“And we?”
“We face Victor and his seven divisions with our one and a half. But, yes, we’ll stand. I know von Hohenlau, one of the best. Old school from the glory times. If he gets orders to stand, he will, count on it.”
“He’s on the march, Klaus.”
“Orders to extend to the right to meet the sea and stop Victor turning his flank.”
“Risky.”
“Yes.”
Gursten downed the last of his schnapps. “If you’ll excuse me, Willy, I really must rest.”
At first light he was a-horse, with von Hohenlau’s acknowledgement to Bennigsen, riding across the adjacent field in the damp, misty morning to the rutted Liebdorff road east.
At first he made good time, threading through the tents and artillery parks of von Hohenlau’s rear until he reached the deserted countryside beyond, where he turned parallel to the lines.
Breaking into a canter he relaxed into the rhythm of the movement-until an hour further on something intruded into his senses. It was deathly quiet but on the air there was the faintest disturbance. He reined in and tried to listen above the snorting and snuffling of his horse. Wanting to hear better, he dismounted and walked away a little.
Over to the southwest, in the direction of the lines, there were signs of vague disorder, rising dust and the faint, muffled sounds of battle, an engagement of sorts-well to the rear, where it had no right to be. He knelt down, put his ear to the ground and heard the subliminal thunder of many horses.
He felt a cold wash of fear. It could only be that the French had observed the Prussian move to the sea and, knowing that their line would be stretched, had thrown a flying column in the other direction to smash a wedge between the allies.
It would be heavy cavalry first to punch through-that was what he must be hearing-and it was open country: they would be moving fast.
He looked around helplessly-the road stretched on for miles, nothing in sight on these God-forsaken plains. A wind-breaking hedge followed the road and on the far side there was a ditch, the field beyond nothing but a mass of wild-growing nettles.
The drumming of hoofs was now viscerally perceptible. Cavalry warhorses would soon catch his slightly built mount, but if he was seen on foot out in the open he’d be instantly cut to pieces.
The skyline was now stippled with movement, trumpets braying faintly amid a ragged tapping of musketry. In an agony of despair he tore loose his sabretache and dived into the base of the hedge, wriggling frantically until he reached the ditch the other side.
It was running in jet-black slime and oozed effluvium. As the drumming turned to thunder he ripped the dispatches to pieces and thrust them deep into the mud then snatched a look through the hedge.
The whole horizon to his front was alive with galloping cuirassiers in shining breastplates and their distinctive curved, plumed helmets, intoxicated with the charge that had carried them deep into the enemy lines. Their heavy sabres glittered in the wan sun; each had hate on his face.
There was only one chance: he crouched, then thrust himself face down into the ditch and lay still.
The thunder turned into an avalanche of noise-in the next few seconds he would either live or die. The terrible hoofbeats grew louder, overwhelming-then strangely cut off as the cavalrymen launched themselves over the hedge to crash down beyond the ditch and away.
He kept deathly motionless, his back crawling as he tensed for a casual brutal hacking with a sabre as they passed over him. It went on and on until the last stragglers had gone.
It had worked: he was grateful for his concealing dark blue uniform, its frogging and ornamentation out of sight under him. If he’d been seen it was likely he’d been taken for a stale corpse not worth the sticking.
He knew better than to make any move just yet for they’d penetrated deeply and must now regroup and return. Sure enough, they milled about in the field for a space and then, with hoarse shouts and a blare of trumpets, made off in a body to the south.
Still not daring to stir he waited until the jingling tumult had died away and carefully raised his head.
They were nearly out of sight and he got to his feet slowly, surveying the trampled hedge and field. His horse was lost, of course, and he faced the prospect of a long tramp in his heavy riding boots until he saw the beast about a quarter of a mile away, calmly cropping the nettles.
Heart still thudding he mounted and rode off at desperate speed back whence he’d come.
He burst in on von Hohenlau, who was surrounded by excited staff officers; obviously his news was not unexpected. He told a distracted Scharnhorst the details, then withdrew to change his filthy uniform.
When he returned there was a different atmosphere: a grave and serious quiet.
“Sir?” he enquired, of a despondent artillery hauptfach.
“They’re through-Soult threw five squadrons of heavy cavalry at our left and he’s pouring a column of his finest through after them. Klaus, it means we’re cut off from Bennigsen-and we’ll have to shorten our lines to face the bastards.”
Always it was the same: a restless probing of the front, and at any weakness, Bonaparte would pounce, sending instant marching orders to a tried and trusted marshal and supporting orders to others. It took masterly staff-work but Bonaparte’s veterans could be relied on.
Later in the evening, when lamps threw soft gold on tired faces, and supper lay uneaten, worse news came.
“Sir. Soult is deep into our lines. We’ve now reports that he’s wheeling left-sir, he intends to cut us off, isolate us. We must pull back, retire on Kreuznicke.”
Scharnhorst nodded slowly. “It must be done quickly.”
Von Hohenlau shook his head. “No.”
“Sir?”
“My last orders were to stand and that is what I will do.”
“Sir, if we don’t retire we’ll be cut off, encircled! We must-”
“Silence! Have I not a staff officer with a shred of honour? We’ve lost communication with our field commander, whose orders to us were to stand fast. He’s in the belief that we’ve obeyed his last order and therefore remain in post to halt any advance in this sector. Do we now as Prussians betray that trust?”
“If we are surrounded we will be put to the siege and-”
“Sir! This is of no account. Recollect, if you will, that Pomeranian Kolberg still defies the tyrant under siege, near two hundred miles behind Bonaparte’s lines. Are we so craven that we fear to do the same?”
Scharnhorst pulled himself erect. “There is a difference, sir, which it would be folly to overlook.”
“Yes?” von Hohenlau snapped, his expression flinty.
“At Kolberg they are two, three thousand. Here we are sixteen thousand. Without we have supply and-”
“Noted. And dismissed. We do not move. I shall want plans to safeguard our perimeter and take all necessary steps by daybreak.”
“Very well, Generalleutnant.”
By mid-morning it was clear that the French had achieved their objective-the Prussians were now isolated from the rest of the line and were left to their own resources for rations, ammunition and stores.
An entire division and more-how long could it last?
Gursten received a summons to Headquarters. Von Hohenlau and Scharnhorst were together conferring and looked up to regard him gravely.
“Flugelleutnant Gursten, I know your father and your uncle. It is because of them I feel able to make the request I do.”
“Sir?”
“Our situation must be made known to the higher authorities, in detail, that decisions may be made.”
“I understand, sir.”
“This is a mission of the utmost importance and of extreme peril.”
“Sir.”
“You will pass through the enemy lines and make your way to Konigsberg.”
“Not to Feldmarschall Bennigsen, sir?”
“To Konigsberg-to His Majesty and his ministers. There you will lay before him our entire disposition. If he gives leave for me to retire I shall do so but, on my honour, will obey no other.”
“I will do it willingly, sir.” The odds of his slipping through an alerted besieging force were slim but the stakes could not be higher.