Baltic Mission (22 page)

‘You say the bridge is down?'

Santhonax stepped forward beside the Emperor. ‘That is so, Sire, but there are boats and barges, and the transit of the river is not difficult.'

‘And you are certain that Alexander seeks an armistice, eh?'

‘That is what I was led to believe, Sire.'

The Emperor hung his head for a moment in thought. At the end of the table Berthier stopped writing, pushed aside a paper and sat poised, as though sensing his master was about to dictate new movements to the Grand Army. A silence hung in the long, low room, disturbed only by the scratching of the secretaries' pens and the buzzing of a pair of flies in the small window of the inn, for the June heat was oppressive.

‘Very well!' The Emperor made up his mind and began to pace again, more rapidly than before. Santhonax stepped back to make way for him.

‘Write, Berthier, write! The town of Tilsit is to be declared a neutral zone. On the acceptance of our terms by the Tsar, orders are to be passed to the advance units of the Grand Army that have already crossed the Nieman, that they are to retire behind the line of that river. An armistice is to be declared. General Lariboissière of the Engineers is to requisition boats and to construct a pontoon or raft surmounted by pavilions, two in number, one to accommodate their Imperial Majesties, the other their staffs.' The Emperor paused and looked at Santhonax.

‘It is fortunate, General, that you were formerly a frigate-captain. We shall put your maritime expertise to good account.' Napoleon smiled, as if pleased at some private joke, then he addressed himself to Berthier again. ‘General Santhonax is to liaise with General Lariboissière as to the method of mooring this raft in midstream and to be responsible for the complete security and secrecy of the meeting between ourself and the Tsar.'

The Emperor swung suddenly round on Santhonax and his eyes were ice-cold.

‘Is that clearly understood, my General? Secret, utterly secret.'

‘Perfectly, Sire.'

‘The Russian court is a sink of iniquitous intrigue, General Santhonax, a fact which should be uppermost in your mind.' The
Emperor's mood had mellowed again; he seemed suddenly in an almost boyish good humour.

‘Of course, Sire,' replied Santhonax dutifully.

‘Very good! Now you may show in this Russian popinjay and let us set about the wooing of Alexander!'

Captain Drinkwater woke from a deep sleep confused and disoriented. For several moments he did not know where he was. The unfamiliar smell of his bedding, the white-washed ceiling and the chirruping of sparrows outside the small window all served to perplex him. Slowly he recalled the rapid train of events that had taken place since they landed from the barge and took their unceremonious farewell of Quilhampton.

Led in silence by Mackenzie, Drinkwater and Walmsley had walked swiftly into a maze of small, narrow streets reminiscent of an earlier age, with overhanging buildings and rickety roofs. Despite a lingering light in the sky, the omnipresence of the shuttered houses threw them into darkness as they followed the spy. Then abruptly they stopped and Mackenzie knocked imperiously on a nail-studded door. After a moment it opened, there was a quick exchange of what Drinkwater took for sign and counter-sign, and then he and Walmsley were drawn inside, the door was closed behind them and they stood in a large, partially lit room, their presence and necessities being explained by Mackenzie to the occupant of the house. A sense of curiosity filled Drinkwater. The street smells of Memel had been odd enough, but those of the house seemed almost diabolical and this impression was heightened by what he could see of the room. Low and overhung with beams, it was largely lined by shelves, drawers and cupboards. On the drawers he could see vaguely familiar lettering and in the cupboards, behind glass, the owner's lantern shed highlights on jars and sorcerers' retorts. On the shelves, however, were even more sinister exhibits: a monstrous foetus, a coiled snake and a diminutive mermaid. Beside him he felt Walmsley shudder with apprehension and utter a low expression of repulsion. Drinkwater recognised the lettering on the little wooden drawers as the abbreviated Latin of the Pharmacopoeia.

‘We are the guests of an apothecary, I believe,' Drinkwater
whispered to the midshipman. Both men were fascinated by the ugly mermaid whose wrinkled, simian face stared at them, the dancing light of the lantern flame reflected from her glass pupils.

Mackenzie and their host turned at this moment. ‘Ah, so you like my little mermaid do you, gentlemen?' The apothecary was of middle age and held the lantern for them to see the piece of cunning taxidermy. His accent was thickly Germanic, but his command of English appeared good. Mackenzie smiled.

‘Well, gentlemen, our host will show you to your rooms. It is already late. I advise you to retire immediately. I have some business to attend to and we must make good progress tomorrow.'

There were no introductions and in silence Drinkwater and Walmsley followed the apothecary to an attic bedroom where two low beds were prepared by a silent and pretty blonde girl with a plait like a bell-rope down her back. The two Englishmen stood awkwardly with the apothecary while the girl bustled about. Then, as she left, he gestured to the beds.

‘Thank you,' Drinkwater said. The man bowed and withdrew. Mackenzie had already disappeared and as the door closed Drinkwater heard the lock turned. ‘It seems we are prisoners for the night, Mr Walmsley,' he remarked with an attempt at a reassurance he was far from feeling. To his surprise Walmsley grinned back.

‘Perhaps it's just as well, sir.'

‘Eh?' Drinkwater was puzzled, then he remembered the blue eyes of the girl and her last, frankly curious glance as she bobbed from the room. ‘Ah, yes . . . well, I think we must sleep now.' And despite his misgivings, despite a gnawing reaction of having deserted his post, Drinkwater had fallen into a deep, dreamless and wonderful slumber.

His confusion on waking was less comforting. He lay for a long time wondering if he had made the right decision in leaving
Antigone;
his thoughts alternated in a wild oscillation between a patient argument in favour of co-operating with the mysterious Mr Mackenzie, and a swift panic that he had acted with insanely foolish impetuosity. In the opposite corner Midshipman Lord Walmsley still snored peacefully, sublimely unconcerned and probably dreaming of the blonde girl.

There was a sudden grating in the lock and the door opened. The apothecary came in and wished them good morning. The girl followed, a tray in her pink hands from which coffee, fresh bread and a species of black sausage sent up a pungent and appetising aroma. Drinkwater saw Walmsley stir and open his eyes. He looked at the pretty face, smiled and sat up.

‘Herr Mackenzie requests that you be ready in half an hour, gentlemen,' the apothecary said, then chivvied the girl out and closed the door.

‘I will shave while you pour the coffee,' Drinkwater said in an attempt to preserve a little of the quarterdeck dignity in the awkward and enforced intimacy with the midshipman. While this curious little ritual was in progress Mackenzie made his appearance.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. You must forgive me for having deserted you last night. There were certain arrangements to make.'.

He waited for the two naval officers to complete their preparations and when they were both ready said, ‘Now, gentlemen, when we leave here we assume our new identities. I am a merchant, a Scotsman named Macdonald. You, Captain, are a merchant master. I leave you to choose your own name and that of your ship. Mr Smith here', he nodded at Walmsley, ‘is a junior mate. I have a chaise below.' He smiled at Drinkwater, ‘by great good fortune you are not compelled to ride. Lord Leveson-Gower arrived here last night. He is no longer persona grata at the Tsar's court. Fortunately the chaise he used for amusing himself in St Petersburg bears no arms. I have the use of it.' He made a gesture to indicate the door. ‘Come, we must be off. We have twenty leagues to cover before night.'

They clattered down the stairs and emerged into the apothecary's room which looked less terrifying in the daylight that slanted in through the narrow windows. The mermaid was revealed as a hybrid sham, a curiosity of the taxidermist's art designed to over-awe the ignorance of the apothecary's customers. They passed through into the street.

‘The box please, Smith.' Mackenzie nodded Walmsley to the driver's seat and opened the door of the chaise for Drinkwater. ‘A steady pace,' he said to the midshipman. ‘We don't want the horses blown.'

Walmsley nodded and vaulted up onto the seat. Drinkwater climbed in and settled himself. Mackenzie lifted their meagre baggage in with them and then climbed in himself. He tapped Walmsley's shoulder and the chaise jerked into motion. Drinkwater turned to take his farewell of the apothecary, but the studded door was already closed. Only a small, pretty, blue-eyed face watched their departure from a window.

For the first quarter of an hour Drinkwater attended to the business of settling himself in comfort as the chaise moved over the uneven road. Mackenzie was kneeling up on the front seat, giving the
midshipman directions as they drove the equipage through the narrow streets, round innumerable corners and out onto what passed in Lithuanian Kurland for a highway.

‘A sea of mud in the autumn, a waste of ice and snow in winter, a mass of ruts in the spring and a damnable dust-bowl at this time of the year,' explained Mackenzie at last, ‘like every damned road in the Tsar's empire.'

In the June heat the dust clouds rose from the horses' hooves and engulfed the chaise so that Drinkwater's view of the countryside was through a haze. The road ran parallel to the wide and shining expanse of the Kurische Haff, the huge lagoon which formed the ponded-back estuary of the Nieman. On either side, slightly below the level of the highway, the marshy grassland was grazed by cattle.

‘A somewhat monotonous landscape, Captain,' observed Mackenzie conversationally, ‘but I assure you, you are seeing it at its best.'

‘You know it well?' prompted Drinkwater, enforced leisure making him anxious to discuss with Mackenzie more than the appearance of the hinterland of Memel.

Mackenzie, with an infuriating evasion, ignored the question. ‘I believe that it was the great Frenchman De Saxe that wanted this country for his own. A bastard aspiring to a dukedom, eh? And now, in our modern world, we have an attorney's son aspiring to an empire . . . That, my dear Captain, is progress.'

‘He has done more than aspire, if what you are saying is true.'

‘You prefer “acquire” then?'

‘It would be more accurate . . . Mackenzie.'

‘Macdonald.'

‘Macdonald, then. This chaise, you say it belongs to our ambassador, Lord Leveson-Gower, and that he arrived in Memel last night?'

‘Yes. The Tsar let it be known that his lordship was no longer welcome about his Imperial Majesty's person. He confirms what I had already learned, that emissaries have been received with every appearance of cordiality from French Headquarters and that Prince Czartoryski has left for a preliminary interview with the French Emperor to arrange a secret meeting.'

‘So your worst fears are indeed justified.'

Mackenzie nodded. ‘And now we have the leisure, I can offer you a full explanation of what has happened, and how your help is essential.'

‘Anything that lessens my doubts about the folly of this journey would be welcome,' said Drinkwater grimly, suddenly clutching at
the side of the chaise as it heeled over, its offside wheels running off the road while they overtook a heavily laden ox-cart trundling slowly along. He gestured at the pair of plodding peasants who trudged at the head of the team and the man and woman who sat on the cart.

‘I am still unconvinced about your lack of secrecy,' he said frowning. ‘I am at a loss . . .'

Mackenzie laughed. ‘This business of spying', he said, still smiling, ‘is not always a matter of cloaks and daggers. I move about quite openly for the most part. For me the subterfuge of disguise is of little use. I am well known in high places in Russia. The Tsar himself might recognise me, for I have served in the Caucasus with a commission from himself.'

Mackenzie's eyes drifted off, over the flat landscape that was such a contrast to the precipitous peaks of those distant mountains. ‘General Bennigsen knows me too. In fact we shall be sharing lodgings with him.'

‘Good Lord!'

‘Let me explain, Captain. There is no hurry, we have a long way to go. To allay your fears of being discovered you will observe before we go very much further that the whole country is turning out. Tilsit, the town on the Nieman whither we are bound, is attracting all the country gentry for miles about. It has been declared a neutral zone and will be seething with soldiers and squires by tonight. It was already filling when I left. Nothing like this has happened in this backwater since De Saxe came to Mitau to wrest Kurland from the Tsars. We shall be like a drop in the ocean. Sometimes a bold front is the best concealment.' He nodded at Walmsley's back. ‘I have told our young friend there to cluck to his horses in French, and am glad that he knows enough of the tongue to manage tolerably well.'