The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  The frigate was still close-hauled on the larboard tack, well heeled over to starboard, and the rush of water along her sides added its undertone to the monstrous creaking of the hull, the groan of the rudder stock below him and the faint tremulous shudder through the ship’s fabric as she twitched and strained to the whim of wind and sea.

  Drinkwater reached the quarter-gallery, eased himself and poured water into a basin. It slopped wildly as he scooped it up into his face and brushed his teeth. His servant Frampton had long-since abandoned the captain to his slumbers, and Drinkwater was glad of the lack of fossicking attention which he sometimes found intolerably vexing. He retied his stock, dragged a comb through his hair and clubbed his queue. Finally he eased his wounded shoulder into the comfortable broadcloth of his old, undress uniform coat, pulled his boat-cloak about his shoulders and, picking his hat from the hook beside the door, went on deck.

  It was almost dark when he gained the quarterdeck. Low on the western horizon a dull orange break in the overcast showed the last of the daylight. Overhead the clouds seemed to boil above the mastheads in inky whorls, yet the wind was not cold, but mild.

  Seeing the captain emerge on deck and stare aloft, the officer of the watch crossed the deck. It was Frey. ‘Good evening, sir. Mr Birkbeck ordered the t’gallants struck an hour past, sir. He also had the main course clewed up.’

  Drinkwater nodded then, realizing Frey could not see him properly, coughed and grunted his acknowledgement. ‘Very well, Mr Frey. Thank you.’

  Frey was about to withdraw and vacate the weather rail but Drinkwater said, ‘A word with you, Mr Frey. There is something I wish to ask you.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Have you any idea what we are up to?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What about scuttlebutt?’ Even in the wind, Drinkwater heard Frey sigh. ‘Come on, don’t scruple. Tell me.’

  ‘Scuttlebutt has it that we are off somewhere and that it is due to the, er, officer who came on board last night.’

  It already seemed an age ago, yet it was not even twenty-four hours. Drinkwater cast aside the distraction. ‘And what do they say about this officer then, Mr Frey?’

  ‘Frankly, sir, they say it was a woman, at least, that is, the midshipmen do.’

  ‘Tom Paine is an intelligent imp, Mr Frey,’ Drinkwater replied, smiling. ‘He noticed straight away’

  ‘Then it was a woman?’

  Drinkwater sighed. ‘Yes, though you should not attach too much importance to the fact. I’m afraid she brought disturbing intelligence, Mr Frey, not entirely unconnected with that business in the Vikkenfiord.’

  Drinkwater could sense Frey’s reluctance at coming to terms with this news. ‘Then it is not over yet, sir?’

  ‘I fear not, my dear Frey, I fear not.’

  A profound silence fell between them, if the deck of a frigate working to windward could provide such an environment. Then Frey said, ‘I think you should tell Marlowe, sir. I do not think him a bad fellow, but he feels you do not trust him, and that cannot be good, sir.’ Frey hesitated to voice his misgivings about Ashton. ‘I don’t wish to presume, sir.’

  ‘No, no, you do quite right to presume, Mr Frey, quite right. I fear I used him ill. It was unforgivable.’

  ‘He certainly took it badly, sir, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, though I think Ashton made the situation worse.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Drinkwater sharply, ‘in what way?’

  ‘Well, sir, I think he put Marlowe up to importuning you; made him stand upon his dignity, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘There was a time when a lieutenant had precious little dignity to stand upon.’

  ‘There was much made of it in the wardroom, sir.’

  Drinkwater grunted again. ‘Well, well, I must put things to rights tomorrow’

  ‘You don’t mind …’

  ‘If you speak your mind? No, no. Under the circumstances, not at all.’

  ‘It’s just…’ Frey faltered and Drinkwater saw him look away.

  ‘Go on. Just what?’ he prompted.

  ‘Nothing sir,’ Frey coughed to clear his throat, adding, ‘no, nothing at all’ As Frey moved away, Drinkwater watched him go, wondering what was on his mind.

  CHAPTER 5

  To Weather of the Wight

  April 1814

  ‘Well gentlemen,’ Drinkwater looked up from the chart at the two officers before him, ‘I think I must confide in you both.’

  ‘Are we out of soundings then?’ Marlowe asked, a supercilious expression on his face. Drinkwater had forgotten his earlier remark, made more for the sake of its effect, than as a matter of absolute accuracy, but Marlowe’s tone reminded him. He stared at the younger man for a moment, taken aback at Marlowe’s attitude, so taken aback that a quick retort eluded him.

  ‘Soundings?’ he muttered. ‘No, of course not,’ then he looked up and glared at Marlowe, though he forbore from snapping at him. ‘We have yet to weather the Wight.’ He tapped the chart, pausing for a moment. ‘What I have to say I shall shortly make known to the people, but for the time being it shall be between ourselves. Once we have resolved those difficulties which we can foresee, and there are several, then having taken what remedial action lies within our compass, we can inform the ship. Is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir,’ responded Birkbeck quickly, shooting his younger colleague a sideways glance.

  ‘I think so, sir.’ If Marlowe was being deliberately and sulkily obtuse, Drinkwater let the matter pass. He was resolved to be conciliatory, then Marlowe added, ‘But is that wise, sir?’

  ‘Is what wise?’ Drinkwater frowned.

  ‘Why, telling the people. Surely that is dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous, Mr Marlowe? How so?’

  ‘Well, it seems perfectly clear to me. It could act as an incitement. If you make them privy to our thoughts, it would exceed their expectations and we should be guilty of an impropriety. Sir.’

  ‘You think it an impropriety to ask them to go into action without knowing why, do you?’

  It was Marlowe’s turn to frown. ‘Action? What action do you think we shall be involved in?’ The first lieutenant was wearing his arch look again. It was the condescending way one might look at a senile old man, Drinkwater concluded with a mild sense of shock.

  ‘Well, who knows, Mr Marlowe, who knows? Though it occurs to me we might encounter an American cruiser.’ It had clearly not occurred to Marlowe. Drinkwater went on. ‘Now then, let us be seated in a little comfort. Mr Birkbeck, you have the other chart there, and if you wish to smoke, please do. Mr Marlowe, do be a good fellow and pass the decanter and three glasses …’

  But Marlowe was not to be so easily pacified. Doing as he was bid, he placed the glasses on the table. ‘Look here, sir …’

  But Drinkwater’s fuse had burned through. His voice was suddenly harsh as he turned on the young first lieutenant. ‘No sir! Do you look here, and listen too. We are on active service, very active service if I ain’t mistaken.’ Marlowe seemed about to speak, thought better of it and sat in silent resentment. Drinkwater caught Birkbeck’s eye and the older man shrugged his shoulders with an almost imperceptible movement, continuing to fill a stained clay pipe.

  ‘Now then, gentlemen, pay attention: what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance. It is a secret of state and I am imparting it to you both because if anything should happen to me, then I am jointly charging you two gentlemen to prosecute this matter to its extremity with the utmost vigour.’

  Drinkwater had Marlowe’s attention in full now. Birkbeck knew enough of Drinkwater’s past to wear an expression of concern. Drinkwater felt he owed Birkbeck more than a mere explanation; as for Marlowe, it would do him no harm to be made aware of the proper preoccupations of experienced sea-officers.

  ‘I am sorry Mr Birkbeck that we have been diverted to this task and I know well that you were promised a dockyard appointment when this commission was over. Well, the promise still stan
ds, it’s just that the commission has been extended.’ Drinkwater smiled. ‘I’m sorry, but there it is …’

  Birkbeck expelled his breath in a long sigh. Nodding, he said, ‘I know sir: a sense of humour is a necessary portion of a sea-officer’s character.’

  ‘Just so, Mr Birkbeck,’ and Drinkwater smiled his curiously attractive, lopsided grin. ‘More wine?’

  He waited for them to recharge their glasses. ‘We are bound to the Azores gentlemen, to trap Napoleon Bonaparte …’

  ‘We are what?’ exclaimed an incredulous Marlowe.

  ‘So it was a woman!’

  Mr Marlowe could scarce contain himself, puffed up as he was with a great state secret and half a bottle of blackstrap. Birkbeck gave him a rueful glance as the two officers paced the quarterdeck whence the master had suggested they go to take the air and discuss the matters that now preoccupied the first lieutenant and sailing master of the frigate Andromeda.

  ‘May I presume to plead my grey hair and offer you a word of advice, Mr Marlowe,’ Birkbeck offered. ‘Of course, I would quite understand if you resented my interfering, but we must, perforce, work in amity.’

  ‘No, no, please Birkbeck …’

  ‘Well, Captain Drinkwater is not quite the uninfluential tarpaulin you might mistake him for …’

  ‘I knew he had fought a Russian ship, but I have to confess I had not heard of him in the Channel Fleet.’

  ‘Perhaps because he has seen extensive foreign and special service. Did you know, for instance, that Nelson sent him from the Med, round Africa and into the Red Sea. He brought a French national frigate home, she was bought into our service and he subsequently commanded her. The captain also served under Nelson and commanded a bomb at Copenhagen. Oh, yes…’ Birkbeck nodded. ‘I see you are surprised. Talk to Mr Frey, he was in the Arctic on special service with Captain Drinkwater in the sloop Melusine and I believe Frey was captured with the captain just before Trafalgar. I understand Drinkwater was aboard the French flagship …’

  ‘As a prisoner?’ asked Marlowe, clearly reassessing his commander.

  ‘Yes, so I understand. Later Drinkwater made up for this and battered a Russian seventy-four to pieces in the Pacific’

  ‘In the Pacific? I had heard mention of the action, but assumed it to have been in the Baltic’

  ‘That, if I may say so, is the danger of assumptions.’ Birkbeck smiled at Marlowe. ‘Anyway, I first met him aboard this ship last autumn when he took Andromeda over from Captain Pardoe: not that Pardoe was aboard very often; he spent most of his time in the House of Commons and left the ship to the first luff…’

  ‘Who was killed, I believe,’ interrupted Marlowe.

  ‘Yes. We had trouble with some of the men — it’s a long story’

  ‘I gathered they were mutineers,’ Marlowe said flatly.

  ‘Ah, you’ve heard that, have you?’ Birkbeck looked at the young officer beside him. ‘Now I understand why you made that remark about incitement.’

  ‘Well, the temper of the men is a matter I should properly concern myself with.’ Marlowe invoked the superior standing of a commissioned officer, as opposed to the responsibilities of the warranted sailing master.

  ‘Indeed it is, Mr Marlowe. But you might also properly concern yourself with the temper of your commanding officer. I fear you may have fallen victim to a misapprehension in misjudging Captain Drinkwater. Consider his late achievement. Last autumn, as soon as he came aboard this ship, which had been kept on guard duties and as a convoy on the coast where her captain could be called to the House of Commons if the government wished for his vote, we went a-chasing Yankee privateers in the Norwegian fiords. We took a big Danish cruiser, the Odin. It was scuttlebutt then that Drinkwater had some influence at the Admiralty and was wrapped up in secret goin’s on. You heard what he said about that woman who came aboard the other night and that she was mixed up in some such business. I’ve no doubt the matter we are presently engaged upon is exactly as he told us.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ mused Marlowe for a moment, then added, ‘So, you consider we might see some action?’

  Birkbeck shrugged. ‘Who knows? Captain Drinkwater seems to think so. Perhaps just by cruising off the Azores we will prevent all this happening, but if Boney escapes, God help Canada.’

  ‘We are playing for very high stakes …’

  ‘Indeed we are.’

  ‘But she’s an old ship and lacks powder and shot…’

  ‘What d’you think we can do about that?’

  ‘I, er, I don’t know. Put into Plymouth?’

  ‘It’s a possibility …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Not one he’ll consider.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would delay us too much; we’d be subject to the usual dockyard prevarications, difficulties with the commissioner, warping in alongside the powder hulk, half the watch running … No, no, Drinkwater will avoid that trap.’

  ‘Well Gibraltar’s too far out of our way’ said Marlowe with a kind of pettish finality, ‘so what will Our Father do?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ Birkbeck grinned at the young man.

  Irritated, Marlowe snapped, ‘No I damn well can’t!’

  Birkbeck was offended by Marlowe’s change of tone. ‘Then you’ll have to wait and see!’ he replied, and left the first lieutenant staring after him as he made his way below.

  Lieutenant Hyde of the marines sat in the wardroom reading a novel. It was said to have been written ‘by a lady’, but, despite this, it rather appealed to him. He was an easy-going man whose lithe body conveyed the impression of youth and agility. In fact he was past thirty-five and conspicuously idle. But whereas military officers were frequently inert, Lieutenant Hyde was fortunate to be able to persuade his subordinates into doing their own duty and a good bit of his own. Moreover, this was accomplished with an enthusiasm that bespoke a keenly active and intelligent commanding officer.

  The secret of Hyde’s success was very simple; he possessed a sergeant of unusual ability and energy. Sergeant McCann was something of an enigma, even between decks on a British man-of-war which was said to be a refuge for all the world’s bad-hats. Sergeant McCann was as unlike any other sergeant in the sea-service as it was possible to be; he was cultured. In fact the novel Lieutenant Hyde was reading was rightfully Sergeant McCann’s; moreover the sergeant was diligent, so diligent that it was unnecessary for Lieutenant Hyde to check up on him, and he was well acquainted with the duties required of both a sergeant and an officer. This was because Sergeant McCann had once held a commission of his own.

  A lesser man would have let bitterness corrode his soul, but Sergeant McCann had nothing left in the world other than his work. He had been born in Massachusetts where his father had been a cobbler. At the age of sixteen his father had been dragged from their house and tarred and feathered by ‘patriot’ neighbours for the crime of opposing armed rebellion against the British crown. By morning McCann was the head of his family, his mother had lost her reason and his twelve-year-old sister was in a state of shock. Somehow he got his family into Boston and when that city was evacuated they fled to New York along with a host of loyalist refugees. Young McCann volunteered for service in a provincial regiment, fought at the Brandywine and earned a commission at Germantown. In his absence his mother took to drink and his sister became mistress to a British officer. McCann went south and fought with Patrick Ferguson at King’s Mountain, where he was wounded and taken prisoner. After a long and humiliating captivity he found his way back to New York, but no sign of his family. After the peace, in company with other loyalists, he crossed the Atlantic in search of compensation from the British government. In this he was disappointed, and found himself driven to all manner of extremities to keep body and soul together. Finally he entered the service of a moderately wealthy family whose country seat was in Kent. He stuck the subservient existence of an under-footman for three years, then joined the marines of the Chatham division. McCann le
arned to blot out the past by an intense concentration upon the present. Lieutenant Hyde called him ‘my meticulous sergeant’ and thus he was known as Meticulous McCann.

  Owing to severe losses among the marines during the preceding cruise, Lieutenant Hyde, Sergeant McCann and a dozen additional red-coated lobsters had been sent aboard Andromeda at Chatham shortly before the frigate sailed on her escort duties. The combination of the elegantly languid Hyde and the pipeclayed mastery of McCann was thought by the officer commanding the Chatham division to be ideal for such a ceremonial task.

  ‘Is that damned book so entertaining, Hyde?’ Lieutenant Ashton now asked.

  ‘It is very amusing,’ Hyde replied without looking up from the page, adding, ‘Shouldn’t you be on deck?’

  ‘Frederic has relieved me. He’s under the impression I am acting as his clerk. Anyway, old fellow, I hate to disturb you from your intellectual pursuits, but the Meticulous One awaits your attention.’

  ‘Really …’ Hyde turned a page, chuckled and continued reading.

  ‘Do please come in Sergeant.’ Ashton waved the scarlet-clad McCann into the wardroom, then turned to the marine officer. ‘Hyde, you infernal layabout, you quite exasperate me! Sergeant McCann is reporting to you.’ Ashton rolled his eyes at the deck-head for McCann’s benefit.

  Skilfully bracing himself against the heel and movement of the ship, McCann crashed his boots and finally attracted the attention of his commanding officer. Hyde affected a startled acknowledgement of his presence.

  ‘What the devil… ? Ah. McCann, men ready for inspection?’