Young Bloods

by Simon Scarrow

  They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs and as they turned to look Captain Muiron emerged from the staircase and approached them. He was smiling as he stopped and saluted. Then he drew a sealed envelope from inside his filthy jacket and offered it to Napoleon.

  ‘Dispatch from representatives Saliceti and Fréron, sir.’

  Napoleon broke the seal, scanned the message, then reread it more slowly before he finally looked up.

  ‘It seems I am to be promoted to brigadier.’

  ‘Congratulations, sir,’ Junot grinned. ‘It’s no more than you deserve.’

  Napoleon looked at the letter again.Three months ago he had been a lowly captain, struggling to find a patron. Now, he was to be a brigadier. That was a swift rise for a soldier by any standard, and he wondered just how far such a man might go in this world.

  Chapter 82

  Flanders, May 1794

  Lord Moira’s reinforcements had landed in Ostend just in time to abandon the port. The French had broken through the Austrian line and were threatening to cut the reinforcements off from the rest of the British Army, itself already in full retreat towards Antwerp. Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wesley reined his horse in and sat for a moment watching his regiment march past.The men of the 33rd Foot seemed to be in fairly good spirits, given that they were about to make a forced retreat across the face of the advancing enemy columns. That would change after a hard day’s march. Most of the men were seasoned enough, but like other regiments in the rapidly expanding army, there was a leavening of raw recruits - men who were either too old, or little more than boys; men who had poor constitutions or were simple in the head. Arthur felt some pity for them. In the days to come they would suffer the most and be the least likely to survive.

  He twisted round in his saddle and looked back down the road to Ostend. A thick column of smoke rose lazily into the air above the depot. Lord Moira had given orders to burn all stores and equipment that could not be carried by his men and wagons. To Arthur, it seemed like a scandalous waste. Much of the equipment was brand new and was going up in smoke even before it had been used. But there was no helping it. How much worse it would be to permit the equipment to fall into French hands.The French offensive had caught the allies by surprise and now they were in complete disarray and falling back before the fanatical armies of the revolution. It was hard to believe that the fortunes of war could be reversed so comprehensively. Only a year ago the Austrian army, after inflicting a number of defeats on the French, could have rolled across the north of France and stormed Paris - the heart of the revolution. But Prince Frederick Saxe-Coburg had been content to inch forward across a wide front, and now the allies were paying the price for his indolence.

  ‘Keep the pace up there!’ a sergeant yelled at the men marching at the rear of the column. ‘Unless you want a French bayonet up your arse!’

  Someone blew a loud raspberry and the men laughed as the sergeant came running up from the rear of the column to look for the culprit. ‘Which one of you bastards just signed ’is own death warrant?’

  The soldiers fell silent, but could not help grinning.

  ‘Nobody, eh?’ the sergeant smiled cruelly. ‘Well, I ’as me ways of finding out.When I do, I’ll tear the bugger’s throat out, so help me.’

  Arthur walked his horse on, and the column tramped away from Ostend, marching across the Austrian Netherlands to the safety of Antwerp. Even though they had been sent to protect these people from the armies of France, Arthur had seen that the sympathies of the locals were with the revolutionaries. He could understand it. The continent of Europe was a patchwork of kingdoms, principalities and provinces traded between the great powers like cards. Now France extended to them the prospect of revolution, a chance to decide their own fate. Except that the revolution was a sham. There was no brotherhood of man amongst the leaders of the revolution, just a ragtag collection of petty-minded despots clutching onto the reins of power at any cost. The people of the Vendée, Lyons, Marseilles and Toulon had discovered that all too clearly, and now the survivors of those who dared to question the power of the demagogues in Paris walked through a landscape of torched villages and putrefying corpses.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, Arthur.’

  Arthur looked round and saw Captain Richard Fitzroy and his mount moving up alongside. He touched the brim of his hat and Arthur responded in kind. Fitzroy was one of his company commanders and adjutant and had joined the 33rd just after Arthur had taken command. His brother had lent him the money to buy a lieutenant colonel’s commission and Arthur had been preparing the 33rd for war since the autumn of 1793. Despite the difference in rank Captain Fitzroy and Arthur were the same age and firm friends. Good enough for Fitzroy to dispense with the formalities when duty did not demand them.

  Arthur gestured back down the road, towards the column of smoke. ‘Just regretting the waste.’

  ‘Yes, it seems absurd. Quite absurd,’ Fitzroy replied. ‘Here we are, having waited months to get into the fight, and the first bloody thing we do is bolt for cover. It’s no way to run a war.’

  ‘True.’ Arthur nodded.The 33rd had been given orders to join a convoy bound for the West Indies, before being plucked from their ships at the last moment to join the army being assembled by Lord Moira to invade Brittany. After long months of preparation the force had appeared off the French coast to discover that the uprising they had been sent to support had just been crushed. And so, finally, the 33rd had landed in Ostend, keen as mustard to get stuck into the enemy, only to find that their orders were no longer relevant, thanks to the sweeping advances of the French.

  Arthur scanned the surrounding countryside and then his eyes fixed on a small group of horsemen watching the column from the top of a dyke some distance to the south. He raised his hand and pointed.

  ‘I think you might get your chance to fight rather sooner than you think. Look there.’

  Fitzroy followed the direction indicated. ‘The enemy?’

  ‘Who else? Certainly not our men. And hardly likely to be the Austrians. Last I heard they were scurrying back to the Rhine.’

  ‘Scum,’ Fitzroy muttered darkly. ‘Take all our bloody money and then leave us dangling in front of Frenchie. Scum . . .’

  ‘Well, yes - quite,’ Arthur nodded. ‘But we are where we are, Fitzroy. Nothing we can do about it now.’

  ‘No. Suppose not. Still, eh? Bloody Austrians.’

  ‘Yes. Bloody Austrians . . .’

  ‘No doubt those Frenchies over there are going to be reporting on our every move.’

  ‘You can bet on it.’

  ‘Really?’ Fitzroy grinned. ‘How much?’

  ‘I distinctly said, you can bet on it. I’m no longer a betting man.’

  ‘So you say. But I bet if I offered you good enough odds—’

  ‘Fitzroy, you are becoming tiresome.’ Arthur was not in much of a mood for conversation, particularly over a subject that could only add to his sense of frustration. He glanced back at Fitzroy’s company. ‘Your fellows are already slowing down. I’d be obliged if you’d hurried them along, Captain.’

  The adoption of a formal air caused Fitzroy to raise his eyebrows, but he saluted none the less and wheeled his mount round and trotted off.

  Arthur breathed out a sigh of relief that he was alone with his thoughts once again. Such moments had been something of a luxury since he had left Dublin. Immediately his mind was filled with the image of Kitty.The familiar stab of anger was there in his chest as he recalled the humiliation he had been subjected to by her brother when the latter had refused to permit Kitty to marry such an impecunious prospect as Arthur. In the months that followed he had thrown himself into his duties, partly to enhance his understanding of military matters, but mostly to divert his mind from thoughts of her. Shortly before quitting Dublin he had endured one last humiliation and wrote to her, frankly acknowledging his unsuitability but asking her to reconsider his offer of marriage should the Pakenhams judge
that his fortunes had significantly improved at some point in the future. He had concluded the letter by saying that he would always love her and would always honour the offer of marriage. Not that there seemed much chance of improving his lot at the present, Arthur grimaced. There had been few opportunities for anyone in the army to win their spurs, and those opportunities that had availed themselves had largely been squandered in defeat and disgrace. There was little sign that this campaign in Flanders was going to be any different.

  Lord Moira’s force consisted mostly of infantry, with two batteries of six-pounders and a depleted regiment of light cavalry who were of little use apart from scouting and courier duties. Such a poorly balanced force would be vulnerable if the enemy managed to pin it down long enough to bring up sufficient artillery to finish them off. So they were kept on the move, driven hard by their officers and NCOs as they marched north-east under the blazing summer sunshine. In wool jackets, leather stocks and carrying over sixty pounds of equipment and supplies, the men were soon exhausted, and by dusk of the first day the column had already lost a handful of stragglers. Some would catch up during the course of the night, but those too unfit to rejoin their comrades would be at the mercy of the enemy.There were more stragglers on the second evening, and by now the French scouts were much closer to the column and Arthur heard the brief sound of distant shots as they finished off a small party of redcoats who had lingered behind the rest of the column.

  The march resumed the next morning in an even more subdued tone and the light spirits that the men had evinced after quitting Ostend had gone, replaced by a sullen determination to keep going. At noon they halted a short distance from the village of Ondrecht where a bridge crossed over the Anhelm river, a small tributary of the Schelde.

  ‘Down packs!’ The order was relayed down the column and the men gratefully undid the buckles on the uncomfortable chest straps that restricted their breathing and set their packs down at the side of the road. The stoppers were pulled from canteens and the soldiers swigged a few gulps of tepid water into their parched mouths. Arthur made his way down the dusty road, exchanging a few words with the officers and trying to preserve the calm imperturbability that he believed a commanding officer should demonstrate to his subordinates.

  As he remounted his horse, Arthur noticed a troop of British cavalry galloping across a field to the south. They approached the column at a tangent and then swerved towards the party of staff officers just behind the vanguard.

  ‘There’s trouble,’ one of the sergeants muttered.

  Sure enough, as Arthur watched, the ensign in command of the troop was gesticulating wildly to the south-east as he made his report to Lord Moira.The general quickly consulted with his staff officers and then one of them rode down the side of the column, bellowing orders. Behind him, officers and NCOs hurriedly formed their units up on the road, ready to continue the march. The staff officer was still some way off but Arthur decided not to delay for a moment.

  ‘The regiment will form up!’

  At once the men sitting along the sides of the road scrambled to their feet and struggled into their packs, snatched up their weapons and hurried into position. They stood still and ready to march as the staff officer reined in beside Wellington, scattering gravel and clods of dirt across the nearest men.

  ‘General’s respects, sir,’ the staff officer saluted. ‘Scouts report the enemy is approaching from the south. His Lordship fears the French might be trying to prevent us crossing the Anhelm.’

  ‘What is the enemy’s strength?’

  ‘Scouts report two regiments of cavalry, a battery of horse artillery, and several battalions of infantry following on a mile behind.’

  ‘How far away are they?’

  ‘Ten, maybe eleven miles. At least they were when the scouts observed them.’

  ‘Ten miles?’ Arthur frowned as he made some hurried calculations. The French were three hours away, at the most. The bridge over the Anhelm was at least four miles down the road. There was a good chance that the enemy cavalry would catch the column before it could cross to safety. The race was on.

  Arthur smiled grimly. He looked at the staff officer and nodded. ‘Very well. My compliments to Lord Moira. Tell him we will do our best to keep up.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The staff officer saluted, wheeled his mount round and galloped back towards the head of the column, already moving off down the road and stirring up a dusty haze as they advanced at a fast pace. One by one the units of the British column edged forward, until at last Arthur gave the order for his regiment to march. Easing his horse out to one side of the road, Arthur watched his men pass by for a moment before he reached inside the saddlebag for his spyglass. He scanned the land to the south. Although it was a hot day with a heat haze along the horizon, he soon spotted the thick pall of dust that marked the enemy column.The French must be aware of the position of the British column. If their commander was quick-witted enough, very soon he would be giving orders for his cavalry to move ahead to try to cut Lord Moira’s column off from the bridge at Ondrecht. It would have to be a delaying action since the British would outnumber them, but if the French cavalry could hold the column back long enough for their artillery and infantry to come up in support, then, Arthur realised, the British would be in a very difficult situation. Particularly if . . .

  He twisted in the saddle and turned his spyglass back along the road to the east. Sure enough there was another faint cloud of dust behind them. Snapping the spyglass shut he trotted back along the side of the regiment until he found Fitzroy and then eased his mount in alongside his friend. He leaned slightly towards Fitzroy and spoke quietly.

  ‘Get forward to the general. Tell him there’s another enemy column coming up behind us. Don’t be too hasty. Doesn’t look good in front of the men. They’ve enough to worry about already.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fitzroy instinctively looked back over his shoulder, but the view was shrouded with dust kicked up by the men of the 33rd. He clicked his tongue and with a twitch of the reins steered his horse out of line and then trotted up the side of the road.

  By the time the British column came in sight of the quiet village of Ondrecht the first squadrons of enemy cavalry were visible, trotting across the fields. A short distance behind them came the artillery, bouncing along as the gun crews clung to their caissons.Arthur nodded to himself grimly; the enemy commander had missed a trick in not sending these units forward at once. Now they would only be able to harass the British as they crossed the bridge. Much more worrying was the force approaching from behind them. The cloud of dust had rapidly closed on the rear of the column and it was clear that they were being pursued by a large force of cavalry. Even now, with Ondrecht in sight, Arthur could see his men glancing back with anxious expressions. It was time to put an end to that, Arthur decided.

  ‘Sergeant Major!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I want the next man who looks back down the road to be placed on a charge!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’The sergeant major took a deep breath and bellowed to the men, ‘You ’eard the colonel! If I sees one of you so much as take a glimpse at them Frogs, then I’ll break yer bloody legs!’

  The vanguard of the column quickly crossed the bridge and occupied the buildings on the far bank of the Anhelm, ignoring the angry shouts of protest and piteous wailing of their occupants. Lord Moira positioned another battalion on the southern fringe of the village to protect his flank as the rest of the column began to cross the bridge, an ancient stone affair that was just wide enough for the gun carriages to cross carefully. Even so, the bottleneck slowed the column’s progress to a crawl, and all the while the enemy force was swiftly closing on its tail where Arthur and the men of the 33rd Foot stood impatiently, willing the men ahead of them to hurry on.

  The sudden dull thud of cannon fire drew Arthur’s attention back to the enemy’s advance force to the south of the village. A thin band of smoke hid the guns and their crews for a moment before the silh
ouettes emerged through the haze as the French loaded more shot. Some distance in front of them a screen of dragoons had advanced close enough to the village to open fire and the air soon filled with the crackling sound of the shots they exchanged with the British infantry guarding the flank. Still the column ahead of Arthur did not move. Behind, the first outriders of the enemy force pursuing them had ridden into view and now reined in, keeping close watch on the British column. There was no avoiding it, Arthur realised; they were going to have to fight their way across the bridge. He called one of his ensigns over.

  ‘Tell Lord Moira the enemy cavalry will be on us shortly. I’m taking the 33rd out of line to cover the rear.’

  As the boy dashed off, Arthur gave the order to change formation and facing. He watched with some satisfaction as his regiment carried out the manoeuvre with a fair degree of proficiency. The 33rd had only recently adopted the drills set out by Sir David Dundas, and Arthur had been glad to be relieved of the task of drawing up his own drills, a duty that had been required of all regimental commanders before the advent of the Dundas code of military movements. Within minutes the regiment had deployed across the ground either side of the road and now stood in two ranks, ready for action. Half a mile down the road the French cavalry was forming up amid a dense cloud of dust through which twinkled the reflections of polished brass and steel. Arthur was aware of a dull rumble of iron-shod hoofs, and fancied he could almost sense it through the ground beneath his own mount.

  A glance over his shoulder revealed that the British column had edged forward a little more, the regiment ahead of the 33rd having just entered the rough track that ran through the length of the village. But there was still no chance of the column crossing the Anhelm before the enemy cavalry attacked. Arthur quickly gauged the distance between his position and the village before he gave the next order.

  ‘The 33rd will retire two hundred paces!’

  Once the order had been relayed the men turned about and began marching closer to the shelter of the crude buildings of the Flemish peasants, even now nervously glancing at the approaching soldiers through their shutters and doors.