They did not meet Orde but five days later they found his sloop Beagle cruising off Cape Spartel, having observed the passage of Villeneuve’s fleet and now lying in wait for Nelson. From Beagle Drinkwater learned that Villeneuve had been reinforced by Spanish ships from Cadiz under Admiral Gravina and that Beagle had lost contact when the Combined Fleet headed west.
‘I knew it!’ Drinkwater had muttered to himself when he learned this. He promptly ordered Beagle to rejoin Orde who was, he thought, falling back on the Channel to reinforce Lord Gardener. As Beagle’s sails disappeared over the horizon to the north and the Atlas Mountains rose blue in the haze to the east, Drinkwater remarked to Quilhampton and Fraser:
‘There is nothing more we can do, gentlemen, until his lordship arrives.’
During the first week of May the wind blew westerly through the Strait of Gibraltar, foul for Nelson slipping out into the Atlantic. Drinkwater decided to take advantage of it and enter the Strait. He was extremely anxious about the passage of time as day succeeded day and Nelson failed to appear. If there was no news of Nelson at Gibraltar, he reasoned, he could wait there and still catch his lordship. In addition Gibraltar might have news carried overland, despite the hostility of the Spanish.
Off Tarifa they spoke to a Swedish merchant ship which had just left Gibraltar. There was no news of Nelson but much of a diplomatic nature. Russia was again the ally of Great Britain and Austria was dallying with Britain’s overtures. However, there was an even more disturbing rumour that Admiral Ganteaume had sailed from Brest. That evening the wind fell light, then swung slowly into the east. At dawn the following day the topgallants of a fleet were to be seen, and at last Drinkwater breakfasted in the great cabin of Victory, in company with Lord Nelson.
It was a hurried meal. Drinkwater told Nelson all he knew, invited to share the admiral’s confidence as much for the news he brought as for the high regard Nelson held him in after his assistance at the battle of Copenhagen.
‘My dear Drinkwater, I have been in almost perpetual darkness as Hardy here will tell you. I had for some time considered the West Indies a likely rendezvous for the fleets of France and Spain. Would to God I had had some news. I have been four months, Drinkwater, without a word. Four months with nothing from the Admiralty. They tell me Melville is out of office . . . My God, I hoped for news before now.’ The admiral turned to his flag-captain. ‘How far d’you think he’s gone, Hardy?’
‘Villeneuve, my Lord?’
‘Who else, for God’s sake!’
Hardy seemed unmoved by his lordship’s bile and raised his eyebrows reflectively, demonstrating a stolidity that contrasted oddly with the little admiral’s feverish anxiety. ‘He has a month’s start. Even the French can cross the Atlantic in a month.’
‘A month. The capture of Jamaica would be a blow which Bonaparte would be happy to give us!’
‘Do you follow him there, my Lord?’ Drinkwater asked.
‘I had marked the Toulon Fleet for my own game, Captain; you say Orde has fallen back from Cadiz?’
‘It seems so, my Lord.’
‘Then Gardner will not greatly benefit from my ships.’ He paused in thought, then appeared to make up his mind. He suddenly smiled, his expression flooded with resolution. He whipped the napkin from his lap and flung it down on the table, like a gauntlet.
‘They’re our game, Hardy, damn it. Perhaps none of us would wish exactly for a West India trip; but the call of our country is far superior to any consideration of self. Let us try and bag Villeneuve before he does too much damage, eh gentlemen?’
‘And the Mediterranean, my Lord?’ asked Hardy.
‘Sir Richard Bickerton, Tom, we’ll leave him behind to guard the empty stable and watch Salcedo’s Dons in Cartagena.’ Nelson raised his coffee cup and they toasted the enterprise.
‘You may keep us company to Cadiz, Captain, I shall look in there and see what Orde is about before I sail west.’
Orde was not off Cadiz, but his storeships were, and Nelson plundered them freely in Lagos Bay. Then intelligence reached the British fleet from Admiral Donald Campbell in the Portuguese Navy that confirmed Drinkwater’s information. Campbell also brought the news that a British military expedition with a very weak escort under Admiral Knight was leaving Lisbon, bound into the Mediterranean. Nelson therefore ordered his foulest-bottomed battleship, the Royal Sovereign, together with the frigate Antigone, to see the fleet of transports clear of the Strait of Gibraltar.
Thus it was with something of a sense of anti-climax and of belonging to a mere side-show that Antigone’s log for the evening of 11th May 1805 read: Bore away in company R-Ad Knight’s convoy. Cape St Vincent NW by N distant 7 leagues. Parted company Lord Nelson. Lord Nelson’s fleet chasing to the westward.
Chapter 13
May–July 1805
Calder’s Action
‘Fog, sir.’
‘So I see.’ Captain Drinkwater nodded to Lieutenant Quilhampton as he came on deck and stared round the horizon. The calm weather of the last few days had now turned cooler; what had first been a haze had thickened to mist and now to fog. ‘Take the topsails off her, Mr Q. No point in chafing the gear to pieces.’ So, her sails furled and her rigging dripping, Antigone lay like a log upon the vast expanse of the Atlantic which heaved gently to a low ground swell that told of a distant wind but only seemed to emphasise their own immobility.
Captain and third lieutenant fell to a companionable pacing of the deck, discussing the internal details of the ship.
‘Purser reported another rotten cask of pork, sir.’
‘From the batch shipped aboard off Ushant?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That makes seven.’ Drinkwater cursed inwardly. He had been delighted to have been victualled and watered off Ushant after returning from the Strait of Gibraltar and Admiral Knight’s convoy. Lord Gardner had been particular to ensure that all the cruising frigates were kept well stocked, but if they found many more bad casks of meat then his lordship’s concern might be misplaced.
‘I was just wondering, sir,’ said Quilhampton conversationally, ‘whether I’d rather be here than off Cadiz with Collingwood. Which station offers the best chance of action?’
‘Difficult to say, James,’ said Drinkwater, dropping their usual professional formality. ‘When Gardner detached Collingwood to blockade Cadiz it was because he thought that Villeneuve and Gravina might have already returned there. When the report proved false, Collingwood sent two battleships west to reinforce Nelson and returned us to Calder. Opinion seems to incline towards keeping as many ships to the westward of the Bay of Biscay as possible. Prowse of Sirius told me the other day that both Calder and the Ushant squadron have virtually raised their separate blockades and are edging westwards in the hope of catching Villeneuve.’
‘D’you think it will affect us, sir?’
Drinkwater shrugged. ‘Not if my theory is right. Villeneuve will head more to the north and pass round Scotland. Besides, we don’t know if Nelson caught up with him. Perhaps there has already been a battle in the West Indies.’ He paused. ‘What is it, James?’
Quilhampton frowned. ‘I thought I heard . . . no, it’s nothing. Wait! There it is again!’
Both men paused. As they listened the creaking of Antigone’s gear seemed preternaturally loud. ‘Gunfire!’
‘Wait!’ Drinkwater laid his hand on Quilhampton’s arm. ‘Wait and listen.’ Both men leaned over the rail, to catch the sound nearer the water, unobstructed by the noises of the ship. The single concussion came again, followed at intervals by others. ‘Those are minute guns, James! And since we know the whereabouts of Calder . . .’
‘Villeneuve?’
‘Or Nelson, perhaps. But we must assume the worst. My theory is wrong if you are right. And they have a wind. Perhaps we will too in an hour.’
He looked aloft at the pendant flying from the mainmast head. It was already beginning to lift a trifle. Drinkwater crossed the deck and stared
into the binnacle. The compass card oscillated gently but showed clearly that the breeze was coming from the west.
‘You know, James, that report we had that Ganteaume got out of Brest proved false.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, perhaps Villeneuve is coming back to spring Ganteaume from the Goulet and then make his descent upon the Strait of Dover.’
‘Possibly, sir,’ replied Quilhampton, unwilling to argue, and aware that Drinkwater must be allowed his prerogative. In Quilhampton’s youthful opinion the Frogs were not capable of that kind of thing.
Drinkwater knew of the young officer’s scepticism and said, ‘Lord Barham, has the same opinion of the French as myself, Mr Q, otherwise he would not have gone to all the trouble of ensuring they were intercepted.’
Thus mildly rebuked, Quilhampton realised his minutes of intimacy with the captain were over. While Drinkwater considered what to do until the breeze gave them steerage way, Quilhampton considered that, as far as second lieutenants were concerned, it did not seem to matter if Lord Melville or Lord Barham were in charge of the Admiralty; the lot of serving officers was still a wretched one.
The breeze came from the west at mid-morning. Setting all sail, Drinkwater pressed Antigone to the east-north-east. Then, at six bells in the forenoon watch there was a brief lifting of the visibility. To the north-west they made out the pale square of sails over the shapes of hulls, while to the north-east they saw Calder’s look-out ship, Defiance. Both Antigone and Defiance threw out the signal for an enemy fleet in sight and fired guns. Drinkwater knew that Calder could not be far away. Immediately upon making his signal, Captain Durham of the Defiance turned his ship away, squaring her yards before the wind and retiring on the main body of the fleet. Taking his cue, Drinkwater ordered studding sails set and attempted to cross the enemy’s van and rejoin his own admiral. Shortly after this the fog closed in again, although the breeze held and Drinkwater cleared the frigate for action.
‘We seem destined to go into battle blind, Sam,’ he said to the first lieutenant as Rogers took his post on the quarterdeck. ‘Snow in January and bloody fog in July and this could be the decisive battle of the war, for God’s sake!’
Rogers grunted his agreement. ‘Only the poxy French could conjure up a bloody fog at a moment like this.’
Drinkwater grinned at Roger’s prejudice. ‘It could be providence, Sam. What does the Bible say about God chastising those he loves best?’
‘Damned if I know, sir, but a fleet action seems imminent and we’re going to miss it because of fog!’
Drinkwater felt a spark of sympathy for Rogers. Distinguishing himself in such an action was Roger’s only hope of further advancement.
‘Look, sir!’ Another momentary lifting of the fog showed the French much nearer to them now, crossing their bows and holding a steadier breeze than reached Antigone.
‘We shall be cut off, damn it,’ muttered Drinkwater, suddenly realising that he might very well be fighting for his life within an hour. He turned on Rogers. ‘Sam, serve the men something at their stations. Get food and grog into them. You have twenty minutes.’
It proved to be a very long twenty minutes to Drinkwater. In fact it stretched to an hour, then two. Drinkwater had seen no signals from Calder and had only a vague idea of the admiral’s position. All he did know was that the French fleet lay between Antigone and the British line-of-battle ships. At about one in the afternoon the fog rolled back to become a mist, thickening from time to time in denser patches, so that they might see three-quarters of a mile one minute and a ship’s length ahead the next. Into this enlarged visible circle the dim and sinister shapes of a battle-line emerged, led by the 80-gun Argonauta, flying the red and gold of Castile.
‘It is the Combined Fleet, by God,’ Drinkwater muttered as he saw the colours of Spain alternating with the tricolour of France. He spun Antigone to starboard, holding her just out of gunshot as she picked up the stronger breeze that had carried the enemy thus far.
A vague shape to the north westward looked for a little like the topsails of a frigate and Drinkwater hoped it was Sirius. At six bells in the afternoon watch he decided to shorten sail, hauled his yards and swung north, crossing the Spanish line a mile ahead of the leading ship which was flying an admiral’s flag. Rogers was looking at him expectantly. At extreme range it seemed a ridiculous thing to do but he nodded his permission. Rogers walked the line of the larboard battery, checking and sighting each gun, doing what he was best at.
As he reached the aftermost gun he straightened up. ‘Fire!’
Antigone shook as the guns recoiled amid the smoke of their discharge and their crews swabbed, loaded and rammed home. She trembled as the heavy carriages were hauled out through the open ports again and their muzzles belched fire and iron at the long-awaited enemy. As the smoke from the second broadside cleared they were rewarded by an astonishing sight. Little damage seemed to have been inflicted upon the enemy at the extremity of their range, but the Combined Fleet was heaving to.
‘Probably thinks that Calder’s just behind us out of sight,’ Rogers put in, rubbing his hands with glee.
Drinkwater wore Antigone round and immediately the yards were squared they made out the shapes of two frigates on their larboard bow, dim, ghostly vessels close-hauled as they approached from the east.
‘The private signal, Mr Frey, and look lively!’ He did not want to be shot at as he retreated ahead of the French, and already he recognised Sirius with her emerald-green rail.
The colours of flags clarified as the ships closed and Drinkwater turned Antigone to larboard to come up on Sirius’s quarter. The second British frigate, Égyptienne, loomed astern. Drinkwater saw Prowse step up on the rail with a speaking trumpet.
‘Heard gunfire, Drinkwater. Was that you?’
‘Yes! The Combined Fleet is just to windward of us!
‘Form line astern of the Égyptienne. Calder wants us to reconnoitre!’
‘Aye, aye!’ Drinkwater jumped down from the mizen chains. ‘Back the mizen tops’l, Mr Hill. Fall in line astern of the Égyptienne.’
Drinkwater watched Sirius disappear into a fog patch and the second frigate ghosted past. For one glorious moment at about seven bells in the afternoon the fog lifted and the mist rolled back, giving both fleets a glimpse of each other. Astern of the three westward-heading British frigates, the British fleet of fifteen ships-of-the-line was standing south-south-west on the starboard tack, their topgallants set above topsails, but with their courses clewed up. From Sir Robert Calder’s 98-gun flagship, the Prince of Wales, flew the signal to engage the enemy. This was repeated from the masthead of his second in command, Rear-Admiral Stirling, on board the Glory.
To the southward of the three frigates the Combined Fleet straggled in a long line of twenty ships and a few distant frigates. Since they had hove to, they had adjusted their course, edging away from the British frigates which, in order to hold the wind, were also diverging to the north-west. Prowse made the signal to tack and Sirius began to ease round on the enemy rear. She was holding the fluky wind better than either Antigone or Égyptienne. A few minutes later the mist closed down again. Drinkwater set his courses in an attempt to catch up with Sirius and lost contact with the Égyptienne. He heard gunfire to the south and then the sound of a heavier cannonade to the south-east. Next to him Rogers was beside himself with impatience and frustration.
‘God damn it, God damn it,’ he muttered, grinding the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.
‘For God’s sake relax, Sam. You’ll have apoplexy else.’
‘This is agony, sir . . .’
‘Steer for the guns, Mr Hill.’ It was agonising for Drinkwater too. But whereas all Rogers had to do was wait for a target to present itself, Drinkwater worried about the presence of other ships, dreading a collision. Ahead of them the noise of cannon-fire was growing louder and more persistent. Then, once again, the fog rolled back, revealing broad on their larboard bow the s
hape of a battleship. This time the enemy were ready for them.
The roar of forty cannon fired in a ragged broadside split the air. The black hull of the 80-gun vessel towered over them as Rogers roared, ‘Fire!’
Antigone’s puny broadside rattled and thudded against the stranger’s hull as they saw the red and yellow of Spain and an admiral’s flag at her mainmasthead. The wind of the battleship’s broadside passed them like a tornado but most of the shot whistled overhead, parting ropes and holing sails. One casualty occurred in the main-top and the main-mast was wounded by two balls, but the Antigone escaped the worst effects of such a storm of iron. As the great ship vanished in the mist Drinkwater read her name across the stern: Argonauta.
Then there were other ships passing them, the Terrible and America, both disdaining to fire on a frigate, and Drinkwater realised that the Combined Fleet had tacked and were standing north. In the confusion he wondered what on earth Calder was doing, and whether the British admiral had observed this movement. Then the outbreak of a general cannonade told him that the two fleets were still in contact, and the sudden appearance of spouts of water near them convinced him that the British fleet were just beyond the line of the enemy and that Antigone was in the line of fire of the British guns.
A little after five in the afternoon they made contact again with the Sirius. Both frigates then hauled round and stood towards the gunfire. Once they caught a glimpse of the action and, from what could be discerned, the two fleets were engaged in a confusing mêlée.
‘I don’t know what the devil to make of it, damned if I do,’ remarked Hill tensely, his tone expressing the frustration they all felt. Antigone continued to edge down in the mist until darkness came, although the gunfire continued for some time afterwards.
‘What in God Almighty’s name are we doing?’ asked Rogers, looking helplessly round the quarterdeck.
‘Why nothing, Mr Rogers,’ said Hill, who was finding the first lieutenant’s constant moaning a trifle tedious. To windward of the group of officers Captain Drinkwater studied the situation, privately as mystified as his officers. On the day following the action the weather had remained hazy and the two fleets had manoeuvred in sight of each other. Both had been inactive, as though licking their wounds. After the utter confusion of the 22nd, the British were pleased to find themselves masters of two Spanish prizes. It was also clear that they had badly damaged several more. However, the British ships Windsor Castle and Malta were themselves in poor condition and preparing to detach for England and a dockyard.
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