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
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'.