Inshore Squadron Read online

  Inflamed by the Danes’ superior tactics and manoeuvrability, the effect of the broadside brought new heart to the gun crews. Sponging out and shouting meaningless words into the drifting smoke they worked like demons, their arms and backs streaming sweat despite the chill air.

  “Fire!”

  Bolitho moved further aft; his eyes fixed on the leading ship as she began to fall downwind towards the Benbow’s murderous broadsides.

  All the months and weeks of drills born from dreary monotony were paying off now. Only a few distant waterspouts told of misses, and the majority of the shots, both ball and bar, were hitting their target. The Danes’ fore-topgallant mast was falling, slewing round drunkenly as it fought against the pull of shrouds and stays before thundering over the side in a tremendous splash.

  Benbow received another massive ball from somewhere ahead, and Bolitho saw two galleys moving towards the ship, firing as they approached. His heart sank as he saw Lookout beyond the billowing smoke. All but her mizzen had gone and she was drifting helplessly to the mercy of the galleys’ bombardment with only a few of her guns still able to reply.

  “Try and mark down those galleys with the bow-chasers!”

  Bolitho could feel the rage rising within him. Not one of despair or frustration, but something more terrible. It was cold, gripping his insides like a vice as he stared at the embattled vessels around him.

  It was all suddenly stark and clear. Like Damerum’s efforts to place him and his squadron here. Like his attempt to get Pascoe killed by a hired duellist. Now this. The sudden reality of defeat had acted as a spur rather than the opposite.

  “Signal Nicator to engage the other ship now!” He felt metal hiss overhead and crash hard into the poop. “Styx will support Nicator and Odin.”

  He swung round, seeking the nearest galleys, as the Danish two-decker staggered heavily downwind to be hammered again by Indomitable as she kept station on her flagship.

  “Full broadside, Thomas! We will alter course to starboard and engage with both sides.” He watched Nicator and then Odin as they acknowledged his signal and then snapped, “Steer east-nor’ east!”

  Men ran from side to side as both batteries of guns prepared to fire.

  Bolitho shouted, “It will have to be quick or the galleys will outpace us before we can rake them!”

  By turning downwind and away from the remaining enemy two-decker it might seem that Benbow was withdrawing from the fight. And by ordering Keen and Inch to attack the rest of the enemy formation he knew he might be sacrificing them and every man under their command.

  But he had to hit the galleys and destroy their confidence. Otherwise his whole squadron would be overwhelmed. No blame would lie with Damerum, for the Inshore Squadron would have served its purpose even in the blood of its own destruction. Nelson was at the gates of Copenhagen, and nothing which the galleys or anyone else could do would change that now.

  Bolitho saw Pascoe walking between the guns, his borrowed hat gone, his black hair blowing-across his face as he spoke to some of the seamen. He must be feeling the shock more deeply now, Bolitho thought, and even along the length of the deck he could see his unnatural stiffness.

  He heard Herrick explaining to Wolfe and Grubb exactly what he wanted, saw the seamen manning the braces and staring aloft at the sails, most of which were patterned with shot holes,

  “Stand by on the quarterdeck!”

  More shots hit the hull, but in the tension nobody cried out Gun crews stood by their tackles, the captains testing the trigger lines and picturing their targets.

  “Now! Put up your helm! Lee braces there! Roundly, lads!”

  Bolitho felt the deck begin to tilt, saw an upended fire-bucket spill water across the pale planking as once again Benbow responded to her masters.

  “The galleys are re-forming, sir!” Browne broke off choking in gunsmoke as the upper batteries crashed inboard once more from their ports.

  Bolitho strode to the nettings, seeing Nicator and Odin, their hulls overlapping as they closed the range with the Danish ships. Galleys milled around them, sweeps pulling and then backing with equal precision as their commanders handled them as if they and the guns were one weapon.

  Odin was pouring smoke from her side and poop, but Keen’s Nicator was firing at point-blank range at her adversary, so that as a full broadside smashed into the Danish ship she appeared to rock over as if struck by a mountainous sea.

  Benbow’s alteration of course had not only taken her away from the squadron, but had also isolated her amongst the galleys. Her first massive broadsides as she had swung downwind had taken the galleys completely by surprise, and seven of them had been sunk or smashed beyond recognition. Figures floundered amongst floating timbers and broken spars, and Bolitho guessed that some were survivors from the Lookout which had foundered without anyone seeing her final moments.

  Bolitho stared along the upper deck at the seamen and marines who had been working and firing, pulling wreckage and wounded men aside without a break since the opening shots. The hull was being hit again and again, and despite the din he could hear the occasional clank of pumps.

  “Odin’s signalling, sir! Require assistance!”

  Bolitho glanced across at Herrick and said, “Inch will have to hold on, Thomas.”

  He turned as a man fell kicking and choking on his own blood, cut down by a fragment of iron.

  Someone found the breath for a cheer as another galley rolled over, gutted by a packed charge of round-shot and grape.

  Falling further and further astern of her flagship, the Indomitable was fighting off attacks from both bow and quarter, the great balls slamming through the stern and forecastle, upending guns and forcing their crews to cower down for protection.

  Herrick, his hat gone, a pistol gripped in his hand, peered through the smoke and shouted, “Two more of ’em are closing astern!”

  There was a great crash, and Grubb yelled hoarsely, “Steerin’ carried away, sir!”

  A wildly flapping shadow swept overhead, and Bolitho felt himself being dragged roughly aside as the mizzen-topmast, spars and trailing creepers of cut rigging clattered and thundered over the larboard side.

  It was like being left naked. Guns crashed and recoiled as before, but as Benbow swung helplessly out of control the aim was lost. Men lay buried beneath great coils of fallen rope and blocks, others crept about on hands and knees like terrified dogs. There were many dead, too, including the marine lieutenant, Marston; an overturned cannon had crushed his chest and stomach to bloody pulp.

  Swale, the boatswain, was already there with his men, axes flashing, more concerned with freeing their ship from the trailing anchor of wreckage than with their fallen comrades.

  Herrick assisted Bolitho to his feet, his eyes wild as he shouted at his first lieutenant.

  “Send a master’s mate below, Mr Wolfe! Rig emergency steering tackle!”

  Bolitho nodded to Allday who had pulled him away from the splintered topmast as it fell.

  Major Clinton at the head of some marines charged aft and up to the poop to reinforce his men there as four and then five galleys closed around the Benbow’s unprotected stern. Again and again the deck jumped and quivered as ball after ball slammed through the counter and quarter gallery, against which the crack of Clinton’s muskets sounded puny and useless.

  A swivel blasted canister from the maintop, and Bolitho realised that the first Danish ship, which had been totally disabled by Benbow’s broadsides, had drifted down towards them and was barely fifty yards away. Shots banged back and forth across the narrowing arrowhead of water, and marksmen joined in to try and seek their enemy’s officers and add further to the confusion and death.

  The midshipman named Keys staggered and toppled sideways, but Allday caught him before he hit the deck.

  He stared past Allday at Bolitho, his eyes glazing rapidly as he managed to whisper, “Number . . . sixteen . . . still . . . flies . . . sir!” Then he died.

 
Bolitho looked up blindly, seeing another midshipman swarming up the main-topgallant mast with his rear-admiral’s flag trailing behind him like a banner.

  Wolfe jumped back as the last of the mizzen’s severed rigging slithered across the deck and vanished over the side.

  But he pivoted round again as Major Clinton shouted, “They’re boarding us, sir!”

  Herrick waved his pistol, but Bolitho shouted, “Save your ship, Thomas!” Then he beckoned to the gun crews at the disengaged side and added, “With me, Benbows!”

  Whooping and yelling like demented beings they charged through the poop and down the companion, half of which had been reduced to splinters. Steel clashed on steel, and in the semi-darkness men staggered and reeled through the smoke, cutlasses and boarding axes painting the deckhead and timbers in shining patterns of blood.

  A pistol banged out, and through the wardroom’s shattered stern windows Bolitho saw men leaping up from the galleys which were hooking on to the counter and fighting their way inboard. Many fell to Clinton’s muskets, but still more appeared, yelling and cursing as they grappled with Benbow’s seamen. Even in the cruel madness of battle they would be well aware that the only way to stay alive now was to win.

  Lieutenant Oughton aimed his pistol at a Danish officer, pulled the trigger and gaped at the weapon in horror as it misfired.

  The Danish officer parried a sailor’s cutlass aside and drove his blade through Oughton’s stomach once, and then again, before he had time to cry out.

  As Oughton fell the Danish officer saw Bolitho, his eyes widening as in those brief seconds he took in his rank and authority.

  Bolitho felt the man’s blade slide across his own, saw the Dane’s first determination give way to desperation as the hilts locked and Bolitho twisted his wrist as he had done so often in the past.

  But as he took the weight on his wounded leg it seemed to weaken under him, the pain making him gasp as he lost the advantage and fell back against the press of men behind him.

  Allday’s great cutlass flashed across his vision and sank into the officer’s forehead like an axe into a log. Allday wrenched it free and swung again at a man who was trying to duck past him. The man screamed and fell, trodden instantly underfoot as the hacking, gasping men fought savagely to hold their ground.

  Then it was done, the surviving boarders running to the broken stern to climb back to their galleys or to drop into the sea to escape the reddened cutlasses and pikes.

  Wolfe appeared, his face like stone as he stared at the corpses and the glittering runnels of blood.

  “We are almost alongside the enemy, sir!”

  He saw a man’s hand creeping from the shadows to retrieve a fallen pistol. One great foot pinioned the man’s wrist to the deck, and with almost contemptuous ease Wolfe struck down with his hanger, cutting off the scream almost before it had begun.

  Bolitho gasped, “Leave some spare hands here!”

  He heard Allday hurrying after him to the companion, saw the most forward gun crews fading into deeper shadow as the drifting enemy floated slowly alongside. But they continued to fire, cheering and swearing, aware of nothing but the pockmarked hull opposite their muzzles. Men lay dead and dying around the guns but only the other ship seemed to mean anything. Deafened, half-blinded, sickened by the stench of killing, it was likely that some of them had not even noticed the attempt to board their ship from astern.

  Bolitho walked across the shot-pitted quarterdeck, his eyes fixed on the enemy. Men fired muskets, swivels and pistols, while others, driven almost mad, stood and shook their cutlasses and pikes at the Danes.

  Herrick had one hand inside his coat and there was blood on his wrist.

  Browne was on his knees bandaging Acting Lieutenant Aggett’s leg which had been laid open by a wood splinter.

  “Repel boarders!”

  With a grinding shudder the two hulls came together in a powerful embrace, yards and rigging snared, gun muzzles overlapping and grating as they continued to drift helplessly downwind.

  Clinton waved his stick. “At ’em, marines!”

  The red-coated marines ran to the attack, bayonets probing and stabbing through the nets as the first Danish seamen attempted to cut their way through.

  Men fell screaming between the hulls, human fenders as the ships rocked and ground together on the swell. Others tried to get away, to be trodden down by their companions or shot in the back in sight of safety.

  A pike jabbed through the nets and narrowly missed Allday’s chest. Browne parried it away and slashed the attacker across the face before despatching him with a full thrust.

  Like survivors on a rock, Grubb and his helmsmen stood clustered around the useless wheel, firing pistols at the figures on the enemy’s poop and gangway while their wounded companions reloaded for them as best they could.

  Pascoe came running aft with the carronade crews, his hanger flashing dully through the smoke.

  Then he skidded to a halt, his feet and legs splattered with blood, as he shouted, “Sir! Indomitable’s signalling!”

  Herrick swore savagely and fired his remaining pistol at a man’s head below the nettings.

  “Signals? God dammit, we’ve no time for them!”

  Browne wiped his mouth and lowered his sword. Then he said hoarsely, “Indomitable’s repeating a signal from the fleet. Discontinue the engagement! Number thirty-nine, sir!”

  Bolitho stared past the Indomitable’s battered hull and trailing shrouds. A frigate, one of Nelson’s, was standing far beyond the smoke like an intruder, the signal still flapping to the wind.

  “Cease firing!”

  Wolfe pointed his hanger at the ship alongside as one by one the Danish seamen dropped their weapons and stood like stricken creatures, knowing that for them it was all over.

  Herrick said, “Take charge of our prize, Mr Wolfe!” He turned to look at the ships and at the galleys which even now were fading away into the smoke to seek refuge in their harbour.

  The sea was littered with flotsam and broken timber of every sort. Men, friend and enemy alike, clung together for mutual support and awaited rescue, too beaten and shocked to care much who had won. There were many corpses, too, and Inch’s Odin was so deep by the bows that she looked as if she might capsize at any moment.

  Only the Styx seemed unmarked, distance hiding her hurt and scars as she shortened sail to search amongst the debris of battle.

  Bolitho put his arm round his nephew’s shoulder and asked, “D’you still want a frigate, Adam?”

  But the reply was lost in a growing wave of cheering, wilder and louder as it spread from ship to ship, with even the wounded croaking at the sky, grateful to be alive, to have come through it once more, or for the first dreadful time.

  Herrick picked up his hat and banged it against his knee. Then he put it on his head and said quietly, “Benbow’s a good ship. I’m proud of her!”

  Bolitho smiled at his friend, feeling the tiredness and the pain as he glanced at the grinning, smoke-blackened faces around him.

  “Men, not ships, you once said, Thomas. Remember?”

  Grubb blew his nose and then said, “Rudder’s answerin’, sir!”

  Bolitho looked at Browne. It had been a near thing. Even now he was not certain how it might have ended had the frigate not appeared. Perhaps the English and the Danes were too much alike to fight. If so, there would have been no man alive by nightfall.

  Browne asked huskily, “Signal, sir?”

  “Aye. General signal. Squadron to form line ahead and astern of flagship as convenient.”

  The flag for close action rippled down from the yard, and as it was removed from the halliards Allday took it and laid it across the face of the dead midshipman.

  Bolitho watched and then said quietly, “We will rejoin the fleet, Captain Herrick.”

  They looked at each other. Bolitho, Herrick, Pascoe and Allday. Each had had something to sustain him throughout the battle. And this time there was something to hope f
or in the future.

  Even if the weather remained kind to the mauled and bloodied squadron there was much to be done. Friends to be contacted, the dead to be buried, the ships to be made safe for the passage home.

  But for this one precious moment, this escape from hell, a new hope would suffice.

  EPILOGUE

  THE OPEN carriage paused at the top of a rise while the horses regained their breath and the dust settled around them.

  Bolitho removed his cocked hat and allowed the June sunlight to play across his face, his ear picking up the many sounds of insects in the hedgerows, the distant lowing of cattle, the voices of the countryside.

  By his side Adam Pascoe stared ahead towards the rooftops of Falmouth, the glassy reflection of Carrick Roads beyond. On the opposite seat, his feet planted firmly on several sea-chests, Allday glanced contentedly around him, lost in his own thoughts and the moment of peace after the jolting ride from Plymouth.

  The journey over moorland and past isolated farmsteads and small hamlets had been like a cleansing, Bolitho thought. After all the weeks and months, and those final devastating broadsides before Nelson had ordered a ceasefire and had declared a truce, the Cornish landscape had affected Bolitho and his companions deeply.

  Now, Benbow was anchored at Plymouth with the other scarred survivors of the Inshore Squadron. With the exception of Inch’s Odin, which because of her severe underwater damage had only just managed to reach the safety of the Nore.

  Two months since they had watched the crimson galleys returning to harbour like guilty assassins, and now it was difficult to believe any of it had happened.

  The green hills, the sheep dotting their slopes, the slow comings and goings of farm waggons and carriers’ carts were far removed from the discipline and suffering of a man-of-war.

  Only the marked absence of young men in the villages and fields gave a hint of war, otherwise it was as Bolitho had always remembered, had clung to when he had been in far-off places and on other seas.

  The Battle of Copenhagen, as it was now being called, was hailed as a great victory. By their determined action the British squadrons had immobilized Denmark completely, and Tsar Paul’s hopes of a powerful alliance had been smashed.