Kydd took the measure
of the gigantic rock. It lay almost exactl y north and south some two or three
miles long, but was observably much narrower. There was a main town low along
the flanks to seaward, but few other buildings on the precipitous sides. On its
landward end the rock ended abrupdy, and Kydd could see the long flat terrain
connecting the Rock of Gibraltar to the nondescript mainland.
It wasn't until evening
that the frustrating easterly died and a local southerly enabled the two ships
to come in with the land. Kydd knew from the charts that this would be Rosia
Bay, the home of the navy in Gibraltar. It was a pretty litde inlet, well away
from the main cluster of buildings further along. There was the usual elegant,
spare stone architecture of a dockyard and, higher, an imposing two-storey
building that, by its position, could only be the naval hospital.
Rosia Bay opened up, a
small mole to the south, the ramparts of a past fortification clear to the
north. There, the two ships dropped anchor.
'Do
you see . . .'
Kydd
had not noticed Cockburn appear beside him.
'Er,
no - what is it y' sees, Tarn?' The neat, almost academic-looking man next to
him was Achilles's other master's mate, a long-promoted midshipman who had yet
to make the vital step of commission as a lieutenant, but had accepted his
situation with philosophic resignation. He and Kydd had become friends.
'We're the only ones,'
Cockburn said quietly. 'The fleet must be in the Med somewhere.' Apart from the
sturdy sails of dockyard craft and a brig-sloop alongside the mole in a state
of disrepair, there were only the exotic lateen sails of Levant traders dotting
the sea around the calm of Gibraltar.
'Side!' The burly
boatswain raised his silver call. The captain emerged from the cabin spaces,
striding purposefully, all a-glitter with gold lace, medals and best sword.
Respectfully, Kydd and Cockburn joined the line of sideboys at the ship's side.
The boatswain raised his call again and as the captain went over the bulwark
every man touched his hat and the shriek of the whistle pierced the evening.
The captain safely over
the side, the first lieutenant remained at the salute for a moment, then turned
to the boatswain. 'Stand down the watches. We're out of sea routine now, I
believe.'
The boatswain's
eyebrows raised in surprise. No strict orders to ready the ship for sea again,
to store ship, to set right the ravages of their ocean voyage? They would evidently
be here for a long time. 'An' liberty, sir?' he asked.
'Larbowlines until evening gun.' The
first lieutenant's words were overheard by a dozen ears, sudden unseen
scurries indicating the news was being joyfully spread below.
At
the boatswain's uneasy frown, the lieutenant added, 'We're due a parcel of men
from England, apparently. They can turn to and let our brave tars step off on a
well-earned frolic, don't you think?' Kydd caught an edge of irony in the
words, but didn't waste time on reflection. 'Been here before?' he asked
Cockburn, who was taking in the long sprawl of buildings further along, the
Moorish-looking castle at the other end — the sheer fascination of the mighty
rock.
'Never, I fear,' said
Cockburn, in his usual quiet way, as he gazed at the spectacle. 'But we'll make
its acquaintance soon enough.'
Kydd noticed with surprise that Glorious
,
anchored no more than a hundred yards
away, was in a state of intense activity. There were victualling hoys and low
barges beetling out to the bigger ship-of-the-line, every sign of an
outward-bound vessel.
The old-fashioned longboat carrying
the senior hands ashore was good-natured about diverting, and soon they lay
under oars off the side of the powerful man-o'-war, one of a multitude of busy
craft.
'Glorious
ahoy!' bawled Kydd. At the deck edge a
distracted petty officer appeared and looked down into the boat. 'If ye c'n
pass th' word f'r Mr Renzi, I'd be obliged,' Kydd hailed. The face disappeared
and they waited.
The heat of the day had
lessened, but it still drew forth the aromas of a ship long at sea — sun on
tarry timbers, canvas and well-worn decks, an effluvia carrying from the open
gunports that was as individual to that ship as the volute carvings at her bow,
a compound of bilge, old stores, concentrated humanity and more subtle, unknown
odours.
There was movement and
a wooden squealing of sheaves, and the gunport lid next to them was triced up.
'Dear fellow!' Renzi leaned out, and the longboat eased closer.
Kydd's face broke into
an unrestrained grin at the sight of the man with whom he had shared more of
life's challenges and rewards than any other. 'Nicholas! Should y' wish t' step
ashore
—'
'Sadly,
brother, I cannot.'
It was the same Renzi,
the cool, sensitive gaze, the strength of character in the deep lines at each
side of his mouth, but Kydd sensed something else, something unsettling.
'We are under sailing
orders,' Renzi said quietly. The ship was preparing for sea; there could be no
risk of men straggling and therefore no liberty. 'An alarum of sorts. We go to
join Jervis, I believe.'
There was a stir of
interest in the longboat. 'An' where's he at, then?' asked Coxall, gunner's
mate and generally declared leader of their jaunt ashore - he was an old hand
and had been to Gibraltar before.
Renzi stared levelly at
the horizon, his remote expression causing Kydd further unease. 'It seems that
there is some — confusion. I have not heard reliably just where the fleet might
be.' He turned back to Kydd with a half-smile. 'But, then, these are troubling
times, my friend, it can mean anything.'
A muffled roar inside
the dark gundeck took Renzi's attention and he waved apologetically at Kydd
before he shouted, 'We will meet on our return, dear fellow,' then withdrew
inboard.
'Rum dos,' muttered
Coxall, and glared at the duty boat's crew, lazily leaning into their strokes
as the boat made its way round the larger mole to the end of the long wall of
fortifications. He perked up as they headed towards the shore and a small
jetty. 'Ragged Staff,' he said, his seamed face relaxing into a smile, 'where
we gets our water afore we goes ter sea.'
They clambered out.
Like the others Kydd revelled in the solidity of the ground after weeks at sea:
the earth was curiously submissive under his feet without the exuberant
liveliness of a ship in concord with the sea. Coxall struck out for the large
arched gate in the wall and the group followed.
The town quickly
engulfed them, and with it the colour and sensory richness of the huge sunbaked
rock. The passing citizenry were as variegated in appearance as any that Kydd
had seen: here was a true crossing place of the world, a nexus for the waves of
races, European, Arab, Spanish and others from deeper into this inland sea.
And the smells — in the
narrow streets innumerable mules and donkeys passed by laden with their
burdens, the pungency of their droppings competing with the offerings of the
shops: smoked herring and dried cod, the cool bacon aroma of salted pigs'
trotters and the heady fragrance of cinnamon, cloves, roasting coffee, each
adding in the hot dustiness to the interweaving reek.
In only a few minutes
they had crossed two streets and were up against the steep rise of the flank of
the Rock. Coxall didn't spare them, leading them through the massive Southport
gate and on a narrow track up and around the scrubby slopes to a building set
on an angled rise. A sudden cool downward draught sent Kydd's jacket aflare and
his hat skittering in the dust.
'Scud Hill. We gets ter
sink a muzzier 'ere first, wi'out we has t' smell the town,' Coxall said. It
was a pot-house, but not of a kind that Kydd had seen before. Loosely modelled
on an English tavern, it was more open balcony than interior darkness, and
rather than high-backed benches there were individual tables with cane chairs.
'A shant o' gatter is
jus' what'll set me up prime, like,' sighed the lean and careful Tippett,
carpenter's mate and Coxall's inseparable companion. They eased into chairs,
orienting them to look out over the water, then carefully placed their hats
beneath. They were just above Rosia Bay, their two ships neatly at anchor
within its arms, while further down there was a fine vista of the length of the
town, all cosy within long lines of fortifications.
The ale was not long in
coming - this establishment was geared for a fleet in port, and in its absence
they were virtually on their own, with only one other table occupied.
'Here's ter us, lads!' Coxall declared,
and upended his pewter. It was grateful to the senses on the wide balcony, the
wind at this height strong and cool, yet the soft warmth of the winter sun gave
a welcome laziness to the late afternoon.
Coins were produced for
the next round, but Cockburn held up his hand. 'I'll round in m' tackle for
now.' The old 64-gun Achilles had not had one prize to her name in her two
years in the Caribbean, while Seaflower cutter had been lucky.
Kydd
considered how he could see his friend clear to another without it appearing
charity, but before he could say anything, Coxall grunted: 'Well, damme, only a
Spanish cobb ter me name. Seems yer in luck, yer Scotch shicer, can't let 'em
keep m' change.'
Cockburn's set face
held, then loosened to a smile. 'Why, thankee, Eli.'
Kydd looked comfortably
across his tankard over the steep, sunlit slopes towards the landward end of
Gibraltar. The town nesded in a narrow line below, stretching about a mile to
where it ceased abrupdy at the end of the Rock. The rest of the terrain was
bare scrub on precipitous sides. 'So this is y'r Gibraltar,' he said. 'Seems t'
me just a mile long an' a half straight up.'
'Aye, but it's rare val'ble to us —
Spanish tried ter take it orf us a dozen years or so back, kept at it fer four
years, pounded th' place ter pieces they did,' Coxall replied, 'but we held on
b' makin' this one thunderin' great fortress.'
'So while we have the
place, no one else can,' Cockburn mused. 'And we come and go as we please, but
denying passage to the enemy. Here's to the flag of old England on the Rock for
ever.'
A murmur of
appreciation as they drank was interrupted by the scraping of a chair and a
pleasant-faced but tough-looking seaman came across to join them. 'Samuel
Jones, yeoman outa Loyalty brig.'
Tippett motioned at
their table, 'We're Achilles sixty-four, only this day inward-bound fr'm the
Caribbee.'
'Saw yez. So ye hasn't
the word what's been 'n' happened this side o' the ocean all of a sudden,
like.' At the expectant silence he went on, 'As ye knows - yer do? — the
Spanish came in wi' the Frogs in October, an' since then ...'
Kydd nodded. But his eyes strayed
to the point where Gibraltar ended so abruptly: there was Spain, the enemy,
just a mile or so beyond — and always there.
Relishing his moment,
Jones asked, 'So where's yer Admiral Jervis an' his fleet, then?'
Coxall started to say something, but
Jones cut in, 'No, mate, he's at Lisbon, is he — out there.' He gestured to the
west and the open Atlantic. Leaning forward he pointed in the other direction,
into the Mediterranean. 'Since December, last month, we had to skin out - can't
hold on. So, mates, there ain't a single English man-o'-war as swims in the
whole Mediterranee.'
Into the grave silence
came Coxall's troubled voice. 'Yer means Port Mahon, Leghorn, Naples
—'
'We left 'em all t' the French, cully. I
tell yer, there's no English guns any further in than us.'
Kydd stared at the
table. Evacuation of the Mediterranean? It was inconceivable! The great trade
route opened up to the Orient following the loss of the American colonies - the
journeys to the Levant, Egypt and the fabled camel trains to the Red Sea and
India, all finished?
'But
don't let that worry yez,' Jones continued.
'And
pray why not?' said Cockburn carefully.