Tenacious (11 page)

After several days of danger and hardship Kydd found the prospect of surcease and peace attractive. But as the sun went down so did the breeze and those who had cursed the wind were now regretting its failing. Sail was set to stuns’ls but their forward movement slowed to a walk again and then a crawl. The night came languorously in violet and pink, but no breeze blew from the Sardinian shore. A half-moon rose, stars pricked the heavens, and the ships remained drifting.

Then Kydd saw something that awakened memories of an Atlantic night when death had risen out of the darkness to claim his frigate. “Breakers, sir! I see breakers!” Barely perceptible, but distantly picked out by moonlight, there was a white line of surf—the storm swell driving into the shore. It seemed that the other ships had spied it: there was movement of lanthorn light around their fo’c’sles. Without doubt they, too, would bend their best anchors to their cables.

Tenacious
found out the sombre truth with the rest: there was no wind to haul off the land and the water was bottomless. It was unjust. Weary after so much strife they now faced another night of dread, feeling the sullen swell rolling under their keel, relentlessly bearing them towards the dark mass of the land while the sails hung useless in the moonlight.

They were long hours—restless, waiting, fearing the dawn and starting at every flap and shiver aloft, it was hard simply to endure. The deep sea lead was cast regularly; eventually it touched bottom at three hundred feet but this was too deep for anchoring.

When sunrise came it was soft and warm, welcoming them with the deep blue of the morning sky—but the royal blue of the open sea changed to the liquid green of inshore. Constrained by the dead weight of the tow,
Alexander
and
Vanguard
had not been able to take advantage of every little shift in the night breeze and now lay significantly closer inshore.

From the quarterdeck of
Tenacious
it looked a grave situation. The two 74s, still joined by the long cable, were now within a short distance of the shore and it was heartbreaking that after all their efforts the flagship would end in the breakers they could now clearly see.

“
Alexander
must cast off th’ tow,” murmured the master, shaking his head. At least one ship of the two would then escape.

But there was no indication that this was planned—no boats
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in the water to take off the ship’s company of
Vanguard,
no general signal of distress or move to abandon ship. Both men-o’-war drifted on, carried together towards the bare, nondescript coast.

Then, as if relenting in its tantrum, the wind returned; just enough to fill the sails of
Alexander
and allow her to crawl past the craggy northern cape of San Pietro island. Safely past, a signal hoist mounted in the flagship. “Sir! Our pennants and,

‘assume the van,’ ” Kydd said.

“Means us to lead the way, I believe. Mr Adams, this snug harbour . . . ?”
Tenacious
stole round the southerly point of the island, led in by Lieutenant Kydd in the cutter with a hand lead-line sounding ahead. Kydd had put Poulden on the lead-line and Bowden on the simple signal flags relaying back the depths; there was time enough to spy out the land.

They entered a fine inlet between San Pietro island and another; the enfolding bay was sheltered from everything but a southerly. They could anchor there in perfect peace with space enough for twenty ships—and it was good holding ground: shells and soft shale came up with the lead.

The bare, scrubby land shimmered in the glare of the morning sun and Kydd scanned it cautiously for any activity. There were some vestiges of cultivation on the steep slopes and the occasional red-tiled farm dwelling but no fortifications that he could detect.

He completed his sweep of the little bay and told Bowden to indicate with his white flag over red that he considered it worth bringing in
Tenacious.
Then he prepared to carry out the second part of his orders.

As he pulled deeper into the bay he looked for any signs that the local inhabitants might be hostile. Already dots were appearing on the sandy beach and dunes. “Stretch out, if y’ please,”

Kydd urged the rowers. If he was to represent the Royal Navy to a foreign power, he would make sure his men did not let him down. He turned the boat towards a knot of people, and when it beached, allowed himself to be chaired ashore by two seamen.

“L’tenant Kydd, His Majesty’s Ship
Tenacious,
” he announced loudly, bowing in a general way to the people and bringing an immediate hush to the crowd. “Er, anyone speaks English?”

Dressed in the exotics of the inner Mediterranean they looked at Kydd with curiosity. He picked out the most dignified of the men, and repeated the question. The man started in consternation, threw out his hands and jabbered fearfully. “We come t’

repair—in peace, that is,” Kydd tried again, but could feel a rising tide of unease. More people arrived and he saw the curiosity replaced by scowls. He glanced back at his boat; he had deliberately not armed the seamen with him and had not worn his own sword.

A swirl of movement at the back of the crowd caught his eye: a donkey was coming down a track to the beach, ridden by an officer of some kind. Laughter broke out from the boat’s crew at the comical sight of the man’s legs flapping out to the sides of the diminutive beast.

“Silence!” roared Kydd, aghast. The officer came to a stop and slid to the ground, his face dark with anger. He wore an odd folded hat with a scarlet tassel and a faded but flamboyant uniform that ill fitted his corpulent figure. The seamen could not stifle their mirth and Kydd ground out, “I’ll take the cat t’ the next man who so much as grins, s’ help me.” He bowed as low as he could to the officer, who stiffly returned the gesture, after he had snarled something to the crowd, which subsided obediently. “L’tenant Kydd,” he began again, but the officer broke into impassioned speech, gesturing at
Tenacious.

“Sir, I can’t understand . . .” Frustrated, they glared at each other, speechless.

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“Pardonnez-moi, mon commandant,”
Bowden came in awkwardly,
“mais si vous avez le français
. . .”

The officer’s expression changed fractionally and he answered in gruff, choppy French. They exchanged sentences and Bowden turned to Kydd. “Sir, this officer comes from Fort Charles on the island. He’s a captain of militia and therefore an officer of His Sardinian Majesty. He demands to know by what right we are coming ashore.”

All Kydd knew was that Sardinia was a neutral country.

“Thank ye, Bowden. Do you tell him we’re only here a short time to repair storm damage an’ mean no act o’ hostility.” Bowden relayed his words—some of the crowd understood what he said and passed it on to the others. The officer stiffened. Kydd looked at Bowden impatiently.

“Sir, he says that under the terms of their treaty with France, Sardinia may not allow an English vessel to enter any port in the kingdom, and that is his final word.”

Kydd saw there was no moving him—no argument or show of force was appropriate. On the other hand no repairs could be contemplated if the ships would be at the mercy of unfriendly local forces. “Bowden, listen carefully. I want you t’ say this so the others can hear, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell him that we agree not to enter his port, just anchor offshore.” That was no concession—the little cluster of buildings and small wharf he could see at the inner coast of the island could not possibly take four ships-of-the-line. Bowden did as he was told. “Now mark this,” Kydd went on. “Tell him that a big ship has many sailors—they must be fed. If any has livestock or vegetables, they can turn them into English silver this very day, should they bring them here to this beach.”

Excitement grew as the word spread. The man Kydd had

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addressed earlier now pushed across, wanting to know if the English sailors preferred beef or mutton, and small boys raced off with the news. The officer barked at them, but the mood had changed: here was instant prosperity for this tiny settlement and it would go ill with him if he stood in its way.

He hesitated, then turned to Kydd once more. Bowden translated: “Sir, he says that, after consideration, he finds that if we keep out of the port the terms of the treaty are not in violation.

And, sir, he wishes us an enjoyable visit.”

The shouts of approbation that followed forced a smile from the officer, who clambered aboard his donkey, lifting his hand in farewell. Just at that moment three great ships-of-the-line came into view, filling the pretty bay with their warlike majesty and unanswerable presence.

The officer nearly fell off the donkey in fright. Kydd said quietly, “I dare t’ say, our admiral would be satisfied with the usual salutes . . .”

Nelson brought his battered flagship to rest, then signalled, “captains to report condition of ships for sea.” In addition to the usual readiness statement, an assessment of storm damage was required, and
Tenacious
hastened to comply.

For her junior lieutenant this meant accompanying the boatswain and carpenter on their rounds, a task congenial to Kydd’s heart as it was an opportunity to make a closer acquaintance of his ship.

They began at furthest forward and, in a borrowed pair of sailor’s trousers, Kydd was soon out on the eighty-foot length of the bowsprit with the two warrant officers. His experience in a Caribbean dockyard had shown him the difference between the dark, weathered fissures in timber a shipwright would call a “shake” and therefore ignore, and the long bright-sided splits

0

that would betray the much more serious condition of a sprung spar. He inched along the jibboom horse, careful to check under as well as above.

The foremast came next. They used a girt-line with a boatswain’s chair at each side of the mast to close-inspect the fat timbers of the foremast, a “made” mast constructed of several pieces keyed together instead of a single length of timber. It was unlikely to have sprung, and they moved on quickly from the foretop to the topmast.

As they worked, Kydd noticed the deference Pearce, the hard boatswain, was according the carpenter. Both were standing officers—they would remain with
Tenacious
even when put into reserve—and had been together for years. Kydd had never paid much attention to the carpenter, who figured on no watchbill and went about his business with little fuss.

They spread out over the yards, the older men moving deliberately while Kydd attended to the pole royal mast, and then it was time to move to the mainmast. As they inched out on the main-yard the double strikes of eight bells sounded, announcing grog and dinner for the hands.

The job had to be finished but Kydd could not in all conscience order the other two men to press on without something to eat.

He leaned over the big spar and hailed the deck. “Mr Rawson, ahoy!” The midshipman looked upward. “Be s’ good as to light along some scran for us—we’ve a job still t’ do aloft.”

The upper yards were completed and they descended to the maintop just as a hand waved through the lubbers’ hole from below. Kydd went over. It was Bowden, weighed down with a seaman’s mess-kid slung round his neck. He took the steaming vessel, realising that it must have taken considerable resolve for the raw lad to make the climb. “Where’s Mr Rawson? I told him to bring this.”

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“Ah, he had other duties that pressed, sir,” Bowden said neutrally. Kydd suspected that Rawson had coerced Bowden into making the climb, hoping for a spectacular disaster. Bowden disappeared, but then a younger midshipman popped into view, passing up a bag containing a loaf of bread, local oranges and mess-traps.

Kydd was quietly pleased at Bowden’s climb up the mast and his initiative in co-opting another midshipman, who had not finished yet: he extracted a bottle of claret from his coat. “Your servant said t’ give you this.”

Kydd spread out his victuals. “Gentlemen, shall we dine?” The boatswain hesitated before he dipped his bread into the common pot. “Mr Feakes, if y’ please?” Kydd encouraged the carpenter, who bent to his plate. “You’ve been carpenter aboard f’r some years, I believe?” he asked.

“Aye, sir. Since launch.”

“That’s before th’ war, then.”

“Sir.”

“Bin wi’ the old girl at the First o’ June, he was,” Pearce put in admiringly. “An’ with
Cybele
in India.”

The Glorious First of June—the first great fleet action of the war, and both Feakes and
Tenacious
had been there. Kydd looked at Feakes; there was no sign of those momentous, dangerous times on his lined face and he warmed to the old sailor.

Kydd felt the stout bulk of the mainmast at his back as he took in the stately soaring of stays and shrouds, halliards and pendants in their precise curves, the sweetness of the deck-line from high above as it passed from bowsprit to old-fashioned stern. This was a ship to love, to remember with fondness down the years. He felt a curious pang as he thought about Feakes and
Tenacious
growing old together.

Kydd’s feelings for
Tenacious
turned to a catch in the throat,

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however, as he realised that in the near future enemy shot might smash its way into her vitals. This time she might not be as lucky as she had been at the Glorious First of June and Camperdown.

He got to his feet. “We’ll carry on,” he said gruffly. “Our Nel’s a-waiting f’r our report.”