Julian Stockwin - Victory

‘Vice Admiral Nelson. Do step in, sir, and accept his lordship’s thanks for your prompt arrival,’ Boyd said, showing the great man to his chair. He looked strangely diminished in his old-fashioned civilian dress – drab-green breeches with square cocked hat, mustard waistcoat and a gold-headed stick.

Lord Barham came in with a smile and civil bows were exchanged. ‘My deepest apologies for summoning you after such a short space, my lord, but—’

‘Cadiz. I heard this from Captain Blackwood.’

‘Yes. I would like to offer you your flag as commander-in-chief Mediterranean and Atlantic approaches to Cape St Vincent.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Barham hesitated. ‘I will not dwell on the danger that faces the realm. Instead I will ask, at this time, what forces do you consider you will require for this task?’

‘To match the Combined Fleet’s numbers would seem enough, my lord.’

‘Then you shall have them – and every resource necessary, just as soon as they can be made available.’ He looked meaningfully at Boyd, who frowned but kept his silence. It would be far from easy merely to locate and contact the ships concerned and only then to go on to make repairs and store them to a battle-worthy state – and time was very short.

The first lord picked up a well-thumbed copy of Steele’s Navy List and held it out. ‘This mission is of the utmost importance, sir. You may have whomsoever you wish to serve under you.’

Nelson did not take it. ‘Choose yourself, my lord. The same spirit actuates the whole profession.’ He smiled. ‘Sir, you cannot choose wrong!’

When the weeping stopped, Cecilia steadied herself. The storm of emotion had shaken her in its intensity but one thing was very clear. She had utterly misunderstood Renzi.

. . . in the years since we have known each other . . . and it may not have escaped you that my feelings for you are not altogether to be described as those of a brother . . . thus I must accept that in the matter of publishing my hopes are quite dashed, no prospect of an income . . . if any sense of an implicit obligation can be said to exist, I do absolve you from it, in the warm trust that your marriage to another will provide the blessings of security and gratifications that are yours by right . . .

The poor, dear, hopeless and deeply honourable man! He believed it unprincipled even to imply matrimony while impecunious, demonstrating without any doubt that he cared about her more than he could say.

Tears sprang again, but were as quickly replaced by a rising tide of resolve. She had to talk to him! At last let him know her true feelings! Then she bit her lip. He was with Thomas, whose ship was in Portsmouth about to sail with Admiral Nelson.

Against the enemy! She nearly choked at the realisation: so consumed by her own concerns was she that it had not occurred to her that the two men she most cared about were sailing into mortal danger, into the climactic battle of the age that everyone was talking about.

Everything in her being urged her to go to them, to . . . to . . .

She stuffed a few things into a small bag and ran from the house. In a storm of feeling she hurried on to the high street towards the Angel, the waypoint for the Portsmouth stage, but as she neared it the coach emerged from the courtyard gate with a crashing of hoofs and jingling of harness, swerving around for the dash south.

She waved her arms madly. The coachman atop bellowed at her but hauled on the reins, the horses whinnying and jibbing at the treatment. The coach slewed and stopped.

‘I must get to Portsmouth!’ she shrieked. ‘My – my brother sails with Nelson!’

Her tear-streaked features gave the man pause but he shouted gruffly down at her, ‘An’ we’re full, lady – not a chance! Ever’one wants to see Nelson!’

‘I’ll – I’ll ride outside – on top! Please! ’ she wailed.

A red-faced passenger leaned out of the window. ‘Get going, y’ wicked-lookin’ rascal – never mind th’ gooney woman!’

This served to make the coachman relent. ‘Git out of it, Jarge,’ he threw at the hornsman, who grinned and clambered over the baggage to join the postilion. He leaned over and hauled Cecilia up, her dress billowing until she made it on to the narrow seat next to him.

The whip cracked energetically, the big wheels clattered over the ancient cobblestones and what seemed to Cecilia to be the whole of Guildford gaped up at her. Thrilled and nervous by turns, she watched the road unfold before them and prayed she would be in time.

Working at his desk in L’Aurore ’s great cabin Kydd suddenly looked up. They were peacefully at anchor at Spithead but he was aware of a commotion. Grateful for any excuse to take to the fresh air he joined a curious throng looking over to Victory .

It seemed her entire company was on the upper deck, their cheering carrying over the water.

‘A peace?’ suggested Curzon, doubtfully.

‘Sailing orders cancelled an’ liberty t’ both watches, more like,’ Gilbey grunted cynically.

Then Euryalus , next along, broke into a mad hysteria. This could be no frivolous occasion and L’Aurore ’s officers looked at each other in consternation as a boat under a press of sail emerged from behind the ship-of-the-line on a direct course to themselves.

It passed under their lee and a lieutenant hailed them with cupped hands. ‘A telegraph signal – from the Admiralty. Lord Nelson rejoins the fleet as commander-in-chief to lead against the Combined Fleet in Cadiz.’

Nelson was back! Like lightning the news spread about L’Aurore and then she, too, had crowded decks with elated seamen cheering in frenzied abandon. The victor of St Vincent, the Nile, Copenhagen – a fighting admiral like no other, sent to save England!

While the L’Aurores ‘spliced the mainbrace’ in celebration, Kydd and Renzi raised a quiet glass to each other. There was now no longer any question: the near future would see an encounter that would decide the fate of millions – conceivably the world itself. Would Nelson prevail or would Napoleon’s hordes be free to fall upon England?

Within a day orders were received that had been sent on ahead by Nelson: Victory and others were to move out to St Helen’s Roads in the lee of the Isle of Wight in preparation for an immediate departure.

On the day following Kydd watched surging crowds ashore; it took little guesswork to know that Lord Nelson had arrived.

No flag broke at Victory ’s masthead – the commander-in-chief was still ashore. ‘He’ll be at the George,’ Kydd said confidently. ‘And I’m to make my number, I believe.’

‘On shore on ship’s business? Then it’s only my duty that I do accompany the captain,’ Renzi said primly, buttoning his waistcoat.

L’Aurore ’s barge joined others converging on the landing place near King Henry’s round tower. There was a press of people in the streets and when they stepped on to the stone quay to walk the few hundred yards to the George it was all they could do to make their way through.

Cheered and jostled by turns, they finally arrived at the bow-windowed posting house where an impenetrable crush fell back reluctantly at Kydd’s uniform. At the door a number of harassed-looking soldiers made a hurried lane for him and they entered a lower hall, if anything even more crowded.

Hailing a beefy gate-porter, they finally got up the stairs and into the presence of the great man. Nelson was standing quite at ease, dictating to a secretary and making pleasantries to a pair of well-dressed gentlemen, oblivious to the fawning of several others.

‘Ah, Kydd!’ he said, with evident pleasure. ‘I do feel we can at last offer you some sport worthy of the name. Your L’Aurore is ready for sea?’