Tenacious (7 page)

Kydd finished his meal in silence, and went up on deck. A lone figure stood by the hances. It was Bowden, staring out, unseeing.

Kydd approached, but before he could say anything the lad had moved away.

“Tysoe!”

Kydd’s servant appeared quickly: the
Princess Royal
was giving a grand reception that evening in honour of Admiral Nelson, and all Gibraltar would be there.

“Full fig ’n’ sword.”

“Certainly, sir.” Kydd held back a smile—Tysoe was never more contented than when he was arrayed in his finery. “The silver buckles, sir?”

“Of course.” Kydd knew that this was Tysoe’s way of ensuring he would not follow the modish wearing of Hessian half-boots and pantaloons in place of knee-breeches and stockings.

But Tysoe was not privy to the real purpose of the evening.

The function was a ruse—seeing a grand party begin, the watching Spaniards would conclude that there would be no martial activity in the fleet that night or, indeed, the following morning. But while the affair was proceeding the darkened vessels at anchor were being prepared. Directly the officers returned in the early hours they would put to sea, and at dawn the Spanish would realise that the English fleet had sailed—but out of their sight and in the opposite direction to their expectation: back into the Mediterranean at last.

At dusk boats put off from all ships, heading for the glittering spangle of lights on
Princess Royal
’s quarterdeck. The sound of an orchestra and excited voices floated across the still water.

Kydd mounted the side and was greeted by the flag-lieutenant.

The effect of so much blue and gold of the navy and the scarlet and gold of regimentals was breathtaking under the soft lanthorn light.

An officer of equal standing in the host ship took him into the throng. Seaman servants circulated with wine; ladies stooped to admire the flowers that adorned the bitts round the mast and marvelled at the vivid colours of the flags of every nation draped along the bulwarks.

Kydd felt a well of contentment: this was what it was to be a king’s officer, to taste the sweets of his own achievement in a world he had entered by right, the stage upon which he would perform for the rest of his professional life.

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He saw his host bringing forward a young lady, who dim-pled with pleasure on seeing Kydd. “The Honourable Arabella Grantham. Believes she saw you before,” he added enviously.

“Y’r servant, Miss Arabella,” said Kydd, essaying a deep bow.

“Mr Kydd, you might not remember, but when you were King Neptune I was a cygnet.” She giggled.

It stopped him short until he recalled the fancy-dress assembly he had attended the last time he had been in Gibraltar. “But o’ course! The cygnet! Er . . .”

Impulsively she pressed forward, eyes wide. “Mr Kydd, it would make me very happy if you could . . . I have no right—”

“Y’r pleasure is my command,” he said immediately, feeling smug. Renzi would be impressed with this evidence of his developing urbanity.

“Er, yes. Mr Kydd. What I’d adore more than anything in this world . . .” her eyes dropped, but the lashes fluttered as she finished breathlessly “. . . is that you do introduce me to your famous Nelson.”

A lowly junior lieutenant? Sir Horatio Nelson? “Miss Arabella . . .” he began. Her blue eyes looked up at him beseechingly. He glanced aft. It was easy to spot Nelson; he was confer-ring at the centre of a distinguished group of senior officers and their followers.

“If y’ please.” He offered his arm awkwardly and navigated them through the throng, warning her of the odd ringbolt and hatch coaming, rehearsing the words he would use that would excuse the impertinence of approaching a flag officer without leave.

Nelson looked distracted as he listened to an anecdote from a jovial admiral who was clearly his senior. It did not take a great leap of imagination to grasp that he would far rather be ranging the seas than dallying in port.

Kydd waited for the account to finish and the guffaws to die, then addressed Nelson with trepidation: “S-sir, might I present Miss Arabella Grantham, who did express t’ me a desire to make y’r acquaintance and will not be denied.”

Nelson gave Kydd a cold stare, before which he quailed. Then the gaze turned on the young woman and was transformed.

“Why, my dear, you are to be gratified this instant,” he said.

“Do you now meet Admiral Nelson of the Blue, at once your devoted admirer!” He bowed, then took her hand and kissed it.

“Lieutenant, your discernment in the matter of beauty is to your credit, but I can only lament that it is much in evidence you have failed in your duty. This young lady is without the means of refreshment on this warm night.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Kydd. He noted that the hand had not been released, bowed and went dutifully in search of some punch.

Tempers on deck were fraying in the hot night as
Tenacious
made ready for sea. “Get forrard this instant, damn your blood, sir!”

an officer threw at Bowden, as the hapless midshipman was jostled by men too busy to tell him where to go.

“It’ll be stuns’ls, o’ course,” the master said. Unable to risk the revealing bending of sail before the concealment of dark they were now faced with the task of sending up the long bolsters of canvas almost by touch. Casting under jib, as the large fore and aft sail mounted, it became plain from its limp flap that the light wind had backed even more easterly and they were once more held in the thrall of the Rock.

“This will need more than stuns’ls,” Houghton snapped. “I’d hoped we’d make our offing by dawn, but now . . .”

“Sir,
Vanguard
is putting her boats in the water,” Bampton said carefully. This implied a hard time for all.

“Yes, I can see that,” Houghton said irritably. “But what will
4

they do?” There was no question but that they must follow the motions of the admiral, and there were two alternatives he could take: tow the heavy warships out with every boat available, or warp out.

“Their launch and large pinnace only in the water, sir.”

“Then it’s to warp.” He turned to the boatswain. “Mr Pearce, see to the launch and red cutter.” They would lay out an anchor ahead of the ship and heave up to it using the capstan, then take it out and repeat the process, inching to sea by main force.

“Mr Kydd, if you are at leisure you’d oblige me by taking away the launch,” Houghton said. Adams was to have the cutter.

Hoisting out the heavy boat would take time, so Kydd went to his cabin to change into a comfortable seagoing rig, then mustered his boat’s crew. It was going to be hard, sweaty, painful work with the half-ton of the kedge anchor slung from the boat and the even bigger weight of the catenary of hawser stretching to the ship.

Kydd was glad to see Dobbie, a petty officer built like a prize-fighter, in his party. “Sir,” he acknowledged, with a gap-toothed grin. “Better’n being down in th’ cable tiers.” The familiarity would have irked some officers but since his “duel” with Dobbie in Halifax—when the seaman had accused him of betraying the mutineers at the Nore, and Kydd, although an officer, had been prepared to defend his name in the time-honoured fashion of the lower deck—Kydd had reason to tolerate it. Besides, Dobbie was right: in a short while the job of the men coiling in the heavy, wet cable in the hot, fetid gloom of the orlop would be all but unendurable.

He turned to a boatswain’s mate. “Pass the word for Mr Bowden.”

“Er, ’oo was that, sir?”

“Mr Midshipman Bowden, if y’ please.”

4

The calls echoed down the ship. After some delay a breathless Bowden hurried up, managing to doff his hat and trip over at the same time. “M-mr Kydd, sir?” Even in the dimness the apprehension in his face was plain.

“Please t’ accompany me in th’ launch.” It would be instructive for Bowden to see men at the very extremity of labour.

The launch smacked into the water and was brought round to the side steps where it hooked on. The boat’s crew tumbled down the ship’s side and took their places.

“A-after y-you, sir,” Bowden said.

There was a stifled chuckle among the men on deck, and Kydd said, “No, lad, it’s after
you.
Senior gets in last, out first.”

Two capstan bars and a dark-lanthorn were handed down.

The light was hot and smelly, but would be vital in the work to come. Kydd settled in the stern. There was no rudder for this work: Dobbie would handle the steering oar.

“Shove off,” growled Dobbie, to the dark figure of the bowman standing right forward. Obediently the boat-hook was wielded and they moved out into the calm, black waters, but it was only to ease down to the mizzen chains, where the kedge anchor was stowed.

“If y’ pleases, sir,” said Dobbie. Holding a capstan bar in each hand he motioned towards the midshipman’s unfortunate choice of seating in the centre of the boat.

“O’ course. Shift out of it, Mr Bowden.”

The bars were placed fore and aft over the stroke thwart and the transom, and the kedge anchor swayed down and was lashed into place, its long shank easily spanning the width of the boat with flukes one side and stock the other. The launch squatted down in the water with the weight.

“Out oars!” Movement was heavy and slow as they made their way along the dark mass of the ship to her bow. Within her
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bulk there would be hundreds of men taking their place at the capstans—with hawsers out to two boats, both the main and fore jeer capstans would be manned by every soul that could be found to keep up momentum.

Their hawser was paid out to them and Kydd himself doubled it back through the anchor ring, holding it while Dobbie passed the seizing. He knew they were under eye from Houghton on the fo’c’sle, and he would be merciless to any who delayed their departure. Then began the slow row out: a deep-sea lead line streamed out with them to tell them when to let the anchor go.

Heavy and unresponsive, the boat was a hog to pull and the night was warm and close. There was none of the usual muttering and smothered laughter that showed the men in spirits: this was going to be a trial of strength and nerve.

“Holy Jesus!” bawled Dobbie. “Are we goin’ t’ let
Orion
show us th’ way out o’ harbour? Let’s see some sweat, then!”

With the weight of iron and endless curve of hawser there was no way that redoubled effort would show in increased speed, a dispiriting thing for men doing their best. But if they flagged, the heavy boat would rapidly slow.

In the moonless night it was difficult to make out expressions, but Kydd could see the unmoving, dogged, downward set of their heads. He glanced to his side at Bowden, who was staring at the straining men, pale-faced.

In the silence, ragged panting and the synchronised clunk and slither of oars in thole pins was loud in the night air. Kydd looked astern; the black mass of the ship seemed just as close and he determinedly faced forward. Dobbie caught the movement and turned on his men: “God rot it, but I’ll sweat the salt fr’m yer bones—lay inter it, y’ scowbunkin’ lubbers! Y’r worse’n a lot o’

Dublin durrynackers!”

Kydd knew what they must be enduring—muscles across the shoulders and forearms burning with pain, turning hands on the

looms of the oar to claws, but if they were to be out in the cool breezes to seaward before dawn . . .

A low groan came from the anonymous dimness forward.

Kydd frowned: if this was an expression of discontent, he would take the steering oar himself and send Dobbie there. He knew that the hard petty officer kept a rope’s end handy and he would have no compunction about letting him loose.

Suddenly there was a disturbance—a tangle of arms and cries of alarm. “Oars!” Kydd roared. “Dobbie, get forrard an’ see what it is.” They had lost momentum.

Dobbie ran down the centreline on the thwarts. Kydd heard grunts and felt the boat sway. “It’s Boyd, sir—bin an’ taken poorly. I’ve got ’is oar!” Dobbie shouted hoarsely.

“Give way,” Kydd ordered, still at the steering oar. The thunk of oars began immediately; the men knew only too well how hard it was to begin again from a standing start. He blessed his luck at having Dobbie but noticed Bowden’s hands clutching the gunwale. They twitched convulsively.

At last they reached the mark on the lead-line. “Oars!” The boat quickly slowed and stopped.

Dobbie padded back down the boat. “Now, Joe,” he said to the stroke oar, who stood up, took out his knife and began sawing at the lashings of the anchor. When they had fallen away the two took the end of a capstan bar each in cupped hands.

“Go,” said Kydd. The two men strained upwards, bodies shuddering with effort, then the anchor began to shift, to slide, until it toppled off the stern of the boat with a sullen splash, taking the hawser with it. The boat bobbed in relief.

“Hold water larboard—”

“Belay that!” Kydd ordered. “Lay t’ y’r oars—five minutes, no longer.” The anchor would take time to sink to the sea bed and there would be time then to resume their task.

The men eased their bodies gratefully as best they could.

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“Mr Bowden, go forrard an’ see what you c’n do.”

The lad got to his feet and made his way clumsily forward, kept upright by hands from indignant seamen. He reported back:

“A-a form of calenture, I think, sir. He’s still unconscious. H-his friends have him out of the way in the middle of the boat, and I’ve put my coat under his head. A-and I—”

“Ye did right, Mr Bowden.” Then Kydd turned to Dobbie.