The Bomb Vessel

by Richard Woodman

  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 messman 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 Glatton, 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 Nels
on 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.

  Chapter Seventeen 2 April 1801, Forenoon

  The Last Blunders

  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 a
nd 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 alloted 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, Alcmène, 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, ‘but 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.’