Victory

The port-admiral listened courteously, but made it quite clear that the battleships of Britain’s strategic defences took priority and if Kydd was facing difficulties in manning, well, he was never the first, and enterprising captains would always find tricks to complete a crew.

As he made to leave, the admiral smiled thinly and produced a pack of orders. ‘As you’ve indicated to me that you’re in all respects ready for sea, Mr Kydd, here are your orders, which you’ll sign for in the usual way. Good luck in your commission, and if there’s anything further I can do for you . . . ?’

Burning with the injustice of it all, Kydd returned to L’Aurore where he was met by Curzon, who bitterly complained that the first lieutenant had not addressed him in a manner to be expected of a gentleman. Kydd gave him short shrift and demanded to know what the bedlam was below. It seemed that grog had got aboard and there was fighting between decks. He glared at Howlett and stalked off to his cabin.

With pitifully few petty officers there was no real chain of command, let alone a cohesive structure with perceivable limits of behaviour. The ship was descending into chaos before even it had established a character. All it needed was men – to fill the empty spaces but, more than anything, to form a connected whole and begin the process of coalescing into a single instrument of purpose.

Kydd took out the orders. Unless they had a bare minimum to handle sail it was futile to think L’Aurore could even weigh anchor, let alone form a useful addition to the fleet. He knew that it was not unknown for a captain to be removed in favour of another for failing to get his ship to sea.

He paused. Why wasn’t his confidential secretary present? At last Renzi had every right to be privy to ship’s secrets and he was going to take full advantage of it.

Renzi was in the coach, the next compartment forward, which had evolved into something approaching a ship’s office. There, also, the master was correcting his charts, the ship’s clerk was about his business and later the young gentlemen would be there, painfully going through their ‘workings’.

‘I’m opening our orders, Nicholas. To see what we should be about if L’Aurore had a crew,’ Kydd said. He tore off the wrapper and spread out the sheets in order.

And the first said it all – in cold words that blazed with meaning.

He was being instructed to join with all dispatch the fleet of Lord Nelson in the Mediterranean. The first prize of all the Service could offer! The foremost fighting admiral of the age placed in the very forefront for the cataclysmic fleet action that everyone said must come!

‘Our Nel!’ Kydd gasped, staring at the page. He snatched up another – this was a part-order signed by Nelson himself, the impatient left-hand scrawl unmistakable. Yet another listed vital stores to be carried out to the fleet when L’Aurore sailed, again with the same signature. And addressed to Captain Thomas Kydd!

Thrilled, he laid the paper down. He was now one of Nelson’s captains. He was part of the most famous league of fighting captains in all of history. It was . . . incredible!

‘Dear fellow, I’m sure you’ve noticed something quite singular, not to say suspicious . . . ?’ Renzi’s cool voice penetrated his racing thoughts.

He looked up sharply. ‘I did not!’

‘The date, old chap. Here we have His Eminence issuing orders to one Captain Kydd from before Toulon, at least a few weeks’ sail away from England and the Gazette had not even the time to reach him so he might read of your promotion. If I was of a sceptical cast of mind, I’d believe those forgeries. Otherwise . . .’

It hit Kydd with all the force of a blow. ‘You mean – you’re suggesting it was he who . . .’

‘I would suggest that for a peradventure our doughty commander-in-chief, sorely in need of frigates, on hearing of the capture of L’Aurore asked for it to be sent to him instantly, and for its captain, one of recent record – Teazer’s last fight was much talked about, you’ll remember.’

‘But, Nicholas, even so—’

Renzi smiled openly. ‘Nelson always had a tendre for those of humble beginnings, as you’ll know. Why, I’ve heard that he was not content until he had a first lieutenant of Victory herself who was once a pressed man.’

‘And—’

‘Quite so. In Minorca he’s been quoted: “Aft the more honour – forward the better man!” and by this I’d conceive that your claiming no interest among the highest now no longer holds.’

Kydd sat rigid as the realisation flooded him. Nelson had not only made him post, given him his ship but now – it had to be faced – needed him! All the frustration of his situation beat in on him. He couldn’t let his hero down. Men had to be found, whatever it took.

He leaped to his feet, strode to the door and, opening it, roared at the astonished clerk, ‘Pass the word – all officers to lay aft this instant!’

He returned, pacing impatiently up and down his broad great cabin until all his lieutenants had arrived. ‘Gentlemen, I won’t waste words. We have our orders, and they’re to clap on all sail – to join Admiral Lord Nelson in the Mediterranean.’

There were gasps of incredulity. A raw and untried frigate being sent to join the famed Nelson was a huge honour but a greater challenge. The ship and her men would be tried to the limit and if found wanting would be mercilessly cast aside by the fiery admiral.

‘Men!’ Kydd snapped. ‘I need men and I’ll get them no matter the cost. Mr Howlett, what’s our ship’s company number now?’

‘Eighty-seven,’ he growled.

Well over a hundred to find – petty officers, prime hands, all the varied skills needed in a man-o’-war, not the dregs of the seaports or useless farmers.

‘Mr Gilbey. How’s your feeling of the volunteering at the rendezvous?’

‘Ah. Not s’ good, Mr Kydd. They saw your posters but, beggin’ your pardon, it’s t’ be your first frigate command