'Agamemnon's in trouble, sir,' remarked Rogers, nodding in the direction of the sixty-four.
'Damned current's too much for her, she ain't got enough headway…'
'She'll fall athwart Volcano's hawse if she ain't careful…'
'And ours by God! Veer cable Mr Matchett, veer cable!' They could see men on Volcano's fo'c's'le hurriedly letting out cable as the battleship tried to clear the little bomb vessel while the current set her rapidly north.
They watched helplessly as the big ship crabbed awkwardly across their own bow, failed to weather the mark vessel, Cruizer, and brought up to her anchor on the wrong side of the Middle Ground. Within minutes a flat-boat was ordered to her assistance, to carry out another anchor and enable her to haul herself to windward.
Edgar, with Mr Briarly at the con, began to draw ahead unsupported and bunting broke out again from Elephant's yards as Nelson ordered Polyphemus into the gap, followed by the old Isis. Drinkwater watched the next ship with some interest.
Bellona followed Isis, crossing close to Cruizer's bowsprit as she turned into the King's Deep. Drinkwater wondered if her pilot could see his marks and transits through the smoke of Edgar's fire as she engaged the Provesteenen, the most southerly Danish ship round which he and Hardy had sounded the night before. Beyond Isis Drinkwater could see Désirée which had got under way early and was already anchored and swinging to her spring to open a raking fire on the Provesteenen.
Russell, an old Camperdown ship and well-known to Drinkwater, was close behind Bellona, and Elephant's topmen were aloft as the admiral's flagship moved forward to take station astern of Russell. Ardent and Bligh's Glatton were setting sail.
'God's bones,' muttered Drinkwater, 'I think they are ignoring Briarly's advice.' Bellona appeared to have inclined to a slightly more easterly course than the first ships. As they watched a sudden gap opened up between Isis and Bellona. 'What the devil…?'
'Bellona's aground!' remarked Drinkwater grimly, 'hit the damned Middle Ground and look, by heaven, Russell's followed him!'
'That'll set the cat among the bloody pigeons,' said Rogers.
Chapter Eighteen
The Meteor Flag
2 April 1801, Afternoon
To the watchers on Virago nothing was known of the little drama on Elephant's quarterdeck as Nelson took over the con of the battleship personally. Overhearing the pilots advising the master to leave the grounded Bellona and Russell to larboard the admiral ordered the helm put over the other way, leaving the stricken ships to starboard and averting complete catastrophe. All Drinkwater, Rogers and Easton could see were the leading British ships under their topsails, moving slowly north enveloped in a growing cloud of smoke as gun after gun in the Danish line bore on them. Tumilty and Lettsom had joined the knot of officers on the poop and the Virago's rail was crowded with her people as they watched the cannonade.
Following Elephant were Glatton, Monarch, Defiance and Ganges, weathering the south end of the Middle Ground, while Riou's frigates, led by Amazon, were in line ahead for the entrance to the King's Deep.
Rose's little gun-brigs each with their waspish names: Biter, Sparkler, Tickler, were shaking out their topsails; seemingly as anxious to get among the enemy fire as their larger consorts. Fremantle's flatboats were also active, three or four of them clustered around Agamemnon's bow assisting in carrying out her anchors, and converging on Bellona and Russell who were under fire from the Provesteenen and howitzer batteries on Amager.
'Hullo, old Parker's on the move.' The levelled telescopes swung to the north where the Commander-in-Chief's division was beating up to re-anchor at the north end of the Middle Ground.
'I wonder if he can see Bellona and Russell aground?' asked Easton.
'He'll have a damned fit if he can, two battleships out of the line is going to have quite an effect on the others,' offered Rogers.
'Your fire-eating brothers in Christ will have their whiskers singed, Mr Rogers,' said Lettsom philosophically. 'Here is a quatrain for you:
'See where the guns of England thunder
Giving blow for mighty blow,
Who was it that made the blunder,
Took 'em where they couldn't go?'
Rogers burst out laughing and even Drinkwater, keenly observing the progress of the action, could not repress a smile. He walked across to the deck log and looked at Easton's last entry: '10 o'clock, van ships engaged, cannonade became general as line of battle ships got into station.'
To the north of them most of Parker's squadron were reanchoring. But four of his battleships were beating up towards Copenhagen against wind and current to enter the action.
Astern of the bomb vessels, Jamaica and the gun brigs were having a similar problem. The crowded anchorage had not allowed all the ships to get sufficiently to the south to weather the Middle Ground in the wind now blowing, and though Drinkwater thought that the shallow draught gun-brigs could have chanced slipping inside Cruizer, it was clear that Parker's caution was now epidemic in the fleet.
'Explosion's signalling, sir, "Bombs General, weigh and form line of battle."'
The noise of the cannonade reached Mr Jex as he bent down in the hold. He was outboard of the great coils of spare cable, in the carpenter's walk against the ship's side. He had left the deck on the pretext of checking the sea inlet cock. From here water was drawn on deck by the fire engine, to spout from the two hoses his party had laid out on the deck. The spigot had been opened hours earlier and Jex merely crouched over it. His fear had reduced him to a trembling jelly. He could hear above the still distant sound of cannon the distinct chuckle of water alongside a hull under way: Virago was going into action.
For five minutes Jex huddled terrified against the ship's side before recovering himself. Standing uncertainly he began to make his way towards the spirit room.
Drinkwater stared through the vanes of his hand compass at the main mast of Cruizer.
'Damn! She won't weather Cruizer, Mr Easton, can you stretch the braces a little?'
Easton looked aloft then shook his head. 'Hard against the catharpings, sir.'
Rogers came and stood anxiously next to Drinkwater as he continued to stare through the brass vanes. He was swearing under his breath.
'Keep her full and bye, Tregembo!' Drinkwater could feel the sweat prickling his armpits. He took his eye off Cruizer for a second and saw how the stern of the grounded Russell was perceptibly nearer.
'Hecla's having the same trouble, Nat,' Rogers muttered consolingly.
'That's bloody cold comfort!' snapped Drinkwater, suddenly venomous. Were they to go aground ignominiously after all their tribulations? He snapped the compass vanes shut and pocketted the little instrument.
'Set all sail, Mr Rogers, and lively about it!'
Rogers did not even bother to acknowledge the order. 'Tops there! Aloft and shake out the t'gallants! Fo'c's'le! Hoist both jibs…'
Easton had jumped down into the waist and was chivvying the waisters onto the topgallant halliards.
'Get those fucking lobsters to tail on, Easton. You there! Aloft and let fall the main course…'
The loose canvas flopped downwards, billowed and filled. Virago heeled a little more. Here and there a knife flashed to cut a kink jammed in a sheave but the constant days of battling with gales, of making and reducing sail now brought its own dividends and the Viragos caught something of the urgency of the hour.
The bomb vessel increased her speed, leaning to leeward with the water foaming along her side.
'Up helm and ease her a point.' Drinkwater had not taken his eyes off Cruizer's stern. Suddenly the men looked up from coiling the ropes to see the brig's stern very close as they sped past, with a row of faces watching the old bomb vessel going into action.
Brisbane raised his hat, 'Tally ho, Drinkwater, by God! Tally ho and mind the mud!'
Drinkwater felt the thrill of exhilaration turn to that of fear as the deck heaved beneath his feet.
'God damn and
blast it!' screamed Rogers, beside himself with angry frustration, but suddenly they were free and a ragged cheer broke from those who realised that for an instant their keel had struck the Middle Ground.
In a moment they could bear up for the battle…
'Larboard bow, sir!' Drinkwater looked up. Coming round Cruizer's bow was Explosion, just swinging before the wind to make her own approach to her station. Drinkwater could not luff without colliding or losing control of Virago, neither dare he bear away for a little longer since Russell was indicating the bank dangerously close to his starboard side. He resolved to stand on, aware that Martin was screeching something at him through a trumpet.
'Damn Captain Martin,' he muttered to himself, but a chorus of 'Hear, hear!' from Rogers and Easton indicated the extent of his concentration. Martin was compelled to let fly his sheets to check Explosion's headway.
'Up helm, Tregembo… reduce sail again!'
Astern Martin was still shouting as Explosion, closely followed by Volcano, Terror and Discovery weathered the Cruizer and the Middle Ground.
'For what we are about to receive, may we be truly… Jesus!' A storm of shot swept Virago's deck. They had left astern Désirée, anchored athwart the Danish line with a spring straining on her cable, and Polyphemus was drawing onto the larboard quarter. She too was anchored, though by the stern. As Virago crossed the gap between Polyphemus and the next anchored ship, the Isis, a broadside from Provesteenen hit her, cutting up the rigging and sails and wounding the foremast. On their own starboard side they had already passed Russell, flying the signal for distress and with flat-boats heaving out cables from her bow and stern while cannon shot dropped all round them. As they passed Bellona a terrific bang occurred and screams rent the air.
Beside Drinkwater Lieutenant Tumilty wore a seraphic smile. 'Gun exploded,' he explained for the benefit of anyone interested. Bellona's guns were returning the Danish fire and Drinkwater looked ahead. From this close range the enemy defences took on a different aspect. From a distance the exiguous collection of prames, radeaus, cut down battleships, floating batteries, transports and frigates had had a cheap, thread-bare look about them, compared with the formal naval might of Great Britain with its canvas, bunting and wooden walls. But from the southern end of the King's Deep it looked altogether different. Already Bellona and Russell were of little use, although both returned fire and strove throughout the day to get afloat again. Against the remaining ships the massed cannon of the Danish defences looked formidable. Spitting fire and smoke, the blazing tiers of guns were the most awesome sight Drinkwater had ever seen.
The gaps between the British ships were greater now, occasioned by the loss of Bellona and Russell from the line. Shot whined over the decks, ripping holes in the sails and occasionally striking splinters from Virago's timber.
There was a scream as the bomb vessel received her first casualty, an over-curious artilleryman who spun round and fell across the ten-inch mortar hatch while his shattered head flew overboard.
The Danes were defending their very hearths, and kept up the gunfire by continually sending reinforcements from the shore to relieve their tired men, and sustain the hail of shot against the British.
Virago's fore topgallant was shot away as she passed Edgar, engaged against the Jutland, an old, cut down two-decker. Rogers leapt forward, temperamentally unable to remain inactive for long in such circumstances. He began to clear the mess while Drinkwater concentrated upon the calls of the leadsman in the starboard chains. Beyond Jutland the odd square shapes of two floating batteries and a frigate were firing at both Edgar and the next ship ahead, Bligh's Glatton. The former East Indiaman which had once compelled a whole squadron to surrender to her deadly, short range batteries of carronades was keeping up a terrific fire. Most of her effort was concentrated on her immediate opponent, another cut-down battleship, the Dannebrog, flagship of the Danish commander, Commodore Olfert Fischer. But Virago did not pass unmolested, three more men were wounded and another killed as the storm of shot swept them.
'Bring her to starboard a little, Mr Easton, and pass word to Mr Matchett, Mr Q, to watch for my signal to anchor; we are almost on our station abeam the admiral.'
The two officers acknowledged their orders.
Drinkwater studied Elephant for a moment. He could see the knot of glittering officers on her quarterdeck in the sunshine. Beyond the flagship lay the Ganges and then a gap, filled with boats pulling up and down the line. Just visible in the smoke were Monarch and Graves's flagship Defiance, and somewhere ahead of them, in the full fire of the heavy batteries of the Trekroner Forts, were Riou and his frigates.
'Bring the ship to the wind, Mr Easton.' Virago began to turn. 'You may begin your preparations, Mr Tumilty.' As they had closed Elephant the Irishman had been observing his targets and taking obscure measurements with what looked like a pelorus.
To his astonishment Tumilty winked. 'And now, my dear Nat'aniel, you'll see why we've brought all this here.' Leprechaun-like he hopped onto the foredeck and began to bawl instructions at his artillerymen.
Drinkwater felt the wind on his face and dropped his arm as the main topsail flogged back against the mast. 'Bunt lines and clew lines there! Ease the halliards! Up aloft and stow!' Rogers paused, looking along the deck to see his orders obeyed. 'You there, up aloft… Bosun's mate, start that man aloft, God damn it, and take his name!'
Virago's anchor dropped just as the leadsman called 'By the mark five!'
'Perfect, by God,' Drinkwater muttered to himself, pleased with his positioning, and suddenly thinking of Elizabeth in his moment of self-conceit.
'How much scope, sir?' Matchett was crying at him from forward.
'Half a cable, Mr Matchett,' he called through the speaking trumpet. He felt Virago tug round as her anchor bit and she brought up. She lay quietly sheering a few degrees in the current.
'Brought up, sir,' reported Easton, straightening up from taking a bearing.
'Very well, Mr Easton.' Drinkwater looked round. Astern of them Terror was turning into the wind to anchor while Explosion and Discovery continued past Virago. Of Volcano there was no sign, though Drinkwater afterwards learned she had been ordered to anchor and throw shells against the howitzer battery on Amager at the southern end of the line.
He raised his hat to Martin as the commander went past, partly out of bravado, partly to mollify the touchy man. To the south the confusion caused by the groundings had resulted in Isis anchoring prematurely to cover Bellona and Russell. The consequence of this was a dangerous extension of the line of battleships north of the Elephant with the lighter frigates absorbing enormous punishment from the Trekroner Forts, the Lynetten, Quintus and other batteries, plus the guns of the inner line commanded by Steen Bille. The whole area was a mass of smoke and fire while Parker's three relieving battleships, Ramilles, Defence and Veteran were making no apparent headway to come to Riou's assistance.
'Mr Drinkwater! I'm ready to open fire if you can steady the ship a little.'
Drinkwater turned his attention inboard. Rogers had a gang of men aft, their arms extended above their heads where they prepared to whip up the shells; groups of artillerymen, stripped to their braces in the biting wind, clustered round the mortars which, looking like huge, elongated cauldrons pointed their blunt, ineffective looking muzzles out to starboard, at the sky over Copenhagen.
'Mr Easton, let fall the mizzen topsail and keep it backed against the mast. Fire as you will, Mr Tumilty.'
'Thank 'ee, sir, and will you be kind enough to observe the fall o' shot?'
Drinkwater nodded. Tumilty hopped back to the fo'c's'le where he bent behind the leather dodger then walked aft beside the sergeant to the thirteen-inch mortar. Tapping the prepared fuse into the first shell Tumilty saw the monstrous ball, more than a foot in diameter and which contained ten pounds of white gun powder, safely into the chamber of the mortar. He had already loaded the powder he judged would throw the carcase over the opposing lines of ships int
o the heart of the Danish capital.
Handing the linstock to his sergeant he leaped up onto the poop and pulled his telescope from his pocket. 'Festina lente, eh Nat'aniel… Fire!'
The roar was immense, drowning the sound of the guns of the fleets, and white smoke rolled reeking over them.
'Mark it! Mark it!' yelled Tumilty, his glass travelling up and then down as a faint white line arced against the blue sky to fall with increasing speed onto the roofs of the city.
At the mortar bed the artillerymen crowded round, swabbing out the chamber of the gun. The elevation remained unchanged, being set at forty-five degrees.
Drinkwater stared at the arsenal of Copenhagen trying to see where the shell burst. He saw nothing.
'Over, by Jesus,' said Tumilty happily, 'and at least the fuse was not premature.' Drinkwater watched him fuss round the mortar again as the whipping up gang began to work. The ten inch had been readied but Tumilty held its fire until he was satisfied with the performance of the after mortar.
Although he felt the deck shudder under the concussion and gasped as the smoke and blast passed over him, Drinkwater was ready for the next shot. The carcase descended on the arsenal and Drinkwater saw it burst as it hit the ground.
'A little short Mr Tumilty, I believe.' The landing of the third shot was also short but at his next Tumilty justified his claim to be the finest pyroballogist in the Royal Artillery. The explosion was masked by the walls of the arsenal but Tumilty was delighted with the result and left the poop to supervise both mortars from the waist.
Dutifully Easton and Drinkwater reported the fall of the shells as well as they could. From time to time Tumilty would pause to traverse his mortar-beds but he maintained a steady fire. Beneath his feet Drinkwater was aware that Virago had suddenly become a hive of activity. All the oddities of her construction had been built for this moment: the curious hatches, the fire-screens, the glazed lantern niches; the huge futtocks and heavy scantlings; the octagonal hatches. Mr Trussel and Bombardier Hite received instructions from Tumilty and made up the flannel cartridges in the filling room. The artillery sergeant cut fuses on the now deserted fo'c's'le. In the waist seamen and soldiers scurried about as they carried shells, fuses, cartridges and buckets of water with which to douse the hot mortars. Orchestrating the whole was Lieutenant Tumilty, his face purple with exertion, his active figure justifying his regiment's motto as he seemed everywhere at once like some hellish fiend.
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