Victory

by Julian Stockwin

  In idleness beyond enduring, Uncle, he took it on himself to exit the Mediterranean and go north to seek Villeneuve on his own account, taking the entire fleet. We sailed helter-skelter north past Cadiz, Huelva, and saw nothing. Then met with Capt Sutton, Amphion frigate. Oh, I forgot to say the French got past Admiral Orde to enter Cadiz, then he sailed away to the north. Amphion was in his command and left to guard his squadron’s storeships as were left behind, north in Lagos Bay.

  Anyway, Capt Sutton was sure no enemy sail had sailed by him and said the Portuguee must be right, that the Frenchies were away to the Caribbean, but Nelson said it was no proof, simply to say he hadn’t seen them go by. Oh, my, can you imagine the discussions on the quarterdeck? Then out of the rain pops L’Aurore south from Lisbon. Captain Kydd comes aboard in a rush with the news that there was no news – everyone positive that no French sail had ever come this far north.

  Well, that was enough for Our Nel! He has his proof – for if Villeneuve did not go north or to the south then he is off out to sea, to the West Indies, and claims that as Admiral Orde is absent it’ll be us as’ll pursue him there. So here we are, the Mediterranean Squadron turned Atlantic, and we’re off in a grand chase across the ocean! Thirty-one days astern of our quarry we do calculate.

  He grinned and added,

  In course, in his last orders before we set sail he claims Amphion as his own and sets the squadron loose on Adm Orde’s store-ships to strip as they please. It’ll be some months before their lordships hear of this sally and by then we’ll be the other side of the Atlantic and there Nelson trusts we’ll have our due accounting with Mr Villeneuve. In haste, Uncle – do give my duty to Aunt . . .

  Chapter 10

  The last the squadron saw of Europe was Cape St Vincent, a long, flat finger of land pointing out into the infinity of the Atlantic Ocean as if to urge them on towards their destiny. As it softened into a blue-grey haze and slowly faded into an empty horizon, aboard every ship there came the age-old contraction of their world into that bounded by the ship’s side.

  For a fleet, the consciousness extended out to the line of ships that were in company, but each world was its own, self-contained and complete. With flags alone to communicate, there could be no casual gossip or civil exchange of pleasantries, no domestic scandals to discuss, no wistful hopes expressed.

  And ahead was the enemy. At any moment a lookout’s cry could signal the first far glimpse of Villeneuve’s Combined Fleet and then somewhere in the midst of the ocean would come the climactic battle that would decide the fate of peoples thousands of miles distant.

  Deep into the Atlantic the squadron heaved to, the onward march of the broad searching ships in line abreast coming to a stop. L’Aurore was ordered to pass within hail of the flagship in the centre. Knowing he was under eye, Kydd ensured his approach was impeccable. The unmistakable figure of the commander-in-chief himself raised a speaking trumpet from Victory’s quarterdeck.

  ‘Do you take these instructions to every vessel in my command, Mr Kydd – and know that even minutes lost waiting here in idleness takes the French further from my grasp.’

  ‘Aye, aye, my lord!’ Kydd bellowed back. Seeing the quick-witted Curzon sending men to the jolly-boat at the stern davits to prepare for launching, he added: ‘Then I’d be obliged should you order the fleet to be under way directly, sir.’

  After a moment’s hesitation Nelson turned to Captain Hardy and said something. L’Aurore’s boat came alongside below the entry port and a small chest containing the orders was swayed aboard. It shoved off, and instantly a signal broke out at Victory’s mizzen – ‘Squadron to resume course’. If Kydd was wrong that he could distribute the orders while all the vessels were under full sail, it would be at the cost of fleet-wide amusement.

  The boat returned to L’Aurore as the line of ships ponderously caught the wind and continued on their way. Kydd peered over the side. Nelson’s instructions were in individually labelled sailcloth packages and, from the way the men hefted them, properly weighted with musket balls.

  ‘Ah, Poulden,’ he said, as his coxswain hurried up to report. ‘To every ship, beginning with Tigre. And mark well how it’s to be done!’ His plan required a frigate of outstanding sailing qualities but he knew he had that. With satisfaction he saw Stirk tumble down into the boat: his manoeuvres also required the hand and eye of a true seaman.

  Tigre was the windward ship-of-the-line. With her boat towing astern L’Aurore shook out a reef and caught up with, then passed her, for the fleet was progressing at the speed of the slowest, the barnacled Superb at some six knots only.

  The tow-line was thrown off and with the last of the headway Poulden closed with the massive blunt bows of the 74 as it foamed along, heedless. At a dozen feet distant Stirk’s heave was unerring. The boat-rope shot up into the fore-chains and seamen aboard quickly took a turn, the boat now in an exaggerated bucketing as she was pulled along.

  Then Stirk’s messenger line sailed over the bulwarks and the seamen hauled in the commander-in-chief’s instructions. Both lines were then cast off and thrown into the boat, which fended off and wallowed in the mid-ocean swell as Tigre’s massive bulk hissed past.

  Miraculously L’Aurore was there for the boat: Kydd had brailed up his courses to fall back as Tigre passed and now quickly took up the tow and loosed sail for the next, Leviathan. One by one he did the same for the rest, and when it was done he resumed his position at the wing of the line.

  ‘From Flag, sir. “Manoeuvre well executed”.’ Kydd tried to affect disinterest at the signal midshipman’s report.

  Day after day, mile after mile, the seas got brighter and warmer with sightings of tropical seabirds and flying fish. In any other time and place it would have been a sea idyll but soon there would be fighting and death. Daily gun-drill was regular and long; boarders were exercised, small-arms were practised. Somewhere ahead, in the open ocean or among the islands of the Caribbean, they would overhaul the French and force them to the battle that had been so long denied them.

  Thirty, twenty, fifteen degrees latitude – the trade winds bore the squadron on at a pace. The chills of winter were a fading memory: hauling seamen had naked backs and bare feet, and windsails were rigged over the hatch gratings to send cool airs into the lower-deck.

  Still no urgent cry came; L’Aurore, like the other frigates, was far out on the wings of the extended line, a width of near sixty miles being combed by the ongoing ships. Every new dawn saw each ship silently at quarters, doubled lookouts in their lofty eyrie straining to see as light began to steal over the grey sea, turning it by degrees to a deep blue – and always with the line of the horizon gradually firming and innocent of threat.

  And after four thousand miles and three weeks at sea an undistinguished and tiny intrusion into the far blue rim: Barbados. What would they find there? That Nelson had been comprehensively fooled into a wild-goose chase across the whole Atlantic? Or that the French had come and gone, leaving a smoking ruin where once had been the richest of England’s possessions?

  The squadron fleet came to anchor in Carlisle Bay – and, praise be, the cannon of Fort Charles thudded their salute. Smoke wreathed slowly about the Union Flag hanging limply above it in the tropical heat.

  In minutes the bay was alive with watercraft heading out: bum-boats, with limes, bananas and illicit rum hidden inside coconuts, mixing with official vessels and store-ships.

  Without warning guns began to open up around the whole fleet throwing the craft into confusion – but it was only another salute, the twenty-one for the King’s Birthday.

  Shortly after, a boat brought an excitable army lieutenant to L’Aurore. He had alarming and thrilling news: the French had been sighted! They had caused destruction and consternation everywhere – at St Kitts, Nevis, Montserrat – and everyone was on edge at where they would strike next. The arrival of Nelson’s squadron was not a moment too soon.

  Kydd realised that to have achieved such damage already
, this could only have been Missiessy’s Rochefort squadron, which had sortied earlier. This was a double setback: not simply the devastation caused but that it was not Villeneuve – had they chased across the Atlantic after a phantom?

  A peremptory gun banged out from Victory, drawing attention to the ‘all captains’ signal. Within two hours of anchoring, after a desperate chase across the ocean, Nelson was summoning a council-of-war.

  Kydd wondered how he would take the latest news but the answer came as his barge neared the flagship. The Blue Peter broke at the masthead – the order for the fleet to make ready to sail.

  Kydd entered the great cabin with several others at once. Nelson stood in much good humour, welcoming them in, exchanging gossip of the voyage, asking after ailments. When all had arrived he bade them be seated.

  ‘Gentlemen, you’ll be as elated as I to know that not only was I right in my surmise that Villeneuve was bound to the Indies but that he’s within a day or so’s reach of me. We’ve word here from General Brereton on St Lucia that he’s arrived in Martinique this past two weeks or so.’ He looked about the assembled group with beaming satisfaction.

  ‘Not only that . . . but he’s since sailed and cannot be far distant.’

  Kydd’s pulse quickened. It sounded like an action was imminent. The clash of fleets would be in the Caribbean, much as Rodney’s great victory at the Saintes a generation before, just north beyond Martinique. Could it be . . . ?

  ‘I’m told as well that Missiessy’s Rochefort squadron of five of-the-line and four frigates is returning to join him and, further, that Admiral Magon with more sail-of-the-line has but yesterday reached here.’ Stirring among the captains showed the point was well taken – that now they were gravely outnumbered.

  ‘The God of Battles has delivered them to me!’ Nelson’s eyes glowed with conviction. ‘We now have a noble chance to meet and destroy them!’ Growls of agreement rose from around the table, Kydd’s enthusiastically among them. Who could possibly doubt that, with Nelson at the fore, a victory was certain?

  ‘To business. General Brereton’s information is that the French are headed south and our only colony of consequence there is Trinidad, which it is supposed is now taken by Villeneuve’s armament. Now, do mark that Port of Spain, which is sheltered around the inner side of the Gulf of Paria, may only be approached by one channel, here – the Dragon’s Mouth.’

  This was the narrow passage between the island and South America, shallows and rocky islets on every hand. ‘A grim place for an encounter, my lord,’ came a low mutter.

  ‘Possibly,’ Nelson snapped. ‘Once through, I’d believe we’ll find the French and Spaniards at anchor off the town, and then – and then it will be the glorious Nile once again.’ It was there that Nelson had impetuously thrown his fleet at the French at anchor and achieved the most complete victory in naval history so far.

  ‘And we’ll trounce ’em once again!’ Kydd found himself saying.

  ‘God willing. The Barbados military are insisting we ship troops for the recovery of the island, and while I have my doubts of soldiers afloat I cannot refuse this handsome offer in such a laudable endeavour.

  ‘I have dispatched a schooner south. It will signal confirmation of the presence of the enemy, which shall then be your call to clear for action. We sail as soon as the soldiers are embarked.’

  So it was to be a titanic struggle set in the hellish conditions of a brackish mangrove-ridden inland sea, ferocious jungle heat and tormenting insects. The soldiers could not be allowed on the gun-decks and would suffer appallingly in the fearsome hot stink of the orlop until the battle was won, but it couldn’t be helped.

  The squadron weighed and stood south in the sultry easterly, the fleet that had endured a blockade in the depths of winter now sweltering in the blazing sun of the tropics in high summer. Ships and men had, without benefit of special storing or dockyard, made an immediate transition to full battle-readiness. This was the unsung glory of Nelson’s leadership, a tribute to the minute attention he always gave to the details.

  Within twenty-four hours Tobago lifted into view and they altered westward for Galleon’s Passage keeping well out to sea for the last stretch before the Dragon’s Mouth. As the afternoon wore on, in light winds they closed with the coast – Trinidad.

  The leading frigate, Amphion, suddenly sheered out of position on seeing a schooner close inshore with a red pennant over black hoisted. It was the exact signal they had been waiting for and Amphion’s ‘enemy are present’ soared up eagerly.

  The distant thunder of drums rolled over the water as the squadron prepared. Now there could be no more doubting, no more conjecture. They had chased Villeneuve and had him cornered.

  As they neared the craggy, palm-girt beaches, the flames and smoke of destruction could be seen, forts and guard-posts ablaze in the steaming interior. Did this mean they were too late, that the enemy had landed and were victorious?

  Grimly they stood to their guns as they neared the swirl of currents about Chacachacare, the first islet, sweating in the heat but keyed up for the fight to come. Once around the dark-green point in the violent red sunset, would they burst like an avenging thunderbolt on Villeneuve at anchor, just as they had at the Nile?

  First one ship, then another glided past – and then Kydd himself saw beyond the point into the wide bay of Port of Spain.

  It was utterly deserted of ships.

  Gasps of disbelief turned to cursing as those with telescopes picked out the English colours hanging limply above the white residence ashore and passed on the sight to others. The island was never under threat and, in what could only be the working of the devil’s magic, Villeneuve and the Spaniards had eluded them once again.

  The next morning the Mediterranean Squadron put to sea for the return to Barbados. ‘What did Nelson say?’ Renzi asked quietly of Kydd.

  Wiping his forehead, Kydd gave a lop-sided grin. ‘Not, as who should say, cast down but . . .’

  ‘How could it be? Everything pointed to . . .’

  ‘A failing of information, is all.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A villainous American merchantman swore that he’d been stopped and boarded from a great French fleet that had then crowded on sail to the south. He was lying to deceive, of course, but when the signal post on St Lucia reported a host of ships bound southward as well, what else could be believed?’

  ‘The lobsterbacks saw a convoy as would seem to them a mighty fleet, I’d wager. But the schooner – she signalled—’

  ‘The schooner was a Bermudan who was innocently about her trade, signalling to her business agent ashore. That she chose the self-same flags is the greatest of coincidences – while ours was away still searching.’

  ‘The destruction we saw ashore? If the French were not responsible then . . . ?’

  ‘Ha! This is your local militia mistaking us for Villeneuve and being over-hasty to retreat and fire their defences.’

  It was the damnedest luck, and now they were back where they had started. For the pity of it all, where were the French?

  They had hardly cleared the Dragon’s Mouth when they had their answer. A fast cutter made for Victory and soon its dispatches became general knowledge.

  Villeneuve had shown his hand. He had not deployed his forces in laying waste to English possessions: instead he had spent precious time throwing his battle-fleet against a rock!

  Two years previously, in an epic of courage and adventure, sailors from Centaur had scaled a near vertical monolith and hauled up guns and equipment, arming the rock like a ship. It was rated by the Navy as HM Sloop Diamond Rock and, located at the very entrance to Fort de France, the main harbour of Martinique, it dominated the approaches to the port. From its lofty heights they could spy on every sea movement.

  Only after several days’ bombardment and the failure of their water supply did the little ‘ship’ capitulate. But their sacrifice would not be in vain. Nelson was galvanised and, abandoning Barbad
os, still with the soldiers aboard, set his fleet’s course directly north to pass along the chain of islands that were the eastern limits of the Caribbean Sea and were among the richest in the world. Villeneuve would be sure to fall on them with the forces he commanded.

  One by one the islands lifted above the horizon. Local craft were questioned about what they had seen before the ships sailed on to the next, Grenada, St Vincent, St Lucia. Amphion was sent to look into Martinique but found no fleet, Dominica, then Guadeloupe and on to Montserrat. A report there, however, had eighteen sail-of-the-line under French and Spanish colours slipping by not three days previously.

  Was it to be Antigua, with the best dockyard in the Caribbean? Or had the enemy vanished into the blue as they had done so often before?

  They raised Antigua at first light, the jaded gun-crews at their quarters in readiness – but yet again there was no word. If Villeneuve went much further there would be no more islands for him to assault. Unless he veered to the west and fell on Jamaica . . .

  With the prospect of a cataclysmic battle at any moment against a foe with double his numbers, Nelson could not afford to send off his frigates on a thorough search and could therefore only piece together what could be gleaned from local report and rumour.

  And this was building to a growing conviction – that Villeneuve’s presence in the West Indies could no longer be assured. Spies in Guadeloupe had seen landed there all the troops and military stores that Villeneuve had carried across the Atlantic, which made it probable he had no longer any intention of invading and capturing territory. And a fleet of men-o’-war, however large, had no place in the Caribbean without an apparent adversary. So if it existed at all – and there was still no absolute proof – what the devil was it up to?

  While the long-suffering soldiers aboard were released from their hell below-decks and sent ashore, Nelson called his captains. The tension and frustration were plain to see in the stooped figure but when he raised his head the fire was still in his eyes.