Tenacious (5 page)

Houghton grinned and straightened. “If you please, gentlemen, Sir Horatio will brook no delay. He intends to sail for Gibraltar in two days. I will not have
Tenacious
disappoint so you will bend every effort to ready her for sea. Carry on!”

The Rock of Gibraltar resolved from the haze like a crouching lion, dominating the vessels that drew up to its flanks to join the ships-of-the-line and frigates already there. As anchors plunged into a gunmetal blue sea, the thunder of salutes acknowledged the visiting
Princess Royal
as the flag of a senior admiral.

The ships came to rest and the slight breeze brought a smell compounded of sun-baked rock, goats, donkey droppings and Moorish cooking, which irresistibly took Kydd back to his service there in
Achilles—
and the adventures that had followed.

“I do believe it will now be granted to us to glimpse the grand panjandrum himself,” Renzi said, looking at
Vanguard,
anchored a few hundred yards away. Kydd held back a reproof: his friend had been at the great battle of St Vincent and witnessed Nelson’s achievements at first hand.

“Oh?” said Bampton. “Is he so much the swell he must parade before us?”

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Kydd’s colour rose at Bampton’s tone.

“Not as I would say,” Renzi replied. “Rather, I have heard he keeps a splendid table and is the most affable of hosts.”

“Should you have seen him here a year or so ago in
Minerve
frigate you’d clap a stopper on y’r opinions,” Kydd added, and recounted the daring escape of Nelson’s ship from two Spanish ships-of-the-line. From the top of the Rock, Kydd had watched the whole incident. Nelson had bluffed the enemy by heaving to and, suspecting he was leading them into a trap, the Spaniards had sheered off. But the real reason for his action was that he had lowered a boat to rescue a man overboard.

The talking died as
Vanguard
’s boat was hoisted out and several figures boarded. It stroked strongly for the shore, and was met at Ragged Staff by a file of redcoats, a military band and a reception committee.

“Making his number with the governor,” murmured Adams.

“O’Hara,” said Kydd, with a grin. “They call him ‘Cock o’

the Rock’ on account of him being so . . . amiable t’ the ladies.”

After a short interval there was a pealing of boatswain’s calls and the captain of
Tenacious
departed.

“God knows, Our Nel isn’t one to waste his time lingering in port,” the first lieutenant said. He turned to the boatswain. “No liberty, all hands to store ship. Turn to, part-o’-ship.” The boatswain called his mates and stalked forward, the piercing blast of their pipes echoing up from the hatchways. “All the water an’

provisions we can take aboard—our ships are on their own once we sail,” Bryant growled.

But this was work for the warrant officers, petty officers and ship’s company. Kydd seized his opportunity. “Nicholas, should you step off with me, y’ could be of some service, m’

friend . . .”

Renzi raised one eyebrow. “Er, regarding Town Major

Mulvany and his wife, do you not think it a trifle rash to venture abroad in Gibraltar? That you may meet them?”

Kydd’s infatuation with Emily Mulvany was nearly a year previously but Renzi’s gibe was enough to bring a flush. “I’ve heard there’s a new man in post now,” he said defensively.

Bryant saw no reason to deny them both a few hours ashore, and within a short time they were speaking to the chief valuer for Moses Levy, the biggest jeweller in Gibraltar. “Your opinion on this, if y’ please,” Kydd said, passing him his hoarded treasure.

The man took the object, scratched the surface with a hook-shaped pick and closely inspected the result. Then he took down a dusty vial with a glass dropper and deposited several drops of fluid on the tiny specks.

“A remarkable piece,” he said grudgingly, hefting the hunk of raw gold. “May I know where this was found?” he said, as he set it on one pan of his scales.

“No, sir, you may not.” Kydd’s uncle would find his haven destroyed by prospectors if ever Kydd let it be known. It had been his uncle’s gift to probably the last family member he would see, and Kydd was going to see it well used.

The valuer carefully added weights to the other pan. Kydd glanced at Renzi, who seemed unaffected by the excitement. The man peered at the weights, then said, “This is what I can offer.

Four hundred silver pesos on account now and an adjustment later after it has been assayed.”

“That would seem equitable,” Renzi said. Outside he added,

“At six pesos to the guinea, an excellent trade—more than enough to . . . ?”

They knew where they had to go: a bare twenty minutes along the familiar bustle of Main Street was Town Range, the residen-tial quarter for army officers, and in a side-street they found the garrison sword-cutler. Kydd turned to Renzi. “Now, Nicholas,
32

understand that it’s a fightin’ sword I’m getting, none o’ your macaroni pig-stickers.”

“As you’ve mentioned before, dear chap.”

The steel-glittered interior was hung with every conceivable hand weapon, ceremonial armour, regimental gorgets and armorial heraldry. Kydd wandered along the racks of edged weapons: this was no quartermaster’s armoury, with stout grey-steel blades and wooden hilts. Here was damascened elegance in blue, gold and ivory.

“See this,” Kydd said, selecting one. He flourished it—the military style seemed heavier, the slightly curved blade urging more of a slashing stroke than a direct thrust. It did, however, have a splendid appearance, the blade blued along its length with silver chasing down from the hilt, the half-basket guard ornate and fire-gilded.

“A fighting sword?” Renzi drawled.

“Aye, well, a fine piece,” Kydd said, replacing it as a man stepped out from the workshop at the rear.

“Gentlemen, an honour.” He spoke softly, but his eyes took measure of Kydd’s strong build and upright bearing. “Balthasar Owen. It’s not so often we are visited by the navy. Not a small sword is my guess,” he added, with a smile, glancing at a discreet light-bladed hanger usually worn by gentlemen in the street.

“A fightin’ sword for a naval gentleman, if y’ please,” Kydd replied.

Owen hesitated.

“The expense is not t’ be considered. Let th’ blade be the best y’ have.”

“Should you have any fine Toledo steel blades, it would answer,” Renzi added.

“A Toledo blade! This will be difficult. Since the late war began you will understand . . .”

“The best steel in the world, we agree,” Renzi pressed. “And in the matter of your price . . .”

Owen closed the front door. “Toledo steel is the hardest there is because it is forged from an iron heart and the finest steel lapped and folded on itself more than three hundred times. This gives it flexibility but great hardness. It can take a razor’s edge that has been known to last centuries. You see, at the forge, the swordsmith works only by night. Such is their care that when the blade is plunged into the oil the heat’s colour is exactly known.

The result, an impeccable temper.”

He paused, and looked keenly at the two. “There have been many attempts at fraud. Can you tell the singular damascening of a Toledo blade? No? Then the only one you may trust is myself—for if I sell you an inferior, then my standing as sword-cutler to the military will be exploded. Now, if I can find such a one, it would cost dear, perhaps more than three hundred silver pesos—in English money say fifty pounds.”

“Very well,” said Kydd immediately.

“Which is to say, no paper money, payment upon delivery.”

“Aye.”

“And workshop time compensated.”

Kydd began to count out the Spanish coins. “Should ye need an advance t’ assist in th’ looking, then—”

Owen’s expression eased. “As it happens, I have knowledge of two suitable blades—these are, of course, just that, blades. I will fetch them. They will be hilted here in my workshop to your instructions, er—”

“L’tenant Kydd, Royal Navy, sir.” Bows were exchanged, and Owen withdrew.

Kydd smiled at Renzi. “O’ course, the whole world knows o’

this Toledo steel, but I never thought t’ sport such a one.”

“I give you joy of your expectation, brother.”

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Renzi, who had been tutored from youth in the art of fencing, lifted out a straight-bladed spadroon and swung it round his wrist. Then, in a glittering whirl of motion, it came to rest, the needle point an inch from Kydd’s nose. “Supple, light in hand, but of no account in a serious contest,” Renzi said, and replaced it in the rack.

Owen returned carrying a long package, which he carefully unwrapped on the counter top. Kydd caught his breath. Despite the ugly, naked tang at the top, the sword blade’s lethal gleam shone with an impossibly fine lustre. “Take it,” urged Owen. “If you look closely you might perceive the damascene workings.”

Kydd lifted the blade, sighting along it and feeling its weight, admiring the almost imperceptible whorls of metal colour.

“The other Toledo I have is a thirty-two-inch,” Owen said,

“this being only a twenty-eight.”

“No, sir. Aboard ship we set no value on length,” Kydd said, stroking the blade in reverence. “Sudden an’ quick’s the word, the shorter swings faster.”

“Is the fullering to your satisfaction, sir?”

Kydd slid his thumb down the single wide groove, feeling its sensual curvature as it diminished towards the tip. “Aye, it will do.”

“Then perhaps we should discuss the furniture.”

Kydd’s brow creased.

“Yes. The blade is forged in Toledo, we perform the hilting here.” Kydd avoided Renzi’s eye and listened politely. “Naval gentlemen are taking a stirrup knuckle-bow these days,” he said, familiarly lifting a sword by its blade and holding it vertical.

Instead of forming a round semicircle, the guard had a pleasing sinuosity, ending in a flat bar.

“You will remark the short quillion on this piece,” he added, touching the sword crosspiece. “More to your sea tastes, I believe.

And the grips—for a fighting sword we have ivory, filigree—”

“Sharkskin,” Kydd said firmly, and turned to see Renzi nodding. “Aye, dark sharkskin it must be. Now, y’r pommel.”

“Ah, yes. You naval gentlemen will be asking for the lionhead pommel. It remains only to specify how far down the backpiece of the grip you wish the mane to extend. Some gentlemen—”

“Half-way will be fine.”

“Chased?”

“Er . . .”

“Silver, gold?”

“Ah, yes. How will gold chasin’ look, d’ye think, Nicholas?”

“Dear fellow, this is a fighting sword.”

“I think, then, none.”

Owen returned the sword to its place. “And the detailing.” He pursed his lips and crossed to another rack. “Triangular langets?”

he said, showing the neat little catch for holding the sword secure in its scabbard.

“Not so plain, I’m thinkin’—have you an anchor, perhaps?”

“Certainly. Would you consider damascening in blue and gold? Some blade-etching—a mermaid, a seahorse, perhaps? And the scabbard: black oiled leather, of course, with carrying rings and frog stud for belt or shoulder carriage. Shall the sword knot be in bullion or blue tassels?”

It was well into the afternoon before all details had been settled.

The sword-cutler had puzzled over Kydd’s insistent demand for engravings of choughs, but he had promised a sketch of the birds for the etching. For the rest, it had cost a pretty premium to command the entire resources of the workshop to have it finished in time, but he would then possess the finest sword imaginable—

and there was every reason to suppose that it would soon be drawn in anger.

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Back on board, the remainder of the day passed busily. Men sweated in the heat as they struck stores down into the hold; others roused out cannonballs from their lockers and scaled rust from them; more still went over every inch of rigging.

So far signal instructions from their new admiral had not been sent over, so Kydd concentrated on what he had; a detached squadron was not a fleet, even if commanded by an admiral and there might be difficulties. Probably a fat sheaf of complex signal details would arrive the day they sailed, Kydd thought ruefully.

The following day the pace had calmed. Gibraltar dockyard was not a major fleet base and had no vast stocks of sea stores.

Men’s minds began to turn shoreward for the last opportunity to raise a wind for who knew how long. Liberty was granted to the trusties of the larboard watch until evening gun. Kydd knew where they would head—there were establishments enough in Irish Town alone to cater to an entire fleet.

He and Renzi found time to share a pleasant meal at the Old Porter House on Scud Hill. They sank an ale on the terrace. The entire sweeping curve of Gibraltar Bay lay before them under the setting sun; Spain, the enemy, was a bare five miles distant.

The two friends talked comfortably together of remembered places far away; unspoken, however, was any mention of the fire of war, which must soon reach out and engulf them both.

Soon after breakfast, a midshipman appeared. “Mr Kydd, sir, and the cap’n desires to see you when convenient.”

The coding of the summons indicated delay would not be in his interest and his pulse quickened as he remembered that the previous day Houghton had spent the whole afternoon and evening with Admiral Nelson. Kydd quickly mounted the companionway and knocked at the door.

“Sir?” There was another captain with him, and a midshipman rigid to one side.