Kydd (30 page)

Renzi’s eyes were closed. “I wonder what’s happening in Paris,” he mused. “The mob will be baying for blood — but whose? The Jacobins ride the tiger — Robespierre needs victories if he is to prevail.” It was not easy to live in this total isolation, without a newspaper, journal or even a rumor when to his certain knowledge the world was in flames.

Doud came up beaming with a tankard of small beer. “Well, Jack Tar, ahoy! I reckon we can’t ask Tom Kydd now to desire the sextant for to pray fer us!” He gave the beer to Kydd, looking at Renzi sideways as he did so.

“You want a wet, Renzi?” he enquired.

“That is most kind in you, Ned,” Renzi said, “and it’s Nicholas, by the way.”

“You are most welcome, Nick,” Doud said, in mocking tones.

“It’s Nicholas,” Kydd said.

Doud grinned and left.

It was glassy smooth, only a long swell moving under the glittering surface of the sea. The sails drew, but only just,
Duke William
inevitably falling away in the line of three ships as they exercised together.

A distant thud was heard. Another — it sounded like a far-off door slamming. On the quarterdeck, telescopes whipped up and trained on the distant land. Another gun thudded — and a flurry started among the officers.

“What’s that?” Kydd asked. He and Renzi were together now in the mizzen top as Kydd’s station had changed since his advancement to seaman. With a grandstand view of the quarterdeck, they saw the marine drummer boy hastily take position at the main hatch.

“Quarters!” Renzi exclaimed.

They looked at each other and descended hastily to the deck, moving
past the raucous volleying of the drum at the main hatch to their respective stations.

“What cheer, mates?” said Salter. “What’s the alarum, then?” His eyes glittered in the lower-deck gloom as he cleared away the muzzle lashing of their gun.

“No idea, Will. Did see sail close inshore, but that’d be one of our frigates, I’ll wager.” Kydd had not been prepared to risk a rope’s end by hanging about to find out.

This was a call for a full sweep fore and aft — anything that could not immediately be struck down into the hold was dumped overboard, and the sea astern was studded by floating debris. The men worked fast — this was no drill.

Renzi’s action quarters was at one of the upper-deck twelve-pounders. There was perhaps a chance that Kydd would see him if he was called away to handle sails, which was his secondary battle station.

Down the fore hatch ladder clattered Midshipman Cantlow, still buckling on his dirk, his cocked hat askew. Kydd disliked him — the gangling man was older by far than the others, in his late twenties at least, not having the interest or ability to pass for lieutenant. He had once ordered a starting for Kydd over some trivial matter; it was not the colt whipping painfully across his shoulders that he remembered, it was the spite that had triggered it — Cantlow was embittered at his lot.

“What news — sir?” asked Stirk. He was ignored, Cantlow adjusting his cross-belt and scabbard over the threadbare uniform coat. He would take charge of the foremost six guns under a lieutenant of the gundeck. With a significant look, Stirk called over to Doggo loudly, “Looks like we got ourselves a right smashin’ match, mate. Yer’ve made yer arrangements, then?”

Kydd looked at him sharply.

“Why, o’ course — but it ain’t no use, there won’t be many of us left after the fightin’ really gets started, we bein’ down here in the slaughterhouse ’n’ all,” Doggo replied, his face blank.

“What are you yattering about, you useless swabs?” Cantlow said irritably, fiddling nervously with his dirk.

“Seen the doc sharpenin’ his saws,” Salter said gloomily. “Shoulda got the carpenter to do a better job — never could stand a blunt saw at me bones.”

“An’ where’s the priest?” Velasquez added mournfully. “’Ow we can die wi’out we ha’ a priest?”

“Silence! Do you think to bait me? You stinking, worthless scum!” Cantlow glared around.

“Why, sir,” Stirk said, with a saintly expression, “we’re cruel a-feared, ’n’ we need some words, some strong words, from an orficer to steady us in our time o’ need-sir!”

Cantlow’s venomous glare was interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Lockwood. “Report, Mr. Cantlow,” he ordered.

“Well, sir, I — ”

“You’re useless, and stupid,” Lockwood said, “so muster your men again and report.” Lockwood took position on the centerline. Although he was young, his voice already had the crack of authority. “Still!” All activity on the gundeck ceased. “We have just been alerted by
Amphion
frigate that the French have taken advantage of this easterly to put to sea. But not from Brest. Four ships-of-the-line and frigates have sailed from Douarnenez to the south of here, and we think they mean to proceed to the Caribbean and our valuable sugar islands. They did not reckon on our vigilance, and now we will make sure that they never arrive!”

A savage growl arose from the gun crews.

“The weather in this light blow is not in our favor — but they have formed line and are offering battle. We will oblige them!”

A deeper-throated sound swelled into cheers.

“
Haaaands
to make sail!”

The boatswain’s calls pierced into the excitement. Kydd ran topsides with the others of the gun crews assigned to sail trimming. The brilliant sun made him screw up his eyes, but he knew by instinct the position of the mizzen shrouds and his leap took him into the ratlines. He swarmed up to the mizzen top.

It was a chance to take in the scene of impending battle. Far ahead against the nondescript line of the coast were the enemy — four small clusters of ivory sails emerging from Douarnenez Bay and sailing large before the light easterly wind, four big vessels in line formation, taking advantage of the offshore winds of the morning. They were headed from right to left across
Duke William
’s bows, standing out for the Atlantic, but seemingly in no hurry to close and grapple.

On the starboard tack
Duke William
was heading toward a point of
intersection ahead of them, clawing her way to windward in the frustrating light winds, doing her best to get within range. The ripple under her forefoot sounded like the contented chuckle of a country millstream at a sleepy knot or two.

“’Less we can get the old barky to lift up her skirts ’n’ run, we’re goin’ to lose ’em,” the captain of the top said bitterly. He looked over the flat seas to their fellow ships-of-the-line in staggered line abeam.
Tiberius
led
Royal Albion
by a short head, and both were significantly ahead of
Duke William
.

“Know what that is?” the man said sharply to Kydd, without turning his head. “That there’s gun money ’n’ head money ’n’ mebbe even a mort o’ prize money, that is. One chance we get in this bucket to lay ’ands on an honest guinea or two and we meets wi’ a dead calm.”

Others in the top rumbled their agreement.

A weather stuns’l was not a success, however, backwinding the main topsail, and it was struck. Swearing, they toiled at the sail, which had managed to wrap itself around the topmast stay when the halliards were let go.

As the day wore on, it became apparent that the enemy were equally affected by the lazy weather, straggling along in a slow, ragged line. At two, the wind failed altogether, and the ship hung lifeless in the water, sails barely stirring. She lost way and after ghosting along for a space she simply did not answer her helm and drifted, the slight swell causing an aimless clack of blocks aloft.

“A
waaaay
all boats!”

Tumbling into the cutter, Kydd made room on the thwart for Renzi. The rowers would go double-banked in this attempt to tow
Duke William
into action, and together with the larger pinnace and launch they would do their utmost to close with the enemy. Even the Captain’s barge took a line from the fo’c’sle.

It was cruel, backbreaking work: the hard thwart and unyielding oar, the burning pain in the back and arms, the hands turning into claws. With the inertia of two thousand tons their oars threshed the water uselessly while the boat remained dead in the water.

It took all of ten minutes of toil at the oars by hundreds of men to see the tiniest move through the water of the great battleship. They were now half a mile behind
Royal Albion,
who also had all her boats out.

“Pull, you scurvy lubbers!” The tiny midshipman’s piping voice was almost comical as he tried to emulate the bull-roaring of Tewsley in the launch.

Although it was not strong, the sunlight glittered on the unbroken sea surface and reflected up into their faces. Kydd was grateful for his hat, but felt his face redden from the glare. They pulled on in silence, a steady long pull, leaning well back to get the straightest line from chest to feet against the stretchers athwartships.

A series of disjointed thuds sounded distantly, then cannonballs skipped and splashed audibly around them. Kydd glanced about him as he pulled, and was relieved to see that the shots were well scattered. One of the enemy ships was nearly hidden by clouds of slow-moving gunsmoke.

Nevertheless it was unnerving. The enemy had their broadside facing them while their own guns would not bear so far forward. They pulled on. More thuds, more balls. A long space, and then an avalanche of crumps. This time the sound was appreciably nearer and the balls skipped and smashed with venom among them. Some came between the boats and two struck the ship with a peculiar sound like a blunt axe smashing into rotten wood.

“Eyes in the boat!” piped the little midshipman, as some men missed their stroke looking over their shoulder.

There was a fierce muttering. It was one thing to be under fire with their own cannon roaring defiance from their wooden ramparts and another to be helpless in the open with no means of reply.

A catspaw of wind ruffled the water and subsided. Another came and went. Anxious faces looked toward the fo’c’sle but nothing changed.

A double rush of thumps and a storm of shot broke over them. One ball plowed into the bow of the pinnace and opened it like a banana, instantly cutting off the shrieks by plunging every occupant into the sea. Without waiting to be told, lines were slipped and the boats returned, the launch remaining to pick up survivors.

But the wind seemed to have returned. Sails were stirring, flapping desultorily, the huge battle ensign lifting momentarily and falling.

So weary were they that it was impossible to climb the Jacob’s ladder over the stern and they were waved around to the entry port. Aching and
sore, they mounted the side steps and made their way back to their battle stations.

On the lower gundeck the gun crews waited. Kydd sat against the gun carriage, head in his hands, exhausted.

“Denison, you ’n’ Kydd change,” Stirk said, giving Kydd a break from his arduous gun-tackle duty. Kydd nodded his gratitude. Cullen brought the round shot to the gun with Denison.

It was hot and fetid, even with the gunports open, but a whisper of a breeze now wafted cool sea air over them. Kydd was stripped to the waist, a red bandanna around his head. He closed his eyes and let the talk eddy around him.

“No, I tell a lie. An able seaman’s share, that’d be over five poun’ we gets to take one o’ they Frenchies.”

“O’ course I’ll do that — ’n’ if it’s me, then I’d take it kindly if you could visit me sister, she’s all I got. I’ll ask Lofty ter write ’er name ’n’ lodgin’ out for you — she’s a widder, yer knows.”

“An’ we’ll hire a coach, Will, go to Winchester an’ kick up a Bob’s-adyin’ they’ll never ferget!”

Kydd forced himself to open his eyes. With both sides manned, the gundeck was crowded with men and equipment. The guns were already loaded, only awaiting the order to open fire. On the centerline were scuttled casks of water with vinegar, and long cases containing cutlasses and sea-service pistols lay open. It was the first time he had seen the vessel prepared in earnest for war. It was rare for a line-of-battle ship actually to fight: it did its work more by the threat of its existence, but now the greatest single weapon in history so far would have to justify its being.

He saw Cantlow in low conversation with Lockwood, and the gunner, Mr. Bethune, making his way slowly along in his plain black waistcoat, his bright eyes darting about in a last check before he went down into the magazine.

Painfully Kydd got to his feet and went to the gunport to lean out.

The enemy seemed to be holding their fire until the smoke cleared — it hung downwind of them in gigantic clouds above the sea, with little movement to disperse it.
Royal Albion
to larboard had some sort of signal hanging out and
Tiberius
was in the process of dowsing a staysail.

As he watched, the enemy man-o’-war last in line erupted in stabs of
flame and was instantly enveloped in gunsmoke. Kydd flinched. In quick succession there were two loud crashes overhead somewhere, followed by a terrifying splintering smash as a round shot pierced the side near the foremost gun.

Through a jagged entry-hole it smashed diagonally across the gundeck, taking with it the head of the rammer of the number-one gun, together with the leg and thigh of one of the gun-tackle crew and the hand of his mate. It slammed across the main hatch gratings, pulping the golden-haired powder monkey in its path, and hit an opposite gun squarely, dismounting it.

The screaming started-and the tearing sobs of a ship’s boy unable to comprehend the bloody carcass of his friend.

Kydd was paralyzed with horror. His eyes followed the procession of moaning, hideously bloody men carried down to the orlop and the hands of the surgeon.

“Get forrard ’n’ give ’em a hand, lad,” Stirk said, in neutral tones.

Kydd stared at him, then started for the scene of carnage.

Human tissue was everywhere. It did not seem possible that a body could contain so much blood.

“Get ’is legs, mate,” a seaman said. Two others had a headless torso by the arms, quite untouched apart from its surreal shortening, ending in obscene white tendrils in a meaty matrix.

Kydd gingerly picked up the dead body’s feet, noting the heavy wear in the shoes that the man had put on that morning. He started pulling the body backwards.