Ричард Вудмен - Baltic Mission

'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They dined at Dungarth's house in Lord North Street, the conversation muted until Dungarth's single manservant had withdrawn and left them with their port.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 Rugen 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, you were then moved by the gravity of history to send word, by Home 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 Rugen, 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.