The Shadow of the Eagle (15 page)

As a consequence of reading Stedman’s book, McCann was unable to avoid the workings of memory and take refuge in his hitherto successful ploy of submerging the past in the present. Moreover, such were McCann’s circumstances, that the book shook his sense of loyalty. He had nothing against Lieutenant Hyde, in fact he liked his commanding officer and enjoyed the freedom of action Hyde’s inertia allowed him. But it had been officers like Hyde, indolent, careless and selfish, who had degraded his mother and debauched his young sister. He now heartily wished he had not picked up the two heavy volumes of Stedman’s works, but having done so, his conscience goaded him unmercifully. Could he not have done more for his mother and sister? He had come to London to seek compensation in order to return to America and rehabilitate his unfortunate dependants, but there had been no money to be gained, and in order to survive he had eventually returned to the only profession war had taught him: soldiering. He had joined the marines with some vague idea that by going to sea he would be the more likely to get back to his native land, though this had proved a nonsense. Year had succeeded year and he had had to abandon hope and find a means to live.

He was no longer a young man; his eyesight was failing and he could not read the pernicious book without a glass. The physical infirmity prompted the thought that time was running out, and while he entertained no doubt that his mother had long since died, he often and guiltily wondered about his sister. But a man who has adopted a mode of acting and made of it the foundation of his existence does not abandon it at once. Indeed, he discovers it is extremely difficult to throw off, so subject to habit does he become. Thus Sergeant McCann at first only indulged in an intellectual rebellion, regarding both Lieutenant Hyde and his own position in relation to his superior officer with a newly jaundiced eye. It was a situation which had, as yet, nothing further to motivate it beyond an underlying discontent. Indeed, McCann was subject to the conflicting emotion of self-contempt, regarding himself as author of his own misery and attributing the abandonment of his sister to base cowardice, ignoring his original motives for leaving North America.

In this he was unfair to himself; but he was unable to seek consolation by discussing the matter with anyone else and consequently endured the misery of the lonely and forlorn. For the time being, therefore, there was no apparent change in the behaviour of Sergeant McCann. But to all this personal turmoil, Drinkwater’s explanation of
Andromeda’s
mission came as a providential coincidence. McCann was uncertain as to how this might help him, but the news brought the current war in America much closer, offering his confused and unhappy mind a vague hope upon which he built castles in the air. Some opportunity might present itself by which he might regain his social standing, and perhaps with it his commission. He conveniently forgot he was no longer young; ambition does not necessarily wither with age, particularly under the corrosive if unacknowledged influence of envy and long-suppressed hatred. Nor did it help that in his conclusion to his master-work, Stedman, a British officer who had served from Lexington to the Carolinas, conferred the palm of victory to the Americans because they deserved it; nor that Miss Austen affirmed that lives had satisfactory conclusions.

Drinkwater was interrupted in his shaving the following morning by Mr Paine who brought him the news that the sails of three ships were in sight to the south-west.

‘They’re coming up hand over fist, sir,’ Paine explained enthusiastically, ‘running before the wind with everything set to the to’garn stuns’ls!’

‘What d’you make of ‘em, Mr Paine?’

‘Frigates, sir.’

‘British frigates, Mr Paine?’ Drinkwater asked, stretching his cheek and scraping the razor across the scar a French officer had inflicted upon him when he had been a midshipman just like Paine.

‘I should say so, sir!’

‘I do so hope you are right, Mr Paine, and if you are not, then they have heard we are at peace.’

‘I suppose they could be American…’ The boy paused reflectively.

‘Well, what the deuce does the officer of the watch say about them?’

‘N… nothing sir; just that I was to tell you that three ships were in sight to the south-west…’

‘Then do you return to the quarterdeck and present my sincerest compliments to Mr Ashton and inform him I shall be heartily obliged to him if he would condescend to beat to quarters and clear the ship for action.’

Paine’s eyes opened wide. ‘Beat to quarters and clear for action. Aye, aye, sir!’

It was difficult to resist the boy’s enthusiasm, but Drinkwater concluded he could complete dressing properly before the bulkheads to his cabin were torn down. It was quite ten minutes before he appeared on deck, by which time the boatswain and his mates were shrilling their imperious pipes at every companionway and the slap of bare feet competed with the tramp of the marines’ boots as
Andromeda’s
thirteen score of officers and men, a few rooted rudely from their slumbers, went to their posts.

On the quarterdeck, Lieutenant Ashton was quizzing the three ships through a long glass. The sun was already climbing the eastern sky, but had yet to acquire sufficient altitude to illuminate indiscriminately. Its rays therefore shone through the breaking wave crests, giving them a translucent beauty, throwing their shadows into the troughs. This interplay of light threw equally long shadows across the deck, but most startling was the effect it had upon the sails of the three approaching ships, lighting them so that their pyramids of straining canvas seemed to glow.

‘I have ordered the private signal hoisted, sir,’ said Ashton, ‘and the ship is clearing for action.’ He shut his glass with a snap and offered it to the captain, ‘Up from Ushant, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he added, by way of justifying himself.

Drinkwater ignored the impertinence and declined the loan of the telescope. ‘Thank you, no. I have my own,’ and he fished in his tail-pocket and drew out his Dollond glass. Steadying it against a stay, he focused it upon the leading ship. She was a frigate of slightly larger class than
Andromeda,
he guessed, but while it was probable that her nationality was British, Drinkwater knew a number of French frigates were at large in the Atlantic, and the matter was by no means certain.

After a few moments scrutiny, Drinkwater lowered his glass. ‘Clew up and lay the maintopsail against the mast, Mr Ashton. Let us take the mettle of these fellows.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

As the order to ‘rise tacks and sheets’ rang out, the main and fore courses rose in their buntlines and clew garnets while the yards on the main mast were swung so as to bring the breeze on their forward surface and throw them aback.
Andromeda
lay across the wind and sea, almost stopped as she awaited the newcomers, apparently undaunted at their superior numbers.

‘Sir,’ said Ashton, ‘with Lieutenant Marlowe indisposed …’

‘Do you remain here, Mr Ashton. Frey can handle the gun-deck well enough.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Frey’s seniority gave him prior claim to the post on the quarterdeck, but Drinkwater was happier if his more experienced lieutenant commanded the batteries, while Ashton would undoubtedly prefer the senior post at his side. Besides, Drinkwater reflected as he raised his glass again, he could keep an eye on Ashton, who was receiving the reports that the ship was cleared for action. He passed them on to Drinkwater.

‘Very well,’ Drinkwater acknowledged, keeping the glass to his eye. ‘Show them our teeth then, Mr Ashton, and run out the guns.’

The dull rumble of the gun trucks made the ship tremble as
Andromeda
bared her iron fangs.

‘They’re signalling sir,’ Paine’s voice cracked with excitement, descending into a weird baritone.

‘Well, sir, can you read her number?’ asked Drinkwater, aware that his own eyesight was not a patch on the lad’s, and saying in an aside to Ashton, ‘Better hang up our own.’

‘In hand, sir.’

‘Good … Well, Mr Paine?’ Drinkwater could see the little squares as flutterings of colour, but needed the midshipman’s acuity to differentiate them. The lad fumbled and flustered for a few moments, referring to the code-book, then looked up triumphantly.

‘Menelaus,
sir, Sir Peter Parker commanding.’

‘Very well, Mr Paine. Mr Ashton, I shall want a boat…’

An hour later, rather damp from a wet transfer, Drinkwater stood in the richly appointed cabin of the thirty-eight gun frigate. Sir Peter Parker was a member of a naval dynasty, an urbane baronet of roughly equal seniority to Drinkwater.

‘We’ve been cruising off the Breton coast,’ he said, indicating the other two ships which had followed Parker’s example and hove-to. He handed Drinkwater a glass of wine and explained his presence. ‘I have received orders to sail for America once I have recruited the ship. I need wood and water, but can spare some powder and shot if we can get it across to you all right.’

‘I’m obliged to you, Sir Peter. I confess to the Prince’s orders being specific on the matter and, had I not run into you would have had to take my chance without replenishment.’

‘So,’ Parker frowned, ‘Silly Billy insisted you stood directly for the Azores in anticipation of Boney’s incarceration there, eh?’

Drinkwater nodded. ‘Yes. There seems to be a general anxiety about Boney and his eventual whereabouts. He’ll be conveyed to the Azores by a man-o’-war, but His Royal Highness thought it prudent to have a frigate on station there directly. I gained the impression the Prince and Their Lordships don’t see eye to eye …’

‘I suppose Billy wants to let them know he’s quite capable of thinking for himself,’ Parker remarked, laughing.

‘I daresay he had a point in believing the Admiralty Board would take their time in sending out a guardship,’ Drinkwater remarked pointedly.

‘Well, maybe Billy ain’t so silly, eh?’ smiled Parker, draining his glass. ‘Nor is it inconceivable that Bonapartists would want to spirit their Emperor across the Atlantic. He could make a deal of trouble for us there.’

‘Perish the thought,’ agreed Drinkwater, ‘though it is my constant concern.’

‘Well, we shall do what we can.’ Parker paused to pass word to his officers to get a quantity of powder and ball across to
Andromeda,
a task which would take some time, and invited Drinkwater to remain aboard the
Menelaus
for a while. The two captains therefore sat on the stern settee reminiscing and idly chatting, while the ships’ boats bobbed back and forth.

‘So you were part of the squadron that saw Fat Louis back to France then?’ Parker asked, and Drinkwater did his best to satisfy Sir Peter’s curiosity with a description of the event.

‘Seems an odd way to end it all,’ he remarked.

‘Yes. Somehow inappropriate, in a curious way,’ added Drinkwater.

‘I presume the Bourbon court will try to put the clock back, while we have to turn our attention to America.’

Drinkwater nodded. ‘Though if we bring our full weight to bear upon a blockade of the American coast, we should be able to bring the matter to a swift conclusion.’

‘Let us hope so, but I must confess the prospect don’t please me and if Boney interferes, we may be occupied for years yet,’ Parker said, a worried look on his face, but the conversation was interrupted by a knock at the cabin door and a midshipman entered at Parker’s command.

‘First lieutenant’s compliments, sir, but the wind’s freshening. He don’t think we can risk sending many more boats across.’ The midshipman turned to Drinkwater and added, ‘He said to tell you, sir, that we’ve sent twenty-eight small barrels and a quantity of shot.’

Drinkwater stood up. ‘Parker, I’m obliged to you…’ The two men shook hands and parted with cordial good wishes.

Out of the lee of the
Menelaus’s,
side, Drinkwater felt the keen bite of the wind; another gale was on the way, unless he was much mistaken, despite the fact that ashore the blackthorn would be blooming in the hedgerows.

The gale was upon them by nightfall. During the afternoon the sky gradually occluded and the horizon grew indistinct. The air became increasingly damp, the wind backed and a thickening mist transformed the day. The decks darkened imperceptibly with moisture and, although the temperature remained the same, the damp air seemed cooler.

‘Backs the winds against the sun, trust it not, for back ‘twill run.’ Birkbeck recited the old couplet to Mr Midshipman Dunn. ‘Remember that, cully, along with the other saws I’ve already taught you and they’ll stand you in good stead.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Mr Dunn bit his lip; he had failed to learn any of the ‘saws’ the master had tried to teach him, but dared not admit it and was terrified Birkbeck was about to ask him to recapitulate. Mercifully the cloaked figure of the captain rose up the after companionway, and Dunn took the opportunity to dodge away.

Drinkwater cast a quick glance about. Aloft the second reef was being put into the topsails. The men bent over the yard, their legs splayed on the foot-rope. Drinkwater peered into the binnacle, the boat-cloak billowing around him. From forward, the smoke coiling out of the galley funnel was flattened and drove its fumes along the deck. Above their heads there was a tremulous thundering as the weather leach of the fore-topsail lifted.

‘Watch your helm there!’ Birkbeck rounded upon the quartermaster, who craned forward and stared aloft, ordering the helmsmen to put the helm up a couple of spokes, allowing
Andromeda
to pay off the wind a little. ‘You’ll have another man shivered off the yard if you’re not more careful,’ Birkbeck snapped reprovingly, then turning to Drinkwater he put two fingers to the fore-cock of his hat.

‘North of west, sir, I’m afraid,’ Birkbeck reported apologetically to Drinkwater.

‘It cannot be helped, Mr Birkbeck.’

They would have to endure another miserable night bouncing tiringly up and down, while the grey Atlantic responded to the onslaught of the wind and raised its undulating swells and sharper waves. It would be chilly and damp below decks; the hatches would be closed and the air below become poor and mephitic, a breeding ground for the consumption and an aggravation for the rheumatics, Drinkwater reflected gloomily. He tucked himself into the mizen rigging and sank into a state of misery. His tooth had ceased to equivocate and the infection of its root raged painfully. He had known for days that the thing would only get worse and it chose the deteriorating weather to afflict him fully. He would have to have the tooth drawn and the sooner the better; in fact a man of any sense would go at once to the surgeon and insist the offending tusk was pulled out. But Drinkwater did not feel much like a man of sense; toothache made a man peevishly self-centred; it also made him a coward. Having his lower jaw hauled about by Kennedy who, with a knee on his chest, would wrest the bulk of his pincers around until the tooth submitted, was not a prospect that attracted Drinkwater. As the sun set invisibly behind the now impenetrable barrier of cloud, the fading daylight reflected the captain’s lugubrious mood.