The Baltic Gambit

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Lewrie? Where the Devil have you sprung from?" Capt. Thomas Foley of HMS Elephant, the Third Rate 74 that flew Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson's flag, exclaimed in wonder as HMS Thermopylae's captain gained the starboard gangway and took his salute. "Greenland, by the look of it," Foley wryly commented as he took in Lewrie's swaddling furs. "I was amazed, when you made your private signal and number… joining us from the South?"

"Captain Foley, sir," Lewrie replied with a sheepish smile, and doff of his cocked hat, which was one of the few items visible marking him as an officer of the Royal Navy; or an Englishman, for that matter. "Just returned from a reconnaisance of the Russian and Swedish harbours, sir. And, some diplomatic tosh. The Admiral is aboard Elephant? Last I heard at Yarmouth Roads, he was to have a First Rate."

"Shifted his flag to a vessel of lesser draught, for this Danish business, sir," Foley said, thankfully feeling not a whit insulted that Lewrie might be making a back-handed disparagement of his ship.

"I must report to him, Captain Foley. Is he busy?" Lewrie asked.

"Frightfully," Foley replied, "Lord Nelson even now is dictating the orders for our attack on the Danes."

"Then I don't s'pose what we'll face once we've settled them is done matters that much at the moment," Lewrie said, slumping with disappointment. He'd imagined a grand welcome, with hearty congratulations all round, a toast drunk in his honour, perhaps even some light applause upon his dashing entrance and his less-than-dire discoveries. "D'ye think I should call upon Sir Hyde?" he asked, wondering if he'd get a better reception there. After only getting a new active commission by "the skin of his teeth," Lewrie had hoped that his duties up the Baltic might turn at least a few heads, and restore his reputation with Admiralty.

"Oh, Lord, don't do that, Lewrie!" Capt. Foley cynically scoffed. "Admiral Parker has quite enough on his plate, at the moment, worrying about the Danes! I gather," Foley said, leaning closer to impart his inside information, "that whenever the subject of the Russians arises, Sir Hyde is like to come down with the ague, and the vapours."

"Hmm?" Lewrie gawped, his head cocked over in confusion.

"In any event, it would take you the better part of the night to reach HMS London," Foley breezed off, "for Admiral Parker, with eight ships of the line, is now anchored off the Northern end of the Middle Ground, above Copenhagen and the Three Crowns fortress. Lord Nelson, with Rear-Admiral Graves in Defiance, command here. We're to sail in against the Danes and take them on from the South, as soon as we get a favourable slant of wind. We've twelve of the line, altogether, with Captain Riou and the frigates and lesser ships. Best we forward your written report to Sir Hyde, and your frigate remain here, sir. Every warship is welcome, and, I am bound, that Captain Riou will find your Fifth Rate and its artillery doubly welcome."

"I have a copy for Admiral Parker with me," Lewrie told Foley, groping into the canvas despatch bag slung over his shoulder. "If you would be so kind as to have it sent on, Captain Foley. I've another for Lord Nelson, though none for Rear-Admiral Graves."

"You'll need your orders from Lord Nelson, in any event, sir," Capt. Foley decided, summoning a lieutenant to his side, and ordering that he should signal an officer from one of the lighter vessels to come aboard and bear the report to the Vice-Admiral. "Will you come aft with me to Lord Nelson's quarters for something warming, sir?" Foley kindly offered, once that business was done.

"Most thankfully, sir," Lewrie eagerly responded.

In HMS Elephant's great-cabins under the poop deck, Lewrie was shown into "the presence" of Vice-Admiral of the Blue Lord Nelson who, at that moment, was lying in his bed-cot, propped up by several pillows and dictating to several clerks and lieutenants, all scribbling away as he spoke. A cabin servant with unruly black hair and pug-face features was scuttling round like a mother hen, offering another quilt to spread atop the other bed covers, and Nelson's chequered overcoat. Hot drink steamed on a brazier, for the side-board, and every stick of furniture but for the bed-cot and some portable writing desks had been struck to the orlop already. And, in contrast to Lewrie's frigate, where those Franklin stoves had been re-rigged and stoked, now she was securely at anchor, Elephant's great-cabins were perishing cold, and but dimly lit.

"Captain Lewrie, of the Thermopylae frigate, is come, my lord," Foley said in a soft voice, unwilling to intrude too loudly.

"Lewrie? That scoundrel?" Lord Nelson exclaimed in his squeaky high voice, peering querulously at the new arrivals with his one good eye, and a slim, almost girlish hand over the blind one, as if it yet pained him. "Yours is the Fifth Rate that came to anchor just after full dark, sir?"

"It is, my lord," Lewrie replied. "Fresh come from the Baltic."

"The Russians?" Nelson snapped, looking ill and impatient. "You were the one Lord Saint Vincent ordered to scout them out? How many?"

"One First Rate, three Second Rates, and twelve Third Rates, at Reval, along with three more I took for Sixty-Fours or lesser, sir," Lewrie rattled off from memory. "Nine frigates, two Third Rates still stripped to a gant-line, and bomb vessels at Kronstadt, my lord. And, as of a week ago, still iced in… though the Russians have thousands of people choppin', burnin', and blastin' a single channel. It's the same with the Swedes at Karlskrona, my lord. Three frigates, only one Third Rate, and six Sixty-Fours or Fifty-Eights with their masts set up and yards crossed… and they're still iced in, too."

"Ah!" Lord Nelson said with a long, pleased sigh, reclining on the pillows and looking up at the overhead with a smile.

If he ain't half-dead a'ready, he's doin' a hellish-good imitation, Lewrie thought as he undid his fur coat. In his brief experience with Nelson in the Mediterranean in '95 and '96, at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent in '97, the man had always struck him as a frail sort, as pale and wan as a consumptive most of the time; he was barely a couple of inches over five feet tall, damned near as short as the Reverend William Wilberforce, and it was only combat, or the prospect of coming action, that livened Nelson up like an old horse "feagued" with a plug of ginger up its fundament to fool an unwary buyer.

"Some more hot tea a'comin', sir," the ill-featured manservant fussed, all but lifting his master's shoulders and putting the mug to his lips like an invalid. He cast Lewrie a ferocious scowl, as if he had barged his way into the privacy of the sick-bed. "Nigh-boilin hot from the brazier, sir. Drink it down now, 'fore it cools."

Damme, it must be a midget reunion, Lewrie thought, figuring the cabin servant was not a quim-hair taller than Nelson.

"A copy of Captain Lewrie's written report has just this minute been sent along to Vice-Admiral Parker, my lord," Captain Foley said.

"Oh Lord, that'll put the wind up him," Nelson moaned between sips of his steaming-hot tea.

Don't I get any? Lewrie silently groused; It's freezin' in here.

"Sir Hyde simply will not contemplate their existence," Nelson petulantly griped. "Or, that meeting them in battle and defeating them is the principal aim of this expedition, of our orders! It was all I could do to convince the man to enter the Sound at all, and dare the guns of Kronborg Castle. For days, we dithered, Sir Hyde thinking we should come at Copenhagen through the Great Belt passage, which would have taken weeks. Most dilatory, when the main thing is to go right at them, before any of the Baltic powers get their entire fleets out to sea, and combined."

"Now, don't fret yourself, sir," the wee manservant gently chid him, "for we're here, and ready t'settle the Danes'is hash."

"Thomas, you cosset me like a mother cat with her kittens," the Vice-Admiral said with a fond smile, relenting from his brief rant; a rant that had put colour in his cheeks. "Thomas Allen, Lewrie, my long-time 'man,' " Nelson explained. "Tea for Captain Lewrie, Thomas."

"Aye, sir," Allen said, though he still kept a wary eye on the Eskimo-looking interloper.

"Your weight of metal, Lewrie," Nelson demanded, looking healthier than he had a couple of minutes before.

"Thermopylae's an eighteen-pounder Thirty-Eight, my lord," Capt. Lewrie crisply responded. "Where do you wish us?"

"Under Captain Riou, to re-enforce his group of frigates," Lord Nelson replied. "His Amazon is also a Thirty-Eight. Simply one Hell of a fellow, is Riou, and a man after mine own heart! I've put Blanche, under Captain Hamond, Captain Sutton and Alcmene, Captain Bolton and his Arrow, and Captain Devonshire's Dart under Riou's command, along with the Fox and Otter cutters, to assist the 'liners' assigned to the van of the line. A brace of Thirties, a Thirty-Six and a Thirty-Two… now a pair of Thirty-Eights, as well, adding your frigate to the Amazon.

"Might be best, before the evening's done, Lewrie," Nelson said as he awkwardly cradled his mug of tea with his one remaining hand, "to be rowed over to Amazon and speak with Captain Riou. He, Rear-Admiral Graves, and I formulated the general plan for taking on the Danes, so Riou will be able to explain the salient points. All that's wanting is word from Captain Hardy's reconnoiter into the King's Deep."

"We've had to survey and re-buoy the Holland Deep," Capt. Foley explained, "so that's sure, now. As for the King's Deep-"

"Splendid fellow, Hardy," Lord Nelson interrupted. "Demanded him as captain of the Saint Joseph, then the Saint George, when the first one wouldn't do. He, and several others, are out even now, in all this cold, charting and marking the deep-water passage into the King's Deep, and Copenhagen Roads. What charts we have are next to useless, and the civilian masters and pilots we brought along are… asses! They tell us that the deep channel is along the Middle Ground, yet we have noted large Danish warships anchored in deep water close to the city, on the land side." The nearest one, the Provensteenen, we know is a cut-down three-decker, not two miles off from us."

"Well, she might be sittin' in the mud, my lord," Lewrie said as the promised mug of tea at last arrived. "Even so, that'd mean at least four fathom and a bit, perhaps five fathoms close by in which the Danes moved her into position."

He took a sip, and it was nowhere near the "nigh-boilin' hot" that the steward, Thomas Allen, had promised; there was no sugar and no milk, either. Allen all but smirked at him with an affronted "so there" expression, and a "go away, instanter," to boot.

"Passed Kronborg Castle, did ye say, Captain Foley?" Lewrie said.

"The Danes didn't score a single hit, sir," Foley told him with a chuckle, "and the Swedish batteries cross the Sound did not join in either." His bright blue eyes were agleam with amusement. "It was but a short, noisy passage. 'Sound and fury, signifying nothing.' "

"We exchanged salutes when I sailed down," Lewrie told him with a matching grin. He had to look up slightly, for Capt. Thomas Foley was six feet tall; perhaps the only human-sized man in the cabins, besides Lewrie; an impressive-looking fellow with curly dark-brown hair.

"First thing, Lewrie," Lord Nelson piped up from his blankets and cot, "be sure to pass a cable out from a stern port and be ready to come to anchor by your stern, opposite the foe I choose for you. I intend, should the winds come Sutherly, to sail in in line-ahead, and match broadsides 'til the Danes have had enough."

"I shall, my lord," Lewrie answered, and took another big gulp of his tea; it was now tepid, so he drained it off completely. "Well, I'll be on my way, sir." Lewrie began re-fastening his furs.

"By the by, Lewrie," Nelson enquired. "Your legal troubles… they are quite behind you?"

"Completely exonerated, my lord," Lewrie replied, though taking note of the Vice-Admiral's dubious expression, and the top-lofty tone to his voice, as though he thought very little of naval officers stealing slaves, even to man their ships for England's vital service.

"Such passionate beliefs as Abolition, Captain Lewrie," Nelson sternly intoned, "are best left to civilians who argue the matters in Parliament, our sovereign's Privy Council, or the parlours of the 'do-gooders.' Sea Officers holding active commission may espouse opinions on such matters, but not act upon them."

Nelson relented, and Lewrie could breathe again, for the Vice-Admiral would not tear a strip of hide from his arse; Nelson's mouth cocked up in a wry little grin. "You were lucky. Very lucky."

"I was, indeed, my lord," Lewrie agreed, grinning himself. "As are you, the nation believes. My Irish tars even think you are possessed of a beannacht, a good cess."

"Superstitious tripe!" Nelson snapped, turning stern once more. "We make our own good fortune, through boldness and courage. Perhaps by dawn, tomorrow, we will prove fortunate 'gainst the Danes, without blindly depending on… 'mumbo-jumbo,' amulets and charms, or slivers of the True Cross like… Spaniards and Irishmen. Courage, boldness, and audacity will win the day. That, and the steadiness of our tars!"

Lewrie's little stab at toadying, of "pissing down his back," which Nelson found tedious, shut him up; he answered with a firm and determined nod.

"Spend your passion, and your… cess on the Danes, Lewrie," Nelson said with a piercing look.

"I shall, sir," Lewrie promised, bowing his way out of the after part of the cabins. In the forward part, Midshipmen were gathered round several lanthorns or candlesticks, painfully scribbling away at sheafs of paper, copying out Nelson's dictates as they came, page by halting page, from Nelson's mind, and lips.

"… Edgar will anchor abreast of Number Five," a Lieutenant was slowly reading off the latest page to them, "a Sixty-Four gun ship or hulk. The Ardent… got that, all of you? Good. Ah… Ardent to pass Edgar and anchor abreast of Numbers Six and Seven…" Lewrie heard as he stepped out into the icy cold of a clear, moonless night.

Britainmight love him, but Lord, he can be a Tartar! Lewrie thought as he stuffed his muffler higher round his throat. He'd been on the receiving end of Nelson's temper in the Mediterranean when in command of HMS Jester, and though Nelson might look like the most inoffensive minnikin ever born, a natural "Merry Andrew," when rowed beyond all temperance, mad enough to kick furniture, his tongue could peel paint and varnish, melt tar and ignite oakum! S'pose I got off easy, Lewrie imagined; though, a man as much in love with glory and praise as he should be easier to 'kiss up.'

"Wind's coming about," he heard one of HMS Elephant's officers comment to his fellows, who were gathered by the larboard bulwarks in a small, shivering knot. "It's come more Westerly, perhaps with just a touch of Southing?"

"Stand in on a beam-reach, then," another muttered back.

"My pardons, sirs," Lewrie said, going to join them. "Might I enquire where Captain Riou's Amazon is anchored?"

"Uhm… yonder, sir." One of them pointed over to starboard, closer to the southwest tip of the Middle Ground. "Just past Bellona, sir… and a hand's breadth astern of her, from where we stand."

"Ah, yes," Lewrie said with a nod as he followed the officer's outstretched arm. "Thankee kindly. I'll have to row over to her, and speak with Riou before Midnight."

He turned back to grin his thanks to them, and noted the lights cross the way, off the larboard bows, that sparkled like faint amber glims against the darkness of Amager Island, and ran Northerly up the coast of Sjжlland, the much larger island on which Copenhagen stood. Up to the city, then far beyond it, the line of sparkles ran.

"Mine arse," Lewrie said, realising that he was looking at the Danish fleet, anchored in a long, protective line. "They aren't all of 'em ships of the line, are they?"

"A great many floating rafts, sir," one officer replied with a chuckle. "Razeed and dis-masted old hulks, or just big rafts, turned into gun batteries."

"Aboukir Bay," snickered another, "just like the French at the Battle of the Nile… anchored close ashore."

"No more than a cable off the land, some of them," another of them opined. "So we mayn't sail round their off sides, as the Admiral did at the Nile, yet…"

"Yet not close enough together in line-ahead to be able to support each other, as were the French," a third chuckled. "Foolish."

"They aim and shoot as poorly as did the gunners at Kronborg, on our way here, well! Two hour's pounding should finish 'em," the first imagined.

Hellish lot of 'em, though, Lewrie thought, frowning; This'un could be a real bugger. Twenty or more? And it struck him just how odd it was for two navies to lie anchored just out of maximum range of each other-from the West edge of the Middle Ground shoal, where the British fleet sat, it wasn't over two miles to the closest of the Danish hulks. With the loan of one of the officers' telescopes, he could clearly see the scurry on the old cut-down three-decker as Danish sailors prepared their defences for the morning, should the wind come fair.

"Like ancient armies," he muttered, returning the glass. "Night before Julius Caesar took on the Gauls, or somebody. Two camps, fires lit t'keep warm, and eat… and the battlefield between."

"Very like, sir, indeed," one of Elephant's Lieutenants agreed. "Seems rather eerie, don't it? It don't seem… naval, at all, sir."

Lewrie stamped his cold feet and shrugged deeper into his furs.

"Luck t'ye all, sirs," he said in parting, touching the brim of his cocked hat in casual salute before heading for the entry-port, and his shivering, waiting boat crew. "I'm off."