Tenacious (19 page)

Men ready at her guns,
Tenacious
finally reached the head of the line. The totally dismasted wreck of the first ship lay unresisting under the onslaught of
Zealous
and
Audacious.
They reached the third, and the easily recognisable form of
Vanguard,
her opponent laying to her anchor alongside and also suffering from two English ships at work on the opposite side. Then the smoke drifted clear and there, proud and free above the enemy tricolour, flew a large white ensign. It brought savage cheers from the men, redoubled when the second in line fell silent. Her colours lowered, followed shortly by the hopeless wreck of the first.

Tenacious
sailed on but even before she reached the fourth, hoarse cheers went up when it could be seen that she, too, had
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given up the fight. Was it victory that night, so soon? But four ships taken out of the dozen or so left two-thirds of the French fleet ahead. Nelson’s plan of concentrating his forces at the head of the line and overwhelming the stationary enemy one by one was a brilliant success so far, but with
Tenacious
the last to enter battle there was no more strength left that could be brought to bear on the rest.

Downwind of the head of the line Kydd could now smell the battle: acrid powder-smoke, heated gunmetal and ancient wood-dust blasted from old timbers. There was also the pungency of damp burned timber—fires had been recently extinguished.

In their path was an English ship lit almost continuously by her guns, smashing low into her antagonist, whose vicious return fire was in turn causing visible ruin to her timbers. But settling in place on her inshore side was another English ship, beginning her cannonade from the opposite side. The noise was hellish, scores of the biggest guns in the fleet contending furiously with even bigger French ones in a ceaseless thunderous drumming.

Ahead at the centre of the line the huge flagship
L’Orient
was now in action with two English ships and beyond her another French two-decker was smashing out her broadsides at a smaller ship. It could not be long before they themselves must join in the action, and Kydd had no illusions about their chances: they were the smallest vessel in the English fleet and a fraction of the size of the French flagship—or any of the enemy for that matter.

As they came to pass the three vessels Kydd looked down from the poop at
Tenacious
’s little quarterdeck command group.

Suddenly Bryant pointed energetically to the French ship. Her foremast was already down, and as her mainmast majestically crashed to the deck in a tangled ruin, Kydd could see what had excited Bryant. The massive sides were no longer unmoving: she had either cut her cables to escape the terrible punishment or

they had been simply shot away, and now she was slowly dropping out of the line.

And leaving an opening! Houghton’s roared orders could be heard clear above the din. Seamen scrambled up the shrouds to take in sail, and forward, others rushed to clear away the anchor.

Tenacious
slowed, waiting as the French vessel slipped away, trailing wreckage and the stink of defeat.

It was a shrewd move: instead of lying alongside a heavier enemy to be pounded by bigger guns Houghton was taking the opportunity to slip between the stern of one and the bow of the other and, while he took position, fire with impunity into both.

The stern anchor went down in a rush, the cable slipping away rapidly. But the move had been seen by the big ship next down and while her guns could bear they opened up on
Tenacious.

Kydd stood in the darkness on the exposed poop-deck feeling the slam of unseen shot and debris. At this moment he felt more for the old ship than for himself: she had endured at Camperdown in an earlier age, and she was his first ship as an officer so he had a tender feeling for her that made any hurts the more grievous to bear.

A missile whistled past, the eerie sound fading as it passed into the blackness beyond. Kydd noticed Rawson, pacing determinedly at his side, his youth touchingly apparent: the youngster would be a different person before the night was over. It was all he could offer, but Kydd said conversationally to him, “O’

course, th’ musketeers aboard the Frenchy can’t see us in the dark.”

“Secure the flag lockers, if y’ please, sir?” Rawson replied, with an effort. His face was pale but composed in the flickering light.

“Why, yes. We’ll not be seeing flags again this day.” Now there would be signal lanthorns in the flagship’s rigging to watch for and all the detail of night signalling to worry about.

13

Tenacious
sailed inside the arc of fire of the enemy, whose guns stopped one by one as they approached the bow of their target; on her foredeck dark figures were running from the light upper-deck guns. The sudden crash and blast from their own guns took Kydd by surprise. So close, their iron balls could not miss and when the smoke cleared the beautifully ornamented bow was scarred and pitted with blotches of ugly blackness.

Then their stern cable told and
Tenacious
slewed heavily round the quarter of the enemy ship-of-the-line. Yet again, Nelson’s prescience was confirmed: springs on the cable, controlled from the capstan, meant that the ship as a whole, with its lines of guns, could be aimed by slackening and tightening on the appropriate spring.

Their guns resumed with a crashing broadside, but the enemy replied with venom—they would be made to pay for their boldness. The French guns were heaved round by handspike to bear aft as far as possible, then opened up on them savagely. Kydd felt the deep concussion in the pit of his stomach, and the heavy balls took
Tenacious
in her hull, sending splinters sheeting and skittering about. Twisting chain shot, langridge and other ugly, man-killing evil whirled through the night air.

Kydd’s skin tightened. Being at idleness in the open was so different from action on a gundeck. Here, he could only sense countless muzzles seeking their target before they exploded into violence; below, there was furious activity, the means and duty to hit back.

The guns of
Tenacious
smashed out again in an ear-splitting crash. At such close range the strike of their shot was visible on the enemy side and pieces of wreckage tumbled into the short space of ruddy water between the vessels. The stench of powder and ruin was overpowering. A shriek from forward ended in a bubbling death-cry—three marines ran to the poop and set up a

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firing party aiming far up at the mizzen fighting top of the enemy from where the muzzle flash of muskets stabbed downwards.

Again the space between the ships was enveloped in powder-smoke, but Kydd detected a different pattern. Beyond the end of the length of their target glided the shadowy bulk of another ship coming into position at her stern. Before she had anchored, her guns on the far side exploded into action—the powder-smoke alive with gun-flash like summer lightning, quickly followed by her near side, a savage broadside into the French ship’s stern quarters. With four lanthorns in a line at her mizzen peak she had to be an English 74—the
Swiftsure,
Kydd thought. She had slipped into place between their own adversary and the flagship, firing at both from each side of guns. He tried to make out the mighty man-o’-war just past their opponent and saw that she was now set upon by three English ships in a mind-numbing cannonade.

The battle was now reaching a peak of ferocity. The shattering slam of guns made it difficult to think; back along the line their own flagship was impossible to see in the darkness. Kydd felt the frustration of helplessness. “Stay here. I’m going t’ the quarterdeck,” he said suddenly, to his men. Anything was better than the aimless, nervous pacing, and he had a duty to advise the captain of his inability to sight more than the most elementary signals.

Houghton and the first lieutenant were pacing slowly together in grim conversation, followed by several midshipman messengers. Kydd touched his hat and delivered his report. “Thank you, Mr Kydd,” Houghton acknowledged, barely noticing him. “Do you hold yourself in readiness here for the time being.”

Kydd joined the master near the helm watching the captain’s clerk attempting to scribble into a notebook by the light of a feeble lanthorn. His duty was to minute events as they happened but Kydd wondered how accurate his jottings could be, given that
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they were made in near darkness, their author half blinded by the flash of guns and probably petrified with fear.

A sudden iron crash and ringing tone, like a struck anvil, sounded forward as an upper-deck gun took a square hit from a round shot. There would be carnage as it dismounted and Kydd felt pity for the casualties.

Ahead, the hulking enemy man-o’-war was showing every sign of fight—but Kydd’s attention was taken by a petty officer running aft and touching his forelock to the captain.

“What is it?” Houghton said.

“Sorry, sir, don’t know what t’ do, like.”

Kydd stared at him. What would take a hardened seaman like that away from his post in battle?

“It’s like this, sir. Number three larb’d nine-pounder took a hit an’ it did fer its crew.” He hesitated, as if to spare the details.

“Come on, man, give your report!” Houghton spat out.

The petty officer continued, in a puzzled voice, “We goes t’

see what’s t’ do. There’s nothin’ we can do f’r two o’ them an’

we goes to heave ’em overside and then—and then the parson, he comes outa nowhere an’ stops us!”

“Stops you? The chaplain? What do you mean, stops you?”

Houghton’s anger communicated itself to the seaman, who recoiled.

“Sir, I can’t just scrag th’ chaplain—not the parson, sir!”

“Dammit!” Houghton exploded. “Get that ninny off the deck—now!”

“Sir.” Kydd hurried forward with the petty officer. The gun lay shattered and dismounted with a weal of bright steel across its breech. A man lay crouched, sobbing in pain while another sprawled unmoving. And the chaplain, wild-eyed and trembling with emotion, stood over a third.

“Why, Mr Peake, what is it?” Kydd said. It dawned on him

that this was probably the first time the chaplain had seen guns fired in war.

“S-s-sir, I have difficulty in finding the words. This—this blackguard,” he stuttered, “I saw with my own eyes, telling his men to take the fallen and—and drop them into the sea! I cannot believe his contempt for the dead! He is blind to humanity!

He—he does—”

Suddenly, severed by a shot aloft, the entire length of an eighty-foot main topgallant lift slithered down in an unstoppable cascade, throwing Peake forward into the pin-rail. Kydd picked him up and steadied him. “Mr Peake, why are you here? Your duty—”

“My duty is to be with my flock wherever they’ve been called, even to this barbaric struggle, and—and to do what I can.”

He seemed both pathetic and noble at the same time. Kydd felt unable to respond harshly. “Mr Peake—your duty is not here on deck, or at the guns.”

The chaplain looked at him resentfully. “You will speak to this man, then? Tell him—”

“He is doing
his
duty, Mr Peake. The dead have t’ be cleared from th’ fighting space of the living or every sacrifice is in vain.”

Kydd took a deep breath. “They will be remembered, sir, that y’ may rely on—and by every one o’ their shipmates as they’d wish it. This is the custom o’ the Service, sir, and may not be put aside,” he finished firmly.

“I—I cannot—that is to say . . .”

Kydd paused. There was no lack of fortitude in the man but an edge of madness was lapping at his reason. “Come, sir, there are those that need ye,” he said, and drew him away.

He took Peake firmly by the arm and led him below, past the bedlam of both decks of guns, down to the after hatchway and past the sentries to the orlop.

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If ever the parson needed a glimpse of hell, thought Kydd, this was it. There was no daylight in the gloomy cavern but lanthorns were sufficient to show such a scene that Peake held back at the bottom of the hatchway ladder, rigid with horror. Spreading out from the base of the ladder where they had been brought and left, wounded men lay moaning and writhing; some were ominously still. Cries of pain and mortal despair filled the air, almost drowning the rumbling of guns run out on the deck above.

Further into the orlop, in the space outside the midshipmen’s berth known as the cockpit, a table had been set up on three sea-chests, a smaller spread with the dull gleam of medical instruments. A bunch of lanthorns above gave light to this operating table and Pybus, almost unrecognisable in a bloody apron, was directing the surgeon’s mates and loblolly boys in preparing the next man for his attention.

Kydd’s gorge rose, but he stepped resolutely round the wretches on the deck, and pulled Peake to Pybus. The doctor looked at them briefly. “You’ll wait your turn with the others,”

he snapped, turning his back. Kydd was shocked at the change in their dry-humoured surgeon—his black-rimmed eyes were sunken but there was an iron control and ferocious purpose.

“Get out of my way,” he snapped crossly. A seaman was lifted on to the table, his lower leg a grisly tatter of blood and bone fragments below a kerchief tourniquet. The man was white with pain. His eyes rolled as he understood where he was being laid, but the loblolly crew took his arms and legs and spreadeagled him with ropes to four stanchions.

Kydd and Peake were mesmerised. The seaman’s bloody trousers were cut away quickly, the sudden touch of the surgeon’s mate making him flinch with dread. A leather pad, dark with stains, was put into his mouth, and as Pybus approached, the man’s piteous eyes fixed on his, following his every move. His