Tenacious(5)
Renzi raised an eyebrow. ‘A junior lieutenant with such ardour? Where is the old Tom Kydd that I knew?’ He gave a smile, then added, ‘I admire your fervour and respect your passion for the laurels, but you will have noticed, of course, 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. HMS 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 Cadíz.
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!’
That night glasses were raised to Tenacious in the wardroom, 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 the fleet was not expected to be sighted 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 at the mention of this possibility and all the officers turned towards him. He continued, ‘Pitt is sorely pressed, the coalition in ruins, and the threat to 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, as Tenacious’s signal lieutenant, roused out the signal flag 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 this side of the Atlantic would be different and he would need to prepare his own signal book accordingly.
Ahead, the dark 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, dispatch cutters, hoys. A sudden crack of salutes rang out, startling him at his telescope. Answering thuds came from the flagship.