A buzz of excitement went through the spectators, which died away to silence when he reloaded and took aim once more. He repeated the unconscious pointing and miraculously the target took another hit.
“Silence!” the Master-at-Arms roared, in the sudden commotion.
There must be more to it than this, thought Kydd, and at his last shot he tried to put more science into his aim. The little foresight settled on the target, Kydd finding it difficult to focus on both at the same time.
He knew immediately he pulled the trigger that he had missed, and a spreading sigh from the crowd confirmed it was so.
“Well done, lad — two of three is better’n most,” the Master-at-Arms said.
At conclusion of the exercise Kydd was called over. “M’duty to Mr. Tewsley, and you are to ’ave an extra tot at seven bells.”
“Nasty piece o’ work, them muskets!” Claggett muttered.
“Why’d y’ say that?” Kydd asked.
“If you was in a frigate, yer wouldn’t ask!” Claggett replied with feeling. “You’s servin’ the upper deck midships guns with yer mates, all open t’ the sky, an’ it’s a right smashin’ match, yardarm ter yardarm. Then yer see that yer mates are gettin’ picked orf, one after the other as they’re busy workin’ the guns. You wonder when it’s goin’ to be your turn next. An’ it’s all ’cos they have these buggers with muskets in the tops firin’ down on yer ’n’ you can do nothin’ about it — a-tall.” He drained his pot and glared at Kydd. “Ain’t fer sailors!” he said forcefully.
“Bear away, shipmate,” Doud said. “Kydd may get to settle a Frenchy or two fer you in a couple o’ days!”
In the dog-watches the novelty of imminent action ashore lifted spirits and animated conversations. But it also generated nervous energy that found its release in yet more drill — close-quarters combat.
Kydd realized that this was a totally different affair. Instead of action at a distance, as with any gun, this would be a matter of man to man. The first to make a mistake would surely find himself choking his life out on his own blood. He wondered if he could stand up against some fierce bull of a Frenchman violently intent on his destruction. His imagination produced an image of a big sans-culotte, mustachioed, face distorted with hatred and closing in to batter down his guard and hack him to pieces. Kydd tried to focus instead on Lieutenant Lockwood.
“As you are new men, I will commence by mentioning the weapons you may be called upon to employ. First, we have the boarding pike.” He moved over to the mainmast and selected one from the circle set around the base of the mast. “It is only used to repel boarders, but it is remarkably effective in that role.” Lockwood passed it over. He had a cool, detached manner, which only added to the menace of what he said.
The pike passed from hand to hand, and Kydd gripped it nervously. Slender but strong, it had at its tip a concentrated forged and ground spike. It was seven feet long, and he could not help but wonder what he would do if called away as a boarder to be faced with these pointing at him from the enemy decks.
“And this is a tomahawk,” Lockwood continued, holding up a vicious-looking small axe with a blade on one side and a spike on the other. “You will find that this is actually quite useful also in dealing with cordage, grappling irons and other impedimenta.” He passed it over too. “When boarding an enemy ship you will have two pistols. These are useless” — he fixed the men with a meaningful look —“at more than a few feet range. If you decide to fire, discharge the pistol into the face of your opponent. The piece is then useless — you will certainly have no time to reload — but then you are possessed of a fine club.” Nobody laughed. “Or throw it away.” He reached behind him and produced a bundle of equipment.
The restless stirring died down, each man detecting a change in Lockwood’s manner.
“But this is your main weapon. It is the boarder’s best friend and you will practice its use constantly from now on until it can be relied upon in mortal combat to save your life, and therefore to take your enemy’s.”
Kydd watched, hypnotized, as Lockwood slipped on the equipment. There was a belt around the waist and a cross-belt over the shoulders. A scabbard hung on his left side from which, with a steely hiss, he drew a deadly-looking implement. “The sea-service cutlass!”
An arms chest lay on the gratings, and each man was told to take one. There were no scabbards, so Kydd stood with the weapon awkwardly in his hand. The cutlass was heavy, the wide working blade of dull speckled steel with a thin shine of oil, sharp on one side and coming to a robust point. The ropework hilt was almost enclosed with a black guard, which was plain and workmanlike. Kydd wondered whose blood the weapon had already tasted.
“If there is one lesson that I want to teach you, it is this one,” and Lockwood called to an assisting seaman. The man came at him in slow motion. He raised his cutlass to deal a devastating slash down on the officer’s unprotected head.
They both paused for a count of two.
“Watch!” commanded Lockwood.
They resumed their motions, but as the sailor’s blow descended, Lockwood simply extended his arm and the tip of his cutlass rested on the breast of the seaman well before the man could connect with his own blade.
“This man deals the heavier blow — but now he is dead!” Lockwood said dramatically. “Thrust with the point always, never slash the blade. It only needs one inch of steel to decide the issue.”
The advice seared itself into Kydd’s mind.
“So, bearing that in mind, let us begin our drill. Robbard?”
Lockwood’s seaman took position sideways on and flourished his blade.
“First position.”
Robbard stood facing to his right, feet together, inviting attack.
“Right prove distance!”
He swung the cutlass warily out to his right.
“Front prove distance!”
The cutlass swept forward, the point weaving menacingly.
“Second position.”
Bending his knees, Robbard slammed his foot a pace forward; from this he was able to demonstrate how he could both attack and retreat rapidly without moving his feet.
There were four body postures, and they practiced them all.
The cutlass positions were more difficult; some out to the side but covering the upper body, some hanging vertically down; in all, seven possible moves. Lockwood himself demonstrated them.
After an hour’s work, he was able to bark a position and they could instantly assume it. “Guard — inside half hanger! Assault! St. George!”
Kydd could see how they fitted into a web of defensive and offensive moves — an outside guard, for instance, could well be the thing to ward off an assault, but in this he would wait and see. The main point seemed to be that for every act of offense there was a corresponding defensive move.
The cutlass felt less of a deadweight in his hands, but he knew that he would need much practice before he could feel confident — it would almost certainly save his life one day.
“Stand down — secure arms.”
Reluctantly Kydd handed in his cutlass and prepared to go below.
“Hold!” Lockwood called. “Prince o’ the poop!”
The seaman who had acted as his assistant grinned — then, snarling like a pirate, swarmed up the quarterdeck ladder to the poop deck. There he snatched up a wooden sword and flourishing it in the approved first position prepared to take on all comers. Lockwood smiled widely. “Robbard is defending, and is prince o’ the poop for now — but any man may challenge him for the title, if they dare!”
There were cheers and catcalls.
“The man who is in possession of the poop at eight bells receives from me a fine bottle of claret,” Lockwood declared.
The first man up was treated mercifully. Robbard circled him and tried a point. The man parried with an inside guard, which he tried to turn into an extended point of his own. Robbard saw it and swayed inside, tapping the man none too gently on
the head. His opponent swore and started a furious assault, which Robbard met like a rock, his sword flicking this way and that in a monotonous clack, clok. The man tired and drew back, at which Robbard gave point and pierced the man’s hurried St. George while he was off balance.
Roars of appreciation greeted the defeated challenger ruefully descending the ladder. Rudely pushing him aside was the next man, an experienced able seaman with a tarry queue and thick-set body, who bounded up the ladder.
“Have at yer, Sharkey mate!” he shouted.
Robbard chuckled and came to guard.
They were well matched, and Kydd watched fascinated. They drove forward and back over the whole deck, their eyes holding each other unblinking as they thrust and parried.
Once Kydd had delivered an elaborate wig to the small fencing school in Chapel Street. He had stayed to watch, gripped by the deadly swordplay, the glitter of rapier blade, the slither and clash of steel on steel. The combatants had worn wire masks and the lethal questing of the blades as they probed and parried was carried out in chill silence, a ballet of death.
Here the pair grinned or stared ferociously by turns — Kydd guessed they would look different when boarding a hostile deck.
Kydd felt an elbow in his ribs and turned to see Whaley offering him a tankard. He accepted it gratefully and noticed that a crowd of appreciative onlookers had gathered. He turned back to the combat in time to see the two grappling — Robbard’s guard being slowly overborne by his adversary’s head stroke, pressing down. Their eyes were inches apart as they forced against each other, when suddenly Robbard let rip with a raucous raspberry. The other man jerked in surprise, and Robbard’s sweeping half-circle would have laid open the man’s ribs — according to the umpire.
“Damn me eyes, ’n’ I’ll challenge ye again!” shouted the man. It took a pot of grog to persuade him to yield the deck.
Robbard strutted about on the poop, whirling his wooden sword in the air and crowing, the crowd cheering him on. The easy sail left little for the watch on deck to do and they joined the spectacle. Over to the westward the spreading red of a sunset tinged the scene and its players a ruddy color.
“That’s your tie-mate, ain’t it, Tom?” Stirk gestured with his pot. There was a swirl in the crowd and there was Renzi, mounting the steps in lithe, decisive movements.
Robbard stopped his capering and sized up the challenger.
Renzi threw off his jacket and stood in his plain waistcoat, his dark eyes fixed on Robbard’s. He picked up his sword. A subdued murmur went up from the spectators.
Renzi said nothing, his mouth in a hard line, his expression ruthless. He stamped once or twice as if to test his footing, then whipped up his sword to the salute. Robbard mistook the move and came to a halfhearted guard, but did not return the salute.
Down came Renzi’s blade, flicking in short, testing movements like a snake’s tongue — darting, deadly. Robbard gave ground warily, circling to the left, all traces of comedy vanishing.
His forehead wrinkled in concentration, and when he finally made his attack it was in a burst of violence, his point thrust forward in a savage lunge. Renzi swayed coolly and in a beautiful inside half hanger deflected the thrust just enough to force Robbard to divert his energy into maintaining his balance. Almost casually Renzi took advantage of Robbard’s brief recovery and changed his guard to a point, which flashed out — and came to a stop at Robbard’s throat. The entire combat was over in just fifteen seconds.
Robbard stood motionless, the sword at his throat mute evidence of Renzi’s skills. His sword fell to the deck.
Seeing Renzi’s pitiless expression behind his motionless weapon, Kydd realized that there were depths to his friend’s character that he had never seen.
The hush was interrupted by Lockwood. “May I?” He mounted the ladder and took up the sword. Robbard returned to the deck below in a daze.
“On guard, sir!”
The two faced each other and warily saluted. Then it began — a fight to the death, a no-quarter combat that was almost too fast to follow.
Swordplay continued over the whole poop deck, the clacking of wood never detracting from the deadly seriousness of the business.
The red sunset faded to a short violet dusk and as lanthorns were brought Lockwood stepped back and grinned. “Sir — I yield! The claret is yours.”
Renzi nodded, and a small smile creased his face.
CHAPTER 8
* * *
Sir Philip Stephens glanced about and coughed gently. The business would be conducted in the absence of the First Lord, the Earl of Chatham, who at the time was presumably answering questions in the House of Lords.
The talk died away, quickly, respect for the Secretary of the Admiralty deep and sincere. This was a man who, beginning as secretary to Lord Anson, could bring to personal remembrance all the sea heroes of the second half of the century, and had more interest at his command than most of the Lords Commissioners themselves.
“Mr. Ibbetson, if you please,” he murmured. His lean assistant opened a beribboned folder and passed it across without comment.
Sir Philip read for a moment, his spectacles balanced precariously at the end of his nose, and glanced up at the Board. “I have here a communication from the office of the Prime Minister, desiring an early response to his enquiry of the twelfth of March, which was” — he riffled the papers —“concerning our advice upon the matter of support for the Royalist cause in France, and in particular for any insurrection which from time to time may eventuate.”
He laid down the papers and removed his spectacles. “You will, of course, know of Mr. Pitt’s position in this. He believes that the country’s interests are best served by circumspection in this matter, yet he is concerned to appear active and diligent.”
Looks were exchanged around the table. Pitt’s austere, reserved manner hid a keen intelligence, but lost him many friends. His preference in expending gold rather than lives would translate without doubt to tax increases later.
Sir Philip continued smoothly, “The Duke of York’s, er, difficulties in the Austrian Netherlands would seem to make an action of some kind useful in drawing the attention of the regicides westwards.”
Nodding heads around the table showed that the politics were well taken. Not for nothing was the Tory party known as “The King’s Friends.” And these were British troops in Flanders, the only real effectives on the Continent; anything that preserved their strategic presence was welcome.
Leaning back in his chair, Sir Philip said carefully, “It might fairly be said that we are out of luck in the matter of intelligence at this hour, yet we know of a rising in Brittany, attended by more than the usual success.” His face wore a frown, however. “Maréchal du Pons is known to us from the last age, a stiff and unbending soldier, yet he has the trust of the people. I believe we must assist him.”
He paused. Not all present would be keen in such circumstances to put British troops in a subordinate command. “I propose, therefore, a limited engagement of support-say, a battalion of foot and a few guns. If he presently triumphs, as I fervently hope, we will follow this with reinforcements of a more substantial nature. If he fails, we will be able to withdraw with naught but insignificant loss.”
The following morning Duke William sailed into the rendezvous on the ten-fathom line, four miles to seaward of the small fishing port of St. Pontrieux, said to be in Royalist hands.
Kydd was fascinated. Over there was France, his first foreign shore — and it was the enemy! The very thought seemed to imbue the rugged Brittany coastline with menace. Somewhere over the dark hills was a country locked in war with his own. His island soul recoiled from the notion that there was nothing but dry land separating this point from the raving mob in Paris.
The rendezvous was crowded with shipping: nearly a hundred sail, dominated by the three big sail-of-the-line, several frigates and two lumbering transports. The rest were small fry: provisioning craft, water and powder
hoys, a host of small sloops and armed cutters. They lay hove to, waiting impatiently for the word to move on the port.
Just before noon a deputation approached in a fishing boat, displaying an outsize white flag — the fleur-de-lis of the Bourbons.
“Haaands to cheer ship!”
As the little boat plunged past, seeking the broad pennant of the Commodore in Royal Albion, men crowded the rigging to cheer, the Captain graciously doffing his hat. The ensign of King Louis’s Navy made its way grandly up to the mizzen peak.
In the boat a cockaded and sashed individual stood erect, waved and bowed, clearly delighted.
Within the hour the big men-o’-war had anchored, the frigates had taken stations to seaward, and the transports prepared to enter port. These would require pilots for the difficult rock-studded entrance, and even so they would then need to lie offshore among myriad islands, the tiny port’s river entrance too difficult to navigate.
The transports got under way, passing close enough for Kydd to watch the redcoats thronging their decks. The thumping of martial music carried over the water.
“Don’t stand there gawpin’, tail on to that fall!” Elkins growled.
The launch eased alongside and the first of the four upper-deck twelve-pounders was readied to be swayed in. A delicate and precise operation, the long cannon, free of its carriage, had to be lowered into the boat that surged below in the slight sea. The slightest ill-timing, and the boat coming up with the waves would meet the mass of iron moving down and the result would be so much splintered wreckage. Lines ran from the yardarms in a complex pattern, balancing movements and loads with the use of tie blocks, guys and mast tackles in a complex exercise of seamanship.
What was surprising to Kydd in this difficult maneuver was that there was silence — no shouted orders. The boatswain controlled the men on the tackles through his mates and their silver whistles. Orders were passed by different patterns of twittering calls: a continuous fluttering warble sounded continuously while lowering, and at the right position a sharp upward squeal told the crew to avast.
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