He had known Frey for ten years; the lieutenant had been a midshipman aboard the sloop Melusine when he had last ventured north. The boy was a man now, growing grizzled in the sea service as this long war rumbled interminably on.
‘She still sails well?’
‘She leaks like a sieve. She had her keel and kelson pierced for centre-plates which make her claw up to windward like a witch, but the boxes let in water and she needs regular pumping.’
‘I recall them being fitted,’ Drinkwater mused, then asked, ‘Did you bring your paint-box?’
‘Never go anywhere without it, sir,’ Frey said, waving an enthusiastic hand about him. On either side the steep, dark sides of the gorge closed about them, and beyond, its surface pale and cold, the fiord lay bordered by the dark forest. ‘Imagine being here, amid this splendour, without the means to record it.’
‘I cannot’, said Drinkwater ruefully, ‘imagine what it must be like.’
And he grinned as the shadow of the gorge fell across the deck, and they entered the Vikkenfiord.
* See A King’s Cutter.
CHAPTER 12
November 1813
The Flag of Truce
The twelve-gun cutter Kestrel ran up the Vikkenfiord with a quartering wind, her huge main boom guyed out to larboard, obscuring the lie of the land and the bluff upon which lay the guns of the Danish fort. Though the British ensign flew from the peak of her gaff, the white tablecloth flapped languidly in the eddies emptying from the leeward leech of the square topsail set above the hounds. Astern, Drinkwater’s gig towed in their wake.
The rain had passed and, though the threat of more lay banked up in engorged clouds beyond the mountains to the south and west, the sun blazed upon the blue waters of the fiord and the breeze set white-capped waves dancing across its surface. The low, black-hulled cutter raced downwind. She still sported two long 4-pounders forward, but her ten pop-gun 3-pounders had long ago been replaced by carronades. Frey had had these cleared away and now ordered the square topsail clewed up and furled. Kestrel would neither stay nor wear quickly with it still set, and Drinkwater wanted the little cruiser to be as handy as skill and artifice could make her, in case his enterprise collapsed.
Leaving the management of the cutter to Frey, he walked forward and levelled his glass at the bluff, steadying it against a forward shroud. Above the embrasures of the fort, the colours of Denmark proclaimed Norway to be a possession of the Danish crown. Drinkwater could already see the masts of the American and Danish ships, lying at their anchors in the small bay beyond the bluff and under the protection of the fort’s guns.
As they drew closer, Drinkwater watched and waited for a response from these cannon. At two miles he saw nothing to indicate the sentries had seen the approaching cutter, then they were within cannon shot.
‘Any signs, sir?’ asked Frey, coming forward and screwing up his eyes.
‘Not a damned thing,’ Drinkwater muttered, his glass remaining to his eye. ‘Ah, wait . . .’
For a moment he had thought the brief flash to have been the discharge of a cannon, but then the white of an extempore flag like their own appeared to hang down from a gun-embrasure, pressed by the wind against the grey stonework of the rampart.
Drinkwater lowered his glass. ‘I think we may stand on with a measure of confidence, Mr Frey.’
‘I’ll heave to just off the point then.’
‘Yes, and get the boat alongside and the crew into it as fast as possible. I don’t want them coming to us.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater raised his glass again and swept the adjacent coast with care. ‘Time spent in reconnaissance’, he muttered to himself, quoting Quilhampton, ‘is seldom wasted.’
So engrossed was he in this task that the sudden righting of Kestrel’s heeling deck and the shift of its motion to a gentle upward and downward undulation as she came head to wind took him by surprise. The headsails shook for a moment and then the jib was sheeted down hard and the staysail sheet was carried to windward as Frey hove his charge to on the starboard tack. The bluff, with its granite coping and the dark gun-embrasures, loomed above the cutter’s curved taffrail, and on her port quarter where the gig was being quickly brought alongside, the bay beyond was filled with the three ships and its sheltered waters dotted with the oared boats Drinkwater had been so assiduously studying.
Now he went aft, watched as a boathook adorned with a table-napkin was passed to the bowman and, gathering up his sword, eased a foot over the rail, stood awkwardly on the rubbing band, chose his moment and tumbled into the boat.
Barking his shins he stumbled aft with considerable loss of dignity to take his seat beside Captain Pardoe’s coxswain, Wells.
‘Carry on, cox’n. Make for the Danish ship!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
They pulled away from the cutter and were soon in the comparatively calmer waters of the bay. Drinkwater coughed to catch the attention of the labouring boat’s crew. ‘Keep your eyes in the boat, men. No remarks to any enemy boats that may come near and’, he turned to the coxswain, ‘lie off a little while I am aboard.’
‘Aye, sir.’
As they approached the Odin, Drinkwater threw back his boat-cloak to reveal the remaining perfect epaulette on his left shoulder. He wore the undress uniform he had worn in the action of the day before. The bullion on his right shoulder was wrecked beyond repair, though Frampton had done his best when he swabbed the blood from the coat. Drinkwater stared woodenly ahead, but allowed his eyes to rove over the scene. The Danes had made good most of the ravages of the action, reinstating the foremast just as Quilhampton was doing at that moment aboard Andromeda beyond the entrance to the fiord.
Inshore of the Danish frigate the two American ships lay at anchor. They looked slightly less formidable upon closer inspection: privateers rather than frigates, though well armed. Between them and the Dane all the boats of the combined ships seemed to be waterborne, industriously plying to and fro. Many had stopped, their crews lying on their oars as they watched the bold approach of the enemy. They were quite obviously engaged in the business of transferring stands of arms, barrels of powder and the product of Continental arsenals destined for North America.
‘Boat ’hoy!’
‘Oars, cox’n.’
‘Oars!’ ordered Wells and the gig’s crew stopped pulling, holding their oar-looms horizontally as the gig gradually lost way some fifty or sixty yards from the bulk of the Odin’s dark hull. Officers lined the quarterdeck while the faces of many curious onlookers, Danish sailors and marines, stared down at the approaching gig. Drinkwater stood up and doffed his hat.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Do I have your permission to come aboard?’
There was a brief consultation between the blue and gold figures. English, it appeared, was understood, but the matter seemed to be uncertain, so Drinkwater called out, ‘I know you are transferring arms from your ship to the American vessels, gentlemen. I know also they came from France and travelled via Hamburg to Denmark. I think it will be to your advantage if I speak to your captain.’
‘One of these boats coming close, sir,’ growled Wells, sitting beside him.
‘Take no notice,’ Drinkwater muttered.
The officers above them came to a conclusion. ‘Ja. You come aboard!’
‘Lay her alongside.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater ascended the frigate’s tumblehome, reached the level of the rail, threw his leg over and descended to the deck. With no boats on her booms the frigate’s waist was wide open and the contents of her gundeck and berth deck were exposed. The bundles of sabres and muskets, boxes, bales and barrels that she carried could not be disguised. They were being hoisted out and lowered over the farther side where the boats of the combined ships were obviously loading them. His appearance had stopped the labour but, at a command, the watching men returned to work.
A tall man with a blue, red-faced coat and cocked hat steppe
d forward. He wore hessian boots whose gold tassels caught the sunshine, and dragged what looked like a cavalry sabre on the deck behind him.
‘Kaptajn Dahlgaard of de Danske ship Odin. We haf met in battle, ja? I see you haf a wound.’ Dahlgaard gestured to the large, dark scab on Drinkwater’s cheek.
‘Indeed, sir, a scratch. I am Captain Drinkwater of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Andromeda, at your service.’ Drinkwater shot a glance at the officers behind Dahlgaard. Most were wearing the blue and red of the Danish sea service. Two were not. They were wearing blue broadcloth and insolent grins. He knew them for Americans. ‘And these gentlemen are from the United States, are they not?’ he added, side-stepping Dahlgaard and executing an ironic half-bow at the American commanders. He was gratified to see them lose a little of their composure.
He turned his heel on them and confronted Dahlgaard, addressing him so that the Americans could not hear.
‘Captain Dahlgaard, you have, I know, no reason to love my country and, from your actions yesterday, I judge you, as I judged your countrymen at Copenhagen in 1801, to be a brave and courageous officer, but I beg you to consider the consequences of what you are doing. These arms are to spread destruction in a country of peace-loving people . . .’
‘I haf my orders, Kaptajn. Please not to speak of this.’
Drinkwater shrugged as though unconcerned. ‘Very well, then it is necessary that I tell you my admiral will be happy to let your vessel pass, if you permit us to take the American ships as prizes.’
Drinkwater had rehearsed the speech and was watching Dahlgaard carefully. The tiny reactive muscles round the man’s eyes betrayed the Dane’s understanding. Here before him stood a British captain claiming to be from the frigate he had engaged yesterday. Having extricated his frigate, this man was now back in a small man-of-war cutter, hinting at the presence of an admiral in the offing. The British officer emanated an air of unmistakable confidence. Now he had the effrontery to press Dahlgaard further.
‘Come, sir, what do these men mean to you? What do the French mean to you? They have occupied your country and compelled us to make war upon you. They have forced us to destroy your navy . . . would you be known as the officer who lost the last frigate possessed by King Frederick . . . ?’
The King’s name seemed to rouse Dahlgaard. ‘The King of Denmark is good ally of France. I haf my duty, Kaptajn, like you. You have no reason to be in Danske waters. No right to demand I surrender these American ships which are’, Dahlgaard waved a hand above his head as though drawing Drinkwater’s attention to the swallowtail ensigns at the fort and at the Odin’s stern, ‘under the protection of my flag.’
‘Please yourself, Captain Dahlgaard,’ Drinkwater shrugged, feigning an indifference he did not feel. The Danish commander impressed him as a resolute character, not one to be easily intimidated by Drinkwater’s affectation of bombast. He turned to the Americans. ‘I shall see you again, gentlemen.’
‘I shouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you, Captain,’ remarked one.
‘He’s bluffing, Dahlgaard,’ added the second. ‘There ain’t no British ships in the offing.’
Dahlgaard cocked his head, shrewdly weighing up Drinkwater. ‘You think no?’
‘No. I’m damn certain of it.’
Dahlgaard drew himself up. ‘You are not welcome, Kaptajn.’
Aware that his bluff had failed, Drinkwater bowed to Dahlgaard. ‘Until we meet again, Captain.’ He stared about him, casting his eyes aloft and into the crowded waist. ‘A very fine ship, sir. A damn pity to risk losing her.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ drawled one of the Americans, ‘there’ll be three of us, you know.’
Close-hauled, Kestrel beat back down the fiord to meet Andromeda. As ordered, Quilhampton had brought the frigate through the narrows an hour after noon, cleared for action and with her upper studding sails set. A mile short of her, Drinkwater transferred to the gig and left Frey to gill about until he had exchanged places with Quilhampton. With considerable skill, Wells manoeuvred the gig under the bow of the advancing frigate so that Quilhampton had only to haul round and shiver his square sails for the gig to dash alongside.
Drinkwater met Quilhampton at the rail. ‘She’s cleared for action, sir,’ Quilhampton said. ‘Birkbeck has the con.’
‘Did you clap a cable on a bower anchor?’
‘Cables on both bowers, sir. And I’ve led two light springs outside everything.’
‘Very good, James, I didn’t notice them. Thank you. No dice with the Dane, but she’s a formidable ship. The Yankees are privateers and spoiling for a fight, so keep out of their range. There’s a deal of lumber about their decks, arms and the like, but they’ll make as much trouble as they can. Try and sink their boats, but James, for God’s sake keep out of trouble. I need you alive, not covered in death and glory!’
‘Don’t worry . . .’ Quilhampton smiled, his eyes sparkling.
And then he was gone, swung one-handed down into the gig, and Drinkwater was once again absorbed into the business of his own ship.
‘Don’t wait for the gig, Mr Birkbeck, Kestrel will tow her. Let’s crack on and surprise ’em. Oh, and keep her close inshore.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘I’m going below to shift my linen.’
He stared across the water to where the gig was rounding to under Kestrel’s counter. The white table-cloth was fluttering down from the cutter’s bare topsail yardarm. The truce was at an end.
Captain Drinkwater was back on deck in fifteen minutes. For the second time within two hours, the bluff loomed above him as Birkbeck held the frigate’s course close under the rocky prominence. This time the battery opened fire as Andromeda approached. Shot plunged on either bow, pierced the upper sails and parted a brace of ropes, but did no real damage. The rate of fire was slow but steady, a fact Birkbeck remarked upon.
‘I fancy most of the gunners are assisting in transferring cargo out of the Odin into the boats,’ Drinkwater observed. The next salvo, fired as they drew ever closer, passed overhead.
‘Good lord, sir, they’re firing over us. They can’t depress their pieces!’
‘Quite,’ said Drinkwater smiling, hoping to heaven his confidence in deep water existing up to the foot of the bluff was correct.
A glance astern showed Kestrel coming up hand over fist and then they were past the point and the bay was opening up under their lee with the rising pine forest behind, and the muzzles of Andromeda’s cannon were pointing at the Odin.
‘When you bear, Mr Mosse,’ Drinkwater called as he studied the bearing of the Danish frigate.
‘Fire!’
And the officers on the gun deck passed on the order.
The following wind caused Andromeda to carry the smoke of her broadside with her so that it was impossible to gauge the effect of the first shots. The air cleared slowly; glimpses of the enemy’s masts and yards were briefly visible in the opening rents, only to be obscured as the larboard battery fired again.
Beside Drinkwater, Birkbeck was bawling orders to the topmen and waisters detailed to handle the frigate’s braces and sheets as he slowed Andromeda, so that her guns might have the maximum effect upon their targets as she swept across the mouth of the bay and her guns emptied themselves first into the Odin, and then successively into the American privateers.
‘Take in the stuns’ls, Mr Birkbeck!’
Drinkwater’s last words were lost in the concussion of another broadside, but this time it was the enemy’s and the air was again full of the buzzing of gigantic bees, of a smack and crack as a ball buried itself in the mizen mast above their heads, and the curious sucking of air as another passed close enough to affect their breathing. There was, too, the twang of ropes parting under load, followed by the whirr and thrap of their unreeving and falling across the deck. Somewhere a man screamed, but that first close broadside from the Odin was ragged and their own savage retaliation thundered from Andromeda’s side as she swept past and
poured her fire into the American ships.
Above the quarterdeck the studding sails flapped like wounded gulls, were tamed by their ropes and drawn into the tops. A half-mile past the bay Birkbeck looked expectantly at Drinkwater who nodded and the helm was put down.
‘Hands to tack ship! Stand by the braces, there!’ Birkbeck shouted, and Andromeda came up into the wind. ‘Mains’l haul!’
It was now that Drinkwater played the only card he held after the empty bluster about an admiral’s squadron in the offing.
He had deduced that the wind which had prevailed from the south-west and died during the previous night, would very likely do the same today. He could, therefore, bear down swiftly on the anchored ships, but once he was past them, as he was now, he had two choices. He could come about on to the starboard tack and stand across the fiord as he had done the previous day, rapidly passing out of range and working slowly to windward before turning and running back again to renew the attack. By then, however, he would have lost the element of surprise.
His second choice was to come right about on the larboard tack and sail directly into the bay under the guns of an enemy, surrendering all advantages beyond that of hitting all three ships again quickly before they could recover from his first onslaught. But he would risk collision, failure to stay again, and the threat of being raked at pistol shot.
‘Haul all!’
He now brought Andromeda round on to that potentially fatal tack and bore down into the bay. Despite the hazard of such a move he could cover Kestrel’s dash in among the boats by drawing the fire of the Odin and the Americans, and continue to inflict damage on the former as fast as his gunners could serve their pieces, for with three potential enemies, this could be no tip-and-run raid.
Puffs of smoke along the topsides of all three ships told where resistance was being organized, and columns of water rose up around them as they crabbed down to leeward, gathering way with the yards braced hard against the catharpings.
Ahead of them, already attracting fire and dividing the concentration of the enemy, Kestrel had danced insolently into the bay in the wake of the frigate and Quilhampton had strewn his heavy carronade shot amongst the boats. Drinkwater could see two of them awash to the gunwhales, the heads of men swimming round them, then one sank, shortly followed by the other. A moment later Kestrel’s main boom was swung out and her hull foreshortened as she ran out of the bay towards the approaching Andromeda with enemy shot plunging about her.
Beneath the Aurora Page 18
