The words filtered through the thunder of hoofbeats and gunshots, and Hazzard stumbled against Pettifer, Cochrane and Kite and they lifted him. Wayland. He did it.
Hazzard was pushed up onto the rear of De la Vega’s horse, the Spaniard taking his arms tight round his waist. ‘Hold fast, amigo! Vamanos,’ he said, Hazzard’s fingers interlocked so he would not fall, concentrating on that much. The muffled whump of an explosion, ammunition, the Bedouin running amok. Infantry were racing everywhere, some heading into the dunes. He stared after them, four men, watching, then turning away, Caron? but he could not be certain. Then they were out, riding over the low scrub and dead, dried crops underfoot, the horse plunging and rising, shots fading on the ceaseless wind.
After a time the horses slowed, and he saw the sparkle of water. Nile, he thought, seabirds.
He slid from De la Vega’s waist and collapsed into the leaves all around, watermelons, and he thought of Izzam and Alahum.
One of the Beni Qassim brought him another goatskin and they crowded round him for protection as he drank, mad with it, a hand holding his head. Careful, sir, not too much now. Hazzard breathed. Every movement was fire, the water unable to extinguish it, but the world came back to life.
‘Porter…’ he gasped, the bespectacled Yorkshireman before him, ‘A liquid… on a pad… made a gas. I brea-breathed it in…’
Porter looked into his bag, ‘An ether, sir, from a base salt, by the sound of it, one of the chlorides, sublimates quickly, steals the air from the blood and the lungs, nasty…’ He delved in his bag, looking, and found a thin leather pouch. ‘Breathe into this, sir, in and out, slow as you can.’
Hazzard covered his nose and mouth and breathed, slowly, deeply, his heart slowing, calming, his chest opening. De la Vega crouched down next to him. Hazzard gripped his arm.
‘How?’ he asked.
De la Vega shrugged. ‘The houses in Malta, they are not so heavy, my friend.’ He flicked a glance at the marines. ‘But your muchachos, they sail across the seas to find you, and Volpone found them.’
Underhill on his camel, Hesse, Kite, Porter, Cochrane, Napier, Warnock, Pettifer, De Lisle, all dressed as Bedu, Turks and Greeks stood looking down at him. ‘Masoud and Mr ’Ammer, sir,’ said Pettifer, ‘Told us the lot.’
‘Shoober Kit,’ said De Lisle.
Kite nodded. ‘Bloody Cairo an’ all…’
Hazzard nodded.
Never give up the boat.
Excited, a Bedouin rider held out one of the notes in Arabic Hazzard had dictated to Al-Jabarti’s scribes.
In the Name of Allah and His Holy Prophet, all Blessings Upon His Name, the devout are called upon to confound all enemy infidel messengers bound for Alexandria and the ports, and suffer none to live.
‘The Beni Qassim,’ said Masoud. ‘They knew this was of your doing, and exalted your name. Nelsoun Amir is coming, he has been seen by the traders, his sails full! You have cheated Sultan al-kebir of his victory, Hazar-effendi. He has won his battles, but you have defeated him.’
The Bedouin called out, ‘Al-Pasha al-ahmar! Al-Pasha al-ahmar! Allahu akbar!’
Bonaparte. Shattered his dreams.
‘An’ we seen his ruddy fleet, sir,’ said Warnock. ‘Like Spithead on parade. Be caught like rats in a trap when Nellie gets ’ere, beggin’ yer pardon…’
A warning bell echoed from beyond a distant valley of memory.
‘Horse… I need…’
Kite and Masoud helped him to stand, every flexion of muscle in his torso a plunging dagger into a flaming sea. He breathed deeply, charging his lungs.
‘The despatches… Jullien…’
Must not stop.
With reverence, the Beni Qassim brought his shamshir, Al saif Ali Qarim Sheikh, the remains of his scarlet coat, the shredded sleeves almost cut away, covering him in a loose binish, every movement a branding iron, but the heat of the air had gone.
‘Who? What despatches?’ asked De la Vega.
Derrien.
He spared a thought for young Jullien, do nothing that would blacken our name. ‘Brueys,’ he said, ‘Derrien has Bonaparte’s order – to disperse the French battle-fleet. They must not reach open water – must not escape…’
‘Madre de Dios,’ cursed De la Vega, ‘Ya basta! Enough! You win, sí? Your Nelson, he is coming, he—’
‘Cesár,’ said Hazzard, ‘…he has Sarah.’
The Spaniard took it in, saw he had no argument. He lowered his head, defeated. ‘Madre…’ He looked up. ‘Then we get her, amigo.’
‘Hammer, Masoud,’ asked Hazzard, ‘How far to ride… to Aboukir?’
Masoud pointed over the dunes. ‘Listen…’
‘How far?’
Hammer answered for him, holding up his hands. ‘We are already here, Herr Major. Aboukir Bay lies just beyond the salt lake, over these sandhills. You were never far.’
Seabirds.
Not in the desert.
Near the sea.
The idea gave him hope. Then he heard ships’ bells ringing.
‘Derrien…’ breathed Hazzard, ‘I’ve got to stop him.’
Before Porter could take issue with them, the marines helped him into a saddle. They all mounted and Cook climbed painfully onto one of the horses.
‘What will you do?’ Hammer asked Hazzard, testing the girth strap, putting a loaded pistol into a saddle holster for him.
‘Derrien will make for Brueys, on the Orient. That is where—’ Hazzard took a deep breath, his vision cleared, so tired, and he slipped forward then straightened, ‘—where everything will depend. It must.’ Hazzard’s words tailed off. He blinked, alert again. ‘Pettifer, Warnock, to me, no more. Mr Hammer, Sar’nt Underhill, while we head for the Orient, you will take the squad and meet Mr Wayland to rendezvous with us at the bay…’ he hesitated, thinking of Sarah, ‘…if we are successful. Cesár, agreed?’
De la Vega inclined his head. ‘Sí, amigo. But I come with you. We shall catch el diablo.’
Hazzard paused, and looked at his old sergeant. ‘Mr Hammer, please get Sar’nt Cook safe to the sea…’
‘God willing.’ Hammer bowed. ‘Insha’allah.’
Underhill rode up next to Cook. ‘Clear aye, sir.’
Cook nodded at Hazzard. ‘Gimme some rum… an’ I’m good as done. Now,’ His voice was barely a husk and his face hardened. ‘You get that bastard, boy…’
Nemesis
Captain Benjamin Hallowell of the 74-gun HMS Swiftsure peered through his telescope into the glare of distant Alexandria. Stealth and caution had been thrown to the winds: the Royal Navy had returned with a vengeance.
‘French transport vessels… a frigate… no, two, three frigates… a sloop… good God.’ Hallowell shifted his focus. ‘And French soldiers hopping all over the damned place.’ He lowered the scope and took a breath, adding with a rueful tone, ‘Just as your Mr Hazzard said all along…’
Hallowell glanced at the tatty pair beside him, the younger, taller man with the walking-stick, a scarred, sunburnt red-brown face, in a torn, stained, cut-off Marine red coat – the other a grizzled ginger scarecrow in a piratical Spanish leather jerkin, a cutlass and pistol rammed in a broad leather belt. ‘Well done, sir, my compliments to you both. And my apologies to Mr Hazzard.’
Wayland merely stared out at the French ships. ‘They’ve been sending tenders in and out of the port for days, sir,’ he said. ‘It proved too shallow for the overladen transports or ships of the line. Those brigs are collecting victuals for the fleet, which is still unloading cargo and munitions.’
Hallowell looked through his scope once again. ‘And making merry in the generous amenities of Aboukir Bay you say. So, let us see this chart of yours…’
Swiftsure and Alexander had come in ahead of the squadron to reconnoitre the port, the rest further out to sea, streaking headlong for the bay as if they had scented blood in the water. Volpone stood a short way off, still the apparently harmless Levantine trader festooned with hanging
cargo nets. Alexander surged alongside, gun-ports open, keeping a watchful eye.
‘And this is accurate?’ asked Hallowell doubtfully, examining the chart. It was De la Vega’s. It showed Aboukir Bay, the position of the aged fort at the tip of the northern promontory and a simple thin outline of the shoals and hidden sands.
‘My concern is this, sir,’ said Wayland, pointing at the old fort on the headland. ‘My men reported unidentifiable structures and a possible loading-frame at the foot of this tower. With sufficient cannon, this old castle could command the northwestern seaward approach to the bay, and threaten the squadron, sir. I believe they have created a makeshift battery.’
Hallowell glanced at him, impressed. ‘And we can trust your Spanish pirates?’
‘Let them be Turkish merchants for the log, if you please, sir,’ said Wayland.
‘Then Turks they shall be…’ He folded the map. ‘Will you stay aboard and come in with us?’ he asked. ‘Or do you Special Landing Squadron types prefer going in a tad more doggo?’
Hallowell’s vernacular left Wayland puzzled, but none more so than the unexpected title he had used. ‘Special Landing Squadron, sir?’
‘It’s what his lordship dubbed you at Gib, though I rather prefer the “Oddfellows”, what?’
Wayland’s thoughts flitted momentarily to his encounter with Admiral St Vincent, with Cook and Hazzard, the security and fellowship of the fleet. ‘We shall rendezvous with Major Hazzard and reconnoitre the shoreline batteries. Our brief, sir, is to seek out and destroy.’
Hallowell watched him. Wayland was indeed a grim fighting officer. The blushing boy had gone. ‘But this battle will be at sea, sir, not on land,’ said Hallowell. ‘That is where careers will be made, and all anyone will ever remember.’
Wayland looked out and saw Culloden. She had lagged behind the rest of the squadron, towing a prize merchantman. A figure on the foredeck surrounded by junior officers raised his hat. Wayland sensed it was Captain Troubridge. He raised a hand. ‘Sir Thomas will remember, sir. He was there that night, when we sailed from the Ville.’
Hallowell seemed suddenly concerned for the younger man. ‘There is no shame in coming home, Lieutenant. You have done more than your fair share. We would be glad of your company.’ Months earlier, eager and hopeful, Wayland might have agreed with Hallowell and chosen to stay aboard, dreaming of fame and glory in battle.
Instead he thought only of Nelson approaching a fortified bay lined with French batteries, and had no doubts. ‘No, sir, thank you,’ he said. ‘Let us take the battle on shore.’ He glanced at Handley. ‘It’s what we do.’
* * *
The alarm bells rang out across the turquoise waters of Aboukir Bay, the first cry echoing down from the lookouts in the tops over a hundred and fifty feet in the air.
‘Enemy sail off the starboard bow…!’
Seated at his desk in the day-room with the ship’s log, Vice-Admiral Brueys stopped his pen in mid-flow.
So. He comes.
He stared at the pages before him. Why had he been writing, he wondered – for posterity? Such presumption, he decided, presupposed a posterity born of victory. Or did he write more out of hope than confidence in survival of this fateful moment – part of him felt more the former than the latter.
To bolster his spirits he made a final entry: Enemy sighted. Perhaps he might later be able to render an account of the events that followed, but perhaps not. He set down his pen, and stood. He adjusted his waistcoat, and buckled on his sword.
The air was now alive with the call, repeated from ship to ship, number and bearing added moment by moment, Three! No, four, five enemy sail, correction, seven, eight… He stepped out onto the broad quarterdeck of Orient, nearly fifty feet across; by any standard she was a giant. An ensign bowed and handed him his telescope. Casabianca stood with his officers looking out to sea at the starboard rail. Brueys joined them. ‘Where away, Captain?’
‘Starboard bow, mon amiral, north-northwest, rounding the headland to come north-northeast. A lookout on the Heureux had the honour.’ Casabianca looked at him. ‘It is the English. It must be Nelson.’
Brueys nodded, the moment they had dreaded, or anticipated, each to his own experience, had finally fallen upon them. The seascape seemed a peaceful rolling blue, bright in the afternoon heat. Brueys raised his glass. Coming in from the open sea, straight for them, a line of ships in full sail leaning heavily with the westerly wind. Eight, nine, ten, he counted – then the last, eleven? Before his eyes their rough line of battle broke, and they curved in towards the bay, heeling with the onshore wind, topsails, spritsails and topgallants billowing white against the blue, some ships growing in the eyeglass faster than others. As he watched he began to understand their constant change of position.
‘Mon dieu,’ said Brueys, sickened. ‘They race each other.’
He lowered the scope but could not take his eyes off the sight. ‘Recall all crews and shore parties.’
‘So recalled, mon amiral,’ said Casabianca. ‘Over a third are ashore for provisions in Alexandria and Rosetta. The boats have gone out.’ His voice was taut. ‘It is no longer for the captains to argue…’ Casabianca sounded resigned. ‘We have insufficient men to put to sea and man the guns at the same time.’
Brueys glanced at him. The endless furore with the admirals, Blanquet du Chayla and Villeneuve, and captains such as Du Petit-Thouars had raged for days: whether to put to sea or fortify the bay, Brueys preferring to stay, and mass the guns to seaward. The decision had now been made for them, by circumstance, by Nelson.
‘We command the bay, Captain,’ insisted Brueys. ‘We have the advantage.’
Casabianca did not look away. ‘The wind, Amiral. We are now trapped on a lee shore.’
Brueys looked off the port side. Of shallower draft, several frigates had been positioned closer inshore, between the shoals and the battle-fleet, to keep them clear of the fleet’s massed batteries pointing out to sea. He looked at the nearest, Sérieuse, and further down the bay at those in Villeneuve’s rearguard, Artémise, Diane and Justice.
‘Requisition all frigate crews to man the ships of the line, crews to man all guns to starboard first. That is where Nelson comes. Then captains’ conference at once, no exceptions. And reaffirm the order to all, including Admiral Blanquet du Chayla,’ said Brueys, pricked by the name – his had been the only voice of dissent to their otherwise unanimous vote to anchor in the bay, ‘to cable all ships together and close the gaps.’ He changed his tone and looked down a moment, distracted, disturbed as if by some forewarning. ‘And… ensure all passengers go ashore, Captain,’ he said. ‘Any of the savants, ladies, wives. Including young Giocante.’
Casabianca gave a short bow in thanks. ‘My son will not go, Amiral. He says he is Ensign Casabianca and if I do not go, then he will not go.’
‘We need a reliable officer to escort passengers.’
‘I had told him so already, Amiral,’ said Casabianca with a bow. ‘But I thank you.’
Brueys nodded sadly, and raised his eyeglass once again, to conceal his sense of doom. ‘You must be very proud. As would I, to serve beside such a grand heart…’ A grand heart with no knowledge of what was to come, he thought, none. None.
Casabianca watched the white-haired patrician as he stood at the rail, looking out, bearing witness to the approach of his own destruction. Though he knew Brueys would direct a fierce engagement until his last breath, he had about him an air of resigned acceptance – that, until now, he had somehow eluded a fate which had at last caught him up.
‘It will be a day, mon amiral,’ said Casabianca, with affection. He bowed and withdrew, to execute his orders.
Brueys looked down across the cluttered decks of Orient. There were supplies for the army, buckets of paint and tar left abandoned, the tops were undermanned, the standing rigging sagged, and now Blanquet du Chayla could rage all he wished, for there were not enough hands to man the guns as well as sail the ships out to se
a.
But he felt reassured when he looked down the seaward broadside of his great flagship: Orient presented sixty guns over three decks, and before and astern extended in line some five hundred more. If only they could get the men back, they would blast Nelson into the Mediterranean.
He looked to the front of the line, past Franklin, Peuple Souverain, Aquilon, Spartiate and Conquérant, to the 74-gun leader, Guerrier, her bows anchored near the shallows, the surf on the beach so close he could see the foam. Guerrier would stop them, he thought, Guerrier would block the path of the impetuous, impatient Nelson.
He then felt a frisson of nerves shiver along his spine.
Surely, he thought, no captain would risk attempting such shallows. Not even the English.
Surely.
* * *
Two mounted troopers of the 20th Dragoons forced a path through the mass of people clogging the road from Alexandria to Aboukir Bay, cursing down at all. Frustrated, they rode out towards the ruins of ancient Canopus onto the coastal track – when a tattered sailor dashed out in front of them from the shoreline brush. ‘Messieurs! Messieurs! Anglais! Anglais là-bas! Vite, je vous en prie!’ English, over there! Quick, I beg of you!
The horses whinnied as both men were torn from their saddles, then quick hands clamped their mouths shut, and immediately thrust short cutlass blades through their throats, then held them tight until they stopped kicking. Their bodies were dragged into the bushes.
Handley and Wayland emerged from the trees and took the horses. ‘Well done, Purdo,’ said Wayland. ‘Thought you were a Frenchie there myself. Been hiding your theatrical talents, have you?’
The toothless little sailor tugged his forelock in salute. ‘Ta very much, sir.’
The marines all gone ashore, Wayland had taken the decision not to wait for their return but to make a landing with a number of the British survivors of the Esperanza that had been taken aboard the Volpone. A motley band of gunners, seamen and armourers, they lived up to Hallowell’s name of ‘Oddfellows’ as much as the marines of 9 Company – with the imminent attack of Nelson’s squadron, Alfonso agreed, and waited offshore, ready.
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