Young Bloods Part 53

Arthur smiled back, then his expression grew more serious. 'How are things?'

'Not good. The men are on half-rations, and I've given orders to start eating some of the weaker draught animals. We've little enough fodder for them as it is, so they might as well do some good. Any sign of our supplies turning up?'

'No. None at all.'Arthur tugged the collar of his coat up.'I rode to headquarters yesterday to see what the delay is. Fifteen miles back from the Waal.' He shook his head. 'It's a different world.The general and his staff have got themselves a comfortable house with fine grounds. Fires ablaze in every room, fine wines, the best food to be found in this country, as well as the prettiest wh.o.r.es.'

Fitzroy's eyebrows flickered in surprise, before envy took hold. 'Bet those idle b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are s.h.a.gging themselves silly.'

'No doubt. But it seems to be about the only thing they are doing. I spoke to the head of the commissariat, once I had prised him off some filly. Told him what we needed. He said he'd see to it as soon as possible. Which means we'll be lucky if we get any more rations before Christmas.'

'Christmas!' Fitzroy shook his head and swore softly. 'I doubt there'll be anyone but skeletons left in the fort by then. Of course,' he nodded towards the cows, 'we could eat them.'

'No. Out of the question.You know the Duke's recent orders. It's a court martial for anyone caught looting Dutch property.'

'Just one cow,' Fitzroy pleaded. 'We'll tell the locals it ran into the river and was swept away.'

'No. Don't even joke about it.'

'Who's joking?'

'Enough!' Arthur waved his hand impatiently. 'Now, tell me, what's your strength?'

'As of this morning, fifty-three effectives. Eighteen unfit for duty. Twelve of those have typhoid fever and won't live the week out. I've put them in a tent in one corner of the fort to keep them away from the other men. So I'm well under half strength. G.o.d help us if the French attack.'

'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 d.a.m.ned 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 embarra.s.sment. 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 cla.s.s 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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. 'd.a.m.n! 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 m.u.f.flers, 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 succ.u.mbed 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.

As the morning wore on, the sound of cannon fire rumbled across the snow-covered landscape from the west. Shortly before noon the headquarters staff had joined the first units waiting on the track, a bedraggled line of scarecrows wrapped in rags, waiting for their orders with weary apathy. It was hard to believe these were the same men who had faced down the hussars at Ondrecht, and covered the retreat of the army from Boxtel. Now they must be ready to fight again. But even as he looked at them Arthur knew there was little fight left in them. All they wanted to do was survive.Yet he had his orders to prepare to attack the enemy flank. The last of the outlying companies trudged up and took up their position in the line stretching along the road and then the brigade was ready to move forward. A brigade in name only, Arthur reflected as he shivered inside his greatcoat. The cold penetrated right through his body so that there was no vestige of warmth anywhere and gradually the tightness about his chest eased as the trembling stopped and only the ache of the cold remained. Still there was no message from the general, no decision to call off the attack, and Arthur decided that he would have to go through with it. However foolish and pointless the order to attack might be, it was still an order and he was bound to obey it. He cleared his throat and gave the order.

'The brigade will advance! Light companies move to the front!'

The orders were relayed down the line, sounding curiously flat in the still, freezing air. The men of the light companies tramped forward and dispersed in a screen a hundred paces ahead of the main body, where the sergeants and officers dressed the lines and then took up their own positions to await the order to move. When all was ready Arthur took one last look over the brigade, his first and, more than likely, last command. In a few hours most of them would be lying dead, stiffening in the snow.

'Sir!' Fitzroy called out. 'Horseman approaching from the north.'

Arthur turned, looked and instantly saw the dark fleck approaching the brigade. A reprieve, he wondered? As the rider approached he held off giving the order to advance and the men stood in silence, staring blankly ahead. The horseman galloped down the rear of the line, kicking up spouts of powder snow, and then reined in as he approached the colonel and his colour party. It was the same messenger as before and he offered a quick salute before blurting out his message.

'Your brigade is to pull back-'

'Make your report properly, sir!' Arthur snapped back.

The ensign raised his eyebrows in surprise, before he took control of his excitement, drew a deep breath, and started again. 'The general sends his compliments, sir. He requests that the brigade withdraws to the north. The army is making best speed for Amsterdam.'

'That's better.' Arthur nodded. 'It is vital that you behave like an officer at all times.The men will look to you over the coming days.You must not be found wanting. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I take it that the French are striking out for Amsterdam as well.'

'Yes, sir.They have sent infantry on ahead while the cavalry are hara.s.sing our column.'

'How long ago did the French set off ?'

'As soon as they crossed the river, sir.'

'Good G.o.d. They must have half a day's start on us.'

The ensign nodded.

'Then we'll march at once. Good day to you . . . and good luck.'

'And to you, sir.'

Then he wheeled his horse round and rode off back in the direction of Amsterdam. As soon as the light companies had been recalled the brigade formed into a marching column and set off in the same direction, tramping along in the snow until, from a distance, they looked like little more than a straggling centipede.

The retreat across the Gelderland almost destroyed the army. Racked by hunger and sickness, they marched mile after mile on frozen feet. A few miles to the west the columns of the French Army were also striking out towards the coast, and every man in both armies was desperate to the win the race. The prize for the French was not only victory in the field, but the chance to destroy the British Army so utterly that Britain would no longer have the stomach to continue the war. Without the subsidies from British coffers, the Austrians and Prussians would no longer be able to afford to fight. The prize for the bone-weary British troops was merely survival and the prospect of many more years of war to come.With such a disparity in the stakes it was inevitable that the French would win. A few days after the retreat from the Waal had begun Arthur received news that the French had entered Amsterdam on 20 January, adding to their laurels by capturing the Dutch fleet, encased in ice on the Texel.

The order came to change direction. Cut off from the ports, the army was forced north, towards the Ysel. The last of the rations had been eaten days before and every morning Arthur's heart grew heavier as the strength returns of his brigade steadily shrank.

The injured gave in first, collapsing into pitiful heaps by the side of the icy tracks, waiting until the cold claimed them. The marching route was easy to follow, lined as it was with discarded equipment and bodies of men and animals. Hunks of meat had been hacked off the latter by the men pa.s.sing by, and eaten raw. Arthur's horse shared the same fate on the fourth evening, when its strength finally gave out. He himself shot the animal through the forehead and gave the body up to his men for butchering. As he watched them tear at the carca.s.s Arthur had never imagined such suffering was possible, such a collapse of the civilised values he had taken for granted.

As the brigade approached the Ysel late one afternoon, the sound of firing came from ahead. Arthur halted the column and went forward with Fitzroy. A quarter of a mile down the track a bitter skirmish was being fought out between men from a Guards regiment and Hessian mercenaries, over the contents of an overturned bread wagon that had been discovered just off the road. The two officers watched in horror as the men who had fought beneath the same flag now hacked and stabbed at each other with the fury and desperation of wild animals.When Arthur could take no more he pulled his friend's sleeve.

'Come. We'll have to find a way round this, if our men aren't to become involved.'

Fitzroy did not answer, and when Arthur turned to him he saw that the captain was staring at a bundle of rags in the ditch at the side of the road. Fitzroy's eyes glistened. Arthur let go of his arm and slowly approached the rags, and saw them for what they really were. A young woman, little more than a girl, lay huddled in a ball. Her bodice was unlaced and her bare breast gleamed white as the snow about her. Clasped to her breast was a small bundle, a baby, and on its blue lips gleamed the frozen milk drawn from its mother. Arthur felt a wave of sickness and hopelessness sweep through him. If there was a h.e.l.l, then this was it. He tore his gaze from the dead girl and her infant and taking Fitzroy by the arm, he walked slowly back to join his men.

Early in March the remnants of the army stood on the quayside in Bremen, under the silent and hostile gaze of the inhabitants of the port. All sense of a common bond in the war against France had fallen away and the former allies now blamed each other for their failures on the battlefield. As Arthur inspected the tattered survivors of his brigade he saw that many of them were broken men, who would be little use to Britain in the years to come. They would return to their homes in the country or the city slums and eke out their lives in the shadow of this terrible experience. But there were others, strong men, who drew themselves up and refused to bow to the suffering that they had endured. As Arthur looked on them, he was grateful that his country could produce such soldiers. For Britain would surely need them in the years to come. At that thought he looked at them again, with pity this time.There was so much more that they would have to endure before their nation eventually prevailed. And when it was all over, and peace returned to the world, how few of them would be left to see that day?

A British fleet of warships lay at anchor outside the harbour, denied permission to enter by the Bremen port-master. And so their longboats plied the long route into Bremen to pick up the survivors of the army. Arthur and Fitzroy boarded the last of the boats to carry the brigade to the ships that would transport them back to Britain. The seamen showed none of their usual rivalry with men from the other service and instead treated them with the compa.s.sion of old friends, thrusting ship's biscuits and mugs of ale into their hands as they took them into the warm fug below the decks of the warships. Arthur remained by the rail for a while, staring back at the land as the seaman hoisted the boats back on to their chocks and made the vessel ready to sail.

'Colonel Wesley?'

Arthur turned and saw the ship's captain approaching him from the quarterdeck. They shook hands and then the captain nodded towards the last of the soldiers being shown below deck. 'I was under the impression that we would be taking more of you home from Bremen. Where's the rest of the army?'

Arthur smiled faintly. 'This is all that's left. The rest are gone.'

'Gone?' The captain shook his head. 'What a waste. I wonder what they will say back in England? There will be repercussions.'

'I hope so.We can't afford to fight another campaign like this.'

'Yes, well, of course not.'The captain smiled and patted Arthur on the arm. 'Anyway, it's all over now.'

Arthur shook his head. He felt old and tired and defeated. But even now, his heart burned to avenge that defeat. He had survived the worst that war could throw at him. He had seen the face of battle, witnessed the harrowing torments of retreat, and endured the heartless inefficiency and corruption of those who had mismanaged the campaign. He had survived it all and knew, with all the certainty of a religious conversion, that he was a soldier, and that he had a duty. A duty far more sacred than anything he had experienced in his life so far. He must fight to save his country and, if need be, die in her service. He turned to face the captain.

'Over? No, you're wrong. Quite wrong. It's only just begun.'

Epilogue.

The pa.s.sing of booted feet, horses' legs and carriage wheels up at the window did nothing to distract Henry Arbuthnot as he went about his work. He had become so used to the pa.s.sing traffic that the window was no more than a source of illumination to him. Arbuthnot had spent the last five years working in this large office in the bas.e.m.e.nt of an anonymous house in Whitehall rented by the Cabinet Office. The rent, like the rest of the costs of this department, was concealed from the scrutiny of parliament. Indeed, very few people were even aware that the department existed at all, and paid little heed to the premises described by a small, neatly painted sign, as the Oriental Ware Trading Company. This obscurity pleased Arbuthnot, since the work of the department was best conducted with as much discretion as possible.Very few of the senior officers of the army and navy had any knowledge of the department's activities, which was ironic, Arbuthnot reflected, given how often their orders were determined as a result of the reports produced by the department for Mr Pitt and his Secretary at War.

Every day Arbuthnot's subordinates sifted through foreign newspapers, dispatches from emba.s.sies and coded messages from agents scattered across the known world - an immense amount of detail that had to be scrutinised for any nugget of information of value to those who drew up British policy, and to those who saw that the path of the same policy was smoothed by discreetly deployed bribery, sabotage, misinformation and, occasionally, a.s.sa.s.sination.

A small part of the department's work was to provide a.n.a.lysis of military campaigns of British forces, as well as those of Britain's allies and enemies, the purpose of this being to identify ways of improving the operational effectiveness. Even if this meant swallowing national pride to steal ideas from other nations. Not that such ideas were often implemented, Arbuthnot thought sadly. The prejudices of politicians and senior officers were often an insurmountable obstacle to improving the performance of the men they sent to war. So the department's victories in this field were few and far between, and Arbuthnot had resigned himself to a gradualist philosophy of placing morsels of intelligence before his superiors until they understood the issue well enough to claim the ideas as their own. However frustrating that might be, at least it ensured that the right decisions were taken, more often than not. Albeit more often too late than timely. But the department had to work in the real world where rationality was the poor second cousin to political expediency.

Part of the department's a.n.a.lysis of military activity was intended to provide information on the officers involved. It was as well to know the strengths and weaknesses of the men who led the armies of the day, and those who would lead armies in future years, should they survive the fortunes of war. Accordingly, thousands of files were kept in the records section in the building's cellars, organised by nationality and cross-indexed by rank and speciality. With the opening of a new war in Europe Arbuthnot's department had opened scores of new files in recent months, several of which had recently been completed and submitted to Arbuthnot for approval before being placed in the archive.

He had been working through them all morning and just when the ma.s.s of detail and a.n.a.lysis began to pall he had encountered a file that arrested his attention, perhaps because Arbuthnot had personally overseen the study carried out on the disaster at Toulon. The officer's name was already known to him from the initial sketchy reports from agents in France, and here it was again. Brigadier Napoleon Buona Parte, or Bonaparte, as he signed himself more recently. As Arbuthnot read on it was clear that the rapidly promoted young man was far more gifted in military arts than the vast majority of his peers. If the war against France continued for several more years then this man Bonaparte would bear watching closely, for he could represent a considerable challenge to British arms. Arbuthnot finished the report and, after a moment's thought, added a comment that the file was to be given priority status. From now on Bonaparte's career would be closely followed by eyes far from his new home in France.

Arbuthnot quickly skimmed back over the biographical details and was about to close the folder when his gaze was arrested by a small detail. Nothing of great consequence, but a coincidence all the same. He reached over for the files he had read earlier on, sorting through those coded for British officers until he found the one he wanted: a slim file, still to be filled out as its subject gathered experience and gained promotion.

'Colonel Arthur Wesley,' Arbuthnot muttered. He flicked the folder open and ran his eyes down the brief notes on the first page. The colonel was one of the few men to emerge from the Flanders debacle with his reputation intact.A good combat record and an officer who clearly looked after his men and had their full confidence. Then Arbuthnot came across the section that had jogged his memory.

'Born in the same year,' he muttered. 'Raised as a provincial aristocrat . . . father died early . . . hmm.' He slid the two files towards each other. Bonaparte and Wesley. Two young men with considerable promise. Both of whom were precisely the kind of men that their nations so desperately needed in the epic struggle that was to come. Arbuthnot smiled. If the war dragged on for many years there was every chance that both would be dead before it was over. But if they survived, if they prospered and won the promotion they so evidently deserved, that left the fascinating prospect of what might happen should they ever meet on the battlefield.