'Tregembo?' Drinkwater frowned. 'You know I dare not expose him to any unnecessary danger, I shall never hear the last of it from his wife .. .' Drinkwater smiled.

'Well, Konigsberg is supposed to be a friendly port, sir. I cannot see that he can come to much harm.'

'True. Why do you want Tregembo?' Drinkwater paused and saw Quilhampton's hesitation. 'Is it because you do not trust the temper of the men?'

Quilhampton shrugged, trying to pass his concern off lightly. 'One or two may try and run, sir. They are still somewhat mettlesome. With Tregembo there they will be less inclined to try. Besides, I shall have to leave the launch.'

'You will take two midshipmen, Dutfield and Wickham.'

'I should still like Tregembo.'

Drinkwater raised his voice. 'Sentry! Pass word for my coxswain!'

A minute or two later Tregembo arrived. 'You sent for me, zur?'

'Aye, Tregembo. Mr. Q here wants you to go in the launch with him to Konigsberg. To be particular, he has requested you go. I'd like you to accompany him.'

'Who'll look after you, zur?' Tregembo asked with the air of the indispensable.

'Oh, I expect Mullender will manage for a day or two,' Drinkwater replied drily.

Tregembo sniffed his disbelief. 'If you'm want me to go, zur, I'll go'

'Very well.' Drinkwater smiled. 'You had better both go and make your preparations.'

An hour later he watched the launch pull away from the ship's side. On board Antigone

the men were coiling away the yard and stay tackles used to sway the heavy carvel boat up from its chocks on the booms in the frigate's waist and over the side. Half a cable away the men in the launch stowed their oars, stepped the two masts and hooked the lugsail yards to their travellers. An hour later the two lugsails were mere nicks upon the horizon, no different from half a dozen others entering or leaving the Frisches Haff. Drinkwater settled down to wait.

For two days Antigone

swung slowly round her anchor. On board, the monotonous routines of shipboard life went on, the officer of the watch occasionally studying the low, desolate shore for the twin peaks of the launch's lugsails. Once a watch Frey or Walmsley climbed to the main royal yard and peered diligently to the eastward, but without seeing any sign of the ship's boat. Then, early in the morning of the third day, an easterly breeze carried with it the sound of gunfire. Sent aloft, Frey brought down the disquieting intelligence that there was smoke visible from the general direction of Konigsberg.

All the officers were on the quarterdeck and Mount, as if disbelieving the boy's report, ascended the mast himself to confirm it.

'But what the devil does it mean, Mount?' asked Hill. 'Your atlas shows Heilsberg as to the south and west of Konigsberg. If the Russkies threw the French back, what the hell is smoke and gunfire doing at Konigsberg?' He crossed the deck and checked the wind direction from the weather dog-vane to the compass. 'That gunfire isn't coming from anywhere other than east.'

'It means', said Drinkwater, 'either that Heilsberg was wrongly reported or that the French have counter-attacked and reached Konigsberg.'

'Bloody hell!'

'What about Quilhampton?'

And Tregembo, thought Drinkwater. Should he send another boat? Should he work Antigone closer inshore? He had no charts of the area accurate enough to attempt a passage over the bar and into the Frisches Haff, and did not relish the thought of grounding igno-miniously within range of the shore. A picture of French batteries revenging themselves on him from the shingle spit enclosing the great lagoon presented itself to him. Napoleon would make much of such an event and he Moniteur

would trumpet it throughout Europe. No, he would have to give Quilhampton his chance. The man was not a fool. If he heard gunfire he would assume the place was under attack and, as it could only be attacked by one enemy, he would come off to the ship as his orders said. But the officers were looking at him, expecting some response.

'I think that we can do little but wait, gentlemen,' Drinkwater said, and turning he made his way below, to brood in his cabin and fret himself with anxiety. For two hours an uneasy silence hung over the ship, then Frey, suspended in the rigging with the ship's best glass, hailed the deck, his voice cracking with excitement.

'Deck there! Deck there! The launch, sir! It's in sight!' His frantic excitement promised to unseat him from his precarious perch and it was only with difficulty that Hill persuaded him that his own safety was more important than the precise bearing of the launch. But Frey would not desert his post and kept the image of the launch dancing in the lens by lying full length on the furled main-topgallant. It was he, therefore, who spotted the reversed ensign flying from the launch's peak as she approached the ship. 'She's flying a signal for distress, sir!'

Once again all were on deck; the waist and fo'c's'le were crowded with Antigone's

people training their eyes to the eastward where the launch was now clearly visible.

'Mr. Comley!' Rogers called sharply and with no trace of his former debility. 'Stir those idlers! Man the yard and stay tackles! Prepare to hoist in the launch!'

'Mr. Lallo,' said Drinkwater lowering his telescope, 'as far as I can ascertain there is nothing amiss with the launch itself. I can only assume the signal of distress refers to the people in the boat. I think it would be wise if you were to prepare your instruments.' A chilling foreboding had closed itself round Drinkwater's heart.

The launch came running down wind, the men in her hidden behind the bunts of the loose-footed lugsails. She was skillfully rounded up into the wind and, sails a-flapping, came alongside Antigone's

waist. With an overwhelming sense of relief Drinkwater saw a disheveled Quilhampton at the tiller, his iron hook crooked over the wooden bar. Then he saw wounded men amidships: one of them Tregembo.

The fit men clambered from the launch up Antigone's

tumble-home. With her sails stowed and masts lowered the boat was hooked and swung up and inboard onto the booms. Here eager arms assisted in lifting the wounded men out and down below to the catlings and curettes of Mr. Lallo.

Drinkwater waited until Quilhampton reported. His eyes followed the inert body of Tregembo as, his shoulder slung in a bloodstained and makeshift bandage, he was taken below. He was therefore unaware of a dusty stranger who stood upon the deck ignored amidst the bustle.

'Well, Mr. Q? What happened?'

James Quilhampton looked five years older. His face was drawn and he was filthy.

'I have your intelligence, sir, Konigsberg has fallen to the French. There has been a great battle, just two days ago. It was disastrous for the Russians. There is chaos in the port...' He paused, gathering his wits. He was clearly exhausted. 'I made contact, as you suggested, with the master of a Hull ship. We went ashore to gather news at a tavern much used by British shipmasters. To my surprise Captain Young was there, together with Captain Baker.' Quilhampton shook his head, trying to clear it of the fog of fatigue. 'To my astonishment their ships had still not discharged their lading ...'

'Good God ... but go on.'

'The fellows were debating what should be done, as the news had just arrived of the precipitate flight of the Russians. I said Antigone was anchored on the Pregel Bar and would afford them convoy. Most felt that with their cargoes not yet completed they could not stand the loss. They affirmed their faith in the garrison and the defences of the city. I tried to tell Young that his cargo must not fall into the hands of the enemy. He assured me it wouldn't. The men had had a tiring passage with the necessity of rowing up the river, so I judged that we should remain alongside Young's ship. Her chief mate offered us accommodation and I accepted, intending to see how matters stood in the morning and, if necessary, help to get the Nancy and the Jenny Marsden

to sea. I thought, sir, that if the threat from the French persisted, I might better persuade Captain Young to change his mind. You see, sir, the evening before he had been somewhat in his cups and difficult to move ...' 'I understand, James. Go on.'

'There is not much more to tell. I slept badly, the town was shaken throughout the night by artillery fire, and the bursting of the shells was constant. In the morning French cavalry were in the town. Young was not on board and I attempted to get his mate to sail and bring out Baker's ship as well. They would not move unless their respective masters were with them. I undertook to return to the tavern where it was thought they had lodged. I got caught in a cross-fire between some infantry, I don't know whether they were Prussians or Russians, and some French sharp-shooters. Tregembo and Kissel were with me. Kissel was hit and Tregembo and I went back for him. As we dragged him towards the Jenny Marsden

's jolly-boat we were ridden down by French dragoons. They dispatched Kissel and wounded Tregembo ...'

'Go on. What happened to you?'

'Oh, nothing, sir.'

'He unhorsed a dragoon, Captain, pulled the fellow clean out of his saddle

Drinkwater turned and was aware of an unfamiliar face. 'And who, sir, are you?'

The stranger ignored the question. 'Your officer unhorsed the dragoon with that remarkable hook of his. You see, sir, they were pursuing me. I had evaded them in an alley and they took their revenge on your officer and men. However, as I swiftly made him out to be a seafaring man as well as an Englishman, I made myself known to him and assisted him in getting his wounded comrade into the boat.'

'I doubt I could have done it alone, sir,' explained Quilhampton,

'before the other dragoon got me. Fortunately the fellow missed with his carbine and we were able to get to the Jenny Marsden

without further ado, but I could not get either of them to unmoor and, with shot flying about the shipping and this gentleman here insisting on my bringing him off, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour ...'

'What is the extent of Tregembo's wound?' Drinkwater cut in.

'A sabre thrust in the fleshy part of the shoulder, sir. I do not believe it to be mortal.'

'I hope to God it ain't.' Drinkwater turned on the stranger. 'And now, sir, who are you and what is your business?'

'I think, Captain,' said the stranger with that imperturbable coolness that was rapidly eroding Drinkwater's temper, 'that this should be discussed in your cabin.'

'Do you, indeed.'

'Yes. In fact I insist upon it.' His cold blue eyes held Drinkwater's in an unblinking gaze. The man made a gesture with his hand as if their roles were reversed and it was he who was inviting Drinkwater below. 'Captain ...?'

'Mr. Q, get below and turn in. You, Mr. Frey, cut along to the surgeon and tell him to debride those wounds immediately or they will mortify' He turned to the stranger. 'As for you, sir, you had better follow me!'

Drinkwater strode below and, shutting the door behind the stranger, rounded on him.

'Now, sir! Enough of this tomfoolery. Who the deuce are you and what the devil d'you mean by behaving like that?'

The stranger smiled coolly. T already have the advantage of you, Captain. Your lieutenant informed me that you are Captain Drinkwater. Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, I understand . . .' A small and strangely threatening smile was playing about the man's mouth, but he held out his hand cordially enough. T am Colin Alexander Mackenzie, Captain Drinkwater, and in your debt for saving my life.'

9  Mackenzie

June 1807

Drinkwater felt awkward under Mackenzie's uncompromising scrutiny. He hesitated, then took the outstretched hand. Everything about the stranger irritated Drinkwater, not least his proprietorial air in Drinkwater's own cabin.

'Mr. Mackenzie,' he said coldly, 'Colonel Wilson mentioned you.' Drinkwater was not ready to say the British Commissioner had urged him to offer this cold-eyed man as much assistance as he required. The manner of Mackenzie's arrival seemed to indicate he already had that for the time being.

'So,' Mackenzie smiled, 'you have met Bob Wilson. I wonder where he is now?'

Drinkwater indicated a chair and Mackenzie slumped into it. 'Thank you.'

'A glass?' Drinkwater asked.

'That is very kind of you. What did Wilson say?'

Drinkwater poured the two glasses of wine and handed one to the Scotsman. He did not hurry to answer, but observed the man as he relaxed. After a little he said, 'That I was to afford you such assistance as you might require. It seems we have already done so.'

The two men were still weighing each other up and Drinkwater's manner remained cool. Now, however, Mackenzie dropped his aloofness.

'I'm damn glad you did, Captain. I had to ride for my very life. I am almost sure those dragoons knew who I was ...' He shrugged, passing a hand over his dust-stained face. 'The Russians were smashed, you know, on the fourteenth, at a place called Friedland. Bennigsen got himself caught in a loop of the River Alle and, though the Russians fought like bears, the French got the better of them. Bennigsen was forced to retreat and Konigsberg has fallen. The Russians are falling back everywhere to the line of the Nieman. I was lucky to get out... and even luckier to find you.' He smiled, and Drinkwater found himself feeling less hostile. However he did not pass up the opportunity to goad Mackenzie a little.

'What exactly is your function, Mr. Mackenzie? I mean what was it you feared the French dragoons took you for?'

Mackenzie looked at him shrewdly, again that strangely disquieting smile played about his mouth, again Drinkwater received the impression that their roles were reversed and that he, in goading Mackenzie, was in some obscure way being put upon.

'I am sure you are aware of my function as a British agent.' He paused and added, 'A spy, if you wish.'

Drinkwater shied away from the dangerous word-game he felt inadequate to play. This was his ship, his cabin; he switched the conversation back onto its safer track.

'I heard that the French were defeated at a place called Heilsberg. After Eylau we were expecting that the Russians might throw Boney back, once and for all.'

Mackenzie nodded tiredly, apparently equally relieved at the turn the conversation had taken. 'So did I, Captain. It was true. The Russians and Prussians moved against the French at the beginning of the month when Ney's Corps went foraging. Le Rougeard

was caught napping and given a bloody nose. But Napoleon moved the whole mass of the Grand Army, caught Bennigsen ten days later at Friedland and crushed him.'

'I see.' Drinkwater considered the matter a moment. He did not think that the news left him much alternative. The retreat of the Tsar's Army beyond the Nieman, the French occupation of Poland and East Prussia, the fall of Dantzig and now Konigsberg, left Napoleon the undisputed master of Europe. In accordance with his orders, London must be informed forthwith.

'Well, Mr. Mackenzie, having rescued you and rendered that assistance required of me, I must now take the news you bring back to London. I take it you will take passage with us?'

Mackenzie hesitated then said, 'Captain Drinkwater, how discretionary are your orders?'

'Those from their Lordships are relatively wide.'

'You have, perhaps, orders from another source?' Mackenzie paused. 'I see you are reluctant to confide in me. No matter. But perhaps you have something else, eh? Something from the Secret Department of Lord Dungarth?'

'Go on, Mr. Mackenzie. I find your hypothesis . . . intriguing,' Drinkwater prevaricated.

'The Russians are defeated; the shipments of arms in the two merchantmen at Konigsberg have fallen into enemy hands. In commercial terms the Tsar is a bad risk.' Mackenzie smiled. 'Sweden is led by an insane monarch and on the very edge of revolution. Now, Captain, what is the victorious Napoleone

going to do about it all? He has destroyed Prussia, driven the Russians back into Mother Russia itself, he is suborning the Swedes, threatening the Danes. He has the Grand Army in the field under his personal control, his rear is secured by Mortier at Stralsund and Brune's Corps of Hispano-Dutch on the borders of Denmark. Austria is quiescent but...' and Mackenzie paused to emphasize his point, 'he has not been in Paris for over a year. The question of what is happening in Paris will prevent him sleeping more than anything. He has a few more months in the field and then,' he shrugged, 'who knows? So what would you do, Captain?'

'Me? I have no idea.' Drinkwater found the idea absurd.

'I would conclude an armistice with the Tsar,' said Mackenzie evenly.

Drinkwater looked sharply at him. The idea was preposterous. The Tsar was the sworn enemy of the French Revolution and the Imperial system of the parvenu Emperor, and yet such was the persuasion of Mackenzie's personality that the cold, cogent logic of it struck Drinkwater. He remembered Straton's cautionary removal of the Tsar's subsidy, and his own now-proven misgivings. He said nothing for there seemed nothing to say.

Then Mackenzie broke the seriousness of their mood. His smile was unsullied and charming. 'But then, 'tis only a hypothesis, Captain Drinkwater . . . and it is my business to speculate, intelligently, of course.'

'And it's not my business to verify the accuracy of your speculations, Mr. Mackenzie,' said the captain brightening, 'but to take this intelligence back to London as quickly as possible.'

'Have you heard of any preparations against the Baltic being made at home?'

'Yes," said Drinkwater. 'Home of the Pegasus

mentioned some such expedition to be mounted this summer in support of Gustavus at Rugen. There were problems of command: the King of Sweden wanted to command British troops in person .. .'

'They would walk into a trap," said Mackenzie, his voice a mixture of contempt and exasperation.

'Well then,' said Drinkwater, 'the sooner we prevent that, the better.'

'I think you are mistaken, Captain, to think our news would stop His Majesty's ministers from acting in their usual incompetent manner. Hypotheses are not intelligence. Lord Dungarth would be pleased with the news, but not ecstatic. They will know of the Battle of Friedland in London in a day or so, if they do not already. There are other channels ...' Again Drinkwater was confronted by that strange, ominous smile.

'Well,' expostulated Drinkwater, feeling his irritation returning, 'what do you

suggest I do?'

'I know what we should do, Captain Drinkwater. The question is, can we do it?' Mackenzie's eyes closed to contemplative slits, his voice lowered. 'I am certain that there will be an armistice soon. The French dare not overextend themselves; Napoleon must return to Paris; yet, if he withdraws, the Russians will follow like wolves. There must

be an accommodation with the Tsar.'

'And will the Tsar agree to such a proposal, particularly as it reveals Boney in a position of weakness?'

Mackenzie chuckled. 'My dear Captain, you know nothing of Russia. There is one thing you must understand, she is an autocracy. What the Tsar wills, is. Alexander professes one thing and does another. The Tsar can be relied upon to be erratic'

Drinkwater shook his head, still mystified. 'So what do you advise I do?'

'You already asked that question.'

'But you did not answer it.'

'We should eavesdrop on their conversation.'

'Whose?' asked Drinkwater frowning.

'Alexander's and Napoleon's.'

'Mr. Mackenzie, I am sure that you are a tired man, that your recent excitement has exhausted you, but you can scarcely fail to notice that this is a ship of war, not an ear trumpet.'

'I know, I know, Captain, it is only wishful thinking.' Mackenzie's eyes narrowed again. He was contemplating a scene of his imagination's making. 'But a frigate could take me to Memel, couldn't it?'

'Is that what you want?' asked Drinkwater, the prospect of returning Mackenzie to the shore a pleasing one at that moment. 'A passage to Memel?'

'Yes,' said Mackenzie, seeming to make up his mind. 'That and somewhere to sleep.'

Drinkwater nodded at his cot. 'Help yourself. I must get the ship under weigh and see the wounded.'

Picking up his hat Drinkwater left the cabin. Too tired to move suddenly, Mackenzie stared after him. 'Captain Drinkwater,' he muttered, smiling to himself, 'Captain Nathaniel

Drinkwater, by all that's holy ...'

In the dark and foetid stink of the orlop deck Drinkwater picked his way forward. Antigone

listed over, and down here, deep in her belly, Drinkwater could hear the rush of the sea past her stout wooden sides. Here, where the midshipmen and master's mates messed next to the marines above the hold, Lallo and his loblolly boys were plying their trade.

'How are they?' he asked, stepping into the circle of light above the struggling body of a seaman. Lallo did not look up but Skeete's evil leer was diabolical in the bizarre play of the lantern. Drinkwater peered round in the darkness, searching for Tregembo, one hand on the low deck beam overhead. The prone seaman groaned pitifully, the sweat standing out on his body like glass beads. His screams were muted to agonised grunts as he bit on the leather pad Skeete had forced into his mouth. With a twist and a jerk Lallo withdrew his hand, red from a wound in the man's thigh, and held a knife up to the dim light. The musket ball stuck on its point was intact. Lallo grunted his satisfaction as the man slipped into a merciful unconsciousness, and looked up at the captain.

'Mostly gunshot wounds ... at long range... spent...'

'They came under fire getting out of the river. Where's Tregembo?'

With a grunt, as of stiff muscles, Lallo got to his feet and, stepping over the body that Skeete and his mate were dragging to a corner of the tiny space, he led Drinkwater forward to where Tregembo lay, half propped against a futtock. Drinkwater knelt down. Tregembo's shirt was torn aside and the white of the bandage showed in the mephitic gloom.

'A sabre thrust to the bone,' explained the surgeon. 'It would have been easier to clean had it been a cut. It is too high to amputate.'

'Amputate! God damn it, man, I sent particular word to you to ensure you debrided it.'

Lallo took the uncorked rum bottle that Skeete handed him and swigged from it.

'I took your kind advice, sir,' Lallo said with heavy irony, 'but, as I have just said, the wound is a deep one. I have done my best but...'

'Yes, yes, of course . ..'

Tregembo opened his eyes. He was already on the edge of fever, slipping in and out of semi-consciousness. He made an effort to focus his eyes on Drinkwater and began to speak, but the words were incomprehensible, and after a minute or two it was plain he was unaware of his surroundings. Drinkwater touched his arm. It was hot.

'The prognosis?' Drinkwater rose, stooping under the low deck-head.

Lallo shook his head. 'Not good, sir. Uncertain at best.'

'They spent a long time in the boat after the wounding.'

'Too long ...' Lallo corked the rum bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

'Mr. Lallo, I will risk the chance of offending you by saying that, when I was a prisoner aboard the Bucentaure,

I observed a method of dressing a wound that was considered highly effective.'

'A French

method, sir?'

'Yes.'

'Humph!'

'Soak a pledget in sea-water or camphorated wine and add a few drops of lead acetate. D'you have any lead acetate? Good. Bind the wound firmly with a linen bandage in which holes have been cut. Do not disturb the dressing but have the purulent matter which seeps through the holes wiped away. A compress of the same type is bound tightly over the first dressing and changed daily.' Drinkwater looked at the men groaning at his feet. 'Try it, Mr. Lallo, as I have directed ... and perhaps you will have less need of rum.'

He turned and made for the ladder, leaving Lallo and Skeete staring after him. On deck the fresh air was unbelievably sweet.

Mackenzie woke among unfamiliar surroundings. He tried to get out of the cot and found it difficult. When he got his feet on the deck Antigone

heeled a little, the cot swayed outboard and in getting out he fell, sending the cot swinging further. Disencumbered of his weight the cot swung back, fetching Mackenzie a blow on the back of the head.

'God!' He got to his feet and stood unsteadily, feeling the bile stirring in his gullet. Casting desperately about he recalled the privy and reached the door to the quarter-gallery just in time. After a little while he felt better, and being a self-reliant and resourceful man he diverted his mind from his guts to the matter in hand. He carefully crossed the cabin and stood braced at Drinkwater's table, staring down at the chart and the open pages of Mount's Military Atlas. The latter attracted his interest and he swiftly forgot his seasickness.

'By God, that's providential,' he murmured to himself. After a moment or two his curiosity and professional interest turned itself to Drinkwater's desk. The left-hand of its two drawers was slightly open. Mackenzie pulled it out and lifted Drinkwater's journal from it. He flicked the pages over and, on the page on which the neat script ceased, he noticed a strange entry in the margin. It consisted of a short word in Cyrillic script: NCJI AHft .

'So, I was right...'

'What the devil d'you think you're doing?'

Mackenzie looked up at Drinkwater standing in the doorway, his hat in his hand. He was quite unabashed.

'Is this how you abuse my hospitality?' Drinkwater advanced across the cabin, anger plain in his face. He confronted Mackenzie across the table; Mackenzie remained unruffled.

'Where did you come across this?' he pointed to the strange letters.

In his outrage Drinkwater had not seen exactly what Mackenzie had found. He had assumed the spy had been prying. Now the sudden emphasis Mackenzie put on those strangely exotic letters recalled to his mind his own, intensely personal reasons for having written them. He was briefly silent and then suddenly explosively angry.

'God damn you, Mackenzie, you presume too much! That is a private journal! It has nothing to do with you!'

'Be calm, Captain,' Mackenzie said, continuing in a reasonable tone, 'you are wrong, it has everything to do with me. What do these Russian letters mean? Do you know? Where did you learn them?'

'What is that to you?'

'Captain, don't play games. You are out of your depth. This word and the hand that wrote it are known to me.' He paused and looked up. 'Do you know what these Cyrillic letters mean?'

Drinkwater sank back into the chair opposite to his usual one, the chair reserved for visitors to his cabin, so that their roles were again reversed. He shook his head.

'If you transpose each of these letters with its Roman equivalent you spell the word island.'

Drinkwater shook his head. T do not understand.'

'If you then translate the word island back into Russian, you have the word Ostroff.

It is a passably Russian-sounding name, isn't it?'

Drinkwater shrugged. 'I suppose so.' 'Do you know who Ostroff

is?' 'I haven't the remotest idea.'

'Oh, come, Captain,' Mackenzie remonstrated disbelievingly. 'You went to the trouble of making a note of his name and in a book that was personally significant.'

'Mr. Mackenzie,' Drinkwater said severely, T do not know what you are implying, but you have obviously invaded my privacy!'

But Drinkwater's anger was not entirely directed at Mackenzie, furious though he was at the man's effrontery. There had

been a reason why he had noted that incomprehensible Russian lettering down in his journal; and though he did not know who Ostroff was, he had his suspicions. He resolved to clear the matter up and settle the doubts that had been provoked by the sight of Nielsen's dispatch.

'Who the devil is

this Ostroff then?'

Mackenzie smiled that tight, menacing smile, and Drinkwater sensed he knew more than he was saying. 'A spy. An agent in the Russian army. And now perhaps you will trade one confidence for another. Where did you get these letters from? Are you in correspondence with this man?'

Drinkwater's heart was thumping. Mackenzie's words closed the gap between speculation and certainty.

'From a dispatch intercepted in the possession of a Danish merchantman which I stopped a week or two ago.'

'What was the name of the ship?'

'The Birthe

of Grenaa, Captain ...'

'Nielsen?' interrupted Mackenzie.

'Yes. Frederic Nielsen.'

'And what did you do with Nielsen and his dispatch?' 'I let him go with it. I was satisfied that he and it were what they said they were.'

'But you copied out the name by which the dispatch was signed?' 'Yes.' 'Why?'

Drinkwater shrugged.

'Captain, you say you were sure of the authenticity of a dispatch carried by a neutral and you let the vessel go. Yet you were not sure enough not to note down the signatory. Odd, don't you think? Where was the dispatch bound?'

'I do not think that a proper question to answer, Mackenzie. I am not sure I should be answering any of these questions. I am not sure I ought not to have you in irons ...'

'Captain,' said Mackenzie in a suddenly menacing tone, 'mine is a dangerous trade in which I trust no one. I am curious as to who you thought this man was; why you copied out this signature. It is almost inconceivable that any obviously trusted servant of their lordships of the Admiralty should behave traitorously . ..'

Drinkwater was on his feet and had leaned across the table. He spat the words through clenched teeth, beside himself with rage:

'How dare you, you bastard! You have no right to come aboard here and make such accusations! Who the hell are you to accuse me of treason? Get out of my seat! You stand here and make your report to me,

before I have this ship put about for The Sound and confine you in the bilboes!'

'By God, Captain, I apologise ... I see I have misjudged you.' Mackenzie stood and confronted Drinkwater. 'I think you have reassured me on that point at least...'

'Have a care

'Captain, you must hear me out. It is a matter of the utmost importance, I assure you. I know you have had previous contact with Lord Dungarth's Secret Department; I assume from what you implied earlier that you have some freedom in the interpretation of your orders, perhaps from his Lordship. I also assume that you let Frederic Nielsen proceed because he had a dispatch addressed to Joseph Devlieghere at Antwerp ... Ah, I see you find that reassuring ... Tell me, Captain, did you ever know a man called Brown?'

T saw the Dutch hang him at Kijkduin.'

'And do you think the Dutch were responsible?'

Drinkwater looked sharply at Mackenzie, but he did not answer.

'Come, Captain, have you not come across a French agent named Edouard Santhonax?'

Drinkwater strode across the cabin, pulled out his sea-chest and from it drew a roll of frayed canvas. He unrolled it.

'Identify this lady and I'll believe you are who you say you are.'

'Good God!' Mackenzie stared at the cracking paint. The portrait showed a young woman with auburn hair piled upon her head. Pearls were entwined in the contrived negligence of her classical coiffure. Her creamy shoulders were bare and her breasts just visible beneath a wisp of gauze. Her grey eyes looked coolly out of the canvas and there was a hint of a smile about the corners of her lovely mouth. 'Hortense Santhonax, by heaven!'

'A celebrated beauty, as all Paris knows.'

'Where the devil did you get it?'

Drinkwater nodded at the portrait of Elizabeth that had not been done with half as much skill as that of Madame Santhonax. 'It used to hang there. This ship, Mr. Mackenzie, was once commanded by Edouard Santhonax when she was captured in the Red Sea. I was one of the party who took her.' He rolled up the portrait. 'I kept it as a memento. You see, I rescued Madame Santhonax from a Jacobin mob in ninety-two . . . before she turned her coat. She was eventually taken back to France. I was on the beach with Lord Dungarth when we released her...'

'And he didn't shoot her,' put in Mackenzie, shaking his head. 'Yes, he has told me the story.' He looked about him. 'It's incredible ... this ship .. . you. Captain, I am sorry, I acted hastily. Please accept my apologies.'

'Very well. It is of no matter. I think you have provided proof of your identity. We had better sink our differences in a glass of wine.'

'That is a capital idea.' Mackenzie smiled and, for the first time since meeting him, Drinkwater felt less menaced, more in control of the situation. He poured the two drinks and behind him he heard Mackenzie mutter 'Incredible' to himself.

'This man Ostroff,' said Drinkwater conversationally, seating himself in his proper place at last, 'is he of importance to you?'

'He will be invaluable if my hypothesis proves accurate.'

'You mean if an armistice is concluded between Alexander and Napoleon?'

'Yes. Whatever terms are agreed upon, they will clearly be prejudicial to Britain. Ostroff is the one man in a position to learn them. Now, with the loss of Konigsberg, Ostroff's communications are cut. The situation is serious but not fatal. We still have access to Memel, at least until the two Emperors meet, hence my request that you carry me there. You see, I am Ostroff's post-boy. I forwarded his dispatch through Nielsen.'

'You . . . you know him well then, this Ostroff?' Drinkwater's heart was thumping again; he felt foolishly vulnerable, although Mackenzie's manner towards him had so drastically altered.

'Oh yes, I know him, Captain Drinkwater. That is why I could not understand your attitude.'

'I do not understand you.'

Mackenzie frowned. 'You mean you really do not know who Ostroff is?'

'No,' he said, but he felt that his voice lacked conviction.

'You share the same surname, Captain Drinkwater ...'

The blood left Drinkwater's face. So, he had been right! Despite the cipher, despite the years that had passed, he had

recognised the hand that had penned Nielsen's dispatch.

'So Ostroff is my brother Edward,' he said flatly.

'It is a chain of the most remarkable coincidences, Captain,' said Mackenzie.

'Not at all,' replied Drinkwater wearily, rising and fetching the decanter from its lodgement in the fiddle. 'It is merely evidence of the workings of providence, Mr. Mackenzie, which rules all our fates, including those of Napoleon and Alexander.'

10   The Mad Enterprise

June 1807

'How did you discover the connection between us?' Drinkwater asked at last, after the two men had sat in silence awhile. 'I understood my brother to be living under a nom de guerre.'

'Oh, it isn't common knowledge, Captain Drinkwater; you need have no fear that more than a few men know about it. Dungarth does, of course, and Prince Vorontzoff, your brother's employer and a man sympathetic to the alliance with Great Britain, knows him for an Englishman. But I think I am the only other man who knows his identity, excepting yourself, of course.'

'But you have not said how you knew.'

'It is quite simple. He told me once. He was sent to me from Hamburg. I introduced him to the elder Vorontzoff and, one night, shortly before I left St Petersburg, we got drunk ... a Russian custom, you see,' Mackenzie said and Drinkwater thought that Mackenzie had probably ensured Edward's loose tongue by his own liberality. 'He had reached a turning-point. A man does not put off the old life overnight and he seemed over-burdened with conscience. He made some thick allusions to drinking water. The joke was too heavy for wit and he was too drunk to jest, yet his persistence made me certain the words had some significance ... but it was only when I learned your name from Lieutenant...'

'Quilhampton.'

'Just so, that I began to recall Ostroff's drunken pun. Then, having had my professional curiosity aroused, I felt it was necessary to,' Mackenzie shrugged with an irresponsible smile, 'to invade your privacy, I think you said. And my effrontery was rewarded; you had inscribed Ostroff's Russian signature in your journal. Quod erat demonstrandum.'

'I see.' It was very strange, but Drinkwater felt an enormous weight lifted from him. Somehow he had known for years that he must atone for his own crime of aiding and abetting Edward's escape from the gallows. It was easy to excuse his actions, to disguise his motives under the cant of reasons of state. The truth was that his own rectitude made him feel guilty. Edward was a man who drifted like a straw upon the tide and who, through some strange working of natural laws, managed to float to the surface in all circumstances. To Edward, and probably Mackenzie, his own misgivings would seem utterly foolish. But he knew himself to be of a different type, a man whose life had been dogged by set-backs, wounds and hardships. Perhaps the atonement would still come but he could not deny the relief at Edward's identity no longer being quite so hermetic a secret.

He looked at Mackenzie. A few moments earlier he had been ready to consign the man to the devil. Now they sat like old friends sipping their wine, bound by the common knowledge of Ostroff's true identity. It occurred to Drinkwater that, yet again, Mackenzie had a superior hold over him; but he found the knowledge no longer made him angry.

'I knew my brother to have found employment with Prince Vorontzoff, on account of his abilities with horses, but I do not fully understand how he serves you and Lord Dungarth.'

'He is a brilliant horseman, I believe, and on account of this he formed a close friendship with Vorontzoff's son. Good horsemen are much admired in Russia and the younger Vorontzoff, being appointed to the army in the field, got some sort of commission for Ostroff. That sort of thing is not difficult in the Tsar's bureaucracy. Ostroff was at Austerlitz and attached to the Don Cossacks at Eylau, though what he has been up to lately I do not know. I was trying to make contact with him and Wilson when I was chased into Konigsberg by those French dragoons.'

'And now you want to make another attempt at reaching him through Memel?'

'Yes. And I would wish you to wait there for my return.'

'And then convey you to London with all dispatch?'

'I see, at last, that we are of one mind, Captain Drinkwater,' Mackenzie smiled.

'Then we had better drink to it,' Drinkwater said, rising and fetching the decanter.

'A capital idea,' replied Mackenzie, holding out his glass.

  Drinkwater woke sweating and staring into the darkness, trying to place the source of the wild laughter. He had been dreaming, a nightmare of terrifying reality, in which a white-clothed figure loomed over him to the sound of clanking chains. The figure had been that of Hortense Santhonax, her beauty hideously transformed. The Medusa head had laughed in his face and he had seemed to drown below her, struggling helplessly as the laughter grew and the breath was squeezed from his lungs.

In the darkness of the cabin, surrounded by the familiar creaking of Antigone,

he found the laughter resolve itself into a knocking at the cabin door. He pulled himself together. 'Enter!'

'It's Frey, sir.' The midshipman's slight figure showed in the gloom. 'Mr. Quilhampton's compliments, sir, and we've raised Memel light.'

'Very well. I'll be up shortly.'

Frey disappeared and he lay back in the cot, seeking a few minutes of peace. The nightmare was an old one but had not lost its potency. Usually he attached it to presentiment or times of extreme anxiety, but this morning he managed to smile at himself for a fool. It was the unburdening of the secret of Edward that had brought on the dream; a retrospective abstraction haunting his isolated imagination while he slept.

'Damn fool,' he chid himself and, flinging back the blankets, threw his legs over the edge of the cot. Five minutes later he was on deck.

'Mornin', Mr. Q.'

'Morning, sir. Memel light three leagues distant, sir.' Quilhampton pointed and Drinkwater saw the orange glow. 'It's supposed to rival the full moon at a league, sir.'

'I'm pleased to see you have been studying the rutter, Mr. Q,' said Drinkwater drily, amused at Quilhampton.

'To be fair, sir, it's Frey who has studied the rutter. I merely picked his brains.'

'Tch, tch. Most reprehensible,' Drinkwater laughed. 'Incidentally, Mr. Q, I will want you to put our guest ashore later.'

'Mr. Mackenzie, sir?' 'Yes.'

Drinkwater could almost hear Quilhampton's curiosity working. He considered the wisdom of revealing something of Mackenzie's purpose. On balance, he considered, it would not hurt. It was better to reveal a half-truth than risk stupid speculation growing wild. He had known a silly rumour started on the quarterdeck reach the fo'c's'le as a hardened fact magnified twentyfold. It had caused a deal of resentment among the hands, and even a denial by the first lieutenant had failed to extinguish it. The old saw about there being no smoke without fire was murmured by men starved of any news, whose days were governed by the whims of the weather and the denizens of the quarterdeck, and by whom any remark that intimated yet greater impositions upon them was accepted without question. In the end it was better that the people knew something of what was going on.

'I expect you are wondering exactly who, or what, Mr. Mackenzie is, eh, James?'

'Well, sir, the thought had crossed my mind.'

'And not just yours, I'll warrant.'

'No, sir.'

'He's an agent, Mr. Q, like some of those mysterious johnnies we picked up in the Channel a year or two ago. We shall put him ashore in order that he can find out what exactly the Russians are going to do after Boney beat 'em at Friedland.'

'I see, sir. Thank you.'

Drinkwater fell to pacing the quarterdeck as, in the east, the light grew and the masts, rigging and sails began to stand out blackly against the lightening sky. By the time the people went to their messes for breakfast they would know all about Mr. Mackenzie.

A few hours later the barge was swung out and lowered as, with her main-topsail against the mast, Antigone

hove to. It was a bright summer morning and the port of Memel with its conspicuous lighthouse was no more than four miles away. Mackenzie came aft to make his farewells.

'I rely upon you to cruise hereabouts until my return, Captain,' he said.

'I shall maintain station, Mr. Mackenzie; you may rely upon it. I may chase a neutral or two for amusement, Drinkwater replied, ‘but my main occupation will be to ensure the ship is in a fit state for a swift passage home.'

Beyond Mackenzie, Drinkwater saw the word 'home' had been caught by a seaman coiling down a line. That, too, would not hurt. It would brighten the men's spirits to know the ship was destined for a British port.

'Do you wish me to keep a boat at Memel to await you, Mr. Mackenzie?'

'No, I think not, Captain. In view of the possible results of our ... hypothesis, I think it unwise. I can doubtless bribe a fishing boat to bring me off.' He smiled. The cupidity of fishermen was universal.

Mackenzie held out his hand and moved half a pace nearer. 'Do you have a message for Ostroff?' he asked in a low voice.

'Yes ... wish him well for me, Mackenzie .. . and ask him if he is still afraid of the dark.'

Mackenzie laughed. 'He does not strike me as a man who might be afraid of the dark, Captain.'

Drinkwater grinned back. 'Perhaps not; but he was once. Good luck, Mackenzie.'

'A bientot,

Captain ...'

For two days Drinkwater kept Antigone

under weigh. He was merciless to the entire crew, officers and men alike. The British frigate stood on and off the land, first under easy sail and then setting every stitch of canvas she possessed. When ropes parted or jammed, he chastised the petty officers and midshipmen responsible with verbal lashings from the windward hance. It brought him a deep inner satisfaction, for junior officers were rarely blamed for the many small things that went wrong on board. They buried such failings more often than not by starting the unfortunate hands, a practice that usually assuaged the quarterdeck officers. Midshipmen had the worst name for these minor malpractices which caused such resentment among the men, and it did them good to be chased hither and thither and called to account for their failures in full view of the ship's company.

As the studdingsails rose and set for the eighth or ninth time, as

the topgallant masts were struck and the yards sent down, the men worked with a will, seeing how at every misfortune it was a midshipman, a master's mate or a petty officer that was identified as being the culprit. The hands were in high glee for, with the captain on deck throughout the manoeuvres, there was little revengeful starting carried out by the bosun's mates who well knew Drinkwater's aversion to the practice. It was one thing to start men aloft in an emergency or when faced with the enemy, when the need to manoeuvre was paramount; but quite another to do it when the ship was being put through her paces.

Even the officers bore their share of Drinkwater's strange behaviour, Rogers, as first lieutenant, in particular. But he bore it well, submitting to it as though to a test of his recovery. At the end of the second day, as the men secured the guns from a final practice drill, Drinkwater pronounced himself satisfied, ordered a double ration of three-water grog served out to all hands and brought the ship to anchor a league from Memel light.

'Well, Mr. Rogers, I think the ship will make a fast passage when she is called upon to do so, don't you?'

'Yes, sir. But a passage where, sir?' asked Rogers, puzzled.

'Well, if we get the right slant of wind, we shall make for London River!'

Rogers

's smile was unalloyed. 'Hell's teeth, that's good news. May I ask when that might be?'

'When Mr. Mackenzie returns, Sam, when Mr. Mackenzie returns. '

Mr. Mackenzie returned shortly before noon three days later, hailing them from the deck of a fishing boat and obviously in a state of high excitement. Drinkwater was on deck to meet him and found Mackenzie had lost his air of cool self-possession. His dust-stained clothes flapping about him, he strode across the deck, his face lined with dirt which gave its expression a compulsive ferocity.

'Captain, your cabin at once.' He seemed breathless, for all that he must have been inactive during the boat's passage.

'Prepare to get under weigh, Mr. Rogers,' Drinkwater ordered, turning towards Mackenzie, but the agent shook his head.

'No . . . not yet. There is something we must attend to first. Come, Captain, every second counts!'

Drinkwater shrugged at the first lieutenant. 'Belay that, Mr. Rogers. Come then, Mr. Mackenzie.' He led the way below and Mackenzie collapsed into a chair. Pouring two glasses of blackstrap Drinkwater handed one to the exhausted agent. 'Here, drink this and then tell me what has happened.'

Mackenzie tossed off the glass, wiped a hand across his mouth and stared at Drinkwater with eyes that glittered from red-rimmed sockets.

'Captain,' began Mackenzie, 'I need you to come with me. I have returned to persuade you. It is imperative. It is a mad enterprise, but one on which everything hangs.'

'Everything?' Drinkwater frowned uncertainly.

'Yes, everything,' Mackenzie insisted, 'perhaps the history of Europe. You are the one man who can help!'

'But I am a sea-officer, not a spy!'

Drinkwater's protest roused Mackenzie. 'It is precisely because you are a sea-officer that we need you . . . Ostroff and I. You see, Captain Drinkwater, my hypothesis has proved correct. Napoleon and Alexander are to meet in conditions of the greatest secrecy, and to gain access we need a seaman's skills.'

The British spy made out a desperate case for Drinkwater's help and he had to concede the justice of the argument. What Mackenzie demanded was incontrovertibly within the latitude of Dungarth's special instructions. Whatever the bureaucrats at the Admiralty might think of him leaving his ship, he felt he was covered by Lord Dungarth's cryptic order: You should afford any assistance required by persons operating on the instructions of this Department.

Now he knew why the old, recurring dream had woken him a few mornings before; he had felt a presentiment and he knew the moment for full atonement had come.

'Damn these metaphysics,' he growled, and turned his mind to more practical matters.

Mackenzie had suggested they took a third person, someone with a competent knowledge of horses, for they had far to travel, yet one who would play up to the fiction of Mackenzie masquerading as a merchant and Drinkwater as the master of an English trading vessel lying in Memel. For this there was only one candidate, Midshipman Lord Walmsley, the only one of Antigone's

people who was familiar with horses, and who spoke French into the bargain. His lordship showed a gratifying willingness to volunteer for a 'secret mission' and was ordered to remove the white patches from his coat collar and to dress plainly. His preparations in the cockpit spread a sensational rumour throughout the ship.

For himself Drinkwater begged a plain blue coat from Hill, leaving behind his sword with the lion-headed pommel that betrayed his commissioned status. Instead he packed pistols, powder and ball in a valise together with his shaving tackle and a change of small clothes.

'You will not need to worry about being conspicuous,' Mackenzie had yawned, 'the countryside is alive with travellers all going wide-eyed to see their Little Father the Tsar meet the hideous monster Napoleon.'

The hours of the afternoon rushed by. He had left instructions with Quilhampton to execute his will should he fail to return, and had attempted to write to Elizabeth but gave the matter up, for his heart was too full to trust to paper. Instead he went to the orlop to see Tregembo who was recovering well, and passed on a brief message to be given in the event of his disappearance. It was inadequate and ambiguous, but it was all he could do.

'I wish I could come with 'ee, zur,' the old man had said, half rising from the grubby palliasse upon which he lay. Drinkwater had patted his unhurt shoulder.

'You be a good fellow and get better.'

'And you look after yourself, boy,' Tregembo had said with a fierce and possessive familiarity that brought a sudden smile to Drinkwater's preoccupied face.

Finally, he had written his orders to Rogers, placing him in temporary command. Should he fail to return within ten days, Rogers was to open a second envelope which informed their Lordships of the state of affairs Mackenzie had so far discovered and his own reasons for leaving his ship. As the dog-watches changed, Mackenzie woke, and half an hour later they left the ship.

Lieutenant Quilhampton commanded the boat, making his second trip to Memel to land agents and scarcely imagining why the captain found it necessary to desert them like this. The mood in the boat was one of silent introspection as each man contemplated the future. Drinkwater and Mackenzie considered the problems ahead of them while James Quilhampton and the oarsmen gazed outboard and wondered what it would be like to be under the orders of Samuel Rogers. The only light heart among them was Lord Walmsley who had a thirst for an adventurous lark.

The long northern twilight offered them no concealment as they pulled into the river, past the lighthouse tower and its fire. The quays of Memel were still busy with fishing boats unloading their catches. Drinkwater tried to assume the character of Young, master of the Jenny Marsden,

as typifying the kind of man he was trying to ape. He tried to recall the jargon of the merchant mariners, mentally repeating their strange terms in time with the oars as they knocked against the thole-pins: loss and demurrage; barratry and bottomry; pratique and protest; lagan and lien, jetsam and jerque notes, flotsam and indemnity. It was a bewildering vocabulary of which he had an imperfect knowledge, but in the event there were no Custom House officers to test him and with a feeling of anticlimax Drinkwater followed Mackenzie up a flight of slippery stone steps onto the quay, with Walmsley bringing up the rear.

There were no farewells. Quilhampton shoved the tiller over and the bowman bore off. Ten minutes after approaching the quay the barge was slipping seawards in the gathering darkness. Quilhampton did not look back. He felt an overwhelming sense of desolation: Drinkwater had deserted them and they were now to be subject to the arbitrary rule of Samuel Rogers.

Lieutenant Samuel Rogers sat alone at the captain's desk. His eyes looked down at the table-top. It was clear of papers, clear of Mount's long-borrowed Military Atlas, clear of everything except a key. It was a large, steel key, such as operated a lock with four tumblers. A wooden tag was attached to it and bore the legend: SPIRIT ROOM.

Rogers stared at the key for a long time. He was filled with a sense of power quite unattached to the fact that he was now in effective command of the Antigone.

This was something else, something strange stirring in a brain already damaged by alcohol and the horrible experience of being lashed in a strait-jacket. Rogers was quite unable to blame himself for his addiction. He blamed fate and bad luck and, in a way, that obligation to Drinkwater which had become a form of jealousy. And Lallo's justification for his treatment had rested on Drinkwater's own instructions. He had been 'confined quietly' . . . the meaning was obvious. That it had been done for his own good, Rogers did not dispute. Disagreeable things were frequently done for one's own good and a streak of childishness surfaced in him. Perhaps it was a weakness of his character, perhaps a by-product of his recent chronic alcoholism, but it was to darken his mind in the following days, worsened by the isolation Drinkwater's absence had placed him in and the position of trust that he now occupied. That, too, was attributable to Drinkwater, and it was this sense of being in his place and having to act in his stead that suffused Rogers with an extraordinary sense of power. In this peculiar and unbalanced consummation of a long aggrieved and corrosive jealousy, Rogers found the will to reject his demon.

With a sweep of his hand he sent the spirit-room key clattering into a dark corner of the cabin.

PART TWO

The Raft

'I hate the English as much as you do!'

Alexander to Napoleon, 25 June 1807

Napoleon

June 1807

General Edouard Santhonax, aide-de-camp to His Imperial Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French and Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Army, completed his verbal report. He watched his master pace slowly up and down the beaten earth floor of the low wayside inn which was serving briefly as Imperial Headquarters. The Emperor's polished half-boots creaked slightly as he walked between the two crude tables and their attendant benches at which sat his secretaries and crop-headed Marshal Berthier, the Grand Army's Chief-of-Staff. Their heads were bent over piles of documents taken from dispatch boxes.

The Emperor was dressed in the dark green undress uniform coat of the Horse Chasseurs of the Guard and his plump hands were clasped in the small of his back. He spun round at the end of the tavern, his head bowed, the fine brown hair swept forward in a cow-lick over the broad forehead. He paced back, towards the waiting Santhonax.

Santhonax stood silently, his plumed hat beneath his arm, the gold lace on his blue coat a contrast to the Emperor's unostentatious uniform. Napoleon stopped his pacing a foot in front of the tall officer and looked up into Santhonax's eyes.

'So, my General, we have an emissary from the Tsar, eh?'

'That is so, Sire. He waits for your command outside.'

Napoleon's face suddenly relaxed into a charming smile. His right hand was raised from behind his back and pinched the left cheek of General Santhonax, where a livid scar ran upwards from the corner of his mouth.

'You have done well, mon brave.'

'Thank you, Sire.'

Napoleon turned aside to where a map lay spread on the rough grey wood of the table. He laid a plump finger on the map where a blue line wound across rolling country.

'Tilsit.'

A shadow of hatching lay under the ball of the Emperor's finger, indicating the existence of a town that straddled the River Nieman. 'You say the bridge is down?'

Santhonax stepped forward beside the Emperor. 'That is so, Sire, but there are boats and barges, and the transit of the river is not difficult.'

'And you are certain that Alexander seeks an armistice, eh?' 'That is what I was led to believe, Sire.'

The Emperor hung his head for a moment in thought. At the end of the table Berthier stopped writing, pushed aside a paper and sat poised, as though sensing his master was about to dictate new movements to the Grand Army. A silence hung in the long, low room, disturbed only by the scratching of the secretaries' pens and the buzzing of a pair of flies in the small window of the inn, for the June heat was oppressive.

'Very well!' The Emperor made up his mind and began to pace again, more rapidly than before. Santhonax stepped back to make way for him.

'Write, Berthier, write! The town of Tilsit is to be declared a neutral zone. On the acceptance of our terms by the Tsar, orders are to be passed to the advance units of the Grand Army that have already crossed the Nieman, that they are to retire behind the line of that river. An armistice is to be declared. General Lariboissiere of the Engineers is to requisition boats and to construct a pontoon or raft surmounted by pavilions, two in number, one to accommodate their Imperial Majesties, the other their staffs.' The Emperor paused and looked at Santhonax.

'It is fortunate, General, that you were formerly a frigate-captain. We shall put your maritime expertise to good account.' Napoleon smiled, as if pleased at some private joke, then he addressed himself to Berthier again. 'General Santhonax is to liaise with General Lariboissiere as to the method of mooring this raft in midstream and to be responsible for the complete security and secrecy of the meeting between ourself and the Tsar.'

The Emperor swung suddenly round on Santhonax and his eyes were ice-cold.

'Is that clearly understood, my General? Secret, utterly secret.' 'Perfectly, Sire.'

'The Russian court is a sink of iniquitous intrigue, General Santhonax, a fact which should be uppermost in your mind.' The Emperor's mood had mellowed again; he seemed suddenly in an almost boyish good humour.

'Of course, Sire,' replied Santhonax dutifully.

'Very good! Now you may show in this Russian popinjay and let us set about the wooing of Alexander!'

11   The Road to Tilsit

June 1807

  Captain Drinkwater woke from a deep sleep confused and disoriented. For several moments he did not know where he was. The unfamiliar smell of his bedding, the whitewashed ceiling and the chirruping of sparrows outside the small window all served to perplex him. Slowly he recalled the rapid train of events that had taken place since they landed from the barge and took their unceremonious farewell of Quilhampton.

Led in silence by Mackenzie, Drinkwater and Walmsley had walked swiftly into a maze of small, narrow streets reminiscent of an earlier age, with overhanging buildings and rickety roofs. Despite a lingering light in the sky, the omnipresence of the shuttered houses threw them into darkness as they followed the spy. Then abruptly they stopped and Mackenzie knocked imperiously on a nail-studded door. After a moment it opened, there was a quick exchange of what Drinkwater took for sign and countersign and then he and Walmsley were drawn inside, the door was closed behind them and they stood in a large, partially lit room, their presence and necessities being explained by Mackenzie to the occupant of the house. A sense of curiosity filled Drinkwater. The street smells of Memel had been odd enough, but those of the house seemed almost diabolical and this impression was heightened by what he could see of the room. Low and overhung with beams, it was largely lined by shelves, drawers and cupboards. On the drawers he could see vaguely familiar lettering and in the cupboards, behind glass, the owner's lantern shed highlights on jars and sorcerers' retorts. On the shelves, however, were even more sinister exhibits: a monstrous foetus, a coiled snake and a diminutive mermaid. Beside him he felt Walmsley shudder with apprehension and utter a low expression of repulsion. Drinkwater recognised the lettering on the little wooden drawers as the abbreviated Latin of the Pharmacopoeia.

'We are the guests of an apothecary, I believe,' Drinkwater whispered to the midshipman. Both men were fascinated by the ugly mermaid whose wrinkled, simian face stared at them, the dancing light of the lantern flame reflected from her glass pupils.

Mackenzie and their host turned at this moment. 'Ah, so you like my little mermaid do you, gentlemen?' The apothecary was of middle age and held the lantern for them to see the piece of cunning taxidermy. His accent was thickly Germanic, but his command of English appeared good. Mackenzie smiled.

'Well, gentlemen, our host will show you to your rooms. It is already late. I advise you to retire immediately. I have some business to attend to and we must make good progress tomorrow.'

There were no introductions and in silence Drinkwater and Walmsley followed the apothecary to an attic bedroom where two low beds were prepared by a silent and pretty blonde girl with a plait like a bell-rope down her back. The two Englishmen stood awkwardly with the apothecary while the girl bustled about. Then, as she left, he gestured to the beds.

'Thank you,' Drinkwater said. The man bowed and withdrew. Mackenzie had already disappeared and as the door closed Drinkwater heard the lock turned. 'It seems we are prisoners for the night, Mr. Walmsley,' he remarked with an attempt at a reassurance he was far from feeling. To his surprise Walmsley grinned back.

'Perhaps it's just as well, sir.'

'Eh?' Drinkwater was puzzled, then he remembered the blue eyes of the girl and her last, frankly curious glance as she bobbed from the room. 'Ah, yes . .. well, I think we must sleep now.' And despite his misgivings, despite a gnawing reaction of having deserted his post, Drinkwater had fallen into a deep, dreamless and wonderful slumber.

His confusion on waking was less comforting. He lay for a long time wondering if he had made the right decision in leaving Antigone;

his thoughts alternated in a wild oscillation between a patient argument in favour of co-operating with the mysterious

Mr. Mackenzie and a swift panic that he had acted with insanely foolish impetuosity. In the opposite corner Midshipman Lord Walmsley still snored peacefully, sublimely unconcerned and probably dreaming of the blonde girl.

There was a sudden grating in the lock and the door opened. The apothecary came in and wished them good morning. The girl followed, a tray in her pink hands from which coffee, fresh bread and a species of black sausage sent up a pungent and appetising aroma. Drinkwater saw Walmsley stir and open his eyes. He looked at the pretty face, smiled and sat up.

'Herr Mackenzie requests that you be ready in half an hour, gentlemen,' the apothecary said, then chivvied the girl out and closed the door.

'I will shave while you pour the coffee,' Drinkwater said in an attempt to preserve a little of the quarterdeck dignity in the awkward and enforced intimacy with the midshipman. While this curious little ritual was in progress Mackenzie made his appearance.

'Good morning, gentlemen. You must forgive me for having deserted you last night. There were certain arrangements to make.'

He waited for the two naval officers to complete their preparations and when they were both ready said, 'Now, gentlemen, when we leave here we assume our new identities. I am a merchant, a Scotsman named Macdonald. You, Captain, are a merchant master. I leave you to choose your own name and that of your ship. Mr. Smith here,' he nodded at Walmsley, 'is a junior mate. I have a chaise below.' He smiled at Drinkwater. 'By great good fortune you are not compelled to ride. Lord Leveson-Gower arrived here last night. He is no longer persona grata at the Tsar's court. Fortunately the chaise he used for amusing himself in St Petersburg bears no arms. I have the use of it.' He made a gesture to indicate the door. 'Come, we must be off. We have twenty leagues to cover before night.'

They clattered down the stairs and emerged into the apothecary's room which looked less terrifying in the daylight that slanted in through the narrow windows. The mermaid was revealed as a hybrid sham, a curiosity of the taxidermist's art designed to over-awe the ignorance of the apothecary's customers. They passed through into the street.

'The box please, Smith.' Mackenzie nodded Walmsley to the driver's seat and opened the door of the chaise for Drinkwater. 'A steady pace,' he said to the midshipman. We don't want the horses blown.'

Walmsley nodded and vaulted up onto the seat. Drinkwater climbed in and settled himself. Mackenzie lifted their meagre baggage in with them and then climbed in himself. He tapped Walmsley's shoulder and the chaise jerked into motion. Drinkwater turned to take his farewell of the apothecary, but the studded door was already closed. Only a small, pretty, blue-eyed face watched their departure from a window.

For the first quarter of an hour Drinkwater attended to the business of settling himself in comfort as the chaise moved over the uneven road. Mackenzie was kneeling up on the front seat, giving the midshipman directions as they drove the equipage through the narrow streets, round innumerable corners and out onto what passed in Lithuanian Kurland for a highway.

'A sea of mud in the autumn, a waste of ice and snow in winter, a mass of ruts in the spring and a damnable dustbowl at this time of the year,' explained Mackenzie at last, Tike every damned road in the Tsar's empire.'

In the June heat the dust clouds rose from the horses' hooves and engulfed the chaise so that Drinkwater's view of the countryside was through a haze. The road ran parallel to the wide and shining expanse of the Kurische Haff, the huge lagoon which formed the ponded-back estuary of the Nieman. On either side, slightly below the level of the highway, the marshy grassland was grazed by cattle.

'A somewhat monotonous landscape, Captain,' observed Mackenzie conversationally, 'but I assure you, you are seeing it at its best.'

'You know it well?' prompted Drinkwater, enforced leisure making him anxious to discuss with Mackenzie more than the appearance of the hinterland of Memel.

Mackenzie, with an infuriating evasion, ignored the question. 'I believe that it was the great Frenchman De Saxe that wanted this country for his own. A bastard aspiring to a dukedom, eh? And now, in our modern world, we have an attorney's son aspiring to an empire ... That, my dear Captain, is progress.'

'He has done more than aspire, if what you are saying is true.'

'You prefer "acquire" then?'

'It would be more accurate ... Mackenzie.'

'Macdonald.'

'Macdonald, then. This chaise, you say it belongs to our ambassador, Lord Leveson-Gower, and that he arrived in Memel last night?'

'Yes. The Tsar let it be known that his lordship was no longer welcome about His Imperial Majesty's person. He confirms what I had already learned, that emissaries have been received with every appearance of cordiality from French Headquarters and that Prince Czartoryski has left for a preliminary interview with the French Emperor to arrange a secret meeting.'

'So your worst fears are indeed justified.'

Mackenzie nodded. 'And now we have the leisure, I can offer you a full explanation of what has happened, and how your help is essential.'

'Anything that lessens my doubts about the folly of this journey would be welcome,' said Drinkwater grimly, suddenly clutching at the side of the chaise as it heeled over, its offside wheels running off the road while they overtook a heavily laden ox-cart trundling slowly along. He gestured at the pair of plodding peasants who trudged at the head of the team and the man and woman who sat on the cart.

'I am still unconvinced about your lack of secrecy,' he said frowning. 'I am at a loss ...'

Mackenzie laughed. 'This business of spying,' he said, still smiling, 'is not always a matter of cloaks and daggers. I move about quite openly for the most part. For me the subterfuge of disguise is of little use. I am well known in high places in Russia. The Tsar himself might recognise me, for I have served in the Caucasus with a commission from himself.'

Mackenzie's eyes drifted off, over the flat landscape that was such a contrast to the precipitous peaks of those distant mountains. 'General Bennigsen knows me too. In fact we shall be sharing lodgings with him.'

'Good Lord!'

'Let me explain, Captain. There is no hurry, we have a long way to go. To allay your fears of being discovered you will observe before we go very much further that the whole country is turning out. Tilsit, the town on the Nieman whither we are bound, is attracting all the country gentry for miles about. It has been declared a neutral zone and will be seething with soldiers and squires by tonight. It was already filling when I left. Nothing like this has happened in this backwater since De Saxe came to Mitau to wrest Kurland from the Tsars. We shall be like a drop in the ocean. Sometimes a bold front is the best concealment.' He nodded at Walmsley's back. 'I have told your young friend there to cluck to his horses in French, and am glad that he knows enough of the tongue to manage tolerably well.' 'You think of everything.'

'It is my business to. Now, as for me, I proceeded directly towards Tilsit when your lieutenant landed me the other day. As soon as I encountered the outposts of the Russian army I made my way to the bivouac of the Hetman's Don Cossacks and found Ostroff. Together we went off to Piktupohen where the Imperial Russian headquarters lay and located Vorontzoff. The Prince is as staunch a believer in a British alliance as his old father and distrusts the French. He told me at once that Alexander has agreed to a secret meeting with Napoleon. Both Vorontzoff and Ostroff undertook to supply whatever information they might learn as to the outcome of this secret conclave, as I told you yesterday. By a stroke of luck Vorontzoff, in his capacity as an Imperial aide, was ordered into Tilsit to commandeer lodgings for the Tsar and his Commander-in-Chief, General Bennigsen. As a result, I was able to apply a little influence and General Bennigsen and his staff will be quartered in a large house on the Ostkai, having a good view of the Nieman and the French across the river. It is an ancient house, built round a courtyard, and the ground floor consists of stables and a large warehouse. The owner is an old Jew who proved characteristically amenable to gold. I secured a tiny attic, locked and barred from the inside and obviously a well-used hiding place during the frequent persecutions of the Hebrews. Here I prepared to hole-up until it became clear what had been arranged between Alexander and Napoleon. I was ideally placed. If my hypothesis proved true and Alexander and Napoleon combined, then it was likely that

Bennigsen would fall from grace. He is already in disfavour, having lost at Friedland. Such are the suspicions at the Tsar's court that the fact that he was born a Hanoverian and hence a subject of our own King George is held against him, and there is, in any case, a rising tide of resentment against German officers, who are held largely responsible for the recent military disaster.'

'But I thought the Tsar owed Bennigsen some obligation due to the part he played in the murder of his father,' put in Drinkwater, as Mackenzie drew breath.

Mackenzie smiled with a sardonic grin. 'There is little honour in this world, least of all among thieves and murderers, despite the proverb,' he said. 'No, I think Bennigsen will be quietly sacrificed when the time comes. Alexander is unpredictable in the extreme, and an autocrat's foreign policies are apt to be as erratic as the tacking of your own frigate.'

It was Drinkwater's turn to grin at the simile. 'So, you were ensconced in the attic of the Jew's house,' he prompted.

'Yes. And I could rely upon Bennigsen's disaffection and consequent disloyalty if things went against us. Part of Bennigsen's staff arrived, a coterie of drunken young officers whose behaviour would disgrace a farmyard. But they brought with them some of the finest bloodstock in Russia, stabling them in the warehouse. My own mount was quartered some distance away and this ready form of transport further satisfied me in my choice of post.'

'And yet you deserted this secure bolt-hole, risked everything and returned to Memel to fetch me. Yesterday you mentioned boats and secret meetings and the presence of a seaman as being vital.'

'My dear Captain, I spavined a good horse because, without exaggeration, you are truly the only man who can help effect this thing.'

'That much you already said, but you also said my brother . . .' 'Ostroff.'

'Ostroff, then, was not likely to be able ...' 'Not without you, Captain, hence your unique importance in the matter. You are, as it were, of a dual value.' 'I do not follow.'

Mackenzie leaned forward, his face a picture of urgency. Gone were the traces of yesterday's exhaustion. 'Captain,' he said,

'Napoleon has ordered that his meeting with Alexander shall take place exactly midway between their two armies, in conditions of such secrecy that no one shall be privy to the settlement between them.'

'I understand that; and that you intend, with my help, to eavesdrop on them.'

'Exactly, Captain. You will help devise the method by which it shall be done, but there is also the question of who shall do it. I myself cannot undertake the task since it is for me to ensure that the intelligence is got out of this benighted land and back to London. Vorontzoff is out of the question since he has his duties to attend to, is of more use in other ways and is far too well known to be passed off in disguise. The only candidate for the post of danger is Ostroff, but Ostroff protests it is impossible, despite the money he has been offered, and only you, as his brother, will be able to persuade him of the absolute necessity of attempting this coup.'

Drinkwater sat for some moments in silence. The whirring of the wheels on the road, the heat and the dust suggested an illusion of peace, yet every revolution of those soothing wheels took them nearer a situation as desperate and risky as any he had yet faced in his life. He was penetrating deep into territory that would soon be abruptly hostile, dressed in plain clothes on a mission of such danger that he might end his life before a firing squad, shot as a spy. He passed a hand wearily over his face and looked up at Mackenzie.

'You have me on a lee shore,' he said ruefully as Mackenzie smiled thinly. 'So I have to convince Ostroff that he must spy on the two Emperors as well as devise a means by which it may be done?'

'Exactly,' replied Mackenzie, leaning back against the buttoned leather of the chaise, his face a picture of satisfaction.

'Has it occurred to you that the thing might indeed be impossible?'

'No. Difficult, yes, but not impossible.'

'You have a great deal of faith in my inventiveness . . . something I'm not sure I share with you.'

'Come, come, Captain, I'm certain that you have sufficient resourcefulness to devise a means of concealing a man in a raft!'

The morning rolled by in a cloud of dust. The broad and shining

Nieman wound its way through increasingly undulating country of low hills. Here and there the river ran close to the road, undercutting a red clay cliff before it swung away in a great loop. The coppices of willow gave way to birches and scattered elms that reminded Drinkwater of home and they passed through the occasional village with its low steadings and slow, incurious peasants. Above the noise of the horses, the creak of harness and the thrum of wheels on the dirt road, the soaring song of larks could still be heard. At one point, where the river swung close to the road, Mackenzie bade Walmsley pull over and into a side lane which led down to a ferry.

'We'll water the horses and take a bite to eat,' he said and they pulled up beside a sunken hovel and a box-like pontoon provided with chains that formed a crude ferry across the Nieman.

As Walmsley tended the horses and Mackenzie provided black bread, sausage and a bottle of kvass from his saddle-bags, he nodded to the ferry.

'Take a look at it,' he muttered. 'They've one just like it at Tilsit, hauled out on a slipway and being prepared for the secret meeting.'

Drinkwater walked casually down to the rickety wooden jetty alongside which the ungainly craft lay moored. He ignored the ferryman who emerged from the hovel and approached him, concentrating his attention on the raft. It was a 'flying bridge', or chain ferry of large size, clearly intended to transport cattle and carts across the broad river, and he spent several minutes studying the thing intently. Mackenzie shouted something incomprehensible at the ferryman which made the Lithuanian swear and retire gesticulating behind a slammed door.

Twenty minutes later they resumed their journey. Mackenzie had briefed Walmsley as to the dangers they might now encounter, leaving Drinkwater to consider the problem of the raft. When they were fairly on their way Mackenzie leaned forward.

'Well, can it be done?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'In theory, yes ... but we need to consider tools, how we get to the thing ... you must let me think ...'

Mackenzie leaned back, permitting himself a small, secretive smile of satisfaction. From time to time he cast a surreptitious glance at Drinkwater, but for the most part he dozed as the chaise rolled on. Ahead of them smoke blurred the horizon and there were an increasing number of travellers on the road. The carriages and open chaises of the gentry, blooming with the light colours of women's dresses and hats, were moving towards Tilsit, while coming in the contrary direction a thin stream of peasants accompanied by the occasional bandaged soldier made their weary way. Mackenzie roused from his nodding.

'The wealthy and curious travel with us,' he said, 'the indigent poor escape the rapacity of the military who will be busy consuming every hidden bushel of stored grain, every chicken and pig in every poor steading, and requisitioning every house, hovel and pigsty for their billets.'

As the afternoon wore on, Mackenzie's assertion was proved true. For now, along the road were encamped green-and-grey-clad infantry, milling in bivouac, their cooking fires sending a smoke pall up into the blue sky. Lines of tethered cavalry horses stood patiently as troopers distributed fodder, and the regimental smithies stood by the roadside and made good the ravages of the campaign. Here and there lines of unlimbered guns were pulled off the road, their gunners sitting on the heavy wooden trains smoking, drinking or playing cards. Along the riverside a party were duck-shooting and, at one point, they were over-taken by a wild group of young officers racing their Arabs, to the complete disregard of all other users of the highway.

They passed through a village deserted by its inhabitants. In the duck-pond an entire battalion of nakedly pink Russian soldiers splashed and skylarked, bathing themselves clean of the red dust. The plain was filled with men and horses, and if seemed impossible that this vast multitude had suffered a defeat. Such numbers seemed to Drinkwater to be invincible.

They breasted a low hill and were met by a great wave of sound, that of hundreds of deep voices intoning the chants of the Russian Orthodox liturgy. Amid the gaudy trappings of war the summit of the knoll was crowned with the gilded panoply of the church. The priests' vestments gleamed in the sunshine as they moved through a long line of bare-headed men beneath banners of gold and red. The gilded chasubles, the waving banners and the sacred images borne aloft by acolytes were accompanied by wafts of incense and the intense, low, humming song of the soldiers of Tsar Alexander at their devotions.

Mackenzie leaned over and tapped his knee: 'You see now why Napoleon wants them for allies, and why we must not let them go. I know them, Captain, I have served with them.'

As they slowed to force their way through the worshippers, Drinkwater thought that at any moment their progress would be challenged. But nothing happened. There seemed to be hardly a man posted as a sentry. In company with other equipages they travelled on, Walmsley on the box, making sheep's eyes at the prettier of the women in the neighbouring conveyances.

The sun was westering when Mackenzie pointed ahead and Drinkwater craned around to see.

'Voila,

Tilsit.'

The Nieman was narrower now, and wound less wildly between the water-meadows of lush green that were dotted with the bright gold of buttercups. More cows grazed its banks and stood hock-deep in its waters among the reeds, their tails lazily flicking off the flies and mosquitoes that abounded. On the rising ground to their left the ripening wheat and rye was trampled, but ahead of them the red roofs and towers of a substantial town lay hazy in the sunshine.

'And look there!' said Mackenzie suddenly, pointing again, but this time across the river.

A score of horsemen were watering their horses. They wore rakish shakos and pelisses, their two vedettes clear against the skyline.

'French hussars!' Mackenzie declared.

Drinkwater's curiosity was terminated abruptly when Walmsley pulled back on the reins and applied the brake, so that the wheels locked and the chaise skidded. He turned in his seat as Mackenzie put a cautionary finger on his knee.

'I'll do the talking,' he said, nodding reassuringly as Walmsley looked round anxiously from the box.

Ahead of them, drawn up in a rough line across the road, was a dark mass of cavalry; shaggy men on shaggy horses whose fierce eyes glared at the passengers in the carriages and moved over reluctantly to let the gentry through. Drinkwater looked at them with undisguised curiosity, for these were undoubtedly the Cossacks of which he had heard. They scarcely looked like cavalry; they wore baggy blouses and their trousers were stuffed into boots, it was true, but their waistbands and sheepskin saddles were strung about with the products of looting and plunder. Those few who were on foot waddled bowlegged with a rolling gait that reminded Drinkwater of grotesque seamen. Wicked-looking lances were slung across their backs and sabres gleamed in metal scabbards at their hips.

One great bearded giant, whose legs seemed to drag low on either side of his diminutive pony, kicked his mount close to the chaise. Peering at Drinkwater he made some comment which excited laughter from his compatriots. Drinkwater smelt the animal odour of the man, but Mackenzie, undaunted, riposted in Russian. The Cossack's face altered and his friends roared again at the man's obvious discomfiture.

The man was about to reply when his pony was shoved aside by a magnificent bay horse ridden by an officer. He appeared to recognise Mackenzie.

'Ah, Alexei, where the devil did you spring from?' he said in the French that was the lingua franca of the Russian nobility. T thought you had gone into Tilsit with Ostroff.'

Drinkwater recognised the last word and felt his heart hammering painfully under his ribs.

'Indeed, Count, I did, but I returned to Memel to fetch this gentleman here,' Mackenzie said in the same language, gesturing towards Drinkwater. 'He is the master of an English brig.'

'An Englishman, eh?' The Cossack officer stared at Drinkwater. 'I doubt he'll be welcome in Tilsit. But, to you merchants and the English, business is business, eh?'

'If the rumours are true, Count, and an armistice is declared, the Captain here wants his cargo out of Tilsit and Memel. But the rascally Jews won't sell at the prices they had agreed because the place is stuffed full of fools who might buy at a higher rate.'

'Tell him to hurry then,' said the Cossack officer and added, 'you'll be lucky to find lodgings in the town unless, like the Blessed Virgin, you are satisfied with a byre.' He crossed himself

as he laughed at his blasphemous joke, then he peered into the chaise.

Drinkwater looked with sudden apprehension at Mackenzie, but the 'merchant' grinned and reached under the seat.

'Would a bottle be welcome to help us past your unspeakably stinking ruffians, Count?'

'As the Blessed Virgin herself, M'sieur Macdonald.' The officer grinned and caught the bottle of vodka. T shall toast you, Alexei, when I rest my ignoble centaurs tonight.' He turned and shouted something to the great bearded Cossack who had taken such an interest in Drinkwater. 'Hey, Khudoznik ...!'

The man was looking curiously at Lord Leveson-Gower's horses in the shafts. At the Count's remark he looked up and growled something in reply, at which the whole squadron, its commanding officer included, roared with laughter.

'On your way, Alexei, and bon voyage,

Captain!' he said, and Walmsley, seeing the road ahead clear, whipped up the horses.

Drinkwater wiped his face with relief. 'Who the devil was that? You seemed uncommonly intimate.'

Mackenzie laughed. 'That, believe it or not, was Ostroff's superior officer, Count Piotr Kalitkin, commander of two squadrons of the Hetman's Don Cossacks. He knows me for a Scottish merchant, Alexander Macdonald, and we have been drunk several times in each other's company. He thinks you are going to Tilsit...'

'Yes, I got the drift of it: to find out why my cargo has not been brought down river to Memel.'

'Excellent!' laughed Mackenzie, in high good humour after the incident.

'What was that exchange between the Count and that malodorous fellow?' asked Drinkwater.

'It was an obscenity. The Count asked the man, Khudoznik, if he wanted to bugger our horses before he stood aside and let us through. Khudoznik replied there was no need for he had found a farm where the farmer had a wife, a daughter and forty cows!'

'Good God!'

'I doubt they're any worse than your own seamen ...' 'Or some of the officers,' agreed Drinkwater, jerking his head in Walmsley's direction, "but

those fellows looked born in the saddle.'

'Indeed. Their Little Father, the Tsar, exempts them from taxation in exchange for twenty to forty years of military service. And they will literally steal the shirt from your back, if you let them.' Mackenzie nodded at Drinkwater's open coat.

'It seems I had a lucky escape in several ways,' remarked Drinkwater.

It was dark by the time they reached the town and here they encountered sentries. They were the third in a little convoy of carriages that had bunched together on the road, and by the time the sergeant had got to them he paid scant attention to the pass Mackenzie waved under his nose.

'I doubt if the fellow can read,' Mackenzie said, as Walmsley urged the exhausted horses forward; 'although, if he could, he would find the pass in order and signed by Prince Vorontzoff.' Mackenzie stood and tapped Walmsley on the shoulder. 'Pull in over there,' he ordered in a low voice, and the chaise passed into the deep shadow of a tall building. Mackenzie and Walmsley exchanged places and the chaise rolled forward again.

'How do you do?' Drinkwater asked Walmsley in a low voice.

'Well enough, sir,' replied the midshipman, stretching tired muscles. 'Where are ...?'

'No questions until we are safe.'

'Safe, sir?'

'In hiding.'

'I don't think I'll feel safe until I'm back on the old Antigone.'

'We are of one mind then. Now be quiet.' They had pulled into a side turning which bore no resemblance to what Drinkwater had imagined the Jew's house looked like even in the darkness. Mackenzie dropped from the box, opened the door and motioned them down. Taking the saddle-bags from the chaise he handed them to Drinkwater.

'Wait here,' he said and moved round to the horses' heads. He led the chaise off, and left the two Englishmen standing in the darkness. They pressed back into the shadows and listened to the noises of the night.

Kalitkin's news of an armistice was affirmed by the noise of revelry around them. Every window they could see was ablaze with candlelight. The strains of violins and balalaikas, of bass and soprano voices were added to raucous laughter and the squeals of women. Beside him Drinkwater heard Walmsley snigger nervously and their proximity to a bawdy house was confirmed by Mackenzie who approached out of the shadows without horses or chaise.

'The more people, the easier the concealment,' he whispered. 'I've left the chaise at the brothel full of officers' horses.' He led them back the way they had come and into the comparative brilliance of the town square.

The place was full of people milling about, women giggling on the arms of officers, the curious gentry and their outraged womenfolk hurrying past the licentious soldiers. Beggars and whores, vendors and street musicians filled the open space and occasionally a horseman would ride through, or a carriage escorted by lancers trot by to be wildly cheered in case it was the Little Father, the Tsar.

Drinkwater began to see what Mackenzie meant. The crowd, hell-bent on pleasure, took no notice of them. Within minutes they had entered beneath a low arch, reminiscent of an English coaching inn, and found themselves in a courtyard. Two or three orderlies lounged about, smoking or drinking, but no one challenged them. Even the tall sentry at the door snapped to attention as Mackenzie, walking with an air of purpose, threw open the door and led the trio inside.

Crossing the courtyard Drinkwater had been aware of stable doors and upper windows flung open, from which candlelight and the noise of drunken revels poured in equal measure. Inside, the stairs were littered with bottles, an officer in his shirt-sleeves, his arm round the waist of a compliant girl, lounged back and ignored them. A half-open upper door revealed a brief glimpse of a mess-dinner, a table groaning under food, bottles, boots upon the tablecloth and a whirling dancer kicking out the trepak

to the wild and insistent beat of balalaika chords.

On the next floor the doors were closed. A woman's chemise and a pair of shoes and stockings lay on the landing. Above the shouts and cheers from below, the shrieks of drunken love-making came from behind the closed doors and were abruptly drowned by the

concerted tinkle of breaking glass as, below, a toast was drunk to the dancer.

A flight higher they encountered the Jew, his family behind him, peering anxiously down from an upper landing. Mackenzie addressed a few words to him and he drew back. Drinkwater saw the dull gleam of gold pass between them.

They passed through a further door, dark and concealed in the gloom. It shut behind them and they stumbled up bare wooden steps in total darkness. At the top Mackenzie knocked on a door; three taps and then two taps in a prearranged signal. There was the noise of a bar being withdrawn and a heavy lock turning. Drinkwater followed Mackenzie into a tiny attic, the rafters meeting overhead, a dormer window open to the night and from which the quick flash of lamplight on water could be glimpsed. Mackenzie stood aside, revealing the single occupant of the attic.

'Let me introduce you, Captain, to the man called "Ostroff".'

12  Ostroff

24 June 1807

'By God, it is you ...' Edward came forward, holding up a lantern to see his brother. 'Mackenzie said he would force the issue one way or another. It never occurred to me he would bring you

back. You've come a damned long way to collect your debt.'

Edward's poor joke broke the ice. Drinkwater held out his hand and looked his brother up and down. The jest about the money was characteristic; Edward was still the gambler, the opportunist. He was heavier of feature than Drinkwater remembered, his face red with good living and hard drinking, and he wore a Russian uniform unbuttoned at the neck. His feet were stuffed into soft boots and he had the appearance of a man who was about to settle. As if to confirm this he took off his tunic and loosened his stock.

'By God, it's hot up here, under the eaves. Who's this, Mackenzie?' He indicated the midshipman.

'Our driver, who has done a fine job and deserves some reward. Have you a bottle?'

Edward reached under a truckle bed and produced a bottle of vodka. 'There are glasses on that chest.'

They drank and Drinkwater performed the introduction, explaining that Ostroff was a British officer in the Russian service. Fortunately the looks of the two brothers were too dissimilar to excite suspicion as to the true nature of their relationship and Walmsley, tired and slightly overawed by the situation he found himself in, maintained a sensible silence. As they finished the vodka Mackenzie motioned to the midshipman.

'You and I will go and forage for something to eat, and leave these gentlemen to reminisce over their last encounter.'

They clattered down the steps and left a silence behind them. Drinkwater peered cautiously from the window, but he could see little beyond the black and silver river, the tall houses of the quay opposite and the sentries pacing up and down in the lamplight.

'You can't see much, but the raft is to the right. You'll see it clearly in daylight.'

'You know why I'm here, then?'

Behind him Edward sighed heavily and Drinkwater turned back into the attic. Edward had sat himself on the truckle bed and Drinkwater squatted on the chest.

'Yes. Mackenzie, a remarkable wizard, assured me he would bring back the one man who could accomplish this thing.'

'You sound doubtful.'

'It's impossible, Nat. Wait until you see the bloody raft. They've got one of those flying bridges ...'

'I know, I saw one lower down the river.'

'And you think it can be done?' Edward asked doubtfully.

Drinkwater shook his head. 'I don't know yet. Let us make up our minds in daylight.'

'Here .. .' Edward held out the bottle and refilled their glasses. 'To fraternity.'

Their eyes met. 'Do you remember my taking you aboard the Virago?'

'I found the life of a seaman far from pleasant.' 'I'm sorry,' said Drinkwater curtly, 'I had no option. You recall Jex, the purser who discovered who you were?' 'Christ yes! What happened to him?'

'He was providentially killed at Copenhagen . . . But tell me about yourself. You look well enough. Mackenzie tells me that you live chez

Vorontzoff.'

Edward smiled. 'Oh yes. The life of an exile is a good one when well-connected. Your Lord-at-the-Admiralty pays me well enough and I still trifle a little at the tables ... I'm very comfortable.'

'Are you married?'

Edward laughed again. 'Married! Heavens, no! But I've a woman, if that's what you mean. In Petersburg, in Vorontzoff's palace ... I do very well, Nat, that's why you will find me unwilling to risk myself under that raft.'

'I understand that Mackenzie has promised you a very handsome sum if you can pull it off.'

Drinkwater saw the expression of greed cross Edward's face; a small narrowing of the eyes, the quick lick of the tongue across the lips. He had always been a slave to money, easy money in large amounts. Edward suddenly looked askance at Drinkwater.

'You haven't come to reclaim your debt, have you?' The irrelevant question revealed the extent of Edward's corruptibility. Drinkwater smiled sadly.

'Good heavens, Ned, I cannot remember how much I loaned you.'

'Neither can I,' Edward replied with dismissive speed and occupied himself with refilling the glasses. 'You know, Nat,' he continued after a moment, I owe neither you, nor Mackenzie, nor Great Britain any allegiance . . . Despite my association with Vorontzoff, I am my own man . ..'

'That begs the question of whether you will get under this raft,' said Drinkwater, the problem vexing him again and intruding into his mind so that he half-stood, cracked his head on the eaves and sat down again. 'Besides, did you know who you killed at Newmarket?'

A shadow passed over Edward's face.

'I have killed since,' he said with sudden aggression, 'mostly Frenchmen...'

'It was a pity about the girl, Ned, but the man was a French agent.' Dawning comprehension filled Edward's face.

'Is that how you managed to protect me?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'And myself... and if you were to carry out this task, Ned, I fancy that I might persuade my "Lord-at-the-Admiralty" to obtain a Royal Pardon for you.'

Edward stared at his brother, his expression of incredulity gradually dissolving to amusement and cracking into stifled laughter. 'My dear Nat, you do not change! For God's sake ... a Pardon! I would rather have two thousand pounds in gold!'

Mackenzie woke Drinkwater from his place of honour on the truckle bed at dawn. Drinkwater's head ached from the vodka and his mouth was dry. Mackenzie indicated a jug of water and, as

Drinkwater vacated the bed, he rolled into it. Walmsley still slept, rolled in a blanket, on the rough boards of the attic floor. Edward was not there.

'Where's ... Ostroff?'

'Don't worry,' muttered Mackenzie, his eyes already closed, 'he'll be back.'

Drinkwater stared for a moment at the extraordinary man. Edward had called him a wizard and doubtless had good reason for doing so. Mackenzie's quick-wittedness had clearly proved invaluable and he was as at home in the presence of the Tsar as on this present strange campaign. For Drinkwater himself, separation from his ship, the horrible responsibility of his task and the risk of capture filled him with fretful gloom. But he addressed himself to the matter in hand. Edward had said the raft was visible . . .

He fished in the tail-pocket of Hill's coat and brought out his Dollond glass. Cleaning the lenses carefully with a pocket handkerchief whose stitched monogram brought a painfully poignant reminder of his wife, he peered from the dormer window whose casements stood open against the summer dawn.

The Nieman was perhaps a hundred yards wide. On the opposite bank a stone quay, similar to the one on which the Jew's house stood, was lined with tall old buildings, their storey’s rising up above the storage for merchandise at ground level. They had Dutch gables and mansard roofs pierced by dormers such as the one from which he peered. On the quay, the Westkai, he could see the blue and white figures of the sentries, French sentries!

The thought made him ease forward gently so that he could see almost directly below him. Their Russian counterparts lounged on their muskets along the Ostkai and he withdrew into the shadow of the room. Then he saw the raft.

It was drawn up on a gravelled hard where the Westkai was recessed to facilitate the repair of the river barges. Drinkwater levelled his glass and studied it. It was identical to the flying bridge he had examined the day before, except that upon its rough boarded surface the railings had been removed and carpenters had begun the erection of a framework. He made his examination carefully, his heart beating with a mounting excitement as the possibility of success grew. Every supposition he had made after his examination of the chain ferry seemed borne out by the scrutiny of the pontoon opposite. It was impossible to be sure at this distance, but, as he went over and over his plan, he could find no major flaw in it. It would be difficult, but if he could lay his hands on some simple tools and a little luck ...

He pulled back into the attic and put away his glass. 'The game must be worth the candle,' he muttered to himself. He cast a look at the extraordinary man who snored softly on the truckle bed and who had so disrupted his life.

'You could be the instrument of my undoing, damn you,' he murmured ruefully. When he turned again to the view of the Westkai the rising sun was gilding the gables opposite and a clock in Tilsit was striking five.

The day that followed was one of an intolerable imprisonment. The June heat upon the roof tiles made that attic an oven. Mackenzie left them during the forenoon to glean what news he could, and to see if he could acquire the few tools that Drinkwater wanted. Behind him, forbidden to show himself near the window, Walmsley fretted and fussed like a child. Ostroff made no appearance and Drinkwater became increasingly worried. From time to time he watched the raft. French engineers, under the direction of an officer of high rank, were assisted by local craftsmen. The pavilion rose steadily during the morning and began to be draped during the afternoon.

Drinkwater's anxiety reached fever-pitch when he realised there was one vital matter that, in his study of the pontoon, he had completely overlooked. It was a piece of the most idiotic stupidity yet, after his realisation that he had overlooked it, the desperate need for quick improvisation was a solace for his over-active mind.

Drinkwater's problem was simply how to get across the river. To swim was too risky; besides it exposed Edward to a long period of immersion. The rowing-boats on the river had all been withdrawn to the French side, apart from a large barge moored almost directly below their window. A solution defied him until about mid-afternoon when, after a shouted parley across the Nieman, a small boat put off from the west bank. In its stern sat two officers.

They disembarked just out of sight. Drinkwater heard the sound of talking men striding below the window. He guessed the two French officers had been met by some Russians. Unable to see much he realised the group had stopped directly underneath them. Wriggling back from the window he beckoned Walmsley. The bored young man came forward.

I want you to see if you can hear what they are saying below,' Drinkwater whispered, pointing frantically downwards. Walmsley nodded and eased himself up under the sill of the open window. Drawing back into the attic Drinkwater stood and stretched. For perhaps ten minutes the hum of voices came up to them and Walmsley's face was contorted with concentration, but at last the impromptu conference broke up and Walmsley moved back into the room.

'Well?'

'I couldn't hear well, sir; but it was something about getting the barge across the river tonight... something about...' he frowned. 'Go on!'

'Well, I thought he said a "pavilion", a "second pavilion" ... but I don't understand what that had to do with a barge ...'

'Never mind, Mr. Walmsley/ said Drinkwater suddenly grinning like a fool, 'you do not know what a signal service you have just rendered your country, by God!'

'Indeed, sir, I do not...'

'Never mind. When we return to the ship I shall tell you, but for the time being I must urge you to be patient and ...'

He never finished the sentence, for the coded knock came at the door. Drinkwater motioned Walmsley to unlock it and lift the bar, while he picked up and cocked the loaded pistol left by Mackenzie when he had departed.

Mackenzie slid inside, his eyes shining with excitement.

'Bennigsen's below. The Tsar's given him the devil of a drubbing, and in public too. Bennigsen's furious at the humiliation and muttering God knows what . . . and there's more,' he took a draught at the vodka Walmsley passed him and unhooked his coat. 'The meeting is set for tomorrow.'

Kicking off his boots, Mackenzie padded cautiously to the window and stared at the raft. He gave a low whistle, 'le theatre de

Napoleon,'

he said with an appreciative grin. It occurred to Drinkwater that Mackenzie throve on such high excitement. 'Hullo, what have those fellows been over for?' He nodded across the river and Drinkwater eased himself alongside. The small boat had returned to the Westkai and the two French officers were disembarking up an iron ladder.

'General officers,' murmured Mackenzie, 'by the look of them.'

The two men exchanged remarks, the sunlight reflected off their highly polished thigh-boots, and began to stroll along the quay towards the slipway and the bedizened raft. They were resplendent in the blue and gold of field officers, their great, plumed bicorne hats tucked under their arms. One of them, the taller of the two, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Some primaeval instinct beyond curiosity prompted Drinkwater. He drew out the Dollond glass again and focused it on the two officers. He drew his breath in sharply and Mackenzie turned.

'What the devil is it?'

'God's bones,' said Drinkwater, his face drained of colour. 'Santhonax!'

13   The Waters of the Nieman

24-25 June 1807

Mackenzie snatched the glass from him. 'By God, you are right!'

'It's uncanny,' Drinkwater said, his mouth dry. He accepted the glass of vodka Mackenzie held out. 'Our paths have crossed so many times .. .'

'No matter,' said Mackenzie, suddenly resolute, 'I have brought the things you wanted. A farrier's axe was the nearest I could manage to a hammer and it can be used instead of a spike.'

Drinkwater looked at the axe which was similar to a boarding axe with a blade and spike. 'What about nails?'

'Here,' Mackenzie fished in his pocket, 'horseshoe nails.'

'It reminds me of the nursery rhyme,' Drinkwater said, regaining his composure. It was quite impossible that Santhonax posed a threat to the success of the enterprise. 'Now what about Ostroff? Where the hell is he? I want to move at dusk, if not before . . . and Mackenzie, have you been in contact with Bennigsen's staff?'

Mackenzie nodded and both men listened to the hubbub that floated up from lower in the house. 'Somehow you've got to find out which of them met those two over there,' he jerked his head towards the window. 'They'll be detailing someone off to move that barge across the river. Local watermen, I expect. You're a merchant, an ingratiating fellow. Tell them you'll arrange it.'

'I'll get the Hebrew to do it. It's his barge.'

'No, Ostroff and I will get the barge over.'

Comprehension dawned in Mackenzie's eyes and he smiled appreciatively.

'And get us some rags and soot from the Jew.'

'I see I was not mistaken in you, Captain,' Mackenzie said.

'It'll come to naught if Ostroff ain't found!' said Drinkwater sharply. 'And now I want some food!'

'I shall attend to those matters forthwith.'

  Midshipman Lord Walmsley heard the departing footsteps of Captain Drinkwater and Ostroff fade down the stairs. The strange Russian officer had returned only a few minutes earlier, in time to receive his instructions from an impatient Drinkwater. He had protested a little and was then coerced by the captain and Mr. Mackenzie into agreeing to change into loose-fitting peasant's trousers, felt boots and a coarse cotton blouse. Both men put on hats and were given tobacco tubes such as were smoked by the Lithuanian peasantry. Walmsley had heard Captain Drinkwater mention that his capture in such clothing would guarantee his being shot as a spy and Ostroff, in a curiously unaccented English, denied it, saying the smell would drive off the most officious French officer. The grim joke shared between the two men sent a shiver of fear for his own safety up his spine. And then they had gone, leaving Walmsley hot, bored, yet strangely fearful, alone with the enigmatic Mr. Mackenzie who ignored him in his eagerness to observe the departure of the barge from the Ostkai.

Walmsley lolled back in his corner of the attic and gave his mind up to the only thing a young man of his tastes and inclination could think of in such stultifying circumstances: women. The apothecary's daughter and the pretty young women in the carriages that had accompanied them on their journey had awakened desires which had been further titillated by the occasional squeals of pleasure or protest from below. He lay imagining the activities of the young bloods on Bennigsen's staff and brooded on his own long deprivation.

At last he could tolerate inactivity no longer.

'Do you mind, sir,' he hissed at the back of Mackenzie's head, 'if I take the opportunity to empty the bucket and get a breath of air?'

Mackenzie turned from the window and wrinkled his nose at the pail they had been using as a privy. 'If you are careful, no. You may walk about a bit... seek crowds, you are safer in a crowd.' He turned again to look down into the river.

Walmsley could scarcely contain his excitement and, picking up the bucket, he unbarred the door.

Drinkwater forced himself to resist the nausea that swept over him as he tried to master the art of smoking tobacco. The nausea was replaced by an odd lightheadedness. The disgusting import brought back by Russian armies serving in the Caucasus revolted him almost as much as the filthy workman's clothing in which he was clad. He cleared his throat and spat with unfeigned gusto into the brown waters of the River Nieman. Above their heads the westward-facing glazings of the dormer window blazed with the reflected sunset, masking entirely the watching face of Mackenzie.

Edward, similarly malodorous but smoking with ease, came up to him. 'This is bloody ridiculous!' he muttered in English.

'We've no alternative,' his brother replied. Drinkwater was terrified of the need to speak, despite an hour's coaching in a few words of Lithuanian by Mackenzie. Edward, for whom languages presented little difficulty and who had learned sufficient patois from his campaigning, was to speak if speech were necessary. Drinkwater began to cast off the mooring ropes under the curious gaze of a tall Russian sentry.

As the semi-darkness of the northern twilight began to close over them, Drinkwater handed the end of the rope to his brother. He had told Edward exactly what to do: to hold on with a single turn until he gave the word. Drinkwater walked aft to where the sweeps poked their blades outboard, their looms constrained by grommets round single thole pins on either quarter. Drinkwater bent and ran the long sweeps out. It was going to be far from easy. He gritted his teeth, braced his feet and called 'Los!'

Edward cast off and pushed the stone facing of the Ostkai with a booted foot. The current began to move the barge as the bluff bow fell slowly off the quay. Drinkwater began to move the sweeps.

Edward came aft. 'Can I help?'

Drinkwater shook his head. Edward was no expert and it was only necessary to get a little headway on the barge and let the current do the rest.

'I'll get the line ready then.'

Drinkwater nodded and strained with the effort necessary to make an impression on the massive inertia of the barge. He stared down into the hold, thankful that it was empty, as he thrust at the oar looms with every sinew he possessed.

He began to get the swing of it. They were thirty yards out from the Ostkai now, but fifty downstream. He threw his weight back and dragged the blades out of the water, dipped them and fell forward, his breast against his fists, his calf muscles bulging as he heaved his body forward against the resistance. The blades drove through the water slowly and he dragged them out again to repeat the process over and over, keeping the barge pointing upstream, angled outwards slightly against the current, so that they crabbed across the river.

The sweat rolled off him and he felt his head would burst. He clenched his eyes shut to prevent the perspiration stinging them. He drew breath in great rasping gasps and the unaccustomed effort set his muscles a-quiver. He became blind to everything but the need for constant effort and it seemed that he had been doing this for ever.

Then, through eyes that he opened briefly, he glimpsed the looming gables of the houses of the Westkai. Ten long minutes later, Edward jumped ashore with the bow line. The gentle nudge with which the barge brought up against the quayside almost knocked Drinkwater off his feet as he dragged the sweeps inboard. Breathing heavily and his heart thumping painfully, he caught the stern line through a heavy ring and walked forward to see that Edward had secured the bow. In accordance with their plan, and in view of the sentries on either bank, they sat down on the hatch-coaming of the barge and broached a bottle of vodka. Both men took a small swig themselves and let some dribble down over their chins and onto their clothes. Edward lit another of the disgusting cheroots while Drinkwater sat and scratched himself. The red haze was beginning to disperse from his eyes when suddenly they focused on the French sentry who came forward to stare down at them.

Edward looked up and said something in Russian. Weakened from his strenuous exertion Drinkwater sat panting, trying to still the thundering of his pounding heart. He felt quite powerless to confront the danger they were in and left the matter to his brother. The Frenchman shrugged uncomprehendingly so Edward held out the bottle. The soldier hesitated, looked round and then grabbed it and swigged at it twice before handing it reluctantly back. Edward laughed and made a guttural comment and the two men grinned, the soldier wiping a hand across his mouth. Suddenly the sentry turned, as though hearing something, and disappeared from view. A few seconds later two French officers gazed down at them and enquired what they were doing.

Edward embarked on a pantomime of pretended explanation, gesturing first to the east bank of the Nieman and then to the west, interspersed with grunted interrogatives aimed at the two officers. At their lack of understanding he launched into a repeat of the whole thing until one of them cut him short.

'Tres bien, mon vieux, nous savons ...'

He turned to his compatriot and Drinkwater heard the name General Santhonax used twice. He felt his blood run cold and prayed to heaven that it was not their intention to verify the arrival of the barge with Santhonax. Not that he thought Santhonax would recognise him, unshaven, dirty and so totally unexpected in such a place, but the very presence of the man filled him with apprehension. His heart had stilled now but the worms of anxiety were writhing in his guts.

Edward managed a loud belch and ostentatiously swigged the vodka again. Passing the bottle to Drinkwater he reached up and dragged himself up onto the quay. His sang-froid seemed to dispel any remaining suspicions the French officers might have had. They drifted away and Edward bent to give his brother a hand up.

'Phew!' Drinkwater grunted his thanks and Edward replied by giving an exaggerated and pointed belch, reminding him of the necessity of appearing tipsy. They approached the end of the quay where the small gravel slipway ran into the river. Another sentry stood on the corner of the quay.

'Qui va la?'

They both began babbling incoherently, pointing down at the slipway, and indicating their intention to sleep on the pontoon that lay there.

'Non.'

Edward uttered an obscene dismissal. The sentry, a young man, cocked his musket but Edward slapped him on the shoulder and hung upon his arm. The man shrugged him off, wrinkling his nose in disgust, and nodded them past. They slid down onto the gravel and settled themselves under the growing shadows of the raft, lolling together and allowing their heartbeats to slow.

Twice the young sentry came to look at them but they lay still, two drunks inert and indistinguishable from the surrounding gloom. The clock in the town struck eleven then midnight. There was a crunch of boots as a patrol, led by a corporal, came by to change the guards. Words were spoken as the man going off duty indicated the two pairs of felt boots that were just visible from the quay. The corporal spat, an eloquent attestation of the superiority of the French military over a pair of drunken Kurlanders, and the patrol marched on. The silence of the night settled over them, the noises of debauch muted beneath the low chuckle of the River Nieman as it made its way to the Baltic Sea.

'Let's begin,' whispered Drinkwater as soon as the sound of the marching feet had faded. Edward eased himself up and located the new guard. He was a more experienced soldier and had made himself comfortable against a bollard on the corner of the quay. A cloud of tobacco smoke was faintly illuminated from the red glow of his pipe bowl. Edward leaned down and tapped the all clear on Drinkwater's shoulder, remaining on the look-out while his brother crawled under the pontoon to begin work.

The flying bridge, or pont volant,

was built on a heavy timber frame. The main members of the sides ran the length of the craft. These were crossed by beams on which the rough planking of the decking was laid. Such a craft would have floated very low without proper buoyancy and this was provided by two large box-like floats to which the main members were fastened. Watching the preparations from the attic window Drinkwater had observed some attention being paid to one section of these flotation chambers and had suspected one of them was giving cause for concern. Almost immediately he found fact and conjecture had spliced themselves neatly. Beneath the pontoon the new planks were identifiable by their slightly lighter colour and the rich smell of resin from them. The raw wood was unpayed and Drinkwater investigated further. His heart leapt for he was in luck.

Reaching down to his waistband he drew out the farrier's axe. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness and he worked the spike of the axe under the end of the upper plank and began to lever it off. The rot that had necessitated the renewal of the planks had already spread into the frame so the nails drew quite easily. He got the top plank off and then he dragged himself through the gap and slumped inside. The raw pine resin could not disguise the stench of the rotten wood and stagnant water which seeped into his clothes and felt cold against his sweating skin. Twisting round, he felt about in the roof of the chamber for any opening which would allow a man to receive sufficient air to breathe and, most important, to hear. He discovered a split between two planks and enlarged it with the axe. Rubbing his hand in the foul slime of the bottom, he smeared it over the raw wood to hide his work from a casual glance. When he had finished, he drew himself out of the chamber. Even beneath the pontoon the night air smelt sweet. He lay on the damp gravel, panting heavily; the clock in the town struck two.

Dragging himself along he pulled himself out from beneath the pontoon close to his brother. Edward was shivering from the chill. 'Well?' he hissed.

'Get under when you can. It's all ready.'

Edward cast a look round and Drinkwater sensed his reluctance, but the hesitation was only momentary. The two brothers crawled below the pontoon and Drinkwater tugged Edward until he was aware of the opening. He put his mouth close to Edward's ear. 'You won't drown, even if it fills partially with water. I have cut holes in the top, you should have no trouble breathing or hearing.'

Drinkwater patted Edward's shoulder and drew back. He felt Edward shudder and then begin to work his way through the narrow gap, which gave him more trouble than his slimmer brother. A hiss of disgust told that Edward had discovered the stink and damp of his prison.

'Christ, this is madness. Why did I let you talk me into it?' 'You can get out by kicking away the ends of the planks.' 'Leave me the axe.'

'I need it for hammering home the nails.' Drinkwater paused. Edward's face was a pale, ghostly oval in the Stygian darkness. 'Do you have your bottle?'

'Of course I bloody well do.'

'Good luck.' Drinkwater moved to put the first board into place, fishing in his pocket for the stock of nails provided by Mackenzie. Holding the head of the axe he had Edward grip the bottom plank, found the nail hole with some difficulty, inserted a nail and pushed it with the end of the axe. He felt the nail drive part way into the rotten framework. Then he drew back his right hand and smacked it hard with the open palm of his left. After repeating this process a few times he felt the nail drive home. He managed the next nail at the other end of the plank in a similar fashion, but the third proved less easy. He knew he would have to give several hard bangs with the whole axe haft. He rolled quickly across and peered from under the pontoon. There was no sign of the sentry.

With feverish impatience he returned to the hole and, holding his breath, gave a few quick, sharp taps with the axe. In seconds the plank was secure. Edward's face peered from the narrowed gap as Drinkwater returned from a second look for the sentry. There was still no sign of the man. He must have strolled off to the far end of his beat. Drinkwater lifted the second plank. Edward resisted it being put into place.

'Nat.'

'What is it?' Drinkwater asked in a desperate whisper.

'Will you get me out of here if I cannot make it myself?'

Drinkwater remembered a small boy who was afraid of the dark and the shadows in the corner of the farmhouse bedroom. 'You'll have no trouble, I promise you.' He hissed reassuringly. 'Brace your back and simply kick outwards with your heels.'

'But promise.'

'For God's sake, Ned, of course ...' 'Your word of honour.'

'My word of honour.' He pushed the plank and Edward vanished behind the faint grey of the new wood. As he tried to locate a nail, his hands shaking with the tension, the plank was pushed towards him. He choked down an oath with difficulty. 'What?'

'We may never meet again.'

'Don't be foolish. We shall meet when you get out, at the Jew's house tomorrow.'

'But it will not be the same.' 'For God's sake ...'

'I must

tell you something. I want you to know I repent of the murder ... not the man, but I loved the girl...'

Drinkwater expelled pent-up breath. 'I am sorry, Ned . .. Now for God's sake let me finish.'

'And I know I owe my life to you.'

'No matter now.'

'But all debts will be paid when this thing is done, eh?' Edward's voice was barely a whisper now, but Drinkwater was beside himself with anxiety. Once again he bore the burden of an elder brother. He comforted Edward's fear of a greater darkness.

'All paid, Ned, all paid.'

To Drinkwater's infinite relief Edward withdrew and Nathaniel began to fasten the last plank. It was the upper one and the nails went home with difficulty. In the end he was forced to bang hard, several times. The noise seemed deafening and as he drew back he heard the scrape of boots on gravel as a man jumped down onto the hard from the quay. He uttered a silent prayer that Edward would not react and rolled away from the buoyancy chamber, retreating further into the blackness beneath the raft.

As he lay inert, his eyes closed, trying to still his breathing, he could hear the sentry move round the pontoon, the crunch of his boots close beside him on the wet gravel. Beyond the shadow of the raft Drinkwater was aware of the first flush of dawn, a pale lightening of the river's surface. He could hear the man muttering and knew that he would be looking for the two drunken Kurlanders. For a second Drinkwater hesitated. Then, knowing he must leave Edward in no doubt of his successful escape, he acted.

Rolling from under the raft he found himself suddenly at the feet of the sentry.

'Qui va la?'

snapped the astonished man unslinging his musket.

With one eye on the lowering bayonet Drinkwater grunted and rose on one knee. Tucking in the filthy breast of his blouse he gripped the boarding axe more firmly and staggered to his feet. If he allowed himself to be kept at bayonet point he was lost. The sentry growled at him.

Sucking in his breath he tore the axe from his breast and then, expelling air for all he was worth, he swung his arm with savage ferocity, twisting his body at the same time. With such sudden

impetus the axe whirled and struck deep into the skull of the French soldier. With a dull thud the man fell, stone dead.

Drinkwater paused for an instant to catch his breath again, then he rounded on the raft and pressed close to the timber side of the float.

'Can you hear me?' he hissed. 'Yes,' he heard Edward's low reply. 'You're quite safe. I'm going now.'

Edward tapped twice and Drinkwater turned back to the gravel slipway and the dead sentry that lay beside the lapping water of the river. Slinging the musket he grabbed the man's heels and dragged him quickly into the water beneath the overhang of the quay. After the gloom beneath the raft it seemed quite light, but the dawn was delayed by rolling banks of heavy clouds and no cries of alarm greeted his panting efforts. He let the man's feet go and pushed the body out into the river. Unslinging the musket he let it fall to the muddy bottom of the Nieman. In the town the clock struck a half hour as he lowered himself into the water. He paddled out into the stream, nudging the body of his victim until he felt the current take it, then let it go. The water bore the thing away from him and he rolled on his back and peered back at the Westkai. He could see a party of sentries marching with a corporal, bringing the relief guard: he had left not a moment too soon. He began to swim with more vigour, the freedom of the river almost sensual after the strain and activity of the night. A light rain began to fall. Drinkwater rolled onto his back and let the gentle drops wash over his face.

By the time he floundered ashore on the opposite bank the rain had become a steady downpour.

14  The Meeting of Eagles

25 June 1807

  Drinkwater found himself in shallow water a mile below the town where the Nieman's banks were reeded. Lush green water-meadows lay beyond, rising slowly to low hills clear in the grey light. A windmill surmounted one of these and he remembered passing it as they had approached Tilsit. He lay for some time, gathering his strength and no longer sustained by the vodka. The rain had drawn a heavy veil of cloud across the sky and a smoking mist hung over the river. He had come a long way downstream, to be met by a herd of piebald cows whose steaming muzzles were turned suspiciously towards him. He would have to make for the road and knew that the next hour was, for him, the most dangerous. He had been unable to think out any strategy for his journey back, hoping that he would land in darkness only a short distance below the Ostkai.

'You are grown too old for this lunatic game,' he muttered wearily to himself and rose to his feet. Squelching through the reeds he reached a place where the river bank was trodden down by countless cattle hooves. The raindrops plopped heavily into each tiny lake and the mud dragged at his feet. He struggled through cow-pats and sodden grass, making towards the windmill and the road. He was within a few yards of the mill when the bugle sounded reveille. With a sudden panic he realised the place was a billet and full of soldiers. He fell back towards a ditch on his left. Then he saw the boat.

With ineffable relief he turned to it. It was a crude, flat-bottomed punt, meant only for river work, but it had a pair of oars across the thwarts and offered Drinkwater the only satisfactory means of reentering Tilsit. He was dressed as a lighter-man and here was a

boat, presumably belonging to the mill, and a downpour to explain his soaking condition. With renewed heart he clambered aboard and untied the frayed painter from a rotten stake. He got out the oars and worked the boat out of the dyke. Ashore he could hear shouts as men assembled for morning roll-call. He entered the main river, the rain hissing down, the smooth grey water an infinity of concentric circular ripples. Keeping close to the bank he found the counter-current and pulled easily upstream. Despite his lack of sleep he found his lassitude evaporate; the demands of pulling the boat sent new life into his chilling limbs and the rain seemed warm upon his tired muscles.

  Edward Drinkwater lay on his back in the solitary darkness and fought successive waves of panic that swept over him, manifesting themselves in reflexive spasms of nausea. Despite the pale sliver of sky that showed through the slits his brother had opened in the float, the surrounding darkness had a threatening quality, a sentient hostility that caused him to imagine it was contracting upon him. So strong was this awful sensation that twice he found himself stuffing a fist into his mouth to prevent himself from screaming, while a cold sweat broke out all over his body. But these periods of terrifying panic waned and were replaced by a slow acceptance of his situation which was aided by the bottle of vodka. After an hour or two he floated in a kind of limbo: the stinking bilge-water and the damp clothes that wrapped him seemed bearable.

He was jerked from his reverie by the noise of approaching feet scrunching the gravel and his heartbeats thundered in the clammy darkness as men resumed work on the raft. The hammering and sawing went on for what seemed hours, resonating throughout the float so that his former silence seemed heavenly by comparison. He lay on his back, twisting about from time to time to keep his circulation going, watching the narrow strip of sky periodically obscured by the boot-soles of the French soldiers and diverting himself by practising eavesdropping on their conversation. Sometime later he smelt a curious smell and recognised it as it grew stronger for the odour of Stockholm tar. He knew then that it was almost time for the pontoon to be dragged down the slipway and into the river.

'They are heating tar/ observed Lord Walmsley, taking his eye from Drinkwater's telescope and turning towards Mackenzie lying on the truckle bed. 'D'you think the Captain and Ostroff are all right?'

'Uh?' Mackenzie rubbed the sleep from his eyes and rolled off the bed to join Walmsley at the window. 'I hope by now Ostroff is -what d'you sailors say? - battened down in that pont volant

and the Captain already in the stable below. What o'clock is it?'

'Seven has struck, and the half hour. D'you want me to look in the stable?'

'Yes, take my cloak. Bennigsen's lot sleep late; they gave a dinner last night for some French officers. Just act boldly, there are too many comings and goings for anyone to take any notice, and the sentries are too ignorant to stop anyone with an air of authority' Mackenzie gave a short, contemptuous laugh. 'Good men in a fight but deprived of any initiative ... the Jew will notice you ... take a rouble from the gold on the bed and slip it to the burgher if you see him.' Mackenzie's voice became weary, as though the corruptibility of men bored him. Behind him the doorlatch clicked and the stairs creaked as Walmsley descended to the stables. Mackenzie focused his attention on the distant pontoon. The final touches were being put to the decorations, a wooden monogram placed over each of two draped entrances. He saw two men, wearing the regulation aprons of pioneers, emerge from under the pontoon with a steaming pot of pitch. The men worked doggedly but without enthusiasm as the rain continued to fall. He shifted his glass to the barge that the two brothers had moved across the river the evening before. Already a group of labourers had brought piles of sawn deals from an adjacent warehouse where they had been awaiting shipment, and were laying them across the lighter's open hatch to make a platform. Mackenzie took the glass from his eye and rubbed it, yawning. A movement on the extreme right of his field of vision caught his eye. A man was rowing upstream in a small boat. He would soon become involved with three other boats, anchored to moorings which they had been laying in midstream. There was more movement too, on the Westkai. They were changing the guard opposite. The sentries from a line regiment were being replaced by the tall bearskins and red plumes of the French Imperial Guard.

'Grand tenue,

by Jupiter,' he muttered sardonically to himself. 'Pity about the rain.'

He peered cautiously below him where, on the Ostkai, a similar ritual was in progress. Instead of bearskins the Russian Guard wore great brass-fronted mitre-caps that had gone out of vogue in every other European army a generation earlier.

'Touché,'

chuckled Mackenzie, almost enjoying himself, as the brilliance of the preparations was muted by the heavy downpour. The man in the small boat had pulled alongside and was making his painter fast.

Lord Walmsley could find no sign of Captain Drinkwater in the stable, but he found something else, something he had failed to find in his walk of the previous night. The naked leg of a girl hung from the hayloft. Walmsley felt a stab of lust and cautiously peered through the gap in the stable doors. Several orderlies lounged under the overhanging roof of a balcony on the opposite side of the courtyard. They were smoking and drinking tea, and clearly unwilling to rush into the business of grooming officers' chargers while their owners slept off the excesses of the night. The stable was heavy with the smell of horses, dung and hay. The magnificent animals reminded him of his father's stables, and the naked ankle of a girl he had once laid in the straw there.

There was a ladder close to the bare foot and he climbed it, taking care not to wake its owner. The horses stamped and pawed the ground and whickered softly to each other, but he ignored them and climbed up to the sleeping girl. She was a maid in the Jew's service and lay prettily asleep, her red mouth half-smiling and her dreams full of the love-making of the Prince who had had her the night before. She had escaped when his drunkenness became violent, and found her refuge in the hayloft. Walmsley was aroused by the sight and scent of her. He slid a hand over her leg. She turned languidly, her body responding, and opened her eyes. Walmsley smothered her surprise with his kisses, his urgency meeting her own awakened lust half-way, and with the intemperate passion of their youth they were swiftly entwined in each other's arms.

Drinkwater flicked the painter through the ring set in the face of the quay, shipped his oars and steadied the boat at the foot of the steps. It was too late to turn back. The military activity on the Ostkai would have to be brazened out. He climbed the steps and found himself face to face with a giant of a man in a huge brass-fronted hat. The man stood immobile in the continuing rain and, without the slightest hindrance, Drinkwater shuffled past him. No one took the slightest notice of so disreputable and so familiar a sight as a dirty, stinking peasant. Even the orderlies smoking in the yard of the merchant's house ignored him. He was able to slip into the stable as arranged. From here Mackenzie was to arrange his return to the attic when the coast was clear.

He found Midshipman Lord Walmsley standing at the top of a ladder, buttoning his breeches. Wisps of straw clung to his clothing and beside him the face of a girl appeared. He caught the gleam of gold tossed to her, saw her bite it and lie back giggling. Neither of the lovers had seen the sodden beggar at the doorway. Then Walmsley turned and spotted Drinkwater, who scowled at the midshipman and, catching sight of Mackenzie's cloak that Walmsley had carelessly draped over one of the stalls, pulled it round himself. Walmsley joined him in silent embarrassment and led him into the house.

Mackenzie turned as they regained the attic. 'Ah, he found you all right. Good. Welcome back. Did everything pass as planned?'

'Well enough,' said Drinkwater shortly. He rounded angrily on the midshipman. 'What the hell are you playing at, you fool? Was that English gold you gave that trollop?' he asked savagely. 'If it was you'll likely have us all damned for your stupidity.'

'You gave that gold piece away? To a girl, or the Jew?' Mackenzie asked curtly.

Walmsley went pale under the inquisition of the two men.

'He gave it to a whore!'

'Who was she? That trull that skivvies for the Jew?' Walmsley nodded.

Mackenzie chuckled. 'Calm yourself, Captain. It was Russian gold and I expect the trull has given him something for small change. It is of no account, she has been laid by most of Bennigsen's killbucks and I doubt she can tell the difference between an Englishman and a Russian in the throes of love!' Mackenzie dismissed the matter.

Drinkwater was dropping with fatigue. He sank on the low bed and, within moments, was asleep.

It was past noon when Mackenzie shook him awake. 'You should come and look. Great events are in progress. There is some bread and sausage .. .'

Drinkwater rose with a cracking of strained muscles. His shoulder ached with a dull, insistent pain, but he stripped the filthy rags from his body and drew on his own breeches and shirt, joining Mackenzie at the window.

'You smell better in your own clothes,' observed Mackenzie, making way in the open casement. There was no need for concealment now for nearly every window was occupied by a curious public. Both quays were lined by the massed ranks of the Imperial Guards of both Emperors, row upon row of splendid men in the impressive regalia of full-dress, their officers at their posts. A handful of staff-officers, more youthful than useful, dashed up and down on curvetting horses, their hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones. The heavy rain of the morning had stopped and a watery sun peeped occasionally through gaps in the clouds, lighting up bright patches of red roof tiles, the green leaves of trees and the gaudy splendours of military pomp.

But it was the river that was the cynosure for all eyes. A musket-shot from the watchers in the attic, roughly level with the slipway from which it had been dragged that morning and moored in the centre of the Nieman, the flying bridge lay at anchor. It was festooned with a profusion of drapery, red and blue and green, laced with gold tasselling, and on the side facing them the drapes had been looped back to form an entrance surmounted by the initial letter 'A'. Twenty yards downstream lay the less gaily appointed barge.

'Impressive, eh?' Mackenzie was grinning like a schoolboy on holiday and both knew a sense of triumph at their success. Two boats had now arrived, one on each side of the river waiting at the steps there. On the far quay a cavalcade of horsemen had appeared, riding through the ranks of soldiers. On a white horse sat the unmistakable figure of Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, wearing the green and white of the Horse Chasseurs of the Guard. He was followed by a glittering bevy of marshals, one of whom ostentatiously caracoled his horse.

'That vainglorious fellow is Murat,' whispered Mackenzie.

They watched Napoleon dismount and walk to the steps. In the boat below him an officer stood and Drinkwater drew in his breath, for it was Santhonax. He pointed him out to Mackenzie and they watched the emperor and some of his entourage embark. People on either bank were cheering. A minute later and the French marines were plying their oars as the boat swung out for the caparisoned raft. The distant batteries began the ritual discharge of the imperial salutes.

Mackenzie pointed downwards and they craned their necks. Almost exactly below them a similar scene was being enacted and another boat was pulling out from the Ostkai. Sitting in the stern were several officers of exalted rank.

'Ouvaroff and Count Lieven have their backs to us,' explained Mackenzie in a low voice, 'the gentleman with the unpleasant countenance is the Grand Duke Constantine, next to him is Bennigsen ...' Drinkwater looked at the snub-nosed, stubborn features of the Hanoverian. He was answering a query from a fifth man, a tall, erect, red-haired officer in an immaculate, high-collared tunic.

'The Tsar.'

Drinkwater stared at the profile of the man who was said to be composed of a confusion of liberal ideals and autocratic inclinations. Surrounded by the pomp of the occasion it was difficult to imagine that the handsome head knew anything but the certainty of its own will. A reputation for erratic decisions or total apathy seemed undeserved. The bizarre sight of the Tsar chatting to a man who had engineered the death of his own father, whom he had the day before humiliated in public and who, Mackenzie thought with his amazing prescience, might turn his coat in the next hour or two, reminded Drinkwater that he was in Kurland, a remote corner of a remote empire whose alliance with his own country was in jeopardy.

Beside him Mackenzie's mood ran in a lighter vein. 'Trust Boney to work for a meeting on equal footing and then upstage Alexander.'

The French boat arrived at the raft first. It pulled away to disembark the French staff on the barge, downstream. As the Russian boat arrived alongside the raft and Alexander stood to disembark, Napoleon appeared in the entrance on the Russian side, his hand outstretched. A great cheer went up from the massed soldiery on either bank. As the Russian boat dropped downstream, Napoleon let the curtains of the pavilion down with his own hands.

As if at a signal of the combined imperial wills, the concussions of the salutes faded into echoes and from a lowering sky the rain again began to fall.

In total secrecy, two men decided the fate of Europe.

 

15   The Secret

25 ]une 1807

Edward Drinkwater found the water rose no more than four inches about him once the pontoon had been launched. He found his situation uncomfortable but was less anxious once he felt the raft moored. He had suffered a brief, heart-thumping fear as the water rose about him, but his brother had been right, though to what properties of hydrostatics it was due, Edward was quite ignorant. The clumsy vessel found a sort of equilibrium, presumably supported by the other chambers, or perhaps due to its attitude to the stream of the river, once it had been moored. At all events the inrush of water soon ceased and he lay awash, awake and alert.

He heard the cannon and the cheers and the bumps of the boats. A few indistinct words of French, a rapid series of footsteps overhead, and then a voice asked: 'Why are we at war?'

It was quite distinct and clear, even above the rush and chuckle of the water to which his ears had become attuned, a question posed with some asperity and emotion. The reply was equally charged and candid: 'I hate the English as much as you do!' Edward recognised the Tsar's voice.

There was the small sharp slap of clapped hands and a brief barked laugh. 'In that case, my dear friend, peace is made!'

Lord Walmsley was denied much of a view of this historic event by Drinkwater and Mackenzie. The delights of the morning, despite the embarrassment of their conclusion, had not satisfied his desire. Mackenzie's gold still lay on the bed where it had been taken from the butt of one of his pistols. The girl might be a whore, as Captain Drinkwater and the mysterious Mr. Mackenzie had alleged, but the captain was prone to a certain puritan narrowness. Walmsley had lain with whores before and he had been far too long without a woman. It was true he owed Captain Drinkwater a great deal, but not his moral welfare; that was his own business. Besides the girl had been good. Walmsley sat on the bed and supposed it had been hers before Mackenzie had seduced her Jewish master with his limitless gold. Desire pricked him again and he knew he would not be missed for a while. As the bellowing of the Guards again broke out, Walmsley slipped from the attic unnoticed. On the raft, the two Emperors had reappeared, smiling publicly. Renewed cheering greeted this concord and echoed through the streets of Tilsit.

General Santhonax dismounted from his horse and threw the reins to an orderly. It was already evening and the volleys from the two armies which signalled a general rejoicing had at last died away. He was tired, having been up since just after dawn, when the report of the missing sentry had been brought to him. It was the fourth such desertion of the night and with the armistice declared he was not surprised. He greeted a fellow officer with a tired smile.

'Ah, Lariboissiere, His Imperial Majesty requires you to start immediately to throw a pontoon bridge across the river. He is desirous of impressing our late enemies with the superiority of our engineering. You may withdraw the rafts when you have finished.'

'Merde!'

Lariboissiere and his men were tired out, but an order was an order. 'Was His Imperial Majesty satisfied with today's arrangements, General Santhonax?'

Santhonax remounted and settled himself in the saddle. 'Perfectly, my friend,' he said urbanely, tugging his charger's head round. 'It went better than I anticipated.'

Edward had had enough. His head still buzzed with the news he had gleaned and he was eager to escape confinement. He had heard the town clock strike six and could wait no longer. Twisting round he got his shoulders against the plank-ends that Drinkwater had nailed down and pushed hard. He felt something give, and kicked. The plank-end sprang and light entered the chamber. He forced the other end free. The plank dropped into the water and he repeated the performance with the next. More water began to lap into the chamber. He took a deep breath and forced his body through the gap, rolled into the water and submerged. When he came up he was clear of the raft. Over his head arched the blue of the evening sky. He felt a supreme elation fill him and kicked luxuriously downstream.

General Santhonax pulled up his horse at the end of the Westkai and stared down at the slip where the pont volant

had spent the previous night. The trampled gravel was covered with sawdust, wood offcuts and a few pieces of cloth where the drapery had been trimmed. One of the men had left a tool behind. The polished steel gleamed dully in the muck where it lay half-buried by a careless foot. It looked like a cavalry farrier's axe.

The professional curiosity of a former secret agent made Santhonax dismount and jump down onto the hard. He pulled the axe out of the mire and looked at its head. A feeling of disquieting curiosity filled him. He returned to his horse, tapping the grubby object thoughtfully with one gloved hand. Lithuanian workmen had been employed in raising the pavilion, but they had been civilians. What then was a Russian farrier's axe doing there? He looked down again. The thing had stained his white gloves with mud. But there was something else too: the spike on the vicious weapon was sticky with blood and hair.

A sudden alarm gripped General Santhonax. He recalled the post of one of the missing sentries and his eyes flew to the gaudy and deserted raft in midstream. A sudden flash came from just below the raft, a plank upflung and yellow with new wood reflected the low evening sunlight that had replaced the day's rain. And was that a head that bobbed and was gone behind the barge? He kicked his horse into motion, leaving the quay and riding along the raised bank that was topped by a narrow path. He fished in one holster for his glass.

Then he was sure. Downstream on the far bank he saw a man crawl out of the river. His blood ran cold. That man had to die, die secretly without the Emperor ever knowing that Santhonax had failed in his duty.

Tilsit was en fete,

celebrating the peace. Candles lit every window again, the streets were thronged and cheers greeted every person of consequence who appeared. The Tsar was wildly applauded as he prepared to cross the river and dine with Napoleon. Edward made his way through the crowd to the rear of the Jew's house unnoticed, for it was abandoned by Bennigsen and his suite, and the orderlies had taken themselves off to celebrate in their own manner, leaving only the sentries at the main entrance. Edward reached the attic and was helped out of his stinking rags while both Mackenzie and Drinkwater waited eagerly for his report. In the excitement no one was concerned by Walmsley's absence.

'Well,' said Mackenzie as Edward devoured a sausage and a quantity of vodka, 'our luck cannot last for ever, we are in hostile territory now by all accounts.'

'You are indeed,' said Edward swallowing the vodka, standing naked in a tin bath. 'But another thousand ...'

'Damn you, Ned!'

'Five hundred,' said Mackenzie coolly, picking up the pistol from the bed, 'and not a penny more.' Mackenzie brought the pistol barrel up and pointed it at Edward's groin.

Edward realised he had chosen a bad moment to bargain; a man rarely impresses when naked. 'Very well, gentlemen,' he said grinning sheepishly and attempting to pass off the matter lightly.

'The truth, mind,' warned Mackenzie, the pistol unwavering.

'Yes, yes, of course,' agreed Edward testily, reaching for his breeches as if insulted that he was suspected of real perfidy.

'Well?'

'There are to be long negotiations, but Napoleon is a master of deceit; he played Alexander like a woman. I have never heard flattery like it. He sold his ally Turkey to the Tsar, promised him a free hand against the Porte, guaranteed him the same in Swedish Finland, told him that he was a true child of the liberating ideals of the French Revolution and that the two of them would release the new renaissance of a resuscitated Europe! I could scarcely believe my ears. Why such a tirade of flattery and promises should be made in such secrecy is for you to judge.'

'One always seduces in private,' observed Mackenzie, ironically, "but

go on. What of Great Britain?'

'That came last, though I distinctly heard Alexander declare his hatred of the English at the start, but he was much less easy to hear...'

'Go on, we have little time...'

'Britain is to be excluded from all trade with Europe or Russia. The Tsar agrees to chastise anyone who trades with a nation so perfidious as yours.' Edward paused, his choice of words significant. 'Your navy is to be destroyed by sheer weight of numbers. Napoleon said your navy is exhausted, your sources of manpower drying up, and that you cannot maintain a blockade for ever. He told the Tsar, who made some remark at this point, that your victory at Trafalgar was a narrow one and that this is proved by the death of Lord Nelson. He claimed the tide would have gone the other way but for the Spaniards deserting the French. Had the French had the Russian fleet with them that day the trident of Neptune would have been wrested from Britannia and with it the sceptre of the world!'

'What eloquence,' remarked Mackenzie.

'So the Russian fleet is to break out of the Baltic, eh?' asked Drinkwater.

'Yes. The Baltic is to be a mare clausum

to Britain, supine under Russian domination, and to outnumber you the Portuguese fleet is to be seized at Lisbon and the Danish to be commandeered at Copenhagen.'

'God's bones!' exclaimed Drinkwater, his mind whirling with the news. With France and Russia allies, Napoleon's power in Europe would be absolute. The Russians would be free to expand into Turkey, the French to mass their great armies on the Channel shore once more for a final descent upon England. Napoleon would be able to summon the combined navies of every European power to add to his own. There were ships of the line building at Toulon, at Brest, at Antwerp; the Portuguese navy and the Danish navy would add a powerful reinforcement to the Russian squadrons already at sea, cruising as allies of Great Britain. Against such a force even the battle-hardened Royal Navy would find itself outgunned by sheer weight of metal! And, as Drinkwater well knew, the Royal Navy, that reassuring bulwark of the realm, was wearing out. Its seamen were sick of endless blockade, its officers dispirited by stalemate, its admirals worn with cares and its ships with sea-keeping. Such an outcome negated Drinkwater's whole life and he was filled with a sudden urgency to be off, to leave this stifling attic and regain the fresh air of his quarterdeck and a quick passage home with this vital intelligence.

'You have done well,' Mackenzie was saying, spilling into his palm a shower of gold. He held it out to Edward who was now fully dressed. 'Here, this is on account, the rest within the month in the usual way.'

Edward pocketed the cash. He was again the Russian officer, Ostroff. He held out his hand to Drinkwater. 'The parting of the ways, then, Nat?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Yes ... it would seem so.'

'I have discharged all my obligations today.'

'With interest,' said Mackenzie drily as the two brothers shook hands.

'Where's Walmsley?' Drinkwater asked suddenly as their minds turned towards departure. The three men exchanged glances.

'He can't be far away,' said Mackenzie. 'It isn't the first time he's wandered off.'

'No, but it will be the last,' snapped Drinkwater anxiously.

'He's gone a-whoring,' said Edward as he bent to pick up his gear. Mackenzie slung his saddle-bags over his shoulder and Drinkwater put a pistol in his waistband.

'We cannot wait,' said Mackenzie, looking at Drinkwater. 'Perhaps he's down below.' Mackenzie unbarred the door and led them out down the steep and narrow stairs.

The only person they met in their descent through the eerie silence of the house was the Jew, who was on an upper landing. Mackenzie passed more money to him and the three men walked into the courtyard, shadowed by the late afternoon sunlight.

'I have a horse quartered here,' said Edward, turning aside.

'Where do you go now?' asked Drinkwater.

'To Vorontzoff,' Edward replied, entering the stable. Drinkwater followed to see if Walmsley was repeating his performance of that morning: a brief look showed the hayloft empty.

'Come on ...' said Mackenzie.

Drinkwater hesitated. ‘I must have a look for Walmsley.' Mackenzie swore and, for the first time since they had met,

Drinkwater saw irresolution in his face. 'Damn it then, a quick look, but hurry!'

  General Santhonax had searched the warehouses of the lower town as unobtrusively as possible. The thought that a soaking man could not vanish without accomplices beat in his brain. He reached the Ostkai with its tall houses where the previous evening he had selected the barge. Lariboissiere's men, with whose help he had crossed the river, were already stretching the first cable of the bridge Napoleon had ordered thrown over the Nieman. Angrily he turned away. Perhaps the inns round the town square might have offered concealment.

  Lord Walmsley smiled down at the girl. The bed of the Russian prince was rumpled by the wanton violence of their combined lust, but Walmsley knew he had to leave, to see if the strange, English-speaking Russian officer, Ostroff, had returned to the attic. He emerged onto the landing, hearing a noise on the stairs. Below him someone went out into the courtyard. From a window he could just see down into the deepening shadows of the yard. Captain Drinkwater was there and he was joined by Ostroff, leading a grey horse out of the stable. At the same time Mackenzie appeared, shaking his head. It was obvious that departure was imminent. Behind Walmsley the girl appeared and wound her arms around him.

  Below in the courtyard the three men were holding a hurried conference.

'Nothing. It means we'll have to search the place thoroughly.'

'He may have wandered off anywhere,' said Mackenzie. 'I let him go for a while yesterday ...'

'You'd best forget him,' said Edward, putting one foot in the stirrup. 'I will keep an eye out for him and spirit him away if I can.'

'And if you can't?' asked Drinkwater, at once furious with the midshipman for his desertion and in a quandary as to what to do.

'Come, this is no time to delay, we must make the best of our separate ways now,' Mackenzie said, taking Drinkwater's elbow. 'Come on, it is only a short walk to Gower's chaise and we have little to fear. It will not be very surprising if a Scottish merchant and an English shipmaster evacuate Tilsit in the wake of the day's events.'

Edward looked down from his horse. 'Goodbye, Nat, and good luck. Forget your young friend, I'll do what I can.'

'Very well, and thank you. Good fortune.'

The two men smiled and Edward dug his heels into the flanks of the grey and clattered out of the yard. At the arched entrance his horse shied, skittering sideways as a tall military officer almost collided with them. Edward kicked his mount forward.

As the big grey horse trotted away Santhonax looked under the arch. He saw two men walking towards him carrying bags over their shoulders; they had the appearance of travellers on the point of departure, yet he could see no reason for men to leave a town that was so full of wild celebration. With sudden caution he drew his pistol as they entered the covered passage and moved towards him.

Drinkwater saw the man under the arch and caught the movement of the drawn pistol.

'Look,' he hissed, sensing danger at the same moment as Mackenzie.

Drinkwater's hand went to his own pistol, Mackenzie strode forward.

'Bonsoir, M’sieur,'

he said. In the gloom the man turned and Drinkwater recognised Santhonax. Without a moment's thought he swung his heavy pistol butt: the steel heel of the weapon caught Santhonax on the jaw and he crashed against the wall. Drinkwater hit him a second time. Santhonax sprawled full length, unconscious.

'It's Santhonax,' hissed Drinkwater as both men stared down at the French general, their thoughts racing. 'Do you think he was looking for us?'

'God knows!'

'Do we kill him?'

'No, that might raise a hue and cry. Take his watch, make it look like a theft.' Mackenzie bent over the inert body and wrenched at Santhonax's waist. He straightened up and handed a heavy gold watch to Drinkwater. 'Here . . .' Mackenzie rifled Santhonax's pockets and then turned back the way they had come. 'Leave him.

To hell with the chaise. I smell trouble. For all I know he's already discovered Walmsley... there is not a moment to lose.'

Drinkwater ran back, following Mackenzie into the stable. In a lather of inexpert haste Drinkwater tried to get a horse saddled in imitation of Mackenzie. The other came over and finished the job for him. They drew the horses out of the stable and mounted them. Drinkwater hoisted himself gingerly into the saddle.

'Are you all right?' hissed Mackenzie.

'I think so . . .' Drinkwater replied uncertainly as the horse moved beneath him, sensing his nervousness.

'Listen! If we are pursued, get to Memel and your ship! Go direct to London. Ostroff and I will take care of Walmsley . . . Come, let's go!'

They rode across the yard and through the archway. Behind them General Santhonax stirred and groaned. Santhonax got slowly to his feet, clawing himself upright by the wall. His head throbbed painfully and his jaw was severely contused. He staggered forward and the courtyard swam into his vision. He looked dazedly about him. A young man was staring at him and then seemed to vanish. Santhonax frowned: the young man had been wearing something very like a seaman's coat.

His head cleared and then it came back to him. The two men, the sudden guilty hesitation and the deceptive confrontation by one of them while the other struck him with a clubbed pistol. The apparition of the youth and the smell of a stable full of horses spurred him to sudden activity. He crossed the yard and met Walmsley at the stable door.

'What's happening?' asked Walmsley in English, mistaking his man in the gloom. Santhonax smiled savagely.

'Nothing,' he replied reassuringly, his own command of English accent-free.

'Is that you, Ostroff?'

'Yes,' lied Santhonax, silhouetted against the last of the daylight.

'Have they gone then?' Santhonax heard alarm awaken in the question. 'Are they getting the chaise?' Guilt had robbed Walmsley of his wits.

'Yes ...' Santhonax pushed Walmsley backwards and followed him into the stable.

'Why, you're not Ostroff! That's a French uniform!'

'Oui, M’sieur,

and who are you?' Walmsley felt the cold touch of a pistol muzzle at his chin. 'Come, quickly, or I'll kill you!'

Walmsley was trembling with fear. 'M . .. midshipman, British navy!'

With this information Santhonax realised the extent of his own failure to keep the Emperor's secret.

'You are not wearing the uniform of a British midshipman, boy! Where are your white collar-patches? What the hell are you doing here?'

'I was acting under orders ... attending my captain . ..' 'What captain? Where is your ship?'

Walmsley swallowed. 'I surrender my person... as a prisoner of war...'

'Answer, boy!' The pistol muzzle poked up harder under Walmsley's trembling chin. 'My frigate is off Memel.'

'And the captain?' asked Santhonax, lowering his pistol and casting an eye for a suitable horse. Walmsley sensed reprieve.

'Captain Drinkwater, of the Antigone,

sir,' he said in a relieved tone.

Santhonax swung his face back to his prisoner and let out a low oath. 'You are a spy, boy ...'

Walmsley tried to twist away as Santhonax brought up the pistol and squeezed the trigger. The ball shattered the midshipman's skull and he fell amid the straw and horse dung.

Among the rearing and frightened animals Santhonax grabbed Walmsley's saddled horse and led it through the doorway, then mounted and dug his spurs into the animal's sides. The terrified horse lunged forward and Santhonax tugged its head in the direction of the road to Memel.

PART THREE

The Post-chaise

'It is their intention to employ the navies of Denmark and Portugal against this country.'

George Canning, Foreign Secretary, to the House of Commons,

July 1807

Accord

25 June 1807

The two Emperors sat at the head of an array of tables that glittered with silver and crystal. The assembled company was peacock-gaudy with the military of three nations. The sober Prussians, humiliated by the indifference of Napoleon and the implied slight to their beautiful queen, were dour and miserable, while Russians and French sought to outdo one another in the lavishness of their uniforms and the extravagance of their toasts.

General Bennigsen, still smarting from the Tsar's rebuke, sat next to the King of Prussia whose exclusion from the secret talks had stung him to the quick. His lovely Queen displayed a forced vivacity to the two Emperors, who sat like demi-gods.

'She is,' Napoleon confided slyly to the Tsar, 'the finest woman in the whole of Prussia, is she not?'

Alexander, beguiled and charmed by his former enemy, delighted at the outcome of the discussions which gave him a free hand in Finland and Turkey, agreed. The man he had until today regarded as a parvenu now fascinated him. Napoleon had shown Alexander a breadth of vision equalling his own, a mind capable of embracing the most liberal and enlightened principles, yet knowing the value of compulsion in forcing those measures upon the dark, half-witted intelligence of the mass of common folk.

'I hope,' Napoleon's voice said at his side, 'that you are pleased with today's proceedings?'

Alexander turned to Napoleon and smiled his fixed, courtly and slightly vacant smile. 'The friendship between France and Russia,' he said to his neighbour, 'has long been my most cherished dream.'

Napoleon smiled in return. 'Your Majesty shows a profound wisdom in these matters,' he said and Alexander inclined his head graciously at this arrant flattery.

Napoleon regarded the banquet and the numerous guests, his quick mind noting a face here and there. Suddenly his benign expression clouded over. He leaned back and beckoned an aide. Nodding to a vacant place on a lower table he asked the young officer, 'Where is General Santhonax?'

16 The Return of Ulysses

June 1807

  Drinkwater clung to his mount with increasing desperation. He was no horseman and the animal's jerking trot jolted him from side to side so that he gasped for breath and at every moment felt that he would fall. It was years since he had ridden, and want of practice now told heavily against him. The thought of the long journey back to Memel filled him with horror.

Equally anxious, Mackenzie looked back every few yards, partly to see if Drinkwater was still in the saddle, partly to see if they were pursued.

As they left the town and found themselves surrounded by the bivouacs of the Russian army they passed camp-fire after camp-fire round which groups of men played cards, drank and smoked their foul tobacco tubes. There were other travellers on the road, officers making their way to the celebrations at Tilsit; but the news of peace had removed all necessity for caution and the horsemen continued unopposed along the Memel road.

At last they drew away from the encampments. It was dark but the sky had cleared, and a silver crescent of moon gave a little light, showing the dusty highway as a pale stripe across the rolling countryside. As Drinkwater jogged uncomfortably in his saddle it occurred to him that as he became accustomed to the horse, he became less able to capitalise on his improvement, for his buttocks and inner thighs became increasingly sore.

Drinkwater grunted with pain as they rode on, passing through a village. The road was deserted but the noise of shouting, clapping and a guitar came from its inn. A few miles beyond the village Mackenzie looked back at his lagging companion. What he saw made him rein in his horse. They were in open countryside now.

The Nieman gleamed a pistol shot away, reflecting the stars, and the road lay deserted before them.

Drinkwater looked up as he saw Mackenzie stop and heard him swear.

'I'm doing my damndest...' 'It's not that... Look!'

Drinkwater pulled his horse up and turned. A man was pursuing them, his horse kicking up a pale cloud of dust, just discernible in the gloom.

'Santhonax!'

'Can you remember the content of Ostroff's report?' Mackenzie asked sharply. 'Of course ...'

'Then ride on ... go ... get back to your ship. I'll do what I can to stop him, but do not under any circumstances stop!' 'But you? What will you do?'

I'll manage ... get to London overland, Captain, bringing your midshipman with me, but you go now!'

And Mackenzie brought an impatient hand down on the rump of Drinkwater's horse.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater lost the reins and grabbed the animal's mane, his sore knees pressed desperately inwards against the saddle. He dared not look back but he heard the pistol shots, and the image of Santhonax still in hot pursuit kept him riding through the night as if all the devils in hell were on his tail.

Lieutenant James Quilhampton lay rigid and awake in the darkness. The scratching sound came again, accompanied by a sibilant hiss. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and, crouching, pressed his ear against the cabin door.

'Who is it?'

'Frey, sir.'

Quilhampton opened the cabin door and drew the boy inside. He was in shirt and breeches, a pale ghost in the darkness. 'What the devil d'you want?'

'Sergeant Blixoe sent me, sir. Roused me out and sent me to wake you and the other lieutenant. He says there's a combination of two score of men in the cable tier. They're murmuring, sir . . . after the day's events ...'

Quilhampton began tearing off his nightshirt. 'Get Mr. Fraser and Mr. Mount, quickly now, while I dress, no noise . .. then double below and tell Blixoe to call out all his men!'

He began to dress, cursing Rogers. The first lieutenant had flogged two men the previous day with the thieves' cat. Their offences were common and had not warranted such severity. One had neglected his duty, the other was judged guilty of insolence towards an officer. What made the event significant was that the man who had not jumped to his allotted task with sufficient alacrity to satisfy Rogers had not done so because he had been flogged for drunkenness only the previous day. This circumstance had sown a seed of genuine grievance among men whose usual tolerance of the navy's rough and summary justice had been overstretched during Rogers's brief tenure of command. The surgeon's claim that the man was not fit to receive punishment had encouraged a seaman to speak up in support of the protest and he had been judged guilty of insolence by an infuriated Rogers.

Before nightfall one of the men was dead and the news spread quickly through the ship. Shortly after midnight, word had gone round the berth deck of a meeting of delegates from each mess in the cable tier. It was this disturbance that had prompted Sergeant Blixoe to action.

Quilhampton checked the priming of his pistol and belted on his sword. His anxiety at Drinkwater's absence had increased with every abuse and loss of temper that had marked Rogers's behaviour. For the last few days every motion of the ship's company had been accompanied by ferocious criticism and vitriolic scorn as Rogers continued to exercise the crew remorselessly.

Drinkwater's regime had been too lax, their performances too slow. The bosun's mates were too gentle with their starters and Rogers, in a paroxysm of rage, had grabbed the rope's end from the hand of one man and laid about him in a fury, sending the topmen scampering aloft. When he was satisfied with their performance he had brought them down again, then started the bosun's mate for 'lenience' and disrated him. Quilhampton knew Rogers was exercising considerable will-power over his craving for drink. But his ungovernable rages and transports of savage injustice had become intolerable.

He emerged from his cabin and turned forward, ducking under the men still in their hammocks. There was no sentry at the midships companionway and he stood and looked down into the cable tier. The space was capacious, but filled with the great coils of ten-inch hemp, so that the huge ropes formed miniature amphitheatres, lit by lanterns, their sides lined with thirty or forty men in vehement but whispered debate.

'But the captain ain't 'ere, for Chris' sakes . . . and that blackhearted bastard'll kill more men before 'e gets back ...'

'If'e

gets back...'

'If we rise, do we take 'em all?'

'Yes,' a man hissed, 'kill all the buggers, for they'll all flog you!'

'Aye, an' we're men, not fucking animals!'

'Let's act like men then!'

'Aye!'

'Aye!'

They began to stir, resolution hardening in their faces, an impression heightened by the lamplight. Quilhampton realised he had to move fast. He cocked the pistol and descended the ladder.

The silence that greeted his appearance was murderous. He stared about him, noting faces. 'This is mutinous behaviour,' he said and judging a further second's delay would lose him the initiative added, 'the Captain's due back imminently.'

'That may be too late for some of us,' a voice said from the rear. It found an echo of agreement among the men.

'Go back to your hammocks. No good can come of this.'

'Don't trust the bastard!'

Quilhampton uncocked the pistol and stuck it in his belt. 'The marines are already alerted. Mr. Mount and Mr. Fraser are awake. For all I know they've called Mr. Rogers

'We are betrayed!'

Quilhampton watched the effect of this news. Fear was clear on every man's face, for they knew that once Rogers identified them, each man present would likely die. They had only two choices now, and Quilhampton had already robbed them of their weapon of surprise.

'Get to your hammocks, and let me find this place deserted.' They remained stock still for a second, then by common consent

they moved as one, slipping away in the darkness. Quilhampton waited until the last man had vanished, stepped forward into the encirclement of the cable and picked up the lantern. Re-ascending the companionway he walked aft. A few of the hammocks swung violently and he caught sight of a retracting leg. He ascended to the gundeck and met Lieutenant Mount. He was coming forward with his hanger drawn, his marines behind him in shirtsleeves but with their bayonets fixed. Fraser was there with the midshipmen and the master.

'James! Where the hell have you been, we've been looking for you?' Fraser asked anxiously.

'I went to check the cable tier.'

'You what?'

'Have you informed Lieutenant Rogers?'

Fraser and Mount looked at each other. It was clear they had been debating the point and had decided not to.

'Because if you have, you had better tell him it's a false alarm. The cable tier's quite empty ... except for the cables of course ...'

'This is no time to be flippant!' snapped an irritated Mount, lowering his hanger.

'This is no time to be wandering around,' said Quilhampton, with affected nonchalance. 'Good night, gentlemen!'

General Santhonax recovered consciousness aware of a great weight pressing upon his leg. His skull, sore from the pistol blow on the left-hand side of his head, now bore a second lump on his forehead where he had struck it as his horse fell. The animal was dead and it took him several minutes to assemble his thoughts. In the east the first signs of daylight streaked the sky and he recalled the urgent need for pursuit. Then, triggered off by this thought, the events of the previous night came back to him. He swore and pulled his leg painfully out from beneath the horse.

He needed another mount, and would have to go back to the horse lines of the nearest Russian cavalry regiment for one. He began unbuckling his saddle. Should he then ride on to Memel? Or was he already too late?

He paused, forcing his aching head to think. Drinkwater would be within ten miles of Memel by daylight. Pursuit was pointless, but return to Tilsit risked disgrace or worse.

Dawn showed the road ahead of him, a thin ribbon beside the grey shimmer of the Nieman, with only an early peasant and an oxcart upon it. The devil alone knew how he could face the Emperor again, for it was certain his absence would have been noticed. A furious anger began to boil within him - he had been outwitted and by his old antagonist Drinkwater, of all people!

He had forgotten how many times their paths had crossed. He only recalled in his bitterness that he had twice passed up the opportunity to kill the man. How he regretted that leniency now! Napoleon's secret would be in London as fast as Drinkwater's frigate could carry it and she was, as Santhonax had cause to know, a fast ship. He smote his saddle in his frustration and then calmed himself and resolved on the only course now open to him. His anger was replaced by the desperate courage of absolute necessity. Dragging himself to his feet, Santhonax turned his footsteps back towards Tilsit.

It was mid-morning when Drinkwater reached Memel. His horse was blown and he slid to the cobbles of the quay, his legs buckling beneath him. The flesh of his thighs was raw and his whole body was racked with an unbelievable agony. He had covered fifty-odd miles in twelve hours and almost certainly outrun pursuit. He had no idea what had become of Mackenzie beyond knowing that he had thwarted Santhonax by some means. Pain made him lightheaded and he sat for a moment in the sunshine of early morning, mastering himself and trying to think clearly. Whatever had happened to Mackenzie or Walmsley his own task was clear enough. Standing unsteadily he walked along the quay, looking down at the boats tied alongside. An occasional fisherman mended nets. None looked in condition to sail imminently. Only one man stared up at him, a broad-faced man with a stubby pipe who smiled and nodded.

Drinkwater felt in his pocket and his fist closed on some coins. He drew them out and pantomimed his wishes. The man frowned, repeating the gestures of pointing, first at Drinkwater, then at himself and then a quick double gesture at the deck of his boat and then the horizon. He seemed to ask a question and Drinkwater thought he heard the word 'English': he nodded furiously, pointing again at himself and then directly at the horizon.

Comprehension linked them and Drinkwater held out the gold for the man to see. There was a pause in the negotiation, then the man agreed and beckoned Drinkwater down onto the deck. Sliding back a small hatch, he called below, and a moment later a younger version of the fisherman appeared. Drinkwater made himself useful casting off and tallied on a halliard, within minutes they had hoisted sail and were moving seawards.

As Memel dropped astern and the Nieman opened into the Kurische Haff and then the Baltic Sea, his anxiety waned. He had avoided pursuit and for a while he enjoyed the sensation of the brisk sail as the fishing boat scudded along before a moderate breeze. It was good to feel the sea-wind on his face and see a horizon hard-edged and familiar. He relaxed and smiled at the pipe-smoking Kurlander at the tiller.

'A good boat,' Drinkwater said, patting the low rail.

The man nodded. 'Gut. Ja, ja . ..'

Soon Drinkwater could see the masts and yards of the Antigone.

His last fear, a childish one that the ship would not be on station, vanished. His problems were almost over. He could shave and bath and soak his raw flesh, and then sleep...

'All hands! All hands! All hands to witness punishment!'

Quilhampton looked up from the gunroom table where he had the midshipmen's journals spread out before him. He met the look of incredulity on Mount's face.

'Christ, not again...'

The two officers hurried into their coats, and left the gunroom buckling on their swords. As they emerged onto the upper deck they were aware of the ground-swell of discontent among the people milling in the waist. Rogers, in full dress, was already standing on the quarterdeck, Drinkwater's copy of the Articles of War in his hands.

'I should think he knows the Thirty-Sixth by heart,' Quilhampton heard someone mutter but he ignored the remark. Quilhampton took his now familiar place and cast a quick look over the marines. There might be a need for them shortly, but even among their stolid files there seemed to be a wavering and unsteadiness. He caught Blixoe's eye. The man's look was one of anger. Blixoe had acted to forestall mutiny in the night and Quilhampton had made a fool of him. Now the advantage of warning no longer lay with the officers and marines. With the whole ship's company assembled and every man except Rogers aware of what had transpired in the middle watch, a sudden explosion of spontaneous mutiny might result in the officers and marines being butchered on the spot.

'Silence there!' bawled Rogers, opening the book and calling for the prisoner.

It was Tregembo, his shoulder still bandaged, and pale from the effects of his wound. Quilhampton could only guess at Tregembo's crime and as Rogers read the charge it seemed to confirm his supposition. It was insolence to a superior officer. Tregembo had clearly spoken his mind to Rogers. The first lieutenant did not even ask if any officer would speak for the man. Once again he was lost to reason, consumed by whatever fires were eating him, possessed only of an insane hatred that had no meaning beyond expressing his own agony.

'Strip!'

Quilhampton was surprised to see the faint scars of previous floggings crossing Tregembo's back. Then Lallo stepped forward and declared the man unfit to undergo punishment. It was an act of considerable courage and so riveting was its effect on Rogers that no one saw the fishing boat swoop under the stern, nor paid the slightest attention to a fluttering of sails as it dropped briefly alongside.

'Stand aside!' roared Rogers, stepping forward.

Lallo fell back a pace and Rogers rounded on the bosun's mates standing by the prisoner. 'Secure him!'

They crucified Tregembo across the capstan, lashing his spread-eagled arms along two of the bars. A thin trickle of blood started down his back from beneath the bandage of his wound. Flogging against a capstan was a barbarism that refined an already barbaric custom; to flog a wounded man was a measure of Rogers's depravity. What he did next he must have conceived as an act of humanity. As a murmur of horror ran through the ship's company at the sight of Tregembo's reopened wound, Rogers nodded to the bosun's mate holding the cat.

'Strike low! And do your duty!'

By avoiding the shoulder, the cat would not do further damage to the wound. But it would lacerate the lower back and could damage the organs unprotected by the rib-cage. The bosun's mate hesitated.

'Do your duty!' Rogers shrieked.

'Mr. Rogers!'

The attention of every man swung to the rail. Teetering uncertainly at its top, a hand on each stanchion, an unshaven and dirty figure clung. The hatless apparition repeated itself.

'Mr. Rogers!'

'It's the cap'n,' said Quilhampton and ran across the deck. 'Get the ship under way at once!' Drinkwater ordered, before falling forward into Quilhampton's arms.

17  The Vanguard of Affairs

June-July 1807

  Drinkwater stood immobile by the starboard hance, leaning against the hammock netting and with one foot resting on the slide of a small brass carronade. It seemed to the watches, as they changed every eight bells, that the captain's brooding presence had been continuous since they had broken the anchor out of the mud of Memel road four days earlier.

In fact the truth was otherwise, for it was Rogers who got the ship under weigh and Hill who laid off the first of the courses that would take them home. The captain had vanished below, exhausted and, rumour had it, wounded as well. It was a measure of Drinkwater's popularity that when the nature of his indisposition was properly known it did not become the subject for ribald comment. Nevertheless, as soon as he was rested and the surgeon had dressed his raw thighs, Drinkwater was on deck and had remained so ever since. He moved as little as possible, his legs too sore and his gait too undignified, atoning in his own mind for the sin of absence from his ship and the troubles it had caused.

The reassuring sight of Drinkwater's figure calmed the incipient spirit of revolt among the people. The fact that they were carrying sail like a Yankee packet and were bound for England raised their hopes and fed their dreams like magic. The dismal recollections of their period off Memel faded, and only the unusual sight of a marine sentry outside the first lieutenant's cabin served to remind the majority. But there were men who had longer memories, men who bore the scars of the cat, and, while the news of Lord Walmsley's disappearance seemed to establish an equilibrium of sacrifice in the collective consciousness of the frigate's population, there were those who planned to desert at the first opportunity.

For Drinkwater there was a great feeling of failure, despite the importance of the news he carried. It was compounded from many sources: the high excitement of his recent sortie; the intense, brief and curiously unsatisfactory reunion with his brother; the death (for such he privately believed it to be) of Lord Walmsley; his uncertainty as to the fates of either Mackenzie or Santhonax; and finally, the tyrannical behaviour of Rogers and the maltreatment of Tregembo. All these had cast a great shadow over him and it took some time for this black mood to pass. It was in part a reaction after such exertion and in part a brooding worry over what was to be done about Samuel Rogers. There was a grim irony in contemplating the future of the first lieutenant; Rogers had failed worst where he had succeeded best. The effort of will and the strength of his addiction had combined to produce a monster. He had been placed under arrest and confined to his cabin where, so the surgeon reported, he had fallen into a profound catalepsy.

The only bright spots in Drinkwater's unhappy preoccupation were the continuing recovery of Tregembo and the value of the news from Tilsit. As the days passed these grew in strength, gradually eclipsing his misery. At last his spirits lifted, and he began to share something of the excitement of the ship's company at the prospect of returning home. He thought increasingly of his wife and children, of Susan Tregembo and the others in his household at Petersfield, but the heavy gold watch he carried in his waistcoat reminded him that, despite the lofty press of sail Antigone

bore and the air of expectancy that filled the chatter of her messes, it was the realities of war that drove her onwards.

The fair breeze that allowed them to stand to the westward under studding sails failed them during the forenoon of the last day of June. Chopping slowly round to the west, Antigone

was forced to be close-hauled and stretch down into the shallow bight east of Rugen, leaving the island of Bornholm astern. By noon of the following day she was five leagues to the east of Cape Arkona and able to fetch a course towards Kioge Bay as the wind backed again into the south-west quarter. They passed Copenhagen through the Holland Deep on the afternoon of 2 July, but their hasty progress was halted the following day as the wind veered and came foul for the passage of The Sound. They anchored under the lee of the island of Hven for two days but, on the morning of the 5th, it fell light and favourable.

Next morning a freshening north-westerly forced them to tack out through the Kattegat, but the sun shone from a blue and cloudless sky and the sea sparkled and shone as the ship drove easily to windward, reeling off the knots. Ahead of them lay the low, rolling, green-wooded countryside of the Djursland peninsula spread out from Fornaess in the east away towards the Aalborg Bight to the west. Astern of them lay the flat sand-cay of Anholt, and the encircling sea was dotted with the sails of Danish fishing boats and coasters - the sails of potential enemies, Drinkwater thought as he came on deck. He leaned back against the cant of the deck, his thighs still sore but much easier now. Aloft, Antigone's

spars bent and she drove her lee rail under so that water spurted in at the gun-ports.

'Morning, sir,' said Quilhampton crossing the deck, his hand on his hat and his eyes cast aloft. 'D'you think she'll stand it?'

'Yes, she'll stand it, she goes well, Mr. Q, though I could wish the wind fairer.'

'Indeed, sir.' Quilhampton watched the captain keenly as Drinkwater looked about them and drew the fresh air into his lungs.

'The countryside looks fine to the south'ard, don't you think?' He pointed on the larboard bow. 'You know, James,' he said intimately, looking at the lieutenant, 'old Tregembo advised me to retire, to buy an estate and give up the Service. I dismissed the idea at the time; I rather regret it now. I cannot say that I had ever considered the matter before. What d'you think?'

Quilhampton hesitated. Such a notion would deprive him of further employment.

'I see you don't approve,' Drinkwater said drily. 'Well, the matter is decided for Tregembo ...'

'How is he, sir?' Quilhampton asked anxiously, eager to divert Drinkwater's mind from the thought of premature retirement.

'He'll make a fine recovery from his wound. But he'll not leave his fireside again, and I can't say I'm sorry.'

There was, however, another question Quilhampton wanted answered, as did the whole ship's company, and he felt he might take advantage of the captain's mood and ask it without impropriety.

'May one ask the reason for your anxiety for a fast passage, sir?' The greater question was implicit and Drinkwater turned to face his interrogator.

'I can tell you little now, James, beyond the fact that I, and others, have been employed upon a special service ... but rest assured that this ship sails now in the very vanguard of affairs.'

In the event it was all the explanation Quilhampton ever received upon the matter, but the phrase lodged in his memory and he learned to be satisfied with it.

Drinkwater was deprived of his fast passage: in the North Sea the winds were infuriatingly light and variable and Antigone

drifted rather than sailed south-west, beneath blue skies on a sea that was as smooth as a mirror. For over a week after she passed the Skaw she made slow progress, but towards the end of the second week in July a light breeze picked up from the eastward and the next afternoon Drinkwater was called on deck to see the twin towers of the lighthouses on Orfordness.

'We've the last of the tide with us, sir,' said Hill suggestively.

Drinkwater grinned. 'Very well, stand inshore and carry the flood round the Ness and inside the Whiting Bank and we'll be off Harwich by nightfall.'

'We'll flush any Dunkirkers out of Ho'sley Bay on our way past,' remarked Hill after he had adjusted their course, referring to the big lugger-privateers that often lay under the remote shingle headland and preyed on the north-country trade bound for London.

'No need,' said Quilhampton staring through the watch glass, 'there's a big frigate in there already ... blue ensign . ..

They could see the masts and spars of a man-of-war lifting above the horizon, then her hull, rising oddly as refraction distorted it suddenly upwards.

'She's no frigate, Mr. Q,' said Hill, 'she's an old sixty-four or I'm a Dutchman.'

Drinkwater took a look through his own glass. The distant ship had set her topsails and was standing out towards them. He could see the blue ensign at her peak and then the relative positions of the two ships closed and the refractive quality of the air disappeared. The strange ship was suddenly much closer and he could see men on her fo'c's'le, fishing for the anchor with the cat tackle.

'She'll be the Harwich guardship, I expect, come out to exercise before grounding on her own chicken bones.' The knot of officers laughed dutifully at the captain's joke. 'Make the private signal, Mr. Hill,' he added, then turned to Quilhampton. T shall want my barge hoisted out as soon as we've fetched an anchor on the Harwich Shelf. I shall be posting to London directly . . . you had better let Fraser know.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Their eyes met. The coast of England was under their lee and it would not be long before Lieutenant Rogers was taken ashore. Fraser would inherit temporary command of the ship, but with Rogers still on board, the situation would be delicate for a day or two in the captain's absence. Quilhampton wondered what Drinkwater intended to do about Rogers and the question lay unasked between them. In a low voice meant for Quilhampton's ears alone Drinkwater said, 'Under last year's regulations, James, a commanding officer is, as you know "forbidden from suffering the inferior officers or men from being treated with oppression". The first lieutenant's conduct...'

He got no further. The ship trembled and for a split-second Drinkwater thought they had run aground, then the air was alive with exploding splinters and men were shouting in alarm, outrage and agony. His eyes lifted to the strange ship standing out from the anchorage. The blue ensign was descending, and rising to the peak of the gaff were the horizontal bands of the tricolour of the Dutch Republic.

'Christ alive!' Drinkwater swore, seized by agonizing panic. 'All hands to quarters! Beat to quarters! Rouse out all hands!' He ground his teeth, furious with himself for being so easily deceived, as he waited impotently for his men to rush to their stations, aware that the enemy would get in a further broadside before he was ready to reply. It was too late to clear for action and Hill was altering course to enable Antigone

to bring her starboard broadside to bear, but it first exposed her to the enemy's fire.

The innocent-looking puffs of grey smoke blossomed from the Dutchman's side before the Antigones

had cast off the breechings of their own guns. The enemy cannon were well pointed and the shot slammed into the side of the British frigate. Shot flew overhead with a rending noise like the tearing of canvas. Hammocks burst, spinning, from the nettings, splinters lanced across the deck and the starboard side of the launch amidships was shattered. Chips flew from the mainmast and holes appeared in the sails. Aloft, severed ropes whipped through their sheaves and landed on deck with a whir and slap so that unbraced yards flew round and men fell like jerking puppets as langridge and canister swept the deck in a horizontal hail of iron.

'Hold your course, damn you!' Drinkwater screamed above the din, leaping for the wheel. 'She'll luff, else!'

'She won't answer, sir!'

'Bloody hell!'

He looked desperately at the enemy and then, at last, there came from the fo'c's'le an answering gun and Drinkwater saw Quilhampton leaping along the starboard battery. Close to Drinkwater at the hance, little Frey fired one of the brass car-ronades with an ear-splitting roar and Mount's marines were lining the hammock netting, returning fire with their muskets.

From the waist now came the steady roar of the main guns, the black-barrelled 18-pounders rumbled back on their carriages, snapping the breechings bar-taut as their crews leapt round to sponge, load and ram, before tailing onto the tackles and sending them out through the ports again. Aiming was crude; the instant a gun-captain saw the slightest suggestion of the enemy through the smoke he jerked his lanyard, the flint snapped on the gun-lock and the gun leapt inboard again, belching fire, smoke and iron.

Overhead there was a loud and distinct crack and the maintop-mast sagged forward, to come crashing down, tearing at the rigging and bringing with it the foretopmast, enveloping the deck in a heap of spars, mounds of rope and blanketing sheets of grey canvas that were hacked and torn away by the fire-fighting parties in an attempt to keep the guns in action. Smoke rolled over everything and the heat and gases from the guns began to kill the wind. Drinkwater had not lost his sense of impotence: his inattention had denied him the opportunity to manoeuvre, he had made no study of his enemy and all at once found himself pitched into this battle from which there could be no escape. As he stood helpless upon his quarterdeck, it was no comfort to realise the curious refraction in the air had deceived him as to the true range of the Dutch ship, neither did it console him to know that he had failed in this most important mission on the very doorstep of London's river. In a mood of desperation he tried to force his mind to think, to gauge the advantages of striking in the hope that he might contrive to escape with the news from Tilsit. Lieutenant Fraser loomed through the smoke. He was wounded and his expression showed a helpless desire to surrender.

Drinkwater shook his head. 'No! No, I cannot strike. We must fight on!' It was a stupid, senseless order with no chance of success, but Fraser nodded and turned forward again. Behind him the unscathed masts and yards of their persecutor rose up, closing them with a paralysing menace. Drinkwater recalled the large group of men milling on her fo'c's'le, catting her anchor. Realisation of their true purpose struck him like a blow; at any moment Antigone

would be boarded.

'Fight, you bastards!' he roared as his officers flinched, the shot storming round them. Hill reeled and fell and Drinkwater saw a midshipman carried past him, his face and chest a bloody pulp.

Drinkwater drew his sword and an instant later saw the hull of the Dutch vessel loom athwart their hawse.

'Boarders!' he roared. 'Repel boarders!' He began to move forward, pulling men from the after-guns which had no target now.

'Come on, men! 'Tis them or us!'

Drinkwater felt the jarring crash as the two ships smashed together and to the concussion of the guns was added the howling of boarders pouring into his ship.

'Mr. Mount!'

The marine sergeant appeared out of the smoke. 'Mr. Mount's wounded, sir.'

'Damn! Get a few of your men, Blixoe. You must guard my person.'

'Guard your person, sir?' 'You heard me!'

'Sir.'

It was not the time for explanations, for he alone knew the value of the news he carried. A midshipman appeared. 'Mr. Wickham, what's happening forrard?' 'We're giving ground, sir.' 'Mr. Quilhampton?'

'Down, sir... the first wave of boarders

Drinkwater swung the flat of his sword across the breast of a retreating seaman. That was a rot he must stop. He raised his voice: 'Wickham! Blixoe! Forward!' Drinkwater led the after-guard in a counter-attack that looked like a forlorn hope as it lost itself in the melee amidships, where the fighting heaved over the broken ribs of the boats on the booms. Steel flashed in the sunshine and the pale yellow stabs of small-arms fire spurted among the desperately writhing bodies that struggled for supremacy on the deck.

On the fo'c's'le, Quilhampton had been knocked down in the first rush of the enemy boarders. He was not seriously hurt, but his exertions at the guns had left him breathless. By the time he scrambled to his feet the enemy had moved aft and the sight of their backs caused him to pause an instant before charging impetuously upon them. It was clear that things were going badly and he had no idea of the vigour of resistance amidships to the ferocious onslaught of the Dutchmen. He was surrounded by the wreckage of the foremast and the groans of the seriously wounded. He had only to lift his head to see the enemy ship rising above the rail of the Antigone.

With a ponderous slowness the two vessels swung together and a second wave of boarders prepared to pour over the Dutch ship's larboard waist, to take the British defenders aft in flank. A few guns continued to fire from both ships somewhere amidships but generally the action had become the desperate slithering, hacking and cursing of hand-to-hand fighting.

It took Quilhampton only a moment to take in these events. Suddenly there appeared above him the muzzle of an enemy gun. He waited for the blast to tear out his lungs, but nothing happened and in a moment of sheer ecstasy at finding himself alive he swung upwards, one foot on Antigone's

rail, and leaned towards the Dutch ship. The gun barrel was hot to the touch, but no boarding pike or ramming worm was jabbed in his face; the gun was deserted!

In an instant he had heaved himself aboard the enemy ship and the sudden gloom of the gun-deck engulfed him. Dense powder smoke hung in the air. Further aft a gun discharged, leaping back, its barrel hot, the water from the sponge hissing into steam, adding to the confusion and obscurity. A group of men and an officer ran past and it was clear that everyone's attention was focused outboard and down into Antigone's

waist where the issue was being decided. From the shouts it was clear that the Dutch were having their own way.

A battle-lantern glowed through the smoke and Quilhampton made for it. He found himself above a companionway and face to face with a boy. The child had a thick paper cartridge under each arm and looked up in astonishment at the unfamiliar uniform. Quilhampton held out his right hand and the boy docilely handed the cartridges over, his eyes alighting on the iron hook Quilhampton held up. A moment later Quilhampton was stumbling down the ladder. At the foot a sentry stood with musket and bayonet. Before the man realised anything was wrong, Quilhampton had swung his hook, slashing the astonished soldier's face. The man screamed, dropping his musket, and fell to his knees, hands clutching his hideously torn face. Quilhampton pulled the felt curtain aside and clattered down a second ladder.

The wood-lined lobby in which he found himself was lit by glims set behind glass in the deal lining. Another wet felt curtain hung in front of him. Quilhampton had found what he was looking for: the enemy's powder magazine.

Drinkwater's counter-attack was outflanked as the two vessels ground together, yardarm to yardarm. As he stabbed and hacked he felt the increased pressure of the additional Dutch seamen and marines pouring down from the dominating height of the battleship.

'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 Drinkwater'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.

18  News from the Baltic

15 July 1807

  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 Rugen. 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 Rugen 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.'

'Il 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...