‘Aye, sir.’
Houghton swung round. ‘Remember always that the best plans and dispositions are as nothing if they cannot be communicated. We have no repeating frigates, therefore a great deal depends on your vigilance and attention to duty.’ He hesitated. ‘I would wish you well, Mr Kydd.’
At midnight, Kydd handed over the watch to Renzi and went below to the darkened wardroom to turn in. From the chart, he had seen that they would make landfall on Alexandria the following morning, and as he slipped into his gently swaying cot unsettling thoughts came to trouble him.
There could be no mistaking the gravity of the situation. The enemy would fight to the limits to repulse any attempt to overthrow their position as lords of the Mediterranean – at stake was their chance at a break-out into the outer world and an unstoppable path to complete domination. Two great fleets would meet in mortal combat tomorrow to determine who would be future masters of the sea and, therefore, the course of history.
He tossed restlessly, eyes open in the hot darkness. It might well be his last night on earth. Into his mind came the horrors of mortal wounding, the dark hell of the cockpit and the surgeon’s saw – or would it be quick? A heavy shot tearing him in two? He shied from the possibility of personal extinction and tried to focus on half-remembered religious shibboleths, but they had small enough meaning now. Should he perhaps ask Mr Peake to spend some time with him tomorrow, to seek strength in the sturdy faith of his fathers?
He rolled over restlessly and forced his thoughts to the commander, the illustrious Nelson, he of Calvi, Tenerife, the ‘patent bridge’ at St Vincent, the savage boat fighting at Cadíz. Now there was one who would not suffer night terrors to trouble him. His written orders were full of words like ‘victory’, ‘destruction’, ‘duty’, ‘honour’. There was even a clause directing that a single lieutenant and midshipman should take possession of defeated enemy ships, however big, the better to allow their ship to move on and engage another.
Kydd felt better: there was no doubt that Nelson’s fleet would conduct itself in the best traditions of the Royal Navy. And, therefore, so would he. His anxiety ebbed. Professionally he felt confidence: seamanship and courage were what were required now. And besides, a small voice offered, it might well be that the French were not in Alexandria, having vanished again…
The morning dawned hazy as the sun rose on sparkling deep blue seas. The north-westerly was picking up, the fleet perfectly on course: they would raise Alexandria later in the morning. Nelson had signalled to Alexander and Swiftsure to sail on ahead to report and all eyes were on the pale horizon, impatient for news.
Land was sighted: again the unmistakable flat, dun-coloured dunes and lofty palms of Egypt. And far ahead the sprawl of a city – Alexandria. Alexander was standing off the port; everyone aboard Tenacious turned to her signal lieutenant. What was the news?
As they drew nearer, the Pharos Tower resolved distantly out of the morning haze, and there were tantalising glimpses of the masts and rigging of what could only be a vast amount of shipping. Still there was no signal. Kydd waited for the simple two-flag hoist, number eleven, ‘enemy in sight’, followed by a compass bearing. The details that came after would be the most interesting: the number of ships-of-the-line and frigates; lesser vessels would not concern the admiral.
He kept his glass trained. All along the deck not a word was spoken. His arms began to ache – but then it came. Feverishly Kydd deciphered the signal, bellowing down to the tight group waiting on the quarterdeck: ‘From Alexander, sir, “two ships-o’-the-line an’ six frigates, French colours”.’
This could be at best only a trivial remnant of the great armada for which they were so desperately searching. A roar of dismay echoed about the ship, along with shouts of anger as word spread below.
Kydd slumped. It was too much. They had been fooled again. The French had disappeared with the devilish fortune they seemed to command and there would be no mighty battle that day. He caught sight of Houghton’s expression of devastation – for him there was now no prospect of promotion or prize-money. Beside him Bryant stood disconsolate; the seamen at the upper-deck twelve-pounders were outraged and voluble.
The fleet began to string out as ships no longer under the urgency of the line-of-battle quested forlornly for the missing enemy. A hard-run chase of many weeks, spirits high, keyed up with tension and now this…
‘Sir!’ Rawson pointed to one of the two 74s that had reached furthest to the east. There was colour at her signal halliards. Kydd brought up his glass. It was number eleven. ‘Enemy in sight!’ he bellowed.