Victory

‘Yes,’ Barham said, but in quite a different tone, confident, energised. ‘And I have decided what must be done and already made the necessary deployments.’

Pitt’s weariness lifted a little. ‘You’ve . . . Pray tell me what is now the situation, sir.’

Barham stumped over to the map rollers above the fireplace and pulled down the largest: the Atlantic Ocean and approaches to Britain. ‘Bonaparte means to overwhelm our fleets and seize control of the Channel for his invasion. You’ll allow he has as many tricks as a monkey and this is one – Nelson was correct that his biggest squadron was headed for the Caribbean and he was right to abandon his station in pursuit. He had devilish luck and failed to catch them, and now the French are cracking on sail for Europe ahead of him and may be expected to appear very soon.’

‘Do we have knowledge of what they’ll do then?’ Pitt murmured.

‘Sir, they have but to raise the siege of our blockade on Brest and Ferrol, and in the Channel we’ll be faced with forty, fifty battleships and necessarily be overwhelmed.’

Barham let the point sink in but then added, ‘If we are supposing they are headed for the north. Nelson’s dispatches state that the Mediterranean is the more likely destination, and that is where he is bound at this moment.’

‘What is your view, my lord?’ Pitt asked carefully.

‘My view is not of consequence, sir. Unknown to Admiral Nelson, Curieux on its run here came upon the enemy fleet and stayed with it long enough to establish that it was undeniably bound to the north of the Azores and therefore the Channel.

‘Sir, I do truly believe the climax is near. Villeneuve’s twenty of-the-line are now free to join with Ganteaume’s twenty-one in Brest and the Dons’ fourteen in Ferrol to make an unchallengeable battle-fleet in Biscay somewhere. This must not happen.’

‘How?’ Pitt asked, in a low voice.

‘Thanks to Curieux, we know what to do. The central issue is to stop the forces combining in the first place. Therefore I’ve taken what steps I can to prevent it – by intercepting Villeneuve before he has a chance to make a conjunction.’

‘With what forces, sir?’

‘I’m extracting our vessels from before Ferrol and reinforcing them with those taken from Rochefort. These will cruise out in the Atlantic between Cape Finisterre and Ushant to challenge Villeneuve when he comes, while the Channel Fleet interposes to prevent Ganteaume reaching him.’

‘Abandoning the blockade at two chief ports – this seems a risk.’

‘Far worse, sir, to allow the French to combine.’

‘Very well. When will this intercepting come to pass, do you think?’

‘Within the week, sir.’

‘And who is the admiral you’ve chosen to stand before the French at this crucial juncture?’

‘Calder.’

The rock fortress of Gibraltar shimmered in the heat, the ships of the Mediterranean squadron at anchor in torpid tranquillity. A sultry night closed in, still without word of Villeneuve. Nelson remained ashore but no one begrudged him that: for some two years he had never stepped on to dry land and he was said to be nearing exhaustion with the nervous strain of the chase.

Another day – two, three. No word. The French did not materialise out of the bright westward haze; neither did coastal traders pass word of a great fleet somewhere in the Mediterranean. On the fourth day Victory’s Blue Peter was hoisted. Orders came: as a last forlorn move, the squadron would sail north on a vague rumour as well as to seek out the Channel Fleet for any intelligence – and perhaps a final desperate engagement with the enemy.

In full battle array the fleet sailed up the coast of Spain, then across Biscay, and a dozen leagues off Brest Nelson’s ships fell in with the Channel Fleet of Admiral Cornwallis and all was revealed.

The new first lord of the Admiralty was Lord Barham, who apparently had a strong and decisive hand on the tiller. The invasion had not yet eventuated: England still remained staunch and ready.

And Villeneuve? Yes, the French were found. Admiral Calder and a picked fleet from the blockading squadrons had intercepted him inward-bound from the West Indies out at sea off Cape Finisterre before he was able to link up with the waiting ships-of-the-line in their harbours. An indecisive engagement had followed in near impossible conditions of fog and night.

Unnerved by the encounter, Villeneuve had run for safety to Vigo and now the situation was precisely as before: the French were still in scattered groups in ports and once more safely under British blockade. Napoleon’s plan had failed.

In profound relief and fatigued beyond measure by the years of blockade and pursuit, Nelson begged the Admiralty for release and orders quickly came out granting the request. Victory, accompanied by the worn-out Superb, was to sail immediately for Portsmouth. There, Admiral Lord Nelson would haul down his flag as commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean Squadron and at last take rest. All other vessels of Nelson’s command, however, would remain on station save the lightest of his frigates as escort.

The next morning L’Aurore led the two veteran ships into the Channel for their homeward journey after a chase of near ten thousand miles and without a single shot fired. That this was no fault of theirs was without question, but how would they be received by a frightened and demanding public in England?

Familiar coastlines came and went, a sweet sadness after a voyage that had ranged from the balmy Mediterranean to the mangroves of Trinidad with nothing to show for it at its end. In the hours of darkness they approached the Isle of Wight and in the first soft rays of morning they anchored at Spithead.

At ten the flag of St George slowly descended from the fore-mast of Victory and