‘Come, sir,’ he prompted, ‘you have the advantage of me.’
‘I am Captain Ostroff, Colonel Wilson, aide-de-camp to Prince Vorontzoff and presently attached to Count Kalitkin’s squadrons of the Hetman’s Don Cossacks.’
But Wilson paid little attention to the details of the staff-officer’s status. What interested him far more was the way in which this Ostroffhad pronounced Wilson’s own name. For the first time since his secondment to the Russian army Wilson had heard his surname without the heavy, misplaced accent upon its second syllable. In a flash of intuition he realised he was talking to a fellow Englishman.
‘Your servant, Captain Ostroff,’ he said, bowing a little from the waist and holding the other’s eyes in a steady gaze. But Ostroff’s expression did not alter, not even when a sharp crack at their feet ejected another sliver of wood from the bivouac fire.
‘How interesting,’ went on Wilson with the smooth urbanity of the perfect diplomat, ‘I have not had much opportunity to study the Russian tongue of your muzhiks, but if I am not mistaken, your name is the Russian word for . . .’
‘Island,’ snapped Ostroff suddenly and it was not the abruptness of the interruption that surprised Wilson but the fact that where he had been about to employ the French noun, Ostroff had chosen to head him off with a sideways glance at Kalitkin and the use of a definition in plain English.
As the two men strolled with an affected nonchalance away from the recumbent Kalitkin and his bivouac, the Count lounged back on his sheepskin. ‘Spies,’ he muttered to himself, ‘spies, the pair of them . . .’ and he stared up at the stars shining through the rents in the clouds, aware that their motion had become suddenly irregular.
1
March 1807
The Kattegat
His Britannic Majesty’s 36-gun, 18-pounder frigate Antigone, commanded by Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, lay at anchor off the Swedish fortress of Varberg wrapped in a dense and clammy fog. Her decks were dark with the moisture of it; damp had condensed on the dull black barrels of her cannon, giving them an unnatural sheen, and her rigging was festooned with millions upon millions of tiny droplets like the autumn dew upon spiders’ webs. Wraiths of fog streamed slowly across her deck, robbing the scarlet coats of her marine sentries of their brilliance and dulling all sounds.
The duty midshipman leant against the quarterdeck rail with one foot upon the slide of a carronade and contemplated the dark oily water and the ice-floes that bumped and scraped alongside. Fifty yards out from the ship’s side he could see nothing and the view from the deck was too familiar to engage his slightest interest.
Not that the slowly swirling ice-floes were worthy of study in themselves, for they were fast melting and puny by comparison with those he had seen in the Greenland Sea, but they were hypnotic and drew all active thought from the brain of the idle young man. They set him to dreaming aimlessly and endeavouring to pass the time as pleasantly as possible without the tiresome need to exert himself. For the past forty minutes Midshipman Lord Walmsley had been the senior officer upon the upper deck and in that capacity he saw no reason to exert himself. The sentries were at their posts, the duty watch fussing about routine tasks, and he was perfectly content to leave them to the supervision of the petty officers and their mates. Besides, Walmsley had been cheated of the prospect of an early repast and the trivial sense of grievance only reinforced his inertia. In the absence of the captain ashore, the first lieutenant, Mr Samuel Rogers, had repaired to the gunroom for a meal he felt he was more entitled to than the midshipman.
Lord Walmsley did not seriously dispute the justice of the contention, for to do so would have involved far more effort than he was capable of. So he let the silly sense of grievance paralyse him and dreamed of a distant milkmaid whose willing concupiscence had long since initiated him to the irresponsible joys of a privileged manhood.
Inertia was endemic aboard the Antigone that morning. Captain Drinkwater had zealously pushed his frigate from the Nore through a succession of gales and into the breaking ice of the Baltic to reach Varberg as soon as he could. The whole of Antigone’s company was exhausted, and they had lost a man overboard off the Naze of Norway: a sacrifice to the elements which seemed determined to punish them for every league they stole to windward in a searing succession of freezing easterly gales. It was, therefore, scarcely surprising that once the anchor had bitten into the sea-bed off the coast of Sweden and the captain departed in his barge, the mood on board Antigone should have been one of euphoria. As if confirming the frigate’s company in their own merit, the elements had softened, the wind dropped, and within an hour of Captain Drinkwater’s departure the fog had closed down on them, wrapping them in a chill, damp cocoon.
‘Well now, d’you intend to spend the entire day in that supine way, laddie?’
Walmsley straightened up and turned. Mr Fraser, the frigate’s second lieutenant, crossed the deck to stand beside him.
‘I was merely ascertaining whether I could hear the captain’s barge returning, Mr Fraser, by removing my ears from the sounds of the deck and leaning over the side.’
Fraser raised a sandy eyebrow. ‘Your lordship is a plausible liar and should have his ears removed from the sounds of the deck to the masthead. A spell of sky-parlour would cure your impudence . . . but cut along and have something to eat . . . and send young Frey up in your place,’ he added calling after the retreating midshipman.
The Scotsman began a leisurely pacing of the deck, noting the other duty-men and sentries at their places. A few minutes later Midshipman Frey joined him.
‘Ah, Mr Frey,’ remarked Fraser in his distinctive burr, ‘you well know how my flinty Calvinist soul abhors idleness. Be so kind as to pipe the red cutter away and row a guard around the ship.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Fraser regarded the activity that this order initiated with a certain amount of satisfaction. His mild enjoyment was marred by the unnecessary appearance of Rogers, the first lieutenant. Fraser had just left Rogers at table, his big fist clamped proprietorially around the neck of the gunroom decanter as though it was his personal property. Rogers’s face was flushed with the quantity of alcohol he had consumed.
‘What the devil’s all this fuss and palaver, Fraser?’
‘ ’Tis nothing, Mr Rogers. I’m merely hoisting out a boat to row guard about the ship while this fog persists . . .’
‘You take a deal too much upon yourself . . .’
‘I think the captain would have . . .’
‘Damn you, Fraser. D’you threaten me?’
Fraser suppressed mounting anger with difficulty. ‘Reflect, sir,’ he said with frigid formality, ‘we have a considerable sum in specie under guard below and I think the captain would object to its loss in his absence . . .’
‘Oh, you do, do you? And who the hell’s going to take it? The Swedes are friendly and the Danes are neutral. There isn’t an enemy within a hundred leagues of us.’
‘We don’t know there isn’t an enemy a hundred yards away, damn it; and as long as I’m officer o’ the deck there’ll be a guard pulled round the ship!’ Fraser had lost his restraint now and both officers stood face to face in full view of the men at the davit falls. Fraser turned away, flushed and angry. ‘Lower away there, God damn you, and lively with it!’
Rogers stood stock still. His befuddled mind recognised the sense in Fraser’s argument. He was aware that he should have sent off a boat as soon as the fog settled that forenoon. Knowledge of his own failure only fuelled his wrath, already at a high pitch due to the amount of wine he had drunk. And his mind was clear enough to realise that Fraser had committed the unforgiveable in losing his temper and answering a senior insolently. ‘Come here, Fraser!’ Rogers roared.
Fraser, supervising the lowering of the cutter, turned. ‘D’you address me, sir?’ he asked coldly.
‘You know damn well I do! Come here!’
Fraser crossed the deck again slowly, grasping the significance of Rog
ers’s new attack. Once again the two officers were face to face.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is no time for such discordant tomfoolery . . .’
Rogers’s colour mounted still further as he spun round on the newcomer who, called by the sudden interest stirring between decks, now arrived on the quarterdeck.
‘You keep out of this, Hill,’ snarled Rogers at the sailing master.
‘No, sir, I will not.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And you are making damnable fools of yourselves. For God’s sake stop at once!’ Hill’s warning ended on an urgent hiss.
‘And I suppose, Hill, you’ll feel obliged to inform the captain of this matter?’ Rogers snarled.
‘I’ll hold my tongue if you’ll hold your temper,’ Hill snapped back sharply, fixing the first lieutenant with a stare. Rogers exhaled slowly, his breath strong with the odour of liquor. He turned abruptly and went below. Hill walked forward.
‘Coil down those slack falls! Bosun’s mate, chivvy those men and put some ginger into it! By God you’re as slack as the draw-strings of a Ratcliffe doxy!’
Normality settled itself upon the ship again.
‘Thank you, Mr Hill,’ said Fraser somewhat sheepishly. ‘The old devil had me provoked there for a moment . . . it would never have happened if the captain had not been out of the ship.’
‘Forget it. Fortunately that is a rare occurrence. I must confess to a certain uneasiness, considering the contents of the hold, the fog and the absence of the captain.’
‘Mr Frey is at least a diligent young man . . .’
‘Boat ’hoy!’ The midship’s sentry’s call stopped the conversation dead and the two officers rushed to the rail while the suspicious marine cocked his musket. The bow of a boat emerged from the fog.
‘Antigone!’ came the coxswain’s Cornish accent.
‘By God, it’s the captain returning!’ Fraser flew to the entry, aware that fog and anger had caused him to fail in his duty and that Captain Drinkwater would reboard his ship with less than half a side-party because of his own inattentiveness. To his chagrin the captain’s barge had not even been challenged by Frey’s guard-boat which was still on the other side of the ship.
As Captain Drinkwater’s head came level with the deck, Fraser set his right hand to the fore-cock of his own hat. He was relieved to hear the squeal of a pipe in his right ear. The marine sentry presented arms and the side-party, though not complete, was at least presentable.
Drinkwater swung his weight from the baize-covered man-ropes and stood on the deck, his eye taking in the details of Antigone’s waist even as his own right hand acknowledged the salutes.
‘Mr Fraser,’ he said, and Fraser braced himself for a rebuke.
‘Sir?’ The captain’s sharp grey eyes made him apprehensive.
‘My compliments to the first lieutenant and the master, and will they attend me in the cabin . . .’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘And Mr Fraser . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘Mr Mount is to come too.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘Damn this fog.’
‘Aye, sir. We were not expecting you so soon.’
‘So I perceived,’ Drinkwater said drily, ‘but the t’gallant masts are clear above the fog from the ramparts of Varberg castle.’ He reached beneath his boat-cloak and fished in the tail pocket of his coat. ‘I took the precaution of taking this.’
Fraser looked down at the folded vanes of Drinkwater’s pocket compass.
‘I see, sir.’
With a dull knock of oar looms on thole pins the guard-boat swung clear of the bow and pulled down Antigone’s starboard side.
Drinkwater nodded his satisfaction. ‘A wise precaution, Mr Fraser,’ he said and made for the ladder below, leaving the second lieutenant expelling a long breath of relief. Fraser turned to the boatswain standing beside him, the silver call still in his hand.
‘I’m indebted to ye, Mr Comley, for your prompt arrival,’ Fraser muttered in a low voice.
‘Wouldn’t like to see ’ee caught atween two fires, Mr Fraser, sir,’ said Comley, staring after the young Scotsman as he went off on the captain’s errand. Then he turned and put the call back to his lips. Its shrill note brought silent expectation to the upper deck again.
‘Man the yard and stay tackles there! Prepare to ’oist in the barge!’
Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater took off the boat-cloak and unwound the muffler from his neck. He handed them, with his hat, to his steward, Mullender.
‘A glass of something, Mullender, if you please.’
‘Blackstrap, sir?’
‘Capital.’ Drinkwater’s tone was abstracted as he stared astern through the windows at the pearly vapour that seemed oddly substantial as it swathed the ship. He rubbed his hands and eased his damaged shoulder as the chill dampness penetrated the cabin.
‘Damn this fog,’ he muttered again.
Mullender brought the glass of cheap blackstrap and Drinkwater took it gratefully. He relaxed as the warmth of the wine uncoiled in his belly. He could hear the creaks of the tackles taking the weight of the barge, felt the heel of the ship as she leaned to it, then felt the list ease as, with half-heard commands, the heavy boat swung inboard. A dull series of thuds told when it settled itself in its chocks amidships. The guard-boat swam across his field of vision, rounded the quarter and vanished again.
He was recalled from his abstraction as a knock at the door announced the summoned officers. Turning from the stern windows he surveyed them. Hill, the sailing master, he had known for many years. Fifty years of age, Hill was as dependable as the mahogany he appeared to be carved from. Balding now, his practical skill and wisdom seemed undiminished by the passing of time. Like Drinkwater himself, Hill bore an old wound with fortitude, an arm mangled at Camperdown ten years earlier. Drinkwater smiled at Hill and addressed Rogers, the first lieutenant.
‘All well in my absence, Mr Rogers?’ he asked formally.
‘Perfectly correct, sir. No untoward cir . . . circumstances.’ Roger’s reply was thick. Like Hill, Rogers was an old shipmate, but he was showing an increasing dependence upon drink. Disappointed of advancement and temperamentally intolerant, his fine abilities as a seaman were threatened by this weakness and Drinkwater made a mental note to be on his guard. For the moment he affected not to notice that Rogers had over-indulged at the dinner table. It was not a rare occurrence among the long-serving officers of the Royal Navy.
‘Very well.’ Drinkwater diverted his attention to the third officer. Mr Mount was resplendent in the scarlet, blue and white undress uniform of the Royal Marines. His inclusion in the little group was pertinent to Antigone’s purpose here, off Varberg. It was Mount who, in addition to his customary duties of policing the frigate, had had in his especial charge eighty thousand pounds sterling, and whom Drinkwater was anxious to keep abreast of the latest news.
‘Well, gentlemen, I wished that you should be informed of some news I have just gleaned from the Swedish authorities at Varberg. About five weeks ago, it seems, the Russians administered a severe check to the French army under Napoleon. No,’ he held up his hand as Mount began to ask questions, ‘I can give you little more information, but that which I can tell you would be the more convivially passed over dinner. Please pass my invitation to the other officers and a few of the midshipmen. Except Fraser, that is. It’ll teach him to keep a better lookout in future.’
An expression of satisfaction crossed Rogers’s face at this remark and Drinkwater was reminded of the burgeoning dislike between the two men.
‘That will be all, gentlemen, except to say that there is, as yet, no news of our convoy. They have not yet come in after the gale but that is not entirely unexpected. Neither Captain Young’s nor Captain Baker’s brigs are as weatherly as Antigone, but we shall make for the rendezvous at Vinga Bay as soon as the wind serves and disperses this fog.’
They left him to his glass, Mount chattering excitedly about the news o
f the battle, and Drinkwater dismissed the preoccupations of the ship in favour of more important considerations. The bad weather had separated him from the two brigs whose protection he had been charged with. He had every confidence in locating Young and Baker at Vinga Bay. The Swedes had told him the ice was breaking up fast and the Sound was clear, except for the diminutive fragments of pancake ice that spun slowly past them towards the warmer waters of the Skagerrak and the grey North Sea. Carlscrona was already navigable and he might have landed his diplomatic dispatches there, closer to Stockholm than the Scanian fortress of Varberg. However, the Swedish governor had assured him that was unimportant. He had personally guaranteed their swift delivery to King Gustavus who eagerly awaited news of support from London.
Drinkwater drained the glass. Exactly how accurate the news was of a check to the French he did not know, but he was acutely aware that the events of the coming summer were likely to be vital in the Baltic.
As the cabin door opened to admit the officers the noise of a fiddle came from forward where the hands had been piped to dance and skylark. Drinkwater stood and welcomed his guests as Mullender moved among them with a dozen glasses of blackstrap to whet their appetites.
‘You ordered the purser to issue double grog to all hands, Mr Rogers, I trust?’
‘Aye, sir, I did.’ Rogers had made some effort to sober up from his injudicious imbibing earlier that day.
‘That is as well. I am conscious of having made all hands work hard on our passage. Despite the disappearance of the convoy, which I don’t doubt we shall soon remedy, it was necessary that we deliver the Government’s dispatches without delay.’ Drinkwater turned to a tall, thin lieutenant who wore a hook in place of his left hand and from whose pink nose depended a large dewdrop. ‘I see you have come from the deck, Mr Q. Is the fog still as dense?’
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