At daybreak, as soon as there was the slightest lightening of the sky, doubled lookouts at the masthead searched the horizons until they could be sure there was no strange sail. Then, after quarters, the men would go to breakfast among the guns that shared their living space. And always the thought, the secret dread, that the enemy were just ahead, a vast armada covering the sea from horizon to horizon that would result in a cataclysmic battle to be talked about for the rest of time.
It took the English fleet less than a week to cover the distance, keeping well away from land and stopping all ships they could find for the barest clue as to the French positions. In the morning light, a hazy coastline formed ahead and the fleet went to quarters. Ships fell into two columns and prepared for battle, keyed up to the highest pitch of readiness.
The low coast firmed and drew nearer. Kydd raised his telescope to a dense scatter of white against the nondescript sandy shore, the straggling ancient town of Alexandria with its Pharos Tower. He passed quickly over the tall minarets and the lofty seamark of Pompey's Pillar amid the pale stone sprawl of a medieval fort. The forest of black masts that they sought was missing.
Kydd knew from such charts as they had that the port had two harbours, each side of a mushroom-shaped peninsula of land. The fleet passed slowly by, telescopes glinting on every quarterdeck, but at the end it was all too clear that there was no French fleet at anchor anywhere in Alexandria. The disappointment was cruel.
Mutine hove to closer inshore. A boat pulled energetically from her to Vanguard. Was she returning with longed-for news? Conversations stilled about the deck as the ships lay to. Within the hour, boats were passing up and down the fleet with their message—no French fleet, no news whatsoever of it.
Kydd kept his glass trained on the flagship. He could make out people on her upper deck, some moving, some still, and once he recognised a small, lonely figure standing apart. It was not difficult to imagine the torment that must be racking their commander. It had been his final decision to come to Egypt to seek the French, but they were not here—it might be that they had been comprehensively fooled and that the enemy was on his way in the other direction to Gibraltar and the open Atlantic, to fall upon England while they were in this furthest corner of the Mediterranean.
In hours the fleet was under weigh and Tenacious was stretching to the north-westward, ship's company stood down from quarters. The sea watch was set and word was passed that Houghton, who had been called to the admiral before they set sail, wished all officers to present themselves in his cabin.
"I am desired by Sir Horatio to acquaint you all with the position we find ourselves in." It was unusual—unprecedented, even—that Houghton had sat them informally round a smaller table with an evening glass of sherry. This was not going to be the official passing on of orders.
"I will not attempt to conceal the dismay the absence of the enemy has caused the admiral," Kydd caught Renzi's eye but there was nothing in it except sombre reflection, "and the dilemma this causes. Our vice-consul tells us that there have been no French forces upon this coast, save some Venetian frigates and small fry. He also swears that the Ottomans have found our own presence as unwelcome as the French, and intend to resist any move of aggression. In this we can see that there are definitely no major enemy forces in the vicinity."
The officers waited patiently as Houghton continued, "Trading ships in harbour have been questioned and are adamant that there are no French at sea. It is as if they have vanished."
"Then, sir, we are obliged to conclude that Admiral Nelson is wrong in the essentials," said Bampton, heavily. "And thus we are beating to the nor'ard on speculation!"
Houghton's eyes narrowed. "Take care, Mr Bampton. This is the commander of the fleet you are questioning."
Bampton's lips thinned and he continued obstinately, "Nevertheless, sir, it seems we are at sea on a venture once again with not a scrap of intelligence to justify it. I am at a loss to account for his motions."
Houghton put down his glass sharply. "It is not your duty to account for the actions of your commander. Recollect your situation, sir!"
Kydd felt for any man who, faced with a decision, put action above faint-hearted inaction, and said strongly, "T' put it plain, he has no intelligence t' work with—so what do you expect, sir? Lies in port waitin' for word t' be passed, or figures something an active officer can do?"
"And that is ... ?" said Bampton acidly.
Houghton came in quickly: "Sir Horatio feels that the objective still remains in the eastern Mediterranean, possibly the Turks— Constantinople, perhaps. Consider: if this great armada prevails over the Ottomans then not only Asia Minor but necessarily the Holy Land and Egypt fall to the French."
Kydd's mind reeled with the implications. "And then he'll have cut the Mediterranean in two."
"Just so. We shape course to the north, gentlemen, to Asia Minor and the Greek islands, again seizing every opportunity to gather intelligence where we may. The enemy cannot hide a fleet of such size for ever."
As they left the cabin, Renzi murmured to Kydd, "Even so, Nelson will be hard put to justify his conduct before their lordships of the Admiralty—twice he has missed them, and for a junior admiral on his first command ..."
In the steady north-westerly it was a hard beat northward, close-hauled on the larboard tack with bowlines at each weather leech. As they struck deeper into the north it appeared not a soul had seen anything of the French and the further on they sailed the less likely a mighty descent on Constantinople seemed.
It was passing belief that the passage of such a great fleet had gone unnoticed, and when they attained the entry-point of the Aegean and therefore Constantinople without finding a soul who had heard of a French fleet, it was time to take stock.
"Ah, Mr Adams—returned from the Flag with orders, I see." Even Bampton was curious as he watched the young officer spring over the bulwarks on his return from the flagship. Houghton opened the order book and studied the last entry, then snapped it shut. He would not be drawn and, with a frown, retired to his cabin, leaving the deck to his officers.
"Well?" demanded Bryant. Others sidled up: the quartermaster hovered and the master found it necessary to check the condition of the larboard waterway.
Adams adjusted his cuffs. "I must declare," he said lightly, "Our Nel is the coolest cove you'll ever meet—French armada loose, who knows where, and he won't hear any as say it won't end in a final meeting. So, it's to be a continuation of the same, battle-ready night and day until we come up with 'em."
"Dammit, Adams, does he say where we're lookin'?" Bryant hissed.
"Well, I was not actually consulted by Sir Horatio but, er, I did overhear him speaking with Berry."
Kydd smiled.
"And it seems that if we've not sighted 'em by twenty-seven east, then we beat south about Candia, back to the western Med."
"Quitting the chase!" said Bampton, with relish.
"Fallin' back on Gibraltar, more like," Bryant snapped. "No choice."
Kydd growled, "All th' same, this Buonaparte has the devil's luck—how else c'n he just vanish? No one sees him an' all his ships?"
"Remembering the size of the Mediterranean, above a million square miles ..." Renzi put in.
"But not forgetting that we haven't touched land since Sardinia. Wood 'n' water, stores—we can't go on like this for ever," Bampton observed.
"If I don't misread, Nelson is not y'r man to give away th' game. He'll hunt 'em down wherever they're hidin' and then we'll have our fight. He's had bad fortune, is all," Kydd declared.