The shadow of the eagle

'Well Frederic, this is a pretty pass, ain't it?' Ashton began, sitting in the chair beside the first lieutenant's cot. 'I do believe Our Father thinks you unwell, which doesn't say much for his intelligence, does it?'

At the last remark Marlowe, who had turned his face away from his visitor, swung back. 'Why in heaven's name d'you have to torment me? Do you not have what you want that you must treat me like this?'

Ashton put a restraining hand upon Marlowe's shoulder and shook his head. 'Fred, Fred, you misunderstand me, damn it,' he said, reassuringly. 'I don't wish you ill; quite the contrary, no man would be happier than to see you up and about again.'

'Damn you, Ashton. You're in league with the captain ...'

'What?' Ashton's incredulity was unfeigned. 'Why in God's name should I have anything in common with the captain?'

'Because,' said Marlowe, twisting round and propping himself on one elbow, 'he has just been here, not an hour ago, maybe less, telling me he wants me on the quarterdeck tomorrow!'

'Well then, that's fine, Fred, fine,' Ashton said soothingly, 'we all want you back at your duty, why should we not? Aye, and the sooner the better as far as Frey and I are concerned.'

Marlowe peered at his visitor suspiciously. The single lantern threw Ashton's face into shadow. 'What d'you mean as far as Frey and you are concerned?'

'Why, because we are doing duty for you ...'

'Yes, of course ...'

'What the devil did you think I meant?'

'Oh, nothing

'Come on Fred, what?'

'Nothing...'

''Come on ... Was it something the captain said?' Ashton asked shrewdly.

'He thinks you have some influence over me,' Marlowe said in a low, shamed voice.

'What damnable poppycock!'

'It could be said to be true, could it not?'

Ashton lost some of his aplomb, recalling his indiscreet remarks to Drinkwater regarding Marlowe's intended marriage: surely it could derive from nothing more? 'Perhaps he knows of you and Sarah,' he said dismissively.

'Have you said anything?'

'Come to think of it I recall mentioning it when we dined together, but it was nothing.'

'So you told him?' The hint of a smile played about Marlowe's mouth. 'And at dinner.'

'Well, yes, I believe I did,' Ashton confessed, flushing, 'but where's the harm in that?'

'Did you tell him of your sister's condition?'

'No, of course not.'

'Damn you, Ashton, I may be a fool, but I can at least keep my mouth shut!'

'There's no harm in it being known you intend to marry her.' Ashton's temper was fraying, but Marlowe had swung his legs over the edge of his cot and lowered himself unsteadily to his feet. He stood in his night-shirt staring down at his persecutor.

'Oh yes,' he said, holding on to the deck-beams overhead and leaning over Ashton. 'Of course. Now get out, and remember when I appear on deck tomorrow which of us is the senior.'

Thoroughly discomfited, Ashton stood slowly and forced a smile at the first lieutenant. 'Of course, Mr Marlowe,' he said mockingly, 'of course.'

Outside the wardroom Ashton almost bumped into the surgeon. The berth-deck was already settled, the air heavy with the stink and snuffles of over five score of men swaying together in their hammocks. The occasional glims threw fitful shadows, but for the most part it was dark as death. The ship creaked and groaned as she worked in the seaway and both men were cursing as they struggled on the companionway. The area was lit by a lantern and the marine sentry outside the wardroom door was a silent witness to their encounter.

'Ah, Kennedy, a damnable night.'

'I am not disposed to argue, Mr Ashton.'

Ashton was about to pass on when an idea struck him. 'There is a matter about which I might be disposed to argue with you, though. Would you join me for a moment in the wardroom.'

'I am not looking for an argument, Mr Ashton.'

'No, no, but a moment of your time.'

The wardroom was empty, its off-duty occupants had retired behind the thin bulkheads that partitioned either wing of the after end of the berth-deck and conferred privacy and privilege upon the officers. The long table that ran fore and aft had been cleared, and its worn oak surface betrayed years of abuse with wine stains, scratches, cigar-burns and boot-marks showing clearly through the greasy wiping that passed for a polishing. At the after end of the wardroom, the head of the rudder stock poked up from the steerage below and was covered by a neatly fashioned octagonal drum head table into which were set some tapered drawers. Across the transom a few glasses gleamed dully in their fiddles. Ashton picked two out and splashed some cheap blackstrap out of an adjacent decanter. Kennedy accepted a glass in silence.

'I have just been to see Lieutenant Marlowe,' Ashton said, taking a draught. 'He seems much recovered.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' replied Kennedy. 'Is that what you wished to argue about?'

'Not really to argue over, just to tell you that he is much improved and therefore your diagnosis of quotidian ...'

'My  diagnosis,' Kennedy raised an incredulous eyebrow. 'Well, well, so that is how matters stand, eh?'

'Well, you know what I mean.'

'No, Mr Ashton, I'm not sure that I do. Tell me,' Kennedy ran on without giving Ashton an opportunity to protest, 'is it mischief you're after making?'

'Mischief? How so?'

'Well, that's what I cannot quite fathom, but up to this minute, solicitude is not what I'd have called an outstanding virtue of yours, Mr Ashton. Unless of course, you wish the first lieutenant back at his turn of duty'

'Well that would be a decided advantage, to be sure, Mr Kennedy' said Ashton coolly, 'and to know that he is not only back on duty, but able to sustain the effort. I'm led to believe we may yet see some action, despite the peace. 'Twould be most unfortunate if he were to miss an opportunity through suffering from a quotidian fever, or any other kind of indisposition for that matter.'

'I had presumed', said Kennedy looking into his glass and swirling the last of the wine round, 'that with the coming of peace, opportunities are scarce nowadays and the prize laws will have been revoked by now. Unless, of course, we come up with a Yankee.' He looked up and it was clear from Ashton's expression that he had not thought about this. 'Well, good night to you, Mr Ashton, and thank you for the wine. I'm certain Mr Marlowe will be back at his post very soon.'

Drinkwater slept badly and woke in a sour mood. His gum was sore and his head ached from the wrenching Kennedy had given it. He rose and shaved, damning and cursing the frigate as Andromeda did her best to cause him to cut his throat with her motion. Finally he struggled out on deck into the windswept May morning.

Ashton had the morning watch and gave every appearance of being asleep at his post, but he moved from the weather mizen rigging as Drinkwater appeared, punctiliously touched his fore-cock and paid his respects.

'Morning sir. Another grey one, I'm afraid.'

'So I see ...' Drinkwater cast about him, staring at the heaving sea, leaden under the lowering overcast. The wind was less vicious and although the waves were still streaked with the white striations of spume, and where the crests broke the spray streamed downwind, there was less energy in the seas as they humped up and drove at the ship.

'Well, Mr Ashton,' remarked Drinkwater, clapping a hand to his hat and staring aloft. "Tis time to shake a reef out of the topsails. This wind will die to a breeze by noon.' Drinkwater looked at Ashton. 'Well, do you see to it, Mr Ashton.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'