Tenacious(22)

‘No, sir,’ said Hambly, neutrally. ‘But on this board he stands into mortal peril, sir…’

‘The land?’

‘Corsica, sir. Dead to loo’ard an’ not so many miles.’ The awesome force of the gale from the north-west had driven the squadron towards the craggy coast of Corsica to the south-east – but how close were they?

‘He must wear, o’ course.’

With the wind blast on the larboard side any sail that Vanguard could hoist would only impel them further towards that coast. They must therefore bring the gale to the other side and let her drive before it. But with no possibility of setting any kind of sail forward there would not be the leverage to bring the big 74 round. She was trapped on her course.

‘They’ll tack, then?’

‘No, sir,’ Hambly responded. ‘She wouldn’t a-tall get through the wind’s eye. I fear we’re t’ see a calamity very soon, sir.’

It was inconceivable: the greatest fighting admiral of the age, in his own flagship, beaten on to the rocks, then almost certain death – or, at best, survival and humiliating capture by the French.

‘We have to do something, damn it!’ Houghton rasped. The other two ships were lying tentatively on her beam; in these surging conditions it was too risky to get closer.

‘Could stream rafts for survivors when…’ No one took up Kydd’s thought and he resumed his sorrowful gaze at the doomed vessel. In all conscience they could stay with the ship only until that fatal last half-mile.

Then there was sudden movement on her decks. The rags of sail still up were brought in until the ship was bare. Without the steadying of high canvas she began a sickening wallow, the merciless wind nearly abeam. A flicker of paleness showed around her plunging bow.

‘Ah!’ All eyes turned to Hambly, who cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘Er, that is t’ say, it’s clear they have right seamen aboard Vanguard. That’s a sprits’l they’re setting an’ they’ll wear ship with that.’

A spritsail was an ancient sail from another age, one spread below the bowsprit and long since disappeared from modern warships. The effect of the diminutive sail, set so far forward, was immediate. Painfully, Vanguard began to pay off under the leverage, rotating slowly until the seas previously battering her from abeam now came under her stern. She gathered steerage way and, bracing the spritsail yard hard round, showed canvas on her mizzen, completed the turn and finally wore round. At last the threat of shipwreck was averted.

The quarterdeck of Tenacious erupted in shouts of admiration – now their flagship had a chance! Only one frigate could be seen: the others must have been blown to – who knew where? The storm showed no sign of calming and the last frigate fell away into the spindrift, then disappeared.

It was now a matter of enduring the jerking, bruising motion; a tedious, wearying period that stretched time and deadened the spirit. A second night drew in, but before the light faded a flutter of colour showed at the admiral’s mizzen.

‘Mr Kydd!’ Houghton handed over his telescope. The image danced uncontrollably and Kydd adopted a foul-weather brace, right elbow jammed firmly to his side, the other against his chest with his feet splayed wide. Without needing to refer to his pocket signal book he knew the hoist. ‘Alexander’s pennant, “pass within hail”.’

Then Orion closed cautiously, and finally it was the turn of Tenacious. Coming up slowly on the flagship’s leeward side they saw the damage – topmasts missing, foremast a splintered stump, lines of rigging tangling on the decks – it could not possibly be repaired at sea.

Without doubt the cluster of figures on her quarterdeck would include Admiral Nelson. Kydd clung to the shrouds listening as Houghton brought up his speaking trumpet and hailed, ‘Flag ahoy!’ His voice was strong and well pitched, but it was nearly lost in the uproar of the swashing seas between the madly surging vessels.

‘Do ye hear?’ came distantly across from the flagship quarterdeck.

‘I do, sir.’

‘Have – you – charts –’ Houghton held up a hand in acknowledgement ‘– of Oristano?’

Sardinia. So the admiral was seeking a dockyard in Sardinia under their lee. ‘Have we? Quickly, Mr Hambly.’

‘No, sir, nothing more’n a small-scale o’ that coast.’

‘Regret – no – charts.’

The remote figure waved once and the ships began to diverge. The admiral had three choices: to chance unknown waters and a possibly hostile port in Sardinia; make a lengthy return to Gibraltar in his crippled ship; or, when the weather abated, transfer to one of the others and scuttle Vanguard.