The Shadow of the Eagle (30 page)

‘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 …’

‘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.