‘You and I will go and forage for something to eat, and leave these gentlemen to reminisce over their last encounter.
They clattered down the steps and left a silence behind them. Drinkwater peered cautiously from the window, but he could see little beyond the black and silver river, the tall houses of the quay opposite and the sentries pacing up and down in the lamplight.
‘You can’t see much, but the raft is to the right. You’ll see it clearly in daylight.’
‘You know why I’m here, then?’
Behind him Edward sighed heavily and Drinkwater turned back into the attic. Edward had sat himself on the truckle bed and Drinkwater squatted on the chest.
‘Yes. Mackenzie, a remarkable wizard, assured me he would bring back the one man who could accomplish this thing.’
‘You sound doubtful.’
‘It’s impossible, Nat. Wait until you see the bloody raft. They’ve got one of those flying bridges . . .’
‘I know, I saw one lower down the river.’
‘And you think it can be done?’ Edward asked doubtfully.
Drinkwater shook his head. ‘I don’t know yet. Let us make up our minds in daylight.’
‘Here . . .’ Edward held out the bottle and refilled their glasses. ‘To fraternity.’
Their eyes met. ‘Do you remember my taking you aboard the Virago?’
‘I found the life of a seaman far from pleasant.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Drinkwater curtly, ‘I had no option. You recall Jex, the purser who discovered who you were?’
‘Christ yes! What happened to him?’
‘He was providentially killed at Copenhagen . . . But tell me about yourself. You look well enough. Mackenzie tells me that you live chez Vorontzoff.’
Edward smiled. ‘Oh yes. The life of an exile is a good one when well-connected. Your Lord-at-the-Admiralty pays me well enough and I still trifle a little at the tables . . . I’m very comfortable.’
‘Are you married?’
Edward laughed again. ‘Married! Heavens, no! But I’ve a woman, if that’s what you mean. In Petersburg, in Vorontzoff’s palace . . . I do very well, Nat, that’s why you will find me unwilling to risk myself under that raft.’
‘I understand that Mackenzie has promised you a very handsome sum if you can pull it off.’
Drinkwater saw the expression of greed cross Edward’s face; a small narrowing of the eyes, the quick lick of the tongue across the lips. He had always been a slave to money, easy money in large amounts. Edward suddenly looked askance at Drinkwater.
‘You haven’t come to reclaim your debt, have you?’ The irrelevant question revealed the extent of Edward’s corruptibility. Drinkwater smiled sadly.
‘Good heavens, Ned, I cannot remember how much I loaned you.’
‘Neither can I,’ Edward replied with dismissive speed and occupied himself with refilling the glasses. ‘You know, Nat,’ he continued after a moment, ‘I owe neither you, nor Mackenzie, nor Great Britain any allegiance . . . Despite my association with Vorontzoff, I am my own man . . .’
‘That begs the question of whether you will get under this raft,’ said Drinkwater, the problem vexing him again and intruding into his mind so that he half-stood, cracked his head on the eaves and sat down again. ‘Besides, did you know who you killed at Newmarket?’
A shadow passed over Edward’s face.
‘I have killed since,’ he said with sudden aggression, ‘mostly Frenchmen . . .’
‘It was a pity about the girl, Ned, but the man was a French agent.’ Dawning comprehension filled Edward’s face.
‘Is that how you managed to protect me?’
Drinkwater nodded. ‘And myself . . . and if you were to carry out this task, Ned, I fancy that I might persuade my “Lord-at-the-Admiralty” to obtain a Royal Pardon for you.’
Edward stared at his brother, his expression of incredulity gradually dissolving to amusement and cracking into stifled laughter. ‘My dear Nat, you do not change! For God’s sake . . . a Pardon! I would rather have two thousand pounds in gold!’
Mackenzie woke Drinkwater from his place of honour on the truckle bed at dawn. Drinkwater’s head ached from the vodka and his mouth was dry. Mackenzie indicated a jug of water and, as Drinkwater vacated the bed, he rolled into it. Walmsley still slept, rolled in a blanket, on the rough boards of the attic floor. Edward was not there.
‘Where’s . . . Ostroff?’
‘Don’t worry,’ muttered Mackenzie, his eyes already closed, ‘he’ll be back.’
Drinkwater stared for a moment at the extraordinary man. Edward had called him a wizard and doubtless had good reason for doing so. Mackenzie’s quick-wittedness had clearly proved invaluable and he was as at home in the presence of the Tsar as on this present strange campaign. For Drinkwater himself, separation from his ship, the horrible responsibility of his task and the risk of capture filled him with fretful gloom. But he addressed himself to the matter in hand. Edward had said the raft was visible . . .
He fished in the tail-pocket of Hill’s coat and brought out his Dollond glass. Cleaning the lenses carefully with a pocket handkerchief whose stitched monogram brought a painfully poignant reminder of his wife, he peered from the dormer window whose casements stood open against the summer dawn.
The Nieman was perhaps a hundred yards wide. On the opposite bank a stone quay, similar to the one on which the Jew’s house stood, was lined with tall old buildings, their storeys rising up above the storage for merchandise at ground level. They had Dutch gables and mansard roofs pierced by dormers such as the one from which he peered. On the quay, the Westkai, he could see the blue and white figures of the sentries, French sentries!
The thought made him ease forward gently so that he could see almost directly below him. Their Russian counterparts lounged on their muskets along the Ostkai and he withdrew into the shadow of the room. Then he saw the raft.
It was drawn up on a gravelled hard where the Westkai was recessed to facilitate the repair of the river barges. Drinkwater levelled his glass and studied it. It was identical to the flying bridge he had examined the day before, except that upon its rough boarded surface the railings had been removed and carpenters had begun the erection of a framework. He made his examination carefully, his heart beating with a mounting excitement as the possibility of success grew. Every supposition he had made after his examination of the chain ferry seemed borne out by the scrutiny of the pontoon opposite. It was impossible to be sure at this distance, but, as he went over and over his plan, he could find no major flaw in it. It would be difficult, but if he could lay his hands on some simple tools and a little luck . . .
He pulled back into the attic and put away his glass. ‘The game must be worth the candle,’ he muttered to himself. He cast a look at the extraordinary man who snored softly on the truckle bed and who had so disrupted his life.
‘You could be the instrument of my undoing, damn you,’ he murmured ruefully. When he turned again to the view of the Westkai the rising sun was gilding the gables opposite and a clock in Tilsit was striking five.
The day that followed was one of an intolerable imprisonment. The June heat upon the roof tiles made that attic an oven. Mackenzie left them during the forenoon to glean what news he could, and to see if he could acquire the few tools that Drinkwater wanted: Behind him, forbidden to show himself near the window, Walmsley fretted and fussed like a child. Ostroff made no appearance and Drinkwater became increasingly worried. From time to time he watched the raft. French engineers, under the direction of an officer of high rank, were assisted by local craftsmen. The pavilion rose steadily during the morning and began to be draped during the afternoon.
Drinkwater’s anxiety reached fever-pitch when he realised there was one vital matter that, in his study of the pontoon, he had completely overlooked. It was a piece of the most idiotic stupidity yet, after his realisation that he had overlooked it, the desperate need for quick improvisation was a solace for his ov
er-active mind.
Drinkwater’s problem was simply how to get across the river. To swim was too risky; besides it exposed Edward to a long period of immersion. The rowing-boats on the river had all been withdrawn to the French side, apart from a large barge moored almost directly below their window. A solution defied him until about mid-afternoon when, after a shouted parley across the Nieman, a small boat put off from the west bank. In its stern sat two officers. Disembarking just out of sight, Drinkwater heard the sound of talking men striding below the window. He guessed the two French officers had been met by some Russians. Unable to see much he realised the group had stopped directly underneath them. Wriggling back from the window he beckoned Walmsley. The bored young man came forward.
‘I want you to see if you can hear what they are saying below,’ Drinkwater whispered, pointing frantically downwards. Walmsley nodded and eased himself up under the sill of the open window. Drawing back into the attic Drinkwater stood and stretched. For perhaps ten minutes the hum of voices came up to them and Walmsley’s face was contorted with concentration, but at last the impromptu conference broke up and Walmsley moved back into the room.
‘Well?’
‘I couldn’t hear well, sir; but it was something about getting the barge across the river tonight . . . something about . . .’ he frowned.
‘Go on!’
‘Well, I thought he said a “pavilion”, a “second pavilion” . . . but I don’t understand what that had to do with a barge . . .’
‘Never mind, Mr Walmsley,’ said Drinkwater suddenly grinning like a fool, ‘you do not know what a signal service you have just rendered your country, by God!’
‘Indeed, sir, I do not . . .’
‘Never mind. When we return to the ship I shall tell you, but for the time being I must urge you to be patient and . . .’
He never finished the sentence, for the coded knock came at the door. Drinkwater motioned Walmsley to unlock it and lift the bar, while he picked up and cocked the loaded pistol left by Mackenzie when he had departed.
Mackenzie slid inside, his eyes shining with excitement.
‘Bennigsen’s below. The Tsar’s given him the devil of a drubbing, and in public too. Bennigsen’s furious at the humiliation and muttering God knows what . . . and there’s more,’ he took a draught at the vodka Walmsley passed him and unhooked his coat. ‘The meeting is set for tomorrow.’
Kicking off his boots, Mackenzie padded cautiously to the window and stared at the raft. He gave a low whistle. ‘Le théâtre de Napoleon,’ he said with an appreciative grin. It occurred to Drinkwater that Mackenzie throve on such high excitement. ‘Hullo, what have those fellows been over for?’ He nodded across the river and Drinkwater eased himself alongside. The small boat had returned to the Westkai and the two French officers were disembarking up an iron ladder.
‘General officers,’ murmured Mackenzie, ‘by the look of them.’
The two men exchanged remarks, the sunlight reflected off their highly polished thigh-boots, and began to stroll along the quay towards the slipway and the bedizened raft. They were resplendent in the blue and gold of field officers, their great, plumed bicorne hats tucked under their arms. One of them, the taller of the two, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Some primaeval instinct beyond curiosity prompted Drinkwater. He drew out the Dolland glass again and focused it on the two officers. He drew his breath in sharply and Mackenzie turned.
‘What the devil is it?’
‘God’s bones,’ said Drinkwater, his face drained of colour. ‘Santhonax!’
13
24-25 June 1807
The Waters of the Nieman
Mackenzie snatched the glass from him. ‘By God, you are right!’
‘It’s uncanny,’ Drinkwater said, his mouth dry. He accepted the glass of vodka Mackenzie held out. ‘Our paths have crossed so many times . . .’
‘No matter,’ said Mackenzie, suddenly resolute, ‘I have brought the things you wanted. A farrier’s axe was the nearest I could manage to a hammer and it can be used instead of a spike.’
Drinkwater looked at the axe which was similar to a boarding axe with a blade and spike. ‘What about nails?’
‘Here,’ Mackenzie fished in his pocket, ‘horse-shoe nails.’
‘It reminds me of the nursery rhyme,’ Drinkwater said, regaining his composure. It was quite impossible that Santhonax posed a threat to the success of the enterprise. ‘Now what about Ostroff? Where the hell is he? I want to move at dusk, if not before . . . and Mackenzie, have you been in contact with Bennigsen’s staff?’
Mackenzie nodded and both men listened to the hubbub that floated up from lower in the house. ‘Somehow you’ve got to find out which of them met those two over there,’ he jerked his head towards the window. ‘They’ll be detailing someone off to move that barge across the river. Local watermen, I expect. You’re a merchant, an ingratiating fellow. Tell them you’ll arrange it.’
‘I’ll get the Hebrew to do it. It’s his barge.’
‘No, Ostroff and I will get the barge over.’
Comprehension dawned in Mackenzie’s eyes and he smiled appreciatively.
‘And get us some rags and soot from the Jew.’
‘I see I was not mistaken in you, Captain,’ Mackenzie said.
‘It’ll come to naught if Ostroff ain’t found!’ said Drinkwater sharply. ‘And now I want some food!’
‘I shall attend to those matters forthwith.’
Midshipman Lord Walmsley heard the departing footsteps of Captain Drinkwater and Ostroff fade down the stairs. The strange Russian officer had returned only a few minutes earlier, in time to receive his instructions from an impatient Drinkwater. He had protested a little and was then coerced by the captain and Mr Mackenzie into agreeing to change into loose-fitting peasant’s trousers, felt boots and a coarse cotton blouse. Both men put on hats and were given tobacco tubes such as were smoked by the Lithuanian peasantry. Walmsley had heard Captain Drinkwater mention that his capture in such clothing would guarantee his being shot as a spy and Ostroff, in a curiously unaccented English, denied it, saying the smell would drive off the most officious French officer. The grim joke shared between the two men sent a shiver of fear for his own safety up his spine. And then they had gone, leaving Walmsley hot, bored, yet strangely fearful, alone with the enigmatic Mr Mackenzie who ignored him in his eagerness to observe the departure of the barge from the Ostkai.
Walmsley lolled back in his corner of the attic and gave his mind up to the only thing a young man of his tastes and inclination could think of in such stultifying circumstances: women. The apothecary’s daughter and the pretty young women in the carriages that had accompanied them on their journey had awakened desires which had been further titillated by the occasional squeals of pleasure or protest from below. He lay imagining the activities of the young bloods on Bennigsen’s staff and brooded on his own long deprivation.
At last he could tolerate inactivity no longer.
‘Do you mind, sir,’ he hissed at the back of Mackenzie’s head, ‘if I take the opportunity to empty the bucket and get a breath of air?’
Mackenzie turned from the window and wrinkled his nose at the pail they had been using as a privy. ‘If you are careful, no. You may walk about a bit . . . seek crowds, you are safer in a crowd.’ He turned again to look down into the river.
Walmsley could scarcely contain his excitement and, picking up the bucket he unbarred the door.
Drinkwater forced himself to resist the nausea that swept over him as he tried to master the art of smoking tobacco. The nausea was replaced by an odd lightheadedness. The disgusting import brought back by Russian armies serving in the Caucasus revolted him almost as much as the filthy workman’s clothing in which he was clad. He cleared his throat and spat with unfeigned gusto into the brown waters of the River Nieman. Above their heads the westward-facing glazings of the dormer window blazed with the reflected sunset, masking entirely the watching face of Mackenzi
e.
Edward, similarly malodorous but smoking with ease, came up to him. ‘This is bloody ridiculous!’ he muttered in English.
‘We’ve no alternative,’ his brother replied. Drinkwater was terrified of the need to speak, despite an hour’s coaching in a few words of Lithuanian by Mackenzie. Edward, for whom languages presented little difficulty and who had learned sufficient patois from his campaigning, was to speak if speech were necessary. Drinkwater began to cast off the mooring ropes under the curious gaze of a tall Russian sentry.
As the semi-darkness of the northern twilight began to close over them, Drinkwater handed the end of the rope to his brother. He had told Edward exactly what to do: to hold on with a single turn until he gave the word. Drinkwater walked aft to where the sweeps poked their blades outboard, their looms constrained by grommets round single thole pins on either quarter. Drinkwater bent and ran the long sweeps out. It was going to be far from easy. He gritted his teeth, braced his feet and called ‘Los!’
Edward cast off and pushed the stone facing of the Ostkai with a booted foot. The current began to move the barge as the bluffbow fell slowly off the quay. Drinkwater began to move the sweeps.
Edward came aft. ‘Can I help?’
Drinkwater shook his head. Edward was no expert and it was only necessary to get a little headway on the barge and let the current do the rest.
‘I’ll get the line ready then.’
Drinkwater nodded and strained with the effort necessary to make an impression on the massive inertia of the barge. He stared down into the hold, thankful that it was empty, as he thrust at the oar looms with every sinew he possessed.
He began to get the swing of it. They were thirty yards out from the Ostkai now, but fifty downstream. He threw his weight back and dragged the blades out of the water, dipped them and fell forward, his breast against his fists, his calf muscles bulging as he heaved his body forward against the resistance. The blades drove through the water slowly and he dragged them out again to repeat the process over and over, keeping the barge pointing upstream, angled outwards slightly against the current, so that they crabbed across the river.
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