Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON

Bolitho nodded. 'Then we shall anchor. If the fog is bad for us, so too will it prevent others from moving.'

At this time of year fogs could be as common as icy gales. Each had its own special kind of danger, and both were respected by sailors.

But once the frigate had completed her passage around The Skaw and changed tack to steer south along Denmark 's opposite coastline, Neale was able to report that the fog was little more than a thick sea-mist. The densest part was clinging to the land, and in all probability was trapped in the anchorage they had left astern.

Herrick could cope with that all right. Pay Herrick a sincere compliment and he would be speechless. Put him before a lady and he would be tongue-tied. Gales, fog or the roaring horror of battle and he was like a rock.

They sighted very few craft, and only small vessels at that. Coasters and fishermen, staying near the land, and certainly wary of the lean-looking frigate as she thrust further south towards the narrow sound between Denmark and Sweden. The gateway to the Baltic. A shelter or a trap, according to what your intentions might be.

As soon as it was dark Neale asked permission to anchor. As Styx swung slowly to her cable, and the mist filtered through her spars and rigging to make her like a phantom ship, Bolitho walked the quarterdeck, watching the pale stars, the occasional gleam of a light from the land.

Styx showed only an anchor lantern, and the watch which moved about the forecastle and gangways were fully armed. Mr Pickthorn, her first lieutenant, had even spread boarding nets.

just to be on the safe side, as Neale had put it.

Pascoe emerged from the darkness and waited to see if it was convenient to speak.

Bolitho beckoned to him. `Here. Let's walk a while. Stand still for long and the blood feels like glacier water.'

They paced back and forth, meeting and passing the men on watch or some of the ship's officers who were also trying to take some exercise in the keen air.

'Our people are settled in, sir.' Pascoe shot him a quick glance. 'I have Mr Midshipman Penels with me as messenger. I thought him a bit too young, but Mr Wolfe said he's got to start sometime.' He chuckled. 'He's right, I expect.'

'Tomorrow we will enter Copenhagen, Adam. There, I am to meet a British official of some standing.'

He looked towards the tiny lights on the shore. The news would be there already. An English man-of-war. One from the new squadron. What did it mean? Why had she come?

'There are a few questions I will want answering for my own content, too.'

Pascoe did not break into Bolitho's thoughts, even though he was speaking them aloud. He was thinking of Midshipman Penels and his friend Babbage. By some accident, or a petty officer's indifference, Babbage was aboard Styx also.

Bolitho asked suddenly, 'How are you getting along with my flag lieutenant? The Honourable Oliver Browne?'

Pascoe smiled, his teeth white in the darkness. 'With an "e", sir. Very well. He is a strange man. Far removed from most sea officers. All, in my own experience. He is always so calm and untroubled. I think that if the Frenchies were to storm aboard at this moment he would pause to finish his meal before joining the fight!'

Captain Neale came on deck and Pascoe excused himself and left.

Bolitho said, 'It seems very quiet, Captain.'

'I agree.' Neale peered through the sagging boarding nets. 'But I'm careful. Captain Herrick would spit me if I allowed his admiral to run aground, or worse!'

Bolitho bade him good night and went to his borrowed. quarters. He had not realized before just how well known Herrick's devotion had become.

'Take in the maincourse, Mr Pickthorn.' Captain Neale stood very still, his arms folded, as the frigate glided ahead under topsails, forecourse and jib.

The cold air, the icy droplets of moisture falling from the heavy weather canvas like rain were forgotten as the Styx moved slowly towards the last channel.

Two great fortresses, Helsingborg an the Swedish side of the Sound Channel and Kronborg on the Danish, were enough to awe even the most hardened man aboard.

Bolitho took a telescope and trained it on the Danish fortress. It would take an army, and months of siege, to breach it, he thought grimly.

It was almost noon, and the nearer the frigate had drawn to the narrows and the protective batteries on either side, they had sensed the excitement Styx 's appearance was causing. But if there was no sign of welcome, there was no hostility either.

He glanced along the upper decks. Neale had done well, and his ship looked as perfect as she could be. The marines, conspicuous in their bright uniforms, drawn up in squads on the poop deck. None in the tops, and no swivels had been mounted there either. Seamen moved about their duties, while others stood ready to spread more sail and flee or take in the remaining canvas and anchor.

Neale looked at Bolitho questioningly. 'May I begin the salute, sir?'

'If you please.'

Neale said sharply, 'Remove the tampions and open the ports.'

He was probably thinking that once he had fired a full salute to the fortress his guns would be empty. But to man his-broadsides with anything more than the men required for this ritual might appear like a threat of war.

'Run out, 'if you please.'

Squeaking and rumbling the Styx 's guns poked their black muzzles into the harsh light.

'Stand by to dip the colours!'

Bolitho bit his lip. Still no hint from the land. He looked across at the great artillery emplacements. The wind had dropped considerably. If the Danes opened fire, Styx would be hard put to come about and beat clear.

She would be hammered into submission in minutes under such conditions.

'Commence the salute, Mr Pickthorn.'

'Fire One!'

The bang echoed across the choppy water, to be followed gun for gun by a battery below the fortress. Then, the Danish flag, standing out like a flake of bright metal from a tall staff, dipped slowly in salute.

Ailday wiped his mouth with his wrist. 'Phew! That was a near thing!'

Bolitho saw Styx 's gunner marching from cannon to cannon, beating out the time with his fist, oblivious to everything but precision.

There were people visible on the shore now, some running and waving, their mouths soundless in the telescope's lens.

The final gun crashed out, the smoke fanning ahead of the frigate's figurehead.

Captain Neale touched his hat to Bolitho and said, 'I think we are accepted, sir.'

Browne, who had been clasping his ears during the salute, said sourly, 'But by no means welcome, sir.'

'Guard-boat approaching, sir!'

'Take in the forecourse, Mr Pickthorn. Stand by to receive our visitors!'

Men swarmed out along the yard, fisting and cursing the big foresail as they struggled to furl it with extra smartness, watched by the distant crowds of onlookers.

The guard-boat was an interesting craft. Far longer than a ship's boat, it was propelled by the biggest oars Bolitho had seen outside of a chebeck. Two men to each oar, while just abaft of the deadly-looking prow was a solitary but heavy cannon. Under oars, this miniature gunboat could outmanoeuvre anything larger than a frigate and throw heavy balls through her poop with total safety. Even a frigate would be in trouble if she lost the wind.

Bolitho studied the figures in the ornate cockpit. Two Danish sea officers and two civilians, one, if not two, of the latter obviously English. They looked more suitably dressed for a stroll around Hyde Park than crossing open water in October.

'Man the side! Marines, fall in!'

Mr Charles Inskip, the important government official whom Bolitho had been instructed to assist in every possible way, sat stiff-backed in one of Captain Neale's chairs and examined the captured French despatches. He held them at arm's length, and Bolitho guessed his sight was not what it should be. His companion, Mr Alfred Green, apparently less important, stood beside the chair, peering and pouting at each newly turned sheet.