An Unwilling Alliance

by Lynn Bryant

  “She is Danish, sir?”

  “Yes. The Kronborg, I think, she’s bigger than the Frederickscoarn. And she’s not as bloody fast. Give the order, Mr Durrell, clear the ship for action! Get on with it, lad, before I doze off!”

  Durrell turned, suddenly blazing with energy. “Clear the ship!” he bellowed. “Bosun, call the muster!”

  Hugh stood, watching his ship come to life. He had spent hours training these men from the day they had first joined the ship in Yarmouth. They had run through this routine so many times that it was instinctive to them by now. As the bosun’s whistle shrilled, every man appeared from below and made his way to the station allotted to him by the Quarter Bill, the notice listing where each man within the ship would work when called into action.

  Clearing the decks involved extinguishing the galley fire for safety. On a long voyage, livestock would be slaughtered or heaved overboard but the Iris, close to port, carried none. Bulkheads and partitions which formed cabins were unshipped and taken below into the hold along with any loose furniture. The removal of bulkheads not only gave more space for the operation of the guns but also reduced the risk of injury by splinters. Hugh remembered his first battle as a boy. He had been shocked to find that the majority of injuries to crew came not from direct hits from gunnery but from the lethal flying splinters it caused. All bulkheads on the Iris were light and portable and could easily be removed to give more open space for battle.

  Normally hammocks would be rolled up, brought on deck and stowed in the hammock nettings that surrounded the ship. When covered by canvas they provided a protective barrier against small arms fire and splinters. There was no need for this, as they had not been taken down for the night.

  One party was dedicated to fire prevention; wetting and sanding the decks, setting up water pumps and fire buckets. The gunner and his mates were busy at the magazine and powder rooms and guns were hauled into place and secured. Men collected their arms, checked their guns and ran to their stations.

  The bosun and his mates were busy setting up measures to prevent damage to the ship’s rigging and to ensure that in the case of damage, the ship could still sail. It was an incredibly complex process involving rigging additional pendants and braces and providing extra support where possible. In his youth, Hugh had been part of this crew on his first ship and he watched with a critical eye as the men swarmed over the rigging while the ship began to gain inexorably on the Danish vessel.

  There was no talking, apart from an occasional voice calling an order. The men knew their duties and were expert at them, but the time before battle was not one for the usual laughing banter. It lent an air of purpose to the preparations and Hugh wondered how many of them were quietly uttering prayers while they worked, for survival and safety. He also wondered cynically how many were praying for victory and a lucrative prize.

  Lieutenant Durrell moved through the ship, inspecting each station and commenting on anything he thought needed improving. Hugh watched him from a distance and thought now, that whatever the irritations of daily life with Durrell, he had chosen right. The man was meticulous, with close attention to detail and the men jumped to obey him in a way that suggested that they respected him. Alfred Durrell might be incapable of uttering a sentence less than fifty words, but put him on a warship clearing for battle and he was a changed man.

  He returned to Hugh, saluting. “Sir. Ship cleared and ready.”

  “Thank you, Mr Durrell.” Hugh put his glass to his eye and surveyed the distance. He realised suddenly that the Danish ship was slowing. “She’s realised she can’t outrun us,” he said. “She’s going to make a fight of it. Beat to quarters, Mr Durrell.”

  Durrell rapped out the order and the ship’s drummer struck up a rapid staccato; the familiar “Heart of Oak”. It never failed to quicken Hugh’s pulse. So much of life in the navy was mundane; daily routine, maintenance, training, keeping watch on a port or an enemy fleet. A very small part of it was spent engaging the enemy but those were the moments that every seaman remembered for the rest of his life.

  The wind had dropped again as the Iris came alongside the Kronborg, close enough for Hugh to call across. He had no idea if the other captain spoke English but he suspected that his message would be clear enough. He was also fairly sure of the response he was going to get. The Danish ship was equal to the Iris in size and guns and he was about to receive a curt refusal to his request that the Danes surrender their ship. But the customs of war must be upheld and he took the speaking trumpet from Lieutenant Eastland and raised his voice.

  “This is Captain Hugh Kelly of His Majesty’s Ship Iris. I am charged with taking possession of your ship and returning it to Copenhagen. I ask you to surrender your vessel and yourselves to…”

  “We do not surrender.” The voice cut across his, heavily accented but perfectly understandable. “We are a neutral nation at peace and you have no rights here. Desist and allow us to leave or we will fire.”

  Hugh lowered the trumpet with a sigh. “Not sure if his English is good enough to manage “piss off” but that’s what he’s saying,” he said. “Mr Durrell…”

  The shot rang out, shockingly loud in the silence across the water and several of the men around Hugh visibly jumped. It was a musket shot from the firing platform of the Kronborg and it was fired across the bow, the shot burying itself harmlessly into the hammock netting. Hugh passed the trumpet to Eastland and raised his voice.

  “Mr Durrell, guns ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bear up and come astern. Be ready to fire on my order.”

  “Sir.”

  It took long minutes to manoeuvre the Iris into position and she was coming under fire from the Kronborg’s stern chaser which was aimed at Hugh’s rigging. It was clear that the Danish ship hoped to slow the Iris down and prevent her from manoeuvring into broadside position so that she could make her escape. Hugh knew that the brass chase guns were not particularly accurate but a lucky shot could hit some crucial line or sail.

  As his sailors swarmed over the rigging, moving the ship through a series of small shifts around the Kronborg into position, Hugh sent his marines aloft onto the firing platform to keep the gunners busy and fired his own chasers back at the other ship, carefully aimed and timed. He had two chasers at both stern and bow and he realised that the Danish ship had only one which gave him an advantage of firing. His gunners were highly trained and very fast.

  During battle there was no opportunity for a captain to give orders to individual gun crews. Each of his lieutenants had command of one of the gun decks with midshipmen and quarter gunners to assist them and it was their job to ensure a constant and effective rate of fire. Hugh trusted them implicitly.

  Judging to the second when best to give the order, Hugh unleashed his first broadside the moment he was alongside. The newly acquired cannonades were especially lethal at short range and smashed into the enemy ship causing enormous damage. The Iris was probably no more than 50 yards from the Kronborg as a furious exchange of broadsides began.

  Within minutes the decks were thick with smoke as guns roared. The top men clung on, ready to make minute adjustments to the sails to bring the ship where Hugh wanted it to be. The crash of the cannon could be heard throughout the ship, deafening even on the quarter-deck and unbearable below decks, where his gunners sweated over their task. There would be injuries from flying splinters as the Danish shot struck the side of the Iris and already Hugh could see two men down on the poop deck, soaked in blood from musket fire down onto the decks.

  Battles at sea moved slowly, at little more than the pace of a walking man although their endings could be swift and sudden. Hugh watched the Danish ship carefully, alert to every move and realised abruptly that the Danish captain was trying to manoeuvre the Kronborg away which would increase the range. It was a dangerous mistake and Hugh wondered if the other captain was inexperienced and could not see the implications of his move.

  There was an enorm
ous crash which made him jump and a scream from behind him and Hugh spun around. His stomach lurched at the sight of his master on the deck, his body drenched in blood. Through the gaping hole in his middle, John Randall’s intestines spilled out onto the deck and he was screaming, a high pitched sound which cut through the noise of battle and was causing men on the decks and aloft to turn and stare in horror.

  It was going to distract the crew and Hugh had no time for compassion or to mourn the loss of his master who had been with him for four years on his previous ship. He stepped forward, took out his pistol and hit the man hard, silencing the cries. Hugh had no idea if he had killed him or simply knocked him out and he knew the question would haunt him in the future but he turned to the young midshipman who, white faced, was vomiting on the deck.

  “Mr Phillips. Two men, get him down to the surgeon. Mr Durrell…”

  He paused, only then realising that Durrell was also on the deck. Hugh felt a wave of horror at the spreading pool of blood beneath Durrell’s head but then his first lieutenant stirred and pushed himself up. As three sailors ran to help Phillips carry the master below, Durrell waved away the offer of help and got carefully to his feet. There was blood pouring down from a gash above his left eye and he reached into his coat and took out a handkerchief, holding it to stem the flow.

  “I’m all right, Mr Phillips. Get the master below and send Mr Fuller up here to take your place.”

  Hugh studied him. “Get Lieutenant Jager as well, Mr Phillips, Mr Durrell will need…”

  “No, sir. Just a scratch.”

  Durrell’s voice was so definite that Hugh looked at him for a moment then nodded. “All right.”

  He looked back at the Kronborg and knew that his assessment had been correct. The Danish ship’s turn had exposed her starboard stern to the Iris’ guns while taking the Iris out of her line of fire. Hugh held his breath and waited, knowing that it was coming, and then it happened; an enormous broadside which shook his whole ship swept the side of the Kronborg. One shot, a 24 pounder from his quarterdeck carronade, stuck the Danish ship’s mizzen mast, severing it around ten feet above the deck. A second shot destroyed the ship’s wheel and a third crashed into the Danish quarterdeck to screams of agony and terror.

  The Kronborg was lost, the wind taking her and pushing her bow downwind towards the Iris with no possibility of steering her away. Rudderless and possibly without a leader after the devastation on the quarterdeck, the ship drifted and as it did, another broadside fired from the Iris, now only 25 yards away.

  Hugh moved, bellowing orders. This close, he could see the chaos on the deck of the Danish ship as the Kronborg lurched, out of control, towards the Iris. His boarding party stood ready and as the ship came closer, Hugh’s gunners poured rapid fire onto the deck, sending the Danish crew scattering to avoid it.

  Steered only by the wind, the Kronborg’s bow struck the Iris amidships and Hugh called orders to his men. He did not want the Danish ship to further damage his own slightly battered vessel but nor did he want her drifting away. His crew leaped to obey, the gunners below resting finally as the marines and deck crew sprang into action. The Kronborg was twisting to starboard in the light wind so that the two ships lay broadside to broadside but in opposite directions. It gave Hugh the opportunity he needed and he gave the order for his men to board.

  Hugh’s men left their guns and formed up for hand-to-hand combat. No Danish crew seemed ready to board the Iris so he took the initiative and sent his men over through the main gun deck ports. It was always nerve-wracking waiting for news of a boarding party but the heart had gone out of the Danish crew and within ten minutes he could see his men filling the quarterdeck. One of them was hauling down the Danish ensign and the fight was over.

  Hugh turned to his first lieutenant. “Get below, Mr Durrell and get that looked at.”

  “Yes, sir. I just want to…”

  “Now, Mr Durrell, or I’ll relieve you of command.” Hugh gave a little smile to rob his words of the sting. “If Dr Brown says you’re fit to, you can do a run through afterwards, I want a report of damage and casualties.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hugh watched the lanky form of his first lieutenant moving away. “Mr Durrell?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Well done. Your work has been exemplary today from start to finish.”

  He saw Durrell’s eyes light up and was glad he had said it. From the deck of the Kronborg he could see his lieutenant of marines hailing him and he moved to the rail. “All secure, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. Prisoners confined below under guard.”

  “Casualties?”

  “A lot, sir. Including the surgeon, it seems.”

  “Damn,” Hugh said. “The captain?”

  “Wounded, sir. I’ll get numbers for you.”

  “Do, please. Get the wounded as comfortable as you can; once our men have been treated I’ll send Dr Brown over to them. Lay out the dead on deck for burial.”

  He turned and surveyed the deck, locating his various officers. “Mr Jager.”

  “Sir.”

  “You have the deck until Mr Durrell returns. I’m going below to see the wounded.”

  He was conscious of their silence as he went below to the orlop deck where Dr Brown, the ship’s bad tempered surgeon was working at a long table, his instruments laid out beside him. As Hugh approached, Lieutenant Durrell rose from a wooden stool, a bandage around his head, and saluted.

  “Stitches?” Hugh asked.

  “Seven, sir. It is my considered opinion that the cure was more painful than the injury,” Durrell said precisely and Hugh grinned.

  “You all right to work?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Get a report for me then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Mr Durrell. When you’ve done, I want you to take yourself over to the Kronborg. Pick a prize crew and work out what needs doing to get her moving again, I want you to bring her in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hugh watched him leave and then turned to Brown. “The master?”

  “In his cabin, sir. If he’s still alive. He won’t be soon, nothing I can do for him.”

  Hugh made his way to the tiny cabin occupied by Randall. It was dim, lit by a single lantern hanging from a hook and it stank; the metallic smell of blood and something else, the rank smell of perforated bowel and death. Randall lay on his bunk, his midriff wrapped in white bandages, stained red. Beside him sat one of the midshipmen. Young Murphy had been crying, his eyes red and swollen. Hugh put his hand on his shoulder and the boy scrambled to his feet, saluting.

  “It’s all right, Mr Murphy. Thank you for sitting with him. Off you go now, get yourself a drink and check on your mates. I want some time with him.”

  Murphy left and Hugh sat down on the upturned box he had vacated and took his master’s hand. Randall was still and silent, his breath rattling in his throat. Hugh looked at the white still face and knew it was close.

  “Thanks for waiting, old friend,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I hit you. Couldn’t think what else to do. Won’t be long now, and I’ll stay with you.”

  There was no response and he expected none. His master was already gone in every way that mattered and Hugh was glad of it. There was nothing for him to do except mark his passing and honour his memory and he sat quietly, doing so, thinking back over the past years of their service together. There was no place in a captain’s relationships with his officers and men for friendship, which made it a lonely place at times. But of all of them, John Randall had probably come the closest; a brilliant seaman with a laconic sense of humour and a quiet understanding which had made Hugh value him. Of all the men he had lost at sea Hugh suspected that Randall was the one he would never stop missing.

  It was growing dark when he finally emerged again onto deck and found, as he had expected, that Durrell had anticipated his orders. The decks were swabbed and the ship was being put to rights. Hugh knew
that when he went to his cabin he would find his furniture back in place and his bunk ready. Durrell looked pale and tired, looking over the three dead men, neatly sewn into their hammocks, laid out upon the deck.

  “Is that all?” Hugh asked.

  “And Mr Randall, sir. The men are seeing to him now. Fifteen wounded, none serious. The master was unlucky.”

  “He was. And the Danish?”

  “A lot worse. Twenty dead and around another thirty wounded. My crew is over there, we’ve started on repairs. The bosun thinks we’ll get her seaworthy by noon tomorrow.”

  “We’ll bury them at dawn. Their captain?”

  “Captain Holm, sir. He’s wounded but I think he’ll live.”

  “Transfer the marines over, Mr Durrell. Let’s make sure they know they’re prisoners.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was something about his first lieutenant’s manner that made Hugh pause. “Something to say, Mr Durrell?”

  “Sir. We’re not even at war with them.”

  Hugh felt a rush of irritation. “Yes, we bloody are, Mr Durrell. They just tried to blow us to bits. We did the same to them. We were better at it. That’s called war. Politics is what the rest of them do while we’re out here with good men getting their guts blown away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’re prisoners. Make sure they stay that way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Durrell saluted, his expression wooden, and Hugh went tiredly below to find Brian and food and sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  With all diplomatic solutions exhausted, Denmark officially declared war on England on 16 August and Lord Cathcart, newly arrived from Pomerania with his German troops, gave the order for the army to begin landings at Vedbek just to the north of Copenhagen.

  The landings began before daybreak with a variety of boats and launches being rowed towards the shore. Major-General Sir Arthur Wellesley’s reserve division was given the task of making the first landings led by ten companies of the 95th Rifle Corps, distinctive in their green jackets and the first battalion of the 110th under Major Paul van Daan.