Tenacious (18 page)

The chaplain looked grateful, and raised a tranquil face heavenward. “Let us pray.” A spreading rustle moved over the assembly. “We will pray for God’s divine guidance in this matter.” A barely smothered snort came from the first lieutenant.

Undismayed, Peake went on calmly, “As we contemplate the dreadful hurts we are going to inflict on these Frenchmen, the despoliation of bodies and minds that are the inevitable consequence of modern war—”

“Mr Peake!” Houghton’s voice was steely with warning.

“—that we must nonetheless visit on their living bodies as they seek to do to our own—”

“Mr Bryant! Beat to quarters!” roared Houghton. There was a moment’s astonishment, then the ship dissolved into frantic movement, whipped on by the volleying of drums at the hatchway.

12

Already at his station on the poop-deck, Kydd could see it all unfolding: in minutes men were standing to their guns, manning the fighting tops behind barricades of hammocks, or deep in the magazines. The boatswain’s party stood to on deck, ready to attend to the many special duties about the ship.

Now the die was solemnly cast. Each man would stay at his post until the battle was won, or lost, or he was taken below to suffer agony under the surgeon’s knife. They stood silent and watchful as their petty officers reported to the master’s mates, who then informed their officers that the men were now at their fighting stations. Then they stood easy, dealing in their individual ways with the fact that they were being borne steadily towards whatever fate was to be theirs.

“Sir, Flag is signalling,” Rawson said, his voice unsteady.

Kydd realised that this was not only the midshipman’s first big fleet action but probably the first time he would be under hostile fire from a man-o’-war. Kydd took up his telescope. “Number forty-five at the main, forty-six at the mizzen. Which is?” He was trying to keep the youngster occupied during the approach.

“A—a—” The lad’s face contorted as he tried to get the words out.

“Quite right. M’ duty to the captain, an’ Flag signals ‘attack enemy’s van and centre.’ Quickly now!” There would be little time to worry about him when battle had been joined. He swung forward and settled his glass on the enemy line.

On the face of it, the French admiral had chosen well, anchoring close in with the shore, his broadsides facing seawards.

And the bay was shoal—there was tell-tale white water and troubled rippling at awkward places. However, there were no reliable British charts of the area: they would have to take their chances on the attack. But, crucially, there was an element the French could not command: the wind. It could not be more fair for their
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approach, the north-north-westerly blowing directly down upon the van of the enemy line and towards the rear. The English could choose the time and the precise point of their attack.

Once they reached the line, however, there would be no alternative but to stand yardarm to yardarm and smash out broadsides until there was a conclusion. Kydd could see that about a third of the French men-o’-war were larger even than the biggest of their own and in the very centre of their line a monster towered above the others mounting, from the number of her gunports, 120 or more guns. The regularity of their positions indicated that they were probably secured to each other with stout cables, effectively preventing any attempt at breaking the line.

In the swiftly setting sun the French force looked awesome, and it was now their duty to throw themselves at this wall of guns whatever the cost. Again, a presentiment tightened Kydd’s bowels: this day would see a clash at arms of such an immense scale it would test every man to the limit.

A signal hoist rose rapidly up the flagship’s mizzen halliards.

Kydd had been waiting for it and hailed the quarterdeck: “Form line-of-battle as convenient.”

It was now the last act.

“Rawson, hoist battle ensigns.” It would be the white ensign; although a rear admiral of the Blue squadron, Admiral Nelson had chosen the white as being more visible in the dark: some said it was because he had a personal fondness for the purity of white in the colours.

As Rawson bent to the flag locker, Kydd added, “Captain wants t’ see four of ’em, and hoisted high.” He turned back to the flagship. As he watched, her own battle ensigns mounted swiftly, enormous flags that would leave no doubt whatsoever about her allegiance. And not four but six eventually streamed out proudly.

Bull roars of cheering erupted from their men.

Another hoist: “alter to starboard.” The English fleet now shaped their course to round the little sandy island but were in no recognisable line-of-battle. In their haste to close with the enemy they strung out eagerly,
Zealous
and
Goliath
vying with
Vanguard
for the position of honour in the lead, others crowding in behind.

Tenacious
found herself pressed by
Culloden,
which had cast off her prize under tow and was coming up fast, while
Swiftsure
and
Alexander,
astern but under a full press of sail, hastened to join them from where they had been off Alexandria.

One by one the anchored ships answered the challenge: colours soared aloft until every ship in the line flaunted the tricolour of France, and the first shots of defiance thudded out from the medieval fort at the end of the bay. The English ships did not deign to waste powder in reply.

Goliath
now led the race: with a leadsman in the chains taking continual soundings she rounded the shoals at the point of Aboukir Island and headed directly across for the first ship of the enemy line, closely followed by
Zealous.
The anchored fleet opened fire, the evening twilight adding a viciousness to the stabbing flashes piercing the towering clouds of gunsmoke. Kydd could feel the deck shaking from the massed thunder of guns.

Battle had been joined. The action that was going to determine the future of the world was beginning. Kydd’s pulse raced and he found he was clutching the hilt of his sword. How would this night end? Who would be the victor? And would he be alive to see it?

The English fleet held fire as they approached, single-mindedly heading for the van of the line. Kydd lifted his glass eagerly to witness the first British ship grapple with an enemy. It would be
Goliath:
she was flying towards the first of the enemy line as if to win a race, still with silent guns.

Kydd shifted the telescope quickly to the flagship. A final hoist
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flew: “engage the enemy more closely.” He snatched a quick look at Rawson. The lad was pale but determined, and smiled back bravely. “You’ll remember this night, Mr Rawson. We both will.”

“Don’t y’ worry of me, Mr Kydd—I’ve a duty to do, an’ I’ll do it.” He crossed over to the signal log and carefully entered the details. Kydd resumed his watch on
Goliath.

Everything depended on staying clear of the rocky shoals that lay unseen all around. In the lurid glow of a vast sunset
Goliath
reached the first ship-of-the-line. The enemy ship’s fire slackened and grew uncertain as the British 74 passed the point of intersection, for not only could her guns no longer bear but when
Goliath
’s helm went over to cross her bows she could only wait for the ruin and death that must surely follow.

From only a few yards’ range a full broadside slammed into the unprotected bow of the hapless French ship; thirty-two-pound shot smashing and rampaging through the entire length of the vessel in an unrelenting path of destruction. Through the swirling powder-smoke Kydd strained to see
Goliath
wheel about, but to his astonishment she continued on, her rigging visible beyond—on the inside of the line!

“Damme! What’s he about?” Kydd had not seen Adams arrive—he had made an excuse to leave his post at the guns below to see the excitement before they in turn were engaged. “He stands to take the ground and there, o’ course, he’ll be helpless!”

“No, I think not,” Kydd said, holding the image in his eye.

Goliath
had passed further along, her guns seeking a fresh target, while
Zealous
stretched out to reach the same point. “Ye know what I think? He’s seen the anchor buoy—these Frenchies are at single anchor, and he knows they’ve swung to th’ wind. Stands t’ reason, they have to leave room to swing an’ that’s where he’s going to place his ship.” It was daring and intelligent and the

move was from individual initiative, not the result of a signal. It deserved to succeed.

Zealous
reached the line—again the erupting billows of gunsmoke. In the gathering darkness gun-flash illuminated it eerily from within. The Frenchman’s foremast toppled and crashed.

The British ship’s helm went over and she likewise ran down the inside, slowing after her stern anchor was slipped, which brought her to a stop abreast her helpless target to begin a relentless pounding.

Kydd’s fist thumped the rail as he willed
Tenacious
to join the fight. A shout came from behind, from one of the signal hands.

“Sir!
Culloden,
she’s—” Kydd wheeled round and peered into the twilight. Next astern,
Culloden
lay unmoving, stopped dead and at an unnatural angle of heel.

“She’s run aground, God save ’em,” said Adams. In her hurry to clear Aboukir Island she had shaved the point too closely.

“Can’t be helped. Now they’ll miss the sport.”

A signal hoist jerked up
Culloden
’s masts, then another.

Kydd deciphered them and hurried down to the quarterdeck to Houghton. “Sir, number forty-three—
Culloden
is aground an’

warning us, and does recall
Mutine
f’r assistance.”

Houghton stopped pacing. “The warning is more for
Swiftsure
and
Alexander,
I should think,” he muttered, looking at the developing battle ahead, then back to the helpless man-o’-war.

“More to the point, what possible use to Troubridge is
Mutine,
a contemptible little brig?”

“There is no other,” Bryant said shortly, eyes straying to the noise and gunfire of the battle.

“Mr Bryant,
we
must assist.”

“
We,
sir?”

“Of all the admiral’s ships, which do you think he can most spare? We are the smallest, the most insignificant of his force, but
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we
are
a ship-of-the-line and have the size to be of consequence in assisting.”

Bryant spluttered, “Sir! They must take their chances! We have a duty—”

“Mr Hambly, haul us out of the line and bring us to, a cable’s length off
Culloden.
Mr Kydd, signal her that we are coming to assist. Mr Bryant, you will go in a boat and speak with Captain Troubridge, requesting his orders in respect of any assistance we might be able to give.”

Tenacious
would thus be denied the glory of the grandest fight in history in order to stand by a stranded ship. Kydd held his silence as he returned to his station. Lifting his telescope again he could see the thrilling sight of
Audacious
following
Zealous.

As he watched, her passing broadside at the luckless enemy sent her mainmast toppling like a felled tree. The main body of the English fleet now reached the head of the line;
Theseus
and
Orion
followed the others inside. As close as Kydd could see, the firing was one-sided: the French had not prepared for action on their inshore sides.

Near Aboukir Island
Tenacious
hove to, well clear of the unfortunate
Culloden.
Her boat pulled for the motionless 74, watched sourly from the ship by frustrated seamen while the battle raged on without them.

Kydd stared helplessly at the great spectacle: now the flagship was coming down on the French line—she, however, chose the seaward side and the vengeful French gunners smashed out their anger in broadsides. Undeterred,
Vanguard
selected her prey and, anchoring by the stern, eased to a stop and began her own cannonade. Others followed their admiral, and Kydd’s last sight of the battle, before darkness and vast quantities of powder-smoke split by gun-flash hid his view, was the black shapes of the remainder of the English fleet streaming into action down the French line.

Where
Tenacious
was hove to there were only the sounds,

overloud in the dark, of backed sails slapping and fretful, the slop of water against her side and the monotone grumbling of seamen.

Out of the dark Kydd heard a hail, then confused shouting.

A telescope was of little use now and he tried to make out the source. He saw a glimmer of light from a lanthorn in their boat, the rowers laying into their oars like lunatics and the first lieutenant standing, ranting, urging. The boat surged alongside. Bryant heaved himself up and bounded on to the quarterdeck. “Sir—

Cap’n Troubridge thanks you for your concern, but advises we should lose no time in joining the fleet.”

A roar of cheering erupted and, without orders, seamen clapped on to the braces. Houghton said calmly, “We shall pass down their line and the first Frenchman unengaged is ours.”

The yards came round and
Tenacious
resumed her charge.

Little could be made out at the distance but as they came closer individual fights resolved, illuminated by furious gunfire. Ships lay together in palls of smoke and it was clear that the first half of the French line was in trouble. The inspired action of
Goliath
passing down the inshore side had resulted in it being pitilessly battered from both sides.