06 - Tenacious

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘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 three 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 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.

  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 ‘investigate 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 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.

  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 ha
d been shown to be friendly and therefore reliable.

  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 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 companionably 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 – 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.

  Another captain arrived, a man with deep-set eyes, who punctiliously raised his hat to Nelson even while the admiral welcomed him.

  ‘Ball, Alexander. Much caressed by Our Nel since he passed us the tow-line in that blow off Sardinia.’ Kydd looked at him. There was little of the bluff sea-dog about the ascetic figure, nothing to suggest that this was a seaman of courage and skill.

  The last was a slightly built officer with guarded eyes. ‘Darby, Bellerophon. Keeps t’ himself, really.’

  ‘Shall we go below?’ There was a compelling urgency in the tone.

  Kydd followed them in trepidation into the admiral’s quarters where the large table in the great cabin was spread with charts. ‘Do sit, gentlemen,’ Nelson said. His clerk busied himself with papers. Kydd took a small chair to one side.

  ‘Tenacious stopped a Ragusan brig not two hours ago. Lieutenant Kydd –’ he nodded at Kydd, who bobbed his head ‘– performed the boarding and is available for questions. I am satisfied that he has brought reliable word.

  ‘He has found that the French armament is no longer at Malta. It has sailed. And we have no indication of course or intent. None. I do not have to tell you that our next action is of the utmost consequence, which is why I have called you together to give me your views and strategic reasoning.’

  Saumarez broke the silence. ‘Sir, are we to understand that this is in the nature of a council-of-war?’ he said carefully. It was an important point: if a later inquiry found Nelson’s decision culpable, the formalities of a council would provide for him some measure of legal protection – at the cost of involving themselves.

  ‘No, it is not. Kindly regard this as – as a conference of equals, Saumarez,’ he said, with a frosty smile. ‘Now, to business. The French have left Malta. Where are they headed?’

  He looked at each captain in turn. ‘I desire to have you answer this question. Do we stand on for Malta or steer for Sicily? Or do you consider it altogether another destination?’

  Kydd recalled that this was Nelson’s first command of a fleet of ships in his own right: was he seeking support for a command decision that should be his alone?

  ‘May we have your own conclusions first, sir?’ Troubridge asked.

  ‘Very well. They might be on their way back to France after their conquest, but I doubt it. And, besides, they’d find it a hard beat with transports against this nor’-westerly. No, in my opinion they are headed further into the eastern Mediterranean.’ He stopped.

  ‘The Turks and Constantinople,’ murmured Troubridge.

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘The Holy Land? There’s plunder a-plenty there and a royal route to India across Mesopotamia.’ It was the youthful-looking Berry, present as captain of the flagship.

  ‘Possibly.’ As there were no further offerings, Nelson declared incisively, ‘There is one objective that I think outweighs all others. Egypt.’

  There were mutterings, but Nelson cut through forcefully: ‘Yes, Egypt. Should they take the biggest Mediterranean port, Alexandria, they have then but twenty leagues overland and they are at the Red Sea, and from there two weeks to our great possessions in India.’

  Saumarez stirred restlessly. ‘Sir, saving your presence, I find this a baseless conjecture. We have not one piece of intelligence to support such a conclusion.’

  ‘Nevertheless, this is my present position,’ Nelson said. ‘I should be obliged for your arguments to the contrary. In the absence of news we deal in speculation and presumption, sir. We must reason ourselves to a conclusion. This is mine.’

  Troubridge leaned back with a broad smile. ‘’Pon my word, Sir Horatio, this will set them a-flutter in Whitehall. Conceive of it – the entire fleet dispatched to the most distant corner of the Mediterranean, to Egypt no less! The Pyramids, the dese
rt—’

  ‘Whitehall is two months away. The decision will be made today.’ The reflected sun-dappled sea played prettily on the deckhead, but it also threw into pitiless detail the admiral’s deep lines of worry, the prematurely white hair, the glittering eye.

  ‘Then I concur,’ Troubridge said. ‘It has to be Alexandria.’

  ‘Should Alexandria be captured, our interests in India will be at appalling risk. This cannot be allowed.’ Unexpectedly, it was Saumarez.

  ‘Yes. Captain Ball?’

  ‘It seems the most likely course, sir.’

  ‘Darby?’

  ‘Putting to sea in a wind foul for France does appear an unlikely move unless their intentions lie eastward.’

  ‘Anything further? No? Then it shall be Alexandria. Thank you, gentlemen.’

  A thousand sea miles to the east – to the fabled Orient: the Egypt of Cleopatra, the Sphinx, the eternal Nile. And a French invasion fleet waiting for them there. The English fleet prepared accordingly.

  The most vital task was to crowd on as much sail as possible to try to overhaul the French and force a meeting at sea before the landings. The winds were fair for the Levant and, with stuns’ls abroad, the fleet sped across the glittering deep blue seas for day after day. There was little sail-handling with the winds astern, and for watch after watch there was no need to brace and trim: the steady breeze drove them onward in an arrow-straight course for the south-east corner of the Mediterranean.

  Gun practice filled the day: gun crews were interchanged, side-tackle men put on the rammer, the handspike, and gun captains were stood down while the seconds took charge. It was fearful work in the summer heat, tons of dead iron to haul in and out, twenty-four pounds in each shot to manhandle. Gun-carriages squealed and rumbled even in the light of evening.

  At daybreak, as soon as there was the slightest lightening of the sky, doubled lookouts at the mast-head searched the horizons until they could be sure there was no strange sail. Then, after quarters, the men would go to breakfast among the guns that shared their living space. And always the thought, the secret dread, that the enemy were just ahead, a vast armada covering the sea from horizon to horizon that would result in a cataclysmic battle to be talked about for the rest of time.