Inferno (32 page)

After a mile or so the order to march at ease was given and shouldered muskets were shifted to the support position in the crook of the elbow. The ranks opened, and an easy, economical swing ate up the distance. Maynard had glimpsed the captain's map and knew they didn't have far to march. The army was advancing in three columns, one on a broad sweep around the rear of the city to the other side, another to establish a strong centre and theirs was to come up with the left of the line, where the city walls met the sea.

A rise in the ground gave them their first sight of Copenhagen. Less than eight miles ahead, innocent and enchanting in the sunshine, it was all spires and a mass of buildings amid a shimmer of water here and there.

They marched on.

Out to sea on their left were uncountable anchored ships, filling the near horizon from end to end. To the front and rear a column of soldiers a mile or more long was marching irresistibly on and on – surely the Danes must take this seriously. Guiltily Maynard suppressed disappointment: it was likely that even before they'd completed their encirclement they would be treating for terms.

They passed more cottages and other houses, continuing through a pretty village with pale faces at the windows and dogs barking. Every so often they saw Danish outriders following their progress from higher ground on their right, though they gave no indication of hostile intent. Perhaps they were in communication with an army issuing out of the city gates at that very moment, set on taking the field for the clash that would decide the issue.

Maynard felt a lurch of apprehension and cursed his imagination.

A halt was called at a place they were told was Swan Mill, a placid hamlet where the road touched the sea. There, the other two columns struck out inland on their encircling, leaving Maynard's to establish their position. Here, some two miles from the city and safely out of range of its heavy guns, their part in the investment of the capital was to be made.

It was just like Shorncliffe: picquets out in front to probe the enemy, companies deployed to left and right in line, others in depth behind while the colonel and adjutant made appraisal of the terrain.

‘Nice enough, should the Danskers behave themselves,' Adams ventured, as they waited for orders. ‘We've a chance at a billet, I'd believe and—' He broke off and looked up sharply.

‘What is it?'

Adams held up his hand for silence. Maynard heard a far-off faint popping, much like a child's toy. ‘We've made contact with 'em at last, I'd say.'

Maynard's pulse quickened. It was only the picquets, but it might develop into an assault by the enemy before they could throw up defensive works. Either way, it was a turning point in his life: he was now indisputably on a battlefield.

Nobody else seemed much concerned and went about their business. It was up to the lieutenant with the picquets to advise of a breaking attack but when the horse messenger cantered past he was clearly in no hurry.

Orders for encampment had arrived. Pioneers got to work, preparing the defensive lines, while the camp took shape and the familiar features emerged of an army in the field.

Word came through that General Cathcart, general-officer-commanding
the army, was establishing his headquarters at Hellerup, the village they'd passed a mile back, and later that elements of the 23rd Regiment of Foot, from Lieutenant General Baird in the centre, had linked up with their right. The King's German Legion, with its brigades of dragoons, was covering the landing of guns and stores and had the additional task of watching the road from the north in case of a breakout from Kronborg Fortress.

By the afternoon the encirclement was complete. With Major General Wellesley taking up a roving position at the rear to guard against counter-attacks from the countryside, and with scouts on the move inland, it had to be accepted: against all expectations the investment of Copenhagen at a distance of a mile and a half was a fact and it had taken little more than a day.

‘S
o now we wait?' Maynard asked Adams, over a delayed noon meal.

‘Oh, perhaps we shall,' he replied airily. ‘Though I can't see how the Danskers can expect to continue. Surrounded completely, no reinforcements getting through past our Jack Tars – I heard their numbers are less'n half ours.'

‘We haven't got back anything from the scouts. Could be there's that out there …?'

‘Yours not to ask questions, younker. Eat up – we're out on picquet duty next.'

It seemed absurd to think about war as they walked along the road in the sunshine, past daisy meadows and fishponds, and into woodland towards a slight rise. Yet Maynard was aware of the gorget at his throat and the sword at his side – and the file of relieving picquets tramping behind.

Nevertheless, there had been firing here before – they were moving up to a forward position where he might be in sight of some enemy sniper. With tautened nerves, he pressed on until they reached the edge of the woodland
looking out over a ploughed field to where the trees resumed.

By a gnarled oak, Adams took out his whistle and gave two blasts. With a rustle of undergrowth a lieutenant appeared, bored and immaculate. ‘Your relief, old fellow. Anything?'

‘Quiet as Aunt Maud's grave. This morning's fracas I'd think was only a parcel o' loobies lost their way.' He sniffed and lost no time in detailing the disposition of the picquets and lines of sight of landscape features, then left abruptly.

‘You take the left by the windmill, I'll do the right,' Adams said, after a careful survey of the ground.

With a corporal and another soldier following, Maynard made off down the woodland path. He felt a touch of unreality as they crunched on through the leaf litter to a fence at the left boundary of the trees. A grey windmill loomed by the road.

‘A fine observation point, I believe,' he said to the off-going watcher, who touched his hat and waited warily. ‘Have you taken a view yet?'

‘No, I hasn't, sah.'

‘I think you should. It's a—'

‘Sah. Too obvious, like, an' it's rotten inside. Can't. Shall I go now?'

‘Carry on, please,' Maynard said, his face burning.

‘Over yonder, sir?' the corporal suggested.

He agreed, only too happy to let experience prevail over training. He'd set up a post in the woods, for the brush would allow concealed observation up to the open field. Estimating a halfway point back to the picquet rendezvous he set the man and his number two in position, then considered what to do next.

In his breast pocket, he carried Dundas,
Principles of Military Movement
, as he had ever since leaving training. He didn't dare bring it out now but his mind was a blank about what it said of picquet duty. He headed slowly towards the gnarled tree rendezvous point.

He remembered Dundas. Shouldn't he be discovering the dispositions of the adjacent postings, Adams's people? Yes. He quickened his stride.

At the tree he fumbled for his whistle but something made him look out over the field.

He could have sworn there had been movement on the far side, at the margin of the woodland. He strained to see and almost missed two figures darting away to the left. Pulse racing, he knew it was the enemy.

Had anyone else spotted them? There were no alarms and he scanned the area. Was that twitch and sway in the under-growth—

On his left a shot rang out – one of the picquets posted near the windmill! Another somewhere on the right.

Several figures scuttled to the left. And more to the right. Skirmishers – but were they merely probing, testing the lines? Or in advance of a main force?

Swallowing hard, Maynard ran back down the path to his men. They were in a prone position behind a fallen tree, calmly waiting. ‘What did you see?' he demanded breathlessly.

‘This'n? Trying us out, I wouldn't wonder. Sah.'

Maynard hesitated. His was the decision: to raise an alarm or deal with it himself?

From further to the left there was more movement – and two soldiers scrambled into view. They rushed across to a small bramble copse and disappeared behind it. It was well in advance of the woodland edge and, with a dawning realisation,
he understood. ‘Hold your fire! On no account open fire without my express permission.'

They looked at him curiously but rested their arms.

‘Corporal – go to the others and tell 'em the same.'

The man loped away.

If he was wrong there was no harm in it but if he was right …

A single pop sounded faintly well to the right. Adams. But it was not followed up.

Another quick scurry – this time to a depression in the middle of the field.

He gulped. Another two raced to join them. He was right, then: they were probing for the position of the British picquets, tempting fire. Like him, Adams had ordered his men not to reply.

The next few minutes would reveal whether it was in earnest or a passing brush.

Suddenly a mass of soldiery burst into view and quickly formed up in line, three ranks deep, drums behind maintaining an urgent rattle. Alien uniforms of red on blue with grey breeches. The enemy!

Blind panic threatened. What could anybody do against this?

Maynard forced himself to a coolness. The enemy clearly didn't know what forces confronted them and was assembled in defensive line for a general advance. It was a formidable front of two, three hundred yards – the strength of a whole battalion at the very least.

Training came to his rescue. Word had to be sent back, and he should deploy his men in parties along a skirmish line to distract the advance until reinforcements could arrive.

This was the long-feared counter-attack and it was his duty to face it.

‘Alert our advanced posts!' he snapped at one man, who loped off. ‘Corporal – all men over to the enemy left, we harry him on the flank.'

Was it the right thing to do? Hopefully Adams would do the same on the other flank, putting them under fire from both sides.

By the time Maynard had reached the edge of the wood to the left, the Danes had begun to advance, stumbling across the ploughed field in an unsteady line.

The ‘light bobs' were trained for just this situation. They paired off and, under his general direction to fall back with the rate of advance, moved out quickly.

Maynard heard the first heartening crack of musketry, a tell-tale gout of smoke arising from a thicket further along. He strained to see the effect on the stolid wall of infantry and, with a leap of satisfaction, saw a marching soldier near the colour party stagger and fall, quickly disappearing under the feet of the oncoming line.

Then, in a wash of horror, he caught himself. He was glorying in the death of a human being. For that man, living and breathing just moments ago, life had ended: everything had finished. How could he—

Maynard pulled himself together. He was an officer. He held the King's commission and had a duty to lead men. ‘Corporal. That windmill. Go up and get an observation. I need to know if there's other formations in the field.'

‘But, sir—'

‘I know it's falling down. Climb up the outside if you have to. Have a man on the ground and shout down if you spy anything.'

The corporal hesitated, then left at the run.

That left only two with him. And the enemy marched on, now within a few hundred yards.

It had been a lucky shot, he recognised. Theirs was not a rifle regiment and muskets were useless in aimed fire much beyond eighty yards – but that was not the point. The distraction of being under fire was what counted. And his men, working in pairs, were getting off three, even five rounds a minute. Ten balls a minute into that mass of men and he had four pairs out. With Adams on the other flank it surely must be having an effect.

He set his remaining two men to work. Fire, reload behind a tree while the other presented and fired. Then back down for another shot – except that instead, there was a sickening smack and a spray of blood and brain burst upward. The man slumped instantly.