Beneath the Aurora

by Richard Woodman

  Templeton, himself half asleep by then, was unaware of anything amiss until Drinkwater, having given Frey’s foot a sharp kick, pulled the hammer back to full cock with a loud click.

  ‘Mr Templeton,’ Drinkwater said, ‘consider yourself under arrest.’

  ‘What the devil . . . ?’ Templeton made to move, but Frey seized his arm and held it while the clerk ceased struggling and subsided. Drinkwater watched Templeton’s eyes close in resignation and saw his Adam’s apple bob nervously above his stock.

  ‘You deceived me, Mr Templeton,’ Drinkwater said, ‘you were in contact with Malaburn, were you not? You informed him of the purpose and whereabouts of Bardolini, and you are an accessory to the man’s murder. You told Malaburn of the purpose of our voyage, you were aware that the package of papers was removed from my office and secreted at my house . . .

  ‘Well, have you nothing to say?’

  Templeton shook his head. His mouth had gone dry and he could not speak.

  ‘Is this how you served Lord Dungarth? Leaking secrets to the enemy? Is that how Dungarth was blown up and lost his leg? Did you betray him to the French?’

  ‘No! No, never!’

  ‘So when did you start this?’

  ‘I . . .’ Templeton licked his lips, ‘I never betrayed Lord Dungarth. I never trafficked with the French.’

  ‘Only with the Americans, eh? Is that right?’

  Templeton said nothing.

  ‘Your silence is eloquent, Templeton, and enough to condemn you.’

  ‘Sir . . . Captain Drinkwater, I know you for a man of sensibility, my intention was not murder, I meant only . . .’

  ‘Meant only what?’

  Templeton’s features worked distressfully in the gloom. He breathed heavily and wiped the back of a hand across his mouth.

  ‘Sir . . . sir, I beg you . . . my mother . . .’

  He had looked desperately at Frey and then lapsed into a sobbing quiescence from which Drinkwater had been unable to rouse him. In the end he had abandoned the attempt.

  ‘I am taking you to my house,’ he had said. ‘You will be held there for the time being.’

  ‘Is that a good idea, sir?’ Frey had asked, speaking for the first time, his face bleak with suppressed emotion.

  Drinkwater had nodded. ‘For the time being, yes. You will look after him until after I decided what is to be done.’

  Night had fallen when they crossed the Thames. The light of a young moon and the gleam of the lamps mounted on the parapet of London Bridge to illuminate the carriageway shone on the white expanse of the frozen river.

  ‘Stap me,’ Frey had said, breaking the dolorous silence, ‘I wish I’d my paint-box!’

  On arrival at the house in Lord North Street they had hustled Templeton quickly inside and upstairs to the bedroom which Bardolini had once used.

  ‘Leave us a moment,’ Drinkwater had said to Frey, after he had dismissed the impassive Williams, and Frey, with a glance at the trembling Templeton, had done as he was bid.

  Downstairs, the manservant had ushered Frey into the withdrawing-room. Frey settled before a roaring fire quickly conjured by Williams, who poured him a glass of oporto. The young lieutenant sat and stared at the magnificent portrait above the fireplace, marvelling at the skill of the artist. The lady was fair and beautiful and her lovely face seemed to glow in the imperfect candlelight. He had no idea who she was, nor what her relationship had been with Captain Drinkwater. He had had no idea, either, that Drinkwater possessed such a house; the knowledge seemed another mystery to add to the sum of extraordinary occurrences of recent weeks. He wondered whether Drinkwater would vouchsafe him some further explanation when he came downstairs. He knew that Captain Drinkwater had, from time to time, some connections with secret operations and felt that the death of James Quilhampton had elevated Frey himself to the post of confidant. For the moment he was lost in admiration of the work of Mr George Romney.

  So abandoned to contemplation had he been, that Drinkwater startled him. ‘She was the Countess of Dungarth,’ Drinkwater had explained, helping himself from the decanter. ‘The wife of the former head of the Admiralty’s Secret Department. This was formerly his house. Your health, Mr Frey. Now tell me what is troubling you.’

  Frey had been recalled to the present. ‘That man, sir.’

  ‘Templeton? What about him?’

  ‘Shouldn’t we turn him over to the constables? If what you say is true, he is guilty of treason, of trafficking with the enemy . . .’

  ‘You are concerned he might escape, that the bedroom is no Newgate cell, is that what’s troubling you?’

  ‘Yes it is, in part.’

  Drinkwater had sighed. ‘I owe you something of an explanation, my dear Frey. You are the only man I can trust in this matter and it must be settled quietly. Forgive me, it is an imposition I would rather not have laid upon you.’

  Drinkwater had then related to Frey an account of the arrival of secret intelligence from Naples and of the subsequent disappearance of Bardolini. He told of the sabotage in the Vikkenfiord, of his belated suspicions, of the too pat pressing of the Americans and the mischief they had wrought under Malaburn.

  ‘It was an assumed name, I think, and a flash one, a punning which might have spelled the end for all of us.’

  ‘What do you think he intended to do, if he had not let go your anchor?’

  ‘To set us on fire when we were conveniently close to the American ships and he and his accomplices could escape in a boat. Had he lain low in the hold, he might just have achieved it. He was a resourceful fellow, this Mal-a-burn, he staked a great deal on chance and he nearly won . . .’

  Drinkwater did not wish to dwell on how close his own laxity had come to promoting this course of events, nor on what he owed to Thomas Huke whose unnecessary death would reproach him for the rest of his life. The two men were lost in silence for a moment, contemplating what might have happened.

  ‘And Templeton?’ Frey had prompted at last. It did not seem to be over until Templeton was dealt with.

  Drinkwater stirred and poured another glass for both of them.

  ‘There has been enough blood spilled in this whole wretched business. We have both lost a friend in James, and only you and I know of Templeton’s guilt. Let us sleep on it.’

  ‘But he might escape from that room.’

  ‘He might murder us in our beds, it’s true, and if he does escape,’ Drinkwater shrugged, ‘well, what does it matter? It’s over now.’

  ‘But why, sir? I don’t understand.’

  ‘ ’Twas a temptation more than he could bear. Consider the matter.’ Drinkwater sighed; his conversation alone with Templeton had borne out all his suspicions and answered most of his questions. ‘Templeton is an intelligent fellow,’ Drinkwater went on, ‘skilled, dedicated. For years he toils miserably upwards in the sequestered corridors of the Admiralty, a world of internecine jealousies between pettifogging minds. He finds himself close to secrets of state, unlocks some of them with his ability to decrypt reports at speed. He learns from Lord Dungarth, and later myself, of his true worth, yet he is paid a pittance. He is surrounded by glory and yet not one iota is reflected upon him. You are an artist, Frey, a man of, what did he call me? Of sensibility; surely you can see how such a life could corrode a proud spirit and leave him vulnerable to seduction?’

  Frey had stirred uncomfortably, but held his tongue.

  ‘Templeton, I suspect,’ Drinkwater went on, ‘was as much led astray by Malaburn’s gold as Malaburn’s promise of a new life. D’you think Templeton was a high Tory or the member of a Corresponding Society, a secret republican? For him America means opportunity, another chance away from our world of privilege and patronage, of jobbing and perquisites, of the eternal English kow-tow. I didn’t have to ask him if this is true, though I have spoken to him of it. I know it myself; I feel it in my bones, and so, if you’re honest, do you.

  ‘No, leave Templeton to his conscience, and the workings
of providence. He can do no harm now.’ Drinkwater had paused, then said, ‘This is a damnable war. It has lasted all my adult life. Quilhampton joined me as a midshipman and was shot to pieces. Now we have a new generation, boys like little Fisher weeping over cats, but bred to war, inured to war like me. I am weary of it, sick to my very soul, Frey, and I am burdening you unreasonably with my confession.’ Drinkwater smiled, and his face was oddly boyish.

  ‘Not at all,’ Frey said uncertainly, ‘not at all. I recall something Pope wrote . . .’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘ “Sir, I have lived a courtier all my days, And studied men, their manners and their ways; And have observed this useful maxim still, To let my betters always have their will.” ’

  ‘So, you feel something of it too, eh?’ Drinkwater smiled again. ‘Anyway, my dear fellow,’ he said, rising and stretching stiffly, ‘I have asked for you to be given a step in rank. You will be a Commander before too long.’

  ‘Is that to purchase my silence in the matter?’ Frey had asked quickly, looking up.

  Drinkwater laughed. ‘Only incidentally. But yes, it binds you to the system and compromises you. Like marriage and family, it makes you a hostage to fortune.’

  Drinkwater crossed the room and drew back the curtains. ‘Good Lord, I thought it had grown warmer and blamed the wine, but it is raining outside.’

  Frey became aware of the hiss of the deluge, then Drinkwater closed the curtains and faced him. ‘I think it is time for bed.’

  Frey tossed off his glass and stood up. ‘Good-night, sir.’

  ‘Good-night. I hope you sleep well.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Lock your door,’ Drinkwater said with a laugh.

  When Frey had gone, Drinkwater poured another glass and sat again, to stare into the dying fire as the candles burned low. It was already long past midnight and he would confront Mr Barrow later that day. Finally, after about an hour, he rose, went into the hall and opened the front door. In the street a cold rain fell in torrents; peering out into the hissing darkness, Drinkwater smiled to himself. Turning back into the house he left the door ajar and went quietly upstairs.

  Outside Templeton’s room he drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He stepped inside; rain beat upon the uncurtained window and he could faintly see Templeton, still dressed, lying upon the bed.

  ‘Captain Drinkwater . . . ?’ Templeton’s voice faltered uncertainly. ‘Captain Drinkwater, is that you?’

  It suddenly struck Drinkwater that Templeton expected to be executed for his crime of treason, murdered perhaps by Drinkwater himself as Bardolini had been assassinated. Instead, he stood motionless and silent beside the open door.

  ‘I tried to get myself killed in the boarding of the Odin,’ Templeton said desperately.

  ‘I know,’ Drinkwater replied quietly.

  ‘What . . . what do you intend to do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Drinkwater murmured, stepping aside from the doorway, ‘now be gone.’

  The Frost Fair

  26 January 1814

  Upon the frozen Thames in the Pool of London, between London Bridge and the Tower, there had been a great frost fair for some six weeks. Tents containing circus curiosities and human freaks had been set up, stalls selling everything from patent nostrums and articles of cheap haberdashery to roasted chestnuts were laid out in regular ‘streets’. Open spaces were cleared for skating and the populace displayed every scale of talent from the inept to the expert. An émigré fencing master gave lessons with épée or foil to ambitious counting-house clerks, while rustics exercised at single-stick. Bloods rode their hacks on the ice, caracoling their slithering mounts in extravagant daring for the admiring benefit of credulous belles. Fashion rubbed shoulders with the indigent upon the slippery surface, and many a dainty lady lost her dignity with her footing, to the merciless merriment of her acknowledged inferiors.

  Whores and pick-pockets abounded, preying on the foolish. Silly young blades were helped to their feet and simultaneously deprived of their purses.

  Good ales were served from barrels set upon stands on the ice, whole sheep were spit-roasted and consumed with the relish that only cold weather can endow. London was entranced, captivated by the spectacle.

  On the night of 25 January, the night Templeton was released, the warmth of an approaching depression brought heavy rain. This raised freshets in the Thames valley to the west of the capital. The following day the thaw set the frozen river in sudden motion. Tents and stalls were swept away, along with their customers and the curious promenaders whom even six weeks’ revelry could not deter.

  In the days that followed, far downstream, amid the samphire bordering the salt-marshes of the Kent and Essex shores, the bloated bodies of the drowned washed ashore.

  Among them was the unrecognizable corpse of Templeton. He had been quite drunk when the ice melted.

  Author’s Note

  In 1813 Norway was a possession of King Frederick of Denmark, and occasional raids on its coast were made by British cruisers operating in northern waters.

  As a result of the second expedition against Copenhagen in 1807, the Danish navy had been very largely destroyed by the British, though a fleet of gun-vessels and one or two men-of-war remained in commission, along with a large and effective fleet of Danish privateers. Subsequent actions between the British and the Danes became notorious for their ferocity.

  The Danes also lost the island of Helgoland which, at the entrance of the Elbe, became a forward observation post for the British, and an entrepôt for British goods destined for the Continent to break the embargo imposed by Napoleon (a fact I have used as the basis for Under False Colours). The island remained in British hands for a century.

  After the French Emperor’s disastrous Russian campaign, the loyalty of his marshalate was severely shaken. Several of these men, who owed their fortunes to Napoleon, made overtures to the Allies. One, Marshal Bernadotte, became heir presumptive to the Swedish crown and, as a result of his joining the Allied camp, was later ceded Norway, afterwards becoming king of the entire Scandinavian peninsula.

  Less successfully, Joachim Murat, King of Naples and Marshal of France, ‘the most complete vulgarian and poseur’, according to Carola Oman, but an inspired if vainglorious leader of cavalry, opened a secret communication with the British government in the autumn of 1813 with a view to retaining his throne in the event of the fall of his brother-in-law, Napoleon. His rival, the Bourbon King Ferdinand of the ‘Two Sicilies’, retained the insular portion of his dual kingdom under British protection. Murat’s overtures resulted in a treaty with London signed on 11 January 1814. It availed him little; he was shot by his ‘subjects’ in the following year, and the odious Ferdinand returned to his palace in Naples.

  The ambivalent posture of the Americans in their brief war with Great Britain was at odds with their singleminded ambitions towards Canada. Thirty thousand Loyalists had settled in New Brunswick after the War of Independence, a living reproach to the claims of the patriot party, and it was the avowed aim of the war-hawks in Congress to assimilate these and simultaneously liberate the French Canadians from the yoke of British tyranny, to the considerable advantage of the United States.

  Between the new and the old worlds lay the Atlantic Ocean, dominated by the Royal Navy which, despite receiving a bloody nose from the young United States’ Navy, was by 1813 reasserting its paramountcy. Nevertheless, American privateers continued to operate with impunity and the British were equally equivocal in their attitude to American trade, particularly when it affected the supply of Wellington’s army in the Iberian peninsula.

  Napoleon, moreover, took an interest in American affairs (his youngest brother Jerome married an American and their grandson was later Secretary of the US Navy, though the lady herself was later repudiated in favour of a Württemburg princess). Napoleon had sold Louisiana and the Mississippi valley as far west as the Rockies to the United States in 1803 with the prescien
t remark that the Americans would ‘fight the English again’. His secret diplomacy thereafter applied pressure to bring about this highly desirable state of affairs.

  With Britain contributing 124,000 muskets, 18.5 million cartridges, 34,500 swords, 218 cannon, 176,600 pairs of boots, 150,000 uniforms and an additional 187,000 yards of uniform cloth to the Allied armies for the Leipzig campaign, a similar arrangement between the French and the Americans in exchange for wheat does not seem improbable.

  That knowledge of such a deal should form the ‘guarantee’ of Joachim Murat’s good faith and a pledge of his suitability for a throne forms the basis of this story.

  Both the British and the American governments were quite indifferent to the fate of merchant seamen, and those Americans lodged in Dartmoor remained incarcerated until long after the signing of the Peace of Ghent ended the war. On 6 April 1815 a riot broke out which left seven American prisoners dead and fifty-four wounded. It is believed that among the dead were a handful that had earlier escaped and been recaptured.