‘Lay us athwart his course, if you please,’ he said briskly, when he regained the quarterdeck. The master glanced up to the lookout, who threw out an arm, and before long a boat was in the water crossing to a sea-darkened Ragusan barque.
Kydd hauled himself up the sides. A characterful stench rose from the hold as a surly master presented himself. Experienced from countless boardings, Kydd knew the neutral was ruing the hours that would be lost to a search and examination of his cargo, so drew himself up and instructed Renzi, ‘Tell him I’m not examining his freighting or his papers. It’s where the enemy fleet is that’s most important to me.’
Renzi began in his Italian but the master waved it aside and answered, in stumbling French, ‘I know of no fleet, Mr Englishman, but I tell you, les vauriens are no friends of mine.’
‘Have you seen any in the last month?’
‘A month? Why, yes. In fact, many together.’
Kydd tensed. ‘When?’
‘Let me see. It was ten – no, eleven days ago. Off Cape Gatto and standing to the west in a fresh easterly, they were.’
‘How many?’ Kydd rapped.
‘I remember well – they were so great in number. Twelve big two- and three-deckers, and four others under a press o’ sail. They weren’t like your fleets, all in a nice line, these were in a jumble, hein?’
After more questions about flags and pennants it was beyond question: Villeneuve had been spotted. Kydd raced back into the boat. ‘Stretch out for your lives, y’ rogues!’ he gasped.
The French had been found – but it was the worst possible news he was bringing Nelson. Cape Gatto was near the choke point where the Mediterranean narrowed to Gibraltar and it was now very clear that Villeneuve had achieved what all had feared – a breakout.
L’Aurore raised the fleet after a furious sail. Her signals caused the flagship to instantly heave to the entire squadron. Kydd was summoned to report, only too aware of the consternation his news would bring.
He was back as quickly. Seeing his grave expression, Renzi put down his work and said quietly, ‘A hard thing for Our Nel indeed. I’d believe that others might forgive should he be caught in a melancholy at our discovery.’
Kydd took off his coat and gazed out of the stern windows at Victory still lying to. ‘It was a cruel blow, that I could tell, Nicholas. He’s been waiting for two years to have an accounting with the French and now they’re out and who knows where? What wrings his heart is that he thinks he’s failed – they’re out of our grasp and Villeneuve is following his master’s orders and stretching out for England, joining with others in Ferrol and so on.’
‘A frightful thing,’ Renzi said, in a low voice.
‘Or they’ll be challenged on their way north by Orde’s squadron off Cadiz! Nelson’s much out of countenance that the deciding battle will not be his to command, for you’ll know that Admiral Orde is his senior and no friend.’
‘Then it’s too late,’ Renzi said gravely. ‘We must say it’s out of our hands now. Villeneuve two weeks ahead of us, the issue will be settled by others before we can come to help them.’
It was finally happening: the growing avalanche of joining enemy ships even now converging on the Channel, sweeping aside the Brest blockade and at last allowing the vast invasion fleet to put to sea. There would be heroic sacrifices by Keith’s Downs Squadron as the juggernaut advanced until inevitably tens of thousands of Napoleon Bonaparte’s best troops came flooding ashore in England.
It would be all over within weeks, the pitiful numbers of Britain’s army swept aside in a victorious push on London and a falling back on the last strongholds of the ancient kingdom. The land they would eventually return to would be a very different place.
‘If Nelson is not to be cast down, then neither shall I,’ Kydd said firmly. ‘The people will be unsettled – this is understandable. The Mediterranean Squadron is to fall back on Gibraltar for news, I’m told, but L’Aurore will stand resolute whatever this is.’
With deliberate calm, Kydd went out on deck, sniffed the wind and saw a signal fly up Victory’s mizzen halliards. It was the instruction to press westward on the long haul to Gibraltar and he lost no time in giving the orders for taking up their scouting position ahead of the fleet.
Once settled after the flurry of activity, the men showed little inclination to go below, standing in knots and looking back towards the quarterdeck. They would have worked out the implications for themselves.
Should he call them aft for a bracing talk? What was there to say?
Instead he crossed to the helm, looking at the binnacle deliberately as though checking their course. Then, nodding to himself as though satisfied, he stood back with arms folded and gazed thoughtfully ahead.
As he hoped, the officer-of-the-watch, Gilbey, came up hesitantly beside him. ‘A rum do, sir.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’ Kydd came back mildly.
‘Why, the Crapauds having escaped Lord Nelson out o’ the Med.’
Behind him by the helmsman were the silent figures of the quartermaster and his mate, two hands and a midshipman.
‘Not at all,’ Kydd returned coolly, in a voice above the usual conversational level. ‘I’m in no doubt it’s part of the plan – have you not considered, Mr Gilbey, that this is why Admiral Orde has been placed off Cadiz for just this happening? He’s to confront the French and in the delay we will join him, as will Admiral Calder from Ferrol, and we’ll have a famous battle.’
He chuckled. ‘I do pity Villeneuve – he’ll wish mightily he’d stayed safe and snug in Toulon.’
‘But—’
Kydd allowed a frown to appear. ‘Have you any doubt of the outcome, sir? When I saw him Lord Nelson was vastly content that the French have at last showed themselves and longs for a conclusion. We couldn’t find them – now we know where they are. Is this not a cause for joy?’
‘Aye, sir,’ Gilbey answered carefully.
It was all Kydd could do: the rumours would fly, he had no control over that, but if the men on watch, overhearing their captain, could take away the observation that to him all was going to plan then it was something they could hold on to.
Gibraltar. Eight hundred miles to the west: less than a week’s sailing with a fair wind – but the veering easterly had gone through south and was now firming from the west. Dead foul for the Rock.
Day after day the Mediterranean Squadron tacked in long boards ever westwards, the staying about at the end of each a mechanical routine, their advance pricked off on the chart a dispiriting procession. And day after day the winds held steady from the west, always in their face, always foul for Gibraltar.
They finally clawed their way into the narrowing passage between Africa and Europe that would end in the Strait of Gibraltar. The winds had fallen to a balmy serenity – and with the notorious current through the strait driving in from the Atlantic the squadron was now threatened with being ‘backstrapped’ – unable to make progress in the light winds and therefore remorselessly carried back whence they had come.
The weary fight ended temporarily almost within sight of their goal when the squadron was diverted to Tetuan to take on fresh water and supplies.
Tetuan was well known to all nations for its good watering and it was not remarkable to see a Portuguese ship-of-the-line laying to its task when the squadron dropped anchor. What was not expected was the hurried departure of a boat containing a senior officer, which made its way to Victory. Even less expected was the result: L’Aurore’s pennants and the summoning of her captain.
The commander-in-chief was furiously busy, a stream of clerks, captains, officers and others demanding audience, seen and sent on their way with his secretary at the tall side-desk steadily documenting the activity. But when Kydd appeared they were banished and Nelson quickly sat him down at the vast table.