Quarterdeck (28 page)

The master lunged over and took the helm, bawling at the men forward as the ship drifted astern, the hapless offi cer-of-the-watch nervously clutching his telescope and watching the captain, appalled. Kydd, with nothing to do, could only stand and suffer as the ship tried to regain her dignity.

Finally in her place at the rear of the line stretching away to the east,
Tenacious
settled down and Kydd turned to his captain, prepared for the worst—but yet another signal streamed out from
Resolution.
“Fleet will heave to,” Kydd reported carefully.

Main topsails were backed and way fell off. There had to be a reason why the whole squadron was coming to a stop.

“Flagship, sir—our pennant and, er, ‘Send a lieutenant. ’ ” The admiral wanted an offi cial explanation from
Tenacious
for the recent display—and there would be no bets taken on who would go as the sacrifi ce . . .

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• • •

Admiral Vandeput did not spare his squadron. Between Cape Sable and Cape Cod, seven ships sailed resolutely in formation, assuming tactical divisions by signal, running down invisible foes, shortening sail for battle. Curious fi shing-boats were diverted by strings of fl ags run up the fl agship’s rigging, followed by instant animation aboard every vessel of the squadron—and the occasional gun for attention.

Kydd doggedly improved his acquaintance with the
Fighting
Instructions
and attached signals, and when the squadron was ready to return to port several days later, he was fully prepared.

“Sir, vessels in the squadron to retire in order of sailing.” It was the return to Halifax. “Signal to wear, sir,” Kydd added, as the fl ags broke at the masthead. This would see the ships turning on their heel and facing where they had been—but this time with
Tenacious
leading the squadron back to port.

Now was the time to show her breeding in the manoeuvre of going about completely, stern to wind. “Brace in the afteryards—

up helm!” The mizzen topsail began shaking, the main just full and the fore up sharp.
Tenacious
started her swing, the line of ships ahead commenced their wheel about. “Lay y’r headyards square! Shift headsheets!” Her rotation brought the wind right aft, and the weather sheets were eased to become the lee. “Brace up headyards—haul aboard!” Men laboured to get the tack hard in forward and the sheets aft as she came on to her new heading.

Tenacious
responded with a willing surge.

“Draw jib!” It was the last order before she settled on her new course, the sheets hauled aft to bring the headsails to a full tautness. The fo’c’slemen responded heartily, the thought of safe haven in Halifax just hours away lending weight to their hauling.

A crack as loud as a three-pounder gun came from far forward. The crew on the jibsheets fell to the deck, others crouched down and looked about fearfully. It was impossible to see what
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was happening from aft as the clews of the big courses effectively shut out the scene.

“Can’t ’old ’er, sir!” bawled the helmsman, as
Tenacious
immediately fell off the wind and inevitably out of line. An incomprehensible hail came from forward, amplifi ed by a breathless messenger. “Lost our jibboom, sir!” he yelled, his voice cracking.

Houghton lifted his speaking trumpet. “Douse the fore t’gallant instantly, d’ye hear?” He wheeled round, his face set. A volley of orders brought sail in, and way off the vessel.

“You know what to do, get forrard and bear a hand—now!”

he snapped at Kydd. Rawson could be relied on to hoist the necessary “not-under-command” general signal that indicated
Tenacious
was no longer in a position to obey her captain.

Kydd hurried forward. This was Renzi’s part-of-ship: Kydd would take orders from him without question. He arrived at the scene to see a tangle of rigging from aloft—and a truncated bowsprit. A thumping from the lee bow and men staring down showed where the failed spar was now.

“Poulden, do you clap on the t’gallant bowline as well.” It was strange to hear the crack of authority in Renzi’s voice, to see the gleam of hard purpose in his friend’s eyes.

“Sir,” Kydd reported to the fourth lieutenant.

Renzi fl ashed a brief smile. “Martingale stay parted, the jibboom carried away,” he said, fl icking his eyes up to watch the progress of the jib downhaul, which was clearly being readied to hoist the spar back aboard. “I’m sanguine we’ll have it clear soon—it’s to loo’ard, and I’ve taken the liberty to set the foretopmast stays’l to make a lee while we see to the jib.”

The boatswain quickly had the experienced fo’c’slemen at work reeving a heel rope: the fi fty feet of Danzig fi r surging below was a formidable spar to recover aboard.

Renzi gazed intently at the descending downhaul. “Mr Kydd,

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I’d be obliged if you’d inform the captain of our situation, that I’ve furled the fore t’gallant, but desire the fore t’gallant mast be struck.”

Kydd touched his hat, then hastened back to the quarterdeck.

Houghton listened sourly, his eyes straying to the line of ships passing by, beginning the evolution to heave to. “Request Flag to pass within hail,” he said. The signals soared up rapidly, but even as they did,
Resolution
had put down her helm and closed.

Briefl y, Houghton passed details by speaking trumpet to the admiral. There was little to discuss:
Lynx,
a 16-gun ship-sloop, was detached to stand by them while they repaired; the remainder sailed on to Halifax.

It was not an easy repair: even with a spare spar fortunately to hand, the stump of the jibboom had to be extracted from the bowsprit cap and sea-hardened heel ropes cut away. It was sheer bad luck that the bee-block seating the new jibboom to the bowsprit needed reshaping, and now with jib-stay and fi ttings to apply there was no chance they would complete by dusk.

The hours passed uncomfortably. Without steadying sail on the open sea
Tenacious
wallowed glumly all night, Cape Cod forty miles under her lee. Kydd had the morning watch: red-eyed and tired, he observed a grey dawn approach with
Lynx
far out to the southward but stoutly clapping on all sail. Thick mist patches persisted to the north in the calm seas, wisps reaching out occasionally to
Tenacious
with their clammy embrace.

As soon as there was light enough, work began on the jibboom, and well before the wan sun had cleared the foreyard it was all but complete.

“What, in hell’s name?” Houghton said, stopping his restless pacing. It was gunfi re—to the north and not too distant, a distinct thud.

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“At least twenty-fours, maybe thirty-twos,” growled Bryant, puzzled. Another fl urry of thumps in the mist were heard.

Houghton looked nonplussed. “This can only be the squadron—there’s not another sail-o’-the-line at sea, unless . . .” He paused, then looked signifi cantly at Bryant. “Send
Lynx
to investigate with all despatch.” It was a disturbing mystery: guns of such weight of metal were only carried by line-of-battle ships.

Lynx
disappeared into the light mist while
Tenacious
had her topsails set and drawing within minutes of her headsails being once more complete. As she began to gather way her mainsail was loosed and she picked up speed.

The royals of a ship showed above the mist, and
Lynx
burst into view, a signal at her main. “Enemy in sight!” shouted Kydd from the poop, but the signal had been recognised at once.

“Clear for action!”

For the fi rst time on the American side of the Atlantic
Tenacious
made ready for battle. The mist cleared slightly—giving a tantalising view of two dark shapes before it closed round them once more.

The urgent rhythm of “Hearts of Oak” ceased as Bryant reported the ship cleared fore and aft; it was replaced by a long, solemn drum-roll. Quarters!

Kydd’s sword banged against his legs as he raced up the poop-deck ladder—if this were a rogue enemy 74 and frigate escort they were in dire trouble.

“Make to
Lynx,
‘take position one mile to windward,’ if you please,” said Houghton. Small fry had no business in the line when big ships met in combat.

Tenacious
glided into the trailing mist, the wind now only a dying breeze. The masthead lookout hailed the deck. “
Deck
hoooo!
Two ships, two points t’ larboard, near ter fi ve mile off!”

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At Houghton’s command Kydd exchanged the heavy signal telescope for the more handy glass of the offi cer-of-the-watch and swung up into the shrouds. He was clear of the mist by the maintop; there was no need to go further—and over there to larboard, protruding through the rumpled white upper surface of the fog, were the upper masts and tops of two vessels—ship rigged, as the lookout had said.

Kydd held the telescope against an upper shroud and gazed intently. Both were under sail but were hove to at an angle to each other. He steadied the glass and found the tricolour of France hanging limply on one, he couldn’t tell for the other; certainly they were not ships-of-the-line. He swept once around the horizon, noting that the mist was clearing to patches around the enemy, and bawled down his report, then clambered back to the deck.

“What the devil? You saw no other vessels at all?” Houghton barked. They had unmistakably heard the gunfi re of a ship of force.

“Sir, is it—” the master began, then the obscuring mist lifted, and some four miles away almost dead to leeward they saw the enemy.

“Damn my eyes if that ain’t a frigate!” Bryant said, in wonder.

“An’ that looks like one o’ our merchant ships, sir,” interposed Hambly.

“Lay us to wind’d of the frigate, Mr Hambly,” said Houghton shortly. “We’ll look for that damned ship-o’-the-line later.”

Adams came up to stand beside Kydd. “Can you just conceive,” he said, with a boyish grin, “what discussions must be afoot on her quarterdeck? Just about to take a fat prize and a ship-o’-the-line, no less, sails out of the fog.”

Houghton said, over his shoulder, “Mr Kydd, recall
Lynx—

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to take station astern.” Aboard the Frenchman there would be something approaching panic: an additional ship in the equation, however small, meant double the worry for the unknown commander of the frigate, now making hasty sail.

“Stuns’ls, sir?” The south-easterly breeze was playful and light and they were bearing down slowly.

“No, Mr Hambly. We’ll wait and see what he’s going to try fi rst.” If the frigate bore away downwind there would be every reason for stuns’ls but if she moved off on the wind
Tenacious
could not follow until the awkward sails and their booms had been taken in.

With the rapt attention of the entire quarterdeck, the Frenchman’s length foreshortened as her yards came round.

“She’s running large,” said Bryant. It would be strange indeed if a frigate did not have the legs over a cumbersome ship-of-the-line in a stern chase and in a matter of hours she would be clean away.

The merchant ship, a large vessel with clean lines, ran up her colours as they approached. “American?” Bryant took off his hat and scratched his head, glancing up at their own ensign as if for reassurance.

“Cousin Jonathan is a neutral—what
is
the Frenchy up to?”

Adams murmured, as they passed the cheering merchant ship under full sail.

“If y’ please, sir . . .” began the master.

“Mr Hambly?”

“If I’m not wrong, sir, that’s not a National Ship—she’s a heavy privateer. Slight in the build, maybe over-sparred, an’ the size of her crew . . .”

“I think he’s right, sir,” agreed Bryant, borrowing a telescope.

The sea ahead was now free of mist and the chase, no more than a mile ahead, loosed all plain sail—but no stuns’l.

Houghton pursed his lips. To stand any chance of staying

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with the chase he must soon spread stuns’ls abroad—a canny captain of the “frigate” would wait for the manoeuvre to complete, then put his own wheel over and go close-hauled, knowing that it would take some time for his pursuer to strike his stuns’ls and follow. But on the other hand, if they did nothing, the chase would draw ahead and disappear. “Mr Hambly, be so good as to see how the chase goes.”

The sailing master found his sextant and measured the angle from masthead to waterline of their prey. A few minutes later he repeated the action. “We’re dropping astern by as much as two knots, I fear, sir.”

“Not worth our trouble,” Adams said gloomily to Kydd. “We spread more sail, so does she—an’ I’ve yet to fi nd any two-decker can stay with a frigate. She’ll be hull down by sunset.”

The Frenchman was now visibly drawing away, disdaining even to set her own stuns’ls. Houghton took a telescope and trained it for a long time on the chase. Suddenly he snapped shut the glass. “Pass the word to Mr Bampton and Mr Renzi—we will yaw, and on command they will pepper the rogue with a full broadside.”

The midshipman messenger touched his hat, expressionless. Even he knew that this was a last gesture after which the Frenchman could sail away over the horizon in peace. Houghton’s action would hopelessly slow their advance in the light winds.

The lad ran off smartly and from the rumbling Kydd could picture the long twenty-fours being run out, hand-spikes plied to make them bear as far forward as they could—and the talk around the guns as men peered out of open gunports to catch a sight of their target.