Tenacious Page 2

  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.

  He reached the quarterdeck and Houghton glanced at him curiously. Kydd did not catch his eye as he ordered the mate-of-the-watch, "Hands to set sail!" Stuns'ls had been struck earlier in the day and the man looked surprised. He hesitated, then hailed the boatswain.

  "Mr Pearce," Kydd told him, "as we're lasking along, wind's fr'm the quarter, I mean t' take in the fore-topmast stays'l and then we'll set the large jib." The boatswain's eyebrows rose, but after only the briefest look in the captain's direction, he drew out his silver call.

  Kydd knew it was not a popular order among the men. The large jib would have to be roused out from below and heaved up on deck, the long sausage of canvas needing thirty men at least to grapple with it. And the handing of the fore-topmast staysail, a fore-and-aft sail leading down from aloft, was hard, wet and dangerous, followed by the awkward job of hanking the large jib.

  Houghton had stopped pacing and was watching Kydd closely. The master emerged from the cabin spaces to stand with him and the first lieutenant, but Kydd kept his eyes forward as the boatswain set the men about their tasks.

  The fo'c'slemen lowered the fore-topmast staysail, the men out on the bowsprit using both hands to fist the unruly canvas as it came down the stay. This was a job for the most experienced seamen in the ship: balancing on a thin footrope, they bellied up to the fat spar and brought in the sail, forming a skin and stuffing in the bulk before passing gaskets round it. All the while the bowsprit reared and fell in the lively seas.

  Kydd stayed on the quarterdeck, looking forward and seeing occasional bursts of spray from the bow shoot up from beneath, soaking men and canvas. He felt for them.

  At last the jib was bent on and began jerking up, flapping and banging, and the men made their way back inboard. Sheets were tended and the action was complete.

  "Mr Kydd, what was your purpose in setting the large jib?" Houghton called.

  Kydd crossed the deck and touched his hat. "The ship gripes, sir. I—"

  "Surely you would therefore attend to the trim?"

  "Sir, we're fully stored, difficult t' work below," he began, recalling his experiences as a quartermaster's mate and the dangers lurking in a dark hold when the ship was working in a seaway. "This way we c'n cure the griping an' get an edge of speed."

  Houghton frowned and looked at the master, who nodded. "Ah, I believe Mr Kydd means t' lift the bows—you'll know the heads'ls are lifting sails, an' at this point o' sailing the large jib will do more of a job in this than our stays'l."

  "And the speed?" Houghton wanted to know.

  But Kydd could already sense the effects: the hesitation was gone and it felt much like a subtle lengthening of stride. He turned to the mate-of-the-watch. "A cast o' the log, if y' please."

  It was only half a knot more, but this was the same as subtracting from their voyage the best part of a hundred miles for every week at sea.

  Kydd held back a grin. "And if it comes on t' blow, we let fly, sir."

  Houghton gave a curt acknowledgement.

  "Does seem t' me she's a sea-kindly ship, if y' know what I mean, sir," Kydd dared.

  The wardroom was a quite different place from what it had been a day or so before: officers sat at table for dinner together in the usual way, but now they were in sea-faded, comfortable uniform and there was always one absent on watch. And instead of the stillness of harbour repose, there was the soaring, swooping movement of deep ocean that had everyone finding their sea-legs once more.

  Fiddles had been fitted round the table—taut cords at the edge to prevent plates tumbling into laps; glasses were never poured more than half full and wetted cloths prevented bottles sliding— all familiar accompaniments to sea service.

  The chaplain entered for dinner, passing along hand by hand to steady himself. "Do take a sup of wine," Kydd said solicitously.

  "Thank you, perhaps later," Peake murmured, distracted. He reached for the bread-barge, which still contained portions of loaves—soon they would be replaced with hard tack—and selected a crust. "I confess I was ever a martyr to the ocean's billows," he said faintly.

  Kydd remembered the times when he had been deprived of Renzi's company while Peake and he had been happily disputing logic, and could not resist saying, "Then is not y'r philosophy comfort enough? Nicholas, conjure some words as will let us see th' right of it."

  Renzi winked at him. "Was it not the sainted Traherne who tells us ... let me see ... 'You never enjoy the world aright, till the sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens and crowned with the stars and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world'?"

  Peake lifted dull eyes and said weakly, "I believe the Good Book may be more relied upon in this matter, as you will find in Proverbs, the thirtieth chapter: 'There be three things which are too wonderful for me ... the way of an eagle in the air ... the serpent on a rock—and the way of a ship in the midst of the sea.'"

  Bampton's voice cut above the chuckles. "That you can safely leave with us, Mr Peake, but we'll have early need of your services, I fancy." Adams gave the second lieutenant a quizzical look. "You don't really think we'd be cracking on like this unless there's to be some sort of final meeting with the French? It stands to reason," Bampton continued.

  The table fell silent: the frantic preparations for sea, the storing of powder and shot, and last-minute fitting and repairs had left little time for the contemplation of larger matters.

  Renzi steepled his fingers. "Not necessarily. All we have is rumour and hearsay. We have abandoned the Mediterranean with reason, that we can no longer support a fleet there, and therefore every vessel of ours is undefended prey. In this case we have no means of intelligence to tell us what is happening, hence the wild speculation.

  "Now, we do know of General Buonaparte and his designs on England—the landing boats in every northern French port, the daily inspections of his Army of England. Do you not feel it the more likely that he will ransack Toulon and Cartagena for ships of force to swell the Brest fleet to an unstoppable power that will overwhelm us? Rather, that is, than retain them in a landlocked sea for some sort of escapade far away."

  "Just as I said." Bampton snorted. "A conclusion with Mr Buonaparte, in the chops of the Channel somewheres, I'd wager, and—"

  "Except we're being sent south to Cadiz."

  "Renzi, old trout, you're not being clear," Adams admonished him.

  "Am I not? Then it could be that I am as much in the dark as you. Are we to be part of a grand fleet about to break into the Med again? Or might it be that we being only a sixty-four—a fine one indeed as I am obliged to remark—our purpose is merely that of releasing the more warlike seventy-fours?"

  At the head of the table Bryant glowered. As first lieutenant his interest in a future bloody battle and the subsequent custom of promotion to commander for an active officer had been all too apparent on the quiet North American station. The prospect of sitting out his battle far from the action was hard to endure. "There's a reason for it, never fear," he said loudly. "Jervis ain't the one to ask for ships without he's got a plan. My money's on him takin' Buonaparte as he heads north with the Toulo
n squadron afore he can join up with the mongseers off Brest."

  It was exhilarating sailing, a starboard tack with winds quartering, mile after deep-sea mile on the same course. As they edged south the weather brightened, the vivid white of towering clouds and hurrying white-horse seas contrasting pleasingly with the deep ultramarine of the water.

  The stimulating stream of oceanic air impelling them along made it hard to stay below, and when Renzi took over his watch, Kydd felt too restless to retire to his cabin to work on his divisional list, and waited while Renzi satisfied himself as to the ship's condition.

  They fell into step in an easy promenade around the quarterdeck. The messenger midshipman returned to the helm, as did the duty master's mate, leaving the two officers to their privacy. They paced in silence, until Renzi said, "Dear fellow, do I see you satisfied with your lot? Is this the visage of him who is at one with the world? Since your elevation to the ranks of the chosen are you content now with your station?"

  Kydd paused. "Nicholas, I've been a-thinking. Who I am, where I'm headed in life, that sort o' thing." He shot his friend a glance. "It's not long since I was in bilboes waiting f'r the rope. Now I'm a king's officer. What does that say t' you?"

  "Well, in between, there was a prodigious battle and some courage as I recall."

  Kydd gestured impatiently. "Nicholas, I'll tell ye truly. While I was afore the mast I was content. I allow that then t' be a sailing master was all I could see, an' all I wanted from life. Then with just one turn o' the screw, my stars change an' here I am. Makes me think—might be anything can happen, why, anything a-tall." He spun round to face Renzi squarely. "Nicholas, m' life will never be complete until I have my own ship. Walk my decks, not a man aboard but tips his hat t' me, does things my way. An' for me, I get the chance to win my own glory because I make the decisions. Good or bad, they're mine, and I get the rewards—or the blame. So, how does it sound, Nicholas—Cap'n Thomas Kydd, Royal Navy?"

  Renzi raised an eyebrow. "A junior lieutenant with such ardour? Where is the old Tom Kydd that I knew?" He gave a smile, then added, "I admire your fervour and respect your passion for the laurels, but you will have noticed, of course, that Fortune bestows her favours at random. You stand just as much a chance of having your head knocked off as winning glory."

  Less than three weeks later, they passed the distant blue peak of Morro Alto to starboard, marking the island of Flores at the western extremity of the Azores. Their passage in the steady westerlies had been fast and sure and it was becoming a point of honour to win every advantage, gain the last fraction of a knot. HMS Tenacious was answering the call.

  Noon. The hallowed time of the grog issue for the hands. A fife at the main hatchway started up with the welcome strains of "Nancy Dawson," and Kydd waited for the decks to clear. It was time, too, for the ceremony of the noon sight.

  Officers readied their instruments. At local apparent noon, while the men were below, they would fix the line of longitude passing through their position and thus compute the distance remaining to their rendezvous off Cadiz.

  A crisp horizon, and the ship's motion predictably even: it was a good sighting. Most officers retired to their cabins for peace in the concentrated work of applying the necessary corrections and resolving the mathematics resulting in the intersection of latitude and longitude that was the ship's location at midday.

  From first one then another cabin came disbelieving shouts: "Well, damme—five degrees of longitude noon to noon!"

  "Two hundred and fifty miles off the reel in twenty-four hours!"

  "She's a champion!"

  That night glasses were raised to Tenacious in the wardroom, but as the ship neared the other side of the Atlantic a more sombre mood prevailed. Exercise of gunnery took on new meaning as the ominous rumble of heavy guns was felt through the deck at all hours. Who knew what trial by battle lay ahead?

  Landfall on the continent of Europe was the looming heights of Portugal's Cape St Vincent, which faded into the dusk as they held course through the night. The officers took their breakfast quietly and though the fleet was not expected to be sighted before the afternoon every one went on deck straight after the meal.

  "News! For the love of God, let us have news," groaned Adams, running his hands through his fair hair. They had been cut off from the world for weeks across the width of the Atlantic and anything could have happened.

  "For all we know of it," Bampton said drily, "we may be sailing into an empty anchorage, the Spanish gone to join the French and our grand battle decided five hundred miles away."

  Bryant glared at him.

  "Or peace declared," said Renzi.

  Conversations tailed off at the mention of this possibility and all the officers turned towards him. He continued, "Pitt is sorely pressed, the coalition in ruins, and the threat to our shores could not be greater. If he treats with the French now, exchanges colonies for peace, he may secure a settlement far preferable to a long-drawn-out war of attrition." He paused. "After all, France alone has three times our population, a five times bigger army—"

  "What do y' mean by this kind o' talk, sir?" Bryant snapped.

  "Simply that if a French or Spanish vessel crosses our bows, do we open with broadsides? Is it peace or is it war? It would go hard for any who violate hard-won terms of peace ..."

  At a little after two, the low, anonymous coast of Spain firmed in a bright haze ahead. The mainmast lookout bawled down, "Deck hoooo! Sail-o'-the-line, a dozen or more—at anchor!" The long wait was over.

  "Gunner's party!" came the order. There would be salutes and ceremony as they joined the fleet of Admiral of the Blue, the Earl St Vincent. Kydd, as Tenacious's signal lieutenant, roused out the signal flag locker and found the largest blue ensign. He smiled wryly at the thought of the hard work he knew would be there for him later: the signal procedures this side of the Atlantic would be different and he would need to prepare his own signal book accordingly.

  Ahead, the dark body of the fleet against the backdrop of enemy land slowly resolved into a long crescent of anchored warships spreading the width of the mouth of a majestic harbour. As they approached Kydd identified the flagship in the centre, the mighty 110-gun Ville de Paris, her admiral's pennant at the main.

  To seaward of the crescent a gaggle of smaller ships was coming and going, victuallers and transports, dispatch cutters, hoys. A sudden crack of salutes rang out, startling him at his telescope. Answering thuds came from the flagship.

  Now opposite Ville de Paris, Tenacious backed her main topsail, but an officious half-decked cutter foamed up astern and came into the wind. An officer with a speaking trumpet blared up, "The admiral desires you should moor to the suth'ard of the line." Obediently Tenacious paid off and got under way for her appointed berth.

  Kydd marvelled at the extraordinary sight before him: the grandest port in Spain locked and secured by a fleet of ships so close that the great ramparts of the city were in plain view, with a wide sprawl of white houses glaring in the sun, turrets, cathedral domes—and a curious tower arising from the sea.

  At the end of the line they rounded to and came to single anchor, the newest member of the fleet. Captain Houghton's barge was in the water even as the cable was veered. Resplendent in full dress with best sword and decorations, he was swayed into it by yardarm tackle and chair, and departed to report to the commander-in-chief.

  Houghton did not return immediately; rumour washed around. "There's been a fright only," Bryant huffed. "Just as the Frogs always do, made to put t' sea an' when they see us all in a pelt put about and scuttle back. Not like Old Jarvie t' take a scare so."

  Adams looked disconsolate: the thought of enervating blockade duty was trying on the spirit after the thrill of the headlong race across the Atlantic.

  "Still an' all, you'll not be wanting entertainment," Bryant mused. "The old bugger's a right hard horse. Marks o' respect evewwn in a blow, captains to be on deck during the night when takin' in sail and if there's a s
niff o' mutiny, court-martial on the Saturday, hangs 'em on the Sunday ..."

  The captain arrived back at dusk and disappeared into his cabin. Within the hour word was passed that all officers were desired to present themselves in the great cabin forthwith.

  "I shall be brief," Houghton snapped. "The situation in respect to the present threat to England is unclear. France's Army of England is still massing for invasion and there are fears for Ireland. Now we've heard that its commander-in-chief—this General Buonaparte—has abandoned it for the time being and gone to Toulon, God knows why. Now you know as much as I, and the admiral.

  "To more important matters. Those who have served before with Sir John Jervis, now the Earl St Vincent, know well what to expect in the article of discipline and order. We are now a part of his fleet and his opinions on an officer's duty are robust and unambiguous. You will each consult the Fleet Order Book until its contents are known intimately. Any officer who through ignorance of his duty brings disrepute upon my ship will incur my most severe displeasure."

  "Sir, might we know our purpose? Are we to remain while the seventy-fours—"

  "Our purpose is very clear, Mr Adams. In case it has escaped your notice, let me inform you that in this port there are twenty-six of-the-line under Almirante Mazzeredo. Should we fail in our duty and let this armada get to sea ..." His face tightened. "We lie before Cadiz on blockade, sir, and here we shall stay until the Spanish see fit to sail. Do you understand me?"

  CHAPTER 2

  THE SOUND OF FIRING transfixed the wardroom at their breakfast. After just three days on blockade, any variation to routine was welcome and there was a rush to the hatchway as saluting guns announced the approach of a smart 74 from the north.