"—while loyal Myrmidons do the bidding of others? We must always remember that this was the same Achilles who had prayed for the destruction of the Achaeans, and from it we may understand—"
"That will do, thank you, Mr Peake," Houghton rasped. The chaplain looked grateful, and raised a tranquil face heavenward. "Let us pray." A spreading rustle moved over the assembly. "We will pray for God's divine guidance in this matter." A barely smothered snort came from the first lieutenant. Undismayed, Peake went on calmly, "As we contemplate the dreadful hurts we are going to inflict on these Frenchmen, the despoliation of bodies and minds that are the inevitable consequence of modern war—"
"Mr Peake!" Houghton's voice was steely with warning. "—that we must nonetheless visit on their living bodies as they seek to do to our own—"
"Mr Bryant! Beat to quarters!" roared Houghton. There was a moment's astonishment, then the ship dissolved into frantic movement, whipped on by the volleying of drums at the hatchway.
Already at his station on the poop-deck, Kydd could see it all unfolding: in minutes men were standing to their guns, manning the fighting tops behind barricades of hammocks, or deep in the magazines. The boatswain's party stood to on deck, ready to attend to the many special duties about the ship.
Now the die was solemnly cast. Each man would stay at his post until the battle was won, or lost, or he was taken below to suffer agony under the surgeon's knife. They stood silent and watchful as their petty officers reported to the master's mates, who then informed their officers that the men were now at their fighting stations. Then they stood easy, dealing in their individual ways with the fact that they were being borne steadily towards whatever fate was to be theirs.
"Sir, Flag is signalling," Rawson said, his voice unsteady.
Kydd realised that this was not only the midshipman's first big fleet action but probably the first time he would be under hostile fire from a man-o'-war. Kydd took up his telescope. "Number forty-five at the main, forty-six at the mizzen. Which is?" He was trying to keep the youngster occupied during the approach.
"A—a—" The lad's face contorted as he tried to get the words out.
"Quite right. M' duty to the captain, an' Flag signals 'attack enemy's van and centre.' Quickly now!" There would be little time to worry about him when battle had been joined. He swung forward and settled his glass on the enemy line.
On the face of it, the French admiral had chosen well, anchoring close in with the shore, his broadsides facing seawards. And the bay was shoal—there was tell-tale white water and troubled rippling at awkward places. However, there were no reliable British charts of the area: they would have to take their chances on the attack. But, crucially, there was an element the French could not command: the wind. It could not be more fair for their approach, the north-north-westerly blowing directly down upon the van of the enemy line and towards the rear. The English could choose the time and the precise point of their attack.
Once they reached the line, however, there would be no alternative but to stand yardarm to yardarm and smash out broadsides until there was a conclusion. Kydd could see that about a third of the French men-o'-war were larger even than the biggest of their own and in the very centre of their line a monster towered above the others mounting, from the number of her gunports, 120 or more guns. The regularity of their positions indicated that they were probably secured to each other with stout cables, effectively preventing any attempt at breaking the line.
In the swiftly setting sun the French force looked awesome, and it was now their duty to throw themselves at this wall of guns whatever the cost. Again, a presentiment tightened Kydd's bowels: this day would see a clash at arms of such an immense scale it would test every man to the limit.
A signal hoist rose rapidly up the flagship's mizzen halliards. Kydd had been waiting for it and hailed the quarterdeck: "Form line-of-battle as convenient."
It was now the last act.
"Rawson, hoist battle ensigns." It would be the white ensign; although a rear admiral of the Blue squadron, Admiral Nelson had chosen the white as being more visible in the dark: some said it was because he had a personal fondness for the purity of white in the colours.
As Rawson bent to the flag locker, Kydd added, "Captain wants t' see four of 'em, and hoisted high." He turned back to the flagship. As he watched, her own battle ensigns mounted swiftly, enormous flags that would leave no doubt whatsoever about her allegiance. And not four but six eventually streamed out proudly. Bull roars of cheering erupted from their men.
Another hoist: "alter to starboard." The English fleet now shaped their course to round the little sandy island but were in no recognisable line-of-battle. In their haste to close with the enemy they strung out eagerly, Zealous and Goliath vying with Vanguard for the position of honour in the lead, others crowding in behind. Tenacious found herself pressed by Culloden, which had cast off her prize under tow and was coming up fast, while Swiftsure and Alexander, astern but under a full press of sail, hastened to join them from where they had been off Alexandria.
One by one the anchored ships answered the challenge: colours soared aloft until every ship in the line flaunted the tricolour of France, and the first shots of defiance thudded out from the medieval fort at the end of the bay. The English ships did not deign to waste powder in reply.
Goliath now led the race: with a leadsman in the chains taking continual soundings she rounded the shoals at the point of Aboukir Island and headed directly across for the first ship of the enemy line, closely followed by Zealous. The anchored fleet opened fire, the evening twilight adding a viciousness to the stabbing flashes piercing the towering clouds of gunsmoke. Kydd could feel the deck shaking from the massed thunder of guns.
Battle had been joined. The action that was going to determine the future of the world was beginning. Kydd's pulse raced and he found he was clutching the hilt of his sword. How would this night end? Who would be the victor? And would he be alive to see it?
The English fleet held fire as they approached, single-mindedly heading for the van of the line. Kydd lifted his glass eagerly to witness the first British ship grapple with an enemy. It would be Goliath: she was flying towards the first of the enemy line as if to win a race, still with silent guns.
Kydd shifted the telescope quickly to the flagship. A final hoist flew: "engage the enemy more closely." He snatched a quick look at Rawson. The lad was pale but determined, and smiled back bravely. "You'll remember this night, Mr Rawson. We both will."
"Don't y' worry of me, Mr Kydd—I've a duty to do, an' I'll do it." He crossed over to the signal log and carefully entered the details. Kydd resumed his watch on Goliath.
Everything depended on staying clear of the rocky shoals that lay unseen all around. In the lurid glow of a vast sunset Goliath reached the first ship-of-the-line. The enemy ship's fire slackened and grew uncertain as the British 74 passed the point of intersection, for not only could her guns no longer bear but when Goliath's helm went over to cross her bows she could only wait for the ruin and death that must surely follow.
From only a few yards' range a full broadside slammed into the unprotected bow of the hapless French ship; thirty-two-pound shot smashing and rampaging through the entire length of the vessel in an unrelenting path of destruction. Through the swirling powder-smoke Kydd strained to see Goliath wheel about, but to his astonishment she continued on, her rigging visible be-yond—on the inside of the line!