Tenacious(30)
Kydd remembered that the strait divided Italy from Sicily but was hazy about the details. ‘They’ll be close enough t’ spy from ashore?’
Renzi raised an eyebrow. ‘When you recollect that these very same are the lair of the Scylla and Charybdis of the ancients…’ He paused, but in the absence of cries of understanding he went on: ‘. . . which are the terrors that lie in wait for the unwary mariner each side of the strait that he must brave if he wishes to pass through.
‘On the one side, there is Scylla who dwells in a cave high up. She will dart forth her snaky heads, seize sailors from the very decks of their ship and bear them away shrieking to her den. And on the other is Charybdis, who engulfs the laggardly in a frightful chasm into which the seas rush with a mighty roar that may be heard for leagues. I fear it is this passage we must ourselves soon hazard…’
There were no ancient monsters, but the narrow strait held another threat: only a mile wide, it was a perfect location should the French fleet, having got wind of their presence, desire to lie in wait. The English, without scouting frigates and having no room to turn and manoeuvre, would be helpless.
During the night they passed Stromboli, its lurid orange flaring up to deter them. They reached the strait but no French warships loomed. However, it was clear they were expected: the scrubby foreshore was crowded with people. The fleet hove to and boats came out immediately. One with an enormous union flag made straight for the flagship.
Bryant brought the news from Vanguard they had been waiting for. ‘Malta, right enough! An’ caught in the act – the consul said the Grand Master gave up the island to this Buonaparte only a week past. Much plundering an’ such but now he’s to account to us.’
‘Aye,’ Kydd answered. ‘But we’ll settle him, depend on’t.’ He remembered the time he had spent in the last days of Venice, another antique civilisation, with centuries of continuous history, brought down by the same ruthless leader. He felt bitter that the world he had grown up in, with all its traditional ways, its colour and individuality, was now being dragged into chaos and desolation by this man.
The flagship picked up her pilot for the passage and, ignoring the hundreds of boats that now surrounded them, the fleet formed line for the transit. From the fervent cries and theatrical gestures of the populace there was no doubt that they saw Nelson’s fleet as their only safeguard against the dreaded Buonaparte.
There were currents as fast as a man could run, but they met no other perils as they passed through the strait. The eastern Mediterranean: few aboard had been in this half of the ancient world. To the south were the sands of North Africa and far to the east the fabled Holy Land. On the northern side was Greece, the classical fount of civilisation, and then the Ottomans in Constantinople. Every one was now under threat of war.
Ahead, a bare two days’ sail, was the victorious enemy. Would the fleet stay within the fastness of the Grand Harbour, reputedly the greatest stronghold in the Mediterranean, or, with their greater numbers, would they chance an encounter at sea? Would Napoleon Buonaparte himself take command on the flagship? With stakes so high, nothing short of a fight to the finish would serve: Nelson would ensure this. Possibly within a day these waters would witness a battle whose like they had never seen before.
It was crucial that any piece of intelligence was brought to bear. From every ship in the fleet, boarding parties were sent away to stop and question all vessels of size, but with little result: it would be a brave merchantman who ventured close to Malta during these times.
They stood to the southward, ready for whatever might come at Malta. Yet again the signal hoisted in the flagship was ‘investigate strange sail’. And once again it was Tenacious’s pennants that accompanied it.
‘Your bird,’ grunted Bryant to Kydd. The sail was now visible from the deck and it was small.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Kydd answered, without enthusiasm, and went to his cabin to change into a more presentable frock-coat, then buckle on his sword. Rawson could be relied on to muster the boat’s crew. They had time: Tenacious had left the line and was thrashing out under full sail to intercept. Only when they had stopped the vessel would he take away the cutter, which was now kept towing astern.
This was not his first boarding and he had grown weary of trying to make himself understood to those who had every reason not to understand him.
It was yet another of the myriad small craft plying the inland sea, a brig of uncertain origin that had led them on a fine dance and now lay under backed mainsail, awaiting Kydd and his party.