Victory

doubt that such a one absenting himself and his fleet would answer for it at a court-martial.

In idleness beyond enduring, Uncle, he took it on himself to exit the Mediterranean and go north to seek Villeneuve on his own account, taking the entire fleet. We sailed helter-skelter north past Cadiz, Huelva, and saw nothing. Then met with Capt Sutton, Amphion frigate. Oh, I forgot to say the French got past Admiral Orde to enter Cadiz, then he sailed away to the north. Amphion was in his command and left to guard his squadron’s storeships as were left behind, north in Lagos Bay.

Anyway, Capt Sutton was sure no enemy sail had sailed by him and said the Portuguee must be right, that the Frenchies were away to the Caribbean, but Nelson said it was no proof, simply to say he hadn’t seen them go by. Oh, my, can you imagine the discussions on the quarterdeck? Then out of the rain pops L’Aurore south from Lisbon. Captain Kydd comes aboard in a rush with the news that there was no news – everyone positive that no French sail had ever come this far north.

Well, that was enough for Our Nel! He has his proof – for if Villeneuve did not go north or to the south then he is off out to sea, to the West Indies, and claims that as Admiral Orde is absent it’ll be us as’ll pursue him there. So here we are, the Mediterranean Squadron turned Atlantic, and we’re off in a grand chase across the ocean! Thirty- one days astern of our quarry we do calculate.

He grinned and added,

In course, in his last orders before we set sail he claims Amphion as his own and sets the squadron loose on Adm Orde’s store-ships to strip as they please. It’ll be some months before their lordships hear of this sally and by then we’ll be the other side of the Atlantic and there Nelson trusts we’ll have our due accounting with Mr Villeneuve. In haste, Uncle – do give my duty to Aunt . . .

Chapter 10

The last the squadron saw of Europe was Cape St Vincent, a long, flat finger of land pointing out into the infinity of the Atlantic Ocean as if to urge them on towards their destiny. As it softened into a blue-grey haze and slowly faded into an empty horizon, aboard every ship there came the age-old contraction of their world into that bounded by the ship’s side.

For a fleet, the consciousness extended out to the line of ships that were in company, but each world was its own, self-contained and complete. With flags alone to communicate, there could be no casual gossip or civil exchange of pleasantries, no domestic scandals to discuss, no wistful hopes expressed.

And ahead was the enemy. At any moment a lookout’s cry could signal the first far glimpse of Villeneuve’s Combined Fleet and then somewhere in the midst of the ocean would come the climactic battle that would decide the fate of peoples thousands of miles distant.

Deep into the Atlantic the squadron heaved to, the onward march of the broad searching ships in line abreast coming to a stop. L’Aurore was ordered to pass within hail of the flagship in the centre. Knowing he was under eye, Kydd ensured his approach was impeccable. The unmistakable figure of the commander-in-chief himself raised a speaking trumpet from Victory’s quarterdeck.

‘Do you take these instructions to every vessel in my command, Mr Kydd – and know that even minutes lost waiting here in idleness takes the French further from my grasp.’

‘Aye, aye, my lord!’ Kydd bellowed back. Seeing the quick-witted Curzon sending men to the jolly-boat at the stern davits to prepare for launching, he added: ‘Then I’d be obliged should you order the fleet to be under way directly, sir.’

After a moment’s hesitation Nelson turned to Captain Hardy and said something. L’Aurore’s boat came alongside below the entry port and a small chest containing the orders was swayed aboard. It shoved off, and instantly a signal broke out at Victory’s mizzen – ‘Squadron to resume course’. If Kydd was wrong that he could distribute the orders while all the vessels were under full sail, it would be at the cost of fleet-wide amusement.

The boat returned to L’Aurore as the line of ships ponderously caught the wind and continued on their way. Kydd peered over the side. Nelson’s instructions were in individually labelled sailcloth packages and, from the way the men hefted them, properly weighted with musket balls.

‘Ah, Poulden,’ he said, as his coxswain hurried up to report. ‘To every ship, beginning with Tigre. And mark well how it’s to be done!’ His plan required a frigate of outstanding sailing qualities but he knew he had that. With satisfaction he saw Stirk tumble down into the boat: his manoeuvres also required the hand and eye of a true seaman.

Tigre was the windward ship-of-the-line. With her boat towing astern L’Aurore shook out a reef and caught up with, then passed her, for the fleet was progressing at the speed of the slowest, the barnacled Superb at some six knots only.

The tow-line was thrown off and with the last of the headway Poulden closed with the massive blunt bows of the 74 as it foamed along, heedless. At a dozen feet distant Stirk’s heave was unerring. The boat-rope shot up into the fore-chains and seamen aboard quickly took a turn, the boat now in an exaggerated bucketing as she was pulled along.

Then Stirk’s messenger line sailed over the bulwarks and the seamen hauled in the commander-in-chief’s instructions. Both lines were then cast off and thrown into the boat, which fended off and wallowed in the mid- ocean swell as Tigre’s massive bulk hissed past.

Miraculously L’Aurore was there for the boat: Kydd had brailed up his courses to fall back as Tigre passed and now quickly took up the tow and loosed sail for the next, Leviathan. One by one he did the same for the rest, and when it was done he resumed his position at the wing of the line.

‘From Flag, sir. “Manoeuvre well executed”.’ Kydd tried to affect disinterest at the signal midshipman’s report.

Day after day, mile after mile, the seas got brighter and warmer with sightings of tropical seabirds and flying fish. In any other time and place it would have been a sea idyll but soon there would be fighting and death. Daily gun-drill was regular and long; boarders were exercised, small-arms were practised. Somewhere ahead, in the open ocean or among the islands of the Caribbean, they would overhaul the French and force them to the battle that had been so long denied them.

Thirty, twenty, fifteen degrees latitude – the trade winds bore the squadron on at a pace. The chills of winter were a fading memory: hauling seamen had naked backs and bare feet, and windsails were rigged over the hatch