Tenacious

'Shut y' trap,' Poulden growled instantly.

'She goes, we all go!' another seaman said fearfully and the boat's speed fell off.

'Be damned t' your infernal shyness!' Rawson said, in a most creditable rasp. 'See Swiftsure? She's damn near alongside, and not a-feared.' The English 74 was within half a pistol shot of the flaming ship, off her bow from where she had been slamming in her broadsides and there was no indication that she was about to pull away.

It was puzzling why she was so close yet was making no moves to save herself. Kydd shook his head: the grandeur and horror were having an effect on his senses. He roused himself. 'See there, y' swabs! There's other boats out, an' they're not hanging back. Do ye want t' shame Tenacious in front o' them?'

A cry rang out from the bowman who was pointing to a shadowy blob in the fiery path on the water. 'Go,' Kydd snapped at Rawson, who obediently put the tiller over. They came up to the dark shape.

'Oars!'

The bowman leaned over and grappled. 'Bear us a fist, Ralph,' he called. The two tugged and suddenly there was a weak stream of words, followed by retching.

'Anyone speaks French?' Kydd demanded. He turned to Poulden. 'Get him down in th' boat, search him, and if he's trouble, throw him back.'

'Give way.' The boat continued heading towards the appalling tower of flame, alive and magnificent but touching every primordial nerve in Kydd's body. They were close enough now to hear the fierce roar of the flames; against it the battlefield sounds were a dull background.

Another survivor shrieked as he was pulled aboard. Sounds of his agony continued then stopped suddenly. Clambering back, Poulden reported quietly. 'Sorry, sir, 'e was all burned like.'

'Over th' side,' Kydd said, without hesitation. He watched as others were pulled in but it was becoming unreal, the martial thunder of guns and battle overlaid with closer sounds of humanity in distress, yet all in terrified thrall to a cataclysm that could happen before he drew his next breath.

They heard a tiny cry in the night and a ship's boy was heaved in over the sternsheets; he was shivering hysterically and scrabbled for the bottom of the boat, whimpering. 'Leave him alone,' Kydd growled.

The ship was now afire from stem to stern, a towering conflagration of horror that had to be visible as far as Alexandria itself. Cannon still fired from her lowest line of guns. It was bravery at an insane level, in conditions that could not be imagined.

Kydd's boat continued on. Two men were found, roped together, one probably could not swim. They floated away, both dead. Another, levering himself up the gunwale, heard English being spoken and, with his last gasp, cursed the uncomprehending seamen and slipped to his death. Still more cries came from the darkness.

Then—faster than thought—a searing white flash leaped over Kydd's entire vision, with a suffocating slam of superheated air. In a trance-like state, Kydd tried to make sense of the disorder— and the fact that he was still alive.

His sight cleared at the same time as a wave violently rocked the boat, sending them all into a tangled heap. Water flooded over the gunwale. The boat righted and all eyes turned to the conflagration. An immense fiery column climbed skywards, and at its base there was just foam and vapour. The flagship and a thousand men had vanished.

Slowly, other features in his landscape became perceptible. There was Swiftsure—so close, and yet untouched. In a flash of insight Kydd realised the reason they themselves were not destroyed: the force of the explosion had been vast but it was nearly all vented upwards in an inverted cone, and therefore the safest place in fact was close to the ship.

Rawson's bloodless face turned to Kydd, mouthing silent words at the sheer wonder of their survival. Others uncurled from foetal positions. Some made half-hearted efforts to retrieve oars, several bent to find the bailer and start sheeting out the water that half filled the boat.

Kydd turned to the task in hand but as he tried to shake off his disorientation, he saw a silent splash rear up to seaward—and an icy fear gripped him. The mighty explosion had blasted skywards perhaps thousands of feet. Now the pieces of an entire battleship were falling slowly back to Earth.

There were more splashes, near and far—and an enormous one that ended with a jagged spar spearing back up from the depths. Others trailed tangles of rigging and plunged spectacularly, with an increasing rain of smaller fragments still trailing wisps of flame.

Then came a gasp of pain and the flurry of beating hands. Kydd tore off his coat and shared it with the nearer men, Rawson threw his to the men forward. They cowered under their pitiful shelter, feeling the strike of particles and larger burning fragments, flinching at the thought of a giant missile coming down on them. Kydd's skin crawled as he imagined the four tons of a cannon a thousand feet above hurtling down on their little boat.

The pattering and splashing all around seemed to go on for an age—but no great piece came near. It was only when the lethal rain had petered out that Kydd could accept reality: the blast cone had projected most of the wreckage well beyond them.

He waited a little longer, then ventured out from under the coat, staring around wildly. Where there had been a fiery column before, a sullen towering of black smoke shot through with sparks now hung. A desolate stink of cinders and ruin lay pungent on the air.

An eerie stillness reigned over the battle scene, an awed recognition, perhaps, of the catastrophic event so much greater than any local affray, guns fallen silent in respect at the sudden removal from the Earth of the greatest object of before. Then, accentuating the unreality of the scene, the calm silver of a rising moon settled softly over the still ships.

In the launch not a word was spoken as each man came to terms with what he had experienced. Kydd drew on his coat again and pulled himself together: there may still be those in the water, God forbid.

'Out oars—come on, lads, let's be havin' ye. There's sailors out there, lookin' t' be saved ...' It was going to be a long night.

Kydd tossed and turned. Sleep was hard—his mind reeled with stark impressions of fiery grandeur, horribly