Next morning a freshening north-westerly forced them to tack out through the Kattegat, but the sun shone from a blue and cloudless sky and the sea sparkled and shone as the ship drove easily to windward, reeling off the knots. Ahead of them lay the low, rolling, green-wooded countryside of the Djursland peninsula spread out from Fornaess in the east away towards the Aalborg Bight to the west. Astern of them lay the flat sand-cay of Anholt, and the encircling sea was dotted with the sails of Danish fishing boats and coasters – the sails of potential enemies, Drinkwater thought as he came on deck. He leaned back against the cant of the deck, his thighs still sore but much easier now. Aloft, Antigone’s spars bent and she drove her lee rail under so that water spurted in at the gunports.
‘Morning, sir,’ said Quilhampton crossing the deck, his hand on his hat and his eyes cast aloft. ‘D’you think she’ll stand it?’
‘Yes, she’ll stand it, she goes well, Mr Q, though I could wish the wind fairer.’
‘Indeed, sir.’ Quilhampton watched the captain keenly as Drink-water looked about them and drew the fresh air into his lungs.
‘The countryside looks fine to the south’ard, don’t you think?’ He pointed on the larboard bow. ‘You know, James,’ he said intimately, looking at the lieutenant, ‘old Tregembo advised me to retire, to buy an estate and give up the Service. I dismissed the idea at the time; I rather regret it now. I cannot say that I had ever considered the matter before. What d’you think?’
Quilhampton hesitated. Such a notion would deprive him of further employment.
‘I see you don’t approve,’ Drinkwater said drily. ‘Well, the matter is decided for Tregembo . . .’
‘How is he, sir?’ Quilhampton asked anxiously, eager to divert Drinkwater’s mind from the thought of premature retirement.
‘He’ll make a fine recovery from his wound. But he’ll not leave his fireside again, and I can’t say I’m sorry.’
There was, however, another question Quilhampton wanted answered, as did the whole ship’s company, and he felt he might take advantage of the captain’s mood and ask it without impropriety.
‘May one ask the reason for your anxiety for a fast passage, sir?’ The greater question was implicit and Drinkwater turned to face his interrogator.
‘I can tell you little now, James, beyond the fact that I, and others, have been employed upon a special service . . . but rest assured that this ship sails now in the very vanguard of affairs.’
In the event it was all the explanation Quilhampton ever received upon the matter, but the phrase lodged in his memory and he learned to be satisfied with it.
Drinkwater was deprived of his fast passage: in the North Sea the winds were infuriatingly light and variable and Antigone drifted rather than sailed south-west, beneath blue skies on a sea that was as smooth as a mirror. For over a week after she passed the Skaw she made slow progress, but towards the end of the second week in July a light breeze picked up from the eastward and the next afternoon Drinkwater was called on deck to see the twin towers of the lighthouses on Orfordness.
‘We’ve the last of the tide with us, sir,’ said Hill suggestively.
Drinkwater grinned. ‘Very well, stand inshore and carry the flood round the Ness and inside the Whiting Bank and we’ll be off Harwich by nightfall.’
‘We’ll flush any Dunkirkers out of Ho’sley Bay on our way past,’ remarked Hill after he had adjusted their course, referring to the big lugger-privateers that often lay under the remote shingle headland and preyed on the north-country trade bound for London.
‘No need,’ said Quilhampton staring through the watch-glass, ‘there’s a big frigate in there already . . . blue ensign . . .’
They could see the masts and spars of a man-of-war lifting above the horizon, then her hull, rising oddly as refraction distorted it suddenly upwards.
‘She’s no frigate, Mr Q,’ said Hill, ‘she’s an old sixty-four or I’m a Dutchman.’
Drinkwater took a look through his own glass. The distant ship had set her topsails and was standing out towards them. He could see the blue ensign at her peak and then the relative positions of the two ships closed and the refractive quality of the air disappeared. The strange ship was suddenly much closer and he could see men on her fo’c’s’le, fishing for the anchor with the cat tackle.
‘She’ll be the Harwich guardship, I expect, come out to exercise before grounding on her own chicken bones.’ The knot of officers laughed dutifully at the captain’s joke. ‘Make the private signal, Mr Hill, he added, then turned to Quilhampton. ‘I shall want my barge hoisted out as soon as we’ve fetched an anchor on the Harwich Shelf. I shall be posting to London directly . . . you had better let Fraser know.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Their eyes met. The coast of England was under their lee and it would not be long before Lieutenant Rogers was taken ashore. Fraser would inherit temporary command of the ship, but with Rogers still on board, the situation would be delicate for a day or two in the captain’s absence. Quilhampton wondered what Drinkwater intended to do about Rogers and the question lay unasked between them. In a low voice meant for Quilhampton’s ears alone Drink-water said, ‘Under last year’s regulations, James, a commanding officer is, as you know “forbidden from suffering the inferior officers or men from being treated with oppression”. The first lieutenant’s conduct . . .’
He got no further. The ship trembled and for a split-second Drinkwater thought they had run aground, then the air was alive with exploding splinters and men were shouting in alarm, outrage and agony. His eyes lifted to the strange ship standing out from the anchorage. The blue ensign was descending, and rising to the peak of the gaff were the horizontal bands of the tricolour of the Dutch Republic.
‘Christ alive!’ Drinkwater swore, seized by agonizing panic. ‘All hands to quarters! Beat to quarters! Rouse out all hands!’ He ground his teeth, furious with himself for being so easily deceived, as he waited impotently for his men to rush to their stations, aware that the enemy would get in a further broadside before he was ready to reply. It was too late to clear for action and Hill was altering course to enable Antigone to bring her starboard broadside to bear, but it first exposed her to the enemy’s fire.
The innocent-looking puffs of grey smoke blossomed from the Dutchman’s side before the Antigones had cast off the breechings of their own guns. The enemy cannon were well pointed and the shot slammed into the side of the British frigate. Shot flew overhead with a rending noise like the tearing of canvas. Hammocks burst, spinning, from the nettings, splinters lanced across the deck and the starboard side of the launch amidships was shattered. Chips flew from the mainmast and holes appeared in the sails. Aloft, severed ropes whipped through their sheaves and landed on deck with a whir and slap so that unbraced yards flew round and men fell like jerking puppets as langridge and canister swept the deck in a horizontal hail of iron.
‘Hold your course, damn you!’ Drinkwater screamed above the din, leaping for the wheel. ‘She’ll luff, else!’
‘She won’t answer, sir!’
‘Bloody hell!’
He looked desperately at the enemy and then, at last, there came from the fo’c’sle an answering gun and Drinkwater saw Quilhampton leaping along the starboard battery. Close to Drinkwater at the hance, little Frey fired one of the brass carronades with an ear-splitting roar and Mount’s marines were lining the hammock netting, returning fire with their muskets.
From the waist now came the steady roar of the main guns, the black-barrelled 18-pounders rumbled back on their carriages, snapping the breechings bar-taut as their crews leapt round to sponge, load and ram, before tailing onto the tackles and sending them out through the ports again. Aiming was crude; the instant a gun-captain saw the slightest suggestion of the enemy through the smoke he jerked his lanyard, the flint snapped on the gun-lock and the gun leapt inboard again, belching fire, smoke and iron.
Overhead there was a loud and distinct crack and the maintopmast
sagged forward, to come crashing down, tearing at the rigging and bringing with it the foretopmast, enveloping the deck in a heap of spars, mounds of rope and blanketing sheets of grey canvas that were hacked and torn away by the fire-fighting parties in an attempt to keep the guns in action. Smoke rolled over everything and the heat and gasses from the guns began to kill the wind. Drinkwater had not lost his sense of impotence: his inattention had denied him the opportunity to manoeuvre, he had made no study of his enemy and all at once found himself pitched into this battle from which there could be no escape. As he stood helpless upon his quarterdeck, it was no comfort to realise the curious refraction in the air had deceived him as to the true range of the Dutch ship; neither did it console him to know that he had failed in this most important mission on the very doorstep of London’s river. In a mood of desperation he tried to force his mind to think, to gauge the advantages of striking in the hope that he might contrive to escape with the news from Tilsit. Lieutenant Fraser loomed through the smoke. He was wounded and his expression showed a helpless desire to surrender.
Drinkwater shook his head. ‘No! No, I cannot strike. We must fight on!’ It was a stupid, senseless order with no chance of success, but Fraser nodded and turned forward again. Behind him the unscathed masts and yards of their persecutor rose up, closing them with a paralysing menace. Drinkwater recalled the large group of men milling on her fo’c’s’le, catting her anchor. Realisation of their true purpose struck him like a blow; at any moment Antigone would be boarded.
‘Fight, you bastards!’ he roared as his officers flinched, the shot storming round them. Hill reeled and fell and Drinkwater saw a midshipman carried past him, his face and chest a bloody pulp.
Drinkwater drew his sword and an instant later saw the hull of the Dutch vessel loom athwart their hawse.
‘Boarders!’ he roared. ‘Repel boarders!’ He began to move forward, pulling men from the after-guns which had no target now.
‘Come on, men! ’Tis them or us!’
Drinkwater felt the jarring crash as the two ships smashed together and to the concussion of the guns was added the howling of boarders pouring into his ship.
‘Mr Mount!’
The marine sergeant appeared out of the smoke. ‘Mr Mount’s wounded, sir.’
‘Damn! Get a few of your men, Blixoe. You must guard my person.’
‘Guard your person, sir?’
‘You heard me!’
‘Sir.’
It was not the time for explanations, for he alone knew the value of the news he carried.
A midshipman appeared.
‘Mr Wickham, what’s happening forrard?’
‘We’re giving ground, sir.’
‘Mr Quilhampton?’
‘Down, sir . . . the first wave of boarders . . .’
Drinkwater swung the flat of his sword across the breast of a retreating seaman. That was a rot he must stop. He raised his voice: ‘Wickham! Blixoe! Forward!’ Drinkwater led the after-guard in a counter-attack that looked like a forlorn hope as it lost itself in the mêlée amidships, where the fighting heaved over the broken ribs of the boats on the booms. Steel flashed in the sunshine and the pale yellow stabs of small arms fire spurted among the desperately writhing bodies that struggled for supremacy on the deck.
On the fo’c’s’le, Quilhampton had been knocked down in the first rush of the enemy boarders. He was not seriously hurt, but his exertions at the guns had left him breathless. By the time he scrambled to his feet the enemy had moved aft and the sight of their backs caused him to pause an instant before charging impetuously upon them. It was clear that things were going badly and he had no idea of the vigour of resistance amidships to the ferocious onslaught of the Dutchmen. He was surrounded by the wreckage of the foremast and the groans of the seriously wounded. He had only to lift his head to see the enemy ship rising above the rail of the Antigone.
With a ponderous slowness the two vessels swung together and a second wave of boarders prepared to pour over the Dutch ship’s larboard waist, to take the British defenders aft in flank. A few guns continued to fire from both ships somewhere amidships but generally the action had become the desperate slithering, hacking and cursing of hand-to-hand fighting.
It took Quilhampton only a moment to take in these events. Suddenly there appeared above him the muzzle of an enemy gun. He waited for the blast to tear out his lungs, but nothing happened and in a moment of sheer ecstasy at finding himself alive he swung upwards, one foot on Antigone’s rail, and leaned towards the Dutch ship. The gun barrel was hot to the touch, but no boarding pike or ramming worm was jabbed in his face; the gun was deserted!
In an instant he had heaved himself aboard the enemy ship and the sudden gloom of the gundeck engulfed him. Dense powder smoke hung in the air. Further aft a gun discharged, leaping back, its barrel hot, the water from the sponge hissing into steam, adding to the confusion and obscurity. A group of men and an officer ran past and it was clear that everyone’s attention was focused outboard and down into Antigone’s waist where the issue was being decided. From the shouts it was clear that the Dutch were having their own way.
A battle-lantern glowed through the smoke and Quilhampton made for it. He found himself above a companionway and face to face with a boy. The child had a thick paper cartridge under each arm and looked up in astonishment at the unfamiliar uniform. Quilhampton held out his right hand and the boy docilely handed the cartridges over, his eyes alighting on the iron hook Quilhampton held up. A moment later Quilhampton was stumbling down the ladder. At the foot a sentry stood with musket and bayonet. Before the man realised anything was wrong, Quilhampton had swung his hook, slashing the astonished soldier’s face. The man screamed, dropping his musket, and fell to his knees, hands clutching his hideously torn face. Quilhampton pulled the felt curtain aside and clattered down a second ladder.
The wood-lined lobby in which he found himself was lit by glims set behind glass in the deal lining. Another wet felt curtain hung in front of him. Quilhampton had found what he was looking for: the enemy’s powder magazine.
Drinkwater’s counter-attack was outflanked as the two vessels ground together, yardarm to yardarm. As he stabbed and hacked he felt the increased pressure of the additional Dutch seamen and marines pouring down from the dominating height of the battleship.
‘Blixoe! Here! Disengage!’ He caught the marine sergeant’s eye and the man jerked his bayonet to the right and stepped back. As the two pulled out of the throng Drinkwater looked round. The waist was a shambles and he knew his men could not hold on for many more minutes against such odds. His glance raked the enemy rail and then he knew that providence had abandoned him. In the mizen chains of the enemy ship, in the very act of jumping across the gap, was a tall French officer. Their eyes met in recognition at the same instant.
General Santhonax jumped down onto the deck of the Antigone, leaping onto the breech of a carronade and sweeping his sword-blade among its wounded crew. Drinkwater brought up his hanger and advanced to meet him.
‘Keep your men back, Blixoe!’
‘But sir . . .’
‘Back! This man’s mine!’
Then Santhonax was on him, his blade high. Drinkwater parried and missed, but ducked clear. Santhonax cut to the right as they both turned and their swords met, the jarring clash carrying up Drink-water’s arm as their bodies collided. They pushed against each other.
‘I have come a long way . . .’ Santhonax hissed between clenched teeth.
They jumped back and Drinkwater cut swiftly left. Santhonax quickly turned and spun round. They had fought before; Santhonax had given Drinkwater the first of his two shoulder wounds, a wound that even now reduced his stamina. Had he had a pistol he would not have hesitated to use it but, unprepared as he was, he had only his hanger, while Santhonax fought with a heavier sabre.
Santhonax cut down with a molinello which Drinkwater parried clumsily, feeling his enemy’s blade chop downwards through the bullion wire o
f his epaulette. He shortened his own sword and jabbed savagely. Santhonax’s cut had lost its power, but Drinkwater felt his blade bite bone and, with a sudden fierce joy, he drove upwards, feeling the hanger’s blade bend as the tall Frenchman’s head jerked backwards. Drinkwater retracted his arm, fearful that his weapon might snap, and as the blade withdrew from Santhonax’s throat the blood poured from the gaping wound and he sank to his knees. Santhonax’s eyes blazed as he tried to give vent to his anguish. With lowered guard Drinkwater stood over his enemy, his own breath coming in great panting sobs. Santhonax raised his left hand. It held a pistol, drawn from his belt. Transfixed, Drinkwater watched the hammer cock and snap forward on the pan. The noise of the shot was lost in the tumult that raged about them, but the ball went wide with the trembling of Santhonax’s hand. He began to sway, the front of his shirt and uniform dark with blood; his head came up and he arched his back and Drinkwater sensed his refusal to die.
Blixoe’s marines closed in round the captain, while all about them men fought, slithering in the blood that flowed from the Frenchman. Suddenly the sabre dropped from his flaccid fingers and he slumped full length. Drinkwater bent beside the dying man; he felt a quite extraordinary remorse, as though their long animosity had engendered a mutual respect. Santhonax’s mouth moved, then he fell back dead.
Drinkwater rose and turned, catching Blixoe’s eye. The fighting round them was as desperate as ever and the Antigones had given ground as far as the quarterdeck.
‘Clear the quarterdeck, Blixoe!’
The sergeant swung his bloody bayonet and stabbed forward, bawling at his marines to keep their courage up.
Dropping his hanger, Drinkwater picked up the sabre Santhonax had used and hurled himself into the fight, roaring encouragement to his men. They began to force the Dutchmen backwards, then suddenly Drinkwater was aware of Quilhampton above him, scrambling over the battleship’s rail into the mizen chains.
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