Chapter 791: The Battle of Genoa
Nelson continued:
—In fact, the Toulon fleet's current position is highly unfavorable.
—Once Genoa's supplies run out, they will have no choice but to fight us.
—At that point, we will be able to choose the battlefield at our leisure and prepare our formation in advance.
—And when they lose—which is almost inevitable—they will be forced south to Bizerte.
—We will blockade the port, leaving the French with no usable warships along their southeastern coast.
—Our marines could even occupy Toulon itself.
Hood nodded approvingly.
—I completely agree with your assessment.
Then, turning to his staff officers:
—Order the fleet to spread toward Sardinia, in case the French try to slip past our flank.
Southwestern Mediterranean – Sicilian Waters
Sixty-eight French warships sailed steadily across the waves.
Their mighty hulls, vast as floating fortresses, darkened the horizon.
Yet, there was no air of arrogance—only a somber determination.
This was the main force of the Toulon fleet.
They were strong enough to defeat any navy in the world—except the British.
And unfortunately, their enemy in these waters was the Royal Navy itself.
At the center of the formation sailed the largest and most formidable of them all—Orient.
A massive three-decked battleship, the flagship of the Toulon fleet.
Originally named Royal Prince, Joseph had renamed it Orient, wanting nothing to do with a ship that had been historically sunk in Egypt.
Its size, armament, and hull thickness outmatched even the British HMS Victory and rivaled Spain's Santísima Trinidad.
Although the Spanish flagship carried more guns, Orient boasted superior structure and maneuverability, likely making it the strongest battleship afloat.
Inside the spacious war room aboard Orient, Admiral Brueys frowned at the sea charts, measuring coordinates and circling key positions.
Nearby, his Chief of Staff, Rear Admiral Antoine Ganteaume, sighed as he gazed out the porthole.
—It's frustrating, isn't it?
—The British are probably laughing at us right now.
Brueys didn't even look up.
—Being bait is never enjoyable, Admiral Ganteaume. You'll have to get used to it.
—But one day… you'll have your turn to laugh at the British.
Yes.
No one would have guessed that the mighty Toulon fleet was merely a diversion.
Their true purpose? To lure the British Mediterranean Fleet away from Genoa.
Meanwhile, the real strike force was the newly formed Mediterranean Fast Squadron.
This elite fleet consisted entirely of steam-powered warships:
25 frigates8 fifth-rate cruisersUnder the command of Rear Admiral Blanqui de Chayera
Their mission?
To break the British blockade of Genoa.
Currently, blocking the port was Hotham's powerful squadron.
Under normal circumstances, Hotham's third- and fourth-rate ships would be more than enough to crush the Fast Squadron.
But Chayera had no choice—he had to defeat or drive away Hotham's force.
Brueys finally straightened up, tapping his pencil on the map.
—Next, we turn toward Sicily.
—Hood will assume we are looping around Sardinia to reach Genoa from the east.
Ganteaume allowed himself a rare smile.
—And then, we will change course westward—perhaps even linking up with the Spanish fleet.
Brueys nodded.
—Let's hope Admiral Chayera accomplishes his mission.
Several dozen miles away, the British Mediterranean Fleet—having moved north to intercept the Toulon fleet—was now furiously chasing it toward the Spanish coast.
25 Nautical Miles South of Genoa
Aboard the HMS Theseus, a third-rate British battleship, Admiral Hotham personally reviewed the patrol routes of his frigates, ensuring nothing slipped through.
Then, he yawned.
The Toulon fleet was far away, caught up in the cat-and-mouse game with Hood.
The Spanish weren't going to attack Genoa—and even if they tried, Captain Louis' squadron was watching them closely.
Still, Hotham felt uneasy.
By the time the British navy crushed the French fleet, his rivals would gain all the glory.
He wouldn't even be part of the battle.
He stepped onto the foredeck, staring at the calm sea.
—Dear God, at least send some French supply ships my way.
Capturing a few transports wouldn't be much, but at least he'd have something to show for it.
And as if the heavens answered his prayer…
A British oar-sail sloop sped toward the flagship, its signal flags frantically waving.
Hotham read the message instantly.
His eyes lit up.
—Quick! All ships prepare for battle!
—A French fleet is approaching!
He marched toward the command station, barking orders.
—As soon as we confirm their numbers, report back to me immediately!
Normally, scout ships would first signal an alert, then another vessel would assess the enemy's strength before delivering a detailed report.
But this time, the second report never came.
Because the French Fast Squadron was simply too fast.
The British scout vessel had been completely outrun.
An hour later, Hotham finally saw the enemy fleet with his own eyes.
The French were less than three nautical miles away.
Lowering his telescope, he let out a contemptuous sneer.
—They sent only eight cruisers… with twenty-odd frigates?
—They're sending these little ships to die.
His squadron contained:
4 third-rate battleships5 fourth-rate battleships5 cruisers16 frigates
Even without his biggest ships, Hotham's squadron could shred the French to pieces.
Of course, Hotham was aware of France's steam-powered warships.
Some British merchant ships and smaller vessels had already fallen to them.
But the Royal Navy had adapted.
Their strategy was simple:
Hold formation in a powerful battle lineUse overwhelming firepowerLet the enemy come to them
Speed alone meant nothing if the French ships got within range of British broadsides.
Hotham smirked, watching his flagship, HMS Theseus, signal the fleet.
One by one, British warships adjusted their sails.
Within minutes, a perfect battle line stretched across the sea.
They calmly positioned themselves for the fight—upwind of the French, giving them the advantage.
Now, the Fast Squadron would be forced to charge directly into British firepower.
Hotham grinned.
—Let's see how fast they sink.
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