The shadow of the eagle nd-13

by Ричард Вудмен

  Lieutenant Hyde took advantage of the hiatus to look to his men. Instructing his two corporals to issue more cartridges and ball, he ordered Sergeant McCann to make his rounds of the sentries posted throughout the frigate.

  'See the boys are all right, Sergeant, and make sure they don't feel left out of things.'

  McCann ignored the deck sentinels at the after end of the quarterdeck. They were always stationed there, action or not, to maintain a guard and to throw the life-preservers over the side if any unfortunate jack fell overboard.

  Below, on the gun-deck, there was a sentry at the forward and after companionways to ensure no one ran below without authority. By this means the cowardly or nervously disposed were kept at their stations and prevented from seeking the shelter of the orlop deck. Only stretcher parties, officers or midshipmen carrying messages were permitted to pass the companionways, along with the powder-boys like Paddy Burns, who carried ammunition up from the magazines and shot lockers to satisfy the demands of the gun-captains.

  McCann ascertained there had been no problems with either of his men at these posts and went below where, in the berth-deck and the orlop, other solitary marines did their duty despite the mayhem raging on the decks above. Spirit room, outer magazine, the stores and the hatchways to the holds, each had its guard and every man professed all was well, one asking to be relieved for a moment while he in turn eased himself. McCann obliged then left the comforted soldier to his miserable, ill-lit duty in the mephitic air of the hold.

  McCann returned up the forward companionway and walked aft along the gun-deck, exchanging the odd remark with several of the gun crews.

  'Cheer up, Sergeant,' one man chaffed, 'what've you got to be glum about up there in all that sunshine and iron rain!'

  'Mind your manners,' McCann responded morosely and then found himself confronted by Lieutenant Ashton.

  'Silence there!' Ashton ordered, obstructing the marine. 'Well, McCann, what the deuce are you doing down here?'

  McCann recognized provocation in Ashton's voice. 'Checking the sentries, sir, on the orders of Lieutenant Hyde.'

  Are you, indeed ...?'

  'If you'll excuse me, sir ...'

  Ashton drew aside with deliberate slowness. 'Off you go, Sergeant Yankee.'

  McCan paused and confronted the urbane Ashton. With difficulty he mastered his flaring anger, though his eyes betrayed him, allowing Ashton to add insolently, 'Have a care, Yankee, have a care.'

  McCann turned and almost ran aft up the companionway, gasping in the sunlight and fresh air, as if he had escaped the contagion of a plague-pit. He had no idea why Ashton had staged the unpleasant little scene, but it crystallized all the pent up venom in McCann's tortured soul. As for Ashton, idling away the time before Andromeda resumed the action, he felt little beyond a petty amusement that might have been nothing more than the result of mere high spirits and the elation of a man carried away by the excitement of the morning, if it had not had such fatal consequences.

  As Andromeda slowly overhauled the Gremyashchi, Drinkwater strove to make some sense out of the situation. Astern of the British frigate, L'Aigle and Arbeille were coming up hand over fist, though they would not reach Andromeda before she herself was in range of the Russian. It was clear Rakov, who could have brought Drinkwater to battle within a few moments by reducing sail, was content to trail his coat, drawing the British after him, in the hope that he could pin Andromeda long enough for the two French ships to come up and overwhelm her.

  In short, it seemed to the anxious Drinkwater that, having won a brief advantage, he was now allowing himself to be drawn into a trap which could have only one consequence. His alternative was to put the wind a point abaft the beam and escape on Andromeda's fastest point of sailing. Within this tactical debate there lurked a small political imperative. Rather than run, Drinkwater considered whether to back his hunch, or not. If he proved right, then he might yet extricate his ship from what otherwise seemed her inevitable humiliation. There was something about Rakov's trailing away to the north that did not quite square with the setting of a trap. Drinkwater could not quite put his finger on his reason for thinking thus, beyond an intuition; perhaps that first raking broadside of Andromeda's had had an effect, and perhaps the damage had been more moral than physical.

  Captain Count Rakov had been sent with his ship to prevent Drinkwater from thwarting the Tsar's plan. That much was obvious; but what were Rakov's rules of engagement? It was inconceivable that having chased Andromeda out to the Azores, he did not have any! But was Rakov empowered to destroy a British man-of-war? Such an event would at the very least cause a rupture between London and St Petersburg and might be a casus belli, touching off a new European war. As matters stood, the exchange of fire between Gremyashchi and Andromeda could be written off as 'accidental', an unfortunate misunderstanding which both governments regretted profoundly.

  Drinkwater lowered his glass, his mind made up. He was lucky, damned lucky. As things stood at that precise moment, he had enough room to call Rakov's bluff.

  'Mr Birkbeck!'

  'Sir?'

  'Wear ship! I want to pass between those two Frenchmen. Mr Marlowe! Mr Hyde! D'you hear?'

  'Aye, aye, sir!'

  'Mr Paine, be so kind as to let the officers on the gun-deck know my intentions.'

  The cries of acknowledgement were followed by a flurry of activity as Andromeda gave up her chase and prepared to turn to bite her own pursuers. While his action with Gremyashchi could be dressed up as a regrettable incident, L'Aigle and Arbeille both now flew an outlawed flag. 'Mr Protheroe,' he called to an elderly master's mate who ran up and touched his fore-cock. 'Be so kind as to make a log entry to the effect that the frigate of which we are in pursuit has been determined to be unequivocally Russian, we have broken off the chase and intend to proceed to compel the two privateers formerly in company with her and sheltering under her colours, to strike the former French tricolour which they promptly hoisted when the Russian frigate stood away from them.' Poor Protheroe looked confused and nodded uncomprehendingly. 'Write it down, man, quickly now ...'

  Flustered, Protheroe finally complied and Drinkwater repeated his formal explanation. If he fell in the next two or three hours, posterity would have that much 'fact' to chew upon.

  'I have it, sir,' Protheroe acknowledged. Such a veneer of legality would suffice. But if Rakov followed him round to close the trap, Drinkwater would know the worst. Birkbeck was looking at him expectantly.

  'Ready, Mr Birkbeck?'

  'Aye, sir.'

  'Very well. Carry on.'

  'Up helm!' Birkbeck sang out, and the shadows of the masts, sails and stays once more waltzed across the white planking as Andromeda answered her rudder and turned about.

  All four ships were now reaching across the north-westerly wind, the Russian heading north-north-east, with the Arbeille and L'Aigle on a similar course, but some three miles to the southward of the Gremyashchi. Between them Andromeda now headed back to the south, her course laid for the gap between the two French ships. At the same moment Drinkwater saw the folly of this move Birkbeck made the suggestion to pass downwind of the leeward ship, the weaker corvette Arbeille, a suggestion Drinkwater instantly sanctioned, it having occurred to him simultaneously.

  'You know my mind, Mr Birkbeck, but feint at the gap and make them think they have us.' Drinkwater could hardly believe his luck. On a reciprocal course it was not unreasonable for an arrogant British officer to take his ship between two of the enemy and while it exposed her to two broadsides, it allowed the single ship the opportunity to fire into both enemy ships at the same time and thus double her chances of inflicting damage. But by suddenly slipping across the bow of the leeward ship, he would place the Arbeille in the field of fire of L'Aigle and thus deprive Contre-Amiral Lejeune of the heavier guns of the bigger vessel.

  Drinkwater ran forward to the waist and bellowed below. Frey's face appeared, then that of Ashton. 'Starboard guns, Mr Frey: double shot
'em and lay them horizontally; zero elevation!'

  'Aye, aye, sir!'

  Ashton looked crestfallen. 'You'll get your turn in a moment or two, Mr Ashton, don't you worry.'

  They were rushing down towards the enemy now and Drinkwater resumed his station, casting a look astern at the Gremyashchi; she remained standing northwards. Rakov was detaching himself. At least for the time being. A sudden, sanguine elation seized Drinkwater, the excitement of the gambler whose hunch is that if he stakes everything upon the next throw of the dice, all will be well. It was a flawed, illogical and misplaced confidence, he knew, but he dare not deny himself its comfort in that moment of anxious decision.

  But then he felt the unavoidable, reactive visceral gripe of fear and foreboding. There were no certainties in a sea-battle, and providence was not so easily seduced.

  CHAPTER 17

  Sauce for the Goose

  May 1814

  'Fire!'

  The French corvette lay to starboard, so close it seemed one could count the froggings on the scarlet dolmans of a dozen hussars standing on the Arbeille's deck with their carbines presented, yet so detached one scarcely noticed the storm of shot which responded to the thunder of Andromeda's broadside.

  Drinkwater felt the rush of a passing ball and gasped involuntarily as it spun him around and drew the air from his lungs. Beside him Protheroe fell with a cry, slumping against Drinkwater's legs, causing him to stumble. One of the helmsmen took the full impact of a second round-shot, his shoulder reduced to a bloody pulp as he too swung round and was thrown against the mizen fife-rail so that his brains were mercifully dashed out at the same fatal moment.

  As Drinkwater recovered his balance, a small calibre shot shattered his left arm. One of the hussars had hit him with a horse pistol. The blow struck him with such violence his teeth shut with a painful, head-jarring snap and a second later he felt the surge of pain, which made him gasp as his head swam. For a moment he stood swaying uncertainly, submitting to an overwhelming desire to lie down and to give up. What the hell did it matter? What the hell did any of it matter...?

  'Are you all right, sir?'

  What was the point of this action? They were little men whose lives had been lived under the shadow of the eagle. Rakov and Lejeune and Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater were mere pawns in the uncaring games of the men of power and destiny. Why, he could feel the chill in the shadow of the eagle's wings even now, and see the beguiling curve of Hortense's smile seducing him towards his own miserable fate. What would the omnipotent Tsar Alexander care for the fate of Count Rakov and his frigate? Or would the great Napoleon, whose ambition had contributed to the deaths of a million men, concern himself over the fate of a few fanatics who could not settle themselves under a fat, indolent monarch?

  'Are you all right, sir?'

  The British contented themselves under a fat, indolent monarch; or at least a fat, indolent regent. Why could these troublesome Frenchmen not see the sense of playing the same game ... God's bones, but it was cold, so confoundedly cold ...

  'Sir! Are you all right?'

  He saw Marlowe peering at him as though through a tunnel. He could not quite understand why Marlowe was there, and then his mind began to clear and the nausea and desire to faint receded. He was left with the pain in his arm. 'I fear,' Drinkwater said through clenched teeth, mastering his sweating and fearful body, 'I fear I am hit, Marlowe ...'

  'But, sir ...'

  'Send... for... laudanum, Marlowe ... Pass word... to Kennedy ... to send me ... laudanum.' He breathed in quick and shallow gasps which somehow eased him.

  'At once.' Marlowe saw with a look of horror the bloody wound just above Drinkwater's elbow.

  Drinkwater's perception of the action was seen through a red mist; it cleared gradually though his being seemed dominated by the roaring throb of his broken arm. He was dimly aware the guns had fallen silent, that the shadows of the masts and sails once again traversed the deck which pitched for a few moments as Andromeda was luffed up into the wind. Then the guns thundered out again, adding to the throbbing in his head. Somewhere to starboard, he perceived the shallow curve of the Arbeille's taffrail lined with shakoed infantrymen, and the sight roused him. By an effort of will he commanded himself again.

  A fusillade of musketry swept Andromeda's quarterdeck. Drinkwater felt a second ball strike him, like a whiplash across the thigh, then someone was beside him, holding a small glass phial.

  'Here sir, quick!'

  He swallowed the contents and for a moment more stood confused, trying to focus upon Hyde's marines whose backs were to him as they lined the hammock nettings, returning fire. Then Arbeille drew away out of range and Andromeda, having raked her, fell back to port, making a stern board.

  Drinkwater felt the opiate spread warmth and contentment through him; the pain ebbed, becoming a faint sensation, like the vague memory of something unpleasant that lay just beyond one's precise recollection. He was aware that Andromeda had come up into the wind under the stern of the French corvette and he was aware of Kennedy blinking in the sunlight, hovering at his elbow.

  'Hold still, sir, while I dress your wound.' Kennedy clucked irritably. 'Hold still, damn it, sir.' Drinkwater stood and supinely allowed the surgeon to cut away his coat and bind his arm. 'You have a compound fracture, sir, and I shall have to see to it later.' Kennedy grunted as a musket ball passed close. 'Luckily the ball must have been near spent; 'tis a mess, but no major blood vessels have been severed. I may save it if it don't mortify.'

  'Thank you for your encouraging prognosis, Mr Kennedy' Drinkwater said, his teeth clenched as Kennedy finished pulling him about with what seemed unnecessary brutality. He turned back to the handling of the ship as Kennedy grabbed his bag of field dressings and scuttled back to the orlop. It must have been the first time the surgeon had been so exposed to fire, he thought idly.

  'Who gave orders to rake?' he asked no one in particular.

  'You did, sir,' a hatless Birkbeck reassured him.

  'What are our casualties?'

  'I've no idea, though a good few fellows have fallen, but we knocked that corvette about...'

  'Where's Marlowe?'

  'Here, sir.'

  Under the laudanum, Drinkwater's mind finally cleared. The elation he had felt earlier returned, imbuing him with confidence. The wound in his thigh was no more than a scratch, his broken arm no more than a damnable inconvenience, already accommodated by shoving his left hand into his waistcoat. He strode to the rail. The marines withdrew to make room for him and he stared to starboard. The sterns of both French ships were now eight or nine cables away: the Arbeille trailed a tangle of wreckage over her port side and L'Aigle had shortened sail to keep pace with her. Their stern chase guns barked and a brace of shot skipped across the water and thudded ineffectually into Andromeda's hull.

  'Where's that damned Russian?'

  'Somewhere beyond the Frogs, sir,' Marlowe volunteered.

  Drinkwater cast his eyes aloft. All the topsails and topgallants were aback. Intact, they were nevertheless peppered with holes, and severed ropes hung in bights. Men were already aloft splicing.

  'Throw the helm over, Mr Birkbeck!' Drinkwater ordered, 'Let's have her in pursuit again and bring that lot to book!'

  Contre-Amiral Lejeune lay board to board with his wounded consort only as long as it took him to appraise the damage. A moment later L'Aigle's yards were braced sharp up and the frigate detached herself on the port tack, moving away from the corvette preparatory to rounding on the British frigate. As Andromeda also gained headway and began to come up with the almost supine Arbeille, L'Aigle tacked smartly and began to run back towards the British frigate. This time being caught in the cross-fire was inevitable. By using the Arbeille to mask L'Aigle's guns, Drinkwater had also ensured the French frigate's preservation and fed her company with the desire to avenge her weaker consort. Undamaged, L'Aigle bore down to finish off the perfidious Englishman. Lejeune was staking his own mission on a fi
nal gamble.

  'We are the bully cornered, I fancy,' Drinkwater remarked light-heartedly. He was aware that he had held the initiative and was now about to surrender it. But he was thinking clearly again; in fact his mind seemed superior to the situation, detached and almost divine in its ability to reason, untrammelled by doubts or uncertainties. He gave his orders coolly, as the first of Arbeille's renewed fire struck Andromeda, in passing the corvette to engage her larger and more formidable sister.

  Frey's battery fired into the Arbeille. Drinkwater could see the boats smashed on her booms and the wreck of her main topgallant and her mizen topmast; he saw men toiling on her deck to free her from the encumbrance while the brilliant tunics of her complement of soldiers fired small arms, augmenting her main armament of 8-pounders. It puzzled Drinkwater that shots from Andromeda had flown high enough to knock down so much top-hamper, but they were soon past the Arbeille and preparing to engage L'Aigle.

  'Mr Ashton! Now's your chance! Fire into the frigate, sir!'

  'Aye, aye, sir!'

  'Stand by to tack ship!'

  Then Ashton's port battery crashed out in a concussive broadside, only to be answered by the guns of L'Aigle. Within a few moments, Drinkwater knew he had met an opponent worthy of his steel. Whatever the history of Contre-Amiral Lejeune, here was no half-sailor who had spent the greater part of the last decade mewed up in Brest Road, living ashore and only occasionally venturing out beyond the Black Rocks. Nor had his crew found the greatest test of their seamanship to be the hoisting and lowering of topgallant masts while their ship rotted at her moorings. Lejeune and his men had been active in French cruisers, national frigates which had made a nuisance of themselves by harrying British trade.