The Bomb Vessel

guttering lantern on the gunwhale.

'Head south, now, Mr Q, pass across his stern so we can hail him.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'Everything all right, Mr Easton?'

'Aye, sir. We anchored to the buoy sinker and have almost readied the first buoy…' The sound of hammering came from the boat.

'Keep showing your light, Mr Easton. Head south south east, Mr Q, pull for three minutes then turn west.'

Beside him Quilhampton began to whisper, 'One, and two, and three, and four…'

Drinkwater kept his eyes on the light aboard Easton's boat. Presently he felt the pressure of the tiller as Quilhampton turned west. He listened to the headsman's chant.

'No bottom, no bottom, no bottom… no bottom, five!'

'Holdwater all! Anchor forrard there!'

A splash answered Quilhampton's order, followed by the thrum of hemp over a gunwhale. 'Oars… oars across the boat…'

The men pulled their looms inboard and bent their heads over their crossed arms. Backs heaved as the monotonous labour ceased for a while. Drinkwater took a bearing of Easton's feeble light and found it to be north by east a half east.

'Issue water and biscuit, Mr Q.' He raised his voice. 'Change places, lads, carefully now, we'll have grog issued when we lay the first buoy. Well done the leadsman. Are you very wet Tregembo?'

'Fucking soaked, zur.' There was a low rumble of laughter round the boat.

'Serves 'ee right for volunteerin',' said an anonymous voice in the darkness and they all laughed again.

'Right, we wait now, for Mr Easton. Give him the three lights Mr Q—'

Quilhampton raised the lantern from the bottom boards and held it up three times, receiving a dousing of Easton's in reply, but then the master's lantern reappeared on the gunwhale and nothing seemed to happen for a long time. A restive murmur went round the boat as the perspiration dried on the oarsmen and the cold set in, threatening to cramp ill-nourished and overexerted muscles.

'I daresay he's experiencing some delay in getting the buoy over,' said Drinkwater and, a few moments later, the light went out. Five minutes afterwards Easton was hailing them.

'We tangled with a boat from Harpy, sir. He demanded what we were doing in his sector.'

'What did you say?'

'Said we were from Virago executing Lord Nelson's orders, he used the password 'Westmoreland' to which I replied 'Northumberland'.'

'Did that satisfy him?'

'Well he said he'd never heard of Virago, sir, but Lord Nelson sounded familiar and would we be kind enough to find out how far to the south this damned bank went.'

'Only too happy to oblige… sound round me then carry on to the south…'

'D'you think the Danes'll attack us, sir?' asked Quilhampton.

'To be frank I don't know; if 'twas the French doing this at Spithead I doubt we would leave 'em unmolested. On the other hand they seem to have made plenty of preparations to receive us and may wish to lull us a little. Still, it would be prudent to keep a sharp lookout, eh?'

'Aye, sir.'

They waited what seemed an age before the three lights were shown from Easton's boat then they continued south, the men stiff with cold and eager to work up some warmth. After sounding round the master's boat they left it astern, the lead plopping overboard as the oars thudded gently against the thole pins.

As the leadsman found the five fathom line the boat was anchored to the net of round shot on its ten fathom line and Drinkwater had the oars brought inboard and stowed while they prepared the buoy. Hauling alongside the four planks and two spars the men pulled them aboard, dripping over their knees, and cast off the lashings.

'Do you make sure the holes in the planks coincide before you nail 'em, Mr Q, or we're in trouble…'

They hauled the awkward and heavy planks across the boat in the form of a cross and, holding the lantern up, aligned the holes. Nailing the planks proved more difficult than anticipated since the point at which the hammer struck was unsupported. Eventually the nails were driven home and spunyarn lashings passed to reinforce them.

The four arm bridle was soon fitted and the awkward contraption manoeuvred to take the pole up through its centre. Eventually, as Easton completed pulling round them and set off for the south, they bent their anchor line to the bridle and prepared to cast off.

'Three lights, sir,' reported Quilhampton.

'Yes,' said Drinkwater, holding up his hand compass, 'and I fancy the bank is trending a little to the westward. Very well,' he snapped the compass shut, 'cast off from the buoy!'

He looked astern as they pulled away. The thin line of the spar soon disappeared in the darkness but the weft streamed out just above the horizon against the slightly lighter sky.

They laboured on throughout the small hours of the night, celebrating their success from time to time in two-finger grog. The trend to the east did not develop although Easton laid a second buoy before the bank swung southward again.

Drinkwater's boat was on its fifth run towards the west and already the sky was lightening in the east when Drinkwater realised something was wrong.

'Oars!' he commanded and the men ceased pulling, their oars coming up to the horizontal. He bent over the little compass and compared its findings with the steering compass in the bottom of the boat. Easton's boat was well on the starboard quarter. Ahead of them he thought he could see the low coast of Amager emerging from the darkness, but he could not be sure. The boat slewed as an ice floe nudged it.

'I believe we've overshot the bank, Mr Q. Turn north, and keep the lead going forrard there!'

'Aye, aye, zur!'

As the daylight grew it became clear that they had misjudged their distance from Easton and over-run the tail of the bank for some distance, but after an anxious fifteen minutes Tregembo found the bottom.

As they struggled to get their second buoy over, Easton came up to them.

'Don't bother to sound round me, Mr Easton, this is the tail of the bank all right.'

'Well done, sir.'

'And to you and your boat. You may transfer aboard here, Mr Easton, with your findings. Mr Q you will take Mr Easton's boat back to the ship.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'Buoy's ready, zur.'

Very well, hold on to it there…' The boats bumped together and Easton and Quilhampton exchanged places. 'A rum issue before we part, eh?'

The men managed a thin cheer and in the growing light Drinkwater saw the raw faces and sunken eyes of his two boats' crews. The wind was still fresh from the north west and it would be a hard pull to windward for them. A heavy ice floe bumped the side of the boat. 'Bear it off Cottrell!'

There was no move from forward. 'Cottrell! D'you hear man?'

'Beg pardon, sir, but Cottrell's dead sir.'

'Dead?' Drinkwater stood and pushed his way forward, suddenly realising how chilled and cramped his muscles had become through squatting over his lantern, chart and compasses. He nearly fell overboard and only saved himself by catching hold of a man's shoulder. It was Cottrell's and he lolled sideways like a log. His face was covered by a thin sheen of ice crystals and his eyes stared accusingly out at Drinkwater.

'Get him in the bottom.' Drinkwater stumbled aft again and sat down.

'Can't sir, he's stiff as a board.'

Drinkwater swore beneath his breath. 'Shall I pitch 'im overboard sir?'

He had not liked to give such an order himself. 'Aye,' he replied, 'Poor old Jack… We have no alternative, lads.'

'He weren't a bad old sod, were 'e?'