Tenacious

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd bounded up the ladder and out on to the familiar dark chaos of the open quarterdeck. He looked about for the pacing figures of the captain and other officers, but when he located them they were motionless, all their attention in one direction: beyond the stern of their adversary and across a short stretch of sea, the enemy's mighty flagship was afire.

  CHAPTER 6

  FIRE! SEAMEN COULD BRAVE GALES to go aloft or stand fearless against the deadliest cannonade but the elemental terror of fire aboard ship could turn the hardest man to craven panic. And Kydd had a personal dread of it. In the Caribbean, in Seaflower, he had seen a ship ablaze: they had tried to claw against the wind to save the sailors but, helpless, had been forced to watch their end—a choice of being burned alive or throwing themselves into the water to sharks in a feeding frenzy.

  "Seems t' be aft, around the mizzen chains, the poop ..." Kydd forced his voice steady as he trained his signal telescope on the intermittent flaring on the big ship's after-end, where her signal crew would be gathered. His imagination supplied the details. There would be frantic scrambling to extinguish the flames before they took hold; fire-buckets dashed at them by men held with feral dread as if charged by a wild bull. Sailors would be taken from the guns, from below—everyone who could be spared would be put to work for a bucket chain before the engine and hose were brought into play.

  "Mr Pringle!" Houghton wheeled on the captain of marines. "Take six of your best men to the foredeck. They are to kill any man aboard the Frenchman who attempts to douse the flames. Am I understood?"

  "Yes, sir—clear the deck of any enemy approaching the fire."

  Kydd froze with horror—but he understood. If the huge enemy ship was destroyed by fire it was as satisfactory as if she had been reduced by hours of bombardment. It was unlikely that the French would abandon their proud flagship to the flames while it was possible to save her. Soon there would be so much death and pain, men who would find it in themselves to defy the bullets for the sake of their ship and be struck down, others who would know the bitter taste of self-loathing when they discovered they could not.

  The conflagration lessened and wavered, then returned as their murderous fusillade achieved its object. Shots came, too, from Swiftsure. Unchecked, the flames mounted, licking dangerously along the edge of the driver boom, little wisps flickering upward and along. It would not be long before the fire took strong hold and then there would be no turning back—timbered, and with tarred rigging, the man-o'-war would become an inferno.

  Kydd watched as one figure, black against the light of the blaze, raced along with a bucket, then was cut down. The figure toppled into the flames where it thrashed for a little, then was still. More figures darted and fell, and Kydd tore his eyes away. "A terrible sight, sir," he said to Houghton, who was watching with Bryant. Houghton cast him a curious look. "Even if they are Frenchies," Kydd finished lamely.

  The blaze was spreading about the poop and its light now tinged the faces of the officers in Tenacious as they stared at the awful sight. They resumed pacing: there was no need to make the job of any vengeful French sharpshooter the easier. The master pulled out a large kerchief and wiped his forehead. "Does strike me, sir, that such a monster must have a mort o' powder aboard. The blaze reaches the grand magazine, why, it would put a volcano to shame!"

  "There is that, of course, Mr Hambly. Do you wish me to allow them to extinguish the fire ?" A grim smile belied Houghton's words. "Yet a reasonable course for her captain would be to strike now to save life—but I doubt he will do that."

  "Then, sir, do you not feel it prudent t' shift berth? If she explodes it will put every ship to hazard." Bryant came in.

  Houghton took three paces more before replying. "Consider, Mr Bryant. Our people have been fighting for long this night. They're exhausted and can't in all mercy be expected to stand at a capstan. But should we cut our cable in the darkness we cannot easily range another through the stern-port and therefore we lose our advantage. And in any event I am obliged to point out that while our immediate opponent remains at her anchor, so must we."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  As always in the sea service, duty would stand well before consideration of personal safety. But the fearful logic of war dictated that the enemy could not be allowed to save themselves or their ship. The end, therefore, would probably be cataclysmic.

  The pitch darkness was now rolling back with the light of the burning ship; as the blaze strengthened and leaped, the entire bay was illuminated and Kydd imagined a fearfully fascinated audience of thousands watching from the lines of ships—and they themselves were at its very centre, the massive three-decker the next after their own adversary.

  Houghton turned to Kydd. "I want to know the moment she shows any sign of yielding." But even with her after deck uncontrollably on fire her lower guns continued to crash out against her tormentors: there would be no easy end for this proud ship.

  "Pass the word for the boatswain and gunner. Mr Bryant, I rather fear that we must remain for the final act. I would have you prepare Tenacious." There could be no more dangerous situation, a burning powder keg of gigantic dimensions about to explode near to them.

  "Cease firing. Secure the magazines." On the upper deck men glanced fearfully across at the flaring torch that was the enemy's after deck, then cleared their own of cartridges and all combustibles.

  The boatswain sent men aloft with lines; fire-buckets were hauled up and emptied over the sails furled along the tops of the yards, the decks sluiced. "I'll have a sentry on the cable, if you please, Mr Pringle." There would be some who might be tempted to cut the cable and run. If they did, it would only send them blundering downwind straight into the deadly blaze.

  Flames had now run along L'Orient's deck and were reaching up into the masts and rigging in a crackling flare that cast the scene in a ruddy orange. Kydd felt a creeping awe at the approaching moment of doom.

  Houghton turned to them all. "Gentlemen, I do believe we should now consult our situation. We shall run in the guns and secure the gunports. So, too, the hatches must be battened, but I believe we must take our chances under the half-deck."

  Carrying dripping swabs and leather buckets of water, men took their last look at the blazing ship as they went below. Then the gratings over the hatches were covered with the thick tarpaulin more usually to be seen in stormy weather, and secured with battens hammered into cleats. Kydd reflected on the hell below, in the stinking closeness each thinking that the very next instant could bring the titanic explosion that would crush them to oblivion, or capsize the ship and drown them all.

  "God damme, but this business sticks in my throat," Bryant growled.

  Kydd saw that men from the ship were now beginning to jump from her decks into the sea and worm from the gunports to drop into the water. Yet still her guns fired, her colours flew. It was madness, an insane defiance against the inevitable, but from a sense of glory, honour?

  Houghton watched with grim concentration. Then he turned abruptly to Bryant. "We cannot stand by and see those brave fellows drown. Is the launch still at the boom?"

  "It is, sir, but—"

  "Then take it, Mr Kydd. Do what you can before ... the end."

  "Aye aye, sir." His mind raced, crowding with images of the Caribbean inferno, his dread of fire threatening to unhinge him. He took a long, deep breath, then made his way to the bulwarks. For protection the launch and cutter had been placed on the unengaged, sheltered side of the ship. The launch was their biggest boat but it seemed so frail a bark to approach such a maelstrom of fire. He pulled back and sought out Rawson. "Go below. Get a petty officer an' six. Don't tell 'em why."

  Rawson returned with Poulden and six hands, who gaped in awe at the burning ship. "The cap'n wants us t' see if we can save some o' the Frenchies yonder," Kydd said, forcing a tremor from his voice.

  One of the seamen spoke up, "Aye, well, they're sailors an' all, aren't they, mates?" Others rumbled a cautious agreement, held by the
grim spectacle.

  "Then into th' boat, lads," Kydd ordered. "You too, Mr Rawson," he added.

  Alongside the dark bulk of Tenacious the boat seemed no refuge and Kydd fought down a rising panic.

  "Heading where to, sir?" said Rawson quietly.

  "The Frenchy, if y' please." Any swimmers would be fanning out in all directions and would be lost in the dark. The only real chance for saving more than one or two would be to stand off the burning flagship. They left the shelter of the side of their ship and came into full view of the blaze, which now bathed the whole bay in firelight as bright as day. When it became apparent where they were heading one of the seamen looked behind him and cried out, "Be Jasus—she's goin' ter blow!"

  "Shut y' trap," Poulden growled instantly.

  "She goes, we all go!" another seaman said fearfully and the boat's speed fell off.

  "Be damned t' your infernal shyness!" Rawson said, in a most creditable rasp. "See Swiftsure? She's damn near alongside, and not a-feared." The English 74 was within half a pistol shot of the flaming ship, off her bow from where she had been slamming in her broadsides and there was no indication that she was about to pull away.

  It was puzzling why she was so close yet was making no moves to save herself. Kydd shook his head: the grandeur and horror were having an effect on his senses. He roused himself. "See there, y' swabs! There's other boats out, an' they're not hanging back. Do ye want t' shame Tenacious in front o' them?"

  A cry rang out from the bowman who was pointing to a shadowy blob in the fiery path on the water. "Go," Kydd snapped at Rawson, who obediently put the tiller over. They came up to the dark shape.

  "Oars!"

  The bowman leaned over and grappled. "Bear us a fist, Ralph," he called. The two tugged and suddenly there was a weak stream of words, followed by retching.

  "Anyone speaks French?" Kydd demanded. He turned to Poulden. "Get him down in th' boat, search him, and if he's trouble, throw him back."

  "Give way." The boat continued heading towards the appalling tower of flame, alive and magnificent but touching every primordial nerve in Kydd's body. They were close enough now to hear the fierce roar of the flames; against it the battlefield sounds were a dull background.

  Another survivor shrieked as he was pulled aboard. Sounds of his agony continued then stopped suddenly. Clambering back, Poulden reported quietly. "Sorry, sir, 'e was all burned like."

  "Over th' side," Kydd said, without hesitation. He watched as others were pulled in but it was becoming unreal, the martial thunder of guns and battle overlaid with closer sounds of humanity in distress, yet all in terrified thrall to a cataclysm that could happen before he drew his next breath.

  They heard a tiny cry in the night and a ship's boy was heaved in over the sternsheets; he was shivering hysterically and scrabbled for the bottom of the boat, whimpering. "Leave him alone," Kydd growled.

  The ship was now afire from stem to stern, a towering conflagration of horror that had to be visible as far as Alexandria itself. Cannon still fired from her lowest line of guns. It was bravery at an insane level, in conditions that could not be imagined.

  Kydd's boat continued on. Two men were found, roped together, one probably could not swim. They floated away, both dead. Another, levering himself up the gunwale, heard English being spoken and, with his last gasp, cursed the uncomprehending seamen and slipped to his death. Still more cries came from the darkness.

  Then—faster than thought—a searing white flash leaped over Kydd's entire vision, with a suffocating slam of superheated air. In a trance-like state, Kydd tried to make sense of the disorder— and the fact that he was still alive.

  His sight cleared at the same time as a wave violently rocked the boat, sending them all into a tangled heap. Water flooded over the gunwale. The boat righted and all eyes turned to the conflagration. An immense fiery column climbed skywards, and at its base there was just foam and vapour. The flagship and a thousand men had vanished.

  Slowly, other features in his landscape became perceptible. There was Swiftsure—so close, and yet untouched. In a flash of insight Kydd realised the reason they themselves were not destroyed: the force of the explosion had been vast but it was nearly all vented upwards in an inverted cone, and therefore the safest place in fact was close to the ship.

  Rawson's bloodless face turned to Kydd, mouthing silent words at the sheer wonder of their survival. Others uncurled from foetal positions. Some made half-hearted efforts to retrieve oars, several bent to find the bailer and start sheeting out the water that half filled the boat.

  Kydd turned to the task in hand but as he tried to shake off his disorientation, he saw a silent splash rear up to seaward—and an icy fear gripped him. The mighty explosion had blasted skywards perhaps thousands of feet. Now the pieces of an entire battleship were falling slowly back to Earth.

  There were more splashes, near and far—and an enormous one that ended with a jagged spar spearing back up from the depths. Others trailed tangles of rigging and plunged spectacularly, with an increasing rain of smaller fragments still trailing wisps of flame.

  Then came a gasp of pain and the flurry of beating hands. Kydd tore off his coat and shared it with the nearer men, Rawson threw his to the men forward. They cowered under their pitiful shelter, feeling the strike of particles and larger burning fragments, flinching at the thought of a giant missile coming down on them. Kydd's skin crawled as he imagined the four tons of a cannon a thousand feet above hurtling down on their little boat.

  The pattering and splashing all around seemed to go on for an age—but no great piece came near. It was only when the lethal rain had petered out that Kydd could accept reality: the blast cone had projected most of the wreckage well beyond them.

  He waited a little longer, then ventured out from under the coat, staring around wildly. Where there had been a fiery column before, a sullen towering of black smoke shot through with sparks now hung. A desolate stink of cinders and ruin lay pungent on the air.

  An eerie stillness reigned over the battle scene, an awed recognition, perhaps, of the catastrophic event so much greater than any local affray, guns fallen silent in respect at the sudden removal from the Earth of the greatest object of before. Then, accentuating the unreality of the scene, the calm silver of a rising moon settled softly over the still ships.

  In the launch not a word was spoken as each man came to terms with what he had experienced. Kydd drew on his coat again and pulled himself together: there may still be those in the water, God forbid.

  "Out oars—come on, lads, let's be havin' ye. There's sailors out there, lookin' t' be saved ..." It was going to be a long night.

  Kydd tossed and turned. Sleep was hard—his mind reeled with stark impressions of fiery grandeur, horribly burned bodies, shattered wreckage. They had returned only a couple of hours before dawn to a ship whose company was dropping with exhaustion. Men were asleep at their guns and place of duty. After six hours' hard fighting they were now at the extremity of weariness.

  He became aware of someone close by. It was Rawson. "Sir, m' apologies for waking you, but it's dawn an' Admiral Nelson is signalling."

  Kydd raised himself on an elbow and tried to focus his thoughts. "Oh? Er, well, I'll be up presently." Rawson turned to go, but Kydd added quietly, "An' thank you, Mr Rawson." The youngster had known that dawn would allow signals to be seen and, although he was as exhausted as Kydd, he had made it his duty to be up on the poop-deck ready with Tenacious's answering pennant.

  Going wearily up the ladders Kydd was aware of his tiredness: his feet plodded forward, his mind in a daze, and he had to take several seconds to orient himself when he reached the signals post.

  "Number fifty-five with our pennants, sir."

  Kydd fumbled in his little signals book.

  "That is t' say, 'assist ships in battle,' sir," Rawson said gently, his eyes hollow. "I've acknowledged, sir."

  He had had no right to do so, but Kydd was grateful. "The captain
—"

  "I've sent word, sir." A brief spark of youthful high spirits showed as Rawson confided, "An' would you credit, they had t' bang a pot to wake him."

  "More respect to y'r betters, younker," Kydd answered, but suppressed a grin. By long custom of the sea, a seaman could be shaken awake but never an officer—that might be construed as laying hands on a superior, a capital offence. The men must have been hard put to think of a way to rouse their captain.

  Kydd went down to the quarterdeck to await Houghton, prudently using his signal telescope to spy out the morning situation. Despite his weariness he was awestruck at the scene of devastation and ruin.

  The entire enemy van, ship after ship in a line, had hauled down their colours. Their opponents were still at anchor opposite them in the same position from where they had thundered out their broadsides. But there was an interval of more than half a mile from where the flagship had been; the remainder of the line had abandoned their places downwind of the inferno to edge away to the south. They were now in an untidy gaggle well into the bay. Two looked as if they had run aground during the night;

  three or four others were still in a fitful exchange of gunfire with two English 74s.

  "Good morning, sir." Houghton was dishevelled and lacked a shoe, but his coming on deck was sufficient to bring order to the desultory scenes of ruin and weariness.

  "Thank you, Mr Kydd. What is the state of the action at this time?" His voice was hoarse and abrupt. Bryant appeared from forward and Houghton turned to him. "We shall assist as ordered. I mean to weigh and proceed this hour, sir. Every man possible at the capstan, stand fast the topmen. We shall muster at quarters as we sail for the enemy."

  Kydd could not shake off his daze of tiredness. Not even the sight of the undamaged enemy they had yet to fight, outnumbering the few English ships in any condition to confront them, was sufficient to raise an emotion.