The shadow of the eagle nd-13

by Ричард Вудмен

  'Sit down, Frederic, for God's sake,' snapped Drinkwater.

  Marlowe turned and stared at Drinkwater, his eyes desperate. 'Sir, I...'

  'Sit down, there's a good fellow. You are no good to me in this state. We have an important duty to attend to. You are perhaps the last officer in this war to be offered an opportunity'

  'Sir, I am not certain that I am capable ...'

  'Of course you are capable, Frederic! And what is more we shall have you home to marry your Sarah in no time at all.'

  'Two months would be too long to avoid a scandal, sir.'

  'Well, we shall have to ensure it don't take that long,' said Drinkwater.

  'Is that possible?'

  'I believe so.'

  Drinkwater saw Marlowe relax with relief. 'I hope so, sir, but you just mentioned learning to like burgoo.'

  Drinkwater shrugged. 'True. I can't be certain, of course, but I don't believe we shall be kept long on station.' Drinkwater smiled and was rewarded with a reciprocating grin.

  'I apologize, sir ... for my conduct the other night.'

  'Let us put the matter behind us; do you just deal with our problems on a day-to-day basis.'

  Marlowe rose. 'I shall go and have a look in the hold, sir,' he said, 'and thank you.'

  "Tis nothing.'

  Marlowe nodded over Drinkwater's shoulder and out through the stern windows. 'There's more blue sky showing now, sir.'

  'Yes, it may yet prove a fine day'

  Marlowe stood uncertainly, for a moment he strove to speak, then gave up the attempt and made to leave. Drinkwater called him back. 'Mr Marlowe, would you be so kind as to show the midshipmen the method of determining longitude by the chronometer?'

  'Yes, of course, sir.'

  'And just ignore Ashton.'

  Marlowe nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I will.' He paused again, then blurted out, 'what made you come below and see me last night, sir?'

  'I'm not sure,' Drinkwater replied. 'Concern for you, concern for the ship, concern for myself.' He paused and smiled. 'Anyway, why did you come on deck this morning?'

  'Because you came to see me last night, sir.'

  CHAPTER 9

  A Sea Change

  April-May 1814

  Drinkwater's forecast proved accurate. By noon the wind had again swung into the north-north-west, dropped to a fresh breeze and swept aside the cloud cover, leaving only the benign white fluffs of fair-weather cumulus. The depression moved away to the north and east, following its predecessor into the chops of the Channel. The sea now reflected this change in the atmosphere, losing the forbidding grey of the true Western Ocean, and wearing the kindly blue mantle of more temperate latitudes. And, indeed, when Birkbeck, emerging from the hold, found Captain Drinkwater ready to observe the culmination of the sun on the ship's meridian, their southing was substantial.

  Things were less optimistic below decks. The working party in the hold had failed to locate the source of the ingress of water, though some credence was given to Marlowe's hypothesis by evidence of water entering the well from the starboard side. In the wardroom Lieutenant Ashton sulked, much to the annoyance of Hyde, who, when distracted from his amusements sufficiently to notice, began to conclude that Ashton was far from being the amiable fellow he had first assumed. Indeed Hyde inclined towards Mr Frey who, it began to emerge, was an officer of some talent with a paintbrush.

  Having endured a degree of persecution from brother officers in the past, Frey was inclined to conceal his love of drawing and water-colour painting, but Hyde caught sight of a small picture he was working on, which showed the Royal Sovereign flying the Bourbon standard, accompanied by Andromeda, Impregnable, Jason, Polonais, Gremyashchi and the Trinity Yacht. Artistic achievement impressed Hyde, and he was driven to confess that he regretted his inability to play an instrument or, indeed, even to sing, let alone draw or рaint.

  This polite exchange with Frey was overhead by Ashton who was driven to make some mean sarcasm about Hyde's success at playing being assured, provided he tried to play no more than the fool. Hyde, who had been oblivious to Ashton's presence until that moment, spun round.

  'What's that you say?' he demanded.

  'That should you decide upon playing anything, my dear Hyde, confine it to being a fool.'

  For a moment Frey, fascinated by this encounter, thought Hyde would take the remark lying down, but it seemed the marine officer's indolence extended even to govern the timing of his outbursts of temper. In fact, his momentary silence appeared to discomfit Ashton, judging by the expression on the sea-officer's face as he regarded Hyde.

  'The fool, sir?' asked Hyde. 'Did you suggest I might be a suitable candidate to play the fool?' There was a note of controlled menace in Hyde's voice that Frey found quite unnerving, despite the fact that it was not directed at himself.

  Ashton's face paled. 'A joke, Hyde, a joke.'

  And then Hyde had closed the distance between the flimsy door to Frey's cabin and the third lieutenant with a single stride and thrust his face into Ashton's. 'A joke, d'you say, sir? Well, well, a joke ... A joke to make a fellow laugh, eh? Ain't that what a joke's for, eh Josiah? Well ain't it? Say yay or nay. You crack 'em: you should know all about 'em.'

  'A joke, yes.' Ashton was cornered, wary. He shot an embarrassed glance at Frey.

  'To make us laugh, eh? Eh?' Hyde was relentless; he began to move forward, forcing Ashton backwards.

  'Yes.' Ashton appealed mutely to Frey who remained silent.

  'Good,' persisted Hyde. 'Since we're agreed on the purpose of a joke, perhaps you'd like to share one with me, Josiah. Listen; if there is a fool hereabouts, it is you. What you hope to achieve by your attitude towards poor Marlowe is your own affair, but whatever it is, or was, you were unwise to make it so public. The man has suffered a humiliation and has, by all the signs this morning, reinvigorated himself. I should scarce have believed it possible had I not seen it for myself. If you have any sense, you will throw yourself on another tack.'

  Ashton began to rally under this verbal assault. 'Why you damned impertinent bugger ...'

  'Mr Ashton!' Frey broke in, 'Hold your tongue, sir! I'll not countenance any further discord.' Frey looked at Hyde and observed the marine officer had said his piece. He relaxed and turned away, but Ashton was not prepared to accept advice.

  'Oh, you won't, won't you? And what will you do, Frey? Toady to the captain?'

  'What the devil's the matter with you, Ashton?' Frey asked, but Hyde broke in, sensing a real quarrel in the offing.

  'For heaven's sake, Josiah, stow your confounded gab and leave us in peace.'

  'Damn you, and don't "Josiah" me. The pair of you ...'

  'Are what?' snapped Frey, suddenly and ferociously intense. The gleam in his eye seemed to restrain Ashton who swung away, muttering, flung open the door of his own cabin and disappeared, slamming it with such force that the entire bulkhead shuddered. Frey and Hyde looked at each other.

  'What the devil was that all about?' asked Hyde in a low voice.

  'Just a squall,' said Frey, subsiding, 'but he wants to watch that tongue of his, or it'll land him in trouble.'

  Both officers, aware that the flimsy partition failed to provide the conditions for private speculation, let the matter drop. Neither wanted the discord to persist and both had served long enough to know the benefits of silent toleration in the confined world of a frigate's wardroom.

  For Drinkwater, the remainder of that day was spent quietly. Having observed the improvement in the weather and determined Andromeda's, latitude at local noon, he went below to enjoy a nap. Woken by Frampton at eight bells in the afternoon watch, he sat and wrote up his journal, indulging himself further with a little self-congratulation.

  It was clear, he wrote, that Lieutenant Marlowe's indisposition was some form of self-abasement consequent upon his unfortunate experience off the Wight, and it occurred to me that his lack of confidence must spring, not from a general incompetence, but some past event. I have obser
ved poor Frey much affected by the loss of Jas. Quilhampton and the subsequent ordeal of his court-martial.

  Drinkwater stopped for a moment and stared into the middle distance. Poor Frey; the damage to the little cutter Kestrel had resulted in her being abandoned in Norwegian waters. As the senior surviving officer, Frey had had to be judged by a court-martial to determine the extent of her damage in action and the justification for her loss to the naval service. That it had been Drinkwater himself, supported by a survey by Birkbeck, who had pronounced the cutter in an unfit state to withstand the rigours of a passage across the North Sea and ordered her to be abandoned, ameliorated Frey's situation. Nevertheless, the experience of reliving the events in the Vikkenfiord, from which he had been striving to distance himself, revived those feelings Frey had hoped to forget. Not normally given to outward displays of passion or temperament, Frey had become even more introspective. Drinkwater had blamed himself for much of this. It pained him greatly both to have lost his oldest friend and to see another in such poor spirits. He, himself, bore a deep guilt for Quilhampton's death and Frey's grief. The consolation of knowing that he, and they, had done their duty, wore thin to an officer who had been doing his duty for a lifetime. Frey was no less wounded than had been James Quilhampton, when he had lost a hand at Kosseir.

  And yet it had been this concern for Frey which had given him the clue to Marlowe's lack of spirit, and Drinkwater found himself wondering about the circuitous nature of events. He dipped his pen, wiped off the excess ink, and began writing again.

  Marlowe's introspection was not dissimilar, and from this I therefore concluded Marlowe was obsessed by some event, and that if he were not, if he possessed no spirit, my appeal to him would prove this by its failure. In the event, matters fell out otherwise and I discovered him more of a man of parts than I would have superficially judged. This gives me some satisfaction, and whatever may come of this chase, we may see Marlowe a better man at the end of it than at its commencement.

  Drinkwater waited a moment while the ink dried, then turned the page and resumed writing.

  It is, moreover, incontrovertible evidence of the workings of providence that out of the consequences of James's death, should come salvation to another soul.

  For a moment Drinkwater looked at these words then, with a grim, self-deprecating smile he took his penknife from his pocket and neatly excised the page. He had a sailor's horror of tempting providence, especially when it touched him closely. The dream of the white lady had been too vivid for that.

  'The Atlantic is a vast ocean which extends from pole to pole,' Birkbeck said, regarding the half-circle of midshipmen about him, 'and is divided into that part of it which lies in the northern hemisphere and is consequently known as the North Atlantic Ocean, and that part of it which lies in the southern hemisphere and is named accordingly. However, to seamen it is further subdivided; the Western Ocean is the name commonly applied to that portion of the North Atlantic which lies west of the British Isles and must needs be crossed when a passage is made to America or Canada. There is also that part which is known as the Sargasso, an area of some vagueness, but set generally about the equator. Now what is the equator, Mr Paine?'

  Paine produced a satisfactory definition and Birkbeck nodded. 'Indeed, the parallel of zero latitude from which other parallels are taken to the northward, or the southward. Now, Mr Dunn, is the equator a great circle?'

  'Er, yes sir.'

  'Good. And are the other parallels of latitude therefore great circles?'

  Dunn's forehead creased with the effort of recollection. Birkbeck's proposition seemed a reasonable enough one. 'Yes, sir.'

  'Not at all, Mr Dunn. Of all the parallels of latitude only the equator is a great circle. And why is that, pray? Mr Paine?'

  'Because a great circle is defined as a circle on the surface of the earth having the same radius as that of the earth.'

  'Very good, Mr Paine. Do you understand, Mr Dunn? One might equally have said it should have the same diameter, or that its centre was coincident with that of the earth. Now Mr Dunn, of all the parallels of latitude, only the equator is a great circle, what would you conclude of the meridians?' Dunn looked even more perplexed. 'You do know what a meridian is, Mr Dunn, do you not?'

  'I am not certain, sir,' said the boy hopelessly, adding as he saw an unsympathetic gleam in the master's eye, 'is it, is it ...?' But the floundering was to no avail and Paine was only too ready to capitalize on his messmate's humiliation.

  'A meridian is a great circle passing through the poles by which longitude is measured ...'

  'Very good, Mr Paine.' The midshipmen turned as a body to see Marlowe standing behind them. And how do we determine longitude?'

  'By chronometer, sir ...'

  'By your leave, Mr Birkbeck...'

  'By all means, Mr Marlowe . ..'

  Birkbeck, somewhat discomfited, but in no wise seriously affronted by Marlowe's assumption of the instructor's role, took himself off and, having fortified himself with a nip of rum flip in the wardroom, summoned the carpenter and returned to his painstaking and tedious survey of the hold.

  Mr Birkbeck's lecture on the different areas of the Atlantic Ocean seemed borne out in the following days. His Britannic Majesty's frigate Andromeda, leaking from her exertions, sailed into sunnier climes. The gale, in its abatement, took with it the uncertain weather of high latitudes and, after almost two days of variable airs, ushered in a north-easterly wind, an unexpected but steady breeze. They were too far north for the trade winds, but the favourable direction augured well for their passage and was no less welcome.

  Andromeda's yards were squared and she bore away with a fine bone in her teeth, apparently unconcerned with the problems of her antiquity which preoccupied her senior officers. The ship's company turned the berth-deck inside out, washed clothes and bedding and stummed between decks, sweetening the air. Moreover, the warmer nights and drier weather meant the tarpaulins could be rolled back on the booms, ports opened during the daylight and the entire ship made more habitable. The mood of the people changed in proportion, along with the application of a lick of paint and varnish here and there to brighten up their miserable quarters, no thought having been given to this during the frigate's recent embellishment.

  As details of Mr Marlowe's recovery permeated the ends of the ship most distant from the wardroom, they were accompanied by the explanation of illness as causing his temporary loss of control. Alongside this intelligence there went a blasphemous joke that he had been raised from the dead. Lieutenant Ashton's nickname for the captain of 'Our Father' was rather apt in this context and as a consequence the first lieutenant had, quite unbeknown to himself, acquired the soubriquet of Lazarus Marlowe. This, partly generating the changed mood of the ship's company, was yet as much a product of it. In this mild euphoria only Lieutenant Ashton and Sergeant McCann remained burdened, the one having lost control of his future, the other increasingly obsessed and preoccupied by his past.

  Indeed, in the case of McCann, the improved weather only exacerbated his condition. As is common with many, memories of youth and past happiness were associated with sunny days and blue skies such as now dominated the flying frigate. Moreover, the farther west they ran, the nearer they drew to the United States, and the fact that this diminishing distance did not constitute a closing of the American coast, worked insidiously upon poor McCann.

  Although they had seen a few ships in the Channel and in the Western Approaches, the wide blue reaches of the Atlantic yielded nothing beyond a pair of Portuguese schooners crossing for the Grand Banks. Captain Drinkwater, sensitive to the mellowing mood of the ship and encouraged by the transformation of Lieutenant Marlowe, ordered several gunnery practices as they romped steadily south and westwards.

  In addition to the fulmars, gulls and gannets, the dark, marauding shapes of hawking skuas were to be seen intimidating even the large solan geese; flying fish now darted from either bow, pursued by albacore and occasionally driven
on board where they were quickly tossed into frying pans to make impromptu feasts for lucky messes or the midshipmen's berth.

  And with the flying fish and the albacore came the bottle-nosed dolphins, lifting easily from Andromeda's bow waves, racing in with seemingly effortless thrusts of their muscular tails, to ride the pressure wave that advanced unseen yet tangible, ahead of the massive bulk of the frigate's driving hull. Attempts to catch them usually failed, but occasionally one would succumb to a harpoon or a lure, to end up, poached slowly in Madeira, as steaks on the wardroom table.

  On one such occasion, heady with their success, the officers invited Drinkwater to dinner, and notwithstanding the absence of Lieutenant Ashton on watch, they all enjoyed a jolly evening during which the discussion ranged from the general conduct of the late war and the difficulties of securing the person of Napoleon Bonaparte on a remote island, to the possible causes of Andromeda's leak and the contribution to literature of the unknown 'lady' who had written Pride and Prejudice.

  Watching Marlowe preside over this pleasant evening, Drinkwater concluded his first lieutenant had made a supreme effort and overcome his unhappiness. Furthermore, Drinkwater began to entertain hopes of high endeavour from him, if things fell out as he hoped they would.

  But as the days passed and the reckoning so assiduously calculated by Birkbeck, Marlowe and their coterie of half-willing midshipmen, showed them rapidly closing the Archipelago of the Azores, renewed doubts assailed Drinkwater. And while the pleasant weather drew smiles from his men, he paced the weather side of the quarterdeck for hour after hour, going over and over the interview with Hortense, wondering if he was not a quixotic fool after all, seduced at the last by a face which had haunted him for almost all his adult life. She had sought him out; she knew the role he had played in her husband's death; they had been enemies for a score or so of years; so why in God's name should he trust her now?