Crawford remained silent.
‘This then is Napoleon’s plan. Will it succeed? I have my doubts. He’s treating his naval forces as though they were a regiment of cavalry, no understanding of what problems the sea can throw at his commanders that can send his best-laid plans awry. Possibly his next plan will be more reasonable.’
‘Next plan?’
‘He knows we’ve captured his orders, he needs must make others. And this is our dilemma. I put it to you, Charles, how in heaven’s name will we know if a sudden move in this chess game is the opening of a grand strategy that ends with the enemy in triumph at our gates, or if it is in fact merely a derisory side-show? Only time will tell, and then it’ll be too late.’
‘A vexing conundrum.’
‘Quite so. And I’ll confide to you this hour that it has already begun. Missiessy has sortied from Rochefort. Our best information is that this is a voyage to the Caribbean, as provided for in the previous plan. He has a powerful fleet and our islands are probably under assault as we talk here together.
‘We must consider carefully. Is this an attempt to draw us away from our blockade so he may make his move on England? Or is it a full-scale onslaught on our colonies? Could it be that this serves as well to be a point of concentration for all his squadrons, which then descend together on the Channel? Or even . . . is this all a bluff of colossal proportions, that it is never the intention to go there, keeping a powerful fleet hidden in the ocean wastes ready to fall on us unaware?’
Crawford shifted uncomfortably. ‘We must be prepared for all eventualities.’
‘So we should. But know that our lines of communication at sea are long – very long. To send orders to Lord Nelson in the Mediterranean and receive his acknowledgement is a matter of six weeks and more. How, then, should we in the Admiralty respond when we have urgent news of the enemy’s motions? Immediately send details and orders to the admiral concerned? I rather think not, for by the time he receives them our event is history, and the orders an impertinence.’
‘But – but how then can you . . . ?’
‘We must trust our admirals, is the only course. Provide them with the best means to make a decision and step back to allow them to act entirely as they see fit at the time. No other will answer.’
‘This I perceive, Edward. Knowing the grand situation you will dispatch intelligence pertaining and principles of action and hope mightily that your man plays his cards well, that he is not trumped by the enemy.’ He remained thoughtful. ‘If you’ll allow me to say it, old fellow, it does strike me as a frightful burden on your Admiralty. All responsibility for the defence of the realm and, blindfolded, they must turn over the means of action to others.’
‘It is,’ Boyd said, with feeling. ‘What shall we do with Missiessy in the Caribbean? Of course, any orders to the Leeward Islands station will reach there only after the Frenchman is on his way back.’
‘I do pity with all my heart your first lord – Melville, isn’t it? Such cares and woes and naught he might do . . .’
Boyd gave him a wry look. ‘Do save your feelings, Charles. In this case they’ll be wasted.’
‘Why, surely—’
‘Yesterday afternoon at three, my lords assembled in Parliament did carry a vote of impeachment against the first lord, who had no other alternative than to resign immediately.’
‘Impeachment!’
‘A foolish affair. His private and public accounts became entangled some years ago. The Speaker’s casting vote in the event became necessary, but the result is the same. As of this moment, when the kingdom is under the greatest threat it has ever seen, the first lord of the Admiralty is gone and no one in his place.’
‘This is monstrous! It’s unthinkable!’
‘I myself am without employment: there’s no one authorised to sign for expenditures, promotions – or may take operational decisions. The Admiralty is rudderless – paralysed. I really can’t think but that, whether we like it or no, we are now entirely in the hands of Lord Nelson and his band of brothers.’
From the perspective of L’Aurore, the Mediterranean fleet a few cables off her lee in line ahead was a stirring sight. Through Kydd’s glass he could see Victory’s quarterdeck and one still and lonely figure, upon whom so much depended.
Kydd’s orders were quickly collected. ‘Proceed with the utmost expedition in His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore under your Command to round the Isles of Galita, keeping with the coast until you shall fall in with His Majesty’s Ship Ambuscade before Tunis and thence to me at Rendezvous Number 38 as expeditiously as possible.’
Nelson wanted the inshore passage up against the North African coast reconnoitred for an attempt to slip past to the eastern Mediterranean – to the Ionians, Egypt, even Turkey. Nothing was to be left to chance. The secret rendezvous number was north of Palermo in Sicily, well placed for the fleet to intercept a move through either of the only two routes to the east.
‘Loose courses, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd told the master, and in short order L’Aurore spread her wings for the south.
Close in to the Barbary coast the dull ochre landscape stretched away in both directions from the scrubby islets, and the acrid scent of parched desert wafted out to them, taking him back immediately to those times before in dear Teazer that now seemed so uncomplicated.
Then it had been the scene of a vanquished Napoleon scuttling back to a divided France; now it was the infinitely more dangerous preventing of an all-powerful emperor combining his forces and falling on England.
The easterly was making progress difficult but Kydd knew that close inshore the desert winds coming out would be enough to see them along and with bowlines to courses and topsails the frigate seethed through the water, prepared at every low point and headland for the dread sight ahead of Villeneuve’s battle fleet.
There were Arab fishing craft aplenty but without the lingo it was futile to stop and question them and no other square-rigged vessel was in sight. At the point where the coastline fell away they were in the Gulf of Tunis and their task was over. Ambuscade was duly sighted and they both bore away for the rendezvous.
They were received courteously enough but their lack of news was clearly a blow. Must they cast further into the thousand-mile expanse to the east – or had Villeneuve, as before, returned to Toulon? A sense of desperation gripped the fleet and a despondent Howlett muttered darkly that it were better that Lord Nelson had kept a conventional close blockade than fall back to allow an escape.
New orders came. Precious frigates were sent to the Ionians, to Tripoli, another north towards Corsica – and L’Aurore to the west, to round the Balearics and then look into Toulon before heading back to another rendezvous north of Sicily.
The easterly was veering and the frigate thrashed along at her best speed, every man aboard conscious of time passing by, and the enemy slipping away from a climactic confrontation. Then at dawn, with Ibiza a smudge on the horizon, the lookout hailed the deck: ‘Deck hooo! Topsails over, fine on the larb’d bow!’
Kydd leaped for the weather shrouds. From the cross-trees he saw that the faded sails belonged to no self-respecting man-o’-war, but even a merchantman had eyes.