Edward shook his head. 'I don't understand…'
'My shaving things are lying on the cabin chest there,' he indicated the cotton roll, 'do you shave while I talk… Now, I wrote from Yarmouth to Lord Dungarth. I was employed by him some years ago in secret operations on the French and Dutch coasts. He is a spy-master, a puppet-master he calls himself, and may be able to find you some employment…'
'What the devil did you say about me for God's sake?' asked Edward lathering himself.
'Only that a person known to me was anxious to be of service to his country, had asked for my protection and spoke fluent French. That this person might prove of some value for a patriotic service in a Baltic state. His lordship is intelligent enough to draw his own conclusions…'
'Especially if he reads the newspapers,' muttered Edward as the razor rasped down his tanned cheek. He swished the razor in water and turned to his brother.
'So I am to become a puppet, to dance to his lordship's string-pulling, eh?'
'You have scant reason for bitterness, Edward,' said Drinkwater sharply, 'I would have thought it preferable to dancing on the gallows.' Drinkwater mastered his anger at Edward's peculiar petulance and poured himself another glass of blackstrap.
'I am about to land you on the Danish coast. You should acquire a horse and make for Hamburg. The Harwich packet calls fortnightly and when the Kite left for England with the envoys she carried mails. Among them was a letter to Lord Dungarth stating that the person of whom I had written earlier would take his instructions from the packet master in the name of 'Waters'.'
'And d'you think the security of these letters will be breached?'
'I doubt it. The second is hardly incriminating, the first I sent by special delivery. To be precise the Commander-in-Chief's wife.'
'Good God!'
'It is the best I can do for you Ned, for I must land you.' He had thought to say 'disencumber myself of you', but refrained.
'Yes, of course. How long must I wait in Hamburg?'
'I should give it two months… meet the Harwich packet when she berths.'
'After which this Lord Dungarth will have abandoned me much as you now wish to.' The two brothers stared at each other.
'That is right, Ned,' Drinkwater said quietly, 'And damned sorry I am for it.'
Edward shrugged. 'I need money.'
Drinkwater nodded and reached into his chest. 'You can take the money I took from you at Yarmouth, plus twenty sovereigns of mine. I should like to think that one day you were in a position to redeem the debt… as for clothes these will have to suffice.' He upturned a canvas bag. Shirts, pantaloons, shoes and a creased blue broadcloth coat fell out.
'A dead man's?'
'Yes, named Mason.'
'It seems you have thought of everything…'
Drinkwater ignored the sarcastic tone. 'You had better take his sword and his pistol. I have renewed the flint and there is a cartouche box with a spare flint and powder and ball for half a dozen rounds.' He watched Edward put on one of the shirts and try the shoes. They were a tolerable fit. 'If you are careful you have sufficient funds to purchase a horse and lodgings for your journey. I suggest you speak only in French. Once in Hamburg you must trust to luck.'
'Luck,' repeated Edward ironically, pulling on Mason's coat, 'I shall need a deal of that… and if she fails me, as she has done before, then I may always blow my brains out, eh? Nathaniel?' He turned to find his brother gone and the cabin filling with the grey light of dawn.
Drinkwater looked astern once at the dark shape of Virago as the first of the daylight began to illuminate the anchorage. A freezing wind blew in their faces as the boat, her sheets trimmed hard in, butted her way to the south eastwards, through the anchored ships. The only advantage to be had from the multitude of delays they had been subjected to in the past weeks was that a boat working through the anchorage was unlikely to attract much attention. There had been too much coming and going between the ships for any suspicions to be aroused.
The boat's crew were muffled against the cold. Beside him in the stern sat Edward, staring at the approaching shore and ignoring the curious looks of his former messmates. He had one hand on the rail and the other round Mason's canvas bag, sword and cocked hat.
The two brothers sat in silence. There had been no formal leave taking, Drinkwater having re-entered the cabin merely to announce the readiness of the boat.
Edward's ingratitude hurt Nathaniel. He could not imagine the emotions that tore his brother, how the comparison of their situations had seemed heightened by the social gulf that had divided them during Edward's short sojourn before the mast. Nor could Edward, to whom precarious existence had become a way of life, fully realise the extent to which Drinkwater had risked his all. And a man used to gambling and living upon his wits with no-one to blame but himself for his misfortunes usually casts about for a scapegoat. But this was lost on Drinkwater who charitably assumed the bleak prospect looming before his brother accounted for Edward's attitude.
Quilhampton tacked the boat seaward again in the growing light. The low coast of Zeeland was now clearly visible to the south of them and after half an hour they went about again and stood inshore where the tree-lined horizon was broken by the harder edges of roofs and the spire of Gilleleje. Drinkwater nudged Quilhampton and pointed at the village. Quilhampton nodded.
Forty minutes later they lowered the sail and got out the oars, running the boat on the sand in a comparative lee.
Drinkwater walked up the beach alongside Edward. Neither man said a word. Behind them Quilhampton stilled a speculative murmur among the boat's crew.
The two brothers strode past fishing boats drawn up on the beach. From the village a cock crowed and rising smoke told of stirring life. They saw a man emerge from a wooden privy who looked up in astonishment.
'I think I will take my leave now,' Edward said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
'Very well,' replied Nathaniel, his voice flat and formally naval.
Edward paused then gripped the canvas bag flung over his shoulder with both fists, avoiding the necessity of shaking hands. He nodded to his brother then turned and strode away. Drinkwater stood and watched him go. The man from the privy had reappeared at the door of a neat wooden house. With him was a woman with yellow hair and a blue shawl wrapped about her shoulders. They stood staring at the approaching stranger. Edward made no attempt to conceal himself but walked up to them and raised his hat. The woman retreated behind her husband but after a few minutes, during which it was clear that Edward was making himself understood to the Dane, curiosity brought her forward again.
Though the two looked twice at Drinkwater, Edward did not turn and after a moment Nathaniel walked back to the boat.
The wind before which Virago's longboat returned was foul for the fleet to attempt The Sound. But the day proved more eventful than could have been expected as that dismal realisation permeated every wardroom and gun-room in the fleet. About ten in the morning the Commander-in-Chief began signalling various ships for boats. There followed hours during which, in a grey and choppy sea, the boats of the fleet pulled or sailed about, commanded by blue midshipmen with notes and orders, while the weary seamen toiled at the oars to invigorate their circulation.
The cold was bitter, following an unseasonal early spring, winter had reasserted itself. In England daffodils, new budded in the warmth of early March, now froze on the stem, an omen from the North that did not go unnoticed among the ignorant and neglected womenfolk who waited eagerly for news of the vaunted Baltic expedition.
But a new air gradually transformed the weary ships. The battleships hauled alongside the cumbersome flat-bottomed boats they had so laboriously towed or carried from England and lowered 24-pounder guns into them. Colonel Stewart's detachment of the 49th Foot improvised musket drill over the hammock nettings, while his riflemen were said to be ready to shoot the Tsar's right eye out. Even the bombs were part of this rejuvenation, the artillery detachments being o
rdered out of their tenders and on board the vessels they were to attend in action.
Mr Tumilty's rubicund, smiling face came over the side and the red haired Irishman pumped Drinkwater's hand enthusiastically.
'Why Mr Drinkwater, but I'd sure never like to see you naval boys try to do anything secret, 'tis for sure the whole population of Denmark has seen us cruising up and down the coast, by Jesus!' Drinkwater grinned, thinking of his own private secret expedition that had only been accomplished an hour or two earlier.
'I'm damned glad to see you, Mr Tumilty, but what's the cause of all this sudden activity?'
'Don't you know? Why, Admiral Parker has at last decided to let Lord Nelson have his way. The bombs are to join a squadron under his lordship's command. And for certain 'tis Revel or Copenhagen for us, m' dear fellow.'
'Are we to go with the bombs, then?'
'Aye, Nat'aniel. They say Nelson has been nagging the poor old admiral 'til he was only too glad to get rid of him.' Tumilty shivered and rubbed his hands. 'God, but it's cold. To be sure a man that'd go to sea for fortune would go to hell for pleasure…'
'Well, Mr Tumilty, do you go to see Mr Jex and give him my compliments and ask him to issue a greygoe to you, and sheepskins to your men. We should have enough.'
'That's mighty kind of you Nat'aniel, mighty kind. Sure an'it'll be hotter than the hobs of hell itself when we kindle those big black kettles you've got skulking beneath those hatches,' he added, rubbing his hands again, this time with enthusiasm.
'Beg pardon, sir, message from the admiral…' Drinkwater took the packet from Quilhampton and noted the boat pulling away from the ship's side. In his delight at welcoming Tumilty he had not seen it arrive.
He scanned the order: The ships noted in the margin are… Drinkwater looked down the list. There, at the bottom he found Virago… to form a squadron under my command ordered forward upon a special service… The ships and vessels placed under my directions are to get their sheet and spare anchors over the side, ready for letting go at the shortest notice… commanding officers are to take especial notice of the following signals… No 14 to anchor by the stern … It was signed in the admiral's curious, left-handed script: Nelson and Brontë.
'Mr Rogers!'
'Sir?'
'The vice-admiral is to shift his flag to Elephant this morning.'
'What the devil for?'
'She draws less than the St George, Mr Rogers. Do you direct the watch officers to pay particular attention to all signals from the Elephant. We are to form part of a detachment under Nelson…'
The sudden activity of the fleet and the disencumbering of Edward had coincided to throw off Drinkwater's depression. He suddenly felt ridiculously buoyant, a feeling shared by the impish Tumilty whose smile threatened to disappear into his ears.
''Twill be a fine music we'll be playing to these damned knaves, Mr Rogers, so it will, a fine basso profundo with the occasional crescendo to make 'em jump about like eejits.'
'Let's hope we're not too late, Mr Tumilty,' said Rogers who had not yet forgiven Drinkwater for his mysterious behaviour over Waters.
'Beg pardon, zur, but Mr Trussel sent me down with more orders just come, zur.'
'Thank you Tregembo.' Drinkwater took the packet and broke the wafer.
'Beg pardon, zur, but may I speak, zur?'
'What is it?'
'Tis well-known about the ship that the man we landed yesterday was a spy, zur.'
Drinkwater looked at the Cornishman. They both understood.
'Mr Jex approached me some days ago, zur. It cost him two plugs of tobacco to learn you ain't got no brother, zur.'
'Thank you.'
'Now, with your permission, zur, I'll see to your sword and pistols, zur.'
'They are all right, thank you Tregembo, I have not used them since last you attended to them.'
'I'll look at them, just the same.'
Drinkwater bent over the new orders. It was a general instruction to the bomb vessels to place themselves under the orders of Captain Murray of the Edgar. It was anticipated that they would be used against the fortress at Cronbourg. A note was included from Martin. The commander's crabbed script drew Drinkwater's attention to the fact that it was suspected that Zebra had suffered some damage on the Zeeland's Reef and he might yet be able to render Drinkwater a service. Drinkwater fancied he could read the unwritten thought that lay behind that fatuous phrase, that he, Nathaniel Drinkwater, was an intimate of Lord Dungarth. Drinkwater wondered what Martin would do if he knew that the lieutenant, with whom he was currently currying favour, had just assisted a murderer to escape the noose.
Late in the afternoon the brig Cruizer was ordered forward to send in a boat to make a final demand of Governor Strieker at Cronbourg as to his intentions if the British fleet attempted to pass The Sound. It revealed to all, including the Danish commander, that Parker was still vacillating.
The following morning, Saturday March 28th, the wind hauled westerly and the temperature rose. The sun shone and the fleet weighed, setting all sail to the royals in an attempt to enter and pass The Sound. But the wind fell light and the contrary current held up the lumbering battleships so that Parker, learning from Brisbane of the Cruizer that Strieker had laughed in his face, could not risk his ships drifting under the heavy guns of the fortress. Once again the fleet anchored and in Virago's cabin that night they debated how long it took to wear an anchor ring through the shank.
PART THREE
Lord Nelson
'It is warm work; and this day may be the last to any of us at a moment. But mark you! I would not be elsewhere for thousands.'
NELSON, COPENHAGEN, 2 April, 1801
Chapter Fourteen
The Sound
29-30 March 1801
'Two guns from the flagship, sir.'
'Very well, what o'clock is it?'
'It wants a few minutes of midnight, sir; wind's freshened a little from the west.'
Drinkwater struggled into his greygoe and hurried on deck. He looked up at the masthead pendant and nodded his approval as Rogers reported the hands mustering to weigh.
'Sheet home the topsails, Mr Rogers, and have headsails ready for hoisting. Mr Easton!'
'Sir?'
'Have you a man for the chains?'
'All ready'
'Very well.'
'One thing we can do is weigh the bloody anchor in the middle of the night,' offered Rogers in a stage whisper.
'Virago 'hoy!'
'Hullo?' Drinkwater strode to the rail to see the dim shape of a master's mate standing in the stern of a gig.
'Captain Murray desires that you move closer inshore towards Cronbourg Castle, sir. The bombs are to prepare to bombard at daylight!'
'Thank you.' Drinkwater turned inboard again. 'Can you make out Edgar in this mist?'
'Aye, sir, just, she's hoisted lanterns.'
Drinkwater saw the flare of red orpiment from the Edgar's stern.
'Bengal light, sir, signal to weigh.'
'Very well. Mr Matchett!'
'Sir?'
'Heave away!'
Virago filled her topsails as the anchor came a-trip and the water began to chuckle under her round bow. Keeping a careful watch to avoid collision Drinkwater conned the old ship south-eastwards in the wake of the Edgar. On either beam dark shapes with the pale gleam of topsails above indicated the other bombs creeping forward ready to throw their fire at the intransigent Danes. Then, barely an hour after they had got under way, the wind shifted, backing remorselessly and beginning to head them.
'Topsail's a-shiver, zur,'
'Brace her hard up, Mr Easton, God damn it!'
'Hard up, sir, aye, aye… it's no good sir, wind's drawing ahead.'
The concussion of guns from the darkness ahead and the dark rose glow of twin Bengal lights together with a blue rocket signalled the inevitable.
'Main braces, Mr Easton, down helm and stand by to anchor!'
Once again the anchor sp
lashed overboard, once again Virago's cable rumbled through the hawse pipe and once again her crew clambered aloft to stow the topsails, certain in the knowledge that tomorrow they would have to heave the cable in again. They were nowhere near close enough to bombard as Murray intended.
All morning Drinkwater waited for the order to weigh as the light wind backed a little. During the afternoon the rest of the ships worked closer inshore and by the evening the whole fleet had brought to their anchors four miles to the north west of Cronbourg castle. Drinkwater surveyed the shore. The dark bulk of the fortress was indistinct but the coast of Zeeland was more heavily wooded than at Gilleleje. The villages of Hellebaek and Hornbaek were visible, the latter with a conspicuous church steeple looking toylike as the sun westered to produce a flaming sunset. It picked out not only the villages of Denmark but small points of metallic fire and the pink planes of sunlit stone where the guns of the Swedish fortress at Helsingborg on the opposite side of The Sound peered from their embrasures.
Men lingered on deck in silence watching the Danish shore where figures could be seen on foot and horseback. Here and there a carriage was observed as the population of Elsinore came out to look at this curiosity, the heavy hulls of the British ships, the tracery of their masts and yards silhouetted against the blood red sunset. It seemed another omen, and to the Danes a favourable one. The image of those ships reeking in their own blood-red element was not lost on Drinkwater who wrote of it in his journal before turning again to the stained notebook he had consulted when the fleet had made for the Great Belt.
The book was one of several left him after the death of Mr Blackmore, the old sailing master of the Cyclops. Drinkwater had been his brightest pupil on the frigate and the old man had left both his notebooks and his quadrant to the young midshipman. The notebooks had been meticulously kept and inspired Drinkwater to keep his own journal in considerable detail. Blackmore had carried out several surveys and copied foreign charts, particularly of the Baltic, an area with which he had been familiar, having commanded a ship in the Scandinavian trade.
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