The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Very well.’ Hyde put his book, pages downwards, upon the table and got up. He seemed to the watching Ashton not to need to adjust his tight-fitting tunic, but rose immaculate, preened like a sleek bird. He winked at Ashton, picked up his billy-cock hat and preceded McCann from the wardroom. Watching the pair leave, Ashton was shaking his head in wonder at the contrived little scene when a door in the adjacent bulkhead opened and a tousle-haired Frey poked his head out.

  ‘What the deuce is all the noise about?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, Frey, nothing, only Hyde and the Meticulous One.’

  ‘Is that all?’ said Frey, preparing to retreat into his hutch of a cabin just as the ship heeled farther over. ‘Wind’s shifting,’ he said, yawning. ‘Isn’t it your watch?’

  ‘I do wish people wouldn’t keep asking me that. The first lieutenant has relieved me.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He was feeling generous… Frey’ Ashton went on, ‘you know Our Father, don’t you. What’s he like, personally, I mean?’

  Frey sighed, scratched his head and came out of his cabin in his stockinged feet. Sitting at the table he stretched. ‘I’m not sure I can tell you, beyond saying that I have the deepest admiration for him.’

  ‘They say he’s an unlucky man to be around,’ Ashton remarked. ‘Didn’t his last first lieutenant get killed, along with that fellow you were with, what was his name?’

  ‘Quilhampton? Yes, James was killed, so was Lieutenant Huke…’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Well ‘tis said we’re bound out to the westward in chase of two French ships that have escaped from Antwerp,’ expostulated Ashton.

  ‘If that is the scuttlebutt, then it must be true,’ said Frey drily, taking a biscuit from the barrel.

  ‘I had it from Marlowe who saw the captain this morning and then heard all about our gallant commander from old Birkbeck.’

  ‘Well then, you know more about it than I do.’

  ‘Oh, Frey, don’t be such a confounded dullard …’

  Andromeda lay down even further to leeward and ran for some moments with her starboard ports awash. Hyde’s novel slid across the table and fell on the painted canvas deck covering. Frey bent down, picked it up and gave it a cursory glance.

  ‘Here, put it on the stern settee,’ said Ashton. Frey threw it to Ashton who caught it neatly and glanced at the title on the spine. ‘Pride and Prejudice; huh! What a damned apt title for…’ He looked up quickly at the watching Frey, flushed slightly and pulled the corners of his mouth down. ‘Odd cove, Hyde,’ he remarked.

  Frey stood up; he was about to retire to his cabin and dress for his watch, but paused and said, ‘You seem to think most of us are odd, in one way or another.’

  Ashton casually spun Miss Austen’s novel into a corner of the buttoned settee that ran across the after end of the gloomy wardroom. He stared back at Frey, seemed to consider a moment, then said, ‘Do I? Well I never.’

  Frey was galled by the evasion. ‘What d’you think of Marlowe?’

  ‘Known him for years.’ Ashton’s tone was dismissive.

  ‘That’s not what I asked,’ persisted Frey. There was a hardness in his tone which Ashton had not heard before.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right.’

  ‘That is what I told the captain,’ Frey remarked, watching Ashton, ‘though I am not certain I am right.’

  ‘You told the captain?’ Ashton frowned, ‘and what gives you the right to give him your opinion, or to presume to doubt Mr Marlowe’s good name, eh?’

  ‘Something called friendship, Ashton,’ Frey retorted.

  ‘Oh yes, old shipmates,’ Ashton said sarcastically, ‘as if I could forget.’

  There was a knock at the wardroom door and Midshipman Dunn’s face appeared. ‘One bell, Mr Frey,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dunn.’ Frey shut his cabin door and reached for his neck-linen. There was something indefinably odious about Josiah Ashton and Frey could not put his finger on it. He was too damned thick with Marlowe, Frey concluded, and Marlowe was something of a fool. But it irritated Frey that he could not quite place the source of a profound unease.

  As Frey went on deck he passed Hyde’s marines parading on the heeling gun deck. They stood like a wavering fence, the instant before it was blown down by a gale. Lieutenant Hyde had almost completed his inspection prior to changing sentries. He caught Frey’s eye and winked. For all his intolerable indolence, Frey could not help liking Hyde. One could like a fellow, Frey thought as he grasped the man-ropes to the upper deck, without either admiring or approving of him.

  On deck the watch were shortening sail. The topgallants had already been furled and now the topsails were being reefed. Clapping his hand to his hat and drawing it down hard on his head, Frey stared aloft. The main topsail yard had been clewed down and the slack upper portion of the sail drawn up to the yard-arms by the reefing tackles. The windward topman was astride the extremity of the yard, hauling the second reef earing up as hard as he could, while his fellow yard-men strove to assist by hauling on the reef points as the big sail flogged and billowed.

  Lieutenant Marlowe stood forward of the binnacle with a speaking trumpet to his mouth.

  ‘Jump to it, you lubbers!’ he was shrieking, though it was clear the men were working as rapidly as was possible. The unnecessary nature of Marlowe’s intervention confirmed Frey’s revised opinion of the first lieutenant.

  Since Frey had last been on deck the weather had taken a turn for the worse. A quick glance over the starboard bow showed the white buttress of the Isle of Wight lying athwart their hawse with a menacing proximity as the backing wind drove them into the bight of Sandown Bay. The reason for Marlowe’s anxiety was now clear: he had left the reefing too late, giving insufficient time for the men to complete their task before they must tack the ship. To the north-west, several ships lay at anchor in St Helen’s road, while in the distance beyond, a dense clutter of masts and yards showed where the bulk of the Channel Fleet, withdrawn from blockade duties off Ushant, lay once more in the safe anchorage of Spithead. It would be a fine thing, Frey thought, for Andromeda to pile herself up at the foot of Culver Cliff within sight of such company!

  Frey strode aft, took a quick look at the compass, gauged the wind from the tell-tale streaming above the windward hammock irons, and then stared at the land. Dunnose Head was stretching out on the larboard bow, and Culver Cliff loomed ever closer above the starboard fore chains, its unchanged bearing an ominous and certain precursor of disaster.

  Beside Frey the quartermaster and helmsmen were muttering apprehensively and Frey’s own pulse began to race. The seamen coming on deck to take over the watch were milling in the waist. The experienced among them quickly sensed something was wrong. The wind note rose suddenly and to windward the sea turned a silver-white as the squall screamed down upon the ship. For a split second Frey’s artistic sensibilities compelled him to watch the phenomenon which looked like nothing so much as the devil’s claw-marks raking the surface of the sea.

  Midshipman Dunn came running up to Marlowe. ‘Captain’s just coming on deck, sir.’

  Marlowe ignored the boy and continued shouting at the men aloft who were now struggling hard to tame the main topsail. Frey could not see the fore-topsail, but presumed the worst. Frey heard Marlowe’s next order with disbelief.

  ‘Aloft there! Leggo those pendants! Let fly the reef-tackles! Standby the yard lifts! Haul away those lifts!’ The men stationed at the lifts hesitated and Marlowe leaned forward and screamed at them: ‘Haul away, you idle buggers! Haul!’ Then the first lieutenant, a curious, pleading expression on his face, turned towards Frey and the men at the wheels, as though explaining his action. ‘We’ll reef after we’ve tacked.’

  But he received no consoling approval. Aloft they had no such appreciation of Marlowe’s intentions. The men at the lifts jerked the yards and they began to slew in the wind. The men on the footr
opes rocked and three at the bunt of the sail let their reef points go, while someone else started the weather reef-tackle so that the topsail shivered in the squall.

  The violent movement of yard and sail was sufficient to unbalance the man astride the larboard main yard-arm. He lost his grip of the reef pendant, which streamed almost horizontally away to leeward; then he slipped sideways and fell. He made a futile grab at the loose pendant, but the wind snatched it from him. The next man on the yard tried to seize him, but it was too late. With a cry, the unfortunate seaman fell with a sickening thud at the feet of Captain Drinkwater as he came on deck.

  Frey saw the whole thing happen: saw the topman slip and fall, saw Marlowe seek justification for his action and saw him fail to realize what was happening until the body fell to the deck. He saw, too, the look of horror that passed over Drinkwater’s face as he came on deck, then saw the captain suddenly galvanized into action, cross the deck, swing forward and take in the whole shambles in a second. Without a speaking trumpet, Drinkwater roared his orders and took instant command of the deck.

  ‘All hands!’

  The horrified inertia of the ship’s company was swept aside, as Drinkwater called them all to the greater duty of saving the ship.

  ‘All hands about ship and reef topsails in one!’

  The pipes of the boatswain and his mates shrilled and the order sent men to their stations; those already aloft crowded back along the footropes and into the tops. Drinkwater moved smartly across the deck as the men rushed to their positions; ropes were turned off pin rails; lines of men backed up the leading hands as they prepared to clew down the topsail yards again and man the larboard braces. While others stood ready to cast off the lifts and starboard braces, Hyde’s marines tramped up from the gun-deck and cleared away the mizen gear.

  ‘Mr Dunn,’ Frey called as he ran to his post. ‘Take two men and get that poor fellow below to the surgeon.’

  Frey took one last look at Culver Cliff. It seemed to loom as high as the main yard.

  ‘Down helm.’ Drinkwater stood beside the wheel as the quartermaster had the helm put over and Andromeda turned slowly into the wind. There was a touch less sea running now as they rapidly closed the shore where they were scraping a lee from Dunnose Head at the far and windward end of the bay. As the frigate came head to wind, the sails began to shiver and then come aback.

  ‘Mains’l haul!’ Drinkwater roared.

  ’Clew down! Haul the reef tackles! Haul buntlines!’

  The main and mizen yards, their sails slack and blanketed by the sails on the foremast, were hauled round by their braces, ready for the new tack.

  ’Trice up and lay out!”

  With Drinkwater’s bellowing acting as a noisy yet curiously effective tranquillizer imposing order on momentary confusion, the topmen resumed their positions, a new man occupying the larboard main topsail yard-arm. Andromeda bucked into the head sea, her rate of turn slowed almost to a stop. Aloft, the frantic activity of the frigate’s competent crew paid off. This fruit of hard service off Norway and Their Lordships’ solicitude for a foreign king, which had drafted some of Chatham’s best seamen into Andromeda to replace her losses, had the topsails double reefed in a few minutes. As the ship continued her slow turn, the wind caught the foreyards fully aback, suddenly accelerating the rate of turn. Drinkwater strode along the starboard gangway the better to see the fore-topsail, but Frey had already run forward and pre-empted him, to wave in silent acknowledgement that all was well.

  ‘Stand by halliards!’ Drinkwater waited for a moment longer, then gave the final command: ‘Let go and haul all!’

  Round came the yards on the foremast and the reefed and thundering topsail was trimmed parallel to those already braced on the main and mizen masts. On the forecastle the headsail sheets were shifted, hauled aft and belayed while the braces amidships were turned up and their falls coiled down neatly on the pins.

  ‘Lay in! Stand by booms! Down booms!’

  Order reasserted itself aloft. The men began to come down.

  ‘Man the halliards! Tend the braces and hoist away!”

  The yards rose, stretching the canvas and setting the topsails again. ‘Belay! That’s well!’ Drinkwater turned to Birkbeck who had materialized beside the wheel in all the commotion. ‘Steady now, Mr Birkbeck. Let’s have her full and bye, starboard tack, if you please.’

  Andromeda heeled to larboard and a cloud of spray rose above the starboard bow as she shouldered her way through a sea and increased speed. Beyond this brief nebula lay the white rampart of Dunnose Head while on the starboard quarter Culver Cliff drew slowly, but inexorably astern. After the bowlines had been set up and all about the deck made tidy again, the watches changed. Only a small darkening stain of blood on the hallowed white planks marred the organized symmetry of the man-of-war as she stood offshore again.

  ‘We shall work to weather of the Wight now,’ said Drinkwater, handing the deck over to Frey.

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Both men stared to windward as they emerged from the lee of the headland. The sea was running high and hollow against the strong ebb and the wind again increased in force. Emerging clear of Dunnose Head and some five miles beyond the promontory, St Catherine’s Point stood out clear against the horizon. High above the point, on Niton Down where it was already surrounded by wisps of cloud, stood the lighthouse. Forward, eight bells were struck.

  ‘Judging by that cloud and the shift of the wind we’re in for a thick night of it.’

  ‘Aye, I fear so, sir,’ agreed Frey. For a few moments the two men stood in silence, then Drinkwater asked, ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Marlowe left reefing too late, then feared embayment and lost his nerve.’

  ‘I assumed he countermanded the order and tried to tack the ship first.’

  ‘That is what happened, sir,’ said Frey, his voice inexpressive.

  ‘Do you know the name of the man who fell?’

  ‘No sir; Mr Birkbeck will know’ Frey turned and called to the master who hurried across the deck. ‘Who was the fellow who fell?’

  ‘Watson. A good topman; been in the ship since he was pressed as a lad.’

  ‘Thank you both,’ said Drinkwater turning away. He was deeply affected by the unnecessary loss. ‘Another ghost,’ he muttered to himself. Moving towards the companionway he left his orders to the officer taking over the watch. ‘Keep her full-and-bye, Mr Frey, run our distance out into the Channel. We’ll tack again before midnight.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  It was only when the captain had gone below Frey realized Marlowe had vanished.

  CHAPTER 6

  Three Cheers for the Ship

  April 1814

  Captain Drinkwater looked up at the surgeon. ‘Well, Mr Kennedy?’

  ‘He was barely alive when he reached me.’ Kennedy’s face wore its customary expression of world-weariness. Drinkwater had known the man long enough not to take offence. He invited Kennedy to be seated and offered him a glass of wine.

  ‘Thank you, no, sir.’ The surgeon remained standing.

  ‘Then we shall have to bury him.’

  ‘Yes. They’re trussing him in his hammock now.’ Kennedy paused and appeared to want to say more.

  ‘There is something you wish to say, Mr Kennedy?’ Drinkwater asked, half-guessing what was to follow.

  ‘I hear it was Lieutenant Marlowe’s fault.’

  ‘Did you now; in what way?’

  ‘That he had begun to reef the topsails while we were running into a bay, that he left it too late, changed his mind and tried to tack with men on the yards.’

  ‘It’s not unheard of …’

  ‘Don’t you care … Sir?’

  ‘Sit down, Mr Kennedy’

  ‘I’d rather …’

  ‘Sit down!’ Drinkwater moved round the table and Kennedy sat abruptly, as though expecting Drinkwater to shove him into the chair, but the captain lifted a decanter from the fiddles and poured two
glasses of dark blackstrap. The drink appeared to live up to its name as twilight descended on the Channel.

  ‘How many men have died while under your knife, Mr Kennedy?’

  The surgeon spluttered into his glass. ‘That’s a damned outrage…’

  ‘It’s a point of view, Mr Kennedy,’ Drinkwater said, his voice level. ‘I know you invariably do your utmost, but imagine how matters sometimes seem to others.’

  ‘But Marlowe clearly did not act properly. He should not even have been on deck.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but perhaps he made only an error of judgement, the consequences of which were tragic for Watson. That is not grounds for …’

  ‘The people may consider it grounds for …’ Kennedy baulked at enunciating the fatal word.

  ‘Mutiny?’

  ‘They turned against Pigot when men fell out of the rigging.’

  ‘Things were rather different aboard the Hermione, Mr Kennedy. Pigot had been terrorizing his crew and there was no sign of the end of the war. This is an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘You do not seem aware, sir, of the mood of the people. They were anticipating being paid off. As you point out, the war is at an end and their services will no longer be required. Watson might have even now been dandling a nipper on his knees and bussing a fat wife. Instead, he is dead and the rest of the poor devils find themselves beating out of the Channel, bound God knows where…’

  ‘I am well aware of the mood of the men, but you are wrong about the war being over. It seems a common misapprehension aboard the ship; in fact we remain at war with the Americans. However, I quite agree with you that Watson’s death is a very sad matter; as for the rest, I had intended telling them when the watch changed at eight bells. But for being overtaken by events, they would not have been kept in the dark any longer. That is a pity, but there is nothing I can do now until the morning. We shall have to bury Watson and when I have the company assembled I shall tell them all I can.’

  ‘The ship is already alive with rumour, sir,’ said Kennedy, draining his glass.

  ‘I daresay. A ship is always alive with rumour. What do they say?’