"Beneath the aurora" - читать интересную книгу автора (Вудмен Ричард)

CHAPTER 2 A Secret from the South

Lieutenant Sparkman dozed over the mulled wine, one booted leg stretched out on the wooden settle. Curled at his feet lay a brindled mongrel cur of menacing size. Periodically it came to frantic life, a hind leg vigorously clawing at a hidden flea, before it subsided again.

Having discommoded himself of the Neapolitan officer, he had not had much sleep in the arms of the energetic Annie. He was no longer a young man and the excesses of the night dissuaded him from taking too much of an interest in his report. He felt as weary that morning in the empty tap-room of the Three Cups at Harwich as he had at the Red Lion at Kirby-le-Soken the previous evening. He looked up as the latch of the door lifted and Annie, smiling at him above her unlaced stays and white breasts, led a stranger into the room.

'Tell your master that I want new horses in three hours and a dinner in two,' the stranger said, turning his back on Sparkman as he took off his tricorn and a heavy cloak and threw them on a wooden chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. The newcomer wore a suit of bottle-green which sat awkwardly on asymetrical shoulders down which fell his hair in an old-fashioned queue set off with a black ribbon.

'New horses, sir, an' a dinner, aye, sir ...' Annie bobbed and pouted at the newcomer and Sparkman felt a mean resentment at the intrusion, at the bossing of Annie Davis, at the little whore's attitude.

'Put some more coal on the fire,' Sparkman commanded, 'and get me a pipe and baccy while you're about it.'

Annie flashed him a quick, pleading look which spoke of obligations and priorities not purchased with his single florin.

'A glass of black-strap, if you please,' said the stranger, re­engaging Annie's attention, and she curtsied again, to Sparkman's intense irritation. But before he could add to the catalogue of Annie's chores, the man turned.

He was about fifty with a high forehead from which his grey-brown hair was drawn back severely. His face was lined and weatherbeaten, though a faint, pallid sword scar ran down his left cheek. His mouth, circumscribed by deep furrows, was expressive of contempt as he regarded the dishevelled Sparkman from stern grey eyes.

Sparkman's irritation withered under the stranger's scrutiny. He felt uncomfortably conscious of his dirty neck linen and the mud-stained boot outstretched on the settle seat. He lowered his eyes, raised the tankard to his lips. The fellow had no business with him and could go to the devil!

Drinkwater stared at the slovenly figure, noting the blue coat of naval undress uniform.

'Lieutenant Sparkman?'

Sparkman coughed with surprise, spluttering into his mulled wine in an infuriating indignity which he disguised in anger. 'And who the deuce wants to know?'

'You are Lieutenant Sparkman, Inspector of Sea Fencibles, are you not?' Drinkwater persisted coolly, drawing a paper from his breast pocket and shaking it so that the heavy seal fell, and unfolded it for Sparkman to read.

'I am Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, from the Admiralty, Mr Sparkman. You wrote to their Lordships about a Colonel Bardolini.'

Sparkman's mouth fell open; he put his tankard down, wiped his hands upon his stained breeches and took Drinkwater's identification paper, looking at Drinkwater as he sat up straight.

'I beg pardon, sir ...' He read the pass and handed it back. 'I beg pardon, sir, I had no idea ... I wasn't expectin' ...'

'No matter, Mr Sparkman, no matter.' Captain Drinkwater took the paper, refolded it and tucked it inside his coat.

'Where is this fellow Bardolini? In the Redoubt, I think you said.'

'Yes, sir, I thought it best…'

Annie Davis came back into the room with a glass of black­strap on a tray. 'Here you'm be, sir.'

'Obliged.' Drinkwater swallowed hard. 'No doubt you did think it for the best, Mr Sparkman, but I doubt Colonel Bardolini will be of so sanguine an opinion. Does he speak English?'

'Yes, very well.'

'Good. Where is this Redoubt?'

'You passed it, sir, just before you came to the main gate…'

'Ah yes, the glacis, I recollect it. Shall we go then?' Drinkwater tossed off the glass and swept up his cloak and hat. 'A dinner in two hours, my girl, and no later; a hot meat pie will do very well.'

Apart from its flagstaff, the Redoubt was as well hidden from sight as from cannon shot, nestling below a glacis which rose fifty feet above the level of the country. This slope terminated on the edge of a vertical counterscarp, and the brick bulk of the circular fort rose on the far side of a wide ditch. This was crossed by a drawbridge which led directly to the rampart, which was pierced by embrasures each housing a huge, black 24-pounder. Under the iron arch with its empty sconce, which marked the inconspicuous gateway to this military wonder, they were challenged halfheartedly by a blue-coated artilleryman on sentry duty. He had spied them walking out through the town's main gate and he had summoned a lieutenant who hurried up to greet them. For the second time in an hour, Drinkwater produced his identification.

Your servant, sir,' the artillery officer said with a good deal more savoir-faire than Sparkman had mustered, handing back the paper. 'Lieutenant Patmore, sir, at your service. I've made the Italian officer as comfortable as possible, sir ...' Patmore paused and shot a look at Sparkman, 'but I'm afraid he's frightfully touchy about his honour.'

Drinkwater regarded Sparkman and raised an eyebrow. 'You may announce me, Mr Sparkman. Lead on, Mr Patmore.'

They turned left and for a moment Drinkwater caught a glimpse of the open sea to the south-east, then the opposing salient of Landguard Point with its much older fortification, a shingle distal which formed a breakwater to the Harwich Shelf whereon a dozen merchantmen, collier brigs for the most part, rode out the last of the gale. To the north the River Orwell disappeared beyond a pair of Martello towers, winding through woodland to the port of Ipswich. Somewhere, beyond those tree-tops, lay Gantley Hall beneath the roof of which dwelt his wife Elizabeth, his children Amelia and Richard, and all his worldly desires.

Closer, behind the roofs of Harwich itself, the River Stour stretched westward to Manningtree, where he had had his final change of horses prior to traversing its banks that very forenoon.

'Your batteries command the harbour very well, Mr Patmore. Have you been stationed here long?'

'I came with the guns, sir, from Woolwich, three years ago.'

They passed a stiffly rigid bombardier and two gunners, then turned suddenly, out of the wind and down through a stepped tunnel, descending rapidly to the level of the bottom of the dry moat, emerging within the wall's circumference on to a parade ground almost ninety feet across. Walking quickly round its edge they passed a number of wooden doors, some open, betraying a kitchen, a guardroom and the garrison's quarters, then stopped beside one which Sparkman unlocked.

Inside the casemate, wooden stalls formed the fort's prison, and at the opening of the door the inmate of the nearer leapt to his feet and Drinkwater saw the blazing dark eyes and fierce moustaches of the Neapolitan officer.

'This is an outrage! I demand you release me at once! I am invested with plenipotentiary powers by King Joachim Napoleon of Naples! An insult to me is an insult to the King my master! You have taken my sword and with my sword my honour! I wish to be taken to London ...'

As this tirade burst upon them, Drinkwater turned to Patmore and, putting up a hand to the artillery officer's ear, asked, 'Do you have a room I could use? Somewhere you could serve some bread and meat, and perhaps a conciliatory bottle?'

Patmore nodded.

'Would you oblige me by attending to the matter?'

'Of course, sir. I advised Sparkman against this line of conduct.'

'Leave the matter to me, Mr Patmore.'

'Of course, sir. If you'll excuse me ...' Patmore turned away, obviously glad to be out of the embarrassing din which echoed about the chamber.

'I give myself up to you, Signor Sparkman, in honour, in friendship, in trust. I have plenipotentiary powers…'

'Will you hold your damned tongue!' Sparkman cried, his efforts to expostulate having failed under Bardolini's verbal barrage. Bardolini grew quiet, seeing Drinkwater properly for the first time as he moved away from the door and ceased to be in silhouette to a man who had spent fifteen hours in the dark.

'This is Captain Drinkwater, Colonel, from London…'

'A captain,' Bardolini sneered, 'a captain? I am a colonel in the light cavalry of the Royal Life Guard! Am I to be met by a captain?'

'I am a captain in His Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy, Colonel Bardolini,' Drinkwater said, stepping forward and edging Sparkman to one side. 'I believe us to be equal in rank, sir,' he added with a hint of sarcasm which, he noted, was lost on Bardolini. 'Do you release our guest, Mr Sparkman.'

'I, er, I don't have the key, sir. Mr Patmore ...'

'Then run and get it,' Drinkwater snapped. As soon as they were alone, he turned to Bardolini. 'I beg you to forgive the inconvenience to which you have been put, Colonel. You must appreciate the dangers of accepting everyone arriving from Europe at face value. Our orders are quite specific and to men of Lieutenant Sparkman's stamp, essential. D'you understand?'

'What is stamp?'

'Character ...'

'Ah, si. Not so clever, eh?'

'Indeed, yes.' Drinkwater smiled. The untruthful but reassuring little collusion between two senior officers mollified Bardolini, and then Sparkman was back with a key and they led the Neapolitan out into a watery sunshine which showed the breaking up of the scud and foretold a shift in the wind. On the far side of the parade, Patmore stood beside an open door and Drinkwater began to walk towards him.

Behind him Bardolini stopped and looked up at the circle of sky above them, stretching ostentatiously. He ran a finger round his stock, then put on the hat which he had tucked under his arm. Drinkwater was amazed at the splendour of the man. He wore the tight kurtka deriving from the Polish lancers of the Grande Arm#233;e, a white jacket with a scarlet plastron and silver epaulettes. His long cavalry overalls were scarlet, trimmed with twin rows of silver lace, while his headdress also echoed the Polish fashion, a czapka with its peak and tall, square top, braided with silver and magnificendy plumed in white. Colonel Bardolini was turned out in la grande tenue of parade dress and wanted only a shave to complete the impression of military perfection.

'Come, Colonel. I have ordered some meat and wine for you, and if you wish we can send for hot water for you to shave…'

'Good!' snapped Bardolini and crossed the parade.

Patmore led them into another casemate which served as the officers' mess. It was simply furnished with a table, chairs, a sideboard and some plate. Another artillery lieutenant lounged over a glass and bottle, already well down the latter for his welcome was heartily indulgent.

'Please sit down, gentlemen. Henry Courtney  #224; votre service. Here, sir,' he said to Bardolini, 'your breakfast.' A gunner in shirt-sleeves brought in a platter of sliced meat and bread. Courtney poured wine into a second glass. Bardolini hesitated, then sat and fell ravenously upon the plate.

'Mr Courtney,' Drinkwater said as Bardolini devoured the food, 'would you do me the courtesy of allowing me a few moments of privacy with our guest?'

'Oh, I say, I've not finished ...'

'Harry!'

Courtney turned and caught the severe look in Patmore's eye. 'Oh, very well,' he said unconvincingly, and rose with a certain display of languid condescension, 'as you wish.'

Drinkwater helped himself to a glass of wine as the door closed. The shirt-sleeved gunner looked in and Drinkwater dismissed him, closing the door behind him. Then he walked back to the table, drew the identification paper from his breast yet again and laid it before Bardolini. The Neapolitan read it, still chewing vigorously. Then he stopped and looked up.

'My own papers, they are with my sword and sabretache! I do not have them!'

'Calm yourself, my dear Colonel,' Drinkwater said and sat down opposite Bardolini. 'We can attend to the formalities on our way back to London. At the moment I wish only to know the purpose of your visit.'

'I have plenipotentiary powers, Captain. They are, with respect to yourself, for the ears of King George's ministers. I have a letter of introduction to Lord Castlereagh ...'

'You speak excellent English, Colonel, where did you learn?' Drinkwater adroitly changed the subject.

'I worked for many years in the counting-house of an English merchant in Napoli. He taught it to all his clerks.'

'You were a clerk then, once upon a time?'

'But a republican always,' Bardolini flared.

"Yet you represent a king, and seek the ministers of a king. That is curious, is it not?'

'King Joachim is a soldier. He is a republican at heart, himself the son of an inn-keeper. He is a benevolent monarch, one who wishes to unite Italy and be a new Julius Caesar.'

'I thought Caesar refused a crown ...'

'King Joachim is not a king as you understand it, Captain. Believe me, I lived under the rule of that despot Ferdinand and his Austrian bitch. They are filth, perhaps as mad as they say your own king is, but certainly filth, not worthy to eat the shit that ran out of the sewers of their own palazzo.'

'And yet I have to ask what King Joachim would say to the mad King George's ministers?'

'I cannot tell you.'

'I cannot take you to London.'

'You would not dare to refuse!' Bardolini's eyes blazed.

'Colonel, the ocean is wide, deep and cold. The men who have seen you today will have forgotten you in a month. Why do you think I have come here today? Do you think I myself do not have special powers, eh?' Drinkwater paused, letting his words sink in. 'Come, sir, telling me what you have come here for is likely to have little effect on matters if I am a man of no account. On the other hand, going forward to London on my recommendation will ensure your mission is swiftly accomplished.'

Bardolini remained silent.

'Let me guess, then. You are here in order to open secret negotiations to preserve the throne of Naples in the name of King Joachim Napoleon. You speak very good English and have plenipotentiary powers in case it becomes possible, in the course of your discussions, to conclude a formal accommodation, or even a full treaty of alliance, in which the British government guarantee Naples for the King your master who, though he remains a Marshal of France and Grand Admiral of the Empire, lost his French citizenship on succeeding to the crown of Naples.' Drinkwater paused, aware that he had Bardolini's full attention.

'You have, moreover, a difficult game to play because, on the one hand, King Joachim does not want his brother-in-law, the Emperor Napoleon, to know of this action. Nor does he wish the Austrians to learn of it, for while they may well toy with King Joachim, his desire to unite the Italian republicans and then the whole peninsula is inimical to their own interests. Moreover, it will cause deep offence to King Ferdinand, whose wife, Queen Maria Carolina, is not only the sister of the late Queen of France, Marie Antoinette, but was also born an Austrian archduchess and whose husband, though ruling still in Sicily, has been deprived of the Italian portion of his kingdom by conquest. King Ferdinand regards your King Joachim as an usurper.

'Nevertheless, Prince Cariati at Vienna is assiduously pressing King Joachim's suit to the Austrian ministry. So your master must play a double game, for the Emperor Napoleon works to detach the Austrian Emperor from his alliance with us, thinking his own new wife, the Empress Marie-Louise, yet another Austrian archduchess, possesses influence to succeed in this endeavour, being daughter to the Emperor Francis himself.'

Drinkwater paused. Bardolini had ceased chewing and his jaw lay unpleasandy open so that half-masticated food was exposed upon his tongue. Drinkwater poured another glass of wine and looked away.

'Now, Colonel, do you have anything to add to this?'

Bardolini shut his mouth, chewed rapidly and swallowed prematurely. He lunged at his glass and gulped at the claret, wiping his mouth on the scarlet turn-back of his cuff.

'Sympatico, Captain, we are of one mind!'

'Perhaps. But King George's ministers will be less easy to oblige than you imagine, Colonel. Consider. Your master has already communicated with us through his Minister of Police, the Duke of Campochiaro, who sent one of his agents, a certain Signor Cerculi, to discuss with Colonel Coffin at Ponza matters of trade and an easement of the naval blockade of Calabria. Is that not true? And after these negotiations had been concluded, Cerculi let it be known that King Joachim and his brother-in-law had fallen out, indeed, that they were frequently at odds. King Joachim wants to rule in his own name and Napoleon wants him as no more than a tributary-king, a puppet — a marionette. Is this not so?'

'How do you know all this?' Bardolini looked genuinely puzzled.

'Because', Drinkwater said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, 'Colonel Coffin reported the matter back to the Sicilian court at Palermo, and from there it was passed to London.'

Such a torrent of detail clearly surprised Bardolini. He was astonished at the knowledge possessed by this strange Englishman. He did not know that Coffin had regaled the British frigate captain with the whole story and he, bored with the tedium of blockade, had confided all the details to his routine report of proceedings. This, in turn, had crossed Drinkwater's desk within two months, at the same time that the confidential diplomatic dispatch from Sicily had reached the office of the Foreign Secretary.

'But therein lies our dilemma, Colonel,' Drinkwater continued relentlessly. 'King Ferdinand has been assured that the British government wants to see the King of the Two Sicilies restored to his rightful place in his palace at Naples. How, then, can His Britannic Majesty's government take King Joachim seriously?'

It was, Drinkwater thought wryly, a fair question. Napoleon Bonaparte, having driven Ferdinand across the Strait of Messina, placed his brother Joseph on the vacant throne at Naples, leaving Ferdinand and Maria Carolina to vegetate under British protection at Palermo. Then, when he deceived the King of Spain and took him prisoner, Napoleon transferred Joseph to Madrid, installing him as king there, and sent Marshal Murat to Naples as King Joachim. It was rather a tawdry and expedient proceeding.

'Ferdinand is not important. He fled in English ships to Palermo. You support him there, without English ships he is powerless. Your government can abandon Ferdinand. Lord William Bentinck, your former minister at Palermo, has already been recalled by Lord Casdereagh.'

'But what has King Joachim to offer us in exchange for our protection? Can he guarantee that, if we maintain the dignity of his throne, the people of Naples, let alone of the whole of Italy, will acknowledge him as king?'

'Si! Yes! He is most popular! Without your ships, Ferdinand would be lost and Sicily would join all of Italy. Would that not be better for England? To have a friendly power in the Mediterranean? You would like a naval port at Livorno, or La Spezia.'

'Perhaps. Are you empowered to offer us a naval port?'

Bardolini shrugged again and looked about him. 'This is not the place ...'

Drinkwater grinned. 'You may have to content yourself with such a place, Colonel,' he said dryly, 'you are in my hands now,' and his expression and tone of voice, strained by tiredness, appeared to Bardolini to be full of menace.

In fact Drinkwater was disappointed. The Neapolitan had nothing to offer. Joachim Murat was hedging his bets fantastically. It would be an act of humanity to send tins candy-stick officer back to Flushing by the first available boat, but perhaps he would play the charade for just a little longer.

'Well, Colonel,' he said with an air of finality, stirring as though to rise and call Patmore and Sparkman, 'is King Joachim to be trusted? He is married to Caroline Bonaparte, the Emperor's sister. If he commits himself to coming over to the Allied cause like Bernadotte, his position must be unassailable. He courts Austria, which has her own deep interest in Tuscany and the Papal States, and would rather an accommodation with Ferdinand of the Two Sicilies than the adventurer and parvenu King Joachim…'

'Captain! You should not call him that! He is brave, and true! And devoted to his people and the Rights of Man!'

The sincerity of Bardolini's florid passion was genuine, though he had looked angry at Drinkwater's reference to Bernadotte. They were getting nowhere. For all the confidence of his exposition, Drinkwater was exhausted. The overnight journey jolting in a chaise, turning over and over in his mind the likely outcome of this queer meeting; the memorizing of the notes he had scribbled from a quick rereading of the guard books; the rehearsal of facts; the guessing at motives and the building in his own mind of a convincing, watertight reason for this singular, strange invasion, had left him weary. He had wanted to rage at the imbecile Sparkman, so obviously raddled by a night of dissolution, yet the lieutenant's inhumane treatment of Bardolini had left the man indignant for his own honour, and unguarded about his master's.

Drinkwater mustered his wits for one last argument. The drink had made him dopey and he forced himself to his feet, leaning forward for emphasis, his hands spread on the table before him. Again he managed a thin smile at Bardolini.

'There is one last point that we must consider, Colonel Bardolini. Where is the King of Naples now?'

The question caught Bardolini off guard. 'He is at Dresden.'

'With his Emperor?'

'With the Emperor of the French, yes.'

'As a Marshal of France, commanding the cavalry of the Grande Arm#233;e.'

Bardolini nodded, frowning.

Yet he must be on the winning side, must he not? And to preserve his integrity it must never be known that he treated with the other. Is that not so?'

You are an intelligent man, Captain. The King is married to the Emperor's sister. They correspond. There could be no absolute secrets between them…'

'No!' snapped Drinkwater with sudden vehemence. 'Bonaparte is a cynic; he will overlook base ingratitude, even treason if it serves his purpose, but do you think the Emperor Francis of Austria will be so tolerant? He is not so republican a king.'

Bardolini shrugged, missing the sarcasm. 'The Emperor Francis will bow if England is in alliance with the King of Napoli. A man who will declare war on the husband of his daughter will do anything.'

The cogency of the argument was impressive; and Bardolini's diplomatic ability was clear. Drinkwater fought to retain control of the dialogue.

'But, Colonel Bardolini, even as we speak Marshal Murat is in the field alongside his imperial brother-in-law. At least Bernadotte has repudiated his former master and is at the head of his Swedish troops and in command of an Allied army. His victory over his old friend Marshal Oudinot at Gross Beeren can hardly be called equivocating. Moreover, Colonel, on the sixth of this month, this same ci-devant republican soldier of France beat another old friend, Michel Ney, at Dennewitz. You did not know that, eh?' Drinkwater paused to let the import of the news sink in, then added, 'but your master has no such earnest of good faith to offer from his head­quarters at Dresden, does he, eh? He behaves as he is, a tributary king, a puppy fawning on the hand that feeds him.'

Drinkwater finished his diatribe. Tiredness lent a menace to his final words and Bardolini was visibly upset by the torrent of logic poured upon him by this apparently scornful Englishman. He remained silent as Drinkwater straightened up, contemplating the evaporation of his hopes.

'Come, sir. We will summon your sword and sabretache. You shall accompany me to an inn where my chaise will be ready. You may shave there while I eat. I can promise you nothing, but we will proceed to London.'

Bardolini looked relieved as he stood and reached for his ornate czapka.

'By the way, Colonel, we do not need an Italian port as long as we have Malta. Besides, how long could we trust a king who was married to a Bonaparte princess, eh? Tell me that if you can.'

Suddenly, in the ill-lit casemate, the beplumed Neapolitan looked ridiculously crestfallen.

The wind, which had veered in the night and brought a cold forenoon of bright sunshine, backed against the sun as it westered, so that the sky clouded and it began to rain long before they reached Colchester. Drinkwater was tempted to stop and spend the night there, but the steak-and-kidney pie Annie Davis had served him at the Three Cups put him into a doze so that inertia dissuaded him from making a decision and the chaise rumbled on westward.

He had no thought now but to disencumber himself of Bardolini as soon as they reached London, and when he woke briefly as they changed horses he felt only an intense irritation that he could not have turned north at Manningtree, crossed the Stour and taken the Ipswich road towards Gantley Hall and his wife Elizabeth's bed.

The recent weather had turned the road into a quagmire. Every rut had become a ditch, the horses were muddied to their bellies and the wheels spun arcs of filth behind them. The chaise lurched over this morass and bucked and rocked in the gusts of wind, the rain drummed on the hood and he heard Bardolini cursing, though whether it was the weather or his predicament that most discommoded the Neapolitan, Drinkwater neither knew nor cared. At about eleven that night it stopped raining. On the open road the going improved and they reached Kelvedon before midnight. Both men got out to stretch their legs and visit the necessary at the post-house. A draught of flip restored Drinkwater to a lucid state of mind. The stimulus of the alcohol and the irregular motion of the chaise when they drove forward again continued to make sleep impossible. Bardolini, sitting opposite, was equally unable to doze off and in the intermittent moonlight that peeped from behind the torn and ragged cumulus, Drinkwater was aware of the fierce glitter of the Neapolitan officer's eyes.

Initially Drinkwater expected sudden attack, an instinctive if illogical fear of treacherous assault. But then he realized Bardolini was caught in a reverie and his eyes merely sought the future. Or perhaps the past, Drinkwater mused, which might be full of disappointments, but was at least inhabited by certainties. As he had found so often at sea, the light doze he had enjoyed earlier had restored him, and he felt an indulgence towards his fellow-traveller.

'Colonel,' he said, as they passed through a patch of brilliant moonlight and he could see Bardolini's face in stark tones, 'I do not hold out much hope for your mission. Entre nous, the idea of a republican king is something of a contradiction in terms. Your reception in London is not likely to be, what do you say? Sympatico?'

'I have plenipotentiary powers, Captain. I am on diplomatic service. I expect the normal courtesies…'

'I do not wish to alarm you unduly, Colonel, but I am not aware that we recognize the government of King Joachim. Only your uniform prevents your arrest as a spy. That, and my company.'

'But you will take me to Lord Castlereagh, Captain?' Bardolini asked with a plaintive anxiety.

'I will send word to the Foreign Secretary that you are in London, but ...' Drinkwater left the conjunction hanging in the darkness that now engulfed the two men. The unspoken clause was ominous and, unknown to Drinkwater, had the effect on the Neapolitan of causing him to come to a decision.

Upon landing in England, Colonel Bardolini had expected to be quickly picked up by the police, to be whisked to London with the Napoleonic thoroughness by which such things were managed in the French Empire and those states under its influence. He had not expected to stumble upon the discreditable Sparkman and then be locked up like a common criminal. Protestations about his honour, his plenipotentiary status and offers of his parole had fallen upon deaf ears. Now Drinkwater's assertions clothed this outrage with a chilling logic. The English were, just as he had been led to believe, barbarians.

Notwithstanding these considerations, Bardolini had not anticipated this strange English naval officer would possess such a commanding knowledge of the situation in Napoli; it was uncanny. Indeed, such was the extent of the captain's familiarity with the plight of his master, King Joachim, that Bardolini suspected treachery. His imprisonment was consonant with such a hypothesis and he believed he was, even now, on his way to a more secure incarceration.

The only thing which Bardolini had expected was the violence of the sea passage and the weather which now assailed the chaise and deterred him from any rash ideas of escape. Not that he had abandoned them altogether; he carried a stiletto inside his right boot, but to reach it beneath his tight cavalry­man's overalls was well-nigh impossible, and his sword was secured to his portmanteau. Besides, there were other considerations. Though he spoke English well, he could hardly melt inconspicuously into the countryside! Besides, if he stole a horse, he would only be returned the faster to the shores of that damnable sea.

As the dismal hours succeeded one another, he resolved on the one course of action he had reserved for Lord Castlereagh alone, in the hope that this naval officer, whose grasp of diplomatic affairs seemed so inexplicably comprehensive, would favourably influence his request for an interview with the British Foreign Minister. Now, as Drinkwater hinted so forbiddingly at the hostility of his reception, Bardolini played his trump card and spoke out of the darkness.

'Captain Drinkwater, I believe you to be a man of honour. You are clearly a person of some influence, your knowledge of affairs of state makes that quite clear. It is possible you are a police agent... If that is so, I ask only that what I am about to confide in you, you report to your superiors…'

'I am not a police agent, Colonel. We have not yet adopted all your Continental fashions. I am what I told you.'

'Perhaps,' Bardolini acknowledged doubtfully, 'but your word, please, that what I tell you will be treated with the confidence it deserves and be passed to Lord Castlereagh himself.'

'Are you about to give me a pledge of your master's good faith?'

'Si.'

'Very well. You have my word.'

'You are at war with the Americans, are you not?'

'You know that very well.'

'I also know that there are men in America who would rule Canada, and Frenchmen in Canada who would welcome American assistance to separate them from your country, even if it meant joining the United States.'

'That is not a very great secret, Colonel.'

'No. But King Joachim wishes to make known to your government that the Americans have negotiated a secret treaty of mutual assistance with the Emperor Napoleon, a treaty which, in exchange for American attacks on British ships and a quantity of gold, guarantees a large shipment of arms, powder and shot. These are to be used for raising a revolution in Quebec. The Quebecois will join up with an American army marching north from New York next spring.'

'Go on, Colonel, you have my full attention.'

'During the winter bad weather, American ships will arrive in the waters of Norway

'Where in Norway?' Drinkwater cut in.

'A place called the Vikkenfiord.'

'Go on, Colonel.'

'Secretly, the arms and munitions will be taken to them by the Danes. The Americans will also stop supplying your army in the Iberian Peninsula. The Emperor believes that with rebellion in Canada, your government will no longer be able to support the Spanish insurrection, will withdraw Wellington's army and transport it to North America. Great Britain will retreat behind its traditional defence, the sea. It will not be able to expend its treasure on maintaining Austrian, Prussian and Russian armies in the field. Your country's alliance will die and the Emperor of Austria will accept King Joachim as the sovereign of Italy.'

But Drinkwater was no longer listening; he was thinking of Herr Liepmann's dispatch and the shipment of arms lying somewhere in Hamburg.