As Andromeda and Kestrel passed on opposite courses, Drinkwater could see the little cruiser’s bulwarks beaten in where she had taken punishment, but Quilhampton waved his hat jauntily from the quarter where he stood by the great tiller with its carved falcon’s head.
‘Closing fast, sir,’ Birkbeck cautioned, and Drinkwater looked round and nodded.
‘This will do very well,’ he said, staring at the height of the bluff ahead of them and the hard edge of the fort’s rampart against the sky. A ball thumped into Andromeda’s hull and another whined overhead. ‘I think we should be safe from the fort hereabouts,’ he called to the master, ‘bring her round now.’
‘Down helm,’ ordered Birkbeck, picking up his speaking trumpet. ‘Hands to the braces!’ he roared. Again Andromeda came up into the wind like a reined horse, exposing her starboard battery to the enemy.
‘Fire!’ bellowed Mosse.
‘Stand by the larboard cat stopper!’ shouted Birkbeck. ‘Rise tacks and sheets! Let go!’
The starboard battery now bore on the enemy and its cannon belched fire and smoke at the Odin as Andromeda’s backed yards checked her headway and overcame it, slowly driving her astern. Her anchor bit the sand and dragged the cable out of the ship, just as Malaburn had done the previous day. But now the act was deliberate, placing the British ship not at a supine disadvantage, but with her guns commanding the enemy and strewing the anchorage with her own shot.
‘Clew up! Clew up!’
On Andromeda’s gun deck the men of the larboard guns now moved over to assist their mates on the opposite side, and the warm cannon poured broadside after relentless broadside into the enemy ships.
But the Danish gunners had overcome their surprise and, with the two vessels now stationary, parallel and head to wind, the odds were rapidly reversed. Nor were the American ships inert and, though slightly less advantageously stationed, with lighter guns and lacking the rigid discipline of regular naval crews, their guns found the range and began punishing the Andromeda for her effrontery. The crash and explosion of splinters as enemy balls buried themselves in the British frigate’s fabric became regular, and musket shot buzzed dangerously about.
Drinkwater was aware of men falling at their guns, of their being flung back, or thrown aside like dolls in the very act of tending their pieces. He looked up at the fort again. The guns were quiet there and he wondered if the ramparts were pierced for artillery on this side. Whether or not they were, he felt they were again too close under the bluff for carriage guns to depress. Hardly had this satisfactory thought crossed his mind than he found Midshipman Fisher at his side. The boy was shouting and Drinkwater realized that the noise of the action had deafened him. He bent to hear what Fisher had to say.
‘Mr Jameson says to tell you that Mr Beavis has been killed, sir. A shot came in through the ship’s side . . .’ Fisher’s voice was distant and Drinkwater had to stare at his mouth to understand him. He could see the tears in the boy’s eyes.
‘Is it bad below, Mr Fisher?’
‘Terrible, sir. Collingwood’s dead, sir . . .’ The boy’s lower lip trembled.
‘Collingwood?’ Drinkwater said uncertainly.
‘The . . . the cockpit cat, sir.’
‘Ah, Collingwood, yes . . . I’m sorry. Do you go and give Mr Jameson my compliments and tell him we’re giving the enemy a pounding.’
‘Giving the enemy a pounding. Aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater looked about him through the smoke. ‘Mr Birkbeck?’
‘Sir!’
‘What d’you make of the Odin? We’ve shot away her mizen . . .’
The words were hardly uttered when there came the fatal crack of chain shot aloft. Drinkwater peered upwards and saw the whole of the main topmast tottering.
‘Not again,’ an anguished Birkbeck called despairingly. Aloft the falling main topgallant brought the fore topgallant with it, and then Drinkwater heard something far more serious. A deep boom came from somewhere to starboard.
‘God’s bones!’ he swore. ‘Mortar fire!’
Amid the falling shot, the smoke and confusion, it was impossible to know where that first shell had fallen. It failed to explode, so Drinkwater concluded it had fallen into the sea before its fuse had burnt down, but he knew it had come from the fort.
The second, when it came, proved lethal, exploding twenty feet above the waist, showering the entire upper deck, the tops and even those exposed in the gun deck beneath the boat-booms with shards of splintered iron.
‘ ’Tis too hot, sir!’ Birkbeck exclaimed, wiping blood from his face.
‘Brace the topsails sharp up, starboard tack. And set the sprits’l!’
The fore and mizen topsails, though riddled with shot-holes, were still under the command of their braces. Birkbeck ran forward among the wreckage of fallen spars and ragged sails, dragging men away from the upper-deck guns and thrusting them into line at the braces. Greer was frantically using his starter as they dragged the resisting yards round. Aloft they were encumbered by the dependent mass of the upper spars and broken mast.
Realizing that to wait many moments more would result in the destruction of his ship, Drinkwater ran forward and slipped over the rail on to the fore-chains. Here he quickly found the end of the spring Quilhampton had had prepared and, gathering up a forecastle gun’s crew, sent two of them below to the hawse, to draw in the spring and secure it to the cable. Somewhere above and behind him a third shell burst with a dull thump. Drinkwater could hear men screaming, despite his impaired hearing.
Coming aft again he found the wheel shattered, the four helmsmen either dead or dying. Lieutenant Mosse lay across a quarterdeck carronade, his long and elegant legs doing a last feeble dido.
‘God’s bones!’ Drinkwater blasphemed again, desperately casting about him. It seemed in the smoke that he was the only man alive, and then Birkbeck loomed up to report the yards braced.
‘Get below and veer cable! I’ve a spring clapped on it and as soon as the ship’s head is cast off the wind, I’ll send word to you to cut it!’
Birkbeck vanished. Drinkwater could only hope the master reached the cable tier without being killed or wounded. He waited, looking up. He could see blue sky above, and the dim geometric pattern of mast, yards and rigging through the smoke. He had to force himself to think, before he worked out it would be the Odin.
Behind the Danish man-of-war, the outline of the bluff and the ramparts was visible as though through a swirling fog. A foreshortened faint grey arc rose slowly and gracefully above it. The mathematical precision of the thing struck Drinkwater. He could clearly see the shell that caused it, a black dot, like a meteorite in daylight. The little black sphere grew bigger with an accelerating rapidity that astonished him. He drew back cravenly, behind the insubstantial shelter of the mizen mast. Closing his eyes he rested his forehead against the thick wooden tree. Beneath his feet the ship trembled as the gun carriages recoiled inboard, were serviced and hauled, rumbling, out again. The thunder of the broadsides had broken down now. Every gun was served by its crew individually, the men possessed by the demons of blood lust, slaves to their hot and ravening artillery.
Amid the noise there was a dull thud that Drinkwater felt through the soles of his shoes, and he was aware of a faint susurration. He opened his eyes. The Danish bombardier officer cut his fuses far too erratically. The unexploded mortar shell lay at Drinkwater’s feet, half-buried in the decking, its quick-match fizzing and sparking inexorably towards the funnel that carried its contagious fire into the mass of powder packed into its hollow carcases.
Perhaps a quarter of an inch had yet to burn. It puzzled Drinkwater that the unknown artilleryman had made such a mistake. Perhaps the saltpetre with which the fuse was impregnated was of inferior quality. Perhaps . . .
He regarded the thing with a detached curiosity, quite unafraid. He recalled he was supposed to be doing something; that he had initiated a course of action which had had something to do with Birkbeck.
Then smoke blew into his face as Birkbeck veered cable, and he looked up. He could see the mizen topsail above his head filling with wind as Andromeda altered her heading, slowly swinging as Birkbeck veered the cable and the weight of the frigate was shared by the spring. Then the wind came over the starboard bow and the ship gathered way, moving ahead.
He felt a sense of overwhelming relief as he remembered what it was he had dispatched the master to attend to. The ship would be all right; she would sail out of danger now. He could die having done his duty. ‘Cut!’ he yelled, aware that Birkbeck, far below, could not hear him. ‘Cut!’ he shouted again, and he thought he heard someone below take up the cry, but was not sure. He could do no more.
He looked at the shell again, at the rapidly shortening fuse, waiting for the explosion: then it occurred to him that he might douse it. Bending forward he pinched the hot and spluttering end between thumb and forefinger. He felt the heat sear him and transferred his hand to his mouth. He tasted bitterness, but the thing was extinguished. He bent and, with his sword blade and considerable effort, levered the shell from the splintered and cracked deck planking. Only a heavy deck beam below had prevented it from passing through and blowing up in the crowded confines of the gun deck.
He lifted the black iron sphere and, walking to the rail, put a foot on the slide of a carronade. It had ceased firing and its crew had fallen about it in positions of abandon. Some were obviously dead, their bodies mutilated by the impact of shell fragments. Others looked asleep. He heaved himself up, leant upon the hammock netting and dropped the shell carcass overboard. Then he hung there, hooked by his armpits on the cranes. He longed to shut his eyes and sleep, but he watched the plume of water raised by the splash draw astern as Andromeda stood out of the bay.
The butcher’s bill was appalling. Andromeda lay at anchor on the far side of the Vikkenfiord, not far from where Malaburn had tried to deliver her to the Odin the day, or was it a lifetime, before. Kennedy, the surgeon, stood before Drinkwater and read from a crumpled sheet of paper.
‘Messrs Mosse and Beavis; Greer, boatswain’s mate; Wilson, corporal of marines . . .’ Kennedy read on, thirty-seven seamen and thirteen marines dead and the list of the wounded twice as bad, many mortal.
The reproach in Kennedy’s eyes was insubordinate. ‘Thank you, Mr Kennedy.’
‘I did my best, sir, but I cannot work miracles . . .’
‘No, of course not. I don’t expect that.’
‘You expected it of the ship’s company.’ Kennedy’s voice rasped harshly as he made his accusation.
Exhaustion and failure made Drinkwater lose his temper. He turned upon his tormentor. ‘I shared their exposure, damn you!’
‘You’ve the consolation of doing your duty to your king, I suppose,’ conceded Kennedy, equally angry.
‘Mind your tongue, and keep your Jacobite sympathies to yourself!’
Both men stared at each other. Drinkwater was faint with hunger and exertion. He had had nothing to eat all day and Kennedy was haggard from his foul labours over the operating table. He would, he had confided to his mates, rather have tended the most corrupted fistulae at Bath than hack off the limbs or probe for shards of shell carcass, splinters of wood or grapeshot in the bodies of healthy men.
Abruptly the surgeon turned on his heel and left the cabin. Drinkwater sank into the single chair he had had brought up from the hold. Apart from dropping the cabin bulkhead, the ship remained ready for action. A bitter chill filled the cabin from the breeze that blew in, unimpeded, through the wreck of the starboard quarter gallery, battered into splinters by several cannon shot from the Yankee privateers. Drinkwater drew his cloak closer round him. His head ached and waves of blackness seemed to wash up to him, then recede again. He wanted to sleep but the cloak could no more keep out memories than the cold. He had an overwhelming desire to weep and felt a first shuddering heave.
A knock came at the door and Fisher’s smoke-blackened face appeared. It momentarily crossed Drinkwater’s over-stimulated imagination that this was no mortal visitor but an imp of Satan.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but Kestrel’s just come alongside.’ Such had been the decimation among the officers that the midshipman was keeping the anchor watch.
‘Oh, yes.’ Drinkwater reproached himself for having momentarily forgotten about the cutter. With an effort he pulled himself together. ‘Be so kind as to ask her commander to report aboard.’ His voice cracked and he hoped the boy could not see in the gloom the tears filling his eyes.
‘Aye, aye, sir . . .’
‘By the way, what’s the wind doing?’
‘Flat calm, sir.’
‘Good. Very well, cut along.’
After Kennedy, it would be good to talk to Quilhampton. James understood the brutal and unavoidable priorities of a sea-officer’s duty. A few minutes later there was a second knock.
‘Come in, James.’
But it was Frey who came into the bare cabin.
CHAPTER 13
November 1813
Failure
Drinkwater knew the worst from Frey’s expression. The young lieutenant was grimy from powder smoke, his cheeks smeared and pale, his eyes wild.
‘How did it happen? Tell me from the beginning.’
Drinkwater hauled himself out of his chair and went to the settee placed below the stern windows. The shutters were pulled and a single battle lantern lit the unfurnished space. Lifting one of the padded settee seats he rummaged and withdrew a half-full bottle. Extracting the cork, he handed the bottle to Frey and gestured to the settee.
‘The glasses are all stowed. Please, sit down . . .’
Frey took the bottle and swigged greedily, sat and offered it to Drinkwater who shook his head. Frey took a second draught and then cradled the bottle on his lap.
‘We followed you directly into the bay and threw several shots among the boats with some success.’ Drinkwater nodded; he remembered seeing this and then Kestrel running out towards them as Andromeda bore down into the bay to anchor and bombard the enemy ships.
‘We sustained some damage from the Americans and lost three men killed and two wounded before we extricated ourselves. Then we tacked in your wake and came back astern of you. From what we saw you achieved complete surprise. The Danes seemed uncharacteristically irresolute.’
‘Their decks were cluttered with armaments they were transhipping to the Americans and they had many of their men away in the boats.’
‘Yes. By the time you had come to your anchor the boats had retreated to their respective ships and I had no specific targets. As we bore down, I went aft to obtain fresh orders. The smoke from your guns drifted into the anchorage and made it difficult to see what was going on. To round your stern would have put us uncomfortably close under the guns of the Americans, so James tacked offshore a little, intending to beat back into the bay across your bow and see if anything advantageous offered.
‘We managed to lay a course that not only took us across Andromeda’s bow, but also carried us athwart the hawse of the Odin. All the recovered boats were lashed alongside her starboard waist in the security of her unengaged side. It was also fair to assume the gunners on that side would be helping their mates on the other, for she was by then putting forth a furious fire.
‘ “We will cut those boats up, tack and get out before they know what has happened,” James ordered, and in we went. I depressed our carronades and James took her in like a yacht. I had time to prime my gun captains and we swept in with terrific effect!
‘I’m not certain how many of those boats we smashed but their big launch was definitely sunk, along with two cutters and possibly a third. As soon as we were past, James put the helm over. We could do nothing else and . . .’ Frey’s voice faltered.
‘You put your stern to the enemy.’
Frey nodded. ‘They had woken to our presence and we received fire from their quarterdeck cannon. Langridge swept the length of the deck; James, both helmsmen a
nd a dozen others fell. The boat in the stern davits, the binnacle and after companionway – all shot to pieces. The boom’s bespattered with the damned stuff and the foot of the mains’l in tatters.’
Frey paused and shuddered at the recollection. He took another swallow from the bottle. ‘We missed stays . . .’
Drinkwater could imagine the confusion. With no hand on the tiller, Kestrel’s rudder would have swung amidships and the turning moment applied to the cutter would have ceased. She would have sat, a perfect target, at something less than pistol shot, off the Odin’s starboard quarter.
‘I went aft and put the helm over to make a stern board and we backed the jib, but we were too close under the land to get a true wind and she blew towards the Odin and paid off to starboard again, back on our former tack. We took another storm of raking fire . . .’
It was a marvel that Frey had not been hit, Drinkwater thought, watching him take a fourth swig from the nearly emptied bottle.
‘Then your shot from Andromeda brought down the Odin’s fore and main topmasts and her fire slackened perceptibly. Anyway, Kestrel paid off fast to starboard and we cleared the Odin’s stern, thank God! My next problem was the Americans. The Yankees were doing their best, though their fire was nothing compared to the Odin’s. They soon saw us though, coming out of the smoke on the Odin’s starboard quarter, and quickly laid their guns upon us. I couldn’t risk running under their lee, so I gybed and got her on to a broad, starboard reach . . .’
‘You sailed across the bows of the Americans and across their field of fire?’
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