The visibility was still poor, a thin mist had formed as the warmth of the day began to draw up water vapour but the approaching scouts were clear to see.
Von Bomm broke into a broad smile; around him the whooping of men who celebrated like victims reprieved from the gallows. Moment later, the main body of cavalry trotted into view.
The Hanoverian Guard Lights was a truly magnificent sight to behold!
By just after six in the afternoon, von Bomm had some idea of the cost of the day. Six of his men dead, nine more wounded, one of those would likely die within the next few hours. Other matters made less sense. Count Wallmoden had arrived along with the whole of the 1st Infantry Brigade, four battalions of grenadiers and two battalions of Guard infantry. The brigade been strung out manning the cordon from Steene to Esquelbecq. Wallmoden had heard of the attacks at Wormhoudt and of others at Bergues and feared being cut off.
Stranger still had been the arrival of Lieutenant Colonel Neuberg.
Within twenty minutes of the arrival of Neuberg, Colonel Franke was leading the 1st Grenadiers north as far as Quaedypre and then east, across farm tracks and drenched farmland that soon churned into glutinous mud.
The King’s Germans were retreating.
Rousbrugge: 6th September 1793
Caillat scanned each message, carefully noting the salient facts that would be included in his report. Next to the documents he planned to summarise for the Committee were a series of dispatches just arrived from Paris, each in the spidery hand of Genet. The language of these had been wild, excitable, out of character for the ‘Spider’. The last, written just two days earlier explained some of the excitable rhetoric.
‘By the time this letter reaches you, a series of arrests will have been made to eradicate the Girondins and all other enemies of this State. We are engaged in a political and military war. The eyes of the Committee must be everywhere. You must watch Houchard and his generals. The army must not rest until victory is assured. My friend, I must warn you, that the consequences of failure will jeopardise your career. I have argued for your station to be in Paris, once your time with the Army of the North has come to an end. But others would see you punished by having you sent to Toulon or worse still, the Spanish front. Maurice, I know of what I speak. Soldiers will lie to you; treat you with contempt, because you do not wear the blue uniform. You wear something more powerful Citizen, the tricolour sash of office. I trust you will return the faith I have expressed in you.
Your friend,
Genet.’
A posting away from Paris would effectively mean a death sentence. The men from Dunkirk would find him eventually and he had no intention of living out the rest of his days watching every shadow or flinching as he walked into a darkened room. Caillat pushed the matter of Captain Beauvais to the back of his mind and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. A fresh squall of rain thudded heavily into the canvas of Caillat's tent. Around him, battalions of the Army of the North settled in for a grim night, cooking fires struggling in the rain which had eased from the torrent of the earlier day. Under the light from a single candle, he scored through names matching reports to the names on his list. One was missing: Leclaire. There had been no report from the commander at Bergues.
The cordon along the Yser had been breached, Hanoverians and Hessians in retreat but the matter was far from settled. The enemy might still be able to withdraw without too much discomfort if their discipline held. Caillat put down his pen mid-sentence and drew a heavy breath. He knew what must be done and summoned up the inner strength to face the giant of a general who loathed him.
The village of Rousbrugge was filled with every officer who could buy or bribe lodgings to take shelter from the rain that had abated into a steady, persistent drizzle. Captain Davide was not one of those who had sought comfort when his men had little. Sixth Company of the ‘Black Lions’ were doing their best to cook a meal using the shelter of a wall as windbreak for their cooking fires. Davide watched the determined pace of Caillat. Every man knew of the Representative en Mission and tried to avoid him; Davide had also heard the rumours of Houchard’s hatred towards the official. A political watchdog would never be accepted by a soldier of any rank. Knowing that Caillat had forsaken the warmth of his tent at this hour, Davide feared the worst.
“Sergeant Mahieu, make sure that every man has eaten a warm meal, as soon as possible.”
Mahieu approached Davide and watched Caillat disappear into the murk of the night.
“Trouble, sir?”
“You know me, Jean-Baptiste. Even in our little moment of triumph, I expect a bucket of manure as our gift from on high. We will know in an hour or two; food now then rest for as many of the lads as possible.”
Mahieu nodded. It was the soldier’s lot; the last to know and the first to move. He made for one of the cooking fires to find some sweet, hot coffee for the captain.
Caillat had knocked once and then entered. Three men were huddled over a map. The central of the three men, towering a head’s height above the other two, twisted a thick muscular neck and hurled an insult through broken teeth and paralysed features.
“GET OUT!”
Caillat closed the door quietly and held his ground. Houchard raised himself to his full height, head nearly brushing thick wooden beams.
“Are you deaf as well as stupid, boy?” Houchard glared at Caillat.
The former stable boy from Bergerac had steeled himself for far worse from the Sans Culottes general.
“No, sir, I am neither. My rank entitles me to a seat at the table, as well you know. And I bring word from Paris to remind you of your duties.” Caillat’s voice had not wavered but inside he felt weak.
“Rank, duty? What is this horse-shit? You think that ribbon that you wear will protect you?” Houchard stepped forward, no more than two paces from Caillat. “Let’s see if it stops the bleeding when I thrust my sword into your guts?”
Houchard’s hand moved to the hilt of the infantry sword, hanging from his left hip.
Behind him the Chief of Staff, Berthellemy, gave a polite cough.
“Perhaps that might not be the wisest course of action? Sir?”
The third of the men in the room spoke. “Besides, if you kill him, once they have given you the razor I will end up in charge. And I like my head just where it is,” Dominique Vandamme’s deep voice growled with laughter. Unshaven, with a nose that had clearly been broken more than once, he clapped a heavy paw onto the shoulder of Houchard. “Come, I need to convince you as to why my men need the Rexpoede road over that ass-wipe, Hédouville.”
For a few seconds more Houchard and Caillat remained locked in a deathly gaze. Houchard grunted and returned to the map.
The three men returned to their discussion and Caillat walked around the table until he could see the orientation of the map. Arrows had been drawn to show the progress of the attacks but there was nothing drawn from the direction of Bergues.
Caillat spoke again. “General, I must know. What is the report from Leclaire?”
Houchard ignored the comment and carried on discussing the deployment for the next day with Vandamme. Berthellemy searched for a scrap of paper from the dispatches on the side of the desk, near to one of the two candles which threw light over the map.
“Here, Citizen. It has only just arrived. They made little progress it would seem but have promised to renew the attack tomorrow.”
Caillat’s eyes danced over the words. He spoke without thinking.
“But that won’t do. They will escape.”
Houchard stopped talking to Vandamme and raised his head to within inches of Caillat’s face.
“I am sick and tired of you already, boy.”
“General, there are things you need to understand. In the last few hours, The Committee has begun to arrest those who oppose them or fail them in any way. Paris does not just want a victory, they need symbols of power from the enemy; prisoners, flags, something real that can be paraded to the mob. If
you let these men escape…”
Caillat realised it made little sense to threaten Houchard, the man had little regard for his own safety.
“The Committee will accuse every general under your command with the crime of being an ‘Enemy of the Revolution’. This could mean death without trial.” Caillat had embellished the words of Genet but it seemed a logical progression of the Committee’s thinking, if the random arrest of political opponents was to be considered logical at all.
“Oh, I do quite like him.” Vandamme laughed. “He is a feisty little bastard. Let me know if you ever want a real job!”
Houchard’s gnarled fingers drummed an impatient heavy beat which vibrated through the table then exhaled a resigned breath.
“So, what would the great minds of the Committee have me do, sat as they are, on their fat arses, miles from any real danger?”
Caillat ignored the barbed nature of the comment. “What was the purpose of Leclaire’s attack?”
Berthellemy spoke, “To capture Rexpoede, Citizen.”
“And we are here?” Caillat pointed to Rousbrugge and traced a line from there, through Ost-Cappel to Rexpoede. “We need to send men there, now.”
“No. The army has fought and marched all day. The men need to rest, but you have no idea of that, never having been a solider!” Houchard replied.
“That’s as maybe, but you have given the men something they had not experienced for months: victory. They would march tonight, if you asked them. You are right, I am not a soldier. But I can see that when one man inspires others, anything is possible.”
“I can do it, Jean Nicholas,” Vandamme spoke gently, “and I believe the boy is right. My men can march within the hour and make Rexpoede by midnight.”
Houchard stared at the map, then looked up at Berthellemy and nodded.
“Issue the orders. The rest of the army will follow at first light. Tell Jourdan and Hédouville that we aim to capture Rexpoede tonight. Tell them to get their men moving. We will concentrate there!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Capture.
Rexpoede: 6th September 1793
They were no longer ‘Esel Soldaten’: instead 2nd Battalion led the column of redcoats that retreated towards Rexpoede. Whatever instruction Major Volgraf had received had not been shared with Brandt. Instead, the Major had chosen to make his nephew his second-in-command, ignoring the seniority amongst the captains.
Brandt didn’t care a jot. Instead, he trudged wearily ahead of his men, as they marched along the road verges until they had overhauled baggage wagons, overloaded with the wounded and dying from the fighting that had raged at Bambeque, and returned to the earthen road.
The French had been held but at a cost. Second Company’s losses had been relatively light, five dead another fifteen wounded. The rain had been to thank for that, perhaps only a quarter of the French muskets had fired three rounds or more. The Yser had swollen its banks in the matter of an hour and the enemy made little effort to cross knowing the defensive line of the Yser had been breached elsewhere.
It made no odds. Under darkness, 3rd Brigade had marched. The general staff had ridden off into the night, to oversee the next defensive position, no doubt. Neuberg was gone. Only the rain and darkness were companions now. If Brandt could have returned home to Katerina, he would have in an instant. The battalion now felt more like a prison than his home. But his men needed him, now more than ever. A retreat was a nasty business and if an officer’s spirits broke why should the army expect the resolve of any of the King’s Germans rank and file to remain unwavering.
There had been time for only a brief conversation but von Bomm had learnt of Colonel Neuberg’s plight. He had been found a temporary position on von Diepenbroick’s staff at 1st Brigade, at the insistence of the Oberst. Neuberg had reported his account of events to General Wallmoden which must have added some flesh to the bones of two sentences written by Field Marshal Freytag on the matter. Whatever else Wallmoden had said, Neuberg remained tight-lipped about. Von Bomm could only offer his old colonel his hand and words of consolation: both felt of little worth.
First Grenadiers had followed the road north towards Bergues for two miles in the dark of the September night before meeting cavalry scouts. The road to Quaedypre was free of the enemy; beyond that a series of farm tracks could be followed to Rexpoede. Videttes from the Hanoverian Guard Cavalry had been posted along the route but four times throughout the miserable rain drenched night, the column had halted as cavalry scouts reported movement ahead; each occasion a false alarm until the last. A mile from Rexpoede, three French horsemen had trotted up to the column, clearly expecting the body of infantry to be friendly. Before a shot could be fired, the horseman had scattered into the darkness.
The battalion shook itself into battle order and prepared to cross the wheat fields towards the pinpricks of light that were Rexpoede while Hanoverian horsemen hunted through the fields for the French scouts who had passed so easily through their protective screen. Von Bomm shivered in the wet chill as his colonel stalked past.
“Any news, sir?”
“No. We could wait for Wallmoden but the orders are clear. We take Rexpoede. If that cavalry are here, the chances are the French are very close by, if not already in the town. And the way they waltzed up to us, they are obviously expecting friends. Keep your eyes open, Erich.”
“Always, sir,” von Bomm tugged at his saturated bicorne in salute to Colonel Franke then turned to his own men.
“Sergeant Keithen, muskets loaded if you please; seems our day’s work is not yet done.”
Lieutenant Henson-Jefferies had been glad to quit Bambecque. With the situation of a retreat unfolding, he knew at least that tomorrow he would be sent to Furnes and would spend at least one night back with the Duke’s staff, amongst friends and fellow Guards officers. Of course, the experience of being on the Field Marshal’s staff was invaluable. He had pressed the Duke of Cambridge on various matters and taken the opportunity to share with the Duke his own experiences of the war to date. A Royal patron would be an asset to any young man’s career in the years ahead.
Furthermore, he had found the time to congratulate the Field Marshal on the dismissal of the infantry colonel, assuring him that few men would have had the bravery in England to take such bold action. More often than not, incompetence was overlooked but the Field Marshal had shown leadership that others would do well to follow. Henson-Jefferies had made sure that the Duke of Cambridge was out of earshot when he made his statement, less they be construed as a criticism against the Duke of York. Freytag had done nothing other than mop his brow, soaked in rain and heavy sweat, and nod at the young officer before muttering, “Good, then you are learning something under my command, boy.”
The staff had ridden at a steady pace and outstripped the wagons that had become ambulances and the infantry of 3rd Brigade who struggled over the rutted roads, which were quickly churning into thick mud. Accompanying them, twenty Hessian dragoons formed an escort to the front and rear of the party in which Freytag and the Duke of Cambridge rode. The column of horsemen had entered the outskirts of the town when the English lieutenant noticed the silhouettes of soldiers in the road. The body of horses slowed to a walk and then halted. Two of the Hessian horsemen walked forward to shout to the figures; huddled soldiers in bicornes who showed no real interest in the approaching riders.
The Hessians edged closer wondering perhaps whether their words were lost in the rain that blew uncomfortably into the faces of the riders. Henson-Jefferies felt something tug hard down on his reins, forcing his mount’s head to twist to the left. As he turned to his side, a grinning face peered up at him and the wrong end of a French bayonet jabbed gently into his ribs. From the undergrowth that surrounded the road into Rexpoede, dozens of soldiers wearing the red, blue and white cockades of the Republic swept upon the horsemen, capturing all but the last half a dozen dragoons, who seeing the hopelessness of the situation, turned and fled. A desultory crackle o
f musket fire followed them into the black of the night and then Henson-Jefferies was dragged from his horse. The Hanoverian General Staff had been trapped in a matter of seconds.
The line had advanced slowly along the farmland. Eyes already accustomed to the pitch of the moonless night helped somewhat but still each step was a falteringly slow one. Von Bomm’s boots were now more cloying mud than leather. Cold water pooled between his toes with each pace yet his eyes scanned Rexpoede. He could see the road that led towards Bergues and thought for the briefest moment that he saw movement. The far end of the town where the road led to Bambecque was in total darkness; he cursed himself and put the vision down to imagination.
With any luck, 3rd Brigade would soon be closing on the village. It was a foul night, rain slowly increasing in strength. Any sound from the village was whipped away and lost in the ether. He scrambled out of the field, relieved to no longer be pushing his way thought clinging wet crops and saw the horseman; a single rider galloping blindly along the road. He heard muskets cock, his men anticipating the word. There was little to say whether the soldier was a friend but he rode with a reckless skill in the near darkness. Von Bomm took a pace onto the road and drew his sabre. The cavalryman would have one chance to stop and then von Bomm would trust his life to his men.
“Wer da?”
The challenge was issued; the horseman slewed to a halt and answered in hesitant German with a strong Hessian accent.
Coudekerque: 6th September 1793
The hours since the attack at the redoubt had been filled with work. After having helped remove the dead and dying from the redoubt, Krombach had spent the rest of the day in the saddle, riding first to Nieuport to carry a message to Admiral Macbride regarding the likely arrival of the supplies of powder and ammunition for the siege. The guns that had arrived to date had come with more rounds of canister than heavy ball, designed for breaking up enemy attacks but of little value in a siege.
The King of Dunkirk Page 26
