Beneath the Aurora

by Richard Woodman

  Notwithstanding these considerations, Bardolini had not anticipated this strange English naval officer would possess such a commanding knowledge of the situation in Napoli; it was uncanny. Indeed, such was the extent of the captain’s familiarity with the plight of his master, King Joachim, that Bardolini suspected treachery. His imprisonment was consonant with such a hypothesis and he believed he was, even now, on his way to a more secure incarceration.

  The only thing which Bardolini had expected was the violence of the sea passage and the weather which now assailed the chaise and deterred him from any rash ideas of escape. Not that he had abandoned them altogether; he carried a stiletto inside his right boot, but to reach it beneath his tight cavalryman’s overalls was well-nigh impossible, and his sword was secured to his portmanteau. Besides, there were other considerations. Though he spoke English well, he could hardly melt inconspicuously into the countryside! Besides, if he stole a horse, he would only be returned the faster to the shores of that damnable sea.

  As the dismal hours succeeded one another, he resolved on the one course of action he had reserved for Lord Castlereagh alone, in the hope that this naval officer, whose grasp of diplomatic affairs seemed so inexplicably comprehensive, would favourably influence his request for an interview with the British Foreign Minister. Now, as Drinkwater hinted so forbiddingly at the hostility of his reception, Bardolini played his trump card and spoke out of the darkness.

  ‘Captain Drinkwater, I believe you to be a man of honour. You are clearly a person of some influence, your knowledge of affairs of state makes that quite clear. It is possible you are a police agent . . . If that is so, I ask only that what I am about to confide in you, you report to your superiors . . .’

  ‘I am not a police agent, Colonel. We have not yet adopted all your Continental fashions. I am what I told you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Bardolini acknowledged doubtfully, ‘but your word, please, that what I tell you will be treated with the confidence it deserves and be passed to Lord Castlereagh himself.’

  ‘Are you about to give me a pledge of your master’s good faith?’

  ‘Si.’

  ‘Very well. You have my word.’

  ‘You are at war with the Americans, are you not?’

  ‘You know that very well.’

  ‘I also know that there are men in America who would rule Canada, and Frenchmen in Canada who would welcome American assistance to separate them from your country, even if it meant joining the United States.’

  ‘That is not a very great secret, Colonel.’

  ‘No. But King Joachim wishes to make known to your government that the Americans have negotiated a secret treaty of mutual assistance with the Emperor Napoleon, a treaty which, in exchange for American attacks on British ships and a quantity of gold, guarantees a large shipment of arms, powder and shot. These are to be used for raising a revolution in Quebec. The Quebecois will join up with an American army marching north from New York next spring.’

  ‘Go on, Colonel, you have my full attention.’

  ‘During the winter bad weather, American ships will arrive in the waters of Norway . . .’

  ‘Where in Norway?’ Drinkwater cut in.

  ‘A place called the Vikkenfiord.’

  ‘Go on, Colonel.’

  ‘Secretly, the arms and munitions will be taken to them by the Danes. The Americans will also stop supplying your army in the Iberian Peninsula. The Emperor believes that with rebellion in Canada, your government will no longer be able to support the Spanish insurrection, will withdraw Wellington’s army and transport it to North America. Great Britain will retreat behind its traditional defence, the sea. It will not be able to expend its treasure on maintaining Austrian, Prussian and Russian armies in the field. Your country’s alliance will die and the Emperor of Austria will accept King Joachim as the sovereign of Italy.’

  But Drinkwater was no longer listening; he was thinking of Herr Liepmann’s dispatch and the shipment of arms lying somewhere in Hamburg.

  CHAPTER 3

  September 1813

  Arrivals

  There was a clever simplicity in Bardolini’s revelations. Not only was their substance of crucial importance to the survival of Great Britain, but the plan was cunning in its construction, satisfying both political and economic needs. For while raising rebellion and absorbing Canada in the Union would placate the war-hawks in the American Congress, it would also compensate the United States’ treasury for the loss of British gold now paid for the grain being sent to Wellington’s army in Spain. For Britain herself, the loss of American supplies was more important than the saving to her exchequer. It was well known that the Americans were happy to export to both contending parties in the great war in Europe, and that they sold wheat to the British with whom they were themselves at war! But a greater irony existed if the arms they were to buy from the French were paid for with gold sent to the United States by Great Britain in the first place.

  This vast and complex circulation wormed its way into Drinkwater’s tired brain as the buffeted chaise passed Chelmsford and rumbled on towards London. He mused on the tortuous yet simple logic, aware from his own experience with Yankee privateers that American ambition was as resourceful as it was boundless. There was, moreover, an insidious and personal reflection in his train of thought. In all the weary months he had spent at the Admiralty’s Secret Department, he had hoped for some news like Bardolini’s. He had not the slightest doubt that the Neapolitan colonel had been delivered into his hands by Providence itself, nor that it was not Joachim Murat’s secret overtures that were the most important feature of Bardolini’s intelligence.

  The fantastical image of Napoleon’s great cavalry leader was a tragi-comic figure in Drinkwater’s perception, a man raised to such heights of pomp and pride that violent descent could be its only consequence. The very weakness of the parvenu king’s position, his desire to maintain friends on both sides of the fence, so that when he tumbled from it there would be waiting arms to save him, was too ridiculous to be treated seriously.

  King Joachim’s secret earnest of good faith, the revelation of the bargain struck between the French Emperor and the Americans, was clever enough, for it was invaluable to Great Britain, but its defeat, if the British chose to act, left King Joachim untouched and would hurt his brother-in-law enough to incline fate to favour the Allied cause. Nor was its betrayal a serious enough treachery to deprive Murat of his kingdom if Napoleon defeated his enemies in detail. The French Emperor was not a man to deprive the husband of his favourite sister of his crown for a mere peccadillo!

  Nor could Drinkwater ignore the consequences of success for Napoleon himself. If the Emperor of the French did succeed in forcing the British to withdraw Wellington’s army for service in America or Canada, such a move would not only remove the threat to southern France, it would also release battle-hardened troops under his most experienced marshals to reinforce the ranks of the green ‘Marie-Louises’ now opposing the combined might of Russia, Prussia and Austria.

  As Drinkwater nursed an aching head and the beginnings of yet another quinsy, as he slipped in and out of conscious thought, nodding opposite the now sleeping Bardolini, his resolve hardened round the central thought that this was without doubt the event for which Lord Dungarth had named Nathaniel Drinkwater his successor in the Secret Department of the British Admiralty.

  In his tired and half-conscious state, Drinkwater found nothing incongruous in attributing Dungarth with such prescience. The earl had possessed a keen and analytical brain and had been quite capable of sensing some innate ability in his ageing protégé. But for Drinkwater it was to prove a dangerously deluded piece of self-conceit.

  Drinkwater was at his desk by three o’clock that afternoon. When they changed horses at Brentwood he had instructed the post boy to take them directly to his home in Lord North Street. Both he and Bardolini were jerked rudely awake when the chaise finally stopped outside the terraced house.

 
; The place had been left to Drinkwater by Lord Dungarth with a pitifully small legacy for its upkeep and the continued maintenance of its staff. It was a modest house, the austere earl’s only London establishment, which had become home for Drinkwater now that his new post detained him so much in the capital. Ideas of a convenient pied-à-terre for Captain and Mistress Drinkwater had proved impractical. Elizabeth, never entirely at ease in town, had almost conceded defeat, and contented herself with running the small Suffolk estate, while Drinkwater led his own miserable and unhappy existence dragging daily to Whitehall.

  He had done nothing to the interior of the house and it remained as it had been when Dungarth occupied it. He had even ordered Williams, Dungarth’s manservant, who had performed the joint offices of butler, valet and occasional secretary to the earl, to retain the black crêpe drapes over the full-length portrait of Dungarth’s long-dead countess which hung above the fireplace in the withdrawing-room. The gesture had earned Williams’s approval and the transfer of loyalty to Captain Drinkwater had thereafter been total.

  ‘He’s very like his Lordship in many ways,’ Williams had confided to his common-law wife who, as cook and housekeeper, formed the remainder of the staff.

  ‘Yes, he’s a gennelman all right,’ she agreed.

  ‘Not quite in the same way as Lord John was,’ Williams added, his notion of the finer distinctions of society more acute than that of his spouse, his terminology uttered with an unassailable familiarity, ‘but inclining that way, to be sure.’

  ‘To be sure,’ agreed his wife docilely, aware that her own status was as much a matter of delicate uncertainty as Captain Drinkwater’s, and always anxious to avoid the slightest disturbance to her husband’s tranquillity of mind which, he had long ago assured her, was of the utmost importance in their relationship.

  Williams now met Drinkwater and took his instructions. The strange colonel was to be given every comfort; a meal, a bath and, if he wished, an immediate bed after his long and tedious journey.

  Williams’s long service had conditioned him to odd arrivals and departures. He was well aware of the nature of the business of his employers, past and present, and the moustachioed figure was but one of a succession of ill-assorted ‘guests’ that he had accommodated. Having instructed Williams, Drinkwater turned to Bardolini.

  ‘My dear Colonel, please accept my hospitality without my presence. Williams here will see to your wants. You must, as we say, make yourself at home.’ He smiled at Bardolini who, as he removed his cloak, looked round with an air of curiosity, then gravely bowed a courtly acknowledgement. He looked every inch the plenipotentiary in his scarlet, white and silver.

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  ‘I shall leave you for a matter of a few hours. We will dine together tonight, when I hope to have news for you. In the meantime I will announce your arrival.’

  ‘You wish to see my accreditation?’ asked Bardolini, recovering his dangling sabretache on its silver-laced straps.

  ‘Indeed, I do.’

  ‘I am trusting you, Captain, with my life,’ Bardolini said solemnly, handing over the heavily sealed paper which Drinkwater opened and scanned briefly.

  ‘It is not misplaced, I assure you,’ said Drinkwater, turning to Williams. ‘See Colonel Bardolini wants for nothing, if you please, Williams. I shall be back for dinner at eight.’

  Thus Captain Drinkwater was at the Admiralty before the clock at the Horse Guards struck three hours after noon.

  Templeton met him as the Admiralty porter stirred himself from his chair.

  ‘Good to have you return, sir,’ said Templeton with a curtness that drew Drinkwater’s attention to the fixed and unhappy expression on his face. ‘Shall we go up directly?’

  ‘As you please, Templeton,’ said Drinkwater, somewhat nonplussed by his clerk’s obvious discomfiture.

  ‘What the devil’s the matter?’ Drinkwater asked, the moment they were inside his room. They had met but one other clerk upon the stairs and he had drawn aside with an unusual display of deference as Templeton had sped past, so that Drinkwater became alarmed at what news had broken in his absence.

  ‘Barrow is the matter, sir. He has closed us down without further ado and in your absence. The matter is most improper.’ Templeton fidgeted with an unhappy agitation, his face pale and anxious. ‘The guard books are to be transferred to the Second Secretary’s office, sir, and I,’ Templeton’s voice cracked with emotion, ‘I am to be returned to the general copy room.’

  It was not the worst fate that could befall an Englishman, Drinkwater thought, Templeton could be press-ganged, but he forbore from pointing this out. Nevertheless, it was clear that this humiliation had hurt the clerk, for news of the projected closure had come as no surprise. The thought sowed a seed in Drinkwater’s over-stimulated brain but, for the moment, he confined himself to a sympathetic concern.

  ‘My dear fellow, that is bad news, but don’t despair, perhaps . . .’

  Templeton shook his head. ‘I have remonstrated with Barrow, sir. He is adamant that our activities can be subsumed by his own office and that my own personal expertise is of little consequence.’ Templeton paused to master his bitterness, adding, with a touch of venom, ‘I think he is jealous of our independence.’

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ Drinkwater temporized, pondering on how best to further matters in so far as Bardolini’s news was concerned.

  ‘I assured him that, notwithstanding our lack of recent progress, there were indications that matters of importance would shortly come to a head and that your own absence testified to this.’ Templeton fell ominously silent. There was obviously an element of deep and significant drama, at least as far as Templeton was concerned, in this exchange.

  ‘What did Mr Barrow say to that?’ Drinkwater prompted with a tolerant patience he was far from feeling.

  ‘He said’, Templeton began with an evasive air, as if he found the admission distasteful, ‘that it did not seem to much matter these days whether you were in or out, sir, but that on balance your achievements in the past had proved rather more effective in the public service when you were out, preferably at sea, sir.’

  Drinkwater suppressed an outburst of laughter with a snort that Templeton construed as indignation. In all justice Drinkwater could not find much flaw in Barrow’s decision, given that Barrow knew nothing of the events of the last two days, but in consideration of Templeton’s feelings, he kept his face straight.

  ‘It is my fault, I’m afraid, Barrow has never liked me . . .’

  ‘I find it difficult to see why, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, but we disagreed some years ago and I think he has seen my installation here as something to be terminated when the opportunity arose. I do not believe he wanted the department to outlive Lord Dungarth. Anyway, I think it is no matter now . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes . . . forgive me, Captain Drinkwater, I have been so unseated by this unpleasant matter . . .’

  ‘Of course, Templeton, of course. I take it you do not wish to return to the copy room?’

  ‘The loss of emolument, sir . . .’ Templeton looked aghast.

  ‘How attached are you to my person, Templeton? Sufficient to go a-voyaging?’

  ‘To sea, sir?’ Templeton asked incredulously.

  ‘That is the purpose of Admiralty,’ Drinkwater replied drily.

  ‘Well yes, sir, I understand, but my widowed mother . . .’ Templeton was deathly pale.

  ‘Never mind, then,’ Drinkwater said brusquely, ‘go at once and inform Mr Barrow of my return and my desire to speak with Mr Croker. Then, if you please, find out for me the ships and vessels currently at anchor in roadsteads on the east coast, from the Downs to Leith. A list of guardships and convoy escorts, that sort of thing, do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ The clerk’s voice was not above a whisper.

  ‘Good, then bring that to me, wherever I am in the building.’

  Barrow received Drinkwater in his spacious office. Neithe
r man had alluded to their disagreement some six years earlier.* Indeed Drinkwater supposed Barrow had long ago forgotten about it, for it was Drinkwater himself who had been the more angered by their unfortunate encounter. Nevertheless, since his posting to the Secret Department, memory of the matter had disinclined Drinkwater to force his presence on the Second Secretary and he had preferred to rely upon written memoranda to communicate with the Board.

  ‘Pray sit down, Captain Drinkwater. Mr Croker has taken his seat in the House today and I have therefore taken the liberty of asking you to see me. I think I know why you wish to speak with the First Secretary and I apologize for the manner in which you learned of our decision to incorporate Lord Dungarth’s old office with my own. I am sure you can see the logic . . .’

  ‘I perfectly understand the logic, Mr Barrow,’ Drinkwater broke in, ‘and it is not what I have come to discuss with either Mr Croker or yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I see, then what may I ask . . . ?’

  ‘Templeton is somewhat anxious about his future as, I admit, I am for my own.’

  Barrow was immediately deceived by Drinkwater’s opening. He was used to self-seeking, whether it was that of clerks or sea-officers, but it was crucial to Drinkwater that he should know whether or not the Admiralty had any plans for himself.

  ‘We thought perhaps some furlough; you have not had the opportunity to spend much time on your estate, nor to enjoy the society of your wife and family.’

  ‘You have no plans for me to have a ship?’

  ‘Not immediately, Captain, no. There are Edwardes and Milne both clamouring for release from the American blockade, and when Green returns from the West Indies . . .’

  ‘I am not anxious for a seventy-four.’

  ‘No, quite, blockade is a confoundedly tedious business, I’m told.’ Barrow smiled. ‘Since you’re too old for a frigate,’ he added with a laugh, ‘it looks as if your Suffolk acres will have to serve you for a quarterdeck.’