Kydd recalled that this was Nelson's first command of a fleet of ships in his own right: was he seeking support for a command decision that should be his alone?
'May we have your own conclusions first, sir?' Troubridge asked.
'Very well. They might be on their way back to France after their conquest, but I doubt it. And, besides, they'd find it a hard beat with transports against this nor'-westerly. No, in my opinion they are headed further into the eastern Mediterranean.' He stopped.
'The Turks and Constantinople,' murmured Troubridge.
'I think not.'
'The Holy Land? There's plunder a-plenty there and a royal route to India across Mesopotamia.' It was the youthful-looking Berry, present as captain of the flagship.
'Possibly.' As there were no further offerings, Nelson declared incisively, 'There is one objective that I think outweighs all others. Egypt.'
There were mutterings, but Nelson cut through forcefully: 'Yes, Egypt. Should they take the biggest Mediterranean port, Alexandria, they have then but twenty leagues overland and they are at the Red Sea, and from there
Saumarez stirred restlessly. 'Sir, saving your presence, I find this a baseless conjecture. We have not one piece of intelligence to support such a conclusion.'
'Nevertheless, this is my present position,' Nelson said. 'I should be obliged for your arguments to the contrary. In the absence of news we deal in speculation and presumption, sir. We must reason ourselves to a conclusion. This is mine.'
Troubridge leaned back with a broad smile. ''Pon my word, Sir Horatio, this will set them a-flutter in Whitehall. Conceive of it—the entire fleet dispatched to the most distant corner of the Mediterranean, to Egypt no less! The Pyramids, the desert—'
'Whitehall is two months away. The decision will be made today.' The reflected sun-dappled sea played prettily on the deck-head, but it also threw into pitiless detail the admiral's deep lines of worry, the prematurely white hair, the glittering eye.
'Then I concur,' Troubridge said. 'It has to be Alexandria.'
'Should Alexandria be captured, our interests in India will be at appalling risk. This cannot be allowed.' Unexpectedly, it was Saumarez.
'Yes. Captain Ball?'
'It seems the most likely course, sir.'
'Darby?'
'Putting to sea in a wind foul for France does appear an unlikely move unless their intentions lie eastward.'
'Anything further? No? Then it shall be Alexandria. Thank you, gentlemen.'
A thousand sea miles to the east—to the fabled Orient: the Egypt of Cleopatra, the Sphinx, the eternal Nile. And a French invasion fleet waiting for them there. The English fleet prepared accordingly.
The most vital task was to crowd on as much sail as possible to try to overhaul the French and force a meeting at sea before the landings. The winds were fair for the Levant and, with stuns'ls abroad, the fleet sped across the glittering deep blue seas for day after day. There was little sail-handling with the winds astern, and for watch after watch there was no need to brace and trim: the steady breeze drove them onward in an arrow-straight course for the south-east corner of the Mediterranean.
Gun practice filled the day: gun crews were interchanged, side-tackle men put on the rammer, the handspike, and gun captains were stood down while the seconds took charge. It was fearful work in the summer heat, tons of dead iron to haul in and out, twenty-four pounds in each shot to manhandle. Gun-carriages squealed and rumbled even in the light of evening.
At daybreak, as soon as there was the slightest lightening of the sky, doubled lookouts at the masthead searched the horizons until they could be sure there was no strange sail. Then, after quarters, the men would go to breakfast among the guns that shared their living space. And always the thought, the secret dread, that the enemy were just ahead, a vast armada covering the sea from horizon to horizon that would result in a cataclysmic battle to be talked about for the rest of time.
It took the English fleet less than a week to cover the distance, keeping well away from land and stopping all ships they could find for the barest clue as to the French positions. In the morning light, a hazy coastline formed ahead and the fleet went to quarters. Ships fell into two columns and prepared for battle, keyed up to the highest pitch of readiness.
The low coast firmed and drew nearer. Kydd raised his telescope to a dense scatter of white against the nondescript sandy shore, the straggling ancient town of Alexandria with its Pharos Tower. He passed quickly over the tall minarets and the lofty seamark of Pompey's Pillar amid the pale stone sprawl of a medieval fort. The forest of black masts that they sought was missing.
Kydd knew from such charts as they had that the port had two harbours, each side of a mushroom-shaped peninsula of land. The fleet passed slowly by, telescopes glinting on every quarterdeck, but at the end it was all too clear that there was no French fleet at anchor anywhere in Alexandria. The disappointment was cruel.
Kydd kept his glass trained on the flagship. He could make out people on her upper deck, some moving, some still, and once he recognised a small, lonely figure standing apart. It was not difficult to imagine the torment that must be racking their commander. It had been his final decision to come to Egypt to seek the French, but they were not here—it might be that they had been comprehensively fooled and that the enemy was on his way in the other direction to Gibraltar and the open Atlantic, to fall upon England while they were in this furthest corner of the Mediterranean.
In hours the fleet was under weigh and
