Victory

the order.

One by one captains whose names were known even beyond the Navy arrived without ceremony and were welcomed gravely by Nelson. Keats of Superb, Pellew of Conqueror, Hallowell of Tigre – men whose deeds were the stuff of legend, all fighting captains who would be the edge of the blade Nelson would wield in the cataclysm to come.

What was known was that the French were out; what was not was where they were bound. Nelson was brief and passionate: ‘It is essential to the nation to find, meet and destroy the Toulon armament before they have chance to join with the Spaniards in an unstoppable force.

‘From Captain Kydd’s hard-gotten information we know they’re progressing down the west coast of Sardinia in a fresh blow under shortened sail. We have a chance! I desire that the fleet weighs immediately. Under full sail in the lee of the gale, we stand south on the east side of Sardinia. Gentlemen, the rendezvous is at its south tip, the Gulf of Palma. There the two fleets will converge and by God’s good grace we shall return to England with news of a great victory.’

There were dutiful murmurs from the hard-faced men around the table who clearly needed no goading to action. ‘Then I do wish you all good fortune in the engagement to come. The frigate captains to remain, I shall not detain you further.’

When Boyle of Seahorse had breathlessly joined them Nelson issued his orders. The frigates were to range ahead, to instantly fall back on the squadron when the enemy was sighted. Every ship, friendly or neutral, was to be stopped and questioned; all conceivable opportunities for intelligence were to be ruthlessly pursued. At all costs the French would be tracked down and the fleets brought into contact – this was their sole and only duty.

‘Phoebe will sail west-about through Bonifacio strait, the others will scout ahead of the fleet. I’m to bring the French to battle in hours, I believe.’

In the dying storm L’Aurore was first to sea. Once clear of Cape Ferro the frigates took up a scouting line, each on the horizon to the next, with the four abreast able to comb sixty miles of sea. With specific signals designed for distant operation, intelligence of the presence of an enemy could reach Victory in minutes and the long-sought battle brought about.

With Villeneuve’s topsails about to rise above the white-tossed line of the horizon at any moment, there was no alternative but to stand to, guns manned and ready. For Kydd’s ship’s company, keyed up for hours, it was nerve- racking and exhausting, but there was now no question that L’Aurore had found her spirit and would give of her best.

Nelson’s fleet reached south as night fell, but there could be no ceasing of vigilance. When found, the lights of the enemy would be close and in Kydd’s orders were provisions for the waging of war at night, a frightful hazard on the open sea. The men slept at the guns as, no doubt, was the case in Victory and the rest of the fleet, waiting for what the dawn would bring.

They found a clear sea, empty – even the fishermen had stayed snug in harbour in the keen winds that were the last of the tramontane. And this was now the southern tip of Sardinia; they had made good speed and there was every prospect that when they swept around past the steep rocky bluff of Cape Spartivento they would be in sight of Villeneuve’s fleet coming down the west side.

The line of frigates re-formed and they moved out ahead – until the rendezvous at the south tip was reached. They could go no further and the French had not been sighted. Until they had further orders the search must stop.

‘Dear Uncle,’ Bowden began, and hesitated. How to convey the hours and days of fearful excitement just past? Begin at the beginning – L’Aurore frigate flying into Agincourt Sound, Captain Kydd coming instantly aboard to set the ship in a fever of elation. Their putting to sea within less than two hours, a masterpiece of fleet planning and execution, then flying before the gale into the night, the men at their guns primed for instant action, the cold dawn – and no French.

Conceive of it, Uncle. In all expectation of the enemy there were none! We heaved to at the rendezvous and a council of war was made and I cannot begin to imagine our noble hero’s fret of mind at losing Villeneuve. Should he choose in the wrong, the world will condemn him as a looby and we are lost.

His uncle would have little patience with the energetic opinions of the gunroom, and as, to a lowly midshipman, higher strategies were not within reach, he contented himself with the facts.

His lordship then decided on the east, believing the French were up to mischief among the Ionians, or Boney still has his heart set on Alexandria and a passage to India.

So we set our bowsprit to the dawn and a thousand miles later we discovered no Frenchies worth a shot. This vexed us extremely as we had then to accept we were in error and they had descended on Cartagena and Gibraltar, and while we chased porpoises off Egypt, Villeneuve was joining with the Spanish in Cadiz for a descent on England.

He wrote lightly but the alternative – to tell of the anguish in every breast, the dread of what they would later find – was not what an officer of the Navy would describe to another. But one image was sure to stay in his memory for ever:

To see our little admiral, standing alone with his thoughts on our quarterdeck would wring the hardest heart but, Uncle, never is he cast down. I can but stand in admiration of him always.

And then the shocking truth waiting for them at Malta:

You may believe we stretched away under a press of sail back westwards until we called at Malta to revictual. And while we were in Valletta an aviso from Naples waited upon us with our first firm news of the French, which set fair to strike us speechless.

He sat back in his chair, reliving the consternation it had caused.

It was said that Villeneuve pressed south, as we know, but at the gale’s fervour he put about and crept back to where he started. So, you see, we were chasing an enemy that never was, and here we are on Toulon blockade once more!

Renzi sat at Kydd’s grand secretaire idly doodling, trying to coax as many words as was possible from ‘ethnographical’ and in a black mood. Here he was, with every convenience at hand to wait upon the throes of creativity, and he was becalmed in the doldrums of the imagination, the fons et origo of fertile originality perfectly empty.