Young Bloods

by Simon Scarrow

  Chapter 83

  September 1794

  The counter-attack on Boxtel, had been a disaster, just as Arthur had expected. Several regiments strung out across the sodden fields around the fortified town had crept forward under cover of darkness to retake the town from the French. But the orders for the attack had overlooked the question of co-ordination of effort, and each unit had advanced on its own initiative once the initial exchange of shots between skirmishers had begun.The result was a piecemeal attack, which the enemy had had no difficulty in containing and then throwing back with heavy losses for the British side. General Sir Hugh Wilson had made no attempt to try to win back control over the assault and had refused to call off the attack long after it was clear that it had been a costly failure. As the wan glow of dawn crept across the land the attackers finally pulled back from Boxtel, leaving the ground in front of its defences littered with dead and dying redcoats. General Wilson and his staff officers had simply ridden away to establish, so they said, a new headquarters a safe distance from the enemy. He left orders that the rest of his force was to fall back on his position as best they could.

  At first light the French had sortied from their defences, driving back the redcoats with ease, and their general, possessing all the courage and initiative that Sir Hugh so clearly lacked, immediately went on to the offensive, hurling the British back. Arthur had recently been entrusted with the command of a brigade, consisting of the 33rd Foot and the 42nd Foot, and now they were covering the retreat of their comrades as they streamed back along the road from Boxtel.

  There was a brief lull in the fighting an hour after dawn, and Arthur cautiously rode forward to look for any sign of the enemy. As he trotted his horse along the grass verge at the side of the road to muffle the sound of its hoofs, he saw that the way was littered with discarded equipment and weapons. Here and there a wounded man was desperately trying to escape the enemy and rejoin his comrades.Those no longer able to move lay and waited, wholly at the mercy of the revolutionaries whose reputation for committing atrocities was the talk of the allied armies. There was nothing Arthur could do for them, and he tried to ignore the pleas for help that some called out to him as he scanned the road ahead for any sign of the enemy.

  He was, as best he could estimate it, a mile ahead of his brigade when he reined in and reached for his spyglass. He snapped it open and squinted into the eyepiece. Nothing. He continued looking as his mind began to reflect on the abysmal progress that had been made on this campaign (so far). The skirmish at Ondrecht had set the tone for the months that followed. After Lord Moira had joined up with the Duke of York outside Antwerp there had followed one retreat after another.The failures of senior officers were compounded at every turn by the disorganisation and downright corruption of those bodies of men who were supposed to support and supply the British Army. The Duke of York, who commanded the army, was only three years older than Arthur and while he had some flair and meant well, he simply lacked the drive to do what was necessary to save his men from the effects of corruption and incompetence. Arthur frowned. God above! This was no way to fight a war. No way at all. At this rate Mr Pitt might as well throw in his hand and offer the revolutionaries the head of King George on a platter.

  There was movement on the track ahead of him, and as he directed his spyglass to the spot Arthur saw the head of a column of infantry emerge from a small wooded hill standing between him and Boxtel. An officer rode forward to take up position at the head of the column and Arthur smiled at the array of gold ribbon the man had on his coat.What the French commanders lacked in refinement they more than made up for with vanity. He waited a moment, until the first horse teams emerged from the wood, drawing cannon behind them. But there was no sign of cavalry. Not yet, at least.Very well, Arthur nodded to himself. He would make his stand on the ground he had chosen for the brigade at first light.With luck they would hold the French off long enough for the rest of the army to reform. He snapped the spyglass shut, slipped it back into his saddlebag and wheeled his horse round.

  The small group of staff officers looked round at the sound of an approaching horse. Half an hour earlier the colonel had left them with orders to deploy the brigade astride the crossroads, before riding off along the rutted mire of the road towards the enemy. The men had tramped into line and now the dense ranks of the redcoats rippled across the rolling pastureland on either side of the junction.The colonel had chosen the spot well: the left flank was anchored by a patch of soft polder, and the right fetched up against a large copse of elm trees on a small hillock. The French, if they came, would not be able to use their cavalry to flank the British line. Instead they would be forced to launch a frontal assault if they were to break through. Ahead of the British line the ground sloped down and disappeared into a soupy mist that rolled off the polder and across the road.

  The redcoats stood in silence, the butts of their muskets resting on the ground. After the brisk march to take up their present position their bodies had worked up some heat and now a thin milky vapour lazily dissipated above their black hats.

  As the officers stared towards the sound of the approaching horse, a figure abruptly materialised from the mist. Colonel Wesley urged his mount towards them.The mare had been ridden hard and its flanks were flecked with foam. He reined in and slid stiffly from the saddle, handing the reins to his groom.

  ‘Any word from headquarters?’

  Captain Fitzroy stepped forward. ‘No, sir. Nothing.’

  Arthur glanced back down the road. ‘Damn . . .’

  As soon as he had received word of the approach of the enemy column the previous evening he had sent a young subaltern galloping back to headquarters to request reinforcements, and some artillery to support the army’s rearguard. Headquarters would have received the message several hours before dawn broke, and yet there was no sign of any redcoats marching to their aid, not even any acknowledgement that the message had been received. Arthur angrily clamped his teeth together at yet more proof of the incompetence of those who commanded the expeditionary force.This on top of the failure to send any supplies to his men for the last three days. They had been forced to take what food they could from the locals and now the Dutch townspeople hated the redcoats even more than the French invaders. His men were hungry, hated and, worst of all, short of ammunition. Just enough to face one short skirmish, and then they’d have to retreat, or rout.

  Captain Fiztroy coughed and Arthur looked at him irritably. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir? The French. Are they coming?’

  ‘Oh yes, they’re coming all right. They’ll be here within the half-hour.’

  Fitzroy lowered his voice before he continued. ‘In what strength, sir?’

  Arthur forced himself to smile. ‘Enough to give us a decent chance to show what the brigade can do.’The smile faded. ‘A full division, I’d say.With at least one battery of horse artillery. But no cavalry. At least none that I could see before I turned back.’

  The group of officers glanced at each other anxiously. Even though the 33rd had been blooded at Ondrecht that was the only fight they had been engaged in.The men of the 42rd were nearly all recent recruits, many of them preferring army life, with all its harsh discipline and danger, to the endless toil of scratching a living off the land back in Britain. There were also cutpurses, debtors and other criminals amongst the wretches waiting in the silent ranks stretching out on either side. Once again Arthur wondered if they would hold their ground. So much was riding on that. Not least their survival, and his reputation. Lack of supplies and lack of support would stand for little in the eyes of those who would judge the young colonel. Everything depended upon the officers and men of the brigade holding firm, and putting into effect all the lessons that had been drilled into them over the last few months. The moment of truth would come for all of them when the massed column of the enemy, urged on by the insistent rattle of drums, rolled up the slope towards the thin line of redcoats.

  ‘Looks like you’ve fin
ally got what you wanted,Arthur,’ Fitzroy muttered. ‘Your very own battle.’

  ‘Yes.’ Arthur turned away quickly and beckoned to the brigade quartermaster. ‘Hampton! Up here, man!’

  ‘Sir!’The stocky officer trotted up, and Arthur caught the scent of spirits on his breath as the man drew himself up before his colonel.

  ‘Is there any gin left in the wagons?’

  Hampton gave a lopsided smile as he nodded a shade too emphatically. ‘Plenty, sir.’

  ‘Good. See to it that the men have a tot immediately. I want fire in their bellies when they catch sight of the Frogs.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And a tot for yourself ?’

  Unlike every other officer in the brigade, the colonel abstained from alcohol, a fact that had provoked a degree of amusement and curiosity in his subordinates, who regularly drank themselves insensible as easily as breathing. Arthur was well aware of their bemusement, and took it as further proof of the dire condition of the British Army. While he could accept that the rabble who served in the ranks needed their drink, the gentlemen who commanded them must remain sober and alert in the face of the enemy. He realised that Hampton was still watching him and snapped his fingers.

  ‘Move yourself, man!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ The quartermaster saluted and trotted away towards the small convoy of wagons lining the route beyond the crossroads, calling out to his assistants lounging beside the wagons as they puffed on their clay pipes. His men reluctantly stirred themselves in response to his summons and slouched after him.

  Fitzroy leaned closer to him. ‘Gin? Is that wise?’

  ‘Wise?’ The colonel shrugged. ‘I doubt it will do them any harm, and at least it will help distract them while we wait. Anything to take their minds off the enemy, eh?’

  Fitzroy looked down at his hands and rubbed them together to take the chill off his long fingers. ‘As you wish, sir.’

  The quartermaster’s assistants began to move down the lines of each company. Each man carried a keg of gin under one arm and they paused briefly to pour a measure into each battered mug that was eagerly held out towards them.Arthur watched disdainfully as most of his men downed the fiery spirit in one gulp. Only a few sipped at their mugs as they stared pensively in the direction from which the French would soon appear.

  Suddenly, one of the pickets, just visible on the edge of the mist, turned round and cupped a hand to his mouth.

  ‘Cavalry! Cavalry approaching!’

  For an instant the officers froze and then Fitzroy cocked an eyebrow at his colonel. ‘No cavalry, eh?’

  ‘I didn’t see any at the time,’ Arthur snapped back, before he drew a deep breath to shout out his orders.

  ‘Recall the pickets! Brigade . . . stand to. Prepare to receive cavalry!’

  Chapter 84

  The orders were relayed down the lines by the harsh bawling of the company sergeants, and the redcoats hastily downed the last of their gin and stuffed the battered mugs back into their knapsacks before porting their muskets and waiting for the next order.

  Arthur paused a moment to think. There was precious little powder to waste on cavalry. That must be saved for the infantry. Since the cavalry could not turn the British flanks they would surely be discouraged by a gleaming thicket of cold steel. ‘Fix bayonets!’

  The order was bellowed down the length of the brigade and one company after another rasped the long blades from their scabbards and slotted them on to the end of their muskets. As the clatter and rattle of the manoeuvre filled the cold dawn air, Arthur could hear the first sounds of the approaching enemy: a rolling rumble of hoofs, then the chink of accoutrements buckled to each rider, every sound faintly muffled by the mist. The men who had been posted on picket duty were sprinting back up the gentle slope towards their comrades, casting anxious looks over their shoulders as they ran. Behind them the noise of the approaching enemy swelled and filled the still air.

  ‘Any time now,’ a frightened ensign muttered close behind Arthur. ‘Any time now.’

  Arthur twisted round and shot the boy a withering glance. ‘You, sir! Silence there!’

  The ensign dropped his gaze towards his muddy boots.

  A voice cried out from the ranks. ‘Here they come!’

  The first of the horsemen burst out of the mist. They wore unbuttoned grey greatcoats over their green and red jackets, with high leather boots and oilskin-covered helmets.

  ‘Dragoons,’ muttered Fitzroy.

  ‘Nothing that need cause us undue concern,’ Arthur replied calmly. ‘They’re too light to take us on. Still, we might as well show them that we mean business. Have the men advance their bayonets.’

  Captain Fitzroy called out the order and all along the brigade the front rank lowered their muskets to present the glinting points of their bayonets to the dragoons. The French had been momentarily startled by the suddenness with which they had encountered the redcoats. Now their commander recovered his wits and began to shout out a string of orders. As his men emerged from the mist they moved out each side of the track and formed up opposite the British line, two hundred yards away.

  ‘Surely he’s not going to charge?’ said Fitzroy.

  Arthur shook his head. ‘Not unless the man’s quite mad. No, he’ll just want to fix us here while he sends word back to his general. We’re safe for the moment.’

  ‘And then?’

  Arthur glanced sidelong at his adjutant, and friend.‘Have faith, Richard. Once our lads give them a whiff of shot they’ll bolt like rabbits.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘They will. Trust me.’

  For a while the two sides confronted each other in silence. Then one of the dragoons called out, and several of his comrades jeered. The rest took up the cry and soon the whole enemy line was shouting and whistling in derision.

  ‘What are they saying, sir?’ asked one of the ensigns.

  ‘De Lacy, do you not have any French?’ Arthur smiled. He knew that De Lacy had abstained from learning almost as devoutly as Arthur now abstained from drink. ‘I’d translate for you, but for the embarrassment it would bring to us both. Just be content that it is nothing fit for the ear of a gentleman.’

  Captain Coulter of the grenadier company came striding up towards his colonel. Coulter, despite his rough manner, knew enough of the enemy’s language to take offence and his eyes were blazing with indignation.

  ‘Colonel? Want me to take my boys forward a pace and give the bastards a volley?’

  ‘No, Coulter. Let them waste their breath.While they do us no harm, indulge them.’

  ‘But, sir!’

  Arthur raised a finger to quiet the man. ‘I’ll thank you to return to your post, Captain.’

  Coulter blustered a moment, and blew hard before he turned back towards his men. Some of the redcoats had started to shout insults back at the enemy and Arthur rounded on them furiously.

  ‘Shut your mouths! This is the bloody army, not a Dublin bawdy house! Sergeants, take their names!’

  The soldiers fell silent at once and stared fixedly towards the dragoons as angry men with chevrons on their sleeves stormed down the line in search of miscreants. Arthur nodded with approval as one of the sergeants started screaming into a man’s face and ended the harangue with a sharp punch to the man’s nose. The head snapped back and a flush of blood poured down the man’s chin. A hard but necessary lesson. Arthur was satisfied the man would keep his discipline the next time.

  The catcalls abruptly ceased and Arthur quickly turned his attention towards the enemy. The dragoons were turning away and trotted off to his right, and formed up opposite the wood that protected his flank. Almost at once the first of the French infantry emerged from the thinning mist and marched directly for the centre of the British line. At the side of the column rode the enemy general and his staff officers, and they stopped as soon as they had a clear view of the ground. The French commander let his men close to within a hundred and fifty yards of the redcoats before he gave
the order to halt. Further orders followed at once, and the officers at the head of the division began to marshal their men across the road until they had widened the column to company width.

  Fitzroy glanced round at the British line, two men deep. ‘Sir? Shall we pull in the flank companies?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To firm up our centre, sir. The men will not be able to hold when that column attacks.’

  ‘They won’t have to,’ Arthur replied calmly. ‘It won’t come to that. There are perhaps five or six thousand men out there. But not more than a hundred of them will be able to bring their muskets to bear on us, Fitzroy. In return, every one of the men in the brigade will be able to fire. And we can reload much faster than they. I doubt they’ll even get close enough to use the bayonet.’

  Captain Fitzroy looked at his friend in surprise. The colonel seemed utterly sure of himself, as if the conclusion of the coming fight was foregone. There had been a hint of arrogance in the man’s tone that had gone beyond his usual aristocratic haughtiness and there was an icy touch to the back of the captain’s neck as he sensed that he, his friend and most of the redcoats standing so still and silent might well be dead before the morning was over.

  ‘Arthur . . .’

  ‘Quiet! I think the enemy is about to make his move.’

  A sharp cry rang out from the French column, and an instant later the drums boomed out from close behind the leading companies. An officer, his uniform trimmed with fabulously gaudy gold braid, drew his sword and swept it in an arc so that its point ended up in line with the heart of the British brigade.

  Arthur had mounted his horse and with his staff officers around him and the colours raised behind him, fancied that the Frenchman’s sword was pointing directly at him. He smiled, and muttered, ‘Well, let them just try.’