Free Tenacious by Julian Stockwin Page A

with a clatter.
    Through sparkling royal blue seas, the sun beating down, the squadron advanced to the end of the line, then went about and

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    back again while energetic frigates cruised far ahead and abeam, ready to notify the slightest move of significance by the enemy.
    Kydd prepared as best he could. He had to be familiar not only with the signal flags but with their tactical and strategic meaning: in the confusion of battle he had to be able to piece together the fleet commander’s intentions from brief glimpses of bunting at the halliards and inform his captain accordingly.
    The Fighting Instructions held all that he should know, but he was troubled that his one experience of a great battle of fleets was now a jostling memory of chaos, powder-smoke and noise, which made it hard to know what his own ship had been doing, let alone others.
    And that was supposing they fell back to Cadíz and became part of a much larger fleet. If the French put to sea, Nelson would probably sacrifice himself and his little squadron to delay them—it would be less a fleet battle than a heroic destruction. So much depended on the next days. Distracted, he paced the deck forward.
    Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bowden sitting on the fore-hatch with Poulden, a laborious long-splice under way. The lad’s look of concentration was intense and Kydd was pleased to see his work had a fine seamanlike appearance; Bowden looked up shyly at him.
    The afternoon wore on. In the dog-watches he would exercise with the cutlass again, and on the following forenoon there would be muskets and a target dangling at the yardarm. He passed Renzi, standing gazing at Vanguard ahead. He was clearly deep in thought and Kydd had not the heart to disturb him.
    In the evening, cutlass drill was delayed. Houghton had been talking with the master, who made no secret of his distrust of the weather and both watches took off the royals and sent down the masts. Before the end of the dog-watch the breeze had freshened from the north-west. “Don’t care what they calls it— mistral or 66

Julian Stockwin
    tramontana, it’s bad cess to us if’n it’s coming from the nor’ard,”
    the master said gravely.
    It was peculiar in Kydd’s experience: cloudless skies and exu-berant seas, perfect weather, but the wind was increasing to a degree that in English waters would give rise to concern for the future.
    After supper Kydd arrived to take over the watch. Orion and Alexander were ahead and under topgallants while the frigates closed up for the night. “Rather you than me, old pickle,” Adams said cheerfully. “Master thinks a tartar’s blowing up.” He disappeared below.
    Kydd eyed the canvas and sniffed at the wind. “M’ duty t’ the captain an’ I advise taking in th’ courses,” he told his messenger.
    Houghton came on deck. “I see Vanguard has still her royals abroad,” he said suspiciously.
    “Aye, sir,” Kydd said carefully, “but Orion an’ Alexander have taken ’em in and, if I’m not mistaken, there is Alexander going t’ topsails now.” As if reading Houghton’s thoughts, he added,
    “And we’re still stayin’ with Flag, sir.”
    Admittedly, their line was now more of a gaggle in the evening gloom as they watched lanthorns jerkily mounted to the mizzen top of Vanguard. “Very well. You may use the watch on deck only, Mr Kydd.” Houghton hesitated then went below.
    It would mean a longer, harder job but the watch below would not be disturbed. However, within twenty minutes the wind had changed from an insistent stream to a buffeting, squally threat.
    “Mr Pearce, I mean to turn up all the hands in striking courses,”
    Kydd told the boatswain, who went to fetch his mates. Houghton arrived quickly. The seas were higher, but in a way that was peculiar to this landlocked sea: short, steep and rapid, meeting the bow in a succession of sharp explosions of white.
    Their consorts began distancing themselves: sea room was