Earl of Shadows: A moving historical novel about two brothers in 18th century England

by Jacqueline Reiter

  Dundas was collared by an officer and moved away, leaving John and William alone. As always when they found themselves tête-à-tête, a hint of awkwardness arose between them. It wasn’t that John disliked being with William, but he was out of practice with the brotherly banter that had once been so much a part of their relationship. He fell back on straightforward honesty. ‘Thank you, Will.’

  William looked up, startled. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘For this.’ John indicated his red coat with its blue facings and gold lace. He did not know why William had changed his mind about allowing him to serve again, but he wanted William to know he was grateful, the more so because he did not think William would ever truly understand why. ‘For giving me a chance.’

  William looked embarrassed, but then his long face broke into a smile. ‘If you want to thank me, come home safe and covered in glory.’

  ‘That’s a tall order,’ John said dryly, and William’s smile dropped away.

  ‘Then just come home safe. That will suffice.’

  He turned away as though his show of emotion discomfited him. John was himself amazed, touched and saddened by it, for William’s naked display of emotion reminded him too much of their closeness of old.

  But John was not the kind of man to make that most futile of wishes, to turn back time and start anew. In a month he would be 43; this was his chance to step out of William’s shadow at last. Henceforth John would be his own man, Major-General the Lord Chatham and not William Pitt’s older brother. He intended to make the most of the opportunity.

  ****

  John returned to his billet, Bifrons House, a little after six. He was in a hurry, for the house also hosted the Prince of Wales and it did not do to keep the heir to the throne waiting.

  Bifrons was an elegant country house with an unusual double-fronted design, tucked away in a hollow of the Downs. It belonged to the older brother of Major Herbert Taylor, the Duke of York’s principal aide-de-camp. Edward Taylor had offered his residence for the use of the commanding officers of the brigades waiting to sail to Holland, but only John had taken up the offer, at least until the Prince of Wales had appeared.

  Only that morning Bifrons had been a bustle of activity, with gentlemen begging audiences, red-coated equerries ordering the household staff about, and the Prince holding court as though he were in his salon at Carlton House. Now, as John rode into the stable-yard, he was astonished to discover an empty building.

  Mary waited in the drawing room. She had insisted on travelling with her husband as far as Canterbury and John had no wish to dissuade her on the eve of his departure. He took her hands. ‘Where is the Prince? Has he recollected another dinner engagement?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Mary said.

  ‘Gone? Where?’

  ‘Into Canterbury. John …’ Mary jerked her head towards the other end of the room. John followed her gesture and straightened. Edward Taylor stood by the fireplace, and beside him, in his mud-stained regimentals, was his brother Major Herbert Taylor.

  ‘Lord Chatham.’ Major Taylor handed John a letter. ‘His Royal Highness the Duke of York requires an immediate acknowledgment of these orders. If you will consent to write him a line, I will carry it to him tonight.’

  John broke the seal and read the words he had expected to read. In her chair, Mary hugged herself and gazed at the empty fireplace. John looked up at Major Taylor. ‘We march tomorrow?’

  ‘The wind is favourable, and the Duke wishes to sail before it changes.’

  John felt anticipation and fear settle upon him. He turned to Edward Taylor. ‘Might I request pen, ink and paper?’

  A small writing table and writing materials were brought in. John dashed off a couple of lines and sealed them with the fob at his waist. He handed it to Major Taylor. ‘You may tell the Duke my men and I will be on the road first thing tomorrow.’

  Major Taylor bowed and left at once with his brother. John looked at his wife. Mary’s expression was hidden behind a fold of her lace cap. ‘I should find St Aubin and give him instructions to pack.’

  ‘I’ve already done it,’ Mary replied. ‘Your valises are in the parlour.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘A messenger waited for the Prince of Wales when he returned from the ceremony this afternoon. He left immediately. He wrote you this.’

  She handed John a letter. He read, in the Prince’s neat copperplate:

  ‘Dear Lord Chatham, I have this moment heard your brigade is under orders of march tomorrow morning. In all probability you as well as Lady Chatham will wish to be rid of me. I hope in God Lady Chatham’s fortitude and good sense will support her through this severe trial. My good wishes attend you always my dear Lord, and I am ever with great truth, your very sincere friend, George P.’

  ‘That’s the Prince for you,’ John said, with a shaky laugh. ‘Ever the romantic.’

  Mary watched him for a space, her eyes dark with apprehension, then said in a small voice, ‘I do not suppose there is any point in my asking you to stay?’

  Before John could reply the door opened to admit two servants bearing a cold supper of roast chicken. They laid it on the same table on which John had written his letter to the Duke of York and bowed themselves out. Upon their departure John’s aide, Captain Graham, appeared. Mary fiddled with her sleeves while John gave Graham instructions for the colonels of the 4th and 31st.

  As soon as Graham had left Mary kissed John’s hands. ‘Sweetheart, don’t go. I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘I have my orders,’ John said. ‘Even if I did not, I cannot let this opportunity pass.’

  He did not have to elaborate; Mary had often said his eyes were plates of glass through which she could discern the workings of his mind. He knew she wanted him to succeed in his military career, but he understood her fears. This was the first time they would be separated by war, the first time in fact since John’s visit to Ireland in 1786 that they would be apart for more than a few days.

  She forced a trembling smile. ‘I know, but I had to try.’

  ‘I wish I could take you with me,’ John murmured. He cupped her face and her eyes closed.

  ‘All you have to do is ask.’

  ‘Oh, Mary …’ It was impossible. Even if officers’ wives were occasionally tolerated, Mary’s health would not stand it. There was something, however, in her eyes that spoke of strength sourced from deep within, and for a moment John considered the thrilling possibility that she might not take no for an answer. The hope crumbled into the bleak knowledge that, on the morrow, he would leave her behind, perhaps forever.

  The same bleakness flooded into Mary’s eyes as they moved towards each other. Their embrace shielded them from the reality of their imminent separation and their lips met hungrily.

  The supper grew stale on the table. At some point they abandoned the drawing room for their guest apartments. The servants remained discreetly absent, so Mary pushed John’s red coat off his shoulders while John fumbled with the pins that held together the bodice of her gown. After 16 years of married life their love-making was more affectionate than spontaneous, but tonight there was naked need in the way they discarded their layers of clothing in an erratic path to the bed.

  Night was falling by the time they had finished. Reluctant to break the charm of their intimacy by calling a servant, John padded across the floor to the mantelpiece and found the tinderbox behind the clock. Mary watched, curled among the crumpled bedsheets, as John struggled to kindle a flame with unpractised fingers. Eventually he managed to light a candle and climbed back into bed. She pressed up to him and he curled his fingers in her hair, trying to imprint her softness, her sensation, her smell on his memory. Dear God, he was going to miss this. He was not sure what he would do, who he would be, without her at his side.

  Mary stroked John’s chest in circles. He placed his hand over hers. ‘I wonder when we will meet again. If we succeed in driving the French out of Holland, we may remain on the continent som
e months.’ Mary’s hand under his clenched. John kissed her. ‘I know. I want to return as swiftly as possible, but I want to return victorious.’

  ‘John,’ Mary protested, her voice muffled. ‘This is our last night together, for goodness knows how long. Can we forget, just for a moment, that you will be leaving me soon? Can we enjoy what we have here, now? Please?’

  ‘You want our campaign to succeed, do you not?’ John teased. In the light of the candle Mary’s eyes glistened with strange intensity.

  ‘The only thing I want is this. Come home to me, whole and healthy. Come home with both your arms, and both your legs, and everything else.’ She pressed her lips to each limb, then ran a trail of kisses up to his mouth.

  ‘I promise,’ John murmured with a slow smile. Mary did not return it.

  ‘Do not make promises you may not be able to keep.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  October 1799

  The sun shone for the first time in weeks. It shimmered in the rainwater pooled in the hollows of the landscape and glared off the steep, scrubby face of the sand hills rising nearly 200 feet behind the village of Schoorl. A strong seaward wind carried gun-smoke into the plains in skeins, along with cries and the reek of powder and blood.

  John wiped his brow and peered up at the twisted birch trees clinging to the heather-fringed hilltops. Out of sight behind the forests fringing the flatter, landward side of Schoorl, was the day’s prize: the town of Bergen. John and his brigade were meant to be covering a Russian advance, sweeping the enemy out of the dunes that separated them from the rest of the Allied force, and joining with General Ralph Abercromby for a final push on enemy lines. Two hours earlier the sand hills had been alive with French and Dutch raining musket-shot on the British and Russians assaulting Schoorl. Not far off men still fought and died, but here in the plains nothing now moved apart from the torn, shot-peppered sails of Schoorl’s great windmill flapping in the wind.

  ‘What’s going on?’ John muttered, and mopped another thin line of sweat from under his bicorne hat.

  Approaching hoofbeats attracted his attention. Captain John Chetham rode up, his black hair plastered to his forehead with perspiration. ‘My lord!’

  Chetham was not John’s aide-de-camp. Captain Graham held that honour, but ever since John had landed in Holland three weeks previously Graham had been laid up with fever. Chetham had been recommended to John as a young man ambitious for advancement. With the Duke of York’s approbation, he had been promoted to the rank of captain and attached to his brigade commander, and so far, John had no reason to complain. ‘Mr Chetham. What have you discovered?’

  ‘Nothing worth telling, my lord.’ On Chetham’s approach, John’s colonels – Hodgson, Twisden, Dickson and Cholmondeley, of the 4th, and Hepburn and McMurdo of the 31st – had approached to listen. ‘Nobody has heard from General Dundas for some time.’

  ‘Generals Coote and Burrard?’

  ‘General Burrard is on the northern edge of the dunes. But General Coote’s brigade was last seen entering the heights to pursue the enemy.’ Chetham hesitated and looked uncomfortable. ‘I can, however, confirm that General Essen remains in Schoorl.’

  ‘What the devil sort of game is Essen playing?’ John exclaimed. ‘We are meant to be covering his advance on Bergen!’

  ‘I was told he awaits further orders from General Dundas, my lord.’

  ‘But nobody knows where General Dundas is.’

  ‘I daresay Essen has no intention of repeating the experience of the 19th September,’ Colonel Hodgson sneered.

  Two weeks previously the Russians had led an assault on the enemy at Alkmaar. Through a combination of foolhardiness and poor communication the Russians had been ambushed and suffered huge losses. Their commander-in-chief, Hermann, had been captured, and many Russians – including Essen – felt their British allies could have done more to assist. John kneaded his horse’s reins between his fingers and swallowed a burst of irritation. He and his men had seen no action on the 19th; the Russians’ over-eagerness had cut their part of the battle short before they had had a chance to fight. Now it seemed Russian over-caution would have the same result. John was not sure what he feared most: that he and his men would soon join the fray – or that they would not.

  The 4,000 men of his brigade were arrayed with ordered arms on the flatlands behind him. John supposed he was a fitting commander for this miscellaneous group of untried boys, very few of whom had experienced anything more of battle than the manoeuvres of a militia field-day. At least John had his colonels to rely on. He turned back to them and tried not to sound too much at a loss. ‘Gentlemen?’

  ‘We must return to Schoorl,’ Colonel McMurdo said promptly. ‘We must await further information, and the 31st is perilously low on water.’

  ‘The 4th too,’ Hodgson added. ‘Some of the men have already emptied their canteens. We may not be employed today, but if we are we will need water or we will lose men to the heat.’

  ‘You are right,’ John said quietly, yet he could not help feeling that returning to Schoorl would be a retreat. He had already marched the men out and back again to no good purpose on the 19th; he did not want to do it again.

  Just then a movement on top of the sand hills, amongst the scrawny birch-trees, caught John’s eye. Beside him, Chetham had seen the same thing. The youthful aide anticipated his superior’s order; John had not opened his mouth before Chetham reached into his haversack and brought out a telescope. John trained it on the group of figures above. For a heart-stopping moment he thought they were enemy troops, but then he adjusted the focus and recognised the red coat and gold lace of a British officer. An aide-de-camp and three soldiers, zig-zagging cautiously down the steep, sandy hillside.

  ‘My Lord Chatham!’ The officer was in such a hurry to deliver his message he began speaking as soon as he was within earshot. ‘General Dundas begs leave to request that, if your men are not otherwise engaged, you are to bring your brigade to the aid of General Coote!’

  John drew a deep breath. His desire for action was about to be fulfilled. With effort he ignored the queasy twist in his stomach. ‘Where are we required?’

  ‘General Coote has been drawn by the fleeing enemy into an exposed position on the right, my lord. The 85th is being molested by enemy riflemen. Without assistance, General Dundas fears they will be overcome.’

  ‘Surely Colonel MacDonald’s Reserve must be closer?’

  ‘If Your Lordship knows where Colonel MacDonald is to be found, you know more than General Dundas. The Reserve was last seen entering the dunes at Campe at ten o’clock, and we have heard nothing of them since.’

  ‘Then we must be General Coote’s Reserve.’ John suppressed another burst of nervous excitement and unsheathed his sword. Sunlight glistened off the blade. ‘Gentlemen, we must march to the aide of General Coote. If you would be so good as to give the order?’

  ‘My lord,’ Hodgson said after a hesitation, ‘I must remind you that the men have not been able to replenish their water. If we are to march—’

  ‘I am afraid we have no time. If we complete our task in good order, we may find more water within the next few hours.’ Hodgson was too much of a soldier to argue, but an expression of doubt crossed his face. It was an expression John had seen more than once on the face of his immediate subordinates, as though they wondered whether the Minister’s untried brother would prove an ineffective or, worse, inept commander. He gritted his teeth. ‘Mr Hodgson?’

  ‘My lord.’ Hodgson turned his horse around and cantered back to his men. The brigade was suddenly all activity. Cries of ‘Form up!’ and ‘Shoulder arms!’ and ‘Dress!’ cut through the air. Drumbeats overlay each other in a chaotic jumble and fifes whistled a jaunty rendition of The Girl I left Behind Me. The ensigns lifted the Colours higher. The huge silk squares – dark blue for the 4th, buff-coloured for the 31st – unfurled and danced against the cloudless sky.

  The men moved into columns. Even though the p
aths up the sand hills were well-trodden by cattle and held together by clumps of heather, the sand was soft enough to give way underfoot. Thankfully the heights were clear of enemy troops, for the climb was steep and progress was slow. John’s horse was struggling, its hooves sinking into the sand with every step. The men’s faces glistened with the effort of keeping rank, and some companies gave the order to support arms.

  At last they reached the top. From here John had a clear view across the flatlands of the peninsula, thinly veined with dark canals and interrupted by bulbous church towers and small settlements. On the horizon, he could just see the thin blue line of the Zuyder Zee. There was no time, however, to enjoy the view. John led his men into the dense birch-land. Sunlight dappled the white sand with shadows through the leaves of the gnarled, bent trees, the undulating sand now also crisscrossed with naked tree roots.

  All of a sudden John came out onto an open ridge, and for the first time got a full view of the battlefield. He gave a low whistle. ‘Good God.’

  The dunes lay before him like a bunched-up quilt, tufted with scrubby bushes. Gun-smoke lay across the landscape like a fog. Far to the right, British troops was being fired on from above by sharpshooters hidden in a coppice. Not far away from these men, but out of sight to them behind a lip of scrub-covered sand, was the rest of General Coote’s brigade. They were close enough to John for him to pick out the flags of the 2nd, 27th and 29th regiments waving desperately as the men scrambled over the slippery terrain. The enemy was arrayed across the road to Bergen. Tree trunks, broken carts and farmyard furniture had been stacked into temporary barricades, and more sharpshooters were at work from the trees flanking them.

  ‘The 85th.’ Chetham trained his telescope on the unit that had been separated from Coote’s brigade. ‘They’re under direct attack.’

  ‘Go to Colonels Hepburne and McMurdo and tell them to march over at once. If they can extend the 85th’s line, they may be able to turn the enemy flank and allow the 85th to re-join their brigade.’