He turned to a boatswain’s mate. ‘Pass the word for Mr Bowden.’
‘Er, ’oo was that, sir?’
‘Mr Midshipman Bowden, if y’ please.’
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 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.
‘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. ‘Out oars – carry on.’
They returned under the bows of Tenacious, passing Adams in the cutter going out; having two boats at work meant that precious momentum would be preserved. All too soon the unseen labourers on the gundeck capstans had brought the ship up to her second anchor and the weary round must begin again.
The torment continued into the early hours: the same hot, lifeless night air, fathomless dark sea, gasps, panting. The gigantic black bulk of the Rock had receded so slowly and there were still no breezes. On either hand the anonymous blocks of the rest of the squadron showed that they, too, were enduring – but at first light it could be seen that their mission of stealth had not succeeded.
They were nearly clear of Gibraltar Bay as the featureless grey of early dawn took on the colour of day. To starboard the Spanish fort of Punta Carnero woke to life, and the flat crump of guns sounded across the bay. It was in the nature of a salute – a derisory recognition that, despite all their efforts, whoever wished might see the British make sally once again into the sea from which they had been proscribed for so long.
Chapter 3
The squadron did not pick up a breeze until the mighty Rock was well astern, its shape receding in the bright haze. Then, with the ever-constant east-going current invisibly urging them on, a chuckle of water began at the forefoot.
Topmen crowded up in the yards to extend the sail width with stuns’ls, and the master exerted every skill to trim the complex machinery of canvas and rope that was driving their ship. Ahead was Nelson’s Vanguard: Tenacious could not disgrace herself.
Kydd was not on watch as officers were not required to keep the deck, but the whole ship’s company wanted to take sight of the ancient sea, closed to them until this moment. Renzi stared into the blue expanse ahead, his expression calm but an unconscious half-smile in place. Kydd suspected his friend was contemplating the dangers ahead in this maelstrom of competing nations that
was the cradle of their civilisation. But he seemed distant and preoccupied: it might well be more than that. Kydd remembered a letter Renzi had received in Gibraltar that had had a noticeable effect on his friend, but he knew of old that Renzi would disclose the distraction only when he was ready so he would not press matters.
There was no reason why he should go below, but Kydd could wait no longer. He had taken a peek at the package earlier, but there had been no time for more. Despite his lack of sleep, the thought of what he would see now thrilled him. With guilty excitement he mumbled an excuse and hurried down the companionway.
Tysoe had taken possession of the long, oddly shaped article for him while he had been aboard Princess Royal and it was still in its brown-paper wrapping. Kydd opened it carefully, hefting the precious weight and feeling like a child with a long-awaited gift. The black gleam of oiled leather, then the martial gilding of the top of the scabbard – and suddenly it was in his hands, the weapon that would probably be by his side for the rest of his sea life.
He clicked open the langets securing the sword and eased up the blade far enough to see engraved just below the hilt, less than an inch in size, as neat a pair of Cornish choughs as he could have wished for.
With a lethal slither, he withdrew the sword from its scabbard; the half-length bluing of the blade was as handsome as he had remembered. He came to point, the action seeming so natural, the sword in flawless balance. Kydd drew it close in admiration. Mesmerised by the steely shimmer, he flourished it slowly, feeling its grace and accuracy, the sharkskin grips sure and true. He stood to lose his life if enemy blood caused it to slip from his hand.
Reluctantly he slid the blade back into the scabbard. It was unbelievable that he could be the owner of such a fine weapon.
He gathered up the appurtenances: the belt with its frog, a matching baldric – a broad strap for shoulder carriage of the sword complete with a bold gilded fouled anchor device – and a beautifully worked sword knot. Eyeing the tassels doubtfully, Kydd resolved to replace it in combat with a securely spliced manila lanyard. He hung the sword by its rings, left the rest on his desk for Tysoe to stow and returned on deck as nonchalantly as he could.
The favourable south-westerly firmed but backed more to the east; stuns’ls to leeward were struck as they were backwinded by their topsails. The master frowned at the sight of Vanguard’s lee stuns’ls still abroad. ‘Not as I should say, but for a raw captain Berry hangs on t’ his canvas a mort long,’ he muttered.
An hour later, the winds were further towards the south-east and the remaining stuns’ls were taken in. ‘Hands to quarters!’ Houghton snapped. Under plain sail there was no need to worry over delicate sail set and he would have his way with gun practice. ‘Mr Kydd, you will take post as second of the gundeck for now, if you please.’
Kydd had been expecting this. In battle, in a hard-fought slugging match, a signal lieutenant might well find himself employed at the guns, replacing a killed or wounded gundeck officer – in fact, that very instance had provided his own elevation to the quarterdeck.
The long twenty-fours of Tenacious were powerful weapons but Kydd had cut his teeth as a young man on the thirty-two-pounders of Duke William; any others were lesser beasts.
The crews mustered on the gundeck, throwing off muzzle lashings, taking down the rammers, sheepskin staves and other implements. The bark of gun captains was loud in the close air as they goaded men to their stations. It seemed impossibly crowded but there was a pattern in the seething mass and Kydd waited on the centreline.
Adams was in charge of the forward half of the gundeck standing, like Kydd, well clear of the throng. He caught Kydd’s eye, removed his hat and performed an exaggerated bow. Kydd grinned and returned the gesture, then turned back to his section.
Dobbie was gun captain but also quarter gunner, responsible for the after four guns on the larboard side. His squat, powerful build was perfectly suited to hard work in the low decked spaces. Kydd watched as Dobbie bullied crews into place: two to throw off the cross seizings and bight the fall of each side tackle, others hauling the training tackle to the rear of the gun and standing braced to take in the sudden slack when the gun ‘fired’, the remainder ready to train the guns round by brute force with handspikes under the carriage wheels.
Sudden daylight as the gunports were opened. The sharp squeal of small blocks gave an edge to the preparations and Dobbie thrust over to his gun captains, peering at their gunlocks, checking their gunner’s pouch and powder horn.
Each gun captain was responsible for his own gun, then immediately to Dobbie, who in turn would answer for their effectiveness to Kydd, a hierarchy of responsibilities upon which Kydd could not trespass.
‘Gun crews mustered, sir,’ Dobbie reported, touching his forehead. A midshipman hovered, theoretically having charge of the guns under Kydd, but wise enough to give Dobbie room.
‘Thank you, Dobbie,’ Kydd said, and walked across purposefully to one of the guns. He removed the cover of the conical match tub. Inside, he could see that the perforated head had its full complement of unlit slow-match hanging down – in action, should a gunlock fail, one would be used to touch off the gun. He eased it off and peered inside. ‘But where’s our water?’ he said mildly, turning to Dobbie. If a piece of the lighted match fell, water would be needed to douse it quickly. The look Dobbie gave the gun captain suggested that no further action would be required.
‘Ye know the captain permits no sham motions,’ Kydd said, careful to direct his remarks in general, ‘all t’ be as in battle, stand fast the shot ’n’ cartridge.’ He let it hang, then turned to the nearest of the gun crew. ‘Y’r station at quarters?’
‘After tackle o’ number eleven larb’d,’ he said instantly.
‘And?’
‘Second division o’ boarders.’ He was listed to be called away to board the enemy in the second wave when the trumpet sounded.
‘And where do ye find y’r weapons?’
‘Ah – forrard arms chest?’
‘T’ see this man knows his duty afore he sees his grog,’ Kydd replied briskly to the midshipman, who hastily scrawled in his notebook. He turned to go back to his place on the centreline but heard the smothered chuckles of a powder monkey clutching his cartridge box.
‘Now then, y’ scallywag,’ he said. ‘Do ye tell me, what is y’ duty should there be a fire at the gun?’
The youngster’s eyes went wide. ‘Er, tell Mr Jones?’ he squeaked.
‘I’m sure the gunner will know of it b’ then,’ Kydd said, then glared at the midshipman. ‘The younker t’ tell you of his duty before you get y’r grog.’
The ship’s company of Tenacious had been together for some time now and practice was becoming more a matter of detail. Gun captains could be stood down while second gun captains took over; men could exchange stations and be equally proficient; they were hardening well.
Kydd paced slowly down the deck amid the heavy rumble of cannon, but his mind strayed to the poop deck. That was his principal station in battle, heading the signals team, a task requiring the utmost coolness under enemy fire. An admiral had only the medium of signals to bring his fleet round to meet a sudden threat and if the signal lieutenant blundered…
‘Carry on,’ he snapped to the midshipman. There was little further he could contribute to the ongoing sweat and toil – he would go up and see how Rawson, the senior signal midshipman, was spending his time in the absence of his officer.
With so many men below at the guns the decks seemed deserted, but as Kydd hurried up the poop ladder he was reassured to see his men at work. Rawson turned and touched his hat. ‘We’re doin’ some exercising with Emerald, sir,’ he said, gesturing to the lithe frigate on their beam. ‘An’ they’re not up t’ snuff is my opinion,’ he confided.
‘An’ it’s not your duty t’ pass judgement on others, Mr Rawson,’ Kydd admonished him.
A seaman whipped down the current hoist, which Kydd saw was number 116, ‘your
signal hoist cannot be distinguished’.
Kydd glanced about: the flag locker was neatly stowed, the seamen quietly at their posts at the halliards. ‘Signal log?’
‘Sir.’ The small portable table near the mizzen mast was rigged, the rough log open, ready for recording every signal received and sent. He enquired about the signal flares and swivel gun for attracting attention at night.
‘Brought up an’ stowed in the half-deck, sir.’ All seemed in order. Then he noticed a figure hanging back on the other side of the deck. Gaunt-faced and despondent, it was Bowden. He was also sporting the beginnings of a black eye.
‘What about Mr Bowden?’ Kydd demanded.
‘Er?’ Rawson said in surprise. ‘He’s not as who might say a prime hand—’
‘Do we not all have t’ learn?’ Kydd snapped, in rising irritation. ‘Why isn’t he at the log or haulin’ on a line or some such?’
Rawson looked dogged and Kydd rounded on him: ‘Get up t’ the main masthead this instant – you’ll maybe have time then t’ think o’ something.’
He realised part of his anger was directed at himself: he owed Essington a service, but there was little he could do about Bowden. Somewhat more sensitive than the others, the lad was clearly suffering.
What he needed, Kydd saw suddenly, was what sailors called a ‘sea-daddy’, someone in whom to confide, who would place things in perspective for him. With a pang Kydd remembered Joe Bowyer, a kindly old seaman who had sailed with Cook and who had befriended him in his early days at sea and fired in him a passion for the life.
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