The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Run out the guns!’

  Drinkwater’s order was carried to the gun-deck below and he could feel the rumbles of the gun-tracks as their iron-shod wheels carried the black muzzles out through the ports. Drinkwater could imagine the scene below decks with Frey eagerly dancing up and down the line of guns, urging them spiked round on the target; their crews would be straining on tackles, their gun-captains spinning the breech screws to elevate the muzzles. As they completed their exertions, the gasping crews would squat, kneel or crouch beside the monsters they served, the captains kneeling behind the line of guns, squinting along their brute length, the flint-lock lanyards taut in their left hands, their right hands held up so that Frey could see them report their cannon ready.

  Less than half a mile now separated the Gremyashchi from Andromeda. The Russian continued to bear down before the wind under topsails and topgallants, her dark brown sides as yet unbroken by open ports. Then a brief white cloud appeared on her port bow and hung for a moment, running along with the Russian ship and gradually dispersing as the noise of the discharge was blown down towards the waiting Andromeda.

  The closed gun-ports seemed to signal an acceptance of Andromeda’s right to dictate terms, for a moment later she sheered away to starboard, heeling over as her yards were braced sharply round and she settled on a course to the north-north-west, parallel to Andromeda’s heading.

  ‘She’s making off,’ said a surprised Birkbeck. Drinkwater was raking the Russian ship with his telescope. The Gremyashchi was broadside onto them now and he could see her mizen mast clearly, with her blue and white colours at the spanker peak.

  ‘By God, do you look at that!’ It was Hyde, whose scarlet nonchalance had graced the quarterdeck since clearing for action. All along the Gremyashchi’s port side, the gun ports opened and she too bared her fangs, despite the leeward heel. Then, in a ragged attempt at simultaneity, Rakov, whose figure Drinkwater had located standing hat-in-hand upon her rail, discharged his guns. The shots raised a line of splashes ahead of the hove-to Andromeda.

  And what is all that about?’ Hyde asked.

  In the glass Drinkwater saw Rakov wave his hat flamboyantly above his head and jump back down on to his own quarterdeck. ‘That, Mr Hyde, is to let us know we did not intimidate him.’ Drinkwater pocketed the telescope and called his messenger. ‘Mr Dunn! Be so kind as to tell Mr Frey to run in the starboard battery and secure the guns. He will have to draw all charges.’

  ‘Run in the guns and draw all charges, aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘We cannot afford to waste any powder or shot,’ he remarked to Birkbeck as the master came across the deck from the binnacle.

  ‘D’you wish to run back towards Santa Cruz, sir?’

  Drinkwater cast another look at the Gremyashchi. Her stern was square onto them now and there was little sign of her manoeuvring again. A nasty suspicion was forming in Drinkwater’s mind. He nodded at the master. ‘Yes, if you please.’

  Marlowe came aft as the rumbling and vibration in their boot soles told where the 12-pounders below were being run in again.

  ‘He’s off after other quarry by the look of it, I’d say, sir.’

  ‘My guess exactly, Frederic,’ Drinkwater concurred.

  ‘Looking for what you call the Antwerp squadron, d’you think?’

  Drinkwater nodded. ‘I cannot think of any other reason for his being here.’

  ‘That rather shortens the odds against us, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Drinkwater, as the main yards were hauled round parallel with those on the fore and mizen masts and Andromeda began to gather headway again. ‘Yes, it may well do if he has orders to engage us. He certainly wasn’t about to hang about and parley’

  For a moment both men stood side by side, watching the exertions of the men at the braces, trimming the yards almost square across the ship as Andromeda answered her helm and swung to port, to run downwind again, heading for Flores which loomed five miles away.

  ‘On the other hand,’ mused Drinkwater, ‘we are supposed to be allies.’

  ‘Those shots across our bow didn’t look very friendly,’ laughed Marlowe ruefully.

  ‘No, they didn’t, but Rakov might have been trying to cow us.’

  ‘Why should he do that, sir?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Drinkwater replied wearily, unwilling to explain to Marlowe the hostility he had felt from the Russian when Rakov discovered he was the British officer responsible for the destruction of the Suvorov. ‘It’s just a feeling I have,’ he added conciliatorily, seeing Frey come up from the gun-deck. ‘Perhaps another time, Mr Frey.’

  ‘I rather hope not, sir: they were 18-pounders at least.’

  The knot of officers laughed a trifle uneasily. ‘Poor old Ashton,’ remarked Hyde. ‘He’s missed all the fun.’

  Lieutenant Da Silva had conducted Ashton to the Governor’s undistinguished residence where the British officer was received with every courtesy including a glass of wine. Da Silva introduced the Governor, Dom Miguel Gaspar Viera Batata, his secretary, whose name appeared to be Soares, and a tall thin man in a black worsted suit, silver buckled shoes and the elegant affectations of an English fop.

  The Englishman introduced himself. ‘I am Edmund Gilbert, Mr Ashton, British consul at Angra. By good fortune I am visiting Dom Batata at this time.’ Ashton had no idea where Angra was, but his bow was elegant enough and it took them all in.

  ‘Your servant, gentlemen. Lieutenant Josiah Ashton of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Andromeda, gentlemen, Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater commanding.’ He took Drinkwater’s letter from his breast and handed it to Batata.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’ Batata took the letter, slit the wafer and began to read while Soares served the wine. When he had finished reading, Batata passed the letter to Gilbert who blew his gaunt cheeks out and expelled his breath slowly, as if this was an essential accompaniment to the process.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he concluded, refolding the letter and returning it to Batata who passed it directly to Soares.

  ‘May I… ?’ Gilbert sought the Governor’s permission which was granted by a grave nod of Batata’s head. ‘Do I gather from this missive, Lieutenant… I beg your pardon, sir, I have forgotten …’

  ‘Ashton, Mr Gilbert,’ Ashton prompted quickly, colouring uncertainly.

  ‘Yes, yes. Well, Mr Ashton, do I infer your commander, Nathaniel What’s-his-name, believes Napoleon Bonaparte is to be exiled here, on the island of Flores.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Ashton, slightly mollified by Gilbert’s inability to remember Drinkwater’s name and accepting a refill of his glass from Soares, ‘if he ain’t here already’

  ‘Here? Already? ‘Pon my soul, Mr Ashton, this is the first hint we’ve heard that Napoleon Bonaparte ain’t, as you say, Emperor of the French!’

  ‘He has abdicated, gentlemen,’ Ashton explained, inflated by his assumption of the role of harbinger.

  ‘You are our winged Mercury’ Gilbert echoed Ashton’s thoughts with a thin smile.

  ‘King Louis has returned to France.’

  ‘Then the war is over?’ asked Batata.

  ‘Indeed yes, sir. In Europe, at least.’

  ‘Ah yes, your country is still at war with the Americans. Now these other ships, Lieutenant, we have no knowledge of them, have we?’ Gilbert shrugged and a query to his secretary by Batata produced a negative shrug from Soares. Batata turned back to Ashton. ‘We have no knowledge of any other ships other than merchantmen …’

  ‘And is there no news at all in the archipelago, of preparations for the reception of Bonaparte, gentlemen?’ Ashton asked as Soares bent over his glass again.

  Batata shrugged and shook his head. Gilbert was more emphatic.

  ‘I have heard nothing on Terceira and am certain we should have done by now, if such a thing was meditated.’

  ‘Very well,’ Ashton bowed, ‘thank you for your time, gentlemen. I am sorry to have troubled you.’

  ‘It
is no trouble, Lieutenant,’ Dom Batata said.

  Gilbert addressed the Governor in fluent Portuguese and Batata nodded in agreement, then Gilbert turned to Ashton. ‘Mr Ashton, I have been here for ten days attending to some business with the master of the brig Mary Digby of Sunderland. If your Captain Drinkwater would condescend to convey me back to Angra, we could quickly ascertain if the packet from Lisbon has brought orders relevant to the fate of Bonaparte.’

  ‘Well, sir, I suppose Captain Drinkwater will have no objection…’

  ‘Good, then the matter is settled. Give me a quarter of an hour, and I shall be with you.’

  Da Silva accompanied Ashton and Gilbert back to the beach, with two servants bearing between them Mr Gilbert’s portmanteau. As they approached the boat, Ashton noticed two of the launch’s seamen sauntering ahead of them, each carrying a canvas bag.

  ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Gilbert, I will just get on ahead and prepare the boat for you.’ Ashton preferred the excuse and, without waiting for a reply, walked briskly on. A moment later he overtook the two seamen, one of whom he recognized as the launch’s stroke oarsmen.

  ‘Shaw!’ he called and the man turned round as Ashton hurried up. ‘Shaw, what the bloody hell d’you think you are doing out of the boat?’

  ‘We was sent up by, er …’

  ‘Went to get fresh bread, sir,’ the other man said, holding up one of the canvas bags.

  ‘Who the devil said you could leave the boat?’

  ‘Well, sir, we only sent to get bread, sir, had a tarpaulin muster and reckoned we could afford a few loaves…’

  ‘Let me see in those bags.’

  ‘It’s only bread, sir …’

  ‘Let me see, damn you!’ Furious, Ashton pulled the loaves out and hurled them into the water.

  ‘Sir! We paid for them!’

  ‘Aye and you paid for these too, I daresay!’ Ashton triumphantly drew two bottles from the bottom of the bag and turned to Shaw. ‘Empty yours too,’ he commanded.

  ‘Sir!’ Shaw protested.

  ‘Empty it, damn you and be quick!’ Ashton was aware of Gilbert approaching as Shaw upended the bag. Four richly smelling and warm loaves fell out and two green bottles followed. One hit a stone and smashed with a tinkle, staining the sand with wine. Ashton kicked both loaves and broken glass into the water where screaming gulls were already congregating round the floating debris of the first lot of bread. He hurled the two remaining bottles after them while the fishermen tending an adjacent canoa, watched in astonished silence.

  ‘Now get back to the boat and be damned quick about it!’ Ashton hissed. He turned as nonchalantly as he could as Gilbert came up to him.

  ‘Trouble, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Not really, Mr Gilbert. Not what I’d call trouble.’

  ‘And what would you call trouble, Lieutenant Ashton?’ asked Gilbert, spurning the broken neck of one of the bottles with his foot, and looking at the ravenous gulls tearing the loaves apart, their wings beating with the fury of their assault on the abandoned bread.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ashton said, utterly discomfited.

  ‘I suppose finding Bonaparte sitting on Terceira would be trouble of a real nature, don’t you think?’ offered Gilbert.

  ‘I suppose it would, yes.’

  They had reached the boat by then, and Shaw and his mate were resuming their places as oarsmen. Midshipman Paine who had obviously been dozing in the stern-sheets with his hat over his eyes, stirred himself at the commotion in the boat, for Shaw was clearly explaining what had happened, and the boat’s crew were staring over their shoulders, sullen and resentful.

  ‘Mr Paine, let us have a hand here, to get this gear aboard.’ The two marines posted as sentries came forward. One was Sergeant McCann. As two seamen came out of the boat to pass Gilbert’s portmanteau along, Ashton drew McCann aside. ‘Sergeant, I thought I made it quite clear that the boat’s crew were not permitted to leave the launch?’ he asked furiously.

  McCann looked down at the lieutenant’s hand on his arm and remained silent. ‘Sergeant, don’t you trifle with me, damn you. You heard what I said.’ He shook McCann’s arm, barely able to control himself.

  ‘You ordered the boat’s crew to remain with the boat, sir, but Mr Paine gave permission for two delegates to nip ashore for some food. The men had brought a little money, d’you see, sir.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ insisted Ashton, hissing into McCann’s face, ‘they had purchased liquor …’

  ‘They were not alone, then, Mr Ashton,’ McCann snarled, his temper fraying to match the sea-officer’s, as he caught the whiff of Ashton’s breath.

  ‘I shall have you flogged for your impudence, McCann, when I get you back aboard! Now get in the boat, you damned Yankee bugger.’

  McCann coloured; for a moment he contemplated responding, thought better of it and shut his mouth. Then he turned on his heel, nodded to the private soldier to precede him and clambered over the gunwhale.

  ‘All sorted out now?’ asked Gilbert matter-of-factly, with his thin, supercilious smile.

  ‘Do mind yourself on the thwarts, Mr Gilbert,’ Ashton replied equivocally, waving the consul into the boat.

  ‘After you, my dear fellow.’

  ‘Convention demands you go first, Mr Gilbert.’

  ‘Does it now. Well we had better not flout convention then, had we?’

  Five minutes later, the launch was pulling clear of the reef, leaving the harbour in comparative peace, for the gulls had destroyed the loaves and only a few continued to quarrel over the last remnants. As for the watching fishermen, they shook their heads in incredulous wonder and resumed their work.

  CHAPTER 12

  A Matter of Discipline

  May 1814

  The recovery of the launch proved a tediously tricky business in the lively sea running off Flores, despite the lee made by the ship. While Marlowe and Birkbeck struggled with the heavy boat, Drinkwater surveyed his unexpected passenger who had scrambled up the ship’s side after Ashton. Clearly Mr Gilbert, whatever else he was, was a nimble fellow, not unfamiliar with ships.

  ‘You wish for a passage to Terceira, Mr Gilbert?’ Drinkwater asked, after the ritual of introduction.

  Gilbert nodded. ‘In case word has arrived there concerning Bonaparte,’ the British consul tersely replied.

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand, sir, but my orders indicate he will be brought to Flores,’ said Drinkwater, stretching the truth to buttress his argument, ‘and I fear if I abandon this station,’ he paused and shrugged, ‘well, who knows?’

  Gilbert frowned. ‘But you are here to guard him, are you not?’ and then Gilbert’s quick intellect grasped the import of Ashton’s questions about other men-of-war in the offing. Ah, you are expecting other ships, ships which might interfere with the arrangements for the accommodation of Boney’

  It was said as a statement of fact and Drinkwater nodded. ‘There is, I understand,’ he replied, ‘a conspiracy afoot in France to have him taken to Canada …’

  Gilbert’s eyebrows rose in comprehension. ‘Dear God!’ he murmured.

  ‘I see you are as apprehensive as I am.’

  ‘Quite so …’

  Both men remained a moment in silence, then Drinkwater suggested, ‘I can have you put ashore again here.’

  Gilbert shook his head. ‘I should really return to Angra.’ He paused, then added, ‘May I take your boat? She will make the passage under sail, I daresay?’ he looked at the launch somewhat dubiously.

  ‘It must be upwards of forty leagues …’

  ‘No matter, your boat is up to it.’ Drinkwater looked askance at Gilbert; he was clearly a man of resilience and resolution. In the waist the launch was swinging slowly across the ship to its chocks on the booms. ‘Very well,’ Drinkwater agreed, ‘she is provisioned for two days, perhaps you will be kind enough to replenish her when you arrive; we are precious short of stores. Some fruit would be most welcome,’ he said, and raising his voice he called, ‘
Mr Marlowe! Have the launch put back in the water!’ Drinkwater ignored the moment’s hesitation and the sudden irritated stares of the labouring seamen who were quickly ordered to reverse their efforts; he summoned Ashton.

  ‘Mr Ashton, run down to my cabin and take a look at the chart on my desk. A course for Terceira; you may take Mr Gilbert back to Angra in the launch.’

  ‘Sir, if I might suggest something.’

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  Ashton edged round to attempt to exclude Gilbert from his remark to the captain. ‘I should like to lay a formal charge against Sergeant McCann.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mr Ashton, now is hardly the moment. What has Sergeant McCann done?’

  ‘Disobeyed my orders, sir,’ Ashton hissed intensely.

  Drinkwater felt a great weariness overcome him; he was tired of these minor problems, tired of Ashton and the whole confounded pack of these contentious and troublesome men. He was tempted to consign Ashton to the devil, but mastered this intemperate and dangerous instinct; instead he caught sight of Lieutenant Hyde and called him over.

  ‘Mr Hyde, Mr Ashton here says that Sergeant McCann disobeyed his orders.’ He turned to Ashton. ‘Perhaps you would tell us how this occurred.’

  ‘I left orders that no one was to leave the boat while I waited upon the Governor. Upon my return I found two men had defied me and been into the town …’

  ‘Two men, d’you say?’ Drinkwater asked.

  ‘Yes, and …’

  ‘To what purpose did these two men go into town?’ Drinkwater persisted.

  ‘That is the point, sir, they had been into town and purchased liquor.’

  ‘What liquor?’ Hyde asked.

  ‘What does it matter what liquor? They had disobeyed my orders and left the boat…’

  ‘Were sentries posted?’ Hyde pressed.

  ‘Yes, of course, under your Sergeant McCann …’

  ‘But Sergeant McCann was only in charge of the marines. Who commanded the boat?’

  ‘Well, Midshipman Paine.’

  ‘Then why isn’t he in the soup?’

  ‘I think we should have a word with Midshipman Paine,’ broke in Drinkwater. ‘Be so kind as to send for him.’