"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."
"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 overthrow 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 Cadiz. 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?
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.
CHAPTER 5
"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 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.