Tenacious

CHAPTER 5

"DISTANT FOUR LEAGUES. Mr Hambly, what do you consider our speed over the ground now?" Houghton still had his glass up, looking intently at the long menace of dark lines of rigging over the sandy point far ahead.

The master pursed his lips and glanced over the side. "Five, five an' a half, my guess, sir."

Houghton lowered his telescope, and swung round to look astern at the straggle of ships, some two or three miles off. "I see," he said thoughtfully, resuming his watch ahead.

"Sir?" Kydd ventured.

"Well, I fear you may not rely on action today, Mr Kydd."

"Why so, sir?"

"There will not be time enough. Should we wait until all our ships have come up, then form our line-of-battle, at five knots it will be hours before we can close on the enemy. And sunset comes at seven or so—no, we'll not be fighting today. Tomorrow when they come out, this will be when we force a conclusion."

The bay opened up with the tiny Aboukir Island at the western side. There was breathless quiet. Inside, in an endless line of ships parallel to the shore, was the French fleet. Bryant growled, "Damme, but they're well placed." With the land to their backs the French had a wall of guns more than a mile and a half long waiting for any assailant willing to risk passing the island, which, they could see, was occupied and armed.

Kydd's attention was all on the flagship: complex dispositions would need to be communicated concerning arrangements for the night. The enemy must not be allowed to escape but the British ships could not anchor too close inshore. Nelson might risk standing off and on, sailing out to sea and back again, possibly with half of his fleet ...

Then bunting appeared on the poop—and a single signal soared. Kydd hesitated as the image danced in his eyepiece. "Prepare for battle!" he roared.

Houghton gaped. "Good God! He means to bring 'em to action now!" With a grim smile he turned to Bryant. "We have three hours—I believe we'll clear for action now."

A ship-of-the-line could clear for action in fifteen minutes if necessary, but this day would be the hardest fought of their lives— things were better done in the cool of forethought than the heat of battle. Victory could depend on the smallest precaution having been properly attended to.

Kydd's action position was on the poop-deck at the signals; there was little to do in readiness beyond the mustering of the bunting in the flag locker and ensuring that the log was at hand, signal halliards cleared and free, the handful of seamen and Rawson in no doubt about their duties. Here, preparation was of the mind. Kydd knew by heart most of the hoists he could foresee and his signal book had been brought up to date with the very latest that had been entered in the fleet commander's order book. He reviewed the provisions for night signals: complicated specified arrangements of lights in varying configurations and "false fires"—wooden tubes of combustibles that burned with a blue light and had several meanings, depending on how and when they were deployed. And, most important, the recognition signal for British ships only now circulated to the fleet. It would be four lights in line, hoisted high to be as visible as possible above powder-smoke. The lighting rig had been checked twice by the boatswain, who also had a spare charged at hand.

Kydd tucked his signal telescope under his arm and paced slowly, conscious of a thudding heart and tight stomach but resolutely refusing to steal a look into the bay.

"Mr Kydd!" the captain called from the quarterdeck.

"Sir?"

Houghton looked energised, but wore a hard expression. "I've no doubt your men at quarters are mustered ready."

"Aye, sir."

"Then as you are at leisure, you will probably wish to take a turn about the decks," he snapped.

Kydd understood. As other officers were occupied with their quarters at the guns and elsewhere, he was being asked to keep a roving eye on the clearing for action, perhaps steady the men as they anticipated the slaughter to come.

This was no sudden, frantic sighting of the enemy: it was a cold, considered approach. Tenacious would face her ordeal in perfect battle order.

At this moment Vanguard would be similarly engaged so there would be no communication in the immediate future, and Rawson, with his handful of seamen, could be trusted to stand by at the signals. "Take the glass," Kydd told him, handing over his telescope, "and any signal from the flagship I want t' know about instantly, d'ye hear?"

The entire ship's company was at work, an ants' nest of activity. Men taking up shot for the garlands alongside each gun jostled past Kydd; streams of sailors brought up hammocks and soaked them to form barricades in the fighting tops for the marine musketeers. A party was at work on the sauve tete, the netting spread twelve feet high above the deck to protect against rigging shot to pieces falling from aloft.

The boatswain and his mates were methodically laying out essential damage-control gear—rigging stoppers and lengths of line that could be secured above and below a severed rope to restore its function. Jigger tackles were becketed up under the hatchway coaming, canvas and twine ready to repair important sails at hand, as were grappling irons to hold an enemy alongside while they boarded. Kydd smiled wryly: Tenacious would probably be the smallest man-o'-war in the line—any boarding would likely be in the other direction.

He glanced aloft at the massive lower yards, tons in weight. Chain slings were rigged to support them should the tye blocks at the mast be shot through, and the braces to heave round the yards were augmented by preventers and pendants to handle the heavy spar if cannon fire knocked it askew. From forward he heard the reassuring sound of grinding steel as the gunner's party put a final edge on the tomahawks, cutlasses, pikes and other edged weapons.

Down the main hatchway it was a different kind of bustle. Cabin bulkheads were knocked away and officers' personal effects were struck below in the hold. He saw his own cabin dismantled, the desk where each day he had faithfully written his journal taken bodily by two seamen to the hatch, preceded by his cot and chest. Renzi's cabin was treated in the same way, and when the long wardroom table had been disassembled and carried away there was nothing to spoil a continuous sweep of the gundeck right to the stern, the torpid eighteen-pounder gun with which he had familiarly shared his cabin now awakened and readied for fighting.

On the gundeck more preparations were in train. The gunner had unlocked the grand magazine and stringent fire precautions were in force: fearnought firescreens and leather fire-buckets were around each hatchway and in the magazines lanthorns were put in sealed sconces. Wearing felt slippers, those inside this area would make up cartridges and pass them out to the chain of powder monkeys, who in turn carried them up to the guns. Kydd shivered at the fearful thought of being confined here in a blazing battle, with no knowledge of the outside world, the tons of powder in plain sight their only company.

He moved forward and saw Renzi, who gave a grave nod before turning back to a quarter gunner with orders. Images of Camperdown flashed before him. This place was not named "the slaughterhouse" for nothing: within hours it would be a hell of smoke and noise, smashed timbers and screaming. And after sunset the dim gold of battle lanthorns would be the only light they had to fight the guns.

The preparations continued. Spare gun-breeching ropes and tackles were laid around the hatchways and arms chests for boarders were thrown open on the centreline. Gun captains returned from the store with a powder horn, gunlock flints, pouches of firing tubes, all the necessary equipment to bring the great guns to life. Finally, the decks were strewn with sand and galley ash, then wetted. This would not only give a better grip for the men at the gun tackles but help them retain their footing in blood.

Kydd's last stop was the orlop, where the surgeon made ready and the carpenter gathered his crew. As part of battle preparations, the men held in irons there were released, given full amnesty for their crimes in the face of events of far greater moment. He was about to go down the ladder when a breathless Rawson dashed up. "Signal, sir. 'Prepare t' anchor by the stern.'" His eyes were wide.

"Thank ye, I'll be up directly."

By the stern? Had Rawson misread the signal? He hurried back to the poop, pushing past the busy swarms and snatched up the signal log. There it was, and repeated by Orion and others.

"Mr Kydd," Houghton called from the quarterdeck.

"Sir?" Kydd hurried down the poop ladder.

"Do you not understand Sir Horatio's motions?"

"Er, t' anchor by the stern? Not altogether, I have t' say, sir."

"Then, sir, mark the enemy's position. They are anchored in line along the shore away from us and directly down the wind, I'll have you note. Without doubt the admiral wishes to advance on them from there, then lay his ships alongside an enemy and stay—in short, to anchor. But should we anchor in the ordinary way, by the bow, then as is the way of things we will rotate round to face the wind and—"

"O' course! We'd be cruelly raked until our guns bear again."

"Undoubtedly. And additionally—"

"With springs on th' cables we c'n direct our fire as we please."

"Just so, Mr Kydd."

With one signal—two flags—Nelson had levelled the odds.

"Then you will oblige me, sir, in taking a cable through a stern chase gunport."

"Aye aye, sir. Making fast t' the mizzen?"

"Yes."

Kydd saluted and left the deck, happy to have something of significance to do in this time of waiting. "Mr Pearce!" he called to the boatswain. "We have a task ..."

It was no trivial matter, rousing out the hundred-fathom length of twelve-inch stream cable from below, then ranging it along the gundeck from where it was seized round the fat bulk of the mizzen mast, through the gunroom and out of one of the pair of chase ports. With the wake of the moving ship foaming noisily just feet below, the thick rope had to be heaved out of the stern and passed back along the ship's side beneath the line of open gunports and to an anchor on the bows. The cable was kept clear of the sea by a spun-yarn at every third port ready for instant cutting loose, and at the bows it was bent on to the anchor.

Bryant approached the captain. "Ship cleared for action, sir." There was a taut ferocity about the first lieutenant, Kydd saw, almost a blood-longing for the fight. He wondered if he, too, should adopt a more aggressive bearing.

"Very well, Mr Bryant. There will be time for supper for the men before we go to quarters, I believe—and everyone shall have a double tot, if you please."

Kydd called Rawson over: "Go below an' get yourself something t' eat, younker—after you've seen y' men get their grog." It would not be long before they went to quarters. The enemy was now in plain view, on the right side of a low, sandy bay fringed by date palms, and inshore of a guardian island no more than thirty feet high, their line stretching away into the distance. On the left were some higher sand hills, which Kydd knew from their rudimentary chart was the Rosetta mouth of the Nile with its distinctive tower. In the evening sun he picked up knots of people coming down to the water's edge: there would be a big audience for the evening's entertainment. He wondered if the famed General Buonaparte was watching, perhaps from the small medieval castle at the mouth of the bay.

He went below: the men were in spirits, rough-humoured as he remembered himself when he had been one of them, the old jokes about prize-money, the lottery of death, the exchange of verbal wills.

In the wardroom he stuffed his pockets with hard tack, an orange and a large clean cloth, then accepted his fighting sword and cross-belt from his servant. His uncle, who had provided the fine blade, was now unimaginably distant. He eased out the blued steel far enough to glimpse the Cornish choughs, then clicked it home again and buckled it on. Whose blood would it taste first? Or would he yield it in surrender to great odds?

As he left he felt a stab of foreboding—he was going out on deck and perhaps would never return. But he shook it off and as he reached the upper deck his eyes immediately searched out the waiting enemy.

"This is a grave and solemn moment, Mr Bryant," admonished Houghton, breaking into the first lieutenant's avid description of what he had once found in a captured French ship. "We shall mark it with due reverence. Pass the word for the chaplain." At length the man appeared. "I desire to see a short service before we open hostilities if you please, Mr Peake."

"A—a service?"

"Yes, certainly. Do you not feel it wise to seek the blessing of the Almighty on our endeavours?"

"You mean—"

"Do I have to instruct you in your duty, sir? A rousing hymn to get the men in spirit, some bracing words about the rightness of our cause, doing our Christian duty, that sort of thing. And, of course, finish with a suitable prayer calling for a blessing of our arms on this day. Steadies the men, puts heart into them. Make it brief—we'll be at the guns in an hour."

As he hurried along the upper deck Renzi saw a figure he recognised, clinging to the bulwarks, head bowed. "Why, what's this, Mr Peake? At your prayers, I see," he said. With most of the men below there were only a few curious pairs of eyes to gawp at them.

Peake lifted his face: it was a picture of misery. "I can't do it, Mr Renzi," he said thickly.

"Cannot do what, sir?"

"The captain wishes me to—to speak words of violence, to incite men to acts of bloodshed, and this—this I find in all conscience I cannot do, sir."

Renzi knew the man was finished if he was unable to function as expected. It would be construed as common cowardice. "We must discuss this," he said, taking Peake firmly by the arm and urging him below. They passed through the main-deck with its gun crews animated by grog. One called out, "What cheer, the sin-bosun—ye'll have work enough t' do afore we sees the sun again!"

When they arrived in the orlop the cockpit table was ready laid with shining instruments; the surgeon lifted a fearful-looking long knife, and began stropping it deliberately. Peake shied away under his direct stare.

"Mr Pybus, you'd oblige us extremely by allowing us the temporary privacy of your cabin," Renzi said.

The surgeon laid down the knife. "Dear fellow, I can think of no better lair to wait out this disagreeable time. By all means."

Renzi sat Peake on the patient's stool. "Mr Peake, you came forward to serve His Majesty, is this not so?" There was no reply. "And now your country needs you—and in particular at this time, you, sir," he added forcefully.

Peake stared at him as Renzi pressed on. "Our ship's company—all hands—are putting their lives at peril in the service of their country and their fellow man. They look for meaning and surety, words they can carry with them in their hour of trial. Can you not feel it in your heart—"

"Mr Renzi. You are no practised hand at dissimulation, so speak direct, sir. You assume a lack of moral fibre in me, a reprehensible shyness in the face of mortal danger. Let me assure you, this is far from being the case."

"Then, sir, what prevents you in the performance of your divinities?"

"I have referred before to my abhorrence of any man seeking to wreak violence upon a fellow creature. I do not propose to explicate further."

Renzi bit his lip. His immediate duty was to the gun crews under his command, and thence to his ship, and time was pressing. "Do I understand that you take exception to the form of words used by the captain?"

"Of course I do!"

Renzi did not speak for a space. "Then if your words to the men, suitably chosen, are thereby made acceptable to you, you would feel able to deliver your service?"

Peake looked doubtful, but answered, "If they did no violence to my precepts, Mr Renzi."

"Then to the specifics." Renzi produced paper and a pencil. "In fine, to which phrases do you have objection ..."

"Aaaall the hands! Clear lower deck, aaall the hands lay aft!" In the short time left to them before their ordeal, the men of Tenacious would bare their heads before their Maker to seek a benediction. With the officers standing on the poop-deck, an improvised lectern at the rail, the men assembled on the upper deck below.

"We shall begin with that well-loved hymn, 'Awake My Heart; Arise,'" Bryant announced.

The fiddler stepped forward, nodded to the fife and both struck up. The men sang heartily, their full-throated roar a testimony to the feelings that the simple communal act was bringing. The hymn complete, the men stood silent and expectant. The chaplain stepped up to the lectern, glancing nervously at the captain. He cleared his throat and took out his notes. "Er, at this time, you men ..."

"Louder, if you please, Reverend," hissed the captain.

The chaplain looked uncertainly over the mass of faces before him and tried to speak up: "That is to say, as we sail towards the enemy, er, our mind is drawn to our forebears who in like manner faced the foe."

Houghton's stern frown lessened and he nodded approvingly. Emboldened, Peake snatched another look at the paper and continued: "Yea, our antecedents of yore indeed. We think of them then—the staunch faith of Themistocles, indeed the dismay of the Euboeans at traitorous Eurybiades." He peered at the paper once more. "Are we to be as Achilles, sulking in his tent—"

"Get on with it!" muttered Houghton. The men were becoming restless: some threw glances over their shoulders to the dark ships of their adversary.

"—while loyal Myrmidons do the bidding of others? We must always remember that this was the same Achilles who had prayed for the destruction of the Achaeans, and from it we may understand—"

"That will do, thank you, Mr Peake," Houghton rasped. The chaplain looked grateful, and raised a tranquil face heavenward. "Let us pray." A spreading rustle moved over the assembly. "We will pray for God's divine guidance in this matter." A barely smothered snort came from the first lieutenant. Undismayed, Peake went on calmly, "As we contemplate the dreadful hurts we are going to inflict on these Frenchmen, the despoliation of bodies and minds that are the inevitable consequence of modern war—"

"Mr Peake!" Houghton's voice was steely with warning. "—that we must nonetheless visit on their living bodies as they seek to do to our own—"

"Mr Bryant! Beat to quarters!" roared Houghton. There was a moment's astonishment, then the ship dissolved into frantic movement, whipped on by the volleying of drums at the hatchway.

Already at his station on the poop-deck, Kydd could see it all unfolding: in minutes men were standing to their guns, manning the fighting tops behind barricades of hammocks, or deep in the magazines. The boatswain's party stood to on deck, ready to attend to the many special duties about the ship.

Now the die was solemnly cast. Each man would stay at his post until the battle was won, or lost, or he was taken below to suffer agony under the surgeon's knife. They stood silent and watchful as their petty officers reported to the master's mates, who then informed their officers that the men were now at their fighting stations. Then they stood easy, dealing in their individual ways with the fact that they were being borne steadily towards whatever fate was to be theirs.

"Sir, Flag is signalling," Rawson said, his voice unsteady.

Kydd realised that this was not only the midshipman's first big fleet action but probably the first time he would be under hostile fire from a man-o'-war. Kydd took up his telescope. "Number forty-five at the main, forty-six at the mizzen. Which is?" He was trying to keep the youngster occupied during the approach.

"A—a—" The lad's face contorted as he tried to get the words out.

"Quite right. M' duty to the captain, an' Flag signals 'attack enemy's van and centre.' Quickly now!" There would be little time to worry about him when battle had been joined. He swung forward and settled his glass on the enemy line.

On the face of it, the French admiral had chosen well, anchoring close in with the shore, his broadsides facing seawards. And the bay was shoal—there was tell-tale white water and troubled rippling at awkward places. However, there were no reliable British charts of the area: they would have to take their chances on the attack. But, crucially, there was an element the French could not command: the wind. It could not be more fair for their approach, the north-north-westerly blowing directly down upon the van of the enemy line and towards the rear. The English could choose the time and the precise point of their attack.

Once they reached the line, however, there would be no alternative but to stand yardarm to yardarm and smash out broadsides until there was a conclusion. Kydd could see that about a third of the French men-o'-war were larger even than the biggest of their own and in the very centre of their line a monster towered above the others mounting, from the number of her gunports, 120 or more guns. The regularity of their positions indicated that they were probably secured to each other with stout cables, effectively preventing any attempt at breaking the line.

In the swiftly setting sun the French force looked awesome, and it was now their duty to throw themselves at this wall of guns whatever the cost. Again, a presentiment tightened Kydd's bowels: this day would see a clash at arms of such an immense scale it would test every man to the limit.

A signal hoist rose rapidly up the flagship's mizzen halliards. Kydd had been waiting for it and hailed the quarterdeck: "Form line-of-battle as convenient."

It was now the last act.

"Rawson, hoist battle ensigns." It would be the white ensign; although a rear admiral of the Blue squadron, Admiral Nelson had chosen the white as being more visible in the dark: some said it was because he had a personal fondness for the purity of white in the colours.

As Rawson bent to the flag locker, Kydd added, "Captain wants t' see four of 'em, and hoisted high." He turned back to the flagship. As he watched, her own battle ensigns mounted swiftly, enormous flags that would leave no doubt whatsoever about her allegiance. And not four but six eventually streamed out proudly. Bull roars of cheering erupted from their men.

Another hoist: "alter to starboard." The English fleet now shaped their course to round the little sandy island but were in no recognisable line-of-battle. In their haste to close with the enemy they strung out eagerly, Zealous and Goliath vying with Vanguard for the position of honour in the lead, others crowding in behind. Tenacious found herself pressed by Culloden, which had cast off her prize under tow and was coming up fast, while Swiftsure and Alexander, astern but under a full press of sail, hastened to join them from where they had been off Alexandria.

One by one the anchored ships answered the challenge: colours soared aloft until every ship in the line flaunted the tricolour of France, and the first shots of defiance thudded out from the medieval fort at the end of the bay. The English ships did not deign to waste powder in reply.

Goliath now led the race: with a leadsman in the chains taking continual soundings she rounded the shoals at the point of Aboukir Island and headed directly across for the first ship of the enemy line, closely followed by Zealous. The anchored fleet opened fire, the evening twilight adding a viciousness to the stabbing flashes piercing the towering clouds of gunsmoke. Kydd could feel the deck shaking from the massed thunder of guns.

Battle had been joined. The action that was going to determine the future of the world was beginning. Kydd's pulse raced and he found he was clutching the hilt of his sword. How would this night end? Who would be the victor? And would he be alive to see it?

The English fleet held fire as they approached, single-mindedly heading for the van of the line. Kydd lifted his glass eagerly to witness the first British ship grapple with an enemy. It would be Goliath: she was flying towards the first of the enemy line as if to win a race, still with silent guns.

Kydd shifted the telescope quickly to the flagship. A final hoist flew: "engage the enemy more closely." He snatched a quick look at Rawson. The lad was pale but determined, and smiled back bravely. "You'll remember this night, Mr Rawson. We both will."

"Don't y' worry of me, Mr Kydd—I've a duty to do, an' I'll do it." He crossed over to the signal log and carefully entered the details. Kydd resumed his watch on Goliath.

Everything depended on staying clear of the rocky shoals that lay unseen all around. In the lurid glow of a vast sunset Goliath reached the first ship-of-the-line. The enemy ship's fire slackened and grew uncertain as the British 74 passed the point of intersection, for not only could her guns no longer bear but when Goliath's helm went over to cross her bows she could only wait for the ruin and death that must surely follow.

From only a few yards' range a full broadside slammed into the unprotected bow of the hapless French ship; thirty-two-pound shot smashing and rampaging through the entire length of the vessel in an unrelenting path of destruction. Through the swirling powder-smoke Kydd strained to see Goliath wheel about, but to his astonishment she continued on, her rigging visible be-yond—on the inside of the line!

"Damme! What's he about?" Kydd had not seen Adams arrive—he had made an excuse to leave his post at the guns below to see the excitement before they in turn were engaged. "He stands to take the ground and there, o' course, he'll be helpless!"

"No, I think not," Kydd said, holding the image in his eye. Goliath had passed further along, her guns seeking a fresh target, while Zealous stretched out to reach the same point. "Ye know what I think? He's seen the anchor buoy—these Frenchies are at single anchor, and he knows they've swung to th' wind. Stands t' reason, they have to leave room to swing an' that's where he's going to place his ship." It was daring and intelligent and the move was from individual initiative, not the result of a signal. It deserved to succeed.

Zealous reached the line—again the erupting billows of gun-smoke. In the gathering darkness gun-flash illuminated it eerily from within. The Frenchman's foremast toppled and crashed. The British ship's helm went over and she likewise ran down the inside, slowing after her stern anchor was slipped, which brought her to a stop abreast her helpless target to begin a relentless pounding.

Kydd's fist thumped the rail as he willed Tenacious to join the fight. A shout came from behind, from one of the signal hands. "Sir! Culloden, she's—" Kydd wheeled round and peered into the twilight. Next astern, Culloden lay unmoving, stopped dead and at an unnatural angle of heel.

"She's run aground, God save 'em," said Adams. In her hurry to clear Aboukir Island she had shaved the point too closely. "Can't be helped. Now they'll miss the sport."

A signal hoist jerked up Culloden's masts, then another. Kydd deciphered them and hurried down to the quarterdeck to Houghton. "Sir, number forty-three—Culloden is aground an' warning us, and does recall Mutine f'r assistance."

Houghton stopped pacing. "The warning is more for Swiftsure and Alexander, I should think," he muttered, looking at the developing battle ahead, then back to the helpless man-o'-war. "More to the point, what possible use to Troubridge is Mutine, a contemptible little brig?"

"There is no other," Bryant said shortly, eyes straying to the noise and gunfire of the battle.

"Mr Bryant, we must assist."

"We, sir?"

"Of all the admiral's ships, which do you think he can most spare? We are the smallest, the most insignificant of his force, but we are a ship-of-the-line and have the size to be of consequence in assisting."

Bryant spluttered, "Sir! They must take their chances! We have a duty—"

"Mr Hambly, haul us out of the line and bring us to, a cable's length off Culloden. Mr Kydd, signal her that we are coming to assist. Mr Bryant, you will go in a boat and speak with Captain Troubridge, requesting his orders in respect of any assistance we might be able to give."

Tenacious would thus be denied the glory of the grandest fight in history in order to stand by a stranded ship. Kydd held his silence as he returned to his station. Lifting his telescope again he could see the thrilling sight of Audacious following Zealous. As he watched, her passing broadside at the luckless enemy sent her mainmast toppling like a felled tree. The main body of the English fleet now reached the head of the line; Theseus and Orion followed the others inside. As close as Kydd could see, the firing was one-sided: the French had not prepared for action on their inshore sides.

Near Aboukir Island Tenacious hove to, well clear of the unfortunate Culloden. Her boat pulled for the motionless 74, watched sourly from the ship by frustrated seamen while the battle raged on without them.

Kydd stared helplessly at the great spectacle: now the flagship was coming down on the French line—she, however, chose the seaward side and the vengeful French gunners smashed out their anger in broadsides. Undeterred, Vanguard selected her prey and, anchoring by the stern, eased to a stop and began her own cannonade. Others followed their admiral, and Kydd's last sight of the battle, before darkness and vast quantities of powder-smoke split by gun-flash hid his view, was the black shapes of the remainder of the English fleet streaming into action down the French line.

Where Tenacious was hove to there were only the sounds, overloud in the dark, of backed sails slapping and fretful, the slop of water against her side and the monotone grumbling of seamen.

Out of the dark Kydd heard a hail, then confused shouting. A telescope was of little use now and he tried to make out the source. He saw a glimmer of light from a lanthorn in their boat, the rowers laying into their oars like lunatics and the first lieutenant standing, ranting, urging. The boat surged alongside. Bryant heaved himself up and bounded on to the quarterdeck. "Sir— Cap'n Troubridge thanks you for your concern, but advises we should lose no time in joining the fleet."

A roar of cheering erupted and, without orders, seamen clapped on to the braces. Houghton said calmly, "We shall pass down their line and the first Frenchman unengaged is ours."

The yards came round and Tenacious resumed her charge. Little could be made out at the distance but as they came closer individual fights resolved, illuminated by furious gunfire. Ships lay together in palls of smoke and it was clear that the first half of the French line was in trouble. The inspired action of Goliath passing down the inshore side had resulted in it being pitilessly battered from both sides.

Men ready at her guns, Tenacious finally reached the head of the line. The totally dismasted wreck of the first ship lay unresisting under the onslaught of Zealous and Audacious. They reached the third, and the easily recognisable form of Vanguard, her opponent laying to her anchor alongside and also suffering from two English ships at work on the opposite side. Then the smoke drifted clear and there, proud and free above the enemy tricolour, flew a large white ensign. It brought savage cheers from the men, redoubled when the second in line fell silent. Her colours lowered, followed shortly by the hopeless wreck of the first.

Tenacious sailed on but even before she reached the fourth, hoarse cheers went up when it could be seen that she, too, had given up the fight. Was it victory that night, so soon? But four ships taken out of the dozen or so left two-thirds of the French fleet ahead. Nelson's plan of concentrating his forces at the head of the line and overwhelming the stationary enemy one by one was a brilliant success so far, but with Tenacious the last to enter battle there was no more strength left that could be brought to bear on the rest.

Downwind of the head of the line Kydd could now smell the battle: acrid powder-smoke, heated gunmetal and ancient wood-dust blasted from old timbers. There was also the pungency of damp burned timber—fires had been recently extinguished.

In their path was an English ship lit almost continuously by her guns, smashing low into her antagonist, whose vicious return fire was in turn causing visible ruin to her timbers. But settling in place on her inshore side was another English ship, beginning her cannonade from the opposite side. The noise was hellish, scores of the biggest guns in the fleet contending furiously with even bigger French ones in a ceaseless thunderous drumming.

Ahead at the centre of the line the huge flagship L'Orient was now in action with two English ships and beyond her another French two-decker was smashing out her broadsides at a smaller ship. It could not be long before they themselves must join in the action, and Kydd had no illusions about their chances: they were the smallest vessel in the English fleet and a fraction of the size of the French flagship—or any of the enemy for that matter.

As they came to pass the three vessels Kydd looked down from the poop at Tenacious's little quarterdeck command group. Suddenly Bryant pointed energetically to the French ship. Her foremast was already down, and as her mainmast majestically crashed to the deck in a tangled ruin, Kydd could see what had excited Bryant. The massive sides were no longer unmoving: she had either cut her cables to escape the terrible punishment or they had been simply shot away, and now she was slowly dropping out of the line.

And leaving an opening! Houghton's roared orders could be heard clear above the din. Seamen scrambled up the shrouds to take in sail, and forward, others rushed to clear away the anchor. Tenacious slowed, waiting as the French vessel slipped away, trailing wreckage and the stink of defeat.

It was a shrewd move: instead of lying alongside a heavier enemy to be pounded by bigger guns Houghton was taking the opportunity to slip between the stern of one and the bow of the other and, while he took position, fire with impunity into both. The stern anchor went down in a rush, the cable slipping away rapidly. But the move had been seen by the big ship next down and while her guns could bear they opened up on Tenacious.

Kydd stood in the darkness on the exposed poop-deck feeling the slam of unseen shot and debris. At this moment he felt more for the old ship than for himself: she had endured at Camperdown in an earlier age, and she was his first ship as an officer so he had a tender feeling for her that made any hurts the more grievous to bear.

A missile whistled past, the eerie sound fading as it passed into the blackness beyond. Kydd noticed Rawson, pacing determinedly at his side, his youth touchingly apparent: the youngster would be a different person before the night was over. It was all he could offer, but Kydd said conversationally to him, "O' course, th' musketeers aboard the Frenchy can't see us in the dark."

"Secure the flag lockers, if y' please, sir?" Rawson replied, with an effort. His face was pale but composed in the flickering light.

"Why, yes. We'll not be seeing flags again this day." Now there would be signal lanthorns in the flagship's rigging to watch for and all the detail of night signalling to worry about.

Tenacious sailed inside the arc of fire of the enemy, whose guns stopped one by one as they approached the bow of their target; on her foredeck dark figures were running from the light upper-deck guns. The sudden crash and blast from their own guns took Kydd by surprise. So close, their iron balls could not miss and when the smoke cleared the beautifully ornamented bow was scarred and pitted with blotches of ugly blackness.

Then their stern cable told and Tenacious slewed heavily round the quarter of the enemy ship-of-the-line. Yet again, Nelson's prescience was confirmed: springs on the cable, controlled from the capstan, meant that the ship as a whole, with its lines of guns, could be aimed by slackening and tightening on the appropriate spring.

Their guns resumed with a crashing broadside, but the enemy replied with venom—they would be made to pay for their boldness. The French guns were heaved round by handspike to bear aft as far as possible, then opened up on them savagely. Kydd felt the deep concussion in the pit of his stomach, and the heavy balls took Tenacious in her hull, sending splinters sheeting and skittering about. Twisting chain shot, langridge and other ugly, man-killing evil whirled through the night air.

Kydd's skin tightened. Being at idleness in the open was so different from action on a gundeck. Here, he could only sense countless muzzles seeking their target before they exploded into violence; below, there was furious activity, the means and duty to hit back.

The guns of Tenacious smashed out again in an ear-splitting crash. At such close range the strike of their shot was visible on the enemy side and pieces of wreckage tumbled into the short space of ruddy water between the vessels. The stench of powder and ruin was overpowering. A shriek from forward ended in a bubbling death-cry—three marines ran to the poop and set up a firing party aiming far up at the mizzen fighting top of the enemy from where the muzzle flash of muskets stabbed downwards.

Again the space between the ships was enveloped in powder-smoke, but Kydd detected a different pattern. Beyond the end of the length of their target glided the shadowy bulk of another ship coming into position at her stern. Before she had anchored, her guns on the far side exploded into action—the powder-smoke alive with gun-flash like summer lightning, quickly followed by her near side, a savage broadside into the French ship's stern quarters. With four lanthorns in a line at her mizzen peak she had to be an English 74—the Swiftsure, Kydd thought. She had slipped into place between their own adversary and the flagship, firing at both from each side of guns. He tried to make out the mighty man-o'-war just past their opponent and saw that she was now set upon by three English ships in a mind-numbing cannonade.

The battle was now reaching a peak of ferocity. The shattering slam of guns made it difficult to think; back along the line their own flagship was impossible to see in the darkness. Kydd felt the frustration of helplessness. "Stay here. I'm going t' the quarterdeck," he said suddenly, to his men. Anything was better than the aimless, nervous pacing, and he had a duty to advise the captain of his inability to sight more than the most elementary signals.

Houghton and the first lieutenant were pacing slowly together in grim conversation, followed by several midshipman messengers. Kydd touched his hat and delivered his report. "Thank you, Mr Kydd," Houghton acknowledged, barely noticing him. "Do you hold yourself in readiness here for the time being."

Kydd joined the master near the helm watching the captain's clerk attempting to scribble into a notebook by the light of a feeble lanthorn. His duty was to minute events as they happened but Kydd wondered how accurate his jottings could be, given that they were made in near darkness, their author half blinded by the flash of guns and probably petrified with fear.

A sudden iron crash and ringing tone, like a struck anvil, sounded forward as an upper-deck gun took a square hit from a round shot. There would be carnage as it dismounted and Kydd felt pity for the casualties.

Ahead, the hulking enemy man-o'-war was showing every sign of fight—but Kydd's attention was taken by a petty officer running aft and touching his forelock to the captain.

"What is it?" Houghton said.

"Sorry, sir, don't know what t' do, like."

Kydd stared at him. What would take a hardened seaman like that away from his post in battle?

"It's like this, sir. Number three larb'd nine-pounder took a hit an' it did fer its crew." He hesitated, as if to spare the details.

"Come on, man, give your report!" Houghton spat out.

The petty officer continued, in a puzzled voice, "We goes t' see what's t' do. There's nothin' we can do f'r two o' them an' we goes to heave 'em overside and then—and then the parson, he comes outa nowhere an' stops us!"

"Stops you? The chaplain? What do you mean, stops you?" Houghton's anger communicated itself to the seaman, who recoiled.

"Sir, I can't just scrag th' chaplain—not the parson, sir!"

"Dammit!" Houghton exploded. "Get that ninny off the deck—now!"

"Sir." Kydd hurried forward with the petty officer. The gun lay shattered and dismounted with a weal of bright steel across its breech. A man lay crouched, sobbing in pain while another sprawled unmoving. And the chaplain, wild-eyed and trembling with emotion, stood over a third.

"Why, Mr Peake, what is it?" Kydd said. It dawned on him that this was probably the first time the chaplain had seen guns fired in war.

"S-s-sir, I have difficulty in finding the words. This—this blackguard," he stuttered, "I saw with my own eyes, telling his men to take the fallen and—and drop them into the sea! I cannot believe his contempt for the dead! He is blind to humanity! He—he does—"

Suddenly, severed by a shot aloft, the entire length of an eighty-foot main topgallant lift slithered down in an unstoppable cascade, throwing Peake forward into the pin-rail. Kydd picked him up and steadied him. "Mr Peake, why are you here? Your duty—"

"My duty is to be with my flock wherever they've been called, even to this barbaric struggle, and—and to do what I can."

He seemed both pathetic and noble at the same time. Kydd felt unable to respond harshly. "Mr Peake—your duty is not here on deck, or at the guns."

The chaplain looked at him resentfully. "You will speak to this man, then? Tell him—"

"He is doing his duty, Mr Peake. The dead have t' be cleared from th' fighting space of the living or every sacrifice is in vain." Kydd took a deep breath. "They will be remembered, sir, that y' may rely on—and by every one o' their shipmates as they'd wish it. This is the custom o' the Service, sir, and may not be put aside," he finished firmly.

"I—I cannot—that is to say ..."

Kydd paused. There was no lack of fortitude in the man but an edge of madness was lapping at his reason. "Come, sir, there are those that need ye," he said, and drew him away.

He took Peake firmly by the arm and led him below, past the bedlam of both decks of guns, down to the after hatchway and past the sentries to the orlop.

If ever the parson needed a glimpse of hell, thought Kydd, this was it. There was no daylight in the gloomy cavern but lanthorns were sufficient to show such a scene that Peake held back at the bottom of the hatchway ladder, rigid with horror. Spreading out from the base of the ladder where they had been brought and left, wounded men lay moaning and writhing; some were ominously still. Cries of pain and mortal despair filled the air, almost drowning the rumbling of guns run out on the deck above.

Further into the orlop, in the space outside the midshipmen's berth known as the cockpit, a table had been set up on three sea-chests, a smaller spread with the dull gleam of medical instruments. A bunch of lanthorns above gave light to this operating table and Pybus, almost unrecognisable in a bloody apron, was directing the surgeon's mates and loblolly boys in preparing the next man for his attention.

Kydd's gorge rose, but he stepped resolutely round the wretches on the deck, and pulled Peake to Pybus. The doctor looked at them briefly. "You'll wait your turn with the others," he snapped, turning his back. Kydd was shocked at the change in their dry-humoured surgeon—his black-rimmed eyes were sunken but there was an iron control and ferocious purpose. "Get out of my way," he snapped crossly. A seaman was lifted on to the table, his lower leg a grisly tatter of blood and bone fragments below a kerchief tourniquet. The man was white with pain. His eyes rolled as he understood where he was being laid, but the loblolly crew took his arms and legs and spreadeagled him with ropes to four stanchions.

Kydd and Peake were mesmerised. The seaman's bloody trousers were cut away quickly, the sudden touch of the surgeon's mate making him flinch with dread. A leather pad, dark with stains, was put into his mouth, and as Pybus approached, the man's piteous eyes fixed on his, following his every move. His body was rigid with terror. "Hold still, and I'll not make a mistake," Pybus said levelly, and closed in for the job.

Unable to look away Kydd saw Pybus take his bloody knife and thrust it up between the man's thighs. It did not hesitate: in a whirl of movement the knife sliced, in a single practised stroke, clear round the entire leg. A mind-freezing howl came from the wretch on the table, who writhed hopelessly against his tethers, but without delay Pybus took his saw—much like a butcher's—and applied himself to the bone. While the man fought and shrieked into the leather in his teeth the harsh grating of the saw continued until the pitiable remnant of leg separated and fell with a meaty thud. It was retrieved and dropped into a tub.

Pybus took his needle and, standing astride the stump, swiftly sutured across a flap of skin left for the purpose, then stood aside to let his mates treat it with spirits of turpentine. The whole procedure, incredibly, was over in less than two minutes. He mopped his forehead, then said thickly to Kydd, as he wiped down his blade, "What are you here for, then?"

"Ah, Doctor, I have here Mr Peake, who desires t' be of some use." He felt faint but carried on: "Er, if ye could indicate to him any who might have need o' some, er, comfort of religion, why, please t' inform him."

For a space Pybus regarded them both, his expression unreadable. "You might see to him," he said, pointing to a quiet figure pulled to a sitting position against the ship's side. "He's ruptured his femoral—no hope, he's only minutes left. Oh, and that powder monkey, his face burned so, and calling for his mother ..."

Kydd made quickly for the hatchway; the chaplain would find employment enough now. For a moment the cocoon of belief in his own invulnerability slipped and terror seized him at the thought of his own maiming and subsequent descent into the orlop. But that way led to nightmares and cowardice, and he crushed the images.

Deliberately he shifted his thoughts to Renzi and paused at the top of the ladder to the gundeck to catch a glimpse of his friend. There, it was a different kind of hell. Men worked their guns by only the dim light of battle lanthorns in the stinking, thunderous gloom amid thick, swirling powder-smoke. Consumed with a wild thirst from the acrid fumes, they were unable to see their antagonist in the outer darkness but for the deadly flash of their cannon muzzles.

This was brutal, killing work, serving the iron beasts like slaves—knowing that whichever was the first to falter would lose the battle. Gun captains drove on their men with hoarse cries and curses, locked for ever in the ceaseless rhythm of swabbing out hot muzzles, loading and running out, a manic imperative that pushed men on and on to heroic feats of strength and endurance.

It was impossible to see across the deck and he feared for his friend. Then Renzi, his uniform stained grey, appeared from a gusting swirl of smoke, calm and pacing slowly with a half-smile that stayed in place. Kydd's joy and relief at seeing him metamorphosed a cheery wave into a grave doffing of his hat, which was equally solemnly returned.

Kydd bounded up the ladder and out on to the familiar dark chaos of the open quarterdeck. He looked about for the pacing figures of the captain and other officers, but when he located them they were motionless, all their attention in one direction: beyond the stern of their adversary and across a short stretch of sea, the enemy's mighty flagship was afire.

CHAPTER 6

FIRE! SEAMEN COULD BRAVE GALES to go aloft or stand fearless against the deadliest cannonade but the elemental terror of fire aboard ship could turn the hardest man to craven panic. And Kydd had a personal dread of it. In the Caribbean, in Seaflower, he had seen a ship ablaze: they had tried to claw against the wind to save the sailors but, helpless, had been forced to watch their end—a choice of being burned alive or throwing themselves into the water to sharks in a feeding frenzy.

"Seems t' be aft, around the mizzen chains, the poop ..." Kydd forced his voice steady as he trained his signal telescope on the intermittent flaring on the big ship's after-end, where her signal crew would be gathered. His imagination supplied the details. There would be frantic scrambling to extinguish the flames before they took hold; fire-buckets dashed at them by men held with feral dread as if charged by a wild bull. Sailors would be taken from the guns, from below—everyone who could be spared would be put to work for a bucket chain before the engine and hose were brought into play.

"Mr Pringle!" Houghton wheeled on the captain of marines. "Take six of your best men to the foredeck. They are to kill any man aboard the Frenchman who attempts to douse the flames. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir—clear the deck of any enemy approaching the fire."

Kydd froze with horror—but he understood. If the huge enemy ship was destroyed by fire it was as satisfactory as if she had been reduced by hours of bombardment. It was unlikely that the French would abandon their proud flagship to the flames while it was possible to save her. Soon there would be so much death and pain, men who would find it in themselves to defy the bullets for the sake of their ship and be struck down, others who would know the bitter taste of self-loathing when they discovered they could not.

The conflagration lessened and wavered, then returned as their murderous fusillade achieved its object. Shots came, too, from Swiftsure. Unchecked, the flames mounted, licking dangerously along the edge of the driver boom, little wisps flickering upward and along. It would not be long before the fire took strong hold and then there would be no turning back—timbered, and with tarred rigging, the man-o'-war would become an inferno.

Kydd watched as one figure, black against the light of the blaze, raced along with a bucket, then was cut down. The figure toppled into the flames where it thrashed for a little, then was still. More figures darted and fell, and Kydd tore his eyes away. "A terrible sight, sir," he said to Houghton, who was watching with Bryant. Houghton cast him a curious look. "Even if they are Frenchies," Kydd finished lamely.

The blaze was spreading about the poop and its light now tinged the faces of the officers in Tenacious as they stared at the awful sight. They resumed pacing: there was no need to make the job of any vengeful French sharpshooter the easier. The master pulled out a large kerchief and wiped his forehead. "Does strike me, sir, that such a monster must have a mort o' powder aboard. The blaze reaches the grand magazine, why, it would put a volcano to shame!"

"There is that, of course, Mr Hambly. Do you wish me to allow them to extinguish the fire ?" A grim smile belied Houghton's words. "Yet a reasonable course for her captain would be to strike now to save life—but I doubt he will do that."

"Then, sir, do you not feel it prudent t' shift berth? If she explodes it will put every ship to hazard." Bryant came in.

Houghton took three paces more before replying. "Consider, Mr Bryant. Our people have been fighting for long this night. They're exhausted and can't in all mercy be expected to stand at a capstan. But should we cut our cable in the darkness we cannot easily range another through the stern-port and therefore we lose our advantage. And in any event I am obliged to point out that while our immediate opponent remains at her anchor, so must we."

"Aye aye, sir."

As always in the sea service, duty would stand well before consideration of personal safety. But the fearful logic of war dictated that the enemy could not be allowed to save themselves or their ship. The end, therefore, would probably be cataclysmic.

The pitch darkness was now rolling back with the light of the burning ship; as the blaze strengthened and leaped, the entire bay was illuminated and Kydd imagined a fearfully fascinated audience of thousands watching from the lines of ships—and they themselves were at its very centre, the massive three-decker the next after their own adversary.

Houghton turned to Kydd. "I want to know the moment she shows any sign of yielding." But even with her after deck uncontrollably on fire her lower guns continued to crash out against her tormentors: there would be no easy end for this proud ship.

"Pass the word for the boatswain and gunner. Mr Bryant, I rather fear that we must remain for the final act. I would have you prepare Tenacious." There could be no more dangerous situation, a burning powder keg of gigantic dimensions about to explode near to them.

"Cease firing. Secure the magazines." On the upper deck men glanced fearfully across at the flaring torch that was the enemy's after deck, then cleared their own of cartridges and all combustibles.

The boatswain sent men aloft with lines; fire-buckets were hauled up and emptied over the sails furled along the tops of the yards, the decks sluiced. "I'll have a sentry on the cable, if you please, Mr Pringle." There would be some who might be tempted to cut the cable and run. If they did, it would only send them blundering downwind straight into the deadly blaze.

Flames had now run along L'Orient's deck and were reaching up into the masts and rigging in a crackling flare that cast the scene in a ruddy orange. Kydd felt a creeping awe at the approaching moment of doom.

Houghton turned to them all. "Gentlemen, I do believe we should now consult our situation. We shall run in the guns and secure the gunports. So, too, the hatches must be battened, but I believe we must take our chances under the half-deck."

Carrying dripping swabs and leather buckets of water, men took their last look at the blazing ship as they went below. Then the gratings over the hatches were covered with the thick tarpaulin more usually to be seen in stormy weather, and secured with battens hammered into cleats. Kydd reflected on the hell below, in the stinking closeness each thinking that the very next instant could bring the titanic explosion that would crush them to oblivion, or capsize the ship and drown them all.

"God damme, but this business sticks in my throat," Bryant growled.

Kydd saw that men from the ship were now beginning to jump from her decks into the sea and worm from the gunports to drop into the water. Yet still her guns fired, her colours flew. It was madness, an insane defiance against the inevitable, but from a sense of glory, honour?

Houghton watched with grim concentration. Then he turned abruptly to Bryant. "We cannot stand by and see those brave fellows drown. Is the launch still at the boom?"

"It is, sir, but—"

"Then take it, Mr Kydd. Do what you can before ... the end."

"Aye aye, sir." His mind raced, crowding with images of the Caribbean inferno, his dread of fire threatening to unhinge him. He took a long, deep breath, then made his way to the bulwarks. For protection the launch and cutter had been placed on the unengaged, sheltered side of the ship. The launch was their biggest boat but it seemed so frail a bark to approach such a maelstrom of fire. He pulled back and sought out Rawson. "Go below. Get a petty officer an' six. Don't tell 'em why."

Rawson returned with Poulden and six hands, who gaped in awe at the burning ship. "The cap'n wants us t' see if we can save some o' the Frenchies yonder," Kydd said, forcing a tremor from his voice.

One of the seamen spoke up, "Aye, well, they're sailors an' all, aren't they, mates?" Others rumbled a cautious agreement, held by the grim spectacle.

"Then into th' boat, lads," Kydd ordered. "You too, Mr Rawson," he added.

Alongside the dark bulk of Tenacious the boat seemed no refuge and Kydd fought down a rising panic.

"Heading where to, sir?" said Rawson quietly.

"The Frenchy, if y' please." Any swimmers would be fanning out in all directions and would be lost in the dark. The only real chance for saving more than one or two would be to stand off the burning flagship. They left the shelter of the side of their ship and came into full view of the blaze, which now bathed the whole bay in firelight as bright as day. When it became apparent where they were heading one of the seamen looked behind him and cried out, "Be Jasus—she's goin' ter blow!"

"Shut y' trap," Poulden growled instantly.

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

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

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

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

"Oars!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kydd tossed and turned. Sleep was hard—his mind reeled with stark impressions of fiery grandeur, horribly burned bodies, shattered wreckage. They had returned only a couple of hours before dawn to a ship whose company was dropping with exhaustion. Men were asleep at their guns and place of duty. After six hours' hard fighting they were now at the extremity of weariness.

He became aware of someone close by. It was Rawson. "Sir, m' apologies for waking you, but it's dawn an' Admiral Nelson is signalling."

Kydd raised himself on an elbow and tried to focus his thoughts. "Oh? Er, well, I'll be up presently." Rawson turned to go, but Kydd added quietly, "An' thank you, Mr Rawson." The youngster had known that dawn would allow signals to be seen and, although he was as exhausted as Kydd, he had made it his duty to be up on the poop-deck ready with Tenacious's answering pennant.

Going wearily up the ladders Kydd was aware of his tiredness: his feet plodded forward, his mind in a daze, and he had to take several seconds to orient himself when he reached the signals post.

"Number fifty-five with our pennants, sir."

Kydd fumbled in his little signals book.

"That is t' say, 'assist ships in battle,' sir," Rawson said gently, his eyes hollow. "I've acknowledged, sir."

He had had no right to do so, but Kydd was grateful. "The captain—"

"I've sent word, sir." A brief spark of youthful high spirits showed as Rawson confided, "An' would you credit, they had t' bang a pot to wake him."

"More respect to y'r betters, younker," Kydd answered, but suppressed a grin. By long custom of the sea, a seaman could be shaken awake but never an officer—that might be construed as laying hands on a superior, a capital offence. The men must have been hard put to think of a way to rouse their captain.

Kydd went down to the quarterdeck to await Houghton, prudently using his signal telescope to spy out the morning situation. Despite his weariness he was awestruck at the scene of devastation and ruin.

The entire enemy van, ship after ship in a line, had hauled down their colours. Their opponents were still at anchor opposite them in the same position from where they had thundered out their broadsides. But there was an interval of more than half a mile from where the flagship had been; the remainder of the line had abandoned their places downwind of the inferno to edge away to the south. They were now in an untidy gaggle well into the bay. Two looked as if they had run aground during the night;

three or four others were still in a fitful exchange of gunfire with two English 74s.

"Good morning, sir." Houghton was dishevelled and lacked a shoe, but his coming on deck was sufficient to bring order to the desultory scenes of ruin and weariness.

"Thank you, Mr Kydd. What is the state of the action at this time?" His voice was hoarse and abrupt. Bryant appeared from forward and Houghton turned to him. "We shall assist as ordered. I mean to weigh and proceed this hour, sir. Every man possible at the capstan, stand fast the topmen. We shall muster at quarters as we sail for the enemy."

Kydd could not shake off his daze of tiredness. Not even the sight of the undamaged enemy they had yet to fight, outnumbering the few English ships in any condition to confront them, was sufficient to raise an emotion.

They fell before the wind and sailed south, directly towards the thunder of guns. It seemed so cruel, so unfair. The fight appeared to intensify as they approached. Ahead were but two English ships and a quick count of the enemy gave nine sail of force waiting. Theseus was passing abeam under a full press of sail but when Kydd searched astern there were no other English ships on their way to join them. The four of them would face the French alone.

Like a band of fighters squaring up to another gang, the four English formed up together and faced their opponents, anchoring in a line, and the firing began almost immediately. Their main opponents were the three 80-gun battleships and a 74 opposite, more than a match for them all, but in addition there were five ships inshore—three frigates and the two ships-of-the-line that had grounded.

Kydd paced at his station. His function had little meaning in a sub-battle with no designated commander but he would remain at his post until called upon. It would be Renzi and Adams on the gundecks below who would be the hardest worked—they must be calling on all they could think of to keep their exhausted men toiling at their guns but if it was not enough ... Rawson paced beside Kydd, hands firmly crossed behind his back.

A vicious whir above ended in the twang of parted ropes. The French were firing high with chain-shot to try to bring down the rigging and disable them. Debris tumbled, and Kydd could feel solid hits thudding into the hull of Tenacious. Once or twice there was the wind of passing round shot but no deadly musket fire at these longer ranges.

Their guns crashed out at the two battleships around but the winds were backing westerly and the gunsmoke swirled up and around them in choking clouds. Bowden emerged from the hatchway to the gundeck, blinking in the sunlight. He was grey with fatigue but held himself with dignity as he reported to Houghton, then turned away to return with his orders. At that moment a round shot slammed across the deck and Bowden was flung down in an untidy sprawl. He did not move.

Kydd's fuddled brain struggled to take in the significance of the lifeless figure. Seamen from a nearby gun crew rushed to him but with a tearing cry Rawson ran forward, knocked them aside and lifted Bowden's body. The head lolled back, revealing a livid wound that oozed scarlet.

"He lives!" Rawson croaked.

Recovering, Kydd stepped forward. "Get him t' the doctor," he told the seamen. There was a chance that Pybus could stem the tide of death in the young man—presuming that the doctor himself had not succumbed to exhaustion. At least he could tell the lad's uncle in all sincerity of his complete devotion to duty. Kydd made no move to stop Rawson going below with Bowden as juvenile rivalries were now swept away in the horrors of war.

The firing intensified for a period then slackened. Two of the French 80-gun ships veered cable and eased round further away from the English line. This exposed the two grounded ships to heavy fire. The closest lost her fore-topmast, but before it had finally settled over her bow in a snarl of rigging her colours jerked down. The situation was changing fast: another English ship arrived and anchored next to a frigate, which loosed her broadside, then struck her colours.

Kydd's fog of weariness began to lift. The focus of gunfire now shifted to the four remaining ships of the original French line, but Kydd's attention to these was cut short when Houghton sent for him. "Mr Kydd, do you take possession of the French seventy-four."

To take possession? It was every officer's dream to board a vanquished enemy and this day Thomas Kydd would do so! It was incredible, wonderful. All trace of fatigue left him. "Aye aye, sir," he stammered. He had no doubt, however, of why he had been chosen: he could be spared in the continuing conflict—others would continue the fight.

"Carry on, Mr Kydd." Houghton gave a dry smile and turned away.

Kydd's heart rose with pride, but the formalities must be observed. His mind scrambled to recall the procedures as he told a messenger, "Pass the word for Mr Rawson."

The midshipman appeared, his features drawn.

"How does Mr Bowden do?" Kydd asked.

"He's near-missed by a ball. Mr Pybus says he is tolerably sanguine for his life but he's sore concussed an' will need care."

"Which can be arranged, I'd wager," Kydd said. "But now we go t' take possession of the Frenchy yonder," he added briskly. It had the desired effect. The resilience of youth ensured that a smile appeared on the midshipman's face. "Beg Mr Pringle for a half-dozen marines and ask the first lieutenant for a boat's crew." There were things to remember—he had heard of the embarrassment of one lieutenant who had arrived triumphantly aboard a conquered ship but had omitted to bring along a flag to hoist over that of the enemy.

And he had no French to deal with their captives, but that could be remedied: "We'll have Petty Officer Gurnard in the boat." This man, he knew, came from Jersey in the Channel Islands and would have the French like a native.

He wished he could shift from his grey-stained uniform to something more presentable, but all his possessions were struck below in the hold. His cocked hat was passed into the boat, where the crew and marines waited, then Kydd swung over the bulwarks and down the side.

They pulled steadily towards the motionless French ship-of-the-line and as they did so the men began to cheer and whoop— the second vessel aground had lowered her colours. "Silence in the boat!" growled Kydd. He would see to it that the surrender was seemly and in accordance with the strict and ancient customs of the Royal Navy.

As they rounded the stern, they saw, below the shattered windows and trailing ropes, the vessel's name: Heureux. "Means 'happy,' sir," the nuggety Channel Islander offered.

"Thank you, Gurnard," Kydd replied, thinking it an odd name for a ship-of-the-line. "We shall find a better when she's ours, you may depend upon it."

The bowman hooked on at the side steps, ignoring stony looks from the French seamen above. Kydd addressed himself to the task of going up the side. It would be disastrous if he lost his footing or stumbled. He jammed on his hat firmly and, keeping his sword scabbard from between his legs, he heaved himself up.

The noisy jabbering lessened as Kydd stepped aboard. A knot of officers stood before him, their eyes hostile; around them were scores of seamen, staring and resentful. Others were coming up from below, filling the decks.

An older officer with the gold of authority removed his hat and gave a short, stiff bow. Kydd returned it, removing his own hat.

"Je suis Jean Etienne, le capitaine de vaisseau national de France Heureux." His voice was hoarse.

"L'tenant Thomas Kydd, of His Britannic Majesty's Ship Tenacious." Bows were exchanged again as Gurnard translated, the captain's eyes never leaving Kydd's.

"Pour I'honneur de la patrie..."

Gurnard spoke quickly to keep up: it seemed that only in the face of so patently an overwhelming force and the unfortunate absence of their great commander had they been brought to this pass. "He seems t' be much concerned, sir, that you, er, recognise the heroic defence of their vessel ... He says, sir, t' avoid further, um, effusion o' blood it were better they acknowledge their present situation ..."

"Par consequent... a bas le pavilion... je rends le vaisseau."

"An' therefore he must strike his colours and give up the vessel." A hush fell over the upper deck as the word rippled out.

Kydd returned the intense look gravely. "I sympathise with Captain Etienne's position, an' can only admire the courage he an' his ship's company have shown." He searched for more words but it was difficult to suppress the leaping exultation that filled his thoughts. He tried to think of what it must be like to yield up one's ship. "And I do hope, sir, that th' fortune of war sees you soon returned t' a fitting place of honour."

The captain inclined his head and stepped forward. His eyes released Kydd's as he unhooked his sword and scabbard from its belt fastening. There was a pause for just a heartbeat, then Etienne held out the lengthy curved and tasselled weapon in both hands.

It was Kydd's decision: if there had been a truly heroic defence he had an option to return the sword; in this instance, he thought not. With a civil bow he accepted the sword and handed it smoothly to Rawson. Etienne made a courtly bow, then straightened. It was impossible to discern any emotion in his expression.

"Thank you, Captain. I accept th' sword of a gentleman in token of the capitulation o' this vessel." Something like a sigh went up from the watching company as Gurnard spoke the words of finality and closure.

Kydd paused and looked about: this was a memory that would stay with him all his days. He turned to a seaman. "Hoist our colours above th' French at the mizzen peak halliards, if y' please."

Facing Etienne he said directly, "If you'd be good enough to leave the magazine keys with me, sir ..." There was no compromise in his tone: any madman with a taste for glorious suicide could put them all in mortal peril.

Etienne muttered briefly to another officer who left and returned with a bunch of keys, which he handed to Kydd, who gave them to the sergeant of marines. "Now, sir, you are free t' go about your business until I receive my further orders. Good day to you, sir."

Kydd's role was over. The marines had secured the magazines, the French sailors were dispersing below to whatever consolations remained until they were taken in charge. But while he waited to be relieved from Tenacious, Kydd declined, out of respect for the feelings of the officers, to enter the cabin spaces and wardroom and remained on deck.

Absently, his steps led him up to the poop-deck, to Heureux's signal position under the two big flags that floated overhead. He sighed deeply. The bay of Aboukir in the glittering purity of early morning had all the desolation and grandeur of a dying battlefield. Every man-o'-war in the French line stretching away to the north lay in the stillness of surrender, ship after ship, some broken, mastless wrecks, one lying inshore with only her upper-works above water and, closer, a frigate still afire.

Resistance in the south was nearly at an end; the last two ships of the French line had cut their cables and were now fleeing with two frigates—but Nelson was signalling, urging Swiftsure and the others in chase. Only two enemy were left: one was drifting helplessly on the shoals and the other was no more than a defiant wreck that must shortly be silenced by the English ships coming down in reinforcement.

Kydd shook his head in silent admiration. It was a victory on such a scale as never before in history—not merely the winning but the complete annihilation. "Victory" was not strong enough a word to describe what lay before him.

CHAPTER 7

"GLORY BE, IT'S INCREDIBLE!" breathed Rawson, gripped by the glittering expanse of the Bay of Naples covered with hundreds of boats whose joyous passengers shouted and waved wildly. They had come to see Nelson, hero of the Nile, grand conqueror of the dreaded French with their dreams of empire, terminator of the ambitions of the greatest general of the age.

"Be sure an' you'll not see the like o' this again," Kydd responded, equally awestruck. As they drew closer he saw the sea-front, coast roads, quayside and the ramparts of castles all black with massed sightseers.

Sounds of music and the martial thumping of drums came towards them from three flag-bedecked barges rowed abreast in which musicians enthusiastically beat out "Rule Britannia" and "God Save the King." A ceremonial felucca forged into the lead, her foredeck packed with an angelic choir in laurel leaves. Not to be outdone, the noble barges in the colours of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and Great Britain pulled strongly seawards towards the battle-worn men-o'-war.

Kydd glanced astern. Rear Admiral Nelson was standing on the quarterdeck of his flagship. Vanguard was under tow by Tenacious: the foremast that had been repaired after the storm off Toulon and seen her through the long battle had not survived the squally weather they had encountered within sight of Stromboli. Kydd snatched a quick look through his telescope. Over his gold-laced frock-coat the admiral wore a red sash with the resplendent star of the Bath over his breast; spangles of light came from his gold and silver medals. Unmistakable with his empty sleeve pinned up, he stood grave and unmoving in the centre of the quarterdeck from which he had fought his great battle.

Nelson had retained only two of his squadron, Culloden and Alexander—the rest had been dispatched to Gibraltar and tasks about the Mediterranean. He had employed Tenacious to assist his battered ship back to Naples, the only friendly port in a friendless sea.

More boats arrived and the bay filled with noise, colour and excitement. One vessel in particular caught Kydd's eye, a rich and stately barge with an imperious female figure in white gossamer gesticulating hysterically in its prow. He saw at the ensign staff that this was an English official craft of high status, probably the ambassador.

Before he could confirm it, Rawson exclaimed, "Flag, sir—she signals." It was "cast off the tow." Tenacious would round to, and wait for Vanguard with her reduced sail to overtake and precede her into harbour.

The press of boats advanced and one by one the upper-deck guns of Vanguard began to thud—twenty-one for the King. Tenacious followed gun for gun, her brave show of flags streaming out in the smoke. The ambassadorial barge at last reached the flagship, which backed topsails while a small party was helped up the side. A large union flag broke at the mizzen and Vanguard moved ahead slowly to her anchorage.

Even before she had swung to her anchor she was surrounded by clamouring watercraft. Guns banged and thudded from the towered castles ashore as salutes were exchanged and shrieks of feminine delight greeted the thunder of the flagship's guns, which had last spoken at the Nile.

The tide of boats enveloped Tenacious as well. Nobles and wives, courtiers and mistresses, all had come to see the famed warriors of the sea. Renzi's Italian was much in demand as the flower of Neapolitan society was escorted aboard and given a tour of one of Nelson's famed men-o'-war.

A richly ornamented royal barge put off from the shore. "Quickly, lad," Kydd told Rawson. "Rouse out y'r Naples standard an' as many ensigns as y' can find. Hoist 'em for breaking at fore, main 'n' mizzen." The navy had a way of invisibly hoisting a flag and setting it a-fly at exactly the right time, by folding the bunting tightly and passing a hitch round it. At the signal a sharp tug on the halliard would burst it open to float proudly on the wind.

The royal barge headed directly for the flagship and curious eyes made out the long figure of the King in black velvet and gold lace as he joined the ambassador on the quarterdeck of Nelson's ship, then went below. An hour later the King returned on deck, to resume his ceremonial barge for his return, Admiral Nelson prominently at his side.

"Gentlemen!" Houghton called for attention, holding a paper. "Tonight every officer of the fleet shall be a guest at a grand official banquet in our honour. I desire each of you to exert every effort in your appearance ..."

In the evening twilight boats of the fleet made their way inshore. As each pinnace touched at the quayside it was met with surging crowds and strident huzzahs of Bravissimo! Nelson, il vincitore di Abukir! The officers stepped ashore in a cloud of flapping birds released by fishermen.

Open-top carriages whisked them away, through noisy, ecstatic crowds, into the maze of streets behind the massive fortress that dominated the foreshore, and after a short journey they arrived in the courtyard of a dark stone Romanesque building.

They were handed down by liveried footmen, and conducted into a reception room entirely in red and gold, with extravagantly ornate chandeliers. For Kydd, the simple blue, white and gold of the naval officers stood out clean and noble against such overpowering opulence.

A receiving line was in progress at the opposite end of the room. Officers conversed self-consciously as they waited their turn while servants bore round flutes of iced champagne. It all had a giddying impact on Kydd's senses. He glanced at Renzi, who winked.

"You have met General Acton?" a nearby equerry asked.

"L'tenant Kydd, HMS Tenacious, an' I have yet t' make His Excellency's acquaintance," Kydd replied, remembering what he had been told: Acton was the English-born prime minister of Naples, known afar as a master diplomatist.

The room filled with more blue and gold, the champagne came round again, and Kydd found himself being politely addressed by the general, who was arrayed in a handsome embroidered uniform, complete with a sash at the waist. Kydd had taken the precaution of having Renzi move through the line before him, so his civil inclination of the head and his polite notice of the austere woman at the general's side was a model of urbanity.

Others arrived: one Italianate officer, improbably in black leather buskins, had a large scimitar hanging from a broad belt, his moustache working with the effort of conveying his emotions at the magnificent victory.

A short peal of trumpets in the next room summoned all to dinner. Kydd knew his duty, and as a junior officer obediently entered the banquet hall among the first, and was ushered to a table far from the place of honour awaiting its hero. A small ensemble in sordina delicately picked its way through "Rule Britannia" while the purple and gold banquet hall filled with sea officers trying hard to appear unaffected by the magnificence.

"Boyd, third o' the Alexander." The cherubic officer on Kydd's right introduced himself.

"Kydd, fifth o' Tenacious. An' proud t' take the hand of any out o' the ship I saw so handsomely take th' admiral under tow in that blow off Corsica."

Boyd broke into a grin, which widened when the officer opposite Kydd leaned over to offer his hand as well. "Aye, that was clean done indeed," he rumbled, his older face creased with memory. "You should really have been there to see Our Nel in a passion, shaking his fist at Alexander for disobedience in not casting off the tow. Oh—Hayward of Vanguard," he added.

A lieutenant from the flagship attracted interest immediately, but Hayward deflected it by addressing Kydd. "Tenacious—was it not an impudence for a sixty-four to lay herself alongside an eighty and have at her?"

Kydd chuckled. "We saw our chance when one o' the French fell out o' the line. It gave us a berth off the stern o' Franklin an' we didn't waste our powder."

The conversations died as the orchestra trailed off into silence and all eyes turned to the doorway. Then it burst into a rapturous "See The Conquering Hero Comes!" as General Acton appeared with Nelson, who looked frail and tired but was clearly enjoying the occasion.

They processed up the room together, each table rising to clap and huzzah the commander as he passed. At the high table Nelson stood in his place for a moment, looking out over his officers, who had achieved so much in his name, then bowed low to left and right. A storm of cheering erupted that continued long after he had taken his seat.

Excited conversation resumed while soup appeared in gold-rimmed bowls; Kydd was now experienced enough at formal dinners not to expect it to be hot.

"Damme, but this is a night to remember," said Boyd, dipping his spoon with gusto. "Can't say, however, as I'd know any of 'em up there with His Nibs," he added, nodding at the high table, which seemed to be populated mainly with Mediterranean-looking notables.

"It's a puzzler t' me," Kydd said, "why the King's not here as well t' welcome the admiral."

"Why, it's not such a mystery," Renzi said calmly, helping himself to a sweetbread sautie.

The others, not knowing Renzi, raised their eyebrows.

"Our noble host is the prime minister, no less, of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, a certain John Acton—who also happens to be an Englishman employed in that post. The King dare not show his approbation of our late action in too formal a manner with the French at his borders and a treaty in place—but he cannot, of course, prevent a display of natural feelings at such a victory from an English national ..."

"Do ye think we'll meet the King, Nicholas?" Kydd asked.

"I do—but in another place, I believe."

"And the ambassador, you would say he is diplomatically absent from a private party, will you not?" Hayward said half defensively.

"Indeed. That would serve to avoid adding moment to the occasion."

Hayward leaned back. "You seem unusually well informed for a sea officer, Renzi."

"I was at Naples on—on another occasion, sir. I had reason then to be grateful to the ambassador for his politeness in the matter of accommodation. A charming host of another age: a learned gentleman whose shining qualities and lucid brain mark him out far above the common run."

He had the table's attention so continued, "He has served in post since 'sixty-four, and there is not overmuch he does not know about the character of your Neapolitan. A sprightly man, if I might remark it, he is accounted the best dancer in the palace and is greatly esteemed by the Royal Family, thereby being of inestimable value to the cause of Great Britain."

"But he's of an age, I gather," Boyd mumbled, through his haunch of lamb.

"Perhaps, but he has married a young wife who keeps him in spirits. Her entertainments are legendary, you may believe. Thirty-five years his younger, but they are devoted."

"What's his name?" demanded Kydd.

"His name? Sir William Hamilton—his wife, Emma."

The attention of the officers returned to the food. "Be sure to accord that dish the homage it deserves," said Renzi to Boyd, who had begun to address a creamy rice platter with tiny white shavings arranged neatly on top. "Those are the immortal white truffles of Alba, and will amply reward your delicacy in the tasting."

The courses came and went; the din of conversation increased with the flow of wine and the need to try to put aside the stark imagery of recent times.

"You know, we missed by a whisker bringing the French to battle while they were still at sea," said Hayward reflectively. "That day when we couldn't find 'em near Malta and thought they'd gone to the westward? It seems that those frigates we chased off were scouts ahead of their main fleet—while we were hove to in our council-of-war they crossed our wake."

There were wry grins but several officers stared at the tablecloth and others had furrowed brows. Boyd broke the spell. "Er, Kydd, were you not out in a boat at the Nile?"

The images rushed in. "Aye, I was ..." But it was impossible to find the words to describe the events of that night and he ended muttering at his plate.

"I'll tell you a singular thing," said a neat-featured man to the right. "Innes, Swiftsure. After the Frenchy blew itself to kingdom come, Ben Hallowell, our Owner, thought to fish out of the sea a good stout length o' the Frenchy's mainmast. Then has the audacity to get Chips to make it up into a coffin, which he then presents to his admiral. And well received it was, by all accounts."

"It was indeed," Hayward agreed. "Keeps it by him in his sea-cabin."

"How singular," murmured Renzi.

"But th' hero of our age!" Kydd said vigorously, glancing up to the table where the admiral held court among his noble admirers. He turned to Hayward. "Our Nel—I've heard such cat-blash about his character. Is it true? How do you ..."

Hayward stroked his chin. "A man of strong views and stronger convictions. And only two words will serve with him— 'duty' and 'honour.' Woe betide any officer who forgets himself in this particular—he's as merciless as Jove.

"Yet the men love him, and he feels his captains are, as Shakespeare has it in Henry V, a band of brothers. When he's to hand, you believe that nothing can fail. But this is not to say he ignores the lower orders—I've seen him climb the miz-zen shrouds to show a green midshipman the way, and you'll all have seen his order book filled the half over with instructions for the well-being of the lower deck."

Innes turned to Hayward and asked, "Has he married?"

"Yes, but I've never met the lady. I've heard he took her as a widow in the Caribbean. No children."

Laughter gusted and swelled around them and the mood changed. "Renzi, if you've been here before, pray tell us the essence of the place," Innes said, abstracting the largest piece of roast hare.

"Ah—Naples. The seat of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, ruled by Ferdinand the Fourth, lately in treaty of amity with the French. The Queen is sister to Marie Antoinette, and has her views on the character of the French nation. The court has been termed grotesque and cruel, although the people adore their king—"

"Belay all that, if y' please," Kydd interrupted pleasantly. "Should we want t' step ashore, what diversions c'n we expect?"

"Naples? That Goethe considers the third city of the world? A tolerable number of diverting entertainments—we have Vesuvius, which swallowed the Roman Pompeii, an inordinate number of churches, arts and cultures—"

Kydd smiled ruefully at the others.

"—but in all this we have to remember that there are Jacobin spies on every corner, those who would slit a throat for two piastres and ladies who must be accounted the most rapacious of their species. And shameless ..." Renzi finished.

A sudden roar of acclamation went up from the table next to them as the officers lurched to their feet to raise their glasses to Nelson, who moved on and stood quite near Kydd. "Wine with you, gentlemen!" he said, handing over his glass for refreshing. "Our late victory owes all to my gallant band of officers, whose conduct was in the highest traditions of our Service. To the health of His Majesty!"

"Damnation to th' French, sir!" Warm with wine Kydd's elation was rising. "Success attend ye always—an' in a bumper!"

Nelson gave a short bow and looked at him quizzically. Kydd had an impression of a deeply incised face haggard with fatigue, a slight, almost delicate body, flint-like gaze and febrile energy.

"Kydd, is it not? Aft through the hawse, and now an ornament to his profession."

Speechless with pleasure, Kydd bowed awkwardly. "Th-thank you, sir," he stammered.

Officers scrambled to set their glasses a-brim. "To you, Sir Horatio! And Old England's glory!"

Tenacious would have to wait her turn for repair at the Castellammare dockyard, a dozen miles across the wide bay. In the meantime there seemed no reason why the delights of the city should not be sampled.

"See Naples and die!" Renzi murmured, as the two friends stepped ashore. From the time of their adventures in Venice, Kydd had known that Renzi had been on the Grand Tour expected of the gentility and had visited many cities in Europe. He knew little more other than that he had been accompanied by a dissolute companion who had extended his education into areas Renzi refused to speak of, yet at the same time had also kindled in him a deep love of learning.

"How fine t' play the hero," Kydd said, as they strode together down the broad seafront road. On every side passers-by waved and cheered, while women threw flowers over them. A Neapolitan officer stopped before them and bowed elegantly, rising with an elaborate gesture of welcome.

"Why, thank ye, sir," Kydd said happily, seeing the pleased surprise on the officer's face at Renzi's gracious reply.

Beggars hobbled towards them and small boys ran up chanting. Kydd made to find a coin but Renzi pulled him on. "These are the lazzaroni—if you give to one you'll have the whole city round your ears." Leaving the seafront they went up into narrow streets past meat stalls, joiners working in the street, hucksters, pedlars, performers. After the purity of the sea every port had a characteristic smell for all sailors—that in Naples was compounded from the garlic-laden pasta cooking on every street corner, a universal underlying odour of fish and the ordure of horses.

"Where are we bound, Nicholas?" Kydd asked.

"You wished to see the sights of Naples. If we are fortunate we will soon have the opportunity to take our fill of the most diverting curiosities ..."

Not far from the royal palace Renzi pointed out, a little further up the hilly streets, a relatively modest building. Kydd saw it bore the arms of Great Britain. "The embassy?"

"Of course. I am to renew acquaintance with Sir William Hamilton and his amusing wife, I believe."

The doorman accepted Renzi's card and ushered them both into a drawing room. Presently a tall, aristocratic gentleman with striking eyes and a hooked nose entered, holding Renzi's card and looking puzzled. "Lieutenant Renzi?" He looked at them keenly, then suddenly exclaimed, "Mr Laughton! You have the advantage of me, sir, I had no knowledge of your arrival, and—"

"Sir, I am known in the sea service as Lieutenant Renzi."

Kydd had long known of his friend's past, and how, for deeply held moral conviction in respect of a family act resulting in the suicide of a youth, he had self-sentenced himself to a period of exile in the fo'c'sle of a man-o'-war. Renzi had taken the name of an obscure medieval monk, who had placed the love of learning above the distractions of the world.

"Very well." The keen eyes rested for a moment longer on him, then shifted to Kydd.

"Sir, may I present Mr Thomas Kydd, a lieutenant in the Royal Navy who is my particular friend."

"The honour is all mine, gentlemen, to be in the presence of two such who have lately met with so much success in the destruction of England's enemies."

Kydd and Renzi bowed, and Hamilton went on, "Regrettably my wife cannot receive you as she is at this moment with the Queen."

"Sir, do not stand on ceremony for our sake. My friend wishes merely to make the acquaintance of the author of the celebrated Campi Phlegraei, to perhaps view some small curiosities, treasures of an enquiring mind."

Hamilton's expression eased. "You were always of a persuasion to discover your classical education at source, as I remember, Mr Lau—Mr Renzi." His intelligent eyes turned on Kydd. "Do you, sir, know aught of the Pausilypon, the Serapeum of Puteoli, perhaps?"

"It would please me well t' see 'em at first hand, if that were possible," Kydd said stoutly. His answer would serve whether these were places or things.

Renzi hurried to his rescue: "Since I have been absent, sir, has progress been made at all on the discoveries of Herculaneum?"

"Indeed so! Should you be at leisure on the morrow, it is my practice, as you may recollect, to mount to the rim of Vesuvius in the interests of science. It would certainly be possible to visit Ercolano on our way. Might I suggest the hour of eight o' clock?"

Herculaneum turned out to be a dusty expanse of crumbling ruins, picked over by paid labourers and dilettantes. Kydd was glad they had taken the precaution of shifting to shore clothing and stout shoes.

Renzi was in his element, happily exchanging observations on the House of Argus, Pliny the Elder and other unpronounceable names. Kydd was glad for him, but it seemed an age before they resumed their carriage and made for the colossal, glowering presence of the volcano.

"Has it been, er, angry at all since ..."

Hamilton smiled. "We had a brisk entertainment in 'seventy-nine, certainly, and have had some alarums since. But had you confided your unease to me before we left I could have provided you with a phial of the blood of San Gennaro, which infallibly protects those who venture on the slopes of Vesuvius."

"That won't be necessary," said Kydd, and stared out at the scrubby countryside. It grew thin and bare and, with a sudden thrill, he caught sight of the first brown-black hardened lava flows. A little further on the carriage stopped at a small gathering of waiting retainers and horses.

"We shall ride to the end of the track, gentlemen. Then we will be obliged to walk the rest of the way." Hamilton swung astride a pony and led the party in single file up a steep path that wound round the massive flanks of the volcano. They rode in silence, the uneasy quiet and garish rocks speaking to Kydd of a devilish underworld that lay beneath him ready to explode at any moment.

The soil lost the last of its vegetation, its colour now an inflamed dull red. Then the track petered out and the horses were slipping on the grey-black cinder that covered everything in sight. "Now we walk," Hamilton said, and dismounted.

They trudged up an incline, the cinders crunching underfoot. The acrid pungency of the volcano hung on the air. Renzi glanced at Kydd's set face and grinned. "You are in the best of hands, brother. Sir William's writings on the character of volcanoes are applauded throughout the civilised world."

Kydd muttered, in a low voice, "Y' know well that I can't abide fire—and now y' asks me to look on the fires o' hell itself."

Hamilton affected not to hear. "I'd give half my fortune to be in England when they receive news of your famous victory."

Renzi chuckled. "There'll be a scramble on 'Change, I'd wager," he said. "Pitt will see his chance to turn the credit to hard coin—it will quite put the opposition to the blush."

"No doubt," said Hamilton, regarding Renzi curiously. "But you must appreciate that the greater effect will be here. Conceive of it—not just a victory over the French but their annihilation! They now have no means to support their claim to the Mediterranean. In short, the careful building of colonies and garrisons since you were driven from the Mediterranean is as nothing now. All are isolated and ripe for our seizing, one by one and at our convenience.

"You will be aware that Turkey has declared against France and is opening the Dardanelles to our ships. Austria is much heartened—as you will know the Queen of Naples is the daughter of an Austrian emperor and is now in raptures. Dare we hope that a Second Coalition is possible?"

Renzi nodded quietly.

A crooked smile appeared on Hamilton's face. "But what I relish most is the sure knowledge that at this very moment the first general of France, Napoleon Buonaparte, is stranded helplessly in the deserts of Egypt with above thirty thousand of his best troops—and no hope of rescue."

Kydd swelled with pride. Their hard chase and heroic battle had brought about an abrupt change in the balance of power of far more significance than any of the endless land battles he had heard about. And all this could rightly be ascribed to the achievement of one man: Horatio Nelson.

"We're masters of the Mediterranean for now, sir," Renzi said respectfully. "What do you see as our probable future course?"

Hamilton's low chuckle was almost inaudible. "We have won a great victory, Mr Renzi, but we have by no means won a war. We are sadly beset on all sides, with precious few friends and no recognisable strategy for turning defence to aggression."

A fragment of low cloud enveloped them in a cool embrace, its sombre light depressing. Then it dissipated and the warm sun returned. Stopping suddenly, Hamilton turned and pointed to the Bay of Naples below, a breathtaking sweep of scores of miles. "There, sir, beyond the point of Posillipo, it is there you should ask your question."

"Bacoli?" said Renzi, puzzled.

"No. I speak of the cave of the Cumaean sybil, which still exists. Perhaps you should seek your future at the feet of the prophetess, receive your oracle as did so many from distant lands in the time of the ancients."

The three stood on the flank of the volcano, held by the vast panorama with all its beauty and antiquity. "I believe we must press on—it's another hour yet," Hamilton said, glancing down the track to where a laden mule and servants followed behind them.

Eventually the ground levelled and they found themselves standing on the rim of Vesuvius. Kydd felt his palms sweat in a way they never had even at the height of the battle, for the track was only a few feet wide, meandering along next to the colossal maw of the volcano. A Stygian stink of steam and sulphur hung on the air, but to Kydd's mingled relief and disappointment there was no heaving hell of fire in the interior, merely dead scree slopes and untidy heaps of grey ash from which vapours issued.

While Renzi helped Hamilton with his stakes, chain measures and thermometers, Kydd wandered along the path, fascinated and repelled. It felt like some great sleeping beast that was harmless until a careless act woke it to terrible life. He was not sorry when Hamilton concluded his work and they set off down the track to the horses.

When they arrived it was already late afternoon and a spectacular sunset promised to the west, directly at their feet.

"Sir," Renzi said suddenly, "it would gratify my spirit beyond words were we to linger a while to partake in the close of this day ..."

Hamilton grunted as he heaved himself up on to his pony. "I understand you, Renzi, please believe me, but tonight I am to receive someone who has travelled far, and must prepare. Should you wish, however, I shall send my carriage back for you."

"That is most kind in you, Sir William," Renzi said, with a bow.

Kydd sighed with exasperation, but as he had seen in the South Seas, Renzi was always most at peace in the midst of one of nature's displays and it would not be a kindness to fret about moving on. They settled on the cinders and watched the unfolding beauty. "And afterwards, dear friend, we shall sample the entertainments of the night at the first hand," Renzi said softly.

There was peace of a kind here, on the flanks of a volcano that had devoured all of two ancient towns, but to Kydd it was the peace of the dead. What he could not get out of his mind was the magnitude of their recent success—and all the consequence of a single mind's contriving and command.

" 'Like madness is the glory of this life,'" Renzi murmured, his eyes fixed on the gathering rose and gold display.

"What was that you said, Nicholas?" Kydd asked politely.

His eyes still on the gathering sunset, Renzi declaimed, "'Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch of the ranged empire fall. Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay.'"

Kydd frowned. "That's as may be, Nicholas, but you'll agree, we've a famous victory t' be proud of."

Renzi, rapt with the heavenly closing ceremony of the day, said nothing.

"I've been thinking about things," Kydd said seriously.

"Working through m' life, y' understand."

"Oh? What did you conclude, brother?" Renzi answered distantly.

Kydd held on to his temper. "I was considering m' position in the light o' recent events," he said.

"Ah, yes."

"Do ye want t' hear, or no?"

Renzi turned to Kydd. "Of course, dear fellow—do fill and stand on, as it were."

Kydd caught his breath. It was difficult enough to put into words the powerful feelings he had found within him, the insight into himself that he sensed was there for the perceiving. "It's—it's that steppin' ashore a hero, I—I find it agreeable, is all."

"Some would find it diverting," Renzi murmured, his attention clearly elsewhere.

"What I mean is—if y' take my meaning—I'd rather it were me, my doing, my victory." His eyes burned. "Is it so necessary to crave pardon f'r the sin of ambition? Why should it not be me?"

"Indeed, why not?" Renzi said drily, then noticing Kydd's anger he sat up. "That is to say, it would be well to reflect that to be in the character of a hero necessarily involves elements of chance as well as merit."

Kydd glowered at him. "Chance? O' course there's chance. Was it mischance or luck that had me in the Horse 'n' Groom sinking an ale just when th' press-gang went in? Or when Seaflower went ashore over the reef in that hurricanoe?

"I don't deal in logic overmuch—I've seen too much o' how quick the world c'n go all ahoo to worry about plotting m' course too far ahead. But what I've learned—an' it's a lesson well taken—is that when things are on the flood f'r you, take it in both hands an' clap on all sail. If it's going a-foul then snug down an' ride it out without whining."

"This is an observation I cannot disallow."

"I've been fortunate, this I'll be th' first t' admit to—a foremast hand crossed t' the quarterdeck. But who's t' say that this is an end to my portion o' luck? Where will I go to next?"

"Quite so. Be you always ready for anything that chances by."

"No!" Kydd snapped. "That is not what I'm going t' do."

"Er—"

"I've seen how a reg'lar-built hero goes about it. Nelson—is he one t' wait for what comes his way? Heaves to 'n' waits f'r the enemy to sail over to him? No! He makes his chances by rising up an' seizing 'em."

Renzi watched him but made no comment.

Kydd folded his arms. "You see, Nicholas, from this day forward, I'm t' make my own luck. Like Adm'ral Nelson I'm looking for my chances an' taking 'em the very instant I see them. An' if that means perils an' hazard t' me, then this is what I must do, an' I hope I won't prove shy in that hour."

As the heat of his words cooled he gave an awkward smile. "So y' see—I mean t' make something of m'self, is all."

Looking at him seriously, Renzi said quietly, "This I can see, brother. Let us pray it leads you not into tempestuous waters some day."

"Nicholas, be sure an' this is what I mean—"

" 'Finish, good sir; the bright day is done, and we are for the dark ...'"

Heat built quickly in the morning calm. The ships lay listlessly at anchor in the bay and Kydd and Renzi walked languidly about the decks of Tenacious. The gunports were triced open to allow the small zephyrs to bring some measure of relief to the humid conditions in the 'tween decks.

Boarding nettings were not rigged below them, less in respect of the unlikelihood of unfriendly visitors than in recognition of the disinclination of seamen to desert in such an unfamiliar port.

Bumboats, however, were always to be seen alongside, hoping to entice sailors through the open gunports with gew-gaws.

Wiping his forehead, Kydd tried to ignore his dull nausea and uncertain footing, and asked Renzi, "Tell me true, did you mark what th' dwarf was doing with the blackamoor and the straps?"

Renzi avoided his eye. "I rather feel that on this occasion we were unfairly gulled into a lower class of entertainment owing to our—our agreeable acquaintance with the famed Lachryma Christi wine."

Kydd peered over the side at the bumboats, but he was not an officer-of-the-watch in harbour: this was a job for a master's mate who would turn sullen if advised of his duties by an idle officer. Signals were now in abeyance: in port the admiral would distribute his orders and dispatches by midshipman and boat, and in any case it was rumoured that Nelson had accepted an offer of hospitality from Sir William Hamilton and was staying ashore in their house, resting.

Treading carefully around three seamen who were eyeing him warily, he noted that their splicing and bolt-rope sewing had not progressed far since his and Renzi's last turn round the deck, for this was the second occasion that the boatswain had been too "ill" to take charge of his men.

It was inevitable, the toll on discipline and spirit in a harbour of such allure. Rawson and Bowden had sampled the delights together, overstayed their leave and were now confined to the ship, while Adams was refusing morosely to show his face ashore after a mysterious encounter involving a lady.

Other incidents were more serious: one seaman had been brought back by his messmates stabbed in the neck, and over fifty were unfit for work. It was proving difficult to overcome the lassitude that seemed to pervade the air after their recent extremity of effort.

With Houghton and Bryant away up country inspecting fortifications, Bampton had been left acting captain and at seven bells there was the depressingly more frequent "clear lower deck— hands to witness punishment."

"Sir, Henry Soulter has been a top-rate petty officer an' fo'c'sle hand, always ready t' step forward when there's perilous duty to be done—"

"It's not his character that's at question now, Mr Kydd," Bampton said acidly, "it's his actions. Did he or did he not make threatening gestures and thereafter strike Laffin, boatswain's mate?"

Kydd stifled a weary sigh. He had the essence of the matter from Soulter's friends. Inflamed by unaccustomed grappa, Soulter, a gifted seaman and steady hand, had responded too readily to taunting of a personal nature from Laffin and had laid into him. Unfortunately this had been witnessed by Pringle, the captain of marines, who had thought it his business to take the matter further.

It was splitting hairs as to whether Laffin was in fact Soulter's superior, but if it were so adjudged then it was a very serious matter indeed, requiring a court-martial and the death penalty not discounted.

"Aye, sir. Soulter admits th' charge, but states that it was under much provocation that—"

"There can be no extenuating circumstances in a crime of this nature, Mr Kydd," said Bampton, importantly. "If he admits the charge ..."

Kydd's temper rose. Soulter was in his division and he knew his value, but now Bampton was playing God with them both. "He does," Kydd snapped.

"So, striking a superior. This is a grave charge, Soulter."

"Sir," Soulter said woodenly.

Bampton let it hang, then said, "This should result in your court-martial, you villain. How do you feel about that?"

"Sir."

"However, in this instance I am prepared to be lenient. Mr Kydd?"

"Sir, I'm certain Soulter did not intend a disrespect t' his superior and now regrets his acts," he said stolidly. Kydd knew that Bampton would never hand a court-martial to Houghton on his return and felt nothing but contempt for the show he was making.

"Very well. Soulter, you are to be disrated as of this hour and shall shift your hammock forward immediately."

Soulter's eyes glowed, then went opaque.

"And you shall be entered in the master-at-arms' black book for one month."

This was shabby treatment indeed: the man would revert to common seaman and Laffin would therefore have free rein to indulge his revenge. Not only that: for a month Soulter would be cleaning heads and mess-decks before all the seamen of whom he had been in charge before.

The men were dismissed and went below for the noon meal. Kydd sat at the wardroom table without appetite. It could have been worse—at least there were no lashes awarded for an act that was so predictable for top fighting seamen kept in idleness in a port of this nature. He would see to it that Soulter was reinstated at the first opportunity. Kydd brightened: he knew Soulter was a popular petty officer, fair and hard-working. By the unwritten rules of the lower deck he would have been seen to be unjustly treated and therefore would not be demeaned before the others by his impositions.

"I'm getting t' be a mort weary of Naples, m' friend," Kydd said reluctantly. "It's not a place f'r your right true shellback."

Renzi did not hasten to offer a further run ashore. Kydd had noticed his distaste for the squalor of some streets. Renzi was no prude but Kydd had a feeling that it sat uneasily with the classical splendours that filled his head.

After a space Renzi said smoothly, "You wish to depart these shores? Before you have been introduced to culture of altogether a different sort, an evening of entertainment of a far more ... decorous nature?"

"Oh?" said Kydd, without enthusiasm.

"An invitation from Sir William that even the admiral feels it an honour to accept ..."

"Nelson!"

"A select few will be there, you may be sure. The ambassador honours us greatly for our interest in antiquity, and should you be absent, it will be noticed, I fear."

"But Nelson—an' probably some of his captains?"

"Almost certainly."

In the warm dusk Kydd ran his finger about the constricting circle of the stock round his neck, irritated as well by the tickling of the frilly starched jabot under his chin. He consoled himself that a naval officer's full-dress uniform was a trial at times but was far easier than the elaborate frogging and tight pantaloons of the army.

The Palazzo Sessa was ablaze with lights and rich banners flew from each corner of the building, crowds massed outside hoping to catch a glimpse of the hero of the hour. The two officers passed through the doorway to cheers from the excited people. After the dimness of a violet dusk the light of massed chandeliers was overpowering, highlighting rose-bloomed faces and sparkling jewellery over ample bosoms.

"I say, you're Kydd of Tenacious, are you not?" The left epaulette and single ring at the cuff proclaimed him a commander, a captain in the quaint naval way of an unrated ship, even if he was younger than Kydd.

"Aye, sir," said Kydd.

"My father has mentioned you," he said, with just a hint of the supercilious. "But I see these knaves are neglecting you. Here," he neatly abstracted a champagne flute from a passing tray, "should we not be well primed to salute the honour of the all-conquering Nelson?"

He took a long pull at his glass before Kydd could recollect himself enough to utter an unconvincing "Sir Horatio—victor o' the seas!"

"Yes, well. Must make my number with Carraciolo, the bumbling fool." He thrust through the assembly and was lost.

Kydd looked round for Renzi and found him talking with a thick-set post-captain who stood bolt upright, the champagne flute in his fist looking diminutive. "Ah, Kydd, please make the acquaintance of Captain Troubridge."

"Sir, a pleasure t' see you again. An' dare I offer m' consolation on Culloden takin' the ground as she did and missing the sport?"

"Damn charts—but a glorious occasion, hey?"

Kydd caught a sight of the commander he had spoken to before. On impulse he asked, "Sir, are you acquainted with th' officer over there speakin' to the lady in blue?"

"I am," Troubridge answered, looking at Kydd oddly. "That's the captain of Bonne Citoyenne and, as you should know, he is also Nelson's son."

"I—I—"

"Step-son, that is to say. Josiah Nisbet."

"I see. Thank ye, sir."

The buzz of conversation increased, then fell away quickly as a hush spread over the room. A trio was coming down a staircase that led from the apartments above: the ambassador with Nelson and between them, an arm on each, a cherubic but striking lady whom Kydd had not seen before but who must be Emma, Lady Hamilton.

The hush was broken by a single cry of "Viva il conquistatore!" It was taken up all over the room in a bedlam of joyous shouts. Nelson, in his splendid decorations, responded by beaming and bowing to left and right.

Lady Hamilton struck an imperious pose and cried, "Avast, all ye! I present Duke Nelson, Marquis Nile, Baron Alexandria, Viscount Pyramid, Baron Crocodile and the Prince of Victory!"

Laughter and patriotic cries burst out and the three descended into the gathering. Presently the ambassador held up his hands for silence. "For those who love Naples, an evening of civilisation. Pray come with me, let the entertainments begin!"

In the drawing room a semicircle of elegant chairs in two rows faced a small ensemble of harpsichord to one side, two violins to the other. The musicians remained in a bowed position while the guests settled.

Kydd found a chair in the second row from which he could see Nelson and the Hamiltons. They were in fine form, Sir William animated and relaxed while his lady seemed to be in full flood of sociability towards her distinguished guest. Nelson appeared equally engaged, his responses to Lady Hamilton's sallies almost boyish in their artlessness.

Hamilton rose and faced his guests. "I know you will be amazed and delighted when I tell you that I have persuaded the famed tenor Romualdo Farrugia to perform for us tonight. He will begin with Pergolesi's 'Lo frate 'nnamorato,' of course in the original Neapolitan dialect ..."

Next to Kydd Renzi stirred with interest. "Farrugia! What a coup! In opera buffo the finest in all Naples—which is to say the world."

A short, dark man in an extravagantly rich costume strode out and bowed low, then fixed his audience with a fierce gaze. A cascade of notes on the harpsichord concluded with entry of the violin continuo and the piece began. It was magnificent: the effortless power of his voice infused every note with its full charge of emotion and significance. Kydd had never heard anything like it.

The singer retired to a storm of applause. Hamilton rose and turned to the guests. "Equally fortunate is it that the noted soprano Bellina Cossi is delaying her return to Vienna to perform for us tonight. She sings about a shepherdess at the banks of a river who does not feel inclined to waste herself on a lukewarm lover ... Of course this is the Scarlatti cantata 'Su'l margine d'un rio.'"

The beauty of the crystal clear notes, their passion and tenderness moved Kydd and he felt detached from his hardy sea life. The music, just as it had in Venice, lifted him into an untouchable realm of the spirit. In a warm haze he heard Hamilton announce a duet—a scene from a recent Cimarosa opera, Le Astutzie Femminili. He let the music wash deliciously over him, and was sincerely sorry when it was over.

"An intermission," Hamilton announced, "but do not despair. We shall shortly have our own particular entertainment for you ..."

The scraping of chairs and murmured conversations were muted under the lingering spell of the music, but livened as the guests partook of sweetmeats and Lachryma Christi. They returned to stand informally about the front of the room.

"Are you prepared?" called Hamilton. "Then—Act the first!"

First one, then another black man in turban and baggy trousers came through the door. Naked from the waist up they carried between them a long scarlet curtain on brass rods. Intrigued, the guests watched as the men took position; they bowed and when they rose, so did the rods, suspending the curtain in a creditable imitation of a miniature stage.

"Ah! I believe I know what is to come," said Renzi. Mysterious bumps and scrapes sounded from behind the curtain. Urgent whispers could be heard, and then Hamilton emerged. "Ecce!" he called—and swept aside the curtain.

At first Kydd could not make out what was happening, but then he saw that it was Lady Hamilton in a theatrical pose, standing motionless before a large upright seashell in a flowing classical Greek robe, all composed within an empty picture frame. Candles were held artfully by the ambassador to throw a dramatic light upon her. Kydd was astonished at the diaphanous material of her gown, which left little to the imagination, and a decollete that would be thought risque even at the theatre. At the same time he saw that the chubbiness had not extinguished a very real beauty—an expressive and angelic face raised to heaven that was the quintessence of innocence.

"Aphrodite rises fr'm the waves!" Several shouts vied with each other. They were rewarded with a smile from the enchantress and then the curtain closed. It opened again to a different pose: an ardent, lovelorn entwining around the branch of a tree, beseeching an unseen figure, and still in the filmy gown.

"Glycera frolicking with Alcibiades!" A slight frown appeared while protracted but jovial disputation took place.

"Cleopatra and Antony receive the news!" called Renzi at length, to be thrown a dazzling smile. Kydd looked to see how Nelson was receiving the entertainment and was startled to see the gallant admiral wildly applauding each manifestation, always gracefully acknowledged by Lady Hamilton.

Places were resumed for the second half, Dorabella and Guglielmo from Cost Fan Tutte. Kydd had seen Lady Hamilton sit with Nelson again, her arm laid on his and not removed. He glanced about: no one seemed to have noticed except possibly Troubridge, who stared forward stonily.

The plot of the scene was whispered brokenly by Renzi. It seemed to be nothing but unlikely disguises and trifling complications following a wager, but the music carried Kydd along once more.

At the end, Hamilton thanked the performers and added, "Our entertainment is concluded for tonight, my friends and honoured guests. The hour is late, but for those who wish to indulge there is a faro table in the next room."

The guests rose in a babble of excited talk as Hamilton and his lady escorted Nelson to the next room. "What do we do now, Nicholas?" Kydd whispered.

"At this hour we have the civilised choice: to linger or depart immediately," Renzi replied. "Nothing will be imputed from our actions."

"Would it be at all curious, should we desire t' see a faro table without we play?"

"I don't think so, brother," Renzi said. They moved into the next room where already a large card table was set out. Lady Hamilton stood behind Nelson, urging him excitedly. A footman offered iced champagne, which Kydd found most acceptable in the heat of the night.

Feeling happy and expansive, Kydd remarked to Renzi, "Y'r foreign cant is all pedlar's Greek t' me, Nicholas, but the music! I have t' say, it leaves me with th' hot shivers."

Renzi nodded. "Of the first rate. The pity is to escape it in Naples. In the nursery, your tradesman in the street, all are singing from the heart wherever they be. A truly gifted people."

It seemed there were others who wished to linger, some at the gaming table, others promenading before the inattentive hero of the Nile. Kydd accepted another glass of champagne while he looked about the room. "Have ye noticed? We're the only l'tenants," he said proudly, discounting the indeterminate Neapolitan army officers. It was an agreeable observation and he sighed with the sheer joy of the moment.

"So it seems," said Renzi, turning to see the origin of raised voices.

It was Nisbet. The young commander had approached the faro table and confronted his step-father, red-faced, his cravat hanging askew. From their distance it was impossible for Kydd and Renzi to make out the words, but the reaction of bystanders was eloquent enough.

There was a scuffle and more shouting, and in a room suddenly quiet Troubridge and another officer frogmarched Nisbet past them and into the night. The room burst into horrified talk; Lady Hamilton stared after them, her face chalk-like.

A colonel lurched towards Kydd, telling everyone he could find of what he had heard. "Damme, but his own son near calls him out—dishonouring his mother's name—tells his own admiral where his duty lies! Who could conceive of it?" he bellowed gleefully.

Houghton held up his hand for silence. "And so it will be hard for me to take my leave of Tenacious, a ship we have all grown to love and respect, but the needs of the Service must rise above all."

"Hear him! Hear him!" The wardroom resounded to the thump of hands on the table, the rattle of glasses.

"But who can say, gentlemen? We may meet again—at sea." Knowing growls indicated that it was not lost on the officers at the table that Houghton was going on to the command of a powerful 74, the mainstay of the line-of-battle, and it would be remarkable if he so much as noticed the humble Tenacious if they did sight one another.

"Now, before I sit down, there is one concern that is of particular satisfaction to me. And that is in the matter of promotions." The table fell instantly silent. "As you must be aware, my own removal into a seventy-four might have been expected, but following a successful action it is the custom of the Service to bring forward deserving officers."

Kydd's pulse quickened: was his star now ascending to take him onward and upward?

"It has been difficult to choose which among you, but as of this morning I received word from Sir Horatio that he has graciously acceded to my recommendation." He paused, surveying his officers gravely. "I therefore selected an officer who to me appears particularly forward, one whose ardent spirit in the face of the enemy has been so often remarked. I know you will all join with me in congratulating ... Lieutenant Bryant!"

There was a moment's pause as the news sank in, then the wardroom broke into good-natured shouts of envy and felicitation.

"He has been made commander into Dompteur sloop-of-war and late prize, to join Earl St Vincent before Cadiz."

Kydd was startled by the intensity of his reaction to this news: envy was turning unworthily to jealousy. As a commander, Bryant was now lifted out and above them all to a different and higher plane of existence as captain of his own ship. Kydd forced a smile as he looked across at Bryant, who was red-faced with pleasure, loudly admitting his good fortune. Independence, prize-money, the prospect of leading a ship's company to honour and glory in his own name ... Bryant had it all now.

Then the feeling passed. No doubt Kydd's turn would come— he couldn't be the junior for ever, and there was still a chance that there would be further promotions after the Nile. Kydd's natural generosity of spirit returned and he leaned across to shake Bryant's hand. "Give you joy of y'r step, sir," he said, with a broad smile. "We shall wet y' swab afore ye leave!" On his plain lieutenant's uniform Bryant would henceforth ship a golden epaulette to larboard for all the world to see and know by it that he was now the captain of a ship.

Captain Houghton left his command in the morning of the following day. As was the custom the officers rowed him ashore in his barge, still leaving unanswered the all-important question of who would succeed.

"Ah, yes," said Adams, reflectively, in the wardroom afterwards. "This is all very well, but it's who they'll find for premier that I'd be more concerned with. Stranger coming in, doesn't know our ways, a new first luff can be a deuced awkward party."

Kydd agreed—the first lieutenant was responsible for so many vital domestic arrangements, from apportioning the watch-and-station bill of the hands to ensuring before the captain that the appearance of the ship was taut and seaman-like. There was plenty of scope for tyranny or slackness, both equally dismaying within the confines of a man-o'-war.

"Sir?" It was the duty master's mate at the door. "What do we do wi' this'n?" It was a plain message, sealed, and addressed to the first lieutenant, HMS Tenacious. "Been waitin' these several days fer the new first l'tenant, and we don't rightly know what t' do with it."

"Well, now, and here's a puzzler," said Adams, turning it over and trying to glimpse its contents. Very obviously it was not of the usual flow of administrative trivia for it was of different quality paper and the seal was a private one.

"Return it," Bampton said flatly. "There is no first lieutenant."

"Open it," Pybus and Kydd said together. Renzi frowned: reading a gentleman's mail was a sad lapse in propriety.

Adams grinned. "Since there's no indication on the outside of who sent this, I propose to open it and discover where to return it."

He fumbled at the seal, broke it and began reading the short letter. "Good God!" he gasped. "It's the new Owner. He's asking the first l'tenant to prepare the ship for his arrival—this afternoon!"

In the space of two hours there was little of substance that could be done to the ship's appearance and when, at precisely four bells, a boat was reported putting off from the shore the officers gathered, expecting the worst.

The boatswain's calls twittered bravely as a lone figure in the full dress uniform of a post-captain, Royal Navy, mounted the side. The piping ceased as a tall, precise-looking officer doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and again to Bampton at the head of the waiting line of officers.

"Er, Bampton, second lieutenant," he said, removing his hat. "I regret to say, there is no first lieutenant at the moment."

"Thank you, Mr Bampton," said the officer, after a pause.

"Sir, might I now introduce Mr Adams—"

"Later, Mr Bampton." Stepping to the centre of the quarterdeck the officer withdrew a parchment, which he unfolded. Clearing his throat he began to read. "By the Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral ... Captain Christopher Main Faulkner ... hereby appointed to the command of His Majesty's Ship Tenacious..." The man had a high, penetrating voice, which to Kydd came oddly from such a tall figure. "... whereof you shall answer at your peril ..." Faulkner concluded, folded his commission and returned it inside his coat—and HMS Tenacious had a new captain.

"There will be a meeting of all officers in the great cabin in one hour. Thank you, gentlemen."

It allowed just enough time to hoist aboard the new captain's furniture and other baggage before the officers assembled as instructed.

"Please be seated," Faulkner began. Rather older than the captains Kydd had known, the man's manner was careful and fastidious. "I am happy to make your several acquaintances," he said evenly. "In the matter of the first lieutenant we have a difficulty. Only this morning was I told that Mr Protheroe, designated for the post, has unfortunately been struck down with a fever, a most vexing circumstance. Clearly this vessel requires a first lieutenant but in the time available I have been unsuccessful in finding an officer of sufficient seniority. Therefore I am going to ask Mr Bampton to accept the post."

Bampton started with surprise, then gave a barely suppressed smile of triumph.

"Mr Adams will advance to second lieutenant, but concerning the remaining two gentlemen I have my reservations—their slight length of service in this vessel does not warrant my confidence that they are ready for service at a more senior level."

Kydd coloured. After the Nile and service on the North American station he knew he was more experienced than most at his age.

Faulkner steepled his fingers. "Sir Horatio has been kind enough to find me an officer prepared for immediate employment, and he will be joining Tenacious tomorrow." He paused, his brow furrowing in annoyance. "However, there is a difficulty. That officer is a passed midshipman only, newly promoted to acting lieutenant. Thus I am obliged to appoint him as fifth lieutenant and therefore signal lieutenant, and trust that Mr Renzi as third and Mr Kydd as fourth lieutenant will find they are able to discharge their responsibilities in a correct and timely manner, as befits their new station."

He looked soberly round the room. "It is particularly regrettable that there are so few officers of seniority available in this part of the Mediterranean, but haste is necessary in this instance. I refer, in fact, to the sailing orders that I have just received.

"Gentlemen, Tenacious being in all respects ready for sea, she will be proceeding to a secret rendezvous to assist in an enterprise of great importance, the nature of which I may not divulge to you until we are ten leagues to seaward."