The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  ‘I’m not sure I do, sir,’ said Ashton.

  ‘I don’t want Andromeda to be the first to show her teeth, Mr Ashton, though I hope we shall draw first blood.’ Drinkwater paused, then added for Ashton’s benefit, ‘If we are to fire into a Russian ship, I need the pretext of self-defence …’

  ‘Ah, I see, I beg pardon …’

  ‘Very well. Mr Marlowe,’ Drinkwater turned to the first lieutenant, ‘I leave the upper deck guns in your hands, but the same procedure is to be followed.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Mr Hyde,’ Drinkwater swung round on the marine officer, ‘your men are to do their best to pick off anyone foolish enough to show himself, but particularly any officers. Pray do not permit any of your men to anticipate my order to open fire.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Mr Birkbeck, I shall want the ship handled with all your skill. I shall feint several times at their bows and if you can oblige me, bear up and rake, preferably across their sterns.’ Drinkwater turned back to the lieutenants, ‘So you gentlemen in the gun-deck must be aware that if we ain’t standing off and knocking the sticks out of them, I shall want the elevation dropped and shot sent down the length of their decks. Such treatment may demoralize the soldiers among ‘em. We shall see.

  As for the Russian, well Rakov is our greatest threat, the more so because we don’t know his orders or his intentions. We do know he ain’t here on a picnic and I am convinced he followed us from Calais suspecting our intention and determined to stop us. It all depends upon the mettle of the man and when and where he chooses to engage us. My guess is he may try and overwhelm us when we are otherwise occupied, but at least he has to work his way up from the lee station first…’

  ‘He appears to be doing that already,’ interrupted Ashton, indicating the ships over Drinkwater’s shoulder.

  ‘Indeed he does, Mr Ashton,’ replied Drinkwater, who had observed the Gremyashchi’s converging course some moments earlier, ‘but then I should have been surprised if he hadn’t, eh?’ Drinkwater paused and looked round them all. ‘Well now, are there any questions?’ He paused as the officers shook their heads. ‘No? Good. Well, let us hope providence gives us at least a chance, gentlemen. Good fortune to you all. Now, if you please, be so kind as to take post.’

  He turned and levelled his glass as they moved away. He would have liked to say something to Frey, but that would not have been fair on the others. Anyhow, what could he say? That they had a couple of hours before they would be prisoners, and while they might not be prisoners for long, the humiliation of defeat was a risk that lay beyond the greater hurdle of death itself? Such thoughts lay uneasily alongside the affirmations of duty. He sniffed as he strove to focus on the Gremyashchi, but had to wipe his eye before he accomplished this simple task. Beside him someone coughed. He kept the telescope firmly clamped to his eye socket and spoke from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Ah, Mr Marlowe, I did not deliberately keep you out of my orders; yours might be the most difficult task and I would ask you to steel yourself. If I should fall, you are to strike at once, the only proviso being that the ship has endured some enemy shot. I would not have an unnecessary effusion of blood …’

  ‘If I do that, sir, and do not prosecute the action with some energy, I may be taken for a coward.’

  ‘You may indeed, Mr Marlowe, but that is preferable to death and will at least legitimize your offspring. Believe me, sir, this damned war has gone on long enough and there are men aboard the ship deserving of a better fate.’

  ‘But, sir, by your own persuasion, if we do not stop this migration of Boney, the war may drag on.’

  ‘I like “migration”, Mr Marlowe; it implies Boney is a sum of greater proportion than one man, but you are to obey my orders, do you hear, sir?’

  ‘I hear you, sir …’

  Drinkwater suppressed a smile. Marlowe’s intention to disobey was as clear as the sunlight now dancing upon the blue waves of the ocean. He was truly steeled and his self-doubt had been banished by his sense of honour. It was a mean trick, Drinkwater concluded, and might yet add a bastard to the Ashton clan! Unconsciously, Drinkwater too resorted to the crude gallows humour of men preparing themselves for the possibility of death or wounding.

  ‘There’s a good fellow,’ he said, closing the telescope and turning to smile at the first lieutenant. ‘Now, will you have a string of bunting run up to the lee fore-tops’l yard-arm. Anything will do, just to confuse them.’ He jerked his head at the three ships. ‘They’re all flying Russian colours. I suspected they might.’

  ‘They’re trying to intimidate us,’ Marlowe asserted. ‘Damned cheek!’

  ‘Well, let’s return the compliment. And let us discharge a chase gun to draw attention to the hoist.’

  Drinkwater paid little attention to the sequence of flags that was run aloft a few minutes later beyond noting the gay colours were brilliant in the spring morning. Truth to tell, Mr Paine, to whom this duty had fallen, had paid little attention either, but the dull report of the gun gave a spurious authority to the fluttering bunting, investing it with an importance it did not have and perhaps buying Andromeda a further few minutes of respite as she bore down upon what must now be conceived as the enemy.

  For Drinkwater, patiently watching the range of the three ships decrease, the flaunting of Russian ensigns by all three ships suggested at the very least a malign intent and the connivance of the Tsar’s officers. He imagined Count Rakov must have boarded the two French ships at sea and held council with Lejeune. In fact the possibility of French and Russian ships enjoying a rendezvous to the north of the Azores seemed most likely now, accounting for the delay in the Antwerp ships appearing off the archipelago. Such an argument, ominous though it was, was but further confirmation of the factual content of what had once been a mere whisper upon the wind.

  Or upon the lips of Hortense Santhonax.

  Drinkwater paid particular attention to the Gremyashchi. Idly, as he studied the Russian ship working back to windward, he wondered what her name signified. It was no matter, and he was more interested in observing how Rakov handled her and how swiftly she answered his intentions. It was difficult to judge; at the moment she was simply close hauled and sailing harder on the wind than the two Bonapartist ships, losing a little speed by comparison, but closing with them so that if Andromeda stood on, the interception would be as near coincidental as human heart could contrive, if human heart wished for it.

  While this might be Captain Count Rakov’s desire, it was not Nathaniel Drinkwater’s, for it would be a trap from which escape would be impossible and he was aware that once he had been engaged by all three ships, or even only two, he would find it impossible to extricate himself. He therefore called the master and, without taking the glass from his eye, said, ‘Mr Birkbeck, take the stun’s’ls in if you please. After which you may clew up the main course. We will let the fore course draw a little longer.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Birkbeck picked up the speaking trumpet and within a minute or two the studding sails bellied, fluttered and then collapsed inwards, drawn into the adjacent tops to be stowed away. After this the booms were struck inboard, running into the round irons above the upper yards on the fore and main masts, until they were next required.

  ‘Main mast there!’ bellowed Birkbeck, ‘Clew garnets there! Rise tacks and sheets!’

  Without the driving power of the studding sails and main course, Andromeda slowed perceptibly. While the Gremyashchi continued to haul up to windward, closing her consorts, the common bearing of the three ships began to draw ahead.

  ‘Bring her round two points to starboard, Mr Birkbeck.’

  ‘Two points to starboard, sir, aye, aye.’

  Remaining to windward, Andromeda drew on to a parallel course, slightly increasing her speed as she came on to a reach so that, after a few moments, the relative bearings of the enemy steadied again.

  ‘Mr Marlowe, another gun, I thi
nk, to draw attention to our signal.’

  The forecastle 9-pounder barked again, but prompted no response. Drinkwater began to feel an elation in his spirits. The squadron was standing on and in this apparent steadfast holding of their course, Drinkwater read a degree of irresolution on their part. Were they waiting for Rakov to act first, perhaps, in the capacity of senior officer? He was, however, acutely aware that pride always preceded a fall and his glass was most often focused on the Gremyashchi which was now slightly to windward of the French ships, though still to leeward of Andromeda, and a little less than a mile ahead, on her port bow.

  ‘Rakov dare not wear, for it would cast him too far to loo’ard and he dare not tack for fear of missing stays …’

  ‘By God, sir! You’re wrong! He’s going about!’ Marlowe’s voice cracked with excitement as ahead of them the Russian frigate turned into the wind and prepared to come round to pass closely between the French ships and Andromeda. It was a bold move and while it would mask the gunfire of her consorts, a broadside from the Gremyashchi could well serve to incapacitate the British frigate and thereby deliver her to the guns of the combined squadron.

  ‘Mr Paine!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Run up a different hoist. Make us look a little desperate.’

  ‘A little desperate, sir. Aye, aye.’

  For a brief, distracted moment Drinkwater thought there might have been a hint of sarcastic emphasis on the diminutive adjective, but then he was passing word to the gun deck: ‘Larboard battery make ready; langridge and round shot if you please.’

  Drinkwater heard the order taken up and passed below. With the angle of heel the elevating screws would need winding down. He would have to lessen the angle of heel to assist the gunners.

  ‘Mr Birkbeck! Clew up the fore-course!’

  He levelled his glass on the Gremyashchi again. She was passing through the wind now, hauling her main yards. White water streamed from her bow as she plunged into the head sea as she turned. Then she had swung and her sails rippled and filled on the port tack. She began gathering speed towards Andromeda on a reciprocal course to leeward. Instantly Drinkwater saw his opportunity. He felt the surge of excitement in his blood, felt his heartbeat increase with the audacity of it. Bold though Rakov had been, Drinkwater might out-Herod Herod.

  ‘Starboard battery make ready!’

  ‘Chain shot ready loaded sir!’ It was Frey’s voice, Frey at the quarterdeck companionway, ducking below at the same moment.

  ‘Mr Birkbeck, I want the ship taken across his bow …’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘At the last moment, d’you hear?’

  ‘You’ll rake from ahead sir?’

  ‘Exactly. Will you do it?’

  ‘Aye, sir!’

  ‘At the last moment…’

  ‘We risk taking her bowsprit with us.’

  ‘No time to worry about that, just carry us clear. Man the braces and square the yards as we come round. Mr Hyde, some target practice for you lobsters!’

  ‘Can’t wait, sir!’ Hyde called gaily back.

  No one on the upper deck was unaware of Drinkwater’s intentions and, thanks to Frey, most men on the gun-deck understood. Those that did not, knew something was about to happen and both batteries waited tensely for the opportunity to open fire.

  Drinkwater cast a quick look at Marlowe. He was so pale that his beard looked blue against his skin. ‘Remember what I said, Mr Marlowe,’ Drinkwater reminded his first lieutenant in a low voice, ‘if I should fall.’

  Marlowe looked at him with a blank stare, into which comprehension dawned slowly. ‘Oh yes, yes, sir.’ Drinkwater smiled reassuringly. Marlowe smiled bravely back. ‘I shall not let you down, sir,’ he said resolutely.

  ‘I’m sure you won’t, Mr Marlowe,’ Drinkwater replied, raising his glass again and laying it upon the fast-approaching Russian.

  Andromeda remained the windward vessel and Drinkwater knew at once that Rakov intended to use his heel to enable his guns to fire higher, aiming to cripple the British frigate, cross her stern with a raking fire and then take his time destroying her. It was always a weakness of the weather gauge that although one could dominate the manoeuvring, when it came to a duel, the leeward guns were frequently difficult to point.

  Rakov was clewing up his courses, confident that Andromeda was running into the trap with her futilely flying signals and every gunport tight shut.

  ‘D’you wish me to try another hoist, sir?’ asked Paine.

  ‘Good idea, Mr Paine,’ responded Drinkwater, adding, ‘and a gun to windward, Mr Marlowe, to add to the effect.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Details were standing out clearly now on the Gremyashchi. Her dark hull with its single, broad buff strake was foreshortened, but the scrollwork about her figurehead, her knightheads and bowsprit were clear, so clear in the Dollond glass that Drinkwater could see an officer forward, studying his own ship through a huge glass.

  ‘Keep the guns’ crews’ head down, Mr Marlowe, we’re being studied with interest.’ A moment later the unshotted starboard bow chaser blew its wadding to windward with a thump. In an unfeigned tangle of bunting and halliards which trailed out to leeward in a huge bight, Mr Paine was the very picture of the inept greenhorn struggling to get a flag hoist aloft in blustery weather; the matter could not have been better contrived if it had been deliberate!

  Beside Drinkwater, Birkbeck was sucking his teeth, a nervous habit Drinkwater had not noticed before. ‘Shall I edge her down to loo’ard, sir?’

  ‘A trifle, if you please …’

  Drinkwater’s heart was thumping painfully in his breast. What he was about to attempt was no ruse, but a huge risk. If Andromeda turned too slowly, or the men at the braces did not let the yards swing, the wind in the sails would tend to hold the ship on her original course. If he turned to early, he would give Rakov time to respond and if too late all that might result was a collision, and that would spell the end for Drinkwater and his ship.

  ‘Stand by, Mr Birkbeck!’

  Drinkwater’s voice was unnaturally loud, but it carried, and Birkbeck was beside the wheel in an instant. If only Rakov would show his intentions …

  ‘Make ready on the gun-deck!’

  Drinkwater was conscious that in another full minute it would be too late. The two frigates were racing towards each other, larboard to larboard at a combined speed of twenty knots. Gremyashchi, having the wind forward of the beam, was heeling a little more than Andromeda, exposing her port copper which gleamed dully in the sunshine. Andromeda’s heel was less, but sufficient to require almost full elevation in her port guns. Not, Drinkwater thought in those last seconds, that she would be using them first.

  The time had come for Drinkwater to commit himself and his ship to a raking swing by passing Andromeda across Gremyashchi‘s bow, come hell or high water. Just as he opened his mouth to shout the order to Birkbeck, the Gremyashchi’s larboard ports opened and her black gun muzzles appeared, somewhat jerkily as their crews hauled them uphill against the angle of heel.

  ‘Now Birkbeck! Up helm!’ Birkbeck had the helm over in a trice, but Drinkwater’s heart thundered in his breast and his skin crawled with apprehension as he watched Andromeda’s bowsprit hesitate, then start to move across the rapidly closing Gremyashchi, accelerating as the frigate responded to her rudder.

  ‘Braces there!’ Birkbeck shouted.

  ‘Starboard battery, open fire when you bear!’

  Marlowe was running aft along the starboard gangway and beneath their feet the faint tremble of gun trucks running outboard sent a tremor through the ship. Along the upper deck the warrant and petty officers at the masts and pin rails were tending the trim of the yards, driving Andromeda at her maximum speed as she swung to port, right under the bows of the Gremyashchi.

  Drinkwater saw the officer with the long glass lower it and look directly at the British ship, as though unable to believe what he had first observed in detail through his
lenses; he saw the man turn and shout aft, but Gremyashchi stood on, and even fired a gun in the excitement, a shotted gun, for Hyde cried out he had spotted the plume of water it threw up, yards away on their starboard beam. As Andromeda turned to port, the component of her forward speed was removed from the equation. The approach slowed, allowing Andromeda time to cover the distance of the offset from her windward station.

  Then the forwardmost gun of Frey’s starboard battery fired, followed by its neighbours. The concussion rolled aft as each successive gun-captain laid his barrel on the brief sight of the Russian’s bow as it flashed past his open port, like a pot shot at a magic lantern show. And on the upper deck, first the chase gun, then the short, ugly barks of the carronades as they recoiled back up their slides, followed the same sequence, the gun crews leaping round with sponges and rammers, to get in a second shot where they were able. As for Hyde’s marines, they afterwards called it a pigeon shoot, for they claimed to have picked off every visible Russian in the fleeting moments they were in a position to do so, though whether this amounted to four or seven men remained a matter of dispute for long afterwards.

  Andromeda’s rolling fire was more impressive than a broadside; there was a deliberation about it that might have been coincidence, or the fruits of twenty years of war, or the sheer bloody love of destruction enjoyed by men kept mewed up in a wooden prison for months at a time, year-in, year-out, denied the things even the meanest, most indigent men ashore enjoyed as their natural rights. And if the liveliness of the sea deprived Drinkwater of the full effect of a slow raking, the destruction wrought seemed bad enough to allow him to coolly pass his ship clear to leeward of the faltering Russian as, obedient to her helm, Andromeda swung back on to her original course and swept past the Gremyashchi, starboard to starboard. So confident had Rakov been that Drinkwater would hang on to the weather gauge that hardly a starboard gun opposed her.

  ‘Run down towards those French ships, Mr Birkbeck, then we will tack and come up with the Gremyashchi again …’