Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

Once inside, the spacious reaches of an enfolding harbour welcomed the ships. One by one they dropped anchor. People gathered along the seafront, hastily filled bumboats contended to be first out to the fleet, but with decorum proper to the occasion, England's union flag arose on each man-o'-war's jackstaff forward.

But before they could proceed, the local officials had to be placated. It was difficult for the city governor: any favouritism towards the British might be construed as a violation of neutrality by the suspicious French, and at first he was obstructive and implacable. It required an exercise of ingenuity and tact to arrive at a form of words that allowed a show of resistance, after which his attentions could not be faulted.

Every vessel hoisted out her boats for the hard task of watering. The massive casks had to be manhandled from a spring or rivulet ashore and floated out to the ship where they would be finally hoisted out and struck down into the hold. The enthusiastic townsfolk endeared themselves to the thirsty mariners and Renzi's classical soul when they pointed out the continued existence of the famed Fountains of Arethusa, an aqueduct from ancient times bringing water from the interior to the town and perfectly capable of supplying the wants of a whole fleet.

Kydd was touched that Admiral Nelson with all his crushing worries had noticed that the cask wine taken aboard for the men's grog issue was being affected by the heat. His orders were that for every pipe of wine two gallons of brandy were to fortify it. He made sure as well that depleted victuals were promptly restored from local sources—lemons by the cartload, endless wicker baskets of greens, and beef on the hoof. In the sunshine spirits rose.

Idly Kydd watched Poulden in the shade of the massive mainmast patiently work a long-splice for Bowden. The lad had lost his pale complexion to a ruddier colouring and his gawky sea gait had steadied to a careful stepping. His body was now more lean than willowy, his expression poised and composed.

Voices rose on the quarterdeck, attracting Kydd's attention. Mutine had just entered harbour after another reconnaissance. She went aback close to the flagship and Hardy, her commander, stepped into her boat. "She'll have something t'say, I believe," Kydd said, vaguely aware of a shadowy world of plots and spies, and the surreptitious allegiances of greed and trade that were the main source of information in this part of the world.

"Probably that the French by now are past Gibraltar," said Bampton, sourly. He had come on deck at the first excitement and was still buttoning his waistcoat.

The master came up behind them. "Mutine showed no signal on enterin'," he said pensively. "Does this mean she has no news t' offer?"

It would be beyond belief if this crossroads at the very centre of the Mediterranean, touched at by merchant vessels plying both sides of the sea, did not have some word of the French.

Houghton emerged on deck, sniffing the wind and trying to look indifferent to the tension. The quarterdeck fell quiet as a flagship pinnace approached them. Her youthful flag-lieutenant punctiliously doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and then the captain. There were murmured words as Houghton took delivery of a packet of orders and retired to his cabin. The flag-lieutenant waited.

"Have ye news, sir?" Kydd asked him boldly.

Others edged over to hear the reply. "News? You mean the French forces?"

"Yes."

"Oh—then no news, my friend."

"None?"

"No sighting, if that's what you mean, sir."

"Goddammit, we still don't know where the buggers are!" exploded Bryant, pushing past Kydd.

"That is not what I said, sir," the lieutenant said. Bryant went red, but before he could continue the officer confided happily, "You should have seen His Nibs when Hardy brought in his report. In as rare a taking as ever I've known, capering around his cabin like a schoolboy."

"Y'r meaning, sir?" barked Kydd.

The lieutenant was now surrounded by eager officers. "My meaning? I thought it was perfectly clear, sir, no sighting of the French fleet anywhere ... in the western Med. And that, to those with the perspicacity to remark it, means they must necessarily be in the east—Sir Horatio was correct in his first assumption."

"Then—"

"Then, sir, it is quite apparent, if we discount the seas north, around to the east where we have cruised so recently, it leaves only the Levant and the south. Sir, it can only be Egypt."

"Why, then, did we not sight—"

"We were too hasty in our descent on Alexandria. We hauled past them in the night, Sir Horatio believes, and thus found an empty port. Should we clap on sail this instant we should find them there at anchor within, their army probably ashore. Then, sir, we shall have the rencontre we so ardently desire."

Houghton stepped out briskly from his cabin. "You have heard, then, gentlemen," he said, with satisfaction. "I can tell you that we sail for Alexandria on completion of stores and, you may depend upon it, we shall have an encounter within the week."

One by one the ships-of-the-line slipped past the lighthouse and small fort at the tip of the long neck of land upon which old Syracuse shimmered in the bright sun, their next landfall the even more ancient land of Egypt. The breeze held and strengthened and the fleet stretched out over the sparkling sea under all sail possible.

Bampton was not persuaded, however. "Still our motions are driven by conjecture—where is your evidence? They are not in the west—but who has considered that, having taken Malta, they are satisfied and have retired back to Toulon? Evidence!"

As if in answer to his words, the fleet stood on for Greece. With the Peloponnese in plain sight Nelson sent in Troubridge of Culloden to speak with the Turkish authorities. The big 74 sailed into the wide bay towards Koroni castle. When he returned, he finally brought news that the French had been positively sighted—steering south-eastward. They had been seen some weeks before but it was a mystery as to why they had gone so far to the north instead of making a straight run of it to Alexandria. It was the master who grasped the significance: "Cabotage, sir," he told Houghton. "They're a lubberly crew hereabouts an' navigate by following the coast along, point b' point, and never a notion of workin' a deep-sea reckoning. We sailed direct, got there before 'em."

Culloden was followed by a humble two-master, astern. This was a French wine-brig that the same obliging governor who had given them their vital news had also graciously allowed to be carried off as prize from under the guns of the castle. Later the wine would be transhipped to the fleet as rations.

"Please take a chair, Mr Kydd." Houghton's manner as he greeted Kydd in his cabin was odd—tense, perhaps, Kydd thought. But that could be because he had only recently returned from conclave with Nelson. During their long chase the admiral had made it his practice to see his captains in twos and threes in the great cabin of Vanguard. There, together, they would share his fighting vision and intentions, playing out the possible settings for combat.

"I'll not mince words. We are about to be joined in battle with an enemy of great force. It will be a hard-fought contest, which is vital to our country. But I have the utmost confidence in Admiral Nelson and his battle plans, which we have discussed thoroughly. It only requires we follow where he leads and I've no doubt whatsoever of the outcome."

He paused and looked at Kydd intently. "As I recollect, this will be your first experience of the quarterdeck in an action of significance, in the line-of-battle."

"Sir." Camperdown, his only fleet action, did not count—he had been below with the guns and at no time had really understood what was happening outside his ship. And, besides, he reminded himself, it was before he had been raised to be an officer.