"Thermopylae's an eighteen-pounder Thirty-Eight, my lord," Capt. Lewrie crisply responded. "Where do you wish us?"
"Under Captain Riou, to re-enforce his group of frigates," Lord Nelson replied. "His Amazon is also a Thirty-Eight. Simply one Hell of a fellow, is Riou, and a man after mine own heart! I've put Blanche, under Captain Hamond, Captain Sutton and Alcmene, Captain Bolton and his Arrow, and Captain Devonshire's Dart under Riou's command, along with the Fox and Otter cutters, to assist the 'liners' assigned to the van of the line. A brace of Thirties, a Thirty-Six and a Thirty-Two… now a pair of Thirty-Eights, as well, adding your frigate to the Amazon.
"Might be best, before the evening's done, Lewrie," Nelson said as he awkwardly cradled his mug of tea with his one remaining hand, "to be rowed over to Amazon and speak with Captain Riou. He, Rear-Admiral Graves, and I formulated the general plan for taking on the Danes, so Riou will be able to explain the salient points. All that's wanting is word from Captain Hardy's reconnoiter into the King's Deep."
"We've had to survey and re-buoy the Holland Deep," Capt. Foley explained, "so that's sure, now. As for the King's Deep-"
"Splendid fellow, Hardy," Lord Nelson interrupted. "Demanded him as captain of the Saint Joseph, then the Saint George, when the first one wouldn't do. He, and several others, are out even now, in all this cold, charting and marking the deep-water passage into the King's Deep, and Copenhagen Roads. What charts we have are next to useless, and the civilian masters and pilots we brought along are… asses! They tell us that the deep channel is along the Middle Ground, yet we have noted large Danish warships anchored in deep water close to the city, on the land side." The nearest one, the Provensteenen, we know is a cut-down three-decker, not two miles off from us."
"Well, she might be sittin' in the mud, my lord," Lewrie said as the promised mug of tea at last arrived. "Even so, that'd mean at least four fathom and a bit, perhaps five fathoms close by in which the Danes moved her into position."
He took a sip, and it was nowhere near the "nigh-boilin' hot" that the steward, Thomas Allen, had promised; there was no sugar and no milk, either. Allen all but smirked at him with an affronted "so there" expression, and a "go away, instanter," to boot.
"Passed Kronborg Castle, did ye say, Captain Foley?" Lewrie said.
"The Danes didn't score a single hit, sir," Foley told him with a chuckle, "and the Swedish batteries cross the Sound did not join in either." His bright blue eyes were agleam with amusement. "It was but a short, noisy passage. 'Sound and fury, signifying nothing.' "
"We exchanged salutes when I sailed down," Lewrie told him with a matching grin. He had to look up slightly, for Capt. Thomas Foley was six feet tall; perhaps the only human-sized man in the cabins, besides Lewrie; an impressive-looking fellow with curly dark-brown hair.
"First thing, Lewrie," Lord Nelson piped up from his blankets and cot, "be sure to pass a cable out from a stern port and be ready to come to anchor by your stern, opposite the foe I choose for you. I intend, should the winds come Sutherly, to sail in in line-ahead, and match broadsides 'til the Danes have had enough."
"I shall, my lord," Lewrie answered, and took another big gulp of his tea; it was now tepid, so he drained it off completely. "Well, I'll be on my way, sir." Lewrie began re-fastening his furs.
"By the by, Lewrie," Nelson enquired. "Your legal troubles… they are quite behind you?"
"Completely exonerated, my lord," Lewrie replied, though taking note of the Vice-Admiral's dubious expression, and the top-lofty tone to his voice, as though he thought very little of naval officers stealing slaves, even to man their ships for England's vital service.
"Such passionate beliefs as Abolition, Captain Lewrie," Nelson sternly intoned, "are best left to civilians who argue the matters in Parliament, our sovereign's Privy Council, or the parlours of the 'do-gooders.' Sea Officers holding active commission may espouse opinions on such matters, but not act upon them."
Nelson relented, and Lewrie could breathe again, for the Vice-Admiral would not tear a strip of hide from his arse; Nelson's mouth cocked up in a wry little grin. "You were lucky. Very lucky."
"I was, indeed, my lord," Lewrie agreed, grinning himself. "As are you, the nation believes. My Irish tars even think you are possessed of a beannacht, a good cess."
"Superstitious tripe!" Nelson snapped, turning stern once more. "We make our own good fortune, through boldness and courage. Perhaps by dawn, tomorrow, we will prove fortunate 'gainst the Danes, without blindly depending on… 'mumbo-jumbo,' amulets and charms, or slivers of the True Cross like… Spaniards and Irishmen. Courage, boldness, and audacity will win the day. That, and the steadiness of our tars!"
Lewrie's little stab at toadying, of "pissing down his back," which Nelson found tedious, shut him up; he answered with a firm and determined nod.
"Spend your passion, and your… cess on the Danes, Lewrie," Nelson said with a piercing look.
"I shall, sir," Lewrie promised, bowing his way out of the after part of the cabins. In the forward part, Midshipmen were gathered round several lanthorns or candlesticks, painfully scribbling away at sheafs of paper, copying out Nelson's dictates as they came, page by halting page, from Nelson's mind, and lips.
"… Edgar will anchor abreast of Number Five," a Lieutenant was slowly reading off the latest page to them, "a Sixty-Four gun ship or hulk. The Ardent… got that, all of you? Good. Ah… Ardent to pass Edgar and anchor abreast of Numbers Six and Seven…" Lewrie heard as he stepped out into the icy cold of a clear, moonless night.
Britainmight love him, but Lord, he can be a Tartar! Lewrie thought as he stuffed his muffler higher round his throat. He'd been on the receiving end of Nelson's temper in the Mediterranean when in command of HMS Jester, and though Nelson might look like the most inoffensive minnikin ever born, a natural "Merry Andrew," when rowed beyond all temperance, mad enough to kick furniture, his tongue could peel paint and varnish, melt tar and ignite oakum! S'pose I got off easy, Lewrie imagined; though, a man as much in love with glory and praise as he should be easier to 'kiss up.'
"Wind's coming about," he heard one of HMS Elephant's officers comment to his fellows, who were gathered by the larboard bulwarks in a small, shivering knot. "It's come more Westerly, perhaps with just a touch of Southing?"
"Stand in on a beam-reach, then," another muttered back.
"My pardons, sirs," Lewrie said, going to join them. "Might I enquire where Captain Riou's Amazon is anchored?"
"Uhm… yonder, sir." One of them pointed over to starboard, closer to the southwest tip of the Middle Ground. "Just past Bellona, sir… and a hand's breadth astern of her, from where we stand."
"Ah, yes," Lewrie said with a nod as he followed the officer's outstretched arm. "Thankee kindly. I'll have to row over to her, and speak with Riou before Midnight."
He turned back to grin his thanks to them, and noted the lights cross the way, off the larboard bows, that sparkled like faint amber glims against the darkness of Amager Island, and ran Northerly up the coast of Sjжlland, the much larger island on which Copenhagen stood. Up to the city, then far beyond it, the line of sparkles ran.
"Mine arse," Lewrie said, realising that he was looking at the Danish fleet, anchored in a long, protective line. "They aren't all of 'em ships of the line, are they?"
"A great many floating rafts, sir," one officer replied with a chuckle. "Razeed and dis-masted old hulks, or just big rafts, turned into gun batteries."
"Aboukir Bay," snickered another, "just like the French at the Battle of the Nile… anchored close ashore."
"No more than a cable off the land, some of them," another of them opined. "So we mayn't sail round their off sides, as the Admiral did at the Nile, yet…"
"Yet not close enough together in line-ahead to be able to support each other, as were the French," a third chuckled. "Foolish."
"They aim and shoot as poorly as did the gunners at Kronborg, on our way here, well! Two hour's pounding should finish 'em,"
the first imagined.
Hellish lot of 'em, though, Lewrie thought, frowning; This'un could be a real bugger. Twenty or more? And it struck him just how odd it was for two navies to lie anchored just out of maximum range of each other-from the West edge of the Middle Ground shoal, where the British fleet sat, it wasn't over two miles to the closest of the Danish hulks. With the loan of one of the officers' telescopes, he could clearly see the scurry on the old cut-down three-decker as Danish sailors prepared their defences for the morning, should the wind come fair.
"Like ancient armies," he muttered, returning the glass. "Night before Julius Caesar took on the Gauls, or somebody. Two camps, fires lit t'keep warm, and eat… and the battlefield between."
"Very like, sir, indeed," one of Elephant's Lieutenants agreed. "Seems rather eerie, don't it? It don't seem… naval, at all, sir."
Lewrie stamped his cold feet and shrugged deeper into his furs.
"Luck t'ye all, sirs," he said in parting, touching the brim of his cocked hat in casual salute before heading for the entry-port, and his shivering, waiting boat crew. "I'm off."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Maundy Thursday," Thermopylae's Third Officer said half to himself as he blew on his gloved hands to warm them. "Second of April, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Oh-One."
"Hmm?" Marine Lt. Eades idly asked.
" 'Tis Maundy Thursday, Eades," Lt. Fox said, louder. "We came in on the first, and now it's Maundy Thursday. Grim."
Back home in England, churches would be stripping down all the decorations, draping crosses in mourning cloths, and Divine Services would be conducted without music or hymns, in sombre grief following the Crucifixion, and their Saviour's Death on Golgotha.
"Must we fight the Danes on a Holy Day, I'd much prefer one more hopeful, like tomorrow, Good Friday," Fox added, his voice cautious as he sidled closer to the immaculately turned-out Marine officer. "Even Easter Sunday would be, ah… well," he trailed off, looking aloft to the comissioning pendant atop the main-mast, which streamed towards the Danish fleet on a wind that had come Sou' easterly during the dawn. It could be deemed a lack of courage to express doubts or fears too openly.
"Ah," Lt. Eades replied with a wry bark. "Resurrection!"
"Just so," Lt. Fox said with a nod. "But here's the wind, and here we are, so I suppose we'll be going in."
"Get it over with," Lt. Eades said, chin up and determined; even if his mittened fingers continually flexed on the hilt of his sword in nervousness. "Waiting's the rum part. Though our captain seems to be coping."
They both looked aft to see Capt. Alan Lewrie, turned out in his best-dress uniform with both his medals, swaddling furs traded for his grogram boat-cloak, at last; Capt. Lewrie was sipping a last hot mug of tea, and chewing on a thick, fatty-bacon sandwich. Between bites, he was chatting with the Second Officer, Lt. Dick Farley, and looking as unperturbed as the Royal Navy wished of its officers.
"Mmm," Lt. Ballard, the First Officer, wryly commented, having caught part of Fox's and Eades's conversation, "perhaps the captain's seals will look after us, sirs," he seemed to scoff. It was such an odd departure from Ballard's usual taciturn nature that both officers gawped in surprise, unsure whether Ballard was making a subtle jape, or being slyly insubordinate.
"Boat ahoy!" Midshipman Tillyard called to the approaching gig, though all could see that it was their Sailing Master, Mr. Lyle, along with their civilian adviser, Capt. Hardcastle, returning. Midshipman Sealey, their eldest, and the Captain's Cox'n, Liam Desmond, could be seen in the stern-sheets as they conned the gig smartly alongside the ship's side.
Desmond and the boat crew had had a busy night, and an equally busy morning; at 7 A.M., the flagship had signalled "Captains of the Fleet are to come to the Admiral," requiring Lewrie to be rowed out to Elephant for final instructions. Barely had Lewrie returned when the flagship had hoisted a signal to summon all masters and pilots.
"All's in order, Mister Lyle?" Capt. Lewrie asked once the man was back on the quarterdeck.
"All's not, sir!" Lyle spat, "the spineless, puling lotta…!"
"The merchant masters and pilots have refused to conn our ships in, Captain Lewrie," Capt. Hardcastle supplied. "Demurred, I think the kindest word would be."
"Should be flung in irons, flogged… keel-hauled!" Mr. Lyle fumed. "Were they Navy masters, they would be!"
"I don't know where Admiralty dredged up the fools, sir," Capt. Hardcastle stuck in. "They insist the deep channel's alongside of the Middle Ground, and the shore side of the King's Deep is too shoal, but we can all see that's wrong. Equidistant of the shoal, and the foe, and we'll have five, six fathom, sure, sir."
"Hoist from the flag, sir!" Midshipman Furlow shouted. "It's a special… Number Fourteen!" He looked quickly through his slim ledger book for the sheet of addendums of Nelson's own devising. " 'Prepare for battle, with springs on the anchors, and the end of the sheet cables taken in by a stern port,' sir!" he translated.
"Very well, Mister Furlow," Lewrie replied. "Mister Ballard… bring the ship to Quarters, if ye please."
Furniture, sea-chests and personal belongings, deal partitions, and temporary bulkheads had been struck to the orlop hours before, as had the Franklin stoves, once their fires had been staunched and their embers and ashes cast overside. Chain slings and anti-boarding nets had been rigged while Lewrie had been aboard the flag soon after the hands had stowed their hammocks and breakfasted. The galley fires had been extinguished half an hour before (with Lewrie's last mug of tea warmed in hot sand in the brick fire-boxes below the cauldrons), and the spring and kedge anchor cable had been laid out just after the hands had finished sweeping, sanding, and scrubbing the decks, so HMS Thermopylae had just been waiting for Vice Admiral Nelson's order.
Bosuns' calls piped "All Hands," and Dimmock and Pulley roared orders. The Marine drummer began the Long Roll, with the aid of the fifer, and Thermopylae shuddered as hundreds of men spilled up companionway ladders from the faint warmth of their berth-deck to the guns.
Bowsings were cast off cold barrels and truck-carriages; tackle was laid out for free running, and the guns run in to the extent of the breeching ropes. Rams, spongers, and worms appeared from stowage over the mess tables, which themselves were now hinged up and lashed out of the way. Crow-levers were laid out to help shift the carriages, and gun-captains were issued the removable flintlock strikers, the trigger lines, and priming wires used to puncture powder cartridges, once seated in the breeches, along with powder quills should the strikers fail.
Decks were sanded and wetted for traction, and the water tubs between the guns were topped up for sponging between shots, and slow-match was issued, to be coiled about the tubs with the lit end trapped in a notch, hanging over the water, to ignite the quills the old way.
Barefoot powder monkeys went below to queue up before the felt and leather screens at the door of the magazine, the screens properly wetted and weighted at the bottoms, to keep out sparks, which could send the tons of gunpowder stored within off in a titanic blast. Inside the magazine, the Master Gunner, Mr. Tunstall, his Mate, Shallcross, and the Yeoman of the Powder, Bohanon, in list slippers and leather aprons, passed out the first sewn cartridge bags, which the powder monkeys put into their leather or wooden cylinders.
Tompions were removed from the muzzles, and gun-captains chose the roundest, truest shot from the rope garlands or hatchway racks for the first broadsides, turning them over and over in their hands until satisfied.
"Load!" and the powder monkeys darted forward from the centreline of the deck and handed cartridges to the loaders, then once more dashed below for another, while loaders shoved cartridge down the iron throats of the guns, and the rammer men thumped them home. Round-shot came next, to be thumped in place, too, followed by damp waddings.
"Up ports!" and the gun-port lids were lowered, their blood red inner faces making a chequerboard against the wide, pale yellow horizontal hull stripe.
"Run out!" and gun
crews threw themselves on the tackles, heaving 'til the truck-carriages thudded against the bulwarks, the wooden wheels and their ungreased axles rumbling and sqealing. The run-out tackles, blocked to the ring bolts set into the deck, were overhauled, as were the recoil tackles, and gun-captains and senior quarter gunners stuck one hand in the air to show that they were ready, and which was first. The powder monkeys returned with their second cartridges and knelt amidships, where they would bide 'til the artillery fired, and a further supply of propellant charge was needed.
"Marines at Quarters, sir," Lt. Eades reported with a doff of his hat. Sharpshooters were in the fighting tops of each mast, a file of Marines were posted down both sail-tending gangways, and sea-soldiers with bayonetted muskets stood guard at each companionway hatch to make sure that, from that moment, only officers, powder monkeys, Midshipmen, or the Surgeon's loblolly boys, with their stretchers to fetch wounded to the orlop surgery, could go below, or come up. "Arms chests opened, and weapons ready to hand, as well."
"Very good, sir," Lewrie replied.
"The ship as at Quarters, sir," Lt. Ballard reported a moment later.
"Capital, Mister Ballard. Now, heave us in to short stays, and ready to up-anchor," Lewrie bade him, wiping his fingers of fatty-bacon and mustard smears, then his mouth, on his pocket handkerchief.
"Hoist from the flag, sir!" Midshipman Furlow piped up. "The 'Preparative,' sir!"
By God, we're really goin' t'do it! Lewrie marvelled, wondering why he was so calm, for a rare once; Total lack o' sleep last night, I s'pose. His cabin steward, Pettus, took away his tin plate and pewter mug, and headed below. "Take good care of the catlings, Pettus!"
"Aye, I will, sir!"
"Two reefs in the tops'ls, t'begin with, Mister Ballard," Lewrie said, off-handedly, scowling at the sky, the pendant, and the state of the waters of the King's Deep.
"New signal, sir!" Midshipman Furlow cried. "Number Sixty-Eight!"
The Baltic Gambit l-15 Page 34
