“We seem to be gaining the upper hand, sir,” Lt. Farley said as Lewrie paced near his post at the forrud edge of the quarterdeck. “The Danish fire is slackening . . . has been for some time now. Even that Three Crowns fort is firing slow.”
“Umphf” was Lewrie’s comment on that, not quite sure if he had heard the Acting First Officer correctly. He returned to the bulwarks with his telescope, laid it through the stays and rat-lines of the larboard shrouds to steady it, and looked about.
The old two-decker on which they’d directed their fire was now mostly silent, only a gun here and there still firing, with most of her gun-ports devoid of black-iron barrels. The frigate anchored North of her—! “She’s struck her colours!” Lewrie shouted. “Look, there!” he insisted, jabbing his arm at her. “They’re abandonin’ her, see?”
The frigate was surrendered, the Danish flag meekly draped over her transom, and a white bed-sheet hoisted aloft in her damaged rigging. Rowboats were departing her unengaged side, heading for the shore.
Lewrie spun about to look South, eyes wide in wonder to note how much the dense pall of gunpowder smoke had thinned, to see several of the Danish warships nigh-dismasted, and slowly drifting into the mudflats without controlling hands on their helms. They, too, were being abandoned. The rowboats that had fetched out a continous supply of powder and shot and fresh volunteers were now busy bearing away survivors, coming out to the silent warships empty but for their oarsmen. Almost all of those pesky little gunboats to leeward of the Danish main line had drifted away, too. Smoke billowed from a couple of larger Danish “liners” and older 60s and 64s, and while they had not yet struck their national colours or hoisted white flags of surrender, their guns were silent. For the most part, it was the forts, the Lynetten and Three Crowns, that continued the fight.
“Damned if it don’t look as if we’re beatin’ ’em, Mister Farley,” Lewrie exulted as he lowered his glass. “Beatin’ ’em like a rug!”
“By broadside . . . Fire!” Lt. Fox yelled yet again, and the 18-pounders barked and roared, recoiling inboard. It was ragged, and it was slower than desired practice after all this time, but Thermopylae’s “teeth” could still bite, and were just as sharp as they had been hours before.
Lewrie looked down into the waist at his gunners. Despite a cold day, men were now stripped bare-chested, streams of sweat coursing pale as winter creeks through a coal-dust grime of blackpowder and gunsmoke, and their white duck slop-trousers had gone grey and grimy. Some shook their heads to clear their hearing, vainly protected by neckerchiefs bound round their heads to cover their ears; they served their guns by weary rote, by then. Idle gunners from the silent starboard battery spelled their larboard mates long enough for weary hands to go to the scuttle-butts for water, and to lean on their knees and gasp for air for a precious minute or two. The powder monkey lads no longer dashed up from the magazine with their cylinders, but seemed to belly-crawl up the steep companionway ladders, mouths agape and panting.
“Oh, lovely shootin’, there!” Lewrie shouted for all to hear as their latest broadside smashed into the stump-masted Danish two-decker, their main target all morning. Chunks of wood flew fighting-top high, as bulwarks and sides were struck, more shot-holes punched through her hull planking, some low on her weed-fouled waterline.
And there was no reply!
“By God, I think we’ve done it!” Lewrie cried again.
Now the smoke was thinned, Lewrie could ascertain that she was not a Third Rate 74 gunner, but an older 60 or 64 . . . with not a gun firing!
“Yes!” he exulted, rising on his boot toes as the Danish flag, which had been shot away at least three times, fluttered down a halliard to disappear behind what was left of her poop deck bulwarks And a minute later, as Thermopylae drilled yet another broadside into her, a white flag took its place!
“About time, too,” the Sailing Master muttered.
“Well, the Danes are a stubborn lot, Mister Lyle,” Marine Lt. Eades quipped.
“Oh, not them, sir,” Lyle countered. “I mean them, yonder. Sir Hyde’s squadron . . . here at last.”
“Cease fire on the two-decker, Mister Fox!” Lewrie shouted to the waist. “Quoins out, and be ready to engage the fortress. Parker’s come, did ye say, Mister Lyle?”
“Aye, sir. Yonder. Still about four miles North’rd.”
Sure enough, Lewrie could espy at least three British “liners” ever so slowly creeping to the mouth of the harbour entrances, short-tacking ponderously and most-like making no more than a mile per hour, but they were making their presence known, at long last.
“Damn my eyes!” Capt. Hardcastle yelped as a 36-pounder shot from the Trekroner fortress howled close overhead. “Isn’t it over and done yet?” He sounded more affronted than frightened.
Captain Riou’s frigate, Amazon, and the other ships under his command, were shifting their fire onto the Three Crowns fortress, as futile as that seemed to be. Though the army gunners over there had begun the day un-practiced and raw, they had learned a few lessons in gunnery over the hours, and though firing very slowly, were becoming more accurate.
“Signal from London, sir!” Midshipman Tillyard barked in a professional manner, the excitement drubbed out of him by then. “It’s . . . Number Thirty-Nine. ‘Discontinue the Action.’ Can’t be!” he gawped as he re-read the signal through his telescope, comparing it to his illustrated signals book.
“Discontinue, mine arse!” Lewrie snapped, lifting and extending the tubes of his own glass to confirm it. “Dammit. Dammit to Hell!” He spun about to look astern to Defiance, to Monarch, Ganges, and Lord Nelson’s flagship, the Elephant. Number Sixteen was still flying at their signal halliards’ peaks.
“Number Thirty-Nine with two guns, sir . . . the ‘General’ for all ships,” Midshipman Tillyard reported.
“We’ve won this battle, what’s that man yonder thinking?” Is he blind?” Lewrie blustered. “Well, I’ll be damned if we will. Not ’til I see Nelson repeat the signal, we won’t!” Open fire on the fortress, Mister Farley. Pin their ears back.”
“Elephant has hoisted ‘Acknowledged,’ sir, but still has Number Sixteen aloft,” Tillyard reported, mystified by this turn of events. “Defiance still flies Number Sixteen, too.”
“The signal is ‘General,’ though, sir,” Lt. Farley pointed out.
It was not directed to Nelson in Elephant; Sir Hyde Parker’s signal was speaking to every ship under his command, his own squadron up to the North, and Nelson’s, and Graves’s, and Capt. Riou’s, too. For any ship, any captain, to disobey would mean a court-martial!
“The signal is dog shite, sir!” Lewrie snapped back. “A steamin’ pile o’ horse turds!” Sir Hyde can’t see we’ve got the Danes beaten.”
“Uhm, sir . . . signal from Defiance,” Midshipman Tillyard called out, sounding nervous. “Now she’s hoisted Number Thirty-Nine to her main tops’l yardarm . . . but, she’s still Number Sixteen aloft at the main-mast head!”
“By broadside . . . Fire!” Lt. Fox rasped behind the guns, even as shot from the Lynetten and Three Crowns forts still howled overhead, and a fresh squadron of Danish warships, anchored in the merchantman channel behind the forts, began to fire.
Lewrie turned his back on Defiance and her contradictory flags, looking to Amazon, and the sturdy Capt. Riou. “Mine arse on a band-box!” he said with a groan to see HMS Alcmene, then the Blanche frigate, acknowledge HMS London’s signal and hoist Number Thirty-Nine as well!
“Alcmene and Blanche appear to be cutting their kedge anchor cables, sir,” Lt. Farley gravelled. “Really isn’t much we could hope to do against stone forts, I suppose, so . . .”
Lewrie stood and stared, hands on his hips and glaring at the Amazon, waiting to see what Riou would do. Did he not acknowlege the damned signal and continue the action, his mind was made up that he, and Thermopylae, would stand by him to the last.
Oh, for the love o’ . . . ! Lewrie despaired, his heart sinking at the s
ight of Amazon suddenly ceasing fire, and almost shame-facedly hoisting Number Thirty-Nine. Even Riou was daunted.
“Cease fire, Mister Farley,” he spat in anger. “Hands aloft to make sail, and just cut the damned kedge cable. Mister Tillyard, I’ll thankee t’find that bloody Number Thirty-Nine in the flag lockers, and hoist it.”
“Very well, sir,” Lt. Farley said with a weary sigh. “Hoy, Fox! Cease fire, and secure your guns! Cease fire, d’ye hear, there! Bosun, pipe hands aloft to make sail. Mister Pulley, do you fetch boarding axes and cut the stern cable. Save the spring, mind.”
Within ten minutes, HMS Thermopylae was once more under way for the North end of the Middle Ground shoals, the Southerly wind on her starboard quarters, fine, bound to join Vice-Admiral Sir Hyde Parker and his squadron . . . as ordered. It was galling, especially given the fact that the line-of-battle ships anchored astern of her still fought, despite their commander-in-chief’s signal, and the Danish line was now a ragged string of silenced warships, grounded and dis-masted hulks, or half sunk, with one of them spectacularly ablaze!
“The foremast trunk won’t take much sail, sir,” Lt. Farley cautioned. “I expect we’ll have need of a yard re-fit to replace it. For now, there’s a spare main course yard we can use to ‘splint’ it, sir.”
“As you say, Mister Farley,” Lewrie glumly agreed, massaging his aching forehead, and clawing the wax plugs from his ears. “Perhaps Sir Hyde thought to bring along spare masts and spars, and will give us one.”
No matter how disputatious and insubordinate it was, Lt. Farley heaved a loud, sarcastic snort of derision concerning Sir Hyde Parker.
Even though Riou’s small squadron had cut and made sail, both the Lynetten and the Trekroner forts, and the un-damaged Danish ships in the far-off merchant’s channel—which showed absolutely no indication that they would up-anchor, make sail, or sally out from their protected positions—still conducted a desultory fire, drumming the frigates out of the battle. They were now smaller targets, with their sterns pointed at the forts, but their fragile transoms were exposed to long-range raking fire.
Thermopylae slowly gained on Amazon, coming up to within two hundred yards of her starboard quarters. Lewrie went to his larboard side, looking for Capt. Riou. He saw him, the same instant that Riou spotted him, and they both shrugged at each other, shaking their heads at the futility of it all. Riou lifted a brass speaking-trumpet as if to shout something across, just as a fresh salvo from the Trekroner Fort arrived, raising great shot splashes round both frigates, howling overhead like baritone harpies.
“No!” Lewrie cried as one of those heavy 36-pounder shot struck Amazon on the quarterdeck, snatching Capt. Riou from sight. Was Riou slain? A long minute later as Thermopylae slowly crawled abeam of Amazon, a lieutenant appeared with the speaking-trumpet.
“Hoy, Thermopylae, Captain Lewrie?”
“Aye!” Lewrie shouted back through cupped hands.
“What is the date of your ‘posting,’ sir?”
“April, of Ninety-Seven!” Lewrie shouted back, mystified. “Why?”
“Lieutenant Quilliam here, sir! Captain Riou has fallen! I am to pass squadron command to the next senior officer present. Perhaps to Captain Sutton in Alcmene, then.”
“Riou’s fallen?” Lewrie shouted, shocked and suddenly saddened.
“Cut in half by a round-shot, sir!” Lt. Quilliam shouted back, his voice shaky with emotion. “Said . . . ‘Let us all die together, my brave lads,’ and . . . not a quarter-hour later, sir . . . !”
“A damned good man, sir!” Lewrie told him, with a speaking-trumpet of his own, this time. “My condolences to you and all your Amazons. And, by God, may he not have fallen in vain!”
The next salvo from the Danes fell short by two cables as they finally stood out of range, still creeping slowly ahead of HMS Amazon.
“Secure from Quarters, Mister Farley,” Lewrie ordered, slumped wearily, un-captain-like, on the hammock nettings. “Fresh water butts are t’be fetched up for our people.”
“Aye, sir.”
Lewrie plodded back towards the binnacle cabinet and double-helm, but the Ship’s Surgeon, Mr. Harward, was slowly dragging himself up to the quarterdeck by the starboard gangway ladder, his breeches and his shirt cuffs still stained with gore despite the long leather apron he wore when at his grim trade.
“Beg to report, sir,” Harward wearily said, “we’ve seven killed and eighteen wounded . . . four seriously. Midshipman Privette’s regained consciousness, but he’s taken a hard knock, and must be counted on light duties for a few days, may you spare him.”
“And Mister Ballard?” Lewrie had to ask.
“Passed over, sir, sorry,” Harward replied, idly wiping hands on a damp towel that thankfully did not bear too many blots of blood. “We succeeded in seizing his femoral artery, the great artery found in a man’s leg, and cauterised it, staunching the loss of blood, and we managed to neaten up his thigh bone for a stump, with enough flesh as a covering, for later . . .”
Lewrie held up a hand to shush him, damning surgeons for being so enamoured of their learning that they just had to prose on about the arcana of their trade.
“Well, the loss of blood was too massive, in the end, sir. He is gone. Sorry. I know he was an old friend and shipmate of yours,” Harward told him. He reached into an inside pocket of his unbuttoned waist-coat and produced a letter. “He surely must have had a premonition, sir, for he pressed me to deliver this to you.”
“Thankee, Mister Harward,” Lewrie said, taking it and turning it over and over, for wont of something better to do. “I know you did your best for him . . for all our brave lads.”
“Thankee for saying so, sir,” Harward said, bowing himself away to the starboard side for a breath of fresh air, after hours cooped up in the foetid horror of the cockpit surgery.
Lewrie looked up at the signal halliards on the main-mast, and saw Number Thirty-Nine still flying. “Mister Tillyard? Now we’ve ackknowledged it, haul that shameful thing down, sir!”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Full darkness, at last, after an eerily red and gold sunset that silhouetted Copenhagen’s spires, castle towers, and bastioned walls in war-like colours, as if a battle still raged, though by mid-afternoon, the guns had fallen silent. The mild winds had long before blown away the last wisps of gunsmoke arisen in impenetrable thunderheads from ships and shore batteries, and now only a few faint mists from burning or sunken Danish floating batteries or warships remained.
HMS Thermopylae lay peacefully at anchor among her sister ships by the North end of the Middle Ground shoal, near HMS London and her consorts, about three miles off the Trekroner Fort, and well out of range of its cannon, though there was little expectation that the Danes would resume the contest.
They were beaten, after all; seventeen of the eighteen warships, anchored hulks, or floating batteries had been taken, burned, or sunk in action, and the enemy commander’s ship, Dannebrog, had taken fire and blown up with stupendous loss of life well after the artillery duel had ended. Nelson and his squadron had persisted despite the “General” signal to discontinue the action, and had won, though at great cost in men.
The rest of Thermopylae’s day had been spent repairing; re-roving and splicing cut-up rigging, replacing shattered yards and upper masts. The entire ship needed scouring to erase the stains of gunpowder residue . . . and blood. Vinegar had been used to ease the odours of rotten eggs from the guns’ discharges, the coppery reek of splattered gore, and the foetid stench from Mr. Harward’s surgery on the orlop.
When the foremast had been “fished” and banded, the weather decks had had to be re-sanded with bears and bibles. After that, the cannon had to be thoroughly swabbed out and washed down from muzzles to breeching rope cascabels, the truck-carriages touched up with a little paint, and the recoil and run-out tackles replaced in some cases after all the strain and fraying placed upon them.
On top of that, all the ship’s boats had been
led round from being towed astern, and had spent the entire time since the cease-fire at rescuing Danish sailors from the wrecks of their vessels, taking prisoners, then cooperating with the crews of Danish rowboats in transferring their dead and wounded ashore to the hospitals in the city.
Alan Lewrie had been busy, too, visiting aboard HMS Amazon to attend Capt. Riou’s brief funeral, then conduct his own rites for the seven officers and men who had died from Thermopylae’s complement, then see to his wounded, some of them in a bad way after amputations, and sure to join the Great Majority, and their slain shipmates, in a few days.
In his gig, he had had to report to Lord Nelson aboard, Elephant, then to Sir Hyde Parker aboard London, and there had been no time for food or drink, or a chance to catch his breath, it seemed, since they had dropped anchors. Finally . . . finally, the sun was down, and there were no more demands upon him or his crew. A harbour watch was set on deck, with the usual lookouts posted at bow, stern, and both gangways. Marines in full, freshly cleaned kit stood sentry posts to prevent desertion, though it made no sense given a three-mile swim to a hostile shore. It was simply what the Royal Navy did when anchored.
Captain Alan Lewrie touched the brim of his hat in casual salute and nodded with a grin to Marine Private Leggett, who stood guard by the door to his great-cabins, receiving a musket salute, and a shy hint of a grin in reply as he entered his quarters.
“Thank God,” he breathed in relief as he shut the door on care and worry and grief, and the demands of Duty. He hung up his own hat and sword belt, not waiting for Pettus to serve him, and almost limped on weary legs and slightly sore feet to the starboard side settee.
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