‘Here, take this.’ Drinkwater turned to see Walmsley offering the stranger a loaded pistol.
‘Good God! What, you here, Walmsley! Thank you . . .’
‘Put up that gun, sir!’ Drinkwater closed the gap between him and the spy and knocked up the weapon. The man spun round. His face was suffused with rage.
‘A pox on you! Who the deuce d’you think you are to meddle in my affairs?’
‘Have a care! I command here and you’ll not fire into that boat!’
‘D’you know who I am, damn you?’
‘Indeed, Lord Camelford, I do; and I received orders to expect you some days ago.’ He dropped his voice as Camelford looked round as though to obtain some support from Walmsley. ‘Your reputation with pistols precedes you, my Lord. I must insist on your surrendering even those waterlogged weapons you still have in your belt.’ He indicated a further two butts protruding from Camelford’s waistband.
Camelford’s face twisted into a snarl and he leaned forward, thrusting himself close to Drinkwater. ‘You’ll pay for your insolence, Captain. I do not think you know what influence I command, nor how necessary it was that I despatched those fishermen . . .’
‘After promising them immunity to capture if they brought you offshore I don’t doubt,’ Drinkwater said, matching Camelford’s anger. ‘No fisherman would have risked bringing you off and under my guns without such assurance. It’s common knowledge that we have been taking every fishing boat we can lay our hands on . . .’
‘And now look, you damned fool, those two got clean away . . .’ Camelford pointed to where the brown lugsail leaned away from the rail, full of wind and hauling off from Antigone’s side as her seamen stood and witnessed the little drama amidships.
‘And you have kept your word, my Lord,’ Drinkwater said soothingly, ‘and now shall we go to my cabin? Put the ship on a course of north north-east, Mr Q. I want to fetch The Downs without delay.’
‘Who the hell is he?’ Rogers asked Hill as first lieutenant and master stood on the quarterdeck supervising their preparations for coming to an anchor in The Downs. ‘D’you know?’
‘Yes. Don’t you recall him as Lieutenant Pitt? Vancouver left him ashore at Hawaii back in ninety-four for insubordination . . .’
‘Is he the fellow that shot Peterson, first luff of the Perdrix, in, what, ninety-eight?’
‘The same fellow. And the court-martial upheld his defence that Peterson, though senior, had refused to obey a lawful order . . .’
‘Having the name Pitt helped a great deal, I don’t doubt,’ said Rogers. ‘He resigned after it though, a regular kill-buck by the look of it. I thought Drinkwater was going to have a fit when he came aboard.’
‘Oh he’ll get away with almost anything. He’s related to Lord Grenville by marriage, Billy Pitt by blood, and, I believe, to Sir Sydney Smith. I daresay it’s due to the latter pair that he’s been employed as an agent. I wonder what he was doing in France?’
‘Mmmm. It must take some stomach to act as a spy over there,’ Rogers’s tone was one of admiration as he nodded in the direction of the cliffs of Gris Nez.
‘Oh yes. Undoubtedly,’ mused Hill, ‘but I wonder what exactly . . .’ The conversation broke off as a thunderous-looking Drinkwater came on deck.
‘Are we ready to anchor, Mr Rogers?’
‘Aye, sir, as near as . . . all ready, sir.’ Rogers saw the look in Drinkwater’s eye and went forward.
‘Very well, bring-to close to the flagship, Mr Hill, then clear away my barge!’
Drinkwater had had a wretched time with the obnoxious Camelford. In the end he had virtually imprisoned the spy in his own cabin with a few bottles and spent most of the time on deck. Actually avoiding a ridiculous challenge from the man’s deliberate provocation tested his powers of self-restraint to the utmost. He found it hard to imagine what on earth a person of Camelford’s stamp was doing on behalf of the British government in France. After they had anchored, Drinkwater went below and found Camelford slumped in his own chair, the portrait of Hortense Santhonax spread on the table before him. He opened his mouth to protest at the ransacking of his effects but Camelford slurred:
‘D’you know this woman, Captain Drinkwater?’
‘The portrait was captured with the ship,’ Drinkwater answered non-committally.
‘I asked if you know her.’
‘I know who she is.’
‘If you ever meet her or her husband, Captain, do what I wanted to do to those fishermen. Shoot ’em both!’
Drinkwater sensed Camelford was in earnest. Whatever the man’s defects, he was, at that moment, making an effort to be both conciliatory and informative. Besides, experience had taught Drinkwater that agents recently liberated from a false existence surrounded by enemies were apt to behave irrationally, and news of Santhonax or his wife held an especial fascination for him. He grinned at Camelford.
‘In his case I doubt if I’d hesitate.’
‘You know Edouard Santhonax too, then?’
Drinkwater nodded. ‘He was briefly my prisoner on two occasions.’
‘Did you know Wright was captured in the Morbihan?’
‘Wright? Of the Vincejo?’
‘Yes. He was overwhelmed in a calm by a number of gunboats and forced to surrender. They put him in the Temple and cut his throat with a rusty knife.’ Camelford tapped the cracked canvas before him. ‘Her husband visited the Temple the night before, with a commission from the Emperor Napoleon . . .’
‘The Emperor Napoleon?’ queried Drinkwater, bemused by this strange and improbable story.
‘Hadn’t you heard, Captain?’ Camelford leaned back. ‘Oh my goodness no, how could you? Bonaparte the First Consul is transfigured, Captain Drinkwater. He is become Napoleon, Emperor of the French. A plebiscite of the French people has raised him to the purple.’
Following Camelford’s welcome departure, Drinkwater was summoned to attend Lord Keith. As he kicked his heels aboard Keith’s flagship, the Monarch, Drinkwater learned that not only had Napoleon secured his position as Emperor of the French but his own patron, Earl St Vincent, had been dismissed from the Admiralty. The old man refused to serve under William Pitt who had just been returned as Prime Minister in place of Addington. Pitt had said some harsh things about St Vincent when in opposition and had replaced him as First Lord of the Admiralty with Lord Melville. But Drinkwater’s thoughts were not occupied with such considerations for long. His mind returned to the image of Wright lying in the Temple prison with his throat cut and the shadowy figure of Edouard Santhonax somewhere in the background. He wondered how accurate Camelford’s information was and what Camelford was doing in France. Was it possible that a man of Camelford’s erratic character had been employed to do what Cadoudal and Pichegru had failed to do: to assassinate Napoleon Bonaparte? The only credible explanation for that hypothesis was that Camelford had been sent into France in a private capacity. Drinkwater vaguely remembered Camelford had avoided the serious consequences of his duel with Peterson. If that had been due to family connections, was it possible that someone had put him up to an attempt on the life of Bonaparte? Pitt himself, for instance, to whom Camelford was related and who had every motive for wishing the Corsican Tyrant dead.
There was some certainty nagging at the back of Drinkwater’s mind, something that lent credibility to this extraordinary possibility. And then he remembered D’Auvergne’s obscure remark to Cornwallis. Something about ‘it would be soon if it was ever to be’. At the time he had connected it with D’Auvergne’s passionate conviction that invasion was imminent; now perhaps the evidence pointed to Camelford having been sent into France to murder Napoleon. D’Auvergne’s involvement in such operations could have made him a party to it. He was prevented from further speculation by the appearance of Keith’s flag-lieutenant.
‘The admiral will see you now, sir.’
He looked up, recalled abruptly to the present. Tucking his hat under his arm, Drinkwater went into the great
cabin of the Monarch, mustering in his mind the mundane details of his need of firewood, fresh water and provisions. His reception was polite but unenthusiastic; his requisitions passed to Keith’s staff. The acidulous Scots admiral asked him to take a protégé of his as lieutenant in place of Gorton and then instructed Drinkwater that his presence had been requested by the new Prime Minister, then in residence at Walmer Castle.
Drinkwater answered the summons to Walmer Castle with some misgivings. It chimed in uncomfortably with his train of thought while he had been waiting to see Keith and he could only conclude Pitt wished to see him in connection with the recent embarkation of his cousin, Camelford. It was unlikely that the interview would be pleasant and he recalled Camelford’s threats when he had prevented the shooting of the fishermen.
The castle was only a short walk from Deal beach. Many years ago he had gone there to receive orders for the rendezvous that had brought Hortense and then Edouard Santhonax into his life. On that occasion he had been received by Lord Dungarth, head of the Admiralty’s intelligence service. To his astonishment it was Dungarth who met him again.
‘My dear Nathaniel, how very good to see you. How are you?’
‘Well enough, my Lord.’ Drinkwater grinned with pleasure and accepted the offered glass of wine. ‘I hope I find you in health?’
Dungarth sighed. ‘As well as can be expected in these troubled times, though in truth things could not be much worse. Our hopes have been dashed and Bonaparte has reversed the Republic’s principles without so much as a murmur from more than a handful of die-hards. Old Admiral Truguet has resigned at Brest and Ganteaume’s taken over, but I believe this imperial nonsense will combine the French better than anything, and that shrewd devil Bonaparte knows it . . . But I did not get you here to gossip. Billy Pitt asks for you personally. You did well to get Camelford back in one piece.’
‘It was nothing, my Lord . . .’
‘Oh, I don’t mean embarking him. He’s a cantankerous devil; I’m surprised he hasn’t challenged half your officers. His honour, what there is of it, is a damned touchy subject.’
‘So I had gathered,’ Drinkwater observed drily.
Dungarth laughed. ‘I’m sure you had. Anyway his capture would have been an embarrassment, particularly with the change of government.’
‘You said “our hopes have been dashed”, my Lord; might I assume that Bonaparte was not intended to live long enough to assume the purple?’
Dungarth’s hazel eyes fixed Drinkwater with a shrewd glance. ‘Wouldn’t you say that Mr Pitt serves the most excellent port, Nathaniel?’
Drinkwater took the hint. ‘Most excellent, my Lord.’
‘And most necessary, gentlemen, most necessary . . .’ A thin, youngish man entered the room and strode to the decanter. Drinkwater noticed that his clothes were carelessly worn, his stockings, for instance, appeared too large for him. He faced them, a full glass to his lips, and Drinkwater recognised the turned-up nose habitually caricatured by the cartoonists. ‘So this is Captain Drinkwater, is it?’
‘Indeed,’ said Dungarth, making the introductions, ‘Captain Drinkwater; the Prime Minister, Mr Pitt.’
Drinkwater bowed. ‘Yours to command, sir.’
‘Obliged, Captain,’ said Pitt, inclining his head slightly and studying the naval officer. ‘I wish to thank you for your forbearance. I think you know to what I allude.’
‘It is most considerate of you, sir, to take the trouble. The service was a small one.’ Drinkwater felt relief that the incident was to be made no more of.
Pitt smiled over the rim of his glass and Drinkwater saw how tired and sick his boyish face really was, prematurely aged by the enormous responsibilities of high office.
‘He was the only midshipman that remained loyal to Riou when the Guardian struck an iceberg in the Southern Ocean,’ said Pitt obliquely, as though this extenuated Camelford’s behaviour. Drinkwater recalled Riou’s epic struggle to keep the damaged Guardian afloat for nine weeks until she fetched Table Bay. The thought seemed to speak more of Riou’s character than of Camelford’s. ‘Lord Dungarth assures me’, Pitt went on, ‘that I can rely upon your absolute discretion.’
So, Drinkwater mused as he bowed again and muttered, ‘Of course, sir’, it seemed that he had guessed correctly and that Pitt himself had sent his cousin into France to end Bonaparte’s career. But he was suddenly forced to consider more important matters.
‘Good,’ said Pitt, refilling his glass. ‘And now, Captain, I wish to ask you something more. How seriously do you rate the prospects of invasion?’
The enormity of the question took Drinkwater aback. Even allowing for Pitt’s recent resumption of office it seemed an extraordinary one. He shot a glance at Dungarth who nodded encouragingly.
‘Well, sir, I do not know that I am a competent person to answer, but I believe their invasion craft capable of transporting a large body of troops. That they are encamped in sufficient force is well known. Their principal difficulty is in getting a great enough number of ships in the Strait here to overwhelm our own squadrons. If they could achieve that . . . but I am sure, sir, that their Lordships are better placed to advise you than I . . .’
‘No, Captain. I ask you because you have just come in from a Channel cruise and your opinions are not entirely theoretical. I am told that the French cannot build barges capable of carrying troops. I do not believe that, so it is your observations that I wished for.’
‘Very well, sir. I think the French might be capable of combining their fleet effectively. Their ships are not entirely despicable. If fortune gave them a lucky start and Nelson . . .’ he broke off, flushing.
‘Go on, Captain. “If Nelson . . .” ’
‘It is nothing, sir.’
‘You were about to say: “if Nelson maintains his blockade loosely enough to entice Latouche–Tréville out of Toulon for a battle, only to lose contact with him, matters might result in that combination of their fleets that you are apprehensive of.” Is that it?’
‘It is a possibility talked of in the fleet, sir.’
‘It is a possibility talked of elsewhere, sir,’ observed Pitt with some asperity and looking at Dungarth. ‘Nelson will be the death or the glory of us all. He let a French fleet escape him before Abukir. If he wasn’t so damned keen on a battle, but kept close up on Toulon like Cornwallis at Brest . . .’ Pitt broke off to refill his glass. ‘So you think there is a chance of a French fleet entering the Channel?’
Drinkwater nodded. ‘It is a remote one, sir. But the Combined Fleets of France and Spain did so in seventy-nine. They would have more chance of success if they went north about.’
‘Round Scotland, d’you mean?’
‘Yes, sir. There’d be less chance of detection,’ said Drinkwater, warming to his subject and egged on by the appreciative expression on Dungarth’s face. ‘A descent upon the Strait of Dover from the North Sea would be quite possible and they could release the Dutch fleet en route. You could circumvent Cornwallis by . . .’
‘A rendezvous in the West Indies, by God!’ interrupted Pitt. ‘Combine all your squadrons then lose yourself in the Atlantic for a month and reappear at our back door . . . Dungarth, d’you think it’s possible?’
‘Very possible, William, very possible, and also highly likely. The Emperor Napoleon has one hundred and seventy thousand men encamped just across the water there. I’d say that was just what he was intending.’
Pitt crossed the rich carpet to stare out of the window at the pale line of France on the distant horizon. The waters of the Strait lay between, blue and lovely in the sunshine beyond the bastions of the castle, dotted with the white sails of Keith’s cruisers. Without turning round, Pitt dismissed Drinkwater.
‘Thank you, Captain Drinkwater. I shall take note of your opinion.’
Dungarth saw him to the door. ‘Thank you, Nathaniel,’ the earl muttered confidentially, ‘I believe your deductions to be absolutely correct.’
Drinkwater returne
d to his boat flattered by the veiled compliment from Dungarth and vaguely disturbed that his lordship, as head of the navy’s intelligence service, needed a junior captain to make his case before the new Prime Minister.
Chapter 7
June–July 1804
The Army of the Coasts of the Ocean
‘Six minutes, Mr Rogers,’ said Drinkwater pocketing his watch, ‘very creditable. Now you may pipe the hands to dinner.’
The shifting of the three topsails had been accomplished in good time and the tide was just turning against them. They could bring to their anchor and dine in comfort, for there was insufficient wind to hold them against a spring ebb. It was a great consolation, he had remarked to Rogers earlier, that they could eat like civilised men ashore at a steady table, while secure in the knowledge that their very presence an anchor in the Dover Strait was sufficient to keep the French army from invading.
For almost seven weeks now, Antigone had formed part of Lord Keith’s advance division, cruising ceaselessly between the Varne Bank and Cap Gris Nez, one of several frigates and sixty-fours that Keith kept in support of the small fry in the shallower water to the east. Cutters, luggers, sloops and gun-brigs, with a few bomb-vessels, kept up a constant pressure on the attempts by the French army to practice embarkation. Drinkwater knew the little clashes between the advance forces of the two protagonists were short, sharp and murderous. His disfigured shoulder was proof of that.
Having frequently stood close inshore at high water, Drinkwater had seen that the invasion flotilla consisted of craft other than the chaloupes and péniches with which he was already familiar. There were some large prames, great barges, one hundred feet long and capable of carrying over a hundred and fifty men. A simple elevation of the telescope to the green hills surrounding Boulogne was enough to convince Drinkwater that he had been right in expressing his fears to Pitt. Line after line of tents spread across the rolling countryside. Everywhere the bright colours of soldiers in formation, little squares, lozenges, lines and rectangles, all tipped with the brilliant reflections of sunlight from bayonets, moved under the direction of their drillmasters. Occasionally squadrons of cavalry were to be seen moving; wheeling and changing from line to column and back to line again. Drinkwater was touched by the fascination of it all. Beside him Frey would sit with his box of water-colours, annoyed and impatient with himself that he could not do justice to the magnificence of the scene.
1805 Page 7