Beneath the aurora nd-12 Read online

  Drinkwater knew what it was the instant he saw the package in Birkbeck's grasp. It had been in his office at the Admiralty, then in the house in Lord North Street. Now...

  'Where did you find it, Mr Birkbeck?' he had asked quietly.

  'In the hold, sir.'

  'Malaburn.'

  'It has an Admiralty seal...'

  'Yes, yes, I'm much obliged to you.' Birkbeck had relinquished the canvas parcel and retreated, his curiosity unsated.

  Drinkwater knew Malaburn had seized the papers from his London house, but how had this American known of the house, of Bardolini's presence there, or of the Neapolitan's significance? And while the contents of the package had no direct bearing upon the business of King Joachim or the shipment of arms to the Americans for the invasion of Canada, they contained information which, in the hands of Napoleon's chief of police, Savary, the Duke of Rovigo, could betray those persons in France well disposed to the cause of Great Britain, among whom was Madame Hortense Santhonax.

  Holding the package after Birkbeck's departure, Drinkwater was almost shaking with relief at having nipped the betrayal of Hortense and her network in the bud, and then he found the answer to the half-formed question which had plagued him.

  Apart from Drinkwater himself, only one person existed who could have drawn so fine a thread through this mystery: Templeton.

  It came to him then, aside from the formal, everyday loyalty, those tiny fragmented clues, invisible to all but the suspicious and even then almost imperceptible.

  He remembered Templeton's subtle attempt to play down the value of Liepmann's intelligence report from Hamburg; remembered Templeton had not broadcast the news of Sparkman's letter concerning Bardolini to the copy room, and had had difficulty concealing his satisfaction when Drinkwater himself, in an act of uncharacteristic high-handedness, had burnt Sparkman's letter. Finally he remembered Templeton's consternation when he learned he was to sail with Drinkwater. He must have been sick with anxiety as to the outcome of events throughout the whole passage, Drinkwater concluded.

  It was true that Templeton had witnessed the Americans letting go the anchor to deliver Andromeda to the guns of the Odin, but that had been a somewhat circumstantial occurrence, Drinkwater concluded. Moreover, in the aftermath of that event, Templeton had been singularly unhelpful in identifying the culprits. Only their own hiding on the knightheads where Huke had discovered them had revealed who they were.

  It was clear they knew very little of what was going on, and had acted according to Malaburn's instructions, as well they might, for he had spirited them out of prison and seemed set fair to get them aboard homeward-bound American ships!

  Malaburn himself had taken pains to keep out of trouble during that first action. Drinkwater had no doubt now that Malaburn had been below throughout the event with the dual objective of avoiding the Danish fire and compressing the cable when sufficient had run out. Why his absence at his battle station had not been reported, Drinkwater would never know, but some dilatoriness on the part of, say, the twelve-year-old Mr Fisher, would seem to provide an answer.

  It was not difficult in a man-of-war for a seaman of experience, as Malaburn clearly was, to avoid Templeton, who was himself penned up with the officers. Templeton had given no hint of any foreknowledge of an acquaintanceship with one of the crew, but God knew what anxieties, hopes and fears had made Templeton act the way he did. Templeton's presence may have given the American agent a great deal of anxiety, but Malaburn could not expect events to fall out too pat. He had had the greatest run of luck in collecting his chain-gang from Dartmoor and shipping it so neatly to Scotland to be pressed promptly by the assiduous Huke!

  Moreover, Drinkwater remembered angrily, Malaburn had so nearly been successful.

  He had not arrested Templeton immediately, but waited until Andromeda anchored at the Nore, observing his clerk for any clues of apprehension. On their arrival he had instructed Templeton to accompany him to London, implying his service aboard the frigate was at an end. With the crippled Odin sent up the Medway to the dockyard, Drinkwater made out a written order to Frey to turn the prize over to the master-shipwright and join him. Leaving Birkbeck in charge of Andromeda, Drinkwater had prepared to post to London, intending to take Frey and Templeton. There was nothing remarkable in the arrangement.

  Frey had joined Drinkwater as he emerged from the fine red-brick residence of the Dockyard Commissioner where he had been finalizing details for the reception of the two ships. A post-chaise awaited the three men.

  'Ah, Frey, you are on time.'

  'Good afternoon, sir. It's damnably cold.'

  They shook hands and Drinkwater turned to Templeton. 'I appear to have left my gloves, would you mind ...?'

  'Of course.' Templeton had returned towards the house.

  'Frey,' Drinkwater had said in a low and urgent voice, 'I want you to accompany me to London. I've made the necessary arrangements for the Odin.'

  'Is it the Kestrel, sir?' Frey had asked anxiously. As the senior surviving officer of the cutter, Frey was naturally concerned with their justification for handing over the little ship. He feared a court-martial.

  'No, no. Listen ...' but Templeton was already returning, holding Drinkwater's full-dress white gloves.

  'Just do exactly what I say!' he had hissed vehemently, then swung round to Templeton. 'Ah, Templeton, obliged, thank you.'

  'You had dropped them in the hall.'

  Drinkwater had grunted. Now they were ashore again Templeton had resumed his old familiarity. It bespoke his confidence. Drinkwater clambered aboard and was followed by the others. A moment later the chaise swung through the Lion Gate and on towards Rochester and London.

  Drinkwater had waited until it was almost dark before he struck. He affected to doze, killing off all chance of conversation as the chaise lurched along, passing through a succession of villages. Frey, though consumed with curiosity, obediently held his tongue.

  Templeton had stared out over the snow-covered country­side. Surreptitiously watching him, Drinkwater sought to read the man, but Templeton remained inscrutable, unsuspecting. As a grey twilight spread over the land and the chaise rocked on towards Blackheath, Drinkwater stirred from his mock stupor. He could no longer endure the sharp angularities of the pistol in the small of his back and drew it with slow deliberation.

  Templeton, himself half asleep by then, was unaware of anything amiss until Drinkwater, having given Frey's foot a sharp kick, pulled the hammer back to full cock with a loud click.

  'Mr Templeton,' Drinkwater said, 'consider yourself under arrest.'

  'What the devil...?' Templeton made to move, but Frey seized his arm and held it while the clerk ceased struggling and subsided. Drinkwater watched Templeton's eyes close in resignation and saw his Adam's apple bob nervously above his stock.

  'You deceived me, Mr Templeton,' Drinkwater said, 'you were in contact with Malaburn, were you not? You informed him of the purpose and whereabouts of Bardolini, and you are an accessory to the man's murder. You told Malaburn of the purpose of our voyage, you were aware that the package of papers was removed from my office and secreted at my house ...

  'Well, have you nothing to say?'

  Templeton shook his head. His mouth had gone dry and he could not speak.

  'Is this how you served Lord Dungarth? Leaking secrets to the enemy? Is that how Dungarth was blown up and lost his leg? Did you betray him to the French?'

  'No! No, never!'

  'So when did you start this?'

  'I...' Templeton licked his lips, 'I never betrayed Lord Dungarth. I never trafficked with the French.'

  'Only with the Americans, eh? Is that right?'

  Templeton said nothing.

  'Your silence is eloquent, Templeton, and enough to condemn you.'

  'Sir ... Captain Drinkwater, I know you for a man of sensibility, my intention was not murder, I meant only…'

  'Meant only what?'

  Templeton's features worked
distressfully in the gloom. He breathed heavily and wiped the back of a hand across his mouth.

  'Sir ... sir, I beg you ... my mother ...'

  He had looked desperately at Frey and then lapsed into a sobbing quiescence from which Drinkwater had been unable to rouse him. In the end he had abandoned the attempt.

  'I am taking you to my house,' he had said. You will be held there for the time being.'

  'Is that a good idea, sir?' Frey had asked, speaking for the first time, his face bleak with suppressed emotion.

  Drinkwater had nodded. 'For the time being, yes. You will look after him until after I decided what is to be done.'

  Night had fallen when they crossed the Thames. The light of a young moon and the gleam of the lamps mounted on the parapet of London Bridge to illuminate the carriageway shone on the white expanse of the frozen river.

  'Stap me,' Frey had said, breaking the dolorous silence, 'I wish I'd my paint-box!'

  On arrival at the house in Lord North Street they had hustled Templeton quickly inside and upstairs to the bedroom which Bardolini had once used.

  'Leave us a moment,' Drinkwater had said to Frey, after he had dismissed the impassive Williams, and Frey, with a glance at the trembling Templeton, had done as he was bid.

  Downstairs, the manservant had ushered Frey into the withdrawing-room. Frey settled before a roaring fire quickly conjured by Williams, who poured him a glass of oporto. The young lieutenant sat and stared at the magnificent portrait above the fireplace, marvelling at the skill of the artist. The lady was fair and beautiful and her lovely face seemed to glow in the imperfect candlelight. He had no idea who she was, nor what her relationship had been with Captain Drinkwater. He had had no idea, either, that Drinkwater possessed such a house; the knowledge seemed another mystery to add to the sum of extraordinary occurrences of recent weeks. He wondered whether Drinkwater would vouchsafe him some further explanation when he came downstairs. He knew that Captain Drinkwater had, from time to time, some connections with secret operations and felt that the death of James Quilhampton had elevated Frey himself to the post of confidant. For the moment he was lost in admiration of the work of Mr George Romney.

  So abandoned to contemplation had he been, that Drinkwater startled him. 'She was the Countess of Dungarth,' Drinkwater had explained, helping himself from the decanter. 'The wife of the former head of the Admiralty's Secret Department. This was formerly his house. Your health, Mr Frey. Now tell me what is troubling you.'

  Frey had been recalled to the present. 'That man, sir.'

  'Templeton? What about him?'

  'Shouldn't we turn him over to the constables? If what you say is true, he is guilty of treason, of trafficking with the enemy...'

  'You are concerned he might escape, that the bedroom is no Newgate cell, is that what's troubling you?'

  'Yes it is, in part.'

  Drinkwater had sighed. 'I owe you something of an explanation, my dear Frey. You are the only man I can trust in this matter and it must be settled quietly. Forgive me, it is an imposition I would rather not have laid upon you.'

  Drinkwater had then related to Frey an account of the arrival of secret intelligence from Naples and of the subsequent disappearance of Bardolini. He told of the sabotage in the Vikkenfiord, of his belated suspicions, of the too pat pressing of the Americans and the mischief they had wrought under Malaburn.

  'It was an assumed name, I think, and a flash one, a punning which might have spelled the end for all of us.'

  'What do you think he intended to do, if he had not let go your anchor?'

  'To set us on fire when we were conveniently close to the American ships and he and his accomplices could escape in a boat. Had he lain low in the hold, he might just have achieved it. He was a resourceful fellow, this Mal-a-burn, he staked a great deal on chance and he nearly won…'

  Drinkwater did not wish to dwell on how close his own laxity had come to promoting this course of events, nor on what he owed to Thomas Huke whose unnecessary death would reproach him for the rest of his life. The two men were lost in silence for a moment, contemplating what might have happened.

  'And Templeton?' Frey had prompted at last. It did not seem to be over until Templeton was dealt with.

  Drinkwater stirred and poured another glass for both of them.

  'There has been enough blood spilled in this whole wretched business. We have both lost a friend in James, and only you and I know of Templeton's guilt. Let us sleep on it.' 'But he might escape from that room.'

  'He might murder us in our beds, it's true, and if he does escape,' Drinkwater shrugged, 'well, what does it matter? It's over now.'

  'But why, sir? I don't understand.'

  "Twas a temptation more than he could bear. Consider the matter.' Drinkwater sighed; his conversation alone with Tem­pleton had borne out all his suspicions and answered most of his questions. 'Templeton is an intelligent fellow,' Drinkwater went on, 'skilled, dedicated. For years he toils miserably upwards in the sequestered corridors of the Admiralty, a world of internecine jealousies between pettifogging minds. He finds himself close to secrets of state, unlocks some of them with his ability to decrypt reports at speed. He learns from Lord Dungarth, and later myself, of his true worth, yet he is paid a pittance. He is surrounded by glory and yet not one iota is reflected upon him. You are an artist, Frey, a man of, what did he call me? Of sensibility; surely you can see how such a life could corrode a proud spirit and leave him vulnerable to seduction?'

  Frey had stirred uncomfortably, but held his tongue.

  'Templeton, I suspect,' Drinkwater went on, 'was as much led astray by Malaburn's gold as Malaburn's promise of a new life. D'you think Templeton was a high Tory or the member of a Corresponding Society, a secret republican? For him America means opportunity, another chance away from our world of privilege and patronage, of jobbing and perquisites, of the eternal English kow-tow. I didn't have to ask him if this is true, though I have spoken to him of it. I know it myself; I feel it in my bones, and so, if you're honest, do you.

  'No, leave Templeton to his conscience, and the workings of providence. He can do no harm now.' Drinkwater had paused, then said, 'This is a damnable war. It has lasted all my adult life. Quilhampton joined me as a midshipman and was shot to pieces. Now we have a new generation, boys like little Fisher weeping over cats, but bred to war, inured to war like me. I am weary of it, sick to my very soul, Frey, and I am burdening you unreasonably with my confession.' Drinkwater smiled, and his face was oddly boyish.

  'Not at all,' Frey said uncertainly, 'not at all. I recall something Pope wrote ...'

  'What is that?'

  ' "Sir, I have lived a courtier all my days, And studied men, their manners and their ways; And have observed this useful maxim still, To let my betters always have their will." '

  'So, you feel something of it too, eh?' Drinkwater smiled again. 'Anyway, my dear fellow,' he said, rising and stretching stiffly, 'I have asked for you to be given a step in rank. You will be a Commander before too long.'

  'Is that to purchase my silence in the matter?' Frey had asked quickly, looking up.

  Drinkwater laughed. 'Only incidentally. But yes, it binds you to the system and compromises you. Like marriage and family, it makes you a hostage to fortune.'

  Drinkwater crossed the room and drew back the curtains. 'Good Lord, I thought it had grown warmer and blamed the wine, but it is raining outside.'

  Frey became aware of the hiss of the deluge, then Drinkwater closed the curtains and faced him. 'I think it is time for bed.'

  Frey tossed off his glass and stood up. 'Good-night, sir.'

  'Good-night. I hope you sleep well.'

  'I'll try.'

  'Lock your door,' Drinkwater said with a laugh.

  When Frey had gone, Drinkwater poured another glass and sat again, to stare into the dying fire as the candles burned low. It was already long past midnight and he would confront Mr Barrow later that day. Finally, after about an hour, he
rose, went into the hall and opened the front door. In the street a cold rain fell in torrents; peering out into the hissing darkness, Drinkwater smiled to himself. Turning back into the house he left the door ajar and went quietly upstairs.

  Outside Templeton's room he drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He stepped inside; rain beat upon the uncurtained window and he could faintly see Templeton, still dressed, lying upon the bed.

  'Captain Drinkwater ...?' Templeton's voice faltered uncertainly. 'Captain Drinkwater, is that you?'

  It suddenly struck Drinkwater that Templeton expected to be executed for his crime of treason, murdered perhaps by Drinkwater himself as Bardolini had been assassinated. Instead, he stood motionless and silent beside the open door.

  'I tried to get myself killed in the boarding of the Odin,' Templeton said desperately.

  'I know,' Drinkwater replied quietly.

  'What... what do you intend to do?'

  'Nothing,' Drinkwater murmured, stepping aside from the doorway, 'now be gone.'

  The Frost Fair

  26 January 1814

  Upon the frozen Thames in the Pool of London, between London Bridge and the Tower, there had been a great frost fair for some six weeks. Tents containing circus curiosities and human freaks had been set up, stalls selling everything from patent nostrums and articles of cheap haberdashery to roasted chestnuts were laid out in regular 'streets'. Open spaces were cleared for skating and the populace displayed every scale of talent from the inept to the expert. An émigré fencing master gave lessons with epee or foil to ambitious counting-house clerks, while rustics exercised at single-stick. Bloods rode their hacks on the ice, caracoling their slithering mounts in extravagant daring for the admiring benefit of credulous belles. Fashion rubbed shoulders with the indigent upon the slippery surface, and many a dainty lady lost her dignity with her footing, to the merciless merriment of her acknowledged inferiors.

  Whores and pick-pockets abounded, preying on the foolish. Silly young blades were helped to their feet and simultaneously deprived of their purses.