‘Now, sir,’ he said to Nielsen the instant Fraser had closed the cabin door, ‘what is it you want?’
The Danish master put his hand up to his breast and reached under his coat.
‘If you intend to offer me money . . .’
‘Nein . . . not money, Capten . . . this’, he drew a package from his breast, ‘is more good than money, I tink. I come from Königsberg, Capten, plenty Russians Königsberg.’ He handed Drinkwater the sealed packet.
‘What the devil is it?’
‘It is, er . . .’ Nielsen searched for a word, ‘. . . er, secret, Capten . . . for London from Russia . . . for many times I, Frederic Nielsen, carry the secret paper for you English.’
Drinkwater turned the package over suspiciously. ‘You intended taking this where? To Antwerp?’ Drinkwater fixed the Dane with his eyes, searching for the truthful answers to his questions. Any fool could wrap up an impressive bundle of papers scribbled in a supposed ‘cipher’ and try it as a ruse. ‘Together with your cargo for the French, eh, Captain. Is that how you trade first with Königsberg and then with Dantzig, eh?’
Nielsen shrugged. ‘A man must live, Capten . . . but yes. To Antwerpen. In two days from Antwerpen it can be to London – by Helvoetsluys or Vlissingen – who know? This is not for me. I only make my ship go ver’ fast.’ He shrugged again. ‘Now it is stop by you.’
‘Are you paid?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Nielsen hesitated, reluctant to admit his private affairs. He looked first at Drinkwater then at Fraser. He found comfort in neither face. ‘How?’ Drinkwater repeated and Fraser stirred menacingly.
‘Ven the paper to London, den is money made to me, to Hamburg.’
Drinkwater considered for a moment. ‘If I undertake to deliver this, will you get your money?’
A look of alarm crossed Nielsen’s face.
‘Have a look at the thing, sir,’ said Fraser, unable to remain silent any longer. ‘He’s trying to get you to let his cargo through on the pretext o’ this cock-and-bull story.’
‘What is the news in here, Captain Nielsen?’ Drinkwater tapped the packet.
Again Nielsen shrugged. ‘I do not know. Is some good news for London I hear at Dantzig.’
‘Good news! At Dantzig?’
‘Yes. French have battle at Heilsberg. Russian ver’ good.’
Drinkwater frowned. ‘You say the Russians beat the French at Heilsberg?’
Nielsen nodded. Drinkwater made up his mind, turned to the table and picked up the pen-knife lying there.
‘No, Capten, I tell good, if you cut paper I not get money! Gott!’
It was too late. Drinkwater had slit the heavy sealing on the outer, oiled paper and unfolded the contents. They consisted of several sheets of handwriting at the top of which was a prefix of seven digits. The message was meaningless in any language and was either in cipher or an imitation cipher. Drinkwater looked up at Nielsen.
‘Any damned fool could write a few pages of gibberish,’ said Drinkwater. He lifted the final sheet. At the bottom was a signature of sorts. At least it was a series of signs in the place one would write a signature. They seemed to be in Cyrillic script whereas the body of the thing was in Roman handwriting; Drinkwater could make nothing of them, but then his eye fell on something else that stirred a memory of something Colonel Wilson had said. When he had mentioned Mackenzie, the British agent to whom he should offer assistance, he had also spoken of a Russian officer, a lieutenant whose name he had forgotten. Were those Cyrillic letters this man’s signature? Both men used a cryptogramic code, Wilson had said, and both sent their reports to Joseph Devlieghere, Merchant of Antwerpen. He did not have to recall the Flemish name: it was written at the bottom of the page.
‘Capten, if you take my ship prize, you make London ver’ angry. Frederic Nielsen help you English . . .’
‘For money!’ said Fraser contemptuously.
‘No!’ Nielsen was angry himself now and turned on Fraser. ‘Why you not to trust Nielsen, eh? You English not like business of oder people! Only for English it is good. Yes! But I tell you, Capten,’ here he rounded on Drinkwater, ‘if Nielsen not bring paper, sometimes London not know what happen in Russia, Sweden an’ oder place. You English send gold . . . much gold . . . but not keep it good . . . Ha! ha! Ver’ funny! You English crazy! You lose much gold but stop poor Frederic Nielsen to take some deals to Antwerpen . . . bah!’
Drinkwater had only the haziest notion of what Nielsen meant and was only paying partial attention to the Danish master for there was something else about the papers he held that was odd; not merely odd but profoundly disquieting. Something had tripped a subconscious mechanism of his memory. Now he wanted Nielsen and Fraser out of his cabin.
‘Take Captain Nielsen on deck, Mr Fraser. I want a moment to reflect.’
‘Don’t be misled by such a trick, sir,’ Fraser said anxiously.
‘Cut along, Mr Fraser,’ Drinkwater said with sudden asperity, waiting impatiently for the two men to leave him alone. When they had gone he sat and stared at the document. But he could not be certain and gradually the beating of his heart subsided. He cursed himself for a fool and began to fold the letter, then thought better of it and opened his table drawer, drew out journal, pen-case and ink-well. Very carefully he copied into the margin of his journal the strange exotic letters of the document’s ‘signature’: NCAH.
Then he stowed the things away again, stuffed Nielsen’s dispatch into the breast of his coat, strode to the cabin door and took the quarterdeck ladder two steps at a time.
‘Mr Rogers!’
‘Sir?’
‘Be so kind as to have Captain Nielsen returned to his ship.’ Drinkwater turned to the Dane. ‘Captain, I apologise for detaining you.’ He handed the dispatch back. ‘You must re-seal it and please tell Mynheer Devlieghere the news of the defeat at . . .’
‘Heilsberg,’ offered Nielsen, visibly brightening.
‘Yes. Heilsberg. Good voyage and I hope you have good news soon from Hamburg.’
Nielsen’s face split in a grin and he held out a stubby hand. ‘T’ank you Capten. You English are not too much friend with Denmark, but this,’ he wagged the dispatch in the air, ‘this is good news, yes.’ He strode to the rail where a puzzled Quilhampton waited.
‘You are not going to let the bugger go are you?’ asked Rogers with some of his wonted fire, seeing a plum prize slipping once again beyond his grasp.
‘Yes, Mr Rogers,’ said Drinkwater, fixing the first lieutenant with a cautionary eye, ‘for reasons ofstate . . .’ Then he turned to the master. ‘Mr Hill, be so kind as to resume our course for Königsberg when the boat returns,’ he said and added, by way of a partial explanation, ‘we must investigate the nature of a French defeat at a place called Heilsberg.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ replied the imperturbable Hill.
‘And Mr Mount?’
‘Sir?’
‘Can we locate Heilsberg on that atlas of yours?’
‘I should hope so, sir,’ said the marine officer with enthusiasm as Drinkwater led him below.
Lieutenant Rogers strode to the lee rail and watched the boat pulling back towards Antigone.
‘Reasons of state!’ he hissed under his breath, and spat disgustedly to leeward as the Danish barque made sail.
8
June 1807
Friedland
‘No, Mr Rogers, no wine, I beg you.’ Lallo put out a restraining hand.
Rogers, his fist clamped around the neck of the decanter which he had ordered the negro messman to bring, looked from one to another of the gunroom officers. They returned his stare, watching his pale face with its faint sheen of perspiration showing in the dim light of the gunroom.
‘God damn and blast you for a set of canting Methodicals,’ he said. ‘God damn and blast you all to hell,’ and drawing back his arm he sent the decanter flying through the air. It smashed on the forward bulkhead and in the silence that
followed they could hear Rogers’s laboured breathing.
‘Mr Rogers . . .’ began Fraser, but he was instantly silenced by Lallo. They watched as Rogers calmed himself. After a pause Rogers ceased to glare at them all, picked up his knife and fork and addressed himself to his plate. In an embarrassed silence the others dutifully followed suit. For fifteen minutes no one said a word and then Rogers, flinging down his utensils, rose from the table and stumped out. His exit provoked a broadside of expelled breath.
‘Phew! How long will he go on like this?’ asked Fraser. ‘If he isn’t damned careful he’ll end up with the other irredeemable toss-pots in Haslar Hospital.’
‘That was what I tried to tell you, Mr Fraser,’ said Lallo, ‘when you interfered.’
‘I’m damn sorry, Mr Lallo, but I couldna tolerate him being trussed like a chicken for the table.’
‘I was not aware’, said Lallo archly, ‘that there was any love lost between you.’
‘Nor there is, but . . .’
‘The captain ordered me to restrain him. It was out of kindness, to avoid too public a humiliation for the man.’
‘But was all that really necessary?’
‘In my opinion yes. Despite being anorexic, which was attributable to his reliance on strong drink, he was quite capable of doing himself and myself a great deal of damage in his ravings. The aboulia . . . the loss of will-power associated with addiction, disturbs all the natural processes and inclinations of the body. He was by turns lethargic and extremely violent. At times he was almost cataleptic, but at others his strength was amazing.’ Lallo paused, then added, ‘I’d say the treatment, though drastic, was successful.’ He turned and looked down on the deck where the broken decanter lay amid a dark stain on the planking. ‘At least he resisted the stuff.’
‘Well, it was a damnable thing . . .’ said Fraser.
‘It was a damnable thing that you had a man gagged yourself for the use of strong language the day before yesterday . . .’
‘That’s preposterous . . .’
‘And furthermore,’ Lallo interrupted, ‘I’d diagnose your own condition . . .’
‘For goodness sake, gentlemen,’ put in Quilhampton, raising his voice to overcome the rising argument, ‘I conceive Mr Rogers to be upset because we let the Danish ship go. He has never enjoyed much luck in the way of prize-money.’
‘There would have been nothing very certain about making any out of that Dane,’ snapped Fraser. ‘Condemning neutrals usually turns upon points of law. It isn’t the same thing as taking a national ship or a privateer.’ Lallo was grateful for the changed mood of the conversation. ‘What did happen in the cabin, Mr Fraser? Did the scoundrel offer the captain money?’
‘No,’ said Fraser after a pause. ‘The Dane, Frederic Nielsen, claimed he was carrying secret papers for London, or some such nonsense. The fellow was adamant and I don’t think the captain believed him. Then . . .’
‘Go on . . .’
Fraser shrugged. ‘Well, he suddenly looked closer at the papers and appeared to change his mind. Bundled Nielsen and myself out of the cabin and a few minutes later came up, handed the papers back to the Dane and let him go.’
‘Just like that?’ asked Lallo.
‘Yes. Or that is how it seemed to me.’
‘I wonder . . .’ mused Quilhampton, attracting the attention of the other two.
‘You wonder what, James?’ asked Fraser. ‘Have you any idea what’s afoot?’
‘The captain’s been mixed up in this sort of thing before.’
‘What sort of thing?’ asked Fraser.
‘This sort of thing?’
‘What sort of thing, for God’s sake?’ Fraser repeated in exasperation.
‘Well, secret operations and such like.’
‘Secret operations?’ said Lallo incredulously. ‘Are we bound on a secret operation? I thought we were on a cruise against blockade runners.’
‘Can’t you be more specific, James?’ Fraser’s curiosity was plain and almost indignant.
Quilhampton shrugged. ‘Who knows . . . ?’ he said enigmatically.
‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, James!’
‘Well, ask Hill. They were both on the cutter Kestrel years ago, doing all sorts of clandestine things . . . Oh, my God!’ Quilhampton jumped up.
‘What the devil’s the matter?’
‘It’s Hill! I’ve forgotten to relieve him again!’ Quilhampton grabbed his hat and trod in the broken glass from the smashed decanter.
‘Damn! Hey, King! Come and sweep up this damned mess, will you?’
Drinkwater paced up and down the deck as the hands went aloft to stow the sails. Antigone rocked gently in the swell that ran in over the Pregel Bar. The desolation of two months earlier was scarcely imaginable in the present lively scene. The sea, now clear of ice, was an enticing blue. The distant line of coast was a soft blue-green and, above the long yellow spit that made it a lagoon, the Frisches Haff was dotted with the sails of coasting craft and fishing vessels. There were others in the open sea around them and the activity seemed to indicate that events ashore were having little effect on the lives of the local population who were busy pursuing their various trades. Perhaps Nielsen had been right and the French had been badly mauled at Heilsberg. Perhaps another battle had been fought and the Russians had flung back the Grand Army. Perhaps the French were in headlong flight, a circumstance which would explain all this normality! Drinkwater checked his wild speculation. He was here to gather facts without delay. He would have to send to Königsberg as soon as the ship was secured and a boat was prepared. He contemplated going himself. Properly it was Rogers’s prerogative to command so important an expedition but, despite his success at Stralsund, Rogers’s lack of interest in political matters did not recommend him for the service. On the other hand, if he sent Fraser, the next in seniority, a slight would be imputed to Rogers. He did not wish to risk a reversal to the first lieutenant’s progress back to normality. But that left Hill or Quilhampton, and Hill could not be sent because the same imputation attached to the dispatching of the sailing master as the second lieutenant. It would have to be Quilhampton.
Drinkwater, irritated by all these trivial considerations, swore, consoled himself that Quilhampton was as good a man as any for the task, and made up his mind. He passed orders for the preparation of the launch for a lengthy absence from the ship and summoned the third lieutenant to his cabin.
‘Now, Mr Q,’ he said, indicating the chart and Mount’s borrowed atlas. ‘See, here is Königsberg. You are to take the launch which is being provisioned for a week, and make the best of your way there. I shall provide you with a letter of accreditment to the effect that you are a British naval officer. Your purpose is to ascertain the truth and extent of a report that the French suffered a defeat at Heilsberg.’ Drinkwater placed his finger on a spot on a page of the atlas. ‘You must get the best information you can and try to determine if anything else has occurred. Was the French army routed or merely checked? Have there been any further engagements? That sort of thing. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. Now, I suggest that initially you search out a British merchant ship. There will almost certainly be at least one in the port. Do that first. Do not land until you have made contact and obtained advice from a British master. The port is Prussian and there may be Russian troops there. You would do well to avoid any problems with language and your best interpreter will be the master of a British ship who will have an agent and therefore someone acquainted with local affairs.’ Drinkwater remembered Young and Baker and added, ‘Sometimes, I believe, these fellows have quite an effective intelligence system of their own.’
‘What force will I take, sir?’
‘Twenty-four men, James; no marines, just seamen.’
‘Very well, sir . . . May I ask a favour?’
‘Well?’
‘May I take Tregembo, sir?’
‘Tregembo?’ Drinkwater frowned. ‘Y
ou know I dare not expose him to any unnecessary danger, I shall never hear the last of it from his wife . . .’ Drinkwater smiled.
‘Well Königsberg is supposed to be a friendly port, sir. I cannot see that he can come to much harm.’
‘True. Why do you want Tregembo?’ Drinkwater paused and saw Quilhampton’s hesitation. ‘Is it because you do not trust the temper of the men?’
Quilhampton shrugged, trying to pass his concern off lightly. ‘One or two may try and run, sir. They are still somewhat mettlesome. With Tregembo there they will be less inclined to try. Besides, I shall have to leave the launch.’
‘You will take two midshipmen, Dutfield and Wickham.’
‘I should still like Tregembo.’
Drinkwater raised his voice. ‘Sentry! Pass word for my coxswain!’
A minute or two later Tregembo arrived. ‘You sent for me, zur?’
‘Aye Tregembo. Mr Q here wants you go to in the launch with him to Königsberg. To be particular, he has requested you go. I’d like you to accompany him.’
‘Who’ll look after you, zur?’ Tregembo asked with the air of the indispensible.
‘Oh, I expect Mullender will manage for a day or two,’ Drinkwater replied drily.
Tregembo sniffed his disbelief. ‘If you’m want me to go, zur, I’ll go.’
‘Very well.’ Drinkwater smiled. ‘You had better both go and make your preparations.’
An hour later he watched the launch pull away from the ship’s side. On board Antigone the men were coiling away the yard and stay tackles used to sway the heavy carvel boat up from its chocks on the booms in the frigate’s waist and over the side. Half a cable away the men in the launch stowed their oars, stepped the two masts and hooked the lugsail yards to their travellers. An hour later the two lugsails were mere nicks upon the horizon, no different from half a dozen others entering or leaving the Frisches Haff. Drinkwater settled down to wait.
For two days Antigone swung slowly round her anchor. On board, the monotonous routines of shipboard life went on, the officer of the watch occasionally studying the low, desolate shore for the twin peaks of the launch’s lugsails. Once a watch Frey or Walmsley climbed to the main royal yard and peered diligently to the eastward, but without seeing any sign of the ship’s boat. Then, early in the morning of the third day, an easterly breeze carried with it the sound of gunfire. Sent aloft, Frey brought down the disquieting intelligence that there was smoke visible from the general direction of Königsberg.
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