Tenacious

scowbunkin' lubbers! Y'r worse'n a lot o' Dublin durrynackers!'

Kydd knew what they must be enduring—muscles across the shoulders and forearms burning with pain, turning hands on the looms of the oar to claws, but if they were to be out in the cool breezes to seaward before dawn ...

A low groan came from the anonymous dimness forward. Kydd frowned: if this was an expression of discontent, he would take the steering oar himself and send Dobbie there. He knew that the hard petty officer kept a rope's end handy and he would have no compunction about letting him loose.

Suddenly there was a disturbance—a tangle of arms and cries of alarm. 'Oars!' Kydd roared. 'Dobbie, get forrard an' see what it is.' They had lost momentum.

Dobbie ran down the centreline on the thwarts. Kydd heard grunts and felt the boat sway. 'It's Boyd, sir—bin an' taken poorly. I've got 'is oar!' Dobbie shouted hoarsely.

'Give way,' Kydd ordered, still at the steering oar. The thunk of oars began immediately; the men knew only too well how hard it was to begin again from a standing start. He blessed his luck at having Dobbie but noticed Bowden's hands clutching the gunwale. They twitched convulsively.

At last they reached the mark on the lead-line. 'Oars!' The boat quickly slowed and stopped.

Dobbie padded back down the boat. 'Now, Joe,' he said to the stroke oar, who stood up, took out his knife and began sawing at the lashings of the anchor. When they had fallen away the two took the end of a capstan bar each in cupped hands.

'Go,' said Kydd. The two men strained upwards, bodies shuddering with effort, then the anchor began to shift, to slide, until it toppled off the stern of the boat with a sullen splash, taking the hawser with it. The boat bobbed in relief.

'Hold water larboard—'

'Belay that!' Kydd ordered. 'Lay t' y'r oars—five minutes, no longer.' The anchor would take time to sink to the sea bed and there would be time then to resume their task.

The men eased their bodies gratefully as best they could.

'Mr Bowden, go forrard an' see what you c'n do.'

The lad got to his feet and made his way clumsily forward, kept upright by hands from indignant seamen. He reported back: 'A-a form of calenture, I think, sir. He's still unconscious. H-his friends have him out of the way in the middle of the boat, and I've put my coat under his head. A-and I—'

'Ye did right, Mr Bowden.' Then Kydd turned to Dobbie. 'Out oars—carry on.'

They returned under the bows of Tenacious, passing Adams in the cutter going out; having two boats at work meant that precious momentum would be preserved. All too soon the unseen labourers on the gundeck capstans had brought the ship up to her second anchor and the weary round must begin again.

The torment continued into the early hours: the same hot, lifeless night air, fathomless dark sea, gasps, panting. The gigantic black bulk of the Rock had receded so slowly and there were still no breezes. On either hand the anonymous blocks of the rest of the squadron showed that they, too, were enduring—but at first light it could be seen that their mission of stealth had not succeeded.

They were nearly clear of Gibraltar Bay as the featureless grey of early dawn took on the colour of day. To starboard the Spanish fort of Punta Carnero woke to life, and the flat crump of guns sounded across the bay. It was in the nature of a salute—a derisory recognition that, despite all their efforts, whoever wished might see the British make sally once again into the sea from which they had been proscribed for so long.

CHAPTER 3

THE SQUADRON DID NOT pick up a breeze until the mighty Rock was well astern, its shape receding in the bright haze. Then, with the ever-constant east-going current invisibly urging them on, a chuckle of water began at the forefoot.

Topmen crowded up in the yards to extend the sail width with stuns'ls, and the master exerted every skill to trim the complex machinery of canvas and rope that was driving their ship. Ahead was Nelson's Vanguard: Tenacious could not disgrace herself.

Kydd was not on watch as officers were not required to keep the deck, but the whole ship's company wanted to take sight of the ancient sea, closed to them until this moment. Renzi stared into the blue expanse ahead, his expression calm but an unconscious half-smile in place. Kydd suspected his friend was contemplating the dangers ahead in this maelstrom of competing nations that was the cradle of their civilisation. But he seemed distant and preoccupied: it might well be more than that. Kydd remembered a letter Renzi had received in Gibraltar that had had a noticeable effect on his friend, but he knew of old that Renzi would disclose the distraction only when he was ready so he would not press matters.

There was no reason why he should go below, but Kydd could wait no longer. He had taken a peek at the package earlier, but there had been no time for more. Despite his lack of sleep, the thought of what he would see now thrilled him. With guilty excitement he mumbled an excuse and hurried down the companionway.

Tysoe had taken possession of the long, oddly shaped article for him while he had been aboard Princess Royal and it was still in its brown-paper wrapping. Kydd opened it carefully, hefting the precious weight and feeling like a child with a long-awaited gift. The black gleam of oiled leather, then the martial gilding of the top of the scabbard—and suddenly it was in his hands, the weapon that would probably be by his side for the rest of his sea life.

He clicked open the langets securing the sword and eased up the blade far enough to see engraved just below the hilt, less than an inch in size, as neat a pair of Cornish choughs as he could have wished for.

With a lethal slither, he withdrew the sword from its scabbard; the half-length bluing of the blade was as handsome as he had remembered. He came to point, the action seeming so natural, the sword in flawless balance. Kydd drew it close in admiration. Mesmerised by the steely shimmer, he flourished it slowly, feeling its grace and accuracy, the sharkskin grips sure and true. He stood to lose his life if enemy blood caused it to slip from his hand.

Reluctantly he slid the blade back into the scabbard. It was unbelievable that he could be the owner of such a fine weapon.

He gathered up the appurtenances: the belt with its frog, a matching baldric—a broad strap for shoulder carriage of the sword complete with a bold gilded fouled anchor device—and a beautifully worked sword knot. Eyeing the tassels doubtfully, Kydd resolved to replace it in combat with a securely spliced manila lanyard. He hung