Baltic Mission nd-7 Page 18

  Kicking off his boots, Mackenzie padded cautiously to the window and stared at the raft. He gave a low whistle, 'le theatre de Napoleon,' he said with an appreciative grin. It occurred to Drinkwater that Mackenzie throve on such high excitement. 'Hullo, what have those fellows been over for?' He nodded across the river and Drinkwater eased himself alongside. The small boat had returned to the Westkai and the two French officers were disembarking up an iron ladder.

  'General officers,' murmured Mackenzie, 'by the look of them.'

  The two men exchanged remarks, the sunlight reflected off their highly polished thigh-boots, and began to stroll along the quay towards the slipway and the bedizened raft. They were resplendent in the blue and gold of field officers, their great, plumed bicorne hats tucked under their arms. One of them, the taller of the two, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Some primaeval instinct beyond curiosity prompted Drinkwater. He drew out the Dollond glass again and focused it on the two officers. He drew his breath in sharply and Mackenzie turned.

  'What the devil is it?'

  'God's bones,' said Drinkwater, his face drained of colour. 'Santhonax!'

  13

  The Waters of the Nieman

  24-25 June 1807

  Mackenzie snatched the glass from him. 'By God, you are right!'

  'It's uncanny,' Drinkwater said, his mouth dry. He accepted the glass of vodka Mackenzie held out. 'Our paths have crossed so many times .. .'

  'No matter,' said Mackenzie, suddenly resolute, 'I have brought the things you wanted. A farrier's axe was the nearest I could manage to a hammer and it can be used instead of a spike.'

  Drinkwater looked at the axe which was similar to a boarding axe with a blade and spike. 'What about nails?'

  'Here,' Mackenzie fished in his pocket, 'horseshoe nails.'

  'It reminds me of the nursery rhyme,' Drinkwater said, regaining his composure. It was quite impossible that Santhonax posed a threat to the success of the enterprise. 'Now what about Ostroff? Where the hell is he? I want to move at dusk, if not before ... and Mackenzie, have you been in contact with Bennigsen's staff?'

  Mackenzie nodded and both men listened to the hubbub that floated up from lower in the house. 'Somehow you've got to find out which of them met those two over there,' he jerked his head towards the window. 'They'll be detailing someone off to move that barge across the river. Local watermen, I expect. You're a merchant, an ingratiating fellow. Tell them you'll arrange it.'

  'I'll get the Hebrew to do it. It's his barge.'

  'No, Ostroff and I will get the barge over.'

  Comprehension dawned in Mackenzie's eyes and he smiled appreciatively.

  'And get us some rags and soot from the Jew.'

  'I see I was not mistaken in you, Captain,' Mackenzie said.

  'It'll come to naught if Ostroff ain't found!' said Drinkwater sharply. 'And now I want some food!'

  'I shall attend to those matters forthwith.'

  Midshipman Lord Walmsley heard the departing footsteps of Captain Drinkwater and Ostroff fade down the stairs. The strange Russian officer had returned only a few minutes earlier, in time to receive his instructions from an impatient Drinkwater. He had protested a little and was then coerced by the captain and Mr. Mackenzie into agreeing to change into loose-fitting peasant's trousers, felt boots and a coarse cotton blouse. Both men put on hats and were given tobacco tubes such as were smoked by the Lithuanian peasantry. Walmsley had heard Captain Drinkwater mention that his capture in such clothing would guarantee his being shot as a spy and Ostroff, in a curiously unaccented English, denied it, saying the smell would drive off the most officious French officer. The grim joke shared between the two men sent a shiver of fear for his own safety up his spine. And then they had gone, leaving Walmsley hot, bored, yet strangely fearful, alone with the enigmatic Mr. Mackenzie who ignored him in his eagerness to observe the departure of the barge from the Ostkai.

  Walmsley lolled back in his corner of the attic and gave his mind up to the only thing a young man of his tastes and inclination could think of in such stultifying circumstances: women. The apothecary's daughter and the pretty young women in the carriages that had accompanied them on their journey had awakened desires which had been further titillated by the occasional squeals of pleasure or protest from below. He lay imagining the activities of the young bloods on Bennigsen's staff and brooded on his own long deprivation.

  At last he could tolerate inactivity no longer.

  'Do you mind, sir,' he hissed at the back of Mackenzie's head, 'if I take the opportunity to empty the bucket and get a breath of air?'

  Mackenzie turned from the window and wrinkled his nose at the pail they had been using as a privy. 'If you are careful, no. You may walk about a bit... seek crowds, you are safer in a crowd.' He turned again to look down into the river.

  Walmsley could scarcely contain his excitement and, picking up the bucket, he unbarred the door.

  Drinkwater forced himself to resist the nausea that swept over him as he tried to master the art of smoking tobacco. The nausea was replaced by an odd lightheadedness. The disgusting import brought back by Russian armies serving in the Caucasus revolted him almost as much as the filthy workman's clothing in which he was clad. He cleared his throat and spat with unfeigned gusto into the brown waters of the River Nieman. Above their heads the westward-facing glazings of the dormer window blazed with the reflected sunset, masking entirely the watching face of Mackenzie.

  Edward, similarly malodorous but smoking with ease, came up to him. 'This is bloody ridiculous!' he muttered in English.

  'We've no alternative,' his brother replied. Drinkwater was terrified of the need to speak, despite an hour's coaching in a few words of Lithuanian by Mackenzie. Edward, for whom languages presented little difficulty and who had learned sufficient patois from his campaigning, was to speak if speech were necessary. Drinkwater began to cast off the mooring ropes under the curious gaze of a tall Russian sentry.

  As the semi-darkness of the northern twilight began to close over them, Drinkwater handed the end of the rope to his brother. He had told Edward exactly what to do: to hold on with a single turn until he gave the word. Drinkwater walked aft to where the sweeps poked their blades outboard, their looms constrained by grommets round single thole pins on either quarter. Drinkwater bent and ran the long sweeps out. It was going to be far from easy. He gritted his teeth, braced his feet and called 'Los!'

  Edward cast off and pushed the stone facing of the Ostkai with a booted foot. The current began to move the barge as the bluff bow fell slowly off the quay. Drinkwater began to move the sweeps.

  Edward came aft. 'Can I help?'

  Drinkwater shook his head. Edward was no expert and it was only necessary to get a little headway on the barge and let the current do the rest.

  'I'll get the line ready then.'

  Drinkwater nodded and strained with the effort necessary to make an impression on the massive inertia of the barge. He stared down into the hold, thankful that it was empty, as he thrust at the oar looms with every sinew he possessed.

  He began to get the swing of it. They were thirty yards out from the Ostkai now, but fifty downstream. He threw his weight back and dragged the blades out of the water, dipped them and fell forward, his breast against his fists, his calf muscles bulging as he heaved his body forward against the resistance. The blades drove through the water slowly and he dragged them out again to repeat the process over and over, keeping the barge pointing upstream, angled outwards slightly against the current, so that they crabbed across the river.

  The sweat rolled off him and he felt his head would burst. He clenched his eyes shut to prevent the perspiration stinging them. He drew breath in great rasping gasps and the unaccustomed effort set his muscles a-quiver. He became blind to everything but the need for constant effort and it seemed that he had been doing this for ever.

  Then, through eyes that he opened briefly, he glimpsed the looming gables of the houses of the We
stkai. Ten long minutes later, Edward jumped ashore with the bow line. The gentle nudge with which the barge brought up against the quayside almost knocked Drinkwater off his feet as he dragged the sweeps inboard. Breathing heavily and his heart thumping painfully, he caught the stern line through a heavy ring and walked forward to see that Edward had secured the bow. In accordance with their plan, and in view of the sentries on either bank, they sat down on the hatch-coaming of the barge and broached a bottle of vodka. Both men took a small swig themselves and let some dribble down over their chins and onto their clothes. Edward lit another of the disgusting cheroots while Drinkwater sat and scratched himself. The red haze was beginning to disperse from his eyes when suddenly they focused on the French sentry who came forward to stare down at them.

  Edward looked up and said something in Russian. Weakened from his strenuous exertion Drinkwater sat panting, trying to still the thundering of his pounding heart. He felt quite powerless to confront the danger they were in and left the matter to his brother. The Frenchman shrugged uncomprehendingly so Edward held out the bottle. The soldier hesitated, looked round and then grabbed it and swigged at it twice before handing it reluctantly back. Edward laughed and made a guttural comment and the two men grinned, the soldier wiping a hand across his mouth. Suddenly the sentry turned, as though hearing something, and disappeared from view. A few seconds later two French officers gazed down at them and enquired what they were doing.

  Edward embarked on a pantomime of pretended explanation, gesturing first to the east bank of the Nieman and then to the west, interspersed with grunted interrogatives aimed at the two officers. At their lack of understanding he launched into a repeat of the whole thing until one of them cut him short.

  'Tres bien, mon vieux, nous savons ...' He turned to his compatriot and Drinkwater heard the name General Santhonax used twice. He felt his blood run cold and prayed to heaven that it was not their intention to verify the arrival of the barge with Santhonax. Not that he thought Santhonax would recognise him, unshaven, dirty and so totally unexpected in such a place, but the very presence of the man filled him with apprehension. His heart had stilled now but the worms of anxiety were writhing in his guts.

  Edward managed a loud belch and ostentatiously swigged the vodka again. Passing the bottle to Drinkwater he reached up and dragged himself up onto the quay. His sang-froid seemed to dispel any remaining suspicions the French officers might have had. They drifted away and Edward bent to give his brother a hand up.

  'Phew!' Drinkwater grunted his thanks and Edward replied by giving an exaggerated and pointed belch, reminding him of the necessity of appearing tipsy. They approached the end of the quay where the small gravel slipway ran into the river. Another sentry stood on the corner of the quay.

  'Qui va la?'

  They both began babbling incoherently, pointing down at the slipway, and indicating their intention to sleep on the pontoon that lay there.

  'Non.'

  Edward uttered an obscene dismissal. The sentry, a young man, cocked his musket but Edward slapped him on the shoulder and hung upon his arm. The man shrugged him off, wrinkling his nose in disgust, and nodded them past. They slid down onto the gravel and settled themselves under the growing shadows of the raft, lolling together and allowing their heartbeats to slow.

  Twice the young sentry came to look at them but they lay still, two drunks inert and indistinguishable from the surrounding gloom. The clock in the town struck eleven then midnight. There was a crunch of boots as a patrol, led by a corporal, came by to change the guards. Words were spoken as the man going off duty indicated the two pairs of felt boots that were just visible from the quay. The corporal spat, an eloquent attestation of the superiority of the French military over a pair of drunken Kurlanders, and the patrol marched on. The silence of the night settled over them, the noises of debauch muted beneath the low chuckle of the River Nieman as it made its way to the Baltic Sea.

  'Let's begin,' whispered Drinkwater as soon as the sound of the marching feet had faded. Edward eased himself up and located the new guard. He was a more experienced soldier and had made himself comfortable against a bollard on the corner of the quay. A cloud of tobacco smoke was faintly illuminated from the red glow of his pipe bowl. Edward leaned down and tapped the all clear on Drinkwater's shoulder, remaining on the look-out while his brother crawled under the pontoon to begin work.

  The flying bridge, or pont volant, was built on a heavy timber frame. The main members of the sides ran the length of the craft. These were crossed by beams on which the rough planking of the decking was laid. Such a craft would have floated very low without proper buoyancy and this was provided by two large box-like floats to which the main members were fastened. Watching the preparations from the attic window Drinkwater had observed some attention being paid to one section of these flotation chambers and had suspected one of them was giving cause for concern. Almost immediately he found fact and conjecture had spliced themselves neatly. Beneath the pontoon the new planks were identifiable by their slightly lighter colour and the rich smell of resin from them. The raw wood was unpayed and Drinkwater investigated further. His heart leapt for he was in luck.

  Reaching down to his waistband he drew out the farrier's axe. His eyes were adjusted to the darkness and he worked the spike of the axe under the end of the upper plank and began to lever it off. The rot that had necessitated the renewal of the planks had already spread into the frame so the nails drew quite easily. He got the top plank off and then he dragged himself through the gap and slumped inside. The raw pine resin could not disguise the stench of the rotten wood and stagnant water which seeped into his clothes and felt cold against his sweating skin. Twisting round, he felt about in the roof of the chamber for any opening which would allow a man to receive sufficient air to breathe and, most important, to hear. He discovered a split between two planks and enlarged it with the axe. Rubbing his hand in the foul slime of the bottom, he smeared it over the raw wood to hide his work from a casual glance. When he had finished, he drew himself out of the chamber. Even beneath the pontoon the night air smelt sweet. He lay on the damp gravel, panting heavily; the clock in the town struck two.

  Dragging himself along he pulled himself out from beneath the pontoon close to his brother. Edward was shivering from the chill. 'Well?' he hissed.

  'Get under when you can. It's all ready.'

  Edward cast a look round and Drinkwater sensed his reluctance, but the hesitation was only momentary. The two brothers crawled below the pontoon and Drinkwater tugged Edward until he was aware of the opening. He put his mouth close to Edward's ear. 'You won't drown, even if it fills partially with water. I have cut holes in the top, you should have no trouble breathing or hearing.'

  Drinkwater patted Edward's shoulder and drew back. He felt Edward shudder and then begin to work his way through the narrow gap, which gave him more trouble than his slimmer brother. A hiss of disgust told that Edward had discovered the stink and damp of his prison.

  'Christ, this is madness. Why did I let you talk me into it?' 'You can get out by kicking away the ends of the planks.' 'Leave me the axe.'

  'I need it for hammering home the nails.' Drinkwater paused. Edward's face was a pale, ghostly oval in the Stygian darkness. 'Do you have your bottle?'

  'Of course I bloody well do.'

  'Good luck.' Drinkwater moved to put the first board into place, fishing in his pocket for the stock of nails provided by Mackenzie. Holding the head of the axe he had Edward grip the bottom plank, found the nail hole with some difficulty, inserted a nail and pushed it with the end of the axe. He felt the nail drive part way into the rotten framework. Then he drew back his right hand and smacked it hard with the open palm of his left. After repeating this process a few times he felt the nail drive home. He managed the next nail at the other end of the plank in a similar fashion, but the third proved less easy. He knew he would have to give several hard bangs with the whole axe haft. He rolled quickly across and peered f
rom under the pontoon. There was no sign of the sentry.

  With feverish impatience he returned to the hole and, holding his breath, gave a few quick, sharp taps with the axe. In seconds the plank was secure. Edward's face peered from the narrowed gap as Drinkwater returned from a second look for the sentry. There was still no sign of the man. He must have strolled off to the far end of his beat. Drinkwater lifted the second plank. Edward resisted it being put into place.

  'Nat.'

  'What is it?' Drinkwater asked in a desperate whisper.

  'Will you get me out of here if I cannot make it myself?'

  Drinkwater remembered a small boy who was afraid of the dark and the shadows in the corner of the farmhouse bedroom. 'You'll have no trouble, I promise you.' He hissed reassuringly. 'Brace your back and simply kick outwards with your heels.'

  'But promise.'

  'For God's sake, Ned, of course ...' 'Your word of honour.'

  'My word of honour.' He pushed the plank and Edward vanished behind the faint grey of the new wood. As he tried to locate a nail, his hands shaking with the tension, the plank was pushed towards him. He choked down an oath with difficulty. 'What?'

  'We may never meet again.'

  'Don't be foolish. We shall meet when you get out, at the Jew's house tomorrow.'

  'But it will not be the same.' 'For God's sake ...'

  'I must tell you something. I want you to know I repent of the murder ... not the man, but I loved the girl...'

  Drinkwater expelled pent-up breath. 'I am sorry, Ned ... Now for God's sake let me finish.'

  'And I know I owe my life to you.'

  'No matter now.'

  'But all debts will be paid when this thing is done, eh?' Edward's voice was barely a whisper now, but Drinkwater was beside himself with anxiety. Once again he bore the burden of an elder brother. He comforted Edward's fear of a greater darkness.