Tenacious

shot, langridge and other ugly, man-killing evil whirled through the night air.

Kydd's skin tightened. Being at idleness in the open was so different from action on a gundeck. Here, he could only sense countless muzzles seeking their target before they exploded into violence; below, there was furious activity, the means and duty to hit back.

The guns of Tenacious smashed out again in an ear-splitting crash. At such close range the strike of their shot was visible on the enemy side and pieces of wreckage tumbled into the short space of ruddy water between the vessels. The stench of powder and ruin was overpowering. A shriek from forward ended in a bubbling death-cry—three marines ran to the poop and set up a firing party aiming far up at the mizzen fighting top of the enemy from where the muzzle flash of muskets stabbed downwards.

Again the space between the ships was enveloped in powder-smoke, but Kydd detected a different pattern. Beyond the end of the length of their target glided the shadowy bulk of another ship coming into position at her stern. Before she had anchored, her guns on the far side exploded into action—the powder-smoke alive with gun- flash like summer lightning, quickly followed by her near side, a savage broadside into the French ship's stern quarters. With four lanthorns in a line at her mizzen peak she had to be an English 74—the Swiftsure, Kydd thought. She had slipped into place between their own adversary and the flagship, firing at both from each side of guns. He tried to make out the mighty man-o'-war just past their opponent and saw that she was now set upon by three English ships in a mind-numbing cannonade.

The battle was now reaching a peak of ferocity. The shattering slam of guns made it difficult to think; back along the line their own flagship was impossible to see in the darkness. Kydd felt the frustration of helplessness. 'Stay here. I'm going t' the quarterdeck,' he said suddenly, to his men. Anything was better than the aimless, nervous pacing, and he had a duty to advise the captain of his inability to sight more than the most elementary signals.

Houghton and the first lieutenant were pacing slowly together in grim conversation, followed by several midshipman messengers. Kydd touched his hat and delivered his report. 'Thank you, Mr Kydd,' Houghton acknowledged, barely noticing him. 'Do you hold yourself in readiness here for the time being.'

Kydd joined the master near the helm watching the captain's clerk attempting to scribble into a notebook by the light of a feeble lanthorn. His duty was to minute events as they happened but Kydd wondered how accurate his jottings could be, given that they were made in near darkness, their author half blinded by the flash of guns and probably petrified with fear.

A sudden iron crash and ringing tone, like a struck anvil, sounded forward as an upper-deck gun took a square hit from a round shot. There would be carnage as it dismounted and Kydd felt pity for the casualties.

Ahead, the hulking enemy man-o'-war was showing every sign of fight—but Kydd's attention was taken by a petty officer running aft and touching his forelock to the captain.

'What is it?' Houghton said.

'Sorry, sir, don't know what t' do, like.'

Kydd stared at him. What would take a hardened seaman like that away from his post in battle?

'It's like this, sir. Number three larb'd nine-pounder took a hit an' it did fer its crew.' He hesitated, as if to spare the details.

'Come on, man, give your report!' Houghton spat out.

The petty officer continued, in a puzzled voice, 'We goes t' see what's t' do. There's nothin' we can do f'r two o' them an' we goes to heave 'em overside and then—and then the parson, he comes outa nowhere an' stops us!'

'Stops you? The chaplain? What do you mean, stops you?' Houghton's anger communicated itself to the seaman, who recoiled.

'Sir, I can't just scrag th' chaplain—not the parson, sir!'

'Dammit!' Houghton exploded. 'Get that ninny off the deck—now!'

'Sir.' Kydd hurried forward with the petty officer. The gun lay shattered and dismounted with a weal of bright steel across its breech. A man lay crouched, sobbing in pain while another sprawled unmoving. And the chaplain, wild-eyed and trembling with emotion, stood over a third.

'Why, Mr Peake, what is it?' Kydd said. It dawned on him that this was probably the first time the chaplain had seen guns fired in war.

'S-s-sir, I have difficulty in finding the words. This—this blackguard,' he stuttered, 'I saw with my own eyes, telling his men to take the fallen and—and drop them into the sea! I cannot believe his contempt for the dead! He is blind to humanity! He—he does—'

Suddenly, severed by a shot aloft, the entire length of an eighty-foot main topgallant lift slithered down in an unstoppable cascade, throwing Peake forward into the pin-rail. Kydd picked him up and steadied him. 'Mr Peake, why are you here? Your duty—'

'My duty is to be with my flock wherever they've been called, even to this barbaric struggle, and—and to do what I can.'

He seemed both pathetic and noble at the same time. Kydd felt unable to respond harshly. 'Mr Peake—your duty is not here on deck, or at the guns.'

The chaplain looked at him resentfully. 'You will speak to this man, then? Tell him—'

'He is doing his duty, Mr Peake. The dead have t' be cleared from th' fighting space of the living or every sacrifice is in vain.' Kydd took a deep breath. 'They will be remembered, sir, that y' may rely on —and by every one o' their shipmates as they'd wish it. This is the custom o' the Service, sir, and may not be put aside,' he finished firmly.

'I—I cannot—that is to say ...'

Kydd paused. There was no lack of fortitude in the man but an edge of madness was lapping at his reason. 'Come, sir, there are those that need ye,' he said, and drew him away.

He took Peake firmly by the arm and led him below, past the bedlam of both decks of guns, down to the after hatchway and past the sentries to the orlop.