In Northern Seas

by Philip K Allan

  ‘That is reassuring,’ said Vansittart. ‘Concerning that, I wonder if we might speak with your Lordship in private. We have come as expeditiously as possible from St Petersburg, with intelligence of some importance.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Nelson. ‘Pray come through to the coach. If we were on my flagship I could offer you more lavish hospitality, but the St George, along with the other larger rates, draw too much for these waters. Sir Hyde has given me most of the smaller ships for tomorrow.’ He led the way through into the day cabin, and they took their places around the chart table.

  ‘A glass of sherry wine, gentlemen?’ asked Foley, bringing over a ship’s decanter and a fistful of glasses.

  ‘Thank you, Captain, most kind,’ said the diplomat, sipping at the dark liquid and grimacing slightly. ‘Now, to business. I bring some excellent news. Tsar Paul is no more, and has been replaced on the throne by his son, Alexander.’

  ‘He’s dead!’ exclaimed Nelson. ‘How did such a thing happen?’ Vansittart straightened his glass on the table and shot a warning stare at Clay, before replying.

  ‘Reports are a little confused, my lord’ he said. ‘He seemed to have died in his bed, or at least in his bedchamber. Where the intrigues of the Russian court are concerned, I find it pays well not to inquire too closely into the particulars.’

  ‘Still, that is excellent for us, my lord,’ said Foley. ‘Wasn’t Paul behind all this wicked armed neutrality nonsense?’

  ‘Those devils, the French, were the true instigators,’ corrected Nelson. ‘But it is welcome tidings, I don’t doubt.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord,’ said Vansittart. ‘When we left, Lord Whitworth was busy negotiating an end to Russia’s participation in the pact of armed neutrality, and all British shipping seized under the orders of Tsar Paul had been returned. Furthermore, I understand from the ambassador that Sweden and Prussia are certain to follow the Russian lead.’

  ‘And what of the Danes?’ asked Nelson.

  ‘That I do not know, my lord,’ said Vansittart.

  ‘Word of Paul’s death cannot have arrived in Copenhagen any swifter than we did, my lord,’ said Clay. ‘I am sure they will acquiesce when they learn what has happened.’

  ‘I dare say they might, Captain, but the situation is not so simple,’ said Nelson. ‘The Danes have chosen to defy us. Their Crown Prince refused to see you, did he not, sir?’

  ‘That is correct, my lord,’ said Vansittart.

  ‘Our ambassador had his passport returned to him,’ continued the admiral. ‘That wretched Chief Minister Bernstorff is a virtual puppet of the damned French. Blows have been exchanged, too. Their coastal batteries fired on our ships as we passed through the Sound, and we responded in kind. They have chosen the path of war and defiance, gentlemen. So we shall still attack at first light.’

  ‘But surely once they learn what has happened in Russia...’ urged Clay.

  ‘I have no doubt that they will want to make peace when they hear which way the wind is now blowing,’ scoffed Nelson. ‘But what of all the trouble we have been put to? Sending such a huge fleet out to the Baltic? The treasure spent, at a time when our country is fighting for its very life? What of the defiance offered to our king?’ Clay looked to Vansittart for support, but the diplomat’s face was stony. Then he felt Nelson’s hand on his. He looked around, and found the single blue eye looking at him, the expression kindly.

  ‘It is a noble thing to wish to save unnecessary bloodshed, Alexander, but in this you must trust me,’ he said. ‘We are fighting a war between reason and chaos. Between revolution and order, good and ill, the righteous and the wicked. All must choose their sides, and the Danes have chosen unwisely. They must be taught a sharp lesson, if only to prevent others from following that path. Consider when you order a seaman flogged. It does him some good, for sure, but it also teaches those who witness the punishment the folly of opposition.’

  ‘I understand, my lord,’ sighed Clay. ‘What part would you have me play?’

  ‘Good man!’ enthused Nelson. ‘I was certain I could rely on you. But you have been in Copenhagen already, and have viewed this line of ships and hulks the Danes have moored along the seafront of the city. What would you do, if you were I?’

  ‘Their line is very strong at the northernmost end, my lord,’ said Clay. ‘That is where they have built that huge battery on piles. The southern end has no such protection. My coxswain had occasion to walk along that stretch of shore, and reported as much. I would sail around the shallows in the middle of the Sound, attack from the south and roll up the Danish line as if it were a carpet. Also the wind favours such a move.’

  ‘You see, Foley,’ said Nelson. ‘Clay is exactly of my way of thinking. Your plan may be thought bold, but I am of the opinion that the boldest measures in war are always the safest, which is why I have been issuing orders for just such an attack. We will make peace with the Danes tomorrow evening, I don’t doubt, but in the morning we shall fight them.’

  Chapter 14

  The Middle Ground

  ‘Two bells in the morning watch, sir,’ reported Yates, holding a glowing lantern up with one hand, and a can of steaming water in the other. Clay groaned and tried to roll away from the light. ‘Still dark, sir,’ continued the servant’s remorseless voice, ‘but I reckon there’s a little fog, and Mr Taylor says the wind is steady, south by east.’

  Wind in the south. Wind in the south, repeated Clay to himself, as he drifted up from sleep, letting the clinging arms of his wife fade back into his dreams. For some reason, that seemed important. Then he sat up in his cot. It was the second of April, 1801, and today his ship was going into battle.

  ‘South by east, you say?’ he said as he rose from his cot. ‘Thank you, Yates. That is most welcome.’ He pulled his nightshirt off, dropped it into the young man’s hands and wandered over to his washstand.

  Ten minutes later he was clean, dressed and shaved and sitting before a fresh pot of coffee, re-reading the orders that had arrived from the Elephant in the early hours of the morning. They were strangely open, where his frigate was concerned. Having assigned a precise opponent in the Danish line for each of the ships under his command, Nelson had gone on to give the Griffin a much freer role. He was ordered to contribute to the battle “as circumstances permitted” and “as he saw fit.” Clay looked out of the window lights at the back of the cabin, onto the dark sea, as he considered what was really expected of him. Of course, the looseness of his instructions could be a simple reflection of his unexpected arrival, after the admiral had already finalised his plans. Or perhaps they indicated the relative insignificance of his frigate, amongst all the hulking ships of the line that made up most of Nelson’s command, but Clay thought not. He fancied he detected something else at work here. What looked like flattering trust in his judgement might also be a test. Maybe Nelson was less sanguine than he had appeared about a captain whose last command had ended as a smouldering mound of cinders on a French beach, and wanted to see for himself how Clay would act when given freedom.

  ‘Yates!’ he called towards his sleeping cabin. ‘Kindly pass the word for Mr Taylor, if you please. And tell Harte to lay another place for breakfast.’

  Lieutenant Taylor was already prepared for action when he came into the cabin. He was in his best uniform, his silver Nile medal pinned to his lapel, his sword buckled around his middle, and Clay thought he detected the heavy bulge of a pistol in his coat pocket.

  ‘With that much to do this morning, I wasn’t sure if I should have time to shift garments later, sir,’ Taylor said, a little apologetically.

  ‘Pray make yourself comfortable now,’ said Clay. ‘Yates! Come and relieve Mr Taylor of his sword and coat.’ Once the two were seated, Harte came into the cabin, holding a large dish in his hand.

  ‘Salt bacon, biscuit crumbs fried in molasses, and eggs, all hot from the pan, sir,’ he announced, as he placed it down between the two men. ‘Biscuits with two kinds of preserve on the sid
e, and that Russian butter in the croc ain’t too rancid. Shall I fetch more coffee?’

  ‘If you please, Harte,’ said Clay, helping his guest to food. ‘I take it you have arranged substantial fare for the people?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ confirmed Taylor, as he accepted the plate. ‘The galley is cooking it now. The men will have a meal early, after which we shall make ready to get under way.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said his captain. ‘Would it inconvenience you to read our orders while we eat? You need to be familiar with them, in case I should fall.’

  ‘By no means, sir,’ said the lieutenant, accepting the document that his captain passed across. A period of quiet followed, while he read. ‘They seem a little, eh... imprecise, with regard to our role, sir.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ said Clay, through a mouthful of bacon. ‘Lord Nelson has licensed us to carry on as we please. My intention will be to support Captain Lawford in the Polyphemus, in the first instance. He will be directly ahead of us in the line, and is tasked with attacking the southernmost Danish ship. Then we shall see how the battle unfolds.’

  ‘I note we are ordered to be ready to anchor by the stern,’ said Taylor, reading on. ‘That is sensible, with a following wind. By your leave, I shall get Mr Harrison to have the kedge anchor moved and a cable prepared.’

  ‘And a spring, too,’ added Clay. ‘I hope to lay across the bow of the end-most Dane.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Taylor, returning to the orders. After a pause he tapped the final section of them. ‘I don’t like the sound of this last part, regarding all the navigation hazards. Now the wretched Danes have pulled up all the buoys, it is treacherous hereabouts. Mr Armstrong says this Middle Ground we shall have to sail around is shallow as a dish, miles long, without a trace of it showing proud of the water.’

  ‘Enemy cannons on one side, and an impassable mud bank on the other,’ smiled Clay. ‘What could possibly go wrong? Fortunately we shall be following in the wake of the larger ships, and Captain Hardy will have marked the southernmost end of the shoal during the night.’

  ‘Hmm, I suppose if we follow where the Elephant and the other seventy-fours can float, there should be water enough for the likes of us, sir,’ conceded Taylor.

  ‘Pray God that is so,’ said his captain.

  ‘Amen to that, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘So what will be done about the enormous battery at the northern end of the Danish line?’

  ‘We spoke of that last night on board the Elephant,’ said Clay. ‘Sir Hyde with the main part of the fleet will bombard it, while Captain Riou and his frigate squadron make a demonstration before it.’

  ‘Riou?’ queried Taylor. ‘That name is familiar, sir. Isn’t he the chap who should have been drowned on the old Guardian, back in eighty-nine?’

  ‘The very same,’ confirmed his captain. ‘He struck a mountain of ice in the Southern Ocean on his way to Botany Bay. Most of the crew got back to the Cape in the boats, while he stayed onboard with a few of the bolder souls to try and save the ship. Every one believed him dead, and then two months later, the Guardian limped into port, with the sea washing over her deck.’

  Both men fell silent, remembering their own desperate attempts to save their ship the previous year.

  ‘Perhaps if we had been as determined as Captain Riou...’ began Clay.

  ‘Nothing more could have been done for the Titan, sir,’ said the veteran lieutenant. ‘Of that I am certain.’

  ‘No, I daresay you are right, George,’ said Clay, staring at his plate. Then he looked up more brightly. ‘Now, let us eat, for goodness only knows when we shall have the leisure to do so again.’

  ******

  Clay came onto the quarterdeck, just as the first light of dawn was growing in the sky. In the east was a thin line of rose, behind the dark wooded shore of Sweden. The waters of the Sound slopped against the sides of the British warships, the yellow bands on their hulls slowly resolving in the growing light. All were anchored with their long bowsprits pointing as one, like weathervanes, in the same direction. South by East, into the steady wind that would soon take them into battle. A little mist trailed across the cold sea, weaving its way between the ships and off towards the north.

  Clay acknowledge the salutes of the officers who stood in groups dotted across the deck, all armed and dressed for battle, waiting for the day to begin. Standing a little apart from the others was Vansittart, immaculately turned out as always.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said the captain. ‘My glass, if you please, Mr Russell.’

  The midshipman of the watch passed the telescope across, and Clay walked to the side of the ship that faced Copenhagen. There was the city, sprawling along the shore, protected by its row of warships. Through a gap between two Royal Navy seventy-fours, he could see a portion of the Danish line. It was much as he remembered from his last visit, a motley collection of ships, moored bow to stern. Some seemed little more than floating hulks, with only a single mast left, like the flag pole above a fortification. Others were lofty two-deckers, fully rigged with yards crossed, as if ready to set sail. But every ship had two things in common. They bristled with cannon, run out already, and at the top of every mast fluttered the deep red and white flag of Denmark.

  ‘The enemy seem well prepared to receive us, sir,’ commented his first lieutenant from the rail beside him.

  ‘So it would seem, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay.

  ‘No prospect of steering between them, as we did at the Nile, sir,’ added the sailing master, from his other side. ‘They are moored so close together, I doubt if anything above a longboat could pass through.’

  ‘Captain Hardy surveyed their position two nights ago, in a launch,’ said Clay. ‘There is little prospect of coming between the Danes and the shore. They are anchored on the very edge of the deep water channel.’

  ‘Flagship signalling, sir!’ announced Midshipman Todd. ‘All ships to prepare for battle.’ Clay slid his telescope closed, aware that everyone’s eyes were on him.

  ‘Acknowledge, if you please, Mr Todd,’ he said. ‘Mr Taylor, will you kindly have the ship cleared for action.’

  ‘Does this mean that I shall be required to join Mr Corbett amongst the rats in the hold again?’ said Vansittart, examining the smooth broadcloth of his coat.

  ‘I fear so, once matters become warm, sir,’ said Clay. ‘But there is no occasion for you to go there directly. I daresay there will be some hours of manoeuvring for you to observe. I shall tell you when I require you to go below.’

  ‘My thanks, Captain,’ said the diplomat. ‘Now that I have mastered my sea sickness, I find life on the azure main quite tolerable.’

  ‘In spite of the limitations of the accommodation, sir?’ asked Armstrong, provoking chuckles amongst the officers.

  ‘Ah, there you have me, Mr Armstrong,’ smiled Vansittart. ‘I don’t belief I shall ever be reconciled to that.’

  A thunderous drum roll started on the deck beneath them, close to the base of the mainmast, the sound echoing back to the Griffin from the ships all around them. In response the crew of the frigate scattered to their stations.

  Some climbed upwards, like the armourer and his mate, hauling aloft iron chain-slings to reinforce the hemp that held the heavier yards in place. They were followed up the shrouds by the marine marksmen, each one carrying spare boxes of cartridges, to help with them with their job of clearing the enemy’s deck of opponents.

  Some disappeared downwards, like the gunner, into the pink-tinged gloom of the magazine, safe below the waterline. The space was lined with sheet copper, hard enough to resist rats or damp, soft enough not to raise a spark from a carelessly dropped tool. With his mate, he started to line up the gun charges, stacking the serge bags, like bricks in a wall, close to the heavy cloth ‘fear-nought’ screen. Beyond it he could hear the expectant crowd of ship’s boys, ready with their leather charge cases to bring the powder up to the guns.

  Richard Corbett was below the waterline to
o, down in the stuffy dark of the cockpit. There was only five feet of headroom, and his assistants had to bend over double as they lashed the officers’ sea chests together beneath a canvas cover, to form his operating table. Off to one side the surgeon lay out his instruments, the light from the lantern glittering from sharp edges and jagged teeth.

  ‘Saw, lesser knife, probe, extractor, gag, chains,’ he muttered as he lined them up. ‘Pray God we have sufficient laudanum.’

  But it was to the frigate’s main deck that most of the crew of the Griffin went. While Clay was up on the quarterdeck, examining the line of Danish warships, all trace of his living quarters was vanishing from beneath his feet. Bulkheads were knocked down, furniture dragged away, possessions gathered up. Within a matter of minutes an uninterrupted space had been created, a hundred and fifty feet long and almost forty wide. This was Lieutenant John Blake’s domain, and he stood at its very heart, revelling in all that was happening around him. He stepped aside as a pair of sailors rushed past, scattering sand over the deck to give the gun crews purchase on planking that might become slick with water, or worse. Around each of the big eighteen-pounders a crew had gathered, busy preparing for battle. Many were stripping off their shirts, others were winding their neck clothes into bandanas to protect their ears. Behind him a queue of men had formed to collect buckets of water from the ship’s pumps. Ahead of him the tall figure of Evans was pulling his cannon’s rammer from its place under the gangway, while beside him O’Malley blew life into the glowing end of a length of slow match. Tackles were being rigged and tested, cannons were being cast free, and seamen were rushing to-and-fro. And then people reached their places, or stood back from their completed tasks, and the confused, busy movement became a settled, familiar pattern. He saw nods exchanged between gun crews and their captains, captains and their petty officers, and petty officers and their midshipman. Across the crowded deck came Midshipman Russell, touching his hat when he arrived in front of Blake.