Julian Stockwin - Victory

He sat back in satisfaction. In remarkably quick time he had brought the frigate to readiness. He had confidence in his ship and felt a growing respect and affection for her. She was not one of the new tribe of heavy frigates but she had breeding and promise.

She would never replace Teazer in his heart but that wasn’t the point. He had now taken a major advance in his profession and necessarily had moved up to a grander ship. He would never forget his first command but it was in the future that destiny lay – for him and his new frigate.

Something of Teazer still continued, though: his Captain’s Orders. They laid down his expectations of conduct for every officer and man, which he had evolved in his years in her. Now they would continue virtually unchanged in L’Aurore .

He smothered a sigh of contentment as the reality sank in. He would throw himself into the task of bringing his frigate to life and capability and it would be only a short time before he would set course south to play his part in the great battle that must come.

Mr Midshipman Bowden held his breath as topgallant sails beyond counting began lifting slowly above the far-distant hard line of the horizon. The dispatch cutter hardened in its sheets and altered towards the leading ships, slashing through the sullen grey seas in bursts of white, its canvas board-taut.

This was probably the greatest day in his life and he drank in the sensations avidly. In a very short time he would be joining his new ship on blockade duty, just as he had told his old captain, Commander Kydd, when he had met him in the Admiralty waiting room. What he had not mentioned, for pity of the situation, was that his uncle had secured for him the first prize: to be set on the quarterdeck as midshipman in the flagship of Admiral Lord Nelson, the famous Victory .

His heart bounded. This would be an experience few could boast of – service under the greatest fighting admiral of the age and at a time of desperate peril for the nation. Of one thing he was sure: he would do his duty to the utmost in whatever lay ahead, for everyone knew that Napoleon Bonaparte must make good his promise to destroy England by invasion, and it was the Royal Navy who would stand unflinchingly four-square against him.

The ships of Nelson’s battle-fleet were now hull-up and he took time to savour the grand spectacle of the Mediterranean Fleet standing away to the north-west in two columns, perfectly spaced at a cable-length apart, an unforgettable picture of splendour and warlike threat.

The crack of a signal gun from the cutter startled him. It was to draw attention to their signal hoist fluttering at the halliards: ‘I have dispatches.’ A grim-faced lieutenant stood aft with a satchel protectively under his arm, his gaze on the line of men-o’-war. He had travelled from the Admiralty to Gibraltar and now carried who knew what news, intelligence and orders from the greater world for his famed commander-in-chief.

Victory wasted no time in throwing out a signal to the fleet to heave to. As one, sails were backed and the stately progress of the warships was suspended.

The cutter passed under the lee of the great battleship, curious faces appearing along her high deck-line as they hooked on below the entry port. Bowden thrilled at the thought that very likely Nelson himself was looking down on them at this moment, anxious for the news they carried.

The lieutenant swung on to the slippery side-steps, expertly hauling himself up to disappear into the ornately decorated entry port. Bowden followed, careful to go the long way over the bulwarks. Later, as an officer, he would be entitled to board in the same way as the lieutenant.

He blinked. The space opened up was immense. Spotless decks stretched away to a distant fo’c’sle, and above, he had an impression of irresistible strength in the vast concourse of sails with their mighty yards and soaring lines.

He snatched off his hat and bowed to a frowning lieutenant with a telescope – he had to be the officer-of-the-watch. ‘Midshipman Bowden, sir, come aboard to join.’

‘Who? Speak up, man!’

‘Bowden, sir.’

‘I’ve heard nothing of you,’ the officer said irritably, glaring at him. Distant shouts came from over the side.

‘Ah, that’ll be my sea-chest, sir.’

The lieutenant turned to another midshipman. ‘Get it inboard, see him into the middies’ berth and be sure to let Mr Quilliam know he’s another damned reefer.’ With a final glower at Bowden, he turned his back and paced away.

The midshipman called easily to a seaman, and while a whip was being rove he held out his hand. ‘Bulkeley – Richard, t’ my friends, Dick, t’ the cockpit.’

‘Bowden, Charles. You’re American, er, Richard?’

‘Born ’n’ bred. You’ve seen some service, then?’ he said, eyeing Bowden’s sailorly build.

‘Not as who might say. The Nile, Minorca before the peace, the Med in a brig-sloop,’ he admitted, trying not to look open-mouthed at the sheer scale of Victory ’s masts and guns.

‘The Nile? As I thought. You’re not to berth with the reefers, it’s the gunroom for you, m’ friend. I’ll square it later with the bo’sun.’

The largest ship Bowden had been in had been the old sixty-four-gun Tenacious, but this was altogether in another dimension. A first-rate, the largest type of battleship in the Navy, it was a floating city, teeming with men, crammed with guns and imbued with the irresistible arrogance of power.

The gunroom was on the lower deck, occupying the entire after end of the ship under the massive twenty-five-foot tiller. Far more capacious than any Bowden had seen, it was home for the warrant officers, boatswain, gunner and other senior men, together with the master’s mates and privileged senior midshipmen.

‘We sling our micks here. The bo’sun and so on have their cabins but we all mess at table in the gunroom.’

His sea-chest was given to the care of the gunroom servant and Bowden tried to thank his American friend, who brushed it aside. ‘We’ve a right taut ship, Charles, an’ under the eye of His Nibs at any time. Just be sure you measure up.’

Bowden nodded. ‘I’ve heard Our Nel can be short with those who cross his hawse.’

‘And he can be as nice as pie to those who try hard,’ Bulkeley came back instantly. ‘Now, I think it a wise thing right now to make your number with the first luff. This way . . .’

In his cabin the first lieutenant looked up from his work. ‘Mr Bowden to join, sir. I have him ready berthed in the gunroom. Charles, this is Mr Quilliam.’

Victory swayed majestically – they must be under way once more. Quilliam efficiently noted details of Bowden’s sea service and pulled down a large and well-creased diagram. ‘Your watch – Mr Pasco, I believe. Station? Shall we say at the main-mast for now. Quarters? Something tells me you’ll relish the lower-deck smashers – only a hop and step from your hammock in the gunroom, I’ll point out.’

He looked up with a lop-sided smile. ‘The sooner you’ve sheeted in the essentials the better. I rather think the best use of your time at this moment would be for Mr Bulkeley t’ show you the ropes until we need not fear to trip over you.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Bulkeley said, and the pair left together.

‘I rather think this must be one quick tour, Charles. Evening quarters are taken seriously and we don’t want you adrift on your first day. Now, the fo’c’sle . . .’

Right forward, a hundred feet of bowsprit with its headsails soaring up speared out, the elaborate beakhead just below. The roar and swash of the bow-wave made conversation difficult.

‘You’ll never see a main-mast s’ taunt,’ Bulkeley said, pointing up as they passed the tack of the fore-course. It was an awe-inspiring sight, mounting up beyond the fighting tops and cross-trees to the very heavens. ‘Higher even than Westminster Abbey – should you fall afoul of the officer-of-the-watch and find yourself mastheaded.’