Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

"One to come aboard, Bosun."

The boat nuzzled gently against the ship's side and the figure sprang neatly for the side-ropes and pulled himself aboard, correctly doffing his hat first to the quarterdeck and then to the captain.

He was a striking character. Strong in the frame and attractively open in the face, he was nevertheless in a wildly inappropriate mix of English army and navy uniform—a Spanish ruse? "L'tenant Kydd, sir. Late o' the Port Mahon naval detachment t' Colonel Paget." His English was faultless if individual.

"What may we do for you, Lieutenant?" the captain of Aurora said carefully.

"Sir, Colonel Paget desires y' should not fire on th' Spaniards on any account, but that ye proceed into harbour without delay."

"I see. I should sail my frigate under the guns of the fortress yonder, and forget the presence of the boom across to the Lazareto?"

"Oh, pay no mind t' the boom, sir. We've just triced it in this hour."

"Are you not forgetting something, Lieutenant?"

"Sir?"

"That fortress flies the Spanish flag, which I have observed unchanged these three days."

"Ah—I should explain. Colonel Paget came upon the town, which surrendered a little precipitate before they could fin' a military man. Y'r flag flies above Fort San Felipe where the only soldiers are t' be found. The fort is in ruins, havin' been demolished by the Spaniards t' discommode us but the soldiers say they won't surrender until they've found the king's lieutenant and get a proper ceremony.

"Meanwhile, sir, we have the possession and occupation o' the whole port. If ye'd kindly sail upon Mahon directly the colonel will be obliged—he is anxious to make inventory of the ships and stores that have fallen into our hands."

CHAPTER 9

THE ORDERED CALM AND ROUTINE aboard HMS Tenacious was a welcome reassurance of normality and Kydd paced the decks with satisfaction. His ship was now moored inside the deep emerald harbour of Port Mahon with the rest of the fleet; watering parties were ashore in Cala Figuera.

Kydd contemplated the prospect of an agreeable summons from the commodore in the near future. It had been an extraordinary achievement—the entire island was now in English hands, from the time of landing to capitulation no more than a week, on their side without any loss. And he had played what must surely be seen as a central part in the success.

"Sir, if y' please ..." One of the smaller midshipmen tugged at his sleeve.

He turned, frowning at the impropriety, then softening at the boy's anxiety to please. "Aye?"

"Mate o' the watch sends his duty an' the commodore would be obliged should you spare him an hour."

"Thank ye," said Kydd, a little surprised at the informality. He had been expecting something of a rather more public character, but supposed that this was preparatory only. After all, while this was a commodore he did not have the standing and powers of a full admiral. Any form of honours would have to come from the commander-in-chief, Admiral Nelson, still in Naples. His heart beat faster.

After reporting to Captain Faulkner in full dress uniform, as befitting a visit to the flag-officer, he was stroked across to Leviathan in the gig, thinking warmly that life could not be bettered at that moment. The day before, he had come back aboard and spent an uproarious evening in the wardroom telling of his adventure, being heartily toasted in the warmth of deep camaraderie. Now, dare he think it, he had been noticed and therefore was on the golden ladder of preferment and success. His instinct had been right—Nelson was showing the way. Seize the moment when it came!

He was politely received by a flag-lieutenant and conducted to the commodore in his great cabin. "Ah, Kydd. Sit ye down, I won't be long," Duckworth said, waving Kydd to a chair. The commodore was writing, a frown on his open face as he concentrated on the task. He finished with a scrawl and put his pen down with a sigh. "L'tenant Kydd," he said heavily, "I do believe that you should bear much of the credit for the success of this expedition. From what I hear, your initiative and courage did much to secure the safety of the force. Do tell me now what happened."

Kydd began, careful to be exact in his recollections for this would be a matter of record for all time. But as he proceeded he became uneasily aware that he did not have the commodore's full attention. He fiddled with his pen, squared his papers, inspected the back of his hand. Somewhat put out, Kydd completed with a wry account of his boarding of the frigate and told him of the conclusion of hostilities, but the commodore failed to smile.

Duckworth stood. "May I take the hand of a brave man and a fine officer?" he said directly, fixing Kydd in the eye. "I see a bright future for you, sir." Kydd glowed. "Good day to you, Mr Kydd," the commodore said, and took up his papers once more.

Kydd hovered uncertainly. "What is it, Mr Kydd?" the commodore said testily.

"Sir, dare I say it, but should I be mentioned in y'r dispatches, I'd be infinitely obliged if you'd spell m' name with a y—Kydd, sir, not like the pirate Kidd." There had been instances of promotion awarded for valour to the wrong officer entirely, which regrettably it was impossible to undo at the Admiralty.

Duckworth leaned back, eyeing Kydd stonily. "The dispatches for this engagement will be written by another. I haul down my flag tomorrow, Mr Kydd."

At a loss, Kydd excused himself and withdrew.

"I would have thought somethin' a bit more rousin'," Kydd said morosely, not sure at all of what had been transacted in the great cabin.

Adams was sympathetic, and put down his book on the wardroom table. They were alone and Kydd had returned disconsolate from what should have been a memorable interview.

"Luck o' the draw, old trout. You'll understand that Duckworth is out of sorts. His mission complete, he has to strike his flag and revert back to plain old captain now."

"But his dispatches—"

"Dispatches? He's not the expedition commander, Tom, Stuart is. And I've strong reason to know from a friend at Headquarters that he's a man to seize all the credit that can be scraped together. His dispatches will say nothing of the navy—all we did was sally out to meet half a dozen Spanish frigates, which instantly put about and had the legs of us. No creditable battle, no mention for anyone."

"I should've smoked it," Kydd said. Stuart was certainly the kind of man to dim another's candle in order that his become the brighter. "So the general won't want th' world to know that he'd got special intelligence as would give him th' confidence to stretch out an' take Minorca?"

"I fear that must be the case," Adams murmured.

"I was present at th' takin' of Port Mahon!" Kydd continued stubbornly.

"Dear chap, any battle won swiftly, efficiently and with the minimum of bloodshed must be a bad battle by any definition. For your triumph and glory you need a good butcher's bill, one that has you blood-soaked but standing defiant at the end, tho' many at your side do fall. And we had the bad luck to lose not a single man ..."

"You're bein' cynical, I believe."

Adams shrugged.

"Besides, m' name must be mentioned once in high places in the navy, must it not?"

Adams gave a small smile. "I should think not. The successful practice of creeping abroad at night is not an accomplishment that necessarily marks out a future admiral."

As he strolled along in the sun with Renzi on the road to Mahon, Kydd brooded; no doubt there would be other opportunities for dash and initiative but unless a similar conspiracy of circumstances came up how was he to be noticed? Duty was not enough: he must show himself of different timbre from the others.

They had landed below George Town, Es Castell as it was now known. From there it had been a precipitous pathway to the top—the harbour of Port Mahon was a great ravine in a high plateau, opening to a capacious sea cove three miles long. The town of Mahon was perched along the top, the skyline an exotic mix of medieval casements, churches, windmills and several inclined roadways to the water's edge.