Under False Colours

by Richard Woodman

  'Hippolyte,' he commanded, 'allez ... votre casque, mon ami.'

  The dragoon who had thrown open the warehouse door trotted obediently up and doffed his helmet. He held it upside down as the sergeant lifted his sword arm.

  'Qu'est que ce?' he asked mockingly, slashing at a sack. Sugar loaves tumbled into Hippolyte's helmet and the dragoons roared with laughter.

  'Voila!' cried the sergeant with a flourish. 'Nom de Dieu! Sucre!'

  And the patrol lurched forward into the dark cobbled alleyway in high spirits, locking the warehouse door behind them.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Iron Marshal

  January 1810

  They were not long in the custody of the sergeant and his troopers. At the end of the alley they found a mounted officer whose helmet, scabbard and horse furniture gleamed in the flaring light of a torch held by an orderly on foot. The leaping flame, lighting his face from below, gave it a demonic cast as he stared down at the prisoners, listening to the sergeant's report. The officer's bay mount shifted uneasily beside the flickering brand, tossing its head and throwing off flecks of foam from curling lips. The officer soothed its arched neck with a gloved hand.

  With the stately clip-clop of the charger bringing up the rear they marched off, crossing a moonlit, cobbled square, to halt in the high shadow of the Rathaus. Despite the midnight hour, messengers came and went, clattering up to the waiting orderlies who grabbed flung reins as the aides dashed into the lit archway, the flanking sentries snapping to attention and receiving the most perfunctory of salutes from the young officers.

  Drinkwater, Gilham and Johannes were marched off to a side door, entering a stone flagged passage that opened out into an arched chamber guarded by two shakoed sentinels and containing a staff officer who sat writing at a desk. The escort of dragoons was dismissed, infantry took over and the dragoon officer made a sotto voce report to the staff captain. The latter barely looked up, though his pen scribbled busily across the uppermost of a small pile of papers. These formalities over, the three prisoners were taken through an iron-bound door and locked into a small chamber which had clearly been used as a storeroom.

  Gilham and Drinkwater exchanged glances but their silence did nothing to reassure the young German. Johannes was agitated to the point of visible distress and would have broken down completely had not their incarceration ended suddenly. A tall corporal of fusiliers, his shako plume raking the lintel of the door as he ducked into the makeshift cell, called them out.

  'Allez!'

  They trooped out and followed the corporal; two soldiers with bayonets fixed to their muskets fell in behind them. At the staffofficer's desk they were motioned to pass, and climbed a flight of stone steps to halt outside impressive double doors guarded by two further sentries.

  'The holy of holies,' muttered Gilham and in the silence that followed Drinkwater could hear the chatter of Johannes's teeth. When the doors opened it startled the three of them.

  Monsieur Thiebault advanced towards them. His face was pale and he wrung his hands with a nervous compulsiveness.

  'Gentlemen ...' he said, attempting a reassuring smile, stepping aside and ushering them forward, 'His Excellency will see you now ...' He nodded at the guards.

  Drinkwater and Gilham started forward with Johannes in their wake, but Thiebault, Drinkwater noticed, made a sharp gesture with his hand and turning his head Drinkwater saw the boy's arm seized by one of the soldiers. He caught Thiebault's eye and the customs officer raised his shoulders with a fatalistic shrug.

  Drinkwater's heart was pounding. If he let slip the slightest hint of his real identity, he would be shot as a spy. Though Gilham did not know of his status as a sea officer, he might make some indiscreet reference ...

  'Leave the talking to me, Gilham,' he snapped in a low voice as they were ushered into a high chamber, lit by a dozen candelabrae. A fire blazed in a grate and above the mantelpiece hung the mounted heads of a pair of tusked boars. Between them were emblazoned the castellated arms of the Hanseatic City of Hamburg. More hunting trophies were displayed on the dark panelling of the burghers' council chamber that was now occupied by the commander-in-chief of the Army of Germany.

  Louis Nicholas Davout, Prince of Eckmühl, Duke of Auerstadt and Marshal of France, sat at a desk in the centre of the room, his balding head bent over a pile of papers, his polished boots reflecting the fire and his gold-laced blue coat tight over powerful shoulders. Beside him, in a similar though less splendid uniform, a plumed bicorne tucked neatly under his elbow, an aide-de-camp stood in a respectful attitude.

  The marshal said something in a low voice, the aide bent attentively, replied as the marshal dashed off a signature, took the document with a click of his heels and left the room. The jingle of the aide's spurs ceased as the double doors closed behind him and Drinkwater, Gilham and Thiebault were left in a silence broken only by the crackle of the fire.

  Slowly the marshal lifted his head and stared at them. The firelight reflected off his pince-nez hid his eyes, but Drinkwater was conscious of a firm mouth and round, regular features. When Davout removed the spectacles his expression was intimidating. The light danced on the coils of oak leaves embroidered upon his breast as he sighed and leaned back in his chair.

  'M'sieur Thiebault ...' he murmured, looking at the two Britons before him. Thiebault launched into a speech punctuated by ingratiating 'Monseigneurs'.

  Whatever the content of Thiebault's discourse, Drinkwater was conscious of the unwavering gaze of Davout, the man the French themselves called 'the iron marshal', the archangel of the Emperor Napoleon. He tried at first to meet Davout's eyes, then, finding the scrutiny too unnerving and with the thought that such a wordless challenge was dangerous, Drinkwater tried to make out the gist of Thiebault's explanation while his eyes roved about the chamber with the affected gaucherie of a man aroused by curiosity. He hoped his apprehension was not obvious.

  He heard, or thought he heard, Thiebault mention the word 'Russie' but could not bring himself to look at the marshal. Then Thiebault said it again and Drinkwater, conscious that Davout was still staring at him, dropped his own gaze. At the marshal's feet, amid a small heap of dispatch boxes, a leather wallet and a travelling valise, lay a frayed roll of canvas. It had been kept tight-rolled but now untied, it had sprung open enough for Drinkwater to see its inner surface.

  The shock of recognition brought a wave of nausea so strong that for a moment he thought he might faint. Instead he moved, shifting his weight forward before recovering himself with a cough. He was better placed to see now the familiar portrait.

  Looking down beside Davout's shining black boot heels Drinkwater saw the crown of the woman's head, the coils of auburn hair wound with pearls and the arch of a single eyebrow set against the eau-de-nil background that the artist had painted. He saw too the star shaped flaking where the unstretched canvas had shed the slight impasto of the flaming hair and the white gesso ground showed through. The position and shape of that bare patch confirmed what Drinkwater had already guessed, that the rolled canvas beneath the desk of Marshal Davout was the portrait of Hortense Santhonax that once hung in the cabin of the Antigone and which had, until very lately, rested at the bottom of his sea-chest.

  He felt the flesh on the back of his neck crawl and brought his incredulously staring eyes up to meet those of the marshal.

  'M'sieur Thiebault speaks that you had cargo for Russia, oui?'

  Recovering himself, Drinkwater nodded. 'Yes, Excellency, military stores ...'

  'Et sucre, n'est-cepas? And sugar ...?' Davout's accent was thick, his English uncertain. 'Why come to Hamburg, not Russia?'

  'My ship was damaged in a storm, sir. We,' Drinkwater gestured vaguely at Gilham who had the presence of mind to nod, suggesting their circumstances had been identical, 'put into Helgoland. Then the winter, the ice in the Baltic ...' he made a helpless gesture of resignation, 'we could not go on to Russia. At Helgoland the Government told us they had abandoned us an
d we decided to sell our cargo here, in Hamburg.'

  Drinkwater paused. Without taking his eyes off the two Britons, Davout queried something with Thiebault who appeared, by his nodding, to be confirming what Drinkwater had said. Drinkwater decided to press his advantage, mindful of the rolled and damaged portrait at Davout's feet.

  'We had an escort of the British navy, but we became separated ...'

  'What name this ship ... this escort?' Davout's poor English, learned during a brief period as a prisoner of the Royal Navy when a young man, could not disguise the keenness of his question.

  'Tracker,' said Drinkwater, noticing the exchange of glances between Davout and Thiebault and the half-smile that crossed the marshal's face.

  'You have news of her?' Drinkwater asked quickly. Davout's eyes were cold and he made no answer, while Thiebault was clearly unnerved by Drinkwater's effrontery in asking such a question.

  'You sold your cargo, Capitaine?

  'Yes ...'

  'The sugar?'

  'Yes.' Drinkwater looked at Thiebault. Perspiration was pouring from the customs officer's forehead and it was clear that Thiebault's future, as much as that of Drinkwater and Gilham, rested upon this interview. Such anxiety argued that Davout's hostility must be at least in part aimed at Thiebault. This consideration persuaded Drinkwater to press his question again.

  'Do you have news of Tracker, Excellency?'

  Behind Davout Thiebault, his face twisted with supplication, made a gesture of suppression. Davout ignored the question.

  'Peut-être ... perhaps you not go to Russia ... perhaps you only make these papers.' Davout struck the desk and Drinkwater saw the Galliwasp's confiscated documents with the crown stamp of the London Customs House upon them, among those on his desk. The pince-nez were lifted to the bridge of the marshal's nose, then lowered as Davout got to his feet and came round the table to confront Drinkwater.

  'You come to Hamburg as a spy?'

  'Monseigneur, l'explication ...' began Thiebault despairingly.

  'Assez!' snapped Davout, turning away from Drinkwater with a contemptuous wave of his hand. He returned to his desk and picked up the pince-nez he had left there. Casting a baleful look at Thiebault he spoke a few words.

  'Was the Tracker coming to Hamburg?' Thiebault translated.

  'The Tracker?' Drinkwater said with unfeigned surprise, 'No, of course not.' He turned towards Davout, an alarming thought forming in his mind. 'No, Excellency, the Tracker was under orders for Russia ...'

  Drinkwater was unable to gauge whether or not the marshal believed him, for a knock at the door was followed by the reappearance of the aide-de-camp. It was clear that he was expected and that the matter was of greater importance than the interrogation of two British shipmasters caught breaking the Emperor's Continental System. Davout returned to his desk and curtly dismissed Thiebault and the prisoners. He did no more than nod at the young French officer, who left the doorway immediately.

  Thiebault accompanied them to the foot of the steps where a weary glance from the staff officer still shuffling paper was followed by a bellow for their guard.

  'What in God's name was all that about?' asked Gilham unable to remain silent.

  'Oblige me a moment longer,' muttered Drinkwater motioning him towards Thiebault who was addressing the staff officer. Thiebault turned towards them, his expression one of relief. His tone was suddenly preternaturally light, the manner an attempt to recover his former insouciance. He had clearly suffered an ordeal.

  'Well, gentlemen, I think His Excellency is satisfied with the, er, arrangements ...'

  'You mean the boots?' said Gilham sarcastically.

  'Indeed, Captain ...'

  'What the devil was all that about the Tracker, M'sieur?' Drinkwater asked, frowning.

  'Are our ships clear of the river?' Gilham added.

  'Gentlemen, gentlemen, please; His Excellency has ordered that you be taken to Altona, to the military hospital there, just for a few days. It is a mere formality, I assure you.' Thiebault lowered his voice, 'His Excellency is due to inspect the defences of Lübeck shortly. I will send you word ... now, if you will excuse me ...'

  Thiebault turned to go as two fusiliers approached. At the same moment the door at the far end of the room opened, admitting a blast of cold air which set the flames of the candles on the staff officer's desk guttering. A French officer escorted a cloaked figure towards them. The officer was resplendent in the campaign dress of a lieutenant in the horse chasseurs of the Imperial Guard. His scarlet pelisse was not draped, a la hussard, from his left shoulder, but worn over the dolman, the gold frogging buttoned to his neck against the cold. His overalls were mud spattered, evidence of a long, hard ride, and his face, below the fur rim of his busby, was fiercely mustachioed. He drew the cloaked person after him, reached down to the sabretache that trailed over the flagstones with his scabbard and drew out a sealed document.

  'Lieutenant Dieudonne a votre service,' he said, holding out the letter. 'Pour le Marechal ...' He nodded at the cloaked figure, his green and red plume throwing a fantastic shadow on the wall.

  The momentary distraction had provided Thiebault with an opportunity to escape, and though Gilham protested, more questions on his lips, Drinkwater was rooted to the spot, overcome by a moment of premonition that prepared him for the shock as the cloaked figure threw off its hood.

  As she shook her head the auburn hair fell about her shoulders, and although he could not see the woman's full face, there was no doubt about that profile, at almost the same angle as she had assumed for the artist Jacques Louis David. He knew the face so well, for David's portrait — painted for her dead husband and later captured by Drinkwater — now inexplicably lay rolled under the desk of the Prince of Eckmühl.

  In his distraction Drinkwater resisted the tug of his guard so that the soldier became angry, stepped behind him and thrust his ported musket into the small of his prisoner's back with a sharp exclamation. Drinkwater stumbled forward, losing his balance and attracting the attention of Lieutenant Dieudonne and the woman. Gilham caught Drinkwater's arm; recovering himself, Drinkwater looked back. Beyond the menacing guard the woman was staring after him, her face in the full light of the leaping candles on the staff officer's desk.

  There was no doubt about her identity: she was Hortense Santhonax and she knew Nathaniel Drinkwater to be an officer in the Royal Navy of Great Britain.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Firing Party

  January 1810

  Outside stood the carriage that had brought Madame Santhonax, its door still open. A dozen chasseurs sat on their horses round it, exchanging remarks. Drinkwater moved forward in a daze. He was tired, cold and hungry, and the night's events had become unreal. For months — since the terrible events in the jungle of Borneo — he had been deprived of all energy, overcome by a mental and physical lethargy impossible to throw off. There had been brief moments when he felt he was recovering, when Dungarth had inspired him to take on the mission to Russia, when Solomon had entertained him that morning after his night of filth and subterfuge, and when young Nicholas had revived the failed project at Helgoland.

  But these had been brief and faltering revivals and, he could see now, merely fatal circumstances conspiring to bring him to this strange encounter. He was deep in blood, the killer of Edouard Santhonax, the executioner of Morris and murderer of poor Tregembo. Now he was to be called to account, to die in his turn, shot as a spy on the denunciation of a French woman within the Rathaus. He was convinced she had recognized him, for their eyes had met and she could have read nothing but fear in his expression. Nausea rose in his gorge, he missed his footing again and again. Gilham caught him.

  'Are you all right?'

  'Aye,' gasped Drinkwater, feeling a cold sweat chill his brow in the icy air.

  'I think they want us in the carriage,' Gilham said, his hand under Drinkwater's elbow.

  Not her carriage, surely, he thought, that was too ironic a twist of fa
te. In any case, at any moment ...

  'Arrête!'

  This was it. The denunciation had been made, the staff officer was running out after them and he was about to be arrested, unmasked as a spy and on the summary orders of Marshal Davout, shot like a dog.

  But Drinkwater was wrong.

  The staff officer called something to the chasseurs, one of whom was a non-commissioned officer. They were bundled into the carriage and Drinkwater caught the elusive scent of the widow Santhonax. He sank shivering into the deep buttoned leather of the seat and closed his eyes as the carriage jerked forward.

  'Are you well, Waters?' Gilham asked again.

  'Well enough. Just a little tired and hungry ...' No denunciation had come; perhaps she had not recognized him. Why should she? It had been a long time; they had changed, though age seemed to have enhanced rather than diminished her beauty. Nor did she possess a portrait of him to remind her of his features ...

  Drinkwater's relief was short-lived. The carriage swung round a corner and jerked to an abrupt halt. The door was flung open and they were ordered out.

  'Regardez-là, messieurs,' the non-commissioned officer said, leaning from his creaking saddle.

  They stood at the entrance of a courtyard. It was lit by flaring torches set in sconces and seemed to be full of soldiers, infantrymen under the command of an elderly, white haired captain who was tucking a written order inside his shako before putting it on.

  'What the devil ...?' Gilham began, but Drinkwater cut him short, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. Far from feeling faint, the greatest fear of all had seized him and he felt a strong impulse to run.