The Shadow of the Eagle (10 page)

What if they missed the French ships? What if Hortense had lied? What if she told the truth and he miscalculated? What if the Tsar changed his mind? What if … ? What if … ? Slowly the thoughts detached themselves, broke up and shrank, slipping away from him so that only the blackness was there, a blackness into which he felt himself fall unresisting, an endless engulfment that seemed to shrink him to nothing, like a trumpet note fading.

Drinkwater woke with a start. Sweat poured from him and his garments were twisted about his body like a torque. He felt bound and breathless. Sweat dried clammily upon him and the latent heat of its evaporation chilled him. There was a dull ache in his jaw. Then he remembered: he had been drowning! He was wet from the sea; gasping from having been dragged beneath something monstrous, but beneath what?

And then the entire dream came back to him: the water, the strange ship, the noise of clanking chains, the white and ghostly figure that had reared above him: Hortense, pallid as a corpse, beautiful and yet ghastly, as though her whole face was riven by scars. Yet the scars were not marks, but the twists of serpents. It was Hortense, but it was also the Medusa which seemed to be borne as a figurehead on the bow of the strange and clattering ship. Then he was under water and lighting for his life as the noise reached a terrifying crescendo from which he knew he must escape, or die.

As he lay mastering his terror, he recognized the old dream. Once, when he was an unhappy midshipman, it had come to him regularly, marking the miserable days of his existence aboard the frigate
Cyclops.
Since then it had visited him occasionally, as a presentient warning of some impending event. But now he felt no such alarm, as though this terror from his youth could only frighten him when he was weak and exhausted. It was just a visitation from the past; a relic. Old men feared death, not the wearying vicissitudes of misfortune. These, experience taught them, were to be confronted and mastered.

In the past, Hortense’s image had sometimes occupied the post of what he had come to call the ‘white lady’. Perhaps it was because she had again entered his life that the dream had come roaring out of his subconscious. As he lay there, staring up at the deck-head which glowed in the last reflections of daylight coming in through the stern windows, he mastered the lingering fear which was rapidly shrinking to apprehension. His thoughts ordered themselves slowly but surely, returning him to the state of conscious anxiety from which he had escaped in sleep.

Any analysis of his actions must be seen in the light of good faith. The orders the prompted prince had given him cleared his yard-arm as far as the Admiralty were concerned; all his best efforts must now be bent on reaching the Azores and lying in wait for the French ships. If allied warships brought the Emperor Napoleon to the islands before the French ships arrived, so much the better. Drinkwater would be able to persuade their commanders to remain in the vicinity. If, on the other hand, the French ships lay off the islands in waiting for their Emperor, he would attack them and while he could never guarantee success, he was confident he could sufficiently damage them to prevent them rescuing their prize and carrying out their confounded stratagem.

Then an uncomfortable thought struck him. While he had a full crew, most of which had successfully fought in the Vikkenfiord, his officers were largely inexperienced. It would not have mattered if all they had had to do was act as part of Prince William Henry’s Royal Squadron. But now, while his elderly frigate was painted to a nicety, she had not refilled her magazines and was woefully short of powder and ball. True, he had a stock of langridge, grape and musket balls, but there was no substitute for good iron shot. And if that were not enough, he was victualled for no more than a month, two at the most, and carried no spare spars. These thoughts brought him from his bed.

The frigate was still close-hauled on the larboard tack, well heeled over to starboard, and the rush of water along her sides added its undertone to the monstrous creaking of the hull, the groan of the rudder stock below him and the faint tremulous shudder through the ship’s fabric as she twitched and strained to the whim of wind and sea.

Drinkwater reached the quarter-gallery, eased himself and poured water into a basin. It slopped wildly as he scooped it up into his face and brushed his teeth. His servant Frampton had long-since abandoned the captain to his slumbers, and Drinkwater was glad of the lack of fossicking attention which he sometimes found intolerably vexing. He retied his stock, dragged a comb through his hair and clubbed his queue. Finally he eased his wounded shoulder into the comfortable broadcloth of his old, undress uniform coat, pulled his boat-cloak about his shoulders and, picking his hat from the hook beside the door, went on deck.

It was almost dark when he gained the quarterdeck. Low on the western horizon a dull orange break in the overcast showed the last of the daylight. Overhead the clouds seemed to boil above the mastheads in inky whorls, yet the wind was not cold, but mild.

Seeing the captain emerge on deck and stare aloft, the officer of the watch crossed the deck. It was Frey. ‘Good evening, sir. Mr Birkbeck ordered the t’gallants struck an hour past, sir. He also had the main course clewed up.’

Drinkwater nodded then, realizing Frey could not see him properly, coughed and grunted his acknowledgement. ‘Very well, Mr Frey. Thank you.’

Frey was about to withdraw and vacate the weather rail but Drinkwater said, ‘A word with you, Mr Frey. There is something I wish to ask you.’

‘Sir?’

‘Have you any idea what we are up to?’

‘No, sir.’

‘What about scuttlebutt?’ Even in the wind, Drinkwater heard Frey sigh. ‘Come on, don’t scruple. Tell me.’

‘Scuttlebutt has it that we are off somewhere and that it is due to the, er, officer who came on board last night.’

It already seemed an age ago, yet it was not even twenty-four hours. Drinkwater cast aside the distraction. ‘And what do they say about this officer then, Mr Frey?’

‘Frankly, sir, they say it was a woman, at least, that is, the midshipmen do.’

‘Tom Paine is an intelligent imp, Mr Frey,’ Drinkwater replied, smiling. ‘He noticed straight away’

‘Then it
was
a woman?’

Drinkwater sighed. ‘Yes, though you should not attach too much importance to the fact. I’m afraid she brought disturbing intelligence, Mr Frey, not entirely unconnected with that business in the Vikkenfiord.’

Drinkwater could sense Frey’s reluctance at coming to terms with this news. ‘Then it is not over yet, sir?’

‘I fear not, my dear Frey, I fear not.’

A profound silence fell between them, if the deck of a frigate working to windward could provide such an environment. Then Frey said, ‘I think you should tell Marlowe, sir. I do not think him a bad fellow, but he feels you do not trust him, and that cannot be good, sir.’ Frey hesitated to voice his misgivings about Ashton. ‘I don’t wish to presume, sir.’

‘No, no, you do quite right to presume, Mr Frey, quite right. I fear I used him ill. It was unforgivable.’

‘He certainly took it badly, sir, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, though I think Ashton made the situation worse.’

‘Oh,’ said Drinkwater sharply, ‘in what way?’

‘Well, sir, I think he put Marlowe up to importuning you; made him stand upon his dignity, if you know what I mean.’

‘There was a time when a lieutenant had precious little dignity to stand upon.’

‘There was much made of it in the wardroom, sir.’

Drinkwater grunted again. ‘Well, well, I must put things to rights tomorrow’

‘You don’t mind …’

‘If you speak your mind? No, no. Under the circumstances, not at all.’

‘It’s just…’ Frey faltered and Drinkwater saw him look away.

‘Go on. Just what?’ he prompted.

‘Nothing sir,’ Frey coughed to clear his throat, adding, ‘no, nothing at all’ As Frey moved away, Drinkwater watched him go, wondering what was on his mind.

CHAPTER 5
To Weather of the Wight

April 1814

‘Well gentlemen,’ Drinkwater looked up from the chart at the two officers before him, ‘I think I must confide in you both.’

‘Are we out of soundings then?’ Marlowe asked, a supercilious expression on his face. Drinkwater had forgotten his earlier remark, made more for the sake of its effect, than as a matter of absolute accuracy, but Marlowe’s tone reminded him. He stared at the younger man for a moment, taken aback at Marlowe’s attitude, so taken aback that a quick retort eluded him.

‘Soundings?’ he muttered. ‘No, of course not,’ then he looked up and glared at Marlowe, though he forbore from snapping at him. ‘We have yet to weather the Wight.’ He tapped the chart, pausing for a moment. ‘What I have to say I shall shortly make known to the people, but for the time being it shall be between ourselves. Once we have resolved those difficulties which we can foresee, and there are several, then having taken what remedial action lies within our compass, we can inform the ship. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly, sir,’ responded Birkbeck quickly, shooting his younger colleague a sideways glance.

‘I think so, sir.’ If Marlowe was being deliberately and sulkily obtuse, Drinkwater let the matter pass. He was resolved to be conciliatory, then Marlowe added, ‘But is that wise, sir?’

‘Is what wise?’ Drinkwater frowned.

‘Why, telling the people. Surely that is dangerous.’

‘Dangerous, Mr Marlowe? How so?’

‘Well, it seems perfectly clear to me. It could act as an incitement. If you make them privy to our thoughts, it would exceed their expectations and we should be guilty of an impropriety. Sir.’

‘You think it an impropriety to ask them to go into action without knowing why, do you?’

It was Marlowe’s turn to frown. ‘Action? What action do you think we shall be involved in?’ The first lieutenant was wearing his arch look again. It was the condescending way one might look at a senile old man, Drinkwater concluded with a mild sense of shock.

‘Well, who knows, Mr Marlowe, who knows? Though it occurs to me we might encounter an American cruiser.’ It had clearly not occurred to Marlowe. Drinkwater went on. ‘Now then, let us be seated in a little comfort. Mr Birkbeck, you have the other chart there, and if you wish to smoke, please do. Mr Marlowe, do be a good fellow and pass the decanter and three glasses …’

But Marlowe was not to be so easily pacified. Doing as he was bid, he placed the glasses on the table. ‘Look here, sir …’

But Drinkwater’s fuse had burned through. His voice was suddenly harsh as he turned on the young first lieutenant. ‘No sir! Do you look here, and listen too. We are on active service,
very
active service if I ain’t mistaken.’ Marlowe seemed about to speak, thought better of it and sat in silent resentment. Drinkwater caught Birkbeck’s eye and the older man shrugged his shoulders with an almost imperceptible movement, continuing to fill a stained clay pipe.

‘Now then, gentlemen, pay attention: what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance. It is a secret of state and I am imparting it to you both because if anything should happen to me, then I am jointly charging you two gentlemen to prosecute this matter to its extremity with the utmost vigour.’

Drinkwater had Marlowe’s attention in full now. Birkbeck knew enough of Drinkwater’s past to wear an expression of concern. Drinkwater felt he owed Birkbeck more than a mere explanation; as for Marlowe, it would do him no harm to be made aware of the proper preoccupations of experienced sea-officers.

‘I am sorry Mr Birkbeck that we have been diverted to this task and I know well that you were promised a dockyard appointment when this commission was over. Well, the promise still stands, it’s just that the commission has been extended.’ Drinkwater smiled. ‘I’m sorry, but there it is …’

Birkbeck expelled his breath in a long sigh. Nodding, he said, ‘I know sir: a sense of humour is a necessary portion of a sea-officer’s character.’

‘Just so, Mr Birkbeck,’ and Drinkwater smiled his curiously attractive, lopsided grin. ‘More wine?’

He waited for them to recharge their glasses. ‘We are bound to the Azores gentlemen, to trap Napoleon Bonaparte …’

‘We are
what?’
exclaimed an incredulous Marlowe.

‘So it
was
a woman!’

Mr Marlowe could scarce contain himself, puffed up as he was with a great state secret and half a bottle of blackstrap. Birkbeck gave him a rueful glance as the two officers paced the quarterdeck whence the master had suggested they go to take the air and discuss the matters that now preoccupied the first lieutenant and sailing master of the frigate
Andromeda.

‘May I presume to plead my grey hair and offer you a word of advice, Mr Marlowe,’ Birkbeck offered. ‘Of course, I would quite understand if you resented my interfering, but we must, perforce, work in amity.’

‘No, no, please Birkbeck …’

‘Well, Captain Drinkwater is not quite the uninfluential tarpaulin you might mistake him for …’

‘I knew he had fought a Russian ship, but I have to confess I had not heard of him in the Channel Fleet.’

‘Perhaps because he has seen extensive foreign and special service. Did you know, for instance, that Nelson sent him from the Med, round Africa and into the Red Sea. He brought a French national frigate home, she was bought into our service and he subsequently commanded her. The captain also served under Nelson and commanded a bomb at Copenhagen. Oh, yes…’ Birkbeck nodded. ‘I see you are surprised. Talk to Mr Frey, he was in the Arctic on special service with Captain Drinkwater in the sloop
Melusine
and I believe Frey was captured with the captain just before Trafalgar. I understand Drinkwater was aboard the French flagship …’

‘As a prisoner?’ asked Marlowe, clearly reassessing his commander.

‘Yes, so I understand. Later Drinkwater made up for this and battered a Russian seventy-four to pieces in the Pacific’