‘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 buntlines 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 the 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.’
Chapter Fifteen 30 March–1 April 1801
Copenhagen Road
‘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 g
athering 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 Dragør 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 garboard 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 Dragør . . .’
‘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 Dragør 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 techiques 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.
The Bomb Vessel Page 17