"Haaands to stations for staying!" Tenacious must obey the last order and come back to her original tack; her ship's company, feeling the shame and the entire fleet's eyes on them, took up their ropes again while Kydd stood mortified, face burning. Tenacious came ponderously about and tried to assume her old place at the end of the line—but by now the line itself was all but gone, preceding ships now having reached the fixed point and tacked round on to the new course.
Cursing, weary men picked up their ropes and prepared to haul round for the third time in a row. But when the due point was reached Tenacious had not picked up enough speed, and when the helm went down she headed up languidly into the wind—and stayed there, held in the wind's eye, in irons.
The master lunged over and took the helm, bawling at the men forward as the ship drifted astern, the hapless officer-of-the-watch nervously clutching his telescope and watching the captain, appalled. Kydd, with nothing to do, could only stand and suffer as the ship tried to regain her dignity.
Finally in her place at the rear of the line stretching away to the east, Tenacious settled down and Kydd turned to his captain, prepared for the worst—but yet another signal streamed out from Resolution. "Fleet will heave to," Kydd reported carefully. Main topsails were backed and way fell off. There had to be a reason why the whole squadron was coming to a stop.
"Flagship, sir—our pennant and, er, 'Send a lieutenant.'" The admiral wanted an official explanation from Tenacious for the recent display—and there would be no bets taken on who would go as the sacrifice . . .
Admiral Vandeput did not spare his squadron. Between Cape Sable and Cape Cod, seven ships sailed resolutely in formation, assuming tactical divisions by signal, running down invisible foes, shortening sail for battle. Curious fishing-boats were diverted by strings of flags run up the flagship's rigging, followed by instant animation aboard every vessel of the squadron—and the occasional gun for attention.
Kydd doggedly improved his acquaintance with the Fighting Instructions and attached signals, and when the squadron was ready to return to port several days later, he was fully prepared. "Sir, vessels in the squadron to retire in order of sailing." It was the return to Halifax. "Signal to wear, sir," Kydd added, as the flags broke at the masthead. This would see the ships turning on their heel and facing where they had been—but this time with Tenacious leading the squadron back to port.
Now was the time to show her breeding in the manoeuvre of going about completely, stern to wind. "Brace in the afteryards— up helm!" The mizzen topsail began shaking, the main just full and the fore up sharp. Tenacious started her swing, the line of ships ahead commenced their wheel about. "Lay y'r headyards square! Shift headsheets!" Her rotation brought the wind right aft, and the weather sheets were eased to become the lee. "Brace up headyards—haul aboard!" Men laboured to get the tack hard in forward and the sheets aft as she came on to her new heading. Tenacious responded with a willing surge.
"Draw jib!" It was the last order before she settled on her new course, the sheets hauled aft to bring the headsails to a full taut-ness. The fo'c'slemen responded heartily, the thought of safe haven in Halifax just hours away lending weight to their hauling.
A crack as loud as a three-pounder gun came from far forward. The crew on the jibsheets fell to the deck, others crouched down and looked about fearfully. It was impossible to see what was happening from aft as the clews of the big courses effectively shut out the scene.
"Can't 'old 'er, sir!" bawled the helmsman, as Tenacious immediately fell off the wind and inevitably out of line. An incomprehensible hail came from forward, amplified by a breathless messenger. "Lost our jibboom, sir!" he yelled, his voice cracking.
Houghton lifted his speaking trumpet. "Douse the fore t'gallant instantly, d'ye hear?" He wheeled round, his face set. A volley of orders brought sail in, and way off the vessel. "You know what to do, get forrard and bear a hand—now!" he snapped at Kydd. Rawson could be relied on to hoist the necessary "not-under-command" general signal that indicated Tenacious was no longer in a position to obey her captain.
Kydd hurried forward. This was Renzi's part-of-ship: Kydd would take orders from him without question. He arrived at the scene to see a tangle of rigging from aloft—and a truncated bowsprit. A thumping from the lee bow and men staring down showed where the failed spar was now.
"Poulden, do you clap on the t'gallant bowline as well." It was strange to hear the crack of authority in Renzi's voice, to see the gleam of hard purpose in his friend's eyes.
"Sir," Kydd reported to the fourth lieutenant.
Renzi flashed a brief smile. "Martingale stay parted, the jib-boom carried away," he said, flicking his eyes up to watch the progress of the jib downhaul, which was clearly being readied to hoist the spar back aboard. "I'm sanguine we'll have it clear soon—it's to loo'ard, and I've taken the liberty to set the fore-topmast stays'l to make a lee while we see to the jib."
The boatswain quickly had the experienced fo'c'slemen at work reeving a heel rope: the fifty feet of Danzig fir surging below was a formidable spar to recover aboard.
Renzi gazed intently at the descending downhaul. "Mr Kydd,
I'd be obliged if you'd inform the captain of our situation, that I've furled the fore t'gallant, but desire the fore t'gallant mast be struck."
Kydd touched his hat, then hastened back to the quarterdeck.
Houghton listened sourly, his eyes straying to the line of ships passing by, beginning the evolution to heave to. "Request Flag to pass within hail," he said. The signals soared up rapidly, but even as they did, Resolution had put down her helm and closed.
Briefly, Houghton passed details by speaking trumpet to the admiral. There was little to discuss: Lynx, a 16-gun ship-sloop, was detached to stand by them while they repaired; the remainder sailed on to Halifax.
It was not an easy repair: even with a spare spar fortunately to hand, the stump of the jibboom had to be extracted from the bowsprit cap and sea-hardened heel ropes cut away. It was sheer bad luck that the bee-block seating the new jibboom to the bowsprit needed reshaping, and now with jib-stay and fittings to apply there was no chance they would complete by dusk.
The hours passed uncomfortably. Without steadying sail on the open sea Tenacious wallowed glumly all night, Cape Cod forty miles under her lee. Kydd had the morning watch: red-eyed and tired, he observed a grey dawn approach with Lynx far out to the southward but stoutly clapping on all sail. Thick mist patches persisted to the north in the calm seas, wisps reaching out occasionally to Tenacious with their clammy embrace.
As soon as there was light enough, work began on the jib-boom, and well before the wan sun had cleared the foreyard it was all but complete.
"What, in hell's name?" Houghton said, stopping his restless pacing. It was gunfire—to the north and not too distant, a distinct thud.
"At least twenty-fours, maybe thirty-twos," growled Bryant, puzzled. Another flurry of thumps in the mist were heard.
Houghton looked nonplussed. "This can only be the squadron—there's not another sail-o'-the-line at sea, unless . . ." He paused, then looked significantly at Bryant. "Send Lynx to investigate with all despatch." It was a disturbing mystery: guns of such weight of metal were only carried by line-of-battle ships.
Lynx disappeared into the light mist while Tenacious had her topsails set and drawing within minutes of her headsails being once more complete. As she began to gather way her mainsail was loosed and she picked up speed.