As they rounded the stern, they saw, below the shattered windows and trailing ropes, the vessel’s name: Heureux. ‘Means “happy”, sir,’ the nuggety Channel Islander offered.
‘Thank you, Gurnard,’ Kydd replied, thinking it an odd name for a ship-of-the-line. ‘We shall find a better when she’s ours, you may depend upon it.’
The bowman hooked on at the side steps, ignoring stony looks from the French seamen above. Kydd addressed himself to the task of going up the side. It would be disastrous if he lost his footing or stumbled. He jammed on his hat firmly and, keeping his sword scabbard from between his legs, he heaved himself up.
The noisy jabbering lessened as Kydd stepped aboard. A knot of officers stood before him, their eyes hostile; around them were scores of seamen, staring and resentful. Others were coming up from below, filling the decks.
An older officer with the gold of authority removed his hat and gave a short, stiff bow. Kydd returned it, removing his own hat.
‘Je suis Jean Étienne, le capitaine de vaisseau national de France Heureux.’ His voice was hoarse.
‘L’tenant Thomas Kydd, of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Tenacious.’ Bows were exchanged again as Gurnard translated, the captain’s eyes never leaving Kydd’s.
‘Pour l’honneur de la patrie . . .’
Gurnard spoke quickly to keep up: it seemed that only in the face of so patently an overwhelming force and the unfortunate absence of their great commander had they been brought to this pass. ‘He seems t’ be much concerned, sir, that you, er, recognise the heroic defence of their vessel… He says, sir, t’ avoid further, um, effusion o’ blood it were better they acknowledge their present situation…’
‘Par conséquent… à bas le pavillon… je rends le vaisseau.’
‘An’ therefore he must strike his colours and give up the vessel.’ A hush fell over the upper deck as the word rippled out.
Kydd returned the intense look gravely. ‘I sympathise with Captain Étienne’s position, an’ can only admire the courage he an’ his ship’s company have shown.’ He searched for more words but it was difficult to suppress the leaping exultation that filled his thoughts. He tried to think of what it must be like to yield up one’s ship. ‘And I do hope, sir, that th’ fortune of war sees you soon returned t’ a fitting place of honour.’
The captain inclined his head and stepped forward. His eyes released Kydd’s as he unhooked his sword and scabbard from its belt fastening. There was a pause for just a heartbeat, then Étienne held out the lengthy curved and tasselled weapon in both hands.
It was Kydd’s decision: if there had been a truly heroic defence he had an option to return the sword; in this instance, he thought not. With a civil bow he accepted the sword and handed it smoothly to Rawson. Étienne made a courtly bow, then straightened. It was impossible to discern any emotion in his expression.
‘Thank you, Captain. I accept th’ sword of a gentleman in token of the capitulation o’ this vessel.’ Something like a sigh went up from the watching company as Gurnard spoke the words of finality and closure.
Kydd paused and looked about: this was a memory that would stay with him all his days. He turned to a seaman. ‘Hoist our colours above th’ French at the mizzen peak halliards, if y’ please.’
Facing Étienne he said directly, ‘If you’d be good enough to leave the magazine keys with me, sir…’ There was no compromise in his tone: any madman with a taste for glorious suicide could put them all in mortal peril.
Etienne muttered briefly to another officer who left and returned with a bunch of keys, which he handed to Kydd, who gave them to the sergeant of marines. ‘Now, sir, you are free t’ go about your business until I receive my further orders. Good day to you, sir.’
Kydd’s role was over. The marines had secured the magazines, the French sailors were dispersing below to whatever consolations remained until they were taken in charge. But while he waited to be relieved from Tenacious, Kydd declined, out of respect for the feelings of the officers, to enter the cabin spaces and wardroom and remained on deck.
Absently, his steps led him up to the poop-deck, to Heureux’s signal position under the two big flags that floated overhead. He sighed deeply. The bay of Aboukir in the glittering purity of early morning had all the desolation and grandeur of a dying battlefield. Every man-o’-war in the French line stretching away to the north lay in the stillness of surrender, ship after ship, some broken, mastless wrecks, one lying inshore with only her upperworks above water and, closer, a frigate still afire.