The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  Furnes was a small town which looked more Dutch than French; fortified by thick low walls; circled by a wide canal moat, into which the waterways to Dunkirk, Bergues and Nieuport linked and from which the river Yser flowed west along the plain between Dunkirk and the heights of Mont Cassel. Beyond this a series of field works guarded the roads, manned by Dutch troops who looked thoroughly disinterested in their task and huddled for shelter from a driving squall. Krombach held the waterproof cavalry cape around him, the heat of summer had been smothered by low, grey, storm clouds which had raced across the Atlantic and brought heavy driving rain across the French coast. It was the closest that Krombach had been to the sea in months. He could taste saltwater in the rain that streaked his face. The riders halted only briefly as a Dutch officer asked of the nature of their business before waving them through and turning to hurry for the shelter of a cottage doorway that had become the front line for the garrison.

  The horses cantered on, Krombach could hear a steady stream of grumbles from the British engineer, who clearly found the experience of staying upright in the saddle while remaining dry a challenge that was defeating him. The weather had even silenced Captain Bisette; a price worth paying, Krombach decided. The riders passed through tight streets, buildings two or three floors high, each protruding a little further out than the one below. Windows were shuttered against the rain, most of those with yellow heraldic designs. Some a series of narrow black jagged lines, which Krombach took to be a connection with the sea; others a single black lion with a bright red tongue, a ferocious beast set to strike at the unwary traveller.

  The group halted and two of the men dismounted. They had agreed a plan huddled under the shelter of trees as rain had woken them from what little sleep could be had. Two officers headed to find lodgings and a guide; Dowie and Frick would tend to the horses; Trevethan and Krombach would search for a map. They would meet in the main square in an hour. Trevethan had considered a change of clothes first but once he had found what he was looking for, he had little intention of going outside again until the squall had run its course. A doubt nagged at him; time was already against them and he motioned Krombach to quicken his pace.

  In the early hours of the following morning, Krombach was woken by the noises of carts moving in the street outside, momentarily confused by the sudden jolt from a deep sleep. He had slept in a bed for the first time in four months, since that night with Maren; he felt guilty about a letter to her which remained unfinished.

  His lodgings were the loft space in a guest house run by a hospitable if rather ancient Madame. In the next space, Dowie was awake and preparing his kit. The partition between the rooms was no more than a musty blanket stretched on worn sailing rope. It had been privacy of sorts, not that it mattered to the Hanoverian. His mind raced and retraced the events of the day before as he hurried to dress himself in darkness: Trevethan wanted to be on the Great Moor by dawn.

  Ducking past a series of low beams and the still prone body of Frick, he levered open a trap door. Lowering a set of wooden steps onto the landing below, made from more of the same thick rope that had been used to rig room spaces, he eased himself quietly down. Dowie followed, making off towards Belvedere’s room. Krombach nodded at the squat Englishman as he made his way past, Frick's frame lurched into sight, yawning heavily and still partially dressed as he made his way down from the loft. The Hanoverian nodded another hello and made his way to the kitchen, returning five minutes later to knock once at a heavy door, faded green and worn from years of use. Trevethan barked a reply and Krombach entered.

  The Cornishman was already slouched over his desk comparing the drawing that Krombach had made to a much smaller copy in a book that they had found from yesterday’s labours. Trevethan had added a key to the simple sketch and was busy scratching out a list of questions that the morning trip needed to resolve. He rose, smiled as Krombach held open his infantryman’s pack. Inside paper parcels of ham and bread wrapped by one of the kitchen servants.

  “Good.” Trevethan nodded. “Oh, best not forget this. He clutched the case of his telescope.

  The map had been the best of a mixed day. Belvedere had spoken to the Dutch garrison commander, who could offer no guarantees of safety beyond Adinkerke, but that left Trevethan twelve miles short of Dunkirk. The only other option was the Great Moor, but that was a treacherous morass of swamp and quicksand. By the afternoon they had found a guide, a local sheep farmer, prepared to take them across it. Bisette had then set about intimidating the man and his family, insisting that no payment would be made until Trevethan’s return and offering that he and Frick's would remain to ‘protect the farmer’s wife and children, especially two teenage daughters, from the fates of war’. It became obvious that the women of the family needed protection from the Uhlans Britannique. A compromise had been reached and it was that compromise that set out to find a path across the Great Moor.

  Trevethan nestled low into the grass and reeds, feeling dampness seeping into his elbows from the spongy ground; the moorland was rarely dry, large swathes of it were below sea level even though the English Channel was due north, four miles from their position by the engineer’s best estimate. The long wall of dunes that protected the coast was just visible in the flat landscape with the aid of the telescope; beyond that, the sea and home.

  Krombach, prone beside Trevethan waited for the engineer to speak. In front of him, on the reverse of his backpack, which served as a temporary work surface, was the map that the pair had worked on, the afternoon before. To Krombach’s untrained eye, the siege of Dunkirk was nearly impossible. The town was supplied by roads, west along the coast and south from Mont Cassel. To cut and hold the west road, you needed to hold the south. To capture the southern road, an army would first need to secure the small fortress of Bergues.

  They had travelled there first, crossing the moor and following the slow-moving canal. There had been no French patrols, and Krombach could see why. Moorland had given way to a swampy marshland and their guide, Adriàn, has stopped more than once to check their ground. In their favour, a thick sea mist had enveloped the land and masked the approach to the town.

  Five men had set out; Belvedere and Frick had remained at the farmer’s cottage. Bisette had refused to talk in English for any of the journey, even though Krombach and Trevethan knew he could. Conversations had occurred in Krombach’s best attempts at French and Trevethan’s annoyed gesturing. As the group closed in on Bergues, in a fit of pique, Bisette and Dowie stayed behind with the horses while Krombach and Trevethan followed the guide on foot for the last few hundred yards.

  Solid rectangular walls appeared from the gloom. Skeins of mist drifted across a still green moat. Beyond the sounds of movement: people, horses and carts laden with goods. The mist was thinning as the morning temperature rose. Krombach swatted busily at a dozen flies that hovered around his face. The three men dropped prone; Krombach watched and waited for instruction from Trevethan but none came. For a minute the engineer stared at the walls and then turned away, “I’ve seen enough, let’s go.”

  The five journeyed north as the mist cleared; the heat of a summer’s day began to bake the land. Only when they had found a place to observe Teteghem, a small village south-west of Dunkirk did Krombach feel it was safe to ask a question. When Trevethan lowered the telescope, the young German asked nervously, “Why do you need me, sir? You could have done this yourself. I’m not sure I’m being much use?”

  The Cornishman turned his head and smiled, “Now why do you think m’boy? Of course, you are. You are working on that to start with,” his eyes darted to the map. “Then there is speaking to the Froggies. And you are keeping the peace.”

  Krombach gave a slightly puzzled look, not really understanding to which Trevethan lowered his voice, “If you weren’t here to sort things out, I would have knocked the Frenchman’s block off by now!” He motioned in the vague direction of Bisette who was watching for French patrols, perched against the stump of a tree and
trying not to fall asleep.

  Adriàn, next to him, made a far more convincing lookout, his head darting from side to side searching for the slightest sign of motion. Dressed in a drab grey woollen jerkin, the farmer looked as if he might melt into the background at the merest hint of trouble, not that Krombach would blame him. The men had discussed wearing peasant clothes but decided that they stood a better chance in uniform if captured.

  “Besides, the Duke was rather hoping we might capture Bergues first and I needed the details of the fort.”

  “But we didn’t take any of them. At least I didn’t draw anything for you.”

  “I know. We aren’t taking it. We don’t have enough men. The walls are better than at Valenciennes. It would take twice as many men as we have and three or four weeks, if we are lucky. We have to come up with an alternative plan.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I don’t know yet. But the longer we take, the less likely we are to succeed.”

  Trevethan rubbed his chin in thought.

  “Right, you want to make yourself useful? Get the outline of that village and there, do you see, beyond and to the left, that road?”

  Krombach focused the telescope and swung it to his left. He could just make out a raised road in the distance, a stream of travellers on it.

  “Somewhere along there is the canal. If we can’t control Bergues, we need to find a way to either cut that road off or attack along it. That’s not a job for today though. Take down the details, Krombach; you and I are coming back to here.”

  Valenciennes: 16th July 1793

  It had become the miracle of the siege that the church, acting as the garrison’s overcrowded hospital, had not caught fire; the three shells that had landed in it had either failed to explode or caused little damage. Even so, each evening when Juliette and the Governor walked along a section of the walls, it was clear that the scars dug into the hillsides around the town were edging closer. Ferrand had received no word from the outside world; no relieving force had appeared. There was enough food for seven days, more if there were fewer mouths to feed. The solution was the one that he had hoped not to have to make: the women and children would have to leave and take their chances with the mercy of the enemy. Accordingly, he had sent word to both Prince Josias and the Duke of York and received assurances from both men. On the eighteenth, a ceasefire of two hours would be called.

  “I don’t want to go! You can’t make me. I’m needed here!”

  Ferrand placed a hand on Juliette’s as she wiped away angry tears. It reminded him of a dozen years before, dealing with his own daughter in a moment of petulance.

  “I can make you but I would rather that you went willingly.”

  He placed a finger under Juliette’s chin and raised her eyes to his.

  “When you came here, I thought you were a dangerous inconvenience. I was wrong. Forgive me.”

  Juliette smiled between indignant looks.

  “You have become a symbol of hope here, I think. The men of the garrison watch you,” Ferrand smiled as Juliette shrugged in mock bashfulness.

  “They see your deeds; a woman of noble birth tending to ordinary men and women, it means a great deal. France stands in peril and may do for months to come. You have given them hope to carry on. You have given me hope to carry on.”

  Ferrand offered Juliette a handkerchief but she swept away the tears with the palms of her hands and drew a deep breath.

  “Are you willing to quit this place, for me? Lead the women and children to safety. You must look as if the cares of the last few weeks are as nothing. It will give the men heart in the days ahead. It will…”

  Juliette reached forward and placed a solitary finger on the lips of Ferrand who stopped talking in surprise, “Jean Henri Ferrand, I believe you could talk the birds from the trees. I will go: for you… I’m no Saint Joan: far from it. And there will be a small favour that I must ask in return, but we can discuss that before I leave.”

  She reached up and kissed the side of his face and then turned to retire to her room, pack what little of her belongings remained and write a letter to a man in Dunkirk.

  Valenciennes: 19th July 1793

  The Austrian messenger had arrived at the command tent of Colonel Neuberg at around four in the afternoon to deliver the invite. The Colonel and Captain Brandt were invited to a banquet that evening, hosted by Prince Josias in celebration of the safe delivery of the Countess de Marboré. Unable to make complete sense of the matter, Neuberg had summoned Brandt.

  “Why am I getting a royal invite? Who is the Countess of Marboré? And why are you on this invite, too?”

  Both men had watched the exodus of women, children and the seriously wounded from Valenciennes, the day before but in the daily routine of keeping 2nd Company functioning, Brandt had thought little about the woman he had rescued from the clutches of the Prussian cavalry. He had told Neuberg of the story and now wondered if he had omitted some important detail but could add no further insight. Neuberg drew a deep breath.

  “Well for God’s sake smarten yourself up. Thalberg can look after your company for the afternoon and tonight; he owes you a favour or two. Go and get a haircut and shave. And find clean breeches, you look like you have been digging alongside the men.”

  The evening air carried the sweet aromas of food and with a good hour of daylight left the two men found their places amongst a sea of open-air tables, perpendicular to a main table which was housed under a tented roof. Around the outside of the tables, white-jacketed Austrian grenadiers, in tall, thick bearskin busbies stood as an honour guard. The sparkling white of Austrian infantry colonels mixed with the splendour and flamboyance of hussar and dragoon uniforms; British scarlet rubbed shoulders with Prussian blue. Even the Hessians had been invited, having only just arrived to join the Duke of York’s forces. The popular rumour among the camp was that the Hessian King had sold his men to the Prussians and to the British. It was well-known that relations between the Austrians and the Prussians were somewhat strained. Brandt found himself wondering if such guests were intended as a slight against the Prussians. How much could a coalition take when the partners held a distrust of one another; stepping into Prince Josias’ banquet rather felt like stepping into enemy territory.

  The two men found their seats, chairs flanked by Belvedere and von Bomm. Colonel Franke of the 1st Grenadiers sat opposite them with some newly arrived Hessian officers. Neuberg took a seat next to Belvedere but before seating reached across the table and shook hands with Franke. The matter of von Bomm’s future had been resolved, Franke had created a ‘Skirmish Company’ and von Bomm raised back to the rank of brevet captain to command it. Junior officers stood, waited for the colonels to be seated and then took their place.

  Neuberg turned to von Bomm and smiled.

  “Not bad Erich. The heroes of the hour, it seems. And a pretty woman at the heart of the matter. Should I be surprised? And congratulations too on your command.”

  “Actually, sir, for once, this was the Captain’s affair. Perhaps affair is the wrong word. She was a very striking woman, but such things seem lost on Captain Brandt, unless there is a Prussian officer involved. And thank you sir.”

  “Yes, Erich, you said something about Captain Brandt and a Prussian colonel. How does that story go?” Belvedere had leaned forward to add his words to the conversation but they were cut short by a fanfare of music.

  A dozen troopers, from various Austrian cavalry regiments had snapped to attention and raised polished-bronze bugles to their lips. In perfect unison they sounded a fanfare as the royal party entered. The Duke of York and General Knobelsdorff took seats at the main table, flanked by a retinue of Austrian Counts and Generals. Behind them, Prince Josias, walked slowly in accompanied by a woman, a vision in a rich, emerald-green dress set against bronzed skin. Blonde hair sparkled with a thin diamond tiara that was set delicately on her head. Every set of eyes followed her progress.

  Brandt could not believe that
it was the same woman who had levelled a pistol at him. Around him, polite applause rang out and men who had been on campaign for months wished for conversation and acknowledgement with such beauty.

  Over sumptuous dishes of venison, roast hog and mutton, Brandt was goaded into retelling the account of the meeting with the Countess, with von Bomm adding a running commentary of his own on Brandt’s actions. Across from him, seated to the left of Franke a Hessian officer listened to the story, gnawing on a half-exposed bone of mutton leg, cutlery discarded, streaks of rich gravy running down his chin. He wiped a sleeve across a tanned face, lightly creased by the years. Thick grey unkempt hair matched a white-flecked moustache. His rich bass voice cut through the conversation, confident and yet insolent too.

  “The Prussians talk too much. I would have just killed the man, then and there.”

  He returned to gnawing at the mutton and then washed it down with a glass of wine. The men around him looked in stunned silence at the Hessian officer who wore a captain’s epaulettes. Belvedere was the first to speak sensing the moment might need a delicate touch.

  “We were rather outnumbered, sir.”

  The Hessian’s jaws chewed while he considered the matter. He ignored Belvedere and spoke directly to Brandt.

  “Next time kill the officer, then kill the meanest looking son-of-a-whore they have. After that, you won’t have any problems.”

  Neuberg looked at the Hessian officer, “And what do you base such wisdom on, Captain?”

  “Life,” after a lengthy pause adding the word ‘Sir’ as if it pained him.

  “You saw service in America?” Neuberg asked.

  “Yes. Half the men in my battalion have fought before somewhere or other.”