Baltic Mission

by Richard Woodman

Grey eyes were masked by his eyelids, one of which was freckled by blue powder burns, tattooed into the soft skin like random ink-spots, his tanned face was disfigured by a thin scar that ran down his left cheek and the mop of brown hair bowed over the paper was shot with grey and tied at his nape in an old-fashioned queue. The epaulettes, Straton noticed shrewdly, were not level, betraying an inequality in the height of the shoulders, the evidence of a serious wound. It was obvious to Straton that Captain Drinkwater had seen a deal of service, but to his courtier’s eye the captain still seemed something of a tarpaulin officer, perhaps too set in his ways to appreciate the tangled diplomacy of the Baltic. He would have preferred a younger man, in his late twenties perhaps, and from his own class. The captain looked up and returned the papers.

  ‘You must forgive me my suspicions, Mr Straton.’

  ‘They are quite understandable.’

  ‘The truth is I am astonished at the change in my orders, but they are dated recently.’

  ‘Yes, they arrived by fast cutter at Helsingborg and were delivered overland by a courier. I received them less than a fortnight after your own dispatches from Varberg. All I can tell you is that there is some doubt as to the wisdom of forwarding further subsidies to the Tsar at the moment.’

  Drinkwater frowned. ‘Why is that? Not many days ago Colonel Wilson sat in that very chair and emphasised how important they are to the continued maintenance of the alliance. Besides, from what I hear, Sweden is scarcely a safe haven for such a sum.’

  Straton dismissed his doubts about the political capacity of Captain Drinkwater.

  ‘You are concerned about the reliability of the King, no doubt, Captain. Well, it is common knowledge that His Majesty King Gustavus Vasa is quite mad, but he isn’t insane enough to lose sight of reality. This situation creates a state of uncertainty which keeps even his court guessing! Although he has foolishly quarrelled with Berlin and petulantly withdrawn troops from Stralsund as a consequence, he is unlikely to fall out with us. It is true that internally Sweden is in trouble, for Gustavus has no interest in the welfare of his people, hates the French and therefore hates the reforming faction of his own nobility who are Francophile in sentiment. The people of Sweden are opposed to the King’s foreign policy, concerned about their ruined economy and apt to contrast their plight with their prosperously neutral neighbours in Denmark whom they used to regard as inferior.’

  ‘On the face of it then, hardly a place for eighty thousand pounds . . .’

  ‘Government instructions are explicit, Captain Drinkwater,’ Straton said and Drinkwater shrugged. It was no concern of his, but he remained curious.

  ‘But why deny Russia the money?’

  ‘I believe it is only a temporary delay.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘As an inducement, I assume. You have heard of the action at Eylau?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there has been some agitation in St Petersburg to have General Bennigsen removed, a court intrigue you understand, probably related to the fact that certain people do not want a German to reap the credit for the death-blow to Napoleon.’

  ‘Let them argue about that when they have secured the victory. At least the Russian rank and file have proved themselves the equals of the Grand Army . . .’

  ‘Exactly, Captain, and the removal of Bennigsen would be a disaster. The campaigning season is already open. If the Tsar is swayed by the anti-German lobby then the damage to the Russian army may be incalculable. A large number of officers of German extraction occupy key posts; Bennigsen’s dismissal would unsettle them and reduce the chances of success in the next, vital, clash with the French. A brief withholding of your subsidy is the British Government’s caution to the Tsar to maintain the status quo. Bennigsen’s army did well at Eylau and he has it in his power to deal the fatal blow to the over-extended divisions of France. Then . . .’ Straton brought the edge of his hand down on the table like the blade of a guillotine, ‘c’est fini, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘It seems a devious and damned risky gamble to me,’ replied Drinkwater uneasily, ‘but then it doubtless would to a sailor.’ He paused and drained his glass. ‘So I am to accompany you to Carlscrona, eh?’

  ‘Exactly, Captain.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can offer you the hospitality of my cabin while I go and pass the requisite orders.’

  As the south-westerly gale blew itself out, the warm air it had drawn into the southern Baltic cooled on the distant ice-edge and Antigone became shrouded in rolling banks of damp fog. To the north the ice began to melt rapidly but, in the open sea south of Gotland, the fog and the calm kept the British frigate and her smaller Swedish consort immobilised for almost two weeks. Then, quite suddenly, as if impetuously relenting, the long northern winter metamorphosed into summer and on a day of brilliant sunshine, on a sea as blue as the Mediterranean ruffled by a light easterly breeze, the Antigone closed the Swedish coast. Only the islands littering the approaches to Carlscrona remained gloomy, hump-backed under their dense mantles of fir trees.

  Johansson, the pilot, stood at the weather rail and guided their course as they wove between the islands. All hands were on deck, trimming the yards as the frigate followed the schooner towards the Swedish naval arsenal of Carlscrona. Drinkwater remarked the dark spikes of the fir trees and the scent of the resin they gave off, sharp in his nostrils. Under her three topsails and a jib, Antigone ghosted through the still water, the hiss and chuckle of her wake creaming out from under her round bows.

  ‘You seem to have a most expertly drilled company, Captain, though I am no judge of such matters.’

  ‘You are very kind, Mr Straton, but I daily wonder how long they can be kept at this ceaseless task. Many of these men have not seen home for four years.’

  ‘Yours is not an enviable task.’

  ‘Nor yours, sir.’

  ‘We must both stand to our posts, Captain,’ Straton said sententiously, ‘and bring this damnable war to an advantageous conclusion.’

  ‘I should rather you had said “victory”, Mr Straton. “Advantageous conclusion” smacks too much of half-measures for my liking now.’

  Straton laughed. ‘You are right, Captain Drinkwater. I have been too long at the Swedish court!’ He pointed ahead to where, beyond a rocky point, the citadel and anchorage of Carlscrona was coming into view. There were men-of-war anchored in the road. ‘And here we are. The nearest vessel is the Falken. She flies the flag of a rear-admiral which you should salute as we arranged. It is into her that you are to turn the specie.’

  Drinkwater nodded. ‘Mr Fraser! Have the chasers manned and prepare to make the salute. Mr Hill, you may bring the ship to her anchor under the lee of yonder man o’ war.’

  A few minutes later the hands were away aloft to stow the topsails and the surrounding islands flung back the echoes of Antigone’s guns as she paid her respects to her Swedish allies.

  Drinkwater leaned over his chart of the Baltic Sea. He was tired and the candlelight played on features that betrayed his anxiety. He had fondly imagined that, once the specie had been discharged and he had Straton’s signature for it, he would be free. But one responsibility had exchanged itself for another and he was now faced with the unnerving problem of what to do next. Once free of his convoy and the Tsar’s subsidy his orders were far from explicit. He was instructed to act ‘with discretion, bearing in mind the paramount importance of His Majesty’s Orders in Council’. Theoretically the duties of blockading were simple enough, but during his brief stay at Carlscrona he had learned that in the tangled diplomacy of the Baltic states, where the very crisis of the war seemed to be developing, the discretionary part of his orders might place far greater demands upon him. He recalled Wilson’s surprise that he had no specific instructions from Lord Dungarth and now he studied the chart as if, like Mount’s Military Atlas, it would provide him with all the answers.

  Along the southern shore of the Baltic lay the coast of Germany, mostly the territory of Freder
ick William of Prussia, but now under the control of the French. The large island of Rügen was still in Swedish hands, as was the town of Stralsund, now under seige by Marshal Mortier’s army corps. Drinkwater’s gaze moved east, along the coast from Pomerania towards another port holding out against a French force: Dantzig. Beyond this allied outpost and its bight, the coast swept northwards, past the Frisches Haff and Königsberg to Russia beyond and the Kurland ports of Memel and Revel. Somewhere near Königsberg the main armies of France and Russia faced each other along the line of the River Passarge.

  Straton had made it clear that the British Government was now meditating moves which not only could influence Drinkwater, but also be significantly affected by his own operations in this period of uncertainty. This was the nub of his own dilemma.

  A knock at the door interrupted his deliberations. ‘Enter. Ah, come in, Mr Hill.’

  ‘She’s under easy sail for the night, sir.’ His eyes fell on the chart.

  ‘Very well.’ Drinkwater studied the face of the master. ‘What the deuce d’you make of it, Mr Hill, eh? Do we sit here and stop neutrals or d’you fancy a spar with Johnny Crapaud?’

  Hill grinned. ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  ‘Would to God that I did,’ said Drinkwater, ‘but Straton came off to see me again before we left Carlscrona. He told me his instructions from London, just arrived, are to urge King Gustavus to reinforce his troops in Rügen and Stralsund . . .’ Drinkwater laid his finger on the chart. ‘Gustavus insists our subsidies are too small and wants British troops to help him. The problem seems to be that if London sends troops, Gustavus insists on commanding them personally.’

  ‘Good God,’ Hill chuckled, ‘then he’s as mad as they say!’

  ‘Yes. But that ain’t all. There’s a considerable faction at his court which is pro-French and wants reform. In short, the threat of a revolution is simmering in Sweden.’

  ‘What a mess!’

  ‘My head aches with the complexity of it all.’ Drinkwater looked up and, catching Hill’s eye, appeared to make up his mind. ‘Damn it, we can’t dither like this, Hill. We’re like a couple of old women! The men are spoiling for a fight . . .’ He bent over the chart and Hill leaned over with him. Drinkwater’s finger traced a strait of water between the island of Rügen and the mainland where it ran past the engraved outline of the town of Stralsund.

  ‘Let’s see what is to be done against Marshal Mortier.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir . . .’

  Fraser turned at the waft of malodorous breath. The obscenely grinning features of Skeete, Lallo’s elderly loblolly boy, were thrust expectantly into his face.

  ‘Skeete, what the de’il d’you want on the upper deck?’

  ‘Mr Lallo’s compliments, sir, and would you step down to the first lieutenant’s cabin.’

  ‘The first lieutenant?’

  ‘Mr Rogers, sir.’

  ‘I know fine well who the first lieutenant is, damn your insolence.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Nothing seemed to wipe the grin from Skeete’s face. He had been too long an intimate with death not to find most situations in life full of morbid amusement. He followed Lieutenant Fraser below.

  The door to Rogers’s cabin swung ajar with the roll of the ship and from inside Lallo beckoned him. The surgeon closed the door against Skeete. After the upper deck the cabin was dark, the air stale and for a second he did not see the trussed figure of Rogers lying in the cot. His dislike of Rogers had not encouraged him to enquire too eagerly into the nature of the first lieutenant’s ‘indisposition’.

  As his eyes focused he saw a pale face, the hollow cheeks slashed by the cruel line of the gag, and was unable to master an over-riding feeling of revulsion at the harshness of the surgeon’s treatment.

  ‘Dear God, Lallo, take that thing off him!’

  ‘I cannot, Mr Fraser . . . the captain . . .’

  ‘The captain did not tell you to gag him. Take it off, I say.’ Fraser leaned forward and began to fumble.

  ‘No, sir! Don’t, I beg you!’ Lallo put out his hands to prevent Fraser’s loosening of the gag. ‘I asked for you to come down in the hope that you might help . . .’

  ‘Sweet Jesu, Lallo, how much of all this does the captain know?’ Unable to get the gag off, Fraser gestured round the tiny cabin.

  ‘Look, Mr Fraser, I have no mind to confine him a moment longer than I have to . . .’

  ‘Then let him out of that . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake, sir, do me the favour of listening,’ hissed Lallo, suddenly very angry. ‘I have twenty-eight men on the sick list and cannot molly-coddle one who’s over-fond of the bottle. There are the usual bruises and ruptures, three consumptives, an outbreak of the flux, a man with gravel and one with a paraphimosis, plus the usual clutch with clap. Rogers can only be treated by Procrustean methods and I’m damned if I’m prepared to have you interfere like this!’

  ‘Away with your blather, man! What the de’il d’ye want with me then?’

  ‘I do want your assistance to enable me to get him out of that thing as fast as possible.’

  Now that his active participation was required Fraser was suddenly cautious.

  ‘In what way?’ Fraser looked at the first lieutenant, whose eyes seemed unnaturally large and held his own in a glare of intensity.

  ‘I am prepared to release him today, but if I do I need you to stand surety for me.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because’, said Lallo, a note of weary contempt entering his voice, ‘you are the next senior lieutenant and I am concerned that he may attempt to revenge himself.’ Lallo spoke as though Rogers was not there, but his worry was clear enough to Fraser.

  ‘Look, Mr Lallo, if the captain ordered you to confine the first lieutenant, why must you drag me into the imbroglio?’

  ‘The captain didn’t order me to truss him up.’

  ‘He didn’t? But you just claimed he did!’

  ‘No, he ordered me to keep the first lieutenant quiet for a day or two . . . Mr Fraser, where the hell are you going?’

  But Fraser had gone. Uncertain of the correct course of action, he thought it proper to inform Captain Drinkwater. Much though he disliked Lieutenant Rogers, the thought of a man of Lallo’s stamp having the power to truss up a commissioned officer like a pullet appalled him.

  Lallo shook his head over his patient. ‘Another young pipsqueak with all the answers, Mr Rogers,’ he said, putting the palm ofhis hand on the lieutenant’s sweating forehead, ‘and I thought we might have you quietly out of there today.’

  Fraser found the captain poring over Mount’s atlas and the charts spread out on the cabin table.

  ‘Ah, Mr Fraser, and what brings you rushing in here?’ Drinkwater asked, looking up.

  ‘It’s the first lieutenant, sir. The damned surgeon has him trussed like a lunatic!’

  Drinkwater frowned. It was in his mind to enquire how Fraser had come by this knowledge, but he knew it had been a vain hope to expect the confinement of the first lieutenant to be kept a secret. He recollected he had given Lallo a free hand and had thought the surgeon would have used the powerfully sedative properties of laudanum, but, on reflection, that was Lallo’s business.

  ‘Mr Fraser, you are a young man. Your outrage does you credit but I am sure that Mr Lallo was only being cruel to be kind. What was your business in the matter?’

  ‘The surgeon sent for me . . .’

  ‘The devil he did!’ Drinkwater snapped. So Lallo had deliberately involved Fraser in direct contravention of his own instructions: ‘To what end?’ he enquired coldly.

  ‘To stand guarantee for Rogers’s good behaviour.’

  Drinkwater frowned and felt the sense of affront drain out of him. He had, he realised, been unreasonable in expecting Lallo to work a miracle in secret. Rogers presented them with a problem that only proved their woeful inadequacy to deal with such things. He sighed. ‘Well, Mr Fraser,’ he said wearily, his thoughts drifting bac
k to the plan formulating in his mind, ‘you are the next senior lieutenant. Hadn’t you better heed the surgeon?’

  ‘But sir, he’s no’ a man of much sensibility.’

  Drinkwater looked up sharply. ‘What the devil d’you mean by that? That he ain’t got a commission like yourself? By God, Mr Fraser, you surprise me! Mr Lallo’s a professional officer holding a warrant as surgeon, just as Hill holds one as master. Your own status as a gentleman of honour does not entitle you to make such social distinctions among persons of ability! You seem an able and active enough fellow but I’ll have none of that damnable cant aboard here! You may save that for the pump-room or Lord Keith’s withdrawing room, but not here, sir, not here!’

  The unexpected onslaught from the captain took Fraser aback. His face was white and his mouth hung open. Drinkwater cast another look at the papers spread out before him and then up again at the hapless young officer. ‘Very well, Mr Fraser; I am aware there is a growing fashion among young men of breeding to consider these matters of some importance, and that may well be the case ashore. However I suggest you might see Lallo at his true worth were a ball to shatter your thigh. Now cut along and pass word to him to get Rogers up here at once.’

  Only the direct summons to the captain’s cabin prevented the outbreak of rage the surgeon feared from a freshly released Rogers. Pale from his confinement, Rogers entered the cabin and stood menacingly close to Drinkwater, his mouth a hard line, his eyes glittering.

  Drinkwater, sensitive to Rogers’s fury, ignored it and, after a brief look at the first lieutenant, stared down at the maps and charts.

  ‘Mr Rogers,’ he said levelly, ‘you’re better, I understand. Now I have it in mind to employ you . . .’

  ‘Do you mean to pretend that nothing has happened?’ Rogers’s voice was strangled as he sought to control himself. ‘I have been bound and gagged, you heartless . . .’

  Drinkwater looked up, his own eyes blazing. ‘What would you have me do? Eh? If I wished, Sam, you’d be going home for a court martial for that remark alone! What was done was done for your own good, and you know it. Lallo says you’re over the worst. Hold off the drink for a month and your victory is complete. If I pretend that you’ve had the flux that’s my own business. What would you have me write in the Sick Book?’