The shadow of the eagle

CHAPTER 11 Diplomacy

May 1814

Mr Ashton lost sight of the ship sooner than those aboard Andromeda saw him disappear behind the outer reef of exposed rocks. At sea level, among the tossing wave crests, with his mind cast ahead on the coming hours, apart from a single glance astern to see the frigate's hull behind a rearing sea and only her topsails and upper masts visible, he gave her no thought at all. To say he was puffed up with the importance of his mission would be only a half-truth, for as is common with men of his stamp, it went against the grain to assume even delegated gravity from a man whom one despised. On the other hand, while in the politest society Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater might be regarded as de trop, Lieutenant Ashton knew well enough that while at sea, the commander of a British man-of-war possessed a degree of power not given to many. He was, therefore, in something of a quandary, half wishing to inflate himself, yet concerned that since he was not Captain Drinkwater's favourite, he had been sent upon this mission for reasons as yet unclear to him.

However, the effort of the seamen at the oars as they lent forward, then heaved backwards, was testimony enough to the fact that he had been entrusted with an independent task. He cast a quick look at Sergeant McCann and his lobsters, sitting bolt upright, their plumed billycocks foursquare upon their heads and their muskets between their gaitered knees. Then he transferred his attention to Paine. The lad was standing up, leaning on the big tiller as he strove to keep the heavy launch from broaching.

'Take her in beyond the reef, Mr Paine,' Ashton said self-importantly, 'and then we shall find some sort of a landing, I daresay'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Ashton felt a little more composed after this brief exchange; he had finally decided that the importance of his mission overrode personal considerations. As if echoing this sentiment, Mr Paine gave a little cough and said, 'May I ask something, sir?'

'What is it?' Ashton responded expansively.

'This island ...'

'Is Flores, Mr Paine, westernmost of the Azores.'

'I know, sir,' replied Paine, concealing his irritation at being patronized, 'but is it where they are going to keep Boney?'

'Yes,' replied Ashton, looking again at the volcanic mass of the mountainous interior and the vegetation clinging in profusion to its lower slopes. 'Once here, the world will forget him.'

'Wasn't it Prometheus who was chained to a rock, sir?'

Ashton felt this chatty atmosphere was not one to be encouraged, especially as his knowledge of Greek mythology was sketchy. 'I daresay, Mr Paine, it might well have been ...'

'It was, sir.' The voice was Sergeant McCann's, and he added conversationally, 'And so too was Andromeda, chained to a rock by her mother who was jealous of her beauty — a curious conjunction, seeing as how the ship is so named ...'

'And it was Perseus who released her,' Paine added enthusiastically, 'then fell in love with her and ...'

'Hold your damned tongues, the pair of you!' snapped Ashton, aware that matters had got out of hand. The man at stroke oar was grinning. 'And what's the matter with you? Wipe that foolish smile off your face, or I'll see to it with the cat later.' The man's face changed to a dark and sullen anger. 'What's your name?' Ashton asked.

'Shaw,' muttered the stroke oarsman.

'Shaw, eh. Well mind your manners, Shaw.' And Ashton, having established his position, leaned back in the stern of the now silent boat and contemplated the surge of white water about the approaching reef and the little brig beyond it. The hiss and slop of the following sea, the creak of thole pins, the faint grunts of the oarsmen and the splash of the oar-blades were now the only sounds to accompany his contemplation. Fifteen long minutes later, the launch swept inside the reef and into its shelter. The tiny anchorage opened up ahead of them, and beyond a strip of beach, the town, which was no more than a village.

Within the embrace of the rocks lay the brig, moored stem and stern, while some brightly painted fishing craft were drawn up on the beach beyond. Several of these were the slender canoas which the Azoreans used to hunt whales offshore. As the launch swept past the brig, a few curious faces stared down at them.

'Look out, boys,' someone aboard the brig shouted, 'the fooking press-gang's here!'

'Damned impertinence,' growled Ashton, while a curious Paine caught the name Mary Digby and the port of registry of Sunderland upon her stern.

There were a few idlers on the beach, too, some gathered about the fishing boats, others with lines running offshore. They were all watching the launch run in towards the beach. One man shouted something, though their ignorance of Portuguese prevented them from knowing whether it was a greeting or a complaint that Paine had carried away a hook and line.

'We must land on the beach,' Ashton pronounced.

'Aye, aye, sir,' said Paine quickly, leaning on the tiller to head the launch directly for the half-moon of sand.

'Oars.' The men ceased pulling, their oars rising horizontally while they lay on the looms and caught their breath. The momentum of the launch carried it in a final glide towards the beach.

'Toss oars!' The double-banked oars rose unsteadily to the vertical and Paine gave the final order that had them lowered, blades forward, with a dull clatter. A moment later the launch scrunched upon the sharp-smelling volcanic sand. The bowman leaped ashore with the painter. He was followed by the two men at the forward oars and the trio heaved the boat a little higher as a low swell followed her and broke upon the beach.

Lieutenant Ashton looked at them and then at Paine. 'Are you proposing to land me or the boat's crew, Mr Paine?' he asked sarcastically.

'Heave her up a little more,' Paine ordered, blushing.

'No, no, no,' expostulated Ashton, 'there's no need for all that.' The lieutenant rose with the petulant air of a man put out on another's behalf, and stepped up on the aftermost thwart. The two oarsmen seated there drew aside. One of them was Shaw, the sailor whom Ashton had threatened to flog, and he glared up at Ashton, but Ashton did not notice. He clambered forward over successive thwarts, the oarsmen drawing aside for him. Stepping momentarily on the gunwhale, he jumped ashore, but turned and slipped on the bladder-wrack. He half-fell, but caught himself and, while his coat tail dangled in the wet and slithery seaweed that lay on the tideline, he avoided besmirching his white breeches.

'Damnation!' he swore. The boat's crew to a man, looked out across the harbour as though the view was unsurpassable. One or two shoulders shook with what might have been mirth, but Ashton was staring at Paine whose face was almost contorted in the effort of self-control. 'Mr Paine, the boat's crew are to remain aboard. Sergeant McCann, you may land two sentinels.'

Ashton brushed the sand from his hands, turned about and began to ascend the sloping beach. He was met by an officer in the brown tunic of a regiment of caçadores.

'Welcome to Flores, sir,' the swarthy officer said pleasantly in good English.

'Er, obliged, I'm sure,' mumbled the astonished Ashton.

The Portuguese officer smiled. 'I am Lieutenant Da Silva. I served in Spain with General Wellesley. At Talavera,' Da Silva added as Ashton appeared even more perplexed, but the penny dropped and Ashton took the proferred hand, aware that it and his right cuff were mucky from contact with the wet wrack on the sand. Serve the dago right, Ashton thought venomously, but he smiled as he responded to the vigorous shake of the Portuguese officer's hand. 'I have a message for the Governor — the Alcaid,' he added pompously.

'Yes, of course,' Da Silva replied, indicating the way. 'Please come with me.'

'Can you make out her colours, Mr Frey?' Drinkwater's voice betrayed his anxiety as he fumbled in his tail- pocket, extended the Dollond glass and clapped it to his right eye. He swore at the difficulty of bringing the strange