The shadow of the eagle

coming of peace, opportunities are scarce nowadays and the prize laws will have been revoked by now.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 ...'