Chapter 15

 

Winter was firmly behind us now and we watched the trees blossom and horses graze on shoots of new growth in the meadows. They at least had fresh food. I imagined what would be happening in the French lines as the spring rains dried and the roads became passable again. Trains of wagons would be bringing supplies to their army: new boots for marching in the coming campaign; uniforms; replacement men and horses for regiments; ammunition and food. Army bakeries would be transforming sacks of flour into fresh bread with the smell wafting over their barracks. My stomach would rumble at my own imaginings before reality bit and I turned to survey the Russian army.

Their commissary had barely improved since the winter, despite St Petersburg being considerably closer than Paris. Some new boots and ammunition had been sent, but as men had been dispersed in their winter quarters, they had been left to effect their own repairs. The scarecrow army that had fought at Eylau now began to regather, wearing coats and trousers patched in various scraps of homespun cloth. Some black, most brown, but I also saw patches of blue that came from French uniforms. Many resembled troops of harlequin soldiers. The contrast with the immaculate, but untested Guards regiments could not have been greater. Their commander, Grand Duke Constantine, who turned out to be even more of a martinet over uniforms than his brother, was appalled. Instead of pressing for better supplies, he insisted that his men would not stand alongside any officers or men who were improperly dressed.

As the weather improved thoughts turned to the coming campaign. Both the Prussians and Russians were supremely confident of victory, despite the narrow outcomes of the earlier battles. Perhaps no one wanted to contemplate defeat in front of their monarch, and many made bold claims about marching west and driving on to Paris. To our alarm, their imagined victories invariably included a large British force pushing south from the coast and occupying the attention of several marshals. When pressed by one Prussian general to estimate the number of redcoats on their way, Wilson suggested a figure of fifty thousand and confidently asserted that they would arrive within weeks.

“Why the hell did you say that?” I asked when we were alone.

“Because I think his lordship is wrong,” he told me. “I have been sending my own reports to ministers in London urging them to seize this opportunity. If we commit fully to this alliance, we could end this war and Bonaparte at the same time.” His eyes gleamed with the possibility of victory, but he was to be disappointed. We heard in May that the government of Grenfell had collapsed. All that politicians in London were interested in then was the coming election. So instead of an army, the only British forces to sail into the Baltic were three small naval sloops.

Various councils of war were held with the monarchs and their commanders. In anticipation of our contribution, we were also invited so that we could co-ordinate our force. We watched as aggressive generals laid out before their commanders-in-chief, complex schemes of marching columns that would divide and drive our enemy back. Both monarchs would appear enthusiastic and Bennigsen would make positive noises, yet at the end of the day he did not commit to any of them. He appeared to have no plan of his own other than to form a line in front of the French and wait for them to attack. Personally, I was grateful for his caution and wondered if the Hanoverian had his own contacts in London. Friedrich Wilhelm, though, was hugely frustrated by this strategic void. As the days passed he grew increasingly vehement about the opportunities being missed. His Prussian generals would nod in agreement, and I suspected that many of the Russian officers felt the same. They looked to the tsar for their lead, but he would always put his hand on Bennigsen’s shoulder and assure them that his commander would make the decision when the time was right.

Apart from a brief spell at the start of the year when Bennigsen’s army had advanced, Danzig had been behind French lines. In March Napoleon’s forces had started to encircle the city. At first no one was greatly concerned as it had been well supplied. The expectation was that the besiegers would be forced to pull back when the French retreated from a general allied advance. Then in mid-April came shocking news: the Prussian garrison at Danzig was running out of gunpowder. At first, Friedrich Wilhelm insisted this could not be true. He had personally checked that supplies had been despatched regularly to the city from a gunpowder factory outside Konigsberg. Riders were sent back to the capital to investigate, and I went with them to update Hutchinson on proceedings.

His lordship had stayed away from the tsar, probably because he did not want to be harried over plans for the British force. While time with the British chief was not something I relished, I volunteered to go back to the city for another reason. Ever since I had last seen her, the charms of Dorothea had often been on my mind. Her beguiling beauty was fixed in my memory, as was the calm, calculating mind that belied her youth as she helped us manipulate the Prussians. She was little short of bewitching, and I was fully under her spell. Not that I felt badly about it, for she was to prove to be one of the finest diplomats Russia has ever had.

By the time I reached the city, the mystery of the missing gunpowder had been uncovered. It was one of monumental incompetence. The Prussians prided themselves on their adherence to orders, but, while laudable, often this resulted in a complete lack of common sense. The powder had been sent down the shingle spit to Danzig in carts at which point the officer in command was to leave it north of the Vistula River for the city garrison to transport across. Unfortunately, his instructions did not include telling the garrison that it was there for collection. Even when he delivered subsequent loads and the first had not been gathered, it did not occur to him to make sure plans were in place to take these vital supplies into Danzig. He simply built up a vast stockpile that was now being used by the French to shoot shells into the city.

“I would not trust those fools to run a whelk stand, never mind a siege,” Hutchinson fumed as he told me. He was similarly unimpressed with the news I brought of the complete lack of progress in planning the coming campaign. “This bloody shambles will end in disaster, you mark my words,” he predicted. “The only thing we can take comfort from is that there will be no poor bloody redcoats stuck in the middle of it.” He fixed me with another suspicious glare and then grunted, “You should see your spy in the palace. She may have more information on what is really going on around here.”

I did not need asking twice. So it was that an hour later I was presenting myself at the royal residence, this time claiming to have a message from the countess’s husband. I was shown into the familiar drawing room and this time as soon as she saw it was me, the maid was dismissed.

“Do you really have a message from my husband?” she asked, “or is he too busy chasing the Prussian strumpets now flocking to the tsar’s headquarters?” Sometimes when you have been apart from a woman, your imagination enhances their beauty so that a reunion is something of a disappointment. If anything, the reverse was the case here; I was enraptured, not just by the dark eyes in the flawless skin, but by her sharpness of mind. She clearly had her own spies in Friedrich Wilhelm’s mansion and knew far more about what went on inside its walls than I did. I grinned in delight and bent down to kiss the back of the proffered hand.

“No, I come entirely on my own account,” I replied. Then I added something that I felt sure would please her. “Although Lord Hutchinson says that he and the British government would greatly value your opinion on current affairs, for your assistance previously was invaluable.”

She laughed, “I very much doubt that your Lord Hutchinson is ever that diplomatic.” But immediately, she became serious and put her hand on my knee, which almost distracted me entirely from her next words. “You should remember that I serve Russia and not Britain.” Then she leaned towards me, filling my nostrils with her sweet scent as she looked me in the eye and innocently enquired, “There is no British army force coming, is there?”

I was lost in those dark staring pools for a moment and then to my horror, I heard myself whisper, “No.” Hastily, I tried to recover, “Well, no final decision has been made. Our government might still decide to send a force and we have sent three naval vessels.”

She giggled at my confusion and took her hand from my knee to slide it through my arm. “You should not worry, Captain, you have not told me any great secret. General Bennigsen is sure that no British force will come and he has already told the tsar not to expect one.”

“Please, Countess, call me Thomas,” I interrupted, feeling slightly relieved.

“Then you must call me Dee,” she insisted. “Dorothea is too long. But did you not know that your naval force is already reduced to two ships?”

“What, one has been sunk?”

“The captain was brave, although I hear a little reckless. He tried to force his way through to Danzig up the river, but his ship was well within musket range of both banks and under fire from cannon too. I am told that he lost a mast and over half of his crew before having to retreat.” I remembered the narrow channel from when we had come up along it. It was barely a hundred yards across. The vessel would have been lashed with shot from stem to stern. If he had tried it in daylight, then the captain was a bloody fool.

So far all I had done was divulge a British secret – not that I would admit it. I thought it was high time I found out some other intelligence, so that I had something to report to Hutchinson. “Does the tsar have confidence in Bennigsen?” I enquired. “He does not seem to have any plan beyond waiting for the French to attack.”

Dorothea looked at me carefully before answering, clearly weighing up how much to divulge. “It would be difficult for the tsar to dismiss Bennigsen. The general was one of the conspirators who murdered the old tsar; some say he stabbed and then strangled him with his own hands.”

“Good God.” I was astonished. “Does the tsar know?”

“Of course. Alexander was brought up by his grandmother, Catherine, who had little time for her son and heir. He was also involved in the plot and had dined with his father that same night. He claimed that he thought his father would be forced to abdicate and did not know he would be killed. He is either lying or a fool to say such a thing, for he would have known that his throne would not be secure while his father was alive.” She shrugged, “I do not think Alexander is a fool, do you?”

I gaped at her, still taking this in and reconciling her innocent young beauty with this casual knowledge of palace coups and murder. “No, he does not strike me as a fool either,” I admitted. He had given the impression of kind consideration, but it was now clear that there was a streak of utter ruthlessness to him as well. A man prepared to murder his own father would do whatever it took to stay on the throne. “How do you know all this?”

“My mother is one of the old tsarina’s closest friends. I too served her as a maid of honour in the palace. When Alexander used to visit his mother, she would put a casket containing the bloodstained shirt of her husband on the table between them as a reproach. She knows what he did.”

“Were you in the Russian court for long?” I asked. I was surprised, for she seemed to have packed a lot into her short life. She had mentioned before, for instance, that she had two sons and yet was only in her early twenties.

“When my mother died the old tsarina was my guardian for three years. She would visit every week and she eventually arranged my marriage to Christoph. He thinks I should stay at home in St Petersburg, but I will not be shut away. I can help him; I got him his post in the army and I can help Russia too.”

“Well, you certainly helped keep Prussia in the alliance,” I told her.

She smiled and I felt my heart skip a beat. “The king never did learn how his wife discovered his plan, but the queen and I are now close friends. Do you want to know what else she tells me? Would that help you with Lord Hutchinson?”

“Well, any information would be gratefully received,” I murmured, hardly able to believe my luck.

“The Prussians and the Russians are both negotiating with the Austrians, trying to persuade them to join the alliance too. Yet the Austrians are unlikely to make a decision until they see the outcome of the spring campaign.” I was disappointed as we had already heard these rumours, but then she went on. “Austria will claim back territory it lost to Prussia in earlier wars as a price for joining the coalition. Alexander would agree to such a deal but Friedrich Wilhelm will not.”

“Now that is interesting,” I admitted. Until now the two monarchs had seemed as close as brothers, but it was clear that they and their advisors did not entirely trust each other.

“The ministers here talk in front of me over dinner. Perhaps they think that I am some silly young woman who would not be interested in their schemes. They discuss annexing some of the German states captured by the French when the alliance advances. The British territory of Hanover could find itself surrounded by Prussia.” She looked me in the eye and then shrugged those delicate shoulders. “I do not think that either Russia or Britain will want Prussia to become too powerful when the war is over.”

I had already learned not to underestimate the countess. Her beguiling beauty was a weapon she used in her own diplomatic war and she did not hesitate to meddle in the affairs of states. I did not doubt that my own inadvertent admission would soon be finding its way to the tsar’s ear, as would the Prussian plans – if they had not been sent already.

Hutchinson too was impressed with her news of division between our allies. He was less worried about any threat to Hanover. “Let’s see them beat the French first,” he barked.

“Did you know that Alexander was involved in the plot to kill his father?” I asked him.

“Of course I did. Did you read nothing about Russia before you came here, Flashman?” He gave a weary sigh of despair. “The old tsar was as mad as a March hare, that was why Catherine had him shut away during her reign. She probably convinced Alexander that such an act would be necessary after her death.”

“She encouraged her grandson to murder her own son?” I queried, shocked.

“If it would save Russia from chaos, yes,” he insisted. “She had a ruthless streak. After all she had her own husband overthrown and murdered to seize the throne herself.”

Hutchinson decided to join me on my journey back to Bennigsen’s headquarters. I had told him that the allies were having doubts about our contribution of men. He thought he would personally bring news of the latest cash subsidies to remind them that Britain was still a valuable ally.

The journey was not a pleasant one as his normal choleric nature was made worse by a rotten tooth. Eventually, we stopped at a village and with the help of the coachman and acts of mime, we found someone to help him pull out the offending molar. There was no doctor, but the blacksmith was willing to help. First, though, he had to make some smaller tongs for the work, as his other tools were more suited to fitting horseshoes. By nightfall the smith was ready and as I held a candle flame virtually under his lordship’s nose, he went to work. In the end it took another man to help hold the head still as the smith tugged and pulled – to growing roars of agony. Eventually, the thing was out. Hutchinson was given more of the local firewater to clean the wound, on top of a pint of the stuff he had already drunk to dull the ache. Needless to say, he slept well.

Free from pain and soothed by spirits, his lordship was in a benign mood when he finally met the two monarchs. He was remarkably sociable as he made small talk, laughed at their jokes and even ignored one or two barbed comments about missing redcoats. He explained that the calling of an election was beyond his control. He reminded them that their ambassadors in London could confirm that a decision to send men would now be made by the new government when appointed by the king.

A council of war was held to agree what to do about Danzig. The decision was made to send a relief column of eight thousand Russians to break the siege and resupply the Prussian garrison. The tsar gave this command to the young general, Kamenski, who was anxious to expunge the disgrace earned by his father’s eccentric behaviour. Discussion then turned to how they could divert French attention away from this column and stop the enemy from reinforcing the besiegers.

Bennigsen began to propose a cautious plan to advance a few regiments a short distance, while keeping his defensive line intact. To his surprise, the two rulers interrupted. They must have been frustrated by the caution of Bennigsen’s earlier schemes and had clearly agreed their own plan. Now they overruled their general and insisted that their combined eighty thousand strong host would advance up to the French lines. It was by no means clear what they would do when they got there, but the more aggressive generals eagerly supported the idea, no doubt pleased to see Bennigsen humbled. The Hanoverian looked ill as the situation slipped out of his control and I could hardly blame him. To expose this vast force to the enemy in order to protect just a tenth of their number, and with no coherent plan for when they made contact, was madness to me too.

“But will young Kamenski have enough men to lift the siege?” enquired Hutchinson looking at the papers scattered on the table. “This estimate puts the enemy force surrounding Danzig at around twenty-five thousand.”

“Less than half of those are French veterans,” announced the king, dismissing the report. “Many of the rest are Polish conscripts,” he continued, ignoring the fact that Poles also made up much of the Prussian garrison at Danzig.

“They will not be enough to drive the French away,” Alexander offered, confirming Hutchinson’s suspicion, “but for the next month or two they will stop those men re-joining Bonaparte and that should help us to win some campaign victories.”

Friedrich Wilhelm clapped Hutchinson on the shoulder and added, “This will also give your army time to arrive. Then at last the Austrians will make up their mind to join us.”

The colour drained from his lordship’s features as we realised that, despite everything, at least one of the allies was still looking to the nebulous support of Britannia for their deliverance.