Under false colours

'Yes.'

'So she knows you are the spy that Davout suspected.'

'I think that is the gist of it,' Drinkwater said slowly. 'She has no reason to think well of me, though I once did her a small service.'

'She will denounce you then, if she was under detention, perhaps to gain her own freedom.' Gilham's tone was confidently matter-of-fact, as though the thing was a fait accompli.

'Did the marshal strike you as a man to be swayed that easily?'

'He was certainly not a man who would compromise his position for a woman's blandishments, no, but if he had already made some connection between a captured portrait, a portrait in the possession of the enemy ...'

'D'you think that the finding of an old, damaged portrait would have aroused any suspicion unless the lady was well known to the discoverer, and under some suspicion already? If I told you that she was the mistress of a highly placed but disgraced French official all of whose intimates might have fallen under suspicion, would you not think the matter took a different turn and might be seen in another light?'

'It would depend on how eminent this fellow was.'

'The Emperor's former minister for Foreign Affairs?'

' Talleyrand?'

'Just so.'

'Whew! Then it is a coincidence she's in Hamburg?'

'No, I don't think so. The lady is here on her own or Talleyrand's account, perhaps to contact London through Helgoland. The coincidence is that we are in Hamburg ...'

'D'you think she will hold her tongue? About your identity?' Gilham asked anxiously.

'I think she will keep her own counsel until it suits her, which does not mean I may rely upon her silence. I imagine she might be tempted to seek a private squaring of accounts after she has contacted Helgoland.'

'So we must wait upon our friend Thiebault?'

'Altona is on the Elbe, Gilham, and we are both seamen.'

Gilham chuckled in the darkness and shortly afterwards the carriage drew up at the military hospital at Altona.

*

Drinkwater had thought the night could spring no more surprises on him, but he was wrong. The military hospital at Altona was a complex of long, low wooden buildings surrounding a snow covered parade ground. It was almost dawn when they arrived and a few figures were about, dark visaged men in tattered fatigues.

'Who the devil are they?' asked Gilham of nobody as they stood shivering while the chasseurs handed them over to more of the ibiquitous blue-coated infantry Napoleon had planted across the face of Europe.

A soberly dressed man hurrying past with a small bag stopped beside them.

'English, yes?'

'Yes, we are English,' announced Gilham. 'You are not French?'

'I am Spanish, Señor. My name is Castenada, Doctor Enrico Castenada, before in the service of the Marquis de la Romana.'

Comprehension dawned on Drinkwater. 'You were left behind when the Marquis's army was withdrawn from the Danish coast by the Royal Navy.'

'Si, señor, that is correct.' He switched to French and said something to the guards. They shrugged and closed the gates behind the departing chasseurs.

'Come, I will take you to the English quarters,' Castenada said beckoning them to follow.

'There are other Englishmen here?'

'Si, señor, I practise my English with them.'

They crossed the parade ground as a bugler started to blow reveille. More men appeared, most in worn, darned clothing, some wearing bandages, a few on crutches. There was something familiar about them ...

'Sir? Is it you? Captain Drinkwater, sir?'

The speaker's carious teeth grinned from an unshaven jaw, his breath stank of poor diet and personal neglect. He swung round and called out, 'Hey, lads, it's the Cap'n!'

'You're from Tracker, ain't you?' Drinkwater asked grinning. 'How's Mr Quilhampton?'

The man turned and shook his head. ' 'E ain't so good, sir, but 'e put up an 'ell of a fight, bless yer!'

'What about Mr Frey?'

'I'm all right, sir!' said Frey running up and seizing Drinkwater's outstretched hand. His eyes were full of tears and the two men clasped each other with relief.

'Why, I'm damned glad to see you, sir, damned glad!'

CHAPTER 14 Altona

January 1810

'How many of you are there?' asked Drinkwater eagerly, his mood transformed by the meeting with Frey. 'No, wait.' He turned to the grinning seaman who had first recognized him. 'I'd be obliged if you'd warn the men not to use my name.' He lowered his voice. 'I'm here incognito, d'you see.'

The man laid a finger beside his nose, winked and grinned lopsidedly, exposing his foul teeth. 'Aye aye, sir, I understands, we'll hold our tongues, don't you worry.'

'Very well then, be off and see to it!'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater turned his attention back to Frey. 'So, how many of you are there?'

Frey looked away. 'Eleven.'

'Eleven? God's bones, is that all?'

'That excludes the badly wounded, sir; there are seven of them, plus the Captain, Lieutenant Quilhampton. They took him to Hamburg last night.'

'Last night?' Drinkwater frowned. Had Quilhampton been somewhere within the Rathaus at the same time as he and Gilham? Had Davout summoned him for questioning in connection with the discovery of that damned portrait?

'He's badly wounded, sir,' Frey said, breaking his train of thought.

'How badly?'

'He took a sword thrust, sir, in his left arm, above the stump. It was gangrenous when we arrived here and Doctor Castenada had to perform a second amputation. Mr Quilhampton was in a high fever when they took him last night.'

'God damn!' Drinkwater blasphemed impotently. For a moment his thoughts were with his friend, lying delirious in the hands of the French, then he mastered himself. 'Is there somewhere less exposed that we can talk? This is Captain Gilham, by the way, the master of the Ocean, transport. Mr Gilham, a protege of mine, Mr Frey.'

The two men shook hands perfunctorily.

'They are very lax here, sir. There is talk about a new Governor having arrived ...'

'We know,' Drinkwater cut Frey short, 'but somewhere to talk, for the love of God, it's too cold here ...'

Frey led them into a barrack hut that appeared to be a sort of officers' mess. It was full of Spaniards, the remnants of Romana's Army Corps, left behind when Rear-Admiral Keats evacuated the bulk of the Spanish forces from Denmark.

Frey indicated a table and two benches reserved for the Tracker's pitifully small number of surviving officers.