fleet of overwhelming numbers: fifteen ships-of-the-line and fourteen frigates, with brigs, cutters, gunboats—seventy-two warships in all. But these were not the heart of the fleet: in four hundred transports there were tens of thousands of battle-hardened troops. This immense armada could have only one purpose.
Nelson’s response was immediate. The awesome fleet had to be found, and for that he needed his precious frigates to extend the line to comb the seas. There was no choice: they must crowd on sail to reach the rendezvous as fast as they could and then, with the frigates spread out abreast, begin the search. When the enemy was found Nelson would detach one ship to report back to Cadíz for orders while continuing to shadow.
They reached the appointed place but there was not a frigate in sight. Orion searched to the east along the line of latitude while Tenacious took the west—but there were no frigates.
They waited at the rendezvous. Dusk fell and night gave time for contemplation of the situation. Dawn arrived—and no frigates. The day passed. Even the meanest imagination knew what it must be costing their helpless admiral. Night, another day, and still no English sail. In the afternoon a garrulous fisherman was stopped—and he had news: in some vague position not so far away he had chanced upon a great fleet passing, at least ten, perhaps a dozen ships-of-the-line, which he thought to be English—
clearly incorrect, given that Nelson’s was the only squadron in the Mediterranean.
In a friendless sea with every man’s hand turned against them and utterly outnumbered, Nelson and his little band were faced with a quandary—what to do next.
Chapter 4
“Sail hooooo!” The masthead hail stilled all talk and halted work on deck. Far to the west they could detect the merest pale flicker against the sparkling horizon. The squadron kept tight formation: this might be the first of a powerful French force sent to deal with a few impudent English ships reported to have entered their sea.
But there were no additional sail. The vessel tacked about to reveal the two masts of a humble brig. It was no outlying scout of the enemy fleet, just one of the countless workhorse craft of its kind in the Mediterranean going about its business. Tenacious returned to her routine.
However, the brig made no move to turn away. It stood on, its course of intersection one which would bring it close to the flagship. Curious eyes followed its steady approach until, at two miles distance, Vanguard ’s challenge, accompanied by the crack of a gun, brought a flurry of bunting to its halliards.
“Correct answer f’r today—can’t make out her pennants,”
Kydd said, flicking through his signal book. She was apparently English, in a sea where they had thought they were the only members of His Majesty’s Navy.
Vanguard ’s yards came round as she heaved to, allowing the
6
Julian Stockwin
brig to come up and deliver dispatches—with news that changed the situation. The reconnaissance squadron was to be no more: a powerful force of ten ships-of-the-line was on its way to join Nelson to transform it into a battle fleet. The fisherman had been right—he had seen English ships. There were cheers of joy. At last the tables had turned: no longer the fearful trespasser, they were now the predator.
Admiral Nelson’s orders were not long in coming, and covered everything from the disposition of men-o’-war in a tactical formation to the issue of lemons and fresh water.
Kydd settled down to write up his signal book. Nelson’s instructions were clear and vigorous and although there was not a flood of new signals there were a dozen general signals and fifty-six concerning tactical manoeuvres, all of which had to be carefully detailed and indexed in his pocket signal book.
The most important were those covering their preparations for the chase. The fleet was to be tightly formed, in three columns a nautical mile apart and each
Nelson’s response was immediate. The awesome fleet had to be found, and for that he needed his precious frigates to extend the line to comb the seas. There was no choice: they must crowd on sail to reach the rendezvous as fast as they could and then, with the frigates spread out abreast, begin the search. When the enemy was found Nelson would detach one ship to report back to Cadíz for orders while continuing to shadow.
They reached the appointed place but there was not a frigate in sight. Orion searched to the east along the line of latitude while Tenacious took the west—but there were no frigates.
They waited at the rendezvous. Dusk fell and night gave time for contemplation of the situation. Dawn arrived—and no frigates. The day passed. Even the meanest imagination knew what it must be costing their helpless admiral. Night, another day, and still no English sail. In the afternoon a garrulous fisherman was stopped—and he had news: in some vague position not so far away he had chanced upon a great fleet passing, at least ten, perhaps a dozen ships-of-the-line, which he thought to be English—
clearly incorrect, given that Nelson’s was the only squadron in the Mediterranean.
In a friendless sea with every man’s hand turned against them and utterly outnumbered, Nelson and his little band were faced with a quandary—what to do next.
Chapter 4
“Sail hooooo!” The masthead hail stilled all talk and halted work on deck. Far to the west they could detect the merest pale flicker against the sparkling horizon. The squadron kept tight formation: this might be the first of a powerful French force sent to deal with a few impudent English ships reported to have entered their sea.
But there were no additional sail. The vessel tacked about to reveal the two masts of a humble brig. It was no outlying scout of the enemy fleet, just one of the countless workhorse craft of its kind in the Mediterranean going about its business. Tenacious returned to her routine.
However, the brig made no move to turn away. It stood on, its course of intersection one which would bring it close to the flagship. Curious eyes followed its steady approach until, at two miles distance, Vanguard ’s challenge, accompanied by the crack of a gun, brought a flurry of bunting to its halliards.
“Correct answer f’r today—can’t make out her pennants,”
Kydd said, flicking through his signal book. She was apparently English, in a sea where they had thought they were the only members of His Majesty’s Navy.
Vanguard ’s yards came round as she heaved to, allowing the
6
Julian Stockwin
brig to come up and deliver dispatches—with news that changed the situation. The reconnaissance squadron was to be no more: a powerful force of ten ships-of-the-line was on its way to join Nelson to transform it into a battle fleet. The fisherman had been right—he had seen English ships. There were cheers of joy. At last the tables had turned: no longer the fearful trespasser, they were now the predator.
Admiral Nelson’s orders were not long in coming, and covered everything from the disposition of men-o’-war in a tactical formation to the issue of lemons and fresh water.
Kydd settled down to write up his signal book. Nelson’s instructions were clear and vigorous and although there was not a flood of new signals there were a dozen general signals and fifty-six concerning tactical manoeuvres, all of which had to be carefully detailed and indexed in his pocket signal book.
The most important were those covering their preparations for the chase. The fleet was to be tightly formed, in three columns a nautical mile apart and each
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