Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"Poulden, do you clap on the t'gallant bowline as well." It was strange to hear the crack of authority in Renzi's voice, to see the gleam of hard purpose in his friend's eyes.

"Sir," Kydd reported to the fourth lieutenant.

Renzi flashed a brief smile. "Martingale stay parted, the jib-boom carried away," he said, flicking his eyes up to watch the progress of the jib downhaul, which was clearly being readied to hoist the spar back aboard. "I'm sanguine we'll have it clear soon—it's to loo'ard, and I've taken the liberty to set the fore-topmast stays'l to make a lee while we see to the jib."

The boatswain quickly had the experienced fo'c'slemen at work reeving a heel rope: the fifty feet of Danzig fir surging below was a formidable spar to recover aboard.

Renzi gazed intently at the descending downhaul. "Mr Kydd,

I'd be obliged if you'd inform the captain of our situation, that I've furled the fore t'gallant, but desire the fore t'gallant mast be struck."

Kydd touched his hat, then hastened back to the quarterdeck.

Houghton listened sourly, his eyes straying to the line of ships passing by, beginning the evolution to heave to. "Request Flag to pass within hail," he said. The signals soared up rapidly, but even as they did, Resolution had put down her helm and closed.

Briefly, Houghton passed details by speaking trumpet to the admiral. There was little to discuss: Lynx, a 16-gun ship-sloop, was detached to stand by them while they repaired; the remainder sailed on to Halifax.

It was not an easy repair: even with a spare spar fortunately to hand, the stump of the jibboom had to be extracted from the bowsprit cap and sea-hardened heel ropes cut away. It was sheer bad luck that the bee-block seating the new jibboom to the bowsprit needed reshaping, and now with jib-stay and fittings to apply there was no chance they would complete by dusk.

The hours passed uncomfortably. Without steadying sail on the open sea Tenacious wallowed glumly all night, Cape Cod forty miles under her lee. Kydd had the morning watch: red-eyed and tired, he observed a grey dawn approach with Lynx far out to the southward but stoutly clapping on all sail. Thick mist patches persisted to the north in the calm seas, wisps reaching out occasionally to Tenacious with their clammy embrace.

As soon as there was light enough, work began on the jib-boom, and well before the wan sun had cleared the foreyard it was all but complete.

"What, in hell's name?" Houghton said, stopping his restless pacing. It was gunfire—to the north and not too distant, a distinct thud.

"At least twenty-fours, maybe thirty-twos," growled Bryant, puzzled. Another flurry of thumps in the mist were heard.

Houghton looked nonplussed. "This can only be the squadron—there's not another sail-o'-the-line at sea, unless . . ." He paused, then looked significantly at Bryant. "Send Lynx to investigate with all despatch." It was a disturbing mystery: guns of such weight of metal were only carried by line-of-battle ships.

Lynx disappeared into the light mist while Tenacious had her topsails set and drawing within minutes of her headsails being once more complete. As she began to gather way her mainsail was loosed and she picked up speed.

The royals of a ship showed above the mist, and Lynx burst into view, a signal at her main. "Enemy in sight!" shouted Kydd from the poop, but the signal had been recognised at once.

"Clear for action!"

For the first time on the American side of the Atlantic Tenacious made ready for battle. The mist cleared slightly—giving a tantalising view of two dark shapes before it closed round them once more.

The urgent rhythm of "Hearts of Oak" ceased as Bryant reported the ship cleared fore and aft; it was replaced by a long, solemn drum-roll. Quarters!

Kydd's sword banged against his legs as he raced up the poop-deck ladder—if this were a rogue enemy 74 and frigate escort they were in dire trouble.

"Make to Lynx, 'take position one mile to windward,' if you please," said Houghton. Small fry had no business in the line when big ships met in combat.

Tenacious glided into the trailing mist, the wind now only a dying breeze. The masthead lookout hailed the deck. "Deck hoooo! Two ships, two points t' larboard, near ter five mile off!"

At Houghton's command Kydd exchanged the heavy signal telescope for the more handy glass of the officer-of-the-watch and swung up into the shrouds. He was clear of the mist by the maintop; there was no need to go further—and over there to larboard, protruding through the rumpled white upper surface of the fog, were the upper masts and tops of two vessels—ship rigged, as the lookout had said.

Kydd held the telescope against an upper shroud and gazed intently. Both were under sail but were hove to at an angle to each other. He steadied the glass and found the tricolour of France hanging limply on one, he couldn't tell for the other; certainly they were not ships-of-the-line. He swept once around the horizon, noting that the mist was clearing to patches around the enemy, and bawled down his report, then clambered back to the deck.

"What the devil? You saw no other vessels at all?" Houghton barked. They had unmistakably heard the gunfire of a ship of force.

"Sir, is it—" the master began, then the obscuring mist lifted, and some four miles away almost dead to leeward they saw the enemy.

"Damn my eyes if that ain't a frigate!" Bryant said, in wonder.

"An' that looks like one o' our merchant ships, sir," interposed Hambly.

"Lay us to wind'd of the frigate, Mr Hambly," said Houghton shortly. "We'll look for that damned ship-o'-the-line later."

Adams came up to stand beside Kydd. "Can you just conceive," he said, with a boyish grin, "what discussions must be afoot on her quarterdeck? Just about to take a fat prize and a ship-o'-the-line, no less, sails out of the fog."

Houghton said, over his shoulder, "Mr Kydd, recall Lynx— to take station astern." Aboard the Frenchman there would be something approaching panic: an additional ship in the equation, however small, meant double the worry for the unknown commander of the frigate, now making hasty sail.

"Stuns'ls, sir?" The south-easterly breeze was playful and light and they were bearing down slowly.

"No, Mr Hambly. We'll wait and see what he's going to try first." If the frigate bore away downwind there would be every reason for stuns'ls but if she moved off on the wind Tenacious could not follow until the awkward sails and their booms had been taken in.

With the rapt attention of the entire quarterdeck, the Frenchman's length foreshortened as her yards came round. "She's running large," said Bryant. It would be strange indeed if a frigate did not have the legs over a cumbersome ship-of-the-line in a stern chase and in a matter of hours she would be clean away.

The merchant ship, a large vessel with clean lines, ran up her colours as they approached. "American?" Bryant took off his hat and scratched his head, glancing up at their own ensign as if for reassurance.

"Cousin Jonathan is a neutral—what is the Frenchy up to?" Adams murmured, as they passed the cheering merchant ship under full sail.

"If y' please, sir . . ." began the master.

"Mr Hambly?"

"If I'm not wrong, sir, that's not a National Ship—she's a heavy privateer. Slight in the build, maybe over-sparred, an' the size of her crew . . ."

"I think he's right, sir," agreed Bryant, borrowing a telescope. The sea ahead was now free of mist and the chase, no more than a mile ahead, loosed all plain sail—but no stuns'l.

Houghton pursed his lips. To stand any chance of staying with the chase he must soon spread stuns'ls abroad—a canny captain of the "frigate" would wait for the manoeuvre to complete, then put his own wheel over and go close-hauled, knowing that it would take some time for his pursuer to strike his stuns'ls and follow. But on the other hand, if they did nothing, the chase would draw ahead and disappear. "Mr Hambly, be so good as to see how the chase goes."