The preparations continued. Spare gun-breeching ropes and tackles were laid around the hatchways and arms chests for boarders were thrown open on the centreline. Gun captains returned from the store with a powder horn, gunlock flints, pouches of firing tubes, all the necessary equipment to bring the great guns to life. Finally, the decks were strewn with sand and galley ash, then wetted. This would not only give a better grip for the men at the gun tackles but help them retain their footing in blood.
Kydd’s last stop was the orlop, where the surgeon made ready and the carpenter gathered his crew. As part of battle preparations, the men held in irons there were released, given full amnesty for their crimes in the face of events of far greater moment. He was about to go down the ladder when a breathless Rawson dashed up. ‘Signal, sir. “Prepare t’ anchor by the stern”.’ His eyes were wide.
‘Thank ye, I’ll be up directly.’
By the stern? Had Rawson misread the signal? He hurried back to the poop, pushing past the busy swarms and snatched up the signal log. There it was, and repeated by Orion and others.
‘Mr Kydd,’ Houghton called from the quarterdeck.
‘Sir?’ Kydd hurried down the poop ladder.
‘Do you not understand Sir Horatio’s motions?’
‘Er, t’ anchor by the stern? Not altogether, I have t’ say, sir.’
‘Then, sir, mark the enemy’s position. They are anchored in line along the shore away from us and directly down the wind, I’ll have you note. Without doubt the admiral wishes to advance on them from there, then lay his ships alongside an enemy and stay – in short, to anchor. But should we anchor in the ordinary way, by the bow, then as is the way of things we will rotate round to face the wind and—’
‘O’ course! We’d be cruelly raked until our guns bear again.’
‘Undoubtedly. And additionally—’
‘With springs on th’ cables we c’n direct our fire as we please.’
‘Just so, Mr Kydd.’
With one signal – two flags – Nelson had levelled the odds.
‘Then you will oblige me, sir, in taking a cable through a stern chase gunport.’
‘Aye aye, sir. Making fast t’ the mizzen?’
‘Yes.’
Kydd saluted and left the deck, happy to have something of significance to do in this time of waiting. ‘Mr Pearce!’ he called to the boatswain. ‘We have a task…’
It was no trivial matter, rousing out the hundred-fathom length of twelve-inch stream cable from below, then ranging it along the gundeck from where it was seized round the fat bulk of the mizzen-mast, through the gunroom and out of one of the pair of chase ports. With the wake of the moving ship foaming noisily just feet below, the thick rope had to be heaved out of the stern and passed back along the ship’s side beneath the line of open gunports and to an anchor on the bows. The cable was kept clear of the sea by a spun-yarn at every third port ready for instant cutting loose, and at the bows it was bent on to the anchor.
Bryant approached the captain. ‘Ship cleared for action, sir.’ There was a taut ferocity about the first lieutenant, Kydd saw, almost a blood-longing for the fight. He wondered if he, too, should adopt a more aggressive bearing.
‘Very well, Mr Bryant. There will be time for supper for the men before we go to quarters, I believe – and everyone shall have a double tot, if you please.’
Kydd called Rawson over: ‘Go below an’ get yourself something t’ eat, younker – after you’ve seen y’ men get their grog.’ It would not be long before they went to quarters. The enemy was now in plain view, on the right side of a low, sandy bay fringed by date palms, and inshore of a guardian island no more than thirty feet high, their line stretching away into the distance. On the left were some higher sand hills, which Kydd knew from their rudimentary chart was the Rosetta mouth of the Nile with its distinctive tower. In the evening sun he picked up knots of people coming down to the water’s edge: there would be a big audience for the evening’s entertainment. He wondered if the famed General Buonaparte was watching, perhaps from the small medieval castle at the mouth of the bay.
He went below: the men were in spirits, rough-humoured as he remembered himself when he had been one of them, the old jokes about prize-money, the lottery of death, the exchange of verbal wills.
In the wardroom he stuffed his pockets with hard tack, an orange and a large clean cloth, then accepted his fighting sword and cross-belt from his servant. His uncle, who had provided the fine blade, was now unimaginably distant. He eased out the blued steel far enough to glimpse the Cornish choughs, then clicked it home again and buckled it on. Whose blood would it taste first? Or would he yield it in surrender to great odds?
As he left he felt a stab of foreboding – he was going out on deck and perhaps would never return. But he shook it off and as he reached the upper deck his eyes immediately searched out the waiting enemy.
‘This is a grave and solemn moment, Mr Bryant,’ admonished Houghton, breaking into the first lieutenant’s avid description of what he had once found in a captured French ship. ‘We shall mark it with due reverence. Pass the word for the chaplain.’ At length the man appeared. ‘I desire to see a short service before we open hostilities if you please, Mr Peake.’
‘A – a service?’
‘Yes, certainly. Do you not feel it wise to seek the blessing of the Almighty on our endeavours?’
‘You mean—’
‘Do I have to instruct you in your duty, sir? A rousing hymn to get the men in spirit, some bracing words about the rightness of our cause, doing our Christian duty, that sort of thing. And, of course, finish with a suitable prayer calling for a blessing of our arms on this day. Steadies the men, puts heart into them. Make it brief – we’ll be at the guns in an hour.’
As he hurried along the upper deck Renzi saw a figure he recognised, clinging to the bulwarks, head bowed. ‘Why, what’s this, Mr Peake? At your prayers, I see,’ he said. With most of the men below there were only a few curious pairs of eyes to gawp at them.
Peake lifted his face: it was a picture of misery. ‘I can’t do it, Mr Renzi,’ he said thickly.
‘Cannot do what, sir?’
‘The captain wishes me to – to speak words of violence, to incite men to acts of bloodshed, and this – this I find in all conscience I cannot do, sir.’
Renzi knew the man was finished if he was unable to function as expected. It would be construed as common cowardice. ‘We must discuss this,’ he said, taking Peake firmly by the arm and urging him below. They passed through the main-deck with its gun crews animated by grog. One called out, ‘What cheer, the sin-bosun – ye’ll have work enough t’ do afore we sees the sun again!’
When they arrived in the orlop the cockpit table was ready laid with shining instruments; the surgeon lifted a fearful-looking long knife, and began stropping it deliberately. Peake shied away under his direct stare.
‘Mr Pybus, you’d oblige us extremely by allowing us the temporary privacy of your cabin,’ Renzi said.
The surgeon laid down the knife. ‘Dear fellow, I can think of no better lair to wait out this disagreeable time. By all means.’
Renzi sat Peake on the patient’s stool. ‘Mr Peake, you came forward to serve His Majesty, is this not so?’ There was no reply. ‘And now your country needs you – and in particular at this time, you, sir,’ he added forcefully.
Peake stared at him as Renzi pressed on. ‘Our ship’s company – all hands – are putting their lives at peril in the service of their country and their fellow man. They look for meaning and surety, words they can carry with them in their hour of trial. Can you not feel it in your heart—’
‘Mr Renzi. You are no practised hand at dissimulation, so speak direct, sir. You assume a lack of moral fibre in me, a reprehensible shyness in the face of mortal danger. Let me assure you, this is far from being the case.’
‘Then, sir, what prevents you in the performance of your divinities?’
‘I have re
ferred before to my abhorrence of any man seeking to wreak violence upon a fellow creature. I do not propose to explicate further.’
Renzi bit his lip. His immediate duty was to the gun crews under his command, and thence to his ship, and time was pressing. ‘Do I understand that you take exception to the form of words used by the captain?’
‘Of course I do!’
Renzi did not speak for a space. ‘Then if your words to the men, suitably chosen, are thereby made acceptable to you you would feel able to deliver your service?’
Peake looked doubtful, but answered, ‘If they did no violence to my precepts, Mr Renzi.’
‘Then to the specifics.’ Renzi produced paper and a pencil. ‘In fine, to which phrases do you have objection…’
‘Aaaall the hands! Clear lower deck, aaall the hands lay aft!’ In the short time left to them before their ordeal, the men of Tenacious would bare their heads before their Maker to seek a benediction. With the officers standing on the poop-deck, an improvised lectern at the rail, the men assembled on the upper deck below.
‘We shall begin with that well-loved hymn, “Awake My Heart; Arise”,’ Bryant announced.
The fiddler stepped forward, nodded to the fife and both struck up. The men sang heartily, their full-throated roar a testimony to the feelings that the simple communal act was bringing. The hymn complete, the men stood silent and expectant. The chaplain stepped up to the lectern, glancing nervously at the captain. He cleared his throat and took out his notes. ‘Er, at this time, you men…’
‘Louder, if you please, Reverend,’ hissed the captain.
The chaplain looked uncertainly over the mass of faces before him and tried to speak up: ‘That is to say, as we sail towards the enemy, er, our mind is drawn to our forebears who in like manner faced the foe.’
Houghton’s stern frown lessened and he nodded approvingly. Emboldened, Peake snatched another look at the paper and continued: ‘Yea, our antecedents of yore indeed. We think of them then – the staunch faith of Themistocles, indeed the dismay of the Euboeans at traitorous Eurybiades.’ He peered at the paper once more. ‘Are we to be as Achilles, sulking in his tent –’
‘Get on with it!’ muttered Houghton. The men were becoming restless: some threw glances over their shoulders to the dark ships of their adversary.
‘– while loyal Myrmidons do the bidding of others? We must always remember that this was the same Achilles who had prayed for the destruction of the Achaeans, and from it we may understand—’
‘That will do, thank you, Mr Peake,’ Houghton rasped.
The chaplain looked grateful, and raised a tranquil face heavenward. ‘Let us pray.’ A spreading rustle moved over the assembly. ‘We will pray for God’s divine guidance in this matter.’ A barely smothered snort came from the first lieutenant. Undismayed, Peake went on calmly, ‘As we contemplate the dreadful hurts we are going to inflict on these Frenchmen, the despoliation of bodies and minds that are the inevitable consequence of modern war –’
‘Mr Peake!’ Houghton’s voice was steely with warning.
‘– that we must nonetheless visit on their living bodies as they seek to do to our own—’
‘Mr Bryant! Beat to quarters!’ roared Houghton. There was a moment’s astonishment, then the ship dissolved into frantic movement, whipped on by the volleying of drums at the hatchway.
Already at his station on the poop-deck, Kydd could see it all unfolding: in minutes men were standing to their guns, manning the fighting tops behind barricades of hammocks, or deep in the magazines. The boatswain’s party stood to on deck, ready to attend to the many special duties about the ship.
Now the die was solemnly cast. Each man would stay at his post until the battle was won, or lost, or he was taken below to suffer agony under the surgeon’s knife. They stood silent and watchful as their petty officers reported to the master’s mates, who then informed their officers that the men were now at their fighting stations. Then they stood easy, dealing in their individual ways with the fact that they were being borne steadily towards whatever fate was to be theirs.
‘Sir, Flag is signalling,’ Rawson said, his voice unsteady.
Kydd realised that this was not only the midshipman’s first big fleet action but probably the first time he would be under hostile fire from a man-o’-war. Kydd took up his telescope. ‘Number forty-five at the main, forty-six at the mizzen. Which is?’ He was trying to keep the youngster occupied during the approach.
‘A – a—’ The lad’s face contorted as he tried to get the words out.
‘Quite right. M’ duty to the captain, an’ Flag signals “attack enemy’s van and centre”. Quickly now!’ There would be little time to worry about him when battle had been joined. He swung forward and settled his glass on the enemy line.
On the face of it, the French admiral had chosen well, anchoring close in with the shore, his broadsides facing seawards. And the bay was shoal – there was tell-tale white water and troubled rippling at awkward places. However, there were no reliable British charts of the area: they would have to take their chances on the attack. But, crucially, there was an element the French could not command: the wind. It could not be more fair for their approach, the north-north-westerly blowing directly down upon the van of the enemy line and towards the rear. The English could choose the time and the precise point of their attack.
Once they reached the line, however, there would be no alternative but to stand yardarm to yardarm and smash out broadsides until there was a conclusion. Kydd could see that about a third of the French men-o’-war were larger even than the biggest of their own and in the very centre of their line a monster towered above the others mounting, from the number of her gunports, 120 or more guns. The regularity of their positions indicated that they were probably secured to each other with stout cables, effectively preventing any attempt at breaking the line.
In the swiftly setting sun the French force looked awesome, and it was now their duty to throw themselves at this wall of guns whatever the cost. Again, a presentiment tightened Kydd’s bowels: this day would see a clash at arms of such an immense scale it would test every man to the limit.
A signal hoist rose rapidly up the flagship’s mizzen halliards. Kydd had been waiting for it and hailed the quarterdeck: ‘Form line-of-battle as convenient.’
It was now the last act.
‘Rawson, hoist battle ensigns.’ It would be the white ensign; although a rear admiral of the Blue squadron, Admiral Nelson had chosen the white as being more visible in the dark: some said it was because he had a personal fondness for the purity of white in the colours.
As Rawson bent to the flag locker, Kydd added, ‘Captain wants t’ see four of ’em, and hoisted high.’ He turned back to the flagship. As he watched, her own battle ensigns mounted swiftly, enormous flags that would leave no doubt whatsoever about her allegiance. And not four but six eventually streamed out proudly. Bull roars of cheering erupted from their men.
Another hoist: ‘alter to starboard’. The English fleet now shaped their course to round the little sandy island but were in no recognisable line-of-battle. In their haste to close with the enemy they strung out eagerly, Zealous and Goliath vying with Vanguard for the position of honour in the lead, others crowding in behind. Tenacious found herself pressed by Culloden, which had cast off her prize under tow and was coming up fast, while Swiftsure and Alexander, astern but under a full press of sail, hastened to join them from where they had been off Alexandria.
One by one the anchored ships answered the challenge: colours soared aloft until every ship in the line flaunted the tricolour of France, and the first shots of defiance thudded out from the medieval fort at the end of the bay. The English ships did not deign to waste powder in reply.
Goliath now led the race: with a leadsman in the chains taking continual soundings she rounded the shoals at the point of Aboukir Island and headed directly across for the first ship of the enemy line, closely followed by Zealous.
The anchored fleet opened fire, the evening twilight adding a viciousness to the stabbing flashes piercing the towering clouds of gunsmoke. Kydd could feel the deck shaking from the massed thunder of guns.
Battle had been joined. The action that was going to determine the future of the world was beginning. Kydd’s pulse raced and he found he was clutching the hilt of his sword. How would this night end? Who would be the victor? And would he be alive to see it?
The English fleet held fire as they approached, single-mindedly heading for the van of the line. Kydd lifted his glass eagerly to witness the first British ship grapple with an enemy. It would be Goliath: she was flying towards the first of the enemy line as if to win a race, still with silent guns.
Kydd shifted the telescope quickly to the flagship. A final hoist flew – ‘engage the enemy more closely’. He snatched a quick look at Rawson. The lad was pale but determined, and smiled back bravely. ‘You’ll remember this night, Mr Rawson. We both will.’
‘Don’t y’ worry of me, Mr Kydd – I’ve a duty to do, an’ I’ll do it.’ He crossed over to the signal log and carefully entered the details. Kydd resumed his watch on Goliath.
Everything depended on staying clear of the rocky shoals that lay unseen all around. In the lurid glow of a vast sunset Goliath reached the first ship of the line. The enemy ship’s fire slackened and grew uncertain as the British 74 passed the point of intersection, for not only could her guns no longer bear but when Goliath’s helm went over to cross her bows she could only wait for the ruin and death that must surely follow.
From only a few yards’ range a full broadside slammed into the unprotected bow of the hapless French ship; thirty-two-pound shot smashing and rampaging through the entire length of the vessel in an unrelenting path of destruction. Through the swirling powder-smoke Kydd strained to see Goliath wheel about, but to his astonishment she continued on, her rigging visible beyond – on the inside of the line!
6-Tenacious Page 12