Yours &c
Dungarth
Drinkwater laid the letter down and turned his chair to stare through the stern windows and watch Antigone’s furrowing wake, where the sea swirled green and white from under the frigate’s stern. He saw nothing of the gulls dipping in the marbled water; his mind was turned inwards, contemplating the full implication behind Dungarth’s instruction, and it seemed that his independence was no coincidence. That last sentence, that he should afford assistance to persons operating on the instructions of Lord Dungarth’s Secret Department, was a clear order. And both Dungarth and Drinkwater knew that one of those ‘persons’ was Drinkwater’s own brother, Edward. Drinkwater’s frigate was cruising independently for reasons beyond the arbitrary processes of normal Admiralty planning. Dungarth knew that Drinkwater was the one post-captain on the Navy List who would take more than a passing interest in ‘persons operating on the instructions of this Department’ in East Prussia, where the Tsar’s armies were in the field.
Drinkwater sighed. Surely this was only a partial truth, and one that was engendered by his own long-held guilt over the whole affair of his brother. Colonel Wilson, whose presence in the area would be well known to Lord Dungarth, had given him almost identical advice, mentioning in particular a certain Mackenzie. Nevertheless that strange and fleeting feeling of presentiment could not be denied. Brief and passing though it was, it had the reality of one of those glimpses of the hungry gulls quartering their wake.
Drinkwater mused on the likely outcome of those military operations that were obviously preoccupying Dungarth and, by implication, His Majesty’s Government. Horne had told him of the fall of Dantzig to the French on 26 May. Dungarth could not have known of that when he had written his letter. Yet Drinkwater knew, as Wilson had told him, the coming weeks of the new campaigning season were vital to the outcome of the long and increasingly bitter war. Antigone was to be, for the foreseeable future, the Government’s eyes and ears; to learn of the outcome of what promised to be a crucial clash of arms between France and Russia somewhere in East Prussia, Poland or Kurland.
There was a knock at the cabin door; Drinkwater folded Dungarth’s letter and slipped it into the drawer.
‘Enter!’
Midshipman Wickham’s face peered into the cabin. ‘Beg pardon, sir. Mr Quilhampton sends his compliments and we shall have to tack, sir. The island of Bornholm is two leagues distant.’
‘Very well. Thank you.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. And I’m to tell you, sir, that Mr Rogers is on deck.’ There was more than a hint in this last remark. It annoyed Drinkwater that a youngster like Wickham should be privy to such innuendo. He frowned.
‘Very well, Mr Wickham. Be so kind as to give Mr Rogers my compliments and ask him to take the deck and tack ship.’
‘Mr Rogers to tack ship . . .’ There was a slight inflection of doubt in Wickham’s voice.
‘You heard what I said, Mr Wickham,’ Drinkwater said sharply. ‘Be so kind as to attend to your duty.’
The little exchange robbed Drinkwater of some of his former sense of satisfaction. He swore under his breath and, determined not to lose the mood entirely, he reopened the drawer beneath the table, pushed aside Dungarth’s letter and drew out the leather-bound notebook and unclasped it. He also took out his pen-case and picked up the steel pen Elizabeth had given him. Uncapping his ink-well he dipped the nib and began to write in his journal.
It would seem that Ld Dungarth’s Interest has influenced their L’dships to appoint us to this Particular Service. I am not inclined to enquire too closely into his L’dship’s motives . . .
He paused as the pipes twittered at the hatchways. The muffled thunder of feet told where the watches below were being turned up. There was no need for him to go on deck. Rogers would benefit from any public demonstration of the captain’s confidence, though there would doubtless be a deal too much in the way of starting. Drinkwater sighed again. He regretted that, but there was a deal too much of it in the naval service altogether. Shaking his head he continued to write. I therefore directed our course to the eastward, as far as the wind would admit, intending to try for news at Königsberg; for, with Dantzig capitulated to the Enemy, what news there is will surely be discovered there.
He sanded the page, blew it and put book and pen-case away. Flicking the cap over his ink-well he rose, took his hat from the peg and went on deck.
Antigone was turning up into the wind as he emerged onto the quarterdeck. Rogers was standing by the starboard hance. He looked at Drinkwater but the captain shook his head. ‘Carry on, Mr Rogers.’
Clasping his hands behind his back, Drinkwater affected to take little notice of what was going on on deck. Ahead the jib-boom pointed towards the long, flat table-land of Bornholm. Dark with fir trees, it impeded their making further progress to the north-east, and they were in the process of going about onto the larboard tack, to fetch a course of south-east until they raised the low coast of East Prussia, fifty miles away.
‘Mains’l haul!’
Rogers’s order was given with every appearance of confidence and the hands obeyed it willingly enough. He was not sure that his presence on deck had not toned down the usual activity of the bosun’s mates with their rope starters. The frigate paid off on the new tack.
‘Fore-yards there! Heads’l sheets! Leggo and haul!’
The fore-yards came round, the sails filled and the ship began to drive forwards again. ‘Steer full and bye!’
‘Full an’ bye it is, sir . . . Full an’ bye steering sou’-east three-quarters south, sir.’
‘Very well. Mr Frey!’
‘Sir?’
‘Move the peg on the traverse board, Mr Frey . . . course sou’-east three-quarters south.’
‘Sou’-east three-quarters south, sir. Aye, aye, sir.’
A comforting air of normality attended these routine transactions and, much heartened, Drinkwater crossed the deck.
‘Very well, Mr Rogers.’ He smiled and added with less formality, ‘Will you join me for dinner, Sam?’
Rogers nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’
It proved an odd meal. They dined alone and Drinkwater avoided serving wine, drinking the thin small beer that was usually drunk in the cockpit. Its very presence seemed an obstruction to any form of conviviality. Indeed, serving small beer and avoiding any reference to Rogers’s recent unhappy experience only seemed to emphasise the matter. Drinkwater tried to fill the awkwardness and attempted an appraisal of the complex state of affairs among the Baltic States. But Rogers was not a man to interest himself in anything beyond the confines of the ship and such had been the mental disturbance he had so recently undergone that he was quite incapable of anything beyond the most subjective thinking. At the end of ten minutes of monologue, Drinkwater’s lecture foundered on the first lieutenant’s apathy.
‘Well, Sam, that is the situation as I comprehend it. Now it remains to be seen who will outmanoeuvre whom. D’you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Rogers mechanically, avoiding Drinkwater’s eyes.
There was a silence between the two men. It was not the companionable silence of contentment between friends. Drinkwater could sense the hostility in Rogers. Once, long ago on the brig Hellebore, it had been open and obvious; now it was concealed, hidden behind those downcast eyes. Drinkwater could only guess at its origins but that letter from Lord Dungarth made it imperative that Rogers suppressed it. He changed the subject.
‘You did very well at Stralsund, Sam.’
‘Didn’t you think I’d be up to it?’ Rogers jibbed at the patronisation. ‘Look, if you’re implying they didn’t put up a spirited fight . . .’
‘I’m implying nothing of the kind, Sam,’ Drinkwater said with a weary patience he was far from feeling. Silence returned to the table. Then Rogers seemed to come to a decision. He pulled himself up in his chair as though bracing himself.
‘Did you order Lallo to put me in a strait-jacket?’
D
rinkwater looked directly at Rogers. To deny such a direct question would put poor Lallo in an impossible situation and give Rogers the impression that he was dodging the issue.
‘I gave orders for the surgeon to restrain you with such force as was necessary, yes. It was for your own benefit, Sam. Now that you are weaned off the damnable stuff and have been recommended in a letter to the Admiralty – oh, yes, I sent it off with Captain Horne’s dispatch boat – you have a much better chance of . . .’ Drinkwater paused. He knew Rogers craved promotion and the security of being made post. Yet of all his officers Rogers was the one he would least recommend for command. Rogers would turn into the worst kind of flogging captain.
‘Advancement?’ said Rogers.
‘Exactly,’ Drinkwater temporised.
Rogers sat back, apparently appeased, looking at Drinkwater from beneath his brows. Drinkwater had told Rogers nothing of the real reason for their new station. The prevailing political situation was one thing, the complexities of secret operations quite another. Nevertheless it was not inconceivable that Rogers might wring some advantage out of their situation. Drinkwater would feel he could encourage Rogers if he could also avoid the man commanding a ship.
‘Sam,’ he said, ‘I have a trifling influence; suppose I was able to get you a step in rank. What would you say to a post as Commander in the Sea-Fencibles?’
Rogers frowned. ‘Or of a signal station?’ he said darkly.
‘Just so . . .’
But Drinkwater had miscalculated. Rogers rose. ‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘I want a ship like you!’
‘Damn,’ muttered Drinkwater as Rogers withdrew without further ceremony and, reaching for the hitherto untouched decanter, he poured himself a glass of wine.
The waters of the eastern Baltic which two months earlier had presented a desolate aspect under pack-ice, were alive with coasting and fishing craft the following morning. Convention decreed that all fishing boats were free to attend to their business and Drinkwater was not much interested in stopping the small coasting vessels that crept along the shore. But mindful of the underlying task of every British cruiser, Drinkwater’s written orders to his officers included the injunction to stop and search neutral vessels of any size. At two bells in the forenoon watch the look-out had sighted a large, barque-rigged vessel of some three hundred tons burthen. As Fraser eased his helm the barque set more sail and Drinkwater was sent for.
Coming on deck Drinkwater heard Rogers remark to Fraser,
‘A festering blockade runner, eh?’ with enough of his old spirit to dispel any worries as to permanent damage after the previous evening’s conversation. He acknowledged the two lieutenants with a nod and a smile. Rogers’s face was impassive.
Almost without any conscious effort on anyone’s part, the news that the ship was in chase of a possible prize attracted every idler on deck. Gathering amidships were Mount and Lallo, with Pater the purser. Forward, on the triangular fo’c’s’le, a score or so of seamen were crowding the knightheads to sight their quarry. James Quilhampton ascended the quarterdeck ladder and touched his hat to the captain.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said.
‘Morning, James,’ Drinkwater replied, dropping the usual formalities since Quilhampton not only was a friend but was not on duty. Fraser looked anxiously at the captain. He was eager to crack on sail for all he was worth.
‘D’ye wish that I should set . . .?’
‘Carry on, Mr Fraser, carry on. You are doing fine. Just forbear carrying anything away if you please.’
Drinkwater raised his Dollond glass and levelled in on the chase. ‘Now what nationality do you guess our friend is, James?’ He handed the glass to Quilhampton who studied the quarry.
‘Er . . . I don’t know, sir.’
‘I think he’s a Dane, Mr Q; a neutral Dane with a cargo of . . . oh, timber, flax, perhaps, and bound for somewhere where they build ships. We shall have to exercise our right of angary.’
‘Of what, sir?’
‘Angary, Mr Q, angary. A belligerent’s right to seize or use neutral property: in our case temporarily, to ascertain if he is bound for a port friendly to the French,’ Drinkwater took back his glass and again looked at the barque. Then he turned to Fraser. ‘You are coming up on him hand over fist, Mr Fraser. Let us have a bow-chaser loaded, ready to put a shot athwart his hawse!’
In the brilliant sunshine and over a sparkling sea the Antigone soon overhauled her deep-laden and bluff-bowed victim. A single shot across her bow forced the barque to bring-to and an hour and a half after they had first sighted her, the blockade runner lay under Antigone’s lee.
‘Very well done, Mr Fraser, my congratulations.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Mr Fraser, looking pleased with himself, acknowledged the captain’s compliment.
Drinkwater turned to Quilhampton. ‘Do you board him, Mr Q. Examine his papers and, if you think it necessary, his cargo. Take your time. If you consider the cargo is bound for a port under French domination or of use as war material we are authorised to detain him. D’you understand?’
‘Perfectly, sir. Angary is the word.’ And he went off to the quarter, where the lee cutter was being prepared for lowering.
Rogers and Hill were active about the deck as, aloft, the flogging topgallants were dropped onto the topmast caps and the big main-topsail was backed in a great double belly against the mast. Both courses and spanker were brailed in and Antigone pitched, reined in and checked in her forward dash.
‘Lower away!’ There was a loud smack as the cutter hit the water and a few minutes later she was being pulled across the blue sea towards the barque, her dripping oar-blades flashing in the sun.
Drinkwater settled down to wait patiently. The hiatus occasioned by Quilhampton’s search could be long, depending upon the degree of co-operation he received from the vessel’s master. Drinkwater watched idly as a fishing boat crossed the stern, her four-man crew standing up and watching the curious sight with obvious interest.
‘She’s Danish, sir,’ said Fraser suddenly. Drinkwater looked up and saw that the barque was hoisting the colours that she had studiously avoided showing before. That very circumstance had made her actions sufficiently suspicious to Drinkwater.
‘Hm. I thought as much.’
‘This’ll annoy the Danes,’ added Rogers joining them, and Drinkwater recalled the incident off Elsinore. It seemed an age ago.
‘Yes, they are somewhat sensitive upon the subject of Freedom of the Seas,’ Drinkwater remarked. ‘At least they ain’t escorted by a warship.’
At the turn of the century British men-of-war had detained an entire Danish convoy escorted by the frigate Freya. The incident had almost caused open hostilities and had certainly contributed to the rupture that had resulted in Nelson’s victory at Copenhagen a year later.
‘Well, to be neutral during such a war as this carries its own penalties and entails its own risks,’ Drinkwater remarked. ‘I feel more pity for others whose lives are more deeply affected by French imperialism than a few profit-mongering Danish merchants.’
Fraser looked sideways at the captain. Did Drinkwater refer to the widows and orphans they themselves had made in the destruction of the battery at Stralsund? Or was he alluding to the families of the pressed men that milled in the ship’s waist?
‘Boat’s returning,’ said Rogers, recalling Fraser from his unsolved abstraction.
‘Yes,’ said Drinkwater peering through his glass. Beside Quilhampton in the cutter was another figure who seemed, by his gesticulations, to be arguing.
‘Damnation,’ muttered Drinkwater, ‘trouble.’
‘Capten, I protest much! Goddam you English! Vy you stop my ship?’
‘Because you are carrying a cargo proscribed by the Orders in Council of His Majesty King George, to the port of Antwerp which is invested by ships of King George’s Royal Navy.’
Drinkwater studied the papers Quilhampton had brought him, then looked up at the Danish master. ‘The matte
r admits little argument, sir; Anvers, Antwerpen, Antwerp, ’tis all the same to me.’ He held up the papers and quoting from them read, ‘Der Schiff Birthe, Captain Nielsen, von Grenaa, Dantzig vor Antwerpen . . . your cargo is, er, sawn timber, flax turpentine. They make excellent deals in Dantzig, Captain, and with such deals they make excellent ships at Antwerpen. About a dozen men o’ war a year, I believe.’
‘And vot vili you do now, eh, Capten English?’
‘Detain you; sir,’ Drinkwater said, folding the Birthe’s papers and tucking them in his tail-pocket, ‘and send you in as a prize.’
‘A prize! Å for helvede!’
‘To be condemned in due form according to the usages and customs . . .’
‘No! Goddam, no!’
Drinkwater looked at the man. He had expected anger and despised himself for hiding this unpleasant necessity behind the jumble of half-legal cant. The Danish mariner could scarcely be expected to understand it, beyond learning that he and his ship were virtually prisoners.
‘A disagreeable necessity, Captain, for both of us,’ Drinkwater spread his hands in a gesture to signify helplessness. Oddly, the man seemed to be considering something. This suspicion was almost immediately confirmed when Nielsen stepped forward, taking Drinkwater by the elbow and saying in his ear:
‘Capten, ve go below and talk, yes?’
‘I think that will not be necessary.’
Nielsen’s grip on his arm increased. ‘It is important . . . ver’ important!’ He paused then added, ‘Before Dantzig I was in Königsberg, Capten . . .’ and nodded, as if this added intelligence was of some significance. Nielsen suddenly stepped back and gave a grave nod to Drinkwater. Frowning, Drinkwater suspected he was to be made a bribe, but something in the man’s face persuaded him to take the matter seriously. After all, Königsberg was a Prussian port and Dantzig now a French one. Was Nielsen trying to placate him with some news?
‘Mr Rogers, take the deck. Watch our friend carefully. Mr Fraser, this man wants to talk to me privately. I’d be obliged if you’d come as a witness.’ And leaving the deck buzzing with speculation, Drinkwater led them below.
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