Baltic Mission

by Richard Woodman

  The sweat rolled off him and he felt his head would burst. He clenched his eyes shut to prevent the perspiration stinging them. He drew breath in great rasping gasps and the unaccustomed effort set his muscles a-quiver. He became blind to everything but the need for constant effort and it seemed that he had been doing this for ever.

  Then, through eyes that he opened briefly, he glimpsed the looming gables of the houses of the Westkai. Ten long minutes later, Edward jumped ashore with the bow line. The gentle nudge with which the barge brought up against the quayside almost knocked Drinkwater off his feet as he dragged the sweeps inboard. Breathing heavily and his heart thumping painfully, he caught the stern line through a heavy ring and walked forward to see that Edward had secured the bow. In accordance with their plan, and in view of the sentries on either bank, they sat down on the hatch-coaming of the barge and broached a bottle of vodka. Both men took a small swig themselves and let some dribble down over their chins and onto their clothes. Edward lit another of the disgusting cheroots while Drinkwater sat and scratched himself. The red haze was beginning to disperse from his eyes when suddenly they focused on the French sentry who came forward to stare down at them.

  Edward looked up and said something in Russian. Weakened from his strenuous exertion Drinkwater sat panting, trying to still the thundering of his pounding heart. He felt quite powerless to confront the danger they were in and left the matter to his brother. The Frenchman shrugged uncomprehendingly so Edward held out the bottle. The soldier hesitated, looked round and then grabbed it and swigged at it twice before handing it reluctantly back. Edward laughed and made a guttural comment and the two men grinned, the soldier wiping a hand across his mouth. Suddenly the sentry turned, as though hearing something, and disappeared from view. A few seconds later two French officers gazed down at them and enquired what they were doing.

  Edward embarked on a pantomime of pretended explanation, gesturing first to the east bank of the Nieman and then to the west, interspersed with grunted interrogatives aimed at the two officers. At their lack of understanding he launched into a repeat of the whole thing until one of them cut him short.

  ‘Très bien, mon vieux, nous savons . . .’ He turned to his compatriot and Drinkwater heard the name General Santhonax used twice. He felt his blood run cold and prayed to heaven that it was not their intention to verify the arrival of the barge with Santhonax. Not that he thought Santhonax would recognise him, unshaven, dirty and so totally unexpected in such a place, but the very presence of the man filled him with apprehension. His heart had stilled now but the worms of anxiety were writhing in his guts.

  Edward managed a loud belch and ostentatiously swigged the vodka again. Passing the bottle to Drinkwater he reached up and dragged himself up onto the quay. His sang-froid seemed to dispel any remaining suspicions the French officers might have had. They drifted away and Edward bent to give his brother a hand up.

  ‘Phew!’ Drinkwater grunted his thanks and Edward replied by giving an exaggerated and pointed belch, reminding him of the necessity of appearing tipsy. They approached the end of the quay where the small gravel slip-way ran into the river. Another sentry stood on the corner of the quay.

  ‘Qui va là?’

  They both began babbling incoherently, pointing down at the slipway, and indicating their intention to sleep on the pontoon that lay there.

  ‘Non.’

  Edward uttered an obscene dismissal. The sentry, a young man, cocked his musket but Edward slapped him on the shoulder and hung upon his arm. The man shrugged him off, wrinkling his nose in disgust, and nodded them past. They slid down onto the gravel and settled themselves under the growing shadows of the raft, lolling together and allowing their heartbeats to slow.

  Twice the young sentry came to look at them but they lay still, two drunks inert and indistinguishable from the surrounding gloom. The clock in the town struck eleven, then midnight. There was a crunch of boots as a patrol, led by a corporal, came by to change the guards. Words were spoken as the man going off duty indicated the two pairs of felt boots that were just visible from the quay. The corporal spat, an eloquent attestation of the superiority of the French military over a pair of drunken Kurlanders, and the patrol marched on. The silence of the night settled over them, the noises of debauch muted beneath the low chuckle of the River Nieman as it made its way to the Baltic Sea.

  ‘Let’s begin,’ whispered Drinkwater as soon as the sound of the marching feet had faded. Edward eased himself up and located the new guard. He was a more experienced soldier and had made himself comfortable against a bollard on the corner of the quay. A cloud of tobacco smoke was faintly illuminated from the red glow of his pipe bowl. Edward leaned down and tapped the all clear on Drinkwater’s shoulder, remaining on the look-out while his brother crawled under the pontoon to begin work.

  The flying bridge, or pont volant, was built on a heavy timber frame. The main members of the sides ran the length of the craft. These were crossed by beams on which the rough planking of the decking was laid. Such a craft would have floated very low without proper buoyancy and this was provided by two large box-like floats to which the main members were fastened. Watching the preparations from the attic window Drinkwater had observed some attention being paid to one section of these flotation chambers and had suspected one of them was giving cause for concern. Almost immediately he found fact and conjecture had spliced themselves neatly. Beneath the pontoon the new planks were identifiable by their slightly lighter colour and the rich smell of resin from them. The raw wood was unpayed and Drinkwater investigated further. His heart leapt for he was in luck.

  Reaching down to his waistband he drew out the farrier’s axe. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness and he worked the spike of the axe under the end of the upper plank and began to lever it off. The rot that had necessitated the renewal of the planks had already spread into the frame so the nails drew quite easily. He got the top plank off and then the next and then he dragged himself through the gap and slumped inside. The raw pine resin could not disguise the stench of the rotten wood and stagnant water which seeped into his clothes and felt cold against his sweating skin. Twisting round, he felt about in the roof of the chamber for any opening which would allow a man to receive sufficient air to breathe and, most important, to hear. He discovered a split between two planks and enlarged it with the axe. Rubbing his hand in the foul slime of the bottom, he smeared it over the raw wood to hide his work from a casual glance. When he had finished, he drew himself out of the chamber. Even beneath the pontoon the night air smelt sweet. He lay on the damp gravel, panting heavily; the clock in the town struck two.

  Dragging himself along he pulled himself out from beneath the pontoon close to his brother. Edward was shivering from the chill. ‘Well?’ he hissed.

  ‘Get under when you can. It’s all ready.’

  Edward cast a look round and Drinkwater sensed his reluctance, but the hesitation was only momentary. The two brothers crawled below the pontoon and Drinkwater tugged Edward until he was aware of the opening. He put his mouth close to Edward’s ear. ‘You won’t drown, even if it fills partially with water. I have cut holes in the top, you should have no trouble breathing or hearing.’

  Drinkwater patted Edward’s shoulder and drew back. He felt Edward shudder and then begin to work his way through the narrow gap, which gave him more trouble than his slimmer brother. A hiss of disgust told that Edward had discovered the stink and damp of his prison.

  ‘Christ, this is madness. Why did I let you talk me into it?’

  ‘You can get out by kicking away the ends of the planks.’

  ‘Leave me the axe.’

  ‘I need it for hammering home the nails.’ Drinkwater paused. Edward’s face was a pale, ghostly oval in the stygian darkness. ‘Do you have your bottle?’

  ‘Of course I bloody well do.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Drinkwater moved to put the first board into place, fishing in his pocket for the stock of nails provided b
y Mackenzie. Holding the head of the axe he had Edward grip the bottom plank, found the nail hole with some difficulty, inserted a nail and pushed it with the end of the axe. He felt the nail drive part way into the rotten framework. Then he drew back his right hand and smacked it hard with the open palm of his left. After repeating this process a few times he felt the nail drive home. He managed the next nail at the other end of the plank in a similar fashion, but the third proved less easy. He knew he would have to give several hard bangs with the whole axe haft. He rolled quickly across and peered from under the pontoon. There was no sign of the sentry.

  With feverish impatience he returned to the hole and, holding his breath, gave a few quick, sharp taps with the axe. In seconds the plank was secure. Edward’s face peered from the narrowed gap as Drinkwater returned from a second look for the sentry. There was still no sign of the man. He must have strolled off to the far end of his beat. Drinkwater lifted the second plank. Edward resisted it being put into place.

  ‘Nat.’

  ‘What is it?’ Drinkwater asked in a desperate whisper.

  ‘Will you get me out of here if I cannot make it myself?’

  Drinkwater remembered a small boy who was afraid of the dark and the shadows in the corner of the farmhouse bedroom. ‘You’ll have no trouble, I promise you,’ he hissed reassuringly. ‘Brace your back and simply kick outwards with your heels.’

  ‘But promise.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Ned, of course . . .’

  ‘Your word of honour.’

  ‘My word of honour.’ He pushed the plank and Edward vanished behind the faint grey of the new wood. As he tried to locate a nail, his hands shaking with the tension, the plank was pushed towards him. He choked down an oath with difficulty. ‘What?’

  ‘We may never meet again.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish. We shall meet when you get out, at the Jew’s house tomorrow.’

  ‘But it will not be the same.’

  ‘For God’s sake . . .’

  ‘I must tell you something. I want you to know I repent of the murder . . . not the man, but I loved the girl . . .’

  Drinkwater expelled pent up breath. ‘I am sorry, Ned . . . Now for God’s sake let me finish.’

  ‘And I know I owe my life to you.’

  ‘No matter now.’

  ‘But all debts will be paid when this thing is done, eh?’ Edward’s voice was barely a whisper now, but Drinkwater was beside himself with anxiety. Once again he bore the burden of an elder brother. He comforted Edward’s fear of a greater darkness.

  ‘All paid, Ned, all paid.’

  To Drinkwater’s infinite relief Edward withdrew and Nathaniel began to fasten the last plank. It was the upper one and the nails went home with difficulty. In the end he was forced to bang hard, several times. The noise seemed deafening and as he drew back he heard the scrape of boots on gravel as a man jumped down onto the hard from the quay. He uttered a silent prayer that Edward would not react and rolled away from the buoyancy chamber, retreating further into the blackness beneath the raft.

  As he lay inert, his eyes closed, trying to still his breathing, he could hear the sentry move round the pontoon, the crunch of his boots close beside him on the wet gravel. Beyond the shadow of the raft Drinkwater was aware of the first flush of dawn, a pale lightening of the river’s surface. He could hear the man muttering and knew that he would be looking for the two drunken Kurlanders. For a second Drinkwater hesitated. Then, knowing he must leave Edward in no doubt of his successful escape, he acted.

  Rolling from under the raft he found himself suddenly at the feet of the sentry.

  ‘Qui va là?’ snapped the astonished man unslinging his musket.

  With one eye on the lowering bayonet Drinkwater grunted and rose on one knee. Tucked in the filthy breast of his blouse he gripped the boarding axe more firmly and staggered to his feet. If he allowed himself to be kept at bayonet point he was lost. The sentry growled at him.

  Sucking in his breath he tore the axe from his breast and then, expelling air for all he was worth, he swung his arm with savage ferocity, twisting his body at the same time. With such sudden impetus the axe whirled and struck deep into the skull of the French soldier. With a dull thud the man fell, stone dead.

  Drinkwater paused for an instant to catch his breath again, then he rounded on the raft and pressed close to the timber side of the float.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ he hissed.

  ‘Yes,’ he heard Edward’s low reply.

  ‘You’re quite safe. I’m going now.’

  Edward tapped twice and Drinkwater turned back to the gravel slipway and the dead sentry that lay beside the lapping water of the river. Slinging the musket he grabbed the man’s heels and dragged him quickly into the water beneath the overhang of the quay. After the gloom beneath the raft it seemed quite light, but the dawn was delayed by rolling banks of heavy clouds and no cries of alarm greeted his panting efforts. He let the man’s feet go and pushed the body out into the river. Unslinging the musket he let it fall to the muddy bottom of the Nieman. In the town the clock struck a half hour as he lowered himself into the water. He paddled out into the stream, nudging the body of his victim until he felt the current take it, then let it go. The water bore the thing away from him and he rolled on his back and peered back at the Westkai. He could see a party of sentries marching with a corporal, bringing the relief guard: he had left not a moment too soon. He began to swim with more vigour, the freedom of the river almost sensual after the strain and activity of the night. A light rain began to fall. Drinkwater rolled onto his back and let the gentle drops wash over his face.

  By the time he floundered ashore on the opposite bank the rain had become a steady downpour.

  14

  25 June 1807

  The Meeting of Eagles

  Drinkwater found himself in shallow water a mile below the town where the Nieman’s banks were reeded. Lush green water-meadows lay beyond, rising slowly to low hills clear in the grey light. A windmill surmounted one of these and he remembered passing it as they had approached Tilsit. He lay for some time, gathering his strength and no longer sustained by the vodka. The rain had drawn a heavy veil of cloud across the sky and a smoking mist hung over the river. He had come a long way downstream, to be met by a herd of piebald cows whose steaming muzzles were turned suspiciously towards him. He would have to make for the road and knew that the next hour was, for him, the most dangerous. He had been unable to think out any strategy for his journey back, hoping that he would land in darkness only a short distance below the Ostkai.

  ‘You are grown too old for this lunatic game,’ he muttered wearily to himself and rose to his feet. Squelching through the reeds he reached a place where the river bank was trodden down by countless cattle hooves. The raindrops plopped heavily into each tiny lake and the mud dragged at his feet. He struggled through cow-pats and sodden grass, making towards the windmill and the road. He was within a few yards of the mill when the bugle sounded reveille. With a sudden panic he realised the place was a billet and full of soldiers. He fell back towards a ditch on his left. Then he saw the boat.

  With ineffable relief he turned to it. It was a crude, flat-bottomed punt, meant only for river work, but it had a pair of oars across the thwarts and offered Drinkwater the only satisfactory means of reentering Tilsit. He was dressed as a lighter-man and here was a boat, presumably belonging to the mill, and a downpour to explain his soaking condition. With renewed heart he clambered aboard and untied the frayed painter from a rotten stake. He got out the oars and worked the boat out of the dyke. Ashore he could hear shouts as men assembled for morning roll-call. He entered the main river, the rain hissing down, the smooth grey water an infinity of concentric circular ripples. Keeping close to the bank he found the counter-current and pulled easily upstream. Despite his lack of sleep he found his lassitude evaporate; the demands of pulling the boat sent new life into his chilling limbs and the rain seemed warm upon his tired mus
cles.

  Edward Drinkwater lay on his back in the solitary darkness and fought successive waves of panic that swept over him, manifesting themselves in reflexive spasms of nausea. Despite the pale sliver of sky that showed through the slits his brother had opened in the float, the surrounding darkness had a threatening quality, a sentient hostility that caused him to imagine it was contracting upon him. So strong was this awful sensation that twice he found himself stuffing a fist into his mouth to prevent himself from screaming, while a cold sweat broke out all over his body. But these periods of terrifying panic waned and were replaced by a slow acceptance of his situation which was aided by the bottle of vodka. After an hour or two he floated in a kind of limbo: the stinking bilge-water and the damp clothes that wrapped him seemed bearable.

  He was jerked from his reverie by the noise of approaching feet scrunching the gravel and his heartbeats thundered in the clammy darkness as men resumed work on the raft. The hammering and sawing went on for what seemed hours, resonating throughout the float so that his former silence seemed heavenly by comparison. He lay on his back, twisting about from time to time to keep his circulation going, watching the narrow strip of sky periodically obscured by the boot-soles of the French soldiers and diverting himself by practising eavesdropping on their conversation. Sometime later he smelt a curious smell and recognised it as it grew stronger for the odour of Stockholm tar. He knew then that it was almost time for the pontoon to be dragged down the slipway and into the river.

  ‘They are heating tar,’ observed Lord Walmsley, taking his eye from Drinkwater’s telescope and turning towards Mackenzie lying on the truckle bed. ‘D’you think the Captain and Ostroff are all right?’