Under False Colours (9 page)

'It offers us our best chance if we avoid the Horn's Reef and Danish letters-of-marque. Of course it's a risk ...' the master drowned his incomplete sentence in a mouthful of rum.

Beyond the island of Sylt lay the port of Esbjerg from which Danish privateers would swoop on the
Galliwasp
with alacrity. The Danes had not forgiven Great Britain the abduction of their fleet two years earlier, nor the bombardment of their capital, Copenhagen. A British ship falling into their hands could expect little mercy: a British naval officer none whatsoever. One caught in disguise would almost certainly be hanged or shot; Drinkwater had seen such a man, strung up by the Dutch above a battery at Kirkduin.

'D'you have a larger scale chart?' Drinkwater asked, shying away from the hideous image.

'Aye.' Littlewood turned and pulled a chart tube from a locker. From it he drew a roll of charts. Drinkwater waited, feeling the rum warm his belly. 'You are thinking of Helgoland?'

'Yes.'

They spread out the second chart and Drinkwater noted it was an English copy of a survey commissioned by the Hamburg Chamber of Commerce.

'Too risky,' Littlewood said, shaking his head. 'If we are out in our reckoning, or if we miscalculate and are swept past, then our fate is sealed.'

'We could anchor and make a signal of distress. There is often a cutter or a sloop stationed near the island.'

'There is as often as not a damned French custom-house lugger, or worse, a Dutch coastguard cutter; that damned island attracts them like a candle does moths. The fact is, Helgoland is too much of a hazard. I'd rather take my chance to the norrard and hope for the sight of a British cruiser than poke my head into that noose!'

Littlewood's voice rang with the conviction of a man who had made up his mind and would brook no interference. His eyes met those of the still uncommitted Drinkwater and he summoned a final argument to ram home his conviction.

'What would the French garrison in Hamburg say when they seized our cargo, Captain, eh? Mercy bow-coup, damn them, and all I'll get in receipt is board and lodging in a cell! You know well enough I
have
to think of my ship. We'll take our chance to the norrard.'

Littlewood let go his end of the chart and it rolled up like a coiled spring against Drinkwater's hand which held down the opposite margin. The sensation of a tiny wounding, a reminder of Littlewood's ultimate responsibility struck him. Drinkwater was not a naval officer in Littlewood's mind but an encumbrance, and Drinkwater faced a situation over which he had no real control. Matters had gone too far for him to contemplate casting aside his disguise in order to usurp Littlewood's command of the
Galliwasp
. Besides, his authority to do even that was difficult to prove and impossible to enforce. The first intimation of naval command would reek so strongly of the press in the nostrils of
Galliwasp
's people that he would very likely be in fear of his life.

Littlewood's assessment was the truth and his solution the only practical one. Clawing their way to the north bought them sea room, time, and the chance of an encounter with a British man-of-war; running to leeward, for all that the British-occupied island lay downwind, was too much like clutching at a straw.

'Very well. I agree.' Drinkwater nodded.

'Pity about that gun-brig ...'

Drinkwater lingered in the cabin after Littlewood returned to the deck. He could be heard exhorting his crew to further exertions as
Galliwasp
rolled and pitched sluggishly — what remained of the dead burden of her wrecked top-hamper lying over her bow — holding her head to wind. Her buffeted hull creaked in protest and Drinkwater heard the monotonous thump-thump of her pumps starting again as Littlewood sought to prevent his precious cargo being spoiled by bilge water.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater blasphemed venomously and struck his clenched fist on Littlewood's table. What in hell's name was he doing here, presiding ineffectually over the shambles of Dungarth's grand design?

The thing was a failure, a fiasco ...

The matter was finished and Quilhampton was lost, for it was inconceivable that his little brig could have withstood the onslaught of the night's tempest. The mission — if that was what Dungarth's insane idea to force the war to a climax could be called — had foundered with the
Tracker
. Littlewood was right and there was nothing more they could do except preserve themselves and their cargo. Perhaps, if they regained the English coast, the ruse might be attempted again after the spring thaw. It was something to hope for.

But the loss of Quilhampton, Frey and their people brought an inconsolable grief and Drinkwater felt it weigh upon him, adding to the depression of his spirits. It was then that the idle and selfish thought insinuated itself: with the loss of
Tracker
had gone his sea-chest and all his personal effects.

October 1809

Drinkwater woke with a start, his heart hammering with a nameless fear. For a moment he lay still, thinking his anxiety and grief had dragged him from sleep, but the next moment he was struggling upright. Shouts came from other parts of the ship, shouts of alarm as other men were woken from the sleep of utter fatigue. Galliwasp struck for a third time, her hull shuddering, a living thing in her death throes.

He reached the deck as the cry was raised of a light to leeward.

'
Where
away?' roared Littlewood, struggling into a coat, his face a pale, anxious blur in the gloom.

'To loo'ard, Cap'n! There!'

Both Drinkwater and Littlewood stared into the darkness as
Galliwasp
pounded upon the reef for the fourth time and the hiss and seething of the sea welled up about her and then fell away in the unmistakable rhythm of breakers.

Then they saw the light, a steady red glow which might have been taken for a glimpse of the rising moon seen through a rent in the overcast except that it suddenly flared into yellow flames and they were close enough to see clouds of sparks leap upwards.

"Tis a lighthouse ... Helgoland lighthouse!' Littlewood called, then bellowed, 'In the waist there! A sounding!'

Drinkwater felt Littlewood's hand grip his arm. 'Cap'n Waters,' he said, his voice strained and urgent. 'They must have been asleep,' — referring to the watch of exhausted men who had laboured throughout the preceding day to prepare
Galliwasp
's jury rig — 'and we've drifted ...'

'By the mark seven, sir!'

'She's come off!' snapped Drinkwater, watching the bearing of the light and feeling the change in the motion of the
Galliwasp
.

'By the deep nine!' confirmed the cry from forward.

'They may not have been asleep,' Drinkwater said consolingly, as Littlewood, in his agitation, still clung to Drinkwater's sleeve. 'That light was badly tended.' Both men stared at the now flaming chauffer which seemed to loom above them.

'Do you anchor, upon the instant, sir!'

At Drinkwater's imperative tone Littlewood shook off his catalepsy.

'Yes, yes, of course. Stand by the shank painter and cat stopper!'

It was a matter of good fortune that they had had the foresightedness to bend a cable on to the best bower the afternoon before. Indeed they had mooted anchoring, but decided against it, believing they had sufficient sea room to remain hove-to overnight and able to get sail of the barque before the following noon.

'By the deep eleven!'

The anchor dropped from the cat-head with a splash and the cable rumbled out through the hawse-pipe. Littlewood was roused fully from his momentary lapse of initiative. Drinkwater heard him calling for the carpenter to sound the well and the hands to man the pumps. The pounding that the
Galliwasp
had taken on the reef must surely have started a plank or dislodged some of her sheathing and caulking. Littlewood must be dog-tired, Drinkwater thought, feeling useless and unable to contribute much beyond feeling for Littlewood a surrogate anxiety. He turned to the flames of the lighthouse as he felt
Galliwasp
's anchor dig its flukes into the sea bed and the ship jerk round to her cable.

Carefully Drinkwater observed the bearing of the light steady.

Littlewood stumped breathlessly aft. 'He
was
asleep ... the mate I mean ... God damn his lights ...'

'The bearing's steady ... she's brought up to her anchor.'

'Thank God the wind's dropping.'

'Amen to that,' murmured Drinkwater.

'She's making water, sir.' The carpenter came aft and made his report at which Littlewood grunted. 'We'll have to keep the men at the pumps until daylight.' He raised his voice. 'Mr Watts!'

The mate came aft, a shuffling figure whose shame at having fallen asleep was perceptible even in the darkness. As Drinkwater overheard Littlewood passing orders to keep men at the pumps he reflected on the situation. The
Galliwasp
's hands had laboured like Trojans, Watts among them. There were too few of them, far fewer than would have been borne by a naval vessel of comparable size. Detached, Drinkwater could almost condone their failure. Littlewood turned towards him with a massive shrug as Watts went disconsolately forward.

'I'll stand your anchor watch for you,' Drinkwater said. 'You have all been pushed too hard.' Littlewood stood beside him for a moment, looked forward, where the thudding of the pumps were beginning their monotonous beat, and then stared aft, above the taffrail, where the flaring coals of Helgoland light burned.

'Obliged to 'ee,' he said shortly, and went below.

Dawn revealed their position. To the south east the cliffs and high flat tableland of the island dominated the horizon. Their concern at the difficulties of fetching the flyspeck of rock had been confounded by a providence that had landed them on the very reefs which ran out to the north-west of Helgoland itself and which, just to seaward of them, now lay beneath a seething white flurry of breaking swells, the last vestiges of the tempest.

Drinkwater could see clearly the column of the lighthouse, together with the roofs of some buildings and the spire of a church. To the left of Helgoland lay a narrow strait of water in which several merchant ships lay at anchor. Beyond them the strait was bounded by a low sandy isle on which a pair of beacons could be clearly seen against the pale yellow dawn. Drinkwater found the battered watchglass that nestled in a rack below the
Galliwasp
's rail, focused and swept the cliff top. The rock rose precipitously, fissured and eroded by countless gales and the battering of the sea. Tufts of thrift and grass, patches of lichens, and the streaked droppings of seabirds speckled the grim and overhanging mass. Floating like a cloud above the cliff edge, hundreds of gulls hung on motionless wings, ridge-soaring on the updrafts of wind. Then Drinkwater saw the men, two of them, conspicuous in British scarlet. He lowered the telescope and stowed it. Striding aft he found
Galliwasp
's ensign and took it forward. Their situation must have been obvious, even to the pair of lobsters regarding them from the cliff, but there was no harm in underlining their predicament, or in declaring their nationality.

Walking forward past the tired men labouring halfheartedly at the pump handles, he caught hold of a halliard rigged on a spar raised and fished to the stump of the foremast. Bending on the ensign he ran it up, union down in the signal of distress.

'D'you reckon on any help from the shore, Cap'n?' asked one of the party at the pumps, an American, by his accent.

'We've been seen by two soldiers on the cliff top,' Drinkwater answered confidently as he belayed the flag halliard, 'and I see no reason why those vessels at anchor shouldn't lend us a hand.'

He pointed and the men, grey faced with fatigue, looked up and saw the anchored ships for the first time.

'Say, Cap'n Waters, what is this place?'

Drinkwater grasped the reason for their anxiety. They had no idea where they were, and probably considered his act of hoisting a British ensign a piece of folly.

'It's all right, lads,' he said, 'this is Helgoland. It's British occupied; those soldiers ain't Frenchmen.'

He could see the relief in their faces as they spat on their hands and resumed the monotonous duty of keeping the
Galliwasp
afloat until help arrived.

Help arrived in the form of Mr Browne and two naval launches. The heavy boats crabbed slowly towards them, rounding the eastern point of Helgoland under oars. They were full of men and followed by several smaller boats from the merchant ships.

Mr Browne, a heavily built man with a florid face and white side-whiskers, was dressed in a plain blue coat secured with gilt buttons. On these Drinkwater noticed the anchor of the naval pattern. Mr Browne, he correctly deduced — together with his two launches — was a servant of the crown.

'Browne,' the man announced, staring about him as he clambered over the
Galliwasp
'?, rail. 'King's harbour-master.'

'Litttlewood, Master of the
Galliwasp
of London, bound for the Baltic from the London River. This is Captain Waters, supercargo.'

Browne nodded perfunctorily at Drinkwater.

'You're in a pickle, to be sure,' said Browne, pushing a tarred canvas hat back from his forehead and scratching his skull.

'I've a valuable cargo, Mr Browne,' said Littlewood with a show of tired dignity, 'and I've every intention of saving it.'

Browne cast a ruminative eye on the fat shipmaster.

'We've a great deal of valuable cargo hereabouts, Mister,' he said in an equally weary tone, 'but we'll see what can be done.' He sniffed, as though the noise signified his taking charge of the situation, then turned to the ship's side, cupping two massive hands about his mouth and shouting instructions to the boats assembling round the wallowing
Galliwasp
.

'We'll tow her in, boys ...' He turned to Littlewood, 'Is she taking much water?'