The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  ‘I am not a drab, Nathaniel.’ There were tears in her eyes again, and it was clear she thought his impropriety had been motivated by that presumption.

  ‘Hortense,’ he had protested, ‘I did not … I meant no … Damnation I have been bewitched by you for years. Did you not know it? Had I not a wife and children, I should have long ago …’ He had broken off, seeing the pathetic declaration make her smile.

  ‘Ah, Nathaniel, how,’ she had paused, ‘how damnably English.’

  ‘Do not taunt me. Upon occasions, you have made my life wretched. You have resided in my soul as a dark angel. Tonight you are dispossessed of all the diabolism with which my imagination had invested you. For that I am grateful.’

  They had let each other go.

  ‘They you will see that I am provided for?’

  ‘You know I will.’

  ‘Yes… Yes I did. To that extent your superstitions were correct.’ She smiled again.

  ‘You are returning to Paris?’ Seeing her nod, he had gone on, ‘There is a bookseller in the rue de la Seine whose name is Michel. There, in a month, you will find a draft against a London bank. I shall make it out in the name Hortense de Montholon. Should anything go awry, you may send a message through the Jew Liepmann in Hamburg.’

  ‘You are doing this yourself aren’t you? This is nothing to do with the British government, is it?’

  ‘Hortense, the British government will not give Nelson’s mistress a pension; why should they do anything for you? I know of you and thanks to the fortune of war, I have the means to make a little money available for you.’

  ‘You are very kind, Nathaniel. Had life been different, perhaps …’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps; perhaps in happier times we shall meet again. Let us cage Bonaparte, m’dear, before any of us ordinary mortals think of our own pleasure.’

  Hortense had smiled at the remark and, as he held her cloak out for her, she said over her shoulder, ‘You and I are no ordinary mortals, Nathaniel.’

  He had merely grunted. To so much as acknowledge by the merest acquiescence any agreement with this braggadocio seemed to him, filled as he was with apprehension at her news, to be tempting providence most grievously.

  Now he was left to his thoughts and they were in a turmoil. He found it difficult to clear his mind of the image of her. On deck, in the chill of the dawn, it was almost possible to believe it had all been a dream, a bilious consequence of dining too well at the royal table. Was that event any more real, he wondered? And then from his breast the faintest, lingering scent of her rose to his nostrils.

  Yet the appearance of the curious ‘French officer’ had far greater importance than the temptation of Nathaniel Drinkwater. He was in little doubt of the truth of her asseveration. Drinkwater had only the sketchiest notions of the military position of the French army at the end of March, but he had gleaned enough in recent days to know that Napoleon’s energies seemed little diminished. He had fought a vigorous campaign in the defence of France, only to be overwhelmed by superior numbers against which even his military genius was incapable of resistance. Finally, it was widely rumoured, it had been the defection of members of the marshalate in defence of their own interests which had prompted the Emperor’s abdication.

  Under the circumstances, Napoleon was an unlikely candidate for a quiescent exile. And across the Atlantic raged a savage war, a repeat of the struggle from which had emerged the independent United States of America. Drinkwater had cause to remember details of that terrible conflict; as a young midshipman he had tramped through the Carolina swamps and pine barrens and had seen atrocities committed on the bodies of the dead.[7] More recently, he had been involved in the last diplomatic mission intended to prevent a breach between London and Washington, and he knew of the efforts which the young republic was prepared to make to discomfit her old imperial enemy.[8]

  Nor had his foiling of that effort settled the matter. Yankee ambition was like the Hydra; cut one head off and another appeared. Within a few months of destroying a powerful squadron of American privateers, Drinkwater had been made aware of an attempt by the French to supply the Americans with a quantity of arms. The desperate battle fought in the waters of Norway beneath the aurora may have prevented that fateful juncture, but it may not have been the only one; perhaps others, unbeknown to the British Admiralty’s Secret Department which Drinkwater had so briefly headed, had taken place successfully. It seemed quite impossible that his individual efforts had entirely eliminated any such conjunction. In short, it seemed entirely likely that some arms had crossed the Atlantic and that Napoleon and devoted members of his Imperial Guard would follow.

  In fact, Drinkwater concluded, it was not merely likely, it was a damned certainty! And then the memory of Hortense mimicking his English expletive flooded his memory so that he turned growling upon his heel and came face to face with Lieutenant Marlowe.

  ‘What in damnation … ?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir …’

  ‘God’s bones, what is it?’

  ‘The French officer, sir …’

  ‘Well, sir, what of the French officer?’

  ‘Are there any orders consequent upon the French officer’s visit, sir?’

  ‘Orders? What orders are you expecting Mr Marlowe, eh?’

  ‘I am about to be relieved, sir, and under the circumstances, in company with the Royal Yacht, sir, and His Royal Highness …’

  Suddenly, just as Drinkwater was about to silence this locquacious young popinjay, the ludicrous pomposity of Prince William’s title struck him. Overtired and overwrought he might be, distracted by the weight of Hortense’s intelligence as much as that of her voluptuous body, he found the term ‘Highness’ so great a fatuity that he burst out laughing. And at the same time, as he thought of the coarse, rubicund and farting Clarence, he discovered the answer to the question that had been lurking insolubly in his semi-conscious.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Marlowe, you do right to be expectant. The truth is I have been mulling over the best course of action to take as a consequence of that officer’s visit, and now I’m happy to say you have acted very properly, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad of that, sir.’

  ‘And so am I.’

  ‘And the orders, sir … ?’

  Drinkwater looked at the young lieutenant’s face. The sun was just rising and the light caught Marlowe’s lean features in strong relief. He was a pleasant looking, pale fellow, with a dark beard, and the stubble was almost purple along his jaw. ‘What d’you know of, er, His Royal Highness’s habits, Mr Marlowe. I saw you hob-nobbin’ with a couple of the Impregnable‘s, officers last night. One of them was the Prince’s flag-luff, wasn’t he? What I mean is, did either of the young blades tell you what o’clock the Prince rises?’

  Marlowe was somewhat taken aback by his commander’s perception. ‘I know Bob Colville, sir, but I don’t recall our discussing His Royal Highness’s habits beyond the fact that he enjoys a bumper or two.’

  ‘Or three, I daresay, but that don’t serve.’ Drinkwater mused for a moment, then added expansively, ‘What I need to know, Mr Marlowe, is what is the earliest time I might see the Prince?’

  ‘In a good humour I daresay too,’ added Marlowe, smiling, extrapolating Drinkwater’s intentions.

  ‘To be frank, Mr Marlowe,’ Drinkwater added, a tone of asperity creeping into his voice, ‘I don’t much care in what humour His Royal Highness is, just so long as he is sufficiently awake to understand what I wish to communicate to him.’ Marlowe’s look of astonishment at this apparent lèse-majesté further irritated Drinkwater who was conscious that he had confided too much in his untried subordinate. ‘Have my gig ready in an hour, and pass word for my servant.’

  As he shaved, Drinkwater turned over the idea he had. It seemed to have formed instantaneously whilst he had been importuned by Marlowe. The young officer had seen little service of an active nature, although his references spoke of several months on blockade duty off Brest. Still
, that did not equate with a similar number of weeks in a frigate in a forward position or an independent cruise, though that was not poor Marlowe’s fault. Drinkwater wondered if what he was currently meditating would appeal to Marlowe, whose career, at this onset of peace, seemed upon the brink of termination with no opportunity for him to distinguish himself. Perhaps it would not matter to the well-connected Marlowe, but it might to others, for quite different reasons.

  And then Drinkwater extinguished the thought with a wince of almost physical pain. How long had he yearned for a cessation of this tedious and debilitating war? How often had he vowed to give it all up? Had he not received with something akin to relief, orders to pay off Andromeda and go onshore, to take up half-pay and wait for death or the superannuated status of a yellow-admiral?

  God knew he was haunted by the dead, whose shadows waited for his own to join them. The order to pay off had been rescinded and instead, as a mark of respect to Admiral-of-the-Fleet, His Royal Highness, The Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and Earl of Munster, Andromeda had been ordered to join the Royal Squadron off Dover!

  ‘We’re going out with a bang!’ Drinkwater had overheard one of the afterguard remark to a mate, and knew the mood of the men was one of willing co-operation in seeing Fat Louis back to France, before finally laying up the frigate and being paid off to go home. And yet despite this imminent end to the ship’s commission, Chatham dockyard had spared no expense and effort to make good the damage Andromeda had suffered in the Vikkenfiord.

  ‘You would not believe the difficulties I had to fit out the bomb-vessel Virago in the year one,’ Drinkwater had remarked to Lieutenant Frey, repeating the wonder he had expressed to Birkbeck, ‘and then we were under orders to join the great secret expedition to the Baltic. Now we are off on a merry jape to Calais with His Most Christian Majesty which will last a week at the most, and we are getting more paint than a first-rate at Spithead before a review!’ And the two of them had resumed their pacing, shaking their heads at the perverse logic of the naval service, while the ship’s company fell to their pointless task with evident enthusiasm.

  Now Drinkwater was meditating destroying that almost covenanted expectation. He finished shaving and, waving aside his neck linen, sat at the table and drew a sheet of paper towards him. He began to write as his servant poured coffee, pausing occasionally to gather his wits and couch his words in the most telling manner.

  It was only as he completed the fourth missive that it occurred to him that the perversity permeating the naval service also ran through its officers. He himself was not exempt from this duplicity: on the one hand he had just poured out expressions of regret to his wife, yet on the other there was a sense almost of relief that he did not yet have to go home and take off his gold-laced undress uniform coat for the last time.

  Why was that? he wondered, sealing the letter to Elizabeth. Because he could not face the obscurity of domesticity, or because he was not yet ready to meet the shades of the dead who awaited him there?

  His Royal Highness was not yet awake when Drinkwater presented himself upon the quarterdeck of the Impregnable, but Blackwood emerged blear-eyed to greet Drinkwater a little coolly.

  ‘My dear fellow, ‘tis a trifle early. Can’t you sleep?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Blackwood, but the matter is important, too important to allow me to sleep.’

  ‘I smell intrigue. I thought you had shaken the dust of the Secret Department off your feet…’

  ‘So did I, and I wish to God I had, but it dogs me and last night was no exception.’ Drinkwater dropped his voice. ‘I had a visit from the shore. An agent of long-standing’, Drinkwater lied, ‘has given me disturbing intelligence which, under the circumstances, needs to be communicated to His Royal Highness without further delay.’ Tiredness and excitement made him light-headed. He almost choked on the prince’s title.

  A curious look of doubt and indecision crossed Blackwood’s face.

  ‘My dear Drinkwater, is this wise? I mean His Royal Highness may be an admiral-of-the-fleet but he is, how shall I put it… ?’

  ‘But a fleeting one?’ In his elevated state, Drinkwater could not resist the pun. ‘I have no doubt His Royal Highness will grasp the import of my news, at least sufficient to give me what I want.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ’Carte blanche, Blackwood, carte blanche.”

  ‘To do what, in heaven’s name?’ asked the mystified Blackwood.

  ‘To chase to the westward. Listen, Blackwood, if I take this news back to Dover and post up to town, I shan’t be there before Wednesday and by the time the board have cogitated and informed the Prime Minister and given me my orders it will be too late …’

  ‘Well what is this news?’ an exasperated Blackwood asked.

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon. I’ve been so preoccupied … They’re going to spring Boney; just when we think we’ve got him in the bag, he’ll be spirited away to America …’

  ‘Good heavens! D’you mean Boney will then be free to raise Cain in Canada?’

  ‘Exactly so!’

  Blackwood looked straight at Drinkwater. ‘By God, Drinkwater, you want discretionary orders over Silly Billy’s signature.’

  ‘Yes, I want a clear yard-arm, Blackwood. Two ships have already left Antwerp. I don’t have much time. None of us have much time. This American business could drag on for years. If Napoleon is involved … well, do I have to spell it out? Surely this whole damned war has to be ended one day.’

  ‘Aye, and the sooner the better…’ But Blackwood was not so easily impressed and his expression clouded, marked by second thoughts. ‘But hold hard. ‘Twould not be easy to get Boney out of the Med from Elba …’

  ‘But it ain’t to be Elba, don’t you see; ‘tis to be the Azores!’

  ‘But the newspapers … I mean they’ve been talking about Elba… The other day the Courier mentioned it — there’s a copy in my cabin.’

  ‘Blackwood, for pity’s sake,’ Drinkwater’s voice was suddenly hardened by exasperation and conviction, ‘I have been up all night, mulling the matter in the wake of this news. You must know the degree to which I have dabbled in intelligence.’

  Blackwood stared for a moment at his visitor. ‘I’ve heard you’re a shrewd cove, Drinkwater …’

  ‘Not really, just grasping at straws in the wind, but experience tells me the wind has a direction and a force.’ Drinkwater paused and Blackwood smiled.

  ‘Eloquently put.’

  ‘D’you think Silly Billy knows I have had any connections with the Secret Department?’

  ‘I was indiscreet enough to tell him. He was curious to know why you were so long-toothed and still only had a thirty-two. He recollected you when I mentioned the taking of the Suvorov, but that only increased his curiosity. I told him you had been involved in secret operations and that your command of Andromeda was temporary and in honour of his own connections with your ship.’

  ‘Well, well. That was a flattering fib.’

  ‘Vanity is the one thing he has in common with Nelson.’

  ‘I shall remember that.’

  ‘Come then,’ Blackwood said at last, ‘you have convinced me. We should hesitate no longer. Let us go and rouse his Royal Highness from his intemperate slumbers.’

  Once persuaded, Blackwood turned on his heel, but the alacrity with which he finally led Drinkwater below, proved a damp and fuming squib. Having passed word, couched with respectful deference, by way of His Royal Highness’s flag-lieutenant and thence his valet, that a matter of the utmost urgency had to be communicated to His Royal Highness’s person, Blackwood led Drinkwater into his own cabin where they took coffee.

  It was clear to Blackwood that Drinkwater had much on his mind and found the wait intolerable; he therefore attempted to calm his visitor, remarking that, ‘although the Prince is not himself insistent upon any great ceremony, the damned boot-lickers in attendance upon the Royal Personage are confoundedly touchy upon the point. Of course,’
Blackwood added, ‘in the ordinary circumstances of a ceremonial task of this nature, none of it is of any great moment. Our present prevailing urgency however, is a different matter. But we will carry the day if we do not upset the tranquillity of the Royal Mind.’ Blackwood dabbed his mouth with a napkin, as though to purge the sarcasm.

  ‘On last night’s showing,’ Drinkwater responded, ‘I was not aware there was much of the Royal Mind to disturb.’

  ‘La, sir,’ Blackwood said, grinning, ‘all the more reason for treating it with respect.’

  Drinkwater harrumphed and Blackwood forbore to make further small-talk. They were in fact not left kicking their heels for more than an hour. Lieutenant Colville, resplendent in full dress even at the early hour, commanded their presence in the Impregnable‘s great cabin.

  Both officers bowed as the prince stepped from his night cabin, his red cheeks still shining from the ministrations of the razor and his shoulders shaking the heavy bullion epaulettes upon his shoulders.

  ‘So sorry to keep you gentlemen,’ the prince greeted them. ‘Pray join me to break your fasts,’ he added, waving to a table laid with splendidly fresh white linen and a selection of hot dishes. ‘The kedgeree is devilish good …’

  Drinkwater caught Blackwood’s eye as he swept his coat-tails aside and sat down. Lieutenant Colville sat next to Drinkwater, a small scribbling tablet and pencil neatly laid beside him.

  ‘Now sir,’ the Prince boomed across the table as he spooned the kedgeree onto his plate, ‘what’s all this urgent nonsense about, eh?’ He fixed his popping eyes on Drinkwater and began to shovel the fish and rice into his mouth with a mechanical regularity. ‘Surely we all did our duty yesterday, eh what?’

  ‘Your Royal Highness, this is a matter of some delicacy …’ Drinkwater turned and looked pointedly at Lieutenant Colville. ‘The matter I have to discuss with you is confidential.’

  The Royal Brow contracted and, with a small explosion of rice grains, His Royal Highness enquired bluntly, ‘What’s the matter with Lieutenant Colville?’