Alexander Kent - The Only Victor

"Deck there! Sail on the starboard quarter! "

Men ran across, and a dozen telescopes probed the blinding mirrors of water and the gentle mist.

There was something like a gasp of relief as the lookout cried, "Brig, sir! She wears our colours! "

Herrick contained his impatience while he watched the brig as she beat this way and that to close with the flagship.

The signals midshipman called, "She's the Larne, sir. Commander Tyacke."

Herrick screwed up his eyes to clear his aching brain. Larne? Tyacke? They triggered off a memory, but he could not quite grasp it.

Gossage exclaimed, "God, she's been mauled, sir! "

Herrick raised his telescope and saw the brig rise up as if from the sea itself. There were holes in her fore topsail, and several raw scars in the timbers near her forecastle.

"She's not dropping a boat, sir." Gossage sounded tense again. "She's going to close with us to speak."

Herrick moved the glass still further and then felt the shock run through him. He could see the sunlight glinting on the commander's single epaulette, the way he was clinging to the shrouds, a speaking-trumpet already pointing towards the Benbow.

But his face… even the distance could not hide its horror. It was like being drenched with icy water as the memory flooded back. Tyacke had been with Bolitho at Cape Town. The fireship, the escaping French frigate-his head reeled with each revelation.

"Benbow ahoy! " Herrick lowered the glass and thankfully allowed the man's identity to fall back into the distance. " The French are out! I have met with two sail of the line and three others! "

Herrick snapped his fingers and took a speaking-trumpet from the first lieutenant.

"This is RearAdmiral Herrick! What ships did you see?" Each shouted word made his brain crack.

The man's powerful voice echoed across the water and Herrick thought it sounded as if he were laughing. A most unseemly sound.

"I didn't wait to discover, sir! They were eager to dampen my interest! " He turned away to call some commands as his brig slewed dangerously across Benbow's quarter. Then he shouted, "One is a second-rate, sir! No doubt of that! "

Herrick faced inboard and said, "Tell him to carry word to Sir Richard Bolitho." He stopped Gossage and revised it. "No. To Admiral Gambier."

He walked to the compass and back again, then glanced at the old Egret's pyramid of tanned canvas which seemed to tower directly beyond Benbow's jib-boom. He saw all and none of it. They were things and moments in his life too familiar to comment on. Even the old cry, The French are out! could not move him any more.

Gossage came back, breathing hard as if he had just been running.

"The brig's making more sail, sir." He eyed him despairingly. "Shall I order the convoy to scatter?"

"Have you forgotten Zest's captain so soon, man? Waiting somewhere for his wretched court-martial? They once executed an admiral for failing to press home an attack-d'you imagine they would even hesitate over Captain Varian?" Or us, he thought, but did not say it.

He looked for the little brig but she was already tacking around the head of the column. The man with the horribly disfigured face might find Gambier or Bolitho by tomorrow. It was probably already pointless.

But when he spoke again, his voice was steady and unruffled.

"Signal the convoy to make more sail and maintain course and distance. Spell it out word by word if you have to, but I want each master to know and understand the nearness of danger."

"Very well, sir. And then…?"

Herrick was suddenly tired, but knew there would be no respite.

"Then, Captain Gossage, you may beat to quarters and clear for action! "

Gossage hurried away, his mind groping for explanations and solutions. But one thing stood out above all else. It was the first time he had seen Herrick smile since his wife had died. As if he no longer had anything to lose.

Captain Valentine Keen held his watch against the compass light, then glanced around at the shadowy figures on the quarterdeck. It was strange and unnerving to hear and see the flash of cannon fire from the land while Black Prince lay at anchor, another cable run out from aft so that they could kedge her round to use at least one broadside against attack.

When there was a lull in the bombardment Keen felt blind, and could sense the tension around him. A boat was hooked on to either cable, with Royal Marines crouched over the bulwarks armed with muskets and fixed bayonets in case some mad volunteer attempted to swim out and cut them adrift. Other marines lined the gangways, while the swivel guns were loaded and depressed towards the black, swirling current of Copenhagen 's great harbour.

The first part of the attack had gone well. The fleet had anchored off Elsinore on the twelfth of August; there had been no opposition despite the presence of so many men-of-war. Three days later the army had begun to advance on the city The closer they got the heavier became the Danish opposition, and in the last attack the navy had been savaged by a fleet of praams, each mounting some twenty powerful guns, and a flotilla of thirty gunboats. They were eventually driven off after a fierce engagement, and the military and naval batteries ashore were soon repaired.

Keen looked up as Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck, and guessed he had not slept.

"It is timed to begin soon, Val."

"Aye, sir. The army have got their artillery in position. I heard they have seventy mortars and cannon laid on Copenhagen."

Bolitho looked around in the darkness. Black Prince had followed Gambier's main fleet to Elsinore and had soon been engaged with the Danish guns of the Crown Battery It was not that much different from their other attack on Copenhagen, except that here they were fighting small craft and shadows, while the army pressed forward against persistent and dogged resistance.

Two divisions of sail of the line were anchored between the defenders and the Danish fleet, most of which appeared to be laid up in ordinary or in a state of repair, perhaps to appease the English and French predators.

In the midst of the bombardments and the far-off forays of cavalry and infantry, Lord Cathcart, the commander-in-chief, had found time to grant passports to the Princess of Denmark and the King's nieces to travel safely through the English lines, "So that they could be spared the horrors of a siege."

When Keen had remarked on the effect that might have on Danish morale, Bolitho had answered with sudden bitterness, "King George the Second was the last British monarch to lead his army into battle-at Dettingen, I think it was. I doubt if we'll ever see such a thing again in our lifetimes! "

He winced as the whole sky burst into flame and the systematic bombardment started. To add to the horror, powerful Congreve rockets were soon falling on the city, disgorging their deadly loads of fire, so that within the hour many of the buildings nearest the waterfront were ablaze.

Keen said between his teeth, "Why don't the Danes strike? They have no chance! "

Bolitho glanced at him and saw his face flickering in the red and orange reflections, while the hull, deep beneath them, shook to each fall of shot.

The Danes, he thought. No one ever referred to them as the enemy.

"Boat ahoy! Stand off, I say! "

Marines ran along the deck and Bolitho saw a boat pause abeam, rocking gently in the current and laid bare by the lurid flash of rockets.

There were white crossbelts visible, and someone yelled at the sentries to hold their fire. Another moment, and the nervous marines would have poured a volley into the boat.

An officer stood in the sternsheets and cupped his hands, pausing between each roar of explosions to make himself understood.

"Sir Richard Bolitho! " A pause. "The Admiral-Commanding sends his compliments, and would you join him in the flagship?"