The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Beg pardon, sir, but ‘ere, let me …’

  ‘Obliged…’

  It seemed quieter now and Drinkwater took stock. There were fewer of the enemy, which seemed strange since they were now aboard L’Aigle. The wave of men he had led aboard dissipated, like a real wave upon a beach, running faster and faster as it shallowed, until, extended to its limit, it stopped and ran back. Bloody little fights took place everywhere, but the numbers of men already slaughtered had robbed L’Aigle of all her advantage, and it now became apparent to what extent Andromeda’s cannon-fire had damaged the French ship.

  About the helm lay a heap of bodies and Drinkwater caught the gleam of sunlight on bullion lace. Was one of the ungainly dead Contre-Amiral Lejeune? The boats on L’Aigle’s booms were filled with holes, her main fife-rails were smashed to matchwood, releasing halliards and lifts. Parted ropes lay like inert serpents about the decks, drawing lines over and about the corpses, like some delineation of the expiring lives which had left an indelible impression upon the carnage.

  About the broken boats on the booms amidships and at the opening of the after hatchway, Hyde’s marines were clustered, firing down into the gun-deck below, thus preventing any reinforcement of the upper-deck such as Ashton had managed, and which had turned the tide of the battle. Elsewhere a handful of British jacks chased solitary Frenchmen to their deaths, and it seemed in that short, contemplative moment that they had achieved the impossible and seized L’Aigle. Drinkwater thought he ought perhaps to order his own guns to cease fire, but when he stopped to think about anything the pain of his broken arm came back to him and he wanted to give in to it. Surely providence was satisfied: surely he had done enough. Then, as if from a great distance, Drinkwater heard a cry.

  ‘Look to your front, sir!’ There was something urgent and familiar about the voice. Slowly he turned about and saw through the smoke, the hazy figure of Birkbeck standing above Andromeda’s rail and gesturing. ‘Look to your front!’

  ‘What the deuce are you talking about?’ Drinkwater called, unaware that the terrible noise of battle had partially deafened him and he had been shouting his head off so that his voice was a feeble croak.

  ‘The Russian! The Gremyashchi!’ Birkbeck waved over Drinkwater’s head, gesturing at something and Drinkwater turned again. Looming above the port bulwark of L’Aigle, unscathed and perhaps a foot higher in her freeboard, the big Russian frigate appeared. Drinkwater could see her bulwarks lined with men, many of them fiercely bearded, like the Russians he had seen on the coast of California many, many years ago …

  And then he suddenly felt the naked exposure of his person.

  ‘Take your men below, Sergeant!’

  Ashton shoved a marine aside and pointed down into L’Aigle’s gun-deck.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard me! Lead your men below and clear the gun-deck.’

  McCann hesitated; Ashton was ordering him to a certain death.

  ‘Are you a coward?’

  ‘The hell I am …’

  ‘Then do as you are ordered! I’ll take my men down from forward.’

  Furious, McCann ported his musket and began to descend into the smoke-filled hell. ‘Catten,’ he instructed one marine, ‘run back aboard and let the master know we’re going below before that stupid bastard has us all shot by our own gunners. The rest of you, follow me!’ he cried.

  Ashton was right: he, McCann, was a coward. Only a coward would have submitted to the thrall of soldiering; only a coward would have passively acquiesced to this madness and only a coward would have let slip the opportunity to rid the world of Josiah Ashton. Almost weeping with rage, McCann charged below.

  What confronted the invaders when they spread out across L’Aigle’s gun-deck was horrifying. The planking was ploughed up by shot. In places, splinters stood like petrified grass. Stanchions were broken and guns were dismounted. Sunlight slanted into the fume-filled gloom through the frigate’s gun-ports. Andromeda’s 12-pound shot at short range had beaten in the ship’s side in one place, while the grape and langridge she had poured into L’Aigle had piled the dead about their guns in heaps.

  On Andromeda’s gun-deck, Lieutenant Frey received the message to cease fire from Mr Paine who also added the request for the larboard guns to be withdrawn and the ports shut.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ asked Frey, unable to do more than shout to hear his own voice.

  ‘We need your men on deck, sir. Most of our fellows are aboard the Frenchman and that bloody Russian’s just coming up on her disengaged side!’

  ‘Where’s the captain?’ Frey asked.

  ‘I last saw him going over the side with his hanger in his teeth.’

  ‘Good God!’

  Frey turned and began bellowing at his men.

  As McCann shuffled forward in the oppressive gloom of L’Aigle’s gun-deck, resistance became increasingly fierce. It was clear that some of the soldiers had either retreated to the shelter of the guns amidships, or had been held in reserve there. A volley met the marines and several men fell. McCann took shelter behind the round bulk of the main capstan and prepared to return fire as if in his native woods, sheltering behind the bole of a hickory tree.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness McCann began to select targets and fire with more precision. A small group of marines took cover either with him or behind adjacent guns. He was conscious of an exchange of fire at the far end of the deck where Ashton was attacking down through a pale shaft of sunlight lancing in by way of the forward companionway. It was clear that there, too, resistance was disciplined and effective. Then above the shots and yells, McCann heard Ashton’s voice.

  ‘McCann! Where the devil are you? Come and support me you damned Yankee blackguard!’

  Ashton’s intemperate and ill-considered plea took no account of McCann’s own predicament, but was a reaction to the situation Ashton’s headstrong action had landed him in. But its insulting unreasonableness struck a chord in McCann’s psyche, and his spirit, loosened by the heat of battle, broke in hatred, remorse and the final bitter explosion of his reason.

  And then McCann saw Ashton standing half way down the forward companionway, illuminated by the shaft of light that lanced down from the clear blue sky above. He presented even an indifferent marksman a perfect target, and the fact that no Frenchman amidships had yet hit him confirmed McCann in his belief that Ashton had been providentially delivered to his own prowess. He knew the moment was fleeting and his Tower musket was discharged: McCann drew a pistol from his belt, laid it on Ashton’s silhouetted head, and fired. As the smoke from the frizzen and muzzle cleared Ashton had vanished. McCann’s triumph was short-lived; a second later he heard Ashton’s voice: ‘McCann, give fire, damn you!’

  Alone, his bayonet fixed and his musket horizontal, Sergeant McCann forsook the shelter of the capstan and, with a crash of boots and an Indian yell, ran forward. Four balls hit him before he had advanced five paces, but his momentum carried him along the deck and he could see, kneeling and levelling a carbine at him, a big man whose bulk seemed to fill the low space.

  ‘Sergeant McCann…!’ Ashton’s plaintive cry was lost in the noise of further musketry. McCann saw the yellow flash of the big horse-grenadier’s carbine. The blow of the ball stopped him in his tracks, but it had missed his heart and such was his speed that it failed to knock him over. He shuffled forward again and in his last, despairing act as he fell to his knees, he thrust with his bayonet. Gaston Duroc of the Imperial Horse Grenadiers parried the feeble lunge of the British marine with his bare hand.

  ‘Sergeant McCann, damn you to hell!’ cried Lieutenant Ashton, retreating back up the forward companionway and calling his men to prevent the counter-attacking French from following and regaining the upper-deck.

  Captain Drinkwater was aware of men about him, though there were few enough of them.

  ‘My lads…’ he began, but he was quite out of breath and, besides, could think of nothing to say. It would be
only a moment or two before the Russians stormed into L’Aigle and wrested the French ship back from his exhausted men. He closed his eyes to stop the world swaying about him.

  ‘Are you all right sir?’

  He had no idea who was asking. ‘Perfectly fine,’ he answered, thanking the unknown man for his concern. And it was true; he felt quite well now, the pain had gone completely and someone seemed to be taking his sword from his hand. Well, if it meant surrender, at least it did not mean dishonour. If they survived, Marlowe and Birkbeck would manage matters, and Frey …

  The bed was wondrously comfortable; he could sleep and sleep and sleep…

  He could hear Charlotte Amelia in the next room. She was playing the harpsichord; something by Mozart, he thought, though he was never certain where music was concerned. And there was Elizabeth’s voice. It was not Mozart any more, but a song of which Elizabeth was inordinately fond. He wished he could remember its name …

  ‘Congratulations, Lieutenant.’

  Frey bowed. ‘Thank you, sir, but here is our first lieutenant, Mr Marlowe.’ Frey gestured as an officer almost as dishevelled and grubby as himself came up. A broken hanger dangled by its martingale from his right wrist. In his hands he bore the lowered colours of L’Aigle.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Marlowe demanded, his face drawn and a wild look in his eye. His cheek was gouged by a black, scabbing clot. The appearance of the Russian had surprised him too, for he had been occupied with the business of securing the French frigate upon whose deck the three men now met.

  ‘Captain Count Rakov, Marlowe,’ Frey muttered and, lowering his voice, added ‘executing a smart volte-face in the circumstances, I think.’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘For God’s sake bow and pretend you do.’ Frey bowed again and repeated the introduction. ‘Captain Count Rakov … Lieutenant Marlowe.’

  ‘Where is Captain Drinkwater?’ asked the Russian in a thick, faltering accent. ‘I see him on the quarterdeck and then he go. You,’ Rakov looked at Marlowe, ‘strike ensign.’

  ‘I, er, I don’t know where Captain Drinkwater is …’ Marlowe looked at Frey.

  ‘He is dead?’ Rakov asked.

  ‘Frey?’

  ‘Captain Drinkwater has been wounded, sir,’ Frey advised.

  ‘And die?’

  ‘I do not believe the wound to be mortal, sir.’ Frey was by no means certain of this, but the Russian’s predatory interest and the circumstances of his intervention made Frey cautious. Rakov’s motives were as murky as ditchwater and they were a long way from home in a half-wrecked ship. Frey was not about to surrender the initiative to a man who had apparently changed sides and might yet reverse the procedure if he thought Captain Drinkwater’s wound was serious.

  ‘In fact, Mr Marlowe,’ Frey lied boldly, ‘he left orders to proceed to Angra without delay.’ Frey turned to Rakov and decided to bluff the Russian and hoist him with his own petard. And he asked that you, Count Rakov, would assist us to bring our joint prizes to an anchorage there. He regretted the misunderstanding that occasioned us to fire into each other. I believe there was some confusion about which ensigns these ships were flying.’

  Rakov regarded Frey with a calculating and shrewd eye, then turned to Marlowe. ‘You command, yes?’ he broke the sentence off expectantly.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Marlowe temporized. ‘If that is what Captain Drinkwater said …’

  ‘He was quite specific about the matter, gentlemen,’ said Frey with a growing confidence.

  ‘You British …’ said the Russian and turned on his heel, leaving the non sequitur hanging in the air.

  ‘Whew,’ exhaled Frey when Rakov was out of earshot.

  ‘D’you mind telling me what all that was about, damn it?’ Marlowe asked.

  ‘I think we won the action, Frederic, in every sense. Now, you had better see whether we have enough men to get this bloody ship to Terceira.’

  ‘Have you seen Ashton?’

  ‘Ashton? No, I haven’t, but I suspect the worst.’

  ‘Oh God …’ Marlowe stood uncertainly shaking his head. Then he looked up at Frey, a frown on his face. ‘I’ve a curious ringing in my ears, Frey…’

  ‘Count yourself lucky that’s all you’ve got,’ said Frey. ‘Now let us take stock of matters, shall we.’ It was a gentle hint more than a question, and Marlowe dumbly nodded his agreement.

  CHAPTER 19

  A Burying of Hatchets

  May-June 1814

  ‘Mr Gilbert, please forgive me for not coming ashore …’

  ‘My dear Captain Drinkwater, pray do not concern yourself. It is you who have, been put to the greater exertion, I do assure you.’ Gilbert smiled urbanely. As for the Captain-General, why, he perfectly understands your situation and joins me in wishing you a speedy recovery’

  ‘Please convey my thanks to His Excellency and, pray, do take a seat.’

  Gilbert sat in the cabin chair opposite Drinkwater whose left arm was doubled in a splint and sling. He observed the sea-officer’s pallid complexion as Drinkwater moved uneasily in his chair, evidence of the pain he was in.

  ‘Frampton, a glass for Mr Gilbert.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Frampton offered a glass from a small silver tray and Gilbert raised it in a toast. ‘To the squadron that never was,’ he said, indicating the view from the stern windows of the cabin. Lying at anchor between the commanding guns of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Andromeda and His Imperial Majesty’s frigate Gremyashchi, lay the Arbeille and L’Aigle.

  ‘Your fellow Marlowe gave a vivid account of the action,’ Gilbert said, sipping his wine. ‘It seems a pity it will go unrecorded, but…’ he shrugged, ‘c’est la guerre.’

  Drinkwater raised his own glass and half-turned to contemplate the view. The sheltered anchorage of Angra lay between low, maquis-covered slopes, and the subtle, poignant scent of the land permeated the open sash. The ships presented a curious appearance, the regularity of their masts cut down by the action and now undergoing repair. The shortfall of spare spars occasioned by Andromeda’s hurried departure for escort duties was being made good from the stock aboard the French ships, so that it was estimated that within three or four days all would be sufficiently sea-worthy to attempt the passage to a home port. And therein lay complications.

  ‘That is where you are wrong,’ Drinkwater said, swinging round to Gilbert. ‘Unfortunately it is not war; unfortunately it is a mess, though you are correct it will go unrecorded. Poor Marlowe will be disappointed if he expects to get a step in rank or even to take a prize home. We have taken no prizes …’

  ‘I entirely agree, Captain, and the situation is the more complicated since we received news from Lisbon only yesterday that Napoleon Bonaparte has for some time been installed as King of Elba…’

  ‘Elba?’ Drinkwater frowned. ‘I know only of one island of Elba and it is off the Tuscan coast, a dog’s watch distance from France, not far from Naples…’

  ‘Your incredulity is unsurprising, but it is the same Elba.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I have no idea why the place was selected; it seems the height of stupidity to me.’

  ‘So all the endeavours of these poor benighted devils would have been wasted, which consideration begs the question of my own …’

  ‘And Rakov’s,’ added Gilbert.

  ‘I suppose that is some consolation.’

  ‘I understand from young Marlowe that Rakov played a double-game.’

  Drinkwater nodded. ‘It would seem that having offered the Bonapartists his protection, he abandoned them when it became obvious that to do so meant a full-scale engagement with a British frigate. I don’t know how much discretion Rakov was permitted in the interpretation of his own orders, but he can scarcely have been sleeping easily since our confrontation.’

  ‘It was just as well that he did have a change of heart,’ said Gilbert. ‘According to Marlowe, he was in a position to retake L’Aig
le…’

  ‘Ah, yes, but he came alongside the French ship on the opposite side to ourselves; had he meant mischief to the last, he would have ranged alongside our unengaged, starboard side.’ Drinkwater paused a moment, then added, ‘We were a sitting duck.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gilbert contemplatively, adding, ‘Well, the interpretation of your own orders cannot have been easy’

  The remark brought a rueful smile to Drinkwater’s face. ‘I enjoyed far greater latitude than Count Rakov,’ he said, then cutting off any further comment which might have been indiscreet and let too much slip to a stranger, Drinkwater said, ‘As matters stand now, Rakov’s action has fortuitously compromised no one.’

  ‘Indeed not. In fact, quite the contrary, for if the Lisbon papers are to be believed, and I have one here,’ Gilbert put down his wine glass and fished in a large black-leather wallet, “twas the Tsar himself who approved Elba.’

  ‘The Tsar?’ queried Drinkwater, ‘But that makes no sense.’

  ‘Unless His Imperial Majesty had second thoughts.’ Gilbert held out the newspaper.

  ‘I don’t read Portuguese,’ said Drinkwater drily.

  ‘Of course not, I do beg your pardon …’

  ‘It occurs to me that if you were able to read that to Rakov, we might defuse any further problems.’

  ‘Why not read it to them all? Boney’s partisans should know this too. It diverts their attention from America back to Europe …’

  And will ensure we can send both ships in to a French port,’ added Drinkwater enthusiastically.

  ‘Who commands the French?’

  ‘As far as I can determine, their original leader was a Rear-Admiral Lejeune but he was mortally wounded and it would seem that a military officer is now the senior.’

  Gilbert uncrossed his legs and sat up, placing his half-empty glass on the table. ‘Captain, may I presume to make a suggestion to which I am also able to make a modest contribution?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to host a dinner here, this afternoon? I shall send off a porker and some fresh vegetables, together with some tolerable wine. If you invited, say, three French officers, Rakov and two of his own men together with some of your own, we might stop any further unpleasantness and thereby offer all the other poor devils an explanation.’