Текст книги "Young bloods"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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Napoleon broke into a run, with grenadiers rushing towards the fort on either side. They reached the ditch, and saw at once the wicked dark points of spiked obstacles in the bed of the ditch. But the enemy had strewn them about too sparsely and the attackers passed through them quickly and began to climb the far slope.

The British gunners did not have enough time to reload and as the dark shapes rose up out of the darkness towards them they fell back from the rampart in panic, leaving a marine detachment to face the French alone. Napoleon made for one of the gun embrasures, crouching down so that the defenders could not see him. Keeping his sword in hand he awkwardly clambered up into the embrasure, slid over mud-slick soil and peered inside. Only a handful of the enemy were close by the gun.The rest were spread out on either side of the battery, bracing themselves for the assault. Napoleon turned back and hissed to the nearest grenadiers. 'Up here! This way.'

Several of the men climbed through the embrasure and crouched down between the guns as their comrades further along the rampart on either side kept the marines engaged.As soon as he had enough men to hand, Napoleon slipped down amongst them.

'When I give the word we charge up the line of the rampart and roll 'em up from the flank.We must break their spirit so make as much noise as you can. Everyone ready? Good…' Napoleon took a breath, tightened his grip on the sword hilt, and then rose to his feet.

'Charge!'

With a roar of pure blood-lust the grenadiers surged out from between the guns and ran down the inside of the rampart, bayonets lowered. The marines turned towards the sound, instantly distracted from the fight against the men outside the rampart. Napoleon thrust his sword at the nearest man, felt his blade parried away, but brushed past him and continued along the rampart as one of the grenadiers following him took the marine in the throat, plunging his bayonet up into the man's skull and dropping him instantly.They charged on, cutting down two more men before the enemy lost the will to fight and turned to flee from the rampart.

'Leave them!' Napoleon ordered. It would be dangerous to lose control of his small force while they were inside an enemy position and vastly outnumbered. 'Leave them, I said!'

The grenadiers pulled up, discipline taking control over their desire to chase down a beaten enemy. Napoleon leaned over the rampart. 'General! We have the wall.'

'Well done!' a voice called out of the darkness. 'I'll join you.'

As soon as the rest of the men had climbed into the fort Napoleon sought out the general.

'Sir, we have to prepare some defences. As soon as the fort's commander realises we're over the rampart he'll counterattack.'

'Of course he will.' Dugommier glanced round. The battery had been built on a small spur of land and was joined to the rest of the fort by a narrow gap between the walls. He pointed with his sword. 'That's where we'll hold them until Muiron turns up. Form the men across the gap.'

Napoleon nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

He gathered the grenadiers and skirmishers and led them into the position where they formed a line two deep, and waited in the teeming rain for the British to react. Meanwhile, the general sent a message to Muiron to inform him the rampart had been taken and urging him to bring up more men as swiftly as possible.

'Sir!' One of the grenadiers called to Napoleon. 'They're coming!'

A dense, dark column of infantry was crossing the open ground at the heart of the fortification. As they closed on Napoleon's small force he cleared his throat.

'Remember, lads, we must hold on until the rest of the column arrives. If we do that, then those bastards have lost, and the fort's ours.'

He turned back to face the enemy. On they came, at a steady pace until they were within pistol shot. Then their commander halted the column and formed them into line. There was a beat, as both sides glared at each other, then the order to charge roared out and the British swept forward, roaring their battle cry.

Napoleon gritted his teeth and crouched slightly, sword extended towards the enemy. On either side the grenadiers braced for the impact, rain dripping from the ends of their bayonets. Then a shadowy wave of men crashed into the French line. For a moment the grenadiers reeled under the impact, before they fought back, fighting wildly, slashing, stabbing with the points of their bayonets, and swinging the heavy butts at the enemy. There was no finesse in their actions, just a frenzied attempt to kill and to stay alive. Napoleon stepped into a gap between two of his grenadiers, sword poised. A dark shape lurched towards him, behind a long pike and he glimpsed three dull chevrons on the man's arm before he hacked at the shaft of the pike and drove it down and away from his chest.The sergeant grunted, yanked back on the pike, brought the point up and feinted once, twice, each time making Napoleon flinch back. The man growled and then thrust again, this time throwing his full weight into the charge. Napoleon parried the pike again, but an instant later the sergeant's body slammed into him, spinning him round and knocking him flat. He fell face first into the mud, and almost let go of his sword. Thrusting himself to one side with his spare hand Napoleon heard the point of the pike slap into the mud where his body had been lying an instant earlier. Napoleon slashed out with his sword, a low cut at knee height, and the blade hacked into the man's joint, severing tendons and shattering bone.The sergeant toppled over with a cry of pain. Napoleon slithered back, scrambling between the bodies and glanced at the struggling figures all about him. As soon as he was clear he rose to his feet and stared round, trying to gauge how the fight was going.

Already the British had driven them back from the narrow gap and more of their men were spilling round the flanks.With a sick feeling Napoleon realised they could not hold them here. The only chance lay on the rampart.

'Pull back!' he shouted. 'Pull back to the rampart!'

The grenadiers slowly gave ground as they continued to fight for their lives. As soon as he heard the order, General Dugommier scrambled down from the rampart, drew his sword and hurried over to Napoleon's side, just as the knot of Frenchmen were surrounded by the enemy. Now they would have to fight their way back to the rampart.

'Any sign of Muiron?' Napoleon asked.

'No.'

'Shit…'

'So it would appear.' Napoleon saw the general's teeth glimmer in a quick smile. 'Come on, Colonel. Let's show them how well Frenchmen can die.'

Dugommier shouldered his way into the fight, and began to hack and slash at the enemy. Napoleon shook his head in admiration for the old soldier, then tensed his muscles and strode towards the enemy. It was strange, some small rational part of his mind reflected, how afraid he was and yet he felt a sense of release. The plan no longer mattered. His career no longer mattered. There was a brief image of his family and he felt a stab of guilt for the grieving he would cause, and then all thought was gone as he bared his teeth and threw himself at the nearest enemy soldier.

Outnumbered, they edged towards the rampart, but every step of the way, more and more of the small group were cut down and splashed into the mud where they were finished off with the butt of a musket, or quick thrust of a bayonet. Napoleon, unable to take his eyes off the enemy swarming about him, sensed the rise of the ground under his boots and realised they had reached the rampart and there was no further room for retreat.This was where he would die.

'Come on, you bastards!' he shouted, beckoning to the enemy with his spare hand. Two of them responded, working towards him. One lunged and as Napoleon swung to parry the attack, he realised it was a feint. Before he could recover his balance the second man half sprang, half slithered towards him. Napoleon swung his sword back and just managed to deflect the point against his guard with a ringing blow.The blade was knocked low, but still found its target. Napoleon felt the impact, like someone had kicked him with all their strength, and then there was a white-hot stab of agony in his left calf as the bayonet tore through his muddy breeches and ripped into his flesh.

He cried out, and then cried out again as the enemy wrenched the bayonet free and drew it back for a direct thrust into the French officer's chest. As the point of the bayonet came forward, Napoleon raised his arm to try to ward the blow off. A dark shape came between them with a scraping clash of steel as General Dugommier hacked at the barrel of the musket, knocking the weapon from the enemy's grasp. He hacked again, this time at the soldier's shoulder, and the man crumpled to the ground. Even as Dugommier snarled in triumph he gasped as the other soldier who had attacked Napoleon stabbed at him from the side, thrusting the point of his bayonet through the general's sleeve and pinning his sword arm against his ribs. As the bayonet was wrenched free Dugommier collapsed beside Napoleon with an agonised gasp. Napoleon groped for his sword and raised it, trying to protect them both as the enemy closed round, ready to finish them off.

There was a cry from above and behind, then more shouts.The British paused, and stared over the heads of the two French officers in alarm. Then they drew back and raised their weapons as they concentrated on a new danger. Napoleon glanced round. All along the rampart he could see the dark shapes of men clambering over and streaming into the fort. He tugged the general's sleeve in excitement.

'Careful!' Dugommier flinched. 'That's my bloody wounded arm!'

'Sir! It's Muiron, and the rest of the column. We're saved.'

Dugommier glanced round. 'Muiron… Thank God.'

Chapter 81

The reinforcements swept through Fort Mulgrave, routing any attempt by the British to resist such overwhelming odds. Those that didn't surrender fled over the eastern ramparts and ran down the track towards the forts still in British hands at the end of the small peninsula. As dawn broke, the rain finally began to ease, and Napoleon limped along the track towards L'Eguillette with the small artillery train he had improvised from the guns captured at Fort Mulgrave. A rough dressing had been tied around his calf, and even though he walked with a stick to support his leg, every step was agony. There was no time to waste. No time to recover, he admonished himself. The first phase of his attack had succeeded, but the two forts at the end of the peninsula had to be seized before the enemy could recover their nerve and rush reinforcements forward to defend them.

But even as Napoleon and his guns reached the crest of the hill overlooking the two forts it was clear that events were outstripping the detail of his plan. A steady stream of boats was moving to and from the forts and the allied warships anchored in the harbour of Toulon. At first Napoleon's heart sank and he slumped against the carriage of the leading gun. They were too late. The enemy was massively reinforcing the garrisons of the two forts. Then he realised the boats heading towards him were empty, and those heading away were laden with men and equipment.

'My God… they're abandoning the forts.' He shook his head in wonder as Junot came towards him, laughing as he gestured towards the boats.

'Sir. Look! They're running away!'

'Yes, I can see. But I can hardly believe it.'

Junot slapped his hand down on the barrel of the cannon, all trace of weariness gone from his mud-spattered face. On the slope around them the remains of the battalions who had participated in the assault on Fort Mulgrave looked on in astonishment as the enemy continued their evacuation. Junot suddenly turned to Napoleon.

'Sir. What are your orders?'

'Orders?'

'Shall I give the order to attack? If we set the guns up we can pound them as they escape.' Junot's eyes gleamed at the thought. 'Or should we send the infantry in?'

Napoleon shook his head. There had been enough killing. Nothing could be gained from further loss of life. 'Leave them.'

'Leave them?' Junot frowned. 'Sir, they're the enemy. It's our duty to kill them.'

'I said leave them!' Napoleon snapped, and instantly regretted it. Junot was simply overexcited. The lieutenant had performed well during the night and did not deserve a public dressing-down. Napoleon forced himself to smile. 'Junot, a word of advice. Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.'

'Sir?'

'Look.' Napoleon raised his stick towards the forts. 'He's quitting the field.We don't need to attack. If we do, what happens if he decides to reinforce the defenders? Then all is lost. Sometimes you gain more by doing nothing.'

Junot nodded faintly. 'I suppose so, sir.'

'Good. Then send a message back to the general and let him know what's happening.Tell him we'll take the forts as soon as the enemy have left.We'll have our guns in position and covering the inner harbour as soon as possible.'

'Yes, sir.' Junot saluted and hurried away to find a horse to ride back along the track towards Fort Mulgrave.

As the morning wore on the enemy was allowed to complete the evacuation without interference.The last detachment to leave spiked the guns and set off the powder still remaining in the magazines. The explosion made the ground shudder for a moment beneath Napoleon's feet and he glanced up in time to see one of the buildings in Fort L'Eguillette disintegrate in a bright flash and then the fort was covered in a dense swirling cloud of smoke and dust. As soon as the last boat of redcoats pulled away from the fort the French soldiers marched in and raised the revolutionary flag. Napoleon set them to work at once, ordering his men to move aside the spiked guns so that those in his hurriedly acquired siege train could be hauled into position to open fire across the harbour. As the exhausted soldiers laboured Napoleon sat in the highest tower of the fort and watched events unfold on the other side of the harbour through a telescope.

Shortly after noon a cloud of smoke appeared above the dockyard and flames licked up from the naval workshops and warehouses. In the following hours the allied frigates took on boatloads of soldiers and civilians, and it was clear that the enemy intended to abandon the port, destroying as much of it as possible before they quit Toulon. Out to sea the great ships of the line of the Royal Navy looked on helplessly as their commander did not dare expose them to the French batteries that could sweep the inner harbour with heated shot.

As soon as the first of his guns was ready Napoleon gave the order to open fire and the French kept up a harassing bombardment while the daylight lasted.The fires in the dockyard continued to burn through the dusk and into the night, illuminating much of the port in a hellish orange hue. More fires bloomed amongst the captured warships that the enemy was forced to leave behind and then, as the flames reached the powder deep in the hulls of the ships they blew up in a series of blinding flashes, unleashing a succession of deep roars that echoed round the harbour.

At midnight, Lieutenant Junot joined Napoleon in the tower and they watched the destruction in shocked silence.

At length Junot muttered, 'God help those poor souls over there.'

Napoleon turned to him with a curious expression. 'They're our enemy, Junot. This is what war is about.'

'I realise that, sir.' Junot shrugged. 'But I cannot help feeling pity.'

Napoleon considered this for a moment before he replied, 'War is a terrible thing. The best we can hope for is to fight it efficiently, so that the result comes quickly and as few people die as possible. To that end we cannot afford pity, Junot.'

'You may be right, sir.' Junot stared back across the harbour and continued softly. 'But God help them anyway.'

When the sun rose the next morning, the dockyards still smouldered and the charred skeletons of buildings and warships stood gaunt and black against the distant grey mass of Mount Faron. There were no enemy ships left in the inner harbour and out to sea Napoleon could just discern the faint white smudges of the sails of the British fleet slinking off in humiliation.

Just after nine o'clock Junot directed his attention to the heart of Toulon. Raising the telescope, Napoleon panned across the red-tiled roofs until he saw a flash of white and blue: the flag of the Bourbons, slowly being hauled down from its mast above the port's garrison. A moment later, the tricolour rose up in its place, lifted to the breeze and unfurled.

'It's over then.' Napoleon felt strangely empty, and tired. After so many weeks of planning for this moment, of dedicating his every waking moment to the fall of Toulon, there was little sense of triumph, merely exhaustion. 'We've won.'

'This is your victory, sir.' Junot smiled. 'It was your plan, and it succeeded far better than anyone could have hoped.'

'Thank you, Junot.'

They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs and as they turned to look Captain Muiron emerged from the staircase and approached them. He was smiling as he stopped and saluted. Then he drew a sealed envelope from inside his filthy jacket and offered it to Napoleon.

'Dispatch from representatives Saliceti and Freron, sir.'

Napoleon broke the seal, scanned the message, then reread it more slowly before he finally looked up.

'It seems I am to be promoted to brigadier.'

'Congratulations, sir,' Junot grinned. 'It's no more than you deserve.'

Napoleon looked at the letter again.Three months ago he had been a lowly captain, struggling to find a patron. Now, he was to be a brigadier. That was a swift rise for a soldier by any standard, and he wondered just how far such a man might go in this world.

Chapter 82

Flanders, May 1794

Lord Moira's reinforcements had landed in Ostend just in time to abandon the port. The French had broken through the Austrian line and were threatening to cut the reinforcements off from the rest of the British Army, itself already in full retreat towards Antwerp. Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Wesley reined his horse in and sat for a moment watching his regiment march past.The men of the 33rd Foot seemed to be in fairly good spirits, given that they were about to make a forced retreat across the face of the advancing enemy columns. That would change after a hard day's march. Most of the men were seasoned enough, but like other regiments in the rapidly expanding army, there was a leavening of raw recruits – men who were either too old, or little more than boys; men who had poor constitutions or were simple in the head. Arthur felt some pity for them. In the days to come they would suffer the most and be the least likely to survive.

He twisted round in his saddle and looked back down the road to Ostend. A thick column of smoke rose lazily into the air above the depot. Lord Moira had given orders to burn all stores and equipment that could not be carried by his men and wagons. To Arthur, it seemed like a scandalous waste. Much of the equipment was brand new and was going up in smoke even before it had been used. But there was no helping it. How much worse it would be to permit the equipment to fall into French hands.The French offensive had caught the allies by surprise and now they were in complete disarray and falling back before the fanatical armies of the revolution. It was hard to believe that the fortunes of war could be reversed so comprehensively. Only a year ago the Austrian army, after inflicting a number of defeats on the French, could have rolled across the north of France and stormed Paris – the heart of the revolution. But Prince Frederick Saxe-Coburg had been content to inch forward across a wide front, and now the allies were paying the price for his indolence.

'Keep the pace up there!' a sergeant yelled at the men marching at the rear of the column. 'Unless you want a French bayonet up your arse!'

Someone blew a loud raspberry and the men laughed as the sergeant came running up from the rear of the column to look for the culprit. 'Which one of you bastards just signed 'is own death warrant?'

The soldiers fell silent, but could not help grinning.

'Nobody, eh?' the sergeant smiled cruelly. 'Well, I 'as me ways of finding out.When I do, I'll tear the bugger's throat out, so help me.'

Arthur walked his horse on, and the column tramped away from Ostend, marching across the Austrian Netherlands to the safety of Antwerp. Even though they had been sent to protect these people from the armies of France, Arthur had seen that the sympathies of the locals were with the revolutionaries. He could understand it. The continent of Europe was a patchwork of kingdoms, principalities and provinces traded between the great powers like cards. Now France extended to them the prospect of revolution, a chance to decide their own fate. Except that the revolution was a sham. There was no brotherhood of man amongst the leaders of the revolution, just a ragtag collection of petty-minded despots clutching onto the reins of power at any cost. The people of the Vendee, Lyons, Marseilles and Toulon had discovered that all too clearly, and now the survivors of those who dared to question the power of the demagogues in Paris walked through a landscape of torched villages and putrefying corpses.

'Penny for your thoughts, Arthur.'

Arthur looked round and saw Captain Richard Fitzroy and his mount moving up alongside. He touched the brim of his hat and Arthur responded in kind. Fitzroy was one of his company commanders and adjutant and had joined the 33rd just after Arthur had taken command. His brother had lent him the money to buy a lieutenant colonel's commission and Arthur had been preparing the 33rd for war since the autumn of 1793. Despite the difference in rank Captain Fitzroy and Arthur were the same age and firm friends. Good enough for Fitzroy to dispense with the formalities when duty did not demand them.

Arthur gestured back down the road, towards the column of smoke. 'Just regretting the waste.'

'Yes, it seems absurd. Quite absurd,' Fitzroy replied. 'Here we are, having waited months to get into the fight, and the first bloody thing we do is bolt for cover. It's no way to run a war.'

'True.' Arthur nodded.The 33rd had been given orders to join a convoy bound for the West Indies, before being plucked from their ships at the last moment to join the army being assembled by Lord Moira to invade Brittany. After long months of preparation the force had appeared off the French coast to discover that the uprising they had been sent to support had just been crushed. And so, finally, the 33rd had landed in Ostend, keen as mustard to get stuck into the enemy, only to find that their orders were no longer relevant, thanks to the sweeping advances of the French.

Arthur scanned the surrounding countryside and then his eyes fixed on a small group of horsemen watching the column from the top of a dyke some distance to the south. He raised his hand and pointed.

'I think you might get your chance to fight rather sooner than you think. Look there.'

Fitzroy followed the direction indicated. 'The enemy?'

'Who else? Certainly not our men. And hardly likely to be the Austrians. Last I heard they were scurrying back to the Rhine.'

'Scum,' Fitzroy muttered darkly. 'Take all our bloody money and then leave us dangling in front of Frenchie. Scum…'

'Well, yes – quite,' Arthur nodded. 'But we are where we are, Fitzroy. Nothing we can do about it now.'

'No. Suppose not. Still, eh? Bloody Austrians.'

'Yes. Bloody Austrians…'

'No doubt those Frenchies over there are going to be reporting on our every move.'

'You can bet on it.'

'Really?' Fitzroy grinned. 'How much?'

'I distinctly said, you can bet on it. I'm no longer a betting man.'

'So you say. But I bet if I offered you good enough odds-'

'Fitzroy, you are becoming tiresome.' Arthur was not in much of a mood for conversation, particularly over a subject that could only add to his sense of frustration. He glanced back at Fitzroy's company. 'Your fellows are already slowing down. I'd be obliged if you'd hurried them along, Captain.'

The adoption of a formal air caused Fitzroy to raise his eyebrows, but he saluted none the less and wheeled his mount round and trotted off.

Arthur breathed out a sigh of relief that he was alone with his thoughts once again. Such moments had been something of a luxury since he had left Dublin. Immediately his mind was filled with the image of Kitty.The familiar stab of anger was there in his chest as he recalled the humiliation he had been subjected to by her brother when the latter had refused to permit Kitty to marry such an impecunious prospect as Arthur. In the months that followed he had thrown himself into his duties, partly to enhance his understanding of military matters, but mostly to divert his mind from thoughts of her. Shortly before quitting Dublin he had endured one last humiliation and wrote to her, frankly acknowledging his unsuitability but asking her to reconsider his offer of marriage should the Pakenhams judge that his fortunes had significantly improved at some point in the future. He had concluded the letter by saying that he would always love her and would always honour the offer of marriage. Not that there seemed much chance of improving his lot at the present, Arthur grimaced. There had been few opportunities for anyone in the army to win their spurs, and those opportunities that had availed themselves had largely been squandered in defeat and disgrace. There was little sign that this campaign in Flanders was going to be any different.

Lord Moira's force consisted mostly of infantry, with two batteries of six-pounders and a depleted regiment of light cavalry who were of little use apart from scouting and courier duties. Such a poorly balanced force would be vulnerable if the enemy managed to pin it down long enough to bring up sufficient artillery to finish them off. So they were kept on the move, driven hard by their officers and NCOs as they marched north-east under the blazing summer sunshine. In wool jackets, leather stocks and carrying over sixty pounds of equipment and supplies, the men were soon exhausted, and by dusk of the first day the column had already lost a handful of stragglers. Some would catch up during the course of the night, but those too unfit to rejoin their comrades would be at the mercy of the enemy.There were more stragglers on the second evening, and by now the French scouts were much closer to the column and Arthur heard the brief sound of distant shots as they finished off a small party of redcoats who had lingered behind the rest of the column.

The march resumed the next morning in an even more subdued tone and the light spirits that the men had evinced after quitting Ostend had gone, replaced by a sullen determination to keep going. At noon they halted a short distance from the village of Ondrecht where a bridge crossed over the Anhelm river, a small tributary of the Schelde.

'Down packs!' The order was relayed down the column and the men gratefully undid the buckles on the uncomfortable chest straps that restricted their breathing and set their packs down at the side of the road. The stoppers were pulled from canteens and the soldiers swigged a few gulps of tepid water into their parched mouths. Arthur made his way down the dusty road, exchanging a few words with the officers and trying to preserve the calm imperturbability that he believed a commanding officer should demonstrate to his subordinates.

As he remounted his horse, Arthur noticed a troop of British cavalry galloping across a field to the south. They approached the column at a tangent and then swerved towards the party of staff officers just behind the vanguard.

'There's trouble,' one of the sergeants muttered.

Sure enough, as Arthur watched, the ensign in command of the troop was gesticulating wildly to the south-east as he made his report to Lord Moira.The general quickly consulted with his staff officers and then one of them rode down the side of the column, bellowing orders. Behind him, officers and NCOs hurriedly formed their units up on the road, ready to continue the march. The staff officer was still some way off but Arthur decided not to delay for a moment.

'The regiment will form up!'

At once the men sitting along the sides of the road scrambled to their feet and struggled into their packs, snatched up their weapons and hurried into position. They stood still and ready to march as the staff officer reined in beside Wellington, scattering gravel and clods of dirt across the nearest men.

'General's respects, sir,' the staff officer saluted. 'Scouts report the enemy is approaching from the south. His Lordship fears the French might be trying to prevent us crossing the Anhelm.'

'What is the enemy's strength?'

'Scouts report two regiments of cavalry, a battery of horse artillery, and several battalions of infantry following on a mile behind.'

'How far away are they?'

'Ten, maybe eleven miles. At least they were when the scouts observed them.'

'Ten miles?' Arthur frowned as he made some hurried calculations. The French were three hours away, at the most. The bridge over the Anhelm was at least four miles down the road. There was a good chance that the enemy cavalry would catch the column before it could cross to safety. The race was on.

Arthur smiled grimly. He looked at the staff officer and nodded. 'Very well. My compliments to Lord Moira. Tell him we will do our best to keep up.'

'Yes, sir.' The staff officer saluted, wheeled his mount round and galloped back towards the head of the column, already moving off down the road and stirring up a dusty haze as they advanced at a fast pace. One by one the units of the British column edged forward, until at last Arthur gave the order for his regiment to march. Easing his horse out to one side of the road, Arthur watched his men pass by for a moment before he reached inside the saddlebag for his spyglass. He scanned the land to the south. Although it was a hot day with a heat haze along the horizon, he soon spotted the thick pall of dust that marked the enemy column.The French must be aware of the position of the British column. If their commander was quick-witted enough, very soon he would be giving orders for his cavalry to move ahead to try to cut Lord Moira's column off from the bridge at Ondrecht. It would have to be a delaying action since the British would outnumber them, but if the French cavalry could hold the column back long enough for their artillery and infantry to come up in support, then, Arthur realised, the British would be in a very difficult situation. Particularly if…