There was a silence between the two men. It was not the companionable silence of contentment between friends. Drinkwater could sense the hostility in Rogers. Once, long ago on the brig Hellebore, it had been open and obvious; now it was concealed, hidden behind those downcast eyes. Drinkwater could only guess at its origins but that letter from Lord Dungarth made it imperative that Rogers suppressed it. He changed the subject.
'You did very well at Stralsund, Sam.'
'Didn't you think I'd be up to it?' Rogers jibbed at the patronisation. 'Look, if you're implying they didn't put up a spirited fight...'
'I'm implying nothing of the kind, Sam,' Drinkwater said with a weary patience he was far from feeling. Silence returned to the table. Then Rogers seemed to come to a decision. He pulled himself up in his chair as though bracing himself.
'Did you order Lallo to put me in a strait-jacket?'
Drinkwater looked directly at Rogers. To deny such a direct question would put poor Lallo in an impossible situation and give Rogers the impression that he was dodging the issue.
'I gave orders for the surgeon to restrain you with such force as was necessary, yes. It was for your own benefit, Sam. Now that you are weaned off the damnable stuff and have been recommended in a letter to the Admiralty — oh, yes, I sent it off with Captain Home's dispatch boat — you have a much better chance of ...' Drinkwater paused. He knew Rogers craved promotion and the security of being made post. Yet of all his officers Rogers was the one he would least recommend for command. Rogers would turn into the worst kind of flogging captain.
'Advancement?' said Rogers.
'Exactly,' Drinkwater temporised.
Rogers sat back, apparently appeased, looking at Drinkwater from beneath his brows. Drinkwater had told Rogers nothing of the real reason for their new station. The prevailing political situation was one thing, the complexities of secret operations quite another. Nevertheless it was not inconceivable that Rogers might wring some advantage out of their situation. Drinkwater would feel he could encourage Rogers if he could also avoid the man commanding a ship.
'Sam,' he said, 'I have a trifling influence; suppose I was able to get you a step in rank. What would you say to a post as Commander in the Sea-Fencibles?'
Rogers frowned. 'Or of a signal station?' he said darkly.
'Just so ...'
But Drinkwater had miscalculated. Rogers rose. 'Damn it,' he said, 'I want a ship like you!'
'Damn,' muttered Drinkwater as Rogers withdrew without further ceremony and, reaching for the hitherto untouched decanter, he poured himself a glass of wine.
The waters of the eastern Baltic, which two months earlier had presented a desolate aspect under pack-ice, were alive with coasting and fishing craft the following morning. Convention decreed that all fishing boats were free to attend to their business and Drinkwater was not much interested in stopping the small coasting vessels that crept along the shore. But mindful of the underlying task of every British cruiser, Drinkwater's written orders to his officers included the injunction to stop and search neutral vessels of any size. At two bells in the forenoon watch the lookout had sighted a large, barque-rigged vessel of some three hundred tons burthen. As Fraser eased his helm the barque set more sail and Drinkwater was sent for.
Coming on deck Drinkwater heard Rogers remark to Fraser, 'A festering blockade runner, eh?' with enough of his old spirit to dispel any worries as to permanent damage after the previous evening's conversation. He acknowledged the two lieutenants with a nod and a smile. Rogers's face was impassive.
Almost without any conscious effort on anyone's part, the news that the ship was in chase of a possible prize attracted every idler on deck. Gathering amidships were Mount and Lallo, with Pater the purser. Forward, on the triangular fo'c's'le, a score or so of seamen were crowding the knightheads to sight their quarry. James Quilhampton ascended the quarterdeck ladder and touched his hat to the captain.
'Morning, sir,' he said.
'Morning, James,' Drinkwater replied, dropping the usual formalities since Quilhampton not only was a friend but was not on duty. Fraser looked anxiously at the captain. He was eager to crack on sail for all he was worth.
'D'ye wish that I should set... ?'
'Carry on, Mr. Fraser, carry on. You are doing fine. Just forbear carrying anything away if you please.'
Drinkwater raised his Dollond glass and levelled in on the chase. 'Now what nationality do you guess our friend is, James?' He handed the glass to Quilhampton who studied the quarry.
'Er ... I don't know, sir.'
'I think he's a Dane, Mr. Q; a neutral Dane with a cargo of ... oh, timber, flax, perhaps, and bound for somewhere where they build ships. We shall have to exercise our right of angary.'
'Of what, sir?'
'Angary, Mr. Q, angary. A belligerent's right to seize or use neutral property: in our case temporarily, to ascertain if he is bound for a port friendly to the French,' Drinkwater took back his glass and again looked at the barque. Then he turned to Fraser. 'You are coming up on him hand over fist, Mr. Fraser. Let us have a bow-chaser loaded, ready to put a shot athwart his hawse!'
In the brilliant sunshine and over a sparkling sea the Antigone soon overhauled her deep-laden and bluff-bowed victim. A single shot across her bow forced the barque to bring-to and an hour and a half after they had first sighted her, the blockade runner lay under Antigone's lee.
'Very well done, Mr. Fraser, my congratulations.'
'Thank you, sir.' Mr. Fraser, looking pleased with himself, acknowledged the captain's compliment.
Drinkwater turned to Quilhampton. 'Do you board him, Mr. Q. Examine his papers and, if you think it necessary, his cargo. Take your time. If you consider the cargo is bound for a port under French domination or of use as war material we are authorised to detain him. D'you understand?'
'Perfectly, sir. Angary is the word.' And he went off to the quarter, where the lee cutter was being prepared for lowering.
Rogers and Hill were active about the deck as, aloft, the flogging topgallants were dropped onto the topmast caps and the big main-topsail was backed in a great double belly against the mast. Both courses and spanker were brailed in and Antigone pitched, reined in and checked in her forward dash.
'Lower away!' There was a loud smack as the cutter hit the water and a few minutes later she was being pulled across the blue sea towards the barque, her dripping oarblades flashing in the sun.
Drinkwater settled down to wait patiently. The hiatus occasioned by Quilhampton's search could be long, depending upon the degree of co-operation he received from the vessel's master. Drinkwater watched idly as a fishing boat crossed the stern, her four-man crew standing up arid watching the curious sight with obvious interest.
'She's Danish, sir,' said Fraser suddenly. Drinkwater looked up and saw that the barque was hoisting the colours that she had studiously avoided showing before. That very circumstance had made her actions sufficiently suspicious to Drinkwater. 'Hm. I thought as much.'
'This'll annoy the Danes,' added Rogers, joining them, and Drinkwater recalled the incident off Elsinore. It seemed an age ago.
'Yes, they are somewhat sensitive upon the subject of Freedom of the Seas,' Drinkwater remarked. 'At least they ain't escorted by a warship.'
At the turn of the century British men-of-war had detained an entire Danish convoy escorted by the frigate Freya. The incident had almost caused open hostilities and had certainly contributed to the rupture that had resulted in Nelson's victory at Copenhagen a year later.
'Well, to be neutral during such a war as this carries its own penalties and entails its own risks,' Drinkwater remarked. 'I feel more pity for others whose lives are more deeply affected by French imperialism than a few profitmongering Danish merchants.'
Fraser looked sideways at the captain. Did Drinkwater refer to the widows and orphans they themselves had made in the destruction of the battery at Stralsund? Or was he alluding to the families of the pressed men that mille
d in the ship's waist?
'Boat's returning,' said Rogers, recalling Fraser from his unsolved abstraction.
'Yes,' said Drinkwater peering through his glass. Beside Quilhampton in the cutter was another figure who seemed by his gesticulations to be arguing.
'Damnation,' muttered Drinkwater, 'trouble.'
'Capten, I protest much! Goddam you English! Vy you stop my ship?'
'Because you are carrying a cargo proscribed by the Orders in Council of His Majesty King George, to the port of Antwerp which is invested by ships of King George's Royal Navy.'
Drinkwater studied the papers Quilhampton had brought him, then looked up at the Danish master. 'The matter admits little argument, sir; Anvers, Antwerpen, Antwerp, 'tis all the same to me.' He held up the papers and quoting from them read, 'Der Schiff Birthe, Captain Nielsen, von Grenaa, Dantzig vox Antwerpen ... your cargo is, er, sawn timber, flax, turpentine. They make excellent deals in Dantzig, Captain, and with such deals they make excellent ships at Antwerpen. About a dozen men-o'-war a year, I believe.'
'And vot vill you do now, eh, Capten English?'
'Detain you, sir,' Drinkwater said, folding the Birthe's papers and tucking them in his tail-pocket, 'and send you in as a prize.'
'A prize! A for helvede!'
'To be condemned in due form according to the usages and customs ...'
'No! Goddam, no!'
Drinkwater looked at the man. He had expected anger and despised himself for hiding this unpleasant necessity behind the jumble of half-legal cant. The Danish mariner could scarcely be expected to understand it, beyond learning that he and his ship were virtually prisoners.
'A disagreeable necessity, Captain, for both of us.' Drinkwater spread his hands in a gesture to signify helplessness. Oddly, the man seemed to be considering something. This suspicion was almost immediately confirmed when Nielsen stepped forward, taking Drinkwater by the elbow and saying in his ear:
'Capten, ve go below and talk, yes?'
'I think that will not be necessary.'
Nielsen's grip on his arm increased. 'It is important ... ver' important!' He paused, then added, 'Before Dantzig I was in Konigsberg, Capten ...' and nodded, as if this added intelligence was of some significance. Nielsen suddenly stepped back and gave a grave nod to Drinkwater. Frowning, Drinkwater suspected he was to be made a bribe, but something in the man's face persuaded him to take the matter seriously. After all, Konigsberg was a Prussian port and Dantzig now a French one. Was Nielsen trying to placate him with some news?
'Mr. Rogers, take the deck. Watch our friend carefully. Mr. Fraser, this man wants to talk to me privately. I'd be obliged if you'd come as a witness.' And leaving the deck buzzing with speculation, Drinkwater led them below.
'Now, sir,' he said to Nielsen the instant Fraser had closed the cabin door, 'what is it you want?'
The Danish master put his hand up to his breast and reached under his coat.
'If you intend to offer me money ...'
'Nein ... not money, Capten... this,' he drew a package from his breast, 'is more good than money, I tink. I come from Konigsberg, Capten, plenty Russians Konigsberg.' He handed Drinkwater the sealed packet.
'What the devil is it?'
'It is, er ...' Nielsen searched for a word, '... er, secret, Capten ... for London from Russia ... for many times I, Frederic Nielsen, carry the secret paper for you English.'
Drinkwater turned the package over suspiciously. 'You intended taking this where? To Antwerp?' Drinkwater fixed the Dane with his eyes, searching for the truthful answers to his questions. Any fool could wrap up an impressive bundle of papers scribbled in a supposed 'cipher' and try it as a ruse. 'Together with your cargo for the French, eh, Captain. Is that how you trade first with Konigsberg and then with Dantzig, eh?'
Nielsen shrugged. 'A man must live, Capten ... but yes. To Antwerpen. In two days from Antwerpen it can be to London — by Helvoetsluys or Vlissingen — who know? This is not for me. I only make my ship go ver' fast.' He shrugged again. 'Now it is stop by you.'
'Are you paid?'
'Yes.'
'How?'
Nielsen hesitated, reluctant to admit his private affairs. He looked first at Drinkwater then at Fraser. He found comfort in neither face. 'How?' Drinkwater repeated and Fraser stirred menacingly.
'Ven the paper to London, den is money made to me, to Hamburg.'
Drinkwater considered for a moment. 'If I undertake to deliver this, will you get your money?'
A look of alarm crossed Nielsen's face.
'Have a look at the thing, sir,' said Fraser, unable to remain silent any longer. 'He's trying to get you to let his cargo through on the pretext o' this cock-and-bull story.'
'What is the news in here, Captain Nielsen?' Drinkwater tapped the packet.
Again Nielsen shrugged. 'I do not know. Is some good news for London I hear at Dantzig.' 'Good news! At Dantzig?'
'Yes. French have battle at Heilsberg. Russian ver' good.' Drinkwater frowned. 'You say the Russians beat the French at Heilsberg?'
Nielsen nodded. Drinkwater made up his mind, turned to the table and picked up the pen-knife lying there.
'No, Capten, I tell good, if you cut paper I not get money! Gott!'
It was too late. Drinkwater had slit the heavy sealing on the outer, oiled paper and unfolded the contents. They consisted of several sheets of handwriting at the top of which was a prefix of seven digits. The message was meaningless in any language and was either in cipher or an imitation cipher. Drinkwater looked up at Nielsen.
'Any damned fool could write a few pages of gibberish,' said Drinkwater. He lifted the final sheet. At the bottom was a signature of sorts. At least it was a series of signs in the place one would write a signature. They seemed to be in Cyrillic script whereas the body of the thing was in Roman handwriting; Drinkwater could make nothing of them, but then his eye fell on something else that stirred a memory of something Colonel Wilson had said. When he had mentioned Mackenzie, the British agent to whom he should offer assistance, he had also spoken of a Russian officer, a lieutenant whose name he had forgotten. Were those Cyrillic letters this man's signature? Both men used a cryptogramic code, Wilson had said, and both sent their reports to Joseph Devlieghere, Merchant of Antwerpen. He did not have to recall the Flemish name: it was written at the bottom of the page.
'Capten, if you take my ship prize, you make London ver' angry. Frederic Nielsen help you English ...'
'For money!' said Fraser contemptuously.
'No!' Nielsen was angry himself now and turned on Fraser. 'Why you not to trust Nielsen, eh? You English not like business of oder people! Only for English it is good. Yes! But I tell you, Capten,' here he rounded on Drinkwater, 'if Nielsen not bring paper, sometimes London not know what happen in Russia, Sweden an' oder place.
You English send gold ... much gold... but not keep it good ... Ha! Ha! Ver' funny! You English crazy! You lose much gold but stop poor Frederic Nielsen to take some deals to Antwerpen ... bah!'
Drinkwater had only the haziest notion of what Nielsen meant and was only paying partial attention to the Danish master for there was something else about the papers he held that was odd; not merely odd but profoundly disquieting. Something had tripped a subconscious mechanism of his memory. Now he wanted Nielsen and Fraser out of his cabin.
'Take Captain Nielsen on deck, Mr. Fraser. I want a moment to reflect.'
'Don't be misled by such a trick, sir,' Fraser said anxiously.
'Cut along, Mr. Fraser,' Drinkwater said with sudden asperity, waiting impatiently for the two men to leave him alone. When they had gone he sat and stared at the document. But he could not be certain and gradually the beating of his heart subsided. He cursed himself for a fool and began to fold the letter, then thought better of it and opened his table drawer, drew out journal, pen-case and ink-well. Very carefully he copied into the margin of his journal the strange exotic letters of the document's 'signature': ИCЛAHД.
Then he stowed the things away again, stuffed Nielsen's dispatch into the breast of his coat, strode to the cabin door and took the quarterdeck ladder two steps at a time.
'Mr. Rogers!'
'Sir?'
'Be so kind as to have Captain Nielsen returned to his ship.' Drinkwater turned to the Dane. 'Captain, I apologise for detaining you.' He handed the dispatch back. 'You must re-seal it and please tell Mynheer Devlieghere the news of the defeat at...'
'Heilsberg,' offered Nielsen, visibly brightening.
'Yes. Heilsberg. Good voyage and I hope you have good news soon from Hamburg.'
Nielsen's face split in a grin and he held out a stubby hand. 'T'ank you, Capten. You English are not too much friend with Denmark, but this,' he wagged the dispatch in the air, 'this is good news, yes.' He strode to the rail where a puzzled Quilhampton waited.
'You are not going to let the bugger go, are you?' asked Rogers with some of his wonted fire, seeing a plum prize slipping once again beyond his grasp.
'Yes, Mr. Rogers,' said Drinkwater, fixing the first lieutenant with a cautionary eye, 'for reasons of state ...' Then he turned to the master. 'Mr. Hill, be so kind as to resume our course for Konigsberg when the boat returns,' he said and added, by way of a partial explanation, 'we must investigate the nature of a French defeat at a place called Heilsberg.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' replied the imperturbable Hill.
'And Mr. Mount?'
'Sir?'
'Can we locate Heilsberg on that atlas of yours?'
'I should hope so, sir,' said the marine officer with enthusiasm as Drinkwater led him below.
Lieutenant Rogers strode to the lee rail and watched the boat pulling back towards Antigone.
'Reasons of state!' he hissed under his breath, and spat disgustedly to leeward as the Danish barque made sail.
8
Friedland
June 1807
'No, Mr. Rogers, no wine, I beg you.' Lallo put out a restraining hand.
Rogers, his fist clamped around the neck of the decanter which he had ordered the negro messman to bring, looked from one to another of the gunroom officers. They returned his stare, watching his pale face with its faint sheen of perspiration showing in the dim light of the gunroom.
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