‘Good evening, sir,’ said the first figure.
‘Good evening, Mr Preston,’ said Clay. ‘Your servant, Miss Hockley. I trust you will not get a chill in the damp of the evening?’
‘Good evening, Captain. You sound a little like my father. In truth it is delightful to be away from the stuffiness below. Besides, I doubt that a little damp is excessively injurious; else the world would have a deal less sailors, would it not? I trust we are not in the way here?’
‘Not in the least,’ said Clay. ‘But I think I hear Mr Vansittart. Will you excuse me?’
When Clay returned to his place by the wheel, he found the diplomat in urgent conversation with his valet. ‘Hansen will give you a horse, after which you must make contact with Captain Lindholm. Give him my note, and tell him the time has come for him to earn his stipend.’
‘Yes, sir, I understand,’ said Rankin. He stood dressed in a long coat above riding boots. With his hat pulled low little could be made of his tanned face, except for his eyes, which were bright with excitement. There was a solid confidence in the way he stood, rocking on his feet with the motion of the ship.
‘Would you like me to send Lieutenant Macpherson with a file of his marines to secure the beach first?’ asked Clay.
‘Heavens no, Captain,’ said Vansittart. ‘We are not at war with Denmark, at least for the present. Lets us not provoke them with reports of redcoats wading ashore.’
‘Have no fear on my part, sir,’ added Rankin. ‘I got me arguments ready, should they be required.’ He plunged a hand deep into the coat’s side pocket and drew out the rounded butt of a pistol.
‘Cutter is over the side, sir,’ reported Armstrong.
‘Very well, Rankin,’ said Vansittart. ‘Best of luck to you, now. Captain Clay says it will take us a week to reach Copenhagen by sea, wind permitting.’
‘I will meet you there, sir, have no fear,’ said the valet, turning away towards the entry port.
‘Unless you are dead in a ditch,’ muttered Vansittart as his servant departed. Then he went to join Clay looking over the ship’s side. In the gloom they could just make out the figure of Rankin as he clambered down into the boat and settled himself in the stern.
‘Push off in the bow,’ said the quiet bass of Sedgwick. ‘Give way, handsomely now.’ The dark mass of the cutter turned on the water and vanish into the dusk towards the beach.
Armstrong had remained at his place by the wheel, making sure his precious frigate came to no harm. It was almost entirely dark now, but he could sense the ebb of the tide beneath his feet, and the flow of the breeze as it pressed against the backed sails, holding the Griffin in position. He was concentrating so hard that it was only after a few minutes he became aware of another presence. He looked round and saw a small, wiry figure standing at his elbow.
‘Good evening, Mr Hockley,’ said the sailing master, touching his hat. ‘Have you come on deck to see why we are hove to?’
‘Nay, Mr Armstrong,’ said the ship owner. ‘It was my daughter I was looking for. I can’t seem to find her anywhere. Is she here abouts?’
‘Not that I am aware of,’ said the American, moments before a laugh, obviously female, rang out from the back of the quarterdeck. Hockley stiffened at the sound.
‘Have a care, Mr Armstrong,’ he hissed. ‘Deceitfulness is as wicked as any of the mortal sins.’
‘If you say so,’ said the American towards the retreating back. ‘It’s just good to see Edward happy again,’ he added, to himself.
‘What is the meaning of this, Mr Preston?’ demanded Hockley as he approached the couple.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the officer. ‘I am not sure what you can mean? I was simply taking the air with Miss Hockley. She found it a little close below decks.’
‘Mr Preston was telling me an amusing story, father, about a time when he was a midshipman and they captured some Italian musicians—’
‘Now then, my dear,’ interrupted her father. ‘We mustn’t intrude in the running of the ship. Besides, you will get a chill, exposing yourself to the night air in this fashion.’
‘Oh, but it is so pleasant out here,’ she protested.
‘I am sure a little longer would not be injurious to Miss Hockley,’ said Preston.
‘That’s as may be, but Sarah will be returning below with me,’ said Hockley. ‘Good evening to you, Lieutenant.’ He took his daughter by the arm and guided her back towards the ladder way.
‘Good evening, sir, good evening, Miss Hockley,’ said Preston. He was rewarded by the flash of a smile before the two figures disappeared, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He didn’t notice the clatter of the returning cutter or the noise of the frigate getting underway. Instead he stared out over the dark water, to where two stars had appeared through a break in the cloud, rising high above the sea.
Chapter 6
Copenhagen
A week later the Griffin had entered the Baltic. A driving north-easterly wind had pushed her across the shallow waters of the Kattegat, flinging showers of sleet against her reefed topsails to slither down onto the heads of the crewmen beneath. Last night she had ridden to her anchor as the wind eased, waiting for first light to run the Sound, the narrow strip of sea that divided Denmark from Sweden. At dawn she had passed the grey walls and gun batteries of the Danish fortress at Elsinore, wondering if war had been declared and the cannons would burst into life the moment they were in range. But they had remained silent, and now the frigate was approaching the Danish capital from the north. Long fingers of fog clung to the chill water, but from the extra height of the quarterdeck Clay had an uninterrupted view over the mist towards the shore on both sides.
The low winter sun had left the Swedish half of the channel in shadow. Opposite him a slope of dark trees led down towards a little fishing village that stood on a promontory. He could see a line of gaily painted boats on a shingle beach. The men grouped around them paused to stare at the big frigate for a moment, before returning to their work. Nothing to trouble us there, concluded Clay, taking his telescope from his eye, and walking across the deck to examine the Danish coast.
Here the ground sloped up more gently and was a patchwork of brown ploughed fields and orchards with lines of skeleton trees above yellow grass. A cluster of stone buildings with steep pitched roofs marked where a farm lay, while at the top of the ridge the sails of a windmill turned languidly. Clay concluded that there must be a track running parallel with the water, to judge from the horse and cart he could see moving along it. Ahead of the frigate was a lone trading brig on the same course as them. A blue and gold Swedish flag flapped at its mizzen peak.
‘Very little shipping, I note, Mr Armstrong,’ he said to the sailing master, who was conning the frigate. ‘That must be the first vessel above a fishing boat I have seen this morning.’
‘The ice will only just be starting to break up at the head of the Baltic, sir,’ said the American. ‘Return in a month, and the Sound will be busier than the Pool of London. But it is fortunate that the Swede is here to guide us. Unless I am sadly out in my reckoning we are in the fairway to Copenhagen, but I’ll be damned if I have seen a single buoy yet.’
‘No, we are close, right enough,’ said Taylor, who was studying the shore too. ‘I delivered coal from Whitby to Copenhagen before the war. When we clear that point ahead, we should see the city.’
‘Deck ho!’ came a shout from the masthead. ‘Boat ahoy! Fine off the starboard bow!’ Clay and Armstrong walked back to the ship’s side. Ahead was a trailing serpent of fog, with a dark shape at its heart. As the frigate approached it resolved into a large rowing boat. In the middle was a group of men hauling in on a weed-encrusted cable, while the rest of the crew braced their oars flat on the surface of the water. The cable stiffened into a solid bar, there was a cry from the coxswain, and all the men heaved together. After a moment more of resistance the cable came surging up, leaving the boat rocking on the swell.
‘That accounts
for the lack of navigation buoys, sir,’ commented Armstrong. He pointed to the centre of the boat, where several kegs were stacked, each with a painted pole on top and a coil of slimy green rope beside it.
‘Can you hail them as we pass, Mr Taylor?’ said Clay. ‘Find out what they are about.’ The first lieutenant bellowed across at the boat through a speaking trumpet, but received only a shrug from the coxswain. The rest of the boat’s crew glared at the frigate, and someone shouted something in Danish.
‘Shall I pass the word for Pedersen, sir?’ suggested Armstrong.
‘If you please, and we had best heave to,’ said Clay.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the American.
Pedersen was one of the frigate’s lithe top men, his ash-blond hair in startling contrast to the mahogany tan of his weathered face. He wiped his hands on his trousers before accepting the brass speaking trumpet from Taylor.
‘Ask them why they are removing navigation buoys, if you please, Pedersen,’ said Clay. He watched as the sailor asked his question, noting the look of distain that accompanied the reply from the coxswain.
‘So, they say it’s none of your business, begging your pardon, sir,’ translated the Dane. ‘Only with some Danish words as ain’t polite.’
‘Did they indeed, the blackguards!’ said Clay, colouring. ‘Kindly tell them that I have a perfect right to question a boat that I find to be acting suspiciously, and if they cannot give me a civil reply, I shall be obliged to assume they are up to no good. Mr Taylor! Have a brace of starboard guns manned and run out, if you please.’
Pedersen resumed his dialogue with his fellow countrymen. This time the reply was much fuller, the tone rising to one of panic as the two eighteen-pounder cannons rumbled out from the frigate’s side and settled their aim on the boat.
‘They say they are under orders of the harbour master, sir,’ explained Pedersen. ‘They ask you not to shoot, and also want to know why I am on an enemy ship.’
‘That is how they named us?’ queried his captain. ‘They called us an enemy ship?’
‘Aye, sir, they did.’
‘And did they give an explanation as to why they are pulling up these buoys?’ asked Clay.
‘So, they say that they are preparing for war, sir,’ replied the sailor. Clay exchanged glances with Taylor before returning his attention to his translator.
‘Can you ask them if war has been declared?’
Pedersen shouted the question across, but there was no need for him to translate the shrug that accompanied the short reply.
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Thank you, Pedersen,’ said Clay. ‘You may return to your duties. Mr Armstrong, kindly get the ship under way.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Mr Taylor, have the watch below turned up, and the ship cleared for action, if you please,’ he ordered, ‘and pass the word for Mr Vansittart, with my compliments.’
The Griffin left the Danish boat and resumed its course, the thunder of its marine drummer echoing over the calm water as the crew were summoned to their stations. As they approached the headland that Taylor had mentioned, Clay began to see a haze of smoke rising into the winter sunshine from the domestic fires of the city. Against the smoke several thin spires rose proud of the tongue of land, like dark warning fingers. He lowered his telescope as Vansittart appeared beside him, his dove-grey coat contrasting with the scarlet tunics of the marines that were forming up behind him.
‘I see you are leaving nothing to chance, Captain,’ he said, indicating all the preparations for battle being made around him.
‘I have just had a rather frosty dialogue with a Danish boat, sir,’ said Clay. ‘We shall find out how the Danes will receive us presently, but if we should prove to be at war with them, I will not be found ill-prepared.’
‘That is wise, but we must not be the ones that provoke matters,’ urged the diplomat. ‘Our mission here is to try and secure the peace, if possible. Perhaps you could avoid any of the more visible manifestations of being ready to fight? None of your marine sharpshooters aloft, and keep the guns run in, for example?’
‘Make it so, Mr Taylor,’ ordered Clay. ‘Now, Mr Armstrong, tell me what to expect around this point.’
‘The channel runs south from here into the Baltic proper, with Copenhagen on one side, the island of Saltholm ahead, and Sweden on the other side, sir,’ explained the American. ‘The water looks broad and deep enough, but pray do not be fooled. It is shallow as a pan within a few cables of the shore, while in the centre lies a bank of mud they name the Middle Ground. Fully three miles long and a half mile wide, without a trace of it to be seen above the waves, now the cursed Danes have pulled up all the marker buoys.’
‘I trust we shall have the services of a local pilot, sir,’ said the first lieutenant.
‘I hope so, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay. ‘You have visited the city, I collect, during the peace?’
‘Indeed, and found it to be very tolerable, sir,’ replied Taylor. ‘It lines the west side of this channel, all about an inlet that serves as the harbour. The entrance is dominated by a fortress they call the Kastellet. There’s a ring of walls and ditches on the landward side, but little above a breakwater facing the sea. The fleet could pound the city something cruel from that side.’
‘Let us hope that such a threat will aid in your negotiations, Mr Vansittart,’ said Clay.
‘Indeed so,’ agreed the diplomat, peering ahead. ‘Although the chance to plant my feet on God’s honest earth is what I am chiefly looking forward to. How you mariners keep to the sea for months, without running mad, is beyond me.’
‘Not long now, sir,’ said Armstrong, turning to the men at the wheel. ‘Come up a point, if you please, Amos.’
‘Point to loo’ard, aye, sir,’ repeated the helmsman, turning the spokes through his hands.
‘Headsails, Mr Hutchinson!’ roared the American towards the bow of the frigate. ‘Ready about!’
The angle began to change as the frigate turned around the final headland, opening up a wide expanse of green, choppy water. The last of the morning mist had vanished now, although the air was still raw and cold. Clay swung his telescope towards the shore; there, sprawled along the edge of the sea, was Copenhagen. Images passed through the round circle of his telescope’s view, lit by the winter sunshine behind his shoulder. More of the spires he had seen earlier, which he could now see were covered with weathered green copper. Steep-pitched roofs of grey tiles rose above the tall buildings, many with walls that had been painted white, ochre, yellow or pale blue. He could see the grey stone walls of the fortress Taylor had mentioned, crouched on the shore. Next to it was the entrance to a harbour that bristled with the masts of ships. All of this was what Clay had expected to see, but between him and the city lay something he had not.
Across the entrance of the harbour a huge wooden platform had been built, apparently floating on the surface of the sea. Through his telescope Clay could see that it rested on massive wooden pilings, many the size of tree trunks, driven down into the muddy sea floor. Thick beams of oak formed a wall, perhaps ten feet high, through which the muzzles of heavy cannon pointed out to sea beneath a fluttering, blood-red Danish flag. But this was just the start of the city’s new defences.
Running south from the wooden battery was an almost continuous line of perhaps twenty warships of all shapes and sizes. There were ships with one gun deck and others with two; some with masts and yards, ready to sail; while others were little more than hulks with a single spar set up like a flag pole. What they all shared in common was that they were securely anchored in place, bristled with cannon, and every ship showed at least one big Danish ensign. Together with the battery, they presented a wall of oak and artillery to any ship approaching from the open sea.
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Taylor. ‘There must be over a hundred cannon in that floating battery over there!’
‘And many hundreds more in the ships,’ added Clay.
‘The
y are not yet content, either,’ added Armstrong. ‘Direct your gaze towards all those lighters around the third rate with the red strakes. I fancy I can see workmen armouring the seaward side with extra timbers.’ As the frigate sailed on, the faint sound of hammering came over the water.
‘Mind, I would still place my faith in our three-deckers over any number of Danish hulks,’ said Taylor. ‘Admiral Parker has the London, and Lord Nelson the Saint George, do they not?’
‘They do, although vexingly the water close in is too shallow for anything above a third rate to float,’ said Armstrong. ‘The Danes have chosen their ground with care.’
‘So not quite as open to the bombardment of the fleet as we assumed,’ observed Vansittart. ‘Splendid! I can see my negotiations may prove a little more challenging.’
Clay was silent as he looked across at the Danish defences, his heart sinking at how formidable they seemed. There was something familiar about the line of moored warships. He looked around and caught sight of Macpherson, immaculate in his uniform at the head of his marines. Against the scarlet broadcloth of his tunic glistened the silver disc of his Nile medal, hanging in the sunlight on its blue and white ribbon. Suddenly he was back in the Mediterranean, on a sultry night in August, leading Nelson’s fleet towards a similar line of anchored warships.
‘No more formidable a position than we faced at the Nile, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And we won through that night. Besides, we are not at war with the Danes, yet. Mr Armstrong, kindly heave to here, if you will. Let us await their pleasure.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the American, stepping away from the ship’s side.
‘Mr Taylor, that is a Danish National flag flying over the Kastellet fortress. Kindly clear away a bow chaser, and start firing the salute.’
In Northern Seas Page 9
