Goliath now led the race: with a leadsman in the chains taking continual soundings she rounded the shoals at the point of Aboukir Island and headed directly across for the first ship of the enemy line, closely followed by Zealous. The anchored fleet opened fire, the evening twilight adding a viciousness to the stabbing flashes piercing the towering clouds of gunsmoke. Kydd could feel the deck shaking from the massed thunder of guns.
Battle had been joined. The action that was going to determine the future of the world was beginning. Kydd’s pulse raced and he found he was clutching the hilt of his sword. How would this night end? Who would be the victor? And would he be alive to see it?
The English fleet held fire as they approached, single-mindedly heading for the van of the line. Kydd lifted his glass eagerly to witness the first British ship grapple with an enemy. It would be Goliath: she was flying towards the first of the enemy line as if to win a race, still with silent guns.
Kydd shifted the telescope quickly to the flagship. A final hoist flew – ‘engage the enemy more closely’. He snatched a quick look at Rawson. The lad was pale but determined, and smiled back bravely. ‘You’ll remember this night, Mr Rawson. We both will.’
‘Don’t y’ worry of me, Mr Kydd – I’ve a duty to do, an’ I’ll do it.’ He crossed over to the signal log and carefully entered the details. Kydd resumed his watch on Goliath.
Everything depended on staying clear of the rocky shoals that lay unseen all around. In the lurid glow of a vast sunset Goliath reached the first ship of the line. The enemy ship’s fire slackened and grew uncertain as the British 74 passed the point of intersection, for not only could her guns no longer bear but when Goliath’s helm went over to cross her bows she could only wait for the ruin and death that must surely follow.
From only a few yards’ range a full broadside slammed into the unprotected bow of the hapless French ship; thirty-two-pound shot smashing and rampaging through the entire length of the vessel in an unrelenting path of destruction. Through the swirling powder-smoke Kydd strained to see Goliath wheel about, but to his astonishment she continued on, her rigging visible beyond – on the inside of the line!
‘Damme! What’s he about?’ Kydd had not seen Adams arrive – he had made an excuse to leave his post at the guns below to see the excitement before they in turn were engaged. ‘He stands to take the ground and there, o’ course, he’ll be helpless!’
‘No, I think not,’ Kydd said, holding the image in his eye. Goliath had passed further along, her guns seeking a fresh target, while Zealous stretched out to reach the same point. ‘Ye know what I think? He’s seen the anchor buoy – these Frenchies are at single anchor, and he knows they’ve swung to th’ wind. Stands t’ reason, they have to leave room to swing an’ that’s where he’s going to place his ship.’ It was daring and intelligent and the move was from individual initiative, not the result of a signal. It deserved to succeed.
Zealous reached the line – again the erupting billows of gun-smoke. In the gathering darkness gun-flash illuminated it eerily from within. The Frenchman’s foremast toppled and crashed. The British ship’s helm went over and she likewise ran down the inside, slowing after her stern anchor was slipped, which brought her to a stop abreast her helpless target to begin a relentless pounding.
Kydd’s fist thumped the rail as he willed Tenacious to join the fight. A shout came from behind, from one of the signal hands. ‘Sir! Culloden, she’s—’ Kydd wheeled round and peered into the twilight. Next astern, Culloden lay unmoving, stopped dead and at an unnatural angle of heel.
‘She’s run aground, God save ’em,’ said Adams. In her hurry to clear Aboukir Island she had shaved the point too closely. ‘Can’t be helped. Now they’ll miss the sport.’
A signal hoist jerked up Culloden’s masts, then another. Kydd deciphered them and hurried down to the quarterdeck to Houghton. ‘Sir, number forty-three – Culloden is aground an’ warning us, and does recall Mutine f’r assistance.’
Houghton stopped pacing. ‘The warning is more for Swiftsure and Alexander, I should think,’ he muttered, looking at the developing battle ahead, then back to the helpless man-o’-war. ‘More to the point, what possible use to Troubridge is Mutine, a contemptible little brig?’
‘There is no other,’ Bryant said shortly, eyes straying to the noise and gunfire of the battle.
‘Mr Bryant, we must assist.’
‘We, sir?’