Tenacious (20 page)

body was rigid with terror. “Hold still, and I’ll not make a mistake,” Pybus said levelly, and closed in for the job.

Unable to look away Kydd saw Pybus take his bloody knife and thrust it up between the man’s thighs. It did not hesitate: in a whirl of movement the knife sliced, in a single practised stroke, clear round the entire leg. A mind-freezing howl came from the wretch on the table, who writhed hopelessly against his tethers, but without delay Pybus took his saw—much like a butcher’s—and applied himself to the bone. While the man fought and shrieked into the leather in his teeth the harsh grating of the saw continued until the pitiable remnant of leg separated and fell with a meaty thud. It was retrieved and dropped into a tub.

Pybus took his needle and, standing astride the stump, swiftly sutured across a flap of skin left for the purpose, then stood aside to let his mates treat it with spirits of turpentine. The whole procedure, incredibly, was over in less than two minutes. He mopped his forehead, then said thickly to Kydd, as he wiped down his blade, “What are you here for, then?”

“Ah, Doctor, I have here Mr Peake, who desires t’ be of some use.” He felt faint but carried on: “Er, if ye could indicate to him any who might have need o’ some, er, comfort of religion, why, please t’ inform him.”

For a space Pybus regarded them both, his expression unread-able. “You might see to him,” he said, pointing to a quiet figure pulled to a sitting position against the ship’s side. “He’s ruptured his femoral—no hope, he’s only minutes left. Oh, and that powder monkey, his face burned so, and calling for his mother . . .”

Kydd made quickly for the hatchway; the chaplain would find employment enough now. For a moment the cocoon of belief in his own invulnerability slipped and terror seized him at the thought of his own maiming and subsequent descent into the
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orlop. But that way led to nightmares and cowardice, and he crushed the images.

Deliberately he shifted his thoughts to Renzi and paused at the top of the ladder to the gundeck to catch a glimpse of his friend.

There, it was a different kind of hell. Men worked their guns by only the dim light of battle lanthorns in the stinking, thunderous gloom amid thick, swirling powder-smoke. Consumed with a wild thirst from the acrid fumes, they were unable to see their antagonist in the outer darkness but for the deadly flash of their cannon muzzles.

This was brutal, killing work, serving the iron beasts like slaves—knowing that whichever was the first to falter would lose the battle. Gun captains drove on their men with hoarse cries and curses, locked for ever in the ceaseless rhythm of swab-bing out hot muzzles, loading and running out, a manic im-perative that pushed men on and on to heroic feats of strength and endurance.

It was impossible to see across the deck and he feared for his friend. Then Renzi, his uniform stained grey, appeared from a gusting swirl of smoke, calm and pacing slowly with a half-smile that stayed in place. Kydd’s joy and relief at seeing him meta-morphosed a cheery wave into a grave doffing of his hat, which was equally solemnly returned.

Kydd bounded up the ladder and out on to the familiar dark chaos of the open quarterdeck. He looked about for the pacing figures of the captain and other officers, but when he located them they were motionless, all their attention in one direction: beyond the stern of their adversary and across a short stretch of sea, the enemy’s mighty flagship was afire.

Fire! Seamen could brave gales to go aloft or stand fearless against the deadliest cannonade but the elemental terror of fire aboard ship could turn the hardest man to craven panic. And Kydd had a personal dread of it. In the Caribbean, in
Seaflower,
he had seen a ship ablaze: they had tried to claw against the wind to save the sailors but, helpless, had been forced to watch their end—a choice of being burned alive or throwing themselves into the water to sharks in a feeding frenzy.

“Seems t’ be aft, around the mizzen chains, the poop . . .”

Kydd forced his voice steady as he trained his signal telescope on the intermittent flaring on the big ship’s after-end, where her signal crew would be gathered. His imagination supplied the details. There would be frantic scrambling to extinguish the flames before they took hold; fire-buckets dashed at them by men held with feral dread as if charged by a wild bull. Sailors would be taken from the guns, from below—everyone who could be spared would be put to work for a bucket chain before the engine and hose were brought into play.

“Mr Pringle!” Houghton wheeled on the captain of marines.

“Take six of your best men to the foredeck. They are to kill any man aboard the Frenchman who attempts to douse the flames.

Am I understood?”

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“Yes, sir—clear the deck of any enemy approaching the fire.”

Kydd froze with horror—but he understood. If the huge enemy ship was destroyed by fire it was as satisfactory as if she had been reduced by hours of bombardment. It was unlikely that the French would abandon their proud flagship to the flames while it was possible to save her. Soon there would be so much death and pain, men who would find it in themselves to defy the bullets for the sake of their ship and be struck down, others who would know the bitter taste of self-loathing when they discovered they could not.

The conflagration lessened and wavered, then returned as their murderous fusillade achieved its object. Shots came, too, from
Swiftsure.
Unchecked, the flames mounted, licking dangerously along the edge of the driver boom, little wisps flickering upward and along. It would not be long before the fire took strong hold and then there would be no turning back—timbered, and with tarred rigging, the man-o’-war would become an inferno.

Kydd watched as one figure, black against the light of the blaze, raced along with a bucket, then was cut down. The figure toppled into the flames where it thrashed for a little, then was still. More figures darted and fell, and Kydd tore his eyes away.

“A terrible sight, sir,” he said to Houghton, who was watching with Bryant. Houghton cast him a curious look. “Even if they are Frenchies,” Kydd finished lamely.

The blaze was spreading about the poop and its light now tinged the faces of the officers in
Tenacious
as they stared at the awful sight. They resumed pacing: there was no need to make the job of any vengeful French sharpshooter the easier. The master pulled out a large kerchief and wiped his forehead. “Does strike me, sir, that such a monster must have a mort o’ powder aboard.

The blaze reaches the grand magazine, why, it would put a volcano to shame!”

“There is that, of course, Mr Hambly. Do you wish me to allow them to extinguish the fire?” A grim smile belied Houghton’s words. “Yet a reasonable course for her captain would be to strike now to save life—but I doubt he will do that.”

“Then, sir, do you not feel it prudent t’ shift berth? If she explodes it will put every ship to hazard.” Bryant came in.

Houghton took three paces more before replying. “Consider, Mr Bryant. Our people have been fighting for long this night.

They’re exhausted and can’t in all mercy be expected to stand at a capstan. But should we cut our cable in the darkness we cannot easily range another through the stern-port and therefore we lose our advantage. And in any event I am obliged to point out that while our immediate opponent remains at her anchor, so must we.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

As always in the sea service, duty would stand well before consideration of personal safety. But the fearful logic of war dictated that the enemy could not be allowed to save themselves or their ship. The end, therefore, would probably be cataclysmic.

The pitch darkness was now rolling back with the light of the burning ship; as the blaze strengthened and leaped, the entire bay was illuminated and Kydd imagined a fearfully fascinated audience of thousands watching from the lines of ships—and they themselves were at its very centre, the massive three-decker the next after their own adversary.

Houghton turned to Kydd. “I want to know the moment she shows any sign of yielding.” But even with her after deck uncontrollably on fire her lower guns continued to crash out against her tormentors: there would be no easy end for this proud ship.

“Pass the word for the boatswain and gunner. Mr Bryant, I rather fear that we must remain for the final act. I would have you prepare
Tenacious.
” There could be no more dangerous
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situation, a burning powder keg of gigantic dimensions about to explode near to them.

“Cease firing. Secure the magazines.” On the upper deck men glanced fearfully across at the flaring torch that was the enemy’s after deck, then cleared their own of cartridges and all combustibles.

The boatswain sent men aloft with lines; fire-buckets were hauled up and emptied over the sails furled along the tops of the yards, the decks sluiced. “I’ll have a sentry on the cable, if you please, Mr Pringle.” There would be some who might be tempted to cut the cable and run. If they did, it would only send them blundering downwind straight into the deadly blaze.

Flames had now run along
L’Orient
’s deck and were reaching up into the masts and rigging in a crackling flare that cast the scene in a ruddy orange. Kydd felt a creeping awe at the approaching moment of doom.

Houghton turned to them all. “Gentlemen, I do believe we should now consult our situation. We shall run in the guns and secure the gunports. So, too, the hatches must be battened, but I believe
we
must take our chances under the half-deck.”

Carrying dripping swabs and leather buckets of water, men took their last look at the blazing ship as they went below. Then the gratings over the hatches were covered with the thick tarpau-lin more usually to be seen in stormy weather, and secured with battens hammered into cleats. Kydd reflected on the hell below, in the stinking closeness each thinking that the very next instant could bring the titanic explosion that would crush them to oblivion, or capsize the ship and drown them all.

“God damme, but this business sticks in my throat,” Bryant growled.

Kydd saw that men from the ship were now beginning to jump from her decks into the sea and worm from the gunports to drop

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into the water. Yet still her guns fired, her colours flew. It was madness, an insane defiance against the inevitable, but from a sense of glory, honour?

Houghton watched with grim concentration. Then he turned abruptly to Bryant. “We cannot stand by and see those brave fellows drown. Is the launch still at the boom?”

“It is, sir, but—”

“Then take it, Mr Kydd. Do what you can before . . . the end.”

“Aye aye, sir.” His mind raced, crowding with images of the Caribbean inferno, his dread of fire threatening to unhinge him.

He took a long, deep breath, then made his way to the bulwarks.

For protection the launch and cutter had been placed on the unengaged, sheltered side of the ship. The launch was their biggest boat but it seemed so frail a bark to approach such a maelstrom of fire. He pulled back and sought out Rawson. “Go below. Get a petty officer an’ six. Don’t tell ’em why.”

Rawson returned with Poulden and six hands, who gaped in awe at the burning ship. “The cap’n wants us t’ see if we can save some o’ the Frenchies yonder,” Kydd said, forcing a tremor from his voice.

One of the seamen spoke up, “Aye, well, they’re sailors an’

all, aren’t they, mates?” Others rumbled a cautious agreement, held by the grim spectacle.

“Then into th’ boat, lads,” Kydd ordered. “You too, Mr Rawson,” he added.

Alongside the dark bulk of
Tenacious
the boat seemed no ref-uge and Kydd fought down a rising panic.

“Heading where to, sir?” said Rawson quietly.

“The Frenchy, if y’ please.” Any swimmers would be fanning out in all directions and would be lost in the dark. The only real chance for saving more than one or two would be to stand off the burning flagship. They left the shelter of the side of their ship and
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came into full view of the blaze, which now bathed the whole bay in firelight as bright as day. When it became apparent where they were heading one of the seamen looked behind him and cried out, “Be Jasus—she’s goin’ ter blow!”

“Shut y’ trap,” Poulden growled instantly.

“She goes, we all go!” another seaman said fearfully and the boat’s speed fell off.

“Be damned t’ your infernal shyness!” Rawson said, in a most creditable rasp. “See
Swiftsure?
She’s damn near alongside, and not a-feared.” The English 74 was within half a pistol shot of the flaming ship, off her bow from where she had been slamming in her broadsides and there was no indication that she was about to pull away.

It was puzzling why she was so close yet was making no moves to save herself. Kydd shook his head: the grandeur and horror were having an effect on his senses. He roused himself. “See there, y’ swabs! There’s other boats out, an’ they’re not hanging back. Do ye want t’ shame
Tenacious
in front o’ them?”

A cry rang out from the bowman who was pointing to a shadowy blob in the fiery path on the water. “Go,” Kydd snapped at Rawson, who obediently put the tiller over. They came up to the dark shape.

“Oars!”

The bowman leaned over and grappled. “Bear us a fist, Ralph,”

he called. The two tugged and suddenly there was a weak stream of words, followed by retching.

“Anyone speaks French?” Kydd demanded. He turned to Poulden. “Get him down in th’ boat, search him, and if he’s trouble, throw him back.”