Tenacious (2 page)

part of a small squadron commanded by

author of the Alan Lewrie series

Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson. Its mission Julian Stockwin was sent at the age of fourteen to TS
Indefatigable,
a tough sea-J

is to scour the Mediterranean and locate training school. He joined the British Navy

"Characterized by hazardous battles and enigmatic
ulian St

Napoleon and his army. Kydd's newly

fi red ambition leads him to volunteer for at fi fteen, transferred to the Australian
heroism . . . a very highly recommended novel . . ."

shore service with the British army in the Navy when his family emigrated there, and

—The Midwest Book Review

capture of Minorca. Later, he faces the saw active service in Vietnam. He became great ships-of-the-line at the Battle of the a teacher and an educational psychologist.

Nile as the British take on the French in Later he was commissioned into the Royal a no-holds-barred struggle for supremacy Naval Reserve and was awarded the MBE.

Retired from the RNR with the rank of

in southern waters. But there is one more Lieutenant Commander, he now lives in

Devon, England. Visit him on the web at
c

test to come: the siege of Acre, where Kydd and a handful of British seamen

www.julianstockwin.com.

under the command of Sir Sidney Smith

face an army of thirteen thousand!

MCBOOKS PRESS, INC.

ISBN-13: 978-1-59013-119-0

Ithaca, New York

52400

Mc

Pr B

ess o

Cover painting by Geoff Hunt. Cover design by Panda Musgrove.

www.mcbooks.com

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The Kydd Sea Adventures
,
by Julian Stockwin
Kydd

Artemis

Seaflower

Mutiny

Quarterdeck

Tenacious

Command

The Admiral’s Daughter

Julian Stockwin

McBooks Press, Inc.

Ithaca, New York

Published by McBooks Press 2006

Copyright © 2005 by Julian Stockwin

First published in Great Britain in 2005 by Hodder and Stoughton A division of Hodder Headline

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

Cover painting by Geoff Hunt.

Cover and text design: Panda Musgrove.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Stockwin, Julian.

Tenacious : a Kydd sea adventure / by Julian Stockwin.

p. cm.

ISBN: 978-1-59013-119-0 (hardcover: alk. paper) ISBN: 978-1-59013-142-8 (trade paperback: alk. paper) 1. Kydd, Thomas (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—18th century—Fiction. 3. Seafaring life—Fiction.

4. Sailors—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6119.T66T46 2006

823’.92--dc22

2006004000

Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

Printed in the United States of America 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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 strata-gem 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
10

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 that 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!”

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.

12

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 in-dolent 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.”