The shadow of the eagle

PARIS

'Where in the name of the devil, is Montholon?'

The tall officer, wearing the jack-boots and undress uniform of the Horse Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard turned from the overmantel and addressed the newcomer, a young captain of hussars whose lank hair hung in old-fashioned plaits about his fierce, moustachioed features.

'Delaborde, where the hell have you been?' added a colonel of hussars in the sky-blue overalls and brown tunic of the 2nd Regiment, staring round the wing of a shabby chair in which he was seated, puffing at a long-stemmed clay pipe.

'Where is Montholon?' the horse grenadier repeated.

'Let the poor devil speak.' The fourth occupant of the room commanded. He was dark of feature, his face recessed in the high collar of his plain blue coat, and he had been sitting in the window, quietly reading, while the impatient cavalry officers fussed and fumed.

'Well, Delaborde, you heard what Admiral Lejeune said ...'

'Colonel Montholon sent me to ask you to wait, gentlemen. He apologizes for keeping you all, but he is not yet free to join us.'

'Why not?' asked the horse grenadier.

'He is waiting upon Talleyrand ...'

'That pig ...' A frisson of contempt, mixed with apprehension, seemed to move through the group of officers in the dingy room, enhancing their air of conspiracy.

'It is ironic that it should come to this,' said the colonel of hussars, scratching at the pale weal of a long sabre scar running over the bridge of his nose and down his left cheek. 'Pour yourself a glass Delaborde,' he said, resuming his contemplation of the heavy curls of tobacco smoke that rose from the yellowed bowl of his pipe.

An air of heavy, silent gloom settled on the waiting men, disturbed only by the faint chink of bottle on glass rim and the gurgle of Delaborde's wine. After a few moments Delaborde, prompted by the wine uncoiling in his empty belly, spoke again.

'I am confident Colonel Montholon has the information we want.'

'You mean his sister has the information we want,' sneered the horse grenadier, throwing himself into a spindly chair that stood beside a small, pine table and thrusting out his huge jack-boots so that the rowels of his spurs dug into the meagre square of carpet. The colonel of hussars turned from the wraiths of pipe-smoke and glared at him.

'You may have enjoyed better quarters in the guard, Gaston, but be pleased to respect my landlady's property. This is a palace for a light cavalryman.'

'You aren't thinking of staying,' the horse grenadier remarked sarcastically.

'It looks as though we might have to. Besides it is Paris ... True I had more princely quarters in Moscow, but they were less congenial ...'

'For God's sake where the hell is Montholon?'

'Delaborde has already told you, Gaston. Now hold your tongue, there's a good man.'

Gaston Duroc expelled his breath in a long and contemptuous exhalation. 'I do not like waiting at the behest of a turd in silk stockings...'

'That is no way to refer to the head of the provisional government of France, Gaston,' the colonel of hussars reproved Duroc with a chuckle. 'Talleyrand is not the author of all our misfortunes, merely an agent of destiny. It is we who are going to change that, and if it means waiting until the turd has finished fucking Montholon's sister, then so be it.' Colonel Marbet resumed his pipe.

'Very philosophical, Marbet,' remarked the admiral, looking over his book at Duroc. 'Why don't you join Delaborde in a glass? It seems to have had a good effect upon him.'

They all looked at the young hussar. He had slumped on a carpet-covered chest which stood in a corner of the room, leant his elbow on his shako, and drifted into a doze, the wine glass leaning from his slack fingers.

'Poor devil's hardly had any sleep for a week,' said Marbet, 'he's been escorting Caulaincourt back and forth to Bondy to negotiate with the Tsar. I daresay while Caulaincourt received every courtesy, poor Delaborde was left to sit on his horse.'

Duroc grunted and filled a glass, then the company relapsed again into silence, all of them recalling the tempestuous events of the last few days. Caulaincourt's diplomatic shuttle between the Tsar at the head of the ring of allied armies closing upon Paris, and the beleaguered Emperor of the French at Fontainebleau, had resulted in the allied demand that Napoleon must surrender. A few days earlier, the French senate had cravenly blamed all of France's misfortunes upon the Emperor whom they had formerly fawned upon. Thereafter, Napoleon had abdicated in favour of his young son, but the imperial line was doomed. The British government dug King Louis XVIII out of his comfortable lodgings in Buckinghamshire and prepared to place him on the throne of his fathers. Alone among the crowned heads of Europe who now bayed for the restoration of legitimate monarchy in France, he had never treated with the man they all regarded as a usurper.

To the conspirators in Colonel Marbet's lodgings, the usurper was the elected leader of their country, and the rumours that he had attempted to poison himself gave their intentions a greater urgency.

'Someone's coming!' Duroc's remark galvanized them all. He was on his feet in an instant; Delaborde woke with a start and dropped the glass, caught it on his boot from where it rolled unbroken onto the floor. Colonel Marbet removed the pipe from his mouth and rose slowly, turning in anticipation to the door, while Rear-Admiral Lejeune merely lowered his book.

Colonel Montholon threw open the door and was greeted by the stares of the four men.

'Well?' demanded Duroc.

Montholon closed the door behind him.

'Were you followed?' asked Lejeune.

'I don't think so,' said Montholon.

'Well, where is it to be?' Duroc pressed, fuming with impatience.

'Is the Emperor fit to travel?'

'He'll have to travel, whether he likes it or not,' snarled Duroc. 'The point is where to? You do know, don't you?' The tall man turned on Montholon, 'Or have we got to hang about while your sister ...'

'Hold your tongue, Duroc!' snapped Lejeune, closing his book, standing up and stepping up to Montholon to place a consoling hand upon his shoulder. 'Take no notice of Gaston, Etienne, he's a boor.'

Duroc grunted again and poured another glass. He also filled a second and handed it to Montholon. 'No offence,' he grumbled.

'He's just a big-booted bastard,' Marbet added genially, smiling conciliatorily, his eyes on Montholon. 'Well, Etienne?'

‘It's to be the Azores, gentlemen,' Montholon said, then raised the glass lo his lips.

There was a sigh of collective relief, then Lejeune, as though finding the news too good, asked Montholon, 'So it is not to be Elba?'

Montholon shook his handsome head. 'No. I am told there has been much debate. The bastards cannot agree ...'

'What of the Tsar?' Lejeune pressed.

'He consents. Absolutely' Montholon replied.

But Lejeune's caution had communicated itself to Duroc. 'He's a damned weathercock. Let us hope he doesn't change his mind.'

Montholon shook his head again. 'No; apparently Talleyrand's stratagem was too seductive.'

'He'd be a damned fool not to consent,' remarked Marbet, 'and your sister had this from Talleyrand himself, eh?'

'Yes,' Montholon nodded, 'the source is impeccable.'

Duroc snorted derisively. 'The source is peccant, you mean ...'

Montholon's eyes flashed and his hand moved to his sword hilt. 'You've no right...!'

'Gentlemen, please!' Lejeune snapped and rose smartly, extinguishing the quarrel. 'I will not tolerate such childish behaviour.'

'Well, Montholon's news settles matters,' added Marbet, recalling them to their duty.

The officers sighed, their strained features relaxed and Marbet ordered Delaborde to refill all their glasses, then turned to Lejeune.

'And your ships, my Admiral... ?'

'Are ready. They can sail the instant they receive word.'

'And the Azores ... ?'

'The Azores?' repeated Lejeune, a gleam of satisfaction lighting his curiously dark eyes, 'They are perfect!'

Marbet snatched up his glass: 'To the new enterprise!'

'Damnation to the English!'

'Long live the Emperor!'

CHAPTER 1 The Company of Kings

A pretty sight, sir.'

Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater lowered the glass and looked at the suave young lieutenant resplendent in the blue, white and gilt of full dress, his left fist hitched affectedly on the hilt of his hanger.

'Indeed, Mr Marlowe, very pretty.' Drinkwater replaced the glass to his eye and steadied the long barrel of the telescope against the after starboard mizen backstay.

'Redolent of the blessings of peace,' Marlowe went on.

'Very redolent,' agreed his commander from the corner of his mouth.

Marlowe regarded the rather quaint figure. They were of a height, but there the resemblance ended. Against his own innate polish, Marlowe thought Captain Drinkwater something of a tarpaulin. True, his uniform glittered in the late April sunshine with as much pomp as Lieutenant Marlowe's own, and Captain Drinkwater did indeed sport the double bullion epaulettes of a senior post-captain, but judging by the way they sat upon his shoulders, he looked a little hunchbacked. As for the old-fashioned queue, well, quaint was not the word for it. It was like an old mare's braided tail, done up for a mid-summer horse fair! The irreverent thought caused him to splutter with a half-suppressed laugh. It sounded like a sneeze.

'God bless you, Mr Marlowe.' The glass remained steadfastly horizontal. "Tis the sun upon the water and all these gilded folderols I expect.'

Drinkwater swung his glass and raked the accompanying ships. To starboard His Britannic Majesty's ship-rigged yacht Royal Sovereign drove along under her topsails and a jib. She was ablaze with gilt gingerbread work and gaudy with silken banners. Aloft she bore the fouled anchor of Admiralty at the fore, the Union flag at her mizen with a huge red ensign at her peak, but at her main truck flew the white oriflamme of the Bourbons, its field resplendent with golden lilies. It denoted the presence on board of King Louis XVIII of France, on passage to his restoration as His Most Christian Majesty. Accompanying the king was a suite which included the Prince de Condé, the Due de Bourbon and the bitter-featured Duchesse d'Angoulême, the Orphan of the Temple, sole surviving child of the guillotined Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette.

Beyond the Royal Sovereign, aboard the huge three-decked, first-rate Impregnable, flew the standard of Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and third son of King George III. As admiral-of-the-fleet, an appointment the prince had held since 1811, he was carrying out this ceremonial duty of escort as an act of political expediency by the British government. He had been removed from the frigate Andromeda in 1789, and had not served at sea since then, despite constant petitioning to the Admiralty. Notwithstanding the elevation of his birth, Their Lordships were deaf to his pleading, for he had commanded Andromeda with such unnecessary severity that he had earned the Admiralty's disapproval.

As a sop to His Royal Highness's vanity for this short, but auspicious command, His Majesty's Frigate Andromeda, lately returned from Norwegian waters with a prize of the Danish frigate Odin, was assigned to the Royal Squadron.

Other ships in company were the British frigate Jason and the Polonais, lately a French 'national frigate', but now sporting the white standard of the restored House of Bourbon, together with a pair of Russian frigates and the cutter-rigged yacht of the Trinity House.

Having scanned this impressive group of allied ships, Drinkwater closed his glass with a snap and turned on his heel, almost knocking Lieutenant Marlowe off his feet.

'God's bones, man ...!'

'I beg pardon, sir.'

'Have you nothing better to do than hang at my elbow?'

'I was awaiting your orders, sir?'

'Keep an eye on the flagship, then. I imagine the prince will want some evolutions performed before we arrive at Calais.'

The warning was a product of Drinkwater's brief encounter with His Royal Highness and his flag-captain the previous afternoon, when he had joined the squadron off Dover and had reported aboard the Impregnable.

The ships had been lying at anchor, awaiting the arrival of King Louis and his entourage from London, whither they had been summoned from Hartwell, a seat of the Duke of Buckingham which had been loaned to the exiled French court. The decision to include Andromeda had been taken late at the Admiralty, a result of the interest the prince had taken in the frigate's return from Norway with her Danish prize.

Although his ship was about to pay off at Chatham, Drinkwater had been commanded to remain in commission: His Royal Highness had specifically asked for the 'gallant little' Andromeda to be assigned to his fleeting command. Their Lordships had graciously acquiesced and a ridiculous sum of money, sufficient to have fitted out two or three frigates during the late war, had been swiftly squandered on refitting and repainting her. Drinkwater, hurrying down to Chatham, had found the preparations in hand aboard his ship to be quite obscene.

'Good God, Mr Birkbeck,' he had said to the master, 'had I had one quarter of this cooperation from this damned dockyard when I was fitting out the Virago, or the Patrician, I could have saved myself much anxiety and my people great inconvenience. Why in Heaven's name do they make such a fuss of this business now, eh? I mean where's the sense in it?'

'I imagine the Commissioner sees more profit in pleasing a prince than a post-captain, sir,' Birkbeck remarked drily, and Drinkwater recalled Birkbeck's desire for a dockyard post.

Drinkwater had grunted his agreement. 'Well, it's a damned iniquity.'

"Tis victory, sir, victory.'

He found himself muttering the word now, and chid himself for the crazy habit which he deplored as a concomitant of age and, who knew, perhaps infirmity? He recalled, too, the pleasure with which the prince greeted his arrival off Dover. True, His Royal Highness had asked nothing about Nathaniel Drinkwater, scarcely acknowledging him as the victor in the action with the Odin, but had continually made remarks about the frigate herself, turning to the suite of officers in attendance, as though he sought their good opinion.

'Who are your officers, Captain?'

Drinkwater had named them, starting with his first lieutenant, 'Frederic Marlowe, sir.'

'Ah yes, I know the fella!' The prince had seized chirpily upon the name. 'Son of Sir Quentin who sits for a pocket borough somewhere in the west country.'

'Ixford, sir, in the county of Somerset,' said a lieutenant helpfully, stepping forward with a sycophantic obeisance of his head.

'Indeed, indeed. Somerset, what...'

Only Birkbeck the master and the second lieutenant, Frey, had been in the fight in the Vikkenfiord, and the prince had heard of neither. Drinkwater rather formed the impression that His Royal Highness thought both Marlowe and Lieutenant Ashton, who was known to one of the prince's suite, had both covered themselves with glory in the capture of the Odin.

Perhaps it had been sour grapes on his, Drinkwater's part, perhaps it had galled him to be so ignored. He had said as much to the Impregnable's flag-captain Henry Blackwood. Years earlier, in September 1805, it had been Blackwood in the frigate Euryalus, who had relieved Drinkwater in the Antigone, from the inshore post off Cadiz. A letter in Blackwood's own hand had ordered Drinkwater into Gibraltar and led ultimately to his capture and presence aboard the enemy flagship at Trafalgar.[1]

'He is a harmless enough fellow,' Blackwood said charitably. 'When he was a midshipman, they used to call him "Pineapple Poll" on account of the shape of his head. Sometimes I'm damned if I think he is capable of a sensible thought, but then he'll surprise you with a shrewd remark and you wonder if he ain't fooling you all the time. The trouble is nobody says "boo" to him and he loves the sound of his own voice. He should have been given something useful to do instead of kicking his heels at Bushy Park with La Belle Jordan. He daren't bungle this little adventure, but at the same time regards it as beneath his real dignity.' Blackwood concluded with a chuckle.

'That must make life difficult for you,' Drinkwater had sympathized.

Blackwood shrugged and smiled. 'Oh, it won't last long. The poor devil hasn't been to sea for so long he scarce knows what to do, but when he makes his mind up to do something, he thinks he's a second Nelson.' Blackwood had laughed again, his face a curious mixture of exasperation and amusement.

Next morning, the boats of the squadron, each commanded by a lieutenant, had brought off King Louis and his suite from Dover. The reverberations of the saluting cannon had bounced off the white cliffs and the ramparts of the grey castle as flame and clouds of smoke broke from the sides of the allied men-of-war. Simultaneously, the ramparts themselves had sparkled with the fire from a battery of huge 42-pounders, so that the thump and echo of their concussion danced in diminuendo between the wooden sides of the assembled ships. Bunting had fluttered gaily in the light breeze, augmented by the huge white standard which rose to the main truck of the Royal Sovereign as the king boarded her. Of imperturbable dignity, King Louis was of vast bulk and still suffering from an attack of gout. Too fat to climb the side, he had been hoisted aboard in a canvas sling, followed by the Duchesse d'Angoulême and other ladies. Meanwhile the seamen in the adjacent ships had manned the yards and cheered lustily, though more at the prospect of shortly being paid off, Drinkwater had suspected, than of respect for the royal personage.

That was undoubtedly true of his own men; what of the French aboard the Polonais? After a generation of ferment and opportunity, what were their private feelings? Perhaps they would accept the return of the Bourbon tyranny as the price for peace. As for the Russians, well, who knew what the Russians thought?

The thin rattle of snare drums and the braying of trumpets had floated over the water as the echoes of the guns died away. From the quarterdeck of Andromeda the impression given at a distance was of a seething, glittering ants' nest, and Drinkwater had sensed a mood of envy suffusing his own young officers, as though their own presence on the distant yacht would have guaranteed their individual ambitions.

As for himself, was it age that made him relieved that he had not had to pander to the king and his court? He had caught the eye of Lieutenant Frey, the only one of his commissioned officers with whom he had formerly served, and who had recently endured a court-martial from which he had been honourably acquitted. Perhaps the rueful look on Frey's face had spoken for all the foiled aspirations of his young peers; the embarkation of the dropsical and gouty monarch marked the end of the war and thus terminated the gruesome opportunities war presented to them; perhaps, on the other hand, the sensitive Frey was regretting his late commander, James Quilhampton, could not share this moment. The thought pricked Drinkwater with so sharp a pang of conscience that something of it must have shown on his face, for Frey had crossed the deck smartly.

'Are you all right, sir?'

'Yes, perfectly, thank you, Mr Frey,' Drinkwater had said as Marlowe and Ashton turned at the sudden movement. Dizzily, Drinkwater waved aside their concern.

'I thought for a moment, sir,' Frey had observed, lowering his voice, 'you were unwell.'

'No, no.' Drinkwater had smiled at Frey. 'I thought of Mr Q, Frey, and wished he were here to share this moment with us.'

Drinkwater had regretted his confidence the instant he had uttered it, for the shadow had passed over Frey too, and he had shivered, as if it had suddenly turned cold. 'Amen to that, sir.'

For a moment both men had thought of the cutter Kestrel, the action she had fought off Norway, and the death of Lieutenant James Quilhampton. It had been the abandonment of her battered hulk for which Frey, as senior surviving officer, had stood trial.

'Come,' Drinkwater had remarked encouragingly, 'let us not debar ourselves from some pleasure on this momentous occasion.'

'I think we have already survived the momentous occasions,' Frey said quietly, his eyes abstracted. 'This has an air of hollow triumph.'

Drinkwater had been moved by this perceptive remark, but his private emotions were cut short by Marlowe's sudden comment that a signal was being run up the Impregnable's flag halliards and Birkbeck the master had then hove alongside him, muttering presumptuously that it was the signal to weigh.

Now, in the late afternoon of 24 April, they were well within sight of Calais. To the southward the chalk lump of Cap Gris Nez jutted against the sky; closer the gentler, rounder and more pallid Cap Blanc Nez marked the point at which the French coast turned east, becoming flat and, apart from the church steeples and towers, featureless as it stretched away towards Dunquerque and the distant Netherlands. The little fishing village of Sangatte was almost abeam as the squadron breasted the first of the ebb tide and carried the breeze which had freshed during the day. An hour, an hour and a half at the most, would see them bringing up to their anchors in Calais Road.

Drinkwater examined the roadstead ahead of them, then lowered his glass; he looked once more at the irregular formation of the squadron. It was, as Marlowe had said, a pretty sight.

'Flag's signalling, sir ...'

Drinkwater's attention was diverted by the necessity of obeying the signals of His Royal Highness. As they came up towards Calais, the cannon of the squadron boomed out in yet another round of salutes, impressing upon the fishermen and townsfolk that the dangerous days of republican experiment and alternative, bourgeois monarchy, were dead.

'Sir, may I formally present Captain Drinkwater?'

Blackwood's introduction had an ironic content, since he had met the Duke of Clarence the previous afternoon, but the scene in the great cabin was stiff with formality and Drinkwater made his obeisance with a well-footed bow. Apart from the Jason's captain, he was the last of the allied commanders to be presented. The prince appeared to notice him as an individual for the first time. Drinkwater was some four years the prince's senior, his long grey-brown hair clubbed at the nape of his neck, the scarred cheek and faint blue powder burns on the lean face with its high forehead marking him as a seasoned officer.

This seemed to surprise Prince William Henry, whose genial, full-lipped and rubicund, pop-eyed features broke into an affable grin as he studied the taller post-captain.

'Well Drinkwater,' he almost shouted, 'what d'ye think of Andromeda?'

'She's a fine ship for her class, sir,' Drinkwater remarked.

'She's good enough to have taken the Odin, ain't she, eh what?'

'Indeed, sir ...'

'Drinkwater ... Drinkwater ... Ah-hah! I have it! Ain't you the fellow that took a Russian seventy-four in the Pacific?'

'Captain Drinkwater makes a habit of taking superior ships, sir,' Blackwood put in, bending to the royal ear and lowering his voice, 'but it might be tactless to mention it this evening sir.'

'Of course, of course,' boomed the prince, 'I recall, 'twas the Suvorov, what, what?' Drinkwater caught Blackwood's eye and saw the Impregnable's captain roll his eyes resignedly at the white painted deck-beam over his head. 'Well, well, we're allies now, eh, damn it. And now the war's over, so 'tis all history, eh what?' The prince looked round beaming, as though he had just carried out a major diplomatic coup and Drinkwater was aware of two officers in the dark green full dress of Russian captains, standing stiffly, their bicorne hats tucked beneath their elbows.

'But you didn't do that in Andromeda, eh?'

'No sir, the razee Patrician ...'

'So what the devil d'you do in the Andromeda, sir? Are you a jobber, or what?'

Despite a supreme effort at self-control, Drinkwater felt himself colouring at the prince's tactless imputation, unaware of the bristling of his fellow officers, manifested by a slight shuffling of feet and a stir as they waited for the presentations to cease and the conversation to become general.

Mercifully, Captain Blackwood was equal to the occasion, 'Captain Drinkwater is a most experienced cruiser commander, sir, he was off Cadiz with me, and Nelson had especially picked him for the Thunderer, but he could not get out from Gibraltar before the action.'

'By God, Drinkwater, that was damned bad luck, what? Picked by Nelson, eh? Wish to God I'd been, instead of being left to rot on shore! By Heaven there's no justice in the sea-service, damned if there is, eh, what?'

The moment of embarrassment passed, the insult turned neatly by Blackwood without the need to reveal Drinkwater's long association with special services, by way of an explanation why so senior a post-captain had yet to tread the quarterdeck of a line-of-battle ship, and why he commanded an obsolescent thirty-two gun frigate that should rightfully have been broken up. Drinkwater moved thankfully aside, leaving young Maude of Jason to His Royal Highness's mercy. As he moved aside, the bubble broke and conversation rose about him like a tide. Perhaps, he thought, taking a glass from a silver tray borne by a pig-tailed and stripe-shirted steward, it had been simmering all the while.

'We are neighbours at table, Captain Drinkwater,' said an austere, hollow-eyed man in the plain blue coat with the red collar and cuffs of an Elder Brother of the Trinity House. 'May I introduce myself? Captain Joseph Huddart, late of the Honorable Company's service.'

'Nathaniel Drinkwater ...' The two men shook hands and lapsed into small talk, moving eventually to sit amid the glittering silver and glass of the Duke of Clarence's white-napered table. Drinkwater's other neighbour was a Russian, the captain of the forty-four gun frigate Gremyashchi. He spoke a thick English. Try though he might, Drinkwater had difficulty understanding anything beyond three references to the Suvorov and these, he deduced, were far from complimentary. After a few moments, the Russian turned to his farther neighbour, the French captain of the Polonais who, after a few exchanges, leaned forward and asked Drinkwater in faltering English:

'Capitaine Rakov, he ask if you are English officier who capture Russian ship Suvorov?'[2]

Drinkwater looked from the French officer to the Russian. Rakov was watching him closely.

'I am,' he replied, holding the Russian's gaze. Rakov muttered something, then turned pointedly away and settled to natter in French to the Russian on his left. Drinkwater fell into easy conversation with Huddart, whose bald head and wispy side drapes of hair hid an astute and enquiring mind. They talked of many things, discovering mutual acquaintances from Drinkwater's brief period in China, his escort of a convoy of the Company's East Indiamen and from his earlier service aboard Trinity House buoy yachts. In this vein the evening passed very pleasantly until at last, the prince, having called upon Blackwood to propose the first toast to his royal father, initiated a succession of these in which, at least so it seemed, every crowned head in Europe was thus honoured.

Eventually His Royal Highness prevailed and made some general remarks about his sensibility to the honour of commanding an allied squadron at this happy time of peace, alluding to the restoration of legitimate monarchy in France. He related an anecdote of the king, whom he had escorted ashore earlier in the day.

'His Majesty,' said the prince, perspiration and the tears of emotion upon his florid cheek, 'upon landing on the sacred soil of his native land, embraced the Duchess of Angoulême and said, "I hold again the crown of my ancestors; if it were of roses, I would place it upon your head; as it is of thorns",' and here the sweating prince waved his hand above his head,' "it is for me to wear it." Most moving gentlemen, most moving, what?'

A murmur of loyal assent ran round the table.

'It seems our Billy has learned a thing or two from La Belle Jordan, remarked Huddart drolly, referring to the prince's former mistress who was also a renowned actress.

'Well gentlemen,' resumed their host, 'the merchant and the mariner have now nothing other than the dangers of the elements to encounter, what? And so the prosperity of their pursuits is by consequence more probable, don't you know. What! And therefore I propose a final toast to the sea-services!'

Like the preceding bumpers, they drank this final one sitting down, their faces perspiring from the heat of the candles, the warmth of their conversation and wine. To Drinkwater, chatting amiably to Huddart in the full flush of drunken fellowship, the prospect of peace, of retirement from the demands of active service and all its alarums, risks and hazards, seemed as rosy as the face of Admiral of the Fleet, His Royal Highness, the Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and Earl of Munster.

And just as fulsome.

CHAPTER 2 Nicodemus

Drinkwater could not sleep. He had dined too well and drunk too deeply; moreover he was of an age now that precluded enjoying a full night's sleep and sometime late in the middle watch he irritably entered the starboard quarter-gallery and squatted inelegantly on the privy.

The dark shapes of the anchored squadron were pin-pricked by points of light, where the poop lanterns glowed and ashore a pair of glims marked the entrance to Calais port. Beneath him Andromeda lifted to a low ground swell and this motion caused her ageing fabric to creak in a mild protest. She was worn out with service. After the pounding she had taken in the action with the Odin she would have been better employed as a hulk, or even broken up. It was ironic that now, at the conclusion of hostilities, and in recognition of her last service attending upon kings and princes, she was fully manned. It was a rare experience for Captain Drinkwater to command one of His Britannic Majesty's cruisers which had a full complement, even after twenty years of war!

He sighed, contemplating the passage of time and feeling not only the ache of his tired body, but a morbid apprehension at his own mortality. He thought often now of death, almost daily since the loss of his friend and sometime lieutenant, James Quilhampton. He felt James's passing acutely and had assumed responsibility for the younger man's widow and child, but the impact upon his own spirit had been severe. He held himself wholly to blame for Quilhampton's death; it was an illogical conclusion. Nathaniel Drinkwater had murdered those whom events cast as enemies of his king and country without remorse, seeing in their deaths the workings of providence, but James's death had been attributable to his following orders, orders that had been given by Nathaniel Drinkwater himself.

'Damn the blue-devils,' he muttered, banishing his gloomy thoughts. He was about to duck through the door into the cabin when he noticed the boat. It was a dark shape and attracted attention by the slight gleam of phosphorescence at its bow and the pallid flashes of the oar-strokes. He thought at first it was a guard-boat, but its movement lacked the casual actions of a bored crew. Moreover, it had curved under the stern of their nearest neighbour, the Jason, and was heading directly towards Andromeda. Something about the purposeful approach disturbed Drinkwater; his apprehension about death was displaced by something more immediate. Was this another of His Royal Highness's ridiculous jokes? He could not imagine any other reason for the night's tranquillity being disturbed now that His Most Christian Majesty had been landed upon his natal shore to claim the crown restored to him by the grace of Almighty God, the bayonets of the Tsar and the Royal Navy of Great Britian.

From the greater vista of the stern window in the cabin, Drinkwater could see the boat holding unwaveringly to its course towards Andromeda.

'Bound to be orders, confound it,' he muttered, unaware that talking to himself was becoming habitual. 'Damn and blast the man!' he swore, pulling the night-shirt over his head and reaching for his breeches. Above his head he heard the faint sound of the marine sentry at the taffrail hail the approaching boat. He kicked his stockinged feet into the pumps he had worn aboard the Impregnable earlier that night and peered again through the stern windows. He could see the boat clearly now, the faint gleam of her gunwhale crossed by the moving oar looms. The synchronized swaying of her oarsmen chimed its rhythm with the surge of the phosphorescent bow-wave as the boat dipped and rose slightly under their impetus. He sensed as much as saw these resolved dynamics, a perception born of a lifetime at sea, subconscious in its impact on his intelligence. His conscious mind, compelled to wait for an explanation, briefly diverted itself by a recollection of his wife Elizabeth, whose wonder at first seeing phosphorescence in the breakers running up on the shingle strand of Hollesley Bay had given him a profound pleasure.

'You must have seen so many wonders, Nathaniel,' she had said, 'while I have seen so very little of life.'

'I wish I could have shared more with you,' he had replied kindly. He tossed the recollection aside as he heard quite clearly the query from the boat.

'C'est Andromeda?'

'The devil...' He struck flint on steel and had lit a candle when the tap came at the door. Midshipman Paine's disembodied features appeared round the door.

'Captain, sir?'

'I'm awake, Mr Paine, and aware we have a French boat alongside.'

'Aye sir, and a military officer asking to see you, sir.'

Drinkwater frowned. 'To see me? You imply he asked by my name.'

'Asked for Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, sir, very particularly. Mr Marlowe said I was to emphasize that, sir.'

'Very well, I assume the officer at least was British.'

'Oh no, sir, Mr Marlowe said to tell you he had a lot of plumes on his shako and Mr Marlowe judged him to be either a Russian or a Frenchman.'

Drinkwater was dragging a comb through his hair while this exchange was in progress. It was not in his nature to bait midshipmen, but Drinkwater knew, though the cockpit thought he did not, that Paine had acquired the nickname 'Tom' on account of having the surname of the English revolutionary. He was a solemn but rather prolix lad.

'And what did you make him out to be, Mr Paine?'

'Well, he does have a fantastic shako, sir, but his voice is ... well, I mean his accent is ...'

'Is what, Mr Paine?' enquired Drinkwater, pulling on the full dress coat that he had disencumbered himself of when he had returned from the flagship. 'Pray do not keep me in suspense.'

'Well it's English, sir.'

'English?'

'But Mr Marlowe says the shako ain't English, sir ...'

But Drinkwater was not listening, he was seized by the sudden thought his visitor might be his own brother who had long been a cavalry officer in the Russian service who had now come to pay him a nocturnal visit. He was certain Edward would be serving on the staff of General Vorontzoff who, Drinkwater had heard, was already in Paris. He swallowed the curse that almost escaped his lips and, doubling his queue, ordered the midshipman to bring the stranger down to the cabin. While he waited, Drinkwater lit more candles and washed his mouth out with a half-glass of wine.

Edward's appearance at this time would be damnably embarrassing. A cold and fearful apprehension formed around Drinkwater's heart. Once, long ago, he had helped Edward escape from England and a conviction for murder.[3] It had been a rash, quixotic act, but Drinkwater had gained the protection of Lord Dungarth and cloaked the affair under the guise of a secret and special service. Now Dungarth was dead, and an untimely resurrection of the usually impecunious Ned would not merely embarrass his older brother. Just when he might retire and enjoy the fruits of his own service, Edward might now ruin him.

Just as this terrible thought brought the sweat out on Drinkwater's brow and caused his blood to run cold, Midshipman Paine's face reappeared.

'Well, bring the fellow in, Mr Paine ...'

'He won't come, sir. Says he wishes you to wait upon him on the quarterdeck.'

'The devil he does! Well, Mr Paine, what d'you make of the fellow, eh?' The idea the stranger was Edward was swept aside by the conviction that this was one of His Royal Highness's daft pranks. This thought was given greater credibility by Mr Paine's next remark.

'Begging your pardon, sir, I told you the officer was speaking English, but what I didn't say was that I thought the officer', Paine paused, then went on, 'might be a woman, sir.'

'You thought the ... Well, well, we had better go and see ...'

If it were so, then at least the stranger was not his brother Edward! The cool freshness of the night air soothed some of Drinkwater's irritation. He braced himself for some piece of royal stupidity, aware of a figure in a cloak standing by the entry, but Lieutenant Marlowe loomed out of the darkness by the mizen mast and waylaid him.

'Beg pardon sir, but have a care. If this fellow's a Russian he may be dangerous, sir.'

Drinkwater frowned. 'Dangerous? Why so?'

'You have a reputation, sir...'

'Reputation?' Drinkwater's tone was edgy. Then he recalled Rakov's hostility.

'You did take the Suvorov, sir ...'

Marlowe's tone was courtly, a touch obsequious, perhaps a trifle admiring. Drinkwater had destroyed a Russian line-of-battle ship in the Pacific, but that had been six years ago, in what? September of the year eight. Good God, the Russians had changed sides since then, when Boney invaded their country and Tsar Alexander had become the French Emperor's most implacable foe.

'Thank you for your concern, Mr Marlowe.' The lieutenant drew back and let his captain past, his head inclined in the merest of acknowledgements. Drinkwater approached the cloaked figure. The bell-topped shako with a tall white plume, a mark of Bourbon sympathy, Drinkwater supposed, stood out against the dark sea beyond.

'Well M'sieur, are you French or Russian?'

'I am French, Captain Drinkwater ...' The voice seemed oddly familiar, yet artificially deepened. Paine was correct, a clever lad. He knew in the next instant who his visitor was.

'I know you,' Drinkwater said sharply, stifling any further explanation, and raising his voice slightly, so that the eavesdropping Marlowe and any other curious-minded among the listening anchor-watch might hear, added 'and I think I know your business. You are on the staff of the Prince of Conde. Come, we must go below.'

Drinkwater was certain his night-visitor was not on the staff of the Bourbon prince, and with a hammering heart, turned on his heel and led the way, nodding to the marine sentry at his door as the soldier snapped to attention. The French officer had removed the ridiculous shako to pass between decks, but held it in such a way that it masked his face from the marine's inquisitive stare. He was still half hiding his face behind the plume as Drinkwater, closing the door behind them, crossed the cabin and held up the candelabra on his table.

'You come by night like Nicodemus, but you are, if I mistake not, Hortense Santhonax.'

She lowered the shako and shook her head, not in denial of her identity, but to let her hair fall after its constraint beneath the shako. Drinkwater recalled something else about her. In the imperfect illumination, her profusion of hair still reflected auburn lights. She dropped the hat on a chair and unclasped her cloak. For a moment they both stared at one another. She had half-turned her head away from him, though her eyes were focused on his face. Her hair had pulled over her right shoulder, revealing her neck.

It was a quite deliberate ploy and as his eyes wavered towards the disfigurement, Drinkwater saw the twitch of resolution at the corner of her mouth. The scar ran down from under her hair, over the line of her jaw and down her neck. It was not the clean incision of a sword cut, but marked the passage of a gobbet of molten lead.

He took her cloak and without taking his eyes from her, laid it on a chair behind him. It was warm from her body and the scent of her filled the cabin. He reached out his left hand, gently lifting the hair off her right ear. It was missing.

Hortense Santhonax made no protest at this presumption. He let the hair drop back into place. 'I knew of your injury at the Austrian Ambassador's ball, Madame,' Drinkwater said kindly, 'and I am sorry for it.'

'When a woman loses her looks,' she said in her almost faultless English, 'she loses everything. Thereafter she must live on her wits.'

Drinkwater smiled. 'Then it makes them more nearly men's equals.'

'That is sophistry, Captain.'

'It is debatable, Madame, but you are no less lovely.'

She spurned the gallantry, raising her hand to her neck. 'How did you know ... about this?'

'Lord Dungarth acquainted me of the fact some time before his death.'

'So, him too.' She paused, and then seemed to pull herself together. 'Men may acquire scars, Captain, and it does nothing but add credit to their reputations,' she remarked, and was about to go on when Drinkwater turned aside and lifted the decanter.

'Is that why you have assumed the character of a man, Madame?' he asked, pouring out two glasses.

She looked at him sharply, seeking any hint of malice in his riposte, but the grey eyes merely looked tired. He saw the suspicious contraction of the eye muscles and again the tightening of the mouth. She accepted the glass.

'Pray sit, Madame; you look exhausted.' He took in her dusty hessian boots, the stained riding breeches and the three-quarter length tunic. There was nothing remotely military about her rig. 'I presume you stole the shako,' he remarked, smiling, handing her a glass.

'There is a deal of convivial drinking in Calais tonight, Captain. A lieutenant of the Garde du Corps is going to find himself embarrassed tomorrow morning when the king leaves for Paris.' She returned his smile and he drew up a chair and sat opposite her. He felt the slight contraction of his belly muscles that presaged sexual reaction to her presence. By God, she was still ravishing, perhaps more handsome now than ever!

Was it the wound that, in marring her beauty, somehow made her even more desirable? Or had he become old and goatish?

'That is the first time I have seen you smile, Madame.'

'We have not always met under the happiest of circumstances.'

'Is this then, a happy occasion?'

She lifted the wine to her mouth and shook her head. 'No, I wish it were so, but...'

Drinkwater left her a moment to her abstraction. He was in no mood for sleep now and there was something of the extraordinary intimacy that he remembered from their last charged meeting, in the house of the Jew Liepmann, on the outskirts of Hamburg.[4] But there was something different about her now. He sensed a vulnerability about her, a falling off of her old ferocity. Either he was a fool or about to be hood-winked, but he sensed no scheme on her part to entrap him. Even had she sought to suborn him, she would never have allowed him to lift the hair from her scar in an act that, even now, he could scarcely believe he had accomplished.

She sighed and stirred. 'I have ridden a long way today, Captain Drinkwater, and we are no longer young.'

'That is true. Forgive me; you must have something to eat...' He rose and brought her a biscuit barrel, placing it upon the table beside her. She hesitated a moment and he watched her carefully. She was tired, that much was clear, and had undoubtedly lost her former confidence. Was that due to exhaustion, or the consequences of her scars? Had she been abandoned by those friends in high places she had once boasted of: Talleyrand for instance? Even now the ci-devant Bishop of Autun, foreign minister and Prince of Benevento, was conducting the government of France during the inter-regnum which would shortly end when Louis was restored fully to the throne of his ancestors. In these changed circumstances, a mistress like Hortense Santhonax would be an embarrassment which the calculating Talleyrand would drop like a hot coal.

He watched, fascinated, as she began to eat the biscuits, swallowing the wine with an eagerness that betrayed her hunger. The soft candle-light played on her features and he felt again the urgent twitch in his gut. He recalled the group of fugitives he had rescued off the beach at Carteret years earlier; Hortense and her brother had been among them. Later, at Lord Dungarth's instigation, she had been put back on a French beach once it was known that she had thrown her lot in with a handsome French officer called Edouard Santhonax. Drinkwater remembered, too, the earl's injunction that they should have shot her, not let her go.[5] Since then she had risen with her husband's star until he was killed, when her name became linked with that of Talleyrand. Such a beauty was not destined for a widowhood of obscurity. Hortense had been present at the Austrian Ambassador's ball, given upon the occasion of the Emperor Napoleon's marriage to the Archduchess Marie-Louise, and this confirmed she was still welcome at the imperial court despite imperial doubts about her husband's loyalty. Now the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy threatened to set her world upside down again, and while the Bourbons could not avenge themselves upon the whole of France, they would undoubtedly visit retribution upon the vulnerable among Napoleon's followers.

'Do you fear the restoration? Surely as a friend of Monsieur Talleyrand, whose position, I believe, has never been stronger, you are safe enough?' She looked up at him, and he saw the effort of will it cost her to set her thoughts in order. 'Or are you seeking my protection and asylum in England?'

She almost laughed. 'Talleyrand ... Protection ... ? Ah, Captain Drinkwater, I can count on nothing further from the Prince de Benevento, nor would I presume,' she paused for a moment, appearing briefly confused. Then she drew breath and seemed to steel herself, resuming in a harsher tone. 'M'sieur le Prince prefers the Duchesse de Courland these days, but I have not come here to beg favours, but to warn you. King Louis may have returned, but his presence in France guarantees nothing; France is in turmoil. Three weeks ago the senate which Napoleon had created passed a resolution which blamed the Emperor for all of France's misfortunes. The Prince de Benevento, as head of the provisional government, has himself resolved to have the Emperor exiled. The Iles d'Azores have been suggested, as has your Ile de Sainte Helene. Caulaincourt has been running back and forth between Talleyrand and the Tsar as an intermediary.'

'And how are you and I involved in this negotiation between the Tsar Alexander and Talleyrand? You did not come here in the middle of the night to tell me what I may read in the newspapers in London? They also mentioned Elba.'

'Pah, d'you think that a likelihood? Why, it is too close to France and too close to Tuscany. Austria will not wish to have the Emperor so close.'

'Your Emperor is the son-in-law of the Austrian Emperor.'

'That counts for nothing. Elba is but a ruse, though the world thinks the matter will rest there ...'

'And you think otherwise?'

'Captain, I know otherwise.' The vehemence in her tone was a warning of something to follow. Drinkwater struggled to clear his tired brain.

'I can think of nowhere better than a more remote island such as you have mentioned if the late Emperor is to maintain some dignity. Otherwise I imagine it is not beyond the wit of your new Bourbon master to find an oubliette for him.'

'But Captain Drinkwater, do you think he will remain long on an island? Have not your English newspapers been saying otherwise?'

'He will be guarded by a navy whom he has compelled to master the techniques of blockade duty. I think your Emperor would find it very hard to escape ...'

'What will your navy employ, Captain,' she broke in, the wine reviving her spirits as she warmed to her argument, 'a brace of frigates?'

The sarcasm in her tone as she guyed the English sporting term was clear. There was a sparkle in the green eyes that suddenly lit her face with the animated and terrible beauty he both admired and feared.

Drinkwater shrugged. 'Peut-être...'

'Perhaps,'

Hortense Santhonax scoffed, 'do you think you can cage an eagle, Captain? Come, my friend, you have more imagination than that!'

'Then, Madame,' Drinkwater snapped back, 'speak plainly. You have not come to warn me in so circumlocutory a style without there being something you wish for ...'

The remark seemed to deflate her. Her shoulders sagged visibly as though the weight they bore was unsupportable. She raised the glass and drained it. 'You are right. I have need of your help ... There, I acknowledge it!'

Drinkwater leaned over and refilled both their glasses. 'Hortense,' he said in a low voice, 'much has lain between us in the past. We have been enemies for so long, yet you can feel easy addressing me as friend. Do you remember when I dug a musket ball out of the shoulder of the Comte de Tocqueville aboard the Kestrel? I can see you now, watching me; I felt the depth of your hatred then, though I cannot imagine why you felt thus. Since that time I acknowledge I might have earned your hate, but I think you have come here because you trust me. And, in a strange sense, despite past events, I find myself trusting you.' He reached out and touched her lightly on her shoulder. 'Please do go on.'

She gave so large a sigh that her whole body heaved and when she looked up at him her fine eyes were swimming in tears.

'Yes, I remember the cabin and the wound ... I remember you drinking brandy as you bent over De Tocqueville with a knife, but I do not remember hating you. Perhaps my terror at escaping the mob, of having abandoned everything ...' She sighed and shrugged, sipping at her glass. 'But I know you to be a man of honour and that you will not abuse the confidence I bear.' She took a gulp of the wine and went on. 'When it was known in Paris that the British ships which would escort the Bourbon back to France included the Andromeda commanded by Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, I knew also that our lives were destined to touch at least once more.' She paused a moment, and then resumed. 'When we last met in Hamburg, I asked you if you believed in providence; do you remember what you said?'

'I imagine I answered in the affirmative.'

'You said the one word, "implicitly".'

'Did I? Pray continue,' he prompted gently.

'I also learned that you had foiled Marshal Murat's plans by stopping the shipping of arms from Hamburg to America ...'[6]

'May I ask how?'

'Captain Drinkwater, you are a senior officer in the English navy, yet', she gestured round her, 'this is only a frigate. And I know it to be an old and ill-used frigate.'

'You are remarkably well informed.'

'It is also known in Paris that you have had much to do with secret and especial services. Is that not so?'

'Yes, it is true. It is also true that I took over from Lord Dungarth, but my present command ...' It was Drinkwater's turn to shrug; he was too keenly aware of the irony to offer a full explanation, and let the matter rest upon implication.

'Your appearance here off Calais is providential not only for myself and for France, but for the peace of Europe.'

Drinkwater was suddenly weary. What had the woman come for? He sensed some mystery but so preposterous a claim seemed to be verging on the hysterical, just when the abdicated Napoleon Bonaparte was to be mewed up on a remote island.

'I see you are growing tired, Captain ...'

'No, no ...' he lied.

'I must perforce beg you, as a man of influence, sir, to grant me a small comptence if I reveal what I know'

'Competence? You mean a pension?' So that was what it was all about! Here before him, one of the most beautiful women in Europe was begging. She was one piece of the human flotsam from the wreckage of Bonaparte's empire. He felt meanly disappointed, as though her presence here on this night should have some nobler motive. 'So, you have come to trade.'

'I have almost nothing, Captain, and I must look to the magnanimity of my enemies and the honour of a man I have always thought of as a true spirit, wherever our respective loyalties have led us in these past years. I should hate you for what you did to my husband, but Edouard would have killed you ...'

'He tried, several times, Hortense ...'

Ashamed of his meanness, he felt a great pity for her. She would not be the only casualty in the fall of France. Though he had been a consistent enemy of his sovereign's enemies, he had often, in the privacy of his own thoughts, admired the establishment of a new order. The regal buffoonery of the preceding day had reminded him of the craziness of the world.

'Pray let us terminate the reminiscences, Hortense, they are painful for both of us. Do I understand you wish me to have you a pensioner of the British government?'

'Please ...' There was no denying the extremity to which the woman was reduced.

'Sadly, you are unlikely to believe me when I say I am of little influence and certainly quite incapable of finding the support which would gain you such a living ...'

'I don't ask for very much, Nathaniel; fifty pounds per annum, enough to keep me from the gutter ... forty even.' She saw him shaking his head and a sudden fire kindled in her eyes. She dropped the intimacy they had fallen into. 'Come Captain, you cannot claim to be of no account. I know you are otherwise; why else are you serving in a squadron commanded by a royal prince? Your Prince William could see to it that I was awarded such a pension! Shall I go and petition him ...?' She was scornful, her eyes ablaze.

'Madame, Madame, you do not know what you say!' Drinkwater had to laugh. 'His Royal Highness and his brothers are so often in debt that I would counsel you to steer clear of that path. You might find yourself reduced to whoring in his bed in expectation of guineas, only to be paid in florins! England is not France; your Prince of Benevento has far more power than Prince William Henry, and probably a more generous purse, whatever other vices he has.'

'But you can do it, Nathaniel, for God's sake, you must! Do I have to beg? I will ...' She looked round and saw the cot.

'For God's sake get up! This is too melancholy a drama for such behaviour ...' Drinkwater was keenly aware that, despite his caution, Hortense Santhonax had boxed him into a corner. 'Forty pounds you say? Well, well, I will see what I can do, though don't depend upon it. Come, come,' he floundered, 'it is not seemly to see you so reduced...'

'I have your word?' She had at least the grace to plead.

'You have my word.'

'Thank you, Nathaniel. It gives me no pleasure to be beholden to you.'

'It gives me no pleasure that you are,' Drinkwater replied grimly. He would have to find the woman's pension himself, if he could not obtain funds under some pretext or other. 'So, what is this news that will save Europe?'

To her credit, Hortense Santhonax came straight to the point. 'A group of officers in Paris, unwilling to swear the oath of allegiance to the Bourbon or to take advantage of the dissolution of their vows to the Emperor Napoleon, have already plotted to rescue him from exile.'

She paused a moment, satisfied herself that Drinkwater had taken the bait and went on. 'Talleyrand', she said, eschewing the former French foreign minister's imperial title, 'is arranging matters so that the Emperor will be exiled on the island of Flores in the Azores. Money has already passed into the hands of certain influential Russians to ensure this, so the decision will be supported by Tsar Alexander. I do not think either the Prince Regent or your government will oppose it. But, having consented not to disturb the peace and tranquillity of France, a deposition to which effect the Emperor has already signed, the Emperor will embark in ships which will convey him from the Azores and transport him to North America. Scarcely will your navy have ordered frigates to watch the islands, than Napoleon will have vanished, as will many of his guard, to join forces with the Americans. Can you not imagine the joy with which Mr Madison will welcome the greatest military genius the world has ever known?'

'I can imagine Mr Madison regretting his eagerness when Mr Madison is no longer Mr President,' Drinkwater remarked drily, but Hortense was quick to dismiss his scepticism.

'Napoleon Bonaparte will have lost Europe, Nathaniel, but he will gain Canada! The Québecois await him eagerly...'

Drinkwater thought of the speculations in the English press and Hortense's earlier reference to them. Napoleon's intended destination of America was at least a speculation. It might be a great deal more. 'And you say the Tsar is complicit in this plot?'

'Absolutely, yes. The matter has been settled between Alexander and Napoleon, thanks to Caulaincourt. I do not believe Napoleon will try and usurp the presidency of the United States, nor that he would again overreach himself, for he too is no longer a young man; but Canada will fall to him, and he will have again an empire the size of Europe! Do you think he cannot beat the British out of the country that was once a possession of France?'

The enormity of the implications came as no surprise to Drinkwater. It was as if the possibility seeped into him, giving form to a deep fear, charged with all the inherent horror of something inevitable. The idea was not new, the thing was perfectly possible and not very difficult. But it marked the base ingratitude of the Tsar, into whose coffers the British had poured thousands of pounds to keep his armies in the field.

'If this is true ...'

'It is true,' she shook her head as if wishing she could dismiss it. Then she looked up at him, 'And it is worth forty pounds a year.'

But Drinkwater was no longer listening, he had turned away and stared through the stern windows. They had swung to the flood now and the eastern sky was already showing the first glimmer of the dawn. What was proposed was nothing less than the ruin of Great Britain hard upon the heels of the ruin of France. The euphoria of peace would be snatched from an exhausted people, the economy would be wrecked by further war, the troops mutinous if they had to be shipped in great numbers across the Atlantic to confront the resurgent Emperor of the French ...

It did not bear thinking about. But he could not avoid it. When Britain had lost the Thirteen Colonies of North America, she had still had the vast wealth she derived from India and the sugar islands of the West Indies. Once before India had been threatened by Napoleon, now it was all too clear that it would be the Tsar's patiently obedient and savagely efficient legions who would thrust down towards the sub-continent. Drinkwater had few illusions but that they were capable of such a campaign.

He swung round to find Hortense intently watching him.

'This is not bluff, Madame?' His voice was suddenly hard, his brows knitting above his eyes which glittered fiercely. She felt less sure of herself, saw briefly the man who had killed her husband and who had spent his adult life engaged in a war with the elements as much as her fellow countrymen.

'No, no, if you want proof, you can examine the papers of the port of Antwerp. Three days after the Emperor abdicated, two frigates, new ships just fitted out in that port, sailed for the Atlantic'

'If true I doubt I have time to examine any papers ...' Drinkwater's brain was racing. He, more than anyone else, knew the state of affairs at Antwerp. French money had been building ships on the Scheldt for years. As head of the Admiralty's secret Department he had received regular reports of their progress: no doubt two, three, a dozen frigates and perhaps a seventy-four or an eighty might be in a fit state for sea. And the present time, with the blockade everywhere stood easy, was the most propitious for a quiet departure of two frigates. They could look like Indiamen, by God!

'Do you know the names of these ships?' he asked, his voice rasping.

'I almost forgot,' she said. 'One was to have been called L'Aigle, but it has very likely been altered to something more like a Dutch East Indiaman. It was given out that they were bound for the Indies. They wear Dutch colours, but are French, of that you may be certain. Off Breskens they took on arms and men additional to their crews, veterans, men of the Old and the Middle Guard, Chasseurs à Cheval and Empress Dragoons, even Poles of the Lanciers ...'

'D'you know anything of their passage, Hortense, if they left three days after the Emperor abdicated, then they left on ...'

'The 9th April, and had weighed anchor from Breskens by the 14th...'

'Ten days ago, by God!'

'And they were to go north, to the northwards of Scotland.'

'D'you know who commands them?'

'I do not know the names of the officers who command the ships. The committee in Paris consisted of only a few officers, but one of these will command the escadron, how do you say ... ?'

'Squadron.'

'Yes, I had forgotten. It is Lejeune, he is a contre-amiral, pardon, a rear-admiral.'

It was too pat; suspicion rose again, clouding Drinkwater's tired mind. 'How are you so well informed? Does Talleyrand have a hand in this?'

Hortense nodded. 'Of course. He presides over everything.' She was unable to conceal her distaste. 'He will accomplish what Napoleon failed to achieve, without lifting a finger ...'

'But,' Drinkwater repeated, 'how do you know all these details? Talleyrand cannot have discussed ...' Were these secrets from the intimacy of the bedchamber?

She shook her head. 'No, no, Nathaniel. I know because ...' She paused and took a different tack, capturing him in the jade gaze of her eyes. 'Do you remember the beach at Carteret, when you came in your little boat and took a frightened émigrée off the sand?'

'Yes. It was the first time I saw you.'

'What was the name of your commandant? Griffon ... ?'

'Griffiths.'

'Ah, yes. Do you recall who else came with me in the barouche?'

Drinkwater cudgelled his brains. There had been a handful of them, then the light dawned: 'The Comte de Tocqueville, a man called Barrallier who afterwards built ships for the navy and, of course, Étienne Montholon, your brother!'

'Of course. He is now a colonel of chasseurs.'

And he is privy to this plot?'

'Yes. He has been aide de camp to Caulaincourt and commanded his escort.'

Drinkwater frowned; fatigue and the disagreeable consequences of excess had robbed him of the ability to think through this maze of intrigue. He made an effort to clear his mind and focus his tired eyes upon her, mentally repudiating her obvious allure, so spiced as it was by her propinquity. 'But you are betraying him, Hortense? Are your circumstances so reduced that you would play the traitor to,' he floundered, gathering the catalogue of betrayal, 'to your brother, to Bonaparte, to Talleyrand, to France?'

She was weeping now, shaking and sobbing with tears running down her cheeks and revealing the dust that lay upon them.

'If it had not been you, Nathaniel,' she began in a choked voice, 'I should have taken passage in one of these ships and found my way to England. As it is, I may slip back to Paris unnoticed. Talleyrand is no longer interested in me, I was repudiated by the Emperor and the Bourbon will not want women like me to clutter up his court, nor, would I wish to do so.' She lowered her voice. 'I am a drab, Nathaniel, and like most camp followers, my end will not be an easy one. Your help might at least mitigate my fate.'

She swayed and Drinkwater stooped forward and gently held her by her arms. He was unconvinced, but her hands were on his arms too, and her body touched his, light as a feather, and then with more weight.

'Do not underestimate the risk I have run to tell you these things,' she breathed, and added as he remained silent, holding her, 'They are like boys, Nathaniel, these conspirators; they would set the world alight again. Is that what you want? Do you not most desire to go home to your wife and children?'

'That is an odd question to ask at a moment like this,' he said, 'or are we two in sudden accord?' He smiled, the twist in his mouth conveying an intense sadness to her, though he spoke to encourage her. 'Come, Hortense, courage. You have lost none of your beauty ...'

'I have lost an ear!' Her tone was petulant, as though she could betray her world for this disfigurement, and she lowered her face. 'And I am tired of conspiracy and intrigue.'

'Then it makes us the more equal,' Drinkwater said again. It occurred to him that she had received some unbearable humiliation. 'Suppose this plan of Talleyrand's and the Tsar's worked; suppose Napoleon Bonaparte, sent to exile in the Azores, was sprung from his prison and spirited across the Atlantic; suppose your brother commanded a division of trappers and mountain men in the army of New France, eh? Wouldn't you want to be a part of that? A great lady of Quebec, or Montreal, or even Louisbourg if it was rebuilt? Yet you expect me to believe you would hazard all that against a pension of forty pounds per year?'

He was looking down at her hair, the scent of which rose from its auburn profusion. She raised her face and stared up at him. Her yielding body had become rigid.

'I have nothing, nothing!' She hissed, desperation in her tone. 'Why should I come here, tonight, eh?' She pulled away from him, holding him at arm's length as she might have remonstrated with the son she had never had. 'Why should I not sit in Paris and wait for an invitation to become La Reine de Louisbourg, eh?' She threw the tide at him in French like striking him with a gauntlet. 'I do not owe you anything, and if I come to trade this information it is not to betray France, or my brother ...'

'What of Talleyrand?' Drinkwater snapped. 'What of Napoleon?'

'Why is it you English men are so stupid?' she spat back. 'I am old! It is known what I have been! It is known what I am now! Why is it impossible for men to understand, eh? You never come to terms with the inevitable, do you? Only the clever, men like Napoleon and Talleyrand, can rise above these petty considerations. It is said in Paris that, despite everything, Napoleon could have rallied the army south of the Loire, but he did nothing. Instead he abdicated in the sure and certain knowledge that only a chapter of his life was over, but not the whole history. He is a Corsican, not a Frenchman. And he believes in fate, just like you.' Hortense paused, to let the point sink in. 'Napoleon has abandoned France just as he abandoned her before and set off for India. Then, when he found his grand design more difficult that he thought, he abandoned his army in Egypt and returned to France. When Admiral Villeneuve failed him at Trafalgar, he abandoned the invasion of England; when he was confronted with difficulties in Spain, he abandoned the war to his marshals; when he was foiled by the Russians, he abandoned his army in the snow ... Why should he change now? Is fate going to give him another opportunity in Europe?'

'No,' Drinkwater said slowly.

'Certainly, I am being selfish. Perhaps this is a betrayal; perhaps this is saving many lives, perhaps ...' she shrugged and moved slightly closer to him again, lowering her voice, 'this is fate, Nathaniel.'

And she pushed against him unashamed, her head bowed unexpectantly, their roles reversed, as though she was now the child and he the parent. His arms went instinctively around her and though he felt the soft roundness of her breasts it was pity, not lust, which rose and overwhelmed him.

'I think we are both too old,' he murmured into the darkness of the shadows beyond her shoulders, and gently stroked her hair. She seemed to shudder, like a small and terrified animal. 'Shall you want a passage to England?'

She pulled back and looked up at him. 'Where could I go in England?'

He shrugged. Suddenly the reaction of his wife to the arrival of a strange, mysterious and beautiful woman claiming refuge, seemed unlikely to be sympathetic.

'Perhaps one day ...'

'Peut-être, Nathaniel. We shall see ... I have told you everything...'

'I shall see you leave tonight with some money. There will be a ready market for English gold in Calais. I shall also ensure provision is made for you.'

'Is that possible?'

He thought for a moment and then nodded. 'Yes, I can arrange matters...'

Her relief was pathetic. The fear left her and he felt her whole body transformed. Lust pricked him as she embraced him once more.

'Hortense ...'

And then he found himself kissing her as he wished he had kissed her twenty years earlier.

CHAPTER 3 A Clear Yard-arm

'The eastern sky was lighter by the moment as Drinkwater paced the quarterdeck. The boat had long since vanished in the direction of the Calais breakwater, the Bourbon cockade deceptively jaunty, visible like a rabbit's scut as Hortense bobbed away.

He thought again of the warmth of her body against his and the prickle of lust still galled him. She had been compliant in that moment of mutual weakness, for they both drew back after a moment, almost ashamed, as though their long acquaintance had been supportable only as long as it was above the carnal.

'I am sorry,' he had muttered, even while he still held her, 'but I...'

'I am not a drab, Nathaniel.' There were tears in her eyes again, and it was clear she thought his impropriety had been motivated by that presumption.

'Hortense,' he had protested, 'I did not ... I meant no ... Damnation I have been bewitched by you for years. Did you not know it? Had I not a wife and children, I should have long ago ...' He had broken off, seeing the pathetic declaration make her smile.

'Ah, Nathaniel, how,' she had paused, 'how damnably English.'

'Do not taunt me. Upon occasions, you have made my life wretched. You have resided in my soul as a dark angel. Tonight you are dispossessed of all the diabolism with which my imagination had invested you. For that I am grateful.'

They had let each other go.

'They you will see that I am provided for?'

'You know I will.'

'Yes... Yes I did. To that extent your superstitions were correct.' She smiled again.

'You are returning to Paris?' Seeing her nod, he had gone on, 'There is a bookseller in the rue de la Seine whose name is Michel. There, in a month, you will find a draft against a London bank. I shall make it out in the name Hortense de Montholon. Should anything go awry, you may send a message through the Jew Liepmann in Hamburg.'

'You are doing this yourself aren't you? This is nothing to do with the British government, is it?'

'Hortense, the British government will not give Nelson's mistress a pension; why should they do anything for you? I know of you and thanks to the fortune of war, I have the means to make a little money available for you.'

'You are very kind, Nathaniel. Had life been different, perhaps ...'

'Perhaps, perhaps; perhaps in happier times we shall meet again. Let us cage Bonaparte, m'dear, before any of us ordinary mortals think of our own pleasure.'

Hortense had smiled at the remark and, as he held her cloak out for her, she said over her shoulder, 'You and I are no ordinary mortals, Nathaniel.'

He had merely grunted. To so much as acknowledge by the merest acquiescence any agreement with this braggadocio seemed to him, filled as he was with apprehension at her news, to be tempting providence most grievously.

Now he was left to his thoughts and they were in a turmoil. He found it difficult to clear his mind of the image of her. On deck, in the chill of the dawn, it was almost possible to believe it had all been a dream, a bilious consequence of dining too well at the royal table. Was that event any more real, he wondered? And then from his breast the faintest, lingering scent of her rose to his nostrils.

Yet the appearance of the curious 'French officer' had far greater importance than the temptation of Nathaniel Drinkwater. He was in little doubt of the truth of her asseveration. Drinkwater had only the sketchiest notions of the military position of the French army at the end of March, but he had gleaned enough in recent days to know that Napoleon's energies seemed little diminished. He had fought a vigorous campaign in the defence of France, only to be overwhelmed by superior numbers against which even his military genius was incapable of resistance. Finally, it was widely rumoured, it had been the defection of members of the marshalate in defence of their own interests which had prompted the Emperor's abdication.

Under the circumstances, Napoleon was an unlikely candidate for a quiescent exile. And across the Atlantic raged a savage war, a repeat of the struggle from which had emerged the independent United States of America. Drinkwater had cause to remember details of that terrible conflict; as a young midshipman he had tramped through the Carolina swamps and pine barrens and had seen atrocities committed on the bodies of the dead.[7] More recently, he had been involved in the last diplomatic mission intended to prevent a breach between London and Washington, and he knew of the efforts which the young republic was prepared to make to discomfit her old imperial enemy.[8]

Nor had his foiling of that effort settled the matter. Yankee ambition was like the Hydra; cut one head off and another appeared. Within a few months of destroying a powerful squadron of American privateers, Drinkwater had been made aware of an attempt by the French to supply the Americans with a quantity of arms. The desperate battle fought in the waters of Norway beneath the aurora may have prevented that fateful juncture, but it may not have been the only one; perhaps others, unbeknown to the British Admiralty's Secret Department which Drinkwater had so briefly headed, had taken place successfully. It seemed quite impossible that his individual efforts had entirely eliminated any such conjunction. In short, it seemed entirely likely that some arms had crossed the Atlantic and that Napoleon and devoted members of his Imperial Guard would follow.

In fact, Drinkwater concluded, it was not merely likely, it was a damned certainty! And then the memory of Hortense mimicking his English expletive flooded his memory so that he turned growling upon his heel and came face to face with Lieutenant Marlowe.

'What in damnation ... ?'

'Begging your pardon, sir ...'

'God's bones, what is it?'

'The French officer, sir ...'

'Well, sir, what of the French officer?'

'Are there any orders consequent upon the French officer's visit, sir?'

'Orders? What orders are you expecting Mr Marlowe, eh?'

'I am about to be relieved, sir, and under the circumstances, in company with the Royal Yacht, sir, and His Royal Highness ...'

Suddenly, just as Drinkwater was about to silence this locquacious young popinjay, the ludicrous pomposity of Prince William's title struck him. Overtired and overwrought he might be, distracted by the weight of Hortense's intelligence as much as that of her voluptuous body, he found the term 'Highness' so great a fatuity that he burst out laughing. And at the same time, as he thought of the coarse, rubicund and farting Clarence, he discovered the answer to the question that had been lurking insolubly in his semi-conscious.

'Indeed, Mr Marlowe, you do right to be expectant. The truth is I have been mulling over the best course of action to take as a consequence of that officer's visit, and now I'm happy to say you have acted very properly, sir.'

'Well, I'm glad of that, sir.'

'And so am I.'

'And the orders, sir ... ?'

Drinkwater looked at the young lieutenant's face. The sun was just rising and the light caught Marlowe's lean features in strong relief. He was a pleasant looking, pale fellow, with a dark beard, and the stubble was almost purple along his jaw. 'What d'you know of, er, His Royal Highness's habits, Mr Marlowe. I saw you hob-nobbin' with a couple of the Impregnable's, officers last night. One of them was the Prince's flag-luff, wasn't he? What I mean is, did either of the young blades tell you what o'clock the Prince rises?'

Marlowe was somewhat taken aback by his commander's perception. 'I know Bob Colville, sir, but I don't recall our discussing His Royal Highness's habits beyond the fact that he enjoys a bumper or two.'

'Or three, I daresay, but that don't serve.' Drinkwater mused for a moment, then added expansively, 'What I need to know, Mr Marlowe, is what is the earliest time I might see the Prince?'

'In a good humour I daresay too,' added Marlowe, smiling, extrapolating Drinkwater's intentions.

'To be frank, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater added, a tone of asperity creeping into his voice, 'I don't much care in what humour His Royal Highness is, just so long as he is sufficiently awake to understand what I wish to communicate to him.' Marlowe's look of astonishment at this apparent lèse-majesté further irritated Drinkwater who was conscious that he had confided too much in his untried subordinate. 'Have my gig ready in an hour, and pass word for my servant.'

As he shaved, Drinkwater turned over the idea he had. It seemed to have formed instantaneously whilst he had been importuned by Marlowe. The young officer had seen little service of an active nature, although his references spoke of several months on blockade duty off Brest. Still, that did not equate with a similar number of weeks in a frigate in a forward position or an independent cruise, though that was not poor Marlowe's fault. Drinkwater wondered if what he was currently meditating would appeal to Marlowe, whose career, at this onset of peace, seemed upon the brink of termination with no opportunity for him to distinguish himself. Perhaps it would not matter to the well-connected Marlowe, but it might to others, for quite different reasons.

And then Drinkwater extinguished the thought with a wince of almost physical pain. How long had he yearned for a cessation of this tedious and debilitating war? How often had he vowed to give it all up? Had he not received with something akin to relief, orders to pay off Andromeda and go onshore, to take up half-pay and wait for death or the superannuated status of a yellow-admiral?

God knew he was haunted by the dead, whose shadows waited for his own to join them. The order to pay off had been rescinded and instead, as a mark of respect to Admiral-of-the-Fleet, His Royal Highness, The Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and Earl of Munster, Andromeda had been ordered to join the Royal Squadron off Dover!

'We're going out with a bang!' Drinkwater had overheard one of the afterguard remark to a mate, and knew the mood of the men was one of willing co-operation in seeing Fat Louis back to France, before finally laying up the frigate and being paid off to go home. And yet despite this imminent end to the ship's commission, Chatham dockyard had spared no expense and effort to make good the damage Andromeda had suffered in the Vikkenfiord.

'You would not believe the difficulties I had to fit out the bomb-vessel Virago in the year one,' Drinkwater had remarked to Lieutenant Frey, repeating the wonder he had expressed to Birkbeck, 'and then we were under orders to join the great secret expedition to the Baltic. Now we are off on a merry jape to Calais with His Most Christian Majesty which will last a week at the most, and we are getting more paint than a first-rate at Spithead before a review!' And the two of them had resumed their pacing, shaking their heads at the perverse logic of the naval service, while the ship's company fell to their pointless task with evident enthusiasm.

Now Drinkwater was meditating destroying that almost covenanted expectation. He finished shaving and, waving aside his neck linen, sat at the table and drew a sheet of paper towards him. He began to write as his servant poured coffee, pausing occasionally to gather his wits and couch his words in the most telling manner.

It was only as he completed the fourth missive that it occurred to him that the perversity permeating the naval service also ran through its officers. He himself was not exempt from this duplicity: on the one hand he had just poured out expressions of regret to his wife, yet on the other there was a sense almost of relief that he did not yet have to go home and take off his gold-laced undress uniform coat for the last time.

Why was that? he wondered, sealing the letter to Elizabeth. Because he could not face the obscurity of domesticity, or because he was not yet ready to meet the shades of the dead who awaited him there?

His Royal Highness was not yet awake when Drinkwater presented himself upon the quarterdeck of the Impregnable, but Blackwood emerged blear-eyed to greet Drinkwater a little coolly.

'My dear fellow, 'tis a trifle early. Can't you sleep?'

'I beg your pardon, Blackwood, but the matter is important, too important to allow me to sleep.'

'I smell intrigue. I thought you had shaken the dust of the Secret Department off your feet...'

'So did I, and I wish to God I had, but it dogs me and last night was no exception.' Drinkwater dropped his voice. 'I had a visit from the shore. An agent of long-standing', Drinkwater lied, 'has given me disturbing intelligence which, under the circumstances, needs to be communicated to His Royal Highness without further delay.' Tiredness and excitement made him light-headed. He almost choked on the prince's title.

A curious look of doubt and indecision crossed Blackwood's face.

'My dear Drinkwater, is this wise? I mean His Royal Highness may be an admiral-of-the-fleet but he is, how shall I put it... ?'

'But a fleeting one?' In his elevated state, Drinkwater could not resist the pun. 'I have no doubt His Royal Highness will grasp the import of my news, at least sufficient to give me what I want.'

'Which is?'

'Carte blanche, Blackwood, carte blanche.''

'To do what, in heaven's name?' asked the mystified Blackwood.

'To chase to the westward. Listen, Blackwood, if I take this news back to Dover and post up to town, I shan't be there before Wednesday and by the time the board have cogitated and informed the Prime Minister and given me my orders it will be too late ...'

'Well what is this news?' an exasperated Blackwood asked.

'Oh, I beg your pardon. I've been so preoccupied ... They're going to spring Boney; just when we think we've got him in the bag, he'll be spirited away to America ...'

'Good heavens! D'you mean Boney will then be free to raise Cain in Canada?'

'Exactly so!'

Blackwood looked straight at Drinkwater. 'By God, Drinkwater, you want discretionary orders over Silly Billy's signature.'

'Yes, I want a clear yard-arm, Blackwood. Two ships have already left Antwerp. I don't have much time. None of us have much time. This American business could drag on for years. If Napoleon is involved ... well, do I have to spell it out? Surely this whole damned war has to be ended one day.'

'Aye, and the sooner the better...' But Blackwood was not so easily impressed and his expression clouded, marked by second thoughts. 'But hold hard. 'Twould not be easy to get Boney out of the Med from Elba ...'

'But it ain't to be Elba, don't you see; 'tis to be the Azores!'

'But the newspapers ... I mean they've been talking about Elba... The other day the Courier mentioned it — there's a copy in my cabin.'

'Blackwood, for pity's sake,' Drinkwater's voice was suddenly hardened by exasperation and conviction, 'I have been up all night, mulling the matter in the wake of this news. You must know the degree to which I have dabbled in intelligence.'

Blackwood stared for a moment at his visitor. 'I've heard you're a shrewd cove, Drinkwater ...'

'Not really, just grasping at straws in the wind, but experience tells me the wind has a direction and a force.' Drinkwater paused and Blackwood smiled.

'Eloquently put.'

'D'you think Silly Billy knows I have had any connections with the Secret Department?'

'I was indiscreet enough to tell him. He was curious to know why you were so long-toothed and still only had a thirty-two. He recollected you when I mentioned the taking of the Suvorov, but that only increased his curiosity. I told him you had been involved in secret operations and that your command of Andromeda was temporary and in honour of his own connections with your ship.'

'Well, well. That was a flattering fib.'

'Vanity is the one thing he has in common with Nelson.'

'I shall remember that.'

'Come then,' Blackwood said at last, 'you have convinced me. We should hesitate no longer. Let us go and rouse his Royal Highness from his intemperate slumbers.'

Once persuaded, Blackwood turned on his heel, but the alacrity with which he finally led Drinkwater below, proved a damp and fuming squib. Having passed word, couched with respectful deference, by way of His Royal Highness's flag-lieutenant and thence his valet, that a matter of the utmost urgency had to be communicated to His Royal Highness's person, Blackwood led Drinkwater into his own cabin where they took coffee.

It was clear to Blackwood that Drinkwater had much on his mind and found the wait intolerable; he therefore attempted to calm his visitor, remarking that, 'although the Prince is not himself insistent upon any great ceremony, the damned boot-lickers in attendance upon the Royal Personage are confoundedly touchy upon the point. Of course,' Blackwood added, 'in the ordinary circumstances of a ceremonial task of this nature, none of it is of any great moment. Our present prevailing urgency however, is a different matter. But we will carry the day if we do not upset the tranquillity of the Royal Mind.' Blackwood dabbed his mouth with a napkin, as though to purge the sarcasm.

'On last night's showing,' Drinkwater responded, 'I was not aware there was much of the Royal Mind to disturb.'

'La, sir,' Blackwood said, grinning, 'all the more reason for treating it with respect.'

Drinkwater harrumphed and Blackwood forbore to make further small-talk. They were in fact not left kicking their heels for more than an hour. Lieutenant Colville, resplendent in full dress even at the early hour, commanded their presence in the Impregnable's great cabin.

Both officers bowed as the prince stepped from his night cabin, his red cheeks still shining from the ministrations of the razor and his shoulders shaking the heavy bullion epaulettes upon his shoulders.

'So sorry to keep you gentlemen,' the prince greeted them. 'Pray join me to break your fasts,' he added, waving to a table laid with splendidly fresh white linen and a selection of hot dishes. 'The kedgeree is devilish good ...'

Drinkwater caught Blackwood's eye as he swept his coat-tails aside and sat down. Lieutenant Colville sat next to Drinkwater, a small scribbling tablet and pencil neatly laid beside him.

'Now sir,' the Prince boomed across the table as he spooned the kedgeree onto his plate, 'what's all this urgent nonsense about, eh?' He fixed his popping eyes on Drinkwater and began to shovel the fish and rice into his mouth with a mechanical regularity. 'Surely we all did our duty yesterday, eh what?'

'Your Royal Highness, this is a matter of some delicacy ...' Drinkwater turned and looked pointedly at Lieutenant Colville. 'The matter I have to discuss with you is confidential.'

The Royal Brow contracted and, with a small explosion of rice grains, His Royal Highness enquired bluntly, 'What's the matter with Lieutenant Colville?'

'Well, nothing, Your Royal Highness,' Drinkwater replied, smiling coldly at the flag-lieutenant whose expression was as outraged as he dared in the presence of two senior captains and an admiral who was also the king's son. 'Except that he is only Lieutenant Colville, sir, and therefore cannot, I beg your pardon sir, but must not be a party to what I have to say'

There was a moment's stunned silence. The prince bent forward, fork and spoon poised over the partly ravaged though still substantial pile of food, and looked uncertainly from Drinkwater to Blackwood. Drinkwater noticed again the deference he paid to Blackwood, as though the captain's good opinion mattered.

'If I might say, sir,' Blackwood chipped in quickly, 'Captain Drinkwater's news is properly for the ears of Government ...' The word was encapitalized in a significant emphasis by the flag-captain and Drinkwater stifled a grin.

'Oh... Oh, quite! Quite!' Further rice grains were ejaculated from the Royal Mouth. 'Well Colville, off you go! Off you go! Go and take breakfast in the wardroom!'

There was pointed resentment in the scraping of Colville's chair and he bestowed a look of pure contempt upon Captain Drinkwater as he stooped beneath the deck-beams and left the cabin.

'Well Drinkwater, what's all this nonsense about... ? Oh damn-and-hell-blast-it, Blackwood, be a good fellow and pass a bottle ...'

As Colville had risen so had Blackwood, crossing the cabin to close the door communicating with the adjacent pantry and waving out the servant who stood discreetly out of sight but within calling. The Prince's command came as he returned and Blackwood lifted an uncorked bottle of claret from the fiddles atop the sideboard.

'Sir, you are aware of my former duties in connection with the Secret Department, are you not?'

'Yes, yes. Barrow told me all about you, so did Sir Joseph Yorke and Blackwood here did the same. Your stock's pretty damned high, so get on with it, eh? There's a good fellow'

'Very well, sir. Last night I received intelligence directly from a source well known to me ...'

'D'you mean a spy?'

'No, I do not. From a person who has had intimate connections with Talleyrand and', Drinkwater paused just long enough to encourage the prince to look up from his emptying plate, 'Napoleon Bonaparte...'

Prince William Henry choked violently and snatched up the glass Blackwood had just filled with claret. Calming himself he wiped his mouth and face with a napkin and rumbled, 'Bonaparte, d'ye say? Go on, sir, pray do go on.'

'This person's attachment to Bonaparte has been severed ...'

'Ah yes! Didn't I tell you, Blackwood, they'd all come crawling on their damned bellies to save what they've made in the Corsican's service! Didn't I say as much, Blackwood? Didn't I, damn it, eh?'

'You did, sir.'

'Aye. And I said as much to King Louis and the Duchesse d'Angoulême. Told 'em not to trust any damned Bonapartist, well, well.'

'The point is, sir,' Drinkwater broke in, seizing the brief pause in His Royal Highness's self-congratulation, 'we shall have to trust what this person said, because if we don't, we shall rue it.'

Drinkwater had expected further interjections by the prince, but he seemed content to listen and commanded Drinkwater impatiently to 'go on, do go on'.

'I have information that a plot has been matured in Paris that, consequent upon the Emperor Napoleon abdicating ...'

'Emperor? Emperor, sir? The man is no more than a damned general, General Bonaparte!'

'General Bonaparte, Your Royal Highness, was elected Emperor of the French by plebiscite; he is moreover married to an Austrian Arch-duchess and is therefore still related to the Emperor of Austria. Whatever title he held and whatever title we ascribe to him now matters little, but I lay emphasis upon the point now to', Drinkwater was about to say 'remind,' but the look in the prince's narrowing eyes, made him change his mind. His sleepless night made him over bold and he came quickly to his senses, 'to acquaint Your Royal Highness of the significance of what Bonaparte has relinquished by his instrument of abdication.'

'He was beaten damn it, Drinkwater! Eh, what?'

'Militarily yes, sir, but his ambition is unbeaten, for he abdicated not in favour of King Louis, but his own son. Moreover, his genius is undiminished.'

'Very well, very well, but what is this to us? He is to be exiled, under guard, locked up as nearly as maybe, what. Yet you come here blathering of plots.'

'Would that it were blathering, sir. The fact is a considerable number of his officers are roaming about disaffected and dissatisfied with the turn events have taken. As we sit here a number are already at sea on passage to rescue their Imperial Master in order to spirit him across the Atlantic to Canada.'

'Canada?' The Royal Brow furrowed again.

'To operate with Yankee support, raise the Québecois, and re­establish Napoleon's dynasty in Canada with a second empire in the Americas.'

'It ain't possible ... is it?' The prince wiped his mouth and threw down his napkin. His eyes swivelled in Blackwood's direction. 'Well Blackwood? What the devil do you think?'

'Well sir,' Blackwood began, 'I must confess I have my doubts.' Drinkwater's heart sank. 'But I'm afraid 'tis not at all impossible, sir, and I share Captain Drinkwater's apprehensions in the strongest manner. An extension of the war in North America under such circumstances with every disaffected Bonapartist taking passage to join the reconstituted eagles on the St Lawrence will cause us no end of havoc. To be candid, sir, we could not withstand a determined onslaught and might lose the whole of the North Americas. I doubt your Royal Father would greet that news with much joy, sir.'

Blackwood's reference to King George III, languishing in Windsor, mentally affected by the ravages of porphyria, was masterly and had the prince nodding agreement.

'There are other factors, sir,' Drinkwater added. 'It is not only the Canadian French in Quebec that should concern us, but the old Acadian families who now live in Nova Scotia would happily revert to a French state, even a Bonapartist one. Moreover, if you consider the matter a stage further, can you not see that it would be no wild conjecture for King Louis to reunite his divided country and wipe out the past five and twenty years by reaching an accommodation with Bonaparte across the Atlantic ...'

'My God, Drinkwater,' Blackwood muttered, 'that is an appalling prospect...'

'I wish it were all; regrettably my information is that Tsar Alexander is not against this scheme and that can mean only that having accepted our gold to keep his armies in the field, he would discomfit us and assume the leadership of Europe.'

'But is all this possible, what?' The prince's pop-eyed face bore the impact of the political possibilities. Drinkwater was reminded of Blackwood's charitable judgement of the previous night and in that moment he could see the prince as a simple and good, if misguided, man. He was clearly having trouble grasping the complexities of the conspiracy.

'The matter can brook no delay, sir,' he said. 'I am asking only for the despatch of my single frigate, and I fear, sir, the future peace of Europe thus rests entirely with you.'

'Me?' Astonishment had transfigured the prince's face a second time. 'Surely the board, Sir Joseph, Melville, Barrow and all the rest of the pack of political jacks...'

'Come, sir, with respect, there is no time! These men, these Bonapartists are already at sea and they are desperate. They will wish to spring their Emperor before we have mewed him up too well. I am under your orders and cannot, would not, act without them, but...'

'But, thank God, you hold the highest rank, sir!' Blackwood broke in, enthusiastically leaning forward, 'No one would question your probity in instructing Captain Drinkwater here to pursue these two ships in order that we might nip this matter in the bud!'

'D'you think so, gentlemen?'

Blackwood grasped his wine glass and raised it in a half-toast, half-pledge, hissing 'Remember Nelson, sir, remember Nelson!'

The prince looked from one to another, his eyes suddenly alight with enthusiasm. 'Damn-and-hell-blast-it, you are right, what! Drinkwater! Blackwood!' Their names were punctuated by the chink of glass on glass. 'Should we not take the squadron, eh, what?' asked the prince, visibly warming to the idea. 'Why, with the Impregnable and Jason under my command ...'

'I think not, sir,' put in Blackwood smoothly, 'we must maintain station to soothe the Russians' suspicions. D'you see?'

'Soothe the Russians? Eh? Oh ... Quite! Quite!' His royal Highness erupted in explosions of acquiescence, as though seeing the point a little uncertainly, through powder smoke.

'It would, moreover sir, add some additional glory to Andromeda,' Blackwood added.

'Why, damn me yes, it would, wouldn't it, eh?' Prince William Henry beamed pleasantly, thinking of reflected glory. 'To our enterprise then,' he said, raising his glass.

Relieved on more than one count, Drinkwater drained his almost at a gulp.

'Come Drinkwater,' the prince exclaimed, 'I see some of God Almighty's daylight in that glass of yours. Banish it!'

And Drinkwater submitted against his judgement to the refill, while His Royal Highness rattled on about writing Drinkwater's orders and Blackwood leaned back in his chair, a half smile upon his face.

Ten minutes later Drinkwater emerged on to Impregnable's quarterdeck with Blackwood. 'You stuck your neck out a couple of times, Drinkwater. I thought Billy was going to have apoplexy when you insisted on Boney being an Emperor.'

'A sleepless night and a matter of urgency makes one less diplomatic,' Drinkwater said, his eyes gritty in the full glare of daylight.

'Oh, I don't blame you,' Blackwood added dismissively, 'those damned Bourbons have all gone back to France to put the clock back as though nothing has happened there since the outbreak of their damned revolution.' He shook his head. 'D'you think Boney will rest easily anywhere?'

Drinkwater shrugged, 'Who knows? The closer to France the more dangerous he is to the process of restoration; the more distant, then the more amenable to some adventure like this one. Even if I'm wrong and it's Elba, we won't be sleeping that easily in our beds.'

'No, we thought we had peace once before ...'

'D'you know they've been building ships at Antwerp for the last eight or nine years. These two frigates that have slipped to sea could be just the beginning of a fleet which could get out the minute we lift the blockade. I tell you, Blackwood, just when we think we can go home with our work done, the whole confounded thing could blow up in our faces.'

'Aye, the Russian interference bothers me. The Tsar's interested in Paris and I daresay his bayonets and Cossacks will prop up the Bourbons if there's trouble from the French army'

'Exactly!' Drinkwater exclaimed. And d'you see, the Tsar can't afford to keep an army of occupation in France without our support and while many of Napoleon's satraps will compromise and throw in their lot with the new order, many more of the less privileged French officers and the rank and file will rally to the eagles. Alexander can give equal support to this because it will be in King Louis' interests to be rid of them. Napoleon will lure them with promises of glory, land grants and the hope of a resurrected New France. I know this is possible because, although I do not have the liberty to explain now, it is not new. We have just scotched a transhipment of arms from France to America, resulting from a secret accord between Paris and Washington.'[9]

'So, with Boney stirring up Canada,' summarized Blackwood gloomily, 'supported by remnants of the Grand Army and a fleet built largely in Antwerp; with France weakened by an exodus of its army and with us rushing about trying to save what we can, Alexander capitalizes on his success at no further exertion to himself because we would be exhausted and bankrupt.'

'Yes. And if you wish to extrapolate further, we know the Americans are building a first-rate. If the ships in Antwerp were made available to them, sold cheaply like Louisiana, with American seamen taking them down the Channel under our noses while we kick our heels here waving bunting at His Most Christian Majesty ...'

'Pray, Drinkwater, don't go on. Thank heaven you did not extrapolate all this to poor Billy' The two men laughed grimly and Blackwood added, 'I fully understand, and will make sure there are no problems with Their Lordships.'

'Thank you.'

'Now, is there anything you want? Any way I can help?'

'No, I think if I can work to the westward and lie off the Azores, I might yet prevent this horror.'

'It is as well you were on hand ... ah, here's Colville.'

The flag-lieutenant was crossing the deck with a sealed packet which he held out for Drinkwater.

'Thank you Mr Colville,' Blackwood said, nodding the young officer away, and then in a lower tone, 'I should have a quick look at them, Drinkwater, to ensure they are what you want.'

Drinkwater broke the seal and scanned the single page. For a moment the two captains stood silently, then Drinkwater looked up, folding the paper and thrusting it into his breast pocket. He held out his hand to Blackwood.

'I declare myself perfectly satisfied, Blackwood, and thank you for your help.'

'Carte blanche, eh?' Blackwood smiled.

'Carte blanche indeed.' They shook hands warmly.

'Good fortune, Drinkwater,' Blackwood said and turned away. 'Mr Colville! Call Captain Drinkwater's gig alongside.'

A few moments later Drinkwater was seated in the boat. Midshipman Dunn stood upright in the stern, anticipating Drinkwater's order to return to Andromeda.

'The Trinity Yacht, Mr Dunn,' Drinkwater said, seating himself in the stern-sheets.

'The Trinity Yacht sir,' piped Mr Dunn and turned to Wells the coxswain, and Drinkwater caught the look of incomprehension that he threw at the older man.

'Aye, aye, sir,' Wells responded imperturbably, ordering the bowman to shove the boat's head off, and the vertically wavering oars came down and dipped into the sea. As they came out of the huge flagship's lee, a gust of wind threatened to carry Drinkwater's hat off and he clapped his hand on its crown. A little chop was getting up and the oar-looms, swinging forward before diving into the grey-blue water, sliced the top off the occasional wave. Casting round to orientate himself, Drinkwater realized the wind was from the south-southwest. He was going to have a hard beat to windward.

The Trinity Yacht lay anchored close to the Royal Sovereign, the smallest vessel in the squadron, but rivalling the royal yacht in the splendour of her ornamentation. Cutter-rigged, she bore an ornate beak-head beneath her bowsprit, upon which a carved lion bore a short-sword aloft. Her upper wales were a rich blue, decorated with gilded carving, each oval port being surrounded by a wreath of laurel. Her stern windows and tiny quarter galleries were diminutives of a much larger ship. Across the stern these windows were interspersed with pilasters and in the centre were emblazoned the unsupported arms of the Trinity House.

These arms, a red St George's cross quartering four black galleons, were repeated on a large square flag at the cutter's single masthead and in the fly of her large red ensign which fluttered gaily over her elaborately carved taffrail. Drinkwater was familiar with her and the device; many years earlier he had served in several of the Trinity House buoy yachts.

'Boat 'hoy!'

'Andromeda?

Dunn's treble rang out, forestalling Wells's response and indicating by the ship's name, the presence of that ship's captain.

The boat ran alongside the yacht's side and a pair of man-ropes covered in green baize and finished with Matthew Walker knots snaked down towards him. Grasping these he scrambled quickly up the side and on to the deck.

'Good morning,' he said dusting his hands and touching the fore-cock of his hat as an elderly officer in a plain blue coat responded. 'I am Captain Drinkwater of the Andromeda...'

'You are only a little changed, Captain Drinkwater ...'

'Mr Poulter?'

'The same, sir, the same, though a little longer in the tooth and almost exhausting my three score and ten.'

'Are you, by God? Well, you seem to thrive ...'

'Captains Woolmore and Huddart are aboard, sir, but neither have yet put in an appearance on deck.'

'I met them last night and spoke at length to Captain Huddart, but best let the Elder Brethren sleep, Captain Poulter,' Drinkwater said, giving Poulter his courtesy title. 'They dined exceeding well last night. I was sorry not to see you there. You were the only commander not present last night.'

'You know the Brethren, Captain Drinkwater, you know the Brethren,' Poulter said resignedly, as though age had placed him past any resentment at the affront.

'Well, they ought perhaps to know His Royal Highness is already astir.'

'Are we expecting orders?'

'I think not yet for yourselves or the rest of the squadron, but I have to leave you in some haste and that is why I am here. Not seeing you last night led me to hope you might be still in command here, but whomsoever I found, I guessed would be willing to take home private letters for me.'

'Of course, Captain, happy to oblige ...'

'The truth is I have no idea when the squadron will return to port. I anticipate His Royal Highness may not wish to haul down his flag until he has stretched his orders to the limit, whereas you will be returning immediately to the Thames.'

'You have the advantage of me there, then.'

'Huddart mentioned it last night...' Drinkwater drew two letters from his breast pocket, checked the superscriptions and handed them to Poulter. 'I'm obliged to you Mr Poulter.'

'Glad to be of service, Captain Drinkwater. Will you take a glass before you go?'

'Thank you, but no. I have to get under weigh without further delay'

'Where are you bound?'

'Down Channel to the westward,' Drinkwater held out his hand.

Poulter shook it warmly then sniffed the wind. 'You'll have a beat of it, then.'

'Unfortunately yes.' Drinkwater was already half over the rail, casting a glance down at the boat bobbing below.

'Well, it's fair for the estuary' said Poulter leaning over to watch him descend, the letters, one to Drinkwater's prize agent, the other to Elizabeth, fluttering in his hand.

'And I daresay the Brethren will be anxious to be off, eh, Mr Poulter?' and grinning complicitly Drinkwater sat heavily in the gig's stern-sheets and allowed Mr Dunn to ferry him back to his frigate.

CHAPTER 4 Out of Soundings

The wind settled in the south-south-west, a steady breeze which wafted fluffy, lambs-wool clouds off the coast of France. Clear of Cap Blanc Nez, Birkbeck had the people haul the fore-tack down to the larboard bumkin, and the main-tack forward to the fore chains. The sheets of the fore and main courses were led aft and hauled taut. Andromeda carried sail to her topgallants and heeled to leeward, driving along with the ebb tide setting her south and west through the Dover Strait, and while her bowsprit lay upon a line of bearing with the South Foreland high lighthouse, the tide would set her clear of the English coast.

Periodically a patter of spray rose in a white cloud over her weather bow, hung an instant, then drove across the forecastle and waist, darkening the white planking. The sea still bore the chill of a cold winter, and set anyone in its path a-shiver, but the sunshine was warm and brought the promise of summer along with the faint scent of the land.

'France smells all right,' Drinkwater overhead Midshipman Dunn say, 'but it don't mean it is all right.'

This incontrovertible adolescent logic diverted Drinkwater's attention from the frigate's fabric, for she would stand her canvas well, to consider the plight of the muscle and brain that made her function.

Under any other circumstances, so fine a day with so fine a breeze would have had the hands as happy as children playing, but there was a petulance in Dunn's voice that seemed to be evidence of a bickering between the young gentlemen. Further forward, Drinkwater watched the men coiling down the ropes and hanging them on the life-rails. From time to time one of them would look aft, and Drinkwater would catch the full gaze of the man before, seeing the eyes of the captain upon him, he would look quickly away.

Nearer to him, Birkbeck the sailing master checked the course for the twentieth time, nineteen of which had been unnecessary. Marlowe and Ashton were also on deck, conversing in a discreet tête-à-tête, except that their discretion was indiscreet enough to reveal the subject of their deliberations to be Captain Drinkwater himself, at whom they threw occasional, obvious and expectant glances.

Drinkwater knew very well what was on their minds; his dilemma was the extent to which he could explain where they were bound and why they had left the Royal Squadron. Why in fact they were headed, not for the River Medway to lay up their ship, but down Channel. It was a problem he had faced before, and often caused a lack of trust, particularly between a commander and a first lieutenant, but it was made far worse on this occasion because of the source of the intelligence which had precipitated this wild passage to the westward. How could he explain the rationale upon which his conclusions were based? How could he justify the conviction that had led him to obtain his orders? Moreover, he knew it was his conscience that spurred him to justify himself at all, not some obligation laid upon a post-captain in the Royal Navy based on moral grounds, or consideration for his ship's company. In retrospect it all seemed like deception, and as the hours passed, Blackwood's suspicions appeared more justifiable. But to set against this was the reflection that Blackwood had come round to support Drinkwater in the end, and what was the diversion of one frigate, if it could save the peace?

On the other hand, what was it to Blackwood, when all was said and done? The man was almost at the top of the post-captain's list and was virtually beyond any recriminations if things miscarried. In such a light, even the support of Prince William Henry might prove a fickle thing, for His Royal Highness carried no weight at the Admiralty.

Drinkwater shoved the worrying thought aside. He would have to offer some explanation to the ship's company, for the news that peace was concluded and the ship was to have laid up, was too well known to simply pass over it if he wanted his people to exert themselves. As matters stood, it was already common knowledge he had been aboard Impregnable earlier that morning; it was also known that even earlier a French staff-officer had come aboard and been in conversation with Captain Drinkwater for a long time. Most of the night, it was said in some quarters, which added spice to an even more scurrilous rumour that the captain's nocturnal visitor had been a woman!

This was imagined as perfectly possible among the prurient midshipmen, but when it was later postulated in the wardroom, Lieutenant Marlowe pooh-poohed it as ridiculous.

'D'you think I would not know a woman when she came aboard,' Marlowe said dismissively. 'A lot of Frenchmen do not have deep voices.'

This statement divided the wardroom officers into the credulous and the contemptuous, further disturbing the tranquillity of the ship.

'Well, what d'you think, Frey?' Ashton asked as he helped himself to a slice of cold ham. 'You've sailed with the queer old bird before.'

Frey shrugged. 'I really have no idea,' he replied evasively.

'But you must have!'

'Why?' Frey looked up from his own platter.

'Well, I mean does our Drink-water,' Marlowe laboured the name, thinking it witty, 'make a habit of entertaining French whores?'

Frey casually helped himself to coffee. It was painful to hear Drinkwater spoken of in such terms by this crew of johnny-come-latelies, but Frey was too open a character to dissemble. Drinkwater had, he knew, been a party to some odd doings during the late war, but he did not wish to expatiate to his present company. Why should he? These men were not comrades in the true sense of the word; they were merely acquaintances, to be tolerated while the present short commission was got over. Nevertheless he was assailed by a growing sense of anticlimax in all this. Superficially the task of conveying the rightful king of France back to his realm had a comfortably conclusive feeling about it. It was like the end of a fairy story, with the kingdom bisected in favour of the parvenu hero, and the princess given in marriage to cement the plot. Except that that was not what had happened; the parvenu hero had lost, the princess was snatched back by her father and the kingdom was being returned to the ogre.

'Well, Frey? It seems by your silence that you know damned well our Drinkie's a famous libertine, eh?' goaded Ashton.

'What confounded nonsense!' Frey protested. He did not like Ashton, seeing in the third lieutenant a manipulative and unpleasant character, but his introspection had delayed his response and he had left it too late to defend Drinkwater.

'Tut, tut. Now we know why he never hoisted himself up the sides of a two-decker,' said Marlowe pointedly and with such childish delight that a disappointed Frey concluded the man was either superficial, or of limited intelligence.

'You know very well we were only attached to the Royal Squadron in honour of His Royal Highness,' Frey said, trying to recover lost ground.

'I suppose they had to leave Drinkwater in her,' Hyde, the hitherto silent marine officer, put in, looking up briefly from his book. 'After all he has just taken a Danish cruiser ...'

'I heard he was damned lucky to get away with that,' said Ashton maliciously, 'and I heard he took a fortune in specie.'

'Is that true, Frey?' asked Marlowe, provoking Hyde to abandon his book.

Frey finished his coffee and rose from the table as Andromeda hit a wave and shuddered. An explosion of oaths from his brother officers revealed they had yet to acquire their sea-legs while his were perfectly serviceable.

'I expect so, gentlemen. But if you're so damnably curious, why don't you ask him yourself.' And clapping his hat upon his head, Lieutenant Frey left for the quarterdeck.

Later, Lieutenant Marlowe, having plucked up enough courage from the urgings of Lieutenant Ashton, took Frey's advice. He began to cross the deck, colliding with Birkbeck beside the binnacle as he made his way upwards from the lee hance.

'Steady, Mr Marlowe,' Birkbeck growled, 'in more ways than one.'

'What d'you mean by that?' asked Marlowe, reaching a hand out to support himself by the binnacle.

'I mean,' said Birkbeck in as quiet a voice as would carry above the low moan of the wind in the rigging and the surge and rush of the sea alongside, 'I shouldn't go a-bothering the captain just at the moment.

Marlowe looked askance at Birkbeck. The old man had been on deck since Andromeda had got under weigh, seeing her clear of the South Sand Head of the Goodwins and the Varne Bank. He had not been party to the speculation in the wardroom, so how did he know what was in Marlowe's mind? Moreover, he was unshaven and his hair, what there was of it, hung down from the rim of his hat in an untidy and, to Marlowe, offensive manner. Marlowe concluded the ruddy faced old man was an insolent fool. Damn-it, the man was not fit for a quarterdeck!

'I'll trouble you to mind your own business, Mister Birkbeck, while I mind mine.'

Birkbeck shrugged. 'Have it your own way, young shaver,' he replied as Marlowe, flushed with the insolence, strove to reach Drinkwater.

The captain had lodged himself securely against the larboard mizen pinrail which, although on the windward side of the ship was, from the effect of the frigate's tumblehome, the least windy place on the quarterdeck. He was staring forward, an abstracted look on his weatherbeaten features against which the line of a sword-scar showed livid.

Just as Lieutenant Marlowe reached the captain, Andromeda's bow thumped into the advancing breast of a wave. She seemed to falter in mid-stride, kicked a little to starboard as the wave sought to divert her from her chosen track, then found her course again. But the sudden increase in heel caught the unsteady Marlowe off balance. To preserve his dignity and prevent himself from falling ignominiously, Marlowe's hands reached out and scrabbled for the ropes belayed to the mizen pinrail. Instead they encountered Drinkwater's arm.

'What the ... ?'

Drinkwater turned, feeling the young man's vain attempt to seize him, then quickly reacted and seized Marlowe's outstretched hand.

'Come, sir, steady there! What the devil's the matter?'

Marlowe regained his balance, but lost his aplomb. 'I beg pardon, sir,' he gabbled all in a breath, 'but I wondered if you have any orders, sir.'

Had Drinkwater not been so dog-tired and had he not been almost asleep on his feet, he might have been in a better humour and laughed at the young officer's discomfiture. Reluctant to leave the deck, yet content to abandon matters to Birkbeck's competence, he had been languishing in the comfortable compromise of a reverie. As it was, only the helmsmen laughed surreptitiously, while Drinkwater showed a testy exasperation.

'Mr Birkbeck?' he called sharply.

'Sir?' Birkbeck came up the sloping deck with a practised, almost, Marlowe thought, insulting ease.

'What orders d'you have?'

'Why, sir, to keep her full-and-bye and make the best of our way down Channel.'

Drinkwater turned his gaze on Marlowe. 'There, Mr Marlowe, does that satisfy you?'

'Well, not really sir. I had hoped that you might confide in me, sir.'

'Confide in you, sir? If you sought a confidence, should not you have been on deck earlier, Mr Marlowe, when we were getting under weigh? After all, you knew of our visitor last night.'

'Well, sir, you did not condescend to inform me of anything consequent upon your visitor. As you know, under normal circumstances as first lieutenant I should not keep an anchor watch, but having done so since we were engaged upon a special duty, I had turned in and there was nothing in your night orders to suggest...'

'That you had to forgo your breakfast, no, of course not; but you are first lieutenant of a frigate on active service.'

'Active service, sir?' Marlowe frowned, looking round at Birkbeck who caught his eye and turned away. 'I do not think I quite understand, sir.'

'I am very certain you do not understand, Mr Marlowe.'

'But sir,' Marlowe's tone was increasingly desperate, 'might I not be privy to ... ?'

'No sir, you may not. Not at this moment. If Lieutenant Colville was sent out of hearing while His Royal Highness', Drinkwater invoked the pompous title with a degree of pleasure, sure that it would silence his tormentor, 'gave me my orders, I do not think it appropriate that I confide in you, do you?'

Crestfallen and confused, Marlowe mumbled a submissive 'No, sir.'

'Very well, Mr Marlowe, then let's hear no more of the matter until we are out of soundings.'

Marlowe's mouth dropped open in foolish incredulity. 'Out of soundings ... ?'

Astonishment lent volume to Marlowe's exclamation; Ashton caught it, downwind across the deck, and dropped his jaw in imitation of his senior; Birkbeck caught it and sighed an old man's sigh; Midshipman Dunn caught it and his eyes brightened at the prospect of adventure, and the helmsmen caught it silently, mulling it over in their minds until, relieved of their duty, they would release it like a rat to run rumouring about the berth-deck.

As for Drinkwater, he felt ashamed of his peevishness; this was not how he had hoped to let his ship's company know they were outward bound for the Atlantic Ocean, nor was it how he should have treated his first lieutenant. If he had not been so damned tired ... He sighed and stared to windward. The comfortable mood eluded him. The little encounter with Marlowe upset him and left his mind a-whirl again.

As soon as Andromeda had cleared Dungeness, Drinkwater went below. He was exhausted and, removing his hat, coat and shoes, loosed his stock and tumbled into his swinging cot. He thought for a moment that even now he would be unable to sleep, for his mind was still a confusion of thoughts. The enormity of Hortense's news, the possible consequences of it, the attention to the details of informing Elizabeth and making arrangements for his informant, the influencing of Prince William Henry and now the bother of his ship's company and its officers, all tumbled about in his tired head. Each thought followed hard upon its progenitor, and always at the end of the spiral lay the black abyss of what if... ?

What if they missed the French ships? What if Hortense had lied? What if she told the truth and he miscalculated? What if the Tsar changed his mind? What if ... ? What if ... ? Slowly the thoughts detached themselves, broke up and shrank, slipping away from him so that only the blackness was there, a blackness into which he felt himself fall unresisting, an endless engulfment that seemed to shrink him to nothing, like a trumpet note fading.

Drinkwater woke with a start. Sweat poured from him and his garments were twisted about his body like a torque. He felt bound and breathless. Sweat dried clammily upon him and the latent heat of its evaporation chilled him. There was a dull ache in his jaw. Then he remembered: he had been drowning! He was wet from the sea; gasping from having been dragged beneath something monstrous, but beneath what?

And then the entire dream came back to him: the water, the strange ship, the noise of clanking chains, the white and ghostly figure that had reared above him: Hortense, pallid as a corpse, beautiful and yet ghastly, as though her whole face was riven by scars. Yet the scars were not marks, but the twists of serpents. It was Hortense, but it was also the Medusa which seemed to be borne as a figurehead on the bow of the strange and clattering ship. Then he was under water and lighting for his life as the noise reached a terrifying crescendo from which he knew he must escape, or die.

As he lay mastering his terror, he recognized the old dream. Once, when he was an unhappy midshipman, it had come to him regularly, marking the miserable days of his existence aboard the frigate Cyclops. Since then it had visited him occasionally, as a presentient warning of some impending event. But now he felt no such alarm, as though this terror from his youth could only frighten him when he was weak and exhausted. It was just a visitation from the past; a relic. Old men feared death, not the wearying vicissitudes of misfortune. These, experience taught them, were to be confronted and mastered.

In the past, Hortense's image had sometimes occupied the post of what he had come to call the 'white lady'. Perhaps it was because she had again entered his life that the dream had come roaring out of his subconscious. As he lay there, staring up at the deck-head which glowed in the last reflections of daylight coming in through the stern windows, he mastered the lingering fear which was rapidly shrinking to apprehension. His thoughts ordered themselves slowly but surely, returning him to the state of conscious anxiety from which he had escaped in sleep.

Any analysis of his actions must be seen in the light of good faith. The orders the prompted prince had given him cleared his yard-arm as far as the Admiralty were concerned; all his best efforts must now be bent on reaching the Azores and lying in wait for the French ships. If allied warships brought the Emperor Napoleon to the islands before the French ships arrived, so much the better. Drinkwater would be able to persuade their commanders to remain in the vicinity. If, on the other hand, the French ships lay off the islands in waiting for their Emperor, he would attack them and while he could never guarantee success, he was confident he could sufficiently damage them to prevent them rescuing their prize and carrying out their confounded stratagem.

Then an uncomfortable thought struck him. While he had a full crew, most of which had successfully fought in the Vikkenfiord, his officers were largely inexperienced. It would not have mattered if all they had had to do was act as part of Prince William Henry's Royal Squadron. But now, while his elderly frigate was painted to a nicety, she had not refilled her magazines and was woefully short of powder and ball. True, he had a stock of langridge, grape and musket balls, but there was no substitute for good iron shot. And if that were not enough, he was victualled for no more than a month, two at the most, and carried no spare spars. These thoughts brought him from his bed.

The frigate was still close-hauled on the larboard tack, well heeled over to starboard, and the rush of water along her sides added its undertone to the monstrous creaking of the hull, the groan of the rudder stock below him and the faint tremulous shudder through the ship's fabric as she twitched and strained to the whim of wind and sea.

Drinkwater reached the quarter-gallery, eased himself and poured water into a basin. It slopped wildly as he scooped it up into his face and brushed his teeth. His servant Frampton had long-since abandoned the captain to his slumbers, and Drinkwater was glad of the lack of fossicking attention which he sometimes found intolerably vexing. He retied his stock, dragged a comb through his hair and clubbed his queue. Finally he eased his wounded shoulder into the comfortable broadcloth of his old, undress uniform coat, pulled his boat-cloak about his shoulders and, picking his hat from the hook beside the door, went on deck.

It was almost dark when he gained the quarterdeck. Low on the western horizon a dull orange break in the overcast showed the last of the daylight. Overhead the clouds seemed to boil above the mastheads in inky whorls, yet the wind was not cold, but mild.

Seeing the captain emerge on deck and stare aloft, the officer of the watch crossed the deck. It was Frey. 'Good evening, sir. Mr Birkbeck ordered the t'gallants struck an hour past, sir. He also had the main course clewed up.'

Drinkwater nodded then, realizing Frey could not see him properly, coughed and grunted his acknowledgement. 'Very well, Mr Frey. Thank you.'

Frey was about to withdraw and vacate the weather rail but Drinkwater said, 'A word with you, Mr Frey. There is something I wish to ask you.'

'Sir?'

'Have you any idea what we are up to?'

'No, sir.'

'What about scuttlebutt?' Even in the wind, Drinkwater heard Frey sigh. 'Come on, don't scruple. Tell me.'

'Scuttlebutt has it that we are off somewhere and that it is due to the, er, officer who came on board last night.'

It already seemed an age ago, yet it was not even twenty-four hours. Drinkwater cast aside the distraction. 'And what do they say about this officer then, Mr Frey?'

'Frankly, sir, they say it was a woman, at least, that is, the midshipmen do.'

'Tom Paine is an intelligent imp, Mr Frey,' Drinkwater replied, smiling. 'He noticed straight away'

'Then it was a woman?'

Drinkwater sighed. 'Yes, though you should not attach too much importance to the fact. I'm afraid she brought disturbing intelligence, Mr Frey, not entirely unconnected with that business in the Vikkenfiord.'

Drinkwater could sense Frey's reluctance at coming to terms with this news. 'Then it is not over yet, sir?'

'I fear not, my dear Frey, I fear not.'

A profound silence fell between them, if the deck of a frigate working to windward could provide such an environment. Then Frey said, 'I think you should tell Marlowe, sir. I do not think him a bad fellow, but he feels you do not trust him, and that cannot be good, sir.' Frey hesitated to voice his misgivings about Ashton. 'I don't wish to presume, sir.'

'No, no, you do quite right to presume, Mr Frey, quite right. I fear I used him ill. It was unforgivable.'

'He certainly took it badly, sir, if you'll forgive me for saying so, though I think Ashton made the situation worse.'

'Oh,' said Drinkwater sharply, 'in what way?'

'Well, sir, I think he put Marlowe up to importuning you; made him stand upon his dignity, if you know what I mean.'

'There was a time when a lieutenant had precious little dignity to stand upon.'

'There was much made of it in the wardroom, sir.'

Drinkwater grunted again. 'Well, well, I must put things to rights tomorrow'

'You don't mind ...'

'If you speak your mind? No, no. Under the circumstances, not at all.'

'It's just...' Frey faltered and Drinkwater saw him look away.

'Go on. Just what?' he prompted.

'Nothing sir,' Frey coughed to clear his throat, adding, 'no, nothing at all' As Frey moved away, Drinkwater watched him go, wondering what was on his mind.

CHAPTER 5 To Weather of the Wight

'Well gentlemen,' Drinkwater looked up from the chart at the two officers before him, 'I think I must confide in you both.'

'Are we out of soundings then?' Marlowe asked, a supercilious expression on his face. Drinkwater had forgotten his earlier remark, made more for the sake of its effect, than as a matter of absolute accuracy, but Marlowe's tone reminded him. He stared at the younger man for a moment, taken aback at Marlowe's attitude, so taken aback that a quick retort eluded him.

'Soundings?' he muttered. 'No, of course not,' then he looked up and glared at Marlowe, though he forbore from snapping at him. 'We have yet to weather the Wight.' He tapped the chart, pausing for a moment. 'What I have to say I shall shortly make known to the people, but for the time being it shall be between ourselves. Once we have resolved those difficulties which we can foresee, and there are several, then having taken what remedial action lies within our compass, we can inform the ship. Is that clear?'

'Perfectly, sir,' responded Birkbeck quickly, shooting his younger colleague a sideways glance.

'I think so, sir.' If Marlowe was being deliberately and sulkily obtuse, Drinkwater let the matter pass. He was resolved to be conciliatory, then Marlowe added, 'But is that wise, sir?'

'Is what wise?' Drinkwater frowned.

'Why, telling the people. Surely that is dangerous.'

'Dangerous, Mr Marlowe? How so?'

'Well, it seems perfectly clear to me. It could act as an incitement. If you make them privy to our thoughts, it would exceed their expectations and we should be guilty of an impropriety. Sir.'

'You think it an impropriety to ask them to go into action without knowing why, do you?'

It was Marlowe's turn to frown. 'Action? What action do you think we shall be involved in?' The first lieutenant was wearing his arch look again. It was the condescending way one might look at a senile old man, Drinkwater concluded with a mild sense of shock.

'Well, who knows, Mr Marlowe, who knows? Though it occurs to me we might encounter an American cruiser.' It had clearly not occurred to Marlowe. Drinkwater went on. 'Now then, let us be seated in a little comfort. Mr Birkbeck, you have the other chart there, and if you wish to smoke, please do. Mr Marlowe, do be a good fellow and pass the decanter and three glasses ...'

But Marlowe was not to be so easily pacified. Doing as he was bid, he placed the glasses on the table. 'Look here, sir ...'

But Drinkwater's fuse had burned through. His voice was suddenly harsh as he turned on the young first lieutenant. 'No sir! Do you look here, and listen too. We are on active service, very active service if I ain't mistaken.' Marlowe seemed about to speak, thought better of it and sat in silent resentment. Drinkwater caught Birkbeck's eye and the older man shrugged his shoulders with an almost imperceptible movement, continuing to fill a stained clay pipe.

'Now then, gentlemen, pay attention: what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance. It is a secret of state and I am imparting it to you both because if anything should happen to me, then I am jointly charging you two gentlemen to prosecute this matter to its extremity with the utmost vigour.'

Drinkwater had Marlowe's attention in full now. Birkbeck knew enough of Drinkwater's past to wear an expression of concern. Drinkwater felt he owed Birkbeck more than a mere explanation; as for Marlowe, it would do him no harm to be made aware of the proper preoccupations of experienced sea-officers.

'I am sorry Mr Birkbeck that we have been diverted to this task and I know well that you were promised a dockyard appointment when this commission was over. Well, the promise still stands, it's just that the commission has been extended.' Drinkwater smiled. 'I'm sorry, but there it is ...'

Birkbeck expelled his breath in a long sigh. Nodding, he said, 'I know sir: a sense of humour is a necessary portion of a sea-officer's character.'

'Just so, Mr Birkbeck,' and Drinkwater smiled his curiously attractive, lopsided grin. 'More wine?'

He waited for them to recharge their glasses. 'We are bound to the Azores gentlemen, to trap Napoleon Bonaparte ...'

'We are what?' exclaimed an incredulous Marlowe.

'So it was a woman!'

Mr Marlowe could scarce contain himself, puffed up as he was with a great state secret and half a bottle of blackstrap. Birkbeck gave him a rueful glance as the two officers paced the quarterdeck whence the master had suggested they go to take the air and discuss the matters that now preoccupied the first lieutenant and sailing master of the frigate Andromeda.

'May I presume to plead my grey hair and offer you a word of advice, Mr Marlowe,' Birkbeck offered. 'Of course, I would quite understand if you resented my interfering, but we must, perforce, work in amity.'

'No, no, please Birkbeck ...'

'Well, Captain Drinkwater is not quite the uninfluential tarpaulin you might mistake him for ...'

'I knew he had fought a Russian ship, but I have to confess I had not heard of him in the Channel Fleet.'

'Perhaps because he has seen extensive foreign and special service. Did you know, for instance, that Nelson sent him from the Med, round Africa and into the Red Sea. He brought a French national frigate home, she was bought into our service and he subsequently commanded her. The captain also served under Nelson and commanded a bomb at Copenhagen. Oh, yes...' Birkbeck nodded. 'I see you are surprised. Talk to Mr Frey, he was in the Arctic on special service with Captain Drinkwater in the sloop Melusine and I believe Frey was captured with the captain just before Trafalgar. I understand Drinkwater was aboard the French flagship ...'

'As a prisoner?' asked Marlowe, clearly reassessing his commander.

'Yes, so I understand. Later Drinkwater made up for this and battered a Russian seventy-four to pieces in the Pacific'

'In the Pacific? I had heard mention of the action, but assumed it to have been in the Baltic'

'That, if I may say so, is the danger of assumptions.' Birkbeck smiled at Marlowe. 'Anyway, I first met him aboard this ship last autumn when he took Andromeda over from Captain Pardoe: not that Pardoe was aboard very often; he spent most of his time in the House of Commons and left the ship to the first luff...'

'Who was killed, I believe,' interrupted Marlowe.

'Yes. We had trouble with some of the men — it's a long story'

'I gathered they were mutineers,' Marlowe said flatly.

'Ah, you've heard that, have you?' Birkbeck looked at the young officer beside him. 'Now I understand why you made that remark about incitement.'

'Well, the temper of the men is a matter I should properly concern myself with.' Marlowe invoked the superior standing of a commissioned officer, as opposed to the responsibilities of the warranted sailing master.

'Indeed it is, Mr Marlowe. But you might also properly concern yourself with the temper of your commanding officer. I fear you may have fallen victim to a misapprehension in misjudging Captain Drinkwater. Consider his late achievement. Last autumn, as soon as he came aboard this ship, which had been kept on guard duties and as a convoy on the coast where her captain could be called to the House of Commons if the government wished for his vote, we went a-chasing Yankee privateers in the Norwegian fiords. We took a big Danish cruiser, the Odin. It was scuttlebutt then that Drinkwater had some influence at the Admiralty and was wrapped up in secret goin's on. You heard what he said about that woman who came aboard the other night and that she was mixed up in some such business. I've no doubt the matter we are presently engaged upon is exactly as he told us.'

'I had no idea,' mused Marlowe for a moment, then added, 'So, you consider we might see some action?'

Birkbeck shrugged. 'Who knows? Captain Drinkwater seems to think so. Perhaps just by cruising off the Azores we will prevent all this happening, but if Boney escapes, God help Canada.'

'We are playing for very high stakes ...'

'Indeed we are.'

'But she's an old ship and lacks powder and shot...'

'What d'you think we can do about that?'

'I, er, I don't know. Put into Plymouth?'

'It's a possibility ...'

'But?'

'Not one he'll consider.'

'Why not?'

'It would delay us too much; we'd be subject to the usual dockyard prevarications, difficulties with the commissioner, warping in alongside the powder hulk, half the watch running ... No, no, Drinkwater will avoid that trap.'

'Well Gibraltar's too far out of our way' said Marlowe with a kind of pettish finality, 'so what will Our Father do?'

'Can't you guess?' Birkbeck grinned at the young man.

Irritated, Marlowe snapped, 'No I damn well can't!'

Birkbeck was offended by Marlowe's change of tone. 'Then you'll have to wait and see!' he replied, and left the first lieutenant staring after him as he made his way below.

Lieutenant Hyde of the marines sat in the wardroom reading a novel. It was said to have been written 'by a lady', but, despite this, it rather appealed to him. He was an easy-going man whose lithe body conveyed the impression of youth and agility. In fact he was past thirty-five and conspicuously idle. But whereas military officers were frequently inert, Lieutenant Hyde was fortunate to be able to persuade his subordinates into doing their own duty and a good bit of his own. Moreover, this was accomplished with an enthusiasm that bespoke a keenly active and intelligent commanding officer.

The secret of Hyde's success was very simple; he possessed a sergeant of unusual ability and energy. Sergeant McCann was something of an enigma, even between decks on a British man-of-war which was said to be a refuge for all the world's bad-hats. Sergeant McCann was as unlike any other sergeant in the sea-service as it was possible to be; he was cultured. In fact the novel Lieutenant Hyde was reading was rightfully Sergeant McCann's; moreover the sergeant was diligent, so diligent that it was unnecessary for Lieutenant Hyde to check up on him, and he was well acquainted with the duties required of both a sergeant and an officer. This was because Sergeant McCann had once held a commission of his own.

A lesser man would have let bitterness corrode his soul, but Sergeant McCann had nothing left in the world other than his work. He had been born in Massachusetts where his father had been a cobbler. At the age of sixteen his father had been dragged from their house and tarred and feathered by 'patriot' neighbours for the crime of opposing armed rebellion against the British crown. By morning McCann was the head of his family, his mother had lost her reason and his twelve-year-old sister was in a state of shock. Somehow he got his family into Boston and when that city was evacuated they fled to New York along with a host of loyalist refugees. Young McCann volunteered for service in a provincial regiment, fought at the Brandywine and earned a commission at Germantown. In his absence his mother took to drink and his sister became mistress to a British officer. McCann went south and fought with Patrick Ferguson at King's Mountain, where he was wounded and taken prisoner. After a long and humiliating captivity he found his way back to New York, but no sign of his family. After the peace, in company with other loyalists, he crossed the Atlantic in search of compensation from the British government. In this he was disappointed, and found himself driven to all manner of extremities to keep body and soul together. Finally he entered the service of a moderately wealthy family whose country seat was in Kent. He stuck the subservient existence of an under-footman for three years, then joined the marines of the Chatham division. McCann learned to blot out the past by an intense concentration upon the present. Lieutenant Hyde called him 'my meticulous sergeant' and thus he was known as Meticulous McCann.

Owing to severe losses among the marines during the preceding cruise, Lieutenant Hyde, Sergeant McCann and a dozen additional red-coated lobsters had been sent aboard Andromeda at Chatham shortly before the frigate sailed on her escort duties. The combination of the elegantly languid Hyde and the pipeclayed mastery of McCann was thought by the officer commanding the Chatham division to be ideal for such a ceremonial task.

'Is that damned book so entertaining, Hyde?' Lieutenant Ashton now asked.

'It is very amusing,' Hyde replied without looking up from the page, adding, 'Shouldn't you be on deck?'

'Frederic has relieved me. He's under the impression I am acting as his clerk. Anyway, old fellow, I hate to disturb you from your intellectual pursuits, but the Meticulous One awaits your attention.'

'Really ...' Hyde turned a page, chuckled and continued reading.

'Do please come in Sergeant.' Ashton waved the scarlet-clad McCann into the wardroom, then turned to the marine officer. 'Hyde, you infernal layabout, you quite exasperate me! Sergeant McCann is reporting to you.' Ashton rolled his eyes at the deck-head for McCann's benefit.

Skilfully bracing himself against the heel and movement of the ship, McCann crashed his boots and finally attracted the attention of his commanding officer. Hyde affected a startled acknowledgement of his presence.

'What the devil... ? Ah. McCann, men ready for inspection?'

'Sir!'

'Very well.' Hyde put his book, pages downwards, upon the table and got up. He seemed to the watching Ashton not to need to adjust his tight-fitting tunic, but rose immaculate, preened like a sleek bird. He winked at Ashton, picked up his billy-cock hat and preceded McCann from the wardroom. Watching the pair leave, Ashton was shaking his head in wonder at the contrived little scene when a door in the adjacent bulkhead opened and a tousle-haired Frey poked his head out.

'What the deuce is all the noise about?'

'Oh, nothing, Frey, nothing, only Hyde and the Meticulous One.'

'Is that all?' said Frey, preparing to retreat into his hutch of a cabin just as the ship heeled farther over. 'Wind's shifting,' he said, yawning. 'Isn't it your watch?'

'I do wish people wouldn't keep asking me that. The first lieutenant has relieved me.'

'What for?'

'He was feeling generous... Frey' Ashton went on, 'you know Our Father, don't you. What's he like, personally, I mean?'

Frey sighed, scratched his head and came out of his cabin in his stockinged feet. Sitting at the table he stretched. 'I'm not sure I can tell you, beyond saying that I have the deepest admiration for him.'

'They say he's an unlucky man to be around,' Ashton remarked. 'Didn't his last first lieutenant get killed, along with that fellow you were with, what was his name?'

'Quilhampton? Yes, James was killed, so was Lieutenant Huke...'

'Well?'

'Well what?'

'Well 'tis said we're bound out to the westward in chase of two French ships that have escaped from Antwerp,' expostulated Ashton.

'If that is the scuttlebutt, then it must be true,' said Frey drily, taking a biscuit from the barrel.

'I had it from Marlowe who saw the captain this morning and then heard all about our gallant commander from old Birkbeck.'

'Well then, you know more about it than I do.'

'Oh, Frey, don't be such a confounded dullard ...'

Andromeda lay down even further to leeward and ran for some moments with her starboard ports awash. Hyde's novel slid across the table and fell on the painted canvas deck covering. Frey bent down, picked it up and gave it a cursory glance.

'Here, put it on the stern settee,' said Ashton. Frey threw it to Ashton who caught it neatly and glanced at the title on the spine. 'Pride and Prejudice; huh! What a damned apt title for...' He looked up quickly at the watching Frey, flushed slightly and pulled the corners of his mouth down. 'Odd cove, Hyde,' he remarked.

Frey stood up; he was about to retire to his cabin and dress for his watch, but paused and said, 'You seem to think most of us are odd, in one way or another.'

Ashton casually spun Miss Austen's novel into a corner of the buttoned settee that ran across the after end of the gloomy wardroom. He stared back at Frey, seemed to consider a moment, then said, 'Do I? Well I never.'

Frey was galled by the evasion. 'What d'you think of Marlowe?'

'Known him for years.' Ashton's tone was dismissive.

'That's not what I asked,' persisted Frey. There was a hardness in his tone which Ashton had not heard before.

'Oh, he's all right.'

'That is what I told the captain,' Frey remarked, watching Ashton, 'though I am not certain I am right.'

'You told the captain?' Ashton frowned, 'and what gives you the right to give him your opinion, or to presume to doubt Mr Marlowe's good name, eh?'

'Something called friendship, Ashton,' Frey retorted.

'Oh yes, old shipmates,' Ashton said sarcastically, 'as if I could forget.'

There was a knock at the wardroom door and Midshipman Dunn's face appeared. 'One bell, Mr Frey,' he said.

'Thank you, Mr Dunn.' Frey shut his cabin door and reached for his neck-linen. There was something indefinably odious about Josiah Ashton and Frey could not put his finger on it. He was too damned thick with Marlowe, Frey concluded, and Marlowe was something of a fool. But it irritated Frey that he could not quite place the source of a profound unease.

As Frey went on deck he passed Hyde's marines parading on the heeling gun deck. They stood like a wavering fence, the instant before it was blown down by a gale. Lieutenant Hyde had almost completed his inspection prior to changing sentries. He caught Frey's eye and winked. For all his intolerable indolence, Frey could not help liking Hyde. One could like a fellow, Frey thought as he grasped the man-ropes to the upper deck, without either admiring or approving of him.

On deck the watch were shortening sail. The topgallants had already been furled and now the topsails were being reefed. Clapping his hand to his hat and drawing it down hard on his head, Frey stared aloft. The main topsail yard had been clewed down and the slack upper portion of the sail drawn up to the yard-arms by the reefing tackles. The windward topman was astride the extremity of the yard, hauling the second reef earing up as hard as he could, while his fellow yard-men strove to assist by hauling on the reef points as the big sail flogged and billowed.

Lieutenant Marlowe stood forward of the binnacle with a speaking trumpet to his mouth.

'Jump to it, you lubbers!' he was shrieking, though it was clear the men were working as rapidly as was possible. The unnecessary nature of Marlowe's intervention confirmed Frey's revised opinion of the first lieutenant.

Since Frey had last been on deck the weather had taken a turn for the worse. A quick glance over the starboard bow showed the white buttress of the Isle of Wight lying athwart their hawse with a menacing proximity as the backing wind drove them into the bight of Sandown Bay. The reason for Marlowe's anxiety was now clear: he had left the reefing too late, giving insufficient time for the men to complete their task before they must tack the ship. To the north-west, several ships lay at anchor in St Helen's road, while in the distance beyond, a dense clutter of masts and yards showed where the bulk of the Channel Fleet, withdrawn from blockade duties off Ushant, lay once more in the safe anchorage of Spithead. It would be a fine thing, Frey thought, for Andromeda to pile herself up at the foot of Culver Cliff within sight of such company!

Frey strode aft, took a quick look at the compass, gauged the wind from the tell-tale streaming above the windward hammock irons, and then stared at the land. Dunnose Head was stretching out on the larboard bow, and Culver Cliff loomed ever closer above the starboard fore chains, its unchanged bearing an ominous and certain precursor of disaster.

Beside Frey the quartermaster and helmsmen were muttering apprehensively and Frey's own pulse began to race. The seamen coming on deck to take over the watch were milling in the waist. The experienced among them quickly sensed something was wrong. The wind note rose suddenly and to windward the sea turned a silver-white as the squall screamed down upon the ship. For a split second Frey's artistic sensibilities compelled him to watch the phenomenon which looked like nothing so much as the devil's claw-marks raking the surface of the sea.

Midshipman Dunn came running up to Marlowe. 'Captain's just coming on deck, sir.'

Marlowe ignored the boy and continued shouting at the men aloft who were now struggling hard to tame the main topsail. Frey could not see the fore-topsail, but presumed the worst. Frey heard Marlowe's next order with disbelief.

'Aloft there! Leggo those pendants! Let fly the reef-tackles! Standby the yard lifts! Haul away those lifts!' The men stationed at the lifts hesitated and Marlowe leaned forward and screamed at them: 'Haul away, you idle buggers! Haul!' Then the first lieutenant, a curious, pleading expression on his face, turned towards Frey and the men at the wheels, as though explaining his action. 'We'll reef after we've tacked.'

But he received no consoling approval. Aloft they had no such appreciation of Marlowe's intentions. The men at the lifts jerked the yards and they began to slew in the wind. The men on the footropes rocked and three at the bunt of the sail let their reef points go, while someone else started the weather reef-tackle so that the topsail shivered in the squall.

The violent movement of yard and sail was sufficient to unbalance the man astride the larboard main yard-arm. He lost his grip of the reef pendant, which streamed almost horizontally away to leeward; then he slipped sideways and fell. He made a futile grab at the loose pendant, but the wind snatched it from him. The next man on the yard tried to seize him, but it was too late. With a cry, the unfortunate seaman fell with a sickening thud at the feet of Captain Drinkwater as he came on deck.

Frey saw the whole thing happen: saw the topman slip and fall, saw Marlowe seek justification for his action and saw him fail to realize what was happening until the body fell to the deck. He saw, too, the look of horror that passed over Drinkwater's face as he came on deck, then saw the captain suddenly galvanized into action, cross the deck, swing forward and take in the whole shambles in a second. Without a speaking trumpet, Drinkwater roared his orders and took instant command of the deck.

'All hands!'

The horrified inertia of the ship's company was swept aside, as Drinkwater called them all to the greater duty of saving the ship.

'All hands about ship and reef topsails in one!'

The pipes of the boatswain and his mates shrilled and the order sent men to their stations; those already aloft crowded back along the footropes and into the tops. Drinkwater moved smartly across the deck as the men rushed to their positions; ropes were turned off pin rails; lines of men backed up the leading hands as they prepared to clew down the topsail yards again and man the larboard braces. While others stood ready to cast off the lifts and starboard braces, Hyde's marines tramped up from the gun-deck and cleared away the mizen gear.

'Mr Dunn,' Frey called as he ran to his post. 'Take two men and get that poor fellow below to the surgeon.'

Frey took one last look at Culver Cliff. It seemed to loom as high as the main yard.

'Down helm.' Drinkwater stood beside the wheel as the quartermaster had the helm put over and Andromeda turned slowly into the wind. There was a touch less sea running now as they rapidly closed the shore where they were scraping a lee from Dunnose Head at the far and windward end of the bay. As the frigate came head to wind, the sails began to shiver and then come aback.

'Mains'l haul!' Drinkwater roared.

'Clew down! Haul the reef tackles! Haul buntlines!'

The main and mizen yards, their sails slack and blanketed by the sails on the foremast, were hauled round by their braces, ready for the new tack.

'Trice up and lay out!''

With Drinkwater's bellowing acting as a noisy yet curiously effective tranquillizer imposing order on momentary confusion, the topmen resumed their positions, a new man occupying the larboard main topsail yard-arm. Andromeda bucked into the head sea, her rate of turn slowed almost to a stop. Aloft, the frantic activity of the frigate's competent crew paid off. This fruit of hard service off Norway and Their Lordships' solicitude for a foreign king, which had drafted some of Chatham's best seamen into Andromeda to replace her losses, had the topsails double reefed in a few minutes. As the ship continued her slow turn, the wind caught the foreyards fully aback, suddenly accelerating the rate of turn. Drinkwater strode along the starboard gangway the better to see the fore-topsail, but Frey had already run forward and pre-empted him, to wave in silent acknowledgement that all was well.

'Stand by halliards!' Drinkwater waited for a moment longer, then gave the final command: 'Let go and haul all!'

Round came the yards on the foremast and the reefed and thundering topsail was trimmed parallel to those already braced on the main and mizen masts. On the forecastle the headsail sheets were shifted, hauled aft and belayed while the braces amidships were turned up and their falls coiled down neatly on the pins.

'Lay in! Stand by booms! Down booms!'

Order reasserted itself aloft. The men began to come down.

'Man the halliards! Tend the braces and hoist away!''

The yards rose, stretching the canvas and setting the topsails again. 'Belay! That's well!' Drinkwater turned to Birkbeck who had materialized beside the wheel in all the commotion. 'Steady now, Mr Birkbeck. Let's have her full and bye, starboard tack, if you please.'

Andromeda heeled to larboard and a cloud of spray rose above the starboard bow as she shouldered her way through a sea and increased speed. Beyond this brief nebula lay the white rampart of Dunnose Head while on the starboard quarter Culver Cliff drew slowly, but inexorably astern. After the bowlines had been set up and all about the deck made tidy again, the watches changed. Only a small darkening stain of blood on the hallowed white planks marred the organized symmetry of the man-of-war as she stood offshore again.

'We shall work to weather of the Wight now,' said Drinkwater, handing the deck over to Frey.

'Aye, sir.' Both men stared to windward as they emerged from the lee of the headland. The sea was running high and hollow against the strong ebb and the wind again increased in force. Emerging clear of Dunnose Head and some five miles beyond the promontory, St Catherine's Point stood out clear against the horizon. High above the point, on Niton Down where it was already surrounded by wisps of cloud, stood the lighthouse. Forward, eight bells were struck.

'Judging by that cloud and the shift of the wind we're in for a thick night of it.'

'Aye, I fear so, sir,' agreed Frey. For a few moments the two men stood in silence, then Drinkwater asked, 'Did you see what happened?'

'Yes, I did. Marlowe left reefing too late, then feared embayment and lost his nerve.'

'I assumed he countermanded the order and tried to tack the ship first.'

'That is what happened, sir,' said Frey, his voice inexpressive.

'Do you know the name of the man who fell?'

'No sir; Mr Birkbeck will know' Frey turned and called to the master who hurried across the deck. 'Who was the fellow who fell?'

'Watson. A good topman; been in the ship since he was pressed as a lad.'

'Thank you both,' said Drinkwater turning away. He was deeply affected by the unnecessary loss. 'Another ghost,' he muttered to himself. Moving towards the companionway he left his orders to the officer taking over the watch. 'Keep her full-and-bye, Mr Frey, run our distance out into the Channel. We'll tack again before midnight.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

It was only when the captain had gone below Frey realized Marlowe had vanished.

CHAPTER 6 Three Cheers for the Ship

Captain Drinkwater looked up at the surgeon. 'Well, Mr Kennedy?'

'He was barely alive when he reached me.' Kennedy's face wore its customary expression of world-weariness. Drinkwater had known the man long enough not to take offence. He invited Kennedy to be seated and offered him a glass of wine.

'Thank you, no, sir.' The surgeon remained standing.

'Then we shall have to bury him.'

'Yes. They're trussing him in his hammock now.' Kennedy paused and appeared to want to say more.

'There is something you wish to say, Mr Kennedy?' Drinkwater asked, half-guessing what was to follow.

'I hear it was Lieutenant Marlowe's fault.'

'Did you now; in what way?'

'That he had begun to reef the topsails while we were running into a bay, that he left it too late, changed his mind and tried to tack with men on the yards.'

'It's not unheard of ...'

'Don't you care ... Sir?'

'Sit down, Mr Kennedy'

'I'd rather ...'

'Sit down!' Drinkwater moved round the table and Kennedy sat abruptly, as though expecting Drinkwater to shove him into the chair, but the captain lifted a decanter from the fiddles and poured two glasses of dark blackstrap. The drink appeared to live up to its name as twilight descended on the Channel.

'How many men have died while under your knife, Mr Kennedy?'

The surgeon spluttered into his glass. 'That's a damned outrage...'

'It's a point of view, Mr Kennedy,' Drinkwater said, his voice level. 'I know you invariably do your utmost, but imagine how matters sometimes seem to others.'

'But Marlowe clearly did not act properly. He should not even have been on deck.'

'Perhaps not, but perhaps he made only an error of judgement, the consequences of which were tragic for Watson. That is not grounds for ...'

'The people may consider it grounds for ...' Kennedy baulked at enunciating the fatal word.

'Mutiny?'

'They turned against Pigot when men fell out of the rigging.'

'Things were rather different aboard the Hermione, Mr Kennedy. Pigot had been terrorizing his crew and there was no sign of the end of the war. This is an unfortunate accident.'

'You do not seem aware, sir, of the mood of the people. They were anticipating being paid off. As you point out, the war is at an end and their services will no longer be required. Watson might have even now been dandling a nipper on his knees and bussing a fat wife. Instead, he is dead and the rest of the poor devils find themselves beating out of the Channel, bound God knows where...'

'I am well aware of the mood of the men, but you are wrong about the war being over. It seems a common misapprehension aboard the ship; in fact we remain at war with the Americans. However, I quite agree with you that Watson's death is a very sad matter; as for the rest, I had intended telling them when the watch changed at eight bells. But for being overtaken by events, they would not have been kept in the dark any longer. That is a pity, but there is nothing I can do now until the morning. We shall have to bury Watson and when I have the company assembled I shall tell them all I can.'

'The ship is already alive with rumour, sir,' said Kennedy, draining his glass.

'I daresay. A ship is always alive with rumour. What do they say?'

'Some nonsense about us stopping Bonaparte from escaping, though why Boney should choose to run off into the Atlantic, I'm damned if I know. I suppose he wants to emigrate to America.' Kennedy rose, holding his glass.

'I should think that a strong possibility, Mr Kennedy.' It was almost dark in the cabin now and the pantry door opened and Drinkwater's servant entered with a lit lantern.

'Oh, I beg pardon, sir ...'

'Come in, Frampton, come in. Mr Kennedy is just leaving.'

After the surgeon had gone, Drinkwater ate the cold meat and potatoes Frampton set before him. He was far from content with Marlowe's conduct, but at a loss to know what to do about it. He had been preoccupied with considerations of greater moment than the organization of his ship and now berated himself for his folly. He ought to have known Marlowe had precious little between his ears, yet the fellow had seen a fair amount of service. Then it occurred to Drinkwater that his own naval career had been woefully deficient in one important respect; owing to a curious chain of circumstances the only patronage that might have elevated him in the sea-service had actually confined him to frigates. He must, he realized, be one of the most experienced frigate captains in the Royal Navy. The corollary of this was that he had spent no time in a line-of-battle ship. Perhaps the constraints aboard a ship carrying five or six lieutenants and employed on the tedious but regimented duty of blockade gave young officers of a certain disposition no chance to use their initiative or to learn the skills necessary to handle a ship under sail in bad weather. It seemed an odd situation, but if Marlowe, as son of a baronet, was a favoured élève of an admiral, he might never have seen true active service, or ever carried out a manoeuvre without an experienced master's mate at his elbow.

It would have been quite possible for Marlowe to have climbed the seniority list without ever hearing a gun fired in anger! Entry on a ship's books at an early age would have him a lieutenant below the proper age of twenty, with or without an examination, if Marlowe's father could pull the right strings. Drinkwater found the thought incredible, but he forgot how much older than his officers he was. And then it occurred to him that his age and appearance might intimidate those who did not know him; indeed he might intimidate those who did!

Did he intimidate Frey?

He must have some sort of reputation: it was impossible not to in the hermetic world of the Royal Navy, and God only knew what lurid tales circulated about him. Then he recalled Marlowe himself making some such reference the night Hortense came aboard, warning him against possible Russian reaction to Drinkwater's presence off Calais. Marlowe knew that much about him. The recollection brought him full circle: Marlowe's initial courtliness could have been a generous interpretation of unctuousness, and although not ingratiating, the man's hauteur in objecting to Drinkwater's proposal to acquaint the ship's company with their task, demonstrated either arrogance or a stupid narrow-mindedness. Or perhaps both, Drinkwater mused.

He had little doubt Marlowe, a man of good birth and social pretensions, was infected with an extreme consciousness of rank and position that coloured all his actions and prevented the slightest exercise of logical thought concerning what he would call his 'inferiors'. There was a growing sensibility to it in the navy, an infection clearly caught from the army, or society generally, and something which Drinkwater heartily reprehended. Men stood out clearly in rank, without the need to resort to arrogance.

Drinkwater grunted irritably. Whatever the cause of Marlowe's disagreeableness, the man was a damned lubber! In tune with this conclusion, Frampton came in to clear the table and Drinkwater leaned back in his chair, toying with the stem of his wine glass.

'There's some fine duff, sir.'

'Thank you, no, Frampton.'

'Very well, sir,' Frampton sniffed.

'Oh, damn it, Frampton, did you prepare it yourself?'

'Of course, sir.'

'Very well then, but only a small slice,' Drinkwater compromised.

Frampton vanished, then brought in a golden pudding liberally covered with treacle. 'God's bones, Frampton, would you have me burst my damned breeches, eh?'

'It'll do you no harm, sir. You should keep your nerves well covered.'

'That's a matter of opinion,' Drinkwater commented drily. He picked up fork and spoon and was about to attack the duff when another thought occurred to him. 'Frampton, would you ask the sentry to pass word for Mr Marlowe.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'You sent for me, sir?'

Marlowe swayed in the doorway, the flickering light of the bulkhead glim playing on his features, giving them a demonic cast which somehow emphasized the fact that he was drunk.

'Pray sit down.' Drinkwater considered dismissing him, thought better of it and watched his first lieutenant unsteadily cross the cabin and slump in the seat recently vacated by Kennedy. Drinkwater laid fork and spoon down on the plate, shoved it aside and dabbed his mouth with his napkin, dropping it on the table.

'Please tell me what happened this afternoon, Mr Marlowe.'

'Happened? Why, nothing happened. A damned fool fell from aloft, that's what happened.'

'The damned fool you speak of, Drinkwater said in a measured voice, 'was an experienced topman. He had been on the ship since she commissioned, since he was a boy, in fact.'

Marlowe shrugged. 'The ship was standing into danger and carrying too much canvas.'

'What were you doing on deck? I thought it was Ashton's watch.'

'It was, but I wished Lieutenant Ashton to undertake another duty and relieved him.'

'What other duty?' Drinkwater pressed, though there was nothing very remarkable about the change of officers.

'Oh, some modifications to the watch-bill.'

Drinkwater had the fleeting impression Marlowe was lying, but the man was cunning enough, and perhaps sober enough to think up an excuse. 'We had the men in special divisions for the royal escort. In view of what you told me, I thought it best to rearrange matters.'

'So you took over the deck in order for Lieutenant Ashton to act as your clerk.'

'I took over the deck with the ship carrying too much canvas. Lieutenant Ashton was concerned about it.'

'But neither of you thought fit to tell me.'

'We thought you would know.'

'So you think it was my fault?' Drinkwater asked quietly. Marlowe shrugged again but held his tongue. 'The fact is, Mr Marlowe, that if the ship was carrying too much canvas, it was my fault. Nevertheless, the fact does not exonerate you from the consequences of your own misjudgement. Why did you not complete the reefing before attempting to tack ship?''

'The ship was standing into danger,' Marlowe repeated.

'It is a matter of opinion whether or not you had sufficient time to finish snugging the reef down. I'm inclined to believe you had left it too late. You could have taken in a reef earlier ...'

'I wanted some shelter from the land.'

'Very well, but a more prudent officer would have tacked and then reefed while the ship lay in the lee of the Wight.'

'A more prudent officer?' Marlowe, emboldened by the drink, affected an expression of wounded pride. 'It was because of my prudence that I took action.'

Drinkwater watched; the man was a fool and he himself was rapidly losing patience, but he had no wish to push Marlowe beyond propriety. Before the first lieutenant could say more Drinkwater stood up. The sudden movement seemed to curb Marlowe. He flinched and frowned.

'Mr Marlowe,' said Drinkwater moving round the table, 'I do wish you to consider this matter. You are the worse for liquor. If one of those men forward, whom you affect to despise, should come on deck in the condition you are now in, I daresay you would have him flogged. Now, sir, do you retire to your cabin and reconsider the matter when you are sober.'

Marlowe looked up at his commander and shook his head. 'Trouble with you, Captain Drinkwater,' Marlowe began, levering himself to his feet, 'is you think you know everything.' Marlowe stood confronting Drinkwater. He swayed so close that Drinkwater could smell the rum on him.

'Have a care, Mr Marlowe. Do please have a care.' Marlowe stood unsteadily and for a moment Drinkwater thought he was going to raise his hand, but then he concluded a wave of nausea affected the lieutenant and he merely covered his mouth. Whatever his motive, Marlowe managed to stagger from the cabin, leaving Drinkwater alone. Drinkwater let his breath go in a long sigh. In his present circumstances, this was something he could well have done without.

Late morning found them still on the starboard tack, but their course lay more nearly west-south-west, for the wind had continued to veer and was now north-west by north. The thick weather that Drinkwater had predicted had run through during the night. Now the wind was lighter, no more than a fresh breeze. The topgallants had been set again, and Andromeda bowled along under an almost cloudless sky. If the tide did not play them up and they maintained no less than the nine knots they had logged at the last streaming, they would clear the Caskets and be free to stand out into the Atlantic before long.

Fulmars and the slender dark shapes of shearwaters swooped above the wake in long, shallow glides. The solitary fulmars rarely touched down into the sea, but the shearwaters would swim in gregarious rafts, lifting by common consent and skating away over the waves as the frigate drove down upon them, disturbing their tranquillity. Away to starboard, in line ahead, a dozen white gannets flew as though on some aerial patrol, graceful and purposeful, with their narrow, black-tipped wings.

'I remember gannets like them having blue feet down in the South Pacific,' Drinkwater remarked to Birkbeck as the two older men took the morning air on the weather side of the quarterdeck.

'Aye, they call 'em boobies, I believe,' replied Birkbeck, 'talking of which, you heard about young Marlowe last night?'

'That he was drunk? Yes, I happened to send for him.'

'It doesn't help, sir, if you don't mind my saying so.'

'No, it doesn't.'

"Twould be less of a problem if Ashton didn't possess so much influence over him. I can't make Ashton out. He's a clever enough cove, which is something you cannot say for young Marlowe. The two of them shouldn't be on the same ship, but...' Birkbeck paused and shrugged, 'oh, damn it, I don't know.'

'Go on, Mr Birkbeck.'

'To be honest, sir, I ain't sure there's anything to add. It's just that when the senior officer in the wardroom is weak, there is usually trouble. Someone tries to take over.'

'Frey doesn't cast himself in that role?'

'Good Lord, no, sir. Poor fellow sensibly keeps himself to himself.'

'And the marine officer, what's his name? Hyde?'

Birkbeck chuckled and shook his head. 'He's impervious to any influence. An idle dog, if ever there was one, but amiable enough. No, I think there's something personal between Ashton and Marlowe, though what it is, the devil alone knows.'

'Do you know what experience Marlowe has had?' Drinkwater asked. 'He was singularly inept yesterday.'

'I don't think there's much to tell, sir. Borne on the books as a servant, then midshipman in the Channel Fleet. Passed for lieutenant under the regulation age, took part in a boat expedition off Brest, his sole taste of action I shouldn't wonder, and the rest of his time on the quarterdeck of a seventy-four, I think. He was invalided ashore for some reason,' Birkbeck paused, 'could have been drink, I suppose, then he came here.'

'Rather as I thought.'

'Well, I couldn't vouch for the details, but the substance is about right.'

'It must be somewhat tiresome for you in the wardroom.'

'Frey and Hyde are pleasant enough, and Ashton and Marlowe are civil when they are separate; 'tis together they begin to smell fishy.'

'Fishy?'

Birkbeck shrugged again. 'Just something I can smell.'

Drinkwater considered the matter as seven bells were struck, 'I think it is time we buried our dead and I spoke to the people. We will pipe up spirits after that, and this afternoon exercise at the guns.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

By tonight, Birkbeck thought, the ship should settled down. He felt he could have put money on it if it were not for Mr Marlowe. And Mr Ashton.

They hove-to and buried the dead Watson at noon, when the ship's day changed. The frigate, with her main-topsail and topgallant hacked against the mast and her courses up in their bunt and clewlines, dipped to the blue, white-capped seas that rolled down from the west. After Watson's corpse, in its weighted canvas shroud, had slipped from beneath the red ensign and plummeted to the sea-bed, Drinkwater stationed himself at the forward end of the quarterdeck, his officers ranged about him, the red, white and black files of Hyde's marines drawn up in rigid lines on either side, their backs to the hammock nettings. Andromeda's midshipmen stood together in a pimply gaggle. Like his officers, they had all been sent aboard by their patrons, even sent by the captains of other ships, as though brief service in the vicinity of a prince of the House of Hanover would admit them to the company of the most august. It gave Drinkwater some grim amusement to consider what patrons and parents would say when it got out that instead of being returned to their comfortable berths after a cross-Channel jaunt, they were stretching out into the Atlantic. On the orders of His Royal Highness, of course!

Amidships, over the boats on the chocks in the waist, along the gangways and in the lower ratlines of the main and fore shrouds, the ship's company waited to hear what he had to say, for scuttlebutt had been circulating since the previous day to the effect that the mystery which preoccupied them all would shortly be resolved.

At the conclusion of the short burial service Drinkwater closed the prayer book and nodded to Marlowe. The first lieutenant looked like death, his naturally pale and gaunt features now conveyed the impression of a skull, emphasized in its modelling by his dark beard, imperfectly shaved by his shaking hand. He had nicked himself in two places and still bled. At Drinkwater's nod he ordered the ship's company to don hats. Drinkwater watched carefully, the degree to which this movement achieved near simultaneity was the first indication as to how well his people thought of themselves as a crew. In the prevailing mood immediately following Watson's burial, and in expectation of news from the captain, the result was promising, if not perfect. Drinkwater settled his own hat and stared about him. Every man-jack forward was staring back. He cleared his throat.

'My lads,' he began, using his best masthead-hailing voice, 'the sad loss of Tom Watson is a consequence of the urgency of our situation. We are bound upon a most important service, one that will not, I hope, detain us at sea for more than a month, two at the most...' He paused, gauging from the groundswell of the murmured reaction, how optimistically this news was received. 'We are under the direct orders of Admiral-of-the-Fleet, His Royal Highness, Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and Earl of Munster...' Drinkwater rather despised himself for invoking all His Royal Highness's grandiloquent titles. It was a deception, of course, an attempt to mislead, to shift the blame to the inscrutable powers of Admiralty and to defuse any speculation that their mission was no more than Drinkwater's own reaction to a rumour brought aboard by a mysterious nocturnal visitor. The visitor could not escape mention.

'We have been informed by special courier from Paris that after Bonaparte surrendered he intends to escape apprehension and avoid exile by crossing the Atlantic. Arrangements to accomplish this are already in motion. Now, it is not the intention of His Britannic Majesty's government to allow the man who has disturbed the peace of Europe these last twenty years to make mischief in America or, for that matter, His Majesty's possessions in Canada ...'

To what extent all his men understood this, was unclear. But there were enough intelligent and perceptive souls among them to grasp the seriousness and importance of what he was telling them, to allow its weight to permeate the corporate intelligence of the crew in the next few days. He hoped its gravity would divert any doubts as to why the news from Paris arrived aboard Andromeda, rather than the Impregnable or the Royal Sovereign.

'It is our task to run down to a station off the Azores, to where Bonaparte is to be exiled, to guard the islands and to prevent any unauthorized vessels from releasing him. As you know we are only provisioned for a further two months and we shall have to be relieved by the end of that time. If we meet any man-of-war which does not comply with my instructions, we will engage him. If that happens, I shall expect you bold fellows to show the spirit you lately demonstrated in the fiords of Norway. To this end we shall prepare this ship for action. This afternoon we will exercise at the guns. That is all. God save the King!'

There was a moment's silence, then Lieutenant Hyde stepped forward, doffed his hat and swept it above his head: 'Three cheers for the ship, lads: Hip! Hip! Hip ...!'

Drinkwater went below with the huzzahs ringing improbably in his ears. The last thing he saw, though, was the ghastly expression on the face of Lieutenant Marlowe. It made him think of Watson's corpse settling on the ooze of the sea-bed, already half-forgotten.

Under normal circumstances, Drinkwater would have invited his officers to dine with him that day. It was a good way to get to know new faces and to create the bond among them that might be required to prove itself in action. But he was as reluctant to appear to condone Marlowe's behaviour as he was to further discomfit the young man. Whatever Lieutenant Marlowe's shortcomings, he could not be ignored. On the other hand, Drinkwater wanted to know more about Lieutenant Ashton, who would be in command of the starboard battery if they ever engaged Admiral Lejeune's squadron. Instinct told him he should capitalize upon the mood of the ship, and this lost opportunity was just one more irritation caused by Lieutenant Marlowe.

The gunnery exercise had gone off well enough and Ashton's divisions had acquitted themselves with proficiency, but this was due to the drilling and experience the majority of the men had acquired in the past. Marlowe had been conspicuously inactive on the quarterdeck, though Drinkwater had made nothing of it; he had to give the man time to pull himself together and was eager to put the encounter of the previous night behind them both. He was more concerned with maintaining the gun crews' skill. Anxious not to halt the westward progress interrupted by the necessity of burying Watson, they had not lowered a target, but practised broadside firing with unshotted guns and half charges, for Drinkwater could not afford to be prodigal with his powder and had to conserve all his shot.

Nevertheless the activity had been worthwhile, and the concussions of the guns had satisfied their baser instincts. Hyde had employed the usual expedient of having his marines shoot wine bottles to shivers from the lee main yard-arm. 'Generous of the first luff to provide us with targets,' Drinkwater overheard Hyde remark to Frey and was pleased to see the quick flash of amusement cross Frey's serious features. At least, Drinkwater concluded, those two seemed to be getting along well, though Frey's protracted introspection worried him, bringing back gloomy thoughts of its cause.

Going below after the guns had fallen silent, Drinkwater fought off an incipient onslaught of the blue-devils by writing up his journal, but his words lacked the intensity of his feelings and he abandoned the attempt. He was racked with a score of doubts now about the wisdom of backing Hortense's intelligence, of his folly and presumption in badgering Prince William Henry, of the whole ridiculous idea of seeking two frigates in the vastness of the Atlantic and of the preposterous nature of the notion of Bonaparte escaping Allied custody.

In fact, sitting alone in his cabin, rubbing his jaw where a tooth was beginning to ache, he stared astern and watched the horizon rise and fall with the pitch of the ship. It was quite possible to doubt he had received a visitor at all. The surge of the wake as the water whorled out from under the stern where the rudder bit into it seemed real enough, but it too was remote, a near silent event beyond the shuttering of the crown-glazed windows. Through the sashes he watched a shearwater sweep across the wake, following the ever-changing contours of the sea in its interminable search for food. Though skimming the water, its wings constantly adjusting to maintain this position, it avoided the contact which would have brought it down.

The confidence and poise of the bird struck him as something almost miraculous. How did it learn such a skill? Was it taught, or did the bird acquire it by instinct, as a human child learned to breathe and talk? The power and mystery of instincts capable of forming the conduct of shearwaters and the human young, moved ineluctably through all forms of life. The shearwater did not resist the urge to skim the waves, or doubt its ability to do so faultlessly: it simply did it.

Drinkwater grunted and considered himself a fool. Was it doubt more than knowledge that set men apart from the beasts; doubt which caused them to falter, to intellectualize and rationalize what would be simple if they followed their instincts? Hortense Santhonax had been in this very cabin, not a week earlier. She had communicated urgent news and he had believed her, believed her because between them something strange and almost palpable existed. He felt the skin crawl along his spine at the recollection. Instinct as much as the nature of her news had made him act as he did, and he felt in that solitary moment a surge of inexplicable but powerful self-confidence.

He was so deep in introspection that the knock at the door made him jump. It was the surgeon.

'I beg your pardon, Captain Drinkwater ...'

'Mr Kennedy, come in, come in. Is something the matter?'

'In a manner of speaking, yes. It's the first lieutenant; he's taken to his bed, claims he's unwell, suffering from a quotidian fever.'

'I gather you do not entirely believe him?' Drinkwater asked, smiling despite himself.

Kennedy pulled a face. 'I tend to be suspicious of self-diagnosis; it has a tendency to be subjective.'

'So what do you recommend?'

'In view of all the circumstances, I think it best to humour him for a day or two. He may be attributing his misjudgements to having been unwell.'

'Yes, that is what I was thinking. It might be an advantage to us all if we were to foster that impression. It would certainly be the best course of action for the ship.'

'D'you want me to cosset him then? Keep him, as it were, out of the way? Just for a little while.'

'Laudanum?'

"Tis said to be a very specific febrifuge for some forms of the quotidian ague, Captain Drinkwater,' said Kennedy, rising, his voice dry and a half-smile hovering about the corners of his mouth.

'Don't you have a less drastic paregoric?'

'He has already tried that, sir,' Kennedy flashed back.

Drinkwater sighed. 'Very well, but only a small dose.' Drinkwater had a sudden thought. 'Oh, Mr Kennedy.' The surgeon paused with one hand on the cabin door. 'Would you be so kind as to join me for dinner today?'

'Of course, sir.'

'Then pass my compliments to Mr Hyde and Mr Ashton, oh, and the purser, Birkbeck and two of the midshipmen. Paine and Dunn will do.'

'Of course, sir, with pleasure.'

'Well, well,' Drinkwater muttered to himself, following Kennedy to the door. Opening it, he confronted the marine sentry. 'Pass word for my servant.'

It was only after the surgeon had left, he thought he should have mentioned his incipient toothache.

CHAPTER 7 The Consequences of Toothache

'I am sorry indisposition keeps Marlowe from our company tonight, Mr Ashton,' Drinkwater said, leaning over and filling the third lieutenant's glass. He had been chatting to Ashton for some time, regularly topping his glass up and the lieutenant was already flushed. About them the dinner in Drinkwater's cabin appeared to be cheerfully convivial. As was customary, a small pig had been butchered for the occasion and the rich smell of roast pork filled the cabin.

'Indeed sir, 'tis a pity'

'I understand you know him well. Have you sailed with him before?'

'Yes. We were midshipmen in the old Conqueror and later lieutenants in the Thunderer.''

'Really?' remarked Drinkwater, reflecting that had matters turned out differently, Marlowe and Ashton might have served under his command much earlier. He forbore drawing this to Ashton's attention, however, for the wine was working on his tongue.

'As a consequence of our having been shipmates, Frederic, I mean Marlowe, became acquainted with my sister.'

Drinkwater gave his most engaging smile. 'Do I gather that they are now intimate?'

Ashton nodded. 'They became betrothed shortly before we sailed.' There was a distinct air of satisfaction about Ashton. 'I imagine Sarah will take our diversion amiss ...'

'It will not be unduly long, I hope,' Drinkwater persisted, maintaining his mood of confidentiality, but returning the conversation to the personal. 'I suppose the match is an advantageous one?'

Ashton swallowed a mouthful of wine. 'Sarah's a very handsome young lady,' Ashton said, 'as for Fred, well, he'll inherit his father's title and ...' Ashton seemed suddenly aware of what he was saying and hesitated, but it was too late, he had already indicated Marlowe stood to inherit some considerable wealth.

'Well,' remarked Drinkwater smoothly, as though not in the least interested in Marlowe's expectations, 'I hope the poor fellow is soon back on his feet again.'

'I am sure he soon will be ...'

'Tell me something about yourself, Mr Ashton. Have you ever been under fire?' Drinkwater closely watched his victim's face.

'Well no, not exactly under fire in the sense you mean. I took part in some boat operations off the Breton coast. We cut out apéniche...'

'That was alongside Mr Marlowe, was it not?' hazarded Drinkwater. Ashton nodded. 'But no yard-arm to yard-arm stuff, eh?'

'Well no, not exactly, sir.'

'Pity. Still, we shall have to see what we can do about that, eh, Mr Ashton?'

'Er, yes, sir.' Ashton was visibly perspiring now, though whether owing to the heat of the candles, the fullness of his belly or apprehension, Drinkwater was quite unable to say.

'Well, Mr Ashton, we never know what lies just over the horizon, do we?'

'I suppose not, sir ...'

The meal proceeded on its course and when the company rose they were in good heart. Left alone in his cabin while his servant cleared away, Drinkwater mused on his conversation with Ashton until Frampton's fossicking distracted him and drove him on deck.

A gibbous moon hung above a black and silver sea and Drinkwater found Frey, an even blacker figure, wrapped in his cloak. At Drinkwater's appearance Frey detached himself from the weather rigging.

'Good evening, sir.'

'Mr Frey, would you take a turn or two with me?'

The two men fell in step beside one another and exchanged some general remarks about the weather. The wind held steadily from the north-west and the pale moonlight threw their shadows across the planking of the quarterdeck to merge with those of the rigging and sails. These moved back and forth as Andromeda worked steadily to windward, pitching easily and giving a comfortable, easy roll to leeward.

'It's a beautiful night, Mr Frey'

'It is, sir.'

'I am sorry that your duty kept you from joining me for dinner, but,' Drinkwater lowered his voice, 'truth to tell, I wanted to sound Ashton about Marlowe. I understand the first lieutenant is betrothed to Ashton's sister ...'

'Ah, that is not known in the wardroom,' Frey said, reflectively.

'That is unusual.'

'But not', said Frey with some emphasis, 'if you had a reason for not wanting the matter known publicly'

'You mean, if neither party wanted it known?' queried Drinkwater, intrigued and wondering what Frey was driving at.

'Neither party would want it generally gossiped about if, on the one hand, one did not want the matter to progress; and, on the other, one feared that it would not come to the desired conclusion.'

'Oh, I see,' chuckled Drinkwater. 'You mean Ashton disapproves and Marlowe wishes it.'

'Quite the opposite,' replied Frey, and Drinkwater found himself realizing that Ashton's behaviour did not square with his own hypothesis. 'Ashton wants it,' said Frey, 'but Marlowe does not.'

'Now I come to think of it,' Drinkwater replied, aware the wine had made him dull-witted, Ashton seemed keen enough, but what exactly are you hinting at?'

'I may be incorrect, sir, but I believe Ashton has his claws into Marlowe and whatever part Miss Ashton has to play in all this, it would ultimately be to Ashton's advantage.'

'There was some allusion to wealth ...'

'A considerable inheritance from his father, and, if one can believe the shrewd lobster,' it took Drinkwater a moment to realize Frey was referring to Hyde, 'there is money on his mother's side too.'

'Well, well, well,' Drinkwater said, lapsing into silence for a while as the two men paced between the carronade just abaft the starboard hance, turned and strode back again towards the taffrail and its motionless marine sentry. 'So how has Ashton achieved this ascendancy?'

'According to Hyde, by the normal manner.'

'You mean the lady has anticipated events?'

'I'd say they had both anticipated events, sir,' Frey remarked drily.

'But if Hyde knows of this scandal, how is the matter not known of in the wardroom?'

'I did not say the scandal was not known about, sir,' said Frey, 'I said the betrothal was not common knowledge.'

'So you did, so you did. I should have been more alert to the subtleties of the affair.' Drinkwater was faintly amused by the matter. 'Now I perceive the effect our diversion into the Atlantic has on all parties,' he remarked, 'not least on poor Miss Ashton.' And in the darkness beside him he heard Frey chuckle.

And as if to chide him for their lack of charity, Drinkwater's tooth twinged excruciatingly.

The frigate settled into her night routine. One watch was turning in, another was already in their hammocks, and the so-called idlers, who had laboured throughout the day, were enjoying a brief period of leisure. The cooks, the carpenter and his mates, many of the marines whose duties varied from those of the seamen, chatted and smoked or engaged in the sailor's pastimes of wood-whittling or knotting.

A few read, and although there were not many books on the berth-deck other than the technical works on navigation which were occasionally perused by the midshipmen, Sergeant McCann was known to have a small box of battered volumes which he had picked up from various sources. His most recent acquisition, Miss Austen's novel, purchased new and which Lieutenant Hyde was so enjoying, was just one of those which he had bought before the ship had sailed. McCann himself, though he had admired the work, had found its reminders of domestic life too painful. At the same time that he had bought Pride and Prejudice, he had also acquired a second-hand copy of Stedman's monumental history of the first American War, that struggle for independence which had rendered men like McCann homeless. And although McCann had avoided too often reflecting upon the past, Stedman's partiality for the loyalist cause reopened old wounds.

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

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

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

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

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

'What d'you make of 'em, Mr Paine?'

'Frigates, sir.'

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

'I should say so, sir!'

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

'I suppose they could be American...' The boy paused reflectively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Aye, aye, sir.'

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

'Sir,' said Ashton, 'with Lieutenant Marlowe indisposed ...'

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

'Aye, aye, sir.'

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

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

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

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

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

'In hand, sir.'

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

'Menelaus, sir, Sir Peter Parker commanding.'

'Very well, Mr Paine. Mr Ashton, I shall want a boat...'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes. Somehow inappropriate, in a curious way,' added Drinkwater.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'It cannot be helped, Mr Birkbeck.'

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

He could, of course, insist Kennedy gave him a paregoric. A dose of laudanum would do the trick, at least until the morning. The idea made him think of Marlowe languishing in his bunk and his conscience stung him. Forcing himself to relinquish the clean, if damp, air of the deck, he went reluctantly below.

In the wardroom Lieutenant Hyde had discovered an equilibrium of sorts, having braced his chair so that he might lean back and read with his booted feet on the wardroom table. At the after end of the bare table Lieutenant Ashton sat in a Napoleonic pose, his expression remote, his hands playing with a steel pen, a sheet of paper before him. Neither officer realized who their visitor was until Drinkwater coughed.

'Oh! Beg pardon, sir.' Hyde's boots reached the deck at the same moment as all the legs of his chair, a sudden, noisy movement which snapped Ashton from his abstraction. He too stood up.

'Good evening, gentlemen. Pray pardon the intrusion ...'

'Lieutenant Frey has turned in, sir,' offered Ashton.

'I came to see Lieutenant Marlowe.'

Hyde indicated the door to the first lieutenant's cabin and Drinkwater nodded his thanks, knocked and ducked inside. Behind him Ashton and Hyde exchanged glances.

The quarters provided for Andromeda's officers were spartan and what embellishments an officer might bring to his hutch of a cabin conferred upon it a personality. Lieutenant Frederic Marlowe had two small portraits, a shelf of books and an elegant travelling portmanteau which, standing in the corner, held in its top a washing basin and mirror.

Of the portraits, one was a striking young woman whom Drinkwater took to be Sarah Ashton, though there was little resemblance to the officer he had just seen in the wardroom; the other was of a man dressed in the scarlet and blue of a royal regiment, the gold crescent of a gorget at his throat.

These appointments were illuminated by a small lantern, the light of which also fell upon the features of Marlowe himself. Drinkwater was shocked by the young man's appearance. Kennedy had led him to believe Marlowe's trouble to be no more than a malingering idleness, but the gaunt face appeared to be that of a man afflicted with a real illness, or at best in some deep distress. Marlowe's eyes were sunk in dark hollows and regarded Drinkwater with an obvious horror.

'Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater began, 'how is it with you?'

Marlowe's lower lip trembled and he managed to whisper, 'Well enough, sir.'

'What is the matter?'

'Quotidian fever, sir, or so the sawbones says.'

Drinkwater had a rather different perception. He looked round the cabin. A small glass stood in the wash basin, and Drinkwater picked it up and sniffed it. The faint scent of tincture of opium was just discernible. For a moment Drinkwater stood undecided, then he turned back to the invalid, and sat himself down in the single chair that adorned the cabin.

'Mr Marlowe, I do not believe you have a quotidian fever. Pray tell me, to what extent do you owe your present indisposition to the influence of Lieutenant Ashton?' Marlowe's eyes widened as Drinkwater's barb struck home. His eyes glanced at the door to the wardroom, confirming, if confirmation were necessary, the accuracy of Drinkwater's assumption. 'I am aware of your situation vis-a-vis Ashton; perhaps, if you wished, you could confide in me. I cannot afford to have my first lieutenant incapacitated; I need you on deck, Mr Marlowe, gaining the confidence of the people ...'

The shadow of recollection passed across Marlowe's haggard features, then he shook his head vigorously and turned his face away. Drinkwater lingered a moment, then rose, the chair scraping violently on the deck, but even this noise evoked no response from the first lieutenant. 'Damnation,' he muttered under his breath, and stepped back into the wardroom.

Hyde had resumed his reading, though his boots were no longer on the table. Ashton had bent to his writing, but looked up sharply as Drinkwater shut the door behind him and stood before the officers. Realizing their manners, both men made to rise to their feet.

'Please do not trouble yourselves, gentlemen. Good night.'

Rather than returning directly to his own cabin or the deck, Drinkwater descended a further deck in search of the surgeon. He found Kennedy playing bezique with the midshipmen. The intrusion of the captain's features in the stygian gloom of the cockpit produced a remarkable reaction: the midshipmen jumped to their feet, the cards were scattered and Kennedy, who had had his back to Drinkwater, turned slowly around.

'Oh, sir, I er ... Did you want me?'

'Indeed, Mr Kennedy. I would be obliged if you would pull a tooth for me. At your convenience.'

'There's no time like the present, sir. These young devils have a decided advantage.'

Drinkwater, followed by the surgeon, retired to the half-suppressed sound of sniggering midshipmen.

A few moments later Kennedy joined him in the cabin, producing a small bag from the dark and sinister interior of which gleamed the dull metal of instruments. Drinkwater sat down and braced himself, as much against the motion of the ship as in preparation for Kennedy's ministrations. There was a brief exchange between them, then Drinkwater opened his mouth and allowed Kennedy to probe his lower mandible. It took the surgeon only a few seconds to locate the source of the trouble. He withdrew his probe and searched his bag for another implement. His hand emerged with a pair of steel pincers.

'Humour me and rinse those things in some wine, if you please.'

'It is quite unnecessary ...'

'Oblige me, if you please ...'

'Very well.'

Kennedy poured a glass of wine from the stoppered decanter lodged in the fiddles and dipped the closed pincers in it. Andromeda groaned mournfully about them as he turned and approached his patient. Drinkwater's knuckles were white on the arms of his chair. Kennedy opened the grim steel tool and bent over Drinkwater, who felt the uncompromising bite of the serrated steel clamp over his own, less robust tooth. There was an excruciating pain which shot like a white hot wire through Drinkwater's brain and he felt the tooth wrenched this way and that as Kennedy bore down on him, twisting his powerful wrist. A faint grinding sound transmitted itself through Drinkwater's skull as Kennedy wrestled with the resisting fang; then it gave way, Andromeda lurched and Kennedy almost fell backwards. The pincers struck the teeth in Drinkwater's upper jaw, jarring his whole head. The wine glass fell to the deck and smashed.

A stink filled Drinkwater's nostrils as Kennedy waved the rotting tooth under his wrinkling nose. The surgeon dropped the tooth and pincers, took another glass, filled it and handed it to his spluttering patient.

'God damn and blast it!' Drinkwater bellowed, clapping his hand to his mouth.

'I wouldn't recommend you to swallow, sir. Perhaps the quarter-gallery ...'

Drinkwater did as he was bid, rinsed his mouth with wine and spat it down the closet. His tongue explored the gaping hole in his teeth as he clambered back into the cabin, a little dizzy and in some pain from the blow to his upper jaw.

Kennedy was clearing away and Drinkwater refilled his glass and filled another for the surgeon.

'Damn me, Kennedy, but you're a confounded brute, and no mistake.'

'I'm sorry,' Kennedy said, smiling, accepting the glass. 'The confounded ship ...'

'Quite so, but a moment...'

'There is something else, sir?'

'Yes. I wish you to cease giving Marlowe laudanum. I am not certain it is having anything other than a deleterious effect.'

'It generally does,' Kennedy observed with that clinical detachment that sounded so cold, 'though Marlowe will not see it that way'

'I don't much care what way Marlowe sees it. I just want that young man back on the quarterdeck, preferably tomorrow'

'Tomorrow, d'you say?' Kennedy blew his cheeks out and shook his head. 'I don't believe the man is really ill...'

'Well there I disagree with you. I think he is ill, but I don't think his lying in his cot is improving him. I also don't believe his disease is fatal.'

'Well, sir,' responded Kennedy in his touchiest tone, tossing off the contents of his glass with an air of affront, 'what d'you believe his disease is, then? I should be fascinated by your diagnosis.'

Kennedy's irritation amused Drinkwater. 'Oh, his disease is of the heart, Mr Kennedy,' Drinkwater said smiling.

'You mean the man is in love?'

'I mean the man is affected by love, or perhaps I should say infected by love, or at least what passes for love in all its complications.'

'Well, sir,' said Kennedy, putting his glass back in the fiddles, 'I have to confess I hadn't noticed the pox, so I suppose you refer to the disease in its emotional form and there, I think, I must confess to having a somewhat limited expertise in the matter.'

'But you will stop the laudanum?'

'If that is what you wish, Captain Drinkwater.'

'It is, Mr Kennedy, thank you. Oh, and my thanks also for pulling my tooth.'

'Had I not done so you would have been suffering from a quinsy at best and a poisoned gut else, sir.'

'I'm obliged to you.'

'Thank you for the wine.'

"Tis a pleasure,' lisped Drinkwater, withdrawing his tongue from the gap it compulsively sought to explore. And his sibilant farewell seemed echoed as Andromeda's stern sank into the bosom of a wave, then rose as she drove through the swell which seethed, hissing away into the darkness astern.

CHAPTER 8 A Patch of Blue Sky

Captain Drinkwater was not the only visitor received by Lieutenant Marlowe that evening, for once word of the captain's interest had reached the wardroom, Lieutenant Ashton determined on showing similar concern for a brother officer.

'Well Frederic, this is a pretty pass, ain't it?' Ashton began, sitting in the chair beside the first lieutenant's cot. 'I do believe Our Father thinks you unwell, which doesn't say much for his intelligence, does it?'

At the last remark Marlowe, who had turned his face away from his visitor, swung back. 'Why in heaven's name d'you have to torment me? Do you not have what you want that you must treat me like this?'

Ashton put a restraining hand upon Marlowe's shoulder and shook his head. 'Fred, Fred, you misunderstand me, damn it,' he said, reassuringly. 'I don't wish you ill; quite the contrary, no man would be happier than to see you up and about again.'

'Damn you, Ashton. You're in league with the captain ...'

'What?' Ashton's incredulity was unfeigned. 'Why in God's name should I have anything in common with the captain?'

'Because,' said Marlowe, twisting round and propping himself on one elbow, 'he has just been here, not an hour ago, maybe less, telling me he wants me on the quarterdeck tomorrow!'

'Well then, that's fine, Fred, fine,' Ashton said soothingly, 'we all want you back at your duty, why should we not? Aye, and the sooner the better as far as Frey and I are concerned.'

Marlowe peered at his visitor suspiciously. The single lantern threw Ashton's face into shadow. 'What d'you mean as far as Frey and you are concerned?'

'Why, because we are doing duty for you ...'

'Yes, of course ...'

'What the devil did you think I meant?'

'Oh, nothing

'Come on Fred, what?'

'Nothing...'

''Come on ... Was it something the captain said?' Ashton asked shrewdly.

'He thinks you have some influence over me,' Marlowe said in a low, shamed voice.

'What damnable poppycock!'

'It could be said to be true, could it not?'

Ashton lost some of his aplomb, recalling his indiscreet remarks to Drinkwater regarding Marlowe's intended marriage: surely it could derive from nothing more? 'Perhaps he knows of you and Sarah,' he said dismissively.

'Have you said anything?'

'Come to think of it I recall mentioning it when we dined together, but it was nothing.'

'So you told him?' The hint of a smile played about Marlowe's mouth. 'And at dinner.'

'Well, yes, I believe I did,' Ashton confessed, flushing, 'but where's the harm in that?'

'Did you tell him of your sister's condition?'

'No, of course not.'

'Damn you, Ashton, I may be a fool, but I can at least keep my mouth shut!'

'There's no harm in it being known you intend to marry her.' Ashton's temper was fraying, but Marlowe had swung his legs over the edge of his cot and lowered himself unsteadily to his feet. He stood in his night-shirt staring down at his persecutor.

'Oh yes,' he said, holding on to the deck-beams overhead and leaning over Ashton. 'Of course. Now get out, and remember when I appear on deck tomorrow which of us is the senior.'

Thoroughly discomfited, Ashton stood slowly and forced a smile at the first lieutenant. 'Of course, Mr Marlowe,' he said mockingly, 'of course.'

Outside the wardroom Ashton almost bumped into the surgeon. The berth-deck was already settled, the air heavy with the stink and snuffles of over five score of men swaying together in their hammocks. The occasional glims threw fitful shadows, but for the most part it was dark as death. The ship creaked and groaned as she worked in the seaway and both men were cursing as they struggled on the companionway. The area was lit by a lantern and the marine sentry outside the wardroom door was a silent witness to their encounter.

'Ah, Kennedy, a damnable night.'

'I am not disposed to argue, Mr Ashton.'

Ashton was about to pass on when an idea struck him. 'There is a matter about which I might be disposed to argue with you, though. Would you join me for a moment in the wardroom.'

'I am not looking for an argument, Mr Ashton.'

'No, no, but a moment of your time.'

The wardroom was empty, its off-duty occupants had retired behind the thin bulkheads that partitioned either wing of the after end of the berth-deck and conferred privacy and privilege upon the officers. The long table that ran fore and aft had been cleared, and its worn oak surface betrayed years of abuse with wine stains, scratches, cigar-burns and boot-marks showing clearly through the greasy wiping that passed for a polishing. At the after end of the wardroom, the head of the rudder stock poked up from the steerage below and was covered by a neatly fashioned octagonal drum head table into which were set some tapered drawers. Across the transom a few glasses gleamed dully in their fiddles. Ashton picked two out and splashed some cheap blackstrap out of an adjacent decanter. Kennedy accepted a glass in silence.

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

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

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

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

'Well, you know what I mean.'

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

'Mischief? How so?'

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

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

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

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

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

'Morning sir. Another grey one, I'm afraid.'

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

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

'Aye, aye, sir.'

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

'Stand easy, Maggs,' he growled.

'Sir.'

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

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

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

'Mr Paine!'

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

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

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

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

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

'Carry on then.'

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

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

'Sir?'

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

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

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

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

'Caulking?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Come, come, a steady pace will see to it. Eyes on the horizon ...'

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

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

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

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

'That's only to be expected, sir.'

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

'She's an old ship.'

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

'How much has she been leaking.'

'Birkbeck reported three feet in three hours.'

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

Drinkwater considered the matter. He realized Marlowe's logical approach had produced a more realistic assessment than his own sudden apprehension over the effect of the leak on Andromeda's task. This had diverted him from any real consideration of its cause. Unless it worsened considerably, additional pumping would contain it; it was no concern of his, he chid himself ruefully, to what extent that simple but irksome drudgery would occupy his hapless crew.

They had reached the taffrail and turned forward again. 'Go on, Mr Marlowe. I scent an hypothesis.'

'I have two actually, sir. A wasted bolt in one of the futtocks ...'

'Very possible. And two ...'

'You were in heavy action against the, er... Pardon me, I have forgotten the name of the ship you captured ...'

'The Odin.'

'Ah yes, the Odin. Well perhaps ...'

'Shot damage!' Drinkwater broke in.

'Exactly so, sir. Maybe a loose plug. May I ask which side you were engaged?'

'The starboard side.'

'Then I shall start looking there.'

'Mr Marlowe, I congratulate you. That is famously argued; if you can only match reality to theory ...' Drinkwater left the sentence unfinished and changed tack. 'But not immediately. First you shall breakfast with me.'

'Thank you, sir.'

They had reached the windward hance and Drinkwater paused. 'Is that a patch of blue sky there?'

'Yes, sir. And I think the wind is tending to moderate.'

'D'you know, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater said, pleased with the way things had fallen out, 'I believe you are at least right about that.'

As Drinkwater led Marlowe below to eat, he caught Ashton's eye and was quite shocked by the look he saw there.

'I fear we must get used to skillygolee and burgoo if we are to cruise off the Azores for as long as possible,' said Drinkwater, laying his spoon down with a rattle and dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

'I had better take a look at the hold, sir, if you'll excuse me.'

'I will in a moment, Mr Marlowe, but first a moment or two of your time.' Drinkwater waved the hovering Frampton away. 'Mr Marlowe,' he said, fixing the first lieutenant with a steady stare, 'please forgive me, but I was troubled by the accident that occurred off the Isle of Wight...'

'Sir, I ...' Marlowe's face assumed an immediate expression of distress.

'Hear me out.' Drinkwater paused and Marlowe resigned himself to what he anticipated as cross-examination. 'Tell me, have you ever taken a longitude at sea?'

'Of course, sir,' said Marlowe, taken aback. 'Surely you don't think me incapable of that?' he frowned.

'What method do you use?'

'Well I can take lunar observations, but you have a chronometer...'

'But you can take lunars?'

'Oh yes. I used to amuse myself on blockade duty aboard Thunderer by taking them.'

'Some officers would consider that a tedious amusement, even on blockade duty'

Marlowe shrugged and the ghost of a smile passed across his features. 'Sir, I am not certain why you are asking me these questions, but I have a certain aptitude for navigation.'

'But not for seamanship?'

Marlowe flushed brick red, caught Drinkwater's eye, looked away, then back again. 'Very well, sir, let me explain. It is true, I do not have a natural aptitude to handle a ship. I find ... I found it difficult to ... Damn it! I found it difficult to resolve on the right thing to do first when I found myself in the situation I did the other day'

'Yet by relieving Ashton, you put yourself in an exposed position,' Drinkwater said, puzzled. Marlowe remained silent and Drinkwater nudged him. 'Come, come, I have seen many officers in my time, Mr Marlowe, and many have made mistakes. Some were foolish, some incompetent and some just made simple miscalculations. You are my first lieutenant and I am seeking an explanation as to why such a thing happened. I do not seek to condemn you, merely to understand.'

Marlowe swallowed and moved uncomfortably in his chair. 'I wished to subject myself to a test, sir.' He produced the words with a faltering diffidence, as if they were torn from him, one by one. Drinkwater watched Marlowe struggle with a detached sympathy, and the complexities inherent in any human being struck him once again.

'You see, sir, I hoped that I might vindicate myself; that I might prove to myself that I was quite as capable as any other officer to tack ship.'

'And prove it perhaps to others, other than myself?' asked Drinkwater shrewdly, the light of perception dawning. 'You have been responsible for some accident, perhaps?'

Marlowe nodded.

'Well, we need not go into that now, but I take it the court-martial acquitted you?'

'There was no court-martial, sir. The matter was not that serious.'

'Not that serious?' Drinkwater queried.

'No ship was lost, sir ...'

'Go on.'

'Two men were lost overboard.' Marlowe expelled a long breath; the unburdening of confession seemed to release him. 'I was ashamed of myself, sir, robbed of my confidence. I wanted to make amends and then ... Well, I have another man's life to answer for now'

'And Mr Ashton was a witness to all this, eh? And is consequently your, how do the French say it? Bête-noire?'

Marlowe nodded again.

Drinkwater sighed. Poor Marlowe's superciliouness and his apparent lack of wit and subtlety were the consequences of self-deceit, of attempting to live with failure in the presence of someone who knew all about the cause. And was capable of compounding that knowledge, Drinkwater knew from Frey's scuttlebutt. The unborn bastard was another life to lay to the lieutenant's account. Drinkwater now understood that it was not only Marlowe's conduct which was attributable to his problems; so too was his attitude. Frey's original assessment of him not being such a bad fellow had been accurate. All the damage to his character had been self-inflicted.

'Mr Marlowe, I have no wish to increase your burden, but I think I divine the roots of your misfortunes. Forgive me, but your frankness does you credit and I am aware you are affianced to Ashton's sister.'

'Yes. That is unfortunate.'

'How so? Do you not wish to marry the young lady?'

'Most decidedly, sir, but the ceremony will be delayed by our absence.'

'And the lady is expecting...'

'You know!'

'I had heard ...'

'Damn Ashton!'

'It is unfortunate you do not like your intended brother-in-law ...'

'Damn it, sir,' Marlowe leant forward, his eyes intense, alive again after the emotional moments of self-revelation, 'the man has designs on my fortune. He seeks to gain an ascendancy over me partly through what he knows of me and also through his sister. That would be bad enough, but this delay ...' The first lieutenant rose to his feet and ran a hand wildly through his hair.

'Sit down, Frederic, for God's sake,' snapped Drinkwater.

Marlowe turned and stared at Drinkwater, his eyes desperate. 'Sir, I...'

'Sit down, there's a good fellow. You are no good to me in this state. We have an important duty to attend to. You are perhaps the last officer in this war to be offered an opportunity'

'Sir, I am not certain that I am capable ...'

'Of course you are capable, Frederic! And what is more we shall have you home to marry your Sarah in no time at all.'

'Two months would be too long to avoid a scandal, sir.'

'Well, we shall have to ensure it don't take that long,' said Drinkwater.

'Is that possible?'

'I believe so.'

Drinkwater saw Marlowe relax with relief. 'I hope so, sir, but you just mentioned learning to like burgoo.'

Drinkwater shrugged. 'True. I can't be certain, of course, but I don't believe we shall be kept long on station.' Drinkwater smiled and was rewarded with a reciprocating grin.

'I apologize, sir ... for my conduct the other night.'

'Let us put the matter behind us; do you just deal with our problems on a day-to-day basis.'

Marlowe rose. 'I shall go and have a look in the hold, sir,' he said, 'and thank you.'

"Tis nothing.'

Marlowe nodded over Drinkwater's shoulder and out through the stern windows. 'There's more blue sky showing now, sir.'

'Yes, it may yet prove a fine day'

Marlowe stood uncertainly, for a moment he strove to speak, then gave up the attempt and made to leave. Drinkwater called him back. 'Mr Marlowe, would you be so kind as to show the midshipmen the method of determining longitude by the chronometer?'

'Yes, of course, sir.'

'And just ignore Ashton.'

Marlowe nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I will.' He paused again, then blurted out, 'what made you come below and see me last night, sir?'

'I'm not sure,' Drinkwater replied. 'Concern for you, concern for the ship, concern for myself.' He paused and smiled. 'Anyway, why did you come on deck this morning?'

'Because you came to see me last night, sir.'

CHAPTER 9 A Sea Change

Drinkwater's forecast proved accurate. By noon the wind had again swung into the north-north-west, dropped to a fresh breeze and swept aside the cloud cover, leaving only the benign white fluffs of fair-weather cumulus. The depression moved away to the north and east, following its predecessor into the chops of the Channel. The sea now reflected this change in the atmosphere, losing the forbidding grey of the true Western Ocean, and wearing the kindly blue mantle of more temperate latitudes. And, indeed, when Birkbeck, emerging from the hold, found Captain Drinkwater ready to observe the culmination of the sun on the ship's meridian, their southing was substantial.

Things were less optimistic below decks. The working party in the hold had failed to locate the source of the ingress of water, though some credence was given to Marlowe's hypothesis by evidence of water entering the well from the starboard side. In the wardroom Lieutenant Ashton sulked, much to the annoyance of Hyde, who, when distracted from his amusements sufficiently to notice, began to conclude that Ashton was far from being the amiable fellow he had first assumed. Indeed Hyde inclined towards Mr Frey who, it began to emerge, was an officer of some talent with a paintbrush.

Having endured a degree of persecution from brother officers in the past, Frey was inclined to conceal his love of drawing and water-colour painting, but Hyde caught sight of a small picture he was working on, which showed the Royal Sovereign flying the Bourbon standard, accompanied by Andromeda, Impregnable, Jason, Polonais, Gremyashchi and the Trinity Yacht. Artistic achievement impressed Hyde, and he was driven to confess that he regretted his inability to play an instrument or, indeed, even to sing, let alone draw or рaint.

This polite exchange with Frey was overhead by Ashton who was driven to make some mean sarcasm about Hyde's success at playing being assured, provided he tried to play no more than the fool. Hyde, who had been oblivious to Ashton's presence until that moment, spun round.

'What's that you say?' he demanded.

'That should you decide upon playing anything, my dear Hyde, confine it to being a fool.'

For a moment Frey, fascinated by this encounter, thought Hyde would take the remark lying down, but it seemed the marine officer's indolence extended even to govern the timing of his outbursts of temper. In fact, his momentary silence appeared to discomfit Ashton, judging by the expression on the sea-officer's face as he regarded Hyde.

'The fool, sir?' asked Hyde. 'Did you suggest I might be a suitable candidate to play the fool?' There was a note of controlled menace in Hyde's voice that Frey found quite unnerving, despite the fact that it was not directed at himself.

Ashton's face paled. 'A joke, Hyde, a joke.'

And then Hyde had closed the distance between the flimsy door to Frey's cabin and the third lieutenant with a single stride and thrust his face into Ashton's. 'A joke, d'you say, sir? Well, well, a joke ... A joke to make a fellow laugh, eh? Ain't that what a joke's for, eh Josiah? Well ain't it? Say yay or nay. You crack 'em: you should know all about 'em.'

'A joke, yes.' Ashton was cornered, wary. He shot an embarrassed glance at Frey.

'To make us laugh, eh? Eh?' Hyde was relentless; he began to move forward, forcing Ashton backwards.

'Yes.' Ashton appealed mutely to Frey who remained silent.

'Good,' persisted Hyde. 'Since we're agreed on the purpose of a joke, perhaps you'd like to share one with me, Josiah. Listen; if there is a fool hereabouts, it is you. What you hope to achieve by your attitude towards poor Marlowe is your own affair, but whatever it is, or was, you were unwise to make it so public. The man has suffered a humiliation and has, by all the signs this morning, reinvigorated himself. I should scarce have believed it possible had I not seen it for myself. If you have any sense, you will throw yourself on another tack.'

Ashton began to rally under this verbal assault. 'Why you damned impertinent bugger ...'

'Mr Ashton!' Frey broke in, 'Hold your tongue, sir! I'll not countenance any further discord.' Frey looked at Hyde and observed the marine officer had said his piece. He relaxed and turned away, but Ashton was not prepared to accept advice.

'Oh, you won't, won't you? And what will you do, Frey? Toady to the captain?'

'What the devil's the matter with you, Ashton?' Frey asked, but Hyde broke in, sensing a real quarrel in the offing.

'For heaven's sake, Josiah, stow your confounded gab and leave us in peace.'

'Damn you, and don't "Josiah" me. The pair of you ...'

'Are what?' snapped Frey, suddenly and ferociously intense. The gleam in his eye seemed to restrain Ashton who swung away, muttering, flung open the door of his own cabin and disappeared, slamming it with such force that the entire bulkhead shuddered. Frey and Hyde looked at each other.

'What the devil was that all about?' asked Hyde in a low voice.

'Just a squall,' said Frey, subsiding, 'but he wants to watch that tongue of his, or it'll land him in trouble.'

Both officers, aware that the flimsy partition failed to provide the conditions for private speculation, let the matter drop. Neither wanted the discord to persist and both had served long enough to know the benefits of silent toleration in the confined world of a frigate's wardroom.

For Drinkwater, the remainder of that day was spent quietly. Having observed the improvement in the weather and determined Andromeda's, latitude at local noon, he went below to enjoy a nap. Woken by Frampton at eight bells in the afternoon watch, he sat and wrote up his journal, indulging himself further with a little self-congratulation.

It was clear, he wrote, that Lieutenant Marlowe's indisposition was some form of self-abasement consequent upon his unfortunate experience off the Wight, and it occurred to me that his lack of confidence must spring, not from a general incompetence, but some past event. I have observed poor Frey much affected by the loss of Jas. Quilhampton and the subsequent ordeal of his court-martial.

Drinkwater stopped for a moment and stared into the middle distance. Poor Frey; the damage to the little cutter Kestrel had resulted in her being abandoned in Norwegian waters. As the senior surviving officer, Frey had had to be judged by a court-martial to determine the extent of her damage in action and the justification for her loss to the naval service. That it had been Drinkwater himself, supported by a survey by Birkbeck, who had pronounced the cutter in an unfit state to withstand the rigours of a passage across the North Sea and ordered her to be abandoned, ameliorated Frey's situation. Nevertheless, the experience of reliving the events in the Vikkenfiord, from which he had been striving to distance himself, revived those feelings Frey had hoped to forget. Not normally given to outward displays of passion or temperament, Frey had become even more introspective. Drinkwater had blamed himself for much of this. It pained him greatly both to have lost his oldest friend and to see another in such poor spirits. He, himself, bore a deep guilt for Quilhampton's death and Frey's grief. The consolation of knowing that he, and they, had done their duty, wore thin to an officer who had been doing his duty for a lifetime. Frey was no less wounded than had been James Quilhampton, when he had lost a hand at Kosseir.

And yet it had been this concern for Frey which had given him the clue to Marlowe's lack of spirit, and Drinkwater found himself wondering about the circuitous nature of events. He dipped his pen, wiped off the excess ink, and began writing again.

Marlowe's introspection was not dissimilar, and from this I therefore concluded Marlowe was obsessed by some event, and that if he were not, if he possessed no spirit, my appeal to him would prove this by its failure. In the event, matters fell out otherwise and I discovered him more of a man of parts than I would have superficially judged. This gives me some satisfaction, and whatever may come of this chase, we may see Marlowe a better man at the end of it than at its commencement.

Drinkwater waited a moment while the ink dried, then turned the page and resumed writing.

It is, moreover, incontrovertible evidence of the workings of providence that out of the consequences of James's death, should come salvation to another soul.

For a moment Drinkwater looked at these words then, with a grim, self-deprecating smile he took his penknife from his pocket and neatly excised the page. He had a sailor's horror of tempting providence, especially when it touched him closely. The dream of the white lady had been too vivid for that.

'The Atlantic is a vast ocean which extends from pole to pole,' Birkbeck said, regarding the half-circle of midshipmen about him, 'and is divided into that part of it which lies in the northern hemisphere and is consequently known as the North Atlantic Ocean, and that part of it which lies in the southern hemisphere and is named accordingly. However, to seamen it is further subdivided; the Western Ocean is the name commonly applied to that portion of the North Atlantic which lies west of the British Isles and must needs be crossed when a passage is made to America or Canada. There is also that part which is known as the Sargasso, an area of some vagueness, but set generally about the equator. Now what is the equator, Mr Paine?'

Paine produced a satisfactory definition and Birkbeck nodded. 'Indeed, the parallel of zero latitude from which other parallels are taken to the northward, or the southward. Now, Mr Dunn, is the equator a great circle?'

'Er, yes sir.'

'Good. And are the other parallels of latitude therefore great circles?'

Dunn's forehead creased with the effort of recollection. Birkbeck's proposition seemed a reasonable enough one. 'Yes, sir.'

'Not at all, Mr Dunn. Of all the parallels of latitude only the equator is a great circle. And why is that, pray? Mr Paine?'

'Because a great circle is defined as a circle on the surface of the earth having the same radius as that of the earth.'

'Very good, Mr Paine. Do you understand, Mr Dunn? One might equally have said it should have the same diameter, or that its centre was coincident with that of the earth. Now Mr Dunn, of all the parallels of latitude, only the equator is a great circle, what would you conclude of the meridians?' Dunn looked even more perplexed. 'You do know what a meridian is, Mr Dunn, do you not?'

'I am not certain, sir,' said the boy hopelessly, adding as he saw an unsympathetic gleam in the master's eye, 'is it, is it ...?' But the floundering was to no avail and Paine was only too ready to capitalize on his messmate's humiliation.

'A meridian is a great circle passing through the poles by which longitude is measured ...'

'Very good, Mr Paine.' The midshipmen turned as a body to see Marlowe standing behind them. And how do we determine longitude?'

'By chronometer, sir ...'

'By your leave, Mr Birkbeck...'

'By all means, Mr Marlowe . ..'

Birkbeck, somewhat discomfited, but in no wise seriously affronted by Marlowe's assumption of the instructor's role, took himself off and, having fortified himself with a nip of rum flip in the wardroom, summoned the carpenter and returned to his painstaking and tedious survey of the hold.

Mr Birkbeck's lecture on the different areas of the Atlantic Ocean seemed borne out in the following days. His Britannic Majesty's frigate Andromeda, leaking from her exertions, sailed into sunnier climes. The gale, in its abatement, took with it the uncertain weather of high latitudes and, after almost two days of variable airs, ushered in a north-easterly wind, an unexpected but steady breeze. They were too far north for the trade winds, but the favourable direction augured well for their passage and was no less welcome.

Andromeda's yards were squared and she bore away with a fine bone in her teeth, apparently unconcerned with the problems of her antiquity which preoccupied her senior officers. The ship's company turned the berth-deck inside out, washed clothes and bedding and stummed between decks, sweetening the air. Moreover, the warmer nights and drier weather meant the tarpaulins could be rolled back on the booms, ports opened during the daylight and the entire ship made more habitable. The mood of the people changed in proportion, along with the application of a lick of paint and varnish here and there to brighten up their miserable quarters, no thought having been given to this during the frigate's recent embellishment.

As details of Mr Marlowe's recovery permeated the ends of the ship most distant from the wardroom, they were accompanied by the explanation of illness as causing his temporary loss of control. Alongside this intelligence there went a blasphemous joke that he had been raised from the dead. Lieutenant Ashton's nickname for the captain of 'Our Father' was rather apt in this context and as a consequence the first lieutenant had, quite unbeknown to himself, acquired the soubriquet of Lazarus Marlowe. This, partly generating the changed mood of the ship's company, was yet as much a product of it. In this mild euphoria only Lieutenant Ashton and Sergeant McCann remained burdened, the one having lost control of his future, the other increasingly obsessed and preoccupied by his past.

Indeed, in the case of McCann, the improved weather only exacerbated his condition. As is common with many, memories of youth and past happiness were associated with sunny days and blue skies such as now dominated the flying frigate. Moreover, the farther west they ran, the nearer they drew to the United States, and the fact that this diminishing distance did not constitute a closing of the American coast, worked insidiously upon poor McCann.

Although they had seen a few ships in the Channel and in the Western Approaches, the wide blue reaches of the Atlantic yielded nothing beyond a pair of Portuguese schooners crossing for the Grand Banks. Captain Drinkwater, sensitive to the mellowing mood of the ship and encouraged by the transformation of Lieutenant Marlowe, ordered several gunnery practices as they romped steadily south and westwards.

In addition to the fulmars, gulls and gannets, the dark, marauding shapes of hawking skuas were to be seen intimidating even the large solan geese; flying fish now darted from either bow, pursued by albacore and occasionally driven on board where they were quickly tossed into frying pans to make impromptu feasts for lucky messes or the midshipmen's berth.

And with the flying fish and the albacore came the bottle-nosed dolphins, lifting easily from Andromeda's bow waves, racing in with seemingly effortless thrusts of their muscular tails, to ride the pressure wave that advanced unseen yet tangible, ahead of the massive bulk of the frigate's driving hull. Attempts to catch them usually failed, but occasionally one would succumb to a harpoon or a lure, to end up, poached slowly in Madeira, as steaks on the wardroom table.

On one such occasion, heady with their success, the officers invited Drinkwater to dinner, and notwithstanding the absence of Lieutenant Ashton on watch, they all enjoyed a jolly evening during which the discussion ranged from the general conduct of the late war and the difficulties of securing the person of Napoleon Bonaparte on a remote island, to the possible causes of Andromeda's leak and the contribution to literature of the unknown 'lady' who had written Pride and Prejudice.

Watching Marlowe preside over this pleasant evening, Drinkwater concluded his first lieutenant had made a supreme effort and overcome his unhappiness. Furthermore, Drinkwater began to entertain hopes of high endeavour from him, if things fell out as he hoped they would.

But as the days passed and the reckoning so assiduously calculated by Birkbeck, Marlowe and their coterie of half-willing midshipmen, showed them rapidly closing the Archipelago of the Azores, renewed doubts assailed Drinkwater. And while the pleasant weather drew smiles from his men, he paced the weather side of the quarterdeck for hour after hour, going over and over the interview with Hortense, wondering if he was not a quixotic fool after all, seduced at the last by a face which had haunted him for almost all his adult life. She had sought him out; she knew the role he had played in her husband's death; they had been enemies for a score or so of years; so why in God's name should he trust her now?

He ignored the importance of her news and processed events through the filter of guessed motives, suspicions, old anxieties and even fears. He recalled, with that peculiar insistence that only the lonely can as they chew on introspection, how she had seemed an almost demonic presence at one time; an embodiment of all the restless energies of imperial France. She had loomed in his imagination larger than any metaphor: for she alone had represented the enemy, and her beauty had seemed diabolical in its power. He had felt this influence suffocating him, drowning him as he fell flailing beneath the overwhelming power of Hortense as the white lady, so that in the wake of the dream, when the rational world reasserted itself, there always lurked a hint of his own impending madness. He shied away from this like a frightened horse, clinging at logic to prevent the otherwise inevitable overwhelming by the 'blue-devils' of mental depression.

He forced himself to consider again Hortense's motives. Why should she do this? Had she not simply been beggared by the damnable war, as she claimed? And what advantage could she gain by casting one ageing fool of a British naval officer on some ludicrous quest amid the billows of the North Atlantic, if the reason for it were not true? He discarded the morbid, fanciful and faintly ridiculous assumptions of his private thoughts, calming himself with the more rational figurings-out of the ordinary.

As his mother was once fond of saying with the bitterness of premature bereavement playing around the corners of her mouth, there was no fool like an old fool. But to set against that charge he brought the experience of a lifetime in the sea-service and a familiarity with the machinations of secret diplomacy.

Nevertheless, there was also the forbidding spectre of their Lordships' disapprobation, as the stock phrase had it. His departure on his self-appointed quest may well have had the blessing of His Royal Highness, the Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and so on and so forth, but their Lordships would be well aware that he was well aware that the whole Royal Navy of Great Britain was well aware that His Royal Highness, the Prince William Henry, and so on and so forth, was a buffoon, if not an incompetent!

On the other hand, what point would there be in him dashing off into the Atlantic on his own initiative if he had no good motive? Everyone knew that although the war in Europe was over, the war in North America was not, and it remained perfectly possible for Bonaparte to cause mayhem in Canada. While that much was possible, if not probable, there was another factor Drinkwater now had to consider. Andromeda was officially unfit for further active service; she should have been laid up preparatory to passing to the breakers' yard, and her crew, drafted especially for the Royal Escort duty to France, would almost certainly be dispersed to man more sea-worthy ships refitting for the augmentation of the blockade of the eastern seaboard of the United States. Indeed, at that very moment some of those ships might be eagerly awaiting their draft, and thus delayed by Andromeda's absence.

Amid all his considerations of grand strategy, it was this doubt that remained the most disturbing. Try how he might, Drinkwater was unable to argue his way out of this almost certain error of judgement!

Up and down he paced; not seeing the work of the ship passing all about him, scarcely hearing the bells striking the half-hour, the watch-words of the lookouts or the occasional order passed along. He was oblivious to the break-up of the daily navigation class, made so convenient while the solution to the problem of Andromeda's day's work was so easily reconciled in the north-east wind by the simple application of a plane traverse; nor did he notice the daily quarterdeck parade of Hyde's lobsters, nor remark upon Sergeant McCann's uncharacteristically less-than-perfect turnout. Nor indeed, did Captain Drinkwater observe either the energy of the first lieutenant, or the complementary disinterest of the third. Instead he revolved his wretched arguments in a tediously endless mental circumambulation, locked into the introversion of isolation and independent command.

But whatever these private anxieties might constitute, and whatever paramountcy they might assume in any commander's thoughts, the cares of his ship will always intrude, and on this occasion they took the form of Mr Midshipman 'Tom' Paine over whom the preoccupied Drinkwater almost fell as the youngster dodged about in front of him to attract his attention.

'God's bones! What in heaven's name is the matter?' Drinkwater finally acknowledged the jumping jack trying to waylay him. 'Why Mr Paine, what the devil d'you want?'

Paine was not a whit discomfited by the difficulties he had experienced in accomplishing his simple errand. Jokes about Old Nat were legion in the cockpit.

'Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr Marlowe's compliments, and he wishes me to inform you that we shall require an alteration of course to make our landfall.'

Drinkwater looked over the boy's shoulder. Marlowe and Birkbeck were exchanging a word or two on the far side of the binnacle.

'An alteration of course, eh? Well sir, to what?'

'Ten degrees to port, sir.'

'To port, eh?' He was about to say that in his day it would have been 'to larboard' but such pedantry would be laughable to the young imp. 'Very well, Mr Paine, kindly see to it.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' The lad touched his fore-cock and made to be off when Drinkwater called him back.

'And when you have attended to the matter and adjusted the yards, pray show me your reckoning of the day's work.'

Paine's face fell. His 'Aye, aye, sir' was less enthusiastic.

Laughing inwardly, Drinkwater crossed the deck and stood on the weather side of the helm while Andromeda's head was swung through ten degrees of arc and settled on her new course. There was a general tweaking of braces, but neither the motion nor the speed of the ship seemed affected and the ageing hull drove forwards through the blue seas with the white wave crests running up almost astern. It seemed quite impossible that this charming scene could ever be otherwise; that the light, straining canvas above their heads could ever turn a rain and spray-sodden grey, as hard on the horniest hands as rawhide, or that the great bulk of the hurrying ship could be laid over on her beam ends, or tossed about like a cork.

'So, gentlemen,' he said to Marlowe and Birkbeck, who had both been watching the adjusting of the main yards, 'when do you anticipate sighting our landfall?'

'Shortly after first light tomorrow, sir,' Marlowe answered.

Drinkwater looked at Birkbeck. 'Are you two in agreement?'

'Harmoniously so, sir,' Birkbeck replied with a hint of irony.

'Good. I'm decidedly glad to hear it.' Drinkwater smiled at the two men. Marlowe was a transformed figure. 'Well now, we must consider our best course of action when we arrive.'

'Indeed, sir. How far offshore will you cruise?' Marlowe asked.

Drinkwater rubbed his chin and raised an eyebrow. 'Three or four leagues; sufficiently far to be clear of danger, yet not out of sight of the land. According to my reckoning, our friends will come down on the island from the north-north-east.' He waved out on the starboard quarter, as though their sails might appear at any moment.

'D'you think Bonaparte is already there, sir?' asked Birkbeck.

'We shall send a boat in to find out. Do you prepare the launch, stock it for two days and have Frey' Drinkwater hesitated, 'no, have Ashton command it. Send in half a dozen marines under the sergeant.' Drinkwater paused as Marlowe nodded. 'But to answer your question about Boney, I consider it unlikely, though not impossible, for him to have reached the island yet. I have no knowledge of when he left Paris, nor of his port of embarkation, but he must have been despatched by the time King Louis landed, I'd have thought, and conveyed by express to the west coast; to Brest, or La Rochelle or L'Orient. A fast frigate might, I suppose, have reached the archipelago a little before us.'

'A British frigate?' asked Marlowe.

Drinkwater shrugged. 'I imagine a British frigate or perhaps a small squadron such as we were lately attached to, would accompany him. As for himself, I suppose his dignity as the elected Emperor of the French would be unsupportable in anything but a French man-o'-war.'

'Not if it was the allies' purpose to humiliate him,' put in Marlowe.

'I think a small island humiliation enough after the domination of Europe,' countered Drinkwater. 'Remember what Nelson wrote: "In victory, let the chief characteristic be magnanimity."'

A very Christian sentiment sir,' responded Birkbeck, 'but not one which I would expect his most serene and culminated, high and God almighty majesty the Tsar of all the Russias to subscribe to where Napoleon Bonaparte is concerned.'

'Perhaps not,' said Drinkwater grinning, 'though you talk like a canting leveller, Mr Birkbeck. I thought your nimble scholar Tom Paine the republican among us.'

And they all laughed companionably, standing in the sunshine enjoying the fellowship of like minds.