Ричард Вудмен - The shadow of the eagle

'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.

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.