In the launch not a word was spoken as each man came to terms with what he had experienced. Kydd drew on his coat again and pulled himself together: there may still be those in the water, God forbid.
‘Out oars – come on, lads, let’s be havin’ ye. There’s sailors out there, lookin’ t’ be saved…’ It was going to be a long night.
Kydd tossed and turned. Sleep was hard – his mind reeled with stark impressions of fiery grandeur, horribly burned bodies, shattered wreckage. They had returned only a couple of hours before dawn to a ship whose company was dropping with exhaustion. Men were asleep at their guns and place of duty. After six hours’ hard fighting they were now at the extremity of weariness.
He became aware of someone close by. It was Rawson. ‘Sir, m’ apologies for waking you, but it’s dawn an’ Admiral Nelson is signalling.’
Kydd raised himself on an elbow and tried to focus his thoughts. ‘Oh? Er, well, I’ll be up presently.’ Rawson turned to go, but Kydd added quietly, ‘An’ thank you, Mr Rawson.’ The youngster had known that dawn would allow signals to be seen and, although he was as exhausted as Kydd, he had made it his duty to be up on the poop-deck ready with Tenacious’s answering pennant.
Going wearily up the ladders Kydd was aware of his tiredness: his feet plodded forward, his mind in a daze, and he had to take several seconds to orient himself when he reached the signals post.
‘Number fifty-five with our pennants, sir.’
Kydd fumbled in his little signals book.
‘That is t’ say, “assist ships in battle”, sir,’ Rawson said gently, his eyes hollow. ‘I’ve acknowledged, sir.’
He had had no right to do so, but Kydd was grateful. ‘The captain—’
‘I’ve sent word, sir.’ A brief spark of youthful high spirits showed as Rawson confided, ‘An’ would you credit, they had t’ bang a pot to wake him.’
‘More respect to y’r betters, younker,’ Kydd answered, but suppressed a grin. By long custom of the sea, a seaman could be shaken awake but never an officer – that might be construed as laying hands on a superior, a capital offence. The men must have been hard put to think of a way to rouse their captain.
Kydd went down to the quarterdeck to await Houghton, prudently using his signal telescope to spy out the morning situation. Despite his weariness he was awestruck at the scene of devastation and ruin.
The entire enemy van, ship after ship in a line, had hauled down their colours. Their opponents were still at anchor opposite them in the same position from where they had thundered out their broadsides. But there was an interval of more than half a mile from where the flagship had been; the remainder of the line had abandoned their places downwind of the inferno to edge away to the south. They were now in an untidy gaggle well into the bay. Two looked as if they had run aground during the night; three or four others were still in a fitful exchange of gunfire with two English 74s.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Houghton was dishevelled and lacked a shoe, but his coming on deck was sufficient to bring order to the desultory scenes of ruin and weariness.
‘Thank you, Mr Kydd. What is the state of the action at this time?’ His voice was hoarse and abrupt. Bryant appeared from forward and Houghton turned to him. ‘We shall assist as ordered. I mean to weigh and proceed this hour, sir. Every man possible at the capstan, stand fast the topmen. We shall muster at quarters as we sail for the enemy.’
Kydd could not shake off his daze of tiredness. Not even the sight of the undamaged enemy they had yet to fight, outnumbering the few English ships in any condition to confront them, was sufficient to raise an emotion.
They fell before the wind and sailed south, directly towards the thunder of guns. It seemed so cruel, so unfair. The fight appeared to intensify as they approached. Ahead were but two English ships and a quick count of the enemy gave nine sail of force waiting. Theseus was passing abeam under a full press of sail but when Kydd searched astern there were no other English ships on their way to join them. The four of them would face the French alone.
Like a band of fighters squaring up to another gang, the four English formed up together and faced their opponents, anchoring in a line, and the firing began almost immediately. Their main opponents were the three 80-gun battleships and a 74 opposite, more than a match for them all, but in addition there were five ships inshore – three frigates and the two ships-of-the-line that had grounded.
Kydd paced at his station. His function had little meaning in a sub-battle with no designated commander but he would remain at his post until called upon. It would be Renzi and Adams on the gundecks below who would be the hardest worked – they must be calling on all they could think of to keep their exhausted men toiling at their guns but if it was not enough… Rawson paced beside Kydd, hands firmly crossed behind his back.
A vicious whir above ended in the twang of parted ropes. The French were firing high with chain-shot to try to bring down the rigging and disable them. Debris tumbled, and Kydd could feel solid hits thudding into the hull of Tenacious. Once or twice there was the wind of passing round shot but no deadly musket fire at these longer ranges.
Their guns crashed out at the two battleships around but the winds were backing westerly and the gunsmoke swirled up and around them in choking clouds. Bowden emerged from the hatchway to the gundeck, blinking in the sunlight. He was grey with fatigue but held himself with dignity as he reported to Houghton, then turned away to return with his orders. At that moment a round shot slammed across the deck and Bowden was flung down in an untidy sprawl. He did not move.
Kydd’s fuddled brain struggled to take in the significance of the lifeless figure. Seamen from a nearby gun crew rushed to him but with a tearing cry Rawson ran forward, knocked them aside and lifted Bowden’s body. The head lolled back, revealing a livid wound that oozed scarlet.
‘He lives!’ Rawson croaked.
Recovering, Kydd stepped forward. ‘Get him t’ the doctor,’ he told the seamen. There was a chance that Pybus could stem the tide of death in the young man – presuming that the doctor himself had not succumbed to exhaustion. At least he could tell the lad’s uncle in all sincerity of his complete devotion to duty. Kydd made no move to stop Rawson going below with Bowden as juvenile rivalries were now swept away in the horrors of war.
The firing intensified for a period then slackened. Two of the French 80-gun ships veered cable and eased round further away from the English line. This exposed the two grounded ships to heavy fire. The closest lost her fore-topmast, but before it had finally settled over her bow in a snarl of rigging her colours jerked down. The situation was changing fast: another English ship arrived and anchored next to a frigate, which loosed her broadside, then struck her colours.
Kydd’s fog of weariness began to lift. The focus of gunfire now shifted to the four remaining ships of the original French line, but Kydd’s attention to these was cut short when Houghton sent for him. ‘Mr Kydd, do you take possession of the French seventy-four.’
To take possession? It was every officer’s dream to board a vanquished enemy and this day Thomas Kydd would do so! It was incredible, wonderful. All trace of fatigue left him. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ he stammered. He had no doubt, however, of why he had been chosen: he could be spared in the continuing conflict – others would continue the fight.
‘Carry on, Mr Kydd.’ Houghton gave a dry smile and turned away.
Kydd’s heart rose with pride, but the formalities must be observed. His mind scrambled to recall the procedures as he told a messenger, ‘Pass the word for Mr Rawson.’
The midshipman appeared, his features drawn.
‘How does Mr Bowden do?’ Kydd asked.
‘He’s near-missed by a ball. Mr Pybus says he is tolerably sanguine for his life but he’s sore concussed an’ will need care.’
‘Which can be arranged, I’d wager,’ Kydd said. ‘But now we go t’ take possession of the Frenchy yonder,’ he added briskly. It had the desired effect. The resilience of youth
ensured that a smile appeared on the midshipman’s face. ‘Beg Mr Pringle for a half-dozen marines and ask the first lieutenant for a boat’s crew.’ There were things to remember – he had heard of the embarrassment of one lieutenant who had arrived triumphantly aboard a conquered ship but had omitted to bring along a flag to hoist over that of the enemy.
And he had no French to deal with their captives, but that could be remedied: ‘We’ll have Petty Officer Gurnard in the boat.’ This man, he knew, came from Jersey in the Channel Islands and would have the French like a native.
He wished he could shift from his grey-stained uniform to something more presentable, but all his possessions were struck below in the hold. His cocked hat was passed into the boat, where the crew and marines waited, then Kydd swung over the bulwarks and down the side.
They pulled steadily towards the motionless French ship-of-the-line and as they did so the men began to cheer and whoop – the second vessel aground had lowered her colours. ‘Silence in the boat!’ growled Kydd. He would see to it that the surrender was seemly and in accordance with the strict and ancient customs of the Royal Navy.
As they rounded the stern, they saw, below the shattered windows and trailing ropes, the vessel’s name: Heureux. ‘Means “happy”, sir,’ the nuggety Channel Islander offered.
‘Thank you, Gurnard,’ Kydd replied, thinking it an odd name for a ship-of-the-line. ‘We shall find a better when she’s ours, you may depend upon it.’
The bowman hooked on at the side steps, ignoring stony looks from the French seamen above. Kydd addressed himself to the task of going up the side. It would be disastrous if he lost his footing or stumbled. He jammed on his hat firmly and, keeping his sword scabbard from between his legs, he heaved himself up.
The noisy jabbering lessened as Kydd stepped aboard. A knot of officers stood before him, their eyes hostile; around them were scores of seamen, staring and resentful. Others were coming up from below, filling the decks.
An older officer with the gold of authority removed his hat and gave a short, stiff bow. Kydd returned it, removing his own hat.
‘Je suis Jean Étienne, le capitaine de vaisseau national de France Heureux.’ His voice was hoarse.
‘L’tenant Thomas Kydd, of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Tenacious.’ Bows were exchanged again as Gurnard translated, the captain’s eyes never leaving Kydd’s.
‘Pour l’honneur de la patrie . . .’
Gurnard spoke quickly to keep up: it seemed that only in the face of so patently an overwhelming force and the unfortunate absence of their great commander had they been brought to this pass. ‘He seems t’ be much concerned, sir, that you, er, recognise the heroic defence of their vessel… He says, sir, t’ avoid further, um, effusion o’ blood it were better they acknowledge their present situation…’
‘Par conséquent… à bas le pavillon… je rends le vaisseau.’
‘An’ therefore he must strike his colours and give up the vessel.’ A hush fell over the upper deck as the word rippled out.
Kydd returned the intense look gravely. ‘I sympathise with Captain Étienne’s position, an’ can only admire the courage he an’ his ship’s company have shown.’ He searched for more words but it was difficult to suppress the leaping exultation that filled his thoughts. He tried to think of what it must be like to yield up one’s ship. ‘And I do hope, sir, that th’ fortune of war sees you soon returned t’ a fitting place of honour.’
The captain inclined his head and stepped forward. His eyes released Kydd’s as he unhooked his sword and scabbard from its belt fastening. There was a pause for just a heartbeat, then Étienne held out the lengthy curved and tasselled weapon in both hands.
It was Kydd’s decision: if there had been a truly heroic defence he had an option to return the sword; in this instance, he thought not. With a civil bow he accepted the sword and handed it smoothly to Rawson. Étienne made a courtly bow, then straightened. It was impossible to discern any emotion in his expression.
‘Thank you, Captain. I accept th’ sword of a gentleman in token of the capitulation o’ this vessel.’ Something like a sigh went up from the watching company as Gurnard spoke the words of finality and closure.
Kydd paused and looked about: this was a memory that would stay with him all his days. He turned to a seaman. ‘Hoist our colours above th’ French at the mizzen peak halliards, if y’ please.’
Facing Étienne he said directly, ‘If you’d be good enough to leave the magazine keys with me, sir…’ There was no compromise in his tone: any madman with a taste for glorious suicide could put them all in mortal peril.
Etienne muttered briefly to another officer who left and returned with a bunch of keys, which he handed to Kydd, who gave them to the sergeant of marines. ‘Now, sir, you are free t’ go about your business until I receive my further orders. Good day to you, sir.’
Kydd’s role was over. The marines had secured the magazines, the French sailors were dispersing below to whatever consolations remained until they were taken in charge. But while he waited to be relieved from Tenacious, Kydd declined, out of respect for the feelings of the officers, to enter the cabin spaces and wardroom and remained on deck.
Absently, his steps led him up to the poop-deck, to Heureux’s signal position under the two big flags that floated overhead. He sighed deeply. The bay of Aboukir in the glittering purity of early morning had all the desolation and grandeur of a dying battlefield. Every man-o’-war in the French line stretching away to the north lay in the stillness of surrender, ship after ship, some broken, mastless wrecks, one lying inshore with only her upperworks above water and, closer, a frigate still afire.
Resistance in the south was nearly at an end; the last two ships of the French line had cut their cables and were now fleeing with two frigates – but Nelson was signalling, urging Swiftsure and the others in chase. Only two enemy were left: one was drifting helplessly on the shoals and the other was no more than a defiant wreck that must shortly be silenced by the English ships coming down in reinforcement.
Kydd shook his head in silent admiration. It was a victory on such a scale as never before in history – not merely the winning but the complete annihilation. ‘Victory’ was not strong enough a word to describe what lay before him.
Chapter 7
‘Glory be, it’s incredible!’ breathed Rawson, gripped by the glittering expanse of the Bay of Naples covered with hundreds of boats whose joyous passengers shouted and waved wildly. They had come to see Nelson, hero of the Nile, grand conqueror of the dreaded French with their dreams of empire, terminator of the ambitions of the greatest general of the age.
‘Be sure an’ you’ll not see the like o’ this again,’ Kydd responded, equally awestruck. As they drew closer he saw the seafront, coast roads, quayside and the ramparts of castles all black with massed sightseers.
Sounds of music and the martial thumping of drums came towards them from three flag-bedecked barges rowed abreast in which musicians enthusiastically beat out ‘Rule Britannia’ and ‘God Save the King’. A ceremonial felucca forged into the lead, her foredeck packed with an angelic choir in laurel leaves. Not to be outdone, the noble barges in the colours of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and Great Britain pulled strongly seawards towards the battle-worn men-o’-war.
Kydd glanced astern. Rear Admiral Nelson was standing on the quarterdeck of his flagship. Vanguard was under tow by Tenacious: the foremast that had been repaired after the storm off Toulon and seen her through the long battle had not survived the squally weather they had encountered within sight of Stromboli. Kydd snatched a quick look through his telescope. Over his gold-laced frock-coat the admiral wore a red sash with the resplendent star of the Bath over his breast; spangles of light came from his gold and silver medals. Unmistakable with his empty sleeve pinned up, he stood grave and unmoving in the centre of the quarterdeck from which he had fought his great battle.
Nelson had retained only two of his squadron, Culloden and Alexan
der – the rest had been dispatched to Gibraltar and tasks about the Mediterranean. He had employed Tenacious to assist his battered ship back to Naples, the only friendly port in a friendless sea.
More boats arrived and the bay filled with noise, colour and excitement. One vessel in particular caught Kydd’s eye, a rich and stately barge with an imperious female figure in white gossamer gesticulating hysterically in its prow. He saw at the ensign staff that this was an English official craft of high status, probably the ambassador.
Before he could confirm it, Rawson exclaimed, ‘Flag, sir – she signals.’ It was ‘cast off the tow’. Tenacious would round to, and wait for Vanguard with her reduced sail to overtake and precede her into harbour.
The press of boats advanced and one by one the upper-deck guns of Vanguard began to thud – twenty-one for the King. Tenacious followed gun for gun, her brave show of flags streaming out in the smoke. The ambassadorial barge at last reached the flagship, which backed topsails while a small party was helped up the side. A large union flag broke at the mizzen and Vanguard moved ahead slowly to her anchorage.
Even before she had swung to her anchor she was surrounded by clamouring watercraft. Guns banged and thudded from the towered castles ashore as salutes were exchanged and shrieks of feminine delight greeted the thunder of the flagship’s guns, which had last spoken at the Nile.
The tide of boats enveloped Tenacious as well. Nobles and wives, courtiers and mistresses, all had come to see the famed warriors of the sea. Renzi’s Italian was much in demand as the flower of Neapolitan society was escorted aboard and given a tour of one of Nelson’s famed men-o’-war.
A richly ornamented royal barge put off from the shore. ‘Quickly, lad,’ Kydd told Rawson. ‘Rouse out y’r Naples standard an’ as many ensigns as y’ can find. Hoist ’em for breaking at fore, main ’n’ mizzen.’ The navy had a way of invisibly hoisting a flag and setting it a-fly at exactly the right time, by folding the bunting tightly and passing a hitch round it. At the signal a sharp tug on the halliard would burst it open to float proudly on the wind.
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