some fresh air, I think, gentlemen. Let us walk the positions. It would do the troops some good to see us. Let us quash this nervous mood among some of our fellow officers before it infects the bones of the army.”
“Eyes front! Silence in the ranks!”
Sergeant Gauner muttered a low threat at the men of Brandt’s Company, though in truth every pair of ears strained to hear the argument that was raging behind them. The four battalions of 3rd Brigade had taken their positions along the Yser. The two battalions of the 5th Regiment who had fought at Houtkerke that morning had bolstered the defensive line which the 10th Regiment held.
Four battalions of redcoats against whatever the enemy was sending against Bambecque.
Grey clouds had smothered the sun and a cool breeze carried rumbles of thunder mixed with distant cannon-fire. Freytag’s inspection of the line had not gone well. Every battalion had been repositioned; the Field Marshal and von Klinkowström openly at odds over the possibility that the French had crossed the Yser in force. Battalions wheeled from line to column, changed face and formed three rank deep firing lines on a new frontage.
The sergeant watched with sly amusement and waited for the storm that would surely strike around the deployment of 2nd Battalion. On the extreme left of the line and the last to be visited by the General Staff, Neuberg had remained true to his principles. The battalion had formed in two ranks deep, not three as the Hanoverian field manual instructed. At some point the practice would catch the Colonel out.
Gauner knew the arguments of both formations. Two ranks deep gave a better firing rate and manoeuvrability; three ranks stood a better chance of resisting the charge. The men knew that the sergeants who held the line behind them could more easily enforce discipline in a three-rank deep line.
Another long peel of thunder drowned out the sounds of raised voices. A storm was coming, the sergeant could taste rain in the air, still heavily humid despite the breeze. Four feet away, the tall figure of Tomas Pinsk waited, stood at attention; ahead of him one file to the left, Reifener. Gauner couldn’t resist his own barbed observation.
“See what your friend, Mister Krombach, is missing out on. Thinks he is better than the rest of us, playing man servant to an English officer. Well don’t you worry lads, Corporal Pinsk will do his duty just like every one of you and when our prodigal son returns, he won’t be one of us anymore. Redcoats are made in moments like this. When the French come, we’ll stop them. Sergeant Gauner and Sergeant Krogh will see you safe. And wait until those Frenchies see our Corporal Hartmann. They’ll piss their breeches and run back to Paris.”
Nervous laughter echoed through the company, which Gauner just as quickly extinguished again: the master puppeteer of the mood of the Brandt’s Company.
Behind him the heavy padding of horse’s hooves approached the battalion, in the distance the General staff had moved away. Gauner caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head a few degrees to the right. Major Volgraf trotted along the line of 2nd Battalion and had stopped to lean forward and talk to Captain Bachmeier, who stood in advance of the line of Third Company. The captain reached up to the mounted officer, shook his hand in warm congratulations, then turned on his heels and barked orders to his company. Third began to redeploy from two lines into three ranks of infantry and then shuffled to re-dress themselves with Fourth Company, who were already in the new formation. Gauner watched Major Volgraf approach Captain Brandt, who stood half a dozen paces ahead of his men. There was no handshake, just curt formality and a shocked look on the captain’s face as he turned to order his men to change their formation too.
Neuberg had been replaced by Major Volgraf on the orders of General Freytag.
Gauner turned and winked at Sergeant Krogh. Their man had won out, finally. Happy days were ahead. Company Sergeant Roner’s control would soon be over. Second Company would be a much better place with Sergeant Gauner in charge.
Wormhoudt: 6th September 1793
“Column of threes and quick as you can. Reload your muskets.” S
ergeant Keithen, a shock of red hair pulled tight into a Soldatenzopf, a queue which trailed to meet the dark blue collar facing of his jacket, barked at the remnants of the Skirmish Company.
A dozen were missing; others were patched with dirty strips of linen bandages. Keithen’s lean frame bore a Guards uniform that had been prepared for parade-ground drill. It would have been difficult to imagine that the sergeant had undergone the same ordeal as the men but his leadership alongside von Bomm, had brought the company through a testing ordeal. Yet another loomed ahead of them.
The enemy’s cavalry would be in possession of the bridge well before von Bomm’s men could close the distance. Franke had given the briefest of orders. ‘Pin down the French at the east bridge until a company of grenadiers could be sent to reinforce him’. The brevet captain returned to his company, a sea of white eyes set on smoke-stained faces following the path of von Bomm, waiting for the words of command.
“Good work this morning, men. I hope you enjoyed the exercise? I am honoured to command you!” von Bomm spoke with pride in his voice; redcoats smiled at one another.
“We are going to stop the French crossing over there,” von Bomm pointed in the direction of the eastern bridge, “the chances are those hussars will be there before us. We need to drive them out. Listen to the commands, use cover. Make your shots count. They won’t like a street fight. We need to move fast and not let them catch us in the open.”
Most of the eight hundred yards was covered on the open road, redcoats scanning the terrain ahead while von Bomm gauged the progress of the enemy across the Yser, in the countryside to his right.
The river had cut a dog-legged path that curved gently north-wards giving the approach made by the grenadiers an advantage, forcing the French to take a longer route, part of which was across country. Once they had pressed through the tall corn fields and made the Steenvoorde road, their pace would quicken, but for now the French infantry and guns were becoming a distant threat as their slow line of march veered them temporarily eastwards and away from the Yser.
Of the cavalry, much of the hussar regiment travelled with the main body of the French force. No doubt, there was a very real fear of the allied cavalry. Now they had descended from Mont Cassel, the all-encompassing view of the terrain had been lost. Infantry caught in lines of march by enemy cavalry would be cut to pieces. However, the best part of a squadron had raced ahead and disappeared into the gentle undulations of the cornfields that grew either side of the Yser. Even with their short-barrelled cavalry carbine, it would be twice as many enemy guns against his skirmishers.
Two hundred yards from the outskirts of the village, von Bomm ordered the company back into skirmish order.
Wormhoudt was a town built on a crossroads; cottages and small farms clustered around a squat church, situated on the western side of the Yser. There was enemy cavalry clustered around the eastern banks, waiting to cross, while scouts had been sent in to check that no redcoats had been left to ambush the approaching French force. ‘Thank God for a cautious cavalry officer’ von Bomm thought. There was nothing left to do but close the gap to the stone walls that marked the boundary to a series of muddied cowsheds.
“Run!” von Bomm hissed and sprinted at the head of his men, off along the road towards the safety of cover.
Even as the words left his lips the black storm clouds which had filled in the sky unleashed a violent downpour of rain followed within seconds by brilliant lightning and an explosion of thunder overhead which made the redcoats flinch as they raced for the shelter of the eaves of the farm-buildings.
Sodden infantrymen threw themselves against the rough stone walls seeking shelter from the elements more than cover from an enemy as rain bounced off cobbled stones and torrents of water cascaded from slate roofs. Von Bomm glanced back and saw redcoats pressed against the walls of buildings on either side of the road. Redcoats at the front suddenly knelt and cocked weapons. The captain peered at the junction, still thirty yards away.
Through the gloom and heavy rain, a silhouette of a horseman had appeared, followed by two others, who turned left and pushed their horses slowly forward along the road that von Bomm and his men were on. None of them had seen the redcoats, the force of the rain had driven their heads down and only when von Bomm gave the signal and half a dozen muskets fired did the cavalry realise too late, that they had found the enemy.
Moments later a thick stream of red ran along the cobbles between the two lines of redcoats. Two hussars and one horse lay dead, the others had bolted. The third hussar clung to his petrified horse, his left arm hanging limp and useless.
“Sergeant, take eight men. The best shots we have. Work your way along through the gardens here. Pin the enemy down as best you can at the bridge. We will find cover around the church and hold the enemy there.”
Keithen nodded and walked down the road, ignoring the rain and tapped redcoats on the shoulder. Von Bomm knew that the Brown Bess was not at all suited for the work of skirmishing or marksmanship. In that instant, it crossed his mind to raid half a dozen house for hunting rifles, much better suited to the task of longer range and accurate fire but he was loathe to do it. No villager would want to help a King’s German now. It would be obvious to those peeking from behind shuttered windows that the redcoats would be surrendering or retreating sooner rather than later.
Two lines of redcoats scurried forward, huddled like round-shouldered old men, as the ferocity of the rain increased again driven on by a quickening north-easterly wind. Reaching the junction ahead of his men, von Bomm peered around the corner. The main street was narrow, no more than ten yards across at most and hemmed in by a terrace of squalid cottages. Sixty yards to the left were the grounds of the church and the main crossroads. He could see eight horses within the walled cemetery, being held by two hussar troopers, the animals skittish as rain gave way to driving storms of hailstones. The crackle of musketry rang out. Keithen’s men had started to warm to their work.
The balance of the skirmish company had little choice. Fix bayonets, move fast, hold their fire and make every shot count. Von Bomm turned, wiped the water away that was streaming down his face from his saturated bicorne and issued his commands
Behind him the curses of men who skidded over slick cobbles through a wall of hail. A chunk of brown stained wooden window shuttering broke off, a yard above von Bomm’s head; another flash of musketry followed by the cry of a wounded man behind him but all other sounds were drowned out. The hussars would be reloading; with any luck the enemy had not kept any loaded carbines as a reserve.
The redcoats made the crossroads at just the same moment that the cavalry column emerged from the tight street that led from the bridge. For a brief second, both groups of men looked at one another in mild surprise. Von Bomm close enough to hold the bridle of the hussar trumpeter that rode next to the officer who led the cavalry column. The trumpeter shifted his wax jacket to sound the instructions of the officer who was already kicking his horse in the right flank to wheel it left.
Time slowed.
Von Bomm saw the ornate patterns of lace on the blue riding trousers; the neat regimental number ‘Five’ stamped into a rolled saddle cloth; the glimpse of white pelisse under grey wax riding cloak; the tall, elegant blue and black mirliton head-dress and the look of shock as the trumpeter raised a bugle to his lips. Two red explosions shook the man’s body and threw him back, dead, into the next rank of horsemen.
More muskets cracked: three more hussars fell.
Packed into the confined space between the stone buildings, horses and riders panicked. The hussar officer wheel his horse and ride straight at von Bomm. The horse took flight at the very moment that the rider threw his body weight into the downward stroke and the blade clattered harmlessly above von Bomm as he ducked. Muskets erupted; men cursed as other Brown Bess weapons misfired.
A wounded horse careered down the street causing redcoats to dive for cover. More cavalrymen surged forward to clear the claustropho
bic death-trap that the narrow road threatened to become. Von Bomm slashed wildly at the head of a horse, seeing a stream of blood arch high from the wounded animal which writhed in pain and pulled to its right further constricting the roadway.
Within seconds the hussars had broken. Five horses lay dead or dying in the street, along with as many Frenchmen. The hailstorm that had given way to heavy rain returned, bouncing off the outstretched gloved left hand of the French trumpeter, his brass instrument hanging by rich silk thread.
The skirmish captain pressed himself hard against the stonework of the building then carefully peered around the corner to watch the flight of the hussars. The cavalry had wheeled sharply to the left. Beyond them, another column of horsemen waited and then turned to follow the passage of the hussars. No doubt the enemy would encircle the village and approach from behind the church.
There was no time to wait. Von Bomm stood up in the centre of the street so his redcoats could see him and pointed towards the few enemy soldiers who remained in the in the grave-yard.
“Charge!”
For the scouts, who had just witnessed their comrades being ambushed, the onrushing redcoats were too powerful a force to resist. The church-grounds were abandoned before the 1st Grenadier had scaled the low wall of the cemetery.
Von Bomm posted men around the perimeter of the church grounds. Keithen’s men covered the approach to the bridge. There were no men left to spare. When the enemy infantry arrived, he could do nothing to stop them crossing. Instead he would withdraw Keithen’s men, make a stand in the grounds of the cemetery and hope that the narrow road that led into the centre of Wormhoudt would hamper the French.
Reserves and a small miracle were now the order of the day. There was no sign of the grenadier company, in truth he had known that chances of its arrival were slight. From the rear of the cemetery, he heard one of his men call for him and then issue the warning of cavalry approaching. Von Bomm roused himself. The French hussars were no doubt ready to try their luck again. It had been fifteen minutes since their flight; he had expected the enemy much sooner. At least the rain had abated. Flints had been checked and dried and redcoats posted in positions of cover where possible to increase the chances of a clean ignition when firing.
The King of Dunkirk Page 25
