Tenacious (13 page)

“Nicholas!” Kydd pleaded. “Be s’ good as to tell y’r friends what you saw—and heard, o’ course. Are we to—”

Renzi paused for a moment, then said firmly, “It’s Malta.” The island was almost at the geometrical centre of the Mediterranean and astride the main east–west sea routes. With a stone-built fortress of great antiquity and a magnificent harbour, it had been

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ruled for seven hundred years by warrior monks, the Knights of St John Hospitallers, who still held feudal court over the Maltese.

“How do you know?” Renzi was pressed by several at once.

“I was there when Captain Troubridge was still aboard, pacing about the quarterdeck with Nelson. It seems, gentlemen, that the armament was recently seen passing southward. It is perfectly logical that Malta is the objective.”

“Surely a descent on Sicily is to be recommended?” Adams said. “With this, Buonaparte has Naples and the rest of Italy and can split the Mediterranean in two—a far greater prize, I believe.”

“Therefore what better than to take Malta as a safe harbour for the seizure of Sicily? Do not neglect the attraction of the gold and treasure of seven hundred years.”

“A pox on all this talk!” Bryant grated. “Let’s be after ’em afore they sets ashore—wherever they’re headed.”

“I think we’ll find our answer at the Strait of Messina,” Renzi continued equably. “Our French tyrant must pass through and then we’ll see what kind of course he shapes.”

Kydd remembered that the strait divided Italy from Sicily but was hazy about the details. “They’ll be close enough t’ spy from ashore?”

Renzi raised an eyebrow. “When you recollect that these very same are the lair of the Scylla and Charybdis of the ancients . . .”

He paused, but in the absence of cries of understanding he went on: “. . . which are the terrors that lie in wait for the unwary mariner each side of the strait that he must brave if he wishes to pass through.

“On the one side, there is Scylla who dwells in a cave high up.

She will dart forth her snaky heads, seize sailors from the very decks of their ship and bear them away shrieking to her den.

And on the other is Charybdis, who engulfs the laggardly in a

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frightful chasm into which the seas rush with a mighty roar that may be heard for leagues. I fear it is this passage we must ourselves soon hazard . . .”

There were no ancient monsters, but the narrow strait held another threat: only a mile wide, it was a perfect location should the French fleet, having got wind of their presence, desire to lie in wait. The English, without scouting frigates and having no room to turn and manoeuvre, would be helpless.

During the night they passed Stromboli, its lurid orange flaring up to deter them. They reached the strait but no French warships loomed. However, it was clear they were expected: the scrubby foreshore was crowded with people. The fleet hove to and boats came out immediately. One with an enormous union flag made straight for the flagship.

Bryant brought the news from
Vanguard
they had been waiting for. “Malta, right enough! An’ caught in the act—the consul said the Grand Master gave up the island to this Buonaparte only a week past. Much plundering an’ such but now he’s to account to us.”

“Aye,” Kydd answered. “But we’ll settle him, depend on’t.”

He remembered the time he had spent in the last days of Venice, another antique civilisation, with centuries of continuous history, brought down by the same ruthless leader. He felt bitter that the world he had grown up in, with all its traditional ways, its colour and individuality, was now being dragged into chaos and desolation by this man.

The flagship picked up her pilot for the passage and, ignoring the hundreds of boats that now surrounded them, the fleet formed line for the transit. From the fervent cries and theatrical gestures of the populace there was no doubt that they saw Nelson’s fleet as their only safeguard against the dreaded Buonaparte.

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There were currents as fast as a man could run, but they met no other perils as they passed through the strait. The eastern Mediterranean: few aboard had been in this half of the ancient world. To the south were the sands of North Africa and far to the east the fabled Holy Land. On the northern side was Greece, the classical fount of civilisation, and then the Ottomans in Constantinople. Every one was now under threat of war.

Ahead, a bare two days’ sail, was the victorious enemy. Would the fleet stay within the fastness of the Grand Harbour, reputedly the greatest stronghold in the Mediterranean, or, with their greater numbers, would they chance an encounter at sea? Would Napoleon Buonaparte himself take command on the flagship?

With stakes so high, nothing short of a fight to the finish would serve: Nelson would ensure this. Possibly within a day these waters would witness a battle whose like they had never seen before.

It was crucial that any piece of intelligence was brought to bear. From every ship in the fleet, boarding parties were sent away to stop and question all vessels of size, but with little result: it would be a brave merchantman who ventured close to Malta during these times.

They stood to the southward, ready for whatever might come at Malta. Yet again the signal hoisted in the flagship was “investi-gate strange sail.” And once again it was
Tenacious
’s pennants that accompanied it.

“Your bird,” grunted Bryant to Kydd. The sail was now visible from the deck and it was small.

“Aye aye, sir,” Kydd answered, without enthusiasm, and went to his cabin to change into a more presentable frock-coat, then buckle on his sword. Rawson could be relied on to muster the boat’s crew. They had time:
Tenacious
had left the line and was

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thrashing out under full sail to intercept. Only when they had stopped the vessel would he take away the cutter, which was now kept towing astern.

This was not his first boarding and he had grown weary of trying to make himself understood to those who had every reason not to understand him.

It was yet another of the myriad small craft plying the inland sea, a brig of uncertain origin that had led them on a fine dance and now lay under backed mainsail, awaiting Kydd and his party.

As so often there were no colours flying. Idly, Rawson speculated on the short passage across. “An Austrian, I’d wager. Surly-lookin’ crew—be trading with Sicily, sugar f’r wine or some such.

What d’ you think, Mr Hercules?”

Bowden sat with his face turned towards the brig and said nothing. There was only need to take one midshipman, whose task was to stay in the boat and keep the seamen from idle talk, but Kydd wanted Bowden and his French with him. Rawson’s animosity towards the boy irritated him and no doubt made the lad’s life hard in the crude confines of the midshipmen’s berth.

“Pipe down, Rawson,” Kydd snapped irritably. But there was nothing more he could do for Bowden that would not be construed as favouritism; the lad must find his own salvation.

The boat bumped alongside and Kydd stood up as the bowman hooked on the shabby fore chains. He stared directly at the only man on deck wearing a coat instead of the universal blouse and sash of the Mediterranean sailor, probably the master.

The brig reeked of dried fish. Eventually the man growled at one of the sullen seamen, who threw a wooden-stepped rope-ladder over the side.

“Thank ’ee,” he said politely, and mounted to the deck.

“L’tenant Kydd, Royal Navy,” he intoned, bowing.

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Significant looks were exchanged and there was a low mutter among the other men beginning to gather. “Which is the captain?” Kydd said loudly.
“Cap-tain,”
he repeated slowly. There was no response. “Bowden, ask ’em in French, an’ say who we are.” Still no one replied. They stared stonily at Kydd.

“Th’ captain!” Kydd said sharply.

“Is mi,” the man in the coat grunted, keeping his distance.

Kydd understood his reluctance: he might now be making a prize of their vessel or, at the very least, pressing men and he was backed by the mighty presence a few hundred yards away of a ship-of-the-line.

“Y’r papers,” Kydd said, miming the riffling of paper.

The master eased a well-thumbed wad out of his waistcoat and handed them across without expression.

“Ah—a Ragusan.” Although the language of the registry certificate was none that he could decipher, the vessel’s origins were plain. Ragusa was a busy port in the Balkans opposite Italy and, as far as Kydd could remember, still ruled by the Bourbons and therefore not an enemy.

He pulled out the crew list and gave it a quick search: it was unlikely that a British deserter would be careless enough to sign up under his own name, but this had happened in Kydd’s experience. He recognised the layout of a bill of lading, but it was incomprehensible. The next document was a little less oblique, but as Kydd pored over the certificate of clearance from Chioggia, which he remembered was near Venice, he sensed a sudden tension. Should they be found to be carrying cargo bound for any French possession, by the rules of war it was contraband: they stood to have it and the ship seized as lawful prize.

However, his orders were plain: they were not for prize-
taking but for the acquiring of intelligence by any means, after the source had been shown to be friendly and therefore reliable.

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With a smile he closed the papers, and fixed the master’s eye.

“Fair winds, then, Cap’n, and a prosperous voyage to ye.” The brig was obviously trading with the enemy—how else could they survive commercially in the eastern Mediterranean? It was their bad luck that the English had chosen to enter there now.

Bowden started to translate but the man waved him to silence.

“Got luck,
tenente,
” he said stolidly, and, more strongly, “By God grace, to wictory of the
francesi,
sir.”

“Thank you, Cap’n,” Kydd said, with a little bow. “Have you b’ chance seen ’em at sea on your voyage?” he added casually, making rocking motions with his hands.

“No,
tenente.
Not as after they sail fr’m Malta.”

Kydd couldn’t believe his ears. “They have left Malta?”

“
Certamente—
all ships, all men, now sail.”

This was incredible. It was much too soon for the invasion fleet to sail back to France, but if not, where were they? He had to be sure. If on
his
word Nelson stopped looking around Malta for the fleet and went off in some other direction . . .

“Captain, I have t’ know! Very important!” The man nodded vigorously. “What day did they sail?” asked Kydd.

“Ah,
seidici giugno.
You say . . .” He frowned in concentration, then traced sixteen in his palm and looked up apologetically.

Just four days previously! “Captain, what course did they steer when they left?”

“Che?”

Kydd ground his teeth in exasperation. “Bowden, tell them.”

“Sir, it seems in this part of the Mediterranean they only have dog-Italian or German. I—I don’t know those.” He flushed.

Kydd turned back to the master. “What—course—they—

steer?” He aped a man at the wheel peering at a compass.

“
Scusi,
they not seen by me,” he said, turning away.

The fleet had sailed after invading Malta. Now the French

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were close, very close—but this was about as much information as he was going to get. “Thank you, sir, you’ve been very helpful,”

Kydd said. He hailed the cutter alongside and tumbled in. “Stretch out, y’ buggers, pull y’ hearts out—the Frogs’re close by!”

“You are quite certain, sir?” Admiral Nelson fixed Kydd with a stare so acute it made him falter.

“Er—sir, you’ll understand I had t’ win his favour, so I overlooked his contraband cargo as prize—”

“Rightly so!” Nelson snapped. “It is never the duty of a naval officer to be gathering prizes when the enemy is abroad.”

“—and therefore, sir, he had no reason t’ lie to me.”

The stare held, then Nelson turned to his flag-lieutenant. “Fleet to heave to, and I shall have—let me see, Troubridge, Saumarez, Ball and Darby to repair aboard directly.”

Kydd waited, uncertain. On the weather side of the quarterdeck Nelson paced forward, deep in thought. He saw Kydd and said absently, “Remain aboard, if you please. We may have further questions of you.” The slow pacing continued. Kydd kept out of the way.

The first boat arrived. Boatswain’s calls pealed out as a commanding figure with a patrician air and wearing full decorations came up the side. The young officer-of-the-watch whispered to Kydd, “That’s Saumarez o’ the
Orion,
a taut hand but a cold fish betimes.”

Next to board was a well-built, straight-eyed captain in comfortable sea rig. “Troubridge,
Culloden,
second senior, o’ course.

Fine friends with Our Nel from the American war. Don’t be flammed by his appearance—Jervis thinks him even better’n Nelson.” Nelson greeted him warmly and began to walk com-panionably with him.

A voice called loudly from the poop-deck and a signal lieutenant appeared at the rail. “Sir, the strange sail we saw earlier—

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Leander
signals they’re frigates.”
Culloden
and
Orion
hauled their wind and prepared to close with them.

Nelson stopped: frigates were a significant force and the first French warships they had seen. He hesitated for a second, then ordered, “Call in the chasing ships.” The signal lieutenant disappeared to comply. “I rather think that with the French fleet close, I shall keep my fleet whole,” he added, to the remaining officers.