The Victory (28 page)

All the old favourite songs were sung. Many were melan
choly and hideously sentimental: 'The Mother's Lament',
'Farewell to Jenny', and 'Now a Sheer Hulk lies poor Tom
Bowling' were hooned by swaying groups in intricate close
harmony; and the lugubrious 'Poor Billy's a-hanging' and
'Bury Me in the Briny Deep' was squeezed out of himself with
evident pain by Davis, the Welsh gun-layer, in a nasal tenor.
There were love songs, too, some of them made suitable for
young ears only by severe editing. But Africa had heard them
all, and more, many times before while sitting with her tarry
nurses on the fo'c'sl on fine evenings, and Haworth knew the
men would die rather than offend her innocence.

The sun sank splendidly into sea, and the soft dusk crept
up over the ship. Some of the officers lit cigars, and their
scent hung on the warm air. One of the concert party begged
for a song from Miss Africa, and she obliged with 'I have a
Garden Gay', and then 'I long to See Kitty's Blue Eyes'
which had the whole of the afterguard sniffing and swallow
ing, and reduced the quarterdeck starboard carronade crew
openly to tears.

In the silence that followed, the ship's bell struck three
bells with crystal clarity. The midshipman of the watch lit the
binnacle lamp, and at once everything around grew suddenly
darker. The eastern sky was black velvet, and in the west one
white planet shone steadily against the last streaks of trans
parent blue. Haworth rose from his chair, took Africa's hand,
and looked down into the waist, searching for the right, the eloquent words with which to close the proceedings, which
would both express his gratitude and love, and restore them
to their usual steady frame of mind. There could hardly have been a man on board at that moment who was not thinking of
home, or of someone left behind.

‘Thank you, lads,' he said at last.

*

Shortly after dawn the following day, the
Nemesis
hove to
within hailing distance, and boats transferred a bullock, two
lambs, casks of butter, whole cheeses, and nets of vegetables
to the
Cetus.
Haworth was not at all surprised that Weston
took the opportunity to come aboard on the first boat, to
shake his hand warmly and give him the news first-hand.

‘
I was hoping to have the chance to dine with you,'
Haworth said, ‘But I suppose the Admiral has urgent
messages, and wants you on your way at once.'

‘
I'm afraid so,' said Weston.
'Boney's
on the move again.
He arrived suddenly in Boulogne two weeks ago, and held a
grand review of the troops there, and inspected the embar
kation craft, which all looks very much as though he's plan
ning an attempt at invasion for this autumn. He has 120,000
men and 3000 craft, according to our spies, at Boulogne
alone.'

‘
Happily, having them at Boulogne is not the same as
having them at Dover,' Haworth said.

Weston grinned. 'True — and Boney, for all his skill as a
general, simply hasn't the first idea about the sea. He can't
understand about weather conditions and contrary winds,
and thinks his sea-officers are cowards or traitors when they
tell him such-and-such a thing can't be done. The day after
arriving at Boulogne, he ordered all his ships out to sea to
perform a sort of review for him. The admiral in charge
refused, because the sea was rough and a gale was rising, and
it seems that Boney threatened to beat him with his riding-
crop unless he obeyed.'

‘Good God! He offered to strike a gentleman?'

‘
Hard to believe, isn't it? The admiral walked out, but
Boney got his way in the end. The fleet put to sea under the
second in command, and the storm duly broke over them.
They lost a dozen craft and two hundred men before they
could get back to anchorage.’

Haworth shook his head. 'I feel sorry for the French sea-
officers. Many of them are perfectly decent fellows. They
deserve better.'

‘
True. Well, the disaster doesn't seem to have deterred him
at any rate. The talk is now that he has ordered Latouche and
Ganteaume to break out of Toulon and Brest and join
together to command the Channel while the crossing is made,
so we must all be on our guard. With any luck, they'll be fool
enough to try it, and we'll have one good battle and be able to go home. I can't tell you how I long to see Lucy again. You're
a lucky man to have your daughter with you.'

‘Have you had any news from home? Is everyone well?'

‘
I must assume that they are, since I haven't been told
otherwise. But you know Lucy — her letters tell one nothing,'
Weston said with a rueful smile. 'Ah, it looks as though my
men have finished. I'm afraid I must be off. Have you your
letters ready?'

‘Yes, there's a bag going down now.'

‘
Then I must bid you goodbye, sir,' Weston said with a
return to formality. He touched his hat, and then grasped the
hand that Haworth held out to him.

‘A good journey, Weston. I pray God we'll meet again soon, preferably on shore.'

‘
And have time for dinner next time, sir,' Weston said. 'If
the French come out, we could all be home for Christmas.’

*

By the end of the month it was learnt that Napoleon had left
Boulogne as precipitately as he had arrived, and that
Latouche had died suddenly on board his flagship, the
Bucentaure,
anchored in Toulon roads, on 20 August. Nelson
said he must have died of a heart attack brought on by
mounting so often to the outlook post to stare through the
telescope at the English fleet.

Nelson, too, had been unwell, suffering from recurrent
bouts of fever, and his remaining good eye had become
inflamed to the point where he feared he would lose the sight
of it. He wrote to Lord Melville, the First Lord, asking
permission to go home. His health, he said, would not permit
him to endure another winter like the last at sea, but a few
months of leave on shore would set him up, and enable him to
return to active service in the spring.

Their Lordships' reply would be many weeks in arriving,
but it looked to Haworth and the other captains of the Toulon
blockade as though there would be no decisive action that
year after all, and that 1805 was likely to find them in exactly
the same situation as 1804.

BOOK TWO

The Seahorse

Mourn and rejoice! Horatio's spirit

Well pleased, beholds a friend inherit

The honours paid to valour's merit

He smiles on gallant COLLINGWOOD.

Mourn for your martyrs on the wave, Mourn

for your NELSON in the grave, Rejoice and

cheer the living brave,

With modest, gallant COLLINGWOOD.

Anon

(Published in
The Times
of 7 November 1805)

 
Mary Ann's first task on arriving at Hobsbawn House was
always to initiate a grand cleaning programme, to rectify the
neglect of the months since she had last been there. There
were such washings and beatings and scourings and polishings
as gave the impression that a giant hand had stirred up the
household like a stick in an ants' nest; but at the end of a
week the whirlwind departed, leaving the house spotless,
shining, comfortable, and smelling of beeswax and fresh
flowers.

‘By God, love, it's like having your mother back again,' Mr Hobsbawn remarked, between admiration and apprehension, as he picked his way through unrecognisable, dust-sheeted rooms, and consumed pic-nic meals from trays in unexpected corners. ‘But it's worth it,' he would say when it was all over, and the sense of cheerfulness and order that belonged to a well-run house pervaded the rooms. 'It's as if the sun shines more often when you're here,' he added simply.

‘I like to be here,' she said. 'And so does Henry.’

Mr Hobsbawn and Henry shared a deep and largely word
less affection for each other, expressed in smiles and chuckles
and a predilection for each other's company. Henry liked to
ride on Grampa's shoulder, to sit on his knee and examine the
innards of his watch, to explore his pockets for sweetmeats, to
be carried up to bed by him. For Mr Hobsbawn, the prospect
of shewing off his grandson was one of the few things that
would tempt him away from his mills, and he liked to ride in
the park in an open carriage with Henry on his knee, and stop
every few yards to exchange compliments with his neigh
bours.

He took him to the mills, too, nominally to let him see what would be his one day', but in reality to listen to the
effusions of his managers and overseers on the boy's beauty and intelligence. No praise was too fulsome for him. He truly believed that no such remarkable child had ever lived.

It was all very pleasant to Mary Ann. She revelled in the
warmth which surrounded her, and the consequence she
enjoyed in the society in which she had grown up. Morning
visits were very different in Manchester from those she
endured in Yorkshire. Here she was sought out, admired, flattered; an invitation from her was something to be prized, and
an acceptance of one by her a source of self-congratulation. She liked to see her father and Henry so fond of each other,
and to see how the child was already beginning to carve a
place for himself in the kingdom that would one day be his.