Ричард Вудмен - Baltic Mission

Before nightfall one of the men was dead and the news spread quickly through the ship. Shortly after midnight, word had gone round the berth deck of a meeting of delegates from each mess in the cable tier. It was this disturbance that had prompted Sergeant Blixoe to action.

Quilhampton checked the priming of his pistol and belted on his sword. His anxiety at Drinkwater's absence had increased with every abuse and loss of temper that had marked Rogers's behaviour. For the last few days every motion of the ship's company had been accompanied by ferocious criticism and vitriolic scorn as Rogers continued to exercise the crew remorselessly.

Drinkwater's regime had been too lax, their performances too slow. The bosun's mates were too gentle with their starters and Rogers, in a paroxysm of rage, had grabbed the rope's end from the hand of one man and laid about him in a fury, sending the topmen scampering aloft. When he was satisfied with their performance he had brought them down again, then started the bosun's mate for 'lenience' and disrated him. Quilhampton knew Rogers was exercising considerable will-power over his craving for drink. But his ungovernable rages and transports of savage injustice had become intolerable.

He emerged from his cabin and turned forward, ducking under the men still in their hammocks. There was no sentry at the midships companionway and he stood and looked down into the cable tier. The space was capacious, but filled with the great coils of ten-inch hemp, so that the huge ropes formed miniature amphitheatres, lit by lanterns, their sides lined with thirty or forty men in vehement but whispered debate.

'But the captain ain't 'ere, for Chris' sakes ... and that blackhearted bastard'll kill more men before 'e gets back ...'

'If'e gets back...'

'If we rise, do we take 'em all?'

'Yes,' a man hissed, 'kill all the buggers, for they'll all flog you!'

'Aye, an' we're men, not fucking animals!'

'Let's act like men then!'

'Aye!'

'Aye!'

They began to stir, resolution hardening in their faces, an impression heightened by the lamplight. Quilhampton realised he had to move fast. He cocked the pistol and descended the ladder.

The silence that greeted his appearance was murderous. He stared about him, noting faces. 'This is mutinous behaviour,' he said and judging a further second's delay would lose him the initiative added, 'the Captain's due back imminently.'

'That may be too late for some of us,' a voice said from the rear. It found an echo of agreement among the men.

'Go back to your hammocks. No good can come of this.'

'Don't trust the bastard!'

Quilhampton uncocked the pistol and stuck it in his belt. 'The marines are already alerted. Mr. Mount and Mr. Fraser are awake. For all I know they've called Mr. Rogers

'We are betrayed!'

Quilhampton watched the effect of this news. Fear was clear on every man's face, for they knew that once Rogers identified them, each man present would likely die. They had only two choices now, and Quilhampton had already robbed them of their weapon of surprise.

'Get to your hammocks, and let me find this place deserted.' They remained stock still for a second, then by common consent they moved as one, slipping away in the darkness. Quilhampton waited until the last man had vanished, stepped forward into the encirclement of the cable and picked up the lantern. Reascending the companionway he walked aft. A few of the hammocks swung violently and he caught sight of a retracting leg. He ascended to the gundeck and met Lieutenant Mount. He was coming forward with his hanger drawn, his marines behind him in shirtsleeves but with their bayonets fixed. Fraser was there with the midshipmen and the master.

'James! Where the hell have you been, we've been looking for you?' Fraser asked anxiously.

'I went to check the cable tier.'

'You what?'

'Have you informed Lieutenant Rogers?'

Fraser and Mount looked at each other. It was clear they had been debating the point and had decided not to.

'Because if you have, you had better tell him it's a false alarm. The cable tier's quite empty ... except for the cables of course ...'

'This is no time to be flippant!' snapped an irritated Mount, lowering his hanger.

'This is no time to be wandering around,' said Quilhampton, with affected nonchalance. 'Good night, gentlemen!'

General Santhonax recovered consciousness aware of a great weight pressing upon his leg. His skull, sore from the pistol blow on the left-hand side of his head, now bore a second lump on his forehead where he had struck it as his horse fell. The animal was dead and it took him several minutes to assemble his thoughts. In the east the first signs of daylight streaked the sky and he recalled the urgent need for pursuit. Then, triggered off by this thought, the events of the previous night came back to him. He swore and pulled his leg painfully out from beneath the horse.

He needed another mount, and would have to go back to the horse lines of the nearest Russian cavalry regiment for one. He began unbuckling his saddle. Should he then ride on to Memel? Or was he already too late?

He paused, forcing his aching head to think. Drinkwater would be within ten miles of Memel by daylight. Pursuit was pointless, but return to Tilsit risked disgrace or worse.

Dawn showed the road ahead of him, a thin ribbon beside the grey shimmer of the Nieman, with only an early peasant and an oxcart upon it. The devil alone knew how he could face the Emperor again, for it was certain his absence would have been noticed. A furious anger began to boil within him — he had been outwitted and by his old antagonist Drinkwater, of all people!

He had forgotten how many times their paths had crossed. He only recalled in his bitterness that he had twice passed up the opportunity to kill the man. How he regretted that leniency now! Napoleon's secret would be in London as fast as Drinkwater's frigate could carry it and she was, as Santhonax had cause to know, a fast ship. He smote his saddle in his frustration and then calmed himself and resolved on the only course now open to him. His anger was replaced by the desperate courage of absolute necessity. Dragging himself to his feet, Santhonax turned his footsteps back towards Tilsit.

It was mid-morning when Drinkwater reached Memel. His horse was blown and he slid to the cobbles of the quay, his legs buckling beneath him. The flesh of his thighs was raw and his whole body was racked with an unbelievable agony. He had covered fifty-odd miles in twelve hours and almost certainly outrun pursuit. He had no idea what had become of Mackenzie beyond knowing that he had thwarted Santhonax by some means. Pain made him lightheaded and he sat for a moment in the sunshine of early morning, mastering himself and trying to think clearly. Whatever had happened to Mackenzie or Walmsley his own task was clear enough. Standing unsteadily he walked along the quay, looking down at the boats tied alongside. An occasional fisherman mended nets. None looked in condition to sail imminently. Only one man stared up at him, a broad-faced man with a stubby pipe who smiled and nodded.

Drinkwater felt in his pocket and his fist closed on some coins. He drew them out and pantomimed his wishes. The man frowned, repeating the gestures of pointing, first at Drinkwater, then at himself and then a quick double gesture at the deck of his boat and then the horizon. He seemed to ask a question and Drinkwater thought he heard the word 'English': he nodded furiously, pointing again at himself and then directly at the horizon.

Comprehension linked them and Drinkwater held out the gold for the man to see. There was a pause in the negotiation, then the man agreed and beckoned Drinkwater down onto the deck. Sliding back a small hatch, he called below, and a moment later a younger version of the fisherman appeared. Drinkwater made himself useful casting off and tallied on a halliard, within minutes they had hoisted sail and were moving seawards.