'It is warm work; and this day may be the last to any of us at a moment. But mark you! I would not be elsewhere for thousands.'
'Two guns from the flagship, sir.'
'Very well, what o'clock is it?'
'It wants a few minutes of midnight, sir; wind's freshened a little from the west.'
Drinkwater struggled into his greygoe and hurried on deck. He looked up at the masthead pendant and nodded his approval as Rogers reported the hands mustering to weigh.
'Sheet home the topsails, Mr Rogers, and have headsails ready for hoisting. Mr Easton!'
'Sir?'
'Have you a man for the chains?'
'All ready'
'Very well.'
'One thing we can do is weigh the bloody anchor in the middle of the night,' offered Rogers in a stage whisper.
'Virago 'hoy!'
'Hullo?' Drinkwater strode to the rail to see the dim shape of a master's mate standing in the stern of a gig.
'Captain Murray desires that you move closer inshore towards Cronbourg Castle, sir. The bombs are to prepare to bombard at daylight!'
'Thank you.' Drinkwater turned inboard again. 'Can you make out Edgar in this mist?'
'Aye, sir, just, she's hoisted lanterns.'
Drinkwater saw the flare of red orpiment from the Edgar's stern.
'Bengal light, sir, signal to weigh.'
'Very well. Mr Matchett!'
'Sir?'
'Heave away!'
Virago filled her topsails as the anchor came a-trip and the water began to chuckle under her round bow. Keeping a careful watch to avoid collision Drinkwater conned the old ship south-eastwards in the wake of the Edgar. On either beam dark shapes with the pale gleam of topsails above indicated the other bombs creeping forward ready to throw their fire at the intransigent Danes. Then, barely an hour after they had got under way, the wind shifted, backing remorselessly and beginning to head them.
'Topsail's a-shiver, zur,'
'Brace her hard up, Mr Easton, God damn it!'
'Hard up, sir, aye, aye… it's no good sir, wind's drawing ahead.'
The concussion of guns from the darkness ahead and the dark rose glow of twin Bengal lights together with a blue rocket signalled the inevitable.
'Main braces, Mr Easton, down helm and stand by to anchor!'
Once again the anchor splashed overboard, once again Virago's cable rumbled through the hawse pipe and once again her crew clambered aloft to stow the topsails, certain in the knowledge that tomorrow they would have to heave the cable in again. They were nowhere near close enough to bombard as Murray intended.
All morning Drinkwater waited for the order to weigh as the light wind backed a little. During the afternoon the rest of the ships worked closer inshore and by the evening the whole fleet had brought to their anchors four miles to the north west of Cronbourg castle. Drinkwater surveyed the shore. The dark bulk of the fortress was indistinct but the coast of Zeeland was more heavily wooded than at Gilleleje. The villages of Hellebaek and Hornbaek were visible, the latter with a conspicuous church steeple looking toylike as the sun westered to produce a flaming sunset. It picked out not only the villages of Denmark but small points of metallic fire and the pink planes of sunlit stone where the guns of the Swedish fortress at Helsingborg on the opposite side of The Sound peered from their embrasures.
Men lingered on deck in silence watching the Danish shore where figures could be seen on foot and horseback. Here and there a carriage was observed as the population of Elsinore came out to look at this curiosity, the heavy hulls of the British ships, the tracery of their masts and yards silhouetted against the blood red sunset. It seemed another omen, and to the Danes a favourable one. The image of those ships reeking in their own blood-red element was not lost on Drinkwater who wrote of it in his journal before turning again to the stained notebook he had consulted when the fleet had made for the Great Belt.
The book was one of several left him after the death of Mr Blackmore, the old sailing master of the Cyclops. Drinkwater had been his brightest pupil on the frigate and the old man had left both his notebooks and his quadrant to the young midshipman. The notebooks had been meticulously kept and inspired Drinkwater to keep his own journal in considerable detail. Blackmore had carried out several surveys and copied foreign charts, particularly of the Baltic, an area with which he had been familiar, having commanded a ship in the Scandinavian trade.
Drinkwater looked at the chartlet of The Sound. The ramparts of Cronbourg were clearly marked together with the arcs of fire of the batteries and a note that their range was no more than one and a half miles. The Sound was two and a half miles wide and the fleet could not hope to pass unscathed if they received fire from both Helsingborg and Cronbourg.
Drinkwater was familiar with the current. It had frustrated them already, usually running to the north but influenced by the wind with little tidal effect. The Disken shoal formed a middle ground but should not present any problem to the fleet. It was the guns of Cronbourg that would do the damage, those and the Swedish cannon on the opposite shore.
Drinkwater went on deck before turning in. It was bitterly cold again with a thin layer of high cloud: Trussel was on deck.
'All quiet, Mr Trussel?'
'Aye sir, like the grave.'
'Moonrise is about two-fifteen and the almanac indicates an eclipse.'
'Ah, I'd better warn the people, there's plenty of them as still believes in witchcraft and the like.'
'As you like, Mr Trussel.' Drinkwater thought of his own obsession with Hortense Santhonax and wondered if there were not something in old wives' tales. There were times when a lonely man might consider himself under a spell. He thought, too, of Edward, and where he might be this night. Trussel recalled him.
'To speak the truth, Mr Drinkwater, I'd believe any omen if it meant making some progress. This is an interminable business, wouldn't you say?'
'Aye, Mr Trussel, and the Danes have been well able to observe every one of our manoeuvres.'
'And doubtless form a poor opinion of 'em, what with all the shilly shallying. I've never seen so much coming and going even when the Grand Fleet lay at St Helen's. Why your little boat-trip t'other morning went unremarked by anyone.'
The point of Trussel's chat emerged and Drinkwater smiled.
'Indeed, Mr Trussel, that was the point of it.'
'The point of it, sir…?' said Trussell vaguely.
'Come, what is the rumour in the ship, eh? Ain't it that the mysterious fellow we took aboard at Yarmouth is, in truth, a spy?'
'Aye, sir. That's what scuttlebutt says, but I don't always hold that scuttlebutt's accurate.'
'But in this case it is, Mr Trussel, in this case it most certainly is. Good night to you…'
In his coffin-like cot Mr Jex lay unsleeping. He felt a growing sense of unease at the quickening pace of events. The fruitless comings and goings of the last week, the weary handling of ground tackle and sails had scarcely affected him since he did no special duty at such times. True the bad weather had confined him sick and miserable in his cabin but he had at least a measure of satisfaction in abusing and belabouring his steward, a miserable, cowed man who was loved by no-one. But even Jex had overcome his sickness eventually and the prolonged periods at anchor had pacified his internal disquiet. Like his Commander-in-Chief, Jex did not wish to pass the fortress at Cronbourg, but whereas Parker was merely excessively cautious, Jex was a coward. He found it increasingly difficult to concentrate upon his columns of figures, even when they showed a rise in the fortunes of Hector Jex to the extent of yet wiping out the amount extorted by Lieutenant Drinkwater. Instead he found unbidden images of mutilated bodies entering his mind; of bloody decks strewn with limbless corpses, of the surgeon's tubs filled with arms and legs.
Lieutenant Rogers's bloodthirsty yarns lost nothing in the telling and Jex's disgrace in the action with the luggers had left him a prey to the cruel and merciless wit of his brother officers. Rogers's lack of either tact or compassion only fuelled the constant references to Jex's cowardice so that the purser conceived a hatred for the first lieutenant that began to exceed that he already felt for his commander.
As for the latter, Jex had felt a hopelessness at having been outmanoeuvred yet again by Mr Drinkwater. The ostentatious departure of Waters from the ship had seemed to him to prove the accuracy of Drinkwater's assertions about the mysterious landsman. All Jex could do was hope to determine whether or not a real murder had taken place at Newmarket, and whether or not the Marquis de la Roche-Jagu really existed. He could not himself conceive that it would have been reported without it being known in Newmarket whether or not the event had actually taken place. And it was this desire to live long enough to prove the arrogant Mr Drinkwater wrong that was constantly undermined by the growing horror of premature death.
Even as he lay there, a deck below the anchor watch who marvelled at the lunar eclipse, he saw himself dead; torn apart by cannon shot, his bowels spilling from his paunch.
Drinkwater stood in the sunshine and looked round the deck. He had done all he could to move Virago forward to a position where she might assist the seven bomb vessels if they required it, yet remain out of range of the guns of Cronbourg with her vulnerable cargo of explosives and combustibles.
He looked beyond the masts of the bomb vessels at their target. Anchored in a line, just outside the known arc of fire of the Danish guns they were preparing to bombard the castle.
Despite the fact that he had already trodden the soil of Denmark, his preoccupation with Edward's plight had so far blinded him to a full realisation of the enemy's country. To date he had seen it as a series of landmarks to take bearings of, a flat coast with hidden, offshore dangers and a population amply warned of their approach. This morning he realised the alien nature of it. Weighing at daylight the bombs with the battleship Edgar and the frigate Blanche had taken up the positions attempted the previous day. The castle of Cronbourg loomed before them, an edifice of unusual aspect to English eyes, used to the towers of the Norman French. The redbrick walls, towers and cupolas with their bright green copper roofs had a fantastic, even fairy-like quality that seemed at first to totally disarm Sir Hyde Parker's fears.
But even as they let their anchors go at six in the morning of March 30th the Danish flag was hoisted in the north westerly breeze that set fair for the passage of The Sound. The white cross on a red, swallow-tail ground had the lick of a dragon's tongue about it, as it floated above the fortress, over the roofs of the town of Elsinore.
The men had breakfasted at their stations and Lettsom had come on deck to see for himself the progress of the fleet. Easton was pointing out the landmarks.
'The town is Helsingor, Mr Lettsom, which we call Elsinore, the castle is called Cronbourg, or Cronenbourg on some charts.'
'Then that is Hamlet's castle, eh? Is that so Mr Drinkwater?'
'I suppose it is, Mr Lettsom.'
'And they tell me you had an eclipse last night.'
'I think 'twas the moon that had an eclipse. Happily it had no effect upon us.'
'Quite so, sir.' Lettsom paused for a moment. '"The moist star, upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse…" Hamlet, gentlemen, Act One…'
'Sick to doomsday with anchoring more like, Bones,' put in Rogers.
Lettsom ignored the first lieutenant and produced another quotation: '"But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill…" '
'But it ain't high, Mr Lettsom, thus proving Shakespeare did not know the lie of the land hereabouts.'
'True, sir, but there's such a thing as poetic licence. And here, if not the dawn, is Mr Jex.'
The assembled officers laughed as the purser came on deck, and the surgeon, in fine form now he had the attention of all, continued his thespian act.
'Good morning Mr Jex,' he said, then added darkly, '"here is a beast that wants discourse of reason".'
Bewildered by the laughter, yet conscious that he was the cause of it, Jex looked sullenly round.
'"A dull and muddy-metalled rascal", eh, Mr Jex?' Even Lettsom himself was scarce able to refrain from laughter and Jex was roused to real anger.
'Do you mind your manners, Mr Lettsom,' he snarled, 'I've given you no cause to abuse me.'
'"Use every man after his desert and who would 'scape whipping?"'
'Why,' laughed Rogers unwilling to let Lettsom have all the fun, 'both you and your eighth man would qualify there, Mr Jex…' Laughter spread along the deck among the seamen who well understood the allusion to Jex's corruption.
'Aye, "be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny."'
'Hold your God damn tongue…' burst out Jex, the colour mounting to his face at this public humiliation.
'Gentlemen, gentlemen,' Drinkwater temporised, 'I beg you to desist… Mr Jex, I assure you the surgeon meant no offence but merely wished to air his knowledge of the Bard. I am by no means persuaded his powers of recall are accurate…'
'Sir!' protested Lettsom but Drinkwater called their attention to the fleet.
'Let us see whether aught is rotten in the state of Denmark shall we?'
'Mr Drinkwater, you o'erwhelm the powers of my muse,' grinned Lettsom, 'I shall betake myself to my cockpit and sulk like Achilles in his tent.'
The surgeon and purser were instantly forgotten as glasses were lifted to watch the fleet weigh from the anchorage and begin the approach to Copenhagen through the sound.
Led by Monarch, the foremost ship of Lord Nelson's division, the ships of the line stood south eastwards in brilliant sunshine. It presented a magnificent spectacle to the men watching from the huddle of bomb ships that waited eagerly to play their part in the drama of the day. The wind had settled to a fine breeze from the north north westward, as Monarch approached Cronbourg. They could see her topmen racing aloft to shake out the topgallants from their stoppings.
'London's signalling, sir, "General bombs, commence the bombardment".'
'Thank you, Mr Easton. Mr Rogers, have the crews in the boats ready to render assistance, and Mr Tumilty, perhaps you will give us the benefit of your opinion in the action.'
'I shall be delighted, Nat'aniel. Mark Zebra well, I hear she took a pounding on the reef t'other day and, though I believe her to be well built, if Bobbie Lawson overloads his mortars I think she may be in trouble.'
'Is Captain Lawson likely to over-charge his mortars, Tom?'
'To win the five guineas I wagered that he couldn't sustain one round a minute for more than half an hour he may become a mite careless, Nat'aniel, so he may…'
Drinkwater laughed just as the first bomb fired. 'That's Explosion,' snapped Tumilty, suddenly concentrating. The concussion rolled over the water towards them as they saw Explosion's waist billow clouds of smoke.
'She certainly lives up to her name.'
'They'll remark the fall of shot before anyone else fires,' said Tumilty informatively. They could see the arc of the shell reach its apogee and then they were distracted as the batteries at Cronbourg opened a rolling fire. For a moment Monarch's hull disappeared behind a seething welter of splashes, then behind the smoke of her own discharge as first she, and then successive ships astern returned the fire of the castle. It was six forty-five in the morning.
For the next hour the air was rent by the explosions of the guns. The deep rolling of British broadsides was answered by the heavy fire from Cronbourg. Nearer, the powerful and thunderous bark of the ten- and thirteen-inch mortars enveloped the lower masts of the bomb vessels in heavy clouds of smoke. No signals came from the bombs and the Viragos were compelled to stand idle, but it afforded them a rare and memorable sight.
'No fire from the Swedes, sir,' said Rogers, 'Monarch's inclining to their side of the channel.'
Parker's centre division was abeam of them now, all the ships setting their topgallants but keeping their main courses in the bunt-lines so as to hamper neither the gunnery nor the conning of the battlefleet through The Sound.
'Tis a fine sight, Nat'aniel,' said Tumilty, 'at moments like this one is almost persuaded that war is a glorious thing.'
'Sadly, Tom, that is indeed true. See the Elephant, the two-decker with the blue flag at her foremasthead, that's Nelson's flagship, see how he holds his fire. That's the contempt of Old England for you, by God!'
'If that's war on the English style, wait until you see that Irish version, by Jesus,' Tumilty grinned happily, ''Tis not your cold contempt, but your hot-tempered fury that puts the enemy to flight…'
They both laughed. 'There goes the old Isis. See Mr Q, that is quite possibly the last time you'll see a fifty in the line of battle… included here for her shallow draught I imagine.'
Beyond the battleships, on the Swedish side of The Sound the smaller vessels were under way. The gun-brigs and the frigates towing the flat-boats, the sloops and the fire-ships Otter and Zephyr, the tenders and cutters all stood southward, sheltered by the rear division of Admiral Graves. Only Blanche and Edgar remained to cover the bomb vessels and at fifteen minutes to eight the rear repeating frigate hoisted a string of bunting.
'Jamaica signalling, sir, "Repeated from flag, bombs to cease fire and approach the admiral".' Mr Quilhampton closed the signal book.
'That's a touch of the naval Irish, Mr Tumilty,' said Rogers nudging the artillery officer. 'It means Parker wants us to play chase.'
'Is that a fact, Mr Rogers,' said Tumilty calling his noncommissioned officer to the break of the poop while Drinkwater and Rogers bawled orders through their trumpets to get Virago under way.
The order was obeyed with alacrity. Topmen raced aloft to shake out the topsails while the fo'c's'le party set to with their spikes at the windlass. At the fiferails there was much heaving as sheets were belayed and halliards manned.
'Now Hite,' asked Tumilty, leaning over the rail and addressing the bombardier who had a watch and tablet in his hands, 'what did you make it?'
'Mr Lawson was engaged for thirty-seven minutes, sir, both mortars in use and by my reckoning he threw forty-one shells…'
Tumilty whistled. 'Phew, he must have been working them poor artillerymen like devils, eh Hite?'
'Yes sir.'
'An' I've lost five guineas, devil take it!'
'You've lost your wager then?' asked Drinkwater as he strode forward to get a better view of the fo'c's'le party.
'To be sure an' I have.'
'You look damned cheerful about it.'
'An' why shouldn't I look cheerful? An' why shouldn't you look cheerful seeing as how you stand to benefit from it.'
'Me? Hoist away there, Mr Q. Lively there with the cat-tackle, Mr Matchett. Steer south east, Mr Easton… how should I be delighted in your misfortune, Tom?'
'Well I'll put up another five that says Zebra will be unfit for the next bombardment and Virago will stand in the line.'
Drinkwater looked curiously at the little Irishman before turning his attention again to getting Virago under way and taking station in the rear of the line of bomb vessels.
Standing across to the Swedish side the squat little ships left the Danish shore as the frustrated guns of Cronbourg fell silent.
By nine o'clock they were clear of The Narrows and at noon anchored with the rest of the fleet off the island of Hven.
'I wonder what damage the mortars did, Tom.'
Tumilty shrugged.
''Tis not what execution they did to Elsinore or Cronbourg that should interest you, Nat'aniel, but what damage they did to Zebra.'
'Christ, but it's bloody cold again,' Rogers stamped upon the deck and his breath was steaming in the chilling air. It was not yet dark but the brief warmth of the sun had long gone. Pancakes of ice floated slowly past the ship and Lettsom, invigorated by the air's freshness after a day spent below and well muffled in sheepskins, watched curiously from the rail.
'I don't think I can stand much more of this blasted idling in ignorance Lettsom, stap me if I can!'
'Happen you have little choice,' answered Lettsom straightening up.
'No,' growled Rogers with angry resentment.
'I suppose you want to know what those two ships learnt…'
'Yes, Amazon and Cruizer went forward with the lugger Lark; her master's familiar with the approaches to Copenhagen. Someone said they thought Nelson was in the lugger but…' he shrugged resignedly. 'Bollocks to them; I suppose they'll tell us in good time when they want us to get shot.'
'How is our commander taking the delay, he seems an active man?'
'Drinkwater? He's a strange cove. He was promoted in '99 but because of some damned administrative mix-up, he lost the commission. He took it blasted well; if it'd been me I'd have made an unholy bloody row about it.'
'I don't doubt it,' said Lettsom drily, 'I think our Mr Drinkwater something of a stoic, though an oddity too. What d'you make of this spy business?'
Rogers shrugged. 'What is there to make of it? As I said Drinkwater's a strange cove. Been mixed up in the business since before the war; ask Tregembo if you want to know about our commander. Lying old buzzard will tell you tales as tall as the main truck; about the young midshipman who slit the gizzard of some Frog and took the m'sieur's sword for his pains, or retook an American prize after her crew over-powered the prize crew. All in all it's a bloody mystery why our Nathaniel ain't commanding this bloody expedition against the festering Tsar… Let's face it, Bones, he couldn't make a worse mess of it than that old fool Parker and he's got Lord Nelson to prod his reluctant arse for him.'
'True, Mr Rogers, but it does seem that Mr Drinkwater was specially selected for his discretion in landing this spy fellow. I'd say he'd achieved that with a fair degree of success, wouldn't you?'
'Yes, I suppose… hey, what's that going on alongside Cruizer?' Rogers whipped the night-glass from its rack and stared hard at the grey shape of the brig half a mile away and partially hidden from them behind Blanche. 'By God, she's getting under way!'
Lettsom stared into the gathering darkness and had to confess he could see nothing remarkable.
'There man, are you blind? Damned good surgeon you'll make if you can't see a bloody brig getting under way with her boats alongside.'
'No, I can't see a thing. D'you want me to tell the captain on my way below?'
'Yes, I'd be obliged to you.' Rogers turned away. 'Hey fo'c's'le there! Can't you see anything unusual on the starboard beam. Keep your blasted eyes peeled, God damn it, unless you want a Danish guard-boat coming alongside to piss in your ear while you're asleep up there…'
'Aye, aye, sir.' Lettsom heard the aggrieved tone in the response.
In the cabin he told Drinkwater of the news of Cruizer.
'Thank you Mr Lettsom, pray take a seat. Will you take a glass and a biscuit with me? I daresay we will know what's amiss tomorrow morning, in the meantime a glass to keep the cold out before turning in would be a good idea, eh?'
'Indeed it would, sir, thank you.'
'Mr Lettsom, I don't care much for doggerel, but I hear that you command a superior talent upon the flute. Would you oblige me with an air?'
'With the greatest of pleasure, Mr Drinkwater. Are you familiar with the work of Lully?'
'No. Pray enlighten me.'
The fleet had moved south from Hven at daybreak. They were now anchored within sight of the roofs and spires of Copenhagen, at the northern end of Copenhagen Road. Another council of war had been held aboard London to which the artillery officers were summoned. Quilhampton returned from delivering Tumilty to the flagship with news for Drinkwater.
'Amazon and Cruizer, sir, they've been forward with the Lark, lugger. Lord Nelson's reconnoitred the Danish position, so one of the mids aboard London told me.'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Doubtless we'll learn all the details when he returns. I'm obliged to you Mr Q.' Drinkwater reached for the old notebooks of Blackmore and pored over the chart, lost in thought.
The Danish capital of Copenhagen straddled a narrow strait between the easternmost part of Zeeland and the smaller island of Amager. The strait formed the inner harbour and ran through the heart of the city. To the east the sea formed a large open roadstead separated from the main part of The Sound by the low, sandy island of Saltholm which supported little but a few huts and a quantity of marram grass. But the roadstead was deceptive. In addition to the shoals that lined the shores of Amager and Saltholm, which converged at the southern end off Drager in The Grounds, a large elliptical mud-bank split the roadstead in two. Called the Middle Ground it divided the area into two navigable channels. The westernmost one, which from the British fleet's present anchorage led first towards, and then southwards past Copenhagen, was called the King's Deep. The easternmost which ran due south close to the Saltholm shore, and out of range of the guns at Copenhagen, was known as the Holland Deep.
The problem in attacking Copenhagen would be whether to enter the King's Deep from the north, which might bottle the ships up at the southern end with an unfavourable wind preventing them returning through the Holland Deep, or assembling at the southern end and forcing a passage to the north through the King's Deep when the wind changed.
Drinkwater was suddenly disturbed by the opening of his door and the gleam of gold coins flung across the chart before him. He looked up in astonishment. Tumilty's usually florid face was blue with cold and a large dewdrop depended from his nose. But his expression was one of utter joy.
'There's my stake in the wager, Nat'aniel, and sure it is that I've just as cheerfully parted with another five to Captain Lawson for his superior pyroballogy from the Zebra, so I have.'
'And what of Zebra, Tom?' asked Drinkwater cautiously.
'Would you believe they've strained the thirteen-inch mortar bed mortal bad! And would you believe that they've sprung a gar-board on the reef, and while it ain't what her commander would call serious, what with the hands pumping for an hour a watch, but further concussions of her mortars might let the whole o' the Baltic into her bilge?'
'And Virago?' asked Drinkwater rising to pour two glasses of blackstrap.
'Nothing firm yet, Nat'aniel. Flag officer's minds don't leap to decisions with the same facility as that of your humble servant's, but 'tis only a matter of time until expedience itself must recommend Virago to fill the breach, an' there's me money as an act of faith.' He lifted the glass to his lips giving one of his heavily conspiratorial winks.
Drinkwater digested the news. 'What did you learn of the plans for the rest of the fleet?'
'Oh, Parker's increased the size of Nelson's detachment by adding Edgar and Ganges.'
'That makes twelve line of battle ships. D'you think he means Nelson to make the attack?'
Tumilty nodded. 'Certain of it… Fremantle is put in charge of those damned flat boats and there are some additional signals. Here, 'tis all in these orders.'
Tumilty tossed the papers onto the table. He added conversationally, 'Isis lost seven men passing Cronbourg when one of her old guns blew up.' He emptied his glass, helped himself to another and went on, 'Nelson, it seems, went ahead yesterday afternoon in a lugger…'
'The Lark.'
'Just so; then last night Brisbane took the Cruizer and laid a couple of buoys at the north end o' the Holland Deep. D'you know where that is?'
Drinkwater pointed at the charts before him. Tumilty peered over his shoulder. 'Ah, and yesterday Nelson saw the Danes hacking down beacons off Dragor…'
'Here, at the southern end of the Channel leading to Copenhagen from the south. If we'd gone by the Great Belt we'd have had to pass the cannon at Dragor and as you see there is less room than through The Sound.'
'Just so, just so… apparently the whole operation is now in jeopardy because the beacons and buoys have been removed from the approach channels. There's a line of forts and floating batteries along the waterfront at Copenhagen and they command the approaches from the north or south. In their front lies a shoal…'
'Here,' Drinkwater pointed. 'The Middle Ground, between the flats round Saltholm and Copenhagen itself.'
'Nelson wants to attack from the south, waiting for a southerly wind so that he may have a breeze to carry himself north if he's forced to disengage. The position looks formidable enough…'
'And if it ain't buoyed…' Drinkwater's voice tailed off and a remote look came into his eyes. Then he suddenly slapped his hand down upon the papers.
'God's bones, why the deuce did I not think of it before… where the devil's Lord Nelson now?'
'Nelson? Why he's still on the London, or perhaps the Elephant… hey, where are you going?'
Drinkwater flung open his cabin door and shouted 'Have a boat ready for me at once there!' then re-entering the cabin he reached for his cloak, hat and sword.
'I'm off to see Nelson.'
'What about your orders?' Tumilty pointed to the packet lying unopened on the desk.
'Oh damn them! We ain't going anywhere until those channels are buoyed out!'
Nelson's barge was returning alongside Elephant as Virago's boat approached. The barge had not left the battleship's side, although the admiral had gone on board by the time the Virago's boat bumped alongside and a tall lieutenant jumped across into the barge, teetered for a second upon a thwart, grabbed a tossed oar for support, and with a muttered 'By your leave,' flung himself at the manropes and scaled the side of the Elephant.
Touching his hat to the quarterdeck and announcing himself to the astonished marine sentry at the entry port Drinkwater collared a passing midshipman and looked round. The tail of a posse of officers was disappearing under the poop and Drinkwater guessed they followed Nelson into his cabin.
'His lordship, cully, upon the instant…' he growled at the boy.
Nelson was dismissing the entourage of officers, rubbing his forehead and pleading fatigue as Drinkwater pushed through them.
'What is your business, sir?' Drinkwater found himself confronted by a tall man in the uniform of a senior captain. The midshipman had melted away.
'By your leave sir, a word with his lordship…'
'What the devil is it, Foley?'
'An officer who requests a word with you.' Foley half turned and Nelson appeared in the doorway of the great cabin.
'My lord, I beg a moment of your time…'
Nelson was frowning. 'I know you!'
'I entreat your lordship to permit me to assist in the surveying and buoyage duties attending the fleet's approach to Copenhagen…' He felt Foley's hand upon his arm.
'Come sir, this is no time…'
'No, wait, Foley.' Nelson's one good eye glittered, though his face was grey with fatigue. 'Let us hear what the lieutenant has to say.'
'I was employed during the last peace in the buoy yachts of the Trinity House…'
'The Trinity House has provided us with pilots who do not share your enthusiasm, Mr, er…?'
'Drinkwater, my lord. You misunderstand me. These men are from the Trinity House at Hull, unfamiliar with the techniques of buoy-laying. The buoy yachts of the London House are constantly about the matter.'
There was a pause, then Nelson asked: 'Have I not seen you somewhere before, Mr Drinkwater?'
'Aye, my lord, at Syracuse in ninety-eight. I was first of the brig Hellebore…'
'The Hellebore?' Nelson frowned.
'You sent her to the Red Sea to warn Admiral Blankett of French intentions in Egypt.'
'Ah, I recollect. And all to no avail, eh, Mr Drinkwater?' Nelson smiled wearily.
'Not at all, my lord, we destroyed a French squadron and brought home a fine French thirty-eight.'
'Ah…' Nelson smiled again, the wide, mobile mouth that betrayed the wild passion of his nature showed too that he was still a man of no great age.
'Mr Drinkwater,' he said after a moment's consideration in the rather high-pitched Norfolk accent that he never attempted to disguise, 'your zeal commends you. What ship are you in?'
'I command the bomb-tender Virago, my lord. She has two mortars mounted and an artillery lieutenant as keen to use 'em as myself…' he held the admiral's penetrating gaze.
'The ruddy Irishman that was at this morning's conference aboard London, eh?'
'The same, my lord.'
'I shall take note of your remarks and employ you and your ship as seems most desirable. I will acquaint Captain Brisbane of the Cruizer of your familiarity with the matter now urgently in hand. In the meantime, I must ask you to excuse me, I am most fearfully worn out… Foley be a good fellow and see Mr Drinkwater off…'
'Thank you, my lord.' Drinkwater withdrew, never having thought to have an admiral ask to be excused, nor such a senior post-captain to escort him to his boat.
'I hope you are able to make good your claims, Mr Drinkwater,' remarked Foley.
'I have no doubt of it, sir.'
'The admiral's condescension is past the tolerable limits of most of us,' the captain added with a touch of irony, handing over the importunate Drinkwater to the officer of the watch.
But Drinkwater ignored the gentle rebuke. He felt the misconstruction placed upon his presence with Lady Parker at Yarmouth was now effaced. He had glimpsed that Nelson touch at Syracuse and now he knew it for what it really was. In contrast with the tradition of self-seeking that had divided and bedevilled fleet operations for generations, Nelson was destined to command men united in purpose, whose loyalty to each other overrode petty considerations of self. They might not triumph before the well-prepared defences of Copenhagen but if they failed they would do so without disgrace. In the last words of Edmund Burke, if die they must, they would die with sword in hand.
'Now gentlemen,' Drinkwater looked round the circle of faces: Rogers, the assembled warrant officers, the red-faced coat of Tumilty, the thin visage of Quilhampton. 'Well gentlemen, we are to split our forces. Mr Tumilty is to continue his preparations with his party under the direct command of Mr Rogers who will assume command of the ship in my absence. The three watches will be taken by Messrs Trussel, Matchett and Willerton who will also attend to those other duties as may from time to time be required of them. Messrs Easton and Quilhampton will provide themselves with the materials on this list and select a boat's crew which is to be adequately wrapped up against the cold. Mr Lettsom, you and Mr Jex will serve additionally to your established duties to second those other officers as they require it, or as Mr Rogers or myself deem it necessary. This is a time for great exertion, gentlemen, I do not expect to have to recall anyone of you to your duty but there will be little rest in the next few days until the matter presently resolved upon is brought to a conclusion. What that conclusion will be rests largely upon the extent of our endeavours. Is that understood?'
There was a chorus of assent. 'Very well, any questions?'
'Aye sir.' It was Matchett, the boatswain.
'Yes?'
'Are we to stand in the line of bombs, sir, as I've heard?' Drinkwater shot a glance at Tumilty whose innocent eyes were studying the deckhead.
'I cannot tell you at present, Mr Matchett.' A murmur of disappointment ran through the little assembly. 'All I can say is that I represented our case to Lord Nelson himself not an hour since…'
There was a perceptible brightening of faces. 'That is all, gentlemen.'
'Sir! Beg pardon, sir.'
'Yes, what is it?' Drinkwater turned from the boatswain to Mr Quilhampton.
'For this surveying, sir, the tablet and board…'
'Yes?'
'Well, sir, I can hold a pencil in—my right hand but…' Quilhampton held up the hook that terminated his left arm.
'Damn it, I had clean forgot, accept my apologies, Mr Q…' Drinkwater tore his mind off the instructions he was giving to Matchett and rubbed his forehead.
'Why don't 'e see Mr Willerton, sir. Carpenter'd knock him up a timber claw to hold anything, sir.'
'See to it, Mr Q, obliged to you Mr Matchett, now to the matter of these buoys. I want as many nets as you can knock up, about a fathom square, use any old rope junk but the mesh must be small enough to stop a twenty-four pound ball from escaping. Fit the boat up with coils of ten fathoms of three inch rope, enough for as many nets as you make. Then I want some of those deal planks left over from fitting the magazines, you know, the ones that Willerton has been hiding since Chatham, and small stuff sufficient to square lash 'em into a cross. No, damn it we'll nail 'em. Then I want a dozen light spars, boat-hook shafts, spare cannon ramrods, that sort of thing, all fitted with wefts of bunting. Get the duty watch cracking on that lot at once.'
'How many balls to each net, sir?'
'Four'll be too heavy to manhandle over the gunwhale, better make it three.'
'Then we can make the nets a little smaller, sir.'
Drinkwater nodded, 'See to it then.' He turned aft and caught sight of the purser. 'Oh, Mr Jex!'
'Sir?'
'Mr Jex, Mr Tumilty has asked me that it be specially impressed upon you that your party of firemen be adequately trained in the use of pump and hoses. When we go into action their efforts are required throughout the period the mortars are in use.'
'When we go into action sir?' Jex queried uncertainly. 'But I thought that the matter was not yet..'
'I hope that we will soon know… ah, Mr Willerton are you able to help Mr Q? You have little time…'
Drinkwater did not see the pale face of Mr Jex staring with disbelief at his retreating figure.
Half an hour later Drinkwater reported to Brisbane aboard Cruizer.
'Now see here, Drinkwater, what we achieved last night in the way of buoying the channel was little enough.' Brisbane leant over the sheet of cartridge paper spread upon the table in Cruizer's cabin. On it the brig's master, William Fothergill, had pencilled in the outline of the islands of Saltholm and Amager. Upon the latter stood the city of Copenhagen. Also drawn in were the approximate limits of the shallow water.
'We are attempting to find out the five fathom line which will give us ample water for Nelson's squadron. Happily for us the tidal range hereabouts is negligible, although a strong southerly wind will reduce the water on the Middle Ground…'
'So I understand, sir.'
'Last night we sounded for the eastern limit of the Holland Deep, here, along the Saltholm shore and laid four buoys…'
'What are you using for buoys, sir?'
'Water casks weighted with three double-headed shot, why?'
'With respect, sir, though adequate, the casks may be difficult to see, particularly if the sea is covered with sea-smoke as has been the case the last three mornings. May I suggest planks or short spars lashed or nailed in a cross with a hole drilled for a light pole. Ropes stoppered at the ends of the plants and drawn together to a becket at the base of the pole will afford a securing for the mooring and assist the pole to remain upright. If the pole carries a weft or flag I believe you will find this method satisfactory…'
'Damn good idea, sir,' put in Fothergill, 'and if necessary a lantern may be hung from the pole.'
'Quite so.' The three men straightened up from the chart smiling.
'Very well, Mr Drinkwater, so be it. Now Mr Fothergill is about to ink in what we have done so far and then this chart will go across to Captain Riou aboard Amazon. From now on all surveying reports are to be returned to Amazon where this chart is to be completed. I understand they have a squad of middies and clerks making copies for all the ships as the information comes in.'
The meeting closed and Drinkwater urged his oarsmen to hurry back to Virago. Already his active mind was preparing itself for the coming hours. Away to the southward of them Amazon was anchored off Saltholm, together with the Lark and the other brig, Harpy, and the cutter Fox. Boats were out with leadsmen, their cold crews struggling through the floes of ice that reminded them all that further to the eastward the pack was breaking up and every day brought the combination of a Russian fleet closer. Even before they reached Virago, Cruizer was underway again with Lord Nelson on board to reconnoitre the enemy position.
It was late afternoon on the 31st before Drinkwater and his two boats pulled away from Virago's side. Astern of them each towed the materials for two buoys, dismantled and lashed together so as not to inhibit the efforts of the oarsmen. Each boat was heavily laden with nets of round shot in the bilges, small barricoes of water under the thwarts and each oarsman had his feet on a coil of rope and a cutlass. The oars were double-banked with two spare men huddled in the bow. All, officers and men alike, were muffled in sheepskins and woollen scarves, mittens and assorted headgear. All had had a double ration of spirits before leaving the ship and two kegs of neat rum were stowed under the stern sheets of each boat. Mr Jex had protested at the extravagance but had been quietly over-ruled by Drinkwater.
Quilhampton sat in the stern next to his commander. His new left hand had been hurriedly fashioned from a lump of oak and was able to hold both a tiller and a notebook.
'It's good enough for the present,' Quilhampton had said earlier, and added with a grin, 'and impervious to the cold.'
Drinkwater felt the pressure of the crude hand against his arm as Quilhampton swung the boat to avoid an ice floe. On his own hands he wore fur mitts over a pair of silk stockings. Experiment had shown he could manage a pencil by casting off the mittens on their lanyard, and using his fingers through the stockings.
They headed for Amazon, reaching the frigate an hour after sunset, and Drinkwater reported to Captain Edward Riou. Not many years older than Drinkwater himself, Riou had made his reputation ten years earlier when he had saved the Guardian after striking an iceberg in the Southern Ocean. His remarkable energy had not deserted him and he had given up command of a battleship to carry out his special duties in the frigate Amazon. He fixed his bright, intelligent eyes on Drinkwater as the latter explained his ideas for buoying the edges of the shoals.
'You will find Brisbane has anchored Cruizer at the north end of the Middle Ground with lights hoisted as a mark for all the boats out surveying. I have instructed the masters and officers now out sounding to anchor their boats on the five fathom line until relieved by the launches carrying the buoys, but I admit the superiority of your suggestion. In view of your experience then, you should take your boats to the southern end of the Holland Deep and establish the run of the Middle Ground to the southward. It is essential that both limits of the Deep are buoyed out by the morning and, if possible, that its southernmost extension is discovered. Lord Nelson desires to move his squadron south tomorrow and to make his attack upon the Danish line from a position at the southern end of the Middle Ground.'
Virago's two boats lay gunwhale to gunwhale in the darkness. While Quilhampton supervised the issue of rum, Drinkwater gave Easton his final instructions.
'We steer west by compass, Mr Easton, until you find five fathoms, when you are to drop your anchor and show a light. I will pull round you to establish the general trend of the bottom at a distance of sixty or seventy yards. If I am satisfied that we've discovered the edge of the bank I will pull away from you to the south south east until I am approximately a cable southward, then I will turn west and sound for the five fathom line and signal you with three lights when I am anchored. If your bearing has not altered greatly we may reasonably assume the line of the bank to be constant between the two boats. If there is a great change it will show the trend of the bank towards the east or west and we will buoy it. Do you understand?'
'Perfectly sir.'
'Very well, now we will lay a buoy at the first point to determine the starting position, so make ready and take a bearing from Cruizer when it is laid.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Very well, let's make a start. Give way, Mr Q.'
The night was bitterly cold and the leadsmen were going to become very wet. The wind remained from the north and the sea, though slight, was vicious enough for the deep boats, sending little patters of freezing spray into their faces so that first they ached intolerably and then they numbed and the men at the oars became automata. Just within sight of each other the two boats pulled west, the boat-compasses on the bottom boards lit by lanterns at the officers' feet. Forward the leadsman chanted, his line specially shortened to five fathoms so as not to waste time with greater depths.
Drinkwater kneaded the muscle of his right upper arm which was growing increasingly painful the longer they remained in this cold climate. The knotted fibres of the flesh sent a dull ache through his whole chest as the hours passed and he cursed Edouard Santhonax, the man who had inflicted the wound.
The shout of 'Bottom!' was almost simultaneous from the two boats and Drinkwater nodded for Quilhampton to circle Easton's boat, listening to his leadsman while the splash over the bow of the other boat indicated where Easton got his anchor overboard. Drinkwater picked up the hand-bearing compass. He would need the shaded lantern to read it but they were roughly west of Easton now.
'Five, five, no bottom, five, four, three, shoaling fast, sir!'
'Very well, bring her round to the northward,' he said to Quilhampton, staring at the dark shape of the other boat which had swung to the wind.
'Three, three, four, three, four, three…'
'Bring her to starboard again, Mr Q.' The oars knocked rhythmically against the thole pins and spray splashed aboard.
'… three, three, four, four, five… no bottom sir, no bottom…' He looked back at Easton and then at the boat compass. Easton was showing a light now; presumably he had made his notes and could afford to exhibit the guttering lantern on the gunwhale.
'Head south, now, Mr Q, pass across his stern so we can hail him.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Everything all right, Mr Easton?'
'Aye, sir. We anchored to the buoy sinker and have almost readied the first buoy…' The sound of hammering came from the boat.
'Keep showing your light, Mr Easton. Head south south east, Mr Q, pull for three minutes then turn west.'
Beside him Quilhampton began to whisper, 'One, and two, and three, and four…'
Drinkwater kept his eyes on the light aboard Easton's boat. Presently he felt the pressure of the tiller as Quilhampton turned west. He listened to the headsman's chant.
'No bottom, no bottom, no bottom… no bottom, five!'
'Holdwater all! Anchor forrard there!'
A splash answered Quilhampton's order, followed by the thrum of hemp over a gunwhale. 'Oars… oars across the boat…'
The men pulled their looms inboard and bent their heads over their crossed arms. Backs heaved as the monotonous labour ceased for a while. Drinkwater took a bearing of Easton's feeble light and found it to be north by east a half east.
'Issue water and biscuit, Mr Q.' He raised his voice. 'Change places, lads, carefully now, we'll have grog issued when we lay the first buoy. Well done the leadsman. Are you very wet Tregembo?'
'Fucking soaked, zur.' There was a low rumble of laughter round the boat.
'Serves 'ee right for volunteerin',' said an anonymous voice in the darkness and they all laughed again.
'Right, we wait now, for Mr Easton. Give him the three lights Mr Q—'
Quilhampton raised the lantern from the bottom boards and held it up three times, receiving a dousing of Easton's in reply, but then the master's lantern reappeared on the gunwhale and nothing seemed to happen for a long time. A restive murmur went round the boat as the perspiration dried on the oarsmen and the cold set in, threatening to cramp ill-nourished and overexerted muscles.
'I daresay he's experiencing some delay in getting the buoy over,' said Drinkwater and, a few moments later, the light went out. Five minutes afterwards Easton was hailing them.
'We tangled with a boat from Harpy, sir. He demanded what we were doing in his sector.'
'What did you say?'
'Said we were from Virago executing Lord Nelson's orders, he used the password "Westmoreland" to which I replied "Northumberland".'
'Did that satisfy him?'
'Well he said he'd never heard of Virago, sir, but Lord Nelson sounded familiar and would we be kind enough to find out how far to the south this damned bank went.'
'Only too happy to oblige… sound round me then carry on to the south…'
'D'you think the Danes'll attack us, sir?' asked Quilhampton.
'To be frank I don't know; if 'twas the French doing this at Spithead I doubt we would leave 'em unmolested. On the other hand they seem to have made plenty of preparations to receive us and may wish to lull us a little. Still, it would be prudent to keep a sharp lookout, eh?'
'Aye, sir.'
They waited what seemed an age before the three lights were shown from Easton's boat then they continued south, the men stiff with cold and eager to work up some warmth. After sounding round the master's boat they left it astern, the lead plopping overboard as the oars thudded gently against the thole pins.
As the leadsman found the five fathom line the boat was anchored to the net of round shot on its ten fathom line and Drinkwater had the oars brought inboard and stowed while they prepared the buoy. Hauling alongside the four planks and two spars the men pulled them aboard, dripping over their knees, and cast off the lashings.
'Do you make sure the holes in the planks coincide before you nail 'em, Mr Q, or we're in trouble…'
They hauled the awkward and heavy planks across the boat in the form of a cross and, holding the lantern up, aligned the holes. Nailing the planks proved more difficult than anticipated since the point at which the hammer struck was unsupported. Eventually the nails were driven home and spunyarn lashings passed to reinforce them.
The four arm bridle was soon fitted and the awkward contraption manoeuvred to take the pole up through its centre. Eventually, as Easton completed pulling round them and set off for the south, they bent their anchor line to the bridle and prepared to cast off.
'Three lights, sir,' reported Quilhampton.
'Yes,' said Drinkwater, holding up his hand compass, 'and I fancy the bank is trending a little to the westward. Very well,' he snapped the compass shut, 'cast off from the buoy!'
He looked astern as they pulled away. The thin line of the spar soon disappeared in the darkness but the weft streamed out just above the horizon against the slightly lighter sky.
They laboured on throughout the small hours of the night, celebrating their success from time to time in two-finger grog. The trend to the east did not develop although Easton laid a second buoy before the bank swung southward again.
Drinkwater's boat was on its fifth run towards the west and already the sky was lightening in the east when Drinkwater realised something was wrong.
'Oars!' he commanded and the men ceased pulling, their oars coming up to the horizontal. He bent over the little compass and compared its findings with the steering compass in the bottom of the boat. Easton's boat was well on the starboard quarter. Ahead of them he thought he could see the low coast of Amager emerging from the darkness, but he could not be sure. The boat slewed as an ice floe nudged it.
'I believe we've overshot the bank, Mr Q. Turn north, and keep the lead going forrard there!'
'Aye, aye, zur!'
As the daylight grew it became clear that they had misjudged their distance from Easton and over-run the tail of the bank for some distance, but after an anxious fifteen minutes Tregembo found the bottom.
As they struggled to get their second buoy over, Easton came up to them.
'Don't bother to sound round me, Mr Easton, this is the tail of the bank all right.'
'Well done, sir.'
'And to you and your boat. You may transfer aboard here, Mr Easton, with your findings. Mr Q you will take Mr Easton's boat back to the ship.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Buoy's ready, zur.'
Very well, hold on to it there…' The boats bumped together and Easton and Quilhampton exchanged places. 'A rum issue before we part, eh?'
The men managed a thin cheer and in the growing light Drinkwater saw the raw faces and sunken eyes of his two boats' crews. The wind was still fresh from the north west and it would be a hard pull to windward for them. A heavy ice floe bumped the side of the boat. 'Bear it off Cottrell!'
There was no move from forward. 'Cottrell! D'you hear man?'
'Beg pardon, sir, but Cottrell's dead sir.'
'Dead?' Drinkwater stood and pushed his way forward, suddenly realising how chilled and cramped his muscles had become through squatting over his lantern, chart and compasses. He nearly fell overboard and only saved himself by catching hold of a man's shoulder. It was Cottrell's and he lolled sideways like a log. His face was covered by a thin sheen of ice crystals and his eyes stared accusingly out at Drinkwater.
'Get him in the bottom.' Drinkwater stumbled aft again and sat down.
'Can't sir, he's stiff as a board.'
Drinkwater swore beneath his breath. 'Shall I pitch 'im overboard sir?'
He had not liked to give such an order himself. 'Aye,' he replied, 'Poor old Jack… We have no alternative, lads.'
'He weren't a bad old sod, were 'e?'
There was a splash from forward. The body rolled over once and disappeared. A silence hung over the boat and Quilhampton asked 'Permission to proceed sir?'
'Carry on, Mr Q.'
'Zur!' Tregembo's whisper was harsh and urgent.
'What the devil is it?'
'Thought I saw a boat over there!'
Tregembo pointed north west, in the direction of Copenhagen. Drinkwater stood unsteadily. He could see a big launch pulling to the southward. It might be British but it might also be Danish. He thought of recalling Mr Quilhampton who was already pulling away from them but if the strange boat had not yet seen them he did not wish to risk discovery of the buoy that marked so important a point as the south end of the Middle Ground. Perhaps they could remove the weft, the bare pole would be much more difficult to see…
He rejected the idea, knowing the difficulty of relocating the bank and the buoy themselves, particularly in circumstances other than they had enjoyed tonight.
In the end he decided on a bold measure. 'Let go the buoy!'
He grabbed the tiller and leaned forward to peer in the compass. 'Give way together!' He swung the boat to the north west.
Heading directly for Copenhagen they could scarcely avoid being seen from the big launch. It was vital that observers in the approaching launch did not see the spar-buoy at the southern end of the Middle Ground.
The men were tired now and pulling into the wind after labouring at the oars all night was too much for them. Adding to their fatigue was a concentration of ice floes that made their progress more difficult still. After a few minutes it was obvious that they had been seen from the launch. Drinkwater swung the boat away to the north east, across the Middle Ground, drawing the pursuing launch away from the southernmost buoy. From time to time he looked grimly over his shoulder. He closed his mind to the ironic ignominy of capture and urged the oarsmen to greater efforts. But they could see the pursuing launch and knew they were beaten.
'Hang on, sir, that's one of them damned flat boats!'
'Eh?' Drinkwater turned again, numb with the cold and the efforts of the night. He could see the boat clearly now.
'Boat 'hoy! "Spencer"!' Drinkwater cudgelled his brain for the countersign given him by Riou.
'"Jervis"!' he called, then, turning to the boat's crew, 'Oars!' The men rested.
The big boat came up, pulled by forty seamen who had clearly not spent the night wrestling with leadlines and ice floes.
'What ship?' A tall lieutenant stood in her stern.
'Virago, Lieutenant Drinkwater in command.'
'Good morning, Lieutenant, my name's Davies, off to reconnoitre the guns at Dragor. There's a lot of you fellows out among the ice. Did you take us for a Dane?'
'Aye.'
'Ah, well, sir, 'tis All Fool's day today… Good morning to you.'
The big boat turned away. 'Well I'm damned!' said Drinkwater and, as if to further confound him the wind began to back to the westward. 'Well I'm damned,' he repeated. 'Give way, lads, it's time for breakfast.'
Drinkwater's tired oarsmen pulled alongside Amazon as the frigate got under way. Riou complied with Drinkwater's request that his boat be allowed to return to Virago under the master and that he remain on board to give his findings to Fothergill.
Before passing off the quarterdeck into the cabin where Fothergill and other weary officers were collating information, Riou asked, 'How far south did you get, Mr Drinkwater?'
'I found the southern end of the bank, sir, and marked it with a spar buoy'
'Excellent. I have recalled Cruizer as you see. Lord Nelson joins us and we are taking Harpy, Lark and Fox through the Holland Deep…'
'Sir…' A midshipman interrupted them. 'Begging your pardon, sir, but Lord Nelson's barge is close, sir…'
'Excuse me…' Drinkwater went aft as Riou stepped to meet the vice-admiral at the entry. He was soon lost in a mass of plotting and checking, working alongside Fothergill as the findings of the night were carefully laid on the master chart. For an hour they worked in total concentration as Amazon made her way southwards. When they emerged on the quarterdeck to take a breath of air they both looked astern. A master's mate came up to Fothergill to brief him as to what had been going on.
'Cruizer's reanchored off the north end of the Middle Ground with Harpy a mile south and Lark a further mile to the south of her.'
'The admiral don't trust our buoys, eh?' smiled Fothergill, exhausted beyond protest.
'Don't trust the fleet not to see 'em or run 'em down, more likely'
'The mark vessels are to hoist signals to indicate they are to be passed to starboard,' offered the master's mate helpfully.
Drinkwater heard his name called by Captain Riou. 'Sir?'
The admiral smiled. 'Morning, Drinkwater. I understand you found the end of the Middle Ground.' Nelson crossed the deck just as it canted wildly. The vice-admiral fell against Drinkwater who caught him, surprised at the frail lightness of his body.
Amazon had approached too closely to the Saltholm shore to avoid the occasional ranging shot ricochetting from the Danish batteries two miles away, and while Riou resolutely set more canvas and pressed the frigate over the mud, Nelson turned to a group of unhappy looking men in plain coats who Drinkwater realised were the pilots from the Trinity House at Hull. He remembered Nelson's poor opinion of their enthusiasm.
'There gentlemen,' he quipped, 'a practical demonstration of the necessity of holding to the channel.' The admiral turned again to Drinkwater, calmly ignoring Riou's predicament of getting Amazon into deeper water.
'The southern end of the shoal Mr Drinkwater…?'
'Marked, my lord, with a spar buoy.'
'Good.' The admiral paused then turned to a group of officers all heavily bedecked with epaulettes. 'Admiral Graves, Captains Dommett and Otway, may I present Mr Drinkwater, gentlemen, Lieutenant commanding the bomb Virago.'
Drinkwater managed a stiff bow.
'Mr Drinkwater has laid a spar buoy on the south Middle Ground…' There was a murmur of appreciation that was without condescension.
'Will a spar buoy be sufficient, my lord? If the division is to use it as a mark for anchoring may I suggest a more substantial mark.' It was Rear Admiral Graves and Dommett nodded.
'I concur with Admiral Graves, my lord.'
Nelson turned to the remaining captain. 'Otway?'
'Yes, my lord, I agree.'
'By your leave, my lord…'
'Yes, Drinkwater, what is it?'
'There is great movement of ice coming down from the south east, I observed the spar buoys were merely spun by the floes whereas I fear a larger object like a boat…'
'Oh, I doubt that, Drinkwater,' put in Captain Otway, 'a boat is a more substantial body with a stem to deflect the floes, no a boat, my lord, with a mast and flag…'
'And a lantern,' added Graves.
Drinkwater flushed as Nelson confirmed the opinion. 'Very well then, a boat it shall be. Don't be discouraged Mr Drinkwater, your exertions have justified you in my opinion, and Captain Dommett will write you orders to have your bomb vessel in the line when we attack the Danes.'
'Thank you, my lord.'
'And now will you be so kind as to direct Fothergill that when he returns to Cruizer he is to have one of the brig's boats placed in accordance with our decision.'
Drinkwater slept in a chair in Amazon's wardroom as the frigate reached the end of the Holland Deep, sighted his spar buoy and turned north to order Fox anchored south of Lark. Nelson had concluded there was ample room to anchor his division off the southern end of the Middle Ground out of range of the Danish guns. The wind had veered again and Amazon had to beat laboriously back through the Holland Deep to report to Sir Hyde Parker. This delay enabled Drinkwater to sleep off most of his exhaustion.
He was pulled back to Virago with Fothergill who handed him his copy of the chart before leaving for Cruizer and his own trip south to replace Drinkwater's buoy.
'The cartography isn't up to your own standard, Mr Drinkwater, but it'll serve.'
Drinkwater unrolled the corner of the chart. 'A midshipman's penmanship if I ain't mistaken,' he grinned at Fothergill. 'Your servant, Mr Fothergill…' Reaching up for the manropes he hauled himself up Virago's side, the chart rolled in his breast.
'Welcome back, sir,' said Rogers.
'Thank you. Where's Mr Tumilty?'
'Here, sir, here I am Nat'aniel…'
'I owe you five guineas, Tom…'
'You do? By Jesus, what did I tell 'ee, Mr Rogers, that's five from you too…' Tumilty burst into a fit of gleeful laughter. 'An' it's All Fool's Day so it is.'
'All ready, Mr Drinkwater?' Drinkwater leaned over the rail to look down at Nelson in his barge. He was an unimpressive sight, his squared cocked hat at a slouch and an old checked overcoat round his thin shoulders.
'We await only your signal to weigh, my lord.'
'Very good. Instruct that Irish devil to make every shot tell.'
'Aye, aye, my lord.' Nelson nodded to his coxswain and the barge passed to the next ship in his division.
An hour later the greater part of the British force placed under Lord Nelson's orders stood to the southward, leaving the two three deckers, St George and London, four seventy-fours and two sixty-fours with Sir Hyde Parker at their anchorage at the north end of the Middle Ground. Passing slowly south under easy sail between the lines of improvised buoys and the anchored warning vessels Drinkwater was able to steady his glass on the horizon to the westward.
Preoccupation with other matters had not given him leisure to study the object of all their efforts, the city of Copenhagen. Above its low stretch of roofs the bulk of the Amalienbourg Palace was conspicuous. So were several fantastic and exotic spires. That of Our Saviour's church had a tall elongated spire with an exterior staircase mounting its side, while that of the Borsen was equally tall and entwined by four huge serpents.
But in the foreground the fortress of Trekroner, the Three Crowns, and the batteries of the Lynetten that lay before them, guarded the approaches to the city and combined with the line of blockships, cut down battleships, floating batteries, frigates and gun vessels to form a formidable defensive barrier. The enemy was only a little over two miles away, just out of range, though an occasional shot was fired at the British as they boldly crossed the Danish front.
Nelson made few signals to his ships. At half past five he ordered the Ardent and Agamemnon to take the guard duty for the night and shortly after eight in the evening, the wind falling light and finally calm, the last ship came to her anchor in the crowded road. This was Cruizer, withdrawn from her station as a mark vessel.
As Virago came to her own anchor at about six-fifteen, Nelson made the signal for the night's password.
'Spanish jack over a red pendant. What does that signify, Mr Q?'
'Er… "Winchester", sir.'
'Very well. Pass word I want all the officers to dine with me this evening within the hour. I anticipate further work later in the night.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' It would scarcely be a 'dinner' since the galley stove was now extinguished and Tumilty and Trussel had begun to make their preparations for action, but Jex could hustle up something and Drinkwater wished to speak to them all.
He looked down into the waist in the gathering dusk. A party of artillerymen under the bombardier, Hite, were scouring the chamber of the after mortar to remove any scale. He wondered how the soldiers had got on between decks for there was little enough room for them all. They had slung their hammocks in the cable tier and he did not think either Tumilty or Rogers had spared much effort on their welfare.
At eight, just as Virago's officers sat down to dinner, shells were reported coming over from howitzer batteries ashore, but the activity soon died away. Mr Quilhampton, shivering on the poop and excluded from the meal, recorded in Virago's log various signals passed from the Elephant by guard boat and rocket. Mostly the signals concerned the direction of boats from the brigs and gun vessels as the admiral made his final dispositions. The bomb vessels were left largely alone.
But it was not for long. While Mr Tumilty was expatiating on the forthcoming employment of his beloved mortars, Mr Quilhampton had his revenge for missing dinner.
'Beg pardon, sir, but a boat's alongside from the flagship. His lordship's compliments and would you be kind enough to attend him at once.'
Drinkwater stood. 'It seems you must excuse me gentlemen. Please do not disturb yourselves on my account, but I would recommend that you rested. There is likely to be warm work for us tomorrow.' A cheer went up at this and only Jex remained silent as Quilhampton added:
'It is exceeding cold, sir…'
'I think I can manage, Mr Q, thank you,' Drinkwater replied drily.
Drinkwater scrambled down into the waiting boat. In his pocket he had stuffed notebook, pencil and bearing compass. As he settled alongside the unknown midshipman he observed the truth of Mr Quilhampton's solicitude. It was bitterly cold and the ice floes were even more numerous than they had been previously. The current, too, was strong, sweeping them northwards towards The Sound. The wind had died away to a dead calm. Above the surface of the sea the low wisps of arctic 'sea-smoke' almost hid the boat itself, though it was clear at eye level.
They crossed Elephant's stern. The windows were a blaze of light with the shadows of movement visible within.
'Admiral's dining with the captains of the fleet, sir,' explained the midshipman, swinging the boat under the two-decker's quarter and alongside her larboard entry.
Drinkwater reported to the officer of the watch who conducted him to the ante-room. A number of officers were gathered there, mostly wearing the plain blue coats of sailing masters. There was a group of pilots who looked more worried than when Drinkwater had last seen them. From beyond the doors leading into the Elephant's great cabin came the noise of conviviality.
A man in lieutenant's uniform detached himself from a small knot of masters and came over to Drinkwater with his hand extended.
'Evening. John Quilliam, third of Amazon.'
'Evenin'. Nathaniel Drinkwater, in command of Virago.' They shook hands.
'Captain Riou spoke highly of you after your visit to Amazon the other day.'
Drinkwater blushed. 'That was exceedingly kind of him.' He changed the subject. 'I trust your frigate was not damaged by the grounding?'
'I imagine she may have lost a little copper, but she'll do for today's work…' Quilliam smiled as a burst of cheering came from the adjacent room.
'Take no notice of that, Drinkwater, his lordship'll not let it interfere with tonight's business.'
'Which is…?'
'There is a little dispute about the water in the King's Deep. The pilots incline to the view that it is deeper on the Middle Ground side. Briarly, master of the Bellona, opposes their view, while Captain Hardy and Captain Riou are undecided. The Admiral has two boats assembled, one for Briarly and myself, the other for Hardy and you…'
'Me?'
Quilliam smiled again but any explanation as to why Drinkwater had been specially selected was lost as the double doors of the cabin were opened by an immaculate, pig-tailed mess-man and a glittering assembly of gold-laced officers emerged. They were all smiling and shaking hands, having dined well and in expectation of lean commons on the morrow. Drinkwater recognised Admiral Graves and Captain Foley, familiar too was 'Bounty' Bligh of the Glutton, Edward Riou and George Murray of the Edgar, but the remainder were largely unknown to him. At the rear of the group the short, one-armed admiral, his breast ablaze with orders and crossed by the red ribbon of the Bath, had his left hand on the elbow of a tall post-captain who ducked instinctively beneath the deckhead beams.
'Ah, Quilliam,' said his lordship, catching sight of the two lieutenants, 'is all made ready?'
'Aye, my lord.'
'And you have briefed Lieutenant Drinkwater?' Quilliam nodded. 'Very good. Captain Hardy, I commend these two officers to you and I rely upon you to find out the truth of the matter.'
'Very well, my lord,' the tall captain growled and turned to the two lieutenants. 'Come gentlemen… Mr Briarly, let us make a start.'
They climbed down into the boats and were about to leave Elephant's side when Nelson's high-pitched voice called down to them.
'Are your oars muffled?'
'Yes my lord.'
'Very well. Should the Danish guard boat discover you, you must pull like devils, and get out of his way as fast as you can.'
There was a murmur of enthusiastic assent from the seamen at the oars.
'Good luck then.'
Hardy, captain of the St George anchored eight miles to the north, had brought his own boat. A bright young midshipman leant against the tiller. He was muffled in an expensive bearskin coat provided by an indulgent parent well acquainted with the fleet's destination weeks earlier.
'I've had a long pole prepared for sounding, Mr Drinkwater, it'll make less noise than a lead.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater wondered how close to the enemy they were to go that they needed to take such a precaution. They pulled in silence for a few minutes and Drinkwater noted their course by the light of the shaded lantern on the bottom boards.
'This north-going current is damned strong…'
'About two knots, sir.'
'Did you lay the mark on the south end of the Middle Ground?'
'Yes, sir. I laid a buoy on it and Lord Nelson ordered the buoy substituted by a boat.'
'Let us hope we can find it in the dark.'
They did find it. After half an hour of pulling east and then west after finding five fathoms, they discovered the set of the current was considerable and had misled them. But, having established the bearing of the moored boat from the admiral's lights hung in Elephant's rigging, they began to move away.
'May I suggest we pull round the mark boat, sir, in order to establish that it has not substantially dragged and still marks the south end of the shoal.'
Hardy grunted approval and Drinkwater directed the midshipman while a man dipped the long pole overboard like a quant and peered at the black and white markings painted on it.
'It seems to be holding sir. I was worried because I only laid moorings for a spar buoy. I think Mr Fothergill must have laid a proper anchor.'
''Tis no matter, Mr Drinkwater. Time in reconnaissance is seldom wasted.'
They pulled west, losing the edge of the bank and swinging across the King's Channel that ran north, parallel to the Amager shore, the waterfront of Copenhagen and the defensive line of the Danish guns. The water deepened rapidly and the call came back that there was 'No bottom' until it gradually began to shoal on the Amager side.
Hardy swung the boat to the north while a man forward with a boat hook shoved the ice aside and the oarsmen struggled to pull rhythmically despite the floes that constantly impeded their efforts.
'There seems to be between six and eight fathoms in the main channel, sir,' Drinkwater said in a low voice after crouching in the boat's bottom and consulting his notebook. He was by no means certain of their exact position, but their line of bearing from Elephant was still reasonably accurate. 'The Middle Ground seems to be steep-to, with gentler shoaling on the Amager shore.'
Hardy leaned over his shoulder and nodded. 'Now I think you had better shutter that lantern and wrap canvas round it… not a word now, you men. Pull with short easy strokes and let the current do the work… Mr Fancourt…' Hardy pointed to larboard and the midshipman nodded. Drinkwater looked up and it took some minutes for his eyes to adjust again after the yellow lamplight.
Then he saw the enemy, dark, huge and menacing ahead of them. The southernmost ship of the Danish line was an old battleship. The spars that reared into the night sky showed that she had been cut down and was not rigged to sail, but two tiers of gun ports could just be made out and she was moored head and stern to chains.
Perfect silence reigned, broken only by the occasional plash and dribble as Hardy himself wielded the sounding pole. They could hear voices that spoke in a totally unfamiliar tongue, but they were not discovered. They were so close as they sounded round the enemy vessel that they thought there must have been times when the upper end of the pole appeared above the enemy's rail.
Greatly daring, Hardy pulled once more across the channel while Drinkwater scribbled the soundings down blind, hoping he could sort out his notes later. Satisfied at last, Hardy turned to the midshipman.
'Very well, Mr Fancourt, you may rejoin the admiral.'
Six bells rang out on Elephant's fo'c's'le and the sentries were crying 'All's well!' as Hardy's boat returned alongside. Drinkwater followed Hardy under the poop and into the brilliantly lit great cabin. Briarly and Quilliam had returned ahead of them. Clustered round the master-chart that now carried much greater detail than when Drinkwater had last seen it were Nelson, Riou and Foley.
Nelson looked up. 'Ah, Hardy, you are back… Mr Briarly, oblige these two with a glass… right, what have you for us, Hardy?'
Drinkwater slopped the rum that Briarly handed him. He was shaking from the cold and though the cabin was not excessively warm, the candles seemed to make it very hot after the hours spent in the boat. He swallowed the rum gratefully and slowly mastered his shivering. There was clearly a dispute going on over the comparative depths.
'Call the pilots,' said Nelson at length. After a delay the elderly men entered the cabin. They too had dined and drunk well and spoke in thick Yorkshire accents. Drinkwater listened to the debate in progress round the chart-table. He helped himself to a second glass of rum and began to feel better, the alcohol numbing the ache in his arm. At last Nelson suppressed further argument.
'Gentlemen, gentlemen, it seems that the greater depth of water is to be found on the Middle Ground side of the King's Deep, yet, if what Captain Hardy says holds good for the length of the Channel, some danger will attend holding too strictly to that assertion, for the rapid shoaling on that side will give little warning of the proximity of the bank. Foley, we must include some such reference in the orders. Masters must pay attention to the matter and remark the leadsmen's calls with great diligence. I see little risk to the fleet if this injunction is remembered. Mr Drinkwater's buoy at the southern end of the Middle Ground is the keystone to the enterprise. Gentlemen I wish you good night…'
Drinkwater returned to Virago in a borrowed boat. His mind was woolly with fatigue and Nelson's rum. But the ache in his arm had almost gone, together with his worries over Nelson's opinion of him.
Drinkwater was called at eight bells in the middle watch. He was sour-mouthed and worse tempered. The chill in his cabin had brought back the ache in his arm and the insufficient sleep had left him feeling worse than ever. Rogers came in, having just taken over the deck from Trussel, with the news that the wind had sprung up from the south east. 'It seems our luck has changed at last, sir.'
'Huh! Get me hot water…'
'Tregembo's got the matter in hand…'
'Tregembo?'
'He spent yesterday sponging your best uniform and sharpening your sword. There was a deal of activity last night. Blanche dragged her anchor and there were numerous boats pulling about.' Rogers lifted the decanter from its fiddle and poured a generous measure. 'Here Nat, drink this, you'll feel better.' He held out the glass.
'God's bones!' Drinkwater shuddered as the raw spirit hit his empty stomach. 'Thanks Sam.'
'I've called all hands and got the galley stove fired up to fill 'em full of burgoo and molasses for ballast.'
'Very good. Did you enjoy your dinner?'
'Yes, thank you. Old Lettsom trilled us some jolly airs and Matchett sung us "Tom Bowling" and some other stuff by Dibdin.' He paused and seemed to be considering something.
'What is it?'
'Jex, sir…'
'Oh?'
'Acted rather oddly. Left us abruptly in the middle of dinner and we found him sitting on the bowsprit, tight as a tick and crying his bloody eyes out.'
'What time was this? Did any of the men see?'
'Well some did, sir. It happened about ten last night. Lettsom made us put him to bed, though I was inclined to put him under arrest…'
'No, no. You have been a trifle hard on him, Sam.'
'Bloody man's a coward, sir…'
'That's a stiff allegation to make. D'you have evidence to support it?'
'Aye, during the action with the luggers we found him cowering on the spare sails.'
'Why didn't you report him then?' asked Drinkwater sharply, getting up. Rogers was silent for a moment.
'Saw no point in bothering you…'
'Kept damned silent for your own purposes, more like it,' Drinkwater suddenly blazed. 'Jex is the worst kind of purser, Sam, but I had the measure of the man and now you have goaded him to this extreme…' Drinkwater fell silent as Tregembo knocked and entered the cabin. He brought a huge bowl of steaming hot water and put it down on the cabin chest, then he bustled about, laying out Drinkwater's best uniform and clean undergarments.
'You're worse than a bloody wife, Tregembo,' said Drinkwater partially recovering his good temper as the rum spread through him.
'Very well, Mr Rogers,' he said at last, 'let us forget the matter. As long as he stands to his station today we'll say no more about any aspect of it.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' replied Rogers woodenly, leaving the cabin.
After Tregembo had left Drinkwater stripped himself, decanted a little water with which to shave then lifted the bowl of water onto the deck. For a few shuddering moments he immersed as much of himself as he could, dabbing half-heartedly with a bar of soap and drying himself quickly. Bathing and putting on clean underwear was chiefly to reduce infection of any wounds he might suffer but, in fact, it raised his morale and when he stepped on deck in the dawn, his boat cloak over two shirts and his best coat, he had forgotten the labours of the night.
He paced the poop in the growing light, looking up occasionally at the masthead pendant to check the wind had not shifted. He could scarcely believe that after all the delays, disappointments and hardships, the wind that had played them so foul for so long should actually swing into the required quarter as if on cue.
Tregembo approached him with a crestfallen look. 'Mr Drinkwater, zur.'
'Eh? What is it Tregembo?'
'Your sword, zur, you forgot your sword.'
'Ah… er, yes, I'm sorry, and thank you for attending to it yesterday.'
Tregembo grunted and handed the weapon over. Drinkwater took it. The leather scabbard was badly worn, the brass ferrule at the end scratched. The stitching of the scabbard was missing at one point and the rings were almost worn through where they fastened to the sling. He half drew the blade. The wicked, thin steel glinted dully, the brass hilt was notched and scored where it had guarded off more than a few blows and the heavy pommel, that counterbalanced the blade and made the weapon such a joy to handle, reminded him of a slithering fight on the deck of a French lugger when he had consigned a man to oblivion with its weight. The thought of that unknown Frenchman's murder made him think of Edward and he looked at the horizon to the north west, where the spires of Copenhagen were emerging from the night. He could see the line of the Danish ships, even pick out the tiny points of colour where their red ensigns already fluttered above the batteries. He buckled on the sword.
A feeling that something was wrong entered his head and it was some time before he detected its cause. The boat marking the southern end of the Middle Ground was missing.
It was clear Nelson had not slept. Drinkwater learned afterwards that he had laid down in his cot and spent the night dictating. He reported the missing mark only to hear that Nelson had already been informed and had sent for Brisbane to move Cruizer onto the spot and anchor there as a mark.
'Thanks to you and Hardy we have the bearing from Elephant so Brisbane should have no very great trouble.'
'Yes, my lord.'
'Come, Drinkwater, help yourself to some coffee from the sideboard there…'
'Thank you, my lord.'
'There should be something to eat, I shall be sending for all captains shortly so you may as well wait. Ah Foley…' Drinkwater did as he was bid, breakfasted and tried not to eavesdrop on Nelson's complex conversations with a variety of officers, secretaries and messengers who seemed to come into the cabin in an endless procession.
At seven o'clock every commander in Nelson's division had assembled on board the Elephant. Among the blue coats the scarlet of Colonel Stewart and Lieutenant-Colonel Brock commanding the detachment of the 49th Foot made a bright splash of colour, while the dull rifle-green of Captain Beckwith's uniform reflected a grimmer aspect of war.
Apart from the council aboard the flagship the British fleet seethed with activity. Drinkwater had little choice but to trust to the energies of Rogers and Tumilty in preparing the Virago for action, but he was learning that as a commander in such a complex operation as that intended by Nelson, it was more important to comprehend his admiral's intentions. Boats swarmed about the ships. On the decks of the battleships red-coated infantrymen drilled under their sergeants and were inspected by the indolent subalterns. Mates and lieutenants manoeuvred the big flat-boats into station while on every ship the chain slings were passed round the yards, the bulkheads knocked down, the boats not already in the water got outboard and towed astern, the nettings rigged and the decks sanded. Officers frequently glanced up at the masthead to see if the wind still held favourable.
Nelson explained his intended tactics by first describing the Danish line of defence:
'The enemy has eighteen vessels along the western side of the King's Deep. They mount some seven hundred guns of which over half are estimated to be above twenty-four pounds calibre. At the northern end, the line is supported by the Trekroner Forts. It is also supported by shore batteries like the Lynetten…' Each officer bent over his copy of the chart and made notes. Nelson went on, '… the force of the batteries is thought to be considerable and may include furnaces for heating shot. The Trekroner also appears to be supported by two additional heavy blockships.
'The channel into the port, dockyard and arsenal lies behind the Trekroner Forts and joins with the King's Channel just north of the forts. It is thought to be closed by a chain boom and is covered by enfilading fire from batteries on the land. Other ships, a seventy-four, a heavy frigate and some brigs and smaller vessels are anchored on this line.
'Batteries are also mounted on Amager, supporting the southern end of the line. In all the Danish defences extend four miles.'
The admiral paused and sipped from a glass of water. Drinkwater thought his face looked grey with worry but a fierce light darted from his one good eye and he watched the expressions of his captains as if seeking a weakness. He cleared his throat and went on.
'Each of you will receive written orders as to your station in the action from my secretary as you leave. These are as concise as possible and written on card for ease of handling. However it is my intention to explain the general plan to avoid needless confusion.
'As you have already been made aware, all the line of battleships are to have their anchors ready for letting go by the stern. They will anchor immediately upon coming abreast of their allotted target. Edgar will lead with Mr Briarly temporarily serving in her. Fire may be opened at your discretion. Captain Riou in Amazon is to take Blanche, Alemène, Arrow and Dart and co-operate with the van in silencing the guns commanding the harbour mouth, or as other circumstances might require. The bomb vessels will take station outside the line of battleships and throw their shells into the dockyard and arsenal. Captain Rose in the Jamaica, frigate, is to take the gun-brigs into position for raking the line at its southern end, thus discouraging reinforcement of the floating batteries from the shore. Captain Inman in Désirée will also take up this station. Captain Fremantle with five hundred seamen will concert his action with Colonel Stewart and the 49th Regiment to embark in the flat-boats and storm the Trekroner Forts as soon as their fire is silenced.' Nelson looked round the assembly. 'It looks formidable to those who are children at war,' he said smiling inspiringly, Imt to my judgement, with ten sail of the line I think I can annihilate them.' There was a murmur of agreement. 'That is all. Are there any questions? Very well then. To your posts, gentlemen, and success to His Majesty's Arms.'
The captains, commanders and lieutenants-in-command filed out, collecting their written instructions as directed and Drinkwater, looking for his boat among the throng of craft pressing alongside Elephant's flanks, found himself button-holed by Mr Briarly of the Bellona.
'Hold hard, sir. I ask you for your support for a moment. Lord Nelson has sent for masters and these damned pilots. They are still arguing about the approach to the King's Deep. You know Fothergill's boat is missing this morning?'
'Aye, it must have been driven off station by an ice floe, I warned…'
Briarly nodded. 'I heard,' he broke in impatiently, 'Look, Mr Drinkwater, you seem to have the admiral's ear, can you not persuade him that although there may be greater water on the Middle Ground side it is so steep-to that a small miscalculation…'
'Mr Briarly, his lordship has appointed you to lead the fleet in Edgar, surely the rest will follow.' Drinkwater was getting anxious about preparations aboard Virago.
'I was out this morning at first light, if each ship steers with…' he pointed out some conspicuous marks to Drinkwater which ensured a lead through the King's Deep.
'Are you certain of that?'
'Positive.'
'And will tell the admiral so?' Briarly nodded. 'Then I am certain you will carry the day, Mr Briarly. I am sure you do not need my assistance and I beg you let me return to my ship…'
'Morning, Drinkwater.' Drinkwater turned to find Martin at his other elbow.
'Good morning sir,' Drinkwater said absently, fishing in his pocket and remembering he had left his pocket compass in his greygoe. He would have liked to check the bearing of Cruizer to ensure Brisbane had anchored her in the correct place. Briarly had already gone to try and brow-beat the pilots.
'You are to be in the battle, Drinkwater,' said Martin, 'thanks to my good offices.'
'Yours sir?' Drinkwater looked up in astonishment. Martin nodded.
'I put in a good word for you the other day when I attended Lord Nelson.'
Drinkwater choked back an insubordinate laugh. 'Ah… I see… er, I'm greatly obliged to you sir.' And then he added with irresistible impishness, 'I shall inform Lord Dungarth of my obligation to you.'
Martin further astonished him by failing to see the implied sarcasm. 'I'd be vastly pleased if you would my dear fellow, vastly pleased.'
It was only when he was being pulled back to Virago that he remembered he had failed to take a bearing of the Cruizer from the Elephant.
'The admiral's just hoisted Number 14, sir,' reported Rogers as Drinkwater returned once again to Virago. '"Prepare for battle and for anchoring with springs on the anchors and the end of the sheet cable taken in at the stern port."'
'Very well.'
'The ship is cleared for action, sir.'
'Very well, I shall make my rounds now. Mr Easton! Mr Easton be so good as to attend the flagship's signals. Here,' he handed his instruction card to the master, 'Study that. I do not anticipate weighing until after the line of battle ships.'
Drinkwater led the way below with Rogers following. In the cabin space the bulkheads had been hinged up so that the after car-ronades and stern chasers could be fired if necessary. 'Only the gun captains and powder monkeys to remain with these guns, Mr Rogers. All other men to be mustered on deck as sailtrimmers, firemen or for Mr Tumilty's shell hoists…'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater looked at the place where his table had so long stood. Beneath it the previously locked hatch to the magazine had been removed. An artillery private armed with a short fusil stood guard over it.
'Mr Trussel and Bombardier Hite are below, sir. The felt curtains are well doused and Mr Tumilty is satisfied.'
Two men emerged carrying a box each. 'Mr Willerton's powder boxes, sir, checked for leaks and found correct.' Drinkwater remembered Tumilty's strictness on this point. A leaking powder box laid a gradual powder train directly from the deck to the magazine.
'Very well.' He nodded encouragingly at the men and reas-cended to the poop, striding the length of the waist alongside the carronades.
'Same arrangement for the waist batteries, Mr Rogers…'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater climbed onto the fo'c's'le where Matchett had his party of veteran seamen at the senior station. 'You will have the anchor ready?'
'Aye, sir. With a spring upon it sir, as soon as it's weighed and sighted clear.'
'Very good, Mr Matchett. Leave the spring slack when we anchor again. It is the line of battle ships his lordship wished to anchor by the stern to bring them swiftly into action and avoid the delays and risks in being raked as they swing. We shall most likely anchor by the head.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Good luck, Mr Matchett… Mr Willerton what the devil are you up to?'
Willerton appeared suddenly from the heads with a pot of red paint in his hand and his eyes innocently blue in the sunshine that was now breaking through the cloud.
'Attending to my leddy, sir, giving her a nice red tongue and lips to smack at the Frogs, sir.'
Drinkwater smiled. 'They ain't Frogs, Mr Willerton, they're Danes.'
'All the same to 'er leddyship, sir.'
Drinkwater burst out laughing and turned aft, nodding to the men waiting by the windlass. 'You may heave her dead short, my lads.'
Dropping below by the forward hatch he ran into Lieutenant Tumilty who was no longer his usual flippant self but wore an expression of stern concentration. He was also uncharacteristically formal.
'Good morning sir. My preparations are all but complete. If you wish I will show you the arrangements I have made.' They walked aft through the hold where Virago's four score seamen had lived and messed, past the remaining cables and the space cleared for the artillerymen.
At the after end a hatch opened into the stern quarters giving access to the magazine under Drinkwater's cabin. Tumilty held out his arm.
'No further sir, without felt boots.'
'Of course,' said Drinkwater, almost colliding with Tumilty.
'Hite and Trussel are filling the carcases, the empty shells, with white powder. Hobbs here is sentry and will assist if the action goes on long…' Drinkwater nodded at another artillery-man who carried not a fusil, in such dangerous proximity to the magazine, but a truncheon. 'Once filled, the shells come through here to the after shell room.' Tumilty turned forward, indicating the huge baulks of timber below the after, thirteen-inch, mortar that formed a cavity in which the shells were lodged. Above his head a small hatch had been opened, admitting a patch of light below.
'We, or rather Rogers's men, whip up the charged shells through that hatch to the mortar above…'
'What about fuses?' asked Drinkwater.
'As you see the shells are all wooden plugged for storage. I cut the fuses on the fo'c's'le. It's clear of seamen once Matchett quits fooling with his anchors; he'll be busy aft here, whipping up the shells. I rig leather dodgers to protect the fuses from sparks. The sergeant or myself will cut the fuses. This controls the time of explosion. Time of flight, and hence range, is decided by the charge in the chamber of the mortar. As I was saying, the fuse is of special composition and burns four tenths of an inch per minute. A thousand yard flight takes 2.56 seconds, so you see, Nat'aniel, 'tis a matter for a man of science, eh?'
'Indeed, Tom, it is… what of the ten-inch shells forward?'
'They go up in shell hooks. Now, I've had all hands at mortar stations twice in your absence and they all know what to do. I think we'll take it easy to begin with but we should be firing more than one shell a minute from each gun when we get the range.'
'What about the dangers of fire? I understand they're considerable…'
'Mr Jex's party are well briefed. We've wet tarpaulins handy to go over the side, buckets and tubs o' water all over the deck and in the tops… sure an' 'twill be like nothing you've ever seen in your life, Nat'aniel,' Tumilty smiled, recovering some of his former flippancy.
'Sir! Sir!' Quilhampton scrambled over a pile of rope and caught hold of Drinkwater's arm. 'Beggin' your pardon, sir, but Mr Rogers says to tell you that the admiral's hoisted Number 66 and the preparative, sir, "General order to weight an' the leeward ships first."'
'Thank you, Mr Q, I'll be up directly.'
Drinkwater arrived on the poop, reached in his tail pocket and whipped out his Dollond glass. Already the fleet was in motion. On their larboard bow, just beyond the bomb vessel Volcano, the lovely Agamemnon was hoisting her topsails. Edgar was already under way, her yards being braced round and the canvas stiffening with wind. Water appeared white at her bow and somewhere a shout and three cheers were called for. Several of the ships cheered their consorts as the naval might of Great Britain got under way. Drinkwater's fatigue, aches, pains and worries vanished as his heart-beat quickened and the old familiar exciting tingle shot down his spine.
They might be dead in an hour but, by God, this was a moment worth living for! He tried to mask his idiotic enthusiasm and turned aft to begin pacing the poop in an effort to repress his emotions and appear calm.
Bunting rose and broke from Elephant's yard arms as hard-pressed signalmen sweated to convey Nelson's last minute orders to the ships. Happily in the confusion none applied to the bomb vessels.
'Agamemnon's in trouble, sir,' remarked Rogers, nodding in the direction of the sixty-four.
'Damned current's too much for her, she ain't got enough headway…'
'She'll fall athwart Volcano's hawse if she ain't careful…'
'And ours by God! Veer cable Mr Matchett, veer cable!' They could see men on Volcano's fo'c's'le hurriedly letting out cable as the battleship tried to clear the little bomb vessel while the current set her rapidly north.
They watched helplessly as the big ship crabbed awkwardly across their own bow, failed to weather the mark vessel, Cruizer, and brought up to her anchor on the wrong side of the Middle Ground. Within minutes a flat-boat was ordered to her assistance, to carry out another anchor and enable her to haul herself to windward.
Edgar, with Mr Briarly at the con, began to draw ahead unsupported and bunting broke out again from Elephant's yards as Nelson ordered Polyphemus into the gap, followed by the old Isis. Drinkwater watched the next ship with some interest.
Bellona followed Isis, crossing close to Cruizer's bowsprit as she turned into the King's Deep. Drinkwater wondered if her pilot could see his marks and transits through the smoke of Edgar's fire as she engaged the Provesteenen, the most southerly Danish ship round which he and Hardy had sounded the night before. Beyond Isis Drinkwater could see Désirée which had got under way early and was already anchored and swinging to her spring to open a raking fire on the Provesteenen.
Russell, an old Camperdown ship and well-known to Drinkwater, was close behind Bellona, and Elephant's topmen were aloft as the admiral's flagship moved forward to take station astern of Russell. Ardent and Bligh's Glatton were setting sail.
'God's bones,' muttered Drinkwater, 'I think they are ignoring Briarly's advice.' Bellona appeared to have inclined to a slightly more easterly course than the first ships. As they watched a sudden gap opened up between Isis and Bellona. 'What the devil…?'
'Bellona's aground!' remarked Drinkwater grimly, 'hit the damned Middle Ground and look, by heaven, Russell's followed him!'
'That'll set the cat among the bloody pigeons,' said Rogers.
To the watchers on Virago nothing was known of the little drama on Elephant's quarterdeck as Nelson took over the con of the battleship personally. Overhearing the pilots advising the master to leave the grounded Bellona and Russell to larboard the admiral ordered the helm put over the other way, leaving the stricken ships to starboard and averting complete catastrophe. All Drinkwater, Rogers and Easton could see were the leading British ships under their topsails, moving slowly north enveloped in a growing cloud of smoke as gun after gun in the Danish line bore on them. Tumilty and Lettsom had joined the knot of officers on the poop and the Virago's rail was crowded with her people as they watched the cannonade.
Following Elephant were Glatton, Monarch, Defiance and Ganges, weathering the south end of the Middle Ground, while Riou's frigates, led by Amazon, were in line ahead for the entrance to the King's Deep.
Rose's little gun-brigs each with their waspish names: Biter, Sparkler, Tickler, were shaking out their topsails; seemingly as anxious to get among the enemy fire as their larger consorts. Fremantle's flatboats were also active, three or four of them clustered around Agamemnon's bow assisting in carrying out her anchors, and converging on Bellona and Russell who were under fire from the Provesteenen and howitzer batteries on Amager.
'Hullo, old Parker's on the move.' The levelled telescopes swung to the north where the Commander-in-Chief's division was beating up to re-anchor at the north end of the Middle Ground.
'I wonder if he can see Bellona and Russell aground?' asked Easton.
'He'll have a damned fit if he can, two battleships out of the line is going to have quite an effect on the others,' offered Rogers.
'Your fire-eating brothers in Christ will have their whiskers singed, Mr Rogers,' said Lettsom philosophically. 'Here is a quatrain for you:
'See where the guns of England thunder
Giving blow for mighty blow,
Who was it that made the blunder,
Took 'em where they couldn't go?'
Rogers burst out laughing and even Drinkwater, keenly observing the progress of the action, could not repress a smile. He walked across to the deck log and looked at Easton's last entry: '10 o'clock, van ships engaged, cannonade became general as line of battle ships got into station.'
To the north of them most of Parker's squadron were reanchoring. But four of his battleships were beating up towards Copenhagen against wind and current to enter the action.
Astern of the bomb vessels, Jamaica and the gun brigs were having a similar problem. The crowded anchorage had not allowed all the ships to get sufficiently to the south to weather the Middle Ground in the wind now blowing, and though Drinkwater thought that the shallow draught gun-brigs could have chanced slipping inside Cruizer, it was clear that Parker's caution was now epidemic in the fleet.
'Explosion's signalling, sir, "Bombs General, weigh and form line of battle."'
The noise of the cannonade reached Mr Jex as he bent down in the hold. He was outboard of the great coils of spare cable, in the carpenter's walk against the ship's side. He had left the deck on the pretext of checking the sea inlet cock. From here water was drawn on deck by the fire engine, to spout from the two hoses his party had laid out on the deck. The spigot had been opened hours earlier and Jex merely crouched over it. His fear had reduced him to a trembling jelly. He could hear above the still distant sound of cannon the distinct chuckle of water alongside a hull under way: Virago was going into action.
For five minutes Jex huddled terrified against the ship's side before recovering himself. Standing uncertainly he began to make his way towards the spirit room.
Drinkwater stared through the vanes of his hand compass at the main mast of Cruizer.
'Damn! She won't weather Cruizer, Mr Easton, can you stretch the braces a little?'
Easton looked aloft then shook his head. 'Hard against the catharpings, sir.'
Rogers came and stood anxiously next to Drinkwater as he continued to stare through the brass vanes. He was swearing under his breath.
'Keep her full and bye, Tregembo!' Drinkwater could feel the sweat prickling his armpits. He took his eye off Cruizer for a second and saw how the stern of the grounded Russell was perceptibly nearer.
'Hecla's having the same trouble, Nat,' Rogers muttered consolingly.
'That's bloody cold comfort!' snapped Drinkwater, suddenly venomous. Were they to go aground ignominiously after all their tribulations? He snapped the compass vanes shut and pocketted the little instrument.
'Set all sail, Mr Rogers, and lively about it!'
Rogers did not even bother to acknowledge the order. 'Tops there! Aloft and shake out the t'gallants! Fo'c's'le! Hoist both jibs…'
Easton had jumped down into the waist and was chivvying the waisters onto the topgallant halliards.
'Get those fucking lobsters to tail on, Easton. You there! Aloft and let fall the main course…'
The loose canvas flopped downwards, billowed and filled. Virago heeled a little more. Here and there a knife flashed to cut a kink jammed in a sheave but the constant days of battling with gales, of making and reducing sail now brought its own dividends and the Viragos caught something of the urgency of the hour.
The bomb vessel increased her speed, leaning to leeward with the water foaming along her side.
'Up helm and ease her a point.' Drinkwater had not taken his eyes off Cruizer's stern. Suddenly the men looked up from coiling the ropes to see the brig's stern very close as they sped past, with a row of faces watching the old bomb vessel going into action.
Brisbane raised his hat, 'Tally ho, Drinkwater, by God! Tally ho and mind the mud!'
Drinkwater felt the thrill of exhilaration turn to that of fear as the deck heaved beneath his feet.
'God damn and blast it!' screamed Rogers, beside himself with angry frustration, but suddenly they were free and a ragged cheer broke from those who realised that for an instant their keel had struck the Middle Ground.
In a moment they could bear up for the battle…
'Larboard bow, sir!' Drinkwater looked up. Coming round Cruizer's bow was Explosion, just swinging before the wind to make her own approach to her station. Drinkwater could not luff without colliding or losing control of Virago, neither dare he bear away for a little longer since Russell was indicating the bank dangerously close to his starboard side. He resolved to stand on, aware that Martin was screeching something at him through a trumpet.
'Damn Captain Martin,' he muttered to himself, but a chorus of 'Hear, hear!' from Rogers and Easton indicated the extent of his concentration. Martin was compelled to let fly his sheets to check Explosion's headway.
'Up helm, Tregembo… reduce sail again!'
Astern Martin was still shouting as Explosion, closely followed by Volcano, Terror and Discovery weathered the Cruizer and the Middle Ground.
'For what we are about to receive, may we be truly… Jesus!' A storm of shot swept Virago's deck. They had left astern Désirée, anchored athwart the Danish line with a spring straining on her cable, and Polyphemus was drawing onto the larboard quarter. She too was anchored, though by the stern. As Virago crossed the gap between Polyphemus and the next anchored ship, the Isis, a broadside from Provesteenen hit her, cutting up the rigging and sails and wounding the foremast. On their own starboard side they had already passed Russell, flying the signal for distress and with flat-boats heaving out cables from her bow and stern while cannon shot dropped all round them. As they passed Bellona a terrific bang occurred and screams rent the air.
Beside Drinkwater Lieutenant Tumilty wore a seraphic smile. 'Gun exploded,' he explained for the benefit of anyone interested. Bellona's guns were returning the Danish fire and Drinkwater looked ahead. From this close range the enemy defences took on a different aspect. From a distance the exiguous collection of prames, radeaus, cut down battleships, floating batteries, transports and frigates had had a cheap, thread-bare look about them, compared with the formal naval might of Great Britain with its canvas, bunting and wooden walls. But from the southern end of the King's Deep it looked altogether different. Already Bellona and Russell were of little use, although both returned fire and strove throughout the day to get afloat again. Against the remaining ships the massed cannon of the Danish defences looked formidable. Spitting fire and smoke, the blazing tiers of guns were the most awesome sight Drinkwater had ever seen.
The gaps between the British ships were greater now, occasioned by the loss of Bellona and Russell from the line. Shot whined over the decks, ripping holes in the sails and occasionally striking splinters from Virago's timber.
There was a scream as the bomb vessel received her first casualty, an over-curious artilleryman who spun round and fell across the ten-inch mortar hatch while his shattered head flew overboard.
The Danes were defending their very hearths, and kept up the gunfire by continually sending reinforcements from the shore to relieve their tired men, and sustain the hail of shot against the British.
Virago's fore topgallant was shot away as she passed Edgar, engaged against the Jutland, an old, cut down two-decker. Rogers leapt forward, temperamentally unable to remain inactive for long in such circumstances. He began to clear the mess while Drinkwater concentrated upon the calls of the leadsman in the starboard chains. Beyond Jutland the odd square shapes of two floating batteries and a frigate were firing at both Edgar and the next ship ahead, Bligh's Glatton. The former East Indiaman which had once compelled a whole squadron to surrender to her deadly, short range batteries of carronades was keeping up a terrific fire. Most of her effort was concentrated on her immediate opponent, another cut-down battleship, the Dannebrog, flagship of the Danish commander, Commodore Olfert Fischer. But Virago did not pass unmolested, three more men were wounded and another killed as the storm of shot swept them.
'Bring her to starboard a little, Mr Easton, and pass word to Mr Matchett, Mr Q, to watch for my signal to anchor; we are almost on our station abeam the admiral.'
The two officers acknowledged their orders.
Drinkwater studied Elephant for a moment. He could see the knot of glittering officers on her quarterdeck in the sunshine. Beyond the flagship lay the Ganges and then a gap, filled with boats pulling up and down the line. Just visible in the smoke were Monarch and Graves's flagship Defiance, and somewhere ahead of them, in the full fire of the heavy batteries of the Trekroner Forts, were Riou and his frigates.
'Bring the ship to the wind, Mr Easton.' Virago began to turn. 'You may begin your preparations, Mr Tumilty.' As they had closed Elephant the Irishman had been observing his targets and taking obscure measurements with what looked like a pelorus.
To his astonishment Tumilty winked. 'And now, my dear Nat'aniel, you'll see why we've brought all this here.' Leprechaun-like he hopped onto the foredeck and began to bawl instructions at his artillerymen.
Drinkwater felt the wind on his face and dropped his arm as the main topsail flogged back against the mast. 'Bunt lines and clew lines there! Ease the halliards! Up aloft and stow!' Rogers paused, looking along the deck to see his orders obeyed. 'You there, up aloft… Bosun's mate, start that man aloft, God damn it, and take his name!'
Virago's anchor dropped just as the leadsman called 'By the mark five!'
'Perfect, by God,' Drinkwater muttered to himself, pleased with his positioning, and suddenly thinking of Elizabeth in his moment of self-conceit.
'How much scope, sir?' Matchett was crying at him from forward.
'Half a cable, Mr Matchett,' he called through the speaking trumpet. He felt Virago tug round as her anchor bit and she brought up. She lay quietly sheering a few degrees in the current.
'Brought up, sir,' reported Easton, straightening up from taking a bearing.
'Very well, Mr Easton.' Drinkwater looked round. Astern of them Terror was turning into the wind to anchor while Explosion and Discovery continued past Virago. Of Volcano there was no sign, though Drinkwater afterwards learned she had been ordered to anchor and throw shells against the howitzer battery on Amager at the southern end of the line.
He raised his hat to Martin as the commander went past, partly out of bravado, partly to mollify the touchy man. To the south the confusion caused by the groundings had resulted in Isis anchoring prematurely to cover Bellona and Russell. The consequence of this was a dangerous extension of the line of battleships north of the Elephant with the lighter frigates absorbing enormous punishment from the Trekroner Forts, the Lynetten, Quintus and other batteries, plus the guns of the inner line commanded by Steen Bille. The whole area was a mass of smoke and fire while Parker's three relieving battleships, Ramilles, Defence and Veteran were making no apparent headway to come to Riou's assistance.
'Mr Drinkwater! I'm ready to open fire if you can steady the ship a little.'
Drinkwater turned his attention inboard. Rogers had a gang of men aft, their arms extended above their heads where they prepared to whip up the shells; groups of artillerymen, stripped to their braces in the biting wind, clustered round the mortars which, looking like huge, elongated cauldrons pointed their blunt, ineffective looking muzzles out to starboard, at the sky over Copenhagen.
'Mr Easton, let fall the mizzen topsail and keep it backed against the mast. Fire as you will, Mr Tumilty.'
'Thank 'ee, sir, and will you be kind enough to observe the fall o' shot?'
Drinkwater nodded. Tumilty hopped back to the fo'c's'le where he bent behind the leather dodger then walked aft beside the sergeant to the thirteen-inch mortar. Tapping the prepared fuse into the first shell Tumilty saw the monstrous ball, more than a foot in diameter and which contained ten pounds of white gun powder, safely into the chamber of the mortar. He had already loaded the powder he judged would throw the carcase over the opposing lines of ships into the heart of the Danish capital.
Handing the linstock to his sergeant he leaped up onto the poop and pulled his telescope from his pocket. 'Festina lente, eh Nat'aniel… Fire!'
The roar was immense, drowning the sound of the guns of the fleets, and white smoke rolled reeking over them.
'Mark it! Mark it!' yelled Tumilty, his glass travelling up and then down as a faint white line arced against the blue sky to fall with increasing speed onto the roofs of the city.
At the mortar bed the artillerymen crowded round, swabbing out the chamber of the gun. The elevation remained unchanged, being set at forty-five degrees.
Drinkwater stared at the arsenal of Copenhagen trying to see where the shell burst. He saw nothing.
'Over, by Jesus,' said Tumilty happily, 'and at least the fuse was not premature.' Drinkwater watched him fuss round the mortar again as the whipping up gang began to work. The ten inch had been readied but Tumilty held its fire until he was satisfied with the performance of the after mortar.
Although he felt the deck shudder under the concussion and gasped as the smoke and blast passed over him, Drinkwater was ready for the next shot. The carcase descended on the arsenal and Drinkwater saw it burst as it hit the ground.
'A little short Mr Tumilty, I believe.' The landing of the third shot was also short but at his next Tumilty justified his claim to be the finest pyroballogist in the Royal Artillery. The explosion was masked by the walls of the arsenal but Tumilty was delighted with the result and left the poop to supervise both mortars from the waist.
Dutifully Easton and Drinkwater reported the fall of the shells as well as they could. From time to time Tumilty would pause to traverse his mortar-beds but he maintained a steady fire. Beneath his feet Drinkwater was aware that Virago had suddenly become a hive of activity. All the oddities of her construction had been built for this moment: the curious hatches, the fire-screens, the glazed lantern niches; the huge futtocks and heavy scantlings; the octagonal hatches. Mr Trussel and Bombardier Hite received instructions from Tumilty and made up the flannel cartridges in the filling room. The artillery sergeant cut fuses on the now deserted fo'c's'le. In the waist seamen and soldiers scurried about as they carried shells, fuses, cartridges and buckets of water with which to douse the hot mortars. Orchestrating the whole was Lieutenant Tumilty, his face purple with exertion, his active figure justifying his regiment's motto as he seemed everywhere at once like some hellish fiend.
As they fired over the main action Drinkwater was able to see something of the progress of the battle. Already damage to the British ships was obvious. Several had lost masts and others flew signals of distress. Amongst the splashes of wide cannot shot the flat-boats and boats of the fleet pulled about, coolly carrying out anchors. Through this hail of shot Brisbane sailed the Cruizer from her now redundant duty of marking the south end of the Middle Ground, the length of the line to Riou's support. Of the Danish line Drinkwater could see little beyond those hulks and prames on his beam. One appeared to have got out of the line and several seemed to strike their flags, but as they had reappeared the next time he looked he could not be sure what was happening. Terror, Explosion and Discovery were throwing shells into Copenhagen. Neither Heda, Zebra nor Sulphur appeared to have weathered the Middle Ground and got into the action.
'Fire! Fire!' Drinkwater swung round. A flicker of flames raced along the larboard rail but Rogers was equal to it. 'Fire party, hoses to the larboard waist!'
Drinkwater looked in vain for Jex, but his men were there, dragging an already pulsing hose towards the burning spars lying on the rail.
'Part-burnt wads, Nat'aniel,' shouted Tumilty unconcerned, identifying the cause of the fire.
'Where the devil's Mr Jex?' Drinkwater called out, frowning.
'Don't know, sir,' replied Rogers, as he had men cutting the lashing round the spars and levering them overboard. A shot whined over his head and he ducked.
'Mr Easton!'
'Sir!'
'Find Jex!'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
But Easton had not left the poop when Jex appeared through the smoke that billowed back from the ten-inch mortar forward. He was drunk and in his shirt-sleeves. 'I hear the cry of fire!' he shouted, holding up his hands above his head and staggering over a ring-bolt. 'Here I am you bastards, at my fucking action station, God rot you all…'
Men turned to look at the purser as he reached the after mortar and was again engulfed in the smoke of discharge. He emerged to the astonished onlookers like a theatrical wraith, his face flaccid, his cheeks wet with tears. Drinkwater was aware of a sniggering from the men at the shell-hatch.
'Bastards, you're all bastards…' Jex flung his arms wide in a gesture that embraced them all.
'Mr Jex…!' Drinkwater began, his jaw dropping as Jex's right arm flew off, spun round and slapped a topman across the face. The astonished man put up his hands and caught the severed limb.
'Cor! Pusser's give me back me bleeding eighth…'
The grotesque joke ended the brief hiatus on Virago's deck. Jex looked stupidly at his distant arm then down at the gouts of his blood as it poured from the socket. He began to scream and run about the deck.
Rogers felled him with one end of a burning royal yard he was heaving overboard. Jex fell to the deck, his legs kicking and his back arching, the red stain growing on the planking.
'Jesus Christ,' muttered Easton watching, fascinated.
At last Jex grew still. Jumping down from the rail having tossed overboard all the burning spars Rogers pointed to the body and addressed two seamen standing stock still beside a starboard carronade.
'Throw that damned thing overboard.'
Then Tumilty's after mortar roared again.
'Mr Drinkwater, sir! The Commander-in-Chief is signalling, sir!'
'Well Mr Q, what is it?'
'Number 39, sir: "Discontinue the action," sir.'
'"Discontinue the action"? Are you certain? Drinkwater raised his Dollond glass and levelled it to the north. Ramilles, Veteran and Defence were still clawing to windward and he could see London still at anchor, with her blue admiral's flag at the main. And there too were the blue and white horizontal stripes of Number 3 flag over the horizontal red, white and blue of Number 9.
'Mr Easton, what o'clock d'you have?'
'Twenty minutes after one, sir.'
'You must log receipt of that signal, Mr Easton… Mr Matchett… where the devil's the bosun?'
'Here sir.'
'Prepare to weigh.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater looked again at the London. There was no mistaking that signal. It was definitely Number 39.
'Cease fire, Mr Tumilty… Mr Rogers, disperse the hands to their stations for getting under way…' Drinkwater looked anxiously about him. Disengagement was going to be difficult. The battleships had only to cut their cables, they were already headed north and would soon be carried out of the action but the bombs had to weigh and turn. Virago could not turn to larboard, away from the Danish guns, because of the Middle Ground upon whose edge she had been anchored. To turn to starboard would put the ship under a devastating raking fire. Drinkwater swallowed. If he weighed immediately he might obtain a little shelter behind the battleships but he ran two risks in doing so. The first was that with the prevailing current he might run foul of one of the bigger ships; the second was that too precipitate a departure from the line of battle could be construed as cowardice.
'What the devil d'you want me to cease fire for?' Tumilty's purple face peered belligerently through the smoke.
'The Commander-in-Chief instructs us to abandon the action, damn it!'
'What the bloody hell for?'
'Do as you're told, Tumilty!' snapped Drinkwater.
'Beg pardon, sir, Flag's only acknowledged the signal…'
'Eh?' Drinkwater looked where Quilhampton pointed. Elephant had not repeated Parker's order. He looked astern and saw Explosion had repeated Number 39.
'What the bloody hell…?'
'Can you see Defiance, Mr Q?' Quilhampton stared over the starboard quarter and levelled the big watch-glass.
'I can't be sure, sir, but I think Admiral Graves has a signal hoisted but if he has it ain't from a very conspicuous place…'
'Not very conspicuous…?' Drinkwater frowned again and returned his attention to the Elephant. Nelson had signalled only an acknowledgement of sighting Number 39 to Parker but not repeated it to his ships, and Number 16, the signal for Close Action, hoisted at the beginning of the battle, still flew.
Drinkwater tried to clear his head while the concussion of the guns went on. Nelson was clearly not eager to obey. From Parker's distant observation post it must be obvious that Nelson was in trouble. Bellona and Russell were aground, both flying conspicuous signals of distress; there was a congestion of ships at the southern end of the line which, combined with the presence of some bombs and the gun-brigs still in the southern anchorage, suggested that something had gone dreadfully wrong with Nelson's division. Agamemnon, after repeated efforts to kedge round Cruizer, had given up and sent her boats to the assistance of the fleet while Cruizer, the mark vessel, had abandoned her station to support Riou.
Parker could see the northern end of the line more clearly. Frigates engaged with prepared positions presaged disaster, while his three battleships were clearly going to be unable to relieve Riou as they were still too far off.
'Pusillanimous Parker's lost his bloody nerve, eh?' said Rogers levelling a glass alongside Drinkwater.
'I think,' said Drinkwater, 'he's giving Nelson the chance to get out while he may. But I think he little appreciates what bloody chaos there will be if Nelson tries to disengage at this juncture…'
'Well Nelson ain't moving!' Rogers nodded across at Elephant.
'No.' Drinkwater paused. 'Tell Matchett to veer that cable again, Sam… Mr Tumilty! Re-engage!' A cheer went along Virago's deck and the next instant her waist filled with smoke and noise as the mortars roared.
'Flag to Virago, Number 214, for a "Lieutenant to report on board the Admiral," sir,' said Quilhampton diligently.
'Very well, pass word to Lieutenant Rogers, Mr Q.' Quilhampton went in search of the first lieutenant who had disappeared off the poop. Astern of them Explosion hauled down Number 39.
It was twenty minutes before Rogers returned. Rogers was elated.
'By God, sir, you should see it from over there, Nelson himself claims it's the hottest fire he's ever been under and the Danes are refusing to surrender. They're striking, then firing on the boats sent to take 'em…'
'What did the admiral want?' cut in Drinkwater.
'Oh, he remarked that Virago's shells were well directed and could we drop some into the Trekroner Forts.'
'Mr Tumilty!' Drinkwater shrieked through the din. He beckoned the Irishman onto the poop. 'His lordship wants us to direct our fire at the Trekroner Forts.'
Tumilty's eyes lit up. 'Very good. I'll switch the ten-inch to firing one pound shot, that'll shake the eejits if they haven't got casemates over there.'
Tumilty took ten minutes and four careful shots to get the range. The Trekroner Forts were at extreme range and the increased charge of twice the amount of powder used to reach the arsenal made Virago shake to her keel.
The one-pound shot arrived in boxes, and stockingette bags of them were lifted into the forward mortar, one hundred to a shot. Drinkwater found the trajectory of these easier to follow than the carcases as they spread slightly in flight.
For half an hour Virago kept up this bombardment until Quilhampton reported a flag of truce flying at Elephant's masthead. All along both lines the fire began to slacken and an air of uncertainty spread over the fleet.
Looking northwards Drinkwater saw Amazon leading the frigate squadron towards Parker's anchored ships and rightly concluded that Riou, unable to see Nelson's signal for close action, had obeyed Parker's order to withdraw. It was only later that he learnt Riou had been cut in two by a round shot an instant after giving the order.
Desultory firing still rippled up and down the line as observers saw boats of both nations clustered round Elephant flying flags of truce. As the sun westered it appeared some armistice had been concluded, for Nelson made the signal to his ships to make sail. A lieutenant was pulled across to the line of bomb vessels to order them to move nearer the Trekroner Forts and remain until the admiral sent them further orders.
'That will bring the whole city in range,' grinned the smoke-grimed Tumilty.
'I think, gentlemen,' said Drinkwater shutting the Dollond glass with a snap, 'that we are to be the ace of trumps!'
'Oh, my God!' Drinkwater peered down into the boat alongside Virago. By the lantern light he could see the body of Easton lying inert in the stern sheets.
'Where's the other boat? Mr Quilhampton's boat,' he demanded, suddenly, terribly anxious.
'Here sir,' the familiar voice called as the cutter rounded the stern. There were wounded men in her too.
'What the devil happened?'
'Elephant ordered us to carry out a cable, sir, and then, when we had done that, Captain Foley directed us to secure one of the Danish prizes…'
'Foley?'
'Yes, sir. Lord Nelson returned to St George when Elephant grounded trying to get away to the north…'
'Go on…'
'Well sir, we approached the prize about two o'clock and the bastards opened fire on us…'
Drinkwater turned away from the rail to find Rogers looming out of the darkness.
'Get those men out, Mr Rogers, and then take a fresh crew and get over the Monarch.'
'The Monarch, sir?'
'I sent Lettsom over there earlier tonight, she was in want of a surgeon.'
'Bloody hell.'
Drinkwater did what he could while he waited for the surgeon's arrival. It was little enough but it occupied the night and he emerged aching into the frozen dawn. It was calm and a light mist lay over the King's Deep.
The hours of darkness had been a shambles. After the exertions of the previous nights and the day of the battle, Drinkwater was grey with exhaustion. The British ships had not extricated themselves from the battle without difficulty. In addition to Elephant, Defiance had gone aground. Monarch, which had been badly damaged in the action and suffered fearful loss of life, had become unmanageable and run inshore only to collide with Ganges, run aground and come under the renewed fire of the Danes. Fortuitously the impact of Ganges drove Monarch off the mud and both ships got away in the growing night. One of the Danish ships had exploded with a fearful concussion and the air was still filled with the smell of burning.
Drinkwater had worked his own ship across the King's Deep during the evening, answering Elephant's signal for a boat to attend her cables and Monarch's for a surgeon. Virago was now anchored closer to the city, commanding the Trekroner Forts with her still-warm mortars and in company with Explosion, Terror and Discovery.
A rising sun began to consume the mist revealing that the majority of the British fleet had joined Sir Hyde Parker at the north end of the Middle Ground. Lettsom returned with Rogers, whose boat's crew had worked like demons. To the south Bellona and Russell had gone, the former by picking up Isis's cable and hauling herself off. Désirée, too, seemed to have got off. Nearer them Defiance was still fast, but by the time Drinkwater sent the hands to breakfast she too was under way.
Shutting the magazines and exhorting his officers to use the utmost caution bearing in mind the weary condition of the men, Drinkwater had the galley range fired up and all enjoyed a steaming burgoo. Drinkwater was unable to rest and kept the deck. The excitement and exertions of the last hours had driven him beyond sleep and, though he knew reaction must come, for the moment he paced his poop.
The Danish line presented a spectacle that he would never forget. From his position during the battle Drinkwater's view had been obscured by smoke. He had been able to see only the unengaged sides of the British ships and had formed no very reliable opinion of the effects of the gunfire. But now he was able to see the effect of the cannonade on the Danish vessels.
The sides of many of the blockships and hulks were completely battered in, with huge gaps in their planking. Many were out of position, driven inshore onto the flats off Amager. Some still flew the Danish flag. Looking at the respective appearance of the two protagonists, the shattered Danish line to the west, the British battleships licking their wounds to the north east, Drinkwater concluded there seemed little to choose between them. Possession of the field seemed to be in the hands of the Danes, since no landing of the troops had taken place; no storming of the Trekroner from the flat-boats had occurred.
And then his tired mind remembered his own words of the previous night. Here they were, the line of little bomb vessels, the tubby Cinderellas of the fleet, holding the field for the honour of Great Britain and turning a drawn battle into victory.
'Sir, boat approaching, and I believe his lordship's in it!'
'What's that?' Drinkwater woke abruptly as Quilhampton's bandaged head appeared round the door. He stretched. His head, his legs and above all his mangled arm ached intolerably. He could not have slept above half an hour.
'What did you say? Lord Nelson?'
'Yes sir…'
Drinkwater dragged himself on deck to see the admiral's barge approaching Explosion. It passed down the line of bomb vessels. The little admiral wore his incongruous check overcoat and sat next to the taller Hardy. The Viragos lined the rail and gave the admiral a spontaneous cheer. Nelson raised his hat as he came abeam.
'Morning Drinkwater.'
'Good mornin', my lord.'
'I have been in over a hundred actions, Mr Drinkwater, but yesterday's was the hottest. I was well pleased with your conduct and will not forget you in my report to their Lordships.'
'Obliged to you, my lord.' Drinkwater watched the boat move on. Beside him Lettsom emerged reeking of blood.
'His lordship has paid a heavy price in blood for his honours,' the surgeon said sadly.
'How was Monarch?'
'A bloody shambles. Fifty-six killed, including Mosse, her captain, and one hundred and sixty-four wounded seriously. They say her first lieutenant, Yelland, worked miracles to bring her out. Doubtless he will be promoted…' Lettsom broke off, the implied bitterness clear. How many surgeons and their mates had laboured with equal skill would never be known.
'Flat-boats approaching, sir.'
'Mr Q, will you kindly desist with your interminable bloody reports…'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater was immediately ashamed of his temper. Quilhampton's crestfallen expression was eloquent of hurt.
'Mr Q! I beg your pardon.'
Quilhampton brightened immediately. 'That's all right, sir.'
Drinkwater looked at the flat-boats. 'Let me know what they are up to, Mr Q.' He went below and immediately fell asleep.
He woke to the smell of smoke rolling over the sea. Going on deck he found an indignant knot of officers on the poop. 'What the devil's this damned Dover court, eh?' He was thoroughly bad-tempered now, having slept enough to recover his spirits but not to overcome his exhaustion.
'Old Vinegar's ordered the prizes burned,' said Rogers indignantly. 'We won't have the benefit of any prize money, God rot him.' In a fleet that had subsisted for weeks upon rumour and gossip no item had so speedily offended the seamen. It was true that there was little of real value among the Danish ships but one or two were fine vessels wanting only masts and spars. Only the Holstein was to be spared and fitted as a hospital ship for the wounded. Nelson was reported to be furious with Parker and had remonstrated with his commander-in-chief on behalf of the common seamen in the fleet, arguing that their only reward was some expectation of prize and head money.
The vice-admiral seemed indefatigable. He was known to have arranged the truce and that evening went ashore to dine with his former enemies. Although peace had not been formally concluded the fleet had persuaded itself that the Danes were beaten.
Drinkwater shut the prayer book and put on his hat. The gospel of the resurrection had a hollow ring this Easter Sunday.
'On hats!' bellowed Rogers. Drinkwater stepped forward to address the men.
'My lads, I do not propose to read the Articles of War today, simply to thank you for acquitting yourselves so well on Thursday.' A cheer went up from the men and Drinkwater mistily realised it was for him. The shouting died away. 'But… but we may not yet have finished work…' The hands fell silent again, staring apprehensively at him. 'I received orders this morning that the truce ends at noon. If no satisfactory explanation is heard as to why our terms have not been accepted we will bombard the city.' He went below and Rogers dismissed the hands.
'Sir! Mr Rogers says to tell you there's boats coming and going between the shore and the Trekroner…'
Drinkwater went on deck and stared through his glass. There was no doubt about it—the Danes were reinforcing the defences.
'So much for his lordship's toasts of everlasting fraternity with the Danes,' remarked Rogers sourly.
'Man a boat, Mr Rogers, and take command of the ship in my absence.'
The boat could not go fast enough for Drinkwater and it wanted a few minutes before noon when he clambered up London's side and reported to the commander-in-chief. Parker astonished him by remembering his name. 'Ah, Drinkwater, the officer of the watch informs me you have intelligence regarding the Trekroner Forts.' Drinkwater nodded. 'By the way, my wife writes and asks to be remembered to you, it seems I was not appreciative of your services to her last year when we met before.'
Drinkwater bowed. 'That is most kind of her ladyship, sir.' He was desperately anxious to communicate the news about the Danish reinforcements.
'The Danes are pouring men into the Trekroners, sir, reinforcements…'
'I think you may compose your mind on that score, Mr Drinkwater. The Danish envoys have just left me. The truce is extended.' It was only much later that Drinkwater wondered if Lady Parker implied anything in her kindness.
For two days the British fleet repaired the damage to itself, took out of the remaining prizes all the stores that were left and burnt the hulls. A south westerly wind swept a chill rain down over them and once again all was uncertainty. The seamen laboured at the sweeps of the flat-boats as they pulled between the plundered prizes and the British anchorage.
The cutter Fox left to survey the shallows over The Grounds to the south, past Dragor, in an attempt to find a channel suitable for the deep hulls of the first-rates and enable them to get through to the Baltic. Eager to assist, Drinkwater was ordered to remain on his bomb and keep his mortars trained on the city of Copenhagen.
Nelson and Colonel Stewart again dined ashore and the truce was further extended. News came that letters might be written and transported to England. Drinkwater sat at his reinstated table, snapped open the inkwell and paused before drawing a sheet of paper towards him. There was one duty he was conscious of having put off since the battle. Instead of the writing paper he pulled the muster book from its place and opened it.
He ran his finger down the list of names, halting at Easton. He paused for a second, recalling the man's face, then his mouth set in a firm line and he carefully wrote the legend 'D.D.' for 'discharged dead'. He repeated the process against the name Jex, suppressing the unchristian relief that clamped his lips even more tightly, then hurried down the list, and inserted the cryptic initials against four other names.
At the bottom of the column he paused again. Then, dipping his pen in the inkwell with sudden resolution he wrote 'D.D.' against the entry 'Ed 'd. 'Waters, Landsman Volunteer', sanded the page and pushed the book aside.
He found his hand shaking slightly as he began his letter to Elizabeth.
H.M Bomb Virago
Copenhagen Road
Wednesday 8th April 1801
My Darling Elizabeth,
Cruizer is about to leave with despatches and I have time to tell you that on Thursday last the fleet was engaged before this city. The action was furious but I escaped unscathed, so your prayers were answered. Many brave fellows have fallen but you may tell Louise that James got only a scratch. He has done well and exceeded my expectations of him. Peace is still not confirmed, but I think it likely. You will read in the papers of great exertions by Lord Nelson and I flatter myself that his lordship took notice of me. Some good may yet come of it, although I must not be too sanguine, his lordship not having the chief command.
Tell Susan that Tregembo is fit and in good health.
I hope you continue in health and your condition is not irksome. Kiss Charlotte Amelia for me and remember me as your devoted husband…
He signed the letter, disappointed that it was not more personal. Somehow Elizabeth's remoteness made her existence unreal. Reality was this penetrating chill and the endless ache in his right arm.
The cutter Fox returned to the fleet anchorage on the following evening. She had found a passage over the shoals into the Baltic. The next day came news of a fourteen week armistice. The Danes would supply the fleet with water and other necessaries and in return the bomb vessels would haul off. Other news came aboard too, news that had little impact on anyone except Lieutenant Nathaniel Drinkwater.
Danish and Prussian troops had entered Hamburg and the port had been closed to all communication with Britain.
'General signal from Flag, sir: "All ships to send boat".'
'That ought to be for mails, see to it Mr Rogers.' Every glass in the fleet had trained on Lynx when she arrived at Kioge Bay. Captain Otway was on board with news of the outside world. After the efforts and tribulations of the last few weeks almost any news that was not pure gossip about the fleet was welcome.
Strenuous efforts had been made to work the big ships, particularly London and St George, over the shallows. Their guns and stores had been hoisted out into merchant ships while the lightened battleships, riding high in the water, were hauled into the Baltic. Following the London, St George had grounded. Parker heard that the Swedish fleet was at sea and sent for Nelson to leave St George and rejoin Elephant anchored with the rest of the British warships at Kioge Bay. Nelson had his barge pull the twenty-four miles in the teeth of a rising and bitter wind to rejoin his former flagship.
While the big ships sailed to seek out the squadron from Carlscrona, the bombs and small fry waited in Kioge Bay and wondered if they were to sail against the Russians. Despite the recent carnage of the battle, relations with the Danes were good and the anchorage was usually enlivened by the sight of several Danish galliots among the anchored ship, selling cream for the officers' coffee and cheese and chickens to those who could afford them.
Then Parker had returned with the news that Tsar Paul had been assassinated and that his son Alexander had succeeded to the throne and declared his friendship with Britain. It was news already three weeks old.
So were the letters brought by Lynx, but nobody minded. The distribution of the mail had its usual effect. Men with letters ran off to sit in obscure corners or in the tops, painfully to spell out the ill-written scrawl of loved ones. Those without went off to sulk or affected indifference, according to their temperament. Saddest were the letters that arrived for the dead. There was one such for Easton, scented with lavender and superscribed in a delicate, feminine hand. It lay upon Drinkwater's table waiting to be returned unopened with his condolences.
There were three letters for Drinkwater. One was in Elizabeth's hand and one in Richard White's, but it was the third that he opened first.
Dear Drinkwater,
Your letters reached me safely and I desire that you wait upon me directly you return to London.
Dungarth.
It was frigidly brief and reawakened all Drinkwater's doubts about his conduct over Edward. Jex's death, though it had freed him from accusation from one quarter, had not released him entirely. It came as small consolation to learn that the Danish and Prussian troops had abandoned Hamburg.
He had gone on deck and paced the poop for over an hour before remembering the other letters. When he had sufficiently calmed himself he returned below and picked up the next. It was from his old friend Richard White, now a post-captain and blockading Brest in a frigate.
My Dear Nathaniel,
We are still here, up and down the Goulet and in sight of the batteries at St Matthew. I am sick of the duty and the incessant wearing of men and ships, but I suppose you would say there was no help for it: So thinks the First Lord, and no-one is disposed to argue with him. I heard you had command of a tender and if you can make nothing of it I would welcome a head I can rely on here. Write and let me know if you wish to serve as my first lieutenant…
Drinkwater laid the letter down. If he could contrive to get transferred to White's ship directly, without the need to call upon Dungarth, he could serve for years on the Brest blockade. The affair of Edward Drinkwater would blow over. He picked up the third letter and opened it. Elizabeth had been right all along; he was no dissembler, he knew that he would have to face the music. Sighing, he began to read.
My Dearest Nathaniel,
Charlotte and I are well, although we miss you. I grow exceedingly rotund. Louise is a great solace and constantly asks if I have heard of James.
We are starved of news from the Baltic and I wait daily to hear from you. Unrest in the country grows and there is uncertainty everywhere. We long for peace and I pray daily for your safe return, my dearest…
Drinkwater waited in London's ante-room, nervous and tense, the subject of Edward uppermost in his mind. There had been ample time for the authorities to make arrangements for his arrest, perhaps Otway himself had brought a warrant… Sweat prickled between his shoulder blades. The dapper little midshipman who had brought Parker's summons had 'requested' he wore full uniform. Wondering if that insistence might not be sinister, he looked down at his coat and breeches.
The uniform was mildewed from languishing in his closet and the lace had become green. Tregembo's efforts prior to the battle had not been very successful and the smell of powder smoke was still detectable from the heavy cloth. Drinkwater felt exceedingly uncomfortable as he waited.
Parker's secretary appeared at last and called him into the great cabin. It was richly appointed; the furniture gleamed darkly, crystal decanters and silver candelabra glittered from the points of light that were reflected upwards from the sea through the stern windows and danced on the white-painted deckhead.
'Ah, Drinkwater…' the old man paused, apparently weighed down by responsibilities. 'I am to be superseded you know…' Drinkwater remained silent. 'Do you think I did wrong?'
'I sir??' That Parker should consult him was ludicrous. He felt out of his depth, aware only of the need to be tactful. 'Er, no, sir. Surely we have achieved the object of our enterprise.'
Parker looked at him intently, then seemed to brighten a little. 'It was not an easy task…' he muttered, more to himself than to Drinkwater. It was clear from his next remark that Drinkwater's acquaintance with his wife had allowed the friendless old man to speak freely.
'My wife reminds me constantly of my duty towards you in her letters…'
'Her ladyship is too kind, sir,' Drinkwater flushed; this solicitude on the part of Lady Parker was becoming a trifle embarrassing. Nelson had jumped to the wrong conclusion; was Parker about to do the same? Were not elderly husbands supposed to suspect young wives of all manner of infidelities?
'…And Lord Nelson is constantly complaining that I have failed to recognise your services both before and during the recent action. I believe you commanded Virago in the bombardment?'
'That is so, sir,' Drinkwater's heart was thumping painfully. Parker's nepotistic promotions after the battle of Copenhagen had aroused a storm of fury and it had taken all Nelson's persuasive powers to have a small number of highly deserving officers given a step in rank.
Parker picked up a paper and handed it to Drinkwater. 'Perhaps they will leave an old man in peace now.'
Drinkwater picked up the commission that made him Master and Commander.
The celebratory dinner in Virago's cabin was a noisy affair. Out of courtesy Drinkwater had invited Lord Nelson, but the new Commander-in-Chief had taken his battleships off to demonstrate British seapower before the guns of Carlscrona and Revel.
The senior officer present was Captain Martin who did his best to hide his mortification at not being made post. He consoled himself by getting drunk. From some macabre source available in the aftermath of a bloody battle Rogers had acquired an old epaulette which they now presented to their commander.
''Tis a trifle tarnished, Drinkwater, but in keeping with the rest of your attire,' said Martin as he banged a spoon against a glass and called for silence. 'Gentlemen, I ask you to charge your glasses. To your swab, Drinkwater!'
'Drinkwater's swab!' The glasses banged down on the table and Tregembo and the messman moved rapidly to fill them again. Drinkwater looked round the grinning faces. Rogers flushed and half-drunk; Quilhampton, smiling seraphically, slipping slowly down in his chair banging on the table the fine, new wooden hand that Willerton had fashioned for him. Lettsom dry and birdlike; Tumilty red-faced and busy getting roaring drunk.
'An' I suppose I'll be having to call you "sir", Nat'aniel,' he shouted thickly, slapping Drinkwater's back in an insubordinate way.
'Sit down you damned Hibernian!' shouted Rogers.
'Take your damned fingers off me! An' I'm standing to make a pretty speech, so I am…' There were boos and shouts of 'Sit down!'
'I'll sit down upon a single condition… that Mr Lettsom makes a bit o' his versifying to mark the occasion.'
'Aye! Make us an ode, Lettsom!'
'Come, a verse!'
Lettsom held up his hand for silence. He was forced to wait before he could make himself heard.
At last he drew a paper from his pocket and struck a pose:
'The town of Copenhagen lies
Upon the Baltic shore
And here were deeds of daring done
'Twere never seen before.
'Bold Nelson led 'em, glass in hand
Upon the Danes to spy,
When Parker said "that's quite enough"
He quoth, "No, by my eye!"
'The dead and dying lay in heaps
The Danes they would not yield
Until the bold Virago came
Onto the bloody field.'
Lettsom paused, drank off his glass while holding his hand up to still the embryonic cheer. Then he resumed:
'Lord Nelson got the credit,
And Parker got the blame,
But 'twas the bold Virago
That clinched old England's fame.'
He sat down amid a storm of cheering and stamping. Mr Quilhampton's enthusiasm threatened to split his new hand until someone restrained him, at which point he gave up the struggle to retain consciousness and slid beneath the grubby tablecloth.
Drinkwater sat clapping Lettsom's dreadful muse.
'Your verse is like Polonius's advice, Mr Lettsom, the sweeter for its brevity,' Drinkwater grinned at the surgeon as Tregembo put another bottle before each officer. 'Mr Tumilty's contribution, sir,' he whispered in Drinkwater's ear.
'Ah, Tom, I salute you…'
Tumilty stood up. 'Captain Drinkwater…' he began, enunciating the words carefully, then he slowly bent over and buried his head in the remains of the figgy duff.
'What a very elegant bow,' said Martin rising unsteadily to take his leave. Drinkwater saw him to his boat.
'Good night Drinkwater.'
Returning to the cabin Drinkwater found Rogers dragging Tumilty to Easton's empty cot while Tregembo was carrying Quilhampton to bed. Martin had left and only Lettsom and Rogers sat down to finish a last bottle with Drinkwater.
Tregembo cleared the table. 'Take a couple of bottles, Tregembo, share 'em with the cook and the messman.'
'Thank 'ee, zur. I told 'ee you'd be made this commission, zur.' He grinned and left the cabin.
Lettsom blew through his flute. 'You, er, don't seem too pleased about it all, if I might say so,' said Lettsom.
'Is it that man Waters that's bothering you, sir?' asked Rogers.
Drinkwater looked from one to the other. There was a faint ringing in his ears and he was aware of a need to be careful of what he said.
'And why should Waters bother me, gentlemen?'
He saw Rogers shrug. 'It seemed an odd business to be mixed up in,' he said. Drinkwater fixed Rogers with a cold eye. Reluctantly he told the last lie.
'What d'you think I got my swab for, Samuel, eh?'
Lettsom drowned any reaction from Rogers in a shower of notes from his flute and launched into a lively air. He played for several minutes, until Rogers rose to go.
When the first lieutenant had left them Lettsom lowered his flute, blew the spittle out of it and dismantled it, slipping it into his pocket.
'I see you believe in providence, Mr Drinkwater…'
'What makes you say that?'
'Only a man with some kind of faith would have done what you did…'
'You speak in riddles, Mr Lettsom…'
'Mr Jex confided in me, I've known all along about your brother.'
'God's bones,' Drinkwater muttered as he felt a cold sensation sweep over him. He went deathly pale.
'I'm an atheist, Mr Drinkwater. But you are protected by my Hippocratic oath.' Lettsom smiled reassuringly.
A week later Admiral Pole took command of the fleet. The Baltic States were quiescent and, like Lord Nelson, the bomb vessels were ordered to England.
Commander Nathaniel Drinkwater knocked on the door of the elegant house in Lord North Street. Under his new full-dress coat with its single gleaming epaulette he was perspiring heavily. It was not the heat of the July evening that caused his discomfort but apprehension over the outcome of the forthcoming interview with Lord Dungarth.
The door opened and a footman showed him into an anteroom off the hall. Turning his new cocked hat nervously in his hands he felt awkward and a little frightened as he stood in the centre of the waiting room. After a few minutes he heard voices in the hall following which the same footman led him through to a book-lined study and he was again left alone. He looked around him, reminded poignantly of the portrait of Hortense Santhonax for, above the Adam fireplace, the arresting likeness of an elegant blonde beauty gazed down at him. He stared at the painting for some time. He had never met Dungarth's countess but the Romney portrait was said not to have done justice to her loveliness.
'You never met my wife, Nathaniel?' Drinkwater had not heard the door open and spun to face the earl. Dungarth was in court dress, his pumps noiseless upon the rich Indian carpet. Dungarth crossed the room and stood beside Drinkwater, looking up at the painting.
'Do you know why I detest the French, Nathaniel?'
'No my lord?' Drinkwater recollected Dungarth had conceived a passionate hatred for Jacobinism which was at variance with his former Whiggish sympathies with the American rebels.
'My wife died in Florence. I was bringing her body back through France in the summer of '92. At Lyons the mob learnt I was an aristocrat and broke open the coffin…' he turned to a side table. 'A glass of oporto?'
Drinkwater took the wine and sat down at Dungarth's invitation. 'We sometimes do uncharacteristic things for those close to us, and the consequences can last a lifetime.'
Drinkwater's mouth was very dry and he longed to swallow the wine at a gulp but he could not trust his hand to convey the glass to his lips without slopping it. He sat rigid, his coat stiff as a board and the silence that followed Dungarth's speech seemed interminable. Drinkwater was no longer on his own quarterdeck. After the heady excitement of battle and promotion the remorseless process of English law was about to engulf him. The colour was draining from his face and he was feeling light-headed. An image of Elizabeth swam before his eyes, together with that of Charlotte Amelia and the yet unseen baby, little Richard Madoc.
'Do you remember Etienne Montholon, Nathaniel?' Dungarth suddenly said in a conversational tone. 'The apparently wastrel brother of that bitch Hortense Santhonax?'
Drinkwater swallowed and recovered himself. 'Yes, my lord.' His voice was a croak and he managed to swallow some of the port, grateful for its uncoiling warmth in the pit of his stomach.
'Well, it seems that he became so short of funds that he threw in his lot with his sister and that fox of a husband of hers. The emergence of the consulate in France is attracting the notice of many of the younger émigrés who thirst for a share in la gloire of the new France.' Dungarth's expression was cynical. 'The rising star of Napoleon Bonaparte will recruit support from men like Montholon who seek a paymaster, and couples like the Santhonaxes who seek a vehicle for their ambition.'
'So Etienne Montholon returned to France, my lord?'
'Not at all. He remained in this country, leading his old life of gambling and squabbling, like all the emigre population. He served Bonaparte by acting as a clearing agent for information of fleet movements, mainly at Yarmouth in connection with the blockage of the Texel, but latterly watching Parker's squadron. The intransigence of the Danish Government was largely due to knowledge of Parker's dilatory prevarications and delays…' Dungarth rose and refilled their glasses. 'Etienne Montholon is dead now, he called himself Le Marquis De La Roche-Jagu and was killed by a jealous lover when in bed with his mistress at Newmarket…'
The point of his lordship's narrative struck Drinkwater like a blow. He felt his body a prey to the disorder of his mind which presented him with a bewildering succession of images: of Edward shivering on the bank of the River Yare, of Jex confronting him with the truth, of Edward walking ashore without looking back, of Jex's drunken death. Faintly he heard Dungarth say, 'By an odd coincidence the man suspected of the double murder had the same surname as yourself…'
Drinkwater turned to look the earl in the face. An ironic smile twisted Dungarth's mouth.
''Tis curious, is it not,' he said, 'how a man may flinch in perfect safety who would not deign to quail under a hail of shot?'
'I, er, I…'
'You need a little more wine, Nathaniel…' The glasses were again refilled and Dungarth resumed his tale.
'The suspect's cloak was found on the bank of the River Yare and it was supposed he drowned himself in a fit of remorse. Odd, though, that he should do his country such a service, eh?' Dungarth smiled. 'As for the girl, a certain Pascale Vrignaud, she suffered the fate of many whores. Odd little story, ain't it?'
'Yes.' Drinkwater swallowed the third glass of port at a gulp.
'I thought it would interest you,' added Dungarth smiling. 'You need give no further thought to the matter. Now, as to this fellow you feel may be of interest to me, whoever he is, I sent him from Hamburg with letters to Prince Vorontzoff in St Petersburg. The prince is a former ambassador to the Court of St James and has agreed to find him employment. Not unlike yourself, Nathaniel, this fellow Waters seems to be a child of fortune. Has a gambler's luck, wouldn't you say?'
Drinkwater returned Dungarth's grin. He felt no remorse for the death of Etienne Montholon, regretting that the man's rescue from the Jacobins had cost the lives of two British seamen. He wondered if Hortense would ever learn the name of her brother's executioner. It was a strange, small world. He saw the wheels of fate turning within each other and recalled Lettsom's observations on providence. As for Pascale, Edward would have her upon his own conscience. But Edward had a gambler's amorality as well as a gambler's luck. Drinkwater smiled at the aptness of Dungarth's last remark. The earl rose and refilled their glasses for the fourth time.
'I must thank you for your efforts… on my behalf, my lord,' said Drinkwater carefully, not wishing to break the delicate ice of nmbiguity around the subject.
'It only remains,' replied Dungarth smiling, 'to see whether this man Waters is to be of any real use to us.'
Drinkwater nodded.
'And, of course, to drink to your swab…'