“Of course I remember. Charles Inskip! You guided me when I strained our country’s diplomacy—that was in Copenhagen too!” They studied one another, their hands still gripped together as the memories flooded back. Bolitho had been sent to Denmark to help parley with the Danes after Napoleon had demanded that they hand over their fleet to his French admirals. The failure then to reach an agreement had led to the Battle of Copenhagen, when Nelson had defied his admiral’s order to discontinue the action, and had forced the attack alone. The memories were flooding back. Keen had been there in his own command. Herrick had been Bolitho’s flag captain in Benbow, which was now his own flagship. Such was fate and the ways of the navy.
It had been a bloody battle between nations who had nothing against one another but for their fear of the French obtaining the upper hand over them both.
Inskip gave a small smile. “Like you, Sir Richard, I, too, am honoured. Sir Charles, by His Majesty’s gracious consent.”
They both laughed and Bolitho said, “An unnerving experience!” He did not add that the King had forgotten his name at the moment of knighting him.
More cries echoed from the deck above, and then the thrashing thunder of freed canvas. They could not hear the cry of “Anchor’s aweigh!” but Bolitho braced his legs and felt Truculent respond like a released stallion, free of the halter, and responsible only to her captain’s skills.
Inskip was watching him thoughtfully. “You still miss it, don’t you? Being up there with the people, pitting your wits against the sea? I saw it in your eyes, as I did six years back in Copenhagen.”
He moved carefully to a chair as a servant entered with some glasses on a tray.
“Well, we are returning there, Sir Richard.” He sighed and patted his side pockets. “In one I carry a promise, in t’other a threat. But sit you down and I’ll tell you what we are about—” He broke off and covered his mouth as the deck reeled over to the thrust of the helm. “I fear I have been too long in the comforts of London. My damned stomach defies me yet!”
Bolitho watched the servant’s expressionless face—one of Inskip’s men—as he poured the wine with some difficulty.
But he was thinking of Catherine and the London she had given him. Enchantment. Not at all like the one Inskip was already regretting leaving astern.
He leaned forward and felt her fan press against his thigh. “I am all attention, Sir Charles, though what part I can play is still beyond me.”
Inskip held his glass up to the light and gave a nod of satisfaction. He was probably one of the most senior government officials employed on Scandinavian affairs, but at this moment he looked more like a village schoolmaster.
He said, “Nelson is gone, alas, but the Danes know you. It is little enough, but when I explain further you will see we have no room for choices. There are sensible men in Copenhagen, but there are many who will see the value of compromise, another word for surrender, with Napoleon’s army at the frontier.”
Bolitho glanced down at the gold lace on his sleeve. He was back.
Bolitho stood on the weather side of Truculent’s quarterdeck and strained his eyes through the first grey light of morning. Around him the ship reeled and plunged to a lively quarter-sea, spray and sometimes great surges of water dashing over the decks or breaking through the rigging where spluttering, cursing seamen fought to keep everything taut and free.
Captain Poland lurched up the slippery planking towards him, a tarpaulin coat flapping about him and running with water.
He shouted above the din, “We should sight the narrows when daylight finds us, Sir Richard!” His eyes were red-rimmed with strain and lack of sleep, and his normally cool composure was less evident.
It had been a long, hard passage from Dover for him, Bolitho thought. No empty expanse of ocean with kind skies and prevailing winds, and Table Mountain as a mark of achievement at the end of it. Truculent had thrashed through the Channel and then north-east across the North Sea towards the coast of Denmark. They had sighted very little except for an English schooner and a small frigate which exchanged recognition signals before vanishing into a violent rain squall. It needed constant care with the navigation, especially when they altered course through the Skagerrak, then finally south, so closehauled that the lee gun-ports had been awash for most of the time. It was not merely cold; it was bitter, and Bolitho was constantly reminded of the last great battle against the Danes at Copenhagen, with Nelson’s flag shifted to the Elephant, a smaller seventy-four than his proper flagship, so that he could pass through the narrows close inshore and so avoid the enemy batteries until the final embrace.
Bolitho thought too of Browne’s apt quotation for his own captains: We Happy Few. To think of it now only saddened him. So many had gone, returning only in memory at times like this while Truculent completed that very same passage. Captain Keverne of Indomitable, Rowley Peel and his fine frigate Relentless, Veitch in the little Lookout, and so many others. More were to fall from Browne’s “Few” in the following months and years. Firm friends like dear Francis Inch, and the courageous John Neale who had once been a midshipman in Bolitho’s Phalarope, only to die a captain when they had been taken prisoner by the French after the loss of his frigate Styx. Bolitho and Allday had done all they could to save him and ease his agony; but he had joined all the others where nothing further could hurt him.
Bolitho shivered inside his boat-cloak and said, “A difficult passage, Captain.” He saw the red-rimmed eyes watching him guardedly, probably seeking out some sort of criticism in his remark. Then he pictured Catherine as he had last seen her. She would be wondering while she waited. It might be longer than he had promised. By the time Truculent’s anchor splashed down it would have taken them a full week to reach their goal. He added, “I’m going below. Call me if you sight anything useful.”
Poland let out a sigh as Bolitho disappeared down the companion hatch. He called sharply, “Mr Williams! Change the lookouts, if you please. When they sight land I want to know about it!”
The first lieutenant touched his dripping hat. No matter how worried the captain was he usually managed to find time for a little stab of sharp encouragement.
Below the quarterdeck it seemed suddenly quiet after the beat and bluster of the biting wind and spray. Bolitho made his way aft, past the sentry and into the cabin. Everything was damp and cold, and the bench seats below the stern windows were bloomed with moisture as if they had been left out on deck.
Sir Charles Inskip was sitting at the table, his head resting on one hand while his secretary, a Mr Patrick Agnew, turned over papers for him to examine by the light of a lantern which he held above them.
Inskip looked up as Bolitho seated himself, and waited for Allday to appear with his razor and hot water from the galley.
“Will this ship never be still?”
Bolitho stretched his arms to relieve the ache of clinging to one handhold or another, while trying to keep away from the watchkeepers bustling around him.
He said, “Look at the chart. We are entering the narrows where I made my mark yesterday. We should sight Helsingør presently—”
“Hmmm. We are being met by a Danish escort at that point—” Inskip did not sound too certain. “After that, we are in their hands.” He glanced at his reedy secretary. “Not for too long I trust, Mr Agnew?”
They both looked up as a shout probed thinly through the sealed skylight before being lost in the wind.
“What was that?” Inskip turned as usual to Bolitho. “Did you hear?”
Bolitho smiled. “Land.”
Allday padded through the door of the sleeping cabin and wedged his steaming bowl on a chair before stropping his deadly-looking razor.
Inskip was calling for his servant and searching for a heavy coat. “We had better go on deck.”
Allday tucked a cloth around Bolitho’s neck and could almost have winked. Poland would make damn certain that it was the right landfall before he reported as much to his admiral.<
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Bolitho closed his eyes while Allday prepared to shave him. Like the first strong coffee of each new day, it was a moment to think and contemplate.
Allday poised the razor and waited for the deck to steady again. He was still unused to seeing Bolitho’s hair cut in the modern fashion. What her ladyship apparently admired. He smiled to himself as he remembered her pleasure when he had fumbled with the package he had brought home to Falmouth. He heard himself muttering, “Sorry about the smell of baccy, m’lady. ’Twas all I had fit to carry it in without him seeing it, so to speak!”
He had been astonished by her reaction, the poignant pleasure in those dark eyes, which Allday knew had said it all.
He had saved most of Bolitho’s queue after his sudden insistence on having it cut off. After seeing her face he was glad.
Captain Poland entered the cabin just as Allday stood back and folded his razor.
“We are in sight of Helsingør, Sir Richard.” He waited, a puddle forming around his boots.
“I shall come up directly, Captain.” He smiled at him. “Well done.”
The door closed and Bolitho allowed Allday to help him into his coat. Simple words of praise, yet Poland still frowned. When invited through the gates of Heaven he would likely seek out a reason before entering, he thought. Another hail floated down.
Bolitho looked up at the salt-stained skylight. “That poor wretch must be frozen to the masthead!”
“Shouldn’t wonder.” Allday grimaced. Not many captains would care about a lowly seaman, never mind a vice-admiral.
The door banged open and Inskip and his secretary rushed into the cabin. It was all confusion as they tore open their chests and called for the servant, while trying to find what they needed to wear.
Inskip gasped, “A ship, Sir Richard! It will be the Danish escort.”
Bolitho heard the sullen rumble of gun trucks as some of the main armament was freed from the breechings and loaded. Poland again. Just in case.
“Then we had best attend to our business.” He gave a wry smile. “Whatever it proves to be!”
“A moment, Sir Richard.” Allday plucked a shred of spun-yarn from Bolitho’s fine coat. What little Ozzard would have seen to. Then he stood back and nodded with approval. The bright gold lace, the Nile medal which he always wore with such pride, and the old sword. Like one of the portraits, he thought. No wonder she loved him like she did. How could you not?
He said roughly, “None better, Sir Richard, an’ that’s no error!”
Bolitho eyed him gravely. “Then we are well matched, old friend.” He stepped aside as Inskip’s servant dashed past with a crumpled shirt.
“So let us be about it, eh?”
12 STORM WARNING
SIR CHARLES INSKIP peered gloomily from a narrow window and shivered as a sudden squall rattled the thick glass.
“This is hardly the treatment I had been expecting!”
Bolitho put down his empty coffee cup and joined him to look across the harbour at some of the vessels which lay at anchor. He had not failed to notice the thick bars across the window, nor the way they had been kept in semi-isolation since they had stepped ashore. Their quarters in what appeared to be a part of a fortress were comfortable enough, but the door was locked at night all the same. He saw Truculent tugging at her cable, her furled canvas quivering as the wind ruffled up the surface of the anchorage and pounded against her hull and rigging. She, too, appeared isolated and vulnerable. The big Danish frigate Dryaden, which had met and then escorted them into Copenhagen, lay some two cables clear. Bolitho gave a grim smile. That was not a sign of trust, but to make sure she would suffer no damage if Captain Poland tried to cut and run. Truculent was lying directly beneath the guns of one of the main batteries. It would be an unhealthy place to be if it was forced to open fire.
Seven days. Bolitho tried not to let his mind linger on it. Inskip had told him repeatedly that they were here at the suggestion of a senior Danish minister named Christian Haarder. A man dedicated to keeping Denmark out of the war and safe from attack either by France or England.
Bolitho looked towards the array of anchored men-of-war, their scarlet flags with the distinctive white crosses taut and bright in the stiff wind. It amounted to quite a fleet despite the savage losses in this very harbour some five years back. The Danes had probably mustered all their available warships from the mainland to place them under a single command. It made good sense, no matter what happened.
Inskip said irritably, “I have sent two messages with no effect. Out of courtesy the palace was informed, and my own letters should have made further delays totally unnecessary.”
“People must be wondering about the presence of one of His Majesty’s frigates in the harbour.” Bolitho watched a long-oared galley pulling slowly past the Truculent, the red blades rising and failing gracefully like a relic of ancient Greece. But Bolitho knew from hard experience that they were not simply for decoration. They could outmanœuvre almost any ship under sail, and for armament they carried a solitary, heavy cannon with which they could maul a vessel’s stern and pound her into submission while her prey was unable to bring a single gun to bear. To be attacked by several at once, as the flagship had been, was like being a beast torn apart by fleet-footed wolves.
Inskip said, “They’ll soon find out if they keep us waiting much longer.”
Bolitho saw Allday gathering up the cups although Inskip’s own servant was in an adjoining room. He glanced at his watch. Jenour should have returned long ago. Inskip had sent him with another letter which he had written himself. Bolitho bit his lip. Too many secrets. Like trying to carry sand in a fishing-net. “Do you think the French may be involved at this stage?”
Inskip wrenched his thoughts into perspective. “The French? Dammit, Bolitho, you see the Frenchman’s fingers in everything! But I believe—” He broke off as Agnew, his long nose red from the cold, peered around the door and whispered, “The lieutenant has returned, Sir Charles.”
Inskip adjusted his wig and glared at the main doorway. “Not alone by the sound of it, by God!”
The door swung inwards and Bolitho saw Jenour, accompanied by the Dryaden’s captain and a tall man in a dark velvet coat whom he guessed was the minister named Haarder.
Bows were exchanged and to Inskip Haarder offered his hand. Like old antagonists, Bolitho thought, rather than friends. A sort of familiar wariness which he guessed was as much a part of them as their political evasiveness.
Haarder looked steadily at Bolitho and said, “You I know from your last visit to my country.”
Bolitho searched for hostility but found none. “I was treated with great courtesy.” He did not add, unlike this time. He did not need to.
Haarder shrugged. “We are under no illusions here, Admiral. The Danish fleet is once again a rich prize to those who would seize it for their own cause.” His eyes flickered in amusement. “Or those who might wish to destroy it for another reason, yes?” He glanced at their faces and said, “My associates are hard to convince. Either way they lose—” He raised one hand as Inskip seemed about to argue. “If, as your government is suggesting, the French intend to demand authority over our fleet, what will we do? Deny them, face them in battle? How could we survive when your own powerful nation has been at war with the same enemy for over twelve years? Think what you are asking before you condemn our uncertainty. We want only peace, even with our old foes in Sweden. Trade, not war—is that so alien that you cannot envisage it?”
Inskip sat back wearily and Bolitho knew he had given up before he had had a chance to negotiate.
Inskip said, “Then you cannot, or will not help us in this matter? I had hoped—”
Haarder eyed him sadly. “Your hope was mine also. But my voice is only one against many.”
Bolitho said, “On my last visit I saw the Crown Prince, although his identity was kept secret from me until later.”
Haarder smiled. “It is often better for royalty to stay remove
d from affairs of state, Admiral. I think I will have your agreement on that at least.”
Bolitho knew that Inskip was watching him anxiously, as if he expected him to rise to the bait.
Bolitho replied, “I am a sea-officer, sir, not a politician. I came here to advise, if required, on the balance of naval power in a very small area. But in all honesty I would not wish to see Denmark suffer the same terrible losses as before. I believe I have your agreement on that!”
Haarder stood up and said heavily, “I will keep trying. In the meantime I am instructed to end this attempted interference in Danish neutrality. Captain Pedersen of the Dryaden will escort you to open waters.” He held out a sealed envelope and handed it to Inskip. “For your Prime Minister, from someone far more senior than I.”
Inskip stared at the envelope. “Lord Grenville dislikes being threatened no less than Mr Pitt did.” He straightened his back and smiled, the old antagonist once again. “But it is not over.”
Haarder shook his hand gravely. “Nor is it yet begun, my old friend.”
To Bolitho he said simply, “I have long admired your achievements.” Again the twinkle of a smile. “Ashore as well as afloat. Be assured that my King would have wished to receive you but—” He shrugged. “We are in a vice. To show favour to one is to open the gates to another, yes?”
More bows and solemn handshakes and then Haarder took his leave.
The Danish captain said politely, “If you will permit?” Some armed seamen entered the outer room and waited to collect their belongings. “I will have a boat waiting to take you to your ship. After which,” he spoke haltingly but clearly, “you will please obey my directions.”
The captain walked from the room and Inskip said, “I wonder why they kept Haarder waiting so long. Just to tell me that he could do nothing?” It was the first time Bolitho had heard him sound puzzled.
Bolitho turned as if to watch Allday directing the Danish seamen into the other room for his sea-chest.
But he did not want Inskip to see his face, as his simple remark seemed to explode in his thoughts like a mortar shell.
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