Admiral Sir James Ashley-Chute appeared on deck within minutes of the cry from the masthead. Blackwood, who had been taking his customary exercise up and down the quarterdeck, moved to the opposite side as the small, monkey-like figure strode to the nettings. Ashley-Chute might pretend that he was calm and unruffled, but Blackwood knew him well enough to see through his pretence.
Captain Jervis said, ‘Wind’s still rising, sir. I’d like the
hands to shorten sail presently. We’re in for a full gale, according to the Master, and I must say I agree.’
Ashley-Chute’s hands found each other across his buttocks and clasped firmly together as if for support.
‘You are the captain. Act as you think fit.’ He glanced at the sea and then up at the low, fast-moving clouds. All day the sea had been lively and broken into cruising ranks of jagged whitecaps. Now it looked darker, like the sky. Summer was short in the Black Sea apparently.
Blackwood noticed that the admiral’s narrow shoulders were already soaked in spray, and he could almost feel the little man’s agitation as he watched the worsening weather.
The admiral remarked curtly, ‘Nothing much we can do now anyway. It will be dark in two hours.’ Nevertheless, he took a telescope from his flag-lieutenant and steadied it against the ship’s slow plunging motion.
Jervis offered helpfully, ‘The bay and the Russian battery lie nor’-nor’-west, sir.’
The telescope snapped shut. ‘Signal the frigate
Sarpedon
to investigate.’
Blackwood could imagine the relief aboard the black-hulled frigate which had been their constant companion since leaving Malta all that time ago. Free of the admiral’s watchful eye, if only for the moment. He saw the signal dash up the
Sarpedon
’s yards and break out to the wind in acknowledgement. Against the threatening clouds the flags looked unusually bright, like painted metal.
Ashley-Chute paced a few steps this way and that.
‘Put a reliable officer at the masthead, Captain Jervis.’ His deepset eyes settled suddenly on Blackwood. ‘Or would
you
do me the honour, sir?’
Blackwood handed his hat to a seaman and unclipped his belt. He had guessed what Ashley-Chute wanted to know. It was not mere curiosity.
‘Aye, sir.’
Ashley-Chute beckoned him over, his manner impatient again.
‘The Russians will know what we are about, Blackwood. I need a good eye at the masthead and not merely a sailor’s judgement, you catch my meaning?’
Blackwood hurried to the main shrouds and swung himself out on to the weather ratlines. He could feel the wind pushing him playfully against the tarred ropes, the soaking slap of spray against his tunic as he began to climb. It was exhilarating and something he had never really got used to. Up and up, past the fighting top and on to the topmast shrouds, the masts and spars shaking and creaking to the wind’s power.
How they had managed in the old days he could never understand. Ordinary men dragged to sea by the hungry press gangs, boys even who were expected to climb aloft in all weathers to fight the hardened canvas, to reef or splice repairs in the drumming rigging, or face the consequences of the lash if they hesitated.
He found a burly seaman squatting on the cross-trees, seemingly oblivious to the pale deck so far below his dangling feet.
If he thought it strange to find a marine coming to join him, and an officer at that, he did not show it.
Blackwood asked, ‘Where away?’
The seaman pointed towards the unbroken line of coast, slate-coloured in the failing light.
Blackwood waited for the mast to dip over again and then levelled his telescope on the bearing.
Angry wave crests leapt into focus while an offshore current writhed among them like a giant serpent. He saw the frigate end on, a thick trail of smoke gushing downwind as she forged into the bay, spindrift and spray flying from her bows and paddle-boxes in a wild dance.
He moved the glass very carefully and felt the tarred cordage biting at his skin as the ship plunged into a deep trough. Jervis would have to take in much more sail unless he wanted to lose some of it completely, he thought.
He tensed. There were ships at anchor, their overlapping shadows making them hard to recognize and distinguish.
The lookout called, ‘Two, mebbe three men-o’-war, sir, an’ a few merchantmen besides!’
He sounded cheerful at the prospect. He had probably already worked out his share of the prize-money if they were lucky.
Part of the coastline flickered briefly, like lightning on a hillside. Blackwood held his breath and counted the seconds. Then he heard the echoing boom of heavy gunfire and watched as several tall waterspouts shot from the water on either side of the frigate. The battery had not been taken by surprise. He saw the spray from the falling columns of water being ripped aside by the wind and pictured the Russian guns already being reloaded and run up for another salvo.
Boom . . . boom
. . .
The fall of shot was even closer this time, and Blackwood was almost certain that at least one hit had been made on
Sarpedon
’s hull.
A metallic voice echoed from the deck. It was Jervis recalling him with the aid of a speaking-trumpet.
It would soon be dark. Blackwood climbed down the vibrating ratlines and wondered what Ashley-Chute would do. The Russians were in a very strong position. The wind too was in their favour and would soon deny
Tenacious
the sea-room she needed to close the range to any effect.
Ashley-Chute snapped, ‘Did you see the battery?’
Blackwood regained his breath. ‘I can mark it on the Master’s chart, sir. They are heavy weapons.’
They both turned as the booming crash of gunfire sighed over the deck like a storm.
Someone called, ‘
Sarpedon
’s bin ’it, sir.’
Jervis exclaimed harshly, ‘Damn their bloody eyes!’
Then the captain made up his mind. ‘Pipe both watches, Mr Norman. Hands aloft and reef tops’ls. Then take in the main-course, lively now!’
Calls shrilled and bare feet pounded across the decks as the flagship’s seamen ran to their stations before swarming up the ratlines in a human tide.
Blackwood watched the tiny, foreshortened figures scrambling out on the yards, some above the sea itself, as they began to fist the bulging canvas into submission. If a man fell now he was finished. To hit the sea and drown, or to drop on to the deck, it was all the same to the professional seaman.
Blackwood turned as he heard Fynmore’s voice. Immaculate as ever, he was standing with Major Brabazon, the second-in-command, while they watched the bustle aloft.
He guessed that Fynmore hated sharing a cabin with the major, but with so many extra marines aboard, everyone had been made to double up. Blackwood had gone to see Brabazon about gunnery practice but had stumbled on Fynmore instead. It had been embarrassing to see the way he had torn some gold-rimmed glasses from his nose and had rammed them inside his tunic while he had pretended to read his papers unaided.
Ashley-Chute rasped, ‘Make to
Sarpedon. Discontinue the action and close on the Flag.
’
The signals midshipman called, ‘
Sarpedon
’s acknowledged, sir.’
Ashley-Chute joined Jervis by the quarterdeck rail. ‘Blackwood saw the fall of shot. A stronger battery than I expected. Must be a reason, hmm?’
Jervis watched his seamen sliding down the stays to the deck, their work done for the present. The ship felt sluggish but easier under her reduced sails, and he was relieved.
He answered, ‘We shall be in trouble if we tack any closer, sir. We are on a lee shore as it is, and if the wind rises still further . . .’ He left the rest unsaid.
The admiral stuck out his jaw. ‘I do not intend that –’ He broke off angrily as the signals midshipman called from the shrouds.
‘From
Sarpedon
, sir.
Have received two direct hits and am making water. Enemy shipping at anchor
–’ he blinked the spray from his eyes while his assistant, another midshipman, thumbed through his book to ensure that the signal was correct, ‘–
includes three men-of-war.
’
Jervis snapped, ‘Acknowledge.’ He bit his lip. ‘
Sarpedon
will be awash if the sea gets up.’
But Ashley-Chute ignored him. ‘Signal her to confirm the size of warships.’ He strode impatiently to the opposite side, his body leaning over to the sloping deck.
The soaked and dripping midshipman, who was very aware of the presence of so many superior officers, tried again, ‘From
Sarpedon
, sir.
Enemy shipping at anchor. Two frigates and one ship of the line.
’
He gaped down from his perch with astonishment as the admiral shouted, ‘
Well done
, boy!’
Blackwood felt Harry slide across the spray covered deck to join him. ‘I’ve never heard him praise anyone so junior before!’
Ashley-Chute banged a fist into his palm. ‘Don’t you
see
, Captain Jervis? The Russians are reported as having no more than fourteen sail of the line in the Black Sea. And one of them is
right here
! Dammit, Jervis, I’ll ensure she never gets away.
Never!
’
The flag-lieutenant gave a nervous cough. ‘I fear the light is going fast, sir. We shall lose visual contact with
Sarpedon
in minutes.’
Ashley-Chute regarded him coolly. ‘I am aware of that.’
Jervis said, ‘It is too lively to lower a boat, sir. But I could drift your despatches across to
Sarpedon
and then signal her to return to Varna.’
The admiral looked from one to the other. ‘If
Sarpedon
sinks on passage we shall not know if my despatches have reached the admiral commanding at Varna or not. Tell her to lie to and execute repairs to the best of her ability.’ He clasped his hands behind him again.
‘I have no intention of waiting for support from anybody. There is a ship of the line over yonder, gentlemen, and at first light tomorrow I intend to engage her.’ He nodded approvingly as the signals party bent on more hoists of flags and sent them soaring up the yards. ‘And you may tell your, er, chief engineer, Captain Jervis, that he had best be ready to put his
three hundred and fifty horsepower into motion at the first crowing of the cock,
right
?’ He strode aft without waiting to watch the effect of his orders.
Jervis stared worriedly at the listing frigate and the clouds of smoke which appeared to be seeping through her starboard side.
‘I never thought I’d live to hear him say
that.
’
Harry said quietly, ‘Let’s hope he knows what he’s doing.’
Fynmore walked over and grasped the nettings to stop himself from falling.
He looked searchingly at the marine lieutenant and said, ‘That could be said of many, Mr Blackwood.’ He walked away without another glance.
Harry turned his face to the wind and gasped in the cold spray. Fynmore knew something. God Almighty, he
knew.
Blackwood did not see his anxiety but remained by the nettings and listened to the faint clatter of the frigate’s pumps as she fought her lonely battle with her constant enemy.
And tomorrow it will be our turn.
Blackwood had never been in a ship of the line when she had cleared for action in deadly earnest. Before it had been a necessary part of training and routine drill, and it was difficult to believe there could be such a difference.
All hands had been roused and piped to breakfast well before daylight, and even that had been different, and he doubted if many of the
Tenacious
’s eleven hundred officers and men had slept very much either. It was like remaking a part of history, or living something which might never occur again.
As the drums had rolled and the pipes had called from deck to deck, Blackwood had felt his own excitement rising to match the occasion. Like his grandfather’s old pictures; the Nile, Copenhagen and Trafalgar.
Screens had been taken down and the ship cleared from
bow to stern.
Tenacious
mounted sixteen of the new eight-inch muzzle-loaders, but the bulk of her impressive armament consisted of thirty-two-pounders which had served the Navy for nearly a century. The ‘Long Nine’, as it was affectionately termed by the British sailor, was still the most reliable for accuracy and effectiveness, or so it was claimed.
When Keene,
Tenacious
’s commander, reported the ship cleared for action, Jervis had gone aft himself to inform the admiral.
The wind had eased and backed during the night, but not enough to lessen the dangers of being on a lee shore.
Blackwood had been with his lieutenants and sergeants since dawn, for with so many extra men it was not easy to place them to full advantage. Aft on poop and quarterdeck and aloft in the three fighting tops, while others were doubled up alongside gun crews with some biting comments from the seamen who manned the batteries on either beam.
Blackwood made his way to the quarterdeck and reported to Fynmore.
Fynmore pursed his lips and squinted above the packed hammocks in the nettings.
‘This will not take long, I think.’ He did not sound very convinced.
Blackwood took a telescope from the rack and climbed on to a shot garland.
The coast looked hostile and blurred in the grey light. There was drizzle among the pellets of spray and he felt it sting his cheek as he stared at the anchored ships which lay across the larboard bow in an untidy array.
He could see the first-rate quite clearly, a three-decker, she was standing bows-on as she swung to her cable, and he saw her loosely brailed canvas puffing against the yards, and antlike figures creeping about her rigging as they made their own preparations. One of the Russian frigates showed no sign of life, but the other was already shortening her cable and perhaps preparing to weigh if the enemy drew too close.
Weak sunlight glinted on something gold, and Blackwood shifted his glass on to the dome of an isolated church which had appeared between two overlapping hills like a giant sentinel.