Under False Colours (30 page)

'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
Alert
s 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.

Suddenly pinpoints of yellow fire sparkled along the
Delia
's rail. Musket balls struck the longboat and sent up the spurts of near misses all about them. In the centre of the boat a man was struck in the chest. He let go his oar and upset the stroke.

His convulsion of agony came with gasps of pain and with thrashing legs he fell from his thwart. There was a moment's confusion as his trailing oar was disentangled, then order was restored.

'A steady pull, lads,' called Drinkwater, relieved now the action had started. 'Five more good strokes and we'll be alongside.'

With the exception of the centre thwart where the mortally wounded man lay cradled in his mate's arms, the men plied their oars vigorously, knowing they had a few seconds before the French reloaded.

'Stand-by forrard!' shouted Midshipman Martin. 'Hook on!'

The
Alert
's longboat bumped against the side of the transport
Delia
.

'Boarders away!' Drinkwater bawled, standing in the wildly rocking boat as most of her crew leapt up and reached for the main chains. He heaved himself up with cracking arm muscles, kicked his feet until he found a foothold, then drew himself up on to the platform of the chainwhale. He saw the dull gleam of a bayonet, got one foot on to the
Delia
's rail and drew the hanger Hamilton had lent him. The infantry officer's weapon was light as a foil, but the clash with the heavy bayonet jarred him. He was clutching a shroud with his left hand and he let his body swing, absorbing the impact of the sentry's lunge. Disengaging his blade, he jabbed at the man's face. Instinctively the soldier drew back and Drinkwater flung himself over the rail and down on to the deck.

He was still weak from the ague he had succumbed to after the rigours of his escape and he landed awkwardly, his legs buckling beneath him, but others were about him now and the guard retreated aft, looking round for support from his confederates who were tumbling up from below in disordered dress. There were less than a dozen of them, but they were led by an officer, an elderly man with a bayonet scar sliced deep into his cheek. He gave a curt order and the muskets came up to the present.

'Charge!' Drinkwater bellowed, recovering his footing and running aft amid the fire of muskets and pistols. As his men came over the rail they discharged their firearms simultaneously with the enemy. There was a moment of flashes, cracks and buzzing, the cries of wounded men and then the two sides clashed together in hand-to-hand fighting.

The grizzled infantry lieutenant shuffled forward with the cautious confidence of the old warrior. He feinted with his heavy sword and Drinkwater felt the weight of it with a foolish, unnecessary parry. The Frenchman whipped his blade away, cut over Drinkwater's sword and lunged, at the same time slicing the blade of his weapon.

Had Drinkwater not held Hamilton's hanger his recovery would have been too late, but he was cool now, he had passed through the veil of fighting madness that had drawn from him the superfluous parry. He half turned, cannoned into another body, and in the second's respite had shortened his sword arm and jabbed the hanger with all his strength.

The French officer fell against him with a terrible gasp and Drinkwater recoiled, the man's body smell, mixed with the warm reek of blood, filling his nostrils. The French officer's sword clattered to the deck, the man dropped to his knees, then fell full length. Hamilton's hanger blade snapped off and Drinkwater was left stupidly holding the hilt and three inches of the
forte
.

Somebody lurched into him, he swung, confronted Martin and realized the thing was accomplished. The handful of Frenchmen remaining on their feet threw their muskets on the deck in token of surrender. Five of their fellow infantrymen lay dead or severely wounded, sprawled across the hatch and deck, and although one of their attackers writhed in noisy agony and three lay dead from their first volley, it was the death of their officer which persuaded them that further resistance was useless.

'Where are the crew?' Drinkwater snarled.
'Ou est les matelots Americaines
?'' The Frenchmen pointed at the gratings covering the after hatchway.

'Get 'em out, Mr Martin!'

One of the sentries stepped forward and began to speak rapidly. Drinkwater could not understand a word but the meaning of the man's request was clear: to be left on Neuwerk, not taken prisoner.

'Put 'em under guard, Mr Martin!' He turned to the men scrambling out of the 'tween deck. 'Where's the master?'

'He's hostage ashore, sir.'

'God's bones! What about the mate?'

'Here, sir!'

'Get her under way. Cut your cable and make sail, the tide's just on the turn and the
Alert
cutter is in the offing! Mr Martin, get those prisoners in the boat, then —'

Drinkwater's order was lost in the boom of a cannon and a crash amidships where the ball struck home. Drinkwater ran to the rail, raised his hands and shouted at the adjacent vessel, '
Hannah
ahoy! Have you taken the ship?'

'Aye, sir, an' we've eight prisoners!' That was Browne's voice.

'Send 'em over in your boat, d'ye hear?'

A second and third crash came from the battery ashore but Drinkwater doggedly continued his conversation. 'Have you word from the
Anne
?

'A moment, Cap'n!'

Browne turned away so that Drinkwater could not hear what he said, but a faint call from the farthest ship was, he thought, Frey's voice. It was almost full daylight now and he could see a man standing in the
Anne
's rigging.

'That you there, sir?' Browne too was visible at the
Hannah
's rail.

'Aye?'

'She's taken. They've eight men too.'

'Where's McCullock's boat?'

'Here sir, just come from the
Anne
to confirm Browne's report. We've the three o' them in the bag, sir.'

'Not yet we haven't. I'm not leavin' those Masters ashore. Do you pick up all the prisoners and follow me. All your men load their pieces. I'm going in to parley.' He turned and shouted orders at Martin then, seeing the mate of the
Delia
had a man hacking at the anchor cable with an axe and had the transport's main topsail in its clewlines he scrambled after Martin down into the longboat. A ball plunged into the water close to Browne's barge into which his prisoners were being forced and which still lay alongside the
Hannah
.

In the longboat, facing the downcast French guard from the
Delia
with musket and fixed bayonet, sat a private of the Royal Veterans.

'Be so kind as to lend me your ramrod,' Drinkwater requested, holding out his hand, fishing with the other beneath his own coat-tails. Drawing a white handkerchief from his pocket, Drinkwater knotted it about the private's ramrod.

Having gathered together the three boats loaded with the disarmed French, Drinkwater waved his improvised flag of truce and ordered Martin to pull inshore. From a low breastwork the flash and smoke of cannon fire continued, the scream of the shot passing overhead was followed by the thunder of the discharge rolling across the water. The noise of the shots hitting or falling short came from astern, only to be answered by the crack of
Alert
's light six-pounders.

Drinkwater turned in alarm. O'Neal had worked his little ship well into the anchorage and already the
Anne
had escaped past the cutter which was drawing up towards the
Hannah
and the
Delia
. Both vessels had hoisted their false, American colours, a shrewd though quite useless attempt to deter the artillerymen ashore. But Drinkwater had observed from the fall of O'Neal's shot that having mistaken their purpose, that zealous officer was directing his own cannon at the three boats pulling quickly towards the island.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater blasphemed, turning to Martin, 'Stand up, man, he might recognize you if he's looking, and wave this damned flag!'

The next moment the three boats were lost amongst a welter of splashes as shot from both sides plunged into the sea around them. An oar was shivered with an explosion of splinters and then, as if comprehension dawned simultaneously upon the opposing gunners, fire ceased and the boats emerged, miraculously unscathed, except for the loss of the single oar.

A few moments later, as with canvas flogging O'Neal tacked the
Alert
and stood slowly seaward again, Drinkwater's bout led close inshore.

'Here,' he said, seizing the flag of truce from the shaken Martin, 'I'll take that now.'

Drinkwater stood up and braced himself. 'Very well, Mr Martin, that'll do.'

'Oars!' ordered the midshipman. The tired seamen brought their oars horizontal and bent over the looms, leaning on their arms and gasping for breath. The other boats followed suit and the three of them glided closer to the beach. Drinkwater could see the shakoed heads of artillerymen above the island's defences.