Victory

and needed no lessons in naval strategy but here was a singular thing to pique his interest: Lord Nelson’s hideaway for his fleet. Not for them the ceaseless battering by weather: the French would never put to sea in a storm, which left Nelson’s ships to take welcome refuge among the sheltering islands here in La Maddelena in the very north of Sardinia. Only a day’s sail from before Toulon, they were at anchor in perfect tranquillity and refitting after the winter’s blows.

It is, Uncle, a species of secret base just a few leagues from the French where we recruit our strength and fettle our poor ships. It’s the wonder of all that when the squadron stands down from its watching and returns to its lair, here is found waiting fresh beef, sea stores enough to delight our stout boatswain’s heart and a regular mail from home.

It was discovered by Agincourt in the year ’02, and so we call it Agincourt Sound. It’s perfect for us. The native inhabitants are few and barbarous, the land mountainous and uncongenial so we’re left to ourselves in as fine a harbour as ever I saw.

Just how secret the location was he wasn’t sure so he did not specify it in case the mail was captured.

The Gulf of Genoa in winter I find disagreeable to a degree. Clammy fogs, calms, a heavy swell. I’d as soon take the tramontane blasts of Toulon than that misery.

His uncle, though, would not take kindly to complaints about sea conditions so he quickly turned to other matters:

I have a particular friend, he is Richard Bulkeley who messes with me in the gunroom. He’s an American midshipman, his father was with Nelson when they were young officers in Nicaragua. He’s a wag at dinner and a sharp hand at cards, knows tricks that have us in a roar. He’s made Captain Hardy’s aide, so you may believe he’s a bright fellow.

Bowden paused in his writing. Thomas Masterman Hardy, a tall, disciplined officer, was a fearful figure for any midshipman.

And I’ve been taken up by Lieutenant Pasco to serve with him at signals.

His uncle would know by this that he’d done well to achieve a post of such distinction – signals in a flagship were crucial in action and he would, of course, be witness to any battle as well as having privileged knowledge of what passed between the commander-in-chief and his fleet.

He comes from before the mast, as does the first lieutenant, Mr Quilliam, who takes fools not at all gladly. He’s a fine fighting record and was called by Nelson to join him in Victory in ’03.

Should he mention Mr Atkinson, the kindly sailing master who had been at the Nile and Copenhagen both and was likewise called for by Nelson? Or Mr Bunce, the jovial carpenter who never tired of proudly telling that Nelson had once described him as ‘a man for whose abilities and good conduct I would pledge my head’?

Others – the dapper Captain Adair of the Royal Marines, who could be seen with his men at fife and drum, parading on the quarterdeck every evening; the well-read gunner, Rivers, who had once been ashore in an artillery duel with Napoleon, or even Scott, the scholarly chaplain, who, it was said, was privy to more secrets even than the ship’s captain.

But, dear Uncle, the one whom we all revere, who has our hearts and devotion, he can only be our Nelson!

How to express the thrill of being addressed by the great admiral, the most famous of the age, in a manner that suggested his reply was considered of significance? To be part of a brotherhood of trust and honour that raised one to a higher plane that made defeat an impossibility, to know an expectation of courage and ardour in battle was shared by every man in the fleet!

Struggling for words he finished,

And Victory, this indomitable ark! She’s a famous sailer on a bowline, and many’s the time we’ve thrown out a signal bidding the fleet keep with us, to their mortification.

He sat back, the guttering lamp casting shadows about the quiet gunroom, others like him taking the opportunity to finish letters to home and family before the mail closed. Soon – everyone said it – there would be a grand battle that would decide the fate of nations. What would happen? What would it be like?

Oh, and P.S. Who do you think came aboard, captain of L’Aurore frigate? It was Mr Kydd, Uncle! Made post after his gallant action that lost him dear old Teazer. He was civil enough to notice me before he left . . .

Before the smoke from their salute had cleared Kydd’s barge was in the water, stroking smartly for the stately bulk of the flagship of commander-in-chief Mediterranean, Vice Admiral Lord Nelson. In it was the captain of HMS L’Aurore in full-dress uniform to call upon him and receive his orders.

Poulden growled, ‘Oars!’ and the barge slowed to kiss the fat sides of Victory precisely at the side-steps. Kydd addressed himself to the task of mounting the side in a manner befitting the full majesty of a post-captain.

Pipes pealed out above him and he heard distant shouts from a Royal Marine guard brought to attention. It came to the present with a crash as he passed into the ornamented entry port and Kydd’s heart was full.

Then came an impression of unimaginable size, sudden gloom after the open sky, the double line of the side- party – and at the inboard end among other officers a slight figure in gold lace, decorated with four stars, who advanced on him with a charming smile. Kydd snatched off his hat and bowed.

‘Welcome aboard, sir! And it’s a right welcome sight you and your ship are too, Captain,’ Nelson said, with disarming warmth. ‘We shall take a sherry together and be damned to the hour!’

‘I’d be honoured, sir,’ was all Kydd could find to say.

The admiral’s day cabin was vast and, with the spread of stern windows right across, as light and airy as a country house. ‘Dry, Mr Kydd?’

‘Oh, er – yes, my lord,’ Kydd stuttered, at the last moment realising his host was referring to the sherry.

They found chairs and raised glasses to each other. ‘It must be . . . Was it not at our council of war in ’ninety- eight before the Nile when last we spoke? When we lost the French before we found ’em again in Aboukir Bay?’ It would never be forgotten by Kydd, who murmured a polite agreement.