‘It must be plain to you all that a decision must now be made. Do we move to the relief of Jamaica or . . . ?’
‘Port Royal is eight hundred miles away, my lord,’ Keats said slowly. ‘If we meet with the same disappointment it will be . . . unfortunate.’
‘And if in the pursuit we are able to forereach on the rogue and bring him to battle?’
In the stuffy heat it was hard to think constructively but the sight of their doughty commander fighting exhaustion drove them on. ‘Then we sail for Jamaica? I fear I’ll need to water first,’ Bayntun of Leviathan said, fanning himself rapidly.
‘Did I say that’s where we set course? I rather think he’s bound elsewhere.’
‘My lord?’
‘He comes to the Caribbean hoping to stir up mischief and then he learns to his dismay that Horatio Nelson is on his tail. Even with a score of battleships he knows he’s no match for the British Fleet. I feel in my bones he’s given up – that he’s fleeing back across the Atlantic to Toulon again.’
‘With not a thing achieved?’ Keats rumbled, in open disbelief. ‘My lord, with such an armament they may conjure such a mill in our waters as would be remembered for generations.’
The cooler tones of Hallowell of Tigre intervened: ‘To come all this way to capture just one rock does seem a singular thing, sir.’
‘Nevertheless, a return to France must be considered.’ Nelson wiped his forehead and whispered, ‘And be damned to General Brereton for his false information as sent us flying in the wrong direction.’
‘Hear, hear!’ murmured Hallowell, but they were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
‘My lord . . .’ It was Hardy, ushering in an absurdly young lieutenant who looked about, abashed.
‘This is scarcely the time for civilities, Captain,’ Nelson said acidly.
‘I conceive you’d be interested in what he has to report, my lord. Lieutenant Carr, Netley schooner.’
‘Well?’ Nelson snapped.
‘Er, my lord. I’m lately escort with dispatches to a convoy out of St John’s bound for England.’
‘Yes, yes, get on with it!’
‘Well, sir – my lord – three days out, which is to say two days ago only, we fell in with a French fleet of overwhelming force and—’
‘What ships – how many? Speak up, sir!’
‘I have a list here, my lord. Um, eighteen ships-of-the-line, six frigates, some—’
Nelson shot to his feet, his features animated. ‘A day or two only! What followed?’
‘I’m sorry to say, sir, the convoy of fourteen was largely taken, but I stayed with the main French fleet to determine their course, thinking my dispatches of less consequence.’ It was a remarkable act of moral courage by a junior officer to turn back to search out Nelson, thereby overriding his inviolable duty to deliver dispatches with all speed.
‘And what course did they take?’
‘North, sir. Of a certainty.’
Slowly Nelson sat down. ‘We have them!’ he hissed. ‘One or two days ahead – what a race I’ve run after those fellows! But God is just and by this I’m repaid for all my anxiety.’
North – leaving the Caribbean and entering the stream of trade-winds that led back to Europe. After beginning the chase thirty-one days behind and sent after a false scent they were now almost within reach of their prey.
‘My lord, notwithstanding they’re but a day or so ahead, it does strike me that we’re sadly outnumbered.’ The hardy old Keats spoke for many and could never be thought shy of a fight.
‘Prudence is not cowardliness, dear fellow, but in defiance of their two thousand great guns and ten thousand men, I would sooner be hoist at the fore than lose the chance to close accounts with Monsieur Villeneuve.’
Growls of satisfaction rose from around the table. ‘Gentlemen!’ Nelson said, with a tight smile. ‘Fleet to unmoor immediately – course north!’
In the warm quartering south-easterly, stunsails were spread and, after laying Barbuda to starboard, they left the Caribbean, straining every stitch of canvas and nerve in the chase northward. Somewhere out there beyond the bowsprit was another fleet and when they converged . . .
Aboard L’Aurore the day passed into a tropic evening with no indication yet of the enemy. The comforting routine of the change of watches took place and the ship settled for the oncoming night. Kydd stood well back as the man at the helm was relieved and the quartermaster at the conn chalked Gilbey’s night orders for course and sail on his slate. The watch mustered by the main-mast for the usual trimming before they could settle to yarn-spinning and quiet reflection.
As the red orb of the sun dipped below the horizon the world seemed quieter, more serene, and a defined night shadow moved steadily up the swaying masts – above, the poignant rose tinge on the sails of the very last of the day, below, the crepuscular draining of colour that would soon turn to the blackness of night.
Kydd enjoyed this time. Not especially a romantic soul, he could nevertheless respond to the timeless mystery of the evening, the clarity of nature’s beauty here so far at sea beyond the land’s dusty air and swirling odours. In a way his sturdy, four-square perspective kept him from the agonies of soul that seemed to haunt the dreamers but on the other hand he realised there were levels of the human experience he would never know as Renzi did.
His thoughts wandered to his friend. The man was gifted: he had found a purpose in life to direct his talents yet was clearly morbid, troubled. Was this a price to be paid for genius? In a short while, in the last of the light, Renzi would stir from his hiding place in the fore-top where he would have spent the previous hour or so in silent vigil. What went through his noble mind while in such rapt contemplation?
On cue, as the last tinting of rose lifted above the swell of the topgallant sail, a figure swung out of the top and descended slowly to the deck. Nothing was said and he and Kydd went below for supper and a little wine.
This night there was even less conversation than normal. At one point Kydd asked after his health and Renzi seemed not to hear, gazing past Kydd unseeingly, a frown of concentration on his sensitive features.
‘A pretty problem, I’d wager,’ Kydd chuckled, ‘as is taxing a mind like yours, m’ friend!’
Renzi gave a wan smile. ‘I do ask pardon, dear chap, my mind’s on quite another tack – a hard beat to wind’d, if you will.’
‘Ah! You’ve seen a sight ashore as is testing your theories, I’d believe. Now, let me see – you’ve not stepped off since the Med, so it must be . . . the Ionians? Or can it be your Diolkos? But there’s no humankind we saw there and your study is man and his response to life’s challenges . . .’
Renzi winced. ‘I’ll grant you, Sardinia was of interest. I was gratified to find your Sard is the most nearly pure Latin of any tongue on earth, granted a forbearance of the barbarisms of Phoenicia within and . . . and . . .’
‘Nicholas – there’s something wrong, I’d believe,’ Kydd said, in concern.
Renzi gave a half-smile. ‘There is, brother. You’ll recall our earlier conversation about the difficulties in the publishing of my work. I’m now, dear friend, utterly convinced that unless I cast it in the form of a purple traveller’s tale or enter upon literary circles to cry up the piece then it will never attract the interest of a publisher.’
‘If it’s just a matter of the cobbs, Nicholas—’
‘It is not. Without an academic tenure of some colour I will never be able to command the attention of a serious nature that it deserves.’
‘Oh. So you’re saying to me . . .’
‘That my dabbling in natural philosophy is of no consequence in the larger sphere of learning and publishing. That it were better I accept this and cease my futile labouring.’
‘No! Damn it, you’ve a right trim-rigged intellect as should set a course to—’
‘But can you conceive of the triste and heavy burden it is to know that as you toil your striving is in vain?’<
br />
Unsure what to say, Kydd stayed silent.
‘Never fear, dear fellow, I am reconciled, hoist by my own petard indeed, for is not this as a society unable to change its ways in the face of altered circumstances of nature? I must bring the ship of my soul about and lay over on another tack.’
‘Er, then . . . ?’
‘Quite. My cursus vitae is now without purpose. Whither shall I wander? is my constant cry.’
‘Nicholas, it can’t be quite so bad.’
‘No? Then consider. Saving your kindness, I have no future. As your confidential secretary I am content – but this is a device only to allow me the felicity of space and time to bring forth my magnum opus. Without this . . .’
‘Why, you’re . . . that is, you have, um, every—’
‘A woman is known by her marriage, a man by his occupation. What is it that I am, then? A failed word-grinder, a man of the sea who is not, a wretched—’
‘That’s it, m’ friend – you are now quite cured of your fever as was. Shall you not petition the King to resume your lieutenancy and re-enter the Navy? A fine profession, your sea service – to be an undoubted gentleman with regular income and rattling good prospects.’
Renzi paused and reflected. ‘This does attract, but has two flaws. One, that the eminence of officer is secured by a constant devotion to duty, which I would now find hard to bear, accustomed as I am to the freedom to reflect . . .’
‘And the other?’
‘The other – that . . . that we must necessarily part, and being content with the . . . civilities of friendship, for the present I would find that . . . onerous.’
‘You must allow, Nicholas, it’ll give you the standing and income to ask for Cecilia’s hand in marriage.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Or, if we’re talking of hypotheticals, have you considered an atonement o’ sorts, an approach to your father, which—’
‘Never! There are matters of principle, of high moral standing, involved, which utterly forbids that course.’
‘Then we are at a stand, Nicholas. I can’t see how you—’
‘We?’
‘As Cecilia’s brother, I have a mort of interest,’ Kydd said evenly.
‘Then allow me to put your fraternal concerns to rest,’ Renzi said coldly. ‘It may have escaped you that Cecilia has advanced in society beyond ordinary expectation and must now be accounted a beauty by any measure. She will have a field of ardent admirers – there’s no reason to suppose she would place the attentions of a . . . a penniless wanderer before those of a gentleman of means.’
‘What? For a philosopher you make a fine juggins, Nicholas! I . . . I happen to know she has feelings for you and unless you clap on more sail she’ll think you a sad dog in pursuit who’s not worthy of her.’
‘You don’t perceive it, do you? This saddens me. In your sight does it seem, then, an honourable thing to press my suit when she might aspire to a marriage of substance and style, without want?’ He held up his hand at Kydd’s protests. ‘It’s for her that I take this course. She may indeed harbour a sisterly affection for me but for her own sake I release her from any sense of obligation to wed whom she may. She’ll now be in receipt of my letter to that effect.’
Kydd sat back in amazement. ‘Good God! Don’t you think her own feelings might be consulted at all? Does she not have a view on the matter you might discover if you asked her?’
‘This is of no consequence,’ Renzi bit off. ‘She is a warm creature and her heart may well overbear her reason, which is precisely why it’s my moral duty to withdraw and make the way clear for a more fortunate liaison.’
‘Your logic will be the death of you one day, Nicholas!’
‘Then you will perceive I die content in the knowledge that it will be in the rational cause.’ He reached for the bottle. ‘Now I’m to be used to the idea of her departing my existence, I believe.’
The days turned to weeks and their northerly course by degrees curved more easterly, tracking the great Atlantic wind system that had been followed by countless generations of seamen back to Europe.
The fine weather stayed with them, and in fifteen days their seventeen degrees of latitude had reached thirty-five. Ahead lay the Azores: an archipelago far out to sea, it nevertheless marked the parting of ways. Mediterranean-bound ships passed to the south; to the north was the Channel and England.
Why were they missing the French? The trade-wind route with its ocean-sized circulation of winds was the only practical means of crossing the Atlantic; to sail against the prevailing pattern was madness and very slow. Had they passed them in their eagerness to engage? It had occurred before, in the long pursuit before the Nile. Quite conceivably they had crossed wakes in the night, as had happened once to Nelson himself, actually sailing through the middle of the unsuspecting Spanish fleet.
And not a single clue had they on the vital question of whether Villeneuve was returning to Toulon past Gibraltar or to the feared link-up with the fleet lying at Brest and then on to an invasion.
Nelson made up his mind: it was Toulon, as it had been before.
The misty blue islands of the Azores were left to the north, those gaunt rocks where Kydd had suffered a hellish shipwreck in a frigate long years ago as a common seaman – he gave an involuntary shudder at the memory.
Gibraltar was days away only now, and the talk was all of what they would find. A galling report that Villeneuve had passed through the strait on his way to Toulon? Nothing could get past without being seen from the heights of the Rock. That he had entered Cadiz to join with the Spaniards? Or even that he lay in ambush with his great numbers in the restricted waters around Gibraltar?
All was speculation until they raised the giant fortress. Then the thousand-foot peaks of Cape Spartel resolved out of the luminous morning haze, the African outer sentinel at the entrance to the strait. They passed the thirty-odd miles through it at a tense readiness until the crouching-lion form of Gibraltar took shape ahead.
Into Algeciras Bay, and every telescope was up and feverishly scanning until one or two ships under English colours were seen peacefully at anchor in Rosia Bay. In light and fluky winds Nelson’s fleet came to anchor, one by one. The glasses came up again, this time trained on the flagship.
And almost immediately a barge put off from Victory, its passenger conspicuous and unmistakable. It pulled quickly for Ragged Staff steps and then the figure was lost in the walls and bastions. In a fever of anticipation every ship waited for word in the close heat.
One hour passed – then two. Only when the barge slowly returned to Victory in another hour without Nelson aboard did it become all so painfully clear. He would not have stayed ashore if the hunt was still on.
After a legendary race of eight thousand miles across the entire breadth of the Atlantic Ocean and back, and coming from thirty-one days behind to within a day’s grasp, they had returned to where they had started from, and with the same result.
Villeneuve and his fleet had eluded them yet again.
Chapter 11
‘Do sit, sir!’ The first secretary to the Admiralty, William Marsden, shocked by the shambling gait of the prime minister as he came into the board room, hurried to assist him.
‘Where’s Barham?’ Pitt wheezed, then coughed into his handkerchief as he found a chair.
‘He’s been advised of your visit, sir, and will be with us shortly.’ The new first lord of the Admiralty to replace the impeached Melville was the eighty-year-old Lord Barham, hastily recalled from ten years of retirement to assume the post that had been declared by the home secretary as second only in importance to that of the prime minister himself.
Marsden was well aware that others had declined it for the frightful responsibilities at this time but Lord Barham, despite his advanced years, was a safe pair of hands. With none of the political involvements that had bedevilled St Vincent and Melville, he could devote all his attention to the monumental task. And he was a sailor who cou
ld look back to starting service as an officer at sea in the 1740s, to that inconceivably distant age before the Seven Years’ War, before empire, before the American war. He was already a post-captain when Nelson was born and had served in every war since. He had the coolness of a fighting sea officer plus a well-honed appreciation of higher matters.
‘Refreshment, sir? We can offer—’
‘No.’ Pitt slumped forward in his chair, clearly in a state of exhaustion.
Marsden indeed hoped that Barham would arrive soon – his calm and ordered mind would set the prime minister’s anxieties to rest, for the fragile Third Coalition could take no more reverses.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. ‘Ah – he’s here now, Prime Minister.’
Pitt raised his head with an expression of hope – or was it supplication? ‘My lord Barham,’ he said, in a voice little above a whisper. ‘You have news of Nelson, I’ve been told.’ The whole nation had been breathless with apprehension this last month, craving news of the wild chase across the Atlantic. With the drama came the highest possible stakes, all reported in the newspapers to become the stuff of public horror and fascination.
‘Sir. And this very morning. Admiral Nelson sent on ahead from Antigua the Curieux, a fast captured brig, to tell me all I need to know. The dispatches came after midnight but, in course, my wretched valet would not suffer me to be disturbed until the morning. I’d have the villain flogged if I still had a quarterdeck!’ he added querulously.
‘Have you had time to read the dispatches then, my lord?’ Pitt asked heavily.
‘Yes,’ Barham said, but in quite a different tone, confident, energised. ‘And I have decided what must be done and already made the necessary deployments.’
Pitt’s weariness lifted a little. ‘You’ve . . . Pray tell me what is now the situation, sir.’
Barham stumped over to the map rollers above the fireplace and pulled down the largest: the Atlantic Ocean and approaches to Britain. ‘Bonaparte means to overwhelm our fleets and seize control of the Channel for his invasion. You’ll allow he has as many tricks as a monkey and this is one – Nelson was correct that his biggest squadron was headed for the Caribbean and he was right to abandon his station in pursuit. He had devilish luck and failed to catch them, and now the French are cracking on sail for Europe ahead of him and may be expected to appear very soon.’
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