Under false colours

persuade him that my men will not make a foolish try. He tells me by barge. I know all the barges belong to Herr Liepmann ...'

'Yes ... go on.'

'I tell Herr Liepmann . . .'

'You what?' Drinkwater snapped.

'Of course, Herr Liepmann say you must take. He will not report the barge missing.' Castenada smiled. 'You understand? Herr Liepmann is your friend.'

For a moment Drinkwater felt an ungracious, xenophobic suspicion, but the value of Castenada's helpful intervention could not be denied. Besides, he had no time to waste.

'I am indebted to you, Doctor Castenada, perhaps in happier times I will be permitted the honour of repaying you.' Drinkwater felt the stiff formality of the stilted phrases sounded insincere, but Castenada bowed with equal courtesy.

'There is one other thing, sir,' Castenada said. 'Herr Liepmann suggested a possibility of helping you, señor, if you made your way to his house.'

Drinkwater tried to recall if he had said anything in front of Castenada to indicate whether or not he himself intended to escape with the others — and decided he had not. Perhaps Liepmann guessed from the question in the note that Drinkwater would remain behind; perhaps it was a simple offer, an expansion of that coded phrase, I am your servant. Drinkwater had no way of knowing, but Liepmann was one of the confraternity of Isaac Solomon, and, oddly, he inspired in Drinkwater the same confidence. He nodded at Castenada. 'Thank you.'

Castenada told him the whereabouts of Liepmann's house. 'You will find the house, it is not difficult.'

'I am most grateful.' Drinkwater paused, then added, 'Doctor Castenada, I am aware that things may be made very difficult for you after we have escaped.'

Castenada shrugged. 'After the Marquis de la Romana escaped it was difficult, but I live. A doctor can always live, especially in war.'

'Is there anything I can do for you, after I return to England. Do you have a wife to whom I can pass a message? If you do not already know, there is a British army in Spain now ...'

'I know, Captain, and it marches into Spain and out again, and just now it is marching out again. Like Spanish armies, Captain, eh? You have a piece of song they tell to me when I am speaking English for the first time: The Grand Old Duke of York, yes? He had ten thousand men, he march them up to the top of the hill, eh, Captain? And he march them down again.'

Castenada began to laugh and Drinkwater found it impossible not to laugh with him.

Well Gilham, are you ready?'

'As much as I ever will be. I think you're mad to stay, but good luck.'

They shook hands and took a look round the bare room with its crude wooden beds. 'I have to admit that I am not keen to sleep here,' Drinkwater said, adding, 'you will be able to take your atmosphereological observations again soon.'

A gleam showed in Gilham's eye and he drew a small notebook from his pocket.

'I have not stopped, Captain.' He smiled, then asked, 'By-the-by, what is your name?'

Drinkwater grinned. 'Ask Frey when you get to Helgoland. He'll tell you.'

'It's Drinkwater, isn't it? That fellow called you Drinkwater.'

'Maybe. Now let us see if the others are ready?'

They peered across the parade ground. A thick fall of snow obscured the far side and they could see nothing. Curfew had already been sounded and the 'patients' had all been locked in their wooden billets. They did not have long to wait. The stolen pick, a trophy of latrine digging, split hasp and staple from the pine planks of the building.

'You're the last,' hissed Frey.

'Privilege of rank,' murmured Drinkwater, feeling the old, almost forgotten thrill of action. Outside he and Gilham joined the crouching column of silent men sheltering in the lee of the hospital wards.

'I'd be obliged if you'd bring up the rear, sir. That's where the Spanish are.' Frey whispered in his ear then motioned his men on. Even in the snow and darkness Drinkwater recognized faces. Men he had flogged, men he had sailed with round Cape Horn and into the Pacific, men who had fought the Russian line-of-battle ship Suvorov to a standstill. Some of them saw him and grinned. With a pang of conscience he realized his clerk Derrick was not among them. He had not asked after Derrick and the omission bothered him. Then Gilham was tapping him on the shoulder and the faces passing him were no longer familiar. Drinkwater and Gilham fell in at the rear of the column.

Like a snake they moved round the perimeter of the parade ground. By the gate they could see a yellow loom in the snow where the guardroom door stood open. It was suddenly cut out and a man's silhouette appeared. With wonderful unity, the crouching, loping column froze, every man watching the guard pitch a cigar to the ground. A faint hiss came to their straining ears and the guard turned back amid the sound of laughter. The yellow light shone out illuminating the snow again.

From the rear Drinkwater could see Frey massing his men about the door. They appeared like dark sacks until, at a signal, they moved forward amid a few shouts.

Suddenly the gates were open and Drinkwater caught a glimpse of the guardroom and half a dozen trussed and gagged men. He began to run.

Beyond the gate the road swung to the right and Drinkwater almost collided with Frey.

'Good luck, sir. Two cables down this road there is a junction. It is the road between Hamburg, Altona and Blankenese. We turn right for the river, you must go left for Hamburg.'

'I know, Castenada told me. Good luck.'

'I could only find you a sword bayonet.' Frey thrust the weapon at him. The steel was bitterly cold to the touch. When he looked up he was alone. In the snow he could hear no sound of the retreating men, nor of the struggling guards. The loom of the hospital wall threw a dark shadow and he experienced a pang of intense fear and loneliness. A moment later he was walking swiftly south to the junction with the main road.

He had no trouble locating Herr Liepmann's house. It was set back off the road behind a brick wall, but the iron gates were open and the light in the porch beyond the formal garden gave the impression that it had been illuminated for his benefit.

It was, he thought as he felt the scrunch of gravel below the snow, a welcoming sight.

There were signs of wheel tracks in the snow, a recent arrival or departure, he judged, for they had not yet been covered. Perhaps the generous lighting was for the carriage, not for him. The thought made him pause. Should he simply walk up to the front door?

At his tentative knock it was opened, and guiltily he flung aside the sword bayonet.

'Kapitan, Wilcomm ... please ... you come ...'

Liepmann held out his hand and drew Drinkwater inside. The warmth and opulence of Liepmann's house seemed like the fairyland pictures of his children's books. He had not realized how cold he had been, nor, now that the heat made him perspire and his flesh crawl, how filthy he was.

'I have clothes and wasser, come ...'

It was ironic, he thought, that he should again clean himself in the house of a Jew, but he did not object. Liepmann led him to a side chamber where a servant waited upon him, standing impassively while, casting dignity aside in the sheer delight of washing off the past, Drinkwater donned a clean shirt and underdrawers. Silk breeches and stockings were produced, together with an embroidered waistcoat. Finally, the man servant held out a low-collared grey coat of a now unfashionable cut which reminded him of the old undress uniform coat of the British naval officer. As he threw his newly beribboned queue over the collar and caught sight of himself in the mirror, he caught the eye of the servant.

The man made a small, subservient gesture of approval, stood aside and opened the door. Ushering Drinkwater back into the hall, he scuttled round him and reaching the door of a withdrawing room leading from it, threw it open.

Drinkwater was disoriented by the luxury of his surroundings and entered the room seeking Liepmann to