‘Very good, Mr Howlett,’ he said, moving a tub at the end of a table, but there was no tell-tale discolouring of the planking, evidence of a ‘holiday’ in the cleaning of the deck. Straightening, he looked about at the mess-tables up against the ship’s side and saw what he had hoped for.
The vertical racks there were filled with mess kit as individual as the men who owned it. Crockery, small japanned boxes of herbs and, at the top corners, carved pieces and dainty pictures set about with miniature ropework. Their ditty-bags hung along with them, canvas with an opening near the top, each lovingly embroidered by its owner.
The seamen were showing that they had made L’Aurore their home. It meant therefore that when they went to battle this, too, was what they were defending. He could have fussed at searching out faults – and he knew where to look – but he was satisfied.
‘Well done, Mr Howlett,’ he pronounced. ‘We’ll rig for church, I believe.’
He affected not to notice the discreet sign given and, seconds later, a drum volleyed and rattled above. The men tumbled down the hatchways, seizing benches and stools in disciplined silence, and by the time Kydd had made the upper deck the bell in its belfry forward had begun its tolling for church.
On the colourfully beflagged quarterdeck a lectern awaited him, and above him the church pennant snapped in the wind for all to see – not that they risked being disturbed in their devotions by friendly vessels this close to the enemy but regulations must be observed.
He paused, looking out over his men. They seemed so many, both watches on deck sitting on their improvised pews, others standing by the rigging, and behind him, the officers on gunroom chairs, all in an expectant hush.
In the absence of a chaplain he could choose to speak himself or, more usually, make use of the bracing strictures of the Articles of War. Today, feeling closer to his ship’s company, he preferred something more personal, uplifting and resonant with the services now being conducted in ancient churches all over England.
He took the Bible from his clerk and opened it at Psalm the Third.
‘Lord, how are they increased that trouble me! Many are they that rise up against me. Many there be which say of my soul, “There is no help for him in God.” But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory and the lifter up of mine head . . .’
Raising his eyes when the ancient words were done, in strong, robust tones he told the L’Aurores that they must do their duty and trust that God would uphold them and give them the victory.
Then he told them sincerely of his satisfaction at the state of the ship and stepped back. ‘Shall we raise our voices? “O for a thousand tongues to sing . . .”’
The words came lusty and strong, and to Kydd was pleasing confirmation of the harmony that now prevailed in L’Aurore. He joined in happily.
Then it was, ‘Down all stools!’ followed by the welcome ‘Up spirits!’ and the sanctity of the occasion dissolved into rest-day jollity.
Kydd accepted the traditional captain’s invitation to a gunroom dinner and went below to join his officers.
March was turning into April; the weather improved but there was no let-up in the watch and ward over Napoleon’s invasion fleet. L’Aurore retired with Nelson’s squadron to the southern rendezvous of Pula Bay to water and replenish. While there, she took her turn with the entertainments.
For weeks beforehand L’Aurore had been abuzz with expectation and planning for the big day aboard Victory when they must perform before the glittering assembly of the commander-in-chief and visiting captains. Doud was tasked for several spots, and a shy, sensitive marine who turned out to be a natural flute-player was discovered. One of the older fo’c’slemen was persuaded to accompany on his violin a pair of startlingly agile topmen in their hornpipe, while Kydd himself was remembered as a fine voice: he would render ‘Spanish Ladies’ and sing in a duet with Curzon.
On the night it was a great success and the musical numbers were enthusiastically applauded, but what had the company in a roar was the theatricals that followed: a rousing interpretation in costume of the Frenchmen meeting the ‘Russians’ on the tekne, with hilarious gobbledegook and misunderstandings deployed to best effect and a grand climax with an extravagantly spoken ‘Renzi’ triumphantly carrying off an enormous treasure box.
Kydd returned to his ship enfolded in the warmth of the evening, reflecting that it would be difficult to recall a time of greater contentment. When the morning came, with a warm sun climbing to a blue heaven, the feeling remained.
Then at ten everything changed. Around the point a frigate under full sail burst into sight. It was Phoebe and she had a signal flying: ‘Enemy fleet at sea’. Villeneuve had sailed.
Within an hour the flagship had summoned all captains and Kydd found himself sitting with other grim-faced officers at the commander-in-chief’s table hearing the news.
‘Villeneuve sailed with a fine nor’-easterly on the thirtieth last,’ Nelson said brusquely. ‘Eleven sail-of-the-line, seven frigates and several sloops. It’s reported he’s embarked some three thousand troops – for what purpose we cannot know. His last course was sou’-sou’-westerly but Villeneuve’s invariable practice is to stand out to sea until he loses our frigates and only then bears away on his true heading. I pray Active will stay with them, but with these moonless nights I’m not sanguine she will.’
Murmuring around the table showed the implication was not lost on them. Was this going to be a repetition of the breakout several months before when they had chased rumours and suppositions to the ends of the Mediterranean?
‘I think it right you should understand the elements of the decision I now face.’ He stood and moved to the chart. ‘The enemy is loose in the Mediterranean with a substantial body of soldiers. So where are they going? To the west – to join with the Dons in Cartagena? If this is so, why the troops? The same applies to a general exit past Gibraltar, for in joining with the Spanish at Cadiz or the French at Brest why the soldiers? A singular number, inconsequential for an invasion force and not needed in a conjunction with the other squadrons.’
He gazed at the chart for long moments. ‘To the east? Possibly. Egypt still remains as it always has been, a highway to India, as does Syria, and we can rely on neither the Turks nor the Russians. Our entire interests including Malta therefore lie helpless before a battle-fleet of such force.’
The lines deepened in his face. ‘And once a landing is achieved neither Satan nor all his demons will serve to remove them.’
‘Sir – the Morea?’
‘Thank you, Captain Keats, and your point is well taken. Should the Morea or any of the Ionians be taken we shall be hard put to defend our trade both in the Adriatic and further south. As to a motion towards Constantinople I feel it unlikely but not impossible.’
Kydd felt the tension: there could be no commander in history faced with such a decision and his heart went out to the stooped figure.
‘I conceive there to be one object open to Villeneuve that is consistent with the facts to hand. The gesture east is a feint.’
‘Gibraltar and the Channel!’
The final move to link up the enemy fleets – it was happening . . . or was it?
‘I think not. I believe it to be an attempt to draw my squadron the thousand miles to Egypt – so leaving Naples and Sicily unguarded.’
‘If Sicily is taken, it will cut the Mediterranean in two!’
‘Quite.’
‘And Naples lost – with no other friend in these parts we’ll have to give up Malta!’