Tenacious

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Lieutenant Thomas Kydd takes his rightful place upon the quarterdeck, but the decisions he must make will test him to the limit!

THE SIXTH BOOK IN THE KYDD SERIES finds Thomas Kydd aboard Tenacious, part of a small squadron commanded by Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson. Its mission is to scour the Mediterranean and locate Napoleon and his army. Kydd's newly fired ambition leads him to volunteer for shore service with the British army in the capture of Minorca. Later, he faces the great ships-of-the-line at the Battle of the Nile as the British take on the French in a no-holds-barred struggle for supremacy in southern waters. But there is one more test to come: the siege of Acre, where Kydd and a handful of British seamen under the command of Sir Sidney Smith face an army of thirteen thousand!

Cover painting by Geoff Hunt. Cover design by Panda Musgrove.

TENACIOUS

A KYDD SEA ADVENTURE

THE KYDD SEA ADVENTURES , BY JULIAN STOCKWIN

Kydd

Artemis

Seaflower

Mutiny

Quarterdeck

Tenacious

Command

The Admiral's Daughter

JULIAN STOCKWIN

TENACIOUS

A KYDD SEA ADVENTURE

MCBOOKS PRESS, INC. ITHACA, NEW YORK

Published by McBooks Press 2006 Copyright © 2005 by Julian Stockwin

First published in Great Britain in 2005 by Hodder and Stoughton A division of Hodder Headline

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

Cover painting by Geoff Hunt. Cover and text design: Panda Musgrove.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stockwin, Julian. Tenacious : a Kydd sea adventure / by Julian Stockwin. p. cm.

ISBN: 978-1-59013-119-0 (hardcover: alk. paper) ISBN: 978-1-59013-142-8 (trade paperback: alk. paper) 1. Kydd, Thomas (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History, Naval—18th century—Fiction. 3. Seafaring life—Fiction. 4. Sailors—Fiction. I. Title. PR6119.T66T46 2006 823'.92--dc22

2006004000

Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

Printed in the United States of America

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

THERE IS BUT ONE NELSON—

Lord St Vincent

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PROLOGUE

THE SOUND OF CARRIAGE WHEELS echoed loudly in the blackness of Downing Street. With a jangle of harness and the snorting of horses, the vehicle stopped outside No. 10 and footmen braved the rain to lower the step and hand down the occupants.

The Prime Minister, William Pitt, did not wait for the Speaker of the House of Commons, but Henry Addington knew his friend of old and smiled at his nervous vitality. "Quite dished 'em in the debate, William," he puffed, as he caught up and they mounted the stairs to the upper landing.

"It will hold them for now," Pitt said briefly.

The sound of their voices roused the household. A butler appeared from the gloom, with a maid close behind. "In here," Pitt threw over his shoulder, as he entered a small drawing room. The maid slipped past with a taper, lit the candles, and a pool of gold illuminated the chaise-longue. Pitt sprawled on it full-length, while Addington took a winged chair nearby.

"Oh, a bite of cold tongue and ham would answer," Pitt said wearily, to the butler's query, then closed his eyes until the man had returned with brandy and a new-opened bottle of port. He poured, then withdrew noiselessly, pulling the doors closed.

"Hard times," Addington offered.

"You think so, Henry? Since that insufferable coxcomb Fox rusticated himself I have only the French to occupy me." He took a long pull on his port.

Addington studied the deep lines in his face. "General Buonaparte and his invasion preparations?" he asked quietly.

There had been little else in the press for the last two months. Paris had performed a master-stroke in appointing the brilliant victor of Italy to the head of the so-called Army of England, which had beaten or cowed every country in Europe. His task now was to eliminate the last obstacle to conquest of the civilised world. Spies were reporting the rapid construction of flat troop-landing barges in every northern French port, and armies were being marched to the coast. Invasion of the land that lay in plain sight of the battalions lining those shores was clearly imminent.

"What else?" Pitt stared into the shadows. "If he can get across the twenty miles of the Channel then ... then we're finished, of course."

"We have the navy," Addington said stoutly.

"Er, yes. The navy were in bloody mutiny less'n a year ago and are now scattered all over the world. Necessary, of course." He brooded over his glass. "Grenville heard that the French will turn on Hanover and that His Majesty will oblige us to defend his ancestral home, dragging us into a land war."

"Ridiculous."

"Of course."

Addington cradled his brandy and waited.

Pitt sighed. "The worst of it all is not being possessed of decent intelligence. Having to make decisions in a fog of half-truths and guesses is a sure way to blunder into mistakes that history will judge without mercy. Take this, Henry. Spencer has confirmed that our grand General Buonaparte has left off inspecting his soldiers standing ready for the invasion and has been seen in Toulon. What's he doing in the Mediterranean that he abandons his post? No one knows, but we have enough word that there's an armament assembling there. Not a simple fleet, you understand, but transports, store-ships, a battle fleet. Are we therefore to accept that the moment we have dreaded most—when the French revolution bursts forth on the rest of the world—is now at hand? And if it is, why from Toulon?"

He paused. There was the slightest tremor in the hand that held the glass. "If there's to be a sally, where? Dundas speaks of Constantinople, the Sublime Porte. Others argue for a rapid descent on Cairo, defeating the Mamelukes and opening a highway to the Red Sea and thence our vital routes to India. And some point to a landing in the Levant, then a strike across Arabia and Persia to the very gates of India."

"And you?"

At first, Pitt did not speak, then he said quietly, "It is all nonsense, romantic nonsense, this talk of an adventure in the land of Sinbad. It's all desert, impassable to a modern army. It's a stratagem to deflect our attention from the real object."

"Which is?"

"After leaving Toulon, Buonaparte does not sail east. Instead he sails west. He pauses off Cartagena to collect Spanish battleships, then passes Gibraltar and heads north. With the fleet in Cadiz joining him as he passes, he brushes us aside and reaches the Channel. There, the Brest fleet emerges to join him, thirty of them! With a combined fleet of more'n fifty of-the-line around him he will get his few hours to cross, and then it will be all over for us, I fear."

Addington chose his words carefully: "But would it not be prudent to send ships into the Mediterranean to stop him at the outset?"

"And leave England's defence the poorer?" He pondered for a space and continued, in an odd tone, "But, then, the decision is taken out of my hands. What I think is of no account. The Austrians are adamant that as a condition to an alliance we must provide a naval presence to protect Naples—you will recollect that the Queen of Naples is Austrian born. And as the Austrians are the only friends we have—pace the Portuguese— we must accede. And then, of course, there's today's dispatch from Genoa ..."

"Genoa?"

"Yes. Something that changes the stakes utterly."

"How so?"

"We have a reliable agent in Genoa. He's reporting that the French have been active, buying barrels—four thousand of the very biggest, with ten iron hoops but no bung holes."

Addington was mystified.

For the first time, Pitt smiled. "Henry, old fellow, you'll never be mistaken for a character of the seafaring species. Such barrels are tied to ships' sides to assist them in floating over shallow waters. And that is proof positive that Dundas is right. The French armament is to force the Dardanelles by this means and take Constantinople. Sultan Selim III is friendly to us and we cannot allow this to happen. I shall therefore direct that St Vincent off Cadiz forthwith undertakes a reconnaissance in force. We will return to the Mediterranean!"

CHAPTER 1

LIEUTENANT THOMAS KYDD TURNED in his chair to Tysoe, his servant. "An' I'll have another soup, if y' please." He smiled at his friend Renzi, and loosened his stock in the warmth of the crowded wardroom of HMS Tenacious. "Thunderin' good prog, Nicholas, d'ye think?"

"Moose muffle," Pringle, captain of marines, called over the hubbub. He inspected the piece of meat he had speared. "Spring moose is better in June, you'll find, once the beast has a mort of fat on him."

The wardroom echoed to gusts of laughter in response to a sally by Captain Houghton at the head of the table—his officers had invited him to dine with them this night. The older of the seamen servants glanced at each other meaningfully. The ship had pulled together in fine style: with officers in harmony so much less was the likelihood of interference in their own community.

Kydd's soup plate was removed. "Ah, I think the baked shad," he said, and turned to Pybus, the surgeon. "Not as I mean t' say I'm wearying of cod, you know."

"That, in Nova Scotia, is a felony, Mr Kydd," Pybus said drily, reaching for the chicken. As usual, he was wearing an old green waistcoat.

Kydd nodded at the servant, and his glass was neatly refilled. He let his eyes wander beyond the colour and chatter of the occasion through the graceful sweep of the stern windows to Halifax harbour, the darkness relieved by scattered golden pinpricks of light from other ships at anchor. Just a year ago he had been under discipline before the mast, accused of treason after the Nore mutiny. He had joined the insurrection in good faith, then been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level, he should have shared his comrades' fate and been hanged with them; he had never dreamed of elevation to the sanctity of the quarterdeck. Now he had won another great prize: acceptance by the other officers as an equal. Where might it all lead?

"Pray assist me with this Rheingau, Tom," Renzi said, reaching across with a white wine. There was a contentment in him too, Kydd observed. His friend, who had come with him from the lower deck, was now settled at this much more agreeable station, which befitted his high-born background.

"Mr Kydd—your health, sir!" The captain's voice carried down the table.

Kydd lifted his glass with a civil inclination of the head. "Votter santay," he responded gravely.

Houghton had risen above his objections to his fifth lieutenant's humble origins after a social coup had established Kydd's connections with the highest in the land. Unaware of her identity, Kydd had invited Prince Edward's mistress to an official banquet—to the great pleasure of the prince.

"I c'n well recommend th' ruffed grouse, sir," Kydd said. A seaman picked up the dish and carried it to the captain, who acknowledged it graciously.

Tall glasses appeared before each officer, filled with what appeared to be a fine amber fluid. The captain was the first to try.

"By George, it's calf's foot jelly!" he said. "Lemon—who's responsible for this perfection?" he demanded of his steward.

"Lady Wentworth's own recipe, sir. She desires to indicate in some measure to His Majesty's Ship Tenacious her sensibility of the honour Lieutenant Kydd bestowed on her by accepting her invitation to the levee."

"I see," said the captain, and flashed a glance at Kydd.

The third lieutenant, Gervase Adams, shifted in his chair. "No disrespect intended, sir, but it gripes me that we wax fat and indolent while our country lies under such grave peril."

Houghton frowned. "Any officer of honour would feel so, Mr Adams, but the safeguarding of trade and securing of naval supplies is of as much consequence to your country as the winning of battles. Pray bear your lot with patience. There may yet be a testing time ahead for us all."

Houghton motioned to his steward and the last dishes were removed, the cloth drawn. Decanters of Marsala and port were placed at the head and foot of the table and passed along, always to the left, as custom dictated. When all glasses had been filled, Houghton nodded almost imperceptibly to Bryant, first lieutenant and president of the mess, who turned to Kydd as the most junior lieutenant present. "Mr Vice—the King."

Kydd lifted his glass and paused for quiet. "Gentlemen, the King."

The words echoed strongly around the table. The simple ceremony of the loyal toast seemed to Kydd to draw together all the threads of his allegiance to king and country, and with others he followed with a sincere "God bless him."

The solemn courtesies complete, other toasts were made: "Foxhunting and Old Port"; "Our brothers at sea"; and the heartfelt "A willing foe and sea room!" Red faces testified to the warmth and the wine, and when the brandy had circulated Houghton called, "Captain Pringle, might we press you to honour us with your flute?"

"Should I be joined by our excellent doctor, I would be glad to, sir."

The marine was a proficient and sensitive player, and a lively violin accompaniment from the normally acerbic Pybus set the mood of the evening. Adams was persuaded to render a creditable "Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill" in his light tenor, and Renzi delivered a reading from his new copy of Lyrical Ballads:

It is the first mild day of March;

Each minute sweeter than before,

The red-breast sings from the tall larch

That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

And grass in the green field ...

Houghton rose to his feet. He raised his glass and said softly, "To

Tenacious

."

"Tenacious," came the reply, with more than one murmured "Bless her!" There were no ready words to describe the affection that the old 64-gun ship-of-the-line had won in the hearts of her officers, and Kydd felt a lump in his throat. He could see the others were affected, too.

In the quiet, a sudden knock at the wardroom door sounded overly loud. With rainwater streaming from his grego, the duty master's mate awkwardly handed over an oilskin packet. "Cap'n, sir—urgent from Flag."

It was unusual to the point of disquiet that the admiral had seen fit to act immediately instead of waiting for the usual morning postal round, and all craned towards the head of the table.

Houghton scanned the covering letter, then looked up gravely. "Gentlemen, you should be advised that the situation in Europe has intensified. Therefore we are to be recalled from this station to join that of Admiral the Earl St Vincent before Cadiz—we sail with the utmost dispatch."

Taking the deck for his first sea-watch since leaving Halifax, Kydd strode to the ship's side and looked down with satisfaction at the busy wake forming and spreading in a hiss of obedience, slipping astern to join the other side in a lazy track that stretched far into the distance.

He returned to the binnacle: the ship's heading was within a whisker of east by south. His eyes rose to meet a look of reproach from the helmsman and he concealed a smile. He had no right to usurp the quartermaster's responsibility for the course and knew only too well the irritation of a meddlesome officer-of-the-watch.

But these were momentous times. Since Houghton had received his orders from the admiral, he had been unsparing in his drive to get Tenacious to sea. Whatever additional information he was privy to had lined his face and he had issued each officer-of-the-watch stern instructions to clap on every stitch—but woe betide all should it cost even a single spar.

As he paced the quarterdeck, Kydd's thoughts turned briefly to another matter: Gibraltar was less than a day's sail away from Cadiz. It would serve his purpose well if they touched on that fortress port. It would give him great satisfaction to conclude a particular task there. He had decided on it after parting with his uncle in a remote settlement in the Canadian Maritimes.

Kydd stopped to feel the ship's motion. Under all plain sail in the brisk, quartering south-westerly, Tenacious heaved and rose over the long Atlantic rollers in a strong and compelling rhythm, pleasing in its regularity. He sensed the waves meeting her bow and surging aft under the keel, the vessel's slow pitch conforming to its motion. But there was something further—a trifle, perhaps, but out of harmony with the concert of movement.

He glanced across the deck. Captain Houghton was taking the air on the weather side, walking with the first lieutenant. There was a full watch of the hands on deck and others were at work on their part-of-ship. Kydd signalled to the quartermaster that he was going forward, then made his way to the foredeck and stood feeling, sensing.

The bow-wave swashed and hissed below; above him soared the headsails, taut and trim. But there was something. He turned to peer up, above the mighty fore-course, past the tops to the topsail and topgallant. Something was causing a hesitation, a brief interruption in the forward urge of the ship. He moved to one side until he could see the end of the bowsprit spearing into the sky ahead.

It soared and dipped but then Kydd saw what was happening. It was not an up-and-down motion. Instead, it described a circle in the sky, certain indication that the helmsman was having to ease the wheel each time the bows met an oncoming sea. That was it—a griping caused by the ship's tendency to come closer to the wind when her forefoot bit deep into the wave. Kydd was annoyed that the quartermaster had not noticed it: he knew that with every billow Tenacious was losing way through the water— only a tiny amount, but there were countless thousands of waves across the Atlantic.

He turned on his heel and headed back, trying to work out how to resolve the problem. The usual remedy was to move provisions or guns aft, but the ship was fully stored and this would be awkward and dangerous. Also, with but a single frigate nearly out of sight ahead, it would be prudent to leave the guns where they were.

He reached the quarterdeck and Houghton glanced at him curiously. Kydd did not catch his eye as he ordered the mate-of-the-watch, "Hands to set sail!" Stuns'ls had been struck earlier in the day and the man looked surprised. He hesitated, then hailed the boatswain.

"Mr Pearce," Kydd told him, "as we're lasking along, wind's fr'm the quarter, I mean t' take in the fore-topmast stays'l and then we'll set the large jib." The boatswain's eyebrows rose, but after only the briefest look in the captain's direction, he drew out his silver call.

Kydd knew it was not a popular order among the men. The large jib would have to be roused out from below and heaved up on deck, the long sausage of canvas needing thirty men at least to grapple with it. And the handing of the fore-topmast staysail, a fore-and-aft sail leading down from aloft, was hard, wet and dangerous, followed by the awkward job of hanking the large jib.

Houghton had stopped pacing and was watching Kydd closely. The master emerged from the cabin spaces to stand with him and the first lieutenant, but Kydd kept his eyes forward as the boatswain set the men about their tasks.

The fo'c'slemen lowered the fore-topmast staysail, the men out on the bowsprit using both hands to fist the unruly canvas as it came down the stay. This was a job for the most experienced seamen in the ship: balancing on a thin footrope, they bellied up to the fat spar and brought in the sail, forming a skin and stuffing in the bulk before passing gaskets round it. All the while the bowsprit reared and fell in the lively seas.

Kydd stayed on the quarterdeck, looking forward and seeing occasional bursts of spray from the bow shoot up from beneath, soaking men and canvas. He felt for them.

At last the jib was bent on and began jerking up, flapping and banging, and the men made their way back inboard. Sheets were tended and the action was complete.

"Mr Kydd, what was your purpose in setting the large jib?" Houghton called.

Kydd crossed the deck and touched his hat. "The ship gripes, sir. I—"

"Surely you would therefore attend to the trim?"

"Sir, we're fully stored, difficult t' work below," he began, recalling his experiences as a quartermaster's mate and the dangers lurking in a dark hold when the ship was working in a seaway. "This way we c'n cure the griping an' get an edge of speed."

Houghton frowned and looked at the master, who nodded. "Ah, I believe Mr Kydd means t' lift the bows—you'll know the heads'ls are lifting sails, an' at this point o' sailing the large jib will do more of a job in this than our stays'l."

"And the speed?" Houghton wanted to know.

But Kydd could already sense the effects: the hesitation was gone and it felt much like a subtle lengthening of stride. He turned to the mate-of-the-watch. "A cast o' the log, if y' please."

It was only half a knot more, but this was the same as subtracting from their voyage the best part of a hundred miles for every week at sea.

Kydd held back a grin. "And if it comes on t' blow, we let fly, sir."

Houghton gave a curt acknowledgement.

"Does seem t' me she's a sea-kindly ship, if y' know what I mean, sir," Kydd dared.

The wardroom was a quite different place from what it had been a day or so before: officers sat at table for dinner together in the usual way, but now they were in sea-faded, comfortable uniform and there was always one absent on watch. And instead of the stillness of harbour repose, there was the soaring, swooping movement of deep ocean that had everyone finding their sea-legs once more.

Fiddles had been fitted round the table—taut cords at the edge to prevent plates tumbling into laps; glasses were never poured more than half full and wetted cloths prevented bottles sliding— all familiar accompaniments to sea service.

The chaplain entered for dinner, passing along hand by hand to steady himself. "Do take a sup of wine," Kydd said solicitously.

"Thank you, perhaps later," Peake murmured, distracted. He reached for the bread-barge, which still contained portions of loaves—soon they would be replaced with hard tack—and selected a crust. "I confess I was ever a martyr to the ocean's billows," he said faintly.

Kydd remembered the times when he had been deprived of Renzi's company while Peake and he had been happily disputing logic, and could not resist saying, "Then is not y'r philosophy comfort enough? Nicholas, conjure some words as will let us see th' right of it."

Renzi winked at him. "Was it not the sainted Traherne who tells us ... let me see ... 'You never enjoy the world aright, till the sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens and crowned with the stars and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world'?"

Peake lifted dull eyes and said weakly, "I believe the Good Book may be more relied upon in this matter, as you will find in Proverbs, the thirtieth chapter: 'There be three things which are too wonderful for me ... the way of an eagle in the air ... the serpent on a rock—and the way of a ship in the midst of the sea.'"

Bampton's voice cut above the chuckles. "That you can safely leave with us, Mr Peake, but we'll have early need of your services, I fancy." Adams gave the second lieutenant a quizzical look. "You don't really think we'd be cracking on like this unless there's to be some sort of final meeting with the French? It stands to reason," Bampton continued.

The table fell silent: the frantic preparations for sea, the storing of powder and shot, and last-minute fitting and repairs had left little time for the contemplation of larger matters.

Renzi steepled his fingers. "Not necessarily. All we have is rumour and hearsay. We have abandoned the Mediterranean with reason, that we can no longer support a fleet there, and therefore every vessel of ours is undefended prey. In this case we have no means of intelligence to tell us what is happening, hence the wild speculation.

"Now, we do know of General Buonaparte and his designs on England—the landing boats in every northern French port, the daily inspections of his Army of England. Do you not feel it the more likely that he will ransack Toulon and Cartagena for ships of force to swell the Brest fleet to an unstoppable power that will overwhelm us? Rather, that is, than retain them in a landlocked sea for some sort of escapade far away."

"Just as I said." Bampton snorted. "A conclusion with Mr Buonaparte, in the chops of the Channel somewheres, I'd wager, and—"

"Except we're being sent south to Cadiz."

"Renzi, old trout, you're not being clear," Adams admonished him.

"Am I not? Then it could be that I am as much in the dark as you. Are we to be part of a grand fleet about to break into the Med again? Or might it be that we being only a sixty-four—a fine one indeed as I am obliged to remark—our purpose is merely that of releasing the more warlike seventy-fours?"

At the head of the table Bryant glowered. As first lieutenant his interest in a future bloody battle and the subsequent custom of promotion to commander for an active officer had been all too apparent on the quiet North American station. The prospect of sitting out his battle far from the action was hard to endure. "There's a reason for it, never fear," he said loudly. "Jervis ain't the one to ask for ships without he's got a plan. My money's on him takin' Buonaparte as he heads north with the Toulon squadron afore he can join up with the mongseers off Brest."

It was exhilarating sailing, a starboard tack with winds quartering, mile after deep-sea mile on the same course. As they edged south the weather brightened, the vivid white of towering clouds and hurrying white-horse seas contrasting pleasingly with the deep ultramarine of the water.

The stimulating stream of oceanic air impelling them along made it hard to stay below, and when Renzi took over his watch, Kydd felt too restless to retire to his cabin to work on his divisional list, and waited while Renzi satisfied himself as to the ship's condition.

They fell into step in an easy promenade around the quarterdeck. The messenger midshipman returned to the helm, as did the duty master's mate, leaving the two officers to their privacy. They paced in silence, until Renzi said, "Dear fellow, do I see you satisfied with your lot? Is this the visage of him who is at one with the world? Since your elevation to the ranks of the chosen are you content now with your station?"

Kydd paused. "Nicholas, I've been a-thinking. Who I am, where I'm headed in life, that sort o' thing." He shot his friend a glance. "It's not long since I was in bilboes waiting f'r the rope. Now I'm a king's officer. What does that say t' you?"

"Well, in between, there was a prodigious battle and some courage as I recall."

Kydd gestured impatiently. "Nicholas, I'll tell ye truly. While I was afore the mast I was content. I allow that then t' be a sailing master was all I could see, an' all I wanted from life. Then with just one turn o' the screw, my stars change an' here I am. Makes me think—might be anything can happen, why, anything a-tall." He spun round to face Renzi squarely. "Nicholas, m' life will never be complete until I have my own ship. Walk my decks, not a man aboard but tips his hat t' me, does things my way. An' for me, I get the chance to win my own glory because I make the decisions. Good or bad, they're mine, and I get the rewards—or the blame. So, how does it sound, Nicholas—Cap'n Thomas Kydd, Royal Navy?"

Renzi raised an eyebrow. "A junior lieutenant with such ardour? Where is the old Tom Kydd that I knew?" He gave a smile, then added, "I admire your fervour and respect your passion for the laurels, but you will have noticed, of course, that Fortune bestows her favours at random. You stand just as much a chance of having your head knocked off as winning glory."

Less than three weeks later, they passed the distant blue peak of Morro Alto to starboard, marking the island of Flores at the western extremity of the Azores. Their passage in the steady westerlies had been fast and sure and it was becoming a point of honour to win every advantage, gain the last fraction of a knot. HMS Tenacious was answering the call.

Noon. The hallowed time of the grog issue for the hands. A fife at the main hatchway started up with the welcome strains of "Nancy Dawson," and Kydd waited for the decks to clear. It was time, too, for the ceremony of the noon sight.

Officers readied their instruments. At local apparent noon, while the men were below, they would fix the line of longitude passing through their position and thus compute the distance remaining to their rendezvous off Cadiz.

A crisp horizon, and the ship's motion predictably even: it was a good sighting. Most officers retired to their cabins for peace in the concentrated work of applying the necessary corrections and resolving the mathematics resulting in the intersection of latitude and longitude that was the ship's location at midday.

From first one then another cabin came disbelieving shouts: "Well, damme—five degrees of longitude noon to noon!"

"Two hundred and fifty miles off the reel in twenty-four hours!"

"She's a champion!"

That night glasses were raised to Tenacious in the wardroom, but as the ship neared the other side of the Atlantic a more sombre mood prevailed. Exercise of gunnery took on new meaning as the ominous rumble of heavy guns was felt through the deck at all hours. Who knew what trial by battle lay ahead?

Landfall on the continent of Europe was the looming heights of Portugal's Cape St Vincent, which faded into the dusk as they held course through the night. The officers took their breakfast quietly and though the fleet was not expected to be sighted before the afternoon every one went on deck straight after the meal.

"News! For the love of God, let us have news," groaned Adams, running his hands through his fair hair. They had been cut off from the world for weeks across the width of the Atlantic and anything could have happened.

"For all we know of it," Bampton said drily, "we may be sailing into an empty anchorage, the Spanish gone to join the French and our grand battle decided five hundred miles away."

Bryant glared at him.

"Or peace declared," said Renzi.

Conversations tailed off at the mention of this possibility and all the officers turned towards him. He continued, "Pitt is sorely pressed, the coalition in ruins, and the threat to our shores could not be greater. If he treats with the French now, exchanges colonies for peace, he may secure a settlement far preferable to a long-drawn-out war of attrition." He paused. "After all, France alone has three times our population, a five times bigger army—"

"What do y' mean by this kind o' talk, sir?" Bryant snapped.

"Simply that if a French or Spanish vessel crosses our bows, do we open with broadsides? Is it peace or is it war? It would go hard for any who violate hard-won terms of peace ..."

At a little after two, the low, anonymous coast of Spain firmed in a bright haze ahead. The mainmast lookout bawled down, "Deck hoooo! Sail-o'-the-line, a dozen or more—at anchor!" The long wait was over.

"Gunner's party!" came the order. There would be salutes and ceremony as they joined the fleet of Admiral of the Blue, the Earl St Vincent. Kydd, as Tenacious's signal lieutenant, roused out the signal flag locker and found the largest blue ensign. He smiled wryly at the thought of the hard work he knew would be there for him later: the signal procedures this side of the Atlantic would be different and he would need to prepare his own signal book accordingly.

Ahead, the dark body of the fleet against the backdrop of enemy land slowly resolved into a long crescent of anchored warships spreading the width of the mouth of a majestic harbour. As they approached Kydd identified the flagship in the centre, the mighty 110-gun Ville de Paris, her admiral's pennant at the main.

To seaward of the crescent a gaggle of smaller ships was coming and going, victuallers and transports, dispatch cutters, hoys. A sudden crack of salutes rang out, startling him at his telescope. Answering thuds came from the flagship.

Now opposite Ville de Paris, Tenacious backed her main topsail, but an officious half-decked cutter foamed up astern and came into the wind. An officer with a speaking trumpet blared up, "The admiral desires you should moor to the suth'ard of the line." Obediently Tenacious paid off and got under way for her appointed berth.

Kydd marvelled at the extraordinary sight before him: the grandest port in Spain locked and secured by a fleet of ships so close that the great ramparts of the city were in plain view, with a wide sprawl of white houses glaring in the sun, turrets, cathedral domes—and a curious tower arising from the sea.

At the end of the line they rounded to and came to single anchor, the newest member of the fleet. Captain Houghton's barge was in the water even as the cable was veered. Resplendent in full dress with best sword and decorations, he was swayed into it by yardarm tackle and chair, and departed to report to the commander-in-chief.

Houghton did not return immediately; rumour washed around. "There's been a fright only," Bryant huffed. "Just as the Frogs always do, made to put t' sea an' when they see us all in a pelt put about and scuttle back. Not like Old Jarvie t' take a scare so."

Adams looked disconsolate: the thought of enervating blockade duty was trying on the spirit after the thrill of the headlong race across the Atlantic.

"Still an' all, you'll not be wanting entertainment," Bryant mused. "The old bugger's a right hard horse. Marks o' respect evewwn in a blow, captains to be on deck during the night when takin' in sail and if there's a sniff o' mutiny, court-martial on the Saturday, hangs 'em on the Sunday ..."

The captain arrived back at dusk and disappeared into his cabin. Within the hour word was passed that all officers were desired to present themselves in the great cabin forthwith.

"I shall be brief," Houghton snapped. "The situation in respect to the present threat to England is unclear. France's Army of England is still massing for invasion and there are fears for Ireland. Now we've heard that its commander-in-chief—this General Buonaparte—has abandoned it for the time being and gone to Toulon, God knows why. Now you know as much as I, and the admiral.

"To more important matters. Those who have served before with Sir John Jervis, now the Earl St Vincent, know well what to expect in the article of discipline and order. We are now a part of his fleet and his opinions on an officer's duty are robust and unambiguous. You will each consult the Fleet Order Book until its contents are known intimately. Any officer who through ignorance of his duty brings disrepute upon my ship will incur my most severe displeasure."

"Sir, might we know our purpose? Are we to remain while the seventy-fours—"

"Our purpose is very clear, Mr Adams. In case it has escaped your notice, let me inform you that in this port there are twenty-six of-the-line under Almirante Mazzeredo. Should we fail in our duty and let this armada get to sea ..." His face tightened. "We lie before Cadiz on blockade, sir, and here we shall stay until the Spanish see fit to sail. Do you understand me?"

CHAPTER 2

THE SOUND OF FIRING transfixed the wardroom at their breakfast. After just three days on blockade, any variation to routine was welcome and there was a rush to the hatchway as saluting guns announced the approach of a smart 74 from the north.

Houghton appeared on deck, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Sir," called Bampton, who was officer-of-the-watch. "Pennants of HMS Vanguard, seventy-four, flag of Rear Admiral Nelson."

"Aha! Now we'll see some action," growled Bryant, snatching the telescope from Bampton and training it on Vanguard's quarterdeck. "Ye-e-e-s, that must be him. Always was the popinjay." He handed the glass back. "Didn't think to see him back at sea— only last year at Tenerife he lost an arm to a musket-shot, had it sawn off. Right arm it was, too."

Bampton took a brief sight, then lowered the telescope. "Yes, but a vain man, very vain," he muttered.

The ship passed close by; gold lace glinted on her quarterdeck, seamen stood rigid at their stations. In Tenacious, boatswain's calls piped attention to the new rear admiral joining and all hands tried to catch a glimpse of the renowned victor of the great battle of St Vincent, he of the "Patent Bridge for Boarding First-rates," where he had taken one enemy ship, then used it as a stepping-stone to lead an attack on his next victim.

Vanguard rounded the line to join the half-dozen or so vessels close inshore, and the officers of Tenacious returned to their breakfast.

"Sir, Vanguard is signalling," Rawson reported to Kydd.

"Well?" growled Kydd, in mock exasperation at his signals midshipman.

"Er, sir—union at the mizzen topmast-head, distinguishing pennants, er, that's 'Captains repair on board Flag.' An' they are ... let me see ... Orion, Alexander, Emerald, others—and us!"

"So?"

"Er, yes, sir—acknowledge."

"My duty t' the captain, an' acquaint him of the signal, if y' please."

Houghton wasted no time: his barge disappeared quickly into a throng of small craft, but he was back just as rapidly and summoned all officers to his cabin. He motioned them to sit at the polished table, but remained standing and leaned forward, animated. "Gentlemen, I have to tell you that intelligence of the gravest kind has been received from overland concerning the French intentions." Every eye was on him. "It seems that they are at this moment massing in Toulon and are about to make a sally."

He spread out a small-scale chart of the Mediterranean. "This is far more serious than a simple adventure. It has the attention and presence of their highest general, Napoleon Buonaparte, and could mean either a mass break-out from the Mediterranean to join up with their forces in Brest, or some descent to the east in a move towards the Ottomans or India.

"They have had the Mediterranean as their private sea for too long—it has made them ambitious, and the danger this poses to our country is incalculable. Therefore I have to tell you that Sir John has determined that at last we shall re-enter the Mediterranean. There shall be an immediate reconnaissance in force towards Toulon to discover the French intentions. It will be led by Rear Admiral Nelson—and we shall be a part!"

In this major fleet off Cadiz, in addition to a full admiral as commander-in-chief, there was a vice admiral for the van of the line-of-battle and a rear admiral for the rear. Exceptionally, there was also a separate squadron whose task was to rove close inshore, harrying the enemy at every opportunity and this was the particular command of Rear Admiral Nelson.

There was a stunned silence, then excited babble broke out. Houghton grinned and straightened. "If you please, gentlemen, Sir Horatio will brook no delay. He intends to sail for Gibraltar in two days. I will not have Tenacious disappoint so you will bend every effort to ready her for sea. Carry on!"

The Rock of Gibraltar resolved from the haze like a crouching lion, dominating the vessels that drew up to its flanks to join the ships-of-the-line and frigates already there. As anchors plunged into a gunmetal blue sea, the thunder of salutes acknowledged the visiting Princess Royal as the flag of a senior admiral.

The ships came to rest and the slight breeze brought a smell compounded of sun-baked rock, goats, donkey droppings and Moorish cooking, which irresistibly took Kydd back to his service there in Achilles—and the adventures that had followed.

"I do believe it will now be granted to us to glimpse the grand panjandrum himself," Renzi said, looking at Vanguard, anchored a few hundred yards away. Kydd held back a reproof: his friend had been at the great battle of St Vincent and witnessed Nelson's achievements at first hand.

"Oh?" said Bampton. "Is he so much the swell he must parade before us?"

Kydd's colour rose at Bampton's tone.

"Not as I would say," Renzi replied. "Rather, I have heard he keeps a splendid table and is the most affable of hosts."

"Should you have seen him here a year or so ago in Minerve frigate you'd clap a stopper on y'r opinions," Kydd added, and recounted the daring escape of Nelson's ship from two Spanish ships-of-the-line. From the top of the Rock, Kydd had watched the whole incident. Nelson had bluffed the enemy by heaving to and, suspecting he was leading them into a trap, the Spaniards had sheered off. But the real reason for his action was that he had lowered a boat to rescue a man overboard.

The talking died as Vanguard's boat was hoisted out and several figures boarded. It stroked strongly for the shore, and was met at Ragged Staff by a file of redcoats, a military band and a reception committee.

"Making his number with the governor," murmured Adams.

"O'Hara," said Kydd, with a grin. "They call him 'Cock o' the Rock' on account of him being so ... amiable t' the ladies."

After a short interval there was a pealing of boatswain's calls and the captain of Tenacious departed.

"God knows, Our Nel isn't one to waste his time lingering in port," the first lieutenant said. He turned to the boatswain. "No liberty, all hands to store ship. Turn to, part-o'-ship." The boatswain called his mates and stalked forward, the piercing blast of their pipes echoing up from the hatchways. "All the water an' provisions we can take aboard—our ships are on their own once we sail," Bryant growled.

But this was work for the warrant officers, petty officers and ship's company. Kydd seized his opportunity. "Nicholas, should you step off with me, y' could be of some service, m' friend ..."

Renzi raised one eyebrow. "Er, regarding Town Major Mulvany and his wife, do you not think it a trifle rash to venture abroad in Gibraltar? That you may meet them?"

Kydd's infatuation with Emily Mulvany was nearly a year previously but Renzi's gibe was enough to bring a flush. "I've heard there's a new man in post now," he said defensively.

Bryant saw no reason to deny them both a few hours ashore, and within a short time they were speaking to the chief valuer for Moses Levy, the biggest jeweller in Gibraltar. "Your opinion on this, if y' please," Kydd said, passing him his hoarded treasure.

The man took the object, scratched the surface with a hook-shaped pick and closely inspected the result. Then he took down a dusty vial with a glass dropper and deposited several drops of fluid on the tiny specks.

"A remarkable piece," he said grudgingly, hefting the hunk of raw gold. "May I know where this was found?" he said, as he set it on one pan of his scales.

"No, sir, you may not." Kydd's uncle would find his haven destroyed by prospectors if ever Kydd let it be known. It had been his uncle's gift to probably the last family member he would see, and Kydd was going to see it well used.

The valuer carefully added weights to the other pan. Kydd glanced at Renzi, who seemed unaffected by the excitement. The man peered at the weights, then said, "This is what I can offer. Four hundred silver pesos on account now and an adjustment later after it has been assayed."

"That would seem equitable," Renzi said. Outside he added, "At six pesos to the guinea, an excellent trade—more than enough to ... ?"

They knew where they had to go: a bare twenty minutes along the familiar bustle of Main Street was Town Range, the residential quarter for army officers, and in a side-street they found the garrison sword-cutler. Kydd turned to Renzi. "Now, Nicholas, understand that it's a fightin' sword I'm getting, none o' your macaroni pig-stickers."

"As you've mentioned before, dear chap."

The steel-glittered interior was hung with every conceivable hand weapon, ceremonial armour, regimental gorgets and armorial heraldry. Kydd wandered along the racks of edged weapons: this was no quartermaster's armoury, with stout grey-steel blades and wooden hilts. Here was damascened elegance in blue, gold and ivory.

"See this," Kydd said, selecting one. He flourished it—the military style seemed heavier, the slightly curved blade urging more of a slashing stroke than a direct thrust. It did, however, have a splendid appearance, the blade blued along its length with silver chasing down from the hilt, the half-basket guard ornate and fire-gilded.

"A fighting sword?" Renzi drawled.

"Aye, well, a fine piece," Kydd said, replacing it as a man stepped out from the workshop at the rear.

"Gentlemen, an honour." He spoke softly, but his eyes took measure of Kydd's strong build and upright bearing. "Balthasar Owen. It's not so often we are visited by the navy. Not a small sword is my guess," he added, with a smile, glancing at a discreet light-bladed hanger usually worn by gentlemen in the street.

"A fightin' sword for a naval gentleman, if y' please," Kydd replied.

Owen hesitated.

"The expense is not t' be considered. Let th' blade be the best y' have."

"Should you have any fine Toledo steel blades, it would answer," Renzi added.

"A Toledo blade! This will be difficult. Since the late war began you will understand ..."

"The best steel in the world, we agree," Renzi pressed. "And in the matter of your price ..."

Owen closed the front door. "Toledo steel is the hardest there is because it is forged from an iron heart and the finest steel lapped and folded on itself more than three hundred times. This gives it flexibility but great hardness. It can take a razor's edge that has been known to last centuries. You see, at the forge, the swordsmith works only by night. Such is their care that when the blade is plunged into the oil the heat's colour is exactly known. The result, an impeccable temper."

He paused, and looked keenly at the two. "There have been many attempts at fraud. Can you tell the singular damascening of a Toledo blade? No? Then the only one you may trust is myself—for if I sell you an inferior, then my standing as sword-cutler to the military will be exploded. Now, if I can find such a one, it would cost dear, perhaps more than three hundred silver pesos—in English money say fifty pounds."

"Very well," said Kydd immediately.

"Which is to say, no paper money, payment upon delivery."

"Aye."

"And workshop time compensated."

Kydd began to count out the Spanish coins. "Should ye need an advance t' assist in th' looking, then—"

Owen's expression eased. "As it happens, I have knowledge of two suitable blades—these are, of course, just that, blades. I will fetch them. They will be hilted here in my workshop to your instructions, er—"

"L'tenant Kydd, Royal Navy, sir." Bows were exchanged, and Owen withdrew.

Kydd smiled at Renzi. "O' course, the whole world knows o' this Toledo steel, but I never thought t' sport such a one."

"I give you joy of your expectation, brother."

Renzi, who had been tutored from youth in the art of fencing, lifted out a straight-bladed spadroon and swung it round his wrist. Then, in a glittering whirl of motion, it came to rest, the needle point an inch from Kydd's nose. "Supple, light in hand, but of no account in a serious contest," Renzi said, and replaced it in the rack.

Owen returned carrying a long package, which he carefully unwrapped on the counter top. Kydd caught his breath. Despite the ugly, naked tang at the top, the sword blade's lethal gleam shone with an impossibly fine lustre. "Take it," urged Owen. "If you look closely you might perceive the damascene workings." Kydd lifted the blade, sighting along it and feeling its weight, admiring the almost imperceptible whorls of metal colour.

"The other Toledo I have is a thirty-two-inch," Owen said, "this being only a twenty-eight."

"No, sir. Aboard ship we set no value on length," Kydd said, stroking the blade in reverence. "Sudden an' quick's the word, the shorter swings faster."

"Is the fullering to your satisfaction, sir?"

Kydd slid his thumb down the single wide groove, feeling its sensual curvature as it diminished towards the tip. "Aye, it will do."

"Then perhaps we should discuss the furniture."

Kydd's brow creased.

"Yes. The blade is forged in Toledo, we perform the hilting here." Kydd avoided Renzi's eye and listened politely. "Naval gentlemen are taking a stirrup knuckle-bow these days," he said, familiarly lifting a sword by its blade and holding it vertical. Instead of forming a round semicircle, the guard had a pleasing sinuosity, ending in a flat bar.

"You will remark the short quillion on this piece," he added, touching the sword crosspiece. "More to your sea tastes, I believe.

And the grips—for a fighting sword we have ivory, filigree—"

"Sharkskin," Kydd said firmly, and turned to see Renzi nodding. "Aye, dark sharkskin it must be. Now, y'r pommel."

"Ah, yes. You naval gentlemen will be asking for the lionhead pommel. It remains only to specify how far down the backpiece of the grip you wish the mane to extend. Some gentlemen—"

"Half-way will be fine."

"Chased?"

"Er ..."

"Silver, gold?"

"Ah, yes. How will gold chasin' look, d'ye think, Nicholas?"

"Dear fellow, this is a fighting sword."

"I think, then, none."

Owen returned the sword to its place. "And the detailing." He pursed his lips and crossed to another rack. "Triangular langets?" he said, showing the neat little catch for holding the sword secure in its scabbard.

"Not so plain, I'm thinkin'—have you an anchor, perhaps?"

"Certainly. Would you consider damascening in blue and gold? Some blade-etching—a mermaid, a seahorse, perhaps? And the scabbard: black oiled leather, of course, with carrying rings and frog stud for belt or shoulder carriage. Shall the sword knot be in bullion or blue tassels?"

It was well into the afternoon before all details had been settled. The sword-cutler had puzzled over Kydd's insistent demand for engravings of choughs, but he had promised a sketch of the birds for the etching. For the rest, it had cost a pretty premium to command the entire resources of the workshop to have it finished in time, but he would then possess the finest sword imaginable— and there was every reason to suppose that it would soon be drawn in anger.

Back on board, the remainder of the day passed busily. Men sweated in the heat as they struck stores down into the hold; others roused out cannonballs from their lockers and scaled rust from them; more still went over every inch of rigging.

So far signal instructions from their new admiral had not been sent over, so Kydd concentrated on what he had; a detached squadron was not a fleet, even if commanded by an admiral and there might be difficulties. Probably a fat sheaf of complex signal details would arrive the day they sailed, Kydd thought ruefully.

The following day the pace had calmed. Gibraltar dockyard was not a major fleet base and had no vast stocks of sea stores. Men's minds began to turn shoreward for the last opportunity to raise a wind for who knew how long. Liberty was granted to the trusties of the larboard watch until evening gun. Kydd knew where they would head—there were establishments enough in Irish Town alone to cater to an entire fleet.

He and Renzi found time to share a pleasant meal at the Old Porter House on Scud Hill. They sank an ale on the terrace. The entire sweeping curve of Gibraltar Bay lay before them under the setting sun; Spain, the enemy, was a bare five miles distant. The two friends talked comfortably together of remembered places far away; unspoken, however, was any mention of the fire of war, which must soon reach out and engulf them both.

Soon after breakfast, a midshipman appeared. "Mr Kydd, sir, and the cap'n desires to see you when convenient."

The coding of the summons indicated delay would not be in his interest and his pulse quickened as he remembered that the previous day Houghton had spent the whole afternoon and evening with Admiral Nelson. Kydd quickly mounted the companionway and knocked at the door.

"Sir?" There was another captain with him, and a midshipman rigid to one side.

Houghton rose. "Thank you for your time, Mr Kydd. I believe you remember Captain Essington?"

Kydd's astonishment quickly turned to pleasure as he shook the hand of his captain in Triumph at the bloody battle of Camperdown, who had commended him to acting lieutenant in Tenacious. But for Essington's intercession at his lieutenant's examination, Kydd would have been for a certainty back before the mast.

"He is flag-captain of Princess Royal," Houghton added.

Essington's face creased to a smile. "Lieutenant, if you are at leisure, it would gratify me should we take the air on the quarterdeck for a small while."

"Sir."

Kydd fell into step beside the eminent officer. "Your captain speaks highly of you," Essington said at length. "A source of some satisfaction to me, that the Service has seen some benefit to my actions after Camperdown."

"You may rely on m' duty, sir," Kydd said stiffly.

"I'm sure of it," Essington returned. "But today I have come on quite a different mission"—he paused while they passed the quartermaster—"which I find delicate enough, in all conscience."

Kydd tensed. He had been puzzled that Houghton had held back to allow a senior flag-captain to talk directly with him, and now this admission of delicacy.

Essington stopped pacing and faced Kydd. "The essence of it all is ..."

"Sir?"

"My nephew, Bowden, has been sent to me in the character of midshipman to place upon the quarterdeck of Princess Royal. However, in short, I do not believe it in his best interest to serve in the same ship as his uncle. Neither do I feel a flagship of the Cadiz blockade a good place to learn the elements of his profession. Captain Houghton has been good enough to agree to exchange him into Tenacious where he will join the gunroom and begin his education."

"Er, yes, sir." Kydd could see no reason why he should be informed of such an arrangement.

"I tell you this in order that you be under no apprehension that he is to be accorded any privileges whatsoever beyond those extended to his fellow young gentlemen. Notwithstanding his gentle birth—and you may understand he is my sister's child—I desire that he be treated the same."

"Sir, with respect, I can't see how this is a concern f'r me."

Essington smiled. "This is then the delicacy. It is my wish that young Bowden do learn his nauticals properly, neglecting none, to be a sure foundation for his future. I do not ask you will be the schoolmaster in this, but I would take it very kindly in you should you watch over his learning. That is, his notions of seamanship will then be of prime worth, coming as they will from one whose own such are so unquestioned."

"Sir, you flatter me," Kydd said carefully. But nursemaid to a midshipman? And, anyway, as an officer he would not have any direct relationship with a midshipman: that was the province of the master's mates and petty officers.

Essington frowned. "I do not ask you will interfere, merely that as the occasion presents you do try him in the particulars, sparing neither his feelings nor time as you deem necessary."

"Aye aye, sir," Kydd acknowledged formally.

"Very well. Captain Houghton knows of my request and will hear any suggestion you may have, conformable to the requirements of his ship."

Hesitating, Essington went on quietly, "The boy is, er, eager to please, having latterly formed a pressing desire for the sea life, which will not be denied, but his ideas of life in a midshipman's berth are somewhat whimsical."

"Sir, I—"

"I have instructed him that under no circumstances should you be approached on matters not pertaining to the sea profession," Essington said. "He'll find his place soon enough—or suffer. Either way, this is not a concern of yours."

He hauled a gold hunter from his waistcoat. "I see it is past eleven—I have to go ashore now. It only remains for me to wish you good fortune, Mr Kydd, and to thank you."

Kydd watched the gangling midshipman he had seen in the captain's cabin emerge from the cabin spaces aft. The lad, in brand new blues and a too-large cocked hat, looked bewildered. Seeing Essington, he went to him, remembering at the last moment to remove his hat. His fingers worked nervously at his dirk as they exchanged murmured words; the boy attempted a last embrace and then Essington went down the side amid the ceremonial shriek of pipes. Kydd caught the glint of tears, the rigidity of barely held control.

"Mr Rawson!" he bellowed, up to the poop-deck, where he knew his signal midshipman had been working at the flag locker.

Rawson appeared at the poop rails in his shirtsleeves, then slid down the ladder to join him. "Sir?"

"Mr Rawson, this is Mr Bowden. Be so good as to convey him t' the midshipmen's berth, and settle him in—an' none of y'r guardo tricks if y' please."

Kydd turned away, feigning disinterest, but listened to the exchange that followed.

"So what do we call ye, then?" Rawson teased. "Spit it out, younker!"

"Er, Charles, sir."

"No, all of it," Rawson said, with relish. "We'll find out from the ship's books anyway."

"Well, er, it's—it's ... Her-Her—"

"Damn it, fellow, we haven't got all day."

"Her-Her-Hercules A-A-berdour Charles Ayscough, sir," said Bowden, in a small voice.

"Well, now! What infernal bad luck for you!" Rawson said fruitily. "I'd wager 'The Honourable' as well?"

The boy nodded miserably. "Couldn't be bettered!" Rawson said, with a whoop. "Welcome to th' Cockpitonians. Where's your sea-chest, then?"

By later that forenoon Tenacious was in tolerable seagoing order, her gear inspected and renewed or turned end for end, spars scraped back and well blacked, guns and gunlocks minutely checked. Every conceivable corner and space was stowed with sea stores: a thousand miles into a hostile Mediterranean was not the place to discover deficiencies.

Sitting with the others scratching away at last letters, Kydd sucked his quill: there would be no mail sent or received as they sailed deeper into the ancient sea. He bent again over his letter to his family but was noisily interrupted by a midshipman hurtling into the wardroom. "All officers!" he shrilled. "On deck instanter—it's the admiral!"

The admiral's barge had been seen putting off from Vanguard, but it did not shape a course inshore as usual: with Flag pennant a-flutter it headed straight for Tenacious, with an unmistakable figure, resplendent in gold lace and decorations, in the sternsheets.

An appalled watch officer sent messengers scurrying while he hastily pulled together a side party. Houghton shot up from below, roaring for the first lieutenant who, when he finally appeared, showed every evidence of hasty dressing.

Kydd took his place with the receiving party of officers on the quarterdeck, nervously tugging his hat and smoothing his waistcoat. No one was in fit state to greet an admiral; it was the usual custom to alert the ship well in advance, but this was the famed Nelson, who was known to be different from the rest.

The bowman of the barge hooked on with a quite unnecessary flourish. High at the deck edge the boatswain waited with his silver call poised, his mates and sideboys in a line inward to the group of officers.

At the instant the top of a cocked hat appeared, the calls pealed out together and Rear Admiral of the Blue Sir Horatio Nelson came aboard, his flag breaking at the mizzen. Houghton came forward and removed his hat. "Sir, welcome aboard HMS Tenacious. Might I have the honour of presenting my officers?" The deck was absolutely still; not a man moved except around the admiral.

At the junior end of the receiving line Kydd dared a glance at the man who even now was known throughout the navy and increasingly by the general public, one whose reputation must shortly be tested in this daring foray.

Not as tall as Kydd's, Nelson's figure was sparse and drawn, in no sense that of a hero, and seemingly dwarfed by the weight of his decorations and gold lace. Kydd tried not to look at the empty sleeve pinned across his chest and the spindly legs, and tensed as the admiral approached.

"And Lieutenant Kydd, sir, fifth and junior." Houghton's tone betrayed that he, too, was affected by the presence.

"Do you come from a seagoing family?"

"No, sir," Kydd answered. "I come fr'm Guildford, in th' country." He became uncomfortably aware of prematurely white hair and the odd, milky-blue right eye.

"Then what made you follow the sea?"

"I—I was pressed, sir."

There was no avoiding the admission, but to his relief a thin smile appeared. "And now you are a king's officer, come aft the hardest way. To your great credit, sir—that's so, Captain?"

"It is, sir," Houghton stuttered.

Kydd tried to think of a suitable reply, but Nelson had passed on.

Before they entered the cabin spaces Houghton turned to the officers. "Sir Horatio wishes to address you all. Shall we say my cabin in ten minutes?"

In the great cabin of Tenacious a chart of the Mediterranean was already spread out on the table. Nelson wasted no time. "You will have heard from your captain the essence of what faces us. The enemy is up to mischief—but where?" He looked from face to face. "There's been no news, no more intelligence forwarded to me than you yourselves know. We're sailing into the unknown. But of this I'm sure. The enemy must make his move soon and we shall be ready, gentlemen. We have the finest sea service of the age, and we shall do our duty!" There were murmurs of approval, Bryant's sounding above them all.

"Now, to strategy. Our course will be to Toulon. We cruise off and on until we discover for a certainty what the French are doing. If they make a move to the west we fall back. I'm prepared to let Gibraltar be taken to make certain that we can hold them at Cadiz and there with the whole fleet we shall try for a conclusion." There was a shocked silence, which he broke: "We are talking now of the very security of our islands—they will not pass."

He touched the chart to the east. "If, on the other hand, General Buonaparte is considering an adventure to Constantinople he will find he is trapped. The waters are shoal and there is but the one entrance, the Dardanelles. There he will find us waiting, and he will see that it will bring the Turks into close alliance. And if they are further east, to the Levant perhaps, the Red Sea, we shall fall on their lines of supply."

He straightened painfully, his face grim and set. "But all is vaporous posturing until we have met their fleet and disposed of it. While it exists, the Mediterranean is a French lake. All our striving must be to entice it to sea and bring it to battle. That, gentlemen, is our entire strategy. Questions?"

The heightened feeling was almost palpable. Bryant asked boldly, "What will be our force, sir?"

" Vanguard, yourselves, Orion and Alexander, with three frigates. Too big to discourage from looking where we please, too small to think we engage. Big enough to lure 'em out," Nelson snapped, and waited for another question.

"Signals, sir. We haven't yet the new instructions," Kydd found himself saying. The others frowned, but he was concerned that he did not yet have a signal book ready for any major fleet action in prospect.

"Neither will you," Nelson said briefly. "You are in a detached squadron of Sir John's fleet off Cadiz. His signals therefore will still apply." He then turned to Kydd and smiled grimly. "And if any ship of the enemy lie ahead, why, our duty is plain and no signal required."

There was a stirring among the officers. These were not the highly planned, intricate tactics of a fleet in line-of-battle: service under this admiral promised to be a time each would remember.

After the men had finished their grog and noon meal the officers sat down to dinner. The wardroom was alive with only one topic. "A proud man, but conceited," Bampton said firmly. "Vanity does not a leader make, in my opinion."

"Oh, so you have personal knowledge of our famed commander?" There was an edge to Adams's voice.

"Not directly. But I have heard—"

"Let the man's actions speak for 'emselves, I say!" boomed Bryant.

Bampton came in instantly: "They have." "Oh?"

"Orders. Do you call them orders? 'If you see an enemy ship, damn the signals and close with him.' What kind of orders are those? In a fleet action there has to be detail—every circumstance foreseen, all manoeuvres planned in such a manner that every captain will know what is expected of him. As for signals—is this an example to our junior officers? Are you satisfied, Mr Kydd?"

Kydd had no experience in a fleet action as an officer. As a master's mate on the lower deck during the battle of Camperdown he had never been privy to the wider tactical picture on the quarterdeck. Now, as a signal lieutenant, he was expected to act as a crucial link in the chain of command.

"He's a fighting seaman, that I like," Kydd said firmly. "A rear admiral, but goes out in th' boats himself at Cadiz, takes the fight t' the enemy."

"Seeking a reputation at the cannon's mouth."

Bryant snorted impatiently. "A plain-sailing admiral—I'm satisfied, an' I surely know what will answer with him."

Kydd finished his meal in silence, and went up on deck. A lone figure stood by the hances. It was Bowden, staring out, unseeing. Kydd approached, but before he could say anything the lad had moved away.

"Tysoe!"

Kydd's servant appeared quickly: the Princess Royal was giving a grand reception that evening in honour of Admiral Nelson, and all Gibraltar would be there.

"Full fig 'n' sword."

"Certainly, sir." Kydd held back a smile—Tysoe was never more contented than when he was arrayed in his finery. "The silver buckles, sir?"

"Of course." Kydd knew that this was Tysoe's way of ensuring he would not follow the modish wearing of Hessian half-boots and pantaloons in place of knee-breeches and stockings.

But Tysoe was not privy to the real purpose of the evening. The function was a ruse—seeing a grand party begin, the watching Spaniards would conclude that there would be no martial activity in the fleet that night or, indeed, the following morning. But while the affair was proceeding the darkened vessels at anchor were being prepared. Directly the officers returned in the early hours they would put to sea, and at dawn the Spanish would realise that the English fleet had sailed—but out of their sight and in the opposite direction to their expectation: back into the Mediterranean at last.

At dusk boats put off from all ships, heading for the glittering spangle of lights on Princess Royal's quarterdeck. The sound of an orchestra and excited voices floated across the still water.

Kydd mounted the side and was greeted by the flag-lieutenant. The effect of so much blue and gold of the navy and the scarlet and gold of regimentals was breathtaking under the soft lanthorn light.

An officer of equal standing in the host ship took him into the throng. Seaman servants circulated with wine; ladies stooped to admire the flowers that adorned the bitts round the mast and marvelled at the vivid colours of the flags of every nation draped along the bulwarks.

Kydd felt a well of contentment: this was what it was to be a king's officer, to taste the sweets of his own achievement in a world he had entered by right, the stage upon which he would perform for the rest of his professional life.

He saw his host bringing forward a young lady, who dimpled with pleasure on seeing Kydd. "The Honourable Arabella Grantham. Believes she saw you before," he added enviously.

"Y'r servant, Miss Arabella," said Kydd, essaying a deep bow.

"Mr Kydd, you might not remember, but when you were King Neptune I was a cygnet." She giggled.

It stopped him short until he recalled the fancy-dress assembly he had attended the last time he had been in Gibraltar. "But o' course! The cygnet! Er ..."

Impulsively she pressed forward, eyes wide. "Mr Kydd, it would make me very happy if you could ... I have no right—"

"Y'r pleasure is my command," he said immediately, feeling smug. Renzi would be impressed with this evidence of his developing urbanity.

"Er, yes. Mr Kydd. What I'd adore more than anything in this world ..." her eyes dropped, but the lashes fluttered as she finished breathlessly "... is that you do introduce me to your famous Nelson."

A lowly junior lieutenant? Sir Horatio Nelson? "Miss Arabella ..." he began. Her blue eyes looked up at him beseechingly. He glanced aft. It was easy to spot Nelson; he was conferring at the centre of a distinguished group of senior officers and their followers.

"If y' please." He offered his arm awkwardly and navigated them through the throng, warning her of the odd ringbolt and hatch coaming, rehearsing the words he would use that would excuse the impertinence of approaching a flag officer without leave.

Nelson looked distracted as he listened to an anecdote from a jovial admiral who was clearly his senior. It did not take a great leap of imagination to grasp that he would far rather be ranging the seas than dallying in port.

Kydd waited for the account to finish and the guffaws to die, then addressed Nelson with trepidation: "S-sir, might I present Miss Arabella Grantham, who did express t' me a desire to make y'r acquaintance and will not be denied."

Nelson gave Kydd a cold stare, before which he quailed. Then the gaze turned on the young woman and was transformed. "Why, my dear, you are to be gratified this instant," he said. "Do you now meet Admiral Nelson of the Blue, at once your devoted admirer!" He bowed, then took her hand and kissed it. "Lieutenant, your discernment in the matter of beauty is to your credit, but I can only lament that it is much in evidence you have failed in your duty. This young lady is without the means of refreshment on this warm night."

"Aye aye, sir," said Kydd. He noted that the hand had not been released, bowed and went dutifully in search of some punch.

Tempers on deck were fraying in the hot night as Tenacious made ready for sea. "Get forrard this instant, damn your blood, sir!" an officer threw at Bowden, as the hapless midshipman was jostled by men too busy to tell him where to go.

"It'll be stuns'ls, o' course," the master said. Unable to risk the revealing bending of sail before the concealment of dark they were now faced with the task of sending up the long bolsters of canvas almost by touch. Casting under jib, as the large fore and aft sail mounted, it became plain from its limp flap that the light wind had backed even more easterly and they were once more held in the thrall of the Rock.

"This will need more than stuns'ls," Houghton snapped. "I'd hoped we'd make our offing by dawn, but now ..."

"Sir, Vanguard is putting her boats in the water," Bampton said carefully. This implied a hard time for all.

"Yes, I can see that," Houghton said irritably. "But what will they do?" There was no question but that they must follow the motions of the admiral, and there were two alternatives he could take: tow the heavy warships out with every boat available, or warp out.

"Their launch and large pinnace only in the water, sir."

"Then it's to warp." He turned to the boatswain. "Mr Pearce, see to the launch and red cutter." They would lay out an anchor ahead of the ship and heave up to it using the capstan, then take it out and repeat the process, inching to sea by main force.

"Mr Kydd, if you are at leisure you'd oblige me by taking away the launch," Houghton said. Adams was to have the cutter.

Hoisting out the heavy boat would take time, so Kydd went to his cabin to change into a comfortable seagoing rig, then mustered his boat's crew. It was going to be hard, sweaty, painful work with the half-ton of the kedge anchor slung from the boat and the even bigger weight of the catenary of hawser stretching to the ship.

Kydd was glad to see Dobbie, a petty officer built like a prizefighter, in his party. "Sir," he acknowledged, with a gap-toothed grin. "Better'n being down in th' cable tiers." The familiarity would have irked some officers but since his "duel" with Dobbie in Halifax—when the seaman had accused him of betraying the mutineers at the Nore, and Kydd, although an officer, had been prepared to defend his name in the time-honoured fashion of the lower deck—Kydd had reason to tolerate it. Besides, Dobbie was right: in a short while the job of the men coiling in the heavy, wet cable in the hot, fetid gloom of the orlop would be all but unendurable.

He turned to a boatswain's mate. "Pass the word for Mr Bowden."

"Er, 'oo was that, sir?"

"Mr Midshipman Bowden, if y' please."

The calls echoed down the ship. After some delay a breathless Bowden hurried up, managing to doff his hat and trip over at the same time. "M-mr Kydd, sir?" Even in the dimness the apprehension in his face was plain.

"Please t' accompany me in th' launch." It would be instructive for Bowden to see men at the very extremity of labour.

The launch smacked into the water and was brought round to the side steps where it hooked on. The boat's crew tumbled down the ship's side and took their places.

"A-after y-you, sir," Bowden said.

There was a stifled chuckle among the men on deck, and Kydd said, "No, lad, it's after you. Senior gets in last, out first."

Two capstan bars and a dark-lanthorn were handed down. The light was hot and smelly, but would be vital in the work to come. Kydd settled in the stern. There was no rudder for this work: Dobbie would handle the steering oar.

"Shove off," growled Dobbie, to the dark figure of the bowman standing right forward. Obediently the boat-hook was wielded and they moved out into the calm, black waters, but it was only to ease down to the mizzen chains, where the kedge anchor was stowed.

"If y' pleases, sir," said Dobbie. Holding a capstan bar in each hand he motioned towards the midshipman's unfortunate choice of seating in the centre of the boat.

"O' course. Shift out of it, Mr Bowden."

The bars were placed fore and aft over the stroke thwart and the transom, and the kedge anchor swayed down and was lashed into place, its long shank easily spanning the width of the boat with flukes one side and stock the other. The launch squatted down in the water with the weight.

"Out oars!" Movement was heavy and slow as they made their way along the dark mass of the ship to her bow. Within her bulk there would be hundreds of men taking their place at the capstans—with hawsers out to two boats, both the main and fore jeer capstans would be manned by every soul that could be found to keep up momentum.

Their hawser was paid out to them and Kydd himself doubled it back through the anchor ring, holding it while Dobbie passed the seizing. He knew they were under eye from Houghton on the fo'c'sle, and he would be merciless to any who delayed their departure. Then began the slow row out: a deep-sea lead line streamed out with them to tell them when to let the anchor go.

Heavy and unresponsive, the boat was a hog to pull and the night was warm and close. There was none of the usual muttering and smothered laughter that showed the men in spirits: this was going to be a trial of strength and nerve.

"Holy Jesus!" bawled Dobbie. "Are we goin' t' let Orion show us th' way out o' harbour? Let's see some sweat, then!" With the weight of iron and endless curve of hawser there was no way that redoubled effort would show in increased speed, a dispiriting thing for men doing their best. But if they flagged, the heavy boat would rapidly slow.

In the moonless night it was difficult to make out expressions, but Kydd could see the unmoving, dogged, downward set of their heads. He glanced to his side at Bowden, who was staring at the straining men, pale-faced.

In the silence, ragged panting and the synchronised clunk and slither of oars in thole pins was loud in the night air. Kydd looked astern; the black mass of the ship seemed just as close and he determinedly faced forward. Dobbie caught the movement and turned on his men: "God rot it, but I'll sweat the salt fr'm yer bones—lay inter it, y' scowbunkin' lubbers! Y'r worse'n a lot o' Dublin durrynackers!"

Kydd knew what they must be enduring—muscles across the shoulders and forearms burning with pain, turning hands on the looms of the oar to claws, but if they were to be out in the cool breezes to seaward before dawn ...

A low groan came from the anonymous dimness forward. Kydd frowned: if this was an expression of discontent, he would take the steering oar himself and send Dobbie there. He knew that the hard petty officer kept a rope's end handy and he would have no compunction about letting him loose.

Suddenly there was a disturbance—a tangle of arms and cries of alarm. "Oars!" Kydd roared. "Dobbie, get forrard an' see what it is." They had lost momentum.

Dobbie ran down the centreline on the thwarts. Kydd heard grunts and felt the boat sway. "It's Boyd, sir—bin an' taken poorly. I've got 'is oar!" Dobbie shouted hoarsely.

"Give way," Kydd ordered, still at the steering oar. The thunk of oars began immediately; the men knew only too well how hard it was to begin again from a standing start. He blessed his luck at having Dobbie but noticed Bowden's hands clutching the gunwale. They twitched convulsively.

At last they reached the mark on the lead-line. "Oars!" The boat quickly slowed and stopped.

Dobbie padded back down the boat. "Now, Joe," he said to the stroke oar, who stood up, took out his knife and began sawing at the lashings of the anchor. When they had fallen away the two took the end of a capstan bar each in cupped hands.

"Go," said Kydd. The two men strained upwards, bodies shuddering with effort, then the anchor began to shift, to slide, until it toppled off the stern of the boat with a sullen splash, taking the hawser with it. The boat bobbed in relief.

"Hold water larboard—"

"Belay that!" Kydd ordered. "Lay t' y'r oars—five minutes, no longer." The anchor would take time to sink to the sea bed and there would be time then to resume their task.

The men eased their bodies gratefully as best they could.

"Mr Bowden, go forrard an' see what you c'n do."

The lad got to his feet and made his way clumsily forward, kept upright by hands from indignant seamen. He reported back: "A-a form of calenture, I think, sir. He's still unconscious. H-his friends have him out of the way in the middle of the boat, and I've put my coat under his head. A-and I—"

"Ye did right, Mr Bowden." Then Kydd turned to Dobbie. "Out oars—carry on."

They returned under the bows of Tenacious, passing Adams in the cutter going out; having two boats at work meant that precious momentum would be preserved. All too soon the unseen labourers on the gundeck capstans had brought the ship up to her second anchor and the weary round must begin again.

The torment continued into the early hours: the same hot, lifeless night air, fathomless dark sea, gasps, panting. The gigantic black bulk of the Rock had receded so slowly and there were still no breezes. On either hand the anonymous blocks of the rest of the squadron showed that they, too, were enduring—but at first light it could be seen that their mission of stealth had not succeeded.

They were nearly clear of Gibraltar Bay as the featureless grey of early dawn took on the colour of day. To starboard the Spanish fort of Punta Carnero woke to life, and the flat crump of guns sounded across the bay. It was in the nature of a salute—a derisory recognition that, despite all their efforts, whoever wished might see the British make sally once again into the sea from which they had been proscribed for so long.

CHAPTER 3

THE SQUADRON DID NOT pick up a breeze until the mighty Rock was well astern, its shape receding in the bright haze. Then, with the ever-constant east-going current invisibly urging them on, a chuckle of water began at the forefoot.

Topmen crowded up in the yards to extend the sail width with stuns'ls, and the master exerted every skill to trim the complex machinery of canvas and rope that was driving their ship. Ahead was Nelson's Vanguard: Tenacious could not disgrace herself.

Kydd was not on watch as officers were not required to keep the deck, but the whole ship's company wanted to take sight of the ancient sea, closed to them until this moment. Renzi stared into the blue expanse ahead, his expression calm but an unconscious half-smile in place. Kydd suspected his friend was contemplating the dangers ahead in this maelstrom of competing nations that was the cradle of their civilisation. But he seemed distant and preoccupied: it might well be more than that. Kydd remembered a letter Renzi had received in Gibraltar that had had a noticeable effect on his friend, but he knew of old that Renzi would disclose the distraction only when he was ready so he would not press matters.

There was no reason why he should go below, but Kydd could wait no longer. He had taken a peek at the package earlier, but there had been no time for more. Despite his lack of sleep, the thought of what he would see now thrilled him. With guilty excitement he mumbled an excuse and hurried down the companionway.

Tysoe had taken possession of the long, oddly shaped article for him while he had been aboard Princess Royal and it was still in its brown-paper wrapping. Kydd opened it carefully, hefting the precious weight and feeling like a child with a long-awaited gift. The black gleam of oiled leather, then the martial gilding of the top of the scabbard—and suddenly it was in his hands, the weapon that would probably be by his side for the rest of his sea life.

He clicked open the langets securing the sword and eased up the blade far enough to see engraved just below the hilt, less than an inch in size, as neat a pair of Cornish choughs as he could have wished for.

With a lethal slither, he withdrew the sword from its scabbard; the half-length bluing of the blade was as handsome as he had remembered. He came to point, the action seeming so natural, the sword in flawless balance. Kydd drew it close in admiration. Mesmerised by the steely shimmer, he flourished it slowly, feeling its grace and accuracy, the sharkskin grips sure and true. He stood to lose his life if enemy blood caused it to slip from his hand.

Reluctantly he slid the blade back into the scabbard. It was unbelievable that he could be the owner of such a fine weapon.

He gathered up the appurtenances: the belt with its frog, a matching baldric—a broad strap for shoulder carriage of the sword complete with a bold gilded fouled anchor device—and a beautifully worked sword knot. Eyeing the tassels doubtfully, Kydd resolved to replace it in combat with a securely spliced manila lanyard. He hung the sword by its rings, left the rest on his desk for Tysoe to stow and returned on deck as nonchalantly as he could.

The favourable south-westerly firmed but backed more to the east; stuns'ls to leeward were struck as they were backwinded by their topsails. The master frowned at the sight of Vanguard's lee stuns'ls still abroad. "Not as I should say, but for a raw captain Berry hangs on t' his canvas a mort long," he muttered.

An hour later, the winds were further towards the south-east and the remaining stuns'ls were taken in. "Hands to quarters!" Houghton snapped. Under plain sail there was no need to worry over delicate sail set and he would have his way with gun practice. "Mr Kydd, you will take post as second of the gundeck for now, if you please."

Kydd had been expecting this. In battle, in a hard-fought slugging match, a signal lieutenant might well find himself employed at the guns, replacing a killed or wounded gundeck officer—in fact, that very instance had provided his own elevation to the quarterdeck.

The long twenty-fours of Tenacious were powerful weapons but Kydd had cut his teeth as a young man on the thirty-two-pounders of Duke William; any others were lesser beasts.

The crews mustered on the gundeck, throwing off muzzle lashings, taking down the rammers, sheepskin staves and other implements. The bark of gun captains was loud in the close air as they goaded men to their stations. It seemed impossibly crowded but there was a pattern in the seething mass and Kydd waited on the centreline.

Adams was in charge of the forward half of the gundeck standing, like Kydd, well clear of the throng. He caught Kydd's eye, removed his hat and performed an exaggerated bow. Kydd grinned and returned the gesture, then turned back to his section.

Dobbie was gun captain but also quarter gunner, responsible for the after four guns on the larboard side. His squat, powerful build was perfectly suited to hard work in the low decked spaces. Kydd watched as Dobbie bullied crews into place: two to throw off the cross seizings and bight the fall of each side tackle, others hauling the training tackle to the rear of the gun and standing braced to take in the sudden slack when the gun "fired," the remainder ready to train the guns round by brute force with handspikes under the carriage wheels.

Sudden daylight as the gunports were opened. The sharp squeal of small blocks gave an edge to the preparations and Dobbie thrust over to his gun captains, peering at their gunlocks, checking their gunner's pouch and powder horn.

Each gun captain was responsible for his own gun, then immediately to Dobbie, who in turn would answer for their effectiveness to Kydd, a hierarchy of responsibilities upon which Kydd could not trespass.

"Gun crews mustered, sir," Dobbie reported, touching his forehead. A midshipman hovered, theoretically having charge of the guns under Kydd, but wise enough to give Dobbie room.

"Thank you, Dobbie," Kydd said, and walked across purposefully to one of the guns. He removed the cover of the conical match tub. Inside, he could see that the perforated head had its full complement of unlit slow-match hanging down—in action, should a gunlock fail, one would be used to touch off the gun. He eased it off and peered inside. "But where's our water?" he said mildly, turning to Dobbie. If a piece of the lighted match fell, water would be needed to douse it quickly. The look Dobbie gave the gun captain suggested that no further action would be required.

"Ye know the captain permits no sham motions," Kydd said, careful to direct his remarks in general, "all t' be as in battle, stand fast the shot 'n' cartridge." He let it hang, then turned to the nearest of the gun crew. "Y'r station at quarters?"

"After tackle o' number eleven larb'd," he said instantly.

"And?"

"Second division o' boarders." He was listed to be called away to board the enemy in the second wave when the trumpet sounded.

"And where do ye find y'r weapons?"

"Ah—forrard arms chest?"

"T' see this man knows his duty afore he sees his grog," Kydd replied briskly to the midshipman, who hastily scrawled in his notebook. He turned to go back to his place on the centreline but heard the smothered chuckles of a powder monkey clutching his cartridge box.

"Now then, y' scallywag," he said. "Do ye tell me, what is y' duty should there be a fire at the gun?"

The youngster's eyes went wide. "Er, tell Mr Jones?" he squeaked.

"I'm sure the gunner will know of it b' then," Kydd said, then glared at the midshipman. "The younker t' tell you of his duty before you get y'r grog."

The ship's company of Tenacious had been together for some time now and practice was becoming more a matter of detail. Gun captains could be stood down while second gun captains took over; men could exchange stations and be equally proficient; they were hardening well.

Kydd paced slowly down the deck amid the heavy rumble of cannon, but his mind strayed to the poop-deck. That was his principal station in battle, heading the signals team, a task requiring the utmost coolness under enemy fire. An admiral had only the medium of signals to bring his fleet round to meet a sudden threat and if the signal lieutenant blundered ...

"Carry on," he snapped to the midshipman. There was little further he could contribute to the ongoing sweat and toil—he would go up and see how Rawson, the senior signal midshipman, was spending his time in the absence of his officer.

With so many men below at the guns the decks seemed deserted, but as Kydd hurried up the poop ladder he was reassured to see his men at work. Rawson turned and touched his hat. "We're doin' some exercising with Emerald, sir," he said, gesturing to the lithe frigate on their beam. "An' they're not up t' snuff is my opinion," he confided.

"An' it's not your duty t' pass judgement on others, Mr Rawson," Kydd admonished him.

A seaman whipped down the current hoist, which Kydd saw was number 116: "your signal hoist cannot be distinguished."

Kydd glanced about: the flag locker was neatly stowed, the seamen quietly at their posts at the halliards. "Signal log?"

"Sir." The small portable table near the mizzen mast was rigged, the rough log open, ready for recording every signal received and sent. He enquired about the signal flares and swivel gun for attracting attention at night.

"Brought up an' stowed in the half-deck, sir." All seemed in order. Then he noticed a figure hanging back on the other side of the deck. Gaunt-faced and despondent, it was Bowden. He was also sporting the beginnings of a black eye.

"What about Mr Bowden?" Kydd demanded.

"Er?" Rawson said in surprise. "He's not as who might say a prime hand—"

"Do we not all have t' learn?" Kydd snapped, in rising irritation. "Why isn't he at the log or haulin' on a line or some such?"

Rawson looked dogged and Kydd rounded on him: "Get up t' the main masthead this instant—you'll maybe have time then t' think o' something."

He realised part of his anger was directed at himself: he owed Essington a service, but there was little he could do about Bowden. Somewhat more sensitive than the others, the lad was clearly suffering.

What he needed, Kydd saw suddenly, was what sailors called a "sea-daddy," someone in whom to confide, who would place things in perspective for him. With a pang Kydd remembered Joe Bowyer, a kindly old seaman who had sailed with Cook and who had befriended him in his early days at sea and fired in him a passion for the life.

But who was best suited to this? Kydd knew that he as an officer could not fulfil the role. Then it came to him. Poulden: a fine seaman, with a gentle manner. He would be ideal. He was in the same division as Bowden, and now he would have a word with the first lieutenant to put him in the same watch and station. Pleased, he called, "Mr Bowden!"

The lad hurried across and Kydd handed Rawson's signal telescope to him. "Do ye know aught of signals? No? Then now's a good time t' learn." He continued, "This is y'r signal book. Adm'ral Nelson relies on us to get his wishes known to our captain, and if we're slack in stays ..."

The powerful squadron sailed deeper into the Mediterranean, crossing the prime meridian in barely three days and raising the peak of Minorca's Mount Toro in a week. As they shaped course north for Toulon the tension increased. Every vessel they sighted now would be an enemy, and if the French fleet sailed they would be directly in its path. No one believed that Nelson would stand aside tamely, and all readied themselves for the ultimate challenge.

The line of rendezvous was reached, a parallel of latitude off Toulon that would be their station while two frigates ranged ahead off the port. Their intelligence would be vital in the coming struggle.

Even as the squadron took up position Terpsichore frigate returned with a prize. Late in the afternoon Vanguard hove to and signalled for all captains. In a fevered buzz of speculation Houghton took away his barge; rather less than an hour later he was back. "All officers," was his first order, and while the line of men-o'-war got under way again, the officers of Tenacious assembled in the great cabin.

"News, gentlemen," Houghton said, looking from one to another. "In short, I am happy to say we are not too late. The French have not sailed. Terpsichore's prize is La Pierre, a corvette of the French navy. Admiral Nelson's staff have questioned the crew closely and they, being inclined to boastfulness, have been free with their information.

"I have to tell you now that the rumours we have been hearing are substantially correct. This armament is of prodigious size, reported by many at over thirty sail-of-the-line and hundreds of transports. And their chief general, Napoleon Buonaparte, arrived in Toulon some days ago and is now reviewing his troops and siege train. It seems these troops are, at this moment, embarking in their transport. Gentlemen, Admiral Nelson believes that they are to sail directly."

"Sir, does he know where they're headed?" Kydd asked.

"No," said Houghton flatly. "It seems that this Buonaparte is keeping his plans even from his officers. In the absence of any reliable facts we can only assume that the most credible is a lunge west to join with the Spanish, then out to the Atlantic, north for a junction with the Brest fleet and then ... England."

"Indeed—why else the troops?" muttered Bryant. Louder, he asked, "Do we know anything of their commander, sir?"

"Yes. This is Admiral the Comte de Brueys, a gentleman of the old France. He has been at sea since the age of thirteen and has seen much service. He knows the Mediterranean well, and flies his flag in L'Orient, which is of one hundred and twenty guns," he added heavily.

"Sir, what are our orders from the admiral? I have seen no orders yet, sir."

Bampton sounded peevish, but Houghton responded courteously: "Sir Horatio has been good enough to open his mind to his captains. We understand sufficiently well what are his wishes. These he will communicate by signals, which will be few in number but each of which will be of the highest importance.

"Besides, we are a reconnaissance squadron, on detachment only, and our orders therefore are those of our commander-in-chief Admiral Jervis. I commend their thorough perusal by all my officers."

"Then, sir, our duty is clear," Bryant said vigorously. "We hold to the line of rendezvous—"

"The prize has been sent to Cadiz with dispatches, detailing the situation in Toulon," Houghton interrupted. "Earl St Vincent will determine what manner of action might be required."

"And in the event the French sail before then?"

"I have the strongest opinion of Admiral Nelson's leadership in this affair," Houghton said stiffly. "We all know our duty, sir."

The sky was deep blue, white clouds towering and the sea a-glitter as the squadron headed along the rendezvous line under easy sail.

The order came to "exercise small arms by divisions." Kydd knew the weapons well: the boarding pike, an eight-foot shaft with a forged pick head, was purely for defensive purposes; the tomahawk was seldom used as a weapon, its value in scaling ships' sides and cutting away netting; a pistol had but one shot and then became a club. Kydd had no doubt that the cutlass was the prince of weapons.

He waited while sailors shuffled into line on one side of the deck facing him. For the main part, these men were unblooded in battle, strangers to the hatred and violence of hand-to-hand combat. They would preserve their own lives and bring victory to their ship only if they had skill at arms greater than that of the enemy.

Kydd stood in shirt and breeches, the sea breeze ruffling across his chest. "I'll have y'r attention now, if y' please." It seemed an age since, as a pressed man, he had listened while a lieutenant gave him the lesson he was about to impart to these men.

"I'm now going t' save your skins. I'm telling you how to fight— and win!" He signalled to Poulden, who came forward. Kydd took up a cutlass and admired it theatrically, letting its lightly oiled grey steel blade and plain black hilt catch the sun. There were murmurs at the sight. "Now, see here," he said. Poulden advanced on him with his own cutlass; Kydd slowly raised his own blade and brought it down towards Poulden's unprotected head, but well before the blow fell, Poulden lunged forward with the point, directly at Kydd's chest. "You see? Should you slash at your foe he'll be inside you with a thrust—it only needs an inch or two o' steel to end the fight."

A figure to one side caught his eye. It was Bowden, an intense expression on his face. Kydd wondered what he could be thinking. There was no way to prepare anyone for the impact of finding a living person at the end of a blade who must be killed by the plunge of that same steel in his body—before he killed you.

"Laffin," Kydd called. The dark-featured boatswain's mate came forward. "Take this!" he snapped, throwing one of the two wooden practice swords at him. "On y'r guard, sir!"

Laffin waved his sword sketchily but Kydd performed a crisp front prove distance manoeuvre and tapped his ear smartly. The man recoiled and brought up his sword to point, which Kydd had no trouble evading. Nettled, Laffin began a laborious assault. Instantly Kydd's sword slithered along the inside and in a last flick laid the way open for a fatal lunge.

"You're a dead man, Laffin. Ten seconds." Kydd's eyes took in the rest of his division. "Ye're all a lubberly crew who are going t' leave me alone on an enemy deck while you're all being pig-stuck around me. Now we'll learn some real fightin'."

Using Poulden, a fair swordsman, as his opponent, he demonstrated the positions—guard, assault, half-hanger—and the importance of footwork. He knew his swordsmanship did not have the elegance of a fencing master but was workmanlike, forged in the struggle for survival in the short, brutal encounters of boarding.

"Now, shall we see what ye've learned? I'll take th' first dozen, Mr Rawson." The deck by the mainmast was soon filled with figures flailing and clacking at each other under the amused eye of the watch on deck.

Suddenly Kydd bellowed, "Prince o' the poop!" The fighting stopped. Kydd leaped up the ladder to the poop-deck, where he leaned over the rail and looked down with a devilish smile. "I'm defendin' my poop—any who dares t' take it from me?"

Rawson made the first challenge with a creditable show but was transfixed after tripping over a taffrail knee. The next two were quickly disposed of, but then a voice came from the rear: "I, sir! I do answer your challenge!" Renzi mounted the ladder and came to an elegant salute at the top.

Kydd knew his friend was a truly accomplished swordsman, who had been tutored by masters in his youth, but did not believe he would use his skill to disgrace him before his men. Kydd answered the salute gracefully and ceremoniously proved distance.

The tips of the plain wooden blades held each other at point, then began their lethal questing: flicking, clacking, from inside guard to St George and assault; left cheek, point, shift and guard again. The thrusts were thoughtfully considered, held off for that fraction of a second that allowed a perception of intent by the audience.

Renzi's expression was polite, amused. For some reason this annoyed Kydd and he dared a thrust of force. Renzi retreated to a series of guards as Kydd continued to smack at his blade with loud cloks.

Kydd was about to overbear Renzi when Renzi's face hardened. His sword flicked out like a barb of lightning, never the same move, probing, testing, vicious.

It chilled Kydd: this was not his friend—this was a terrifying enemy with lethal intent who would batter his way past his defences and finish the contest in death. There was no sound from the onlookers. Renzi moved forward, forcing Kydd into a tiring defence, everything he did of no avail against the faultless automaton bearing down on him.

The end must come—unless ... He tensed, let his right leg bunch and sank as if brought to his knees. Renzi drew back his blade for the final downward thrust that would end with the point at Kydd's throat—but Kydd's blade flashed out low, and took him squarely in his unprotected upper thigh.

"Ha! You see!" Kydd cried loudly. "My man is now spit, wounded. He falls to the deck—he is now helpless, at my mercy." Kydd knew his unfair move would never be seen in a gentleman's fencing studio, but where was the referee on an enemy deck?

Renzi drew back slowly, his gaze reptilian. He let his "sword" drop to the deck with a clatter.

Through sparkling royal blue seas, the sun beating down, the squadron advanced to the end of the line, then went about and back again while energetic frigates cruised far ahead and abeam, ready to notify the slightest move of significance by the enemy.

Kydd prepared as best he could. He had to be familiar not only with the signal flags but with their tactical and strategic meaning: in the confusion of battle he had to be able to piece together the fleet commander's intentions from brief glimpses of bunting at the halliards and inform his captain accordingly.

The Fighting Instructions held all that he should know, but he was troubled that his one experience of a great battle of fleets was now a jostling memory of chaos, powder-smoke and noise, which made it hard to know what his own ship had been doing, let alone others.

And that was supposing they fell back to Cadiz and became part of a much larger fleet. If the French put to sea, Nelson would probably sacrifice himself and his little squadron to delay them—it would be less a fleet battle than a heroic destruction. So much depended on the next days. Distracted, he paced the deck forward.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bowden sitting on the fore-hatch with Poulden, a laborious long-splice under way. The lad's look of concentration was intense and Kydd was pleased to see his work had a fine seamanlike appearance; Bowden looked up shyly at him.

The afternoon wore on. In the dog-watches he would exercise with the cutlass again, and on the following forenoon there would be muskets and a target dangling at the yardarm. He passed Renzi, standing gazing at Vanguard ahead. He was clearly deep in thought and Kydd had not the heart to disturb him.

In the evening, cutlass drill was delayed. Houghton had been talking with the master, who made no secret of his distrust of the weather and both watches took off the royals and sent down the masts. Before the end of the dog-watch the breeze had freshened from the north-west. "Don't care what they calls it—mistral or tramontana, it's bad cess to us if'n it's coming from the nor'ard," the master said gravely.

It was peculiar in Kydd's experience: cloudless skies and exuberant seas, perfect weather, but the wind was increasing to a degree that in English waters would give rise to concern for the future.

After supper Kydd arrived to take over the watch. Orion and Alexander were ahead and under topgallants while the frigates closed up for the night. "Rather you than me, old pickle," Adams said cheerfully. "Master thinks a tartar's blowing up." He disappeared below.

Kydd eyed the canvas and sniffed at the wind. "M' duty t' the captain an' I advise taking in th' courses," he told his messenger.

Houghton came on deck. "I see Vanguard has still her royals abroad," he said suspiciously.

"Aye, sir," Kydd said carefully, "but Orion an' Alexander have taken 'em in and, if I'm not mistaken, there is Alexander going t' topsails now." As if reading Houghton's thoughts, he added, "And we're still stayin' with Flag, sir."

Admittedly, their line was now more of a gaggle in the evening gloom as they watched lanthorns jerkily mounted to the mizzen top of Vanguard. "Very well. You may use the watch on deck only, Mr Kydd." Houghton hesitated then went below.

It would mean a longer, harder job but the watch below would not be disturbed. However, within twenty minutes the wind had changed from an insistent stream to a buffeting, squally threat. "Mr Pearce, I mean to turn up all the hands in striking courses," Kydd told the boatswain, who went to fetch his mates. Houghton arrived quickly. The seas were higher, but in a way that was peculiar to this landlocked sea: short, steep and rapid, meeting the bow in a succession of sharp explosions of white.

Their consorts began distancing themselves: sea room was becoming necessary in the increasingly boisterous conditions, even with the half-moon's occasionally cloud-dimmed light. "Keep the men on deck, Mr Kydd," Houghton said, drawing his coat round him.

In less than an hour it had worsened. The moon was now all but obscured by lower-level racing scud and the topsails bellied and tautened to iron-like rigidity. "I'll trouble you to close-reef the tops'ls," Houghton ordered.

Men crowded into the weather shrouds and began climbing. It was murky and indistinct—Kydd knew they were going as much by feel and familiarity with their aerial world as sight. They would be deadly cautious, transferring hold from one hand, one foot to another only when it felt secure. Slamming wind gusts could shake the hold of the unwary and send them, helpless, to their death. When they reached the tops and eased out on the yard they would no longer even be free to hold on—balancing on a thin footrope with empty space beneath, they had to lean over and, with both hands, fist the maddened canvas into submission, then secure the points with a reef knot.

Still the wind increased, hammering in from the north-west with a flat ferocity. At one in the morning a particularly savage squall shook and pummelled the ship. With a report like gunfire, the topsails blew to pieces and Tenacious fell off the wind until fore and aft sail were set to stabilise her.

The wind's noise in the bar-taut rigging was a rising howl that tore at the reason; this was nature gone mad. Seas, driven up by the frenetic wind, caused an ugly roll, which threw serious strain on spars and rigging. Preventers and rolling tackles could help, but when squalls and rain clamped in there was nothing for it but endurance through the long night, with occasional half-glimpsed pinpricks of lanthorn light all that could seen of other ships.

Finally dawn came in a grey welter of cold spray and whipping wind. As the light extended, lookouts in the tops spotted other ships scattered around the gale-lashed seascape, calling their names down one by one as they recognised them. The vessels altered course to form up the squadron once more.

But which was the flagship? And there were no frigates. All that could be seen were two ships-of-the-line and another further off that must be Admiral Nelson. Yet there was something not right with the distant vessel. As they beat their way closer it became clear: Vanguard had lost her entire foremast as well as all her topmasts, and was surviving with scraps of sail on what remained.

With tumbled masts and no steadying canvas aloft, the ship rolled grievously, on every plunge showing her copper or submerging her lower gunports. Conditions on board would be indescribable, but she was still gallantly holding a course.

Houghton took a telescope, braced himself against the savage roll, and focused on the stricken vessel. The master moved up next to him. "A boat cannot live in these seas, Mr Hambly," Houghton said. "We can do nothing for them."

"No, sir," said Hambly, neutrally. "But on this board he stands into mortal peril, sir ..."

"The land?"

"Corsica, sir. Dead to loo'ard an' not so many miles." The awesome force of the gale from the north-west had driven the squadron towards the craggy coast of Corsica to the south-east— but how close were they?

"He must wear, o' course."

With the wind blast on the larboard side any sail that Vanguard could hoist would only impel them further towards that coast. They must therefore bring the gale to the other side and let her drive before it. But with no possibility of setting any kind of sail forward there would not be the leverage to bring the big 74 round. She was trapped on her course.

"They'll tack, then?"

"No, sir," Hambly responded. "She wouldn't a-tall get through the wind's eye. I fear we're t' see a calamity very soon, sir."

It was inconceivable: the greatest fighting admiral of the age, in his own flagship, beaten on to the rocks, then almost certain death—or, at best, survival and humiliating capture by the French.

"We have to do something, damn it!" Houghton rasped. The other two ships were lying tentatively on her beam; in these surging conditions it was too risky to get closer.

"Could stream rafts for survivors when ..." No one took up Kydd's thought and he resumed his sorrowful gaze at the doomed vessel. In all conscience they could stay with the ship only until that fatal last half-mile.

Then there was sudden movement on her decks. The rags of sail still up were brought in until the ship was bare. Without the steadying of high canvas she began a sickening wallow, the merciless wind nearly abeam. A flicker of paleness showed around her plunging bow.

"Ah!" All eyes turned to Hambly, who cleared his throat selfconsciously. "Er, that is t' say, it's clear they have right seamen aboard Vanguard. That's a sprits'l they're setting an' they'll wear ship with that."

A spritsail was an ancient sail from another age, one spread below the bowsprit and long since disappeared from modern warships. The effect of the diminutive sail, set so far forward, was immediate. Painfully, Vanguard began to pay off under the leverage, rotating slowly until the seas previously battering her from abeam now came under her stern. She gathered steerage way and, bracing the spritsail yard hard round, showed canvas on her mizzen, completed the turn and finally wore round. At last the threat of shipwreck was averted.

The quarterdeck of Tenacious erupted in shouts of admiration—now their flagship had a chance! Only one frigate could be seen: the others must have been blown to—who knew where?

The storm showed no sign of calming and the last frigate fell away into the spindrift, then disappeared.

It was now a matter of enduring the jerking, bruising motion; a tedious, wearying period that stretched time and deadened the spirit. A second night drew in, but before the light faded a flutter of colour showed at the admiral's mizzen.

"Mr Kydd!" Houghton handed over his telescope. The image danced uncontrollably and Kydd adopted a foul-weather brace, right elbow jammed firmly to his side, the other against his chest with his feet splayed wide. Without needing to refer to his pocket signal book he knew the hoist. "Alexander's pennant, 'pass within hail.'"

Then Orion closed cautiously, and finally it was the turn of Tenacious. Coming up slowly on the flagship's leeward side they saw the damage—topmasts missing, foremast a splintered stump, lines of rigging tangling on the decks—it could not possibly be repaired at sea.

Without doubt the cluster of figures on her quarterdeck would include Admiral Nelson. Kydd clung to the shrouds listening as Houghton brought up his speaking trumpet and hailed, "Flag ahoy!" His voice was strong and well pitched, but it was nearly lost in the uproar of the swashing seas between the madly surging vessels.

"Do ye hear?" came distantly across from the flagship quarterdeck.

"I do, sir."

"Have—you—charts—" Houghton held up a hand in acknowledgement "—of Oristano?"

Sardinia. So the admiral was seeking a dockyard in Sardinia under their lee. "Have we? Quickly, Mr Hambly."

"No, sir, nothing more'n a small-scale o' that coast."

" Regret—no—charts."

The remote figure waved once and the ships began to diverge. The admiral had three choices: to chance unknown waters and a possibly hostile port in Sardinia; make a lengthy return to Gibraltar in his crippled ship; or, when the weather abated, transfer to one of the others and scuttle Vanguard.

Darkness came and the long night brought no relief from the hammering northerly. Only when dawn's cold light imperceptibly displaced the blackness was there a moderation in the welter of torn seas. Alexander, Orion and Tenacious came together once more.

"She's signalling!" Kydd's eyes were sore with salt spray as he tried to read Vanguard's hoist. "To Alexander: 'prepare to take me in tow.'"

"Now we'll see what they're made of, I think," said Bryant, wedging himself against the outside corner of the master's cabin and calmly contemplating, across the chaotic, tumbling seas, the heroic feat of seamanship now demanded.

"Boats won't swim," said Kydd, similarly exercised.

"Can float off a keg wi' a messenger line," mused the master, "if Alexander dare take a wind'd position." This was where the main difficulty lay: to allow the keg to float downwind, or any like manoeuvre, implied placing Alexander upwind. The huge windage of the 74s at slow speeds would ensure they drifted inexorably to leeward but it would be at differing rates for different ships and weather conditions. The consequences of the ship to weather drifting faster and colliding with the one to leeward, with all the inertia of one and a half thousand tons, was too horrific to think about.

Alexander lay off, preparing her move. Any close manoeuvring was deadly dangerous in the wild seas and it would take extreme care to pass over the line safely. She wore round in a big circle and approached Vanguard from astern and to windward.

Sail was shortened down to goosewinged fore-topsail and storm staysails, and she approached with the buffeting wind on her quarter. Closer, she eased the sheets of two of the three staysails and lined up for her run—she was clearly trying for a close glancing approach to Vanguard's poop with one fleeting moment to get the line across.

The voluted beakhead of Alexander slowly approached the carved stern of Vanguard. As she did so, the scale of the independent plunging and rearing of the two ships was evident. Alexander's bowsprit and its complex tracery of rigging speared closer. Then, in seconds, the situation changed. A chance convergence of wave crests into a larger one rose up on Alexander's outer bow at the same time as its trough allowed Vanguard's stern to slide towards her.

It looked as if the two ships would merge in splintering ruin but then the fo'c'slemen on the foredeck of Alexander boomed out the fore-topmast staysail to weather by main force and by small yards she yawed giddily and slid past.

Kydd strained to see any tiny thread of black rope against the white water indicating a line had been passed. There was none. The 74 plunged past Tenacious on her way round once more and Kydd could see activity on both ships. But when the light line had been finally passed across from Alexander it would in turn bring aboard a heavier hawser, then probably one of the anchor cables roused up from the tiers in the orlop. At more than a hundred and twenty pounds for every fathom streamed it would be a fearsome task to manhandle.

This time Alexander came up to leeward of the stricken flagship, necessarily head to head to bring their fo'c'sles adjacent. Kydd used his signal telescope to watch: he could make out a lone seaman in the forechains with his coiled, heaving line tensed, waiting.

The two ships closed, Alexander deliberately keeping well to leeward as she edged ahead. They began to overlap—the seaman started to swing his smaller coil in readiness—but even as he did so it became obvious that the windward vessel was catching more of the wind's blast and drifting down fast on the more sheltered leeward. Alexander's bowsprit sheered off rapidly.

Once more the big man-o'-war went round ponderously. Once more the seaman in the chains began his swing, and once more it proved impossible. Time wore on. In Tenacious hands were piped to dinner, and the heaving line was cast twice more. The afternoon watch was set—and on the next pass a line at last was caught on Vanguard's foredeck.

Those watching in other ships dared not breathe as the dots of men on her fo'c'sle scrambled to bring in the line, but Alexander was falling away fast. Kydd knew what they had to do: a dark cavity in Alexander's stern windows was where her cable would be led out, but first Vanguard must hold fast the precious light line while a stouter rope was heaved in from Alexander and manhandled through the hawse-hole, where it would be led to the main capstan.

Below in the sweating gloom this hawser would be heaved in, its distant other end seized to the main cable issuing out of Alexander's stern windows as it was led from the giant riding bitts further forward.

It was now only a matter of time. Little by little the great cable, nearly two feet in circumference, was drawn across the foaming sea until Vanguard was finally tethered.

The weight of the seven hundred feet of heavy rope between the two ships formed a catenary, a graceful curve in the cable that acted as a giant spring in the towing, absorbing the shocks and fretful jibbing of the storm-lashed ships. Alexander showed small sail, then more, until reefed topsails gave her enough force to pull Vanguard in line and then, miraculously, begin a clawing, slewing motion ahead.

As if in respect to the feat performed in the teeth of its hostility, the wind moderated from a full gale to a sulky bluster, then later to a steady north-north-westerly. And foul for Oristano.

The ships, limping at no more than walking pace, could not lie close enough to the wind to overcome the current taking them south, and the only dockyard on the west of Sardinia was left astern.

"What now, do you think, Mr Hambly?" Houghton asked. There seemed to be no avoiding a long and chancy tow back to Gibraltar.

Adams brightened. "Sir, when I was a mid in Cruizer we chased a corsair to Sardinia, and he disappeared. We found him in San Pietro Bay, south of here, in as snug a harbour as you'd find within forty leagues. I believe Admiral Nelson could lie there in perfect peace while he repairs enough to sail back to Gibraltar."

"Mr Hambly, lay me within hail of the flagship."

It was a notion clearly to Nelson's liking and the tow was shaped more southerly. The winds diminished rapidly to a pleasant breeze, and with the sun now strong again and in the ascendant, wisps of vapour rose from the water-logged decks.

A distant lumpy blue-grey appeared from the bright haze ahead. "San Pietro island, sir," Adams said smugly. "Our anchorage lies beyond."

After several days of danger and hardship Kydd found the prospect of surcease and peace attractive. But as the sun went down so did the breeze and those who had cursed the wind were now regretting its failing. Sail was set to stuns'ls but their forward movement slowed to a walk again and then a crawl. The night came languorously in violet and pink, but no breeze blew from the Sardinian shore. A half-moon rose, stars pricked the heavens, and the ships remained drifting.

Then Kydd saw something that awakened memories of an Atlantic night when death had risen out of the darkness to claim his frigate. "Breakers, sir! I see breakers!" Barely perceptible, but distantly picked out by moonlight, there was a white line of surf—the storm swell driving into the shore. It seemed that the other ships had spied it: there was movement of lanthorn light around their fo'c'sles. Without doubt they, too, would bend their best anchors to their cables.

Tenacious found out the sombre truth with the rest: there was no wind to haul off the land and the water was bottomless. It was unjust. Weary after so much strife they now faced another night of dread, feeling the sullen swell rolling under their keel, relentlessly bearing them towards the dark mass of the land while the sails hung useless in the moonlight.

They were long hours—restless, waiting, fearing the dawn and starting at every flap and shiver aloft, it was hard simply to endure. The deep sea lead was cast regularly; eventually it touched bottom at three hundred feet but this was too deep for anchoring.

When sunrise came it was soft and warm, welcoming them with the deep blue of the morning sky—but the royal blue of the open sea changed to the liquid green of inshore. Constrained by the dead weight of the tow, Alexander and Vanguard had not been able to take advantage of every little shift in the night breeze and now lay significantly closer inshore.

From the quarterdeck of Tenacious it looked a grave situation. The two 74s, still joined by the long cable, were now within a short distance of the shore and it was heartbreaking that after all their efforts the flagship would end in the breakers they could now clearly see.

"Alexander must cast off th' tow," murmured the master, shaking his head. At least one ship of the two would then escape. But there was no indication that this was planned—no boats in the water to take off the ship's company of Vanguard, no general signal of distress or move to abandon ship. Both men-o'-war drifted on, carried together towards the bare, nondescript coast.

Then, as if relenting in its tantrum, the wind returned; just enough to fill the sails of Alexander and allow her to crawl past the craggy northern cape of San Pietro island. Safely past, a signal hoist mounted in the flagship. "Sir! Our pennants and, 'assume the van,'" Kydd said.

"Means us to lead the way, I believe. Mr Adams, this snug harbour ... ?" Tenacious stole round the southerly point of the island, led in by Lieutenant Kydd in the cutter with a hand leadline sounding ahead. Kydd had put Poulden on the lead-line and Bowden on the simple signal flags relaying back the depths; there was time enough to spy out the land.

They entered a fine inlet between San Pietro island and another; the enfolding bay was sheltered from everything but a southerly. They could anchor there in perfect peace with space enough for twenty ships—and it was good holding ground: shells and soft shale came up with the lead.

The bare, scrubby land shimmered in the glare of the morning sun and Kydd scanned it cautiously for any activity. There were some vestiges of cultivation on the steep slopes and the occasional red-tiled farm dwelling but no fortifications that he could detect.

He completed his sweep of the little bay and told Bowden to indicate with his white flag over red that he considered it worth bringing in Tenacious. Then he prepared to carry out the second part of his orders.

As he pulled deeper into the bay he looked for any signs that the local inhabitants might be hostile. Already dots were appearing on the sandy beach and dunes. "Stretch out, if y' please,"

Kydd urged the rowers. If he was to represent the Royal Navy to a foreign power, he would make sure his men did not let him down. He turned the boat towards a knot of people, and when it beached, allowed himself to be chaired ashore by two seamen.

"L'tenant Kydd, His Majesty's Ship Tenacious," he announced loudly, bowing in a general way to the people and bringing an immediate hush to the crowd. "Er, anyone speaks English?"

Dressed in the exotics of the inner Mediterranean they looked at Kydd with curiosity. He picked out the most dignified of the men, and repeated the question. The man started in consternation, threw out his hands and jabbered fearfully. "We come t' repair—in peace, that is," Kydd tried again, but could feel a rising tide of unease. More people arrived and he saw the curiosity replaced by scowls. He glanced back at his boat; he had deliberately not armed the seamen with him and had not worn his own sword.

A swirl of movement at the back of the crowd caught his eye: a donkey was coming down a track to the beach, ridden by an officer of some kind. Laughter broke out from the boat's crew at the comical sight of the man's legs flapping out to the sides of the diminutive beast.

"Silence!" roared Kydd, aghast. The officer came to a stop and slid to the ground, his face dark with anger. He wore an odd folded hat with a scarlet tassel and a faded but flamboyant uniform that ill fitted his corpulent figure. The seamen could not stifle their mirth and Kydd ground out, "I'll take the cat t' the next man who so much as grins, s' help me." He bowed as low as he could to the officer, who stiffly returned the gesture, after he had snarled something to the crowd, which subsided obediently. "L'tenant Kydd," he began again, but the officer broke into impassioned speech, gesturing at Tenacious.

"Sir, I can't understand ..." Frustrated, they glared at each other, speechless.

"Pardonnez-moi, mon commandant," Bowden came in awkwardly, "mais si vous avez le frangais..."

The officer's expression changed fractionally and he answered in gruff, choppy French. They exchanged sentences and Bowden turned to Kydd. "Sir, this officer comes from Fort Charles on the island. He's a captain of militia and therefore an officer of His Sardinian Majesty. He demands to know by what right we are coming ashore."

All Kydd knew was that Sardinia was a neutral country. "Thank ye, Bowden. Do you tell him we're only here a short time to repair storm damage an' mean no act o' hostility." Bowden relayed his words—some of the crowd understood what he said and passed it on to the others. The officer stiffened. Kydd looked at Bowden impatiently.

"Sir, he says that under the terms of their treaty with France, Sardinia may not allow an English vessel to enter any port in the kingdom, and that is his final word."

Kydd saw there was no moving him—no argument or show of force was appropriate. On the other hand no repairs could be contemplated if the ships would be at the mercy of unfriendly local forces. "Bowden, listen carefully. I want you t' say this so the others can hear, you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell him that we agree not to enter his port, just anchor offshore." That was no concession—the little cluster of buildings and small wharf he could see at the inner coast of the island could not possibly take four ships-of-the-line. Bowden did as he was told. "Now mark this," Kydd went on. "Tell him that a big ship has many sailors—they must be fed. If any has livestock or vegetables, they can turn them into English silver this very day, should they bring them here to this beach."

Excitement grew as the word spread. The man Kydd had addressed earlier now pushed across, wanting to know if the English sailors preferred beef or mutton, and small boys raced off with the news. The officer barked at them, but the mood had changed: here was instant prosperity for this tiny settlement and it would go ill with him if he stood in its way.

He hesitated, then turned to Kydd once more. Bowden translated: "Sir, he says that, after consideration, he finds that if we keep out of the port the terms of the treaty are not in violation. And, sir, he wishes us an enjoyable visit."

The shouts of approbation that followed forced a smile from the officer, who clambered aboard his donkey, lifting his hand in farewell. Just at that moment three great ships-of-the-line came into view, filling the pretty bay with their warlike majesty and unanswerable presence.

The officer nearly fell off the donkey in fright. Kydd said quietly, "I dare t' say, our admiral would be satisfied with the usual salutes ..."

Nelson brought his battered flagship to rest, then signalled, "captains to report condition of ships for sea." In addition to the usual readiness statement, an assessment of storm damage was required, and Tenacious hastened to comply.

For her junior lieutenant this meant accompanying the boatswain and carpenter on their rounds, a task congenial to Kydd's heart as it was an opportunity to make a closer acquaintance of his ship.

They began at furthest forward and, in a borrowed pair of sailor's trousers, Kydd was soon out on the eighty-foot length of the bowsprit with the two warrant officers. His experience in a Caribbean dockyard had shown him the difference between the dark, weathered fissures in timber a shipwright would call a "shake" and therefore ignore, and the long bright-sided splits that would betray the much more serious condition of a sprung spar. He inched along the jibboom horse, careful to check under as well as above.

The foremast came next. They used a girt-line with a boatswain's chair at each side of the mast to close-inspect the fat timbers of the foremast, a "made" mast constructed of several pieces keyed together instead of a single length of timber. It was unlikely to have sprung, and they moved on quickly from the foretop to the topmast.

As they worked, Kydd noticed the deference Pearce, the hard boatswain, was according the carpenter. Both were standing officers—they would remain with Tenacious even when put into reserve—and had been together for years. Kydd had never paid much attention to the carpenter, who figured on no watchbill and went about his business with little fuss.

They spread out over the yards, the older men moving deliberately while Kydd attended to the pole royal mast, and then it was time to move to the mainmast. As they inched out on the main-yard the double strikes of eight bells sounded, announcing grog and dinner for the hands.

The job had to be finished but Kydd could not in all conscience order the other two men to press on without something to eat. He leaned over the big spar and hailed the deck. "Mr Rawson, ahoy!" The midshipman looked upward. "Be s' good as to light along some scran for us—we've a job still t' do aloft."

The upper yards were completed and they descended to the maintop just as a hand waved through the lubbers' hole from below. Kydd went over. It was Bowden, weighed down with a seaman's mess-kid slung round his neck. He took the steaming vessel, realising that it must have taken considerable resolve for the raw lad to make the climb. "Where's Mr Rawson? I told him to bring this."

"Ah, he had other duties that pressed, sir," Bowden said neutrally. Kydd suspected that Rawson had coerced Bowden into making the climb, hoping for a spectacular disaster. Bowden disappeared, but then a younger midshipman popped into view, passing up a bag containing a loaf of bread, local oranges and mess-traps.

Kydd was quietly pleased at Bowden's climb up the mast and his initiative in co-opting another midshipman, who had not finished yet: he extracted a bottle of claret from his coat. "Your servant said t' give you this."

Kydd spread out his victuals. "Gentlemen, shall we dine?" The boatswain hesitated before he dipped his bread into the common pot. "Mr Feakes, if y' please?" Kydd encouraged the carpenter, who bent to his plate. "You've been carpenter aboard f'r some years, I believe?" he asked.

"Aye, sir. Since launch."

"That's before th' war, then."

"Sir."

"Bin wi' the old girl at the First o' June, he was," Pearce put in admiringly. "An' with Cybele in India."

The Glorious First of June—the first great fleet action of the war, and both Feakes and Tenacious had been there. Kydd looked at Feakes; there was no sign of those momentous, dangerous times on his lined face and he warmed to the old sailor.

Kydd felt the stout bulk of the mainmast at his back as he took in the stately soaring of stays and shrouds, halliards and pendants in their precise curves, the sweetness of the deck-line from high above as it passed from bowsprit to old-fashioned stern. This was a ship to love, to remember with fondness down the years. He felt a curious pang as he thought about Feakes and Tenacious growing old together.

Kydd's feelings for Tenacious turned to a catch in the throat, however, as he realised that in the near future enemy shot might smash its way into her vitals. This time she might not be as lucky as she had been at the Glorious First of June and Camperdown. He got to his feet. "We'll carry on," he said gruffly. "Our Nel's a-waiting f'r our report."

Captain Houghton and the first lieutenant left for Vanguard with Kydd's report as first dog-watchmen went to supper. Within the hour they were back. "Pass the word for Mr Feakes—the carpenter, ahoy!"

The captain's barge conveyed the carpenter to the flagship. It was dusk when he returned and hurried directly to Houghton's cabin. Minutes later Bryant was summoned, and before much longer the word was out: to Nelson's considerable satisfaction, Feakes had given out that Vanguard could not only be jury-rigged for the retreat to Gibraltar but might conceivably be put into some kind of shape to meet the French at sea.

In a race against time the flagship had to be fitted for sea with the only resources they had: spare spars, twice-laid rope and willing hands. And in recognition of Feakes's faith and intelligent direction, Tenacious was to perform the most difficult task. She would lash alongside Vanguard and, in a feat of seamanship that would stretch every talent aboard, she would be used to extract the stump of foremast and lower in the new to the flagship.

That night Feakes and his mates transferred to Vanguard and set about readying the ship for a complete replacement of all topmasts. Orion would craft the new mizzen topmast, Alexander would provide a fore-topmast while Vanguard herself would work on the main. Within two days the preparations were complete.

In brilliant sunshine and under curious eyes from ashore Tenacious was warped in close to Vanguard. As the ship working the evolution, Tenacious had charge of the operation—Bryant stood at the bulwark with speaking trumpet and the manner of a bull mastiff: should any hesitate or fail they could depend on an instant reaction.

When the partners of the foremast had been knocked out Tenacious's main-yard was braced around and with stout tackles and guys clapped on it, the ugly, splintered stump of the foremast was plucked out like a tooth. Getting the new one in was a more serious matter: the raw length of the three-foot-thick lower mast might, if it slipped, plummet down and transfix the bottom of the flagship.

It took the entire forenoon but by midday Vanguard had her masts made whole once more. A fore-topmast had been fashioned from a spare main topgallant mast and hoisted into place and her bowsprit strengthened by "fishing" across the weakened part with timber lengths.

In less than four days Nelson's flagship had been transformed from a storm-shattered wreck to a ship-of-the-line ready for sea—reckoned by all hands to have been made whole again and set to take her place in the line-of-battle.

Admiral Nelson wasted no time. The squadron set sail, reformed and shaped their course. There was no talk of retreating to Gibraltar; they would sail north. Their duty was clear and un-changed—to return off Toulon and resume their mission.

Gun practice and combat preparation intensified to a high pitch as they neared the rendezvous to collect their frigates, which were vital to the squadron: they would look into enemy ports and report in detail.

But as the lookouts searched the horizons a lone sail was spotted, boldly crossing their course. It was a Balkan merchant vessel. Stopped by Orion, she had intelligence of such import that the admiral called an instant conference. The storm that had driven them south had allowed the French to slip out of port and away.

It had finally happened. The feared Napoleon Buonaparte was at sea and headed for an unknown destination with an immense fleet of overwhelming numbers: fifteen ships-of-the-line and fourteen frigates, with brigs, cutters, gunboats—seventy-two warships in all. But these were not the heart of the fleet: in four hundred transports there were tens of thousands of battle-hardened troops. This immense armada could have only one purpose.

Nelson's response was immediate. The awesome fleet had to be found, and for that he needed his precious frigates to extend the line to comb the seas. There was no choice: they must crowd on sail to reach the rendezvous as fast as they could and then, with the frigates spread out abreast, begin the search. When the enemy was found Nelson would detach one ship to report back to Cadiz for orders while continuing to shadow.

They reached the appointed place but there was not a frigate in sight. Orion searched to the east along the line of latitude while Tenacious took the west—but there were no frigates.

They waited at the rendezvous. Dusk fell and night gave time for contemplation of the situation. Dawn arrived—and no frigates. The day passed. Even the meanest imagination knew what it must be costing their helpless admiral. Night, another day, and still no English sail. In the afternoon a garrulous fisherman was stopped—and he had news: in some vague position not so far away he had chanced upon a great fleet passing, at least ten, perhaps a dozen ships-of-the-line, which he thought to be English— clearly incorrect, given that Nelson's was the only squadron in the Mediterranean.

In a friendless sea with every man's hand turned against them and utterly outnumbered, Nelson and his little band were faced with a quandary—what to do next.

CHAPTER 4

"SAIL HOOOOO!" The masthead hail stilled all talk and halted work on deck. Far to the west they could detect the merest pale flicker against the sparkling horizon. The squadron kept tight formation: this might be the first of a powerful French force sent to deal with a few impudent English ships reported to have entered their sea.

But there were no additional sail. The vessel tacked about to reveal the two masts of a humble brig. It was no outlying scout of the enemy fleet, just one of the countless workhorse craft of its kind in the Mediterranean going about its business. Tenacious returned to her routine.

However, the brig made no move to turn away. It stood on, its course of intersection one which would bring it close to the flagship. Curious eyes followed its steady approach until, at two miles distance, Vanguard's challenge, accompanied by the crack of a gun, brought a flurry of bunting to its halliards.

"Correct answer f'r today—can't make out her pennants," Kydd said, flicking through his signal book. She was apparently English, in a sea where they had thought they were the only members of His Majesty's Navy.

Vanguard's yards came round as she heaved to, allowing the brig to come up and deliver dispatches—with news that changed the situation. The reconnaissance squadron was to be no more: a powerful force of ten ships-of-the-line was on its way to join Nelson to transform it into a battle fleet. The fisherman had been right—he had seen English ships. There were cheers of joy. At last the tables had turned: no longer the fearful trespasser, they were now the predator.

Admiral Nelson's orders were not long in coming, and covered everything from the disposition of men-o'-war in a tactical formation to the issue of lemons and fresh water.

Kydd settled down to write up his signal book. Nelson's instructions were clear and vigorous and although there was not a flood of new signals there were a dozen general signals and fifty-six concerning tactical manoeuvres, all of which had to be carefully detailed and indexed in his pocket signal book.

The most important were those covering their preparations for the chase. The fleet was to be tightly formed, in three columns a nautical mile apart and each ship two and a half cables from the next ahead. Divisions for battle would be signified by a specific triangular flag; these were empowered to take on the enemy independently.

But it was the Fighting Memorandum that had the officers talking. It spoke in powerful terms of close combat during which "should a captain compel any of the Enemy's ships to strike their Colours, he is at liberty to judge and act ... to cut away their masts and bowsprit ..." and that "... possession of ships of the enemy should be by one officer and one boat's crew only, that the British ship may be enabled to continue the attack ..."

The overall tenor of the orders was encapsulated in one single stirring sentence: "... this special observance, namely that the destruction of the enemy's armament is the sole object..." This was real fighting talk. No intricate manoeuvres, no time wasted in forming a line-of-battle, just forthright demands to fall upon the enemy in the most direct and effective manner at hand and the confident assumption that the English fleet would prevail.

The wardroom was abuzz long into the night with the implications for individual initiative, the risk for Nelson in trusting his captains with the close-in climax of a battle, and the probability of a rapid conclusion—one way or the other.

First one, then a multitude of sails lifted above the horizon. After an anxious wait the ships were finally revealed to be the longed-for reinforcements. For three days the newly formed battle fleet lay hove to. Boats plied busily between ships as captains met their admiral and officers reported to the flagship with their order books to receive the details resulting from strategy realised into tactics by the fertile mind of their chief. When all was complete, the collection of fourteen warships was as one under a single command. It was time to go in chase of the French fleet.

Signal guns on Vanguard cracked impatiently. In three divisions, led by Nelson and supported by Captain Troubridge to larboard of the line and Captain Saumarez to starboard, the fleet began its quest.

Kydd was anxious, but it was not the hazards of storm or enemy that made his palms moist: it was the knowledge that he and his ship were under the eye of the most famous fighting admiral of the age. They were daring to become one of an elite band of ships and men beginning to be known throughout the Royal Navy: Troubridge of Culloden, Hallowell of Swiftsure, Foley of Goliath, Hood of Zealous. To see the crusty Houghton return from colloquy with Nelson, eyes alight and pride in his voice, Kydd knew that this was a professional pinnacle in his career and, whatever happened, he must not fail.

Nelson's first move was to the eastward, rounding the north of Corsica with his fleet in tight formation, laying to in the evening off the sprawling island of Elba. It was vital to gain intelligence on the whereabouts of the French armament. To blunder into it round the next point of land would be disastrous. All that was known was that the French had sailed, and because the reinforcements had come from Gibraltar without sighting them the armada must have passed north about Corsica and then down the Italian coast—to Rome? Naples? Malta?

With not a single frigate to scout ahead there was little choice: the brig Mutine was pressed into service. The game little vessel would look ahead into the bays and harbours of the coast of Italy and hope she could survive any encounter with the French.

Meanwhile the fleet would stop any vessel that dared show itself. These were few: a terrified Moorish xebec swore that he had seen the French fleet at Syracuse, and a tunny fisherman solemnly declared that he had sailed through the entire armada not far to their immediate south three days previously. The land of Corsica and north Italy under their lee were French now and hostile so would not provide reliable intelligence.

Nelson could not wait: the trail was going cold. The English fleet weighed anchor and stood to the south, broadsides loaded and in fighting formation—but all they met was Mutine on her way back to deliver her report. No sighting, not even a rumour.

The battle fleet followed the coast south. The old port of Civitavecchia was a blue-grey smudge to the eastward as Mutine looked cautiously into it. Another day brought a misty grey Rome to the horizon. On they sailed until the limits of French occupation were reached. This was now the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies—independent but neutral by treaty of amity with revolutionary France. Naples was important enough, though, to serve as the seat of the senior British diplomat in the Mediterranean, so surely there they would receive reliable intelligence on this most sinister event of recent times.

Neither Kydd nor any in Tenacious was able to catch sight of the famous city. Only the massive cone of Vesuvius was recognisable above the lumpy coastline as the fleet hove to far out in the Bay of Naples, ready to get under way in an instant to meet the enemy. Nelson remained aboard his flagship while the trusty Mutine sailed inshore, bearing his flag-captain to the ambassador.

Within two hours Troubridge was hastening back to Nelson, observed by an impatient fleet. This had to be the news they so badly needed. Speculation rose to fever pitch when the flagship at last hoisted the "lieutenant repair aboard" signal that always preceded the issue of orders.

The first lieutenant of Tenacious was sporting enough to toss a coin for the task, and it was Renzi who occupied the stern-sheets of the barge sailing out to Vanguard. There was some delay before the craft returned, but when Renzi came up the side steps he wore an enigmatic smile and excused himself to attend upon the captain.

When he emerged he was surrounded instantly by impatient officers. "Gentlemen!" he protested. "I have but done my duty by the order book—do you suppose I am made privy to all the strategical secrets of Sir Horatio? That he confides his fears and anxieties to me, to be—"

"Nicholas!" Kydd pleaded. "Be s' good as to tell y'r friends what you saw—and heard, o' course. Are we to—"

Renzi paused for a moment, then said firmly, "It's Malta." The island was almost at the geometrical centre of the Mediterranean and astride the main east-west sea routes. With a stone-built fortress of great antiquity and a magnificent harbour, it had been ruled for seven hundred years by warrior monks, the Knights of St John Hospitallers, who still held feudal court over the Maltese.

"How do you know?" Renzi was pressed by several at once.

"I was there when Captain Troubridge was still aboard, pacing about the quarterdeck with Nelson. It seems, gentlemen, that the armament was recently seen passing southward. It is perfectly logical that Malta is the objective."

"Surely a descent on Sicily is to be recommended?" Adams said. "With this, Buonaparte has Naples and the rest of Italy and can split the Mediterranean in two—a far greater prize, I believe."

"Therefore what better than to take Malta as a safe harbour for the seizure of Sicily? Do not neglect the attraction of the gold and treasure of seven hundred years."

"A pox on all this talk!" Bryant grated. "Let's be after 'em afore they sets ashore—wherever they're headed."

"I think we'll find our answer at the Strait of Messina," Renzi continued equably. "Our French tyrant must pass through and then we'll see what kind of course he shapes."

Kydd remembered that the strait divided Italy from Sicily but was hazy about the details. "They'll be close enough t' spy from ashore?"

Renzi raised an eyebrow. "When you recollect that these very same are the lair of the Scylla and Charybdis of the ancients ..." He paused, but in the absence of cries of understanding he went on: "... which are the terrors that lie in wait for the unwary mariner each side of the strait that he must brave if he wishes to pass through.

"On the one side, there is Scylla who dwells in a cave high up. She will dart forth her snaky heads, seize sailors from the very decks of their ship and bear them away shrieking to her den. And on the other is Charybdis, who engulfs the laggardly in a frightful chasm into which the seas rush with a mighty roar that may be heard for leagues. I fear it is this passage we must ourselves soon hazard ..."

There were no ancient monsters, but the narrow strait held another threat: only a mile wide, it was a perfect location should the French fleet, having got wind of their presence, desire to lie in wait. The English, without scouting frigates and having no room to turn and manoeuvre, would be helpless.

During the night they passed Stromboli, its lurid orange flaring up to deter them. They reached the strait but no French warships loomed. However, it was clear they were expected: the scrubby foreshore was crowded with people. The fleet hove to and boats came out immediately. One with an enormous union flag made straight for the flagship.

Bryant brought the news from Vanguard they had been waiting for. "Malta, right enough! An' caught in the act—the consul said the Grand Master gave up the island to this Buonaparte only a week past. Much plundering an' such but now he's to account to us."

"Aye," Kydd answered. "But we'll settle him, depend on't." He remembered the time he had spent in the last days of Venice, another antique civilisation, with centuries of continuous history, brought down by the same ruthless leader. He felt bitter that the world he had grown up in, with all its traditional ways, its colour and individuality, was now being dragged into chaos and desolation by this man.

The flagship picked up her pilot for the passage and, ignoring the hundreds of boats that now surrounded them, the fleet formed line for the transit. From the fervent cries and theatrical gestures of the populace there was no doubt that they saw Nelson's fleet as their only safeguard against the dreaded Buonaparte.

There were currents as fast as a man could run, but they met no other perils as they passed through the strait. The eastern Mediterranean: few aboard had been in this half of the ancient world. To the south were the sands of North Africa and far to the east the fabled Holy Land. On the northern side was Greece, the classical fount of civilisation, and then the Ottomans in Constantinople. Every one was now under threat of war.

Ahead, a bare two days' sail, was the victorious enemy. Would the fleet stay within the fastness of the Grand Harbour, reputedly the greatest stronghold in the Mediterranean, or, with their greater numbers, would they chance an encounter at sea? Would Napoleon Buonaparte himself take command on the flagship? With stakes so high, nothing short of a fight to the finish would serve: Nelson would ensure this. Possibly within a day these waters would witness a battle whose like they had never seen before.

It was crucial that any piece of intelligence was brought to bear. From every ship in the fleet, boarding parties were sent away to stop and question all vessels of size, but with little result: it would be a brave merchantman who ventured close to Malta during these times.

They stood to the southward, ready for whatever might come at Malta. Yet again the signal hoisted in the flagship was "investigate strange sail." And once again it was Tenacious's pennants that accompanied it.

"Your bird," grunted Bryant to Kydd. The sail was now visible from the deck and it was small.

"Aye aye, sir," Kydd answered, without enthusiasm, and went to his cabin to change into a more presentable frock-coat, then buckle on his sword. Rawson could be relied on to muster the boat's crew. They had time: Tenacious had left the line and was thrashing out under full sail to intercept. Only when they had stopped the vessel would he take away the cutter, which was now kept towing astern.

This was not his first boarding and he had grown weary of trying to make himself understood to those who had every reason not to understand him.

It was yet another of the myriad small craft plying the inland sea, a brig of uncertain origin that had led them on a fine dance and now lay under backed mainsail, awaiting Kydd and his party.

As so often there were no colours flying. Idly, Rawson speculated on the short passage across. "An Austrian, I'd wager. Surly-lookin' crew—be trading with Sicily, sugar f'r wine or some such. What d' you think, Mr Hercules?"

Bowden sat with his face turned towards the brig and said nothing. There was only need to take one midshipman, whose task was to stay in the boat and keep the seamen from idle talk, but Kydd wanted Bowden and his French with him. Rawson's animosity towards the boy irritated him and no doubt made the lad's life hard in the crude confines of the midshipmen's berth. "Pipe down, Rawson," Kydd snapped irritably. But there was nothing more he could do for Bowden that would not be construed as favouritism; the lad must find his own salvation.

The boat bumped alongside and Kydd stood up as the bowman hooked on the shabby fore chains. He stared directly at the only man on deck wearing a coat instead of the universal blouse and sash of the Mediterranean sailor, probably the master. The brig reeked of dried fish. Eventually the man growled at one of the sullen seamen, who threw a wooden-stepped rope-ladder over the side.

"Thank 'ee," he said politely, and mounted to the deck. "L'tenant Kydd, Royal Navy," he intoned, bowing.

Significant looks were exchanged and there was a low mutter among the other men beginning to gather. "Which is the captain?" Kydd said loudly. "Cap-tain," he repeated slowly. There was no response. "Bowden, ask 'em in French, an' say who we are." Still no one replied. They stared stonily at Kydd.

"Th' captain!" Kydd said sharply.

"Is mi," the man in the coat grunted, keeping his distance. Kydd understood his reluctance: he might now be making a prize of their vessel or, at the very least, pressing men and he was backed by the mighty presence a few hundred yards away of a ship-of-the-line.

"Y'r papers," Kydd said, miming the riffling of paper.

The master eased a well-thumbed wad out of his waistcoat and handed them across without expression.

"Ah—a Ragusan." Although the language of the registry certificate was none that he could decipher, the vessel's origins were plain. Ragusa was a busy port in the Balkans opposite Italy and, as far as Kydd could remember, still ruled by the Bourbons and therefore not an enemy.

He pulled out the crew list and gave it a quick search: it was unlikely that a British deserter would be careless enough to sign up under his own name, but this had happened in Kydd's experience. He recognised the layout of a bill of lading, but it was incomprehensible. The next document was a little less oblique, but as Kydd pored over the certificate of clearance from Chioggia, which he remembered was near Venice, he sensed a sudden tension. Should they be found to be carrying cargo bound for any French possession, by the rules of war it was contraband: they stood to have it and the ship seized as lawful prize.

However, his orders were plain: they were not for prize-taking but for the acquiring of intelligence by any means, after the source had been shown to be friendly and therefore reliable.

With a smile he closed the papers, and fixed the master's eye. "Fair winds, then, Cap'n, and a prosperous voyage to ye." The brig was obviously trading with the enemy—how else could they survive commercially in the eastern Mediterranean? It was their bad luck that the English had chosen to enter there now.

Bowden started to translate but the man waved him to silence. "Got luck, tenente," he said stolidly, and, more strongly, "By God grace, to wictory of the francesi, sir."

"Thank you, Cap'n," Kydd said, with a little bow. "Have you b' chance seen 'em at sea on your voyage?" he added casually, making rocking motions with his hands.

"No, tenente. Not as after they sail fr'm Malta."

Kydd couldn't believe his ears. "They have left Malta?"

" Certamente—all ships, all men, now sail."

This was incredible. It was much too soon for the invasion fleet to sail back to France, but if not, where were they? He had to be sure. If on his word Nelson stopped looking around Malta for the fleet and went off in some other direction ...

"Captain, I have t' know! Very important!" The man nodded vigorously. "What day did they sail?" asked Kydd.

"Ah, seidicigiugno. You say ..." He frowned in concentration, then traced sixteen in his palm and looked up apologetically.

Just four days previously! "Captain, what course did they steer when they left?"

"Che?"

Kydd ground his teeth in exasperation. "Bowden, tell them."

"Sir, it seems in this part of the Mediterranean they only have dog-Italian or German. I—I don't know those." He flushed.

Kydd turned back to the master. "What—course—they— steer?" He aped a man at the wheel peering at a compass.

"Scusi, they not seen by me," he said, turning away.

The fleet had sailed after invading Malta. Now the French were close, very close—but this was about as much information as he was going to get. "Thank you, sir, you've been very helpful," Kydd said. He hailed the cutter alongside and tumbled in. "Stretch out, y' buggers, pull y' hearts out—the Frogs're close by!"

"You are quite certain, sir?" Admiral Nelson fixed Kydd with a stare so acute it made him falter.

"Er—sir, you'll understand I had t' win his favour, so I overlooked his contraband cargo as prize—"

"Rightly so!" Nelson snapped. "It is never the duty of a naval officer to be gathering prizes when the enemy is abroad."

"—and therefore, sir, he had no reason t' lie to me."

The stare held, then Nelson turned to his flag-lieutenant. "Fleet to heave to, and I shall have—let me see, Troubridge, Saumarez, Ball and Darby to repair aboard directly."

Kydd waited, uncertain. On the weather side of the quarterdeck Nelson paced forward, deep in thought. He saw Kydd and said absently, "Remain aboard, if you please. We may have further questions of you." The slow pacing continued. Kydd kept out of the way.

The first boat arrived. Boatswain's calls pealed out as a commanding figure with a patrician air and wearing full decorations came up the side. The young officer-of-the-watch whispered to Kydd, "That's Saumarez o' the Orion, a taut hand but a cold fish betimes."

Next to board was a well-built, straight-eyed captain in comfortable sea rig. "Troubridge, Culloden, second senior, o' course. Fine friends with Our Nel from the American war. Don't be flammed by his appearance—Jervis thinks him even better'n Nelson." Nelson greeted him warmly and began to walk com-panionably with him.

A voice called loudly from the poop-deck and a signal lieutenant appeared at the rail. "Sir, the strange sail we saw earlier—

Leander signals they're frigates." Culloden and Orion hauled their wind and prepared to close with them.

Nelson stopped: frigates were a significant force and the first French warships they had seen. He hesitated for a second, then ordered, "Call in the chasing ships." The signal lieutenant disappeared to comply. "I rather think that with the French fleet close, I shall keep my fleet whole," he added, to the remaining officers.

Another captain arrived, a man with deep-set eyes, who punctiliously raised his hat to Nelson even while the admiral welcomed him.

"Ball, Alexander. Much caressed by Our Nel since he passed us the tow-line in that blow off Sardinia." Kydd looked at him. There was little of the bluff sea-dog about the ascetic figure, nothing to suggest that this was a seaman of courage and skill.

The last was a slightly built officer with guarded eyes. "Darby, Bellerophon. Keeps t' himself, really."

"Shall we go below?" There was a compelling urgency in the tone.

Kydd followed them in trepidation into the admiral's quarters where the large table in the great cabin was spread with charts. "Do sit, gentlemen," Nelson said. His clerk busied himself with papers. Kydd took a small chair to one side.

Tenacious stopped a Ragusan brig not two hours ago. Lieutenant Kydd—" he nodded at Kydd, who bobbed his head "—performed the boarding and is available for questions. I am satisfied that he has brought reliable word.

"He has found that the French armament is no longer at Malta. It has sailed. And we have no indication of course or intent. None. I do not have to tell you that our next action is of the utmost consequence, which is why I have called you together to give me your views and strategic reasoning."

Saumarez broke the silence. "Sir, are we to understand that this is in the nature of a council-of-war?" he said carefully. It was an important point: if a later inquiry found Nelson's decision culpable, the formalities of a council would provide for him some measure of legal protection—at the cost of involving themselves.

"No, it is not. Kindly regard this as—as a conference of equals, Saumarez," he said, with a frosty smile. "Now, to business. The French have left Malta. Where are they headed?"

He looked at each captain in turn. "I desire to have you answer this question. Do we stand on for Malta or steer for Sicily? Or do you consider it altogether another destination?"

Kydd recalled that this was Nelson's first command of a fleet of ships in his own right: was he seeking support for a command decision that should be his alone?

"May we have your own conclusions first, sir?" Troubridge asked.

"Very well. They might be on their way back to France after their conquest, but I doubt it. And, besides, they'd find it a hard beat with transports against this nor'-westerly. No, in my opinion they are headed further into the eastern Mediterranean." He stopped.

"The Turks and Constantinople," murmured Troubridge.

"I think not."

"The Holy Land? There's plunder a-plenty there and a royal route to India across Mesopotamia." It was the youthful-looking Berry, present as captain of the flagship.

"Possibly." As there were no further offerings, Nelson declared incisively, "There is one objective that I think outweighs all others. Egypt."

There were mutterings, but Nelson cut through forcefully: "Yes, Egypt. Should they take the biggest Mediterranean port, Alexandria, they have then but twenty leagues overland and they are at the Red Sea, and from there two weeks to our great possessions in India."

Saumarez stirred restlessly. "Sir, saving your presence, I find this a baseless conjecture. We have not one piece of intelligence to support such a conclusion."

"Nevertheless, this is my present position," Nelson said. "I should be obliged for your arguments to the contrary. In the absence of news we deal in speculation and presumption, sir. We must reason ourselves to a conclusion. This is mine."

Troubridge leaned back with a broad smile. "'Pon my word, Sir Horatio, this will set them a-flutter in Whitehall. Conceive of it—the entire fleet dispatched to the most distant corner of the Mediterranean, to Egypt no less! The Pyramids, the desert—"

"Whitehall is two months away. The decision will be made today." The reflected sun-dappled sea played prettily on the deck-head, but it also threw into pitiless detail the admiral's deep lines of worry, the prematurely white hair, the glittering eye.

"Then I concur," Troubridge said. "It has to be Alexandria."

"Should Alexandria be captured, our interests in India will be at appalling risk. This cannot be allowed." Unexpectedly, it was Saumarez.

"Yes. Captain Ball?"

"It seems the most likely course, sir."

"Darby?"

"Putting to sea in a wind foul for France does appear an unlikely move unless their intentions lie eastward."

"Anything further? No? Then it shall be Alexandria. Thank you, gentlemen."

A thousand sea miles to the east—to the fabled Orient: the Egypt of Cleopatra, the Sphinx, the eternal Nile. And a French invasion fleet waiting for them there. The English fleet prepared accordingly.

The most vital task was to crowd on as much sail as possible to try to overhaul the French and force a meeting at sea before the landings. The winds were fair for the Levant and, with stuns'ls abroad, the fleet sped across the glittering deep blue seas for day after day. There was little sail-handling with the winds astern, and for watch after watch there was no need to brace and trim: the steady breeze drove them onward in an arrow-straight course for the south-east corner of the Mediterranean.

Gun practice filled the day: gun crews were interchanged, side-tackle men put on the rammer, the handspike, and gun captains were stood down while the seconds took charge. It was fearful work in the summer heat, tons of dead iron to haul in and out, twenty-four pounds in each shot to manhandle. Gun-carriages squealed and rumbled even in the light of evening.

At daybreak, as soon as there was the slightest lightening of the sky, doubled lookouts at the masthead searched the horizons until they could be sure there was no strange sail. Then, after quarters, the men would go to breakfast among the guns that shared their living space. And always the thought, the secret dread, that the enemy were just ahead, a vast armada covering the sea from horizon to horizon that would result in a cataclysmic battle to be talked about for the rest of time.

It took the English fleet less than a week to cover the distance, keeping well away from land and stopping all ships they could find for the barest clue as to the French positions. In the morning light, a hazy coastline formed ahead and the fleet went to quarters. Ships fell into two columns and prepared for battle, keyed up to the highest pitch of readiness.

The low coast firmed and drew nearer. Kydd raised his telescope to a dense scatter of white against the nondescript sandy shore, the straggling ancient town of Alexandria with its Pharos Tower. He passed quickly over the tall minarets and the lofty seamark of Pompey's Pillar amid the pale stone sprawl of a medieval fort. The forest of black masts that they sought was missing.

Kydd knew from such charts as they had that the port had two harbours, each side of a mushroom-shaped peninsula of land. The fleet passed slowly by, telescopes glinting on every quarterdeck, but at the end it was all too clear that there was no French fleet at anchor anywhere in Alexandria. The disappointment was cruel.

Mutine hove to closer inshore. A boat pulled energetically from her to Vanguard. Was she returning with longed-for news? Conversations stilled about the deck as the ships lay to. Within the hour, boats were passing up and down the fleet with their message—no French fleet, no news whatsoever of it.

Kydd kept his glass trained on the flagship. He could make out people on her upper deck, some moving, some still, and once he recognised a small, lonely figure standing apart. It was not difficult to imagine the torment that must be racking their commander. It had been his final decision to come to Egypt to seek the French, but they were not here—it might be that they had been comprehensively fooled and that the enemy was on his way in the other direction to Gibraltar and the open Atlantic, to fall upon England while they were in this furthest corner of the Mediterranean.

In hours the fleet was under weigh and Tenacious was stretching to the north-westward, ship's company stood down from quarters. The sea watch was set and word was passed that Houghton, who had been called to the admiral before they set sail, wished all officers to present themselves in his cabin.

"I am desired by Sir Horatio to acquaint you all with the position we find ourselves in." It was unusual—unprecedented, even—that Houghton had sat them informally round a smaller table with an evening glass of sherry. This was not going to be the official passing on of orders.

"I will not attempt to conceal the dismay the absence of the enemy has caused the admiral," Kydd caught Renzi's eye but there was nothing in it except sombre reflection, "and the dilemma this causes. Our vice-consul tells us that there have been no French forces upon this coast, save some Venetian frigates and small fry. He also swears that the Ottomans have found our own presence as unwelcome as the French, and intend to resist any move of aggression. In this we can see that there are definitely no major enemy forces in the vicinity."

The officers waited patiently as Houghton continued, "Trading ships in harbour have been questioned and are adamant that there are no French at sea. It is as if they have vanished."

"Then, sir, we are obliged to conclude that Admiral Nelson is wrong in the essentials," said Bampton, heavily. "And thus we are beating to the nor'ard on speculation!"

Houghton's eyes narrowed. "Take care, Mr Bampton. This is the commander of the fleet you are questioning."

Bampton's lips thinned and he continued obstinately, "Nevertheless, sir, it seems we are at sea on a venture once again with not a scrap of intelligence to justify it. I am at a loss to account for his motions."

Houghton put down his glass sharply. "It is not your duty to account for the actions of your commander. Recollect your situation, sir!"

Kydd felt for any man who, faced with a decision, put action above faint-hearted inaction, and said strongly, "T' put it plain, he has no intelligence t' work with—so what do you expect, sir? Lies in port waitin' for word t' be passed, or figures something an active officer can do?"

"And that is ... ?" said Bampton acidly.

Houghton came in quickly: "Sir Horatio feels that the objective still remains in the eastern Mediterranean, possibly the Turks— Constantinople, perhaps. Consider: if this great armada prevails over the Ottomans then not only Asia Minor but necessarily the Holy Land and Egypt fall to the French."

Kydd's mind reeled with the implications. "And then he'll have cut the Mediterranean in two."

"Just so. We shape course to the north, gentlemen, to Asia Minor and the Greek islands, again seizing every opportunity to gather intelligence where we may. The enemy cannot hide a fleet of such size for ever."

As they left the cabin, Renzi murmured to Kydd, "Even so, Nelson will be hard put to justify his conduct before their lordships of the Admiralty—twice he has missed them, and for a junior admiral on his first command ..."

In the steady north-westerly it was a hard beat northward, close-hauled on the larboard tack with bowlines at each weather leech. As they struck deeper into the north it appeared not a soul had seen anything of the French and the further on they sailed the less likely a mighty descent on Constantinople seemed.

It was passing belief that the passage of such a great fleet had gone unnoticed, and when they attained the entry-point of the Aegean and therefore Constantinople without finding a soul who had heard of a French fleet, it was time to take stock.

"Ah, Mr Adams—returned from the Flag with orders, I see." Even Bampton was curious as he watched the young officer spring over the bulwarks on his return from the flagship. Houghton opened the order book and studied the last entry, then snapped it shut. He would not be drawn and, with a frown, retired to his cabin, leaving the deck to his officers.

"Well?" demanded Bryant. Others sidled up: the quartermaster hovered and the master found it necessary to check the condition of the larboard waterway.

Adams adjusted his cuffs. "I must declare," he said lightly, "Our Nel is the coolest cove you'll ever meet—French armada loose, who knows where, and he won't hear any as say it won't end in a final meeting. So, it's to be a continuation of the same, battle-ready night and day until we come up with 'em."

"Dammit, Adams, does he say where we're lookin'?" Bryant hissed.

"Well, I was not actually consulted by Sir Horatio but, er, I did overhear him speaking with Berry."

Kydd smiled.

"And it seems that if we've not sighted 'em by twenty-seven east, then we beat south about Candia, back to the western Med."

"Quitting the chase!" said Bampton, with relish.

"Fallin' back on Gibraltar, more like," Bryant snapped. "No choice."

Kydd growled, "All th' same, this Buonaparte has the devil's luck—how else c'n he just vanish? No one sees him an' all his ships?"

"Remembering the size of the Mediterranean, above a million square miles ..." Renzi put in.

"But not forgetting that we haven't touched land since Sardinia. Wood 'n' water, stores—we can't go on like this for ever," Bampton observed.

"If I don't misread, Nelson is not y'r man to give away th' game. He'll hunt 'em down wherever they're hidin' and then we'll have our fight. He's had bad fortune, is all," Kydd declared.

Bampton smiled. "My guineas are on that before August we'll have a new commander—mark my words."

* * *

The signal for the fleet to come about on the starboard tack was hoisted within the hour and obediently the ships shaped course westward, close-hauled and taking the seas on their bows.

Renzi did not go below. There was a pleasing solitude to be had when the men went to breakfast: thoughts could flow unchecked to their natural conclusion, and the deck, with a minimum of watchmen about, was his for the walking.

His mind strayed to the letter he had received in Gibraltar: it was from his father who, in his usual bombastic manner, had insisted that he come home to discuss his future. There was little chance of that in the near term but there was no point in putting it off for ever. The next time he was in England he would return to face him.

Peake, the chaplain, came up from below, interrupting his thoughts. "Nicholas, I was told you always took the air at this time," he said, in his precise manner. "I do hope you will not object to my company."

The deck lifted in response to a comber under the bows and he lurched over to grip a convenient downhaul. A double crossing of the North Atlantic had not improved his sea-legs.

"You are most welcome, Padre," Renzi answered warmly. He had respect for the man, who was the most nearly learned of all aboard, one with whom he could dispute Rousseau, natural law, ethics, or any other subject valued by an Enlightened mind. The chaplain had volunteered for the sea service as his contribution to the struggle against France but, with a life perspective best termed literal, he was not preserved from the torments of midshipmen and irreverents by a saving sense of humour.

"As Milton has it, 'In solitude, what happiness? Who can enjoy alone, or, all enjoying, what contentment find?'" admonished Peake.

"Just so, Mr Peake. Yet please believe I have a desire at times to withdraw from the company of men—but merely for the contemplation of the sublime that is at the very essence of the sea." He had not the heart to discourage a man so manifestly reaching out.

Renzi saw Peake look about doubtfully at the straining sails and hurrying waves. The fleet's progress west was necessarily against the same streaming north-westerly that had brought them eastward so rapidly. Now at each watch there would be anxious glances to the flagship for the signal "prepare to tack," the warning that, yet again, there would be all hands at the sheets and braces for the hard work at putting about. Peake would see little of the sublime in such sea-enforced labour, Renzi mused, then enquired, "You are not enjoying your watery sojourn? Such lands as you've seen would cost a pretty penny to experience were you to ship as passenger."

"I do not value such adventures. Canada, I find, has an ... excess of colour, and what I saw of Gibraltar does not spark in me any great desire for sightseeing."

"Yet you have chosen the sea life?"

"I feel a certain calling. At the same time, I will confess to you, sir, in a sense it weighs heavily." "Oh?"

Peake turned to face him. "Nicholas—I think we might be accounted friends? Fellow believers? That is," he hastened to add, "in the essential rationality of the objective man when detached from corporeal encumbrances?"

"I warm to Leibniz and his position before that of your Spinoza and his Deductions, Mr Peake."

"Quite so—we have discussed this before, as I recollect. No, sir, what I face might be considered a ... dilemma of conscience."

"Ah! Bayle and the Sceptic position," Renzi said, with keen anticipation.

Peake winced. "Not as who should say, sir. I will be frank—in the lively trust in your discretion and the earnest hope that you will assist me in coming to a comfortable resolution."

"My discretion is assured, sir, but I cannot be sanguine about my suitability to aid you in a matter of churchly ethics."

"Never so, Renzi. Allow me to set forth the essentials. Since childhood I have been charmed by the tightness of nature: such nicety in the disposition of leaves on a stem, musculature in a cat, the flight of a swallow. In fine, Renzi, it is life's vitality itself that, for me, is of all the world the greater worth."

He looked closely at Renzi, then out to the immensity of the sea. "Here is the dilemma, my friend. I had an adequate living as curate in a peaceful village in Shropshire, and you may believe that for the quiet and reflective mind there are few occupations that can better that of a country parson.

"When the revolution began in France I was puzzled. Then an emigre French family came to the village and I learned of the true situation while attending upon the matriarch, who had lost her mind at the experience." His voice strengthened. "This is the reason for the offer of my services to His Majesty—that in some way I was playing a part in the defending of my country against such unspeakable horrors."

"A noble part, Mr Peake," Renzi murmured.

"But in my time on Tenacious I have learned much indeed. The sailors are rough fellows but in their way are as tender as babes to each other. And the midshipmen, scamps and rascals indeed, but I feel that they act as they do out of a need to retreat from martial horrors to the innocence of their so recently departed childhood."

Renzi's eyebrows went up, but he said nothing. Peake drew a deep breath and continued, "What I am saying is that I have been privileged to see a species of humanity, nauta innocentia, that perfectly displays the qualities of life-cherishing animation that I so value. So you may recognise the anguish I feel when the captain calls for practice with his cannon—those mortal engines, whose rude throats could counterfeit the dread clamours of Jove!

"Renzi, my friend, please understand, it causes me the utmost pain when my unruly imagination pictures for me their purpose— the tearing apart of the sacred flesh of life and its utter and final extinction. Be they enemy of my country, I cannot prevent the betraying thought that even so they hold within them the same vital flame.

"How can I bring myself to accede to my captain's constant pressing to hurl unrelenting maledictions on the French in sermon and prayer when I find myself in such brotherly commune with their life-force? How can I hate an enemy when I understand only too well what it is to contain life within you? Whatever should I do? Nicholas—I'm torn. Help me do my duty."

The beat west was tiring and dispiriting, long miles of vigilant ships but empty sea. A distance further than a complete Atlantic crossing, weeks turning to months—and still not even the wisp of a rumour of a vast French fleet.

South of Crete, with the ancient land of Greece left to starboard, they were traversing the width of the Ionian Sea and approaching where they had left with such hopes a long month before. There was now a pressing need for provisions and water. In these lonely and hostile seas the only possibility was the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and of these the closer was Syracuse, on the eastern shores of Sicily.

The hard-run fleet, each ship with the blue ensign of Rear Admiral Nelson aloft, sighted the rugged pastel grey coast of Sicily at last and prepared to enter the ancient port. The sleepy town lay under the sun's glare to starboard, mysterious ruins above scrubby cliffs to larboard. It was a difficult approach with troubled waters betraying rocky shoals extending menacingly into the bare half-mile of the intricate entrance.

Once inside, the spacious reaches of an enfolding harbour welcomed the ships. One by one they dropped anchor. People gathered along the seafront, hastily filled bumboats contended to be first out to the fleet, but with decorum proper to the occasion, England's union flag arose on each man-o'-war's jackstaff forward.

But before they could proceed, the local officials had to be placated. It was difficult for the city governor: any favouritism towards the British might be construed as a violation of neutrality by the suspicious French, and at first he was obstructive and implacable. It required an exercise of ingenuity and tact to arrive at a form of words that allowed a show of resistance, after which his attentions could not be faulted.

Every vessel hoisted out her boats for the hard task of watering. The massive casks had to be manhandled from a spring or rivulet ashore and floated out to the ship where they would be finally hoisted out and struck down into the hold. The enthusiastic townsfolk endeared themselves to the thirsty mariners and Renzi's classical soul when they pointed out the continued existence of the famed Fountains of Arethusa, an aqueduct from ancient times bringing water from the interior to the town and perfectly capable of supplying the wants of a whole fleet.

Kydd was touched that Admiral Nelson with all his crushing worries had noticed that the cask wine taken aboard for the men's grog issue was being affected by the heat. His orders were that for every pipe of wine two gallons of brandy were to fortify it. He made sure as well that depleted victuals were promptly restored from local sources—lemons by the cartload, endless wicker baskets of greens, and beef on the hoof. In the sunshine spirits rose.

Idly Kydd watched Poulden in the shade of the massive mainmast patiently work a long-splice for Bowden. The lad had lost his pale complexion to a ruddier colouring and his gawky sea gait had steadied to a careful stepping. His body was now more lean than willowy, his expression poised and composed.

Voices rose on the quarterdeck, attracting Kydd's attention. Mutine had just entered harbour after another reconnaissance. She went aback close to the flagship and Hardy, her commander, stepped into her boat. "She'll have something t'say, I believe," Kydd said, vaguely aware of a shadowy world of plots and spies, and the surreptitious allegiances of greed and trade that were the main source of information in this part of the world.

"Probably that the French by now are past Gibraltar," said Bampton, sourly. He had come on deck at the first excitement and was still buttoning his waistcoat.

The master came up behind them. "Mutine showed no signal on enterin'," he said pensively. "Does this mean she has no news t' offer?"

It would be beyond belief if this crossroads at the very centre of the Mediterranean, touched at by merchant vessels plying both sides of the sea, did not have some word of the French.

Houghton emerged on deck, sniffing the wind and trying to look indifferent to the tension. The quarterdeck fell quiet as a flagship pinnace approached them. Her youthful flag-lieutenant punctiliously doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and then the captain. There were murmured words as Houghton took delivery of a packet of orders and retired to his cabin. The flag-lieutenant waited.

"Have ye news, sir?" Kydd asked him boldly.

Others edged over to hear the reply. "News? You mean the French forces?"

"Yes."

"Oh—then no news, my friend."

"None?"

"No sighting, if that's what you mean, sir."

"Goddammit, we still don't know where the buggers are!" exploded Bryant, pushing past Kydd.

"That is not what I said, sir," the lieutenant said. Bryant went red, but before he could continue the officer confided happily, "You should have seen His Nibs when Hardy brought in his report. In as rare a taking as ever I've known, capering around his cabin like a schoolboy."

"Y'r meaning, sir?" barked Kydd.

The lieutenant was now surrounded by eager officers. "My meaning? I thought it was perfectly clear, sir, no sighting of the French fleet anywhere ... in the western Med. And that, to those with the perspicacity to remark it, means they must necessarily be in the east—Sir Horatio was correct in his first assumption."

"Then—"

"Then, sir, it is quite apparent, if we discount the seas north, around to the east where we have cruised so recently, it leaves only the Levant and the south. Sir, it can only be Egypt."

"Why, then, did we not sight—"

"We were too hasty in our descent on Alexandria. We hauled past them in the night, Sir Horatio believes, and thus found an empty port. Should we clap on sail this instant we should find them there at anchor within, their army probably ashore. Then, sir, we shall have the rencontre we so ardently desire."

Houghton stepped out briskly from his cabin. "You have heard, then, gentlemen," he said, with satisfaction. "I can tell you that we sail for Alexandria on completion of stores and, you may depend upon it, we shall have an encounter within the week."

One by one the ships-of-the-line slipped past the lighthouse and small fort at the tip of the long neck of land upon which old Syracuse shimmered in the bright sun, their next landfall the even more ancient land of Egypt. The breeze held and strengthened and the fleet stretched out over the sparkling sea under all sail possible.

Bampton was not persuaded, however. "Still our motions are driven by conjecture—where is your evidence? They are not in the west—but who has considered that, having taken Malta, they are satisfied and have retired back to Toulon? Evidence!"

As if in answer to his words, the fleet stood on for Greece. With the Peloponnese in plain sight Nelson sent in Troubridge of Culloden to speak with the Turkish authorities. The big 74 sailed into the wide bay towards Koroni castle. When he returned, he finally brought news that the French had been positively sighted—steering south-eastward. They had been seen some weeks before but it was a mystery as to why they had gone so far to the north instead of making a straight run of it to Alexandria. It was the master who grasped the significance: "Cabotage, sir," he told Houghton. "They're a lubberly crew hereabouts an' navigate by following the coast along, point b' point, and never a notion of workin' a deep-sea reckoning. We sailed direct, got there before 'em."

Culloden was followed by a humble two-master, astern. This was a French wine-brig that the same obliging governor who had given them their vital news had also graciously allowed to be carried off as prize from under the guns of the castle. Later the wine would be transhipped to the fleet as rations.

"Please take a chair, Mr Kydd." Houghton's manner as he greeted Kydd in his cabin was odd—tense, perhaps, Kydd thought. But that could be because he had only recently returned from conclave with Nelson. During their long chase the admiral had made it his practice to see his captains in twos and threes in the great cabin of Vanguard. There, together, they would share his fighting vision and intentions, playing out the possible settings for combat.

"I'll not mince words. We are about to be joined in battle with an enemy of great force. It will be a hard-fought contest, which is vital to our country. But I have the utmost confidence in Admiral Nelson and his battle plans, which we have discussed thoroughly. It only requires we follow where he leads and I've no doubt whatsoever of the outcome."

He paused and looked at Kydd intently. "As I recollect, this will be your first experience of the quarterdeck in an action of significance, in the line-of-battle."

"Sir." Camperdown, his only fleet action, did not count—he had been below with the guns and at no time had really understood what was happening outside his ship. And, besides, he reminded himself, it was before he had been raised to be an officer.

"It is the custom of the Service for the duty of signal lieutenant to be devolved on the junior. You have discharged this duty to my satisfaction so far, sir, but you will forgive my concern when you reflect that at this time of supreme crisis, when it is crucial the intentions of the commander be known—and only by signal—I am obliged to place the safety and honour of my ship in one who has had no officer-like experience of a fleet action and who is the most junior aboard."

Kydd flushed. "Am I then t' be superseded, sir?"

"What is the signal 'division designated, to harass the enemy rear'?"

"Why, blue burgee signific an' number twenty-nine, both at mizzen peak, sir," Kydd said instantly.

"The night signal to haul to the wind, and sail with starb'd tacks on board?"

"One light at th' ensign staff, one in the mizzen shrouds, an' fire one gun."

"And to larb'd?"

"Two lights in the fore-shrouds—that is t' say, one above the other—and two guns."

Houghton nodded, and Kydd saw that behind the hard expression his captain needed reassurance before a great battle.

Houghton got up and stared out from the stern windows. "That is well, Mr Kydd. I can see that you have applied yourself to your profession." He paused, then continued softly, "Sir Horatio is a fine leader—a great man, I believe. There we may see a ruthless determination to achieve victory that spares neither himself nor his officers: I've seen it in no other man. I would not have Tenacious fail him, Mr Kydd."

"Aye, sir."

Houghton swung round. "Remember always that the best plans and dispositions are as nothing if they cannot be communicated. We have no repeating frigates, therefore a great deal depends on your vigilance and attention to duty." He hesitated. "I would wish you well, Mr Kydd."

At midnight, Kydd handed over the watch to Renzi and went below to the darkened wardroom to turn in. From the chart, he had seen that they would make landfall on Alexandria the following morning, and as he slipped into his gently swaying cot unsettling thoughts came to trouble him.

There could be no mistaking the gravity of the situation. The enemy would fight to the limits to repulse any attempt to overthrow their position as lords of the Mediterranean—at stake was their chance at a break-out into the outer world and an unstoppable path to complete domination. Two great fleets would meet in mortal combat tomorrow to determine who would be future masters of the sea and, therefore, the course of history.

He tossed restlessly, eyes open in the hot darkness. It might well be his last night on earth. Into his mind came the horrors of mortal wounding, the dark hell of the cockpit and the surgeon's saw—or would it be quick? A heavy shot tearing him in two? He shied from the possibility of personal extinction and tried to focus on half-remembered religious shibboleths, but they had small enough meaning now. Should he perhaps ask Mr Peake to spend some time with him tomorrow, to seek strength in the sturdy faith of his fathers?