‘Fire!’ yelled Rogers and the second broadside was discharged into the swirling wraiths of white. Antigone’s deck took a sudden cant as her stern lifted and she drove violently forward. Down went her bow, burying itself to the knightheads, a great cushion of white water foaming up around her.
‘Too much canvas, sir!’ yelled Hill. Drinkwater nodded.
‘Secure the guns and shorten down!’
It took the combined efforts of fifty men to furl the mainsail. The huge, unreefed sail, set to carry them alongside the Magnanime, threatened to throw them off the yard as they struggled. In the end Lieutenant Fraser went aloft and the great sail was tamed and the process repeated with the fore-course. At the end of an hour’s labour Antigone had hauled her yards round and lay on the starboard tack, her topsails hard reefed and her topgallant masts sent down as the gale became a storm and Drinkwater edged her north to report the break-out of Missiessy and the fact that he had lost contact with the enemy in the snow and violent weather.
Antigone was able to hold her new course for less than an hour. Laughing and chaffing each other, the watch below had been piped down when they were called again. Drinkwater regained the deck to find the wind chopping rapidly round, throwing up a high, breaking and confused sea that threw the ship over and broke on board in solid green water. For perhaps fifteen minutes the wind dropped, almost to a calm while the snow continued to fall. The ship failed to answer her helm as she lost way. The men milled about in the waist and the officers stood apprehensive as they tried to gauge the new direction from which the wind would blow. A few drops of rain fell, mingled with wet snow flakes.
‘Sou’wester!’ Hill and Drinkwater shouted together. ‘Stand by! Man the braces!’
It came with the unimaginable violence that only seamen experience. The squall hit Antigone like a gigantic fist, laying her sails aback, tearing the fore-topsail clean from its bolt ropes and away to leeward like a lost handkerchief. The frigate lay over under the air pressure in her top-hamper and water bubbled in through her closed gun-ports. From below came the crash and clatter of the mess kids and coppers on the galley stove, together with a ripe torrent of abuse hurled at the elements by the cook and his suddenly eloquent mates.
‘Lee braces, there!’ Look lively my lads! Aloft and secure that raffle!’
With a thunderous crack and a tremble that could be felt throughout the ship the main-topmast sprang at the instant the main-topsail also blew out of its bolt ropes, and then the first violent spasm of the squall was past and the wind steadied, blowing at a screaming pitch as they struggled to bring the bucking ship under control again.
The gale blew for several days. The rain gave way to mist and the mist, on the morning of the 15th, eventually cleared. On the horizon to the north Drinkwater and Hill recognised the outline of the Ile d’Yeu and debated their next move. Felix must by now have communicated the news of Missiessy’s break-out to Graves, in which case Graves would have withdrawn towards Cornwallis off Ushant. But supposing something had happened to Bourne and the Felix? After such an easterly wind Graves would be worried that Missiessy had gone, and gone at a moment when, through sheer necessity, his own back had been turned. Graves would have returned to Rochefort and might be waiting there now, unable to get close inshore to see into the Basque Road, for fear of the continuing gale catching him on a lee shore.
‘He’d be locking the stable door after the horse had gone,’ said Hill reflectively.
‘Quite so,’ replied Drinkwater. ‘And we could fetch the Ile de Ré on one tack under close-reefed topsails to clarify the situation. If Graves is not there we will have lost but a day in getting to Cornwallis. Very well,’ Drinkwater made up his mind, clapped his hand over his hat and fought to keep his footing on the tilting deck. ‘Course south-east, let us look into the Basque Road and see if Graves has regained station.’
On the morning of the 16th they found Graves off the Ile d’Oléron having just been informed by the Felix of Missiessy’s departure. In his search for the admiral, Bourne had also run across the French squadron heading north. During a long morning of interminable flag hoists it was established that this encounter had occurred after Drinkwater’s brush with the enemy and therefore established that Missiessy’s task was probably to cause trouble in Ireland. This theory was lent particular force by Drinkwater’s report that troops were embarked. It was a tried strategy of the French government and the signalling system was not capable of conveying Drinkwater’s theory about the West Indies. In truth, on that particular morning, with the practical difficulties in handling the ship and attending to the admiral, Drinkwater himself was not over-confident that he was right. Besides, there was other news that permeated the squadron during that blustery morning, news more closely touching themselves. In getting into Quiberon Bay to warn Graves, the Doris had found the admiral already gone. Struggling seawards again, Doris had struck a rock and, after great exertions by Campbell and his people, had foundered. Felix had taken off her crew and all were safe, but the loss of so fine a frigate and the escape of Missiessy cast a shadow over the morale of the squadron. Afterwards Drinkwater was to remember that morning as the first of weeks of professional frustration; when it seemed that providence had awarded its laurels to the Imperial eagle of France, that despite the best endeavours of the Royal Navy, the weeks of weary and remorseless blockade, the personal hardships of every man-jack and boy in the British fleet, their efforts were to come to naught.
But for the time being Graves’s squadron had problems of its own. The morning of signalling had thrown them to leeward and in the afternoon they were unable to beat out of the bay and compelled to anchor. When at last the weather moderated, Graves reported to Cornwallis, only to find Sir William in ailing health, having himself been driven from his station to shelter in Torbay. For a while the ships exchanged news and gossip. Cornwallis was said to have requested replacement, while it was known that Admiral Latouche-Tréville had died at Toulon and been replaced by Admiral Villeneuve, the only French flag-officer to have escaped from Nelson’s devastating attack in Aboukir Bay. Of what had happened to Missiessy no one was quite sure, but it was certain that he had not gone to Ireland. A few weeks later it was common knowledge that he had arrived at Martinique in the West Indies.
Chapter 12
April–May 1805
The Look-Out Frigate
‘Well, Mr Gillespy, you seem to be making some progress.’ Drinkwater closed the boy’s journal. ‘Your aunt would be pleased, I’m sure,’ he added wryly, thinking of the garrulous Mistress MacEwan. ‘I have some hopes of you making a sea-officer.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The boy looked pleased. He had come out of his shell since the departure of Walmsley, and Drinkwater knew that Frey had done much to protect him from the unimaginative and over-bearing Glencross. He also knew that James Quilhampton kept a close eye on the boy, ever mindful of Gillespy’s relationship with Catriona MacEwan; while Lieutenant Fraser lost no opportunity to encourage a fellow Scot among the bear-pit of Sassenachs that made up the bulk of the midshipmen’s berth. He was aware that he had been staring at the boy for too long and smiled.
‘I trust you are quite happy?’ he asked, remembering again how this boy reminded him of his own son. He should not care for Richard Madoc to go to sea with a man who did not take some interest in him.
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Mmmm.’ The removal of Walmsley’s influence charged that short affirmative with great significance. Drinkwater remembered his own life in the cockpit. It had not been happy.
‘Very well, Mr Gillespy. Cut along now, cully.’
The boy turned away, his hat tucked under his arm, the small dirk in its gleaming brass scabbard bouncing on his hip. The pity of his youth and circumstance hit Drinkwater like a blow. The boy’s account of the action with the Magnanime read with all the fervent patriotism of youth. There was much employment of unworthy epithets. The Frogs had run from the devastating (spelt wrongly) thunder of our g
lorious cannon. It was the language of London pamphleteers, a style that argued a superiority of ability Drinkwater did not like to see in one so young. It was not Gillespy’s fault, of course; he was subject to the influence of his time. But Drinkwater had suffered enough reverses in his career to know the folly of under-estimation.
The Magnanime had been commanded by Captain Allemand, he had discovered, one of the foremost French naval officers. It was too easy to assume that because the major part of their fleets was blockaded in harbour they were not competent seamen. With Missiessy’s squadron at sea, several hundred Frenchmen would be learning fast, to augment the considerable number of French cruisers already out. Drinkwater sighed, rose and poured himself a glass of blackstrap. He was at a loss to know why he was so worried. There were captains and admirals senior to him whose responsibilities far exceeded his own. All he had to do was to patrol his cruising area, one of a cloud of frigates on the look-out for any enemy movements, who linked the major units of the British fleet, ready to pass news, to pursue or strike at enemy cruisers, and hold the Atlantic seaboard of France and Spain under a constant vigilance.
It was all very well, Drinkwater ruminated, in theory. But the practicalities were different as the events of January had shown. To the east the French Empire was under the direction of a single man. Every major military and naval station was in contact with Napoleon, whose policy could be quickly disseminated by interior lines of communication. No such factors operated in Great Britain’s favour. Britain was standing on the defensive. She had no army to speak of and what she had of one was either policing the raw new industrial towns of the Midlands or preparing to go overseas on some madcap expedition to the east under Sir James Craig. Her government was shaky and the First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord Melville, was to be impeached for corruption. Her dispersed fleets were without quick communication, every admiral striving to do his best but displaying that fatal weakness of disagreement and dislike that often ruined the ambitions of the mighty. Orde, off Cadiz, hated Nelson, off Toulon, and the sentiment was returned with interest. Missiessy at sea was bad enough (and Drinkwater still smarted from a sense of failure to keep contact with the French, despite the weather at the time), but the spectre of more French battleships at sea worried every cruiser commander. With that thought he poured a second glass of wine. He doubted Ganteaume would get out of Brest, but Gourdon might give Calder the slip at Ferrol, and Villeneuve might easily get past Nelson with his slack and provocative methods. And that still left the Spanish out of the equation. They had ships at Cartagena and Cadiz, fine ships too . . .
His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the cabin door. ‘Enter!’
Rogers came in followed by Mr Lallo. There was enough in the expressions on their faces to know that they brought bad news. ‘What is it, gentlemen?’
‘It’s Waller, sir . . .’
‘He had a bad fit this morning, sir,’ put in Lallo, ‘I had confined him to a strait-jacket, sir, but he got loose, persuaded some accomplice to let him go.’ Lallo paused.
‘And?’
‘He went straight to the galley, sir, picked up a knife and slashed both his wrists. He was dead by the time I’d got to him.’
‘Good God.’ A silence hung in the cabin. Drinkwater thought of Waller defying him at Nagtoralik Bay and of how far he had fallen. ‘Who let him go?’
‘One of his damned whale-men, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Rogers.
‘Yes. That is likely. I suppose he may still have commanded some influence over them. There is little likelihood that we will discover who did it, Mr Lallo.’
The surgeon shrugged. ‘No, sir. Well he’s dead now and fit only for the sail-maker to attend.’
‘You had better see to it, Mr Rogers.’
It was one of the ironies of the naval service, Drinkwater thought as he stood by the pinrail where the fore-sheet was belayed, that a man killed honourably in battle might be hurriedly shoved through a gun-port to avoid incommoding his mates as they plied their murderous trade, while a man whose death was as ignominious as Waller’s, was attended by all the formal pomp of the Anglican liturgy. Casting his eyes over Antigone’s assembled crew, the double irony hit him that only a few would be even vaguely familiar with his words. The half-dozen negroes, three Arabs and sixty Irishmen might even resent their being forced to witness a rite that, in Waller’s case, might be considered blasphemous. He doubted any of the others, the Swede, Norwegians, three renegade Dutchmen and Russians, understood the words. Nevertheless he ploughed on, raising his voice as he read from Elizabeth’s father’s Prayer Book.
‘We therefore commit . . .’ he nodded at the burial party who raised the board upon which Waller’s corpse lay stiffly sewn into his hammock under the ensign, ‘his body to the deep . . .’
The prayer finished he closed the book and put his hat on. The officers followed suit. ‘Square away, Mr Rogers, let us continue with our duties.’
He turned away and walked along the gangway as the main-yards were hauled, and was in the act of descending the companionway when he was halted by the masthead look-out.
‘Deck there! Sail-ho! Broad on the lee quarter!’
Drinkwater shoved the Prayer Book in his tail-pocket and pulled out his Dolland pocket glass. It was a frigate coming up hand over fist from the southward, carrying every stitch of canvas the steady breeze allowed. Even at a distance they could see bunting streaming to leeward.
‘She’s British, anyway.’ Of that there could be little doubt and within half an hour a boat danced across the water towards them.
‘Boat ahoy!’
‘Fisgard!’ came the reply, and Drinkwater nodded to his first lieutenant.
‘Side-party, Mr Rogers.’ He turned to Frey who was consulting his lists.
‘Captain Lord Mark Kerr, sir.’
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Rogers as he called out the marine guard and the white-gloved side-boys to rig their fancy baize-covered man-ropes. Captain Lord Kerr hauled himself energetically over the rail and seized Drinkwater’s hand.
‘Drinkwater ain’t it?’
‘Indeed sir,’ said Drinkwater, meeting his lordship as an equal upon his own quarterdeck.
‘The damnedest thing, Drinkwater. Villeneuve’s out!’
‘What?’
Kerr nodded. ‘I was refitting in Gib when he passed the Strait. I got out as soon as I could; sent my second luff up the Med to tell Nelson . . .’
‘You mean Nelson wasn’t in pursuit?’ Drinkwater interrupted.
Kerr shook his head. ‘No sign of him. I reckon he’s off to the east again, just like the year one . . .’
‘East. Good God he should be going west. Doesn’t he know Missiessy’s at Martinique waiting for him?’
‘The devil he is!’ exclaimed Kerr, digesting this news. ‘I doubt Nelson knows of it. By God, that makes my haste the more necessary!’
‘What about Orde, for God’s sake?’
‘He was victualling off Cadiz. Fell back when Villeneuve approached.’
‘God’s bones!’
Kerr came to a decision. In the circumstances it did not seem to matter which was the senior officer, they were both of one mind. ‘I’m bound to let Calder know off Ferrol, and then to Cornwallis off Ushant. I daresay Billy-go-tight will send me on to the Admiralty.’
‘Billy’s ashore, now. Been relieved by Lord Gardner,’ interrupted Drinkwater. ‘And what d’you want me to do? Cruise down towards the Strait and hope that Nelson comes west?’
Kerr nodded, already turning towards the rail. ‘First rate, Drinkwater. He must realise his mistake soon, even if my lieutenant ain’t caught up with him. The sooner Nelson knows that Missiessy’s out as well, the sooner we might stop this rot from spreading.’ He held out his hand and relaxed for an instant. ‘When I think how we’ve striven to maintain this damned blockade, only to have it blown wide open by a minute’s ill-fortune!’
‘My sentiments exactly. Good luck!’ Drinkwater waved h
is hastening visitor over the side. Something of the urgency of Kerr’s news had communicated itself to the ship, for Antigone was under way to the southward even before Kerr had reached Fisgard.
As soon as Drinkwater had satisfied himself that Antigone set every inch of canvas she was capable of carrying, he called Rogers and Hill below, spreading his charts on the table before him. He outlined the situation and the import of his news struck home.
‘By God,’ said Rogers, ‘the Frogs could outflank us!’ Drinkwater suppressed a smile. The very idea that they could be bested by a handful of impudent, frog-eating ‘mounseers’ seemed to strike Rogers with some force. His lack of imagination was, Drinkwater reflected, typical of his type. Hill, on the other hand, was more ruminative.
‘You say Nelson’s gone east, sir, chasing the idea of a French threat to India again?’
‘Something of that order, Mr Hill.’
‘While in reality the West India interests will already be howling for Pitt’s blood. Who’s in the West Indies at the moment? Cochrane?’
‘And Dacres, with no more than a dozen of the line between them,’ added Rogers.
‘If Missiessy and Villeneuve combine with whatever cruisers the French have already got out there, I believe that we may be in for a thin time. Meanwhile we have to edge down to the Strait. What strikes me as paramount is our need to tell Nelson what is happening. I dare not enter the Med for fear of missing him, so we must keep station off Cape Spartel until Nelson appears. He may then close on the Channel in good time if the French have to re-cross the Atlantic. If Gardner holds the Channel and Nelson cruises off the Orkneys, we may yet stop ’em.’
‘If not,’ said Hill staring down at the chart, ‘then God help us all.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Drinkwater.
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