'See 'ere, cully,' said Hotham, edging towards the opening on one side of the first gun. Kydd stared out at a dizzying height from the sheer face of the north aspect of the Rock. Far below was a flat plain that issued from the base, curving around until some miles further on it dissolved into mainland.
'Spain, cully!' Hotham declared, waving outwards.
'Where?' These guns could fire far, but not to the hills.
Hotham grinned. 'There!' He pointed directly down to the flat plain. No man's land, and only some half a mile away. So close — an enemy in arms against Britain, continuously ready to fall upon them if there was the slightest chance. Kydd tried to make out movement, figures on the hostile side of the lines, but to his disappointment could not.
'We got a hunnerd 'n' forty like this'n,' Hotham said, patting the twenty-four-pounder, 'an' thirty-twos, coehorns, even our own rock mortars. Nothin' ter fear, really, we ain't.' Kydd wondered what it must be like to look up at the sheer heights of the Rock, knowing the fire-power that could be brought down on any with the temerity to test the impregnability of Gibraltar.
Kydd was no more than half-way returned to his ship when he heard the first gun, a low crump, from somewhere above him. He craned to look, scanning the skyline, but there was only dissipating smoke. Suddenly, below him, there came the heavier thud of an answering gun. Kydd hurried on. Within minutes there were signs of agitation, shopkeepers emerging to look about nervously, water-carriers halting their donkeys in confusion. A young seaman acknowledged Kydd, just as the measured thump of a minute gun started from somewhere in the harbour. Guns opened up in other parts of the Rock and the sudden soaring of a rocket from below was quickly followed by others.
Achilles, It could be nothing less than an urgent general recall. Kydd had to make it back: there was peril abroad and his deepest instincts were with his ship. At the Ragged Staff gate there was a scrimmage for boats; Kydd and others quickly packed into the launch. Bedlam erupted all along the Rock — guns, church bells, shouting and confusion.
'What's th' rout, then?' one sailor demanded.
'Spanish. Sighted t' the east, mebbe a dozen or more sail-o'-the-line, comin' on like good 'uns an' straight for us!'
The Spanish Mediterranean battle fleet was usually skulking far away in Cartagena but they had heard of the English evacuation of the Mediterranean and knew Gibraltar was at the moment defended only by an old 64, a handful of unrated ships and local craft. Were they now going to take revenge for nearly a century of humiliation — and finally liberate the Rock?
Achilles was frantic with activity: she couldn't go to quarters until sail had been bent to the yards as she was still in refit. But a single ship? The enemy fleet would now be in sight from the point, a sinister straggling of tiny sail spreading over half of the eastern horizon.
Kydd's battle quarters was on the main gundeck, but for now he was at the foremast, frantically driving men to send up the long sausages of sails to seamen on the yard. The new hands, landmen all, were pale and frightened at the prospect of battle and needed hard pressing. Kydd grew hoarse with goading. 'Haaands to unmoor ship!'
The boatswain's mates pealed out their calls, but Kydd knew they had two anchors out, which would take time to buoy and slip — it was a race against time.
From his station at the catheads, Kydd kept an eye on the point: the eastern side of Gibraltar was sheer and inaccessible, and any invading force must come round to this side, sweeping aside with concentrated cannon fire the single ship of significance before beginning their landing.
First one or two then a dismaying cloud of heavy men-o'-war appeared from beyond the point, keeping well out of range, however, of the guns perched high up on the Rock. Kydd's heart beat fast. The last cable-buoy splashed into the water: they were now free to sail out to meet the enemy.
The ship cast to larboard and, under all plain sail, stood out from the harbour. The urgent thundering of the drum to quarters sounded, and Kydd snatched a last look at their opponents, then closed up on the main deck, briefly regretting having to face the battle in his best rig. Gun-crews with unskilled landmen, shot not brought up to the garlands from the lockers, gunner's party sewing cartridges like madmen: it was the worst conceivable timing for a Spanish descent, with Admiral Jervis and the fleet far in the north, but Kydd accepted that the sacrifice of their ship had to be made. They could not stand aside meekly and allow Gibraltar to fall.
'They've hauled their wind!' the voice of the forward midshipman shrilled, withdrawing from a gunport. 'Headin' north!'
Kydd brushed a gun-crew aside and peered out. The Spanish had not completed the turn into the Bay of Gibraltar: they had simply braced up and headed north, past - and away. After the urgent recall to his ship, Kydd felt a sense of frustration. But then the lieutenant of the gundeck, staring hard at the enemy ships, said coldly, 'They're making for Cadiz. Together they will outnumber even Jervis, heaven help us!'