Winds of Folly (4 page)

Nathan had lately been informed by Tully that Banjo's leadership of the Africans had now been extended to include the entire lower deck, and that even the boatswain's mates, the official policing agency of those realms, stood in awe of him. As there was no reason to doubt his loyalty to Nathan personally and his manner was generally benevolent, Nathan had no serious argument with this, though he did wonder sometimes if his own position was more nominal than actual and whether the real powers aboard the ship more properly belonged to the triumvirate of gunner's mate, first lieutenant and sailing master.

None of which diminished Nathan's current sense of complacency for he had much to be grateful for, quite apart from the promise of £10,000 in prize money – £12,000, possibly, with the gewgaws thrown in. Though he was approaching his twenty-eighth birthday, he remained in excellent health, he was in possession of a good head of hair and most of his teeth – and the sounding of the ship's bell alerted him to the fact that it was nearly time for his dinner.

There was nothing more certain to improve Nathan's opinion of the world and his position in it than the imminent prospect of a meal, for he possessed a prodigious appetite, and today he had been invited to dine in the wardroom with his
officers. They had done some brisk business with the fishing fleet off Savona and picked up a large blue-fin tuna which one hoped would not prove too much of a challenge for the ship's cook. Nathan would have had it cut into steaks, griddled, and served up with a pease pudding, but he had not thus far been summoned to the galley for his opinion on the matter. Notwithstanding, he would contribute six bottles of his best white wine, which had been brought down from the Alps packed in ice and straw and were now residing in the darkest, deepest part of the orlop deck.

But there was still over an hour to go; he must think of something else to ease his torment. The cry from the foremast lookout supplied a welcome distraction.

‘Sail ho! Two points on the starboard bow.'

Nathan crossed to the starboard rail and peered forward, but could see nothing from so low a vantage – and nor did he expect to, not if the masthead men were as alert as they should have been.

‘Mr Holroyd, I am going aloft,' Nathan informed the officer of the watch, in case he should notice his Captain's absence from the quarterdeck and wonder if he had jumped overboard out of a sense of his own inconsequence.

He made his way forward and climbed rapidly up into the rigging, his Dollond glass tucked firmly under his arm. He made a point of going aloft whenever he had an excuse to do so – in part to reassure himself and the crew that he was as capable as any of swinging like an ape 120 feet above the deck – but he knew he was a mere sloth among the accomplished simians who normally resided here, while the midshipmen, he had no doubt, would be watching his progress from the deck with amused tolerance.

He paused for breath at the crosstrees and the nearest lookout considerately swung down to him and knuckled his
forehead, before using the same arm to point in the direction he had so recently communicated to the deck, as if his Captain needed special guidance in the points of the compass. Hanson, Nathan recalled – a Dane, taken off a Bristol slaver in the Caribbean.

From his present vantage Nathan spotted the sail almost immediately, even without the Dane's thoughtful assistance, hull down and on the larboard tack. She must be an outward bounder from Genoa or one of the ports to the east: a merchant man most likely, for though there were several French privateers lurking thereabouts, on such a day as this they could scarcely have evaded the British blockade – and for the same reason she was almost certainly a neutral, unless she was part of the blockade herself, sent westward on some mission for the Commodore.

Nathan hooked one arm through the topgallant shrouds and lifted the glass to his eye. With its assistance the individual sails became more distinct and he could see at once that she was no man-o'-war. But even as he began to lose interest, he saw that she was changing course, and now heading directly towards the
Unicorn
, or as directly as the wind would allow. This was strange, for even a neutral would be wary of encounter with a British man-o'-war, eager for trained seamen to supplement her crew. He rested his eye for a moment and when next he looked he saw the small puffball of smoke blossom from her bow and heard the distant report of the signal gun carried across the still waters towards him. Closing the telescope with a brisk snap, he tucked it down the front of his coat and slid down to the deck by the backstay as nimbly, he flattered himself, as any young gentleman, or ape.

‘Hands to the braces, Mr Holroyd,' he called out, and to the quartermaster at the helm, ‘Bring her two points to leeward. Ah, here you are, Mr Perry …' catching sight of the sailing
master who had emerged from below and was already frowning up at the sails as if they had been perfectly all right as they were and no one but he had any business to be fooling around with them in his absence. ‘There is a packet to leeward with a signal for us and I have altered course to converge with her. Doubtless it is from the Commodore desiring us to engage the enemy with more vigour.'

He meant this as a witticism, for their Commander was prodigal in his employment of signals and eager to convey his own zeal for action at every opportunity. But despite his apparent composure, Nathan could barely control his impatience to know the precise nature of this instruction, for it must surely portend some new move by the enemy. He was obliged to endure a wait of almost an hour, however, before the vessels were close enough for a boat to be lowered and the despatch conveyed to him.

It was, indeed, from the Commodore, and apparently written in some haste for it abjured the usual eloquence:

To Capt Nathaniel Peake Esq.,
Unicorn

From
Captain,
off Genoa, June 24th 1796

Sir,

Being advised of the rapid advance of French forces upon Leghorn I am proceeding thereto with
Captain
and
Meleager
to render such assistance as may be required. You are therefore requested and required to follow as speedily as you may with
Unicorn
and what other forces you may have under your command.

Your obliged

Horatio Nelson

Short as it was, Nathan pondered the missive with a frown. Leghorn – or Livorno as it was known to its inhabitants – was a major centre for merchants engaged in the Levant trade and possessed a sizeable community of British expatriates. It was the most important provider of supplies for the British fleet east of Gibraltar. Moreover, the British Consul, Mr Udny, acted not only as prize agent to the fleet, but as a procurer of female companions for the officers, a service which many of these gentlemen had come to rely upon, even the Commodore himself. Its loss would be a serious blow – which was presumably why Nelson had decided to raise the blockade of Genoa and go there himself in the
Captain
.

Catching the enquiring eye of his first lieutenant, Nathan passed him the despatch without comment. Leghorn was not much more than thirty leagues to the south-east. Even with this wind, the
Unicorn
might be there before tomorrow sunset, but the prizes would take a while longer. There was nothing for it but they must follow on at their own pace, though he thought he could, without risk of censure, leave
Bonne Aventure
to guard them from recapture.

‘Signal Mr Tully to come aboard, if you would,' he instructed Holroyd. Then, turning to the sailing master: ‘I am afraid I must trouble you to set a new course, Mr Perry – for Leghorn, and with all the sail we can carry.'

T
he French had beaten them to it. Nathan stood on the quarterdeck of the
Unicorn
gazing out in dismay at the huge pall of smoke spreading over Leghorn. His first impression was that the entire port was ablaze, the populace fleeing in everything that could be made to float. But as the frigate crept closer he saw that the fires were confined to the northern outskirts, the lurid glow produced by the rays of the rising sun filtered through a pall of smoke and morning mist. This was far from reassuring, however. Nor was the steady report of gunfire that came rolling across the water from the surrounding hills and the sight of hundreds, if not thousands, of refugees crowded upon the mole and the adjoining quayside, mostly on foot but some mounted or in carriages, all laden with baggage, even furniture, intent on boarding the vessels crammed into the harbour and its approaches. But there was no sign of the
Captain
or the
Meleager
among them – or, indeed, of any other ship-of-war. If Leghorn was to be defended from the sea, it was going to be down to the
Unicorn
.

It had taken them the best part of two days to reach the
port, with the wind remaining fickle. He could barely feel a whisper now on his cheek, and the sails flapped inelegantly against the masts. He shifted his gaze to the outer suburbs, though his view was considerably impeded by the dense pall of smoke. Through it he could make out the glow of burning buildings and the stabbing flash of what he took to be artillery on the hillside, where the French must be lodged. But it was impossible to discern their strength or disposition.

‘We had best take in sail, Mr Baker,' he instructed the sailing master, ‘and stand off the mole. Well off, mind.' For he had no desire to be drawn into that impossible crush of shipping. He turned to the first lieutenant. ‘And Mr Duncan, let us clear the ship for action.' This with the suggestion of a sigh, for he had no idea what action might be contemplated.

He ran up the ratlines a little and focused his glass on the end of the mole. His initial impression of chaos and confusion was clearly mistaken, at least in this area, for the refugees appeared to be in good order as they waited to board the transports. He moved the glass further down the mole and to his great surprise saw a number of figures in the distinctive red coats and black shakoes of regular British infantry or Marines – though it was possible, he supposed, that they were soldiers of the Grand Duke of Tuscany. So far as he could make out at this distance, they appeared to be marshalling the crowd.

He rejoined his officers on the quarterdeck but before he could discuss what he had seen and seek their opinion, he was alerted to the approach of a ship's cutter which had emerged from the ruck of vessels in the harbour and was clearly heading towards the
Unicorn
. He brought the glass to his eye once more and picked out the blue ensign of Admiral Jervis flying at the masthead – and in the stern-sheets, looking very much at ease, the portly figure of Captain Thomas Fremantle of His Britannic Majesty's frigate
Inconstant
.

*

‘Well, I must say you took your time getting here,' Fremantle observed cheerfully, the moment he stepped aboard. ‘I don't suppose you passed Nelson on the way, did you? I sent to him all of five days ago to tell him what was afoot.'

Nathan conveyed the gist of the Commodore's message to him, adding that he had thought he would already be here.

‘Well, as you can see, he ain't,' Fremantle assured him, not without satisfaction. ‘And if he don't get a crack on, it will all be over, which won't please him a bit.'

Nathan proposed they continue their discussion in the Captain's day cabin, for Fremantle was notoriously indiscreet and though he claimed to be Nelson's great friend, he not infrequently revealed intense feelings of rivalry, even envy towards his senior officer.

‘I cannot say I am too put out,' he continued loudly as Nathan led him below, ‘for doubtless he would require us to take on the whole French Army – with or without the Grand Duke's blessing.'

The Grand Duke of Tuscany had steadfastly refused to join the coalition against Revolutionary France, but he had permitted the British fleet to use Leghorn as a port of convenience and this – in Fremantle's view – was what had provoked the French attack.

‘Bonaparte informed His Nibs that he was nurturing a nest of vipers – meaning us – and that he was determined to smoke us out,' he announced unconcernedly as he took a glass of Madeira in Nathan's day cabin. ‘Your very good health, sir.'

‘So Bonaparte is leading the invasion personally?'

‘I don't say that,' Fremantle replied cautiously, ‘for I've no information on the subject. Why? Do you wish to become acquainted?'

They were, in fact, already acquainted. Though this was not
something Nathan would reveal lightly, certainly not to a tittletattle like Thomas Fremantle. He had met Bonaparte in Paris little more than a year ago when the current hero of the French Army was an unemployed artillery officer down on his luck and desperate for a job. He had cut a pathetic figure with his sallow complexion and long greasy hair, his features pinched and scowling, invariably wearing a threadbare greatcoat and a battered bicorn hat. In fact, apart from the hat, he looked more like a street urchin than an army officer: one of those barefoot Savoyards who used to act as messenger boys to the Convention. He even spoke like them, with a thick foreign accent, for he had been born in Corsica. His associates called him Captain Cannon – though not to his face; he had a terrible temper.