Baltic Mission

by Richard Woodman

  All the officers were on the quarterdeck and Mount, as if disbelieving the boy’s report, ascended the mast himself to confirm it.

  ‘But what the devil does it mean, Mount?’ asked Hill. ‘Your atlas shows Heilsberg as to the south and west of Königsberg. If the Russkies threw the French back, what the hell is smoke and gunfire doing at Königsberg?’ He crossed the deck and checked the wind direction from the weather dog-vane to the compass. ‘That gunfire isn’t coming from anywhere other than east.’

  ‘It means’, said Drinkwater, ‘either that Heilsberg was wrongly reported or that the French have counter-attacked and reached Königsberg.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘What about Quilhampton?’

  And Tregembo, thought Drinkwater. Should he send another boat? Should he work Antigone closer inshore? He had no charts of the area accurate enough to attempt a passage over the bar and into the Frisches Haff, and did not relish the thought of grounding ignominiously within range of the shore. A picture of French batteries revenging themselves on him from the shingle spit enclosing the great lagoon presented itself to him. Napoleon would make much of such an event and Le Moniteur would trumpet it throughout Europe. No, he would have to give Quilhampton his chance. The man was not a fool. If he heard gunfire he would assume the place was under attack and, as it could only be attacked by one enemy, he would come off to the ship as his orders said. But the officers were looking at him, expecting some response.

  ‘I think that we can do little but wait, gentlemen,’ Drinkwater said, and turning he made his way below, to brood in his cabin and fret himself with anxiety. For two hours an uneasy silence hung over the ship, then Frey, suspended in the rigging with the ship’s best glass, hailed the deck, his voice cracking with excitement.

  ‘Deck there! Deck there! The launch, sir! It’s in sight!’ His frantic excitement promised to unseat him from his precarious perch and it was only with difficulty that Hill persuaded him that his own safety was more important than the precise bearing of the launch. But Frey would not desert his post and kept the image of the launch dancing in the lens by lying full length on the furled main-topgallant. It was he, therefore, who spotted the reversed ensign flying from the launch’s peak as she approached the ship. ‘She’s flying a signal for distress, sir!’

  Once again all were on deck; the waist and fo’c’s’le were crowded with Antigone’s people straining their eyes to the eastward where the launch was now clearly visible.

  ‘Mr Comley!’ Rogers called sharply and with no trace of his former debility. ‘Stir those idlers! Man the yard and stay tackles! Prepare to hoist in the launch!’

  ‘Mr Lallo,’ said Drinkwater lowering his telescope, ‘as far as I can ascertain there is nothing amiss with the launch itself. I can only assume the signal of distress refers to the people in the boat. I think it would be wise if you were to prepare your instruments.’ A chilling foreboding had closed itself round Drinkwater’s heart.

  The launch came running down wind, the men in her hidden behind the bunts of the loose-footed lugsails. She was skilfully rounded up into the wind and, sails a-flapping, came alongside Antigone’s waist. With an overwhelming sense of relief Drinkwater saw a dishevelled Quilhampton at the tiller, his iron hook crooked over the wooden bar. Then he saw wounded men amidships: one of them Tregembo.

  The fit men clambered from the launch up Antigone’s tumblehome. With her sails stowed and masts lowered the boat was hooked and swung up and inboard onto the booms. Here eager arms assisted in lifting the wounded men out and down below to the catlings and curettes of Mr Lallo.

  Drinkwater waited until Quilhampton reported. His eyes followed the inert body of Tregembo as, his shoulder slung in a bloodstained and makeshift bandage, he was taken below. He was therefore unaware of a dusty stranger who stood upon the deck ignored amidst the bustle.

  ‘Well, Mr Q? What happened?’

  James Quilhampton looked five years older. His face was drawn and he was filthy.

  ‘I have your intelligence, sir, Königsberg has fallen to the French. There has been a great battle, just two days ago. It was disastrous for the Russians. There is chaos in the port . . .’ He paused, gathering his wits. He was clearly exhausted. ‘I made contact, as you suggested, with the master of a Hull ship. We went ashore to gather news at a tavern much used by British shipmasters. To my surprise Captain Young was there, together with Captain Baker.’ Quilhampton shook his head, trying to clear it of the fog of fatigue. ‘To my astonishment their ships had still not discharged their lading . . .’

  ‘Good God . . . but go on.’

  ‘The fellows were debating what should be done, as the news had just arrived of the precipitate flight of the Russians. I said Antigone was anchored on the Pregel Bar and would afford them convoy. Most felt that with their cargoes not yet completed they could not stand the loss. They affirmed their faith in the garrison and the defences of the city. I tried to tell Young that his cargo must not fall into the hands of the enemy. He assured me it wouldn’t. The men had had a tiring passage with the necessity of rowing up the river, so I judged that we should remain alongside Young’s ship. Her chief mate offered us accommodation and I accepted, intending to see how matters stood in the morning and, if necessary, help to get the Nancy and the Jenny Marsden to sea. I thought, sir, that if the threat from the French persisted, I might better persuade Captain Young to change his mind. You see, sir, the evening before he had been somewhat in his cups and difficult to move . . .’

  ‘I understand, James. Go on.’

  ‘There is not much more to tell. I slept badly, the town was shaken throughout the night by artillery fire, and the bursting of the shells was constant. In the morning French cavalry were in the town. Young was not on board and I attempted to get his mate to sail and bring out Baker’s ship as well. They would not move unless their respective masters were with them. I undertook to return to the tavern where it was thought they had lodged. I got caught in a cross-fire between some infantry, I don’t know whether they were Prussians or Russians, and some French sharp-shooters. Tregembo and Kissel were with me. Kissel was hit and Tregembo and I went back for him. As we dragged him towards the Jenny Marsden’s jolly boat we were ridden down by French dragoons. They dispatched Kissel and wounded Tregembo . . .’

  ‘Go on. What happened to you?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, sir.’

  ‘He unhorsed a dragoon, Captain, pulled the fellow clean out of his saddle . . .’

  Drinkwater turned and was aware of an unfamiliar face.

  ‘And who, sir, are you?’

  The stranger ignored the question. ‘Your officer unhorsed the dragoon with that remarkable hook of his. You see, sir, they were pursuing me. I had evaded them in an alley and they took their revenge on your officer and men. However, as I swiftly made him out to be a seafaring man as well as an Englishman, I made myself known to him and assisted him in getting his wounded comrade into the boat.’

  ‘I doubt I could have done it alone, sir,’ explained Quilhampton, ‘before the other dragoon got me. Fortunately the fellow missed with his carbine and we were able to get to the Jenny Marsden without further ado, but I could not get either of them to unmoor and, with shot flying about the shipping and this gentleman here insisting on my bringing him off, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour . . .’

  ‘What is the extent of Tregembo’s wound?’ Drinkwater cut in.

  ‘A sabre thrust in the fleshy part of the shoulder, sir. I do not believe it to be mortal.’

  ‘I hope to God it ain’t.’ Drinkwater turned on the stranger. ‘And now, sir, who are you and what is your business?’

  ‘I think, Captain,’ said the stranger with that imperturbable coolness that was rapidly eroding Drinkwater’s temper, ‘that this should be discussed in your cabin.’

  ‘Do you, indeed.’

  ‘Yes. In fact I insist upon it.’ His cold blue eyes held Drinkwater’s in an unblinking gaze. The man made a
gesture with his hand as if their roles were reversed and it was he who was inviting Drinkwater below. ‘Captain . . .?’

  ‘Mr Q, get below and turn in. You, Mr Frey, cut along to the surgeon and tell him to debride those wounds immediately or they will mortify.’ He turned to the stranger. ‘As for you, sir, you had better follow me!’

  Drinkwater strode below and, shutting the door behind the stranger, rounded on him.

  ‘Now, sir! Enough of this tomfoolery. Who the deuce are you and what the devil d’you mean by behaving like that?’

  The stranger smiled coolly. ‘I already have the advantage of you, Captain. Your lieutenant informed me that you are Captain Drinkwater. Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, I understand . . .’ A small and strangely threatening smile was playing about the man’s mouth, but he held out his hand cordially enough. ‘I am Colin Alexander Mackenzie, Captain Drinkwater, and in your debt for saving my life.’

  9

  June 1807

  Mackenzie

  Drinkwater felt awkward under Mackenzie’s uncompromising scrutiny. He hesitated, then took the outstretched hand. Everything about the stranger irritated Drinkwater, not least his proprietorial air in Drinkwater’s own cabin.

  ‘Mr Mackenzie,’ he said coldly, ‘Colonel Wilson mentioned you.’ Drinkwater was not ready to say the British Commissioner had urged him to offer this cold-eyed man as much assistance as he required. The manner of Mackenzie’s arrival seemed to indicate he already had that for the time being.

  ‘So,’ Mackenzie smiled, ‘you have met Bob Wilson. I wonder where he is now?’

  Drinkwater indicated a chair and Mackenzie slumped into it. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘A glass?’ Drinkwater asked.

  ‘That is very kind of you. What did Wilson say?’

  Drinkwater poured the two glasses of wine and handed one to the Scotsman. He did not hurry to answer, but observed the man as he relaxed. After a little he said, ‘That I was to afford you such assistance as you might require. It seems we have already done so.’

  The two men were still weighing each other up and Drinkwater’s manner remained cool. Now, however, Mackenzie dropped his aloofness.

  ‘I’m damn glad you did, Captain. I had to ride for my very life. I am almost sure those dragoons knew who I was . . .’ He shrugged, passing a hand over his dust-stained face. ‘The Russians were smashed, you know, on the fourteenth, at a place called Friedland. Bennigsen got himself caught in a loop of the River Alle and, though the Russians fought like bears, the French got the better of them. Bennigsen was forced to retreat and Königsberg has fallen. The Russians are falling back everywhere to the line of the Nieman. I was lucky to get out . . . and even luckier to find you.’ He smiled, and Drinkwater found himself feeling less hostile. However he did not pass up the opportunity to goad Mackenzie a little.

  ‘What exactly is your function, Mr Mackenzie? I mean what was it you feared the French dragoons took you for?’

  Mackenzie looked at him shrewdly, again that strangely disquieting smile played about his mouth, again Drinkwater received the impression that their roles were reversed and that he, in goading Mackenzie,, was in some obscure way being put upon.

  ‘I am sure you are aware of my function as a British agent.’ He paused and added, ‘A spy, if you wish.’

  Drinkwater shied away from the dangerous word-game he felt inadequate to play. This was his ship, his cabin; he switched the conversation back onto its safer track.

  ‘I heard that the French were defeated at a place called Heilsberg. After Eylau we were expecting that the Russians might throw Boney back, once and for all.’

  Mackenzie nodded tiredly, apparently equally relieved at the turn the conversation had taken. ‘So did I, Captain. It was true. The Russians and Prussians moved against the French at the beginning of the month when Ney’s Corps went foraging. Le Rougeard was aught napping and given a bloody nose. But Napoleon moved the whole mass of the Grand Army, caught Bennigsen ten days later at Friedland and crushed him.’

  ‘I see.’ Drinkwater considered the matter a moment. He did not think that the news left him much alternative. The retreat of the Tsar’s Army beyond the Nieman, the French occupation of Poland and East Prussia, the fall of Dantzig and now Königsberg, left Napoleon the undisputed master of Europe. In accordance with his orders, London must be informed forthwith.

  ‘Well, Mr Mackenzie, having rescued you and rendered that assistance required of me, I must now take the news you bring back to London. I take it you will take passage with us?’

  Mackenzie hesitated then said, ‘Captain Drinkwater, how discretionary are your orders?’

  ‘Those from their Lordships are relatively wide.’

  ‘You have, perhaps, orders from another source?’ Mackenzie paused. ‘I see you are reluctant to confide in me. No matter. But perhaps you have something else, eh? Something from the Secret Department of Lord Dungarth?’

  ‘Go on, Mr Mackenzie. I find your hypothesis . . . intriguing,’ Drinkwater prevaricated.

  ‘The Russians are defeated; the shipments of arms in the two merchantmen at Königsberg have fallen into enemy hands. In commercial terms the Tsar is a bad risk.’ Mackenzie smiled. ‘Sweden is led by an insane monarch and on the very edge of revolution. Now, Captain, what is the victorious Napoleone going to do about it all? He has destroyed Prussia, driven the Russians back into Mother Russia itself, he is suborning the Swedes, threatening the Danes. He has the Grand Army in the field under his personal control, his rear is secured by Mortier at Stralsund and Brune’s Corps of Hispano-Dutch on the borders of Denmark. Austria is quiescent but . . .’ and Mackenzie paused to emphasise his point, ‘he has not been in Paris for over a year. The question of what is happening in Paris will prevent him sleeping more than anything. He has a few more months in the field and then,’ he shrugged, ‘who knows? So what would you do, Captain?’

  ‘Me? I have no idea,’ Drinkwater found the idea absurd.

  ‘I would conclude an armistice with the Tsar,’ said Mackenzie evenly.

  Drinkwater looked sharply at him. The idea was preposterous. The Tsar was the sworn enemy of the French Revolution and the Imperial system of the parvenu Emperor, and yet such was the persuasion of Mackenzie’s personality that the cold, cogent logic of it struck Drinkwater. He remembered Straton’s cautionary removal of the Tsar’s subsidy, and his own now-proven misgivings. He said nothing for there seemed nothing to say.

  Then Mackenzie broke the seriousness of their mood. His smile was unsullied and charming. ‘But then, ’tis only a hypothesis, Captain Drinkwater . . . and it is my business to speculate, intelligently, of course.’

  ‘And it’s not my business to verify the accuracy of your speculations, Mr Mackenzie,’ said the captain brightening, ‘but to take this intelligence back to London as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Have you heard of any preparations against the Baltic being made at home?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Drinkwater. ‘Horne of the Pegasus mentioned some such expedition to be mounted this summer in support of Gustavus at Rügen. There were problems of command: the King of Sweden wanted to command British troops in person . . .’

  ‘They would walk into a trap,’ said Mackenzie, his voice a mixture of contempt and exasperation.

  ‘Well then,’ said Drinkwater, ‘the sooner we prevent that, the better.’

  ‘I think you are mistaken, Captain, to think our news would stop His Majesty’s ministers from acting in their usual incompetent manner. Hypotheses are not intelligence. Lord Dungarth would be pleased with the news, but not ecstatic. They will know of the Battle of Friedland in London in a day or so, if they do not already. There are other channels . . .’ Again Drinkwater was confronted by that strange, ominous smile.

  ‘Well,’ expostulated Drinkwater, feeling his irritation returning, ‘what do you suggest I do?’

  ‘I know what we should do, Captain Drinkwater. The question is, can we do it?’ Mackenzie’s eyes closed to contemplative sli
ts, his voice lowered. ‘I am certain that there will be an armistice soon. The French dare not over-extend themselves; Napoleon must return to Paris; yet, if he withdraws, the Russians will follow like wolves. There must be an accommodation with the Tsar.’

  ‘And will the Tsar agree to such a proposal, particularly as it reveals Boney in a position of weakness?’

  Mackenzie chuckled. ‘My dear Captain, you know nothing of Russia. There is one thing you must understand, she is an autocracy. What the Tsar wills, is. Alexander professes one thing and does another. The Tsar can be relied upon to be erratic.’

  Drinkwater shook his head, still mystified. ‘So what do you advise I do?’

  ‘You already asked that question.’

  ‘But you did not answer it.’

  ‘We should eavesdrop on their conversation.’

  ‘Whose?’ asked Drinkwater frowning.

  ‘Alexander’s and Napoleon’s.’

  ‘Mr Mackenzie, I am sure that you are a tired man, that your recent excitement has exhausted you, but you can scarcely fail to notice that this is a ship of war, not an ear trumpet.’

  ‘I know, I know Captain, it is only wishful thinking.’ Mackenzie’s eyes narrowed again. He was contemplating a scene of his imagination’s making. ‘But a frigate could take me to Memel, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Is that what you want?’ asked Drinkwater, the prospect of returning Mackenzie to the shore a pleasing one at that moment. ‘A passage to Memel?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mackenzie, seeming to make up his mind. ‘That and somewhere to sleep.’

  Drinkwater nodded at his cot. ‘Help yourself. I must get the ship under weigh and see the wounded.’