Breaking the Line

by David Donachie

  ‘Mr Frears,’ Nelson said, as if he had read Tom Foley’s thoughts.

  ‘I sent him to his berth, sir,’ said Foley. ‘The boy was on his knees.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom,’ Nelson replied, rubbing a hand across his brow, thinking that he, too, was on his knees. ‘That was kind of you and inconsiderate of me. Oblige me by sending a signal.’

  That brought on board Nelson’s ship the captain of HMS Blanche, with orders to take his vessel to the southern end of the channel, by the first of Hardy’s markers, to stop the larger vessels from going aground. Foley sent another mid to rouse Frears and as the boy emerged and trotted after Captain Foley’s messenger, he found the whole ship a mass of activity.

  What few bulkheads remained were swung up on hinges to be lashed to the deckbeams. The red-painted decks were being wetted and sanded so that no one plying a gun, or serving it powder should slip on spilt blood. As they passed the surgeon and his mates, who were setting up their temporary place of work, the other mid shouted, ‘Damn you Doctor, if you don’t handle me and my wounds tenderly, I’ll never forgive you.’

  It was a purple-veined and ugly face that turned to reply that, ‘now was his chance to settle old scores, with all them who had blackguarded him these months past for being too free with the bottle.’

  Frears stopped dead as the other mid traded insults with all and sundry, looking in horror at the table covered with saws, choppers, sharp, evil-looking knives, curved and straight. The other table, stronger, with huge square legs, looked in the light from the overhead lanterns to be deeply stained with something near black. Frears realised that it was blood, that being the table for amputations.

  ‘Make haste,’ shouted the other mid to Frears, ‘or they’ll lop off a leg for practice.’

  He came on deck to find the crew craning the flat-bottomed boats over the side, with the Elephant’s contingent of soldiers parading on the deck in preparation for boarding them. If the surgeon’s table was evidence that this was the day of his first battle, then this underlined it. He found Nelson in a chair, his face lined with fatigue, the one good eye, under a green shade, red rimmed from reading and writing.

  ‘Mr Frears,’ he said looking up with a wan smile, ‘you are just in time. Oblige me by asking the signal lieutenant to hoist a request for all captains and ship’s masters to repair aboard.’

  ‘Sir,’ replied Frears crisply.

  ‘And Mr Frears,’ added Nelson, as the boy turned away. Frears did a sharp turn to face him again. ‘When I say that your linen is grubby, it is not that I do not know why.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Frears, blushing, though he thought himself no more a disgrace than the other youngsters aboard.

  ‘It is because of attendance on me, I daresay, but I must tell you that it is a very bad notion to go into battle with an unclean shirt. A ball, should you receive one, will carry a portion of linen into the wound, and I have witnessed many times that such a thing can cause corruption of the flesh. If you do not have a clean garment, tell Tom Allen to give you one of mine.’

  ‘Sir,’ replied Frears.

  ‘All captains?’ Nelson reminded him, which sent him rushing away.

  As that order went out, HMS Elephant continued to clear for action like every other ship in the fleet. Within minutes the sea was full of boats hauling for the flagship as the captains came aboard to be greeted with all ceremony by pipes and stamping marines. Again they crowded into the rear of the ship, into what had once been Nelson’s cabin but was now devoid of anything other than the table, a few chairs, and several cannon. Behind them lay a clean sweep fore and aft, and anyone turning could look straight forward along the whole length of the deck to the forepeak, past rows of guns and their crews, the whole illuminated by what morning light came through the triced-up gun port lids.

  Before their admiral stood the men who, if they acted as Nelson wanted, would most certainly bring victory today: the ships’ captains and the army officers who would man the flat boats that would go ashore once the Danes had struck their colours. The commanders of the bomb vessels who would disrupt the enemy before taking station to bombard Copenhagen.

  Each came to receive their detailed instructions as well as the overall order of attack. Nelson had had the former copied out on to cards, the easier to carry around and read. He let them ingest that which was particular to each ship, and answered the few enquiries from men seeking clarification. Though tired, he was feeling in good spirits. Then he made a speech that afforded him great pleasure; few things were so fine to Nelson as to single out an outstanding officer publicly, and make it plain, to both him and his fellows, that Nelson had faith in his ability and his judgement.

  ‘Captain Riou, you and you alone have no detailed orders besides a general instruction to distract the Trekroner battery. In addition to your own ship you are to take under your direct command, Alceme, Arrow, Dart, Zephyr and Otter, with Blanche to join once the fleet has entered the King’s Deep. With those vessels you are to act as circumstances might require.’

  Riou could not blush, his skin was too swarthy for that, but he seemed to swell a little, and his black eyes flashed with pride. He had nothing less than a squadron of frigates and sloops to act independently of the main order of attack. Given the number of senior officers present, any one of whom had a better claim to this command than he, it was a stupendous honour.

  ‘And now, gentlemen,’ said Nelson, pointing towards the table where Tom Allen had poured each a glass of wine, ‘I think a toast to victory.’

  As soon as they had gone Nelson called forward the masters of the fleet, as well as the pilots who had come aboard from HMS London, and showed them the order of attack. Hardy appraised them of what he had surveyed the night before, pointing out that the water was deeper towards the Amager bank than near the Middle Ground Shoal. He was fully expecting at least one of the supposed pilots to say that this was so, and that the fleet should be safe in mid-channel. In that he was sorely disappointed.

  So was Nelson as he tried to get them to give him some clue as to what he might face once the ships had got past the point Hardy had reached, which was, after all, only the beginning of the Danish defence line. Given the high state of excitement aboard the fleet, which was only to be expected when they were about to go into battle, the attitude of the pilots was, to Nelson, a disgrace. So much so that he was tempted to ask them if they had ever, as they claimed, sailed this stretch of water. What he did say, as he dismissed them, was larded with sarcasm: ‘Gentlemen, you stand as a credit to the maritime glory of our country.’ As soon as the last one was out of earshot, for the benefit of the ships’ masters who had stayed behind, he added, ‘I find it galling to have the honour of our country confided to the opinion of such men.’

  One of the masters spoke up in their defence. ‘If you will permit me, Lord Nelson, it is the nature of the pilot’s trade. They have no other thought than to keep their ships safe.’

  ‘They are determined not to get their silly heads shot off, Mr Briarly,’ snapped Nelson. ‘I think they fear more for that than anything.’

  ‘I am honoured that you remember me, sir.’

  ‘Of course I recall you, Briarly, first name Alexander if I’m not mistaken, You were with Davidge Gould aboard Audacious at the Nile.’

  Briarly puffed up like a pouter pigeon, proud to be recognised by such a man. ‘Master of HMS Bellona at present, milord.’

  ‘Then perhaps you will tell me what I am to do.’

  There was a murmur of astonishment from the assembly. Nelson’s reputation as a sailor and navigator was well enough known to make all present doubt that he needed advice from a ship’s master. But Alexander Briarly answered. ‘If, as Captain Hardy says, there is deep water from mid to the east of the channel, that is likely to continue, though it will swing north near the Trekroner fort.’

  ‘Go on,’ demanded Nelson.

  ‘The deep water is there, milord, in that navigable channel, because it is scoured out by th
e current exiting from the Baltic Sea, and that sometimes must be as fierce as a tidal race. If we have a following wind and a helpful current, the state and direction of the flow should tell us, once we are in deep water, how we are to proceed.’

  ‘No sandbanks?’

  ‘Bound to be, milord, and they would try a Dane as well as they would us. Sand is given to shifting and there’s nowt to do about that outside constant use of the channel.’ Nelson’s eye was on Briarly, and still full of the pride of recognition, he plunged yet deeper into the pit of certainty. ‘That fact notwithstanding, if your honour will agree it, I will undertake to get the fleet to where you require it to be.’

  ‘So be it,’ Nelson agreed, giving Briarly no chance to temper his offer. But he came close to take the man’s hand, his smile the one that made the person receiving it feel immortal. ‘My orders are that you repair aboard HMS Edgar. To you, Alexander Briarly, falls the honour of leading our fleet into action.’

  Briarly gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, as he realised the enormity of what he was taking on. But having spoken he could not withdraw, and it was with a croak that he said, ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Nelson was back on deck to see the vital signal raised, now in full dress uniform, like every other officer in the fleet, the stars of the Bath and the Crescent, as well as his epaulettes, flashing in the sun. Despite Nelson having only one arm, Giddings had been told to stand by with a cutlass and a pistol, for if the chance arose, Nelson was determined to board an enemy ship, even if some of his sailors, including his coxswain, had to carry him.

  ‘How will we do, milord?’ Giddings asked.

  ‘We will do very well, Giddings. They say the Danes are good brewers. I hazard you will be at their beer in a day or two.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ replied Giddings, who was thinking more about the women than the beer. ‘I’ll pass that on.’

  ‘Do, Giddings.’

  Merry Ed Parker was suddenly by his side. ‘Signal lieutenant has sent to say that all is ready, sir.’

  ‘Then let us proceed.’

  It was precisely eight a.m. when the knotted signal flags shot up the halyards, to burst at the top and alert the fleet to prepare for battle, a mere acknowledgement of a truth that had been known for hours. Each captain knew where he had to anchor, knew he should have ready a spring on his cable to haul him round broadside on to his chosen enemy. Below decks the fighting men were already sealed in, with a marine sentry at each companionway to ensure that no one other than an officer, midshipman or one of the powder monkeys employed to serve the guns could pass.

  But Horatio Nelson rated them unnecessary. He might not know the men on Tom Foley’s ship as well as he had known some, but he knew his British tar. The men on the two decks below him would ply their guns with gusto, just as they were trained to do. They would be looking at each other now, exchanging jokes, having already settled who would look after whose possessions, and who would take the news of death to a wife, child or sweetheart. Nelson’s last will, really only an addition to what he had left with Alexander Davidson, lay on his desk now, alongside the letter to Emma telling her once more that she was, to him, in all respects, his true and only wife.

  ‘Edgar getting under way, milord,’ said Tom Foley.

  Nelson knew the tensions that filled the breast of every man, especially young Frears standing beside him, trying hard not to tremble. A look around with the small pocket telescope, which he could jab open one-handed, showed him a faint outline of Parker’s topsails on the other side of the water-covered Middle Ground Shoal. To the west of that, on the eastern side of the Holland Deep, lay the Swedish island of Saltholm, with the mainland a hazy shoreline further on.

  ‘Have you ever heard tell of Charles the Tenth of Sweden, Mr Frears?’

  ‘Was he not a great general, sir?’ croaked Frears.

  ‘One of those so accomplished Mr Frears, that he was said to rank with Alexander the Great. Born some hundred years ago, I seem to recall. He fought so well and successfully that he raised Sweden over yonder to the heights of a European power, and won many a battle against the barbarous Russians, though the Great Peter of that nation did defeat him at Poltava.’

  Frears would have preferred not to continue the conversation but, with Admiral Lord Nelson looking straight at him, that was not an option. He felt the warmth of his blood rushing to the tips of his prominent ears. ‘I recall him now from my schooldays, sir.’

  ‘They say he won his fights by always being to the fore of his men. The chroniclers say that he inspired by personal example, and killed more of his enemies than any soldier in his army, that he seemed to be without fear and was so skilled in arms that he cleared a path before him wherever he fought.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Frears, who had no idea how to respond.

  ‘An example, would you not say, to any young fellow like you contemplating a martial career?’ Frears just nodded, hoping that Nelson could not see the shudder those words produced. ‘Yet in his first battle, young Charles the Tenth, no more than a prince then, of course, and no more than the age you have now, ran away.’

  Frears looked astonished as Nelson lifted his little pocket spyglass to look once more at the Swedish mainland. ‘Which only proves, does it not Mr Frears, that even the greatest of heroes are prey to the fear of death or disfigurement?’

  ‘Sir.’ Frears gulped.

  ‘So do not rate yourself alone if you tremble,’ Nelson added, smiling at Frears. ‘There’s many a man aboard this fleet doing that same thing now. And I reckon it a good thing, for a man who trembles before a fight, in my experience fights very well.’

  ‘Did you tremble, sir?’

  Nelson laughed, which raised the head of every man who could hear it, causing them to smile and their spirits to lift. ‘I did, Mr Frears – and was I not wearing such a heavy coat you would spy me doing it now.’

  Hardy was right about Nelson: he did want to be everywhere, to send out every broadside and reply to every shot. Right now he was mentally with Murray aboard HMS Edgar as Alexander Briarly, under topsails only, eased the 74-gun ship past the marking frigate, HMS Blanche, the towed flat boats strung out behind her, full of Colonel Stewart’s soldiers. To the rear of Edgar the rest of the squadron was backing and filling their sails to get on station prior to entering the King’s Deep in her wake.

  There were worries about the sailing qualities of the next three vessels, Ardent, Glatton and Isis, but the first real problem occurred with the ship Nelson loved best, his first line-of-battle command, HMS Agamemnon. Under double-reefed topsails, Fancourt, her captain, was struggling to weather the end of the Middle Ground Shoal. The leeway of the tide that would carry the fleet up the King’s Deep, added to that blessed east wind, was driving her into shallow water, and sure enough she lost way as her keel ground into the sand.

  Nelson had to suppress certain feelings, the first that Captain Fancourt was a doubter, one of those men who had failed to meet his eye when he had been planning the passage of the Sound and the prospects for this battle. The other was that the dolt was about to ground a ship he knew well, in a situation that he would never have got himself into. Yet he had to temper that with the knowledge that if he had been less busy he would have observed that her anchorage point put Agamemnon in that very danger from the moment she dropped her best bower anchor two days before.

  And Fancourt was doing what he could, bringing up his boats from the stern and loading anchors and cables into them through the stern ports. These were rowed to the east and dropped so that the men on the capstan, by warping her up the cable, could haul her off. She moved and Nelson felt his heart lift. Then she stopped again and he turned to Frears.

  ‘Please request the signal lieutenant to make the number for Polyphemus.’

  Designated the last ship in the line, Nelson ordered her to take Agamemnon’s place, just as the first Danish guns spoke. For an admiral who had started out knowing the numbers favoured his enemy, the lo
ss of a major part of his strength, and an integral part of his plan, seemed to affect him not at all. Agamemnon had been designated to engage the last ship in the line, with the previous four of Nelson’s line-of-battle ships having already sailed by, giving her a drubbing. Now she was too far from the action to bring a single gun to bear.

  At that very moment Edgar was drawing ahead of her slow sailing consorts, and if she kept going would be the sole target of the Danish cannon: Nelson had to order her to shorten sail. But even so the Amager battery opened fire and so did the first Danish ship as soon as Edgar came in range, a great cloud of smoke billowing from the side to be blown back over the decks and through the gun ports.

  Typical of Murray, there was no reply from him. Had he calculated that at his rate of sailing he would only receive one broadside per enemy vessel? Was he going to wait until he came abreast of his own target ship and open up with a devastating rolling broadside, one that would be delivered as if it were a demonstration for some visiting dignitary?

  Nelson reckoned, if that were true, he had to admire it. He knew from his own experience that the first broadside, delivered accurately, counted for more than anything that followed in battle. Never again in an action would aim be so careful, the measure of powder so perfect, or the ball better chipped to fit the barrel. Not even the best-trained gunners could reload within the same exact time. A run-up gun would be roughly aimed because, close too, rate of fire counted for everything, so the order would be passed down to let fly when ready, using the superior rate to that of the enemy to overwhelm their gunners and slow them down. He also knew that it took a cool head to withstand fire and not respond.

  On went Edgar past three more ships, receiving broadsides and sustaining damage, to take up her station opposite the fifth ship in Olfert Fischer’s defence line. The smoke from the previous gunnery duels had blown away on the wind and Glatton, which had just exchanged a broadside with the first Danish ship, was too far back for her carronade fire to obscure Edgar. Nelson thought that good tactics as well. Bligh had smashers that, trading with long guns at short range, could inflict much more damage.