Baltic Mission

by Richard Woodman

  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.

  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 black-hearted 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 ox-cart 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 wh
en 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 light-headed 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 on 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.

  ‘Strip!’

  Quilhampton was surprised to see the faint scars of previous floggings crossing Tregembo’s back. Then Lallo stepped forward and declared the man unfit to undergo punishment. It was an act of considerable courage and so riveting was its effect on Rogers that no one saw the fishing boat swoop under the stern, nor paid the slightest attention to a fluttering of sails as it dropped briefly alongside.

  ‘Stand aside!’ roared Rogers, stepping forward.

  Lallo fell back a pace and Rogers rounded on the bosun’s mates standing by the prisoner. ‘Secure him!’

  They crucified Tregembo across the capstan, lashing his spread-eagled arms along two of the bars. A thin trickle of blood started down his back from beneath the bandage of his wound. Flogging against a capstan was a barbarism that refined an already barbaric custom; to flog a wounded man was a measure of Rogers’s depravity. What he did next he must have conceived as an act of humanity. As a murmur of horror ran through the ship’s company at the sight of Tregembo’s reopened wound, Rogers nodded to the bosun’s mate holding the cat.

  ‘Strike low! And do your duty!’

  By avoiding the shoulder, the cat would not do further damage to the wound. But it would lacerate the lower back and could damage the organs unprotected by the rib-cage. The bosun’s mate hesitated.

  ‘Do your duty!’ Rogers shrieked.

  ‘Mr Rogers!’

  The attention of every man swung to the rail. Teetering uncertainly at its top, a hand on each stanchion, an unshaven and dirty figure clung. The hatless apparition repeated itself.

  ‘Mr Rogers!’

  ‘It’s the cap’n,’ said Quilhampton and ran across the deck.

  ‘Get the ship under way at once!’ Drinkwater ordered, before falling forward into Quilhampton’s arms.

  17

  June-July 1807

  The Vanguard of Affairs

  Drinkwater stood immobile by the starboard hance, leaning against the hammock netting and with one foot resting on the slide of a small brass carronade. It seemed to the watches, as they changed every eight bells, that the captain’s brooding presence had been continuous since they had broken the anchor out of the mud of Memel road four days earlier.

  In fact the truth was otherwise, for it was Rogers who got the ship under weigh and Hill who laid off the first of the courses that would take them home. The captain had vanished below, exhausted and, rumour had it, wounded as well. It was a measure of Drinkwater’s popularity that when the nature of his indisposition was properly known it did not become the subject for ribald comment. Nevertheless, as soon as he was rested and the surgeon had dressed his raw thighs, Drinkwater was on deck and had remained so ever since. He moved as little as possible, his legs too sore and his gait too undignified, atoning in his own mind for the sin of absence from his ship and the troubles it had caused.

  The reassuring sight of Drinkwater’s figure calmed the incipient spirit of revolt among the people. The fact that they were carrying sail like a Yankee packet and were bound for England raised their hopes and fed their dreams like magic. The dismal recollections of their period off Memel faded, and only the unusual sight of a marine sentry outside the first lieutenant’s cabin served to remind the majority. But there were men who had longer memories, men who bore the scars of the cat, and, while the news of Lord Walmsley’s disappearance seemed to establish an equilibrium of sacrifice in the collective consciousness of the frigate’s population, there were those who planned to desert at the first opportunity.

  For Drinkwater there was a great feeling of failure, despite the importance of the news he carried. It was compounded from many sources: the high excitement of his recent sortie; the intense, brief and curiously unsatisfactory reunion with his brother; the death (for such he privately believed it to
be) of Lord Walmsley; his uncertainty as to the fates of either Mackenzie or Santhonax; and finally, the tyrannical behaviour of Rogers and the maltreatment of Tregembo. All these had cast a great shadow over him and it took some time for this black mood to pass. It was in part a reaction after such exertion and in part a brooding worry over what was to be done about Samuel Rogers. There was a grim irony in contemplating the future of the first lieutenant; Rogers had failed worst where he had succeeded best. The effort of will and the strength of his addiction had combined to produce a monster. He had been placed under arrest and confined to his cabin where, so the surgeon reported, he had fallen into a profound catalepsy.

  The only bright spots in Drinkwater’s unhappy preoccupation were the continuing recovery of Tregembo and the value of the news from Tilsit. As the days passed these grew in strength, gradually eclipsing his misery. At last his spirits lifted, and he began to share something of the excitement of the ship’s company at the prospect of returning home. He thought increasingly of his wife and children, of Susan Tregembo and the others in his household at Petersfield, but the heavy gold watch he carried in his waistcoat pocket reminded him that, despite the lofty press of sail Antigone bore and the air of expectancy that filled the chatter of her messes, it was the realities of war that drove her onwards.

  The fair breeze that allowed them to stand to the westward under studding sails failed them during the forenoon of the last day of June. Chopping slowly round to the west, Antigone was forced to be close-hauled and stretch down into the shallow bight east of Rügen, leaving the island of Bornholm astern. By noon of the following day she was five leagues to the east of Cape Arkona and able to fetch a course towards Kioge Bay as the wind backed again into the south-west quarter. They passed Copenhagen through the Holland Deep on the afternoon of 2 July, but their hasty progress was halted the following day as the wind veered and came foul for the passage of The Sound. They anchored under the lee of the island of Hven for two days but, on the morning of the 5th, it fell light and favourable.