Beneath the aurora nd-12

by Ричард Вудмен

  From somewhere beyond the window a dull thud sounded: Frey's party had either been discovered or had begun their work of destruction.

  'Out, you men!'

  They seemed to take an interminable time to scramble back through the open stern window. Drinkwater could hear cries of alarm on deck and the pad-pad of running feet. Any moment now and there would be someone reporting to the privateer's commander.

  'Ready, sir.' Wells had the hat-box open and the slow-match in his hand. Drinkwater nodded and the match was touched to the first of the three mines. When its fuse was alight, Drinkwater dropped it into the lazarette. 'Get out!' he ordered. 'Get back to the boat!'

  The shouting on deck had increased. He took the slow-match and touched it to the protruding fuse of the second mine and rolled it into a mass of rags. The third he had just ignited when the door opened for the second time:

  'Cap'n Hughes ... what the hell ...?'

  Drinkwater's pistol ball smashed into the man's chest, flinging him backwards, his breastbone broken. Drinkwater threw the weapon after it and made for the window. Below him the men were tumbling into the boat and beyond them there was an orange glow which leached through the last of the fog and grew as he watched. Frey's party had been successful and the American privateer astern of the General Wayne was well ablaze.

  'Hey! Look!'

  The voice came from above, where the General Wayne's people had run aft to see what had happened to their consort and who now, staring down, saw the British seamen climbing out of their own ship and into the strange boats trailing astern.

  'The bastards have been aboard of us!' The voices were outraged, surprised and affronted.

  'They've been in the bloody cabin!'

  'Here, get me a rifle!' Above Drinkwater's head the urgent sound of hurrying footsteps passed to and fro.

  'Pass some muskets, quick!'

  Drinkwater could see the men settle at their thwarts and Wells looked up at him, his face anxious and expectant. Drinkwater waved his boat away, unwilling to shout and betray his own presence. The coxswain looked nonplussed and Drinkwater made violent, swimming motions. Wells understood; the initial oar strokes of the boat's crew coincided with the report of a musket from the quarterdeck above.

  'Another shot and your cap'n's a dead duck!' Wells roared defiantly, his arm round the wild-eyed figure gagged beside him.

  'Christ! They've got the cap'n!' an American voice warned.

  This last confusion gave Drinkwater the momentary respite he needed. He glanced back into the cabin. The fuses on the mines sizzled, that on the first he had lit must almost have burned through. The last thing he noticed, as he turned back to the window, was the tin hat-box and the name Thos. Huke executed in white upon its blackjapanned surface.

  Climbing on to the window ledge, he dived into the sea.

  The water was shockingly, numbingly cold. He surfaced, gasping, and drew a great, reflexive breath. A ball smacked into the water close by, and he struck out wildly. Another raised a short, vicious spurt of water alongside his head and he felt a sharp blow to his arm, but no pain as he plunged on.

  Then his tormentors stopped, blown upwards as the first powder-packed barrico exploded and counter-mined the others with a terrific roar, setting the whole after part of the General Wayne ablaze. Dully, he realized what had happened and rolled over on to his back.

  The stern of the American privateer appeared in black silhouette against the blaze. He could see the apertures of the stern windows within which the fire rapidly became an inferno. The mines had blown the decks upwards and flames shot skywards, licking hungrily at the mizen rigging, taking hold, then racing aloft. Around the stern dark objects of debris, animate and inanimate, fell into the cold and crystal waters of the fiord.

  He turned away. To his left the other privateer was on fire, sparks and cinders rising rapidly from her as the flames, little yellow flickers at first, grew redder in their intensity as they rose up her rigging. It was like some over-blown and monstrous firework display. The neat and ordered lines of the rigging were displayed to perfection by the racing flames, holding their accustomed pattern for one brilliant, incandescent instant, and then falling away in ashen dissolution.

  He no longer felt cold. Somewhere to his right he could hear English voices. One of them called his name. He shouted back.

  It was with considerable difficulty that they dragged him shivering into the boat.

  He was still shuddering so badly three hours later that he could not level his glass at the burning ships, but fumbled and dropped the telescope. The cold water had struck deep into his body. The damaged muscles of his old shoulder wound ached with breath-taking pain, the scab on his cheek had softened and partly sloughed off. As he warmed through, the enlarging capillaries began to bleed again. Oddly, he felt nothing of the slight flesh wound, where the Yankee musket-ball had galled his arm.

  It was almost dark and the fog had gone, but he needed no lens to watch as the two privateers blazed against the sombre background of the forest behind them. He derived no satisfaction from the sight; only a loathing for what he had accomplished.

  'You must go below, sir,' Kennedy insisted, almost manhandling Drinkwater from his position by the mizen rigging. 'Frey has a rare fever from his wound, and if you don't take care of yourself upon the instant, I cannot answer for the consequences.'

  Drinkwater submitted, and allowed himself to be led off.

  'We have neither the men nor the boats to tow out through the narrows,' he heard Birkbeck saying as he stumbled below, leaning on Kennedy's shoulder.

  And the words mocked his success as Kennedy and Templeton wrapped him in warmed blankets and plied him with hot molasses.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Fortune of War

  November 1813

  Drinkwater had no idea how long he slept, only that when he was woken he regretted it, that Jameson's face was strange to him, and he wished to be left alone. He closed his eyes, seeking again the oblivion of sleep.

  'Sir, you must wake up! Sir!'

  Jameson shook the cot. It made Drinkwater's head ache and with the acknowledgement of pain came memory. He shook off the luxury of oblivion.

  'What is the matter?'

  'The Danish frigate, sir, the Odin, she is under weigh!'

  Drinkwater frowned. 'Where is the wind?'

  'In the north, sir.'

  'The north!' Drinkwater flung his legs over the edge of the cot and realized he was completely naked. Jameson averted his eyes.

  'What o'clock is it?'

  'Four bells, morning watch.'

  Ten in the morning! He had slept the clock round and more! Why had they not woken him? What had they been doing? 'Pass word for my servant and then you had better beat to quarters. We shall have a battle this morning.'

  But Jameson had gone and he was talking to himself.

  The two frigates presented an odd sight as they stood down the fiord, both heading for the narrows and the open sea beyond. But this was a deceit, for neither could leave the other behind; the honour of their respective flags denied them this escape, so their almost parallel courses converged slightly, to a point of intersection some half a mile before the gorge, where the matter between them must be decided.

  Their unusual aspect was caused by the mutual damage they had suffered and inflicted. It was some consolation to the watching Drinkwater that he had cut up his opponent so badly, for she bore no mizen topsail, her aftermost mast supporting a much-reduced and extemporized spanker, and although her main and foremasts bore topsails, that on the foremost was a diminutive, a former topgallant. Clearly the Odin possessed insufficient spars to replace all her losses. Drinkwater shut his glass with a decisive snap and summoned Jameson and Birkbeck. They conferred in a huddle beside the starboard hance.

  'We have one opportunity, gentlemen. Our lack of man­power ... well, I have no need to emphasize our disadvantages. I shall exchange fire and run directly aboard him. He has the weather gauge, but
with that rig he will find it impossible to draw ahead of us. Mr Birkbeck, you will remain on the quarterdeck and handle the ship. Mr Jameson the starboard battery. I will lead the boarders. The topmen are to grapple, then seize us yard-arm to yard-arm. The matter will be decided on her deck. Very good. To your posts and good fortune.'

  Drinkwater turned away. 'Sergeant Danks?'

  The marine sergeant hurried over and Drinkwater explained his intentions. 'Volley fire as we approach, then, when we close, let the men fire independently. When I give the order to board, half your fellows are to follow me, you are to remain on board in command of the rest and cover our retreat if we are driven back. Understand?'

  'Aye, sir. Odds will follow you, evens stay with me.'

  'And tell the men in the tops to mind their aim. Fire ahead of us, not into our backs!'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Danks went off and Drinkwater studied his enemy again. His fears on waking had been unjustified, for he had come on deck flurried and anxious to find Birkbeck had the matter in hand, his re-rigging as complete as skill and artifice could make it and the anchor a-trip.

  'I told you, sir,' Birkbeck had said when Drinkwater complimented him, 'I am quite keen to get home all in one piece.'

  They had been under weigh within moments of Drinkwater's appearance on deck and now the two frigates were running neck and neck, Andromeda drawing slighdy ahead.

  'That'll change when we fall under her lee,' Drinkwater muttered to himself.

  'What will? Our speed?'

  He looked round to find Frey beside him. The young lieutenant had been at some pains to repair the ravages of battle to his uniform.

  'I heard there was to be an action, sir.'

  'Yes, but you are not fit ... What about your wound? Your fever?'

  'I'm as fit as you, sir,' Frey said quietly. He looked astern. 'What happened to Kestrel?'

  Drinkwater regarded his young colleague and their eyes met. There was the glitter of resolution in Frey's and Drinkwater sighed, then smiled.

  'A master's mate named Ashley volunteered to bring her in with a prize crew. He's on our larboard beam.'

  Frey craned round and saw the man-of-war cutter. 'Ah, yes. I wonder what their chances are?'

  'Less than fifty-fifty.'

  Drinkwater did not say that he would never have let Ashley go had not the odds against their own survival been considerably shorter. Ashley carried a hurriedly written report of proceedings and a secret, enciphered dispatch. Both had been prepared by Templeton at Drinkwater's dictation while he had dressed.

  Drinkwater looked at Frey. 'Very well. Do you keep an eye on things here. I'm going to take a turn below.

  He descended to the gloom of the gun deck. The gunners were, to a man, gathered about their cannon, staring at the enemy through the open ports. Behind the guns the powder-monkeys crouched, trying to see between the men. Standing at the bottom of the ladder, Drinkwater was struck by the lack of numbers. The larboard guns were almost unmanned. Shackled amidships were the chained American prisoners. Drinkwater had quite forgotten them. His memory seemed, these days, to be fickle in the extreme.

  Further forward, beside the mainmast, Lieutenant Jameson was studying the enemy and haranguing his men.

  'He's going to open fire any moment, my lads. When he does I want him to feel the weight of our metal in one blow.'

  A murmur of appreciation greeted this speech. Someone forward, in the eyes of the ship, cracked a joke, and Drinkwater heard the expressions of mirth roll aft.

  'Make 'em eat shit, Jamie!' another called, and a good-natured laugh broke out again.

  'No, no,' Jameson called, never taking his eyes off the enemy. "Tis too soft.'

  The filthy jests went on, bolstering their courage. This was a Jameson Drinkwater had never met, but would be glad of in the coming hour. He abandoned any thought of addressing these men and made to return to the quarterdeck. The sudden movement attracted attention. Midshipman Fisher saw him and touched the brim of his ridiculous hat. Others caught sight of their captain and the whisper of his presence passed along the line of guns like a gust of wind through the tops of fir trees. Jameson became aware of it and straightened up.

  'Don't let me distract you, Mr Jameson, I merely came to satisfy myself that you were ready,' he called.

  'We're ready, sir, aren't we, my lads?'

  'Aye, we're ready!' They broke out into a cheer. It was foolish; it was utterly beyond reason and it was pitifully affecting. Drinkwater stood stupid with emotion and, although stoop-shouldered beneath the beams, he raised his damaged hat in solemn salutation. Then he turned and ascended into sunshine as the cheers of the gunners below followed him.

  The noise was taken up on the upper deck. The men at the forecastle guns, those mustered at the mast and pinrails and stationed on the quarterdeck at the carronades and the wheel, began to cheer.

  He let them be, let their enthusiasm subside naturally and, walking to the ship's side, wiped the moisture from his eyes as unobtrusively as possible. He was a damned ninny to be seduced by such stupidity, but he could not prevent himself from feeling moved.

  Sniffing, he looked again at the enemy; she was much closer now.

  The line of the Odin's opened gun-ports suddenly sparkled, then faded from view, obscured by the smoke from her broadside. Shot whined overhead, fell short or thudded into their side before the sound rolled down upon them.

  He heard Jameson's order and Andromeda shook to the simultaneous discharge of her own battery. Plumes of spray rose up along Odin's waterline and a cannonade which was to last for twenty long minutes began.

  Shot smacked home, the faint trembling of the hull betraying a ball burying itself in the frigate's stout oak sides; ropes parted aloft; more holes appeared in the already tattered sails with an odd, sucking plop; explosions of splinters lanced the deck and the hot breath of cannon shot made them gasp. The business of dying began again; men screamed and were taken below.

  'I believe you're boarding, sir.'

  'What?' Distracted, Drinkwater looked round to see Templeton beside him.

  'I understand it is your intention to board the Odin.'

  'Yes.'

  'It is my intention to accompany you.'

  'The devil it is ...'

  Drinkwater looked at the clerk. Was he pot-valiant? Drinkwater could smell no liquor on his breath, and Templeton winced as the starboard battery fired again. Templeton had not occupied much of Drinkwater's time or attention during the last fortnight. He had been summoned when required, which had not proved often, and for the most part had been left to his own devices and desires. He looked somehow strange, different from the man who had stood in his room in the Admiralty, but then Quilhampton was dead and Frey was a changed man; so, he supposed, was he. If Templeton wished to prove himself it was his own affair, and who was Drinkwater to judge him for taking a nip to fortify his nerves.

  'Very well, Mr Templeton, if that is what you wish. I should have sent you with Ashley in the Kestrel, but I shall be glad of all the support I can get.'

  'Thank you.' Templeton moved away and stood by the mizen mast, selecting a boarding pike from the rack. Six feet away a ball from the Odin crashed into the bulwark between two larboard carronades and a spray of musketry spattered aboard, killing a marine and wounding a gunner. Drinkwater saw Templeton jerk with involuntary reaction.

  The distance between the two ships was closing rapidly now. It must have been obvious to Dahlgaard what Drinkwater intended, but the Danish captain made no attempt to draw off and pound his weaker opponent.

  'Edge closer, Mr Birkbeck, then go at her with a run, we're falling under her lee!'

  Shot thumped into Andromeda's planking and the enemy's upperdeck cannon belched langridge at them. The iron hail swept whistling aboard, taking Drinkwater's second hat from his head. He drew his hanger. He was conscious now of only one burning desire, to end this madness in the catharsis of a greater insanity.

  'Now, Birkbeck! N
ow!'

  Andromeda was losing ground quickly as the Odin masked her from the wind, but Birkbeck had the measure of the situation and put the helm up the instant the guns had fired a broadside. The British ship swung to starboard with a slow and magnificent grace. Her bowsprit rode over the Dane's waist and the dolphin striker lodged itself in the Odin's main chains. The impetus of the Odin caught the lighter ship and drew her alongside, so the first impact of the collision was followed by a slewing of the deck; then the two ships ground together, locked in mortal combat, a tangle of yards and hooked braces aloft, their guns muzzle to muzzle below.

  From the corner of his eye Drinkwater caught a glimpse of a grapnel snaking out as he clambered up on the rail and stepped over the hammock netting. Other men were gathering, anticipating his order:

  'Boarders away!'

  He could never afterwards remember those few vulnerable seconds as he scrambled aboard the Odin, beyond realizing that the Danish frigate had two feet more freeboard than her adversary and he had to climb upwards. It was always something of a mystery as to why the defenders of a ship did not find it easy to repel attackers coming aboard in so haphazard a manner. A mystery, that is, until one considered the encumbrance of the hammock netting which was designed to form a breastwork behind which sharpshooters could be stationed, but which almost perfectly masked an attack made up the ship's side.

  Sometimes a ship would hoist boarding nettings, but neither had done so, perhaps each to facilitate their own attacks. Astride the Odin's hammock netting Drinkwater discharged his pistol into the face of a Danish marine, then leaned down and thrust his hanger at a gunner waving a pike. The pike ripped his sleeve and, gripping the hammocks with his leg as though on horseback, he jabbed the discharged pistol barrel into the man's eye. As his victim fell back, Drinkwater stood, swung both legs over the netting and, grabbing a mizen shroud with his left hand, slashed a swathe with his sword and jumped down on to the Odin's deck in the space thus provided.