Under False Colours

by Richard Woodman

  Drinkwater envied Gilham the cold, unemotional approach of a man whose life was guided by the simplistic principles of profit and loss.

  'Every man has his price, they say,' Drinkwater said.

  'And it is a very accurate saw, sir,' added Gilham, cocking an appraising eye at the mysterious 'captain' Littlewood had informed him was a personage of some importance.

  'You sound as though you have done this sort of thing before, Captain.'

  'I am told,' Gilham replied obliquely, 'that best Bohea is available for guests at the Tuileries and Malmaison.'

  'As is cognac at the Court of St James ... hullo, our friend stirs.'

  Both men watched the uncanny sight of a large gaffed mainsail hauled aloft from an unseen deck as the Dutch customs cutter got under way. The long masthead pendant with its Imperial device trailed out in the light north-westerly wind. Littlewood joined them and in silence they observed the manoeuvre. After a few minutes they heard the splash of an anchor and the rumble of cable, then the mainsail disappeared again. The Dutch cutter was anchored closer to the two British merchant ships.

  'When this seasmoke burns off,' Gilham said, 'you'll see her guns run out.'

  'That ain't a matter of immutable law, Captain Gilham,' Drinkwater remarked lightly, 'but it's a damned sound judgement.'

  A few minutes later, arriving as weirdly as Gilham had done, the senior Dutch customs officer clambered back over the Galliwasp's rail. Seeing Gilham he frowned and addressed a few curt words to the tired junior he had left to stand guard the previous night. The younger man said something in reply, then shrugged.

  The senior officer crossed the deck, his face angry. He asked Gilham a question and the younger officer translated.

  'He say vy do you come this scheep?'

  'To talk with my friends,' said Gilham, his expression truculent. 'How do we know you won't cheat us?'

  The junior of the two Dutchmen shrugged again and relayed the message. The exchange reversed itself.

  'It is verboten you make talk.'

  It was Gilham's turn to shrug. 'I do not understand.'

  Again the pantomime of translation. This time there was a longer exchange, then: 'Vy do you come here to Brunsbuttel?'

  'We told you last night,' Gilham said sharply, his self-appointment as spokesman lent force by his very real frustration. 'Because I have been waiting at Helgoland for seven months to discharge my cargo.' He held up his fingers to emphasize the period. 'Now the British Government tell me it is not wanted. I have no money. I must pay my crew. I have the expenses of my ship. I have a wife. I have sons.' He punched the air with his index finger, advancing on the unfortunate Dutchman until his fingertip tapped the blue-coated breast, physically ramming at him the cogency of the simple sentences. 'Now I come to sell to the Hamburgers what the British Government does not want. Tell that to your chief, and tell him that he does not tell me what I must and must not do. I am master of the Ocean and by heaven, I'll not be pushed around by you, or him!'

  Drinkwater watched the Dutchmen; one quailed visibly under Gilham's onslaught, the other's face darkened as he understood the import of Gilham's speech. As his junior turned to explain, he was brushed aside. Gilham found himself under attack. The senior officer exploded into a tirade of invective in which God, swine and the English were recognizably called upon.

  The senior douanier did not wait for this to be translated for his audience, but turned on his heel and went over the Galliwasp's rail in a swirl of his cloak. His colleague began to stammer out an explanation but ceased as Gilham touched his arm.

  'Never mind, my friend,' he said, impishly smiling, 'we understand.'

  The customs officer stood nonplussed, then shrugging dismissively shouted something to his seamen and followed his commander over the side. A moment later another young officer climbed aboard.

  'The king is dead, long live the king,' Gilham said drily.

  'Well, I suppose we'll just have to wait and see what happens now,' Littlewood remarked. 'I wonder if there's fog in the outer estuary?'

  By noon the visibility had improved and in the crisp, cold air, they could see the light tower at Cuxhaven and beyond it, the gaunt outline of the Kugelbacke beacon. Closer, the green river bank to the north and the white painted houses and spired kirk of Brunsbuttel spread out along the Ditmarsch shore. Closer still, the low, black hull of the Dutch cutter swum out of the dissipating mist.

  'Looks as innocent as a swimhead barge, don't she,' said Littlewood as they studied her sharply raked bow.

  'Not with those black muzzles pointing at us,' said Gilham.

  'How d'you rate your own people if it came to a fire fight?' asked Drinkwater in a low voice.

  'They don't have any practice,' replied Littlewood, 'though they'd be game enough.'

  'Well, gentlemen,' said Gilham resolutely, 'if you're contemplating a private war, I'm returning to the Ocean. As I said to that squarehead, I've an interest in survival, never having rated glory very highly. Besides,' he added as he whistled for his boat's crew, 'it's dinner time.'

  Littlewood and Drinkwater, who dined later, stood in silence for a while, curiously sweeping their glasses along the shoreline. The pastoral tranquillity of the scene was far from the blasts of war they were discussing. Cattle grazed the water-meadows and they could see the red flash of a shawl where a girl was tending poultry on the foreshore.

  'Boat putting off from the Dutchman.' Munsden's report made them turn their telescopes on the cutter. Both of their recent visitors were leaving, bound for the beach where a horseman rode down to meet them.

  In the sunshine they could see a green uniform topped by a plumed shako.

  'French officer of chasseurs,' said Drinkwater, holding the figure in his Dollond pocket-glass.

  'I can see some more of them, look, behind the large cottage to the left of the church ...'

  Drinkwater swung his glass to where Littlewood was indicating. He could see mounting figures pulling out of what he presumed were their horse-lines.

  'I wonder why he never asked for our papers,' pondered Littlewood as the two men watched the Dutchmen leap ashore and confer with the French officer.

  'I think we annoyed him too much and he was frustrated by not being able to speak to us directly. Gilham upset him and I suspect he's reporting us to his superiors. He's got us under his guns and he may be under some constraint, being a Dutchman.'

  'There are some fiercely republican Dutchmen,' Littlewood said.

  'Yes, I know.'

  'I wonder what lingo they speak between each other?' Littlewood mused as they watched the French officer jerk his horse's head round.

  'God knows,' said Drinkwater.

  The French officer apparently shouted an order and four troopers, the men that had just mounted up, broke away from the horse-lines and rode after him as he set off eastwards at a canter.

  'Odd that he needs an escort,' said Littlewood, lowering his glass and wiping his eye. 'Matter of waiting now,' he added.

  They were compelled to wait two days before they learned of any reaction in Hamburg. Early on the morning of the first of these, however, a cloudy morning with the wind backed into the south-west, the horizon beyond the yellow scars of the exposed sandbanks to seaward was broken by the grey topsails of two ships.

  In silence the observers on the decks of the Galliwasp and Ocean watched their approach with anxiety. This anxiety was real enough, for the first event of that day had been the arrival at Brunsbuttel of a jingling battery of horse artillery. The unlimbered field guns now pointed directly at them and, with the cannon of the Dutch cutter, neatly enfiladed them. Until the appearance of the distant topsails, the curious aboard Galliwasp and Ocean had occupied their enforced idleness by studying the artillerymen who, having established themselves, lounged about their pieces.

  Despite the protests of their guard, Littlewood had sent Munsden aloft with the watch-glass to call down a commentary on events to seaward of them which was eagerly atten
ded by those below.

  'They are the Combatant and the Bruizer, right enough, and they're just clewin' up their main an' fores'ls.'

  'Where are they?'

  'Comin' up abeam of Cuxhaven ... aye, Combatant's roundin' up into the tide ...'

  'Anchoring or taking a tack inshore?' Littlewood asked anxiously, for whatever he did, Combatant's commander must look as though he was making a determined effort to retake the truant merchant ships.

  'She's opening fire!'

  They could see the yellow flashes from the deck now, and the sloop's yards braced sharp up as she crabbed across the young flood tide.

  'There won't be much resistance at Cuxhaven,' said Littlewood, 'if the last reports were correct.'

  'No,' said Drinkwater, staring through his glass, his heart beating for those two distant ships. The thunder of that opening broadside rolled dully over the water even as Combatant loosed off a second and a third.

  'Bruizer's standin' on,' reported Munsden, unconsciously betraying the plan, the gun-brig making directly for them while the heavier sloop occupied whatever might be at Cuxhaven in the way of artillery. And then they knew. Six yellow pin points of muzzle flashes were followed by another six.

  'My God, they've got two batteries of horse-artillery there! They weren't evident the other day when we passed.'

  'Moved in this morning, like our friends yonder,' Littlewood said, jerking his head at the nearer shore without lowering his glass.

  'Bruizer comes too far to the north, Kapitan,' said Herr Reinke, the pilot and surveyor. 'He must be careful.'

  Drinkwater transferred his attention to the gun-brig. Unaware that any resistance would be forthcoming from Cuxhaven, a pretext for the withdrawal of the two men-of-war had to be invented. To achieve this, Smithies had been ordered to incline his course so as to take the bottom on the North Ground, the sandbank opposite Cuxhaven. The resulting confusion would offer the commander of the Combatant a pretext for breaking off the action. In fact there was little risk to the shallow draft gun-brig. The tide was rising and with her anchor down, she would float off in an hour or two.

  But with the Combatant engaging artillery ashore and Smithies acting over-zealously, the ruse looked as though it might be more realistic than was intended.

  'If anything miscarries, Captain,' Littlewood muttered beside him, aware of Drinkwater's apprehension for the naval ships, 'don't forget to look cheerful!'

  Drinkwater grunted, his throat dry. Of course, Reinke could be wrong. At this distance it was notoriously difficult to judge angles of aspect.

  'Bruizer's struck sir!' Munsden called. 'And lost her foretop-mast!'

  Littlewood burst into a cheer and slapped Drinkwater heartily on the back. Drinkwater staggered under the impact of the blow and coughed on his chagrin. Over the water the rolling concussions of the Combatant's guns duelling with the batteries at Cuxhaven echoed the thumping of his heart.

  An answering cheer came from the men ranged on the customs cutter's deck. Littlewood rounded on the Dutch officer aboard Galliwasp, 'Why you not weigh your anchor and go and fight?' he urged. The douanier shook his head.

  'Cuxhaven guns make stop your scheeps.'

  And so it proved. Combatant broke off the action and tacked across the stream as the tide slackened. Bruizer refloated and swung her head seaward. A boat was seen between the two ships, then, as Combatant went about again, she drew Bruizer in her wake on an unseen towline. As she tacked back towards the Cuxhaven shore she laid a few last broadsides at the enemy. Apart from holes in her sails, she appeared unscathed.

  'As neat a piece of seamanship as I've seen in a long while,' said Littlewood from the corner of his mouth.

  'If she had lost a mast, then things might have turned out differently,' breathed a relieved Drinkwater. He already had cause to regret the loss of one gun-brig.

  'Oh, he kept out of range of those nine-pounders ... but I'm glad to see you looking a little more cheerful at that spectacular British defeat.'

  Littlewood grinned at Drinkwater, and this time Drinkwater smiled back.

  'Russia? You are saying, Captain, that your cargo was consigned to Russia?'

  'Yes,' said Drinkwater, staring levelly at the dark and handsome Frenchman in the sober black suit. His plain, elegant clothes reminded him of Nicholas and it was clear the two had more in common than the unaffected good taste of their dress; both were the diplomatic, and therefore the political, emissaries of their respective masters. Monsieur Thiebault had arrived from Hamburg to carry out an examination on behalf of Monsieur Reinhard, the Emperor's minister in that city. Upon Monsieur Thiebault's appraisal of the curious submission of the two British shipmasters depended the success, or otherwise, of the grand deception. And incidentally, Drinkwater thought, driving the underlying fear from the forefront of his mind, ultimately their own survival.

  'But why?'

  'It is a market, M'sieur. With the continent closed to us by the decree of your Emperor, we must sell wherever we can. Had I not been driven by bad weather to Helgoland, I would not be suing for purchase by you ...'

  'Yes, yes, we have been over that,' Thiebault said testily, his command of English impeccable, 'but Russia is also under an embargo.'

  Drinkwater laughed and Littlewood beside him smiled knowingly.

  'We are able to trade with Russia, M'sieur, quite easily. As you see ...' Drinkwater nodded at the three grey greatcoats and the two pairs of hobnailed boots on the table between them. 'Samples to whet their greedy appetites' Littlewood had called them when he suggested exhibiting their cargo.

  'And your consignee was the Russian Government?'

  'That is clear from the papers before you, sir,' said Littlewood.

  'And on the papers before me it states that Captain Waters here is the master of this ship,' Thiebault said suspiciously.

  'Captain Waters,' Littlewood said, brushing the matter aside, 'is new to the trade. I am acting on his behalf and as agent for the consignors.'

  'And who are the consignors, Captain Littlewood?'

  'You can see from the manifest, sir, Solomon and Dyer.'

  Thiebault listened to something whispered in his ear by the senior Dutch officer. He nodded and consulted a second douanier on his right, a very senior French officer of the Imperial Customs Service.

  'Mynheer Roos tells me this merchant house is known in Hamburg. Is that why you have chosen to offer your cargo here, despite the embargo?'

  'M'sieur, Mynheer Roos knows well that a regular trade has been opened for some time between us. The Governor of Hamburg, M'sieur Bourrienne, encouraged it as a form of relief for the citizens ...'

  'That is not quite the case,' said Thiebault hurriedly. Bourrienne had been recalled by the omnipotent Napoleon, to whom he had once been confidential secretary, on the grounds of corruption and disobedience.

  'Perhaps not quite the case, M'sieur, but certainly the facts behind it,' Littlewood said mischievously.

  'Tell me, gentlemen, as a matter of perhaps mutual interest, are Solomon and Dyer the only London house trading with Russia?'

  'I shouldn't think so,' laughed Littlewood insouciantly, to Drinkwater's admiration. It was clear that Littlewood relished the cut and thrust of mercantile bargaining and had imbibed every detail of his assiduous coaching on Helgoland. He was proving his weight in gold, Drinkwater thought wryly.

  Thiebault rubbed his chin in thought, his eyes never leaving the faces of the four men ranged in front of him.

  'And you, Captain,' he referred to the report of Mynheer Roos. 'Gilham. Your cargo was under contract to the British Government?'

  'As I've already explained, M'sieur, I've been buzz-nacking ...'

  'I do not understand that word, Captain Gilham,' Thiebault said sharply. 'Confine yourself to the question.'

  'Yes, I was on a Government charter.'

  'And you chose a treasonable course of action ...'

  'We were told in Helgoland that the operation was not now to be undertaken.
We were told that the Government had written off our cargoes. Experience tells me that I will be extremely fortunate to recover my expenses.'

  'What was this operation?' Thiebault asked.

  'Oh, an attempt to raise the population of Hanover against the French and Prussian interference. It was common knowledge.'

  'Was it?' Thiebault said archly. 'And why do you suppose your Government decided, how do you say, to call it off, eh?'

  Gilham chuckled and worked himself forward on his chair. Because, M'sieur, they are embroiled in a grand fiasco off Walcheren, that much we know both from your Hamburg newspapers and from the scuttlebutt at Helgoland.'

  'Scuttlebutt?'

  'Gossip ... tittle-tattle ... news by word of mouth ...'

  'Ah, yes.' Thiebault swivelled his eyes to the fourth of his interviewees. 'And you, Herr Reinke. You are a surveyor are you not? You have produced surveys for the Chamber of Commerce at Hamburg, yes? You speak excellent English, I hear.'

  Reinke nodded gravely.

  'It is not good to find you on an English ship.'

  'I was making a survey off Neuwerk, M'sieur Thiebault, when I was captured by fishermen. They took me to Helgoland where they were rewarded. The English stole my survey and paid the fishermen for me.' Drinkwater heard the story delivered in Reinke's deadpan accent.

  'We received no report of this incident, Herr Reinke.'

  'It only happened five days ago. I am gone for many days sometimes, on my work.'

  'And these gentlemen obliged you by setting you free.'

  'You could say his arrival made up our minds for us, M'sieur,' Littlewood said.

  Thiebault looked at Littlewood. 'You mean it was providential?' he said, and something of doubt in his tone alarmed Drinkwater.

  'No, I merely meant that what we had been discussing amongst ourselves was made possible by Mr Reinke's capture.'

  Drinkwater's eyes met those of Thiebault and they were like two fencers, each watching for the almost imperceptible facial movement that communicated more than words, but spoke of truth and resolution.

  'And how, Captain, er, Waters, do you know you can trust us? Suppose we promise you payment, then take your cargoes and throw you into gaol?'