‘What the feck do we do now?’ said O’Malley, looking each way along the alley.
‘Back to the barky, sharpish,’ ordered Sedgwick. ‘You and Adam lead off, Sam and I will lug Rankin.’
‘Back to the barky, your man says,’ muttered the Irishman to himself, as he led the way forwards. ‘Now, which fecking way might that be?’
When the sailors had walked through the well-ordered streets of Copenhagen earlier that evening, they’d had only a little difficulty in finding their way. En route they had passed the odd shadowy archway, or entrance to an alley, but had not imagined the labyrinthine world that existed behind the elegant stucco frontages of the buildings. It was fully dark now, and what little light the night sky had to offer failed to penetrate the warren of narrow passages. High stone walls fenced them in on both sides. In some places the first floors of buildings had been constructed over the top of the alleys, turning them into echoing tunnels. There were unseen boxes and stacked lumber to trip them up, and dank puddles of water or worse that lay amongst the slippery cobbles. It would have helped if the way had at least run true, but instead it branched repeatedly, crossed other alleys and made abrupt turns of ninety degrees around the outer walls of buildings. Stray cats hissed with venom at them from the tops of walls, while guard dogs snuffled and barked from behind the doors and gates as they hurried past.
‘This way for certain, lads,’ announced O’Malley, after quarter of an hour of fruitless wandering. He indicated a passage that ran off to one side.
‘You sure this be right?’ asked Trevan, peering down it. ‘Not another of them dead ends you seems to favour?’
‘I thought Seven Dials were a bleeding warren, but this place takes the pudding,’ puffed Evans, who was carrying Rankin’s shoulders. ‘Can we grab a breather?’ They propped up their burden in a doorway and his head slumped forward.
‘Is he still alive?’ queried Trevan.
‘Aye, the Devil cares for his own, seemingly,’ said Evans. ‘He started to come round earlier, so I clonked his head on the wall in passing.’
Sedgwick, who was looking back the way they had come, suddenly stiffened.
‘Get under way, lads,’ he said. ‘Someone’s coming.’ The others looked around to see light reflecting off the wall of the alleyway. From behind them came the faint patter of footfalls. The sailors picked up Rankin again and stumbled after the Irishman.
The alley bent around a corner and then ran straight for a while. It grew wider, and better flagged underfoot. Up ahead light glowed through an arch with some sort of road beyond it. A carriage pulled by two horses clattered by, the lantern mounted next to the coachman flashing towards them as it passed.
‘Told you it was the right fecking way,’ said O’Malley. ‘That’s a proper Christian street, to be sure.’
‘Not before bleeding time,’ muttered Evans.
‘I ain’t sure if we wants to break cover just yet,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Streets is where the tipstaffs will be. Remember all them Lobsters we saw earlier?’
They reached the end of the passageway, and peered out onto the main road. Large buildings fronted it, many with light spilling from their windows. Locals in hats and coats walked along the pavements. On the far side of the road was a matching alley to the one they were in, while away to their left the street opened onto a small square, dominated by a splashing fountain. At the corner glowed a brazier, with a group of soldiers warming themselves around it.
‘No good for us, lads,’ whispered the coxswain, as he ducked back into cover. ‘Too open by far.’
‘Stopping here’s no bleeding good, neither,’ protest Evans, pointing back the way they had come. ‘Them bastards with that lamp are right up our arses.’
‘Oh, my b-bleeding head,’ groaned Rankin, stirring at last and holding a hand up to his temple.
‘Shhh, Josh,’ urged Trevan. ‘Quiet now.’
‘Shall I clonk him again?’ suggested Evans.
‘W-why am I c-c-covered in blood?’ asked Rankin in a conversational tone. A man walking past on the pavement slowed to look at them, and the sound of footsteps quickened in the alleyway behind them.
‘Let’s chance it,’ decided Sedgwick. ‘Sean, take his other side. Come now, Josh, let’s get you into your hammock.’
‘That do sound g-good, my sooty friend,’ said Rankin, patting Sedgwick’s shoulder. ‘But I needs to get all this blood off me b-before I sleep. Ah, that fountain will serve.’ He took a few halting steps towards the square.
‘No!’ exclaimed O’Malley. ‘This way mate. There be plenty of water back at the barky.’ Between Sedgwick and the Irishman they half carried, half dragged him across the cobbles, with Trevan and Evans following them.
‘Don’t be looking towards them Lobster, lads,’ hissed Trevan through the side of his mouth.
‘I still reckon it would be easier if I silenced him,’ offered Evans.
‘So how did we come to leave that bleeding bar then?’ asked Rankin as they plunged back into cover. ‘And why does my jaw hurt so much?’
‘No time for that now, Josh,’ said O’Malley. ‘Some of them fecking Danes jumped us. We managed to get you clear, but the hue and cry is hard astern. Might help if you could walk a touch yourself?’
‘That’s r-right!’ declared Rankin. ‘I remember I clonked one of the bastards with a bleeding skillet!’
The alleyway turned around another corner and widened into a small cobbled yard. Two other passageways crossed at this point, one with a gurgling open drain running alongside it.
‘Easy all,’ said Evans. ‘We got to make a stand, lads. Crossing that street ain’t shaken them blokes off, and they’re closing fast.’ A glance behind showed he was right. The light from a lantern glowed from farther back down the alley, and in addition to footsteps they could now hear voices.
‘Here be as good as any place we passed through,’ announced Trevan, indicating the dark corners to either side of the alleyway’s opening.
‘Some lumber here, lads,’ said O’Malley, picking up a stick from a pile. He flexed it between his fists and it promptly snapped.
‘Sam, you and Sean hide on that side!’ ordered Sedgwick. ‘Adam and I’ll take this.’ Left without any support, Rankin wobbled a little, and then sat down heavily on the ground.
No sooner had the sailors hidden themselves than spears of light shone down the alleyway, glittering on the wet cobbles. Approaching footsteps echoed in the confined space. Evans and Sedgwick bunched their fists and couched either side of the entrance.
The leading man, the lantern swinging from his hand, trotted into the courtyard and was neatly tripped by Sedgwick’s foot. His light smashed down onto the cobbles and erupted as flaming oil spilt across the ground, illuminating the little yard. Following the first man were two others in long coats. One received a swinging hay-maker from Evans, delivered with every ounce of his hefty frame behind it, while Sedgwick leapt at the second man. There was a deafening explosion and a tongue of flame as the two men came together.
‘Able!’ yelled Evans, leaping over his victim towards the two bodies on the ground. One picked himself up, while the other continued to lie prone.
‘I-I think I’m all right,’ said the coxswain, leaning against the wall and shaking his head to clear the ringing from his ears. ‘Bastard must have been carrying a shooter on full cock. Is he all right?’ Evans dropped down beside the body.
‘Out cold,’ he pronounced. ‘He looks to have cracked his bleeding nut on the stones when you bundled into him. I wonder where the ball went?’
‘And the other?’ asked Sedgwick.
‘He’ll soon be fecking trussed up tighter than a Christmas goose,’ announced O’Malley, who was sitting on his chest with a knife against his throat, while Trevan used the man’s belt and neck cloth to bind his hands and feet.
‘This bleeder’s got a pistol, too,’ said Evans, who was searching the pockets of the one he had hit.
‘Better still, your man h
ere had a flask of fecking grog on him,’ said O’Malley, holding his prize aloft in the dying flames from the oil.
‘Best be pushing off, lads,’ said Trevan. ‘That shot’ll have every Lobster hereabouts on our trail.’
‘But which bleeding way?’ wailed Evans. ‘I ain’t got a clue where the barky lies.’
‘That way,’ said Sedgwick, pointing towards the alley with the drain. ‘Grab Rankin, and follow the ditch. It’s sure to flow downhill and fetch up at the sea.’
The open drain proved to be an inspired guide. In the dark of the alleyways, it could be clearly heard (and smelled) running beside the path. When it disappeared for stretches underground, the sailors paused to listen for its gushing and followed that direction until it reappeared. Eventually it was swallowed completely into a culvert, but by then the sailors needed no further guide. They could hear the sound of waves lapping against the shore ahead of them. They had left the residential part of the city behind and walked along the bottom of a dark canyon between lofty warehouses. A keen wind blew in their faces, redolent with wet kelp and sea mud. They soon reached a road that ran alongside the coast. The others waited in the shadows, while Sedgwick went ahead to scout along it. He soon returned.
‘Do you want the good tidings or the ill?’ he asked.
‘Good first, Abel,’ said Trevan.
‘I knows where to find the barky.’
‘Best give us the fecking ill then,’ grumbled O’Malley.
‘We be a good mile off and the way is thick with folk.’
‘How we going to get him past that lot?’ asked Evans, jerking a thumb towards Rankin.
‘Well, you ain’t going to bleeding lump me no more, Sam Evans, if you know what’s good for you,’ growled a voice behind them. The sailors turned in surprise, to see their charge in a sorry state. His long coat was smeared with mud, and one sleeve had been wrenched free from the rest, leaving a white flash of lining showing like a mouth at the shoulder. His face was caked with dried blood, and more was clotted in his hair, but all trace of confusion had left his dark eyes.
‘Come now, Josh,’ urged Sedgwick. ‘If Sam hadn’t done what he did, they’d be stringing you up for murder. Let’s get you back to the barky, and let bygones go.’
‘An’ how you going to bleeding do that, blackamoor?’ said Rankin, his arms folded stiffly. The coxswain looked him up and down.
‘Can you act pissed?’ he asked.
‘If I has too,’ said Rankin, ‘and I don’t need you clonking me nut, neither, Evans.’
‘Sean, give us that flask you found,’ said Sedgwick.
‘Aye, a nip of grog will settle everyone’s fecking nerves,’ said the Irishman as he passed it across. Sedgwick pulled out the cork and poured the contents all over Rankin. A cloud of alcohol fumes, perfumed with herbs, engulfed the group.
‘My fecking grog!’ protested O’Malley.
‘Here, what you bleeding doing?’ said the valet.
‘Saving your bloody arse,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Now, let’s get under way, and remember, you’re pissed.’
The road that ran along the sea wall was wide and well maintained. Even at this hour, returning revellers mingled with those taking the sea air as they strolled along the pavement. Carriages and carts rattled over the cobbles, taking citizens home to bed, or bringing provisions into the city for the morning markets. The sailors kept in the shadow of the buildings that faced the sea, ready to bolt into cover at the first hint of trouble. On the seaward side of the road, upturned boats lay in rows against the sea wall, or were moored in the shallows. In several places earth fortifications had been thrown up, facing the sea, with lines of cannon standing ready. A few hundred yards from the shore was the wall of anchored ships, the lights onboard winking off the dark water. Everywhere there were Danish soldiers, their coats black in the night, in contrast to the startling white of their cross belts. They stood guard over the guns and boats or patrolled the sea wall, and all seemed to eye the sailors with hostility.
‘Mice must feel like this, scuttling past a basket of sleeping cats,’ muttered Evans, as the sailors made their way along the road.
‘Maybe we needs to seem jollier?’ whispered Trevan. ‘Give us one of your bawdy songs, Sean.’
‘I can’t,’ said the Irishman. ‘My tongue’s drier than a Turk’s sandal.’
‘We be a good half way along this here line of ships,’ reported Trevan. ‘I can see the barky, moored ag’in that big fort over yonder.’
‘Just keep going,’ ordered Rankin, his head slumped forward, and his arms draped around Trevan and O’Malley’s necks. Evans and Sedgwick brought up the rear, the Londoner staring ahead, while Sedgwick looked around him.
‘You all right there, Abel?’ asked Evans.
‘I will be once we’re back on board,’ said the coxswain. ‘I am just having a look at what the Danes is about, since we seem like to be warring with them soon. What do you reckon all them boats are for?’
‘Fishing?’ suggested his companion.
‘No, they be ship’s launches and the like for the most part; besides, why would Lobsters be guarding fishing boats?’ said Sedgwick. ‘I had thought to nick one and row back to the barky in it, but they’re watched too tight. Strange they have so many, but I dare say there’ll be some reason as I ain’t fathomed yet.’
‘All right, bleeding Nelson,’ said Evans, saluting his companion as they walked. ‘What else has your lordship observed?’
‘That this southern end of the Danes’ line of ships is a deal easier to attack that the northern stretch,’ said his friend. He pointed to where the Griffin and the French frigate lay beside the Danish citadel. ‘Up there you got a fortress with more guns than a first rate, that dirty big battery built on spars on the water, while down this end it be hulks, sixth rates, and only the odd proper ship. That might be worth knowing.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ said the Londoner. ‘Given the fleet will be coming from up there.’ He waved airily ahead, and then paused to grab his companions arm. ‘Thank Christ for that—we’re bleeding saved!’
‘What?’ queried Sedgwick. In response Evans put the circled fingers of one hand into his mouth and blew a piercing wolf-whistle.
‘Shhh!’ exclaimed O’Malley. ‘What the feck are you about!’
‘Griffins ahoy!’ yelled Evans. ‘Hibbert there!’ The lead figure amongst a crowd that had spilt out of a side street looked around, then raised an arm towards them. He was surrounded by a large mob of sailors, many of them unsteady on their feet.
‘Thank Christ for that!’ exclaimed Sedgwick. ‘Mix in with our shipmates, lads. I reckon we’re going to be all right.’
******
The following day the crew of the Griffin laboured to replenish their ship’s stores. They were driven on by the officers, who were anxious both that their ship should not appear inefficient under the watchful gaze of the men of the Liberté, and to sweat out of the men the excesses of the previous day’s run ashore. As evening approached, the frigate was replete once more, and Clay was working at his desk with his clerk, trying to make sense of the receipts in Danish submitted by the Copenhagen naval yard.
‘Good to have the frigate full, with a possible war in the offing, Mr Allen,’ concluded the captain as he dashed off his signature on the last indent. ‘If war should be declared, we shall have to make shift for ourselves.’
‘I daresay that is correct, sir,’ said the clerk, blotting the entry, then gathering up the paperwork. ‘Is war certain then? Only some of the Danish hands are a mite worried. They’ve been asking whether they will be required to fight or no.’
‘In truth I don’t know,’ said Clay. ‘Mr Vansittart and the ambassador have spent most of the day trying to prevent it, but with what result I cannot say.’
‘Ah, well, doubtless you shall know presently, sir,’ said Allen. ‘I reckon I just saw the gentleman seated in the blue cutter what just passed beneath the stern.’
‘Was that
just now?’ said Clay, turning in his chair towards the cabin’s window lights. ‘That is earlier than I would have expected, so perhaps all proceeds satisfactorily. In any event, you can tell Pedersen and the others that should we find ourselves fighting the Danes, I will see that they are only required to help Mr Corbett with the wounded.’
‘Aye, that will be a comfort to them, sir,’ said Allen, rising from his place in response to a thunderous knocking at the door. Harte came into the cabin, with a visitor doing his best to push past him.
‘Ah, Mr Vansittart,’ said Clay. ‘Would you care for a little of this excellent coffee? That will be all, thank you, Mr Allen.’
‘Coffee!’ exclaimed the diplomat. ‘I will need something a damned sight stronger than that!’
‘Bring some madeira, if you please Harte,’ said Clay. ‘Now my dear sir, do take a seat and calm yourself, before you become ill. Whatever is the matter?’
Vansittart sat down and thumped the bottom of his walking cane against the deck.
‘The impertinence of the man!’ he cried, his face bright red. ‘Yesterday he keeps me waiting for two whole hours. Today he refused my credentials, because they were not written in French, if you’ll credit it! Once we got beyond that farce, would he let me see the Crown Prince? Oh, no! Me, a representative of the king himself! Told me his highness was too busy, which is an absolute lie, and that I would have to treat with him, the rogue!’
‘Pray, who are we talking about, sir?’ said Clay, bewildered by his guest’s fury.
‘The Danish Chief Minister, Andreas High-and-Mighty Bernstorff! He ain’t even a Dane but a bloody German!’ exclaimed Vansittart. ‘Topping it the patrician, if you please, though he is no more than the ill-bred son a Saxon tinker! Of course, he’s in the pocket of the damned French, which is the real problem.’ The diplomat finally slumped back in his chair, breathless.
In Northern Seas Page 12
