'It is their intention to employ the navies of Denmark and Portugal against this country.'
The two Emperors sat at the head of an array of tables that glittered with silver and crystal. The assembled company was peacock-gaudy with the military of three nations. The sober Prussians, humiliated by the indifference of Napoleon and the implied slight to their beautiful queen, were dour and miserable, while Russians and French sought to outdo one another in the lavishness of their uniforms and the extravagance of their toasts.
General Bennigsen, still smarting from the Tsar's rebuke, sat next to the King of Prussia whose exclusion from the secret talks had stung him to the quick. His lovely Queen displayed a forced vivacity to the two Emperors, who sat like demi-gods.
'She is,' Napoleon confided slyly to the Tsar, 'the finest woman in the whole of Prussia, is she not?'
Alexander, beguiled and charmed by his former enemy, delighted at the outcome of the discussions which gave him a free hand in Finland and Turkey, agreed. The man he had until today regarded as a parvenu now fascinated him. Napoleon had shown Alexander a breadth of vision equalling his own, a mind capable of embracing the most liberal and enlightened principles, yet knowing the value of compulsion in forcing those measures upon the dark, half-witted intelligence of the mass of common folk.
'I hope,' Napoleon's voice said at his side, 'that you are pleased with today's proceedings?'
Alexander turned to Napoleon and smiled his fixed, courtly and slightly vacant smile. 'The friendship between France and Russia,' he said to his neighbour, 'has long been my most cherished dream.'
Napoleon smiled in return. 'Your Majesty shows a profound wisdom in these matters,' he said and Alexander inclined his head graciously at this arrant flattery.
Napoleon regarded the banquet and the numerous guests, his quick mind noting a face here and there. Suddenly his benign expression clouded over. He leaned back and beckoned an aide. Nodding to a vacant place on a lower table he asked the young officer, 'Where is General Santhonax?'
Drinkwater clung to his mount with increasing desperation. He was no horseman and the animal's jerking trot jolted him from side to side so that he gasped for breath and at every moment felt that he would fall. It was years since he had ridden, and want of practice now told heavily against him. The thought of the long journey back to Memel filled him with horror.
Equally anxious, Mackenzie looked back every few yards, partly to see if Drinkwater was still in the saddle, partly to see if they were pursued.
As they left the town and found themselves surrounded by the bivouacs of the Russian army they passed camp-fire after camp-fire round which groups of men played cards, drank and smoked their foul tobacco tubes. There were other travellers on the road, officers making their way to the celebrations at Tilsit; but the news of peace had removed all necessity for caution and the horsemen continued unopposed along the Memel road.
At last they drew away from the encampments. It was dark but the sky had cleared, and a silver crescent of moon gave a little light, showing the dusty highway as a pale stripe across the rolling countryside. As Drinkwater jogged uncomfortably in his saddle it occurred to him that as he became accustomed to the horse, he became less able to capitalise on his improvement, for his buttocks and inner thighs became increasingly sore.
Drinkwater grunted with pain as they rode on, passing through a village. The road was deserted but the noise of shouting, clapping and a guitar came from its inn. A few miles beyond the village Mackenzie looked back at his lagging companion. What he saw made him rein in his horse. They were in open countryside now.
The Nieman gleamed a pistol shot away, reflecting the stars, and the road lay deserted before them.
Drinkwater looked up as he saw Mackenzie stop and heard him swear.
'I'm doing my damndest...' 'It's not that... Look!'
Drinkwater pulled his horse up and turned. A man was pursuing them, his horse kicking up a pale cloud of dust, just discernible in the gloom.
'Santhonax!'
'Can you remember the content of Ostroff's report?' Mackenzie asked sharply. 'Of course ...'
'Then ride on ... go ... get back to your ship. I'll do what I can to stop him, but do not under any circumstances stop!' 'But you? What will you do?'
'I'll manage ... get to London overland, Captain, bringing your midshipman with me, but you go now!' And Mackenzie brought an impatient hand down on the rump of Drinkwater's horse.
'God's bones!' Drinkwater lost the reins and grabbed the animal's mane, his sore knees pressed desperately inwards against the saddle. He dared not look back but he heard the pistol shots, and the image of Santhonax still in hot pursuit kept him riding through the night as if all the devils in hell were on his tail.
Lieutenant James Quilhampton lay rigid and awake in the darkness. The scratching sound came again, accompanied by a sibilant hiss. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and, crouching, pressed his ear against the cabin door.
'Who is it?'
'Frey, sir.'
Quilhampton opened the cabin door and drew the boy inside. He was in shirt and breeches, a pale ghost in the darkness. 'What the devil d'you want?'
'Sergeant Blixoe sent me, sir. Roused me out and sent me to wake you and the other lieutenant. He says there's a combination of two score of men in the cable tier. They're murmuring, sir ... after the day's events ...'
Quilhampton began tearing off his nightshirt. 'Get Mr. Fraser and Mr. Mount, quickly now, while I dress, no noise ... then double below and tell Blixoe to call out all his men!'
He began to dress, cursing Rogers. The first lieutenant had flogged two men the previous day with the thieves' cat. Their offences were common and had not warranted such severity. One had neglected his duty, the other was judged guilty of insolence towards an officer. What made the event significant was that the man who had not jumped to his allotted task with sufficient alacrity to satisfy Rogers had not done so because he had been flogged for drunkenness only the previous day. This circumstance had sown a seed of genuine grievance among men whose usual tolerance of the navy's rough and summary justice had been overstretched during Rogers's brief tenure of command. The surgeon's claim that the man was not fit to receive punishment had encouraged a seaman to speak up in support of the protest and he had been judged guilty of insolence by an infuriated Rogers.
Before nightfall one of the men was dead and the news spread quickly through the ship. Shortly after midnight, word had gone round the berth deck of a meeting of delegates from each mess in the cable tier. It was this disturbance that had prompted Sergeant Blixoe to action.
Quilhampton checked the priming of his pistol and belted on his sword. His anxiety at Drinkwater's absence had increased with every abuse and loss of temper that had marked Rogers's behaviour. For the last few days every motion of the ship's company had been accompanied by ferocious criticism and vitriolic scorn as Rogers continued to exercise the crew remorselessly.
Drinkwater's regime had been too lax, their performances too slow. The bosun's mates were too gentle with their starters and Rogers, in a paroxysm of rage, had grabbed the rope's end from the hand of one man and laid about him in a fury, sending the topmen scampering aloft. When he was satisfied with their performance he had brought them down again, then started the bosun's mate for 'lenience' and disrated him. Quilhampton knew Rogers was exercising considerable will-power over his craving for drink. But his ungovernable rages and transports of savage injustice had become intolerable.
He emerged from his cabin and turned forward, ducking under the men still in their hammocks. There was no sentry at the midships companionway and he stood and looked down into the cable tier. The space was capacious, but filled with the great coils of ten-inch hemp, so that the huge ropes formed miniature amphitheatres, lit by lanterns, their sides lined with thirty or forty men in vehement but whispered debate.
'But the captain ain't 'ere, for Chris' sakes ... and that blackhearted bastard'll kill more men before 'e gets back ...'
'If'e gets back...'
'If we rise, do we take 'em all?'
'Yes,' a man hissed, 'kill all the buggers, for they'll all flog you!'
'Aye, an' we're men, not fucking animals!'
'Let's act like men then!'
'Aye!'
'Aye!'
They began to stir, resolution hardening in their faces, an impression heightened by the lamplight. Quilhampton realised he had to move fast. He cocked the pistol and descended the ladder.
The silence that greeted his appearance was murderous. He stared about him, noting faces. 'This is mutinous behaviour,' he said and judging a further second's delay would lose him the initiative added, 'the Captain's due back imminently.'
'That may be too late for some of us,' a voice said from the rear. It found an echo of agreement among the men.
'Go back to your hammocks. No good can come of this.'
'Don't trust the bastard!'
Quilhampton uncocked the pistol and stuck it in his belt. 'The marines are already alerted. Mr. Mount and Mr. Fraser are awake. For all I know they've called Mr. Rogers
'We are betrayed!'
Quilhampton watched the effect of this news. Fear was clear on every man's face, for they knew that once Rogers identified them, each man present would likely die. They had only two choices now, and Quilhampton had already robbed them of their weapon of surprise.
'Get to your hammocks, and let me find this place deserted.' They remained stock still for a second, then by common consent they moved as one, slipping away in the darkness. Quilhampton waited until the last man had vanished, stepped forward into the encirclement of the cable and picked up the lantern. Reascending the companionway he walked aft. A few of the hammocks swung violently and he caught sight of a retracting leg. He ascended to the gundeck and met Lieutenant Mount. He was coming forward with his hanger drawn, his marines behind him in shirtsleeves but with their bayonets fixed. Fraser was there with the midshipmen and the master.
'James! Where the hell have you been, we've been looking for you?' Fraser asked anxiously.
'I went to check the cable tier.'
'You what?'
'Have you informed Lieutenant Rogers?'
Fraser and Mount looked at each other. It was clear they had been debating the point and had decided not to.
'Because if you have, you had better tell him it's a false alarm. The cable tier's quite empty ... except for the cables of course ...'
'This is no time to be flippant!' snapped an irritated Mount, lowering his hanger.
'This is no time to be wandering around,' said Quilhampton, with affected nonchalance. 'Good night, gentlemen!'
General Santhonax recovered consciousness aware of a great weight pressing upon his leg. His skull, sore from the pistol blow on the left-hand side of his head, now bore a second lump on his forehead where he had struck it as his horse fell. The animal was dead and it took him several minutes to assemble his thoughts. In the east the first signs of daylight streaked the sky and he recalled the urgent need for pursuit. Then, triggered off by this thought, the events of the previous night came back to him. He swore and pulled his leg painfully out from beneath the horse.
He needed another mount, and would have to go back to the horse lines of the nearest Russian cavalry regiment for one. He began unbuckling his saddle. Should he then ride on to Memel? Or was he already too late?
He paused, forcing his aching head to think. Drinkwater would be within ten miles of Memel by daylight. Pursuit was pointless, but return to Tilsit risked disgrace or worse.
Dawn showed the road ahead of him, a thin ribbon beside the grey shimmer of the Nieman, with only an early peasant and an oxcart upon it. The devil alone knew how he could face the Emperor again, for it was certain his absence would have been noticed. A furious anger began to boil within him — he had been outwitted and by his old antagonist Drinkwater, of all people!
He had forgotten how many times their paths had crossed. He only recalled in his bitterness that he had twice passed up the opportunity to kill the man. How he regretted that leniency now! Napoleon's secret would be in London as fast as Drinkwater's frigate could carry it and she was, as Santhonax had cause to know, a fast ship. He smote his saddle in his frustration and then calmed himself and resolved on the only course now open to him. His anger was replaced by the desperate courage of absolute necessity. Dragging himself to his feet, Santhonax turned his footsteps back towards Tilsit.
It was mid-morning when Drinkwater reached Memel. His horse was blown and he slid to the cobbles of the quay, his legs buckling beneath him. The flesh of his thighs was raw and his whole body was racked with an unbelievable agony. He had covered fifty-odd miles in twelve hours and almost certainly outrun pursuit. He had no idea what had become of Mackenzie beyond knowing that he had thwarted Santhonax by some means. Pain made him lightheaded and he sat for a moment in the sunshine of early morning, mastering himself and trying to think clearly. Whatever had happened to Mackenzie or Walmsley his own task was clear enough. Standing unsteadily he walked along the quay, looking down at the boats tied alongside. An occasional fisherman mended nets. None looked in condition to sail imminently. Only one man stared up at him, a broad-faced man with a stubby pipe who smiled and nodded.
Drinkwater felt in his pocket and his fist closed on some coins. He drew them out and pantomimed his wishes. The man frowned, repeating the gestures of pointing, first at Drinkwater, then at himself and then a quick double gesture at the deck of his boat and then the horizon. He seemed to ask a question and Drinkwater thought he heard the word 'English': he nodded furiously, pointing again at himself and then directly at the horizon.
Comprehension linked them and Drinkwater held out the gold for the man to see. There was a pause in the negotiation, then the man agreed and beckoned Drinkwater down onto the deck. Sliding back a small hatch, he called below, and a moment later a younger version of the fisherman appeared. Drinkwater made himself useful casting off and tallied on a halliard, within minutes they had hoisted sail and were moving seawards.
As Memel dropped astern and the Nieman opened into the Kurische Haff and then the Baltic Sea, his anxiety waned. He had avoided pursuit and for a while he enjoyed the sensation of the brisk sail as the fishing boat scudded along before a moderate breeze. It was good to feel the sea-wind on his face and see a horizon hard-edged and familiar. He relaxed and smiled at the pipe-smoking Kurlander at the tiller.
'A good boat,' Drinkwater said, patting the low rail.
The man nodded. 'Gut. Ja, ja . ..'
Soon Drinkwater could see the masts and yards of the Antigone. His last fear, a childish one that the ship would not be on station, vanished. His problems were almost over. He could shave and bath and soak his raw flesh, and then sleep...
'All hands! All hands! All hands to witness punishment!'
Quilhampton looked up from the gunroom table where he had the midshipmen's journals spread out before him. He met the look of incredulity on Mount's face.
'Christ, not again...'
The two officers hurried into their coats, and left the gunroom buckling on their swords. As they emerged onto the upper deck they were aware of the ground-swell of discontent among the people milling in the waist. Rogers, in full dress, was already standing on the quarterdeck, Drinkwater's copy of the Articles of War in his hands.
'I should think he knows the Thirty-Sixth by heart,' Quilhampton heard someone mutter but he ignored the remark. Quilhampton took his now familiar place and cast a quick look over the marines. There might be a need for them shortly, but even among their stolid files there seemed to be a wavering and unsteadiness. He caught Blixoe's eye. The man's look was one of anger. Blixoe had acted to forestall mutiny in the night and Quilhampton had made a fool of him. Now the advantage of warning no longer lay with the officers and marines. With the whole ship's company assembled and every man except Rogers aware of what had transpired in the middle watch, a sudden explosion of spontaneous mutiny might result in the officers and marines being butchered on the spot.
'Silence there!' bawled Rogers, opening the book and calling for the prisoner.
It was Tregembo, his shoulder still bandaged, and pale from the effects of his wound. Quilhampton could only guess at Tregembo's crime and as Rogers read the charge it seemed to confirm his supposition. It was insolence to a superior officer. Tregembo had clearly spoken his mind to Rogers. The first lieutenant did not even ask if any officer would speak for the man. Once again he was lost to reason, consumed by whatever fires were eating him, possessed only of an insane hatred that had no meaning beyond expressing his own agony.
'Strip!'
Quilhampton was surprised to see the faint scars of previous floggings crossing Tregembo's back. Then Lallo stepped forward and declared the man unfit to undergo punishment. It was an act of considerable courage and so riveting was its effect on Rogers that no one saw the fishing boat swoop under the stern, nor paid the slightest attention to a fluttering of sails as it dropped briefly alongside.
'Stand aside!' roared Rogers, stepping forward.
Lallo fell back a pace and Rogers rounded on the bosun's mates standing by the prisoner. 'Secure him!'
They crucified Tregembo across the capstan, lashing his spread-eagled arms along two of the bars. A thin trickle of blood started down his back from beneath the bandage of his wound. Flogging against a capstan was a barbarism that refined an already barbaric custom; to flog a wounded man was a measure of Rogers's depravity. What he did next he must have conceived as an act of humanity. As a murmur of horror ran through the ship's company at the sight of Tregembo's reopened wound, Rogers nodded to the bosun's mate holding the cat.
'Strike low! And do your duty!'
By avoiding the shoulder, the cat would not do further damage to the wound. But it would lacerate the lower back and could damage the organs unprotected by the rib-cage. The bosun's mate hesitated.
'Do your duty!' Rogers shrieked.
'Mr. Rogers!'
The attention of every man swung to the rail. Teetering uncertainly at its top, a hand on each stanchion, an unshaven and dirty figure clung. The hatless apparition repeated itself.
'Mr. Rogers!'
'It's the cap'n,' said Quilhampton and ran across the deck. 'Get the ship under way at once!' Drinkwater ordered, before falling forward into Quilhampton's arms.
Drinkwater stood immobile by the starboard hance, leaning against the hammock netting and with one foot resting on the slide of a small brass carronade. It seemed to the watches, as they changed every eight bells, that the captain's brooding presence had been continuous since they had broken the anchor out of the mud of Memel road four days earlier.
In fact the truth was otherwise, for it was Rogers who got the ship under weigh and Hill who laid off the first of the courses that would take them home. The captain had vanished below, exhausted and, rumour had it, wounded as well. It was a measure of Drinkwater's popularity that when the nature of his indisposition was properly known it did not become the subject for ribald comment. Nevertheless, as soon as he was rested and the surgeon had dressed his raw thighs, Drinkwater was on deck and had remained so ever since. He moved as little as possible, his legs too sore and his gait too undignified, atoning in his own mind for the sin of absence from his ship and the troubles it had caused.
The reassuring sight of Drinkwater's figure calmed the incipient spirit of revolt among the people. The fact that they were carrying sail like a Yankee packet and were bound for England raised their hopes and fed their dreams like magic. The dismal recollections of their period off Memel faded, and only the unusual sight of a marine sentry outside the first lieutenant's cabin served to remind the majority. But there were men who had longer memories, men who bore the scars of the cat, and, while the news of Lord Walmsley's disappearance seemed to establish an equilibrium of sacrifice in the collective consciousness of the frigate's population, there were those who planned to desert at the first opportunity.
For Drinkwater there was a great feeling of failure, despite the importance of the news he carried. It was compounded from many sources: the high excitement of his recent sortie; the intense, brief and curiously unsatisfactory reunion with his brother; the death (for such he privately believed it to be) of Lord Walmsley; his uncertainty as to the fates of either Mackenzie or Santhonax; and finally, the tyrannical behaviour of Rogers and the maltreatment of Tregembo. All these had cast a great shadow over him and it took some time for this black mood to pass. It was in part a reaction after such exertion and in part a brooding worry over what was to be done about Samuel Rogers. There was a grim irony in contemplating the future of the first lieutenant; Rogers had failed worst where he had succeeded best. The effort of will and the strength of his addiction had combined to produce a monster. He had been placed under arrest and confined to his cabin where, so the surgeon reported, he had fallen into a profound catalepsy.
The only bright spots in Drinkwater's unhappy preoccupation were the continuing recovery of Tregembo and the value of the news from Tilsit. As the days passed these grew in strength, gradually eclipsing his misery. At last his spirits lifted, and he began to share something of the excitement of the ship's company at the prospect of returning home. He thought increasingly of his wife and children, of Susan Tregembo and the others in his household at Petersfield, but the heavy gold watch he carried in his waistcoat reminded him that, despite the lofty press of sail Antigone bore and the air of expectancy that filled the chatter of her messes, it was the realities of war that drove her onwards.
The fair breeze that allowed them to stand to the westward under studding sails failed them during the forenoon of the last day of June. Chopping slowly round to the west, Antigone was forced to be close-hauled and stretch down into the shallow bight east of Rugen, leaving the island of Bornholm astern. By noon of the following day she was five leagues to the east of Cape Arkona and able to fetch a course towards Kioge Bay as the wind backed again into the south-west quarter. They passed Copenhagen through the Holland Deep on the afternoon of 2 July, but their hasty progress was halted the following day as the wind veered and came foul for the passage of The Sound. They anchored under the lee of the island of Hven for two days but, on the morning of the 5th, it fell light and favourable.
Next morning a freshening north-westerly forced them to tack out through the Kattegat, but the sun shone from a blue and cloudless sky and the sea sparkled and shone as the ship drove easily to windward, reeling off the knots. Ahead of them lay the low, rolling, green-wooded countryside of the Djursland peninsula spread out from Fornaess in the east away towards the Aalborg Bight to the west. Astern of them lay the flat sand-cay of Anholt, and the encircling sea was dotted with the sails of Danish fishing boats and coasters — the sails of potential enemies, Drinkwater thought as he came on deck. He leaned back against the cant of the deck, his thighs still sore but much easier now. Aloft, Antigone's spars bent and she drove her lee rail under so that water spurted in at the gun-ports.
'Morning, sir,' said Quilhampton crossing the deck, his hand on his hat and his eyes cast aloft. 'D'you think she'll stand it?'
'Yes, she'll stand it, she goes well, Mr. Q, though I could wish the wind fairer.'
'Indeed, sir.' Quilhampton watched the captain keenly as Drinkwater looked about them and drew the fresh air into his lungs.
'The countryside looks fine to the south'ard, don't you think?' He pointed on the larboard bow. 'You know, James,' he said intimately, looking at the lieutenant, 'old Tregembo advised me to retire, to buy an estate and give up the Service. I dismissed the idea at the time; I rather regret it now. I cannot say that I had ever considered the matter before. What d'you think?'
Quilhampton hesitated. Such a notion would deprive him of further employment.
'I see you don't approve,' Drinkwater said drily. 'Well, the matter is decided for Tregembo ...'
'How is he, sir?' Quilhampton asked anxiously, eager to divert Drinkwater's mind from the thought of premature retirement.
'He'll make a fine recovery from his wound. But he'll not leave his fireside again, and I can't say I'm sorry.'
There was, however, another question Quilhampton wanted answered, as did the whole ship's company, and he felt he might take advantage of the captain's mood and ask it without impropriety.
'May one ask the reason for your anxiety for a fast passage, sir?' The greater question was implicit and Drinkwater turned to face his interrogator.
'I can tell you little now, James, beyond the fact that I, and others, have been employed upon a special service ... but rest assured that this ship sails now in the very vanguard of affairs.'
In the event it was all the explanation Quilhampton ever received upon the matter, but the phrase lodged in his memory and he learned to be satisfied with it.
Drinkwater was deprived of his fast passage: in the North Sea the winds were infuriatingly light and variable and Antigone drifted rather than sailed south-west, beneath blue skies on a sea that was as smooth as a mirror. For over a week after she passed the Skaw she made slow progress, but towards the end of the second week in July a light breeze picked up from the eastward and the next afternoon Drinkwater was called on deck to see the twin towers of the lighthouses on Orfordness.
'We've the last of the tide with us, sir,' said Hill suggestively.
Drinkwater grinned. 'Very well, stand inshore and carry the flood round the Ness and inside the Whiting Bank and we'll be off Harwich by nightfall.'
'We'll flush any Dunkirkers out of Ho'sley Bay on our way past,' remarked Hill after he had adjusted their course, referring to the big lugger-privateers that often lay under the remote shingle headland and preyed on the north-country trade bound for London.
'No need,' said Quilhampton staring through the watch glass, 'there's a big frigate in there already ... blue ensign ...
They could see the masts and spars of a man-of-war lifting above the horizon, then her hull, rising oddly as refraction distorted it suddenly upwards.
'She's no frigate, Mr. Q,' said Hill, 'she's an old sixty-four or I'm a Dutchman.'
Drinkwater took a look through his own glass. The distant ship had set her topsails and was standing out towards them. He could see the blue ensign at her peak and then the relative positions of the two ships closed and the refractive quality of the air disappeared. The strange ship was suddenly much closer and he could see men on her fo'c's'le, fishing for the anchor with the cat tackle.
'She'll be the Harwich guardship, I expect, come out to exercise before grounding on her own chicken bones.' The knot of officers laughed dutifully at the captain's joke. 'Make the private signal, Mr. Hill,' he added, then turned to Quilhampton. 'I shall want my barge hoisted out as soon as we've fetched an anchor on the Harwich Shelf. I shall be posting to London directly ... you had better let Fraser know.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Their eyes met. The coast of England was under their lee and it would not be long before Lieutenant Rogers was taken ashore. Fraser would inherit temporary command of the ship, but with Rogers still on board, the situation would be delicate for a day or two in the captain's absence. Quilhampton wondered what Drinkwater intended to do about Rogers and the question lay unasked between them. In a low voice meant for Quilhampton's ears alone Drinkwater said, 'Under last year's regulations, James, a commanding officer is, as you know "forbidden from suffering the inferior officers or men from being treated with oppression". The first lieutenant's conduct...'
He got no further. The ship trembled and for a split-second Drinkwater thought they had run aground, then the air was alive with exploding splinters and men were shouting in alarm, outrage and agony. His eyes lifted to the strange ship standing out from the anchorage. The blue ensign was descending, and rising to the peak of the gaff were the horizontal bands of the tricolour of the Dutch Republic.
'Christ alive!' Drinkwater swore, seized by agonizing panic. 'All hands to quarters! Beat to quarters! Rouse out all hands!' He ground his teeth, furious with himself for being so easily deceived, as he waited impotently for his men to rush to their stations, aware that the enemy would get in a further broadside before he was ready to reply. It was too late to clear for action and Hill was altering course to enable Antigone to bring her starboard broadside to bear, but it first exposed her to the enemy's fire.
The innocent-looking puffs of grey smoke blossomed from the Dutchman's side before the Antigones had cast off the breechings of their own guns. The enemy cannon were well pointed and the shot slammed into the side of the British frigate. Shot flew overhead with a rending noise like the tearing of canvas. Hammocks burst, spinning, from the nettings, splinters lanced across the deck and the starboard side of the launch amidships was shattered. Chips flew from the mainmast and holes appeared in the sails. Aloft, severed ropes whipped through their sheaves and landed on deck with a whir and slap so that unbraced yards flew round and men fell like jerking puppets as langridge and canister swept the deck in a horizontal hail of iron.
'Hold your course, damn you!' Drinkwater screamed above the din, leaping for the wheel. 'She'll luff, else!'
'She won't answer, sir!'
'Bloody hell!'
He looked desperately at the enemy and then, at last, there came from the fo'c's'le an answering gun and Drinkwater saw Quilhampton leaping along the starboard battery. Close to Drinkwater at the hance, little Frey fired one of the brass carronades with an ear-splitting roar and Mount's marines were lining the hammock netting, returning fire with their muskets.
From the waist now came the steady roar of the main guns, the black-barrelled 18-pounders rumbled back on their carriages, snapping the breechings bar-taut as their crews leapt round to sponge, load and ram, before tailing onto the tackles and sending them out through the ports again. Aiming was crude; the instant a gun-captain saw the slightest suggestion of the enemy through the smoke he jerked his lanyard, the flint snapped on the gun-lock and the gun leapt inboard again, belching fire, smoke and iron.
Overhead there was a loud and distinct crack and the maintop-mast sagged forward, to come crashing down, tearing at the rigging and bringing with it the foretopmast, enveloping the deck in a heap of spars, mounds of rope and blanketing sheets of grey canvas that were hacked and torn away by the fire-fighting parties in an attempt to keep the guns in action. Smoke rolled over everything and the heat and gases from the guns began to kill the wind. Drinkwater had not lost his sense of impotence: his inattention had denied him the opportunity to manoeuvre, he had made no study of his enemy and all at once found himself pitched into this battle from which there could be no escape. As he stood helpless upon his quarterdeck, it was no comfort to realise the curious refraction in the air had deceived him as to the true range of the Dutch ship, neither did it console him to know that he had failed in this most important mission on the very doorstep of London's river. In a mood of desperation he tried to force his mind to think, to gauge the advantages of striking in the hope that he might contrive to escape with the news from Tilsit. Lieutenant Fraser loomed through the smoke. He was wounded and his expression showed a helpless desire to surrender.
Drinkwater shook his head. 'No! No, I cannot strike. We must fight on!' It was a stupid, senseless order with no chance of success, but Fraser nodded and turned forward again. Behind him the unscathed masts and yards of their persecutor rose up, closing them with a paralysing menace. Drinkwater recalled the large group of men milling on her fo'c's'le, catting her anchor. Realisation of their true purpose struck him like a blow; at any moment Antigone would be boarded.
'Fight, you bastards!' he roared as his officers flinched, the shot storming round them. Hill reeled and fell and Drinkwater saw a midshipman carried past him, his face and chest a bloody pulp.
Drinkwater drew his sword and an instant later saw the hull of the Dutch vessel loom athwart their hawse.
'Boarders!' he roared. 'Repel boarders!' He began to move forward, pulling men from the after-guns which had no target now.
'Come on, men! 'Tis them or us!'
Drinkwater felt the jarring crash as the two ships smashed together and to the concussion of the guns was added the howling of boarders pouring into his ship.
'Mr. Mount!'
The marine sergeant appeared out of the smoke. 'Mr. Mount's wounded, sir.'
'Damn! Get a few of your men, Blixoe. You must guard my person.'
'Guard your person, sir?' 'You heard me!'
'Sir.'
It was not the time for explanations, for he alone knew the value of the news he carried. A midshipman appeared. 'Mr. Wickham, what's happening forrard?' 'We're giving ground, sir.' 'Mr. Quilhampton?'
'Down, sir... the first wave of boarders...'
Drinkwater swung the flat of his sword across the breast of a retreating seaman. That was a rot he must stop. He raised his voice: 'Wickham! Blixoe! Forward!' Drinkwater led the after-guard in a counter-attack that looked like a forlorn hope as it lost itself in the melee amidships, where the fighting heaved over the broken ribs of the boats on the booms. Steel flashed in the sunshine and the pale yellow stabs of small-arms fire spurted among the desperately writhing bodies that struggled for supremacy on the deck.
On the fo'c's'le, Quilhampton had been knocked down in the first rush of the enemy boarders. He was not seriously hurt, but his exertions at the guns had left him breathless. By the time he scrambled to his feet the enemy had moved aft and the sight of their backs caused him to pause an instant before charging impetuously upon them. It was clear that things were going badly and he had no idea of the vigour of resistance amidships to the ferocious onslaught of the Dutchmen. He was surrounded by the wreckage of the foremast and the groans of the seriously wounded. He had only to lift his head to see the enemy ship rising above the rail of the Antigone.
With a ponderous slowness the two vessels swung together and a second wave of boarders prepared to pour over the Dutch ship's larboard waist, to take the British defenders aft in flank. A few guns continued to fire from both ships somewhere amidships but generally the action had become the desperate slithering, hacking and cursing of hand-to-hand fighting.
It took Quilhampton only a moment to take in these events. Suddenly there appeared above him the muzzle of an enemy gun. He waited for the blast to tear out his lungs, but nothing happened and in a moment of sheer ecstasy at finding himself alive he swung upwards, one foot on Antigone's rail, and leaned towards the Dutch ship. The gun barrel was hot to the touch, but no boarding pike or ramming worm was jabbed in his face; the gun was deserted!
In an instant he had heaved himself aboard the enemy ship and the sudden gloom of the gun-deck engulfed him. Dense powder smoke hung in the air. Further aft a gun discharged, leaping back, its barrel hot, the water from the sponge hissing into steam, adding to the confusion and obscurity. A group of men and an officer ran past and it was clear that everyone's attention was focused outboard and down into Antigone's waist where the issue was being decided. From the shouts it was clear that the Dutch were having their own way.
A battle-lantern glowed through the smoke and Quilhampton made for it. He found himself above a companionway and face to face with a boy. The child had a thick paper cartridge under each arm and looked up in astonishment at the unfamiliar uniform. Quilhampton held out his right hand and the boy docilely handed the cartridges over, his eyes alighting on the iron hook Quilhampton held up. A moment later Quilhampton was stumbling down the ladder. At the foot a sentry stood with musket and bayonet. Before the man realised anything was wrong, Quilhampton had swung his hook, slashing the astonished soldier's face. The man screamed, dropping his musket, and fell to his knees, hands clutching his hideously torn face. Quilhampton pulled the felt curtain aside and clattered down a second ladder.
The wood-lined lobby in which he found himself was lit by glims set behind glass in the deal lining. Another wet felt curtain hung in front of him. Quilhampton had found what he was looking for: the enemy's powder magazine.
Drinkwater's counter-attack was outflanked as the two vessels ground together, yardarm to yardarm. As he stabbed and hacked he felt the increased pressure of the additional Dutch seamen and marines pouring down from the dominating height of the battleship.
'Blixoe! Here! Disengage!' He caught the marine sergeant's eye and the man jerked his bayonet to the right and stepped back. As the two pulled out of the throng Drinkwater looked round. The waist was a shambles and he knew his men could not hold on for many more minutes against such odds. His glance raked the enemy rail and then he knew that providence had abandoned him. In the mizen chains of the enemy ship, in the very act of jumping across the gap, was a tall French officer. Their eyes met in recognition at the same instant.
General Santhonax jumped down onto the deck of the Antigone, leaping onto the breech of a carronade and sweeping his sword-blade among its wounded crew. Drinkwater brought up his hanger and advanced to meet him.
'Keep your men back, Blixoe!'
'But sir ...'
'Back! This man's mine!'
Then Santhonax was on him, his blade high. Drinkwater parried and missed, but ducked clear. Santhonax cut to the right as they both turned and their swords met, the jarring clash carrying up Drinkwater's arm as their bodies collided. They pushed against each other.
'I have come a long way...' Santhonax hissed between clenched teeth.
They jumped back and Drinkwater cut swiftly left. Santhonax quickly turned and spun round. They had fought before; Santhonax had given Drinkwater the first of his two shoulder wounds, a wound that even now reduced his stamina. Had he had a pistol he would not have hesitated to use it but, unprepared as he was, he had only his hanger, while Santhonax fought with a heavier sabre.
Santhonax cut down with a molinello which Drinkwater parried clumsily, feeling his enemy's blade chop downwards through the bullion wire of his epaulette. He shortened his own sword and jabbed savagely. Santhonax's cut had lost its power, but Drinkwater felt his blade bite bone and, with a sudden fierce joy, he drove upwards, feeling the hanger's blade bend as the tall Frenchman's head jerked backwards. Drinkwater retracted his arm, fearful that his weapon might snap, and as the blade withdrew from Santhonax's throat the blood poured from the gaping wound and he sank to his knees. Santhonax's eyes blazed as he tried to give vent to his anguish. With lowered guard Drinkwater stood over his enemy, his own breath coming in great panting sobs. Santhonax raised his left hand. It held a pistol, drawn from his belt. Transfixed, Drinkwater watched the hammer cock and snap forward on the pan. The noise of the shot was lost in the tumult that raged about them, but the ball went wide with the trembling of Santhonax's hand. He began to sway, the front of his shirt and uniform dark with blood; his head came up and he arched his back and Drinkwater sensed his refusal to die.
Blixoe's marines closed in round the captain, while all about them men fought, slithering in the blood that flowed from the Frenchman. Suddenly the sabre dropped from his flaccid fingers and he slumped full length. Drinkwater bent beside the dying man; he felt a quite extraordinary remorse, as though their long animosity had engendered a mutual respect. Santhonax's mouth moved, then he fell back dead.
Drinkwater rose and turned, catching Blixoe's eye. The fighting round them was as desperate as ever and the Antigones had given ground as far as the quarterdeck.
'Clear the quarterdeck, Blixoe!'
The sergeant swung his bloody bayonet and stabbed forward, bawling at his marines to keep their courage up.
Dropping his hanger, Drinkwater picked up the sabre Santhonax had used and hurled himself into the fight, roaring encouragement to his men. They began to force the Dutchmen backwards, then suddenly Drinkwater was aware of Quilhampton above him, scrambling over the battleship's rail into the mizen chains.
'Get down, sir! Turn your face away!' 'What the hell...?'
Quilhampton jumped down among the shambles of struggling men and Drinkwater saw him push little Frey to the deck, then the one-handed lieutenant seemed to leap towards him, thrusting his shoulder, spinning him round and forcing him down.
The next moment Drinkwater felt the scorching heat of the blast and the air was filled by the roar of the explosion.
Lord Dungarth rose from the green baize-covered table in the Admiralty Boardroom. He was tired of the endless deliberations, of the arguments veering from one side to another. He stopped and stared at the chart extended from one of the rollers above the fireplace. It was of the Baltic Sea.
Behind him he heard the drone of Admiral Gambier's unenthusiastic voice, raising yet another imagined obstacle to the proposed destination of the so-called 'Secret Expedition' that had been assembled at Yarmouth to carry an expeditionary force across the North Sea to land at Rugen. Dungarth concluded that 'Dismal Jimmy' had so much in common with the evangelical preachers that he professed to admire that he would be better employed in a pulpit than commanding the reinforcements to Lord Cathcart's small force of the King's German Legion already in the Baltic.
'But my dear Admiral,' interrupted Canning, the Foreign Secretary, with marked impatience, 'the Prime Minister has already given instructions to Their Lordships and Their Lordships have doubtless already instructed Mr. Barrow to prepare your orders. I don't doubt you will experience difficulties, but for God's sake don't prevaricate like Hyde Parker when he commanded the last such expedition to the area.'
Dungarth turned from the map and regarded the group of men sat around the boardroom table. The 'Committee for the Secret Expedition' was in disarray despite the brilliant arrangements that had assembled in secret a fleet, an army corps and its transports that waited only the order to proceed from the commander-in-chief to weigh their anchors. Dungarth caught Barrow's eye and saw reproach there, aware that his department had failed to produce the definitive intelligence report on the Baltic situation that would have enabled the committee to settle on the point of attack with some confidence. Dungarth knew, as Barrow and Canning knew, that Rugen was a compromise destination, designed to bolster the alliance, a political decision more than a military one. Dungarth sighed, he had hoped ...
His eyes lifted to the wind-vane tell-tale set in the pediment over the bookcases at the far end of the room. The wind had been in the east for a week now, and still there was nothing ...
A discreet tapping was heard at the door. Exasperated, Canning looked up.
'I thought we were not to be disturbed.'
'Il attend to it,' said Dungarth, already crossing the carpet. He opened the door and took the chit the messenger handed him.
'It's addressed to me, gentlemen, I beg your indulgence.' He shut the door and opened the note. Casting his eyes over it the colour drained from his face.
'What the devil is it?' snapped Canning.
'An answer to your prayers, gentlemen, if I'm not mistaken.'
'Well, read it, man!'
'Very well...
HM Frigate Antigone Harwich 14 July 1807
My Lord,
It is my Duty to Inform His Majesty's Government with the Utmost Despatch that it is the Intention of the Russian Emperor to Abandon His Alliance with His Majesty, and to Combine with Napoleon Bonaparte. Particular Designs are Entered into by the Combined Sovereigns Aimed at the Security of the British Nation which, are of sufficiently Secret a Nature as not to be committed to Paper. They are, however, known to,
Your Obed. Serv. Nathnl Drinkwater, Captain, Royal Navy
… that is all, gentlemen.'
The crinkle of the folding paper could be heard as the astonished committee digested this intelligence. 'It isn't possible.'
'Where is this officer?' asked Canning, the first to recover from the shock. 'Who is he? D'ye trust him, damn it?'
They were looking at Dungarth and Dungarth was staring back.
He was no less stunned at the content of the letter than the others, but he at least had been willing such an arrival for weeks past. 'A most trustworthy officer, Mr. Canning, and one whose services have long merited greater recognition by their Lordships.' Dungarth fixed Barrow with his hazel eyes but the point was lost in Canning's impatience.
'If he's kicking his damned heels in the hall below, get him up here at once!'
'At once, gentlemen,' acknowledged Dungarth turning a second time to the door, with the ghost of a smile upon his face.
The sun was setting in a blaze of colour beyond the trees of St James's Park as the travel-stained naval captain and the earl crossed Horse Guards' Parade in the direction of Westminster. As they walked Drinkwater recounted those details of the strange cruise of the Antigone in the Baltic that he had not already mentioned in his verbal report to the Committee for the Secret Expedition.
'And you say this Dutch ship was commandeered by our old friend Edouard Santhonax?
'Aye, my Lord, and forced out of the Texel in the teeth of the blockading squadron. I was only thankful that she had not taken on board her full quantity of powder, for if she had, I should not have lived to tell the tale.'
'And your fellow, Quilhampton, boarded her.'
'He is reticent upon the matter, but a determined cove nonetheless. I cannot speak too highly of him.'
'Nor I of you, Nathaniel. So you consider Antigone no longer seaworthy?'
'I think not, unless she be doubled all over and she will likely lose her fine sailing qualities. She suffered severely from the blowing up of the Zaandam; much of her starboard side was damaged and the first lieutenant was among the victims.'
‘I see.'
They walked on in silence. Drinkwater had fought hard to keep Antigone afloat as they worked her into Harwich, and she lay now beached on the mud off the old Navy Yard there. Of Rogers he said nothing more, since nothing more need be said. In his own way Rogers had died in the service of his country; it was epitaph enough for him.
'And how is old Tregembo?'
'Like the Antigone, not fit for further sea-service.'
They dined at Dungarth's house in Lord North Street, the conversation muted until Dungarth's single manservant had withdrawn and left them with their port.
'Canning is well pleased with you, Nathaniel,' Dungarth smiled, lighting a cigar and leaning back to blow a pale blue cloud over the yellow glare of the candles.
'I suppose I should be flattered.'
'He has had an expedition fitting out for the Baltic for several weeks now. It was destined to support operations in Rugen until your news arrived. I've been warning Canning that something was afoot but until we knew for certain the outcome of events between the Russians and the French we should not show our hand.'
'I thought you must have expected something. When I got your note, I thought...'
'What? That I was a necromancer?' Dungarth smiled and shrugged. 'No, but the unusual nature of my duties reveals odd things, and I am not necessarily referring to secrets. For some reason war draws the very best from men who are idle and dissolute creatures else, intent on pleasure, petty squabbling and money grubbing. Give a man a guinea and he will buy a bottle or a whore; give a people freedom and they will turn to riot and revenge ...' Dungarth poured himself a second glass and passed the decanter. 'And this war ...' he sighed and watched Drinkwater fill his own glass. 'It is said history imitates itself and men's motives are not always derived, as they would have you think, from their own reason. Some are, I conceive, instinctive, like Santhonax's persistence or your own quixotic abetting of Ostroff. It isn't circumstantial, you know, Nathaniel, and I have always felt that these events are conjoined, like tiny links in a great chain that unwinds down the ages.'
He took the proffered decanter and paused as he refilled his glass again. 'Or like some gravitational pull, which orders our affairs in spite of ourselves and wants only a second Newton to codify it.' Dungarth smiled. 'An odd, illogical fancy perhaps, but then we are all subject to them. Your own fascination with that witch Hortense Santhonax, for instance. No, don't protest your unimpeachable fidelity to Elizabeth. You are as prone to profane thoughts as the next man.'
Drinkwater reached into his waistcoat pocket. 'I did not know you read me so well,' he observed wryly and leaned across the table. His thumb flicked open the back of a gold hunter and Dungarth looked down at the timepiece.
Grey eyes stared up from the pale oval face of the miniature.
'Good heavens! Santhonax's watch?'
Drinkwater nodded, closed it and slipped it back into his pocket.
'It's very curious, is it not?' Dungarth shook his head ruminatively.
'And you, my Lord, you were then moved by the gravity of history to send word, by Home of the Pegasus?'
Dungarth barked a short laugh. 'You turn my metaphor against me. Yes, and no. Perhaps I was and perhaps not... I cannot truly tell you.'
'What then will be the destination of this Secret Expeditionary Force — not Rugen, surely?'
'Oh, Lord, no! Not now we know what Napoleon intends. Our most immediate worry is the Danish navy. The French are on the point of occupying the country and the Danish fleet is in an advanced state of readiness.'
'I thought that we had finished that business before, at Copenhagen.'
'Would that we had, but time does not stand still. If the Danes cannot be coerced into surrendering their fleet in return for a subsidy, we shall have to execute a coup de main and take it into our safekeeping.'
Drinkwater frowned. 'You mean to cut out the entire Danish fleet?' 'Yes.'
'God's bones! What a savage master this war is become.' 'Like fire, Nathaniel,' Dungarth replied with a nod, 'and like fire, it must be fought with fire.'
'Lord Dungarth has made me privy to the circumstances in which you were compelled to leave your command, Captain Drinkwater.'
Mr. Barrow, the Admiralty's Second Secretary, smiled, his pedantic mouth precise in the exact allowance of condescension he permitted an officer of Drinkwater's seniority. He placed his hand palm downwards on the little pile of documents that Drinkwater had submitted. 'I would have thought it your first duty to report to their Lordships but, in view of the importance of the information you have brought, these matters will be overlooked.'
Drinkwater's mouth was dry. After the congratulations of Canning and Dungarth, Barrow's attitude was rather hard to accept. He counselled himself to silence.
'It is also important, I might almost say of paramount importance, that the sources of this information are not divulged. I think you understand this, Captain. War with Russia is now certain and our agents in that country are in great peril. The matter is therefore a secret of state. You do understand, do you not?'
'I do.'
'Your absence from your ship therefore did not take place,' said Barrow, proceeding like a Domine leading a class through a Euclidean theorem. 'You will surrender your log-books and destroy any personal journals. The death of your first lieutenant is really most convenient.' The thin smile appeared again on Mr. Barrow's face. 'I leave an explanation of Lord Walmsley's death for the benefit of his father entirely in your hands, Captain Drinkwater. Lord Dungarth says you have a ready wit in these matters.'
Drinkwater felt a rising tide of anger within him at Barrow's condescension and his self-control slipped further at Barrow's next remark.
'The over-riding importance of secrecy does not permit you much licence. Your people ...'
'Will gossip, Mr. Barrow,' Drinkwater put in sharply, exasperated by Barrow's bland assumption that a man-of-war might be sealed off like some packet of secret orders.
'It is unlikely that your men will have much opportunity to gossip.' Barrow paused to make his effect more telling. 'As for your officers, they are to remain under your command...'
'Until death discharges them?' Drinkwater snapped, the sinister and inhuman implication of Barrow's intentions striking him fully.
'Or peace, Captain, or peace. Do not let us be too pessimistic,' Barrow continued smoothly. 'In the meantime I shall see what's to be done about a new lieutenant.' Barrow began to gather up the papers and tie a pink tape around them.
'And the shattered state of my ship, sir, have you considered that?'
'Of course! There are orders for you being prepared in the copy-room. You will turn your ship's company over directly into the Patrician, a razeed sixty-four and a particularly fine sailer. She is at Chatham and wants only men ... your men.'
'And myself, sir?' he asked, numbed by this news but thinking of his wife and Tregembo and the simple desire of a man to go home. 'Am I also affected by this proscription?'
Barrow looked up. 'I think it best that you are on shore as little as possible, Captain Drinkwater. The increasing desertions of men are most often noticeable where the commanding officer sleeps out of his ship. You know the regulations.'
Drinkwater stood and gripped the back of his chair in an effort at self-control. 'I had believed that I and my ship's company had earned a measure of respite, having rendered the State a signal service, Mr. Barrow. Some of my men have not stepped ashore since the last Peace, God damn it!'
Barrow stared at him and Drinkwater saw with a certain degree of satisfaction that he had at last provoked the man. 'There is no doubt that your service has been most satisfactory, Captain Drinkwater. I thought I had been at some pains to make that clear to you,' Barrow said frigidly, 'but there is no respite for any of us. Every effort will continue to be made ...'
'I do not think I need to be taught my business, Mr. Barrow!'
The two men glared at each other. Barrow's ruthless ability was an admired fact; he was an accomplished administrator with a task of great complexity, but he had little appreciation of a captain's predicament. Duty was obvious, while Drinkwater's sense of obligation to his crew was a tiresome liberality. Nothing of this conflict seemed clear to Barrow.
'No, I am sure I do not, Captain,' Barrow conceded. Then he added, 'But do not forget to forward your logs — privately, you understand.'
Drinkwater stared for a moment at the little heap of Admiralty papers that were now being neatly bundled up in pink tape. How fatuous his conversation with Lord Dungarth now seemed. As Barrow's fingers formed a bow in the pink tape the act was symbolic of dismissal. Tired, angry and disgusted, Drinkwater made for the door.
'One thing more, Captain Drinkwater.' Drinkwater turned on the threshold.
'The matter of the eighty thousand sterling you conveyed to the Baltic. Unfortunately His Majesty King Gustavus saw fit to impound it for his own use. It never reached the Tsar. Unhappily you will be deprived of your customary percentage...' Drinkwater recalled his promise to his men, but Barrow had not yet finished with him.
'One wonders, if it had reached Alexander as intended, whether he might not have remained faithful to the alliance. Good day, Captain.'
Half choking with anger Drinkwater stepped out into the corridor.