Under false colours nd-10

by Ричард Вудмен

  They slid past Greenwich Hospital and Littlewood kept up the commentary, goading and cajoling his crew, dodging sprit-sailed barges, a post office packet and a large East Indiaman off Gravesend. His crew, few in number compared to a naval complement, seemed agile and able enough. Drinkwater was content to relax for the first time in weeks. He realized, as someone else accepted the responsibility for a ship's navigation, that he enjoyed the freedom of merely overseeing which, with a man of Littlewood's stamp to hand, would be an easy task. He realized, too, that the mental fencing with Fagan and Solomon had driven all thoughts of his obsessive guilt from his mind.

  He watched a red kite wheel back over the marshes below Tilbury, and a flight of avocets stream in to settle on the emerging mudflats of the Lower Hope. Soon, he thought, staring down river, the pelagic gannets would glide past them, for already the air was sharp with the salt tang of open water.

  'Captain Littlewood ...'

  'Captain Waters.'

  'A word with you, sir.'

  Littlewood took a look at the set of the sails and crossed the slightly heeling deck. 'I don't know what orders your charter party gave you, Captain, but are you aware we have to rendezvous with a naval escort?' Drinkwater asked.

  'I was instructed, sir, to wait upon your pleasure and that you would acquaint me with such instructions as were necessary.'

  Dungarth or Solomon had done their work well. It was damnably unusual to find a master in the merchant service so willing to relinquish his much cherished independence.

  'I was told you were a seafaring man, Captain Waters,' Littlewood went on, partially explaining his acquiescence, 'and that our cargo is for Riga. I command, but under your direction as the charter party's supercargo.'

  'Quite so, Captain Littlewood; you seem to understand the situation thoroughly. I trust that you are satisfied with your own remuneration?'

  Littlewood laughed. 'Tolerably well,' he admitted. 'The ship had been taken up for the Walcheren business but, thank the Lord, this other matter came up ...'

  'Ah, yes,' Drinkwater hedged, wondering how much Littlewood already knew, and trying to recall what Solomon had told him. It was probable, he concluded, that having been requisitioned by the Transport Board, Littlewood guessed the authorities were behind the present charter. When he better knew the man, Drinkwater resolved, he would be frank with him, but not yet.

  'Don't worry, Captain Waters,' Littlewood said as if divining Drinkwater's train of thought, 'honest men never profit. Who am I to query one transport engaged in a little trading on the side, eh? In the last war I was once master's mate and I know there ain't an admiral, nor a post-captain neither, that don't keep a few widows' men on his books to feather his own nest! Why, love a duck, what's one old barque missing from two or three hundred sail o' transports, eh?' Littlewood grinned and edged closer to Drinkwater who was wondering whether the allusion to naval graft was a sly reference to himself. 'Lord love you, Captain,' Littlewood added with a nudge and a wink, "tis to most Englishmen's inclination to sacrifice their principles to profit, and, when a lord tosses the purse, why damn me, sir, 'tis a command!'

  CHAPTER 4

  The Gun-brig

  August-September 1809

  'Pray mind your head, sir. Take a seat ... perhaps a glass?'

  Bent double under the deck beams in the cramped cabin, Drinkwater eased himself into a rickety chair. Opposite him, across the table, Lieutenant James Quilhampton seated his tall, spare frame on to a second chair, splayed his legs and propelled himself dextrously across the cabin to a side shelf where a trio of glasses and a chipped decanter nestled in fiddles.

  The small, one-hundred-ton vessel lifted easily to a low swell rolling down from the northward. With just sufficient wind to give them steerage, James Quilhampton's twelve-gun command in company with the Galliwasp, stemmed the flood tide sweeping south round Orfordness.

  'Welcome to His Britannic Majesty's gun-brig Tracker, sir,' Quilhampton said as he poured two glasses of blackstrap with his sound hand. 'My predecessor was a tall fellow. He had this chair fitted with castors.' He swivelled round and propelled himself back towards the table whose once-polished top bore the stains of ancient wine rings, assorted blemishes and idly carved notches in its rim. 'A becket allows me half a fathom traverse centrical upon the ring bolt below.'

  Quilhampton leaned forward with a full glass held in his wooden fist. Drinkwater disengaged it from the painted fingers, conscious that the young man's awkwardness was due to more than his old disability.

  Drinkwater raised the glass of what looked like a villainous concoction. 'Your good health, my dear James, and to that of your wife.' Drinkwater sipped and suppressed the strong instinct to wince at the acidulous wine. 'I am sorry to be the cause of you having to part so soon.'

  Drinkwater saw the flush of embarrassment mount to Quilhampton's face.

  'I am ... that is to say, I am not ...' Quilhampton spluttered, 'damn it, sir, she is not my wife. In short, I'm not married!'

  Drinkwater frowned, staring at his friend with unconcealed concern. 'Is it the odious aunt?'

  Quilhampton shook his head vigorously.

  'She refused you?'

  'No, damn it, she did not refuse me.' Quilhampton tossed off his glass, suddenly shot sideways with a rumble of castors, refilled it and trundled back to the table. He took a mouthful of the second glass and slammed it, slopping, down on the table. A blood-red drop of spilled wine reflected the light from the skylight above them.

  'I put it off, sir, delayed the thing ... it didn't seem fair ...'

  Quilhampton stared at the spilled wine, his expression one of extreme anguish. He dabbed at the escaped droplet with his forefinger, dragged it so that its form became elongated round his fingertip and formed the shape used in the tangent tables to express infinity; then it broke and Quilhampton raised his finger and looked up. Two separate droplets of wine now gleamed on the neglected polish of the table top.

  'It was better, sir ...'

  'But you regret it now, eh?'

  Their eyes met. 'Of course I do.'

  'Is the situation irreversible?'

  'I expect so, by now.'

  'Damn it James, the poor young woman has waited six years! What has she done to be spurned?' Drinkwater bit his lip. He wanted James Quilhampton's mind uncluttered by such preoccupations, and was aware that he was increasing the young man's misery. 'I'm sorry James, 'tis none of my affair. I assume she was otherwise attached?'

  'I wish she had been,' interrupted Quilhampton hastily. 'It is my fault, my fault entirely. The fact is I came up all standing and jibbed it.' The swiftly swallowed wine began to unlock Quilhampton's tongue. 'I've no money, sir ... oh, I'm deeply grateful for your influence in securing this command, but I've little in the way of expectations and my mother ...'

  'But you do still feel something in the way of affection for Mistress MacEwan?' Drinkwater asked sharply, a trifle exasperated and anxious to get on to the reason for his visit.

  'More than ever.'

  'And she for you?' Quilhampton's dejected nod revealed the true state of affairs.

  'For God's sake, man, write to her, hail a fishing boat and get a letter to the post-master at Harwich. I need your undivided attention on our service, James; I cannot support a bleeding heart.'

  'Of course not, sir. I'm sorry. Had you not pressed me ...'

  'Very well. Let the matter rest. Assure the young woman of your affections and that I shall have you home again before the ice forms in the Baltic.'

  'Thank you, sir. I am indebted to you. Another glass?'

  Drinkwater stared down at the half-finished blackstrap. 'Thank you, no. Now, James, to the business in hand ...'

  He outlined their task, amplifying Quilhampton's orders and explaining the reason for his own disguised appearance, already intimated in Quilhampton's instructions.

  'I fear it is an open secret now, sir. I have several of the old Patricians aboard, Derrick, for instance.'

 
; The news that a few hands from their former ship had been transferred with Quilhampton and Frey did not surprise Drinkwater. Quilhampton went on to explain that the brig had been undermanned, his predecessor being frequently compelled to relinquish hands to frigates and sloops desperate for men and under orders for foreign service. The dry-docking of the old Patrician at Plymouth had released her company and Drinkwater was rather pleased that the eccentric Quaker who had served as his own clerk was aboard.

  'He's rated servant,' Quilhampton said, 'though I employ him as a purser's clerk.'

  'If I ever command again, I should not be sorry to have him back.' Drinkwater smiled at Quilhampton's look of surprise. 'I am not entirely in good odour at the Admiralty, James. I once crossed Mr Barrow. That is why I wanted you to have this command: I cannot guarantee you preferment by your personal attachment to my person.'

  'But this special service, sir, surely 'tis important enough to warrant some recognition?'

  'It is precisely because it must only be recognized by the intended party that it is unlikely to merit attention elsewhere. It is inimical to secret operations that they should be trumpeted. For your own part an efficient execution of your duty will earn my warmest approbation, and therefore,' Drinkwater was about to say 'Lord Dungarth's', but thought better of it. His Lordship's department was not commonly known about in the sea service. It was sufficient for Quilhampton to know he sailed under secret Admiralty orders.

  They were just then interrupted by a knock at the cabin door. Mr Frey's head peered round.

  'Beg pardon, sir, but the wind's freshening and the merchantman's jolly boat crew are a trifle anxious about the delay.'

  'Don't disparage a merchant seaman, Mr Frey,' said Drinkwater rising cautiously. 'Captain Littlewood would only man his boat on my strictest promise that you would not press any of them.'

  Frey grinned. 'The thought did occur to me, sir.'

  'I'm sure it did.' Drinkwater picked up his hat and went on deck. The tiny ship with her stumpy carronades ranged along her deck was neat and well ordered, even if she did show all the signs of hard service and lack of fresh paint. Drinkwater had exaggerated Quilhampton's chances of preferment. It was frequently the fate of lieutenants-in-command to discover that being posted into a gun-brig was a cul-de-sac to ambition.

  'Why is Captain Drinkwater incognito, sir?' Frey asked Quilhampton, alluding to Drinkwater's plain coat, as they watched their former captain being pulled away from Tracker's side in the Galliwasp's boat. 'And why is he aboard that barque?'

  Quilhampton turned abruptly. 'I'll explain later, Mr Frey. At the moment I would be obliged if you'd lay me a course to intercept that bawley. I've a letter to write.'

  From the deck of the Galliwasp Drinkwater watched Quilhampton's little brig run down towards a fishing bawley, heave-to and pass the fateful letter. He sighed with relief and hoped the affair, if not settled, would cease to weigh on Quilhampton's mind. As for himself, he felt depressed by the interview with his friend, not so much on account of James Quilhampton's amorous miscarriage, as by the wider implications of their meeting. In the stinking room above Davey's chandlery, fortified by gin and a sense of purpose inculcated by Lord Dungarth, and afterwards — misgivings soothed by Solomon's confident assurance — the mission assumed a vital character. As long as he remained detached from the Service it was possible to maintain this assumption; but the sight of Quilhampton's puny little gun-brig with its dozen bird-scaring carronades made him doubt the wisdom or importance of Dungarth's cherished plan. On the one hand the sight and smells of even so small a man o' war were powerfully nostalgic to a sea-officer, on the other the very size of the brig seemed totally inadequate as an instrument of defiance to the French Empire. Moreover, the sight of his old friends had awakened other, more personal memories; the dark preoccupations he had managed to shake off for a while. Frey's report that he had Drinkwater's personal effects aboard Galliwasp for safe-keeping, reminded Drinkwater of the painful reasons why he could not have them conveyed home. The death of Tregembo hung over him like a spectre, and continued to do so in the subsequent days as they headed for the Skaw. The ambivalence of his position aboard the Galliwasp confined him to his cabin and denied him the occupations he was used to, though Littlewood was an amiable host and allowed him the freedom of his deck. But at that moment of parting from Quilhampton, as he watched Tracker swing and her sails fill as she sought to catch up with her consort, Drinkwater's gaze stretched beyond the filling canvas of the gun-brig, taking in the long shingle spit and the twin lighthouses at Orfordness. It was hereabouts that he had fought the Dutch frigate Zaandam whose magazine had been blown up by the intrepidity of James Quilhampton while he himself had given the death wound to Edouard Santhonax. It was odd, if not fateful, the way his path had crossed that of the French officer. Providential, he admitted privately, a manifestation of what he held to be a spiritual truth. It had been a desperate fight as Drinkwater sought to bring out of Russia a state secret, and Santhonax attempted to thwart him.

  Now Drinkwater was going back, and the thought struck him that perhaps he was still bound to Santhonax, even in death, for the moment of his fall from grace at the Admiralty had concerned the preservation of the secret, and its consequences continued to affect him and those close to him. (See Baltic Mission)

  'Damn this wind!' bellowed Littlewood, clapping a hand over his hat. 'Why don't it back a point, or even fly to the sou'west.'

  It was not a question, merely an explosion of frustration as the northerly wind forced them to lay a course to the eastward of their intended track, driving them towards the Bight of Helgoland rather than north east for the Skagerrak. They had already made a long board to avoid the Texel, and reached the latitude of Whitby with every prospect of fetching the Skagerrak, but the wind had veered a point and obliged them to lay a course of east-north-east, directly for the Horns Reef.

  'The season for the equinoctials will be upon us soon,' Drinkwater said consolingly, though he no more liked the delay than Littlewood, for both men were worried about the cold northerly wind hastening the formation of ice in the Baltic.

  "Tis too much to ask for a fair wind,' Littlewood said irritably, turning to follow Drinkwater's stare. Astern of them Tracker buried her bow, then lifted it, the water streaming from her knightheads and the spray tearing to leeward in a cloud.

  'She's about as weatherly as my hat!'

  Drinkwater grunted agreement. Even in this wind, which was no more than a near gale, conditions on the gun-brig would be appalling. He recalled his own service in a cutter: it had been wet and gruelling, but at least they had had the satisfaction of going to windward like a witch. Poor Quilhampton was going to have to exert himself to the utmost to carry out his orders. The thought made Drinkwater smile grimly.

  'You are amused, Captain?' Littlewood asked.

  Drinkwater nodded. 'A little,' he admitted. 'The young fellow in command over there had his head filled with romantic notions the other day. I daresay he has other things on his mind just now.'

  Littlewood laughed. 'I'll shorten down for him, if you wish; there's no point in outrunning him.'

  'I'd be obliged to you, Captain Littlewood,' Drinkwater nodded, acutely conscious that it was the gun-brig that was to afford them protection, rather than the reverse.

  'It's bound to back soon,' said Littlewood, turning away to give orders to his crew, 'bound to ...'

  But Littlewood's optimism was misplaced. Nightfall found them shortened to triple reefed topsails and the clew of a brailed spanker as the wind increased to gale force.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Storm

  September 1809

  Drinkwater was unable to sleep. Although Galliwasp was not his personal responsibility the habits of command were too deeply ingrained to be swept easily aside. Besides, the moral burden for the former West Indiaman and her mission were laid squarely upon his lop-sided shoulders, so at midnight, wrapped in a tarpaulin, he sought Littlewood and found him at his
post on deck.

  'There are times, Captain Waters, when the temptation to suck on a bottle in one's bunk and leave the deck to one's mates and the devil are well-nigh irresistible,' Littlewood shouted, staggering across his wildly lurching poop to grab a backstay somewhere behind Drinkwater's right shoulder.

  'You don't fool me, sir,' Drinkwater shouted back, grinning in the darkness despite his discomfort. Littlewood's black humour suggested he would be a good man in a tight corner. 'Though I imagine a snug anchorage in the Scheldt seems more attractive than our present position.'

  Littlewood leaned towards Drinkwater. 'It's getting no better, Captain,' he said, the confidence imparted in a loud voice to sound above the mounting roar of the rising wind. 'By my reckoning we can let her go 'til morning, but at first light we will have to put about ...'

  'You'll have to wear ship ...'

  'Aye,' Littlewood agreed, 'she'll not tack in this ...'

  Both men stared to windward thinking the same thoughts simultaneously. The Galliwasp heeled under the wind's weight, rolling further to starboard as grey seas reared out of the darkness to larboard and bore down upon her. Some broke to windward and the spray from their collapsing crests streamed across their exposed deck with a sibilant hiss. Some she rode over, groaning and creaking in protest as the roaring gale plucked new, higher pitched notes from the Strained weather stays and a curious resonant vibration from the slacker, lee­ward rigging. Others broke on board, sluicing with a roar across the deck and filling the scuppers and waterways of the starboard waist, while some broke against the hull with Titanic hammer blows that shook the Galliwasp from keel to truck. Then the thwarted wave threw itself into the air where, level with the rail, the wind caught it and drove it downwind with the force of buckshot; an icy assault that struck exposed cheeks with a painful impact and left the wet skin to the worse agony of the wind-ache that followed.