The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  ‘The Portuguese Governor received me with every courtesy and said that he had received a despatch brought by Captain Count Rakov to the effect that preparations were to be made to receive Boney and to have him held under open arrest at some villa or other in the country outside Santa Cruz. He also protested that he had received no instructions from Lisbon as to whether he was supposed to cede an island, or to regard Boney as a prisoner. There were some other details about the size of Boney’s suite and personal staff which I have to confess I didn’t hoist in.’

  ‘No matter …’ Drinkwater ruminated for a moment, then asked Frey, ‘And did you learn when Bonaparte was expected?’

  Frey shook his head. ‘No, sir, not really. Gilbert asked, but His Excellency did not know and could offer no clues himself. He let Gilbert read the despatch, which was in French, and all Gilbert could conclude was the tone of the language suggested the matter was imminent and that no further information would precede the arrival of Napoleon.’

  ‘Well, that is something,’ Drinkwater said.

  ‘But is that sufficient, sir? I mean, it was no more than an intimation.’

  ‘By a shrewd man who, I think, knows his business.’ Drinkwater smiled and added, ‘I think this enough to act upon.’

  ‘Then we did not labour in vain,’ Frey said, pleased that Drinkwater regarded the niggardly news with such relish.

  ‘Not at all. Short of actually running into Boney and his entourage, I think we can pronounce ourselves satisfied.’

  ‘May I ask, then, why we don’t simply await the arrival of Boney at Santa Cruz?’ Frey asked.

  ‘Because, my dear fellow, we have no real business with Boney; our task is to prevent him being spirited to the United States and to intercept those ships sent by his followers to accomplish this. To do otherwise would be to exceed our instructions,’ Drinkwater said, concluding, ‘We do not want to be the cause of an incident which might rupture the peace.’ He suppressed a shudder at the thought. Exceeding an instruction that was largely self-wrought would have his name earn eternal odium by their Lordships if this affair miscarried.

  ‘I see.’ Frey nodded, unaware of the turmoil concealed by his commander’s apparently worldly wisdom. ‘It could be a long wait then.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Drinkwater replied, and, thus dismissed, Frey disappeared below to divest himself of his boat-cloak and wet breeches while his commander fell to a slow pacing of the quarterdeck, nodding permission for Birkbeck to get the ship under weigh again as soon as the quarter-boat was hoisted.

  Despite his misgivings, Drinkwater was clearer in his mind now. There seemed to him little doubt Rakov had brought the news to Angra in pursuit of Tsar Alexander’s policy. But was finding Andromeda on station off Flores a shock to Rakov, particularly as Rakov had last seen her in Calais Road? In order to implement his master’s policy, if he knew about it in detail, Rakov must have realized that the Antwerp ships would profit by his escort, and while Drinkwater might commit Andromeda to an action with two men-of-war acting illegally under an outlawed flag, the presence of a powerful Russian frigate would dissuade even a zealous British officer from compromising his own country’s honour by firing into an ally!

  As for the degree to which Captain Count Rakov was privy to Tsar Alexander’s secret intentions, Drinkwater could only conclude however Rakov saw the presence of Andromeda, that of Gremyashehi was more revealing to himself. There seemed a strong possibility that Rakov’s task in conveying the despatch to Angra might be subsidiary to that of pursuing and outwitting Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Andromeda. Quite apart from anything else, it would be a small but personal revenge for Captain Drinkwater’s destruction of the Suvorov.

  And then it occurred to Drinkwater that something must have happened to Hortense, for how else could Rakov have followed so swiftly in their own wake? It seemed that while the war was over, the old game of cat and mouse would go on, though who was now the cat and who the mouse, remained anyone’s guess.

  For Sergeant McCann the fact that Lieutenant Ashton was compelled to stand watch-and-watch held no more satisfaction for him than the beating of Mr Paine. Ashton’s double insult had wounded him deeply, vulnerable as he was, reinforcing his feelings of inadequacy as well as affronting his sensibility. These feelings were exacerbated by Ashton’s unrepentant attitude, manifested by the lieutenant’s haughtiness as he nursed his own wounded pride through the tedious extra duties imposed upon him by Captain Drinkwater.

  Under such stress, the predominant aspects of the temperaments of both men dominated their behaviour; the sergeant of marines nursed his grievance, the lieutenant cultivated his touchily arrogant sense of honour. And such was the indifference to private woe aboard the frigate, each man in his personal isolation formed dark schemes of revenge. Under the foreseeable circumstances, such imagined and impractical fantasies were no more than simple, cathartic chimeras.

  These disaffections were set against the burgeoning of Mr Marlowe who, under Drinkwater’s kindly eye and with the tacit support of Frey, seemed to grow in confidence and stature in the following few days. Frey rather liked Marlowe, whose dark visage held a certain attraction, and had engaged to execute a small portrait of the first lieutenant, a departure for Frey, whose subjects were more usually small watercolour paintings or pencil drawings of the ship and the landmarks which she passed in her wanderings. As for Marlowe, his contribution to the relative success of Birkbeck and the carpenter in partially staunching the inflow of water by caulking and doubling the inner ceiling of the hull, had lent substance of a practical nature to his increased stature. It was thus easier for his fellow shipmates to attribute his former behaviour to indisposition, and for him to gain confidence in proportion.

  With these small ups and downs mirrored throughout the ship’s company as the men rubbed along from day to day, Andromeda lay to, or cruised under easy sail to the north of Corvo, never losing sight of this outpost of the Azores, yet ever questing for the appearance of strange sails approaching from the north.

  But all they saw were the cockbilled spoutings of an occasional sperm whale and, at the southern end of their beat, the hardy Azoreans out in their canoas in pursuit of their great game, chasing the mighty cetaceans with harpoon and lance, so that the watching Drinkwater was reminded of the corvette Melusine and the ice of the distant Arctic.[10] Along with this reminiscence, came gloomy thoughts of the inexorable passing of time and the tedious waste of war.

  For a dismal week, under grey skies alleviated occasionally by promising patches of blue which yielded nothing but disappointment, Andromeda haunted the waters north of Corvo and Flores.

  ‘We haul up and down like a worn-out trollop on Portsmouth hard, draggling her shawl in the mud,’ Hyde observed laconically, yet with a certain metaphorical aptness, leaning back in his chair, both boots on the table.

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Marlowe, sighing sadly, thinking of Sarah and his child growing inside her, ‘my only consolation is that our diminishing stores will compel Our Father to head for Plymouth Sound very soon.’

  ‘I think’, warned Frey, ‘that he will hang on until the very last moment.’

  ‘Well, that’s as maybe, but the last moment will arrive eventually,’ said the flexible Hyde philosophically.

  ‘I do not think’, Frey said with a wry smile, ‘you quite understand how Captain Drinkwater’s luck has a habit of running.’

  ‘You mean you think we shall encounter these ships?’ Marlowe asked.

  Frey nodded. ‘Oh yes; I have no doubt of it. They cannot long be delayed now and the presence of that Russian almost guarantees it. Why else did she turn up like a bad penny?’

  Marlowe shrugged and twisted his mouth in a curious grimace of helpless resignation. ‘Perhaps you’ll prove to be right, perhaps not.’

  ‘Well, if you ask me,’ put in Hyde, ‘I think it is a wild-goose chase. All right, the Russkie turns up and his appearance ain’t coincidence, but neither is ours
as far as he is concerned and my money is on his intercepting these so-called Antwerp ships and turning them back.’

  ‘That would mean they had had the wild-goose chase,’ laughed Marlowe.

  ‘Or that’s what we have all been engaged on,’ added Frey, pulling out his pencil and sketch block.

  ‘Well, let’s drink to the damnation of His Majesty’s enemies, damnation to Boney, wherever he is, damnation to the Tsar of all the Russians, damnation to despair and depression and anything else which irks you,’ Hyde said, his books crashing on the deck as he rose to pour three glasses of blackstrap and pass them to his messmates.

  ‘I do wish you would move with a little more grace and a little less noise, Hyde,’ complained Marlowe good-naturedly.

  ‘Sudden decisive action, Freddie, is the hallmark of the accomplished military tactician.’

  ‘Or a lazy oaf,’ Marlowe riposted, grinning as he accepted the proffered glass.

  ‘Steady, or I’ll be demanding satisfaction,’ joked Hyde.

  Marlowe pulled another face. ‘One touchy sense of honour in a wardroom is enough, thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t forget Sergeant McCann,’ prompted Hyde.

  ‘Oh, he don’t count…’

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ warned Hyde. ‘He is no ordinary man.’ And Frey looked up from his drawing with a shudder, catching Hyde’s eye. ‘You all right?’ Hyde asked.

  ‘Yes. Just a grey goose flying over my grave,’ Frey said quietly.

  ‘More likely a wild goose,’ Marlowe added with a short laugh.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Frey in a detached tone of voice that made Hyde and Marlowe exchange glances.

  PART THREE

  Caging the Eagle

  ‘Napoleon in the Isle of Elba has … only to be patient, his enemies will be his best champions.’

  General Sir Robert Wilson

  CHAPTER 14

  St Elmo’s Fire

  May 1814

  Drinkwater had experienced no such premonition as Lieutenant Frey. The appearance of the Gremyashchi had finally laid to rest the vacillating anxieties and uncertainties of the preceding days, replacing them with a firm conviction that Hortense’s report was about to be fulfilled. Nor did he consider Captain Count Rakov would divert the Antwerp ships from their purpose, as was the opinion of Lieutenant Hyde in the wardroom below. Drinkwater’s assessment was quite otherwise: Rakov was on the scene to guarantee the matter. There would be no bloodshed, no international incident, Bonaparte would simply be removed from the Bourbon French ship bringing him to Flores, transferred to one of the Antwerp squadron and conducted to the United States.

  It was quite clear that the only certain rendezvous where this could be accomplished without attracting undue attention was off the Azores, and the fact that no proper arrangements had been concluded with the Portuguese captain-general at Angra do Heroismo, was evidence none was necessary, for there had never been any real intention of landing Bonaparte in the first place. And to guarantee the Tsar’s plan, revealing the sly hand of Talleyrand, the Bourbon commander of the French naval ship carrying the former Emperor into exile would not be accosted by a couple of Bonapartist pirates, but a squadron operating under the ensign of Imperial Russia.

  It was a cleverly conceived plan, but, concluded Drinkwater, this embellishment made his own task acutely difficult. It was he alone who would have to assume responsibility for thwarting the Tsar’s intention. Not that he entertained any personal doubts as to the rightness of this challenge. It was clearly not in British interests to have the foremost soldier in the world free to command troops in the United States. A successful invasion of Canada would be a disaster for Great Britain, and Drinkwater did not need the protection of Prince William Henry’s orders to buttress his own moral doubts, only to afford protection from those in the establishment who might regard his action as intolerably high-handed.

  What now nagged him was the impossibility of the task. At least two well-armed ships had sailed under the command of this Admiral Lejeune, and while Drinkwater might have had a chance to outmanoeuvre them, they were now reinforced by the Gremyashchi, a powerful frigate in her own right, which alone would be more than a match for Andromeda. He was conscious that the action his zeal had now made inevitable could end only in defeat. If any premonition disturbed the tranquillity of Nathaniel Drinkwater during those tedious days in late May, it was that death would take him at the moment of his country’s hard-won victory.

  In the circumstances such a death would not be without dishonour, but he doubted much credit would accrue to his actions to warm his widow’s heart. Poor Elizabeth; she did not deserve such a fate. To be left alone to manage his small estate, not to mention the dependants he had foisted upon her, would be a terrible legacy. His death would, moreover, burden her with the promised annuity to Hortense!

  The thought appalled him. In his headlong dash into the Atlantic, thoughts of an early death had not really occurred to him, for he had lived with risk for so long, and while he had intimated in the letter he had sent to his wife by the Trinity Yacht that complications had been introduced into their lives by recent events, meaning those at Calais, he had withheld details as being best dealt with face-to-face. Now he could not even leave her a second letter, for the chances of its being discovered after a bloody action were next to nothing.

  He slumped at his desk as behind him a pale, watery sun set over a heaving grey sea. All about him Andromeda creaked mournfully, echoing his dismal thoughts and ushering in an attack of the blue-devils. As the daylight leached out of the sky and the twilight gloom increased, he fell into a doze. Hortense and Elizabeth were in the cabin with him, both were restored to the beauty they had possessed when he had first set eyes upon them and both improbably held hands like sisters, and smiled at him approvingly. He woke with a start, his heart beating furiously, possessed with a terrible fear of the unknown.

  The cabin was completely dark. During his brief sleep and unknown to Drinkwater, Frampton had entered the cabin but seeing his commander asleep had beat a tactful retreat. Waking thus, Drinkwater was overcome with the feeling that the cabin was haunted by ghosts. In an instant, he had rammed his hat on his head and fled to the quarterdeck wrapped in his cloak.

  He almost instantly regretted this precipitate action. The quarterdeck was scarcely less congenial than the cabin; in fact it was a good deal less so. Night had fallen under a curtain of rain which knocked the sea down, hissed alongside as it struck the surface of the water and sharply reduced the temperature of the air. Ashton had the watch, his extra duty relieving Birkbeck of the task, and so the emotional air was even chillier than the atmospheric, though Drinkwater himself took little notice of this and, in his own way, only added to it by his presence.

  His cloak was soon sodden, but he paced the windward quarter, his stride and balance adjusting to the swoop and roll of the ship as, with her yards braced up sharply, she stood northwards under easy sail, steering full-and-bye with the wind in the west-north-west. It was a dying breeze and about four bells the rain stopped abruptly as the wind veered a point or two. Drinkwater was vaguely aware of Lieutenant Ashton adjusting the course to the north-eastwards, maintaining the trim of the yards in accordance with the provision of Drinkwater’s night orders for cruising stations. Within fifteen minutes the sky was clearing rapidly as the overcast rolled away to leeward and the stars shone out in all their glory.

  If the air had been chilly before, it was positively cold now, or so it seemed to Drinkwater as the dramatic change woke him from his reverie and he found himself shivering. He was about to go below and seek the warm comfort of his cot, when something stopped him. He stood like a pointing hound, tingling with instinctive premonition. He looked anxiously aloft. The pale parallelograms of the topsails and topgallants were pale against the sky; the main course was loose in its buntlines, but the fore course was braced sharp up, its tack hauled down to the port bumkin. Behind him the quadrilateral spanker curved gracefully under
the pressure of the wind. As he watched, it flogged easily, the failing wind easing and then filling it again, causing a fitful ripple to pass across the sail, from throat to clew. The lines of reef points pitter-patted against the tough canvas. Despite this apparently peaceful scene, something struck him as wrong. Something in the air which made his scalp creep.

  ‘Mr Ashton!’

  ‘Sir?’ Ashton stirred from the starboard mizen rigging.

  ‘Get the t’gallants off her!’

  ‘The t’gallants, sir?’

  ‘The t’gallants sir! And at once, d’you hear me?’

  Drinkwater could almost hear Ashton’s brain turning over the captain’s lunatic order, but then the word was passed and the watch stirred out of its hiding places, hunkered down about the decks, and the shapes of men moved about the pin rails and prepared to go aloft. There was little urgency in their demeanour, obvious to Drinkwater’s acute and experienced eye, even in the dark.

  ‘Look lively there!’ he cried, injecting a sharp urgency into the night. Ashton began to cross the deck towards him and Drinkwater turned away in silent rebuff, staring to windward, watching to see what would happen. Then he saw the cloud as it loomed into the night sky, rapidly blotting out the stars to the north-westwards. He could feel its presence as the air suddenly crackled with the dull menace of the thing, revealing the source of his premonition. It was odd, he thought, as he watched the vast boiling mass of it rear up and up into the heavens, how such a gigantic manifestation of energy could almost creep up on one unawares.