The four arm bridle was soon fitted and the awkward contraption manoeuvred to take the pole up through its centre. Eventually, as Easton completed pulling round them and set off for the south, they bent their anchor line to the bridle and prepared to cast off.
'Three lights, sir,' reported Quilhampton.
'Yes,' said Drinkwater, holding up his hand compass, 'and I fancy the bank is trending a little to the westward. Very well,' he snapped the compass shut, 'cast off from the buoy!'
He looked astern as they pulled away. The thin line of the spar soon disappeared in the darkness but the weft streamed out just above the horizon against the slightly lighter sky.
They laboured on throughout the small hours of the night, celebrating their success from time to time in two-finger grog. The trend to the east did not develop although Easton laid a second buoy before the bank swung southward again.
Drinkwater's boat was on its fifth run towards the west and already the sky was lightening in the east when Drinkwater realised something was wrong.
'Oars!' he commanded and the men ceased pulling, their oars coming up to the horizontal. He bent over the little compass and compared its findings with the steering compass in the bottom of the boat. Easton's boat was well on the starboard quarter. Ahead of them he thought he could see the low coast of Amager emerging from the darkness, but he could not be sure. The boat slewed as an ice floe nudged it.
'I believe we've overshot the bank, Mr Q. Turn north, and keep the lead going forrard there!'
'Aye, aye, zur!'
As the daylight grew it became clear that they had misjudged their distance from Easton and over-run the tail of the bank for some distance, but after an anxious fifteen minutes Tregembo found the bottom.
As they struggled to get their second buoy over, Easton came up to them.
'Don't bother to sound round me, Mr Easton, this is the tail of the bank all right.'
'Well done, sir.'
'And to you and your boat. You may transfer aboard here, Mr Easton, with your findings. Mr Q you will take Mr Easton's boat back to the ship.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Buoy's ready, zur.'
Very well, hold on to it there…' The boats bumped together and Easton and Quilhampton exchanged places. 'A rum issue before we part, eh?'
The men managed a thin cheer and in the growing light Drinkwater saw the raw faces and sunken eyes of his two boats' crews. The wind was still fresh from the north west and it would be a hard pull to windward for them. A heavy ice floe bumped the side of the boat. 'Bear it off Cottrell!'
There was no move from forward. 'Cottrell! D'you hear man?'
'Beg pardon, sir, but Cottrell's dead sir.'
'Dead?' Drinkwater stood and pushed his way forward, suddenly realising how chilled and cramped his muscles had become through squatting over his lantern, chart and compasses. He nearly fell overboard and only saved himself by catching hold of a man's shoulder. It was Cottrell's and he lolled sideways like a log. His face was covered by a thin sheen of ice crystals and his eyes stared accusingly out at Drinkwater.
'Get him in the bottom.' Drinkwater stumbled aft again and sat down.
'Can't sir, he's stiff as a board.'
Drinkwater swore beneath his breath. 'Shall I pitch 'im overboard sir?'
He had not liked to give such an order himself. 'Aye,' he replied, 'Poor old Jack… We have no alternative, lads.'
'He weren't a bad old sod, were 'e?'
There was a splash from forward. The body rolled over once and disappeared. A silence hung over the boat and Quilhampton asked 'Permission to proceed sir?'
'Carry on, Mr Q.'
'Zur!' Tregembo's whisper was harsh and urgent.
'What the devil is it?'
'Thought I saw a boat over there!'
Tregembo pointed north west, in the direction of Copenhagen. Drinkwater stood unsteadily. He could see a big launch pulling to the southward. It might be British but it might also be Danish. He thought of recalling Mr Quilhampton who was already pulling away from them but if the strange boat had not yet seen them he did not wish to risk discovery of the buoy that marked so important a point as the south end of the Middle Ground. Perhaps they could remove the weft, the bare pole would be much more difficult to see…
He rejected the idea, knowing the difficulty of relocating the bank and the buoy themselves, particularly in circumstances other than they had enjoyed tonight.
In the end he decided on a bold measure. 'Let go the buoy!'
He grabbed the tiller and leaned forward to peer in the compass. 'Give way together!' He swung the boat to the north west.
Heading directly for Copenhagen they could scarcely avoid being seen from the big launch. It was vital that observers in the approaching launch did not see the spar-buoy at the southern end of the Middle Ground.
The men were tired now and pulling into the wind after labouring at the oars all night was too much for them. Adding to their fatigue was a concentration of ice floes that made their progress more difficult still. After a few minutes it was obvious that they had been seen from the launch. Drinkwater swung the boat away to the north east, across the Middle Ground, drawing the pursuing launch away from the southernmost buoy. From time to time he looked grimly over his shoulder. He closed his mind to the ironic ignominy of capture and urged the oarsmen to greater efforts. But they could see the pursuing launch and knew they were beaten.
'Hang on, sir, that's one of them damned flat boats!'
'Eh?' Drinkwater turned again, numb with the cold and the efforts of the night. He could see the boat clearly now.
'Boat 'hoy! "Spencer"!' Drinkwater cudgelled his brain for the countersign given him by Riou.
'"Jervis"!' he called, then, turning to the boat's crew, 'Oars!' The men rested.
The big boat came up, pulled by forty seamen who had clearly not spent the night wrestling with leadlines and ice floes.
'What ship?' A tall lieutenant stood in her stern.
'Virago, Lieutenant Drinkwater in command.'
'Good morning, Lieutenant, my name's Davies, off to reconnoitre the guns at Dragor. There's a lot of you fellows out among the ice. Did you take us for a Dane?'
'Aye.'
'Ah, well, sir, 'tis All Fool's day today… Good morning to you.'
The big boat turned away. 'Well I'm damned!' said Drinkwater and, as if to further confound him the wind began to back to the westward. 'Well I'm damned,' he repeated. 'Give way, lads, it's time for breakfast.'
Chapter Sixteen
All Fool's Day
Drinkwater's tired oarsmen pulled alongside Amazon as the frigate got under way. Riou complied with Drinkwater's request that his boat be allowed to return to Virago under the master and that he remain on board to give his findings to Fothergill.
Before passing off the quarterdeck into the cabin where Fothergill and other weary officers were collating information, Riou asked, 'How far south did you get, Mr Drinkwater?'
'I found the southern end of the bank, sir, and marked it with a spar buoy'
'Excellent. I have recalled Cruizer as you see. Lord Nelson joins us and we are taking Harpy, Lark and Fox through the Holland Deep…'
'Sir…' A midshipman interrupted them. 'Begging your pardon, sir, but Lord Nelson's barge is close, sir…'