Victory

by Julian Stockwin

  The next morning dawned bright and clear and, unusually for the chops of the Channel, a subdued and calm seascape stretched out in a hard grey winter glitter with barely a swell to make things interesting, but Kydd was beside himself with impatience to make trial of his ship.

  At last the men’s breakfast was concluded and both watches were mustered for evolutions. ‘Under all plain sail, full and bye on this board,’ he ordered. This would require the topgallants to be bent on after their easy passage out, as good a test as any of his crew’s mettle.

  He watched with satisfaction as the long sausages of sails were hoisted aloft efficiently, the men working steadily under their boatswain. Kydd could have no complaint about the way Oakley swarmed aloft before even the topmen themselves, ready for them as they stretched along the sails and began passing the lines. He was as much a stranger to these men as Kydd was but he was getting the most out of them.

  L’Aurore responded well, lengthening her stride like an obedient thoroughbred, the swash of her prettily dappled wake now extending broadly on either side. He called over the senior master’s mate. ‘Mr Saxton? Take two midshipmen and teach ’em to cast a log. I want our speed whenever I call for it.’

  He gazed up at the set of the sails, their complexity of lines, the sweet curve of full canvas, and smothered a sigh. The last time he had handled a fully ship-rigged vessel was as a lieutenant in the old 64 Tenacious, and his main worry then had been that he would do nothing foolish under the eye of the captain. And now . . .

  ‘Log?’ he called imperiously. This would be a baseline performance figure – presuming the wind held he would first ring the changes on trim and see how L’Aurore did.

  ‘Nine knots and a whisker!’ yelled Saxton. Not bad, but not good. Earlier he had heaved to and taken the draft fore and aft. Some ships liked to be down by the head so the forefoot would bite, more often by the stern to increase manoeuvrability. What he needed now was the effect of trim on speed under standard sail.

  ‘Right, Mr Oakley, get those forward.’ Trundling the twelve-pounder carriage guns along the main-deck as far as possible was a quick method of shifting weights to imitate a re-stowage of the hold. The effect was immediate – not so much on the speed but the surprising amount of spray and slop that came over the bows. In heavier weather this would translate not only into a wet ship forward but L’Aurore being shy of head seas.

  The guns were returned and Kydd tried something else. This time it was to see how close-hauled to the wind L’Aurore could be held, a vital matter in either chase or flight. Without fuss or complaint she lay to the breeze as close as Kydd could recall any square-rigged ship of his acquaintance – five and a third points off the wind no less. Promising!

  Next he had a cask thrown over the transom with a jaunty red flag atop it. As it slipped away into the distance astern Kydd sighted aft along the centreline. As the ship slashed along hard up to the wind, little by little the flag inched its way to windward – this was leeway, the ground lost under the side pressure of the wind. He continued until the flag was a tiny speck at about a cable and a half upwind of L’Aurore’s track. Not bad – that would be the Sané steep turn of bilge he’d noticed in dock.

  He wore about and ran the cask down on the other tack with similar results. It was most satisfying; here was something to rely on. Now for going large, wind abaft the beam. ‘Take us on a reach, wind four points free, Mr Kendall.’

  This was a quartering breeze, for most ships their best point of sailing. Again, L’Aurore did not disappoint, her brisk motion turning to a canter. ‘Speed?’ called Kydd.

  ‘Near thirteen!’ yelled back Saxton. In this light breeze the figure was astonishing and gratifying, for there was the prospect of more if pushed harder. Surprised grins spread around the deck as word got out.

  ‘Running free,’ ordered Kydd, and the helm spun as the frigate was placed squarely before the wind. It was proverbial that a ship responding well by the wind did not relish going free – but then a ship that was good both by and large generally performed each of these manoeuvres as a compromise, an outstanding sailer on neither.

  One thing became immediately noticeable. With the wind and waves dead aft L’Aurore rolled. Not a simple, regular heave but a nervous wallow with a sharp twitch before she began a slower return roll. They would have an uncomfortable time of it going large in heavier seas.

  Without stunsails and other ornaments aloft, there was no point in chasing speed, which left manoeuvring, tacking and veering – through the wind’s eye or the long way around. ‘We wear first,’ Kydd decided.

  In fairness to a new company on a strange ship they wore slowly, carefully – but there was no need for concern: L’Aurore obeyed demurely and sweetly took up on her new tack, quickly settling on her course. Again, but this time in earnest. And again. Without fuss, she went round and lay back on her old track as if nothing had happened.

  So far, so good: now to the complex manoeuvre of tacking about. The breeze was falling to a pleasant ruffling. Kydd knew the signs: there would be a relative calm soon and his exercising would have to come to an end.

  ‘Hands to stations for staying,’ he ordered. There would be quick work on the braces and sheets but they were ready. This time, however, L’Aurore seemed to object to being hurried: her slim length to breadth required a more measured pacing, a precision of manoeuvre that would be a hard thing to accomplish in the throes of battle.

  They went through stays one more time but Kydd had her measure now, and with it came a growing respect. This was a proud lady who had all the graces and expected to be treated with consideration, but there was little to forgive.

  The wind faded into a fluky breeze and their speed began to fall away. Yet L’Aurore stood on, even with her sails hanging loosely and flapping occasionally as if in lady-like impatience. She ghosted along at a walking pace and Kydd’s satisfaction with his new ship swelled. This was a most valuable trait – no prey would escape in a calm with this fine-lined frigate.

  So what did he have? A fast ship, that was certain. How fast would have to await the right conditions. Fine-lined but delicate, rather lighter in her scantlings than he would have liked, but if she was to be a flyer it had to be paid for. This would include staying with twelve-pounders for there was no arguing with metacentres that said too much weight too high was dangerous.

  L’Aurore was a comfortable ship. His appointments were first-rate and from what he had seen of the gunroom his officers would be satisfied with their cabins. The seamen had good berths but he would suspend judgement on that until after the first real blow, with seas coming over the fo’c’sle.

  All in all, then, a fine ship – and one to love, he admitted to himself in surprise. Behind his critical assessments lay a growing affection for her: that willing responding to his wishes, the old-fashioned charm of her fitments that gave her a warmth of appearance so different from the war-like demeanour of modern British frigates.

  They were going to get along.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Sir, I do welcome you to the Admiralty,’ the first lord said to Mr Pitt, the prime minister. Noting the features ravaged by cares and the stooped carriage of the man who had given the flower of his life in the service of his country, he added gently, ‘Should you require refreshment at this hour . . . ?’

  It was late at night and they had the board room to themselves. Pitt ignored the table and sat wearily in one of the two leather armchairs, the few candles casting harsh shadows on his face. ‘Henry, I have an audience with the King in the morning,’ he muttered to his old friend. ‘Do see if you can find me something of cheer to lay before him.’

  Melville drew up the other chair and pondered. ‘The people are in good heart, no dread or uncertainty there.’

  ‘It’s ignorance of the situation only.’

  ‘John Bull is no fool. He can see what stands against us. No, they’ve placed their trust in the Hero of the Nile, that while Nelson rules the waves no Frenchman d
are venture an invasion of these islands. It’s pathetic and noble at the same time, I’m persuaded, but then it means we need have no fear of popular resentments, you can tell him.’

  Pitt sighed and sipped his port reflectively. ‘That’s of no account. His Majesty abhors the man since in defiance of society he’s taken up with that Hamilton woman.’ He pulled himself up in the chair. ‘Henry, imagine me one of your northern ironmasters come to Town to discover why we fuss so over the Navy. Pray rehearse for me just what it is that’s facing us as of tonight and I’ll be the judge of what shall be said later to the King.’

  ‘Yes. Well – since you ask, it could hardly be worse. The continent of Europe is in arms against us and its resources plundered by Bonaparte to one end – the destruction of our nation. He has an encampment of a hundred and seventy-five thousand veterans within twenty miles of the English shore, some three thousand invasion craft completed and the whole waiting for his word to be launched at our vitals.’

  ‘I know all of that – I’m a colonel of militia at Deal, I’ll remind you, Henry!’

  ‘Er, yes. As it’s known, he needs but hours – a day or so at most in control of the Channel – and we’re done. Therefore whatever it takes, they must be prevented from setting forth.’

  ‘There are those who point to Keith and the Downs Squadron.’

  ‘As they are in daily battle outside Boulogne. This is true, but it’s not why Napoleon refrains from a sally. The real reason is that if his mighty invasion flotilla sails, it stands to be crushed by any of our ships-of-the-line lying in wait, and thus he must protect them with larger numbers of his own sail-of-the-line. Therefore his entire strategics are devoted to the one object: to crowd the Channel with his battleships to ensure safe passage for the invasion fleet.’

  ‘And all the world asks this: why do we not make concentration of our own squadrons in the Channel? They’d never stand against us! Why are our battle-fleets sent thousands of miles overseas while there’s such deadly peril in home waters?’

  ‘Because, sir, we would not necessarily win in such a contest.’

  ‘Not win?’ Pitt snapped.

  ‘Not necessarily, I did say. Napoleon, since the Dons’ recent declaration of war, and with the Dutch Navy in possession, has now an immense number of sail-of-the-line at his disposing, a damn sight more than we. Should these all at the one time be brought together in the Channel . . .’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Our own strategics are very simple: to stop this happening. And to this end we have a tried and trusty weapon. Blockade. At Brest they have Ganteaume and his armada, Missiessy at Rochefort, Villeneuve at Toulon. The Spanish under Gravina at Ferrol, Vigo and Cadiz, fine deepwater ports. And outside every one of these lies a British battle squadron sternly denying them the open sea.

  ‘The effect of this is decisive: if any enemy leaves port that part will inevitably be defeated before it has time to join with the others, of that you can be assured. So while they lie apart and divided we are safe. Conversely, if they manage to break out and combine we will be overwhelmed. Therefore the heroes of the hour are those ships and men that are now standing before the enemy in all weathers to this end.’

  Pitt looked up sombrely. ‘Incidentally, who have you on this duty at the moment?’

  ‘Cornwallis at Brest with seventeen of-the-line, Orde off Cadiz with five, Calder at Ferrol with eight and Nelson before Toulon with twelve. Not so many to set against them, I will agree.’

  ‘So if they do get out, what then?’

  ‘The chiefest danger is Toulon, which is why we have our most feared admiral there. And it’s there as well that the French have their commander-in-chief. If he can contrive to break free he sails west, adding battleships from Cartagena and forcing the strait of Gibraltar. Overwhelming Orde, he effects a conjunction with the Spanish in Cadiz. He then sails north, releasing others from Ferrol and Vigo and reaching Brest where Ganteaume comes out. The Combined Fleet is then in overwhelming force at the mouth of the Channel – and our worst nightmare is upon us.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Pitt. ‘Knowing these plans, however, we make our dispositions.’

  Melville shook his head slowly. ‘No, sir, we do not know their plans. What I have outlined is the most obvious move for them and the most tempting. But there are other possibilities that would make nonsense of deployments based on it.

  ‘For instance, there’s always Ireland. A descent on its unprotected coast with the scale of forces Napoleon now commands would most probably succeed and this would place us in the impossible situation of facing two ways in defending our islands.

  ‘Then again there is the East. Bonaparte has always resented his defeat at the Nile, which turned the command of the Mediterranean over to us. If he can effect a landing in the Middle East again, he has a royal road to India and even the Ottomans in Constantinople. He will then have achieved his most desired object, a limitless empire without ever getting his feet wet.

  ‘He may well consider a feint – at Surinam, say, or Africa – and, while we’re so engaged, descend on the Caribbean in crushing force, taking our sugar islands. I don’t have to say that in this case we’d be bankrupted and suing for peace within the year.’

  Pitt slumped back. ‘This is all so hard to take, Henry.’

  ‘Yes. We have world-wide commitments, sir. To maintain protection on our interests ranging from Botany Bay to Nova Scotia requires a colossal fleet to be dispersed about the planet. Napoleon may keep his own in concentration for whatever purpose he desires.’

  Closing his eyes in weariness, Pitt sighed. ‘Then what you are saying is that if the nation’s hero, Nelson, fails us and the French get out, we’re ruined.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I am.’

  L’Aurore ghosted in over a winter-bright sea, past the Mewstone to starboard, and came to single anchor among the scatter of ships in Cawsand Bay within Plymouth Sound. Her captain stood proudly, reflecting on the times he had brought his humble brig-sloop Teazer here.

  Now in full-dress post-captain uniform, with a fine sword, on the quarterdeck of his own frigate, it was a world past, a more innocent time but one that seemed to have been in preparation for this culminating moment – when, incredibly, he was on his way to join Admiral Horatio Nelson.

  His commissioning pennant dropped from the masthead at precisely the same time as the Union Jack rose on the jackstaff forward while aft the white ensign floated proudly free. As a naval visitor of significance Kydd would now be expected to pay his respects to the port-admiral, and in deep satisfaction he heard the first lieutenant call away his barge.

  ‘Hands to harbour routine, Mr Howlett,’ he ordered, but added quietly, ‘Row-guard and no liberty of any kind. We sail for Gibraltar just as soon as we’ve stored and watered.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Howlett said coldly. It would be some time before Kydd was forgiven, it seemed.

  ‘I’m sending out the store-ships as soon as I can stir ’em up. Turn the hands to, the moment they’ve opened the hold.’

  Kydd returned as quickly as he decently could. The new port-admiral had been effusive in his congratulations, the action with Teazer having taken place in his waters. Narrowly avoiding a formal invitation to dinner, Kydd had set in train the storing of a ship for foreign service, including the items he was to carry to his commander-in-chief.

  With rising excitement he called his barge and headed back. From the outside L’Aurore looked quite perfect. Larger than any craft in view, she was at one and the same time both martial and beautiful, and his heart went out to her.

  Oakley’s pipe squealed, pure and clean in the cold, clear evening as Kydd mounted the side-steps and punctiliously raised his hat to the quarterdeck. He turned to go below and Howlett fell into step beside him. He said, with a note of smugness, ‘It grieves me to tell you, sir, that I have to report deserters already.’

  ‘Oh? To be expected, I suppose,’ Kydd said, with irritation. ‘I would have thought it foreseeable enough for m
y first lieutenant to take steps to prevent it.’

  ‘Ah, but these are your precious volunteers who are running. The first boat of trusties. I’m told half the crew ran off as soon as they had a line ashore,’ Howlett said primly.

  Kydd’s heart sank. If the volunteers thought it worth risking savage punishment for desertion then conditions below were much worse than he feared. ‘What are their names? They’ll be made example of, never doubt it, Mr Howlett.’

  ‘Names? Why, Stirk, gunner’s mate, Doud, quartermaster, Pinto, quarter gunner and some others. Not your usual worthless skulkers, you’d agree, sir.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ Kydd said heavily, and went to his cabin. Renzi looked up but on seeing Kydd’s expression made his excuses.

  Tysoe helped him out of his fine uniform and to a restorative brandy. He sat in his armchair, moodily looking out of the stern windows at the whole of Plymouth Hoe and Old Town spread before him.

  Stirk, Doud – his former shipmates whom he’d thought he could trust. Now they would go down in the ship’s books as ‘R’ – run. And they would be hunted men, looking over their shoulder at every turn, knowing that if the Navy caught them it was a court-martial and death – or, worse, the long-drawn-out agony of flogging around the fleet.

  But he could not let them go. As volunteers they had taken the King’s shilling and were under naval discipline. There was as well the difficult prospect of finding official explanations for his inaction, and last but not least, it would tell the crew that any successful desertion would be met with forgiveness. He had to take action and make it convincing, even if it ended in recapture and punishment without mercy.

  Was there no middle path? He had a short time only to make his move. As he continued to look out at the scene ashore, an idea came to him and he summoned his senior off-watch lieutenant. ‘Mr Gilbey, I want you to step ashore with a party of trusties and set up a rondy in Plymouth Dock, at the Five Bells or similar. Now this will be to another purpose – have your men quietly visit each tavern to see if they can find word of these deserters and then let you know. You are then to seize them and bring them back on board in irons. Clear?’