“Yes, they escaped. While you were tucked up in your warm bed, my men attacked towards Rexpoede, Citizen.” Vandamme spat the word in distaste. “One battalion broke the enemy lines but the Hessians attacked us and fought like lions for their paymaster. I lost a battalion for nothing. If you wish me replaced, then you had better bring a few men; I hate being bested in a fight and need another one to get the taste of this out of my guts.” Vandamme’s hand wrested on the hilt of his sabre.
Caillat could see wildness in his eyes every bit as vengeful as the looks that Houchard frequently bore towards the Representative. Sensing the danger of the moment, Caillat broke eye contact and fidgeted with a loose button on his jacket. There was a momentary silence and then Houchard spoke.
“Easy, Dominique. Your time will come. Besides, if they arrest you, who will command the army when the Citizen here is charged with arresting me.” Houchard gave a rasping laugh at his own joke and returned to the map.
“Perhaps, Caillat, you can ask the Committee to buy the Hessians off. Save us all the trouble of fighting our way through them.”
Vandamme hand returned from the hilt of the blade to rest on the map.
“My men were exhausted. They will give a better account of themselves next time.”
Silence descended across the table. The question burned within Caillat, he had to ask it, the report to Paris would be incomplete without it.
“When will that be, General?”
Vandamme did not look up, ignoring the words. Houchard tapped the map with his fingers, moving imagined formations into place.
“Tomorrow; do you agree Berthellemy?”
The chief of staff nodded. “I will order that we maintain contact today, General and if the enemy does stand, then you will have the army at your disposal by tomorrow morning.”
Houchard stared again at the open flank beyond Leyselle.
“Then let them stand! We’ll finish them and catch the Duke with his royal breeches firmly around his ankles.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Party.
Hondschoote: 7th September 1793
The days of Spring were a distant memory. Once, Henry Pinsk had delighted in the adventure of arriving in a new town, gazing at the architecture in wonder; now eyes made pebble-round by thick glasses were fixed blankly on the pack of the man in front. The beauty of the towering medieval church; the town hall where seven heraldic shields bore bright coats of arms; the square in which thousands of redcoats filed through; all passed by without note by the keen eye of the loping soldier.
Second Company had paid a heavy price for their storming of the barricade. Next to him in the column, Reifener marched, wheezing heavily, his left hand wrapped in a bloodied bandage. At least twenty others had not been so lucky, Lieutenant Schafer and Thorben Trost amongst them. Both had died somewhere in the long night and been buried in hastily dug graves.
With relief he heard the command to halt followed by the echo of bells which marked nine o’clock. Pinsk’s stomach growled in complaint and he tried to think of when he had eaten last. He carried only a chunk of stale bread. The baggage for the battalion and the ‘Twenty’ were nowhere to be seen.
The halt was only temporary, a tired adjutant directed the redcoats left onto a track and towards a solitary windmill that overlooked the fields which they had just crossed. As the men came to a halt, the first squalls of the day drove across the field and a curtain of heavy rain descended.
Two hours passed until the baggage columns arrived and a further two until Captain Brandt was happy with the progress that 2nd Company had made. Either side of the windmill trenches had been dug; in the space underneath the building a pit had been deepened to allow a dozen men to occupy it. The rain abated but the soil turned a glutinous brown; every redcoat worked ankle deep in muddied water.
In the distance the crackle of musketry broke the curses and grunts of soldiers who used what remained of equipment from their time at Valenciennes which had been stored with the baggage. Brandt’s eyes studied the land around him through the grey haze whipped by the wind; a landscape of flat, open fields, full of yellowed crops ready to be harvested. To the right of the windmill ran the Becque canal, a stretch of waterway which shielded the right flank. There, redcoats were working amongst the scattering of wood that lined both sides of the waterway. He had seen little of the ground but even at this distance the canal looked thirty feet wide and deep enough to force the defenders to use small boats to ferry men from one side to the other. An attack against such a position would be easily defeated.
South and west in the far distance, clusters of farmhouses, white walls and terracotta roofs reflecting the sharp sunlight of the afternoon, stood out amongst thin screens of trees. The French would come from that direction; their advance would be disrupted by a patchwork of low hedges, no more than two feet high, but each flanking a drainage ditch. Earlier that morning, Brandt had observed a column of Hanoverian cavalry threading their way across these obstacles on their way to patrol the approach routes that the enemy might take. The horsemen had disappeared into the wide horizon and had yet to make a return despite the sounds of sharp skirmish carried on the light westerly breeze.
Brandt checked his pocket-watch; a little after one. Soon he would order the men to stop for a meal, conscious of the fact that few had eaten anything hot since the morning before. Then the rest of the afternoon would be spent improving the field defences. The army had concentrated onto positions around Hondschoote and would stand and fight in its entirety. Though the captain did not relish the thought of battle, at least it no longer felt as if the brigade were alone. The deployment of the last few weeks and the wretched system of ‘the cordon’ had weakened the spirits of many of the officers.
The events of the night before had an even more significant change than the drawing together of the army. The captain turned toward the sounds of movement as another formation marched past. The Hessian Chasseurs, unshaven and haggard were heading past the windmill and out into the open fields beyond. Stepping a few paces towards the Germans in their dark blue tunics, he spotted Captain von Schroeder and tipped his bicorne to his fellow officer, who broke from his position in the column to offer Brandt his hand.
“Fine afternoon we have here, Brandt.”
“Hello, von Schroeder. I heard about the Hessians last night. Was that your men?”
“We were there. Gave the French a bit of a bloody nose but in the end, we still retreated. No one wins a war by running all the time. Anyhow, isn’t it just like the Hanoverians to upstage our little heroic stand with their own coup! The change is for the better, I hope?”
“I think so. Yes.” Brandt could barely repress the smile from his lips.
“Good, because we’re being sent to the front line on the strength of your Wallmoden’s word. I’m done with running Brandt. It’s time to stand.”
Von Schroeder stepped back, touched the tip of his bicorne and hurried after his men.
“Good luck!” Brandt called out.
“Luck is for amateurs, Brandt,” the Hessian captain replied with just the briefest turn of his head.
In the earliest hours of the morning a coup of sorts had occurred: Brandt would have given anything to see it.
On the release of Freytag from the hands of the French, the Field Marshal and Wallmoden had become locked in a bitter dispute witnessed only by the Duke of Cambridge and the aide of the Duke of York. Wild rumours had circulated and the outcome had been unexpected but decisive. Freytag had stood aside or been replaced, on the pretext of being too severely wounded to continue in command. Wallmoden now assumed control of the troops south of the Great Moor.
Almost his first act had been to return Colonel Neuberg to his post. Whatever the outcome of this day or the next, at least the battalion was back in hands that Brandt trusted.
Dunkirk: 7th September 1793
Peals of laughter echoed from the farm cottage where the Duke’s staff had been billeted since the first
day of the army’s arrival at Rosendael. The French citizens had either fled at the arrival of the British or been coerced by payment. Sergeant-Major Winckler had earned more than a year’s salary in bribes, ensuring that the noble officers of the Foot Guards and cavalry regiments had lodgings. Even the humblest structure was a boon to the lot endured by the rest of the army who slept under the shadow clouds of the sand-flies that infested the dunes.
Krombach had been blissfully unaware of the fact until a chance comment by Trevethan, who had learned of the scheme from Commissary Jackson, a man not averse to profiteering in his past. In the next thirty-six hours any schemes of self-interest were to be put aside. The Commissary’s staff would have no rest. The bombardment would begin on the morning of the 9th; powder and ammunition shortages had to be made good. The Duke and Murray had ridden from Furnes on to Nieuport to extricate the delivery of these vital war materials. Jackson had returned from the magazine established at Furnes, where Winckler was overseeing the loading with whatever ordinance was ready now. Trevethan tried to listen to the update from his friend as a new verse of ribald song drifted through the evening drizzle from the direction of the cottage causing both men to glance sharply towards the building.
“Krombach, deliver me compliments to those pompous young stallions and ask them to pipe a quieter tune for a few minutes,” Trevethan’s voice gruff at the interruption to Jackson’s narrative.
Krombach nodded and stepped past a pair of sentries on the door and into a world utterly different from the outer appearance of the building. The golden glow of candlelight revealed paintings that Krombach could only assume to be from the Duke’s private collection; a draped pair of battalion colours, which he needed to dip his head to pass under and red and gold coated valets attending a rustic table around which a dozen young officers were busy indulging in food, wine and song. The walls, smeared with green streaks, a testament to the fact that as many peas had been flicked at each other, with spoons acting as medieval ballista, as had been consumed.
On sighting Krombach, one of the young Guardsmen stood and declared, “Stranger in the camp!” to which he then proceeded to drain his glass and place the empty vessel on the crown of his head.
The others followed suit and the last of the young revellers to complete the task was roundly mocked by his dinner guests; more wine was called for, in order that the miscreant could drink his forfeit in being the last to greet the new arrival to the room.
Krombach waited, confused by the splendour and stupidity in equal measure, when the officer who had initially noted his entry, rose to his feet again and squinted heavily at the Hanoverian.
“Are you a private, boy?”
“Yes, sir. I come with a…”
“Dash all that; stand to attention when you address members of His Majesty’s Guard or didn’t they teach you that from whatever shit-hole of a shire you were dragged from?”
Krombach’s face reddened and he snapped to attention. Since spending time with Trevethan his English had improved considerably, as had his ability to curse and understand the curses.
“My apologies sir. I come with a …”
“He’s a Hanoverian, ain’t he, by God. Look, Jeffers, one of your lot?”
Another voice piped up and a chorus of cheers rose in the direction of a particularly drunken officer, with cat calls across the rowdy table to translate from German, claiming that the few words that Krombach had uttered were completely indecipherable. The clamour grew for the man to stand and when he did a round of applause mixed with the thumping of fists on tables rang out.
Simon Henson-Jefferies was drunk.
He had ridden thirty miles earlier that day carrying a message from Count Wallmoden to the Duke of York, detailing the actions of the last few days, the change of command in the Hanoverian ranks and the plans to halt the French at Hondschoote. The message had been deposited on the Duke’s table in the upper floor of the cottage but of the Duke or his senior staff there had been no sign. The junior staff, of which Henson-Jefferies had been an enthusiastic member before his appointment to Freytag’s command, had advised their friend that the Duke’s return was imminent, or would at least be in the next few hours. A birthday meal for one of the staff officers was to be held that evening, and the Duke was the guest of honour. So Henson-Jefferies had stayed and the message remained on the desk of the Duke of York, unopened.
Krombach made a third attempt to speak but was now greeted with a wall of booing and demands for the message to be given in German, to test the skills of a barely cogent Henson-Jefferies. The young Hanoverian gave a deep sigh and was about to relay the message when he felt the draft of the door being thrown open and heavy footsteps ring out in the short corridor: Trevethan barrelled into the room.
“Shut up, you drunken asswipes, for God’s sake!”
No man stood or called out the challenge of ‘Stranger in the camp’, the wild eyes of the Cornishman met no others as he looked around the room.
“I’m sorry, sir, but…” Krombach uttered but Trevethan held his hand up.
“Tis I who should apologise.” Trevethan scanned the room and his eyes rested on the only one of the guests left standing.
“Henson-Jefferies, what are you doing here? You’re meant to be with Field Marshal Freytag’s staff.”
The Guards officer who could barely stand replied after a moment’s hesitation to consider his answer. “Not my fault. Delivering a message; for the Duke; Freytag’s gone; big secret.”
He went to tap the end of his nose with a finger but missed and grizzled at the fact, causing a round of suppressed laughter from the bowed heads around the table.
“What do you mean Freytag’s gone?”
“Vanished. Puff of smoke. Magic…” Henson-Jefferies waved his hands around and then collapsed in a drunken stupor.
Krombach and Trevethan exchanged uneasy glances. Only the Duke’s return could shed any further light on the matter but little could be done to dampen Trevethan’s ire.
“Let’s quit this banquet of the stupid before I commit murder!” He turned on his heels and Krombach traipsed after him, thoroughly confused by the Englishmen who were meant to be his superiors.
Hondschoote: 7th September 1793
There had been no need to order the men back to the lines. Brandt’s company had returned to their chores of the day, knowing that the strength of their defensive position could mean the difference between life and death in the hours ahead. Under the cajoling of Gauner, the pit under the windmill had deepened, earth built at the front to provide a smooth glacis which might absorb some of the musket balls and a dozen v-shaped apertures cut from which the Hanoverians could fire out. Behind these another eight men could kneel and reload muskets and three steps had been cut into the turf at the rear of the slope to improve access into the pit itself. A bucket on a rope had been rigged up to bail out the standing water. Once this had been done, fresh turf from had been laid as a carpet on the thick, sticky residue of floor. Within five minutes, the mud had swallowed up the rolls of grass and the men were left ankle deep in mud.
In his working party, the Sergeant had been sure to co-opt Reifener. The return of Neuberg was a temporary setback. Gauner thought it prudent to keep the link with Sergeant-Major Winckler out of harm’s way and gain the boy’s trust too; there would be opportunities in the days ahead to profiteer and reinvest that money in a few well-chosen luxuries for the Company. Roner’s authority could still be undermined.
“It’s a pity your young friend, Mister Krombach can’t be with us, isn’t it Andreas?” Gauner smiled as Reifener waited for a spade to be handed to him so that he could shovel more thick mud onto the glacis mound.
“Probably tucked up in bed in some Hurenhaus. Well I say we don’t need him or his like. The men that I choose to fight with are right here in this pit; the true men of Brandt’s Company. We’ve beaten the Frenchies more than once already. We’ll do it again tomorrow, without precious Krombach.” Gauner stopped and survey
ed the men who worked in silence in the amber light from a pair of lanterns which hung from the floor timbers of the windmill.
“You lads, you’re who I chose to fight with, die with if it comes to it. And any man who misses this battle isn’t a musket-man, not in my book. He won’t have earned the right to call his-self a man of this Company. You agree, don’t you Pinsk?”
Henry Pinsk, who had been sweating heavily from working in the confined space and constantly having to watch that he didn’t scrape his head on the floor boards above him, stopped digging and rested long arms on the handle of the spade. He knew the words from Gauner were a challenge but unlike the ones of the past few months, this could not be avoided.
“I’m happy we might all have a chance to prove our worth tomorrow, Sergeant. It seems to me that we have done precious little in the past few months that has brought us credit; the mutiny in Halle, the stolen standards. A few men profited from that but for the battalion it was a stain. It’s probably why we spent the whole of that battle at Valenciennes marching around the countryside and the rest of it digging pits, just like now. We’ve beaten the French but beaten ourselves too and as of this morning we were the poor bastards doing all the running. So, Sergeant, I don’t know what makes a proper musketeer no more than I know what Krombach has been doing while we were staring at the French countryside for the last two weeks twiddling our thumbs. He didn’t ask for the job to go with that Major, he was ordered. And if he is doing something that might end this war sooner, good luck to him. Maybe we might need to thank him when tomorrow is run?”
Soldiers parted and the two men stooped and faced one another at the very deepest part of the pit, lanterns illuminating the hatred that each held for the other.
There was silence and every man watched waiting for the next move when a voice broke the spell.
“Sergeant Gauner, everything all right down there?”
The King of Dunkirk Page 28
