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 Dragør. 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.’
Chapter Sixteen 1 April 1801
All Fool’s Day
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 Børsen 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.
The Bomb Vessel Page 19