"Le Victoire…Le Temeraire…"

Captain Pierre-Charles Villeneuve, Admiral of the combined French-Spanish fleet, peered through his spyglass at the ships that were following them northwards naming those which he could. The day was dull, though the clouds moved quickly and promised a finer morning, and the sun was no brighter than an oil lamp in the gloom. What the weather would be like that afternoon few people would probably venture an opinion – both large fleets may well engaged in something a little more significant than meteorology.

"…c'est…Souverain Royale…" Villeneuve's First Lieutenant had also taken up his telescope and was eyeing the British fleet. Villeneuve looked to where Dubois had his glass fixed and then drew his own up to his eye.

The eighth bell of the morning watch rang out over the decks of Bucentaure. The men, assembled in their squads were ready for the action. Not ready enough, Villeneuve contemplated bitterly.

"…et un…frigate…carres-greemente…canon pret…"

Villeneuve swerved towards the sight. Indeed his lieutenant was correct – a square-rigged frigate with its cannon out was flanking the British flagship. This spectacle also made his ship's doctor, Guillaume Dupuytren, take notice. He looked up from his ever-mysterious scribblings (which Admiral Villeneuve suspected were reports to be sent directly to Bonaparte, but were in fact details of the habit of the men and their lives, their ablutive and dietary habits, their health and medical conditions. Mostly.)

"May I?" Villeneuve passed his telescope to the tall, dark-featured surgeon, trying not to let his tension show. Dupuytren had flanked him closely, very closely, since his recommendation, a strongly worded letter from the Emperor and had Villeneuve feel uneasy, not least by his almost constant writing. As admiral of the fleet he knew he was a good one, but he would make a better one had he the absolute autonomy of his fleet that he so desired and deserved.

An even better one stood, even now, Villeneuve inferred, on the Victory's quarterdeck, with his aqueous realm acting at one on his command. In contrast his fleet had come to verbal, and near physical blows, when they met a fortnight before, by the light of the full moon, left some captains, especially the Spanish, uneasy, unclear, un-united…

"I believe I know this ship," Dupuytren offered, handing the brass telescope back to the Admiral. "On release from my gaol in Portsmouth this was the ship, I do believe, which transported me back to France. Its doctor treated my injuries," he added. Villeneuve said nothing. It was unusual for the Emperor's surgeon to voice anything of note and, while his information was interesting it did nothing to help his strategy.

"Bon, merci," replied Villeneuve politely, taking up his telescope again. Some of the mist had lifted slightly and more of the British fleet were visible. They were gaining. Their ships would have to retreat. Further north would be the best option and he gave Captain Magendie the order.

Wind flapped a little and, over the course of the next hour and a half dropped to almost nothing. However, Villeneuve would not know this yet and, even if he had have done, the seeds of defeat were already sown.

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Cicely found herself pacing as the second bell of the forenoon watch tolled far ahead. The shop was moving at speed now; she could hear the faint shouts above of orders being given, feet pounding the decks, cannon being rolled out and decks being cleared. Above her, the galley fire had been doused as food for the crew had been prepared – the men and officers had messed (though none had been brought to her) – a sure sign that battle was impending.

She felt herself becoming agitated – Cicely had eaten the bread that James had given to her and waited the two or so hours from then to now as she waited for him to return. Her task was returning to her mind moment to moment – she was to assassinate the assassin. The options, consequences, conclusions clustered in her mind vying for attention as two conflicting parts of her mind fought for supremacy.

Joseph Fouche had given her that role, and she had reluctantly accepted it with Stephen's life as assurance. Now she knew Stephen was dead her original task was redundant. Did she really need to escape to find out the assassin's identity, and stop him, ultimately kill him? What If she didn't leave at all? What if she remained here?

Then she wouldn't be doing her duty, as silently agreed with Jack, upon Stephen's memory. Who could stand by knowing the untimely death of such a man as Lord Nelson was imminent?

Was it James? He had been so nonchalant when he had spoken to her, before being sparked into life by his duty. An hour ago she had called out to him – Cicely had seen, or thought she had seen a figure near the bilge pumps. Clearly her desperately-hoping imagination and she had sat down trying to judge the best course of action which, in her incarcerated state, were currently limited. She –

Steps, hurrying down from the hatch above, made Cicely break her tempestuous thoughts and she got to her feet, brushing herself off and anticipating James's round, eager face found herself looking at not one, but three figures belting in her direction.

First was Philip Dixon; his impatience to get to her caused him to fall awkwardly a couple of feet before the wooden bars. Bill Gibbons saw him just in time and jumped over him, out of the way. Reuben Jelfs was not so lucky and fell over the hapless Philip, grumbling at him, annoyed. Dixon's face was one of bemusement at his own clumsiness. Bill leaned over him and offered him a hand.

"Thou shouldn't've ran, Stephen, thou'st fer it now!" Philip's fast pace meant he was stumbling over his words as he scuttled towards Cicely, grinning as if her fate was the best joke he had heard that year.

"Quite so," replied Cicely slowly and nodding at Philip. "I say, did you speak to James Fillings?"

"Him!" scoffed Bill, slapping his thigh. "When do we ever talk to deck hands?" She glanced at Reuben Jelfs who was silent – he knew Cicely, as Stephen Maturin, had been conversing with James the night she had absconded.

"I mean," continued Philip, ignoring both Bill's comment and Cicely's question, "you getting too much drink in yer," he added, "then skippin' off? Doltish, if yer ask me," he added. You'd know, thought Cicely, very much to herself and then cursed herself for thinking such a mean thing. She was tired; she had been through a hellish few days. Get to the point, lads, please, she begged to her mess-mates silently.

"We've swapped wills," Philip pressed on blithely, "you've got mine, and I've got yours, ain't that right, Jelfsy? I left all I got to yer," he continued, "even though that's a couple o' shillin' And we all got new clothes," he added, looking down at his fresh attire proudly. "Seems a bit of a waste if we're goin' to battle," he added.

"Shut up, Philip," interrupted Bill, shaking his head. "Don't be such a horse-ninny! It's because new clothes don't have dirt on 'em. If you get shot, you're more likely to live if you've got clean clothes on. I've written back to Florence, my true love," he added, changing the subject. "And we just wanted to come down and see you, and say good luck." Cicely inhaled, before exhaling raggedly.

"I could join you," she prompted. They had come down to see her, but not to let her out? Reuben Jelfs who, since she had thumped him having emerged from the Captain's cabin, having determined the identity of Lebec, had been cool with her ever since, shook his head slowly.

"What do you think would happen to us if they found out we let you out? We'd all be for a flogging." Jelfs folded his arms as if to underline his assertion. But Philip frowned, especially when Cicely pressed her point.

"I can fight," she continued firmly. "I was on a ship, the Surprise, and we boarded a French frigate and fought the Frogs." With a glimmer of satisfaction Cicely noticed a glint of astonishment in Philip's eyes.

"Really?" asked Bill, who seemed equally impressed. "You've fought before, Stephen?" Cicely nodded. "Killed, too. But that's not important."

"It is," replied Reuben. "We're supposed to kill the enemy."

"Anyway," interrupted Bill, as footsteps above, but far enough away not to detect them immediately, caused mizzenlad Gibbons to get, uncharacteristically, to the point. "We just wanted to know if you had a letter you wanted to pass on to a sweetheart, or a will for us to keep." Cicely sighed again, her heart sinking. They really weren't here to let her out – was it just her own will that she should be released making the assumption that they were? That they would? She shook her head.

"Then we'd better go," replied Jelfs, turning towards the steps. "Good luck," he added hollowly. Bill turned to go too, but Philip turned towards Cicely. Now was her chance.

"Philip," she begged, "I can fight; I can help you."

"Dixon!" hissed Bill from the steps, we've got to go."

"I've got to go," Philip repeated, but his face was etched in sorrow, for her, for her plight. "If they catch us, we're fer it."

"What if I told you something, a secret?" Cicely's desperation had made her raise her voice and the retreating Philip turned back and looked at her, open-eyed.

"What?"

"Dixon!" Jelfs's voice echoed down the hatch. "Come on!" But Philip Dixon had chosen to ignore his friends and had returned to Cicely, looking at her intently.

"What?" he repeated urgently. Cicely paused. Philip Dixon was a clot, a dullard, a ninnyhammer. But he was innocent in a child-like way. She was about to play on his simpleness and she hated herself for conceiving it.

"The Lord Admiral," began Cicely, trying to think of the best way to explain it to Dixon. "When he's out at the battle, he's going to be killed."

"We're going to battle," replied Dixon. From above Cicely heard a song, very faintly, filtering down to them…

"…hearts of oak are our ships…"

"Anyone might get killed."

"No!" snapped Cicely, rather forcefully. "From the flagship. Our ship." She paused as Philip took on the information. "Someone on our ship is going to kill Admiral Nelson during the battle! The battle is an ideal place for a murder, isn't it? All that smoke, the noise, the guns hammering…" She trailed off as confusion crossed Philip's face.

"…jolly tars are our men…"

"So you want me to let you out to fight?" he tried uncertainly.

"Yes! No!" replied Cicely unclearly. "I need to keep an eye on Lord Nelson and work out who it is."

"You mean to say you don't know?" replied Philip, shocked. "How do you know that someone's going to kill him?" Cicely stopped. How could she explain all of that?

"…never see our foes but we wish them to stay…"

"I just…know. Look," she summarised, "let me out, please Philip," she begged. "You can lock me back up afterwards – no-one will ever know." But Philip Dixon was retreating from her cell, shaking his head. He turned when he got to the hold steps and, looking back to her, silently apologised to her before running up the steps.

"…and wish us away…"

Cicely sagged. Her last hope. A forlorn hope now, she knew. Within the next hour or so the flagship would engage the enemy and the last thing on anyone's mind would be her. Cicely put her head on her knees and wept.

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Seven bells on the forenoon watch. Half past eleven. Jack Aubrey, Captain of the Surprise was scrutinising the pennants being held aloft from the now stationary flag ship. Several messages had been transmitted, instructions to the fleet as to their role and position. Over on the leeward column identical pennants were being raised on the Royal Sovereign relaying the Victory's message to the ships behind it.

"Yes, Mr. Mowett?" Aubrey turned from his view of the mizzen of the flagship.

"The men are assembled, sir, as you requested." It was an unusual request, and Jack knew it. Usually before battle, the order for "clear to action" meant everything bar the guns were cleared away from the gun decks. Above decks boats, which could shower deadly wood splinters if hit were covered and the rigging was secured, with splinter nets laid out. The men had sanded and wetted the decks and butts of water were placed so the men on different stations could refresh themselves easily. The arms chests were deployed on the main deck so the boarding party could access it easily.

In fact, none of this had been done bar the sanding and wetting. In addition their guns were prone, which was slowing down the Surprise and somewhat defeated the object of opening full the sails. Not that anyone aboard would question the captain's orders, but Jack had to be sure he was uniting the men sufficiently for the plan he had in mind.

"Very good, Mr. Mowett." Jack thanked his first lieutenant and moved to the rails by the edge of the quarterdeck and surveyed his men who were staring at him attentively, his lieutenants and middies flanking him solemnly. All hands were on deck, as had been called for and looked over the faces of the men, blank save for the anticipation of duty.

The battle would not be long to start. The British fleet was now in its columns and the enemy's fleet was in a crescent formation, trying its best to flee. Jack was about to address the men, but paused as Dr. Hardy climbed the steps to his left and stood next to Midshipman Barrington.

Yes, they were ready. The doctor had been down to the cockpit (not used for fighting cocks, never on the Surprise for the practise had died out at least seventy years previously, but as bloody and grisly tasks would be undertaken in their place). He would have been sharpening the instruments and arranging the tubs. Many wings and legs may be donated to the waves after this day's work, Aubrey mused.

"Men of the Surprise," he began. "We are about to face the enemy." He handed a piece of paper to Mowett, the transcription of the signal sent from the flagship which Jack had himself taken down.

"Our Lord Admiral has privileged us by speaking to us. To all of us. For his message is for each and every one of you directly." He nodded over his men again.

"Men of the Surprise," he continued. "We are to flank HMS Victory and offer our support. She is to lead her column right to the heart of the enemy. We need to be focused and steady as we sail towards the enemy. We will not fire on the enemy ships. Our nerve may make or break the battle, and it is important that you know this. Each and every one of you is important, everything you do now is important and now Victory depends on us!"

"Hurrah!" cheered the men patriotically.

"Our Lord Admiral's message is to you, to every man here. His message reads, "England expects that every man will do his duty. And that is exactly what we are going to do!"

"Hurrah! Hurrah!"

"So go men, to your stations. Every man, do your duty!"

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William Wickham, engaged as his duty above the mizzendeck, had the man in his sights. He had a job to do, just like everyone else aboard the flag ship and now, loading the cannon as he had been assigned to do, he cursed his ill luck as he wielded the heavy metal balls into position.

He had seen Wickham, had the assassin. He was a deck hand, and as such was employed in keeping a section of the decks clear of clutter and debris which would hinder the progress of their gunners. So the assassin would now assume he was keeping an eye on him to make sure he did what he had been paid to do.

Good. That was exactly what he had hoped the assassin would think. And when the ship sailed close to the enemy then William Wickham would have his chance. Chaos would ensue; splinters would rise, blood would flow, bullets would fly. One of those would be his.

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Cicely heard the first of the cannon boom from the larboard. It had started and she was not there. She rested her forehead on her knees as she wept for Admiral Lord Nelson. What could she now do to prevent such a catastrophe?

It had been in her waking vision that Cicely had imagined someone in the shadows minutes ago. She had called out to them, hoping that they would come near, so she could tell them, in her desperation that the Admiral was in danger. Had she felt saner she might have been more confident her assertion that someone was there, in the shadows, and she may well have called out with all her might.

No, there was nothing more she could do but sit and listen to the battle around her, wondering to herself of her own eventual fate. Had she been paying a little more attention she may well have heard feet near the bilge pumps but the first noise Cicely registered was a hasty scuttling of someone on the deck above, a thud-thud-thud of feet on the steps and further thumping of that same someone on the deck in front of her.

"Were yer serious?" cicel lifted her head and blinked muzzily through tear-swollen eyes.

"The Lord Admiral." Philip Dixon's voice was hasty, as if his life depended on him talking as quickly as possible. It probably did.

"Yes…yes…" said Cicely, when his question had penetrated her cerebellum. "Lord Nelson. Someone will kill him." She wondered why he was here before her when he had fled before but this time she noticed a spark in his eyes, as if something hitherto hidden were alive in him. His eyes flashed as he grinned at her.

"I see it like this. If you will go back, as you said, and the Lord Admiral hasn't got someone fer him, then no-one loses. But if he has and you stay 'ere, then…"

Yes! shouted Cicely silently to herself. Yes!

"…so I is 'ere." Cicely looked at the wooden pegs which were lodged between the grooves holding the door to the gaol in place, out of her reach.

"There," she garbled, "get those out." Dixon stopped suddenly and looked at her gravely.

"Stephen. Can yer give me yer word that what yer say is true?" Cicely nodded fervently, hoping her expression matched.

"Then I'd be glad ter help yer," he added and, after a few moments fumbling with the pegs had pulled the door ajar.

As they ascended Cicely's mind, far from thanking the good fortune she had just received, reassembled her original, once faded plan. Cannon boomed above, reverberating through the oak of the ship. Soon, it would be terrifyingly loud, and near.

She needed to get into a position she wouldn't be seen, blend in on the mizzen but still be able to see the Lord Admiral. And, Cicely's hindbrain reminded her, she should keep an eye on James Fillings too.