‘It will be an honour, Sir William.’
‘Very well, Captain,’ said D’Auvergne, ‘I am ready. Keep in good spirits, Sir William. It will be soon now if it is ever to occur.’
Unaware to what they alluded, Drinkwater asked: ‘You have no baggage, Captain D’Auvergne?’
D’Auvergne grinned again. ‘Good Lord no. Baggage slows a man, eh?’ And the two men laughed again at a shared joke.
The meal had been a tense affair. Captain Drinkwater had become almost silent and Drinkwater had remained curious as to his background and his function, aware only that he enjoyed a position of privilege as Cornwallis’s confidant. The only clue to his origin was in his destination, St Helier. Drinkwater knew there were a hundred naval officers with incongruous French-sounding surnames who hailed from the Channel Islands. But Cornwallis had called St Helier D’Auvergne’s ‘post’, whatever that meant, and it was clear from his appetite that he had not lived aboard ship for some time or he would have been a little more sparing with Drinkwater’s dwindling cabin stores. The decanter had circulated twice before D’Auvergne, with a parting look at the retreating Mullender, leaned forward and addressed his host.
‘I apologise for teasing you, Drinkwater. The fact is Cornwallis, like most of the poor fellows, is worn with the service and bored out of his skull by the tedium of blockade. Any newcomer is apt to suffer the admiral’s blue devils. ’Tis truly a terrible task and to have been a butt of his irritability is to have rendered your country a service.’
‘I fear,’ said Drinkwater with some asperity, ‘that I am still being used as a butt, and to be candid, sir, I am not certain that I enjoy it over much.’
The snub was deliberate. Drinkwater had no idea of D’Auvergne’s seniority though he guessed it to be greater than his own. But he was damned if he was going to sit at his own table and listen to such stuff from a man drinking his own port! Drinkwater had expected D’Auvergne to bristle, rise and take his leave; instead he leaned back in his chair and pointed at Drinkwater’s right shoulder.
‘I perceive you have been wounded, Captain, and I know you for a brave officer. I apologise doubly for continuing to be obscure . . . Mine is a curious story, but I am, as I said, a post-captain like yourself. I served under Lord Howe during the American War and was captured by the French. Whilst in captivity I came to the notice of the old Duc de Bouillon with whom I shared a surname, although I am a native of the Channel Islands. His sons were both dead and I was named his heir after a common ancestry was discovered . . .’ D’Auvergne smiled wryly. ‘I might have been one of the richest men in France but for a trifling matter of my estates having been taken over by their tenants.’ He made a deprecatory gesture.
‘You might also have lost your head,’ added Drinkwater, mellowing a little.
‘Exactly so. Now, Drinkwater, that wound of yours. How did you come by that?’
Since his promotion to post-captain and the transfer of his epaulette from his left to his right shoulder, Drinkwater had thought his wound pretty well disguised. Although he still inclined his head to one side in periods of damp weather when the twisted muscles ached damnably, he contrived to forget about it as much as possible. He was certainly not used to being quizzed about it.
‘My shoulder? Oh, I received the fragment of a mortar shell during an attack on Boulogne in the year one. It was an inglorious affair.’
‘I recollect it. But that was your second wound in the right arm, was it not?’
‘How the deuce d’you know that?’
‘Ah. I will tell you in a moment. Was it a certain Edouard Santhonax that struck you first?’
‘The devil!’ Drinkwater was astonished that this enigmatic character could know so much about him. He frowned and the colour mounted to his cheeks. The relaxation he had begun to feel was dispelled by a sudden anger. ‘Come, sir. Level with me, damn it. What is your impertinent interest in my person, eh?’
‘Easy, Drinkwater, easy. I have no impertinent interest in you. On the contrary, I have always heard you spoken of in the highest terms by Lord Dungarth.’
‘Lord Dungarth?’
‘Indeed. My station in St Helier is connected with Lord Dungarth’s department.’
‘Ahhh,’ Drinkwater refilled his glass, passing the decanter across the table, ‘I begin to see . . .’
Lord Dungarth, with whom Drinkwater had first become acquainted as a midshipman, was the head of the British Admiralty’s intelligence network. Drinkwater’s personal relationship with the earl extended to a private obligation contracted when Dungarth had helped to spirit Drinkwater’s brother Edward away into Russia when the latter was wanted for murder. The evasion of justice had been accomplished because he had killed a French agent known to Dungarth. Edward had in fact slaughtered Etienne de Montholon because he had found him in bed with is own mistress, but Dungarth’s interest in Montholon had served to cover Edward’s crime and protect Drinkwater’s own career. It was an episode in his life that Drinkwater preferred to forget.
‘What do you know of Santhonax?’ he asked at last.
D’Auvergne looked round him. ‘That he commanded this ship in the Red Sea; that you captured him and he subsequently escaped; that he was appointed a colonel in the French Army after transferring from the naval service; and that he is now an aide-de-camp to First Consul Bonaparte himself.’
‘And your opinion of him?’
‘That he is daring, brave and the epitome of all that makes the encampments of the French along the heights of Boulogne a most dangerous threat to the safety of Great Britain.’
Drinkwater’s hostility towards D’Auvergne evaporated. The two had discovered a common ground and Drinkwater rose, crossing the cabin and lifting the lid of the big sea-chest in the corner. ‘So I have always thought myself,’ he said, reaching into the chest. ‘Furthermore, I have this to show you . . .’
Drinkwater returned to the table with a roll of canvas, frayed at the edges. He spread it out on the table. The paint was badly cracked and the canvas damaged where the tines of a fork had pierced it. It was D’Auvergne’s turn to show astonishment.
‘Good God alive!’
‘You know who she is?’
‘Hortense Santhonax . . . with Junot’s wife one of the most celebrated beauties of Paris . . . This . . .’ He stared at the lower right hand corner, ‘this is by David. How the devil did you come by it?’
Drinkwater looked down at the portrait. The red hair and the slender neck wound with pearls rose from a bosom more exposed than concealed by the wisp of gauze around the shoulders.
‘It hung there, on that bulkhead, when we took this ship in the Red Sea. I knew her briefly.’
‘Were you in that business at Beaubigny back in ninety-two?’
Drinkwater nodded. ‘Aye. I was mate of the cutter Kestrel when we took Hortense, her brother and others off the beach there, émigrés we thought then, escaping from the mob . . .’
‘Who turned their coats when their money ran out, eh?’
‘That is true of her brother certainly. She, I now believe, never intended other than to dupe us.’ He did not add that she had been Hortense de Montholon then, sister to the man his own brother Edward had murdered at Newmarket nine years later.
D’Auvergne nodded. ‘You are very probably right in what you say. She and her husband are fervent and enthusiastic Bonapartists. I have no doubt that, if Bonaparte continues to ascend in the world, so will Santhonax.’
‘This knowledge is learned from your station at St Helier, I gather?’
D’Auvergne smiled, the sardonic grin friendly now. ‘Another correct assumption, Drinkwater.’ He regarded his host with curiosity. ‘I had heard your name from Dungarth in the matter of some enterprise or other. He is not given to idle gossip about all his acquaintances, as a gentleman in our profession cannot afford to be. But I perceive you have seen a deal of service . . .’ he trailed off.
Drinkwater smiled back. ‘My midshipmen consider me an ancient and
tarpaulin officer, Captain D’Auvergne. Very little of my time has been spent in grand vessels like the one I have the honour to command at this time. I take your point about the need to guard the tongue, but I also take it that you have a clearing house on Jersey where information is collected?’
‘Captain,’ D’Auvergne said lightly, ‘you continue to amaze with the accuracy of your deductions.’
The decanter passed between them and Drinkwater began to relax for the first time since the morning. The silence that fell between them was companionable now. After a pause D’Auvergne said, ‘Knowing the confidence reposed in you by Lord Dungarth, I will venture to tell you that it is part of my responsibility to gather information through a network of agents in northern France. My operations are of particular interest to Sir William, for I am able to pass on a surprising amount of news concerning Truguet’s squadron at Brest. Hence my unease at the prospect of you harrying the actual sea-borders of France. Harry their trade and destroy the invasion barges wherever you find them, but have a thought for the sympathies of sea-faring folk who have never had much loyalty for the government in Paris . . .’
‘Or London, come to that,’ Drinkwater added wryly. The two men laughed again.
‘Seriously, Drinkwater, I believe we are at the crisis of the war and I am sad that the government is not united behind a determination to face facts. This inter-party wrangling will be our undoing. The French army is formidable, everywhere victorious, a whole population tuned to war. All we have to hope for is that Bonaparte might fall. There are indications of political upheavals in France. You have heard of the recent discovery of a plot to kill the First Consul; there are other reactions to him still fermenting. If they succeed I believe we will have a lasting peace before the year is out. But if Bonaparte survives, then not only will his position be unassailable but the invasion inevitable. The plans are already well advanced. Do not underestimate the power, valour or energy of the French. If Bonaparte triumphs he will have hundreds of Santhonaxes running at his horse’s tail. Their fleet must be kept mewed up in Brest until this desperate business is concluded. This is the purpose of my visits to Cornwallis but I can see no harm in the captain of every cruiser being aware of the extreme danger we are in.’ D’Auvergne leaned forward and banged the table for emphasis. ‘Invasion and Bonaparte are the most lethal combination we have ever faced!’
Chapter 4
April 1804
Foolish Virgins
‘Where away?’
Drinkwater shivered in the chill of dawn, peering to the eastward where Hill pointed.
‘Three points to starboard, sir. Ten or a dozen small craft with a brig as escort.’
He saw them at last, faint interruptions on the steel-blue horizon, growing more substantial as every minute passed and the gathering daylight grew. Squatting, he steadied his glass and studied the shapes, trying to deduce what they might be. Behind him he heard the shuffle of feet as other officers joined Hill, together with a brief muttering as they discussed the possibility of an attack.
Drinkwater rose stiffly. His neck and shoulder ached in the chilly air. He shut the telescope with a snap and turned on the officers.
‘Well, gentlemen. What d’you make of ’em, eh?’
‘Invasion barges,’ said Hill without hesitation. Drinkwater agreed.
‘ “Chaloupes” and “péniches”, I believe they call the infernal things, moving eastwards to the rendezvous at Havre and all ready to embark what Napoleon Bonaparte is pleased to call the Army of the Coasts of the Ocean.’
‘Clear for action, sir?’ asked Rogers, his pale features showing the dark shadow of an unshaven jaw and reminding Drinkwater that daylight was growing quickly.
‘No. I think not. Pipe up hammocks, send the hands to breakfast. Mr Hill, have your watch clew up the fore-course. Hoist French colours and edge down towards them. No show of force. Mr Frey, a string of bunting at the fore t’gallant yardarms. We are French-built, gentlemen. We might as well take advantage of the fact. Mr Rogers, join me for breakfast.’
As he descended the companionway Drinkwater heard the watch called to stand by the clew-garnets and raise the fore tack and sheet. Below, the berth-deck erupted in sudden activity as the off-duty men were turned out of their hammocks. He nodded to the marine sentry at attention by his door and entered the cabin. Rogers followed and both men sat at the table which was being hurriedly laid by an irritated Mullender.
‘You’re early this morning, sir,’ grumbled the steward, with the familiar licence allowed to intimate servants.
‘No, Mullender, you are late . . . Sit down, Sam, and let us eat. The morning’s chill has made me damned hungry.’
‘Thank you. You do intend to attack those craft, don’t you?’
‘Of course. When I’ve had some breakfast.’ He smiled at Rogers who once again looked at though he had been drinking heavily the night before. ‘D’you remember when we were in the Virago together we were attacked off the Sunk by a pair of luggers?’
‘Aye . . .’
‘And we beat ’em off. Sank one of them if I remember right. The other . . .’
‘Got away,’ interrupted Rogers.
‘For which you have never forgiven me . . . ah, thank you, Mullender. Well I hope this morning to rectify the matter. Let’s creep up and take that little brig. She’d make a decent prize, mmm?’
‘By God, I’ll drink to that!’ Comprehension dawned in Roger’s eyes.
‘I thought you might, Sam, I thought you might. But I want those bateaux as well.’
They attacked the skillygolee enthusiastically, encouraged by the smell of bacon coming from the pantry where Mullender was still muttering, each occupied with their private thoughts. Rogers considered a naval officer a fool if he did not risk everything to make prize-money. Since he had never had the chief command of a ship, he thought himself very hard done by over the matter. The event to which Drinkwater had alluded was a case in point. Both knew that they had been fortunate to escape capture when they were engaged by a pair of lugger privateers off Orfordness when on their way to Copenhagen. But whereas Drinkwater appreciated his escape, Rogers regretted they had not made a capture, even though the odds against success had been high. The Virago had been a lumbering old bomb-vessel whose longest-range guns were in her stern, an acknowledgement that an enemy attack would almost certainly be from astern! But a pretty little brig-corvette brought under the guns of the Antigone would be an entirely different story. With such an overwhelming superiority Drinkwater would not hesitate to attack and the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Nevertheless Rogers found himself hoping the brig would have a large crew, so that he might distinguish himself and perhaps gain a mention in The Gazette.
Drinkwater’s thoughts, on the other hand, were only partially concerned with the brig. It was the other vessels he was thinking of. They were five leagues south-east of Pointe de Barfleur, on the easternmost point of the Cotentin Pensinsula. The convoy of invasion craft were on passage across the Baie de la Seine bound for their rendezvous at Le Havre. It was here that the French were assembling vessels built further west, prior to dispersing them along the Pas de Calais, at Étaples, Boulogne, Wimereux and Ambleteuse, in readiness for the embarkation of the army destined to conquer Great Britain and make the French people masters of the world.
Perhaps Drinkwater’s experiences of the French differed from those of his colleagues who were apt to ridicule the possibility of ultimate French victory; perhaps Captain D’Auvergne had alerted him to the reality of a French invasion; but from whatever cause he did not share his first lieutenant’s unconditional enthusiasm. What Rogers saw as a possible brawl which should end to their advantage, Drinkwater saw as a matter of simple necessity. It was up to him to destroy in detail before the French were able to overwhelm in force. There had been much foolish talk, and even more foolish assertions in the newspapers, of the impracticality of the invasion barges. There had been mention of preposterous notions of attack by balloo
n, of great barges driven by windmills, even some crack-pot ideas of under-water boats which had had knowledgable officers roaring with laughter on a score of quarterdecks, despite the fact that such an attack had been launched against Admiral Howe in New York during the American War. Drinkwater was apt to regard such arrogant dismissal of French abilities as extremely unwise. From what he had observed of those chaloupes and péniches there was very little wrong with them as sea-going craft. That alone was enough to make them worthy targets for His Majesty’s frigate Antigone.
‘Beg pardon, sir.’
‘Yes, Mr Wickham, what is it?’ Drinkwater dabbed his mouth with his napkin and pushed back his chair.
‘Mr Hill’s compliments, sir, and the wind’s falling light. If we don’t make more sail the enemy will get away.’
‘We cannot permit that, Mr Wickham. Make all sail, I’ll be up directly.’
Rogers followed him on deck and swore as soon as he saw the distance that still remained. Hill crossed the deck and touched his hat.
‘Stuns’ls, sir?’
‘If you please, Mr Hill, though I doubt we’ll catch ’em now.’
Drinkwater looked round the horizon. Daylight had revealed a low mist which obscured the sharp line of the horizon. Above it the sun rose redly, promising a warm day with mist and little wind. Already the sea was growing smooth, its surface merely undulating, no longer rippling with the sharp though tiny crests of a steady breeze. Hardly a ripple ran down Antigone’s side: the wind had suddenly died away and Drinkwater now detected a sharp chill. Beside him Rogers swore again. He turned quickly forward.
‘Mr Hill!’
‘Sir?’
‘Belay those stuns’ls. All hands to man yard and stay tackles, hoist out and launch!’ He turned to Rogers. ‘Get the quarter-boats away, Sam, there’s fog coming. You’re to take charge.’
Rogers needed no second bidding. Already alert, the ship’s company tumbled up to sway out the heavy launch with its snub-nosed carronade mounted on a forward slide. It began to rise jerkily from the booms amidships as, near at hand, the slap of bare feet on the deck accompanied a hustling of men over the rail and into the light quarter-boats hanging in the davits. Among the jostling check shirts and pigtails, the red coats and white cross-belts of the marines mustered with an almost irritating formality.
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