by Lynn Bryant
“Castenschiold has moved back up this way,” Wellesley said, pointing. “My scouts tell me they’ve settled in to the north of the town. Looks like three or four battalions of actual soldiers and a motley collection of farmers and peasants in clogs. They won’t stand, but we need to make sure of it.” He glanced over at the Swedish general. “We’ll attack on two fronts. General Linsingen…”
They marched in battalion order, which kept the 110th at the rear, through farmland with waving fields of ripe corn. The harvesters were out, stopping to stare at the advancing troops and Paul observed that Wellesley led his army carefully, avoiding too much damage. From Luna’s back Paul glanced over his battalion and then raised his voice to a bellow which made his horse physically jump.
“Sergeant O’Reilly, what the devil is going on in the fifth?”
His battalion sergeant saluted and turned back, but Paul’s voice had already reached Captain Withers who shouted an order to Sergeant Malloy. O’Reilly glanced back and Paul shook his head.
“All right, Michael, I think Captain Withers is in control.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant made his way back to his place in line, looking enquiringly at Paul.
Paul gave a small, grim smile. “Caught them out of the corner of my eye,” he explained softly. “Those baskets. Not sure what’s in them, but those thieving bastards had their hands in.”
“Apples, I think, sir.”
“Well good luck with that, now that Captain Withers has seen them, he’ll be furious that I caught them and he didn’t.”
O’Reilly turned to look back to where the stocky captain of the fifth company was haranguing two sheepish looking privates on the subject of looting from the locals.
“It’s tempting, sir,” he said. “Permission to move to the back of the light company. Won’t hurt them to know I can see just what they’re doing.”
“Granted, Sergeant.”
It was flat countryside with dirt roads running between fields and pasture. As the sun rose higher in the sky, it was becoming hotter and Paul reached for his water bottle and drank. Ahead the solid mass of green jackets of the 95th marched steadily.
Paul glanced behind him. There were half a dozen green jackets among his own men. They had been with him since India back in 1802, attached to the 110th for a particular posting which had apparently never ended. Over the past few years he had made vague attempts to get to the bottom of their continuing presence with his company and then battalion and had eventually formally transferred them across. At some point he hoped to get them to change uniform but their skills were more important than the colour of their coats and he made shameless use of Corporal Grogan and his men both for their ability to shoot and their willingness to help train the rest of his men.
Wellesley had detached General Linsingen with his force towards Roskilde to the right of the main army and moved up to attack the front along the sea-road towards Koge while Linsingen crossed the Koge rivulet at Little Sellyas to turn the Danish left flank.
Marching in towards the north of Koge, Paul had his first sighting of the enemy. They had gathered in force in front of the town, their regular troops in uniform at the front with a mass of men in civilian clothing behind them. Drawing up in line behind the Highlanders, Paul surveyed them through his telescope.
“Jesus Christ, some of these are just boys,” he breathed.
“Student volunteers, probably,” Johnny said, beside him. “I was talking to some of the officers from the 43rd, apparently they’ve raised several student corps.”
“They’re going to get slaughtered.”
“They’ve some artillery,” Johnny said.
“Not enough. And so have we.”
As Paul spoke, the Danish guns crashed out, firing a cannonade onto the patrols of hussars at the front of the British lines. As the cavalry scrambled out of reach he studied the Danish lines again. They appeared to have three or four battalions of infantry with cavalry on both flanks and what appeared to be a large body of troops beyond the town and rivulet.
Wellesley had formed his infantry in line, with his left to the sea. Paul was aware that he was waiting for a sighting of Linsingen but there appeared to be no sign of the KGL and he knew from experience that Wellesley would not wait if he thought he had the advantage. There had been some doubt at Assaye back in India when Wellesley had attacked ahead of the arrival of General Stevenson but he had ignored it and won the day.
The Danes had dug entrenchments to shelter their troops but Paul suspected they would not last long against a determined attack. He could hear orders being shouted along the lines and the call of a bugle and there was movement in the lines of the Highlanders.
“Major van Daan.”
Wellesley was riding behind the line and Paul turned and saluted. “Sir.”
“The 92nd are going in, I’m sending the 52nd and 43rd in support. The rifles will give cover with the artillery.”
“Yes, sir.”
“March your battalion out around to the right and cut them off if they try to run westwards. Some of them will stand, God help them, but some won’t.”
“Would they be the ones without weapons or uniforms, sir?”
“Probably. Prisoners, Major. If you can. What the devil…?”
Wellesley reached for his telescope and Paul did the same, training it on the Danish cavalry. The 92nd had begun its run towards the entrenchments and there was steady fire coming from the infantry lines. Some of the Highlanders were down, but the British artillery was preventing much damage and as the accurate fire of the 95th began to make itself felt, Paul could see bodies lying over the entrenchment. A Danish officer in full uniform was standing, yelling encouragement to his men, and as Paul watched, he was shot down and fell.
“They’re mobilising their cavalry,” Wellesley said. “Over on the sands to our left. They can hit the 92nd in their flank. Captain Stanhope, get over to Colonel Redan, tell him to move his hussars over to our left to protect the infantry. I’m pulling the 43rd into a second line. Colonel van Daan…”
“Yes, sir.” Paul dragged his sluggish mount around, cursing softly under his breath. “Jenson! Get over here and take her, I can walk quicker than this!”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul slid to the ground. “Sergeant O’Reilly, sound the advance! Johnny, we’re moving down the right flank to cut them off if they run, get moving!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Johnny - prisoners if we can. Make sure the word gets out, I’m offering extra grog to the companies who bring me live prisoners.”
He saw his second-in-command grin, then turn around, relaying orders to officers, and NCOs. The 110th sprang into action with the enthusiasm of men who had been bored for weeks and Paul drew his sword and moved to their head.
The country was flat but boggy despite the dry weather. With no other option, Paul led his men across a hayfield newly harvested, the big tent like stacks marching in rows across the centre of the field. The mud clung to his men’s shoes, slowing them down, and Paul ran beside them, keeping an eye on the action over to his left where battle had been joined in the entrenchments.
The Danes were putting up a fight; more than he had expected. He could see how many of them had fallen to artillery and musket fire and the accurate shooting of the rifles, but they were still standing although there were far fewer of them. He ran on, seeing the first houses of Koge looming up on his left and then he heard Lieutenant Swanson’s voice just behind him.
“Oh bloody hell.”
Paul turned to look back at the entrenchments again and saw that the Highlanders had reached the first line of the Danes and were using their bayonets ruthlessly. The defenders were outnumbered and overwhelmed and too many of them were no longer firing their muskets. Paul wondered if they had run out of ammunition.
As he watched, the line broke and the Danes ran. Pursued not only by the triumphant Highlanders but also the hussars who had swung in from the sands, they were leap
ing over ditches and earthworks and running for their lives.
“Mary, mother of God, it’s a massacre!” Sergeant O’Reilly breathed. “Those poor bastards.”
Paul swung around, scanning the ranks of the 110th. “Spread out!” he yelled. “Light company, to the fore, skirmish formation! Get yourselves in there and break it up, guide them this way. They won’t be shooting. Get me prisoners, and if the 92nd don’t stop, trip the buggers up, they’ve all got two left feet anyway!”
Released from column, his men surged forward into the streets of Koge and Paul followed. Ahead he saw half a dozen uniformed Danes running down the narrow street towards him and he glanced around and saw four of his men coming up beside him. Private Cooper raised his musket and Paul held his breath but the leading Dane held up his hands quickly, dropping his musket and his companions did the same, pulling up, their eyes wide with terror. Hooves sounded on the cobblestones and three German hussars trotted in behind them, trapping them in the street. The Danes looked behind them in alarm but before Paul could speak, Sergeant Rory Stewart was there, moving forward and placing his solid body between the prisoners and the hussars.
“Surrender?” he said, pantomiming raising his hands higher. The Danes complied quickly, understanding the gesture if not Stewart’s thick Scottish accent. Stewart glanced over his shoulder at the hussars. “Our prisoners,” he said and the Germans shifted and moved back out of the street.
“Well done,” Paul said briskly. “Get them into the main square, Sergeant, and set guards. I’ll send any others down to you.”
“Yes, sir.” Stewart gestured with his bayonet. “Come on lads. Don’t look so worried, you’re the lucky ones today. What the bloody hell…?”
Paul spun around at a roar of triumph and found two Highlanders charging towards him, bayonets raised. To his astonishment they did not appear to see him or notice his rank, and they completely ignored Stewart’s bellow to halt as they bore down on the helpless Danish prisoners.
It was a killing madness that Paul had seen before and had experienced on some occasions and he knew better than to try to reason with them. Instead, he bent, snatched up one of the discarded muskets and swung it like a club. The Highlander was caught completely unawares and went down like a stone, crashing into his companion who caught him in some astonishment, sitting down hard on the cobblestones under the impact. Paul dropped the musket and put his sword at the throat of the first Highlander.
“They’ve surrendered,” he said clearly.
He saw their emotions written across their faces; shock followed by fury and then the sudden realisation that the man facing them was an officer. The one Paul had hit had a nosebleed and he tried to stem the flow on his coat sleeve, looking up at Paul in sudden mute terror. Paul let the silence drag on for a long moment. Then he said quietly:
“Up.”
They scrambled awkwardly to their feet and stood to attention, the one dripping blood. Paul surveyed them for a moment.
“Go on,” he said finally and they stared at him in astonishment and then ran. Paul turned to Stewart.
“Carry on, Sergeant.”
In the huge market square he found more of his men guarding increasing numbers of prisoners. Some of the Danish troops had taken refuge in the buildings around the square. There were a few desultory shots fired, with no accuracy, but these were dying out now. The hussars and many of the 92nd had moved on through the town, chasing the remaining defenders south towards the bridges. The 52nd was moving around the square, battering on doors and clearing out small pockets of resistance in public buildings. They seemed very controlled and very disciplined and Paul left them alone and led his men over to the town hall where Danish troops, clearly out of ammunition, were throwing missiles down on the heads of a few members of the 43rd who were trying to batter down the door.
A red-haired captain was leading them. Paul approached him, dodging a wooden stool which crashed onto the cobbles beside him, narrowly missing him. The captain saw him and saluted.
“Sir. I’ve orders to clear them out of here.”
“Might take a while, Captain. Mr Swanson!”
“Sir.”
“Translate, will you? One of the officers will understand Swedish.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell them to surrender. We’re taking prisoners, not slaughtering them. They can look around the square and see that.”
Carl moved back quickly, avoiding a bucket hurled from the upper storey. He raised his voice and shouted up to the men at the windows. Paul waited. After a moment there was an enormous crash and his lieutenant jumped back to avoid the splash from what was clearly a chamber pot. It shattered on the stones and the smell of urine and excrement filled the air. A voice shouted back down and Paul raised his eyebrows to Carl who shook his head.
“Didn’t get all of that, sir, but I’m translating it as ‘no’.”
Paul looked around. More and more prisoners were being escorted into the square. He could see scattered weapons, discarded by the fleeing Danes, and poignantly, a selection of wooden clogs. In their haste to escape, the irregular troops had thrown aside weapons, if they had them, and kicked off the awkward wooden clogs to speed their flight. Some of the men now under guard were barefooted.
“Where’s General Wellesley?” he asked.
“Not here yet, sir. The 43rd are mopping up the remains down by the bridge, he might be there.”
“All right, we won’t wait. Sergeant O’Reilly!”
The Irishman jogged forward, saluting. “Yes, sir.”
“Four men. Collect up everything they’ve thrown at us that will burn and pile it up against the door.”
“Yes, sir.”
O’Reilly turned, calling out orders, and Paul watched as the men began to gather the splintered and broken furniture. O’Reilly carried a bench towards the solid wooden door of the town hall.
“Not that door, Sergeant.”
O’Reilly turned, surprised. Paul was looking up at the windows of the town hall. A lone officer, hatless and fair-haired, his coat soaked in blood, stood looking down at him and Paul had a strong sense that the man had not needed Carl’s Swedish translation. Paul met the other man’s eyes for a long moment. The Dane was probably about his age, surrounded by his men, desperate and angry and determined and Paul hated himself for what he was about to do.
He had seen the flutter at the window of the neighbouring house earlier, gone almost before it was visible, but he was very sure it had been a woman’s face. There had been no sign of a woman or child in the chaos of the battle through the streets. He suspected that many of them had taken refuge in nearby churches, but not all. Still looking up at the officer in the upper window, he pointed to the house.
“That door,” he said loudly and clearly. “Burn it down. And stand well back, because that’s a wooden building and once you’ve lit it, it isn’t going to stop with the door.”
Paul suddenly wished that he had not chosen Michael O’Reilly for this particular task. His sergeant ought to know him better, but he realised, seeing the expression on the Irishman’s face, that he had seen too many cottages and churches burned out in his native Ireland by the English and should not have been asked to carry out a similar order here in a neutral country. But it was too late and Paul could not back down without alerting the Danish officer.
The colour had drained from Michael’s face and the dark eyes were fixed on Paul in mute horror. Paul looked back at him steadily.
“Get on with it, Sergeant,” he said.
O’Reilly turned away, carrying the bench over to the house and his men followed, piling the broken furniture against the door. Long minutes passed and Paul could feel his heart hammering in his breast, his nerves stretched to breaking point, waiting for the officer to crack.
The sound came, not from above, but from the prisoners in the square, a high pitched yell of horror, a plea in a language Paul did not understand. He did not need to, to grasp the man’s terror. He was
shouting, running forward, calling up to the men at the window, gesticulating in the direction of the house and Carl Swanson moved to catch him, holding him back, speaking to him in Swedish.
Paul had no idea if the prisoner understood, but suddenly there was movement in the town hall and a weapon landed on the cobbles, a gun, useless with no ammunition, but a symbol. More followed. Paul looked up at the fair haired officer again and recognised sheer hatred in the man’s eyes. Slowly and very deliberately, the officer reached for his sword. He unbuckled it and held it out, dropping it to the street. It hit the cobbles with a ringing sound.
Paul did not take his eyes from the man. “All right, Sergeant. Move the bonfire away from that door, would you? Set a guard, make sure nobody bothers the women and children in there. They can come out when they’re ready but nobody goes in without permission. Captain Wheeler, get this door open and get them out, line them up with the other prisoners. Be very careful, I don’t trust this lad.”
“Yes, sir,” Wheeler said quietly.
“Captain Young, once they’re all out, take your company through this building and make sure it’s clear. Once you’ve checked, we can use it as a temporary hospital and mortuary.”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul stood watching as his men moved about their duties. They were unusually quiet and he understood why. He had shocked them and he knew it. He had shocked himself. If the fair-haired officer had held his nerve, Paul knew that he would not have given the order to light the fire that might have killed whoever was hiding in the half-timbered house but even making that threat was unlike him. He had been desperate to end the slaughter and had found, instinctively, the way to do it, but it was going to be hard to live with for a while.
The Danish prisoners filed out of the town hall under careful guard. Paul stood watching them. Most of them were looking at the ground, not raising their eyes. A few shot quick glances over at the other house, now with half a dozen of his third company stationed on guard. The Danes were calm and silent. These were regular troops in full uniform and they had held out to the bitter end. Paul watched them go past to join the other prisoners and was glad it had not ended in slaughter.