The Bomb Vessel (19 page)

The sense of corporate pride that could animate British seamen, hitherto absent from Parker's fleet, seemed not dead but merely dormant, called forth by the vernal quality of the day. This reanimation of spirit was best demonstrated by Nelson himself, ever a man attuned to the morale of his men. As the wind fell light in the late afternoon he called away his barge and an inquisitive fleet watched him pulled over to the mighty
London
. One of his seamen had caught a huge turbot and presented it as a gift to the little one-armed admiral.

In a characteristically impetuous gesture beneath which might be discerned an inflexible sense of purpose, Nelson personally conveyed the fish to his superior. It broke the ice between the two men. When the story got about the fleet by the mysterious telegraphy that transmitted such news, Lettsom composed his now expected verse:

‘Nelson's prepared to grow thinner
And give Parker a turbot bright,
If Parker will only eat dinner,
And let Lord Nelson fight.'

But Mr Jex had not shared the general euphoria as they passed the Skaw. He had slept badly and woke with a rum-induced hangover that left his head throbbing painfully. He had lost track of the cogent arguments that had seemed to deliver Lieutenant Drinkwater into his hands the previous evening. His mind was aware only that he had been thwarted. To Jex it was like dishonour.

Soon after the change of watch at eight in the morning as the curious on deck were staring at the lighthouse on the Skaw, Jex waylaid Tregembo and offered him a quid of tobacco.

‘Thank 'ee, zur,' he said, regarding the purser with suspicion.

‘Tregembo isn't it?'

‘Aye, zur.' Tregembo bit a lump off the quid and began to chew it.

‘You have known Lieutenant Drinkwater a long time, eh, Tregembo?' The quartermaster nodded. ‘How long?'

‘I first met Mr Drinkwater when he were a midshipman, aboard the
Cyclops
, frigate, Cap'n Henry Hope . . . during the American War.'

‘And you've known him since?'

‘No zur, I next met him when I was drafted aboard the
Kestrel
cutter, zur, we was employed on special service.'

‘Special service, eh?'

‘Aye zur, very special . . . on the French coast afore the outbreak of the present war.' A sly look had entered the Cornishman's eyes. ‘I'm in Mr Drinkwater's employ, zur . . .'

‘Ah yes, of course, then perhaps you can tell me if Mr Drinkwater has a brother, eh?' Tregembo regarded the fat, peculating officer and remembered what Drinkwater had said about Waters and what he had learned at Petersfield. He rolled the quid over his tongue:

‘Brother? No zur, the lieutenant has no brother, Mr Jex zur.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘I been with him constant these past nine years and I don't know that he ever had a brother.'

‘And this special service . . .'

‘Aye zur, we was employed on the
Hellebore
, brig, under Lord Nelson's orders.' Tregembo remembered what Drinkwater had said to him and now that he had seen what Jex was driving at he was less forthcoming.

‘Under Lord Nelson, eh, well, well . . . so Mr Drinkwater's highly thought of in certain quarters then?'

‘Aye zur, he's well acquainted with Lord Dungarth.' Tregembo was as proud of Drinkwater's connection with the peer as Jex was impressed.

‘It is surprising then Tregembo, that he is no more than a lieutenant.'

‘Beggin' your pardon but 'tis a fucking disgrace . . . It's a long story, zur, but Mr Drinkwater thrashed a bugger on the
Cyclops
and the bastard got even with him in the matter of a commission . . .' A smile crossed Tregembo's face. ‘Leastaways he thought he'd bested him, but he ended in the hospital at the Cape, zur.' He leaned forward, his jaw rotating the quid as he spoke. ‘Men don't cross the lieutenant too successfully, zur, leastaways not sensible men.'

‘Bloody wind's still freshening, sir, and I don't like the look of it.' Rogers held his hat on, his tarpaulin flapping round him as he stared to windward. The white streaks of sleet blew across the deck, showing faintly in the binnacle lamplight. Both the officers staggered as
Virago
snubbed round to her anchor, sheering in the wind, jerking the hull and straining the cable.

‘Rouse out another cable, Sam,' Drinkwater shouted in Rogers's ear, ‘we'll veer away more scope.'

The good weather had not lasted the day. Hardly had the fleet come to an anchor in Vingå Bay than the treacherous wind had backed and strengthened. Now, at midnight, a full gale was blowing from the west south west, catching them on a lee shore and threatening to wreck them on the Swedish coast.

Drinkwater watched the grey and black shapes of the hands as they moved about the deck. He was glad he had been able to provide them with warm clothing. Tonight none of them would get much sleep and it was the least he could do for them. They were half-way through bringing up the second cable when they saw the first rocket. It reminded them that out in the howling blackness, beyond the circumscribed limit of their visible horizon other men in other ships were toiling like themselves. The arc of
sputtering sparks terminated in a baleful blue glare that hung in the sky and shone faintly, illuminating the lower masts and spars of the
Virago
before dying.

‘Someone in distress,' shouted Easton.

‘Mind it ain't us, Mr Easton, get a lead over the side to see if we are dragging!'

Suddenly from forward an anonymous voice screamed: ‘Starb'd bow! 'Ware Starb'd bow!'

Drinkwater looked up to see a pyramid of masts and spars and the faint gleam of a half-set topsail above a black mass of darkness: the interposition of a huge hull between himself and the tumbling wavetops that had been visible there a moment earlier.

‘Cut that cable!' he shouted with all the power in his lungs. Forward a quick witted man took up an axe from under the fo'c's'le. Drinkwater waited only long enough to see the order understood before shouting again:

‘Foretopmast stays'l halliards there! Cast loose and haul away! Sheet to starboard!' There was a second's suspense then the grinding crunch and trembling as the strange ship drove across their bow, carrying away the bowsprit. She was a huge ship and there was shouting and confusion upon her decks.

‘Christ! It's the fucking
London
!' shouted Rogers who had caught a glimpse of a dark flag at her mainmasthead. All Drinkwater was aware of were the three pale stripes of her gun decks and the fact that in her passing she was pulling
Virago
round to larboard. There was more shouting including the unmistakably patrician accents of a flagship lieutenant demanding through his speaking trumpet what the devil they were doing there.

‘Trying to remain at anchor, you stupid blockhead!' Rogers bawled back as a final rendering from forward told where
Virago
had torn her bowsprit free of
London's
main chains. The unknown axeman succeeded in cutting the final strands of her cable.

‘We're under way, Easton, keep that God damn lead going.' Easton had a lantern in the chains in a flash and Quilhampton ran aft reporting the foretopmast staysail aloft.

‘Sheet's still a-weather, sir . . .'

‘Cast it loose and haul aft the lee sheet.'

‘Aye, aye . . .'

Virago
's head had been cast off the wind, thanks to
London
. Now Drinkwater had to drive her to windward, clear of the shallows under their lee.

‘Spanker, Rogers, get the bloody spanker on her otherwise her head'll pay off too much . . .' Rogers shouted for men and Drinkwater jumped down into the waist. He wished to God he had a cutter like the old
Kestrel
that could claw to windward like a knife's edge. Suddenly
Virago
's weatherly, sea-kindly bluff bows were a death trap.

‘Mr Matchett! Will she take a jib or is the bowsprit too far gone?'

‘Reckon I c'd set summat forrad . . .'

‘See to it,' snapped Drinkwater. ‘Hey! You men there, a hand with these staysails!' He attacked the rope stoppings on the mizen staysail and after two men had come to his aid he moved forward to the foot of the foremast where the main staysail was stowed. His hands felt effeminately soft but he grunted at the freezing knots until more men, seeing what he was about, came to his assistance.

‘Halliards there lads! Hoist away . . . up she goes, lively there! Now we'll sail her out like a yacht!' He turned aft. ‘Belay that main topsail, Graham, she'll point closer under this canvas . . .'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

‘Cap'n, cap'n, zur.'

‘Yes? Here Tregembo, I'm here!'

‘Master says she's shoaling . . .'

‘God's bones!' He hurried aft to where Easton was leaning outboard, gleaming wetly in the lamplight from where a wave had sluiced him and the leadsman. Drinkwater grabbed his shoulder and Easton looked up from the leadline. He shook his head. ‘Shoaling, sir.'

‘Shit!' he tried to think and peered over the side. The faint circle of light emitted by the lantern showed the sea at one second ten feet beneath them, next almost up to the chains. But the streaks of air bubbles streaming down-wind from the tumbling wave-caps were moving astern:
Virago
had headway. He recalled the chart, a shoaling of the bay towards its southward end. He patted Easton's shoulder. ‘Keep it goin', Mr Easton.' Then he jumped inboard and made for the poop.

‘Steer full and bye!'

Out to starboard another blue rocket soared into the air and he was aware that the sleet had stopped. He could see dark shapes of other ships, tossing and plunging with here and there the gleam of a sail as some fought their way to windward while others tried to hold onto their anchors. He remembered his advice to Quilhampton
on the subject of anchors. He had lost one now, and although he had not lost the ship, neither had he yet saved her.

A moment later another sleet squall enveloped them. He looked up at the masthead pendant.
Virago
was heading at least a point higher without square sails and Matchett had succeeded in getting a jib up on what was left of the bowsprit. He wondered how much leeway they were making and tried looking astern at the wake but he could see nothing. He wondered what had become of the
London
and what old Parker was making of the night. Perhaps ‘Batter Pudding' would be a widow before dawn. Parker would not be the first admiral to go down with his ship. He did not know whether Admiral Totty had survived the wreck of the
Invincible
, but Balchen had been lost with
Victory
on the Caskets fifty years earlier, and Shovell had died on the beach in the Scillies after the wreck of the
Association
. But poor Parker might end ignominiously, a prisoner of the Swedes.

‘Quite a night, sir,' Rogers came up. He had lost his hat and his hair was plastered upon his head.

‘Quite a night, Sam.'

‘We've set all the fore and aft canvas we can, she seems to sail quite well.'

‘She'll do,' said Drinkwater tersely, ‘If she weathers the point, she'll do very well.'

‘Old Willerton's been over the side on the end of the foretack.'

‘What the devil for?'

‘To see if his “leddy” is still there.'

‘Well is it?' asked Drinkwater with sudden superstitious anxiety.

‘Yes,' Rogers laughed and Drinkwater felt a sense of relief, then chid himself for a fool.

‘Pipe “Up spirits”, Sam, the poor devils deserve it.'

Virago
did weather the point and dawn found her hands wet, cold and red-eyed, anxiously staring astern and out on either beam. Of the fifty-eight ships that had anchored in Vingå Bay only thirty-eight were now in company. They beat slowly to windward, occasionally running perilously close together as they tacked, grey shapes tossing in heavy grey seas on which was something new, something to add greater danger to their plight: ice floes.

Many of the absent ships were the smaller members of the fleet, particularly the gun brigs, but most of the bombs were still in
company and the
Anne Reed
made up under
Virago
's larboard quarter. Once they had an offing they bore away to the southward.

The wind shifted a little next day then, at one bell in the first watch, it backed south westerly and freshened again. Two hours later
Virago
followed the more weatherly ships into the anchorage of Skalderviken in the shelter of the Koll. Drinkwater collapsed across his cot only to be woken at four next morning. The wind had increased to storm force. Even in the lee of the land
Virago
pitched her bluff bow into the steep seas and flung the spray over her bow to be whipped aft, catching the unwary on the face and inducing the agonising wind-ache as it evaporated. Rain and sleet compounded the discomfort and Drinkwater succeeded in veering a second cable onto his one remaining anchor. At daylight, instead of rigging out a new bowsprit, the tired men were aloft striking the topgallant masts, lowering the heavy lower yards in their jeers and lashing them across the rails.

Then, having exhausted themselves in self-preservation, the wind eased. It continued to drop during the afternoon and just after midnight the night-signal to weigh was made from
St George
. Nelson, anxious to prosecute the war in spite of, or perhaps because of, the disappearance of Parker, was thwarted before the fleet could move. The wind again freshened and the laboriously hove in cables were veered away again.

Nelson repeated the signal to weigh at seven in the morning and this time the weather obliged. An hour and a half later the remnants of the British squadrons in the Baltic beat out of Skalderviken and then bore away towards the Sound and Copenhagen.

By noon the gale had eased.
London
rejoined, together with some of the other ships. The flagship had been ashore on an uncharted shoal off Varberg castle and the
Russell
had had a similar experience attempting to tow off the gun brig
Tickler
. Both had escaped. Less fortunate was the gun brig
Blazer
which also ran ashore at Varberg and was captured by the Swedes.