The Bomb Vessel (20 page)

The fleet was hove to when Parker rejoined to await the results of Vansittart's embassy. Just before dark the
Blanche
was sighted making up from the south. The news that she brought was eagerly awaited by men who had had a bellyful of shilly-shallying.

There are many levels at which a man can worry and Drinkwater was no exception. Over-riding every moment of his life, waking and sleeping, was concern for his ship and its performance within so large a fleet. Beneath this constant preoccupation lay a growing conviction that the expedition had been left too late. In the two days since
Blanche
rejoined the fleet a number of alarming rumours had circulated. It was learned that Vansittart's terms had been rejected by Count Bernstorff and the Danish government. Both Vansittart and Drummond, the accredited British envoy to the Danish court, had been given their passports and told to leave. Britons resident in Denmark had been advised to quit the country while the Swedish navy, already possessing its first British prize, the
Blazer
, was making belligerent preparations at Carlscrona. Worse still, the Russians were reported cutting through the ice at Revel.

But it was the inactivity of their own admiral that most worried the British. Every hour the Commander-in-Chief waited, robbed them of surprise, and every hour the fleet lay idle increased the gossip and rumour that spread from passing boat to gunroom to lower deck. Vansittart had given Parker formal instructions to commence hostilities in one breath and warned him of the formidable preparations made at Copenhagen in another. Drummond endorsed the determination of the Danes and promised the hesitant Parker a bloody nose. After the first conference aboard
London
, at which Nelson was present, Parker had excluded his second-in-command and Rear Admiral Graves from further consultation. Instead he interviewed the pilots from the Hull Trinity House who were as apprehensive as the admiral and informed Parker that they were familiar with the navigation of The Sound alone, and could undertake no responsibility for the navigation of the Great Belt. Nelson, who saw the Russians as the greatest threat, thought that defeat of the Tsar would automatically destroy the Baltic Alliance, wished to take a detachment of the fleet by the Great Belt and strike directly at Revel. He had made his recommendations in writing and Dommett, the captain of the
fleet, had emerged from Parker's cabin, his face a mask of agony, to reveal to the assembled officers on the
London's
quarterdeck that Parker had struck out every single suggestion made by Vice-Admiral Nelson.

It was a story that had gone round the fleet like wildfire and together with the rumour circulated from
Blanche
about Danish preparations, added to the feeling that they were too late.

Lieutenant Drinkwater was a prey to all these and other worries as he stood upon
Virago
's poop on the freezing morning of March 26th. He was staring through his glass at a large boat flying the red flag of Denmark together with a white flag of truce, as it pulled through the fifty-two British ships anchored off Nakke Head at the entrance to The Sound.

Meanwhile in
London's
great cabin, a confident young aide-de-camp with a message from Governor Stricker at Elsinore told Parker that if his guns were no better than his pen he had better return to England. There were two hundred heavy cannon at Cronbourg Castle, together with a garrison of three thousand men and Parker, used to the clear waters of the West Indies, was apprehensive of dark nights and fields of ice. Parker's hesitation was obvious to the young Danish officer and the worried countenances of
London
's officers, as they waited in the cold, led him to conclude they shared their admiral's apprehensions.

Drinkwater began to pace
Virago
's poop as the watch idled round the deck, needlessly coiling ropes and unenthusiastically chipping the scale off a box of shot set on the after mortar hatch. A low mumble came from them and exactly reflected the mood of the entire fleet.

Two days earlier, after conferring with Parker, Vansittart and Drummond had been sent home in the lugger
Kite
. Drinkwater had taken advantage of the departure of the lugger to send a letter to Lord Dungarth and the subject of that letter was the fundamental worry that underlay every thought of every waking hour. Since the interview with Jex, Drinkwater had striven to work out a solution to the problem of Edward. Sweating at the thought of his guilt, of the reception of his first letter to Dungarth sent by Lady Parker, and of Jex's knowledge, he had spent hours formulating a plan, considering every turn of events and of how each circumstance would be regarded by others. Now the constant delays denied him the opportunity to land Edward. The last few days had had a nightmare quality enhanced by the bad
weather, the freezing cold and the continual nagging worries over the fleet itself.

For the first time in months he had a nightmare, the terrifying spectre of a white clad woman who reared over his supine body to the clanking of chains. With the illogical certainty of dreams she seemed to rise higher and higher above him, yet never diminished in size, while her Medusa head became the smiling face of someone he knew. He woke shivering yet soaked in sweat, his heart beating violently. Compelled by some subconscious urge he had risen in his night-shirt and struck a light to the cabin lantern and spread out the roll of canvas from the bottom of his sea-chest. Already the paint was cracking but, in the light of the lantern, it did not detract from the face that looked back at him: the face in his dream. The portrait was larger than the two now hanging on the forward bulkhead. It showed a young woman with auburn hair piled upon her head. Pearls were entwined in the coiffure that was at once negligent and contrived. Her creamy shoulders were bare and her breasts were just visible behind a wisp of gauze. The grey eyes looked directly out of the canvas and Drinkwater shivered, not from cold, but with the sensation of someone walking upon his grave. The lovely Hortense Montholon had been brought off a French beach in the last days of peace. For months she had masqueraded as an émigrée, sending information from England to her lover Edouard Santhonax in Paris. She had been returned to France by Lord Dungarth and married Santhonax on his escape following the battle of Camperdown.

Drinkwater had acquired the portrait by his capture of the French frigate
Antigone
in the Red Sea. She had been commanded by the same Santhonax and, though he had escaped yet again, Drinkwater had kept the canvas. It had lain in the bottom of his sea-chest, cut from its wooden stretcher and hidden from his wife, for it was unlikely that Elizabeth would understand its fascination. But to Drinkwater it symbolised something more than the likeness of a beautiful woman. The face of Hortense Santhonax was the face of the enemy, not the face of the tow-haired Danes but a manifestation of the force now consuming the whole continent of Europe.

He could not see it objectively yet, but the liberal allure of the French Revolution had long faded. Even those staunch republicans, the Americans, had disassociated themselves from the
lawless disregard for order with which the French pursued their foreign policies or instructed their ragged, irresistible and rapacious armies. He remembered something Dungarth had said the night they landed Hortense upon the beach at Criel: ‘Nine parts of humanity is motivated by a combination of self-interest and apathy. Only the tenth part hungers for power, and it is this which a prudent people guards itself against. In France the tenth part has the upper hand.' As he stood shivering in the dawn Drinkwater glimpsed the future in a flash. This rupture with Denmark, whatever its sinister motivations from the steppes, was a single symptom of a greater cancer, a cancer that fed upon a doctrinaire philosophy with a spurious validity. He was engaged in a mighty struggle between moderation and excess, and his spartan life had filled him with a horror of excess.

A wild knocking at his door caused him to roll the portrait up. ‘What is it?'

‘The admiral's made the signal to prepare to weigh, sir.' It was Quilhampton's voice. ‘Wind is fresh westerly, sir and it's eight bells in the middle watch.'

‘Very well, call all hands, I'll be up directly.'

The day that followed had been a disaster. In a rising wind which caused problems to the smaller vessels in weighing their anchors, the fleet had got under way at daylight. Led by the 74-gun
Edgar
with her yellow topsides, they beat to the westward, along the north coast of the flat, featureless coast of Zeeland.
Edgar
's captain, George Murray, had recently surveyed the Great Belt and it was by this passage that Sir Hyde Parker had finally decided to pass into the Baltic. The Commander-in-Chief did not hold his determination very long. In the wake of
Edgar
, slightly inshore of the main battle fleet, the smaller ships tacked wearily to windward. Ahead of
Virago
were the seven bombs, astern of her the other tenders. At eleven o'clock while Drinkwater consulted his chart, listened to the monotonous chant of the leadsman and occasionally referred to the old, worn notebook left him years earlier as part of Blackmore's bequest, the
Zebra
struck the Zeeland's Reef.

Alarmed by the lookout's shout, Drinkwater watched
Zebra
's fore topgallant go by the board and ordered
Virago
tacked at once. Soon after,
Edgar
had flown
Virago
's pennant with the order to assist
Zebra
and he had sent away his boats with two spare spars to lash across their gunwhales in order to carry out her anchor.

He had watched Rogers pull away over the choppy grey sea and been forced to kick his own heels in idleness until, just before dark, the combined efforts of the bomb ships' boats succeeded in getting
Zebra
off the reef.

While Drinkwater had spent the afternoon at anchor, Parker had been told an even more alarming piece of news. Someone in the flagship had informed the Commander-in-Chief that greater risks would have to be run by taking the fleet through the Great Belt. Alarmed by this and the accident to
Zebra
, Parker countermanded his orders and the fleet was ordered to return to its anchorage off Nakke Head.
Virago
, escorting the
Zebra
, had once again dropped her anchor at midnight, and now, in the chilly sunshine of the following morning Drinkwater looked across to where Mr Quilhampton and a party from
Virago
were helping the
Zebra
's people get up a new fore topgallant mast.

On his own fo'c's'le Mr Matchett was putting the finishing touches to the gammoning of their own refitted bowsprit. Over the rest of
Virago
the mood of listless despair hung like a cloud.

At last Drinkwater saw the Danish boat leave
London
's side and though during the afternoon reports came down to him where he dozed in his cabin, that Murray, Nelson, Graves and other officers were all visiting the flagship, nothing else happened.

Drinkwater woke from his sleep at about four o'clock. He could not afterwards explain it, but his mind was resolved over the problem of Edward. He would brook no further delay. He passed word for Quilhampton and Rogers.

‘Ah, Mr Rogers, I wish you to have the long boat made ready an hour before daylight with a barrel of biscuit in it, together with water barricoes, mast and sail. I want a crew told off tonight, say six men, with Tregembo as leading hand. Mr Quilhampton will command the boat and I shall accompany it. In the unlikely event of our being absent when the signal is made to weigh, you are to take charge. I will give you that order in writing when I leave.'

‘Very good, sir, may I ask . . . ?'

‘No, you may not.'

Rogers looked offended and turned on his heel. Drinkwater called him back.

‘I do not want any of your irreverent speculation on this matter, Sam. Be pleased to remember that.'

‘Aye aye, sir.' Drinkwater raised his eyebrows and stared
significantly at Quilhampton.

‘The same goes for you, Mr Q.'

‘Yes sir.'

‘Very well. Now pass word for the volunteer Waters to come aft and do you, Mr Q, mount a guard on my cabin and see we are not disturbed.'

Rogers opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and strode from the cabin. Drinkwater waited for Edward to appear, occupying the time by rummaging in a canvas bag he had had brought into the cabin by an inquisitive Mr Jex.

A knock at the door was followed by Mr Quilhampton's head. ‘Waters is here now, sir.'

‘Very well, show him in.'

Edward entered the cabin and stood awkwardly, looking around with a curious sheepishness. It suddenly struck Drinkwater that a month or two more might have made Edward into a seaman. Already he was lean and fit and had not been long enough on salt beef for it to have made much difference to him. But it was his attitude that most struck Drinkwater. Four months ago they had met as equals, now Edward had all the inherent awkwardness of one who felt socially inferior. The realisation embarrassed Drinkwater.