that came after would be the most interesting: the number of ships-of-the-line and frigates; lesser vessels would not concern the admiral.
He kept his glass trained. All along the deck not a word was spoken. His arms began to ache—but then it came. Feverishly Kydd deciphered the signal, bellowing down to the tight group waiting on the quarterdeck: 'From
This could be at best only a trivial remnant of the great armada for which they were so desperately searching. A roar of dismay echoed about the ship, along with shouts of anger as word spread below.
Kydd slumped. It was too much. They had been fooled again. The French had disappeared with the devilish fortune they seemed to command and there would be no mighty battle that day. He caught sight of Houghton's expression of devastation— for him there was now no prospect of promotion or prize-money. Beside him Bryant stood disconsolate; the seamen at the upper-deck twelve-pounders were outraged and voluble.
The fleet began to string out as ships no longer under the urgency of the line-of-battle quested forlornly for the missing enemy. A hard-run chase of many weeks, spirits high, keyed up with tension and now this ...
'Sir!' Rawson pointed to one of the two 74s that had reached furthest to the east. There was colour at her signal halliards. Kydd brought up his glass. It was number eleven. 'Enemy in sight!' he bellowed.
A storm of cheering broke out. Trembling with excitement Kydd tried to steady the telescope. 'Sixteen sail-o'- the-line—at anchor—bearing east b'south—four frigates.' Twenty miles from Alexandria, snugly at anchor within Aboukir Bay near the mouth of the Nile, they had found their quarry—at last.
CHAPTER 5
'DISTANT FOUR LEAGUES. Mr Hambly, what do you consider our speed over the ground now?' Houghton still had his glass up, looking intently at the long menace of dark lines of rigging over the sandy point far ahead.
The master pursed his lips and glanced over the side. 'Five, five an' a half, my guess, sir.'
Houghton lowered his telescope, and swung round to look astern at the straggle of ships, some two or three miles off. 'I see,' he said thoughtfully, resuming his watch ahead.
'Sir?' Kydd ventured.
'Well, I fear you may not rely on action today, Mr Kydd.'
'Why so, sir?'
'There will not be time enough. Should we wait until all our ships have come up, then form our line-of-battle, at five knots it will be hours before we can close on the enemy. And sunset comes at seven or so—no, we'll not be fighting today. Tomorrow when they come out, this will be when we force a conclusion.'
The bay opened up with the tiny Aboukir Island at the western side. There was breathless quiet. Inside, in an endless line of ships parallel to the shore, was the French fleet. Bryant growled, 'Damme, but they're well placed.' With the land to their backs the French had a wall of guns more than a mile and a half long waiting for any assailant willing to risk passing the island, which, they could see, was occupied and armed.
Kydd's attention was all on the flagship: complex dispositions would need to be communicated concerning arrangements for the night. The enemy must not be allowed to escape but the British ships could not anchor too close inshore. Nelson might risk standing off and on, sailing out to sea and back again, possibly with half of his fleet ...
Then bunting appeared on the poop—and a single signal soared. Kydd hesitated as the image danced in his eyepiece. 'Prepare for battle!' he roared.
Houghton gaped. 'Good God! He means to bring 'em to action now!' With a grim smile he turned to Bryant. 'We have three hours—I believe we'll clear for action now.'
A ship-of-the-line could clear for action in fifteen minutes if necessary, but this day would be the hardest fought of their lives— things were better done in the cool of forethought than the heat of battle. Victory could depend on the smallest precaution having been properly attended to.
Kydd's action position was on the poop-deck at the signals; there was little to do in readiness beyond the mustering of the bunting in the flag locker and ensuring that the log was at hand, signal halliards cleared and free, the handful of seamen and Rawson in no doubt about their duties. Here, preparation was of the mind. Kydd knew by heart most of the hoists he could foresee and his signal book had been brought up to date with the very latest that had been entered in the fleet commander's order book. He reviewed the provisions for night signals: complicated specified arrangements of lights in varying configurations and 'false fires'—wooden tubes of combustibles that burned with a blue light and had several meanings, depending on how and when they were deployed. And, most important, the recognition signal for British ships only now circulated to the fleet. It would be four lights in line, hoisted high to be as visible as possible above powder-smoke. The lighting rig had been checked twice by the boatswain, who also had a spare charged at hand.
Kydd tucked his signal telescope under his arm and paced slowly, conscious of a thudding heart and tight stomach but resolutely refusing to steal a look into the bay.
'Mr Kydd!' the captain called from the quarterdeck.
'Sir?'
Houghton looked energised, but wore a hard expression. 'I've no doubt your men at quarters are mustered ready.'
'Aye, sir.'
'Then as you are at leisure, you will probably wish to take a turn about the decks,' he snapped.
Kydd understood. As other officers were occupied with their quarters at the guns and elsewhere, he was being asked to keep a roving eye on the clearing for action, perhaps steady the men as they anticipated the slaughter to come.
This was no sudden, frantic sighting of the enemy: it was a cold, considered approach.
At this moment
