Baltic Mission

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Get down, sir! Turn your face away!

  ‘What the hell . . .?’

  Quilhampton jumped down among the shambles of struggling men and Drinkwater saw him push little Frey to the deck, then the one-handed lieutenant seemed to leap towards him, thrusting his shoulder, spinning him round and forcing him down.

  The next moment Drinkwater felt the scorching heat of the blast and the air was filled by the roar of the explosion.

  18

  15 July 1807

  News from the Baltic

  Lord Dungarth rose from the green baize-covered table in the Admiralty Boardroom. He was tired of the endless deliberations, of the arguments veering from one side to another. He stopped and stared at the chart extended from one of the rollers above the fireplace. It was of the Baltic Sea.

  Behind him he heard the drone of Admiral Gambier’s unenthusiastic voice, raising yet another imagined obstacle to the proposed destination of the so-called ‘Secret Expedition’ that had been assembled at Yarmouth to carry an expeditionary force across the North Sea to land at Rügen. Dungarth concluded that ‘Dismal Jimmy’ had so much in common with the evangelical preachers that he professed to admire that he would be better employed in a pulpit than commanding the reinforcements to Lord Cathcart’s small force of the King’s German Legion already in the Baltic.

  ‘But my dear Admiral,’ interrupted Canning, the Foreign Secretary, with marked impatience, ‘the Prime Minister has already given instructions to Their Lordships and Their Lordships have doubtless already instructed Mr Barrow to prepare your orders. I don’t doubt you will experience difficulties, but for God’s sake don’t prevaricate like Hyde Parker when he commanded the last such expedition to the area.’

  Dungarth turned from the map and regarded the group of men sat around the boardroom table. The ‘Committee for the Secret Expedition’ was in disarray despite the brilliant arrangements that had assembled in secret a fleet, an army corps and its transports that waited only the order to proceed from the commander-in-chief to weigh their anchors. Dungarth caught Barrow’s eye and saw reproach there, aware that his department had failed to produce the definitive intelligence report on the Baltic situation that would have enabled the committee to settle on the point of attack with some confidence. Dungarth knew, as Barrow and Canning knew, that Rügen was a compromise destination, designed to bolster the alliance, a political decision more than a military one. Dungarth sighed, he had hoped . . .

  His eyes lifted to the wind-vane tell-tale set in the pediment over the bookcases at the far end of the room. The wind had been in the east for a week now, and still there was nothing . . .

  A discreet tapping was heard at the door. Exasperated, Canning looked up.

  ‘I thought we were not to be disturbed.’

  ‘I’ll attend to it,’ said Dungarth, already crossing the carpet. He opened the door and took the chit the messenger handed him.

  ‘It’s addressed to me, gentlemen, I beg your indulgence.’ He shut the door and opened the note. Casting his eyes over it the colour drained from his face.

  ‘What the devil is it?’ snapped Canning.

  ‘An answer to your prayers, gentlemen, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Well read it, man!’

  ‘Very well . . .

  H.M. Frigate Antigone

  Harwich

  14th July 1807

  My Lord,

  It is my Duty to Inform His Majesty’s Government with the Utmost Despatch that it is the Intention of the Russian Emperor to Abandon His Alliance with His Majesty, and to Combine with Napoleon Bonaparte. Particular Designs are Entered into by the Combined Sovereigns Aimed at the Security of the British Nation which are of sufficiently Secret a Nature as not to be committed to Paper. They are, however, known to,

  Your Obed.nt Serv.t

  Nathnl Drinkwater,

  Captain, Royal Navy

  . . . that is all, gentlemen.’

  The crinkle of the folding paper could be heard as the astonished committee digested this intelligence.

  ‘It isn’t possible.’

  ‘Where is this officer?’ asked Canning, the first to recover from the shock. ‘Who is he? D’ye trust him, damn it?’

  They were looking at Dungarth and Dungarth was staring back. He was no less stunned at the content of the letter than the others, but he at least had been willing such an arrival for weeks past. ‘A most trustworthy officer, Mr Canning, and one whose services have long merited greater recognition by their Lordships.’ Dungarth fixed Barrow with his hazel eyes but the point was lost in Canning’s impatience.

  ‘If he’s kicking his damned heels in the hall below, get him up here at once!’

  ‘At once, gentlemen,’ acknowledged Dungarth turning a second time to the door, with the ghost of a smile upon his face.

  The sun was setting in a blaze of colour beyond the trees of St James’s Park as the travel-stained naval captain and the earl crossed Horse Guards’ Parade in the direction of Westminster. As they walked Drinkwater recounted those details of the strange cruise of the Antigone in the Baltic that he had not already mentioned in his verbal report to the Committee for the Secret Expedition.

  ‘And you say this Dutch ship was commandeered by our old friend Edouard Santhonax?’

  ‘Aye, my Lord, and forced out of the Texel in the teeth of the blockading squadron. I was only thankful that she had not taken on board her full quantity of powder, for if she had, I should not have lived to tell the tale.’

  ‘And your fellow, Quilhampton, boarded her.’

  ‘He is reticent upon the matter, but a determined cove nonetheless. I cannot speak too highly of him.’

  ‘Nor I of you, Nathaniel. So you consider Antigone no longer seaworthy?’

  ‘I think not, unless she be doubled all over and she will likely lose her fine sailing qualities. She suffered severely from the blowing up of the Zaandam; much of her starboard side was damaged and the first lieutenant was among the victims.’

  ‘I see.’

  They walked on in silence. Drinkwater had fought hard to keep Antigone afloat as they worked her into Harwich, and she lay now beached on the mud off the old Navy Yard there. Of Rogers he said nothing more, since nothing more need be said. In his own way Rogers had died in the service of his country; it was epitaph enough for him.

  ‘And how is old Tregembo?’

  ‘Like the Antigone, not fit for further sea-service.’

  They dined at Dungarth’s house in Lord North Street, the conversation muted until Dungarth’s single manservant had withdrawn and left them with their port.

  ‘Canning is well pleased with you, Nathaniel,’ Dungarth smiled, lighting a cigar and leaning back to blow a pale blue cloud over the yellow glare of the candles.

  ‘I suppose I should be flattered.’

  ‘He has had an expedition fitting out for the Baltic for several weeks now. It was destined to support operations in Rügen until your news arrived. I’ve been warning Canning that something was afoot but until we knew for certain the outcome of events between the Russians and the French we should not show our hand.’

  ‘I thought you must have expected something. When I got your note, I thought . . .’

  ‘What? That I was a necromancer?’ Dungarth smiled and shrugged. ‘No, but the unusual nature of my duties reveals odd things, and I am not necessarily referring to secrets. For some reason war draws the very best from men who are idle and dissolute creatures else, intent on pleasure, petty squabbling and money grubbing. Give a man a guinea and he will buy a bottle or a whore; give a people freedom and they will turn to riot and revenge . . .’ Dungarth poured himself a second glass and passed the decanter. ‘And this war . . .’ he sighed and watched Drinkwater fill his own glass. ‘It is said history imitates itself and men’s motives are not always derived, as they would have you think, from their own reason. Some are, I conceive, instinctive, like Santhonax’s persistence or your own quixotic abetting of Ostroff. It isn’t
circumstantial, you know, Nathaniel, and I have always felt that these events are conjoined, like tiny links in a great chain that unwinds down the ages.’ He took the proffered decanter and paused as he refilled his glass again. ‘Or like some gravitational pull, which orders our affairs in spite of ourselves and wants only a second Newton to codify it.’ Dungarth smiled. ‘An odd, illogical fancy perhaps, but then we are all subject to them. Your own fascination with that witch Hortense Santhonax, for instance. No, don’t protest your unimpeachable fidelity to Elizabeth. You are as prone to profane thoughts as the next man.’

  Drinkwater reached into his waistcoat pocket. ‘I did not know you read me so well,’ he observed wryly and leaned across the table. His thumb flicked open the back of a gold hunter and Dungarth looked down at the timepiece.

  Grey eyes stared up from the pale oval face of the miniature.

  ‘Good heavens! Santhonax’s watch?’

  Drinkwater nodded, closed it and slipped it back into his pocket.

  ‘It’s very curious, is it not?’ Dungarth shook his head ruminatively.

  ‘And you, my Lord, were you then moved by the gravity of history to send word, by Horne of the Pegasus?’

  Dungarth barked a short laugh. ‘You turn my metaphor against me. Yes, and no. Perhaps I was and perhaps not . . . I cannot truly tell you.’

  ‘What then will be the destination of this Secret Expeditionary Force – not Rügen, surely?’

  ‘Oh, Lord, no! Not now we know what Napoleon intends. Our most immediate worry is the Danish navy. The French are on the point of occupying the country and the Danish fleet is in an advanced state of readiness.’

  ‘I thought that we had finished that business before, at Copenhagen.’

  ‘Would that we had, but time does not stand still. If the Danes cannot be coerced into surrendering their fleet in return for a subsidy, we shall have to execute a coup de main and take it into our safekeeping.’

  Drinkwater frowned. ‘You mean to cut out the entire Danish fleet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God’s bones! What a savage master this war is become.’

  ‘Like fire, Nathaniel,’ Dungarth replied with a nod, ‘and like fire, it must be fought with fire.’

  ‘Lord Dungarth has made me privy to the circumstances in which you were compelled to leave your command, Captain Drinkwater.’

  Mr Barrow, the Admiralty’s Second Secretary, smiled, his pedantic mouth precise in the exact allowance of condescension he permitted an officer of Drinkwater’s seniority. He placed his hand palm downwards on the little pile of documents that Drinkwater had submitted. ‘I would have thought it your first duty to report to their Lordships but, in view of the importance of the information you have brought, these matters will be overlooked.’

  Drinkwater’s mouth was dry. After the congratulations of Canning and Dungarth, Barrow’s attitude was rather hard to accept. He counselled himself to silence.

  ‘It is also important, I might almost say of paramount importance, that the sources of this information are not divulged. I think you understand this, Captain. War with Russia is now certain and our agents in that country are in great peril. The matter is therefore a secret of state. You do understand, do you not?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Your absence from your ship therefore did not take place,’ said Barrow, proceeding like a Domine leading a class through a Euclidean theorem. ‘You will surrender your log books and destroy any personal journals. The death of your first lieutenant is really most convenient.’ The thin smile appeared again on Mr Barrow’s face. ‘I leave an explanation of Lord Walmsley’s death for the benefit of his father entirely in your hands, Captain Drinkwater. Lord Dungarth says you have a ready wit in these matters.’

  Drinkwater felt a rising tide of anger within him at Barrow’s condescension and his self-control slipped further at Barrow’s next remark.

  ‘The over-riding importance of secrecy does not permit you much licence. Your people . . .’

  ‘Will gossip, Mr Barrow,’ Drinkwater put in sharply, exasperated by Barrow’s bland assumption that a man-of-war might be sealed off like some packet of secret orders.

  ‘It is unlikely that your men will have much opportunity to gossip.’ Barrow paused to make his effect more telling. ‘As for your officers, they are to remain under your command . . .’

  ‘Until death discharges them?’ Drinkwater snapped, the sinister and inhuman implication of Barrow’s intentions striking him fully.

  ‘Or peace, Captain, or peace. Do not let us be too pessimistic,’ Barrow continued smoothly. ‘In the meantime I shall see what’s to be done about a new lieutenant.’ Barrow began to gather up the papers and tie a pink tape around them.

  ‘And the shattered state of my ship, sir, have you considered that?’

  ‘Of course! There are orders for you being prepared in the copy-room. You will turn your ship’s company over directly into the Patrician, a razeed sixty-four and a particularly fine sailer. She is at Chatham and wants only men . . . your men.’

  ‘And myself, sir?’ he asked, numbed by this news but thinking of his wife and Tregembo and the simple desire of a man to go home. ‘Am I also affected by this proscription?’

  Barrow looked up. ‘I think it best that you are on shore as little as possible, Captain Drinkwater. The increasing desertions of men are most often noticeable where the commanding officer sleeps out of his ship. You know the regulations.’

  Drinkwater stood and gripped the back of his chair in an effort at self-control. ‘I had believed that I and my ship’s company had earned a measure of respite, having rendered the State a signal service, Mr Barrow. Some of my men have not stepped ashore since the last Peace, God damn it!’

  Barrow stared at him and Drinkwater saw with a certain degree of satisfaction that he had at last provoked the man. ‘There is no doubt that your service has been most satisfactory, Captain Drinkwater. I thought I had been at some pains to make that clear to you,’ Barrow said frigidly, ‘but there is no respite for any of us. Every effort will continue to be made . . .’

  ‘I do not think I need to be taught my business, Mr Barrow!’

  The two men glared at each other. Barrow’s ruthless ability was an admired fact; he was an accomplished administrator with a task of great complexity, but he had little appreciation of a captain’s predicament. Duty was obvious, while Drinkwater’s sense of obligation to his crew was a tiresome liberality. Nothing of this conflict seemed clear to Barrow.

  ‘No, I am sure I do not, Captain,’ Barrow conceded. Then he added, ‘But do not forget to forward your logs – privately, you understand.’

  Drinkwater stared for a moment at the little heap of Admiralty papers that were now being neatly bundled up in pink tape. How fatuous his conversation with Lord Dungarth now seemed. As Barrow’s fingers formed a bow in the pink tape the act was symbolic of dismissal. Tired, angry and disgusted, Drinkwater made for the door.

  ‘One thing more, Captain Drinkwater.’

  Drinkwater turned on the threshold.

  ‘The matter of the eighty thousand sterling you conveyed to the Baltic. Unfortunately His Majesty King Gustavus saw fit to impound it for his own use. It never reached the Tsar. Unhappily you will be deprived of your customary percentage . . .’ Drinkwater recalled his promise to his men, but Barrow had not yet finished with him.

  ‘One wonders, if it had reached Alexander as intended, whether he might not have remained faithful to the alliance. Good day, Captain.’

  Half choking with anger Drinkwater stepped out into the corridor.

  August 1807

  Copenhagen

  Admiral Gambier’s fleet of over three hundred men-of-war and transports lay at anchor off the village of Vedboek. To the west of the anchored ships, amid the low wooded hills and red-roofed villages of the island of Zealand, an expeditionary force of the British Army and King’s German Legion advanced on the Danish capital of Copenhagen. Field howitzers were already bomb
arding the city’s defences and the thunder of the cannonade, the whistling of the arcing shells and the violent concussions of the exploding carcasses could be heard miles away.

  In accordance with his instructions the army commander, Lord Cathcart, had demanded the surrender of the Danish fleet in exchange for an annual payment to be made for as long as was necessary. The Danes had refused the terms, voluntarily submitting their capital to bombardment rather than their honour with their ships.

  When darkness fell the night was bright with the traces of shell-fire, and over Copenhagen the dense pall of smoke rose into the sky, its billowing under-belly orange with reflected flame.

  A few days later the rape of the Danish fleet was completed, and Admiral Gambier sailed homewards with his prizes.

  Author’s Note

  The means by which the British Government learned of the secret articles of the Treaty of Tilsit remains a mystery to this day. Whilst historians may speculate upon probabilities, the novelist enjoys the greater freedom of exploring possibilities. Nevertheless I have tried not to abuse this privilege and have spun my yarn with the few known facts.

  The most likely contender for the role of the spy beneath the raft is Colin Alexander Mackenzie, a known British agent who had seen service in the Russian army and was a good linguist. A century after the event his family revealed his close connection with the incident (English Historical Review, Vol. XVII, p. 110, 1902). Although this is inconclusive, Canning’s steadfast refusal to name his source does suggest a vulnerable individual who remained at large in a suddenly hostile Russia. But Mackenzie was known to the Tsar, and dined with Alexander when he entertained Talleyrand. He may, therefore, have been too conspicuous to have been the actual eavesdropper, though he knew all about it. Circumstantial evidence of his possible arrival in London is not confirmed, but is put after 16 July, when Canning wrote his instructions to Gambier and Cathcart for the attack on Copenhagen. Talleyrand himself may have supplied some information, for his betrayal of Napoleon dates from Tilsit, and he occupied the Foreign Ministry of France throughout the transition from Napoleonic to Bourbon rule in 1815, when the French copy of the treaty is alleged to have disappeared. However, he was not under the raft, nor were any of the other Britons known to have been in Russia at the time, such as Lords Leveson-Gower and Hutchinson, Robert Wilson or Dr Wylie, who were kept at a discreet distance.