Victory

Chapter 4

By the time his ship had been moved from the dry dock to the water alongside, Kydd’s orders had arrived, including his precious commission to take command of the ship. There for all to see, on crackling parchment, were the words that made him lord and master of a potent ship of war and several hundred souls:

. . . by virtue of the power and authority to us given, we do hereby constitute and appoint you captain of His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore, willing and requiring you the charge and command of her accordingly: strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said ship with all due respect and obedience unto you, their said captain . . .

So the frigate was to be known simply as L’Aurore and he now had the authority to incur expenditure and thus formalise arrangements with the dockyard to complete the conversions and render the ship in all respects ready for war.

The rest of the orders concerned the proper form for rendering accounts, while ‘under the cheque’ meant the dockyard was taking responsibility for payments on the Navy Office while fitting out.

It amused Kydd to note that, as a consequence of his elevation to a frigate command, the Admiralty clerks who had before signed themselves ‘Your obedient servant . . .’ were now punctiliously writing ‘Your humble and obedient servant . . .’

Later there would be the ceremony of reading himself in as L’Aurore’s lawful captain, and in the eyes of the Admiralty and the world, the ship would, from that precise instant, begin its existence.

Tysoe arrived from London with Kydd’s new uniform and an astonishing amount of gear that, it seemed, was absolutely essential to maintaining his new station in life. He had to be found accommodation until the ship was habitable but, aboard, matters were progressing apace.

The upperworks were duly strengthened and the bridle port seen to, then the small French oven on the lower deck was hoisted out and a respectable full Brodie galley stove was swayed on to a relaid hearth just beneath the fo’c’sle.

Kydd watched its installation – an amazing device, with smoke-jack driven spits, condensers for distilling water, range grates and all manner of cooking equipment, including an oven and monstrous boiler for the men’s salt beef. It was just in time – a cheerful peg-leg cook had reported with the purser, a Welshman named Owen.

Taking the opportunity to get about the ship before her crew embarked, Kydd discovered that her ballast was now pig-iron rather than the shingle of before; this would require that the great leaguer water-barrels must be stowed on the flat of the foot-waling with wedges, three tiers high. Would it hold secure in raging gales?

Other oddities were revealed: the cat-tail was bolted under the lower-deck beams, a stronger fitting he had to admit, but it was disturbing that she had no figurehead – only a contemptible billet-head and scrollwork. This would not be looked on favourably by a traditionally minded British crew for her first voyage under a new flag.

The gunner appeared two days later. A ponderous individual, Redmond had definite views about the need for eighteen-pounders and went off to see what could be done about it.

As work progressed, Kydd could see no reason to delay so he and the warrant officers transferred aboard. He had just received a blunt letter from the Admiralty advising that as the ship was urgently required for service he should bend his best endeavours to that end. This was unusual to say the least: he had no influence over the dockyard, and until he had a ship’s company, there was little he could do to help.

Time was pressing. In the next day or two the sheer-hulks would be alongside and the final stage would be reached, the frigate’s rigging, but the most valuable standing officer at this point was missing: the boatswain.

Then the sailing master courteously reported. Kendall was soft-spoken and held himself with dignity; his was a seamed, weather-beaten face and instinctively Kydd trusted him – as he had his first master when he was a green officer: the equally quiet Hambly in Tenacious.

‘Pleased to see you, Mr Kendall,’ he said, with feeling.

‘I did hear of y’r bo’sun, Captain Kydd,’ he said levelly. ‘Word’s as how he’s unable to sail wi’ ye. It’s not m’ place but I do know the bo’sun o’ Actaeon, now paid off, would admire for t’ ship out in an active ship, he bein’ at leisure, like.’

‘It’s an Admiralty matter, Mr Kendall, as you’d know,’ Kydd said, with regret. Any recommended by one of Kendall’s calibre would be worth having but all standing officers were appointed direct and he had no authority to take one on.

‘I knows, sir. He’s willin’ to present himself to ye now, hopin’ you’re able t’ get him confirmed later.’

Kydd didn’t hesitate. ‘Very well. Where is he—’

‘He’ll be aboard wi’ his dunnage within th’ hour, sir.’

‘I see. His name?’

‘Oakley. Oh, an’ savin’ your presence, he can be a mort hasty in his speech, like, says things too quick he should’ve kept under hatches. Ben’s rough-hearted but he’s a ver’ fine seaman, Mr Kydd,’ Kendall went on earnestly. ‘There’s none o’ the seven seas he don’t know like Falmouth high street. An’ he it was, in Jupiter gun-brig in the Caribbee, who—’

‘Get him aboard, Mr Kendall.’

Oakley was big, red-headed and heavily tattooed, with hands that looked capable of bending a cutlass. ‘Cap’n Kydd,’ he said warily, touching his forehead.

‘You’ve served as bo’sun before?’ asked Kydd.

‘Aye. Four years in Actaeon as was.’

‘You know I can’t take you unless the Admiralty gives me leave?’

‘Sir.’

‘And a berth in a frigate is no holiday.’

‘I knows.’

‘Then for now you’re bo’sun o’ L’Aurore, Mr Oakley.’

An enormous grin split his face, stretching his face into well-used laugh-lines that had Kydd hiding a smile. ‘Why, an’ that’s right oragious in ye, Mr Kydd.’

‘Tomorrow we’ll have the sheer-hulk to work on the masting. We’ll take measure of you then, I believe.’

Dismayed, Kydd watched the leisurely approach of the ugly barge with its sheer-legs. It was not so much the prospect of the hard work to follow but that the dockyard could spare only four riggers and a sorry-looking bunch of labourers. The work would get done – but it would stretch over weeks.

‘Mr Oakley, come with me.’ Kydd stalked across the dockyard to where Spartiate, a 74, was undergoing repair. A short time later he was talking with the officer-of-the-watch and a little after that he was in the berthing hulk alongside, calling for volunteers to help with the rigging.

It did not take much urging: these men were billeted out of their ship while it was in dockyard hands; they had nothing to do and had spent all their silver. Kydd had rightly guessed that they would welcome a change. Oakley took his pick and then the work could start.

The master rigger, however, insisted on a consultation first; it seemed that no good could come of a hasty commencing and Kydd sat dutifully as he learned that the ship was at the present in the style of the ‘French Pyramid’, a configuration of masts and spars that, with the logic of that nation, related everything to a ratio of spar to the beam of the ship. In proof, the main lower mast was pointed out to be at a ratio of 2.5 times the beam while the main yard crossed would therefore be in the region of 2.2. Might Kydd favour the broader British style?

He listened patiently but remained firm: if the original owners had seen fit to make it thus, then he would stay with it unless it proved inadequate. He did, however, compromise in the matter of the rake of the mizzen and allowed the master rigger his way that the bowsprit be steeved six degrees lower.

Oakley clearly knew his technicals and had a natural way with men, always leading from the front, passing turns, the first to reeve the girtline, clapping on to lines with his huge strength to encourage and inspire. If he was not to be L’Aurore’s boatswain it would not be for want of Kydd’s trying.

And the workmanlike lines of the standing rigging began to appear, the topmasts and then topgallant masts stretched skywards and in turn were crossed with yards, all proper stays and lifts, a soaring tracery of ropes criss-crossing aloft, while below the fitments of living were finally being put in place.

An astonishing mountain of stores appeared, requiring signature, and with the return of the gunner bearing the welcome news that a Board of Ordnance was shortly to inspect and put in hand their accession to eighteen-pounders, the end was suddenly in sight.

Tysoe had not been idle. Several times a day he would seek Kydd’s views on this or that piece of furniture, whether the few small ornaments he had rescued from Teazer might now be retired in favour of a grander show and if the competence of his table in entertainment might profitably be brought forward.

In foreign parts L’Aurore’s entering port would be an occasion of some moment, and if Kydd failed to provide handsomely and creditably at table it would reflect not only on the ship but his flag. A dinner service edged in green and gilt from Mr Wedgwood was acquired for daily use and strategic items in silver were secured, but he hesitated over the grander pieces – a woman’s touch would ensure the commensal subtleties were properly observed. He would talk to Cecilia.

The time had come – L’Aurore was ready for her company.

Her lieutenants must be summoned first, then, when they had made acquaintance with the ship, the senior petty officers and finally the rest. It was a significant step, for once men were aboard and consuming victuals, all at once the whole mechanism for managing a ship-of-war had to be in place and functioning.

A message to the port-admiral’s office requesting his officers to report aboard was therefore dispatched. The first to show was Curzon, his third lieutenant, a young but confident individual with the languid drawl of birth and wealth. Kydd asked Kendall, who had little to do until orders were received specifying their station, to take him around the frigate.

The most important of the officers was close behind: Howlett, the first lieutenant. He, essentially, would run the ship for Kydd: make up the watch and station bill of the hands, their quarters, and designate special sea-duty personnel for evolutions such as unmooring and taking in sail. On a more subtle level his handling of discipline would be crucial: by the time matters reached Kydd’s august notice only grave consequences could follow.

In the event his manner was all that could be desired. About the same age as Kydd, he was slighter in build but darker-featured and with a strong jaw. His speech was careful and he carried himself with a controlled energy, his eyes direct and appraising. Like Curzon, he was given Kendall’s tour and the rest of the day to shift his gear aboard.

That left Gilbey, the second lieutenant. The man did not report until late in the afternoon, pleading business ashore. Kydd accepted his excuse and asked Curzon to take him around.

Three officers: it seemed few enough in a ship’s company that would total 215 at full manning. Each one would be tested to the full when L’Aurore went to war.

And the men. When the purser advised that all books of account were ready, the first lieutenant was satisfied with his information on the ship’s establishment of skilled hands, and the dockyard was near to finishing aloft, Kydd would notify the port-admiral’s office. Howlett would then start the business of entering them in. After that sea trials could be made, probably in the sheltered waters around the Isle of Wight.

Kydd’s pulse quickened. If all went well, within days he would have a ship full of life, a watch on deck, the settled order of an unchanging domestic naval routine. It was an intoxicating thought.

In the matter of a figurehead he was in luck: when Legge, their grey-haired carpenter, reported with his tools he had already noticed the absence of adornment at the bows and had an answer. Before the fashion for individually crafted figureheads had taken hold, the Navy had employed a standard design in the form of a lion and crown. The old carpenter knew of one that, in the distant past, had been removed in favour of the newer kind and was now gathering dust in an office.

He undertook to fit it and now L’Aurore proudly boasted a sturdy figurehead of an upright lion surmounted with a neat crown that offered enough scope for scarlet and gilding to gladden the heart of any true son of the sea.

Now they were ready.

Kydd took pen and paper and wrote three letters. The first was to the port-admiral, advising of the near completion of his vessel and thereby requesting men to be released into her. The second was a note to Renzi, inviting him to take post, and the last was to Calloway: he had been a young seaman in Kydd’s day before the mast, and Kydd knew it would bring him the gladdest news. Now a midshipman without interest or patronage and of humble origins, it was unlikely he would find any quarterdeck open to him.

He sat back in satisfaction. In remarkably quick time he had brought the frigate to readiness. He had confidence in his ship and felt a growing respect and affection for her. She was not one of the new tribe of heavy frigates but she had breeding and promise.

She would never replace Teazer in his heart but that wasn’t the point. He had now taken a major advance in his profession and necessarily had moved up to a grander ship. He would never forget his first command but it was in the future that destiny lay – for him and his new frigate.

Something of Teazer still continued, though: his Captain’s Orders. They laid down his expectations of conduct for every officer and man, which he had evolved in his years in her. Now they would continue virtually unchanged in L’Aurore.

He smothered a sigh of contentment as the reality sank in. He would throw himself into the task of bringing his frigate to life and capability and it would be only a short time before he would set course south to play his part in the great battle that must come.

Mr Midshipman Bowden held his breath as topgallant sails beyond counting began lifting slowly above the far-distant hard line of the horizon. The dispatch cutter hardened in its sheets and altered towards the leading ships, slashing through the sullen grey seas in bursts of white, its canvas board-taut.

This was probably the greatest day in his life and he drank in the sensations avidly. In a very short time he would be joining his new ship on blockade duty, just as he had told his old captain, Commander Kydd, when he had met him in the Admiralty waiting room. What he had not mentioned, for pity of the situation, was that his uncle had secured for him the first prize: to be set on the quarterdeck as midshipman in the flagship of Admiral Lord Nelson, the famous Victory.

His heart bounded. This would be an experience few could boast of – service under the greatest fighting admiral of the age and at a time of desperate peril for the nation. Of one thing he was sure: he would do his duty to the utmost in whatever lay ahead, for everyone knew that Napoleon Bonaparte must make good his promise to destroy England by invasion, and it was the Royal Navy who would stand unflinchingly four-square against him.

The ships of Nelson’s battle-fleet were now hull-up and he took time to savour the grand spectacle of the Mediterranean Fleet standing away to the north-west in two columns, perfectly spaced at a cable-length apart, an unforgettable picture of splendour and warlike threat.

The crack of a signal gun from the cutter startled him. It was to draw attention to their signal hoist fluttering at the halliards: ‘I have dispatches.’ A grim-faced lieutenant stood aft with a satchel protectively under his arm, his gaze on the line of men-o’-war. He had travelled from the Admiralty to Gibraltar and now carried who knew what news, intelligence and orders from the greater world for his famed commander-in-chief.

Victory wasted no time in throwing out a signal to the fleet to heave to. As one, sails were backed and the stately progress of the warships was suspended.

The cutter passed under the lee of the great battleship, curious faces appearing along her high deck-line as they hooked on below the entry port. Bowden thrilled at the thought that very likely Nelson himself was looking down on them at this moment, anxious for the news they carried.

The lieutenant swung on to the slippery side-steps, expertly hauling himself up to disappear into the ornately decorated entry port. Bowden followed, careful to go the long way over the bulwarks. Later, as an officer, he would be entitled to board in the same way as the lieutenant.

He blinked. The space opened up was immense. Spotless decks stretched away to a distant fo’c’sle, and above, he had an impression of irresistible strength in the vast concourse of sails with their mighty yards and soaring lines.

He snatched off his hat and bowed to a frowning lieutenant with a telescope – he had to be the officer-of-the-watch. ‘Midshipman Bowden, sir, come aboard to join.’

‘Who? Speak up, man!’

‘Bowden, sir.’

‘I’ve heard nothing of you,’ the officer said irritably, glaring at him. Distant shouts came from over the side.

‘Ah, that’ll be my sea-chest, sir.’

The lieutenant turned to another midshipman. ‘Get it inboard, see him into the middies’ berth and be sure to let Mr Quilliam know he’s another damned reefer.’ With a final glower at Bowden, he turned his back and paced away.

The midshipman called easily to a seaman, and while a whip was being rove he held out his hand. ‘Bulkeley – Richard, t’ my friends, Dick, t’ the cockpit.’

‘Bowden, Charles. You’re American, er, Richard?’

‘Born ’n’ bred. You’ve seen some service, then?’ he said, eyeing Bowden’s sailorly build.

‘Not as who might say. The Nile, Minorca before the peace, the Med in a brig-sloop,’ he admitted, trying not to look open-mouthed at the sheer scale of Victory’s masts and guns.

‘The Nile? As I thought. You’re not to berth with the reefers, it’s the gunroom for you, m’ friend. I’ll square it later with the bo’sun.’

The largest ship Bowden had been in had been the old sixty-four-gun Tenacious, but this was altogether in another dimension. A first-rate, the largest type of battleship in the Navy, it was a floating city, teeming with men, crammed with guns and imbued with the irresistible arrogance of power.

The gunroom was on the lower deck, occupying the entire after end of the ship under the massive twenty-five-foot tiller. Far more capacious than any Bowden had seen, it was home for the warrant officers, boatswain, gunner and other senior men, together with the master’s mates and privileged senior midshipmen.

‘We sling our micks here. The bo’sun and so on have their cabins but we all mess at table in the gunroom.’

His sea-chest was given to the care of the gunroom servant and Bowden tried to thank his American friend, who brushed it aside. ‘We’ve a right taut ship, Charles, an’ under the eye of His Nibs at any time. Just be sure you measure up.’

Bowden nodded. ‘I’ve heard Our Nel can be short with those who cross his hawse.’

‘And he can be as nice as pie to those who try hard,’ Bulkeley came back instantly. ‘Now, I think it a wise thing right now to make your number with the first luff. This way . . .’

In his cabin the first lieutenant looked up from his work. ‘Mr Bowden to join, sir. I have him ready berthed in the gunroom. Charles, this is Mr Quilliam.’

Victory swayed majestically – they must be under way once more. Quilliam efficiently noted details of Bowden’s sea service and pulled down a large and well-creased diagram. ‘Your watch – Mr Pasco, I believe. Station? Shall we say at the main-mast for now. Quarters? Something tells me you’ll relish the lower-deck smashers – only a hop and step from your hammock in the gunroom, I’ll point out.’

He looked up with a lop-sided smile. ‘The sooner you’ve sheeted in the essentials the better. I rather think the best use of your time at this moment would be for Mr Bulkeley t’ show you the ropes until we need not fear to trip over you.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Bulkeley said, and the pair left together.

‘I rather think this must be one quick tour, Charles. Evening quarters are taken seriously and we don’t want you adrift on your first day. Now, the fo’c’sle . . .’

Right forward, a hundred feet of bowsprit with its headsails soaring up speared out, the elaborate beakhead just below. The roar and swash of the bow-wave made conversation difficult.

‘You’ll never see a main-mast s’ taunt,’ Bulkeley said, pointing up as they passed the tack of the fore-course. It was an awe-inspiring sight, mounting up beyond the fighting tops and cross-trees to the very heavens. ‘Higher even than Westminster Abbey – should you fall afoul of the officer-of-the-watch and find yourself mastheaded.’

On past the big launches and barge and then Bowden saw a knot of officers on the quarterdeck deep in earnest conversation – and in the centre, unmistakable with his four stars and gold lace, was Lord Nelson.

They walked by respectfully, Bowden doffing his hat and taking his first look at the most famous admiral in the Royal Navy. There was an immediate impression of crushing care and worry, the lines in his face deep and set, but in the uncompromising quarterdeck brace there was resolute pugnacity.

‘We carry nine lootenants,’ Bulkeley said, breaking the spell, ‘and a company of eight hundred and fifty – being short about thirty o’ that.’

Getting on for a thousand men within the confines of one ship. ‘Er, how many decks does she have?’ Bowden asked, for something to say, as they mounted the poop ladder.

‘Well, three gun-decks, o’ course – twelves, twenty-fours and thirty-two-pounders – but if you’re counting there’s seven under us, including the hold platform.’

He went on to explain the layout of the carronades on the quarterdeck and fo’c’sle, and signal handling on the after end. Moving to the break of the poop, he leaned over to point out Victory’s great double wheel, taller than the men who steered her, and the near fifty-foot sweep of quarterdeck abaft the main-mast.

Bowden said in wonder, ‘She’s a grand lady, Richard – must be a few years old now?’

‘Yes,’ chuckled Bulkeley. ‘Laid down for the Seven Years’ War in ’fifty-nine. Seen a few admirals too since then – Keppel in your American war, poor old Kempenfelt later and, o’ course, Jervis at St Vincent.’

Bowden blinked. She had started life in a very different age: halfway through the last century, before Captain Cook had charted the unknown regions, before Harrison’s chronometers, before even copper bottoms for warships. And now she was the most famous flagship in the world.

They went below to discover vast gun-decks, the gloomy orlop and forward, giant bitts for the anchor cable. ‘Twenty-four-inch cables, no less, so at a hundred and fifty pounds in every fathom and a four-ton anchor on the end, pity the capstan crew!’

Then it was up through the decks once more to the winter sky and dark complexity of rigging. The vast bellying main-course was the largest sail Bowden had ever seen – fully a hundred feet across and with an area on its own much the same as a respectable London townhouse. There were others and more, three masts in a towering pyramid of sea-darkened canvas, urgently drawing.

‘Everything’s on quite another scale,’ Bulkeley admitted, ‘and those grand sails are why we have near a thousand ton o’ ballast – that’s the weight of a whole frigate in our guts just to hold us upright.’

Pleased with Bowden’s expression, he continued, ‘The bo’sun says there’s twenty-six miles of rigging and a thousand pulley-blocks to go with it. She’s a hull nearly three feet thick at the waterline yet she’s the sweetest sailer on a bowline, eight or nine knots and I’ve seen eleven going large. Why, when the fleet’s at exercise—’

The visceral thunder of drums and the flat bray of a trumpet interrupted him.

‘Quarters!’ he said abruptly. ‘You’d better go.’

Bowden flew down the broad stairways among racing men to find his place in the lower gun-deck. Already the gun-ports were open on the weather side and the guns had been cast loose. It seemed an impossible seething mass of people impatiently crowding into the low-beamed space, the sharp shouts of petty officers the only sound apart from the fearful rumbling of the huge iron beasts.

It settled as gun-crews were mustered, taking their implements and standing expectantly with handspike, ram-rod or tackle-fall to serve the three-ton monster. These were the smashers, the greatest guns in the fleet, which could send a ball as heavy as two men could lift through a yard of solid oak at a mile.

And this was his station in battle.

‘Bowden, sir,’ he said, to the lieutenant standing by the fat trunk of the mizzen-mast. ‘I’m assigned here at quarters.’

The officer waited until the warlike bustle had subsided into disciplined silence, then said, ‘Stand by me, Mr Bowden, and mark well how things are done. You may learn something.’

Falling back respectfully, Bowden watched as gun-crews limbered up, fourteen to each gun, all looking to their gun-captain, stripped to the waist and deadly serious. And there beyond each gun another and another – sixteen of the great guns on this one side alone. When they spoke in anger surely none could stand against them.

The practice began. Brute force and corded muscles to run out the chest-high black gun; quoin, crow and handspike to aim it; a ballet of movements to sponge, wad and charge it before the deadly ball was cradled to the muzzle.

It was precision work of a high order: wielding six-foot rammers, heavy handspikes and the sharp, curled worm in the narrow working space between the cannon, the sequence of powder, priming and shot exactly timed – a fumbled thirty-two-pound ball rolling around could cause chaos on a crowded gun-deck.

After the sweating gun-crews were stood down, Bowden reflected that if this was what it was like in drill, how would it be when Victory went into battle in earnest?

Lieutenant Pasco chalked on the watch slate and handed it to the oncoming quartermaster-of-the-watch, ignoring Bowden until the set of the sails was entirely to his satisfaction. At night it was difficult to see aloft to catch the angle of the yards and he had his night-glass up to inspect the results of the trim carefully.

To Bowden this small act spoke so powerfully of what the Navy had become with, at its core, a professionalism that was second nature to every officer and man. There was no one about on the upper deck besides the watch to appreciate it on this cold night, no admiring or critical audience, but at this moment Victory was trimmed to perfection, as though the eyes of the world were upon her.

The watch settled down, in time-honoured fashion finding a lee and engaging in swapping yarns that grew taller with every telling. The men at the wheel would be relieved every turn of the glass and join them for a few hours.

Lieutenant Pasco, as officer-of-the-watch, was now the supreme commander of the three-thousand-ton fighting ship. If he was awed by the notion he showed no sign of it. ‘Right, then, young Bowden, tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself in His Majesty’s finest.’

He understood what was going on: this was a long watch and he was a new face, hopefully with a repertoire of anecdotes to hand. He answered modestly, ‘I started as a reefer in Tenacious, sixty-four, Captain Houghton . . .’

It was well received. All officers shared a common experience in aspiring to the quarterdeck and tales of the quirks and eccentricities of those set in authority were many. Later Bowden told at some length of his adventures in Minorca with an amusing account of one of their lieutenants a-spying with an improvised signalling system.

Pasco suddenly demanded, ‘What was the name of that lieutenant again?’

‘Kydd, sir.’

‘Thomas Kydd?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The same as was commander of Teazer brig-sloop, lately boarded both sides, fought ’em off but then foundered? We do hear of such in the Med,’ he added sardonically.

‘I was with him when he first commissioned her,’ Bowden said proudly.

‘Were you indeed? Then I’m to tell you he’s been something of a hero to me, we both coming aft by the hawse as we did. A hard horse, at all?’

‘We had our days,’ Bowden admitted. ‘Knows all the tricks, if you get my meaning. But I’ll allow he’s the very kind of officer I pray I’ll be one day.’

‘If we be spared. Now, look, where’s your post at quarters, younker?’

‘Lower deck, thirty-two-pounders aft.’

‘The slaughter-house. I’m l’tenant of signals – would it grieve you much should you leave ’em and join me on the poop-deck as signal midshipman? I’ve a place for a quick thinker brought up in the right ways.’

‘I’d be honoured, sir.’