‘How long do you suppose it will be before the Russian fleet is able to sail, Mr Armstrong,’ asked Clay. The American sailing master lowered his own telescope and considered matters.
‘According to the sailing directions, the bay should clear of ice within two weeks, sir,’ he said. Taylor, who was standing close by and also observing the fleet, snorted at this.
‘Knowing the Russians, it will take them a few weeks more than that to raise a sail,’ he offered. ‘The officers will be carousing on their estates for a good while yet. I can’t see that a single topmast has been set up, nor any yards crossed in the whole of their fleet, the lubbers.’
‘So, they are no concern of ours on this trip, Mr Taylor,’ concluded his captain.
‘Not in my experience, sir.’
‘Would you please excuse me, but I fancy it is close to noon,’ said Armstrong. ‘I know we are just off Reval, but my chart is an indifferent Swedish one. The entrance to the Gulf of Finland was set down very ill. With a fine sun like this to shoot, I should like to check our position.’
‘Do carry on, I pray,’ said Clay. Armstrong touched his hat and went to pull his sextant from its place by the wheel. Then he stood behind the ship’s compass rose to check if the sun was due south of the Griffin.
‘Another few minutes yet,’ he muttered, before turning to his master’s mate. ‘Mr Holden, would you oblige me and go and collect the boxed chronometer? I left it with the captain’s clerk.’
‘What orders, sir?’ Taylor asked his captain.
‘Once the young gentlemen are able to report their observations, I shall press on to St Petersburg,’ said Clay. ‘It can’t be beyond a couple of days from here.’
‘Will we be able to close with the shore,’ asked Taylor, ‘or will it be frozen solid like the Reval?’
‘Mr Vansittart tells me the Russians maintain a clear channel through much of the winter,’ said Clay.
‘If they have made it wide enough,’ observed Taylor.
‘What is that young fool about?’ said Clay, who had looked aloft to see how the midshipmen were doing. ‘Mr Todd has his glass focused in quite the wrong direction.’ Before Taylor could reply, a bellow of outrage sounded from beside the wheel.
‘Gone, Mr Holden!’ exclaimed Armstrong. ‘How can a marine chronometer have gone?’
‘Mr Allen says he hasn’t seen it since first light, sir,’ reported the master’s mate. ‘He says as how he thought you must have taken it back.’
‘What seems to be amiss, Mr Armstrong?’ asked Clay.
‘The new chronometer, sir,’ said the American. ‘It seems to have been misplaced. It cost the best part of sixty guineas!’
‘The latest model, too,’ commented the first lieutenant. ‘I trust it has not been stolen. It will be worth five times that price smuggled ashore in Russia.’
‘Let us not talk of thieving yet,’ said Clay. ‘Not before a proper search has been made. It is much too large an item to simply vanish.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Armstrong. ‘If you will excuse me, I will go and look for it now.’
‘Pray do so, Jacob,’ said his captain. ‘Ah, here come the young gentlemen. What have you to report?’
Russell pulled out his notebook and turned to the right page with the help of a wetted finger. ‘We counted twenty ships of the line, sir,’ he began. ‘All two-deckers. Six looked to be smaller than the others. We thought they might be fifty gunners. Also a dozen single decked ships, sloops and frigates for the most part. Nothing appears ready to sail.’
‘Thank you, Mr Russell,’ said Clay. ‘And what was of such interest to you, Mr Todd, away to the west?’ The boy shuffled his feet a little and looked up at his larger companion.
‘Well, sir, Rusty — I mean Mr Russell — couldn’t see it, but I thought I saw a masthead, just proud of the horizon.’
‘A masthead you say?’ said Clay. ‘Did the lookout see it?’
‘No, sir,’ said Todd looking down. ‘Only me.’ His captain regarded him for a moment.
‘You did quite right to speak of it, Mr Todd,’ he said. ‘Always report truthfully on what you observe at sea, whether others are in accord or not. Now, do you suppose if you returned aloft with Mr Taylor here, and my best glass, you could show him in which direction you saw it?’ The boy nodded.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the midshipman.
‘You reply “yes, sir” to a question,’ said Taylor, not unkindly, ‘and “aye, aye” for an order.’
‘Away with you then,’ ordered Clay. ‘I will slow the ship a little, to see if we can raise this masthead of yours once more.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
******
As the day wore on thin trails of cloud, high and wispy at first, but building steadily began to mask the Spring sun, until the frigate was sailing beneath a ceiling of grey. Deprived of its feeble warmth, the temperature fell steadily, conjuring trailing mist from the chill water. Fingers of white swirled between the floes of ice which dotted the sea around them. The Griffin sailed onwards, at times looking like a ghost-ship with her hull wreathed in tendrils of fog. The sun set at last, fiery red amongst the cloud, and the light faded steadily from the sky.
‘It will be a black night, gentlemen,’ said Clay to the officers grouped around him in the pale light from the ship’s binnacle, ‘with none of the aurora that Mr Preston and Miss Hockley seem to find so diverting.’ There were several chuckles in the gloom, and Macpherson gave his young friend a gentle nudge.
‘Perfect conditions for what we are about,’ continued the captain. ‘The Liberté, for I am quite certain it is she, is upon our coat tails. I don’t doubt she has been there since we left Denmark. She has been wary, keeping out of sight for the most part, and closing on occasion to raise her lookout proud of the horizon to observe our progress. If Mr Todd did not have keen eyes, she might have remained undetected altogether. I daresay that she knows the import of our mission, and will stop us if she can.’
‘Let them but try, sir,’ growled Macpherson. The other officers muttered their agreement.
‘Regrettably, more is at stake than just our ship, Tom,’ cautioned his captain. ‘In a stand-up fight we might emerge victorious, and yet still be so wounded aloft as to be of little further use to Mr Vansittart. Remember we are in hostile waters and far from any aid.’
‘What do you believe we should do?’ asked Taylor.
‘Arrange a little ambush for the French,’ said Clay. ‘The enemy will have marked our speed and course, and we have not varied from it all day to make sure that he does. As soon as it is wholly dark, we shall clear for action, douse every light aboard, and hold our position. With no sail showing, and no wake to mark us by, it would be strange if we could not deliver some lusty blows before the French have left their hammocks. How are the gun crews, Mr Blake?’
‘Tolerable, sir,’ said the ship’s second lieutenant. ‘With so many new recruits, we have yet to reach the three broadsides in two minutes that the old Titan could fire, but I have worked the hands hard in training. We shall certainly not be found wanting.’
‘Very good. Any further questions?’ asked Clay.
‘How will we guarantee the safety of Miss Hockley... and the other civilians onboard, sir?’ asked Preston.
‘Perhaps you would be good enough to escort Miss Hockley down to the cockpit before attending to your duties,’ said his captain. ‘Along with her father and Mr Vansittart, of course. They can assist Mr Corbett with the wounded while we are in action. Any more questions?’ Clay looked around the group. ‘Very well, let us precede, gentlemen. Have the ship cleared for action. We will douse all lights and haul our wind at two bells. Good luck to you all, and damnation to the French.’
Hands were shook across the binnacle and most of the officers hurried away. A few minutes later the rattle of a drum roared out on the main deck, followed by the sound of the watch below hurrying to their stations. Down in the wardroom the officers were making their own prepa
rations.
‘My pistol!’ demanded Macpherson towards an open door, as he buckled his sword around his waist.
‘Just checking the priming, sir,’ reported his servant from within his cabin.
‘Make haste, now,’ said the marine. He slipped his hand into the basket guard of his claymore, reassured by the familiar touch of the hilt as it settled in his hand. Then he slid the blade out a few inches to check it was free.
‘Do you not find that old sword a trifle long for use on a ship, Tom?’ asked Armstrong, as he buckled on his own weapon. Macpherson accepted the proffered pistol from his servant and pushed it into the crimson sash around his waist before replying.
‘On occasion,’ conceded the Scot. ‘But I have never found its equal for sharpness. My grandfather used to say that it was made from Toledo steel, recovered from the wreck of a Spanish galleon that foundered on the coast.’
‘May it keep you safe, brother,’ said Blake, shaking the marine’s hand. ‘Now, I must go and see to my guns.’
The second lieutenant left the wardroom and stepped out onto a deserted lower deck. Hammocks hung in rows, abandoned by their occupants. Beneath his feet he could hear the sound of sea chests being dragged across the planking in the cockpit to form an operating table for the surgeon.
‘Precisely how long will I be obliged to spend down here, young man?’ came the whine of Vansittart’s voice from the deck below. ‘The headroom in my cabin was challenging enough, but this is preposterous!’ Blake smiled to himself at the thought of the elegant politician’s discomfort, then he ran up the ladder way and out onto the main deck.
‘Mind yer back, sir!’ warned a voice from just behind him. He turned to see a portion of Clay’s dinning room table coming towards him. The bulkheads that made up the captain’s suite of cabins had vanished altogether, leaving the gun deck as one long continuous space, crowded with people.
Gun crews clustered around each of the frigate’s huge eighteen-pounders, checking over equipment, rigging gun tackles, or winding their neck cloths into bandanas over their ears against the roar of sound that was to come. Sailors rushed to and fro, casting sand on the deck to give the bare-footed crews better grip, or bringing buckets of ice-cold seawater from the pumps for each cannon. Other figures were motionless, like the marines who stood guard over each hatchway, to prevent anyone fleeing for the safety of the hold. Blake walked to his usual place in the centre of the deck, just behind the main mast, where he could see the whole space. To someone unfamiliar with his world, the deck seemed in chaos, but he could see the underlying order that was there. A few moments later the swirling movement settled into a familiar pattern.
‘Mr Todd,’ he said to the midshipman beside him, once all was as it should be. ‘Give my compliments to Mr Taylor, and would you tell him that the guns are now ready for action.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ squeaked the boy, excitement glittering in his eyes.
‘Remember to move at the pace becoming of a king’s officer,’ he added, as Todd made to sprint away. ‘There is yet time.’
The youngster disappeared, only a little more slowly than he had first intended. Blake stood stiff and upright, rocking to the gentle motion of the frigate, aware that the eyes of many would be on him. His mind drifted a little, back to the last time he had been in action at night. The image of Preston came to him, pale and unconscious as he lay in the crowded sickbay of the Titan, his stump a mass off bandages, black with congealed blood. He opened his eyes wide in horror. Get a grip, man, he urged himself as he forced his face back into the stern calm required of him.
‘Mr Taylor thanks you for your message, and would you kindly run out the guns on the larboard side, and then mask the battle lanterns,’ said the midshipman, appearing beside him once more.
‘Thank you, Mr Todd,’ said Blake, grateful for something to do. He looked over the expectant faces turned towards him.
‘Larboards!’ he ordered. ‘Up ports!’ All along one side of the ship a row of squares appeared, opening onto dark water laced with sea mist. Cold air flowed in, displacing the warm fug of the deck. He waited for all to be still once more.
‘Larboards, run out the guns!’
With a chorus of grunts, the crews threw their weight against the tackles, sending the heavy cannons rumbling across the deck to thump into position. Beneath his feet Blake felt the slight shift in the heel of the deck with the enormous transfer of weight. Silence descended once more.
‘Petty officers! Shutter the lamps!’ he called. The warm orange glow from the lanterns that swung between the guns steadily vanished, leaving almost complete dark. A murmur swept across the deck.
‘Quiet there!’ ordered Blake into the dark. ‘They will be uncovered the moment you are required to serve your pieces. Take your ease now, but stay alert and await my orders.’
Not quite dark, thought Blake to himself, as his eyes adapted. Now he could see the faint glimmer from ice floes as they drifted past the open gun ports, and the glow of the linstocks in their tubs burning like so many devil-red eyes, along both sides of the deck.
******
‘Mr Blake reports that the guns are run out and ready for action, sir,’ said the first lieutenant to the shadowy figure next to him. ‘And the ship is now dark.’
‘Thank you, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay, looking around the crowded quarterdeck. Above him the spreading cloud had emptied the sky of stars, and no moon would rise for many hours. He glanced over the side, onto a lake of pitch, with only the gleam of floating ice to show where the surface lay. ‘Have the extra lookouts been positioned?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘One at each masthead, all paired with a reliable hand to bring word back to the quarterdeck. I have another half-dozen men with night glasses manning the rail.’
Two bells rang out from the forecastle of the Griffin.
‘Very well, bring her up into the wind, and take in sail, if you please,’ ordered Clay. ‘But keep the hands ready to set the topsails again, the moment I give the word. And let that be the last time the bell sounds this night, Mr Taylor.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the first lieutenant.
The frigate lay silent and dark now, her hull black beneath her empty masts, crouched amongst the little bobbing ice flows. The night grew colder, with an icy wind blowing across the surface of the water. Clay felt his gloved hands ache where they gripped the cold brass of his telescope, and his eyes started to water with the effort of staring into the dark. He thought of ordering Harte to bring him a pot of hot coffee, but then remembered that dumping the galley fire over the side was almost the first thing done when a ship cleared for action. Instead he stamped his feet on the deck to get some life into them, and moved towards the ship’s binnacle, the only light on board. He pulled out his watch and angled it in the faint glow.
‘Barely ten o’clock,’ he muttered. ‘What time did you suppose the enemy might appear, Mr Armstrong?’
‘They will have closed up a trifle at dusk, sir,’ said the American, ‘and we reduced sail considerably since then to allow them to draw near. Given that we have been stationary for the last hour, I reckon they should be up with us between one and two hours from now.’
‘As much as that?’ said Clay, wondering why he had cleared for action so long ago. He could have been taking his ease in his warm cabin now, and still have had plenty of time to prepare. ‘Well, at least this cold will serve to keep us awake.’
Time seemed to stand still aboard the Griffin. The gentle tap of ice against the hull was like the slow strokes of a clock. A few stars broke through a gap in the clouds, bright as diamonds, before they vanished once more. In their light Clay noticed that the mizzen shrouds seemed to glow a little. He walked across and examined the surface of the ropes. They were white with frost. He had just turned away to remark on it to Taylor, when he heard the thrum of a descending body, sliding down the mainmast backstay, accompanied by a cloud of displaced ice crystals.
‘There be a touch of
topsail showing, maybes three mile off, sir,’ reported a breathless figure. ‘We saw the buggers when them stars was out just now.’
‘Where away, Rogers?’ asked Taylor.
‘Two points off the stern to larboard, sir,’ replied the sailor. There was a general movement of officers towards that side of the quarterdeck, while the messenger returned to the masthead.
Clay scanned in the direction indicated by the lookout. All he could only see was utter dark above the dotted pattern of ice floes on the water.
‘Three miles off?’ grumbled Taylor. ‘Something should be visible.’
‘I might have them, sir,’ said one of the lookouts. ‘Just abaft the last carronade. The wake of a ship, maybes?’
‘Or the wind stirring the ice,’ suggested Armstrong. Then he stiffened. ‘No, I have it too. A bow wave for certain.’
Clay swept the surface of the sea, looking for something, anything. He locked onto a large ice floe, and as he focussed on it, it vanished. He blinked in surprise, then realised that something large was passing between him and it. Now he knew where to look, the elements of the image began to form. The ghost of a bow wave, moving steadily forwards. Trailing behind it was a line of silver where a hull moved through the water. Above it was the slight glimmer of canvas against the night sky. A haze of yellow hung above the ship’s deck, as lamplight shone through the gratings. His memory of the large frigate that had been moored beside them in Copenhagen served to fill in the rest of the detail, until he was as certain of what he saw as if it were noon.
‘The Liberté for sure,’ he said. ‘Coming rapidly up on the larboard beam.’
‘Aye, blundering like a bear towards our trap,’ enthused Armstrong.
‘Mr Russell,’ he called across to the midshipman of the watch. ‘Kindly tell Mr Blake to make ready, but he is to show no light until I give the word.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the officer.
‘Mr Taylor, we need to show enough jib to swing us a point to starboard,’ said Clay. ‘And have the hands sent aloft, ready to set topsails.’
In Northern Seas Page 15
