Inferno (38 page)

Only three miles. For light infantry swinging along through the gently rolling Danish countryside in the tentative morning light, it was far from onerous.

At Vanløse they halted and waited while Brigadier Stewart's pleasure was known. This rear encampment was in a lively state, with the battalions of several regiments to be moulded into one fighting formation with their equipage. Elements of the famous 95th Rifles, Highlanders of the 92nd and their sister regiment, the 43rd, joined by dragoons of the King's German Legion. A mixed body and none too sizeable but its character was plain: fast-moving, seasoned and professional. It had to be to face two armies in succession.

‘No artillery,' Adams said moodily, surveying the drawn-up soldiery. ‘I suppose His Nibs knows what he's doing.'

‘You mean Sir Arthur?'

‘In course, old boy. He's personal command of the Reserve Division.'

The unmistakable figure of Wellesley emerged from Headquarters, another farmhouse. He strode briskly and a gaggle of staff officers hurried to follow. He spoke briefly to Brigadier Stewart, who saluted and marched away, then
called to his aide-de-camp and disappeared back inside. Maynard watched with awe: with this fighting general they would be taking the field very soon.

To his surprise, they did not. The men were stood at ease, then rest on their arms. And still the interminable waiting.

At a little before eleven Wellesley again left his headquarters with a colonel Maynard didn't recognise, who was arguing with the general.

‘Damn! I'm going to see what's happening,' Maynard muttered. He found a piece of paper to flourish, walked past them, then stopped to pore over it while he listened.

‘Sir! I must protest. It's – it's not to be countenanced! Common sense dictates we deal with one before they can conjoin. We must—'

‘Colonel, you will obey my orders or I shall have you cashiered, sir,' Wellesley interrupted distantly, and continued on, leaving the colonel red-faced.

Maynard noticed a thin-faced staff captain nearby and sidled up to him. ‘I'd be much obliged, sir, to know what the devil is going on.'

The officer swung around in irritation, but answered, ‘As we've been waiting for the scouts to report. Now they have. Two forces – the north-west under one General Castenschiold, seven battalions, artillery. The other, Oxholm with four battalions, landed in Køge, the other side of the city.'

‘How did they get past the navy, do you think?'

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘They didn't. These are militia, raised from the countryside and islands.'

‘Ah. Eleven battalions – we're outnumbered, then.'

‘Is why our worthy colonel is choking on General Wellesley's orders.'

‘Not to move on them now?'

‘His Nibs believes our soldierly qualities are superior and desires that the joining is allowed to take place, the better to defeat them as one whole.'

‘Then we'll—'

‘Castenschiold is marching south to join Oxholm in Køge, which takes him across our front. We shall wheel around him by making a feint at Roskilde, but the devil is in the deployment – the King's German Legion are even now sweeping about to take them in the rear, ready for when we bring 'em to battle. Easy, really.'

Only if the haughty and patrician Wellesley really did know his men, Maynard reflected. ‘And when …?'

‘Tomorrow morning, I should think.'

T
he first columns moved out at a brisk clip for Roskilde. The 43rd with Maynard then took to the road and, with the remainder of the British forces, they were on the way to meet the enemy.

After some miles, scouts brought news that Castenschiold had noted their advance but had interpreted it as a thrust at him. He'd taken the bait and increased his pace to effect the joining at Køge, passing across well ahead.

The columns halted and, after an hour, resumed their march, leaving the road and striking out directly south, moving quickly over pleasant meadowland and pasturage. By late afternoon they were in sight of the little seaside town, and on the gentle slope that led down to it, General Wellesley made his dispositions.

The Danes were in view across their vision, some five to seven thousand now in an arc extending out from the township into the open countryside, at a distance their uniforms unfamiliar. As well their irregular dispositions were distinctly puzzling.

Cooking fires were sending spirals of blue smoke into the evening air, birds trilled in the horse-chestnuts and birches while sheep grazed unconcerned in the river meadows – the whole a picture of late-summer contentment, as unlike a battlefield as it was possible to get.

In disciplined movements the British deployed in line and prepared, making camp in bivouac.

It was now clear that the morrow would bring a deciding clash, and the soldiers did what they could to prepare themselves in the age-old ways.

After dark and a frugal dinner, the officers were called together and Major General Wellesley made plain his expectations for conduct on the following day. In dry, forceful terms he spoke of his detestation of plunder, that any man violating the civil decencies could expect instant justice at the end of a rope. That, though outnumbered, they were going up against the Danish
landeværnet
who, while expected to resist the invaders, were no more than militia and could not stand against a disciplined turn-out of British regulars, whatever they'd heard to the contrary.

And finally, if they did not prevail the next day, the entire expedition would be put to hazard and that he was not prepared to suffer.

The night passed without incident, and when it was light enough to see, the picture was disquieting. The Danish had manoeuvred to face the British and brought up cavalry and several artillery pieces. There were pennons aloft, horn calls, every indication of giving battle. Worse still, there had been no word that the King's German Legion with its own cavalry was in place or had even finished its wide sweep.

A thin rattle of drumming started up in the Danish camp. They were forming up by battalions in fighting order.

Orders came quickly: they were to do the same.

The 52nd, augmenting the ranks of the 43rd, found Maynard on the left of the line with the light infantry. In the centre the colonel took position on his horse, flanked by the colour party, with the elite grenadier company on the right. The morning sun touched the scarlet coats and brought a martial glitter to an unbroken line of bayonets.

The band broke into a lively fife-and-drum regimental air and they were ready.

From the right came a small group of officers on horseback. In full view of the enemy Wellesley was showing himself to the men who were going to fight for him. He made a striking figure, tall in the saddle with black-plumed hat, severe dark tunic and white breeches, progressing slowly and with grim disdain down the ranks, courteously doffing his hat to senior officers, with a gruff question here and there.

It was an impressive display, thought Maynard, the men straightening and stiffening as the general passed.

Then the Danes made their move. Three battalions of infantry in column marched to the front and extended into line, a ragged show, he thought nervously, as they spread out in numbers beyond their own.

So now was the time of decision: the King's German Legion had failed to reach them in time. If Wellesley was going to do anything, it must be with the forces he had with him, and that meant giving up their position of advantage up-slope and meeting the enemy in the level ground between, a wheatfield whose grain stalks hung ready for harvest.

The two sides faced each other in a hostile silence a quarter-mile apart, the lowing of a far-off ox clear on the morning air. Then the quiet was banished in a series of harsh commands in the British centre, instantly followed by a massed drumming – prepare to advance! Wellesley was not going to wait and battle was to be joined.

A baying of horn-bugles, the bellowing of sergeants – then the final order. March!

Stepping off immaculately, dressing in faultless line on the colours, the redcoats marched towards the enemy, ready to take the first merciless volley.

Something was happening in the Danish ranks.

A ripple of movement, gaps – faint shouting, gesturing – and the left battalion tore apart, disintegrated. Men ran for their lives, desperate for the safety of the town, stumbling, fleeing in mindless panic. It spread to the next, and in minutes the whole Danish front had dissolved into hundreds of running figures.

The drums gave the staccato double-thump of a halt, and without cavalry to pursue, the British line waited for the situation to clear, a murmur of amazement at the spectacle going up from the ranks.

The Danish commander responded with fresh battalions, brought forward and placed with Køge at their backs, a pointed manoeuvre to his wavering troops.

Wellesley wasted no time. The British battalions were manoeuvred for a general advance – but in echelon, the fierce Highlanders of the 92nd leading. Before the enemy could consolidate, the entire line stepped off, a fearsome concentration of violence and grandeur closing in on the Danes.

As Scottish bayonets lowered for business it was too much
for them. They broke and ran. Frantic to escape they threw down weapons, leaving guns, horses and equipment. Some brave souls stood their ground but were easily routed.

The battlefield was Wellesley's.

L
ight infantry companies were detached and moved forward quickly in extended order. The logic of war dictated that, as the prime objective of the engagement was the destruction of any threat that lay in the British rear, it was necessary to pursue and annihilate the broken horde.

They pushed forward to the road. It was chaos – corpses, abandoned guns, prisoners wandering dazed and helpless taken by the score.

Shocked, Maynard saw who he and his fellows had been fighting. Not soldiers, they were rustic country folk taken up by the militia, long-haired farmhands and pig-herders in odd pieces of uniform over fustian and woollen breeches. Others wore red-and-green-striped jackets with wide hats not seen in England since the last Charles.