Baltic Mission (16 page)

‘Boat's returning,' said Rogers, recalling Fraser from his unsolved abstraction.

‘Yes,' said Drinkwater peering through his glass. Beside Quilhampton in the cutter was another figure who seemed, by his gesticulations, to be arguing.

‘Damnation,' muttered Drinkwater, ‘trouble.'

‘Capten, I protest much! Goddam you English! Vy you stop my ship?'

‘Because you are carrying a cargo proscribed by the Orders in Council of His Majesty King George, to the port of Antwerp which is invested by ships of King George's Royal Navy.'

Drinkwater studied the papers Quilhampton had brought him, then looked up at the Danish master. ‘The matter admits little argument, sir; Anvers, Antwerpen, Antwerp, 'tis all the same to me.' He held up the papers and quoting from them read, ‘
Der Schiff
Birthe,
Captain Nielsen, von Grenaa, Dantzig vor Antwerpen
 . . . your cargo is, er, sawn timber, flax turpentine. They make excellent deals in Dantzig, Captain, and with such deals they make excellent ships at Antwerpen. About a dozen men o' war a year, I believe.'

‘And vot vili you do now, eh, Capten English?'

‘Detain you; sir,' Drinkwater said, folding the
Birthe
's papers and tucking them in his tail-pocket, ‘and send you in as a prize.'

‘A prize!
Å for helvede
!'

‘To be condemned in due form according to the usages and customs . . .'

‘No! Goddam, no!'

Drinkwater looked at the man. He had expected anger and despised himself for hiding this unpleasant necessity behind the jumble of half-legal cant. The Danish mariner could scarcely be expected to understand it, beyond learning that he and his ship were virtually prisoners.

‘A disagreeable necessity, Captain, for both of us,' Drinkwater spread his hands in a gesture to signify helplessness. Oddly, the man seemed to be considering something. This suspicion was almost immediately confirmed when Nielsen stepped forward, taking Drinkwater by the elbow and saying in his ear:

‘Capten, ve go below and talk, yes?'

‘I think that will not be necessary.'

Nielsen's grip on his arm increased. ‘It is important . . . ver' important!' He paused then added, ‘Before Dantzig I was in Königsberg, Capten . . .' and nodded, as if this added intelligence was of some significance. Nielsen suddenly stepped back and gave a grave nod to Drinkwater. Frowning, Drinkwater suspected he was to be made a bribe, but something in the man's face persuaded him to take the matter seriously. After all, Königsberg was a Prussian port and Dantzig now a French one. Was Nielsen trying to placate him with some news?

‘Mr Rogers, take the deck. Watch our friend carefully. Mr Fraser, this man wants to talk to me privately. I'd be obliged if you'd come as a witness.' And leaving the deck buzzing with speculation, Drinkwater led them below.

‘Now, sir,' he said to Nielsen the instant Fraser had closed the cabin door, ‘what is it you want?'

The Danish master put his hand up to his breast and reached under his coat.

‘If you intend to offer me money . . .'

‘Nein
 . . . not money, Capten . . . this', he drew a package from his breast, ‘is more good than money, I tink. I come from Königsberg, Capten, plenty Russians Königsberg.' He handed Drinkwater the sealed packet.

‘What the devil is it?'

‘It is, er . . .' Nielsen searched for a word, ‘. . . er, secret, Capten . . . for London from Russia . . . for many times I, Frederic Nielsen, carry the secret paper for you English.'

Drinkwater turned the package over suspiciously. ‘You intended taking this where? To Antwerp?' Drinkwater fixed the Dane with his eyes, searching for the truthful answers to his questions. Any fool could wrap up an impressive bundle of papers scribbled in a supposed ‘cipher' and try it as a ruse. ‘Together with your cargo for the French, eh, Captain. Is that how you trade first with Königsberg and then with Dantzig, eh?'

Nielsen shrugged. ‘A man must live, Capten . . . but yes. To Antwerpen. In two days from Antwerpen it can be to London – by Helvoetsluys or Vlissingen – who know? This is not for me. I only make my ship go ver' fast.' He shrugged again. ‘Now it is stop by you.'

‘Are you paid?'

‘Yes.'

‘How?'

Nielsen hesitated, reluctant to admit his private affairs. He looked first at Drinkwater then at Fraser. He found comfort in neither face. ‘How?' Drinkwater repeated and Fraser stirred menacingly.

‘Ven the paper to London, den is money made to me, to Hamburg.'

Drinkwater considered for a moment. ‘If I undertake to deliver this, will you get your money?'

A look of alarm crossed Nielsen's face.

‘Have a look at the thing, sir,' said Fraser, unable to remain silent any longer. ‘He's trying to get you to let his cargo through on the pretext o' this cock-and-bull story.'

‘What is the news in here, Captain Nielsen?' Drinkwater tapped the packet.

Again Nielsen shrugged. ‘I do not know. Is some good news for London I hear at Dantzig.'

‘Good news! At Dantzig?'

‘Yes. French have battle at Heilsberg. Russian ver' good.'

Drinkwater frowned. ‘You say the Russians beat the French at Heilsberg?'

Nielsen nodded. Drinkwater made up his mind, turned to the table and picked up the pen-knife lying there.

‘No, Capten, I tell good, if you cut paper I not get money!
Gott!
'

It was too late. Drinkwater had slit the heavy sealing on the outer, oiled paper and unfolded the contents. They consisted of several sheets of handwriting at the top of which was a prefix of seven digits. The message was meaningless in any language and was either in cipher or an imitation cipher. Drinkwater looked up at Nielsen.

‘Any damned fool could write a few pages of gibberish,' said
Drinkwater. He lifted the final sheet. At the bottom was a signature of sorts. At least it was a series of signs in the place one would write a signature. They seemed to be in Cyrillic script whereas the body of the thing was in Roman handwriting; Drinkwater could make nothing of them, but then his eye fell on something else that stirred a memory of something Colonel Wilson had said. When he had mentioned Mackenzie, the British agent to whom he should offer assistance, he had also spoken of a Russian officer, a lieutenant whose name he had forgotten. Were those Cyrillic letters this man's signature? Both men used a cryptogramic code, Wilson had said, and both sent their reports to Joseph Devlieghere, Merchant of Antwerpen. He did not have to recall the Flemish name: it was written at the bottom of the page.

‘Capten, if you take my ship prize, you make London ver' angry. Frederic Nielsen help you English . . .'

‘For money!' said Fraser contemptuously.

‘No!' Nielsen was angry himself now and turned on Fraser. ‘Why you not to trust Nielsen, eh? You English not like business of oder people! Only for English it is good. Yes! But I tell you, Capten,' here he rounded on Drinkwater, ‘if Nielsen not bring paper, sometimes London not know what happen in Russia, Sweden an' oder place. You English send gold . . . much gold . . . but not keep it good . . . Ha! ha! Ver' funny! You English crazy! You lose much gold but stop poor Frederic Nielsen to take some deals to Antwerpen . . . bah!'

Drinkwater had only the haziest notion of what Nielsen meant and was only paying partial attention to the Danish master for there was something else about the papers he held that was odd; not merely odd but profoundly disquieting. Something had tripped a subconscious mechanism of his memory. Now he wanted Nielsen and Fraser out of his cabin.

‘Take Captain Nielsen on deck, Mr Fraser. I want a moment to reflect.'

‘Don't be misled by such a trick, sir,' Fraser said anxiously.

‘Cut along, Mr Fraser,' Drinkwater said with sudden asperity, waiting impatiently for the two men to leave him alone. When they had gone he sat and stared at the document. But he could not be certain and gradually the beating of his heart subsided. He cursed himself for a fool and began to fold the letter, then thought better of it and opened his table drawer, drew out journal, pen-case and ink-well. Very carefully he copied into the margin of his journal the strange exotic letters of the document's ‘signature': NC
AH
.

Then he stowed the things away again, stuffed Nielsen's dispatch into the breast of his coat, strode to the cabin door and took the quarterdeck ladder two steps at a time.

‘Mr Rogers!'

‘Sir?'

‘Be so kind as to have Captain Nielsen returned to his ship.' Drinkwater turned to the Dane. ‘Captain, I apologise for detaining you.' He handed the dispatch back. ‘You must re-seal it and please tell Mynheer Devlieghere the news of the defeat at . . .'

‘Heilsberg,' offered Nielsen, visibly brightening.

‘Yes. Heilsberg. Good voyage and I hope you have good news soon from Hamburg.'

Nielsen's face split in a grin and he held out a stubby hand. ‘T'ank you Capten. You English are not too much friend with Denmark, but this,' he wagged the dispatch in the air, ‘this is good news, yes.' He strode to the rail where a puzzled Quilhampton waited.

‘You are not going to let the bugger go are you?' asked Rogers with some of his wonted fire, seeing a plum prize slipping once again beyond his grasp.

‘Yes, Mr Rogers,' said Drinkwater, fixing the first lieutenant with a cautionary eye, ‘for reasons ofstate . . .' Then he turned to the master. ‘Mr Hill, be so kind as to resume our course for Königsberg when the boat returns,' he said and added, by way of a partial explanation, ‘we must investigate the nature of a French defeat at a place called Heilsberg.'

‘Aye, aye, sir,' replied the imperturbable Hill.

‘And Mr Mount?'

‘Sir?'

‘Can we locate Heilsberg on that atlas of yours?'

‘I should hope so, sir,' said the marine officer with enthusiasm as Drinkwater led him below.

Lieutenant Rogers strode to the lee rail and watched the boat pulling back towards
Antigone
.

‘Reasons of state!' he hissed under his breath, and spat disgustedly to leeward as the Danish barque made sail.

‘No, Mr Rogers, no wine, I beg you.' Lallo put out a restraining hand.

Rogers, his fist clamped around the neck of the decanter which he had ordered the negro messman to bring, looked from one to another of the gunroom officers. They returned his stare, watching his pale face with its faint sheen of perspiration showing in the dim light of the gunroom.

‘God damn and blast you for a set of canting Methodicals,' he said. ‘God damn and blast you all to hell,' and drawing back his arm he sent the decanter flying through the air. It smashed on the forward bulkhead and in the silence that followed they could hear Rogers's laboured breathing.

‘Mr Rogers . . .' began Fraser, but he was instantly silenced by Lallo. They watched as Rogers calmed himself. After a pause Rogers ceased to glare at them all, picked up his knife and fork and addressed himself to his plate. In an embarrassed silence the others dutifully followed suit. For fifteen minutes no one said a word and then Rogers, flinging down his utensils, rose from the table and stumped out. His exit provoked a broadside of expelled breath.