Tenacious

weapon, its value in scaling ships' sides and cutting away netting; a pistol had but one shot and then became a club. Kydd had no doubt that the cutlass was the prince of weapons.

He waited while sailors shuffled into line on one side of the deck facing him. For the main part, these men were unblooded in battle, strangers to the hatred and violence of hand-to-hand combat. They would preserve their own lives and bring victory to their ship only if they had skill at arms greater than that of the enemy.

Kydd stood in shirt and breeches, the sea breeze ruffling across his chest. 'I'll have y'r attention now, if y' please.' It seemed an age since, as a pressed man, he had listened while a lieutenant gave him the lesson he was about to impart to these men.

'I'm now going t' save your skins. I'm telling you how to fight— and win!' He signalled to Poulden, who came forward. Kydd took up a cutlass and admired it theatrically, letting its lightly oiled grey steel blade and plain black hilt catch the sun. There were murmurs at the sight. 'Now, see here,' he said. Poulden advanced on him with his own cutlass; Kydd slowly raised his own blade and brought it down towards Poulden's unprotected head, but well before the blow fell, Poulden lunged forward with the point, directly at Kydd's chest. 'You see? Should you slash at your foe he'll be inside you with a thrust—it only needs an inch or two o' steel to end the fight.'

A figure to one side caught his eye. It was Bowden, an intense expression on his face. Kydd wondered what he could be thinking. There was no way to prepare anyone for the impact of finding a living person at the end of a blade who must be killed by the plunge of that same steel in his body—before he killed you.

'Laffin,' Kydd called. The dark-featured boatswain's mate came forward. 'Take this!' he snapped, throwing one of the two wooden practice swords at him. 'On y'r guard, sir!'

Laffin waved his sword sketchily but Kydd performed a crisp front prove distance manoeuvre and tapped his ear smartly. The man recoiled and brought up his sword to point, which Kydd had no trouble evading. Nettled, Laffin began a laborious assault. Instantly Kydd's sword slithered along the inside and in a last flick laid the way open for a fatal lunge.

'You're a dead man, Laffin. Ten seconds.' Kydd's eyes took in the rest of his division. 'Ye're all a lubberly crew who are going t' leave me alone on an enemy deck while you're all being pig-stuck around me. Now we'll learn some real fightin'.'

Using Poulden, a fair swordsman, as his opponent, he demonstrated the positions—guard, assault, half- hanger—and the importance of footwork. He knew his swordsmanship did not have the elegance of a fencing master but was workmanlike, forged in the struggle for survival in the short, brutal encounters of boarding.

'Now, shall we see what ye've learned? I'll take th' first dozen, Mr Rawson.' The deck by the mainmast was soon filled with figures flailing and clacking at each other under the amused eye of the watch on deck.

Suddenly Kydd bellowed, 'Prince o' the poop!' The fighting stopped. Kydd leaped up the ladder to the poop- deck, where he leaned over the rail and looked down with a devilish smile. 'I'm defendin' my poop—any who dares t' take it from me?'

Rawson made the first challenge with a creditable show but was transfixed after tripping over a taffrail knee. The next two were quickly disposed of, but then a voice came from the rear: 'I, sir! I do answer your challenge!' Renzi mounted the ladder and came to an elegant salute at the top.

Kydd knew his friend was a truly accomplished swordsman, who had been tutored by masters in his youth, but did not believe he would use his skill to disgrace him before his men. Kydd answered the salute gracefully and ceremoniously proved distance.

The tips of the plain wooden blades held each other at point, then began their lethal questing: flicking, clacking, from inside guard to St George and assault; left cheek, point, shift and guard again. The thrusts were thoughtfully considered, held off for that fraction of a second that allowed a perception of intent by the audience.

Renzi's expression was polite, amused. For some reason this annoyed Kydd and he dared a thrust of force. Renzi retreated to a series of guards as Kydd continued to smack at his blade with loud cloks.

Kydd was about to overbear Renzi when Renzi's face hardened. His sword flicked out like a barb of lightning, never the same move, probing, testing, vicious.

It chilled Kydd: this was not his friend—this was a terrifying enemy with lethal intent who would batter his way past his defences and finish the contest in death. There was no sound from the onlookers. Renzi moved forward, forcing Kydd into a tiring defence, everything he did of no avail against the faultless automaton bearing down on him.

The end must come—unless ... He tensed, let his right leg bunch and sank as if brought to his knees. Renzi drew back his blade for the final downward thrust that would end with the point at Kydd's throat—but Kydd's blade flashed out low, and took him squarely in his unprotected upper thigh.

'Ha! You see!' Kydd cried loudly. 'My man is now spit, wounded. He falls to the deck—he is now helpless, at my mercy.' Kydd knew his unfair move would never be seen in a gentleman's fencing studio, but where was the referee on an enemy deck?

Renzi drew back slowly, his gaze reptilian. He let his 'sword' drop to the deck with a clatter.

Through sparkling royal blue seas, the sun beating down, the squadron advanced to the end of the line, then went about and back again while energetic frigates cruised far ahead and abeam, ready to notify the slightest move of significance by the enemy.

Kydd prepared as best he could. He had to be familiar not only with the signal flags but with their tactical and strategic meaning: in the confusion of battle he had to be able to piece together the fleet commander's intentions from brief glimpses of bunting at the halliards and inform his captain accordingly.

The Fighting Instructions held all that he should know, but he was troubled that his one experience of a great battle of fleets was now a jostling memory of chaos, powder-smoke and noise, which made it hard to know what his own ship had been doing, let alone others.

And that was supposing they fell back to Cadiz and became part of a much larger fleet. If the French put to sea, Nelson would probably sacrifice himself and his little squadron to delay them—it would be less a fleet battle than a heroic destruction. So much depended on the next days. Distracted, he paced the deck forward.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bowden sitting on the fore-hatch with Poulden, a laborious long-splice under way. The lad's look of concentration was intense and Kydd was pleased to see his work had a fine seamanlike appearance; Bowden looked up shyly at him.

The afternoon wore on. In the dog-watches he would exercise with the cutlass again, and on the following