Victory

looking men boarded, with an officer she supposed was Captain Hardy. Nelson turned and took off his hat, waving it at the crowd, which burst into cheering. Then he entered his barge and it shoved off.

The cheering subsided and what sounded like a huge sigh spread out. Nelson twisted around, waved his hat once more and again the cheers went up. Then a breathy silence descended.

Kydd was last to embark. His waiting barge came in and, incredibly, there was Nicholas, standing in the sternsheets, while Kydd took his place. Cecilia froze with a mix of fear and exhilaration. Then, in a rising tide of helplessness and passion, she shrieked, ‘Nicholas! Nicholas! I’ll wait for you! I’ll waaait for you! My darling – I’ll waaait!’

Renzi’s head snapped up, his eyes searching the crowd. She threw her arms about, signalling frantically, but the boat completed its turn and was now pulling strongly away. ‘Nicholas! I’ll waaait!’ she screamed, but by then the boat had disappeared into the throng of small craft.

Chapter 13

There was a distinct touch of autumn about the unruly bluster that met the men-o’-war under full sail down-Channel on their way to confront the enemy. L’Aurore fared worst. Needing to keep with the battleships in the fresh gale she wore canvas that had her sore-pressed and her boatswain worried.

But there was a fierce pride aboard to be part of the most famous battle-fleet of the age. There would be yarns a-plenty on their return, and if there was the historic clash-at-arms everyone expected, then was this not their duty, the reason for their being? There had been no desertions among the men on liberty, the extraordinary scenes at Nelson’s embarkation witnessed by many of them. It was clear that they had been affected, and Kydd felt that the ship’s spirit was now as exalted as his own.

He went below, allowing Tysoe to remove his streaming oilskins and grateful for a hot negus. ‘What’s that you have, Nicholas?’ he asked, seeing Renzi absorbed in a handwritten sheet.

‘Oh, in the mail – from my worthy friend Mr Wordsworth. He’s a poet of a wild and romantical nature, as you’ll agree, but much given to self-reflection. In this he’s asking my opinion on his musing about the present peril. Listen:

‘“Yea, to this hour I cannot read a Tale

Of two brave vessels matched in deadly fight,

And fighting to the death, but I am pleased

More than a wise man ought to be; I wish,

Fret, burn, and struggle, and in soul am there.”’

Renzi gave a half-smile. ‘If you knew the fellow and the way he’s changed his turbulent ways you’d find it a singular sentiment, my friend.’

Kydd snorted. ‘Really? I defy anyone o’ true heart to stand mumchance in these times – and wasn’t he all for glorying in the Revolution?’

‘As I indicated, his views have altered,’ Renzi said defensively, and laid down the paper. ‘On quite another subject,’ he went on offhandedly, ‘did you by chance notice your sister in Portsmouth at all?’

‘Cecilia? When I was in Guildford she wasn’t there, somewhere in Ireland, I thought. Er, why do you ask?’

‘I’d swear I saw her on shore when we left, waving and calling out. I couldn’t catch what she shouted in the hullabaloo.’

‘I didn’t see her,’ Kydd said, then added slyly, ‘Are you sure it wasn’t just a wish-child?’

‘I saw her well enough,’ Renzi said abruptly and, for a fleeting moment, wondered if indeed he had dreamed it. Then again she might have just arrived in England and hurriedly come to see them both off. Or was it only for her brother?

A stab of longing pierced him – was it his name she had shouted? Did this mean . . . ?

But, then, it couldn’t be – she would have received the letter of release by now. The hope died.

Two more ships-of-the-line, Ajax and Thunderer, joined the few hove-to off Plymouth and, without delay, the group got under way again. The weather moderated before dusk and a workmanlike north-westerly sent them foaming through the waves.

They sighted the well-known Rock of Lisbon and at dawn the next day Cape St Vincent. L’Aurore was detached to go ahead to reach Admiral Collingwood with orders to refrain from gun salutes when Lord Nelson joined: there was to be no indication to watchers ashore that Collingwood was being reinforced.

L’Aurore raised them cruising some fifteen miles to seaward of the old Spanish port. A beautiful and terrifying sight: sombre lines of battleships – twenty, thirty of them, the most powerful British fleet Kydd had ever seen, more than twice as many as had fought at the Nile, the most fearsome weapon ever wielded by one man.

He passed his message, and when Nelson joined towards evening there were no seventeen-gun salutes, no hoisting of colours, simply a general joy running throughout the fleet.

On the following day, one by one, the captains of the various ships were rowed to Victory and welcomed aboard. ‘Ah, Mr Kydd,’ Nelson said warmly, standing in glittering full-dress at the gold-leafed entry port, ‘do enjoy our little birthday party, sir.’

In the splendour of the admiral’s dining cabin, he found that the birthday was in fact Lord Nelson’s own, his forty-seventh. Remarkably therefore, Kydd realised, Victory must be herself close to fifty years old.

It was an evening to remember: the glitter of crystal and silver on the huge mahogany table, the blaze of gold lace and decorations, and the meeting of men whose names were already famous: Harvey of Temeraire, Fremantle of Neptune, Berry of Agamemnon, Duff of Mars – and the frigate captains: Blackwood of Euryalus, Prowse of Sirius, Dundas of