The Shadow of the Eagle

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Drive a wedge between ‘em, eh sir?’ It was Marlowe, darkened by powder smoke and the close supervision of the upper deck carronades, who ranged up alongside Drinkwater and suddenly added, ‘By God, you’re unarmed, sir!’

  Drinkwater looked down at his unencumbered waist. Neither sword nor pistol hung there. ‘God’s bones, I had quite forgot …’

  ‘I’ll get ‘em for you sir.’ And like a willing midshipman, Marlowe was gone.

  Drinkwater turned and looked at the Gremyashchi, already dropping astern on the starboard quarter. Her starboard ports were open now, and several shots flew at Andromeda, but there was no evidence of a concerted effort and it was clear Rakov had been completely outwitted and had had all his men up to windward to assist hauling his cannon quickly out against his ship’s heel.

  ‘How far from her were we, sir?’ Birkbeck asked conversationally. ‘I was rather too busy to notice.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Drinkwater replied, ‘thirty or forty yards, maybe; perhaps less; long pistol shot anyway’

  Both men spared a last look at the Gremyashci. It was impossible to say what damage they had done; none of her spars had gone by the board and only two holes were visible in the foot of her fore-topsail, but they were fast approaching the two French ships, the nearer of which had the appearance of an Indiaman and was clearly frigate built. It was oddly satisfying for Drinkwater to read the name L’Aigle on her stern, beneath the stern windows. Hortense and her intelligence seemed a world away from this!

  Beyond L’Aigle, lay the smaller French ship, a corvette by the look of her, and both had their guns run out.

  ‘Not too close, I don’t want to risk them hitting our sticks, but would like a shot at theirs.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Birkbeck replied, impassive to his commander’s paradoxical demand.

  ‘Down helm, my lads, nice and easy’ Birkbeck conned the ship round and Drinkwater walked forward and bellowed down beneath the booms, ‘Now’s your chance, Mr Ashton; larbowlines make ready and fire at will when you bear!’ He turned, ‘Ah, Marlowe, you’re just in time … Thank you.’

  Drinkwater took the sword and belt from Marlowe who laid the brace of pistols on the binnacle and hurried off. Drinkwater caught Birkbeck’s eye and raised an eyebrow.

  Then Ashton’s guns fired by division, the foward six first, then the midships group and finally the aftermost cannon, by which time the forward guns were ready again, and for fifteen minutes, as Andromeda ran parallel to L’Aigle, they kept up this rolling fire. It was returned with vigour by LAigle, but the corvette scarcely fired a shot, being masked by her consort.

  Drinkwater could see the spurts of yellow flame and the puffs of white smoke from which came the spinning projectiles, clearly visible to the quick eye.

  ‘Have a care Birkbeck, they’re using bar shot…’

  A loud rent sounded aloft and the main-topsail was horizontally ripped across three cloths and half the windward topmast shrouds were shot away, but the mast stood. A few innocuous holes appeared in L’Aigle’s sails and even the corvette suffered from some wild shot, but there appeared to be little other damage until Hyde called out there was something wrong amidships and that he had seen a cloud of splinters explode from a heavy impact.

  Drinkwater was far more concerned with the conduct of Andromeda herself. As long as he struck without being hit, he was having at least a moral effect upon his enemy. He raised his glass and could see the blue and white of infantrymen on the deck of LAigle.

  ‘Pass word to Mr Frey, I am going to rake to starboard!’ he called, turning to Birkbeck, but the master was ahead of his commander.

  ‘Let fly the maintops’l sheet…!’

  Andromeda began to slow as the driving power of the big sail was lost; LAigle and the corvette appeared to accelerate as they drew ahead, and then Birkbeck put the helm up and again Andromeda swung to port, but instead of passing under the bow of an enemy, she cut across the sterns of L’Aigle and then the corvette, whose name was now revealed as Arbeille.

  They were, however, moving away, and although having achieved his aim in allowing them to pass ahead before turning, Birkbeck’s swing to port was a little later than the copybook manoeuvre. Nevertheless, it was clear who was dominating events as Andromeda drove across the sterns of both French ships, cutting through their wakes as Frey’s guns thundered again. Nor was there any mistaking the damage inflicted, for the shattering of glass and the stoving in of the neatly carved wooden columns, the caryatids and mermaids adorning their sterns, was obvious. Staring through the Dollond glass, Drinkwater could clearly see a flurry of activity within the smashed interior of L’Aigle. By a fluke, the Russian ensign worn by the Arbeille had been shot away and a replacement was quickly hoisted in the mizen rigging: it was the tricolore.

  ‘Shall I wear her now, sir?’ Birkbeck was asking, and Drinkwater swung round, snatched a quick look at the Gremyashchi, almost two miles away by now, but still holding on to her original course. She had either sustained some damage, or was breaking off the action.

  ‘If you please, Birkbeck, let us give chase to the Russian and see what he does.’

  ‘Now they’re discarding pretence and showing their true colours, sir,’ remarked Marlowe as he returned to the quarterdeck, gesturing to the French ships. L’Aigle had joined her consort in sporting the ensign of the Revolution and Empire and both were also turning in Andromeda’s wake.

  ‘Well, sir,’ Marlowe remarked cheerfully, ‘at least we drew first blood.’

  ‘Indeed we did, Mr Marlowe,’ Drinkwater replied, ‘indeed we did.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Rules of Engagement

  May 1814

  ‘Mr Frey, sir!’

  ‘Ah, Mr Paine…’

  ‘Message from the captain, sir.’ Paine paused to catch his breath and caught Ashton’s eye. Smoke still lingered on the gun-deck and the atmosphere was acrid with the stink of burnt powder and the sweat of well over a hundred men. Having reloaded, most of the guns’ crews had squatted down and were awaiting events. Some chewed tobacco, others mopped their heads and a low, buzzing chatter filled the close air. Frey, standing upright between the beams of the deck above, stretched. His face was already grimy, but his expression was one of cheerful expectation.

  ‘Well,’ he prompted, ‘what’s the news?’

  Ashton joined them. He ran a grubby finger round the inside of his stock. Paine noticed he had yet to shave.

  ‘Captain’s compliments, gentlemen,’ Paine said diplomatically, ‘and to say the gun crews acquitted themselves very well. He don’t know how much damage we’ve done, but we ain’t, beg pardon, we haven’t suffered anything bar a few holes aloft. We’re in chase of the Russian again and Captain Drinkwater says to keep it up. He’ll do his utmost to continue manoeuvring and hitting from a distance. He says to be certain sure I tell you not to waste powder and shot and to make every discharge count.’

  Frey looked from Paine to Ashton with a smile. ‘That seems perfectly explicit, eh Josh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ashton, yawning. By rights the third lieutenant should have been turned in after standing his watch; he was beginning to feel the cumulative effects of his punitive regime of watch-and-watch.

  ‘So round one’s to us, eh young shaver?’ Frey said light-heartedly. ‘How long before we’ve caught up with the Gremyashchi? We can’t see her from down here.’

  ‘About an hour, may be a little more. We’ve reset the courses.’

  ‘We can see that from the waist,’ Ashton said with a cocky air, indicating the open space amidships and the bottoms of the boats on the booms. Sunlight shone obliquely through the interstices, the shafts prominent in the lingering gunsmoke, oscillating gently with the motion of Andromeda.

  ‘Very well, Mr Paine,’ said Frey, ‘pass our respects to Captain Drinkwater…’

  ‘And tell him we’ve suffered no casualties down here and are none the worse for the experience,’ added Ashton.

  ‘Except
for a crushed foot,’ Frey corrected reprovingly. ‘Poor little Paddy Burns tried to stop a recoiling 12-pounder.’

  Thinking of the bare-legged powder-monkeys, Paine grimaced and Ashton said callously, ‘The damned little fool got in the way.’ Frey pointedly ignored Ashton and nodded dismissal to the midshipman before he turned to cross the deck and peer out of a gun-port to see if he could catch a glimpse of the pursued Gremyashchi. As Paine made off, Ashton called him back.

  ‘Mr Marlowe all right, Mr Paine?’

  ‘Mr Marlowe, sir? Why yes …’

  ‘Good, good.’ Ashton paused, but Paine waited, puzzled at the question. Ashton realized the need of an explanation was both superfluous and demeaning, especially to a midshipman, and waved Paine away, but Paine’s own solicitude had been awakened.

  ‘Sir!’ He arrested Ashton’s turn forward and Frey looked up from his position crouched by the gun-port.

  Ashton swung round and stared at the importunate midshipman.

  ‘What happened to Burns, sir?’ Paine asked.

  ‘Kennedy’s taking his foot off now,’ Ashton said coldly and, turning on his heel, resumed his walk forward.

  Paine ran back up to the quarterdeck where he caught Drinkwater’s eye. ‘Beg pardon, sir, both Mr Frey and Mr Ashton send their respects and perfectly understand your orders.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And they’ve had one casualty’

  ‘Oh? Who is it?’

  ‘A powder-boy, sir,’ Paine said, recalling just in time Captain Drinkwater’s proscription of the term ‘powder-monkey’, especially by the young gentlemen.

  ‘Which one?’ Drinkwater asked.

  ‘Burns, sir.’

  ‘Burns…’ Drinkwater frowned. ‘Oh, yes, I know the lad; dark hair and a squint. Was he killed?’

  ‘No, sir, a recoiling gun-truck crushed his foot. He’s in the surgeon’s hands at the moment.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Paine. And you, are you all right?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir, thank you.’

  Drinkwater nodded and then resumed his scrutiny of the Gremyashchi on their port bow; the Russian frigate was nearer now and Paine was aware he had been absent from the quarterdeck for some time, so much had they shortened the distance. They would be in action again soon and a moment of panic seized him and he blurted out, ‘Beg pardon again, sir, but I’m very sorry …’

  Drinkwater turned and looked at the youngster in some surprise. ‘What on earth for, Mr Paine?’

  ‘For making such a mess of getting that flag hoist aloft, sir.’

  Drinkwater’s smile cracked into a brief laugh and he patted the midshipman on the shoulder. ‘My dear Mr Paine, think nothing of it. As far as the enemy was concerned, I think you managed the business most ably. As a ruse-de-guerre I imagine it achieved its objective.’

  Paine’s incomprehension was plain, but he did not question Drinkwater’s reply. On any other occasion he would have been dressed down by one of the officers for making so abysmal a hash of the simple task. Action, it seemed, was played to different rules, those of engagement he supposed, so he resumed his station, puzzled but happier. He had survived what Mr Frey had called the first round; perhaps he would be lucky and survive the second.

  Lieutenant Hyde took advantage of the hiatus to look to his men. Instructing his two corporals to issue more cartridges and ball, he ordered Sergeant McCann to make his rounds of the sentries posted throughout the frigate.

  ‘See the boys are all right, Sergeant, and make sure they don’t feel left out of things.’

  McCann ignored the deck sentinels at the after end of the quarterdeck. They were always stationed there, action or not, to maintain a guard and to throw the life-preservers over the side if any unfortunate jack fell overboard.

  Below, on the gun-deck, there was a sentry at the forward and after companionways to ensure no one ran below without authority. By this means the cowardly or nervously disposed were kept at their stations and prevented from seeking the shelter of the orlop deck. Only stretcher parties, officers or midshipmen carrying messages were permitted to pass the companionways, along with the powder-boys like Paddy Burns, who carried ammunition up from the magazines and shot lockers to satisfy the demands of the gun-captains.

  McCann ascertained there had been no problems with either of his men at these posts and went below where, in the berth-deck and the orlop, other solitary marines did their duty despite the mayhem raging on the decks above. Spirit room, outer magazine, the stores and the hatchways to the holds, each had its guard and every man professed all was well, one asking to be relieved for a moment while he in turn eased himself. McCann obliged then left the comforted soldier to his miserable, ill-lit duty in the mephitic air of the hold.

  McCann returned up the forward companionway and walked aft along the gun-deck, exchanging the odd remark with several of the gun crews.

  ‘Cheer up, Sergeant,’ one man chaffed, ‘what’ve you got to be glum about up there in all that sunshine and iron rain!’

  ‘Mind your manners,’ McCann responded morosely and then found himself confronted by Lieutenant Ashton.

  ‘Silence there!’ Ashton ordered, obstructing the marine. ‘Well, McCann, what the deuce are you doing down here?’

  McCann recognized provocation in Ashton’s voice. ‘Checking the sentries, sir, on the orders of Lieutenant Hyde.’

  Are you, indeed …?’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir …’

  Ashton drew aside with deliberate slowness. ‘Off you go, Sergeant Yankee.’

  McCan paused and confronted the urbane Ashton. With difficulty he mastered his flaring anger, though his eyes betrayed him, allowing Ashton to add insolently, ‘Have a care, Yankee, have a care.’

  McCann turned and almost ran aft up the companionway, gasping in the sunlight and fresh air, as if he had escaped the contagion of a plague-pit. He had no idea why Ashton had staged the unpleasant little scene, but it crystallized all the pent up venom in McCann’s tortured soul. As for Ashton, idling away the time before Andromeda resumed the action, he felt little beyond a petty amusement that might have been nothing more than the result of mere high spirits and the elation of a man carried away by the excitement of the morning, if it had not had such fatal consequences.

  As Andromeda slowly overhauled the Gremyashchi, Drinkwater strove to make some sense out of the situation. Astern of the British frigate, L’Aigle and Arbeille were coming up hand over fist, though they would not reach Andromeda before she herself was in range of the Russian. It was clear Rakov, who could have brought Drinkwater to battle within a few moments by reducing sail, was content to trail his coat, drawing the British after him, in the hope that he could pin Andromeda long enough for the two French ships to come up and overwhelm her.

  In short, it seemed to the anxious Drinkwater that, having won a brief advantage, he was now allowing himself to be drawn into a trap which could have only one consequence. His alternative was to put the wind a point abaft the beam and escape on Andromeda’s fastest point of sailing. Within this tactical debate there lurked a small political imperative. Rather than run, Drinkwater considered whether to back his hunch, or not. If he proved right, then he might yet extricate his ship from what otherwise seemed her inevitable humiliation. There was something about Rakov’s trailing away to the north that did not quite square with the setting of a trap. Drinkwater could not quite put his finger on his reason for thinking thus, beyond an intuition; perhaps that first raking broadside of Andromeda’s had had an effect, and perhaps the damage had been more moral than physical.

  Captain Count Rakov had been sent with his ship to prevent Drinkwater from thwarting the Tsar’s plan. That much was obvious; but what were Rakov’s rules of engagement? It was inconceivable that having chased Andromeda out to the Azores, he did not have any! But was Rakov empowered to destroy a British man-of-war? Such an event would at the very least cause a rupture between London and St Petersburg and might be a casus belli, touching off a n
ew European war. As matters stood, the exchange of fire between Gremyashchi and Andromeda could be written off as ‘accidental’, an unfortunate misunderstanding which both governments regretted profoundly.

  Drinkwater lowered his glass, his mind made up. He was lucky, damned lucky. As things stood at that precise moment, he had enough room to call Rakov’s bluff.

  ‘Mr Birkbeck!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Wear ship! I want to pass between those two Frenchmen. Mr Marlowe! Mr Hyde! D’you hear?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  ‘Mr Paine, be so kind as to let the officers on the gun-deck know my intentions.’

  The cries of acknowledgement were followed by a flurry of activity as Andromeda gave up her chase and prepared to turn to bite her own pursuers. While his action with Gremyashchi could be dressed up as a regrettable incident, L’Aigle and Arbeille both now flew an outlawed flag. ‘Mr Protheroe,’ he called to an elderly master’s mate who ran up and touched his fore-cock. ‘Be so kind as to make a log entry to the effect that the frigate of which we are in pursuit has been determined to be unequivocally Russian, we have broken off the chase and intend to proceed to compel the two privateers formerly in company with her and sheltering under her colours, to strike the former French tricolour which they promptly hoisted when the Russian frigate stood away from them.’ Poor Protheroe looked confused and nodded uncomprehendingly. ‘Write it down, man, quickly now …’

  Flustered, Protheroe finally complied and Drinkwater repeated his formal explanation. If he fell in the next two or three hours, posterity would have that much ‘fact’ to chew upon.

  ‘I have it, sir,’ Protheroe acknowledged. Such a veneer of legality would suffice. But if Rakov followed him round to close the trap, Drinkwater would know the worst. Birkbeck was looking at him expectantly.

  ‘Ready, Mr Birkbeck?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Carry on.’

  ‘Up helm!’ Birkbeck sang out, and the shadows of the masts, sails and stays once more waltzed across the white planking as Andromeda answered her rudder and turned about.