Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

Kydd's attention was all on the flagship: complex dispositions would need to be communicated concerning arrangements for the night. The enemy must not be allowed to escape but the British ships could not anchor too close inshore. Nelson might risk standing off and on, sailing out to sea and back again, possibly with half of his fleet ...

Then bunting appeared on the poop—and a single signal soared. Kydd hesitated as the image danced in his eyepiece. "Prepare for battle!" he roared.

Houghton gaped. "Good God! He means to bring 'em to action now!" With a grim smile he turned to Bryant. "We have three hours—I believe we'll clear for action now."

A ship-of-the-line could clear for action in fifteen minutes if necessary, but this day would be the hardest fought of their lives— things were better done in the cool of forethought than the heat of battle. Victory could depend on the smallest precaution having been properly attended to.

Kydd's action position was on the poop-deck at the signals; there was little to do in readiness beyond the mustering of the bunting in the flag locker and ensuring that the log was at hand, signal halliards cleared and free, the handful of seamen and Rawson in no doubt about their duties. Here, preparation was of the mind. Kydd knew by heart most of the hoists he could foresee and his signal book had been brought up to date with the very latest that had been entered in the fleet commander's order book. He reviewed the provisions for night signals: complicated specified arrangements of lights in varying configurations and "false fires"—wooden tubes of combustibles that burned with a blue light and had several meanings, depending on how and when they were deployed. And, most important, the recognition signal for British ships only now circulated to the fleet. It would be four lights in line, hoisted high to be as visible as possible above powder-smoke. The lighting rig had been checked twice by the boatswain, who also had a spare charged at hand.

Kydd tucked his signal telescope under his arm and paced slowly, conscious of a thudding heart and tight stomach but resolutely refusing to steal a look into the bay.

"Mr Kydd!" the captain called from the quarterdeck.

"Sir?"

Houghton looked energised, but wore a hard expression. "I've no doubt your men at quarters are mustered ready."

"Aye, sir."

"Then as you are at leisure, you will probably wish to take a turn about the decks," he snapped.

Kydd understood. As other officers were occupied with their quarters at the guns and elsewhere, he was being asked to keep a roving eye on the clearing for action, perhaps steady the men as they anticipated the slaughter to come.

This was no sudden, frantic sighting of the enemy: it was a cold, considered approach. Tenacious would face her ordeal in perfect battle order.

At this moment Vanguard would be similarly engaged so there would be no communication in the immediate future, and Rawson, with his handful of seamen, could be trusted to stand by at the signals. "Take the glass," Kydd told him, handing over his telescope, "and any signal from the flagship I want t' know about instantly, d'ye hear?"

The entire ship's company was at work, an ants' nest of activity. Men taking up shot for the garlands alongside each gun jostled past Kydd; streams of sailors brought up hammocks and soaked them to form barricades in the fighting tops for the marine musketeers. A party was at work on the sauve tete, the netting spread twelve feet high above the deck to protect against rigging shot to pieces falling from aloft.

The boatswain and his mates were methodically laying out essential damage-control gear—rigging stoppers and lengths of line that could be secured above and below a severed rope to restore its function. Jigger tackles were becketed up under the hatchway coaming, canvas and twine ready to repair important sails at hand, as were grappling irons to hold an enemy alongside while they boarded. Kydd smiled wryly: Tenacious would probably be the smallest man-o'-war in the line—any boarding would likely be in the other direction.

He glanced aloft at the massive lower yards, tons in weight. Chain slings were rigged to support them should the tye blocks at the mast be shot through, and the braces to heave round the yards were augmented by preventers and pendants to handle the heavy spar if cannon fire knocked it askew. From forward he heard the reassuring sound of grinding steel as the gunner's party put a final edge on the tomahawks, cutlasses, pikes and other edged weapons.

Down the main hatchway it was a different kind of bustle. Cabin bulkheads were knocked away and officers' personal effects were struck below in the hold. He saw his own cabin dismantled, the desk where each day he had faithfully written his journal taken bodily by two seamen to the hatch, preceded by his cot and chest. Renzi's cabin was treated in the same way, and when the long wardroom table had been disassembled and carried away there was nothing to spoil a continuous sweep of the gundeck right to the stern, the torpid eighteen-pounder gun with which he had familiarly shared his cabin now awakened and readied for fighting.

On the gundeck more preparations were in train. The gunner had unlocked the grand magazine and stringent fire precautions were in force: fearnought firescreens and leather fire-buckets were around each hatchway and in the magazines lanthorns were put in sealed sconces. Wearing felt slippers, those inside this area would make up cartridges and pass them out to the chain of powder monkeys, who in turn carried them up to the guns. Kydd shivered at the fearful thought of being confined here in a blazing battle, with no knowledge of the outside world, the tons of powder in plain sight their only company.

He moved forward and saw Renzi, who gave a grave nod before turning back to a quarter gunner with orders. Images of Camperdown flashed before him. This place was not named "the slaughterhouse" for nothing: within hours it would be a hell of smoke and noise, smashed timbers and screaming. And after sunset the dim gold of battle lanthorns would be the only light they had to fight the guns.

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—"