‘Do we have knowledge of what they’ll do then?’ Pitt murmured.
‘Sir, they have but to raise the siege of our blockade on Brest and Ferrol, and in the Channel we’ll be faced with forty, fifty battleships and necessarily be overwhelmed.’
Barham let the point sink in but then added, ‘If we are supposing they are headed for the north. Nelson’s dispatches state that the Mediterranean is the more likely destination, and that is where he is bound at this moment.’
‘What is your view, my lord?’ Pitt asked carefully.
‘My view is not of consequence, sir. Unknown to Admiral Nelson, Curieux on its run here came upon the enemy fleet and stayed with it long enough to establish that it was undeniably bound to the north of the Azores and therefore the Channel.
‘Sir, I do truly believe the climax is near. Villeneuve’s twenty of-the-line are now free to join with Ganteaume’s twenty-one in Brest and the Dons’ fourteen in Ferrol to make an unchallengeable battle-fleet in Biscay somewhere. This must not happen.’
‘How?’ Pitt asked, in a low voice.
‘Thanks to Curieux, we know what to do. The central issue is to stop the forces combining in the first place. Therefore I’ve taken what steps I can to prevent it – by intercepting Villeneuve before he has a chance to make a conjunction.’
‘With what forces, sir?’
‘I’m extracting our vessels from before Ferrol and reinforcing them with those taken from Rochefort. These will cruise out in the Atlantic between Cape Finisterre and Ushant to challenge Villeneuve when he comes, while the Channel Fleet interposes to prevent Ganteaume reaching him.’
‘Abandoning the blockade at two chief ports – this seems a risk.’
‘Far worse, sir, to allow the French to combine.’
‘Very well. When will this intercepting come to pass, do you think?’
‘Within the week, sir.’
‘And who is the admiral you’ve chosen to stand before the French at this crucial juncture?’
‘Calder.’
The rock fortress of Gibraltar shimmered in the heat, the ships of the Mediterranean squadron at anchor in torpid tranquillity. A sultry night closed in, still without word of Villeneuve. Nelson remained ashore but no one begrudged him that: for some two years he had never stepped on to dry land and he was said to be nearing exhaustion with the nervous strain of the chase.
Another day – two, three. No word. The French did not materialise out of the bright westward haze; neither did coastal traders pass word of a great fleet somewhere in the Mediterranean. On the fourth day Victory’s Blue Peter was hoisted. Orders came: as a last forlorn move, the squadron would sail north on a vague rumour as well as to seek out the Channel Fleet for any intelligence – and perhaps a final desperate engagement with the enemy.
In full battle array the fleet sailed up the coast of Spain, then across Biscay, and a dozen leagues off Brest Nelson’s ships fell in with the Channel Fleet of Admiral Cornwallis and all was revealed.
The new first lord of the Admiralty was Lord Barham, who apparently had a strong and decisive hand on the tiller. The invasion had not yet eventuated: England still remained staunch and ready.
And Villeneuve? Yes, the French were found. Admiral Calder and a picked fleet from the blockading squadrons had intercepted him inward-bound from the West Indies out at sea off Cape Finisterre before he was able to link up with the waiting ships-of-the-line in their harbours. An indecisive engagement had followed in near impossible conditions of fog and night.
Unnerved by the encounter, Villeneuve had run for safety to Vigo and now the situation was precisely as before: the French were still in scattered groups in ports and once more safely under British blockade. Napoleon’s plan had failed.
In profound relief and fatigued beyond measure by the years of blockade and pursuit, Nelson begged the Admiralty for release and orders quickly came out granting the request. Victory, accompanied by the worn-out Superb, was to sail immediately for Portsmouth. There, Admiral Lord Nelson would haul down his flag as commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean Squadron and at last take rest. All other vessels of Nelson’s command, however, would remain on station save the lightest of his frigates as escort.
The next morning L’Aurore led the two veteran ships into the Channel for their homeward journey after a chase of near ten thousand miles and without a single shot fired. That this was no fault of theirs was without question, but how would they be received by a frightened and demanding public in England?
Familiar coastlines came and went, a sweet sadness after a voyage that had ranged from the balmy Mediterranean to the mangroves of Trinidad with nothing to show for it at its end. In the hours of darkness they approached the Isle of Wight and in the first soft rays of morning they anchored at Spithead.
At ten the flag of St George slowly descended from the fore-mast of Victory and Kydd’s barge fell in behind that of Nelson in escort as he was rowed ashore. A sea of people lined the ancient ramparts and towers of Old Portsmouth, stretching all the way to the grassy sward of Southsea.
As he returned on board his ship, Kydd’s face was a picture of wonder. ‘It’s madness! They’ve taken Lord Nelson to their hearts and won’t let him go. He’s their god, they worship him.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Nothing will do save it honours him.’
In his cabin he told Renzi about the seething crowds, the screaming women pressing forward – and the transformation it had wrought in the worn figure of their admiral. ‘It set him up at once, the old fire and ardour, topping it the hero – it’s not to m’ taste, Nicholas, but by glory, I give him joy of it.’
He frowned. ‘And now I, a simple captain, have a decision to make. Do the hands get liberty ashore or will I end with a ship and no crew?’
Without waiting for a response he made his way to the upper deck. The question had no easy answer: it was customary after a major cruise to grant liberty but would L’Aurore be paying off? If not, he was duty-bound to keep the frigate at sea readiness – but on the other hand his men had every moral reason to expect a riotous spree ashore, having been denied it after their Caribbean commission in another ship.
‘Clear lower deck – hands to muster,’ he ordered. Seamen tumbled up from below, wary looks betraying suspicion as to why they had been assembled.
Kydd advanced to the breast-rail. He took in the crowd in the waist and the petty officers along the gangways to the fo’c’sle. Then, loudly, he ordered the flanking marines to take position away behind him on the quarterdeck.
‘L’Aurores, we’ve sailed together now thrice a thousand leagues. We’ve followed Lord Nelson in a chase the like o’ which has never been seen and one to tell your grandchildren.’ He watched the impassive faces for reaction. Oaken with sea and sun, their strong and open features spoke of self-reliance in times of testing, confidence in their skills and a bond between each other – and their ship.
Kydd made his decision. ‘There’s those who’d say I’d be pixie-led to give my ship’s company liberty into that lunacy ashore – but I am! I’ve just returned on board after seeing our Lord Nelson to land and the people are crying out for their hero, because they trust in him and his tars to save them from Bonaparte.
‘We’ve unfinished business with that tyrant, the time will be soon, and I’m putting you on your honour that when Our Nel calls you’re there when he needs you.
‘Mr Howlett, liberty ashore to both watches!’
The surprised stirring among the men turned to incredulous delight. A shout went up. ‘Huzza t’ Lord Nelson! Another f’r Cap’n Kydd! An’ three times three for th’ old Billy Roarer!’
Kydd turned to Howlett and fought down a grin. ‘Now, that’s what I’d call a right oragious body o’ men.’ He left the man standing open-mouthed and went happily below.
‘Well, Nicholas, it’s done. I’m to Guildford for a few days, just to see my folk, settle their fears. It could be that Cecilia is at home. Do you like to come?’
&n
bsp; ‘No. That is, it’s inconvenient at this time, I find.’
Chapter 12
Mercifully, the wind was in the east and the Dublin packet was able to make good progress up the Thames to London. Cecilia patiently held the hand of the Marchioness of Bloomsbury who had ever been a martyr to sea-sickness; the Irish Sea had been days of misery and for her their arrival was not a moment too soon.
It was odd to be back in the capital. There was an uneasy touch of hysteria about the busy crowds, strangers and tradesmen only too ready to pass on the latest dreadful rumour and, above it all, the sense that some climactic thunderclap of history was about to burst upon them.
There was little conversation in the carriage back to the mansion; the marquess, called away suddenly by unrest in Ireland, had been delayed and would follow later while the marchioness wanted only blessed peace, a ceasing of motion.
‘Cecilia, my dear,’ she said weakly, ‘I do so crave the solace of my bed and to be alone. If you would wish to spend a few days with your family . . .’
The nervous excitement of London was disturbing and wearing, and Cecilia lost no time in taking coach to Guildford. The jolting sway of the vehicle was uncomfortable and her mood was bleak as she stared out at the passing countryside. At the front of her mind was the insistent thought that in the very near future she would have to take the decision she dreaded, for Captain Pakenham was making his intentions clear.
If only her brother were near! But Thomas was away in his new ship. She’d received a hurried note from him months ago telling of the great honour to be soon part of Lord Nelson’s fleet and had had nothing since. Presumably he was in a distant ocean chasing after the French . . . and for some reason she did not feel able to broach the subject with her mother.
Jane Rodpole was happily, if boringly, married, with no imagination to speak of, which left Cecilia precisely no one in the world she could talk to. She was on her own in the biggest decision of her life.
The coach clattered through the charming village of Esher, then on to Cobham for a change of horses, but her eyes were unseeing. Everything was pointing inexorably to one overwhelming conclusion: that Nicholas Renzi was now part of her past and the sooner she was reconciled to the fact the quicker she could get on with her life before it was too late.
Then it was Abbotswood and Guildford high street. The coach swung into the Angel posting house and she was handed down by a respectful ostler. The town appeared strangely quiet, subdued and with few people on the street, but as unchanging as it always seemed to be.
She crossed to the Tunsgate and took the short walk to the little school run by her family. She stood for a while, hearing the chant of children in their classrooms and seeing not one but three ensigns – red, white and blue – proudly at the miniature topmast.
Why did life have to be so complicated? With the world in thrall to the terror to come, why must she be made to look into her heart with such anguish? She knocked at the door of the little schoolhouse and a startled maid curtsied and hurried to find her mother.
‘Why, what a surprise! Walter, it’s Cecilia come visitin’, dear,’ she called to her blind husband. ‘Come in, come in, darlin’.’
Her mother fussed over her, getting her room ready and sending for her luggage at the Angel, then Cecilia sat cosily beside the fire as family events were caught up on.
‘You’ve just missed Thomas, dear – he came up fr’m Portsmouth t’ tell us of his voyagin’ with Lord Nelson,’ Mrs Kydd said excitedly. ‘All over th’ world they were. Did you hear of Nelson’s grand chase a-tall?’
‘No, Mama,’ Cecilia said. The wild rumours in London didn’t really count, and in the short period she’d been in England she had not found time for the newspapers.
But Mrs Kydd had. Proudly she told of the famous pursuit across the Atlantic from the breathless details she’d read, sparing none of the sensational elaboration. ‘An’ after all that, th’ rascals are back safe in their harbours. Such a shame.’
‘So where is Thomas’s ship now, Mama?’
‘Didn’t y’ notice, dear? The town is near empty wi’ everyone going t’ Portsmouth to see off Nelson. He’s news o’ Boney and he an’ Thomas is sailin’ to a grand fight to settle ’em for good an’ all.’
Cecilia went pale. ‘You’re telling me Thomas and – and his ship are about to set sail against Bonaparte?’
‘Well, he said as how they’ve got t’ finish th’ British Navy afore ever he c’n invade, and he says as now’s the time.’
‘Yes, Mama,’ Cecilia said, in a low voice.
‘Oh, I nearly forgot, darlin’ – there’s a letter f’r ye.’ She rummaged about in the sewing basket. ‘I didn’t know when ye’d be home. Isn’t it fr’m that nice Mr Renzi an’ all?’
Cecilia took it – and her heart stopped. There was no mistaking the neat, elegant hand, yet a sixth sense warned her that this was no commonplace communication. She quickly slipped it into her pocket and excused herself in tiredness after her journey.
In the privacy of her bedroom she tore the letter open. It was too much: the words were kind and thoughtful but to the point. A lump rose in her throat and tears stung. As she read on, choking sobs overcame her.
Barham received the news calmly even if what was contained in Collingwood’s dispatch was the worst that could be imagined. He took a deep breath and sat down slowly, still holding the dread lines. It had been urgently brought by one of the frigate captains, Blackwood, who had added personal detail of the shocking event, none of it calculated to lessen its severity.
Not only the first lord but other naval commanders, including Lord Nelson, had assumed that after his confused engagement with Calder off Finisterre, Villeneuve’s turn aside into Ferrol would be a temporary setback only. Sooner or later he would emerge and join with Ganteaume’s fleet in Brest across the bay.
Commanders further south had therefore been ordered to send reinforcements to Cornwallis at Brest, including Collingwood, still patiently watching Cadiz.
However, Villeneuve had sailed south and contemptuously forced aside Collingwood’s three ships-of-the-line to enter Cadiz and join the Spanish waiting there. As frigates had then confirmed, there were at least thirty-three of the enemy massing in the port, more than enough to overwhelm any British squadron afloat.
The French had achieved their object: they were now in numbers sufficient to begin the process of storming north, picking up more and more ships as each blockaded port was passed, secure in the knowledge that their strength would ensure they could reach the Channel and sweep on to the invasion beaches.
‘I conceive that unless we can stop Villeneuve, this is the last act, my lord.’ Boyd, who had been retained as flag-captain to the new first lord, spoke softly, as if in thrall to the fearful news.
‘It does appear so,’ Barham said absently, staring intently at the chart. ‘You’ve heard Napoleon is at this moment at Boulogne in readiness?’
‘So I understand.’
‘Yet there are complications for our Mr Bonaparte. The prime minister’s efforts over the year to forge the Third Coalition look to have succeeded. The tyrant therefore now faces a foe assembling on his frontier to the east. He simply cannot afford to wait for this phase of the invasion plan to complete, and both rumours and intelligence suggest that before long he must strike camp and march east to meet the threat.’
‘We’re saved?’ Boyd said, without conviction.
‘No. The cynic in me is saying that with his usual deadly swiftness he will easily deal with the Austrians – after all, he has the largest army yet seen and one that has conquered most of Europe. The result will be defeat for the Coalition, undeniably. And that will mean the situation regarding invasion is even more perilous.’
‘Sir?’
‘Why, can you not see? His invasion flotilla remains unused and therefore ready. Presumably his battleships will wait it out in harbour and he will be able to return to the task in the spring, this time with no threat to
his flank and able to take risks.
‘No, sir, there is only one sure way to put a stop to the invasion – Villeneuve’s fleet must be destroyed. Not simply a victorious battle but destruction, extermination. Then there’ll no longer be the numbers available to Bonaparte to force the Channel. As plain as that!’
‘Sir.’
‘And I have an idea who I’ll send for to achieve just that.’
‘The Hero of the Nile.’
‘Quite. We must match Villeneuve’s numbers without depriving blockade squadrons at other ports but, within that, Lord Nelson is granted whatever forces he desires. I do so regret intruding upon his rest but the man knows his duty and will not decline. I will appoint him reigning commander-in-chief in the area – and he’ll get Victory, of course.’
‘And if they don’t sail?’
Barham gave a grim smile. ‘I’ve a notion Napoleon is out of temper with his admirals. If Villeneuve does not sail he will lose his last chance for redemption and glory. He’ll fight, never doubt it.’
‘Vice Admiral Nelson. Do step in, sir, and accept his lordship’s thanks for your prompt arrival,’ Boyd said, showing the great man to his chair. He looked strangely diminished in his old-fashioned civilian dress – drab-green breeches with square cocked hat, mustard waistcoat and a gold-headed stick.
Lord Barham came in with a smile and civil bows were exchanged. ‘My deepest apologies for summoning you after such a short space, my lord, but—’
‘Cadiz. I heard this from Captain Blackwood.’
‘Yes. I would like to offer you your flag as commander-in-chief Mediterranean and Atlantic approaches to Cape St Vincent.’
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