Under False Colours

by Richard Woodman

  CHAPTER 2

  Baiting the Eagle

  August 1809

  Below him the jangle of the chandler's door bell recalled Drinkwater to the present. The stranger emerged, settling his tricorne hat on his head and holding it there against the wind. The man turned away with his coat tails flapping, leaving the alley to the sleet and a solitary mongrel, which urinated purposefully against the wall of the pie shop opposite. The grey overcast was drawing the day to a premature close, but still Drinkwater sat on, recalling the twilight of that dawn, eight days earlier, when at the end of a night of planning he had sat at Lord Dungarth's escritoire. Apart from the servants, Drinkwater had been alone in the house, Isaac Solomon having departed an hour earlier, his lordship following, bound in his coach for the Admiralty.

  'Do you write to your proteges, Nathaniel,' he ordered, 'and I will have orders drawn up for the expeditious preparation of a gun-brig for your escort. Deliver your letters by seven and I will have them carried by Admiralty messenger.' He had been about to depart then added, as an afterthought, 'If you wish to leave word for your wife, I will have it sent after your departure. It would be best if few people know your whereabouts.'

  Few people, Drinkwater ruminated savagely, would think of looking for him here, even if they knew him to be in London; and the fact that his Lordship's proposal fell in with his private desires did nothing to assuage his sense of guilt. To this was added an extreme distaste for his task. It was perfectly logical when expounded in Lord Dungarth's withdrawing room, but it was a far cry from his proper occupation, commanding one of His Britannic Majesty's ships of war.

  'You will assume the character of a shipmaster of the merchant marine,' Dungarth had instructed. 'Here are a coat and surtout,' he had said as his servant brought the garments in, 'and a pair of hessian boots.'

  Drinkwater regarded them now; they had once been elegant boots, a tassel adorning the scalloped tops of their dark green leather.

  'I don't need more than one at a time, these days,' he recalled Dungarth joking with bitter irony. 'I'll have your sea kit shipped aboard Quilhampton's brig ...'

  Drinkwater had slipped into Wapping feeling like a spy.

  And he felt worse now, worn by the tedious days of idle waiting, trying to sustain his spirits with the assurances of Dungarth and Solomon that his part in lying low in Wapping was crucial to the success of the mission, but unable to stop worrying whether or not Elizabeth knew of Patrician's arrival home, or how Quilhampton, the matter of his marriage pressing, had viewed his secret orders.

  But over and over again, as he waited interminably, it seemed, his thoughts came round to the secret service to which he was now irrevocably committed.

  'Isaac has provided the capital and made arrangements for a large consignment of boots and greatcoats to be loaded aboard a barque lying in the Pool of London. To all outward appearances the whole transaction is a commercial one, a speculative venture that contents the manufacturers,' Dungarth had explained.

  That much Drinkwater had guessed. Mr Solomon was clearly a cut above the Jewish usurers, slop-sellers and hawkers who supplied credit, cash and personal necessities to His Majesty's fleet. Solomon had alluded to a considerable illicit trade run through Helgoland and Hamburg, actively encouraged by Bourrienne, once Napoleon's private secretary, but then the Governor of Hamburg.

  'M'sieur Bourrienne,' Solomon had explained, 'suffered from a sense of grievance at the loss of his influential position with the Emperor; his cooperation was not difficult to secure.' Solomon had smiled. 'And, of course, Captain, every cargo sold to Hamburg or Russia is of benefit to England ...'

  Staring down into the rain-lashed ginnel, Drinkwater thought of the snatches of rumour and news he had gleaned in his brief period back on English soil. There were scandals in both the army and the navy, in addition to the fiasco that seemed inevitable at Walcheren. More disturbing were the riots in the north and the increasingly desperate need for markets for manufactured goods. Doubtless Solomon would profit privately from this venture, for Dungarth's remarks concerning Canning suggested his alliance with the Jew was a bold stroke, but if a trade could be opened with Russia, it might ameliorate the sufferings of the labouring poor as well as achieve the object Dungarth had in view.

  But would a consignment of boots succeed in disrupting a solemn alliance between the two most powerful individuals on earth? True, there were a few other titbits. 'A few hundred stand of arms,' Dungarth had enthused, 'and a brace or two of horse pistols in the consignment, sufficient to equip a squadron or two of cavalry. Given the usual cupidity of the tier-rangers and the other waterside thieves, word of the nature of the consignment will become common knowledge along the Wapping waterfront.'

  And that was the crux of the affair, that was why he, Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater of the Royal Navy, was detached upon a secret service, why he occupied this squalid, rented room and played the character of a merchant shipmaster, perpetually drunk, cantankerous and misanthropic. Sadly, it was all too easy in his present state of mind.

  'Among that waterside riff-raff, you have only to find Fagan,' Lord Dungarth had finally said, 'and spread this tittle-tattle to him. He's a man known to us, d'you see, Nathaniel, a courier who passes regularly between London and Paris carrying gossip and the odd, planted message. You have merely to indicate the value, content and destination of your cargo, for its departure to be reported to Paris. We are expecting Fagan daily; he keeps rooms above a pie shop in Wapping ...'

  Drinkwater peered across the alley. It was almost dark. He struck flint on steel and coaxed a stump of candle into life.

  'We want you to bait the eagle,' Dungarth had said as they rose to disperse, 'see that the Emperor takes the lure ...'

  It was not quite that easy, of course, his instructions went much further. He had to ship with the cargo, to play the charade to the last scene, to see that it reached Russia safely.

  Drinkwater stood stiffly and stretched. If Fagan did not arrive soon the enterprise would have to be scrapped. Perhaps he had already arrived, and was engaged elsewhere; how did one trust or predict the movements of a double agent?

  Drinkwater threw himself on the narrow bed and considered Dungarth's warning of the burden of the war, his consuming conviction that only an alliance with Russia would break the stalemate between Great Britain's superiority at sea and France's hold on the continent of Europe.

  Drinkwater remembered the Russian army in its bivouacs around Tilsit. The sheer size of that patient multitude was impressive and the cogent fact that the Tsar's ill-trained levies had inflicted upon Napoleon's veterans the near defeat of Eylau and the Pyrrhic victory of Friedland argued in favour of Dungarth's ambitious policy.

  'We must have Russia as a continental reinforcement,' Dungarth had reiterated with characteristically single-minded vehemence. 'Without her almost inexhaustible resources of manpower, there is nothing on earth to oppose France ...'

  That was true. Prussia had long ago succumbed, Austria was beaten, Germans, Poles and Danes all bowed to the imperial will. Apart from the British, only the isolated Swedes and the erratic Spaniards defied Paris ...

  'And it's such a fragile thing, Nathaniel,' Dungarth's voice echoed in Drinkwater's memory, 'this alliance between Alexander and Napoleon, so flimsy, based as it is upon a mutual regard by two vain and selfish men. The one is utterly unreliable, the other determined, wilful, but fickle ... we have only to interpose a doubt, the one about the other and ...'

  He woke with a start, aware that he had dozed off. It was quite dark in the room, for the candle had gone out. From the alley came the noise of a few passers-by, seamen bound for the neighbouring knocking shop, he guessed, noting the rain had stopped. From within the house came the dull buzz of conversation and domestic activity. The ship's chandler had shut up his store to take his evening meal with his wife and mother-in-law. Later, when he had finished, he would come and attend to his uninvited guest. He was in the pay of the government, a gleaner of news
who talked freely to masters and mates in want of necessaries for their ships, seamen requiring outfits and slops and all those associated with the huge volume of merchant trade which flourished despite Napoleon's Continental System.

  The gin had left Drinkwater thirsty and with a foul taste in his mouth. He got up and peered into the jug. The stale smell revolted him and he found he was in want of the privy.

  'God's bones,' he swore, putting off the distasteful moment and standing by the window scratching the bites of the vermin which infested his mattress. Overhead the cloud was shredding itself to leeward. 'Wind veered nor' west,' he muttered to himself. Neither the westerly gale nor the veering wind would allow a boat to slip across the Strait of Dover. Fagan would not come tonight, nor tomorrow. Not unless he was a man of uncommon energy and sailed from Cherbourg, or some other port well to the westward.

  Drinkwater went back to the bed and, hands behind his head, stared up at the pale rectangle of the ceiling. Where were Quilhampton and Frey now? Had James Quilhampton caught the mail coach and raced to Edinburgh to marry Mistress MacEwan? Drinkwater had sent him a draught to be drawn on his own prize agent to finance the wedding; but there was the troublesome person of the girl's aunt and the matter of the banns.

  And had Frey done as instructed, and seen the bulk of Captain Drinkwater's personal effects into safe-keeping aboard his gun-brig?

  The thoughts chased themselves round and round Drinkwater's brain. He longed for a book to read, but Solomon's clerk had conducted him to the vacant room above Mr Davey's chandlery with such circumspection that Drinkwater, eager not to lose a moment and expecting the mysterious Fagan to appear within hours of his taking post, had not thought of it for himself. Mr Davey's store had yielded up a copy of Hamilton Moore, but Drinkwater had spent too many hours conning its diagrams of the celestial spheroid in his youth to derive much satisfaction from it now.

  Lying still, the urge to defecate subsided. How long would he have to wait before he confronted Fagan? And how would he accomplish that most subtle of tasks, the giving away of the game in a manner calculated to inform without raising the slightest suspicion?

  A scratching at the door roused him from his lethargy. He opened the door upon Mr Davey's rubicund face.

  'A bite to eat, Cap'n?'

  'Aye, thank you, Mr Davey, and I'd be obliged for a new candle.'

  'Of course ... if you'll bide a moment ...'

  Davey slipped away to return a few moments later. 'Here you are, sir. There's no news I'm afraid, Cap'n ...'

  'And not likely to be with this wind,' Drinkwater said morosely as Davey struggled with flint and steel.

  'I wouldn't say that, Cap'n. Mr Fagan has a way of poppin' up, as it were. Like jack-in-the-box, if you take my meaning-'

  'D'you know him well, then?'

  'Well enough, Cap'n,' replied Davey, coaxing the candle into life. 'He takes his lodging in the room yonder. When I gets word I tell the one-legged gennelman.'

  'I see. And the customer you received late this afternoon? What was his business?'

  Davey winked and tapped the side of his nose. 'A gennelman in a spot o' trouble, Cap'n Waters,' he said, using Drinkwater's assumed name. 'Word gets round, d'ye see, that I sell paregoric elixir ...' Davey enunciated the words with a certain proprietorial hauteur. 'He's afeared o' visiting a quack or a 'pothecary, but mostly o'Job's Dock.'

  'Who's dock?' asked Drinkwater, biting into the gristle that seemed the chief constituent of the meat pie Davey had brought him.

  'Job's Dock, Cap'n, the venereal ward at St Bartholomew's. He's got himself burnt, d'ye see ...'

  'Yes, yes ...' Drinkwater was losing his appetite.

  'I stock a supply for the benefit of the seamen ...'

  'I understand, Mr Davey, though I did not know tincture of opium was effective against the pox.'

  'Ah, but it clears the distemper of the mind, Cap'n, it relieves the conscience ...'

  When a man has a bad conscience, Drinkwater thought, the most trivial remarks and events serve to remind him of it. Perhaps Davey's paregoric elixir would remove the distemper of his own mind. He visited the privy and turned instead to the replenished jug of gin. An hour later he fell asleep.

  He had no idea how long he had slept when he felt himself being shaken violently.

  'Cap'n, sir! Cap'n! Wake ye up, d'ye hear! Wake up!'

  Snatched from the depths of slumber Drinkwater was at first uncertain of his whereabouts, but then, suddenly alarmed, he thrust Davey aside to reach for his pistol. 'What the devil is it, Davey? Damn it, take your hands off me!'

  "Tis him, sir, Fagan ... !'

  Drinkwater was on his feet in an instant and had crossed the room to stare out over the dark gutway of the alley. No light betrayed any new arrival over the pie shop opposite. There were noises from the ginnel below, but there always were as the patrons of the adjacent bordello came and went.

  'He's next door, sir, in Mrs Hockley's establishment, Cap'n.'

  'How the deuce d'you know?' asked Drinkwater, drawing on the borrowed boots.

  'She sent word, Cap'n. She keeps her ears and eyes open when I asks her.'

  'You didn't mention me?' Drinkwater asked, relieved when Davey shook his head.

  He wondered how many other people knew that Fagan was expected in the Alsatia of Wapping. It was too late for speculation now. His moment had come and he must act without hesitation. He pulled on his coat and took a swig of the watered gin, swilling it round his mouth and spitting it out again, allowing some of it to dribble on to his soiled neckcloth.

  'I wouldn't take your pistol, Cap'n, Ma Hockley don't allow even the gentry to carry arms in her house ... here, take the cane.'

  Drinkwater took the proffered malacca, twisted the silver knob to check the blade was loose inside, clapped his hat on his head and left the darkened room. 'Obliged to you, Mr Davey,' he said over his shoulder as he clattered down the stairs with Davey behind him. Davey pushed past him at their foot and led him through the store, opening the street door with a jangle of keys and tumbling of locks.

  To Drinkwater, even the air of the alley smelled sweet after the stifling confinement of his room. Despite the slime beneath his feet and the sulphurous stink of sea-coal smoke, the wind brought with it a tang of salt, blown from the exposed mudflats of the Thames. He caught himself from marching along the alley and walked slowly towards the door of Mrs Hockley's. It was open, and spilled a lozenge of welcoming yellow lamplight on to the ground.

  He turned into the doorway to be confronted by a tall ugly man.

  'Yeah? What d'you want then?'

  Drinkwater leaned heavily on his cane. He hoped his nervousness gave some credibility to his attempt to act drunk. He chose to speak with deliberate care rather than risk exposure by a poor attempt to slur his words.

  'A little pleasure ... a little escape ... a desire to make the acquaintance of Mistress Hockley ...' He eased his weight against the wall.

  ''Eard of'er, 'ave you?'

  'In the most favourable terms.' Drinkwater leaned against the wall while Mrs Hockley's pimp and protector half turned and thrust his head through a door leading off the hall.

  'Got a nob here, Dolly, a-wishin' to make your hacquaintance ...'

  Mrs Hockley appeared and Drinkwater doffed his hat and, still leaning on the wall, made a bow.

  'Madam ... at your service ...' He straightened up. She was a voluptuously blowsy woman in her forties, her soiled gown cut low to reveal an ample bosom which she animated by shrugging her shoulders forward. 'Charmed, Madam,' Drinkwater added for good effect, admittedly stirred by the unrestrained flesh after so long an abstinence. 'I am in search of a little convivial company, Madam ...'

  'Oh, you 'ave come to the right place, Mr ... ?'

  'Waters, Madam, Captain Waters ... in the Baltic trade ...'

  'Oh, ain't that nice. Let the Captain in, Jem.' She smiled, an insincere stretching of her carmined lips, and took his arm. 'What does the Captain fancy, then
? I 'ave a new mulatto girl an' a peachy little virgin as might have just bin specially ordered for your very pleasure.'

  Drinkwater followed her into a brightly lit room. It was newly papered and an India carpet covered the floor. Over the fireplace hung a large oil painting, an obscene rendering of the Judgement of Paris.

  Four of Mrs Hockley's 'girls' lounged in various states of erotic undress on chaises-longues and sofas with which the room seemed overcrowded. The light was provided by an incongruously elaborate candelabra which threw a cunningly contrived side-light upon the bodies and faces of the waiting whores. Of the mysterious Fagan there was no sign.

  'A little drink for the Captain,' Mrs Hockley ordered, 'while he makes his choice.'

  Drinkwater grinned. 'No, thank you, I did not come here to drink, Mrs Hockley ...'

  'My, the Captain's a wit, to be sure, ain't 'e girls?'

  The whores stared back or smiled joylessly, according to their inclination. Drinkwater swiftly cast an eye over them. He was going to have to choose damned carefully and he was aware that his knowledge of the female character was wanting.

  'This is Chloe, Captain, the mulatto girl of whom I spoke.' She had been handsome once, if you had a taste for the negro, Drinkwater thought, her dark eyes still contained a fire that suggested a real passion might be stirred by even the most routine of couplings. She would be dangerous for his purpose, a view confirmed by her sullen pout as he turned his attention away.

  'And this is Clorinda ...' Bored and tired, Clorinda stared back at him through lacklustre eyes, her pseudo-classical trade name sitting ill upon her naked shoulders. 'And this is Zenobia ...'

  Mixed blood had produced a skin the colour of cafe au lait and a luxurious profusion of raven hair. Zenobia was not handsome, her face was heavily pocked, but she had a lasciviously small waist and she met his stare with a steady gaze. She held his eyes a moment longer than prudence dictated, but the twitch of pure lust that ran through Drinkwater was masked mercifully by a heavy thud from the floor above. It prompted a self-conscious giggle from Chloe and the fourth girl as Mrs Hockley, growing impatient with her vacillating customer, played her ace. 'And this, Captain, offered to you at a special price, is Psyche.' Mrs Hockley drew the girl forward and, like a trained bear, the giggling bawd assumed a demure, downcast pose, as though reluctantly offering herself. 'A virgin, Captain ... certified so by Mr Gosse, the chirurgeon.'