Victory

Chapter 8

The crisp south-westerly could not have been more welcome for the voyage to the furthest corner of the Mediterranean. Kydd’s conscience at this happy prospect was eased by the sight of suspicious sail scuttling out of sight at the sudden presence of such unchallengeable might in their waters.

Rounding Cythera at the tip of the Morea, L’Aurore stretched north into the Aegean, through the ancient sea full of islands whose names were enshrined in classical history – the Cyclades with Naxos and Thera, past the Dodecanese with Patmos and Rhodes and on to Chios, outpost to Smyrna.

The harbour was crowded with a vast concourse of shipping of all kinds and the frigate picked her way carefully through to her anchorage. ‘My thanks for this, Captain,’ Orlov said, ‘I will not forget it.’ His baggage was ready on deck, and as soon as L’Aurore had moored he prepared to board the cutter.

‘I go now to greet my business agent and together we shall call on Ali Nuri Bey, the Pasha of Smyrna. Er, it would be of some convenience should you remain a day or two displaying your largest English flags, merely for the reason I mentioned before. You may trust that I shall detail the consequences of my mission in a letter after all is concluded. Good day, sir.’

The boat disappeared into the bustle of the harbour. Kydd turned to his first lieutenant. ‘No liberty, Mr Howlett – we sail in two days.’

Here there were no flagships to acknowledge or prickly shore fortresses to notice and he would make the most of the short stay. Hands were turned to, part-of-ship, and set about fettling L’Aurore. Some captains were known for their devotion to beauty of appearance, others for the exactitude of the angle of spars across bare masts but for Kydd guns were what gave a man-o’-war purpose, their functioning, reliability, the devotion of the men serving them. The gunner’s party could always be sure of hands for their routine tasks, from chipping shot to flinting gun-locks, and Redmond was proud of the rolling programme of maintenance of his iron charges.

Close behind for Kydd, however, was that which gave the floating castle its strategic significance – motility. This potent threat carrying more artillery than whole army regiments could be moved like a chess piece to menace the enemy – but only if its miles of rope and acres of canvas were in a sound condition.

The only time most of the rigging could be safely unreeved was at rest and the boatswain began his painstaking inspection as soon as the seamen had been stood down from sea watches. In a light-sparred ship, like L’Aurore, the need was that much the greater and there were few left unemployed.

Renzi came on deck and moved to the ship’s side, gazing dreamily across the hard green waters to the rumpled, scrubby land. Kydd wandered over. ‘Not as would stir the heart, Nicholas.’

‘Dear fellow, this is not only the birthplace of Homer but may lay just claim to be the centre of the civilised world.’

‘Well, we have Greece to the west’d and—’

‘Think of it,’ Renzi said, with passion. ‘A bare hundred miles or so across this wine-dark sea are Athens, Sparta, the plains of Marathon! And close at our backs are the cities of the ancient world – Ephesus, Pergamon, Sardis.’

‘And to the north?’ Kydd prompted.

‘Ah! Why, it’s Byzantium – Constantinople as now is, the Golden Horn where Jason and the Argonauts sailed, and to go further, there we have the Black Sea, and on to Russia and the Cossack hosts. But strike south and we reach the Holy Land, the oldest and first of mankind, and—’

‘And now we’re at our anchor here,’ Kydd said drily, ‘and later it seems a hard beat back to the Adriatic will be required.’

‘But consider, this very city has had a river of treasure flowing through it over the long centuries. Now we know it for its fruit, carpets, opium, yet in its day the grand Silk Route of Marco Polo stretched from Cathay thousands of miles across trackless desert and baking plain, the camel caravans three years on their journey to finish at the end of all land – here, in Smyrna.’

Kydd nodded. ‘Yes, well, when you have had your fill of the sights it would be of service to me should you pen some kind of address to that Pasha fellow. A Turk he is but we have to be—’

The officer-of-the-watch, Curzon, came up hesitantly. ‘A boat approaching, sir.’

It was a native watercraft, one of the many criss-crossing the broad roadstead and under a press of sail heading directly for them. A figure aboard waved violently.

‘It’s Orlov!’ Kydd said. The man shouted something and Curzon motioned the boatman to come alongside.

‘Thank God!’ he spluttered, as he clambered over the rail. ‘You stayed.’

‘As requested,’ Kydd said.

‘Sir! The very worst!’ he said, throwing his arms up. ‘Er, your cabin?’

Leaving a startled and curious Curzon, Kydd led the way below.

‘What is it, sir?’

Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, Orlov said dramatically, ‘We have lost, Captain! Our concessions have been taken by another!’

‘You have lost we must say,’ Kydd replied.

‘No, sir!’ Orlov came back with conviction. ‘We have both suffered – for it’s the French who now hold the concession.’

Kydd gulped. This was another matter entirely: a trade in naval stores not only lost to the British but flowing to a blockade-starved enemy.

Orlov went on, ‘They’ve bribed the Bey and secured the document. They now need only the signature of the Russian minister in the Mediterranean and it will be over for us all.’

‘Count Mocenigo.’

‘Yes.’

Renzi nodded. ‘Who favours the French – and this is what you yourself were undertaking in Corfu when you received word from your agent in Smyrna . . .’

‘The devil played for time,’ Orlov angrily agreed, ‘knowing what the French were obtaining. With his signature over that of the Pasha, the Kremlin will grant the concession.’

‘Tell me, when did the French leave Smyrna? There’s a possibility – a slim one – that we might overhaul them.’

‘A day – no, closer to two.’

‘Several hundred miles away by now at least. I’m sorry to say, Mr Orlov, that even with a flyer like L’Aurore we stand no chance.’

‘None? I beg you, shall we try?’

Kydd sighed. ‘Very well.’ Word was passed for the master, and charts were produced. ‘Now, do you have any idea what ship they took passage in?’

‘It was a – how do you say? – a fast tekne, a Turkish coasting trader as will not be troubled by the English.’

‘What rig is that, pray?’

‘Rig?’

‘Er, can you show me one?’

Orlov went up to the broad sweep of windows and scanned the busy scene. ‘There!’ he said, pointing to a ship with an exaggerated curving of the bow and stern, wonderfully ornamented, and square-rigged over an enormous main sprit on a single mast with a balancing flying jib.

Kydd noted the clever play of fore-and-aft and square sail, which had the craft bowling along and a bow-wave creaming from the swept-up stem. ‘Yes – at least seven, eight knots. Mr Kendall, what’s your guess?’

The master rubbed his chin. ‘Aye, I’d reckon so. But if we’re thinkin’ of a chase up the Adriatic, with that jackass fore-and-aft rig, he’ll have the legs of us on account o’ the reignin’ nor’-westerly wind in our face.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to say, Mr Orlov, there’s no answer to that. We’ll have three, four knots at most over him and that calculates to four or five days before we haul him in sight. He’ll be long arrived at the Ionians by then.’

Orlov crumpled into a chair.

‘Er, it does cross my mind . . .’ Renzi politely interjected, looking up from a chart of the eastern Mediterranean.

‘Yes?’ Kydd said.

‘The great Aristophanes speaks of the tyrant Periander in – when was it? – about 600BC, that—’

‘Not now, if you please, Nicholas.’

‘Oh. I was about to mention that he caused a species of rail-way to be made over the isthmus of Corinth, here.’

‘A what?’

‘Rail-way,’ Renzi said, in a pained tone. ‘A form of track upon which a wheeled trolley is mounted and –’

‘Might we leave this for a later time? I have to see Mr Orlov ashore, and—’

‘– which he employed to pull ships across the isthmus to the other side to be re-floated and sent on their way. As you can readily see, it obviates the need to circumnavigate the Peloponnese completely – the Morea if you will – a saving of some hundreds of miles in the voyage.’

Kendall snatched a pair of dividers and wielded them on the chart.

‘He wrote of it in Thesmophoriazusae, I think it was,’ Renzi went on, ‘as they say, “as fast as one from Corinth”, referring to this very rail-way. Which was called the “Diolkos” in antiquity,’ he added helpfully.

‘I make it close t’ three hundred miles saved, if this’n is true,’ Kendall said, in awe, but added suspiciously, ‘an’ I’ve never heard of it afore.’

‘Nicholas?’

‘It’s true. Sea-going triremes of thirty-eight tons were hauled across – Octavian surprising Marc Antony after Actium springs to mind – but the main use was to considerably shorten the trade route in marble and timber.’

‘How long to get them over?’ Kydd snapped.

‘Four miles or so – about three hours with a hundred and eighty slaves at the lines.’

Kydd bellowed for Howlett. ‘Get this barky to sea as soon as you like, sir,’ he told the startled officer.

Renzi hesitated. ‘Um, the reason we’ve not heard of this marvel is possibly the rail-way no longer exists. The emperor Nero conceived of a canal through Corinth and, himself turning the first sod, ruined the approaches beyond repair before he was murdered.’

‘And there’s a mort o’ difference a’tween a forty-ton Greeky old-timer and a frigate,’ Kendall muttered.

Kydd grinned at Renzi’s discomfiture. ‘Where your trireme went I dare to say a ship’s launch can follow. I mean to set a boat or two of size a-swim the other side under sail with carronades as will wait for our tekne and give it a fright.’

Orlov leaped to his feet. ‘I will help! Anything!’

On the deck above there was the squeal of a boatswain’s call and a rushing thump of feet as L’Aurore readied for sea. ‘No, Mr Orlov. It were best you were not seen. I fancy this is work for my first lieutenant.’

‘And I,’ Renzi offered.

‘I can’t allow—’

‘I’d hazard that you’ve considered the impropriety of bringing to and making prize of a vessel under the flag of an ally of ours? Therefore we are in disguise, our challenge is in the lingua franca of these parts – and where is your Italian speaker, sir?’

With the noble ruins of Athens passing just out of sight on the starboard beam, L’Aurore made anchor in the stillness of the little bay. Kydd had the gig away instantly. It was not hard to spot the fold in terrain between the cliffs leading through to deeper clefts – but what remained of the Diolkos?

The boat grounded softly on a gently sloped rise from the modest beach into the interior where dressed stones suggestive of ancient works lay about.

Renzi could give no further information about the rail-way, and explained apologetically that his classics master had not seen fit to include details of its engineering but that ‘rails’ in the original Greek might very well construe in the archaic form to ‘grooves’ or ‘tracks’.

Quick casting about showed only sand-heath, then low scrub over light-brown soil up and over a pass. Pressing up the slope, Kydd saw that it levelled and twisted through a gully leading on the left to a grander ravine. There were no major obstacles that he could see; if there had been any such trackway it was likely to have been along here.

‘There’s no time to lose,’ he pronounced. ‘The launch and cutter. We make our own rails: lay two spars lengthways as we do carry ’em on board, and having no slaves to hand we set fifty men on the lines.’

Nothing was more calculated to lift the spirits of Jack Tar than something novel, out of routine and fit for a yarn in later life. The two boats were fitted with their gear, men told off for crew or haulers, and in no time the little flotilla was pulling lustily for the shore.

Howlett set out ahead to survey the route while Gilbey followed with a party to hack at the scrub. The spars were laid lengthways several feet apart and a trial was made with the launch, the heavier of the two. With twenty-five on each trace and rollers thrown in over the spars the boat flew up the ‘rails’ and Kydd knew all was possible, even without the heavy tackles he had in reserve.

The scrubby bushes were no impediment and, with a hearty sailor’s ‘stamp ’n’ go’, the heavy boats were trundled rapidly up to the crest of the pass. Beyond, stretching out ahead past a series of lesser slopes, was the Gulf of Corinth.

At the sight the men gave a cheer and waved gaily to an astonished goat-herder on the skyline. Down-slope the boats merely needed restraining, not hauling, and well before dark they reached their goal.

The carronades arrived, six men on each sweating at the effort, others with three balls in a haversack, still more with powder. The craft were quickly rigged, and a bare four hours after setting out from L’Aurore there were two war-boats outfitted for cruising.

Kydd allowed a smile. The ancients had been right and that night on the mess-deck there would be grog tankards raised to those fellow mariners of so long ago. ‘Mr Howlett, I will wish you good fortune. You have your orders and Mr Renzi to advise. Are you clear about your mission?’

‘Sir. To make all possible speed to the island of Cephalonia, there to lie off to the nor’ard to await any tekne seen to be making for Corfu and then to—’

‘Yes. You’ll want to set sail now – I won’t detain you.’ There were further cheers and good-spirited horseplay as the boats were readied; sails were hoisted and sheeted in and, with a wave, they set out.

Kydd watched them until they were out of sight. With a twinge of doubt he knew they faced more than a hundred miles along the narrow gulf before Cephalonia was raised and then they had to intercept the unknown tekne among all the other innocent craft and board it – this was asking much, even for the Royal Navy.

He turned on his heel and returned to his ship. They weighed immediately to sail the long way around and later rendezvous with the expedition.

Renzi settled aft, content to let Howlett take charge. His mind roamed over the improbability of what they were doing and where they were. To the right the mainland of Greece and its burden of history – Athens, Thebes and the cradle of the philosophies of logic he held so dear; to the left the Peloponnesus of Sparta and the Delian League.

It was a moment of magic. For all his classical studies he had never visited here and now . . . a pity there were no romantic ruins nearby, marble pillars that had stood since Pericles had rallied Athens and—

‘Cutter, ahoy!’ bellowed Howlett to the boat bravely seething along out to larboard. ‘I’ll thank you to fall in astern and take better station!’

How petty – and how typical of the man to play the admiral when not a soul was there to witness it, Renzi thought. Then he brought to mind commanders like Cornwallis and his ceaseless blockade of Brest. He had insisted on immaculate station-keeping and, far out to sea, majestic battleships formed line and column by signal, tacked about in succession and manoeuvred as though at a fleet review, with only the seagulls to applaud.

In the worst sea conditions anywhere, these ships kept to a culture of excellence that would see them through anything the ocean or the enemy could set against them. Humbled, Renzi smiled at the first lieutenant, who blinked, puzzled.

Dusk drew in. The gulf was long and narrow, and with only one direction to go for so many miles there would be no problem in nocturnal navigation. He watched the men arrange themselves for the night. The canny Stirk had appropriated the wedge shape abaft the stem, easing a sail-cover behind his back and pulling his stout coat around him. The forward lookout sat low for ease of sighting under the flying jib on the running bowsprit and Calloway made his way aft.

The dark hours passed, the towering black mass of the coast to larboard slipping by in ill-defined shapes that slowly came and went. A pannikin of two-water grog was issued and ship’s biscuits were consumed or carefully tucked away for later.

One by one the still black figures dropped from sight below the gunwale as they sought warmth from the chill but steady northerly and Renzi was left alone with his thoughts.

If the winds held they would make Cephalonia by the evening of the next day in good time to be in position near the tip of the island to dart out across the bows of their quarry when it appeared.

If it appeared. There was no overpowering reason for it to stay close in with this, the largest of the Ionians, other than to take the most direct course for Corfu. Conceivably the Turkish master might feel uneasy so hard by Russian shores and keep an offing out of sight. Or perhaps he had even made better speed than estimated and the vessel was now long past.

Renzi shrugged off the night-time phantoms and tried to doze but another thought came to jolt him to wakefulness. That there was increasingly little chance of his ever becoming a man of letters was now approaching a certainty but there was one possible course that would bring the stability and respect which would enable him to recast his future with Cecilia.

He would rejoin the Navy as an officer. With rising feeling he savoured the thought. He was now quite recovered from the fever that had seen him invalided out, and as the ex-first lieutenant of a sixty-four-gun ship-of-the-line he was a valuable acquisition and should find no difficulty in securing a commission.

Lieutenant and Mrs Renzi! It would be a naval wedding, probably in one of the little country churches favoured by officers around Portsmouth. They would live in . . . A betraying anxiety that she might already be spoken for rushed in on his warm vision like a harsh north-westerly squall, leaving him shaken. What was wrong with his logic that he couldn’t steer a safe course through the most elementary of life’s quandaries? If he could not—

‘Ummph.’ Howlett’s body slid sideways against his, jerking the man to full consciousness. ‘I beg pardon,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

Renzi grunted, then settled to a fitful doze.

A welcome dawn found them well down the gulf, just where they did not know, but like mariners of old, they needed only to follow the coastline to their destination – cabotage, as it was termed.

A cold breakfast was handed out and they settled to another day. At a point where the gulf kinked, Howlett ordered the boats to land at a sandy spit and the men stretched and cavorted there in grateful release.

The voyage resumed. Idly Renzi wondered just how the final act would play. He was not in command, of course, but what if he were a naval officer again, leading such a party? In the hard light of day the night’s thoughts began to wilt. It would certainly be a congenial prospect, the equal fellowship of the brotherhood of the sea in the wardroom, but things had passed that had fundamentally changed him. He had scaled the heights of intellect and seen the world abstractedly as a rational sea of intertwined natural prescripts. How, then, could he now revert to being a hard, practical officer capable of sending men to their deaths?

Moodily, he let the thoughts come unchecked as he stared at the dark, broken land. For once he was not inclined to search eagerly for a striking ruin or alluring grotto.

Cephalonia was sighted towards evening, with a smaller mountainous island close off its inshore flank. Course was shaped to bring them unseen from the seaward into the narrow passage between the two; their voyaging was nearly over. Renzi glanced across to the precipitous sides of the island, in the winter cold seeming reproving and hostile.

A snatch of Homer crossed his mind, for improbably this brooding island was the famed Ithaca: ‘Odysseus dwells in shining Ithaca. There a mountain doth dream, high Neriton, in night-dark forests is covered—’

‘Brail up!’ Howlett ordered brusquely, and pulled out his watch. ‘Call the cutter alongside, Mr Calloway,’ he told the midshipman.

‘Stirk, load the carronade with ball, but ship an apron.’ They were making their first war-like move, readying their gun for instant use but with a precautionary lead cover to protect the gun-lock.

The other boat came up and Howlett outlined the plan for action. During the night there would be little they could do, hopefully making the interception some time during daylight hours. On the hasty sketch map Orlov had provided, there was a tiny beach on the extreme north-western tip of Cephalonia accessible only from the sea. It was usefully positioned as a step-off point to intercept traffic coming up the seaward side from the south.

They would beach there until first light. A lookout would be posted on the highest ground and at the signal they would swoop. The two boats under sail would position one on each quarter of the vessel, the launch to fire its carronade to place a warning across the tekne’s bows, the cutter to stand off and threaten with its carronade while the launch boarded.

If their quarry failed to show up in these two days they would carry on to rendezvous with L’Aurore.

Resistance was thought unlikely against a boat armed with a heavy-calibre weapon trained on the little merchantman’s unprotected stern-quarters but if necessary they would use force.

There were no questions, but Renzi had qualms. The most serious was the weather: if it came on to blow, the boats would quickly have to reef or even retire and watch their prey pass on untouched. Nonetheless he slept well, settled on the beach for the night under a sail; the tideless Mediterranean ensured the waves were kept at bay.

As soon as it was light two men were sent toiling up the steep slope, waving at the top to show they had view of the sea to the south. The boats were readied afloat with a kedge anchor to seaward and sail bent on ready for hoisting – and they waited.

There were a few craft taking the passage past, clearly hurrying on north to Corfu: feluccas, a stout brig in company with a waspish xebec and a number of brightly painted fishing caïques sailing together.

Noon came. Another cold meal. Renzi squatted next to Howlett. ‘Sir, Mr Kydd’s orders were for me to render such advice to you as might prove useful. Do you wish to hear it?’

‘Very well, Renzi. What is it? I’ll caution you that whether I take it or no is my decision.’

‘Yes, quite. Er, it does cross my mind that we should recognise the opposed boarding of an ally and subsequent actions most certainly constitutes an incident with international consequences to our flag.’

‘I know that. It can’t be helped.’

‘My advice to you, sir, is that we assume the character of Russians. Our men are in no sort of uniform, but yourself and Mr Gilbey may wish to keep wearing a foul-weather cloak or similar over yours. Seen to come from a Russian-held island, the inference is that we’re a coast patrol.’

Howlett’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you suggesting some sort of charade? As soon as I give my orders it’ll be seen—’

‘Sir, I shall be speaking Italian, as is the way at sea in these parts. The men know what to do and will be instructed not to utter a word of English. This way none on the tekne can testify later to any evidence as to our origin.’

‘You will be speaking Italian? And what do you suppose I speak?’

‘You are the Russian officer in charge, of course. I am merely the humble translator.’

‘I can’t speak Russian, damn it.’

Renzi held himself in check. ‘Then, sir, may I put it to you that any mumbo-jumbo you can contrive will answer.’ If there were any Russian speakers on this Turkish coaster or among the French themselves they would be seen through, of course, in which case there would be no help for it.

‘Very well, we’ll be Russians.’

Renzi relayed this to the boats’ crews, who grinned delightedly at the conceit.

The afternoon passed slowly but as evening began to draw in there were faint shouts from the lookouts on the skyline. At last!

‘Into the boats!’ bellowed Howlett.

Sails taut and straining, they rounded the headland – and there, startlingly close, was a tekne. They quickly took position off its absurdly curved and ornamented stern-quarters and Stirk loosed off their twelve-pounder carronade. The shot sent up a mighty plume ahead of the little vessel, which lost no time in dousing its sails.

Renzi tensed. It was now the testing time. This could be the one – or not. The French might be aboard or the documents sent by hand of an anonymous messenger. The vessel might contain soldiers or even French sailors – there were infinite reasons why they should fail.

‘Lay us alongside,’ growled Howlett, fiddling with his foul-weather coat. ‘Silence in the boat!’ he snapped.

‘In Russian, if you please, sir,’ Renzi murmured.

As they neared the low gunwale of the tekne, the midshipman stood and roared at the bowman, ‘Wagga boo-boo ratty tails!’

‘Ahrr, moonie blah blah,’ the man replied, knuckling his forehead and obediently hooking on.

Red-faced, Howlett clambered over the gunwale and was confronted by a small group of men. One stepped forward and snarled some words angrily. Renzi felt a huge wash of relief. It was in French. And obviously these were not military men.

‘Mi dispiace, Signore, non capisco,’ he said mournfully, spreading his hands wide in the Italian gesture of incomprehension.

‘The cretin doesn’t know French,’ the first man said openly in that language to the older standing next to him, then beckoned irritably to the florid Turkish master. ‘Tell him to explain why he’s stopped us – we’re on urgent business.’

The message was passed. Renzi bowed politely and turned to Howlett. ‘Moo-juice blitter foo-bah sing-song . . .’ He fought down exultation – apparently there were no Russian-speakers at hand.

Howlett looked at the deck and mumbled, his very evident held-in anger perfectly suited to the performance. Blank-faced, Renzi replied in Italian to the cowed Turk, ‘My officer has been advised of the activities of pirates in this area and wishes to know what is this matter that is so urgent.’

‘Tell him it’s none of his business.’

Renzi came back: ‘He says your appearance is not the usual to be found in a Turkish trader. This close to Russian territory, my officer believes you to be spies, sir. Have you any evidence to the contrary?’

The Frenchman pulled back in dismay, saying to the other, ‘The idiot Ivan thinks we’re spies, Claude. What’s to be done?’

The older muttered, ‘Bluff it out . . .’

The first turned back and blustered, ‘This is outrageous! We’re on a mission to Count Mocenigo himself.’

The indignation faded as Stirk, summoned by Renzi’s quick wink, came across with five men fingering cutlasses.

‘My officer regrets that in the absence of such evidence you are to be arrested for questioning.’

Stirk tested the edge of his weapon with a horny thumb and gave an evil grin. ‘Watchee gundiguts barso!’

‘Think of something, Claude,’ the first muttered, ‘We could be choking for years in some stinking prison.’

Howlett leaned across to Renzi. ‘What the devil’s going on?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I demand to know.’

‘Fidgety fee t’ blarney,’ Renzi answered gravely, and passed on, ‘My officer says further that this vessel apparently without cargo is most suspicious and is to be confiscated as well.’

‘It’s intolerable, Claude!’

The older snapped, ‘I’ll show these péquenades something that’ll set ’em by the ears!’ He wheeled about and stormed off below, returning minutes later bearing an ornamented red box set about with golden tassels and an elaborate central cypher.

‘You recognise this?’ It was relayed on. ‘It’s from the Sublime Porte, Sultan Selim himself, who would take it personally should you further delay his friends.’

Howlett could hardly believe his eyes and spluttered with excitement.

Renzi bowed. ‘The officer admits he is mistaken and asks to be forgiven. Further, he wishes to make amends by conveying your box under our guard to Count Mocenigo himself.’ He firmly took the box from the dumbfounded Frenchman and handed it to Howlett with another bow. ‘Leave instantly!’ he whispered, and led the way over the side.

Back aboard L’Aurore the atmosphere changed markedly for the better after the success ashore and they continued their Adriatic duties with renewed purpose.

The gunroom became deferential to Renzi after it was gleefully told how in heathen Italian he had had Johnny Crapaud well a-tremble before telling one of them to duck below and bring him up the required document to hand over. Renzi felt that it might be better, perhaps, to leave it to a later time to explain how the French themselves had simply produced it for effect. The French rights were useless to the British, of course, but at the least it meant the playing field was now level again.

For Kydd, there was immense satisfaction on his return to La Maddalena. Invited to a dinner of captains in Victory, he sat in the glow of warm laughter and congratulations following his recounting of the adventure, receiving an approving nod from Nelson himself.

L’Aurore gave her place in the Adriatic to Phoebe and resumed her watch with Active outside Toulon, a ceaseless beat across the wide bay overlooked by craggy mountains that ensured their every movement was known, regardless of how far offshore they sailed. However, the commander-in-chief’s policy of open blockade – keeping the battle-fleet out of sight many leagues away to entice the French out – required the watching frigates to close with the port past Cape Cepet and its guns to look directly into the enfolding roads, which they did by turns.

On a fine day it was exhilarating but in the more usual cold bluster it was miserable work – and dangerous. In the past one frigate had heaved to for repairs and been taken in the night by a daring French sally. And there was no relaxing the watch as the winds chased the compass before the sudden rush of the mistral and prudent mariners sought the open sea.

In the deep abyssal waters off Toulon there was no anchoring as with Cadiz: ships on blockade here were continually under sail and therefore had no rest in any weather. And always there was the chill. The Mediterranean in winter was capable of a frigidity that put the dire winters of the north of England to shame. It was a mind-sapping almost liquid cold that penetrated until the body retreated to a last core of precious warmth and frozen hands fumbled the knots to be tied far aloft, out on a bucking yard.

At times like these Kydd did what he could for his men but his own experience told him that in rough weather with the galley fire out there was little they could look forward to except the comfort of a hammock in the heaving darkness of the lower deck. Yet something held the men’s devotion to duty such that midnight had them turning out of that hammock yet again to the cold and spite in the same hateful stretch of sea for another watch.

For the ship’s company the something that was driving them on was the belief that anything was tolerable other than letting Nelson and their shipmates down. This was how excellence was achieved – it was how England was facing Napoleon Bonaparte and his vaunted invasion, and for Kydd this was how they would win.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks ripened to spring. L’Aurore was sent for a cruise to the west, to Gibraltar and along the arid coast of North Africa, then up the length of Italy back to Agincourt Sound once more to refit and recover. In the sheltered waters L’Aurore received onions, lemons and greens from local gardens and even bullocks and sheep were waiting, along with that precious commodity – mail from home.

While there, Kydd made small improvements to his frigate. The ship’s side below on the lower deck was whitewashed, immediately raising light levels in the enclosed space and therefore cheering the atmosphere below decks. A manger was built forward, right in the eyes of the ship, and a pair of Sardinian piglets and two goats were installed. A chicken coop was constructed abaft the fore ladderway and one of the quota men received aboard in Portsmouth found himself once more employed as he had been before: taking care of livestock.

As the weather improved, Kydd took the opportunity to cleanse the mess-deck. The men set to with a will for it was their own home that was being sweetened; scrubbed fore and aft, then dried with borrowed stoves, it was sluiced well and painstakingly cleaned. The cables were roused out and laid on deck while the cable tier itself was also attended to.

And the gunroom acquired small graces of living. Most welcome was the well-used library that was being built up, with exchanges between ships freshening the offerings. Renzi furthered his reputation by contributing some of his own treasured favourites – Wordsworth and a crudely printed Shakespeare vying with startling accounts of the inhabitants of distant parts.

Gilbey proved gifted in running the mess, the subscriptions laid out to good effect whenever the ship touched port. His choice of commensal wine in the cask for mealtimes was voted exceeding fine, and sharing the captain’s cook, a chef from Guernsey called Missey, ensured that Gilbey’s little extravagances were given due attention. With regular milk and eggs and the prospect of roast chicken and pork cutlets in the near future it was a congenial mess.

The captain was royally maintained by the good offices of Tysoe, who ruled his kingdom with dignity and adroitness, his hair now tinged with grey adding a touch of severity to his demeanour. Mason, the thin-faced captain’s steward, knew better than to stand against Tysoe and was set to bringing the captain’s meals while Tysoe himself performed the honours of the table.

Potts and Searle, the young volunteers first class, found duties under Tysoe also: attending at table when permitted and with the grave responsibility for the captain’s bedplace, toilette and every piece of brightwork that could be found in his quarters. When they compared themselves to the two others, who served only the midshipmen, the honour was keenly felt.

Kydd now believed he had the measure of his ship, her strengths and foibles, the little quirks that had to be allowed for, no matter the stress of the situation. A good captain had to know a ship like a dancing partner – to detect and respond to intimate cues, to foresee and counter over-spirited steps and figures and become one together in the complex pas de deux that was sail and sea.

Each morning at six Kydd would rise, wash and go on deck informally to sniff the air, feel what the weather would bring that day and set himself to rights. The watch-on-deck would carefully not notice him.

At breakfast he liked to entertain the off-going officer-of-the-watch and sometimes to invite a midshipman or two while the ship geared up for the working day. And at the noon sight he made a point of attending with his octant and later working a position in the coach with the anxious young gentlemen, correcting and encouraging.

Thus the ship’s routine became a mirror of life itself. As the weather warmed, the sea sparkling under blue skies in place of the hard glitter of winter, the rhythm quickened. The full panoply of a Sunday at sea now became possible with no fear of rain and biting cold.

Under easy sail eight miles out, under a promising sun with the seas slight and a pleasing royal blue, L’Aurore prepared for her special day.

It would be Kydd’s first Divisions, the formal inspection of the ship’s company. He looked forward to the ceremony: it would give him a chance to see every part of his own ship, a privilege paradoxically denied him as captain for it would never do for him to appear suddenly among the men working or off-watch.

As well it would give him a rare insight into the temper of the company in so many small but significant ways. Most of all he was anxious to see if what he hoped for was coming to pass: that the Alcestes were now reconciled in body and spirit to their new ship.

It was vital that they were: the interdependence they had built up must now embrace the whole, new and old, and if it did, he would be very gratified. These were no raw crew, they were prime man-o’-war’s men, stout fighters and mariners, each with an individuality formed and seasoned by years of seagoing.

No mere cyphers to order about at a whim, they would have their own expectations of their captain and officers. A first-class seaman was valued for his initiative, the ability to work far out on the yards on his own and make instant decisions without the need for orders. If properly led, this was what would happen, but if not, Kydd knew how they could retreat inside themselves to become, so easily, blank-faced mechanicals.

He drew on his white gloves. The marine trumpeter had called the men to Divisions an hour ago, with a bold flourish, but the captain must wait. Beyond his door the seamen were being mustered by division, one under each officer, and were even now being inspected by their lieutenant.

At length there was a polite knock. ‘Ship’s company mustered for Divisions, sir,’ Howlett reported smartly. It was his competence above all that would be tested today: responsible for partialling the company not only into watch and station but divisions as well, he was also directly answerable to the captain for the day-to-day smooth running of the complex organisation that was a warship.

‘Very good,’ Kydd said, in the age-old way, and accompanied him out into the brightness of the day.

There was absolute quiet, the slight movement of the ship causing the lines of men to sway gently together. Clinton, resplendent in scarlet regimentals, threw him a dazzling salute. ‘Royal Marines, sah! All present and correct, sah!’

Kydd assumed a grave and formal air and stepped forward to inspect the Royals. As expected, they presented faultlessly, glazed leather headgear, pipe-clayed cross-belts and gaiters against their red coats a splendid show. ‘A fine body of men, very well turned out, Mr Clinton,’ he pronounced, trying not to sound pompous, and was obliged to accept another energetic salute.

‘Ah, Mr Curzon.’

‘Sir, my division of the hands: all present and sober.’

And it was what he was hoping for. In their best rig, the men stood easily, fearlessly. He stopped to inspect one closely. A glossy tarpaulin hat with ‘L’Aurore’ picked out on a black ribbon, a short blue jacket, with several rows of brass buttons and white seams on the sleeve and back, over a blue striped white shirt and set off with a red neck-cloth. Tight white duck trousers and gleaming long-quartered black shoes with buckles – the very picture of a deep-sea sailor. And the whole hand-made and lovingly embroidered – it sang of pride in himself and his ship, and Kydd was touched and humbled.

He passed man after man, each distinct and idiosyncratic in his dress and features. These were supreme professionals: the daring young topmen, the steady fo’c’slemen, the creased features of the old hands. With a word for one, an admiring comment to another, he advanced along the lines.

There was nothing to fault here, no frowsty evidence of a sailor lost to drink, no shabby carelessness from a man not one with his shipmates. They were a handsome division and Kydd told a pink-faced Curzon so.

He moved to the other divisions. The same strength and character, the same prideful appearance. Here was evidence of rivalry, the healthy expression of regard and comradeship. He nodded to a blank-faced Stirk, smiled to see Doud his cheerful self once more, and beside him Pinto, in an English sailor’s rig intricate with Portuguese ornamentation.

His barge crew were distinctive with white ribbons sewn through the sleeve seams of their jackets and trousers; the gunner’s crew each wore a blood-red kerchief; the fo’c’slemen sported large anchor buttons.

It had happened: the collection of individuals that were the Alcestes and the L’Aurores had come together and were now one.

After the inspection of the men, it was the turn of the ship. With his entourage of first lieutenant, boatswain and his mate and a Royal Marines escort, Kydd set off.

Galley, dispensary, stores – even the hold was not exempt. This was not an inspection of masts and spars, guns and carriages – those could be relied upon to be seen to on a daily basis. This was a tour of all the hundred and one places never regularly looked into; a hard grind of scouring and painting had necessarily preceded it.

The mess-deck he held until last. It would be the most revealing of all, for this was more than the usual sailors’ dwelling place set among the hulking presence of the cannon with their gun-ports to the outer world. A frigate had no guns on the mess-deck and did not need to be cleared – the men’s living space was their own.

Howlett looked at him meaningfully as they entered and Kydd dutifully sniffed. This deck was the next lowest in the ship and was ventilated and illumined only by the three hatchway gratings above; the effluvium of hundreds of men living together could be an overpowering fug but here there was only a pleasing sharp tang of the vinegar and lime used to sweeten the wood.

‘Very good, Mr Howlett,’ he said, moving a tub at the end of a table, but there was no tell-tale discolouring of the planking, evidence of a ‘holiday’ in the cleaning of the deck. Straightening, he looked about at the mess-tables up against the ship’s side and saw what he had hoped for.

The vertical racks there were filled with mess kit as individual as the men who owned it. Crockery, small japanned boxes of herbs and, at the top corners, carved pieces and dainty pictures set about with miniature ropework. Their ditty-bags hung along with them, canvas with an opening near the top, each lovingly embroidered by its owner.

The seamen were showing that they had made L’Aurore their home. It meant therefore that when they went to battle this, too, was what they were defending. He could have fussed at searching out faults – and he knew where to look – but he was satisfied.

‘Well done, Mr Howlett,’ he pronounced. ‘We’ll rig for church, I believe.’

He affected not to notice the discreet sign given and, seconds later, a drum volleyed and rattled above. The men tumbled down the hatchways, seizing benches and stools in disciplined silence, and by the time Kydd had made the upper deck the bell in its belfry forward had begun its tolling for church.

On the colourfully beflagged quarterdeck a lectern awaited him, and above him the church pennant snapped in the wind for all to see – not that they risked being disturbed in their devotions by friendly vessels this close to the enemy but regulations must be observed.

He paused, looking out over his men. They seemed so many, both watches on deck sitting on their improvised pews, others standing by the rigging, and behind him, the officers on gunroom chairs, all in an expectant hush.

In the absence of a chaplain he could choose to speak himself or, more usually, make use of the bracing strictures of the Articles of War. Today, feeling closer to his ship’s company, he preferred something more personal, uplifting and resonant with the services now being conducted in ancient churches all over England.

He took the Bible from his clerk and opened it at Psalm the Third.

‘Lord, how are they increased that trouble me! Many are they that rise up against me. Many there be which say of my soul, “There is no help for him in God.” But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory and the lifter up of mine head . . .’

Raising his eyes when the ancient words were done, in strong, robust tones he told the L’Aurores that they must do their duty and trust that God would uphold them and give them the victory.

Then he told them sincerely of his satisfaction at the state of the ship and stepped back. ‘Shall we raise our voices? “O for a thousand tongues to sing . . .”’

The words came lusty and strong, and to Kydd was pleasing confirmation of the harmony that now prevailed in L’Aurore. He joined in happily.

Then it was, ‘Down all stools!’ followed by the welcome ‘Up spirits!’ and the sanctity of the occasion dissolved into rest-day jollity.

Kydd accepted the traditional captain’s invitation to a gunroom dinner and went below to join his officers.

March was turning into April; the weather improved but there was no let-up in the watch and ward over Napoleon’s invasion fleet. L’Aurore retired with Nelson’s squadron to the southern rendezvous of Pula Bay to water and replenish. While there, she took her turn with the entertainments.

For weeks beforehand L’Aurore had been abuzz with expectation and planning for the big day aboard Victory when they must perform before the glittering assembly of the commander-in-chief and visiting captains. Doud was tasked for several spots, and a shy, sensitive marine who turned out to be a natural flute-player was discovered. One of the older fo’c’slemen was persuaded to accompany on his violin a pair of startlingly agile topmen in their hornpipe, while Kydd himself was remembered as a fine voice: he would render ‘Spanish Ladies’ and sing in a duet with Curzon.

On the night it was a great success and the musical numbers were enthusiastically applauded, but what had the company in a roar was the theatricals that followed: a rousing interpretation in costume of the Frenchmen meeting the ‘Russians’ on the tekne, with hilarious gobbledegook and misunderstandings deployed to best effect and a grand climax with an extravagantly spoken ‘Renzi’ triumphantly carrying off an enormous treasure box.

Kydd returned to his ship enfolded in the warmth of the evening, reflecting that it would be difficult to recall a time of greater contentment. When the morning came, with a warm sun climbing to a blue heaven, the feeling remained.

Then at ten everything changed. Around the point a frigate under full sail burst into sight. It was Phoebe and she had a signal flying: ‘Enemy fleet at sea’. Villeneuve had sailed.

Within an hour the flagship had summoned all captains and Kydd found himself sitting with other grim-faced officers at the commander-in-chief’s table hearing the news.

‘Villeneuve sailed with a fine nor’-easterly on the thirtieth last,’ Nelson said brusquely. ‘Eleven sail-of-the-line, seven frigates and several sloops. It’s reported he’s embarked some three thousand troops – for what purpose we cannot know. His last course was sou’-sou’-westerly but Villeneuve’s invariable practice is to stand out to sea until he loses our frigates and only then bears away on his true heading. I pray Active will stay with them, but with these moonless nights I’m not sanguine she will.’

Murmuring around the table showed the implication was not lost on them. Was this going to be a repetition of the breakout several months before when they had chased rumours and suppositions to the ends of the Mediterranean?

‘I think it right you should understand the elements of the decision I now face.’ He stood and moved to the chart. ‘The enemy is loose in the Mediterranean with a substantial body of soldiers. So where are they going? To the west – to join with the Dons in Cartagena? If this is so, why the troops? The same applies to a general exit past Gibraltar, for in joining with the Spanish at Cadiz or the French at Brest why the soldiers? A singular number, inconsequential for an invasion force and not needed in a conjunction with the other squadrons.’

He gazed at the chart for long moments. ‘To the east? Possibly. Egypt still remains as it always has been, a highway to India, as does Syria, and we can rely on neither the Turks nor the Russians. Our entire interests including Malta therefore lie helpless before a battle-fleet of such force.’

The lines deepened in his face. ‘And once a landing is achieved neither Satan nor all his demons will serve to remove them.’

‘Sir – the Morea?’

‘Thank you, Captain Keats, and your point is well taken. Should the Morea or any of the Ionians be taken we shall be hard put to defend our trade both in the Adriatic and further south. As to a motion towards Constantinople I feel it unlikely but not impossible.’

Kydd felt the tension: there could be no commander in history faced with such a decision and his heart went out to the stooped figure.

‘I conceive there to be one object open to Villeneuve that is consistent with the facts to hand. The gesture east is a feint.’

‘Gibraltar and the Channel!’

The final move to link up the enemy fleets – it was happening . . . or was it?

‘I think not. I believe it to be an attempt to draw my squadron the thousand miles to Egypt – so leaving Naples and Sicily unguarded.’

‘If Sicily is taken, it will cut the Mediterranean in two!’

‘Quite.’

‘And Naples lost – with no other friend in these parts we’ll have to give up Malta!’

‘The mischief is incalculable. Therefore my dispositions are this: the fleet will deploy in the central Mediterranean between Sardinia and Tunis, which will cover the route eastwards yet be available if they be sighted to the west. My precious frigates—’ his twisted smile was at Kydd ‘—will cover the inshore runs to the north of Africa and the south of Sardinia, the final remaining to look into the eastern passage by Italy.’

The decision made, Nelson’s features eased. ‘But, gentlemen, I do account this the greatest news this age. After two years the French are finally out. In a short while I shall have the ineffable happiness of meeting Monsieur Villeneuve on the open sea where we shall put an end to this nonsense.’

Growls of agreement rose pugnaciously about the table.

‘So. Will history later celebrate the battle of Santo Pietro – or is it to be the famous battle of Minorca?’