Julian Stockwin - The Iberian Flame - Thomas Kydd 20

Chapter 13

The armada, with the same north-westerly now on their quarter, made best speed to the south. Twice frigates tried to circle and close on Tyger but the elements were not on their side; any diversion from this swift advance required that time be made up beating back and this they evidently didn’t have.

Where were they headed? With Corsica and Sardinia somewhere out to larboard and the Spanish coast five hundred miles to starboard, it could be anywhere. But when they reached the latitude of Sicily there had to be a decision. With North Africa ahead, it was either left or right – the eastern or western Mediterranean: Gibraltar and the open Atlantic, or Egypt and the Middle East, the wind fair for either.

At thirty-eight degrees the choice was made.

‘The Levant – eastern Mediterranean,’ Kydd said, half in relief, half in bafflement.

‘Turkey!’ declared Bray.

‘Greece, as they’ll want to bargain with the Turks,’ Bowden, the second lieutenant, said immediately.

‘Mr Brice?’

‘In course, Syria as will give ’em the other side of the strait,’ the third lieutenant replied.

Kydd didn’t argue. This was now more than a mere matter of opinion. He had to get the intelligence to Collingwood without losing touch before they disappeared in the far reaches of the distant eastern sea. And Tyger herself was far from in the best shape to press on with the wild chase. There’d been no opportunity to recover from the hard wearing of rigging in the stormy weather off Iberia, and in the lighter breezes now it was essential to have all taut and trim. Not to mention finding water to replenish their casks.

Especially galling was the knowledge that, while they made a broad reach on to the south of Sicily, Collingwood and his Mediterranean Fleet, according to Mudge, were in the north, at Palermo. Tyger was helpless to tell them that, on just the opposite side of Sicily, they would find the French armada they’d been yearning to meet at sea for many years.

But as the ragged shoreline of the ancient island firmed out of the haze, Kydd came up with a plan. He’d set one of the ship’s boats afloat in the open sea, to round the island, proceeding along the north coast to find Collingwood and alert him to the awesome threat to his south. The launch, under sail with volunteers, would be commanded by Brice, a first-class seaman.

An open-boat voyage was no mean exploit, as well he knew. Bad weather springing up out at sea could overwhelm the little craft well before it reached safety, and it was prey to even the smallest enemy vessel. But it must carry the priceless intelligence of Ganteaume’s breakout to Collingwood or perish in the attempt.

As darkness stole in, Tyger sent the boat on its way, low calls of encouragement and wishes for good luck following it into the night.

Taking up again, the lone frigate closed with the darkened shapes and resumed her vigil.

Through the next day and the next, the ships sailed on, leaving Cape Passaro and the last of Sicily astern and entering the eastern Mediterranean.

And their destination was at last revealed.

‘This battle-fleet and invading transports – only for Corfu?’ Bray rumbled.

‘The Ionians,’ Dillon said quietly. ‘As Bonaparte was at pains to demand of the Russians at Tilsit. The keys to the Adriatic. Now he controls both sides of the entrance – if he can sustain and defend them.’

‘So you’re saying this is naught but a reinforcing?’

‘If you were a French commander, would you think anything less than a cloud of battleships as cover for your venture, knowing the dread Admiral Collingwood lurks somewhere in the offing?’

‘I do believe you may be in the right of it, Mr Dillon,’ Kydd agreed. ‘We’ll soon see.’

In hours after the sighting of Zante, the first of the Ionians, the fleet broke up. Each division, closely escorted by an unassailable ship-of-the-line, made for one of the seven islands and began discharging. Kydd’s long chase was over, the mystery solved.

There was little he could do to stop them. The French had planned well: an escort of invulnerable dimensions to take the transports safely to their destination, and as well to ensure their delivery to each individual garrison. It was not a battle-fleet Kydd had been following but a simple convoy with an outsize safeguard.

He’d done right to alert Collingwood, but now the commander-in-chief would be at sea on his way to meet the threat he’d warned of. He must complete his report with the true situation.

Leaving the scene, Kydd reversed course and laid his bowsprit westward. Within a day he had intercepted his commander-in-chief.

Ocean was flagship of a powerful fleet that included every ship-of-the-line that could be brought together, but at Tyger ’s appearing with urgent signals, the order to heave to was given and Kydd took boat to report.

‘Sir, it’s Corfu – the Ionians.’

Quickly he detailed what he’d seen and his reasoning that led to his quitting the chase.

Clearly relieved, the weary admiral broke into a smile. ‘You may rest content, sir. You have done your duty nobly – as did the officer of your ship’s boat that set me to sea. As to Ganteaume, his claim to triumph for his fleet is naught but the filling of the bellies of a lonely garrison, a paltry enough pretence, I believe.’

‘Yet he’s at sea at this moment, sir. A battle-fleet of size that’s at large and—’

‘Which at this point I fancy he’ll desire to preserve at all costs – and now has no use beyond trying conclusions with myself, which I greatly doubt. No, sir, if he’s not this very hour scuttling back to Toulon, you have my express leave to call me a Dutchman.’

Kydd returned his smile. ‘Then, sir, I report Tyger as joining your fleet as per Admiralty orders, wanting only victuals and water to return to active service.’

‘Captain, you shall please me no greater should you do so, then fall back on Cádiz to await me there. This alarum is now concluded and I look to joining you for a modicum more restful existence.’

Chapter 14

The Escorial Palace, San Lorenzo, Spain

‘It’s blundering lunacy, makes no sense – none at all!’ Chancellor Godoy spluttered, throwing the sheaf of ill-written dispatches to the floor and pacing nervously to and fro.

His grand secretary Enrique Herrera picked them up, his stooped frame creaking under the effort. When he rose it was with heavy patience and mute resentment – Godoy was the King’s principal minister and held all power, but he was blind to what was happening, most of it the direct result of his own inept ambition.

‘Look at it! The idiots are turning our soldiers out of their own castles and moving in as if they were their private estates!’

Herrera held his tongue. The French were arrogant, overbearing and difficult, to be expected of the liege men of Napoleon Bonaparte, the master of all Europe. And now, while the secret Treaty of Fontainebleau allowed their divisions to cross Spain and fall jointly on Portugal, they were taking their time about it, advancing into Spain as though into an enemy country, insisting on securing strong-points and leaving garrisons in their wake.

The treaty made explicit provision for how it was to be done: a long column moving forward on each side of the country to unite at the Portuguese border. Yet there seemed to be no pattern in what they were doing, taking whichever road they fancied in alarming numbers.

‘Confound it, as if we’ve not enough to worry on, they’re upsetting the rabble by their antics. God’s bones, but it’s a trial!’