The Bomb Vessel

'There is a little dispute about the water in the King's Deep. The pilots incline to the view that it is deeper on the Middle Ground side. Briarly, master of the Bellona, opposes their view, while Captain Hardy and Captain Riou are undecided. The Admiral has two boats assembled, one for Briarly and myself, the other for Hardy and you…'

'Me?'

Quilliam smiled again but any explanation as to why Drinkwater had been specially selected was lost as the double doors of the cabin were opened by an immaculate, pig-tailed mess-man and a glittering assembly of gold- laced officers emerged. They were all smiling and shaking hands, having dined well and in expectation of lean commons on the morrow. Drinkwater recognised Admiral Graves and Captain Foley, familiar too was 'Bounty' Bligh of the Glutton, Edward Riou and George Murray of the Edgar, but the remainder were largely unknown to him. At the rear of the group the short, one-armed admiral, his breast ablaze with orders and crossed by the red ribbon of the Bath, had his left hand on the elbow of a tall post-captain who ducked instinctively beneath the deckhead beams.

'Ah, Quilliam,' said his lordship, catching sight of the two lieutenants, 'is all made ready?'

'Aye, my lord.'

'And you have briefed Lieutenant Drinkwater?' Quilliam nodded. 'Very good. Captain Hardy, I commend these two officers to you and I rely upon you to find out the truth of the matter.'

'Very well, my lord,' the tall captain growled and turned to the two lieutenants. 'Come gentlemen… Mr Briarly, let us make a start.'

They climbed down into the boats and were about to leave Elephant's side when Nelson's high-pitched voice called down to them.

'Are your oars muffled?'

'Yes my lord.'

'Very well. Should the Danish guard boat discover you, you must pull like devils, and get out of his way as fast as you can.'

There was a murmur of enthusiastic assent from the seamen at the oars.

'Good luck then.'

Hardy, captain of the St George anchored eight miles to the north, had brought his own boat. A bright young midshipman leant against the tiller. He was muffled in an expensive bearskin coat provided by an indulgent parent well acquainted with the fleet's destination weeks earlier.

'I've had a long pole prepared for sounding, Mr Drinkwater, it'll make less noise than a lead.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater wondered how close to the enemy they were to go that they needed to take such a precaution. They pulled in silence for a few minutes and Drinkwater noted their course by the light of the shaded lantern on the bottom boards.

'This north-going current is damned strong…'

'About two knots, sir.'

'Did you lay the mark on the south end of the Middle Ground?'

'Yes, sir. I laid a buoy on it and Lord Nelson ordered the buoy substituted by a boat.'

'Let us hope we can find it in the dark.'

They did find it. After half an hour of pulling east and then west after finding five fathoms, they discovered the set of the current was considerable and had misled them. But, having established the bearing of the moored boat from the admiral's lights hung in Elephant's rigging, they began to move away.

'May I suggest we pull round the mark boat, sir, in order to establish that it has not substantially dragged and still marks the south end of the shoal.'

Hardy grunted approval and Drinkwater directed the midshipman while a man dipped the long pole overboard like a quant and peered at the black and white markings painted on it.

'It seems to be holding sir. I was worried because I only laid moorings for a spar buoy. I think Mr Fothergill must have laid a proper anchor.'

''Tis no matter, Mr Drinkwater. Time in reconnaissance is seldom wasted.'

They pulled west, losing the edge of the bank and swinging across the King's Channel that ran north, parallel to the Amager shore, the waterfront of Copenhagen and the defensive line of the Danish guns. The water deepened rapidly and the call came back that there was 'No bottom' until it gradually began to shoal on the Amager side.

Hardy swung the boat to the north while a man forward with a boat hook shoved the ice aside and the oarsmen struggled to pull rhythmically despite the floes that constantly impeded their efforts.

'There seems to be between six and eight fathoms in the main channel, sir,' Drinkwater said in a low voice after crouching in the boat's bottom and consulting his notebook. He was by no means certain of their exact position, but their line of bearing from Elephant was still reasonably accurate. 'The Middle Ground seems to be steep-to, with gentler shoaling on the Amager shore.'

Hardy leaned over his shoulder and nodded. 'Now I think you had better shutter that lantern and wrap canvas round it… not a word now, you men. Pull with short easy strokes and let the current do the work… Mr Fancourt…' Hardy pointed to larboard and the midshipman nodded. Drinkwater looked up and it took some minutes for his eyes to adjust again after the yellow lamplight.

Then he saw the enemy, dark, huge and menacing ahead of them. The southernmost ship of the Danish line was an old battleship. The spars that reared into the night sky showed that she had been cut down and was not rigged to sail, but two tiers of gun ports could just be made out and she was moored head and stern to chains.

Perfect silence reigned, broken only by the occasional plash and dribble as Hardy himself wielded the sounding pole. They could hear voices that spoke in a totally unfamiliar tongue, but they were not discovered. They were so close as they sounded round the enemy vessel that they thought there must have been times when the upper end of the pole appeared above the enemy's rail.

Greatly daring, Hardy pulled once more across the channel while Drinkwater scribbled the soundings down blind, hoping he could sort out his notes later. Satisfied at last, Hardy turned to the midshipman.

'Very well, Mr Fancourt, you may rejoin the admiral.'

Six bells rang out on Elephant's fo'c's'le and the sentries were crying 'All's well!' as Hardy's boat returned alongside. Drinkwater followed Hardy under the poop and into the brilliantly lit great cabin. Briarly and Quilliam had returned ahead of them. Clustered round the master-chart that now carried much greater detail than when Drinkwater had last seen it were Nelson, Riou and Foley.

Nelson looked up. 'Ah, Hardy, you are back… Mr Briarly, oblige these two with a glass… right, what have you for us, Hardy?'

Drinkwater slopped the rum that Briarly handed him. He was shaking from the cold and though the cabin was not excessively warm, the candles seemed to make it very hot after the hours spent in the boat. He swallowed the rum gratefully and slowly mastered his shivering. There was clearly a dispute going on over the comparative depths.

'Call the pilots,' said Nelson at length. After a delay the elderly men entered the cabin. They too had dined and drunk well and spoke in thick Yorkshire accents. Drinkwater listened to the debate in progress round the chart- table. He helped himself to a second glass of rum and began to feel better, the alcohol numbing the ache in his arm. At last Nelson suppressed further argument.

'Gentlemen, gentlemen, it seems that the greater depth of water is to be found on the Middle Ground side of the King's Deep, yet, if what Captain Hardy says holds good for the length of the Channel, some danger will attend holding too strictly to that assertion, for the rapid shoaling on that side will give little warning of the proximity of the bank. Foley, we must include some such reference in the orders. Masters must pay attention to the matter and remark the leadsmen's calls with great diligence. I see little risk to the fleet if this injunction is remembered. Mr Drinkwater's buoy at the southern end of the Middle Ground is the keystone to the enterprise. Gentlemen I wish you good night…'

Drinkwater returned to Virago in a borrowed boat. His mind was woolly with fatigue and Nelson's rum. But the ache in his arm had almost gone, together with his worries over Nelson's opinion of him.