Victory

Chapter 6

‘Sir, I do welcome you to the Admiralty,’ the first lord said to Mr Pitt, the prime minister. Noting the features ravaged by cares and the stooped carriage of the man who had given the flower of his life in the service of his country, he added gently, ‘Should you require refreshment at this hour . . . ?’

It was late at night and they had the board room to themselves. Pitt ignored the table and sat wearily in one of the two leather armchairs, the few candles casting harsh shadows on his face. ‘Henry, I have an audience with the King in the morning,’ he muttered to his old friend. ‘Do see if you can find me something of cheer to lay before him.’

Melville drew up the other chair and pondered. ‘The people are in good heart, no dread or uncertainty there.’

‘It’s ignorance of the situation only.’

‘John Bull is no fool. He can see what stands against us. No, they’ve placed their trust in the Hero of the Nile, that while Nelson rules the waves no Frenchman dare venture an invasion of these islands. It’s pathetic and noble at the same time, I’m persuaded, but then it means we need have no fear of popular resentments, you can tell him.’

Pitt sighed and sipped his port reflectively. ‘That’s of no account. His Majesty abhors the man since in defiance of society he’s taken up with that Hamilton woman.’ He pulled himself up in the chair. ‘Henry, imagine me one of your northern ironmasters come to Town to discover why we fuss so over the Navy. Pray rehearse for me just what it is that’s facing us as of tonight and I’ll be the judge of what shall be said later to the King.’

‘Yes. Well – since you ask, it could hardly be worse. The continent of Europe is in arms against us and its resources plundered by Bonaparte to one end – the destruction of our nation. He has an encampment of a hundred and seventy-five thousand veterans within twenty miles of the English shore, some three thousand invasion craft completed and the whole waiting for his word to be launched at our vitals.’

‘I know all of that – I’m a colonel of militia at Deal, I’ll remind you, Henry!’

‘Er, yes. As it’s known, he needs but hours – a day or so at most in control of the Channel – and we’re done. Therefore whatever it takes, they must be prevented from setting forth.’

‘There are those who point to Keith and the Downs Squadron.’

‘As they are in daily battle outside Boulogne. This is true, but it’s not why Napoleon refrains from a sally. The real reason is that if his mighty invasion flotilla sails, it stands to be crushed by any of our ships-of-the-line lying in wait, and thus he must protect them with larger numbers of his own sail-of-the-line. Therefore his entire strategics are devoted to the one object: to crowd the Channel with his battleships to ensure safe passage for the invasion fleet.’

‘And all the world asks this: why do we not make concentration of our own squadrons in the Channel? They’d never stand against us! Why are our battle-fleets sent thousands of miles overseas while there’s such deadly peril in home waters?’

‘Because, sir, we would not necessarily win in such a contest.’

‘Not win?’ Pitt snapped.

‘Not necessarily, I did say. Napoleon, since the Dons’ recent declaration of war, and with the Dutch Navy in possession, has now an immense number of sail-of-the-line at his disposing, a damn sight more than we. Should these all at the one time be brought together in the Channel . . .’

‘Well?’

‘Our own strategics are very simple: to stop this happening. And to this end we have a tried and trusty weapon. Blockade. At Brest they have Ganteaume and his armada, Missiessy at Rochefort, Villeneuve at Toulon. The Spanish under Gravina at Ferrol, Vigo and Cadiz, fine deepwater ports. And outside every one of these lies a British battle squadron sternly denying them the open sea.

‘The effect of this is decisive: if any enemy leaves port that part will inevitably be defeated before it has time to join with the others, of that you can be assured. So while they lie apart and divided we are safe. Conversely, if they manage to break out and combine we will be overwhelmed. Therefore the heroes of the hour are those ships and men that are now standing before the enemy in all weathers to this end.’

Pitt looked up sombrely. ‘Incidentally, who have you on this duty at the moment?’

‘Cornwallis at Brest with seventeen of-the-line, Orde off Cadiz with five, Calder at Ferrol with eight and Nelson before Toulon with twelve. Not so many to set against them, I will agree.’

‘So if they do get out, what then?’

‘The chiefest danger is Toulon, which is why we have our most feared admiral there. And it’s there as well that the French have their commander-in-chief. If he can contrive to break free he sails west, adding battleships from Cartagena and forcing the strait of Gibraltar. Overwhelming Orde, he effects a conjunction with the Spanish in Cadiz. He then sails north, releasing others from Ferrol and Vigo and reaching Brest where Ganteaume comes out. The Combined Fleet is then in overwhelming force at the mouth of the Channel – and our worst nightmare is upon us.’

‘Quite,’ said Pitt. ‘Knowing these plans, however, we make our dispositions.’

Melville shook his head slowly. ‘No, sir, we do not know their plans. What I have outlined is the most obvious move for them and the most tempting. But there are other possibilities that would make nonsense of deployments based on it.

‘For instance, there’s always Ireland. A descent on its unprotected coast with the scale of forces Napoleon now commands would most probably succeed and this would place us in the impossible situation of facing two ways in defending our islands.

‘Then again there is the East. Bonaparte has always resented his defeat at the Nile, which turned the command of the Mediterranean over to us. If he can effect a landing in the Middle East again, he has a royal road to India and even the Ottomans in Constantinople. He will then have achieved his most desired object, a limitless empire without ever getting his feet wet.

‘He may well consider a feint – at Surinam, say, or Africa – and, while we’re so engaged, descend on the Caribbean in crushing force, taking our sugar islands. I don’t have to say that in this case we’d be bankrupted and suing for peace within the year.’

Pitt slumped back. ‘This is all so hard to take, Henry.’

‘Yes. We have world-wide commitments, sir. To maintain protection on our interests ranging from Botany Bay to Nova Scotia requires a colossal fleet to be dispersed about the planet. Napoleon may keep his own in concentration for whatever purpose he desires.’

Closing his eyes in weariness, Pitt sighed. ‘Then what you are saying is that if the nation’s hero, Nelson, fails us and the French get out, we’re ruined.’

‘Yes, sir, I am.’

L’Aurore ghosted in over a winter-bright sea, past the Mewstone to starboard, and came to single anchor among the scatter of ships in Cawsand Bay within Plymouth Sound. Her captain stood proudly, reflecting on the times he had brought his humble brig-sloop Teazer here.

Now in full-dress post-captain uniform, with a fine sword, on the quarterdeck of his own frigate, it was a world past, a more innocent time but one that seemed to have been in preparation for this culminating moment – when, incredibly, he was on his way to join Admiral Horatio Nelson.

His commissioning pennant dropped from the masthead at precisely the same time as the Union Jack rose on the jackstaff forward while aft the white ensign floated proudly free. As a naval visitor of significance Kydd would now be expected to pay his respects to the port-admiral, and in deep satisfaction he heard the first lieutenant call away his barge.

‘Hands to harbour routine, Mr Howlett,’ he ordered, but added quietly, ‘Row-guard and no liberty of any kind. We sail for Gibraltar just as soon as we’ve stored and watered.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Howlett said coldly. It would be some time before Kydd was forgiven, it seemed.

‘I’m sending out the store-ships as soon as I can stir ’em up. Turn the hands to, the moment they’ve opened the hold.’

Kydd returned as quickly as he decently could. The new port-admiral had been effusive in his congratulations, the action with Teazer having taken place in his waters. Narrowly avoiding a formal invitation to dinner, Kydd had set in train the storing of a ship for foreign service, including the items he was to carry to his commander-in-chief.

With rising excitement he called his barge and headed back. From the outside L’Aurore looked quite perfect. Larger than any craft in view, she was at one and the same time both martial and beautiful, and his heart went out to her.

Oakley’s pipe squealed, pure and clean in the cold, clear evening as Kydd mounted the side-steps and punctiliously raised his hat to the quarterdeck. He turned to go below and Howlett fell into step beside him. He said, with a note of smugness, ‘It grieves me to tell you, sir, that I have to report deserters already.’

‘Oh? To be expected, I suppose,’ Kydd said, with irritation. ‘I would have thought it foreseeable enough for my first lieutenant to take steps to prevent it.’

‘Ah, but these are your precious volunteers who are running. The first boat of trusties. I’m told half the crew ran off as soon as they had a line ashore,’ Howlett said primly.

Kydd’s heart sank. If the volunteers thought it worth risking savage punishment for desertion then conditions below were much worse than he feared. ‘What are their names? They’ll be made example of, never doubt it, Mr Howlett.’

‘Names? Why, Stirk, gunner’s mate, Doud, quartermaster, Pinto, quarter gunner and some others. Not your usual worthless skulkers, you’d agree, sir.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ Kydd said heavily, and went to his cabin. Renzi looked up but on seeing Kydd’s expression made his excuses.

Tysoe helped him out of his fine uniform and to a restorative brandy. He sat in his armchair, moodily looking out of the stern windows at the whole of Plymouth Hoe and Old Town spread before him.

Stirk, Doud – his former shipmates whom he’d thought he could trust. Now they would go down in the ship’s books as ‘R’ – run. And they would be hunted men, looking over their shoulder at every turn, knowing that if the Navy caught them it was a court-martial and death – or, worse, the long-drawn-out agony of flogging around the fleet.

But he could not let them go. As volunteers they had taken the King’s shilling and were under naval discipline. There was as well the difficult prospect of finding official explanations for his inaction, and last but not least, it would tell the crew that any successful desertion would be met with forgiveness. He had to take action and make it convincing, even if it ended in recapture and punishment without mercy.

Was there no middle path? He had a short time only to make his move. As he continued to look out at the scene ashore, an idea came to him and he summoned his senior off-watch lieutenant. ‘Mr Gilbey, I want you to step ashore with a party of trusties and set up a rondy in Plymouth Dock, at the Five Bells or similar. Now this will be to another purpose – have your men quietly visit each tavern to see if they can find word of these deserters and then let you know. You are then to seize them and bring them back on board in irons. Clear?’

He found plain clothes and announced to Howlett that he was going ashore on a social occasion for the evening. There was a risk that some in his boat party might desert but it would have to be taken.

They dropped him by the Citadel, the other side of Plymouth Hoe to Dock but conveniently near Old Town.

He headed up the hill towards the louring ramparts of the Citadel until he was out of sight, then dropped sharply to the waterfront to enter the maze of old Tudor buildings that marked Plymouth proper. He knew Toby Stirk would never be so foolish as to risk roystering in a Dock tavern but would nevertheless go to ground somewhere close, like the noisome stews of Cockside resorted to by the merchant sailors whose ships crowded Sutton Pool and the Cattedown.

Irony tugged at him: it was Stirk who had come for him when he had been so desolated after the death of his fiancée Rosalynd that he had wandered there to drown himself in drink among sailoring humanity.

He had deliberately sent Gilbey on a fool’s errand to show he was taking the desertions seriously, and now he must work fast to find his men before it was too late. Cockside was a square-shaped huddle of buildings. In the dark of the evening it was thronged with waterfront folk and Kydd slipped among them along the passages linking the rickety, cramped dwellings and taphouses.

At each tavern he wandered innocently in, looking about as if to find a friend, then apologetically withdrew. It was a very long shot: an old fox like Stirk could disappear into the countryside and wait for L’Aurore to sail before emerging, even if this part of Plymouth was never the haunt of King’s men.

But he knew Doud, too. It would be in keeping with his open-hearted character to feel the need to sink a pint or two before moving on and he was quite inseparable from his old mess-mate Pinto. There was a chance.

One by one he played his act in every alehouse and grog parlour, but without result. Suddenly Kydd stopped and cocked his ear.

He had taken a short cut in front of a dilapidated boat-builder’s slip. In its shed there was a chink of light and he heard voices, one of which he could swear was Stirk’s deep, masculine rasp.

As he tiptoed towards the building, a grog-roughened voice started up:

‘’Tis of a flash frigate, L’Aurore was her name,

All in the West Indies she bore a great name;

For cru-el bad using of every degree,

Like slaves in the galley we ploughed the salt sea.

So now, brother shipmates, where’er ye may be

From all fancy frigates I’d have ye steer free . . .’

Kydd reached the big double door. It was barred with a stout timber athwart it. He lifted it; it gave and he lifted further. Suddenly the door burst outward to reveal the deserters around a carpenter’s bench with a single candle and bottles.

The men stumbled to their feet. ‘Wha’—? Be buggered – it’s Mr Kydd!’

In a rush for the door Kydd was knocked to one side by Stirk and Pinto but managed to hang on to Doud, who made a wild swing that sent him staggering. Enraged, he returned a blow to the stomach that knocked Doud to his knees, retching.

Out of the corner of his eye Kydd saw that Pinto had drawn a knife and was advancing on him with a deadly look.

‘Stop! Let me speak! There’s no one else, I swear it – I’m alone!’ he said urgently.

Stirk now loomed behind Pinto, his fists loose.

‘Hear me out!’ Kydd pleaded, his head throbbing.

There was a tense silence.

‘Drop it, Pinto,’ Stirk finally growled. ‘Let’s hear what he’s got t’ say f’r himself.’

Kydd swallowed. ‘Men – that’s t’ say, Toby an’ Ned – I wouldn’t be here ’less I had good reason, cared what happened t’ ye.’

There was no response.

‘I’ll give ye th’ true lay – an’ it’s not pretty. See, we—’

‘Ye turned over the Alcestes. After three year sweatin’ in the Caribbee. You!’ Stirk grated.

So that was what it was all about, the moral affront to a sailor’s rights, not a careless disinclination to serve in an unhappy ship. And it seemed it was common knowledge that Kydd’s active intervention had brought it about.

He thought quickly. ‘Aye, it was me.’ He tried to ignore the naked contempt on their faces. ‘So I’m going t’ square wi’ ye all. I’m t’ tell just what it was made me do it, and God help me if ever any hear I’ve split on ’em in the Admiralty an’ told ye.’

There was no change in the stony grimaces. ‘Now, I’m trustin’ that ye’ll not blow th’ gaff on this to the common folk as places their trust in the Navy t’ save ’em.’

The contempt faded to blankness and Kydd continued, ‘We’s been at war more’n ten years since ’ninety-three, but now it’s different. Boney wants t’ invade an’ he means it.’

‘An’ he’ll never do it! One reg’lar-built English man-o’-war’s worth two o’ the Mongseers!’ Stirk proclaimed harshly.

‘Ha!’ Kydd snarled. ‘That’s where y’r arithmeticals are on a lee shore t’ the truth. I’ll agree – we’re better’n any two Frenchies but what if they’ve got double the ships? We’re level! What if they’ve more still? We go down fightin’ gloriously – but we go down.

‘Our Nel has twelve o’-the-line off Toulon. Since th’ Spanish came in against us, Boney’s above a hundred t’ throw at us.’

Kydd looked from one to another. Then, in low, measured tones, he detailed the colossal odds against them: the three thousand ships of the invasion flotilla itself, the uncountable hordes of Napoleon’s finest encamped above Boulogne, poised to fall on England.

He went on: the lonely ships somewhere in the oceans of the world, listing on his fingers the out-numbered battle squadrons off the major ports that were all that stood between Bonaparte and their homes and loved ones. He held back nothing of the desperate measures Pitt and the Admiralty were taking to hold together the one thing that would save the kingdom.

‘An’ the post of honour, where d’ ye think that is?’ he snapped. ‘Why, it c’n only be where th’ Frenchy admiral is – an’ where Nelson is as well. He’s called f’r us in his sore need, shipmates. Are we going t’ hold back?’

‘Y’ turned over the Alcestes,’ mumbled Doud, stubbornly.

‘S’ what else c’n I do, y’ simkin?’ Kydd flared. ‘Let a fine frigate swing about her moorings till her crew give me leave t’ sail? So what’ll fadge, Ned? There’s an accounting wi’ Bonaparte very soon now, you tell me t’ my face a better way t’ get L’Aurore to Nelson. Come on, say away, m’ squiddy cock.’

Doud looked back at the others, shame-faced. Stirk folded his arms and regarded Kydd steadily. ‘Then why d’ye come after us? You’ve a full crew, aught t’ worry of?’

‘Y’ needs me to say it, Toby? Then I’ll tell ye – we’re a new frigate an’ we’ll be in every scrape God sends. An’ if I can’t trust m’ old mess-mates . . .’

The tide was turning, he could feel it. ‘’Sides, once Johnny Crapaud’s come out an’ been beat, we’re free t’ go a-prize-takin’ or similar, I wouldn’t wonder. Of which I know a little . . .’

He had them. ‘So – if ye sees y’ course clear to return aboard, well, y’ not th’ first sailors to fetch up slewed t’ the gills as couldn’t grope their way back.’

The next day started with Kydd’s orders for a convoy. Never one to waste a frigate’s Gibraltar voyage, the admiral had thirty-three merchantmen and an army transport in Cawsand Bay waiting for an escort. It meant a rush of work preparing signals, sailing-orders folders and all the apparatus of an ocean convoy but, mercifully, Kydd could hand it all over in the time-honoured way to the most junior lieutenant, Curzon.

An army officer presented himself with orders for Gibraltar, and the dockyard desired to know where he wished stowed the spare spars allocated for the Mediterranean. The respectful commander of Hasty brig-sloop made himself known, as did the lieutenant-in-command of the dispatch cutter Lapwing, both destined for Gibraltar and under Kydd’s command as additional escort.

A fine thing to be a post-captain, he thought happily, as they were seen over the side and he turned to discover what his first lieutenant wanted. ‘Er, we’ve found the deserters, sir,’ he said.

‘Deserters? Where was this, then, Mr Howlett?’

‘Um, waiting for our boat.’

‘Then stragglers it is, sir, not deserters.’ The Navy had a practical view of being adrift on liberty. If a seaman was found within the bounds of the port the stand was taken that, notwithstanding the manner of his absenting, an intention to desert could not be proven.

His spirits rose. There would now be other voices and other views on the mess-deck; if there was a way of making it up to his old shipmates without compromising his position he would find it.

It was Kydd’s first commission outside home waters in this war of Napoleon and there was still much to be done to prepare for the open ocean.

Tysoe was dispatched ashore for cabin stores – he could be trusted to lay in sufficient for an extended deployment, sparing only the wine, which in the Mediterranean would not be hard to find. Preserves and delicacies of all kinds began coming aboard – from lean bacon, pickles, hams, cheeses, mustard and all necessary tracklements to sustain a fine table to anchovies, a barrel of oysters, pepper, dried fruit, molasses, jams, all carefully chosen to add variety and interest yet remain wholesome for months in foreign parts.

Recalling his experiences as a common sailor in a voyage to the Great South Sea, Kydd made certain that plenty of onions were taken aboard. Large, juicy and pungent, these were a sovereign cure for the monotony of salt beef and pork, and with these and the ‘conveniences’ of herbs and pepper to hand, a cunning mess-cook would take delight in conjuring a spirit-lifting sea pie with all the trimmings.

By degrees the excitement of the outward-bounder spread about the ship – the new midshipmen and boys a mix of apprehension and joy, old shellbacks ready with hair-raising yarns of exotic ports and cruel seas. It would be different for the Alcestes, of course, Kydd knew with a pang. Torn from the country they had cherished in their hearts for three years, they were heading out to sea once again. It was hard, but it was war. In weeks they would be part of Lord Nelson’s fleet – he was utterly determined that by the time they reached Gibraltar they would be worthy of the honour.

Last-minute stores were loaded, including newspapers – a large selection of the latest editions in corded bundles, protectively sealed within sailcloth wrapping and stowed carefully. These would be minutely pored over by the Gibraltar garrison and in the wardrooms of Nelson’s squadron, a grateful reminder of a previous existence. Finally, dispatches, the most precious cargo of all.

At L’Aurore’s masthead the Blue Peter floated free. This was the first time Kydd had flown the flag of readiness to sail in his own right, and with satisfaction he watched as, one by one, the other ships repeated the signal. He left it to the cutter to awaken the laggards to their duty.

Promptly at the top of the tide the Gibraltar convoy put to sea in a fine north-westerly. Kydd had the cutter and the sloop move out first to secure the assembly point while L’Aurore shepherded the merchantmen out from the rear. As they left the heights of Rame Head abeam, they met the full force of the cold north-westerly, L’Aurore plunging and bucking until sail could be taken off the fine-lined frigate. It made assembling the convoy a trial: merchant ships were unused to the discipline of sailing in formation and had no crew to spare for the backing and filling required to stay in place.

Gibraltar was a thousand miles to the south, past Ushant at the mouth of the Channel and across the Bay of Biscay, then the length of the Iberian Peninsula. But from Plymouth it was a more-or-less direct line so it could be reached on a single board.

The gaggle of shipping settled down at last, the sloop leading to windward and the cutter handily at the mid-point and L’Aurore, with her speed, overseeing from the rear. Kydd knew the routine, however: they would advance at the rate of the slowest.

He kept the deck until it was known which that was, for much hung on the outcome. A slow sailer could grievously hamper the convoy’s progress and be a curse on them all. Unsurprisingly, it turned out to be the Mahratta army transport, a fat-bellied ship that was as leewardly as she was slow.

Calling Lapwing within hail, he ordered her to instruct the vessel to spread all sail conformable to the weather and keep as close by the wind as practicable, irrespective of their course. The westerly was holding but if they were to make it around Cape Finisterre in one board there was no point in taking chances.

Without being told, the loose convoy trimmed sail to conform and, tightening their formation, settled down for the long haul south. Kydd remained on deck, quietly observing the officer-of-the-watch, Gilbey, work out what combination of reefs and bracing would result in the steady pace needed to match speeds with their flock.

He seemed competent, and economical in his use of the hands. Kydd’s eyes turned on the men themselves. In the next minute a strange sail could lift into sight and then they might be fighting for their lives. Would they follow him?

The party by the fore-brace bitts worked efficiently enough at the hanking and coiling, with the easy swing of prime seamen but without so much as a word between them. When they finished they turned their backs and padded silently away.

Kydd knew the signs only too well. These men had lost heart. And if that was so, then as things now were, he could not depend on them in a fighting situation.

In the night the wind freshened; by morning the smaller ships were struggling, bucketing along under the streaming blast from out of the west. Kydd ordered sail shortened but this was a typical Atlantic snorter, flat and hard from its thousand-mile fetch, sheeting spume from the wave-crests of the Biscay rollers and making life aboard increasingly uncomfortable.

What it was like in the army transport with hundreds of men and scores of horses didn’t bear thinking about, and even aboard L’Aurore men were beginning to stagger to the ship’s side, the seas coming in directly on the beam in a massive, jerking roll.

Yet for Kydd it was satisfying: the frigate lay to the wind with ease, a whole point or two still in hand to windward, her press of canvas steadying the worst of the rolling. He eyed the conditions: if it came to a fight they could probably manage, but on the lee side their gun-ports must remain closed against the surging roll, and only a first-class set of seaman-gunners could cope with the capricious deck motion.

Another day, however, saw the situation Kydd had feared. The wind had not moderated and, in fact, was backing south-westerly. Shortly decisions would have to be made for at this rate they would not round Cape Finisterre, at worst to be carried on to the lee shore of hostile Spain.

There was no help for it: they were headed, and well before dark signals were made to prepare to tack. The thirty-seven ships carefully went about to take up on the larboard tack, heading out into the depths of the Atlantic with solid combers crashing against their bows.

It was slow going, L’Aurore pitching harshly, sending sluicing seas time and again over her fo’c’sle. Kydd took the trouble to look at conditions on the lower deck for himself and, as he had suspected, water was spurting in from everywhere as the bows submerged into the shock of the oncoming waves, the deck itself a-swim with a racing surge before it found its way into the bilge.

There was little that could be done: no caulking could stand against the pressures. It was the fault of L’Aurore’s fine entry – designed for speed rather than the blunter fore-part of a British ship built for sea-keeping – and he would have to get used to it.

Early next morning he knew he had to make a decision. How long to leave it before he made his move south once more? Each hour they were making useful ground to the west but at the same time it was taking them by degrees to the north. Too early a move and they would have to repeat their beat to the west but leaving it too long would cost them in so much more delay.

He compromised on three more days, dead time in their thrash south but several hundred miles safely further out from the coast, the leaden overcast preventing a sight of the sun and making all positions the product of dead-reckoning.

Keenly feeling the responsibility of his argosy, its value in cargo, the several thousand souls, he finally gave the orders that had the convoy wheeling about to resume its southward track.

As they passed the forty-three degrees north latitude of Cape Finisterre, invisible miles to leeward, the wind magically changed. Veering sharply north and moderating in a brisk quartering wind, it urged the convoy onward.

It was too good to last. Soon after a watery sun appeared, giving their position as some seventy miles to seaward of Cape St Vincent, the winds dropped and their speed fell away to a walking pace. It was intensely annoying – once past, they could shape course directly for Gibraltar on the last leg with an easy wind astern.

Sail blossomed from every yard but, again, they were constrained by the lumbering transport, which was making poor going in the light airs. At this season and latitude, on the fringe of the south-west trades, calms could occur without warning – and equally within hours a storm could threaten.

Eventually the legendary cape was passed and course was shaped for Gibraltar. The calm, however, lasted into the night, a blaze of stars near enough to touch doing little for Kydd’s mood. In the morning the breeze dropped even further, a playful zephyr all that was left. At noon the transport hung out a signal but it was unreadable, the fluky breeze not enough to raise the flags to read them.

As much for something to do, Kydd sent away a boat to investigate. It was back before long and Curzon wasted no time in telling him the news. ‘Captain Jevons sends his compliments and believes you should know that because of your extended leg to seaward he will soon be in distress for water.’

Kydd bit back his retort: this was a retired post-captain persuaded to take command of the transport and far senior to himself. No doubt he had underestimated the water needs of the cavalry horses and had now found his excuse.

The nearest watering would be somewhere in Iberia and he would not venture his convoy on such a mission. Gibraltar should be only one or two days’ sail or so away – but in this calm? He had no idea how long horses could go without water but guessed it was not a great deal of time. And after seasickness crossing Biscay, the troops would have every incentive to clean themselves up – using their precious drinking water.

In exasperation he ordered the convoy to heave to, a long process with the merchantmen in the light airs strung out all over the ocean. Then it was sweaty heaving for his crew to sway up their last three full leaguers from the hold and lower them into the sea. Fresh water meant that they floated and he left them there wallowing for the transport to grapple and haul in.

‘Deck hoooo!’ The sudden hail from the fore-top took everyone by surprise. ‘T’ loo’ard – sail an’ galleys.’

Suddenly apprehensive, Kydd jumped for the shrouds and stared into the band of pearly haze that was the horizon to the east, the Strait of Gibraltar itself. Then he saw a straggle of small craft, many oared, the lofty sweep of the lateen of a Moorish felucca or some such. There could be only one reason for their presence: word had been passed to Tarifa, or another Spanish nest of corsairs, of a convoy becalmed, ripe for the picking.

Given any kind of workable breeze a frigate would be soon among them to blow them out of the water, but with this – cats-paws prettily darkening the sea in long riffles and disappearing as fast as they came, canvas hanging and slatting aimlessly . . .

The cutter would have oars and the sloop awkward sweeps but, without the agility of the lighter enemy craft, they would easily be evaded. His ships and their valuable cargo would then be picked off one by one. Kydd might soon be known as the captain of a frigate whose entire convoy had been taken right from under his nose by a ragtag swarm of picaroons.

‘Mr Oakley – every man you can get in the tops with buckets, the fire-engine with hoses,’ he ordered urgently. ‘Get those sails wet!’

There was no time for much else; stunsails had long been set and he was ready to try, with the only move he could make, to put himself between the beetling menace and the convoy.

It was hopeless. There was simply a contented gurgling as the helm was put over, long minutes of lazy turning while all the time the threat sharpened into focus. On the transport there were movements of red figures where the soldiers were lining the decks with muskets – but they were in no danger: it was the fat merchantmen they were after.

The cutter and sloop needed no orders – they were already swinging to meet the enemy but they were near helpless in the calm.

‘We’re makin’ way, sir,’ Kendall said, with something between surprise and awe. It was true – a small but regular ripple was spreading out from their forefoot. Kydd joined him in looking down the ship’s side and tried to estimate – one, two knots?

‘Does she answer the helm true?’ he threw at the conn. The helmsman wound on four spokes of the wheel. The bowsprit obediently began stepping across and the man spun the helm back, meeting the swing. The bow stopped and came back. They had steerage way.

‘Damn it – we’ve got a chance!’ Kydd blurted. But first they had to overhaul the entire convoy from their post at the rear. The race was on.

One by one they slipped past the helpless ships, threading their way around drifting vessels, L’Aurore catching every slight wafting breath of air to urge steadily on. Kydd couldn’t keep the smile from his face – this was her true breeding, the ghosting in light airs that he had noticed before. And now it was going to save them all.

Around the deck there were grins and laughter – the spell was lifting. This was a ship a sailor could be proud to be in, one that had the promise of witchery, of feats that could be yarned about for years afterwards.

The Alcestes were starting to change to L’Aurores.

The enemy were suddenly presented with the dismaying picture of a frigate emerging from the crowd of frightened sail, and in the flat calm unaccountably bearing down on them. They huddled together – a fatal mistake, for L’Aurore took her time, then slewed about to open with a broadside on the concentrated group.

After the gun-smoke rolling down on their target had cleared it was very apparent they were not about to be troubled any further by the marauders. Making off as fast as they could to avoid the other broadside, they left three wrecks to be dealt with by the cutter, which was gamely trying to keep with L’Aurore.

Sensing the mood, Kydd sent word that instead of the other broadside he desired to see of what calibre his gun-captains really were. Until the targets were out of range each gun would have a chance to punish the enemy. With a steady gun-platform and perfect conditions in the mirrored seas, the strike of ball and subsequent skipping were plain, as was a distant flurry when one hit home to savage cheers.

It was valuable practice but even more pleasing was the spirit it was raising in his ship.

Once the convoy had arrived safely in Gibraltar and the troops landed, L’Aurore was fitted for her main role: the Toulon blockade. For this the watchword was endurance – on station there could be no returning the seven hundred miles for resupply. They must subsist on what they carried, and that included both sea stores and spare parts.

Kydd spent some time with the warrant officers, trying to foresee any situation and whether they would be self-sufficient enough to handle it, using what they carried. With L’Aurore’s small hold, there was no margin for extras.

The next day she sailed from Rosia Bay with the tidal stream, in a decreasing northerly that Kydd recognised as the tail end of the notorious tramontane, an icy blast from the interior of France. It did, however, enable them to crack on at a pace.

With just three days before they raised Lord Nelson’s squadron, Kydd determined to use every hour of it. Gun practice. Sail drill. Signals. From dawn to dusk they slaved, shaving seconds off their times, competing mast against mast, gun against gun – but that was never the point. In the smoke and chaos of action it would be the crew who stayed at their posts, serving their guns and their ship with the confidence of long practice, that would emerge the victors.

On the morning of the third day lookouts were doubled while L’Aurore was priddied aloft and alow as though for harbour inspection. According to the rendezvous he had been given, they should raise the battle squadron at midday, Victory and near a dozen of-the-line and frigates under easy sail.

As always, the rendezvous was a line of latitude rather than a point, running some fifty miles south of Toulon, but the grey expanse of wind-driven sea was empty in every direction. He ran the line down from one end to the other – nothing.

There was no question of the accuracy of the line and he was sure of their position, so where were they? Had Nelson got word that Villeneuve had sortied and flung his squadron at the French? Somewhere out there the deciding battle of the war might be raging.

Or was the fleet at Malta or another port revictualling? Should he go in chase or stay where he was? If the squadron returned from wherever it was and he was not here . . . He would give it one day . . .

But there was another way. Supposing he went north, closed with Toulon and spied into the port. If the French were still there, all urgency was removed and he could return with an easy heart. If they were out – that was another matter and he would fall back on Gibraltar for orders.

He turned to the master. ‘Mr Kendall, we’re to look into Toulon.’ L’Aurore lay to the wind and sailed north in bursts of spray into the short, choppy seas.

Next morning the French coast lifted into view, a hard, darker grey. It was not difficult to make out the low cliffs of Cape Cepet, the protective outlying arm around the great harbour and, behind, the two-thousand-foot Mont Faron, which Napoleon had used to such effect to bombard and recapture the port long ago at the war’s beginning.

There was little to show the true situation but Kydd had a map drawn up by Sir Sidney Smith during that dramatic episode and saw that if he stood on past the cape to the far shore the harbour would open up to his left.

He concentrated hard. This would be all too familiar in the months ahead but for now it was the lair of the enemy and had the chill of the unknown about it. After he had joined up he would have access to the accumulated wisdom of years of blockade but at the moment . . .

A low rumble and gun-smoke arose from the cliffs, but Kydd ignored it and pressed on towards the distant shore. Sure enough the harbour opened up to larboard – first the Grande Rade, the Great Roads, where fleets would assemble before sailing. It was deserted but for a single frigate deep within. Then he saw them: a dense-packed forest of bare masts well beyond in the Petite Rade where Villeneuve’s fleet were safely packed, secured by the artillery on the heights. They had not sortied.

So where was Nelson? The frigate inside loosened sail and put down its helm, making directly for them. Kydd tensed: to fight or flee? This was the most dangerous location of all, and he had what he needed.

‘Take us out, Mr Kendall.’

L’Aurore swung about until she ran before the wind, rolling fitfully and eager for the open sea. The other frigate, however, had expertly cut to the lee of the protecting arm of Cape Cepet and was fast making to intercept them in a fine show of seamanship and local knowledge.

Aware that this was not his ship’s most favoured point of sailing, Kydd watched apprehensively as they converged at the low finality of the cape, L’Aurore in the lead by barely a quarter-mile.

Then there was the thud of a gun from the pursuing frigate and her colours streamed free. English colours.

A short time later, after an exchange of the private signal of the day, HM Frigate Seahorse heaved to and requested the pleasure of the acquaintance of the captain of HMS L’Aurore. Soon Kydd was in possession of the knowledge that Nelson’s fleet was at that moment in winter quarters, 170 miles to the south-east and expecting him.