Other men tumbled all about him, a 'veritable cascade of seamen and marines', he afterwards wrote in his full report of proceedings, Templeton among them, keening in a curious, high-pitched squeal as he cut dangerously left and right with his sword.
"Ere, watch it, Mr Templeton,' somebody sung out, clear above the howls of rage and the screams of the dying.
Drinkwater engaged a second Danish marine, cut at the man's forearm and winged him, advanced a half step and grasped the musket's muzzle, ducking under the bayonet and jabbing his hanger at the soldier's stomach. The man cried out, though his voice was lost in the general bedlam and Drinkwater was conscious only of the gape of his mouth. The musket dropped between them, Drinkwater withdrew and slashed down at the marine's shoulder as he fell, parried a pike and felt the flat of a cutlass across his back.
He half-turned as the weapon was thrust again, flicked his own hanger and pricked the seaman's hand as he lunged with the clumsy cutlass. The severed tendons cost the man his grip. Drinkwater grunted with the speed of his response, raised his sword-point and, as though with a foil, extended and withdrew. Blood ran down the hapless sailor's face and his breath whistled through his perforated cheek as he fell back.
A musket or pistol was discharged close to him. Drinkwater felt the fierce heat from its muzzle and a stinging sensation in his ear. He cut right, parried a sword thrust and bound the blade; bellowed as he thrust it aside and slid forward, driving his sword home to the hilt in the soft abdomen of a man he had barely seen in the press of bodies.
He was conscious of an officer, of two officers, threatening him from the front in defiant postures. He was running short of wind, but Templeton was on his right and he shrieked, 'Here, Templeton, to me!'
Drinkwater engaged, crossed swords and felt the Danish officer press his blade. Drinkwater disengaged with a smart cut-over, but was thwarted as the Danish officer changed his guard. Drinkwater dropped his point and reverted to his original line, extending without lunging. The Dane grinned as he parried high and extended himself. Drinkwater was drawing his breath with difficulty now, he ducked clumsily and fell back, expecting a swift reprise, but the Dane would not be drawn and stood grinning at the panting Drinkwater.
Drinkwater's puzzlement was brief. On his flank Templeton was whirring his blade with such fanatic energy that his opponent was confused, or would not be drawn, and maintained a defensive position.
Then, in the hubbub and confusion, Drinkwater realized, drawing breath in the brief and timely lull, that the two officers were defending a man seated behind them in a chair.
It was Dahlgaard and he was pale as death, a pair of pistols in his lap.
'Captain Dahlgaard!' Drinkwater shouted, 'I see you are wounded! You can do no more! Surrender, sir! Strike your flag and stop this madness!'
'No!'
The officer from whom Drinkwater had just escaped howled his commander's defiance.
Drinkwater fell back a step. Templeton had drawn off and suddenly pulled a pistol from his belt. He fired at the officer he had been fighting and, as the Danish lieutenant fell, he stepped quickly forward and thrust savagely at Dahlgaard.
The officer who had defied Drinkwater's call to surrender, seeing what was happening, made to strike Templeton but lost his balance.
Drinkwater was on him, lunging forward with such speed that he, too, lost his footing and slammed into the Dane, his hanger blade snapping as he drove it home.
As Drinkwater fell to his knees something struck him on the shoulder. The blow was not hard. He sat back on his haunches and looked up into Dahlgaard's face. The Danish captain's eyes were cloudy with pain, his face wet with perspiration. Blood ran from the new wound Templeton had inflicted in his upper arm. Between these two men, instigators of the carnage all about them, Dahlgaard's young lieutenant was pinioned to the deck by Drinkwater's broken sword-blade.
Breathing in gulps, Drinkwater realized the injured Dahlgaard had struck him with one of his pistols. It had already been fired.
'I strike my flag,' Dahlgaard called, his voice rasping with agony.
'You surrender?' Drinkwater gasped, uncertain.
Dahlgaard nodded. 'Ja, ja, I strike.' The Dane closed his eyes.
'They strike!' shrieked Templeton. 'They strike! They strike!' And heady with victory Templeton ran aft to cut the halliard of the Danish ensign.
Wearily Drinkwater heaved himself to his feet. He felt the madness ebb, heard the cheering as though it came from a great way away. He was sodden with sweat and breathing with difficulty. Lightly he placed his hand on Dahlgaard's shoulder.
"Tis the fortune of war, Captain Dahlgaard, the fortune of war.'
Dahlgaard opened his eyes and stared up at Drinkwater, blinking. 'He was my sister's son, Kaptajn Drinkwater, my sister's only son ...'
And Drinkwater looked down at the body which lay between them, oblivious of Templeton who bent over the Odin's taffrail, the blood-red and white Danish colours draped about him, vomiting into the sea below and weeping in a rage at his own survival.
CHAPTER 16
To the Victor, the Spoils
Lieutenant Frey climbed wearily out of the boat, up the frigate's tumblehome and over the rail on to Andromeda's quarterdeck.
'The Captain's in the cabin, Frey, and asked if you would report when you arrived.'
Frey nodded to Lieutenant Jameson and went below. He found Drinkwater sitting having a dressing changed on his arm by the surgeon.
'Help yourself to a glass, Mr Frey, you look quite done in.'
'He still has a fever,' put in Kennedy.
'I'm fine, Kennedy, just a little tired.'
'Who isn't... ?'
'I didn't know you had been hit, sir,' Frey said quickly, re-stoppering the decanter.
'It's nothing. A scratch. A Yankee galled me as I swam away from the General Wayne. My exertions yesterday reopened it ...'
'It needed debriding', said Kennedy severely, 'before it became gangrenous. Your face is a mess, too; you'll likely have a scar.'
'Stop clucking, Mr Kennedy. Thanks to your superlative skill, I will mend,' said Drinkwater, silencing the surgeon. 'Now, Frey, tell me about your expedition, what of the two Americans?'
'The General Wayne burned to the waterline and settled where she lay. The other, the Hyacinthe — a French-built corvette — drifted ashore after her cable burnt through and then blew up. Her remains continued to burn until there was little left of her, or her contents. As for the matter of the truce, I had no trouble in landing my party. The commandant of the fort, a Captain Nilsen, or some such, is making ready to receive the wounded from the Odin. He was especially solicitous for Captain Dahlgaard. I understand they are related in some way.'
Drinkwater recalled Dahlgaard's dead nephew and dismissed the morbid thought. 'And you mentioned the Kestrel?'
'Yes. They seemed relieved not to have been entirely deprived of a means of communication with Bergen, or Copenhagen for that matter. I formed the impression that the Americans are an acute embarrassment to them.'
'I am truly sorry for the Danes,' Drinkwater said. 'Captain Dahlgaard was a most gallant officer ...'
Kennedy sniffed disparagingly at this assertion. Drinkwater ignored the man's infuriating importunity.
'And what arrangements have you concluded?'
'That all the Danes are to be landed and that we hand over the Kestrel immediately prior to our departure. A truce is to obtain until we are seaward of the narrows, thereafter they may communicate with Bergen.'