Victory

‘I do pity with all my heart your first lord – Melville, isn’t it? Such cares and woes and naught he might do . . .’

Boyd gave him a wry look. ‘Do save your feelings, Charles. In this case they’ll be wasted.’

‘Why, surely—’

‘Yesterday afternoon at three, my lords assembled in Parliament did carry a vote of impeachment against the first lord, who had no other alternative than to resign immediately.’

‘Impeachment!’

‘A foolish affair. His private and public accounts became entangled some years ago. The Speaker’s casting vote in the event became necessary, but the result is the same. As of this moment, when the kingdom is under the greatest threat it has ever seen, the first lord of the Admiralty is gone and no one in his place.’

‘This is monstrous! It’s unthinkable!’

‘I myself am without employment: there’s no one authorised to sign for expenditures, promotions – or may take operational decisions. The Admiralty is rudderless – paralysed. I really can’t think but that, whether we like it or no, we are now entirely in the hands of Lord Nelson and his band of brothers.’

From the perspective of L’Aurore, the Mediterranean fleet a few cables off her lee in line ahead was a stirring sight. Through Kydd’s glass he could see Victory’s quarterdeck and one still and lonely figure, upon whom so much depended.

Kydd’s orders were quickly collected. ‘Proceed with the utmost expedition in His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore under your Command to round the Isles of Galita, keeping with the coast until you shall fall in with His Majesty’s Ship Ambuscade before Tunis and thence to me at Rendezvous Number 38 as expeditiously as possible.’

Nelson wanted the inshore passage up against the North African coast reconnoitred for an attempt to slip past to the eastern Mediterranean – to the Ionians, Egypt, even Turkey. Nothing was to be left to chance. The secret rendezvous number was north of Palermo in Sicily, well placed for the fleet to intercept a move through either of the only two routes to the east.

‘Loose courses, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd told the master, and in short order L’Aurore spread her wings for the south.

Close in to the Barbary coast the dull ochre landscape stretched away in both directions from the scrubby islets, and the acrid scent of parched desert wafted out to them, taking him back immediately to those times before in dear Teazer that now seemed so uncomplicated.

Then it had been the scene of a vanquished Napoleon scuttling back to a divided France; now it was the infinitely more dangerous preventing of an all-powerful emperor combining his forces and falling on England.

The easterly was making progress difficult but Kydd knew that close inshore the desert winds coming out would be enough to see them along and with bowlines to courses and topsails the frigate seethed through the water, prepared at every low point and headland for the dread sight ahead of Villeneuve’s battle fleet.

There were Arab fishing craft aplenty but without the lingo it was futile to stop and question them and no other square-rigged vessel was in sight. At the point where the coastline fell away they were in the Gulf of Tunis and their task was over. Ambuscade was duly sighted and they both bore away for the rendezvous.

They were received courteously enough but their lack of news was clearly a blow. Must they cast further into the thousand-mile expanse to the east – or had Villeneuve, as before, returned to Toulon? A sense of desperation gripped the fleet and a despondent Howlett muttered darkly that it were better that Lord Nelson had kept a conventional close blockade than fall back to allow an escape.

New orders came. Precious frigates were sent to the Ionians, to Tripoli, another north towards Corsica – and L’Aurore to the west, to round the Balearics and then look into Toulon before heading back to another rendezvous north of Sicily.

The easterly was veering and the frigate thrashed along at her best speed, every man aboard conscious of time passing by, and the enemy slipping away from a climactic confrontation. Then at dawn, with Ibiza a smudge on the horizon, the lookout hailed the deck: ‘Deck hooo! Topsails over, fine on the larb’d bow!’

Kydd leaped for the weather shrouds. From the cross-trees he saw that the faded sails belonged to no self- respecting man-o’-war, but even a merchantman had eyes.

‘Lay us athwart his course, if you please,’ he said briskly, when he regained the quarterdeck. The master glanced up to the lookout, who threw out an arm, and before long a boat was in the water crossing to a sea- darkened Ragusan barque.

Kydd hauled himself up the sides. A characterful stench rose from the hold as a surly master presented himself. Experienced from countless boardings, Kydd knew the neutral was ruing the hours that would be lost to a search and examination of his cargo, so drew himself up and instructed Renzi, ‘Tell him I’m not examining his freighting or his papers. It’s where the enemy fleet is that’s most important to me.’

Renzi began in his Italian but the master waved it aside and answered, in stumbling French, ‘I know of no fleet, Mr Englishman, but I tell you, les vauriens are no friends of mine.’

‘Have you seen any in the last month?’

‘A month? Why, yes. In fact, many together.’

Kydd tensed. ‘When?’

‘Let me see. It was ten – no, eleven days ago. Off Cape Gatto and standing to the west in a fresh easterly, they were.’

‘How many?’ Kydd rapped.

‘I remember well – they were so great in number. Twelve big two- and three-deckers, and four others under a press o’ sail. They weren’t like your fleets, all in a nice line, these were in a jumble,