Victory

In the matter of a figurehead he was in luck: when Legge, their grey-haired carpenter, reported with his tools he had already noticed the absence of adornment at the bows and had an answer. Before the fashion for individually crafted figureheads had taken hold, the Navy had employed a standard design in the form of a lion and crown. The old carpenter knew of one that, in the distant past, had been removed in favour of the newer kind and was now gathering dust in an office.

He undertook to fit it and now L’Aurore proudly boasted a sturdy figurehead of an upright lion surmounted with a neat crown that offered enough scope for scarlet and gilding to gladden the heart of any true son of the sea.

Now they were ready.

Kydd took pen and paper and wrote three letters. The first was to the port-admiral, advising of the near completion of his vessel and thereby requesting men to be released into her. The second was a note to Renzi, inviting him to take post, and the last was to Calloway: he had been a young seaman in Kydd’s day before the mast, and Kydd knew it would bring him the gladdest news. Now a midshipman without interest or patronage and of humble origins, it was unlikely he would find any quarterdeck open to him.

He sat back in satisfaction. In remarkably quick time he had brought the frigate to readiness. He had confidence in his ship and felt a growing respect and affection for her. She was not one of the new tribe of heavy frigates but she had breeding and promise.

She would never replace Teazer in his heart but that wasn’t the point. He had now taken a major advance in his profession and necessarily had moved up to a grander ship. He would never forget his first command but it was in the future that destiny lay – for him and his new frigate.

Something of Teazer still continued, though: his Captain’s Orders. They laid down his expectations of conduct for every officer and man, which he had evolved in his years in her. Now they would continue virtually unchanged in L’Aurore.

He smothered a sigh of contentment as the reality sank in. He would throw himself into the task of bringing his frigate to life and capability and it would be only a short time before he would set course south to play his part in the great battle that must come.

Mr Midshipman Bowden held his breath as topgallant sails beyond counting began lifting slowly above the far- distant hard line of the horizon. The dispatch cutter hardened in its sheets and altered towards the leading ships, slashing through the sullen grey seas in bursts of white, its canvas board-taut.

This was probably the greatest day in his life and he drank in the sensations avidly. In a very short time he would be joining his new ship on blockade duty, just as he had told his old captain, Commander Kydd, when he had met him in the Admiralty waiting room. What he had not mentioned, for pity of the situation, was that his uncle had secured for him the first prize: to be set on the quarterdeck as midshipman in the flagship of Admiral Lord Nelson, the famous Victory.

His heart bounded. This would be an experience few could boast of – service under the greatest fighting admiral of the age and at a time of desperate peril for the nation. Of one thing he was sure: he would do his duty to the utmost in whatever lay ahead, for everyone knew that Napoleon Bonaparte must make good his promise to destroy England by invasion, and it was the Royal Navy who would stand unflinchingly four-square against him.

The ships of Nelson’s battle-fleet were now hull-up and he took time to savour the grand spectacle of the Mediterranean Fleet standing away to the north-west in two columns, perfectly spaced at a cable-length apart, an unforgettable picture of splendour and warlike threat.

The crack of a signal gun from the cutter startled him. It was to draw attention to their signal hoist fluttering at the halliards: ‘I have dispatches.’ A grim-faced lieutenant stood aft with a satchel protectively under his arm, his gaze on the line of men-o’-war. He had travelled from the Admiralty to Gibraltar and now carried who knew what news, intelligence and orders from the greater world for his famed commander-in-chief.

Victory wasted no time in throwing out a signal to the fleet to heave to. As one, sails were backed and the stately progress of the warships was suspended.

The cutter passed under the lee of the great battleship, curious faces appearing along her high deck-line as they hooked on below the entry port. Bowden thrilled at the thought that very likely Nelson himself was looking down on them at this moment, anxious for the news they carried.

The lieutenant swung on to the slippery side-steps, expertly hauling himself up to disappear into the ornately decorated entry port. Bowden followed, careful to go the long way over the bulwarks. Later, as an officer, he would be entitled to board in the same way as the lieutenant.

He blinked. The space opened up was immense. Spotless decks stretched away to a distant fo’c’sle, and above, he had an impression of irresistible strength in the vast concourse of sails with their mighty yards and soaring lines.

He snatched off his hat and bowed to a frowning lieutenant with a telescope – he had to be the officer-of-the- watch. ‘Midshipman Bowden, sir, come aboard to join.’

‘Who? Speak up, man!’

‘Bowden, sir.’

‘I’ve heard nothing of you,’ the officer said irritably, glaring at him. Distant shouts came from over the side.

‘Ah, that’ll be my sea-chest, sir.’

The lieutenant turned to another midshipman. ‘Get it inboard, see him into the middies’ berth and be sure to let Mr Quilliam know he’s another damned reefer.’ With a final glower at Bowden, he turned his back and paced away.

The midshipman called easily to a seaman, and while a whip was being rove he held out his hand. ‘Bulkeley – Richard, t’ my friends, Dick, t’ the cockpit.’

‘Bowden, Charles. You’re American, er, Richard?’

‘Born ’n’ bred. You’ve seen some service, then?’ he said, eyeing Bowden’s sailorly build.

‘Not as who might say. The Nile, Minorca before the peace, the Med in a brig-sloop,’ he admitted, trying not to look open-mouthed at the sheer scale of Victory’s masts and guns.