HMS Racehorse: near Dunkirk, 8th September 1793
A pair of deckhands of HMS Racehorse were piped to attention as Lieutenant Geoffrey Dowdes, commanding officer of HMS Thunder, scrambled the last few rungs of the ladder that trailed over the side of the sloop, acknowledged the salute and doffed his bicorne to McManus, the Racehorse’s Captain, and was ushered below almost before the strawberry blonde head of the Thunder’s officer of Marines had made similar progress. Lieutenant Byron Summersdale regained what little dignity that could be salvaged from such an entrance onto the ship’s deck, from the jolly boat, jostling alongside in the choppy waters and hurried after the party of blue-coated officers and his red jacketed counterpart from Racehorse.
Below decks, in the Captain’s room, a screened door was pulled shut and half a dozen officers jostled for position around the table. McManus, a terse man of Belfast stock made the introductions of his men, offered no refreshment to the men of the Thunder but instead proceeded to the business of the hour, as was his wont.
“I spoke to Admiral Macbride yesterday morning in Ostend. We are to be in position by nine tomorrow morning to begin the bombardment of Dunkirk. If you don’t mind me saying that ship of yours handles like a dog, Dowdes; can you be on station by then?”
“Yes, sir; Thunder might not look pretty but put us twelve hundred yards off shore and we can level just about any target.”
“Hmmm, that’s as well but I intend to arrive before first light. The Admiral suggests a shore party to contact the Duke, in case the plan needs a final adjustment. How many marines do you carry?”
“Six. I can spare a dozen hands to go with them. What are you thinking, sir?”
“The French have been playing fast and loose with gunboats. I doubt they will show their face with Racehorse around but Dunkirk is a haven of privateers and scum. I don’t intend to be made a fool of by some ruse. Send your men ashore, I will send Jarvis here.” McManus flicked a hand in the direction of the Marines officer who stood behind him. “Let’s make sure we don’t get caught with our breeches around our ankles in front of the army.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Bitter Night.
Rosendael: 9th September 1793
An hour before midnight Trevethan had taken the decision to start destroying the guns. Each had been spiked, nails crudely wedged into vent holes but this measure alone was not enough. Half a dozen of the siege guns had been pulled by teams of thirty men, sweating in the cold night air, six hundred yards across soft sand which dragged at the wheels and sapped any momentum of motion, to the canal. The winch, put in place by Trevethan five days ago to unload the siege weapons as they had finally arrived along the canal from Furnes, sadly spectated as, one after another, the field pieces where dumped without ceremony into the depths of black water.
“Tear the winch down too, no point in making that a present to the enemy,” Trevethan spoke in cheerless resignation to one of the captains of the team of navvies.
In his heart, he had never expected the wagons to arrive. There were half a dozen choke points on the road from Furnes and with the Duke’s forces being ghosted away, the road would be jammed full of traffic all heading away from the British lines. The one successful ruse that Trevethan had pulled was the safety of Krombach. Whatever the outcome of the Hanoverian engagement had been, his intention had always been to send the boy to Furnes on some errand. The fact that he carried vital news to the Duke had only made the lie easier to sell.
Once he presented himself at Furnes, Jackson would see that Krombach stayed put, the lad had done more than his share; the Cornishman had a feeling that this night would be a tricky affair. Twenty-six siege guns remained with enough good quality powder to level a city. Some of that would be dumped in the canal; the rest was being stacked around the guns. In four hours, Trevethan would light a funeral pyre that would be seen along the South Coast of England.
The crackle of musketry splintered the night. The 14th, the Bedfordshires, had been left holding the perimeter of the lines on the northern side of the canal. South of the canal, the lines opposite the salt marsh were rarely manned. The strong point of Teteghem was held by the Third Guards, the most dangerous posting of the British lines.
Trevethan and the Bedfordshires’ commander had already decided that the Guards might have already been withdrawn and that their best route back to Furnes was to stay on the north side of the great canal and follow the dozen miles or so to the fortress town. Once the Guards battalion was gone, the British army would have nothing south of the canal; hopefully a reserve would be posted around the town of Ghyvelde to deter any French patrols.
The sounds of musketry intensified. Volley fire now echoed out into the night.
“Back to the lines lads. Quick as you can!” Trevethan was running before he finished the sentence. Around him, the gangs of Irishmen were already spoiling for a fight, every man had managed to borrow or steal an array of weapons and the mass of fury that swept from the canal back through the heavy sand and into the defences of the British lines, resembled more that of some great Moorish pirate army than a non-combatant force of engineering muscle.
By the time that Trevethan had reached the battery there was no sign of the enemy. Many of the navvies robbed of a scuffle had cursed Gaelic oaths and vaulted the gabions in search of the enemy, drifting back when none could be found. Trevethan barked out orders, setting the men back to work. There was much to do before the lines at Rosendael could be vacated.
Teteghem: 9th September 1793
The path that followed the canal back towards Teteghem was straightforward enough to follow in the moonlight and Krombach found the spur of a secondary canal that pushed him further south. He dismounted and led his tired horse, examining the banks which dropped only a few inches before disappearing into the dark slow-moving black water. The ground was sodden; while the distance was no more than ten yards across it might as well have been a mile. The was no crossing point to be seen so after a few minutes, using a small boulder as a mounting block he pulled his weary limbs back into the saddle and headed further south-west, knowing that each step carried him on a course veering slowly further away from Teteghem.
The moon lit the surface of the canal and soon a second arm of water appeared on his left, a waterway that led from the Great Moor, but still no crossing point to the waterway on his right presented itself and even if it did, there was still the main canal itself to cross. Then he saw a long straight shape in the darkness, out of place with the landscape and spurred the horse forward. A small footbridge appeared out of the night, no more than a foot wide with a small hand rail on either side, but a means of crossing the canal never the less. There would be no way for the horse to cross though and Krombach weighed the matter up. It was perhaps still three miles to Teteghem. He decided to patrol the length of the canal for another five minutes, perhaps a better crossing point could be found. None presented itself and ten minutes or so later, he found himself back at the footbridge and annoyed with his own foolish optimism.
Krombach descended from the saddle and while still holding the reins, loosened and then undid the girth and then removed the horse furniture, placing in on the sodden ground. Then he pulled the bridle over the animal’s head and gave the horse a pat on the neck.
“You know, I never even asked your name. Thank you for carrying me safely today. Go and find some friends and have a wonderful life.”
The moor had its own wild herd and Krombach had seen it on a couple of occasions. He chided himself just a little for talking to a horse and then set about rifling through the saddle bag for any items of use but other than the map, which he examined one more time, aligning it as best he could with the lay of the land, there was nothing worth carrying. The horse blanket and musket were the only other items which he salvaged, his own pack having been left at Rosendael. He doubted whether he would see that again. Half-finished letters to home and to Maren would hold little value but the Flanders clogs and spare shirt would
be plundered no doubt. Throwing the horse blanket over his shoulder, he set out to cross the first of the waterways that barred his progress to Teteghem.
The second waterway, the arm of the canal that ran from Ghyvelde and that he had been forced to veer away from earlier in the journey was less than three hundred yards away. A narrow strip of hedgerow marked the field boundary that kept curious livestock away from the deep water. No sooner had Krombach reached it and spotted the silvery reflection of cobbled road on the far side of the canal than he found himself prone to the ground and hugging the cover of hedge. His chest had settled into the remains of some fresh cow turd and the smell was making his eyes water but he remained stock still.
Voices punctured the night air and then the gentle fall of hooves on wet grass. The silhouettes of three horsemen appeared on the far side of the road; French hussars, each with a high, conical mirleton head-dress. If the enemy were patrolling the road or the canal, the crossing place that Krombach knew of was already likely to be watched too. He waited, holding his breath for even that seemed loud in the still of the night. Out of the dark silence behind him, a horse whinnied a lonely call. The hussars stopped and peered across the water. The animal that Krombach had left was calling out in the dark. Then the sound moved away. Perhaps the horse was heading out to the Great Moor, responding to the distant replies of the herd. The Hussars waited for what seemed an eternity before moving off along the road that led to Ghyvelde over the brow of ground and into the night.
As soon as they had gone, Krombach was up, brushing the worst of the dung from his tunic and unbuttoning it. In minutes he had stripped off and placed every item of clothing, save for his belt into the horse blanket, using the belt to knot the whole into a ball. He looked at the stretch of water, black and silently menacing. The Elbe, where he had learned to swim, had a strong tidal pull and was rarely warm but this water was thoroughly uninviting. Uncertain as to his best course, Krombach considered using the musket and suspending his bundle of clothes from it, like a vagabond might carry a bundle but decided against that. It would have to be two trips. He would rather arrive on the far bank without a musket than without clothes.
Clutching the rolled ball to his chest, he slid backwards into the water, feeling the icy shock of cold and kicked hard with his feet. The splashing sounded thunderous and despite the freezing chill, he forced himself to a gentler motion that saw him across the short distance in less than a minute. Half turning, he tossed the bundle onto dry land, returned for the musket, then hauled himself out of the water. There was only open field on the other side of the bank so the naked figure crawled into the shelter of some long corn. With shivering fingers, he loosened the belt, tipped out the contents of clothes and used the horse blanket as a towel. In a few minutes, musket in hand he followed the road to a footbridge. To his relief there were no signs of enemy soldiers and he darted over the bridge towards the distant shape of Teteghem.
The Guards Colonel read the message by a candle held by an orderly and then looked squarely at Krombach.
“And you are a messenger from the Duke of York? Somehow, I’m not surprised. Heaven knows what this army is becoming under the man’s leadership.”
The sight before the Colonel of the Third Battalion of His Majesty’s Foot Guards was not one that would be instantly recognisable as a solider. It was true that the man carried a musket and wore a tunic. But after that, nothing was regulation or in any way proper. Dragoon trousers and cavalry boots and all smeared with mud, dust and the contents of a farm from the smell of the object in front of him.
“No, sir, I am a messenger for Major Trevethan, sir and…”
“Oh, an Engineer’s apprentice? Well that explains a little, I suppose.”
“No, not really an apprentice, sir. I draw maps, I’m a Hanoverian and…”
“Oh, a German, well that explains a little more. So, I am to take the word of a German apprentice boy that I might quit my post, am I? How do I know this is not a ‘ruse de Guerre’ boy? Yes, the signature seems genuine but what if these were captured documents and forged?”
Krombach followed the words but couldn’t quite believe them.
“Sir, the whole of the army is quitting the lines. You must have heard the movement of wagons earlier in the night?”
“Yes, but that could have been a ruse too. Just like I tricked you then. Used a French phrase and you knew it without question. This man is a spy, I say.” The Colonel spoke to the orderly and a clutch of officers who stood around him.
“What, what are you talking about? I’m no spy.”
“Prove it.” The colonel looked at the orders once more, with deep suspicion.
“Sir, I don’t know how.” Krombach’s head swam with fatigue. He reached inside his pocket and found the sketch map as an arm was placed on his shoulder to restrain him.
Krombach barked angrily “It a map. Look!”
Under the candle-light he unfolded the map he had sketched of the Great Moor, the canals and the lines at Rosendael.
“I have come from here today.” He pointed on the other side of the moor. “The Hanoverians are retreating and heading to Furnes, from this direction,” shaking fingers pointing to an approximate location of Hondschoote.
“I reported to Major Trevethan at Rosendael and then was ordered to take my report to the Duke at Furnes. The road was jammed with cavalry and baggage. I never made it to Furnes. At Ghyvelde, I was intercepted by an officer from the Duke’s staff,” Krombach spoke rapidly, “Henson…”
“Henson-Jefferies?” The colonel replied slowly.
“Yes, sir. He had only just returned from an appointment on the staff of Field Marshal Freytag. Anyway, the officer told me to bring the message to you as he did not know the road and I might find a route across the moor. I left my horse…”
“That’s enough, boy. Your story is sound.”
The colonel turned to the officers around him.
“Keep the fires burning; tell the men to pack quietly. I want them in marching order in thirty minutes. Away you go, please.”
The colonel folded the orders and placed them in his pocket.
“You have had a busy day, private?”
“Krombach, sir. Yes, sir but I must still get to Rosendael. Major Trevethan is expecting word of the wagons. They won’t be coming and I fear it is too late for him to make other arrangements. Sir, one last thing,” Krombach took his map, “here on this road, a French patrol, heading along here, only three men but there are bound to be others. They will reach the crossroads to Ghyvelde before you, unless the Duke has posted cavalry there.
“I doubt that he has. That would take foresight that this whole shambolic affair has been sadly lacking.”
Krombach did not reply.
“You are free to go, Private Krombach.” The Colonel reached into his jacket pocket and opened a drawstring purse and took out a handful of coins. “These are for your bravery. Scant reward for bringing these orders but all I can spare for the moment. After this day is through, come and find me and His Majesty’s Guards will reward you with something more befitting.”
“Thank you, sir but for now could you furnish me with a fresh horse?”
“Of course, of course.”
Between Hondschoote and Furnes: 9th September 1793
The retreat was a sorry sight. Under a pale moonlight 2nd Battalion marched behind wagons of wounded men, whose agonising cries for mothers, saints or God himself could not save them from the jolting of deeply rutted roads.
They were the Esel Soldaten but in the face of the enemy it was a badge of honour. Across the fields on either side the long columns of two other battalions marched in unison with the men of the 10th; to the right, the 1st Grenadiers; to the left, the Hessian Chasseurs.
In the final moments of the battle, the three battalions had each been posted as rear-guard to their own brigades. While the French infantry had mauled their lines with harrying skirmish fire and French dragoons had threatened their retreat
, the battalions had fought like the lionhearts of centuries ago. But another lion had come to hunt them now and Brandt had seen the yellow and black standard of the enemy sweep into the centre of Hondschoote and on to victory.
In defeat, 2nd Battalion had learnt to fight in unison, and not against one another. The butcher’s bill would come later but for now the battalion lived.
“’Ware Cavalry!”
From behind the captain, a cry echoed in the night and for the third time since leaving the battlefield, the battalion began the process of shuffling into a defensive square, first practised months before on the fields outside of Celle. On the last two occasions it had been French dragoons, soon chased away by Hanoverian cavalry drawn in from the flanks. This time the silhouettes turned out to be returning scouts, whose horses thudded passed without pause. In a few minutes the order from Neuberg rang out and 2nd Battalion returned to a column of march on the road towards Furnes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Among the Dead Men.
Rosendael: 9th September 1793
“What in God’s name are you doing back ‘ere boy! Didn’t Jackson order you to stay put in Furnes?”
Trevethan stopped levering the top from a small keg of gunpowder to look at the horseman who had dismounted in a hurry beside him.
“No, sir. Major, the wagons aren’t coming. You are to destroy the guns, by orders of the Duke.”
“For God’s sake, man. Those wagons were never coming. We’ve been and ditched six of the big beasts. It will take too long to ditch the rest so they’re goin’ to be blown sky high. So will you if you don’t sling your arse!” Trevethan began to walk slowly backwards crouching as he went leaving a thick trail of powder on the damp grass.
The King of Dunkirk Page 31