06 - Tenacious

by Julian Stockwin

  They trudged up an incline, the cinders crunching underfoot. The acrid pungency of the volcano hung on the air. Renzi glanced at Kydd’s set face and grinned. ‘You are in the best of hands, brother. Sir William’s writings on the character of volcanoes are applauded throughout the civilised world.’

  Kydd muttered, in a low voice, ‘Y’ know well that I can’t abide fire – and now y’ asks me to look on the fires o’ hell itself.’

  Hamilton affected not to hear. ‘I’d give half my fortune to be in England when they receive news of your famous victory.’

  Renzi chuckled. ‘There’ll be a scramble on ’Change, I’d wager,’ he said. ‘Pitt will see his chance to turn the credit to hard coin – it will quite put the opposition to the blush.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Hamilton, regarding Renzi curiously. ‘But you must appreciate that the greater effect will be here. Conceive of it – not just a victory over the French but their annihilation! They now have no means to support their claim to the Mediterranean. In short, the careful building of colonies and garrisons since you were driven from the Mediterranean is as nothing now. All are isolated and ripe for our seizing, one by one and at our convenience.

  ‘You will be aware that Turkey has declared against France and is opening the Dardanelles to our ships. Austria is much heartened – as you will know the Queen of Naples is the daughter of an Austrian emperor and is now in raptures. Dare we hope that a Second Coalition is possible?’

  Renzi nodded quietly.

  A crooked smile appeared on Hamilton’s face. ‘But what I relish most is the sure knowledge that at this very moment the first general of France, Napoleon Buonaparte, is stranded helplessly in the deserts of Egypt with above thirty thousand of his best troops – and no hope of rescue.’

  Kydd swelled with pride. Their hard chase and heroic battle had brought about an abrupt change in the balance of power of far more significance than any of the endless land battles he had heard about. And all this could rightly be ascribed to the achievement of one man: Horatio Nelson.

  ‘We’re masters of the Mediterranean for now, sir,’ Renzi said respectfully. ‘What do you see as our probable future course?’

  Hamilton’s low chuckle was almost inaudible. ‘We have won a great victory, Mr Renzi, but we have by no means won a war. We are sadly beset on all sides, with precious few friends and no recognisable strategy for turning defence to aggression.’

  A fragment of low cloud enveloped them in a cool embrace, its sombre light depressing. Then it dissipated and the warm sun returned. Stopping suddenly, Hamilton turned and pointed to the Bay of Naples below, a breathtaking sweep of scores of miles. ‘There, sir, beyond the point of Posillipo, it is there you should ask your question.’

  ‘Bacoli?’ said Renzi, puzzled.

  ‘No. I speak of the cave of the Cumaean sybil, which still exists. Perhaps you should seek your future at the feet of the prophetess, receive your oracle as did so many from distant lands in the time of the ancients.’

  The three stood on the flank of the volcano, held by the vast panorama with all its beauty and antiquity. ‘I believe we must press on – it’s another hour yet,’ Hamilton said, glancing down the track to where a laden mule and servants followed behind them.

  Eventually the ground levelled and they found themselves standing on the rim of Vesuvius. Kydd felt his palms sweat in a way they never had even at the height of the battle, for the track was only a few feet wide, meandering along next to the colossal maw of the volcano. A Stygian stink of steam and sulphur hung on the air, but to Kydd’s mingled relief and disappointment there was no heaving hell of fire in the interior, merely dead scree slopes and untidy heaps of grey ash from which vapours issued.

  While Renzi helped Hamilton with his stakes, chain measures and thermometers, Kydd wandered along the path, fascinated and repelled. It felt like some great sleeping beast that was harmless until a careless act woke it to terrible life. He was not sorry when Hamilton concluded his work and they set off down the track to the horses.

  When they arrived it was already late afternoon and a spectacular sunset promised to the west, directly at their feet.

  ‘Sir,’ Renzi said suddenly, ‘it would gratify my spirit beyond words were we to linger a while to partake in the close of this day…’

  Hamilton grunted as he heaved himself up on to his pony. ‘I understand you, Renzi, please believe me, but tonight I am to receive someone who has travelled far, and must prepare. Should you wish, however, I shall send my carriage back for you.’

  ‘That is most kind in you, Sir William,’ Renzi said, with a bow.

  Kydd sighed with exasperation, but as he had seen in the South Seas, Renzi was always most at peace in the midst of one of nature’s displays and it would not be a kindness to fret about moving on. They settled on the cinders and watched the unfolding beauty. ‘And afterwards, dear friend, we shall sample the entertainments of the night at the first hand,’ Renzi said softly.

  There was peace of a kind here, on the flanks of a volcano that had devoured all of two ancient towns, but to Kydd it was the peace of the dead. What he could not get out of his mind was the magnitude of their recent success – and all the consequence of a single mind’s contriving and command.

  ‘“Like madness is the glory of this life,”’ Renzi murmured, his eyes fixed on the gathering rose and gold display.

  ‘What was that you said, Nicholas?’ Kydd asked politely.

  His eyes still on the gathering sunset, Renzi declaimed, ‘“Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch of the rangéd empire fall. Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay.”’

  Kydd frowned. ‘That’s as may be, Nicholas, but you’ll agree, we’ve a famous victory t’ be proud of.’

  Renzi, rapt with the heavenly closing ceremony of the day, said nothing.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about things,’ Kydd said seriously. ‘Working through m’ life, y’ understand.’

  ‘Oh? What did you conclude, brother?’ Renzi answered distantly.

  Kydd held on to his temper. ‘I was considering m’ position in the light o’ recent events,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Do ye want t’ hear, or no?’

  Renzi turned to Kydd. ‘Of course, dear fellow – do fill and stand on, as it were.’

  Kydd caught his breath. It was difficult enough to put into words the powerful feelings he had found within him, the insight into himself that he sensed was there for the perceiving. ‘It’s – it’s that steppin’ ashore a hero, I – I find it agreeable, is all.’

  ‘Some would find it diverting,’ Renzi murmured, his attention clearly elsewhere.

  ‘What I mean is – if y’ take my meaning – I’d rather it were me, my doing, my victory.’ His eyes burned. ‘Is it so necessary to crave pardon f’r the sin of ambition? Why should it not be me?’

  ‘Indeed, why not?’ Renzi said drily, then noticing Kydd’s anger he sat up. ‘That is to say, it would be well to reflect that to be in the character of a hero necessarily involves elements of chance as well as merit.’

  Kydd glowered at him. ‘Chance? O’ course there’s chance. Was it mischance or luck that had me in the Horse ’n’ Groom sinking an ale just when th’ press-gang went in? Or when Seaflower went ashore over the reef in that hurricanoe?

  ‘I don’t deal in logic overmuch – I’ve seen too much o’ how quick the world c’n go all ahoo to worry about plotting m’ course too far ahead. But what I’ve learned – an’ it’s a lesson well taken – is that when things are on the flood f’r you, take it in both hands an’ clap on all sail. If it’s going a-foul then snug down an’ ride it out without whining.’

  ‘This is an observation I cannot disallow.’

  ‘I’ve been fortunate, this I’ll be th’ first t’ admit to – a foremast hand crossed t’ the quarterdeck. But who’s t’ say that this is an end to my portion o’ luck? Where will I go to next?’

  ‘Quite so. Be you always ready for anythi
ng that chances by.’

  ‘No!’ Kydd snapped. ‘That is not what I’m going t’ do.’

  ‘Er—’

  ‘I’ve seen how a reg’lar-built hero goes about it. Nelson – is he one t’ wait for what comes his way? Heaves to ’n’ waits f’r the enemy to sail over to him? No! He makes his chances by rising up an’ seizing ’em.’

  Renzi watched him but made no comment.

  Kydd folded his arms. ‘You see, Nicholas, from this day forward, I’m t’ make my own luck. Like Adm’ral Nelson I’m looking for my chances an’ taking ’em the very instant I see them. An’ if that means perils ’an hazard t’ me, then this is what I must do, an’ I hope I won’t prove shy in that hour.’

  As the heat of his words cooled he gave an awkward smile. ‘So y’ see – I mean t’ make something of m’self, is all.’

  Looking at him seriously, Renzi said quietly, ‘This I can see, brother. Let us pray it leads you not into tempestuous waters some day.’

  ‘Nicholas, be sure an’ this is what I mean—’

  ‘“Finish, good sir; the bright day is done, and we are for the dark…”’

  Heat built quickly in the morning calm. The ships lay listlessly at anchor in the bay and Kydd and Renzi walked languidly about the decks of Tenacious. The gunports were triced open to allow the small zephyrs to bring some measure of relief to the humid conditions in the ’tween decks.

  Boarding nettings were not rigged below them, less in respect of the unlikelihood of unfriendly visitors than in recognition of the disinclination of seamen to desert in such an unfamiliar port. Bumboats, however, were always to be seen alongside, hoping to entice sailors through the open gunports with gew-gaws.

  Wiping his forehead, Kydd tried to ignore his dull nausea and uncertain footing, and asked Renzi, ‘Tell me true, did you mark what th’ dwarf was doing with the blackamoor and the straps?’

  Renzi avoided his eye. ‘I rather feel that on this occasion we were unfairly gulled into a lower class of entertainment owing to our – our agreeable acquaintance with the famed Lachryma Christi wine.’

  Kydd peered over the side at the bumboats, but he was not an officer-of-the-watch in harbour: this was a job for a master’s mate who would turn sullen if advised of his duties by an idle officer. Signals were now in abeyance: in port the admiral would distribute his orders and dispatches by midshipman and boat, and in any case it was rumoured that Nelson had accepted an offer of hospitality from Sir William Hamilton and was staying ashore in their house, resting.

  Treading carefully around three seamen who were eyeing him warily, he noted that their splicing and bolt-rope sewing had not progressed far since his and Renzi’s last turn round the deck, for this was the second occasion that the boatswain had been too ‘ill’ to take charge of his men.

  It was inevitable, the toll on discipline and spirit in a harbour of such allure. Rawson and Bowden had sampled the delights together, overstayed their leave and were now confined to the ship, while Adams was refusing morosely to show his face ashore after a mysterious encounter involving a lady.

  Other incidents were more serious: one seaman had been brought back by his messmates stabbed in the neck, and over fifty were unfit for work. It was proving difficult to overcome the lassitude that seemed to pervade the air after their recent extremity of effort.

  With Houghton and Bryant away up country inspecting fortifications, Bampton had been left acting captain and at seven bells there was the depressingly more frequent ‘clear lower deck – hands to witness punishment’.

  ‘Sir, Henry Soulter has been a top-rate petty officer an’ fo’c’sle hand, always ready t’ step forward when there’s perilous duty to be done—’

  ‘It’s not his character that’s at question now, Mr Kydd,’ Bampton said acidly, ‘it’s his actions. Did he or did he not make threatening gestures and thereafter strike Laffin, boatswain’s mate?’

  Kydd stifled a weary sigh. He had the essence of the matter from Soulter’s friends. Inflamed by unaccustomed grappa, Soulter, a gifted seaman and steady hand, had responded too readily to taunting of a personal nature from Laffin and had laid into him. Unfortunately this had been witnessed by Pringle, the captain of marines, who had thought it his business to take the matter further.

  It was splitting hairs as to whether Laffin was in fact Soulter’s superior, but if it were so adjudged then it was a very serious matter indeed, requiring a court-martial and the death penalty not discounted.

  ‘Aye, sir. Soulter admits th’ charge, but states that it was under much provocation that—’

  ‘There can be no extenuating circumstances in a crime of this nature, Mr Kydd,’ said Bampton, importantly. ‘If he admits the charge…’

  Kydd’s temper rose. Soulter was in his division and he knew his value, but now Bampton was playing God with them both. ‘He does,’ Kydd snapped.

  ‘So, striking a superior. This is a grave charge, Soulter.’

  ‘Sir,’ Soulter said woodenly.

  Bampton let it hang, then said, ‘This should result in your court-martial, you villain. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘However, in this instance I am prepared to be lenient. Mr Kydd?’

  ‘Sir, I’m certain Soulter did not intend a disrespect t’ his superior and now regrets his acts,’ he said stolidly. Kydd knew that Bampton would never hand a court-martial to Houghton on his return and felt nothing but contempt for the show he was making.

  ‘Very well. Soulter, you are to be disrated as of this hour and shall shift your hammock forward immediately.’

  Soulter’s eyes glowed, then went opaque.

  ‘And you shall be entered in the master-at-arms’ black book for one month.’

  This was shabby treatment indeed: the man would revert to common seaman and Laffin would therefore have free rein to indulge his revenge. Not only that: for a month Soulter would be cleaning heads and mess-decks before all the seamen of whom he had been in charge before.

  The men were dismissed and went below for the noon meal. Kydd sat at the wardroom table without appetite. It could have been worse – at least there were no lashes awarded for an act that was so predictable for top fighting seamen kept in idleness in a port of this nature. He would see to it that Soulter was reinstated at the first opportunity. Kydd brightened: he knew Soulter was a popular petty officer, fair and hard-working. By the unwritten rules of the lower deck he would have been seen to be unjustly treated and therefore would not be demeaned before the others by his impositions.

  ‘I’m getting t’ be a mort weary of Naples, m’ friend,’ Kydd said reluctantly. ‘It’s not a place f’r your right true shellback.’

  Renzi did not hasten to offer a further run ashore. Kydd had noticed his distaste for the squalor of some streets. Renzi was no prude but Kydd had a feeling that it sat uneasily with the classical splendours that filled his head.

  After a space Renzi said smoothly, ‘You wish to depart these shores? Before you have been introduced to culture of altogether a different sort, an evening of entertainment of a far more… decorous nature?’

  ‘Oh?’ said Kydd, without enthusiasm.

  ‘An invitation from Sir William that even the admiral feels it an honour to accept…’

  ‘Nelson!’

  ‘A select few will be there, you may be sure. The ambassador honours us greatly for our interest in antiquity, and should you be absent, it will be noticed, I fear.’

  ‘But Nelson – an’ probably some of his captains?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  In the warm dusk Kydd ran his finger about the constricting circle of the stock round his neck, irritated as well by the tickling of the frilly starched jabot under his chin. He consoled himself that a naval officer’s full-dress uniform was a trial at times but was far easier than the elaborate frogging and tight pantaloons of the army.

  The Palazzo Sessa was ablaze with lights and rich banners flew from each corner of the building, cro
wds massed outside hoping to catch a glimpse of the hero of the hour. The two officers passed through the doorway to cheers from the excited people. After the dimness of a violet dusk the light of massed chandeliers was overpowering, highlighting rose-bloomed faces and sparkling jewellery over ample bosoms.

  ‘I say, you’re Kydd of Tenacious, are you not?’ The left epaulette and single ring at the cuff proclaimed him a commander, a captain in the quaint naval way of an unrated ship, even if he was younger than Kydd.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said Kydd.

  ‘My father has mentioned you,’ he said, with just a hint of the supercilious. ‘But I see these knaves are neglecting you. Here,’ he neatly abstracted a champagne flute from a passing tray, ‘should we not be well primed to salute the honour of the all-conquering Nelson?’

  He took a long pull at his glass before Kydd could recollect himself enough to utter an unconvincing ‘Sir Horatio – victor o’ the seas!’

  ‘Yes, well. Must make my number with Carraciolo, the bumbling fool.’ He thrust through the assembly and was lost.

  Kydd looked round for Renzi and found him talking with a thick-set post-captain who stood bolt upright, the champagne flute in his fist looking diminutive. ‘Ah, Kydd, please make the acquaintance of Captain Troubridge.’

  ‘Sir, a pleasure t’ see you again. An’ dare I offer m’ consolation on Culloden takin’ the ground as she did and missing the sport?’

  ‘Damn charts – but a glorious occasion, hey?’

  Kydd caught a sight of the commander he had spoken to before. On impulse he asked, ‘Sir, are you acquainted with th’ officer over there speakin’ to the lady in blue?’

  ‘I am,’ Troubridge answered, looking at Kydd oddly. ‘That’s the captain of Bonne Citoyenne and, as you should know, he is also Nelson’s son.’

  ‘I – I—’

  ‘Step-son, that is to say. Josiah Nisbet.’

  ‘I see. Thank ye, sir.’