1805 nd-6

by Ричард Вудмен

  'Yes. He was overwhelmed in a calm by a number of gunboats and forced to surrender. They put him in the Temple and cut his throat with a rusty knife.' Camelford tapped the cracked canvas before him. 'Her husband visited the Temple the night before, with a commission from the Emperor Napoleon…'

  'The Emperor Napoleon?' queried Drinkwater, bemused by this strange and improbable story.

  'Hadn't you heard, Captain?' Camelford leaned back. 'Oh my goodness no, how could you? Bonaparte the First Consul is transfigured, Captain Drinkwater. He is become Napoleon, Emperor of the French. A plebiscite of the French people has raised him to the purple.'

  Following Camelford's welcome departure, Drinkwater was summoned to attend Lord Keith. As he kicked his heels aboard Keith's flagship, the Monarch, Drinkwater learned that not only had Napoleon secured his position as Emperor of the French but his own patron, Earl St Vincent, had been dismissed from the Admiralty. The old man refused to serve under William Pitt who had just been returned as Prime Minister in place of Addington. Pitt had said some harsh things about St Vincent when in opposition and had replaced him as First Lord of the Admiralty with Lord Melville. But Drinkwater's thoughts were not occupied with such considerations for long. His mind returned to the image of Wright lying in the Temple prison with his throat cut and the shadowy figure of Edouard Santhonax somewhere in the background. He wondered how accurate Camelford's information was and what Camelford was doing in France. Was it possible that a man of Camelford's erratic character had been employed to do what Cadoudal and Pichegru had failed to do: to assassinate Napoleon Bonaparte? The only credible explanation for that hypothesis was that Camelford had been sent into France in a private capacity. Drinkwater vaguely remembered Camelford had avoided the serious consequences of his duel with Peterson. If that had been due to family connections, was it possible that someone had put him up to an attempt on the life of Bonaparte? Pitt himself, for instance, to whom Camelford was related and who had every motive for wishing the Corsican Tyrant dead.

  There was some certainty nagging at the back of Drinkwater's mind, something that lent credibility to this extraordinary possibility. And then he remembered D'Auvergne's obscure remark to Cornwallis. Something about 'it would be soon if it was ever to be'. At the time he had connected it with D'Auvergne's passionate conviction that invasion was imminent; now perhaps the evidence pointed to Camelford having been sent into France to murder Napoleon. D'Auvergne's involvement in such operations could have made him a party to it. He was prevented from further speculation by the appearance of Keith's flag-lieutenant.

  'The admiral will see you now, sir.'

  He looked up, recalled abruptly to the present. Tucking his hat under his arm, Drinkwater went into the great cabin of the Monarch, mustering in his mind the mundane details of his need of firewood, fresh water and provisions. His reception was polite but unenthusiastic; his requisitions passed to Keith's staff. The acidulous Scots admiral asked him to take a protege of his as lieutenant in place of Gorton and then instructed Drinkwater that his presence had been requested by the new Prime Minister, then in residence at Walmer Castle.

  Drinkwater answered the summons to Walmer Castle with some misgivings. It chimed in uncomfortably with his train of thought while he had been waiting to see Keith and he could only conclude Pitt wished to see him in connection with the recent embarkation of his cousin, Camelford. It was unlikely that the interview would be pleasant and he recalled Camelford's threats when he had prevented the shooting of the fishermen.

  The castle was only a short walk from Deal beach. Many years ago he had gone there to receive orders for the rendezvous that had brought Hortense and then Edouard Santhonax into his life. On that occasion he had been received by Lord Dungarth, head of the Admiralty's intelligence service. To his astonishment it was Dungarth who met him again.

  'My dear Nathaniel, how very good to see you. How are you?'

  'Well enough, my Lord.' Drinkwater grinned with pleasure and accepted the offered glass of wine. 'I hope I find you in health?'

  Dungarth sighed. 'As well as can be expected in these troubled times, though in truth things could not be much worse. Our hopes have been dashed and Bonaparte has reversed the Republic's principles without so much as a murmur from more than a handful of die-hards. Old Admiral Truguet has resigned at Brest and Ganteaume's taken over, but I believe this imperial nonsense will combine the French better than anything, and that shrewd devil Bonaparte knows it… But I did not get you here to gossip. Billy Pitt asks for you personally. You did well to get Camelford back in one piece.'

  'It was nothing, my Lord…'

  'Oh, I don't mean embarking him. He's a cantankerous devil; I'm surprised he hasn't challenged half your officers. His honour, what there is of it, is a damned touchy subject.'

  'So I had gathered,' Drinkwater observed drily.

  Dungarth laughed. 'I'm sure you had. Anyway his capture would have been an embarrassment, particularly with the change of government.'

  'You said "our hopes have been dashed", my Lord; might I assume that Bonaparte was not intended to live long enough to assume the purple?'

  Dungarth's hazel eyes fixed Drinkwater with a shrewd glance. 'Wouldn't you say that Mr Pitt serves the most excellent port, Nathaniel?'

  Drinkwater took the hint. 'Most excellent, my Lord.'

  'And most necessary, gentlemen, most necessary…' A thin, youngish man entered the room and strode to the decanter. Drinkwater noticed that his clothes were carelessly worn, his stockings, for instance, appeared too large for him. He faced them, a full glass to his lips, and Drinkwater recognised the turned-up nose habitually caricatured by the cartoonists. 'So this is Captain Drinkwater, is it?'

  'Indeed,' said Dungarth, making the introductions, 'Captain Drinkwater; the Prime Minister, Mr Pitt.'

  Drinkwater bowed. 'Yours to command, sir.'

  'Obliged, Captain,' said Pitt, inclining his head slightly and studying the naval officer. 'I wish to thank you for your forbearance. I think you know to what I allude.'

  'It is most considerate of you, sir, to take the trouble. The service was a small one.' Drinkwater felt relief that the incident was to be made no more of.

  Pitt smiled over the rim of his glass and Drinkwater saw how tired and sick his boyish face really was, prematurely aged by the enormous responsibilities of high office.

  'He was the only midshipman that remained loyal to Riou when the Guardian struck an iceberg in the Southern Ocean,' said Pitt obliquely, as though this extenuated Camelford's behaviour. Drinkwater recalled Riou's epic struggle to keep the damaged Guardian afloat for nine weeks until she fetched Table Bay. The thought seemed to speak more of Riou's character than of Camelford's. 'Lord Dungarth assures me', Pitt went on, 'that I can rely upon your absolute discretion.'

  So, Drinkwater mused as he bowed again and muttered, 'Of course, sir', it seemed that he had guessed correctly and that Pitt himself had sent his cousin into France to end Bonaparte's career.

  But he was suddenly forced to consider more important matters.

  'Good,' said Pitt, refilling his glass. 'And now, Captain, I wish to ask you something more. How seriously do you rate the prospects of invasion?'

  The enormity of the question took Drinkwater aback. Even allowing for Pitt's recent resumption of office it seemed an extraordinary one. He shot a glance at Dungarth who nodded encouragingly.

  'Well, sir, I do not know that I am a competent person to answer, but I believe their invasion craft capable of transporting a large body of troops. That they are encamped in sufficient force is well known. Their principal difficulty is in getting a great enough number of ships in the Strait here to overwhelm our own squadrons. If they could achieve that… but I am sure, sir, that their Lordships are better placed to advise you than I…'

  'No, Captain. I ask you because you have just come in from a Channel cruise and your opinions are not entirely theoretical. I am told that the French cannot build barges capable of carrying troo
ps. I do not believe that, so it is your observations that I wished for.'

  'Very well, sir. I think the French might be capable of combining their fleet effectively. Their ships are not entirely despicable. If fortune gave them a lucky start and Nelson…' he broke off, flushing.

  'Go on, Captain. "If Nelson…"'

  'It is nothing, sir.'

  'You were about to say: "if Nelson maintains his blockade loosely enough to entice Latouche-Tréville out of Toulon for a battle, only to lose contact with him, matters might result in that combination of their fleets that you are apprehensive of." Is that it?'

  'It is a possibility talked of in the fleet, sir.'

  'It is a possibility talked of elsewhere, sir,' observed Pitt with some asperity and looking at Dungarth. 'Nelson will be the death or the glory of us all. He let a French fleet escape him before Abukir. If he wasn't so damned keen on a battle, but kept close up on Toulon like Cornwallis at Brest…' Pitt broke off to refill his glass. 'So you think there is a chance of a French fleet entering the Channel?'

  Drinkwater nodded. 'It is a remote one, sir. But the Combined Fleets of France and Spain did so in seventy-nine. They would have more chance of success if they went north about.'

  'Round Scotland, d'you mean?'

  'Yes, sir. There'd be less chance of detection,' said Drinkwater, warming to his subject and egged on by the appreciative expression on Dungarth's face. 'A descent upon the Strait of Dover from the North Sea would be quite possible and they could release the Dutch fleet en route. You could circumvent Cornwallis by…'

  'A rendezvous in the West Indies, by God!' interrupted Pitt. 'Combine all your squadrons then lose yourself in the Atlantic for a month and reappear at our back door… Dungarth, d'you think it's possible?'

  'Very possible, William, very possible, and also highly likely. The Emperor Napoleon has one hundred and seventy thousand men encamped just across the water there. I'd say that was just what he was intending.'

  Pitt crossed the rich carpet to stare out of the window at the pale line of France on the distant horizon. The waters of the Strait lay between, blue and lovely in the sunshine beyond the bastions of the castle, dotted with the white sails of Keith's cruisers. Without turning round, Pitt dismissed Drinkwater.

  'Thank you, Captain Drinkwater. I shall take note of your opinion.'

  Dungarth saw him to the door. 'Thank you, Nathaniel,' the earl muttered confidentially, 'I believe your deductions to be absolutely correct.'

  Drinkwater returned to his boat flattered by the veiled compliment from Dungarth and vaguely disturbed that his lordship, as head of the navy's intelligence service, needed a junior captain to make his case before the new Prime Minister.

  Chapter Seven

  The Army of the Coasts of the Ocean

  June-July 1804

  'Six minutes, Mr Rogers,' said Drinkwater pocketing his watch, 'very creditable. Now you may pipe the hands to dinner.'

  The shifting of the three topsails had been accomplished in good time and the tide was just turning against them. They could bring to their anchor and dine in comfort, for there was insufficient wind to hold them against a spring ebb. It was a great consolation, he had remarked to Rogers earlier, that they could eat like civilised men ashore at a steady table, while secure in the knowledge that their very presence at anchor in the Dover Strait was sufficient to keep the French army from invading.

  For almost seven weeks now, Antigone had formed part of Lord Keith's advance division, cruising ceaselessly between the Varne Bank and Cap Gris Nez, one of several frigates and sixty-fours that Keith kept in support of the small fry in the shallower water to the east. Cutters, luggers, sloops and gun-brigs, with a few bomb-vessels, kept up a constant pressure on the attempts by the French army to practise embarkation. Drinkwater knew the little clashes between the advance forces of the two protagonists were short, sharp and murderous. His disfigured shoulder was proof of that.

  Having frequently stood close inshore at high water, Drinkwater had seen that the invasion flotilla consisted of craft other than the chaloupes and péniches with which he was already familiar. There were some large prames, great barges, one hundred feet long and capable of carrying over a hundred and fifty men. A simple elevation of the telescope to the green hills surrounding Boulogne was enough to convince Drinkwater that he had been right in expressing his fears to Pitt. Line after line of tents spread across the rolling countryside. Everywhere the bright colours of soldiers in formation, little squares, lozenges, lines and rectangles, all tipped with the brilliant reflections of sunlight from bayonets, moved under the direction of their drill-masters. Occasionally squadrons of cavalry were to be seen moving; wheeling and changing from line to column and back to line again. Drinkwater was touched by the fascination of it all. Beside him Frey would sit with his box of water-colours, annoyed and impatient with himself that he could not do justice to the magnificence of the scene.

  At night they could see the lines of camp-fires, the glow of lanterns, and occasionally hear the bark of cannon from the batteries covering the beaches which opened fire on an insolent British cutter working too close inshore.

  Now Drinkwater waited for the cable to cease rumbling through the hawse and for Hill to straighten up from the vanes of the pelorus as Antigone settled to her anchor.

  'Brought up, sir.'

  'Very well. Mr Hill, Mr Rogers, would you care to dine with me? Perhaps you'd bring one of your mates, Mr Hill, and a couple of midshipmen.'

  Mullender had fattened a small pig in the manger on scraps and that morning pronounced it ready for sacrifice. Already the scent of roasting pork had been hanging over the quarterdeck for some time and Drinkwater had been shamed into sending a leg into the gunroom and another into the cockpit. Mullender had been outraged by this largesse, particularly when Drinkwater ordered what was left after his own leg had been removed to be sent forward. But it seemed too harsh an application of privilege to subject his men to the aroma of sizzling crackling and deny them a few titbits. Besides, their present cruising ground was so near home that reprovisioning was no problem.

  A companionable silence descended upon the table as the hungry officers took knife and fork to the dismembered pig.

  'You are enjoying your meal, Mr Gillespy, I believe?' remarked Drinkwater, amused at the ecstatic expression on the midshipman's face.

  'Yes, sir,' the boy squeaked, 'thanking you sir, for your invitation…' He flushed as the other diners laughed at him indulgently.

  'Well, Mr Gillespy,' added Rogers, his mouth still full and a half-glass of stingo aiding mastication and simultaneous speech, 'it's an improvement on the usual short commons, eh?'

  'Indeed, sir, it is.'

  'You had some mail today, Mr Q, news of home I trust?'

  Drinkwater asked, knowing three letters had come off in the despatch lugger Sparrow that forenoon.

  'Yes, sir. Catriona sends you her kindest wishes.' James Quilhampton grinned happily.

  'D'you intend to marry this filly then, Mr Q?' asked Rogers.

  'If she'll have me,' growled Quilhampton, flushing at the indelicacy of the question.

  'Can't see the point of marriage, myself,' Rogers said morosely.

  'Oh, I don't know,' put in Hill. 'Its chief advantage is that you can walk down the street with a woman on your arm without exciting damn-fool comments from y'r friends.'

  'Fiddlesticks!' Rogers looked round at the half-concealed smirks of Quilhampton and Frey. Even little Gillespy seemed to perceive a well-known joke. 'What the devil d'you mean, Hill?' demanded Rogers, colouring.

  'That you cut out a pretty little corvette, trimmed fore and aft with ribbons and lace, with an entry port used by half the fleet in Chatham…'

  'God damn it…'

  'Now had you been married we would have thought it your wife, don't you see?'

  'Why… I…'

  'No, Hill, we'd never have fallen for that,' said James Quilhampton, getting his revenge. 'A married man wou
ld not have been so imprudent as to have carried so much sail upon his bowsprit,'

  Upon this phallic reference the company burst into unrestrained laughter at the first lieutenant's discomfiture. Rogers coloured and Drinkwater came to his rescue.

  'Take it in good part, Sam. I heard she was devilish pretty and those fellows are only jealous. Besides I've news for you. You need no longer stand a watch. I received notice this morning that Keith wants us to find a place for an eleve of his, a Lieutenant Fraser…'

  'Oh God, a Scotchman,' complained Rogers, irritated by Quilhampton and knowing his partiality in that direction. Mullender drew the cloth and placed the decanter in front of Drinkwater. He filled his glass and sent it round the table.

  'And now, gentlemen… The King!'

  Drinkwater looked round the table and reflected that they were not such a bad set of fellows and it was a very pleasant day to be dining, with the reflections of sunlight on the water bouncing off the painted deckhead and the polished glasses.

  Two days later the weather wore a different aspect. Since dawn Antigone had worked closer inshore under easy sail, having been informed by signal that some unusual activity was taking place in the harbour and anchorage of Boulogne Road. By noon the wind, which had been steadily freshening from the north during the forenoon, began to blow hard, sending a sharp sea running round Cap Gris Nez and among the considerable numbers of invasion craft anchored under the guns of Boulogne's defences.

  The promise of activity, either action with the enemy or the need to reef down, had aroused the curiosity of the officers and the watch on deck. A dozen glasses were trained to the eastward.

  'Mr Frey, make to Constitution to come within hail.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.' The bunting rose jerkily to the lee mizen topsail yard and broke out. Drinkwater watched the hired cutter that two days earlier had brought their new lieutenant. She tacked and lay her gunwhale over until she luffed under the frigate's stern. Drinkwater could see her commander, Lieutenant Dennis, standing expectantly on a gun-carriage. He raised a speaking-trumpet.