Julian Stockwin - Victory

‘Quite,’ said Pitt. ‘Knowing these plans, however, we make our dispositions.’

Melville shook his head slowly. ‘No, sir, we do not know their plans. What I have outlined is the most obvious move for them and the most tempting. But there are other possibilities that would make nonsense of deployments based on it.

‘For instance, there’s always Ireland. A descent on its unprotected coast with the scale of forces Napoleon now commands would most probably succeed and this would place us in the impossible situation of facing two ways in defending our islands.

‘Then again there is the East. Bonaparte has always resented his defeat at the Nile, which turned the command of the Mediterranean over to us. If he can effect a landing in the Middle East again, he has a royal road to India and even the Ottomans in Constantinople. He will then have achieved his most desired object, a limitless empire without ever getting his feet wet.

‘He may well consider a feint – at Surinam, say, or Africa – and, while we’re so engaged, descend on the Caribbean in crushing force, taking our sugar islands. I don’t have to say that in this case we’d be bankrupted and suing for peace within the year.’

Pitt slumped back. ‘This is all so hard to take, Henry.’

‘Yes. We have world-wide commitments, sir. To maintain protection on our interests ranging from Botany Bay to Nova Scotia requires a colossal fleet to be dispersed about the planet. Napoleon may keep his own in concentration for whatever purpose he desires.’

Closing his eyes in weariness, Pitt sighed. ‘Then what you are saying is that if the nation’s hero, Nelson, fails us and the French get out, we’re ruined.’

‘Yes, sir, I am.’

L’Aurore ghosted in over a winter-bright sea, past the Mewstone to starboard, and came to single anchor among the scatter of ships in Cawsand Bay within Plymouth Sound. Her captain stood proudly, reflecting on the times he had brought his humble brig-sloop Teazer here.

Now in full-dress post-captain uniform, with a fine sword, on the quarterdeck of his own frigate, it was a world past, a more innocent time but one that seemed to have been in preparation for this culminating moment – when, incredibly, he was on his way to join Admiral Horatio Nelson.

His commissioning pennant dropped from the masthead at precisely the same time as the Union Jack rose on the jackstaff forward while aft the white ensign floated proudly free. As a naval visitor of significance Kydd would now be expected to pay his respects to the port-admiral, and in deep satisfaction he heard the first lieutenant call away his barge.

‘Hands to harbour routine, Mr Howlett,’ he ordered, but added quietly, ‘Row-guard and no liberty of any kind. We sail for Gibraltar just as soon as we’ve stored and watered.’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Howlett said coldly. It would be some time before Kydd was forgiven, it seemed.

‘I’m sending out the store-ships as soon as I can stir ’em up. Turn the hands to, the moment they’ve opened the hold.’

Kydd returned as quickly as he decently could. The new port-admiral had been effusive in his congratulations, the action with Teazer having taken place in his waters. Narrowly avoiding a formal invitation to dinner, Kydd had set in train the storing of a ship for foreign service, including the items he was to carry to his commander-in-chief.

With rising excitement he called his barge and headed back. From the outside L’Aurore looked quite perfect. Larger than any craft in view, she was at one and the same time both martial and beautiful, and his heart went out to her.

Oakley’s pipe squealed, pure and clean in the cold, clear evening as Kydd mounted the side-steps and punctiliously raised his hat to the quarterdeck. He turned to go below and Howlett fell into step beside him. He said, with a note of smugness, ‘It grieves me to tell you, sir, that I have to report deserters already.’

‘Oh? To be expected, I suppose,’ Kydd said, with irritation. ‘I would have thought it foreseeable enough for my first lieutenant to take steps to prevent it.’

‘Ah, but these are your precious volunteers who are running. The first boat of trusties. I’m told half the crew ran off as soon as they had a line ashore,’ Howlett said primly.

Kydd’s heart sank. If the volunteers thought it worth risking savage punishment for desertion then conditions below were much worse than he feared. ‘What are their names? They’ll be made example of, never doubt it, Mr Howlett.’

‘Names? Why, Stirk, gunner’s mate, Doud, quartermaster, Pinto, quarter gunner and some others. Not your usual worthless skulkers, you’d agree, sir.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ Kydd said heavily, and went to his cabin. Renzi looked up but on seeing Kydd’s expression made his excuses.

Tysoe helped him out of his fine uniform and to a restorative brandy. He sat in his armchair, moodily looking out of the stern windows at the whole of Plymouth Hoe and Old Town spread before him.

Stirk, Doud – his former shipmates whom he’d thought he could trust. Now they would go down in the ship’s books as ‘R’ – run. And they would be hunted men, looking over their shoulder at every turn, knowing that if the Navy caught them it was a court-martial and death – or, worse, the long-drawn-out agony of flogging around the fleet.

But he could not let them go. As volunteers they had taken the King’s shilling and were under naval discipline. There was as well the difficult prospect of finding official explanations for his inaction, and last but not least, it would tell the crew that any successful desertion would be met with forgiveness. He had to take action and make it convincing, even if it ended in recapture and punishment without mercy.

Was there no middle path? He had a short time only to make his move. As he continued to look out at the scene ashore, an idea came to him and he summoned his senior off-watch lieutenant. ‘Mr Gilbey, I want you to step ashore with a party of trusties and set up a rondy in Plymouth Dock, at the Five Bells or similar. Now this will be to another purpose – have your men quietly visit each tavern to see if they can find word of these deserters and then let you know. You are then to seize them and bring them back on board in irons. Clear?’

He found plain clothes and announced to Howlett that he was going ashore on a social occasion for the evening. There was a risk that some in his boat party might desert but it would have to be taken.

They dropped him by the Citadel, the other side of Plymouth Hoe to Dock but conveniently near Old Town.

He headed up the hill towards the louring ramparts of the Citadel until he was out of sight, then dropped sharply to the waterfront to enter the maze of old Tudor buildings that marked Plymouth proper. He knew Toby Stirk would never be so foolish as to risk roystering in a Dock tavern but would nevertheless go to ground somewhere close, like the noisome stews of Cockside resorted to by the merchant sailors whose ships crowded Sutton Pool and the Cattedown.

Irony tugged at him: it was Stirk who had come for him when he had been so desolated after the death of his fiancée Rosalynd that he had wandered there to drown himself in drink among sailoring humanity.

He had deliberately sent Gilbey on a fool’s errand to show he was taking the desertions seriously, and now he must work fast to find his men before it was too late. Cockside was a square-shaped huddle of buildings. In the dark of the evening it was thronged with waterfront folk and Kydd slipped among them along the passages linking the rickety, cramped dwellings and taphouses.

At each tavern he wandered innocently in, looking about as if to find a friend, then apologetically withdrew. It was a very long shot: an old fox like Stirk could disappear into the countryside and wait for L’Aurore to sail before emerging, even if this part of Plymouth was never the haunt of King’s men.