The Prime Minister, William Pitt, did not wait for the Speaker of the House of Commons, but Henry Addington knew his friend of old and smiled at his nervous vitality. ‘Quite dished ’em in the debate, William,’ he puffed, as he caught up and they mounted the stairs to the upper landing.

‘It will hold them for now,’ Pitt said briefly.

The sound of their voices roused the household. A butler appeared from the gloom, with a maid close behind. ‘In here,’ Pitt threw over his shoulder, as he entered a small drawing room. The maid slipped past with a taper, lit the candles and a pool of gold illuminated the chaise-longue. Pitt sprawled on it full-length, while Addington took a winged chair nearby.

‘Oh, a bite of cold tongue and ham would answer,’ Pitt said wearily, to the maid’s query. He closed his eyes until the butler had returned with brandy and a new-opened bottle of port. The man poured, then withdrew noiselessly, pulling the doors closed.

‘Hard times,’ Addington offered.

‘You think so, Henry? Since that insufferable coxcomb Fox rusticated himself I have only the French to occupy me.’ He took a long pull on his port.

Addington studied the deep lines in his face. ‘General Buonaparte and his invasion preparations?’ he asked quietly.

There had been little else in the press for the last two months. Paris had performed a master-stroke in appointing the brilliant victor of Italy to the head of the so-called ‘Army of England’ who had beaten or cowed every country in Europe. His task now was to eliminate the last obstacle to conquest of the civilised world. Spies were reporting the rapid construction of flat troop-landing barges in every northern French port, and armies were being marched to the coast. Invasion of the land that lay in plain sight of the battalions lining those shores was clearly imminent.

What else?’ Pitt stared into the shadows. ‘If he can get across the twenty miles of the Channel then ... then we are finished, of course.’

‘We have the Navy,’ Addington said stoutly.

‘Er, yes. The Navy - were in bloody mutiny not more’n a year ago and are now scattered all over the world. Necessary, of course.’ He brooded over his glass. ‘Grenville heard the French will turn on Hanover and that His Majesty will oblige us to defend his ancestral home, dragging us into a land war.’

‘Ridiculous!’

‘Of course.’

Addington cradled his brandy and waited.

Pitt sighed. ‘The worst of it is not being possessed of decent intelligence. Having to make decisions in a fog of half-truths and guesses is a sure way to blunder into mistakes that history will judge without mercy. Take this, Henry. Spencer has confirmed that our General Buonaparte has left off inspecting his soldiers standing ready for the invasion and been seen in Toulon. What is he doing in the Mediterranean that he abandons his post? No one knows, but we have word that an armament is assembling there. Not a simple fleet, you understand, but transports, store-ships, a battlefleet. Are we to accept that the moment we have dreaded most, when the French revolution bursts forth on the rest of the world, is at hand? And if it is, why from Toulon?’

He paused. There was the slightest tremor in the hand that held the glass. ‘If there is to be a sally, where? Dundas speaks of Constantinople, the Sublime Porte. Others argue for a rapid descent on Cairo, defeating the Mamelukes and opening a highway to the Red Sea and thence our vital routes to India. And some point to a landing in the Levant, then a strike across Arabia and Persia to the very gates of India.’

‘And you?’

At first, Pitt did not speak, then he said quietly, ‘It is all nonsense, romantic nonsense, this talk of an adventure in the land of Sinbad. It’s all desert, impassable to a modern army. No. It is a stratagem to deflect our attention from the real object.’

‘Which is?’

‘After leaving Toulon, Buonaparte does not sail east. Instead he sails west - he pauses off Cartagena to collect Spanish battleships before passing Gibraltar and heading north. With the fleet in Cadiz joining him as he passes, he brushes us aside and reaches the Channel. There, the Brest fleet emerges to join him, thirty of them! With a combined fleet of more’n fifty of‑the‑line around him he will get his few hours to cross and it will all be over for us, I fear.’

Addington chose his words carefully: ‘But would it not be prudent to send ships into the Mediterranean to stop him at the outset?’

‘And leave England’s defence the poorer?’ Pitt pondered for a space and continued, in an odd tone, ‘But, then, the decision is taken out of my hands. What I think is of no account. The Austrians are adamant that as a condition to an alliance we must provide a naval presence to protect Naples - you will recollect that the Queen of Naples is Austrian born. And as the Austrians are the only friends we have - pace the Portuguese - we must accede. And then, of course, there is today’s dispatch from Genoa ...’

‘Genoa?’

‘Yes. Something that changes the stakes utterly.’

‘How so?’

‘We have a reliable agent in Genoa. He is reporting that the French have been active buying barrels - four thousand of the very biggest, with ten iron hoops but no bung‑holes.’

Addington was mystified.

For the first time, Pitt smiled. ‘Henry, old fellow, you’ll never be accounted a character of the seafaring species. Such barrels are tied to ships’ sides to assist them in floating over shallow waters. And that is proof positive that Dundas is right. The French armament is to force the Dardanelles by this means and take Constantinople. Sultan Selim III is friendly to us and we cannot allow this to happen. ‘I shall therefore direct that St Vincent off Cadiz forthwith undertakes a reconnaissance in force. We will return to the Mediterranean!’

---

CHAPTER 1

Lieutenant Thomas Kydd turned in his chair to Tysoe, his black servant. ‘An’ I’ll have another soup, if y’ please.’ He smiled at his friend Renzi, and loosened his stock in the warmth of the crowded wardroom of HMS Tenacious. ‘Thunderin’ good prog, Nicholas, d’ye think?’

‘Moose muffle,’ Pringle, captain of the marines, called over the hubbub. He inspected the piece of meat he had speared. ‘Spring moose is better in June, you’ll find, once the beast has a mort of fat on him.’

The wardroom echoed to gusts of laughter in response to a sally from Captain Houghton at the head of the table - his officers had invited him to dine with them this night. The older of the seamen servants glanced at each other meaningfully. The ship had pulled together in fine style: with officers in harmony so much less was the likelihood of interference in their own community.

Kydd’s soup plate was removed. ‘Ah, I think the baked shad,’ he said, and turned to Pybus, the surgeon. ‘Not as I mean t’ say I’m wearyin’ of cod, you know.’

‘That, in Nova Scotia, is a felony, Mr Kydd,’ Pybus said drily, and reached for the chicken. As usual, he was wearing an old green waistcoat.

Kydd nodded at the servant, and his glass was neatly refilled. He let his eyes wander beyond the colour and chatter of the occasion through the graceful sweep of the stern windows to Halifax harbour, the darkness relieved by scattered golden pinpricks of light from other ships at anchor.

Just a year ago he had been under discipline before the mast, accused of treason after the Nore mutiny. He had joined the insurrection in good faith, then been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level, he should have shared his comrades’ fate, and had never dreamed of elevation to the sanctity of the quarterdeck. Now he had won another great prize: acceptance by the other officers as their equal. Where might it now lead?

‘Pray assist me with this Rheingau, Tom,’ Renzi said, reaching across with a white wine. There was contentment in him too, Kydd observed. His friend, who had come with him from the lower deck, was now settled at this much more agreeable station, which befitted his high-born background.

‘Mr Kydd, your health, sir!’ The captain’s voice carried down the table.

Kydd lifted his glass with a civil inclination of the head. ‘ Votter santay,’ he responded gravely.

Houghton had risen above his objections to his fifth lieutenant’s humble origins after a social coup had established Kydd’s connections with the highest in the land.

‘I c’n well recommend th’ ruffed grouse, sir,’ Kydd said. A seaman picked up the dish and carried it to the captain, who acknowledged it graciously.

Tall glasses appeared before each officer, filled with what appeared to be a fine amber fluid. The captain was the first to try it. ‘By George, it’s calf’s foot jelly!’ he said. ‘Lemon, who’s responsible for this perfection?’ he demanded of his steward.

‘Lady Wentworth’s own recipe, sir. She desires to indicate in some measure to His Majesty’s Ship Tenacious her sensibility of the honour Lieutenant Kydd bestowed on her by accepting her invitation to the levee.’

‘I see,’ said the captain, and flashed a glance at Kydd.

The third lieutenant, Gervase Adams, shifted in his chair. ‘No disrespect intended, sir, but it gripes me that we wax fat and indolent while our country lies under such grave peril.’

Houghton frowned. ‘Any officer of honour would feel so, Mr Adams, but the safeguarding of trade and securing of naval sup­plies is of as much consequence to your country as the winning of battles. Pray bear your lot with patience. There may yet be a testing time ahead for us all.’

Houghton motioned to his steward and the last dishes were removed, the cloth drawn. Decanters of marsala and port were placed at the head and foot of the table and passed along, always to the left as custom dictated. When all glasses had been filled, Houghton nodded almost imperceptibly to Bryant, first lieutenant and president of the mess, who turned to Kydd as the most junior lieutenant present. ‘Mr Vice - the King!’

Kydd lifted his glass and paused for quiet. ‘Gentlemen, the King!’

The words echoed strongly around the table. The simple cere­mony of the loyal toast seemed to Kydd to draw together all the threads of his allegiance to King and country, and with others he followed it with a sincere, ‘God bless him.’

The solemn courtesies complete, other toasts were made: ‘Foxhunting and old port’, ‘Our brothers at sea,’ and the heartfelt ‘A willing foe and sea room!’ Red faces testified to the warmth and the wine, and when the brandy had circulated Houghton called, ‘Captain Pringle, might we press you to honour us with your flute?’

‘Should I be joined by our excellent doctor, I would be glad to, sir.’

The marine was a proficient and sensitive player, and a lively violin accompaniment from the normally acerbic Pybus set the mood of the evening. Adams was persuaded to render a creditable ‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill’ in his light tenor, and Renzi delivered a reading from his new copy of Lyrical Ballads:

         ‘It is the first mild day of March;

    Each minute sweeter than before,

    The red-breast sings from the tall larch

    That stands beside our door.

    There is a blessing in the air

    Which seems a sense of joy to yield

    To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

    And grass in the green field. ..’

 The words reminded all of another land, another time. Houghton rose to his feet. He raised his glass and said softly, ‘To Tenacious.’

‘Tenacious,’ came the reply, with more than one murmured, ‘Bless her!’ There were no ready words to describe the affection that the old 64-gun ship-of-the-line had won in the hearts of her officers, and Kydd felt a lump in his throat. He could see that the others were affected, too.

In the quiet, a sudden knock at the wardroom door sounded overly loud. With rainwater streaming from his grego, the duty master’s mate awkwardly handed over an oilskin packet. ‘Cap’n, sir, urgent from Flag.’

It was unusual to the point of disquiet that the admiral had seen fit to act immediately instead of waiting for the morning postal round, and all craned towards the head of the table.

Houghton scanned the covering letter, then looked up gravely. ‘Gentlemen, you should be advised that the situation in Europe has intensified. We are recalled from this station to join that of Admiral the Earl St Vincent before Cadiz - we sail with the utmost despatch!’

 

Taking the deck for his first sea-watch since leaving Halifax, Kydd strode to the ship’s side and looked down with satisfaction at the busy wake forming and spreading in a hiss of obedience, slipping astern to join the other side in a lazy track that stretched far into the distance.

He returned to the binnacle: the ship’s heading was within a whisker of east by south. His eyes rose to meet a look of reproach from the helmsman and he concealed a smile. He had no right to usurp the quartermaster’s responsibility for the course and knew only too well the irritation of a meddlesome officer-of-the-watch.

But these were momentous times. Since Houghton had received his orders from the admiral, he had been unsparing in his drive to get Tenacious to sea. Whatever additional information he was privy to had lined his face and he had issued each officer-of-the-watch with stern instructions to clap on every stitch - but woe betide all should it cost even a spar.

As he paced the quarterdeck, Kydd’s thoughts turned briefly to another matter: Gibraltar was less than a day’s sail from Cadiz. It would serve his purpose well if they touched on that fortress port: it would give him great satisfaction to conclude unfinished busi­ness there. He had decided on it after parting with his uncle in a remote settlement in the Canadian Maritimes.

Kydd stopped to feel the ship’s motion. Under all plain sail in the brisk, quartering south-westerly, Tenacious heaved and rose over the long Atlantic rollers in a strong, compelling rhythm, pleasing in its regularity. He sensed the waves meeting her bow and surging aft under the keel, the vessel’s slow pitch conforming to its motion. But there was something else - a trifle perhaps, but out of har­mony with the concert of movement.

He glanced across the deck. Captain Houghton was taking the air on the weather side, walking with the first lieutenant. There was a full watch of hands on deck and others were at work on their part-of-ship. Signalling to the quartermaster that he was going for­ward, Kydd made his way to the foredeck and stood feeling, sensing.

The bow-wave swashed and hissed below, above him soared the headsails, taut and trim. But there was something. He turned to peer up, above the mighty fore-course, past the tops to the topsail and topgallant. Something was causing a brief interruption in the forward urge of the ship. He moved to one side until he could see the end of the bowsprit spearing into the sky ahead.

It soared and dipped, but then Kydd saw what was happening. It was not an up-and-down motion. Instead, it described a circle in the sky, certain indication that the helmsman was having to ease off the wheel each time the bows met an oncoming sea. That was it - a griping caused by the ship’s tendency to come closer to the wind when her forefoot bit deep into the wave. Kydd was annoyed that the quartermaster had not noticed it: he knew that with every billow Tenacious was losing way through the water - only a tiny amount, but there were countless thousands of waves across the Atlantic.

He turned on his heel and headed back, trying to work out how to resolve the problem. The usual remedy was to move provisions or guns aft, but the ship was fully stored and this would be awk­ward and dangerous. Also, with but a single frigate nearly out of sight ahead, it would be prudent to leave the guns where they were.

He reached the quarterdeck and Houghton glanced at him curiously. Kydd did not catch his eye as he ordered the mate-of-the‑watch, ‘Hands to set sail!’ Stuns’ls had been struck earlier in the day and the man looked surprised. He hesitated, then hailed the boatswain.

‘Mr Pearce,’ Kydd told him, ‘as we’re lasking along, winds fr’m the quarter, I mean t’ take in the fore-topmast stays’1 and then we’ll set the large jib.’ The boatswain’s eyebrows rose, but after only the briefest look in the captain’s direction, he drew out his silver call.

Kydd knew it was not a popular order among the men. The large jib would have to be roused out from below and heaved up on deck, the long sausage of canvas needing thirty men at least to manhandle it. And the furling of the fore-topmast staysail, a fore‑and-aft sail leading down from aloft, was hard, wet and dangerous, followed by the awkward job of hanking the large jib.

Houghton stopped pacing and was now watching Kydd closely. The master emerged from the cabin spaces to stand with him and the first lieutenant, but Kydd kept his gaze forward as the boatswain set the men about their tasks.

The fo’c’slemen lowered the fore-topmast staysail, the men out on the bowsprit using both hands to fist the unruly canvas as it came down the stay. This was a job for the most experienced seamen in the ship: balancing on a thin footrope, they bellied up to the fat spar and brought the sail in, forming a skin and stuffing in the bulk of the sail before passing gaskets round it. All the while the bowsprit reared and fell in the lively seas.

Kydd stayed on the quarterdeck, looking forward and seeing occasional bursts of spray from the bow shoot up from beneath, soaking men and canvas. He felt for the sailors.

At last the jib was bent on and began jerking up, flapping and banging, and the men made their way back cautiously inboard. Sheets were tended and the action was complete.

‘Mr Kydd, what was your purpose in setting the large jib?’ Houghton called.

Kydd crossed the deck and touched his hat. ‘The ship gripes, sir. I–’

‘Surely you would therefore attend to the trim?’

‘Sir, we’re fully stored, difficult t’ work below,’ he began, recalling his experience as a quartermaster’s mate and the dangers lurking in a dark hold when the ship was working in a seaway. ‘This way we c’n cure the griping an’ get an edge of speed.’

Houghton frowned and looked at the master, who nodded. ‘Ah, I believe Mr Kydd means t’ lift the bows - you’ll know the heads’ls are lifting sails, an’ at this point o’ sailing the large jib will do more of a job in this than our stays’l.’

‘And the speed?’ Houghton wanted to know.

But Kydd could already feel the effects: the hesitation was gone and it felt much like a subtle lengthening of stride. He turned to the mate-of-the-watch. ‘A cast o’ the log, if y’ please.’

It was only half a knot more, but this was the same as subtracting from their voyage the best part of a hundred miles for every week at sea.

Kydd held back a grin. ‘And if it comes on t’ blow, we let fly, sir.’

Houghton gave a curt acknowledgement.

‘Does seem t’ me she’s a sea-kindly ship, if y’ know what I mean, sir,’ Kydd dared.

The wardroom was a quite different place from what it had been a day or so before: the officers sat at table for dinner in the usual way, but now they were in sea-faded, comfortable uniform and there was always one absent on watch. And instead of the stillness of harbour repose, there was the soaring, swooping movement of deep ocean that had everyone finding their sea-legs once more.

Fiddles had been fitted round the table, taut cords at the edge to prevent plates tumbling into laps; glasses were never poured more than half full and wetted cloths prevented bottles sliding - all familiar accompaniments to sea service.

The chaplain entered for dinner, passing along hand by hand to steady himself. ‘Do take a sup of wine,’ Kydd said solicitously.

‘Thank you, perhaps later,’ Peake murmured, distracted. He reached for the bread-barge, which still contained portions of loaves before they were replaced by hard tack, and selected a crust. ‘I confess I was ever a martyr to the ocean’s billows,’ he said faintly.

Kydd remembered the times when he had been deprived of Renzi’s company while Peake and he had been happily disputing logic, and could not resist saying, ‘Then is not y’r philosophy comfort enough? Nicholas, conjure some words as will let us see th’ right of it.’

Renzi winked at him. ‘Was it not the sainted Traherne who tells us ... let me see ..."You never enjoy the world aright, till the sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens and crowned with the stars and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world"?’

Peake lifted dull eyes and said weakly, ‘I believe the Good Book may be more relied upon in this matter, as you will find in Proverbs, the thirtieth chapter: "There be three things which are too wonderful for me: the way of an eagle in the air, the serpent on a rock - and the way of a ship in the midst of the sea."’

Bampton’s voice cut above the chuckles. ‘That You can safely leave with us, Mr Peake, but we’ll have early need of your services I fancy.’ Adams glanced quizzically at the second lieutenant, who continued, ‘You don’t really think we’d be cracking on like this unless there’s to be some sort of final meeting with the French ‑ It stands to reason.’

The table fell silent: the frantic preparations for sea, the storing of powder and shot, the last-minute fitting and repairs had left little time for contemplation of larger matters.

Renzi steepled his fingers. ‘Not necessarily. All we have is rumour and hearsay. We have abandoned the Mediterranean with reason. We can no longer support a fleet there, and therefore every vessel of ours is undefended prey. In this case we have no means of intelligence to tell us what is happening, hence the wild speculation. Now, we do know of General Buonaparte and his designs on England - the landing boats in every northern French port, the daily inspections of his Army of England. Do you not feel it the more likely that he will ransack Toulon and Cartagena of ships of force to swell the Brest fleet to an unstoppable power that will overwhelm us? Rather, that is, than retain them in a landlocked sea for some sort of escapade far away.’

‘Just as I said,’ Bampton snorted. ‘A conclusion with Mr Buonaparte, in the chops of the Channel somewhere, I’d wager, and-’

‘Except we’re sent south to Cadiz.’

‘Renzi, old trout, you’re not being clear,’ admonished Adams.

‘Am I not? Then it could be that I am as much in the dark as you. Are we to be part of a grand fleet about to break into the Med again? Or might it be that we being only a sixty-four - a fine one indeed, as I am obliged to remark - our purpose is merely that of releasing the more warlike seventy-fours for the fleet?’

At the head of the table Bryant glowered. As first lieutenant, his interest in a future bloody battle and the subsequent custom of promotion to commander for an active officer had been all too apparent on the quiet North American station. The prospect of sitting out his battle far from the action was hard to endure. ‘There’s a reason for it, never fear,’ he said. ‘Jervis ain’t the one to ask for ships without he’s got a plan. My money’s on him takin’ Buonaparte as he heads north with the Toulon squadron afore he can join up with the mongseers off Brest’

It was exhilarating sailing, a starboard tack with winds quartering, mile after deep sea mile on the same course. As they edged south the weather brightened, the vivid white of towering clouds and hurrying white horses contrasting pleasingly with the deep ultramarine of the seas.

The stimulating stream of oceanic air impelling them along made it hard to stay below, and when Renzi took over his watch, Kydd felt too restless to retire to his cabin to work on his divisional list, and waited while Renzi satisfied himself as to the ship’s condition.

They fell into step in an easy promenade around the quarterdeck. The messenger midshipman returned to the helm, as did the duty master’s mate, leaving the two officers to their privacy. They paced in silence, until Renzi said, ‘Dear fellow, do I see you satisfied with your lot? Is this the visage of he who is at one with the world? You haven’t spoken much of your elevation to the ranks of the chosen - are you content now with your station?’

Kydd paused. ‘Nicholas, I’ve been a-thinking. Who I am, where I’m headed in life, that sort o’ thing.’ He shot his friend a glance. ‘It’s not long since I was in bilboes waiting f’r the rope. Now I’m a King’s officer. What does that say t’ you?’

‘Well, in between there was a prodigious battle and some courage, as I recall.’

Kydd gestured impatiently. ‘Nicholas, I’ll tell ye truly. While I was afore the mast I was content. I allow that then t’ be a sailing master was all I could see an’ all I wanted from life. Then with just one turn o’ the screw my stars change an’ here I am! Makes me think - might be anything can happen, why, anything a-tall!’ He spun round to face Renzi squarely. ‘Nicholas, m’ life will never be complete until I have my own ship! Walk my decks, not a man aboard but tips his hat t’ me, does things my way. An’ for me, I get the chance to win my own glory because I make the decisions - good or bad, they’re mine, and I get the rewards or the blame! So, how does it sound, Nicholas, Cap’n Thomas Kydd, Royal Navy?’

Renzi raised an eyebrow ‘A junior lieutenant with such ardour? Where is the old Kydd I knew?’ He gave a half-smile, then added, ‘I admire your fervour, and respect vour passion for the laurels, but you will, of course, have noticed that Fortune bestows her favours at random. You stand just as much a chance of having your head knocked off as winning glory.’

 

Less than three weeks later they passed the distant blue peak of Morro Alto to starboard, marking the island of Flores at the western extremity of the Azores. Their passage in the steady westerlies had been fast and sure, and it was becoming a point of honour to win every advantage, gain the last fraction of a knot. Tenacious was answering the call.

Noon. The hallowed time of the grog issue for the hands. A fife at the main hatchway started up with the welcome strains of ‘Nancy Dawson’, and Kydd waited for the decks to clear. It was time, too, for the ceremony of the noon sight.

Officers readied their instruments. At local apparent noon, while the men were below, they would fix the line of longitude passing through their position and thus compute the distance remaining to their rendezvous off Cadiz.

A crisp horizon and the ship’s motion predictably even: it was a good sighting. Most officers retired to their cabins for peace in the concentrated work of applying the necessary corrections and resolving the mathematics resulting in the intersection of latitude and longitude that was the ship’s location at midday.

From first one then another cabin came disbelieving shouts. ‘Well, damme, five degrees of longitude noon to noon!’

‘Two hundred and fifty miles off the reel in twenty-four hours!’

‘She’s a champion!’

Glasses were raised to Tenacious in the wardroom that night, but as the ship neared the other side of the Atlantic a more sombre mood prevailed. Exercise of gunnery took on new meaning as the ominous rumble of heavy guns was felt through the deck at all hours. Who knew what trial by battle lay ahead?

Landfall on the continent of Europe was the looming heights of Portugal’s Cape St Vincent, which faded into the dusk as they held course through the night. The officers took their breakfast quietly and though they did not expect to sight the fleet before the afternoon every one went on deck straight after the meal.

‘News! For the love of God, let us have news!’ groaned Adams, running his hands through his fair hair. They had been cut off from the world for weeks across the width of the Atlantic and anything could have happened.

‘For all we know of it,’ Bampton said drily, ‘we may be sailing into an empty anchorage, the Spanish gone to join the French and our grand battle decided five hundred miles away.’

Bryant glared at him.

‘Or peace declared,’ said Renzi.

Conversations tailed off as all the officers turned to him. He continued, ‘Pitt is sorely pressed, the coalition in ruins, the threat against our shores could not be greater. If he treats with the French now, exchanges colonies for peace, he may secure a settlement far preferable to a long-drawn-out war of attrition.’ He paused. ‘After all, France alone has three times our population, a five times bigger army-’

‘What do y’ mean by this kind o’ talk, sir?’ Bryant snapped.

‘Simply that if a French or Spanish vessel crosses our bows, do we open with broadsides? Is it peace or is it war? It would go hard for any who violate hard-won terms of peace …’

 

At a little after two, the low, anonymous coast of Spain firmed in a bright haze ahead. The mainmast lookout bawled down, ‘Deck hoooo! Sail-o’-the-line, a dozen or more - at anchor!’ The long wait was over.

‘Gunner’s party!’ came the order. There would be salutes and ceremony as they joined the fleet of Admiral of the Blue, the Earl St Vincent. Kydd roused out the signal locker and found the largest blue ensign. He smiled wryly at the thought of the hard work he knew would be there for him later; the signal procedures here would be different and he would need to prepare his book accordingly.

Ahead, the body of the fleet against the backdrop of enemy land slowly resolved into a long crescent of anchored warships spreading the width of the mouth of a majestic harbour. As they approached, Kydd identified the flagship in the centre, the mighty 110-gun Ville de Paris, her admiral’s pennant at the main. To seaward of the crescent a gaggle of smaller ships was coming and going, victuallers and transports, despatch cutters, hoys. A sudden crack of salutes rang out, startling him at his telescope. Answering thuds came from the flagship.

Now opposite Ville de Paris, Tenacious backed her main topsail, but an officious half-decked cutter foamed up astern and came into the wind. An officer with a speaking trumpet blared up, ‘The admiral desires vou should moor to the south’ard of the line.’ Obediently Tenacious paid off and got under way for her appointed berth.

Kydd marvelled at the extraordinary sight before him: the grandest port in Spain locked and secured bv a fleet of ships so close that the great ramparts of the city were in plain sight, with multitudes of white houses glaring in the sun, turrets, cathedral domes - and a curious tower arising from the sea.

At the end of the line they rounded to and came to single anchor, the newest member of the fleet. Captain Houghton’s barge was in the water even as the cable was veered. Resplendent in full dress with best sword and decorations, he was swayed into it by yardarm tackle and chair and departed to report to the commander-in-chief.

Houghton did not return immediately; rumour washed around. ‘There’s been a fright only,’ Bryant huffed. ‘Just as the Frogs alwavs do, made to put t’ sea an’ when they see us all in a pelt, put about and scuttle back. Not like Old Jarvie t’ take a scare so.’

Adams looked disconsolate: the thought of enervating blockade duty was trying on the spirit after the thrill of the headlong race across the Atlantic.

Bryant mused, ‘Still an’ all, you’ll not be wanting entertainment. The old bugger is a right hard horse. Marks o’ respect even in a blow, captains to be on deck during the night when takin’ in sail, and if there’s a sniff o’ mutiny, court-martial on the Saturday, hangs ‘em on the Sunday . . .’

The captain arrived back at dusk and disappeared into his cabin. Within the hour, word was passed that all officers were desired to present themselves forthwith in the great cabin.

‘I shall be brief,’ Houghton snapped. ‘The situation in respect to the present threat to England is unclear. France’s Army of England is still massing for invasion and there are fears for Ireland. Now we’ve heard that its commander-in-chief - this General Buonaparte - has abandoned it for the time being and gone to Toulon. Now you know as much as I and the admiral.

‘To more important matters. Those who have served before with Sir John Jervis, now the Earl St Vincent, know well what to expect in the article of discipline and order. We are now a part of his fleet and his opinions on an officer’s duty are robust and unambiguous. You will each consult the Fleet Order Book until its contents are known intimately. Any officer who, through ignorance of his duty, brings disrepute upon my ship will incur my severest displeasure.’

‘Sir, might we know our purpose? Are we to remain while the seventy-fours-’

‘Our purpose is clear, Mr Adams. In case it has escaped your notice, let me inform you that in this port there are twenty-six of‑the-line under Almirante Mazzeredo. Should we fail in our duty and let this armada get to sea ...’

His face tightened. ‘We lie before Cadiz on blockade, sir, and here we shall stay until the Spanish see fit to sail. Do you understand me?’