The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Not at all. There, they are afloat now’

  Andromeda, which had been listing as the launch reached the outboard extremity of its traverse and hung suspended above the sea, now recoiled from her forsaken burden. The launch had been lowered so that with a resounding smack the sea had embraced its long hull. A moment later her crew had cast off the falls and these had been recovered. Tossing oars, the launch’s bowman bore off and the heavy boat was manoeuvred clear of the frigate’s tumblehome. Then her oars were being plied energetically, and with Ashton sitting in the stern and Midshipman Paine standing at the tiller, she was headed gallantly for the shore, a red ensign at her stern and the scarlet of Sergeant McCann’s marines a bright spot against the velvet blue of the Atlantic.

  All hands on deck lingered to watch the launch diminish as it drew off towards the rock-strewn inlet. Beside Drinkwater, Marlowe had come aft and taken up his glass again.

  ‘I can see masts and yards beyond those rocks, sir,’ he observed. A brig, by the look of her. Certainly no squadron.’

  ‘D’you see an ensign?’ asked Drinkwater, fishing for his own glass, extending it and levelling it against a backstay.

  ‘There’s some bunting hanging up, but it’s blowing away from us. Looks like red and white … No, I can’t say for sure, sir.’

  ‘Well, no matter, Ashton’s almost there now; we’ll know soon enough.’ Drinkwater closed his glass again. ‘Where’s Mr Birkbeck?’

  ‘Gone below sir, to check the well,’ said Frey. ‘I have the ship, sir.’

  Drinkwater nodded. ‘Very well, Mr Frey. By the bye, have you broken your fast yet?’

  Frey shook his head. ‘I can wait a little longer.’

  ‘You may have to wait some hours. Here, Mr Marlowe, do you take the deck. Frey, join me for some breakfast.’

  Drinkwater looked at the first lieutenant. Marlowe had gone pale. ‘Come, come, Mr Marlowe, ‘tis nothing. Send for a sextant and subtend the height of the peak and the shore. If the arc grows quickly, you will mark the rate at which the ship drifts inshore. Should you get an increase of say one eighth in an hour, brace up and stand offshore. I shall only be below.’

  Marlowe swallowed and nodded. ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he acknowledged, glancing anxiously at the white-fringed reefs surrounding Santa Cruz.

  Turning, Drinkwater led Frey below. ‘How does a man become a first luff with such a nervous disposition?’ he asked himself, pitying poor Marlowe and wondering if his confidence might not have been misplaced after all. The last thing he saw of Marlowe was him sending a midshipman below for his sextant.

  Breakfast in the cabin was enjoyed in silence. Frey was tired after his long watch and Drinkwater, having relinquished the deck, was now filled with anxiety. However, when the noise of stamping feet and the changed motion of the ship revealed Marlowe had decided to get under weigh, Drinkwater relaxed.

  ‘He’ll be all right, sir,’ Frey said.

  ‘I hope you are right.’

  As Drinkwater poured a second cup of coffee, Marlowe put Andromeda on the port tack, standing offshore to the northward.

  ‘There you are, sir. I told you so.’

  Drinkwater stared astern out through the stern windows to where Santa Cruz appeared like a picture in a slide show.

  ‘I believe you are right, Mr Frey.’

  Frey smiled. ‘A pretty sight, don’t you think?’ he asked, adding ‘Flores means the island of flowers.’

  Drinkwater smiled. ‘You are certainly well informed. I wonder if Bonaparte will find the view so congenial? Will you make a painting of it?’

  Frey nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I admire the skill, but why d’you do it? I mean it’s charming and a delight, and something to mark the occasion, but the effort surely outweighs the advantages.’

  Frey grinned. ‘To be sure; but it is no rational matter. One is compelled to do it.’

  ‘Compelled? D’you mean to say you are not a rational creature?’ Drinkwater asked with a grin.

  ‘If you mean by that question, am I unmoved by reason? No, of course not, but if you mean do I submit upon occasion to some inner prompting? Then yes, I do. We think we are rational beings, attributing our actions to logical thought, but consider sir, we feel first and often act upon our feelings. Our thoughts arise from our feelings …’

  ‘You mean our emotions dominate our thinking?’

  ‘Oh, yes, most certainly; but what makes us rational is that we can think about our emotions. It is from this response that the urge to paint or draw comes.’

  ‘Then your artistic achievement is no more than an urge to copy.’

  ‘To record, perhaps to reproduce, but no more. I make no claim to be a great artist.’

  Drinkwater felt the conversation touched a raw nerve. Had his own thinking been too much influenced by his emotions? The possibility made him shudder inwardly.

  They might have discussed this longer had not a peremptory knock announced the arrival of Midshipman Dunn.

  ‘Yes, Mr Dunn?’ asked Drinkwater, wondering what problem Marlowe had conjured up for himself.

  ‘There’s a ship, sir, bearing down towards us from the north-east.’

  ‘Colours?’

  ‘Can’t see yet, sir.’

  Drinkwater shot a quick glance at Frey. ‘The Antwerp squadron?’

  Frey shrugged. ‘No peace for the wicked,’ he muttered.

  ‘Very well, Mr Dunn. Have Mr Marlowe clear for action!’

  ‘You fear the worst?’ said Frey, hauling himself wearily to his feet.

  Drinkwater gave a short laugh. ‘I’m just following my feelings, Mr Frey!’

  CHAPTER 11

  Diplomacy

  May 1814

  Mr Ashton lost sight of the ship sooner than those aboard Andromeda saw him disappear behind the outer reef of exposed rocks. At sea level, among the tossing wave crests, with his mind cast ahead on the coming hours, apart from a single glance astern to see the frigate’s hull behind a rearing sea and only her topsails and upper masts visible, he gave her no thought at all. To say he was puffed up with the importance of his mission would be only a half-truth, for as is common with men of his stamp, it went against the grain to assume even delegated gravity from a man whom one despised. On the other hand, while in the politest society Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater might be regarded as de trop, Lieutenant Ashton knew well enough that while at sea, the commander of a British man-of-war possessed a degree of power not given to many. He was, therefore, in something of a quandary, half wishing to inflate himself, yet concerned that since he was not Captain Drinkwater’s favourite, he had been sent upon this mission for reasons as yet unclear to him.

  However, the effort of the seamen at the oars as they lent forward, then heaved backwards, was testimony enough to the fact that he had been entrusted with an independent task. He cast a quick look at Sergeant McCann and his lobsters, sitting bolt upright, their plumed billycocks foursquare upon their heads and their muskets between their gaitered knees. Then he transferred his attention to Paine. The lad was standing up, leaning on the big tiller as he strove to keep the heavy launch from broaching.

  ‘Take her in beyond the reef, Mr Paine,’ Ashton said self-importantly, ‘and then we shall find some sort of a landing, I daresay’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Ashton felt a little more composed after this brief exchange; he had finally decided that the importance of his mission overrode personal considerations. As if echoing this sentiment, Mr Paine gave a little cough and said, ‘May I ask something, sir?’

  ‘What is it?’ Ashton responded expansively.

  ‘This island …’

  ‘Is Flores, Mr Paine, westernmost of the Azores.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ replied Paine, concealing his irritation at being patronized, ‘but is it where they are going to keep Boney?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Ashton, looking again at the volcanic mass of the mountainous interior and the vegetation clinging in profusion to its
lower slopes. ‘Once here, the world will forget him.’

  ‘Wasn’t it Prometheus who was chained to a rock, sir?’

  Ashton felt this chatty atmosphere was not one to be encouraged, especially as his knowledge of Greek mythology was sketchy. ‘I daresay, Mr Paine, it might well have been …’

  ‘It was, sir.’ The voice was Sergeant McCann’s, and he added conversationally, ‘And so too was Andromeda, chained to a rock by her mother who was jealous of her beauty — a curious conjunction, seeing as how the ship is so named …’

  ‘And it was Perseus who released her,’ Paine added enthusiastically, ‘then fell in love with her and …’

  ‘Hold your damned tongues, the pair of you!’ snapped Ashton, aware that matters had got out of hand. The man at stroke oar was grinning. ‘And what’s the matter with you? Wipe that foolish smile off your face, or I’ll see to it with the cat later.’ The man’s face changed to a dark and sullen anger. ‘What’s your name?’ Ashton asked.

  ‘Shaw,’ muttered the stroke oarsman.

  ‘Shaw, eh. Well mind your manners, Shaw.’ And Ashton, having established his position, leaned back in the stern of the now silent boat and contemplated the surge of white water about the approaching reef and the little brig beyond it. The hiss and slop of the following sea, the creak of thole pins, the faint grunts of the oarsmen and the splash of the oar-blades were now the only sounds to accompany his contemplation. Fifteen long minutes later, the launch swept inside the reef and into its shelter. The tiny anchorage opened up ahead of them, and beyond a strip of beach, the town, which was no more than a village.

  Within the embrace of the rocks lay the brig, moored stem and stern, while some brightly painted fishing craft were drawn up on the beach beyond. Several of these were the slender canoas which the Azoreans used to hunt whales offshore. As the launch swept past the brig, a few curious faces stared down at them.

  ‘Look out, boys,’ someone aboard the brig shouted, ‘the fooking press-gang’s here!’

  ‘Damned impertinence,’ growled Ashton, while a curious Paine caught the name Mary Digby and the port of registry of Sunderland upon her stern.

  There were a few idlers on the beach, too, some gathered about the fishing boats, others with lines running offshore. They were all watching the launch run in towards the beach. One man shouted something, though their ignorance of Portuguese prevented them from knowing whether it was a greeting or a complaint that Paine had carried away a hook and line.

  ‘We must land on the beach,’ Ashton pronounced.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Paine quickly, leaning on the tiller to head the launch directly for the half-moon of sand.

  ‘Oars.’ The men ceased pulling, their oars rising horizontally while they lay on the looms and caught their breath. The momentum of the launch carried it in a final glide towards the beach.

  ‘Toss oars!’ The double-banked oars rose unsteadily to the vertical and Paine gave the final order that had them lowered, blades forward, with a dull clatter. A moment later the launch scrunched upon the sharp-smelling volcanic sand. The bowman leaped ashore with the painter. He was followed by the two men at the forward oars and the trio heaved the boat a little higher as a low swell followed her and broke upon the beach.

  Lieutenant Ashton looked at them and then at Paine. ‘Are you proposing to land me or the boat’s crew, Mr Paine?’ he asked sarcastically.

  ‘Heave her up a little more,’ Paine ordered, blushing.

  ‘No, no, no,’ expostulated Ashton, ‘there’s no need for all that.’ The lieutenant rose with the petulant air of a man put out on another’s behalf, and stepped up on the aftermost thwart. The two oarsmen seated there drew aside. One of them was Shaw, the sailor whom Ashton had threatened to flog, and he glared up at Ashton, but Ashton did not notice. He clambered forward over successive thwarts, the oarsmen drawing aside for him. Stepping momentarily on the gunwhale, he jumped ashore, but turned and slipped on the bladder-wrack. He half-fell, but caught himself and, while his coat tail dangled in the wet and slithery seaweed that lay on the tideline, he avoided besmirching his white breeches.

  ‘Damnation!’ he swore. The boat’s crew to a man, looked out across the harbour as though the view was unsurpassable. One or two shoulders shook with what might have been mirth, but Ashton was staring at Paine whose face was almost contorted in the effort of self-control. ‘Mr Paine, the boat’s crew are to remain aboard. Sergeant McCann, you may land two sentinels.’

  Ashton brushed the sand from his hands, turned about and began to ascend the sloping beach. He was met by an officer in the brown tunic of a regiment of caçadores.

  ‘Welcome to Flores, sir,’ the swarthy officer said pleasantly in good English.

  ‘Er, obliged, I’m sure,’ mumbled the astonished Ashton.

  The Portuguese officer smiled. ‘I am Lieutenant Da Silva. I served in Spain with General Wellesley. At Talavera,’ Da Silva added as Ashton appeared even more perplexed, but the penny dropped and Ashton took the proferred hand, aware that it and his right cuff were mucky from contact with the wet wrack on the sand. Serve the dago right, Ashton thought venomously, but he smiled as he responded to the vigorous shake of the Portuguese officer’s hand. ‘I have a message for the Governor — the Alcaid,” he added pompously.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Da Silva replied, indicating the way. ‘Please come with me.’

  ‘Can you make out her colours, Mr Frey?’ Drinkwater’s voice betrayed his anxiety as he fumbled in his tail-pocket, extended the Dollond glass and clapped it to his right eye. He swore at the difficulty of bringing the strange ship into focus and hoped Frey’s sharper eyes would spot the ensign.

  ‘No, sir, hidden behind the tops’ls.’

  ‘Damnation,’ Drinkwater hissed under his breath.

  ‘Sir …’ Frey spoke slowly, ‘there’s something familiar about her…’

  For a moment Drinkwater’s glass captured the image of the approaching ship which left an impression upon his retina. He instantly agreed with Frey and they simultaneously identified her: ‘It’s that Russian frigate … What’s its confounded name?’

  ‘The Gremyashchi!’

  ‘What the devil’s she doing here?’ Drinkwater asked no one in particular, lowering his glass, his heart suddenly hammering in his breast. But he already knew the answer, just as Marlowe ran up, two fingers to the fore-cock of his hat.

  ‘Cleared for action, sir!’ he reported, staring over Drinkwater’s shoulder at the approaching ship foaming towards them, running before the persisting north-easter. ‘That’s that Russian we sailed from Dover with!’ he said.

  ‘Aye, it is … Nevertheless, it’s as well to take no chances,’ Drinkwater remarked obscurely, trying to think tactically. It was enough that Captain Rakov was here, off the Azores; the reason why could wait. ‘Very well, gentlemen. Mr Birkbeck, do you bring the ship onto the larboard tack, then heave-to athwart her hawse …’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  ‘Mr Frey, you shall run out the starboard battery when I give the word. Load single ball. Mr Marlowe, be so kind as to have the fore-castle carronades loaded with powder only. We shall,’ Drinkwater paused a moment and braced himself as, under Birkbeck’s orders, Andromeda turned away from her easterly course and swung to the north-north-west, to sail at an approximate right angle to the Russian frigate’s course. He turned to Birkbeck: ‘Ten minutes should see us close enough …’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ acknowleged the master.

  ‘We shall’, Drinkwater resumed, ‘fire the unshotted carronades to bring her to. If she runs down any more I intend to cripple her, Mr Frey, aim high and knock her sticks about.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  ‘Sir, I…’ Marlowe’s face wore an expression of grave concern.

  ‘Not now, Mr Marlowe,’ Drinkwater said dismissively ‘To your posts, gentlemen, to you posts,’ and seeing Marlowe hesitate, Drinkwater rubbed his hands and added, ‘Briskly now, briskly!’

  Marlowe
shrugged, turned on his heel and ran forward along the starboard gangway. Birkbeck caught Drinkwater’s eye and the latter raised his eyebrow; Birkbeck smiled and turned back to watch the approaching ship.

  Drinkwater raised his glass again. He could see it was the Gremyashchi now, the figurehead of Mars the god of war clearly identified her, and her aspect was opening so that he could just see the white flag with its dark blue diagonal cross fluttering beyond the leech of the main topsail. As Andromeda gathered speed on her new tack, the fly of the Russian ensign was again occluded behind the bellying sail. He lowered his telescope a fraction and could just make out a dark gaggle of officers on her quarterdeck.

  A flurry of activity could be seen on the Gremyashchi’s deck and the straining main course seemed to belly even more, losing its driving power as the sheets were slacked off and then the big sail rose to the yard under the tug of the buntlines and the clew garnets.

  Was Rakov clewing up in order to give battle, or merely to exchange pleasantries?

  ‘Now sir?’ asked an equally anxious Birkbeck.

  ‘Now is as good a time as ever,’ Drinkwater said, coolly, feigning indifference, and Birkbeck’s voice rang out with the order to ‘clew up both courses and heave her to’. A moment later, Andromeda’s main yards were braced round and their sails curved back against the mast, bringing the British frigate to a gently pitching standstill. Drinkwater drew in his breath and hailed the forecastle.

  ‘Mr Marlowe! Fire!’

  The carronades forward gave their short, imperative bark. The cloud of powder smoke blew back over the deck, carrying its sharp stench to the quarterdeck. The Russian ship was now some seven or eight cables away, broad on the starboard bow and Drinkwater scrutinized her, eager to see what the Russian commander would do in response.

  For several minutes the Gremyashchi continued to bear down on them, seemingly contemptuous of the smaller British frigate almost in her track.