Julian Stockwin - Victory

‘Loose courses, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd told the master, and in short order L’Aurore spread her wings for the south.

Close in to the Barbary coast the dull ochre landscape stretched away in both directions from the scrubby islets, and the acrid scent of parched desert wafted out to them, taking him back immediately to those times before in dear Teazer that now seemed so uncomplicated.

Then it had been the scene of a vanquished Napoleon scuttling back to a divided France; now it was the infinitely more dangerous preventing of an all-powerful emperor combining his forces and falling on England.

The easterly was making progress difficult but Kydd knew that close inshore the desert winds coming out would be enough to see them along and with bowlines to courses and topsails the frigate seethed through the water, prepared at every low point and headland for the dread sight ahead of Villeneuve’s battle fleet.

There were Arab fishing craft aplenty but without the lingo it was futile to stop and question them and no other square-rigged vessel was in sight. At the point where the coastline fell away they were in the Gulf of Tunis and their task was over. Ambuscade was duly sighted and they both bore away for the rendezvous.

They were received courteously enough but their lack of news was clearly a blow. Must they cast further into the thousand-mile expanse to the east – or had Villeneuve, as before, returned to Toulon? A sense of desperation gripped the fleet and a despondent Howlett muttered darkly that it were better that Lord Nelson had kept a conventional close blockade than fall back to allow an escape.

New orders came. Precious frigates were sent to the Ionians, to Tripoli, another north towards Corsica – and L’Aurore to the west, to round the Balearics and then look into Toulon before heading back to another rendezvous north of Sicily.

The easterly was veering and the frigate thrashed along at her best speed, every man aboard conscious of time passing by, and the enemy slipping away from a climactic confrontation. Then at dawn, with Ibiza a smudge on the horizon, the lookout hailed the deck: ‘ Deck hooo! Topsails over, fine on the larb’d bow!’

Kydd leaped for the weather shrouds. From the cross-trees he saw that the faded sails belonged to no self-respecting man-o’-war, but even a merchantman had eyes.

‘Lay us athwart his course, if you please,’ he said briskly, when he regained the quarterdeck. The master glanced up to the lookout, who threw out an arm, and before long a boat was in the water crossing to a sea-darkened Ragusan barque.

Kydd hauled himself up the sides. A characterful stench rose from the hold as a surly master presented himself. Experienced from countless boardings, Kydd knew the neutral was ruing the hours that would be lost to a search and examination of his cargo, so drew himself up and instructed Renzi, ‘Tell him I’m not examining his freighting or his papers. It’s where the enemy fleet is that’s most important to me.’

Renzi began in his Italian but the master waved it aside and answered, in stumbling French, ‘I know of no fleet, Mr Englishman, but I tell you, les vauriens are no friends of mine.’

‘Have you seen any in the last month?’

‘A month? Why, yes. In fact, many together.’

Kydd tensed. ‘When?’

‘Let me see. It was ten – no, eleven days ago. Off Cape Gatto and standing to the west in a fresh easterly, they were.’

‘How many?’ Kydd rapped.

‘I remember well – they were so great in number. Twelve big two- and three-deckers, and four others under a press o’ sail. They weren’t like your fleets, all in a nice line, these were in a jumble, hein ?’

After more questions about flags and pennants it was beyond question: Villeneuve had been spotted. Kydd raced back into the boat. ‘Stretch out for your lives, y’ rogues!’ he gasped.

The French had been found – but it was the worst possible news he was bringing Nelson. Cape Gatto was near the choke point where the Mediterranean narrowed to Gibraltar and it was now very clear that Villeneuve had achieved what all had feared – a breakout.

L’Aurore raised the fleet after a furious sail. Her signals caused the flagship to instantly heave to the entire squadron. Kydd was summoned to report, only too aware of the consternation his news would bring.

He was back as quickly. Seeing his grave expression, Renzi put down his work and said quietly, ‘A hard thing for Our Nel indeed. I’d believe that others might forgive should he be caught in a melancholy at our discovery.’

Kydd took off his coat and gazed out of the stern windows at Victory still lying to. ‘It was a cruel blow, that I could tell, Nicholas. He’s been waiting for two years to have an accounting with the French and now they’re out and who knows where? What wrings his heart is that he thinks he’s failed – they’re out of our grasp and Villeneuve is following his master’s orders and stretching out for England, joining with others in Ferrol and so on.’

‘A frightful thing,’ Renzi said, in a low voice.

‘Or they’ll be challenged on their way north by Orde’s squadron off Cadiz! Nelson’s much out of countenance that the deciding battle will not be his to command, for you’ll know that Admiral Orde is his senior and no friend.’

‘Then it’s too late,’ Renzi said gravely. ‘We must say it’s out of our hands now. Villeneuve two weeks ahead of us, the issue will be settled by others before we can come to help them.’

It was finally happening: the growing avalanche of joining enemy ships even now converging on the Channel, sweeping aside the Brest blockade and at last allowing the vast invasion fleet to put to sea. There would be heroic sacrifices by Keith’s Downs Squadron as the juggernaut advanced until inevitably tens of thousands of Napoleon Bonaparte’s best troops came flooding ashore in England.

It would be all over within weeks, the pitiful numbers of Britain’s army swept aside in a victorious push on London and a falling back on the last strongholds of the ancient kingdom. The land they would eventually return to would be a very different place.

‘If Nelson is not to be cast down, then neither shall I,’ Kydd said firmly. ‘The people will be unsettled – this is understandable. The Mediterranean Squadron is to fall back on Gibraltar for news, I’m told, but L’Aurore will stand resolute whatever this is.’

With deliberate calm, Kydd went out on deck, sniffed the wind and saw a signal fly up Victory ’s mizzen halliards. It was the instruction to press westward on the long haul to Gibraltar and he lost no time in giving the orders for taking up their scouting position ahead of the fleet.

Once settled after the flurry of activity, the men showed little inclination to go below, standing in knots and looking back towards the quarterdeck. They would have worked out the implications for themselves.

Should he call them aft for a bracing talk? What was there to say?

Instead he crossed to the helm, looking at the binnacle deliberately as though checking their course. Then, nodding to himself as though satisfied, he stood back with arms folded and gazed thoughtfully ahead.

As he hoped, the officer-of-the-watch, Gilbey, came up hesitantly beside him. ‘A rum do, sir.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’ Kydd came back mildly.

‘Why, the Crapauds having escaped Lord Nelson out o’ the Med.’

Behind him by the helmsman were the silent figures of the quartermaster and his mate, two hands and a midshipman.

‘Not at all,’ Kydd returned coolly, in a voice above the usual conversational level. ‘I’m in no doubt it’s part of the plan – have you not considered, Mr Gilbey, that this is why Admiral Orde has been placed off Cadiz for just this happening? He’s to confront the French and in the delay we will join him, as will Admiral Calder from Ferrol, and we’ll have a famous battle.’