Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  Devil’s Island, the most seaward part of Halifax, lay abeam: now there was no reason why they could not bear up – and then there was a tiny flutter of bunting on Resolution’s poop.

  Kydd concentrated with his glass. A quick refresh from his pocket book had shown him that there was only one flag in the two hoists that differentiated ‘tack’ and ‘wear’ – a yellow diagonal on a blue background – and this was number three, ‘tack’. If he just glimpsed that flag, he could ignore the rest and they would gain a vital edge. Houghton stopped pacing and faced Kydd. Around the ship men followed suit, every face turning towards him.

  There! A cluster of flags mounted swiftly in Resolution’s rigging, their fluttering edges making the hoist nearly impossible to read – but Kydd’s straining eyes had spotted the distinctive number three as the flagship’s signal crew bent it on as part of the hoist. Before the flags had reached the peak he roared triumphantly, ‘It’s tack!’

  Men raced to their stations; running gear was thumped on the deck and faked for running, afteryards manned by the starboard watch and headyards the larboard, double manning for the greatest speed. The signal jerked down aboard the flagship – execute!

  The wheel spun as the quartermaster at the wheel and his mate threw themselves at the task and Tenacious’s bluff bow began to move. At the waist, ropes’ ends were out as the petty officers ensured the foresheet was let go smartly and the lee brace checked away. In growing excitement Kydd saw that of the file of ships only Tenacious herself at the rear and the flagship at the head had begun a swing round into the wind. His pride swelled at the evidence of his enterprise – they were well into their tacking about while in front, Andromeda, was still in line ahead.

  ‘Helm’s a-lee!’ Big driving sails began shaking, the yards bracing round while the foreyards took the wind aback to lever her round. ‘Mainsail haul!’ The ship passed slowly through the eye of the wind and all hands heaved and hauled with all their might to make the sails belly out comfortably on to the new tack. It was neatly done.

  ‘Sir!’ It was Rawson, tugging on his sleeve urgently. Kydd turned irritably. The midshipman pointed mutely at the line of ships: Resolution had tacked about as fast as they, but all the rest were still thrashing along on the old tack, not one even attempting to go about.

  A feeling of growing apprehension crept over Kydd. Something was wrong. Resolution was now in plain view to weather, her entire beam to Tenacious instead of her stern – and as they watched, a flutter of bunting mounted at her main, the original signal. But ominously, there for the whole fleet to see was Tenacious’s pennant climbing brazenly aloft. A gun thudded out peremptorily for attention.

  ‘What, in the name of God?’ Houghton roared at Kydd. The admiral was telling the world that HMS Tenacious had blundered and should conform to his signal.

  ‘It’s tack, but in succession, sir,’ Rawson whispered urgently, pointing to an entry in the signal book. It was the order to tack, sure enough, but the maddening additional flag at the end indicated that instead of turning into line like a file of soldiers, the admiral wanted the column of ships to reach a fixed point, then wheel round to follow him, thereby preserving their line ahead formation.

  ‘Sir, the signal is “tack in succession”. I – I’m sorry, sir . . .’ Kydd’s voice seemed thin and weak.

  Houghton’s chest swelled and his face reddened, but before the explosion another gun sounded impatiently from the flagship. There was nothing for it but public ignominy.

  ‘Haaands to stations for staying!’ Tenacious must obey the last order and come back to her original tack; her ship’s company, feeling the shame and the entire fleet’s eyes on them, took up their ropes again while Kydd stood mortified, face burning. Tenacious came ponderously about and tried to assume her old place at the end of the line – but by now the line itself was all but gone, preceding ships now having reached the fixed point and tacked round on to the new course.

  Cursing, weary men picked up their ropes and prepared to haul round for the third time in a row. But when the due point was reached Tenacious had not picked up enough speed, and when the helm went down she headed up languidly into the wind – and stayed there, held in the wind’s eye, in irons.

  The master lunged over and took the helm, bawling at the men forward as the ship drifted astern, the hapless officer-of-the-watch nervously clutching his telescope and watching the captain, appalled. Kydd, with nothing to do, could only stand and suffer as the ship tried to regain her dignity.

  Finally in her place at the rear of the line stretching away to the east, Tenacious settled down and Kydd turned to his captain, prepared for the worst – but yet another signal streamed out from Resolution. ‘Fleet will heave to,’ Kydd reported carefully. Main topsails were backed and way fell off. There had to be a reason why the whole squadron was coming to a stop.

  ‘Flagship, sir – our pennant and, er, “Send a lieutenant.”’ The admiral wanted an official explanation from Tenacious for the recent display – and there would be no bets taken on who would go as the sacrifice . . .

  Admiral Vandeput did not spare his squadron. Between Cape Sable and Cape Cod, seven ships sailed resolutely in formation, assuming tactical divisions by signal, running down invisible foes, shortening sail for battle. Curious fishing-boats were diverted by strings of flags run up the flagship’s rigging, followed by instant animation aboard every vessel of the squadron – and the occasional gun for attention.

  Kydd doggedly improved his acquaintance with the Fighting Instructions and attached signals, and when the squadron was ready to return to port several days later, he was fully prepared. ‘Sir, vessels in the squadron to retire in order of sailing.’ It was the return to Halifax. ‘Signal to wear, sir,’ Kydd added, as the flags broke at the masthead. This would see the ships turning on their heel and facing where they had been – but this time with Tenacious leading the squadron back to port.

  Now was the time to show her breeding in the manoeuvre of going about completely, stern to wind. ‘Brace in the afteryards – up helm!’ The mizzen topsail began shaking, the main just full and the fore up sharp. Tenacious started her swing, the line of ships ahead commenced their wheel about. ‘Lay y’r headyards square! Shift headsheets!’ Her rotation brought the wind right aft, and the weather sheets were eased to become the lee. ‘Brace up headyards – haul aboard!’ Men laboured to get the tack hard in forward and the sheets aft as she came on to her new heading. Tenacious responded with a willing surge.

  ‘Draw jib!’ It was the last order before she settled on her new course, the sheets hauled aft to bring the headsails to a full tautness. The fo’c’slemen responded heartily, the thought of safe haven in Halifax just hours away lending weight to their hauling.

  A crack as loud as a three-pounder gun came from far forward. The crew on the jibsheets fell to the deck, others crouched down and looked about fearfully. It was impossible to see what was happening from aft as the clews of the big courses effectively shut out the scene.

  ‘Can’t ’old ’er, sir!’ bawled the helmsman, as Tenacious immediately fell off the wind and inevitably out of line. An incomprehensible hail came from forward, amplified by a breathless messenger. ‘Lost our jibboom, sir!’ he yelled, his voice cracking.

  Houghton lifted his speaking trumpet. ‘Douse the fore t’gallant instantly, d’ye hear?’ He wheeled round, his face set. A volley of orders brought sail in, and way off the vessel. ‘You know what to do, get forrard and bear a hand – now!’ he snapped at Kydd. Rawson could be relied on to hoist the necessary ‘not-under-command’ general signal that indicated Tenacious was no longer in a position to obey her captain.

  Kydd hurried forward. This was Renzi’s part-of-ship: Kydd would take orders from him without question. He arrived at the scene to see a tangle of rigging from aloft – and a truncated bowsprit. A thumping from the lee bow and men staring down showed where the failed spar was now.

  ‘Poulden, do you clap on the t’gallant bowline as w
ell.’ It was strange to hear the crack of authority in Renzi’s voice, to see the gleam of hard purpose in his friend’s eyes.

  ‘Sir,’ Kydd reported to the fourth lieutenant.

  Renzi flashed a brief smile. ‘Martingale stay parted, the jibboom carried away,’ he said, flicking his eyes up to watch the progress of the jib downhaul, which was clearly being readied to hoist the spar back aboard. ‘I’m sanguine we’ll have it clear soon – it’s to loo’ard, and I’ve taken the liberty to set the fore-topmast stays’l to make a lee while we see to the jib.’

  The boatswain quickly had the experienced fo’c’slemen at work reeving a heel rope: the fifty feet of Danzig fir surging below was a formidable spar to recover aboard.

  Renzi gazed intently at the descending downhaul. ‘Mr Kydd, I’d be obliged if you’d inform the captain of our situation, that I’ve furled the fore t’gallant, but desire the fore t’ gallant mast be struck.’

  Kydd touched his hat, then hastened back to the quarterdeck.

  Houghton listened sourly, his eyes straying to the line of ships passing by, beginning the evolution to heave to. ‘Request Flag to pass within hail,’ he said. The signals soared up rapidly, but even as they did, Resolution had put down her helm and closed.

  Briefly, Houghton passed details by speaking trumpet to the admiral. There was little to discuss: Lynx, a 16-gun ship-sloop, was detached to stand by them while they repaired; the remainder sailed on to Halifax.

  It was not an easy repair: even with a spare spar fortunately to hand, the stump of the jibboom had to be extracted from the bowsprit cap and sea-hardened heel ropes cut away. It was sheer bad luck that the bee-block seating the new jibboom to the bowsprit needed reshaping, and now with jib-stay and fittings to apply there was no chance they would complete by dusk.

  The hours passed uncomfortably. Without steadying sail on the open sea Tenacious wallowed glumly all night, Cape Cod forty miles under her lee. Kydd had the morning watch: red-eyed and tired, he observed a grey dawn approach with Lynx far out to the southward but stoutly clapping on all sail. Thick mist patches persisted to the north in the calm seas, wisps reaching out occasionally to Tenacious with their clammy embrace.

  As soon as there was light enough, work began on the jibboom, and well before the wan sun had cleared the foreyard it was all but complete.

  ‘What, in hell’s name?’ Houghton said, stopping his restless pacing. It was gunfire – to the north and not too distant, a distinct thud.

  ‘At least twenty-fours, maybe thirty-twos,’ growled Bryant, puzzled. Another flurry of thumps in the mist were heard.

  Houghton looked nonplussed. ‘This can only be the squadron – there’s not another sail-o’-the-line at sea, unless . . .’ He paused, then looked significantly at Bryant. ‘Send Lynx to investigate with all despatch.’ It was a disturbing mystery: guns of such weight of metal were only carried by line-of-battle ships.

  Lynx disappeared into the light mist while Tenacious had her topsails set and drawing within minutes of her headsails being once more complete. As she began to gather way her mainsail was loosed and she picked up speed.

  The royals of a ship showed above the mist, and Lynx burst into view, a signal at her main. ‘Enemy in sight!’ shouted Kydd from the poop, but the signal had been recognised at once.

  ‘Clear for action!’

  For the first time on the American side of the Atlantic Tenacious made ready for battle. The mist cleared slightly – giving a tantalising view of two dark shapes before it closed round them once more.

  The urgent rhythm of ‘Hearts of Oak’ ceased as Bryant reported the ship cleared fore and aft; it was replaced by a long, solemn drum-roll. Quarters!

  Kydd’s sword banged against his legs as he raced up the poop-deck ladder – if this were a rogue enemy 74 and frigate escort they were in dire trouble.

  ‘Make to Lynx, “take position one mile to windward”, if you please,’ said Houghton. Small fry had no business in the line when big ships met in combat.

  Tenacious glided into the trailing mist, the wind now only a dying breeze. The masthead lookout hailed the deck. ‘Deck hoooo! Two ships, two points t’ larboard, near ter five mile off!’

  At Houghton’s command Kydd exchanged the heavy signal telescope for the more handy glass of the officer-of-the-watch and swung up into the shrouds. He was clear of the mist by the main-top; there was no need to go further – and over there to larboard, protruding through the rumpled white upper surface of the fog, were the upper masts and tops of two vessels – ship rigged, as the lookout had said.

  Kydd held the telescope against an upper shroud and gazed intently. Both were under sail but were hove to at an angle to each other. He steadied the glass and found the tricolour of France hanging limply on one, he couldn’t tell for the other; certainly they were not ships-of-the-line. He swept once around the horizon, noting that the mist was clearing to patches around the enemy, and bawled down his report, then clambered back to the deck.

  ‘What the devil? You saw no other vessels at all?’ Houghton barked. They had unmistakably heard the gunfire of a ship of force.

  ‘Sir, is it—’ the master began, then the obscuring mist lifted, and some four miles away almost dead to leeward they saw the enemy.

  ‘Damn my eyes if that ain’t a frigate!’ Bryant said, in wonder.

  ‘An’ that looks like one o’ our merchant ships, sir,’ interposed Hambly.

  ‘Lay us to wind’d of the frigate, Mr Hambly,’ said Houghton shortly. ‘We’ll look for that damned ship-o’-the-line later.’

  Adams came up to stand beside Kydd. ‘Can you just conceive,’ he said, with a boyish grin, ‘what discussions must be afoot on her quarterdeck? Just about to take a fat prize and a ship-o’-the-line, no less, sails out of the fog.’

  Houghton said, over his shoulder, ‘Mr Kydd, recall Lynx – to take station astern.’ Aboard the Frenchman there would be something approaching panic: an additional ship in the equation, however small, meant double the worry for the unknown commander of the frigate, now making hasty sail.

  ‘Stuns’ls, sir?’ The south-easterly breeze was playful and light and they were bearing down slowly.

  ‘No, Mr Hambly. We’ll wait and see what he’s going to try first.’ If the frigate bore away downwind there would be every reason for stuns’ls but if she moved off on the wind Tenacious could not follow until the awkward sails and their booms had been taken in.

  With the rapt attention of the entire quarterdeck, the Frenchman’s length foreshortened as her yards came round. ‘She’s running large,’ said Bryant. It would be strange indeed if a frigate did not have the legs over a cumbersome ship-of-the-line in a stern chase and in a matter of hours she would be clean away.

  The merchant ship, a large vessel with clean lines, ran up her colours as they approached. ‘American?’ Bryant took off his hat and scratched his head, glancing up at their own ensign as if for reassurance.

  ‘Cousin Jonathan is a neutral – what is the Frenchy up to?’ Adams murmured, as they passed the cheering merchant ship under full sail.

  ‘If y’ please, sir . . .’ began the master.

  ‘Mr Hambly?’

  ‘If I’m not wrong, sir, that’s not a National Ship – she’s a heavy privateer. Slight in the build, maybe over-sparred, an’ the size of her crew . . .’

  ‘I think he’s right, sir,’ agreed Bryant, borrowing a telescope. The sea ahead was now free of mist and the chase, no more than a mile ahead, loosed all plain sail – but no stuns’l.

  Houghton pursed his lips. To stand any chance of staying with the chase he must soon spread stuns’ls abroad – a canny captain of the ‘frigate’ would wait for the manoeuvre to complete, then put his own wheel over and go close-hauled, knowing that it would take some time for his pursuer to strike his stuns’ls and follow. But on the other hand, if they did nothing, the chase would draw ahead and disappear. ‘Mr Hambly, be so good as to see how the chase goes.’

  The sa
iling-master found his sextant and measured the angle from masthead to waterline of their prey. A few minutes later he repeated the action. ‘We’re dropping astern by as much as two knots, I fear, sir.’

  ‘Not worth our trouble,’ Adams said gloomily to Kydd. ‘We spread more sail, so does she – an’ I’ve yet to find any two-decker can stay with a frigate. She’ll be hull down by sunset.’

  The Frenchman was now visibly drawing away, disdaining even to set her own stuns’ls. Houghton took a telescope and trained it for a long time on the chase. Suddenly he snapped shut the glass. ‘Pass the word to Mr Bampton and Mr Renzi – we will yaw, and on command they will pepper the rogue with a full broadside.’

  The midshipman messenger touched his hat, expressionless. Even he knew that this was a last gesture after which the Frenchman could sail away over the horizon in peace. Houghton’s action would hopelessly slow their advance in the light winds. The lad ran off smartly and from the rumbling Kydd could picture the long twenty-fours being run out, hand-spikes plied to make them bear as far forward as they could – and the talk around the guns as men peered out of open gunports to catch a sight of their target.

  Houghton paced impatiently, waiting for the youngster to report back, his gaze fixed on the ship ahead.

  Reported ready, it needed only the captain’s order to complete their final, aggressive, act. Houghton gave a brief smile to the group on the quarterdeck, and said quietly to Hambly, ‘Larboard, if you please.’

  Tenacious sheered off slowly, giving the gun-captains time to lay their weapons, so when the order to open fire was given the guns crashed out almost together. Smoke rolled down lazily on their target and, seconds later, the sudden eruption of a forest of white splashes along the line of sight brought war-like roars from the gun-decks.

  The wheel spun and, sluggishly, Tenacious traced her bowsprit back on target, and past. She steadied for a moment, and her opposite broadside thundered out across the calm seas. Again the gun-smoke, the close scatter of splashes – then the enemy’s mizzen topmast fell in a graceful curve.