The Battle of the Dunes (1658)

Cromwell’s red-coated infantry marched forward over the sand with purpose, singing their hosannas and shouldering pike and musket. The tide was receding, but the beach was still wet, their boots sinking into the sand. To his left, as they advanced, Candy could see the English ships moving up, the puff of smoke from their cannon as they bombarded the Spanish position. Three great warships commissioned by the protector to sink Charles Stuart’s claims to the throne of England. To his right the whole royal French army was arrayed under Turenne, King Louis and Cardinal Mazarin’s general.

‘We have not received any orders to advance, sir?’

‘The  Duke of York is up there with the rebels, Candy,’ The ambassador told him brusquely. Lockhart could barely look at the captain who had cuckolded him. He had never wished to see the man again. The fact that they had been thrown together by Reynolds’ untimely demise was fate’s cruel jest.

‘Still, should we not wait for the command from our French hosts? Sir John would have waited,’ Candy persisted.

‘Reynolds is drowned and I am in command here, Candy. I shall hear no more of your whining.’

Hardly whining, thought Candy. If you bugger this up there are four thousand of us who will pay. However, he said nothing to his commander. The ambassador was already badly disposed towards him; he did not wish to add insubordination to the charge sheet.

Roger Fenwick touched Candy’s arm and shook his head at the captain. The ambassador was not going to listen. Candy sighed, it was Fenwick’s regiment and the late lamented Reynolds’ army, but Ambassador Lockhart was going to get them all killed. The pop of musket fire made him turn back to their destination: a fortified dune at least one hundred foot in height, and crawling with Spanish and Cavalier soldiers. Fenwick had sent his marksmen out to pepper the Spanish position with sniper shot as they advanced. The veterans of England’s civil war went about their task efficiently, raking the enemy lines. The massed redcoat pike phalanx started picking up speed as they approached the dune. Candy unsheathed his blade and pulled out a pistol. Lockhart eyed him as he did the same.

‘My wife, sir, my wife.’

The ambassador waved his sword at the blonde captain. For a moment, Candy worried Lockhart was actually going to stick him there and then and to hell with the consequences. He would probably escape with little censure from the French or English authorities.

‘I can assure you sir, that it was a mistake, an accident,’ Candy said desperately.

‘The implication being that you somehow tripped and fell cock first into her cunny?’ Lockhart was flushed red in the face with anger.

‘I did not know she was your wife, sir.’

‘Oh that makes it all so much better.’

Robina Lockhart really was not worth all this misery, thought Candy. Her breath smelled of garlic, but before he could conjure up a suitable response the assembled pikes let out a great roar:

‘The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts!’

The cry rumbled around the battlefield and the English regiments charged. Their officers could not control them, the thought of facing the exiled Duke of York and his cavaliers drove the redcoats on. These were the men that had won at Marston Moor, at Naseby, at Preston and Worcester. They were not going to be beaten on a windswept Flemish beach by some exiles and rebels. They were God’s own warriors.

Candy charged with them, pounding up the sand dune in his heavy leather boots as Spanish defenders poured fire and shot down at them. Men fell from the buzzing bullets that struck them down. Candy saw Fenwick fall, pierced through by more than one shot.

‘This is madness.’

The battle at the top of the dune was bloody but brief. The Spanish fought fiercely but the fervour of the English redcoats shocked them. By the time the dune was cleared of enemy troops only Lockhart and Candy were left standing out of the senior officers. Lockhart saw the fleeing enemy and raised his sword but Candy grabbed him by the coat.

‘Reform us first, you fool, else their cavalry will slaughter us.’ He pointed at the Spanish horse forming up to assault the English troops.

Ambassador Lockhart realised his error, and shook Candy’s arm free. He gave the orders for the pikes to reform and for his muskets to reload and take up positions on the flank of the phalanx.

Candy took a moment to survey the rest of the battle from their vantage point on the dune. The French centre and right wing seemed to be holding the ground.

‘There go the French!’

Candy turned at the shouts. French Horse regiments had swept around the dune to attack the Duke of York’s cavalry, saving the redcoats from any counter attack. As he watched the French drove the cavaliers back in confusion. The rest of the Spanish right wing collapsed, throwing away their pikes and running for Dunkirk.

‘Good God, we have won.’

He turned to the ambassador. Lockhart actually looked disappointed at the victory, despite the bloody cost. The English assault on the dune had broken the Spanish lines.

Cuckold Lockhart will reap all the glory now, thought Sugar, even though he simply wanted to kill me and himself. Then he shrugged.

‘She really was not worth it,’ Sugar said, to nobody in particular.

***

Charles de Batz de Castelmore, the Comte d’Artagnan, watched the battle from his wicker chair. Lieutenant of the King’s Musketeers, he would normally have been in the thick of the fighting with his regiment. However, a fall from his horse and a broken ankle had left him but an observer at Dunkirk. He could see the English banners atop the dunes to his left, wreathed in the heavy white smoke from the muskets and cannon. The sails of the English fleet were just visible beyond them.

‘Another victory for Turenne,’ he said to himself. ‘Perhaps I can go back to Paris now.’

‘Master.’ His servant Planchet appeared carrying a cup of wine.

‘What is it?’

‘There is an Englishman asking for an interview, master. He says he knows Monsieur Candy who gave him your name.’

‘Sugar is up there somewhere, if he is still alive.’ D’Artagnan gestured to the dune. ‘What does the man want?’

‘A position, master.’ Planchet frowned at the thought of another attending his master.

‘Send him in then.’