CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Maundy Thursday,' Thermopylae's Third Officer said half to himself as he blew on his gloved hands to warm them. 'Second of April, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Oh-One.'
'Hmm?' Marine Lt. Eades idly asked.
' 'Tis Maundy Thursday, Eades,' Lt. Fox said, louder. 'We came in on the first, and now it's Maundy Thursday. Grim.'
Back home in England, churches would be stripping down all the decorations, draping crosses in mourning cloths, and Divine Services would be conducted without music or hymns, in sombre grief following the Crucifixion, and their Saviour's Death on Golgotha.
'Must we fight the Danes on a Holy Day, I'd much prefer one more hopeful, like tomorrow, Good Friday,' Fox added, his voice cautious as he sidled closer to the immaculately turned-out Marine officer. 'Even Easter Sunday would be, ah… well,' he trailed off, looking aloft to the comissioning pendant atop the main-mast, which streamed towards the Danish fleet on a wind that had come Sou' easterly during the dawn. It could be deemed a lack of courage to express doubts or fears too openly.
'Ah,' Lt. Eades replied with a wry bark. 'Resurrection!'
'Just so,' Lt. Fox said with a nod. 'But here's the wind, and here we are, so I suppose we'll be going in.'
'Get it over with,' Lt. Eades said, chin up and determined; even if his mittened fingers continually flexed on the hilt of his sword in nervousness. 'Waiting's the rum part. Though our captain seems to be coping.'
They both looked aft to see Capt. Alan Lewrie, turned out in his best-dress uniform with both his medals, swaddling furs traded for his grogram boat-cloak, at last; Capt. Lewrie was sipping a last hot mug of tea, and chewing on a thick, fatty-bacon sandwich. Between bites, he was chatting with the Second Officer, Lt. Dick Farley, and looking as unperturbed as the Royal Navy wished of its officers.
'Mmm,' Lt. Ballard, the First Officer, wryly commented, having caught part of Fox's and Eades's conversation, 'perhaps the captain's seals will look after us, sirs,' he seemed to scoff. It was such an odd departure from Ballard's usual taciturn nature that both officers gawped in surprise, unsure whether Ballard was making a subtle jape, or being slyly insubordinate.
'Boat ahoy!' Midshipman Tillyard called to the approaching gig, though all could see that it was their Sailing Master, Mr. Lyle, along with their civilian adviser, Capt. Hardcastle, returning. Midshipman Sealey, their eldest, and the Captain's Cox'n, Liam Desmond, could be seen in the stern-sheets as they conned the gig smartly alongside the ship's side.
Desmond and the boat crew had had a busy night, and an equally busy morning; at 7 A.M., the flagship had signalled 'Captains of the Fleet are to come to the Admiral,' requiring Lewrie to be rowed out to Elephant for final instructions. Barely had Lewrie returned when the flagship had hoisted a signal to summon all masters and pilots.
'All's in order, Mister Lyle?' Capt. Lewrie asked once the man was back on the quarterdeck.
'All's not, sir!' Lyle spat, 'the spineless, puling lotta…!'
'The merchant masters and pilots have refused to conn our ships in, Captain Lewrie,' Capt. Hardcastle supplied. 'Demurred, I think the kindest word would be.'
'Should be flung in irons, flogged… keel-hauled!' Mr. Lyle fumed. 'Were they Navy masters, they would be!'
'I don't know where Admiralty dredged up the fools, sir,' Capt. Hardcastle stuck in. 'They insist the deep channel's alongside of the Middle Ground, and the shore side of the King's Deep is too shoal, but we can all see that's wrong. Equidistant of the shoal, and the foe, and we'll have five, six fathom, sure, sir.'
'Hoist from the flag, sir!' Midshipman Furlow shouted. 'It's a special… Number Fourteen!' He looked quickly through his slim ledger book for the sheet of addendums of Nelson's own devising. ' 'Prepare for battle, with springs on the anchors, and the end of the sheet cables taken in by a stern port,' sir!' he translated.
'Very well, Mister Furlow,' Lewrie replied. 'Mister Ballard… bring the ship to Quarters, if ye please.'
Furniture, sea-chests and personal belongings, deal partitions, and temporary bulkheads had been struck to the orlop hours before, as had the Franklin stoves, once their fires had been staunched and their embers and ashes cast overside. Chain slings and anti-boarding nets had been rigged while Lewrie had been aboard the flag soon after the hands had stowed their hammocks and breakfasted. The galley fires had been extinguished half an hour before (with Lewrie's last mug of tea warmed in hot sand in the brick fire-boxes below the cauldrons), and the spring and kedge anchor cable had been laid out just after the hands had finished sweeping, sanding, and scrubbing the decks, so HMS Thermopylae had just been waiting for Vice Admiral Nelson's order.
Bosuns' calls piped 'All Hands,' and Dimmock and Pulley roared orders. The Marine drummer began the Long Roll, with the aid of the fifer, and Thermopylae shuddered as hundreds of men spilled up companionway ladders from the faint warmth of their berth-deck to the guns.
Bowsings were cast off cold barrels and truck-carriages; tackle was laid out for free running, and the guns run in to the extent of the breeching ropes. Rams, spongers, and worms appeared from stowage over the mess tables, which themselves were now hinged up and lashed out of the way. Crow-levers were laid out to help shift the carriages, and gun-captains were issued the removable flintlock strikers, the trigger lines, and priming wires used to puncture powder cartridges, once seated in the breeches, along with powder quills should the strikers fail.
Decks were sanded and wetted for traction, and the water tubs between the guns were topped up for sponging between shots, and slow-match was issued, to be coiled about the tubs with the lit end trapped in a notch, hanging over the water, to ignite the quills the old way.
Barefoot powder monkeys went below to queue up before the felt and leather screens at the door of the magazine, the screens properly wetted and weighted at the bottoms, to keep out sparks, which could send the tons of gunpowder stored within off in a titanic blast. Inside the magazine, the Master Gunner, Mr. Tunstall, his Mate, Shallcross, and the Yeoman of the Powder, Bohanon, in list slippers and leather aprons, passed out the first sewn cartridge bags, which the powder monkeys put into their leather or wooden cylinders.
Tompions were removed from the muzzles, and gun-captains chose the roundest, truest shot from the rope garlands or hatchway racks for the first broadsides, turning them over and over in their hands until satisfied.
'Load!' and the powder monkeys darted forward from the centreline of the deck and handed cartridges to the loaders, then once more dashed below for another, while loaders shoved cartridge down the iron throats of the guns, and the rammer men thumped them home. Round-shot came next, to be thumped in place, too, followed by damp waddings.
'Up ports!' and the gun-port lids were lowered, their blood red inner faces making a chequerboard against the wide, pale yellow horizontal hull stripe.
'Run out!' and gun crews threw themselves on the tackles, heaving 'til the truck-carriages thudded against the bulwarks, the wooden wheels and their ungreased axles rumbling and sqealing. The run-out tackles, blocked to the ring bolts set into the deck, were overhauled, as were the recoil tackles, and gun-captains and senior quarter gunners stuck one hand in the air to show that they were ready, and which was first. The powder monkeys returned with their second cartridges and knelt amidships, where they would bide 'til the artillery fired, and a further supply of propellant charge was needed.
'Marines at Quarters, sir,' Lt. Eades reported with a doff of his hat. Sharpshooters were in the fighting tops of each mast, a file of Marines were posted down both sail-tending gangways, and sea-soldiers with bayonetted muskets stood guard at each companionway hatch to make sure that, from that moment, only officers, powder monkeys, Midshipmen, or the Surgeon's loblolly boys, with their stretchers to fetch wounded to the orlop surgery, could go below, or come up. 'Arms chests opened, and weapons ready to hand, as well.'
'Very good, sir,' Lewrie replied.
'The ship as at Quarters, sir,' Lt. Ballard reported a moment later.
'Capital, Mister Ballard. Now, heave us in to short stays, and ready to up-anchor,' Lewrie bade him, wiping his fingers of fatty-bacon and mustard smears, then his mouth, on his pocket handkerchief.
'Hoist from the flag, sir!' Midshipman Furlow piped up. 'The 'Preparative,' sir!'
By God, we're really goin' t'do it! Lewrie marvelled, wondering why he was so calm, for a rare once; Total lack o' sleep last night, I s'pose. His cabin steward, Pettus, took away his tin plate and pewter mug, and headed below. 'Take good care of the catlings, Pettus!'
