It was here, among the low hills and blue spires already slipping astern, at the village of Gilleleje, that Drinkwater had secretly landed his own brother Edward on the run from the law. Edward had had a talent with horses and drifted into the life of a gambler centred on the racing world of Newmarket and the French emigrés who had settled there. His entanglement with a young Frenchwoman had resulted in him murdering his rival. Drinkwater had always felt his honour had been impugned by the obligation Edward’s ties of blood had held him to. Even at this distance in time, even after Drinkwater had discovered that in murdering his rival, Edward had inadvertantly killed a French agent, Drinkwater was still unable to shrug off the shadows that had so isolated him then. Nor did it seem to mitigate Drinkwater’s personal guilt that Edward had found employment as an agent himself. For after landing at Gilleleje and going to Hamburg, Lord Dungarth had sent him eastwards, relying on his ability to speak the French he had learned from his faithless mistress. Drinkwater knew that Edward had been at the battle of Austerlitz and was the origin of accurate intelligence about the true state of affairs in the Russian army after that bitter and shattering defeat. The news, it was said, had killed Billy Pitt; and this too seemed full of a dark accumulation of presentiment. With an effort, Drinkwater cast aside his gloom. Sunshine danced upon the water and they were rapidly approaching the narrowest point of The Sound commanded by the Danish guns in their embrasures at Cronbourg. It was, he thought with sudden resolution, time to make a show, a flourish. He spun on his heel.
‘Mr Rogers!’
The first lieutenant’s florid features turned towards him. ‘Sir?’
‘Call all hands! Stuns’ls aloft and alow! Then you may clear for action!’
‘Stuns’ls and clear for action, sir!’ The order was taken up and the pipes twittered at the hatchways. Drinkwater stood at the starboard hance and watched the temper of the hands as the watches below tumbled up. Topmen scrambled into the rigging and Comley’s mates chastised the slower waisters into place as they prepared to send up or haul out the studdingsails. Drinkwater’s gaze rose upwards. Already the agile topmen were spreading out along the upper yards on the fore- and main-masts. Out went the upper booms, thrust through their irons at the extremities of the topsail and topgallant yardarms. At the rails by the fore-chains, the lower booms were being swung out on their goosenecks. Festoons of guys straightened into their ordered places. He watched with satisfaction as the midshipmen, nimble as monkeys in their respective stations, waved their readiness to the deck. The upper studdingsails, secured to short battens, were stowed in the tops. At the signal first the weather and then the lee studding-sails were run up to the booms next above. They fluttered momentarily as the halliards secured them, then their lower edges were spread to the booms below. On the fo’c’s’le two large bundles had been dragged out of their stowage in the boats. They were similarly bent onto halliards and outhauls stretched their clews to the guyed ends of the lowest booms which were winged out on either side of the frigate’s fore-chains. In a minute or so Antigone had almost doubled the width of her forward sail plan.
Rogers, satisfied with the evolutions of the ship’s company, gave the men permission to lay in. Watching, Drinkwater knew that there had been a few seconds’ hesitation before the nod to Comley had brought the bosun’s pipe to his mouth and the topmen had come sliding down the backstays. Rogers crossed the deck and knuckled the fore-cock of his hat.
‘Very well, Mr Rogers, you may beat to quarters.’
As Rogers turned away, Drinkwater caught again that slightly màlicious grin that he had noticed when he had ordered Fraser to keep the deck off Varberg. Whipping a silver hunter from his fob, Rogers flicked it open as he roared the order. Again, and with a mounting disquiet that he could not quite place, Drinkwater watched the motions of the men. To a casual glance they appeared perfectly disciplined, tuned to the finest pitch any crack cruiser captain could demand but . . . that element of perplexity remained with him.
The marine drummer doubled aft, unhitched his drum and lifted his sticks to his chin in a perfunctory acknowledgement of the prescribed drill; then he brought them down on the snare drum and beat out the urgent ruffle. The frigate, alive with men still belaying ropes and laying in from aloft, suddenly took on a new and more sinister air. Along the length of her gundeck the ports were raised and round each of the twenty-six 18-pounder cannon and the ten long 9-pounder chase guns the men congregated in kneeling and expectant groups. Others mustered elsewhere, the marines at the hammock nettings and in the tops, the firemen unreeled their hoses and worked the yoke of their machine to dampen the decks. Boys scattered sand or stood ready with their cartridge boxes. The activity died to an expectant hush. Each gun-captain’s hand was raised. Rogers lifted his speaking trumpet.
‘Run out the guns!’
The deck beneath Drinkwater’s feet trembled as the gunners manned their tackles and hauled the heavy cannon out through the gun-ports.
With every man at his station, her yards braced to catch the quartering breeze and her charges safely tucked under her lee, Antigone entered The Sound. Drinkwater indulged Rogers in a final look round the upper deck while he studied the ramparts of Cronbourg less than a mile away. Through his glass he could see the tiny dots of heads beneath the gigantic swallow-tailed standard which rippled gallantly in the breeze. At this distance those men could not fail to remark the belligerent preparedness of the British cruiser. Denmark was a neutral state, but not therefore without influence upon international affairs. Her trade, particularly in the matter of naval stores, if directed towards the beleaguered fleets of France, could be damaging to the war-efforts of Great Britain. And since Napoleon had decreed that no European country, whether under the control of his legions or attempting to maintain a precarious neutrality, might trade with Britain, the British must treat her with suspicion.
‘Ship cleared for action, sir.’ The snap of Rogers’s hunter made Drinkwater lower his glass.
‘Very well. An improvement?’
‘About the same, sir,’ replied Rogers non-commitally, and in a flash Drinkwater knew what he had been witness to, what had been going on under his very nose. He fixed his keen glance on the first lieutenant.
‘I thought they were a trifle faster that time.’
He saw a hint of uncertainty in Rogers’s eyes. ‘Well, perhaps a trifle faster,’ said Rogers grudgingly, and Drinkwater was certain his instinct was right. Between first lieutenant and the hands there existed a state of affairs exactly analogous to that between Britain and Denmark: a neutrality in which each warily sought out the weakness and the intentions of the other. Rogers, the first lieutenant, the all-powerful executive officer, was always ready to punish any guncrew, yardarm party, or individual, whose standard was not in his opinion of the highest. Against him were pitted the people, hydra-headed but weak, vulnerable to one simple, silly slip, yet knowing that they had only to wait and the bottle would destroy the first lieutenant. The certainty of this knowledge came as a shock to Drinkwater and the colour drained from his face, leaving his eyes piercing in the intensity of their anger.
‘By God, Sam,’ he said softly through clenched teeth, ‘I will not have you judge, lest you be judged yourself.’ Rogers’s glance fell as they were interrupted.
‘I think we have not bared our fangs in vain, sir,’ said Hill, stumping across the deck to draw Drinkwater’s attention to the events unfolding on the starboard bow. Hill paused, sensing an open breach between captain and first lieutenant where he had anticipated only an exchange of remarks concerning the ship’s internal routines. He coughed awkwardly. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but I . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I see them,’ snapped Drinkwater and raising his glass once more, affected to ignore Rogers.
Standing out from Elsinore Road to the south of Cronbourg was a two-decked line-of-battleship, and astern of her a small frigate. They too were cramming on sail, coming in at an angle to Antigone’s bow as though to intercept her.
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‘Their bearing’s opening, sir,’ offered Hill, coolly professional again, ‘only slowly, but they’ll not catch us.’
‘Very well, Mr Hill, but we ought not to outrun our charges.’ Drinkwater nodded at the brigs, now some distance astern of them. The Danish warships would pass between Antigone and the two British merchantmen.
‘Notified of our approach from the castle, I’ll warrant,’ remarked Hill.
‘Yes.’ Drinkwater subjected the two ships to a further scrutiny through his glass. The Danes had proved tough opponents in 1801, reluctant to surrender and forcing from Lord Nelson the remark that they played the hottest fire he had ever been under. The two Danish ships broke out their own studdingsails. He watched critically. It was well done.
‘I thought we had buggered their damned fleet for them,’ said Rogers with characteristic coarseness in an attempt to defuse the atmosphere between himself and Drinkwater.
‘Apparently not,’ Drinkwater replied as if nothing untoward had occurred, watching the ships as their respective courses converged. But Hill was right, the bearings of the Danes were drawing aft, showing that the Antigone was the faster ship. ‘They’ve had six years to right the damage,’ he said, turning to look again at the lumbering brigs on the larboard quarter. ‘I don’t like exposing our charges like this and I’m rather disposed to test their mettle . . . Secure the guns where they are, Mr Rogers,’ he said with a sudden sharpness, ‘and get the stuns’ls off her!’
Rogers began bellowing orders. Again Antigone seethed with activity. Whatever discontents might be running through her people, the chance of demonstrating their superiority as seamen before a mob of tow-haired Danes animated the ship. In a few minutes her studdingsails fluttered inboard.
‘Clew up the courses!’ Drinkwater ordered sharply, for he had not wanted anything to go wrong, or the Danes to put a shot across his bow, turning a voluntary act into a submissive one.
‘Lower the t’gallants on the caps!’ Antigone’s speed slowed, yet she held her course and the hands were sent back to their battle-stations as the Danish warships came up, the frigate ranging out to larboard so that they overtook on either quarter.
Hill was looking at him anxiously.
‘My God,’ said Rogers to no one in particular, ‘if they open fire now they will . . .’ His voice trailed off as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It was, Drinkwater noted, the gesture of a thirsty man.
‘They are neutrals, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘They dare not fire upon us without provoking an act of war. They simply wish to demonstrate their readiness not to be intimidated on their own doorstep . . . Just keep the men at their stations in silence if you please, Mr Rogers, and perhaps we may yet surprise ’em,’ Drinkwater added as an outbreak of chatter started up in the waist.
Drinkwater strode forward as the line-of-battleship ranged up on their starboard beam, her two tiers of guns also run out so that they dominated the much lower deck of the British frigate.
‘Mr Mount!’ Drinkwater called to the marine officer.
‘Sir?’
‘Form your men in two divisions, facing outboard on either side, then bring ’em to attention.’
‘Very good, sir.’
As the quarterdecks of the three ships drew level the marines stood rigid. Drinkwater casually mounted the starboard rail in the mizen rigging. He turned back inboard. ‘Have the hands piped aloft to man the yards, Mr Rogers.’ He ignored the puzzled apprehension in Rogers’s eyes and turned to the Danish ship, not two hundred feet away and stealing their wind. He doffed his hat in a wide sweep.
‘Good day, sir!’ he shouted.
A line of Danish officers regarded him and there was obviously some conferring going on on her quarterdeck. After a pause a junior officer was pushed up onto her rail.
‘Gut morning, Capten. Vat ship is that, please?’
‘His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Antigone, upon a cruise with merchantmen in company, sir,’ Drinkwater bawled back cheerfully.
‘Ve hope you do not vish to stop Dansk ships, no?’
‘My orders are to stop all ships carrying cargoes of war material to His Majesty’s enemies. This policy is clearly stated in His Majesty’s Orders in Council, sir, copies of which have been delivered to your Government’s representatives in London.’
The Danish officer bent down, obviously in consultation with a senior, for he stood again. ‘You are varned against stopping Dansk ships, Capten.’
‘I shall carry out my orders, sir, as I expect you to maintain your neutrality!’ He turned to Rogers: ‘I want three hearty cheers when I call for ’em.’
He heard Rogers mutter ‘Good God!’ and turned again to the Dane. The big battleship was drawing ahead now and he could read her name across her stern: Princesse Sophia Frederica.
‘Three cheers for His Majesty the King of Denmark! Hip! Hip! Hip!’
‘Hooray . . .’ The three cheers ripped from over his head and Drinkwater jumped down from the rail.
‘Now, Sam, let fall those courses, hoist the t’gallants and reset the stuns’ls!’ He turned to the sailing master, standing by the wheel. ‘Hold your course, Mr Hill . . . Bye the bye, did you get the name of the frigate?’ Drinkwater nodded to larboard.
‘Aye, sir, Triton, twenty-eight guns.’
‘Very well.’ Drinkwater clasped his hands behind his back and offered up a silent prayer that his pride was not to be humbled in front of such witnesses. But he need not have worried. It was not merely his own pride that was at stake; some of the defiance in his tone had communicated itself to the hands. This was no longer a petty internal matter, no empty evolution at the behest of the first lieutenant, but a matter of national pride. Now the captain was handling the ship and they behaved as though they were in action and their very lives depended upon their smartness.
Antigone gathered speed as she again spread her wings. Her long jib-boom swung across the great square stern of the two-decker as she pointed closer to the wind. She began to overhaul the Danish ship to windward and with an amiable insouciance Drinkwater again waved his hat at the knot of officers who stared stolidly back at him.
The cheering provoked no response from the Danes.
‘Miserable bastards,’ remarked Rogers sullenly, coming aft as the studdingsail halliards were coiled down. In their wake the Danish battleship hauled her wind and put about, turning back towards her anchorage off Elsinore.
Triton kept them company as far as the island of Hven, then she too put about and the incident was over. To larboard the Scanian coast of Sweden lay in the distance, while closer to starboard the coast of Zealand fell away to a low-lying, pastoral countryside dotted with church towers and white farms. Astern of Antigone the two brigs followed in their wake, while ten miles ahead, faintly blue in the distance, the spires of Copenhagen broke the skyline.
The British frigate and her small convoy entered the Baltic Sea.
3
April 1807
The Shipment of Arms
Mr James Quilhampton peered over the ship’s side and watched the little bobbing black jolly-boat, from the nearer of the two brigs, hook neatly onto the frigate’s main chains. The man in her stern relinquished the tiller, stepped lightly upon a thwart and, skilfully judging the boat’s motion, leapt for the man-ropes and the wooden battens that formed a ladder up the frigate’s tumblehome. He was met by Midshipman Lord Walmsley and Quilhampton straightened up as the man, hatless despite the cold and in plain civilian dress, strode aft.
‘Good morning, Lieutenant,’ he said in the rolling accent of Northumbria.
‘Good morning, Captain Young,’ responded Quilhampton civilly. ‘I have informed Captain Drinkwater of your approach and here he comes now.’
Drinkwater mounted the quarterdeck ladder and cast a swift and instinctive glance round the horizon. Antigone and the two brigs lay hove-to on a smooth grey sea which was terminated to the north and east by an ice-field that seemed at first to stretch to the horizon
itself. But beyond it to the east lay the faint blue line ofland, a low country of unrelieved flatness, almost part of the sea itself.
‘Captain Young,’ said Drinkwater cordially, taking the strong hand and wincing with the power of its grip. His right arm already ached from the cold seeping into the mangled muscles of his wounded shoulder and Young’s rough treatment did nothing to ease it. ‘I give you good day. I take it that you and Captain Baker and your ships’ companies are well?’
‘Why aye, man. As fit as when we left London River.’
‘What d’you make of this ice?’ Drinkwater disengaged his arm from Young’s eager, pump-handle grasp and gestured eastward.
‘The Pregel Bar is not more than two leagues distant, Captain Drinkwater. It is unlikely that the ice will last more than another sennight.’ He smiled. ‘Why, man, Baker and I’ll be drinking schnapps in Königsberg by mid-month.’
‘You think the ice in the Frisches Haff will have cleared by then?’
‘Aye, man. Once thaw sets in ’twill soon clear.’
‘In view of the presence of ice I think it better that I should remain with you. You might have need of my protection yet.’
‘As you wish, Captain.’
‘You have your instructions as to the formalities necessary to the discharging of your arms and ammunition?’
‘Aye, Captain.’ Young smiled again. ‘You may allay your fears on that score. They will not fall into the wrong hands.’
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