The shadow of the eagle

CHAPTER 14 St Elmo's Fire

Drinkwater had experienced no such premonition as Lieutenant Frey. The appearance of the Gremyashchi had finally laid to rest the vacillating anxieties and uncertainties of the preceding days, replacing them with a firm conviction that Hortense's report was about to be fulfilled. Nor did he consider Captain Count Rakov would divert the Antwerp ships from their purpose, as was the opinion of Lieutenant Hyde in the wardroom below. Drinkwater's assessment was quite otherwise: Rakov was on the scene to guarantee the matter. There would be no bloodshed, no international incident, Bonaparte would simply be removed from the Bourbon French ship bringing him to Flores, transferred to one of the Antwerp squadron and conducted to the United States.

It was quite clear that the only certain rendezvous where this could be accomplished without attracting undue attention was off the Azores, and the fact that no proper arrangements had been concluded with the Portuguese captain-general at Angra do Heroismo, was evidence none was necessary, for there had never been any real intention of landing Bonaparte in the first place. And to guarantee the Tsar's plan, revealing the sly hand of Talleyrand, the Bourbon commander of the French naval ship carrying the former Emperor into exile would not be accosted by a couple of Bonapartist pirates, but a squadron operating under the ensign of Imperial Russia.

It was a cleverly conceived plan, but, concluded Drinkwater, this embellishment made his own task acutely difficult. It was he alone who would have to assume responsibility for thwarting the Tsar's intention. Not that he entertained any personal doubts as to the rightness of this challenge. It was clearly not in British interests to have the foremost soldier in the world free to command troops in the United States. A successful invasion of Canada would be a disaster for Great Britain, and Drinkwater did not need the protection of Prince William Henry's orders to buttress his own moral doubts, only to afford protection from those in the establishment who might regard his action as intolerably high-handed.

What now nagged him was the impossibility of the task. At least two well-armed ships had sailed under the command of this Admiral Lejeune, and while Drinkwater might have had a chance to outmanoeuvre them, they were now reinforced by the Gremyashchi, a powerful frigate in her own right, which alone would be more than a match for Andromeda. He was conscious that the action his zeal had now made inevitable could end only in defeat. If any premonition disturbed the tranquillity of Nathaniel Drinkwater during those tedious days in late May, it was that death would take him at the moment of his country's hard-won victory.

In the circumstances such a death would not be without dishonour, but he doubted much credit would accrue to his actions to warm his widow's heart. Poor Elizabeth; she did not deserve such a fate. To be left alone to manage his small estate, not to mention the dependants he had foisted upon her, would be a terrible legacy. His death would, moreover, burden her with the promised annuity to Hortense!

The thought appalled him. In his headlong dash into the Atlantic, thoughts of an early death had not really occurred to him, for he had lived with risk for so long, and while he had intimated in the letter he had sent to his wife by the Trinity Yacht that complications had been introduced into their lives by recent events, meaning those at Calais, he had withheld details as being best dealt with face-to-face. Now he could not even leave her a second letter, for the chances of its being discovered after a bloody action were next to nothing.

He slumped at his desk as behind him a pale, watery sun set over a heaving grey sea. All about him Andromeda creaked mournfully, echoing his dismal thoughts and ushering in an attack of the blue-devils. As the daylight leached out of the sky and the twilight gloom increased, he fell into a doze. Hortense and Elizabeth were in the cabin with him, both were restored to the beauty they had possessed when he had first set eyes upon them and both improbably held hands like sisters, and smiled at him approvingly. He woke with a start, his heart beating furiously, possessed with a terrible fear of the unknown.

The cabin was completely dark. During his brief sleep and unknown to Drinkwater, Frampton had entered the cabin but seeing his commander asleep had beat a tactful retreat. Waking thus, Drinkwater was overcome with the feeling that the cabin was haunted by ghosts. In an instant, he had rammed his hat on his head and fled to the quarterdeck wrapped in his cloak.

He almost instantly regretted this precipitate action. The quarterdeck was scarcely less congenial than the cabin; in fact it was a good deal less so. Night had fallen under a curtain of rain which knocked the sea down, hissed alongside as it struck the surface of the water and sharply reduced the temperature of the air. Ashton had the watch, his extra duty relieving Birkbeck of the task, and so the emotional air was even chillier than the atmospheric, though Drinkwater himself took little notice of this and, in his own way, only added to it by his presence.

His cloak was soon sodden, but he paced the windward quarter, his stride and balance adjusting to the swoop and roll of the ship as, with her yards braced up sharply, she stood northwards under easy sail, steering full-and-bye with the wind in the west-north-west. It was a dying breeze and about four bells the rain stopped abruptly as the wind veered a point or two. Drinkwater was vaguely aware of Lieutenant Ashton adjusting the course to the north-eastwards, maintaining the trim of the yards in accordance with the provision of Drinkwater's night orders for cruising stations. Within fifteen minutes the sky was clearing rapidly as the overcast rolled away to leeward and the stars shone out in all their glory.

If the air had been chilly before, it was positively cold now, or so it seemed to Drinkwater as the dramatic change woke him from his reverie and he found himself shivering. He was about to go below and seek the warm comfort of his cot, when something stopped him. He stood like a pointing hound, tingling with instinctive premonition. He looked anxiously aloft. The pale parallelograms of the topsails and topgallants were pale against the sky; the main course was loose in its buntlines, but the fore course was braced sharp up, its tack hauled down to the port bumkin. Behind him the quadrilateral spanker curved gracefully under the pressure of the wind. As he watched, it flogged easily, the failing wind easing and then filling it again, causing a fitful ripple to pass across the sail, from throat to clew. The lines of reef points pitter-patted against the tough canvas. Despite this apparently peaceful scene, something struck him as wrong. Something in the air which made his scalp creep.

'Mr Ashton!'

'Sir?' Ashton stirred from the starboard mizen rigging.

'Get the t'gallants off her!'

'The t'gallants, sir?'

'The t'gallants sir! And at once, d'you hear me?'

Drinkwater could almost hear Ashton's brain turning over the captain's lunatic order, but then the word was passed and the watch stirred out of its hiding places, hunkered down about the decks, and the shapes of men moved about the pin rails and prepared to go aloft. There was little urgency in their demeanour, obvious to Drinkwater's acute and experienced eye, even in the dark.

'Look lively there!' he cried, injecting a sharp urgency into the night. Ashton began to cross the deck towards him and Drinkwater turned away in silent rebuff, staring to windward, watching to see what would happen. Then he saw the cloud as it loomed into the night sky, rapidly blotting out the stars to the north-westwards. He could feel its presence as the air suddenly crackled with the dull menace of the thing, revealing the source of his premonition. It was odd, he thought, as he watched the vast boiling mass of it rear up and up into the heavens, how such a gigantic manifestation of energy could almost creep up on one unawares.

The cumulo-nimbus cloud moved towards them like a mythological creature; potent and awe-inspiring. Drinkwater had no idea of its altitude, indeed he was unable to see the distant anvil-shaped thunder head which was torn from its summit by the strong winds of the upper-atmosphere; nor did he know of the movement of air and moisture within it that made of it a cauldron seething at the temperature ice formed. What concerned him was the wind he knew it would generate at sea level, and the hail that might, in the next quarter of an hour, hit them with the force of buckshot.

Then, as if to signal an intelligence of its own, the thundercloud gave notice of its presence to the less observant men on Andromeda's deck. It was riven from top to bottom by a great flash as the differences in electrical charge within the cloud sought resolution. The sudden, instantaneous illumination galvanized the men into sudden, furious action and within minutes Andromeda's topgallants were off her before the first erratic gusts of the squall arrived; then it was upon them in unremitting fury, producing a high-pitched whine in the rigging as the full force of the wind struck them.

'Steady there,' Drinkwater said, striding across the deck to brace himself alongside the helmsmen, 'ease her if you have to, Quartermaster.'

The frigate heeled to the onslaught and began to accelerate rapidly through the water which foamed along her lee rail. The sea was almost flat; the earlier rain had done its work and now hailstones beat its surface with a roar. Andromeda raced through the water so that even Ashton was moved to comment.

'My God, sir,' he said, coming up to Drinkwater, 'she's reeling off the knots as if pursued by all the devils in hell!' He laughed wildly, caught up in the excitement of the moment as, with a tremendous thunderclap, lightning darted all about them and the retina was left with a stark impression of wet and drawn faces about the wheel, sodden ropes and the lines of caulking in the blanched planking. Even the streaks of a million hailstones as they drummed a furious tattoo on the deck remained, it seemed, indelibly impressed upon the brain. So vivid was this brief vision that the quarterdeck seemed inhabited by more ghosts, and Drinkwater shivered as much from the supernatural moment as the cold drenching he was undergoing.

Circumstances remained thus for some twenty minutes, with the ship driving to the north-east, her helm having been eased up to let her run off before the wind a little and ease the strain on the gear aloft, for she still carried her full topsails, fore topmast staysail and spanker. Periodically illuminated by lightning and assaulted by thunder, Andromeda ran headlong. After the first moments of apprehension, the glee infecting Ashton had spread to the men at the helm and a quiet chuckling madness gripped them all. The excitement of their speed was undeniable and their spirits rose as the hail eased and then stopped.

As the huge cloud passed over them, it took the wind with it. The first sign of this moderation was a slow righting of the ship, so that while she still heeled over, the angle at which the deck canted eased imperceptibly back towards the horizontal. And it was at this moment that the frigate was visited by the corposant.

It began imperceptibly, so that the watchers thought they were imagining it and made no comment lest their mates thought they had taken leave of their senses; then, as it grew brighter they looked at each other, and saw their faces lit by the strange glow. Out along the yards and up the topgallant masts the greenish luminescence grew, stretching down towards the deck along the stays and lying along the iron cranes of the hammock nettings so that Andromeda assumed, in the wastes of the North Atlantic Ocean, the appearance of some faery ship.

The weird glow had about it an unearthly quality which was almost numinous in its effect upon those who observed it, silencing the brief outburst of loquacious wonder which it had initially prompted. Here was something no man could explain, though some had seen it before and knew it for St Elmo's fire. Some it touched personally, sending crackling sensations up the napes of their necks, making their hair stand on end and in a few cases glow with the pale fire of embryonic haloes. All smelt the dry, sharp stink of electrical charge, and as the display slowly faded, a babble of comment broke from the watching men, officers and ratings alike, an indiscriminate wonder at what they had all seen.

Ashton seemed to throw off his peevishness and was unable to resist the temptation to discuss the phenomenon with Midshipman Dunn, while the men at the wheel, kept usually silent by the quartermaster in charge of them, chattered like monkeys. The remainder of the watch, settling down again after their exertions, speculated and marvelled amongst themselves in a ground-swell of conversation.

Isolated by rank and precedent, Drinkwater found himself refreshed as though by a long sleep. Afterwards, he attributed this invigoration to the electrical charge in the air which had been palpable. More significant, however, was the effect it had upon his mental processes. Hardly had the wonder passed and the quiet nocturnal routine settled itself again upon the ship, than his racing mind had latched on to something new.

Gone were the morbid preoccupations of earlier; gone were the complex doubts about the propriety of his course of action, of his conniving to get Prince William Henry to sanction it. Gone, too, was the gloomy, fateful conviction of his own impending doom. He shook off the weight of the dead ghosts he had borne with him for so long. James Quilhampton's was not a vengeful spirit, and the earlier manifestations of Elizabeth and Hortense were exhortations to greater endeavours, not the harbingers of doom!

This train of thought passed through his mind in a second. Having settled in his mind the eventual, anticipated arrival of Gremyashchi and the Antwerp squadron, he was now stimulated by a strange optimism.

He found himself already considering how, when he met Count Rakov and his unholy allies, he might handle Andromeda to the best advantage and perhaps inflict sufficient damage before surrendering, to prevent them accomplishing their fell intent.

He was still on deck at dawn, though he had been fast asleep for three hours, caught by a turn of the mizen topgallant clewline around his waist, a dark, bedraggled figure whose hat was tip-tilted down over one shut eye, who yet commanded in this dishevelled state the distant respect of those who came and went upon the quarterdeck of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Andromeda as she cruised to the north of the islands of Flores and Corvo.

Nor did he wake when the daylight lit the eastern horizon and the cry went through the ship that three sails were in sight to leeward.

CHAPTER 15 First Blood

Sergeant McCann was woken as Andromeda heeled violently under the onslaught of the squall. He had turned in early, eschewing the company of the corporals, increasingly isolated by his obsessions. His messmates and privates, gaming or yarning about him, reacted to the sudden list of the ship by putting up an outcry, taken up by the adjacent midshipmen so that the orlop bore a brief resemblance to a bear-pit until word came down from the upper-deck that the ship had been struck by a heavy gust of wind and the noise gradually subsided. It had, however, been sufficient to wake McCann from the deep sleep into which he had fallen shortly before.

Now he lay wide awake, the edge taken off his tiredness, his heart beating, staring into the Stygian gloom. Like Captain Drinkwater's cabin two decks above him, Sergeant McCann's accommodation was inhabited by ghosts, but unlike his commander's visitation, which had been on the edge of consciousness, McCann could summon his mother and sister almost at will; and unlike Captain Drinkwater he could not pace the quarterdeck to escape his delusions. Instead he embraced himself in his hammock and once again let the sensation of waste and failure flood his entire being.

In the days they had lain off the Azores, Sergeant McCann's self-loathing had eclipsed the affront he had felt at Ashton's double insult. Instead he had convinced himself that if he were neither a Yankee nor a bugger, he was something worse: he was a coward. Looking back upon his worthless life, he saw that he had always taken the path of least resistance, a path the politics of his parents had set him on. He realized his loyalism had not been based on any personal conviction but was an inherited condition, and while he had given his oath to the king as a provincial officer, it had been as much to revenge himself upon those who had despoiled him of his natural inheritance, rather than out of any principle towards the crown and parliament on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean. Recalling the homespun battalions confronting the British regular and provincial troops across the Brandywine, he realized he had always had more in common with them than the rough infantrymen and their haughty officers, or the poor benighted Hessian peasants and their red-faced and drunken junkers.

In contrast, on the exposed deck above the unhappy McCann, his tormentor, Lieutenant Ashton, was undergoing a transformation. The wild schemes born out of his anger were washed out of him by the squall and the visitation of St Elmo's fire. But Sergeant McCann enjoyed no such liberation. His preoccupations were deeper rooted and the springs of his being were wound tighter and tighter by his misery. Having set it aside for so long he found he was no longer able to forsake his past, unable to detach it from the present, and subconsciously ensured it was to influence the future.

Eventually, in common with all those in the gloomy orlop, Sergeant McCann fell asleep, awaiting the events of the dawn.

Lieutenant Frey woke Drinkwater who was stiff and uncomprehending for a moment or two, until the import of Frey's news struck him.

'Do you lend me your glass,' Drinkwater urged, holding out his hand. Grasping the telescope Drinkwater hauled himself up into the mizen rigging, the mauled muscles of his shoulder aching rheumatically after the exposure of the night. Drinkwater's hands were shaking as he focused the glass, as much from apprehension as from cold and cramp, but there was no denying the three sails that were, as yet, hull-down to the eastward. And while it was too early to distinguish one of them as the Gremyashchi, he already knew in his chilled bones that among them was the Russian frigate.

For a long moment Drinkwater hung in the rigging studying the three ships, estimating their course and guessing their speed. He was computing a course for Andromeda, by which he might intercept the 'enemy' in conformity with the idea he had hatched during the night. He could not call it a plan, for to lay a plan depended upon some certainties, and there were no certainties in his present situation. He doubted if Andromeda, against the darker western sky, had yet been seen by the strangers, but it would not be long before she was, for Rakov would have warned Contre-Amiral Lejeune of the presence of the British ship. Drinkwater turned, Frey's face was uplifted in anticipation.

'Wear ship, Mr Frey, and lay her on a course of south-east; set all plain sail and the weather stun's'ls. Be so kind as to turn up all hands and have them sent to break their fasts. We will clear for action at eight bells, after the ship's company have been fed.'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

Drinkwater was almost ashamed of the gleam his words kindled in Frey's eyes. He jumped down on to the deck and, leaving Frey to handle Andromeda, went in search of Frampton, some hot water and his razor. Meanwhile the word of impending action passed rapidly through the ship. Between decks she sizzled with a sudden stirring as the watches below were turned out, to dress, bundle up their hammocks and stow them in the nettings on the upper deck while the complaining cook flashed up the galley range and cauldrons of water went on for burgoo. In the wardroom the officers rummaged in their chests for clean linen, the better to ward off infection if they were wounded; in the cockpit the midshipmen unhooked their toy dirks from the hooks on the deck-beams above their heads, and chattered excitedly. Even Mr Paine, for whom the last few days had been a humiliating ordeal, livened at the prospect of being able to prove himself a man in the changed circumstances of an action. In the marine's mess, the private soldiers quietly donned cross-belts and gaiters, while a corporal checked the musket flints in the arms racks; Sergeant McCann dressed with particular care, and sent the messman forward to the carpenter with his sword and the instruction to hone it to a fine edge. He also carefully checked the pair of pistols which were his private property and the last vestige of his former employment as a provincial officer.

As the watches below assembled at the tables on the gun-deck to receive their hot burgoo, a black, gallows humour was evident, containing less wit than obscenity, more readily endured by those at whom it was aimed than would normally have been the case under ordinary circumstances, for by such means was courage invoked.

'Jemmy,' one wag shouted across the deck, 'you'll get your pox cured today, if you're lucky!'

To which the rotting Jemmy swiftly replied, 'Aye, you cherry, an' you may never get the chance to catch it!' This grim exchange provoked a general mirth, broken only by the order to relieve the watch on deck and the subsequent pipe of 'Up spirits!'

After this necessary ritual, the marine drummer ruffled his snare and beat them all to quarters, at which the bulkheads came down aft, and Drinkwater's insubstantial private quarters metamorphosed into an extension of the gun-deck. All along the deck, the tables had vanished, whisked away like a conjuring trick, giving a prominence to the bulky black guns. The breechings were cast off and the cannon moved inboard from their secure, stowed positions with their muzzles lashed hard up against the lintels of the gun-ports. Their crews ministered to them, clearing the train-tackles, worming the barrels and checking the firing-lanyards and flints of the gun-locks. On the upper deck the carronades and chase guns were cleared away; Hyde held a swift parade of his marines and sent them to their posts. Then Drinkwater called all the officers to the port hance from where he was watching the three strange sails.

They were hull-up by now and one was plainly identified as the Gremyashchi. Although unable to see any name, Drinkwater remembered Hortense had said one of the ships from Antwerp was called L'Aigle and had speculatively concluded that she was the nearer of the trio, a frigate of at least equal, and probably superior force to Andromeda, if only in the calibre and weight of metal of her guns. On her port quarter lay the second Bonapartist ship, while the Russian was ahead of and slightly more distant than the others. Drinkwater marked this disposition with some satisfaction: Captain Count Rakov had made his first mistake.

Andromeda was running down towards the three ships with the wind almost dead astern. They lay on her port bow and, if both she and her quarry remained on their present courses, they would be in long cannon shot in about an hour. Drinkwater relished the time in hand, though he knew it would play on his nerves, for it would play on the enemy's too. With her studding sails set and the morning light full on her spread of canvas, Andromeda would look a resolute sight from the Franco-Russian squadron as she bore down upon them. The morning was bright with promise; the blue sea reflected an almost cloudless sky, washed clean by the passage of the cold-front in the night. A small school of dolphins gambolled innocently between Andromeda and her objectives which continued to stand southward, apparently unmoved by the headlong approach of the British frigate. Drinkwater was gambling on Rakov and Lejeune assuming he was running down to quiz them, not to open fire, and this seemed borne out by the lack of colours at the peaks of the strange ships.

Drinkwater was aware of the restless gathering behind him. As Andromeda ran with the wind, even the coughs and foot-shufflings of the waiting assembly of officers were audible. He turned around and caught Marlowe's eye.

'You have the weather gauge, sir,' the first lieutenant remarked nervously.

'We have the weather gauge, gentlemen,' Drinkwater corrected with a smile, 'and perhaps we shall not have it for long ...' He looked round the crescent of faces. Marlowe was clearly apprehensive, while Hyde remained as impassively calm as ever; Birkbeck showed resignation and Ashton a new eagerness. As for Frey, well Frey was an enigma; best known of them all and much liked, he had become a more difficult man to read, for there was an eagerness there to match Ashton and yet a wariness comparable with Birkbeck's and perhaps, remembering his friend James Quilhampton, a fear akin to Marlowe's. But there was also a touch of Hyde's veneer, Drinkwater thought in that appraising instant, and yet of them all, Frey's complexity most appealed to him. Frey was a good man to have alongside one in a tight corner. Drinkwater smiled again, as confidently and reassuringly as he could; he was being unfair because he knew Frey of old. They would all acquit themselves well enough when push came to shove.

'Well gentlemen,' he said, indicating the other ships, 'this is what we have been waiting for. Now pay careful attention to what I have to say, for we are grievously outnumbered and outgunned and, if we are to achieve our objective, we have to strike first, fast and very hard, before we are brought to close action and lose any initiative we may be able to gain by engaging on our terms.

'It is my intention that we do all we can to avoid a close-quarters action. If my information is correct, the two Bonapartist ships will not only have sufficient gunners, but they will be full of sharpshooters and soldiers, enough to make mince-meat of our thirteen score of jacks. I shall therefore be using the ship's ability to manoeuvre and will attempt to disable them first. They will almost certainly attempt the same trick, so I am counting on the accuracy of our shot. Frey and Ashton, your respective batteries must be fought with the utmost energy and economy. We must have no wasted powder or shot; we cannot afford it. I am not so much concerned with the precision of broadsides, rather that every shot tells. Make certain, certain mark you, every gun-captain comprehends this. D'you understand? Ashton?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Frey?'

'Aye, sir.'

'Very well. Now mark something else: when I order you to be prepared to stand-to I want everything at maximum readiness except that the guns are to be kept concealed behind closed ports. The order to open ports will be automatic when I order the commencement of fire and I will endeavour to allow enough time for the guns to be laid. D'you follow?'

'I'm not sure I do, sir,' said Ashton.

'I don't want Andromeda to be the first to show her teeth, Mr Ashton, though I hope we shall draw first blood.' Drinkwater paused, then added for Ashton's benefit, 'If we are to fire into a Russian ship, I need the pretext of self-defence ...'

'Ah, I see, I beg pardon ...'

'Very well. Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater turned to the first lieutenant, 'I leave the upper deck guns in your hands, but the same procedure is to be followed.'

'I understand, sir.'

'Mr Hyde,' Drinkwater swung round on the marine officer, 'your men are to do their best to pick off anyone foolish enough to show himself, but particularly any officers. Pray do not permit any of your men to anticipate my order to open fire.'

'Very good, sir.'

'Mr Birkbeck, I shall want the ship handled with all your skill. I shall feint several times at their bows and if you can oblige me, bear up and rake, preferably across their sterns.' Drinkwater turned back to the lieutenants, 'So you gentlemen in the gun-deck must be aware that if we ain't standing off and knocking the sticks out of them, I shall want the elevation dropped and shot sent down the length of their decks. Such treatment may demoralize the soldiers among 'em. We shall see.

As for the Russian, well Rakov is our greatest threat, the more so because we don't know his orders or his intentions. We do know he ain't here on a picnic and I am convinced he followed us from Calais suspecting our intention and determined to stop us. It all depends upon the mettle of the man and when and where he chooses to engage us. My guess is he may try and overwhelm us when we are otherwise occupied, but at least he has to work his way up from the lee station first...'

'He appears to be doing that already,' interrupted Ashton, indicating the ships over Drinkwater's shoulder.

'Indeed he does, Mr Ashton,' replied Drinkwater, who had observed the Gremyashchi's converging course some moments earlier, 'but then I should have been surprised if he hadn't, eh?' Drinkwater paused and looked round them all. 'Well now, are there any questions?' He paused as the officers shook their heads. 'No? Good. Well, let us hope providence gives us at least a chance, gentlemen. Good fortune to you all. Now, if you please, be so kind as to take post.'

He turned and levelled his glass as they moved away. He would have liked to say something to Frey, but that would not have been fair on the others. Anyhow, what could he say? That they had a couple of hours before they would be prisoners, and while they might not be prisoners for long, the humiliation of defeat was a risk that lay beyond the greater hurdle of death itself? Such thoughts lay uneasily alongside the affirmations of duty. He sniffed as he strove to focus on the Gremyashchi, but had to wipe his eye before he accomplished this simple task. Beside him someone coughed. He kept the telescope firmly clamped to his eye socket and spoke from the corner of his mouth.

'Ah, Mr Marlowe, I did not deliberately keep you out of my orders; yours might be the most difficult task and I would ask you to steel yourself. If I should fall, you are to strike at once, the only proviso being that the ship has endured some enemy shot. I would not have an unnecessary effusion of blood ...'

'If I do that, sir, and do not prosecute the action with some energy, I may be taken for a coward.'

'You may indeed, Mr Marlowe, but that is preferable to death and will at least legitimize your offspring. Believe me, sir, this damned war has gone on long enough and there are men aboard the ship deserving of a better fate.'

'But, sir, by your own persuasion, if we do not stop this migration of Boney, the war may drag on.'

'I like "migration", Mr Marlowe; it implies Boney is a sum of greater proportion than one man, but you are to obey my orders, do you hear, sir?'

'I hear you, sir ...'

Drinkwater suppressed a smile. Marlowe's intention to disobey was as clear as the sunlight now dancing upon the blue waves of the ocean. He was truly steeled and his self-doubt had been banished by his sense of honour. It was a mean trick, Drinkwater concluded, and might yet add a bastard to the Ashton clan! Unconsciously, Drinkwater too resorted to the crude gallows humour of men preparing themselves for the possibility of death or wounding.

'There's a good fellow,' he said, closing the telescope and turning to smile at the first lieutenant. 'Now, will you have a string of bunting run up to the lee fore-tops'l yard-arm. Anything will do, just to confuse them.' He jerked his head at the three ships. 'They're all flying Russian colours. I suspected they might.'

'They're trying to intimidate us,' Marlowe asserted. 'Damned cheek!'

'Well, let's return the compliment. And let us discharge a chase gun to draw attention to the hoist.'

Drinkwater paid little attention to the sequence of flags that was run aloft a few minutes later beyond noting the gay colours were brilliant in the spring morning. Truth to tell, Mr Paine, to whom this duty had fallen, had paid little attention either, but the dull report of the gun gave a spurious authority to the fluttering bunting, investing it with an importance it did not have and perhaps buying Andromeda a further few minutes of respite as she bore down upon what must now be conceived as the enemy.

For Drinkwater, patiently watching the range of the three ships decrease, the flaunting of Russian ensigns by all three ships suggested at the very least a malign intent and the connivance of the Tsar's officers. He imagined Count Rakov must have boarded the two French ships at sea and held council with Lejeune. In fact the possibility of French and Russian ships enjoying a rendezvous to the north of the Azores seemed most likely now, accounting for the delay in the Antwerp ships appearing off the archipelago. Such an argument, ominous though it was, was but further confirmation of the factual content of what had once been a mere whisper upon the wind.

Or upon the lips of Hortense Santhonax.

Drinkwater paid particular attention to the Gremyashchi. Idly, as he studied the Russian ship working back to windward, he wondered what her name signified. It was no matter, and he was more interested in observing how Rakov handled her and how swiftly she answered his intentions. It was difficult to judge; at the moment she was simply close hauled and sailing harder on the wind than the two Bonapartist ships, losing a little speed by comparison, but closing with them so that if Andromeda stood on, the interception would be as near coincidental as human heart could contrive, if human heart wished for it.

While this might be Captain Count Rakov's desire, it was not Nathaniel Drinkwater's, for it would be a trap from which escape would be impossible and he was aware that once he had been engaged by all three ships, or even only two, he would find it impossible to extricate himself. He therefore called the master and, without taking the glass from his eye, said, 'Mr Birkbeck, take the stun's'ls in if you please. After which you may clew up the main course. We will let the fore course draw a little longer.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Birkbeck picked up the speaking trumpet and within a minute or two the studding sails bellied, fluttered and then collapsed inwards, drawn into the adjacent tops to be stowed away. After this the booms were struck inboard, running into the round irons above the upper yards on the fore and main masts, until they were next required.

'Main mast there!' bellowed Birkbeck, 'Clew garnets there! Rise tacks and sheets!'

Without the driving power of the studding sails and main course, Andromeda slowed perceptibly. While the Gremyashchi continued to haul up to windward, closing her consorts, the common bearing of the three ships began to draw ahead.

'Bring her round two points to starboard, Mr Birkbeck.'

'Two points to starboard, sir, aye, aye.'

Remaining to windward, Andromeda drew on to a parallel course, slightly increasing her speed as she came on to a reach so that, after a few moments, the relative bearings of the enemy steadied again.

'Mr Marlowe, another gun, I think, to draw attention to our signal.'

The forecastle 9-pounder barked again, but prompted no response. Drinkwater began to feel an elation in his spirits. The squadron was standing on and in this apparent steadfast holding of their course, Drinkwater read a degree of irresolution on their part. Were they waiting for Rakov to act first, perhaps, in the capacity of senior officer? He was, however, acutely aware that pride always preceded a fall and his glass was most often focused on the Gremyashchi which was now slightly to windward of the French ships, though still to leeward of Andromeda, and a little less than a mile ahead, on her port bow.

'Rakov dare not wear, for it would cast him too far to loo'ard and he dare not tack for fear of missing stays ...'

'By God, sir! You're wrong! He's going about!' Marlowe's voice cracked with excitement as ahead of them the Russian frigate turned into the wind and prepared to come round to pass closely between the French ships and Andromeda. It was a bold move and while it would mask the gunfire of her consorts, a broadside from the Gremyashchi could well serve to incapacitate the British frigate and thereby deliver her to the guns of the combined squadron.

'Mr Paine!'

'Sir?'

'Run up a different hoist. Make us look a little desperate.'

'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.

'Shall I wear her now, sir?' Birkbeck was asking, and Drinkwater swung round, snatched a quick look at the Gremyashchi, almost two miles away by now, but still holding on to her original course. She had either sustained some damage, or was breaking off the action.

'If you please, Birkbeck, let us give chase to the Russian and see what he does.'

'Now they're discarding pretence and showing their true colours, sir,' remarked Marlowe as he returned to the quarterdeck, gesturing to the French ships. L'Aigle had joined her consort in sporting the ensign of the Revolution and Empire and both were also turning in Andromeda's wake.

'Well, sir,' Marlowe remarked cheerfully, 'at least we drew first blood.'

'Indeed we did, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater replied, 'indeed we did.'

CHAPTER 16 Rules of Engagement

'Mr Frey, sir!'

'Ah, Mr Paine...'

'Message from the captain, sir.' Paine paused to catch his breath and caught Ashton's eye. Smoke still lingered on the gun-deck and the atmosphere was acrid with the stink of burnt powder and the sweat of well over a hundred men. Having reloaded, most of the guns' crews had squatted down and were awaiting events. Some chewed tobacco, others mopped their heads and a low, buzzing chatter filled the close air. Frey, standing upright between the beams of the deck above, stretched. His face was already grimy, but his expression was one of cheerful expectation.

'Well,' he prompted, 'what's the news?'

Ashton joined them. He ran a grubby finger round the inside of his stock. Paine noticed he had yet to shave.

'Captain's compliments, gentlemen,' Paine said diplomatically, 'and to say the gun crews acquitted themselves very well. He don't know how much damage we've done, but we ain't, beg pardon, we haven't suffered anything bar a few holes aloft. We're in chase of the Russian again and Captain Drinkwater says to keep it up. He'll do his utmost to continue manoeuvring and hitting from a distance. He says to be certain sure I tell you not to waste powder and shot and to make every discharge count.'

Frey looked from Paine to Ashton with a smile. 'That seems perfectly explicit, eh Josh?'

'Yes,' said Ashton, yawning. By rights the third lieutenant should have been turned in after standing his watch; he was beginning to feel the cumulative effects of his punitive regime of watch-and-watch.

'So round one's to us, eh young shaver?' Frey said light-heartedly. 'How long before we've caught up with the Gremyashchi? We can't see her from down here.'

'About an hour, may be a little more. We've reset the courses.'

'We can see that from the waist,' Ashton said with a cocky air, indicating the open space amidships and the bottoms of the boats on the booms. Sunlight shone obliquely through the interstices, the shafts prominent in the lingering gunsmoke, oscillating gently with the motion of Andromeda.

'Very well, Mr Paine,' said Frey, 'pass our respects to Captain Drinkwater...'

'And tell him we've suffered no casualties down here and are none the worse for the experience,' added Ashton.

'Except for a crushed foot,' Frey corrected reprovingly. 'Poor little Paddy Burns tried to stop a recoiling 12-pounder.'

Thinking of the bare-legged powder-monkeys, Paine grimaced and Ashton said callously, 'The damned little fool got in the way.' Frey pointedly ignored Ashton and nodded dismissal to the midshipman before he turned to cross the deck and peer out of a gun-port to see if he could catch a glimpse of the pursued Gremyashchi. As Paine made off, Ashton called him back.

'Mr Marlowe all right, Mr Paine?'

'Mr Marlowe, sir? Why yes ...'

'Good, good.' Ashton paused, but Paine waited, puzzled at the question. Ashton realized the need of an explanation was both superfluous and demeaning, especially to a midshipman, and waved Paine away, but Paine's own solicitude had been awakened.

'Sir!' He arrested Ashton's turn forward and Frey looked up from his position crouched by the gun-port.

Ashton swung round and stared at the importunate midshipman.

'What happened to Burns, sir?' Paine asked.

'Kennedy's taking his foot off now,' Ashton said coldly and, turning on his heel, resumed his walk forward.

Paine ran back up to the quarterdeck where he caught Drinkwater's eye. 'Beg pardon, sir, both Mr Frey and Mr Ashton send their respects and perfectly understand your orders.'

'Very well.'

'And they've had one casualty'

'Oh? Who is it?'

'A powder-boy, sir,' Paine said, recalling just in time Captain Drinkwater's proscription of the term 'powder-monkey', especially by the young gentlemen.

'Which one?' Drinkwater asked.

'Burns, sir.'

'Burns...' Drinkwater frowned. 'Oh, yes, I know the lad; dark hair and a squint. Was he killed?'

'No, sir, a recoiling gun-truck crushed his foot. He's in the surgeon's hands at the moment.'

'Thank you, Mr Paine. And you, are you all right?'

'Perfectly, sir, thank you.'

Drinkwater nodded and then resumed his scrutiny of the Gremyashchi on their port bow; the Russian frigate was nearer now and Paine was aware he had been absent from the quarterdeck for some time, so much had they shortened the distance. They would be in action again soon and a moment of panic seized him and he blurted out, 'Beg pardon again, sir, but I'm very sorry ...'

Drinkwater turned and looked at the youngster in some surprise. 'What on earth for, Mr Paine?'

'For making such a mess of getting that flag hoist aloft, sir.'

Drinkwater's smile cracked into a brief laugh and he patted the midshipman on the shoulder. 'My dear Mr Paine, think nothing of it. As far as the enemy was concerned, I think you managed the business most ably. As a ruse-de-guerre I imagine it achieved its objective.'

Paine's incomprehension was plain, but he did not question Drinkwater's reply. On any other occasion he would have been dressed down by one of the officers for making so abysmal a hash of the simple task. Action, it seemed, was played to different rules, those of engagement he supposed, so he resumed his station, puzzled but happier. He had survived what Mr Frey had called the first round; perhaps he would be lucky and survive the second.

Lieutenant Hyde took advantage of the hiatus to look to his men. Instructing his two corporals to issue more cartridges and ball, he ordered Sergeant McCann to make his rounds of the sentries posted throughout the frigate.

'See the boys are all right, Sergeant, and make sure they don't feel left out of things.'

McCann ignored the deck sentinels at the after end of the quarterdeck. They were always stationed there, action or not, to maintain a guard and to throw the life-preservers over the side if any unfortunate jack fell overboard.

Below, on the gun-deck, there was a sentry at the forward and after companionways to ensure no one ran below without authority. By this means the cowardly or nervously disposed were kept at their stations and prevented from seeking the shelter of the orlop deck. Only stretcher parties, officers or midshipmen carrying messages were permitted to pass the companionways, along with the powder-boys like Paddy Burns, who carried ammunition up from the magazines and shot lockers to satisfy the demands of the gun-captains.

McCann ascertained there had been no problems with either of his men at these posts and went below where, in the berth-deck and the orlop, other solitary marines did their duty despite the mayhem raging on the decks above. Spirit room, outer magazine, the stores and the hatchways to the holds, each had its guard and every man professed all was well, one asking to be relieved for a moment while he in turn eased himself. McCann obliged then left the comforted soldier to his miserable, ill-lit duty in the mephitic air of the hold.

McCann returned up the forward companionway and walked aft along the gun-deck, exchanging the odd remark with several of the gun crews.

'Cheer up, Sergeant,' one man chaffed, 'what've you got to be glum about up there in all that sunshine and iron rain!'

'Mind your manners,' McCann responded morosely and then found himself confronted by Lieutenant Ashton.

'Silence there!' Ashton ordered, obstructing the marine. 'Well, McCann, what the deuce are you doing down here?'

McCann recognized provocation in Ashton's voice. 'Checking the sentries, sir, on the orders of Lieutenant Hyde.'

Are you, indeed ...?'

'If you'll excuse me, sir ...'

Ashton drew aside with deliberate slowness. 'Off you go, Sergeant Yankee.'

McCan paused and confronted the urbane Ashton. With difficulty he mastered his flaring anger, though his eyes betrayed him, allowing Ashton to add insolently, 'Have a care, Yankee, have a care.'

McCann turned and almost ran aft up the companionway, gasping in the sunlight and fresh air, as if he had escaped the contagion of a plague-pit. He had no idea why Ashton had staged the unpleasant little scene, but it crystallized all the pent up venom in McCann's tortured soul. As for Ashton, idling away the time before Andromeda resumed the action, he felt little beyond a petty amusement that might have been nothing more than the result of mere high spirits and the elation of a man carried away by the excitement of the morning, if it had not had such fatal consequences.

As Andromeda slowly overhauled the Gremyashchi, Drinkwater strove to make some sense out of the situation. Astern of the British frigate, L'Aigle and Arbeille were coming up hand over fist, though they would not reach Andromeda before she herself was in range of the Russian. It was clear Rakov, who could have brought Drinkwater to battle within a few moments by reducing sail, was content to trail his coat, drawing the British after him, in the hope that he could pin Andromeda long enough for the two French ships to come up and overwhelm her.

In short, it seemed to the anxious Drinkwater that, having won a brief advantage, he was now allowing himself to be drawn into a trap which could have only one consequence. His alternative was to put the wind a point abaft the beam and escape on Andromeda's fastest point of sailing. Within this tactical debate there lurked a small political imperative. Rather than run, Drinkwater considered whether to back his hunch, or not. If he proved right, then he might yet extricate his ship from what otherwise seemed her inevitable humiliation. There was something about Rakov's trailing away to the north that did not quite square with the setting of a trap. Drinkwater could not quite put his finger on his reason for thinking thus, beyond an intuition; perhaps that first raking broadside of Andromeda's had had an effect, and perhaps the damage had been more moral than physical.

Captain Count Rakov had been sent with his ship to prevent Drinkwater from thwarting the Tsar's plan. That much was obvious; but what were Rakov's rules of engagement? It was inconceivable that having chased Andromeda out to the Azores, he did not have any! But was Rakov empowered to destroy a British man-of-war? Such an event would at the very least cause a rupture between London and St Petersburg and might be a casus belli, touching off a new European war. As matters stood, the exchange of fire between Gremyashchi and Andromeda could be written off as 'accidental', an unfortunate misunderstanding which both governments regretted profoundly.

Drinkwater lowered his glass, his mind made up. He was lucky, damned lucky. As things stood at that precise moment, he had enough room to call Rakov's bluff.

'Mr Birkbeck!'

'Sir?'

'Wear ship! I want to pass between those two Frenchmen. Mr Marlowe! Mr Hyde! D'you hear?'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

'Mr Paine, be so kind as to let the officers on the gun-deck know my intentions.'

The cries of acknowledgement were followed by a flurry of activity as Andromeda gave up her chase and prepared to turn to bite her own pursuers. While his action with Gremyashchi could be dressed up as a regrettable incident, L'Aigle and Arbeille both now flew an outlawed flag. 'Mr Protheroe,' he called to an elderly master's mate who ran up and touched his fore-cock. 'Be so kind as to make a log entry to the effect that the frigate of which we are in pursuit has been determined to be unequivocally Russian, we have broken off the chase and intend to proceed to compel the two privateers formerly in company with her and sheltering under her colours, to strike the former French tricolour which they promptly hoisted when the Russian frigate stood away from them.' Poor Protheroe looked confused and nodded uncomprehendingly. 'Write it down, man, quickly now ...'

Flustered, Protheroe finally complied and Drinkwater repeated his formal explanation. If he fell in the next two or three hours, posterity would have that much 'fact' to chew upon.

'I have it, sir,' Protheroe acknowledged. Such a veneer of legality would suffice. But if Rakov followed him round to close the trap, Drinkwater would know the worst. Birkbeck was looking at him expectantly.

'Ready, Mr Birkbeck?'

'Aye, sir.'

'Very well. Carry on.'

'Up helm!' Birkbeck sang out, and the shadows of the masts, sails and stays once more waltzed across the white planking as Andromeda answered her rudder and turned about.

All four ships were now reaching across the north-westerly wind, the Russian heading north-north-east, with the Arbeille and L'Aigle on a similar course, but some three miles to the southward of the Gremyashchi. Between them Andromeda now headed back to the south, her course laid for the gap between the two French ships. At the same moment Drinkwater saw the folly of this move Birkbeck made the suggestion to pass downwind of the leeward ship, the weaker corvette Arbeille, a suggestion Drinkwater instantly sanctioned, it having occurred to him simultaneously.

'You know my mind, Mr Birkbeck, but feint at the gap and make them think they have us.' Drinkwater could hardly believe his luck. On a reciprocal course it was not unreasonable for an arrogant British officer to take his ship between two of the enemy and while it exposed her to two broadsides, it allowed the single ship the opportunity to fire into both enemy ships at the same time and thus double her chances of inflicting damage. But by suddenly slipping across the bow of the leeward ship, he would place the Arbeille in the field of fire of L'Aigle and thus deprive Contre-Amiral Lejeune of the heavier guns of the bigger vessel.

Drinkwater ran forward to the waist and bellowed below. Frey's face appeared, then that of Ashton. 'Starboard guns, Mr Frey: double shot 'em and lay them horizontally; zero elevation!'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

Ashton looked crestfallen. 'You'll get your turn in a moment or two, Mr Ashton, don't you worry.'

They were rushing down towards the enemy now and Drinkwater resumed his station, casting a look astern at the Gremyashchi; she remained standing northwards. Rakov was detaching himself. At least for the time being. A sudden, sanguine elation seized Drinkwater, the excitement of the gambler whose hunch is that if he stakes everything upon the next throw of the dice, all will be well. It was a flawed, illogical and misplaced confidence, he knew, but he dare not deny himself its comfort in that moment of anxious decision.

But then he felt the unavoidable, reactive visceral gripe of fear and foreboding. There were no certainties in a sea-battle, and providence was not so easily seduced.

CHAPTER 17 Sauce for the Goose

'Fire!'

The French corvette lay to starboard, so close it seemed one could count the froggings on the scarlet dolmans of a dozen hussars standing on the Arbeille's deck with their carbines presented, yet so detached one scarcely noticed the storm of shot which responded to the thunder of Andromeda's broadside.

Drinkwater felt the rush of a passing ball and gasped involuntarily as it spun him around and drew the air from his lungs. Beside him Protheroe fell with a cry, slumping against Drinkwater's legs, causing him to stumble. One of the helmsmen took the full impact of a second round-shot, his shoulder reduced to a bloody pulp as he too swung round and was thrown against the mizen fife-rail so that his brains were mercifully dashed out at the same fatal moment.

As Drinkwater recovered his balance, a small calibre shot shattered his left arm. One of the hussars had hit him with a horse pistol. The blow struck him with such violence his teeth shut with a painful, head-jarring snap and a second later he felt the surge of pain, which made him gasp as his head swam. For a moment he stood swaying uncertainly, submitting to an overwhelming desire to lie down and to give up. What the hell did it matter? What the hell did any of it matter...?

'Are you all right, sir?'

What was the point of this action? They were little men whose lives had been lived under the shadow of the eagle. Rakov and Lejeune and Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater were mere pawns in the uncaring games of the men of power and destiny. Why, he could feel the chill in the shadow of the eagle's wings even now, and see the beguiling curve of Hortense's smile seducing him towards his own miserable fate. What would the omnipotent Tsar Alexander care for the fate of Count Rakov and his frigate? Or would the great Napoleon, whose ambition had contributed to the deaths of a million men, concern himself over the fate of a few fanatics who could not settle themselves under a fat, indolent monarch?

'Are you all right, sir?'

The British contented themselves under a fat, indolent monarch; or at least a fat, indolent regent. Why could these troublesome Frenchmen not see the sense of playing the same game ... God's bones, but it was cold, so confoundedly cold ...

'Sir! Are you all right?'

He saw Marlowe peering at him as though through a tunnel. He could not quite understand why Marlowe was there, and then his mind began to clear and the nausea and desire to faint receded. He was left with the pain in his arm. 'I fear,' Drinkwater said through clenched teeth, mastering his sweating and fearful body, 'I fear I am hit, Marlowe ...'

'But, sir ...'

'Send... for... laudanum, Marlowe ... Pass word... to Kennedy ... to send me ... laudanum.' He breathed in quick and shallow gasps which somehow eased him.

'At once.' Marlowe saw with a look of horror the bloody wound just above Drinkwater's elbow.

Drinkwater's perception of the action was seen through a red mist; it cleared gradually though his being seemed dominated by the roaring throb of his broken arm. He was dimly aware the guns had fallen silent, that the shadows of the masts and sails once again traversed the deck which pitched for a few moments as Andromeda was luffed up into the wind. Then the guns thundered out again, adding to the throbbing in his head. Somewhere to starboard, he perceived the shallow curve of the Arbeille's taffrail lined with shakoed infantrymen, and the sight roused him. By an effort of will he commanded himself again.

A fusillade of musketry swept Andromeda's quarterdeck. Drinkwater felt a second ball strike him, like a whiplash across the thigh, then someone was beside him, holding a small glass phial.

'Here sir, quick!'

He swallowed the contents and for a moment more stood confused, trying to focus upon Hyde's marines whose backs were to him as they lined the hammock nettings, returning fire. Then Arbeille drew away out of range and Andromeda, having raked her, fell back to port, making a stern board.

Drinkwater felt the opiate spread warmth and contentment through him; the pain ebbed, becoming a faint sensation, like the vague memory of something unpleasant that lay just beyond one's precise recollection. He was aware that Andromeda had come up into the wind under the stern of the French corvette and he was aware of Kennedy blinking in the sunlight, hovering at his elbow.

'Hold still, sir, while I dress your wound.' Kennedy clucked irritably. 'Hold still, damn it, sir.' Drinkwater stood and supinely allowed the surgeon to cut away his coat and bind his arm. 'You have a compound fracture, sir, and I shall have to see to it later.' Kennedy grunted as a musket ball passed close. 'Luckily the ball must have been near spent; 'tis a mess, but no major blood vessels have been severed. I may save it if it don't mortify.'

'Thank you for your encouraging prognosis, Mr Kennedy' Drinkwater said, his teeth clenched as Kennedy finished pulling him about with what seemed unnecessary brutality. He turned back to the handling of the ship as Kennedy grabbed his bag of field dressings and scuttled back to the orlop. It must have been the first time the surgeon had been so exposed to fire, he thought idly.

'Who gave orders to rake?' he asked no one in particular.

'You did, sir,' a hatless Birkbeck reassured him.

'What are our casualties?'

'I've no idea, though a good few fellows have fallen, but we knocked that corvette about...'

'Where's Marlowe?'

'Here, sir.'

Under the laudanum, Drinkwater's mind finally cleared. The elation he had felt earlier returned, imbuing him with confidence. The wound in his thigh was no more than a scratch, his broken arm no more than a damnable inconvenience, already accommodated by shoving his left hand into his waistcoat. He strode to the rail. The marines withdrew to make room for him and he stared to starboard. The sterns of both French ships were now eight or nine cables away: the Arbeille trailed a tangle of wreckage over her port side and L'Aigle had shortened sail to keep pace with her. Their stern chase guns barked and a brace of shot skipped across the water and thudded ineffectually into Andromeda's hull.

'Where's that damned Russian?'

'Somewhere beyond the Frogs, sir,' Marlowe volunteered.

Drinkwater cast his eyes aloft. All the topsails and topgallants were aback. Intact, they were nevertheless peppered with holes, and severed ropes hung in bights. Men were already aloft splicing.

'Throw the helm over, Mr Birkbeck!' Drinkwater ordered, 'Let's have her in pursuit again and bring that lot to book!'

Contre-Amiral Lejeune lay board to board with his wounded consort only as long as it took him to appraise the damage. A moment later L'Aigle's yards were braced sharp up and the frigate detached herself on the port tack, moving away from the corvette preparatory to rounding on the British frigate. As Andromeda also gained headway and began to come up with the almost supine Arbeille, L'Aigle tacked smartly and began to run back towards the British frigate. This time being caught in the cross-fire was inevitable. By using the Arbeille to mask L'Aigle's guns, Drinkwater had also ensured the French frigate's preservation and fed her company with the desire to avenge her weaker consort. Undamaged, L'Aigle bore down to finish off the perfidious Englishman. Lejeune was staking his own mission on a final gamble.

'We are the bully cornered, I fancy,' Drinkwater remarked light-heartedly. He was aware that he had held the initiative and was now about to surrender it. But he was thinking clearly again; in fact his mind seemed superior to the situation, detached and almost divine in its ability to reason, untrammelled by doubts or uncertainties. He gave his orders coolly, as the first of Arbeille's renewed fire struck Andromeda, in passing the corvette to engage her larger and more formidable sister.

Frey's battery fired into the Arbeille. Drinkwater could see the boats smashed on her booms and the wreck of her main topgallant and her mizen topmast; he saw men toiling on her deck to free her from the encumbrance while the brilliant tunics of her complement of soldiers fired small arms, augmenting her main armament of 8-pounders. It puzzled Drinkwater that shots from Andromeda had flown high enough to knock down so much top-hamper, but they were soon past the Arbeille and preparing to engage L'Aigle.

'Mr Ashton! Now's your chance! Fire into the frigate, sir!'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

'Stand by to tack ship!'

Then Ashton's port battery crashed out in a concussive broadside, only to be answered by the guns of L'Aigle. Within a few moments, Drinkwater knew he had met an opponent worthy of his steel. Whatever the history of Contre-Amiral Lejeune, here was no half-sailor who had spent the greater part of the last decade mewed up in Brest Road, living ashore and only occasionally venturing out beyond the Black Rocks. Nor had his crew found the greatest test of their seamanship to be the hoisting and lowering of topgallant masts while their ship rotted at her moorings. Lejeune and his men had been active in French cruisers, national frigates which had made a nuisance of themselves by harrying British trade.

As they passed each other and exchanged broadsides, both commanders attempted to swing under their opponent's sterns and rake. L'Aigle, by wearing, retained the greater speed while Andromeda, turning into and through the wind to tack, slowed perceptibly. The guns were now firing at will, leaping eagerly in their trucks as they recoiled, their barrels heated to a nicety, their crews not yet exhausted, but caught up in the manic exertions of men attending a dangerous business upon which they must expend an absolute concentration, or perish.

Aboard both frigates the enemy shot wreaked havoc and although the smoke from the action did not linger, but was wafted away to leeward by the persistent breeze, to shroud the Arbeille as she too drifted to the south-eastward, it concealed much of the damage each was inflicting upon the other.

Having tacked, and having not yet lost any spars, Drinkwater temporarily broke off the action by holding his course to the southward in an attempt to draw Lejeune away from Rakov, who still stood northwards but who had, significantly, reduced sail. Lejeune bore round without hesitation.

'He's damned confident,' said Marlowe, studying L'Aigle through his telescope.

'Of reinforcement by the Russian?' mooted Drinkwater, levelling his own glass with his single right hand, then giving up the attempt.

'Are we to resume the action, sir?' asked Birkbeck.

'Very definitely, Mr Birkbeck. Now we are going to lay board to board on the same tack. That will decide the issue, and we have at least reduced the opposition to one.'

'For the time being, sir,' Birkbeck said, looking askance at Drinkwater.

'I am not insensible to the facts, Mr Birkbeck,' Drinkwater said brusquely, 'but if we can but cripple L'Aigle, she will not be in a fit state to take Bonaparte to the United States, and if we can but take her, well the matter's closed.'

'You are considering isolating and boarding her then, sir?' asked Marlowe.

'I am considering it, Mr Marlowe, yes. Please shorten down, Mr Birkbeck. We will allow this fellow to catch up.'

'Very well, sir.' Birkbeck turned away.

'The master ain't happy, Marlowe,' Drinkwater remarked, raising his glass again.

'I think,' Marlowe said slowly, 'he is not insensible to the fact that you have taken an opiate, sir.'

Drinkwater looked hard at the first lieutenant. 'He thinks I am foolhardy, does he?'

'He wishes to survive to take up that dockyard post you promised him.'

'I had forgotten that. And what of you, Mr Marlowe? Do you think me foolhardy?'

Drinkwater saw the jump of Marlowe's Adam's apple. 'No sir. I think you are merely doing your duty as you see it.'

'Which is not as you see it, eh?'

'I did not say so, sir.'

'No. Thank you, Mr Marlowe.' Then a thought occurred to Drinkwater. 'By the bye, Mr Marlowe, pipe up spirits.'

The helmsmen heard the order and Drinkwater was aware of a shuffling anticipation of pleasure among them. It would do no harm. 'Sauce for the goose', he muttered to himself, 'is sauce for the gander.'

The respite thus gained lasted for only some twenty minutes. The forenoon was almost over, but the day was unchanged, the sea sparkled in the sunshine and the steady breeze came out of the northwest quarter. The four ships were spread out over a large right-angled triangle upon the ocean. At the northern end of the hypotenuse lay the Gremyashchi, now hove-to; at the point of the right-angle, the battered Arbeille continued to lick her wounds and drift slowly down to leeward. Both vessels were awaiting the outcome of events at the far end of the hypotenuse, where Andromeda lay, and astern of her, swiftly catching her up, L'Aigle followed.

Despite the scepticism of his sailing master, Drinkwater was confident of having almost achieved his objective. If the Arbeille was commanded by an officer of similar resolution to that of L'Aigle, and it seemed impossible that he should not be, the fact the corvette had dropped out of the action suggested she had sustained a disabling proportion of damage. He clung on to these thoughts, arguing them slowly, interspersed with waves of pain from his arm which gradually became more assertive as the effect of the laudanum wore off.

Under her topsails, Andromeda stood on and her crew awaited the enemy. As L'Aigle approached, Drinkwater skilfully maintained the weather gauge by edging Andromeda to starboard every time he observed Lejeune attempt the same manoeuvre with L'Aigle. On the upper-deck the marines and the gunners relaxed in the sunshine, going off a pair at a time to receive their rum ration on the gun-deck. This hiatus was soon over.

His head throbbing with the beat of his pulse, Drinkwater strode forward and bellowed down into the waist, 'Stand-to, my lads. The Frenchman is closing us fast; there's hot work yet to do.'

Lieutenant Ashton had not given a second thought to Sergeant McCann after the marine had departed from the gun-deck. His baiting was the vice of a man who habitually used a horse roughly, sawed at the reins and galled his mount with a crop, a man who was given to mindless and petty acts of cruelty simply because fate had placed him in a station which nurtured such weaknesses. Since his schooldays, Ashton had learned that small facts gleaned about others could be put to entertaining use, and McCann had been a trivial source of such amusement. Yet he was not a truly vicious man, merely a thoughtless and unimaginative one. His solicitude for Marlowe, expressed in his question to young Paine, had been out of concern more for his sister and her unborn child than for the actual well-being of the man responsible for impregnating her. Blood-ties, if they were inevitable, should not be reprehensible, and it mattered much to Josiah Ashton that Marlowe acquitted himself well, perhaps more than to Frederic Marlowe himself. It would not have mattered much to Ashton had Marlowe been killed, provided only that his death was honourable, or appeared so, even if some stain upon his sister's good character was then unavoidable.

As he waited in the gun-deck for the action to resume, Ashton, having dispensed with Marlowe, was calculating his chances of advancement if matters fell out to his advantage. Down below he was relatively safe, unless they were boarded, and even then he was confident that his own skill with a small sword and a pistol would keep him out of real trouble. Marlowe, he judged, might attempt some quixotic act and was as likely to get his come-uppance in a fight, assuming he survived the next hour. Word had already come down to the gun-deck that Captain Drinkwater had a shattered arm. If he did not fall it was quite likely that gangrene would carry him off later. On the other hand, perhaps some opportunity for Ashton to distinguish himself would emerge during the forthcoming hours.

Ashton looked across the deck to where Frey, ever diligent, peered out of a gun-port, striving to see the enemy frigate coming up from astern. Frey was senior to him, but who knew? Perhaps he too would stop a ball before the day was over.

'I can't see a damned thing,' Frey complained, crossing the deck and passing close to Ashton as he bent to stare out of one of his own larboard battery gun-ports. Ah, here she comes. Looks as though it's your turn for it first.' Frey smiled and patted him on the shoulder. 'Good luck.'

'Good luck,' Ashton replied with more duty than true sincerity.

A moment later one of the gun-captains called out, 'Here she comes, me lads!' and a ripple of expectation ran through the waiting men, like a breeze through dry grass.

'Lay your guns,' Ashton commanded. He waited until, like statues, the crews stood back from their loaded and primed pieces, their captains behind the breeches, lanyards in hand. Eventually, all along the deck the bare arms were raised in readiness.

'Fire!' Ashton yelled, and the gun captains jerked the lanyards and jumped aside as the still-warm guns leaped inboard with their recoil, and their crews fussed round them again.

On the deck above, Sergeant McCann had ensured each marine checked his flint and filled his cartouche box. Worn flints would cause misfires, and most of his men had fired profligately.

'Make every shot count,' McCann warned them, 'and every bullet find its mark.'

His men muttered about grandmamas and the sucking of eggs, but they tolerated Meticulous McCann. He was a thoughtfully provident man and though few knew him enough to like him, for he had too many of the ways of an officer to enjoy popular appeal, they all respected him.

When the captain's warning to stand-to and prepare to receive fire came, Hyde merely nodded to McCann, who repeated the order. It was then, in the idle, fearful moment before action, McCann thought of Ashton, and as he lowered his weapon and lined foresight and backsight on a small cluster of gilt just forward of L'Aigle's mizen mast, it was Josiah Ashton's image that his imagination conjured up beyond the muzzle of his Tower musket.

It was almost three bells when Ashton's guns barked again, beating the enemy by a few seconds. Although the range was short, Drinkwater had Birkbeck edge Andromeda away from L'Aigle, to prevent Lejeune running up too close and attempting to board and exploit his greater numbers. Even so, the storm of enemy musketry was prodigious, and the rows of hammocks were destroyed by lead shot ripping into them, fraying the barricade they made, so that the shredded canvas fluttered in the breeze. Those balls which passed over the hammocks in their nettings, either buzzed harmlessly overhead, or found a target. Most passed by, but a few struck the masts, or the boats, and a few knocked men down.

As for the enemy's round shot, they thudded into the hull or struck the lighter bulwarks, sending up an explosion of splinters. Occasionally a ball came in through a port, struck a carronade and ricocheted away with a strident whine. Others flew higher, aimed to bring down Andromeda's upper spars, discommode those on the upper deck and rob the British frigate of the ability to manoeuvre which she had thus far so brilliantly exploited to avoid such a fate. The cries of the dying and the wounded filled the air again, and a large pool of blood formed at the base of the mizen mast, pouring in a brief torrent from the shattered body of a topman lying across the trestle-tree boards of the mizen top high above.

The action had reached its crisis, and Drinkwater, increasingly assailed by the agony of his wounded arm, knew it. He fought the excruciating ache and the desire to capitulate to its demand to lie down and rest; his mouth was dry as dust and his voice was growing hoarse from shouting, though he could not recall much of what he had said in exhorting his men.

He knew too, that whatever the shortcomings of his ship and her company, they could not have fought her with more skill and vigour. From Birkbeck masterfully conning her, to the men who put the master's orders into practice; from the solicitous and grateful

Marlowe running about the upper-deck directing the carronades, to the lieutenants and gunners below, he could not have asked for more. Nor should he forget Kennedy and his mates, labouring in the festering stink of the orlop, plying scalpel and saw, curette and pledget to save what was left of the brutalized bodies of the wounded. His own mortality irked him: he would have to submit to the surgeon's ministrations if he survived the next hour, for his bandaged arm oozed blood.

The thunder of their own guns bespoke a furious cannonade; the decks trembled with the almost constant rumblings of recoil and running out of the 12-pounders of the main armament, and it was clear to Drinkwater's experienced ear that Frey's unengaged gunners had crossed the deck to help fight the larboard battery. In fact Frey had assumed command of the forward division, an order Ashton had not liked receiving, though he could not avoid obeying it, for to do so would have been to have transgressed the Articles of War in refusing to do his utmost in battle.

But Ashton could not deny the effectiveness of the reinforcement, and so furious did the gunfire become that not even the brisk breeze could now clear the smoke and the gap between the two ships became obscure. Neither the officers in the gun-deck nor those upon the quarterdeck could now see very much. L'Aigle was marked by her lines of flashing muzzles and the tops of her masts above the cloud of powder-smoke. Then they heard a cheer ripple along the upper-deck and watched as, in an almost elegant collapse, L'Aigle's main topmast went by the board. Within a quarter of an hour, however, Andromeda had lost her own mizen mast and the wreckage brought down her main topgallant. Two carronades on the quarterdeck were also dismounted in the general destruction of her bulwarks adjacent to the mizen channels. A moment later she had lost her wheel and all those who manned it as her upper-deck was swept by a hail of grape-shot.

Marlowe was nowhere to be seen in the confusion as Drinkwater summoned a hatless and dishevelled Birkbeck who seemed otherwise unscathed. 'She'll get alongside us now, by God!' the sailing master bellowed above the din.

'We must have given as good as we've got!' Drinkwater roared back.

For a few moments there was utter confusion, then L'Aigle loomed close alongside and through the clearing smoke they could hear cries of 'Vive L'Empereur!' and 'Mort a l'Anglais!' as the French soldiers whipped themselves into a frenzy.

'Prepare to repel boarders!' Drinkwater shouted, his voice cracking with the effort as his head reeled, and then the two ships came together with a sudden lurching thud and a long, tortured grinding. Above their heads on the quarterdeck, L'Aigle's mainyard thrust itself like a fencer's extended and questing epee, wavering as the two ships moved in the seaway. Shapes like ghosts appeared over the rail as veterans of Austerlitz and Borodino, of Eylau, Friedland, Jena and Wagram prepared to launch themselves across the gap between the two frigates, on to Andromeda's deck.

Lower down, beneath the pall of smoke that lay in the gulf between the two ships, Frey had seen the approach of L'Aigle and heard the excited shouting of the battle-mad troops. The cry to repel boarders came down through the thick air in the gun-deck and passed along the lines of cannon in shouted warnings.

Frey withdrew from his observation post and hurried aft to where Ashton was scurrying up and down his guns, half bent as he squinted along first one and then another as they jumped inboard for reloading. Steam sizzled as the wet sponges went in, adding a warm stickiness to the choking atmosphere. Frey tapped him on the shoulder.

'Josh!' Frey bellowed until he had attracted his colleague's attention. 'Josh! I'm taking my fellows to reinforce the upper-deck.'

'What?' Ashton was almost deaf from the concussion of the cannon and Frey had to shout in his filthy ear before Ashton understood.

'No, let me. You fight the guns.' The words were uttered before Ashton realized the implications: he had given voice to his thoughts and wavered briefly, half-hoping Frey would contradict the suggestion.

'If you want to go fire-eating good luck to you.' Frey nodded assent, straightened up and hastened back up the deck, half bent to avoid collisions with the beams. 'Starbowlines!' he bellowed, 'Small arms from the racks and follow Mr Ashton on deck! D'ye hear there? Starbowlines with Mr Ashton to the upper-deck! We're about to be boarded!' Men came away from the guns and helped themselves to cutlasses, withdrawing across the deck to where Ashton hurriedly mustered them while Frey turned back to invigorate the now flagging port gun-crews.

'Bear up, my boys, we can still blow their bloody ship to Old Harry!'

As Ashton led his men off, Frey's guns continued to engage L'Aigle's cannon muzzle to muzzle.

On the quarterdeck Hyde came into his own. In a few seconds, he had concentrated his lobsters into a double line of men behind which Drinkwater and Birkbeck could gather their wits and attempt to avert disaster. By passing messages to the steering flat, Andromeda might yet break free of L'Aigle's deadly embrace, but they had first to clear away the wreckage of fallen masts and throw back the wave of invaders.

Birkbeck's gaze ran aft and he clutched with thoughtless violence at Drinkwater's wounded arm. 'By God, sir! Look! There's the Russian!'

He pointed and Drinkwater, shaking from the pain of Birkbeck's unconscious gesture, turned to see above their stern the taut canvas of the Gremyashchi as she bore down into the action.

CHAPTER 18 The Last Candle

Drinkwater felt the chill of foreboding seize him. The game was up.

He was conscious of having fought with all the skill he could muster, of having done his duty, but the end was not now far off. He saw little point in delaying matters further, for it would only result in a further effusion of blood, and he had done everything the honour of his country's flag demanded. Besides, he was wounded and the effect of the laudanum was working off; spent ball or not, it had done for his left arm and he could no longer concentrate on the business in hand. He was overwhelmed with pain and a weariness that went far beyond the urgent promptings of his agonizing wound. He was tired of this eternal business of murder, exhausted by the effort to outmanoeuvre other equally intelligent men in this grim game of action and counter-action. The effort to do more was too much for him and he felt the deck sway beneath his unsteady feet.

'Here the bastards come!'

It was Marlowe waving his sword and roaring a warning beside him. The first lieutenant had lost his hat like Birkbeck, and his sudden appearance seemed magical, like a djinn in a story, but it was a Marlowe afire with a fighting madness. Both his amazing presence and his words brought about a transformation in Drinkwater.

To strike at that moment would have resulted in utter confusion: Napoleon's veterans were after a revenge greater than the mere capture of a British frigate and the thought, flashing through Drinkwater's brain in an instant, compelled him to a final effort.

'God's bones! The game is worth a last candle ...'

But his words were lost as, with a roar, the boarders poured in a flood over the hammock nettings and aboard Andromeda. They were answered by a volley from Hyde's rear rank of marines who promptly reloaded their muskets in accordance with their drill. Beside Drinkwater, Birkbeck drew his sword in the brief quiet. The rasp of the blade made Drinkwater turn as the front rank of marines discharged their pieces from their kneeling position.

'Stand fast, Birkbeck! I promised you a dockyard post. Hyde, forward with your bayonets!'

Drinkwater had his own hanger drawn now and advanced through the marines with Marlowe at his side. He distinctly heard Marlowe say 'Excuse me,' as he shouldered his way through the rigid ranks, and then they were shuffling forward over the resultant shambles of the marines' volleys.

Only the officers had been protected by Hyde's men; as the Frenchmen scrambled over the hammock nettings and down upon Andromeda, they had encountered the upper-deck gunners, topmen and waisters, the afterguard and those men whose duties required them to be abroad on the quarterdeck, forecastle and the port gangway. At Drinkwater's cry to repel boarders, most of these had seized boarding pikes, or drawn their cutlasses if they bore them.

L'Aigle's party had not been unopposed, but they outnumbered the defenders and while some were killed or remained detained in the hand-to-hand fighting, more swept past and were darting like ferrets in their quest for an enemy to overcome, in order to seize the frigate in the name of their accursed Emperor. Hyde's marines had fired indiscriminately into the mass of men coming aboard, hitting friend and foe alike, aided by discharges of langridge from the swivel guns in the tops that now swept L'Aigle's rail and inhibited further reinforcement of the first wave of boarders.

All this had taken less than a minute, and then, after their third volley, Hyde's men were stamping their way across the deck, their bright, gleaming steel bayonets soon bloodied and their ranks wavering as they stabbed, twisted and withdrew, butted and broke the men of the Grand Army who had the audacity to challenge them at sea, on their own deck. They were all slithering in blood and the slime that once constituted the bodies of men; the stink of it was in their nostrils, rousing them to a primitive madness which fed upon itself and was compounded into a frenzied outpouring of violent energy.

White-faced, Drinkwater advanced with them, his left shoulder withdrawn, his right thrown forward. With shortened sword arm, he stabbed and hacked at anything in his way. He was vaguely conscious of the jar of his blade on bone, then the point of a curved and bloody sabre flashed into his field of view and he had parried it and cut savagely at the brown dolman which bore it. A man's face, a thin, lined and handsome face, as weather-beaten as that of any seaman, a face disfigured with a scar and sporting moustachios of opulent proportions and framed by tails of plaited hair, grimaced and opened a red mouth with teeth like a horse. Drinkwater could hear nothing from the hussar whose snarl was lost in the foul cacophony to which, hurt and hurting, they all contributed in their contrived and vicious hate.

The hussar fell and was shoved aside as he slumped across the breech of a carronade. The enemy were checked and thrust back. Men were pinioned to the bulwarks, crucified by bayonets, their guts shot out point-blank by pistol shot, or clubbed with butts or pike-staves, and then with a reinforcing roar Ashton's gun crews came up from the waist, eager to get to closer grips with an enemy they had shortly before been blowing to Kingdom Come with their brutal artillery.

Drinkwater sensed rather than saw them. It was all that was needed to sweep the remaining able-bodied French, soldiers and seamen alike, back over the side of Andromeda and across the grinding gap between the two heaving ships. Drinkwater was up on the carronade slide himself, trying to get over the rail one-handed. Frustrated, he put the forte of his hanger in his mouth, afterwards recalling a brief glimpse of dark water swirling between the tumble-home of L'Aigle and Andromeda. He leaned outwards and seized an iron crane of L'Aigle's hammock nettings as Ashton's men joined Hyde's marines and their combined momentum bore the counterattack onward.

Sergeant McCann had been the right-hand marker as Lieutenant Hyde ordered the marines to advance. They had only to move a matter of feet; less than half the frigate's beam, but every foot-shuffling step had been fiercely contested, and McCann felt his boots crunch unmercifully down upon the writhings of the wounded and dying. The pistols in his belt felt uncomfortable as he twisted and thrust, edging forward all the time, but they reminded him of his resolve.

Suddenly he was aware of movement on his extreme right. As the flanker, he turned instinctively and saw Lieutenant Ashton lead the gunners up out of the gun-deck. He grinned as his heart-beat quickened and Ashton, casting about him to establish his bearings and the tactical situation, caught sight of Sergeant McCann appearing in the smoke to his left.

'Forward Sergeant!' he cried exuberantly, engaging the first Frenchman he came across, a dragoon officer who had shed his cumbersome helmet and fought in a forage cap and a short stable coat. The dragoon slashed wildly, but Ashton was supported by two sailors and the three of them cut the man to his knees in a second. The dragoon fell, bleeding copiously. Lieutenant Ashton felt a surge of confidence as he swept his men forward.

Smoke enveloped them and Ashton half turned, again shouting 'Come on, Sergeant!' his voice full of exasperation. Unable to see the full fury of the action on the quarterdeck, Ashton hacked a path forward and then, as the pressure eased, McCann advanced at a quickening pace. The line of marines began to gain momentum as the column of gunners continued to emerge from the gloom of the gun-deck. Below, their remaining colleagues carried on adding their remorseless thunder to the air as they fired indiscriminately without aiming, into the wooden wall that heaved and surged alongside.

Sergeant McCann followed Lieutenant Ashton as he clambered over the bulwark amidships, and stretched out for the fore chains of L'Aigle. He could have killed Ashton at that moment, stabbed him ignominiously in the arse as he had sworn to do, but he faltered and then Ashton had gone, and with him the opportunity.

Further aft Lieutenant Marlowe had reached L'Aigle's mizen chains and was hacking his way down upon the quarterdeck of the French frigate. Between the two British officers, the line of defenders bowed back, but it had already transformed itself as the French attack was repulsed and the tide turned. As Marlowe struck a French aspirant's extended arm and deflected the pistol ball so that it merely grazed his cheek, the whole line began to scramble aboard L'Aigle.

Carried forward by this madness, Drinkwater felt his ankle twist as he landed on the enemy deck, and he fell full length, cushioned by the corpse of a half-naked French gunner who lay headless beside his gun. The stink of blood, dried sweat and garlic struck him and he dragged himself to his feet as a fellow boarder knocked him over again. The seaman paused, saw whom he had hit and gave Drinkwater a hand to rise.

'Beg pardon, sir, but 'ere, let me ...'

'Obliged...'

It seemed quieter now and Drinkwater took stock. There were fewer of the enemy, which seemed strange since they were now aboard L'Aigle. The wave of men he had led aboard dissipated, like a real wave upon a beach, running faster and faster as it shallowed, until, extended to its limit, it stopped and ran back. Bloody little fights took place everywhere, but the numbers of men already slaughtered had robbed L'Aigle of all her advantage, and it now became apparent to what extent Andromeda's cannon-fire had damaged the French ship.

About the helm lay a heap of bodies and Drinkwater caught the gleam of sunlight on bullion lace. Was one of the ungainly dead Contre-Amiral Lejeune? The boats on L'Aigle's booms were filled with holes, her main fife-rails were smashed to matchwood, releasing halliards and lifts. Parted ropes lay like inert serpents about the decks, drawing lines over and about the corpses, like some delineation of the expiring lives which had left an indelible impression upon the carnage.

About the broken boats on the booms amidships and at the opening of the after hatchway, Hyde's marines were clustered, firing down into the gun-deck below, thus preventing any reinforcement of the upper-deck such as Ashton had managed, and which had turned the tide of the battle. Elsewhere a handful of British jacks chased solitary Frenchmen to their deaths, and it seemed in that short, contemplative moment that they had achieved the impossible and seized L'Aigle. Drinkwater thought he ought perhaps to order his own guns to cease fire, but when he stopped to think about anything the pain of his broken arm came back to him and he wanted to give in to it. Surely providence was satisfied: surely he had done enough. Then, as if from a great distance, Drinkwater heard a cry.

'Look to your front, sir!' There was something urgent and familiar about the voice. Slowly he turned about and saw through the smoke, the hazy figure of Birkbeck standing above Andromeda's rail and gesturing. 'Look to your front!'

'What the deuce are you talking about?' Drinkwater called, unaware that the terrible noise of battle had partially deafened him and he had been shouting his head off so that his voice was a feeble croak.

'The Russian! The Gremyashchi!' Birkbeck waved over Drinkwater's head, gesturing at something and Drinkwater turned again. Looming above the port bulwark of L'Aigle, unscathed and perhaps a foot higher in her freeboard, the big Russian frigate appeared. Drinkwater could see her bulwarks lined with men, many of them fiercely bearded, like the Russians he had seen on the coast of California many, many years ago ...

And then he suddenly felt the naked exposure of his person.

'Take your men below, Sergeant!'

Ashton shoved a marine aside and pointed down into L'Aigle's gun-deck.

'Sir?'

'You heard me! Lead your men below and clear the gun-deck.'

McCann hesitated; Ashton was ordering him to a certain death.

'Are you a coward?'

'The hell I am ...'

'Then do as you are ordered! I'll take my men down from forward.'

Furious, McCann ported his musket and began to descend into the smoke-filled hell. 'Catten,' he instructed one marine, 'run back aboard and let the master know we're going below before that stupid bastard has us all shot by our own gunners. The rest of you, follow me!' he cried.

Ashton was right: he, McCann, was a coward. Only a coward would have submitted to the thrall of soldiering; only a coward would have passively acquiesced to this madness and only a coward would have let slip the opportunity to rid the world of Josiah Ashton. Almost weeping with rage, McCann charged below.

What confronted the invaders when they spread out across L'Aigle's gun-deck was horrifying. The planking was ploughed up by shot. In places, splinters stood like petrified grass. Stanchions were broken and guns were dismounted. Sunlight slanted into the fume-filled gloom through the frigate's gun-ports. Andromeda's 12-pound shot at short range had beaten in the ship's side in one place, while the grape and langridge she had poured into L'Aigle had piled the dead about their guns in heaps.

On Andromeda's gun-deck, Lieutenant Frey received the message to cease fire from Mr Paine who also added the request for the larboard guns to be withdrawn and the ports shut.

'What's amiss?' asked Frey, unable to do more than shout to hear his own voice.

'We need your men on deck, sir. Most of our fellows are aboard the Frenchman and that bloody Russian's just coming up on her disengaged side!'

'Where's the captain?' Frey asked.

'I last saw him going over the side with his hanger in his teeth.'

'Good God!'

Frey turned and began bellowing at his men.

As McCann shuffled forward in the oppressive gloom of L'Aigle's gun-deck, resistance became increasingly fierce. It was clear that some of the soldiers had either retreated to the shelter of the guns amidships, or had been held in reserve there. A volley met the marines and several men fell. McCann took shelter behind the round bulk of the main capstan and prepared to return fire as if in his native woods, sheltering behind the bole of a hickory tree.

As his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness McCann began to select targets and fire with more precision. A small group of marines took cover either with him or behind adjacent guns. He was conscious of an exchange of fire at the far end of the deck where Ashton was attacking down through a pale shaft of sunlight lancing in by way of the forward companionway. It was clear that there, too, resistance was disciplined and effective. Then above the shots and yells, McCann heard Ashton's voice.

'McCann! Where the devil are you? Come and support me you damned Yankee blackguard!'

Ashton's intemperate and ill-considered plea took no account of McCann's own predicament, but was a reaction to the situation Ashton's headstrong action had landed him in. But its insulting unreasonableness struck a chord in McCann's psyche, and his spirit, loosened by the heat of battle, broke in hatred, remorse and the final bitter explosion of his reason.

And then McCann saw Ashton standing half way down the forward companionway, illuminated by the shaft of light that lanced down from the clear blue sky above. He presented even an indifferent marksman a perfect target, and the fact that no Frenchman amidships had yet hit him confirmed McCann in his belief that Ashton had been providentially delivered to his own prowess. He knew the moment was fleeting and his Tower musket was discharged: McCann drew a pistol from his belt, laid it on Ashton's silhouetted head, and fired. As the smoke from the frizzen and muzzle cleared Ashton had vanished. McCann's triumph was short-lived; a second later he heard Ashton's voice: 'McCann, give fire, damn you!'

Alone, his bayonet fixed and his musket horizontal, Sergeant McCann forsook the shelter of the capstan and, with a crash of boots and an Indian yell, ran forward. Four balls hit him before he had advanced five paces, but his momentum carried him along the deck and he could see, kneeling and levelling a carbine at him, a big man whose bulk seemed to fill the low space.

'Sergeant McCann...!' Ashton's plaintive cry was lost in the noise of further musketry. McCann saw the yellow flash of the big horse-grenadier's carbine. The blow of the ball stopped him in his tracks, but it had missed his heart and such was his speed that it failed to knock him over. He shuffled forward again and in his last, despairing act as he fell to his knees, he thrust with his bayonet. Gaston Duroc of the Imperial Horse Grenadiers parried the feeble lunge of the British marine with his bare hand.

'Sergeant McCann, damn you to hell!' cried Lieutenant Ashton, retreating back up the forward companionway and calling his men to prevent the counter-attacking French from following and regaining the upper-deck.

Captain Drinkwater was aware of men about him, though there were few enough of them.

'My lads...' he began, but he was quite out of breath and, besides, could think of nothing to say. It would be only a moment or two before the Russians stormed into L'Aigle and wrested the French ship back from his exhausted men. He closed his eyes to stop the world swaying about him.

'Are you all right sir?'

He had no idea who was asking. 'Perfectly fine,' he answered, thanking the unknown man for his concern. And it was true; he felt quite well now, the pain had gone completely and someone seemed to be taking his sword from his hand. Well, if it meant surrender, at least it did not mean dishonour. If they survived, Marlowe and Birkbeck would manage matters, and Frey ...

The bed was wondrously comfortable; he could sleep and sleep and sleep...

He could hear Charlotte Amelia in the next room. She was playing the harpsichord; something by Mozart, he thought, though he was never certain where music was concerned. And there was Elizabeth's voice. It was not Mozart any more, but a song of which Elizabeth was inordinately fond. He wished he could remember its name ...

'Congratulations, Lieutenant.'

Frey bowed. 'Thank you, sir, but here is our first lieutenant, Mr Marlowe.' Frey gestured as an officer almost as dishevelled and grubby as himself came up. A broken hanger dangled by its martingale from his right wrist. In his hands he bore the lowered colours of L'Aigle.

'What's all this?' Marlowe demanded, his face drawn and a wild look in his eye. His cheek was gouged by a black, scabbing clot. The appearance of the Russian had surprised him too, for he had been occupied with the business of securing the French frigate upon whose deck the three men now met.

'Captain Count Rakov, Marlowe,' Frey muttered and, lowering his voice, added 'executing a smart volte-face in the circumstances, I think.'

'I don't understand ...'

'For God's sake bow and pretend you do.' Frey bowed again and repeated the introduction. 'Captain Count Rakov ... Lieutenant Marlowe.'

'Where is Captain Drinkwater?' asked the Russian in a thick, faltering accent. 'I see him on the quarterdeck and then he go. You,' Rakov looked at Marlowe, 'strike ensign.'

'I, er, I don't know where Captain Drinkwater is ...' Marlowe looked at Frey.

'He is dead?' Rakov asked.

'Frey?'

'Captain Drinkwater has been wounded, sir,' Frey advised.

'And die?'

'I do not believe the wound to be mortal, sir.' Frey was by no means certain of this, but the Russian's predatory interest and the circumstances of his intervention made Frey cautious. Rakov's motives were as murky as ditchwater and they were a long way from home in a half-wrecked ship. Frey was not about to surrender the initiative to a man who had apparently changed sides and might yet reverse the procedure if he thought Captain Drinkwater's wound was serious.

'In fact, Mr Marlowe,' Frey lied boldly, 'he left orders to proceed to Angra without delay.' Frey turned to Rakov and decided to bluff the Russian and hoist him with his own petard. And he asked that you, Count Rakov, would assist us to bring our joint prizes to an anchorage there. He regretted the misunderstanding that occasioned us to fire into each other. I believe there was some confusion about which ensigns these ships were flying.'

Rakov regarded Frey with a calculating and shrewd eye, then turned to Marlowe. 'You command, yes?' he broke the sentence off expectantly.

'Yes, yes, of course,' Marlowe temporized. 'If that is what Captain Drinkwater said ...'

'He was quite specific about the matter, gentlemen,' said Frey with a growing confidence.

'You British ...' said the Russian and turned on his heel, leaving the non sequitur hanging in the air.

'Whew,' exhaled Frey when Rakov was out of earshot.

'D'you mind telling me what all that was about, damn it?' Marlowe asked.

'I think we won the action, Frederic, in every sense. Now, you had better see whether we have enough men to get this bloody ship to Terceira.'

'Have you seen Ashton?'

'Ashton? No, I haven't, but I suspect the worst.'

'Oh God ...' Marlowe stood uncertainly shaking his head. Then he looked up at Frey, a frown on his face. 'I've a curious ringing in my ears, Frey...'

'Count yourself lucky that's all you've got,' said Frey. 'Now let us take stock of matters, shall we.' It was a gentle hint more than a question, and Marlowe dumbly nodded his agreement.

CHAPTER 19 A Burying of Hatchets

'Mr Gilbert, please forgive me for not coming ashore ...'

'My dear Captain Drinkwater, pray do not concern yourself. It is you who have, been put to the greater exertion, I do assure you.' Gilbert smiled urbanely. As for the Captain-General, why, he perfectly understands your situation and joins me in wishing you a speedy recovery'

'Please convey my thanks to His Excellency and, pray, do take a seat.'

Gilbert sat in the cabin chair opposite Drinkwater whose left arm was doubled in a splint and sling. He observed the sea-officer's pallid complexion as Drinkwater moved uneasily in his chair, evidence of the pain he was in.

'Frampton, a glass for Mr Gilbert.'

'Thank you.'

Frampton offered a glass from a small silver tray and Gilbert raised it in a toast. 'To the squadron that never was,' he said, indicating the view from the stern windows of the cabin. Lying at anchor between the commanding guns of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Andromeda and His Imperial Majesty's frigate Gremyashchi, lay the Arbeille and L'Aigle.

'Your fellow Marlowe gave a vivid account of the action,' Gilbert said, sipping his wine. 'It seems a pity it will go unrecorded, but...' he shrugged, 'c'est la guerre.'

Drinkwater raised his own glass and half-turned to contemplate the view. The sheltered anchorage of Angra lay between low, maquis-covered slopes, and the subtle, poignant scent of the land permeated the open sash. The ships presented a curious appearance, the regularity of their masts cut down by the action and now undergoing repair. The shortfall of spare spars occasioned by Andromeda's hurried departure for escort duties was being made good from the stock aboard the French ships, so that it was estimated that within three or four days all would be sufficiently sea-worthy to attempt the passage to a home port. And therein lay complications.

'That is where you are wrong,' Drinkwater said, swinging round to Gilbert. 'Unfortunately it is not war; unfortunately it is a mess, though you are correct it will go unrecorded. Poor Marlowe will be disappointed if he expects to get a step in rank or even to take a prize home. We have taken no prizes ...'

'I entirely agree, Captain, and the situation is the more complicated since we received news from Lisbon only yesterday that Napoleon Bonaparte has for some time been installed as King of Elba...'

'Elba?' Drinkwater frowned. 'I know only of one island of Elba and it is off the Tuscan coast, a dog's watch distance from France, not far from Naples...'

'Your incredulity is unsurprising, but it is the same Elba.'

'Good God!'

'I have no idea why the place was selected; it seems the height of stupidity to me.'

'So all the endeavours of these poor benighted devils would have been wasted, which consideration begs the question of my own ...'

'And Rakov's,' added Gilbert.

'I suppose that is some consolation.'

'I understand from young Marlowe that Rakov played a double-game.'

Drinkwater nodded. 'It would seem that having offered the Bonapartists his protection, he abandoned them when it became obvious that to do so meant a full-scale engagement with a British frigate. I don't know how much discretion Rakov was permitted in the interpretation of his own orders, but he can scarcely have been sleeping easily since our confrontation.'

'It was just as well that he did have a change of heart,' said Gilbert. 'According to Marlowe, he was in a position to retake L'Aigle...'

'Ah, yes, but he came alongside the French ship on the opposite side to ourselves; had he meant mischief to the last, he would have ranged alongside our unengaged, starboard side.' Drinkwater paused a moment, then added, 'We were a sitting duck.'

'I see,' said Gilbert contemplatively, adding, 'Well, the interpretation of your own orders cannot have been easy'

The remark brought a rueful smile to Drinkwater's face. 'I enjoyed far greater latitude than Count Rakov,' he said, then cutting off any further comment which might have been indiscreet and let too much slip to a stranger, Drinkwater said, 'As matters stand now, Rakov's action has fortuitously compromised no one.'

'Indeed not. In fact, quite the contrary, for if the Lisbon papers are to be believed, and I have one here,' Gilbert put down his wine glass and fished in a large black-leather wallet, "twas the Tsar himself who approved Elba.'

'The Tsar?' queried Drinkwater, 'But that makes no sense.'

'Unless His Imperial Majesty had second thoughts.' Gilbert held out the newspaper.

'I don't read Portuguese,' said Drinkwater drily.

'Of course not, I do beg your pardon ...'

'It occurs to me that if you were able to read that to Rakov, we might defuse any further problems.'

'Why not read it to them all? Boney's partisans should know this too. It diverts their attention from America back to Europe ...'

And will ensure we can send both ships in to a French port,' added Drinkwater enthusiastically.

'Who commands the French?'

'As far as I can determine, their original leader was a Rear-Admiral Lejeune but he was mortally wounded and it would seem that a military officer is now the senior.'

Gilbert uncrossed his legs and sat up, placing his half-empty glass on the table. 'Captain, may I presume to make a suggestion to which I am also able to make a modest contribution?'

'By all means.'

'Would you be prepared to host a dinner here, this afternoon? I shall send off a porker and some fresh vegetables, together with some tolerable wine. If you invited, say, three French officers, Rakov and two of his own men together with some of your own, we might stop any further unpleasantness and thereby offer all the other poor devils an explanation.'

'Would you act as interpreter of the newspaper?'

'Yes, why? Oh, you are thinking the French or the Russians might not trust us?'

"Tis a possibility'

'You are quite right; I will bring one of the Portuguese customs officers.'

Drinkwater nodded and Gilbert, pulling out a gold hunter, said, 'At three of the clock?'

'What time have you now ... ?' Drinkwater confirmed Gilbert's Azorean time coincided with Andromeda's own ship's time and nodded. 'We shall expect you then. I will arrange to have invitations delivered.'

Gilbert rose, his manner suddenly brisk. 'We both have work to do, Captain, so I shall take my leave for the nonce and look forward to seeing you later.' He smiled. 'An event like this certainly livens up a dull, if pleasant place.'

'I should have thought', replied Drinkwater, walking with Gilbert to the cabin door, 'that this was almost lotus-eating.'

'Almost,' Gilbert said with a laugh, 'but a man can choke, even on lotuses.'

When he had seen Gilbert's boat off, Drinkwater returned to the cabin and stood for a moment looking out through the stern windows. The atmosphere aboard the two French ships must be wretched in the extreme with half of Hyde's marines doing duty as guards, just as disarmed French grognards did duty as donkeys aboard Andromeda, assisting with the business of re-rigging and labouring under duress. Matters can have been no happier aboard the Gremyashchi. Rakov had studiously avoided personal contact with Drinkwater and conducted all intercourse through the medium of his son, a lieutenant who spoke better English than his father. Drinkwater turned and his eye was caught by Gilbert's abandoned, half-full glass. He recalled the consul's offer of some 'tolerable wine'.

His own was obviously intolerable. Well, so be it; lotus-eating clearly had its drawbacks. Drinkwater eased himself into his chair, reached for pen, ink and paper and called his servant.

'Frampton, pass word for a midshipman to report in a quarter of an hour. I shall be entertaining at six bells in the afternoon watch. Dinner for,' he paused and made a quick calculation, 'for seventeen. Yes, I know, we shall have to borrow some of the wardroom silver and their table. A pig and some vegetables will be sent off this morning from the shore.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Frampton's tone bore the dull acquiescent tone of the hopeless servitor. He began his shuffling retreat to his pantry with a sigh when Drinkwater, who had already bent to his writing, looked up.

'Oh and, Frampton, the consul will also be sending off a quantity of tolerable wine.' 'Very good, sir.'

The unusual nature of the gathering aboard HMS Andromeda that sunlit afternoon precluded any real sociability. Two thirds of those present had recently been, as the colloquialism had it, at hammer and tongs with each other, while the motives of the other third were highly suspect. A jolly, convivial dinner being out of the question, Drinkwater had decided that the proceedings would be formal and the serving of the meal incidental to the real business in hand. To this end, Drinkwater instructed Hyde to parade those of his marines left aboard Andromeda, and two files lined the quarterdeck as a guard of honour, commanded by Hyde, resplendent in scarlet, with his gorget glittering at his throat and a drawn sword in his white-gloved hand. The turnout of the marines owed much to the assiduous training of the late and lamented Sergeant McCann who lay, with over a score of his ship-mates, buried off the western cape of the island of Graciosa.

Drinkwater had also turned out in full dress, as had his three lieutenants, the master and the surgeon, though Drinkwater suspected the latter resented the flummery of the occasion. All the British officers wore their hangers and, in accordance with Drinkwater's instructions, each had his assigned group of foreign officers to look after. In his written invitations, Drinkwater had stated Andromeda's boats would pick up the French officers, and his midshipmen had been given explicit orders to allow the barge from the Gremyashchi to arrive alongside ahead of them. Gilbert and the Portuguese customs officer, however, came off first.

'Captain Drinkwater, may I introduce Senhor Bensaude,' Gilbert said, smiling.

'Welcome aboard, sir, I understand you have a good command of English and will translate the news for us.'

'It will be my pleasure, Captain.'

'I have acquainted Senhor Bensaude with the delicacies of the situation,' Gilbert added.

'Indeed, I understand quite perfectly,' Bensaude added, his accent curiously muted.

'Your English is flawless, Senhor,' Drinkwater replied, impressed.

'I formerly worked in a Lisbon house exporting wine to England. It was run by an English family by the name of Co'burn.'

'Ah, that explains matters.' Drinkwater turned to Gilbert. 'And thank you for your pigs; as you can smell, they will be ready shortly.'

Marlowe approached with the news that the Gremyashchi's boat was coming alongside, and a few moments later Captain Count Vladimir Ivanovich Rakov and his son were engaged in conversation with Gilbert and Lieutenants Ashton and Frey, while Drinkwater welcomed the party from the French ships.

He recognized their leader immediately. The thin, ascetic, sunburnt features with the dependent moustaches, the pigtails and queue were that of the hussar officer Drinkwater had cut down and he had last seen slumped against a carronade slide. Beneath the burnished complexion, the hussar's skin bore a ghastly pallor. Like Drinkwater, he wore a sling, but he concealed this beneath his brown, silver-frogged pelisse which he wore, contrary to common practice, over his sword-arm. A large sabretache dangled from his hip, vying for the attention of any onlookers with his sky-blue overalls, but he wore no sword.

The hussar officer carried an extravagantly plumed busby under his left arm. His hessian boots were of scarlet leather and bore gold tassels. Apart from regimental differences, he reminded Drinkwater, in his dress, of Lieutenant Dieudonne, whom he had fought on the ice at the edge of the Elbe.[11]

'I am Colonel Marbet,' the hussar officer said in halting English, inclining his head in a curt bow. Then, having established his precedence, he stood back and a naval officer came forward.

'I am Capitaine de Fregate Duhesme.' Drinkwater had a vague recollection of seeing this man before, after he had suffered the ministrations of debridement and bone-setting by Kennedy, when he accepted the formal surrender of L'Aigle and relinquished the details to Marlowe and Frey, with the sole instruction to return her commander's sword to him.

'Welcome aboard, Capitaine. I understand Capitaine Friant of the Arbeille is too indisposed to join us.'

'He is badly wounded,' answered Duhesme in good English. 'Colonel Marbet of the Second Hussars is the senior of us, but this is Capitaine Duroc of the Imperial Horse Grenadiers ...'

The big man in the blue and white coat held a huge bearskin under the crook of his left arm and wore ungainly jack-boots and spurs.

These had been buffed for the occasion, and judging by the gleam in his eyes, there was fight still left in Duroc.

Drinkwater coughed to gain their collective attention. 'Gentlemen, there is much to discuss and it would be the better done over dinner. Please be so kind as to follow me into the cabin.' And without further preamble he led the way below.

As soon as the company was seated and their glasses filled, and while the lieutenants each carved a joint of pork, Drinkwater rose and addressed them all.

'Gentlemen, welcome aboard His Britannic Majesty's frigate Andromeda. For those of you who do not already know it, I am Nathaniel Drinkwater, a post-captain in the Royal Navy of Great Britain.' He spoke slowly, allowing Duhesme to translate for Marbet and Duroc. 'The unfortunate circumstances that led to the actions between our several vessels,' Drinkwater paused a moment, laying emphasis on the point and staring at Rakov, 'have been overtaken by events. Mr Gilbert here, the British consul at Angra do Heroismo, has informed me that news has arrived from Lisbon which affects us all, one way or another.

'Capitaine Duhesme, would you be kind enough to translate what I have said for the benefit of Count Rakov ...'

'Not necessary,' Rakov said. 'I understand ...'

'I beg your pardon, Count, I did not know you spoke English very well.'

'I serve with Admiral Hanikov's squadron in North Sea. You not know...'

'On the contrary, Count, I am perfectly acquainted with Admiral Hanikov's movements in the North Sea. Now I shall proceed ...'

Drinkwater ignored Rakov's glare and continued while the plates were passed and vegetables served. Frampton and the wardroom messmen fussed about the fringes of the tables and Drinkwater noted Gilbert's wine was tolerable enough to be swallowed in considerable quantities.

'Mr Gilbert has solicitously brought off Senhor Bensaude, an officer of the Portuguese customs service, to impartially translate this news to us.' Drinkwater turned to Bensaude. 'Senhor, if you would be so kind ...'

Bensaude rose and the crackle of the newspaper filled the expectant cabin as he held it up to read. He was not a tall man, but the broadsheet's top touched the deck-beams above his head.

'The despatch is dated Paris, 2nd May, and the date of this newspaper is Lisbon, 14th May. The despatch states that: "It is reported from Frejus that Napoleon Bonaparte arrived at that place and embarked in the British Frigate Undaunted, Captain Ussher commanding, on the evening of 28th April. Bonaparte landed at Portoferraio on the morning of 4th May and assumed the title of King of Elba ...'

But Bensaude got no further, the succulent pork and its steaming accompaniment of cabbage and aubergines went ignored for three full minutes, while the assembly digested the fact of an Elban exile and its implications for them all. Drinkwater's attempt to break the parties by interspersing his own officers among his guests only added to the babel, for Rakov leaned across Frey and Duroc to speak to his son, at first in French and then in Russian, while Duroc, his face dark with anger, almost bellowed at Marbet across Hyde, Marlowe and the interval between the two tables. For Drinkwater himself, the thought that a mere four days difference would have saved them all the necessity of the tragic adventure that now drew to its conclusion, ate like acid into his soul. He thought again of the urgency of Hortense's news, of the awful consequences should the thing come to pass, and of the needless dead who had been sacrificed to prevent something that would, as matters turned out, never have happened anyway.

Thought of the dead made him look at Marbet. The hussar was trying to listen to Duroc, who boomed at him passionately, but the fight with pain and sickness was obvious to a fellow sufferer. Drinkwater felt a sudden presentiment that Marbet would not see France again. The guilty certainty diverted him and he wondered if the French conspirators knew Hortense Santhonax, then dismissed from his mind any intention to ask. If they agreed to what he was about to propose, he did not want another, vengeful death laid to his account. Let Hortense prosper, even though he must himself support her. The thought of this brought Drinkwater to himself. He waited a moment for things to quieten down and when there seemed no prospect of this, he thumped on the table until the cutlery and the glasses rang, simultaneously calling them all to order with a commanding, 'Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please do not neglect your victuals!'

He paused just long enough for those translating to effect a silence. Like guilty schoolboys they picked up knife and fork. He took advantage of their awkwardness and resumed his speech. 'I appreciate this news excites us all. Colonel Marbet and Capitaine Duhesme, I trust that you will return to a French port. If I may suggest it, flying the Bourbon lilies to ease matters. I am sure Count Rakov would join me in signing a document saying that you were lately on a cruise and learned about the fate of the Emperor from us ...' Drinkwater smiled as Marbet looked at Duhesme and Duroc, exchanging quick, low remarks with both officers. While this public, if muted conference took place, Drinkwater caught Rakov's eye.

'As for you and the Gremyashchi, Count Rakov, I consider the unfortunate matter of our exchange of fire should be regarded as accidental.' Drinkwater watched Rakov's expression, ramming his point home: 'Unless of course you wish me to report your opening fire upon the British flag ... It was doubtless an error, probably attributable to one of your officers ...' Drinkwater picked up his glass and smiled over it. 'Well, then, it seems a pity that the French national cruisers L'Aigle and Arbeille had not heard of the abdication of the Emperor Napoleon and the restoration of King Louis, and engaged this ship before Capitaine Duhesme could be acquainted with the facts ...'

Drinkwater looked round the table. The French were disconsolate; not only had they suffered defeat, they now knew the fate of their Emperor was no glorious resurrection in Canada, but that of a petty king, on an arid and near worthless island off the Italian coast. Count Rakov seemed sunk in gloom, alternating deep draughts of wine with short bursts of conversation with his son who seemed to be arguing some point of cogency.

Drinkwater raised an eyebrow at Gilbert who gave an almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction, before addressing a remark to Bensaude. Drinkwater decided to avail himself of the pork before him, which had been carved in small slices for him to eat one-handed. It was almost cold, but the flavour remained delicious, and with Gilbert's wine to wash it down Drinkwater began to relax.

'Captaine Drinkwater ...'

Drinkwater looked up. Duhesme was addressing him from the far table. 'Colonel Marbet...' Duhesme looked at Marbet who nodded with an exhausted resignation, then at Duroc whose face looked more drawn than ever. Duhesme began again. 'We agree with your idea and accept your proposal.'

'That is good news, Colonel.' Drinkwater turned to Rakov. 'Count, it remains for you to agree ...'

Rakov coughed and put his wine glass down with a heavy nod. 'Ver' well. I agree.'

Drinkwater looked round the table and raised his own glass high. 'Gentlemen, we have all lived our lives under the shadow of the eagle and the eagle is now caged. Let us drink to peace, gentlemen.' He looked round the table. Duroc's face was full of the rage of humiliation and mutilated pride and Drinkwater added, 'At least for the time being.'

A full belly dimmed the pain of his arm and Drinkwater felt the burden of responsibility lifted from his shoulders. It was the first time he had felt relief since his fateful meeting with Hortense Santhonax. He spoke to several of his departing guests as they went over the side.

'I hope you recover fully from your wound, Colonel,' he said to Marbet as the French officer prepared to be helped over the side into Midshipman Paine's cutter. And I am sorry that I was the means by which you suffered it.'

Duhesme was at Marbet's elbow, assisting him and acting as interpreter. The hussar looked at Drinkwater, shrugged and muttered something which Duhesme translated as, 'Per'aps the war is not yet over, Capitaine, and peace may be short. The eagle, as you call the Emperor, is not caged, but perched upon a little rock. If he raises himself, he can see France.'

'I fear you are right. This may be au revoir then.'

Duhesme translated and Marbet, fixing his eyes upon Drinkwater, muttered a comment which Duhesme duly interpreted.

'For me, Capitaine, the Colonel says, it is good-bye ...' And Drinkwater saw death quite clearly in Marbet's deep-set eyes.

'He is a brave man, Capitaine,' Duhesme added.

'That is the tragedy of war, M'sieur,' Drinkwater replied. 'Tell him I honour his courage and that his Emperor was gallantly served.' Moved by the incongruous sight of the curiously attired hussars as they somehow descended to the boat despite their tasselled boots, pelisses and wounds, Drinkwater turned aside.

Rakov's barge left after Andromeda's cutter had swept the French away. Saying his farewells, Drinkwater asked, 'What does the name Gremyashchi signify, Count Rakov?'

The Russian officer consulted his son and replied, 'It means Thunderer".'

'Well I'm damned! I was appointed to command a British ship of that name. Well Count, it seems we have always been allies. May I say that I hope we part friends.' Drinkwater held out his hand and, after a moment's hesitation, Rakov took it.

Gilbert and Bensaude were the last to leave and both shook Drinkwater's hand warmly. 'I am obliged to you both,' Drinkwater said, 'and can only express my sincere thanks.'

'It has been a pleasure Captain,' said Gilbert, 'and I consider you have rendered these islands a signal service. Bonaparte's presence here would have been disastrous for us; his presence elsewhere beyond these islands would have been far worse. You have moreover buried hatchets with commendable diplomacy'

'I agree absolutely with Mr Gilbert,' Bensaude said, and then they were gone and Drinkwater swept his officers back into the cabin, refilled their glasses and addressed them as they stood there in an untidy, expectant knot.

'There will be several unanswered questions occurring to you, gentlemen, not least among them what the events of recent days have been about. Perhaps I can best explain them by saying that it is more important to remember what they have not been about. They have not been about the prolongation of the war in Europe; more importantly, they have not been about the triumph of the Americans, of Canadian rebels and perhaps the establishment of a second Napoleonic empire in the North Americas.

'I have offered the French a means by which they may return to France with honour, allowing them to go back to their homes and families. I have also offered the Russians a means by which they too can return to the Baltic without discredit.

'In these conclusions I believe we have done our duty and upheld the dignity of the British crown. Now I wish only to drink to your healths.'

Drinkwater swallowed his wine and put the glass on the nearest table. A moment's silence filled the cabin and then Marlowe raised his own glass and looked round.

'I give you Captain Drinkwater, gentlemen!'

And they raised their glasses to him, men who seemed still to be no more than mere boys, but with whom he had gone through the testing time, and who had not let him down. As they filed out, he turned away and surreptitiously wiped the tears from his eyes.

'Any orders sir?' Marlowe asked from the door. He was the last to leave.

'Let me know when the ship is ready for sea, Mr Marlowe.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

After they had all gone and Frampton had cleared away, Drinkwater sat at the table and, spreading a sheet of paper, began to write his report of proceedings. He penned the superscription, thinking of John Barrow, the Second Secretary, who would read his words to the assembled Board of Admiralty. He had much to say and began with the well-rehearsed formula: Sir, I have the honour to report ... Then he paused in thought and laid down his pen. A moment later he had fallen asleep, smudging the wet ink.

'Well, Ashton, it's homeward bound as soon as we're ready for sea,' Marlowe announced, and Hyde, who was disrobing himself from the tight constraints of his sash, reappeared in the doorway of his cabin.

'That's damned good news,' he said.

'I'm not certain I relish existing on half-pay,' Ashton grumbled, throwing himself into a chair.

'I shouldn't think you'll have to,' remarked Frey acidly.

Hyde chuckled, then added soberly, 'Well at least you ain't dead, like poor McCann. I still don't understand why he ran out of cover like that. It was so unlike McCann, who was always so strict and disciplined in everything he did.' No one offered an opinion and Hyde yawned and stretched. A full belly always makes me sleepy,' he observed, yawning.

'Most things make you sleepy,' Ashton jibed.

'Aren't you supposed to be on deck, Josiah?' Marlowe asked.

'When I have changed into undress garb,' Ashton mumbled, sighing and half rising.

'You have a sleep too,' Frey said, emerging from his cabin in the plain coat of working rig, 'I'll tend the deck.'

'Damned lick-spittle,' Ashton said.

'Don't be so bloody offensive, Ashton,' Hyde called from his cabin, and Marlowe looked pointedly at the third lieutenant.

'Hyde's right, Josiah ...'

'Oh, damn the lot of you,' Ashton said, and getting up he retired to his cabin, slamming the door so that the whole flimsy bulkhead shook and Hyde reappeared in the doorway of his hutch.

'You know,' he remarked conversationally to Marlowe, 'when I first met him, I rather liked him. It's remarkable how a sea-passage can change things, ain't it?' 'Yes,' replied Marlowe, 'it is.'

'It was a moonlit night when we engaged the Sybille, d'you remember?'[12]

'I was in the gun-deck, sir,' Frey replied. 'It is invariably near dark there ...'

Drinkwater chuckled; 'I'm sorry, I had forgot. I sometimes think I have been too long upon a quarterdeck. In fact,' he said with a sigh, 'I fear I am fit for precious little else.'

So bright was the moonlight that it cast the shadow of the ship on the heaving black sea beyond them and the undulating movement of the water made the shadow run ahead of Andromeda, adding an illusory component to the frigate's apparent speed as she ran to the north and east, bound for the chops of the Channel. Above their heads the ensign cracked in the wind which lumped the sea up on the starboard quarter, and Andromeda scended with alternating rushes forward on the advancing crests, and a slowing as she fell back into the following crests.

The two officers stood for a moment at the windward hance and watched the sea.

"Tis beautiful though,' Drinkwater observed wistfully.

'You are thinking you will not long be able to stand here and admire it.' Frey made it a statement, not a question and Drinkwater took their conjoint thoughts forward.

'Could you paint such a scene?'

'I could try. I should like to attempt it in oils.'

'I commissioned Nick Pocock to paint the moonlit action with the Sybille. The canvas hung in my miserable office in the Admiralty. If you could do it, I should like a painting of Andromeda coming home ...'

'At the end of it all,' said Frey.

'D'you think so?' asked Drinkwater. 'While I certainly hope so, I doubt Napoleon will sit on his Tuscan rock and sulk for ever.'

'I suppose we must put our trust in God, then,' Frey said wryly.

'I have to confess, I do not believe in God,' said Drinkwater, staring astern where a faint phosphorescence in the sea drew the line of the wake on the vastness of the ocean. 'But I believe in Providence,' he added, 'by which I mean that power that argues for order and harmony in the universe and which, I am certain, guides and chastises us.'

He turned to the younger man by his side whose face was a pale oval in the gloom of the night and sighed. 'You only have to look at the stars,' he said, and both officers glanced up at the mighty arch of the cloudless sky. The myriad stars sparkled brilliantly in the depths of the heavens; several they knew by name, especially those by which they had traced their path across the Atlantic, but there were many, many more beyond their knowledge. The light, following breeze ruffled their hair as they stared upwards, then abruptly Drinkwater turned and began to walk forward, along the lengh of Andromeda's quarterdeck. The planking gleamed faintly in the starlight.

'Have you noticed,' Drinkwater remarked as they fell into step beside each other, 'there is always a little light to see by.'

'Yes,' agreed his companion.

After a pause, Drinkwater asked, 'Who is the midshipman of the watch?'

'Paine.'

'Pass word for him, will you.'

Paine reported to the two officers, apprehensive in the darkness. 'Mr Paine,' said Drinkwater, 'I wished to say how well you acquitted yourself in the action.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Now cut along.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'Well,' Drinkwater yawned and stretched as the midshipman ran off, 'it's time I turned in.' He gave a final glance at the binnacle and the illuminated compass card within. 'You have the ship, sir,' he said formally, adding 'Keep her heading for home, Mr Frey.'

And even in the gloom, Frey saw Drinkwater smiling to himself as he finally went below.

CHAPTER 20 A Laying of Keels

The wedding party emerged from St James's in Piccadilly and turned west, bound for Lothian's Hotel and the wedding breakfast. It was a perfect summer's day and Drinkwater felt the sun hot on his back after the cool of the church. He creaked in the heavy blue cloth and gilt lace of full-dress and his sword tapped his thigh as he walked. His left sleeve was pinned across his breast and within it his arm was still bound in a splint while the bone knitted, but beyond a dull ache, he hardly noticed it. Drinkwater cast a look sideways at Elizabeth and marvelled at how beautiful she looked, handsomer now, he thought gallantly, than in the bloom of youth when he had first laid eyes upon her gathering apples in her apron. She felt his glance and turned her head, her wide mouth smiling affectionately.

Thinking of her protestations that she was unacquainted with either the bride or groom when Drinkwater had written from Chatham that she should come up to town and meet him at their London house, he asked, 'Are you glad to be here, Bess?'

'I am glad that you are here,' she said, 'and almost in one piece.'

He drew her closer and lowered his voice, 'And I am glad you brought Catriona.'

James Quilhampton's widow walked behind them on the arm of Lieutenant Frey, who looked, to Drinkwater's surprise, as sunny as the morning.

'Do you think we shall hear more wedding bells?' he began, when Elizabeth silenced him with a sharp elbow in his ribs.

'You shout, sir,' she teased, her voice low. 'You are not upon your quarterdeck now.'

Drinkwater smiled ruefully. No, he was not, nor likely to be again...

'I should have liked you to have brought your surgeon, so that I might thank him for saving your arm.' Elizabeth had been uncharacteristically angry when she had learned of her husband's wound, remonstrating with him that he had doubtless exposed himself unnecessarily, just as the war was over and she might reasonably expect to have him home permanently. Drinkwater had not argued; in essence she was quite right and he understood her fear of widowhood.

'Oh,' chuckled Drinkwater, 'Mr Kennedy is not a man for this sort of social occasion.'

'I shall write to him, nevertheless.'

'He would appreciate that very much.'

Ahead of them the bride and groom, now Lieutenant and Mrs Frederic Marlowe, turned into Albemarle Street, followed by the best man and brother-in-law to the groom, Lieutenant Josiah Ashton. Only a very sharp-eyed and uncharitable observer would have remarked the bride's condition as expectant, or her white silk dress as a trifle reprehensible in the circumstances.

Sarah looked round and smiled at the little column behind her and her husband. A gallant, pausing on the corner, raised his beaver as a compliment.

'Damned pretty girl,' Drinkwater remarked.

'And I don't mean you to turn into a country squire with an eye to every comely young woman,' Elizabeth chid him.

'I doubt that I shall turn into anything other than what you wish, my dear,' Drinkwater said smoothly, then watched apprehensively as a small dog ran up and down the party, yapping with excitement.

They had just turned into and crossed Albemarle Street when a man stepped out of a doorway in the act of putting on his hat. He almost bumped into Drinkwater and recoiled with an apology.

'I do beg your pardon sir.' The gleam of recognition kindled in his eye. 'Ah, it is Captain Drinkwater, is it not? Good morning to you.'

Drinkwater recognized him at once and stopped. Behind them Frey and Catriona Quilhampton were forced to follow suit.

'Why Mr Barrow!' He turned to his wife. 'Elizabeth, may I present Mr Barrow, Second Secretary to their Lordships at the Admiralty. Mr Barrow, my wife ...'

Barrow removed his hat and bent over Elizabeth's extended hand.

'I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Drinkwater. I have long esteemed your husband.'

'Thank you, sir. So have I.'

'Mr Barrow,' Drinkwater said hurriedly, 'may I present Lieutenant Frey, a most able officer and an accomplished artist and surveyor, and Mrs Catriona Quilhampton, widow of the late Lieutenant James Quilhampton, a most deserving officer ...'

'Madam, my sympathies. I recall your husband died in the Vikkenfiord.' Barrow displayed his prodigious memory with a courtly smile and turned to Frey. 'I have just called on Murray the publisher, Mr Frey, perhaps you should offer some of your watercolours for engraving; I presume you do watercolours ...'

'Indeed, sir, yes, often at sea of conspicuous features, islands and the like.' Frey was conscious of being put on the spot.

'Well perhaps Mr Murray might consider them for publication; could you supply some text? The observations and jottings of a naval officer during the late war, perhaps? Now I should think the public might take a great liking to that, such is their thirst for glory at the moment.'

'I, er, I am not certain, sir ...'

'Well,' said Barrow briskly, 'nothing ventured, nothing gained. I must get on and you have fallen far behind your party.'

They drew apart and then Barrow swung back. 'Oh, Captain, I almost forgot, I have a letter for you from Bushey Park. Are you staying in Lord North Street?'

'Indeed.'

'Very well, I shall have it sent round; it will be there by the time you have concluded your present business...' Barrow looked up the street at the retreating wedding party. 'The Marlowe wedding I presume.'

'Yes.'

'Well, I wish them joy. Mesdames, gentlemen, good day' And raising his hat again, Barrow was gone.

'What an extraordinary man,' observed Elizabeth.

'Yes, he is, and a remarkable one as well. Frey, I hope you did not mind my mentioning your talent.'

'You flattered me over much, sir.'

'Not at all, Frey, not at all. Mr Barrow is an influential body and not one you can afford to ignore.' Drinkwater nodded at the brass plate on the door from which Barrow had just emerged, adding, 'And he is a man of diverse parts. He contributes to The Quarterly Review for Mr Murray, I understand. Now we must step out, or be lost to our hosts.'

'What is the significance of a letter from Bushey Park, Nathaniel?' Elizabeth asked as they hurried on.

'It is the residence of Prince William Henry, my dear.'

'The Duke of Clarence?'

'The same. And admiral-of-the-fleet to boot.'

'Lord, lord,' remarked Elizabeth smiling mockingly, 'I wonder what so august a prince has to say to my husband?'

'I haven't the remotest idea,' Drinkwater replied, but the news cast a shadow over the proceedings, ending the period of carefree irresponsibility Drinkwater had enjoyed since leaving Angra and replacing it with a niggle of worry.

'One would think', he muttered to himself, 'that a cracked arm would be sufficient to trouble a man.'

'I did not quite catch you,' Elizabeth said as they reached Lothian's Hotel.

'Nothing, m'dear, nothing at all.'

'Congratulations, Frederic; she is a most beautiful young woman and you are a fortunate man.' Drinkwater raised his glass.

'I owe you a great deal, sir,' said Marlowe, looking round at the glittering assembly.

'Think nothing of it, my dear fellow.'

'There was a time when the prospect of this day seemed as remote as meeting the Great Chan.'

'Or Napoleon himself!' Drinkwater jested.

'Indeed, sir.'

'It is a curious fact about the sea-officer's life,' Drinkwater expanded, warmed by the wine and the cordiality of the occasion, 'that it is almost impossible to imagine yourself in a situation you knew yourself to have been in a sennight past.'

'I know exactly what you mean, sir.'

'The past is often meaningless; enjoy the present, it is all we have.' Drinkwater ignored the insidious promptings of ghosts and smiled.

'That is very true.' Marlowe sipped at his wine.

'How is Ashton?' Drinkwater asked, looking at the young officer across the room where he was in polite conversation with an elderly couple.

'As decent a fellow as can be imagined. Shall I forgive him the past too?'

'If you have a mind to. It is sometimes best; though I should keep him at arm's length and not be eager to confide over much in him.'

'No, no, of course not.' Marlowe paused and smiled at a passing guest.

'I am keeping you from your duties.'

'Not at all, sir. I should consider it an honour to meet your wife, sir.'

'Oh, good heavens, forgive me ...'

They walked over to where Elizabeth was in conversation with Lieutenant Hyde and a young woman whose name Drinkwater did not know but who seemed much attached to the handsome marine officer.

'Excuse me,' he interjected, 'Elizabeth, may I present Frederic Marlowe ...'

Marlowe bowed over Elizabeth's hand. 'I wished to meet you properly, ma'am. Receiving guests at the door is scarcely decent...'

'I'm honoured, Mr Marlowe. You are to be congratulated upon your bride's loveliness.'

'Thank you ma'am. I should like to say ...' Marlowe shot an imploring glance at Drinkwater who tactfully turned to Hyde and his young belle.

'You have the advantage of me, Mr Hyde ...'

'I have indeed, sir. May I present Miss Cassandra Wilcox ...'

Drinkwater looked into a pair of fine blue eyes which were surrounded by long lashes and topped by an intricate pile of blonde hair. 'I fear I am out of practice for such becoming company, Miss Wilcox, you will have to forgive an old man.'

'Tush, Captain, you are not old ...'

'Oh, old enough for Mr Hyde and his fellows to refer to me as Our Father,' said Drinkwater laughing and catching Hyde's eye.

'How the devil did you know, sir?' queried Hyde, eyebrows raised in unaffected surprise.

'Oh, the wisdom of the omnipotent, Mr Hyde. It was my business to know.' Drinkwater smiled at Miss Wilcox. 'Have you known Mr Hyde long, Miss Wilcox?'

'No sir, we met at Sir Quentin's two nights ago.'

'We sang a duet, sir ... at Marlowe's father's,' Hyde added, seeing Drinkwater's puzzlement.

'Ah yes, of course, he is the gentleman in plum velvet.'

'The rather large gentlemen in plum velvet,' added Miss Wilcox mischievously, leaning forward confidentially and treating Drinkwater to a view of her ample bosom. She seemed an ideal companion for the flashy Hyde.

'Would you oblige me by introducing me, Hyde?'

'Of course, sir.'

'Miss Wilcox, it has been a pleasure. I shall detain Hyde but a moment.' Drinkwater bowed and Cassandra Wilcox curtseyed.

'Is Frey about to strangle himself in the noose of matrimony, sir?' Hyde asked as they crossed the carpet to where Sir Quentin, a large, florid man as unlike his heir as could be imagined, guffawed contentedly amid a trio of admiring ladies.

'It very much looks like it, don't it.' Drinkwater looked askance at Hyde. 'You do not approve?'

'She is his senior, I'd say,' Hyde said with a shrug, 'by a margin.'

'But a deserving soul and Frey is a man of great compassion. What about yourself and Miss Wilcox?'

'A man must have a reason for staying in town, sir, or at this season for visiting in the country ... Excuse me, ladies; Sir Quentin, may I introduce Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater?'

It was a pleasant stroll across St James's Park towards the abbey. They walked in silence for a while and then Elizabeth, casting a quick look over her shoulder at Frey and Catriona Quilhampton who lingered behind them, remarked, 'You seem to have made an impression on young Frederic Marlowe, my dear.'

Drinkwater grunted. 'What did he have to say?'

'Rather a lot. He said you saved him from a fate worse than death.'

'I'd say that was rather overstating matters. He was simply in some distress, both personally and professionally. He was concerned at the unexpected delay in our return to London ...'

'Ah,' observed Elizabeth perceptively, 'then the lady was expecting.'

'Good heavens, Bess, do you miss nothing!'

'And professionally?' Elizabeth prompted.

'Oh he had had some experience that had not passed off well. He was unsure of himself

A bit like Humpty-Dumpty? Only in this case the king's men did put him back together again?'

'Yes,' laughed Drinkwater, looking at his wife. 'Damn it, Elizabeth, but you are a lovely woman.'

The letter from Bushey was waiting for them when they arrived at the house in Lord North Street. Williams handed it to Drinkwater on a salver and, after he had struggled for a moment one-handed, Elizabeth rescued him from his embarrassment just as Catriona and Frey entered the room.

'Some tea, Williams, I think,' Elizabeth ordered as the company sat.

'How is the arm, sir?' Frey asked.

'Oh, pretty well, Not for the first time Kennedy saved me, though I suspect he rather wished I had got my just deserts.'

'Nathaniel! That's an ungrateful thing to say!' Elizabeth was profoundly shocked.

'Oh, you don't know Kennedy, m'dear.' Drinkwater flicked open the letter, read it while the company waited — all by now aware of the writer — expectantly watching Drinkwater's face.

'Well?' Elizabeth asked, as, expressionless, Drinkwater laid the letter in his lap.

'Well what?'

'What news? What does His Royal Highness write to you about? Or is it more secrets?'

'No, no.' Drinkwater took a deep breath. 'He has promised Birkbeck, who was my especial concern, a dockyard post.'

'That is good news, sir,' commented Frey approvingly.

'Yes.'

And ... ?' Elizabeth prompted and then, when Drinkwater sat silently, fisted her hands and beat them into her lap. 'Oh, Nathaniel, why do you have to be so tiresome? Either tell us, or say you cannot!'

Drinkwater looked up with a familiar, wry smile upon his face. 'Well, my dear, His Royal Highness', he said the words with sonorous and deferential dignity, 'has been so impressed with the actions of Andromeda and, though modesty prevents me from laying undue emphasis upon the point, with my services ...'

'Oh, Nathaniel, please go on, you are submitting us to the most excruciating torture.'

'Please do tell us,' put in Frey.

'Catriona, m'dear,' Drinkwater appealed to his red-haired guest, 'surely you don't want to hear this nonsense?'

'Oh, but I surely do,' Catriona replied in her soft Scots burr.

'Very well,' Drinkwater sighed. 'His Royal Highness has been graciously pleased to suggest I am made a knight-commander of the Bath...'

'Why, sir,' exclaimed Frey leaping up from his chair, 'that is wonderful news!'

Drinkwater looked at his wife. She had gone quite pale and held both hands in front of her face while Catriona looked concernedly at her friend.

'You had better hear me out,' Drinkwater went on. 'His Royal Highness also says that since hauling down his flag, he is not presently in a position to recommend me, but that he', Drinkwater unscrewed the letter and read aloud, ' "will ever be completely sensible of the great service rendered to the nation by His Majesty's frigate Andromeda in the late action off the Azores and, should His Royal Highness be in a future position to honour Captain Drinkwater, His Royal Highness will be the first to acknowledge that debt in the aforementioned manner ..."'

Drinkwater crushed the letter with a rueful laugh amid a perfect silence.

'I think it is time for bed. It has been a long and eventful day.' Drinkwater stretched and Frey tossed off his glass of oporto.

'Sir, before we retire I should like to acquaint you of my, of our, decision.'

'Of course, Frey. Pray go on.'

'You will have guessed,' Frey said, smiling, 'my proposal has been accepted.'

Drinkwater stood and held out his hand. 'Congratulations, my dear fellow.' They shook hands and Drinkwater said, 'I am glad you don't share Hyde's opinion of marriage.'

'What was that?'

'That it was a noose.'

'Doubtless Hyde would find it so.' Frey paused, adding, 'I know the lady to be ...'

'Please say no more, my dear fellow. The lady has much to commend her and James would be pleased to know you care for Catriona, for her existence has not been easy. I am delighted; we shall be neighbours. Come, a last glass to drink to all our futures now that the war is at an end.'

'If not to your knighthood.'

'Ah, that...' Drinkwater shrugged. 'There is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.'

Both men smiled across their glasses, then Drinkwater said, 'You know, in all the years I have been married, I have never been at home longer than a few months. Perhaps my permanent presence may not be an unalloyed joy to my wife.'

'That does not constitute a noose.'

'No, but I would not want it to be even a lanyard ...' Drinkwater paused reflectively and Frey waited, knowing the sign of a germinating idea from the sudden abstraction. 'You will live at Woodbridge when you have spliced yourself with Catriona?' he asked at last.

'That is our intention, yes. I shall have only my half-pay and intend trying my hand at painting. Portraits perhaps.'

'That is a capital idea; portraits will be all the vogue now the war is over, but I too have an idea which might prevent any talk of nooses or the like.'

'I guessed you were hatching something.'

'What I am hatching is a little cutter. It occurs to me that the coming of peace and the decision of Their Lordships to break up the Andromeda leaves us without a ship. We could have a little cutter built at Woodbridge and I daresay for fifty pounds one could get a tolerable yacht knocked up ...'

'We, sir?' Frey frowned.

'I daresay you'd ship occasionally as first luff with me, wouldn't you?'

'Oh,' said Frey grinning hugely, 'I daresay I might.'

Drinkwater nodded with satisfaction. 'Then the matter's settled.'