The small group of staff officers looked round at the sound of an approaching horse. Half an hour earlier the colonel had left them with orders to deploy the brigade astride the crossroads, before riding off along the rutted mire of the road towards the enemy. The men had tramped into line and now the dense ranks of the redcoats rippled across the rolling pastureland on either side of the junction.The colonel had chosen the spot welclass="underline" the left flank was anchored by a patch of soft polder, and the right fetched up against a large copse of elm trees on a small hillock. The French, if they came, would not be able to use their cavalry to flank the British line. Instead they would be forced to launch a frontal assault if they were to break through. Ahead of the British line the ground sloped down and disappeared into a soupy mist that rolled off the polder and across the road.
The redcoats stood in silence, the butts of their muskets resting on the ground. After the brisk march to take up their present position their bodies had worked up some heat and now a thin milky vapour lazily dissipated above their black hats.
As the officers stared towards the sound of the approaching horse, a figure abruptly materialised from the mist. Colonel Wesley urged his mount towards them.The mare had been ridden hard and its flanks were flecked with foam. He reined in and slid stiffly from the saddle, handing the reins to his groom.
'Any word from headquarters?'
Captain Fitzroy stepped forward. 'No, sir. Nothing.'
Arthur glanced back down the road. 'Damn…'
As soon as he had received word of the approach of the enemy column the previous evening he had sent a young subaltern galloping back to headquarters to request reinforcements, and some artillery to support the army's rearguard. Headquarters would have received the message several hours before dawn broke, and yet there was no sign of any redcoats marching to their aid, not even any acknowledgement that the message had been received. Arthur angrily clamped his teeth together at yet more proof of the incompetence of those who commanded the expeditionary force.This on top of the failure to send any supplies to his men for the last three days. They had been forced to take what food they could from the locals and now the Dutch townspeople hated the redcoats even more than the French invaders. His men were hungry, hated and, worst of all, short of ammunition. Just enough to face one short skirmish, and then they'd have to retreat, or rout.
Captain Fiztroy coughed and Arthur looked at him irritably. 'Yes?'
'Sir? The French. Are they coming?'
'Oh yes, they're coming all right. They'll be here within the half-hour.'
Fitzroy lowered his voice before he continued. 'In what strength, sir?'
Arthur forced himself to smile. 'Enough to give us a decent chance to show what the brigade can do.'The smile faded. 'A full division, I'd say.With at least one battery of horse artillery. But no cavalry. At least none that I could see before I turned back.'
The group of officers glanced at each other anxiously. Even though the 33rd had been blooded at Ondrecht that was the only fight they had been engaged in.The men of the 42rd were nearly all recent recruits, many of them preferring army life, with all its harsh discipline and danger, to the endless toil of scratching a living off the land back in Britain. There were also cutpurses, debtors and other criminals amongst the wretches waiting in the silent ranks stretching out on either side. Once again Arthur wondered if they would hold their ground. So much was riding on that. Not least their survival, and his reputation. Lack of supplies and lack of support would stand for little in the eyes of those who would judge the young colonel. Everything depended upon the officers and men of the brigade holding firm, and putting into effect all the lessons that had been drilled into them over the last few months. The moment of truth would come for all of them when the massed column of the enemy, urged on by the insistent rattle of drums, rolled up the slope towards the thin line of redcoats.
'Looks like you've finally got what you wanted,Arthur,' Fitzroy muttered. 'Your very own battle.'
'Yes.' Arthur turned away quickly and beckoned to the brigade quartermaster. 'Hampton! Up here, man!'
'Sir!'The stocky officer trotted up, and Arthur caught the scent of spirits on his breath as the man drew himself up before his colonel.
'Is there any gin left in the wagons?'
Hampton gave a lopsided smile as he nodded a shade too emphatically. 'Plenty, sir.'
'Good. See to it that the men have a tot immediately. I want fire in their bellies when they catch sight of the Frogs.'
'Yes, sir. And a tot for yourself?'
Unlike every other officer in the brigade, the colonel abstained from alcohol, a fact that had provoked a degree of amusement and curiosity in his subordinates, who regularly drank themselves insensible as easily as breathing. Arthur was well aware of their bemusement, and took it as further proof of the dire condition of the British Army. While he could accept that the rabble who served in the ranks needed their drink, the gentlemen who commanded them must remain sober and alert in the face of the enemy. He realised that Hampton was still watching him and snapped his fingers.
'Move yourself, man!'
'Yes, sir!' The quartermaster saluted and trotted away towards the small convoy of wagons lining the route beyond the crossroads, calling out to his assistants lounging beside the wagons as they puffed on their clay pipes. His men reluctantly stirred themselves in response to his summons and slouched after him.
Fitzroy leaned closer to him. 'Gin? Is that wise?'
'Wise?' The colonel shrugged. 'I doubt it will do them any harm, and at least it will help distract them while we wait. Anything to take their minds off the enemy, eh?'
Fitzroy looked down at his hands and rubbed them together to take the chill off his long fingers. 'As you wish, sir.'
The quartermaster's assistants began to move down the lines of each company. Each man carried a keg of gin under one arm and they paused briefly to pour a measure into each battered mug that was eagerly held out towards them.Arthur watched disdainfully as most of his men downed the fiery spirit in one gulp. Only a few sipped at their mugs as they stared pensively in the direction from which the French would soon appear.
Suddenly, one of the pickets, just visible on the edge of the mist, turned round and cupped a hand to his mouth.
'Cavalry! Cavalry approaching!'
For an instant the officers froze and then Fitzroy cocked an eyebrow at his colonel. 'No cavalry, eh?'
'I didn't see any at the time,' Arthur snapped back, before he drew a deep breath to shout out his orders.
'Recall the pickets! Brigade… stand to. Prepare to receive cavalry!'
Chapter 84
The orders were relayed down the lines by the harsh bawling of the company sergeants, and the redcoats hastily downed the last of their gin and stuffed the battered mugs back into their knapsacks before porting their muskets and waiting for the next order.
Arthur paused a moment to think. There was precious little powder to waste on cavalry. That must be saved for the infantry. Since the cavalry could not turn the British flanks they would surely be discouraged by a gleaming thicket of cold steel. 'Fix bayonets!'
The order was bellowed down the length of the brigade and one company after another rasped the long blades from their scabbards and slotted them on to the end of their muskets. As the clatter and rattle of the manoeuvre filled the cold dawn air, Arthur could hear the first sounds of the approaching enemy: a rolling rumble of hoofs, then the chink of accoutrements buckled to each rider, every sound faintly muffled by the mist. The men who had been posted on picket duty were sprinting back up the gentle slope towards their comrades, casting anxious looks over their shoulders as they ran. Behind them the noise of the approaching enemy swelled and filled the still air.