Tenacious (16 page)

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 con-clave 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.

“It is the custom of the Service for the duty of signal lieutenant to be devolved on the junior. You have discharged this duty to my satisfaction so far, sir, but you will forgive my concern when you reflect that at this time of supreme crisis, when it is crucial the intentions of the commander be known—and only by signal—I am obliged to place the safety and honour of my ship in one who has had no officer-like experience of a fleet action and who is the most junior aboard.”

Kydd flushed. “Am I then t’ be superseded, sir?”

“What is the signal ‘division designated, to harass the enemy rear’?”

“Why, blue burgee signific an’ number twenty-nine, both at mizzen peak, sir,” Kydd said instantly.

“The night signal to haul to the wind, and sail with starb’d tacks on board?”

“One light at th’ ensign staff, one in the mizzen shrouds, an’

fire one gun.”

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“And to larb’d?”

“Two lights in the fore-shrouds—that is t’ say, one above the other—and two guns.”

Houghton nodded, and Kydd saw that behind the hard expression his captain needed reassurance before a great battle.

Houghton got up and stared out from the stern windows.

“That is well, Mr Kydd. I can see that you have applied yourself to your profession.” He paused, then continued softly, “Sir Horatio is a fine leader—a great man, I believe. There we may see a ruthless determination to achieve victory that spares neither himself nor his officers: I’ve seen it in no other man. I would not have
Tenacious
fail him, Mr Kydd.”

“Aye, sir.”

Houghton swung round. “Remember always that the best plans and dispositions are as nothing if they cannot be communicated. We have no repeating frigates, therefore a great deal depends on your vigilance and attention to duty.” He hesitated. “I would wish you well, Mr Kydd.”

At midnight, Kydd handed over the watch to Renzi and went below to the darkened wardroom to turn in. From the chart, he had seen that they would make landfall on Alexandria the following morning, and as he slipped into his gently swaying cot unsettling thoughts came to trouble him.

There could be no mistaking the gravity of the situation. The enemy would fight to the limits to repulse any attempt to over-throw their position as lords of the Mediterranean—at stake was their chance at a break-out into the outer world and an unstoppable path to complete domination. Two great fleets would meet in mortal combat tomorrow to determine who would be future masters of the sea and, therefore, the course of history.

He tossed restlessly, eyes open in the hot darkness. It might well be his last night on earth. Into his mind came the horrors of

mortal wounding, the dark hell of the cockpit and the surgeon’s saw—or would it be quick? A heavy shot tearing him in two? He shied from the possibility of personal extinction and tried to focus on half-remembered religious shibboleths, but they had small enough meaning now. Should he perhaps ask Mr Peake to spend some time with him tomorrow, to seek strength in the sturdy faith of his fathers?

He rolled over restlessly and forced his thoughts to the commander, the illustrious Nelson, he of Calvi, Tenerife, the “patent bridge” at St Vincent, the savage boat fighting at Cadíz. Now there was one who would not suffer night terrors to trouble him. His written orders were full of words like “victory,” “destruction,” “duty,” “honour.” There was even a clause directing that a single lieutenant and midshipman should take possession of defeated enemy ships, however big, the better to allow their ship to move on and engage another.

Kydd felt better: there was no doubt that Nelson’s fleet would conduct itself in the best traditions of the Royal Navy. And, therefore, so would he. His anxiety ebbed. Professionally he felt confidence: seamanship and courage were what were required now. And besides, a small voice offered, it might well be that the French were not in Alexandria, having vanished again . . .

The morning dawned hazy as the sun rose on sparkling deep blue seas. The north-westerly was picking up, the fleet perfectly on course: they would raise Alexandria later in the morning. Nelson had signalled to
Alexander
and
Swiftsure
to sail on ahead to report and all eyes were on the pale horizon, impatient for news.

Land was sighted: again the unmistakable flat, dun-coloured dunes and lofty palms of Egypt. And far ahead the sprawl of a city—Alexandria.
Alexander
was standing off the port; everyone aboard
Tenacious
turned to her signal lieutenant. What was the news?

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As they drew nearer, the Pharos Tower resolved distantly out of the morning haze, and there were tantalising glimpses of the masts and rigging of what could only be a vast amount of shipping. Still there was no signal. Kydd waited for the simple two-flag hoist, number eleven, “enemy in sight,” followed by a compass bearing. The details that came after would be the most interesting: the number of ships-of-the-line and frigates; lesser vessels would not concern the admiral.

He kept his glass trained. All along the deck not a word was spoken. His arms began to ache—but then it came. Feverishly Kydd deciphered the signal, bellowing down to the tight group waiting on the quarterdeck: “From
Alexander,
sir, ‘two ships-o’-the-line an’ six frigates, French colours.’ ”

This could be at best only a trivial remnant of the great armada for which they were so desperately searching. A roar of dismay echoed about the ship, along with shouts of anger as word spread below.

Kydd slumped. It was too much. They had been fooled again.

The French had disappeared with the devilish fortune they seemed to command and there would be no mighty battle that day. He caught sight of Houghton’s expression of devastation—

for him there was now no prospect of promotion or prize-money.

Beside him Bryant stood disconsolate; the seamen at the upper-deck twelve-pounders were outraged and voluble.

The fleet began to string out as ships no longer under the urgency of the line-of-battle quested forlornly for the missing enemy. A hard-run chase of many weeks, spirits high, keyed up with tension and now this . . .

“Sir!” Rawson pointed to one of the two 74s that had reached furthest to the east. There was colour at her signal halliards.

Kydd brought up his glass. It was number eleven. “Enemy in sight!” he bellowed.

A storm of cheering broke out. Trembling with excitement Kydd tried to steady the telescope. “Sixteen sail-o’-the-line—at anchor—bearing east b’south—four frigates.” Twenty miles from Alexandria, snugly at anchor within Aboukir Bay near the mouth of the Nile, they had found their quarry—at last.

“Distant four leagues. Mr Hambly, what do you consider our speed over the ground now?” Houghton still had his glass up, looking intently at the long menace of dark lines of rigging over the sandy point far ahead.

The master pursed his lips and glanced over the side. “Five, five an’ a half, my guess, sir.”

Houghton lowered his telescope, and swung round to look astern at the straggle of ships, some two or three miles off. “I see,” he said thoughtfully, resuming his watch ahead.

“Sir?” Kydd ventured.

“Well, I fear you may not rely on action today, Mr Kydd.”

“Why so, sir?”

“There will not be time enough. Should we wait until all our ships have come up, then form our line-of-battle, at five knots it will be hours before we can close on the enemy. And sunset comes at seven or so—no, we’ll not be fighting today. Tomorrow when they come out, this will be when we force a conclusion.”

The bay opened up with the tiny Aboukir Island at the western side. There was breathless quiet. Inside, in an endless line of ships parallel to the shore, was the French fleet. Bryant growled,

“Damme, but they’re well placed.” With the land to their backs

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the French had a wall of guns more than a mile and a half long waiting for any assailant willing to risk passing the island, which, they could see, was occupied and armed.

Kydd’s attention was all on the flagship: complex dispositions would need to be communicated concerning arrangements for the night. The enemy must not be allowed to escape but the British ships could not anchor too close inshore. Nelson might risk standing off and on, sailing out to sea and back again, possibly with half of his fleet . . .

Then bunting appeared on the poop—and a single signal soared. Kydd hesitated as the image danced in his eyepiece.

“Prepare for battle!” he roared.

Houghton gaped. “Good God! He means to bring ’em to action now!” With a grim smile he turned to Bryant. “We have three hours—I believe we’ll clear for action now.”

A ship-of-the-line could clear for action in fifteen minutes if necessary, but this day would be the hardest fought of their lives—

things were better done in the cool of forethought than the heat of battle. Victory could depend on the smallest precaution having been properly attended to.

Kydd’s action position was on the poop-deck at the signals; there was little to do in readiness beyond the mustering of the bunting in the flag locker and ensuring that the log was at hand, signal halliards cleared and free, the handful of seamen and Rawson in no doubt about their duties. Here, preparation was of the mind. Kydd knew by heart most of the hoists he could foresee and his signal book had been brought up to date with the very latest that had been entered in the fleet commander’s order book.

He reviewed the provisions for night signals: complicated specified arrangements of lights in varying configurations and “false fires”—wooden tubes of combustibles that burned with a blue
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light and had several meanings, depending on how and when they were deployed. And, most important, the recognition signal for British ships only now circulated to the fleet. It would be four lights in line, hoisted high to be as visible as possible above powder-smoke. The lighting rig had been checked twice by the boatswain, who also had a spare charged at hand.

Kydd tucked his signal telescope under his arm and paced slowly, conscious of a thudding heart and tight stomach but resolutely refusing to steal a look into the bay.

“Mr Kydd!” the captain called from the quarterdeck.

“Sir?”

Houghton looked energised, but wore a hard expression. “I’ve no doubt your men at quarters are mustered ready.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Then as you are at leisure, you will probably wish to take a turn about the decks,” he snapped.

Kydd understood. As other officers were occupied with their quarters at the guns and elsewhere, he was being asked to keep a roving eye on the clearing for action, perhaps steady the men as they anticipated the slaughter to come.

This was no sudden, frantic sighting of the enemy: it was a cold, considered approach.
Tenacious
would face her ordeal in perfect battle order.

At this moment
Vanguard
would be similarly engaged so there would be no communication in the immediate future, and Rawson, with his handful of seamen, could be trusted to stand by at the signals. “Take the glass,” Kydd told him, handing over his telescope, “and any signal from the flagship I want t’ know about instantly, d’ye hear?”

The entire ship’s company was at work, an ants’ nest of activity. Men taking up shot for the garlands alongside each gun jostled past Kydd; streams of sailors brought up hammocks and