That left eight for the store-ships, and perhaps after the squadron had been beaten off at long range they could join in the slaughter.
‘They’re coming in,’ Swenson grunted.
It was happening again: emerging from between the ships of the squadron dozens of boats were heading directly towards them. It was madness – their fate would be the same but still they came on. Krieger shook his head in admiration, but brute courage would make no difference.
And then everything changed.
While still far out of accurate carronade range first one, then another of the squadron’s boats opened fire with the gun in their bows. The balls slammed towards them in a series of skips and ricochets – they were using the same technique with reduced charges that he had used previously, only possible with a long gun of size. Damn it, but the English had overnight improvised gunboats of their own, in some way mounting at least eighteen-pounders on them.
‘Long bowls, the bastards!’
This was a much more serious situation. No longer could they keep the offshore fleet at bay by standing it off with heavy long guns: the enemy had found a way of evening up the contest. They had changed it into a war of the bludgeoning of equals and in this the English had the eventual advantage.
He would not retreat! As far as he could tell in the thick of the melee, only five of them had the big guns and therefore he still had the numbers. For honour’s sake, he could not abandon their mission.
The kanonchalups would surely keep them at bay … But, as if sensing what they were after, more than a dozen boats detached and laid themselves in a loose line before the store-ships. They could not be armed with long guns, so what was their purpose?
In the heat of the action he couldn’t think, driven only by the desperate need to get up to them.
There were now only four kanonchalups available for the strike and the oarsmen were tiring. From somewhere the British Army had found heavy mortars to position on a slight foreland and were firing shells that burst in the air, blasting down a lethal hail of fragments.
Another fell behind, leaving only themselves, Nakskov and Stubbekobing to press home the attack.
They were in range! But they had to make sure – they had fought their way so far that to fail because they were not close enough to their target would be unbearable.
It seemed nothing could live in the vicious slam and whip of unseen shot, the waters lashed white with deadly fury.
Now! In a burst of nervous energy Krieger told Swenson to open up on the second nearest ship, a little further but appreciably bigger.
He took his time, getting way on the boat so the finer aiming of the rudder could be used. His whistle blasted out.
To Krieger’s ears the crash of the gun seemed louder, more decisive. The ball took the store-ship squarely amid-ships, directly into the hold. A burst of black fragments shot up and men could be seen running for the boats at the stern.
Stubbekobing was not far behind and her shot smashed in not far from their own. Incredibly a lick of flame showed briefly and without warning an explosion erupted that showered splinters all around the vessel, leaving a raging fire.
Strangely he felt only a numb sense of inevitability, detachment.
The line of boats positioned earlier now made sense. They were advancing together – armed with mortars, carronades, it made no difference. They would be forced to choose between defending themselves or firing into the store-ships. If they used their vital rounds in protecting themselves what was the use of fighting through this far? And if they ignored the boats and-
So close it was like a clap of thunder followed by a wave of heat. His head jerked around – to see Stubbekobing a shattered and sinking wreck, blackened and smoking timbers where her powder had been detonated.
‘Go to her,’ he barked hoarsely.
Swenson gave the order and they swiftly closed with the sad wreck. Blasted corpses lay in the water, some still staggered at the after end, others with flayed bodies lay shrieking.
‘Peder!’ Krieger croaked, seeing Bruun and holding out his hand to help him aboard.
‘Mortar,’ he said thickly, ‘Damned shell from the sky, set off our charges.’ He coughed harshly, hiding his pain.
Krieger saw that little could be done now with just two vessels. With a slow rate of fire they would be overcome before they could reach much further.
‘Sir.’ Swenson touched his arm, then pointed.
Way ahead, Julius Zeuthen in his kanonjolle was in a mad charge towards the foreland where the mortars blazed. He had one shot in his twenty-four-pounder and he was going to place it deep in the nearest enemy.
‘Den K?mpe idiot – but I honour him for it,’ Krieger breathed. It was too shoal for a kanonchalup to follow and all he could do was watch the scene play out.
He came to a decision. They’d done their best but had been overborne by the odds. It was time for an honourable withdrawal.
But disaster struck again. A kanonjolle had a fatal disadvantage. Like a wasp, its sting was in its tail – the great gun was mounted in the after end, and when it was called on to fire, the entire gunboat had to be rotated to face the stern towards the enemy. As this was being done it offered its broadside unavoidably to the enemy and they didn’t waste the opportunity. They broke cover and opened up with everything they had – horse artillery, musketry, howitzers. The figure of Zeuthen, which could be seen in a maniac urging, spun and crumpled. Another fell.
The midshipman aboard found the tiller and took the craft away from the hell of shot. It passed close, and Krieger hailed, ‘Lojtnant Zeuthen?’
‘Dead.’
Julius – gone from this world. His jolly wife a widow as of this hour. His heart wrung with pity.
They began turning to withdraw but Nakskov’s length was her undoing and it touched ground, slowing, then stopping entirely, in full view of the enemy. There was an immediate burst of firing, as the troops ashore saw their chance.
Oarsmen fought desperately at their twenty-five-foot oars but the gunboat didn’t move. Men took hits and the oars fell out of time into a fatal disorder.
Krieger felt a mounting desperation. Aboard Nakskov the impossibility of their situation became clear to them and they threw themselves into the water and stroked frantically for Roeskilde where they were hauled in.
The gunboat had been fully evacuated yet it was still there to be captured after they’d left, and would be the first of the Danish fleet the English had come here to take.
Something snapped. ‘Get the dinghy into the water,’ Krieger ordered. It was insane but he had to do something. ‘Throw in a line,’ he added, to the astonished Swenson.
It was only a tiny skiff tucked away under the transom but Krieger didn’t hesitate. He scrambled in and took the oars. ‘Secure your end,’ he demanded. Swenson understood and, with deft turns, had a bowline about two thwarts.
Krieger pulled savagely for the stranded gunboat, the line paying out behind him.
He reached Nakskov, made for the bow and hauled himself in, the rope around his waist. The dinghy drifted away but he didn’t care; the foremast partners made a fine samson post and he secured the line tightly to it.
He waved energetically and Roeskilde took up the strain. Affixing the line so far forward offered an enormous leverage, and with oarsmen giving it their utmost at a rightangle, it was enough. Nakskov’s bow came around and she was free.
Joyfully they pulled her out and Wulff’s crew tumbled back aboard.
Krieger’s attention was diverted to the English boats coming on – their bow carronades were opening up now and in their length the Danish gunboats were vulnerable. It would be madness to allow them to close for a hand-to-hand fight and he’d made his decision to withdraw.