06 - Tenacious

  CONTENTS

  Tenacious

  Also by Julian Stockwin

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  TENACIOUS

  Julian Stockwin

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Also by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd

  Artemis

  Seaflower

  Mutiny

  Quarterdeck

  Copyright © 2005 by Julian Stockwin

  First published in Great Britain in 2005 by Hodder and Stoughton

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  The right of Julian Stockwin to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978 1 84894 740 5

  Book ISBN 978 0 340 83222 6

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NWl 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  There is but one Nelson

  Lord St Vincent

  Prologue

  The sound of carriage wheels echoed loudly in the blackness of Downing Street. With a jangle of harness and the snorting of horses, the vehicle stopped outside No. 10 and footmen braved the rain to lower the step and hand down the occupants.

  The Prime Minister, William Pitt, did not wait for the Speaker of the House of Commons, but Henry Addington knew his friend of old and smiled at his nervous vitality. ‘Quite dished ’em in the debate, William,’ he puffed, as he caught up and they mounted the stairs to the upper landing.

  ‘It will hold them for now,’ Pitt said briefly.

  The sound of their voices roused the household. A butler appeared from the gloom, with a maid close behind. ‘In here,’ Pitt threw over his shoulder, as he entered a small drawing room. The maid slipped past with a taper, lit the candles, and a pool of gold illuminated the chaise-longue. Pitt sprawled on it full-length, while Addington took a winged chair nearby.

  ‘Oh, a bite of cold tongue and ham would answer,’ Pitt said wearily, to the butler’s query, then closed his eyes until the man had returned with brandy and a new-opened bottle of port. He poured, then withdrew noiselessly, pulling the doors closed.

  ‘Hard times,’ Addington offered.

  ‘You think so, Henry? Since that insufferable coxcomb Fox rusticated himself I have only the French to occupy me.’ He took a long pull on his port.

  Addington studied the deep lines in his face. ‘General Buonaparte and his invasion preparations?’ he asked quietly.

  There had been little else in the press for the last two months. Paris had performed a master-stroke in appointing the brilliant victor of Italy to the head of the so-called ‘Army of England’, which had beaten or cowed every country in Europe. His task now was to eliminate the last obstacle to conquest of the civilised world. Spies were reporting the rapid construction of flat troop-landing barges in every northern French port, and armies were being marched to the coast. Invasion of the land that lay in plain sight of the battalions lining those shores was clearly imminent.

  ‘What else?’ Pitt stared into the shadows. ‘If he can get across the twenty miles of the Channel then… then we’re finished, of course.’

  ‘We have the navy,’ Addington said stoutly.

  ‘Er, yes. The navy were in bloody mutiny less’n a year ago and are now scattered all over the world. Necessary, of course.’ He brooded over his glass. ‘Grenville heard that the French will turn on Hanover and that His Majesty will oblige us to defend his ancestral home, dragging us into a land war.’

  ‘Ridiculous.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Addington cradled his brandy and waited.

  Pitt sighed. ‘The worst of it all is not being possessed of decent intelligence. Having to make decisions in a fog of half-truths and guesses is a sure way to blunder into mistakes that history will judge without mercy. Take this, Henry. Spencer has confirmed that our grand General Buonaparte has left off inspecting his soldiers standing ready for the invasion and has been seen in Toulon. What’s he doing in the Mediterranean that he abandons his post? No one knows, but we have enough word that there’s an armament assembling there. Not a simple fleet, you understand, but transports, store-ships, a battle fleet. Are we therefore to accept that the moment we have dreaded most – when the French revolution bursts forth on the rest of the world – is now at hand? And if it is, why from Toulon?’

  He paused. There was the slightest tremor in the hand that held the glass. ‘If there’s to be a sally, where? Dundas speaks of Constantinople, the Sublime Porte. Others argue for a rapid descent on Cairo, defeating the Mamelukes and opening a highway to the Red Sea and thence our vital routes to India. And some point to a landing in the Levant, then a strike across Arabia and Persia to the very gates of India.’

  ‘And you?’

  At first, Pitt did not speak, then he said quietly, ‘It is all nonsense, romantic nonsense, this talk of an adventure in the land of Sinbad. It’s all desert, impassable to a modern army. It’s a stratagem to deflect our attention from the real object.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘After leaving Toulon, Buonaparte does not sail east. Instead he sails west. He pauses off Cartagena to collect Spanish battleships, then passes Gibraltar and heads north. With the fleet in Cadíz joining him as he passes, he brushes us aside and reaches the Channel. There, the Brest fleet emerges to join him, thirty of them! With a combined fleet of more’n fifty of-the-line around him he will get his few hours to cross, and then it will be all over for us, I fear.’

  Addington chose his words carefully: ‘But would it not be prudent to send ships into the Mediterranean to stop him at the outset?’

  ‘And leave England’s defence the poorer?’ He pondered for a space and continued, in an odd tone, ‘But, then, the decision is taken out of my hands. What I think is of no account. The Austrians are adamant that as a condition to an alliance we must provide a naval presence to protect Naples – you will recollect that the Queen of Naples is Austrian born. And as the Austrians are the only friends we have – pace the Portuguese – we must accede. And then, of course, there’s today’s dispatch from Genoa…’

  ‘Genoa?’

  ‘Yes. Something that changes the stakes utterly.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We have a reliable agent in Genoa. He’s reporting that the French have been active buying barrels – four thousand of the very biggest, with ten iron hoops but no bung holes.’

  Addington was mystified.

  For the first time, Pitt smiled. ‘Henry, old fellow, you’ll never be mistaken for a character of the seafaring species. Such barrels are tied to ships’ sides to assist them in floating over shallow waters. And that is proof positive tha
t Dundas is right. The French armament is to force the Dardanelles by this means and take Constantinople. Sultan Selim III is friendly to us and we cannot allow this to happen. I shall therefore direct that St Vincent off Cadíz forthwith undertakes a reconnaissance in force. We will return to the Mediterranean!’

  Chapter 1

  Lieutenant Thomas Kydd turned in his chair to Tysoe, his servant. ‘An’ I’ll have another soup, if y’ please.’ He smiled at his friend Renzi, and loosened his stock in the warmth of the crowded wardroom of HMS Tenacious. ‘Thunderin’ good prog, Nicholas, d’ye think?’

  ‘Moose muffle,’ Pringle, captain of marines, called over the hubbub. He inspected the piece of meat he had speared. ‘Spring moose is better in June, you’ll find, once the beast has a mort of fat on him.’

  The wardroom echoed to gusts of laughter in response to a sally by Captain Houghton at the head of the table – his officers had invited him to dine with them this night. The older of the seamen servants glanced at each other meaningfully. The ship had pulled together in fine style: with officers in harmony so much less was the likelihood of interference in their own community.

  Kydd’s soup plate was removed. ‘Ah, I think the baked shad,’ he said, and turned to Pybus, the surgeon. ‘Not as I mean t’ say I’m wearying of cod, you know.’

  ‘That, in Nova Scotia, is a felony, Mr Kydd,’ Pybus said drily, reaching for the chicken. As usual, he was wearing an old green waistcoat.

  Kydd nodded at the servant, and his glass was neatly refilled. He let his eyes wander beyond the colour and chatter of the occasion through the graceful sweep of the stern windows to Halifax harbour, the darkness relieved by scattered golden pinpricks of light from other ships at anchor. Just a year ago he had been under discipline before the mast, accused of treason after the Nore mutiny. He had joined the insurrection in good faith, then been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level, he should have shared his comrades’ fate and been hanged with them; he had never dreamed of elevation to the sanctity of the quarterdeck. Now he had won another great prize: acceptance by the other officers as an equal. Where might it all lead?

  ‘Pray assist me with this Rheingau, Tom,’ Renzi said, reaching across with a white wine. There was a contentment in him too, Kydd observed. His friend, who had come with him from the lower deck, was now settled at this much more agreeable station, which befitted his high-born background.

  ‘Mr Kydd – your health, sir!’ The captain’s voice carried down the table.

  Kydd lifted his glass with a civil inclination of the head. ‘Votter santay,’ he responded gravely.

  Houghton had risen above his objections to his fifth lieutenant’s humble origins after a social coup had established Kydd’s connections with the highest in the land. Unaware of her identity, Kydd had invited Prince Edward’s mistress to an official banquet – to the great pleasure of the prince.

  ‘I c’n well recommend th’ ruffed grouse, sir,’ Kydd said. A seaman picked up the dish and carried it to the captain, who acknowledged it graciously.

  Tall glasses appeared before each officer, filled with what appeared to be a fine amber fluid. The captain was the first to try. ‘By George, it’s calf’s foot jelly!’ he said. ‘Lemon – who’s responsible for this perfection?’ he demanded of his steward.

  ‘Lady Wentworth’s own recipe, sir. She desires to indicate in some measure to His Majesty’s Ship Tenacious her sensibility of the honour Lieutenant Kydd bestowed on her by accepting her invitation to the levee.’

  ‘I see,’ said the captain, and flashed a glance at Kydd.

  The third lieutenant, Gervase Adams, shifted in his chair. ‘No disrespect intended, sir, but it gripes me that we wax fat and indolent while our country lies under such grave peril.’

  Houghton frowned. ‘Any officer of honour would feel so, Mr Adams, but the safeguarding of trade and securing of naval supplies is of as much consequence to your country as the winning of battles. Pray bear your lot with patience. There may yet be a testing time ahead for us all.’

  Houghton motioned to his steward and the last dishes were removed, the cloth drawn. Decanters of Marsala and port were placed at the head and foot of the table and passed along, always to the left, as custom dictated. When all glasses had been filled, Houghton nodded almost imperceptibly to Bryant, first lieutenant and president of the mess, who turned to Kydd as the most junior lieutenant present. ‘Mr Vice – the King.’

  Kydd lifted his glass and paused for quiet. ‘Gentlemen, the King.’

  The words echoed strongly around the table. The simple ceremony of the loyal toast seemed to Kydd to draw together all the threads of his allegiance to king and country, and with others he followed with a sincere ‘God bless him.’

  The solemn courtesies complete, other toasts were made: ‘Foxhunting and Old Port’; ‘Our brothers at sea’; and the heartfelt ‘A willing foe and sea room!’ Red faces testified to the warmth and the wine, and when the brandy had circulated Houghton called, ‘Captain Pringle, might we press you to honour us with your flute?’

  ‘Should I be joined by our excellent doctor, I would be glad to, sir.’

  The marine was a proficient and sensitive player, and a lively violin accompaniment from the normally acerbic Pybus set the mood of the evening. Adams was persuaded to render a creditable ‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill’ in his light tenor, and Renzi delivered a reading from his new copy of Lyrical Ballads:

  ‘It is the first mild day of March;

  Each minute sweeter than before,

  The red-breast sings from the tall larch

  That stands beside our door.

  There is a blessing in the air

  Which seems a sense of joy to yield

  To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

  And grass in the green field…’

  Houghton rose to his feet. He raised his glass and said softly, ‘To Tenacious.’

  ‘Tenacious,’ came the reply, with more than one murmured ‘Bless her!’ There were no ready words to describe the affection that the old 64-gun ship-of-the-line had won in the hearts of her officers, and Kydd felt a lump in his throat. He could see the others were affected, too.

  In the quiet, a sudden knock at the wardroom door sounded overly loud. With rainwater streaming from his grego, the duty master’s mate awkwardly handed over an oilskin packet. ‘Cap’n, sir – urgent from Flag.’

  It was unusual to the point of disquiet that the admiral had seen fit to act immediately instead of waiting for the usual morning postal round, and all craned towards the head of the table.

  Houghton scanned the covering letter, then looked up gravely. ‘Gentlemen, you should be advised that the situation in Europe has intensified. Therefore we are to be recalled from this station to join that of Admiral the Earl St Vincent before Cadíz – we sail with the utmost dispatch.’

  Taking the deck for his first sea-watch since leaving Halifax, Kydd strode to the ship’s side and looked down with satisfaction at the busy wake forming and spreading in a hiss of obedience, slipping astern to join the other side in a lazy track that stretched far into the distance.

  He returned to the binnacle: the ship’s heading was within a whisker of east by south. His eyes rose to meet a look of reproach from the helmsman and he concealed a smile. He had no right to usurp the quartermaster’s responsibility for the course and knew only too well the irritation of a meddlesome officer-of-the-watch.

  But these were momentous times. Since Houghton had received his orders from the admiral, he had been unsparing in his drive to get Tenacious to sea. Whatever additional information he was privy to had lined his face and he had issued each officer-of-the-watch stern instructions to clap on every stitch – but woe betide all should it cost even a single spar.

  As he paced the quarterdeck, Kydd’s thoughts turned briefly to another matter: Gibraltar was less than a day’s sail away from Cadíz. It would serve his purpose well if
they touched on that fortress port. It would give him great satisfaction to conclude a particular task there. He had decided on it after parting with his uncle in a remote settlement in the Canadian Maritimes.

  Kydd stopped to feel the ship’s motion. Under all plain sail in the brisk, quartering south-westerly, Tenacious heaved and rose over the long Atlantic rollers in a strong and compelling rhythm, pleasing in its regularity. He sensed the waves meeting her bow and surging aft under the keel, the vessel’s slow pitch conforming to its motion. But there was something further – a trifle, perhaps, but out of harmony with the concert of movement.

  He glanced across the deck. Captain Houghton was taking the air on the weather side, walking with the first lieutenant. There was a full watch of the hands on deck and others were at work on their part-of-ship. Kydd signalled to the quartermaster that he was going forward, then made his way to the foredeck and stood feeling, sensing.

  The bow-wave swashed and hissed below; above him soared the headsails, taut and trim. But there was something. He turned to peer up, above the mighty fore-course, past the tops to the topsail and topgallant. Something was causing a hesitation, a brief interruption in the forward urge of the ship. He moved to one side until he could see the end of the bowsprit spearing into the sky ahead.

  It soared and dipped but then Kydd saw what was happening. It was not an up-and-down motion. Instead, it described a circle in the sky, certain indication that the helmsman was having to ease the wheel each time the bows met an oncoming sea. That was it – a griping caused by the ship’s tendency to come closer to the wind when her forefoot bit deep into the wave. Kydd was annoyed that the quartermaster had not noticed it: he knew that with every billow Tenacious was losing way through the water – only a tiny amount, but there were countless thousands of waves across the Atlantic.

  He turned on his heel and headed back, trying to work out how to resolve the problem. The usual remedy was to move provisions or guns aft, but the ship was fully stored and this would be awkward and dangerous. Also, with but a single frigate nearly out of sight ahead, it would be prudent to leave the guns where they were.