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 turned 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.’