Authors: Alexander Kent
The boats had been cast off an hour before they had reached the start of the narrows. The oarsmen would be getting tired now, more conscious of their fatigue than the need for absolute vigilance.
He stepped back from the rail, cursing himself for his anxieties. It was done.
Herrick stepped out of the gloom. “Seems fairly quiet, sir.”
“Yes. My guess is that the Danes have made such massive preparations for a frontal attack on the port that they are as reluctant as we are to move in the darkness.”
A few more hours and Nelson's ships would be roused and under way, ready to follow the same route through the Sound Channel and then head for an anchorage at Hven Island where they could lick their wounds before the final assault on the Danish forts and blockships.
The heads along the larboard gangway bobbed together with sudden urgency until the last man in the chain called, “Shoal on the larboard bow, sir!”
Herrick snapped, “Bring her up a point, Mr Grubb.”
Bolitho resisted the temptation to join some of the nine-pounder crews at the nettings as they peered down into the darkness. It must have been
Benbow
's second cutter which had seen and signalled the danger.
Sails rustled together as the yards were trimmed, and Bolitho looked across to the opposite beam, wondering if any sleepy sentry had noticed the cutter's shaded lantern as the warning was flashed to the flagship.
But he doubted if the Danes were very different from Englishmen. It took a lot to get a sentry to rouse his officer and possibly the whole garrison merely because he
thought
he had seen something. Whole campaigns, let alone one fight, had been lost and won because of military protocol.
He pictured Wolfe somewhere up there in the bows. The first lieutenant had no particular duty for the moment. His experience, his hoard of skills gained in every sea in the world, was enough. He might see or feel something. Sense some dangerous shallows perhaps which even the leadsmen had missed.
Herrick murmured, “How many of these miniature gunboats d'you reckon we'll find, sir?”
“The exact number is not known, Thomas. But more than twenty, and that is too many. Vice-Admiral Nelson intends to anchor eventually at the Middle Ground Shoal before he closes with the Danish ships. He will do it, no matter what we discover. But if those galleys can work through his line of battle, it could be disastrous.”
“Deep twelve!”
Grubb sighed. “That's more like it.” He even managed a chuckle.
As one hour dragged into the next, it felt to Bolitho as if he had been carrying some great weight. Each one of his muscles ached with strain, and he knew it was affecting everyone from captain to ship's boy.
There were several startled cries as a boat moved sluggishly down the starboard side. But it was one of the squadron's, the oarsmen bent double across their looms, barely able to breathe from exhaustion. A lieutenant, his white lapels very clear in the darkness, waved up at the flagship, and a marine said huskily, “We're through, sir! That's what he said!”
Herrick said quietly, “Pass the word! Not a sound, d'you hear? They'll begin to cheer otherwise, it'd be just like them!” He looked at Bolitho, his teeth bared in a grin. “I feel a bit that way myself, sir!”
Bolitho gripped his hands together to steady his nerves. Not a shot fired nor a man lost. It would be different in daylight when the main fleet started its advance.
“Give it another turn of the glass, Thomas. Then we can recall the boats.”
Grubb said, “Dawn'll be up in two hours, sir.” He rubbed his red hands together. “I'm fair parched after that little lot!”
Herrick laughed. “I understand, Mr Grubb. Pass the word to the purser. Break out a double tot of rum for each man, and no arguments from that miser or I'll skin him alive!”
Bolitho felt the tension draining away around him, even though the fight was still to come.
Benbow
was through, and that was something each man could understand. As Allday had remarked, they fought for each other, not some plan from high authority.
The half-hour glass squeaked round beside the compass and Grubb said, “Time, sir.”
Herrick called, “Tell the cutter to inform
Indomitable
that we are recalling the boats.”
Bolitho could imagine the relief in the various boats as the message was passed down the line. There would be a few blisters and aching backs when daylight found them.
Bolitho felt a tankard being put into his hands and heard Browne say, “Don't fret, sir. 'Tis brandy, not rum. I know you do not take kindly to
that!
”
Bolitho was about to reply when he felt some of the spirit splash across his fingers and realised Browne was shaking.
“What is wrong?”
Browne looked towards the hidden land. “What is wrong? You can ask that, sir?” He tried to laugh it off. “I am a fair hand at matters of ceremonial and Admiralty duty. I can use a sword or pistol better than most, and can hold my own at the tables.” He shuddered. “But this sort of thing, this dreadful, long-drawn-out crawl towards hell, I have no stomach for it, sir!”
“It will pass.” Bolitho was shocked to see Browne in such distress.
Browne said quietly, “I was just thinking. It will be the first of April tomorrow. By the end of the second day I might be
nothing!
”
“You are not alone. Everyone in this ship, except the mindless fool, will be thinking like that.”
“You, too, sir?”
“Aye. I feel it now, just as I fear it.” He tried to shrug. “But I have taught myself to accept it.”
He watched Browne move away into the shadows and reflected on his words.
The first day of April. In Cornwall it would be green again, the snow and mist gone for another year. He could almost smell the hedgerows, the richer aromas of the farms.
And the house would be waiting, as it had done so often for a hundred and fifty years, for a Bolitho to return home.
Stop it now!
It was useless to wallow in false hope and self-pity.
He stared up at the mizzen truck but his flag was still lost against the dull clouds.
It was chilling to accept that this small group of ships contained the last two sailors of the Bolitho family.
Lieutenant Wolfe strode to the nettings, his head cocked, as the first rumble of gunfire rolled over the ships like thunder.
“By God, listen to that!”
On the gundeck many of the seamen were standing back from the long eighteen-pounders to stare aft at the officers, as if to determine what was happening.
Bolitho shaded his eyes and glanced up at the masthead lookouts. At first light he had managed to overcome his hatred of heights to climb as high as the maintop and watch the Danish shoreline, the towers and steeples misty and unreal. With the aid of a telescope, and watched curiously by the marine marksmen there, he had studied the span of Copenhagen's defences.
His own small squadron had no intention of drawing within range of the many batteries arranged along the coast. His duty was to find the galleys and destroy as many of them as possible before they could join in the fight.
From his many written instructions he knew much of what Nelson would have to face. At least eighteen moored ships, presenting an impregnable line of fixed broadsides, and the massive Three Crowns battery on Amager Island which mounted sixty-six heavy guns. To say nothing of other men-of-war, bomb vessels and military artillery ranged along the shore.
Against such a force Nelson would be leading just twelve seventy-fours, provided they could get through the last part of the channel without being crippled.
Now, as he listened to the continuous rumble of cannon fire he marvelled at the audacity or perhaps the recklessness of the plan. More so at the cool nerve of the man who was back there in command with his flag in the
Elephant.
Herrick moved up beside him, his face worried.
“I wish we were with the fleet instead of here, sir. It seems wrong to leave them like this. Every extra gun will be needed just now.”
Bolitho did not answer immediately. He was watching the
Relentless,
a distant pyramid of gently flapping canvas as she changed tack slightly to larboard. Well astern of her the sloop-ofwar
Lookout
was end on, one eye no doubt on the flagship.
Bolitho said, “The Danes will not act until Nelson has committed himself. When the fleet weighs again tomorrow, and stands around the Middle Ground,
that
is the moment
I
would choose. Our ships would be caught in cross-fire from three directions at least.”
He watched the smoke spreading up and across the sky, blotting out the distant ships and also the city. Men were fighting and dying, and yet from
Benbow
's quarterdeck it held no threat, no sense of danger.
Browne lowered his glass and said, “Signal from
Relentless,
sir, repeated by
Lookout. Strange sail bearing south-east.
” He added, “
Relentless
is already making more sail, sir.”
Bolitho nodded, concealing his sudden doubt from the others. Captain Peel was acting as instructed, not wasting time passing vague sighting reports back and forth.
But surely the whole Danish fleet would be under orders for the attack. And no lone merchantman would be foolhardy enough to sail between two powerful fleets.
Relentless
was drawing rapidly away from her smaller consort, and Bolitho knew Peel must have picked his masthead lookouts with care to make such a quick sighting.
“Gunfire's slackening, sir.” Wolfe crossed to the deck-log to make a brief scribble to that effect. “Our Nel must be through.”
As if to confirm this, Browne called, “From
Indomitable,
sir.
Styx
has reported that our fleet is in sight and already changing tack.”
Herrick wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “That's a relief. At least we'll know we're not alone for the return passage!”
“Deck there!” The forgotten masthead lookout made every head lift towards him. “Gunfire to the south'rd!”
Herrick swore. “What the hell! Peel must be engaging!”
“Signal from
Lookout,
sir. She's requesting permission to give assistance.”
Herrick shook his head and then glanced questioningly at Bolitho.
Bolitho said quietly, “Denied. It would take
Lookout
two hours to catch up with the frigate. And if we sight the galleys she will be needed to head them off.”
Browne watched the flag dashing up the yard and breaking to the wind. To see the quick exchange of glances between Bolitho and Herrick had pushed his own troubles into the background. He knew what they were thinking. What it must always cost a senior officer to place a friend or relative at risk.
The gunfire was reaching the quarterdeck now, savage, intermittent and very distinct, which suggested that the two or more vessels were firing at close range.
Herrick said, “Mr Speke! Aloft with you and tell me what you think.”
The lieutenant scrambled up the shrouds, his coat tails flying in the wind.
Wolfe touched his hat. “Shall I pass the order to load and run out, sir?”
Bolitho said, “No. There's no point.”
It was strange. In a matter of seconds the battle, Copenhagen, even their reason for being here at all, had been sponged away.
Somewhere on the horizon's misty edge one of their own was fighting. It sounded like two ships. Russian, Swedish or Danish made no difference now.
He recalled Peel's quiet competence and knew he would not be one to act foolishly. He thought, too, of Pascoe's expression as he had turned away from the cabin after he had heard about his father.
“Smoke, sir!” Speke's voice sounded shrill. “Ship afire!”
Bolitho bit his lip. “Signal to the squadron, Mr Browne.
Make more sail.
”
Herrick caught his mood and shouted, “Mr Wolfe! Hands aloft and set t'gan's'ls! Then break out the driver!”
Wolfe strode about the deck, ginger hair flapping, his speaking trumpet swinging as he bellowed for the afterguard to be piped to the braces even as the topmen swarmed to the uppermost yards.
Benbow
responded instantly, as under more canvas she heeled heavily to the thrust. Astern, down the line, the other ships were following her example, and to a landsman's inexperienced eye they would seem to be flying like frigates. In fact, Bolitho knew that in these moderate winds they were barely making five knots through the water.
The horizon seemed to shiver and then erupt to a single, violent explosion. Nobody on the quarterdeck said anything. Only a ship's magazine could sound like that.