The Shadow of the Eagle (21 page)

To this end, Sir, you will have been informed that Napoleon Bonaparte, lately Emperor of the French, is to be Exiled in the Island of Flores, and kept here until the End of the Term of his Earthly Existence.

However, Information has been made known to His Britannic Majesty’s Government that an Expedition has lately been fitted out at Antwerp, and that the Purpose of this Force is to Abduct the Person of Napoleon Bonaparte and to Convey him to America or Canada where his Ambition may yet cause more Misery and Extend a War which His Majesty’s Government wish to Terminate as Swiftly as Possible.

This letter comes to you by the Hand of an Officer and I desire you, Sir, having Regard for all the above Circumstances, to inform this Officer whether you have yet taken possession of the Person of General Bonaparte, how he is Accommodated, and whether any Inhabitants of the Island who may have been Fishing Offshore, have reported the Presence of any Men-of-War belonging to any Foreign Power.

I also Request that, upon Receipt of this Despatch, should the said General Bonaparte be already Resident on the Island of Flores, you Undertake to keep a Close Watch upon his Person, his Associates, Staff and Servants. This I Charge you with Under the Terms of the Several Treaties of Mutual Help existing between our Two Nations.

Drinkwater paused and re-read his epistle with an amused smile. He had invoked every phrase at his command to alert the Governor of the gravity of the reason for
Andromeda’s
presence off Flores. The long alliance of Great Britain and Portugal, which relied upon several treaties, the first of which dated from as far back as 1373, but the most recent of which was that known as the Methuen Treaty of 1707, had been underwritten by the successes of Wellington’s Anglo-Portuguese army which had been fighting in the Iberian Peninsula for six years.

He decided he could add little more, other than a courtesy or two, and concluded the letter:

I Regret that my Duty prevents my Calling upon you in Person at this Time, but Trust that you will Afford the Bearer of this Despatch, Lieutenant Jos. Ashton, every Confidence with which you would Honour me.

I am, Sir, your Obedient Servant,

Nathan’l Drinkwater,

Captain, Royal Navy

Ensuring the ink was dry, Drinkwater folded the letter, sealed it and added the superscription. Then he left the cabin, jamming his hat upon his head as he did so.

‘Hoist the new colours, if you please,’ he ordered as he reached the deck, casting about him. The ship seethed with people; two watches were on deck, as were many of those who might have been below. Upon the quarterdeck the blue and white of the officers contrasted with Hyde’s immaculate scarlet, a pretty enough picture with the blue sea and sky as a backdrop astern. Ahead loomed the island, the northern extremity of which, Punta Delgada, was stark against the horizon, while its summit, the Morro Alto, was lost in its streamer of cloud.

Santa Cruz proved a tiny, rock-girt inlet, its few buildings dominated by the baroque tower of the church of Sao Pedro. The tiny habitation was surrounded by the brilliant green of vegetation which refreshed eyes tired of the ocean. This verdure was interspersed by the brilliant colours of a profusion of flowers, the red and yellow of canna lilies, the orange of montbretia and the blue of agapanthus. Amid this almost pastoral scene, a flagstaff bore the blue and white standard of the House of Braganga, a gallant complement to the new red ensign of the senior squadron of the Royal Navy of Great Britain which streamed from
Andromeda’s
peak.

‘I’ve the saluting guns ready, sir,’ offered Marlowe.

‘Very good, Mr Marlowe. We shall give the Governor seventeen guns. You may commence as soon as we lay the main tops’l against the mast.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Drinkwater nodded to Birkbeck. ‘You have the con, Mr Birkbeck?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Bring her to off the mole, if you please.’

‘Aye, aye, sir’

‘Have you seen Ashton?’

‘Here, sir.’ Drinkwater turned to see the third lieutenant hurriedly pulling a tarpaulin around him. Such was the bustling mood of the morning that even Ashton looked a happier man.

‘Ah, Mr Ashton, is the launch ready?’

‘Yes sir. We have but to bend on the falls when we heave-to.’

‘You are victualled for two days?’

‘In accordance with your orders, sir.’

‘Very well. Now pay attention. I have here a letter to be passed to the
Alcaid,
or Governor of the island. Do you ensure that the man to whom you pass this is the senior civil authority at Santa Cruz, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Ashton frowned, taking the letter.

‘Is something the matter, Mr Ashton?’

‘Sir, with respect, the letter, is it in English?’

‘Of course. Why do you ask?’

‘Well, sir, I don’t wish to sound impertinent, but will these dagoes understand it? I mean,’ Ashton added hurriedly, ‘I mean the matter is of considerable importance.’

‘These dagoes, as you call ‘em, Mr Ashton, are Portuguese, the oldest allies of our Sovereign. They have traded with us for years and if the Governor himself does not speak and read English, which I am confident he does, there will be a British vice-consul who will command the language as well as you or I.’

Ashton nodded. ‘Very well, sir.’

‘Now, I have asked if Bonaparte has arrived on the island, and whether any strange ships have been seen lying off the island. You should press this point particularly and bring me the answer.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Very well. I have provisioned the boat for two days in case anything should miscarry. I shall lie-to hereabouts until you return, but if for any reason you are delayed, keep your men in the boat and ensure the marine sergeant understands that. I don’t want British tars running loose among the women and producing a crop of Andromedas and Perseuses nine months hence!’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Very well. Good fortune.’ Ashton touched the fore-cock of his hat and turned away. ‘Mr Birkbeck!’ Drinkwater called. ‘You may heave her to!’

‘Aye, aye, sir!’

‘Mr Marlowe! You may commence the salute!’

His Britannic Majesty’s frigate
Andromeda
turned in a lazy circle, her bowsprit describing an arc of some two hundred degrees against the sky as her compass card spun from a heading of south-west by west, through north, to east, her yards swinging in their parrels, as the fore and mizen yards were braced for the port tack and her main mast spars left to fall aback. On the forecastle the battery of stubby carronades barked at precise, five-second intervals, paying respects to the Governor of Flores who, Drinkwater hoped, had been alerted to the presence of a British man-of-war offshore. Each unshotted discharge emitted a grey smoke-ring from which the quick-eyed caught sight of the fragments of wadding whirled into the sea.

As the last gun fell silent,
Andromeda
lay stopped across the wind and sea. To starboard the sea flattened in the lee thus formed and with the yard and stay tackles hooked on, the falls manned and set tight, the heavy white carvel launch lifted from the chocks. She was already manned and, as the men stamped away with the ropes, she began her slow traverse across the deck with her weight taken on the yard tackles and walked back on the stays.

Drinkwater, having given this operation a swift appraisal, had his glass focused once more upon the flagstaff. His expectations were disappointed, for no reciprocating spurt of yellow flame with its lingering cloud of powder-smoke responded to the British salute. Well, he thought, pocketing the glass, he should not complain, perhaps the place was undefended; it certainly amounted to very little. Moreover,
Andromeda
was plainly only a private ship and wore nothing at her mastheads but her pendant, and she was a rather old and worn out one, at that!

Echoing his thoughts, the ship trembled as the mass of the laden boat vibrated the stays. This was transmitted to the masts and thus to the keel itself.

‘Interesting to sound the well after this,’ Drinkwater said to Birkbeck.

‘I’m damned if I can find that leak, sir. I’ve had the linings out, the ceiling lifted and restowed God knows how many tiers of barrels, barricoes and hogsheads. Damn it, you’d think that with the ship more than three-quarters empty of stores the matter would be easy …’

‘Nothing in life is easy, Mr Birkbeck, nothing at all,’ Drinkwater said soulfully.

‘Except begetting brats and earning a woman’s bad opinion!’ grumbled Birkbeck.

“Pon my word, Mr Birkbeck, I thought you more of a philosopher than that,’ Drinkwater laughed, thinking of his own orders to Ashton regarding the conduct of the boat’s crew.

‘After crawling around that confounded hold, I’d challenge Plato himself to philosophize. Hey! Easy there on that main yard tackle, you’ll have them all thrown out of the boat! Beg pardon, sir.’

‘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.