The Bomb Vessel

PART THREE Lord Nelson

'It is warm work; and this day may be the last to any of us at a moment. But mark you! I would not be elsewhere for thousands.'

NELSON, COPENHAGEN, 2 April, 1801

Chapter Fourteen The Sound

 29-30 March 1801

'Two guns from the flagship, sir.'

'Very well, what o'clock is it?'

'It wants a few minutes of midnight, sir; wind's freshened a little from the west.'

Drinkwater struggled into his greygoe and hurried on deck. He looked up at the masthead pendant and nodded his approval as Rogers reported the hands mustering to weigh.

'Sheet home the topsails, Mr Rogers, and have headsails ready for hoisting. Mr Easton!'

'Sir?'

'Have you a man for the chains?'

'All ready'

'Very well.'

'One thing we can do is weigh the bloody anchor in the middle of the night,' offered Rogers in a stage whisper.

'Virago 'hoy!'

'Hullo?' Drinkwater strode to the rail to see the dim shape of a master's mate standing in the stern of a gig.

'Captain Murray desires that you move closer inshore towards Cronbourg Castle, sir. The bombs are to prepare to bombard at daylight!'

'Thank you.' Drinkwater turned inboard again. 'Can you make out Edgar in this mist?'

'Aye, sir, just, she's hoisted lanterns.'

Drinkwater saw the flare of red orpiment from the Edgar's stern.

'Bengal light, sir, signal to weigh.'

'Very well. Mr Matchett!'

'Sir?'

'Heave away!'

Virago filled her topsails as the anchor came a-trip and the water began to chuckle under her round bow. Keeping a careful watch to avoid collision Drinkwater conned the old ship south-eastwards in the wake of the Edgar. On either beam dark shapes with the pale gleam of topsails above indicated the other bombs creeping forward ready to throw their fire at the intransigent Danes. Then, barely an hour after they had got under way, the wind shifted, backing remorselessly and beginning to head them.

'Topsail's a-shiver, zur,'

'Brace her hard up, Mr Easton, God damn it!'

'Hard up, sir, aye, aye… it's no good sir, wind's drawing ahead.'

The concussion of guns from the darkness ahead and the dark rose glow of twin Bengal lights together with a blue rocket signalled the inevitable.

'Main braces, Mr Easton, down helm and stand by to anchor!'

Once again the anchor splashed overboard, once again Virago's cable rumbled through the hawse pipe and once again her crew clambered aloft to stow the topsails, certain in the knowledge that tomorrow they would have to heave the cable in again. They were nowhere near close enough to bombard as Murray intended.

All morning Drinkwater waited for the order to weigh as the light wind backed a little. During the afternoon the rest of the ships worked closer inshore and by the evening the whole fleet had brought to their anchors four miles to the north west of Cronbourg castle. Drinkwater surveyed the shore. The dark bulk of the fortress was indistinct but the coast of Zeeland was more heavily wooded than at Gilleleje. The villages of Hellebaek and Hornbaek were visible, the latter with a conspicuous church steeple looking toylike as the sun westered to produce a flaming sunset. It picked out not only the villages of Denmark but small points of metallic fire and the pink planes of sunlit stone where the guns of the Swedish fortress at Helsingborg on the opposite side of The Sound peered from their embrasures.

Men lingered on deck in silence watching the Danish shore where figures could be seen on foot and horseback. Here and there a carriage was observed as the population of Elsinore came out to look at this curiosity, the heavy hulls of the British ships, the tracery of their masts and yards silhouetted against the blood red sunset. It seemed another omen, and to the Danes a favourable one. The image of those ships reeking in their own blood-red element was not lost on Drinkwater who wrote of it in his journal before turning again to the stained notebook he had consulted when the fleet had made for the Great Belt.

The book was one of several left him after the death of Mr Blackmore, the old sailing master of the Cyclops. Drinkwater had been his brightest pupil on the frigate and the old man had left both his notebooks and his quadrant to the young midshipman. The notebooks had been meticulously kept and inspired Drinkwater to keep his own journal in considerable detail. Blackmore had carried out several surveys and copied foreign charts, particularly of the Baltic, an area with which he had been familiar, having commanded a ship in the Scandinavian trade.

Drinkwater looked at the chartlet of The Sound. The ramparts of Cronbourg were clearly marked together with the arcs of fire of the batteries and a note that their range was no more than one and a half miles. The Sound was two and a half miles wide and the fleet could not hope to pass unscathed if they received fire from both Helsingborg and Cronbourg.

Drinkwater was familiar with the current. It had frustrated them already, usually running to the north but influenced by the wind with little tidal effect. The Disken shoal formed a middle ground but should not present any problem to the fleet. It was the guns of Cronbourg that would do the damage, those and the Swedish cannon on the opposite shore.

Drinkwater went on deck before turning in. It was bitterly cold again with a thin layer of high cloud: Trussel was on deck.

'All quiet, Mr Trussel?'

'Aye sir, like the grave.'

'Moonrise is about two-fifteen and the almanac indicates an eclipse.'

'Ah, I'd better warn the people, there's plenty of them as still believes in witchcraft and the like.'

'As you like, Mr Trussel.' Drinkwater thought of his own obsession with Hortense Santhonax and wondered if there were not something in old wives' tales. There were times when a lonely man might consider himself under a spell. He thought, too, of Edward, and where he might be this night. Trussel recalled him.

'To speak the truth, Mr Drinkwater, I'd believe any omen if it meant making some progress. This is an interminable business, wouldn't you say?'

'Aye, Mr Trussel, and the Danes have been well able to observe every one of our manoeuvres.'

'And doubtless form a poor opinion of 'em, what with all the shilly shallying. I've never seen so much coming and going even when the Grand Fleet lay at St Helen's. Why your little boat-trip t'other morning went unremarked by anyone.'