Kydd paced at his station. His function had little meaning in a sub-battle with no designated commander but he would remain at his post until called upon. It would be Renzi and Adams on the gundecks below who would be the hardest worked – they must be calling on all they could think of to keep their exhausted men toiling at their guns but if it was not enough… Rawson paced beside Kydd, hands firmly crossed behind his back.
A vicious whir above ended in the twang of parted ropes. The French were firing high with chain-shot to try to bring down the rigging and disable them. Debris tumbled, and Kydd could feel solid hits thudding into the hull of Tenacious. Once or twice there was the wind of passing round shot but no deadly musket fire at these longer ranges.
Their guns crashed out at the two battleships around but the winds were backing westerly and the gunsmoke swirled up and around them in choking clouds. Bowden emerged from the hatchway to the gundeck, blinking in the sunlight. He was grey with fatigue but held himself with dignity as he reported to Houghton, then turned away to return with his orders. At that moment a round shot slammed across the deck and Bowden was flung down in an untidy sprawl. He did not move.
Kydd’s fuddled brain struggled to take in the significance of the lifeless figure. Seamen from a nearby gun crew rushed to him but with a tearing cry Rawson ran forward, knocked them aside and lifted Bowden’s body. The head lolled back, revealing a livid wound that oozed scarlet.
‘He lives!’ Rawson croaked.
Recovering, Kydd stepped forward. ‘Get him t’ the doctor,’ he told the seamen. There was a chance that Pybus could stem the tide of death in the young man – presuming that the doctor himself had not succumbed to exhaustion. At least he could tell the lad’s uncle in all sincerity of his complete devotion to duty. Kydd made no move to stop Rawson going below with Bowden as juvenile rivalries were now swept away in the horrors of war.
The firing intensified for a period then slackened. Two of the French 80-gun ships veered cable and eased round further away from the English line. This exposed the two grounded ships to heavy fire. The closest lost her fore-topmast, but before it had finally settled over her bow in a snarl of rigging her colours jerked down. The situation was changing fast: another English ship arrived and anchored next to a frigate, which loosed her broadside, then struck her colours.
Kydd’s fog of weariness began to lift. The focus of gunfire now shifted to the four remaining ships of the original French line, but Kydd’s attention to these was cut short when Houghton sent for him. ‘Mr Kydd, do you take possession of the French seventy-four.’
To take possession? It was every officer’s dream to board a vanquished enemy and this day Thomas Kydd would do so! It was incredible, wonderful. All trace of fatigue left him. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ he stammered. He had no doubt, however, of why he had been chosen: he could be spared in the continuing conflict – others would continue the fight.
‘Carry on, Mr Kydd.’ Houghton gave a dry smile and turned away.
Kydd’s heart rose with pride, but the formalities must be observed. His mind scrambled to recall the procedures as he told a messenger, ‘Pass the word for Mr Rawson.’
The midshipman appeared, his features drawn.
‘How does Mr Bowden do?’ Kydd asked.
‘He’s near-missed by a ball. Mr Pybus says he is tolerably sanguine for his life but he’s sore concussed an’ will need care.’
‘Which can be arranged, I’d wager,’ Kydd said. ‘But now we go t’ take possession of the Frenchy yonder,’ he added briskly. It had the desired effect. The resilience of youth ensured that a smile appeared on the midshipman’s face. ‘Beg Mr Pringle for a half-dozen marines and ask the first lieutenant for a boat’s crew.’ There were things to remember – he had heard of the embarrassment of one lieutenant who had arrived triumphantly aboard a conquered ship but had omitted to bring along a flag to hoist over that of the enemy.
And he had no French to deal with their captives, but that could be remedied: ‘We’ll have Petty Officer Gurnard in the boat.’ This man, he knew, came from Jersey in the Channel Islands and would have the French like a native.
He wished he could shift from his grey-stained uniform to something more presentable, but all his possessions were struck below in the hold. His cocked hat was passed into the boat, where the crew and marines waited, then Kydd swung over the bulwarks and down the side.
They pulled steadily towards the motionless French ship-of-the-line and as they did so the men began to cheer and whoop – the second vessel aground had lowered her colours. ‘Silence in the boat!’ growled Kydd. He would see to it that the surrender was seemly and in accordance with the strict and ancient customs of the Royal Navy.