‘We must extend General Coote’s line and re-join the 31st and 85th. If we can, we will present a most formidable front to the enemy. Give the order for the 4th to march.’
‘We will be exposed to enemy fire,’ Chetham pointed out.
‘We shall mostly be covered by the sand hills. We may be exposed for a short while, but we must aid General Coote.’
Chetham rode off again, and John offered a quick prayer that he was right. His brigade and Coote’s together would form a long line from the edge of the dunes all the way beyond the Bergen road. General Abercromby’s division ought to be on the south side of Bergen and was hopefully making good progress. Somewhere inland General Pulteney was waiting with another division to join an attack on Bergen. Even if the Russians refused to leave Schoorl, a triple-fronted attempt might still be successful. John’s heartbeat quickened and he fought down a burst of nausea. ‘Brigade! March!’
The bitter smell of gunpowder and blood mixed with the salt of the sea. John saw the enemy line dividing and struggling round on the soft sand to face his men’s approach. Despite the treacherous ground, they acted with tremendous speed; the 4th was only halfway across open ground before the enemy volley echoed off the dunes like thunder. John heard cries of ‘Close up!’ from behind and knew some of his men had fallen, but he resisted the urge to turn and assess the damage.
A battalion of the enemy crested the hill just as John’s men came off their ridge, aiming to cut them off in their approach to Coote, but they were too late. The enemy discharged another volley just as John’s men passed into the shelter of the dunes, but most of the shot lodged ineffectively in the sand. The thudding of John’s heart transformed into relief. He could see the left flank of Coote’s brigade now, the men of the 27th’s powder-blackened faces cracking into grins as they realised they were being reinforced.
General Sir Eyre Coote and his officers approached. ‘Lord Chatham! Your appearance is timely!’
‘My men and I are yours to command.’ John stood in his stirrups and peered over the heads of his men as the 4th wheeled and dressed up to the 27th. ‘Did you know the 85th is just over that ridge?’
‘Is it, by God?’ Coote turned his protuberant eyes in the direction John indicated. ‘If we move forwards we may be able to communicate with them through that channel.’
The two brigades advanced, breaking into divisions to filter through the terrain. At first the enemy fell back, but as the British approached the forest fringing the dunes another enemy battalion appeared and fired. Colonel Cholmondeley gave the order to wheel but a couple of companies hesitated, betrayed by the 4th’s militia background. The line trembled in confusion. The men eventually pulled round, but not before the enemy loosed another volley and felled several more men. John could see the fear catching from face to face as the soldiers stared down at their fallen colleagues. He turned to Colonel Maitland of the 27th, who was within hailing distance. ‘Sir! The enemy – the trees!’
Maitland saluted and barked out some orders. The 27th wheeled, fired off two volleys with mechanical precision, then charged bayonets up the ridge until the enemy dispersed into the woods. The 27th were seasoned troops who had just shown the raw militiamen of the 4th how soldiers ought to behave under fire. ‘Well done – you’ve done more than my whole brigade!’ John called out to Maitland as the men returned to their position.
Clouds were gathering by the time John and Coote’s brigades made unexpected contact with Macdonald’s Reserve shortly after four o’clock. Twenty minutes later the 85th and 31st re-joined the left of the line. The French and Dutch troops continued firing as they fell back, and a half-mile towards Bergen John discovered two guns erected on one of the steeper sand-dunes, but even the artillery was no match for the combined brigades. The enemy’s retreat heartened John’s weary men, and as they marched steadily up the ridge even the artillery fell silent. By the time John and his men reached them the gunners were long gone, the two cannons spiked and useless.
By now the wind was blowing hard, bringing the smell of salt and approaching rain. The setting sun smeared long, bloody shadows across the white sand of the dunes, but as clouds filled the sky the shadows faded into darkness.
Gunfire still echoed from somewhere in the distance, but here the fight was over. The 4th and 31st, reunited at last, fell out. The men collapsed, exhausted, on the sand. Most of them had not had a mouthful to drink since noon, and John himself had a scratchy throat and pounding head from lack of water.
Chetham rode up followed by General Coote and the senior officers of John’s brigade. Hodgson spoke first, his voice hoarse and cracked, his uniform crusted with sand, sweat and gunpowder just as John supposed his must be. ‘Do we move on Bergen, my lord?’
‘We must await orders,’ John said. ‘Nothing can be done without the Russians.’
‘Then nothing will be done.’ Coote grimaced. ‘General Essen would not leave Schoorl without direct orders from the Duke of York. For all I know he remains there.’
‘What if General Abercromby gives us orders to march? He may well have taken Egmont by now.’
But even as John spoke, the first drops of rain began to fall. At first they patted into the sand one at a time, then gathered strength until the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents. Coote scowled at the darkening clouds. ‘It will have to wait. Tonight, we shall have to find what shelter we can in the hills.’
It was the same heavy rain that had plagued the British and Russian force since mid-September, but for once the men were glad of it. Many held out their hats to catch the falling rain; some stood with their mouths open as the water ran white tracks through the dirt on their faces.
John wiped moisture from his eyes and turned to see his aide, Chetham, holding out a blanket and a flask. He grinned in gratitude, took a lengthy swig of cold, bitter rainwater from the flask, and wrapped the blanket around his head. ‘My thanks. You’re a gem.’ John handed the flask to Chetham who, after a hesitation, drank thirstily. ‘Are you certain you have never been an aide-de-camp before?’
‘Never had the chance, sir. Two weeks ago, I was merely a lieutenant.’
‘I suppose with a name like Jack Chetham you and I were fated to make a pairing,’ John joked. For a moment Chetham’s round, youthful face looked blank, then he caught John’s meaning and grinned.
‘Oh yes, my lord, I suppose we were!’
Chetham went off to check the men were settled. John drew his blanket closer and shivered. Darkness was falling now in earnest, and he could see nothing but the black rise and fall of the dunes surrounding him, hear nothing but the whistle of the wind and the pattering of rain on sand. An aching tiredness infused his bones and he felt he could close his eyes and sleep for a month, rain or not.
But then Chetham was back, rain dripping from his spiky black hair. John saw the letter in his hands with the Duke of York’s seal and knew the day’s ordeal was not yet over.
****
Night had fallen completely by the time John arrived at the Allied headquarters at Schagerbrug. The tiny village, little more than a handful of brick houses clustered around a small church and the bridge that gave it its name, was plunged into darkness. Chetham’s lantern did little to pierce the rain-sodden gloom, but the windows of the Duke of York’s quarters blazed with light and John reluctantly made for the glow.
He was stiff and aching from the day’s events, but that was not the only reason he took his time dismounting. Even from the street he could hear raised voices, and he was in no hurry to discover who was doing the shouting and why.
A pair of Russian officers sat by the parlour fire when John and Chetham passed through. They presented a fierce, larger-than-life appearance with their long-tailed green uniforms, enormous silver gorgets and thick curled moustaches; even after three weeks of fighting together with them Chetham was clearly trying hard not to stare. The Russians ignored the two British men, but John knew they had not gone unnoticed because the officers switched
from French into Russian dialect. As John climbed the stairs, however, they switched back into French, evidently intending to be heard and understood: ‘Ever since the action of the 19th the British have brought us bad luck.’
‘And bad weather!’
They laughed, and switched back into Russian. John ignored them.
Captain Fitzgerald, one of the Duke of York’s aides, opened the door to him. The Duke sat at the head of a large deal table, a decanter and a glass at his elbow, his right hand clenched on the table-top. Arrayed round him were his lieutenants-general, Abercromby, Dundas, Pulteney and Hulse, all wearing sand-caked uniforms and wooden expressions. The Russian generals, Essen and Sedmoratski, sat opposite. Sedmoratski had his hand over his mouth and gazed up at the extravagantly painted wooden beams above his head. Essen was shouting and striking the table with his fist. With each blow the wine in the Duke of York’s decanter shivered and sparkled red like blood.
‘… cannot hold us responsible for the failure of the campaign!’ Essen cried in French, rolling his R’s even more extravagantly than usual. ‘If Your Royal Highness had seen fit to send us your instructions—’
‘General Essen,’ the Duke cut in with a wave of his plump white hand. He, too, spoke in heavily-accented French. ‘I fully understand your reluctance to leave Schoorl without instructions, after the unfortunate affair of the 19th, but your Emperor placed you and your men under my command. The aim of today’s action was the capture of Bergen. Had you bestirred yourselves, we might have held this council there this very night.’
‘Bestir ourselves!’ Essen roared, his high-boned face suffused with scarlet. ‘Had Your Royal Highness’s officers bestirred themselves on the 19th, today’s caution would have been unnecessary. Then again, why am I so surprised? None of your generals seemed to know where your brigades might be found. From men who cannot communicate even between each other, what can be expected? You cannot even make sound judgments from the evidence at your disposal.’
‘I do not understand,’ York said coldly.
‘The people of this country! You assured us they would rise to support us. If the Dutch favour anyone at all, it is the French.’
Sedmoratski brought his gaze down and spotted John. He sat up, twitched Essen’s coat tail, and whispered something in hasty Russian. John guessed the Russian general had just accused him of being his brother’s spy. He was, after all, the only major-general on a Council of War that ought to consist only of the most senior officers.
Essen’s eyes narrowed, but took the hint. The Duke of York looked relieved at John’s interruption of Essen’s tirade. He, too, looked exhausted, his face raw from exposure to sun and sand, his bulbous blue eyes bloodshot. ‘Lord Chatham. Take a seat.’
‘Your Lordship is, as usual, the last to arrive,’ Essen observed, pointedly. John took a deep breath, and said, in his best French for the benefit of the Russians,
‘I must apologise to Your Royal Highness, but your messenger got lost in the dunes and did not find me until after seven o’clock.’
‘You have no need to make any excuses to me, Chatham,’ the Duke said. ‘General Dundas tells me your prompt and judicious actions today saved General Coote from disaster.’
John glanced across the table at David Dundas. The old man’s lined face relaxed into a half-smile. ‘Indeed, my lord, General Coote was very full in his praise.’
‘I did no more than my duty,’ John muttered. The other generals watched him benevolently but coolly; Sedmoratski and Essen were not the only men who harboured suspicions about John’s role on the council.
‘Sirs,’ the Duke announced, when John had taken his seat. ‘My thanks for today’s victory. Our scouts report the road to Bergen is clear, so that we might take possession of it tomorrow. I propose to move our headquarters to Alkmaar. But we must move swiftly, for our scouts also report the enemy is now entrenching between Beverwijk and Wijk-op-Zee. More alarming still, prisoners taken today confirm that General Brune expects 5,000 men in reinforcements.’
‘The enemy has protected his right flank by flooding the dykes,’ Abercromby added. ‘The left flank, however, remains vulnerable. If we can flush the French and Dutch out of Beverwijk and the villages of Limmen, Bakkum and Akersloot, they will have no recourse but to fall back in confusion.’
‘If we can take Beverwijk,’ the Duke concluded proudly, ‘then Amsterdam – and Holland – will be ours by the middle of the month.’
John shifted in his seat, only partly to ease his aching muscles. He had lost count of the number of times he had been told the campaign would be over before the end of September, yet here they were, in October, discussing the reduction of a town that was still ten miles from Amsterdam.
Abercromby spoke. He was an elderly man with a reputation for over-caution, and John was not surprised to hear his words. ‘Sir, I agree that Beverwijk must be taken, but I may not have impressed upon you the full extent of the damage wrought by today’s battle. Our men have been fighting since daybreak and are unlikely to get much rest in the dunes. Many of my men went all yesterday without nourishment; today they were only provisioned when the waggons came in at four o’clock. If we do not allow them a day’s rest, we will break them.’
Dundas sucked at his lips as though he had a bitter taste in his mouth, and Pulteney drew a deep breath. York scratched his balding head and said, ‘The longer we wait, the more time the enemy has to entrench, and to be reinforced.’
‘It will take no more than a day. Once we take possession of Alkmaar and Egmont-op-Zee we will have access to the provisions of the towns. We might make our strike on the 4th, or the 5th at the latest.’
‘I would urge against delay,’ Pulteney said gruffly. ‘The men have performed wonderfully today and will do so again tomorrow, should we ask it of them.’
‘I agree,’ Hulse nodded. ‘Marsh fever has begun to spread. We may be courting disaster if we remain here in the wetlands.’
‘What is your opinion, Lord Chatham?’ Essen cut in suddenly.
‘My opinion?’ John repeated, glancing from one face to another in some confusion. Essen’s dark, dangerous gaze hardened.
‘I am interested to hear what Mr Pitt’s brother has to say. How else are we to know what the English Cabinet wishes us to do?’
‘I have no instructions from Mr Pitt on military strategy,’ John said, firmly.
‘You must have an opinion, unless the stories I have heard are correct, and you are little more than a fool burdened with a great name.’
‘General Essen!’ the Duke remonstrated, belatedly. Essen subsided, but looked triumphant. John had no choice now but to respond to Essen’s challenge and York knew it. ‘Lord Chatham, what do you think? I should very much like to hear your views.’
Tiredness ran through John’s veins like lead. The last thing he wanted to do was weigh in on a topic that divided the council so thoroughly. ‘I fully appreciate the difficulties stated by General Abercromby, but I also see the necessity of proceeding swiftly to Beverwijk. I can vouch for the resilience of my brigade, and their devotion to Your Royal Highness. I am perhaps the least fitted man here to give Your Royal Highness advice, but since you have asked for it, I say if we are to strike, let it be now.’
He glanced at Essen, and could see his words had not displeased the Russian general. For all his sarcasm Essen clearly agreed that Abercromby was being too cautious. And yet Abercromby was the senior general at the table, commander of the troops in all but name, for the Duke of York had been appointed commander-in-chief only as a sop to the Russians who had demanded nothing less than to be commanded by a Prince of the Blood.
The Duke scratched his head again. ‘A sound opinion, and I thank you for your honesty. I tend to agree, but General Abercromby has made good points. Perhaps the solution is not to engage for Beverwijk on the first day, but to clear the enemy’s advance posts in Akersloot, Limmen and Bakkum once the weather has improved. We might then re-assess the situation in view of our advanced p
osition.’
Solomon could not have been prouder of such a judgment. Dundas and Pulteney looked displeased, but the commander-in-chief had spoken. The Council of War broke up. Abercromby, Pulteney and Hulse left first, shrugging into their redingotes in anticipation of the rain that still fell heavily. John was calling for Chetham when he heard his name. General Dundas appeared at his elbow.
‘I meant what I said to the Duke,’ he said, his slate-coloured eyes glinting under his white brows. ‘Your assistance today was important. General Coote owes you thanks, as do I.’
‘I only hope I may be of further assistance in any upcoming action.’
‘General Abercromby’s opinion notwithstanding, I suspect your wish will be granted. We cannot remain long where we are, and the Russians are growing restless. Have you heard the rumour?’
‘What rumour?’
‘The prisoners taken today inform us of a victory over General Suvorov by Marshal Massena at Zurich. They say the Russian campaign in Switzerland is over. Of course, it may be a lie, but General Essen has taken it to heart. He feels our government might have done more to assist Russia, rather than wasting resources on Holland.’
That explained Essen’s bad mood. John blew out his cheeks. ‘Surely he knows this expedition was intended in part to distract the French from Switzerland?’
‘If rumours of this defeat at Zurich prove well founded, we may shortly find ourselves the enemy’s sole focus.’ A chill that had nothing to do with the damp ran through John. Dundas gave a grim smile. ‘I think you had better re-join your brigade before the roads are flooded.’
John found Chetham half-asleep in the parlour. Just as they were bracing themselves to step into the rain, however, John heard his name called again. ‘Milord Chatham!’
John heaved a sigh. ‘General Essen.’
The lamplight glinted off Essen’s gorget and the gold lace that frilled the green of his uniform. His large dark eyes remained cold, but there was a respect in his face that had not been there earlier. ‘I was pleased to find you so much of my mind in the council chamber. You are a sensible man.’
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