Tenacious (22 page)

They pulled steadily towards the motionless French ship-of-the-line and as they did so the men began to cheer and whoop—

the second vessel aground had lowered her colours. “Silence in the boat!” growled Kydd. He would see to it that the surrender was seemly and in accordance with the strict and ancient customs of the Royal Navy.

As they rounded the stern, they saw, below the shattered windows and trailing ropes, the vessel’s name:
Heureux.
“Means

‘happy,’ sir,” the nuggety Channel Islander offered.

“Thank you, Gurnard,” Kydd replied, thinking it an odd name for a ship-of-the-line. “We shall find a better when she’s ours, you may depend upon it.”

The bowman hooked on at the side steps, ignoring stony looks from the French seamen above. Kydd addressed himself to the task of going up the side. It would be disastrous if he lost his footing or stumbled. He jammed on his hat firmly and, keeping his sword scabbard from between his legs, he heaved himself up.

The noisy jabbering lessened as Kydd stepped aboard. A knot

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of officers stood before him, their eyes hostile; around them were scores of seamen, staring and resentful. Others were coming up from below, filling the decks.

An older officer with the gold of authority removed his hat and gave a short, stiff bow. Kydd returned it, removing his own hat.

“
Je suis Jean Étienne, le capitaine de vaisseau national de
France
Heureux.” His voice was hoarse.

“L’tenant Thomas Kydd, of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship
Tenacious.
” Bows were exchanged again as Gurnard translated, the captain’s eyes never leaving Kydd’s.

“Pour l’honneur de la patrie
. . .”

Gurnard spoke quickly to keep up: it seemed that only in the face of so patently an overwhelming force and the unfortunate absence of their great commander had they been brought to this pass. “He seems t’ be much concerned, sir, that you, er, recognise the heroic defence of their vessel . . . He says, sir, t’ avoid further, um, effusion o’ blood it were better they acknowledge their present situation . . .”

“Par conséquent
. . .
à bas le pavillon
. . .
je rends le vaisseau.”

“An’ therefore he must strike his colours and give up the vessel.” A hush fell over the upper deck as the word rippled out.

Kydd returned the intense look gravely. “I sympathise with Captain Étienne’s position, an’ can only admire the courage he an’ his ship’s company have shown.” He searched for more words but it was difficult to suppress the leaping exultation that filled his thoughts. He tried to think of what it must be like to yield up one’s ship. “And I do hope, sir, that th’ fortune of war sees you soon returned t’ a fitting place of honour.”

The captain inclined his head and stepped forward. His eyes released Kydd’s as he unhooked his sword and scabbard from its belt fastening. There was a pause for just a heartbeat, then
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Étienne held out the lengthy curved and tasselled weapon in both hands.

It was Kydd’s decision: if there had been a truly heroic defence he had an option to return the sword; in this instance, he thought not. With a civil bow he accepted the sword and handed it smoothly to Rawson. Étienne made a courtly bow, then straightened. It was impossible to discern any emotion in his expression.

“Thank you, Captain. I accept th’ sword of a gentleman in token of the capitulation o’ this vessel.” Something like a sigh went up from the watching company as Gurnard spoke the words of finality and closure.

Kydd paused and looked about: this was a memory that would stay with him all his days. He turned to a seaman. “Hoist our colours above th’ French at the mizzen peak halliards, if y’

please.”

Facing Étienne he said directly, “If you’d be good enough to leave the magazine keys with me, sir . . .” There was no compro-mise in his tone: any madman with a taste for glorious suicide could put them all in mortal peril.

Étienne muttered briefly to another officer who left and returned with a bunch of keys, which he handed to Kydd, who gave them to the sergeant of marines. “Now, sir, you are free t’

go about your business until I receive my further orders. Good day to you, sir.”

Kydd’s role was over. The marines had secured the magazines, the French sailors were dispersing below to whatever consolations remained until they were taken in charge. But while he waited to be relieved from
Tenacious,
Kydd declined, out of respect for the feelings of the officers, to enter the cabin spaces and wardroom and remained on deck.

Absently, his steps led him up to the poop-deck, to
Heureux
’s

signal position under the two big flags that floated overhead.

He sighed deeply. The bay of Aboukir in the glittering purity of early morning had all the desolation and grandeur of a dying battlefield. Every man-o’-war in the French line stretching away to the north lay in the stillness of surrender, ship after ship, some broken, mastless wrecks, one lying inshore with only her upper-works above water and, closer, a frigate still afire.

Resistance in the south was nearly at an end; the last two ships of the French line had cut their cables and were now fleeing with two frigates—but Nelson was signalling, urging
Swiftsure
and the others in chase. Only two enemy were left: one was drifting helplessly on the shoals and the other was no more than a defiant wreck that must shortly be silenced by the English ships coming down in reinforcement.

Kydd shook his head in silent admiration. It was a victory on such a scale as never before in history—not merely the winning but the complete annihilation. “Victory” was not strong enough a word to describe what lay before him.

“Glory be, it’s incredible!” breathed Rawson, gripped by the glittering expanse of the Bay of Naples covered with hundreds of boats whose joyous passengers shouted and waved wildly. They had come to see Nelson, hero of the Nile, grand conqueror of the dreaded French with their dreams of empire, terminator of the ambitions of the greatest general of the age.

“Be sure an’ you’ll not see the like o’ this again,” Kydd responded, equally awestruck. As they drew closer he saw the seafront, coast roads, quayside and the ramparts of castles all black with massed sightseers.

Sounds of music and the martial thumping of drums came towards them from three flag-bedecked barges rowed abreast in which musicians enthusiastically beat out “Rule Britannia” and

“God Save the King.” A ceremonial felucca forged into the lead, her foredeck packed with an angelic choir in laurel leaves. Not to be outdone, the noble barges in the colours of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and Great Britain pulled strongly seawards towards the battle-worn men-o’-war.

Kydd glanced astern. Rear Admiral Nelson was standing on the quarterdeck of his flagship.
Vanguard
was under tow by
Tenacious:
the foremast that had been repaired after the storm off

Toulon and seen her through the long battle had not survived the squally weather they had encountered within sight of Stromboli.

Kydd snatched a quick look through his telescope. Over his gold-laced frock-coat the admiral wore a red sash with the resplendent star of the Bath over his breast; spangles of light came from his gold and silver medals. Unmistakable with his empty sleeve pinned up, he stood grave and unmoving in the centre of the quarterdeck from which he had fought his great battle.

Nelson had retained only two of his squadron,
Culloden
and
Alexander—
the rest had been dispatched to Gibraltar and tasks about the Mediterranean. He had employed
Tenacious
to assist his battered ship back to Naples, the only friendly port in a friendless sea.

More boats arrived and the bay filled with noise, colour and excitement. One vessel in particular caught Kydd’s eye, a rich and stately barge with an imperious female figure in white gossamer gesticulating hysterically in its prow. He saw at the ensign staff that this was an English official craft of high status, probably the ambassador.

Before he could confirm it, Rawson exclaimed, “Flag, sir—she signals.” It was “cast off the tow.”
Tenacious
would round to, and wait for
Vanguard
with her reduced sail to overtake and precede her into harbour.

The press of boats advanced and one by one the upper-deck guns of
Vanguard
began to thud—twenty-one for the King.

Tenacious
followed gun for gun, her brave show of flags streaming out in the smoke. The ambassadorial barge at last reached the flagship, which backed topsails while a small party was helped up the side. A large union flag broke at the mizzen and
Vanguard
moved ahead slowly to her anchorage.

Even before she had swung to her anchor she was surrounded by clamouring watercraft. Guns banged and thudded from the
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towered castles ashore as salutes were exchanged and shrieks of feminine delight greeted the thunder of the flagship’s guns, which had last spoken at the Nile.

The tide of boats enveloped
Tenacious
as well. Nobles and wives, courtiers and mistresses, all had come to see the famed warriors of the sea. Renzi’s Italian was much in demand as the flower of Neapolitan society was escorted aboard and given a tour of one of Nelson’s famed men-o’-war.

A richly ornamented royal barge put off from the shore.

“Quickly, lad,” Kydd told Rawson. “Rouse out y’r Naples standard an’ as many ensigns as y’ can find. Hoist ’em for breaking at fore, main ’n’ mizzen.” The navy had a way of invisibly hoisting a flag and setting it a-fly at exactly the right time, by folding the bunting tightly and passing a hitch round it. At the signal a sharp tug on the halliard would burst it open to float proudly on the wind.

The royal barge headed directly for the flagship and curious eyes made out the long figure of the King in black velvet and gold lace as he joined the ambassador on the quarterdeck of Nelson’s ship, then went below. An hour later the King returned on deck, to resume his ceremonial barge for his return, Admiral Nelson prominently at his side.

“Gentlemen!” Houghton called for attention, holding a paper.

“Tonight every officer of the fleet shall be a guest at a grand official banquet in our honour. I desire each of you to exert every effort in your appearance . . .”

In the evening twilight boats of the fleet made their way inshore.

As each pinnace touched at the quayside it was met with surging crowds and strident huzzahs of
Bravissimo! Nelson, il vincitore
di Abukir!
The officers stepped ashore in a cloud of flapping birds released by fishermen.

Open-top carriages whisked them away, through noisy, ec-static crowds, into the maze of streets behind the massive fortress that dominated the foreshore, and after a short journey they arrived in the courtyard of a dark stone Romanesque building.

They were handed down by liveried footmen, and conducted into a reception room entirely in red and gold, with extravagantly ornate chandeliers. For Kydd, the simple blue, white and gold of the naval officers stood out clean and noble against such overpowering opulence.

A receiving line was in progress at the opposite end of the room. Officers conversed self-consciously as they waited their turn while servants bore round flutes of iced champagne. It all had a giddying impact on Kydd’s senses. He glanced at Renzi, who winked.

“You have met General Acton?” a nearby equerry asked.

“L’tenant Kydd, HMS
Tenacious,
an’ I have yet t’ make His Excellency’s acquaintance,” Kydd replied, remembering what he had been told: Acton was the English-born prime minister of Naples, known afar as a master diplomatist.

The room filled with more blue and gold, the champagne came round again, and Kydd found himself being politely addressed by the general, who was arrayed in a handsome embroidered uniform, complete with a sash at the waist. Kydd had taken the precaution of having Renzi move through the line before him, so his civil inclination of the head and his polite notice of the austere woman at the general’s side was a model of urbanity.

Others arrived: one Italianate officer, improbably in black leather buskins, had a large scimitar hanging from a broad belt, his moustache working with the effort of conveying his emotions at the magnificent victory.

A short peal of trumpets in the next room summoned all to dinner. Kydd knew his duty, and as a junior officer obediently
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entered the banquet hall among the first, and was ushered to a table far from the place of honour awaiting its hero. A small ensemble
in sordina
delicately picked its way through “Rule Britannia” while the purple and gold banquet hall filled with sea officers trying hard to appear unaffected by the magnificence.

“Boyd, third o’ the
Alexander.
” The cherubic officer on Kydd’s right introduced himself.

“Kydd, fifth o’
Tenacious.
An’ proud t’ take the hand of any out o’ the ship I saw so handsomely take th’ admiral under tow in that blow off Corsica.”

Boyd broke into a grin, which widened when the officer opposite Kydd leaned over to offer his hand as well. “Aye, that was clean done indeed,” he rumbled, his older face creased with memory. “You should really have been there to see Our Nel in a passion, shaking his fist at
Alexander
for disobedience in not casting off the tow. Oh—Hayward of
Vanguard,
” he added.