The shadow of the eagle

hoped, had been alerted to the presence of a British man-of-war offshore. Each unshotted discharge emitted a grey smoke-ring from which the quick-eyed caught sight of the fragments of wadding whirled into the sea.

As the last gun fell silent, Andromeda lay stopped across the wind and sea. To starboard the sea flattened in the lee thus formed and with the yard and stay tackles hooked on, the falls manned and set tight, the heavy white carvel launch lifted from the chocks. She was already manned and, as the men stamped away with the ropes, she began her slow traverse across the deck with her weight taken on the yard tackles and walked back on the stays.

Drinkwater, having given this operation a swift appraisal, had his glass focused once more upon the flagstaff. His expectations were disappointed, for no reciprocating spurt of yellow flame with its lingering cloud of powder- smoke responded to the British salute. Well, he thought, pocketing the glass, he should not complain, perhaps the place was undefended; it certainly amounted to very little. Moreover, Andromeda was plainly only a private ship and wore nothing at her mastheads but her pendant, and she was a rather old and worn out one, at that!

Echoing his thoughts, the ship trembled as the mass of the laden boat vibrated the stays. This was transmitted to the masts and thus to the keel itself.

'Interesting to sound the well after this,' Drinkwater said to Birkbeck.

'I'm damned if I can find that leak, sir. I've had the linings out, the ceiling lifted and restowed God knows how many tiers of barrels, barricoes and hogsheads. Damn it, you'd think that with the ship more than three- quarters empty of stores the matter would be easy ...'

'Nothing in life is easy, Mr Birkbeck, nothing at all,' Drinkwater said soulfully.

'Except begetting brats and earning a woman's bad opinion!' grumbled Birkbeck.

'Pon my word, Mr Birkbeck, I thought you more of a philosopher than that,' Drinkwater laughed, thinking of his own orders to Ashton regarding the conduct of the boat's crew.

'After crawling around that confounded hold, I'd challenge Plato himself to philosophize. Hey! Easy there on that main yard tackle, you'll have them all thrown out of the boat! Beg pardon, sir.'

'Not at all. There, they are afloat now'

 Andromeda, which had been listing as the launch reached the outboard extremity of its traverse and hung suspended above the sea, now recoiled from her forsaken burden. The launch had been lowered so that with a resounding smack the sea had embraced its long hull. A moment later her crew had cast off the falls and these had been recovered. Tossing oars, the launch's bowman bore off and the heavy boat was manoeuvred clear of the frigate's tumblehome. Then her oars were being plied energetically, and with Ashton sitting in the stern and Midshipman Paine standing at the tiller, she was headed gallantly for the shore, a red ensign at her stern and the scarlet of Sergeant McCann's marines a bright spot against the velvet blue of the Atlantic.

All hands on deck lingered to watch the launch diminish as it drew off towards the rock-strewn inlet. Beside Drinkwater, Marlowe had come aft and taken up his glass again.

'I can see masts and yards beyond those rocks, sir,' he observed. A brig, by the look of her. Certainly no squadron.'

'D'you see an ensign?' asked Drinkwater, fishing for his own glass, extending it and levelling it against a backstay.

'There's some bunting hanging up, but it's blowing away from us. Looks like red and white ... No, I can't say for sure, sir.'

'Well, no matter, Ashton's almost there now; we'll know soon enough.' Drinkwater closed his glass again. 'Where's Mr Birkbeck?'

'Gone below sir, to check the well,' said Frey. 'I have the ship, sir.'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Very well, Mr Frey. By the bye, have you broken your fast yet?'

Frey shook his head. 'I can wait a little longer.'

'You may have to wait some hours. Here, Mr Marlowe, do you take the deck. Frey, join me for some breakfast.'

Drinkwater looked at the first lieutenant. Marlowe had gone pale. 'Come, come, Mr Marlowe, 'tis nothing. Send for a sextant and subtend the height of the peak and the shore. If the arc grows quickly, you will mark the rate at which the ship drifts inshore. Should you get an increase of say one eighth in an hour, brace up and stand offshore. I shall only be below.'

Marlowe swallowed and nodded. 'Aye, aye, sir,' he acknowledged, glancing anxiously at the white-fringed reefs surrounding Santa Cruz.

Turning, Drinkwater led Frey below. 'How does a man become a first luff with such a nervous disposition?' he asked himself, pitying poor Marlowe and wondering if his confidence might not have been misplaced after all. The last thing he saw of Marlowe was him sending a midshipman below for his sextant.

Breakfast in the cabin was enjoyed in silence. Frey was tired after his long watch and Drinkwater, having relinquished the deck, was now filled with anxiety. However, when the noise of stamping feet and the changed motion of the ship revealed Marlowe had decided to get under weigh, Drinkwater relaxed.

'He'll be all right, sir,' Frey said.

'I hope you are right.'

As Drinkwater poured a second cup of coffee, Marlowe put Andromeda on the port tack, standing offshore to the northward.

'There you are, sir. I told you so.'

Drinkwater stared astern out through the stern windows to where Santa Cruz appeared like a picture in a slide show.

'I believe you are right, Mr Frey.'

Frey smiled. 'A pretty sight, don't you think?' he asked, adding 'Flores means the island of flowers.'

Drinkwater smiled. 'You are certainly well informed. I wonder if Bonaparte will find the view so congenial? Will you make a painting of it?'

Frey nodded. 'Perhaps.'

'I admire the skill, but why d'you do it? I mean it's charming and a delight, and something to mark the occasion, but the effort surely outweighs the advantages.'

Frey grinned. 'To be sure; but it is no rational matter. One is compelled to do it.'

'Compelled? D'you mean to say you are not a rational creature?' Drinkwater asked with a grin.

'If you mean by that question, am I unmoved by reason? No, of course not, but if you mean do I submit upon occasion to some inner prompting? Then yes, I do. We think we are rational beings, attributing our actions to logical thought, but consider sir, we feel first and often act upon our feelings. Our thoughts arise from our feelings ...'

'You mean our emotions dominate our thinking?'

'Oh, yes, most certainly; but what makes us rational is that we can think about our emotions. It is from this response that the urge to paint or draw comes.'

'Then your artistic achievement is no more than an urge to copy.'

'To record, perhaps to reproduce, but no more. I make no claim to be a great artist.'

Drinkwater felt the conversation touched a raw nerve. Had his own thinking been too much influenced by his emotions? The possibility made him shudder inwardly.

They might have discussed this longer had not a peremptory knock announced the arrival of Midshipman Dunn.

'Yes, Mr Dunn?' asked Drinkwater, wondering what problem Marlowe had conjured up for himself.

'There's a ship, sir, bearing down towards us from the north-east.'

'Colours?'

'Can't see yet, sir.'

Drinkwater shot a quick glance at Frey. 'The Antwerp squadron?'

Frey shrugged. 'No peace for the wicked,' he muttered.

'Very well, Mr Dunn. Have Mr Marlowe clear for action!'

'You fear the worst?' said Frey, hauling himself wearily to his feet.

Drinkwater gave a short laugh. 'I'm just following my feelings, Mr Frey!'