The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  He found Commissary Jackson there along with Sergeant-Major Winckler. The former was deep in conversation with Macbride when Krombach arrived, complaining bitterly that London was not listening to his requests for supplies. The Admiral was expressing his sympathy with Jackson on the crowded quayside and it was some moments until either man noticed the Hanoverian messenger. Winckler also took the opportunity to gripe, the frequent squalls that buffeted the docks making his task twice as long as needed. The Sergeant-Major had missed the action at the lines that morning, having ferried two wagons of fevered soldiers back to Furnes before returning with barrels of fresh water. The task seemed never ending to Winckler, the rheumatism in his old bones now being set off by standing around in the rain, waiting for the Commissary to finish approval of whatever inventory had arrived.

  Having made the return trip, Krombach had wolfed down a brief lunch before heading out again to carry a message to the 3rd Foot Guards garrison at Teteghem that allied scouts would be passing through their lines tonight. He returned to Trevethan, with the disturbing news that French patrols had been seen in a great number in the marshland south of Teteghem on the far banks of the canal that ran from Bergues. Having spent the day trying to position the final pieces of siege artillery, the sodden Trevethan was in an ill humour; the news of the French patrols did little to alleviate that. He informed the Hanoverian to report the news to the Duke’s staff and returned to his own burden.

  The Major returned through the steady rain of the Dunkirk evening in a better mood carrying a bundle of clothes under his left arm, thick bandage protruding from under his blue jacket around the wound to his right shoulder. He ducked into the open tent and dropped the garments at Krombach’s feet.

  “Here, m’boy, put these on. I can’t have a man in my employ dressed like a vagabond!” Trevethan smiled and clapped a powerful hand onto Krombach's shoulder. “And thank you for all that you did, this morning; won’t be forgotten.”

  The young Hanoverian returned the smile, noting that the Cornish man’s face was flushed with a heavy sweat, which he wiped onto the reverse of his sleeve.

  “God damn it. Been sweatin’ like a whore in a church all day. Not sure if it’s this arm or the fever; anyway, get yourself decent, we still have a job to do tonight. I’m afraid that’s dead men’s clothes but waste not want not. Summersdale managed to acquire ‘em for me; you eaten yet?”

  Krombach nodded, peeling off the remains of damp linen trousers which had long since ceased to be parade ground white; seams split due to hours in the saddle for which the trousers had not been designed. He pulled on white cavalry breeches and a pair of knee length cavalry boots which he felt made him look faintly ridiculous with his red infantry tunic. Trevethan must have noticed the uncertain expression as Krombach examined his new attire.

  “Don’t worry, you don’t look like some creature from a Sultan’s brothel,” the Cornishman chuckled, “besides, it looks a damn sight more decent than those things.” He raised his right hand to point at the discarded infantry trousers and winced heavily as he did, “Just about fit for burning I think.”

  Trevethan had returned from a briefing held by the Duke and Murray. Word had come that the navy would send a mortar vessel in the next forty-eight hours, the same dispatch brought news of the ammunition about which Trevethan had fretted for many days. At last, a plan of action had been decided to bring the siege to a swift conclusion. While Dunkirk was pounded from the beach and shore, an attacking force would leave from under the cover of darkness and close in on the town from the south.

  “Lieutenant Belvedere is bringing some men. Let’s hope the French patrols aren’t so keen to be out in the dark. We are going to scout the route tonight, hopefully we won’t be disturbed. Apparently, your boys are dealing with some French probing action. Nothing serious according to Field Marshal Freytag but I thought a few friends might be some insurance on a night like this.”

  “Any news of 2nd Battalion, sir?” Krombach asked, his thoughts had often turned to wondering how Pinsk and Reifener were faring.

  “No, nothing specific; doesn’t sound anything to worry over. I’m sure your friends are fine, Sebastian.”

  Trevethan offered a kindly assurance knowing that being his aide had offered little but hardship in the past few weeks; the outlet for ill directed oaths when the construction of the siege lines had been so tardy. The Cornishman felt a pang of guilt in withdrawing Krombach from his battalion. Once the boy returned his lot would be worse than before, especially if the battalion suffered casualties while Krombach was felt to be living a life of luxury at headquarters. He and Jackson had listened to the young Hanoverian tell of the days before Valenciennes on one occasion where the three men had shared a bottle or two of port.

  The truth of the matter was Krombach’s tasks had been anything but that; the boy had crossed the ‘Great Moor’ numerous times, finding a short cut to Furnes and the Hanoverian lines, running messages for Trevethan and even the Duke. More than once he had been pursued by French cavalry. The lad had done his duty. Had these have been more ordinary days, in the town of Falmouth, Stephen Trevethan would have been glad to call Sebastian Krombach his friend.

  Rexpoede: 6th September 1793

  In the darkness Brandt listened to the sounds of men being pushed around into a double line, six-ranks deep, a frontage of just over twenty men. Fire-power would suffer but the task at hand owed little to musketry; the bayonet was to be the main weapon. If the redcoats kept the cohesion after the initial volley, there was a chance. If not then it could just as easily signal the death of Brandt’s command.

  Major Volgraf had been the first to intercept the riders and learn of the capture of Field Marshal Freytag and his staff. There had been panic and indecision in the immediate aftermath until other officers had arrived and a plan of attack decided. There was no time to scout the town and no idea of the size of the French force. The lead battalion would simply attack along the main street and hope that the weight of numbers might carry the moment. The superior musketry of the King’s Germans would be of little use in the pitch of night. All that would matter was bravery and bayonets; cold steel on a cold, wet night.

  Brandt heard the heavy breathing of a horse as a rider picked his way carefully through the rutted long corn; Volgraf loomed out of the darkness.

  “You ready, Brandt? Keep going whatever the cost. We must reach the Field-Marshal. I will be with 1st Company, should you break. But for God’s sake don’t. The night depends on you.” Without waiting for a reply, the Major spurred his horse and disappeared into the darkness.

  “Yes, sir,” Brandt replied to a figure who had long since gone. So, the Major would lead his men from the relative safety of the second wave of King’s Germans. Brandt blew out his cheeks to ease the apprehension of the moment. Neuberg would have led from the front, placed himself with Brandt, shared the danger and led the men through whatever test lay ahead.

  He cleared his mind as best he could and hissed into the waiting ranks of redcoats, “Lieutenant Shafer and my sergeants, to me now!”

  The young officer, Roner and Moustache Georg slithered out of the darkness to his right, Gauner and Krogh to his left.

  “Listen up. We are leading the attack. Up the main street, deal with whatever is there. Find the officers and free them. Speed is the key, the men won’t have time to reload, its bayonet work.”

  He turned to Shafer.

  “Put yourself between the double lines, with Gauner and Krogh. If I fall you have command, but keep the lines moving forward. Sergeant-Major Roner and Sergeant Richter, take posts to the rear. If both Schafer and I fall, take command Sergeant-Major. The eyes of the army are upon us tonight. Good luck and return to your posts.”

  There was nothing more to be said. The other officers in the company were no more than boys. It may have been their right to command but the reality would be that the company would want to hear voices that it trusted. Brandt turned again to stare back towards the road t
hat led into Rexpoede. A stiff breeze had chased away the drizzle of the night but the wind had turned colder. There were half a dozen lights from windows or lanterns on the houses that face out towards the road on which the King’s Germans would approach. Whoever was defending there knew what they were doing. His men would struggle to see the enemy hidden in the dark but would be easy targets for enemy skirmishers. There was no more time to think. Brandt gave the signal and the company advanced, over wet cobbles and pools of muddied water towards the lights of Rexpoede.

  As the column approached the lights of the town, Brandt noticed shapes sprinting past on either side. Schutzen, green-jacketed skirmishers from the 1st battalions of 10th and 5th Regiment, had been ordered to clear the nearest houses and bring their hunting rifles to bear on any enemy that lurked in the darkness. They were the one crumb of comfort to Brandt as his men advanced at a steady pace.

  At fifty paces, from the gardens of a low cottage to the left of the road, a dozen violent bursts of bright light signalled musket fire. Rifles spat back a reply and then a whistle sounded and the schutzen of the 5th charged the hedgerow, occasional flashes of silvered bayonets reflected what little light there was. To Brandt’s right he could just make out the schutzen of 10th Regiment, who had made the houses on the right of the village.

  Farmland gave way to slick grass and then the column of redcoats squeezed into the narrow confines of the street. It would be hard for any French muskets to miss and from the windows of houses further down the road, more musket fire spouted. Brandt flinched as musket balls tore passed him; cries followed where they found a target, somewhere in his company.

  The redcoats pressed forward, past the lights and into the shadow of the heart of the small village. More fire rang out, but this time directed at the schutzen who were sweeping through the houses and gardens to 2nd Company’s right. They were drawing fire and keeping the enemy engaged. Ahead the silhouette of French soldiers clambered across a barrier of farm carts or wagons to take up firing positions.

  He turned his head, to check that the redcoats had kept pace and felt relieved that solid walls of men were at his shoulder. The distance was perhaps sixty yards. In his mind, Brandt had wanted to save the moment of the final sprint to the enemy until his men were much closer but he realised that such a move would play into the hands of the French. The decision was made.

  “Brandt’s Company…Charge!”

  The night was filled with the lung-bursting cries from the King’s Germans. The response from the barricade was a ragged ripple of musketry, followed seconds later by a more controlled volley from some experienced soldiers who had held their nerve and waited for the command. Around him the air was punctured with the whistling howls of musket balls and the screams of wounded men, lost under the crashing of hundreds of pairs of feet on the cobbled road. In the chaos of the initial French volley, Major Volgraf, had ordered other companies of the battalion to charge, uncertain as to whether Brandt’s men would keep pressing forward.

  But none of that mattered to Brandt; the difference between living and dying was to reach that barricade before the enemy could reload. He sprinted and felt a burning in his chest as he drew deep desperate lungfuls of the cold night air.

  “Feu!”

  The command rang out, ahead and close to his left; ten feet ahead, a musket was levelled followed by the brilliance of ignition which blinded both firer and target. Brandt flinched and threw himself left without thinking. He slid on wet stones and cursed as he thudded into a wooden beam, part of the structure of one of the beached wagons. Redcoats reached the barricade, and he was engulfed in musket smoke as soldiers exchanged fire at a dozen feet or less. The screams of the wounded filled the night but there was no time to stop and help fallen men. Brandt raised himself to a crouch and could make out the legs of a man defending the barricade. Reaching forward, he jabbed hard at the man’s shins, feeling the blade bite home. In the next moment, he sprang up and vaulted the gap made by the fallen man and was amongst the enemy line

  “Brandt’s Company, to me!”

  The blue-coats around him were surprised to suddenly find an enemy soldier in their midst, a man who had survived the maelstrom of fire. Brandt ducked as the razor-edge of a sword sliced through the air, an inch above his scalp, then rose to punch the scabbard of his own blade hard into the face of the officer who had rushed to kill him. Around him, men jostled as the King’s Germans swarmed the French position.

  His opponent had fallen away, his chin sliced open and Brandt turned to stab at an infantryman trying to defend his part of the barricade. A body landed heavily next to him, the briefest flash of a sergeant’s chevrons.

  Then Gauner with him, aiming a punch at one man; grabbing the musket of another and tearing it from the opponent’s hand. Reversing the grip, he smashed the butt of the musket hard into the man’s face. The wildness of combat had seized the sergeant and no blue-coat dare to challenge him.

  More redcoats crossed the jumble of carts and wagons and the briefest moment victory was won.

  The French ran into the night, darting left and right for cover.

  To the flanks, rifles spat, hunting amongst the shadows. The schutzen were doing their best to keep the enemy in retreat.

  But the task was not yet done.

  “Brandt’s Company, rally on me. Double lines, now!”

  Whatever was left of his command clambered over the now abandoned defences and Roner and Gauner pushed the men into crude lines. Richter clutched at his wounded shoulder but barked instructions. Brandt made a quick examination of the lines. Before there had been six ranks, now there was only five and that rank was two-thirds full at best. There was no time for field drill.

  “Reload men and quick about it. We need to find our officers before the French finish them off.”

  Men tore at cartridges; Brandt watched Reifener and Pinsk replacing ramrods, working with the speed of seasoned soldiers. Out of the darkness, at the end of the narrow street, there were flashes of light: musket fire. The captain offered a silent prayer that his pause to recover the order of his men had not given the French the time to execute their prisoners. Behind his men, 1st Company had cleared the obstacles and were busy reforming too. There was no time to wait.

  “Second Company, at the double, March!”

  The line lurched forward at a quick pace. The road was clear of French troops. The musket flashes had ceased and lights appeared throughout the two floors of the town-house. Brandt felt himself drawn to the light, rather like a curious moth. Silhouettes moved across the shadows that candle light threw out from partially-shuttered windows; another enemy position, no doubt. This time he would wait. Forty yards, volley, then charge and hope that the effect of the volley might drive the enemy away before they could return fire of their own.

  Brandt halted the line and was about to order the men to ready their weapons when a familiar challenge ran out.

  “Wer da? Wer da?”

  He paused and listened. He thought for just a moment it was a voice he recognised.

  “Brandt, 10th Hanoverians.”

  “I bloody knew it would be the 10th. The men’s drill has really gone to pot without me.”

  The voice moved nearer. A bicorned figure strode confidently up the street at the very moment that shafts of moonlight broke through thinning cloud.

  “Good to see you again, Werner.”

  Erich von Bomm held out his hand, smiled and then the two men embraced.

  Rexpoede: 7th September 1793

  Caillat felt as if his head had only just rested on the thick blanket that had been turned into a pillow, when he felt a hand press his shoulder and woke to the bright glare of a lantern which blinded him in the pitch dark of the tent.

  “General wants you, Citizen; says it’s urgent.”

  Caillat rubbed what little sleep had formed in his eyes, groped for his boots and followed the silhouette of the officer of the 3rd Dragoons, both men picking a path over prone bodies of soldiers
soaked in the clinging dew of the hour before dawn. When he arrived at the room he had left a handful of hours earlier, the same three men were huddled around the map. Berthellemy, dressed in a crisp blue jacket, while Houchard and Vandamme wore uniforms caked in thick Flanders mud.

  “If you are going to pretend to be part in this army, you had better get used to a soldier’s hours.” Houchard spoke without looking up, tracing a line along the map with a thick dirty finger.

  “Your men followed them to here?” the general glanced in the direction of Vandamme.

  “Yes. I think they’ll stand there too.”

  Houchard considered the words and studied the markings on the map. “Hondschoote to their centre, Leyselle as their left, perhaps?”

  “Yes. The canal covers their right flank. But their left is in the air if they do that. Pin them at Hondschoote and march like hell to cut off these roads.” Vandamme stabbed at a pair of roads which led towards Furnes and an escape route for the enemy.

  “Do you want that job?” Houchard grinned.

  Vandamme swore a dark oath at which Berthellemy rolled his eyes in horror and Houchard laughed, “My men want at these bastard Hessians. That’s my job!”

  Caillat had edged around the table and peered over the solitary candle light.

  “What happened? Where are the enemy?” Caillat asked quietly.

  “There, Citizen.” Berthellemy pointed to a road that ran from Hondschoote through a small village marked as Killem.

  “They escaped? How?“ Caillat uttered the words, tiredness making them seem like an accusation against which Vandamme, irascible even on his better days, riled.