By My Sword Alone by David Black

Author:David Black [Black, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2021-04-28T16:00:00+00:00

10

The French Squadron

James had the great masts of the French warships in sight from a distance, towering over the flat landscape in the crisp, grey northern light as he rode at the head of General von Bittinghofen’s delegation. But it was only after he had finally passed through the gates of the Weichselmünde fortress, and mounted its seaward bastion, that he had a full view of their majesty, anchored there in the fairway of the Mottlau river. Two ships; Achille, a two-decker of some sixty guns, a frigate, Gloire, and a clutch of Baltic transports.

From the busy tent lines they had passed outside the fortress, it had been obvious that the troops the French warships carried had already disembarked. Some 2,000 infantry accompanied by three light field guns, he’d been told. When you tallied them up in the ledger of war, it was not much to add to the barely 4,500 regular troops King Stanislas I could already number. Especially since the word from the Polish irregulars out in the country was that another 10,000 Saxons had just added themselves to the Russian order of battle, which itself had been growing steadily over the winter. By James’ reckoning, some 40,000 enemy troops had now massed in the countryside around Danzig in an arc from the east at Fort Sommerschanz on the mouth of the River Vistula proper, to the southern banks of the Sasper See, a lake just south of the Mottlau in the west. All they lacked was a siege train of heavy guns for this battle to commence properly. And according to von Bittinghofen’s aide, it was on its way.

Only one or two boats plied between the French men-o-war and the fortress now, and James could see Achille’s captain’s barge was still alongside the magnificent warship. A council war was scheduled, but it was obvious the French delegation was still aboard their ship. When James turned from the battlements with a grunt of frustration, his eyes were drawn down to a carriage parked by the entry-port to the fortress’ jetty below. Coachmen were lounging about it, passing a flask – local eau de vie, no doubt – so the coach, which he certainly recognised, was obviously empty of its passenger. It was the location that caused his moment’s hesitation in failing to identify it immediately. It was the Duke of Courland’s coach, the one he never used because he was an old man and never travelled beyond the city gates these days.

It was not until late in the evening that French set foot in the fortress, very late for their appointment. The officers’ dining hall had been prepared, except that the candelabras were all now defaced with dripped wax, and their candles low, and the wine warm from a blazing fire, which was now just a collapsed centre of white hot embers. When the French officers walked in, James slipped out. He was not needed for confabs at this level, but mostly he wanted to see who else had come ashore with them.

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