'Easy, Drinkwater, easy. I have no impertinent interest in you. On the contrary, I have always heard you spoken of in the highest terms by Lord Dungarth.'
' Lord Dungarth?'
'Indeed. My station in St Helier is connected with Lord Dungarth's department.'
'Ahhh,' Drinkwater refilled his glass, passing the decanter across the table, 'I begin to see…'
Lord Dungarth, with whom Drinkwater had first become acquainted as a midshipman, was the head of the British Admiralty's intelligence network. Drinkwater's personal relationship with the earl extended to a private obligation contracted when Dungarth had helped to spirit Drinkwater's brother Edward away into Russia when the latter was wanted for murder. The evasion of justice had been accomplished because he had killed a French agent known to Dungarth. Edward had in fact slaughtered Etienne de Montholon because he had found him in bed with his own mistress, but Dungarth's interest in Montholon had served to cover Edward's crime and protect Drinkwater's own career. It was an episode in his life that Drinkwater preferred to forget.
'What do you know of Santhonax?' he asked at last.
D'Auvergne looked round him. 'That he commanded this ship in the Red Sea; that you captured him and he subsequently escaped; that he was appointed a colonel in the French Army after transferring from the naval service; and that he is now an aide-de-camp to First Consul Bonaparte himself.'
'And your opinion of him?'
'That he is daring, brave and the epitome of all that makes the encampments of the French along the heights of Boulogne a most dangerous threat to the safety of Great Britain.'
Drinkwater's hostility towards D'Auvergne evaporated. The two had discovered a common ground and Drinkwater rose, crossing the cabin and lifting the lid of the big sea-chest in the corner. 'So I have always thought myself,' he said, reaching into the chest. 'Furthermore, I have this to show you…'
Drinkwater returned to the table with a roll of canvas, frayed at the edges. He spread it out on the table. The paint was badly cracked and the canvas damaged where the tines of a fork had pierced it. It was D'Auvergne's turn to show astonishment.
'Good God alive!'
'You know who she is?'
'Hortense Santhonax… with Junot's wife one of the most celebrated beauties of Paris… This…' He stared at the lower right hand corner, 'this is by David. How the devil did you come by it?'
Drinkwater looked down at the portrait. The red hair and the slender neck wound with pearls rose from a bosom more exposed than concealed by the wisp of gauze around the shoulders.
'It hung there, on that bulkhead, when we took this ship in the Red Sea. I knew her briefly.'
'Were you in that business at Beaubigny back in ninety-two?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Aye. I was mate of the cutter Kestrel when we took Hortense, her brother and others off the beach there, émigrés we thought then, escaping from the mob…'
'Who turned their coats when their money ran out, eh?'
'That is true of her brother certainly. She, I now believe, never intended other than to dupe us.' He did not add that she had been Hortense de Montholon then, sister to the man his own brother Edward had murdered at Newmarket nine years later.
D'Auvergne nodded. 'You are very probably right in what you say. She and her husband are fervent and enthusiastic Bonapartists. I have no doubt that if Bonaparte continues to ascend in the world, so will Santhonax.'
'This knowledge is learned from your station at St Helier, I gather?'
D'Auvergne smiled, the sardonic grin friendly now. 'Another correct assumption, Drinkwater.' He regarded his host with curiosity. 'I had heard your name from Dungarth in the matter of some enterprise or other. He is not given to idle gossip about all his acquaintances, as a gentleman in our profession cannot afford to be. But I perceive you have seen a deal of service…' he trailed off.
Drinkwater smiled back. 'My midshipmen consider me an ancient and tarpaulin officer, Captain D'Auvergne. Very little of my time has been spent in grand vessels like the one I have the honour to command at this time. I take your point about the need to guard the tongue, but I also take it that you have a clearing house on Jersey where information is collected?'
'Captain,' D'Auvergne said lightly, 'you continue to amaze with the accuracy of your deductions.'
The decanter passed between them and Drinkwater began to relax for the first time since the morning. The silence that fell between them was companionable now. After a pause D'Auvergne said, 'Knowing the confidence reposed in you by Lord Dungarth, I will venture to tell you that it is part of my responsibility to gather information through a network of agents in northern France. My operations are of particular interest to Sir William, for I am able to pass on a surprising amount of news concerning Truguet's squadron at Brest. Hence my unease at the prospect of you harrying the actual sea-borders of France. Harry their trade and destroy the invasion barges wherever you find them, but have a thought for the sympathies of sea-faring folk who have never had much loyalty for the government in Paris…'
'Or London, come to that,' Drinkwater added wryly. The two men laughed again.
'Seriously, Drinkwater, I believe we are at the crisis of the war and I am sad that the government is not united behind a determination to face facts. This inter-party wrangling will be our undoing. The French army is formidable, everywhere victorious, a whole population turned to war. All we have to hope for is that Bonaparte might fall. There are indications of political upheavals in France. You have heard of the recent discovery of a plot to kill the First Consul; there are other reactions to him still fermenting. If they succeed I believe we will have a lasting peace before the year is out. But if Bonaparte survives, then not only will his position be unassailable but the invasion inevitable. The plans are already well advanced. Do not underestimate the power, valour or energy of the French. If Bonaparte triumphs he will have hundreds of Santhonaxes running at his horse's tail. Their fleet must be kept mewed up in Brest until this desperate business is concluded. This is the purpose of my visits to Cornwallis but I can see no harm in the captain of every cruiser being aware of the extreme danger we are in.' D'Auvergne leaned forward and banged the table for emphasis. 'Invasion and Bonaparte are the most lethal combination we have ever faced!'
Chapter Four
Foolish Virgins
April 1804
'Where away?'
Drinkwater shivered in the chill of dawn, peering to the eastward where Hill pointed.
'Three points to starboard, sir. Ten or a dozen small craft with a brig as escort.'
He saw them at last, faint interruptions on the steel-blue horizon, growing more substantial as every minute passed and the gathering daylight grew. Squatting, he steadied his glass and studied the shapes, trying to deduce what they might be. Behind him he heard the shuffle of feet as other officers joined Hill, together with a brief muttering as they discussed the possibility of an attack.
Drinkwater rose stiffly. His neck and shoulder arched in the chilly air. He shut the telescope with a snap and turned on the officers.
'Well, gentlemen. What d'you make of 'em, eh?'
'Invasion barges,' said Hill without hesitation. Drinkwater agreed.
'"Chalowpes" and "péniches", I believe they call the infernal things, moving eastwards to the rendezvous at Havre and all ready to embark what Napoleon Bonaparte is pleased to call the Army of the Coasts of the Ocean.'
'Clear for action, sir?' asked Rogers, his pale features showing the dark shadow of an unshaven jaw and reminding Drinkwater that daylight was growing quickly.
'No. I think not. Pipe up hammocks, send the hands to breakfast. Mr Hill, have your watch clew up the fore-course. Hoist French colours and edge down towards them. No show of force. Mr Frey, a string of bunting at the fore t'gallant yardarms. We are Frenchbuilt, gentlemen. We might as well take advantage of the fact. Mr Rogers, join me for breakfast.'
As he descended the companionway Drinkwater heard the watch called to stand
by the clew-garnets and raise the fore tack and sheet. Below, the berth-deck erupted in sudden activity as the off-duty men were turned out of their hammocks. He nodded to the marine sentry at attention by his door and entered the cabin. Rogers followed and both men sat at the table which was being hurriedly laid by an irritated Mullender.
'You're early this morning, sir,' grumbled the steward, with the familiar licence allowed to intimate servants.
'No, Mullender, you are late… Sit down, Sam, and let us eat. The morning's chill has made me damned hungry.'
'Thank you. You do intend to attack those craft, don't you?'
'Of course. When I've had some breakfast.' He smiled at Rogers who once again looked at though he had been drinking heavily the night before. 'D'you remember when we were in the Virago together we were attacked off the Sunk by a pair of luggers?'
'Aye…'
'And we beat 'em off. Sank one of them if I remember right. The other…'
'Got away,' interrupted Rogers.
'For which you have never forgiven me… ah, thank you, Mullender. Well I hope this morning to rectify the matter. Let's creep up and take that little brig. She'd make a decent prize, mmm?'
'By God, I'll drink to that!' Comprehension dawned in Rogers's eyes.
'I thought you might, Sam, I thought you might. But I want those bateaux as well.'
They attacked the skillygolee enthusiastically, encouraged by the smell of bacon coming from the pantry where Mullender was still muttering, each occupied with their private thoughts. Rogers considered a naval officer a fool if he did not risk everything to make prize-money. Since he had never had the chief command of a ship, he thought himself very hard done by over the matter. The event to which Drinkwater had alluded was a case in point. Both knew that they had been fortunate to escape capture when they were engaged by a pair of lugger privateers off Orfordness when on their way to Copenhagen. But whereas Drinkwater appreciated his escape, Rogers regretted they had not made a capture, even though the odds against success had been high. The Virago had been a lumbering old bomb-vessel whose longest-range guns were in her stern, an acknowledgement that an enemy attack would almost certainly be from astern! But a pretty little brig-corvette brought under the guns of the Antigone would be an entirely different story. With such an overwhelming superiority Drinkwater would not hesitate to attack and the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Nevertheless Rogers found himself hoping the brig would have a large crew, so that he might distinguish himself and perhaps gain a mention in The Gazette.
Drinkwater's thoughts, on the other hand, were only partially concerned with the brig. It was the other vessels he was thinking of. They were five leagues south-east of Pointe de Barfleur, on the easternmost point of the Contentin Pensinsula. The convoy of invasion craft were on passage across the Baie de la Seine bound for their rendezvous at Le Havre. It was here that the French were assembling vessels built further west, prior to dispersing them along the Pas de Calais, at Etaples, Boulogne, Wimereux and Ambleteuse, in readiness for the embarkation of the army destined to conquer Great Britain and make the French people masters of the world.
Perhaps Drinkwater's experiences of the French differed from those of his colleagues who were apt to ridicule the possibility of ultimate French victory; perhaps Captain D'Auvergne had alerted him to the reality of a French invasion; but from whatever cause he did not share his first lieutenant's unconditional enthusiasm. What Rogers saw as a possible brawl which should end to their advantage, Drinkwater saw as a matter of simple necessity. It was up to him to destroy in detail before the French were able to overwhelm in force. There had been much foolish talk, and even more foolish assertions in the newspapers, of the impracticality of the invasion barges. There had been mention of preposterous notions of attack by balloon, of great barges driven by windmills, even some crackpot ideas of under-water boats which had had knowledgeable officers roaring with laughter on a score of quarterdecks, despite the fact that such an attack had been launched against Admiral Howe in New York during the American War. Drinkwater was apt to regard such arrogant dismissal of French abilities as extremely unwise. From what he had observed of those chaloupes and péniches there was very little wrong with them as sea-going craft. That alone was enough to make them worthy targets for His Majesty's frigate Antigone.
'Beg pardon, sir.'
'Yes, Mr Wickham, what is it?' Drinkwater dabbed his mouth with his napkin and pushed back his chair.
'Mr Hill's compliments, sir, and the wind's falling light. If we don't make more sail the enemy will get away.'
'We cannot permit that, Mr Wickham. Make all sail, I'll be up directly.'
Rogers followed him on deck and swore as soon as he saw the distance that still remained. Hill crossed the deck and touched his hat.
'Stuns'ls, sir?'
'If you please, Mr Hill, though I doubt we'll catch 'em now.'
Drinkwater looked round the horizon. Daylight had revealed a low mist which obscured the sharp line of the horizon. Above it the sun rose redly, promising a warm day with mist and little wind. Already the sea was growing smooth, its surface merely undulating, no longer rippling with the sharp though tiny crests of a steady breeze. Hardly a ripple ran down Antigone's side: the wind had suddenly died away and Drinkwater now detected a sharp chill. Beside him Rogers swore again. He turned quickly forward.
'Mr Hill!'
'Sir?'
'Belay those stuns'ls. All hands to man yard and stay tackles, hoist out the launch!' He turned to Rogers. 'Get the quarter-boats away, Sam, there's fog coming. You're to take charge.'
Rogers needed no second bidding. Already alert, the ship's company tumbled up to sway out the heavy launch with its snubnosed carronade mounted on a forward slide. It began to rise jerkily from the booms amidships as, near at hand, the slap of bare feet on the deck accompanied a hustling of men over the rail and into the light quarter-boats hanging in the davits. Among the jostling check shirts and pigtails, the red coats and white cross-belts of the marines mustered with an almost irritating formality.
'Orders, sir?' Mr Mount the lieutenant of marines saluted him.
'Mornin', Mr Mount. Divide your men up 'twixt quarter-boats and launch. Mr Rogers is in command. I want those invasion craft destroyed!'
'Very well, sir.' Mount saluted and spun round: 'Sergeant, your platoon in the starboard quarter-boat. Corporal Williams, your men the larboard. Corporal Allen, with me in the launch!'
The neat files broke up and the white-breeched, black-gaitered marines scrambled over the rails and descended into the now waiting boats. Drinkwater looked at the enemy. The invasion craft had already vanished but the brig still showed, ghostly against the insubstantial mass of the closing fog.
'Mr Hill! A bearing of the brig, upon the instant!'
'Sou'-east-a-half-south, sir!'
'Mr Rogers!' Drinkwater leaned over the rail and bawled down at the first lieutenant in the launch. 'Steer sou'-east-a-half-south. We'll fire guns for you but give you fifteen minutes to make your approach.'
He saw Rogers shove a seaman to one side so that he could see the boat compass and then the tossed oars were being lowered, levelled and swung back.
'Give way together!'
The looms bent with sudden strain and the heavy launch began to move, followed by the two quarter-boats. In the stern of each boat sat the officers in their blue coats with a splash of red from the marines over which the dull gleam of steel hung until engulfed by the fog.
'Now we shall have to wait, Mr Hill, since all the lieutenants have left us behind.'
'Indeed, sir, we will.'
Drinkwater turned inboard. There was little he could do. Already the decks were darkening from condensing water vapour. Soon it would be dripping from every rope on the ship.
'I had hoped the sun would rise and burn up this mist,' he said.
'Aye, sir. But 'tis always an unpredictable business. The wind dropped very suddenly.'
'Yes.'
T
he two men stood in silence for a few minutes, frustrated by being unable to see the progress of the boats. After a little Hill pulled out his watch.
'Start firing in five minutes, sir?'
'Mmmm? Oh, yes. If you please, Mr Hill.' They must give Rogers every chance of surprise but not allow him to get lost. Drinkwater would not put it past a clever commander to launch a counter-attack by boat, anticipating the very action he had just taken in sending a large number of his crew off.
'Send the men to quarters, Mr Hill, all guns to load canister on ball, midshipmen to report the batteries they are commanding when ready.' He raised his voice. 'Fo'c's'le there! Keep a sharp look-out!'
'Aye, aye, sir!'
'Report anything you see!'
'Aye, aye, sir!'
He turned aft to where the two marine sentries stood, one on either quarter, the traditional protection for the officer of the watch. It was also their duty to throw overboard the lifebuoy for any man unfortunate enough to fall over the side. 'You men, too. Do you keep a sharp look-out for any approaching boats!'
He fell to restless pacing, aware that the fog had caught him napping, a fact which led him into a furious self-castigation so that the report of the bow chaser took him by complete surprise.
The boom of the bow chaser every five minutes was the only sound to be heard apart from the creaks and groans from Antigone's fabric that constituted silence on board ship. Even that part of the ship's company left on board seemed to share some of their captain's anxiety. They too had friends out there in the damp grey fog. The haste with which the boats had been hoisted out had allowed certain madcap elements among the frigate's young gentlemen to take advantage of circumstances. In manning the guns, Drinkwater had learned, most of the midshipmen had clambered into boats, and those who had not done so were now regretting their constraint.
Lord Walmsley had gone, followed by the Honourable Alexander Glencross, both under Rogers in the launch. Being well acquainted with his temperament, Drinkwater knew that Rogers would have—what was the new expression?—turned a blind eye, that was it, to such a lack of discipline. Wickham had also gone in the boats, carting off little Gillespy. Dutfield had not been on deck and Frey had too keen a sense of obligation to his post as signal midshipman to desert it without the captain's permission, even though the lack of visibility rendered it totally superfluous. As a consequence Drinkwater had posted Hill's two mates, Caldecott and Tyrrell, in the waist and in charge of the batteries.
1805 nd-6 Page 4
