‘The captain’s respects, and can you run out the starboard-side guns, if you please, sir,’ said the junior officer, touching his hat.
‘Quiet there!’ roared Blake, glaring around him to choke off the rumble of approval that had greeted this news. ‘Thank you, Mr Todd. Please tell the captain that the guns are being run out now.’
The lieutenant waited till Todd had threaded his path most of the way back to the ladder before issuing his first order.
‘Starboard side!’ he called. ‘Up ports!’
This was Evans’s job. He leaned forward across Shango’s barrel, unbolted the port lid, and swung it open. Through the square in the ship’s side, he saw dull green water stretching away, choppy close to, swirling like molten glass over the shallowest part of the Middle ground. In the distance was the stricken Agamemnon, still gripped fast, with cables leading from her stern towards where her long boat lay in deeper water.
‘Starboards!’ yelled Blake. ‘Run out the guns.’ Evans stepped aside to allow the men at the tackles space to work. They leaned back in diverging lines, one each side of the carriage, like a pair of tug-of-war teams. The eighteen-pounder jerked into motion and then trundled forward until it thumped into place. The roar of carriage wheels in motion faded across the deck until it was quiet once more.
After a pause, Evans began idly spinning his rammer between his hands. Then he glanced across at Trevan, who was turning over one of the round shot in the garland. O’Malley checked the flint on the cannon’s firing mechanism again, then puffed his cheeks out. Green water continued to slide past, taking the Agamemnon away and replacing her with the first of the bomb ketches. Through the open port came the sound of water slipping along the hull of the frigate, followed by a pair of muffled roars from ahead, deep and thunderous.
‘Would them be thirty-two pounders at all?’ asked O’Malley.
Trevan nodded. ‘That be the old Edgar, I’m after thinking,’ he said. ‘Not long now, lads.’ A couple of the crew tightened their bandannas, and Evans bumped fists with his friends across the breech of the gun.
More broadsides, louder and coming closer. They started to run into each other, blending from distinct explosions of noise into a more constant roar.
‘Taking in sail now, lads,’ said Evans, pointing aloft with his rammer. High above them the main topsail was vanishing as the row of sailors doubled over the yard gathered it in. Then he sniffed at the air. ‘I bleeding know that smell, an’ all.’
Faint at first, but growing all the time was the whiff of gun smoke. A wall of it rose up in front of the frigate like a bank of fog, flickering with an inner light. The sound of gunfire grew ever louder.
‘Ready about!’ Taylor’s voice came from out of sight, distorted by a brass speaking trumpet. ‘Is the anchor ready, Mr Harrison?’
‘Ready, aye,’ came the boatswain’s reply, his voice deep and loud, clear above the sound of battle.
‘I reckon old Harrison could holler up to the royal yard in one of them hurricanoes,’ observed Trevan.
‘Here we go, lads,’ said O’Malley, as the frigate began to turn. Yards creaked around, volleys of orders were shouted, more sailors streamed aloft, and then the voice of Clay cut through it all.
‘Mr Blake!’ he yelled. ‘Have your guns ready. The ship with the lion figurehead is your mark.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Blake. ‘Ready, starboards?’ O’Malley crouched down beside the gun and took up the slack in the firing lanyard. He glanced over his crew, then raised his left hand aloft.
Now the view through the gun port was changing rapidly as the frigate swung out of line and headed towards the shore to cross the bow of the leading Danish ship. For a moment it grew darker, as the stern of the Polyphemus towered over the Griffin. Windows and gilding, the name picked out in a curve of letters above where her huge rudder dipped into the water. The frigate sailed forwards, and now they could see the wall of enemy ships, curving away from them to vanish amongst the grey clouds of smoke. Tongues of fire darted out towards the British and were replied with in kind by Nelson’s fleet, filling the space between them with sound and fury.
‘Take in sail, Mr Taylor,’ roared Clay. ‘Let go the anchor, Mr Harrison!’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
The frigate drifted forward, and the bow of a big warship appeared, perhaps a hundred yards away. She had the broad beam and lofty sides of a ship of the line. The elegant sweep of her head rails joined behind her figurehead, an upright lion with a gaping mouth, holding a coat of arms between its front paws. Heavy cables led down to two substantial mooring buoys, both green and slimy with weed. Two chaser guns protruded from the front of her forecastle, the only cannon that could bear on the Griffin. Glancing up, O’Malley could see their crews, looking down and pointing at this unexpected arrival in front of them.
‘Anchors holding!’ announced the boatswain. A chorus of groans echoed through the ship from her bits as the strain came on, and the frigate slowed to a halt, rocking in the gentle swell.
‘Rig the spring to hold us thus, Mr Harrison,’ yelled Clay.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the boatswain. The enemy’s bow chasers both banged out together, and a line parted aloft, snaking down with a rattle onto the main deck behind O’Malley.
‘Mr Macpherson, have your men shoot down those gun crews!’ The captain’s voice rang out.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the marine.
‘Mr Blake, you may begin engaging.’
‘Starboard side, open fire!’
‘Stand clear,’ yelled O’Malley. He glanced along the barrel, but there was little need to aim. His whole view was filled with the bow of the enemy ship. He drew the firing lanyard towards him, and after a moment of resistance the flint snapped forward. A white spark, then a hiss of red from the touchhole like a roman candle, and the big cannon roared back into the frigate. Before it had halted Evans thrust the wet end of the rammer into the muzzle.
‘Clean!’ he announced as he pulled it free and reversed the end. The moment he did so, Trevan on the far side pushed the powder charge in, his whole arm vanishing down the barrel. Evans rammed it home, ball followed charge, and wad followed ball.
‘Loaded!’ said Evans, stepping back from the gun.
‘Run her up!’ ordered O’Malley, while Trevan threw the empty leather charge holder to the ship’s boy stood behind him.
‘Fetch us another, lad,’ he said, and the boy sped away towards the magazine. O’Malley thrust a spike down the touch hole until he felt the barbed end burst through the serge of the charge bag. He pulled it free, filled the touch hole with fine powder from the horn that hung around his neck, then he snapped back the lock of the firing mechanism and took up the slack of the lanyard. Through the dispersing smoke of the first broadside he saw the bow of the enemy ship. Patches of torn white wood pockmarked it, and a section of head rail bobbed in the water.
‘Stand clear!’ he yelled, and the cannon roared out again. He glanced across at the Brimstone Belcher and noted with pleasure that they had only just run their gun up. Then he heard a heavy crash from the front of the frigate, and the deck trembled beneath his feet.
‘That was fecking rowdy for one of them little chasers,’ he muttered.
‘Clean!’ said Evans, as he pulled the rammer free once more.
******
‘The shot came from that battery over there, sir,’ reported Preston, pointing towards the shore. ‘The one in front of those warehouses. I count only four pieces, but they are of large calibre, to judge from all the water they are throwing up.’ Clay looked where the younger man pointed. The coastline was at least a half mile away, and the smoke of battle lay heavy on the water in between. Then he saw tongues of fire, and a fresh cloud of smoke. Moments later columns of water rose up all around the frigate. There was a ripping sound as a shot passed overhead.
‘They are as like to hit their own ships as ours at this range,’ he decided. ‘Particularly with all this damned
smoke. I am sure it was pure hazard that they struck us. Have the carpenter repair the damage, if you please Mr Preston, and let the bow chasers throw the odd ball their way in return.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Preston. Clay crossed to the other side of the Griffin. Beneath his feet the deck was trembling continuously as the guns hurled ball after ball into their opponent. Holes and gashes had been beaten all across the shattered bow, and one of the two chase guns now rested at a drunken angle. But there was still defiance. He could look along the side of the enemy ship from where he stood. Many of her guns had fallen silent, but others were in action, firing back at the Polyphemus opposite her. Around the wrecked bow chaser a group of sailors appeared armed with muskets. Two were quickly shot by the Griffin’s marines, but one in a battered straw hat aimed his weapon straight at Clay. He held his breath as the man fired, the old wound in his shoulder aching in sympathy. There was a sharp tap from the rail beside his hand, and looking down he saw the flattened hemisphere of a musket ball stuck in the oak.
The quarterdeck carronade next to him shot back on its slide with an angry bark, and its smoke obscured his view for a moment. When it cleared, the enemy ship seemed transformed. Clay searched for the reason, and then saw that the lion figurehead had been decapitated. A cheer made him look around. The crew of the carronade were slapping hands and pointing, before they broke off to reload when they realised he was watching.
‘They will have been trying to hit that for a while, I suppose, sir,’ commented Taylor, who had come across to join him.
‘Load with canister and clear those marksmen away, O’Brien,’ ordered Clay to the gun captain of the carronade.
‘Right you are, sir,’ said the sailor, knuckling his forehead. One of the crew rolled a big copper cylinder across to the gun, the hundreds of musket balls it contained chinking musically as he did so.
‘Our opponent is named the Provesteenen, sir,’ said Taylor from his other side. Clay raised an eyebrow at his first lieutenant, who continued. ‘I know because when we were last here, Hibbert had a bout of arm wrestling with one of her boatswain’s mates in a tavern.’
‘Did he win?’
‘He said that he did, sir.’
‘A good omen, then,’ said Clay. ‘Whatever her name may be, she has an unusually resolute crew. Our balls will be passing along her whole length, and she has endured the broadsides of the Polyphemus much longer than I would have supposed possible. They must breed their seamen tough in these parts.’
‘Shall I have Mr Blake elevate the guns, sir?’ suggested the older man. ‘Fire up through her decks, to bring things to a conclusion.’
‘If you please, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay. Another musket ball whined past his head, and then the carronade beside him fired, filling the air with a sound like swarming hornets. When the smoke cleared, the Danish sailors had vanished. Farther back the enemy’s foremast began to move, leaning away from him. The big forestay tightened for a moment, like a bar, and then gave way with a loud crack. Now the mast was moving faster, crumpling into its three parts and tumbling into the sea along side, taking much of the upper main mast with it. Clay looked towards the mizzen, where the one remaining Danish flag flew, wishing it would come down.
‘Stop this slaughter, you fools,’ he urged. ‘Surrender, damn you!’
But still the Provesteenen fought on. Clay walked to the stern of the frigate, where he had the best view along the Danish line. The punishment the enemy ships were taking was obvious now. Several had masts down, the wreckage trailing across them, and all of those in view showed signs of the remorseless barrage they were under. The ship next to the Provesteenen seemed to be sinking, heeling towards the British line like a servant caught mid-bow. The hull beyond that was little more than a floating battery. Flames licked up its side, while thick black smoke rose above it. But still most of the Danish guns were in action, continuing to blast across at Nelson’s fleet.
The British rate of fire was still good, noticeably quicker than the Danes, but many ships were battle damaged. Closest to him was the Polyphemus. Her battered side was riddled with shot holes, and a large section of her main chains had broken away. Beyond her the fifty-gun Isis had lost much of her mizzen, while farther away he could see a profusion of mast and hull damage.
A crash sounded from the front of the Griffin, and water rained down across the fore-part of the deck. Taylor hurried up onto the quarterdeck. ‘That damned battery has hit us again,’ he said. ‘The carpenter says from the damage, he thinks they are firing forty-two pounders.’
Clay looked towards the forecastle and saw a wounded sailor being carried below by two others. ‘Little we can do about that,’ he said. ‘Two holes in the bow are fair exchange for the damage we are inflicting.’
‘Mr Blake has the guns at full elevation now, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘Let us see what difference that makes.’
‘Anything that persuades them to yield,’ said Clay in exasperation. ‘The inside of your Provesteenen must be like a charnel house! How are they even finding the men to serve their guns?’
‘I think I may know, sir,’ said a voice from behind him. Both officers turned in surprise. ‘Eh, permission to speak, sir,’ added Sedgwick.
‘Yes, of course,’ said his captain. ‘What is it that you suspect is happening?’
‘Boats, sir,’ said his coxswain. ‘I reckon they’re using them to ferry fresh gun crews across from the city.’
‘How on earth can you possibly...’ began Taylor, but Clay held up a hand.
‘Why do you hold that to be so?’ he asked.
‘When we was here afore, an’ you had me go fetch out Rankin, we was obliged to come along this section of coast to get clear of the tipstaffs,’ explained Sedgwick. ‘There was all manner of ships’ boats pulled up on the shore. Must have been a good fifty of them. I thought no more about it, being concerned with getting back to the barky, but they came to mind just now.’
‘I dare say ships moored in such calm waters don’t need sailors to man their guns,’ mused Clay.
‘There was no end of Lobsters in the city, sir,’ added Sedgwick. ‘Perhaps they’re taking the place of the tars as we knock them down.’
‘Very well, my thanks to you, Sedgwick, let us put your theory to the test,’ said Clay. He picked up a speaking trumpet and pointed it towards the top of the foremast.
‘Masthead ahoy!’ he yelled. ‘Do you see any ship’s boats?’
‘Deck there! Plenty of the buggers, all plying with the shore!’ replied Hoskins, who was lookout, in his West Country burr. ‘Like skimmers on a pond, they be!’
‘Mr Taylor, have the anchor pulled up, if you please, and prepare to make sail.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the first lieutenant.
‘And when this is all over, remind me to stop Hoskins’s grog for a month.’
‘Yes, sir,’ smiled Taylor.
‘Mr Todd, my compliments to Mr Blake, and would you ask him to join me on the quarterdeck. The guns may continue firing for the present.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the midshipman, touching his hat before dashing off below.
‘Now, Mr Armstrong, I want to advance the ship such that our guns are able to fire into the space between the Danish fleet and the shore,’ explained Clay. ‘To enfilade, if you will. I believe the enemy may be using ship’s boats to reinforce their crews.’
‘Advance the ship, sir!’ exclaimed the American. ‘Captain Hardy surveyed these waters and found there to be nothing but shallows between the Danes and the shore. We shall be aground for certain.’
‘Good, then I can dispense with the need to anchor again,’ said Clay. The sailing master stiffened at this.
‘It is my duty to keep the Griffin from navigational peril, sir,’ protested the American. ‘I have to point out the hazards of running us ashore. Under fire from a battery, I may add.’
‘I know it well, Jacob,’ said Clay. ‘Let us show no more than a scrap of jib, just enough to steer by. Then,
should we be grounded, there will be little damage done, and we can haul off when we are finished.’
‘All right, sir,’ conceded Armstrong. ‘If we advance gently, that may answer.’ Clay turned to the second lieutenant, who had joined them. His face was grey with gun smoke, and his coat smelled of burnt sulphur.
‘Now, Mr Blake, Sedgwick here tells me the enemy may be using boats from the shore to reinforce their line. I will advance to a position where the guns bear, after which I shall need those boats sunk. How would you best achieve that?’
‘I will give them a mark, and a broadside for each should answer,’ said Blake. ‘The gun captains have practiced on empty casks as targets, so a big launch should present few problems. Once we have smashed a few, the rest may be less inclined to chance the passage.’
‘Make it so,’ said Clay. ‘Have your guns readied while the ship gets under way.’
******
The shrill of Blake’s whistle cut through the furnace heat and roar of sound down on the Griffin’s main deck.
‘Ceasefire there!’ yelled the petty officers. O’Malley let the lanyard drop from his hand and reached forward to un-cock Shango. Around him, the rest of the crew stood back from their tasks, some easing their backs, others wiping sweat from their faces.
‘Buggers must have struck at last,’ offered the Irishman. ‘About fecking time, mind, with all the hammering we’ve been after giving them. These Danes fight fiercer than Moors.’
‘Ain’t sure as they have, Sean,’ said Evans, peering out of the gun port. ‘The bastards is still firing.’
‘Gun captains to me!’ ordered Blake.
‘Right, get yourselves a drink from the scuttlebutt; I’ll be after finding what we’re about,’ said O’Malley.
‘Is it me, or be the barky underway?’ queried Trevan. ‘Real slow, like?’
In Northern Seas Page 26