Young bloods r-1

by Simon Scarrow

  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 his 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 to
wards 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.'

  'I'll pray, but it's already damned cold, and I'll swear it's getting colder every day.'

  'Yes.' Arthur agreed wearily. 'One way or another this winter might kill us all. Half our men are too sick to fight, all of them are hungry and – you haven't heard the worst of it yet – the government are recalling seven of the regiments from Flanders to reinforce the army in the West Indies.'

  Fitzroy shook his head in astonishment. 'But that's complete madness. We're badly outnumbered as it is. Seven regiments? It's crazy. Besides, they'll drop like flies once the yellow fever sets in.'

  'Maybe. But if they stay here, they'll perish like the rest of us from cold, hunger and neglect.'

  'Neglect? Yes. I suppose that's true,' Fitzroy mused. 'I had a letter from my sister last week. She said that the London papers seem to be ignoring events in Flanders – almost as if we are an embarrassment. Only a handful of organisations are collecting coats and blankets to send us for the winter. I tell you, it's almost as if we have been forgotten. The forgotten army – that's us.'

  Arthur leaned against the palisade and nodded towards the far bank of the Waal. 'Maybe. But those people over there haven't forgotten us, and when the time comes I just hope we're still strong enough to give them something to remember us by.'

  Fitzroy glanced at him and chuckled. 'Ever the professional.'

  'Professional?' Arthur frowned. His class was inclined to look upon that term as perjorative. But, he relented, Fitzroy was right. Soldiering was a profession. It needed to be if Britain was to survive this war against the bloody anarchy of revolution.The sad condition of the army in Flanders was ample proof of the failure of a system that offered commissions for sale, and relied on private contractors to supply its soldiers in the field. The avarice of such men would surely destroy Britain, unless the war was conducted in a more professional manner. To that end, to ultimate victory, Arthur had committed himself. So yes, he decided, he was a professional soldier.The pity of it was that so many other officers were not. He glanced at Fitzroy and smiled. 'One might as well excel at soldiering as anything else.'

  'Sir, I meant no offence. The truth of it is that I'm lucky to serve under someone like you. That goes for all of us. I've heard the men say as much.'

  'Yes, well…' Arthur's words stumbled awkwardly as he stiffened up and glanced round the interior of the fort. 'Well, I must get on. There's still several forts to see. You seem to have things in order here, Fitzroy.'

  'Yes, sir.' Fitzroy could not help smiling at his superior's discomfort over the small praise he had offered. Lesser men would have taken it as their due.

  Arthur coughed. He gestured towards the men still playing cricket as there was a divided chorus of cheers and groans. 'You'd better get back to the game. Looks like your fellows have just lost another wicket.'

  'What?' Fitzroy whipped round. 'Damn! Excuse me, sir.'

  He quickly saluted and hurried off to join his men. Arthur watched him for a moment, still pondering over Fitzroy's words. Even though Arthur told himself that the man was a fool to overestimate his competence, he could not help feeling a warm glow of satisfaction that the men had taken to him. As he strolled back along the rampart the French sentry on the far bank waved his hat again. Arthur hesitated a moment, and then, with an amused smile, he briefly doffed his hat and made his way down into the fort and returned to where his horse was tethered.

  Chapter 86

  The winter continued in earnest, with cold winds and icy rain sweeping across the Netherlands, so that the men found it almost impossible to keep their clothes dry. They lived in perpetual clammy discomfort, with hunger gnawing at their guts. Christmas came and went in a mockery of goodwill to all men and then, early in the new year, the temperature dropped like a stone in a well. As the first freezing frosts began, the mud set like rock around the wheels of the gun carriages and supply wagons so that nothing could move. Snow swirled in from the north and within hours it had covered the landscape with a thick layer of dazzling white that blotted out almost every feature and fold of the ground. The gaunt men of the British Army, wrapped in their greatcoats and mufflers, patrolling the banks of the Waal, looked like minute figures on a vast blank canvas. Only the tiny puffs of exhaled breath revealed that they were living things. Some did not breathe, frozen to death at their posts after their strength and will to live had succumbed to the icy grasp of the worst winter in living memory.

  On Boxing Day the ice in the Waal began to freeze. By New Year it was beginning to pack, and Arthur knew that in a matter of days the ice would be thick enough for men, horses and even cannon to cross safely. He gave orders for the sentries and patrols to be doubled and each day he inspected the surface of the river and discreetly noted the places where the ice was thickest. Some days he saw French officers probing the ice from the far bank and each time they ventured further from their side of the river.

  Then, one morning, after Arthur had finished a meagre breakfast of stale bread and salted pork, a messenger arrived from headquarters. The man was breathing heavily and snow clung to his boots as he was ushered into the barn that served as Arthur's headquarters.

  'General's respects, sir. The enemy has started crossing the Waal.'

  The news was not met by any surprise from Arthur or his officers. They had been expecting it, and Arthur was ready to meet the danger with a clear mind. He indicated the map on the table nearby. 'Show me.'

  The messenger, an ensign who looked too young for such a campaign, leaned across the map and tapped a place a dozen miles down river from Arthur's brigade. 'There.'

  'What's the situation?'

  'Sir, headquarters have only had initial reports, but it seems that the French are crossing in strength.'

  'What are our orders?'

  'The general wants you to pull back from the river and form up to attack their flank.'

  'Attack their flank?' Arthur felt his heart grow heavy. 'Attack with what? My men are down to under a third of their normal strength.Those that are left are in no condition to attack. Besides, what are his intentions for the rest of the army?'

  'I don't know,' the ensign admitted. 'But I overheard him say something about forming a new line ten miles back from the Waal, while the French consolidate their bridgehead.'

  'They're not going to wait to consolidate anything,' Arthur responded quietly. 'That's not how they wage war. Look here.' He moved aside to let the ensign see the map more closely. 'They're going to make for the coastal ports. I'm sure of it. If they capture The Hague and Amsterdam, then we'll be cut off from what's left of our supplies. We'll be forced to surrender, or quit the Netherlands and retreat north into Munster. In our present condition I doubt if we'd make it that far.' He thought for a moment. 'Our only hope is to reach the ports before they do.You understand the situation?'

  'Y
es, sir. I think so.'

  'Then you must explain it to the general. Ride back to headquarters as fast as you can. Go.'

  The messenger saluted and hurried from the barn. Arthur called his small staff over and dictated orders for the brigade to abandon their forts and form up on the track that led away from the Waal towards the distant city of Amsterdam.The men were to take any rations that remained and carry what ammunition they could. Everything else was to be burned, including the wagons. None of the draught animals was to be left behind. They could carry the wounded and, if need be, be slaughtered for rations as the brigade retreated.

  As the morning wore on, the sound of cannon fire rumbled across the snow-covered landscape from the west. Shortly before noon the headquarters staff had joined the first units waiting on the track, a bedraggled line of scarecrows wrapped in rags, waiting for their orders with weary apathy. It was hard to believe these were the same men who had faced down the hussars at Ondrecht, and covered the retreat of the army from Boxtel. Now they must be ready to fight again. But even as he looked at them Arthur knew there was little fight left in them. All they wanted to do was survive.Yet he had his orders to prepare to attack the enemy flank. The last of the outlying companies trudged up and took up their position in the line stretching along the road and then the brigade was ready to move forward. A brigade in name only, Arthur reflected as he shivered inside his greatcoat. The cold penetrated right through his body so that there was no vestige of warmth anywhere and gradually the tightness about his chest eased as the trembling stopped and only the ache of the cold remained. Still there was no message from the general, no decision to call off the attack, and Arthur decided that he would have to go through with it. However foolish and pointless the order to attack might be, it was still an order and he was bound to obey it. He cleared his throat and gave the order.

  'The brigade will advance! Light companies move to the front!'