The man was looking curiously at Lord Leveson-Gower's horses in the shafts. At the Count's remark he looked up and growled something in reply, at which the whole squadron, its commanding officer included, roared with laughter.
'On your way, Alexei, and bon voyage, Captain!' he said, and Walmsley, seeing the road ahead clear, whipped up the horses.
Drinkwater wiped his face with relief. 'Who the devil was that? You seemed uncommonly intimate.'
Mackenzie laughed. 'That, believe it or not, was Ostroff's superior officer, Count Piotr Kalitkin, commander of two squadrons of the Hetman's Don Cossacks. He knows me for a Scottish merchant, Alexander Macdonald, and we have been drunk several times in each other's company. He thinks you are going to Tilsit...'
'Yes, I got the drift of it: to find out why my cargo has not been brought down river to Memel.'
'Excellent!' laughed Mackenzie, in high good humour after the incident.
'What was that exchange between the Count and that malodorous fellow?' asked Drinkwater.
'It was an obscenity. The Count asked the man, Khudoznik, if he wanted to bugger our horses before he stood aside and let us through. Khudoznik replied there was no need for he had found a farm where the farmer had a wife, a daughter and forty cows!'
'Good God!'
'I doubt they're any worse than your own seamen ...' 'Or some of the officers,' agreed Drinkwater, jerking his head in Walmsley's direction, "but those fellows looked born in the saddle.'
'Indeed. Their Little Father, the Tsar, exempts them from taxation in exchange for twenty to forty years of military service. And they will literally steal the shirt from your back, if you let them.' Mackenzie nodded at Drinkwater's open coat.
'It seems I had a lucky escape in several ways,' remarked Drinkwater.
It was dark by the time they reached the town and here they encountered sentries. They were the third in a little convoy of carriages that had bunched together on the road, and by the time the sergeant had got to them he paid scant attention to the pass Mackenzie waved under his nose.
'I doubt if the fellow can read,' Mackenzie said, as Walmsley urged the exhausted horses forward; 'although, if he could, he would find the pass in order and signed by Prince Vorontzoff.' Mackenzie stood and tapped Walmsley on the shoulder. 'Pull in over there,' he ordered in a low voice, and the chaise passed into the deep shadow of a tall building. Mackenzie and Walmsley exchanged places and the chaise rolled forward again.
'How do you do?' Drinkwater asked Walmsley in a low voice.
'Well enough, sir,' replied the midshipman, stretching tired muscles. 'Where are ...?'
'No questions until we are safe.'
'Safe, sir?'
'In hiding.'
'I don't think I'll feel safe until I'm back on the old Antigone.'
'We are of one mind then. Now be quiet.' They had pulled into a side turning which bore no resemblance to what Drinkwater had imagined the Jew's house looked like even in the darkness. Mackenzie dropped from the box, opened the door and motioned them down. Taking the saddle-bags from the chaise he handed them to Drinkwater.
'Wait here,' he said and moved round to the horses' heads. He led the chaise off, and left the two Englishmen standing in the darkness. They pressed back into the shadows and listened to the noises of the night.
Kalitkin's news of an armistice was affirmed by the noise of revelry around them. Every window they could see was ablaze with candlelight. The strains of violins and balalaikas, of bass and soprano voices were added to raucous laughter and the squeals of women. Beside him Drinkwater heard Walmsley snigger nervously and their proximity to a bawdy house was confirmed by Mackenzie who approached out of the shadows without horses or chaise.
'The more people, the easier the concealment,' he whispered. 'I've left the chaise at the brothel full of officers' horses.' He led them back the way they had come and into the comparative brilliance of the town square.
The place was full of people milling about, women giggling on the arms of officers, the curious gentry and their outraged womenfolk hurrying past the licentious soldiers. Beggars and whores, vendors and street musicians filled the open space and occasionally a horseman would ride through, or a carriage escorted by lancers trot by to be wildly cheered in case it was the Little Father, the Tsar.
Drinkwater began to see what Mackenzie meant. The crowd, hell-bent on pleasure, took no notice of them. Within minutes they had entered beneath a low arch, reminiscent of an English coaching inn, and found themselves in a courtyard. Two or three orderlies lounged about, smoking or drinking, but no one challenged them. Even the tall sentry at the door snapped to attention as Mackenzie, walking with an air of purpose, threw open the door and led the trio inside.
Crossing the courtyard Drinkwater had been aware of stable doors and upper windows flung open, from which candlelight and the noise of drunken revels poured in equal measure. Inside, the stairs were littered with bottles, an officer in his shirt-sleeves, his arm round the waist of a compliant girl, lounged back and ignored them. A half-open upper door revealed a brief glimpse of a mess-dinner, a table groaning under food, bottles, boots upon the tablecloth and a whirling dancer kicking out the trepak to the wild and insistent beat of balalaika chords.
On the next floor the doors were closed. A woman's chemise and a pair of shoes and stockings lay on the landing. Above the shouts and cheers from below, the shrieks of drunken love-making came from behind the closed doors and were abruptly drowned by the concerted tinkle of breaking glass as, below, a toast was drunk to the dancer.
A flight higher they encountered the Jew, his family behind him, peering anxiously down from an upper landing. Mackenzie addressed a few words to him and he drew back. Drinkwater saw the dull gleam of gold pass between them.
They passed through a further door, dark and concealed in the gloom. It shut behind them and they stumbled up bare wooden steps in total darkness. At the top Mackenzie knocked on a door; three taps and then two taps in a prearranged signal. There was the noise of a bar being withdrawn and a heavy lock turning. Drinkwater followed Mackenzie into a tiny attic, the rafters meeting overhead, a dormer window open to the night and from which the quick flash of lamplight on water could be glimpsed. Mackenzie stood aside, revealing the single occupant of the attic.
'Let me introduce you, Captain, to the man called "Ostroff".'
12
Ostroff
24 June 1807
'By God, it is you ...' Edward came forward, holding up a lantern to see his brother. 'Mackenzie said he would force the issue one way or another. It never occurred to me he would bring you back. You've come a damned long way to collect your debt.'
Edward's poor joke broke the ice. Drinkwater held out his hand and looked his brother up and down. The jest about the money was characteristic; Edward was still the gambler, the opportunist. He was heavier of feature than Drinkwater remembered, his face red with good living and hard drinking, and he wore a Russian uniform unbuttoned at the neck. His feet were stuffed into soft boots and he had the appearance of a man who was about to settle. As if to confirm this he took off his tunic and loosened his stock.
'By God, it's hot up here, under the eaves. Who's this, Mackenzie?' He indicated the midshipman.
'Our driver, who has done a fine job and deserves some reward. Have you a bottle?'
Edward reached under a truckle bed and produced a bottle of vodka. 'There are glasses on that chest.'
They drank and Drinkwater performed the introduction, explaining that Ostroff was a British officer in the Russian service. Fortunately the looks of the two brothers were too dissimilar to excite suspicion as to the true nature of their relationship and Walmsley, tired and slightly overawed by the situation he found himself in, maintained a sensible silence. As they finished the vodka Mackenzie motioned to the midshipman.
'You and I will go and forage for something to eat, and leave these gentlemen to reminisce over their last encounter.'
They c
lattered down the steps and left a silence behind them. Drinkwater peered cautiously from the window, but he could see little beyond the black and silver river, the tall houses of the quay opposite and the sentries pacing up and down in the lamplight.
'You can't see much, but the raft is to the right. You'll see it clearly in daylight.'
'You know why I'm here, then?'
Behind him Edward sighed heavily and Drinkwater turned back into the attic. Edward had sat himself on the truckle bed and Drinkwater squatted on the chest.
'Yes. Mackenzie, a remarkable wizard, assured me he would bring back the one man who could accomplish this thing.'
'You sound doubtful.'
'It's impossible, Nat. Wait until you see the bloody raft. They've got one of those flying bridges ...'
'I know, I saw one lower down the river.'
'And you think it can be done?' Edward asked doubtfully.
Drinkwater shook his head. 'I don't know yet. Let us make up our minds in daylight.'
'Here ...' Edward held out the bottle and refilled their glasses. 'To fraternity.'
Their eyes met. 'Do you remember my taking you aboard the Virago?'
'I found the life of a seaman far from pleasant.' 'I'm sorry,' said Drinkwater curtly, 'I had no option. You recall Jex, the purser who discovered who you were?' 'Christ yes! What happened to him?'
'He was providentially killed at Copenhagen ... But tell me about yourself. You look well enough. Mackenzie tells me that you live chez Vorontzoff.'
Edward smiled. 'Oh yes. The life of an exile is a good one when well-connected. Your Lord-at-the-Admiralty pays me well enough and I still trifle a little at the tables ... I'm very comfortable.'
'Are you married?'
Edward laughed again. 'Married! Heavens, no! But I've a woman, if that's what you mean. In Petersburg, in Vorontzoff's palace ... I do very well, Nat, that's why you will find me unwilling to risk myself under that raft.'
'I understand that Mackenzie has promised you a very handsome sum if you can pull it off.'
Drinkwater saw the expression of greed cross Edward's face; a small narrowing of the eyes, the quick lick of the tongue across the lips. He had always been a slave to money, easy money in large amounts. Edward suddenly looked askance at Drinkwater.
'You haven't come to reclaim your debt, have you?' The irrelevant question revealed the extent of Edward's corruptibility. Drinkwater smiled sadly.
'Good heavens, Ned, I cannot remember how much I loaned you.'
'Neither can I,' Edward replied with dismissive speed and occupied himself with refilling the glasses. 'You know, Nat,' he continued after a moment, I owe neither you, nor Mackenzie, nor Great Britain any allegiance ... Despite my association with Vorontzoff, I am my own man ...'
'That begs the question of whether you will get under this raft,' said Drinkwater, the problem vexing him again and intruding into his mind so that he half-stood, cracked his head on the eaves and sat down again. 'Besides, did you know who you killed at Newmarket?'
A shadow passed over Edward's face.
'I have killed since,' he said with sudden aggression, 'mostly Frenchmen...'
'It was a pity about the girl, Ned, but the man was a French agent.' Dawning comprehension filled Edward's face.
'Is that how you managed to protect me?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'And myself... and if you were to carry out this task, Ned, I fancy that I might persuade my "Lord-at-the-Admiralty" to obtain a Royal Pardon for you.'
Edward stared at his brother, his expression of incredulity gradually dissolving to amusement and cracking into stifled laughter. 'My dear Nat, you do not change! For God's sake ... a Pardon! I would rather have two thousand pounds in gold!'
Mackenzie woke Drinkwater from his place of honour on the truckle bed at dawn. Drinkwater's head ached from the vodka and his mouth was dry. Mackenzie indicated a jug of water and, as Drinkwater vacated the bed, he rolled into it. Walmsley still slept, rolled in a blanket, on the rough boards of the attic floor. Edward was not there.
'Where's ... Ostroff?'
'Don't worry,' muttered Mackenzie, his eyes already closed, 'he'll be back.'
Drinkwater stared for a moment at the extraordinary man. Edward had called him a wizard and doubtless had good reason for doing so. Mackenzie's quick-wittedness had clearly proved invaluable and he was as at home in the presence of the Tsar as on this present strange campaign. For Drinkwater himself, separation from his ship, the horrible responsibility of his task and the risk of capture filled him with fretful gloom. But he addressed himself to the matter in hand. Edward had said the raft was visible ...
He fished in the tail-pocket of Hill's coat and brought out his Dollond glass. Cleaning the lenses carefully with a pocket handkerchief whose stitched monogram brought a painfully poignant reminder of his wife, he peered from the dormer window whose casements stood open against the summer dawn.
The Nieman was perhaps a hundred yards wide. On the opposite bank a stone quay, similar to the one on which the Jew's house stood, was lined with tall old buildings, their storey’s rising up above the storage for merchandise at ground level. They had Dutch gables and mansard roofs pierced by dormers such as the one from which he peered. On the quay, the Westkai, he could see the blue and white figures of the sentries, French sentries!
The thought made him ease forward gently so that he could see almost directly below him. Their Russian counterparts lounged on their muskets along the Ostkai and he withdrew into the shadow of the room. Then he saw the raft.
It was drawn up on a gravelled hard where the Westkai was recessed to facilitate the repair of the river barges. Drinkwater levelled his glass and studied it. It was identical to the flying bridge he had examined the day before, except that upon its rough boarded surface the railings had been removed and carpenters had begun the erection of a framework. He made his examination carefully, his heart beating with a mounting excitement as the possibility of success grew. Every supposition he had made after his examination of the chain ferry seemed borne out by the scrutiny of the pontoon opposite. It was impossible to be sure at this distance, but, as he went over and over his plan, he could find no major flaw in it. It would be difficult, but if he could lay his hands on some simple tools and a little luck ...
He pulled back into the attic and put away his glass. 'The game must be worth the candle,' he muttered to himself. He cast a look at the extraordinary man who snored softly on the truckle bed and who had so disrupted his life.
'You could be the instrument of my undoing, damn you,' he murmured ruefully. When he turned again to the view of the Westkai the rising sun was gilding the gables opposite and a clock in Tilsit was striking five.
The day that followed was one of an intolerable imprisonment. The June heat upon the roof tiles made that attic an oven. Mackenzie left them during the forenoon to glean what news he could, and to see if he could acquire the few tools that Drinkwater wanted. Behind him, forbidden to show himself near the window, Walmsley fretted and fussed like a child. Ostroff made no appearance and Drinkwater became increasingly worried. From time to time he watched the raft. French engineers, under the direction of an officer of high rank, were assisted by local craftsmen. The pavilion rose steadily during the morning and began to be draped during the afternoon.
Drinkwater's anxiety reached fever-pitch when he realised there was one vital matter that, in his study of the pontoon, he had completely overlooked. It was a piece of the most idiotic stupidity yet, after his realisation that he had overlooked it, the desperate need for quick improvisation was a solace for his over-active mind.
Drinkwater's problem was simply how to get across the river. To swim was too risky; besides it exposed Edward to a long period of immersion. The rowing-boats on the river had all been withdrawn to the French side, apart from a large barge moored almost directly below their window. A solution defied him until about mid-afternoon when, after a shouted parley across the Nieman, a small boat put off fro
m the west bank. In its stern sat two officers.
They disembarked just out of sight. Drinkwater heard the sound of talking men striding below the window. He guessed the two French officers had been met by some Russians. Unable to see much he realised the group had stopped directly underneath them. Wriggling back from the window he beckoned Walmsley. The bored young man came forward.
I want you to see if you can hear what they are saying below,' Drinkwater whispered, pointing frantically downwards. Walmsley nodded and eased himself up under the sill of the open window. Drawing back into the attic Drinkwater stood and stretched. For perhaps ten minutes the hum of voices came up to them and Walmsley's face was contorted with concentration, but at last the impromptu conference broke up and Walmsley moved back into the room.
'Well?'
'I couldn't hear well, sir; but it was something about getting the barge across the river tonight... something about...' he frowned. 'Go on!'
'Well, I thought he said a "pavilion", a "second pavilion" ... but I don't understand what that had to do with a barge ...'
'Never mind, Mr. Walmsley.' said Drinkwater suddenly grinning like a fool, 'you do not know what a signal service you have just rendered your country, by God!'
'Indeed, sir, I do not...'
'Never mind. When we return to the ship I shall tell you, but for the time being I must urge you to be patient and ...'
He never finished the sentence, for the coded knock came at the door. Drinkwater motioned Walmsley to unlock it and lift the bar, while he picked up and cocked the loaded pistol left by Mackenzie when he had departed.
Mackenzie slid inside, his eyes shining with excitement.
'Bennigsen's below. The Tsar's given him the devil of a drubbing, and in public too. Bennigsen's furious at the humiliation and muttering God knows what ... and there's more,' he took a draught at the vodka Walmsley passed him and unhooked his coat. 'The meeting is set for tomorrow.'
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