Julian Stockwin - Victory

‘Ha! This is your local militia mistaking us for Villeneuve and being over-hasty to retreat and fire their defences.’

It was the damnedest luck, and now they were back where they had started. For the pity of it all, where were the French?

They had hardly cleared the Dragon’s Mouth when they had their answer. A fast cutter made for Victory and soon its dispatches became general knowledge.

Villeneuve had shown his hand. He had not deployed his forces in laying waste to English possessions: instead he had spent precious time throwing his battle-fleet against a rock!

Two years previously, in an epic of courage and adventure, sailors from Centaur had scaled a near vertical monolith and hauled up guns and equipment, arming the rock like a ship. It was rated by the Navy as HM Sloop Diamond Rock and, located at the very entrance to Fort de France, the main harbour of Martinique, it dominated the approaches to the port. From its lofty heights they could spy on every sea movement.

Only after several days’ bombardment and the failure of their water supply did the little ‘ship’ capitulate. But their sacrifice would not be in vain. Nelson was galvanised and, abandoning Barbados, still with the soldiers aboard, set his fleet’s course directly north to pass along the chain of islands that were the eastern limits of the Caribbean Sea and were among the richest in the world. Villeneuve would be sure to fall on them with the forces he commanded.

One by one the islands lifted above the horizon. Local craft were questioned about what they had seen before the ships sailed on to the next, Grenada, St Vincent, St Lucia. Amphion was sent to look into Martinique but found no fleet, Dominica, then Guadeloupe and on to Montserrat. A report there, however, had eighteen sail-of-the-line under French and Spanish colours slipping by not three days previously.

Was it to be Antigua, with the best dockyard in the Caribbean? Or had the enemy vanished into the blue as they had done so often before?

They raised Antigua at first light, the jaded gun-crews at their quarters in readiness – but yet again there was no word. If Villeneuve went much further there would be no more islands for him to assault. Unless he veered to the west and fell on Jamaica . . .

With the prospect of a cataclysmic battle at any moment against a foe with double his numbers, Nelson could not afford to send off his frigates on a thorough search and could therefore only piece together what could be gleaned from local report and rumour.

And this was building to a growing conviction – that Villeneuve’s presence in the West Indies could no longer be assured. Spies in Guadeloupe had seen landed there all the troops and military stores that Villeneuve had carried across the Atlantic, which made it probable he had no longer any intention of invading and capturing territory. And a fleet of men-o’-war, however large, had no place in the Caribbean without an apparent adversary. So if it existed at all – and there was still no absolute proof – what the devil was it up to?

While the long-suffering soldiers aboard were released from their hell below-decks and sent ashore, Nelson called his captains. The tension and frustration were plain to see in the stooped figure but when he raised his head the fire was still in his eyes.

‘It must be plain to you all that a decision must now be made. Do we move to the relief of Jamaica or . . . ?’

‘Port Royal is eight hundred miles away, my lord,’ Keats said slowly. ‘If we meet with the same disappointment it will be . . . unfortunate.’

‘And if in the pursuit we are able to forereach on the rogue and bring him to battle?’

In the stuffy heat it was hard to think constructively but the sight of their doughty commander fighting exhaustion drove them on. ‘Then we sail for Jamaica? I fear I’ll need to water first,’ Bayntun of Leviathan said, fanning himself rapidly.

‘Did I say that’s where we set course? I rather think he’s bound elsewhere.’

‘My lord?’

‘He comes to the Caribbean hoping to stir up mischief and then he learns to his dismay that Horatio Nelson is on his tail. Even with a score of battleships he knows he’s no match for the British Fleet. I feel in my bones he’s given up – that he’s fleeing back across the Atlantic to Toulon again.’

‘With not a thing achieved?’ Keats rumbled, in open disbelief. ‘My lord, with such an armament they may conjure such a mill in our waters as would be remembered for generations.’

The cooler tones of Hallowell of Tigre intervened: ‘To come all this way to capture just one rock does seem a singular thing, sir.’

‘Nevertheless, a return to France must be considered.’ Nelson wiped his forehead and whispered, ‘And be damned to General Brereton for his false information as sent us flying in the wrong direction.’

‘Hear, hear!’ murmured Hallowell, but they were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

‘My lord . . .’ It was Hardy, ushering in an absurdly young lieutenant who looked about, abashed.

‘This is scarcely the time for civilities, Captain,’ Nelson said acidly.

‘I conceive you’d be interested in what he has to report, my lord. Lieutenant Carr, Netley schooner.’

‘Well?’ Nelson snapped.

‘Er, my lord. I’m lately escort with dispatches to a convoy out of St John’s bound for England.’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it!’

‘Well, sir – my lord – three days out, which is to say two days ago only, we fell in with a French fleet of overwhelming force and—’

‘What ships – how many? Speak up, sir!’

‘I have a list here, my lord. Um, eighteen ships-of-the-line, six frigates, some—’

Nelson shot to his feet, his features animated. ‘A day or two only! What followed?’

‘I’m sorry to say, sir, the convoy of fourteen was largely taken, but I stayed with the main French fleet to determine their course, thinking my dispatches of less consequence.’ It was a remarkable act of moral courage by a junior officer to turn back to search out Nelson, thereby overriding his inviolable duty to deliver dispatches with all speed.

‘And what course did they take?’

‘North, sir. Of a certainty.’

Slowly Nelson sat down. ‘We have them!’ he hissed. ‘One or two days ahead – what a race I’ve run after those fellows! But God is just and by this I’m repaid for all my anxiety.’

North – leaving the Caribbean and entering the stream of trade-winds that led back to Europe. After beginning the chase thirty-one days behind and sent after a false scent they were now almost within reach of their prey.

‘My lord, notwithstanding they’re but a day or so ahead, it does strike me that we’re sadly outnumbered.’ The hardy old Keats spoke for many and could never be thought shy of a fight.

‘Prudence is not cowardliness, dear fellow, but in defiance of their two thousand great guns and ten thousand men, I would sooner be hoist at the fore than lose the chance to close accounts with Monsieur Villeneuve.’

Growls of satisfaction rose from around the table. ‘Gentlemen!’ Nelson said, with a tight smile. ‘Fleet to unmoor immediately – course north!’

In the warm quartering south-easterly, stunsails were spread and, after laying Barbuda to starboard, they left the Caribbean, straining every stitch of canvas and nerve in the chase northward. Somewhere out there beyond the bowsprit was another fleet and when they converged . . .

Aboard L’Aurore the day passed into a tropic evening with no indication yet of the enemy. The comforting routine of the change of watches took place and the ship settled for the oncoming night. Kydd stood well back as the man at the helm was relieved and the quartermaster at the conn chalked Gilbey’s night orders for course and sail on his slate. The watch mustered by the main-mast for the usual trimming before they could settle to yarn-spinning and quiet reflection.