Smiling to himself, Master Drew paused outside the Red Boar Inn before wandering the short distance to the banks of the Thames. The smells were overpowering. Gutted fish and offal. The stench of sewerage. Those odious smells, to which he thought that a near lifetime of living in London had inured him, suddenly seemed an affront to his nostrils. Yet thousands of people were arriving in London year after year, and the city was extending rapidly in all directions. A harsh, unkind city that attracted the weak and the wicked, the hopeful and the cynics, the trusting and the swindler, the credulous and the cheat. Never was there such an assemblage of evil. The Puritan divines did not have to look far if they wished to frighten people with an image of what hell was akin to.
He sighed deeply as he glanced up and down the riverbanks.
A boy came along the embankment path bearing a placard and ringing a handbell. Master Drew peered at the placard.
It was an announcement that the King’s Players would be performing Master Will Shakespeare’s The Life of King Henry V at the Globe Theatre that evening.
Master Whelton Keehan would not be playing the role of King Hal.
Master Hardy Drew suddenly found some lines from another of Will Shakespeare’s plays coming into his mind. Where did they come from? The Tragedy of Macbeth! The last performance Whelton Keehan had given.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.
Out, out brief candle!
Life’s hut a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.
THE REVENGE OF THE GUNNER’S DAUGHTER
The last French shot had fallen a full quarter-mile aft of the Deerhound as she slipped into the sheltering fog that was rolling down through the Oresund from the Kattegat and across the Kjoge Bight, south of Copenhagen. That had been twenty minutes ago, and since then there had followed an uneasy quiet, free of the noise of battle; the sea’s quiet of creaking wooden spars, the fretful snap of canvas and the whispering waves against the sides of the twenty-two-gun sloop as she became immersed in the thick white mist that now concealed her from her vengeful pursuer.
Captain Richard Roscarrock, captain of His Majesty’s sloop Deerhound, stood head to one side, in a listening attitude on the quarterdeck, hands clasped tightly behind him, lips compressed. Finally he raised his head; his shoulders seemed to relax.
“Hands to shorten sail, Mr. Hart.” He turned to the midshipman next to him, a lad scarcely out of his teenage. “Quietly does it,” he snapped hastily as the youngster raised his hand to his mouth to shout the order. “Quietly all! We don’t want Johnny Frenchman to hear us. We’ll take in the tops’ls and mains’l. Pass the word! And have the hands take a care for the damage on the mainmast; the main topgallant mast seems to be badly splintered. And for heaven’s sake, get a couple of hands to secure the mainstay; it’ll cause damage if it swings loose for much longer.”
Midshipman Hart brought his hand to his forehead so that his original motion ended in a cursory salute. He went forward to gather the hands.
Gervaise, the first lieutenant, moved closer to his captain. His voice was quiet. “I don’t think the Frenchman has followed us, sir,” he observed. “He’s probably beating back into the Baltic now that he has discovered we are in these waters.”
Roscarrock agreed mentally but gave a noncommittal grunt by way of response. He had been long enough in command to realize that it was not politic to discuss his thoughts with his juniors.
Unstead, the second officer, joined them. “Did you see the cut of her, sir? I’ll bet ten guineas on that being the Epervier of Rambert’s squadron.”
“Will we try to rejoin Admiral Gambier, sir?” pressed Gervaise.
Roscarrock sniffed to indicate his irritation. “In good time, Mr. Gervaise. And I am well aware of what ship it was, Mr. Unstead. We’ll haul to and will use the cover of this fog to assess our situation. The French gunners were good, and we have sustained some damage. Look at our mainmast.”
The sloop had encountered the French seventy-four-gun man-o’-war by accident, sailing around the headland of Stevns Klint and running abruptly under her guns before Roscarrock could wear the ship, turning the helm to windward. The Frenchman had opened fire almost immediately on the smaller vessel. The French guns had inflicted a lot of damage on the English sloop before her swifter sailing ability, good seamanship, and the descending fog across the bight had allowed a means of escape.
Roscarrock knew that he must have sustained several casualties. He could see for himself that the main topgallant mast had been splintered, the rigging and spars still hanging dangerously. The last shots the French had fired had been high and chain shot, which had ripped into the rigging. Captain Roscarrock also knew there had been at least one, probably two shots landed on the gun deck. However, his first concern was whether the Deerhound had been holed below the waterline, and his second concern was whether the damage to his masts was irreparable and would prevent him returning quickly to the main British fleet of Sir James Gambier to warn him of the presence of the French.
Lieutenant Gervaise had already read his mind and passed word for the masters mate, bosun, purser, cooper, chief gunnery officer, and doctor: all the heads of the various departments that ran a ship-of-war.
The group of men came after in ones and twos and gathered before the captain on the quarterdeck. They were tired but wore that look of relief at finding themselves still alive. Faces were blackened by powder burns; clothes were torn and stained with blood.
“Has the word been passed for the gunnery officer?” Captain Roscarrock asked, looking round and not seeing the third lieutenant who fulfilled this role.
An elderly sailor, with petty officer insignia, touched his forehead briefly. “Beg pardon, sir. Gunnery officers dead. I’ll make his report.”
The first lieutenant blinked a moment. The second officer, Unstead, whistled tactlessly. Roscarrock broke in harshly as if he had not noticed their reactions.
“And where’s the bosun?”
“Dead, sir,” replied the masters mate dryly.
“Then his mate should be here.”
“Dead as well, sir. I’ll attend to the report,” the man replied.
“Very well. Damage?”
“No shots below the waterline. Main topgallant mast splintered and upper rigging tangled and dangerous. There is no way we can replace topmast shrouds nor the futtock shrouds. She should be able to take the mainsl and we can run without tops’ls, though it will slow us down.”
“What about the mizzentop mast?”
“We were lucky there. A chain shot went through the sheet, but it can be patched. That was the shot that impacted against the mainmast.”
Roscarrock nodded swiftly. “Do your best. Well attempt to rejoin the fleet as soon as this fog bank clears. Then we’ll effect proper repairs. If our main fleet have already captured Copenhagen, we should have no problem.” Roscarrock turned back to a grizzled petty officer. “What’s the situation with the guns?”
The elderly man raised a finger to his forelock. “Four guns and their crews out of action, Cap’n. Three guns totally destroyed.”
Not as bad as Roscarrock expected-still eighteen guns remaining in action. “Purser? What’s our status?”