The Shadow of the Eagle (17 page)

‘I have just been to see Lieutenant Marlowe,’ Ashton said, taking a draught. ‘He seems much recovered.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ replied Kennedy. ‘Is that what you wished to argue about?’

‘Not really to argue over, just to tell you that he is much improved and therefore your diagnosis of quotidian …’

‘My 
diagnosis,’ Kennedy raised an incredulous eyebrow. ‘Well, well, so that is how matters stand, eh?’

‘Well, you know what I mean.’

‘No, Mr Ashton, I’m not sure that I do. Tell me,’ Kennedy ran on without giving Ashton an opportunity to protest, ‘is it mischief you’re after making?’

‘Mischief? How so?’

‘Well, that’s what I cannot quite fathom, but up to this minute, solicitude is not what I’d have called an outstanding virtue of yours, Mr Ashton. Unless of course, you wish the first lieutenant back at his turn of duty’

‘Well that would be a decided advantage, to be sure, Mr Kennedy’ said Ashton coolly, ‘and to know that he is not only back on duty, but able to sustain the effort. I’m led to believe we may yet see some action, despite the peace. ‘Twould be most unfortunate if he were to miss an opportunity through suffering from a quotidian fever, or any other kind of indisposition for that matter.’

‘I had presumed’, said Kennedy looking into his glass and swirling the last of the wine round, ‘that with the coming of peace, opportunities are scarce nowadays and the prize laws will have been revoked by now. Unless, of course, we come up with a Yankee.’ He looked up and it was clear from Ashton’s expression that he had not thought about this. ‘Well, good night to you, Mr Ashton, and thank you for the wine. I’m certain Mr Marlowe will be back at his post very soon.’

Drinkwater slept badly and woke in a sour mood. His gum was sore and his head ached from the wrenching Kennedy had given it. He rose and shaved, damning and cursing the frigate as
Andromeda
did her best to cause him to cut his throat with her motion. Finally he struggled out on deck into the windswept May morning.

Ashton had the morning watch and gave every appearance of being asleep at his post, but he moved from the weather mizen rigging as Drinkwater appeared, punctiliously touched his fore-cock and paid his respects.

‘Morning sir. Another grey one, I’m afraid.’

‘So I see …’ Drinkwater cast about him, staring at the heaving sea, leaden under the lowering overcast. The wind was less vicious and although the waves were still streaked with the white striations of spume, and where the crests broke the spray streamed downwind, there was less energy in the seas as they humped up and drove at the ship.

‘Well, Mr Ashton,’ remarked Drinkwater, clapping a hand to his hat and staring aloft. “Tis time to shake a reef out of the topsails. This wind will die to a breeze by noon.’ Drinkwater looked at Ashton. ‘Well, do you see to it, Mr Ashton.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Ashton moved away and reached for the speaking trumpet, and Drinkwater fell to an erratic pacing of the quarterdeck, bracing himself constantly against the pitch and roll of the frigate. As he reached the taffrail, the marine sentry stiffened.

‘Stand easy, Maggs,’ he growled.

‘Sir.’

Drinkwater stared astern. The wake was being quartered by birds. The ubiquitous fulmar, the little albatross of the north, skimmed with its usual apparently effortless grace, and there, almost below him, a pair of storm petrels dabbled their tiny feet in the marbled water that streamed out from under
Andromeda’
s
,
stern. Where, he wondered, did those minuscule birds live when the weather was less tempestuous? And how was it that they only showed their frail selves when boisterous conditions prevailed? Did they possess some magic property like the swallow which was said, somewhat improbably, to winter in the mud at the bottom of the ponds they spent the summer skimming for flies?

He grunted to himself, and was then aware of the silent Maggs, so he turned about and walked forward again with as much dignity as rank could induce and the heaving deck permit. To windward the scud was breaking up, looking less smoky and lifting from the
Andromeda’s
mastheads. Aloft, members of the watch shook out a reef and above them he saw the swaying main truck describe its curious hyperbolic arc against the sky.

Out of the recesses of memory he recalled the question old Blackmore used to ask the midshipmen aboard His Britannic Majesty’s frigate
Cyclops.
The sailing master would often quiz the young gentlemen to see if they were awake, and Drinkwater chuckled at the recollection as a small, blue patch of sky gleamed for a moment in the wind’s eye. He felt his spirits rise.

‘Mr Paine!’

The midshipman of the watch ran up, surer-footed than his commander. ‘Sir?’

‘If a ship circumnavigates the globe, Mr Paine, which part of her travels the farthest?’

Paine’s brow creased and he raised his right index finger to his head as though this might aid the processes of intelligence. ‘Travels farthest …?’ The lad hesitated a moment and then light dawned. ‘Why, sir, the mastheads!’

‘Well done, Mr Paine. Now do you try that out on the other midshipmen.’

‘I will, sir,’ the boy said brightly, his eyes dancing and his smile wide.

‘Carry on then.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ And Paine shifted his finger to his over-large hat and capered off.

‘Was I ever like that?’ Drinkwater wondered to himself. The
Cyclops
had been a sister-ship of the
Andromeda
and he remembered how Captain Hope had seemed to him all those years ago an old man who had not gained the preferment he deserved. Sadly Drinkwater concluded he must seem the same to his own midshipmen. He resisted allowing the thought to depress him and his stoicism was swiftly reinforced by a sheet of spray leaping over the weather bow and streaming aft to patter about him. He tasted salt on his lips and felt the sting of the sea-water. The little blue patch had vanished and he wondered if he had not been unduly optimistic in his prediction to Ashton. Nothing, he concluded, would please the young lieutenant more than to recount the captain’s misjudgement when he went below at eight bells.

‘Sir?’

Drinkwater turned to see Birkbeck hauling himself on deck; it was clear the man was worried. ‘What is it, Mr Birkbeck?’

‘She’s making a deal of water, sir. Three feet in the well in the last three hours.’

Drinkwater frowned. ‘Yes, I recall, they were pumping at eight bells in the middle watch. I think that was what woke me … Damn it, d’you have any inkling why?’

‘Not really, Captain Drinkwater; though I’ve a theory or two.’

‘Caulking?’

‘Most likely, with some sheathing come away. The old lady’s overdue for a docking, if not worse.’

Drinkwater grunted. ‘I was just thinking of the old
Cyclops;
she was broken up some years ago.’

‘That doesn’t help us much now, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘No,’ Drinkwater sighed. ‘Well, we shall have to pump every two hours.’

‘Aye, sir, and I’ll have the carpenter have a good look down below. We have so little stores aboard, it might be possible to locate the problem.’

‘Very well, Mr Birkbeck, see to it if you please.’

Drinkwater turned away to conceal his irritation. A serious leak, though not without precedent, was a problem he could have done without. There were enough unknown factors in his present mission, but to have to return to port and perhaps prejudice the peace of Europe seemed like too bitter a pill to swallow under the circumstances, however far-fetched it might at first sound. He considered the matter. If the ship was working, and the trouble stemmed from this, it would probably get worse, even if the weather improved. He swore under his breath, when Birkbeck’s voice broke into his thoughts. His mind had run through this train in less time than it takes to tell it and the master was still close to him.

‘Troubles never come singly,’ Birkbeck had muttered, and Drinkwater turned to see Mr Marlowe ascending the companionway.

‘Perhaps’, Drinkwater muttered from the corner of his mouth, trying to recapture his earlier brief moment of optimism, ‘this isn’t trouble.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Birkbeck turned aside, stared into the binnacle and up at the windward tell-tale.

Drinkwater watched Marlowe as he settled his hat and stared about himself. The first lieutenant’s face was drawn, but Drinkwater observed the way he pulled his shoulders back and walked across the deck towards him.

‘Good morning, Mr Marlowe. ‘Tis good to see you on deck,’ Drinkwater called, then lowered his voice as Marlowe approached. ‘How is it with you?’

Marlowe threw him a grateful look and Drinkwater felt suddenly sorry for the young man. ‘I am well enough, sir, thank you.’

‘Good. Then you shall take a turn with me and after that we shall break our fasts. Birkbeck has just reported a leak and the carpenter is to root about in the hold during the forenoon to see if he can discover the cause.’

Drinkwater hoped such gossip would wrench Marlowe’s mind from self-obsession to a more demanding preoccupation, but Marlowe was having some trouble keeping his feet.

‘Come, come, a steady pace will see to it. Eyes on the horizon …’

It took Marlowe four or five turns of the deck to master his queasiness and imbalance. Drinkwater made inconsequential conversation. ‘Damned pumps woke me up, then Birkbeck reported the water rising in the well. ‘Tis one confounded thing after another, but no doubt we’ll weather matters. Saw two petrels astern of us this morning. Odd little birds; I found myself wondering where the deuce they disappear to during moderate weather.’

‘I guess they settle on the surface and feed when they’re swimming. They only have to take to the air when the waves begin to break and come up under the stern where the sea is smooth.’

‘Good heavens, Mr Marlowe, I think you’ve a point there.’ Drinkwater’s astonishment was unfeigned. Perhaps Marlowe was not the dullard he had been taken for!

‘Perhaps you can help on the matter of the leak. The problem is that I was new into the ship last autumn and Tom Huke, her regular first luff, was killed, so only old Birkbeck and the standing warrant officers know the ship well.’

‘That’s only to be expected, sir.’

‘True, but it don’t help us fathom the reason for the leak.’

‘She’s an old ship.’

‘I agree entirely; indeed I suspect she’s lost some copper sheathing and maybe some caulking, she’s been working enough.’

‘How much has she been leaking.’

‘Birkbeck reported three feet in three hours.’

‘A foot an hour.’ Marlowe fell silent for a moment. Drinkwater’s sidelong glance suggested he was calculating something, then he said, ‘Although she’s been working, if she’s lost sheathing and caulking, I’d have reckoned on a greater depth in the well.’

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’