Hardy swung the boat to the north while a man forward with a boat hook shoved the ice aside and the oarsmen struggled to pull rhythmically despite the floes that constantly impeded their efforts.
'There seems to be between six and eight fathoms in the main channel, sir,' Drinkwater said in a low voice after crouching in the boat's bottom and consulting his notebook. He was by no means certain of their exact position, but their line of bearing from Elephant was still reasonably accurate. 'The Middle Ground seems to be steep-to, with gentler shoaling on the Amager shore.'
Hardy leaned over his shoulder and nodded. 'Now I think you had better shutter that lantern and wrap canvas round it… not a word now, you men. Pull with short easy strokes and let the current do the work… Mr Fancourt…' Hardy pointed to larboard and the midshipman nodded. Drinkwater looked up and it took some minutes for his eyes to adjust again after the yellow lamplight.
Then he saw the enemy, dark, huge and menacing ahead of them. The southernmost ship of the Danish line was an old battleship. The spars that reared into the night sky showed that she had been cut down and was not rigged to sail, but two tiers of gun ports could just be made out and she was moored head and stern to chains.
Perfect silence reigned, broken only by the occasional plash and dribble as Hardy himself wielded the sounding pole. They could hear voices that spoke in a totally unfamiliar tongue, but they were not discovered. They were so close as they sounded round the enemy vessel that they thought there must have been times when the upper end of the pole appeared above the enemy's rail.
Greatly daring, Hardy pulled once more across the channel while Drinkwater scribbled the soundings down blind, hoping he could sort out his notes later. Satisfied at last, Hardy turned to the midshipman.
'Very well, Mr Fancourt, you may rejoin the admiral.'
Six bells rang out on Elephant's fo'c's'le and the sentries were crying 'All's well!' as Hardy's boat returned alongside. Drinkwater followed Hardy under the poop and into the brilliantly lit great cabin. Briarly and Quilliam had returned ahead of them. Clustered round the master-chart that now carried much greater detail than when Drinkwater had last seen it were Nelson, Riou and Foley.
Nelson looked up. 'Ah, Hardy, you are back… Mr Briarly, oblige these two with a glass… right, what have you for us, Hardy?'
Drinkwater slopped the rum that Briarly handed him. He was shaking from the cold and though the cabin was not excessively warm, the candles seemed to make it very hot after the hours spent in the boat. He swallowed the rum gratefully and slowly mastered his shivering. There was clearly a dispute going on over the comparative depths.
'Call the pilots,' said Nelson at length. After a delay the elderly men entered the cabin. They too had dined and drunk well and spoke in thick Yorkshire accents. Drinkwater listened to the debate in progress round the chart-table. He helped himself to a second glass of rum and began to feel better, the alcohol numbing the ache in his arm. At last Nelson suppressed further argument.
'Gentlemen, gentlemen, it seems that the greater depth of water is to be found on the Middle Ground side of the King's Deep, yet, if what Captain Hardy says holds good for the length of the Channel, some danger will attend holding too strictly to that assertion, for the rapid shoaling on that side will give little warning of the proximity of the bank. Foley, we must include some such reference in the orders. Masters must pay attention to the matter and remark the leadsmen's calls with great diligence. I see little risk to the fleet if this injunction is remembered. Mr Drinkwater's buoy at the southern end of the Middle Ground is the keystone to the enterprise. Gentlemen I wish you good night…'
Drinkwater returned to Virago in a borrowed boat. His mind was woolly with fatigue and Nelson's rum. But the ache in his arm had almost gone, together with his worries over Nelson's opinion of him.
Chapter Seventeen
The Last Blunders
Drinkwater was called at eight bells in the middle watch. He was sour-mouthed and worse tempered. The chill in his cabin had brought back the ache in his arm and the insufficient sleep had left him feeling worse than ever. Rogers came in, having just taken over the deck from Trussel, with the news that the wind had sprung up from the south east. 'It seems our luck has changed at last, sir.'
'Huh! Get me hot water…'
'Tregembo's got the matter in hand…'
'Tregembo?'
'He spent yesterday sponging your best uniform and sharpening your sword. There was a deal of activity last night. Blanche dragged her anchor and there were numerous boats pulling about.' Rogers lifted the decanter from its fiddle and poured a generous measure. 'Here Nat, drink this, you'll feel better.' He held out the glass.
'God's bones!' Drinkwater shuddered as the raw spirit hit his empty stomach. 'Thanks Sam.'
'I've called all hands and got the galley stove fired up to fill 'em full of burgoo and molasses for ballast.'
'Very good. Did you enjoy your dinner?'
'Yes, thank you. Old Lettsom trilled us some jolly airs and Matchett sung us "Tom Bowling" and some other stuff by Dibdin.' He paused and seemed to be considering something.
'What is it?'
'Jex, sir…'
'Oh?'
'Acted rather oddly. Left us abruptly in the middle of dinner and we found him sitting on the bowsprit, tight as a tick and crying his bloody eyes out.'
'What time was this? Did any of the men see?'
'Well some did, sir. It happened about ten last night. Lettsom made us put him to bed, though I was inclined to put him under arrest…'
'No, no. You have been a trifle hard on him, Sam.'
'Bloody man's a coward, sir…'
'That's a stiff allegation to make. D'you have evidence to support it?'
'Aye, during the action with the luggers we found him cowering on the spare sails.'
'Why didn't you report him then?' asked Drinkwater sharply, getting up. Rogers was silent for a moment.
'Saw no point in bothering you…'
'Kept damned silent for your own purposes, more like it,' Drinkwater suddenly blazed. 'Jex is the worst kind of purser, Sam, but I had the measure of the man and now you have goaded him to this extreme…' Drinkwater fell silent as Tregembo knocked and entered the cabin. He brought a huge bowl of steaming hot water and put it down on the cabin chest, then he bustled about, laying out Drinkwater's best uniform and clean undergarments.
'You're worse than a bloody wife, Tregembo,' said Drinkwater partially recovering his good temper as the rum spread through him.
'Very well, Mr Rogers,' he said at last, 'let us forget the matter. As long as he stands to his station today we'll say no more about any aspect of it.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' replied Rogers woodenly, leaving the cabin.
After Tregembo had left Drinkwater stripped himself, decanted a little water with which to shave then lifted the bowl of water onto the deck. For a few shuddering moments he immersed as much of himself as he could, dabbing half-heartedly with a bar of soap and drying himself quickly. Bathing and putting on clean underwear was chiefly to reduce infection of any wounds he might suffer but, in fact, it raised his morale and when he stepped on deck in the dawn, his boat cloak over two shirts and his best coat, he had forgotten the labours of the night.
He paced the poop in the growing light, looking up occasionally at the masthead pendant to check the wind had not shifted. He could scarcely believe that after all the delays, disappointments and hardships, the wind that had played them so foul for so long should actually swing into the required quarter as if on cue.