Devil's Island, the most seaward part of Halifax, lay abeam: now there was no reason why they could not bear up—and then there was a tiny flutter of bunting on Resolution's poop.
Kydd concentrated with his glass. A quick refresh from his pocket book had shown him that there was only one flag in the two hoists that differentiated 'tack' and 'wear'—a yellow diagonal on a blue background—and this was number three, 'tack.' If he just glimpsed that flag, he could ignore the rest and they would gain a vital edge. Houghton stopped pacing and faced Kydd. Around the ship men followed suit, every face turning towards him.
There! A cluster of flags mounted swiftly in Resolution's rigging, their fluttering edges making the hoist nearly impossible to read—but Kydd's straining eyes had spotted the distinctive number three as the flagship's signal crew bent it on as part of the hoist. Before the flags had reached the peak he roared triumphantly, 'It's tack!'
Men raced to their stations; running gear was thumped on the deck and faked for running, afteryards manned by the starboard watch and headyards the larboard, double manning for the greatest speed. The signal jerked down aboard the flagship — execute!
The wheel spun as the quartermaster at the wheel and his mate threw themselves at the task and Tenacious's bluff bow began to move. At the waist, ropes' ends were out as the petty officers ensured the foresheet was let go smartly and the lee brace checked away. In growing excitement Kydd saw that of the file of ships only Tenacious herself at the rear and the flagship at the head had begun a swing round into the wind. His pride swelled at the evidence of his enterprise—they were well into their tacking about while in front, Andromeda, was still in line ahead.
'Helm's a-lee!' Big driving sails began shaking, the yards bracing round while the foreyards took the wind aback to lever her round. 'Mainsail haul!' The ship passed slowly through the eye of the wind and all hands heaved and hauled with all their might to make the sails belly out comfortably on to the new tack. It was neatly done.
'Sir!' It was Rawson, tugging on his sleeve urgently. Kydd turned irritably. The midshipman pointed mutely at the line of ships: Resolution had tacked about as fast as they, but all the rest were still thrashing along on the old tack, not one even attempting to go about.
A feeling of growing apprehension crept over Kydd. Something was wrong. Resolution was now in plain view to weather, her entire beam to Tenacious instead of her stern—and as they watched, a flutter of bunting mounted at her main, the original signal. But ominously, there for the whole fleet to see was Tenacious's pennant climbing brazenly aloft. A gun thudded out peremptorily for attention.
'What, in the name of God?' Houghton roared at Kydd. The admiral was telling the world that HMS Tenacious had blundered and should conform to his signal.
'It's tack, but in succession, sir,' Rawson whispered urgently, pointing to an entry in the signal book. It was the order to tack, sure enough, but the maddening additional flag at the end indicated that instead of turning into line like a file of soldiers, the admiral wanted the column of ships to reach a fixed point, then wheel round to follow him, thereby preserving their line ahead formation.
'Sir, the signal is 'tack in succession.' I—I'm sorry, sir . . .' Kydd's voice seemed thin and weak.
Houghton's chest swelled and his face reddened, but before the explosion another gun sounded impatiently from the flagship. There was nothing for it but public ignominy.
'Haaands to stations for staying!' Tenacious must obey the last order and come back to her original tack; her ship's company, feeling the shame and the entire fleet's eyes on them, took up their ropes again while Kydd stood mortified, face burning. Tenacious came ponderously about and tried to assume her old place at the end of the line—but by now the line itself was all but gone, preceding ships now having reached the fixed point and tacked round on to the new course.
Cursing, weary men picked up their ropes and prepared to haul round for the third time in a row. But when the due point was reached Tenacious had not picked up enough speed, and when the helm went down she headed up languidly into the wind—and stayed there, held in the wind's eye, in irons.
The master lunged over and took the helm, bawling at the men forward as the ship drifted astern, the hapless officer-of-the-watch nervously clutching his telescope and watching the captain, appalled. Kydd, with nothing to do, could only stand and suffer as the ship tried to regain her dignity.
Finally in her place at the rear of the line stretching away to the east, Tenacious settled down and Kydd turned to his captain, prepared for the worst—but yet another signal streamed out from Resolution. 'Fleet will heave to,' Kydd reported carefully. Main topsails were backed and way fell off. There had to be a reason why the whole squadron was coming to a stop.
'Flagship, sir—our pennant and, er, 'Send a lieutenant.'' The admiral wanted an official explanation from Tenacious for the recent display—and there would be no bets taken on who would go as the sacrifice . . .
Admiral Vandeput did not spare his squadron. Between Cape Sable and Cape Cod, seven ships sailed resolutely in formation, assuming tactical divisions by signal, running down invisible foes, shortening sail for battle. Curious fishing-boats were diverted by strings of flags run up the flagship's rigging, followed by instant animation aboard every vessel of the squadron—and the occasional gun for attention.
Kydd doggedly improved his acquaintance with the Fighting Instructions and attached signals, and when the squadron was ready to return to port several days later, he was fully prepared. 'Sir, vessels in the squadron to retire in order of sailing.' It was the return to Halifax. 'Signal to wear, sir,' Kydd added, as the flags broke at the masthead. This would see the ships turning on their heel and facing where they had been—but this time with Tenacious leading the squadron back to port.
Now was the time to show her breeding in the manoeuvre of going about completely, stern to wind. 'Brace in the afteryards— up helm!' The mizzen topsail began shaking, the main just full and the fore up sharp. Tenacious started her swing, the line of ships ahead commenced their wheel about. 'Lay y'r headyards square! Shift headsheets!' Her rotation brought the wind right aft, and the weather sheets were eased to become the lee. 'Brace up headyards—haul aboard!' Men laboured to get the tack hard in forward and the sheets aft as she came on to her new heading. Tenacious responded with a willing surge.
'Draw jib!' It was the last order before she settled on her new course, the sheets hauled aft to bring the headsails to a full taut-ness. The fo'c'slemen responded heartily, the thought of safe haven in Halifax just hours away lending weight to their hauling.
A crack as loud as a three-pounder gun came from far forward. The crew on the jibsheets fell to the deck,
