Tenacious (9 page)

“News, gentlemen,” Houghton said, looking from one to another. “In short, I am happy to say we are
not
too late. The French have not sailed.
Terpsichore
’s prize is
La Pierre,
a corvette of the French navy. Admiral Nelson’s staff have questioned the crew closely and they, being inclined to boastfulness, have been free with their information.

“I have to tell you now that the rumours we have been hearing are substantially correct. This armament is of prodigious size, reported by many at over thirty sail-of-the-line and hundreds of transports. And their chief general, Napoleon Buonaparte, arrived in Toulon some days ago and is now reviewing his troops and siege train. It seems these troops are, at this moment, embarking in their transport. Gentlemen, Admiral Nelson believes that they are to sail directly.”

“Sir, does he know
where
they’re headed?” Kydd asked.

“No,” said Houghton flatly. “It seems that this Buonaparte is keeping his plans even from his officers. In the absence of any reliable facts we can only assume that the most credible is a lunge west to join with the Spanish, then out to the Atlantic, north for a junction with the Brest fleet and then . . . England.”

“Indeed—why else the troops?” muttered Bryant. Louder, he asked, “Do we know anything of their commander, sir?”

“Yes. This is Admiral the Comte de Brueys, a gentleman of the old France. He has been at sea since the age of thirteen and has seen much service. He knows the Mediterranean well, and flies his flag in
L’Orient,
which is of one hundred and twenty guns,”

he added heavily.

“Sir, what are our orders from the admiral? I have seen no orders yet, sir.”

Bampton sounded peevish, but Houghton responded courteously: “Sir Horatio has been good enough to open his mind to his captains. We understand sufficiently well what are his wishes.

These he will communicate by signals, which will be few in number but each of which will be of the highest importance.

“Besides, we are a reconnaissance squadron, on detachment only, and our orders therefore are those of our commander-in-chief Admiral Jervis. I commend their thorough perusal by all my officers.”

“Then, sir, our duty is clear,” Bryant said vigorously. “We hold to the line of rendezvous—”

“The prize has been sent to Cadíz with dispatches, detailing the situation in Toulon,” Houghton interrupted. “Earl St Vincent will determine what manner of action might be required.”

“And in the event the French sail before then?”

“I have the strongest opinion of Admiral Nelson’s leadership in this affair,” Houghton said stiffly. “We all know our duty, sir.”

The sky was deep blue, white clouds towering and the sea a-glitter as the squadron headed along the rendezvous line under easy sail.

The order came to “exercise small arms by divisions.” Kydd knew the weapons well: the boarding pike, an eight-foot shaft with a forged pick head, was purely for defensive purposes; the tomahawk was seldom used as a weapon, its value in scaling ships’ sides and cutting away netting; a pistol had but one shot
62

and then became a club. Kydd had no doubt that the cutlass was the prince of weapons.

He waited while sailors shuffled into line on one side of the deck facing him. For the main part, these men were unblooded in battle, strangers to the hatred and violence of hand-to-hand combat. They would preserve their own lives and bring victory to their ship only if they had skill at arms greater than that of the enemy.

Kydd stood in shirt and breeches, the sea breeze ruffling across his chest. “I’ll have y’r attention now, if y’ please.” It seemed an age since, as a pressed man, he had listened while a lieutenant gave him the lesson he was about to impart to these men.

“I’m now going t’ save your skins. I’m telling you how to fight—

and win!” He signalled to Poulden, who came forward. Kydd took up a cutlass and admired it theatrically, letting its lightly oiled grey steel blade and plain black hilt catch the sun. There were murmurs at the sight. “Now, see here,” he said. Poulden advanced on him with his own cutlass; Kydd slowly raised his own blade and brought it down towards Poulden’s unprotected head, but well before the blow fell, Poulden lunged forward with the point, directly at Kydd’s chest. “You see? Should you slash at your foe he’ll be inside you with a thrust—it only needs an inch or two o’ steel to end the fight.”

A figure to one side caught his eye. It was Bowden, an intense expression on his face. Kydd wondered what he could be thinking. There was no way to prepare anyone for the impact of finding a living person at the end of a blade who must be killed by the plunge of that same steel in his body—before he killed you.

“Laffin,” Kydd called. The dark-featured boatswain’s mate came forward. “Take this!” he snapped, throwing one of the two wooden practice swords at him. “On y’r guard, sir!”

Laffin waved his sword sketchily but Kydd performed a crisp

front prove distance manoeuvre and tapped his ear smartly. The man recoiled and brought up his sword to point, which Kydd had no trouble evading. Nettled, Laffin began a laborious assault. Instantly Kydd’s sword slithered along the inside and in a last flick laid the way open for a fatal lunge.

“You’re a dead man, Laffin. Ten seconds.” Kydd’s eyes took in the rest of his division. “Ye’re all a lubberly crew who are going t’ leave me alone on an enemy deck while you’re all being pig-stuck around me. Now we’ll learn some real fightin’.”

Using Poulden, a fair swordsman, as his opponent, he dem-onstrated the positions—guard, assault, half-hanger—and the importance of footwork. He knew his swordsmanship did not have the elegance of a fencing master but was workmanlike, forged in the struggle for survival in the short, brutal encounters of boarding.

“Now, shall we see what ye’ve learned? I’ll take th’ first dozen, Mr Rawson.” The deck by the mainmast was soon filled with figures flailing and clacking at each other under the amused eye of the watch on deck.

Suddenly Kydd bellowed, “Prince o’ the poop!” The fighting stopped. Kydd leaped up the ladder to the poop-deck, where he leaned over the rail and looked down with a devilish smile. “I’m defendin’ my poop—any who dares t’ take it from me?”

Rawson made the first challenge with a creditable show but was transfixed after tripping over a taffrail knee. The next two were quickly disposed of, but then a voice came from the rear: “I, sir! I do answer your challenge!” Renzi mounted the ladder and came to an elegant salute at the top.

Kydd knew his friend was a truly accomplished swordsman, who had been tutored by masters in his youth, but did not believe he would use his skill to disgrace him before his men. Kydd answered the salute gracefully and ceremoniously proved distance.

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The tips of the plain wooden blades held each other at point, then began their lethal questing: flicking, clacking, from inside guard to St George and assault; left cheek, point, shift and guard again. The thrusts were thoughtfully considered, held off for that fraction of a second that allowed a perception of intent by the audience.

Renzi’s expression was polite, amused. For some reason this annoyed Kydd and he dared a thrust of force. Renzi retreated to a series of guards as Kydd continued to smack at his blade with loud
cloks.

Kydd was about to overbear Renzi when Renzi’s face hardened. His sword flicked out like a barb of lightning, never the same move, probing, testing, vicious.

It chilled Kydd: this was not his friend—this was a terrifying enemy with lethal intent who would batter his way past his defences and finish the contest in death. There was no sound from the onlookers. Renzi moved forward, forcing Kydd into a tiring defence, everything he did of no avail against the faultless au-tomaton bearing down on him.

The end must come—unless . . . He tensed, let his right leg bunch and sank as if brought to his knees. Renzi drew back his blade for the final downward thrust that would end with the point at Kydd’s throat—but Kydd’s blade flashed out low, and took him squarely in his unprotected upper thigh.

“Ha! You see!” Kydd cried loudly. “My man is now spit, wounded. He falls to the deck—he is now helpless, at my mercy.”

Kydd knew his unfair move would never be seen in a gentleman’s fencing studio, but where was the referee on an enemy deck?

Renzi drew back slowly, his gaze reptilian. He let his “sword”

drop to the deck with a clatter.

Through sparkling royal blue seas, the sun beating down, the squadron advanced to the end of the line, then went about and

back again while energetic frigates cruised far ahead and abeam, ready to notify the slightest move of significance by the enemy.

Kydd prepared as best he could. He had to be familiar not only with the signal flags but with their tactical and strategic meaning: in the confusion of battle he had to be able to piece together the fleet commander’s intentions from brief glimpses of bunting at the halliards and inform his captain accordingly.

The
Fighting Instructions
held all that he should know, but he was troubled that his one experience of a great battle of fleets was now a jostling memory of chaos, powder-smoke and noise, which made it hard to know what his own ship had been doing, let alone others.

And that was supposing they fell back to Cadíz and became part of a much larger fleet. If the French put to sea, Nelson would probably sacrifice himself and his little squadron to delay them—it would be less a fleet battle than a heroic destruction. So much depended on the next days. Distracted, he paced the deck forward.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bowden sitting on the fore-hatch with Poulden, a laborious long-splice under way. The lad’s look of concentration was intense and Kydd was pleased to see his work had a fine seamanlike appearance; Bowden looked up shyly at him.

The afternoon wore on. In the dog-watches he would exercise with the cutlass again, and on the following forenoon there would be muskets and a target dangling at the yardarm. He passed Renzi, standing gazing at
Vanguard
ahead. He was clearly deep in thought and Kydd had not the heart to disturb him.

In the evening, cutlass drill was delayed. Houghton had been talking with the master, who made no secret of his distrust of the weather and both watches took off the royals and sent down the masts. Before the end of the dog-watch the breeze had freshened from the north-west. “Don’t care what they calls it—
mistral
or
66

tramontana,
it’s bad cess to us if’n it’s coming from the nor’ard,”

the master said gravely.

It was peculiar in Kydd’s experience: cloudless skies and exu-berant seas, perfect weather, but the wind was increasing to a degree that in English waters would give rise to concern for the future.

After supper Kydd arrived to take over the watch.
Orion
and
Alexander
were ahead and under topgallants while the frigates closed up for the night. “Rather you than me, old pickle,” Adams said cheerfully. “Master thinks a tartar’s blowing up.” He disappeared below.

Kydd eyed the canvas and sniffed at the wind. “M’ duty t’ the captain an’ I advise taking in th’ courses,” he told his messenger.

Houghton came on deck. “I see
Vanguard
has still her royals abroad,” he said suspiciously.

“Aye, sir,” Kydd said carefully, “but
Orion
an’
Alexander
have taken ’em in and, if I’m not mistaken, there is
Alexander
going t’ topsails now.” As if reading Houghton’s thoughts, he added,

“And we’re still stayin’ with Flag, sir.”

Admittedly, their line was now more of a gaggle in the evening gloom as they watched lanthorns jerkily mounted to the mizzen top of
Vanguard.
“Very well. You may use the watch on deck only, Mr Kydd.” Houghton hesitated then went below.

It would mean a longer, harder job but the watch below would not be disturbed. However, within twenty minutes the wind had changed from an insistent stream to a buffeting, squally threat.

“Mr Pearce, I mean to turn up all the hands in striking courses,”

Kydd told the boatswain, who went to fetch his mates. Houghton arrived quickly. The seas were higher, but in a way that was peculiar to this landlocked sea: short, steep and rapid, meeting the bow in a succession of sharp explosions of white.

Their consorts began distancing themselves: sea room was becoming necessary in the increasingly boisterous conditions,

even with the half-moon’s occasionally cloud-dimmed light.

“Keep the men on deck, Mr Kydd,” Houghton said, drawing his coat round him.

In less than an hour it had worsened. The moon was now all but obscured by lower-level racing scud and the topsails bellied and tautened to iron-like rigidity. “I’ll trouble you to close-reef the tops’ls,” Houghton ordered.

Men crowded into the weather shrouds and began climbing. It was murky and indistinct—Kydd knew they were going as much by feel and familiarity with their aerial world as sight. They would be deadly cautious, transferring hold from one hand, one foot to another only when it felt secure. Slamming wind gusts could shake the hold of the unwary and send them, helpless, to their death. When they reached the tops and eased out on the yard they would no longer even be free to hold on—balancing on a thin footrope with empty space beneath, they had to lean over and, with both hands, fist the maddened canvas into submission, then secure the points with a reef knot.