'Strip!'
Quilhampton was surprised to see the faint scars of previous floggings crossing Tregembo's back. Then Lallo stepped forward and declared the man unfit to undergo punishment. It was an act of considerable courage and so riveting was its effect on Rogers that no one saw the fishing boat swoop under the stern, nor paid the slightest attention to a fluttering of sails as it dropped briefly alongside.
'Stand aside!' roared Rogers, stepping forward.
Lallo fell back a pace and Rogers rounded on the bosun's mates standing by the prisoner. 'Secure him!'
They crucified Tregembo across the capstan, lashing his spread-eagled arms along two of the bars. A thin trickle of blood started down his back from beneath the bandage of his wound. Flogging against a capstan was a barbarism that refined an already barbaric custom; to flog a wounded man was a measure of Rogers's depravity. What he did next he must have conceived as an act of humanity. As a murmur of horror ran through the ship's company at the sight of Tregembo's reopened wound, Rogers nodded to the bosun's mate holding the cat.
'Strike low! And do your duty!'
By avoiding the shoulder, the cat would not do further damage to the wound. But it would lacerate the lower back and could damage the organs unprotected by the rib-cage. The bosun's mate hesitated.
'Do your duty!' Rogers shrieked.
'Mr. Rogers!'
The attention of every man swung to the rail. Teetering uncertainly at its top, a hand on each stanchion, an unshaven and dirty figure clung. The hatless apparition repeated itself.
'Mr. Rogers!'
'It's the cap'n,' said Quilhampton and ran across the deck. 'Get the ship under way at once!' Drinkwater ordered, before falling forward into Quilhampton's arms.
17
The Vanguard of Affairs
June-July 1807
Drinkwater stood immobile by the starboard hance, leaning against the hammock netting and with one foot resting on the slide of a small brass carronade. It seemed to the watches, as they changed every eight bells, that the captain's brooding presence had been continuous since they had broken the anchor out of the mud of Memel road four days earlier.
In fact the truth was otherwise, for it was Rogers who got the ship under weigh and Hill who laid off the first of the courses that would take them home. The captain had vanished below, exhausted and, rumour had it, wounded as well. It was a measure of Drinkwater's popularity that when the nature of his indisposition was properly known it did not become the subject for ribald comment. Nevertheless, as soon as he was rested and the surgeon had dressed his raw thighs, Drinkwater was on deck and had remained so ever since. He moved as little as possible, his legs too sore and his gait too undignified, atoning in his own mind for the sin of absence from his ship and the troubles it had caused.
The reassuring sight of Drinkwater's figure calmed the incipient spirit of revolt among the people. The fact that they were carrying sail like a Yankee packet and were bound for England raised their hopes and fed their dreams like magic. The dismal recollections of their period off Memel faded, and only the unusual sight of a marine sentry outside the first lieutenant's cabin served to remind the majority. But there were men who had longer memories, men who bore the scars of the cat, and, while the news of Lord Walmsley's disappearance seemed to establish an equilibrium of sacrifice in the collective consciousness of the frigate's population, there were those who planned to desert at the first opportunity.
For Drinkwater there was a great feeling of failure, despite the importance of the news he carried. It was compounded from many sources: the high excitement of his recent sortie; the intense, brief and curiously unsatisfactory reunion with his brother; the death (for such he privately believed it to be) of Lord Walmsley; his uncertainty as to the fates of either Mackenzie or Santhonax; and finally, the tyrannical behaviour of Rogers and the maltreatment of Tregembo. All these had cast a great shadow over him and it took some time for this black mood to pass. It was in part a reaction after such exertion and in part a brooding worry over what was to be done about Samuel Rogers. There was a grim irony in contemplating the future of the first lieutenant; Rogers had failed worst where he had succeeded best. The effort of will and the strength of his addiction had combined to produce a monster. He had been placed under arrest and confined to his cabin where, so the surgeon reported, he had fallen into a profound catalepsy.
The only bright spots in Drinkwater's unhappy preoccupation were the continuing recovery of Tregembo and the value of the news from Tilsit. As the days passed these grew in strength, gradually eclipsing his misery. At last his spirits lifted, and he began to share something of the excitement of the ship's company at the prospect of returning home. He thought increasingly of his wife and children, of Susan Tregembo and the others in his household at Petersfield, but the heavy gold watch he carried in his waistcoat reminded him that, despite the lofty press of sail Antigone bore and the air of expectancy that filled the chatter of her messes, it was the realities of war that drove her onwards.
The fair breeze that allowed them to stand to the westward under studding sails failed them during the forenoon of the last day of June. Chopping slowly round to the west, Antigone was forced to be close-hauled and stretch down into the shallow bight east of Rugen, leaving the island of Bornholm astern. By noon of the following day she was five leagues to the east of Cape Arkona and able to fetch a course towards Kioge Bay as the wind backed again into the south-west quarter. They passed Copenhagen through the Holland Deep on the afternoon of 2 July, but their hasty progress was halted the following day as the wind veered and came foul for the passage of The Sound. They anchored under the lee of the island of Hven for two days but, on the morning of the 5th, it fell light and favourable.
Next morning a freshening north-westerly forced them to tack out through the Kattegat, but the sun shone from a blue and cloudless sky and the sea sparkled and shone as the ship drove easily to windward, reeling off the knots. Ahead of them lay the low, rolling, green-wooded countryside of the Djursland peninsula spread out from Fornaess in the east away towards the Aalborg Bight to the west. Astern of them lay the flat sand-cay of Anholt, and the encircling sea was dotted with the sails of Danish fishing boats and coasters — the sails of potential enemies, Drinkwater thought as he came on deck. He leaned back against the cant of the deck, his thighs still sore but much easier now. Aloft, Antigone's spars bent and she drove her lee rail under so that water spurted in at the gun-ports.
'Morning, sir,' said Quilhampton crossing the deck, his hand on his hat and his eyes cast aloft. 'D'you think she'll stand it?'
'Yes, she'll stand it, she goes well, Mr. Q, though I could wish the wind fairer.'
'Indeed, sir.' Quilhampton watched the captain keenly as Drinkwater looked about them and drew the fresh air into his lungs.
'The countryside looks fine to the south'ard, don't you think?' He pointed on the larboard bow. 'You know, James,' he said intimately, looking at the lieutenant, 'old Tregembo advised me to retire, to buy an estate and give up the Service. I dismissed the idea at the time; I rather regret it now. I cannot say that I had ever considered the matter before. What d'you think?'
Quilhampton hesitated. Such a notion would deprive him of further employment.
'I see you don't approve,' Drinkwater said drily. 'Well, the matter is decided for Tregembo ...'
'How is he, sir?' Quilhampton asked anxiously, eager to divert Drinkwater's mind from the thought of premature retirement.
'He'll make a fine recovery from his wound. But he'll not leave his fireside again, and I can't say I'm sorry.'
There was, however, another question Quilhampton wanted answered, as did the whole ship's company, and he felt he might take advantage of the captain's mood and ask it without impropriety.
'May one ask the reason for your anxiety for a fast passage, sir?' The greater question was implicit and Drinkwater turned to face his interrogator.
'I can tell you little now, James, beyon
d the fact that I, and others, have been employed upon a special service ... but rest assured that this ship sails now in the very vanguard of affairs.'
In the event it was all the explanation Quilhampton ever received upon the matter, but the phrase lodged in his memory and he learned to be satisfied with it.
Drinkwater was deprived of his fast passage: in the North Sea the winds were infuriatingly light and variable and Antigone drifted rather than sailed south-west, beneath blue skies on a sea that was as smooth as a mirror. For over a week after she passed the Skaw she made slow progress, but towards the end of the second week in July a light breeze picked up from the eastward and the next afternoon Drinkwater was called on deck to see the twin towers of the lighthouses on Orfordness.
'We've the last of the tide with us, sir,' said Hill suggestively.
Drinkwater grinned. 'Very well, stand inshore and carry the flood round the Ness and inside the Whiting Bank and we'll be off Harwich by nightfall.'
'We'll flush any Dunkirkers out of Ho'sley Bay on our way past,' remarked Hill after he had adjusted their course, referring to the big lugger-privateers that often lay under the remote shingle headland and preyed on the north-country trade bound for London.
'No need,' said Quilhampton staring through the watch glass, 'there's a big frigate in there already ... blue ensign ...
They could see the masts and spars of a man-of-war lifting above the horizon, then her hull, rising oddly as refraction distorted it suddenly upwards.
'She's no frigate, Mr. Q,' said Hill, 'she's an old sixty-four or I'm a Dutchman.'
Drinkwater took a look through his own glass. The distant ship had set her topsails and was standing out towards them. He could see the blue ensign at her peak and then the relative positions of the two ships closed and the refractive quality of the air disappeared. The strange ship was suddenly much closer and he could see men on her fo'c's'le, fishing for the anchor with the cat tackle.
'She'll be the Harwich guardship, I expect, come out to exercise before grounding on her own chicken bones.' The knot of officers laughed dutifully at the captain's joke. 'Make the private signal, Mr. Hill,' he added, then turned to Quilhampton. 'I shall want my barge hoisted out as soon as we've fetched an anchor on the Harwich Shelf. I shall be posting to London directly ... you had better let Fraser know.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Their eyes met. The coast of England was under their lee and it would not be long before Lieutenant Rogers was taken ashore. Fraser would inherit temporary command of the ship, but with Rogers still on board, the situation would be delicate for a day or two in the captain's absence. Quilhampton wondered what Drinkwater intended to do about Rogers and the question lay unasked between them. In a low voice meant for Quilhampton's ears alone Drinkwater said, 'Under last year's regulations, James, a commanding officer is, as you know "forbidden from suffering the inferior officers or men from being treated with oppression". The first lieutenant's conduct...'
He got no further. The ship trembled and for a split-second Drinkwater thought they had run aground, then the air was alive with exploding splinters and men were shouting in alarm, outrage and agony. His eyes lifted to the strange ship standing out from the anchorage. The blue ensign was descending, and rising to the peak of the gaff were the horizontal bands of the tricolour of the Dutch Republic.
'Christ alive!' Drinkwater swore, seized by agonizing panic. 'All hands to quarters! Beat to quarters! Rouse out all hands!' He ground his teeth, furious with himself for being so easily deceived, as he waited impotently for his men to rush to their stations, aware that the enemy would get in a further broadside before he was ready to reply. It was too late to clear for action and Hill was altering course to enable Antigone to bring her starboard broadside to bear, but it first exposed her to the enemy's fire.
The innocent-looking puffs of grey smoke blossomed from the Dutchman's side before the Antigones had cast off the breechings of their own guns. The enemy cannon were well pointed and the shot slammed into the side of the British frigate. Shot flew overhead with a rending noise like the tearing of canvas. Hammocks burst, spinning, from the nettings, splinters lanced across the deck and the starboard side of the launch amidships was shattered. Chips flew from the mainmast and holes appeared in the sails. Aloft, severed ropes whipped through their sheaves and landed on deck with a whir and slap so that unbraced yards flew round and men fell like jerking puppets as langridge and canister swept the deck in a horizontal hail of iron.
'Hold your course, damn you!' Drinkwater screamed above the din, leaping for the wheel. 'She'll luff, else!'
'She won't answer, sir!'
'Bloody hell!'
He looked desperately at the enemy and then, at last, there came from the fo'c's'le an answering gun and Drinkwater saw Quilhampton leaping along the starboard battery. Close to Drinkwater at the hance, little Frey fired one of the brass carronades with an ear-splitting roar and Mount's marines were lining the hammock netting, returning fire with their muskets.
From the waist now came the steady roar of the main guns, the black-barrelled 18-pounders rumbled back on their carriages, snapping the breechings bar-taut as their crews leapt round to sponge, load and ram, before tailing onto the tackles and sending them out through the ports again. Aiming was crude; the instant a gun-captain saw the slightest suggestion of the enemy through the smoke he jerked his lanyard, the flint snapped on the gun-lock and the gun leapt inboard again, belching fire, smoke and iron.
Overhead there was a loud and distinct crack and the maintop-mast sagged forward, to come crashing down, tearing at the rigging and bringing with it the foretopmast, enveloping the deck in a heap of spars, mounds of rope and blanketing sheets of grey canvas that were hacked and torn away by the fire-fighting parties in an attempt to keep the guns in action. Smoke rolled over everything and the heat and gases from the guns began to kill the wind. Drinkwater had not lost his sense of impotence: his inattention had denied him the opportunity to manoeuvre, he had made no study of his enemy and all at once found himself pitched into this battle from which there could be no escape. As he stood helpless upon his quarterdeck, it was no comfort to realise the curious refraction in the air had deceived him as to the true range of the Dutch ship, neither did it console him to know that he had failed in this most important mission on the very doorstep of London's river. In a mood of desperation he tried to force his mind to think, to gauge the advantages of striking in the hope that he might contrive to escape with the news from Tilsit. Lieutenant Fraser loomed through the smoke. He was wounded and his expression showed a helpless desire to surrender.
Drinkwater shook his head. 'No! No, I cannot strike. We must fight on!' It was a stupid, senseless order with no chance of success, but Fraser nodded and turned forward again. Behind him the unscathed masts and yards of their persecutor rose up, closing them with a paralysing menace. Drinkwater recalled the large group of men milling on her fo'c's'le, catting her anchor. Realisation of their true purpose struck him like a blow; at any moment Antigone would be boarded.
'Fight, you bastards!' he roared as his officers flinched, the shot storming round them. Hill reeled and fell and Drinkwater saw a midshipman carried past him, his face and chest a bloody pulp.
Drinkwater drew his sword and an instant later saw the hull of the Dutch vessel loom athwart their hawse.
'Boarders!' he roared. 'Repel boarders!' He began to move forward, pulling men from the after-guns which had no target now.
'Come on, men! 'Tis them or us!'
Drinkwater felt the jarring crash as the two ships smashed together and to the concussion of the guns was added the howling of boarders pouring into his ship.
'Mr. Mount!'
The marine sergeant appeared out of the smoke. 'Mr. Mount's wounded, sir.'
'Damn! Get a few of your men, Blixoe. You must guard my person.'
'Guard your person, sir?' 'You heard me!'
'Sir.'
It was not the time for expl
anations, for he alone knew the value of the news he carried. A midshipman appeared. 'Mr. Wickham, what's happening forrard?' 'We're giving ground, sir.' 'Mr. Quilhampton?'
'Down, sir... the first wave of boarders...'
Drinkwater swung the flat of his sword across the breast of a retreating seaman. That was a rot he must stop. He raised his voice: 'Wickham! Blixoe! Forward!' Drinkwater led the after-guard in a counter-attack that looked like a forlorn hope as it lost itself in the melee amidships, where the fighting heaved over the broken ribs of the boats on the booms. Steel flashed in the sunshine and the pale yellow stabs of small-arms fire spurted among the desperately writhing bodies that struggled for supremacy on the deck.
On the fo'c's'le, Quilhampton had been knocked down in the first rush of the enemy boarders. He was not seriously hurt, but his exertions at the guns had left him breathless. By the time he scrambled to his feet the enemy had moved aft and the sight of their backs caused him to pause an instant before charging impetuously upon them. It was clear that things were going badly and he had no idea of the vigour of resistance amidships to the ferocious onslaught of the Dutchmen. He was surrounded by the wreckage of the foremast and the groans of the seriously wounded. He had only to lift his head to see the enemy ship rising above the rail of the Antigone.
With a ponderous slowness the two vessels swung together and a second wave of boarders prepared to pour over the Dutch ship's larboard waist, to take the British defenders aft in flank. A few guns continued to fire from both ships somewhere amidships but generally the action had become the desperate slithering, hacking and cursing of hand-to-hand fighting.
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