THE enemy’s sails were loosed at daybreak next day, Sunday, July 12th, but there was no actual movement until midday when the Franco-Spanish ships were forming line of battle off Cabrita Point, nor was this movement completed until after one o’clock. These were the hours during which the Caesar was receiving her provisions, powder and shot. Delancey played his part in supervising the stowage and it was two o’clock before he came on deck again, finding himself on the stage, as it were, of a theatre.
In brilliant sunshine with an easterly wind, the whole garrison and population of Gibraltar had turned out to watch the squadron sail. The ramparts were crowded from the dockyard to the ragged staff, there were folk on the quayside and right up to the pier-head. The enthusiasm was tremendous and the seamen were more thrilled than they would ever dare admit.
They had reason to be proud of their leaders. If the perfection of leadership is shown in the reaction to adversity, Sir James Saumarez had indeed survived the test, earning universal admiration by his calm and resolute behaviour. Captain Jahleel Brenton had achieved a miracle on board the flagship. Captain Richard Keats was said to be the best seaman of his day, Samuel Hood came of a famous naval family and others were hardly less distinguished. The Admiral’s flag was hoisted as the Caesar was warped out of the harbour, the ship’s band playing Cheer up my lads, ‘tis to glory we steer! Not to be outdone, the Governor had ordered a military band to the pier-head, where it responded by playing “Britons, strike home!” There were deafening cheers as the flagship slid by and Delancey, watching from the quarterdeck, found that there were tears in his eyes. It was a scene that no one present was ever to forget. With the soldiers cheering and the girls waving, one ship after another made sail: the Caesar, Venerable, Superb, Spencer and Audacious, all of the line, the frigate Thames and the sloop Calpé.
Line of battle was formed off Europa Point and the moment was come to see what the enemy intended. It was not clear to begin with, whether the allied Admirals Moreno and Linois expected to fight at all. Had Saumarez been as decisively defeated as his opponent claimed, he would have been unable to encounter them again. Nor, in any event, should they have hesitated to fight with odds in their favour of nine to five. As a first step towards gaining their expected victory they should have tacked across the bay making the signal for closer action or general chase.
Far from doing that, they chose a defensive formation and sailed for Cadiz, their original plan revealing a determination, above all, to protect their trophy, the battered Hannibal. She was to have led the retreat followed by the three French ships in line abreast, these followed by the six Spanish ships, these again in line abreast. This was a rearguard formation.
But why should Linois, recently victorious (by his own account), have been retreating at all? As the evening wore on the allied squadron withdrew westward, their formation only modified by their Admiral’s eventual decision to leave the damaged and jury-masted Hannibal behind at Algeciras. For the rest, their sole idea was to reach Cadiz and safety. With a following wind their flight was hampered only by the three French ships, crippled as they were by the damage they had sustained on the 6th.
Their consolation lay in the fact that the British squadron—with one significant exception—had been similarly damaged and might well be as slow. The exception was the Superb, which had not been present on the 6th, a relatively new ship built at North-fleet in 1798 and a sister ship to the Pompée, captured from the French in 1794. In the chase that was now to be expected, the pursuer and pursued being similarly slowed down by previous damage, the fastest ship was going to be the undamaged Superb, of French design, captained by the most brilliant seaman in either fleet. Some of the Spanish ships might have been theoretically as fast but their speed had to be that of their battered allies.
In battle the sailing master’s chief responsibility was for navigation and Delancey took a series of bearings to establish the flagship’s position on the chart. Forming thus a part of the captain’s staff, he realised, first of all, that Saumarez had other Guernseymen aboard. In addition to the first lieutenant, Philip Dumaresq, it now appeared that the signal midshipman was called Brock, that a quartermaster was called Le Tissier, and that the cabin and wardroom stewards included a Le Poidevin and a Le Page. He also realised that the Caesar, even with the help of these islanders, was not going to make any very remarkable speed. The miracle had been to refit the ship in five days and he was as proud as anyone of what had been achieved. But the result was inevitably makeshift, an affair of wounded masts, fished yards and spliced cordage. When Captain Brenton wanted to make more sail, Delancey pointed out very respectfully that the additional stress would probably have the masts overboard. The east wind blew strongly through the Straits but the pursuers, as the light failed, were not visibly gaining on their prey. As against that, the Superb was gaining on the flagship. Seeing this, Sir James gave an order to Captain Brenton, who took the speaking-trumpet and hailed the Superb:
“Superb! The Admiral requests Captain Keats to make all sail and engage the enemy ship nearest to the Spanish coast! Shall I repeat that?”
“Orders understood,” came the reply and the Superb, with topgallants and stunsails set, came surging past and went ahead. She was soon lost in the gathering darkness, the enemy ships being already invisible, and the Venerable, next astern of the flagship, was losing distance and would soon be equally lost to sight. Delancey began to worry about navigational problems, submitting to Captain Brenton that the enemy must be presumed to be making for Cadiz but that there were shallows north of Cape Trafalgar which would make the pursuit difficult. The result was a conference in the Admiral’s cabin—Sir James, Captain Brenton, Delancey and Dumaresq, with the chart before them.
With the decks cleared for action, the Admiral’s cabin was no more than a space marked off with a strip of canvas, with a barrel as table and another for the Admiral to sit on, the scene badly lit by a couple of battle lanterns. The faces which ringed the chart, half-seen as the lantern swung, were all of them strained and tired.
“Having lost sight of the enemy,” said the Admiral, “my intention is to reach Cadiz ahead of them and so catch them in the harbour mouth or near vicinity. Can we hope to do that?”
“Why, yes, Sir James,” replied Brenton confidently, “the enemy must have shortened sail after dark.”
“I submit,” said Delancey, “that you have to weigh the dangers before setting the course. If we steer close to the land we may put the ship aground—the Spanish know this coast better than we do. If we keep well away from the shore the Spanish may well outdistance us. Finally, reaching Cadiz and sighting the enemy, we may find ourselves alone, having lost touch with the squadron.”
“Do you know exactly where we are now?” asked Dumaresq.
“Only by dead reckoning,” Delancey admitted. “I last established our position by a bearing on Tarifa. It has been too overcast to take any observation since. Doing eight knots, we should be here.” He pointed to the pencilled cross he had made on the chart.
“You have allowed for the current?” asked Brenton.
“Yes, sir.”
“What course, then, should we steer for Cadiz?”
“I have marked it, sir. I wouldn’t dare take the responsibility for heading any further east.”
“You are a cautious navigator, Delancey!”
“Isn’t that my function, sir? As sailing master, I point out the dangers. Were I captain I might scorn them.”
“Too nice a distinction!” Brenton growled.
“Gentlemen!” said the Admiral, “Delancey has fairly done his duty. It is I who have to decide, with God’s help, and it will be my fault if we end on a sandbank with one ship to the enemy’s nine. I shall keep further to starboard than Delancey approves and further to port than Captain Brenton will like.”
“One other point,” said Delancey, “we have a stiff breeze now but we can’t depend upon it after leaving the Straits. It could be fitful further north at this time of year and could die away to nothing.”
“It’s our pursuit of the enemy that is dying away to nothing!” The remark came out almost as an insult.
“Steady, captain!” said Sir James. “For all we know, the Superb may be in sight of them. I might add that I have more at stake than you have. Delancey told me yesterday that we won a victory on the 6th. He will add, I suspect, that the enemy’s behaviour today is the proof of it. At the Admiralty they have a simpler way of reckoning. I fought an action on the 6th and lost the Hannibal. I had a long chase today and lost the enemy. It only remains for me to lose my command.”
Brenton came back handsomely after his previous outburst, “What you will never lose, Sir James, is the respect of your officers and men!”
“Thank you, captain. It may be all I have left. But my trust is in God and the battle is not yet finished. What we need, I suggest, is a glass of brandy. . . . Steward!”
The brandy was appreciated but no further discussion led to any further conclusion. The basic weakness in any plan anyone could propose was that the squadron had dispersed. Contact with the Venerable might have been maintained by shortening sail but that would have left the Superb unsupported. As things were the ships were at least on the same course and might be within sight of each other at daybreak. To shape a course now for Cadiz might make it impossible to concentrate the squadron again. It was going to be a difficult decision but Delancey, in his own mind, had already decided. If it lay with him (which it did not) he would not alter course until daylight.
At half-past eleven the situation changed abruptly. From somewhere ahead came the sound of gunfire. It was at once clear that the Superb had overtaken the enemy and was heavily engaged. Flashes could be seen and the Caesar now steered towards them. Superb would have shortened sail before opening fire and the distance now quickly diminished between her and the flagship. A blue flare from the Caesar was intended to assure Keats that help was at hand but there was an unexpected response from the Venerable, only a few miles astern. Things looked more hopeful and every night-glass in the Caesar was trained on the Superb and her opponents, both sides using flares to illuminate their target.
To Delancey it was immediately apparent that the Spanish ships were still in line abreast, a feat of discipline which did them credit. Third and fourth from the left, obvious from their size, and level with each other were the two huge three-decked ships of 112 guns; the Real-Carlos and the San-Hermenegilde. Second from the left and ahead of the three-deckers was a French two-decked ship with a Commodore’s pennant; probably the Saint-Antoine.
The two ships on the right of the line were more distant, which explained why the Superb was closing on those more within reach. For her to steer between two 112-gun ships seemed tantamount to suicide but that was evidently Keats’ intention. He could count, admittedly, on the Spaniards’ lack of experience (especially at night) but the disproportion in weight of metal was terrifying. Sternmost of all the enemy ships was one on the extreme left, possibly the San-Augustin, and she might have been the first target, at long range, of the Superb’s port broadside.
“A bold attack!” said Brenton to the Admiral.
“But an unequal combat,” replied Sir James. “If he must attack three-decked ships, why can’t he fight them one at a time?”
“I should never fight both batteries if I could help it,” muttered Dumaresq, “—not even with a crew up to strength.”
“You may be doing just that,” said Brenton, “before the night is over.”
Delancey said nothing but was careful to make a note of events, as material for the Master’s Log. “At 11.20 p.m. Superb seemed to shorten sail.” As the crash was heard of the Superb’s two broadsides, he inserted “11.35 Superb seen in action with two Spanish three-decked ships” and so continued with his record for the rest of the action. Under fire from her big opponents on either side, the Superb was seen to fire two more broadsides. It was evident, however, that she was drawing ahead of the Spaniards. Her hull was invisible in the smoke of gunfire but her topsails seemed now to be beyond the three-deckers, both very much in action.
“Good God!” exclaimed Delancey. “Those Spanish ships are firing at each other!” What had happened was obvious. The smoke of the combined broadsides, three from the Superb, two from each of the Spanish ships, had filled the space which the British 74 had now vacated. Each three-decker was firing into the smoke, from which an unseen enemy was replying with vigour, and each new broadside added to the obscurity which prevented them from recognising each other. Their guns were now firing independently, the noise was continuous and Delancey was awestruck at the mere weight of shot being fired between two three-deckers at a range of less than three hundred yards.
“What an astounding spectacle!” said the Admiral. “Leave them to it, captain, and pass them to starboard. The day is ours!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
As the Caesar drew level with the Spaniards, Delancey observed that the further one, the Real-Carlos was on fire. He noted the fact and the hour, thinking to himself that he had just seen a perfect demonstration of the dangers inherent in the line abreast. He had been told about it as a midshipman and so had everyone else, but it made a difference to have actually seen it. In line ahead you were safe at least from one type of disaster.
Somewhere ahead of the flagship the Superb was now in action with the Saint-Antoine—or was she the San Antonio?—and the Caesar, followed by the Venerable and Spencer, was coming up on the other side of the same opponent. Delancey felt the ship reel under him as the starboard broadside fired, then heard the same noise from the following ships. He discovered afterwards that the wretched Saint-Antoine had already struck her colours.
Sail was now made after the other enemy ships but Delancey, looking back, saw that the burning Real-Carlos was drifting towards the San-Hermenegilde. Noting this, he was able to add, a little later, that they had collided and that both were on fire. They afterwards drifted apart, both of them doomed, the fire starting no doubt on the gun decks, spreading to the tattered rigging and so to the sails, which then fell on the decks again.
“God, what a terrible sight!” said Brenton to Delancey.
“Appalling, sir. It doesn’t look as if they can ever bring the fire under control.”
“Not now. You have to stop it before it begins, and even with a well-trained crew you can still fail. Look what happened to the Queen Charlotte, and that began with no more than some hay for the livestock! The officers did their best and even managed to flood the lower deck. What they didn’t manage to flood was the magazine. . . . The wretched Spaniards will be mostly untrained. They will have unused cartridges beside every gun, lighted matches for each gun captain, no water bucket at hand and no habit of instantly obeying orders. As for their boats, the Superb probably smashed the lot with her first treble-shotted broadside. I could wish it were over quickly.”
Looking aft at the two burning ships Delancey echoed the wish. They were among the finest ships afloat, and were probably the biggest and most well designed, built and equipped; but battles are not won by ship-wrights. They are won by disciplined bodies of men, by rules and safety precautions, by habituation to an exact drill, by doing everything quickly but correctly, by remembering what you have been taught and doing what you are told.
In the opposite direction, Delancey saw that the other enemy ships had disappeared into the darkness. They might outnumber their opponents—no, they were merely on equal terms now—but their one idea was to escape. Or was that unfair? They were under orders. Delancey added to his notes: “Midnight, other enemy ships out of sight.”
In the immediate area there was light enough to see and the Admiral used it to make some signals; first to the Superb and Calpé to remain with the prize, Saint-Antoine: second, to the remainder of the Squadron, to make sail after the flagship. “We’ll aim to intercept them,” said Sir James, “before they can reach Cadiz.” Delancey knew that the plan could not succeed. Cadiz might be no more than thirty miles away; even with a fitful wind the enemy should be nearing harbour by daybreak. The battle was over.
There was a dazzling flash, as of lightning, and then a deafening crack of thunder. Delancey covered his eyes for an instant, opening them in time to see the Real-Carlos blown apart. There was a mushroom effect as spars and ropes were thrown upwards in a cloud of smoke. Her sides bulged outwards, her guns crashing through her ports. A minute later she was gone, save for some debris in the water, and Delancey suspected that any survivors would have been killed by the concussion; a few, he thought, might have escaped earlier, perhaps to the Saint-Antoine.
“Poor devils!” exclaimed Philip Dumaresq. He was not looking towards where the Real-Carlos had been. He was staring at the San-Hermenegilde, and he was evidently feeling sick. Nearly a thousand men had just died but another thousand had yet to go, still fighting the fire and knowing by now exactly what their fate was to be. By the light of the flames he could see that a few men had jumped overboard and were swimming towards the wreckage of the Real-Carlos. They had perhaps the best chance of any provided they were good swimmers, but what when their ship blew up? There were no boats near them and how could there be?
Turning once more to his notes, Delancey added: “At fifteen minutes past midnight the Real-Carlos blew up and sank.” He wondered for a moment whether she had flown an Admiral’s flag? He thought not. Then he remembered that Spanish flag-officers always moved to a frigate when in presence of the enemy. The idea was that a battle could be more easily controlled by someone not actually involved in it; a reasonable notion except in so far as it meant sacrificing the force of example. Anyway, it was the Spanish custom. Vice-Admiral Moreno would not, therefore, have been on board. He would be half-way to Cadiz by now in the Sabrina, if that was the ship’s name, and thinking himself lucky to be alive.
Reflecting on the enemy’s losses, it struck him that the flagship had sustained no losses at all and had not so far been under fire. There was always something fantastic about war, the odd way in which some people were killed, the strange way in which others escaped. He tried to think of past instances of men knocked down by the wind of a shot, of his own appearance in a duel. . . . Never had he known the minutes pass so slowly. . . .
At last it came. There was another dazzling flash, another tremendous crack of thunder, and the San-Hermenegilde was gone in her turn. This time Delancey noticed the effect of the blast on the Caesar herself—a thump on the ship’s hull, as if she had been hit by a giant hammer. The previous explosion must have had the same effect but he couldn’t think why he had hardly noticed it. There was a difference this time, though, in that the flash was followed by darkness. There was no other burning ship to throw light on the scene where another thousand men had died. Now there would be boats from the Superb and the Saint-Antoine but he doubted whether there was much they could do. As for himself, his only response was to add a laconic note to his rough log: “At half an hour after midnight the San-Hermenegilde blew up and sank.”
By the 13th Sir James Saumarez was on his way back to Gibraltar and to a hero’s welcome. That day Delancey dined in the wardroom of the Caesar and was interested to compare notes with the other officers. It was the first formal dinner he had attended since joining the flagship. The bulkheads had been replaced, the table recovered from the hold, a clean tablecloth laid, the servants were all smartly dressed and the officers had all slept and washed and shaved.
“Last night,” said the second lieutenant, “was my first real sleep for about a week. I was never so tired in my life!”
“Never mind,” replied the captain of marines. “You have now been in a naval battle and may be regarded as a hero for ever.”
“But isn’t it absurd?” exclaimed Dumaresq, “I’ve been in a dozen minor actions, being lucky to have come out alive. They count for nothing, however, beside a general engagement. We have won a victory and our Admiral will be made a Knight of the Bath, an honour he has earned ten times over. There may be other promotions—” (he coloured a little in saying this) “and we shall be told what fine fellows we are. But what have we done? Our total service has been to fire two broadsides into a wretched ship which did not reply for the good reason that she had already struck. We did not fire or receive another shot, let alone suffer any damage or loss. We have been as safe as if we had been at Spithead!”
“Our achievement was not in fighting,” said the purser, “but in having the ship ready for battle. We were nearly dead from fatigue before we left harbour.”
“All you say is true,” Delancey admitted, looking at Dumaresq, “but it applies to the squadron as a whole. All the fighting was done by two ships, the Superb and the Venerable. The Superb’s chief effort was in capturing the Saint-Antoine, which took about thirty minutes. By sheer luck she induced those two Spanish three-deckers to destroy each other, an almost unbelievable business which took place before our eyes! And there you have the whole of our victory, the work of one seventy-four. As for the Venerable, she was fairly beaten by her opponent. But for our presence she might have been taken.”
“She left the Formidable in poor shape, though,” objected the second lieutenant.
“Of course she did, but the fact remains that our victory was gained by one ship.”
“The French will claim the victory for themselves,” complained the captain of marines. “They’ll describe the Venerable as wrecked, a fair equivalent for the Saint-Antoine and explain that the two Spanish ships were lost following a collision with each other.”
“They can say what they like,” said Delancey. “The fact remains that they did not offer to fight us. With a vastly superior force they still made their run to Cadiz. That is why I judge that they were really defeated on the 6th. After this subsequent affair that combined squadron is no longer fit for battle at all. Their morale is gone and each ally will be blaming the other. We can blockade Cadiz now with a couple of ships and I’ll wager that they stay at anchor.”
“So perhaps we deserve a hero’s welcome after all,” concluded Dumaresq. “It is certainly what we are going to have!”
The setting of Gibraltar lends itself to drama, with galleries for the public and a place for the orchestra. When Sir James’s squadron sailed into harbour on the 14th the ramparts were again lined with cheering spectators and the band on the pierhead was again playing “Britons, strike home!”—or had it (as Midshipman Brock suggested) been playing that continuously since the day they sailed? Anyway, their return was triumphant and the Saint-Antoine was the trophy for display.
There was more than one opinion about that prize, Sir James describing her as a fine ship and likely to be fit for service in less than a fortnight and some others (Delancey among them) were convinced that she was good for nothing. It was a time for celebration, however, and not for argument. On the day after the squadron’s return the royal standard was hoisted and the shore batteries fired a victory salute.
That night the fortress was illuminated—all this to annoy the Spaniards—and extra grog issued to all the seamen and marines. Next day the Governor gave a banquet and there were subsequent dinners given by each regiment with a certain rivalry apparent between the commanding officers’ wives. As for Delancey, he said good-bye to his messmates on board the Caesar and was formally thanked by the Admiral.
“I am more than grateful for your help, Delancey, but you must forgive me if I do not mention you in my dispatch. If I reported that you had served on board as a volunteer you might be promoted but Dumaresq would not. As he more than deserves this recognition, I trust you will understand. I shall also ask for the promotion of the first lieutenants of the Superb and Venerable, both very worthy officers. You are deserving of promotion to post-rank and I have said as much in a letter to Lord Keith.
“I am sending Dumaresq to England in the Calpé, bearing my dispatch to the Admiralty. Your promotion is recommended in a separate letter to their Lordships. I wish you to understand that you have a friend in the service and that I shall not forget the way you came to my help: as one Guernseyman helping another. You will have heard, no doubt, that there is talk of peace being made. Should this come about, I shall look forward to meeting you again in St Peter Port.”
Delancey was genuinely grateful for this offer of patronage. He knew by now that the automatic promotion of first lieutenants after a successful engagement was the end to many a naval career. The complimentary promotion meant an improvement in half-pay but carried with it no certainty of employment. Half those promoted after the Battle of Camperdown were still on the beach, or so he had been told, and likely to remain there, being men without interest or protection.
There was no reason to suppose that the first lieutenants of the Superb or Venerable would fare any better. What were their names, now? Samuel Jackson, he remembered, and James Lilli-crap. What influence would there be behind someone called Jackson? What noble family was ever called Lillicrap? Such men were better off as lieutenants, secure of employment for as long as they were useful and not without some chance of making prize-money
Dumaresq had better prospects, not because of his promotion but because he had the friendship of Sir James Saumarez. His own prospects were now almost on that level. He was not a follower in the sense that young Brock was a follower, someone for whose career the Admiral had assumed responsibility following a promise made to the boy’s father, but he had been acknowledged as a neighbour and protégé. Saumarez was certainly going to be in high repute for the rest of the year. Any favour he asked of Lord St Vincent was likely to be granted. The only dark cloud on the horizon was this talk of peace. He could only hope that nothing would come of it.
Delancey returned to the Merlin with a sense of homecoming. She was a fine little ship, well officered, well maintained and ready for anything. She was not a legend, as the Speedy had been before her recent capture, nor was her commander a lord: but she was nothing to be ashamed of.
He had met Lord Cochrane ashore and liked him better than he had at first, recognising at the same time that his liking might not be shared by more senior officers. Cochrane had a good opinion of himself, that was undeniable, but he had tremendous vitality and enthusiasm. He was not as conscious of social position as Dundas tended to be, possibly because his own was so assured, and he seemed to have forgotten Delancey’s refusal to join with him in the hunt for L’Espoir. They had a glass of wine together and parted as friends.
Delancey realised, of course, that he himself would never be given the opportunities which Cochrane had demanded (or usurped), but he was conscious of having done well enough to deserve Lord Keith’s favour. He had played his part in the fall of Malta and at the Battle of Algeciras and his name was no longer entirely unknown. Among those who congratulated him was Mrs Hardwick, who told him that Souraya had settled down very well in an English household and was well liked by everyone.
On the day after he resumed command of the Merlin, Delancey was invited to a ball given by officers of the Royal Artillery. The notice was short and Delancey rather suspected that he was taking the place of some other officer whose plans had been changed. He accepted, however, taking no offence, and enjoyed the party. He was the predestined partner, he found, for a young lady called Marianne Wetherby, whose soldier husband was on duty during the early part of the evening. Marianne was young, vivacious and pretty, so much so that her husband deserted his post before the proper time, reclaimed her with a few curt words of thanks and left Delancey without a partner. His immediate problem—whether to go or stay—was solved for him by the belated arrival of Sir James Saumarez who greeted him in the hall.
“Glad to see you, Delancey. I hoped you would be here. I want you to meet my cousin, Colonel Saumarez, who has recently joined the Governor’s staff.” The Colonel had evidently arrived after Sir James, who now made a little speech for his benefit.
“I know that you watched our first battle, Tom. After it had been joined you may have noticed a sloop going into action without any invitation from me. Well, here is the commander of that ship, an officer for whom I foresee a distinguished career.”
“Honoured to meet you,” said the Colonel. “You played a gallant part, sir, in the recent engagement. Allow me to present you to my wife, Mrs Saumarez, and also to my younger daughter, Miss Julia Saumarez.”
Delancey bowed to the ladies and was received with unusual friendliness.
“I was myself a witness of your noble conduct!” cried Mrs Saumarez, “and Julia was beside me. I remember how she clasped her hands and said ‘Well done!’”
“But I am a mercenary warrior and ask a reward,” replied Delancey with another bow. “I ask Miss Saumarez to be my partner in the next dance.” This offer was accepted willingly with a smile from the mother and a little curtsey from the daughter. Delancey found himself re-entering the ballroom as one of the Admiral’s party and one in high favour with the rest.
He had certainly wasted no time in exploiting the situation, which resulted from the Admiral’s late arrival and which found the other officers already provided with partners. He made himself useful in fetching chairs and ordering refreshment and presently took the floor with Miss Julia, a lovely fair-haired young girl. She was very shy and he worked hard to interest or amuse her, being finally recompensed by a fleeting smile. She blushed enchantingly and her fair curls fell on the whitest shoulders. Her arms and figure were unbelievably delicate and her manner was at once friendly and restrained. He had never been in company with so pretty a girl and he was quick to ask for the privilege of taking her into supper. She assented shyly and he resigned her, temporarily, to a young Major Paget of the Second Regiment of Foot, who looked all too prosperous and eligible.
While she danced with other men he talked with Mrs Saumarez and expressed his admiration for the Admiral, whose victory must earn him still higher honours. As he talked he looked across the floor at Julia whose back was turned towards him while she listened to what was probably a funny story from a Captain of Engineers. He made at that moment a discovery which was unknown, he thought, to the rest of the world. A pretty girl is still pretty when her face is unseen. She betrays in every movement, in the slightest gesture, that she knows herself to be pretty, clinching the impression by the way she pats her hair into place.
Mrs Saumarez caught his look of admiration and told him how popular Julia had always been. “She has no great fortune,” she added in fairness, “for ours is a poorer branch of the family, but I don’t suppose she will be unmarried for long. We hesitated at first over bringing her to Gibraltar in time of war but all the talk is of peace.” That Delancey should take Julia into supper was warmly accepted by her mother who thus allowed the progress of a friendship. That the girl’s parents should seem to encourage his suit seemed to Delancey too good to be true. It was all happening too quickly to be believed but Delancey had already fallen in love.
There was no way in which he could keep Julia to himself but Delancey could at least make it clear that he was not interested in any other girl. So he kept off the dance floor and presently found himself in conversation with a young diplomatist called Tarleton, who took a cynical view of the peace negotiations.
“What worries me,” he explained, “is that the victories of Lord Nelson, Lord Keith and now of Sir James Saumarez should lead to a peace treaty in which Malta may be lost to us.”
“Are you serious, sir?”
“Never more so. Nothing is yet agreed, you’ll understand, but the terms under discussion imply our returning the island to the Knights of Malta. There have been protests, of course, but my fear is that we shall lose in negotiation what we won in battle.”
“But that is absurd. The Knights are discredited and impoverished. The Order has had no useful function for at least a hundred years.”
“Just so. You know it. I know it. All the world must know it. But our Secretary of State knows something different. And what is our wisdom compared with his?”
“All this in the nineteenth century! This plan is fit for bedlam! It can’t be carried out, however, because the Maltese won’t accept it.”
“Exactly! And that is one reason for supposing that this peace will be of short duration. At least one of the British undertakings will be impossible to fulfil and this will give the First Consul every excuse to break all the other terms of the treaty.”
Delancey took some comfort from this conversation, although indignant to think that the Maltese should be cheated of what they had fought for and gained. They were surely entitled to British protection and a measure of independence. But an early renewal of war would change the whole situation and give them what they wanted. In the meanwhile, this coming peace would wreck his chances of promotion. It was odd, come to think of it, that Colonel and Mrs Saumarez should look with any favour on an officer of less than post-rank.
Delancey was next in conversation again with the Admiral, who told him that the Merlin would soon be ordered home. “It seems to me, however,” he added, “that Guernsey will not be too far out of your way. As you know, I have a number of Guernseymen among my shipmates. Two of them were disabled at Algeciras but not so badly that they need want employment. When they are invalided I have a mind to send them home and tell them to report to Lady Saumarez. If they take passage in the Merlin you will be able to tell Lady Saumarez about the battle. You will also be entrusted with messages, I fancy, from Colonel and Mrs Saumarez to their friends on the island.”
Delancey quickly promised to perform any errand of this sort. Looking across at Julia, he could not imagine disobeying a command from any of her family. He firmly told himself that he could not possibly marry the Admiral’s niece, but the daydream persisted and he knew that it was not merely a matter of self-interest. It was the girl herself who was the attraction in this all but impossible prospect.
Before he could reach Julia, now with two other naval officers, Delancey was intercepted by Mrs Hardwick.
“I told you, did I not,” she said, “that Souraya has settled down very well and that we are all very fond of her. She was upset, I must tell you, when she saw the Merlin going into action. The battle could be seen, you know, from the nursery window. We call her Catherine and she helps look after my two remaining children, Delia and Jimmy, who is called after the dear Admiral, a great favourite with them both. But she is older than you imagined; twelve, perhaps, or even thirteen, and quite forward for her age. She is beginning to know a few words of English and remembers two or three words of Italian. Some day she may be able to tell us where she comes from. I have taught her to say her prayers and I know that she prays for you each night.”
Delancey thanked Mrs Hardwick for her news and told her that he was glad to think that Souraya was so well cared for. Escaping from the lady with some difficulty, he secured Julia as a partner in the next dance and then led her on to the terrace, from which they could look down on the moonlit harbour. She had lost much of her shyness and came out with a sigh of happiness.
“I dreamed that life could be romantic,” she confessed, “and now I find that it is! There is everything here, the white columns, the scented shrubs, the naval uniforms and pretty gowns. And there are the great ships at anchor, overlooked by the frowning bastions from which the bugles sounded the last post.”
“A lovely scene,” Delancey agreed, with eyes only for the girl. “But what is romance?”
“Romance is beauty, I think, and a background of authority and order, with love and laughter and a hint of danger.”
“Danger? Fear?”
“Yes. There must be the cannon and the sentinels, the gunfire heard across the bay. Will you point out for me the ship in which you fought?” Delancey indicated the flagship, well lit up for a party given by the wardroom officers.
“But how can that be, sir? You are the captain, surely, of another ship?”
“I served in the flagship as a volunteer on that occasion. My own ship is the Merlin. You can see her further to the left and close to the mole.”
“The Merlin? But I thought you were Captain Dundas?”
“He commands another sloop, the Calpé.”
“Dear me! And you are . . . ?
“I am Richard Delancey.”
“Good gracious!” (The name obviously meant nothing to her.) “How very droll! Shall we go in? Mama will be wondering where we are.”
He escorted her back to Mrs Saumarez, who had heard of her mistake from another source since Colonel Saumarez had later met Captain Dundas himself. There was a sudden change in the atmosphere, not simply the result of mistaken identity. Mrs Saumarez had been talking, he guessed, with Mrs Hardwick and perhaps with Mr Slater. There was a story going round, he realised, and he must feature in it as the purchaser of a slave girl. Had he rescued her, sword in hand, the story might have been told to his advantage, but the mere mention of the slave market must be fatal. If he had ever had a chance of marrying Julia that chance was gone for good.
Having said good-bye and expressed his thanks to host and hostess, Delancey was on the point of leaving when he met Lord Cochrane in the entrance hall.
“Ah, Delancey, this war, it seems, is going to end too soon for either of us. There’ll be no promotion now, least of all for an officer on parole, pending exchange.”
“Nor will an officer fare any better who served in the flagship as a volunteer and whose presence in action will not be mentioned in the dispatch.”
“I hope that you were luckier with prize-money. I can’t complain after that last cruise in the Speedy.”
“I was not as fortunate as your lordship.”
“But you may have shown greater skill in investment, as for example in Tetuan! Now don’t take offence, man, no one thinks the worse of you—saving, perhaps, some old women of both sexes. A pity, however, that the Santa Catarina was in ballast. Her hull is not terribly valuable, I should suppose, and her sails and cordage look nearly worn out.”
“I may yet have a stroke of luck, my lord. The Merlin is ordered home, the war is not over and I might capture a prize or two at the last moment.”
“I have considered that possibility too. One might intercept a merchantman on the French coast, sailing without convoy in the belief that the war is already over. Or one might discover that war had indeed ended the day before, leaving one to face a costly action for damages.”
“Just so, my lord. For the next month or two we shall be cruising at our own risk. We might be lucky and then again we might be damned unfortunate.”
Back in his cabin aboard the Merlin, Delancey handed his cloak and sword to the faithful Teesdale, who asked whether the ball had been a success.
“Yes, there was something to celebrate. A pleasanter occasion than when you and I were running over the rooftops at Tetuan!”
“I often think of that night, sir, and say to myself that we were lucky to get away with it.”
“The story has been told on the lower deck?”
“Well, sir, it couldn’t be secret, like.”
“No. So there is talk about Souraya?”
“Yes, sir, but the way the story goes she was a heathen princess, not the poor unwashed child I had the care of. Do you hear, sir, how she has fared?”
“Yes, Teesdale. She is nurserymaid to Mrs Hardwick, is happy and well liked and becoming a Christian.”
“I’m glad to hear that, sir. With respect, sir, may I say that no one thinks the worse of you for saving the girl?”
“Thank you, Teesdale. I still don’t know what else I could have done. Turn in now. I shall be on deck for a while.”
Delancey paced the quarterdeck for ten minutes and then paused, leaning on the gunwale and staring up at the Rock of Gibraltar. There were few lights now to be seen ashore or round the harbour but the night was starlit and he could just see the sentinel pacing the quayside. Two men on harbour watch were talking to each other quietly in the waist of the ship. The water lapped against the ship’s side and a dog barked somewhere in the distance. How unlucky he had been over Julia . . . and yet he had been foolish to dream impossible dreams about a girl he had only just met. How could he have been so stupid, knowing that he had nothing to offer? There had been a perfection about her—that was it, and he had never met it before. He was awake now and the dream was over. There were the first signs of daybreak, a faint lightening of the sky, a first breath of wind from the sea. He realised, with wonder, that he would never see Julia again and that, whatever happened later, he would never forget her.