It took the English fleet less than a week to cover the distance, keeping well away from land and stopping all ships they could find for the barest clue as to the French positions. In the morning light, a hazy coastline formed ahead and the fleet went to quarters. Ships fell into two columns and prepared for battle, keyed up to the highest pitch of readiness.
The low coast firmed and drew nearer. Kydd raised his telescope to a dense scatter of white against the nondescript sandy shore, the straggling ancient town of Alexandria with its Pharos Tower. He passed quickly over the tall minarets and the lofty seamark of Pompey’s Pillar amid the pale stone sprawl of a medieval fort. The forest of black masts that they sought was missing.
Kydd knew from such charts as they had that the port had two harbours, each side of a mushroom-shaped peninsula of land. The fleet passed slowly by, telescopes glinting on every quarterdeck, but at the end it was all too clear that there was no French fleet at anchor anywhere in Alexandria. The disappointment was cruel.
Mutine hove to closer inshore. A boat pulled energetically from her to Vanguard. Was she returning with longed-for news? Conversations stilled about the deck as the ships lay to. Within the hour, boats were passing up and down the fleet with their message – no French fleet, no news whatsoever of it.
Kydd kept his glass trained on the flagship. He could make out people on her upper deck, some moving, some still, and once he recognised a small, lonely figure standing apart. It was not difficult to imagine the torment that must be racking their commander. It had been his final decision to come to Egypt to seek the French, but they were not here – it might be that they had been comprehensively fooled and that the enemy was on his way in the other direction to Gibraltar and the open Atlantic, to fall upon England while they were in this furthest corner of the Mediterranean.
In hours the fleet was under weigh and Tenacious was stretching to the north-westward, ship’s company stood down from quarters. The sea watch was set and word was passed that Houghton, who had been called to the admiral before they set sail, wished all officers to present themselves in his cabin.
‘I am desired by Sir Horatio to acquaint you all with the position we find ourselves in.’ It was unusual – unprecedented, even – that Houghton had sat them informally round a smaller table with an evening glass of sherry. This was not going to be the official passing on of orders.
‘I will not attempt to conceal the dismay the absence of the enemy has caused the admiral,’ Kydd caught Renzi’s eye but there was nothing in it except sombre reflection, ‘and the dilemma this causes. Our vice-consul tells us that there have been no French forces upon this coast, save some Venetian frigates and small fry. He also swears that the Ottomans have found our own presence as unwelcome as the French, and intend to resist any move of aggression. In this we can see that there are definitely no major enemy forces in the vicinity.’
The officers waited patiently as Houghton continued, ‘Trading ships in harbour have been questioned and are adamant that there are no French at sea. It is as if they have vanished.’
‘Then, sir, we are obliged to conclude that Admiral Nelson is wrong in the essentials,’ said Bampton, heavily. ‘And thus we are beating to the nor’ard on speculation!’
Houghton’s eyes narrowed. ‘Take care, Mr Bampton. This is the commander of the fleet you are questioning.’
Bampton’s lips thinned and he continued obstinately, ‘Nevertheless, sir, it seems we are at sea on a venture once again with not a scrap of intelligence to justify it. I am at a loss to account for his motions.’
Houghton put down his glass sharply. ‘It is not your duty to account for the actions of your commander. Recollect your situation, sir!’
Kydd felt for any man who, faced with a decision, put action above faint-hearted inaction, and said strongly, ‘T’ put it plain, he has no intelligence t’ work with – so what do you expect, sir? Lies in port waitin’ for word t’ be passed, or figures something an active officer can do?’
‘And that is… ?’ said Bampton acidly.
Houghton came in quickly: ‘Sir Horatio feels that the objective still remains in the eastern Mediterranean, possibly the Turks – Constantinople, perhaps. Consider: if this great armada prevails over the Ottomans then not only Asia Minor but necessarily the Holy Land and Egypt falls to the French.’
Kydd’s mind reeled with the implications. ‘And then he’ll have cut the Mediterranean in two.’
‘Just so. We shape course to the north, gentlemen, to Asia Minor and the Greek islands, again seizing every opportunity to gather intelligence where we may. The enemy cannot hide a fleet of such size for ever.’
As they left the cabin, Renzi murmured to Kydd, ‘Even so, Nelson will be hard put to justify his conduct before their lordships of the Admiralty – twice he has missed them, and for a junior admiral on his first command…’
In the steady north-westerly it was a hard beat northward, close-hauled on the larboard tack with bowlines at each weather leech. As they struck deeper into the north it appeared not a soul had seen anything of the French and the further on they sailed the less likely a mighty descent on Constantinople seemed.
It was passing belief that the passage of such a great fleet had gone unnoticed, and when they attained the entry-point of the Aegean and therefore Constantinople without finding a soul who had heard of a French fleet, it was time to take stock.
‘Ah, Mr Adams – returned from the Flag with orders, I see.’ Even Bampton was curious as he watched the young officer spring over the bulwarks on his return from the flagship. Houghton opened the order book and studied the last entry, then snapped it shut. He would not be drawn and, with a frown, retired to his cabin, leaving the deck to his officers.
‘Well?’ demanded Bryant. Others sidled up: the quartermaster hovered and the master found it necessary to check the condition of the larboard waterway.
Adams adjusted his cuffs. ‘I must declare,’ he said lightly, ‘Our Nel is the coolest cove you’ll ever meet – French armada loose, who knows where?, and he won’t hear any as say it won’t end in a final meeting. So, it’s to be a continuation of the same, battle-ready night and day until we come up with ’em.’
‘Dammit, Adams, does he say where we’re lookin’?’ Bryant hissed.
‘Well, I was not actually consulted by Sir Horatio but, er, I did overhear him speaking with Berry.’
Kydd smiled.
‘And it seems that if we’ve not sighted ’em by twenty-seven east, then we beat south about Candia, back to the western Med.’
‘Quitting the chase!’ said Bampton, with relish.
‘Fallin’ back on Gibraltar, more like,’ Bryant snapped. ‘No choice.’
Kydd growled, ‘All th’ same, this Buonaparte has the devil’s luck – how else c’n he just vanish? No one sees him an’ all his ships?’
‘Remembering the size of the Mediterranean, above a million square miles…’ Renzi put in.
‘But not forgetting that we haven’t touched land since Sardinia. Wood ’n’ water, stores – we can’t go on like this for ever,’ Bampton observed.
‘If I don’t misread, Nelson is not y’r man to give away th’ game. He’ll hunt ’em down wherever they’re hidin’ and then we’ll have our fight. He’s had bad fortune, is all,’ Kydd declared.
Bampton smiled. ‘My guineas are on that before August we’ll have a new commander – mark my words.’
The signal for the fleet to come about on the starboard tack was hoisted within the hour and obediently the ships shaped course westward, close-hauled and taking the seas on their bows.
Renzi did not go below. There was a pleasing solitude to be had when the men went to breakfast: thoughts could flow unchecked to their natural conclusion, and the deck, with a minimum of watchmen about, was his for the walking.
His mind strayed to the letter he had received in Gibraltar: it was from his father who, in his usual bombastic manner, had insisted that he come home to discuss his f
uture. There was little chance of that in the near term but there was no point in putting it off for ever. The next time he was in England he would return to face him.
Peake, the chaplain, came up from below, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Nicholas, I was told you always took the air at this time,’ he said, in his precise manner. ‘I do hope you will not object to my company.’
The deck lifted in response to a comber under the bows and he lurched over to grip a convenient downhaul. A double crossing of the North Atlantic had not improved his sea-legs.
‘You are most welcome, Padre,’ Renzi answered warmly. He had respect for the man, who was the most nearly learned of all aboard, one with whom he could dispute Rousseau, natural law, ethics, or any other subject valued by an Enlightened mind. The chaplain had volunteered for the sea service as his contribution to the struggle against France but, with a life perspective best termed literal, he was not preserved from the torments of midshipmen and irreverents by a saving sense of humour.
‘As Milton has it, “In solitude, what happiness? Who can enjoy alone, or, all enjoying, what contentment find?”’ admonished Peake.
‘Just so, Mr Peake. Yet please believe I have a desire at times to withdraw from the company of men – but merely for the contemplation of the sublime that is at the very essence of the sea.’ He had not the heart to discourage a man so manifestly reaching out.
Renzi saw Peake look about doubtfully at the straining sails and hurrying waves. The fleet’s progress west was necessarily against the same streaming north-westerly that had brought them eastward so rapidly. Now at each watch there would be anxious glances to the flagship for the signal ‘prepare to tack’, the warning that, yet again, there would be all hands at the sheets and braces for the hard work at putting about. Peake would see little of the sublime in such sea-enforced labour, Renzi mused, then enquired, ‘You are not enjoying your watery sojourn? Such lands as you’ve seen would cost a pretty penny to experience were you to ship as passenger.’
‘I do not value such adventures. Canada, I find, has an… excess of colour, and what I saw of Gibraltar does not spark in me any great desire for sightseeing.’
‘Yet you have chosen the sea life?’
‘I feel a certain calling. At the same time, I will confess to you, sir, in a sense it weighs heavily.’
‘Oh?’
Peake turned to face him. ‘Nicholas – I think we might be accounted friends? Fellow believers? That is,’ he hastened to add, ‘in the essential rationality of the objective man when detached from corporeal encumbrances?’
‘I warm to Leibniz and his position before that of your Spinoza and his Deductions, Mr Peake.’
‘Quite so – we have discussed this before, as I recollect. No, sir, what I face might be considered a… dilemma of conscience.’
‘Ah! Bayle and the Sceptic position,’ Renzi said, with keen anticipation.
Peake winced. ‘Not as who should say, sir. I will be frank – in the lively trust in your discretion and the earnest hope that you will assist me in coming to a comfortable resolution.’
‘My discretion is assured, sir, but I cannot be sanguine about my suitability to aid you in a matter of churchly ethics.’
‘Never so, Renzi. Allow me to set forth the essentials. Since childhood I have been charmed by the rightness of nature: such nicety in the disposition of leaves on a stem, musculature in a cat, the flight of a swallow. In fine, Renzi, it is life’s vitality itself that, for me, is of all the world the greater worth.’
He looked closely at Renzi, then out to the immensity of the sea. ‘Here is the dilemma, my friend. I had an adequate living as curate in a peaceful village in Shropshire, and you may believe that for the quiet and reflective mind there are few occupations that can better that of a country parson.
‘When the revolution began in France I was puzzled. Then an émigré French family came to the village and I learned of the true situation while attending upon the matriarch, who had lost her mind at the experience.’ His voice strengthened. ‘This is the reason for the offer of my services to His Majesty – that in some way I was playing a part in the defending of my country against such unspeakable horrors.’
‘A noble part, Mr Peake,’ Renzi murmured.
‘But in my time on Tenacious I have learned much indeed. The sailors are rough fellows but in their way are as tender as babes to each other. And the midshipmen, scamps and rascals indeed, but I feel that they act as they do out of a need to retreat from martial horrors to the innocence of their so recently departed childhood.’
Renzi’s eyebrows went up, but he said nothing. Peake drew a deep breath and continued, ‘What I am saying is that I have been privileged to see a species of humanity, nauta innocentia, that perfectly displays the qualities of life-cherishing animation that I so value. So you may recognise the anguish I feel when the captain calls for practice with his cannon – “those mortal engines, whose rude throats could counterfeit the dread clamours of Jove!”
‘Renzi, my friend, please understand, it causes me the utmost pain when my unruly imagination pictures for me their purpose – the tearing apart of the sacred flesh of life and its utter and final extinction. Be they enemy of my country, I cannot prevent the betraying thought that even so they hold within them the same vital flame.
‘How can I bring myself to accede to my captain’s constant pressing to hurl unrelenting maledictions on the French in sermon and prayer when I find myself in such brotherly commune with their life-force? How can I hate an enemy when I understand only too well what it is to contain life within you? Whatever should I do? Nicholas – I’m torn. Help me do my duty.’
The beat west was tiring and dispiriting, long miles of vigilant ships but empty sea. A distance further than a complete Atlantic crossing, weeks turning to months – and still not even the wisp of a rumour of a vast French fleet.
South of Crete, with the ancient land of Greece left to starboard, they were traversing the width of the Ionian Sea and approaching where they had left with such hopes a long month before. There was now a pressing need for provisions and water. In these lonely and hostile seas the only possibility was the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and of these the closer was Syracuse, on the eastern shores of Sicily.
The hard-run fleet, each ship with the blue ensign of Rear Admiral Nelson aloft, sighted the rugged pastel grey coast of Sicily at last and prepared to enter the ancient port. The sleepy town lay under the sun’s glare to starboard, mysterious ruins above scrubby cliffs to larboard. It was a difficult approach with troubled waters betraying rocky shoals extending menacingly into the bare half-mile of the intricate entrance.
Once inside, the spacious reaches of an enfolding harbour welcomed the ships. One by one they dropped anchor. People gathered along the seafront, hastily filled bumboats contended to be first out to the fleet, but with decorum proper to the occasion, England’s union flag arose on each man-o’-war’s jackstaff forward.
But before they could proceed, the local officials had to be placated. It was difficult for the city governor: any favouritism towards the British might be construed as a violation of neutrality by the suspicious French, and at first he was obstructive and implacable. It required an exercise of ingenuity and tact to arrive at a form of words that allowed a show of resistance, after which his attentions could not be faulted.
Every vessel hoisted out her boats for the hard task of watering. The massive casks had to be manhandled from a spring or rivulet ashore and floated out to the ship where they would be finally hoisted out and struck down into the hold. The enthusiastic townsfolk endeared themselves to the thirsty mariners and Renzi’s classical soul when they pointed out the continued existence of the famed Fountains of Arethusa, an aqueduct from ancient times bringing water from the interior to the town and perfectly capable of supplying the wants of a whole fleet.
Kydd was touched that Admiral Nelson with all his crushing worries had noticed that the cask wine taken aboard for the men’s
grog issue was being affected by the heat. His orders were that for every pipe of wine two gallons of brandy were to fortify it. He made sure as well that depleted victuals were promptly restored from local sources – lemons by the cartload, endless wicker baskets of greens, and beef on the hoof. In the sunshine spirits rose.
Idly Kydd watched Poulden in the shade of the massive mainmast patiently work a long-splice for Bowden. The lad had lost his pale complexion to a ruddier colouring and his gawky sea gait had steadied to a careful stepping. His body was now more lean than willowy, his expression poised and composed.
Voices rose on the quarterdeck, attracting Kydd’s attention. Mutine had just entered harbour after another reconnaissance. She went aback close to the flagship and Hardy, her commander, stepped into her boat. ‘She’ll have something t’say, I believe,’ Kydd said, vaguely aware of a shadowy world of plots and spies, and the surreptitious allegiances of greed and trade that were the main source of information in this part of the world.
‘Probably that the French by now are past Gibraltar,’ said Bampton, sourly. He had come on deck at the first excitement and was still buttoning his waistcoat.
The master came up behind them. ‘Mutine showed no signal on enterin’,’ he said pensively. ‘Does this mean she has no news t’ offer?’
It would be beyond belief if this crossroads at the very centre of the Mediterranean, touched at by merchant vessels plying both sides of the sea, did not have some word of the French.
Houghton emerged on deck, sniffing the wind and trying to look indifferent to the tension. The quarterdeck fell quiet as a flagship pinnace approached them. Her youthful flag-lieutenant punctiliously doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and then the captain. There were murmured words as Houghton took delivery of a packet of orders and retired to his cabin. The flag-lieutenant waited.
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