The Spoils of Conquest Read online

  Other Nathan Peake novels by Seth Hunter

  The Time of Terror

  The Tide of War

  The Price of Glory

  The Winds of Folly

  The Flag of Freedom

  The Spoils of Conquest

  Published by McBooks Press 2017

  First published in Great Britain by Headline Review, an imprint of

  Headline Publishing Group, a Hachette UK company, 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by Seth Hunter. The right of Seth Hunter to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

  Cover illustration © collaberationJS

  Typeset in Sabon by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  The Nathan Peake Novels, book six:

  ISBN 9781590137215 (softcover)

  ISBN 9781590137222 (mobipocket)

  ISBN 9781590137239 (ePub)

  ISBN 9781590137246 (PDF)

  Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

  Printed in the United States of America

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Apart from obvious historical figures—all characters herein are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  The Admiral’s Letter

  The two battle fleets lay at anchor, little more than a pistol shot from each other. The great guns were silent now, their muzzles capped, their trucks secured, but not a single ship was without the scars of battle, some shockingly so. Many were without masts, or so mangled about the rigging that they could scarce have moved beyond the sheltered waters of the bay. On several of the most smitten, two or even three of the gunports had been smashed into one, as if by a giant’s axe, so that they resembled gaps in a row of teeth, a dribble of dried blood, more black now than red, staining the hulls below.

  The haven in which these ruins lay was littered with debris: of masts and spars, torn canvas, shattered timbers, ship’s boats – and sometimes bodies. They rose to the surface, propelled by their own noxious gases to appear like ghosts, so many days after the battle, reminding the survivors of the fate they had so narrowly escaped, and the price that had been paid by friends and enemies alike. Whenever this happened the ships would shift very slightly at their moorings, as if moved by some hidden emotion, for there was no wind. The sea was calm. The sky cloudless. The heat stupefying.

  In the stern cabin of one of these ships there sat a man writing a letter. He was of middling years, his features gaunt, his complexion bloodless. Apart from the fact that he was not in the least bloated – he was worn to a frazzle, in fact – he might have been taken for one of those ghosts resurrected from the bottom of the bay. There was a bandage about his head and the hair that escaped from under its linen folds dropped grey and straggling to his shoulder. The empty sleeve of his right arm was pinned to his uniform coat, and he wrote clumsily with his left hand, using a wooden T-bar to keep the lines straight and the paper from shifting under his quill.

  To His Excellency the Governor of Bombay. Vanguard, Mouth of the Nile, 9 August, 1798

  Sir …

  That was the easy part. He paused and sat for a moment, thinking of the best way to proceed. There must be no bombast, no vainglory; he would leave that to the enemy. Understatement; that was the English way. The ship stirred again at her moorings. The cables creaked. Pools of sunlight, reflected from the sparkling water, danced on the canvas partitions of the cabin. He moved the T-bar an inch or so down the page, dipped his pen in the ink, and began:

  Although I hope the consuls resident in Egypt have sent you an express of the situation here, it is possible you may not be regularly informed. I shall, therefore, relate to you, briefly, that a French army of forty thousand men in three hundred transports, with thirteen sail of the line, eleven frigates, bomb vessels, gun-boats, &c. arrived at Alexandria on 1 July.

  On the 7th, they left for Cairo, where they arrived on the 22nd. During their march they had some actions with the opposing Egyptian forces, which the French call great victories. As I have Bonaparte’s despatches before me, which I took yesterday, I speak positively …

  He laid down his quill to search with his one hand among the papers that were piled upon his desk. After a moment or two, he found the despatch in question – or rather, the translation that had been made for him – and sat reading it for a moment with an expression that was not far off a sneer. Then he took up the quill again.

  … He says, ‘I am now going to send off to take Suez and Damietta.’ He does not speak very favourably of either the country or its people, but there is so much bombast in his letters, that it is difficult to get near the truth.

  From all the inquiries which I have been able to make, I cannot learn that any French vessels are at Suez, to carry any part of this army to India. Yet I know that Bombay, if they can get there, is their prime objective.

  He was obliged to lay down the quill and put his hand to his head for a moment, touching the bandage lightly with the tips of his fingers, fighting the waves of pain that surged through his skull. Bombay. Impossible. Unimaginable. That he should be remembered as the British admiral who allowed the French to march on India, his own great victory forgotten, or, at best, included as a footnote to his rival’s triumphant march across Asia … This man whom he had never met, but whose lifeline seemed so dramatically to cross his own, like invisible currents in the ocean …

  Although the stern windows were open, the air was stifling inside the cabin, and his pale features were waxed with a sheen of sweat.

  A fat fly had the temerity to settle upon his desk and he flapped at it furiously with his hand. Flies proliferated in the heat, fattened on the plenitude of rotting flesh, for there were bodies still unburied on the shore, but it was rare for them to venture so far into the bay. Pools of light, reflected from the water, danced on the whitewashed bulkheads, and gave an impression of coolness wholly belying the searing, sweltering reality. The ship stank even worse than normal and dark tar oozed from between the timbers of the main deck like old blood.

  He began writing again, the sharpened end scratching noisily across the page.

  I trust Almighty God will in Egypt overthrow these pests of the human race. It has been in my power to take eleven sail of the line and two frigates; in short, only two sail of the line and two frigates have escaped me.

  He read the letter over. This incredible tally. This modest summary of his glorious achievement. Eleven sail of the line and two frigates. Eleven sail of the line! Nine taken, two destroyed by fire and explosion. An entire battle fleet reduced to two sail of the line and two frigates.

  He thought back over the great sea victories of the past. The Spanish Armada: one Spanish ship taken by gunfire, the rest lost in a storm. Hawke’s great victory at Quiberon: seven French ships. Rodney at the Battle of the Saints: five. Jervis at the Battle of St Vincent: four. Only the great Admiral Blake, Father of the Navy, had achieved a greater triumph.

  Eleven sail of the line.

  He began writing rapidly now, pausing only to move the ruler an inch or so further down the page or to refresh the ink on his pen.

  This glorious battle was fought at the Mouth of the Nile, at anchor. It began at sunset, 1 August, and was not finished until three the next morning; it has been severe, but God has blessed our endeavours with a great victory.


  I am now at anchor between Alexandria and Rosetta, to prevent their communication by water, and nothing under a regiment can pass by land. You may be assured I shall remain here as long as possible. Bonaparte has never yet to contend with an English officer, and I shall endeavour to make him respect us.

  If my letter is not so correct as might be expected, I trust for your excuse, when I tell you that my brain is so shook with the wounds in my head, that I am sensible I am not always so clear as could be wished; but whilst a ray of reason remains, my heart and my head shall ever be exerted for the benefit of our king and country.

  I have the honour to be, &c.

  Horatio Nelson

  He read the letter back. It was in need of improvement, but he did not have the time or the patience. He had at least a dozen other things on his mind, and his secretary would have to make copies before morning. But this brought to mind the one thing he had forgotten to include – and the main reason for writing in the first place. That damned French shot had scattered his wits. It would have to go as a postscript.

  The officer who carries this despatch to you possesses my instruction, subject to your approval, to assume command of those of His Majesty’s naval forces that are available to him, in order to prevent the despatch of French troops and materiel to India. I recommend him to you unreservedly as an officer of great merit and distinction in whom you may place the utmost reliance should you wish to place your own naval resources at his disposal.

  There. It was done. And God help the poor devil who would have to deliver it.

  Part One

  The Scanderoon

  Chapter One

  The Captain and the Consul

  On the broad platform of the flagship’s maintop, some ninety feet above the tranquil waters of the bay, two men were having a picnic. They had made themselves a nest of folded sails, and were shielded from the full force of the sun by a scrap of canvas strung between the futtock shrouds. Between them, on a pewter platter, were the bones of a dismembered fowl and next to it, a bottle of hock, now empty.

  This indulgence apart, they seemed an odd couple to find aboard a British man-of-war, even given the exigencies of a service that was obliged to cast its net far and wide in the recruitment of personnel to fight the war against revolutionary France. One wore a blue uniform jacket with a worn epaulette at the left shoulder indicating the status of a post-captain, but it was a shabby, ill-fitting affair, and he wore grubby canvas ducks instead of breeches; he had not shaved for several days, and his naturally dark complexion was further blackened by several months’ exposure to the Mediterranean sun. Moreover, he appeared start-lingly young for one so senior in rank, though in point of fact he had turned thirty on his last birthday, on the very day of the recent battle, and had been reflecting ever since on his approaching senility.

  The other wore the loose-fitting robes of a Bedouin camel herder, which was not a rank normally associated with the King’s Navy. He was a man of impressive stature, even in repose, and he had a turban round his head, a dagger at his belt, and a pair of soft camel-skin boots on his feet. He was some several years older than his com panion, his complexion even darker, and his beard considerably more pronounced, though shot through with grey.

  Both men had their legs stretched out before them, their backs resting against the broad support of the mainmast, and their eyes closed.

  This idyll was shortly to be disturbed by a small boy who was ascending rapidly towards them by means of the mainmast shrouds. Declining the open invitation of the lubber’s hole, he swarmed upwards and outwards until his head appeared above the edge of the platform upon which the two men reclined. At which point, hanging backwards at an angle of some twenty degrees to the perpendicular, he took a moment of leisure to observe the recumbent forms. They were sufficiently wonderful, in the child’s experience of the King’s Navy, for his eyes to widen in surprise and his features to contort themselves into a delighted grin. He had not yet seen a crocodile or a camel or any other of the wonders of the Nile but this was almost as good.

  ‘Do you have something to say for yourself or are you just come to gape?’

  The grin vanished, to be replaced by an expression more becoming of a junior officer aboard the flagship of the Mediterranean fleet, for, despite his extreme youth, the intruder wore the uniform of a midshipman.

  ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. Is it Captain Peake, sir?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  With the agility of his brethren, the great apes, the youth propelled himself through the air, briefly defied gravity, and landed upon the platform with a light thud, respectfully touching his hat.

  ‘The admiral’s respects, sir, and he would be pleased to see you in his cabin, at your leisure –’ His eyes slid to the camel herder – ‘and also the gentleman that is with you.’

  There was a slight emphasis upon certain of these words that might possibly have given offence to those of a more sensitive disposition, and not wishing to take any chances, having delivered himself of his message, the young man touched his hand to his hat, and stepped backwards into space.

  Rather more sedately, and with a brief exchange of glances, the two men picked up their debris and followed.

  They found the admiral in his cabin entertaining a civilian, dressed rather like an English squire, and as red-faced and travel stained as if he had been out with his hounds. He rose at their entrance and stood a little diffidently, with his hat held before him in both hands, running his fingers around the brim, an uncertain smile upon his face.

  ‘Ah, and here they are,’ the admiral proclaimed. ‘Permit me to introduce Captain Nathaniel Peake, late of the frigate Unicorn, and Mr Spiridion Foresti, formerly British Consul to Corfu and the Seven Isles.’

  If the admiral’s visitor was surprised by these titles – being attached to so dishevelled a duo as were presented for his inspection – he hid it well.

  ‘This, gentlemen, is Mr Hudson,’ the admiral continued. ‘Agent for the Levant Company in Cairo.’

  The three men exchanged bows.

  ‘Mr Hudson and I are acquainted,’ declared the Bedouin in an English tongue that betrayed a strong flavour of the Levant. Indeed, there were few people of influence in the Eastern Mediterranean with whom Spiridion Foresti was not acquainted. Contrary to appearances, he was in fact Greek, and his business interests had for many years been in shipping. As the admiral had indicated, until quite recently he had represented British interests in the Ionian isles, but since their capitulation to the French and the loss of much of his business, he had focused upon the trade in information. He was, in short, a spy.

  ‘Mr Foresti has been gathering intelligence of the French forces in Rosetta, and thought it wise to take precautions against discovery,’ explained the admiral.

  ‘Quite so.’ Mr Hudson’s expression indicated that if Mr Foresti wished to dress as an Arab that was entirely his own concern. Clearly, he had not felt the need to take similar precautions, despite the presence of above 40,000 French troops in the country.

  ‘Mr Hudson has been telling me about Bonaparte’s preparations for a descent upon India,’ Nelson confided. ‘I am sure he would not mind repeating it.’

  Before Hudson could respond to his invitation, there was the sound of a bell – the first bell of the afternoon watch – which was promptly followed by the appearance of the admiral’s steward with a bowl of lemon shrub. At the same time, from the deck above came the strains of ‘Nancy Dawson’, played badly on the fiddle, signalling the mess cooks to attend at the foot of the mainmast, where the yeoman of the hold, carefully watched by one of the ship’s lieutenants, was about to mix the grog – a blend of lemon juice, sugar and rum which was held by many to be the principle cause of the British seaman’s superiority to all other species of marine life.

  The substance dispensed to the admiral’s guests contained the same ingredients, but laced with egg white, which was thought to make it more suitable for the con sumption of officers and gentlemen,
though it was considered effeminate by the lesser privileged. The admiral waited until the servant had departed before nodding for his guest to continue.

  ‘As you are doubtless aware, the bulk of the French Army is currently encamped on the Plains of Giza just outside Cairo,’ he reported, ‘but shortly after their victory over the Mamalukes, one of Bonaparte’s principle agents was despatched to the port of Suez to make arrangements for sending troops to India.’

  The impact of this statement upon his audience was muted. If they had not known already, it was clearly no surprise to them.

  ‘Two weeks ago,’ Mr Hudson continued, a little put out by their indifference to his news, ‘a detachment of four thousand infantrymen marched south from Giza. I think we may assume that this is the first contingent of Bonaparte’s advance upon the Orient.’

  ‘Do you by any chance know the name of this agent?’ the captain enquired.

  ‘I do, as a matter of fact. His name is Xavier Naudé and his official function is that of representative for the Compagnie du Levant.’

  ‘You are acquainted with this man?’ Nelson enquired of Mr Foresti.

  ‘I have come across him in the past,’ Foresti replied carefully. ‘He is a senior officer of French intelligence who has also served in Venice and in Tripoli. I congratulate you, Mr Hudson. You may think me importunate, but did your informant speak of a woman among Naudé’s following?’

  Hudson looked startled. His eyes slid swiftly to the admiral, but receiving no help from that quarter he replied: ‘Indeed. In fact, I can tell you between these four walls’ – he clearly had no concept of the lack of privacy provided by a ship of war – ‘that it was she who passed the information on to us in the first place, through an intermediary in Cairo.’

  The reaction of his audience was at least as startling. The captain smiled, the consul laughed aloud. They had every appearance of two men enjoying a private joke together.