Ebb Tide (23 page)

When they had tacked off the breakwaters and stood back to the westwards, they found that the French gunners in the battery had shifted their attention to the brig-sloop. As they went about, the commander of the brig-sloop, seeing that the cutter was not French and running for shelter in to Calais, also tacked, frustrating the French gunners. Both vessels now stood clear of the coast, with
Kestrel
overhauling the brig.

Drinkwater closed his glass with a snap.
'Adder,
mounting eighteen guns,' he announced. As they surged up under the brig's quarter, Drinkwater saw her young commander at the starboard hance raise his speaking-trumpet.

'Cutter, 'hoy, what ship? You are not answering the private signal!'

Frey looked at Drinkwater and Drinkwater said simply, 'You are in command, Mr Frey.'

Frey handed the tiller over to the boatswain and went to the rail, cupping his hands about his mouth.

'Hired cutter
Kestrel,
Lieutenant Frey commanding, under special orders. We have no signal books but I have Captain Drinkwater aboard,' Frey added, to avoid being taken under the sloop-commander's orders. 'Have you seen any French men-of-war?'

'Who d'ye say is on board?'

'Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater ...'

Ask him who his commander is,' Drinkwater prompted.

'... Who desires to know who commands the
Adder.'

'I am John Wykeham. As to your question, there are three corvettes in Boulogne, but heave to, if you please, I have something to communicate to Captain Drinkwater.'

'You had better do as he asks, Mr Frey'

'Very well, Captain Wykeham. I shall come to the wind in your lee.'

Half an hour later the young Commander Wykeham clambered aboard
Kestrel
and looked curiously about him. Frey met him with a salute. The two men were of an age.

'May I introduce you to Captain Drinkwater, sir ...'

The two men shook hands. 'I thought I was to be the only cruiser on the station, sir,' Wykeham said.

'Is that what you came to say?' Drinkwater asked.

'Not at all, it is just that your presence is something of a surprise, sir. And, forgive me for saying so, but your cutter is somewhat lightly armed for so advanced a post.'

Drinkwater smiled. 'She is a private yacht, sir, on hire for Government service, but come below, Commander Wykeham, and let us discuss what troubles you over a glass.'

Once in the tiny cabin with charged glasses, Wykeham asked, 'Your special Government service, sir ...'

'Yes?'

'Does it have anything to do with a Russian officer?'

Drinkwater was quite unable to disguise his astonishment. After mastering his surprise he replied, 'Well, as a matter of fact, yes. Do you know of such a person?'

'I have a Russian officer on board. He came off to me by fishing-boat the day before yesterday. Speaks broken English, but excellent French, a language in which I have some ability. I gather he was caught in Paris by the return of Bonaparte and failed to get out in time.
Cherchez la femme,
I think. How did you know about him?'

'I had a message about him,' Drinkwater said obscurely, adding to mollify the obvious curiosity in the young commander's eyes, 'I have long had dealings of this sort with the enemy coast.'

'Ah, I see.'

Drinkwater smiled. 'I doubt whether you do, but your discretion does you credit. What is this fellow's name?'

'He claims to be a colonel, Colonel Ostroff. An officer of cossacks, or irregular horse. Is he your man?'

'I rather think he might be,' Drinkwater replied, his heart beating uncomfortably, 'but tell me something of the circumstances by which he made contact with you.'

Wykeham shrugged. 'I have been poking my nose in and out of Calais and Boulogne this past fortnight. My orders are to ensure no French men-o'-war escape to harry our shipping crossing to Ostend and if anything of force emerges either to engage or, if of superior force, to run across to Deal, make a signal to that effect, then chase until help arrives. Well, the evening before last, we were approached by a fishing-boat with which we had had some contact a few days earlier. Actually we paid good English gold for some
langoustines,
and I thought the avaricious buggers had come back for more, until, that is, they fished this Russkie lobster out of the hold. Green as grass he was,' Wykeham recollected, laughing. 'He asked for a passage to England, said he would pay his way and that he had been cut off in Paris and had only escaped to the coast by the skin of his teeth. Muttered something about bearing diplomatic papers.' Wykeham shrugged. 'I had no reason not to rescue the poor devil, so I took him aboard. He was anxious to be landed, but I told him he would have to wait. He was most indignant, but now fortunately you have arrived.'

'Well,' said Drinkwater, 'I can take him off your hands and leave the station to you.'

'That would be very satisfactory,' said Wykeham, rising, 'I shall send him over directly'

Drinkwater followed Wykeham on deck and stood apprehensively as the brig's boat bobbed back over the waves and ran alongside. Fishing out his glass he levelled it and watched a figure, dressed in a sober coat and beaver, clamber down into it, whereupon the boat shoved off and headed back towards them. Drinkwater's heart thumped uncomfortably in his breast. He had a dreadful feeling of chickens coming home to roost, and his knees knocked, making him foolishly vulnerable to an indiscretion. He made an effort to pull himself together, but found himself in the grip of a visceral terror he had never before experienced.

CHAPTER 9
Colonel Ostroff

April 1815

Paralysis gripped Drinkwater as he watched the boat approach. He was robbed of the capacity to think, and stood like a loon, as though his brother's return automatically meant the ruin he had so greatly feared. He might, he thought afterwards, have acted in such a way as to bring ruin upon himself had not he recalled, quite inconsequentially to begin with, that this supposed stranger allegedly spoke poor English. He did, however, speak good French and that fact called for an interpreter. The presence of Jago would act as a brake upon any precipitate action the impetuous Edward might take. Drinkwater turned and called forward, 'Pass word for Jago to lay aft!'

Then he said to Frey, 'Send this man below with Jago, I'll interview him in the cabin. You may set course for Harwich.' 'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater hurried below, seated himself in the cabin and endeavoured to compose himself. A few moments later, with a clattering of feet on the narrow companionway, Jago led the newcomer into the cabin.

'Pray sit down, sir,' Drinkwater said coldly, waving to the bench settee that ran along the forward bulkhead as Jago rendered the invitation into French. Time had not been entirely kind to his brother and there was a moment when Drinkwater thought they might have got the wrong man. A wide scar ran across his cheek and bit deep into the left side of the nose. Unlike his elder brother, Edward seemed to have lost much hair.

'Ask him his name, Jago.' The exchange revealed the stranger to be Colonel the Count d'Ostroff, of the Guard Cossacks, lately in Paris on the staff of Prince Vorontzoff.

'He asks for a pail, sir. Feeling sick.'

'You'd better get one.'

The gloom of the cabin after the daylight on deck clearly caused 'Ostroff' some difficulty in seeing his interlocutor, but the moment Jago had gone, he leaned forward and peered into Drinkwater's face. 'It is Captain Drinkwater, isn't it?' he asked with a low urgency.

'I am Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, yes.'

'Don't you recognize me?' A touch of alarm infected the man's voice, which betrayed a trace of accent.

'Yes...'

'Nat, I must talk to you.' 'Ostroff' swallowed hard, his face pallid, his eyes intense.

'Help me at least by maintaining this fiction until we reach Harwich,' Drinkwater said coolly.

'No! You cannot leave the French coast...'

'I understand', Drinkwater said in a loud voice, overriding his brother as Jago and the bucket noisily descended the companionway, 'that you speak a little English.'

But the Colonel had no time to confirm or deny this. Instead he grabbed the bucket from Jago's hand and vomited copiously into it. As his head emerged he turned it to one side and, between gasps for breath, let out a stream of French. The only words Drinkwater recognized, and which seemed to be repeated with emphasis, were '
très important'.

'He says, sir, that it is very important that you do not leave the coast. He says there are three people ashore who must be taken aboard before they are killed.'

'Did he ask Commander Wykeham of the
Adder
to bring them off?' The question was relayed and the Colonel nodded his head. 'And what did Commander Wykeham say?'

Drinkwater waited. It was a foolish question, he realized, but Edward was equal to the occasion, even though he was suffering. 'He, that's Commander Wykeham, did not seem to understand, he says, sir. That's why he, the Colonel here ... Do I call him the Colonel or the Count, sir?'

'Let's stick to Colonel, Jago.'

'Very good, sir. Well, that's why the Colonel came across to us so obligingly, sir. Thought we'd be an easier touch.'

'Yes, thank you, Jago.' Drinkwater caught Edward's eye and sighed. 'Who are these three fugitives? Victims of the change of government?'

The Colonel nodded and set the bucket down beside him. 'I speak good English,' he said, looking at Jago, 'I can speak directly to your captain, thank you.'

Jago turned from one officer to the other with an astonished expression on his face. 'Well, God bless my soul,' Drinkwater said hurriedly. 'I think you may go then, Jago. I'm obliged for your help.'

'Will you be all right, sir?' asked Jago, looking suspiciously at the Colonel.

'I think even I can defend myself against a seasick man, Jago, thank you.'

Jago withdrew with an obvious and extravagant reluctance. As he disappeared, Drinkwater held up his hand. 'The rules of engagement', he said in a low voice, 'are that you call me "Captain" and I refer to you as "Colonel". Now, I have news for you, your mistress is dead.' Edward's mouth fell open, then he retched again, a pitiful picture of personal misery of the most intense kind. Drinkwater felt a sudden wave of sympathy for his visitor, that instinct of protection of the older for the younger. Averting his face, he pressed on. 'It is only by the greatest good fortune for you that she died almost on my doorstep, otherwise you would have had to consign yourself to the ministrations of Commander Wykeham ...'

'Mon Dieu ...La pauvre
Hortense ... How did it...? I mean ...' Edward raised his unhappy, sweating face from the wooden bucket, all thoughts of Commander Wykeham far from his mind. A pathetic tear ran down his furrowed cheek and Drinkwater guessed he was near the end of his tether.

'You sent her off at a terrible risk...'

'No! It was she who insisted on sailing in that damned
chasse marée
; insisted it would be all right, that she could contact you ... The bloody skipper promised he knew the English coast like the back of his hand.'

'Well, that's as may be. The lugger was dashed to pieces upon a shoal,' Drinkwater persisted. 'Hortense was washed up dead on the beach not far from my home, between the Martello towers at Shingle Street. We found her the next morning. She has been buried... Well, never mind about that now. I am sorry, I had no idea you knew her.'

Edward shook his head and wiped his eyes. 'Damnation, Nat...'

'Stop that!' Drinkwater snapped, 'Don't let your damned guard down! Not yet!' He veered away from the personal. There would be time to rake over their respective lives later. 'These confounded fugitives, I have no wish to appear inhuman, but what the devil have they to do with me?'

'If the Bonapartists get hold of them they will probably be shot.'

Drinkwater sighed. 'A lot of people have been shot in the last twenty-odd years, Colonel. I had the dubious honour of escorting King Louis back to his country a year ago. It seems our labours were in vain. From what I hear, the Bourbons did little to endear themselves to their subjects and those who support them deserve little sympathy ...'

'These are not Bourbon courtiers, Captain,' Edward said, pulling himself together and speaking rapidly. 'They are the Baroness de Sarrasin and her two children, aged nine and ten. The Baroness was born into a liberal but impoverished noble family. She was very young during the worst excesses of the Revolution and, being a woman living in the remote countryside, escaped the worst. Later she married an officer in the army. He too was of noble blood, an é
migré
who returned when Napoleon invited the nobility back to France to join the army. He served Bonaparte with distinction and was created a Baron of the Empire, but last year he was on Marshal Marmont's staff and...' Edward shrugged.

'And?' Drinkwater prompted.

'You do not know what Marmont did?'

'Should I?'

'Marmont surrendered his entire Army Corps before Paris, precipitating the fall of Napoleon. The Baroness's husband was implicated in the capitulation and she is consequentially tainted as a result of
his
involvement. The loyalties of all members of the family have, as I believe you know, been confused and inconstant.'

'As
I
know?' Drinkwater queried with a frown. 'How should I know about this Baroness de Sarrasin and her family?'

'Since her husband's disgrace she has reverted to using her maiden name. The officer she married was named Montholon...'

Drinkwater frowned. 'Montholon! But that was Hortense's maiden name. So, he is Hortense's brother?'

'Was
her brother. He was mysteriously killed while out riding soon after Napoleon reached Paris. The Baroness and her children were hidden by friends. You have to help her!'

'Have to?
Is she your lifeline now?'