'Take in the maincourse, Mr Pickthorn.' Captain Neale stood very still, his arms folded, as the frigate glided ahead under topsails, forecourse and jib.
The cold air, the icy droplets of moisture falling from the heavy weather canvas like rain were forgotten as the Styx moved slowly towards the last channel.
Two great fortresses, Helsingborg an the Swedish side of the Sound Channel and Kronborg on the Danish, were enough to awe even the most hardened man aboard.
Bolitho took a telescope and trained it on the Danish fortress. It would take an army, and months of siege, to breach it, he thought grimly.
It was almost noon, and the nearer the frigate had drawn to the narrows and the protective batteries on either side, they had sensed the excitement Styx 's appearance was causing. But if there was no sign of welcome, there was no hostility either.
He glanced along the upper decks. Neale had done well, and his ship looked as perfect as she could be. The marines, conspicuous in their bright uniforms, drawn up in squads on the poop deck. None in the tops, and no swivels had been mounted there either. Seamen moved about their duties, while others stood ready to spread more sail and flee or take in the remaining canvas and anchor.
Neale looked at Bolitho questioningly. 'May I begin the salute, sir?'
'If you please.'
Neale said sharply, 'Remove the tampions and open the ports.'
He was probably thinking that once he had fired a full salute to the fortress his guns would be empty. But to man his-broadsides with anything more than the men required for this ritual might appear like a threat of war.
'Run out, 'if you please.'
Squeaking and rumbling the Styx 's guns poked their black muzzles into the harsh light.
'Stand by to dip the colours!'
Bolitho bit his lip. Still no hint from the land. He looked across at the great artillery emplacements. The wind had dropped considerably. If the Danes opened fire, Styx would be hard put to come about and beat clear.
She would be hammered into submission in minutes under such conditions.
'Commence the salute, Mr Pickthorn.'
'Fire One!'
The bang echoed across the choppy water, to be followed gun for gun by a battery below the fortress. Then, the Danish flag, standing out like a flake of bright metal from a tall staff, dipped slowly in salute.
Ailday wiped his mouth with his wrist. 'Phew! That was a near thing!'
Bolitho saw Styx 's gunner marching from cannon to cannon, beating out the time with his fist, oblivious to everything but precision.
There were people visible on the shore now, some running and waving, their mouths soundless in the telescope's lens.
The final gun crashed out, the smoke fanning ahead of the frigate's figurehead.
Captain Neale touched his hat to Bolitho and said, 'I think we are accepted, sir.'
Browne, who had been clasping his ears during the salute, said sourly, 'But by no means welcome, sir.'
'Guard-boat approaching, sir!'
'Take in the forecourse, Mr Pickthorn. Stand by to receive our visitors!'
Men swarmed out along the yard, fisting and cursing the big foresail as they struggled to furl it with extra smartness, watched by the distant crowds of onlookers.
The guard-boat was an interesting craft. Far longer than a ship's boat, it was propelled by the biggest oars Bolitho had seen outside of a chebeck. Two men to each oar, while just abaft of the deadly-looking prow was a solitary but heavy cannon. Under oars, this miniature gunboat could outmanoeuvre anything larger than a frigate and throw heavy balls through her poop with total safety. Even a frigate would be in trouble if she lost the wind.
Bolitho studied the figures in the ornate cockpit. Two Danish sea officers and two civilians, one, if not two, of the latter obviously English. They looked more suitably dressed for a stroll around Hyde Park than crossing open water in October.
'Man the side! Marines, fall in!'
Mr Charles Inskip, the important government official whom Bolitho had been instructed to assist in every possible way, sat stiff-backed in one of Captain Neale's chairs and examined the captured French despatches. He held them at arm's length, and Bolitho guessed his sight was not what it should be. His companion, Mr Alfred Green, apparently less important, stood beside the chair, peering and pouting at each newly turned sheet.
Bolitho heard the Danish sea officers talking and laughing beyond the bulkhead, and guessed they were being traditionally entertained by Neale and some of his lieutenants. Governments could create war from almost anything. Sailors, meeting on their home ground, rarely fell out.
Browne glanced meaningly at Bolitho as Inskip re-read the letter with the broken seal.
Bolitho noticed that when seamen rushed across the deck above, or some heavy block and tackle fell on the planking, Inskip did not even blink. He was obviously a much travelled man, well used to ships of every sort.
Inskip was about fifty, he decided. Neatly but not flamboyantly dressed in a green coat and breeches of similar colour. His head was almost bald, the remaining hair and unfashionable queue hanging down his collar like a rope's end.
He looked up sharply. 'This is bad news, Admiral.' His voice was incisive, a bit like Beauchamp's. 'I thank God you managed to intercept it.'
'Luck, Sir.'
A small smile, pushing the years from the man's features. 'Where would we be without it?'
His companion said, 'You would have had a warmer reception, Admiral, had the brig Echo got here ahead of you.'
Inskip frowned at the interruption. 'I have made some progress with the Danish government. They do not wish to join with the Tsar of Russia's proposed alliance, but pressure is mounting. Your arrival may be timely. I thank God you had the good sense to come in a small ship-of-war and not a threedecker or something. It is a powder-keg here, although the Danes, being Danes, are trying to ignore it. I would love to return in happier times.'
Bolitho asked, 'Will you wish me to come ashore, sir?'
'Yes. I shall send word to you. The guard-boat will lead you to the advised anchorage.' He glanced quickly at the door. 'There is a French frigate in Copenhagen, so you must warn your people to avoid any contact with her.'
Bolitho looked at Browne. An added complication, and they had not yet begun.
Inskip tapped the letter. 'Now I have read this I think I understand the purpose of her presence. I was sent by His Majesty's Government with the intention of preventing Danish involvement. The French may be here to provoke the opposite. Your small inshore squadron would not stem the flood if the worst happened before we could muster a fleet. Even then, the Russians and the Swedes are said to have sixty line-of-battle ships between them, and the Danes another thirty in commission.'
Bolitho warmed to this nondescript man. He knew everything, even the size of his own small squadron. The fact he had brought Inskip some information he did not already have made him feel humble rather than superior.
Inskip stood up, waving Ozzard and a loaded tray aside as he said, 'Not just now, thank you. Clear heads are needed.' He smiled. 'So I suggest you order your captain to approach the anchorage. You have roused plenty of curiosity and speculation. To see you actually step ashore should add to the gossip, eh?' He picked up his hat and added, 'I am sorry you missed meeting with a fellow English traveller.'
Bolitho allowed Allday to buckle on his glittering presentation sword for this formal occasion, but saw the distaste in his eyes. 'Oh, who was that?'
'Rupert Seton. I understand he is the brother of your late wife?'
Bolitho stared at Allday, his mind suddenly frozen. He could see Seton as a young midshipman during the ill- fated attempt to retake Toulon for the French Royalists. A slightly built youth with a stutter. With a sister so beautiful that she was rarely absent from Bolitho's memory.
'He told me about the tragedy, of course.' Inskip was unaware of the havoc he had caused. 'A fine, intelligent young man he is, too. He has a good post with the Honourable East India Company. Where I should be if I had any sense. There are more kicks than guineas working for Mr Pitt's administration.'
