Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

"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.

But who was best suited to this? Kydd knew that he as an officer could not fulfil the role. Then it came to him. Poulden: a fine seaman, with a gentle manner. He would be ideal. He was in the same division as Bowden, and now he would have a word with the first lieutenant to put him in the same watch and station. Pleased, he called, "Mr Bowden!"

The lad hurried across and Kydd handed Rawson's signal telescope to him. "Do ye know aught of signals? No? Then now's a good time t' learn." He continued, "This is y'r signal book. Adm'ral Nelson relies on us to get his wishes known to our captain, and if we're slack in stays ..."

The powerful squadron sailed deeper into the Mediterranean, crossing the prime meridian in barely three days and raising the peak of Minorca's Mount Toro in a week. As they shaped course north for Toulon the tension increased. Every vessel they sighted now would be an enemy, and if the French fleet sailed they would be directly in its path. No one believed that Nelson would stand aside tamely, and all readied themselves for the ultimate challenge.

The line of rendezvous was reached, a parallel of latitude off Toulon that would be their station while two frigates ranged ahead off the port. Their intelligence would be vital in the coming struggle.

Even as the squadron took up position Terpsichore frigate returned with a prize. Late in the afternoon Vanguard hove to and signalled for all captains. In a fevered buzz of speculation Houghton took away his barge; rather less than an hour later he was back. "All officers," was his first order, and while the line of men-o'-war got under way again, the officers of Tenacious assembled in the great cabin.

"News, gentlemen," Houghton said, looking from one to another. "In short, I am happy to say we are not too late. The French have not sailed. Terpsichore's prize is La Pierre, a corvette of the French navy. Admiral Nelson's staff have questioned the crew closely and they, being inclined to boastfulness, have been free with their information.

"I have to tell you now that the rumours we have been hearing are substantially correct. This armament is of prodigious size, reported by many at over thirty sail-of-the-line and hundreds of transports. And their chief general, Napoleon Buonaparte, arrived in Toulon some days ago and is now reviewing his troops and siege train. It seems these troops are, at this moment, embarking in their transport. Gentlemen, Admiral Nelson believes that they are to sail directly."

"Sir, does he know where they're headed?" Kydd asked.

"No," said Houghton flatly. "It seems that this Buonaparte is keeping his plans even from his officers. In the absence of any reliable facts we can only assume that the most credible is a lunge west to join with the Spanish, then out to the Atlantic, north for a junction with the Brest fleet and then ... England."

"Indeed—why else the troops?" muttered Bryant. Louder, he asked, "Do we know anything of their commander, sir?"