Under False Colours (21 page)

Drinkwater's relief was short-lived. The carriage swung round a corner and jerked to an abrupt halt. The door was flung open and they were ordered out.

'Regardez-là, messieurs
,' the non-commissioned officer said, leaning from his creaking saddle.

They stood at the entrance of a courtyard. It was lit by flaring torches set in sconces and seemed to be full of soldiers, infantrymen under the command of an elderly, white haired captain who was tucking a written order inside his shako before putting it on.

'What the devil ...?' Gilham began, but Drinkwater cut him short, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. Far from feeling faint, the greatest fear of all had seized him and he felt a strong impulse to run.

'It's a firing party!' he hissed in Gilham's ear. A word of command and the milling rabble of soldiers lined up in two files. A moment later a man was led out from an adjacent doorway. It was Johannes.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater swore. He wanted to move, to do something, but his legs would not respond and he watched helplessly as a bag was pulled down over Johannes's wildly staring eyes. He saw the young man's legs buckle, heard the muffled screams as he was dragged to the wall. With the ease of practice Johannes's trussed hands were tied to a ring bolt in the masonry and the boy fell forward in a faint. The double file of fusiliers raised their loaded muskets on the captain's command and a volley rang out, echoing round and round the courtyard as the body of Johannes slumped downwards. Pulling a torch from a sconce the white haired captain walked forward and leaned over the boy's shattered body. Casually he emptied a pistol into the left ear. A surgeon came forward; Drinkwater and Gilham were ushered back to the carriage. As they climbed in and the door was shut, Gilham echoed Drinkwater's own thoughts.

'Poor fellow. For a moment I thought that was for us.'

They sat in silence for a while, the death of Johannes and their part in it weighing heavily upon them.

'That was because of the sugar, wasn't it?' remarked Gilham, seeking some quieting justification for his conscience.

'Yes, I believe so,' muttered Drinkwater.

'It allowed that bugger Thiebault to clear his own yardarm,' Gilham went on. 'Which was what he was doing with all that jabbering to Monseigneur What's-his-name, eh?'

'Yes, I imagine so ...'

'Sacrificed that poor young devil to save his own skin.'

'I do not think,' said Drinkwater, slowly recovering himself, 'that whilst Marshal Davout would turn a blind eye to the military stores, he could countenance the sugar. It was too blatant a breach of the Emperor's proscription of British imports.' He paused. Gilham's face was no more than a pale blur in the darkness that had come with moonset and an overcast sky promising more snow. 'I am surprised a man of

Davout's stamp did not have us shot out of hand too. I think Thiebault must have pleaded for us ...'

'You think we are out of danger, then?'

'I think you are, Captain, but as for myself, I am not so sure.'

'Why ever not?'

'It is probably best that you do not ask that question. I will answer it only by saying that your association with me places you in the greatest danger.'

'What on earth are you talking about?'

'I sincerely wish I could tell you, Gilham, but prudence dictates that I hold my tongue at least for a little longer. What you are ignorant of cannot be held against you. The example of Johannes might have been intended to warn the people of Hamburg against obtaining sugar, but we were made to witness it as a warning to ourselves. No doubt His Excellency the Marshal considers his act magnanimous ...'

'But I ... oh, very well,' Gilham said before lapsing into a perplexed silence.

Opposite him, Drinkwater strove to order the chaos of his thoughts. There was no doubt about the accuracy of Gilham's assessment of Thiebault's conduct. He had indeed 'cleared his own yardarm' and sacrificed Johannes to satisfy the Marshal's notion of loyalty to the Emperor's edicts. Davout's clemency to both himself and the British shipmasters had been purchased along with the Northampton boots. The profit and loss of that account was a matter between Littlewood, Liepmann, Thiebault and the minister of war in Paris, but possibly Davout had retained his reputation for incorruptibility. What ought to have brought Drinkwater a measure of satisfaction was the clear indication that so unimpeachable and elevated a servant of the Empire as Davout was convinced that the original destination of the boots had been Russia. It made the desperate charade Drinkwater had endured in Mrs Hockley's brothel an unnecessary farce.

But he derived no consolation from these considerations, for far more disturbing were the appearances of the portrait and its subject. It was an inescapable fact that the former had come from his very own sea-chest, taken aboard His Britannic Majesty's gun-brig
Tracker
for safe-keeping. Its survival argued a case for the survival of the brig, for had the brig foundered, the chest — stowed in her hold — would have sunk with her. The only possible explanation was that
Tracker
had been captured, probably disabled in the tempest and driven ashore as
Galliwasp
had been, but on less hospitable shores.

Perhaps then, Quilhampton and Frey, Derrick and the others were still alive! He felt a surge of hope, of revitalization, kindle in his heart. If only it were true, how much of the burden would it lift from his shoulders! Surely, in a world that could disinter the portrait of Hortense Santhonax, so small a miracle was possible?

And what of her; had she recognized him? And if so, had she denounced him to Davout?

He tried to recall the strange encounter in the Rathaus. She had undoubtedly seen him, as he had seen her. He had known her not merely because he had kept her hidden likeness for years, but because he had met her, rescued her from revolutionaries and carried her safe to England, an
emigrée
refugee.

She had been exquisitely beautiful then, a proud young aristocrat, Hortense de Montholon, whose association with the equally proud republican, Edouard Santhonax, had led to their eventual marriage and the turning of her coat. She had gone back to France at the end of the Terror and been landed on the beach at Criel by Lord Dungarth and an unknown master's mate called Nathaniel Drinkwater. He thought her more beautiful in her maturity, grown stately as Republic had given way to Empire and the
parvenu
crown had need of a new aristocracy.

And now their paths had crossed again; the widow Santhonax was in Hamburg, and their eyes had met!

But she had been a prisoner!

The realization hit him like a pistol ball, so that he exclaimed out loud.

'Damn it, Waters, are you unwell?'

'I have just recalled something. Tell me Gilham, did you notice the cavalry officer who came in as we were leaving?'

'The hussar fellow with the lady? Yes, of course I did, striking pair.'

'What did you make of'em?'

'What d'you mean?'

'How did you interpret their relationship?'

'Their relationship?' Gilham asked in astonishment.

'Was there
anything
that struck you about it?'

'Well, she was brought in under constraint, like us ...'

'Precisely!' said Drinkwater, relieved the impression had not been the work of his highly charged imagination. 'She was a detainee.'

'Is that what you wanted me to say?'

'It was what I hoped you would think. She was brought under escort, and an escort of Guard chasseurs is no ordinary escort, in this very carriage ...'

'But what in heaven's name has this woman to do with us? Look, Waters, there's something damned fishy going on.' Gilham's tone of voice had changed, become guarded, suspicious. 'Why did you insist on doing all the talking back there? You were accustomed to taking a back seat, letting Littlewood jabber. I think you owe me an explanation.'

Drinkwater sighed, staring at the pale oval of Gilham's face as he leaned forward in the gloom.

'Very well,' he said resignedly. It was perhaps better to level with Gilham. There might be no time for explanations later, and Gilham seemed a cool enough fellow in his way.

'My name is not Waters, Captain Gilham. I will not worry you with such details; suffice it to know that I am a post-captain in the navy ...'

'Dear God!' Gilham fell back in his seat.

'You need not worry. Your treasonable act of selling military stores to the enemy was only achieved with the assistance of both His Majesty's navy and His diplomatic service.'

'I have been duped.'

'I suspect we have all been duped a little, in one way or another. Hardly anyone in this affair is precisely what he seems, but to keep to the point ...'

There was considerable relief in confessing things to Gilham. He felt better for the confession, felt that speaking aloud conferred a kind of existence upon his theories, delivered them from the dark womb of his turbulent mind to the harsh reality of this bitterly cold winter's night.

'It was intended to ship
Galliwasp
's cargo to Russia; you may have realized from Davout's reaction that it would have been contrary to French interests, casting suspicion on the Tsar's reliability as their ally.'

'And having failed to do that, a shipment into Hamburg in so public a manner achieved the same objective.'

'Exactly, except that the French profited from the boots.'

'But at a cost,' added Gilham, and Drinkwater could almost hear the smile in his voice.

'Aye, at a cost. You may recall Littlewood speaking of the loss of our escort.'

'The brig
Tracker
that you mentioned tonight? I wondered why that came up.'

'We thought she had foundered, but I now know her to have fallen into enemy hands.'

'How the deuce d'you know that?'

'Because beneath Davout's desk was a rolled canvas portrait. That portrait was my property, held aboard the brig with the rest of my personal effects.'

'Your wife?'

'No.' Drinkwater shifted uneasily, glad of the darkness, aware that the relief of confession came at a price. 'It was captured aboard a French frigate, the
Antigone
, years ago, when it was cut-out by the people of the brig
Hellebore
. I brought her home and subsequently commanded her. I kept the portrait as a curiosity; you see I knew the lady in my youth ... I was much struck by her ...'

'And she was the woman brought in tonight by M'sieur Moustache, eh?'

'Yes.'

'So she knows you are the spy that Davout suspected.'

'I think that is the gist of it,' Drinkwater said slowly. 'She has no reason to think well of me, though I once did her a small service.'

'She will denounce you then, if she was under detention, perhaps to gain her own freedom.' Gilham's tone was confidently matter-of-fact, as though the thing was a
fait accompli.

'Did the marshal strike you as a man to be swayed that easily?'

'He was certainly not a man who would compromise his position for a woman's blandishments, no, but if he had already made some connection between a captured portrait, a portrait in the possession of the enemy ...'

'D'you think that the finding of an old, damaged portrait would have aroused any suspicion unless the lady was well known to the discoverer, and under some suspicion already? If I told you that she was the mistress of a highly placed but disgraced French official all of whose intimates might have fallen under suspicion, would you not think the matter took a different turn and might be seen in another light?'

'It would depend on how eminent this fellow was.'

'The Emperor's former minister for Foreign Affairs?'

'
Talleyrand
?'

'Just so.'

'Whew! Then it is a coincidence she's in Hamburg?'

'No, I don't think so. The lady is here on her own or Talleyrand's account, perhaps to contact London through Helgoland. The coincidence is that
we
are in Hamburg ...'

'D'you think she will hold her tongue? About your identity?' Gilham asked anxiously.

'I think she will keep her own counsel until it suits her, which does not mean I may rely upon her silence. I imagine she might be tempted to seek a private squaring of accounts
after
she has contacted Helgoland.'

'So we must wait upon our friend Thiebault?'

'Altona is on the Elbe, Gilham, and we are both seamen.'

Gilham chuckled in the darkness and shortly afterwards the carriage drew up at the military hospital at Altona.

*

Drinkwater had thought the night could spring no more surprises on him, but he was wrong. The military hospital at Altona was a complex of long, low wooden buildings surrounding a snow covered parade ground. It was almost dawn when they arrived and a few figures were about, dark visaged men in tattered fatigues.

'Who the devil are they?' asked Gilham of nobody as they stood shivering while the chasseurs handed them over to more of the ibiquitous blue-coated infantry Napoleon had planted across the face of Europe.

A soberly dressed man hurrying past with a small bag stopped beside them.

'English, yes?'

'Yes, we are English,' announced Gilham. 'You are not French?'

'I am Spanish,
Señor
. My name is Castenada, Doctor Enrico Castenada, before in the service of the Marquis de la Romana.'

Comprehension dawned on Drinkwater. 'You were left behind when the Marquis's army was withdrawn from the Danish coast by the Royal Navy.'

'Si, señor
, that is correct.' He switched to French and said something to the guards. They shrugged and closed the gates behind the departing chasseurs.

'Come, I will take you to the English quarters,' Castenada said beckoning them to follow.

'There are other Englishmen here?'

'Si, señor
, I practise my English with them.'

They crossed the parade ground as a bugler started to blow reveille. More men appeared, most in worn, darned clothing, some wearing bandages, a few on crutches. There was something familiar about them ...