Ричард Вудмен - Baltic Mission

'Very well, Mr. Rogers, you may beat to quarters.'

As Rogers turned away Drinkwater caught again that slightly malicious grin that he had noticed when he had ordered Fraser to keep the deck off Varberg. Whipping a silver hunter from his fob, Rogers flicked it open as he roared the order. Again, and with a mounting disquiet that he could not quite place, Drinkwater watched the motions of the men. To a casual glance they appeared perfectly disciplined, tuned to the finest pitch any crack cruiser captain could demand but... that element of perplexity remained with him.

The marine drummer doubled aft, unhitched his drum and lifted his sticks to his chin in a perfunctory acknowledgement of the prescribed drill; then he brought them down on the snare drum and beat out the urgent ruffle. The frigate, alive with men still belaying ropes and laying in from aloft, suddenly took on a new and more sinister air. Along the length of her gundeck the ports were raised and round each of twenty-six 18-pounder cannon and the ten long 9-pounder chase guns the men congregated in kneeling and expectant groups. Others mustered elsewhere, the marines at the hammock nettings and in the tops, the firemen unreeled their hoses and worked the yoke of their machines to dampen the decks. Boys scattered sand or stood ready with their cartridge boxes. The activity died to an expectant hush. Each gun-captain's hand was raised. Rogers lifted his speaking trumpet. 'Run out the guns!'

The deck beneath Drinkwater's feet trembled as the gunners manned their tackles and hauled the heavy cannon out through the gun-ports.

With every man at his station, her yards braced to catch the quartering breeze and her charges safely tucked under her lee, Antigone entered The Sound. Drinkwater indulged Rogers in a final look round the upper deck while he studied the ramparts of Cronbourg less than a mile away. Through his glass he could see the tiny dots of heads beneath the gigantic swallow-tailed stan­dard which rippled gallantly in the breeze. At this distance those men could not fail to remark the belligerent preparedness of the British cruiser. Denmark was a neutral state, but not therefore without influence upon international affairs. Her trade, particularly in the matter of naval stores, if directed towards the beleaguered fleets of France, could be damaging to the war-efforts of Great Britain. And since Napoleon had decreed that no European country, whether under the control of his legions or attempting to maintain a precarious neutrality, might trade with Britain, the British must treat her with suspicion.

'Ship cleared for action, sir.' The snap of Rogers's hunter made Drinkwater lower his glass.

'Very well. An improvement?'

'About the same, sir,' replied Rogers non-committally, and in a flash Drinkwater knew what he had been witness to, what had been going on under his very nose. He fixed his keen glance on the first lieutenant.

'I thought they were a trifle faster that time.'

He saw a hint of uncertainty in Rogers's eyes. 'Well, perhaps a trifle faster,' said Rogers grudgingly, and Drinkwater was certain his instinct was right. Between first lieutenant and the hands there existed a state of affairs exactly analogous to that between Britain and Denmark: a neutrality in which each warily sought out the weakness and the intentions of the other. Rogers, the first lieutenant, the all-powerful executive officer, was always ready to punish any gun-crew, yardarm party, or individual, whose standard was not in his opinion of the highest. Against him were pitted the people, hydra-headed but weak, vulnerable to some simple, silly slip, yet knowing that they had only to wait and the bottle would destroy the first lieutenant. The certainty of this knowledge came as a shock to Drinkwater and the colour drained from his face, leaving his eyes piercing in the intensity of their anger.

'By God, Sam,' he said softly through clenched teeth, 'I will not have you judge, lest you be judged yourself.' Rogers's glance fell as they were interrupted.

'I think we have not bared our fangs in vain, sir,' said Hill, stumping across the deck to draw Drinkwater's attention to the events unfolding on the starboard bow. Hill paused, sensing an open breach between captain and first lieutenant where he had anticipated only an exchange of remarks concerning the ship's internal routines. He coughed awkwardly. 'Beg pardon, sir, but ...'

'Yes, yes, I see them,' snapped Drinkwater and raising his glass once more, affected to ignore Rogers.

Standing out from Elsinore Road to the south of Cronbourg was a two-decked line-of-battle-ship, and astern of her a small frigate. They too were cramming on sail, coming in at an angle to Antigone's bow as though to intercept her.

'Their bearing's opening, sir,' offered Hill, coolly professional again, 'only slowly, but they'll not catch us.'

'Very well, Mr. Hill, but we ought not to outrun our charges.' Drinkwater nodded at the brigs, now some distance astern of them. The Danish warships would pass between Antigone and the two British merchantmen.

'Notified of our approach from the castle, I'll warrant,' remarked Hill.

'Yes.' Drinkwater subjected the two ships to a further scrutiny through his glass. The Danes had proved tough opponents in 1801, reluctant to surrender and forcing from Lord Nelson the remark that they played the hottest fire he had ever been under. The two Danish ships broke out their own studdingsails. He watched critically. It was well done.

'I thought we had buggered their damned fleet for them,' said Rogers with characteristic coarseness in an attempt to defuse the atmosphere between himself and Drinkwater.

'Apparently not,' Drinkwater replied as if nothing untoward had occurred, watching the ships as their respective courses converged. But Hill was right, the bearings of the Danes were drawing aft, showing that the Antigone was the faster ship. 'They've had six years to right the damage,' he said, turning to look again at the lumbering brigs on the larboard quarter. 'I don't like exposing our charges like this and I'm rather disposed to test their mettle ... Secure the guns where they are, Mr. Rogers,' he said with a sudden sharpness, 'and get the stuns'ls off her!'

Rogers began bellowing orders. Again Antigone seethed with activity. Whatever discontents might be running through her people, the chance of demonstrating their superiority as seamen before a mob of tow-haired Danes animated the ship. In a few minutes her studdingsails fluttered inboard.

'Clew up the courses!' Drinkwater ordered sharply, for he had not wanted anything to go wrong, or the Danes to put a shot across his bow, turning a voluntary act into a submissive one.

'Lower the t'gallants on the caps!' Antigone's speed slowed, yet she held her course and the hands were sent back to their battle-stations as the Danish warships came up, the frigate ranging out to larboard so that they overtook on either quarter.

Hill was looking at him anxiously.

'My God,' said Rogers to no one in particular, 'if they open fire now they will...' His voice trailed off as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It was, Drinkwater noted, the gesture of a thirsty man.

'They are neutrals, gentlemen,' he said. 'They dare not fire upon us without provoking an act of war. They simply wish to demonstrate their readiness not to be intimidated on their own doorstep ... Just keep the men at their stations in silence if you please, Mr. Rogers, and perhaps we may yet surprise 'em,' Drinkwater added as an outbreak of chatter started up in the waist.

Drinkwater strode forward as the line-of-battle-ship ranged up on their starboard beam, her two tiers of guns also run out so that they dominated the much lower deck of the British frigate.