Under False Colours

by Richard Woodman

  From the rear Drinkwater could see Frey massing his men about the door. They appeared like dark sacks until, at a signal, they moved forward amid a few shouts.

  Suddenly the gates were open and Drinkwater caught a glimpse of the guardroom and half a dozen trussed and gagged men. He began to run.

  Beyond the gate the road swung to the right and Drinkwater almost collided with Frey.

  'Good luck, sir. Two cables down this road there is a junction. It is the road between Hamburg, Altona and Blankenese. We turn right for the river, you must go left for Hamburg.'

  'I know, Castenada told me. Good luck.'

  'I could only find you a sword bayonet.' Frey thrust the weapon at him. The steel was bitterly cold to the touch. When he looked up he was alone. In the snow he could hear no sound of the retreating men, nor of the struggling guards. The loom of the hospital wall threw a dark shadow and he experienced a pang of intense fear and loneliness. A moment later he was walking swiftly south to the junction with the main road.

  He had no trouble locating Herr Liepmann's house. It was set back off the road behind a brick wall, but the iron gates were open and the light in the porch beyond the formal garden gave the impression that it had been illuminated for his benefit.

  It was, he thought as he felt the scrunch of gravel below the snow, a welcoming sight.

  There were signs of wheel tracks in the snow, a recent arrival or departure, he judged, for they had not yet been covered. Perhaps the generous lighting was for the carriage, not for him. The thought made him pause. Should he simply walk up to the front door?

  At his tentative knock it was opened, and guiltily he flung aside the sword bayonet.

  'Kapitan, Wilcomm ... please ... you come ...'

  Liepmann held out his hand and drew Drinkwater inside. The warmth and opulence of Liepmann's house seemed like the fairyland pictures of his children's books. He had not realized how cold he had been, nor, now that the heat made him perspire and his flesh crawl, how filthy he was.

  'I have clothes and wasser, come ...'

  It was ironic, he thought, that he should again clean himself in the house of a Jew, but he did not object. Liepmann led him to a side chamber where a servant waited upon him, standing impassively while, casting dignity aside in the sheer delight of washing off the past, Drinkwater donned a clean shirt and underdrawers. Silk breeches and stockings were produced, together with an embroidered waistcoat. Finally, the man servant held out a low-collared grey coat of a now unfashionable cut which reminded him of the old undress uniform coat of the British naval officer. As he threw his newly beribboned queue over the collar and caught sight of himself in the mirror, he caught the eye of the servant.

  The man made a small, subservient gesture of approval, stood aside and opened the door. Ushering Drinkwater back into the hall, he scuttled round him and reaching the door of a withdrawing room leading from it, threw it open.

  Drinkwater was disoriented by the luxury of his surroundings and entered the room seeking Liepmann to thank him for the splendour of his reception. But Liepmann was not in the room. As the door was opened a woman rose from a chair set before a blazing fire. She turned.

  He was confronted by Hortense Santhonax.

  PART THREE

  The Snaring of the Eagle

  'Napoleon went to Moscow in pursuit of the ghost of Tilsit'

  Napoleon,

  J. Bainville

  CHAPTER 15

  Beauté du Diable

  January 1810

  In the shock of encounter Drinkwater's mind was filled with suspicion. He felt again the overwhelming dead weight of a hostile providence with sickening desperation. Suddenly Castenada's obligingness and Liepmann's absence seemed harbingers of this entrapment. He regretted the sword bayonet cast aside in the box hedge and felt foolish in borrowed finery before this breathtakingly handsome woman.

  She wore travelling clothes, a dark blue riding habit and scuffed boots, about her throat a grey silk cravat was secured with a jewelled pin that reflected the green of her eyes. Hat and cloak lay beside her chair and she held nothing more threatening than a glass of Rhenish hock.

  'We have met before,', she said, tilting her head slightly to one side so that a heavy lock of auburn hair fell loose from the coils on her head. She spoke perfect English in a low and thrilling timbre.

  'Indeed, Madame,' Drinkwater said guardedly, acutely aware that this woman possessed in abundance those qualities of grace and beauty for which men threw away their lives. He footed a bow, wondering at her motives.

  'Will you take a glass of wine, sir?' Her cool courtliness was seductive and she turned aside, sure her offer would not be rejected.

  The hock was refreshing. 'I am obliged, Madame, 'he said, maintaining a fragile formality despite his inward turmoil.

  'You rescued me from the sans-culottes on the beach at Carteret, do you remember?' she went on, watching him over the rim of her glass, 'and you were with Lord Dungarth the night I was left ashore on the beach at Criel ...'(See A King's Cutter)

  He did not respond. She had turned her coat by then, having met Edouard Santhonax and thrown her lot in with the Republicans. He let her lead the conversation to wherever it was going, wondering if she knew he had given her husband his death thrust.

  'But that was a long time ago, when we were young and impetueux, was it not?'

  She stepped closer to him so that he could smell the scent of her. She was undeniably lovely with a voluptuously mature beauty made more potent by the confidence of experience. He felt the male hunger stir him, mixed with something else: for years that damned portrait had symbolized for him the essence of a ruthless enemy, battening on the unsatisfied passions of his young manhood. Its power lay in both its imagery and association with her, a synthesis of wickedness, of desire denied, of lust ...

  'It was no coincidence that you were with Marshal Davout, was it? No coincidence that my portrait had come into his possession?'

  There was an edge in her voice now, keen enough to abort his concupiscent longing.

  'You are deceived as to that, Madame,' he replied. 'It is true the portrait was once my property, but Marshal Davout acquired it from a British brig wrecked on the Jutland coast. I was not aboard the brig, Madame, you have my word on it.'

  'Your word? And what reliance may I put on that? You are a British naval officer, you are in the territory of the French Empire and,' she looked him archly up and down, 'that is not a uniform, M'sieur Drinkwater.'

  Oddly, he felt no apprehension at the unveiled threat, rather that cool resignation, that surrender to circumstances he had experienced in action after the fearful period of waiting was over. He knew they were nearing the crux of this strange encounter and the knowledge exhilarated him. He smiled. 'You remember my name.'

  'As I remember Lord Dungarth's.' She turned away to refill her glass.

  'You have met him, have you not,' probed Drinkwater, 'since the business on the beach at Criel?' He did not wait for a reply, but asked, watching her keenly, 'Did you have him blown up?'

  She swung round angrily. 'No!'

  'I must perforce believe you,' he said, unmoved by the violence of her denial, 'and you must believe me when I tell you it was indeed coincidence that we met in Marshal Davout's antechamber. As to your portrait, I acquired it many years ago when I captured the French National Frigate Antigone in the Red Sea. She was commanded by your husband, Edouard Santhonax. It was among my belongings aboard the Tracker when she was herself taken a fortnight or so past.'

  'Why did you keep it for so long, M'sieur?' She seemed calmer, as though his explanation satisfied her, and extended her hand for his empty glass. He gave it her, but did not immediately relinquish his own hold.

  'I was struck by your beauty, Madame. You had already made an impression upon me.'

  She could not doubt his sincerity, but his serious tone betrayed no sudden flare of passion.

  'A lasting impression?' she asked mockingly, her eyes sparkling a
nd a smile playing about the corners of her lovely mouth.

  'So it would seem, Madame, though your husband had a more palpable effect ...' He let the glass go.

  'Your wounds?' she asked as she replenished the hock. She turned and held out the refilled glass. A coquettish gleam lingered in her eyes. 'Did you know I am a widow now?'

  'Yes, Hortense,' he replied, his voice suddenly harsh, 'it was I who killed your husband.'

  The words escaped him, driven by a subconscious desire to hurt her, to hide nothing from so bewitching a woman with whom this extraordinary intimacy existed.

  Her face turned deathly pale, her eyes searched his face and her outstretched hand trembled. 'It is not possible,' she murmured in French. He took the glass and with his left hand steadied her, but she drew back, frowning. 'Mais non ... I'Empereur ...'

  She seemed to be considering something, seeking the answer to some personal riddle. 'I was told he was lost in Poland ... then the disgrace ...'

  'There was no disgrace, Madame. He was a man of uncommon zeal. He was killed at sea aboard the Dutch frigate Zaandam.'(See Baltic Mission)

  'A Dutch frigate? I do not understand ...'

  'Madame,' he said with sudden intensity, 'I had obtained some information of considerable importance to London. I believe it was acquired at your husband's expense. He was attempting to stop me reaching England ...'

  She was no longer listening. It was as though he had struck her. Two spots of high colour appeared on her cheeks and her eyes blazed. 'Diable!'

  If Drinkwater felt he had wrested the initiative from her he realized now he had made a misjudgement. She seemed suddenly to contract, not out of fear or weakness, but with the latent energy of a coiled spring.

  'So, that is why ...!'

  And then he saw that the hatred he had kindled was introspective, for when she spoke to him again her voice was flat, explicatory, rationalizing things to herself, but in English for his benefit.

  'Then you also killed Hortense Santhonax, M'sieur Drinkwater, for my husband is numbered among criminals, a man disgraced in the service of the Emperor.'

  'I can assure you,' he said quietly, 'your husband did his duty to the utmost. It was his death or mine; your widowhood or my own wife's.'

  She sighed and shook off her abstraction. 'Since Edouard's disgrace I have received no pension, nor a sou of his due pay. I was abandoned by the Emperor, left destitute.'

  'I believe the manner in which I harmed your husband was of very great importance to your Emperor,' Drinkwater said. He could not tell her the enormity of the secret he had brought home, that it was nothing less than the seduction of Tsar Alexander from his alliance with Great Britain and the intention of the two autocrats to partition Europe. Nor could he tell her it was that very alliance that his present mission sought to undermine. 'He was not alone in paying a price. I have not seen my wife since the event.'

  She regained her composure and raised her glass. 'Do we drink to the misfortunes of war then?'

  'It seems that we must, though I suspect your motives in doing so.'

  'You thought I would denounce you to Davout and you do not trust me now?'

  'I am not certain of anything, though in Hamburg you seemed to be under some constraint.'

  'Le bon Dieudonne?'' she smiled beguilingly. 'He is a man, M'sieur Drinkwater, and like most men,' she went on, 'predictable. Perhaps now you understand why so loyal a servant of Napoleon Bonaparte as the Prince of Eckmühl wished to question me when my portrait was found on a British ship.'

  'Then your presence in Hamburg ...'

  'Was a coincidence as much as yours.' She seemed oddly relaxed. Could she so easily forgive the author of her downfall, or was she about to manipulate him as she intimated she had Dieudonne? Her next remark gave him no cause to think otherwise.

  'Shall we sit down?'

  Drinkwater's reply betrayed his unease. 'Where is our host?'

  'Herr Liepmann?' she shrugged. 'I asked him to leave us alone for a few moments.' She had seated herself so that she was half turned towards him in the chair beside the fire. 'Pray sit. You have all the advantage standing, and that is unfair.'

  'You forgive your enemies easily.'

  She laughed. 'No. You are not my enemy, M'sieur Drinkwater, you are an agent of providence. Do you believe in providence?'

  'Implicitly.' He sat himself opposite her. 'So why, when providence so neatly delivered me into your power, did you not denounce me in order to rehabilitate yourself with Davout and the Emperor? And why have you come here to Liepmann's house at Altona seeking this interview with me?'

  'M'sieur Drinkwater, why have you come here? Or to Hamburg, eh? To sell boots to the French?' She laughed, a low chuckle that vibrated in her long throat. 'La, sir, it is common gossip in Hamburg, probably in Paris by now, that two British ships, cheated of a Russian market, sought their contemptible profit elsewhere.' She paused to sip her wine, then added, 'But that would not concern a naval officer, would it?'

  'Quite so,' Drinkwater said, suppressing the satisfaction that the news gave him and ignoring the sarcasm in her voice.

  'I will not press you for an explanation of your presence here,' she said after a pause, studying him. 'But you should know I did not make the attempt on Lord Dungarth's life. You must lay that at the feet of Fouche, or perhaps even the Emperor himself, who knows? But I have made his acquaintance, in France twice, and once in England.' She sighed. 'Edouard was my life; without him I would be an embittered emigrée living on charity in an English town. But he is dead and I must live; I have friends ...' She caught his eye and then looked quickly away. She was discomfitted and he recalled Dungarth alleging an intimacy with Talleyrand. 'They are powerful friends and I am here in Hamburg on their behalf...'

  'Go on,' he prompted, for she seemed suddenly indecisive.

  'Will you do a service for me?' she asked, looking him full in the face.

  'If it does not compromise my honour.'

  'Will you take a message to London, to Lord Dungarth?'

  Drinkwater sat back in his chair. 'Is that the coincidence that brought you to Hamburg?'

  'More, it is the coincidence that brought me here to Altona. Lord Dungarth informed me that the Jew Liepmann, a merchant of Hamburg, was in touch with the British agent on Helgoland.'

  Drinkwater wanted to laugh. The tension in his belly seemed to unwind, tugging at his reactive responses.

  'You are not laughing at me?'

  'No, Madame,' said Drinkwater with an effort, leaning forward and holding out his glass. 'Is there a little more wine with which to toast this alliance of ours. 'Tis a pity too much lies between us to be friends.'

  'You have a wife, M'sieur.' She had become serious again as she poured, paying him back in his own, barbed coin. He felt again the strong animal attraction of her. For a foolish moment he persuaded himself that it was, perhaps, not unrequited.

  'Touché, Madame,' he murmured, dismissing the fancy as conceit. 'Yes, I will take your message, but after another matter has been attended to.'

  'What is that?'

  'The release of a British sea officer; he is badly wounded and has a lady awaiting news of him.'

  'I know, Herr Liepmann has told me.'

  'He was indiscreet ...'

  'No, no, he knew I could help. He knows both you and I are dangerous; I think he would be pleased to see us both satisfied and gone.' She paused, adding, 'This is trés domestique, n'est-ce pas, M'sieur?'

  Drinkwater looked at her across the fire, returning her conspiratorial smile.

  'Very.'

  'I think we should call the Jew now.'

  She rose and he stood while she rang the bell-pull. Letting the braided cord fall she turned to him and took a step closer. Looking him full in the face she raised her hand and touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

  'Providence, M'sieur Drinkwater, providence. Perhaps it has not yet finished with us.'

  And reaching into the breast of her riding habit sh
e drew out a scaled packet and handed it to him.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Burial Party

  January-February 1810

  Long after she had gone and Liepmann had shown him to a small bedroom beneath the attic, Drinkwater sat by the open window, the quilt from the bed about his shoulders. It was impossible to sleep, for his wounded shoulder ached and his head spun with an endless train of thought.

  The mood of intimacy had been broken after Liepmann's arrival. He came with news of the church bells ringing a tocsin to alert the countryside to the breakout from the hospital. They stood in silence to listen as the Jewish merchant drew aside the heavy brocade curtains and opened the tall French windows a little. Muffled by the falling snow, they could faintly hear men shouting and dogs barking.

  'They go to the Elbe,' Liepmann said, closing the windows. He turned to Hortense and asked, 'You have told the Captain about the British officer, Madame?'

  'Not yet.' She turned to Drinkwater. 'I knew of the ship wreck,' she said, 'and that my portrait was taken there. It was when I knew you were not a prisoner that I thought — that I decided to seek you out. As for the wounded officer from the wrecked ship, he was too ill to be questioned. M'sieur le marechal will have to be content with my own explanation. They said the Englishman was dying.'

  Anxiety for Quilhampton must have been plain upon Drinkwater's tired face, for Liepmann added, 'Doctor Castenada is to travel to Hamburg tomorrow to return him to Altona.' The news brought Drinkwater little relief and Liepmann had his own worries. He drew a watch from his waistcoat pocket. 'Madame, it is late ...'

  Hortense bent and retrieved her hat and cloak. Liepmann helped her.

  'Do not concern yourself, Herr Liepmann,' she said in her perfect English, darting a glance at Drinkwater. 'A woman seeking an assignation may pass freely anywhere. À bientôt Captain Drinkwater.'