Young bloods

'They won't. Not with the Waal between us and them.'

'And if it freezes? What then?'

'Then?' Arthur shook his head slightly. 'Then, they might just walk in and take what's left of the Netherlands. Of course, any normal army would stay in its winter quarters and wait for spring. But the French? I just don't know. They are fighting a new kind of war, and might just continue their offensive the moment they can cross the Waal. So, we had better pray for a mild winter.'

'I'll pray, but it's already damned cold, and I'll swear it's getting colder every day.'

'Yes.' Arthur agreed wearily. 'One way or another this winter might kill us all. Half our men are too sick to fight, all of them are hungry and – you haven't heard the worst of it yet – the government are recalling seven of the regiments from Flanders to reinforce the army in the West Indies.'

Fitzroy shook his head in astonishment. 'But that's complete madness. We're badly outnumbered as it is. Seven regiments? It's crazy. Besides, they'll drop like flies once the yellow fever sets in.'

'Maybe. But if they stay here, they'll perish like the rest of us from cold, hunger and neglect.'

'Neglect? Yes. I suppose that's true,' Fitzroy mused. 'I had a letter from my sister last week. She said that the London papers seem to be ignoring events in Flanders – almost as if we are an embarrassment. Only a handful of organisations are collecting coats and blankets to send us for the winter. I tell you, it's almost as if we have been forgotten. The forgotten army – that's us.'

Arthur leaned against the palisade and nodded towards the far bank of the Waal. 'Maybe. But those people over there haven't forgotten us, and when the time comes I just hope we're still strong enough to give them something to remember us by.'

Fitzroy glanced at him and chuckled. 'Ever the professional.'

'Professional?' Arthur frowned. His class was inclined to look upon that term as perjorative. But, he relented, Fitzroy was right. Soldiering was a profession. It needed to be if Britain was to survive this war against the bloody anarchy of revolution.The sad condition of the army in Flanders was ample proof of the failure of a system that offered commissions for sale, and relied on private contractors to supply its soldiers in the field. The avarice of such men would surely destroy Britain, unless the war was conducted in a more professional manner. To that end, to ultimate victory, Arthur had committed himself. So yes, he decided, he was a professional soldier.The pity of it was that so many other officers were not. He glanced at Fitzroy and smiled. 'One might as well excel at soldiering as anything else.'

'Sir, I meant no offence. The truth of it is that I'm lucky to serve under someone like you. That goes for all of us. I've heard the men say as much.'

'Yes, well…' Arthur's words stumbled awkwardly as he stiffened up and glanced round the interior of the fort. 'Well, I must get on. There's still several forts to see. You seem to have things in order here, Fitzroy.'

'Yes, sir.' Fitzroy could not help smiling at his superior's discomfort over the small praise he had offered. Lesser men would have taken it as their due.

Arthur coughed. He gestured towards the men still playing cricket as there was a divided chorus of cheers and groans. 'You'd better get back to the game. Looks like your fellows have just lost another wicket.'

'What?' Fitzroy whipped round. 'Damn! Excuse me, sir.'

He quickly saluted and hurried off to join his men. Arthur watched him for a moment, still pondering over Fitzroy's words. Even though Arthur told himself that the man was a fool to overestimate his competence, he could not help feeling a warm glow of satisfaction that the men had taken to him. As he strolled back along the rampart the French sentry on the far bank waved his hat again. Arthur hesitated a moment, and then, with an amused smile, he briefly doffed his hat and made his way down into the fort and returned to where his horse was tethered.

Chapter 86

The winter continued in earnest, with cold winds and icy rain sweeping across the Netherlands, so that the men found it almost impossible to keep their clothes dry. They lived in perpetual clammy discomfort, with hunger gnawing at their guts. Christmas came and went in a mockery of goodwill to all men and then, early in the new year, the temperature dropped like a stone in a well. As the first freezing frosts began, the mud set like rock around the wheels of the gun carriages and supply wagons so that nothing could move. Snow swirled in from the north and within hours it had covered the landscape with a thick layer of dazzling white that blotted out almost every feature and fold of the ground. The gaunt men of the British Army, wrapped in their greatcoats and mufflers, patrolling the banks of the Waal, looked like minute figures on a vast blank canvas. Only the tiny puffs of exhaled breath revealed that they were living things. Some did not breathe, frozen to death at their posts after their strength and will to live had succumbed to the icy grasp of the worst winter in living memory.

On Boxing Day the ice in the Waal began to freeze. By New Year it was beginning to pack, and Arthur knew that in a matter of days the ice would be thick enough for men, horses and even cannon to cross safely. He gave orders for the sentries and patrols to be doubled and each day he inspected the surface of the river and discreetly noted the places where the ice was thickest. Some days he saw French officers probing the ice from the far bank and each time they ventured further from their side of the river.

Then, one morning, after Arthur had finished a meagre breakfast of stale bread and salted pork, a messenger arrived from headquarters. The man was breathing heavily and snow clung to his boots as he was ushered into the barn that served as Arthur's headquarters.

'General's respects, sir. The enemy has started crossing the Waal.'

The news was not met by any surprise from Arthur or his officers. They had been expecting it, and Arthur was ready to meet the danger with a clear mind. He indicated the map on the table nearby. 'Show me.'

The messenger, an ensign who looked too young for such a campaign, leaned across the map and tapped a place a dozen miles down river from Arthur's brigade. 'There.'

'What's the situation?'

'Sir, headquarters have only had initial reports, but it seems that the French are crossing in strength.'

'What are our orders?'

'The general wants you to pull back from the river and form up to attack their flank.'

'Attack their flank?' Arthur felt his heart grow heavy. 'Attack with what? My men are down to under a third of their normal strength.Those that are left are in no condition to attack. Besides, what are his intentions for the rest of the army?'

'I don't know,' the ensign admitted. 'But I overheard him say something about forming a new line ten miles back from the Waal, while the French consolidate their bridgehead.'

'They're not going to wait to consolidate anything,' Arthur responded quietly. 'That's not how they wage war. Look here.' He moved aside to let the ensign see the map more closely. 'They're going to make for the coastal ports. I'm sure of it. If they capture The Hague and Amsterdam, then we'll be cut off from what's left of our supplies. We'll be forced to surrender, or quit the Netherlands and retreat north into Munster. In our present condition I doubt if we'd make it that far.' He thought for a moment. 'Our only hope is to reach the ports before they do.You understand the situation?'

'Yes, sir. I think so.'

'Then you must explain it to the general. Ride back to headquarters as fast as you can. Go.'

The messenger saluted and hurried from the barn. Arthur called his small staff over and dictated orders for the brigade to abandon their forts and form up on the track that led away from the Waal towards the distant city of Amsterdam.The men were to take any rations that remained and carry what ammunition they could. Everything else was to be burned, including the wagons. None of the draught animals was to be left behind. They could carry the wounded and, if need be, be slaughtered for rations as the brigade retreated.