By My Sword Alone by David Black (ebook reader ink TXT) 📕

‘Dorothea, what are you doing here?’

The arch of her brows said she had marked his forwardness in using her given name; not to mention questioning her.

‘I am a subject of Stanislas the First, chevalier. I live here.’ And with that she stepped inside the coach. As she did, a coachman was coming round to secure the door, so James was forced to step back. He wanted to say more through the window, but before he could open his mouth, she had leaned forward and tapped the roof, and the coach lurched away.

The council of war did not last as long into the night as James had feared. Yet from it a great plan was devised. No endless debate, no caveats. Decision had been the order of the night. The French infantry and guns would be ferried across to the west bank of the Mottlau river and would then march to a line of entrenchments Saxon infantry were throwing up between the Sasper See and the coast. They would drive these Saxons off their defences and then march to turn the flank of the entire Russian army at a small village called Zyakendorff, which lay around a road junction to the south of Danzig. All were agreed. It would be manoeuvre and daring, and speed and élan, that would trump numbers in this coming battle, and so render the Russian General Lacy’s position untenable.

As the council broke up, the leading French officer casually, and truculently, upbraided James for ‘… not having brought your dragoons with you, chevalier. Who would have imagined Polish cavalry were shy of glory?’ James did not know his name, had not even been introduced to him.

‘His name is Chapuis,’ said Capitaine de Vaisseau Perouse of the Achille. ‘His written commission describes him as a “brigadier d’infantrie”. During the voyage here I found him to be a gentleman of very strong opinions, especially when it came to his own military genius.’

The French capitaine, who’d already insisted James call him Claude, was referring to the senior French army officer who had so insolently addressed James after the council of war.

Claude and James were perched high in the air, in Achille’s main topmast crosstrees, with an arm and a leg each wrapped around the topgallant shrouds. James’ telescope rested on one of the shrouds’ ratlines as he gazed intently across the west bank of the river and over the league and a half of flat fields to the far side of Sasper See.

It was a crisp, bright morning with a bitter chill still in the air, no hint spring was approaching. James was here at his new friend’s invitation. For, when the French capitaine had heard there was a Scots officer, of equal rank, among the Polish forces in the Weichselmünde fortress, he had immediately sought him out.

‘Twice I have sailed to your country, chevalier James,’ the capitaine had rhapsodised, pumping James’ hand. ‘Carrying soldiers and arms to help you throw off the yoke of that preposterous German usurper. And what a beautiful country, and what people, and what a welcome!’

It was an occasion to share flask of cognac, he had insisted, and promptly ordered one from his personal stores. That had been three days ago. Since then, James and the capitaine had been watching the spectacle of the two French regiments and their battery of light artillery attempt to transport themselves across the Mottlau river.

Towards the end of the second day of their observations, the capitaine had remarked idly, ‘You did say you heard M’sieur Chapuis declaim the essence of this operation was to be speed and manoeuvre?’

‘And daring, and élan,’ added James.

Now it was the morning of the fourth day, and the two French regiments were no longer a chaotic shambles, but immaculate, marching oblongs of grey-white uniforms and black tricornes, bayonets flashing in the weak sun, snaking slowly towards the earth-coloured scars in the snow that marked the enemy’s earthworks.

‘You think he will attack before lunch?’ inquired the Capitaine.

‘Speed, as well as manoeuvre,’ said James, dryly, his eye still firmly stuck to the telescope. ‘Those were M’sieur Chapuis’ very words, were they not?’

‘Mais oui. But he is French after all. So probably only after lunch,’ said the capitaine with a wry smile. Then after a delicate pause, ‘So, he is to throw these Saxon newcomers out of their trenches ‘How many are there? A regiment?’

‘Apparently,’ said James.

‘So how does that defeat an entire Russian army tens of thousands strong? With just 2,000 French fusiliers? I am not a master of land warfare, my friend James, but I can count.’

‘… and three six-pounders … and daring and élan,’ James said.

‘And speed, as well as manoeuvre,’ added the capitaine.

The two men started laughing.

Time passed. James passed the capitaine the telescope. To make conversation, he said, ‘Chapuis has been confiding in General von Bittinghofen, apparently.’

His friend trained the instrument on the advancing French column.

James continued. ‘Chapuis told him he’s met the Saxon army in the field before, and has respect for their fighting qualities. Respect, mind you, not fear. So he is confident he will overcome them … seeing as he will outnumber them two to one. The Russians, however, he has not met. Nonetheless, he has arrived at several conclusions. Their army might march in step, and disport itself in elegant uniforms, but it is not a European army. It is no more than a horde from the east … no more than a dandified barbarian mob. And once confronted by modern European troops, it will melt away in fear and awe, especially if those European troops have recently triumphed over the troops of a superior ally. He is convinced that victory is assured.’

‘Dear God almighty,’ said the capitaine, handing the telescope back to James. ‘I do not know if I can bear to look.’

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