In Northern Seas

by Philip K Allan

  Over by the main mast Blake gathered his gun captains together in a ring around him. Most were stripped to the waist, their torsos grimed with smoke, their arms inked with tattoos. All pulled their bandanas away from their ears to hear the officer.

  ‘This fight is not over,’ he cautioned. ‘Not by a long stretch. The enemy is ferrying fresh gun crews from the shore to replace the fallen. We are to stop them. I shall give you a mark and range. Aim low and true, just as when we shoot for kegs. We shall revert to broadside fire once more. All clear? Good, then return to you pieces and await my signal.’

  ‘Fecking boats we’re after hitting now,’ said O’Malley, returning to his eighteen-pounder. He wiped his hands on his trousers, then re-cocked the cannon. ‘Places, ladies, and be lively with them handspikes.’

  The crew crouched back down around the big cannon. O’Malley leaned forwards to sight along it and felt heat radiating from the heavy iron barrel beneath his bare chest. The frigate was drifting forwards now, creating the illusion that it was the shattered bow of the Provesteenen that was really moving away. O’Malley could see the shore-side of the line of Danish ships for the first time. Downed masts festooned many of them and smoke poured in trailing fingers across the green water. Now Copenhagen could be glimpsed at, a few towers and spires proud of the smoke of battle, as if seen on a foggy morning. And there were boats, plenty of boats on the water. Most were powered by oars, others with a mast and sails, all busy moving to and fro. Shouts of warning from the forecastle were followed by a loud creaking from under the bow as the whole ship trembled to a halt. Disturbed brown water swirled past, and the natural spring and movement of the deck under foot became inert and leaden.

  ‘We’re fecking aground,’ announced O’Malley. ‘I hope Pipe knows what he’s about.’

  ‘Quoins in fully!’ ordered Blake. ‘Observe that blue launch coming up, a cable off the bow, gun captains? That is your first mark.’ O’Malley glanced down to check the elevation wedge was pushed all the way home, then searched for the target. She emerged from the smoke, a hundred yards from the frigate, a big boat with eight oars a side. Her pale blue hull was low in the water with the weight of her crew of sailors, and a double row of uniformed men sat along her centre line.

  ‘To larboard there, a good foot,’ he ordered, and the handspike men levered the gun around. ‘Another inch,’ he added, and then raised his hand to show he was ready. In the Danish launch faces were turning towards the frigate. He could see arms pointing, hear cries of alarm. ‘Inch to starboard now,’ he said.

  ‘Open fire!’ ordered Blake. A pause, as gun captains made sure of their aim, and then a stuttering broadside as some fired straightaway, while others continued to traverse their guns. O’Malley had a brief view of the water around the boat boiling up as he yelled a warning and jerked the firing lanyard. Thick smoke blotted out the target.

  ‘Gun’s clean,’ announced Evans, as he completed swabbing it out. The smoke was dispersing now. The Irishman peered into it, trying to see the launch.

  ‘Loaded!’ continued Evans, stepping back.

  ‘Got the fecker!’ announced O’Malley, as a cheer rolled along the gun deck. A shattered bow appeared, riding clear of the water, with two men clinging to it. All around it were floating oars, bits of debris and struggling figures.

  ‘Belay that noise, and get those guns loaded,’ roared Blake and the cheering subsided.

  ‘Run up,’ ordered the gun captain, reaching forward to prime the cannon.

  ‘New target!’ announced Blake. ‘Fishing boat with dark sails, two cables away, dead on the beam. Quoins out a half inch!’

  ******

  Clay and Taylor looked out over a sea that was clearing of enemy boats. Three patches of floating wreckage and the upturned hull of a large pinnace marked where broadsides from the frigate had dashed away those trying to cross to reinforce the Danish ships. Through his telescope Clay swept the shoreline. He could see parties of troops standing near the remaining boats, reluctant to chance the frigate’s broadsides. Only at the far end of the enemy’s line was anyone still making the passage. Blake was now trying to sink these, allowing individual gun captains to fire when they thought they might hit. A small cutter loaded with red-coated Danes appeared from out of the smoke; three guns banged out, raising splashes all around the target but failed to hit it.

  ‘The Provesteenen has hauled down her colours, sir,’ reported Preston. ‘I think I can see a boat putting out from the Polyphemus to take possession of her.’

  ‘Starved of reinforcements,’ said Clay, with satisfaction. He turned to smile towards his coxswain. ‘Well done, Sedgwick.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I were only keeping my eyes open.’

  ‘The ship in the centre of the Danish line is quite ablaze now,’ said Taylor. ‘And I believe two of the other Danish ships may have surrendered. The battle favours us at last.’

  As if in response, a chain of splashes leapt from the water all around them and a hammer blow shook the frigate as something struck the side of the Griffin. Taylor went across and looked over the rail.

  ‘Another gift from the shore battery, fortunately only a glancing blow, sir,’ he said as he returned. ‘Mind, it has left a gash a yard long and made a sad wreck of the chesstree. Might we look to kedge off this mud bank, before we are quite knocked to pieces?’

  Clay was about to answer when the voice of Blake came from the deck beneath him.

  ‘New target!’ he yelled. ‘Two launches putting out!’ Clay returned his attention to the shore and found the boats, both leaving the same landing stage and rowing like fury.

  ‘They look to overwhelm us,’ he observed. ‘One will pass while we deal with the other. I fear there is no question of withdrawing while the enemy is yet game, Mr Taylor. We shall just have to endure the odd ball from the shore.’

  ‘By divisions!’ ordered Blake. ‘Guns one to eight, your mark is the nearer boat. The rest take the far one. Make sure of your aim, and fire as you bear.’

  One by one the eighteen-pounders banged out, each accompanied by its own plume of smoke as the guns bore on the target. Splashes rose up all around the two boats, mirroring in miniature the bombardment the frigate was under. The forecastle carronade crashed out, and figures in the larger boat tumbled like wheat before a scythe as the ball ploughed through those packed on board. She faltered for a moment and then turned around to return the way she had come.

  ‘All guns on the far launch!’ ordered Blake. The next shot seemed certain to have hit, the splash right alongside, soaking the occupants, but the boat pressed on. Then a cluster of cannons fired together, and when the smoke cleared the water was peppered with wreckage.

  ‘They should all set off together, sir,’ said Armstrong. ‘Two we can cope with. But send six, and four might well survive.’

  ‘Their crews will be reluctant to take to the boats now,’ said Taylor, rubbing his hands.

  ‘Polyphemus has weighed anchor, sir,’ reported Preston, who continued to watch the rest of the battle. Clay looked towards the British seventy-four. She had sheeted home her big foretopsail and moved along the Danish line, seeking a fresh opponent. The Royal Navy ship ahead of her was already out of sight. Soon the frigate would be alone and exposed as Nelson’s fleet advanced up the enemy line. More columns of water reared up around them, and high above his head a rope parted with a crack.

  ‘Get that backstay spliced, Mr Powell,’ he heard Hutchinson order, while Blake’s guns resumed their attempts to hit the more distant boats.

  ‘Deck there!’ called Hoskins. ‘Flagship be signalling!’

  ‘Aloft with you, Mr Todd,’ ordered Taylor. ‘Tell us what Lord Nelson requires.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the youngster, hanging a telescope over his shoulder before rushing for the main shrouds.

  ‘Mr Todd!’ roared Taylor. The midshipman skidded to a halt. ‘Have you committed every one of Captain Popham’s multitude of signals to memory yet?’

&n
bsp; ‘Eh... no, sir.’

  ‘Then you had best take the signal book with you.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Todd. ‘I mean aye, aye, sir.’ Clay watched the midshipman snatch up the book and scamper aloft, passing the boatswain’s working party as they repaired the backstay. When he was in position he had a brief conversation with the lookout, then he pointed his telescope towards the north.

  ‘Deck there!’ he called. ‘It isn’t the Elephant signalling, but the London, sir.’

  ‘The London?’ queried Clay. ‘Is the main fleet in action?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ reported the midshipman. ‘They are continuing to beat up into the wind. General signal thirty-nine, sir. That is to discontinue the action.’

  ‘Leave off the battle!’ exclaimed Armstrong. ‘How in all creation does Admiral Parker think we shall accomplish that, sir? Half the fleet are aground and the rest are caught between the Danes and the mud!’

  ‘Shall I order preparations to kedge us off, sir?’ asked the first lieutenant.

  ‘A moment if you please, Mr Taylor,’ said his captain. ‘Mr Todd! What signal is the Elephant flying?’

  ‘Still number sixteen, sir,’ replied the midshipman. ‘That is for close action.’

  ‘The rest of the fleet are continuing to hammer away at the Danes, sir,’ supplemented Preston. ‘And I believe their flagship may have struck.’

  ‘There is our direction, gentlemen,’ said Clay. ‘We take our lead from Lord Nelson. Our role is to keep the Danes on shore honest, until instructed to do otherwise.’

  Now a lull followed in the action for the Griffin. The Danish ships at their end of the line had all surrendered, and the main battle had moved away from them. Looking that way Clay could see it was as fierce as ever, but now they were observers on the edge of the storm, rather than participants at its heart. Down on the main deck Blake had released some of his gun crews to get a drink of water. Clay watched Evans pouring a ladle down his throat, and ran his tongue over his own dry lips, realising that he had drunk nothing since his breakfast with Taylor. He glanced towards the south. The sun was visible as a patch of brightness behind the veil of cloud. Past noon already.

  Once Clay had drunk from the quarterdeck butt, he looked back towards the enemy. He could still see boats on the move in the shallows, although none seemed to want to brave the frigate’s guns. Farther back there were blocks of red-coated Danish troops, some marching, others standing. Mounted officers rode to and fro, or stood gesticulating as they gave orders. One cluster of horsemen in elaborate uniforms all stood facing towards the frigate. He had a strange feeling that they were discussing him.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Clay to his officers. ‘Direct your gaze towards the enemy. What do you think these deuced Danes are about?’

  ‘There’s a deal of shifting boats,’ commented Armstrong, after a while. ‘Some to the north, doubtless to seek a crossing beyond our reach, but more are heading the other way.’

  ‘And a considerable body of soldiers are forming up over yonder,’ added Taylor, pointing past the frigate’s bow.

  ‘Have you noticed that the battery has stopped firing, sir?’ added Preston. Clay paused to listen. It seemed strangely calm, despite the continuing roar of battle taking place farther up the channel. Then he felt his stomach knot with anxiety as he realised what the Danes were up to.

  ‘They mean to rush us with boats from the shore,’ he said. ‘They will come at us over the bow, where only our chasers can be brought to bear.’

  Chapter 16

  Boats

  Clay watched the approach of the lanky young officer as he hurried along the frigate’s gangway all the way from the forecastle, certain already of the message he brought.

  ‘Mr Preston’s compliments and a dozen boats have put out from the shore, sir,’ reported the midshipman.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sweeney,’ he said. ‘Kindly tell Mr Preston I shall come directly.’ The youngster touched his hat and retuned along the side of the ship, leaving Clay with his thoughts. The frigate’s two nine-pounder bow chasers both banged out together, the sound much sharper than the lusty roar of the bigger cannon on her main deck, and smoke drifted across the front of the ship. A dozen boats, he repeated to himself, each with between thirty and forty men on board. Such a force could overwhelm them if they were in any way ill-prepared. He looked over his frigate, making sure that all the measures he had ordered were in place. He would have liked to have rigged boarding netting, but this was a lengthy task, and time was short. Besides, at best it would hold for a short while before it was cut and wrenched free by a determined attacker. He stepped up to the front of the quarterdeck and looked down at the gun crews. Every cannon was manned and run out.

  ‘Are you quite prepared, Mr Blake?’ called the captain.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the lieutenant. ‘Both sides are loaded with canister over ball, depressed as low as possible and trained as far forward as can be.’

  ‘And once you have discharged your pieces?’

  ‘The crews will bolt the port lids tight and then come up to help repel boarders,’ replied Blake. He indicated the open chests of arms arranged along the centreline of the deck. Clay could see rows of gleaming cutlasses, and the rounded butts of pistols in the two boxes immediately beneath him.

  ‘Very good, Mr Blake,’ said Clay, satisfied with what he saw.

  ‘When they attack, I fancy they will come over the bow,’ said Armstrong, beside him.

  ‘With so many boats there will be a want of space,’ said the captain. ‘I daresay some may chance their arm alongside, but you are right, it is the forecastle that is critical, which is where I must station myself. Take charge here, Mr Taylor, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the older man. ‘Good luck.’

  Clay walked past the big quarterdeck carronades and along the gangway, forcing himself to stroll calmly for the benefit of the crew. Behind him came Sedgwick, with a cutlass belt slung across his chest and a pistol thrust in his waistband. The side of the ship was thinly guarded with the ship’s idlers, for once drafted in and armed with muskets and boarding pikes. They moved from his path as he approached, knuckling their foreheads in salute.

  ‘Give those Danes what for if they come to take our Griffin, shipmates,’ he ordered.

  ‘Don’t you go a-worryin’ ‘bout them buggers, sir,’ said Stephenson, the portly armourer’s mate, shaking the musket he held in his fist. Clay smiled at this and walked on towards the forecastle.

  The front of the ship had been transformed into a fortress. The forecastle rail had been augmented with baulks of timber and rolled up hammocks to turn it into a solid, waist-high barricade. Lieutenant Macpherson had formed his marines up into a block of scarlet in the central space between the two nine-pounders, both of which were in action. On the outside of the guns was a thick line of sailors, armed with muskets. Behind them stood another ten men, all armed with cutlasses and boarding pikes. At their head stood Lieutenants Preston and Macpherson, side by side. Just as Clay joined them, the bow chasers fired again. More smoke trailed across the deck, accompanied by a cheer from the watching seamen.

  ‘Have you sunk one of them already, Mr Preston?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Not yet, sir, but we have knocked a file of soldiers down in one of the boats,’ replied the lieutenant.

  ‘Your arrangements seem excellent, gentlemen,’ said Clay, looking around. On a grating near the foremast was a line of large round shot. ‘What, pray, are those for?’

  ‘Eighteen-pounder balls, contributed by Mr Blake,’ explained Macpherson. ‘We have men detailed to pitch them over the rail when the Danes come alongside. I fancy from this height they may knock down a few attackers, or perhaps drop through the bottom of even a solidly built launch.’

  ‘Good. And what is your plan to repel the enemy?’

  ‘Musketry combined with canister from the nine-pounders, in the first instance,’ said Preston. ‘If that don’t answer, and the Danes get a fo
othold on deck, we shall drive them back with the men here that we hold in reserve.’

  ‘You seem to have considered everything,’ said Clay. ‘Let us see what the enemy is about.’

  Clay stood behind one of the bow chasers and was shocked by how close the Danish boats were. They were formed in a tight group, barely three hundred yards away. Big pinnaces, smaller launches and cutters, painted in various colours, but all packed with red-coated soldiers and rowing quickly towards the frigate.

  ‘Clear!’ shouted the sailor in charge of the chase gun. He yanked on the firing lanyard. A tongue of flame, a gush of smoke, and the small cannon shot back inboard.

  ‘Got one!’ exclaimed one of the crew, pointing with his rammer.

  ‘Stow that, an’ swab the bleeder out,’ growled the gun captain. ‘We ain’t got no time for gawking!’

  ‘Load canister now,’ ordered Preston, ‘and hold your fire till I give the word.’

  Clay looked at the approaching boats. The one the nine-pounder had struck was listing badly. He could see soldiers bailing her out with their hats, the water flashing silver as it was pitched over the side. The boat slowly turned around and limped back towards the shore.

  ‘One less to worry about, sir,’ said Preston. Clay nodded, his attention on the rest of the flotilla, now a bare two hundred yards away. As they came on, more detail began to emerge. A blond-haired naval officer at the helm of the nearest cutter, his mouth a circle, as he bellowed encouragement to his oarsmen. The lines of soldiers seated in the boats shifted from anonymous figures into individuals. There were tall ones and stout ones, small ones and thin ones. Some had fair hair and some were swarthy. There were those who sat calmly with their backs to the approaching frigate, and there were anxious ones, peering over their shoulders at the imposing ship, so much loftier when seen from the surface of the water.

  When the flotilla was a hundred yards away, the sounds of their approach began to precede them: the rattle of oars against gunwales and the foaming drag of them through the water, the cries of encouragement from the coxswains as they urged their flagging crews to a final effort.