Gauner turned and saw a pair of mud stained boots and the silvered scabbard of a sword and knew it was Brandt.
“Yes, Captain; just checking the last of the positions, sir.
“Good. I need to speak to my Sergeants now so step to it.”
“Yes, sir,” Gauner shouted without taking his gaze from Pinsk and then in a soft whisper continued, “once tomorrow is over, you and I are going to resolve our difference permanently, understood?”
Gauner held the eyes of Pinsk, registering the effect of the words and then turned and ducked under a lanterned beam and up the earthen steps to a starlit evening sky that existed outside of the pit under the windmill.
Rexpoede: 7th September 1793
The same Generals who had clustered around the map table of Houchard just two days earlier at Mont Cassel, did so again, this time in the squat lodgings of a deserted house at Rexpoede. A meagre fire burned in the hearth illuminating faces of men who had slept little in the past forty-eight hours and who were unlikely to find little solace in rest tonight. Houchard, with thick black stubble that grew about the slashed scars on his face, traced gnarled fingers over the map, his lips moving but no sound emanating.
Caillat watched the man and in turn each of the other soldiers who despite the cramped condition of the room, found opportunity to give Caillat a wide berth, as if the carrier of some contagion. While yesterday had been a success, today had not gone to plan. Attacks had been launched at the Hanoverians and Hessians around Hondschoote but such efforts had been uncoordinated and the men fatigued by marching and fighting. Houchard had cancelled any further attacks at around four in the afternoon. Now the army rested. In the early hours it would attack again.
A heavy fist thumped on the table and men stopped whispered small talk and waited for the Sans Culottes general to speak.
“Hédouville, Leclaire, attack from the direction of Maison Blanc. Pin the enemy across the canal; don’t let him withdraw forces from his right to reinforce the centre. Vandamme, Jourdan, you are with me. We threaten to out flank around Leyselle but punch a hole right through the centre. Landrin, leave now, take your men through Bergues and throw your weight against the British lines. York must not be allowed to retire. Dumesny, hold your position. You guard our rear. I don’t want those Austrians getting any noble ideas about rescuing the British.”
Each man studied his own line of march, watching Houchard draw pencilled lines on the map as he issued each order. Only Berthellemy spoke, a polite cough to clear his throat before he dared offer a contradiction to the words of Houchard.
“But, sir, this ground; and this weather; It’s marshy and these ditches run in the defender’s favour, funnelling our attack. What of the outflanking that you spoke of yesterday? Around Leyselle? Turn the enemy. Surely that still has some merit?”
“While you have been warming your backside against the fire, some of us have ridden the ground. It’s a quagmire beyond Leyselle. It’s our weight against theirs. They have positions around the windmill. Break them there and it becomes a fight for the town with their army split at its centre. It won’t be pretty Berthellemy but when it’s all over someone will come and tell you that it’s safe for you to come out.” Vandamme had answered, cutting across the words of the Chief of Staff.
There was a gentle chuckling at the words of Houchard's most able fighter, and Caillat watched as Houchard fought to contain a lopsided grin and wheezing laugh before raising his hand for silence. Berthellemy had fixed Vandamme in a steely gaze which was out of character for the quietly spoken officer.
“I’m no coward, Vandamme. I just happen to be able to operate a pencil and can spell.”
“Well, perhaps after this battle is over, I will find a moment to shove that pencil up your…”
“Thank you, both.” Houchard cut across the words of Vandamme, knowing that his blood was already up before the morning’s fight.
“Étienne,” Houchard flashed his best attempt at a smile, “you are right to be concerned. But Vandamme and I rode that ground this evening and narrowly avoided a Hanoverian patrol.” He waved away murmurs of concern.
“An outflanking will not work; too slow; the enemy will just withdraw. We need them to stand. It will be bloody but we can win. Besides, my neck will feel the ‘Razor if we don’t. I could do with a shave but not one that close.” Houchard nodded in the direction of Caillat to nervous laughter before returning to Berthellemy.
“Will you issue the orders as I have set them down?”
“Yes sir, of course.”
“Good. Then that is an end to the matter. Tomorrow all of this will be forgotten and we will be celebrating a great victory.” Houchard turned away from the map and shook hands with each of the men to whom he had issued orders.
The matter was settled; the die had been cast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Windmill.
Hondschoote: 8th September 1793
The Black Lions had to content themselves with being spectators to the battle but that did not mean they could not play their part. They had cheered the columns of their general, Jean-Baptiste Jourdan, as other battalions set off to begin their attack against the allied position; drums had beaten a steady rat-a-tat rhythm; tricolours waved in the glorious September sunshine of the morning and for the first time in months the battle song of the republic had been sung.
Tears of pride stung the eyes of sergeant Jean-Baptiste Mahieu and every soldier around him. Charleville muskets were punched in the air, bicornes waved in salute. All that was left when the dozen columns were headed off was the feeling of envy. Other battalions would settle the matter, not the Black Lions. The 14th had been ordered to wait, part of the reserve that Houchard had placed in case further attacks were needed. But who could resist such a force?
Not all the 14th had been just been watching the attack though. An hour earlier, 5th Company had been ordered forward as part of the skirmish screen that had been sent to weaken the ranks of the enemy. Mahieu and his captain, Valerie Davide, had spectated in glorious morning sunlight as the skirmishers probed the lines of redcoats and Hessians. The Black Lions cheered as the artillery battery that Houchard had deployed began to batter one of the Hessian lines. The news of their counter-attack at Rexpoede had swept through the ranks and now every man had a score to settle with an enemy who wore the same colour coat as them.
From their position, the Captain and Sergeant could see little of the French left but they were glad it was an attack that the 14th had not been called upon to undertake. A series of deep canals crossed the battlefield, one such ending just a dozen yards from where they stood and disappearing under the culvert of a muddied road that led towards the distant windmill at Hondschoote. The scar of the canal could be traced by hedging and tufts of green grass which stood out amongst the battered crops that were now overdue to be harvested. This war was bringing comfort and liberty to no one yet and unless the British and Germans were defeated quickly, this crop would wither and the region would be in for a desperate winter.
“What do you think sir, are we likely to be here for a while?”
“Really, sergeant. Your faith in my ability to know anything is very refreshing but I know as little as anyone else.”
The columns were now marching across fields between the two roads, six battalions wide and two deep. At their right flank, two regiments of hussars patrolled the ground on the edge of the slight plateau on which the battlefield was situated and even as the two men talked, the furthest regiment disappeared into the dead ground in which the village of Leyselle stood.
“Perhaps I can take a dozen men and get some kettles going sir? If we are going to be here a while, we had just as well be comfortable; might be a good time to eat too. Never know what the day might bring.”
“Coffee? Mahieu you are a mind-reader. Take some to the Colonel too, with my compliments; might just keep us out of the action a little longer.” Davide smiled and returned to his spectating. Coffee and a light s
nack made war seem a somewhat civilised affair but it was no more than a temporary veneer. The redcoat lines to the right of the windmill had not fled at the sight of the columns. Soon the rat-a-tat of the drums would be drowned by the massed volleys of the enemy.
The Black Lions were certain to be needed; the only question was, when?
Rosendael: 8th September 1793
The French had attacked along the length of the British lines. Around the heavy siege batteries, the remnants of two battalions lay dead or dying. Mid-way through the morning, Krombach and Trevethan watched as a dragoon from the 11th raced past the battery’s position, no doubt in search of the Duke. Trevethan told the young Hanoverian to remain at his post and disappeared in the direction of the dragoon’s path, returning some twenty minutes later.
“Everything all right, sir?”
Trevethan gave Krombach a sideways look.
“No m’boy to be blunt, they ain’t. The French are attacking ‘ere, they are doing God knows what to your boys somewhere on the other side of the moor and now they are attacking the Guards battalion at Teteghem. Look.” He knelt and smoothed over a large patch of sand, drawing an egg shape on its side and above that, a series of wavy lines.
“The oval there, that’s the Great Moor and them lines is the sea.”
On the left hand from the sea to the tip of the oval he drew two parallel lines; at the end of each he punched a thick finger into the sand.
“We are here,” he pointed to the whole on the parallel nearest the sea, “the Guards and the French are there. If they break into the Guards position, we can expect a few thousand unfriendly visitors. Meanwhile,” Trevethan scratched a giant X on the far side of the egg shape, “your lads are here and as yet no one knows what’s going on.”
“But the Duke has sent a messenger surely?”
“Yes, around this way.” Trevethan drew a path that looped around the right-hand end of the egg, “but it will take the rider a long time to reach there and whatever news he brings will be hours old by the time he gets back.”
Krombach looked down at the picture.
“You know I could cross the Moor, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Did you tell the Duke that?”
“No Sebastian, I didn’t. Frankly, if the French are attacking here and Teteghem, I think they are attacking somewhere on the far side of the moor too. I don’t know what I’d be sending you into.”
“Major, I’m not really sure I have been very helpful to you so far. I mean, we haven’t even started besieging Dunkirk.”
“And if the French get on the other side of our lines before we can move this lot,” Trevethan waved his good arm in the direction of the artillery, “we never will.”
“So, let me go. I will find the Hanoverians.”
Trevethan mulled the idea over. Riding around the moor was three to four hours; Krombach had crossed it in little over an hour on several occasions.
“Take a message to whoever is in charge. Tell them that the French are attacking our lines here and at Teteghem. Explain that if Teteghem falls, the siege will fail. If they are in battle, as I suspect they might be, find me or the Duke. And Krombach, don’t get yourself killed, that really would be most inconvenient to me.” The Cornishman winked with a false bravado, aware that he was sending the boy into the unknown.
The journey felt as if it was taking longer than it should, Krombach became nervous that he had taken a wrong turning. Watercourses were flooded and he had to detour around the route that had become familiar, leaving the track that led to Furnes and taking one south that led to the plains on which the Hanoverians had been camped. As he did, the distant sounds of thunder which had been heard earlier became identifiable as cannon-fire, the sound far stronger to his right than to his left.
He scanned the landscape and tried to recall some of the few more useful points that Bisette, the Captain of the Uhlans Britannique, had made about scouting. Avoid pasture with a blue tinge for it showed the grass was waterlogged, was the only point of any note he could recall. Dark-green grass represented firmer, dry soil but there was none of that, just muddied waterlogged land, grass stripped bare by flash flooding along the undulations of the moor. Krombach shortened the reins and sat back, halting the horse and then rose in his stirrups to study the landscape. A long line of straight hedgerow caught his eye, no more than half a mile away. The canal that led into Furnes had a similar border that ran along it. If this was the same canal then he had found a way across the Great Moor. In the distance beyond was a village wreathed in smoke, dense dark patches of men, horses and tricolours catching the light of midday. If he kept the canal between himself and the enemy, he could find a crossing point behind the village and find someone in charge.
Picking a careful path for his mount he made the hedgerow where he found the ground much firmer going. On the far side of the canal hundreds of French soldiers stood idly. Even with his bright red uniform he had attracted little attention, one or two even waving at the horseman, to which he, rather sheepishly, waved a hand in acknowledgement. He slowed the horse from a canter to a walk to assess the land ahead.
The canal branched and the confluence that spurred to the right disappeared into a wood that was being contested. Beyond the junction in the waterway, a Hanoverian artillery piece was firing grape shot into the tree-line now held by the French. He spurred the horse to a trot but before he had travelled half the distance, cries of ‘Wer da?’ rang out and three schutzen infantrymen from a regiment that he did not recognise, emerged from some low scrub and levelled muskets at him.
“Krombach from the 10th; I bring a message for General Wallmoden. Where can I find the General?”
Hondschoote: 8th September 1793
The captain watched the horse skid on the wet turf, its rider dismount in haste and pound up the series of wooden steps that led to the windmill, disappearing into the black interior of the building that Wallmoden was using to view the battlefield. The French batteries had made a vain attempt to destroy the building earlier in the morning before turning to the meatier targets of the close ranked Hanoverian infantry. Two attacks had been made, beaten back with increasing degrees of difficultly as desperation mounted on both sides. Brandt turned to examine the positions that his company held. Second Battalion was part of the reserve and soon they would be called upon.
Wallmoden sat on a stool with a telescope perched on a grain sack, surveying the action through a short field telescope, a plump man of thinning hair and a face creased with the strains of command. At the announcement of one of his aides that a messenger from the Duke of York had arrived, Wallmoden gently closed the telescope and examined a pocket watch that lay open amongst ears of corn.
“My, that is good timing. The Duke has got my message already and sent a reply? Did you have wings, man?” Wallmoden smiled at the muddied soldier in the redcoat of a Hanoverian and the dragoon trousers of a British cavalryman.
“Well what have we here? That is the spirit, eh. Symbolising the union between great nations with your uniform, lad. Damn fine idea. Now what does the Duke reply?”
Krombach wasn’t quite sure where to begin. The last couple of hours he had spent trying to pick his way across the Great Moor, at no point had he thought about anything other than delivering the message. That Wallmoden might ask a completely different question had left him a little perplexed. Honesty seemed the best policy.
“I’m not actually from the Duke, Sir.”
“No? This is all very strange! If not the Duke, then who sent you?”
“Major Trevethan, Sir. Engineer to the Duke of York; overseeing the siege at Dunkirk.”
“Very well and what is the Major’s message?”
Krombach imparted the words of Trevethan and informed the General that at the time of his passage across the Great Moor, no message had yet reached the Duke.
“Hmmm, most irregular! But then some might say my own conduct has been most irregular...” The General fiddled
with the telescope as he spoke ignoring the puzzled look on Krombach’s face.
“My intention…What is your name again?”
“Krombach, sir. Tenth Regiment, 2nd Battalion.”
“Ah, one of Neuberg’s men. That might explain something, at least. You must have passed them on the way here. They are part of my reserve.”
Krombach’s heart leapt, so much so that he almost forgot to listen to the words of Wallmoden.
“My intention, young Krombach is to stand my ground. The French are about make a third attack of the day and I dare say we will see it off; very unimaginative fellows, these French. We can do nothing about Teteghem but we can certainly do our part here. Get a meal inside you and wait for my word. You will return across the Moor again?”
“Yes, sir; it’s the quickest way.”
“Then I shall try and give you an hour of light at least. It is a little after two now. This battle will be settled in the next three hours I would think. Come to me then and I will give you a message for the Duke. Stay close to this position and do not get yourself involved in the fighting. I know how hot-headed you lads can be.”
With that the audience clearly over, Wallmoden returned to his telescope and ushered an aide to his side, who stood ready to take down a fresh command. Krombach made his way down from the top of the building, out into the fresh air and the crash and din of a battle that had suddenly sprung into reality around him.
“Krombach!”
He heard a voice calling him and then saw Captain Brandt motioning towards him, Krombach tumbled down the last couple of steps and bowled over to his captain like an excited spaniel. Only when he had imparted the situation to Brandt did he think about Reifener and Pinsk.
“In there,” Brandt pointed to the windmill, “rather under there. Go and have a look by all means but for God’s sake…”
“Don’t get killed, Sir?”
“Well, it would involve a lot of explaining and be bad for my career, I suspect.” Brandt jested. “Where are you going now?” Brandt asked as Krombach headed in a different direction to the windmill, pacing quickly towards the horse that had found a patch of grass to graze on.
The King of Dunkirk Page 29
