Baltic Mission nd-7

by Ричард Вудмен

  Walmsley was trembling with fear. 'M ... midshipman, British navy!'

  With this information Santhonax realised the extent of his own failure to keep the Emperor's secret.

  'You are not wearing the uniform of a British midshipman, boy! Where are your white collar-patches? What the hell are you doing here?'

  'I was acting under orders ... attending my captain ...' 'What captain? Where is your ship?'

  Walmsley swallowed. 'I surrender my person... as a prisoner of war...'

  'Answer, boy!' The pistol muzzle poked up harder under Walmsley's trembling chin. 'My frigate is off Memel.'

  'And the captain?' asked Santhonax, lowering his pistol and casting an eye for a suitable horse. Walmsley sensed reprieve.

  'Captain Drinkwater, of the Antigone, sir,' he said in a relieved tone.

  Santhonax swung his face back to his prisoner and let out a low oath. 'You are a spy, boy ...'

  Walmsley tried to twist away as Santhonax brought up the pistol and squeezed the trigger. The ball shattered the midshipman's skull and he fell amid the straw and horse dung.

  Among the rearing and frightened animals Santhonax grabbed Walmsley's saddled horse and led it through the doorway, then mounted and dug his spurs into the animal's sides. The terrified horse lunged forward and Santhonax tugged its head in the direction of the road to Memel.

  PART THREE

  The Post-chaise

  'It is their intention to employ the navies of Denmark and Portugal against this country.'

  George Canning, Foreign Secretary, to the House of Commons, July 1807

  Accord

  25 June 1807

  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?'

  16

  The Return of Ulysses

  June 1807

  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.

&
nbsp; 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 o
n 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.