And what's all that about? Lewrie helplessly wondered as he let go Ballard's hand, the hand snatched from his grasp, more-like by Ballard himself, not from a need to writhe in pain, or…
Lewrie got back to his feet, dusting the knees of his breeches, and his fingers came away bloody with Ballard's gore, which had spread in a wide pool.
'Very well, then, gentlemen… carry on,' he ordered, reaching out to help the Sailing Master to his feet.
'Here, sir,' Lt. Farley reported himself, dashing two finger to the brim of his hat in a casual salute. 'Mister Fox has taken over my place, and Midshipman Sealey now commands the foredeck.'
'The Dane, yonder, is mistakenly dividing his fire 'tween us and Amazon and Blanche, Mister Farley,' Lewrie icily told him, his eyes gone Arctic grey. ' 'Twixt the three of us, we should give her a hellish- good pounding. Keep up the rate of fire, sir.'
'I shall, sir,' Farley firmly declared, though his eyes rolled in horror of the bodies being borne off, and all the blood soaking in the snow-white plankings and the tarred oakum between.
Lewrie forced himself to pace to the larboard bulwarks by the head of the larboard gangway ladder, quite near the place the Danish 24-pounder shot had entered, and took out his pocket-watch, again. It was almost Noon of Maundy Thursday, and the day showed no sign of ending.
'Run-out your guns!' Lt. Fox was bellowing in Farley's stead. 'Prime! Take aim! By broadside… Fire!'
And the chief of the loblolly gang paused, snapped his fingers as if remembering something, then bent over to lift Lt. Ballard's leg, shoe, and what was left of his silk stocking and breeches, and tossed them over the starboard side.
CHAPTER FORTY
Pace… fret… set a brave example, Lewrie chid himself as the hours crawled by, for there was little for a captain to do once his ship was engaged at such long range; it was all up to the skill and the speed of his gunners, the steadiness of his crew. Look at your watch, he reminded himself, finding that it was now half past one in the afternoon, which made him shake his head in wonder. Not too strongly, for the continual roar of the guns had given him a headache and rendered him half-deaf despite the candle wax in his ears.
'We seem to be gaining the upper hand, sir,' Lt. Farley said as Lewrie paced near his post at the forrud edge of the quarterdeck. 'The Danish fire is slackening… has been for some time now. Even that Three Crowns fort is firing slow.'
'Umphf' was Lewrie's comment on that, not quite sure if he had heard the Acting First Officer correctly. He returned to the bulwarks with his telescope, laid it through the stays and rat-lines of the larboard shrouds to steady it, and looked about.
The old two-decker on which they'd directed their fire was now mostly silent, only a gun here and there still firing, with most of her gun-ports devoid of black-iron barrels. The frigate anchored North of her-! 'She's struck her colours!' Lewrie shouted. 'Look, there!' he insisted, jabbing his arm at her. 'They're abandonin' her, see?'
The frigate was surrendered, the Danish flag meekly draped over her transom, and a white bed-sheet hoisted aloft in her damaged rigging. Rowboats were departing her unengaged side, heading for the shore.
Lewrie spun about to look South, eyes wide in wonder to note how much the dense pall of gunpowder smoke had thinned, to see several of the Danish warships nigh-dismasted, and slowly drifting into the mudflats without controlling hands on their helms. They, too, were being abandoned. The rowboats that had fetched out a continous supply of powder and shot and fresh volunteers were now busy bearing away survivors, coming out to the silent warships empty but for their oarsmen. Almost all of those pesky little gunboats to leeward of the Danish main line had drifted away, too. Smoke billowed from a couple of larger Danish 'liners' and older 60s and 64s, and while they had not yet struck their national colours or hoisted white flags of surrender, their guns were silent. For the most part, it was the forts, the Lynetten and Three Crowns, that continued the fight.
'Damned if it don't look as if we're beatin' 'em, Mister Farley,' Lewrie exulted as he lowered his glass. 'Beatin' 'em like a rug!'
'By broadside… Fire!' Lt. Fox yelled yet again, and the 18-pounders barked and roared, recoiling inboard. It was ragged, and it was slower than desired practice after all this time, but Thermopylae's 'teeth' could still bite, and were just as sharp as they had been hours before.
Lewrie looked down into the waist at his gunners. Despite a cold day, men were now stripped bare-chested, streams of sweat coursing pale as winter creeks through a coal-dust grime of blackpowder and gunsmoke, and their white duck slop-trousers had gone grey and grimy. Some shook their heads to clear their hearing, vainly protected by neckerchiefs bound round their heads to cover their ears; they served their guns by weary rote, by then. Idle gunners from the silent starboard battery spelled their larboard mates long enough for weary hands to go to the scuttle-butts for water, and to lean on their knees and gasp for air for a precious minute or two. The powder monkey lads no longer dashed up from the magazine with their cylinders, but seemed to belly-crawl up the steep companionway ladders, mouths agape and panting.
'Oh, lovely shootin', there!' Lewrie shouted for all to hear as their latest broadside smashed into the stump- masted Danish two-decker, their main target all morning. Chunks of wood flew fighting-top high, as bulwarks and sides were struck, more shot-holes punched through her hull planking, some low on her weed-fouled waterline.
And there was no reply!
'By God, I think we've done it!' Lewrie cried again.
Now the smoke was thinned, Lewrie could ascertain that she was not a Third Rate 74 gunner, but an older 60 or 64… with not a gun firing!
'Yes!' he exulted, rising on his boot toes as the Danish flag, which had been shot away at least three times, fluttered down a halliard to disappear behind what was left of her poop deck bulwarks And a minute later, as Thermopylae drilled yet another broadside into her, a white flag took its place!
'About time, too,' the Sailing Master muttered.
'Well, the Danes are a stubborn lot, Mister Lyle,' Marine Lt. Eades quipped.
'Oh, not them, sir,' Lyle countered. 'I mean them, yonder. Sir Hyde's squadron… here at last.'
'Cease fire on the two-decker, Mister Fox!' Lewrie shouted to the waist. 'Quoins out, and be ready to engage the fortress. Parker's come, did ye say, Mister Lyle?'
'Aye, sir. Yonder. Still about four miles North'rd.'
Sure enough, Lewrie could espy at least three British 'liners' ever so slowly creeping to the mouth of the harbour entrances, short-tacking ponderously and most-like making no more than a mile per hour, but they were making their presence known, at long last.
'Damn my eyes!' Capt. Hardcastle yelped as a 36-pounder shot from the Trekroner fortress howled close overhead. 'Isn't it over and done yet?' He sounded more affronted than frightened.
Captain Riou's frigate, Amazon, and the other ships under his command, were shifting their fire onto the Three Crowns fortress, as futile as that seemed to be. Though the army gunners over there had begun the day un- practiced and raw, they had learned a few lessons in gunnery over the hours, and though firing very slowly, were becoming more accurate.
'Signal from London, sir!' Midshipman Tillyard barked in a professional manner, the excitement drubbed out of him by then. 'It's… Number Thirty-Nine. 'Discontinue the Action.' Can't be!' he gawped as he re-read the signal through his telescope, comparing it to his illustrated signals book.
'Discontinue, mine arse!' Lewrie snapped, lifting and extending the tubes of his own glass to confirm it. 'Dammit. Dammit to Hell!' He spun about to look astern to Defiance, to Monarch, Ganges, and Lord Nelson's flagship, the Elephant. Number Sixteen was still flying at their signal halliards' peaks.
'Number Thirty-Nine with two guns, sir… the 'General' for all ships,' Midshipman Tillyard reported.
'We've won this battle, what's that man yonder thinking?' Is he blind?' Lewrie blustered. 'Well, I'll be damned if we will. Not 'til I see Nelson repeat the signal, we won't!' Open fire on the fortress, Mister Farley. Pin their ears back.'
'Elephant has hoisted 'Acknowledged,' sir, but still has Number Sixteen aloft,' Tillyard reported, mystified by this turn of events. 'Defiance still flies Number Sixteen, too.'
