“Just got to hope that this dew don’t spoil the charge. Otherwise we have a tricky issue on our hands.”
Krombach peered towards the battery; barrels of powder, pyramids of spherical shot and cylindrical rounds of canister were packed in tightly between every part of the nearest field piece and he imagined that the rest had received a similar treatment. Thirty feet away, worried looking redcoats were crouched waiting for the word to retire from the walls they had spent days preparing, towards the relative safety of the remains of the British camp.
“So why are you here?”
“I got sent by one of the Duke’s staff, Henson-Jefferies, to Teteghem. Orders had not been sent for the Guards to withdraw. I will explain later sir. It has been a long day.”
“I should say boy. It’s past two in the morning. Start of a new day and I doubt that this one will be any shorter. Henson-Jefferies, eh? Think I might have to risk being sent home, just to have the satisfaction of punching the living daylights out of him. Here, help me with this, me shoulder is aching.”
Krombach bent over and relieved Trevethan of the barrel just as a trickle of musketry peeled into the night.
“That’s all we need, another French attack. Keep going boy, a few more paces. There will do, trail it around here.” Trevethan pointed to a low wall. “Keep it away from that.” He pointed at an artilleryman’s slow match, its glowing end resting on a stone.
“We should be safe enough here.”
“Should be?”
“It’s not an exact science, blowing a battery sky high. Besides, I specialise in building roads, remember. I’ve been making this up as I go along for the last few months but don’t tell anyone for God’s sake!”
Trevethan sealed the top back on the small barrel and hurled it in the general direction of the battery, wincing in agony as he did. With his left hand he patted down his blue jacket and then reached into it with a stiff right arm to retrieve a whistle.
“Three blows on this and our lads will clear the walls. We light the trail and if we survive the blast, we can get going.” The Cornishman gave Krombach a wink which did little to fill the Hanoverian with any confidence.
“I’m glad you didn’t stay in Furnes, boy. Who would want to miss this excitement?” The Cornish engineer chuckled and then blew three deep rasps of the whistle, right in the direction of Krombach’s ear.
“Sorry…” the Cornishman chuckled, “if you think that was loud though, wait for this.”
Trevethan raised his head over the wall to see figures scurrying back and moments later others appearing on the far side of the wall.
“Pass me that,” Trevethan pointed to the slow match.
Carefully Krombach handed it over. Trevethan seizing the middle and then putting the light to the pool of powder beside him. Instantly it fizzled into life and sent a trail of light snaking towards the battery.
About twenty feet short the light spluttered and died.
“Arse and Buggery!” Trevethan hissed. “You know whose fault that is, boy? Congreve, that’s who. Been Master of the Gunpowder mills for ten years and we still can’t get the stuff right. Cock!”
Trevethan slumped heavily behind the wall.
“Where’s your musket?”
“On the horse, sir, Why?”
Trevethan reached inside of his coat unhooking a pistol from his right side and then a second from his left, grimacing with pain and then passing Krombach a leather bag of powder and balls.
“Here, load these. Quick as you can,” Trevethan ordered; Krombach set to work.
“It’s not Congreve’s fault. Ground is too damp. I thought it might happen. Hoped it wouldn’t of course but…never mind.” Trevethan rubbed his stiff right shoulder. The bandage had slipped and he could feel the warmth of blood trickling down the inside of his arm.
Krombach handed him the first pistol that he had loaded and then worked on the second.
“If this doesn’t work, would you do me a favour, Sebastian?”
Krombach paused the drill of loading the firearm, “Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Write to my sister for me. I was never very good at keeping her up to date with events. Now hand me the pistol, if you please?”
“What are you planning to do?”
“Fire them into the barrels, of course?”
“What? That’s stupid! You would have to be ten feet away not to miss in this light.” Krombach raised his head over the wall. “Beside you said only this distance was safe enough.”
Musketry rang out, louder now.
The French had scaled the walls and there were figures scrambling over the guns. He turned to face Trevethan and pass over the second weapon but the Cornishman was already lumbering back towards the battery.
“No… Major… wait.”
Krombach sprang forward, his legs feeling heavy in the sand. He watched as Trevethan ducked past the bayonet of one man and dodged another by throwing his shoulder high into the Frenchman’s face, the crack of nose-bone audible as Krombach trailed in Trevethan's wake. The brilliant light from the frizzen of a musket ahead blinded Krombach momentarily: Trevethan’s body trembled and sank to the ground.
From the pitch of night another blue-coat rushed onto him and fired at close range, dark red blood erupting from Trevethan’s neck. With animal fury he rose and drove a head butt into the face of the assailant who was too dazed to react. The Cornishman staggered another three paces, raised his arm, discharged the pistol then collapsed. Krombach saw other figures running from the shadows of the battery to close in on the major. Without thinking Krombach fired his own pistol straight at the nearest man and ran to Trevethan, burrowing himself under the weight of the collapsed engineer to lever him off the ground and return to the shelter of the wall. Muscles screaming in agony, Krombach pushed upwards with all his might.
A fierce white light pierced the night and illuminated the ground around him; a dozen French soldiers ahead of the two men froze in blinded awe. The ground shook and the force of the explosion punched him downward, sucking the air from his lungs. The dead-weight of Trevethan pinned him to the ground and heat, a hundred times fiercer than the inferno at Rumes, washed over Krombach as he slid into darkness.
HMS Thunder: near Dunkirk 9th September 1793
Thunder had made good progress. Dowdes was keen to keep the lamp from Racehorse well within his sights, knowing that Argosy would be able to match the speed of the Mortar vessel; besides the words of McManus had stung. The Thunder might handle like a dog, but she was his dog and no other man had the right to criticise her. When the moment came, Thunder would smash the walls around Dunkirk and bring the city to heel in the way that a thousand Racehorses could only dream of.
He had taken one pace away from the rail intent on issuing a fresh instruction when the whole of the headland east of Dunkirk lit up, followed by an explosion which sent fire high into the night sky. The echoes of the explosion shook the night sky. Crewmen ducked for cover and Dowdes flinched at the ferocity of the blast. Then the flames died back to be replaced by a sky alight with the distant glow of a dozen funeral pyres.
From below came the sound of dozens of footsteps as the compliment of the ship’s crew not on duty, spilt out onto the deck to view the spectacle. In a few moments Summersdale was at the side of his senior, staring aghast at the skyline.
“Our side or theirs, Sir? Either way, I pity the devils underneath that.”
“See those lights? Dunkirk is over there, Mr Summersdale.” Dowdes pointed further along the coast at lights that glinted out of the darkness.
“Then it’s our lads, Sir?”
“We will watch for a signal from Racehorse, Mr Summersdale. If there is none and we proceed with the current arrangement, make sure that every jack is armed. You land at dawn and by my calculations you have no more than twenty minutes before the tide turns and you will be fighting a strong current to escape the shore. Keep your wits about you. The faintest sniff that all is not right, get off that beac
h.”
‘At home on Land or Sea’, Summersdale had told his father on the day of the purchase of his commission. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach that in the next few hours he would feel safe on neither.
Rosendael: 9th September 1793
It had taken all his remaining energy to move Trevethan’s body and Krombach had rolled from underneath and then laid out flat on his back watching a starlit sky joined by a thousand embers which glowed a rich amber as they were propelled from the fires that burned from the wreckage of the battery. In the dark he had held the engineer’s arm, whispering through a scorched throat that he would not leave his friend until help arrived. He patted the left-hand side of his tunic and felt for his water-bottle but it was gone; Krombach drifted into unconsciousness.
He woke with a start, a dream of agony and fire. Pulling himself up, he surveyed the ruin of landscape around him. The Guards officer’s horse, once a beautiful bay brown, was slumped on its side, killed instantly by the blast. Around him a dozen scorched bodies, impossible to tell friend from foe. Curious gulls had come to settle near the bodies but these were the only sign of life. Tangled in the saddle cloth of the dead animal were his musket and water bottle. The pounding in his skull combined with the dryness in his throat compelled him to crawl across the dew-soaked marram grass, unsettling a couple of the birds who rose into the morning breeze, screeching an alarm.
Standing upright, he planted a boot on the horse’s flank, feeling the rib cage sink a little, as he levered bottle and musket free. Warm, slick water rushed into his mouth, dislodging the filth that had been inhaled in the blast. He coughed heavily, spewing phlegm and water back up before wiping his mouth on the dirty green cuff of his jacket and trying again. The second attempt was a greater success and as he felt the relief, a thought crossed his mind that he should keep some water and take it to Trevethan.
Krombach looked at the body.
He drank again, draining the last of the bottle in a silent toast and then looped the empty cask back over his torso. Trudging back to Trevethan's corpse, he sat down. The sky was fast losing the dark of night; a cloudless sky would bring a bright crisp morning within half an hour. Krombach rested back a little in the depression in the ground which had saved his life from the explosion. Trevethan had shielded him from the heat of the blast. The Cornishman lay face down in the soil and Krombach struggled to roll the body over so that a dead friend might at least enjoy the warmth of dawn but the ground was damp, the sand thick and cloying. All that he succeeded in doing was dislodging a handful of silver coins. Exhausted, he gave up and let his friend be.
Instead he turned his mind to the musket. All seemed in working order until he noticed the large plug of sandy earth that had deposited into the barrel; it would need cleaning before another shot could be fired in anger.
Settling back, Krombach gave himself a moment to consider what to do next. The thought of capture and not knowing if or when he would see his home, family and Maren again was motivation enough. While he could walk, he would continue. His duty as a King’s German and the need to tell of Trevethan’s selflessness settled the matter.
The only direction that made sense was east, into the rising sun. West was Dunkirk and south was Teteghem. The Foot Guards had left hours ago and the French would be masters of the land.
North was the sea. Perhaps he could use the dunes for cover but the sand would sap what little energy he had.
East, along the canal; perhaps find a boat to head the dozen miles to Furnes. The sound of hooves and voices cut through his thoughts, he slunk into the ground, turning slowly and tried to see who approached.
The cavalry had patrolled the dunes throughout the night. When two dozen redcoats had tried to escape the frenzy of the ruined battery, they had run headlong into the dragoons who had sabred the men, sparing none.
In the darkness there had been no order to follow the British. The balance of the dragoons had returned to the relative comforts of Dunkirk, leaving patrols to watch east for the signs of enemy forces.
The sighting of the three ships had changed the course of the morning for one of the patrols who had been busily looting. While there were no scruples from looting bodies of comrades, blue-coats were equal only in their poverty; the British foot-sloggers were kings in comparison.
Two troopers remained mounted, while a third soldier skilfully conducted the looting. Krombach heard a series of barked instructions but could not follow the words. A horse turned and trotted away, a second drew closer, a man’s footsteps accompanying the heavy padding of hooves.
More agitated words from the mounted figure, perhaps twenty or thirty yards away. Breathing slowly, Krombach was sure he heard the words ‘British ships’, his French strong enough to determine that and little else. He tried to think of the date. The bombardment of Dunkirk was today; the fleet was due. Perhaps it had arrived?
The footsteps were close now. He lay face down; eyes fractionally open so that the world around him became a watery blur.
Nearby a horse breathed heavily and then tore at what little patches of grass grew in the poor soil. A pair of boots approached five or six feet away. The figure had spotted something, crouching to claw at the ground and silently cursing.
The coins: it must have been the money that had tumbled from Trevethan’s jacket. Another tirade of curses and pad of footsteps neared. He could hear the man kick at a couple of corpses nearby.
Then he could hear the Frenchman’s heavy breath.
Krombach's side exploded in pain as the toe end of a dragoon’s boot was driven hard into his ribs but he absorbed the agony and remained motionless. He expected a second blow or the point of a blade to follow: neither came.
Instead the boots turned and paced back to Trevethan’s corpse to try and lever the body and liberate the coins that were just visible. Two gloves fell on the ground. Krombach opened his eyes enough to focus. The horseman, a dragoon, was scrambling in the dirt, trying to lever the corpse over. The man had stopped, perhaps he considered calling to his colleague, but greed got the better of him. He removed his brass helmet with its long black horsehair plume and wedged himself under the body to try again to free any remaining coins.
The dragoon’s head was turned away from Krombach and the Hanoverian knew that now was his moment. He rose slowly; the horse, a few paces from him, raised its head, paced a nervous step and then returned to grazing. Krombach slowly reached for the musket, grabbed it by the stock and took one pace towards the prone Frenchman.
Remy Pasquier, 6th Dragoon trooper and master pillager, turned his head back at the sound of his horse’s movement and saw a man he had taken for dead loom over him.
Krombach drove the brass butt down with all his force, crushing one side of the Frenchman’s face and then sank to the ground to stifle any possible cries and wait to see if the remaining mounted figure had noticed the brief struggle.
There was silence.
The mounted figure hissed the urgent demand to his now dead colleague. Krombach, mumbled a reply and considered his next move. He could see why the other Frenchman was agitated. In the distance a column of dragoons was approaching, no doubt the officer who led it would not condone the activities of looters. Turning east, he could see another patrol of three dragoons approaching fast and, in that moment, knew his course of action.
He slipped his hand around one of the reins and smoothed the face of the horse, talking quietly to it. Then he reached down and took the dragoon’s helmet and placed it clumsily on his head and reached for the straps of the waxed riding cape that was folded into the horse furniture at the rear of the saddle. At least he might look like a dragoon as he rode past the approaching patrol.
Krombach looked at his own musket, considering whether to leave it but it seemed one of the few links left to the battalion. Sentiment won out and he walked quickly around to the other side of the horse, removed the dragoon musket that sat in a special holster and wedged the Brown Bess firmly into the saddl
e. Awkwardly, he mounted and then spurred the animal away from British lines, heading for the cover of the dunes and on towards Teteghem.
The cries of the sergeant calling him back were lost on the morning winds. He nodded in salute to the other patrol as he passed them then spurring his animal into a canter, keen not to appear too rushed.
Only when he had ridden for a couple of minutes, did he dare look around. Then he saw the three ships and the two small boats drawing close to the surf. He pulled the horse to a walk and checked behind him. He was not being followed. Instead the column of dragoons was filtering into the defiles that would lead to the beach.
Whoever was coming ashore would be slaughtered before they ever made it across the three hundred yards of sand from the surf to the dunes.
Dunkirk Beach: 9th September 1793
The nagging doubts in Summersdale’s mind were urging him to return to the jolly boat, which floated lazily on the dying inshore tide. A dozen of the crew of the Thunder worked on the small craft in silence while his command of Royal Marines formed up into a column of twos and waited for the order. The jolly boat from the Racehorse, with her compliment of Marines was still three minutes away, struggling in the heavy swell and fading off-shore current. There were thirty minutes at best until the tide began to turn, for safety Summersdale had allowed twenty minutes. The coxswain had warned of a ‘Lee tide’, where the jolly boats would be fighting the turning current and the strong breeze that would hamper a hasty escape.
“Follow me, eyes peeled lads.”
There was no time to wait. He needed to move and sensed that his men wanted the certainty of orders. Apart from sea service muskets, the Marines carried water and ammunition on their white cross-belts but still the long stretch of sand sapped at the calf muscles of men confined to ship for more than a week. The dunes, which screened the headland, were still two-hundred yards away.
The King of Dunkirk Page 32
