The shadow of the eagle

'Aye, sir,' acknowleged the master.

'We shall', Drinkwater resumed, 'fire the unshotted carronades to bring her to. If she runs down any more I intend to cripple her, Mr Frey, aim high and knock her sticks about.'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

'Sir, I...' Marlowe's face wore an expression of grave concern.

'Not now, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater said dismissively 'To your posts, gentlemen, to you posts,' and seeing Marlowe hesitate, Drinkwater rubbed his hands and added, 'Briskly now, briskly!'

Marlowe shrugged, turned on his heel and ran forward along the starboard gangway. Birkbeck caught Drinkwater's eye and the latter raised his eyebrow; Birkbeck smiled and turned back to watch the approaching ship.

Drinkwater raised his glass again. He could see it was the Gremyashchi now, the figurehead of Mars the god of war clearly identified her, and her aspect was opening so that he could just see the white flag with its dark blue diagonal cross fluttering beyond the leech of the main topsail. As Andromeda gathered speed on her new tack, the fly of the Russian ensign was again occluded behind the bellying sail. He lowered his telescope a fraction and could just make out a dark gaggle of officers on her quarterdeck.

A flurry of activity could be seen on the Gremyashchi's deck and the straining main course seemed to belly even more, losing its driving power as the sheets were slacked off and then the big sail rose to the yard under the tug of the buntlines and the clew garnets.

Was Rakov clewing up in order to give battle, or merely to exchange pleasantries?

'Now sir?' asked an equally anxious Birkbeck.

'Now is as good a time as ever,' Drinkwater said, coolly, feigning indifference, and Birkbeck's voice rang out with the order to 'clew up both courses and heave her to'. A moment later, Andromeda's main yards were braced round and their sails curved back against the mast, bringing the British frigate to a gently pitching standstill. Drinkwater drew in his breath and hailed the forecastle.

'Mr Marlowe! Fire!'

The carronades forward gave their short, imperative bark. The cloud of powder smoke blew back over the deck, carrying its sharp stench to the quarterdeck. The Russian ship was now some seven or eight cables away, broad on the starboard bow and Drinkwater scrutinized her, eager to see what the Russian commander would do in response.

For several minutes the Gremyashchi continued to bear down on them, seemingly contemptuous of the smaller British frigate almost in her track.

'Run out the guns!'

Drinkwater's order was carried to the gun-deck below and he could feel the rumbles of the gun-tracks as their iron-shod wheels carried the black muzzles out through the ports. Drinkwater could imagine the scene below decks with Frey eagerly dancing up and down the line of guns, urging them spiked round on the target; their crews would be straining on tackles, their gun-captains spinning the breech screws to elevate the muzzles. As they completed their exertions, the gasping crews would squat, kneel or crouch beside the monsters they served, the captains kneeling behind the line of guns, squinting along their brute length, the flint-lock lanyards taut in their left hands, their right hands held up so that Frey could see them report their cannon ready.

Less than half a mile now separated the Gremyashchi from Andromeda. The Russian continued to bear down before the wind under topsails and topgallants, her dark brown sides as yet unbroken by open ports. Then a brief white cloud appeared on her port bow and hung for a moment, running along with the Russian ship and gradually dispersing as the noise of the discharge was blown down towards the waiting Andromeda.

The closed gun-ports seemed to signal an acceptance of Andromeda's right to dictate terms, for a moment later she sheered away to starboard, heeling over as her yards were braced sharply round and she settled on a course to the north-north-west, parallel to Andromeda's heading.

'She's making off,' said a surprised Birkbeck. Drinkwater was raking the Russian ship with his telescope. The Gremyashchi was broadside onto them now and he could see her mizen mast clearly, with her blue and white colours at the spanker peak.

'By God, do you look at that!' It was Hyde, whose scarlet nonchalance had graced the quarterdeck since clearing for action. All along the Gremyashchi's port side, the gun ports opened and she too bared her fangs, despite the leeward heel. Then, in a ragged attempt at simultaneity, Rakov, whose figure Drinkwater had located standing hat-in-hand upon her rail, discharged his guns. The shots raised a line of splashes ahead of the hove-to Andromeda.

And what is all that about?' Hyde asked.

In the glass Drinkwater saw Rakov wave his hat flamboyantly above his head and jump back down on to his own quarterdeck. 'That, Mr Hyde, is to let us know we did not intimidate him.' Drinkwater pocketed the telescope and called his messenger. 'Mr Dunn! Be so kind as to tell Mr Frey to run in the starboard battery and secure the guns. He will have to draw all charges.'

'Run in the guns and draw all charges, aye, aye, sir.'

'We cannot afford to waste any powder or shot,' he remarked to Birkbeck as the master came across the deck from the binnacle.

'D'you wish to run back towards Santa Cruz, sir?'

Drinkwater cast another look at the Gremyashchi. Her stern was square onto them now and there was little sign of her manoeuvring again. A nasty suspicion was forming in Drinkwater's mind. He nodded at the master. 'Yes, if you please.'

Marlowe came aft as the rumbling and vibration in their boot soles told where the 12-pounders below were being run in again.

'He's off after other quarry by the look of it, I'd say, sir.'

'My guess exactly, Frederic,' Drinkwater concurred.

'Looking for what you call the Antwerp squadron, d'you think?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'I cannot think of any other reason for his being here.'

'That rather shortens the odds against us, then.'

'Yes,' said Drinkwater, as the main yards were hauled round parallel with those on the fore and mizen masts and Andromeda began to gather headway again. 'Yes, it may well do if he has orders to engage us. He certainly wasn't about to hang about and parley'

For a moment both men stood side by side, watching the exertions of the men at the braces, trimming the yards almost square across the ship as Andromeda answered her helm and swung to port, to run downwind again, heading for Flores which loomed five miles away.

'On the other hand,' mused Drinkwater, 'we are supposed to be allies.'

'Those shots across our bow didn't look very friendly,' laughed Marlowe ruefully.

'No, they didn't, but Rakov might have been trying to cow us.'

'Why should he do that, sir?'

'Oh, I don't know,' Drinkwater replied wearily, unwilling to explain to Marlowe the hostility he had felt from the Russian when Rakov discovered he was the British officer responsible for the destruction of the Suvorov. 'It's just a feeling I have,' he added conciliatorily, seeing Frey come up from the gun-deck. 'Perhaps another time, Mr Frey.'

'I rather hope not, sir: they were 18-pounders at least.'

The knot of officers laughed a trifle uneasily. 'Poor old Ashton,' remarked Hyde. 'He's missed all the fun.'

Lieutenant Da Silva had conducted Ashton to the Governor's undistinguished residence where the British officer was received with every courtesy including a glass of wine. Da Silva introduced the Governor, Dom Miguel Gaspar Viera Batata, his secretary, whose name appeared to be Soares, and a tall thin man in a black worsted suit, silver buckled shoes and the elegant affectations of an English fop.