The Bomb Vessel

Chapter Seventeen The Last Blunders

2 April 1801, Forenoon 

Drinkwater was called at eight bells in the middle watch. He was sour-mouthed and worse tempered. The chill in his cabin had brought back the ache in his arm and the insufficient sleep had left him feeling worse than ever. Rogers came in, having just taken over the deck from Trussel, with the news that the wind had sprung up from the south east. 'It seems our luck has changed at last, sir.'

'Huh! Get me hot water…'

'Tregembo's got the matter in hand…'

'Tregembo?'

'He spent yesterday sponging your best uniform and sharpening your sword. There was a deal of activity last night. Blanche dragged her anchor and there were numerous boats pulling about.' Rogers lifted the decanter from its fiddle and poured a generous measure. 'Here Nat, drink this, you'll feel better.' He held out the glass.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater shuddered as the raw spirit hit his empty stomach. 'Thanks Sam.'

'I've called all hands and got the galley stove fired up to fill 'em full of burgoo and molasses for ballast.'

'Very good. Did you enjoy your dinner?'

'Yes, thank you. Old Lettsom trilled us some jolly airs and Matchett sung us 'Tom Bowling' and some other stuff by Dibdin.' He paused and seemed to be considering something.

'What is it?'

'Jex, sir…'

'Oh?'

'Acted rather oddly. Left us abruptly in the middle of dinner and we found him sitting on the bowsprit, tight as a tick and crying his bloody eyes out.'

'What time was this? Did any of the men see?'

'Well some did, sir. It happened about ten last night. Lettsom made us put him to bed, though I was inclined to put him under arrest…'

'No, no. You have been a trifle hard on him, Sam.'

'Bloody man's a coward, sir…'

'That's a stiff allegation to make. D'you have evidence to support it?'

'Aye, during the action with the luggers we found him cowering on the spare sails.'

'Why didn't you report him then?' asked Drinkwater sharply, getting up. Rogers was silent for a moment.

'Saw no point in bothering you…'

'Kept damned silent for your own purposes, more like it,' Drinkwater suddenly blazed. 'Jex is the worst kind of purser, Sam, but I had the measure of the man and now you have goaded him to this extreme…' Drinkwater fell silent as Tregembo knocked and entered the cabin. He brought a huge bowl of steaming hot water and put it down on the cabin chest, then he bustled about, laying out Drinkwater's best uniform and clean undergarments.

'You're worse than a bloody wife, Tregembo,' said Drinkwater partially recovering his good temper as the rum spread through him.

'Very well, Mr Rogers,' he said at last, 'let us forget the matter. As long as he stands to his station today we'll say no more about any aspect of it.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' replied Rogers woodenly, leaving the cabin.

After Tregembo had left Drinkwater stripped himself, decanted a little water with which to shave then lifted the bowl of water onto the deck. For a few shuddering moments he immersed as much of himself as he could, dabbing half-heartedly with a bar of soap and drying himself quickly. Bathing and putting on clean underwear was chiefly to reduce infection of any wounds he might suffer but, in fact, it raised his morale and when he stepped on deck in the dawn, his boat cloak over two shirts and his best coat, he had forgotten the labours of the night.

He paced the poop in the growing light, looking up occasionally at the masthead pendant to check the wind had not shifted. He could scarcely believe that after all the delays, disappointments and hardships, the wind that had played them so foul for so long should actually swing into the required quarter as if on cue.

Tregembo approached him with a crestfallen look. 'Mr Drinkwater, zur.'

'Eh? What is it Tregembo?'

'Your sword, zur, you forgot your sword.'

'Ah… er, yes, I'm sorry, and thank you for attending to it yesterday.'

Tregembo grunted and handed the weapon over. Drinkwater took it. The leather scabbard was badly worn, the brass ferrule at the end scratched. The stitching of the scabbard was missing at one point and the rings were almost worn through where they fastened to the sling. He half drew the blade. The wicked, thin steel glinted dully, the brass hilt was notched and scored where it had guarded off more than a few blows and the heavy pommel, that counterbalanced the blade and made the weapon such a joy to handle, reminded him of a slithering fight on the deck of a French lugger when he had consigned a man to oblivion with its weight. The thought of that unknown Frenchman's murder made him think of Edward and he looked at the horizon to the north west, where the spires of Copenhagen were emerging from the night. He could see the line of the Danish ships, even pick out the tiny points of colour where their red ensigns already fluttered above the batteries. He buckled on the sword.

A feeling that something was wrong entered his head and it was some time before he detected its cause. The boat marking the southern end of the Middle Ground was missing.

It was clear Nelson had not slept. Drinkwater learned afterwards that he had laid down in his cot and spent the night dictating. He reported the missing mark only to hear that Nelson had already been informed and had sent for Brisbane to move Cruizer onto the spot and anchor there as a mark.

'Thanks to you and Hardy we have the bearing from Elephant so Brisbane should have no very great trouble.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Come, Drinkwater, help yourself to some coffee from the sideboard there…'

'Thank you, my lord.'

'There should be something to eat, I shall be sending for all captains shortly so you may as well wait. Ah Foley…' Drinkwater did as he was bid, breakfasted and tried not to eavesdrop on Nelson's complex conversations with a variety of officers, secretaries and messengers who seemed to come into the cabin in an endless procession.

At seven o'clock every commander in Nelson's division had assembled on board the Elephant. Among the blue coats the scarlet of Colonel Stewart and Lieutenant-Colonel Brock commanding the detachment of the 49th Foot made a bright splash of colour, while the dull rifle-green of Captain Beckwith's uniform reflected a grimmer aspect of war.

Apart from the council aboard the flagship the British fleet seethed with activity. Drinkwater had little choice but to trust to the energies of Rogers and Tumilty in preparing the Virago for action, but he was learning that as a commander in such a complex operation as that intended by Nelson, it was more important to comprehend his admiral's intentions. Boats swarmed about the ships. On the decks of the battleships red-coated infantrymen drilled under their sergeants and were inspected by the indolent subalterns. Mates and lieutenants manoeuvred the big flat-boats into station while on every ship the chain slings were passed round the yards, the bulkheads knocked down, the boats not already in the water got outboard and towed astern, the nettings rigged and the decks sanded. Officers frequently glanced up at the masthead to see if the wind still held favourable.

Nelson explained his intended tactics by first describing the Danish line of defence:

'The enemy has eighteen vessels along the western side of the King's Deep. They mount some seven hundred guns of which over half are estimated to be above twenty-four pounds calibre. At the northern end, the line is supported by the Trekroner Forts. It is also supported by shore batteries like the Lynetten…' Each officer bent over his copy of the chart and made notes. Nelson went on, '… the force of the batteries is thought to be considerable and may include furnaces for heating shot. The Trekroner also appears to be supported by two