Young Bloods

by Simon Scarrow

  At once the French column rippled forward, bayonets lowered below the grim faces of the men in the front rank. The pace was slow, as it had to be with the poor level of training that was a feature of most of the revolutionary army. Arthur was aware that what they lacked in training they made up for in spirit, and that was why they must be brought to a halt before they could charge home. At the same time, given the short supply of ammunition, every British volley had to count. That would mean holding fire to the last possible moment, in order to maximise the impact of the hail of British lead and ensure that every bullet had the best chance of finding its target. It would be a close-run thing, he decided. He drew a deep breath and cupped a hand to his mouth.

  ‘On my order, brigade will prepare to fire! Front rank: make ready!’

  All along the line the company commanders moved back behind their men and the dark barrels of the Brown Bess muskets swept forward and were trained on the head of the advancing enemy column. At the sight the leading Frenchmen seemed to pause for an instant before the officer gave a shrill cry of encouragement and flourished his glinting blade at the redcoats once again. The column lurched forward again, no more than a hundred yards away now.

  Arthur forced himself to sit still and regard the oncoming enemy with no hint of an expression on his face. Inside he felt his pulse pounding with excitement and terror. And yet for all the tension and danger, he was surprised to find that he was supremely content and happy. Right now, there was no place on this earth that he would rather be. An image of Kitty Pakenham flashed into his mind and there was some small satisfaction that if he died today, the pain of his loss might be a small revenge on her for refusing to marry him. He dismissed the thought at once.

  ‘Cock your weapons!’

  A chorus of clicks sounded along the line as the men thumbed back the musket firing hammers; the sound almost drowned out by the crashing roll of the French drums beating out the pas de charge. They were only eighty yards away now and Arthur could see the taut expressions on the faces of the leading men. Even as he watched, one of them raised his musket and fired at once. A flash, a puff of smoke and a whipping sound as the ball passed some distance above Arthur’s head. Beside him, Fitzroy flinched.

  ‘Give the order, Arthur.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  The column tramped forwards, and now the redcoats could see the endless mass of blue uniforms stretching out behind until the enemy ranks were swallowed up by the mist. Arthur was thankful that the rest of them were hidden from his men’s view. More shots were fired from the head of the column and the first casualty of the engagement gave a sharp cry and toppled back a short distance from Arthur.

  ‘Steady lads!’ he called out as calmly as possible. ‘Hold your fire.’

  When the enemy had closed another ten yards Fitzroy could no longer contain himself.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Arthur! Give the order.’

  ‘Quiet, damn you!’ he hissed back. ‘Control yourself, man!’

  He waited a moment longer, then raised his arm stiffly. ‘Ready!’

  The cry echoed along the line. There was a brief moment of silence as even the French braced themselves for the first volley.

  ‘Fire!’

  In little more than a second, hundreds of firing hammers slammed down on to their firing pans and ignited the charges in the long musket barrels. Orange flashes spat out from the muzzles and a swirling white blanket engulfed the space immediately in front of the British line. From his vantage point atop his horse, Arthur stood in his stirrups and saw the front ranks of the French column disintegrate as men were struck down in a broad swathe, and those behind stopped dead. By some miracle the heavily braided officer survived the volley, but his cockaded hat was snatched off his head and carried back ten paces before it struck the ground. For a moment he was too stunned to react; then he turned on his men and urged them on, over the bodies of their dead and injured comrades. Behind them the drums rattled out the advance and the column edged forwards.

  No time had been wasted on the British side and as soon as the first volley was discharged the men in the front rank began to reload their muskets. They snatched out a paper cartridge, biting the end off and saving a fraction of the powder for the firing pan before the rest went down the barrel, and was rammed home. Then the ball was inserted and packed down on top.The veterans were quickest and held their arms ready in less than twenty seconds.

  ‘Rear rank ready!’ Arthur called out, and waited for the order to be repeated down the line. ‘Fire!’

  The second volley crashed out and once again stopped the French column dead, no more than twenty-five yards away - so close that Arthur could see every detail as a ball struck a man in the face; his head snapping back amid a red haze. Arthur instantly dismissed the image and bellowed out his next order.

  ‘Fire by companies!’

  The shattering impact of the first two massed volleys now gave way to rolling fire that rippled along the British line with almost no interval and the heavy musket balls progressively shredded the foremost ranks of the enemy column. Only a handful of shots were fired in return and Arthur was glad to see no more than a score of his men were down.

  ‘Keep it up lads!’ Fitzroy was yelling close by, his voice tight with excitement. ‘Keep it up!’

  Over the acrid cloud of burned gunpowder, Arthur saw that the road ahead of him was heaped with blue-uniformed bodies. And still the enemy officer survived, even though a ball had creased his scalp and a sheet of blood flowed down his face and spattered the white facings on his uniform. He was screaming at his men to charge home, but as each wave of men struggled to clamber over the growing tangle of French bodies, they in turn were struck down and added to the obstacle. More than a hundred men were already dead and dying, and still they came on, shouting with foolhardy courage as they threw themselves at the muzzles of the redcoats’ muskets. Arthur could only wonder at the suicidal valour of the revolutionaries. They had to be mad, he told himself. Only madness could make men take such punishment. And still they came on. Still they died, dozens at a time.

  At last the charmed life of the French officer could no longer defy the terrible odds and two or three bullets struck him in the chest and hurled him back on to the ground. His sword spun a few feet to one side before the point embedded itself in the soft ground and it wavered from side to side for a moment. A groan rose up from the French ranks and suddenly they were no longer moving forward to take the place of their dead and injured comrades. As the withering British fire continued to strike them down, the French infantry began to back away, a step at a time at first, then more hurriedly until the column receded down the slope and then disintegrated into a formless mass along the fringes of the mist. The drums fell silent

  ‘Cease fire!’ Arthur called out. ‘Cease fire, damn you!’

  It took a while for the order to be passed along the line, and enforced by the sergeants, before the rattle of musketry died away. After the dreadful din of the volleys there was a sudden hush over the battlefield, broken by the groans and cries of the injured, who writhed feebly amid the bodies heaped a short distance in front of the British line. The thrill and excitement that had burned in Arthur’s veins moments earlier turned to shame and disgust as he beheld the carnage through the thinning smoke. He had no idea it could look like this. So many brave fellows in their fine uniforms mangled and torn apart. He felt faint for an instant and tore his gaze away. Beyond the pile of bodies he could see the French general and his staff surveying the scene.Their shock was palpable, even at this distance. For a moment they were still. Then the general reached a hand up and doffed his cap at the British line, before turning his horse away and following his men back into the mist.

  ‘Good God,’ Fitzroy said quietly. ‘We did it. We turned them back.’

  ‘For now,’ Arthur replied. ‘They’ll return. Next time you can be sure they’ll use their artillery on us before throwing another column forward.’ He turned his head and looked a
t the low ground behind the British line. ‘If only we had a hill or fold in the land to shelter the men. That and another brigade or two, and some artillery of our own and we could hold them here indefinitely.’

  ‘You’re wishing for the moon, Arthur,’ said Fitzroy bitterly. ‘We’re on our own. So we had better quit this place, before the Frogs can turf us off it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Arthur nodded, unable to hide his disappointment. ‘Tell Coulter he’s got the rearguard duty. Have the rest of the brigade form up on the road.We’ll have to fall back towards headquarters. That’s all we can do now. Still,’ he mused as he stared at the dead enemy officer, sprawled on his back, ‘it’s been most instructive. Most instructive indeed.’

  Fitzroy stared at him, then laughed.

  The colonel stiffly drew himself up in the saddle. ‘What’s so confoundedly funny?’

  ‘It’s you, Arthur.’ Fitzroy bit down on his hysteria, now that he could see that he had pricked his friend’s pride. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that you have a peculiar way of reacting to events at times. “Most instructive.” Why, Arthur, anyone would think you were on some school playing field, not a battlefield.’

  The young colonel eyed him seriously for a moment. ‘There’s more truth in that than you know.’

  Chapter 85

  The redcoats were pushed back relentlessly, across the Meuse, then across the Waal, where they finally had a line of defence that even the wild enthusiasm of the revolutionary armies could not overcome.There, the exhausted British soldiers sat in their camps and kept watch on the enemy across the wide expanse of the river.The main bulk of the French army then turned east, rolling up the Austrian forces and hurling them back across the Rhine as the tricolour rose above the city of Cologne. Despite news of such defeats the British could only feel relief that the weight of the enemy forces had been transferred to the hapless Austrians. It was strange, Arthur mused, that he felt it himself: a sense of satisfaction that their allies were being punished for their tardiness in fighting the French, and their wilful abandonment of the Duke of York and his men. At the same time, the wider situation looked hopeless for the allies, though they were allies only in name now. The diplomatic bickering over the financial aid Britain should contribute and the disagreements over the eventual spoils of war continued even though defeat followed defeat.

  A sorry business indeed, Arthur reflected, as he made the morning inspection of his brigade, stretched out along the Waal in a series of small forts and redoubts. His men looked tired and filthy. Despite not having had to march anywhere in the last two months, they were on constant alert for any attempt by the French to cross the Waal and had been called out of their tents and bunkers every time the alarm had been sounded by a nervous sentry. Supplies of food were sporadic and even when they did turn up the measures were always short, or the meat and biscuits were rotting and barely edible. The men of the Royal Waggon Corps were having a fine war of it, skimming off the best supplies and selling them on the black markets in The Hague and Amsterdam. Meanwhile, Arthur and his men went hungry. Most of his officers saw to it that they were well fed, but he endured what his men endured and made sure they knew it.The result was trust and loyalty - a rare commodity amongst the regiments strung out along the bank of the Waal.

  As Arthur rode up to the fort commanded by Captain Fitzroy, a pair of sentries rose from the small fire beside the gate and stood to attention. Arthur saluted as he passed between them. Inside the gate the fort was a sea of mud. To one side a soldier, stripped to the waist, was busy hacking strips of flesh from a slaughtered horse and tossing the hunks of meat into wooden tubs. Nearby others were stoking up the fires under some steaming cauldrons. None of them acknowledged the arrival of their commanding officer and for a moment Arthur considered riding across to them to demand the respect he was due. In normal circumstances he might well make this a disciplinary matter. Indeed, he should insist on proper procedure under all circumstances. But today, the cold, grey and wet sapped the spirit of them all, and Arthur could well understand how some armies fell to pieces in such circumstances, if left to endure them for too long. So he ignored them and guided his mount across the sucking quagmire to the timber-framed bunkers that had been erected backing on to the rampart. They served as Fitzroy’s accommodation and headquarters for the two companies of the garrison. Arthur dismounted, squelching down into the mud, and hitched the reins to the rail outside the bunkers. Pushing aside the leather curtain that hung across the entrance, he ducked inside.

  An elderly sergeant was working at a small desk by the light of a lantern and he instantly rose and stood to attention as he saw the colonel.

  ‘Where’s Captain Fitzroy?’

  ‘Outside the fort, sir.’ The sergeant gestured to the side opposite the main gate. ‘Playing cricket.’

  Arthur laughed. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Playing cricket, sir. Officers’ and sergeants’ eleven versus corporals and privates.’

  Arthur stared at the man for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Cricket . . . Hardly the season for it.’

  ‘That’s just what I told ’im, sir.’

  ‘I see.Very well then, you can get back to your work, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Arthur turned round and left the bunker, striding up on to the rampart and along the walkway towards the far side where a small fortified sallyport protruded. To his left the rampart dipped down towards the greasy-looking current of the Waal, swirling lazily past the fort. A quarter of a mile away, on the far bank, was a French observation post, a flimsy-looking timber tower upon which stood a French soldier wrapped in a coat. As Arthur looked the man raised his hat and waved it in greeting.

  ‘Damn impudence!’Arthur muttered, refusing to respond as he quickened his pace. From ahead there was a sudden cry and then a chorus of cheers. As he reached the corner of the fort Arthur could see some men in red jackets scattered over a rough patch of fenced pasture. In one corner a few cattle looked on as they grazed. Captain Fitzroy was talking earnestly to a young ensign, a cricket bat held in his hands as if it was a felling axe. To one side, stood a corporal, grinning as he casually tossed a ball in one hand.

  ‘I’m telling you,’ Fitzroy said loudly,‘that was clearly a no-ball.’

  The ensign shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, the ball was properly bowled.You’re out.’

  ‘Damn it, sir! The man’s arm was not straight when he bowled.’

  ‘The ball was good. And, if I may presume to say, it is bad form to argue with the umpire. Now if you would be so good as to leave the field, sir?’

  Fitzroy glared back and seemed to be on the verge of exploding with rage when he caught sight of his colonel making his way along the rampart to the sallyport.

  ‘Very well, damn you.’ Fitzroy flipped the bat over and held it, handle first to the umpire. ‘But you’ve not heard the last of this, Partridge.’

  He strode across the field towards a pile of coats and snatched one up as he hurried on to the fort and met his commander just as Arthur emerged through the sallyport.

  ‘Morning, sir.’ Fitzroy saluted as he struggled into his greatcoat.

  ‘Good morning.’ Arthur nodded. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘The cricket? Just thought it would do some good for morale. Keep some of the men occupied for a day. There’s not much else to do.’

  ‘No.’ Arthur admitted, with a weary look at the flat landscape.

  ‘I should think the Netherlands in winter is as close as a man can get to a vision of purgatory.’

  Fitzroy chuckled. ‘You’re not wrong there, sir.’

  Arthur smiled back, then his expression grew more serious. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Not good. The men are on half-rations, and I’ve given orders to start eating some of the weaker draught animals. We’ve little enough fodder for them as it is, so they might as well do some good. Any sign of our supplies turning up?’

  ‘No. None at all.’Arthur tugged the collar of hi
s coat up.‘I rode to headquarters yesterday to see what the delay is. Fifteen miles back from the Waal.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a different world.The general and his staff have got themselves a comfortable house with fine grounds. Fires ablaze in every room, fine wines, the best food to be found in this country, as well as the prettiest whores.’

  Fitzroy’s eyebrows flickered in surprise, before envy took hold. ‘Bet those idle bastards are shagging themselves silly.’

  ‘No doubt. But it seems to be about the only thing they are doing. I spoke to the head of the commissariat, once I had prised him off some filly. Told him what we needed. He said he’d see to it as soon as possible. Which means we’ll be lucky if we get any more rations before Christmas.’

  ‘Christmas!’ Fitzroy shook his head and swore softly. ‘I doubt there’ll be anyone but skeletons left in the fort by then. Of course,’ he nodded towards the cows, ‘we could eat them.’

  ‘No. Out of the question.You know the Duke’s recent orders. It’s a court martial for anyone caught looting Dutch property.’

  ‘Just one cow,’ Fitzroy pleaded. ‘We’ll tell the locals it ran into the river and was swept away.’

  ‘No. Don’t even joke about it.’

  ‘Who’s joking?’

  ‘Enough!’ Arthur waved his hand impatiently. ‘Now, tell me, what’s your strength?’

  ‘As of this morning, fifty-three effectives. Eighteen unfit for duty. Twelve of those have typhoid fever and won’t live the week out. I’ve put them in a tent in one corner of the fort to keep them away from the other men. So I’m well under half strength. God help us if the French attack.’

  ‘They won’t. Not with the Waal between us and them.’

  ‘And if it freezes? What then?’

  ‘Then?’ Arthur shook his head slightly. ‘Then, they might just walk in and take what’s left of the Netherlands. Of course, any normal army would stay in its winter quarters and wait for spring. But the French? I just don’t know. They are fighting a new kind of war, and might just continue their offensive the moment they can cross the Waal. So, we had better pray for a mild winter.’