'Luck,' repeated Edward ironically, pulling on Mason's coat, 'I shall need a deal of that… and if she fails me, as she has done before, then I may always blow my brains out, eh? Nathaniel?' He turned to find his brother gone and the cabin filling with the grey light of dawn.
Drinkwater looked astern once at the dark shape of Virago as the first of the daylight began to illuminate the anchorage. A freezing wind blew in their faces as the boat, her sheets trimmed hard in, butted her way to the south eastwards, through the anchored ships. The only advantage to be had from the multitude of delays they had been subjected to in the past weeks was that a boat working through the anchorage was unlikely to attract much attention. There had been too much coming and going between the ships for any suspicions to be aroused.
The boat's crew were muffled against the cold. Beside him in the stern sat Edward, staring at the approaching shore and ignoring the curious looks of his former messmates. He had one hand on the rail and the other round Mason's canvas bag, sword and cocked hat.
The two brothers sat in silence. There had been no formal leave taking, Drinkwater having re-entered the cabin merely to announce the readiness of the boat.
Edward's ingratitude hurt Nathaniel. He could not imagine the emotions that tore his brother, how the comparison of their situations had seemed heightened by the social gulf that had divided them during Edward's short sojourn before the mast. Nor could Edward, to whom precarious existence had become a way of life, fully realise the extent to which Drinkwater had risked his all. And a man used to gambling and living upon his wits with no-one to blame but himself for his misfortunes usually casts about for a scapegoat. But this was lost on Drinkwater who charitably assumed the bleak prospect looming before his brother accounted for Edward's attitude.
Quilhampton tacked the boat seaward again in the growing light. The low coast of Zeeland was now clearly visible to the south of them and after half an hour they went about again and stood inshore where the tree-lined horizon was broken by the harder edges of roofs and the spire of Gilleleje. Drinkwater nudged Quilhampton and pointed at the village. Quilhampton nodded.
Forty minutes later they lowered the sail and got out the oars, running the boat on the sand in a comparative lee.
Drinkwater walked up the beach alongside Edward. Neither man said a word. Behind them Quilhampton stilled a speculative murmur among the boat's crew.
The two brothers strode past fishing boats drawn up on the beach. From the village a cock crowed and rising smoke told of stirring life. They saw a man emerge from a wooden privy who looked up in astonishment.
'I think I will take my leave now,' Edward said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
'Very well,' replied Nathaniel, his voice flat and formally naval.
Edward paused then gripped the canvas bag flung over his shoulder with both fists, avoiding the necessity of shaking hands. He nodded to his brother then turned and strode away. Drinkwater stood and watched him go. The man from the privy had reappeared at the door of a neat wooden house. With him was a woman with yellow hair and a blue shawl wrapped about her shoulders. They stood staring at the approaching stranger. Edward made no attempt to conceal himself but walked up to them and raised his hat. The woman retreated behind her husband but after a few minutes, during which it was clear that Edward was making himself understood to the Dane, curiosity brought her forward again.
Though the two looked twice at Drinkwater, Edward did not turn and after a moment Nathaniel walked back to the boat.
The wind before which Virago's longboat returned was foul for the fleet to attempt The Sound. But the day proved more eventful than could have been expected as that dismal realisation permeated every wardroom and gun-room in the fleet. About ten in the morning the Commander-in-Chief began signalling various ships for boats. There followed hours during which, in a grey and choppy sea, the boats of the fleet pulled or sailed about, commanded by blue midshipmen with notes and orders, while the weary seamen toiled at the oars to invigorate their circulation.
The cold was bitter, following an unseasonal early spring, winter had reasserted itself. In England daffodils, new budded in the warmth of early March, now froze on the stem, an omen from the North that did not go unnoticed among the ignorant and neglected womenfolk who waited eagerly for news of the vaunted Baltic expedition.
But a new air gradually transformed the weary ships. The battleships hauled alongside the cumbersome flat-bottomed boats they had so laboriously towed or carried from England and lowered 24-pounder guns into them. Colonel Stewart's detachment of the 49th Foot improvised musket drill over the hammock nettings, while his riflemen were said to be ready to shoot the Tsar's right eye out. Even the bombs were part of this rejuvenation, the artillery detachments being ordered out of their tenders and on board the vessels they were to attend in action.
Mr Tumilty's rubicund, smiling face came over the side and the red haired Irishman pumped Drinkwater's hand enthusiastically.
'Why Mr Drinkwater, but I'd sure never like to see you naval boys try to do anything secret, 'tis for sure the whole population of Denmark has seen us cruising up and down the coast, by Jesus!' Drinkwater grinned, thinking of his own private secret expedition that had only been accomplished an hour or two earlier.
'I'm damned glad to see you, Mr Tumilty, but what's the cause of all this sudden activity?'
'Don't you know? Why, Admiral Parker has at last decided to let Lord Nelson have his way. The bombs are to join a squadron under his lordship's command. And for certain 'tis Revel or Copenhagen for us, m' dear fellow.'
'Are we to go with the bombs, then?'
'Aye, Nat'aniel. They say Nelson has been nagging the poor old admiral 'til he was only too glad to get rid of him.' Tumilty shivered and rubbed his hands. 'God, but it's cold. To be sure a man that'd go to sea for fortune would go to hell for pleasure…'
'Well, Mr Tumilty, do you go to see Mr Jex and give him my compliments and ask him to issue a greygoe to you, and sheepskins to your men. We should have enough.'
'That's mighty kind of you Nat'aniel, mighty kind. Sure an'it'll be hotter than the hobs of hell itself when we kindle those big black kettles you've got skulking beneath those hatches,' he added, rubbing his hands again, this time with enthusiasm.
'Beg pardon, sir, message from the admiral…' Drinkwater took the packet from Quilhampton and noted the boat pulling away from the ship's side. In his delight at welcoming Tumilty he had not seen it arrive.
He scanned the order: The ships noted in the margin are… Drinkwater looked down the list. There, at the bottom he found Virago… to form a squadron under my command ordered forward upon a special service… The ships and vessels placed under my directions are to get their sheet and spare anchors over the side, ready for letting go at the shortest notice… commanding officers are to take especial notice of the following signals… No 14 to anchor by the stern … It was signed in the admiral's curious, left-handed script: Nelson and Brontë.
'Mr Rogers!'
'Sir?'
'The vice-admiral is to shift his flag to Elephant this morning.'
'What the devil for?'
'She draws less than the St George, Mr Rogers. Do you direct the watch officers to pay particular attention to all signals from the Elephant. We are to form part of a detachment under Nelson…'
The sudden activity of the fleet and the disencumbering of Edward had coincided to throw off Drinkwater's depression. He suddenly felt ridiculously buoyant, a feeling shared by the impish Tumilty whose smile threatened to disappear into his ears.