The shadow of the eagle nd-13

by Ричард Вудмен

  'Wasn't it Prometheus who was chained to a rock, sir?'

  Ashton felt this chatty atmosphere was not one to be encouraged, especially as his knowledge of Greek mythology was sketchy. 'I daresay, Mr Paine, it might well have been ...'

  'It was, sir.' The voice was Sergeant McCann's, and he added conversationally, 'And so too was Andromeda, chained to a rock by her mother who was jealous of her beauty — a curious conjunction, seeing as how the ship is so named ...'

  'And it was Perseus who released her,' Paine added enthusiastically, 'then fell in love with her and ...'

  'Hold your damned tongues, the pair of you!' snapped Ashton, aware that matters had got out of hand. The man at stroke oar was grinning. 'And what's the matter with you? Wipe that foolish smile off your face, or I'll see to it with the cat later.' The man's face changed to a dark and sullen anger. 'What's your name?' Ashton asked.

  'Shaw,' muttered the stroke oarsman.

  'Shaw, eh. Well mind your manners, Shaw.' And Ashton, having established his position, leaned back in the stern of the now silent boat and contemplated the surge of white water about the approaching reef and the little brig beyond it. The hiss and slop of the following sea, the creak of thole pins, the faint grunts of the oarsmen and the splash of the oar-blades were now the only sounds to accompany his contemplation. Fifteen long minutes later, the launch swept inside the reef and into its shelter. The tiny anchorage opened up ahead of them, and beyond a strip of beach, the town, which was no more than a village.

  Within the embrace of the rocks lay the brig, moored stem and stern, while some brightly painted fishing craft were drawn up on the beach beyond. Several of these were the slender canoas which the Azoreans used to hunt whales offshore. As the launch swept past the brig, a few curious faces stared down at them.

  'Look out, boys,' someone aboard the brig shouted, 'the fooking press-gang's here!'

  'Damned impertinence,' growled Ashton, while a curious Paine caught the name Mary Digby and the port of registry of Sunderland upon her stern.

  There were a few idlers on the beach, too, some gathered about the fishing boats, others with lines running offshore. They were all watching the launch run in towards the beach. One man shouted something, though their ignorance of Portuguese prevented them from knowing whether it was a greeting or a complaint that Paine had carried away a hook and line.

  'We must land on the beach,' Ashton pronounced.

  'Aye, aye, sir,' said Paine quickly, leaning on the tiller to head the launch directly for the half-moon of sand.

  'Oars.' The men ceased pulling, their oars rising horizontally while they lay on the looms and caught their breath. The momentum of the launch carried it in a final glide towards the beach.

  'Toss oars!' The double-banked oars rose unsteadily to the vertical and Paine gave the final order that had them lowered, blades forward, with a dull clatter. A moment later the launch scrunched upon the sharp-smelling volcanic sand. The bowman leaped ashore with the painter. He was followed by the two men at the forward oars and the trio heaved the boat a little higher as a low swell followed her and broke upon the beach.

  Lieutenant Ashton looked at them and then at Paine. 'Are you proposing to land me or the boat's crew, Mr Paine?' he asked sarcastically.

  'Heave her up a little more,' Paine ordered, blushing.

  'No, no, no,' expostulated Ashton, 'there's no need for all that.' The lieutenant rose with the petulant air of a man put out on another's behalf, and stepped up on the aftermost thwart. The two oarsmen seated there drew aside. One of them was Shaw, the sailor whom Ashton had threatened to flog, and he glared up at Ashton, but Ashton did not notice. He clambered forward over successive thwarts, the oarsmen drawing aside for him. Stepping momentarily on the gunwhale, he jumped ashore, but turned and slipped on the bladder-wrack. He half-fell, but caught himself and, while his coat tail dangled in the wet and slithery seaweed that lay on the tideline, he avoided besmirching his white breeches.

  'Damnation!' he swore. The boat's crew to a man, looked out across the harbour as though the view was unsurpassable. One or two shoulders shook with what might have been mirth, but Ashton was staring at Paine whose face was almost contorted in the effort of self-control. 'Mr Paine, the boat's crew are to remain aboard. Sergeant McCann, you may land two sentinels.'

  Ashton brushed the sand from his hands, turned about and began to ascend the sloping beach. He was met by an officer in the brown tunic of a regiment of caçadores.

  'Welcome to Flores, sir,' the swarthy officer said pleasantly in good English.

  'Er, obliged, I'm sure,' mumbled the astonished Ashton.

  The Portuguese officer smiled. 'I am Lieutenant Da Silva. I served in Spain with General Wellesley. At Talavera,' Da Silva added as Ashton appeared even more perplexed, but the penny dropped and Ashton took the proferred hand, aware that it and his right cuff were mucky from contact with the wet wrack on the sand. Serve the dago right, Ashton thought venomously, but he smiled as he responded to the vigorous shake of the Portuguese officer's hand. 'I have a message for the Governor — the Alcaid," he added pompously.

  'Yes, of course,' Da Silva replied, indicating the way. 'Please come with me.'

  'Can you make out her colours, Mr Frey?' Drinkwater's voice betrayed his anxiety as he fumbled in his tail-pocket, extended the Dollond glass and clapped it to his right eye. He swore at the difficulty of bringing the strange ship into focus and hoped Frey's sharper eyes would spot the ensign.

  'No, sir, hidden behind the tops'ls.'

  'Damnation,' Drinkwater hissed under his breath.

  'Sir ...' Frey spoke slowly, 'there's something familiar about her...'

  For a moment Drinkwater's glass captured the image of the approaching ship which left an impression upon his retina. He instantly agreed with Frey and they simultaneously identified her: 'It's that Russian frigate ... What's its confounded name?'

  'The Gremyashchi!'

  'What the devil's she doing here?' Drinkwater asked no one in particular, lowering his glass, his heart suddenly hammering in his breast. But he already knew the answer, just as Marlowe ran up, two fingers to the fore-cock of his hat.

  'Cleared for action, sir!' he reported, staring over Drinkwater's shoulder at the approaching ship foaming towards them, running before the persisting north-easter. 'That's that Russian we sailed from Dover with!' he said.

  'Aye, it is ... Nevertheless, it's as well to take no chances,' Drinkwater remarked obscurely, trying to think tactically. It was enough that Captain Rakov was here, off the Azores; the reason why could wait. 'Very well, gentlemen. Mr Birkbeck, do you bring the ship onto the larboard tack, then heave-to athwart her hawse ...'

  'Aye, aye, sir!'

  'Mr Frey, you shall run out the starboard battery when I give the word. Load single ball. Mr Marlowe, be so kind as to have the fore-castle carronades loaded with powder only. We shall,' Drinkwater paused a moment and braced himself as, under Birkbeck's orders, Andromeda turned away from her easterly course and swung to the north-north-west, to sail at an approximate right angle to the Russian frigate's course. He turned to Birkbeck: 'Ten minutes should see us close enough ...'

  'Aye, sir,' acknowleged the master.

  'We shall', Drinkwater resumed, 'fire the unshotted carronades to bring her to. If she runs down any more I intend to cripple her, Mr Frey, aim high and knock her sticks about.'

  'Aye, aye, sir!'

  'Sir, I...' Marlowe's face wore an expression of grave concern.

  'Not now, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater said dismissively 'To your posts, gentlemen, to you posts,' and seeing Marlowe hesitate, Drinkwater rubbed his hands and added, 'Briskly now, briskly!'

  Marlowe shrugged, turned on his heel and ran forward along the starboard gangway. Birkbeck caught Drinkwater's eye and the latter raised his eyebrow; Birkbeck smiled and turned back to watch the approaching ship.

  Drinkwater raised his glass again. He could see it was the Gremyashchi now, the figurehead of Mars the
god of war clearly identified her, and her aspect was opening so that he could just see the white flag with its dark blue diagonal cross fluttering beyond the leech of the main topsail. As Andromeda gathered speed on her new tack, the fly of the Russian ensign was again occluded behind the bellying sail. He lowered his telescope a fraction and could just make out a dark gaggle of officers on her quarterdeck.

  A flurry of activity could be seen on the Gremyashchi's deck and the straining main course seemed to belly even more, losing its driving power as the sheets were slacked off and then the big sail rose to the yard under the tug of the buntlines and the clew garnets.

  Was Rakov clewing up in order to give battle, or merely to exchange pleasantries?

  'Now sir?' asked an equally anxious Birkbeck.

  'Now is as good a time as ever,' Drinkwater said, coolly, feigning indifference, and Birkbeck's voice rang out with the order to 'clew up both courses and heave her to'. A moment later, Andromeda's main yards were braced round and their sails curved back against the mast, bringing the British frigate to a gently pitching standstill. Drinkwater drew in his breath and hailed the forecastle.

  'Mr Marlowe! Fire!'

  The carronades forward gave their short, imperative bark. The cloud of powder smoke blew back over the deck, carrying its sharp stench to the quarterdeck. The Russian ship was now some seven or eight cables away, broad on the starboard bow and Drinkwater scrutinized her, eager to see what the Russian commander would do in response.

  For several minutes the Gremyashchi continued to bear down on them, seemingly contemptuous of the smaller British frigate almost in her track.

  'Run out the guns!'

  Drinkwater's order was carried to the gun-deck below and he could feel the rumbles of the gun-tracks as their iron-shod wheels carried the black muzzles out through the ports. Drinkwater could imagine the scene below decks with Frey eagerly dancing up and down the line of guns, urging them spiked round on the target; their crews would be straining on tackles, their gun-captains spinning the breech screws to elevate the muzzles. As they completed their exertions, the gasping crews would squat, kneel or crouch beside the monsters they served, the captains kneeling behind the line of guns, squinting along their brute length, the flint-lock lanyards taut in their left hands, their right hands held up so that Frey could see them report their cannon ready.

  Less than half a mile now separated the Gremyashchi from Andromeda. The Russian continued to bear down before the wind under topsails and topgallants, her dark brown sides as yet unbroken by open ports. Then a brief white cloud appeared on her port bow and hung for a moment, running along with the Russian ship and gradually dispersing as the noise of the discharge was blown down towards the waiting Andromeda.

  The closed gun-ports seemed to signal an acceptance of Andromeda's right to dictate terms, for a moment later she sheered away to starboard, heeling over as her yards were braced sharply round and she settled on a course to the north-north-west, parallel to Andromeda's heading.

  'She's making off,' said a surprised Birkbeck. Drinkwater was raking the Russian ship with his telescope. The Gremyashchi was broadside onto them now and he could see her mizen mast clearly, with her blue and white colours at the spanker peak.

  'By God, do you look at that!' It was Hyde, whose scarlet nonchalance had graced the quarterdeck since clearing for action. All along the Gremyashchi's port side, the gun ports opened and she too bared her fangs, despite the leeward heel. Then, in a ragged attempt at simultaneity, Rakov, whose figure Drinkwater had located standing hat-in-hand upon her rail, discharged his guns. The shots raised a line of splashes ahead of the hove-to Andromeda.

  And what is all that about?' Hyde asked.

  In the glass Drinkwater saw Rakov wave his hat flamboyantly above his head and jump back down on to his own quarterdeck. 'That, Mr Hyde, is to let us know we did not intimidate him.' Drinkwater pocketed the telescope and called his messenger. 'Mr Dunn! Be so kind as to tell Mr Frey to run in the starboard battery and secure the guns. He will have to draw all charges.'

  'Run in the guns and draw all charges, aye, aye, sir.'

  'We cannot afford to waste any powder or shot,' he remarked to Birkbeck as the master came across the deck from the binnacle.

  'D'you wish to run back towards Santa Cruz, sir?'

  Drinkwater cast another look at the Gremyashchi. Her stern was square onto them now and there was little sign of her manoeuvring again. A nasty suspicion was forming in Drinkwater's mind. He nodded at the master. 'Yes, if you please.'

  Marlowe came aft as the rumbling and vibration in their boot soles told where the 12-pounders below were being run in again.

  'He's off after other quarry by the look of it, I'd say, sir.'

  'My guess exactly, Frederic,' Drinkwater concurred.

  'Looking for what you call the Antwerp squadron, d'you think?'

  Drinkwater nodded. 'I cannot think of any other reason for his being here.'

  'That rather shortens the odds against us, then.'

  'Yes,' said Drinkwater, as the main yards were hauled round parallel with those on the fore and mizen masts and Andromeda began to gather headway again. 'Yes, it may well do if he has orders to engage us. He certainly wasn't about to hang about and parley'

  For a moment both men stood side by side, watching the exertions of the men at the braces, trimming the yards almost square across the ship as Andromeda answered her helm and swung to port, to run downwind again, heading for Flores which loomed five miles away.

  'On the other hand,' mused Drinkwater, 'we are supposed to be allies.'

  'Those shots across our bow didn't look very friendly,' laughed Marlowe ruefully.

  'No, they didn't, but Rakov might have been trying to cow us.'

  'Why should he do that, sir?'

  'Oh, I don't know,' Drinkwater replied wearily, unwilling to explain to Marlowe the hostility he had felt from the Russian when Rakov discovered he was the British officer responsible for the destruction of the Suvorov. 'It's just a feeling I have,' he added conciliatorily, seeing Frey come up from the gun-deck. 'Perhaps another time, Mr Frey.'

  'I rather hope not, sir: they were 18-pounders at least.'

  The knot of officers laughed a trifle uneasily. 'Poor old Ashton,' remarked Hyde. 'He's missed all the fun.'

  Lieutenant Da Silva had conducted Ashton to the Governor's undistinguished residence where the British officer was received with every courtesy including a glass of wine. Da Silva introduced the Governor, Dom Miguel Gaspar Viera Batata, his secretary, whose name appeared to be Soares, and a tall thin man in a black worsted suit, silver buckled shoes and the elegant affectations of an English fop.

  The Englishman introduced himself. 'I am Edmund Gilbert, Mr Ashton, British consul at Angra. By good fortune I am visiting Dom Batata at this time.' Ashton had no idea where Angra was, but his bow was elegant enough and it took them all in.

  'Your servant, gentlemen. Lieutenant Josiah Ashton of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Andromeda, gentlemen, Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater commanding.' He took Drinkwater's letter from his breast and handed it to Batata.

  'Thank you, Lieutenant.' Batata took the letter, slit the wafer and began to read while Soares served the wine. When he had finished reading, Batata passed the letter to Gilbert who blew his gaunt cheeks out and expelled his breath slowly, as if this was an essential accompaniment to the process.

  'Well, well, well,' he concluded, refolding the letter and returning it to Batata who passed it directly to Soares.

  'May I... ?' Gilbert sought the Governor's permission which was granted by a grave nod of Batata's head. 'Do I gather from this missive, Lieutenant... I beg your pardon, sir, I have forgotten ...'

  'Ashton, Mr Gilbert,' Ashton prompted quickly, colouring uncertainly.

  'Yes, yes. Well, Mr Ashton, do I infer your commander, Nathaniel What's-his-name, believes Napoleon Bonaparte is to be exiled here, on the island of Flores.'

  'Yes, sir,' replied Ashton, slightl
y mollified by Gilbert's inability to remember Drinkwater's name and accepting a refill of his glass from Soares, 'if he ain't here already'

  'Here? Already? 'Pon my soul, Mr Ashton, this is the first hint we've heard that Napoleon Bonaparte ain't, as you say, Emperor of the French!'

  'He has abdicated, gentlemen,' Ashton explained, inflated by his assumption of the role of harbinger.

  'You are our winged Mercury' Gilbert echoed Ashton's thoughts with a thin smile.

  'King Louis has returned to France.'

  'Then the war is over?' asked Batata.

  'Indeed yes, sir. In Europe, at least.'

  'Ah yes, your country is still at war with the Americans. Now these other ships, Lieutenant, we have no knowledge of them, have we?' Gilbert shrugged and a query to his secretary by Batata produced a negative shrug from Soares. Batata turned back to Ashton. 'We have no knowledge of any other ships other than merchantmen ...'

  'And is there no news at all in the archipelago, of preparations for the reception of Bonaparte, gentlemen?' Ashton asked as Soares bent over his glass again.

  Batata shrugged and shook his head. Gilbert was more emphatic.

  'I have heard nothing on Terceira and am certain we should have done by now, if such a thing was meditated.'

  'Very well,' Ashton bowed, 'thank you for your time, gentlemen. I am sorry to have troubled you.'

  'It is no trouble, Lieutenant,' Dom Batata said.

  Gilbert addressed the Governor in fluent Portuguese and Batata nodded in agreement, then Gilbert turned to Ashton. 'Mr Ashton, I have been here for ten days attending to some business with the master of the brig Mary Digby of Sunderland. If your Captain Drinkwater would condescend to convey me back to Angra, we could quickly ascertain if the packet from Lisbon has brought orders relevant to the fate of Bonaparte.'

  'Well, sir, I suppose Captain Drinkwater will have no objection...'

  'Good, then the matter is settled. Give me a quarter of an hour, and I shall be with you.'