'And of his approbation at your, or am I permitted to say our, little achievement?' asked Drinkwater, raising the glass.
'Ah, sir, you mock me.'
'A little, perhaps.'
'Your good health, Captain.'
'And yours, Mr Nicholas.'
They sipped the port in unembarrassed silence, Drinkwater still studying the chart spread out before them, and in particular the Scharhorn Sand surrounding the island of Neuwerk. He wanted to return, to lay the ghosts of the Elbe that still haunted his dreams and to release the three transports from their anchorage under the French guns before Davout's proposed absence from Hamburg encouraged M. Thiebault to order them up the Elbe.
They were the ships that were to have stood surety for Thiebault's bond, the guarantee that he and Gilham and Littlewood would retire downstream, paid and unmolested. They and their crews had waited patiently until Drinkwater's release, expecting their 'recapture' daily, but a series of strong westerly winds and vicious gales had postponed the operation until the end of March.
'Of course you may not find things as easy as you assume, Captain,' Nicholas said guardedly.
'What d'you mean, sir?'
'While you were ill, two boats got off. One brought a secret despatch from Liepmann. He had it on good authority ...'
'Thiebault?' enquired Drinkwater quickly.
Nicholas shrugged. 'Presumably, but there were what he called inexplicable rumours of a rift between Paris and Petersburg that were of a sufficiently serious nature as to suggest war was being contemplated, at least in Paris.'
'Good Lord! Then we succeeded better than I imagined; but how does this affect the meditated attack?' He flipped the back of his hand on the chart.
'It is also reported, Captain, that reinforcements have arrived in Hamburg, to wit, Molitor's Division, about nine thousand strong. Cuxhaven has received a reinforcement, so has Brunsbuttel ...'
'The westerlies will have kept reinforcements from Neuwerk as surely as they have mewed us up here, I'm sure of it.'
'I trust you are correct, Captain, but I would be guilty of a dereliction of duty if I did not appraise you of the facts.' Nicholas held out the decanter. 'Another glass, and then we'll go and see Colonel Hamilton.'
'Very well, Mr O'Neal,' Drinkwater called to the dark figure looming expectantly at the Alert's taffrail, 'you may cast us off!'
The huge, quadrilateral mainsail of the cutter, black against the first light of the April dawn, began to diminish in size as the Alert drew away from the four boats she had been towing. They bobbed in her wake while their crews settled themselves at their pulling stations.
'Mr Browne?' Drinkwater called.
'All ready, sir,' replied the old harbour-master.
'Mr McCullock?'
'Ready, sir,' the transport officer called back.
'Mr Frey?'
'Ready, sir.'
'Line ahead, give way in order of sailing.' Drinkwater nodded to the midshipman beside him. 'Very well, Mr Martin, give way.'
'Give way toooo-gether!'
The oar looms came forward and then strong arms tugged at them; the blades bit the water, lifted clear, flew forward and dipped again. Soon the rhythmic knocking of the oars in the pins grew steady and hypnotic.
Involuntarily Drinkwater shivered. He would never again watch men pulling an oar without the return of that nightmare of pain and cold, of ceaseless leaning and pulling, leaning and pulling. He recalled very little detail of their flight down the Elbe, almost nothing of the desperate skirmish with Dieudonne on the ice or the struggle to get Quilhampton into the comparative shelter of the Scharhorn beacon. What was indelibly etched into his memory was his remorseless task at the oars, which culminated in his stupidly losing one and nearly rendering all their efforts useless.
He kept telling himself the nightmare was over now, that he had paid off the debt he owed fate and that he had received a private absolution in receiving Quilhampton back from the grave. But he could not throw off the final shadows of his megrims until he had released the three transports and all their people were safely back in an English anchorage.
He turned and looked astern. In the growing light he could see the other three boats. Two — McCullock's and Browne's — were the large harbour barges, one of which had welcomed them to Helgoland when Galliwasp had run on the reef, the third was the Alert's longboat and the fourth a boat supplied by the merchant traders, commanded by Frey and manned by the vengeful remnants of Tracker's crew. A handful of volunteers from the Royal Veterans commanded by Lieutenant Dowling were deployed among the boats.
Drinkwater led the column in Alerts longboat. Wrapped in his cloak, Drinkwater stared ahead, leaving the business of working inshore to Mr Midshipman Martin, a young protege of Lieutenant O'Neal's. He was aware of O'Neal's anger at being displaced from the chief command of the boat expedition, pleading that the matter was not properly the duty of a post-captain. But Drinkwater had silenced the Orangeman with a curt order that his talents were better employed standing off and on in support.
'You can run up the channel in our wake, Mr O'Neal, and blood your guns, provided you fire over our heads and distract the enemy from our intentions,' he said. Remembering this conversation he turned again. The big cutter had gone about and was now working round from the position at which she let go the boats and ran up towards Cuxhaven. O'Neal had brought her back downstream and would soon shift his sheets and scandalize his mainsail, ready to creep up in the wake of the boats, into the anchorage off Neuwerk.
'See 'em ahead, sir!'
The lookout reported the sighting from the longboat's bow in a low voice and Drinkwater nodded as Martin repeated the report.
He could see them himself now, their masts and yards clear against the pale yellow sky. They lay at anchor in line.
'Lay us alongside the headmost ship, Mr Martin if you please.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater felt a worm of fear writhe in his belly. He was almost glad to feel again the qualms that beset every man before action, the fear of death and loneliness, no matter what his situation, how exalted his rank, or how many of his confederates crowded about him. It was a familiar feeling and brought a curious, lop-sided contentment, infinitely preferable to the anxieties of a spy. He eased his shoulders under the cloak and plain, borrowed coat. He was still not in uniform, but there was no longer any doubt about who and what he was.
They were seen by an alert guard aboard the transport Anne, a French guard put aboard by order from Hamburg with the object of securing the defecting British ships against the moment when Marshal Davout either relaxed his embargo on trade or decided to inspect a distant corps. His shout stirred an already wakening anchorage and the bugler on Neuwerk, about to sound reveille, blew instead the sharp notes of the alarm.
'Put your backs into it!' roared Drinkwater, exhorting his men; they might yet arrive with some of the advantage of surprise. He swung round at Martin as the midshipman put his tiller over to take a wide sweep around the Anne. 'Keep straight on, damn it!'
They heeled as Martin corrected his course and pulled past the first of the anchored ships. A single musket ball struck the boat's gunwhale, but they were past before the sentry had a chance to reload.
There was more activity aboard the Hannah but she too was astern before damage could be done to them. The Delia lay ahead now, already swinging to the wind as the flood tide that had brought them reached the brief hiatus of high water.