Men turned to look at the purser as he reached the after mortar and was again engulfed in the smoke of discharge. He emerged to the astonished onlookers like a theatrical wraith, his face flaccid, his cheeks wet with tears. Drinkwater was aware of a sniggering from the men at the shell-hatch.
'Bastards, you're all bastards…' Jex flung his arms wide in a gesture that embraced them all.
'Mr Jex…!' Drinkwater began, his jaw dropping as Jex's right arm flew off, spun round and slapped a topman across the face. The astonished man put up his hands and caught the severed limb.
'Cor! Pusser's give me back me bleeding eighth…'
The grotesque joke ended the brief hiatus on Virago's deck. Jex looked stupidly at his distant arm then down at the gouts of his blood as it poured from the socket. He began to scream and run about the deck.
Rogers felled him with one end of a burning royal yard he was heaving overboard. Jex fell to the deck, his legs kicking and his back arching, the red stain growing on the planking.
'Jesus Christ,' muttered Easton watching, fascinated.
At last Jex grew still. Jumping down from the rail having tossed overboard all the burning spars Rogers pointed to the body and addressed two seamen standing stock still beside a starboard carronade.
'Throw that damned thing overboard.'
Then Tumilty's after mortar roared again.
'Mr Drinkwater, sir! The Commander-in-Chief is signalling, sir!'
'Well Mr Q, what is it?'
'Number 39, sir: "Discontinue the action," sir.'
'"Discontinue the action"? Are you certain? Drinkwater raised his Dollond glass and levelled it to the north. Ramilles, Veteran and Defence were still clawing to windward and he could see London still at anchor, with her blue admiral's flag at the main. And there too were the blue and white horizontal stripes of Number 3 flag over the horizontal red, white and blue of Number 9.
'Mr Easton, what o'clock d'you have?'
'Twenty minutes after one, sir.'
'You must log receipt of that signal, Mr Easton… Mr Matchett… where the devil's the bosun?'
'Here sir.'
'Prepare to weigh.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater looked again at the London. There was no mistaking that signal. It was definitely Number 39.
'Cease fire, Mr Tumilty… Mr Rogers, disperse the hands to their stations for getting under way…' Drinkwater looked anxiously about him. Disengagement was going to be difficult. The battleships had only to cut their cables, they were already headed north and would soon be carried out of the action but the bombs had to weigh and turn. Virago could not turn to larboard, away from the Danish guns, because of the Middle Ground upon whose edge she had been anchored. To turn to starboard would put the ship under a devastating raking fire. Drinkwater swallowed. If he weighed immediately he might obtain a little shelter behind the battleships but he ran two risks in doing so. The first was that with the prevailing current he might run foul of one of the bigger ships; the second was that too precipitate a departure from the line of battle could be construed as cowardice.
'What the devil d'you want me to cease fire for?' Tumilty's purple face peered belligerently through the smoke.
'The Commander-in-Chief instructs us to abandon the action, damn it!'
'What the bloody hell for?'
'Do as you're told, Tumilty!' snapped Drinkwater.
'Beg pardon, sir, Flag's only acknowledged the signal…'
'Eh?' Drinkwater looked where Quilhampton pointed. Elephant had not repeated Parker's order. He looked astern and saw Explosion had repeated Number 39.
'What the bloody hell…?'
'Can you see Defiance, Mr Q?' Quilhampton stared over the starboard quarter and levelled the big watch-glass.
'I can't be sure, sir, but I think Admiral Graves has a signal hoisted but if he has it ain't from a very conspicuous place…'
'Not very conspicuous…?' Drinkwater frowned again and returned his attention to the Elephant. Nelson had signalled only an acknowledgement of sighting Number 39 to Parker but not repeated it to his ships, and Number 16, the signal for Close Action, hoisted at the beginning of the battle, still flew.
Drinkwater tried to clear his head while the concussion of the guns went on. Nelson was clearly not eager to obey. From Parker's distant observation post it must be obvious that Nelson was in trouble. Bellona and Russell were aground, both flying conspicuous signals of distress; there was a congestion of ships at the southern end of the line which, combined with the presence of some bombs and the gun-brigs still in the southern anchorage, suggested that something had gone dreadfully wrong with Nelson's division. Agamemnon, after repeated efforts to kedge round Cruizer, had given up and sent her boats to the assistance of the fleet while Cruizer, the mark vessel, had abandoned her station to support Riou.
Parker could see the northern end of the line more clearly. Frigates engaged with prepared positions presaged disaster, while his three battleships were clearly going to be unable to relieve Riou as they were still too far off.
'Pusillanimous Parker's lost his bloody nerve, eh?' said Rogers levelling a glass alongside Drinkwater.
'I think,' said Drinkwater, 'he's giving Nelson the chance to get out while he may. But I think he little appreciates what bloody chaos there will be if Nelson tries to disengage at this juncture…'
'Well Nelson ain't moving!' Rogers nodded across at Elephant.
'No.' Drinkwater paused. 'Tell Matchett to veer that cable again, Sam… Mr Tumilty! Re-engage!' A cheer went along Virago's deck and the next instant her waist filled with smoke and noise as the mortars roared.
'Flag to Virago, Number 214, for a "Lieutenant to report on board the Admiral," sir,' said Quilhampton diligently.
'Very well, pass word to Lieutenant Rogers, Mr Q.' Quilhampton went in search of the first lieutenant who had disappeared off the poop. Astern of them Explosion hauled down Number 39.
It was twenty minutes before Rogers returned. Rogers was elated.
'By God, sir, you should see it from over there, Nelson himself claims it's the hottest fire he's ever been under and the Danes are refusing to surrender. They're striking, then firing on the boats sent to take 'em…'
'What did the admiral want?' cut in Drinkwater.
'Oh, he remarked that Virago's shells were well directed and could we drop some into the Trekroner Forts.'
'Mr Tumilty!' Drinkwater shrieked through the din. He beckoned the Irishman onto the poop. 'His lordship wants us to direct our fire at the Trekroner Forts.'
Tumilty's eyes lit up. 'Very good. I'll switch the ten-inch to firing one pound shot, that'll shake the eejits if they haven't got casemates over there.'
Tumilty took ten minutes and four careful shots to get the range. The Trekroner Forts were at extreme range and the increased charge of twice the amount of powder used to reach the arsenal made Virago shake to her keel.
The one-pound shot arrived in boxes, and stockingette bags of them were lifted into the forward mortar, one hundred to a shot. Drinkwater found the trajectory of these easier to follow than the carcases as they spread slightly in flight.
For half an hour Virago kept up this bombardment until Quilhampton reported a flag of truce flying at Elephant's masthead. All along both lines the fire began to slacken and an air of uncertainty spread over the fleet.