The shadow of the eagle nd-13

by Ричард Вудмен

  He ignored the importance of her news and processed events through the filter of guessed motives, suspicions, old anxieties and even fears. He recalled, with that peculiar insistence that only the lonely can as they chew on introspection, how she had seemed an almost demonic presence at one time; an embodiment of all the restless energies of imperial France. She had loomed in his imagination larger than any metaphor: for she alone had represented the enemy, and her beauty had seemed diabolical in its power. He had felt this influence suffocating him, drowning him as he fell flailing beneath the overwhelming power of Hortense as the white lady, so that in the wake of the dream, when the rational world reasserted itself, there always lurked a hint of his own impending madness. He shied away from this like a frightened horse, clinging at logic to prevent the otherwise inevitable overwhelming by the 'blue-devils' of mental depression.

  He forced himself to consider again Hortense's motives. Why should she do this? Had she not simply been beggared by the damnable war, as she claimed? And what advantage could she gain by casting one ageing fool of a British naval officer on some ludicrous quest amid the billows of the North Atlantic, if the reason for it were not true? He discarded the morbid, fanciful and faintly ridiculous assumptions of his private thoughts, calming himself with the more rational figurings-out of the ordinary.

  As his mother was once fond of saying with the bitterness of premature bereavement playing around the corners of her mouth, there was no fool like an old fool. But to set against that charge he brought the experience of a lifetime in the sea-service and a familiarity with the machinations of secret diplomacy.

  Nevertheless, there was also the forbidding spectre of their Lordships' disapprobation, as the stock phrase had it. His departure on his self-appointed quest may well have had the blessing of His Royal Highness, the Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and so on and so forth, but their Lordships would be well aware that he was well aware that the whole Royal Navy of Great Britain was well aware that His Royal Highness, the Prince William Henry, and so on and so forth, was a buffoon, if not an incompetent!

  On the other hand, what point would there be in him dashing off into the Atlantic on his own initiative if he had no good motive? Everyone knew that although the war in Europe was over, the war in North America was not, and it remained perfectly possible for Bonaparte to cause mayhem in Canada. While that much was possible, if not probable, there was another factor Drinkwater now had to consider. Andromeda was officially unfit for further active service; she should have been laid up preparatory to passing to the breakers' yard, and her crew, drafted especially for the Royal Escort duty to France, would almost certainly be dispersed to man more sea-worthy ships refitting for the augmentation of the blockade of the eastern seaboard of the United States. Indeed, at that very moment some of those ships might be eagerly awaiting their draft, and thus delayed by Andromeda's absence.

  Amid all his considerations of grand strategy, it was this doubt that remained the most disturbing. Try how he might, Drinkwater was unable to argue his way out of this almost certain error of judgement!

  Up and down he paced; not seeing the work of the ship passing all about him, scarcely hearing the bells striking the half-hour, the watch-words of the lookouts or the occasional order passed along. He was oblivious to the break-up of the daily navigation class, made so convenient while the solution to the problem of Andromeda's day's work was so easily reconciled in the north-east wind by the simple application of a plane traverse; nor did he notice the daily quarterdeck parade of Hyde's lobsters, nor remark upon Sergeant McCann's uncharacteristically less-than-perfect turnout. Nor indeed, did Captain Drinkwater observe either the energy of the first lieutenant, or the complementary disinterest of the third. Instead he revolved his wretched arguments in a tediously endless mental circumambulation, locked into the introversion of isolation and independent command.

  But whatever these private anxieties might constitute, and whatever paramountcy they might assume in any commander's thoughts, the cares of his ship will always intrude, and on this occasion they took the form of Mr Midshipman 'Tom' Paine over whom the preoccupied Drinkwater almost fell as the youngster dodged about in front of him to attract his attention.

  'God's bones! What in heaven's name is the matter?' Drinkwater finally acknowledged the jumping jack trying to waylay him. 'Why Mr Paine, what the devil d'you want?'

  Paine was not a whit discomfited by the difficulties he had experienced in accomplishing his simple errand. Jokes about Old Nat were legion in the cockpit.

  'Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr Marlowe's compliments, and he wishes me to inform you that we shall require an alteration of course to make our landfall.'

  Drinkwater looked over the boy's shoulder. Marlowe and Birkbeck were exchanging a word or two on the far side of the binnacle.

  'An alteration of course, eh? Well sir, to what?'

  'Ten degrees to port, sir.'

  'To port, eh?' He was about to say that in his day it would have been 'to larboard' but such pedantry would be laughable to the young imp. 'Very well, Mr Paine, kindly see to it.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.' The lad touched his fore-cock and made to be off when Drinkwater called him back.

  'And when you have attended to the matter and adjusted the yards, pray show me your reckoning of the day's work.'

  Paine's face fell. His 'Aye, aye, sir' was less enthusiastic.

  Laughing inwardly, Drinkwater crossed the deck and stood on the weather side of the helm while Andromeda's head was swung through ten degrees of arc and settled on her new course. There was a general tweaking of braces, but neither the motion nor the speed of the ship seemed affected and the ageing hull drove forwards through the blue seas with the white wave crests running up almost astern. It seemed quite impossible that this charming scene could ever be otherwise; that the light, straining canvas above their heads could ever turn a rain and spray-sodden grey, as hard on the horniest hands as rawhide, or that the great bulk of the hurrying ship could be laid over on her beam ends, or tossed about like a cork.

  'So, gentlemen,' he said to Marlowe and Birkbeck, who had both been watching the adjusting of the main yards, 'when do you anticipate sighting our landfall?'

  'Shortly after first light tomorrow, sir,' Marlowe answered.

  Drinkwater looked at Birkbeck. 'Are you two in agreement?'

  'Harmoniously so, sir,' Birkbeck replied with a hint of irony.

  'Good. I'm decidedly glad to hear it.' Drinkwater smiled at the two men. Marlowe was a transformed figure. 'Well now, we must consider our best course of action when we arrive.'

  'Indeed, sir. How far offshore will you cruise?' Marlowe asked.

  Drinkwater rubbed his chin and raised an eyebrow. 'Three or four leagues; sufficiently far to be clear of danger, yet not out of sight of the land. According to my reckoning, our friends will come down on the island from the north-north-east.' He waved out on the starboard quarter, as though their sails might appear at any moment.

  'D'you think Bonaparte is already there, sir?' asked Birkbeck.

  'We shall send a boat in to find out. Do you prepare the launch, stock it for two days and have Frey' Drinkwater hesitated, 'no, have Ashton command it. Send in half a dozen marines under the sergeant.' Drinkwater paused as Marlowe nodded. 'But to answer your question about Boney, I consider it unlikely, though not impossible, for him to have reached the island yet. I have no knowledge of when he left Paris, nor of his port of embarkation, but he must have been despatched by the time King Louis landed, I'd have thought, and conveyed by express to the west coast; to Brest, or La Rochelle or L'Orient. A fast frigate might, I suppose, have reached the archipelago a little before us.'

  'A British frigate?' asked Marlowe.

  Drinkwater shrugged. 'I imagine a British frigate or perhaps a small squadron such as we were lately attached to, would accompany him. As for himself, I suppose his dignity as the elected Emperor of the French would be unsupportable in anything but a French man-o
'-war.'

  'Not if it was the allies' purpose to humiliate him,' put in Marlowe.

  'I think a small island humiliation enough after the domination of Europe,' countered Drinkwater. 'Remember what Nelson wrote: "In victory, let the chief characteristic be magnanimity."'

  A very Christian sentiment sir,' responded Birkbeck, 'but not one which I would expect his most serene and culminated, high and God almighty majesty the Tsar of all the Russias to subscribe to where Napoleon Bonaparte is concerned.'

  'Perhaps not,' said Drinkwater grinning, 'though you talk like a canting leveller, Mr Birkbeck. I thought your nimble scholar Tom Paine the republican among us.'

  And they all laughed companionably, standing in the sunshine enjoying the fellowship of like minds.

  PART TWO

  A WILD-GOOSE CHASE?

  'Well, that's the end of it all, though it's throwing the game away with all the trump cards in one's hand.'

  Talleyrand, Prince of Benevento

  CHAPTER 10

  The Rock

  May 1814

  Shortly before dawn Drinkwater woke with a start. Lying in the darkness he listened intently, but could discern no noise; not even the clanking of the pumps disturbed the night, silent but for the laboured creaking of the ship and above his head the faint, measured tread of one of the watch-keepers. Then his cabin was suddenly lit up, as though someone shone a powerful light in through the stern windows. The spectral illumination startled him. His heart thumped with alarm and he was on his feet in a trice, to stare out through the stern windows. An instant later he had an explanation as the ship drove through bio-luminescence and the pale green gleam again lit up the night.

  He was unable to sleep after this weird though natural phenomenon, and drew on breeches, shoes and stockings. Winding his boat-cloak about himself he went on deck. The pacing footsteps revealed themselves to be those of Lieutenant Frey. They exchanged courtesies and Drinkwater asked the routine question.

  'All well?'

  'Aye, sir. I have a good man stationed aloft in the foretop, though I doubt we'll sight anything before daylight.'

  "Tis as well to be on our guard.'

  'Yes, of course.'

  'The wind is holding fair,' Drinkwater observed. 'One might almost believe we had run into the trades, but our latitude is too high so we must be prepared for our run of luck to end.'

  There was a brief pause, then Frey said, 'I believe you're sending the launch ashore, sir.'

  'Yes, just to establish whether our friend Boney has been delivered yet.'

  'And Lieutenant Ashton's to command her.'

  'Yes.'

  Frey fell silent. Drinkwater wondered whether he felt himself slighted by the appointment of the junior lieutenant to this task, then Frey asked, 'Will you be going ashore yourself, sir?'

  'No.'

  For a moment neither man said anything, then Drinkwater remarked, 'I gather there has been something of a sea change in the wardroom, Mr Frey. Things are a little more tolerable, I hope.'

  'In a manner of speaking, yes, sir. Where formerly Mr Marlowe seemed to be constantly under the weather, we now have Mr Ashton acting like a spoilt brat. I am of the opinion that acquaintances should not serve together; friendship and duty seem incompatible in the circumstances prevailing in a man-o'-war.'

  'Dear me, I hope not,' replied Drinkwater, ruefully.

  'Oh, I beg pardon, sir, I didn't mean ...' The tone of Frey's voice conveyed an embarrassment the darkness hid.

  'Think nothing of it,' Drinkwater chuckled, adding more seriously, 'though I have to confess, Marlowe's change of heart seems almost miraculous.'

  'That is what they are saying below decks.'

  'I don't follow you.'

  'That he was raised from the dead. They call him "Lazarus" Marlowe.'

  'Lazarus Marlowe ...?' Drinkwater tested the name and found himself grinning in the gloom.

  'I'm afraid you are cast in a more divine role, sir.'

  'You mean ... ? Well, 'pon my soul!'

  'Seafaring folk have the oddest notions, don't they?'

  'Aye, they most certainly do.'

  'If I might change the subject, sir ...'

  'Please do, Mr Frey. I am hard-pressed to find anything I can add in support of the Almighty'

  'I'm sure He would be pleased to know that, sir,' Frey added drily, and Drinkwater could just see the smile on his face as the dawn light crept into the eastern sky. 'What I was going to ask, sir, if I might be presumptuous, is what you intend to do? I mean we have no idea of the whereabouts of Napoleon, do we?'

  'No, I appreciate that, nor are we likely to learn. My principal, no my only concern, is to intercept and if necessary engage the two ships which have been sent from Antwerp to convey Boney and his staff to America. Anything more would be a gross presumption on my part, not something likely to endear me to Lord Castlereagh or any of his cronies.'

  'D'you think we shall engage them?'

  A horrible thought crossed Drinkwater's mind; was poor Frey a broken man after the terrible encounter with the enemy in the Vikkenfiord? 'Does it worry you, if it should come to that?'

  'Not at all,' Frey answered without hesitation, 'in fact, I should welcome the event.'

  'Not, I hope, because you entertain any foolish notions of covering yourself with ...'

  'Death or glory,' broke in Frey with a short, dismissive laugh. 'No, no, nothing like that. To tell the truth, sir, I should think my active service career the more fulfilled if I had one more crack at the French; that damned affair in Norway was somehow unfinished business.'

  'I understand. That is one of the reasons I will not send you out of the ship in any boat expedition, Frey. I want you aboard. All the time; at least until this business is concluded.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'If and when we do encounter the French ships I anticipate they will keep close company and try and overwhelm us. They may be full of soldiers, men willing to fight hand to hand, against which our people would prove inadequate.'

  'You would want to hold off and manoeuvre to cripple them, and thereby induce a surrender?'

  'Exactly. And while the sea conditions will be lively in these latitudes, and we may have trouble pointing the guns to good effect, the steady breeze should enable us to be nimble.'

  'Providing their two against our single ship don't corner us like a dog'

  'We shall have to see ...'

  'Yes.'

  It was getting rapidly lighter and already the details of the deck about them were emerging from the shadows of the night. Drinkwater began to feel the pangs of hunger stirring in his belly. He would welcome coffee and some hot, buttered toast. His teeth no longer pained him and the swollen gum had subsided so that the idea of masticating on a slice made his mouth water.

  'Might I ask your advice about something?'

  'Yes, of course.' Drinkwater thrust his self-indulgent day-dream aside. 'What is it?'

  'I have given the matter much thought, sir, but I accept the fact that on our return we will be paid off and I am likely to be compelled to exist on half-pay'

  'I shall do my best for you, Mr Frey' Drinkwater said. The consideration of another dependant loomed in his imagination, accompanied by the added thought that while some perverse chivalry prompted him to offer support to Hortense Santhonax, he felt a reprehensible resentment at the thought of doing the same for poor, loyal Frey.

  'Oh, I know you will, sir, and please do not think I am asking for charity. On the contrary, I have some hopes of supporting myself if I must. No, I have been thinking of James Quilhampton's widow'

  'Catriona ... ?' Drinkwater suppressed his surprise.

  'I, er, think she might not be averse to accepting a proposal from me.'

  'Pardon the question, Mr Frey, but are you attached to the lady?'

  'I think she is fond of me, sir, and she has little means of support. She also has the child ...'

  'Ah yes.'

  'I felt ...'


  'Of course. I understand, but a marriage based upon pity may not be for the best, Mr Frey. The lady is a little older than yourself,' Drinkwater said tactfully. 'That may make a difference in time, and while there may be no other person to claim your affections at the moment, should you be cast ashore upon your own resources, then you may meet someone other than Mistress Quilhampton for whom, without being ungallant, you may come to feel a greater attachment.'

  'That is true, sir ...'

  But Frey got no further, for the cry came down from the foretop that land was in sight.

  An hour later two steep-sided islands were visible from the deck as the low sun struck their basalt cliffs, conferring upon them a warm, pink colour. To the north-west and perhaps two or three leagues nearer, lay the smaller island of Corvo, while farther off, fine on the port bow, rose Flores.

  Drinkwater scrutinized the summit of the island, from which a stream of orographic cloud trailed downwind. Patiently he waited for Andromeda to draw near enough for them to see the shoreline, as yet still hidden below the horizon.

  'A most appropriate place to cage an eagle,' Drinkwater remarked and Frey, catching the observation, aired a recondite fact: 'The archipelago is named Azores from the Portuguese agar, meaning a hawk.'

  Among the watch on deck, an air of excitement and expectation animated the men. Word of an impending landfall and a proposed boat expedition had percolated through the ship and the sight of the island, even for those who would approach little closer, nor see more than could be discerned from the frigate's waist, was nevertheless sufficient to break the monotony of their arduous yet dull lives.

  'You may close Flores, Mr Frey. We will bring-to off Santa Cruz. I shall want the launch ready then,' Drinkwater ordered, closing his glass with an emphatic snap. 'I am going below for an hour.'