Victory Page 17

  ‘Phoebe will sail west-about through Bonifacio strait, the others will scout ahead of the fleet. I’m to bring the French to battle in hours, I believe.’

  In the dying storm L’Aurore was first to sea. Once clear of Cape Ferro the frigates took up a scouting line, each on the horizon to the next, with the four abreast able to comb sixty miles of sea. With specific signals designed for distant operation, intelligence of the presence of an enemy could reach Victory in minutes and the long-sought battle brought about.

  With Villeneuve’s topsails about to rise above the white-tossed line of the horizon at any moment, there was no alternative but to stand to, guns manned and ready. For Kydd’s ship’s company, keyed up for hours, it was nerve-racking and exhausting, but there was now no question that L’Aurore had found her spirit and would give of her best.

  Nelson’s fleet reached south as night fell, but there could be no ceasing of vigilance. When found, the lights of the enemy would be close and in Kydd’s orders were provisions for the waging of war at night, a frightful hazard on the open sea. The men slept at the guns as, no doubt, was the case in Victory and the rest of the fleet, waiting for what the dawn would bring.

  They found a clear sea, empty – even the fishermen had stayed snug in harbour in the keen winds that were the last of the tramontane. And this was now the southern tip of Sardinia; they had made good speed and there was every prospect that when they swept around past the steep rocky bluff of Cape Spartivento they would be in sight of Villeneuve’s fleet coming down the west side.

  The line of frigates re-formed and they moved out ahead – until the rendezvous at the south tip was reached. They could go no further and the French had not been sighted. Until they had further orders the search must stop.

  ‘Dear Uncle,’ Bowden began, and hesitated. How to convey the hours and days of fearful excitement just past? Begin at the beginning – L’Aurore frigate flying into Agincourt Sound, Captain Kydd coming instantly aboard to set the ship in a fever of elation. Their putting to sea within less than two hours, a masterpiece of fleet planning and execution, then flying before the gale into the night, the men at their guns primed for instant action, the cold dawn – and no French.

  Conceive of it, Uncle. In all expectation of the enemy there were none! We heaved to at the rendezvous and a council of war was made and I cannot begin to imagine our noble hero’s fret of mind at losing Villeneuve. Should he choose in the wrong, the world will condemn him as a looby and we are lost.

  His uncle would have little patience with the energetic opinions of the gunroom, and as, to a lowly midshipman, higher strategies were not within reach, he contented himself with the facts.

  His lordship then decided on the east, believing the French were up to mischief among the Ionians, or Boney still has his heart set on Alexandria and a passage to India.

  So we set our bowsprit to the dawn and a thousand miles later we discovered no Frenchies worth a shot. This vexed us extremely as we had then to accept we were in error and they had descended on Cartagena and Gibraltar, and while we chased porpoises off Egypt, Villeneuve was joining with the Spanish in Cadiz for a descent on England.

  He wrote lightly but the alternative – to tell of the anguish in every breast, the dread of what they would later find – was not what an officer of the Navy would describe to another. But one image was sure to stay in his memory for ever:

  To see our little admiral, standing alone with his thoughts on our quarterdeck would wring the hardest heart but, Uncle, never is he cast down. I can but stand in admiration of him always.

  And then the shocking truth waiting for them at Malta:

  You may believe we stretched away under a press of sail back westwards until we called at Malta to revictual. And while we were in Valletta an aviso from Naples waited upon us with our first firm news of the French, which set fair to strike us speechless.

  He sat back in his chair, reliving the consternation it had caused.

  It was said that Villeneuve pressed south, as we know, but at the gale’s fervour he put about and crept back to where he started. So, you see, we were chasing an enemy that never was, and here we are on Toulon blockade once more!

  Renzi sat at Kydd’s grand secretaire idly doodling, trying to coax as many words as was possible from ‘ethnographical’ and in a black mood. Here he was, with every convenience at hand to wait upon the throes of creativity, and he was becalmed in the doldrums of the imagination, the fons et origo of fertile originality perfectly empty.

  Even a pristine Herder, the ‘Humanität’ letters, lay open and unread, for how could he conjure structured thought when so distracted? It had hit him hard that he had been so naïve as to imagine one simply handed a manuscript to a publisher to see it later as a treasured book.

  Now it seemed less and less likely that he would ever find his conjectures discussed by the world, talked over by the literati – and this tore at the very heart of the bargain that Kydd and he had struck on that inconceivably remote shore in Van Diemen’s Land. His friend had said he would provide lodging and sustenance aboard ship for the very purpose of affording him the space and time he needed to produce his magnum opus. If it was never going to see the light of day, then just what was he doing aboard L’Aurore?

  Kydd’s courage and skill had seen him advance in the sea service to the highest ranks entirely by his own qualities and talent and he seemed set fair to go further. Would he feel his kindness was wasted on a scholar dead in the water, no future course charted? It would become evident soon and then . . . Perhaps he should leave quietly, now, while he was still held in some regard.

  And Cecilia? His ardent feelings for her still remained but the most honourable course would be to withdraw. He was sensible that she held a tender affection for him but, like Kydd, she was destined for higher things and would make a dazzling wife for a rising man of business in the City. A catch in his throat turned to a spreading grey desolation.

  Could he still snatch at success with a fortunate engagement and prize money? He could then lay out the guineas that would pay for the printing and see his book at last in his hands. But he knew now how it worked. Without a worldly editor to polish and render his prose into a round, acceptable public style, and the tracery of connections to cry up the book in literary circles that would have them besieging the booksellers to stock his work, he might as well hawk it to passers-by for a pittance on a street corner.

  In despair he reached for paper and began a letter to Cecilia.

  ‘Ho, there, Nicholas!’ Kydd hailed as he entered, shaking water over the deck and allowing Tysoe to divest him of his boat-cloak. ‘I pray I’m not interrupting.’

  Renzi hurriedly folded the paper and slipped it into his waistcoat. ‘Why, nothing of consequence, dear fellow. You took boat for Seahorse?’

  ‘I did. And a rousing good time I had too. A most obliging officer, Courtenay Boyle. We talked the best part of the first remove over what Our Nel expects from his frigate captains, and damned enlightening it was as well.’

  ‘Do tell me, Tom,’ Renzi said, as warmly as he could muster.

  ‘Not now,’ Kydd said, taking off his buckled shoes for sensible shipboard pumps. ‘Er, Nicholas, I’d like a little talk with you – at your convenience, of course.’

  Renzi noticed uneasily that he was avoiding his eye. ‘Why, of course, brother. Er, what is it?’

  Kydd flashed him a speculative look, then busied himself arranging papers on the table. ‘Um, it’s to be concerning your continued presence aboard.’

  Alarmed, Renzi answered noncommittally, ‘I’m sure I’ve the time to talk with my particular friend.’ Was it that Kydd had been told of the workload to be expected of one of Nelson’s frigates in a great fleet action and felt the need for a more . . . practical aide, perhaps more focused? Or was it simply that he’d been ordered to remove superfluous members of his ship’s company before the expected major engagement? Either way—

  Kydd dismissed Tysoe, then tu
rned to Renzi. ‘Nicholas. How are your studies? That is to say, may it be said you are happy aboard L’Aurore?’

  There was more than a tinge of circumspection in his tone and Renzi’s dismay grew. ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He turned and stiffly assumed his armchair. ‘It’s – it’s that I have to speak to you about your situation.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘When I spoke with Boyle we didn’t merely touch on signals and manoeuvres. Not at all – this is Lord Nelson’s own squadron as is known to be a fighting Tartar. His expectations are far above your common run of admirals and I own it would grieve me sorely to fall short in such wise.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And it was opened to me that in the Med these do include duties not to be thought of in a Channel man-o’-war. In fine, Nicholas, he’s acting the potentate, talking with princes and kings and deciding great matters as if he was Pitt himself – it taking so long to get a reply back from Whitehall.’

  ‘Er, yes, I see.’

  ‘Do you? He’s a mort of worry on his mind, not just the fitness of our ships for battle but if Johnny Turk is still friends with the Albanians, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Dear fellow – I thought we were talking about my place in—’

  ‘Nicholas. I’m getting to it.’ Kydd went on: ‘He can’t make his decisions without he has news and information, true facts as are not false rumour. For this he must rely on friends in foreign places, details from our consuls, neutral ships, merchants – anyone who can make report on the motions of the French.’

  He paused significantly. ‘In this, however, he’s possessed of a splendid right hand, one who speaks the lingo, is not shy of a puzzle, can construe the meaning in what’s found in a prize, will step ashore and brace the local pasha and steers small around a delicate situation when he sees one.’

  ‘Who—’

  ‘Victory’s chaplain.’ Kydd paused. ‘And Nelson’s confidential secretary.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘An amazing cove, apparently. A gentleman o’ letters, he’s close to His Nibs and is privy to every matter of confidence and delicacy. Including that of intelligence.’

  ‘Are you saying by this that you wish me to extend my role into that of—’

  ‘Never! How can you think it? Nicholas, I know well how you abhor spying and so forth. No – that will never do!’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘My dear chap, the getting of intelligence is quite at a distance from spying, being as it is the noting of facts merely, the gathering of opinions and observations. You see, in this we frigates who are far-ranging up and down the Med are best placed of all to collect together morsels to present to our commander.

  ‘What would be of prime service to me, Nicholas, is if you’re able to turn your headpiece to how L’Aurore can pull her weight before Nelson in all this. If when we touch at a port you go ashore and put your ear to the ground, if you take my meaning. Buy a newspaper and see what’s in it, help me persuade a Bey to his duty with iron words in honey, um, as we might say.’

  Renzi was speechless with relief. Now he would have definite purpose and meaning in his life while he pondered the future. Naturally, he should first acquire a thorough grounding in the tortuous political currents in the Levant before even—

  ‘That is, if it does not incommode your studies, Nicholas,’ Kydd added anxiously.

  ‘My dear chap, if you deem it of value to our functioning here, then you may rely upon my duty in the matter.’

  Kydd beamed.

  L’Aurore’s orders arrived as they completed storing. And, true to his practice, the commander-in-chief had rotated L’Aurore away from the tedium of blockade for fresh tasking. ‘So it’s to be the Adriatic,’ Kydd mused, as he finished absorbing the terse, vigorous instructions.

  ‘Venice?’ said Renzi, curiously.

  ‘We go a-roaming. Trade protection our cardinal charge.’

  ‘Convoys.’

  ‘It would appear, but not neglecting any opportunity to distress the enemy wheresoever and so on. Now, here’s a rum business, Nicholas. We’re required first to make our number with a Russian cove on Corfu – I didn’t know there were any in these parts.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, old trout, here’s the fruit of my reading, insubstantial as it is. Corfu is the chiefest of the Ionian Islands, seven that belonged to the Venetians since olden times and of high value – they were the only part of Greece to hold out against the Ottomans. With Mr Bonaparte’s seizing of Venice he thereby acquired them for their same strategic significance, but now the Ottoman Turks are our friends.’

  ‘And the Russians?’

  ‘Not so mysterious. Tsar Paul took against the French in 1798 after the Nile and sent Admiral Ushakov to assist our Nelson. He did so most nobly by ejecting Napoleon and his friends from the Ionians, which he then garrisoned for himself.’

  ‘So we—’

  ‘But the Tsar turned again, this time against us in armed neutrality in 1801. Not for nothing was he called the “Mad Tsar”, I believe.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And he was assassinated by his drunken officers not long after. We honour his son Alexander – who was present in the palace at the time – as the Tsar today. It might be said that he’s a friend to England but in this we have to accept that these same Russians are known to covet the Morea, in which the French do intrigue for the same end.’

  ‘The Morea?’

  ‘A large island at the end of Greece, also known as the Peloponnesus,’ Renzi said. ‘While it may be of inestimable value in strategical terms it’s nevertheless the sovereign territory of our allies the Ottomans.’

  Kydd’s brow furrowed. ‘I do recall that when we took Malta from the French after the Nile we were supposed to hand it on to the Grand Master of the Knights of St John – and he your friend Tsar Paul. They were much miffed when we were hailed by the Maltese instead. I’ve a notion I shall need to watch my luff while there.’

  ‘Indeed. Remembering, too, that it could be said Malta owes its continued existence to the grain fleet from Odessa, which the Russians could cut at a whim.’

  ‘But I can see now that Nelson must rely on the Russians to make a presence in these waters to discourage the French from eastern adventures. Is this why we went east-about in the late alarm, they not altogether trusted to be staunch in this, I wonder?’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Kydd sighed. ‘A carefree life on the bounding main is for me quite past, it seems. A frigate captain needs to hoist in a gallows sight more than how to reckon his position. Lend me some of your books, Nicholas, and let’s see what we can make o’ this’n.’

  In the wan glitter of the enfolding calm of Corfu Roads HMS L’Aurore picked her way delicately past the two 74s and five heavy frigates displaying the blue diagonal on white of Imperial Russia, and dropped anchor.

  While her thirteen-gun salute thudded out in respect to the commodore’s pennant at the main of the largest, Kydd saw the low white Mediterranean sprawl flying the two-headed eagle standard of the Tsar. He nervously twitched his full-dress uniform into obedience, anxious to adhere scrupulously to the protocol attending the meeting of two powers.

  His barge was swung out but remained suspended, the minutes ticking by. Then the thump of an answering salute began from the Russian flagship. The gunner, Redmond, importantly noted their number with a nod to each, then reported to Kydd.

  Precisely the same had been returned. The next act was for his boat to be lowered and manned. In dignified motions he descended the side and boarded, an ensign instantly whipping up the little staff on the transom. ‘Give way,’ Kydd murmured.

  Poulden crisply gave the orders that had the boat’s crew pulling strongly for the shore. Damn it, Kydd thought, just as soon as he could he’d have them in some sort of uniform jacket and suchlike, even if he must pay for it himself.

  ‘Eyes in the boat!’ snapped Poulden, as some of the rowers gaped at the alien ships. Kydd kept rigidly faci
ng forward, wishing that he’d been granted the mercy of a boat-cloak against the keen Adriatic wind but, of course, his uniform in all its splendour must be seen from the shore.

  ‘Hold water st’b’d – oars.’ The boat glided in to the jetty steps, Kydd conscious of the two rows of glittering soldiery drawn up and waiting above.

  ‘Toss y’r oars!’ Simultaneously every oar was smacked into a knee and brought vertical. With a flick of the tiller, Poulden had the boat alongside.

  Kydd mounted the steps with his sword clutched loosely. When he reached the top, an incomprehensible order was screamed and the soldiers flourished and stamped. He duly raised his cocked hat and was saluted by a nervous young subaltern with an enormous silver sabre.

  A carriage whisked him up through the immaculate gardens to the white building. In the entrance portico there were two men. The older, with a red sash and swirling moustache, Kydd assumed was the Russian governor.

  The other had a dark Mediterranean intensity and introduced himself quietly. ‘Spiridion Foresti, Captain, British resident minister – consul, if you will.’ His English was barely accented.

  ‘You are new to the Adriatic? You see, it is more usual in these matters to send first a discreet representative to acquaint the local power of your name, your quality . . . and other concerns such that a proper receiving may be effected.’

  Kydd flushed. ‘Captain Thomas Kydd, His Britannic Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore of thirty-two guns.’ This was urbanely relayed while he swept low in a courtly bow.

  ‘Sir, this is Comte Mocenigo, minister and plenipotentiary for His Imperial Majesty Tsar Alexander, by the Grace of God, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, Tsar of Poland and so forth.’

  The count gave a short bow and growled a sentence at Foresti. ‘Sir, the Comte wishes to indicate his sensibility of the honour of a visit by a vessel bearing the flag of Lord Nelson.