Prison Ship (3 page)

‘There's enough of a draught in here to turn a bloody
windmill,' Giddes said. I was sure he wasn't really a Cockney.

Then two and a half weeks after we had left Portsmouth we peered through the snowflakes and could dimly make out a long low sandbank to the starboard bow. This was The Skaw – the northernmost point of Denmark. Copenhagen lay a few days' further sailing to the south. Reaching the coast brought no improvement in the weather. Giddes and Tom continued to argue about the fighting merits of the Danes. We would find out soon enough who was right.

Close to the coast we stopped hourly to test the depth of the sea. Tarrying in these shallow waters made the journey more irksome. I just wanted to fight and be gone. Then, God willing, we could head south to warmer waters. The older sailors had more patience.

‘Coast round here's well known for its treacherous shallows,' said Tom at supper.

‘Aye,' said James. ‘That young bride o' Hyde Parker'd be rather disappointed to find her new husband shot for incompetence when he grounded half his fleet before
they even got to Copenhagen.'

‘Oh, I don't know,' said Vincent. ‘She'd be getting his Vice Admiral's fortune, without having to put up with his amorous attentions. Imagine that – how old is he? Sixty if he's a day. And she's only eighteen I heard. If they shot 'im, I'd bet she wouldn't believe her luck!'

Talk around the mess table turned to what would happen when we reached our destination.

‘I reckon we just need to shake a big stick at the Danes,' said Tom. ‘That'll be enough to drive them out of this alliance. They'll not want their city destroyed. I'll eat my hammock if there's any actual fightin'. So there's every reason to avoid gettin' grounded. Wouldn't make us look very threatenin' would it?'

Every day fresh rumours reached my ears about the strength of the Danes and their willingness to fight. On March 21 we anchored two or three days' sailing away from Copenhagen and the rumours grew more alarming. Sweden, it was said, had sent a fleet to help defend the city. The Russians had freed their ships from the ice, and were even now heading south to fight us.

What was true and what was not, we would only discover when we arrived at Copenhagen. At night I dreamed of a huge armada waiting there to destroy us. As the prospect of battle looked more likely, the men grew restless. Fights broke out. Tempers frayed. The cold and the tension were eating away at our morale.

* * *

On the morning of March 26 I passed by Robert Neville when I was fetching provisions from the hold. ‘Lord Nelson, Sam!' he said to me, his eyes alight with excitement. ‘Lord Nelson! He's coming to this ship this very day. He's going to be fighting with us here – leading a squadron into battle.'

I couldn't quite believe it. I had never even seen anyone you might describe as famous and the prospect of being on the same ship as our greatest admiral filled me with excitement. ‘Why us?' I asked.

‘The
Elephant
has a shallower draught than the
St George
,' said Robert. ‘He'll be wanting to get close enough to the Danes without fear of grounding his ship. Take a 98 gunner like the
St George
into water that shallow, and you're almost begging to be grounded. This is a secret between the two of us. But don't worry, you won't have to keep it for long.'

Robert needn't have worried about that. Before the forenoon watch was half completed I had been told by three other seamen. ‘Well, that'll be something to tell the bairns,' said James.

Nelson arrived that afternoon. We were scrubbing the deck, and the whole ship stood to attention to welcome him aboard. None of us needed telling that the diplomats had failed. No sooner had Nelson joined us than the fleet weighed anchor. As the wind filled the
Elephant
's sails a little knot twisted in my gut. So much for all our talk of avoiding battle.

As we sailed on, Captain Foley took him up to the quarterdeck on a tour of inspection. I was surprised to see how small he was. I was approaching my fourteenth birthday but I was tall enough to be able to see the top of his head. He was slight too – a wiry, narrow-shouldered man. If it wasn't for his weather-beaten seaman's face, I would have said he looked more like a dancer than a fighter. But his bravery was apparent to all. His chest was covered in medals, and he bore the obvious cost of his gallant actions, with an empty right sleeve pinned to his jacket.

I recognised his face from likenesses on plates and mugs commemorating his famous victories, but I can't quite put into words what a great honour it was to actually see him.

That evening, at supper, we talked of nothing else.

‘I heard that when he lost his arm, he was back on duty an hour after it was amputated!' Vincent said.

James wasn't so easily impressed. ‘He's a brave man, to be sure,' he said. ‘But he's reckless too. That battle at Tenerife where he lost his arm – some people say he should never have attacked in the first place. The island was too well defended.'

Tom shrugged. ‘Can't win 'em all, can you?' He was
obviously proud that Lord Nelson had chosen our ship. ‘He sailed on a 74 during the Battle of the Nile – HMS
Vanguard
it was. He knows the right ship to get him into the thick of battle.'

Thick of battle? I didn't like the sound of that. Perhaps having Lord Nelson on board was not such a good thing? ‘Here, hang on,' I said to Tom. ‘I suppose this means we'll be right in the middle of things, doesn't it?'

‘Certainly does,' said Tom. ‘Nelson's a man who likes to lead from the front.'

‘So we're going to be the front?'

‘This is what you call your swings and roundabouts, Sam,' said Tom. ‘We get the glory and we get the danger. Difficult to have one without the other. Think of the prize money, though!'

It was exciting to have a real life, flesh and blood hero on board. The whole crew were convinced they would be telling their grandchildren about it. But a little voice in the back of my head kept whispering ‘Only if you live to tell the tale …'

We had now left behind the open sea and entered the shallows around Copenhagen. The Danes had removed the buoys that marked the deeper stretches of navigable water and we moved forward with caution. In the last days of March we were set to work preparing our own
buoys for the channel known as Holland Deep.

On the morning of April 1 the signal was given for Nelson's squadron to weigh anchor. A cheer from the entire fleet drifted across the grey sea. When I heard that sound a rush of excitement swept through me. Here we were, hundreds of miles away from home, about to fight an enemy on their own territory, but the fleet was full of confidence and certain of our success.

We anchored again in King's Deep, a stretch of water a mere two miles away from the city. Richard and I were called up the mainmast to attend the weather topsail braces and we could see the streets and buildings of Copenhagen clearly from high above the deck. The Danes had positioned a long line of ships to form a barrier between us and the city. I counted twenty-five in all. In between the ships were floating batteries of guns. Above the harbour were shore batteries and forts. It all looked formidable. Not only that, but not far in front of the Danish line there was an enormous sandbank, the Middle Ground. In front of that was shallow water which allowed little room to manoeuvre.

But the ships I saw were fewer in number than I expected. Of the Swedish and Russian fleets there was no sign. Perhaps they were coming up behind us, to trap us against the shore? Perhaps they weren't coming at all? I would only stop worrying about them when we were away from this place.

As I looked beyond the defences to the spires and houses of the capital, I began to feel troubled. We had been sent here to fight enemy seamen, who would be trying to kill us as surely as we would be trying to kill them. But we had also been sent here to bombard a city full of ordinary people, and women and children.

Piercing screams cut short my train of thought. I looked across the rigging to see two men plunging from the foremast topsails to the deck.

‘What the hell happened?' said Richard, and we both held on to the yardarm a little tighter. I felt sick, and my arms and legs began to tremble. ‘Hold tight, breathe deep,' said Richard. I couldn't bear to look down at the deck. I knew a fall from that height would kill a man.

I steadied myself and glanced over to where the men had been working only moments before. The horse – what we called the rope beneath the yard where we rested our feet – dangled in two, twisting in the wind. We could see the frayed ends where it had snapped. ‘There'll be hell to pay for that,' said Richard.

I knew neither of the dead men but I learned their names were Henry Dutton and John Colliver. They were given a sea burial that afternoon. A funeral so close to the prospect of action unsettled the men. We stood around the deck in a fierce wind and threatening sky as the chaplain rattled through the service as quickly as decorum would allow. Edward Eaves was the man's
name. He was not popular among the crew, but then chaplains rarely were. Word had it he was aloof and indifferent to their troubles. This was his first Navy posting, Robert had told us, and talk among the officers was that he had left his previous parish in a hurry. I didn't really care one way or another. I kept thinking of the battle to come and how those of us who were killed or mortally wounded in the thick of the fighting would be quickly turfed over the side.

That night at supper, Tom reckoned we would fight the next day. While we ate, Middlewych came to our table.

‘Captain's asked me to find a crew for a boat to test the water depth around the Danish fleet. Would you men do me the honour of accompanying me?' It was not a request to refuse. I think we all knew it would be better to volunteer than be ordered to go. ‘Good. Now wear something dark so you can't be seen.'

We put on every spare piece of clothing we could muster and blackened our faces with burned cork. Middlewych was waiting for us on deck with a party of men ready to winch the ship's jollyboat over the side.

‘Before we go,' he explained, ‘we must muffle the oars.' We wrapped old cloth around the rowlocks, to stop them squeaking as we skulled through the water.

Middlewych turned to a midshipman and said, ‘Go and tell Captain Hardy the boat is ready.'

A minute later we were joined by a distinguished-looking gentleman. ‘He's Nelson's flag captain,' James whispered to me. ‘He's been with him for the last three years. He's a pretty valuable fellow to be sending out to the tip of the enemy's front line, I must say!'

Also with us was an able seaman named Spavens, who always heaved the lead to determine the water depth on the
Elephant
. He was unmistakable with a long ponytail that hung most of the way down his back, and great mutton-chop whiskers. He had a solidity about him that suggested utter dependability.

The boat was lowered into the water and bobbed gently up and down awaiting our arrival. Icy wind blew over the bay and through our thin clothing, piercing us to the bone.

We set off at eight towards the lanterns of the Danish fleet and the twinkling harbour lights beyond. The cloth worked well enough to muffle the squeaking of oar in rowlock but I wondered if the splash of our oars in the water would give us away? Perhaps the wash of the sea against the side of a ship would mask the noise we made.

We moved forward with great caution. I took the starboard oar nearest to the bow, with Richard on the larboard side. Immediately behind me Spavens stood in the bow of the boat with Middlewych, lowering his lead-weighted measuring rope into the water every few yards. As we crept towards the enemy fleet,
Middlewych recorded the water depth with great care in his notebook. Captain Hardy took his position in the stern of the boat, eyes scanning the Danish fleet for any sign that we had been spotted.

It was a dim night, with a quarter moon that was rarely visible between the thick clouds. Still, I could hardly believe how close we were getting to the enemy. Then, as we rowed forward, my oar struck something solid in the water, making a sharp scraping sound. Middlewych immediately whispered for us to lie on our oars, and the boat carried on drifting forward. We all waited, ears straining into the silence, for any indication that the noise had aroused suspicion in the Danish line. Silence lay deep and impenetrable.

‘What on earth was that?' whispered Middlewych.

‘It was me, sir,' I confessed.

‘Never mind lad, not your fault. Let's have a look.' He peered around the black void that surrounded us. ‘Confound it,' he muttered to himself. ‘It's blasted ice in the water.'

‘We'll just have to press on with greater caution,' said Captain Hardy. Middlewych looked crestfallen. I supposed he felt he should have spotted the ice.