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Admiral Nelson believes that they are to sail directly.”
    “Sir, does he know where they’re headed?” Kydd asked.
    “No,” said Houghton flatly. “It seems that this Buonaparte is keeping his plans even from his officers. In the absence of any reliable facts we can only assume that the most credible is a lunge west to join with the Spanish, then out to the Atlantic, north for a junction with the Brest fleet and then . . . England.”
    “Indeed—why else the troops?” muttered Bryant. Louder, he asked, “Do we know anything of their commander, sir?”

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    “Yes. This is Admiral the Comte de Brueys, a gentleman of the old France. He has been at sea since the age of thirteen and has seen much service. He knows the Mediterranean well, and flies his flag in L’Orient, which is of one hundred and twenty guns,”
    he added heavily.
    “Sir, what are our orders from the admiral? I have seen no orders yet, sir.”
    Bampton sounded peevish, but Houghton responded courteously: “Sir Horatio has been good enough to open his mind to his captains. We understand sufficiently well what are his wishes.
    These he will communicate by signals, which will be few in number but each of which will be of the highest importance.
    “Besides, we are a reconnaissance squadron, on detachment only, and our orders therefore are those of our commander-in-chief Admiral Jervis. I commend their thorough perusal by all my officers.”
    “Then, sir, our duty is clear,” Bryant said vigorously. “We hold to the line of rendezvous—”
    “The prize has been sent to Cadíz with dispatches, detailing the situation in Toulon,” Houghton interrupted. “Earl St Vincent will determine what manner of action might be required.”
    “And in the event the French sail before then?”
    “I have the strongest opinion of Admiral Nelson’s leadership in this affair,” Houghton said stiffly. “We all know our duty, sir.”
    The sky was deep blue, white clouds towering and the sea a-glitter as the squadron headed along the rendezvous line under easy sail.
    The order came to “exercise small arms by divisions.” Kydd knew the weapons well: the boarding pike, an eight-foot shaft with a forged pick head, was purely for defensive purposes; the tomahawk was seldom used as a weapon, its value in scaling ships’ sides and cutting away netting; a pistol had but one shot 62

Julian Stockwin
    and then became a club. Kydd had no doubt that the cutlass was the prince of weapons.
    He waited while sailors shuffled into line on one side of the deck facing him. For the main part, these men were unblooded in battle, strangers to the hatred and violence of hand-to-hand combat. They would preserve their own lives and bring victory to their ship only if they had skill at arms greater than that of the enemy.
    Kydd stood in shirt and breeches, the sea breeze ruffling across his chest. “I’ll have y’r attention now, if y’ please.” It seemed an age since, as a pressed man, he had listened while a lieutenant gave him the lesson he was about to impart to these men.
    “I’m now going t’ save your skins. I’m telling you how to fight—
    and win!” He signalled to Poulden, who came forward. Kydd took up a cutlass and admired it theatrically, letting its lightly oiled grey steel blade and plain black hilt catch the sun. There were murmurs at the sight. “Now, see here,” he said. Poulden advanced on him with his own cutlass; Kydd slowly raised his own blade and brought it down towards Poulden’s unprotected head, but well before the blow fell, Poulden lunged forward with the point, directly at Kydd’s chest. “You see? Should you slash at your foe he’ll be inside you with a thrust—it only needs an inch or two o’ steel to end the fight.”
    A figure to one side caught his eye. It was Bowden, an intense expression on his face. Kydd wondered what he could be thinking. There was no way to prepare anyone for the impact of finding a living person at