Tenacious (12 page)

Captain Houghton and the first lieutenant left for
Vanguard
with Kydd’s report as first dog-watchmen went to supper. Within the hour they were back. “Pass the word for Mr Feakes—the carpenter, ahoy!”

The captain’s barge conveyed the carpenter to the flagship. It was dusk when he returned and hurried directly to Houghton’s cabin. Minutes later Bryant was summoned, and before much longer the word was out: to Nelson’s considerable satisfaction, Feakes had given out that
Vanguard
could not only be jury-rigged for the retreat to Gibraltar but might conceivably be put into some kind of shape to meet the French at sea.

In a race against time the flagship had to be fitted for sea with the only resources they had: spare spars, twice-laid rope and willing hands. And in recognition of Feakes’s faith and intelligent direction,
Tenacious
was to perform the most difficult task. She would lash alongside
Vanguard
and, in a feat of seamanship that would stretch every talent aboard, she would be used to extract the stump of foremast and lower in the new to the flagship.

That night Feakes and his mates transferred to
Vanguard
and set about readying the ship for a complete replacement of all topmasts.
Orion
would craft the new mizzen topmast,
Alexander
would provide a fore-topmast while
Vanguard
herself would work on the main. Within two days the preparations were complete.

In brilliant sunshine and under curious eyes from ashore
Tenacious
was warped in close to
Vanguard.
As the ship working the evolution,
Tenacious
had charge of the operation—Bryant stood at the bulwark with speaking trumpet and the manner of

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3

a bull mastiff: should any hesitate or fail they could depend on an instant reaction.

When the partners of the foremast had been knocked out
Tenacious
’s main-yard was braced around and with stout tackles and guys clapped on it, the ugly, splintered stump of the foremast was plucked out like a tooth. Getting the new one in was a more serious matter: the raw length of the three-foot-thick lower mast might, if it slipped, plummet down and transfix the bottom of the flagship.

It took the entire forenoon but by midday
Vanguard
had her masts made whole once more. A fore-topmast had been fashioned from a spare main topgallant mast and hoisted into place and her bowsprit strengthened by “fishing” across the weakened part with timber lengths.

In less than four days Nelson’s flagship had been transformed from a storm-shattered wreck to a ship-of-the-line ready for sea—reckoned by all hands to have been made whole again and set to take her place in the line-of-battle.

Admiral Nelson wasted no time. The squadron set sail, re-formed and shaped their course. There was no talk of retreating to Gibraltar; they would sail north. Their duty was clear and unchanged—to return off Toulon and resume their mission.

Gun practice and combat preparation intensified to a high pitch as they neared the rendezvous to collect their frigates, which were vital to the squadron: they would look into enemy ports and report in detail.

But as the lookouts searched the horizons a lone sail was spotted, boldly crossing their course. It was a Balkan merchant vessel. Stopped by
Orion,
she had intelligence of such import that the admiral called an instant conference. The storm that had driven them south had allowed the French to slip out of port and away.

It had finally happened. The feared Napoleon Buonaparte

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Julian Stockwin

was at sea and headed for an unknown destination with an immense fleet of overwhelming numbers: fifteen ships-of-the-line and fourteen frigates, with brigs, cutters, gunboats—seventy-two warships in all. But these were not the heart of the fleet: in four hundred transports there were tens of thousands of battle-hardened troops. This immense armada could have only one purpose.

Nelson’s response was immediate. The awesome fleet had to be found, and for that he needed his precious frigates to extend the line to comb the seas. There was no choice: they must crowd on sail to reach the rendezvous as fast as they could and then, with the frigates spread out abreast, begin the search. When the enemy was found Nelson would detach one ship to report back to Cadíz for orders while continuing to shadow.

They reached the appointed place but there was not a frigate in sight.
Orion
searched to the east along the line of latitude while
Tenacious
took the west—but there were no frigates.

They waited at the rendezvous. Dusk fell and night gave time for contemplation of the situation. Dawn arrived—and no frigates. The day passed. Even the meanest imagination knew what it must be costing their helpless admiral. Night, another day, and still no English sail. In the afternoon a garrulous fisherman was stopped—and he had news: in some vague position not so far away he had chanced upon a great fleet passing, at least ten, perhaps a dozen ships-of-the-line, which he thought to be English—

clearly incorrect, given that Nelson’s was the only squadron in the Mediterranean.

In a friendless sea with every man’s hand turned against them and utterly outnumbered, Nelson and his little band were faced with a quandary—what to do next.

Chapter 4

“Sail hooooo!” The masthead hail stilled all talk and halted work on deck. Far to the west they could detect the merest pale flicker against the sparkling horizon. The squadron kept tight formation: this might be the first of a powerful French force sent to deal with a few impudent English ships reported to have entered
their
sea.

But there were no additional sail. The vessel tacked about to reveal the two masts of a humble brig. It was no outlying scout of the enemy fleet, just one of the countless workhorse craft of its kind in the Mediterranean going about its business.
Tenacious
returned to her routine.

However, the brig made no move to turn away. It stood on, its course of intersection one which would bring it close to the flagship. Curious eyes followed its steady approach until, at two miles distance,
Vanguard
’s challenge, accompanied by the crack of a gun, brought a flurry of bunting to its halliards.

“Correct answer f’r today—can’t make out her pennants,”

Kydd said, flicking through his signal book. She was apparently English, in a sea where they had thought they were the only members of His Majesty’s Navy.

Vanguard
’s yards came round as she heaved to, allowing the

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Julian Stockwin

brig to come up and deliver dispatches—with news that changed the situation. The reconnaissance squadron was to be no more: a powerful force of ten ships-of-the-line was on its way to join Nelson to transform it into a battle fleet. The fisherman had been right—he had seen English ships. There were cheers of joy. At last the tables had turned: no longer the fearful trespasser, they were now the predator.

Admiral Nelson’s orders were not long in coming, and covered everything from the disposition of men-o’-war in a tactical formation to the issue of lemons and fresh water.

Kydd settled down to write up his signal book. Nelson’s instructions were clear and vigorous and although there was not a flood of new signals there were a dozen general signals and fifty-six concerning tactical manoeuvres, all of which had to be carefully detailed and indexed in his pocket signal book.

The most important were those covering their preparations for the chase. The fleet was to be tightly formed, in three columns a nautical mile apart and each ship two and a half cables from the next ahead. Divisions for battle would be signified by a specific triangular flag; these were empowered to take on the enemy independently.

But it was the Fighting Memorandum that had the officers talking. It spoke in powerful terms of close combat during which

“should a captain compel any of the Enemy’s ships to strike their Colours, he is at liberty to judge and act . . . to cut away their masts and bowsprit . . .” and that “. . . possession of ships of the enemy should be by one officer and one boat’s crew only, that the British ship may be enabled to continue the attack . . .”

The overall tenor of the orders was encapsulated in one single stirring sentence: “. . . this special observance, namely
that the
destruction of the enemy’s armament is the sole object
. . .
” This

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was real fighting talk. No intricate manoeuvres, no time wasted in forming a line-of-battle, just forthright demands to fall upon the enemy in the most direct and effective manner at hand and the confident assumption that the English fleet would prevail.

The wardroom was abuzz long into the night with the implications for individual initiative, the risk for Nelson in trusting his captains with the close-in climax of a battle, and the probability of a rapid conclusion—one way or the other.

First one, then a multitude of sails lifted above the horizon. After an anxious wait the ships were finally revealed to be the longed-for reinforcements. For three days the newly formed battle fleet lay hove to. Boats plied busily between ships as captains met their admiral and officers reported to the flagship with their order books to receive the details resulting from strategy realised into tactics by the fertile mind of their chief. When all was complete, the collection of fourteen warships was as one under a single command. It was time to go in chase of the French fleet.

Signal guns on
Vanguard
cracked impatiently. In three divisions, led by Nelson and supported by Captain Troubridge to larboard of the line and Captain Saumarez to starboard, the fleet began its quest.

Kydd was anxious, but it was not the hazards of storm or enemy that made his palms moist: it was the knowledge that he and his ship were under the eye of the most famous fighting admiral of the age. They were daring to become one of an élite band of ships and men beginning to be known throughout the Royal Navy: Troubridge of
Culloden,
Hallowell of
Swiftsure,
Foley of
Goliath,
Hood of
Zealous.
To see the crusty Houghton return from colloquy with Nelson, eyes alight and pride in his voice, Kydd knew that this was a professional pinnacle in his career and, whatever happened, he must not fail.

Julian Stockwin

• • •

Nelson’s first move was to the eastward, rounding the north of Corsica with his fleet in tight formation, laying to in the evening off the sprawling island of Elba. It was vital to gain intelligence on the whereabouts of the French armament. To blunder into it round the next point of land would be disastrous. All that was known was that the French had sailed, and because the reinforcements had come from Gibraltar without sighting them the armada must have passed north about Corsica and then down the Italian coast—to Rome? Naples? Malta?

With not a single frigate to scout ahead there was little choice: the brig
Mutine
was pressed into service. The game little vessel would look ahead into the bays and harbours of the coast of Italy and hope she could survive any encounter with the French.

Meanwhile the fleet would stop any vessel that dared show itself. These were few: a terrified Moorish xebec swore that he had seen the French fleet at Syracuse, and a tunny fisherman solemnly declared that he had sailed through the entire armada not far to their immediate south three days previously. The land of Corsica and north Italy under their lee were French now and hostile so would not provide reliable intelligence.

Nelson could not wait: the trail was going cold. The English fleet weighed anchor and stood to the south, broadsides loaded and in fighting formation—but all they met was
Mutine
on her way back to deliver her report. No sighting, not even a rumour.

The battle fleet followed the coast south. The old port of Civitavecchia was a blue-grey smudge to the eastward as
Mutine
looked cautiously into it. Another day brought a misty grey Rome to the horizon. On they sailed until the limits of French occupation were reached. This was now the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies—independent but neutral by treaty of amity with revolutionary France. Naples was important enough, though, to serve

Tenacious

as the seat of the senior British diplomat in the Mediterranean, so surely there they would receive reliable intelligence on this most sinister event of recent times.

Neither Kydd nor any in
Tenacious
was able to catch sight of the famous city. Only the massive cone of Vesuvius was recognisable above the lumpy coastline as the fleet hove to far out in the Bay of Naples, ready to get under way in an instant to meet the enemy. Nelson remained aboard his flagship while the trusty
Mutine
sailed inshore, bearing his flag-captain to the ambassador.

Within two hours Troubridge was hastening back to Nelson, observed by an impatient fleet. This had to be the news they so badly needed. Speculation rose to fever pitch when the flagship at last hoisted the “lieutenant repair aboard” signal that always preceded the issue of orders.

The first lieutenant of
Tenacious
was sporting enough to toss a coin for the task, and it was Renzi who occupied the sternsheets of the barge sailing out to
Vanguard.
There was some delay before the craft returned, but when Renzi came up the side steps he wore an enigmatic smile and excused himself to attend upon the captain.

When he emerged he was surrounded instantly by impatient officers. “Gentlemen!” he protested. “I have but done my duty by the order book—do you suppose I am made privy to all the strategical secrets of Sir Horatio? That he confides his fears and anxieties to me, to be—”