Ричард Вудмен - Baltic Mission

'Why, you're not Ostroff! That's a French uniform!'

'Oui, M’sieur, and who are you?' Walmsley felt the cold touch of a pistol muzzle at his chin. 'Come, quickly, or I'll kill you!'

Walmsley was trembling with fear. 'M ... midshipman, British navy!'

With this information Santhonax realised the extent of his own failure to keep the Emperor's secret.

'You are not wearing the uniform of a British midshipman, boy! Where are your white collar-patches? What the hell are you doing here?'

'I was acting under orders ... attending my captain ...' 'What captain? Where is your ship?'

Walmsley swallowed. 'I surrender my person... as a prisoner of war...'

'Answer, boy!' The pistol muzzle poked up harder under Walmsley's trembling chin. 'My frigate is off Memel.'

'And the captain?' asked Santhonax, lowering his pistol and casting an eye for a suitable horse. Walmsley sensed reprieve.

'Captain Drinkwater, of the Antigone, sir,' he said in a relieved tone.

Santhonax swung his face back to his prisoner and let out a low oath. 'You are a spy, boy ...'

Walmsley tried to twist away as Santhonax brought up the pistol and squeezed the trigger. The ball shattered the midshipman's skull and he fell amid the straw and horse dung.

Among the rearing and frightened animals Santhonax grabbed Walmsley's saddled horse and led it through the doorway, then mounted and dug his spurs into the animal's sides. The terrified horse lunged forward and Santhonax tugged its head in the direction of the road to Memel.

The two Emperors sat at the head of an array of tables that glittered with silver and crystal. The assembled company was peacock-gaudy with the military of three nations. The sober Prussians, humiliated by the indifference of Napoleon and the implied slight to their beautiful queen, were dour and miserable, while Russians and French sought to outdo one another in the lavishness of their uniforms and the extravagance of their toasts.

General Bennigsen, still smarting from the Tsar's rebuke, sat next to the King of Prussia whose exclusion from the secret talks had stung him to the quick. His lovely Queen displayed a forced vivacity to the two Emperors, who sat like demi-gods.

'She is,' Napoleon confided slyly to the Tsar, 'the finest woman in the whole of Prussia, is she not?'

Alexander, beguiled and charmed by his former enemy, delighted at the outcome of the discussions which gave him a free hand in Finland and Turkey, agreed. The man he had until today regarded as a parvenu now fascinated him. Napoleon had shown Alexander a breadth of vision equalling his own, a mind capable of embracing the most liberal and enlightened principles, yet knowing the value of compulsion in forcing those measures upon the dark, half-witted intelligence of the mass of common folk.

'I hope,' Napoleon's voice said at his side, 'that you are pleased with today's proceedings?'

Alexander turned to Napoleon and smiled his fixed, courtly and slightly vacant smile. 'The friendship between France and Russia,' he said to his neighbour, 'has long been my most cherished dream.'

Napoleon smiled in return. 'Your Majesty shows a profound wisdom in these matters,' he said and Alexander inclined his head graciously at this arrant flattery.

Napoleon regarded the banquet and the numerous guests, his quick mind noting a face here and there. Suddenly his benign expression clouded over. He leaned back and beckoned an aide. Nodding to a vacant place on a lower table he asked the young officer, 'Where is General Santhonax?'

Drinkwater clung to his mount with increasing desperation. He was no horseman and the animal's jerking trot jolted him from side to side so that he gasped for breath and at every moment felt that he would fall. It was years since he had ridden, and want of practice now told heavily against him. The thought of the long journey back to Memel filled him with horror.

Equally anxious, Mackenzie looked back every few yards, partly to see if Drinkwater was still in the saddle, partly to see if they were pursued.

As they left the town and found themselves surrounded by the bivouacs of the Russian army they passed camp-fire after camp-fire round which groups of men played cards, drank and smoked their foul tobacco tubes. There were other travellers on the road, officers making their way to the celebrations at Tilsit; but the news of peace had removed all necessity for caution and the horsemen continued unopposed along the Memel road.

At last they drew away from the encampments. It was dark but the sky had cleared, and a silver crescent of moon gave a little light, showing the dusty highway as a pale stripe across the rolling countryside. As Drinkwater jogged uncomfortably in his saddle it occurred to him that as he became accustomed to the horse, he became less able to capitalise on his improvement, for his buttocks and inner thighs became increasingly sore.

Drinkwater grunted with pain as they rode on, passing through a village. The road was deserted but the noise of shouting, clapping and a guitar came from its inn. A few miles beyond the village Mackenzie looked back at his lagging companion. What he saw made him rein in his horse. They were in open countryside now.

The Nieman gleamed a pistol shot away, reflecting the stars, and the road lay deserted before them.

Drinkwater looked up as he saw Mackenzie stop and heard him swear.

'I'm doing my damndest...' 'It's not that... Look!'

Drinkwater pulled his horse up and turned. A man was pursuing them, his horse kicking up a pale cloud of dust, just discernible in the gloom.

'Santhonax!'

'Can you remember the content of Ostroff's report?' Mackenzie asked sharply. 'Of course ...'

'Then ride on ... go ... get back to your ship. I'll do what I can to stop him, but do not under any circumstances stop!' 'But you? What will you do?'

'I'll manage ... get to London overland, Captain, bringing your midshipman with me, but you go now!' And Mackenzie brought an impatient hand down on the rump of Drinkwater's horse.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater lost the reins and grabbed the animal's mane, his sore knees pressed desperately inwards against the saddle. He dared not look back but he heard the pistol shots, and the image of Santhonax still in hot pursuit kept him riding through the night as if all the devils in hell were on his tail.

Lieutenant James Quilhampton lay rigid and awake in the darkness. The scratching sound came again, accompanied by a sibilant hiss. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and, crouching, pressed his ear against the cabin door.

'Who is it?'

'Frey, sir.'

Quilhampton opened the cabin door and drew the boy inside. He was in shirt and breeches, a pale ghost in the darkness. 'What the devil d'you want?'

'Sergeant Blixoe sent me, sir. Roused me out and sent me to wake you and the other lieutenant. He says there's a combination of two score of men in the cable tier. They're murmuring, sir ... after the day's events ...'

Quilhampton began tearing off his nightshirt. 'Get Mr. Fraser and Mr. Mount, quickly now, while I dress, no noise ... then double below and tell Blixoe to call out all his men!'

He began to dress, cursing Rogers. The first lieutenant had flogged two men the previous day with the thieves' cat. Their offences were common and had not warranted such severity. One had neglected his duty, the other was judged guilty of insolence towards an officer. What made the event significant was that the man who had not jumped to his allotted task with sufficient alacrity to satisfy Rogers had not done so because he had been flogged for drunkenness only the previous day. This circumstance had sown a seed of genuine grievance among men whose usual tolerance of the navy's rough and summary justice had been overstretched during Rogers's brief tenure of command. The surgeon's claim that the man was not fit to receive punishment had encouraged a seaman to speak up in support of the protest and he had been judged guilty of insolence by an infuriated Rogers.