Tenacious

Kydd was anxious, but it was not the hazards of storm or enemy that made his palms moist: it was the knowledge that he and his ship were under the eye of the most famous fighting admiral of the age. They were daring to become one of an elite band of ships and men beginning to be known throughout the Royal Navy: Troubridge of Culloden, Hallowell of Swiftsure, Foley of Goliath, Hood of Zealous. To see the crusty Houghton return from colloquy with Nelson, eyes alight and pride in his voice, Kydd knew that this was a professional pinnacle in his career and, whatever happened, he must not fail.

Nelson's first move was to the eastward, rounding the north of Corsica with his fleet in tight formation, laying to in the evening off the sprawling island of Elba. It was vital to gain intelligence on the whereabouts of the French armament. To blunder into it round the next point of land would be disastrous. All that was known was that the French had sailed, and because the reinforcements had come from Gibraltar without sighting them the armada must have passed north about Corsica and then down the Italian coast—to Rome? Naples? Malta?

With not a single frigate to scout ahead there was little choice: the brig Mutine was pressed into service. The game little vessel would look ahead into the bays and harbours of the coast of Italy and hope she could survive any encounter with the French.

Meanwhile the fleet would stop any vessel that dared show itself. These were few: a terrified Moorish xebec swore that he had seen the French fleet at Syracuse, and a tunny fisherman solemnly declared that he had sailed through the entire armada not far to their immediate south three days previously. The land of Corsica and north Italy under their lee were French now and hostile so would not provide reliable intelligence.

Nelson could not wait: the trail was going cold. The English fleet weighed anchor and stood to the south, broadsides loaded and in fighting formation—but all they met was Mutine on her way back to deliver her report. No sighting, not even a rumour.

The battle fleet followed the coast south. The old port of Civitavecchia was a blue-grey smudge to the eastward as Mutine looked cautiously into it. Another day brought a misty grey Rome to the horizon. On they sailed until the limits of French occupation were reached. This was now the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies—independent but neutral by treaty of amity with revolutionary France. Naples was important enough, though, to serve as the seat of the senior British diplomat in the Mediterranean, so surely there they would receive reliable intelligence on this most sinister event of recent times.

Neither Kydd nor any in Tenacious was able to catch sight of the famous city. Only the massive cone of Vesuvius was recognisable above the lumpy coastline as the fleet hove to far out in the Bay of Naples, ready to get under way in an instant to meet the enemy. Nelson remained aboard his flagship while the trusty Mutine sailed inshore, bearing his flag-captain to the ambassador.

Within two hours Troubridge was hastening back to Nelson, observed by an impatient fleet. This had to be the news they so badly needed. Speculation rose to fever pitch when the flagship at last hoisted the 'lieutenant repair aboard' signal that always preceded the issue of orders.

The first lieutenant of Tenacious was sporting enough to toss a coin for the task, and it was Renzi who occupied the stern-sheets of the barge sailing out to Vanguard. There was some delay before the craft returned, but when Renzi came up the side steps he wore an enigmatic smile and excused himself to attend upon the captain.

When he emerged he was surrounded instantly by impatient officers. 'Gentlemen!' he protested. 'I have but done my duty by the order book—do you suppose I am made privy to all the strategical secrets of Sir Horatio? That he confides his fears and anxieties to me, to be—'

'Nicholas!' Kydd pleaded. 'Be s' good as to tell y'r friends what you saw—and heard, o' course. Are we to —'

Renzi paused for a moment, then said firmly, 'It's Malta.' The island was almost at the geometrical centre of the Mediterranean and astride the main east-west sea routes. With a stone-built fortress of great antiquity and a magnificent harbour, it had been ruled for seven hundred years by warrior monks, the Knights of St John Hospitallers, who still held feudal court over the Maltese.

'How do you know?' Renzi was pressed by several at once.

'I was there when Captain Troubridge was still aboard, pacing about the quarterdeck with Nelson. It seems, gentlemen, that the armament was recently seen passing southward. It is perfectly logical that Malta is the objective.'

'Surely a descent on Sicily is to be recommended?' Adams said. 'With this, Buonaparte has Naples and the rest of Italy and can split the Mediterranean in two—a far greater prize, I believe.'

'Therefore what better than to take Malta as a safe harbour for the seizure of Sicily? Do not neglect the attraction of the gold and treasure of seven hundred years.'

'A pox on all this talk!' Bryant grated. 'Let's be after 'em afore they sets ashore—wherever they're headed.'

'I think we'll find our answer at the Strait of Messina,' Renzi continued equably. 'Our French tyrant must pass through and then we'll see what kind of course he shapes.'

Kydd remembered that the strait divided Italy from Sicily but was hazy about the details. 'They'll be close enough t' spy from ashore?'

Renzi raised an eyebrow. 'When you recollect that these very same are the lair of the Scylla and Charybdis of the ancients ...' He paused, but in the absence of cries of understanding he went on: '... which are the terrors that lie in wait for the unwary mariner each side of the strait that he must brave if he wishes to pass through.

'On the one side, there is Scylla who dwells in a cave high up. She will dart forth her snaky heads, seize sailors from the very decks of their ship and bear them away shrieking to her den. And on the other is Charybdis, who engulfs the laggardly in a frightful chasm into which the seas rush with a mighty roar that may be heard for leagues. I fear it is this passage we must ourselves soon hazard ...'

There were no ancient monsters, but the narrow strait held another threat: only a mile wide, it was a perfect location should the French fleet, having got wind of their presence, desire to lie in wait. The English, without scouting frigates and having no room to turn and manoeuvre, would be helpless.

During the night they passed Stromboli, its lurid orange flaring up to deter them. They reached the strait but no French warships loomed. However, it was clear they were expected: the scrubby foreshore was crowded with people. The fleet hove to and boats came out immediately. One with an enormous union flag made straight for the flagship.

Bryant brought the news from Vanguard they had been waiting for. 'Malta, right