'I remember gannets like them having blue feet down in the South Pacific,' Drinkwater remarked to Birkbeck as the two older men took the morning air on the weather side of the quarterdeck.
'Aye, they call 'em boobies, I believe,' replied Birkbeck, 'talking of which, you heard about young Marlowe last night?'
'That he was drunk? Yes, I happened to send for him.'
'It doesn't help, sir, if you don't mind my saying so.'
'No, it doesn't.'
"Twould be less of a problem if Ashton didn't possess so much influence over him. I can't make Ashton out. He's a clever enough cove, which is something you cannot say for young Marlowe. The two of them shouldn't be on the same ship, but...' Birkbeck paused and shrugged, 'oh, damn it, I don't know.'
'Go on, Mr Birkbeck.'
'To be honest, sir, I ain't sure there's anything to add. It's just that when the senior officer in the wardroom is weak, there is usually trouble. Someone tries to take over.'
'Frey doesn't cast himself in that role?'
'Good Lord, no, sir. Poor fellow sensibly keeps himself to himself.'
'And the marine officer, what's his name? Hyde?'
Birkbeck chuckled and shook his head. 'He's impervious to any influence. An idle dog, if ever there was one, but amiable enough. No, I think there's something personal between Ashton and Marlowe, though what it is, the devil alone knows.'
'Do you know what experience Marlowe has had?' Drinkwater asked. 'He was singularly inept yesterday.'
'I don't think there's much to tell, sir. Borne on the books as a servant, then midshipman in the Channel Fleet. Passed for lieutenant under the regulation age, took part in a boat expedition off Brest, his sole taste of action I shouldn't wonder, and the rest of his time on the quarterdeck of a seventy-four, I think. He was invalided ashore for some reason,' Birkbeck paused, 'could have been drink, I suppose, then he came here.'
'Rather as I thought.'
'Well, I couldn't vouch for the details, but the substance is about right.'
'It must be somewhat tiresome for you in the wardroom.'
'Frey and Hyde are pleasant enough, and Ashton and Marlowe are civil when they are separate; 'tis together they begin to smell fishy.'
'Fishy?'
Birkbeck shrugged again. 'Just something I can smell.'
Drinkwater considered the matter as seven bells were struck, 'I think it is time we buried our dead and I spoke to the people. We will pipe up spirits after that, and this afternoon exercise at the guns.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
By tonight, Birkbeck thought, the ship should settled down. He felt he could have put money on it if it were not for Mr Marlowe. And Mr Ashton.
They hove-to and buried the dead Watson at noon, when the ship's day changed. The frigate, with her main-topsail and topgallant hacked against the mast and her courses up in their bunt and clewlines, dipped to the blue, white-capped seas that rolled down from the west. After Watson's corpse, in its weighted canvas shroud, had slipped from beneath the red ensign and plummeted to the sea-bed, Drinkwater stationed himself at the forward end of the quarterdeck, his officers ranged about him, the red, white and black files of Hyde's marines drawn up in rigid lines on either side, their backs to the hammock nettings. Andromeda's midshipmen stood together in a pimply gaggle. Like his officers, they had all been sent aboard by their patrons, even sent by the captains of other ships, as though brief service in the vicinity of a prince of the House of Hanover would admit them to the company of the most august. It gave Drinkwater some grim amusement to consider what patrons and parents would say when it got out that instead of being returned to their comfortable berths after a cross-Channel jaunt, they were stretching out into the Atlantic. On the orders of His Royal Highness, of course!
Amidships, over the boats on the chocks in the waist, along the gangways and in the lower ratlines of the main and fore shrouds, the ship's company waited to hear what he had to say, for scuttlebutt had been circulating since the previous day to the effect that the mystery which preoccupied them all would shortly be resolved.
At the conclusion of the short burial service Drinkwater closed the prayer book and nodded to Marlowe. The first lieutenant looked like death, his naturally pale and gaunt features now conveyed the impression of a skull, emphasized in its modelling by his dark beard, imperfectly shaved by his shaking hand. He had nicked himself in two places and still bled. At Drinkwater's nod he ordered the ship's company to don hats. Drinkwater watched carefully, the degree to which this movement achieved near simultaneity was the first indication as to how well his people thought of themselves as a crew. In the prevailing mood immediately following Watson's burial, and in expectation of news from the captain, the result was promising, if not perfect. Drinkwater settled his own hat and stared about him. Every man-jack forward was staring back. He cleared his throat.
'My lads,' he began, using his best masthead-hailing voice, 'the sad loss of Tom Watson is a consequence of the urgency of our situation. We are bound upon a most important service, one that will not, I hope, detain us at sea for more than a month, two at the most...' He paused, gauging from the groundswell of the murmured reaction, how optimistically this news was received. 'We are under the direct orders of Admiral-of-the-Fleet, His Royal Highness, Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and Earl of Munster...' Drinkwater rather despised himself for invoking all His Royal Highness's grandiloquent titles. It was a deception, of course, an attempt to mislead, to shift the blame to the inscrutable powers of Admiralty and to defuse any speculation that their mission was no more than Drinkwater's own reaction to a rumour brought aboard by a mysterious nocturnal visitor. The visitor could not escape mention.
'We have been informed by special courier from Paris that after Bonaparte surrendered he intends to escape apprehension and avoid exile by crossing the Atlantic. Arrangements to accomplish this are already in motion. Now, it is not the intention of His Britannic Majesty's government to allow the man who has disturbed the peace of Europe these last twenty years to make mischief in America or, for that matter, His Majesty's possessions in Canada ...'
To what extent all his men understood this, was unclear. But there were enough intelligent and perceptive souls among them to grasp the seriousness and importance of what he was telling them, to allow its weight to permeate the corporate intelligence of the crew in the next few days. He hoped its gravity would divert any doubts as to why the news from Paris arrived aboard Andromeda, rather than the Impregnable or the Royal Sovereign.
'It is our task to run down to a station off the Azores, to where Bonaparte is to be exiled, to guard the islands and to prevent any unauthorized vessels from releasing him. As you know we are only provisioned for a further two months and we shall have to be relieved by the end of that time. If we meet any man-of-war which does not comply with my instructions, we will engage him. If that happens, I shall expect you bold fellows to show the spirit you lately demonstrated in the fiords of Norway. To this end we shall prepare this ship for action. This afternoon we will exercise at the guns. That is all. God save the King!'
There was a moment's silence, then Lieutenant Hyde stepped forward, doffed his hat and swept it above his head: 'Three cheers for the ship, lads: Hip! Hip! Hip ...!'
Drinkwater went below with the huzzahs ringing improbably in his ears. The last thing he saw, though, was the ghastly expression on the face of Lieutenant Marlowe. It made him think of Watson's corpse settling on the ooze of the sea-bed, already half-forgotten.
Under normal circumstances, Drinkwater would have invited his officers to dine with him that day. It was a good way to get to know new faces and to create the bond among them that might be required to prove itself in action. But he was as reluctant to appear to condone Marlowe's behaviour as he was to further discomfit the young man. Whatever Lieutenant Marlowe's shortcomings, he could not be ignored. On the other hand, Drinkwater wanted to know more about Lieutenant Ashton, who would be in command of the starboard battery if they ever engaged Admiral Lejeune's squadron. Instinct told him he should capitalize upon the mood of the ship, and this lost opportunity was just one more irritation caused by Lieutenant Marlowe.