The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  Drinkwater considered the matter. He realized Marlowe’s logical approach had produced a more realistic assessment than his own sudden apprehension over the effect of the leak on Andromeda’s task. This had diverted him from any real consideration of its cause. Unless it worsened considerably, additional pumping would contain it; it was no concern of his, he chid himself ruefully, to what extent that simple but irksome drudgery would occupy his hapless crew.

  They had reached the taffrail and turned forward again. ‘Go on, Mr Marlowe. I scent an hypothesis.’

  ‘I have two actually, sir. A wasted bolt in one of the futtocks …’

  ‘Very possible. And two …’

  ‘You were in heavy action against the, er… Pardon me, I have forgotten the name of the ship you captured …’

  ‘The Odin.’

  ‘Ah yes, the Odin. Well perhaps …’

  ‘Shot damage!’ Drinkwater broke in.

  ‘Exactly so, sir. Maybe a loose plug. May I ask which side you were engaged?’

  ‘The starboard side.’

  ‘Then I shall start looking there.’

  ‘Mr Marlowe, I congratulate you. That is famously argued; if you can only match reality to theory …’ Drinkwater left the sentence unfinished and changed tack. ‘But not immediately. First you shall breakfast with me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  They had reached the windward hance and Drinkwater paused. ‘Is that a patch of blue sky there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I think the wind is tending to moderate.’

  ‘D’you know, Mr Marlowe,’ Drinkwater said, pleased with the way things had fallen out, ‘I believe you are at least right about that.’

  As Drinkwater led Marlowe below to eat, he caught Ashton’s eye and was quite shocked by the look he saw there.

  ‘I fear we must get used to skillygolee and burgoo if we are to cruise off the Azores for as long as possible,’ said Drinkwater, laying his spoon down with a rattle and dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘I had better take a look at the hold, sir, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘I will in a moment, Mr Marlowe, but first a moment or two of your time.’ Drinkwater waved the hovering Frampton away. ‘Mr Marlowe,’ he said, fixing the first lieutenant with a steady stare, ‘please forgive me, but I was troubled by the accident that occurred off the Isle of Wight…’

  ‘Sir, I …’ Marlowe’s face assumed an immediate expression of distress.

  ‘Hear me out.’ Drinkwater paused and Marlowe resigned himself to what he anticipated as cross-examination. ‘Tell me, have you ever taken a longitude at sea?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Marlowe, taken aback. ‘Surely you don’t think me incapable of that?’ he frowned.

  ‘What method do you use?’

  ‘Well I can take lunar observations, but you have a chronometer…’

  ‘But you can take lunars?’

  ‘Oh yes. I used to amuse myself on blockade duty aboard Thunderer by taking them.’

  ‘Some officers would consider that a tedious amusement, even on blockade duty’

  Marlowe shrugged and the ghost of a smile passed across his features. ‘Sir, I am not certain why you are asking me these questions, but I have a certain aptitude for navigation.’

  ‘But not for seamanship?’

  Marlowe flushed brick red, caught Drinkwater’s eye, looked away, then back again. ‘Very well, sir, let me explain. It is true, I do not have a natural aptitude to handle a ship. I find … I found it difficult to … Damn it! I found it difficult to resolve on the right thing to do first when I found myself in the situation I did the other day’

  ‘Yet by relieving Ashton, you put yourself in an exposed position,’ Drinkwater said, puzzled. Marlowe remained silent and Drinkwater nudged him. ‘Come, come, I have seen many officers in my time, Mr Marlowe, and many have made mistakes. Some were foolish, some incompetent and some just made simple miscalculations. You are my first lieutenant and I am seeking an explanation as to why such a thing happened. I do not seek to condemn you, merely to understand.’

  Marlowe swallowed and moved uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I wished to subject myself to a test, sir.’ He produced the words with a faltering diffidence, as if they were torn from him, one by one. Drinkwater watched Marlowe struggle with a detached sympathy, and the complexities inherent in any human being struck him once again.

  ‘You see, sir, I hoped that I might vindicate myself; that I might prove to myself that I was quite as capable as any other officer to tack ship.’

  ‘And prove it perhaps to others, other than myself?’ asked Drinkwater shrewdly, the light of perception dawning. ‘You have been responsible for some accident, perhaps?’

  Marlowe nodded.

  ‘Well, we need not go into that now, but I take it the court-martial acquitted you?’

  ‘There was no court-martial, sir. The matter was not that serious.’

  ‘Not that serious?’ Drinkwater queried.

  ‘No ship was lost, sir …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Two men were lost overboard.’ Marlowe expelled a long breath; the unburdening of confession seemed to release him. ‘I was ashamed of myself, sir, robbed of my confidence. I wanted to make amends and then … Well, I have another man’s life to answer for now’

  ‘And Mr Ashton was a witness to all this, eh? And is consequently your, how do the French say it? Bête-noire?’

  Marlowe nodded again.

  Drinkwater sighed. Poor Marlowe’s superciliouness and his apparent lack of wit and subtlety were the consequences of self-deceit, of attempting to live with failure in the presence of someone who knew all about the cause. And was capable of compounding that knowledge, Drinkwater knew from Frey’s scuttlebutt. The unborn bastard was another life to lay to the lieutenant’s account. Drinkwater now understood that it was not only Marlowe’s conduct which was attributable to his problems; so too was his attitude. Frey’s original assessment of him not being such a bad fellow had been accurate. All the damage to his character had been self-inflicted.

  ‘Mr Marlowe, I have no wish to increase your burden, but I think I divine the roots of your misfortunes. Forgive me, but your frankness does you credit and I am aware you are affianced to Ashton’s sister.’

  ‘Yes. That is unfortunate.’

  ‘How so? Do you not wish to marry the young lady?’

  ‘Most decidedly, sir, but the ceremony will be delayed by our absence.’

  ‘And the lady is expecting…’

  ‘You know!’

  ‘I had heard …’

  ‘Damn Ashton!’

  ‘It is unfortunate you do not like your intended brother-in-law …’

  ‘Damn it, sir,’ Marlowe leant forward, his eyes intense, alive again after the emotional moments of self-revelation, ‘the man has designs on my fortune. He seeks to gain an ascendancy over me partly through what he knows of me and also through his sister. That would be bad enough, but this delay …’ The first lieutenant rose to his feet and ran a hand wildly through his hair.

  ‘Sit down, Frederic, for God’s sake,’ snapped Drinkwater.

  Marlowe turned and stared at Drinkwater, his eyes desperate. ‘Sir, I…’

  ‘Sit down, there’s a good fellow. You are no good to me in this state. We have an important duty to attend to. You are perhaps the last officer in this war to be offered an opportunity’

  ‘Sir, I am not certain that I am capable …’

  ‘Of course you are capable, Frederic! And what is more we shall have you home to marry your Sarah in no time at all.’

  ‘Two months would be too long to avoid a scandal, sir.’

  ‘Well, we shall have to ensure it don’t take that long,’ said Drinkwater.

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Drinkwater saw Marlowe relax with relief. ‘I hope so, sir, but you just mentioned learning to like burgoo.’

  Drinkwater shrugged. ‘True. I can’t be c
ertain, of course, but I don’t believe we shall be kept long on station.’ Drinkwater smiled and was rewarded with a reciprocating grin.

  ‘I apologize, sir … for my conduct the other night.’

  ‘Let us put the matter behind us; do you just deal with our problems on a day-to-day basis.’

  Marlowe rose. ‘I shall go and have a look in the hold, sir,’ he said, ‘and thank you.’

  “Tis nothing.’

  Marlowe nodded over Drinkwater’s shoulder and out through the stern windows. ‘There’s more blue sky showing now, sir.’

  ‘Yes, it may yet prove a fine day’

  Marlowe stood uncertainly, for a moment he strove to speak, then gave up the attempt and made to leave. Drinkwater called him back. ‘Mr Marlowe, would you be so kind as to show the midshipmen the method of determining longitude by the chronometer?’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir.’

  ‘And just ignore Ashton.’

  Marlowe nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I will.’ He paused again, then blurted out, ‘what made you come below and see me last night, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Drinkwater replied. ‘Concern for you, concern for the ship, concern for myself.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Anyway, why did you come on deck this morning?’

  ‘Because you came to see me last night, sir.’

  CHAPTER 9

  A Sea Change

  April-May 1814

  Drinkwater’s forecast proved accurate. By noon the wind had again swung into the north-north-west, dropped to a fresh breeze and swept aside the cloud cover, leaving only the benign white fluffs of fair-weather cumulus. The depression moved away to the north and east, following its predecessor into the chops of the Channel. The sea now reflected this change in the atmosphere, losing the forbidding grey of the true Western Ocean, and wearing the kindly blue mantle of more temperate latitudes. And, indeed, when Birkbeck, emerging from the hold, found Captain Drinkwater ready to observe the culmination of the sun on the ship’s meridian, their southing was substantial.

  Things were less optimistic below decks. The working party in the hold had failed to locate the source of the ingress of water, though some credence was given to Marlowe’s hypothesis by evidence of water entering the well from the starboard side. In the wardroom Lieutenant Ashton sulked, much to the annoyance of Hyde, who, when distracted from his amusements sufficiently to notice, began to conclude that Ashton was far from being the amiable fellow he had first assumed. Indeed Hyde inclined towards Mr Frey who, it began to emerge, was an officer of some talent with a paintbrush.

  Having endured a degree of persecution from brother officers in the past, Frey was inclined to conceal his love of drawing and water-colour painting, but Hyde caught sight of a small picture he was working on, which showed the Royal Sovereign flying the Bourbon standard, accompanied by Andromeda, Impregnable, Jason, Polonais, Gremyashchi and the Trinity Yacht. Artistic achievement impressed Hyde, and he was driven to confess that he regretted his inability to play an instrument or, indeed, even to sing, let alone draw or рaint.

  This polite exchange with Frey was overhead by Ashton who was driven to make some mean sarcasm about Hyde’s success at playing being assured, provided he tried to play no more than the fool. Hyde, who had been oblivious to Ashton’s presence until that moment, spun round.

  ‘What’s that you say?’ he demanded.

  ‘That should you decide upon playing anything, my dear Hyde, confine it to being a fool.’

  For a moment Frey, fascinated by this encounter, thought Hyde would take the remark lying down, but it seemed the marine officer’s indolence extended even to govern the timing of his outbursts of temper. In fact, his momentary silence appeared to discomfit Ashton, judging by the expression on the sea-officer’s face as he regarded Hyde.

  ‘The fool, sir?’ asked Hyde. ‘Did you suggest I might be a suitable candidate to play the fool?’ There was a note of controlled menace in Hyde’s voice that Frey found quite unnerving, despite the fact that it was not directed at himself.

  Ashton’s face paled. ‘A joke, Hyde, a joke.’

  And then Hyde had closed the distance between the flimsy door to Frey’s cabin and the third lieutenant with a single stride and thrust his face into Ashton’s. ‘A joke, d’you say, sir? Well, well, a joke … A joke to make a fellow laugh, eh? Ain’t that what a joke’s for, eh Josiah? Well ain’t it? Say yay or nay. You crack ‘em: you should know all about ‘em.’

  ‘A joke, yes.’ Ashton was cornered, wary. He shot an embarrassed glance at Frey.

  ‘To make us laugh, eh? Eh?’ Hyde was relentless; he began to move forward, forcing Ashton backwards.

  ‘Yes.’ Ashton appealed mutely to Frey who remained silent.

  ‘Good,’ persisted Hyde. ‘Since we’re agreed on the purpose of a joke, perhaps you’d like to share one with me, Josiah. Listen; if there is a fool hereabouts, it is you. What you hope to achieve by your attitude towards poor Marlowe is your own affair, but whatever it is, or was, you were unwise to make it so public. The man has suffered a humiliation and has, by all the signs this morning, reinvigorated himself. I should scarce have believed it possible had I not seen it for myself. If you have any sense, you will throw yourself on another tack.’

  Ashton began to rally under this verbal assault. ‘Why you damned impertinent bugger …’

  ‘Mr Ashton!’ Frey broke in, ‘Hold your tongue, sir! I’ll not countenance any further discord.’ Frey looked at Hyde and observed the marine officer had said his piece. He relaxed and turned away, but Ashton was not prepared to accept advice.

  ‘Oh, you won’t, won’t you? And what will you do, Frey? Toady to the captain?’

  ‘What the devil’s the matter with you, Ashton?’ Frey asked, but Hyde broke in, sensing a real quarrel in the offing.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Josiah, stow your confounded gab and leave us in peace.’

  ‘Damn you, and don’t “Josiah” me. The pair of you …’

  ‘Are what?’ snapped Frey, suddenly and ferociously intense. The gleam in his eye seemed to restrain Ashton who swung away, muttering, flung open the door of his own cabin and disappeared, slamming it with such force that the entire bulkhead shuddered. Frey and Hyde looked at each other.

  ‘What the devil was that all about?’ asked Hyde in a low voice.

  ‘Just a squall,’ said Frey, subsiding, ‘but he wants to watch that tongue of his, or it’ll land him in trouble.’

  Both officers, aware that the flimsy partition failed to provide the conditions for private speculation, let the matter drop. Neither wanted the discord to persist and both had served long enough to know the benefits of silent toleration in the confined world of a frigate’s wardroom.

  For Drinkwater, the remainder of that day was spent quietly. Having observed the improvement in the weather and determined Andromeda’s, latitude at local noon, he went below to enjoy a nap. Woken by Frampton at eight bells in the afternoon watch, he sat and wrote up his journal, indulging himself further with a little self-congratulation.

  It was clear, he wrote, that Lieutenant Marlowe’s indisposition was some form of self-abasement consequent upon his unfortunate experience off the Wight, and it occurred to me that his lack of confidence must spring, not from a general incompetence, but some past event. I have observed poor Frey much affected by the loss of Jas. Quilhampton and the subsequent ordeal of his court-martial.

  Drinkwater stopped for a moment and stared into the middle distance. Poor Frey; the damage to the little cutter Kestrel had resulted in her being abandoned in Norwegian waters. As the senior surviving officer, Frey had had to be judged by a court-martial to determine the extent of her damage in action and the justification for her loss to the naval service. That it had been Drinkwater himself, supported by a survey by Birkbeck, who had pronounced the cutter in an unfit state to withstand the rigours of a passage across the North Sea and ordered her to be abandoned, ameliorated Frey’s situation. Nevertheless, the experience of reliving the eve
nts in the Vikkenfiord, from which he had been striving to distance himself, revived those feelings Frey had hoped to forget. Not normally given to outward displays of passion or temperament, Frey had become even more introspective. Drinkwater had blamed himself for much of this. It pained him greatly both to have lost his oldest friend and to see another in such poor spirits. He, himself, bore a deep guilt for Quilhampton’s death and Frey’s grief. The consolation of knowing that he, and they, had done their duty, wore thin to an officer who had been doing his duty for a lifetime. Frey was no less wounded than had been James Quilhampton, when he had lost a hand at Kosseir.

  And yet it had been this concern for Frey which had given him the clue to Marlowe’s lack of spirit, and Drinkwater found himself wondering about the circuitous nature of events. He dipped his pen, wiped off the excess ink, and began writing again.

  Marlowe’s introspection was not dissimilar, and from this I therefore concluded Marlowe was obsessed by some event, and that if he were not, if he possessed no spirit, my appeal to him would prove this by its failure. In the event, matters fell out otherwise and I discovered him more of a man of parts than I would have superficially judged. This gives me some satisfaction, and whatever may come of this chase, we may see Marlowe a better man at the end of it than at its commencement.

  Drinkwater waited a moment while the ink dried, then turned the page and resumed writing.

  It is, moreover, incontrovertible evidence of the workings of providence that out of the consequences of James’s death, should come salvation to another soul.

  For a moment Drinkwater looked at these words then, with a grim, self-deprecating smile he took his penknife from his pocket and neatly excised the page. He had a sailor’s horror of tempting providence, especially when it touched him closely. The dream of the white lady had been too vivid for that.

  ‘The Atlantic is a vast ocean which extends from pole to pole,’ Birkbeck said, regarding the half-circle of midshipmen about him, ‘and is divided into that part of it which lies in the northern hemisphere and is consequently known as the North Atlantic Ocean, and that part of it which lies in the southern hemisphere and is named accordingly. However, to seamen it is further subdivided; the Western Ocean is the name commonly applied to that portion of the North Atlantic which lies west of the British Isles and must needs be crossed when a passage is made to America or Canada. There is also that part which is known as the Sargasso, an area of some vagueness, but set generally about the equator. Now what is the equator, Mr Paine?’