Baltic Mission (33 page)

‘Blixoe! Here! Disengage!' He caught the marine sergeant's eye and the man jerked his bayonet to the right and stepped back. As the two pulled out of the throng Drinkwater looked round. The waist was a shambles and he knew his men could not hold on for many more minutes against such odds. His glance raked the enemy rail and then he knew that providence had abandoned him. In the mizen chains of the enemy ship, in the very act of jumping across the gap, was a tall French officer. Their eyes met in recognition at the same instant.

General Santhonax jumped down onto the deck of the
Antigone
, leaping onto the breech of a carronade and sweeping his sword-blade among its wounded crew. Drinkwater brought up his hanger and advanced to meet him.

‘Keep your men back, Blixoe!'

‘But sir . . .'

‘
Back
! This man's mine!'

Then Santhonax was on him, his blade high. Drinkwater parried and missed, but ducked clear. Santhonax cut to the right as they both turned and their swords met, the jarring clash carrying up Drink-water's arm as their bodies collided. They pushed against each other.

‘I have come a long way . . .' Santhonax hissed between clenched teeth.

They jumped back and Drinkwater cut swiftly left. Santhonax quickly turned and spun round. They had fought before; Santhonax had given Drinkwater the first of his two shoulder wounds, a wound that even now reduced his stamina. Had he had a pistol he would not have hesitated to use it but, unprepared as he was, he had only his hanger, while Santhonax fought with a heavier sabre.

Santhonax cut down with a
molinello
which Drinkwater parried clumsily, feeling his enemy's blade chop downwards through the bullion wire of his epaulette. He shortened his own sword and jabbed savagely. Santhonax's cut had lost its power, but Drinkwater felt his blade bite bone and, with a sudden fierce joy, he drove upwards, feeling the hanger's blade bend as the tall Frenchman's head jerked backwards. Drinkwater retracted his arm, fearful that his weapon might snap, and as the blade withdrew from Santhonax's throat the blood poured from the gaping wound and he sank to his knees. Santhonax's eyes blazed as he tried to give vent to his anguish. With lowered guard Drinkwater stood over his enemy, his own breath coming in great panting sobs. Santhonax raised his left hand. It held a
pistol, drawn from his belt. Transfixed, Drinkwater watched the hammer cock and snap forward on the pan. The noise of the shot was lost in the tumult that raged about them, but the ball went wide with the trembling of Santhonax's hand. He began to sway, the front of his shirt and uniform dark with blood; his head came up and he arched his back and Drinkwater sensed his refusal to die.

Blixoe's marines closed in round the captain, while all about them men fought, slithering in the blood that flowed from the Frenchman. Suddenly the sabre dropped from his flaccid fingers and he slumped full length. Drinkwater bent beside the dying man; he felt a quite extraordinary remorse, as though their long animosity had engendered a mutual respect. Santhonax's mouth moved, then he fell back dead.

Drinkwater rose and turned, catching Blixoe's eye. The fighting round them was as desperate as ever and the Antigones had given ground as far as the quarterdeck.

‘Clear the quarterdeck, Blixoe!'

The sergeant swung his bloody bayonet and stabbed forward, bawling at his marines to keep their courage up.

Dropping his hanger, Drinkwater picked up the sabre Santhonax had used and hurled himself into the fight, roaring encouragement to his men. They began to force the Dutchmen backwards, then suddenly Drinkwater was aware of Quilhampton above him, scrambling over the battleship's rail into the mizen chains.

‘Get down, sir! Turn your face away!

‘What the hell . . .?'

Quilhampton jumped down among the shambles of struggling men and Drinkwater saw him push little Frey to the deck, then the one-handed lieutenant seemed to leap towards him, thrusting his shoulder, spinning him round and forcing him down.

The next moment Drinkwater felt the scorching heat of the blast and the air was filled by the roar of the explosion.

Lord Dungarth rose from the green baize-covered table in the Admiralty Boardroom. He was tired of the endless deliberations, of the arguments veering from one side to another. He stopped and stared at the chart extended from one of the rollers above the fireplace. It was of the Baltic Sea.

Behind him he heard the drone of Admiral Gambier's unenthusiastic voice, raising yet another imagined obstacle to the proposed destination of the so-called ‘Secret Expedition' that had been assembled at Yarmouth to carry an expeditionary force across the North Sea to land at Rügen. Dungarth concluded that ‘Dismal Jimmy' had so much in common with the evangelical preachers that he professed to admire that he would be better employed in a pulpit than commanding the reinforcements to Lord Cathcart's small force of the King's German Legion already in the Baltic.

‘But my dear Admiral,' interrupted Canning, the Foreign Secretary, with marked impatience, ‘the Prime Minister has already given instructions to Their Lordships and Their Lordships have doubtless already instructed Mr Barrow to prepare your orders. I don't doubt you will experience difficulties, but for God's sake don't prevaricate like Hyde Parker when he commanded the last such expedition to the area.'

Dungarth turned from the map and regarded the group of men sat around the boardroom table. The ‘Committee for the Secret Expedition' was in disarray despite the brilliant arrangements that had assembled in secret a fleet, an army corps and its transports that waited only the order to proceed from the commander-in-chief to weigh their anchors. Dungarth caught Barrow's eye and saw reproach there, aware that his department had failed to produce the definitive intelligence report on the Baltic situation that would have enabled the committee to settle on the point of attack with some confidence. Dungarth knew, as Barrow and Canning knew, that Rügen was a
compromise destination, designed to bolster the alliance, a political decision more than a military one. Dungarth sighed, he had hoped . . .

His eyes lifted to the wind-vane tell-tale set in the pediment over the bookcases at the far end of the room. The wind had been in the east for a week now, and still there was nothing . . .

A discreet tapping was heard at the door. Exasperated, Canning looked up.

‘I thought we were not to be disturbed.'

‘I'll attend to it,' said Dungarth, already crossing the carpet. He opened the door and took the chit the messenger handed him.

‘It's addressed to me, gentlemen, I beg your indulgence.' He shut the door and opened the note. Casting his eyes over it the colour drained from his face.

‘What the devil is it?' snapped Canning.

‘An answer to your prayers, gentlemen, if I'm not mistaken.'

‘Well read it, man!'

‘Very well . . .

H.M. Frigate
Antigone
Harwich
14th July 1807

My Lord
,

It is my Duty to Inform His Majesty's Government with the Utmost Despatch that it is the Intention of the Russian Emperor to Abandon His Alliance with His Majesty, and to Combine with Napoleon Bonaparte. Particular Designs are Entered into by the Combined Sovereigns Aimed at the Security of the British Nation which are of sufficiently Secret a Nature as not to be committed to Paper. They are, however, known to
,

Your Obed.
^nt
Serv.
^t
 
Nath
^nl
Drinkwater
,
  
Captain, Royal Navy

. . . that is all, gentlemen.'

The crinkle of the folding paper could be heard as the astonished committee digested this intelligence.

‘It isn't possible.'

‘Where is this officer?' asked Canning, the first to recover from the shock. ‘Who is he? D'ye trust him, damn it?'

They were looking at Dungarth and Dungarth was staring back.
He was no less stunned at the content of the letter than the others, but he at least had been willing such an arrival for weeks past. ‘A most trustworthy officer, Mr Canning, and one whose services have long merited greater recognition by their Lordships.' Dungarth fixed Barrow with his hazel eyes but the point was lost in Canning's impatience.

‘If he's kicking his damned heels in the hall below, get him up here at once!'

‘At once, gentlemen,' acknowledged Dungarth turning a second time to the door, with the ghost of a smile upon his face.

The sun was setting in a blaze of colour beyond the trees of St James's Park as the travel-stained naval captain and the earl crossed Horse Guards' Parade in the direction of Westminster. As they walked Drinkwater recounted those details of the strange cruise of the
Antigone
in the Baltic that he had not already mentioned in his verbal report to the Committee for the Secret Expedition.

‘And you say this Dutch ship was commandeered by our old friend Edouard Santhonax?'

‘Aye, my Lord, and forced out of the Texel in the teeth of the blockading squadron. I was only thankful that she had not taken on board her full quantity of powder, for if she had, I should not have lived to tell the tale.'

‘And your fellow, Quilhampton, boarded her.'

‘He is reticent upon the matter, but a determined cove nonetheless. I cannot speak too highly of him.'

‘Nor I of you, Nathaniel. So you consider
Antigone
no longer seaworthy?'

‘I think not, unless she be doubled all over and she will likely lose her fine sailing qualities. She suffered severely from the blowing up of the
Zaandam
; much of her starboard side was damaged and the first lieutenant was among the victims.'

‘I see.'

They walked on in silence. Drinkwater had fought hard to keep
Antigone
afloat as they worked her into Harwich, and she lay now beached on the mud off the old Navy Yard there. Of Rogers he said nothing more, since nothing more need be said. In his own way Rogers had died in the service of his country; it was epitaph enough for him.

‘And how is old Tregembo?'

‘Like the
Antigone
, not fit for further sea-service.'

They dined at Dungarth's house in Lord North Street, the conversation muted until Dungarth's single manservant had withdrawn and left them with their port.

‘Canning is well pleased with you, Nathaniel,' Dungarth smiled, lighting a cigar and leaning back to blow a pale blue cloud over the yellow glare of the candles.

‘I suppose I should be flattered.'

‘He has had an expedition fitting out for the Baltic for several weeks now. It was destined to support operations in Rügen until your news arrived. I've been warning Canning that something was afoot but until we knew for certain the outcome of events between the Russians and the French we should not show our hand.'

‘I thought you must have expected something. When I got your note, I thought . . .'

‘What? That I was a necromancer?' Dungarth smiled and shrugged. ‘No, but the unusual nature of my duties reveals odd things, and I am not necessarily referring to secrets. For some reason war draws the very best from men who are idle and dissolute creatures else, intent on pleasure, petty squabbling and money grubbing. Give a man a guinea and he will buy a bottle or a whore; give a people freedom and they will turn to riot and revenge . . .' Dungarth poured himself a second glass and passed the decanter. ‘And this war . . .' he sighed and watched Drinkwater fill his own glass. ‘It is said history imitates itself and men's motives are not always derived, as they would have you think, from their own reason. Some are, I conceive, instinctive, like Santhonax's persistence or your own quixotic abetting of Ostroff. It isn't circumstantial, you know, Nathaniel, and I have always felt that these events are conjoined, like tiny links in a great chain that unwinds down the ages.' He took the proffered decanter and paused as he refilled his glass again. ‘Or like some gravitational pull, which orders our affairs in spite of ourselves and wants only a second Newton to codify it.' Dungarth smiled. ‘An odd, illogical fancy perhaps, but then we are all subject to them. Your own fascination with that witch Hortense Santhonax, for instance. No, don't protest your unimpeachable fidelity to Elizabeth. You are as prone to profane thoughts as the next man.'

Drinkwater reached into his waistcoat pocket. ‘I did not know you read me so well,' he observed wryly and leaned across the table. His thumb flicked open the back of a gold hunter and Dungarth looked down at the timepiece.

Grey eyes stared up from the pale oval face of the miniature.

‘Good heavens! Santhonax's watch?'

Drinkwater nodded, closed it and slipped it back into his pocket.

‘It's very curious, is it not?' Dungarth shook his head ruminatively.