The shadow of the eagle nd-13

by Ричард Вудмен

  'Mr Birkbeck, I want the ship taken across his bow ...'

  'Sir?'

  'At the last moment, d'you hear?'

  'You'll rake from ahead sir?'

  'Exactly. Will you do it?'

  'Aye, sir!'

  'At the last moment...'

  'We risk taking her bowsprit with us.'

  'No time to worry about that, just carry us clear. Man the braces and square the yards as we come round. Mr Hyde, some target practice for you lobsters!'

  'Can't wait, sir!' Hyde called gaily back.

  No one on the upper deck was unaware of Drinkwater's intentions and, thanks to Frey, most men on the gun-deck understood. Those that did not, knew something was about to happen and both batteries waited tensely for the opportunity to open fire.

  Drinkwater cast a quick look at Marlowe. He was so pale that his beard looked blue against his skin. 'Remember what I said, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater reminded his first lieutenant in a low voice, 'if I should fall.'

  Marlowe looked at him with a blank stare, into which comprehension dawned slowly. 'Oh yes, yes, sir.' Drinkwater smiled reassuringly. Marlowe smiled bravely back. 'I shall not let you down, sir,' he said resolutely.

  'I'm sure you won't, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater replied, raising his glass again and laying it upon the fast-approaching Russian.

  Andromeda remained the windward vessel and Drinkwater knew at once that Rakov intended to use his heel to enable his guns to fire higher, aiming to cripple the British frigate, cross her stern with a raking fire and then take his time destroying her. It was always a weakness of the weather gauge that although one could dominate the manoeuvring, when it came to a duel, the leeward guns were frequently difficult to point.

  Rakov was clewing up his courses, confident that Andromeda was running into the trap with her futilely flying signals and every gunport tight shut.

  'D'you wish me to try another hoist, sir?' asked Paine.

  'Good idea, Mr Paine,' responded Drinkwater, adding, 'and a gun to windward, Mr Marlowe, to add to the effect.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Details were standing out clearly now on the Gremyashchi. Her dark hull with its single, broad buff strake was foreshortened, but the scrollwork about her figurehead, her knightheads and bowsprit were clear, so clear in the Dollond glass that Drinkwater could see an officer forward, studying his own ship through a huge glass.

  'Keep the guns' crews' head down, Mr Marlowe, we're being studied with interest.' A moment later the unshotted starboard bow chaser blew its wadding to windward with a thump. In an unfeigned tangle of bunting and halliards which trailed out to leeward in a huge bight, Mr Paine was the very picture of the inept greenhorn struggling to get a flag hoist aloft in blustery weather; the matter could not have been better contrived if it had been deliberate!

  Beside Drinkwater, Birkbeck was sucking his teeth, a nervous habit Drinkwater had not noticed before. 'Shall I edge her down to loo'ard, sir?'

  'A trifle, if you please ...'

  Drinkwater's heart was thumping painfully in his breast. What he was about to attempt was no ruse, but a huge risk. If Andromeda turned too slowly, or the men at the braces did not let the yards swing, the wind in the sails would tend to hold the ship on her original course. If he turned to early, he would give Rakov time to respond and if too late all that might result was a collision, and that would spell the end for Drinkwater and his ship.

  'Stand by, Mr Birkbeck!'

  Drinkwater's voice was unnaturally loud, but it carried, and Birkbeck was beside the wheel in an instant. If only Rakov would show his intentions ...

  'Make ready on the gun-deck!'

  Drinkwater was conscious that in another full minute it would be too late. The two frigates were racing towards each other, larboard to larboard at a combined speed of twenty knots. Gremyashchi, having the wind forward of the beam, was heeling a little more than Andromeda, exposing her port copper which gleamed dully in the sunshine. Andromeda's heel was less, but sufficient to require almost full elevation in her port guns. Not, Drinkwater thought in those last seconds, that she would be using them first.

  The time had come for Drinkwater to commit himself and his ship to a raking swing by passing Andromeda across Gremyashchi's bow, come hell or high water. Just as he opened his mouth to shout the order to Birkbeck, the Gremyashchi's larboard ports opened and her black gun muzzles appeared, somewhat jerkily as their crews hauled them uphill against the angle of heel.

  'Now Birkbeck! Up helm!' Birkbeck had the helm over in a trice, but Drinkwater's heart thundered in his breast and his skin crawled with apprehension as he watched Andromeda's bowsprit hesitate, then start to move across the rapidly closing Gremyashchi, accelerating as the frigate responded to her rudder.

  'Braces there!' Birkbeck shouted.

  'Starboard battery, open fire when you bear!'

  Marlowe was running aft along the starboard gangway and beneath their feet the faint tremble of gun trucks running outboard sent a tremor through the ship. Along the upper deck the warrant and petty officers at the masts and pin rails were tending the trim of the yards, driving Andromeda at her maximum speed as she swung to port, right under the bows of the Gremyashchi.

  Drinkwater saw the officer with the long glass lower it and look directly at the British ship, as though unable to believe what he had first observed in detail through his lenses; he saw the man turn and shout aft, but Gremyashchi stood on, and even fired a gun in the excitement, a shotted gun, for Hyde cried out he had spotted the plume of water it threw up, yards away on their starboard beam. As Andromeda turned to port, the component of her forward speed was removed from the equation. The approach slowed, allowing Andromeda time to cover the distance of the offset from her windward station.

  Then the forwardmost gun of Frey's starboard battery fired, followed by its neighbours. The concussion rolled aft as each successive gun-captain laid his barrel on the brief sight of the Russian's bow as it flashed past his open port, like a pot shot at a magic lantern show. And on the upper deck, first the chase gun, then the short, ugly barks of the carronades as they recoiled back up their slides, followed the same sequence, the gun crews leaping round with sponges and rammers, to get in a second shot where they were able. As for Hyde's marines, they afterwards called it a pigeon shoot, for they claimed to have picked off every visible Russian in the fleeting moments they were in a position to do so, though whether this amounted to four or seven men remained a matter of dispute for long afterwards.

  Andromeda's rolling fire was more impressive than a broadside; there was a deliberation about it that might have been coincidence, or the fruits of twenty years of war, or the sheer bloody love of destruction enjoyed by men kept mewed up in a wooden prison for months at a time, year-in, year-out, denied the things even the meanest, most indigent men ashore enjoyed as their natural rights. And if the liveliness of the sea deprived Drinkwater of the full effect of a slow raking, the destruction wrought seemed bad enough to allow him to coolly pass his ship clear to leeward of the faltering Russian as, obedient to her helm, Andromeda swung back on to her original course and swept past the Gremyashchi, starboard to starboard. So confident had Rakov been that Drinkwater would hang on to the weather gauge that hardly a starboard gun opposed her.

  'Run down towards those French ships, Mr Birkbeck, then we will tack and come up with the Gremyashchi again ...'

  'Drive a wedge between 'em, eh sir?' It was Marlowe, darkened by powder smoke and the close supervision of the upper deck carronades, who ranged up alongside Drinkwater and suddenly added, 'By God, you're unarmed, sir!'

  Drinkwater looked down at his unencumbered waist. Neither sword nor pistol hung there. 'God's bones, I had quite forgot ...'

  'I'll get 'em for you sir.' And like a willing midshipman, Marlowe was gone.

  Drinkwater turned and looked at the Gremyashchi, already dropping astern on the starboard quarter. Her starboard ports were open now, and several shots flew at Andromeda, but there was
no evidence of a concerted effort and it was clear Rakov had been completely outwitted and had had all his men up to windward to assist hauling his cannon quickly out against his ship's heel.

  'How far from her were we, sir?' Birkbeck asked conversationally. 'I was rather too busy to notice.'

  'I'm not sure,' Drinkwater replied, 'thirty or forty yards, maybe; perhaps less; long pistol shot anyway'

  Both men spared a last look at the Gremyashci. It was impossible to say what damage they had done; none of her spars had gone by the board and only two holes were visible in the foot of her fore-topsail, but they were fast approaching the two French ships, the nearer of which had the appearance of an Indiaman and was clearly frigate built. It was oddly satisfying for Drinkwater to read the name L'Aigle on her stern, beneath the stern windows. Hortense and her intelligence seemed a world away from this!

  Beyond L'Aigle, lay the smaller French ship, a corvette by the look of her, and both had their guns run out.

  'Not too close, I don't want to risk them hitting our sticks, but would like a shot at theirs.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.' Birkbeck replied, impassive to his commander's paradoxical demand.

  'Down helm, my lads, nice and easy' Birkbeck conned the ship round and Drinkwater walked forward and bellowed down beneath the booms, 'Now's your chance, Mr Ashton; larbowlines make ready and fire at will when you bear!' He turned, 'Ah, Marlowe, you're just in time ... Thank you.'

  Drinkwater took the sword and belt from Marlowe who laid the brace of pistols on the binnacle and hurried off. Drinkwater caught Birkbeck's eye and raised an eyebrow.

  Then Ashton's guns fired by division, the foward six first, then the midships group and finally the aftermost cannon, by which time the forward guns were ready again, and for fifteen minutes, as Andromeda ran parallel to L'Aigle, they kept up this rolling fire. It was returned with vigour by LAigle, but the corvette scarcely fired a shot, being masked by her consort.

  Drinkwater could see the spurts of yellow flame and the puffs of white smoke from which came the spinning projectiles, clearly visible to the quick eye.

  'Have a care Birkbeck, they're using bar shot...'

  A loud rent sounded aloft and the main-topsail was horizontally ripped across three cloths and half the windward topmast shrouds were shot away, but the mast stood. A few innocuous holes appeared in L'Aigle's sails and even the corvette suffered from some wild shot, but there appeared to be little other damage until Hyde called out there was something wrong amidships and that he had seen a cloud of splinters explode from a heavy impact.

  Drinkwater was far more concerned with the conduct of Andromeda herself. As long as he struck without being hit, he was having at least a moral effect upon his enemy. He raised his glass and could see the blue and white of infantrymen on the deck of LAigle.

  'Pass word to Mr Frey, I am going to rake to starboard!' he called, turning to Birkbeck, but the master was ahead of his commander.

  'Let fly the maintops'l sheet...!'

  Andromeda began to slow as the driving power of the big sail was lost; LAigle and the corvette appeared to accelerate as they drew ahead, and then Birkbeck put the helm up and again Andromeda swung to port, but instead of passing under the bow of an enemy, she cut across the sterns of L'Aigle and then the corvette, whose name was now revealed as Arbeille.

  They were, however, moving away, and although having achieved his aim in allowing them to pass ahead before turning, Birkbeck's swing to port was a little later than the copybook manoeuvre. Nevertheless, it was clear who was dominating events as Andromeda drove across the sterns of both French ships, cutting through their wakes as Frey's guns thundered again. Nor was there any mistaking the damage inflicted, for the shattering of glass and the stoving in of the neatly carved wooden columns, the caryatids and mermaids adorning their sterns, was obvious. Staring through the Dollond glass, Drinkwater could clearly see a flurry of activity within the smashed interior of L'Aigle. By a fluke, the Russian ensign worn by the Arbeille had been shot away and a replacement was quickly hoisted in the mizen rigging: it was the tricolore.

  'Shall I wear her now, sir?' Birkbeck was asking, and Drinkwater swung round, snatched a quick look at the Gremyashchi, almost two miles away by now, but still holding on to her original course. She had either sustained some damage, or was breaking off the action.

  'If you please, Birkbeck, let us give chase to the Russian and see what he does.'

  'Now they're discarding pretence and showing their true colours, sir,' remarked Marlowe as he returned to the quarterdeck, gesturing to the French ships. L'Aigle had joined her consort in sporting the ensign of the Revolution and Empire and both were also turning in Andromeda's wake.

  'Well, sir,' Marlowe remarked cheerfully, 'at least we drew first blood.'

  'Indeed we did, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater replied, 'indeed we did.'

  CHAPTER 16

  Rules of Engagement

  May 1814

  'Mr Frey, sir!'

  'Ah, Mr Paine...'

  'Message from the captain, sir.' Paine paused to catch his breath and caught Ashton's eye. Smoke still lingered on the gun-deck and the atmosphere was acrid with the stink of burnt powder and the sweat of well over a hundred men. Having reloaded, most of the guns' crews had squatted down and were awaiting events. Some chewed tobacco, others mopped their heads and a low, buzzing chatter filled the close air. Frey, standing upright between the beams of the deck above, stretched. His face was already grimy, but his expression was one of cheerful expectation.

  'Well,' he prompted, 'what's the news?'

  Ashton joined them. He ran a grubby finger round the inside of his stock. Paine noticed he had yet to shave.

  'Captain's compliments, gentlemen,' Paine said diplomatically, 'and to say the gun crews acquitted themselves very well. He don't know how much damage we've done, but we ain't, beg pardon, we haven't suffered anything bar a few holes aloft. We're in chase of the Russian again and Captain Drinkwater says to keep it up. He'll do his utmost to continue manoeuvring and hitting from a distance. He says to be certain sure I tell you not to waste powder and shot and to make every discharge count.'

  Frey looked from Paine to Ashton with a smile. 'That seems perfectly explicit, eh Josh?'

  'Yes,' said Ashton, yawning. By rights the third lieutenant should have been turned in after standing his watch; he was beginning to feel the cumulative effects of his punitive regime of watch-and-watch.

  'So round one's to us, eh young shaver?' Frey said light-heartedly. 'How long before we've caught up with the Gremyashchi? We can't see her from down here.'

  'About an hour, may be a little more. We've reset the courses.'

  'We can see that from the waist,' Ashton said with a cocky air, indicating the open space amidships and the bottoms of the boats on the booms. Sunlight shone obliquely through the interstices, the shafts prominent in the lingering gunsmoke, oscillating gently with the motion of Andromeda.

  'Very well, Mr Paine,' said Frey, 'pass our respects to Captain Drinkwater...'

  'And tell him we've suffered no casualties down here and are none the worse for the experience,' added Ashton.

  'Except for a crushed foot,' Frey corrected reprovingly. 'Poor little Paddy Burns tried to stop a recoiling 12-pounder.'

  Thinking of the bare-legged powder-monkeys, Paine grimaced and Ashton said callously, 'The damned little fool got in the way.' Frey pointedly ignored Ashton and nodded dismissal to the midshipman before he turned to cross the deck and peer out of a gun-port to see if he could catch a glimpse of the pursued Gremyashchi. As Paine made off, Ashton called him back.

  'Mr Marlowe all right, Mr Paine?'

  'Mr Marlowe, sir? Why yes ...'

  'Good, good.' Ashton paused, but Paine waited, puzzled at the question. Ashton realized the need of an explanation was both superfluous and demeaning, especially to a midshipman, and waved Paine away, but Paine's own solicitude had been awakened.

  'Sir!' He arrested Ashton's turn forward
and Frey looked up from his position crouched by the gun-port.

  Ashton swung round and stared at the importunate midshipman.

  'What happened to Burns, sir?' Paine asked.

  'Kennedy's taking his foot off now,' Ashton said coldly and, turning on his heel, resumed his walk forward.

  Paine ran back up to the quarterdeck where he caught Drinkwater's eye. 'Beg pardon, sir, both Mr Frey and Mr Ashton send their respects and perfectly understand your orders.'

  'Very well.'

  'And they've had one casualty'

  'Oh? Who is it?'

  'A powder-boy, sir,' Paine said, recalling just in time Captain Drinkwater's proscription of the term 'powder-monkey', especially by the young gentlemen.

  'Which one?' Drinkwater asked.

  'Burns, sir.'

  'Burns...' Drinkwater frowned. 'Oh, yes, I know the lad; dark hair and a squint. Was he killed?'

  'No, sir, a recoiling gun-truck crushed his foot. He's in the surgeon's hands at the moment.'

  'Thank you, Mr Paine. And you, are you all right?'

  'Perfectly, sir, thank you.'

  Drinkwater nodded and then resumed his scrutiny of the Gremyashchi on their port bow; the Russian frigate was nearer now and Paine was aware he had been absent from the quarterdeck for some time, so much had they shortened the distance. They would be in action again soon and a moment of panic seized him and he blurted out, 'Beg pardon again, sir, but I'm very sorry ...'

  Drinkwater turned and looked at the youngster in some surprise. 'What on earth for, Mr Paine?'

  'For making such a mess of getting that flag hoist aloft, sir.'

  Drinkwater's smile cracked into a brief laugh and he patted the midshipman on the shoulder. 'My dear Mr Paine, think nothing of it. As far as the enemy was concerned, I think you managed the business most ably. As a ruse-de-guerre I imagine it achieved its objective.'

  Paine's incomprehension was plain, but he did not question Drinkwater's reply. On any other occasion he would have been dressed down by one of the officers for making so abysmal a hash of the simple task. Action, it seemed, was played to different rules, those of engagement he supposed, so he resumed his station, puzzled but happier. He had survived what Mr Frey had called the first round; perhaps he would be lucky and survive the second.