Tenacious (21 page)

“Give way.” The boat continued heading towards the appalling tower of flame, alive and magnificent but touching every pri-mordial nerve in Kydd’s body. They were close enough now to

hear the fierce roar of the flames; against it the battlefield sounds were a dull background.

Another survivor shrieked as he was pulled aboard. Sounds of his agony continued then stopped suddenly. Clambering back, Poulden reported quietly. “Sorry, sir, ’e was all burned like.”

“Over th’ side,” Kydd said, without hesitation. He watched as others were pulled in but it was becoming unreal, the martial thunder of guns and battle overlaid with closer sounds of humanity in distress, yet all in terrified thrall to a cataclysm that could happen before he drew his next breath.

They heard a tiny cry in the night and a ship’s boy was heaved in over the sternsheets; he was shivering hysterically and scrabbled for the bottom of the boat, whimpering. “Leave him alone,”

Kydd growled.

The ship was now afire from stem to stern, a towering conflagration of horror that had to be visible as far as Alexandria itself.

Cannon still fired from her lowest line of guns. It was bravery at an insane level, in conditions that could not be imagined.

Kydd’s boat continued on. Two men were found, roped together, one probably could not swim. They floated away, both dead. Another, levering himself up the gunwale, heard English being spoken and, with his last gasp, cursed the uncomprehending seamen and slipped to his death. Still more cries came from the darkness.

Then—faster than thought—a searing white flash leaped over Kydd’s entire vision, with a suffocating slam of superheated air.

In a trance-like state, Kydd tried to make sense of the disorder—

and the fact that he was still alive.

His sight cleared at the same time as a wave violently rocked the boat, sending them all into a tangled heap. Water flooded over the gunwale. The boat righted and all eyes turned to the conflagration. An immense fiery column climbed skywards, and
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at its base there was just foam and vapour. The flagship and a thousand men had vanished.

Slowly, other features in his landscape became perceptible.

There was
Swiftsure—
so close, and yet untouched. In a flash of insight Kydd realised the reason they themselves were not destroyed: the force of the explosion had been vast but it was nearly all vented upwards in an inverted cone, and therefore the safest place in fact was close to the ship.

Rawson’s bloodless face turned to Kydd, mouthing silent words at the sheer wonder of their survival. Others uncurled from foetal positions. Some made half-hearted efforts to retrieve oars, several bent to find the bailer and start sheeting out the water that half filled the boat.

Kydd turned to the task in hand but as he tried to shake off his disorientation, he saw a silent splash rear up to seaward—and an icy fear gripped him. The mighty explosion had blasted skywards perhaps thousands of feet. Now the pieces of an entire battleship were falling slowly back to Earth.

There were more splashes, near and far—and an enormous one that ended with a jagged spar spearing back up from the depths. Others trailed tangles of rigging and plunged spectacularly, with an increasing rain of smaller fragments still trailing wisps of flame.

Then came a gasp of pain and the flurry of beating hands.

Kydd tore off his coat and shared it with the nearer men, Rawson threw his to the men forward. They cowered under their pitiful shelter, feeling the strike of particles and larger burning fragments, flinching at the thought of a giant missile coming down on them. Kydd’s skin crawled as he imagined the four tons of a cannon a thousand feet above hurtling down on their little boat.

The pattering and splashing all around seemed to go on for an age—but no great piece came near. It was only when the lethal rain had petered out that Kydd could accept reality: the blast

cone had projected most of the wreckage well beyond them.

He waited a little longer, then ventured out from under the coat, staring around wildly. Where there had been a fiery column before, a sullen towering of black smoke shot through with sparks now hung. A desolate stink of cinders and ruin lay pungent on the air.

An eerie stillness reigned over the battle scene, an awed recognition, perhaps, of the catastrophic event so much greater than any local affray, guns fallen silent in respect at the sudden removal from the Earth of the greatest object of before. Then, accentuating the unreality of the scene, the calm silver of a rising moon settled softly over the still ships.

In the launch not a word was spoken as each man came to terms with what he had experienced. Kydd drew on his coat again and pulled himself together: there may still be those in the water, God forbid.

“Out oars—come on, lads, let’s be havin’ ye. There’s sailors out there, lookin’ t’ be saved . . .” It was going to be a long night.

Kydd tossed and turned. Sleep was hard—his mind reeled with stark impressions of fiery grandeur, horribly burned bodies, shattered wreckage. They had returned only a couple of hours before dawn to a ship whose company was dropping with exhaustion.

Men were asleep at their guns and place of duty. After six hours’

hard fighting they were now at the extremity of weariness.

He became aware of someone close by. It was Rawson. “Sir, m’ apologies for waking you, but it’s dawn an’ Admiral Nelson is signalling.”

Kydd raised himself on an elbow and tried to focus his thoughts. “Oh? Er, well, I’ll be up presently.” Rawson turned to go, but Kydd added quietly, “An’ thank you, Mr Rawson.” The youngster had known that dawn would allow signals to be seen and, although he was as exhausted as Kydd, he had made it his
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duty to be up on the poop-deck ready with
Tenacious
’s answering pennant.

Going wearily up the ladders Kydd was aware of his tiredness: his feet plodded forward, his mind in a daze, and he had to take several seconds to orient himself when he reached the signals post.

“Number fifty-five with our pennants, sir.”

Kydd fumbled in his little signals book.

“That is t’ say, ‘assist ships in battle,’ sir,” Rawson said gently, his eyes hollow. “I’ve acknowledged, sir.”

He had had no right to do so, but Kydd was grateful. “The captain—”

“I’ve sent word, sir.” A brief spark of youthful high spirits showed as Rawson confided, “An’ would you credit, they had t’

bang a pot to wake him.”

“More respect to y’r betters, younker,” Kydd answered, but suppressed a grin. By long custom of the sea, a seaman could be shaken awake but never an officer—that might be construed as laying hands on a superior, a capital offence. The men must have been hard put to think of a way to rouse their captain.

Kydd went down to the quarterdeck to await Houghton, prudently using his signal telescope to spy out the morning situation.

Despite his weariness he was awestruck at the scene of devastation and ruin.

The entire enemy van, ship after ship in a line, had hauled down their colours. Their opponents were still at anchor opposite them in the same position from where they had thundered out their broadsides. But there was an interval of more than half a mile from where the flagship had been; the remainder of the line had abandoned their places downwind of the inferno to edge away to the south. They were now in an untidy gaggle well into the bay. Two looked as if they had run aground during the night;

three or four others were still in a fitful exchange of gunfire with two English 74s.

“Good morning, sir.” Houghton was dishevelled and lacked a shoe, but his coming on deck was sufficient to bring order to the desultory scenes of ruin and weariness.

“Thank you, Mr Kydd. What is the state of the action at this time?” His voice was hoarse and abrupt. Bryant appeared from forward and Houghton turned to him. “We shall assist as ordered. I mean to weigh and proceed this hour, sir. Every man possible at the capstan, stand fast the topmen. We shall muster at quarters as we sail for the enemy.”

Kydd could not shake off his daze of tiredness. Not even the sight of the undamaged enemy they had yet to fight, outnumbering the few English ships in any condition to confront them, was sufficient to raise an emotion.

They fell before the wind and sailed south, directly towards the thunder of guns. It seemed so cruel, so unfair. The fight appeared to intensify as they approached. Ahead were but two English ships and a quick count of the enemy gave nine sail of force waiting.
Theseus
was passing abeam under a full press of sail but when Kydd searched astern there were no other English ships on their way to join them. The four of them would face the French alone.

Like a band of fighters squaring up to another gang, the four English formed up together and faced their opponents, anchoring in a line, and the firing began almost immediately. Their main opponents were the three 80-gun battleships and a 74 opposite, more than a match for them all, but in addition there were five ships inshore—three frigates and the two ships-of-the-line that had grounded.

Kydd paced at his station. His function had little meaning in a sub-battle with no designated commander but he would remain
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at his post until called upon. It would be Renzi and Adams on the gundecks below who would be the hardest worked—they must be calling on all they could think of to keep their exhausted men toiling at their guns but if it was not enough . . . Rawson paced beside Kydd, hands firmly crossed behind his back.

A vicious whir above ended in the twang of parted ropes. The French were firing high with chain-shot to try to bring down the rigging and disable them. Debris tumbled, and Kydd could feel solid hits thudding into the hull of
Tenacious.
Once or twice there was the wind of passing round shot but no deadly musket fire at these longer ranges.

Their guns crashed out at the two battleships around but the winds were backing westerly and the gunsmoke swirled up and around them in choking clouds. Bowden emerged from the hatchway to the gundeck, blinking in the sunlight. He was grey with fatigue but held himself with dignity as he reported to Houghton, then turned away to return with his orders. At that moment a round shot slammed across the deck and Bowden was flung down in an untidy sprawl. He did not move.

Kydd’s fuddled brain struggled to take in the significance of the lifeless figure. Seamen from a nearby gun crew rushed to him but with a tearing cry Rawson ran forward, knocked them aside and lifted Bowden’s body. The head lolled back, revealing a livid wound that oozed scarlet.

“He lives!” Rawson croaked.

Recovering, Kydd stepped forward. “Get him t’ the doctor,”

he told the seamen. There was a chance that Pybus could stem the tide of death in the young man—presuming that the doctor himself had not succumbed to exhaustion. At least he could tell the lad’s uncle in all sincerity of his complete devotion to duty.

Kydd made no move to stop Rawson going below with Bowden as juvenile rivalries were now swept away in the horrors of war.

The firing intensified for a period then slackened. Two of the French 80-gun ships veered cable and eased round further away from the English line. This exposed the two grounded ships to heavy fire. The closest lost her fore-topmast, but before it had finally settled over her bow in a snarl of rigging her colours jerked down. The situation was changing fast: another English ship arrived and anchored next to a frigate, which loosed her broadside, then struck her colours.

Kydd’s fog of weariness began to lift. The focus of gunfire now shifted to the four remaining ships of the original French line, but Kydd’s attention to these was cut short when Houghton sent for him. “Mr Kydd, do you take possession of the French seventy-four.”

To take possession? It was every officer’s dream to board a vanquished enemy and this day Thomas Kydd would do so! It was incredible, wonderful. All trace of fatigue left him. “Aye aye, sir,” he stammered. He had no doubt, however, of why he had been chosen: he could be spared in the continuing conflict—oth-ers would continue the fight.

“Carry on, Mr Kydd.” Houghton gave a dry smile and turned away.

Kydd’s heart rose with pride, but the formalities must be observed. His mind scrambled to recall the procedures as he told a messenger, “Pass the word for Mr Rawson.”

The midshipman appeared, his features drawn.

“How does Mr Bowden do?” Kydd asked.

“He’s near-missed by a ball. Mr Pybus says he is tolerably sanguine for his life but he’s sore concussed an’ will need care.”

“Which can be arranged, I’d wager,” Kydd said. “But now we go t’ take possession of the Frenchy yonder,” he added briskly.

It had the desired effect. The resilience of youth ensured that a smile appeared on the midshipman’s face. “Beg Mr Pringle for a
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half-dozen marines and ask the first lieutenant for a boat’s crew.”

There were things to remember—he had heard of the embarrassment of one lieutenant who had arrived triumphantly aboard a conquered ship but had omitted to bring along a flag to hoist over that of the enemy.

And he had no French to deal with their captives, but that could be remedied: “We’ll have Petty Officer Gurnard in the boat.” This man, he knew, came from Jersey in the Channel Islands and would have the French like a native.

He wished he could shift from his grey-stained uniform to something more presentable, but all his possessions were struck below in the hold. His cocked hat was passed into the boat, where the crew and marines waited, then Kydd swung over the bulwarks and down the side.