‘He should have been a general,’ I said.
‘So he tells us. Daily. Hourly.’ Francis’s mood was sour; for a week, he said, he had been dreaming of little but death. He looked at me sternly. ‘Is not the true folly to fight this battle upon sand – upon a beach?’
‘Dunkirk is a port,’ I said. ‘The French are besieging it. Where else are we meant to fight them, My Lord?’
‘Oh harken!’ cried Francis sarcastically. ‘Now generalship is infectious, I see, for Matt Quinton takes it upon himself too! The same Quinton who vanished for more than a week upon some special mission at the behest of His Majesty himself –’
‘Leaving we poor mortals to break the camp at Ypres,’ Dick grumbled, ‘then march to the coast and await the outcome of raging arguments between our generals, while all the time the bloody flux was reducing entire regiments to skeletons! This would be the same Matt Quinton of whom you speak, My Lord Kilvern?’
I ignored the jibes; better for my friends to believe that I had been upon some secretive embassy to a great lady whom our king wished to bed than for them to know the truth of what had befallen me in England. At Charles’s suggestion, such had been the explanation I proferred to explain my sudden absence from the army. Fortunately it was readily accepted, His Majesty’s propensity after that fashion being already common knowledge. There was more, much more, of the same coin before my friends finally departed to their own quarters; that being an unduly grand name for the patches of dune upon which each of us would lay our heads. After their departure Aymer Vasey reported to me that the men were settled and not unduly inebriated. The old soldier was too inscrutable to ask me the cause of my absence. But I had no doubt that inwardly, he must have cursed me every inch of the way from Ypres to Dunkirk for all the extra responsibilities I had inflicted upon him, despite Villasanchez’s apparent presence as an acting captain for the company. The men, of course, delighted in the rumour that their officer had been acting the part of the king’s pimp. Even Ned Mercer had looked upon me with something akin to respect at that morning’s muster.
I settled myself upon my cloak on the warm sand, but sleep proved elusive, even though the sand of Flanders was a far more pleasant bed than the dank stone floor of the cell at Upnor. Even at rest, an army is an unquiet beast: the neighing of the cavalry’s horses competed with the laughter of those who disdained sleep and the snoring of those who did not. And all the while, the distant church bells of Dunkirk reminded us that over there, beyond the dunes, were the French, and somewhere alongside them their allies, Cromwell’s invincible Ironsides. On the morrow, France and Spain would do battle for Dunkirk; but Cavalier and Roundhead would also battle each other yet again. The Civil War was about to start over.
* * *
No man truly sees a battle. An admiral sees only that part of the fight which is visible from his ship, for his fleet will be spread out over many miles of sea and the gunsmoke makes it impossible to see what more than a tiny fraction of the ships around him are doing. This is even more true upon land. Each soldier sees little more than the backs and helmets of the men in front of him: that is, until his ranks break, either to pursue the defeated or to flee in defeat themselves. Each officer sees little more than a few yards ahead and to either side. Each general, unless he can find himself a vantage point upon some nearby mountain, sees little but the cloud of smoke enveloping the battlefield, an occasional flag rising eerily above it. Thus I saw no more of the Battle of the Dunes than any other junior officer: my own particular patch of chaos, fear and death, never more than a few square yards of warm Flemish sand and the men upon it visible to my sight.
But the battle was fought seventy long years ago, and I have read the many military histories that have been published since that time: mostly French, of course, for the French have a propensity for writing such worthy but tedious tomes. Over the years, too, I have talked with others who were in different parts of the field that day - with Spaniards, Frenchmen (during that brief and unnatural interval when they were our friends), veterans of Cromwell’s New Model, and old cavaliers, too. The most useful such conversation occurred many years later, on an anniversary of the battle in the middle of the 1670s; that strange, brief interlude of peace and prosperity before the world fell apart. The man who had been our general at the Dunes, the Duke of York, invited me to sup with him, so that we could tell each other our accounts of the battle and to toast the memories of the valiant friends and warriors who fell that day. It was one of the very rare unguarded and intimate moments that I ever enjoyed with the stern, inflexible man who would become James the Second, King of England, one of the most unfortunate monarchs in our history.
Thus what I write now is partly my own account, partly what I have learned of the broader course of the battle.
What Don Alonso de Villasanchez did not know – what none of us knew on the battle’s eve – was that the decision to encamp and not entrench was deliberate; that which generals term ‘strategy’. Our commanders were convinced that either our presence alone would break the siege and compel Turenne to withdraw, or else they would easily overrun the French lines – as, indeed, the Spanish had done at Valenciennes, two campaigns before. If Turenne moved out to attack, well, so much the better.
‘I knew Turenne,’ the Duke of York told me. ‘I knew that once he learned we were so close, he would attack.’
And so it proved. Shortly after four in the morning, after little or no sleep, I became aware that the noise of the army was increasing, that the old soldiers were sniffing the air eagerly, aware of the scent of imminent battle. Men snatched at makeshift breakfasts of bread and water, knowing there was no time for more ample repast. I went up to the top of the sand hill and looked across to the south-west. At first I could make out only the shadowy towers of Dunkirk and the fires in the French siege lines, but within an hour it was becoming light, and I beheld a tide of movement on the dunes before the town. There, fanning out in front of me, was the army of France, the white fleur-de-lys and the regimental banners plainly visible, advancing slowly toward our lines. And off to the right, a sight that thrilled and terrified me in equal measure. There, forming up in immaculate order, were six red-coated regiments. Before them flew the quartered crosses of Saint George and Saint Andrew, the battle flag of Cromwell’s republic. Out to sea, a dozen warships lay at anchor, their gunports open and pointing at the shore. All of them flew the English ensign. I recognised the largest: the Naseby, as terrible a sight as she had been when I first encountered her.
I had little time to contemplate the spectacle. There were shouts along the ranks, and messengers riding hither and thither with orders. I needed little prompting; it was obvious what had to be done. I turned and saw Aymer Vasey already approaching me.
He saluted. ‘Do we form ranks, Ensign Quinton?’ he asked, knowing full well what the answer was.
So at Vasey’s barked order my men bestirred themselves, fell into line, and took up their dressing. On either side of us, in front and behind, the spectacle was repeated. Orders were being declaimed in a cacophony of languages – English, Spanish, Flemish, German, French, even Irish. Drums and trumpets summoned men to their duty. In gaps between the infantry, troops of horse or single riders rode hither and thither upon urgent business of their own. I noted that some of the older captains were moving among their men, giving an encouraging word here and there, so I emulated them. As I did so, my shame at my own inadequacy multiplied. These men were about to fight and die under my command, and although I knew their names from the muster-rolls, I could put faces to but few of them. I had delegated all to Aymer Vasey; too much, I now sensed. But it was too late to make that good now.
There was one exception, though. Ned Mercer grinned insolently as I stopped before him. ‘Well, Mercer,’ I said, with as much levity as I could muster, ‘are you ready to do your duty to your king?’
He missed not a breath. ‘Well, Ensign Quinton, reckon I’d do it better if His Majesty deigned to pay me. But
if the only way of getting my coin off him is to kill a few frogs or Puritanical whoresons, Ned Mercer had best be about it.’
It was hardly a ringing endorsement of the divine justice of our cause, but it was neither the time nor the place to enter into a disputation. The expressions of the rest of the men showed all too clearly that they shared Mercer’s resignation. They were there only because they could contrive to be nowhere better.
There was a ragged cheer at the far end of our line. I turned, and saw a splendid sight. Riding toward me was a tall, proud young man upon a large grey steed. His long, sallow face was distinguished above all by a vast, straight nose. He wore a broad befeathered hat and a breastplate crossed by a purple sash which bore the unmistakeable Garter star. Behind him came a boy upon a smaller, brown horse, holding in his hand the staff that bore the royal standard of England, flying out proudly in the breeze. Our general, then: James, Duke of York, brother and heir to our exiled king. As he rode down the line he raised his hat, waving it to salute the assembled troops as he reviewed this, the royal army of Britain. Five regiments, all of them under strength: all that the king had to his name. God alone knew what this prince was thinking, for he had learned the soldier’s trade in a rather grander army as a pupil of Turenne, the general who now faced us across the Dunes. The Duke idolised the great Marshal, and now he had to face him in open battle.
James reined in and halted several times during his progress to speak with officers he recognised and to address their men. I saw him exchange words with Kilvern, on the right of our line and mounted upon a fine dappled steed, with Lord Wentworth, Dick Talbot and some others. As he approached me, I did not expect him to stop; I had been presented to him formally once, but otherwise he and I were strangers to each other. I knew well his elder brother the king, who was an unlikely intimate friend of my reserved sib Earl Charles, and was often in the company of the younger royal brother, Henry, Duke of Gloucester, a happy and likeable youth who was exactly the same age as myself. But Duke James was regarded as remote even by his friends, a man who resembled his saintly martyred father in having a markedly high opinion of his own royal dignity.
Yet James of York did rein in before me, and looked down upon me from his great height. I brought up my sword in salute.
‘I did know my army had a captain so young,’ he said.
‘If it please your Royal Highness, I am but an Ensign. Captain Mandeville –’
‘Ah. Mandeville. My Lord Wentworth informed me of his craven flight. He will face court-martial and certain execution.’
If he is ever caught, I thought, which was as likely as my becoming an archbishop. Captain Heston Mandeville was an old soldier-of-fortune who had talked much of the better pay to be obtained in the service of the Voyevode of Transylvania, and I had no doubt that by now he was many hundreds of miles down the Rhine.
‘And no lieutenant, either, I recall from Wentworth’s report. Well, then. Command of a company is a mighty responsibility to devolve upon such young shoulders. Your name, Ensign?’
‘Matthew Quinton, Highness.’
‘Quinton?’ His eyes flashed with sudden interest. ‘Brother, then, to My Lord Ravensden?’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘You bear a famous name, Ensign Quinton,’ he said stiffly. ‘I knew your father who fell in glory for my own father’s cause. I even recall seeing your grandfather at court when I was very young, and learning of his legend. I trust you that today, you will do honour to your family’s mighty reputation, Matthew Quinton.’
‘By God’s grace, Highness.’
I swallowed. I was about to go into battle for the first time, commanding a body of men whom I had no idea how to command, to fight an enemy – two enemies - reputed to be invincible. And now the heir to the throne himself, in the hearing of my men, had demanded that I behave as nothing less than a new Hector or Achilles. My knees seemed to fold, and I blinked frantically to prevent nausea overwhelming me.
The duke was studying the ranks behind me. ‘A fine company of men, Ensign,’ he said.
I thought this must be sarcasm, for by no stretch of any man’s imagination could Ned Mercer and his fellows be described as such. I learned only much later that such sophisticated humour was beyond His Royal Highness. Come to that, so was even the simplest.
‘We stand ready to fight for God and our King, Highness,’ I said bravely.
The Duke nodded at my response, then looked about him and evidently decided this was as good a place as any from which to address the hundreds of troops within earshot.
‘Good men!’ he cried. ‘Today, if God wills it, you can make good the wrongs that were done at Naseby fight, and Worcester! Today you embark upon a blessed crusade – aye, a crusade to place my brother upon the throne from which our father was unlawfully deposed!’ The duke’s delivery was painfully dull, like a Chancery clerk reciting a writ. ‘We, who were too young to fight in the cursed wars in our native land, now have a chance to achieve the victory denied our fathers, and to avenge their sacrifice. There stands the foe! Onward, for you are the best of England! God be with you, and God save the King!’
This was no King Harry upon Saint Crispin’s day. James Stuart could never make a speech that did anything other than reveal him for the unfeeling prig he was. A thin cheer went up, but I knew that precious little of it would be coming from the Scots, Welsh and Irish, the bulk of the little army; and to describe the rest, that rag-tag of scoundrels, thieves and vagabonds, as ‘the best of England’, was laughable even to themselves. The notion that this tiny, pathetic adjunct to the Catholic army of Spain, our realm’s traditional enemy, could somehow reverse the verdict of ten years of civil war in one day upon the sands before Dunkirk beggared belief.
Before James of York could ride away, he was accosted by a rider who spoke to him urgently, in a low tone. The Duke nodded, looked over to his left – toward the sea, and the right of our line – then dismissed the rider, who galloped back toward Don John’s position. York looked at me sternly.
‘Now, Matthew Quinton. Perhaps fortune truly does favour you, for to you, as being the nearest company to me, falls a peculiar honour. Don John requests that I send a body of English troops to reinforce the right of the line. You and your men stand before me, and I see no reason to send any other. Don Gaspard de Boniface commands there, with the flower of Spain.’ He frowned; and as I came to learn, James of York’s frown often betrayed some intense battle within the limited confines of his mind. ‘But it seems inappropriate for a mere Ensign to bear such a burden. Yet a promotion would be irregular, with no formal commission to issue.’ The royal brain contended with the problem for a few moments longer. ‘Nonetheless, battle demands measures that would not be fitting in time of peace. Very well. Matthew Quinton, by the power vested in me as Lord General of His Majesty’s army royal, I promote you Lieutenant!’
And with that, the heir to the throne raised his broad hat in salute, compelling me to bring up my sword, and rode off along the line.
I had no time to exalt in my promotion, for Aymer Vasey came up at once. ‘Shall you give the order to form column and march to the right, Lieutenant Quinton, or shall I?’
With the eyes of a dozen or more captains and lieutenants upon me, all of them vastly senior to myself and thus all seething at being denied the honour granted to me, I dreaded the prospect of mistaking the orders and making a fool of myself; especially as it would be even more of a calamity for the newly-minted Lieutenant Quinton to disgrace himself thus than the erstwhile Ensign Quinton, who could be forgiven on grounds of inexperience. I intimated that Vasey should give the order, and took up my position at the head of the column as my men formed it. A few favoured me with smiles; whether in genuine approbation of my promotion or out of pity, I could not tell. On Vasey’s command, we moved off, down into the trough between the dunes, marching through our army and then into the ranks of the best Spanish regiments, up toward the extreme right of our army’s line.
Ahea
d of us was a sand hill far larger than the others, the last before the beach sloped gently to the sea, where the tide was slowly flooding. At least a hundred feet high, it was evidently inaccessible on either side, and even the slope to the front was precipitous. It was occupied by a Spanish regiment, the scarlet-and-gold flag of King Philip at their head, but as we came nearer, I saw that a second contingent of our own army had already taken up station on the flank nearest us. It was Norris’s, although he was fortunate – or unfortunate – enough to have a captain set over him.
We made our way up the back of the great sand hill and drew up alongside our compatriots, my men taking up a ragged dressing upon those to their right. I strode forward and saluted Dick and Captain Taliesin Vaughan, a drunken old Welshman whose nerves had been shattered by too much soldiering during the late wars. It was said that this shambling, unshaven creature had once single-handedly killed a dozen fanatics upon Newbury field. It was hard to believe now, but there are few sights more pathetic than a warrior who has been shattered by war. Not that Vaughan’s wounds were physical; I had seen him shirtless in the camp at Passendale, and he bore barely a scar. But God alone knew what fearful scars disfigured his thoughts and dreams. Then, in my extreme youth, I could not understand why such a man still felt compelled to endure the horrors of combat. Now, of course, I understand all to well. Taliesin Vaughan knew no other way, and no other pay. So like a dog returning to its vomit, he would ever quaff a bottle and then turn to follow the sound of the drums.
‘Right of the line, Matt,’ said Dick Norris cheerily, after congratulating me upon my promotion. ‘The place of honour.’
‘Honour!’ scoffed Vaughan, an overwhelming stench of wine upon his breath. ‘Slaughter, more like. Highest point on the field, young gentlemen. The great Marshal of France yonder is going to want it, and there is precious little we can do to prevent it.’
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