Beneath the Aurora

by Richard Woodman

  Drinkwater ignored the mockery and changed the subject. ‘I have been away, Mr Barrow, and I desire you to communicate a matter of some importance to the Foreign Secretary directly.’

  ‘And what is that?’ Barrow asked with unfeigned surprise.

  ‘I have, in my custody, a Colonel Bardolini of the household cavalry of King Joachim of Naples. The King, if that is what he is, wishes to secure a guarantee from His Britannic Majesty’s government that, irrespective of the fate of the Emperor of the French, Joachim Napoleon will remain King of Naples.’

  ‘But King Ferdinand . . .’

  ‘I have explained all the ramifications attaching to the matter,’ Drinkwater said wearily, drawing from his breast pocket Bardolini’s diplomatic accreditation and laying it on the desk before Barrow. ‘Moreover, I am of the opinion that King Joachim is a reed awaiting the stronger breeze. Nevertheless, Bardolini has been invested with plenipotentiary powers and sent here on a mission to the Court of St James’s.’

  Barrow leaned forward and drew the document towards him. ‘Murat,’ he murmured, reading the paper, ‘well, well.’

  ‘There is another matter, Mr Barrow,’ Drinkwater began, but he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  ‘Come,’ Barrow called, without looking up from Bardolini’s paper.

  Templeton approached across the carpet and held out a sheet of paper. Drinkwater took it and stared at it. Templeton had written: The Downs, The Nore, Ho’sley Bay, Yarmouth, The Humber, Tyne, Leith, and under each the names of one or two ships.

  ‘What is that? What do you want, Templeton?’ Barrow looked up, frowning at the intrusion.

  ‘My fault, Mr Barrow,’ Drinkwater put in quickly, ‘I asked Templeton to bring me a list of ships in the ports of the east coast . . .’

  ‘What on earth for . . . ?’

  ‘Thank you, Templeton, kindly wait for me in my room.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Reluctance was in every step of the clerk’s retreat.

  ‘Captain, if you please, explain . . .’

  ‘Of course, Mr Barrow, of course. There is another matter arising out of this approach from Marshal Murat . . .’

  ‘I presume this other matter touches us . . . I mean their Lordships, rather than the Foreign Secretary?’

  ‘You are an astute man, Mr Barrow.’

  Drinkwater explained, repeating Bardolini’s revelation and adding the corroborative evidence from Herr Liepmann at Hamburg sent through the British-held island of Helgoland. When he had finished, Barrow was silent for a moment. ‘I recollect’, he said gravely, ‘your report on the destruction of the American privateers, and the concomitant matters you raised.’ Barrow frowned, deep in thought. ‘You are uniquely placed to understand the importance of this intelligence, are you not?’

  ‘Hence this paper, Mr Barrow.’

  ‘The paper?’ Barrow frowned again, but this time with incomprehension.

  ‘I want two things, Mr Barrow . . .’

  ‘You want . . . ?’

  ‘You give my office a brief stay of execution and you give me’, he looked down at the paper Templeton had brought to where his thumb lay adjacent to the note Leith, ‘the frigate Andromeda.’

  ‘But I . . .’

  ‘Come, come, I have been here long enough to know Lord Melville will put his name to anything you recommend, as will Mr Croker . . .’

  Barrow grunted, fell silent, then said, ‘But is one frigate enough, Captain? You had a flying squadron at your disposal before.’

  ‘Another thing I have learned is that we have few enough ships to protect our own trade, Mr Barrow. How many can you spare me? The cutter Kestrel used to be at Lord Dungarth’s disposal, but she has long since . . .’

  ‘No, no, you may have her, if you wish, as a tender or dispatch vessel.’

  ‘And I may write my own orders?’

  ‘You may draft your own orders, Captain,’ said Barrow smiling, ‘and you may retain Templeton to do it . . .’

  ‘I was thinking of taking him to sea.’

  ‘A capital idea.’

  ‘I think their Lordships might permit me the luxury of a secretary.’

  ‘I think they might be persuaded.’ Relief at having the problem of Templeton so neatly resolved delighted Barrow.

  Drinkwater rose. ‘What of Bardolini? He is safe enough with me for a few days and I shall want a week to make my preparations, but after that he will be an encumbrance.’

  ‘Give me a day or two, Captain Drinkwater, and I will let you know – by, say, Thursday?’

  Drinkwater nodded. ‘What d’you think Castlereagh will do?’

  ‘I would imagine almost anything to string Murat along and prevent him giving his wholehearted support to Bonaparte.’

  ‘So we will send Bardolini back with a diplomatic humbug?’

  ‘It is not for me to say, but I would imagine so.’

  ‘Poor fellow.’

  ‘C’est la guerre, n’est-ce pas? You may send him to Helgoland in the Kestrel. He may then be landed near Hamburg and rejoin his master at Dresden.’

  Drinkwater nodded. ‘Very well. I shall hear from you by Thursday?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Whether or not Barrow recalled their past disagreement, Drinkwater had forgotten it as he left the room.

  Templeton was not in his room when Drinkwater returned to it, and he sat and contemplated the papers on his desk. A dozen dispatches and reports had come in in his absence, an unusual amount for two days and ironic in the light of the imminent demise of his office. The sheets were neatly minuted in Templeton’s impeccable script and, where necessary, additional sheets of paper were pinned to the originals, decryptions of enciphered text.

  He riffled through them. They were tediously routine: a deciphered message from a Chouan agent in Brittany recounting the numbers of French warships in Brest which would serve merely to corroborate the sightings of the blockading frigates off Ushant; a report from St Helier in the Channel Islands about a small convoy which would have reached its destination by now; and a report from Exeter concerning the escape of a score of American prisoners-of-war from a working detail sent out from Dartmoor prison.

  Templeton entered the room at that moment. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I . . .’

  Drinkwater waved aside the man’s apology. ‘No matter. How do we come to receive this? This is a matter for the civil authorities.’ He indicated the report concerning the American prisoners.

  ‘They were seamen, sir, and therefore we were notified. We usually inform the Regulating Captains . . .’

  ‘And they try and pick them up for service in our own fleet, eh?’

  ‘I believe so, sir. They are more productive serving His Majesty at sea, rather than being detained at His Majesty’s pleasure ashore!’

  ‘A vicious habit, Templeton, which don’t make the life of a sea-officer at all comfortable, and a pretty extremity to be driven to.’ Drinkwater pulled himself up short. Templeton was not to blame for such matters, though it would do him good to see something of life’s realities. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘they were not idle when they escaped, they were building dry-stone walls.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Templeton said resignedly, leaning forward and drawing a last letter to Drinkwater’s attention. ‘There is a post scriptum to the affair.’

  Drinkwater took the letter and read it. ‘So they melted into the countryside. Does the fact seem the least remarkable to you, Templeton? Wouldn’t you have done the same?’

  ‘It is customary to have a few reports of sightings.’

  Drinkwater dropped the letter. ‘Pass these to Mr Barrow’s people. We have other work to do. Do you draft orders, in the usual form, to the officer commanding HMS Andromeda . . .’

  ‘He is not on board, sir, having been lately called to Parliament . . .’

  ‘Then that is his damned bad luck, who is he?’

  ‘Captain Pardoe. He is the Member for Eyesham.’

  ‘Well, so much the better for Eyesh
am. An order for his replacement, my commission . . . where is Kestrel?’

  ‘Kestrel, sir? Er, she is a cutter . . .’

  ‘I know what she is, I want to know where she is.’

  ‘Laid up, I think,’ said Templeton frowning, ‘at Chatham, I believe.’

  ‘Find out. Let me know. Now I shall write to my wife. We have less than a week before we leave London, Templeton.’

  ‘We, sir?’

  ‘Yes. You are appointed my secretary.’

  Templeton stared blankly at Drinkwater and opened his mouth to protest. It had gone dry and he found it difficult to speak, managing only a little gasp before Drinkwater’s glare dissuaded him from the matter and he fled. To lose all hope of elevation and suffer the ignominy of virtual demotion was enough for one day, but to be a pressed man as well was more than flesh and blood could stand. Templeton reeled out into the corridor dashing the tears from his eyes.

  He left behind a chuckling Drinkwater who drew a clean sheet of paper towards him, picked up his pen and flipped open the inkwell.

  My Darling Wife . . . he began to write and, for a few moments, all thoughts of the war left him. As he finished the letter he looked up. It was almost dark and the unlit room allowed his eyes to focus on the deep blue of the cloudless evening sky. The first stars twinkled dimly, increasing in brilliance as he watched, marvelling.

  He would soon see again not merely those four circumscribed rectangles, but the entire, majestic firmament.

  It was almost a cruelty to bring Elizabeth to London for a mere three days, but two in the society of Bardolini, who insisted on continually badgering his host for news, was a trial to Drinkwater for whom the wait, with little to do beyond a brief daily attendance at the Admiralty, was tedious enough.

  Difficulties began to crowd him within an hour of his wife’s arrival. Bardolini insisted upon paying her elaborate court, depriving her husband of even the chilliest formality of a greeting, but then a more serious arrival in the shape of the young Captain Pardoe threatened to upset Drinkwater’s humour still further.

  ‘I understand, sir, that it is largely upon your intervention that I have been deprived of my command,’ Pardoe had expostulated on the doorstep.

  ‘Whereas I understand the demands of party expect you in Westminster, sir, where, happily, you are,’ Drinkwater replied coolly.

  ‘Damn it, sir, by what right do you . . . ?’

  ‘You are making a fool of yourself, Captain Pardoe, pray come inside . . .’ Pardoe was admitted and confronted with the uniformed splendour of Colonel Bardolini. Introductions were effected to both the Neapolitan and Elizabeth, hushing Pardoe. At an opportune moment, Drinkwater was able to draw him aside and whisper, ‘Colonel Bardolini is an important diplomatic envoy. Your ship is wanted for a mission of some delicacy, such that an officer of my seniority must assume command. It was thought better all round by the ministry that you should take your seat, I believe you are warm in the government’s cause, and I should take command.’

  Drinkwater’s dark dissimulation appeared to have a swiftly mollifying effect. ‘I see,’ said Pardoe. ‘Of course, if that is the case, I am naturally happy to oblige.’

  ‘We knew you would be, Pardoe,’ Drinkwater smiled, hoping Pardoe connected all the insinuations and believed Andromeda to be bound for the Mediterranean.

  ‘D’you care for some tea, Captain?’ asked Elizabeth soothingly, and the awkward incident passed, dissolving into the inconsequential small-talk of the moment. Elizabeth delighted in talking to a man who seemed to be at the heart of affairs and Drinkwater unobtrusively observed the pleasure she took in the company of Pardoe and Bardolini.

  When, at last, they were alone together in their bedroom and Elizabeth had unburdened herself of news of the farms and the well-being of family and tenantry, he asked, ‘Have you seen James Quilhampton recently?’

  ‘Yes. He was dandling his son on his knee,’ Elizabeth said pointedly.

  ‘But was anxious for employment?’

  ‘He did not say.’

  ‘Bess, I . . .’

  ‘You said you would not be going to sea again, not that it matters much since I think I would rather you were as sea than languishing in this gloomy place.’

  ‘I thought you liked this house?’

  ‘When it was Lord Dungarth’s, I did; as your London establishment, I don’t care for it at all.

  ‘Johnnie died in this room, didn’t he?’ His wife’s familiar reference to the dead Dungarth discomfited Drinkwater. She had been as fond of him as he of her, and the difference between the sexes had led to an easing of the formalities that bound her husband. He changed the subject.

  ‘I have to go, Bess . . .’

  ‘I know, affairs of state,’ she sighed, then resumed, ‘though I wonder what important matters demand the presence of so obscure an officer as my husband.’

  ‘Perhaps I am not so obscure,’ he said, in a poor attempt to jest, or to boast.

  ‘Try persuading me otherwise, Nathaniel.’

  ‘There is Colonel Bardolini.’

  ‘He is pathetic and rather frightened.’

  ‘Frightened? Why do you say that?’ Drinkwater asked with sudden interest.

  Elizabeth shrugged. ‘I don’t know; he just gives that impression.’

  ‘Well, he’s safe enough here and, for the few days we have, you can look after him.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said. ‘But you have changed the subject. I want to know more of this proposed voyage. I suppose you wish me to carry orders to James when I return in the same way that I carried your sea-kit up to London.’

  ‘You rumble me damned easily, Elizabeth.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be so transparent. I suppose you cannot or will not confide in me.’

  ‘It is not . . .’

  ‘A woman’s business, I know.’

  ‘I was about to say, it is not easy to explain.’

  ‘Try.’

  And when he had finished Elizabeth said, ‘I hate you going, my darling, but knowing why makes it bearable. I know I shall never have you to myself until this war is over and anything that brings peace nearer is to be welcomed. I can only pray that God will spare you.’

  He bent and kissed her, but she yielded only a little, pushing him gently away. ‘Must you take James? Catriona has waited so long for him and you summoned him before, then left her to bear the child alone.’

  ‘Bess, you know James has no means of support beyond his half-pay; he yearns for a ship . . .’

  ‘You promised him his swab, Nathaniel, yet he remains on the lieutenants’ list.’

  ‘You know I recommended him, but . . .’

  ‘The matter proved only your obscurity,’ Elizabeth was quick to point out.

  ‘Touché,’ he muttered. ‘Well, I can’t guarantee him his swab, but I can put him in a good position to earn it. He can have the Kestrel, d’you remember her?’

  ‘She’s only a little cutter, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but she provides him with an opportunity,’ countered Drinkwater, increasingly desperate. ‘You know too damned much about naval affairs, Elizabeth,’ he said, rising from the bed and tearing testily at his stock.

  And though they lay in each other’s arms until dawn, they were unable to find the satisfaction true lovers expect of one another.

  * See Baltic Mission.

  CHAPTER 4

  October 1813

  Departures

  On the last Thursday in September, Drinkwater rose before dawn. Elizabeth, as used to the regime of the byre as her husband was to that of a ship, was astir equally early. She was to leave for Gantley Hall after breakfast, though without orders for James Quilhampton who had been sent to Chatham the instant Drinkwater learned the cutter Kestrel was mastless.

  ‘My dear, I have to go to the Admiralty. I shall have the coach brought round for you.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Bardolini, in shirt and overalls, caught him on the landing as he p
repared to leave.

  ‘Captain, please, today . . .’

  ‘Colonel, today I promise. I told you not to expect a response until Thursday, and you shall have your answer today.’

  ‘But I have yet to meet Lord Castlereagh . . .’

  ‘Lord Castlereagh has been informed of your arrival. Now do be a good fellow and be patient. I shall send for you before this evening, rest assured upon the matter.’

  ‘This evening? But Captain . . .’

  Drinkwater hurried on down the stairs and met Williams in the hall. ‘Williams, be so kind as to send word for the coach. My wife’s portmanteau is almost ready to come down.’

  Elizabeth, in grey travelling dress and boots, her bonnet in her hand, joined him for coffee. He nodded at the sunlight streaming in through the window.

  ‘Well, my dear, you should have a pleasant enough run. D’you have something to read?’

  ‘You know I have trouble reading in a coach, Nathaniel.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I had forgotten. You used to . . .’

  ‘We used to do a lot of things,’ she said quietly, and the words stung him with reproach.

  ‘The Colonel will have to break his fast alone this morning,’ she continued. ‘It is curious, but I always thought soldiers were early afoot.’

  ‘I think not Neapolitan soldiers,’ he said, smiling, grateful for the change of subject and the lifeline she had thrown him.

  ‘He is a strange fellow, though well enough educated. He reads English books. I found him reading your copy of Prince Eugène’s Memoirs yesterday, but he seemed distracted. Has he been out since his arrival?’

  ‘I cautioned him not to venture far and not to be absent for more than half an hour. His uniform is somewhat distinctive, even when he wears a cloak.’

  ‘At least he doesn’t wear his hat.’

  ‘No,’ Drinkwater laughed, ‘though there are so many foreign corps in our service today that I doubt one more fantastic uniform among so many peacocks will turn any heads. Have you seen what they have done to our light dragoons? They’ve turned them into hussars with pelisses and more frogging than ratlines on a first-rate’s mainmast. How the poor devils are supposed to campaign, let alone fight in such ridiculous clothes, I’m damned if I know.’