Victory

Chapter 10

The last the squadron saw of Europe was Cape St Vincent, a long, flat finger of land pointing out into the infinity of the Atlantic Ocean as if to urge them on towards their destiny. As it softened into a blue-grey haze and slowly faded into an empty horizon, aboard every ship there came the age-old contraction of their world into that bounded by the ship’s side.

For a fleet, the consciousness extended out to the line of ships that were in company, but each world was its own, self-contained and complete. With flags alone to communicate, there could be no casual gossip or civil exchange of pleasantries, no domestic scandals to discuss, no wistful hopes expressed.

And ahead was the enemy. At any moment a lookout’s cry could signal the first far glimpse of Villeneuve’s Combined Fleet and then somewhere in the midst of the ocean would come the climactic battle that would decide the fate of peoples thousands of miles distant.

Deep into the Atlantic the squadron heaved to, the onward march of the broad searching ships in line abreast coming to a stop. L’Aurore was ordered to pass within hail of the flagship in the centre. Knowing he was under eye, Kydd ensured his approach was impeccable. The unmistakable figure of the commander-in-chief himself raised a speaking trumpet from Victory’s quarterdeck.

‘Do you take these instructions to every vessel in my command, Mr Kydd – and know that even minutes lost waiting here in idleness takes the French further from my grasp.’

‘Aye, aye, my lord!’ Kydd bellowed back. Seeing the quick-witted Curzon sending men to the jolly-boat at the stern davits to prepare for launching, he added: ‘Then I’d be obliged should you order the fleet to be under way directly, sir.’

After a moment’s hesitation Nelson turned to Captain Hardy and said something. L’Aurore’s boat came alongside below the entry port and a small chest containing the orders was swayed aboard. It shoved off, and instantly a signal broke out at Victory’s mizzen – ‘Squadron to resume course’. If Kydd was wrong that he could distribute the orders while all the vessels were under full sail, it would be at the cost of fleet-wide amusement.

The boat returned to L’Aurore as the line of ships ponderously caught the wind and continued on their way. Kydd peered over the side. Nelson’s instructions were in individually labelled sailcloth packages and, from the way the men hefted them, properly weighted with musket balls.

‘Ah, Poulden,’ he said, as his coxswain hurried up to report. ‘To every ship, beginning with Tigre. And mark well how it’s to be done!’ His plan required a frigate of outstanding sailing qualities but he knew he had that. With satisfaction he saw Stirk tumble down into the boat: his manoeuvres also required the hand and eye of a true seaman.

Tigre was the windward ship-of-the-line. With her boat towing astern L’Aurore shook out a reef and caught up with, then passed her, for the fleet was progressing at the speed of the slowest, the barnacled Superb at some six knots only.

The tow-line was thrown off and with the last of the headway Poulden closed with the massive blunt bows of the 74 as it foamed along, heedless. At a dozen feet distant Stirk’s heave was unerring. The boat-rope shot up into the fore-chains and seamen aboard quickly took a turn, the boat now in an exaggerated bucketing as she was pulled along.

Then Stirk’s messenger line sailed over the bulwarks and the seamen hauled in the commander-in-chief’s instructions. Both lines were then cast off and thrown into the boat, which fended off and wallowed in the mid-ocean swell as Tigre’s massive bulk hissed past.

Miraculously L’Aurore was there for the boat: Kydd had brailed up his courses to fall back as Tigre passed and now quickly took up the tow and loosed sail for the next, Leviathan. One by one he did the same for the rest, and when it was done he resumed his position at the wing of the line.

‘From Flag, sir. “Manoeuvre well executed”.’ Kydd tried to affect disinterest at the signal midshipman’s report.

Day after day, mile after mile, the seas got brighter and warmer with sightings of tropical seabirds and flying fish. In any other time and place it would have been a sea idyll but soon there would be fighting and death. Daily gun-drill was regular and long; boarders were exercised, small-arms were practised. Somewhere ahead, in the open ocean or among the islands of the Caribbean, they would overhaul the French and force them to the battle that had been so long denied them.

Thirty, twenty, fifteen degrees latitude – the trade winds bore the squadron on at a pace. The chills of winter were a fading memory: hauling seamen had naked backs and bare feet, and windsails were rigged over the hatch gratings to send cool airs into the lower-deck.

Still no urgent cry came; L’Aurore, like the other frigates, was far out on the wings of the extended line, a width of near sixty miles being combed by the ongoing ships. Every new dawn saw each ship silently at quarters, doubled lookouts in their lofty eyrie straining to see as light began to steal over the grey sea, turning it by degrees to a deep blue – and always with the line of the horizon gradually firming and innocent of threat.

And after four thousand miles and three weeks at sea an undistinguished and tiny intrusion into the far blue rim: Barbados. What would they find there? That Nelson had been comprehensively fooled into a wild-goose chase across the whole Atlantic? Or that the French had come and gone, leaving a smoking ruin where once had been the richest of England’s possessions?

The squadron fleet came to anchor in Carlisle Bay – and, praise be, the cannon of Fort Charles thudded their salute. Smoke wreathed slowly about the Union Flag hanging limply above it in the tropical heat.

In minutes the bay was alive with watercraft heading out: bum-boats, with limes, bananas and illicit rum hidden inside coconuts, mixing with official vessels and store-ships.

Without warning guns began to open up around the whole fleet throwing the craft into confusion – but it was only another salute, the twenty-one for the King’s Birthday.

Shortly after, a boat brought an excitable army lieutenant to L’Aurore. He had alarming and thrilling news: the French had been sighted! They had caused destruction and consternation everywhere – at St Kitts, Nevis, Montserrat – and everyone was on edge at where they would strike next. The arrival of Nelson’s squadron was not a moment too soon.

Kydd realised that to have achieved such damage already, this could only have been Missiessy’s Rochefort squadron, which had sortied earlier. This was a double setback: not simply the devastation caused but that it was not Villeneuve – had they chased across the Atlantic after a phantom?

A peremptory gun banged out from Victory, drawing attention to the ‘all captains’ signal. Within two hours of anchoring, after a desperate chase across the ocean, Nelson was summoning a council-of-war.

Kydd wondered how he would take the latest news but the answer came as his barge neared the flagship. The Blue Peter broke at the masthead – the order for the fleet to make ready to sail.

Kydd entered the great cabin with several others at once. Nelson stood in much good humour, welcoming them in, exchanging gossip of the voyage, asking after ailments. When all had arrived he bade them be seated.

‘Gentlemen, you’ll be as elated as I to know that not only was I right in my surmise that Villeneuve was bound to the Indies but that he’s within a day or so’s reach of me. We’ve word here from General Brereton on St Lucia that he’s arrived in Martinique this past two weeks or so.’ He looked about the assembled group with beaming satisfaction.

‘Not only that . . . but he’s since sailed and cannot be far distant.’

Kydd’s pulse quickened. It sounded like an action was imminent. The clash of fleets would be in the Caribbean, much as Rodney’s great victory at the Saintes a generation before, just north beyond Martinique. Could it be . . . ?

‘I’m told as well that Missiessy’s Rochefort squadron of five of-the-line and four frigates is returning to join him and, further, that Admiral Magon with more sail-of-the-line has but yesterday reached here.’ Stirring among the captains showed the point was well taken – that now they were gravely outnumbered.

‘The God of Battles has delivered them to me!’ Nelson’s eyes glowed with conviction. ‘We now have a noble chance to meet and destroy them!’ Growls of agreement rose from around the table, Kydd’s enthusiastically among them. Who could possibly doubt that, with Nelson at the fore, a victory was certain?

‘To business. General Brereton’s information is that the French are headed south and our only colony of consequence there is Trinidad, which it is supposed is now taken by Villeneuve’s armament. Now, do mark that Port of Spain, which is sheltered around the inner side of the Gulf of Paria, may only be approached by one channel, here – the Dragon’s Mouth.’

This was the narrow passage between the island and South America, shallows and rocky islets on every hand. ‘A grim place for an encounter, my lord,’ came a low mutter.

‘Possibly,’ Nelson snapped. ‘Once through, I’d believe we’ll find the French and Spaniards at anchor off the town, and then – and then it will be the glorious Nile once again.’ It was there that Nelson had impetuously thrown his fleet at the French at anchor and achieved the most complete victory in naval history so far.

‘And we’ll trounce ’em once again!’ Kydd found himself saying.

‘God willing. The Barbados military are insisting we ship troops for the recovery of the island, and while I have my doubts of soldiers afloat I cannot refuse this handsome offer in such a laudable endeavour.

‘I have dispatched a schooner south. It will signal confirmation of the presence of the enemy, which shall then be your call to clear for action. We sail as soon as the soldiers are embarked.’

So it was to be a titanic struggle set in the hellish conditions of a brackish mangrove-ridden inland sea, ferocious jungle heat and tormenting insects. The soldiers could not be allowed on the gun-decks and would suffer appallingly in the fearsome hot stink of the orlop until the battle was won, but it couldn’t be helped.

The squadron weighed and stood south in the sultry easterly, the fleet that had endured a blockade in the depths of winter now sweltering in the blazing sun of the tropics in high summer. Ships and men had, without benefit of special storing or dockyard, made an immediate transition to full battle-readiness. This was the unsung glory of Nelson’s leadership, a tribute to the minute attention he always gave to the details.

Within twenty-four hours Tobago lifted into view and they altered westward for Galleon’s Passage keeping well out to sea for the last stretch before the Dragon’s Mouth. As the afternoon wore on, in light winds they closed with the coast – Trinidad.

The leading frigate, Amphion, suddenly sheered out of position on seeing a schooner close inshore with a red pennant over black hoisted. It was the exact signal they had been waiting for and Amphion’s ‘enemy are present’ soared up eagerly.

The distant thunder of drums rolled over the water as the squadron prepared. Now there could be no more doubting, no more conjecture. They had chased Villeneuve and had him cornered.

As they neared the craggy, palm-girt beaches, the flames and smoke of destruction could be seen, forts and guard-posts ablaze in the steaming interior. Did this mean they were too late, that the enemy had landed and were victorious?

Grimly they stood to their guns as they neared the swirl of currents about Chacachacare, the first islet, sweating in the heat but keyed up for the fight to come. Once around the dark-green point in the violent red sunset, would they burst like an avenging thunderbolt on Villeneuve at anchor, just as they had at the Nile?

First one ship, then another glided past – and then Kydd himself saw beyond the point into the wide bay of Port of Spain.

It was utterly deserted of ships.

Gasps of disbelief turned to cursing as those with telescopes picked out the English colours hanging limply above the white residence ashore and passed on the sight to others. The island was never under threat and, in what could only be the working of the devil’s magic, Villeneuve and the Spaniards had eluded them once again.

The next morning the Mediterranean Squadron put to sea for the return to Barbados. ‘What did Nelson say?’ Renzi asked quietly of Kydd.

Wiping his forehead, Kydd gave a lop-sided grin. ‘Not, as who should say, cast down but . . .’

‘How could it be? Everything pointed to . . .’

‘A failing of information, is all.’

‘Oh?’

‘A villainous American merchantman swore that he’d been stopped and boarded from a great French fleet that had then crowded on sail to the south. He was lying to deceive, of course, but when the signal post on St Lucia reported a host of ships bound southward as well, what else could be believed?’

‘The lobsterbacks saw a convoy as would seem to them a mighty fleet, I’d wager. But the schooner – she signalled—’

‘The schooner was a Bermudan who was innocently about her trade, signalling to her business agent ashore. That she chose the self-same flags is the greatest of coincidences – while ours was away still searching.’

‘The destruction we saw ashore? If the French were not responsible then . . . ?’

‘Ha! This is your local militia mistaking us for Villeneuve and being over-hasty to retreat and fire their defences.’

It was the damnedest luck, and now they were back where they had started. For the pity of it all, where were the French?

They had hardly cleared the Dragon’s Mouth when they had their answer. A fast cutter made for Victory and soon its dispatches became general knowledge.

Villeneuve had shown his hand. He had not deployed his forces in laying waste to English possessions: instead he had spent precious time throwing his battle-fleet against a rock!

Two years previously, in an epic of courage and adventure, sailors from Centaur had scaled a near vertical monolith and hauled up guns and equipment, arming the rock like a ship. It was rated by the Navy as HM Sloop Diamond Rock and, located at the very entrance to Fort de France, the main harbour of Martinique, it dominated the approaches to the port. From its lofty heights they could spy on every sea movement.

Only after several days’ bombardment and the failure of their water supply did the little ‘ship’ capitulate. But their sacrifice would not be in vain. Nelson was galvanised and, abandoning Barbados, still with the soldiers aboard, set his fleet’s course directly north to pass along the chain of islands that were the eastern limits of the Caribbean Sea and were among the richest in the world. Villeneuve would be sure to fall on them with the forces he commanded.

One by one the islands lifted above the horizon. Local craft were questioned about what they had seen before the ships sailed on to the next, Grenada, St Vincent, St Lucia. Amphion was sent to look into Martinique but found no fleet, Dominica, then Guadeloupe and on to Montserrat. A report there, however, had eighteen sail-of-the-line under French and Spanish colours slipping by not three days previously.

Was it to be Antigua, with the best dockyard in the Caribbean? Or had the enemy vanished into the blue as they had done so often before?

They raised Antigua at first light, the jaded gun-crews at their quarters in readiness – but yet again there was no word. If Villeneuve went much further there would be no more islands for him to assault. Unless he veered to the west and fell on Jamaica . . .

With the prospect of a cataclysmic battle at any moment against a foe with double his numbers, Nelson could not afford to send off his frigates on a thorough search and could therefore only piece together what could be gleaned from local report and rumour.

And this was building to a growing conviction – that Villeneuve’s presence in the West Indies could no longer be assured. Spies in Guadeloupe had seen landed there all the troops and military stores that Villeneuve had carried across the Atlantic, which made it probable he had no longer any intention of invading and capturing territory. And a fleet of men-o’-war, however large, had no place in the Caribbean without an apparent adversary. So if it existed at all – and there was still no absolute proof – what the devil was it up to?

While the long-suffering soldiers aboard were released from their hell below-decks and sent ashore, Nelson called his captains. The tension and frustration were plain to see in the stooped figure but when he raised his head the fire was still in his eyes.

‘It must be plain to you all that a decision must now be made. Do we move to the relief of Jamaica or . . . ?’

‘Port Royal is eight hundred miles away, my lord,’ Keats said slowly. ‘If we meet with the same disappointment it will be . . . unfortunate.’

‘And if in the pursuit we are able to forereach on the rogue and bring him to battle?’

In the stuffy heat it was hard to think constructively but the sight of their doughty commander fighting exhaustion drove them on. ‘Then we sail for Jamaica? I fear I’ll need to water first,’ Bayntun of Leviathan said, fanning himself rapidly.

‘Did I say that’s where we set course? I rather think he’s bound elsewhere.’

‘My lord?’

‘He comes to the Caribbean hoping to stir up mischief and then he learns to his dismay that Horatio Nelson is on his tail. Even with a score of battleships he knows he’s no match for the British Fleet. I feel in my bones he’s given up – that he’s fleeing back across the Atlantic to Toulon again.’

‘With not a thing achieved?’ Keats rumbled, in open disbelief. ‘My lord, with such an armament they may conjure such a mill in our waters as would be remembered for generations.’

The cooler tones of Hallowell of Tigre intervened: ‘To come all this way to capture just one rock does seem a singular thing, sir.’

‘Nevertheless, a return to France must be considered.’ Nelson wiped his forehead and whispered, ‘And be damned to General Brereton for his false information as sent us flying in the wrong direction.’

‘Hear, hear!’ murmured Hallowell, but they were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

‘My lord . . .’ It was Hardy, ushering in an absurdly young lieutenant who looked about, abashed.

‘This is scarcely the time for civilities, Captain,’ Nelson said acidly.

‘I conceive you’d be interested in what he has to report, my lord. Lieutenant Carr, Netley schooner.’

‘Well?’ Nelson snapped.

‘Er, my lord. I’m lately escort with dispatches to a convoy out of St John’s bound for England.’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it!’

‘Well, sir – my lord – three days out, which is to say two days ago only, we fell in with a French fleet of overwhelming force and—’

‘What ships – how many? Speak up, sir!’

‘I have a list here, my lord. Um, eighteen ships-of-the-line, six frigates, some—’

Nelson shot to his feet, his features animated. ‘A day or two only! What followed?’

‘I’m sorry to say, sir, the convoy of fourteen was largely taken, but I stayed with the main French fleet to determine their course, thinking my dispatches of less consequence.’ It was a remarkable act of moral courage by a junior officer to turn back to search out Nelson, thereby overriding his inviolable duty to deliver dispatches with all speed.

‘And what course did they take?’

‘North, sir. Of a certainty.’

Slowly Nelson sat down. ‘We have them!’ he hissed. ‘One or two days ahead – what a race I’ve run after those fellows! But God is just and by this I’m repaid for all my anxiety.’

North – leaving the Caribbean and entering the stream of trade-winds that led back to Europe. After beginning the chase thirty-one days behind and sent after a false scent they were now almost within reach of their prey.

‘My lord, notwithstanding they’re but a day or so ahead, it does strike me that we’re sadly outnumbered.’ The hardy old Keats spoke for many and could never be thought shy of a fight.

‘Prudence is not cowardliness, dear fellow, but in defiance of their two thousand great guns and ten thousand men, I would sooner be hoist at the fore than lose the chance to close accounts with Monsieur Villeneuve.’

Growls of satisfaction rose from around the table. ‘Gentlemen!’ Nelson said, with a tight smile. ‘Fleet to unmoor immediately – course north!’

In the warm quartering south-easterly, stunsails were spread and, after laying Barbuda to starboard, they left the Caribbean, straining every stitch of canvas and nerve in the chase northward. Somewhere out there beyond the bowsprit was another fleet and when they converged . . .

Aboard L’Aurore the day passed into a tropic evening with no indication yet of the enemy. The comforting routine of the change of watches took place and the ship settled for the oncoming night. Kydd stood well back as the man at the helm was relieved and the quartermaster at the conn chalked Gilbey’s night orders for course and sail on his slate. The watch mustered by the main-mast for the usual trimming before they could settle to yarn-spinning and quiet reflection.

As the red orb of the sun dipped below the horizon the world seemed quieter, more serene, and a defined night shadow moved steadily up the swaying masts – above, the poignant rose tinge on the sails of the very last of the day, below, the crepuscular draining of colour that would soon turn to the blackness of night.

Kydd enjoyed this time. Not especially a romantic soul, he could nevertheless respond to the timeless mystery of the evening, the clarity of nature’s beauty here so far at sea beyond the land’s dusty air and swirling odours. In a way his sturdy, four-square perspective kept him from the agonies of soul that seemed to haunt the dreamers but on the other hand he realised there were levels of the human experience he would never know as Renzi did.

His thoughts wandered to his friend. The man was gifted: he had found a purpose in life to direct his talents yet was clearly morbid, troubled. Was this a price to be paid for genius? In a short while, in the last of the light, Renzi would stir from his hiding place in the fore-top where he would have spent the previous hour or so in silent vigil. What went through his noble mind while in such rapt contemplation?

On cue, as the last tinting of rose lifted above the swell of the topgallant sail, a figure swung out of the top and descended slowly to the deck. Nothing was said and he and Kydd went below for supper and a little wine.

This night there was even less conversation than normal. At one point Kydd asked after his health and Renzi seemed not to hear, gazing past Kydd unseeingly, a frown of concentration on his sensitive features.

‘A pretty problem, I’d wager,’ Kydd chuckled, ‘as is taxing a mind like yours, m’ friend!’

Renzi gave a wan smile. ‘I do ask pardon, dear chap, my mind’s on quite another tack – a hard beat to wind’d, if you will.’

‘Ah! You’ve seen a sight ashore as is testing your theories, I’d believe. Now, let me see – you’ve not stepped off since the Med, so it must be . . . the Ionians? Or can it be your Diolkos? But there’s no humankind we saw there and your study is man and his response to life’s challenges . . .’

Renzi winced. ‘I’ll grant you, Sardinia was of interest. I was gratified to find your Sard is the most nearly pure Latin of any tongue on earth, granted a forbearance of the barbarisms of Phoenicia within and . . . and . . .’

‘Nicholas – there’s something wrong, I’d believe,’ Kydd said, in concern.

Renzi gave a half-smile. ‘There is, brother. You’ll recall our earlier conversation about the difficulties in the publishing of my work. I’m now, dear friend, utterly convinced that unless I cast it in the form of a purple traveller’s tale or enter upon literary circles to cry up the piece then it will never attract the interest of a publisher.’

‘If it’s just a matter of the cobbs, Nicholas—’

‘It is not. Without an academic tenure of some colour I will never be able to command the attention of a serious nature that it deserves.’

‘Oh. So you’re saying to me . . .’

‘That my dabbling in natural philosophy is of no consequence in the larger sphere of learning and publishing. That it were better I accept this and cease my futile labouring.’

‘No! Damn it, you’ve a right trim-rigged intellect as should set a course to—’

‘But can you conceive of the triste and heavy burden it is to know that as you toil your striving is in vain?’

Unsure what to say, Kydd stayed silent.

‘Never fear, dear fellow, I am reconciled, hoist by my own petard indeed, for is not this as a society unable to change its ways in the face of altered circumstances of nature? I must bring the ship of my soul about and lay over on another tack.’

‘Er, then . . . ?’

‘Quite. My cursus vitae is now without purpose. Whither shall I wander? is my constant cry.’

‘Nicholas, it can’t be quite so bad.’

‘No? Then consider. Saving your kindness, I have no future. As your confidential secretary I am content – but this is a device only to allow me the felicity of space and time to bring forth my magnum opus. Without this . . .’

‘Why, you’re . . . that is, you have, um, every—’

‘A woman is known by her marriage, a man by his occupation. What is it that I am, then? A failed word-grinder, a man of the sea who is not, a wretched—’

‘That’s it, m’ friend – you are now quite cured of your fever as was. Shall you not petition the King to resume your lieutenancy and re-enter the Navy? A fine profession, your sea service – to be an undoubted gentleman with regular income and rattling good prospects.’

Renzi paused and reflected. ‘This does attract, but has two flaws. One, that the eminence of officer is secured by a constant devotion to duty, which I would now find hard to bear, accustomed as I am to the freedom to reflect . . .’

‘And the other?’

‘The other – that . . . that we must necessarily part, and being content with the . . . civilities of friendship, for the present I would find that . . . onerous.’

‘You must allow, Nicholas, it’ll give you the standing and income to ask for Cecilia’s hand in marriage.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Or, if we’re talking of hypotheticals, have you considered an atonement o’ sorts, an approach to your father, which—’

‘Never! There are matters of principle, of high moral standing, involved, which utterly forbids that course.’

‘Then we are at a stand, Nicholas. I can’t see how you—’

‘We?’

‘As Cecilia’s brother, I have a mort of interest,’ Kydd said evenly.

‘Then allow me to put your fraternal concerns to rest,’ Renzi said coldly. ‘It may have escaped you that Cecilia has advanced in society beyond ordinary expectation and must now be accounted a beauty by any measure. She will have a field of ardent admirers – there’s no reason to suppose she would place the attentions of a . . . a penniless wanderer before those of a gentleman of means.’

‘What? For a philosopher you make a fine juggins, Nicholas! I . . . I happen to know she has feelings for you and unless you clap on more sail she’ll think you a sad dog in pursuit who’s not worthy of her.’

‘You don’t perceive it, do you? This saddens me. In your sight does it seem, then, an honourable thing to press my suit when she might aspire to a marriage of substance and style, without want?’ He held up his hand at Kydd’s protests. ‘It’s for her that I take this course. She may indeed harbour a sisterly affection for me but for her own sake I release her from any sense of obligation to wed whom she may. She’ll now be in receipt of my letter to that effect.’

Kydd sat back in amazement. ‘Good God! Don’t you think her own feelings might be consulted at all? Does she not have a view on the matter you might discover if you asked her?’

‘This is of no consequence,’ Renzi bit off. ‘She is a warm creature and her heart may well overbear her reason, which is precisely why it’s my moral duty to withdraw and make the way clear for a more fortunate liaison.’

‘Your logic will be the death of you one day, Nicholas!’

‘Then you will perceive I die content in the knowledge that it will be in the rational cause.’ He reached for the bottle. ‘Now I’m to be used to the idea of her departing my existence, I believe.’

The days turned to weeks and their northerly course by degrees curved more easterly, tracking the great Atlantic wind system that had been followed by countless generations of seamen back to Europe.

The fine weather stayed with them, and in fifteen days their seventeen degrees of latitude had reached thirty-five. Ahead lay the Azores: an archipelago far out to sea, it nevertheless marked the parting of ways. Mediterranean-bound ships passed to the south; to the north was the Channel and England.

Why were they missing the French? The trade-wind route with its ocean-sized circulation of winds was the only practical means of crossing the Atlantic; to sail against the prevailing pattern was madness and very slow. Had they passed them in their eagerness to engage? It had occurred before, in the long pursuit before the Nile. Quite conceivably they had crossed wakes in the night, as had happened once to Nelson himself, actually sailing through the middle of the unsuspecting Spanish fleet.

And not a single clue had they on the vital question of whether Villeneuve was returning to Toulon past Gibraltar or to the feared link-up with the fleet lying at Brest and then on to an invasion.

Nelson made up his mind: it was Toulon, as it had been before.

The misty blue islands of the Azores were left to the north, those gaunt rocks where Kydd had suffered a hellish shipwreck in a frigate long years ago as a common seaman – he gave an involuntary shudder at the memory.

Gibraltar was days away only now, and the talk was all of what they would find. A galling report that Villeneuve had passed through the strait on his way to Toulon? Nothing could get past without being seen from the heights of the Rock. That he had entered Cadiz to join with the Spaniards? Or even that he lay in ambush with his great numbers in the restricted waters around Gibraltar?

All was speculation until they raised the giant fortress. Then the thousand-foot peaks of Cape Spartel resolved out of the luminous morning haze, the African outer sentinel at the entrance to the strait. They passed the thirty-odd miles through it at a tense readiness until the crouching-lion form of Gibraltar took shape ahead.

Into Algeciras Bay, and every telescope was up and feverishly scanning until one or two ships under English colours were seen peacefully at anchor in Rosia Bay. In light and fluky winds Nelson’s fleet came to anchor, one by one. The glasses came up again, this time trained on the flagship.

And almost immediately a barge put off from Victory, its passenger conspicuous and unmistakable. It pulled quickly for Ragged Staff steps and then the figure was lost in the walls and bastions. In a fever of anticipation every ship waited for word in the close heat.

One hour passed – then two. Only when the barge slowly returned to Victory in another hour without Nelson aboard did it become all so painfully clear. He would not have stayed ashore if the hunt was still on.

After a legendary race of eight thousand miles across the entire breadth of the Atlantic Ocean and back, and coming from thirty-one days behind to within a day’s grasp, they had returned to where they had started from, and with the same result.

Villeneuve and his fleet had eluded them yet again.