'I hate the English as much as you do!'
General Edouard Santhonax, aide-de-camp to His Imperial Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French and Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Army, completed his verbal report. He watched his master pace slowly up and down the beaten earth floor of the low wayside inn which was serving briefly as Imperial Headquarters. The Emperor's polished half-boots creaked slightly as he walked between the two crude tables and their attendant benches at which sat his secretaries and crop-headed Marshal Berthier, the Grand Army's Chief-of-Staff. Their heads were bent over piles of documents taken from dispatch boxes.
The Emperor was dressed in the dark green undress uniform coat of the Horse Chasseurs of the Guard and his plump hands were clasped in the small of his back. He spun round at the end of the tavern, his head bowed, the fine brown hair swept forward in a cow-lick over the broad forehead. He paced back, towards the waiting Santhonax.
Santhonax stood silently, his plumed hat beneath his arm, the gold lace on his blue coat a contrast to the Emperor's unostentatious uniform. Napoleon stopped his pacing a foot in front of the tall officer and looked up into Santhonax's eyes.
'So, my General, we have an emissary from the Tsar, eh?'
'That is so, Sire. He waits for your command outside.'
Napoleon's face suddenly relaxed into a charming smile. His right hand was raised from behind his back and pinched the left cheek of General Santhonax, where a livid scar ran upwards from the corner of his mouth.
'You have done well, mon brave.'
'Thank you, Sire.'
Napoleon turned aside to where a map lay spread on the rough grey wood of the table. He laid a plump finger on the map where a blue line wound across rolling country.
'Tilsit.'
A shadow of hatching lay under the ball of the Emperor's finger, indicating the existence of a town that straddled the River Nieman. 'You say the bridge is down?'
Santhonax stepped forward beside the Emperor. 'That is so, Sire, but there are boats and barges, and the transit of the river is not difficult.'
'And you are certain that Alexander seeks an armistice, eh?' 'That is what I was led to believe, Sire.'
The Emperor hung his head for a moment in thought. At the end of the table Berthier stopped writing, pushed aside a paper and sat poised, as though sensing his master was about to dictate new movements to the Grand Army. A silence hung in the long, low room, disturbed only by the scratching of the secretaries' pens and the buzzing of a pair of flies in the small window of the inn, for the June heat was oppressive.
'Very well!' The Emperor made up his mind and began to pace again, more rapidly than before. Santhonax stepped back to make way for him.
'Write, Berthier, write! The town of Tilsit is to be declared a neutral zone. On the acceptance of our terms by the Tsar, orders are to be passed to the advance units of the Grand Army that have already crossed the Nieman, that they are to retire behind the line of that river. An armistice is to be declared. General Lariboissiere of the Engineers is to requisition boats and to construct a pontoon or raft surmounted by pavilions, two in number, one to accommodate their Imperial Majesties, the other their staffs.' The Emperor paused and looked at Santhonax.
'It is fortunate, General, that you were formerly a frigate-captain. We shall put your maritime expertise to good account.' Napoleon smiled, as if pleased at some private joke, then he addressed himself to Berthier again. 'General Santhonax is to liaise with General Lariboissiere as to the method of mooring this raft in midstream and to be responsible for the complete security and secrecy of the meeting between ourself and the Tsar.'
The Emperor swung suddenly round on Santhonax and his eyes were ice-cold.
'Is that clearly understood, my General? Secret, utterly secret.' 'Perfectly, Sire.'
'The Russian court is a sink of iniquitous intrigue, General Santhonax, a fact which should be uppermost in your mind.' The Emperor's mood had mellowed again; he seemed suddenly in an almost boyish good humour.
'Of course, Sire,' replied Santhonax dutifully.
'Very good! Now you may show in this Russian popinjay and let us set about the wooing of Alexander!'
Captain Drinkwater woke from a deep sleep confused and disoriented. For several moments he did not know where he was. The unfamiliar smell of his bedding, the whitewashed ceiling and the chirruping of sparrows outside the small window all served to perplex him. Slowly he recalled the rapid train of events that had taken place since they landed from the barge and took their unceremonious farewell of Quilhampton.
Led in silence by Mackenzie, Drinkwater and Walmsley had walked swiftly into a maze of small, narrow streets reminiscent of an earlier age, with overhanging buildings and rickety roofs. Despite a lingering light in the sky, the omnipresence of the shuttered houses threw them into darkness as they followed the spy. Then abruptly they stopped and Mackenzie knocked imperiously on a nail-studded door. After a moment it opened, there was a quick exchange of what Drinkwater took for sign and countersign and then he and Walmsley were drawn inside, the door was closed behind them and they stood in a large, partially lit room, their presence and necessities being explained by Mackenzie to the occupant of the house. A sense of curiosity filled Drinkwater. The street smells of Memel had been odd enough, but those of the house seemed almost diabolical and this impression was heightened by what he could see of the room. Low and overhung with beams, it was largely lined by shelves, drawers and cupboards. On the drawers he could see vaguely familiar lettering and in the cupboards, behind glass, the owner's lantern shed highlights on jars and sorcerers' retorts. On the shelves, however, were even more sinister exhibits: a monstrous foetus, a coiled snake and a diminutive mermaid. Beside him he felt Walmsley shudder with apprehension and utter a low expression of repulsion. Drinkwater recognised the lettering on the little wooden drawers as the abbreviated Latin of the Pharmacopoeia.
'We are the guests of an apothecary, I believe,' Drinkwater whispered to the midshipman. Both men were fascinated by the ugly mermaid whose wrinkled, simian face stared at them, the dancing light of the lantern flame reflected from her glass pupils.
Mackenzie and their host turned at this moment. 'Ah, so you like my little mermaid do you, gentlemen?' The apothecary was of middle age and held the lantern for them to see the piece of cunning taxidermy. His accent was thickly Germanic, but his command of English appeared good. Mackenzie smiled.
'Well, gentlemen, our host will show you to your rooms. It is already late. I advise you to retire immediately. I have some business to attend to and we must make good progress tomorrow.'
There were no introductions and in silence Drinkwater and Walmsley followed the apothecary to an attic bedroom where two low beds were prepared by a silent and pretty blonde girl with a plait like a bell-rope down her back. The two Englishmen stood awkwardly with the apothecary while the girl bustled about. Then, as she left, he gestured to the beds.
'Thank you,' Drinkwater said. The man bowed and withdrew. Mackenzie had already disappeared and as the door closed Drinkwater heard the lock turned. 'It seems we are prisoners for the night, Mr. Walmsley,' he remarked with an attempt at a reassurance he was far from feeling. To his surprise Walmsley grinned back.
'Perhaps it's just as well, sir.'
'Eh?' Drinkwater was puzzled, then he remembered the blue eyes of the girl and her last, frankly curious glance as she bobbed from the room. 'Ah, yes ... well, I think we must sleep now.' And despite his misgivings, despite a gnawing reaction of having deserted his post, Drinkwater had fallen into a deep, dreamless and wonderful slumber.
His confusion on waking was less comforting. He lay for a long time wondering if he had made the right decision in leaving Antigone; his thoughts alternated in a wild oscillation between a patient argument in favour of co-operating with the mysterious Mr. Mackenzie and a swift panic that he had acted with insanely foolish impetuosity. In the opposite corner Midshipman Lord Walmsley still snored peacefully, sublimely unconcerned and probably dreaming of the blonde girl.
There was a sudden grating in the lock and the door opened. The apothecary came in and wished them good morning. The girl followed, a tray in her pink hands from which coffee, fresh bread and a species of black sausage sent up a pungent and appetising aroma. Drinkwater saw Walmsley stir and open his eyes. He looked at the pretty face, smiled and sat up.
'Herr Mackenzie requests that you be ready in half an hour, gentlemen,' the apothecary said, then chivvied the girl out and closed the door.
'I will shave while you pour the coffee,' Drinkwater said in an attempt to preserve a little of the quarterdeck dignity in the awkward and enforced intimacy with the midshipman. While this curious little ritual was in progress Mackenzie made his appearance.
'Good morning, gentlemen. You must forgive me for having deserted you last night. There were certain arrangements to make.'
He waited for the two naval officers to complete their preparations and when they were both ready said, 'Now, gentlemen, when we leave here we assume our new identities. I am a merchant, a Scotsman named Macdonald. You, Captain, are a merchant master. I leave you to choose your own name and that of your ship. Mr. Smith here,' he nodded at Walmsley, 'is a junior mate. I have a chaise below.' He smiled at Drinkwater. 'By great good fortune you are not compelled to ride. Lord Leveson-Gower arrived here last night. He is no longer persona grata at the Tsar's court. Fortunately the chaise he used for amusing himself in St Petersburg bears no arms. I have the use of it.' He made a gesture to indicate the door. 'Come, we must be off. We have twenty leagues to cover before night.'
They clattered down the stairs and emerged into the apothecary's room which looked less terrifying in the daylight that slanted in through the narrow windows. The mermaid was revealed as a hybrid sham, a curiosity of the taxidermist's art designed to over-awe the ignorance of the apothecary's customers. They passed through into the street.
'The box please, Smith.' Mackenzie nodded Walmsley to the driver's seat and opened the door of the chaise for Drinkwater. 'A steady pace,' he said to the midshipman. We don't want the horses blown.'
Walmsley nodded and vaulted up onto the seat. Drinkwater climbed in and settled himself. Mackenzie lifted their meagre baggage in with them and then climbed in himself. He tapped Walmsley's shoulder and the chaise jerked into motion. Drinkwater turned to take his farewell of the apothecary, but the studded door was already closed. Only a small, pretty, blue-eyed face watched their departure from a window.
For the first quarter of an hour Drinkwater attended to the business of settling himself in comfort as the chaise moved over the uneven road. Mackenzie was kneeling up on the front seat, giving the midshipman directions as they drove the equipage through the narrow streets, round innumerable corners and out onto what passed in Lithuanian Kurland for a highway.
'A sea of mud in the autumn, a waste of ice and snow in winter, a mass of ruts in the spring and a damnable dustbowl at this time of the year,' explained Mackenzie at last, 'Like every damned road in the Tsar's empire.'
In the June heat the dust clouds rose from the horses' hooves and engulfed the chaise so that Drinkwater's view of the countryside was through a haze. The road ran parallel to the wide and shining expanse of the Kurische Haff, the huge lagoon which formed the ponded-back estuary of the Nieman. On either side, slightly below the level of the highway, the marshy grassland was grazed by cattle.
'A somewhat monotonous landscape, Captain,' observed Mackenzie conversationally, 'but I assure you, you are seeing it at its best.'
'You know it well?' prompted Drinkwater, enforced leisure making him anxious to discuss with Mackenzie more than the appearance of the hinterland of Memel.
Mackenzie, with an infuriating evasion, ignored the question. 'I believe that it was the great Frenchman De Saxe that wanted this country for his own. A bastard aspiring to a dukedom, eh? And now, in our modern world, we have an attorney's son aspiring to an empire ... That, my dear Captain, is progress.'
'He has done more than aspire, if what you are saying is true.'
'You prefer "acquire" then?'
'It would be more accurate ... Mackenzie.'
'Macdonald.'
'Macdonald, then. This chaise, you say it belongs to our ambassador, Lord Leveson-Gower, and that he arrived in Memel last night?'
'Yes. The Tsar let it be known that his lordship was no longer welcome about His Imperial Majesty's person. He confirms what I had already learned, that emissaries have been received with every appearance of cordiality from French Headquarters and that Prince Czartoryski has left for a preliminary interview with the French Emperor to arrange a secret meeting.'
'So your worst fears are indeed justified.'
Mackenzie nodded. 'And now we have the leisure, I can offer you a full explanation of what has happened, and how your help is essential.'
'Anything that lessens my doubts about the folly of this journey would be welcome,' said Drinkwater grimly, suddenly clutching at the side of the chaise as it heeled over, its offside wheels running off the road while they overtook a heavily laden ox-cart trundling slowly along. He gestured at the pair of plodding peasants who trudged at the head of the team and the man and woman who sat on the cart.
'I am still unconvinced about your lack of secrecy,' he said frowning. 'I am at a loss ...'
Mackenzie laughed. 'This business of spying,' he said, still smiling, 'is not always a matter of cloaks and daggers. I move about quite openly for the most part. For me the subterfuge of disguise is of little use. I am well known in high places in Russia. The Tsar himself might recognise me, for I have served in the Caucasus with a commission from himself.'
Mackenzie's eyes drifted off, over the flat landscape that was such a contrast to the precipitous peaks of those distant mountains. 'General Bennigsen knows me too. In fact we shall be sharing lodgings with him.'
'Good Lord!'
'Let me explain, Captain. There is no hurry, we have a long way to go. To allay your fears of being discovered you will observe before we go very much further that the whole country is turning out. Tilsit, the town on the Nieman whither we are bound, is attracting all the country gentry for miles about. It has been declared a neutral zone and will be seething with soldiers and squires by tonight. It was already filling when I left. Nothing like this has happened in this backwater since De Saxe came to Mitau to wrest Kurland from the Tsars. We shall be like a drop in the ocean. Sometimes a bold front is the best concealment.' He nodded at Walmsley's back. 'I have told your young friend there to cluck to his horses in French, and am glad that he knows enough of the tongue to manage tolerably well.' 'You think of everything.'
'It is my business to. Now, as for me, I proceeded directly towards Tilsit when your lieutenant landed me the other day. As soon as I encountered the outposts of the Russian army I made my way to the bivouac of the Hetman's Don Cossacks and found Ostroff. Together we went off to Piktupohen where the Imperial Russian headquarters lay and located Vorontzoff. The Prince is as staunch a believer in a British alliance as his old father and distrusts the French. He told me at once that Alexander has agreed to a secret meeting with Napoleon. Both Vorontzoff and Ostroff undertook to supply whatever information they might learn as to the outcome of this secret conclave, as I told you yesterday. By a stroke of luck Vorontzoff, in his capacity as an Imperial aide, was ordered into Tilsit to commandeer lodgings for the Tsar and his Commander-in-Chief, General Bennigsen. As a result, I was able to apply a little influence and General Bennigsen and his staff will be quartered in a large house on the Ostkai, having a good view of the Nieman and the French across the river. It is an ancient house, built round a courtyard, and the ground floor consists of stables and a large warehouse. The owner is an old Jew who proved characteristically amenable to gold. I secured a tiny attic, locked and barred from the inside and obviously a well-used hiding place during the frequent persecutions of the Hebrews. Here I prepared to hole-up until it became clear what had been arranged between Alexander and Napoleon. I was ideally placed. If my hypothesis proved true and Alexander and Napoleon combined, then it was likely that Bennigsen would fall from grace. He is already in disfavour, having lost at Friedland. Such are the suspicions at the Tsar's court that the fact that he was born a Hanoverian and hence a subject of our own King George is held against him, and there is, in any case, a rising tide of resentment against German officers, who are held largely responsible for the recent military disaster.'
'But I thought the Tsar owed Bennigsen some obligation due to the part he played in the murder of his father,' put in Drinkwater, as Mackenzie drew breath.
Mackenzie smiled with a sardonic grin. 'There is little honour in this world, least of all among thieves and murderers, despite the proverb,' he said. 'No, I think Bennigsen will be quietly sacrificed when the time comes. Alexander is unpredictable in the extreme, and an autocrat's foreign policies are apt to be as erratic as the tacking of your own frigate.'
It was Drinkwater's turn to grin at the simile. 'So, you were ensconced in the attic of the Jew's house,' he prompted.
'Yes. And I could rely upon Bennigsen's disaffection and consequent disloyalty if things went against us. Part of Bennigsen's staff arrived, a coterie of drunken young officers whose behaviour would disgrace a farmyard. But they brought with them some of the finest bloodstock in Russia, stabling them in the warehouse. My own mount was quartered some distance away and this ready form of transport further satisfied me in my choice of post.'
'And yet you deserted this secure bolt-hole, risked everything and returned to Memel to fetch me. Yesterday you mentioned boats and secret meetings and the presence of a seaman as being vital.'
'My dear Captain, I spavined a good horse because, without exaggeration, you are truly the only man who can help effect this thing.'
'That much you already said, but you also said my brother ...' 'Ostroff.'
'Ostroff, then, was not likely to be able ...' 'Not without you, Captain, hence your unique importance in the matter. You are, as it were, of a dual value.' 'I do not follow.'
Mackenzie leaned forward, his face a picture of urgency. Gone were the traces of yesterday's exhaustion. 'Captain,' he said, 'Napoleon has ordered that his meeting with Alexander shall take place exactly midway between their two armies, in conditions of such secrecy that no one shall be privy to the settlement between them.'
'I understand that; and that you intend, with my help, to eavesdrop on them.'
'Exactly, Captain. You will help devise the method by which it shall be done, but there is also the question of who shall do it. I myself cannot undertake the task since it is for me to ensure that the intelligence is got out of this benighted land and back to London. Vorontzoff is out of the question since he has his duties to attend to, is of more use in other ways and is far too well known to be passed off in disguise. The only candidate for the post of danger is Ostroff, but Ostroff protests it is impossible, despite the money he has been offered, and only you, as his brother, will be able to persuade him of the absolute necessity of attempting this coup.'
Drinkwater sat for some moments in silence. The whirring of the wheels on the road, the heat and the dust suggested an illusion of peace, yet every revolution of those soothing wheels took them nearer a situation as desperate and risky as any he had yet faced in his life. He was penetrating deep into territory that would soon be abruptly hostile, dressed in plain clothes on a mission of such danger that he might end his life before a firing squad, shot as a spy. He passed a hand wearily over his face and looked up at Mackenzie.
'You have me on a lee shore,' he said ruefully as Mackenzie smiled thinly. 'So I have to convince Ostroff that he must spy on the two Emperors as well as devise a means by which it may be done?'
'Exactly,' replied Mackenzie, leaning back against the buttoned leather of the chaise, his face a picture of satisfaction.
'Has it occurred to you that the thing might indeed be impossible?'
'No. Difficult, yes, but not impossible.'
'You have a great deal of faith in my inventiveness ... something I'm not sure I share with you.'
'Come, come, Captain, I'm certain that you have sufficient resourcefulness to devise a means of concealing a man in a raft!'
The morning rolled by in a cloud of dust. The broad and shining Nieman wound its way through increasingly undulating country of low hills. Here and there the river ran close to the road, undercutting a red clay cliff before it swung away in a great loop. The coppices of willow gave way to birches and scattered elms that reminded Drinkwater of home and they passed through the occasional village with its low steadings and slow, incurious peasants. Above the noise of the horses, the creak of harness and the thrum of wheels on the dirt road, the soaring song of larks could still be heard. At one point, where the river swung close to the road, Mackenzie bade Walmsley pull over and into a side lane which led down to a ferry.
'We'll water the horses and take a bite to eat,' he said and they pulled up beside a sunken hovel and a box-like pontoon provided with chains that formed a crude ferry across the Nieman.
As Walmsley tended the horses and Mackenzie provided black bread, sausage and a bottle of kvass from his saddle-bags, he nodded to the ferry.
'Take a look at it,' he muttered. 'They've one just like it at Tilsit, hauled out on a slipway and being prepared for the secret meeting.'
Drinkwater walked casually down to the rickety wooden jetty alongside which the ungainly craft lay moored. He ignored the ferryman who emerged from the hovel and approached him, concentrating his attention on the raft. It was a 'flying bridge', or chain ferry of large size, clearly intended to transport cattle and carts across the broad river, and he spent several minutes studying the thing intently. Mackenzie shouted something incomprehensible at the ferryman which made the Lithuanian swear and retire gesticulating behind a slammed door.
Twenty minutes later they resumed their journey. Mackenzie had briefed Walmsley as to the dangers they might now encounter, leaving Drinkwater to consider the problem of the raft. When they were fairly on their way Mackenzie leaned forward.
'Well, can it be done?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'In theory, yes ... but we need to consider tools, how we get to the thing ... you must let me think ...'
Mackenzie leaned back, permitting himself a small, secretive smile of satisfaction. From time to time he cast a surreptitious glance at Drinkwater, but for the most part he dozed as the chaise rolled on. Ahead of them smoke blurred the horizon and there were an increasing number of travellers on the road. The carriages and open chaises of the gentry, blooming with the light colours of women's dresses and hats, were moving towards Tilsit, while coming in the contrary direction a thin stream of peasants accompanied by the occasional bandaged soldier made their weary way. Mackenzie roused from his nodding.
'The wealthy and curious travel with us,' he said, 'the indigent poor escape the rapacity of the military who will be busy consuming every hidden bushel of stored grain, every chicken and pig in every poor steading, and requisitioning every house, hovel and pigsty for their billets.'
As the afternoon wore on, Mackenzie's assertion was proved true. For now, along the road were encamped green-and-grey-clad infantry, milling in bivouac, their cooking fires sending a smoke pall up into the blue sky. Lines of tethered cavalry horses stood patiently as troopers distributed fodder, and the regimental smithies stood by the roadside and made good the ravages of the campaign. Here and there lines of unlimbered guns were pulled off the road, their gunners sitting on the heavy wooden trains smoking, drinking or playing cards. Along the riverside a party were duck-shooting and, at one point, they were over-taken by a wild group of young officers racing their Arabs, to the complete disregard of all other users of the highway.
They passed through a village deserted by its inhabitants. In the duck-pond an entire battalion of nakedly pink Russian soldiers splashed and skylarked, bathing themselves clean of the red dust. The plain was filled with men and horses, and if seemed impossible that this vast multitude had suffered a defeat. Such numbers seemed to Drinkwater to be invincible.
They breasted a low hill and were met by a great wave of sound, that of hundreds of deep voices intoning the chants of the Russian Orthodox liturgy. Amid the gaudy trappings of war the summit of the knoll was crowned with the gilded panoply of the church. The priests' vestments gleamed in the sunshine as they moved through a long line of bare-headed men beneath banners of gold and red. The gilded chasubles, the waving banners and the sacred images borne aloft by acolytes were accompanied by wafts of incense and the intense, low, humming song of the soldiers of Tsar Alexander at their devotions.
Mackenzie leaned over and tapped his knee: 'You see now why Napoleon wants them for allies, and why we must not let them go. I know them, Captain, I have served with them.'
As they slowed to force their way through the worshippers, Drinkwater thought that at any moment their progress would be challenged. But nothing happened. There seemed to be hardly a man posted as a sentry. In company with other equipages they travelled on, Walmsley on the box, making sheep's eyes at the prettier of the women in the neighbouring conveyances.
The sun was westering when Mackenzie pointed ahead and Drinkwater craned around to see.
'Voila, Tilsit.'
The Nieman was narrower now, and wound less wildly between the water-meadows of lush green that were dotted with the bright gold of buttercups. More cows grazed its banks and stood hock-deep in its waters among the reeds, their tails lazily flicking off the flies and mosquitoes that abounded. On the rising ground to their left the ripening wheat and rye was trampled, but ahead of them the red roofs and towers of a substantial town lay hazy in the sunshine.
'And look there!' said Mackenzie suddenly, pointing again, but this time across the river.
A score of horsemen were watering their horses. They wore rakish shakos and pelisses, their two vedettes clear against the skyline.
'French hussars!' Mackenzie declared.
Drinkwater's curiosity was terminated abruptly when Walmsley pulled back on the reins and applied the brake, so that the wheels locked and the chaise skidded. He turned in his seat as Mackenzie put a cautionary finger on his knee.
'I'll do the talking,' he said, nodding reassuringly as Walmsley looked round anxiously from the box.
Ahead of them, drawn up in a rough line across the road, was a dark mass of cavalry; shaggy men on shaggy horses whose fierce eyes glared at the passengers in the carriages and moved over reluctantly to let the gentry through. Drinkwater looked at them with undisguised curiosity, for these were undoubtedly the Cossacks of which he had heard. They scarcely looked like cavalry; they wore baggy blouses and their trousers were stuffed into boots, it was true, but their waistbands and sheepskin saddles were strung about with the products of looting and plunder. Those few who were on foot waddled bowlegged with a rolling gait that reminded Drinkwater of grotesque seamen. Wicked-looking lances were slung across their backs and sabres gleamed in metal scabbards at their hips.
One great bearded giant, whose legs seemed to drag low on either side of his diminutive pony, kicked his mount close to the chaise. Peering at Drinkwater he made some comment which excited laughter from his compatriots. Drinkwater smelt the animal odour of the man, but Mackenzie, undaunted, riposted in Russian. The Cossack's face altered and his friends roared again at the man's obvious discomfiture.
The man was about to reply when his pony was shoved aside by a magnificent bay horse ridden by an officer. He appeared to recognise Mackenzie.
'Ah, Alexei, where the devil did you spring from?' he said in the French that was the lingua franca of the Russian nobility. 'I thought you had gone into Tilsit with Ostroff.'
Drinkwater recognised the last word and felt his heart hammering painfully under his ribs.
'Indeed, Count, I did, but I returned to Memel to fetch this gentleman here,' Mackenzie said in the same language, gesturing towards Drinkwater. 'He is the master of an English brig.'
'An Englishman, eh?' The Cossack officer stared at Drinkwater. 'I doubt he'll be welcome in Tilsit. But, to you merchants and the English, business is business, eh?'
'If the rumours are true, Count, and an armistice is declared, the Captain here wants his cargo out of Tilsit and Memel. But the rascally Jews won't sell at the prices they had agreed because the place is stuffed full of fools who might buy at a higher rate.'
'Tell him to hurry then,' said the Cossack officer and added, 'you'll be lucky to find lodgings in the town unless, like the Blessed Virgin, you are satisfied with a byre.' He crossed himself as he laughed at his blasphemous joke, then he peered into the chaise.
Drinkwater looked with sudden apprehension at Mackenzie, but the 'merchant' grinned and reached under the seat.
'Would a bottle be welcome to help us past your unspeakably stinking ruffians, Count?'
'As the Blessed Virgin herself, M'sieur Macdonald.' The officer grinned and caught the bottle of vodka. 'I shall toast you, Alexei, when I rest my ignoble centaurs tonight.' He turned and shouted something to the great bearded Cossack who had taken such an interest in Drinkwater. 'Hey, Khudoznik ...!'
The man was looking curiously at Lord Leveson-Gower's horses in the shafts. At the Count's remark he looked up and growled something in reply, at which the whole squadron, its commanding officer included, roared with laughter.
'On your way, Alexei, and bon voyage, Captain!' he said, and Walmsley, seeing the road ahead clear, whipped up the horses.
Drinkwater wiped his face with relief. 'Who the devil was that? You seemed uncommonly intimate.'
Mackenzie laughed. 'That, believe it or not, was Ostroff's superior officer, Count Piotr Kalitkin, commander of two squadrons of the Hetman's Don Cossacks. He knows me for a Scottish merchant, Alexander Macdonald, and we have been drunk several times in each other's company. He thinks you are going to Tilsit...'
'Yes, I got the drift of it: to find out why my cargo has not been brought down river to Memel.'
'Excellent!' laughed Mackenzie, in high good humour after the incident.
'What was that exchange between the Count and that malodorous fellow?' asked Drinkwater.
'It was an obscenity. The Count asked the man, Khudoznik, if he wanted to bugger our horses before he stood aside and let us through. Khudoznik replied there was no need for he had found a farm where the farmer had a wife, a daughter and forty cows!'
'Good God!'
'I doubt they're any worse than your own seamen ...' 'Or some of the officers,' agreed Drinkwater, jerking his head in Walmsley's direction, "but those fellows looked born in the saddle.'
'Indeed. Their Little Father, the Tsar, exempts them from taxation in exchange for twenty to forty years of military service. And they will literally steal the shirt from your back, if you let them.' Mackenzie nodded at Drinkwater's open coat.
'It seems I had a lucky escape in several ways,' remarked Drinkwater.
It was dark by the time they reached the town and here they encountered sentries. They were the third in a little convoy of carriages that had bunched together on the road, and by the time the sergeant had got to them he paid scant attention to the pass Mackenzie waved under his nose.
'I doubt if the fellow can read,' Mackenzie said, as Walmsley urged the exhausted horses forward; 'although, if he could, he would find the pass in order and signed by Prince Vorontzoff.' Mackenzie stood and tapped Walmsley on the shoulder. 'Pull in over there,' he ordered in a low voice, and the chaise passed into the deep shadow of a tall building. Mackenzie and Walmsley exchanged places and the chaise rolled forward again.
'How do you do?' Drinkwater asked Walmsley in a low voice.
'Well enough, sir,' replied the midshipman, stretching tired muscles. 'Where are ...?'
'No questions until we are safe.'
'Safe, sir?'
'In hiding.'
'I don't think I'll feel safe until I'm back on the old Antigone.'
'We are of one mind then. Now be quiet.' They had pulled into a side turning which bore no resemblance to what Drinkwater had imagined the Jew's house looked like even in the darkness. Mackenzie dropped from the box, opened the door and motioned them down. Taking the saddle-bags from the chaise he handed them to Drinkwater.
'Wait here,' he said and moved round to the horses' heads. He led the chaise off, and left the two Englishmen standing in the darkness. They pressed back into the shadows and listened to the noises of the night.
Kalitkin's news of an armistice was affirmed by the noise of revelry around them. Every window they could see was ablaze with candlelight. The strains of violins and balalaikas, of bass and soprano voices were added to raucous laughter and the squeals of women. Beside him Drinkwater heard Walmsley snigger nervously and their proximity to a bawdy house was confirmed by Mackenzie who approached out of the shadows without horses or chaise.
'The more people, the easier the concealment,' he whispered. 'I've left the chaise at the brothel full of officers' horses.' He led them back the way they had come and into the comparative brilliance of the town square.
The place was full of people milling about, women giggling on the arms of officers, the curious gentry and their outraged womenfolk hurrying past the licentious soldiers. Beggars and whores, vendors and street musicians filled the open space and occasionally a horseman would ride through, or a carriage escorted by lancers trot by to be wildly cheered in case it was the Little Father, the Tsar.
Drinkwater began to see what Mackenzie meant. The crowd, hell-bent on pleasure, took no notice of them. Within minutes they had entered beneath a low arch, reminiscent of an English coaching inn, and found themselves in a courtyard. Two or three orderlies lounged about, smoking or drinking, but no one challenged them. Even the tall sentry at the door snapped to attention as Mackenzie, walking with an air of purpose, threw open the door and led the trio inside.
Crossing the courtyard Drinkwater had been aware of stable doors and upper windows flung open, from which candlelight and the noise of drunken revels poured in equal measure. Inside, the stairs were littered with bottles, an officer in his shirt-sleeves, his arm round the waist of a compliant girl, lounged back and ignored them. A half-open upper door revealed a brief glimpse of a mess-dinner, a table groaning under food, bottles, boots upon the tablecloth and a whirling dancer kicking out the trepak to the wild and insistent beat of balalaika chords.
On the next floor the doors were closed. A woman's chemise and a pair of shoes and stockings lay on the landing. Above the shouts and cheers from below, the shrieks of drunken love-making came from behind the closed doors and were abruptly drowned by the concerted tinkle of breaking glass as, below, a toast was drunk to the dancer.
A flight higher they encountered the Jew, his family behind him, peering anxiously down from an upper landing. Mackenzie addressed a few words to him and he drew back. Drinkwater saw the dull gleam of gold pass between them.
They passed through a further door, dark and concealed in the gloom. It shut behind them and they stumbled up bare wooden steps in total darkness. At the top Mackenzie knocked on a door; three taps and then two taps in a prearranged signal. There was the noise of a bar being withdrawn and a heavy lock turning. Drinkwater followed Mackenzie into a tiny attic, the rafters meeting overhead, a dormer window open to the night and from which the quick flash of lamplight on water could be glimpsed. Mackenzie stood aside, revealing the single occupant of the attic.
'Let me introduce you, Captain, to the man called "Ostroff".'
'By God, it is you ...' Edward came forward, holding up a lantern to see his brother. 'Mackenzie said he would force the issue one way or another. It never occurred to me he would bring you back. You've come a damned long way to collect your debt.'
Edward's poor joke broke the ice. Drinkwater held out his hand and looked his brother up and down. The jest about the money was characteristic; Edward was still the gambler, the opportunist. He was heavier of feature than Drinkwater remembered, his face red with good living and hard drinking, and he wore a Russian uniform unbuttoned at the neck. His feet were stuffed into soft boots and he had the appearance of a man who was about to settle. As if to confirm this he took off his tunic and loosened his stock.
'By God, it's hot up here, under the eaves. Who's this, Mackenzie?' He indicated the midshipman.
'Our driver, who has done a fine job and deserves some reward. Have you a bottle?'
Edward reached under a truckle bed and produced a bottle of vodka. 'There are glasses on that chest.'
They drank and Drinkwater performed the introduction, explaining that Ostroff was a British officer in the Russian service. Fortunately the looks of the two brothers were too dissimilar to excite suspicion as to the true nature of their relationship and Walmsley, tired and slightly overawed by the situation he found himself in, maintained a sensible silence. As they finished the vodka Mackenzie motioned to the midshipman.
'You and I will go and forage for something to eat, and leave these gentlemen to reminisce over their last encounter.'
They clattered down the steps and left a silence behind them. Drinkwater peered cautiously from the window, but he could see little beyond the black and silver river, the tall houses of the quay opposite and the sentries pacing up and down in the lamplight.
'You can't see much, but the raft is to the right. You'll see it clearly in daylight.'
'You know why I'm here, then?'
Behind him Edward sighed heavily and Drinkwater turned back into the attic. Edward had sat himself on the truckle bed and Drinkwater squatted on the chest.
'Yes. Mackenzie, a remarkable wizard, assured me he would bring back the one man who could accomplish this thing.'
'You sound doubtful.'
'It's impossible, Nat. Wait until you see the bloody raft. They've got one of those flying bridges ...'
'I know, I saw one lower down the river.'
'And you think it can be done?' Edward asked doubtfully.
Drinkwater shook his head. 'I don't know yet. Let us make up our minds in daylight.'
'Here ...' Edward held out the bottle and refilled their glasses. 'To fraternity.'
Their eyes met. 'Do you remember my taking you aboard the Virago?'
'I found the life of a seaman far from pleasant.' 'I'm sorry,' said Drinkwater curtly, 'I had no option. You recall Jex, the purser who discovered who you were?' 'Christ yes! What happened to him?'
'He was providentially killed at Copenhagen ... But tell me about yourself. You look well enough. Mackenzie tells me that you live chez Vorontzoff.'
Edward smiled. 'Oh yes. The life of an exile is a good one when well-connected. Your Lord-at-the-Admiralty pays me well enough and I still trifle a little at the tables ... I'm very comfortable.'
'Are you married?'
Edward laughed again. 'Married! Heavens, no! But I've a woman, if that's what you mean. In Petersburg, in Vorontzoff's palace ... I do very well, Nat, that's why you will find me unwilling to risk myself under that raft.'
'I understand that Mackenzie has promised you a very handsome sum if you can pull it off.'
Drinkwater saw the expression of greed cross Edward's face; a small narrowing of the eyes, the quick lick of the tongue across the lips. He had always been a slave to money, easy money in large amounts. Edward suddenly looked askance at Drinkwater.
'You haven't come to reclaim your debt, have you?' The irrelevant question revealed the extent of Edward's corruptibility. Drinkwater smiled sadly.
'Good heavens, Ned, I cannot remember how much I loaned you.'
'Neither can I,' Edward replied with dismissive speed and occupied himself with refilling the glasses. 'You know, Nat,' he continued after a moment, I owe neither you, nor Mackenzie, nor Great Britain any allegiance ... Despite my association with Vorontzoff, I am my own man ...'
'That begs the question of whether you will get under this raft,' said Drinkwater, the problem vexing him again and intruding into his mind so that he half-stood, cracked his head on the eaves and sat down again. 'Besides, did you know who you killed at Newmarket?'
A shadow passed over Edward's face.
'I have killed since,' he said with sudden aggression, 'mostly Frenchmen...'
'It was a pity about the girl, Ned, but the man was a French agent.' Dawning comprehension filled Edward's face.
'Is that how you managed to protect me?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'And myself... and if you were to carry out this task, Ned, I fancy that I might persuade my "Lord-at-the-Admiralty" to obtain a Royal Pardon for you.'
Edward stared at his brother, his expression of incredulity gradually dissolving to amusement and cracking into stifled laughter. 'My dear Nat, you do not change! For God's sake ... a Pardon! I would rather have two thousand pounds in gold!'
Mackenzie woke Drinkwater from his place of honour on the truckle bed at dawn. Drinkwater's head ached from the vodka and his mouth was dry. Mackenzie indicated a jug of water and, as Drinkwater vacated the bed, he rolled into it. Walmsley still slept, rolled in a blanket, on the rough boards of the attic floor. Edward was not there.
'Where's ... Ostroff?'
'Don't worry,' muttered Mackenzie, his eyes already closed, 'he'll be back.'
Drinkwater stared for a moment at the extraordinary man. Edward had called him a wizard and doubtless had good reason for doing so. Mackenzie's quick-wittedness had clearly proved invaluable and he was as at home in the presence of the Tsar as on this present strange campaign. For Drinkwater himself, separation from his ship, the horrible responsibility of his task and the risk of capture filled him with fretful gloom. But he addressed himself to the matter in hand. Edward had said the raft was visible ...
He fished in the tail-pocket of Hill's coat and brought out his Dollond glass. Cleaning the lenses carefully with a pocket handkerchief whose stitched monogram brought a painfully poignant reminder of his wife, he peered from the dormer window whose casements stood open against the summer dawn.
The Nieman was perhaps a hundred yards wide. On the opposite bank a stone quay, similar to the one on which the Jew's house stood, was lined with tall old buildings, their storey’s rising up above the storage for merchandise at ground level. They had Dutch gables and mansard roofs pierced by dormers such as the one from which he peered. On the quay, the Westkai, he could see the blue and white figures of the sentries, French sentries!
The thought made him ease forward gently so that he could see almost directly below him. Their Russian counterparts lounged on their muskets along the Ostkai and he withdrew into the shadow of the room. Then he saw the raft.
It was drawn up on a gravelled hard where the Westkai was recessed to facilitate the repair of the river barges. Drinkwater levelled his glass and studied it. It was identical to the flying bridge he had examined the day before, except that upon its rough boarded surface the railings had been removed and carpenters had begun the erection of a framework. He made his examination carefully, his heart beating with a mounting excitement as the possibility of success grew. Every supposition he had made after his examination of the chain ferry seemed borne out by the scrutiny of the pontoon opposite. It was impossible to be sure at this distance, but, as he went over and over his plan, he could find no major flaw in it. It would be difficult, but if he could lay his hands on some simple tools and a little luck ...
He pulled back into the attic and put away his glass. 'The game must be worth the candle,' he muttered to himself. He cast a look at the extraordinary man who snored softly on the truckle bed and who had so disrupted his life.
'You could be the instrument of my undoing, damn you,' he murmured ruefully. When he turned again to the view of the Westkai the rising sun was gilding the gables opposite and a clock in Tilsit was striking five.
The day that followed was one of an intolerable imprisonment. The June heat upon the roof tiles made that attic an oven. Mackenzie left them during the forenoon to glean what news he could, and to see if he could acquire the few tools that Drinkwater wanted. Behind him, forbidden to show himself near the window, Walmsley fretted and fussed like a child. Ostroff made no appearance and Drinkwater became increasingly worried. From time to time he watched the raft. French engineers, under the direction of an officer of high rank, were assisted by local craftsmen. The pavilion rose steadily during the morning and began to be draped during the afternoon.
Drinkwater's anxiety reached fever-pitch when he realised there was one vital matter that, in his study of the pontoon, he had completely overlooked. It was a piece of the most idiotic stupidity yet, after his realisation that he had overlooked it, the desperate need for quick improvisation was a solace for his over-active mind.
Drinkwater's problem was simply how to get across the river. To swim was too risky; besides it exposed Edward to a long period of immersion. The rowing-boats on the river had all been withdrawn to the French side, apart from a large barge moored almost directly below their window. A solution defied him until about mid-afternoon when, after a shouted parley across the Nieman, a small boat put off from the west bank. In its stern sat two officers.
They disembarked just out of sight. Drinkwater heard the sound of talking men striding below the window. He guessed the two French officers had been met by some Russians. Unable to see much he realised the group had stopped directly underneath them. Wriggling back from the window he beckoned Walmsley. The bored young man came forward.
I want you to see if you can hear what they are saying below,' Drinkwater whispered, pointing frantically downwards. Walmsley nodded and eased himself up under the sill of the open window. Drawing back into the attic Drinkwater stood and stretched. For perhaps ten minutes the hum of voices came up to them and Walmsley's face was contorted with concentration, but at last the impromptu conference broke up and Walmsley moved back into the room.
'Well?'
'I couldn't hear well, sir; but it was something about getting the barge across the river tonight... something about...' he frowned. 'Go on!'
'Well, I thought he said a "pavilion", a "second pavilion" ... but I don't understand what that had to do with a barge ...'
'Never mind, Mr. Walmsley.' said Drinkwater suddenly grinning like a fool, 'you do not know what a signal service you have just rendered your country, by God!'
'Indeed, sir, I do not...'
'Never mind. When we return to the ship I shall tell you, but for the time being I must urge you to be patient and ...'
He never finished the sentence, for the coded knock came at the door. Drinkwater motioned Walmsley to unlock it and lift the bar, while he picked up and cocked the loaded pistol left by Mackenzie when he had departed.
Mackenzie slid inside, his eyes shining with excitement.
'Bennigsen's below. The Tsar's given him the devil of a drubbing, and in public too. Bennigsen's furious at the humiliation and muttering God knows what ... and there's more,' he took a draught at the vodka Walmsley passed him and unhooked his coat. 'The meeting is set for tomorrow.'
Kicking off his boots, Mackenzie padded cautiously to the window and stared at the raft. He gave a low whistle, 'le theatre de Napoleon,' he said with an appreciative grin. It occurred to Drinkwater that Mackenzie throve on such high excitement. 'Hullo, what have those fellows been over for?' He nodded across the river and Drinkwater eased himself alongside. The small boat had returned to the Westkai and the two French officers were disembarking up an iron ladder.
'General officers,' murmured Mackenzie, 'by the look of them.'
The two men exchanged remarks, the sunlight reflected off their highly polished thigh-boots, and began to stroll along the quay towards the slipway and the bedizened raft. They were resplendent in the blue and gold of field officers, their great, plumed bicorne hats tucked under their arms. One of them, the taller of the two, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Some primaeval instinct beyond curiosity prompted Drinkwater. He drew out the Dollond glass again and focused it on the two officers. He drew his breath in sharply and Mackenzie turned.
'What the devil is it?'
'God's bones,' said Drinkwater, his face drained of colour. 'Santhonax!'
Mackenzie snatched the glass from him. 'By God, you are right!'
'It's uncanny,' Drinkwater said, his mouth dry. He accepted the glass of vodka Mackenzie held out. 'Our paths have crossed so many times .. .'
'No matter,' said Mackenzie, suddenly resolute, 'I have brought the things you wanted. A farrier's axe was the nearest I could manage to a hammer and it can be used instead of a spike.'
Drinkwater looked at the axe which was similar to a boarding axe with a blade and spike. 'What about nails?'
'Here,' Mackenzie fished in his pocket, 'horseshoe nails.'
'It reminds me of the nursery rhyme,' Drinkwater said, regaining his composure. It was quite impossible that Santhonax posed a threat to the success of the enterprise. 'Now what about Ostroff? Where the hell is he? I want to move at dusk, if not before ... and Mackenzie, have you been in contact with Bennigsen's staff?'
Mackenzie nodded and both men listened to the hubbub that floated up from lower in the house. 'Somehow you've got to find out which of them met those two over there,' he jerked his head towards the window. 'They'll be detailing someone off to move that barge across the river. Local watermen, I expect. You're a merchant, an ingratiating fellow. Tell them you'll arrange it.'
'I'll get the Hebrew to do it. It's his barge.'
'No, Ostroff and I will get the barge over.'
Comprehension dawned in Mackenzie's eyes and he smiled appreciatively.
'And get us some rags and soot from the Jew.'
'I see I was not mistaken in you, Captain,' Mackenzie said.
'It'll come to naught if Ostroff ain't found!' said Drinkwater sharply. 'And now I want some food!'
'I shall attend to those matters forthwith.'
Midshipman Lord Walmsley heard the departing footsteps of Captain Drinkwater and Ostroff fade down the stairs. The strange Russian officer had returned only a few minutes earlier, in time to receive his instructions from an impatient Drinkwater. He had protested a little and was then coerced by the captain and Mr. Mackenzie into agreeing to change into loose-fitting peasant's trousers, felt boots and a coarse cotton blouse. Both men put on hats and were given tobacco tubes such as were smoked by the Lithuanian peasantry. Walmsley had heard Captain Drinkwater mention that his capture in such clothing would guarantee his being shot as a spy and Ostroff, in a curiously unaccented English, denied it, saying the smell would drive off the most officious French officer. The grim joke shared between the two men sent a shiver of fear for his own safety up his spine. And then they had gone, leaving Walmsley hot, bored, yet strangely fearful, alone with the enigmatic Mr. Mackenzie who ignored him in his eagerness to observe the departure of the barge from the Ostkai.
Walmsley lolled back in his corner of the attic and gave his mind up to the only thing a young man of his tastes and inclination could think of in such stultifying circumstances: women. The apothecary's daughter and the pretty young women in the carriages that had accompanied them on their journey had awakened desires which had been further titillated by the occasional squeals of pleasure or protest from below. He lay imagining the activities of the young bloods on Bennigsen's staff and brooded on his own long deprivation.
At last he could tolerate inactivity no longer.
'Do you mind, sir,' he hissed at the back of Mackenzie's head, 'if I take the opportunity to empty the bucket and get a breath of air?'
Mackenzie turned from the window and wrinkled his nose at the pail they had been using as a privy. 'If you are careful, no. You may walk about a bit... seek crowds, you are safer in a crowd.' He turned again to look down into the river.
Walmsley could scarcely contain his excitement and, picking up the bucket, he unbarred the door.
Drinkwater forced himself to resist the nausea that swept over him as he tried to master the art of smoking tobacco. The nausea was replaced by an odd lightheadedness. The disgusting import brought back by Russian armies serving in the Caucasus revolted him almost as much as the filthy workman's clothing in which he was clad. He cleared his throat and spat with unfeigned gusto into the brown waters of the River Nieman. Above their heads the westward-facing glazings of the dormer window blazed with the reflected sunset, masking entirely the watching face of Mackenzie.
Edward, similarly malodorous but smoking with ease, came up to him. 'This is bloody ridiculous!' he muttered in English.
'We've no alternative,' his brother replied. Drinkwater was terrified of the need to speak, despite an hour's coaching in a few words of Lithuanian by Mackenzie. Edward, for whom languages presented little difficulty and who had learned sufficient patois from his campaigning, was to speak if speech were necessary. Drinkwater began to cast off the mooring ropes under the curious gaze of a tall Russian sentry.
As the semi-darkness of the northern twilight began to close over them, Drinkwater handed the end of the rope to his brother. He had told Edward exactly what to do: to hold on with a single turn until he gave the word. Drinkwater walked aft to where the sweeps poked their blades outboard, their looms constrained by grommets round single thole pins on either quarter. Drinkwater bent and ran the long sweeps out. It was going to be far from easy. He gritted his teeth, braced his feet and called 'Los!'
Edward cast off and pushed the stone facing of the Ostkai with a booted foot. The current began to move the barge as the bluff bow fell slowly off the quay. Drinkwater began to move the sweeps.
Edward came aft. 'Can I help?'
Drinkwater shook his head. Edward was no expert and it was only necessary to get a little headway on the barge and let the current do the rest.
'I'll get the line ready then.'
Drinkwater nodded and strained with the effort necessary to make an impression on the massive inertia of the barge. He stared down into the hold, thankful that it was empty, as he thrust at the oar looms with every sinew he possessed.
He began to get the swing of it. They were thirty yards out from the Ostkai now, but fifty downstream. He threw his weight back and dragged the blades out of the water, dipped them and fell forward, his breast against his fists, his calf muscles bulging as he heaved his body forward against the resistance. The blades drove through the water slowly and he dragged them out again to repeat the process over and over, keeping the barge pointing upstream, angled outwards slightly against the current, so that they crabbed across the river.
The sweat rolled off him and he felt his head would burst. He clenched his eyes shut to prevent the perspiration stinging them. He drew breath in great rasping gasps and the unaccustomed effort set his muscles a-quiver. He became blind to everything but the need for constant effort and it seemed that he had been doing this for ever.
Then, through eyes that he opened briefly, he glimpsed the looming gables of the houses of the Westkai. Ten long minutes later, Edward jumped ashore with the bow line. The gentle nudge with which the barge brought up against the quayside almost knocked Drinkwater off his feet as he dragged the sweeps inboard. Breathing heavily and his heart thumping painfully, he caught the stern line through a heavy ring and walked forward to see that Edward had secured the bow. In accordance with their plan, and in view of the sentries on either bank, they sat down on the hatch-coaming of the barge and broached a bottle of vodka. Both men took a small swig themselves and let some dribble down over their chins and onto their clothes. Edward lit another of the disgusting cheroots while Drinkwater sat and scratched himself. The red haze was beginning to disperse from his eyes when suddenly they focused on the French sentry who came forward to stare down at them.
Edward looked up and said something in Russian. Weakened from his strenuous exertion Drinkwater sat panting, trying to still the thundering of his pounding heart. He felt quite powerless to confront the danger they were in and left the matter to his brother. The Frenchman shrugged uncomprehendingly so Edward held out the bottle. The soldier hesitated, looked round and then grabbed it and swigged at it twice before handing it reluctantly back. Edward laughed and made a guttural comment and the two men grinned, the soldier wiping a hand across his mouth. Suddenly the sentry turned, as though hearing something, and disappeared from view. A few seconds later two French officers gazed down at them and enquired what they were doing.
Edward embarked on a pantomime of pretended explanation, gesturing first to the east bank of the Nieman and then to the west, interspersed with grunted interrogatives aimed at the two officers. At their lack of understanding he launched into a repeat of the whole thing until one of them cut him short.
'Tres bien, mon vieux, nous savons ...' He turned to his compatriot and Drinkwater heard the name General Santhonax used twice. He felt his blood run cold and prayed to heaven that it was not their intention to verify the arrival of the barge with Santhonax. Not that he thought Santhonax would recognise him, unshaven, dirty and so totally unexpected in such a place, but the very presence of the man filled him with apprehension. His heart had stilled now but the worms of anxiety were writhing in his guts.
Edward managed a loud belch and ostentatiously swigged the vodka again. Passing the bottle to Drinkwater he reached up and dragged himself up onto the quay. His sang-froid seemed to dispel any remaining suspicions the French officers might have had. They drifted away and Edward bent to give his brother a hand up.
'Phew!' Drinkwater grunted his thanks and Edward replied by giving an exaggerated and pointed belch, reminding him of the necessity of appearing tipsy. They approached the end of the quay where the small gravel slipway ran into the river. Another sentry stood on the corner of the quay.
'Qui va la?'
They both began babbling incoherently, pointing down at the slipway, and indicating their intention to sleep on the pontoon that lay there.
'Non.'
Edward uttered an obscene dismissal. The sentry, a young man, cocked his musket but Edward slapped him on the shoulder and hung upon his arm. The man shrugged him off, wrinkling his nose in disgust, and nodded them past. They slid down onto the gravel and settled themselves under the growing shadows of the raft, lolling together and allowing their heartbeats to slow.
Twice the young sentry came to look at them but they lay still, two drunks inert and indistinguishable from the surrounding gloom. The clock in the town struck eleven then midnight. There was a crunch of boots as a patrol, led by a corporal, came by to change the guards. Words were spoken as the man going off duty indicated the two pairs of felt boots that were just visible from the quay. The corporal spat, an eloquent attestation of the superiority of the French military over a pair of drunken Kurlanders, and the patrol marched on. The silence of the night settled over them, the noises of debauch muted beneath the low chuckle of the River Nieman as it made its way to the Baltic Sea.
'Let's begin,' whispered Drinkwater as soon as the sound of the marching feet had faded. Edward eased himself up and located the new guard. He was a more experienced soldier and had made himself comfortable against a bollard on the corner of the quay. A cloud of tobacco smoke was faintly illuminated from the red glow of his pipe bowl. Edward leaned down and tapped the all clear on Drinkwater's shoulder, remaining on the look-out while his brother crawled under the pontoon to begin work.
The flying bridge, or pont volant, was built on a heavy timber frame. The main members of the sides ran the length of the craft. These were crossed by beams on which the rough planking of the decking was laid. Such a craft would have floated very low without proper buoyancy and this was provided by two large box-like floats to which the main members were fastened. Watching the preparations from the attic window Drinkwater had observed some attention being paid to one section of these flotation chambers and had suspected one of them was giving cause for concern. Almost immediately he found fact and conjecture had spliced themselves neatly. Beneath the pontoon the new planks were identifiable by their slightly lighter colour and the rich smell of resin from them. The raw wood was unpayed and Drinkwater investigated further. His heart leapt for he was in luck.
Reaching down to his waistband he drew out the farrier's axe. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness and he worked the spike of the axe under the end of the upper plank and began to lever it off. The rot that had necessitated the renewal of the planks had already spread into the frame so the nails drew quite easily. He got the top plank off and then he dragged himself through the gap and slumped inside. The raw pine resin could not disguise the stench of the rotten wood and stagnant water which seeped into his clothes and felt cold against his sweating skin. Twisting round, he felt about in the roof of the chamber for any opening which would allow a man to receive sufficient air to breathe and, most important, to hear. He discovered a split between two planks and enlarged it with the axe. Rubbing his hand in the foul slime of the bottom, he smeared it over the raw wood to hide his work from a casual glance. When he had finished, he drew himself out of the chamber. Even beneath the pontoon the night air smelt sweet. He lay on the damp gravel, panting heavily; the clock in the town struck two.
Dragging himself along he pulled himself out from beneath the pontoon close to his brother. Edward was shivering from the chill. 'Well?' he hissed.
'Get under when you can. It's all ready.'
Edward cast a look round and Drinkwater sensed his reluctance, but the hesitation was only momentary. The two brothers crawled below the pontoon and Drinkwater tugged Edward until he was aware of the opening. He put his mouth close to Edward's ear. 'You won't drown, even if it fills partially with water. I have cut holes in the top, you should have no trouble breathing or hearing.'
Drinkwater patted Edward's shoulder and drew back. He felt Edward shudder and then begin to work his way through the narrow gap, which gave him more trouble than his slimmer brother. A hiss of disgust told that Edward had discovered the stink and damp of his prison.
'Christ, this is madness. Why did I let you talk me into it?' 'You can get out by kicking away the ends of the planks.' 'Leave me the axe.'
'I need it for hammering home the nails.' Drinkwater paused. Edward's face was a pale, ghostly oval in the Stygian darkness. 'Do you have your bottle?'
'Of course I bloody well do.'
'Good luck.' Drinkwater moved to put the first board into place, fishing in his pocket for the stock of nails provided by Mackenzie. Holding the head of the axe he had Edward grip the bottom plank, found the nail hole with some difficulty, inserted a nail and pushed it with the end of the axe. He felt the nail drive part way into the rotten framework. Then he drew back his right hand and smacked it hard with the open palm of his left. After repeating this process a few times he felt the nail drive home. He managed the next nail at the other end of the plank in a similar fashion, but the third proved less easy. He knew he would have to give several hard bangs with the whole axe haft. He rolled quickly across and peered from under the pontoon. There was no sign of the sentry.
With feverish impatience he returned to the hole and, holding his breath, gave a few quick, sharp taps with the axe. In seconds the plank was secure. Edward's face peered from the narrowed gap as Drinkwater returned from a second look for the sentry. There was still no sign of the man. He must have strolled off to the far end of his beat. Drinkwater lifted the second plank. Edward resisted it being put into place.
'Nat.'
'What is it?' Drinkwater asked in a desperate whisper.
'Will you get me out of here if I cannot make it myself?'
Drinkwater remembered a small boy who was afraid of the dark and the shadows in the corner of the farmhouse bedroom. 'You'll have no trouble, I promise you.' He hissed reassuringly. 'Brace your back and simply kick outwards with your heels.'
'But promise.'
'For God's sake, Ned, of course ...' 'Your word of honour.'
'My word of honour.' He pushed the plank and Edward vanished behind the faint grey of the new wood. As he tried to locate a nail, his hands shaking with the tension, the plank was pushed towards him. He choked down an oath with difficulty. 'What?'
'We may never meet again.'
'Don't be foolish. We shall meet when you get out, at the Jew's house tomorrow.'
'But it will not be the same.' 'For God's sake ...'
'I must tell you something. I want you to know I repent of the murder ... not the man, but I loved the girl...'
Drinkwater expelled pent-up breath. 'I am sorry, Ned ... Now for God's sake let me finish.'
'And I know I owe my life to you.'
'No matter now.'
'But all debts will be paid when this thing is done, eh?' Edward's voice was barely a whisper now, but Drinkwater was beside himself with anxiety. Once again he bore the burden of an elder brother. He comforted Edward's fear of a greater darkness.
'All paid, Ned, all paid.'
To Drinkwater's infinite relief Edward withdrew and Nathaniel began to fasten the last plank. It was the upper one and the nails went home with difficulty. In the end he was forced to bang hard, several times. The noise seemed deafening and as he drew back he heard the scrape of boots on gravel as a man jumped down onto the hard from the quay. He uttered a silent prayer that Edward would not react and rolled away from the buoyancy chamber, retreating further into the blackness beneath the raft.
As he lay inert, his eyes closed, trying to still his breathing, he could hear the sentry move round the pontoon, the crunch of his boots close beside him on the wet gravel. Beyond the shadow of the raft Drinkwater was aware of the first flush of dawn, a pale lightening of the river's surface. He could hear the man muttering and knew that he would be looking for the two drunken Kurlanders. For a second Drinkwater hesitated. Then, knowing he must leave Edward in no doubt of his successful escape, he acted.
Rolling from under the raft he found himself suddenly at the feet of the sentry.
'Qui va la?' snapped the astonished man unslinging his musket.
With one eye on the lowering bayonet Drinkwater grunted and rose on one knee. Tucking in the filthy breast of his blouse he gripped the boarding axe more firmly and staggered to his feet. If he allowed himself to be kept at bayonet point he was lost. The sentry growled at him.
Sucking in his breath he tore the axe from his breast and then, expelling air for all he was worth, he swung his arm with savage ferocity, twisting his body at the same time. With such sudden impetus the axe whirled and struck deep into the skull of the French soldier. With a dull thud the man fell, stone dead.
Drinkwater paused for an instant to catch his breath again, then he rounded on the raft and pressed close to the timber side of the float.
'Can you hear me?' he hissed. 'Yes,' he heard Edward's low reply. 'You're quite safe. I'm going now.'
Edward tapped twice and Drinkwater turned back to the gravel slipway and the dead sentry that lay beside the lapping water of the river. Slinging the musket he grabbed the man's heels and dragged him quickly into the water beneath the overhang of the quay. After the gloom beneath the raft it seemed quite light, but the dawn was delayed by rolling banks of heavy clouds and no cries of alarm greeted his panting efforts. He let the man's feet go and pushed the body out into the river. Unslinging the musket he let it fall to the muddy bottom of the Nieman. In the town the clock struck a half hour as he lowered himself into the water. He paddled out into the stream, nudging the body of his victim until he felt the current take it, then let it go. The water bore the thing away from him and he rolled on his back and peered back at the Westkai. He could see a party of sentries marching with a corporal, bringing the relief guard: he had left not a moment too soon. He began to swim with more vigour, the freedom of the river almost sensual after the strain and activity of the night. A light rain began to fall. Drinkwater rolled onto his back and let the gentle drops wash over his face.
By the time he floundered ashore on the opposite bank the rain had become a steady downpour.
Drinkwater found himself in shallow water a mile below the town where the Nieman's banks were reeded. Lush green water-meadows lay beyond, rising slowly to low hills clear in the grey light. A windmill surmounted one of these and he remembered passing it as they had approached Tilsit. He lay for some time, gathering his strength and no longer sustained by the vodka. The rain had drawn a heavy veil of cloud across the sky and a smoking mist hung over the river. He had come a long way downstream, to be met by a herd of piebald cows whose steaming muzzles were turned suspiciously towards him. He would have to make for the road and knew that the next hour was, for him, the most dangerous. He had been unable to think out any strategy for his journey back, hoping that he would land in darkness only a short distance below the Ostkai.
'You are grown too old for this lunatic game,' he muttered wearily to himself and rose to his feet. Squelching through the reeds he reached a place where the river bank was trodden down by countless cattle hooves. The raindrops plopped heavily into each tiny lake and the mud dragged at his feet. He struggled through cow-pats and sodden grass, making towards the windmill and the road. He was within a few yards of the mill when the bugle sounded reveille. With a sudden panic he realised the place was a billet and full of soldiers. He fell back towards a ditch on his left. Then he saw the boat.
With ineffable relief he turned to it. It was a crude, flat-bottomed punt, meant only for river work, but it had a pair of oars across the thwarts and offered Drinkwater the only satisfactory means of reentering Tilsit. He was dressed as a lighter-man and here was a boat, presumably belonging to the mill, and a downpour to explain his soaking condition. With renewed heart he clambered aboard and untied the frayed painter from a rotten stake. He got out the oars and worked the boat out of the dyke. Ashore he could hear shouts as men assembled for morning roll-call. He entered the main river, the rain hissing down, the smooth grey water an infinity of concentric circular ripples. Keeping close to the bank he found the counter-current and pulled easily upstream. Despite his lack of sleep he found his lassitude evaporate; the demands of pulling the boat sent new life into his chilling limbs and the rain seemed warm upon his tired muscles.
Edward Drinkwater lay on his back in the solitary darkness and fought successive waves of panic that swept over him, manifesting themselves in reflexive spasms of nausea. Despite the pale sliver of sky that showed through the slits his brother had opened in the float, the surrounding darkness had a threatening quality, a sentient hostility that caused him to imagine it was contracting upon him. So strong was this awful sensation that twice he found himself stuffing a fist into his mouth to prevent himself from screaming, while a cold sweat broke out all over his body. But these periods of terrifying panic waned and were replaced by a slow acceptance of his situation which was aided by the bottle of vodka. After an hour or two he floated in a kind of limbo: the stinking bilge-water and the damp clothes that wrapped him seemed bearable.
He was jerked from his reverie by the noise of approaching feet scrunching the gravel and his heartbeats thundered in the clammy darkness as men resumed work on the raft. The hammering and sawing went on for what seemed hours, resonating throughout the float so that his former silence seemed heavenly by comparison. He lay on his back, twisting about from time to time to keep his circulation going, watching the narrow strip of sky periodically obscured by the boot-soles of the French soldiers and diverting himself by practising eavesdropping on their conversation. Sometime later he smelt a curious smell and recognised it as it grew stronger for the odour of Stockholm tar. He knew then that it was almost time for the pontoon to be dragged down the slipway and into the river.
'They are heating tar.' observed Lord Walmsley, taking his eye from Drinkwater's telescope and turning towards Mackenzie lying on the truckle bed. 'D'you think the Captain and Ostroff are all right?'
'Uh?' Mackenzie rubbed the sleep from his eyes and rolled off the bed to join Walmsley at the window. 'I hope by now Ostroff is — what d'you sailors say? — battened down in that pont volant and the Captain already in the stable below. What o'clock is it?'
'Seven has struck, and the half hour. D'you want me to look in the stable?'
'Yes, take my cloak. Bennigsen's lot sleep late; they gave a dinner last night for some French officers. Just act boldly, there are too many comings and goings for anyone to take any notice, and the sentries are too ignorant to stop anyone with an air of authority' Mackenzie gave a short, contemptuous laugh. 'Good men in a fight but deprived of any initiative ... the Jew will notice you ... take a rouble from the gold on the bed and slip it to the burgher if you see him.' Mackenzie's voice became weary, as though the corruptibility of men bored him. Behind him the doorlatch clicked and the stairs creaked as Walmsley descended to the stables. Mackenzie focused his attention on the distant pontoon. The final touches were being put to the decorations, a wooden monogram placed over each of two draped entrances. He saw two men, wearing the regulation aprons of pioneers, emerge from under the pontoon with a steaming pot of pitch. The men worked doggedly but without enthusiasm as the rain continued to fall. He shifted his glass to the barge that the two brothers had moved across the river the evening before. Already a group of labourers had brought piles of sawn deals from an adjacent warehouse where they had been awaiting shipment, and were laying them across the lighter's open hatch to make a platform. Mackenzie took the glass from his eye and rubbed it, yawning. A movement on the extreme right of his field of vision caught his eye. A man was rowing upstream in a small boat. He would soon become involved with three other boats, anchored to moorings which they had been laying in midstream. There was more movement too, on the Westkai. They were changing the guard opposite. The sentries from a line regiment were being replaced by the tall bearskins and red plumes of the French Imperial Guard.
'Grand tenue, by Jupiter,' he muttered sardonically to himself. 'Pity about the rain.'
He peered cautiously below him where, on the Ostkai, a similar ritual was in progress. Instead of bearskins the Russian Guard wore great brass-fronted mitre-caps that had gone out of vogue in every other European army a generation earlier.
'Touché,' chuckled Mackenzie, almost enjoying himself, as the brilliance of the preparations was muted by the heavy downpour. The man in the small boat had pulled alongside and was making his painter fast.
Lord Walmsley could find no sign of Captain Drinkwater in the stable, but he found something else, something he had failed to find in his walk of the previous night. The naked leg of a girl hung from the hayloft. Walmsley felt a stab of lust and cautiously peered through the gap in the stable doors. Several orderlies lounged under the overhanging roof of a balcony on the opposite side of the courtyard. They were smoking and drinking tea, and clearly unwilling to rush into the business of grooming officers' chargers while their owners slept off the excesses of the night. The stable was heavy with the smell of horses, dung and hay. The magnificent animals reminded him of his father's stables, and the naked ankle of a girl he had once laid in the straw there.
There was a ladder close to the bare foot and he climbed it, taking care not to wake its owner. The horses stamped and pawed the ground and whickered softly to each other, but he ignored them and climbed up to the sleeping girl. She was a maid in the Jew's service and lay prettily asleep, her red mouth half-smiling and her dreams full of the love-making of the Prince who had had her the night before. She had escaped when his drunkenness became violent, and found her refuge in the hayloft. Walmsley was aroused by the sight and scent of her. He slid a hand over her leg. She turned languidly, her body responding, and opened her eyes. Walmsley smothered her surprise with his kisses, his urgency meeting her own awakened lust half-way, and with the intemperate passion of their youth they were swiftly entwined in each other's arms.
Drinkwater flicked the painter through the ring set in the face of the quay, shipped his oars and steadied the boat at the foot of the steps. It was too late to turn back. The military activity on the Ostkai would have to be brazened out. He climbed the steps and found himself face to face with a giant of a man in a huge brass-fronted hat. The man stood immobile in the continuing rain and, without the slightest hindrance, Drinkwater shuffled past him. No one took the slightest notice of so disreputable and so familiar a sight as a dirty, stinking peasant. Even the orderlies smoking in the yard of the merchant's house ignored him. He was able to slip into the stable as arranged. From here Mackenzie was to arrange his return to the attic when the coast was clear.
He found Midshipman Lord Walmsley standing at the top of a ladder, buttoning his breeches. Wisps of straw clung to his clothing and beside him the face of a girl appeared. He caught the gleam of gold tossed to her, saw her bite it and lie back giggling. Neither of the lovers had seen the sodden beggar at the doorway. Then Walmsley turned and spotted Drinkwater, who scowled at the midshipman and, catching sight of Mackenzie's cloak that Walmsley had carelessly draped over one of the stalls, pulled it round himself. Walmsley joined him in silent embarrassment and led him into the house.
Mackenzie turned as they regained the attic. 'Ah, he found you all right. Good. Welcome back. Did everything pass as planned?'
'Well enough,' said Drinkwater shortly. He rounded angrily on the midshipman. 'What the hell are you playing at, you fool? Was that English gold you gave that trollop?' he asked savagely. 'If it was you'll likely have us all damned for your stupidity.'
'You gave that gold piece away? To a girl, or the Jew?' Mackenzie asked curtly.
Walmsley went pale under the inquisition of the two men.
'He gave it to a whore!'
'Who was she? That trull that skivvies for the Jew?' Walmsley nodded.
Mackenzie chuckled. 'Calm yourself, Captain. It was Russian gold and I expect the trull has given him something for small change. It is of no account, she has been laid by most of Bennigsen's killbucks and I doubt she can tell the difference between an Englishman and a Russian in the throes of love!' Mackenzie dismissed the matter.
Drinkwater was dropping with fatigue. He sank on the low bed and, within moments, was asleep.
It was past noon when Mackenzie shook him awake. 'You should come and look. Great events are in progress. There is some bread and sausage ...'
Drinkwater rose with a cracking of strained muscles. His shoulder ached with a dull, insistent pain, but he stripped the filthy rags from his body and drew on his own breeches and shirt, joining Mackenzie at the window.
'You smell better in your own clothes,' observed Mackenzie, making way in the open casement. There was no need for concealment now for nearly every window was occupied by a curious public. Both quays were lined by the massed ranks of the Imperial Guards of both Emperors, row upon row of splendid men in the impressive regalia of full-dress, their officers at their posts. A handful of staff-officers, more youthful than useful, dashed up and down on curvetting horses, their hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones. The heavy rain of the morning had stopped and a watery sun peeped occasionally through gaps in the clouds, lighting up bright patches of red roof tiles, the green leaves of trees and the gaudy splendours of military pomp.
But it was the river that was the cynosure for all eyes. A musket-shot from the watchers in the attic, roughly level with the slipway from which it had been dragged that morning and moored in the centre of the Nieman, the flying bridge lay at anchor. It was festooned with a profusion of drapery, red and blue and green, laced with gold tasselling, and on the side facing them the drapes had been looped back to form an entrance surmounted by the initial letter 'A'. Twenty yards downstream lay the less gaily appointed barge.
'Impressive, eh?' Mackenzie was grinning like a schoolboy on holiday and both knew a sense of triumph at their success. Two boats had now arrived, one on each side of the river waiting at the steps there. On the far quay a cavalcade of horsemen had appeared, riding through the ranks of soldiers. On a white horse sat the unmistakable figure of Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, wearing the green and white of the Horse Chasseurs of the Guard. He was followed by a glittering bevy of marshals, one of whom ostentatiously caracoled his horse.
'That vainglorious fellow is Murat,' whispered Mackenzie.
They watched Napoleon dismount and walk to the steps. In the boat below him an officer stood and Drinkwater drew in his breath, for it was Santhonax. He pointed him out to Mackenzie and they watched the emperor and some of his entourage embark. People on either bank were cheering. A minute later and the French marines were plying their oars as the boat swung out for the caparisoned raft. The distant batteries began the ritual discharge of the imperial salutes.
Mackenzie pointed downwards and they craned their necks. Almost exactly below them a similar scene was being enacted and another boat was pulling out from the Ostkai. Sitting in the stern were several officers of exalted rank.
'Ouvaroff and Count Lieven have their backs to us,' explained Mackenzie in a low voice, 'the gentleman with the unpleasant countenance is the Grand Duke Constantine, next to him is Bennigsen ...' Drinkwater looked at the snub-nosed, stubborn features of the Hanoverian. He was answering a query from a fifth man, a tall, erect, red-haired officer in an immaculate, high-collared tunic.
'The Tsar.'
Drinkwater stared at the profile of the man who was said to be composed of a confusion of liberal ideals and autocratic inclinations. Surrounded by the pomp of the occasion it was difficult to imagine that the handsome head knew anything but the certainty of its own will. A reputation for erratic decisions or total apathy seemed undeserved. The bizarre sight of the Tsar chatting to a man who had engineered the death of his own father, whom he had the day before humiliated in public and who, Mackenzie thought with his amazing prescience, might turn his coat in the next hour or two, reminded Drinkwater that he was in Kurland, a remote corner of a remote empire whose alliance with his own country was in jeopardy.
Beside him Mackenzie's mood ran in a lighter vein. 'Trust Boney to work for a meeting on equal footing and then upstage Alexander.'
The French boat arrived at the raft first. It pulled away to disembark the French staff on the barge, downstream. As the Russian boat arrived alongside the raft and Alexander stood to disembark, Napoleon appeared in the entrance on the Russian side, his hand outstretched. A great cheer went up from the massed soldiery on either bank. As the Russian boat dropped downstream, Napoleon let the curtains of the pavilion down with his own hands.
As if at a signal of the combined imperial wills, the concussions of the salutes faded into echoes and from a lowering sky the rain again began to fall.
In total secrecy, two men decided the fate of Europe.
Edward Drinkwater found the water rose no more than four inches about him once the pontoon had been launched. He found his situation uncomfortable but was less anxious once he felt the raft moored. He had suffered a brief, heart-thumping fear as the water rose about him, but his brother had been right, though to what properties of hydrostatics it was due, Edward was quite ignorant. The clumsy vessel found a sort of equilibrium, presumably supported by the other chambers, or perhaps due to its attitude to the stream of the river, once it had been moored. At all events the inrush of water soon ceased and he lay awash, awake and alert.
He heard the cannon and the cheers and the bumps of the boats. A few indistinct words of French, a rapid series of footsteps overhead, and then a voice asked: 'Why are we at war?'
It was quite distinct and clear, even above the rush and chuckle of the water to which his ears had become attuned, a question posed with some asperity and emotion. The reply was equally charged and candid: 'I hate the English as much as you do!' Edward recognised the Tsar's voice.
There was the small sharp slap of clapped hands and a brief barked laugh. 'In that case, my dear friend, peace is made!'
Lord Walmsley was denied much of a view of this historic event by Drinkwater and Mackenzie. The delights of the morning, despite the embarrassment of their conclusion, had not satisfied his desire. Mackenzie's gold still lay on the bed where it had been taken from the butt of one of his pistols. The girl might be a whore, as Captain Drinkwater and the mysterious Mr. Mackenzie had alleged, but the captain was prone to a certain puritan narrowness. Walmsley had lain with whores before and he had been far too long without a woman. It was true he owed Captain Drinkwater a great deal, but not his moral welfare; that was his own business. Besides the girl had been good. Walmsley sat on the bed and supposed it had been hers before Mackenzie had seduced her Jewish master with his limitless gold. Desire pricked him again and he knew he would not be missed for a while. As the bellowing of the Guards again broke out, Walmsley slipped from the attic unnoticed. On the raft, the two Emperors had reappeared, smiling publicly. Renewed cheering greeted this concord and echoed through the streets of Tilsit.
General Santhonax dismounted from his horse and threw the reins to an orderly. It was already evening and the volleys from the two armies which signalled a general rejoicing had at last died away. He was tired, having been up since just after dawn, when the report of the missing sentry had been brought to him. It was the fourth such desertion of the night and with the armistice declared he was not surprised. He greeted a fellow officer with a tired smile.
'Ah, Lariboissiere, His Imperial Majesty requires you to start immediately to throw a pontoon bridge across the river. He is desirous of impressing our late enemies with the superiority of our engineering. You may withdraw the rafts when you have finished.'
'Merde!' Lariboissiere and his men were tired out, but an order was an order. 'Was His Imperial Majesty satisfied with today's arrangements, General Santhonax?'
Santhonax remounted and settled himself in the saddle. 'Perfectly, my friend,' he said urbanely, tugging his charger's head round. 'It went better than I anticipated.'
Edward had had enough. His head still buzzed with the news he had gleaned and he was eager to escape confinement. He had heard the town clock strike six and could wait no longer. Twisting round he got his shoulders against the plank-ends that Drinkwater had nailed down and pushed hard. He felt something give, and kicked. The plank-end sprang and light entered the chamber. He forced the other end free. The plank dropped into the water and he repeated the performance with the next. More water began to lap into the chamber. He took a deep breath and forced his body through the gap, rolled into the water and submerged. When he came up he was clear of the raft. Over his head arched the blue of the evening sky. He felt a supreme elation fill him and kicked luxuriously downstream.
General Santhonax pulled up his horse at the end of the Westkai and stared down at the slip where the pont volant had spent the previous night. The trampled gravel was covered with sawdust, wood offcuts and a few pieces of cloth where the drapery had been trimmed. One of the men had left a tool behind. The polished steel gleamed dully in the muck where it lay half-buried by a careless foot. It looked like a cavalry farrier's axe.
The professional curiosity of a former secret agent made Santhonax dismount and jump down onto the hard. He pulled the axe out of the mire and looked at its head. A feeling of disquieting curiosity filled him. He returned to his horse, tapping the grubby object thoughtfully with one gloved hand. Lithuanian workmen had been employed in raising the pavilion, but they had been civilians. What then was a Russian farrier's axe doing there? He looked down again. The thing had stained his white gloves with mud. But there was something else too: the spike on the vicious weapon was sticky with blood and hair.
A sudden alarm gripped General Santhonax. He recalled the post of one of the missing sentries and his eyes flew to the gaudy and deserted raft in midstream. A sudden flash came from just below the raft, a plank upflung and yellow with new wood reflected the low evening sunlight that had replaced the day's rain. And was that a head that bobbed and was gone behind the barge? He kicked his horse into motion, leaving the quay and riding along the raised bank that was topped by a narrow path. He fished in one holster for his glass.
Then he was sure. Downstream on the far bank he saw a man crawl out of the river. His blood ran cold. That man had to die, die secretly without the Emperor ever knowing that Santhonax had failed in his duty.
Tilsit was en fete, celebrating the peace. Candles lit every window again, the streets were thronged and cheers greeted every person of consequence who appeared. The Tsar was wildly applauded as he prepared to cross the river and dine with Napoleon. Edward made his way through the crowd to the rear of the Jew's house unnoticed, for it was abandoned by Bennigsen and his suite, and the orderlies had taken themselves off to celebrate in their own manner, leaving only the sentries at the main entrance. Edward reached the attic and was helped out of his stinking rags while both Mackenzie and Drinkwater waited eagerly for his report. In the excitement no one was concerned by Walmsley's absence.
'Well,' said Mackenzie as Edward devoured a sausage and a quantity of vodka, 'our luck cannot last for ever, we are in hostile territory now by all accounts.'
'You are indeed,' said Edward swallowing the vodka, standing naked in a tin bath. 'But another thousand ...'
'Damn you, Ned!'
'Five hundred,' said Mackenzie coolly, picking up the pistol from the bed, 'and not a penny more.' Mackenzie brought the pistol barrel up and pointed it at Edward's groin.
Edward realised he had chosen a bad moment to bargain; a man rarely impresses when naked. 'Very well, gentlemen,' he said grinning sheepishly and attempting to pass off the matter lightly.
'The truth, mind,' warned Mackenzie, the pistol unwavering.
'Yes, yes, of course,' agreed Edward testily, reaching for his breeches as if insulted that he was suspected of real perfidy.
'Well?'
'There are to be long negotiations, but Napoleon is a master of deceit; he played Alexander like a woman. I have never heard flattery like it. He sold his ally Turkey to the Tsar, promised him a free hand against the Porte, guaranteed him the same in Swedish Finland, told him that he was a true child of the liberating ideals of the French Revolution and that the two of them would release the new renaissance of a resuscitated Europe! I could scarcely believe my ears. Why such a tirade of flattery and promises should be made in such secrecy is for you to judge.'
'One always seduces in private,' observed Mackenzie, ironically, "but go on. What of Great Britain?'
'That came last, though I distinctly heard Alexander declare his hatred of the English at the start, but he was much less easy to hear...'
'Go on, we have little time...'
'Britain is to be excluded from all trade with Europe or Russia. The Tsar agrees to chastise anyone who trades with a nation so perfidious as yours.' Edward paused, his choice of words significant. 'Your navy is to be destroyed by sheer weight of numbers. Napoleon said your navy is exhausted, your sources of manpower drying up, and that you cannot maintain a blockade for ever. He told the Tsar, who made some remark at this point, that your victory at Trafalgar was a narrow one and that this is proved by the death of Lord Nelson. He claimed the tide would have gone the other way but for the Spaniards deserting the French. Had the French had the Russian fleet with them that day the trident of Neptune would have been wrested from Britannia and with it the sceptre of the world!'
'What eloquence,' remarked Mackenzie.
'So the Russian fleet is to break out of the Baltic, eh?' asked Drinkwater.
'Yes. The Baltic is to be a mare clausum to Britain, supine under Russian domination, and to outnumber you the Portuguese fleet is to be seized at Lisbon and the Danish to be commandeered at Copenhagen.'
'God's bones!' exclaimed Drinkwater, his mind whirling with the news. With France and Russia allies, Napoleon's power in Europe would be absolute. The Russians would be free to expand into Turkey, the French to mass their great armies on the Channel shore once more for a final descent upon England. Napoleon would be able to summon the combined navies of every European power to add to his own. There were ships of the line building at Toulon, at Brest, at Antwerp; the Portuguese navy and the Danish navy would add a powerful reinforcement to the Russian squadrons already at sea, cruising as allies of Great Britain. Against such a force even the battle-hardened Royal Navy would find itself outgunned by sheer weight of metal! And, as Drinkwater well knew, the Royal Navy, that reassuring bulwark of the realm, was wearing out. Its seamen were sick of endless blockade, its officers dispirited by stalemate, its admirals worn with cares and its ships with sea-keeping. Such an outcome negated Drinkwater's whole life and he was filled with a sudden urgency to be off, to leave this stifling attic and regain the fresh air of his quarterdeck and a quick passage home with this vital intelligence.
'You have done well,' Mackenzie was saying, spilling into his palm a shower of gold. He held it out to Edward who was now fully dressed. 'Here, this is on account, the rest within the month in the usual way.'
Edward pocketed the cash. He was again the Russian officer, Ostroff. He held out his hand to Drinkwater. 'The parting of the ways, then, Nat?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Yes ... it would seem so.'
'I have discharged all my obligations today.'
'With interest,' said Mackenzie drily as the two brothers shook hands.
'Where's Walmsley?' Drinkwater asked suddenly as their minds turned towards departure. The three men exchanged glances.
'He can't be far away,' said Mackenzie. 'It isn't the first time he's wandered off.'
'No, but it will be the last,' snapped Drinkwater anxiously.
'He's gone a-whoring,' said Edward as he bent to pick up his gear. Mackenzie slung his saddle-bags over his shoulder and Drinkwater put a pistol in his waistband.
'We cannot wait,' said Mackenzie, looking at Drinkwater. 'Perhaps he's down below.' Mackenzie unbarred the door and led them out down the steep and narrow stairs.
The only person they met in their descent through the eerie silence of the house was the Jew, who was on an upper landing. Mackenzie passed more money to him and the three men walked into the courtyard, shadowed by the late afternoon sunlight.
'I have a horse quartered here,' said Edward, turning aside.
'Where do you go now?' asked Drinkwater.
'To Vorontzoff,' Edward replied, entering the stable. Drinkwater followed to see if Walmsley was repeating his performance of that morning: a brief look showed the hayloft empty.
'Come on ...' said Mackenzie.
Drinkwater hesitated. ‘I must have a look for Walmsley.' Mackenzie swore and, for the first time since they had met, Drinkwater saw irresolution in his face. 'Damn it then, a quick look, but hurry!'
General Santhonax had searched the warehouses of the lower town as unobtrusively as possible. The thought that a soaking man could not vanish without accomplices beat in his brain. He reached the Ostkai with its tall houses where the previous evening he had selected the barge. Lariboissiere's men, with whose help he had crossed the river, were already stretching the first cable of the bridge Napoleon had ordered thrown over the Nieman. Angrily he turned away. Perhaps the inns round the town square might have offered concealment.
Lord Walmsley smiled down at the girl. The bed of the Russian prince was rumpled by the wanton violence of their combined lust, but Walmsley knew he had to leave, to see if the strange, English-speaking Russian officer, Ostroff, had returned to the attic. He emerged onto the landing, hearing a noise on the stairs. Below him someone went out into the courtyard. From a window he could just see down into the deepening shadows of the yard. Captain Drinkwater was there and he was joined by Ostroff, leading a grey horse out of the stable. At the same time Mackenzie appeared, shaking his head. It was obvious that departure was imminent. Behind Walmsley the girl appeared and wound her arms around him.
Below in the courtyard the three men were holding a hurried conference.
'Nothing. It means we'll have to search the place thoroughly.'
'He may have wandered off anywhere,' said Mackenzie. 'I let him go for a while yesterday ...'
'You'd best forget him,' said Edward, putting one foot in the stirrup. 'I will keep an eye out for him and spirit him away if I can.'
'And if you can't?' asked Drinkwater, at once furious with the midshipman for his desertion and in a quandary as to what to do.
'Come, this is no time to delay, we must make the best of our separate ways now,' Mackenzie said, taking Drinkwater's elbow. 'Come on, it is only a short walk to Gower's chaise and we have little to fear. It will not be very surprising if a Scottish merchant and an English shipmaster evacuate Tilsit in the wake of the day's events.'
Edward looked down from his horse. 'Goodbye, Nat, and good luck. Forget your young friend, I'll do what I can.'
'Very well, and thank you. Good fortune.'
The two men smiled and Edward dug his heels into the flanks of the grey and clattered out of the yard. At the arched entrance his horse shied, skittering sideways as a tall military officer almost collided with them. Edward kicked his mount forward.
As the big grey horse trotted away Santhonax looked under the arch. He saw two men walking towards him carrying bags over their shoulders; they had the appearance of travellers on the point of departure, yet he could see no reason for men to leave a town that was so full of wild celebration. With sudden caution he drew his pistol as they entered the covered passage and moved towards him.
Drinkwater saw the man under the arch and caught the movement of the drawn pistol.
'Look,' he hissed, sensing danger at the same moment as Mackenzie.
Drinkwater's hand went to his own pistol, Mackenzie strode forward.
'Bonsoir, M’sieur,' he said. In the gloom the man turned and Drinkwater recognised Santhonax. Without a moment's thought he swung his heavy pistol butt: the steel heel of the weapon caught Santhonax on the jaw and he crashed against the wall. Drinkwater hit him a second time. Santhonax sprawled full length, unconscious.
'It's Santhonax,' hissed Drinkwater as both men stared down at the French general, their thoughts racing. 'Do you think he was looking for us?'
'God knows!'
'Do we kill him?'
'No, that might raise a hue and cry. Take his watch, make it look like a theft.' Mackenzie bent over the inert body and wrenched at Santhonax's waist. He straightened up and handed a heavy gold watch to Drinkwater. 'Here ...' Mackenzie rifled Santhonax's pockets and then turned back the way they had come. 'Leave him. To hell with the chaise. I smell trouble. For all I know he's already discovered Walmsley... there is not a moment to lose.'
Drinkwater ran back, following Mackenzie into the stable. In a lather of inexpert haste Drinkwater tried to get a horse saddled in imitation of Mackenzie. The other came over and finished the job for him. They drew the horses out of the stable and mounted them. Drinkwater hoisted himself gingerly into the saddle.
'Are you all right?' hissed Mackenzie.
'I think so ...' Drinkwater replied uncertainly as the horse moved beneath him, sensing his nervousness.
'Listen! If we are pursued, get to Memel and your ship! Go direct to London. Ostroff and I will take care of Walmsley ... Come, let's go!'
They rode across the yard and through the archway. Behind them General Santhonax stirred and groaned. Santhonax got slowly to his feet, clawing himself upright by the wall. His head throbbed painfully and his jaw was severely contused. He staggered forward and the courtyard swam into his vision. He looked dazedly about him. A young man was staring at him and then seemed to vanish. Santhonax frowned: the young man had been wearing something very like a seaman's coat.
His head cleared and then it came back to him. The two men, the sudden guilty hesitation and the deceptive confrontation by one of them while the other struck him with a clubbed pistol. The apparition of the youth and the smell of a stable full of horses spurred him to sudden activity. He crossed the yard and met Walmsley at the stable door.
'What's happening?' asked Walmsley in English, mistaking his man in the gloom. Santhonax smiled savagely.
'Nothing,' he replied reassuringly, his own command of English accent-free.
'Is that you, Ostroff?'
'Yes,' lied Santhonax, silhouetted against the last of the daylight.
'Have they gone then?' Santhonax heard alarm awaken in the question. 'Are they getting the chaise?' Guilt had robbed Walmsley of his wits.
'Yes ...' Santhonax pushed Walmsley backwards and followed him into the stable.
'Why, you're not Ostroff! That's a French uniform!'
'Oui, M’sieur, and who are you?' Walmsley felt the cold touch of a pistol muzzle at his chin. 'Come, quickly, or I'll kill you!'
Walmsley was trembling with fear. 'M ... midshipman, British navy!'
With this information Santhonax realised the extent of his own failure to keep the Emperor's secret.
'You are not wearing the uniform of a British midshipman, boy! Where are your white collar-patches? What the hell are you doing here?'
'I was acting under orders ... attending my captain ...' 'What captain? Where is your ship?'
Walmsley swallowed. 'I surrender my person... as a prisoner of war...'
'Answer, boy!' The pistol muzzle poked up harder under Walmsley's trembling chin. 'My frigate is off Memel.'
'And the captain?' asked Santhonax, lowering his pistol and casting an eye for a suitable horse. Walmsley sensed reprieve.
'Captain Drinkwater, of the Antigone, sir,' he said in a relieved tone.
Santhonax swung his face back to his prisoner and let out a low oath. 'You are a spy, boy ...'
Walmsley tried to twist away as Santhonax brought up the pistol and squeezed the trigger. The ball shattered the midshipman's skull and he fell amid the straw and horse dung.
Among the rearing and frightened animals Santhonax grabbed Walmsley's saddled horse and led it through the doorway, then mounted and dug his spurs into the animal's sides. The terrified horse lunged forward and Santhonax tugged its head in the direction of the road to Memel.