Victory

Chapter 7

‘Dear Uncle,’ Bowden wrote, wondering just how he should begin the letter, where to start telling of the cascade of impressions and experiences he had met with since he had joined Victory. It was always a good opener, however, to enquire after the health of various family notables and he did so industriously, not omitting Aunt Hester’s megrims and Cousin Ann’s tooth.

His uncle had taken responsibility for Bowden’s upbringing after his father’s death. He was a very senior captain and needed no lessons in naval strategy but here was a singular thing to pique his interest: Lord Nelson’s hideaway for his fleet. Not for them the ceaseless battering by weather: the French would never put to sea in a storm, which left Nelson’s ships to take welcome refuge among the sheltering islands here in La Maddelena in the very north of Sardinia. Only a day’s sail from before Toulon, they were at anchor in perfect tranquillity and refitting after the winter’s blows.

It is, Uncle, a species of secret base just a few leagues from the French where we recruit our strength and fettle our poor ships. It’s the wonder of all that when the squadron stands down from its watching and returns to its lair, here is found waiting fresh beef, sea stores enough to delight our stout boatswain’s heart and a regular mail from home.

It was discovered by Agincourt in the year ’02, and so we call it Agincourt Sound. It’s perfect for us. The native inhabitants are few and barbarous, the land mountainous and uncongenial so we’re left to ourselves in as fine a harbour as ever I saw.

Just how secret the location was he wasn’t sure so he did not specify it in case the mail was captured.

The Gulf of Genoa in winter I find disagreeable to a degree. Clammy fogs, calms, a heavy swell. I’d as soon take the tramontane blasts of Toulon than that misery.

His uncle, though, would not take kindly to complaints about sea conditions so he quickly turned to other matters:

I have a particular friend, he is Richard Bulkeley who messes with me in the gunroom. He’s an American midshipman, his father was with Nelson when they were young officers in Nicaragua. He’s a wag at dinner and a sharp hand at cards, knows tricks that have us in a roar. He’s made Captain Hardy’s aide, so you may believe he’s a bright fellow.

Bowden paused in his writing. Thomas Masterman Hardy, a tall, disciplined officer, was a fearful figure for any midshipman.

And I’ve been taken up by Lieutenant Pasco to serve with him at signals.

His uncle would know by this that he’d done well to achieve a post of such distinction – signals in a flagship were crucial in action and he would, of course, be witness to any battle as well as having privileged knowledge of what passed between the commander-in-chief and his fleet.

He comes from before the mast, as does the first lieutenant, Mr Quilliam, who takes fools not at all gladly. He’s a fine fighting record and was called by Nelson to join him in Victory in ’03.

Should he mention Mr Atkinson, the kindly sailing master who had been at the Nile and Copenhagen both and was likewise called for by Nelson? Or Mr Bunce, the jovial carpenter who never tired of proudly telling that Nelson had once described him as ‘a man for whose abilities and good conduct I would pledge my head’?

Others – the dapper Captain Adair of the Royal Marines, who could be seen with his men at fife and drum, parading on the quarterdeck every evening; the well-read gunner, Rivers, who had once been ashore in an artillery duel with Napoleon, or even Scott, the scholarly chaplain, who, it was said, was privy to more secrets even than the ship’s captain.

But, dear Uncle, the one whom we all revere, who has our hearts and devotion, he can only be our Nelson!

How to express the thrill of being addressed by the great admiral, the most famous of the age, in a manner that suggested his reply was considered of significance? To be part of a brotherhood of trust and honour that raised one to a higher plane that made defeat an impossibility, to know an expectation of courage and ardour in battle was shared by every man in the fleet!

Struggling for words he finished,

And Victory, this indomitable ark! She’s a famous sailer on a bowline, and many’s the time we’ve thrown out a signal bidding the fleet keep with us, to their mortification.

He sat back, the guttering lamp casting shadows about the quiet gunroom, others like him taking the opportunity to finish letters to home and family before the mail closed. Soon – everyone said it – there would be a grand battle that would decide the fate of nations. What would happen? What would it be like?

Oh, and P.S. Who do you think came aboard, captain of L’Aurore frigate? It was Mr Kydd, Uncle! Made post after his gallant action that lost him dear old Teazer. He was civil enough to notice me before he left . . .

Before the smoke from their salute had cleared Kydd’s barge was in the water, stroking smartly for the stately bulk of the flagship of commander-in-chief Mediterranean, Vice Admiral Lord Nelson. In it was the captain of HMS L’Aurore in full-dress uniform to call upon him and receive his orders.

Poulden growled, ‘Oars!’ and the barge slowed to kiss the fat sides of Victory precisely at the side-steps. Kydd addressed himself to the task of mounting the side in a manner befitting the full majesty of a post-captain.

Pipes pealed out above him and he heard distant shouts from a Royal Marine guard brought to attention. It came to the present with a crash as he passed into the ornamented entry port and Kydd’s heart was full.

Then came an impression of unimaginable size, sudden gloom after the open sky, the double line of the side-party – and at the inboard end among other officers a slight figure in gold lace, decorated with four stars, who advanced on him with a charming smile. Kydd snatched off his hat and bowed.

‘Welcome aboard, sir! And it’s a right welcome sight you and your ship are too, Captain,’ Nelson said, with disarming warmth. ‘We shall take a sherry together and be damned to the hour!’

‘I’d be honoured, sir,’ was all Kydd could find to say.

The admiral’s day cabin was vast and, with the spread of stern windows right across, as light and airy as a country house. ‘Dry, Mr Kydd?’

‘Oh, er – yes, my lord,’ Kydd stuttered, at the last moment realising his host was referring to the sherry.

They found chairs and raised glasses to each other. ‘It must be . . . Was it not at our council of war in ’ninety-eight before the Nile when last we spoke? When we lost the French before we found ’em again in Aboukir Bay?’ It would never be forgotten by Kydd, who murmured a polite agreement.

‘Frigates! I must have frigates!’ Nelson went on harshly, the charm suddenly replaced by deadly seriousness. ‘If we’d had even a handful of ’em about me that day we would have taken Bonaparte at sea alive and the world a better place!’

‘Sir.’

There was no doubt where this conversation was leading, but equally swiftly the hard glint softened and, almost gaily, Nelson added, ‘Yet it must be accounted that if de Brueys had any notion of the employment of frigates he would have had them ranging seaward, not at moorings in the bay. We’d then find a very different reception waiting, don’t you think?’

‘Which would rob us of the completest victory that ever was!’ Kydd replied stoutly.

‘Quite!’ Nelson said, and relaxed into his armchair, fixing Kydd with his one sound eye. ‘Tell me, what is your understanding of the duties of a frigate, sir?’

‘Why, in a grand action o’ fleets they are to—’

‘The least of their duties, Mr Kydd, as your battle orders will attest. And?’

‘Um, protection of our trade, cruising against the enemy’s, scouting ahead o’ the fleet at sea, er, carriage of important dispatches and persons as must be trusted to make port, and, er—’

‘Which do you conceive to be the most important, sir?’

‘In course, intelligence of the enemy, sir.’ He had remembered the hellish tensions before the Nile.

‘Exactly, Mr Kydd. To this end you will be bold, ruthless, cunning, and spare nothing to get to your commander-in-chief the intelligence he most fervently desires. Neither vainglory nor considerations of honour must tempt you to stand where a prudent withdrawal will thereby secure me knowledge of the enemy’s motions.’

‘I understand, my lord.’

‘Then understand also why we are before Toulon.’

‘The blockade, sir?’ Kydd said, puzzled.

‘Do you term it so? When our sail-o’-the-line are fifty miles to the south and entirely out of their sight and knowledge? My hope and prayer is that Mr Villeneuve will feel emboldened enough to sally, seeing no English battleships in the offing. Toulon is the very devil to blockade, the high ground at their backs giving them sight of our ships for leagues.’

‘Yes, sir. I was l’tenant in Tenacious 64 off Toulon before the peace.’

‘So now you are in a frigate as will close with the port like a terrier at a rat-hole, letting nothing move except you shall report it.’

‘Sir.’

‘Lay salt on their tail, entice ’em out for an easy victory!’

‘I will, sir.’

‘Very well.’ He put down his glass, the sherry hardly touched. ‘I shall see you provided with your pennant number for the signal books. My orders are specified in the Public Order Book and the captain of the fleet will acquaint you with our way of maintaining this squadron. Now, L’Aurore – your usual Frenchy frigate does not shine in sea-keeping, her hold space so meagre. Are you in want of any material at all?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. A first-rate place for a fleet, Agincourt Sound, do you not think? Malta is not to be countenanced, even if it has the dockyards, it being so ridiculously distant. Gibraltar cannot sustain a fleet of size, all supplies must needs come out from England, and I’ll be damned if I can feel free to move, always under a Spaniard’s eyes. Here we can supply ourselves privily, wood and water when we please, but at a cost.’

‘A cost, sir?’

‘Yes. Sardinia is neutral, but Vittorio Emanuele – who is King of Piedmont and rules through his brother the Duke of Genoa here in Cagliari – must by all means be flattered and caressed that he allows us our discreet anchoring.’

‘Sir,’ Kydd said, daring a comment, ‘if Sardinia is neutral, would not his actions provoke Bonaparte?’

‘Quite. However, the French were obliging enough once to threaten an assault on this island. I have undertaken to His Majesty in that event to place my fleet before the invaders, which has concentrated his mind wonderfully on our modest request.’

Kydd glowed. That he was now at an elevation to share confidences with the commander-in-chief, Admiral Lord Nelson!

‘You’ll want to return to your ship, Mr Kydd. Pray do not delay on my account.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Nelson’s features eased for a moment. ‘And now you are made post – a remarkable elevation for one with so little interest to call upon. Do rejoice, sir, in your fortune while I will know I may always rely on your devotion to duty.’

‘Th-thank you, my lord,’ Kydd replied, inwardly exulting at this proof of to whom he owed his advancement.

‘Your orders will be sent across presently. Good day to you, sir.’

‘Nicholas, it was the damnedest thing to be talking away to my commander-in-chief and he the hero of the hour,’ Kydd declared, recalling the moment with wonder. ‘Spoke to me about how to deal with the King of Piedmont and why he chose La Maddalena and things. I’m to study my orders diligently, I believe.’

They were concise, strong-worded and very clear. When ready for sea, L’Aurore was to relieve Seahorse off Toulon. Conduct of frigate surveillance operations was detailed. There were to be at least two on station such that if the enemy sailed one would keep with them while the other would bring back word; Kydd would find Active waiting.

They would keep close with the port, with the dual object of ensuring no movements would be missed and offering themselves as tempting bait. In as wide a region as the Mediterranean there were, of course, other fleet rendezvous specified. Each would be referred to only by a code number but the main alternative to Toulon was at the south tip of Sardinia, perfectly astride the main east–west sea passage from Gibraltar to the Middle East.

There were extensive sections on signals: to a frigate bearing urgent news it was vital the meaning was clear. To this end not only the familiar signal book was to be employed but the new Popham telegraph code was to be adopted with its near infinite number of messages possible.

Further orders covered such mundane matters as the manner of victualling ship, observations on the health of seamen and the importance of weekly accounts. Nothing was left to chance and the overriding impression Kydd had was of swelling detail, all of which was a tribute to the care and worry the commander-in-chief was bringing to his task.

L’Aurore sailed for Toulon the next day in the teeth of yet another hard nor’-wester, her captain under no illusions as to the importance of his tasking. Bucking and plunging by long boards north through misty rain, they raised the darker band of the French coast in the early afternoon and by evening were off the Ȋles d’Hyères at the eastern reaches of the port.

Standing off and on through the hours of darkness, they sighted Active in the morning, cruising perilously close inshore. The two drew together and through a speaking trumpet Kydd was told that Seahorse would be found to the westward as the two endlessly criss-crossed in the offing, and that it might be prudent to shorten sail in the blow that was coming.

Then they were on their own: somewhere they would pass Seahorse but for the rest it was eagle-eyed vigilance in the worst weather, and all responsibility for keeping the enemy under watch. What if he suddenly spotted the regular procession of the enemy leaving? Did he go looking for Seahorse or instantly clap on all sail for Nelson – and thereby lose the vital knowledge of where the French were headed? It was a desperate worry, for Kydd knew that it was within his power to lose the battle for Nelson if he decided wrongly.

L’Aurore gave a sickening wallow to leeward, ending in a teeth-jarring crunch as a wave surged and exploded against her hull, sending sheets of ice-cold spray over the sodden watch.

A rounded and stern headland loomed darkly out of the driving rain. This must be Cape Bénat, as far east as he need go; beyond, the coast trended north-east, past the old wine port of St Tropez to Cannes, Monaco and the rest to the Italian border.

‘Hands to wear ship!’ In this bluster there was no need to stress spars and rigging by staying about and L’Aurore eased around to lie on the starboard tack for the long wet haul west back past Toulon. When they cleared the last of the Ȋles d’Hyères for the open sea, Kydd left the deck. At least this was not a continual, wearing lee shore, as Brest was, where a mishap with a mast or spar carrying away threatened headlong destruction on the bleak granite coast.

He pulled off his streaming foul-weather gear, grateful that he had ignored Tysoe’s disapproval of his comfortable old grego, wedged himself into his chair and went over his orders once more. His duty was clear and, as far as signals went, he had every confidence in the master’s mate Saxton, who had taken away the Popham to ‘get it by heart’.

The real problem would be when—

There was confused shouting above and he snapped alert. Grabbing his grego, he found the companionway and swung up on deck to see Curzon talking urgently to Howlett and pointing off the bow. A hail came from the fore-top lookout and then he spotted a close-packed gaggle of sail emerging from the murk.

With a lurch of the heart he saw that these were no trivial coasters, or even frigates, but vessels displaying the ominous bulk of ships-of-the-line. Was this a feint, a sudden excursion to sea to exercise Villeneuve’s fleet? Or the real thing – a mass sailing of the battleships in Toulon to outnumber and overwhelm Nelson?

L’Aurore heaved to in front of the advancing sail, and waited. Then the stream of ships parted and the larger division formed up in the outer roads in a massive show. Telescopes went up feverishly as yet more crowded out into the bay.

The time for decision was fast approaching: should Kydd follow or peel off to inform? A sharp-eyed youngster excitedly pointed out an admiral’s pennant flying on a large eighty-gun vessel. There was now little doubt that this was a major eruption of force, which could well be the historic first move in Napoleon’s grand invasion plan – and he must act!

But then Kydd saw what the smaller division was doing: while the main force was assembling in the Great Roads of Toulon it was continuing on in a wide pincer movement, led by a lone frigate leaning hard into the wind.

He quickly realised what it meant. They were a body of warships designed to brush aside the watchers to ensure that the main fleet made the open ocean and disappeared into it without trace. Without doubt now, this was the act for which Nelson had been yearning – a mighty clash of arms on the high seas that would decide the issue once and for all.

He forced his mind to a ferocious clarity. No matter the forces sent against him, his duty was to stay with the main fleet and dog their movements until it was known where they were headed.

The pincer sweep was beginning to reach out to them. Kydd raised his glass to the frigate out on its own ahead of them and saw it was Seahorse. In a trice matters had changed: virtually every post-captain was senior to Kydd, and if decisions were to be made they would be those of the captain of Seahorse.

Not sure whether to be relieved or sorry, he bore away to split the pursuers between them and shortly afterwards L’Aurore was signalled, ‘Enemy in sight’, followed by ‘Conform to my movements’. Kydd saw that Seahorse was thrashing out along the coast to the eastwards under full sail, leading her pursuers at right angles to the course the main body must take to reach the open sea.

Realising the intent, he obediently braced in and L’Aurore made off to the westwards, further splitting the pack. The enemy commander must now choose which English frigate to drive after, at the risk of losing the main fleet in the worsening visibility, or return to stay with Villeneuve.

The distant Seahorse vanished momentarily into a rain squall, reappeared and then was lost completely. The pursuers between widened the separation while the rest of the main fleet streamed out, quickly swallowed up in driving rain-squalls.

Kydd understood what was being done and when the enemy abandoned their chase L’Aurore shaped course southwards on the long side of a triangle that would see them converging on both Seahorse and the enemy fleet.

In any other circumstances it would have been exhilarating work, for L’Aurore was probably the fastest ship on the scene, but this was in deadly earnest – and the north-north-westerly that was making the breakout possible meant the wind was astern, and this was not her best point of sailing. In fact, for sea-keeping it had to be her worst.

The motion was appalling. A vicious barrelling roll had all hands grabbing for support and the wrenching movement, coupled with a harsh pitching into the backs of rollers, was deeply unsettling.

In just an hour or two’s sailing, however, the rear ships of Villeneuve’s fleet became visible. Kydd smiled in grim satisfaction. They had been right – the French admiral had not risked evasive manoeuvres and had headed straight out to sea, hoping to lose himself before the English frigates found him again.

And now the biggest question of all was about to be answered. Would Villeneuve head west towards Gibraltar to join up with the Spanish in Cadiz before storming for the Channel to fulfil Bonaparte’s destiny, or would he go east, to fall on Naples or even Alexandria in vengeful answer to the humiliation of the Nile?

Kydd hung on doggedly as the frigate rolled and bucketed crazily, knowing that the fate of England lay in his hands. There was no variation in Villeneuve’s stubborn southward course, however, and soon Seahorse came up with him, lessening the frightful chance of losing the French.

The frigate eased up with him and the two pitched and heaved together. The figure of her captain lifted up a speaking trumpet. ‘We – staaay – until we – knooow!’ he blared.

There was no need for discussion and Kydd acknowledged with a wave. The two frigates parted to take station on either quarter of the fleet; with wind astern they could deploy as they chose.

Another hour passed with no move to either east or west. Conditions were worsening to a fresh gale, wave-crests torn to spindrift and eyes reddening at the continual spray sheeting across. L’Aurore staggered now, the French barely in sight and Seahorse out on the beam taking punishment.

Kydd did what he could, rolling tackles to check the strain on plunging spars, preventers rigged – if anything carried away it would cost them more than the ship. The hours passed: no change. Day was turning into evening and then it would be the nightmare of a chase in darkness.

There was only one thing that they could do: stay closer – whatever it took, stay with them.

It seemed Seahorse was of the same mind and the two frigates closed in astern just as night lanthorns appeared in the tops of the enemy battleships, their betraying light a penalty for keeping the fleet together in darkness.

Three horizontal lights flickered and stayed in the main-top of Seahorse. Kydd did the same. The light faded and the storm-ridden night began, the white combers charging out of the blackness adding to the violence of the scene – but this was the critical time, the darkness when Villeneuve would surely douse the lanthorns and slip away on his planned course.

Another hour. The same southerly course. Hours more. It was inexplicable – why no move? Kydd was wet, chilled to the heart, but nothing would take him from the quarterdeck at that time.

The watch changed, clawing their way along the life-lines now rigged along the main-deck.

Midnight and still nothing.

A short time later there was a perceptible wan lightening of the violent seascape; an invisible moon rising above the storm wrack, which must have been known to Villeneuve. Now it was too late for him: he could no longer disappear into an ink-black night. Why?

The tempest was reaching its peak and Kydd knew that L’Aurore was now near her limit. They would soon have to take the agonising decision to break off and, in the face of desperate need, abandon the pursuit to carry their vital news to Nelson.

Another frantic hour went by and then, at about two, a blue flare sputtered on Seahorse. As he watched, the three lights in her main-top moved into line as she swung away to larboard.

Unbelieving, Kydd saw the frigate haul her wind for the south-east and begin to diverge, clearly intent on leaving, the blue light to draw L’Aurore away too. He flogged his tired and frozen brain to think why this should be so.

Then he had it. Well south by now, they must have passed to the westward of Corsica and Villeneuve was therefore blocked from a rapid move down Italy. Similarly, on this southward course they had missed the chance of a rapid passage to the west of the Balearics and on to Gibraltar. Whether in fear of constricted waters in this blow or for other reasons, Villeneuve was on his way to the grand cross-ways of the Mediterranean between Sardinia and North Africa and, if told in time, Nelson had a chance.

L’Aurore’s helm spun over and she sheeted in for the south-east, falling in astern of Seahorse. Now, steadied by her sails and on a quartering reach, she came into her own and in the wild night the two frigates stretched away for Agincourt Sound, the smaller quickly taking the lead and putting distance between her and Seahorse.

Kydd was in the race of his life to be the one to tell Nelson that the French were out.

L’Aurore flew into Agincourt Sound, signal guns cracking, and in a thunderous flogging of canvas rounding to at the flagship. Kydd’s boat was in the water instantly, her crew stretching out heroically. He bounded up the side of Victory to be met at the top by the grim-faced commander-in-chief himself.

‘The French are at sea, m’ lord!’ Kydd said immediately.

‘My cabin,’ Nelson snapped. It took minutes only to impart the gist of what had happened and just seconds for the order ‘All captains’ to be passed, followed instantly by ‘Fleet will unmoor’. A gun crashed out to add urgency to the order.

One by one captains whose names were known even beyond the Navy arrived without ceremony and were welcomed gravely by Nelson. Keats of Superb, Pellew of Conqueror, Hallowell of Tigre – men whose deeds were the stuff of legend, all fighting captains who would be the edge of the blade Nelson would wield in the cataclysm to come.

What was known was that the French were out; what was not was where they were bound. Nelson was brief and passionate: ‘It is essential to the nation to find, meet and destroy the Toulon armament before they have chance to join with the Spaniards in an unstoppable force.

‘From Captain Kydd’s hard-gotten information we know they’re progressing down the west coast of Sardinia in a fresh blow under shortened sail. We have a chance! I desire that the fleet weighs immediately. Under full sail in the lee of the gale, we stand south on the east side of Sardinia. Gentlemen, the rendezvous is at its south tip, the Gulf of Palma. There the two fleets will converge and by God’s good grace we shall return to England with news of a great victory.’

There were dutiful murmurs from the hard-faced men around the table who clearly needed no goading to action. ‘Then I do wish you all good fortune in the engagement to come. The frigate captains to remain, I shall not detain you further.’

When Boyle of Seahorse had breathlessly joined them Nelson issued his orders. The frigates were to range ahead, to instantly fall back on the squadron when the enemy was sighted. Every ship, friendly or neutral, was to be stopped and questioned; all conceivable opportunities for intelligence were to be ruthlessly pursued. At all costs the French would be tracked down and the fleets brought into contact – this was their sole and only duty.

‘Phoebe will sail west-about through Bonifacio strait, the others will scout ahead of the fleet. I’m to bring the French to battle in hours, I believe.’

In the dying storm L’Aurore was first to sea. Once clear of Cape Ferro the frigates took up a scouting line, each on the horizon to the next, with the four abreast able to comb sixty miles of sea. With specific signals designed for distant operation, intelligence of the presence of an enemy could reach Victory in minutes and the long-sought battle brought about.

With Villeneuve’s topsails about to rise above the white-tossed line of the horizon at any moment, there was no alternative but to stand to, guns manned and ready. For Kydd’s ship’s company, keyed up for hours, it was nerve-racking and exhausting, but there was now no question that L’Aurore had found her spirit and would give of her best.

Nelson’s fleet reached south as night fell, but there could be no ceasing of vigilance. When found, the lights of the enemy would be close and in Kydd’s orders were provisions for the waging of war at night, a frightful hazard on the open sea. The men slept at the guns as, no doubt, was the case in Victory and the rest of the fleet, waiting for what the dawn would bring.

They found a clear sea, empty – even the fishermen had stayed snug in harbour in the keen winds that were the last of the tramontane. And this was now the southern tip of Sardinia; they had made good speed and there was every prospect that when they swept around past the steep rocky bluff of Cape Spartivento they would be in sight of Villeneuve’s fleet coming down the west side.

The line of frigates re-formed and they moved out ahead – until the rendezvous at the south tip was reached. They could go no further and the French had not been sighted. Until they had further orders the search must stop.

‘Dear Uncle,’ Bowden began, and hesitated. How to convey the hours and days of fearful excitement just past? Begin at the beginning – L’Aurore frigate flying into Agincourt Sound, Captain Kydd coming instantly aboard to set the ship in a fever of elation. Their putting to sea within less than two hours, a masterpiece of fleet planning and execution, then flying before the gale into the night, the men at their guns primed for instant action, the cold dawn – and no French.

Conceive of it, Uncle. In all expectation of the enemy there were none! We heaved to at the rendezvous and a council of war was made and I cannot begin to imagine our noble hero’s fret of mind at losing Villeneuve. Should he choose in the wrong, the world will condemn him as a looby and we are lost.

His uncle would have little patience with the energetic opinions of the gunroom, and as, to a lowly midshipman, higher strategies were not within reach, he contented himself with the facts.

His lordship then decided on the east, believing the French were up to mischief among the Ionians, or Boney still has his heart set on Alexandria and a passage to India.

So we set our bowsprit to the dawn and a thousand miles later we discovered no Frenchies worth a shot. This vexed us extremely as we had then to accept we were in error and they had descended on Cartagena and Gibraltar, and while we chased porpoises off Egypt, Villeneuve was joining with the Spanish in Cadiz for a descent on England.

He wrote lightly but the alternative – to tell of the anguish in every breast, the dread of what they would later find – was not what an officer of the Navy would describe to another. But one image was sure to stay in his memory for ever:

To see our little admiral, standing alone with his thoughts on our quarterdeck would wring the hardest heart but, Uncle, never is he cast down. I can but stand in admiration of him always.

And then the shocking truth waiting for them at Malta:

You may believe we stretched away under a press of sail back westwards until we called at Malta to revictual. And while we were in Valletta an aviso from Naples waited upon us with our first firm news of the French, which set fair to strike us speechless.

He sat back in his chair, reliving the consternation it had caused.

It was said that Villeneuve pressed south, as we know, but at the gale’s fervour he put about and crept back to where he started. So, you see, we were chasing an enemy that never was, and here we are on Toulon blockade once more!

Renzi sat at Kydd’s grand secretaire idly doodling, trying to coax as many words as was possible from ‘ethnographical’ and in a black mood. Here he was, with every convenience at hand to wait upon the throes of creativity, and he was becalmed in the doldrums of the imagination, the fons et origo of fertile originality perfectly empty.

Even a pristine Herder, the ‘Humanität’ letters, lay open and unread, for how could he conjure structured thought when so distracted? It had hit him hard that he had been so naïve as to imagine one simply handed a manuscript to a publisher to see it later as a treasured book.

Now it seemed less and less likely that he would ever find his conjectures discussed by the world, talked over by the literati – and this tore at the very heart of the bargain that Kydd and he had struck on that inconceivably remote shore in Van Diemen’s Land. His friend had said he would provide lodging and sustenance aboard ship for the very purpose of affording him the space and time he needed to produce his magnum opus. If it was never going to see the light of day, then just what was he doing aboard L’Aurore?

Kydd’s courage and skill had seen him advance in the sea service to the highest ranks entirely by his own qualities and talent and he seemed set fair to go further. Would he feel his kindness was wasted on a scholar dead in the water, no future course charted? It would become evident soon and then . . . Perhaps he should leave quietly, now, while he was still held in some regard.

And Cecilia? His ardent feelings for her still remained but the most honourable course would be to withdraw. He was sensible that she held a tender affection for him but, like Kydd, she was destined for higher things and would make a dazzling wife for a rising man of business in the City. A catch in his throat turned to a spreading grey desolation.

Could he still snatch at success with a fortunate engagement and prize money? He could then lay out the guineas that would pay for the printing and see his book at last in his hands. But he knew now how it worked. Without a worldly editor to polish and render his prose into a round, acceptable public style, and the tracery of connections to cry up the book in literary circles that would have them besieging the booksellers to stock his work, he might as well hawk it to passers-by for a pittance on a street corner.

In despair he reached for paper and began a letter to Cecilia.

‘Ho, there, Nicholas!’ Kydd hailed as he entered, shaking water over the deck and allowing Tysoe to divest him of his boat-cloak. ‘I pray I’m not interrupting.’

Renzi hurriedly folded the paper and slipped it into his waistcoat. ‘Why, nothing of consequence, dear fellow. You took boat for Seahorse?’

‘I did. And a rousing good time I had too. A most obliging officer, Courtenay Boyle. We talked the best part of the first remove over what Our Nel expects from his frigate captains, and damned enlightening it was as well.’

‘Do tell me, Tom,’ Renzi said, as warmly as he could muster.

‘Not now,’ Kydd said, taking off his buckled shoes for sensible shipboard pumps. ‘Er, Nicholas, I’d like a little talk with you – at your convenience, of course.’

Renzi noticed uneasily that he was avoiding his eye. ‘Why, of course, brother. Er, what is it?’

Kydd flashed him a speculative look, then busied himself arranging papers on the table. ‘Um, it’s to be concerning your continued presence aboard.’

Alarmed, Renzi answered noncommittally, ‘I’m sure I’ve the time to talk with my particular friend.’ Was it that Kydd had been told of the workload to be expected of one of Nelson’s frigates in a great fleet action and felt the need for a more . . . practical aide, perhaps more focused? Or was it simply that he’d been ordered to remove superfluous members of his ship’s company before the expected major engagement? Either way—

Kydd dismissed Tysoe, then turned to Renzi. ‘Nicholas. How are your studies? That is to say, may it be said you are happy aboard L’Aurore?’

There was more than a tinge of circumspection in his tone and Renzi’s dismay grew. ‘Er, yes.’

‘Good.’ He turned and stiffly assumed his armchair. ‘It’s – it’s that I have to speak to you about your situation.’

‘Oh.’

‘When I spoke with Boyle we didn’t merely touch on signals and manoeuvres. Not at all – this is Lord Nelson’s own squadron as is known to be a fighting Tartar. His expectations are far above your common run of admirals and I own it would grieve me sorely to fall short in such wise.’

‘Quite.’

‘And it was opened to me that in the Med these do include duties not to be thought of in a Channel man-o’-war. In fine, Nicholas, he’s acting the potentate, talking with princes and kings and deciding great matters as if he was Pitt himself – it taking so long to get a reply back from Whitehall.’

‘Er, yes, I see.’

‘Do you? He’s a mort of worry on his mind, not just the fitness of our ships for battle but if Johnny Turk is still friends with the Albanians, that sort of thing.’

‘Dear fellow – I thought we were talking about my place in—’

‘Nicholas. I’m getting to it.’ Kydd went on: ‘He can’t make his decisions without he has news and information, true facts as are not false rumour. For this he must rely on friends in foreign places, details from our consuls, neutral ships, merchants – anyone who can make report on the motions of the French.’

He paused significantly. ‘In this, however, he’s possessed of a splendid right hand, one who speaks the lingo, is not shy of a puzzle, can construe the meaning in what’s found in a prize, will step ashore and brace the local pasha and steers small around a delicate situation when he sees one.’

‘Who—’

‘Victory’s chaplain.’ Kydd paused. ‘And Nelson’s confidential secretary.’

‘Ah.’

‘An amazing cove, apparently. A gentleman o’ letters, he’s close to His Nibs and is privy to every matter of confidence and delicacy. Including that of intelligence.’

‘Are you saying by this that you wish me to extend my role into that of—’

‘Never! How can you think it? Nicholas, I know well how you abhor spying and so forth. No – that will never do!’

‘Then?’

‘My dear chap, the getting of intelligence is quite at a distance from spying, being as it is the noting of facts merely, the gathering of opinions and observations. You see, in this we frigates who are far-ranging up and down the Med are best placed of all to collect together morsels to present to our commander.

‘What would be of prime service to me, Nicholas, is if you’re able to turn your headpiece to how L’Aurore can pull her weight before Nelson in all this. If when we touch at a port you go ashore and put your ear to the ground, if you take my meaning. Buy a newspaper and see what’s in it, help me persuade a Bey to his duty with iron words in honey, um, as we might say.’

Renzi was speechless with relief. Now he would have definite purpose and meaning in his life while he pondered the future. Naturally, he should first acquire a thorough grounding in the tortuous political currents in the Levant before even—

‘That is, if it does not incommode your studies, Nicholas,’ Kydd added anxiously.

‘My dear chap, if you deem it of value to our functioning here, then you may rely upon my duty in the matter.’

Kydd beamed.

L’Aurore’s orders arrived as they completed storing. And, true to his practice, the commander-in-chief had rotated L’Aurore away from the tedium of blockade for fresh tasking. ‘So it’s to be the Adriatic,’ Kydd mused, as he finished absorbing the terse, vigorous instructions.

‘Venice?’ said Renzi, curiously.

‘We go a-roaming. Trade protection our cardinal charge.’

‘Convoys.’

‘It would appear, but not neglecting any opportunity to distress the enemy wheresoever and so on. Now, here’s a rum business, Nicholas. We’re required first to make our number with a Russian cove on Corfu – I didn’t know there were any in these parts.’

‘For what it’s worth, old trout, here’s the fruit of my reading, insubstantial as it is. Corfu is the chiefest of the Ionian Islands, seven that belonged to the Venetians since olden times and of high value – they were the only part of Greece to hold out against the Ottomans. With Mr Bonaparte’s seizing of Venice he thereby acquired them for their same strategic significance, but now the Ottoman Turks are our friends.’

‘And the Russians?’

‘Not so mysterious. Tsar Paul took against the French in 1798 after the Nile and sent Admiral Ushakov to assist our Nelson. He did so most nobly by ejecting Napoleon and his friends from the Ionians, which he then garrisoned for himself.’

‘So we—’

‘But the Tsar turned again, this time against us in armed neutrality in 1801. Not for nothing was he called the “Mad Tsar”, I believe.’

‘Oh.’

‘And he was assassinated by his drunken officers not long after. We honour his son Alexander – who was present in the palace at the time – as the Tsar today. It might be said that he’s a friend to England but in this we have to accept that these same Russians are known to covet the Morea, in which the French do intrigue for the same end.’

‘The Morea?’

‘A large island at the end of Greece, also known as the Peloponnesus,’ Renzi said. ‘While it may be of inestimable value in strategical terms it’s nevertheless the sovereign territory of our allies the Ottomans.’

Kydd’s brow furrowed. ‘I do recall that when we took Malta from the French after the Nile we were supposed to hand it on to the Grand Master of the Knights of St John – and he your friend Tsar Paul. They were much miffed when we were hailed by the Maltese instead. I’ve a notion I shall need to watch my luff while there.’

‘Indeed. Remembering, too, that it could be said Malta owes its continued existence to the grain fleet from Odessa, which the Russians could cut at a whim.’

‘But I can see now that Nelson must rely on the Russians to make a presence in these waters to discourage the French from eastern adventures. Is this why we went east-about in the late alarm, they not altogether trusted to be staunch in this, I wonder?’

‘No doubt.’

Kydd sighed. ‘A carefree life on the bounding main is for me quite past, it seems. A frigate captain needs to hoist in a gallows sight more than how to reckon his position. Lend me some of your books, Nicholas, and let’s see what we can make o’ this’n.’

In the wan glitter of the enfolding calm of Corfu Roads HMS L’Aurore picked her way delicately past the two 74s and five heavy frigates displaying the blue diagonal on white of Imperial Russia, and dropped anchor.

While her thirteen-gun salute thudded out in respect to the commodore’s pennant at the main of the largest, Kydd saw the low white Mediterranean sprawl flying the two-headed eagle standard of the Tsar. He nervously twitched his full-dress uniform into obedience, anxious to adhere scrupulously to the protocol attending the meeting of two powers.

His barge was swung out but remained suspended, the minutes ticking by. Then the thump of an answering salute began from the Russian flagship. The gunner, Redmond, importantly noted their number with a nod to each, then reported to Kydd.

Precisely the same had been returned. The next act was for his boat to be lowered and manned. In dignified motions he descended the side and boarded, an ensign instantly whipping up the little staff on the transom. ‘Give way,’ Kydd murmured.

Poulden crisply gave the orders that had the boat’s crew pulling strongly for the shore. Damn it, Kydd thought, just as soon as he could he’d have them in some sort of uniform jacket and suchlike, even if he must pay for it himself.

‘Eyes in the boat!’ snapped Poulden, as some of the rowers gaped at the alien ships. Kydd kept rigidly facing forward, wishing that he’d been granted the mercy of a boat-cloak against the keen Adriatic wind but, of course, his uniform in all its splendour must be seen from the shore.

‘Hold water st’b’d – oars.’ The boat glided in to the jetty steps, Kydd conscious of the two rows of glittering soldiery drawn up and waiting above.

‘Toss y’r oars!’ Simultaneously every oar was smacked into a knee and brought vertical. With a flick of the tiller, Poulden had the boat alongside.

Kydd mounted the steps with his sword clutched loosely. When he reached the top, an incomprehensible order was screamed and the soldiers flourished and stamped. He duly raised his cocked hat and was saluted by a nervous young subaltern with an enormous silver sabre.

A carriage whisked him up through the immaculate gardens to the white building. In the entrance portico there were two men. The older, with a red sash and swirling moustache, Kydd assumed was the Russian governor.

The other had a dark Mediterranean intensity and introduced himself quietly. ‘Spiridion Foresti, Captain, British resident minister – consul, if you will.’ His English was barely accented.

‘You are new to the Adriatic? You see, it is more usual in these matters to send first a discreet representative to acquaint the local power of your name, your quality . . . and other concerns such that a proper receiving may be effected.’

Kydd flushed. ‘Captain Thomas Kydd, His Britannic Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore of thirty-two guns.’ This was urbanely relayed while he swept low in a courtly bow.

‘Sir, this is Comte Mocenigo, minister and plenipotentiary for His Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander, by the Grace of God, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, Tsar of Poland and so forth.’

The count gave a short bow and growled a sentence at Foresti. ‘Sir, the Comte wishes to indicate his sensibility of the honour of a visit by a vessel bearing the flag of Lord Nelson.

‘He’s mortified to confess that a banquet of the usual form will not be possible in the circumstances.’

Kydd bowed again, then discovered that a modest reception in the evening for his officers was to be expected.

‘I should be honoured to attend, sir,’ he said graciously. The Russian nodded, then disappeared into the residence.

Foresti turned to Kydd. ‘Captain, I think you and I should talk together. Your ship?’

Foresti sat in a frigid silence as they were rowed out to L’Aurore but clearly knew enough of naval etiquette to allow Kydd to leave the boat first to be piped aboard before he himself was escorted in.

In Kydd’s great cabin Foresti ignored the grand appointments and waved aside Tysoe’s offer of refreshments. He looked pointedly at Renzi.

‘My confidential secretary of some years, Mr Renzi,’ Kydd said firmly. ‘His learning and linguistic accomplishments have been remarked at the highest level in England.’

‘Renzi? You have the Italian?’

‘Si, abbastanza bene.’

‘And your Greek?’

Renzi added modestly.

‘In the Ionians,’ Foresti remarked acidly, ‘your classical parlance is as donkey dung, sir.’ He looked intently at Kydd. ‘I come to beg that you will tread very lightly about your business in the Levant. All is not as it seems, and should you lose the confidence of the peoples . . .’

‘Sir. You are known to us and I’m persuaded we are to be guided by your wisdom and sagacity,’ Renzi said carefully. ‘Is there perhaps something we should be particularly aware of that will help us in our dealings?’

Foresti gave a tight smile. ‘The captain here will understand that merchant ships have a colourful notion of bearing fair documentation. False papers are more to be expected in every case. Neutral bottoms are where you will find your irregular cargoes – but all this is well known to your profession.

‘What is important for you to understand is that you sons of Nelson believe you have driven the French from the Mediterranean. Nothing is more wrong. They are everywhere, currying favours, intriguing against rulers who treat with the English, preparing for the time when they will return victoriously.’

He drew out a blue handkerchief and blew into it. ‘Their agents are pointing to the success Bonaparte commands in Europe, that in only a short while England will be no more and that it would be well for the wise to be on the winning side.

‘Your allies? Sultan Selim in Constantinople has no control over his satraps, who govern their petty kingdoms in corruption and tyranny. Ali Pasha rules in the Morea – they call him “the butcher of Yannina” but the Russians and the French hasten to do him homage, as does your good Lord Nelson himself. And the Turkish Navy may be at sea, but it favours the French and will never fight for you.

‘The Russians? Mocenigo, I happen to know, is in secret communication with the French and is entirely untrustworthy. The grand Tsar pronounces one thing and does another; their dearest wish is to possess a port that is free from ice the year around and for this they are prepared to fish in troubled waters.’

Kydd’s face gave nothing away. ‘Then what in your opinion is the greatest peril?’

Foresti paused for a moment. ‘That depends. For us it must be the thirteen thousand French troops in Italy at Otranto, eight thousand at this moment marching to join them, sixty miles only across the strait from where we sit. They are waiting for when Napoleon launches his assault on England and they will be released to seize back the Ionians and—’

‘Thank you, sir. You have made our position plain,’ Kydd said, bringing the conversation to a close. ‘We shall indeed step warily in these parts. Now, is there anything we can do for you, at all?’

Foresti sighed and indicated that his services as prize agent were always to be had and the safe custody of dispatches to Nelson on their departure would leave him more than satisfied.

‘Then I shall see you to the boat,’ Kydd said, rising, and added, ‘Sir, being as you are British consul, you may be saluted with eleven guns on going ashore, if you so desire.’

‘Save your powder, Captain. And remember – trust not a soul.’

‘Sir, may I name my officers . . .’ Noise and laughter filled the reception room. It was large and very hot with a vast fire at the end tended by ornately uniformed Cossacks; around the room ladies, dressed in a style not seen in London for an age, mingled in the greatest good humour.

Footmen in colourful sashes and headgear offered fine-cut glasses of a strange Russian potion called vodka. Kydd’s nervousness at representing his country formally melted away, his senses heightened by the rhythms from a trio of players energetically strumming on peculiar triangular instruments and the utterly alien odours wafting about.

‘Ze Ritter Kommodor Greig!’ Kydd turned to meet a powerfully built man, with a genial smile, who bowed with a click of the heels. This was the flag-officer of the Russian Ionian Squadron and Kydd hastened to return the compliment.

‘My name interests you?’ the man said teasingly. In politeness Kydd had not questioned why the senior Russian commander had perfect English and affected a Scottish name.

‘Er, yes.’

‘My father Samuil Karlovich, our most distinguished admiral under the Tsarina Catherine, came from Inverkeithing. A Royal Navy lieutenant in the service of the Tsar. We have many such to ornament our navy, sir.’

‘And we likewise, er, Kommodor. I had the honour to meet Captain Krusenstern as served at sea with us before he set forth to sail around the world in our Leander and Thames as was. Have you word at all?’

The talk eddied happily about him as the vodka was tossed back in the Russian way, and nearby he heard Howlett making hesitant talk with an impeccably dressed and decorated civilian. ‘Er, I’ve heard your Greeks can be an unruly parcel to rule. How do you—’

‘Ioannis Capodistrias. I’m Ionian but count myself Greek, sir, in this island which is nominally Turk, garrisoned by Russia and lately occupied by France. In the article of ruling therefore we naturally compromise on the laws and usages of Venice, which we do all accept.’

Kydd hid a smile and glanced to the aristocratic Curzon, languidly at home in surroundings such as these – ‘Yes, well, you have a new Tsar, I understand. Alexander? All hail to His Imperial Majesty, of course, and I’m privileged to claim your Count Nikita Panin as one of my closer friends. He and I—’

‘The graf Nikita Petrovich Panin, who was one of the assassins of His Imperial Majesty’s father, the Tsar Paul?’

‘Oh! Er, I had no idea—’

‘And who, nevertheless, is now Chancellor of the Russian Empire?’

Kydd looked about to see how Renzi was coping but couldn’t catch sight of him in the animated throng. He leaned forward politely to hear the laboured English of yet another young officer about to make acquaintance of one of the legendary Nelson’s captains.

Renzi was enthralled to be hearing about the life of a Dnieper Cossack in passionate French from a heavily bearded cavalryman and did not want to be distracted.

‘Sir, this is of the utmost importance!’ a man behind him whispered again, plucking at his sleeve. ‘You must hear me.’

The burly officer seemed not to notice and rumbled on, a faraway look in his eyes. Renzi threw an angry glare at the little man in thick spectacles but it did not deter him. Renzi rounded on him and demanded to know what it was that could not wait.

‘Sir – in private, if you understand,’ the man said, shifting uncomfortably.

Renzi weighed the loss of the intriguing conversation against the possibility that some problem was affecting their presence. ‘Very well, sir. One moment . . .’ He made his apologies to the officer and reluctantly followed the man out into the garden.

‘I do beg pardon for my intrusion, sir. Were it not a business so urgent . . .’

‘What is it you want, sir?’

‘I have heard you are the secretary of the English frigate?’

‘I am Renzi, the captain’s confidential secretary, sir.’

‘Then it is in you I must trust. I am Gospodin Mikhail Orlov, a merchant venturer of Odessa. I have interests in . . . these parts and—’

‘Sir, I fail to see how one of His Majesty’s ships of war can possibly be of service to one of – to yourself, Mr Orlov.’

‘You don’t? Then answer me this, Mr Renzi – your grand commander Nelson pines after timber and spars, tar and canvas, does he not?’

To one desperate to maintain a worn-out squadron at sea indefinitely in the worst of weathers, ‘pines’ would not be too strong a word, Renzi allowed without comment.

‘And do you not consider he would be interested in a sizeable and reliable supply of such, and at a price half that of the best the Baltic offers?’

‘Are you referring to Panormo in Crete, Mr Orlov?’

‘No, sir,’ Orlov said, with conviction, ‘I talk real quantity, to fit out the greatest fleet there ever was.’

‘And, er, where might this cornucopia be found, sir?’

‘This is my difficulty,’ Orlov said quietly. ‘I am recently in possession of information of a . . . a sensitive nature, which will very shortly transform my country. I will not hide it from you – it will confer immense commercial advantage on any possessor who moves quickly and with sagacity.’

Renzi looked pointedly at his fob-watch. ‘Sir, I cannot see how this can be of any—’

‘It will in one stroke free your navy in Malta from any dependence on the Baltic trade, which you now daily risk past the Danes, the Swedes and others who would deny you.’

‘Pray tell me, Mr Orlov, what is it you wish us to do?’

‘A simple request, Mr Renzi. That I take immediate passage on your fine frigate to Smyrna.’

‘That may not be possible, sir. I cannot speak for Captain Kydd but it would seem our business is in the Adriatic, not—’

‘Sir, I feel you have not grasped fully the significance of what I offer. I have been open with you, that it will be of profit to myself, but this can only be if your great Nelson has his sea stores. There is no risk attached to yourselves.’

‘Mr Orlov. I cannot recommend this to the captain unless the business is made clear. The motions of one of His Majesty’s ships are not to be commanded by others.’

‘We have so little time. I simply ask—’

‘The business, sir!’

Orlov’s face took on a hunted look. ‘Very well. What I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence. The information is not necessarily available to the Ionian administration, um, at the present time.’

‘I understand, Mr Orlov. You have my word on it.’

‘It is an internal matter, of interest to the Russian peoples alone, that His Imperial Majesty is shortly to open up the canal of Tsar Peter the Great between the Volga and Don rivers.’ At Renzi’s blank expression he explained, ‘This will mean vessels may at last navigate from the Caspian to the Black Sea and then to the Mediterranean, opening up the whole interior. Unlimited resources of timber and flax, metals and tar – it is a prize of incalculable value, Mr Renzi.’

‘And your interest in this?’

‘The concessions. These are of two kinds – in Russia, trading rights from the pokhodnii ataman ruler, the other, right of passage from the Sublime Porte of Constantinople. Either is useless on its own. Securing both confers on the holder a monopoly of trade.’

‘Naturally, you wish for this honour.’

Orlov looked up with a bitter smile. ‘Sir, neither the ataman nor the Sultan cares for commerce. Their interest is in the regular exaction of cash from this same flowing trade, much more reliably acquired from a single source.

‘Since you will ask it, I will tell you that the French will have heard of this opportunity and will be moving quickly to secure the rights and thereby exclude you. And, be assured, these will go to the first to make cause – your Sultan ally will never argue with ready gold.’

Renzi could see that if it was true they would be in a position to relieve Nelson of a great deal of worry in his task of keeping his fleet at sea. If it was a fantasy, their protective patrol would in any event include the rich Smyrna trading route and Orlov had asked for no other commitment. ‘One thing, Mr Orlov. Why an English frigate?’

‘That when we arrive in Smyrna, the Pasha may see that I have the trust of the British and that by this he may see as well you still rule the seas,’ Orlov said.

‘And in matters of discretion your movements will never be known to your countrymen.’

‘Just so.’

‘I will speak with the captain this night. How might we get word to you?’

Kydd listened gravely to Renzi. ‘There’s only one course open to us, Nicholas. We must speak with Foresti.’

‘I’ve thought of that, dear fellow. Unfortunately he has left for Cephalonia and will not return these next few weeks.’

‘And then it’ll be too late. I do believe I’ll take a chance with this gentleman, merchant or whoever. Put him down in the books as the captain’s guest and we’ll take a surprise cruise around the Morea to Smyrna. If nothing else it will tell our privateers that L’Aurore is about and hunting.’