'Now, gentlemen, let us do something today which the world may talk of hereafter.'
'The enemy… will endeavour to envelop our rear, to break through our line and to direct his ships in groups upon such of ours as he shall have cut off, so as to surround them and defeat them.'
Lieutenant Don Juan Gonzalez de Urias of His Most Catholic Majesty's Dragoons of Almansa flicked the stub of a cigar elegantly away with his yellow kid gloves and beckoned two of his troopers. Without a word he indicated the sea-chests of the British and the men lifted them and took them under an archway. Motioning his prisoners to follow, he led them through the arch to the street where a large black carriage awaited them. Dragoons with cocked carbines flanked the door of the carriage and behind them Drinkwater caught sight of the curious faces of children and a wildly barking dog. The five Britons clambered into the coach, Drinkwater last, in conformance with traditional naval etiquette. Tregembo was muttering continual apologies, feeling awkward and out of place at being in such intimate contact with 'gentlemen'. Drinkwater was compelled to tell him to hold his tongue. Behind them the door slammed shut and the carriage jerked forward. On either side, their gleaming sabres drawn, a score of De Urias's dragoons formed their escort.
For a while they sat in silence and then they were clear of the town, rolling along a coast-road from which the sea could be seen. None of them looked at the orange groves or the cork oaks that grew on the rising ground to the north; they all strove for a glimpse of the blue sea and the distant brown mountains of Africa. The sight of a sail made them miserable as they tried to make out whether it was one of the sloops Collingwood had directed to blockade coastal trade with Cadiz.
'Sir,' said Quilhampton suddenly, 'if we leapt from the coach, we could signal that brig for a boat…'
'And have your other hand cut off in the act of waving,' said Drinkwater dismissively. 'No, James. We are prisoners being escorted to Cadiz. For the time being we shall have to submit to our fate.'
This judgement having been pronounced by the captain produced a long and gloomy silence. Drinkwater, however, was pondering their chances. Freedom from the awful cell at Tarifa had revived his spirits. For whatever reason the French wanted them at Cadiz, it was nearer to the British battle-fleet than Tarifa and an opportunity might present itself for them to escape.
'Beg pardon, sir,' put in Quilhampton.
'Yes, James?'
'Did you say "Santhonax", sir, when we were in the stable yard? Is that the same cove that we took prisoner at Al Mukhra?'
'I believe so, yes.'
'I remember him. He escaped off the Cape… D'you remember him, Tregembo?'
'Aye, zur, I do. The Cap'n and I know him from away back.' Tregembo's eyes met those of Drinkwater and the old Cornishman subsided into silence.
Piqued by this air of mystery, Frey asked, 'Who is he sir?'
Drinkwater considered; it would do no harm to tell them. Besides, they had time to kill, the jolting of the coach was wearisome, and it is always the balm of slaves and prisoners to tell stories.
'He is a French officer of considerable merit, Mr Frey. A man of the stamp of, say, Captain Blackwood. He was, a long time ago, a spy, sent into England to foment mutiny among the fleet at the Nore. He used a lugger to cross the Channel and we chased him, I recollect, Tregembo. He shot part of our mast down…'
'That's right, zur,' added Tregembo turning on the junior officers, 'but we was only in a little cutter, the Kestrel, twelve popguns. We had 'im in the end though, zur.' Tregembo grinned.
'Aye. At Camperdown,' mused Drinkwater, calling into his mind's eye that other bloody October day eight years earlier.
'At Camperdown, sir? There were French ships at Camperdown?' asked Frey puzzled.
'No, Mr Frey. Santhonax was sent from Paris to stir the Dutch fleet to activity. I believe him to have been instrumental in forcing Admiral De Winter to sail from the Texel. Tregembo and I were still in the Kestrel, cruising off the place, one of Duncan's lookouts. When the Dutch came out Santhonax had an armed yacht at his disposal. We fought and took her, and Santhonax was locked up in Maidstone Gaol.' Drinkwater sighed. It all seemed so long ago and there was the disturbing image of the beautiful Hortense swimming into his mind. He recollected himself; that was no part of what he wanted to tell his juniors about Santhonax.
'Unfortunately,' he went on, 'whilst transferring Santhonax to the hulks at Portsmouth, much as we are travelling now…'
'He escaped,' broke in Quilhampton, 'just as we might…'
'He spoke unaccented and near perfect English, James,' countered Drinkwater tolerantly, ignoring Quilhampton's exasperation. 'How good is your Spanish, eh?'
'I take your point, sir, and beg your pardon.'
Drinkwater smiled. 'No matter. But that is not the end of the story, for Mr Quilhampton and I next encountered Edouard Santhonax when he commanded our own frigate Antigone in the Red Sea. He was in the act of re-storing her after careening and we took her one night, in a cutting-out expedition, and brought both him and his frigate out together from the Sharm Al Mukhra. Most of the guns were still ashore and we were caught in the Indian Ocean by a French cruiser from Mauritius. We managed to fight her off but in the engagement Santhonax contrived to escape by diving overboard and swimming to his fellow countryman's ship. We were saved by the timely arrival of the Telemachus, twenty-eight, commanded by an old messmate of mine.'
'And that was the last time you saw him, sir?'
'Yes. But not the last time I heard of him. After Napoleon extricated himself from Egypt and returned from Paris a number of officers that had done him singular services were rewarded. Santhonax was one of them. He transferred, I believe, to the army, not unknown in the French and Spanish services,' he said in a didactic aside for the information of the two young midshipmen who sat wide-eyed at the Captain's tale, 'who often refer to their fleets as "armies" and their admirals as "captains-general". Now, I suppose, he has recognised my name and summoned me to Cadiz.'
'I think he may want information from you, sir,' said Quilhampton seriously.
'Very probably, Mr Q. We shall have to decide what to tell him, eh?'
'Sir,' said Gillespy frowning.
'Yes, Mr Gillespy?'
'It is a very strange story, sir. I mean the coincidences… almost as if you are fated to meet… if you see what I mean, sir.'
Drinkwater smiled at the boy who had flushed scarlet at expressing this fantasy.
'So I have often felt, Mr Gillespy; but in truth it is not so very remarkable. Consider, at the time Tregembo, Mr Q and I were fighting this fellow in the Red Sea, Sir Sydney Smith was stiffening the defences of Acre and thwarting Boney's plans in the east. A little later Sir Sydney fell into Bonaparte's hands during a boat operation off Havre, along with poor Captain Wright, and the pair of them spent two years in The Temple prison in Paris,' he paused, remembering Camelford's revelations about the connection of Santhonax with the supposed suicide. 'The two of them escaped and Wright was put in command of the sloop-of-war Vincejo, only to be captured in a calm by gunboats in the Morbihan after a gallant defence. He was returned to the Temple…'
'Where Bonaparte had him murdered,' put in Quilhampton.
Drinkwater ignored the interruption. Poor Quilhampton was more edgy than he had been a few days earlier. Presumably the strain of playing Dutch uncle to this pair of boys had told on his nerves. 'Very probably,' he said, 'but I think the events not dissimilar to my own encounters with Santhonax; a sort of personal antagonism within the war. It may be fate, or destiny, or simply coincidence.' Or witchcraft, he wanted to add, remembering again the auburn hair of Hortense Santhonax.
Silence fell again as the coach rocked and swayed over the unmade road and the dragoons jingled alongside. From time to time De Urias would ride up abreast of the window and peer in. After several hours they stopped at a roadside taverna where a change of horses awaited them. The troopers had a meal from their saddlebags, watered their horses and remounted. For some English gold Drinkwater found in his breeches pocket he was able to buy some cold meat and a little rot-gut wine at an inflated price. The inn-keeper took the money, bit it and, having pocketed the coin, made an obscene gesture at the British.
'We are not popular,' observed Quilhampton drily, with a lordly indifference that persuaded Drinkwater he was recovering his spirits after the morning's peevishness. They dozed intermittently, aware that as the coast-road swung north the distant sea had become wave-necked under a fresh westerly breeze. Drinkwater was awakened by Quilhampton from one of these states of semi-consciousness that was neither sleep nor wakefulness but a kind of limbo into which his mind and spirit seemed to take refuge after the long, unremitting months of duty and the hopelessness of captivity.
'Sir, wake up and look, sir.'
From the window he realised they were headed almost north, running across the mouth of a bay. To the west he could see distant grey squares, the topsails of Nelson's look-out ships, keeping contact with the main fleet out of sight over the horizon to the westward. The thought made him turn to his companions.
'Gentlemen, I must caution you against divulging any information to our enemy. They are likely to question us all, individually. You have nothing to fear,' he said to young Gillespy. 'You simply state that you were a midshipman on your first voyage and know nothing.' He regretted the paternal impulse that had made the child his note-taker. 'You may say I was an old curmudgeon, Mr Gillespy, and that I told you nothing. Midshipmen are apt to hold that opinion of their seniors.' He smiled and the boy smiled uncertainly back. At least he could rely upon Frey and Quilhampton.
They crossed the back of a hill that fell to a headland whereon stood a tall stone observation tower. A picket of Guarda Costa horses and men were nearby and they turned and holloaed at the coach and its escort as it swept past.
'I recognise where we are,' said Drinkwater suddenly. 'That is Cape Trafalgar. Have we changed horses again?'
'Twice while you were dozing, sir.'
'Good God!' It was already late afternoon and the sun was westering behind great banks of cloud. On their right, above the orange and olive groves, Drinkwater caught sight of the Chiclana hill. They crossed a river and passed through a small town.
'Look sir, soldiers!' said Frey a little later as the coach slowed. They could hear De Urias shouting commands and swearing. Drinkwater looked out of the window but the nearest trooper gestured for him to pull his head in; he was not permitted to stare. The coach increased speed again and they were jolting through a bivouac of soldiers. Drinkwater recognised the bell-topped shakoes of French infantry and noted the numerals '67' and '16'. Someone saw his face and raised a shout: 'Hey, Voilà Anglais…!'
The cooking fires of the two battalions drew astern as they began to go downhill and then they pulled up. Drinkwater saw water on either side of them before a dragoon opened each door and the window blinds were drawn. The trooper said something to them in Spanish from which they gathered that any attempt to see any more would be met by a stern measure. The doors were slammed and, in darkness, they resumed the last miles of their journey from Tarifa, aware that the coach was traversing the long mole of Cadiz.
They were hurried into their new place of incarceration. The building seemed to be some kind of a barracks and they were taken into a bare corridor and marched swiftly along it. Two negligent French sentries made a small concession to De Urias's rank as they halted by a door. A turnkey appeared, the door was unlocked and the two midshipmen, Tregembo and Quilhampton were motioned to enter. De Urias restrained Drinkwater whose quick glance inside the cell revealed it as marginally cleaner than the hole at Tarifa, but still unsuitable for the accommodation of officers.
'Lieutenant, I protest; the usages of war do not condemn officers doing their duty to kennels fit for malefactors!'
It was clear that the protest, which could not have failed to be understood by the Spanish officer, fell on deaf ears. As the turnkey locked the door De Urias motioned Drinkwater to follow him again. They emerged into a courtyard covered by a scrap of grey sky. The wind was still in the west, Drinkwater noted. As they crossed the square he saw a pair of horses with rich shabraques being held by an orderly outside a double door beneath a colonnade. The door was flanked by two sentries. Drinkwater's eye spotted the grenadier badges and the regimental number '67' again. They passed through the door. A group of officers were lounging about a table. One, in full dress, stood up from where he half sat on the end of the heavy table.
'Ah,' he said, smiling almost cordially, 'le capitaine anglais. Bienvenu à Cadiz!' The officer bowed from the waist, his gaudy shako tucked under his arm. 'Je suis Lieutenant Leroux, Le Soixante-septième Regiment de Ligne.'
'Bravo, Leroux!' There was an ironic laugh from his fellow officers which Leroux ignored. He twirled a moustache. 'Allez, Capitaine…'
Ignoring De Urias, Drinkwater followed the insouciant Leroux up a flight of stairs and to a door at the end of another corridor. At the door Leroux paused and Drinkwater was reminded of a midshipman preparing to enter the cabin of an irascible captain. Leroux coughed, knocked and turned his ear to the door. Then he opened it, crashed to attention and announced Drinkwater. He stood aside and Drinkwater entered the room.
A tall, curly-haired officer rose from the table at which he had been writing. His dark and handsome features were disfigured by a broad, puckered scar which dragged down the corner of his left eye and split his cheek. His eyes met those of Drinkwater.
'So, Captain;' he said in flawless English, 'we meet again…' He indicated a chair, dismissed Leroux and sat down, his hand rubbing his jaw, his eyes fastened on his prisoner. For a moment or two Drinkwater thought the intelligence reports might have been wrong—Santhonax wore an elaborate, gold-embroidered uniform that was more naval than military—but he was soon made aware of Santhonax's status and the reason for Leroux's deference.
'I recollect you reminded me that it was the fortune of war that I was your prisoner when we last had the pleasure of meeting.' Santhonax's tone was heavily ironic. Drinkwater said nothing. 'I believe the more apt English expression to be "a turning of tables", eh?'
Santhonax rose and went to a cabinet on which a decanter and glasses stood in a campaign case. He filled two glasses and handed one to Drinkwater.
Drinkwater hesitated.
'It is good cognac, Captain Drinkwater.'
'Thank you.'
'Good. We have known each other too long to be hostile. I see you too have been wounded…'
Santhonax inclined his head in an imitative gesture, indicating Drinkwater's mangled shoulder.
'A shell wound, m'sieur, received off Boulogne and added to the scars you gave me yourself.'
'Touché.' Santhonax paused and sipped his cognac, never taking his eyes off Drinkwater, as though weighing him up. 'Not "m'sieur", Captain, but Colonel, Colonel and Aide-de-Camp to His Imperial Majesty.'
'My congratulations,' Drinkwater said drily.
'And you are to be congratulated too, I believe. You have been commanding the frigate Antigone.' He paused, he had commanded her himself once. 'That is something else we have in common. She was a fine ship.'
'She is a fine ship, Colonel.'
'Yes. I watched her wear off San Sebastian a week or two ago. You and Blackwood of the Euryalus are well known to us.'
'You are no longer in the naval service, Colonel,' said Drinkwater attempting to steer the conversation. 'Could that be because it has no future?'
The barb went home and Drinkwater saw the ice in Santhonax's eyes. But the former agent was a master of self-control. 'Not at all, Captain. As you see from my present appointment, I have not severed my connections with the navy.'
'It occurs to me, however, that you may still be a spy…' He was watching Santhonax closely. That fine movement, no more than a flicker of the muscles that controlled the pupils of his eyes, was perceptible to the vigilant Drinkwater. There was no doubt that Santhonax was in Cadiz at the behest of his Imperial master. As an aide-de-camp Santhonax would be allowed the privileges of reporting direct to Napoleon. Even the Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleet, Vice-Admiral Villeneuve, would have to report to Paris through the Minister of Marine, Decrès.
Santhonax attempted to divert the conversation. 'You are still suspiciously minded, Captain Drinkwater, I see. There is little work for a spy here. The Combined Fleets of France and Spain are not as useless as you English would sometimes like to assume. They have twice crossed the Atlantic, ravaging the sugar islands off the West Indies, recovered British possessions in the islands, and fought an engagement with the British fleet…'
'In which with overwhelming force you managed to lose two ships…'
'In which the Spanish managed to lose two ships, Captain, and following which the British admiral is being tried for failure to do his utmost. I recall the last time this occurred it was found necessary to shoot him…'
Drinkwater mastered the anger mounting in him. Losing his temper would do no good. Besides, an idea was forming in his head. At that moment it was no more than a flash of inspiration, an intuition of opportunity, and it was laid aside in the need to mollify. He remained silent.
Santhonax seemed to relax. He sat back in his chair, although he still regarded Drinkwater with those unwavering eyes.
'Tell me, Captain, when you took Antigone, did you discover a portrait of my wife?'
'I did.'
'And… what became of it?'
'I kept it. You might have had it back had you not so unceremoniously left us off the Cape. It was removed from its stretcher, rolled up, and is still on board the Antigone. If I was to be liberated I should send it back to you as a mark of my gratitude.'
Santhonax barked a short laugh. 'Ha! But you were not on board Antigone when the Spanish Guarda Costa took you, were you, Captain? Where were you going?'
'It would be no trouble to send for the canvas, Colonel, most of my effects remain on board…'
'I asked', broke in Santhonax, his eyes hardening again, 'where you were going?'
'I was transferring to another ship, Colonel, the Thunderer, seventy-four.'
Santhonax raised one ironic eyebrow. 'Another promotion, eh? What a pity you were asleep the other morning. Our ally's vigilance has deprived Nelson of a captain.'
Drinkwater kept his temper and again remained silent.
'Tell me, Captain, is it correct that Admiral Louis's squadron is in Gibraltar?'
The idea sparked within Drinkwater again. Santhonax's intention was almost certainly similar to that when he had exerted pressure on de Winter in the autumn of '97. He was an aggressive French imperialist, known to be Bonapartist and a familiar of Napoleon's. Surely it was the French Emperor's intention that the Combined Fleet should sail? Even with those reports that Napoleon had broken up the camp at Boulogne, every indication was that he wanted the fleet of Villeneuve at sea. It was clear that Santhonax's question was loaded. The French were not certain about Louis, not absolutely certain, although the movements of British ships were reported to them regularly from Algegiras. Santhonax wanted extra confirmation, perhaps as added information with which to cajole Villeneuve as he had so successfully worked on de Winter.
And if Napoleon wanted Villeneuve at sea, so too did Nelson!
Anything, therefore, that smoothed Villeneuve's passage to sea was assisting that aim and, if he consciously aided the schemes of Napoleon, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that the fleet that lay over the horizon to the west was equally anxious for the same result.
'Come, Captain,' urged Santhonax, 'we know that there are British line-of-battle ships in Gibraltar. Are they Louis's?'
'Yes.' Drinkwater answered monosyllabically, as though reluctant to reply.
'Which ships?'
Drinkwater said nothing. 'It is not a difficult matter to ascertain, Captain, and the information may make the stay of you and your friends,' Santhonax paused to lend the threat weight, 'a little pleasanter by your co-operation.'
Drinkwater sighed, as though resigning himself to his fate. He endeavoured to appear crestfallen. 'Canopus, Queen, Spencer, Tigre and Zealous.'
'Ah, a ninety-eight, an eighty and three seventy-fours…'
'You are well informed, Colonel Santhonax.' Santhonax ignored the ironic compliment.
'And Calder, he has gone back to England in a frigate?'
'No, he has gone back to England in a battleship, the Prince of Wales; and the Donegal was to go to Gibraltar to join Louis.'
'You have been most informative, Captain.'
Drinkwater shrugged with the disdain he felt Santhonax would expect, and added, 'It is still a British fleet, Colonel…' He deliberately left the sentence unfinished.
'There is nothing to alarm us in the sight of a British fleet, Captain. Your seventy-fours have barely five hundred men on board, they are worn out by a two years' cruise; you are no braver than us, indeed you have infinitely less motive to fight well, less love of country. You can manoeuvre well, but we have also had sea-experience. I am confident, Captain Drinkwater, that we are about to see the end of an era for you and a glorious new era for the Imperial Navy.'
Drinkwater thought at first Santhonax was rehearsing some argument that he would later put to Villeneuve, but there was something sincere in the speech. The guard was down, this was the soul of the man, a revealed intimacy born out of the long years of antagonism.
'Time will tell, Colonel.'
Santhonax rose. 'Oh yes indeed, Captain, time will tell, time and the abilities of your Admiral Nelson.'
Drinkwater woke refreshed after a good night's sleep. He had been led from his interview with Santhonax to an upper room, presumably an officer's quarters within the barracks, which was sparsely, though adequately furnished, and served a plain meal of cold meat, fruit and wine. He had later been asked for and given his parole. When this formality had been completed his sea-chest was brought in by an orderly and he was returned his sword. He was refused leave to see the others but assured that they were quite comfortable.
For a long while he had lain awake, staring at a few stars that showed through the window and listening to the sounds of Cadiz; the barking of dogs, the calls of sentries, the periodic ringing of a convent bell and the sad playing of a distant guitar. He went over and over the interview with Santhonax, trying to see more in it than a mere exchange of words, and certain that his instinct was right and that Santhonax was there, in Cadiz, to force Villeneuve to sea. Eventually he had slept.
With the new day came this strange feeling of cheerfulness and he drew himself up in bed, a sudden thought occurring to him. He had been groping towards a conclusion the previous night, but he had been tired, his mind clogged by all the events of the day. Now, be began to perceive something very clearly. He had grasped Santhonax's purpose all right, but only half of its import. Santhonax's last remark, his sneering contempt for Nelson, was the key. He knew that few of the French admirals were contemptuous of Nelson, least of all Villeneuve who had escaped the terrible débâcle of Abukir Bay. But Santhonax would not sneer contemptuously without good cause; he had impugned Nelson's abilities, not his character. In what way was Nelson's ability defective?
And then he recalled his own complaint to Pitt. It was not a defect so much as a calculated risk, but it had twice cost Nelson dearly. Nelson's blockade out of sight of land had allowed Brueys to slip out of Toulon to Egypt, and Villeneuve to slip out of Toulon to the West Indies. Now, although he had Blackwood up at the very gates of Cadiz, it might happen again. If the wind went easterly the Combined Fleet could get out of Cadiz and would not run into Nelson unless it continued west. But at this time of the year the wind would soon swing to the west, giving the Combined Fleet a clear run through the Straits of Gibraltar. Nelson was fifty miles west of Cadiz. He might catch up, but then again he might not! And Napoleon was supposed to have decamped his army from Boulogne. They had not gone west, so they too must be marching east! Of course! Drinkwater leapt from the bed and began pacing the little room: Austria had joined the coalition and a small British expeditionary force under General Craig had gone east, he himself had escorted it through the Gut! The ideas came to him thick and fast now, facts, rumours, all evidence of a complete reversal of Napoleon's intentions but no less lethal. Craig would be cut off, British supremacy in the Mediterranean destroyed. That was why Ganteaume had not broken out of Brest. He could tie half the Royal Navy down there. And that was why Allemand had come no further south. He could not break through Nelson's fleet to reinforce Villeneuve but, by God, he could still keep 'em all guessing! And last, the very man whom Nelson had sent Antigone to guard against cutting Louis off in Gibraltar, Admiral Salcedo at Cartagena, had no need to sail west. He could simply wait until Villeneuve came past! It was a brilliant deception and ensured that British eyes were concentrated on the Channel.
Drinkwater ceased pacing, his mind seeing everything with a wonderful clarity. He felt a cold tingle run the length of his spine. 'God's bones,' he muttered, 'now what the devil do I do?'
His plan of the previous evening seemed knocked awry. If he added reasons persuading Santhonax that urging Villeneuve to sail was advantageous to Nelson, would Nelson miss the Combined Fleet? If, on the other hand, Villeneuve was left alone, would Nelson simply blockade him or would he attempt an attack? The long Mole of Cadiz could be cut off by the marines of the fleet and a thousand seamen, the anchorage shelled by bomb-vessels.
'This is the very horns of a dilemma,' he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the door of his room opened and Tregembo entered with hot shaving water. The sight cheered Drinkwater.
'Good morning, zur,' the old Cornishman rasped.
'God bless my soul, Tregembo, you're a welcome sight!'
'Aye, zur. I was passed word to attend 'ee, zur, and here I am.' Tregembo jerked his head and Drinkwater caught sight of the orderly just outside.
'Are you and the others all right?'
Tregembo nodded and fussed around the room, unrolling Drinkwater's housewife and stropping the razor.
'Aye, zur. All's as well as can be expected, considering…'
'No talk!' The orderly appeared in the doorway.
Drinkwater drew himself up. 'Be silent!' he commanded, 'I shall address my servant if I so wish, and desire him to convey my compliments to my officers.' Drinkwater fixed the orderly with his most baleful quarterdeck glare and went on, as though still addressing the French soldier, 'and to let 'em know I believe that things will not remain static for long. D'you hear me, sir?' Drinkwater turned away and caught Tregembo's eye.
'Not remain static long,' the Cornishman muttered, 'aye, aye, zur.' He handed Drinkwater the lathered shaving brush. They exchanged glances of comprehension and Tregembo left the room. Behind him the orderly slammed the door and turned the key noisily in the lock.
The silly incident left Drinkwater in a good enough humour to shave without cutting himself and the normality of the little routine caused him to reflect upon his own stupidity. It was quite ridiculous of him to suppose that he, a prisoner, could have the slightest influence on events. The best he could hope for was that those events might possibly provide him with an opportunity to effect an escape. At least he had Tregembo as a go-between; that was certainly better than nothing.
All day Drinkwater sat or paced in the tiny room. Towards evening he was taken down to walk in the courtyard, seeing little of his surroundings but enjoying half an hour in the company of Quilhampton and the two midshipmen.
'How are you faring, James?'
'Oh, well enough, sir, well enough. A little down-hearted I fear, but we'll manage. And you, sir? Did you see Santhonax?'
'Yes. Did you?'
'No, sir. By the way, I trust you have no objections, but our gaolers have allowed Tregembo to look after us. I hope you don't mind us poaching your coxswain, sir.'
'No,' said Drinkwater, brightening, 'matter of fact it might be a help. He can keep up communications between us. Have you learned anything useful?'
'Not much. From the way those French soldiers behave when a Spanish officer's about there's not much love lost between 'em.'
Drinkwater remembered the negligence of the two sentries in acknowledging De Urias. 'Good point, James.' He ought to have noticed that himself.
'And I believe there has been an epidemic in Andalucia recently, some sort of fever, and as a consequence there's a shortage of food. Cadiz is like a place under seige.'
'Good God! How d'you know that?'
Quilhampton shrugged. 'This and that, sir. Listening to the guards chatter. You can pick up some of the sense. I thought something of the kind must have happened as we came through the countryside yesterday. Not too many people in the fields, lot of young women and children… oh, I don't know, sir… just a feeling.'
'By heaven, James, that's well argued. I had not even noticed a single field.'
Quilhampton smiled thinly. 'We ain't too well liked, sir, I'm afraid. "Perfidious Albion" and all that.' He was suddenly serious and stopped strolling. He turned and said, 'D'you think we're going to get out, sir? I mean before the war's over or we're taken to France.'
Drinkwater managed a confident smile. 'D'you know, James, that an admiral is worth four post-captains on exchange. How many lieutenants d'you think that is, eh? By God, we'll be worth our weight in gold! After the battle they'll be queueing up to exchange us for admiral this and commodore that.' He patted Quilhampton's arm. 'Brace up, James, and keep up the spirits of those two reefers.'
'Oh, Frey's all right; he's as tough as a fore-tack despite appearances to the contrary. It's Gillespy I'm worried about. Poor boy cried last night. I think he thought I was asleep…'
'Poor little devil. Would it help if I had a word with him?'
'Yes, I think so. Tell him how many admirals there will be to exchange after the battle.'
Drinkwater turned but Quilhampton said, 'Sir… sir, do you think there's going to be a battle?'
'Damn sure, James,' Drinkwater replied. And for that instant, remembering Nelson's conviction, he was irrationally certain of the fact.
It is very curious Drinkwater wrote in his journal, to sit and write these words as a prisoner. I am far from being resigned to my fate but while I can still hear the call of gulls and can hear the distant noise of the sea which cannot be very far from my little window I have not yet sunk into that despond that men who have been imprisoned say comes upon one. God grant that such a torpor is long in coming or fate releases me from this mischance…
He stopped writing and looked at his pen. Elizabeth's pen. He closed his journal quickly and got up, falling to a violent pacing of the floor in an effort to drive from his mind all thoughts of Elizabeth or his children. He must not give way to that; that was the way to despair.
He was saved from further agony by the opening of his door. A strange officer in the uniform of the Imperial Navy stood behind the orderly. He spoke English.
'Capitaine Drinkwater? Good evening. I am Lieutenant René Guillet of the Bucentaure. Will you 'ave the kindness to follow me. It would be advisable that you bring your 'at.'
'This is a formal occasion?'
'Oui.'
Drinkwater was led into the same room in which he had been interviewed by Santhonax. Santhonax was there again, but standing. Sitting at the table signing documents was another man. After a short interval he looked up and studied the prisoner. Then he stood up and walked round the table, addressing a few words to Guillet who came smartly forward, collected the papers and placed them in a leather satchel. The strange man was tall and thin with an intelligent face. He wore a white-powdered wig over his high forehead. His nose was straight and his mouth well made and small. He had a firm chin, although his jowls were heavy. Drinkwater judged him to be much the same age as himself. He wore a long-skirted blue uniform coat with a high collar and corduroy pantaloons of a greenish colour, with wide stripes of gold. His feet were thrust into elegant black half-boots of the type favoured by hussars and light cavalry. Across his waist there looped a gold watch-chain from which depended a heavy gold seal.
'Introduce us, Colonel.' His voice sounded tired, but his English, although heavily accented, was good.
Santhonax stepped forward. 'Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater of the Royal Navy, formerly commander of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Antigone…'
'Ahhh… Antigone…' said the stranger knowingly.
'On his way to take command of the Thunderer,' Santhonax's voice was ironic, 'but taken prisoner en route.' He turned to Drinkwater, 'May I present Vice-Admiral Villeneuve, Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Squadrons of His Imperial and Royal Majesty Napoleon, Emperor of the French and of his Most Catholic Majesty King Ferdinand of Spain.'
The two men exchanged bows. 'Please sit down, Captain.' Villeneuve indicated a chair and returned behind the table where he sat, leaned forward with his elbows on the table and passed his hands over his face before resting his chin upon the tips of his fingers.
'Colonel Santhonax has told me much about you. Your frigate has made as much of a name for itself as Euryalus.'
'You do me too much honour, sir.'
'They are both good ships. The one was copied from the French, the other captured.'
'That is so, sir.'
'Colonel Santhonax also tells me you informed him that Nelson commands the British squadron off Cadiz. Is this true?'
Drinkwater frowned. He had said no such thing. He looked at Santhonax who was still standing and smiling, the candle-light and his scar giving the smile the quality of a grimace.
'You did not deny it when I said he was with the British fleet,' Santhonax explained. Drinkwater felt annoyed with himself for being so easily trapped, but he reflected that perhaps Santhonax had given away more. In any case, it was pointless to deny it. It seemed that Villeneuve would assume the worst, and if the worst was Nelson, then no harm was done. He nodded.
'Nelson is in command, sir,' he said.
He heard Villeneuve sigh and felt he had reasoned correctly.
The French admiral seemed abstracted for a second and Santhonax coughed.
'And several ships have gone to Gibraltar?' the admiral asked.
'Yes, sir.'
'Where is the Superb?' asked Villeneuve. 'She had gone to England for repair, no?'
'She had not rejoined the fleet when I left it, sir.' Drinkwater felt a quickening of his pulse. All Villeneuve's questions emphasised his desire to hear that Nelson's fleet was weakened by dispersal.
The admiral nodded. 'Very well, Captain, thank you.' He rang a little bell and Guillet reappeared. Drinkwater rose and bowed to the admiral who was turning towards Santhonax, but Santhonax ignored Villeneuve.
'Captain Drinkwater!'
Drinkwater turned. 'Yes?'
'I am leaving… to rejoin the Emperor tonight. You will send the picture to the Rue Victoire will you not… when you return to your ship?' Santhonax was sneering at him. Drinkwater remembered Camelford's words: 'Shoot 'em both!'
'When I rejoin my ship…'
The two men stared at each other for a second. 'Until the next time, au revoir.'
Walking from the room Drinkwater heard a suppressed confrontation between the two men. As the door closed behind him he heard Santhonax quite clearly mention 'Le spectre de Nelson…'
Tregembo's brief visit the next morning disclosed little. 'They've got their t'gallants up, zur. Frogs and Dagoes all awaiting the order, zur… and pleased the Frogs'll be to go.'
'There's nothing new about that, Tregembo, they're always getting ready to go. It's the goin' they ain't so good at,' Drinkwater replied, lathering his face. 'But how the hell d'you know all this, eh?'
'There are Bretons in the guardroom, zur. I unnerstand 'em. Their talk, like the Kurnowic it is, zur…'
'Ahhh, of course.' Drinkwater smiled as he took the stropped razor from Tregembo, recalling Tregembo's smuggling past and the trips made to Brittany to evade the excise duty of His Majesty King George III. 'Keep your spirits up, Tregembo, and tell Mr Q the same.'
'Aye, zur. Mr Gillespy ain't too good, zur, by the bye…'
'No talk!' The orderly, red-faced with fury, shoved Tregembo towards the door.
'Very well,' acknowledged Drinkwater. 'But there's very little I can do about it,' he muttered as, once again, the door slammed and he was left alone with his thoughts.
Meat and wine arrived at midday. He walked with the others after the hour of siesta, finding Quilhampton downcast and Gillespy in poor spirits. Today it seemed as if Frey was bearing the burden of cheering his fellow prisoners. At sunset a silent Tregembo brought him bread, cheese and wine. As the shadows darkened in the tiny room, Drinkwater found his own morale dropping. In the end it became irresistible not to think of his family and the 'blue-devils' settled on his weary mind. He did not bother to light his candle but climbed into the bed and tried to sleep. A convent bell tolled away the hours but he had fallen asleep when his door was opened. He woke with a start and lay staring into the pitch-darkness. He felt suddenly fearful, remembering Wright's death in the Temple. He reached for his sword.
'Get dressed please, Capitaine.'
'Guillet?'
'Please to 'urry, m'sieur.'
'What the devil d'you want?'
'Please, Capitaine. I 'ave my orders. Dress and come quickly with no noise.' Guillet was anxious about something. Fumbling in the dark Drinkwater found his clothes and his sword. Guillet must have seen the slight gleam of the scabbard mountings. 'Not your sword, Capitaine…'
Drinkwater left it on his bed and followed Guillet into the corridor. At the door of the guardroom Guillet collected a cloak and handed it to Drinkwater. Drinkwater threw the heavy garment over his shoulders.
'Allez…'
They crossed the courtyard and, with Guillet taking his arm, passed the sentry into the street. 'Please, Capitaine, do not make to escape. I have a loaded pistol and orders to shoot you.'
'Whose orders? Colonel Santhonax's? Do not forget, Lieutenant Guillet, that I have given my parole.' Drinkwater's anger was unfeigned and Guillet fell silent. Was it Santhonax's purpose to have him murdered in an alleyway?
They were walking down a gentle hill, the cobbled roadway descending in low steps, the blank walls of houses broken from time to time by dimly perceived wrought-iron gates opening onto courtyards. He could see the black gleam of water ahead and they emerged onto a quay. Drinkwater smelt decaying fish and a row of gulls, disturbed by the two officers, flapped away over the harbour. Guillet hurried him to a flight of stone steps. Drinkwater looked down at the waiting boat and the oars held upright by its crew. The lieutenant ordered him down the steps. He scrambled down, pushed by Guillet and sat in the stern-sheets. The bow was shoved off, the oars were lowered and bit into the water. The chilly night air was unbelievably reviving.
A mad scheme occurred to him of over-powering Guillet, seizing his pistol and forcing the boat's crew to pull him out to Euryalus. But what would become of Quilhampton and the others? The French, who had treated them reasonably so far, might not continue to do so if he escaped. In any case the plan was preposterous. The lift of the boat, as the water chuckled under the bow and the oars knocked gently against the thole pins, evoked a whole string of emotional responses. The thought that Santhonax was ruthless enough to have him murdered was cold comfort. Yet Guillet seemed to be pursuing orders of a less extreme nature. Nevertheless Drinkwater acknowledged the fact that, removed from his frigate, he was as impotent as an ant underfoot.
The boat was pulled out into the Grande Rade, among the huge hulls and towering masts of the Combined Fleet. Periodically a sentry or a guard-boat challenged them and Guillet answered with the night's countersign. A huge hull reared over them. Even in the gloom Drinkwater could see it was painted entirely black. He guessed her to be Spanish. Then, beyond her, he saw the even bigger bulk of a mighty ship. He could make out the greyer shade of lighter paint along her gun-decks. He counted four of these and was aware that he was looking at the greatest fighting ship in the world, the Spanish navio Santissima Trinidad.
He was still staring at her as the oarsmen eased their stroke. He looked round as they ran under the stern of a smaller ship. From the double line of lighted stern windows she revealed herself as a two-decker. The light from the windows made reading her name difficult, but he saw enough to guess the rest.
Bucentaure.
Guillet had brought him, in comparative secrecy, to Villeneuve's flagship.
Vice-Admiral Pierre Charles Jean Baptiste Silvestre de Villeneuve sat alone in the great cabin of the Bucentaure. He stared at the miniature of his wife. He had painted it himself and it was not so much her likeness that he was looking at, as the remembrance of her as she had been on the day he had done it. He sighed resignedly and slipped the enamel disc in the pocket of his waistcoat. His eye fell on the letter lying on the table before him. It was dated a few days earlier and written by an old friend from Bayonne.
My dear friend,
I write to tell you news that will not please you but which you may otherwise not learn until it is brought to you by one who will not be welcome. I learned today that our Imperial master has despatched Admiral Rosily to Cadiz to take over the command from you. My old friend, I know you as undoubtedly the most accomplished officer and the most able tactician, whatever people may say, that the navy possesses. I recall to you the honour of the flag of our country…
Vice-Admiral Villeneuve picked up the letter and, holding it by a corner, burnt it in the candelabra that stood upon the table. The ash floated down upon the polished wood and lay upon Admiral Gravina's latest daily report of the readiness of the Spanish Fleet. Of all his flag-officers Gravina was the only one upon whom he could wholly rely. They were both of the nobility; they understood one another. Villeneuve clenched his fist and brought it down on the table top. It was on Gravina that would fall the responsibility of his own answer to defeating the tactics of Nelson. But he might yet avoid a battle with Nelson…
The knock at the cabin door recalled him to the present. 'Entrez!'
Lieutenant Guillet, accompanied by the officer of the watch, Lieutenant Fournier, announced the English prisoner. The two stood aside as Drinkwater entered the brilliantly lit cabin from the gloom of the gun-deck with its rows of occupied hammocks.
The two officers exchanged glances and Fournier addressed a question to the admiral. Villeneuve seemed irritated and Drinkwater heard his own name and the word 'parole'. The two withdrew with a scarcely concealed show of reluctance.
'Please sit, Captain Drinkwater,' said Villeneuve indicating a chair. 'Do you also find young men always know best?' he smiled engagingly and, despite their strange meeting, Drinkwater warmed to the man. He was aware once again that the two of them were of an age. He smiled back.
'It is a universal condition, Your Excellency.'
'Tell me, Captain. What would British officers be doing in our circumstances?' Villeneuve poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Drinkwater.
Drinkwater took the glass. 'Thank you, sir. Much as we are doing. Taking a glass of wine and a biscuit or two in the evening at anchor, then taking their watch or turning in.'
The two men sat for a while in silence, Drinkwater patiently awaiting disclosure of the reason for this strange rendezvous. Villeneuve seemed to be considering something, but at last he said, 'Colonel Santhonax tells me you are an officer of great experience, Captain Drinkwater. He would not have been pleased that we are talking like this.'
Villeneuve's remark was an opening, Drinkwater saw, a testing of the ground between them. On what he said now would depend how much the enemy admiral confided in him. 'I know Colonel Santhonax to be a spy, Your Excellency. As an aide to your Emperor I assume he enjoys certain privileges of communication with His Majesty.' He paused to lend his words weight, 'I would imagine that could be a grave embarrassment to you, sir, particularly as Colonel Santhonax is not without considerable experience as a seaman. I would say, sir, that he shared something of the prejudices of your young officers.'
'You are very—what is the English word? Shrewd, eh?—Yes, that is it.' Villeneuve smiled again, rather sadly, Drinkwater thought. 'Do you believe in destiny, Captain?'
Drinkwater shrugged. 'Not destiny, sir. Providence, perhaps, but not destiny.'
'Ah, that is because you are not from an ancient family. A Villeneuve died with Roland at the Pass of Roncesvalles; a Villeneuve died in the Holy Land and went to battle with your Coeur-de-Lion, and a Villeneuve led the lances of Aragon with Bayard. I was the ninety-first Villeneuve to be a Knight of Malta and yet I saw the justice of the Revolution, Captain. I think as an Englishman you must find that difficult to understand, eh?'
'Perhaps less than you think, sir. My own fortunes have been the other way. My father was a tenant farmer and I am uncertain of my origins before my grandfather. I would not wholly disapprove of your Revolution…'
'But not our Empire, eh, Captain?'
Drinkwater shrugged. 'I do not wish to insult you, sir, but I do not approve of the Emperor's intentions to invade my country'
Villeneuve was obviously also thinking of Napoleon for he said. 'Do you know what Santhonax is doing, Captain?'
'I imagine he has gone to Paris to report to His Imperial Majesty on the state of the fleet you command. And possibly…' he broke off, then, thinking it was worth a gamble, added, 'to tell the Emperor that he has succeeded in persuading you to sail.'
'Bon Dieu!' The blood drained from Villeneuve's face. 'H… how did you…?'
Villeneuve hesitated and Drinkwater pressed his advantage. 'As I said, Your Excellency, I know Santhonax for what he is. Did he kill Captain Wright in the Temple?'
The colour had not yet returned to the admiral's face. 'Is that what they say in England? That Santhonax murdered Wright?'
'No, they say he was murdered, but by whom only a few suspect.'
'And you are one of them, I think.'
Drinkwater shrugged again. 'On blockade duty, sir, there is ample time to ponder…' he paused seeing the admiral's puzzled look, 'er, to think about things.'
'Ah, yes, I understand. Your navy has a talent for this blockading. It is very tedious, is it not?'
'Very, sir…'
'And your ships? They wear out also?'
Drinkwater nodded, 'Yes.'
'And the men?'
Drinkwater held the admiral's gaze. It was no simple matter to convey to a Frenchman, even of Villeneuve's intelligence, the balance of the stubborn tenacity of a national character against a discipline that did not admit weakness. Besides, it was not his intention to appear over-confident. 'They wear out too, sir,' he said smiling.
Looking at the Englishman, Villeneuve noticed his hand go up under his coat to massage his shoulder. 'You have been wounded, Captain?'
'Several times…'
'Are you married?'
'Yes. I have two children.'
'I also am married… This war; it is a terrible thing.'
'I should not be here, sir, were it not for your Combined Fleet,' Drinkwater said drily.
'Ah, yes… the Combined Fleet. What is your opinion of the Combined Fleet, Captain?'
'It is difficult to judge, sir. But I think the ships good, particularly, with respect, the Spanish line-of-battle ships. The French are good seamen, but lack practice; the Spanish…' he shrugged again.
'Are beggars and herdsmen, the most part landsmen and soldiers,' Villeneuve said with sudden and unexpected vehemence. He stood up and began to pace with a slow dignity back and forwards between the table and the stern windows with an abstraction that Drinkwater knew to reveal he often did thus. 'And the officers are willing, but inexperienced. One cruise to the West Indies and they think they are masters of the oceans. They are all fire or venom because they think Villeneuve a fool! Do you know why I brought you here tonight, Captain, eh? No? Because it is not possible that I talk freely to my own officers! Only Gravina comprehends my position and he has troubles too many to speak of with his own court and that parvenu Godoy, the "Prince of Peace"!' Villeneuve's contempt filled him with a blazing indignation. 'Oh, yes, Captain, there is destiny,' he paused and looked down at Drinkwater, then thrust his pointing arm towards the windows. 'Out on the sea is Nelson and here, here is Villeneuve!' He stabbed his own chest with the same finger. Drinkwater sat quietly as Villeneuve took two more turns across the cabin then calmed himself, refilled the glasses and sat down again.
'How will Nelson attack, Captain?' He paused as Drinkwater protested, then held up his hand. 'It is all right, Captain, I know you to be a man of honour. I will tell you as I told my captains before we left Toulon. He will attack from windward if he can, not in line, but so as to concentrate his ships in groups upon a division of our fleet which he will annihilate with overwhelming force.' He slammed his right hand down flat upon the table making the candles gutter and raising a little whirl of grey ash. 'It was done at Camperdown and he did it to us at Abukir…' Again Villeneuve paused and Drinkwater watched him silently. The admiral had escaped from that terrible battle, Napoleon accounting him a lucky man, a man of destiny to be taken up to run at the wheels of the Imperial chariot.
'But it has never been done in the open sea with Nelson in command of a whole fleet,' Villeneuve went on, staring abstractedly into the middle distance. Drinkwater realised he was a sensitive and imaginative man and pitied him his burden. Villeneuve suddenly looked at him. 'That is how it will happen, yes?'
'I think so, sir.'
'If you were me, how would you counter it?'
'I… er, I don't know… It has never been my business to command a fleet, sir…'
Villeneuve's eyes narrowed and Drinkwater suddenly saw that the man did not lack courage, whatever might be said of him. 'When it is time for you to command a fleet, Captain, remember there is always an answer; but what you will lack is the means to do it…' He stood up again. 'Had I your men in my ships, Captain, I would astonish Napoleon!'
The admiral tossed off his second glass and poured a third, offering the wine to Drinkwater.
'Thank you, Your Excellency. But how would you answer this attack?' Drinkwater was professionally curious. It was a bold question, but Villeneuve did not seem to regard it as such and Drinkwater realised the extremity of the French admiral's loneliness and isolation. In any case Drinkwater was a prisoner, his escape from the heart of the Combined Fleet so unlikely that Villeneuve felt safe in using the opportunity to see the reaction to his plan of at least one British officer.
'A squadron of reserve, Captain, a division of my fleet kept detached to weather of my line and composed of my best ships, to reinforce that portion of my fleet which receives—how do you say?—the weight, no…'
'The brunt?'
'Yes, the brunt of your attack.'
Drinkwater considered Villeneuve's scheme. It was innovative enough to demonstrate his originality of thought, yet it had its defects.
'What if your enemy attacks the squadron of reserve?'
'Then the fleet tacks to its assistance, but I do not think this will happen. Your Nelson will attack the main line.' He smiled wryly and added, 'He may ignore the special division as being a badly manoeuvred part of the general line.'
'And if you are attacked from leeward…'
'Then the advantage is even more in our favour, yes.'
'But, Excellency, who have you among your admirals to lead this important division?'
'Only Gravina, Captain, on whom I can absolutely depend.' Villeneuve's face clouded over again. For a moment he had been visualising his counter-stroke to Nelson's attack, seeing the moving ships, hearing the guns and realising his dream: to save the navy of France from humiliation and raise it to the heights to which Suffren had shown it could be elevated. He sighed, obviously very tired.
'So you intend to sail, sir?' Drinkwater asked quietly. 'To offer battle to Nelson?'
'If necessary.' Villeneuve's reply was guarded, cautious, even uncertain, Drinkwater concluded, observing the admiral closely.
'But battle will be necessary if you wish to enter the Channel.'
'Perhaps…' There was an indifference now; Drinkwater felt the certainty of his earlier deliberations.
'Perhaps you are hoping to return to the Mediterranean?' he ventured. 'I hear his Imperial Majesty has withdrawn his camp from Boulogne?'
'Diable!' Villeneuve had paled again. 'How is this known? Do you know everything that comes to me?'
He rose, very angry and Drinkwater hurriedly added, 'Pardon, Excellency. It was only a guess… I, I made a guess…'
'A guess!' For a second Villeneuve's face wore a look of astonishment. Then his eyes narrowed a little. 'Santhonax was right, Captain Drinkwater, you are no fool. If I have to fight I will, but I have twice eluded Nelson and…' He shrugged, 'perhaps I might do it again.'
Drinkwater relaxed. He had been correct all along in his assumptions. The two men's eyes met. They seemed bound in an intensity of feeling, like the eyes of fencers of equal skill where pure antagonism had given way to respect, and only a superficial enmity prevented friendship. Then one of the fencers moved his blade, a tiny feinting movement designed to suggest a weakness, a concern.
'I think you might,' said Drinkwater in a voice so low that it was not much above a whisper. It was a terrible gamble, Drinkwater knew, yet he conceived it his duty to chance Nelson not missing the Combined Fleet.
For what seemed an age a silence hung in the cabin, then Villeneuve coughed and signalled their intimacy was at an end. 'After this conversation, Captain, I regret that you cannot leave the ship. You have given your parole and I will endeavour to make your stay comfortable.'
Drinkwater opened his mouth to protest. A sudden chilling vision of being on the receiving end of British broadsides overwhelmed him and he felt real terror cause his heart to thump and his face to blanch.
It was Villeneuve's turn to smile: 'You did not believe in destiny, Captain; remember?' Then he added, 'Santhonax wished that I left you to rot in a Spanish gaol.'
Drinkwater woke confused. After leaving Villeneuve he had been conducted to a small cabin intended for a warrant officer below the water-line on the orlop deck of the Bucentaure. A sentry was posted outside and for a long time he lay wide awake thinking over the conversation with Villeneuve, his surroundings both familiar and horribly alien. Eventually he had slept and he woke late, disgruntled, hungry and unable for some seconds to remember where he was. His lack of clothing made him feel irritable and the mephitic air of the unventilated orlop gave him a headache made worse by the strange smells of the French battleship. When he opened his door and asked for food he found the moustached sentry singularly unhelpful.
'I don't want your damned bayonet for my breakfast,' muttered Drinkwater pushing the dully gleaming weapon aside. He pointed to his mouth. 'Manger,' he said hopefully. The sentry shook his head and Drinkwater retreated into the miserable cabin.
A few minutes later, however, the debonair Guillet appeared, immaculately attired as befitted the junior officer of a flagship, and conducted Drinkwater courteously to the gunroom where a number of the officers were breakfasting. They looked at him curiously and Drinkwater felt ill at ease in clothes in which he had slept. However he took coffee and some biscuit, observing that for a fleet in port the officers' table was sparsely provided. His presence clearly had something of a dampening effect, for within minutes only he and Guillet remained at the table.
'I should be obliged if I could send ashore for my effects, Lieutenant… I would like to shave…' He mimed the action, at which Guillet held up his hand.
'No, Captain, please it is already that I 'ave sent for your…' he motioned over his own clothes, stuck for the right word.
'Thank you, Lieutenant.'
They were not long in coming and they arrived together with Mr Gillespy.
'Good Lord, Mr Gillespy, what the devil do you do here, eh?' The boy remained silent and in the bad light it took Drinkwater a moment to see that he was controlling himself with difficulty. 'Come, sir, I asked you a question…'
'P… please, sir…' He pulled a note from his pocket and held it out. Drinkwater took it and read.
Sir,
The boy is much troubled by your absence. Permission has been obtained from our captors that he may pin you wherever you have been taken and I have presumed to send him to you, believing this to be the best thing for him. We are well and in good spirits.
It was signed by James Quilhampton. He could hardly have imagined Drinkwater was on board the enemy flagship. 'Lieutenant Guillet… please have the kindness to return this midshipman to my lieutenant…'
'Oh, no, sir… please, please…' Drinkwater looked at the boy. His lower lip was trembling, his eyes filled with tears. 'Please, sir…'
'Brace up, Mr Gillespy, pray remember who and where you are.'
He paused, allowing the boy to pull himself together, and turned towards Guillet. 'What are your orders regarding this young officer?'
Guillet shrugged. His new duty was becoming irksome and he was regretting his boasted ability to speak English. 'The admiral 'e is a busy man, Capitaine. 'E says if the, er, midshipman is necessary to you, then he 'as no objection.'
Drinkwater turned to the boy again. 'Very well, Mr Gillespy, you had better find yourself a corner of the orlop.'
'And now, Capitaine, perhaps you will come with me onto the deck, yes?'
Drinkwater was ushered on deck, Guillet brushing aside the boy in his ardour to show the English prisoner the puissant might of the Combined Fleet. Drinkwater emerged on deck, his curiosity aroused, his professional interest fully engaged. He was conducted to the starboard waist and allowed to walk up and down on the gangway in company with Guillet. The lieutenant was unusually expansive and Drinkwater considered he was acting on orders from a higher authority. It was difficult to analyse why Villeneuve should want an enemy officer shown his command. He must know Drinkwater was experienced enough to see its weaknesses as well as its strengths; no seaman could fail to do that.
The deck of the Bucentaure was crowded with milling seamen and soldiers as the last of the stores were brought aboard. The last water casks were being filled and there were obvious preparations for sailing being made on deck and in the rigging. Boats were out under the bows of the nearest ships, singling up the cables fastened to the buoys laid in the Grande Rade.
'Over there,' said Guillet pointing to a 74-gun two-decker, 'le Berwick a prize from the Royal Navy, and there, the Swiftsure, also once a ship of your navy,' Guillet smiled, 'and, of course, we also 'ave one other ship of yours to our credit, but we could not bring it with us,' he laughed, 'His Majesty's sloop Diamond Rock!'
Guillet seemed to think this a great joke and Drinkwater remembered hearing of Commodore Hood's bold fortifying of the Diamond Rock off Martinique which had been held for some time before the overwhelming force of Villeneuve's fleet was brought to bear on it.
'I heard the garrison fought successive attacks off for nineteen hours without water in a tropical climate, Lieutenant, and that they capitulated upon honourable terms. Is that not so?' Guillet appeared somewhat abashed and Drinkwater changed the subject. 'Who is that extraordinary officer who has just come aboard?'
'Ah, that is Capitaine Infernet of the Intrépide.' Drinkwater watched a tall, flamboyant officer with a boisterous air climb on deck. ''E went to sea a powder monkey,' Guillet went on, 'and 'as escaped death a 'undred times, even when 'is ship it blows apart. 'E speaks badly but 'e fights well…'
'And who is that meeting him?'
'That is my capitaine, Jean Jacques Magendie, commandant of the Bucentaure.'
'Ah, and that man?' Drinkwater indicated a small, energetic officer with the epaulettes of a Capitaine de Vaisseu.
'Ah, that,' said Guillet in obvious admiration, 'is Capitaine Lucas of the Redoutable.'
'You obviously admire him, Lieutenant. Why is that?'
Guillet shrugged. 'He is a man most clever, and 'is crew and ship most, er, 'ow do you say it… er, very good?'
'Efficient?'
'Oui. That is right: efficient.'
Drinkwater turned away, Infernet was looking at him and he did not wish to draw attention to himself. He stared out over the crowded waters of Cadiz, the great battleships surrounded by small boats. He saw the massive hull of the four-decked Spanish ship Santissima Trinidad, 'That is the Santissima Trinidad, is it not?' Guillet nodded. 'She is Admiral Gravina's flagship?'
'No,' said Guillet, 'the Captain-General 'as 'is flag aboard the Principe de Asturias of one 'undred and twelve guns. The Santissima Trinidad flies the flag of Rear-Admiral Don Baltazar Cisneros. The ship moored next to 'er, she is the Rayo of one 'undred guns. She may interest you, Capitaine; she is commanded by Don Enrique Macdonnell. 'E is an Irish man who became a Spanish soldier to kill Englishmen. 'E fought in the Regimento de Hibernia against you when your American colonies bring their revolution. Later 'e is a sailor and when Gravina called for volunteers, Don Enrique comes to command the Rayo.'
'Most interesting. The Rayo is newly commissioned then?'
'Yes. And the ship next astern is the Neptuno. She is Spanish. We also 'ave the Neptune. She is', he looked round, 'there, alongside the Pluton…'
'We also have our Neptune, Lieutenant. She is commanded by Thomas Fremantle. He is rather partial to killing Frenchmen.' Drinkwater smiled. 'We also have our Swiftsure… but all this is most interesting…'
They spent the morning in this manner, talking always about ships and seamen, Drinkwater making mental notes and storing impressions of the final preparations of the Combined Fleet. He had a vague notion that they might be of value, yet was aware that he would find it impossible to pass them to his friends whose topsails, he knew, were visible from only a few feet up Bucentaure's rigging. But what was more curious was the strong conviction he had formed that it was Villeneuve himself who wished him to see all this.
A midday meal was served to Drinkwater in his dark and malodourous cabin. Eating alone he was reminded of his time as a midshipman in the equally stinking orlop of the British frigate Cyclops. The thought made him call for Gillespy. The only response was from the sentry, who put a finger to his lips and indicated the boy asleep in a corner of the orlop, curled where one of Bucentaure's massive futtocks met the deck.
Guillet did not reappear in the afternoon and, after lying down for an hour, Drinkwater rose. The ship had become strangely quiet, the disorder of the forenoon was gone. The sentry let him pass and he went on deck, passing a body of men milling in the lower and upper gun-decks. As he emerged into a watery sunshine he was aware of the admiral's flag at the masthead lifting to seawards; an easterly wind had come at last!
On the quarterdeck a reception party which included Captain Magendie, his officers and a military guard was welcoming a short, olive-skinned grandee with a long nose. He courteously swept his hat from his head in acknowledgement of the compliments done him, revealing neatly clubbed hair.
Lieutenant Guillet hurried across the deck and took Drinkwater's arm. 'Please, Capitaine, is it not for you to be 'ere now.'
'Who was that man, Lieutenant?' asked Drinkwater suffering himself to be hastened below.
'Don Frederico Gravina. Now, Capitaine, please you must go to your cabin and to stay.'
'Why?'
'Why, Mon Dieu, Capitaine, the order to sail, it is being made.' But the Combined Fleet did not sail. At four o'clock in the afternoon of 17th October the easterly wind fell away to a dead calm, and Drinkwater sat in his tiny cabin listening to the details of Mr Gillespy's family.
Drinkwater woke with the calling of Bucentaure's ship's company. He was denied the privilege of breakfasting with the officers and it was clear that he was not permitted to leave the hutch of a cabin he had been allocated. Nevertheless he was not required to be locked in, and by sitting in the cabin with a page of his journal before him he amused himself by getting Gillespy to attempt to deduce what was going on above them from the noises they could hear.
To a man who had spent most of his life on board ship this was not difficult, although for Gillespy the task, carried out in such difficult circumstances under the eye of his captain, proved an ordeal. There was a great deal of activity in the dark and stinking orlop deck. Further forward were the damp woollen curtains of the magazine and much of the forenoon was occupied by the barefoot padding past of the Bucentaure's powder monkeys as they scrambled below for the ready-made cartridges. These were supplied by the gunner and his mates whose disembodied hands appeared with their lethal packages through slits in the curtains. Parties of seamen were carrying up cannon balls from the shot lockers and from time to time a gun-captain came down to argue some technicality with the gunner. The junior officers, or aspirants, were also busy, running hither and thither on errands for the lieutenants and other officers.
'What do you remark as the most significant difference, Mr Gillespy, between these fellows and our own, eh?' Drinkwater asked.
'Why… I don't know, sir. They make a deal of noise…'
Drinkwater looked pleased. 'Exactly so. They are a great deal noisier and many officers would judge 'em as inferior because of that; but remark something else. They are also excited and cheerful. I'd say that, just like our fellows, they're spoiling for a fight, wouldn't you?'
'Yes. I suppose so, sir.' A frown crossed the boy's face. 'Sir?'
'Mmmm?' Drinkwater looked up from his journal.
'What will happen to us, sir, if this ship goes into battle?'
'Well, Mr Gillespy, that's a difficult question. We will not be allowed on deck and so, by the usages of war, will be required to stay here. Now do not look so alarmed. This is the safest place in the ship. Very few shot will penetrate this far and, although the decks above us may be raked, we shall be quite safe. Do not forget that instances of ships actually being sunk by gunfire are rare.
'So, let us examine the hypothesis of a French victory. If this is the case we shall be no worse off, for we may have extra company and that will make things much the merrier. On the other hand, assuming that it is a British victory, which circumstances, I might add, I have not the slightest reason to doubt, then we shall find ourselves liberated. Even if the ship is not taken we shall almost certainly be exchanged. We shall not be the first officers present in an enemy ship when that ship is attacked by our friends.' He smiled as reassuringly as he could. 'Be of good heart, Mr Gillespy. You may well have something to tell your grandchildren ere long.'
Gillespy nodded. 'You said that to me before, sir, when the French squadron got out of Rochefort.'
'Did I? I had forgotten.' The captain took up his pen again and bent over his journal.
This remark made Gillespy realise the great distance that separated them. He found it difficult to relate to this man who had shown him such kindness after the harshness of Lord Walmsley. In his first days on board Antigone it had seemed impossible that the captain who stood so sternly immobile on the quarterdeck could actually have children of his own. Gillespy could not imagine him as a father. Then he was made aware from the comments of the crew that Drinkwater had done something rather special in getting them out of Mount's Bay and from that moment the boy made it his business to study him. The attentions paid him by the captain had been repaid by a dog-like devotion. Even captivity had seemed tolerable and not at all frightening in the company of Captain Drinkwater. But bereft of that presence, Gillespy had felt all the terrors conceivable to a lonely and imaginative mind. He had implored Quilhampton to request he be allowed to join the captain.
Quilhampton acceded to the boy's request, aware that their captors were in any event likely to separate him and the midshipmen from Drinkwater. In due course Drinkwater would probably be exchanged and Gillespy might have a better chance with the captain. He and Frey would have to rely upon their own resources. James Quilhampton was determined not to remain long in captivity. Let the Combined Fleet sail, as everyone said they would, and he would make an attempt to escape, for the thought of Catriona spurred him on.
Now Gillespy waited patiently for Drinkwater to stop writing notes, watching the men of the Bucentaure who messed in the orlop coming below for their midday meal. He listened to their conversation, recognising a word or phrase here and there, and recalling some of the French his Domine had caned into him in Edinburgh all those months ago.
'I think, sir,' he said after a while in a confidential whisper, 'the wind has failed… They are laughing at one of the Spanish officers who must have come on board… I cannot make out his name… Grav… something.'
'Gravina?'
'Yes, yes that is it. Do you know what "manana" means sir, in Spanish?'
'Er, "tomorrow", I believe, Mr Gillespy, why?'
'And "al mar" must be something to do with the sea; because that fellow there, with the bright bandana and the ear-rings, he keeps throwing his arm in the air and declaiming "manana al mar".' He frowned again, 'I suppose he's imitating this Spanish officer.'
'That is most perceptive of you, Mr Gillespy. If you are right then Gravina has been aboard and announced "tomorrow to sea".' Drinkwater paused reflectively, 'Let us hope to God that you are right.'
He smiled again, encouraging the boy, yet aware that they might not survive the next few days, that ships might not be easily sunk by gunfire but ordinary fire, if it took them, might blow them apart as it had L'Orient at Abukir. Staring at the fire-screens round the entrances to the powder magazines, Drinkwater felt the sweat of pure fear prickle his back. Down here they would be caught like rats in a trap.
Towards evening Lieutenant Guillet came to see them. His neck linen was grubby and he looked tired after an active day, but he was courteous enough to apologise for ignoring them and clearly in optimistic spirits.
'Your duty has the greater call upon you than we do, Lieutenant,' said Drinkwater calmly.
'You are permitted 'alf-an-hour on deck, Capitaine. And you also,' he added to Gillespy, 'and then I am to take you to the General.'
Drinkwater saw Gillespy frown. 'Admiral Villeneuve, Mr Gillespy. Recall how I told you the French and Spanish use the terms interchangeably.'
The boy nodded and they followed Guillet on deck. The contrast with the previous day was startling. Amidships Bucentaure's boat had been hoisted on the booms. All the ropes were coiled away on their pins and aloft the robands of the harbour stow had been cast off the sails. A light breeze was again stirring from the eastward. Some of the ships had moved, warped down nearer the islets at the entrance of the harbour. The air of expectancy hanging over the fleet after the exertions of the day was almost tangible. The inactivity would now begin to pray on men's minds, and until the order was given to weigh, every man in that vast armada, some twenty thousand souls, would withdraw inside himself to consult the oracles in his heart as to his future in this world.
Drinkwater felt an odd and quite inexplicable lightness of spirit. Whenever the Bucentaure cleared for action he knew he too would be a victim to fear, but for the moment he felt strangely elated. He was no longer in any doubt that in the next day or so there was going to be a battle.
After his exercise period, Drinkwater was taken to Villeneuve's cabin. There was no secrecy about the interview; it was conducted in the presence of several other high-ranking officers among whom Drinkwater recognised Flag-Captain Magendie and Villeneuve's Chief-of-Staff, Captain Prigny. Another officer was in Rear-Admiral's uniform. He wore a silver belt around his waist and an air of permanent exasperation.
'Contre-Amiral Magon… Capitaine de frégate Drinkwater Charles…'
Magon bowed imperceptibly and regarded Drinkwater with intense dislike. Drinkwater felt he attracted more than his fair share of malice and was not long in discovering that Magon disapproved of Villeneuve's holding Drinkwater on his flagship. Drinkwater's knowledge of French was poor, but Magon's powers of dramatic and expressive gesture were eloquent.
Villeneuve was mastering his anger and humiliation with difficulty and Drinkwater glimpsed something of the problems he suffered in his tenure of command of the Combined Fleet. Eventually Magon ceased his diatribe, turned in disgust and affected to ignore the rest of the proceedings by staring fixedly out of the stern windows.
'Captain Drinkwater informs me, gentlemen,' Villeneuve said in English, 'that Nelson's attack will be as I outlined to you in my standing orders leaving Toulon. If you wish to question him further he is at your disposal…'
Drinkwater opened his mouth to protest that he had done nothing so dishonourable as to reveal Lord Nelson's plan of attack but, seeing the difficulties Villeneuve was under, he shut his mouth again.
'Excuse, Capitaine, mais, er, 'ow are you certain Nelson will make this attack, eh?' Captain Magendie asked. ''Ave you seen 'is orders to 'is escadre?'
'No, m'sieur.' It was beyond his power and the limit of his honour to help Villeneuve now.
A silence hung in the cabin and Drinkwater met Villeneuve's eyes. Whatever his defects as a leader, the man possessed personal courage of a high order. Alone of all his officers, Drinkwater thought, Villeneuve was the one man who knew what lay in wait for them beyond the mole of Cadiz.
Drinkwater woke with a start. The Bucentaure was alive with shouts and cries, the squeal of pipes and the rantan of a snare drum two decks above. For a second Drinkwater thought the ship was on fire and then he heard, or rather felt through the fabric of the ship, two hundred pairs of feet begin to stamp around the capstan. But it was to be a false alarm, although when he went on deck that evening there were fewer ships in the road. The wind had again dropped and Guillet was in a bad temper, his exertions of the previous day seemingly for nothing.
'Some of your ships got out, Lieutenant,' remarked Drinkwater, indicating the absence of a few of their neighbours of the previous night.
'Nine, Capitaine, now anchored off Rota.'
Drinkwater looked aloft at Villeneuve's flag and then at the sky, unconsciously rubbing his shoulder as he did so. 'You will have an easterly wind in the morning, I think.' He turned to Gillespy. 'What is tomorrow, Mr Gillespy. Sunday, ain't it?'
'Yes, sir, Sunday, the twentieth…'
'Well, Mr Gillespy, you must remark it… What is that in French, Lieutenant, in your new calendar, eh?
'Le vingt-huitième Vendémiare, An Quatorze…'
'What have Nelson's frigates been doing today, Lieutenant? Will you tell us that?'
Guillet grinned. 'Not coming into the 'arbour, Capitaine. Yesterday we send boats down to the entrance. Your frigate Euryalus, she does not come so close, and today with our ships going to Rota she does not engage.'
'That should not surprise you, Lieutenant Guillet. It is her business to watch.' Drinkwater added drily, 'And Nelson? What of him?'
'We 'ave not seen your Nelson, Capitaine,' Guillet's tone was almost sneering.
On his way below, Drinkwater realised that Lieutenant de Vaisseau Guillet did not fear Nelson and that the Combined Fleet would sail with confidence. If Guillet thought that, then it was probable that many of the junior officers thought the same. 'Do you also find,' Villeneuve had asked, 'young men always know best?' Drinkwater re-entered his cabin. He stretched himself on the cot, his hands behind his head, and stared unseeing at the low deck beams above. The strange sense of elation and excitement remained.
The following morning there was no doubt about their departure. Even in the orlop the slap of waves upon the hull indicated a wind, and soon the movement of the deck indicated Bucentaure was getting under way. Slowly the slap of waves became a hiss and bubbling rush of water. The angle of heel increased and the whole fabric of the ship responded.
'We're turning,' Drinkwater muttered, as Gillespy came anxiously to his doorway. The two remained immobile, the usual courtesies of the morning forgotten, their eyes staring, unwanted sensors in the gloom of the orlop, while their other faculties told them what was happening. A bump and thump came from forward and above.
'Anchor fished, catted and lashed against the fore-chains… We must be… yes, starboard tack, 'tis a north-easterly wind then… Ah, we're fetching out of the lee of the Mole…'
The Bucentaure began to pitch, gently at first and then settling down to the regularity of the Atlantic swells as they rolled in from the west.
'We're clear of San Sebastian now,' Drinkwater whispered, trying to visualise the scene. Outside the door the sentry staggered, the movement unfamiliar to him.
Gillespy giggled and Drinkwater grinned at him, as much to see the boy in good spirits as at the lack of sea-legs on the part of the soldier. After about an hour of progress the angle of the deck altered and the ship began a different motion.
'What is it, sir?'
'We are hove-to. Waiting for the other ships to come out.'
Evidence of this hiatus came a few minutes later when men came down to their messes for breakfast. Bucentaure's company had divided into their sea-watches. The battleship was leading the Combined Fleet to sea.
It was afternoon before they were allowed to emerge from the orlop. Lieutenant Guillet appeared. 'You please to come on deck now, Capitaine.' There was the undeniable gleam of triumph in his eyes. 'The Combined Fleet is at sea, and there is no sight of your Nelson.'
Drinkwater ascended the companion ladders through the gun-decks. Men looked at him curiously, sharing the same elation as Guillet. Drinkwater's finely tuned sensibilities could detect high morale when he encountered it. Their worst fears had not materialised. But what interested him more was the weather when he finally reached the rail in the windward gangway. The wind had gone to the south-west, it was overcast and drizzling.
'Voila, Capitaine Drinkwater!' Guillet extended an arm that swept around the Bucentaure in a gesture that embraced forty ships, adding with a fierce pride, 'C'est magnifique,'
The Combined Fleet lumbered to the southward, topsails reefed, yards braced sharp up on the starboard tack, in five columns, the colours of their hulls faded in the drizzle.
'The Corps de Bataille,' Guillet indicated proprietorially, pointing ahead, 'it is led by Vice-Admiral de Alava in the Santa Ana, we are in the centre and Rear-Admiral Dumanoir commands the rear in the Formidable…'
'And Gravina?'
'Ah, the Captain-General leads the Corps de Réserve with Magon as his support.'
'And you steer south, Lieutenant… for the Mediterranean I presume.'
Guillet shrugged dismissively, 'Per'aps.'
'And you will be lucky with the wind. I think it will be veering very soon to the north-west.' Drinkwater pointed to a patch of blue sky from which the grey cumulus drew back.
'Where is Nelson, Capitaine?' Guillet asked with a grin. 'Eh?'
'When the weather clears, Lieutenant, you may well find out.' Drinkwater fervently hoped he was right.
He was not permitted to see the horizon to windward swept of the drizzle to become sharp and clear against the sudden lightening of the sky. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, as the bells of the battleships sounded their four double-chimes that marked the change of watch, when the wind hauled aft. The limit of the visible horizon extended abruptly many miles to the west. From the mastheads of the French and Spanish men-o'-war the six grey topsails of two British frigates could be seen as they lay hull down over the horizon. They were Nelson's watch-dogs.
It had been dark for several hours when Guillet reappeared, demanding Drinkwater's immediate attendance upon the quarterdeck. Wrapping his cloak around him he followed the French officer, emerging on deck in the dim glow of the binnacle. The wind had freshened a little and ahead of them they could see the battle lanterns of the next ship. Casting a glow over the after-deck, their own lanterns shone, together with Villeneuve's command lantern in the mizen top. These points of light only emphasised the blackness of the night to Drinkwater as he stumbled on the unfamiliar deck. But a few minutes later he could pick out details and see that the great arch of the sky was studded with stars.
'Capitaine Drinkwater, mon amiral…'
'Ah, Captain…' Villeneuve addressed him. 'I do not wish to dishonour you, but what do you interpret from those signals to the west?' He held out a night-glass and Drinkwater was aware of his anxiety. It was clearly Villeneuve's besetting sin in the eyes of his subordinates.
He could see nothing at first and then he focused the telescope and saw pin-points of light and the graceful arc of a rocket trail. 'British frigates signalling, sir.' That much must be obvious to Villeneuve.
But he was saved from further embarrassment by a burst of rockets shooting aloft from the direction of the Principe de Asturias. From the sudden flurry of activity and the repetition of the Spanish admiral's name, Drinkwater gathered Gravina was signalling the presence of enemy ships even closer than the two cruisers Drinkwater could see on the horizon. Bucentaure's quarterdeck came to sudden and furious activity. Her own rockets roared skywards in pairs and the order was given to go to general quarters and clear for action. Other admirals in the Combined Fleet set up their night signals. The repeating frigates to leeward joined in a visual spectacle better suited to a victory parade than the escape of a hunted fleet, Drinkwater thought, as he was hustled below.
'Branle-bas-de-combat!' officers were roaring at the hatchways and the drummers were beating the rantan opening the Générale. The Bucentaure burst into a noisy and spontaneous life, lent a nightmare quality as her people surged on deck and to their stations in the gun-decks, lowering the bulkheads that obstructed the long batteries of heavy artillery that gleamed dully from the fitful lights of the swinging battle lanterns. Drinkwater did not fight the tide of humanity but waited, observing the activity. The noise was deafening, but otherwise the men knew their places and, although not as fast as the ruthlessly trained crew of a British seventy-four, Bucentaure's eighty cannon were soon ready for action. Drinkwater made his way below.
The messing area of the orlop that formed a tiny square of courtyard outside his and the other warrant officers' cabins had been transformed. A number of chests had been pulled into its centre and covered with a piece of sail. A separate chest supported the instrument cases of the Bucentaure's two surgeons. The senior of these two men, Charles Masson, had treated Drinkwater with some consideration and addressed him in English, which he spoke quite well. Drinkwater had come to like the man and, as he retired to his cabin in search of Gillespy, he nodded at him.
'It has come to the time of battle, then, m'sieur?' Masson tested the edge of a curette and looked up at the English captain standing stooped and cock-headed under the low beams.
'Soon, now, I think, M'sieur Masson, soon…'
Nathaniel Drinkwater lay unsleeping through the long October night. He was tormented by the thought of the hours to come, of how he might have been preparing the Thunderer for action. Alone, without the necessity of reassuring the now sleeping Gillespy or the disturbance of Bucentaure's people who stood at their quarters throughout the small hours, he reflected on his ill-fortune. Such a mischance as his capture had happened in a trice to sea-officers; it was one of the perils of the profession; but this reflection did not make it any easier to bear as he lay inactive in a borrowed cot aboard the enemy flagship. There was nothing he could do except await the outcome of events.
Even these were by no means certain. Gravina's signals of the previous evening had obviously been those of panic. No British cruisers had come close, but those distant rockets seen by Drinkwater meant that the Combined Fleet was being shadowed. The response of the French and Spanish admirals in throwing out rocket signals themselves had undoubtedly attracted the attention of Blackwood's watch-dogs. Connecting Blackwood's Inshore Squadron with the main fleet, Nelson would have look-out ships at intervals, and these would pass on Blackwood's messages. God grant that Nelson had seen them and that he would come up before Villeneuve slipped through the Gut of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean.
Drinkwater did not like to contemplate too closely what might happen to himself. He had to summon up all his reserves of fortitude and rehearse for his own comfort all the argument he had put to little Gillespy as guaranteeing their safety. But they did not reassure him. The worst aspect of his plight was his inability to influence events. Never in his life had he been so passive. The sea-service had placed a continual series of demands upon his skill and experience so that, although he was a victim of events, he had always had a chance of fighting back. To perish in the attempt was one thing; to be annihilated without being able to lift a finger struck him as being particularly hard to bear.
Some time in the night the Bucentaure's company were stood down from their stations. Drinkwater heard them come below and his gloom increased. To a man used from boyhood to living on board ship he had no difficulty in gauging their mood. They were grim, filled with a mixture of anxiety and hope. They were also unusually subdued and few settled to sleep. Drinkwater tried to judge the course that the Bucentaure was sailing on. He could feel a low ground swell gently lifting and rolling the ship. That would not significantly have altered its direction since he had observed it the previous evening. He felt it coming up almost abeam, but lifting the starboard quarter first: Villeneuve was edging away towards the Strait.
He must have slept, for he was startled by the drums again rappelling the Générale and the petty officers crying 'Branle-bas-de-combat!' at the hatchways. The orlop emptied of men and then others came down, the sinister denizens of this area of perpetual night: Surgeon Masson, his assistants and mates. Shortly after this a light and playful rattle of a snare drum and the tweeting of fifes could be heard. Cries of 'Vive le Commandant!' and 'Vive l'Empereur!' were shouted by Bucentaure's company as Villeneuve and his suite toured the ship. A sentry came half-way down the orlop ladder and announced something to the surgeon.
'What is the news, M'sieur Masson?' Drinkwater asked.
'One of our frigates has signalled the enemy is in sight.'
'Ah… d'you hear that, Mr Gillespy?'
'Yes, sir.' The boy was pale, but he managed a brave smile. 'Do you think that will be the Euryalus, sir, or the main body of the fleet?'
'To be candid, Mr Gillespy, I do not know.'
The boy nodded and swallowed. 'Do you know, sir, that Euryalus was slain in a wood when gathering intelligence for the Trojans?'
'No, Mr Gillespy, I'm afraid I did not know that.' The arcane fact surprised Drinkwater and then he reflected that the boy might make a better academic than a sea-officer.
'The Trojans were defeated, sir…' Gillespy pointed out, as if seeking some parallel with present events.
'Come, sir, that is no way to talk… Why, what of Antigone? Who the devil was she?'
'The daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta, sir. She buried the body of her brother after her uncle had ordered it to be left exposed and he had her bricked up behind a wall…'
'Enough of that, Mr Gillespy.' He fell silent. It was true that his own Antigone might as well be bricked up, stuck, as she was, with Louis off Gibraltar. If the Combined Fleet got through the Strait unmolested it would come upon the lone Antigone cruising to the eastward watching the eastern horizon for Salcedo! He groaned aloud, 'Oh, God damn it!'
'Are you all right, sir? Gillespy came forward solicitiously, but drew back at the sight of the captain's set face.
'Perfectly, Mr Gillespy,' Drinkwater said grimly, 'I am damning my ill-fortune.'
'I'm hungry, sir,' Gillespy said after a little, but this feeble appeal was lost in a sudden canting of the Bucentaure. Drinkwater strained to hear orders on deck but it was impossible as the hull creaked about them and the constant wash of the sea beyond the ship's side shut out any noise from the upper deck.
'We're wearing… God damn it, we're wearing, Mr Gillespy… yes, yes certainly we are… wait… see, we're steady again…' He gauged the way the hull reacted to the swell. It rolled them from the other side now, the larboard side. They were heading north and the rush of water past the hull was much less than it had been the day before. Either they had reduced sail or the wind had dropped significantly.
'What does it mean, sir?'
'I don't know,' snapped Drinkwater, trying to answer that very question himself. 'Either that Louis has appeared ahead of the Combined Fleet, or that Villeneuve has abandoned his intention and wishes to return to Cadiz… in which case I judge that the answer to your question is that our friends have sighted the main body of Lord Nelson's fleet.' As he spoke, Drinkwater's voice increased in strength with mounting conviction.
'By God!' he added, knowing Villeneuve's vacillation, 'that must be the explanation.' He smiled at the boy. 'I think you will have something to tell your grandchildren, my boy!'
Half an hour later Lieutenant Guillet appeared. He wore full dress uniform and was formally polite.
'Capitaine Drinkwater, I am ordered by His Excellency Vice-Admiral Villeneuve to remind you of your parole and the courtesy done you by permitting you to keep your sword. It is also necessary that I ask you that you will do nothing during the action to prejudice this ship. Without these assurances I 'ave orders to confine you in irons.' It was a rehearsed speech and he could see the hand of Magendie as well as the courtliness of Villeneuve.
'Lieutenant Guillet, it would dishonour both myself and my country if I was not to conform to your request. I assure you that both myself and my midshipman will do nothing to interfere with the Bucentaure. Will you convey my compliments to His Excellency and I thank you for your kind attentions to us and wish you good fortune in the hours ahead.'
They exchanged bows and Guillet departed. The forenoon dragged on. Drinkwater wrote in his journal and comforted the starving Gillespy. A strange silence hung over the groaning fabric of the warship, permeating down through her decks and hatchways. Even the men awaiting the arrival of the wounded in the orlop talked among themselves in whispers. About mid-morning they heard a muffled shout, drowned immediately in a terrific rumbling sound that startled them after the long and heavy silence.
'Running out the guns,' Drinkwater explained to Gillespy.
'Capitaine, will you come to the deck at once…' It was Guillet, his appearance hurried and breathless.
Drinkwater rose and put on his hat. He turned to Gillespy. 'Remain here, Mr Gillespy. You are in no circumstances to leave the orlop.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater followed Guillet up through the lower gun-deck. It was flooded by shafts of sunshine coming in through the open gunports. Every cannon was run out and the crews squatted expectantly round them, one or two peering through at the approaching British. Lieutenants and aspirants paced along their divisions and a murmur ran up and down the guns. Guillet and Drinkwater emerged on deck and Guillet led him directly to where Villeneuve, Magendie and Prigny were staring westwards. His heart beating furiously, Drinkwater followed the direction of their telescopes.
Under a sky of blue and over an almost calm sea furrowed by a ponderous swell from the westward, the British fleet came down on the Combined Fleet in two loose groups, prevented from getting into any regular formation by the lightness of the westerly breeze. Drinkwater looked briefly round him to see the Franco-Spanish ships in almost as much disorder. The decision to wear, though two hours old, had thrown them into a confusion from which it would take them some time to recover. Instead of a single line with the frigates to leeward and Gravina's crucial detachment slightly to weather, the whole armada was a loose crescent, bowed away from the advancing British towards the distant blue outline of Cape Trafalgar on the horizon. The line had vast gaps in it, astern of the Bucentaure for instance, and in places the ships had bunched two and three abreast.
He turned his attention to the British again at the same time as Villeneuve lowered his glass and noticed his arrival. 'Ah, Captain Drinkwater. I desire your opinion as to the leading ships…' He handed Drinkwater his glass.
Drinkwater focused the telescope and the image leapt into the lenses with unbelievable clarity. The two groups of British ships were led by three-deckers. These ships were going to receive the brunt of the fire of several broadsides before they could retaliate and Drinkwater sensed a certain elation amongst the officers on Bucentaure's quarterdeck. They came on like a row of skittles, one behind the other. Knock the end one over and it would take them all down.
As he watched, flags soared up the mastheads and out to the yardarms of the leading British ships. Between the two groups he could see the frigates Naiad, Euryalus, Siruis and Phoebe, a cutter and schooner, standing by to repeat signals or tow a wounded battleship out of the line.
'Well, Captain?' Villeneuve was reminding him he was a prisoner and had been asked a question. He looked again at the leading ships. They had every stitch of sail set, their studding sails winged out on the booms, their slack sheets trailing in the water. The swell made the great ships pitch gently as they came on, their hulls black and yellow barred, their decorated figureheads bright with paintwork. The southern group was further advanced than the northern column. He closed the telescope with a snap.
'The southern column is led by Royal Sovereign, Your Excellency, flagship of Vice-Admiral Collingwood…'
'And Nelson?' Villeneuve's eagerness betrayed his anxiety.
'There, sir,' Drinkwater pointed with Villeneuve's telescope, the brass instrument gleaming in the sunshine, 'there is Victory, leading the northern column and bearing the flag of Lord Nelson.'
Villeneuve's hand was extended for his glass, but his eyes never left the black and yellow hull of Victory. As Drinkwater watched, the ship astern of Victory seemed to edge out of line, as if making to overtake. Then he saw her sails shake and she disappeared from view behind the flagship again. 'She seems to be supported by the Temeraire,' he added, 'of ninety-eight guns.'
Bucentaure's officers studied the menacing approach of the silent British ships. All along her own decks animated chatter had broken out. He noticed there was no check put to this and the men seemed in high spirits now that action was inevitable. Aware that at any moment he would be ordered below, he again looked round. The gap astern was a yawning invitation to the British, and Drinkwater's practised eye soon reckoned that Victory was heading for that gap. Collingwood, he judged, would strike the allied line well astern of the Bucentaure, somewhere about the position of the funereal black hull of the Spanish 112-gun Santa Ana with her scarlet figurehead of the saint. Ahead of the Bucentaure the mighty Santissima Trinidad, with her hull of red and white ribbands, seemed to wait placidly for the onslaught of the heretic fleet, a great wooden cross hanging over her stern beneath the red and gold ensign of Spain.
'Nelson attacks as I said he would, Captain,' Villeneuve remarked in English. And added, as his glass raked the following ships crowding down astern of their leaders, 'It is not that Nelson leads, but that every captain thinks he is Nelson…' Then, in his own tongue and in a tone of anguish he said, 'Où est Gravinar?'
Drinkwater realised the import of the remark, forgotten in the excitement of watching the British fleet approach. By wearing to the northward, Villeneuve had reversed his order of sailing. The van was led by Dumanoir now. Instead of commanding a detached squadron to windward, Gravina was tailing on the end of the immense line. Villeneuve's counterstroke was destroyed!
Drinkwater's eyes met those of the French Commander-in-Chief, then Villeneuve looked away; Magendie was speaking impatiently to him and at that moment smoke belched from a ship well astern of Bucentaure. The rolling concussion of a broadside came over the water towards them as white plumes rose around the Royal Sovereign. Collingwood had shifted his flag from the sluggishDreadnought to the swift and newly coppered Royal Sovereign as soon as she had come out from England. Now that speed carried her into battle ahead of her consorts and her chief. Soon other ships were trying the range along with the Fougeuex, smoke and flame belched from the side of the Santa Ana, and still the Royal Sovereign came on, her guns silent, her defiance expressed by the hoisting of additional colours in her rigging.
Drinkwater turned his attention to the other column. Much nearer now, Victory could be seen clearly, her lower fore-sheets trailing in the water as the lightness of the breeze wafted her down on the waiting Bucentaure.
Magendie barked something and Guillet tugged at Drinkwater's sleeve. He followed Guillet to the companionway. As he left the deck he heard the bells of several ships strike the quadruple double ring of noon.
'Tirez!'
As Drinkwater passed over the gun-deck, Lieutenant Fournier gave the order to one of Bucentaure's 24-pounder cannon. It rumbled inboard with the recoil after the explosion of discharge, snatching at its breeching while its crew ministered to it, stuffing sponge, cartridge wad and ball into its smoking muzzle. The lieutenant leaned forward, peering through the gun-port to see where the ranging shot had fallen, and Drinkwater knew he was aiming at Victory. The first coils of white powder smoke drifted innocently around the beams of the deck above and its acrid smell was pungent.
Drinkwater descended into the orlop and made his way back, where he was greeted by a ring of expectant faces. Masson and his staff as well as Gillespy awaited news from the upper world.
'M'sieur Masson, the allied fleets of France and Spain are being attacked by a British fleet under Lord Nelson…'
He heard the name 'Nelson' repeated as men looked at one another, and then all hell broke loose above them.
For the next hours the world was an immensity of noise. The stygian darkness of the orlop, pitifully lit with its faint lanterns whose flames struggled in the foul air, became in its own way an extension of hell. But it was the aural senses that suffered the worst assault. Despite twenty-six years in the Royal Navy, Nathaniel Drinkwater had never before experienced the ear-splitting horror of a sustained action in a ship larger than a frigate; never been subjected to the rolling waves of blasting concussion that reverberated in the confined space of a gun-deck and down into the orlop below. The guns belching their lethal projectiles leapt back on their carriages with an increasing eagerness as they heated up. They became like things with a life of their own. The shouts of their captains and the aspirants and officers who controlled them became nothing more than howls of servitude as the iron monsters spat smoke, fire and iron into the enemy. The stench of powder permeated the orlop, itself full of shuddering air, its shadows atremble from the vibrating lantern hooks as the Bucentaure flexed and quivered in response to her own violence. This was the moment for which she had been called into being, to resist force with force and pit iron against iron in a ruthless carnage of cacophonous death.
Initially the men stationed in the orlop had nothing to do. The surgeon and his mates waited for the first of the wounded to come down, the gunner and his staff peered from their shot and powder rooms, waiting for the first of the boys requiring more cartridges and shot. So far Bucentaure had shivered only from the discharge of her own guns. In his imagination Drinkwater saw Victory looming ever larger as she made for that yawning gap astern of the French flagship. He tried to recall the two ships that were trying to fill it and thought that they should have been the Neptune and the Spanish San Leandro, but they were both to leeward, he remembered, and only Lucas in the Redoubtable was in direct line astern of the Bucentaure. Drinkwater felt a sympathy for Villeneuve. Gravina had let him down and now he went almost unsupported into action with a ship heavier than his own. Bucentaure was a new ship and Victory fifty years old, but the added elevation of her third gun-deck would make her a formidable opponent.
And then Drinkwater heard the most terrible sound of his life. The concussion was felt through the entire body rather than heard with the ears alone, a distant noise above the thunder of Bucentaure's cannon, a strange mixture of sounds that had about it the tinkle of imploding glass and the noise of a million bees driving down wind on the back of a hurricane. The whole of Bucentaure trembled, men standing were jerked slightly and the bees were followed by the whoosh and crash, the splintering, jarring shock of impact, as musket balls and double- and triple-shotted guns raked the whole length of the Bucentaure. It was over in a few seconds as Victory crossed their stern, pouring the pent-up fury of her hitherto silent guns through the Bucentaure's stern galleries and along her gun-decks, knocking men. over like ninepins. It took cannon off their carriages too, for above their heads they heard the crash of guns hitting the deck, but by this time the orlop had its own terrible part to play.
As the first wave of that raking broadside receded, Drinkwater released Gillespy whom he found himself clasping protectively. He could not stand idle and tore off his coat as the first wounded were stretched upon the canvas of the operating 'table'.
'Come, Mr Gillespy, come; let us do something in the name of humanity to say we were not idle when brave men did their duty.'
Ghostly pale, Gillespy came forward and held the arm of a man while Masson excised a splinter from his shoulder and shoved him roughly aside. It took four men to hold some of the wounded who were filling the space like a human flood so that for a second Drinkwater imagined they might drown under the press of bloody bodies that seemed to inundate them. Men screamed or whimpered or stared hollow-eyed. Pain robbed them of the last protest as their lives drained out into the stinking bilge beneath them.
'It is important we operate fast,' Masson shouted, the sweat pouring from him as he wiped a smear of blood across his forehead. 'Not him, Captain, he is too much gone… this man… ah, a leg… we must cut here…' The knife bit into the flesh, its passage marked by a line of blood, and Masson's practised wrist took the incision right around the limb, inclining the point towards the upper thigh.
'If I am quick, he is in shock… see how little his arteries bleed, they have closed, and I can do no more damage than his wound…' Masson nodded to the bunch of bleeding rags that had once been a leg. As he spoke his deft fingers tied thread around the blood vessels and then he picked up his saw, thrust it deep into the mess and quickly cut through the femur. He drew the skin together and swiftly sutured it. 'Do you know, Captain,' he bawled conversationally as he nodded and the wounded man was removed to be replaced by another, 'that the Russians and Prussians simply cut through, tie the ligatures and draw the flesh together, leaving the bone almost at the extremity of the amputation and the skin tight as a drum…' Masson glanced at his next patient, caught the eye of his assistant and made a winding motion with one finger. The assistant brought a roll of linen bandage and the great welling wound in the stomach was bound, the white quickly staining red. The man was moved to a corner, to lean against a great futtock and bleed out his life.
Drinkwater looked round. The wooden tubs were full of amputated limbs and still men arrived and were ministered to by Masson as he hacked and sawed, bound and bandaged. The surgeon was awash in blood and the foul air of the orlop was thick with the stink of it. Above their head Bucentaure was raked again, and then again at intervals as, following Victory, Tememire and then the British Neptune crossed her stern.
Another body appeared under the glimmer of the lanterns and Masson looked at his assistant busy amputating the arm of a negro. He called some instructions and then shouted at Drinkwater, 'Assistance, Captain. This one we will have to hold!' Masson tore the blood-soaked shirt off the frail body of the boy, a powder monkey or some such.
'Hold him, Captain! He is fully conscious! They are always difficult!'
The white body arched as Masson began his curettage. 'We may save him, it's a fragment from a ball, perhaps it burst when it hit a gun, but it is deep. Hold him!' There was demonic strength in the tiny body and it wailed pitifully. Drinkwater looked at the face. It was Gillespy.
'Dear God…' The boy was staring up at him, his eyes huge and dark and filled with tears. Blood seeped from his mouth and Drinkwater was aware that he was biting his lip. Masson's mate had seen it and as Gillespy opened his mouth to scream, he rammed a pad of leather into it. Masson wrestled bloodily with the fragment, up to his wrist in the boy's abdomen until Drinkwater found himself shouting at the boy to faint.
'He will not stand the shock…' Drinkwater could see Masson was struggling. 'Merde!' The surgeon shook his head. 'I cannot waste time… he is finished…'
They dragged Gillespy aside and Drinkwater picked him up. He made for the cot in his cabin, but it was already occupied and, as gently as he could, Drinkwater laid the boy down in a dark corner and knelt beside him.
'There, there, Mr Gillespy…' He felt desperately inadequate, unable even to give the midshipman water. He could not understand how it had happened. The boy had been helping them… and then Drinkwater recollected, he had withdrawn, his hand over his mouth as though about to vomit. He looked at Gillespy. He had spat the leather pad out and his mouth moved. Drinkwater bent to hear him.
'The… the pain has all gone, sir… I went on deck, sir… to see for myself. I wanted to see something… to tell my grandchildren… disobeyed you…' Gillespy's voice faded into an incoherent gurgle. Drinkwater knew from the blood that suddenly erupted from his mouth that he was dead.
Another broadside raked Bucentaure and Drinkwater laid the body down and straightened up. He was trembling all over, his head was splitting from the noise, the damnable, thunderous, everlasting bloody noise. He stumbled over the recumbent bodies of the wounded and dying. Reaching into the cabin he had occupied, he picked up his sword and made for the ladder of the lower gun-deck. Nobody stopped him and he was suddenly aware that Bucentaure's guns had been silent for some time, that the continued bombardment was the echo in his belaboured head.
The lower gun-deck was a shambles. Swept from end to end by the successive broadsides of British battleships, fully half its guns were dismounted, their carriages smashed. The decks were ploughed up by shot, the furrows lined by spikes of wood like petrified grass. Men writhed or lay still in heaps, their bodies shattered into bloody mounds of flesh, brilliant hued and lit by light flooding in through the pulverised and dismantled stern. Drinkwater could not see a single man on his feet throughout the whole space. He made for the ladder to the upper deck and emerged into a smoke-stifled daylight.
Drinkwater stared around him. Bucentaure was dismasted, the stumps of her three masts incongruous, their shattered wreckage hanging all about her decks, over her guns and waist where a vain attempt was being made to get a boat out. A man was shouting from the poop. It was Villeneuve.
'Le Bucentaure a rempli sa tâche: la mienne n'est pas encore achevée.' Amidships a lieutenant gestured it was impossible to get a boat in the water. Villeneuve turned away and nodded at a smoke-begrimed man whom Drinkwater realised was Magendie. All together there were only a handful of men on Bucentaure's deck. Magendie waved his arm and shouted something. Drinkwater was aware of the masts and sails of ships all around them, towering over their naked decks, and in the thick grey smoke the brilliant points of fire told where the iron rain still poured into Bucentaure. It was quite impossible to tell friend from foe and Drinkwater stood bemused, sheltered by the wreckage of the mainmast which had fallen in a great heap of broken spars and rope and canvas.
A wraith of smoke dragged across Bucentaure's after-deck and Drinkwater saw Villeneuve again. He had been wounded and he stood looking forward over the wreckage of his ship. 'A Villeneuve died with Roland at the Pass of Roncesvalles,' Drinkwater remembered him saying as, behind him, the great tricolour came fluttering down on deck.
Bucentaure had struck her colours.
Drinkwater stood dazed. At times the surrounding smoke cleared and he caught brief glimpses of other ships. On their starboard quarter a British seventy-four was slowly turning—it had been she that had last raked Bucentaure—and, to windward, yet another was looming towards them. Beneath his feet the deck rolled and Drinkwater came to his senses, instinct telling him that the swell was building up all the time. He turned. Ahead of them another British battleship was swinging, presumably she too had raked Bucentaure, though now she was ranging up to leeward of the Santissima Trinidad. And still from the weather side British battleships were coming into action! Drinkwater felt his blood run chill.
'God!' he muttered to himself, 'what a magnificent bloody risk Nelson took!' And he found himself shaking again, his vision blurred, as around the shattered Bucentaure the thunder of battle continued to reverberate. Then suddenly a double report sounded from Bucentaure's own cannon. Two guns on the starboard quarter barked a continued defiance at the British ship that had just raked them. Drinkwater saw splinters dance from her hull and an officer point and shout, clearly outraged by such conduct after striking. He saw muzzles run out and the yellow and scarlet stab of flame. The shot tore over his head and, with a crash, what was left of the Bucentaure's foremast came down. The two quarter-guns fell silent.
Drinkwater clambered aft. No one stopped him. Men slumped wounded or exhausted around the guns, their faces drained of expression. Bucentaure's company had been shattered into its individual fragments of humanity. Pain and defeat had done their work: she was incapable of further resistance. He hesitated to climb to the poop. This was not his moment, and yet he wished to offer Villeneuve some comfort. On her after-deck officers were waving white handkerchiefs at the British battleship. He turned away below. It was not his business to accept Bucentaure's surrender. He reached the lower gun-deck. Running forward from aft came a party of British seamen led by two midshipmen.
'Come, Mr Hicks, we've a damned Frog here!'
Drinkwater turned at the familiar voice. The young officer was partially silhouetted against the light from the shattered stern, but his drawn sword gleamed and from the rapidity of his advance Drinkwater took alarm. His hand went to his own hanger, whipping out the blade.
'Stand still, God damn you!' he roared. 'I'm a British officer!'
'Good God!'
Recognition came to the two men at the same time.
'Captain Drinkwater, sir… I, er, I beg your pardon…'
'Mr Walmsley… you and your men can put up your weapons. Bucentaure is finished.'
'So I see…' Walmsley looked round him, his face draining of colour as his eyes fell on an entire gun crew who had lost their heads. Alongside them lay Lieutenant Guillet. He had been cut in half.
'Oh Christ!' Lord Walmsley put his hand to his mouth and the vomit spurted between his fingers.
'I was a prisoner of the French admiral, gentlemen. I am obliged to you for my liberty,' Drinkwater said, affecting not to notice Walmsley's confusion.
'Midshipman William Hicks, sir, of the Conqueror, Captain Israel Pellew.' The second midshipman introduced himself, then turned as more men came aboard led by a marine officer. 'This is Captain James Atcherley, sir, of the same ship.'
The ridiculous little ceremony was performed and the scarlet-coated Atcherley was acquainted with the fact that Captain Drinkwater, despite his coatless appearance and blood-stained shirt, was a British officer.
'Come, sir, I will take you to the admiral.' They clambered onto the upper deck and Drinkwater stood aside to allow Atcherley to precede him onto the poop.
'No, no, it is your task, Captain,' Drinkwater said as Atcherley demurred. 'He speaks good English.'
He followed the marine officer. Villeneuve lowered the glass through which he had been studying some distant event and turned towards the knot of British officers.
'To whom have I the honour of surrendering?' Villeneuve asked.
Atcherley stepped forward: 'To Captain Pellew of the Conqueror.'
'I am glad to have struck to the fortunate Sir Edward Pellew.'
'It is his brother, sir,' said Atcherley.
'His brother! What! Are there two of them? Hélas!'
Atcherley refused the proffered sword. Captain Magendie shrugged. 'Fortune de la guerre. I am now three times a prisoner of you British.'
'I shall secure the ship's magazines, sir,' Atcherley said. 'You shall retain your swords until able to surrender them to someone of sufficient rank—' he turned—'unless Captain Drinkwater would receive them?'
Drinkwater shook his head. 'No Captain Atcherley. I have in no way contributed to today's work and am bound by my word to Admiral Villeneuve. Do you do as you suggest.' He acknowledged the tiny bow made in his direction by Villeneuve.
'In that case, sir,' said Atcherley, addressing the French officers, 'I should be obliged if you would descend to the boat.' He looked round. The Conqueror had disappeared in the smoke, joining in the mêlée round the huge Santissima Trinidad that had not yet struck to her many enemies.
'I shall convey you to Mars, sir,' he nodded at the next British ship looming up on the quarter. Atcherley turned to Drinkwater. 'Will you come, sir?'
Drinkwater shook his head. 'Not yet, Captain Atcherley. I have some effects to gather up.' He had no desire to witness Villeneuve's final humiliation.
'Very well, sir… come, gentlemen…'
Villeneuve turned to Drinkwater. 'Captain, we fought well. I hope you will not forget that.'
'Never, sir.' Drinkwater was moved by the nobility of the defeated admiral.
Villeneuve stared at the north. 'Dumanoir wore but then turned away,' he said with quiet resignation. 'See, there, the van is deserting me.' Without another word Villeneuve followed Magendie from the deck.
Drinkwater found himself almost alone upon Bucentaure's poop. A few seamen and petty officers sat or squatted, resting their heads upon their crossed arms in attitudes of dejection.
Exhausted, concussed and hungry, they had given up. Drinkwater watched Villeneuve, Magendie and Prigny pulled away to the Mars in Conqueror's cutter. Lord Walmsley sat in the stern, his hand on the tiller. Drinkwater leaned on the rail. Despite Bucentaure's surrender the battle still raged about her. He watched Dumanoir's unscathed ships standing away to the north, feeling an immense and traitorous sympathy for the unfortunate Villeneuve. It occurred to him to seek the other part of Villeneuve's miscarried strategy and he looked southward to identify Gravina. But astern the battle continued, a vast milling mêlée of ships, their flanks belching fire and destruction, their masts and yards continuing to fall amid clouds of grey powder smoke. Ahead too, the hounds were closing round the Santissima Trinidad, and one of Dumanoir's squadron, the Spanish Neptuno, had been cut off and taken. Away to the north a dense column of black smoke billowed up from an unidentifiable ship on fire.
He looked for the British frigates. Astern he could see the schooner Pickle and the trim little cutter Entreprenante. Then he caught sight of Euryalus, obeying the conventions of formal war, her guns unemployed as she towed what Drinkwater thought at first was a prize but then realised was the Royal Sovereign, Collingwood's dismasted flagship.
'God's bones,' he muttered to himself, aware that this was a day the like of which he hoped he would never see again. The shattered hulls of ships lay all around, British, French and Spanish. Some still bore their own colours; none that he could see bore the British colours underneath the Spanish or French, although he could distinguish several British prizes. Masts and yards, sails and great heaps of rigging lay over their sides and trailed in the oily water while the whole mass rolled and ground together on the swell that rolled impassively from the west.
'Wind,' he muttered, 'there will be a wind soon,' and the thought sent him below, in search of his few belongings among the shambles.
He found he could retrieve only his journal, coat, hat and glass. He and one of Atcherley's marines brought up the body of Gillespy. Drinkwater wrapped the body in his own cloak and found a couple of shot left in the upper deck garlands. They bound the boy about with loose line and lifted the sad little bundle onto the rail. Had Drinkwater not agreed to Gillespy accompanying him on the Bucentaure he would be alive now, listening in Cadiz to the distant thunder of the guns in company with Frey and Quilhampton. The marine took off his shako and Drinkwater recited the familiar words of the Anglican prayer of committal. Then they rolled Gillespy into the water.
'He is in good company,' he murmured to himself, but his voice was drowned in a vast explosion. To the north the ship that had taken fire, the French Achille, blew apart as the fire reached her magazine. The blast rolled over the sea and hammered their already wounded ear-drums, bringing with it the first hint of a freshening breeze.
Captain Atcherley's prize crew consisted of less than half a dozen men, besides himself. They had locked the private cabins of Villeneuve and his senior officers, asked for and obtained the parole of those remaining officers capable of posing a threat, and locked the magazines and spirit rooms. Following Drinkwater's advice, some food was found and served out to all, irrespective of nationality. As the battle began to die out around them, Masson came on deck. His clothes were completely soaked in blood, his pale face smudged with gore and drawn with exhaustion.
'Did you notice,' he said to Drinkwater, 'how the raking fire mostly took off men's heads? It is curious, is it not, Captain?'
Drinkwater looked at him, seeing the results of terrible strain. Masson sniffed and said, 'Thank you for your assistance.'
'It was nothing. I could not stand idle.' Drinkwater paused, not wishing to seem to patronise defeated men. 'They were brave men,' he said simply.
Masson nodded. 'That is their only epitaph.' The surgeon slumped down between two guns and within a minute had fallen fast asleep.
Atcherley joined Drinkwater on the poop, watching the last of the fighting.
'My God, they have made a mess of us, by heaven!' exclaimed Atcherley when he saw the damage to the masts of the British ships. 'If the wind gets up we'll be caught on a dead lee shore.'
'I believe it will get up, Captain Atcherley, and we would do well to take some precautions.' Drinkwater was staring through his glass.
'Is that Victory? She is a wreck, look…' He handed the glass to Atcherley.
'Yes… and Collingwood's flag is down from the Royal Sovereign's masthead…'
The two men looked at one another. There was little left of Royal Sovereign's masts, but they had seen Collingwood's flag there ten minutes ago, atop the stump of the foremast with a British ensign hoisted to the broken stump of the main. Had Collingwood been killed? And then they saw the blue square go up to the masthead of the Euryalus.
'He has shifted his flag to the frigate,' said Atcherley betraying a sense of relief.
'But why?' asked Drinkwater. 'Surely Nelson would not permit that?'
But further conjecture was distracted by a movement to the south-east. They could see ships making sail, running clear of the pall of smoke. Drinkwater trained his glass. He knew the leading vessel; it was Gravina's flagship.
'God's bones!' Drinkwater watched as the Principe de Asturias led some ten or eleven ships out of the Allied line, making all possible sail in the direction of Cadiz. The Spanish grandee had finally deserted his chief, Drinkwater thought, not knowing that Gravina lay below with a shattered arm, nor that his second, Rear-Admiral Magon, galled by a dozen musket balls, had finally been cut in two by a round shot. At the time it seemed like the final betrayal of Villeneuve.
Under their stern passed a British launch, commanded by a master's mate and engaged in carrying prize crews about the shattered remnants of the Combined Fleet. Atcherley stared at her as she made her way amongst the floating wreckage of the great ships of three nations that lay wallowing upon the heaving sea.
'Good God, sir, I believe those fellows to be crying!'
Drinkwater levelled his glass on the straining oarsmen. There could be no mistake. He could see awful grimaces upon the faces of several men, and streaked patches where tears had washed the powder soot from their cheeks. 'Good God!'
'Boat 'hoy!' Atcherley hailed.
The elderly master's mate called his men to stop pulling and looked up at the two officers standing under the British ensign hoisted over the French.
'What ship's that?'
'The French admiral, Bucentaure,' called Atcherley, proudly adding, 'prize to the Conqueror. What is the matter with your men?'
'Matter? Have ye not heard the news?'
'News? What news beyond that of victory?'
'Victory? Ha!' The mate spat over the side. 'Why, Nelson's dead… d'you hear? Nelson's dead…'
The wind began to rise at sunset when Conqueror beat up to reclaim her prize, ranging to weather of her. Pellew sent a boat with a lieutenant and more men to augment Atcherley's pathetic prize crew. Drinkwater scrambled up onto Bucentaure's rail and hailed Pellew.
'Have the kindness, sir, to report Captain Drinkwater as having rejoined the fleet. I was taken off Tarifa and held a prisoner aboard this ship!'
'Ah!' cried Pellew waving his hat in acknowledgement. 'We wondered where you had got to, Drinkwater. Stockham won't be complaining! He drove the Prince of the Asturias off the Revenge! We've seventeen prizes but lost Lord Nelson!'
'I heard. A bad day for England!'
'Indeed. Will you look after Bucentaure then? 'Tis coming on to blow!'
'She is much damaged but we shall do our best!'
'Splendid. I shall take you in tow!' Pellew waved his hat and jumped down onto his own deck. His lieutenant, Richard Spear, touched his hat to Drinkwater.
'I have orders to receive a line, sir.'
'Carry on, sir, and be quick about it… Who the devil is Stockham, d'you know Mr Atcherley?'
'John Stockham, sir? Yes, he's first luff of the Thunderer. He'll get his step in rank for this day's work.'
'I expect so,' said Drinkwater flatly, moving towards the compass in order to determine their position. In the last light of day Cape Trafalgar was a dark smudge on the eastward horizon to leeward.
Astern of the Conqueror the Bucentaure dragged and snubbed at the hemp cable. The wind backed round to south-south-west and increased to gale force by midnight. British and French alike laboured for two hours to haul an undamaged cable out of the hold and forward, onto an anchor. In the blackness of the howling night they were briefly aware of other ships; of the soaring arcs of rockets signalling distress; of the proximity of wounded leviathans in a similar plight to themselves. But many of these wallowed helplessly untowed, their mastless hulks rolling in the troughs of the seas which quickly built up to roll the broken ship closer to the shallows off the cape. From Euryalus Collingwood had thrown out the night signal to wear. Those ships which were able complied, but most simply lay a-hull, broached to and waiting for the dawn.
Short of sleep and starved of adequate food, Drinkwater nevertheless spent the night on deck, directing the labours of his strange crew in their efforts to save the Bucentaure from the violence of the gale. Atcherley and Spear deferred to him naturally; the French were familiar with him and he had earned their respect, if not their trust, from his exertions at the side of Masson during the battle. While Conqueror inched them to windward, away from the shoals off Cape Trafalgar, they cutaway the rigging and wreckage of Bucentaure's masts. But her battered hull continued to ship water which drained to her bilges, sinking her deeper and deeper into the water. Of her huge crew and the many soldiers on board—something not far short of eight hundred men - scarcely ten score were on their feet at the end of the action. Many of these fell exhausted at the pumps.
Daylight revealed a fearful sight. Ahead of them, her reefed topsails straining under the continued violence of the gale that had now become a storm, Pellew's ship tugged and strained at the towrope, jerking it tight until the water was squeezed out of the lay of the rope. Bucentaure would move forward and the rope would dip into a wave, then come tight again as she dragged back, jerking the stern of Conqueror and making her difficult to handle. But by comparison they were fortunate. There were other ships in tow, British and Allied, all struggling to survive the smashing grey seas as they rolled eastwards, streaked white with spume and driving them inexorably to leeward. Already the unfortunate were amongst the shoals and shallows of the coast.
All day they were witness to the tragedy as men who had escaped the fire of British cannon were dashed to their deaths on the rocks and beaches of the Spanish coast. As darkness came on again the wind began to veer, allowing Pellew to make a more southerly course. But Bucentaure's people were becoming increasingly feeble and their efforts to keep the water from pouring into her largely failed. Spirits rose, however, on the morning of the 23rd, for the wind dropped and the sky cleared a little as it veered into the northwest. Drinkwater was below eating a mess of what passed for porridge when Spear burst in.
'Sir! There are enemy ships under way. They seem to be making some sort of an effort to retake prizes!'
Drinkwater followed the worried officer on deck and trained his glass to the north-east. He could see the blue-green line of the coast and the pale smudge that was Cadiz.
'There, sir!'
'I have them.' He counted the topsails: 'Four line-of-battle ships, five frigates and two brigs!'
Had Gravina remembered his obligation to Villeneuve, Drinkwater wondered? But there were more pressing considerations.
'Get forrard, Mr Spear, and signal Conqueror that the enemy is in sight!'
Drinkwater spent the next two hours in considerable anxiety. The strange ships were coming up fast, all apparently undamaged in the battle. He recognised the French Neptune and the Spanish Rayo.
Spear came scrambling aft with the news that Pellew had seen the approaching enemy and intended casting loose the tow. There was nothing Drinkwater could do except watch Conqueror make sail and stand to windward, to join the nine other British warships able to manoeuvre and work themselves between the enemy and the majority of the prizes.
Bucentaure began to roll and wallow to leeward, continuing to ship water. On deck Drinkwater watched the approach of the enemy, the leading ship with a commodore's broad pendant at her masthead. It was not Gravina but one of the more enterprising of the escaped French captains who was leading this bold sortie. The leading ship was a French eighty, and she bore down on Bucentaure as the stricken vessel drifted away from the protection of the ten British line-of-battle ships. As she luffed to windward of them they read her name: Indomptable.
The appearance of the Franco-Spanish squadron revived the crew of the Bucentaure. One of her lieutenants requested that Drinkwater released them from their parole and he had little alternative but to agree. A few moments later, boats from Indomptable were alongside and the Bucentaure's lieutenant was representing the impossibility of saving the former French flagship. 'Elle est finie,' Drinkwater heard him say, and they began to take out of the Bucentaure all her crew, including the wounded. For an hour and a half the boats of the Indomptable ferried men from the Bucentaure with great difficulty. The sea was still running high and damage was done to the boats and to their human cargo. Drinkwater summoned Atcherley and Spear.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'I believe the French to be abandoning the ship. If we remain we have still an anchor and cable. We might yet keep her a prize. It is only a slender chance, but I do not wish to be retaken prisoner just yet.'
The two officers nodded agreement. 'Volunteers only, then,' added Drinkwater as the French lieutenant approached.
'It is now you come to boats, Capitaine.'
'Non, mon ami. We stay, perhaps we save the ship.'
The lieutenant appeared to consider this for some moments and then shrugged.
'Ver' well. I too will stay.'
So a handful of men remained aboard the Bucentaure as the Allied squadron made sail, refusing battle with the ten British ships. Drinkwater watched them hauling off their retaken ships, the Spanish Neptuno and the great black bulk of the Santa Ana, the latter towed by a brig, scraps of sails and the Spanish ensign rehoisted on what remained of her masts. Hardly had Indomptable taken in her boats than the wind backed suddenly and increased with tremendous strength from the west-southwest. Immediately Bucentaure's leeway increased and as the afternoon wore on the pale smudge of Cadiz grew swiftly larger and more distinct. They could see details: the towers of the partly rebuilt cathedral, the belfry of the Carmelite convent, the lighthouse at San Sebastian and, along the great bight of Cadiz Bay from beyond Rota in the north to the Castle of St Peter to the southward, the wrecked hulks of the Combined Fleet being pounded to matchwood in the breakers.
As they drove ashore, Drinkwater had soundings taken, and at about three in the afternoon he had the anchor let go in a last attempt to save the ship. The fluke bit and Bucentaure snubbed round at the extremity of the cable to pitch head to sea as the wind blew again with storm force. They could see the British ships in the offing and around them some of the vessels that had sailed from Cadiz that morning. They had run for the shelter of the harbour as the wind began to blow, but several had not made it and had been forced to anchor like themselves.
Bucentaure's anchor held for an hour before the cable parted. Drinkwater called all her people on deck and they stood helplessly in the waist as the great ship drove again to leeward, beam on to the sea, rolling heavily as ton after ton of water poured on board. The rocks of Cape San Sebastian loomed towards them.
'Call all your men together, Mr Spear,' Drinkwater said quietly as the Bucentaure rose on the back of a huge wave. The heavy swell, enlarged by the violence of the storm, increased its height as its forward momentum was sapped by the rising sea-bed. Its lower layers were slowed and its upper surface tore onwards, rolling and toppling with its own instability, bearing the huge bulk of the Bucentaure upon its collapsing back.
In a roar of white water, as the spray whipped across her canting deck, the ship struck, her whole hull juddering with the impact. Water foamed all about her, thundering and tearing over the reef beyond the Bucentaure. Then it was receding, pouring off the exposed rocks as the trough sucked out and the stricken battleship lolled over. Suddenly she began to lift again as the next breaker took her, a white-flecked avalanche of water that rose above her splintered rail.
'Hold on!' shouted Drinkwater, and the urgency of the cry communicated itself to British and French alike. Then it broke over them, intensely cold, driving the breath from their bodies and tearing them from their handholds. Drinkwater felt the pain in his shoulder muscles as the cold and the strain attacked them. He clung to an eyebolt, holding his breath as the red lights danced before his eyes and his lungs forced him to inhale. He gasped, swallowing water, and then he was in air again and, unbelievably, Bucentaure was moving beneath them. He struggled upright and stared about him. Not fifty yards away the little bluff of Cap San Sebastian rushed past. Beneath its lighthouse crowds of people watched the death throes of the ship. Bucentaure had torn free, carried over the reef at a tangent to the little peninsula of the cape. He looked about the deck. There were less men than there had been. God alone knew how many had been swept into the sea by that monstrous wave.
For twenty minutes the ship drifted to leeward, into slightly calmer water. But every moment she sank lower and, half an hour later, had stuck fast upon the Puercas Reef. Drinkwater looked around him, knowing the long travail was over at last. In the dusk, boats were approaching from a French frigate anchored in the Grande Rade with the remnants of Gravina's escaped detachment. He turned to Spear and Atcherley. They were both shivering from cold and wet.
'Well, gentlemen, it seems we are not to perish, although we have lost your prize.'
Atcherley nodded. 'In the circumstances, sir, it is enough.' The marine officer looked at the closing boats with resignation.
'I suppose we must be made prisoners now,' said Spear dejectedly.
'Yes, I suppose so,' replied Drinkwater shortly, aware of the dreadful ache in his right shoulder and that beneath his feet Bucentaure was going to pieces.
'Were you received by the Governor-General at Cadiz, Captain?' asked Vice-Admiral Collingwood, leaning from his chair to pat the head of a small terrier by his side.
'The Marquis of Solana granted me several interviews, sir, and treated all the British prize crews with the utmost consideration.'
Collingwood nodded. 'I am very pleased to hear it.' Collingwood's broad Northumbrian accent struck a homely note to Drinkwater's ears after his captivity.
'Your decision to return the Spanish wounded and the expedition with which it was done undoubtedly obtained our release, sir. I must make known my personal thanks to you.'
'It is no matter,' Collingwood said wearily. 'Did you obtain any knowledge of the state of the ships still in Cadiz?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Yes, sir. Admiral Rosily arrived to find his command reduced to a handful of frigates. Those ships which escaped the action off Trafalgar were almost all destroyed in their attempt to retake the prizes on the twenty-third last. Although they got both the Neptuno and Santa Ana back into port, both are very badly damaged. However, it cost them the loss of the Indomptable which went ashore off Rota and was lost with her company and most of the poor fellows off the Bucentaure. The San Francisco parted her cables and drove on the rocks at Santa Catalina. As you know, the Rayo and Monarca were wrecked after their action with Leviathan and Donegal. I believe Gravina's Principe de Asturias to be the only ship of force fit for sea now left in Cadiz.'
'And Gravina? Do you know the state of his health, Captain?'
'Not precisely, sir, but he was severely wounded and it was said that he may yet lose an arm… May I ask the fate of Admiral Villeneuve, sir?'
'Villeneuve? Ah, yes, I see from your report that you made his acquaintance while in Cadiz. He was sent home a prisoner in the Euryalus. What manner of man did you judge him?'
'Personally courageous, sir, if a little lacking in resolve. But he was a perceptive and able seaman, well fitted to judge the weight of opposition against him. I do not believe he was ever in doubt as to the outcome of an action, although he entertained some hopes of eluding you…'
'Eluding us?' Collingwood raised an incredulous eyebrow.
'Yes, sir. And he had devised a method of counter-attacking, for he knew precisely by what method Lord Nelson would make his own attack.'
'How so?'
Drinkwater explained the function of the reserve squadron to bear down upon the spearhead of Nelson's advance.
'A bold plan,' said Collingwood when he had finished, 'and you say Villeneuve had argued the manner of our own attack?'
'Yes, sir. I believe that his fleet might have had more success had the wind been stronger and Gravina been able to hold the weather position.'
'Hmmm. As it was, they put up a stout and gallant defence. Admiral Villeneuve seems a well-bred man and I believe a very good officer. He has nothing in his manner of the offensive vapouring and boasting which we, perhaps too often, attribute to Frenchmen.'
'The Spaniards are less tolerant, sir,' Drinkwater said. 'The French were not well received in Cadiz after the battle. There was bad blood between them before the action. I believe relations were much worse afterwards.'
Collingwood nodded. 'You will have heard that a squadron under Sir Richard Strachan caught Dumanoir's four ships and took them on the third.'
'Then the enemy is utterly beaten,' said Drinkwater, perceiving properly the magnitude of the victory for the first time.
'Carthage is destroyed,' Collingwood said with quiet satisfaction, 'It would have pleased Lord Nelson…' The admiral fell silent.
Drinkwater also sat quietly. He did not wish to intrude upon Collingwood's grief for his dead friend. In the few hours he had been at Gibraltar since the Donegal landed him from Cadiz, Drinkwater had learned of the grim reaction within the British fleet to the death of Nelson. At first men exhausted with battle had sat and wept, but now the sense of purpose with which the little one-armed admiral had inspired his fleet had been replaced. Instead there was a strange, dry-eyed emotion, affecting all ranks, that prevented any levity or triumphant crowing over a beaten foe. This strange reticence affected Drinkwater now, as he sat in the great cabin of HMS Queen, to which Collingwood had shifted his flag, and waited for the new Commander-in-Chief to continue the interview. The little terrier raised its head and licked its master's hand.
'Yes, Captain Drinkwater,' said Collingwood at last, 'we have gained a great victory, but at a terrible cost… terrible!' He sighed and then pulled himself together. 'Perhaps we can go home soon… eh, Captain, home… but not before we've cornered Allemand and blockaded Salcedo in Cartegena, eh? Which brings me to you.' Collingwood paused and referred to some papers on his desk. 'We have lost not only Lord Nelson but several post-captains. I am endeavouring to have the Admiralty make promotions among the most deserving officers; many distinguished themselves. Quilliam, first of the Victory, for instance, and Stockham of the Thunderer…' He fixed his tired eyes upon Drinkwater.
Drinkwater wondered how much of Collingwood's exhaustion was due to his constant battle to placate and oblige people of all stations in his extensive and responsible command. He leaned forward.
'I understand perfectly, sir. Stockham has earned and deserves his captaincy.'
Collingwood smiled. 'Thank you, Captain. No doubt the Admiralty will find him a frigate in due course, but you see my dilemma.'
'Perfectly, sir. I shall be happy to return to the Antigone.'
'That will not be possible. I have sent her in quest of Allemand. Louis put a commander into her and, for the moment, you will have to undertake other duties.'
'Very well, sir.' Drinkwater had no time to digest the implications of this news beyond realising that a stranger was using his cabin and that poor Rogers would be put out.
Collingwood continued: 'I am putting you in command of the Swiftsure, prize, Captain Drinkwater. It should give you a measure of satisfaction that she was once a British ship of the line. I believe you returned from Cadiz with three other prisoners from your own frigate?'
'Yes, sir, Lieutenant Quilhampton and Midshipman Frey, and my man Tregembo.'
'Very well. They will do for a beginning and I shall arrange for a detachment from the fleet to join you forthwith.' Collingwood paused to consider something. 'We shall have to rename her, Captain Drinkwater. We already have a Swiftsure. We shall call her Irresistible … I will have a commission drawn up for you and until your frigate comes in with news of Allemand you will find your talents in great demand.'
Drinkwater rose. 'It is an apt name, sir,' he said smiling, 'one that I think even our late enemies might have approved…' He paused as Collingwood frowned. 'The Dons were much impressed by the spectacle of British ships continuing the blockade of Cadiz even after the battle. I apprehend the enemy expected us to have suffered too severe a blow.'
'We did, my dear sir, in the loss of our chief, but to have withdrawn the blockade would not have been consistent with his memory.' Collingwood's words of dismissal were poignant with grief for his fallen friend.
Drinkwater sat in the dimly lit cabin of the Irresistible and read the sheaf of orders that had come aboard earlier that evening. Outside the battered hulk of the ship, the wind whined in from the Atlantic, moving them gently even within the shelter of the breakwater, so that the shot-torn fabric of the ship groaned abominably. He laid down the formal effusion of praise from both Houses of Parliament that he had been instructed to read to the assembled ship's company tomorrow morning. It was full of the usual pompous Parliamentary cant. There was a notice that Vice-Admiral Collingwood was elevated to the peerage and a list of confirmed promotions that would bring joy to half the ships that crammed Gibraltar Bay, making good the damage inflicted by the Combined Fleet and the great gale.
Drinkwater was acutely conscious that he would not be part of the ritual. He knew that, in his heart, he would live to regret not being instrumental in an event which was epochal. Yet he was far from being alone. Apart from Quilhampton and Frey, there was not a man in Admiral Louis's squadron that was not mortified to have been sitting in Gibraltar Bay when Lord Nelson was dying off Cape Trafalgar. They could not reconcile themselves to their ill-luck. At least, Drinkwater consoled himself, he had been a witness to the battle. It did not occur to him that he had in any way contributed to the saving of a single life by his assisting Masson in the cockpit of the Bucentaure. His mind shied away from any contemplation of that terrible place, unwilling to burden itself with the responsibility of poor Gillespy's death. He knew that remorse would eventually compel him to face his part in the boy's fate, but events pressed him too closely in the refitting of Irresistible for him to relax yet. Once they sailed, he knew, reaction would set in; for the moment, he was glad to have something constructive to do and to know that neither Quilhampton nor Frey had come to any harm.
A knock at his cabin door broke into his train of thought and he was glad of the interruption. 'Enter!'
Drinkwater looked up from the pool of lamp-light illuminating the litter of papers upon the table.
'Yes. Who is it?' The light from the lamp blinded him to the darkness elsewhere in the cabin. The white patches of a midshipman's collar caught the reflected light and suddenly he saw that it was Lord Walmsley who stepped out of the shadows. Drinkwater frowned. 'What the devil d'you want?' he asked sharply.
'I beg pardon, sir, but may I speak with you?'
Drinkwater stared coldly at the young man. Since his brief, unexpected appearance on the Bucentaure, Drinkwater had given Walmsley no further thought.
'Well, Mr Walmsley?'
'I… I, er, wished to apologise, sir…' Walmsley bit his lip, 'to apologise, sir, and ask if you would accept me back…'
Drinkwater studied the midshipman. He sensed, rather than saw, a change in him. Perhaps it was the lamp-light illuminating his face, but he seemed somehow older. Drinkwater knitted his brow, recalling that Walmsley had killed Waller. He dismissed his momentary sympathy.
'I placed you on board Canopus, Mr Walmsley, under Rear-Admiral Louis. The next thing I know is that you are on Conqueror. Then you come here wearing sack-cloth and ashes. It will not do, sir. No, it really will not do.' Drinkwater leaned forward in dismissal of the midshipman, but Walmsley persisted.
'Sir, I beg you give me a hearing.'
Drinkwater looked up again, sighed and said, 'Go on.'
Walmsley swallowed and Drinkwater saw that his face was devoid of arrogance. He seemed chastened by something.
'Admiral Louis had me transferred, sir. I was put on board Conqueror…'
'Why?' Drinkwater broke in sharply.
Walmsley hesitated. 'The admiral said…'
'Said what?'
Walmsley was trembling, containing himself with a great effort: 'That my character was not fit, sir. That I should be broke like a horse before I could be made a seaman…' Walmsley hung his head, unable to go on. A silence filled the cabin.
'How old are you?'
'Nineteen, sir.'
'And Captain Pellew, what was his opinion of you?'
Walmsley mastered his emotion. The confession had clearly cost him a great deal, but it was over now. 'Captain Pellew had given me no marks of his confidence, sir. My present position is not tolerable.'
'And why have you suddenly decided to petition me, sir? Do you consider me to be easy?' Drinkwater raised his voice.
'No, sir. But the events of recent weeks have persuaded me that I should better learn my business from you, sir.'
'Do you have a sudden desire to learn your business, Mr Walmsley? I had not noticed your zeal commend you before.'
'No, sir… but the events of recent weeks, sir… I am… I can offer no explanation beyond saying that the battle has had a profound effect upon me. So many good fellows going… the sight of so many dead…'
It struck Drinkwater that the young man was sincere. He remembered him vomiting over the shambles of the Bucentaure's gun-deck and supposed the battle might have had some redeeming effect upon Walmsley's character. Whether reformed or not, Walmsley watched by a vigilant Drinkwater might be better than Walmsley abusing his rank and privileges with men who had fought with such gallantry off Cape Trafalgar.
'Very well, Mr Walmsley,' Drinkwater reached for a clean sheet of paper, 'I will write to Captain Pellew on your behalf.'
'So you finally came home in a frigate?' Lord Dungarth looked at his single dinner guest through a haze of blue tobacco smoke.
'Aye, my Lord, only to miss Antigone sent in convoy with the West India fleet, and then go down with the damned marsh ague…'
Dungarth looked at Drinkwater's face, cocked at its curious angle and pale from the effects of the recent fever. It had not been the home coming Drinkwater had dreamed of, but Elizabeth had cosseted him back to full health.
'I have been languishing in bed for six weeks.'
'Well I am glad that you could come in answer to my summons, Nathaniel.' He passed the decanter across the polished table. 'I have a commission for you before you rejoin your ship.'
Drinkwater returned the decanter after refilling his glass. He nodded. 'I am fit enough, my Lord, to be employed on any service. Besides,' he added with his old grin, 'I am obliged to your Lordship… personally'
'Ah, yes. Your brother.' Dungarth blew a reflective ring of tobacco smoke at the ceiling. 'He was at Austerlitz, you know. His report of the confusion on the Pratzen Heights made gloomy reading.'
'God bless my soul… at Austerlitz.' The news of Napoleon's great victory over the combined forces of Austria and Russia, following so hard upon the surrender of another Austrian army at Ulm, seemed to have off-set the hard-won achievements of Trafalgar, destroying at a stroke Pitt's carefully erected alliance of the Third Coalition.
'Aye, Austerlitz. It killed Pitt as surely as Trafalgar killed Nelson.'
Both men remained silent for a moment and Drinkwater thought of the tired young man with the loose stockings.
'It was the one thing Pitt dreaded, you know, a great French victory… and at the expense of three armies.' Dungarth shook his head. The victory over the Russo-Austrian army had taken place on the first anniversary of Napoleon's coronation as Emperor and had had all the impact of a fatal blow to British foreign policy. Worn out with responsibility and disappointment, Pitt had died just over a month later.
'I believe,' Dungarth continued with the air of a man choosing his words carefully, 'that Pitt foresaw the destruction of Napoleon himself as the only way to achieve lasting peace in Europe.'
'Is that why he sent Camelford to attempt his murder?'
Dungarth nodded. 'I think so. It was done without approval; a private arrangement. Perhaps Pitt could not face the future if Napoleon destroyed an allied army. Pitt chose badly by selecting Camelford, but I imagine the strength of family obligation seemed enough at the time; besides, Pitt was out of office.' Dungarth sipped his port.
'The attempt was not secret, though. I recall D'Auvergne and Cornwallis both alluding to the fact that something was in the wind,' said Drinkwater, intrigued.
'No, it was not kept secret enough, a fact from which Napoleon has made a great deal of capital. D'Auvergne shipped Camelford into France from Jersey, and Cornwallis knew of the plan, on a private basis, you understand. Billy-go-tight no more likes blockading than does poor Collingwood now left to hold the Mediterranean.' Dungarth refilled his glass.
'Poor Collingwood talked of coming home,' remarked Drinkwater, taking the decanter.
'He will be disappointed, I fear. Pitt was right, I think: almost anything was acceptable to end this damnable war, so that he and Cornwallis and Collingwood and all of us could go home and enjoy an honourable retirement.'
'And Camelford's death,' asked Drinkwater, 'was that an act fomented by French agents?'
Dungarth filled his glass again. 'To be honest I do not know. Camelford was a rake-hell and a philanderer. What he got up to on his own account I have no idea.' Dungarth sipped his port and then changed the subject. 'I understand you met our old friend Santhonax at Cadiz?'
Drinkwater recounted the circumstances of their meeting. 'I suppose that, had Santhonax not recognised my name on the Guarda Costa report, I might still be rotting in a cell at Tarifa.'
'Or on your way to a French depot like Verdun.'
'I was surprised he departed suddenly before the action.'
'I believe he too was at Austerlitz, though on the winning side.' Dungarth's smile was ironic. 'Napoleon recalled several officers from Cadiz. We received reports that they passed through Madrid. I think the Emperor's summons may have saved you from a fate worse than a cell at Tarifa or even Verdun.'
'A fact of which I am profoundly sensible,' Drinkwater replied. 'Now what of this new service, my Lord?'
The ironic look returned to Dungarth's face. 'A duty I think you will not refuse, Nathaniel. I have a post-chaise calling for you in an hour. You are to proceed to Reading and then to Rye where a lugger awaits you.'
'A lugger?'
'A cartel, Nathaniel. You will pick up a prisoner at Reading. He has been exchanged for four post-captains.'
Drinkwater remembered Quilhampton's multiplication table of exchange. He frowned. 'An admiral, my Lord?'
'Precisely, Nathaniel. Vice-Admiral Pierre de Villeneuve. He wishes to avoid Paris and he mentioned you specifically.'
'You are awake, sir?' Drinkwater looked at Villeneuve opposite, his face lit by the flickering oil-lamp set in the chaise's buttoned-velvet side.
Admiral Villeneuve nodded. 'Yes, Captain, I am awake.'
'We do not have far to go now,' said Drinkwater. The pace of the chaise was smooth and fast as it crossed the levels surrounding Rye. A lightening in the east told of coming daylight and Drinkwater was anxious to have his charge below decks before sunrise.
'You are aware that I wish to be landed at Morlaix?' Villeneuve's tone was anxious, even supplicating.
'Indeed yes, sir. I have specific instructions to that effect,' Drinkwater replied tactfully. Then he added, 'You have nothing to fear, sir. I am here to see you safe ashore.'
Villeneuve made as though to speak, then thought better of it. After a silence he asked, 'Have you seen your wife, Captain?'
'Yes.' Drinkwater did not add that he had been prostrated by fever and that Elizabeth had born his delirium with her customary fortitude.
'You are fortunate. I hope that I may soon see my own. If…' he began, then again stopped and changed the subject. 'I recall,' he said with a firmer tone to his voice, 'that we spoke of destiny. Do you remember?'
'Yes, I do.'
'I was present at the funeral of Lord Nelson, Captain. Do you not think that remarkable?'
'No more than the man whose interment you honoured, sir.'
Villeneuve's sigh was audible. He said something to himself in French. 'Do you think we were disgraced, Captain?'
'No, sir. Lord Nelson's death was proof that you defended your flag to the utmost. I myself was witness to it.'
'It was a terrible responsibility. Not the defeat—I believe victory was earned by you British—but the decision to sail… to set honour against safety and to let honour win… terrible…'
'If it is any consolation, sir, I do not think that Lord Nelson intended leaving you unmolested in Cadiz. I believe it was his intention to attack you in Cadiz itself if necessary.'
Villeneuve smiled sadly. 'That is kind of you, Captain. But the decision to send many brave men to their deaths was mine, and mine alone. I must bear that burden.'
Villeneuve fell silent again and Drinkwater began to pay attention to their approach to Rye. Then, as the chaise slowed, Villeneuve said suddenly, 'You played your part, Captain, you and Santhonax and Admiral Rosily who was already coming to replace me…'
'I sir? How was that?'
But the chaise jerked to a stop, the door was flung open and the opportunity to elaborate lost. They descended onto a strip of windswept wooden-piled quay and Drinkwater was occupied with the business of producing his documents and securing his charge aboard the cartel-lugger Union. An hour later, as the lugger crossed Rye bar, he went below to find something to eat and renew his talk with Villeneuve. But the French admiral had rolled himself in a cloak and gone to sleep.
They enjoyed a swift passage down Channel, being brought-to twice by small and suspicious British cruisers. They crossed the Channel from the Isle of Wight and raised the Channel Islands where a British frigate challenged them. Drinkwater was able to keep the identity of their passenger secret as he had been ordered and, making certain that he had the passport from the French commissioner for prisoners in London, he ordered the lugger off for the Breton coast and the port of Morlaix. During the passage Villeneuve made no attempt to renew their discussion. The presence of other people, the cramped quarters and the approaching coast of France caused him to withdraw inside himself. Drinkwater respected his desire for his own company. It was after they had raised Cap Frehel and were coasting westwards, that Villeneuve called for pen and paper. When he had finished writing he addressed Drinkwater.
'Captain, I know you to be a man of honour. I admired your ability before you had the misfortune to become a prisoner, when I watched your frigate run up into Cadiz Road. Colonel Santhonax only reinforced my opinion of you. You came to me as an example of many… a specimen of the esprit of the British fleet… everywhere I was surrounded by suspicion, dislike, lack of cooperation. You understand?'
Drinkwater nodded but remained silent as Villeneuve went on. 'For many years I have felt myself fated, Captain. They called my escape from Abukir lucky, but,' he shrugged, 'for myself it was dishonourable. It was necessary that I expiate for that dishonour. You persuaded me that to fight Nelson, to be beaten by Nelson, would be no dishonour. I would be fighting men of your quality, Captain, and it is to you as one of Nelson's officers that I entrust this paper. Should anything befall me, Captain, I beg you to make known its contents to your Admiralty.'
'Your Excellency,' said Drinkwater, much moved by this speech and unconsciously reverting to the form of address he had used when this unfortunate man commanded the Combined Fleet, 'I assure you that you will be landed in perfect safety…'
'Of that I too am certain, Captain. But my Imperial master is unlikely to receive me with the same hospitality shown by my late enemies. You know he has servants willing to express his displeasure.'
For a moment Drinkwater did not understand, and then he remembered Santhonax, and the allegations of the murder of John Wesley Wright in the Temple. Drinkwater picked up the letter and thrust it into his breast pocket. 'I am sure, sir, that you will find happiness with your wife.'
'It is a strong condemnation of the Emperor Napoleon and of the impossible demands he has put upon his admirals, captains and seamen,' said Lord Dungarth as he laid down Villeneuve's paper and looked at Drinkwater. 'This is dated the sixth of April. He wrote it on board the cartel?'
'And gave it to me for personal delivery to the Admiralty in the event of anything untoward occurring to him. He seemed intent on making his way south to his estate and joining his wife. I cannot believe he took his own life.'
Dungarth shook his head and picked up another paper from his desk. It seemed to be in cipher and beneath the queer letters someone had written a decoding. 'I have received various reports, mainly public announcements after the post-mortem which, I might add, was held with indecent haste. Also some gossip from the usual waterfront sources. He wrote to the Minister of Marine, Decrès, from Morlaix, also to some captains he proposed calling as witnesses at the enquiry he knew would judge his conduct. They were Infernet and Lucas, who had both been lionised by the Emperor at St Cloud. He received no reply, travelled to Rennes and arrived on the seventeenth. Witnesses at the post-mortem conveniently said he was depressed. Hardly remarkable, one would have thought. Then, on the morning of the twenty-second of April his body was found with six knife wounds in the heart. The body was undressed, face upwards. One witness said face down, but this conflicting evidence seems to have been ignored. Evidence of suicide was supported by the discovery of a letter to his wife and his telescope and speaking trumpet labelled to Infernet and Lucas. Ah, and the door was locked on the inside… that is no very great achievement for a man of Santhonax's abilities…'
'Santhonax?'
Dungarth nodded. 'He arrived in town the previous evening, Nathaniel. In view of the fact that he was at the post-mortem, I regard that as a most remarkable coincidence, don't you? And consider: Villeneuve is alleged to have stabbed himself six times in the heart. Six, Nathaniel, six! Is that consistent with the man you knew, or indeed for any man committing suicide?'
Drinkwater shook his head. 'I think not.'
'No, nor I,' said Dungarth vehemently. 'I wish to God we could pay Santhonax in like coin, by God I do.'
The eyes of both men met. Drinkwater recalled Dungarth passing up an opportunity to shoot both Santhonax and his wife Hortense as Camelford had advised. Perhaps if Camelford had succeeded in his mission neither he, nor Villeneuve, nor little Gillespy would be dead. 'I think Villeneuve anticipated some such end, my Lord,' Drinkwater said solemnly. 'I think he felt it his destiny.'
'Poor devil,' said Dungarth, his hazel eyes glittering intensely. 'Trafalgar notwithstanding, Nathaniel, this damnable war is not yet over.'
'No, not yet.'
'And that bastard Santhonax has yet to get his just deserts…'