Victory

In the stuffy heat it was hard to think constructively but the sight of their doughty commander fighting exhaustion drove them on. ‘Then we sail for Jamaica? I fear I’ll need to water first,’ Bayntun of Leviathan said, fanning himself rapidly.

‘Did I say that’s where we set course? I rather think he’s bound elsewhere.’

‘My lord?’

‘He comes to the Caribbean hoping to stir up mischief and then he learns to his dismay that Horatio Nelson is on his tail. Even with a score of battleships he knows he’s no match for the British Fleet. I feel in my bones he’s given up – that he’s fleeing back across the Atlantic to Toulon again.’

‘With not a thing achieved?’ Keats rumbled, in open disbelief. ‘My lord, with such an armament they may conjure such a mill in our waters as would be remembered for generations.’

The cooler tones of Hallowell of Tigre intervened: ‘To come all this way to capture just one rock does seem a singular thing, sir.’

‘Nevertheless, a return to France must be considered.’ Nelson wiped his forehead and whispered, ‘And be damned to General Brereton for his false information as sent us flying in the wrong direction.’

‘Hear, hear!’ murmured Hallowell, but they were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

‘My lord . . .’ It was Hardy, ushering in an absurdly young lieutenant who looked about, abashed.

‘This is scarcely the time for civilities, Captain,’ Nelson said acidly.

‘I conceive you’d be interested in what he has to report, my lord. Lieutenant Carr, Netley schooner.’

‘Well?’ Nelson snapped.

‘Er, my lord. I’m lately escort with dispatches to a convoy out of St John’s bound for England.’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it!’

‘Well, sir – my lord – three days out, which is to say two days ago only, we fell in with a French fleet of overwhelming force and—’

‘What ships – how many? Speak up, sir!’

‘I have a list here, my lord. Um, eighteen ships-of-the-line, six frigates, some—’

Nelson shot to his feet, his features animated. ‘A day or two only! What followed?’

‘I’m sorry to say, sir, the convoy of fourteen was largely taken, but I stayed with the main French fleet to determine their course, thinking my dispatches of less consequence.’ It was a remarkable act of moral courage by a junior officer to turn back to search out Nelson, thereby overriding his inviolable duty to deliver dispatches with all speed.

‘And what course did they take?’

‘North, sir. Of a certainty.’

Slowly Nelson sat down. ‘We have them!’ he hissed. ‘One or two days ahead – what a race I’ve run after those fellows! But God is just and by this I’m repaid for all my anxiety.’

North – leaving the Caribbean and entering the stream of trade-winds that led back to Europe. After beginning the chase thirty-one days behind and sent after a false scent they were now almost within reach of their prey.

‘My lord, notwithstanding they’re but a day or so ahead, it does strike me that we’re sadly outnumbered.’ The hardy old Keats spoke for many and could never be thought shy of a fight.

‘Prudence is not cowardliness, dear fellow, but in defiance of their two thousand great guns and ten thousand men, I would sooner be hoist at the fore than lose the chance to close accounts with Monsieur Villeneuve.’

Growls of satisfaction rose from around the table. ‘Gentlemen!’ Nelson said, with a tight smile. ‘Fleet to unmoor immediately – course north!’

In the warm quartering south-easterly, stunsails were spread and, after laying Barbuda to starboard, they left the Caribbean, straining every stitch of canvas and nerve in the chase northward. Somewhere out there beyond the bowsprit was another fleet and when they converged . . .

Aboard L’Aurore the day passed into a tropic evening with no indication yet of the enemy. The comforting routine of the change of watches took place and the ship settled for the oncoming night. Kydd stood well back as the man at the helm was relieved and the quartermaster at the conn chalked Gilbey’s night orders for course and sail on his slate. The watch mustered by the main-mast for the usual trimming before they could settle to yarn-spinning and quiet reflection.

As the red orb of the sun dipped below the horizon the world seemed quieter, more serene, and a defined night shadow moved steadily up the swaying masts – above, the poignant rose tinge on the sails of the very last of the day, below, the crepuscular draining of colour that would soon turn to the blackness of night.

Kydd enjoyed this time. Not especially a romantic soul, he could nevertheless respond to the timeless mystery of the evening, the clarity of nature’s beauty here so far at sea beyond the land’s dusty air and swirling odours. In a way his sturdy, four-square perspective kept him from the agonies of soul that seemed to haunt the dreamers but on the other hand he realised there were levels of the human experience he would never know as Renzi did.

His thoughts wandered to his friend. The man was gifted: he had found a purpose in life to direct his talents yet was clearly morbid, troubled. Was this a price to be paid for genius? In a short while, in the last of the light, Renzi would stir from his hiding place in the fore-top where he would have spent the previous hour or so in silent vigil. What went through his noble mind while in such rapt contemplation?

On cue, as the last tinting of rose lifted above the swell of the topgallant sail, a figure swung out of the top and descended slowly to the deck. Nothing was said and he and Kydd went below for supper and a little wine.

This night there was even less conversation than normal. At one point Kydd asked after his health and Renzi seemed not to hear, gazing past Kydd unseeingly, a frown of concentration on his sensitive features.