Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

The sailing master found his sextant and measured the angle from masthead to waterline of their prey. A few minutes later he repeated the action. "We're dropping astern by as much as two knots, I fear, sir."

"Not worth our trouble," Adams said gloomily to Kydd. "We spread more sail, so does she—an' I've yet to find any two-decker can stay with a frigate. She'll be hull down by sunset."

The Frenchman was now visibly drawing away, disdaining even to set her own stuns'ls. Houghton took a telescope and trained it for a long time on the chase. Suddenly he snapped shut the glass. "Pass the word to Mr Bampton and Mr Renzi—we will yaw, and on command they will pepper the rogue with a full broadside."

The midshipman messenger touched his hat, expressionless. Even he knew that this was a last gesture after which the Frenchman could sail away over the horizon in peace. Houghton's action would hopelessly slow their advance in the light winds. The lad ran off smartly and from the rumbling Kydd could picture the long twenty-fours being run out, hand-spikes plied to make them bear as far forward as they could—and the talk around the guns as men peered out of open gunports to catch a sight of their target.

Houghton paced impatiently, waiting for the youngster to report back, his gaze fixed on the ship ahead.

Reported ready, it needed only the captain's order to complete their final, aggressive, act. Houghton gave a brief smile to the group on the quarterdeck, and said quietly to Hambly, "Larboard, if you please."

Tenacious sheered off slowly, giving the gun-captains time to lay their weapons, so when the order to open fire was given the guns crashed out almost together. Smoke rolled down lazily on their target and, seconds later, the sudden eruption of a forest of white splashes along the line of sight brought war-like roars from the gun-decks.

The wheel spun and, sluggishly, Tenacious traced her bowsprit back on target, and past. She steadied for a moment, and her opposite broadside thundered out across the calm seas. Again the gun-smoke, the close scatter of splashes—then the enemy's miz-zen topmast fell in a graceful curve.

"Please, God . . ." breathed Adams. It was by no means a decisive hit, but the complete absence of square sail on the mizzen might be enough to hamper the vessel, allowing them to close and engage.

Activity died down as every man stared forward, willing the chase to falter, but it was not to be. Sacrificing his wounded topmast, trailing in the water alongside, the French ship ruthlessly cut it loose and continued on as before.

"O' course, she won't grieve over the topmast," Kydd said, glumly. "Going large, she c'n balance by tricing up the clew o' the mains'l one side. She knows all she has t' do is carry on and she'll lose us."

"That may be so," Adams said, "but what happens when she wants to go by the wind? Close-hauled she'd be a cripple."

"And why would she do that?" Bampton's acid comment from behind was nearly lost in a general growl of dismay at the sudden crump of gunfire and smoke issuing out from their quarry.

"She has stern-chasers," Adams remarked soberly. These guns, which could fire straight aft into a pursuer when there was no opportunity to return fire, would be a sore trial. At the next salvo Kydd heard the crack of the guns and, moments later, felt the slam of the passage of one ball over their heads. Several officers ducked automatically, then rose shamefacedly.

"Marines, go below. Stand the men down into the waist, Mr Bryant," Houghton ordered. Although these were only light six-pounders banging away, a hit would kill.

They kept up the chase for another twenty minutes, falling astern the whole while until the first lieutenant approached the captain. "There's no profit in this, sir—we shall have to give him best, I fear."

Houghton glared at him. "Damned if I will! Observe—he cannot run to leeward for ever. On this course he stands to meet the Nantucket shoals off Cape Cod before long. He must choose then between hauling his wind and going east about the Cape to slip into the Gulf o' Maine, or an easier passage west but directly into United States waters.

"I want to box him into the coast. Therefore I shall desire Lynx to lie to his starb'd and persuade him that this is his better course." The little sloop would thus stand between the enemy and a refuge in the wider reaches of the Gulf of Maine—but it would be a foolhardy move for the French captain to take on the little ship knowing that just one lucky hit from any of the sloop's sixteen six-pounders could deliver her straight into the clutches of the waiting bigger ship.

"Aye, sir."

Houghton smiled for the first time. "And when he has to bear away, he's under our lee and then we'll have him . . ."

In the early afternoon, the enemy was far ahead but, with Lynx faithfully to her starboard, the master was satisfied that they were irrevocably within the hook of the shoals, cutting off her escape to the east. "Tides o' five knots or more around 'em. Steep too, so sounding won't answer and if fog comes, it's all up with the ship," he added, with feeling.

The wind dropped further until it was a ghosting calm, favouring the smaller vessel, which glided a little further and out of range before ceasing movement. The three ships lay becalmed in the grey dusk.

Kydd came on watch: the position of the chase the same. In the night hours there was a choice for their quarry—to attempt a repair by the light of bunched lanthorns, or not show any betraying light and hope to steal away in the night.

She chose the latter: were it not for the quick-witted commander of Lynx she might have succeeded. As darkness closed in, the little sloop rigged a makeshift beacon for Tenacious of a cluster of lanthorns in a box beaming their light secretly in one direction only.

Through the night Lynx stayed faithfully with the enemy, her beacon trained; Tenacious lay back in the blackness. When the wind came up some time after midnight and the privateer captain made his move, Houghton knew all about it.

Coming round to the west, the Frenchman clearly wanted to put distance between him and his tormentor before he struck for the open sea, but dawn's grey light showed her the flat nondescript coast of an outlying island of New England to the northeast and two men-o'-war of the Royal Navy to seaward.

Houghton was on deck to greet the dawn, sniffing the wind's direction. "We have him!" he said, with relish. "He can't show much sail forrard with this wind abeam and no square sail aft— we can try for a conclusion before noon, I believe." He looked at the group on the quarterdeck with satisfaction. "It will be a good day's work for all today."

Tenacious bore down, guns run out. With land to leeward and two English ships to weather, the Frenchman's only course was west, the wind veering more southerly. To maintain a reasonable westerly course it was necessary to balance fore and aft sail: with no mizzen topsail the logical thing was to reduce sail forward to compensate and accept a loss of speed.

However, from her cro'jack yard canvas appeared. It was not a sail-bearing spar but the French had lashed a sail along its length, loosed it and secured its clews. They had a drawing square sail aft. Kydd shook his head in admiration; admittedly the "sail" blanketed the poop, silencing the chase guns, but she could keep ahead of her pursuers.

"I'm not concerned," said Houghton, in tones that suggested he was. "There's Long Island Sound ahead—he has to go about or he'll be trapped, so it's there we'll have Lynx waiting."

Kydd's first sight of the United States, therefore, was the nondescript sandy scrubland of Block Island ahead, then the low, forested New England coast to the north.