1805

by Richard Woodman

  The wind had held, the Combined Fleet remained with the advantage of the weather gauge, and Calder waited for Villeneuve to attack. But the allied commander hesitated.

  ‘All I’ve had to do today,’ remarked Rogers in one of his peevish outbursts, ‘is report another three casks of pork as being rotten! I ask you, is that the kind of work fit for a King’s sea-officer?’

  Although the question had been rhetorical it had brought forth a sotto voce comment from Midshipman Glencross for which the young man had been sent to the foremasthead to cool his heels and guard his tongue. As Drinkwater had written in his journal, the last days had been inconclusive if our task is to annihilate the enemy. And today, it seemed, was to be worse. The wind had shifted at dawn and every ship in the British fleet hourly expected Calder to form his line, station his frigates to windward for the repeating of his signals, and to bear down upon the enemy. As hour after hour passed and the wind increased slowly to a fresh breeze and then to a near gale, nothing happened. Villeneuve’s fleet edged away to the north. By six o’clock in the evening the Combined Fleet was out of sight.

  ‘Well,’ remarked Lieutenant Fraser as he took over the deck and the hands were at last stood down from their quarters, ‘at least we stopped them getting into Ferrol, but it’s no’ cricket we’re playing. I wonder what they’ll think o’this in London?’

  Chapter 14

  July–August 1805

  The Fog of War

  ‘Dear God, how many more?’

  ‘Best part of the ground tier, sir, plus a dozen other casks among the batch shipped aboard off Ushant. I’d guess some of that pork was pickled back in the American War.’

  Drinkwater sighed. Rogers might be exaggerating, but then again it was equally possible that he was not. ‘If we ain’t careful, Sam, we’ll be obliged to request stores; just at the moment that would be intolerable. Apart from anything else we must wait on this rendezvous a day or two more.’

  ‘D’you think there’s going to be a battle then? After that farting match last week? There’s a rumour that Calder is going to be called home to face a court-martial,’ Rogers said, a note of irreverent glee in his voice.

  ‘I’m damned if I know where these infernal rumours start,’ Drinkwater said sharply. ‘You should know better than believe ’em.’

  Rogers shrugged. ‘Well, it’s not my problem, sir, whereas these casks of rotten pork are.’

  ‘Damn it!’ Drinkwater rose, his chair squeaking backwards with the violence of his movement. ‘Damn it! D’you know Sam,’ he said, unlocking the spirit case and pouring two glasses of rum, ‘I’ve never felt so uncomfortable before. That business the other day was shameful. We should never have let the French get away unmolested. God knows what’ll come of it . . . we don’t know where the devil they are now. The only ray of hope is that Calder has joined forces with Gardner or Cornwallis if he’s back on station, and that Nelson’s rejoined ’em from the West Indies. With that concentration off Ushant, at least the Channel will be secure, but it is the uncertainty of matters that unsettles me.’

  Rogers nodded his agreement. ‘Worse than a damned fog.’

  ‘But you want to know about the pork,’ Drinkwater sighed. ‘How many weeks can we last out at the present rate?’

  Rogers shrugged, considered for a moment and said, ‘Ten, possibly eleven.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll see what I can do about securing some from another ship in due course.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir, but what are our orders?’

  ‘Well, we are to sit tight here on Calder’s rendezvous for a week. Aeolus and Phoenix are within a hundred miles of us, with the seventy-four Dragon not so far. We are intended to observe Ferrol,’ Drinkwater opened one of the charts that lay, almost permanently now, upon his table top. He laid his finger on a spot a hundred miles north-north-west of Cape Finisterre, ‘The four of us are holding Calder’s old post between us while he retires on the Channel Fleet in case Villeneuve makes his expected push for the Channel.’

  ‘And if Villeneuve obliges and the Channel Fleet does no better than Calder did t’other day, then I’d say Boney had a better than even chance of getting his own way in the Dover Strait.’

  ‘I doubt if Cornwallis would let him . . .’

  ‘But you said yourself, sir, that Cornwallis might not yet be back at sea. What’s Gardner’s fighting temper?’

  ‘We’ll have little enough to worry about if Nelson’s back . . .’

  ‘But maybe he isn’t. And even Nelson could be fooled by a fog. ’Tis high summer, just what the bloody French want. I reckon they’d be across in a week.’

  Drinkwater fell silent. He was not of sufficiently different an opinion to contradict Rogers. He poured them each another glass.

  ‘To be candid, Sam, things look pretty black.’

  ‘Like the Earl of Hell’s riding boots.’

  No such strategic considerations preoccupied James Quilhampton as, for the duration of his watch and in the absence of the captain, he paced the weather side of the quarterdeck. His mind was far from the cares of the ship, daydreaming away his four hours on deck as Antigone rode the blue waters of the Atlantic under easy sail. He was wholly given to considering his circumstances in so far as they were affected by Miss Catriona MacEwan. From time to time, as he walked up and down, his right hand would clasp the stump of his left arm and he would curse the iron hook that he wore in place of a left hand. Although he possessed several alternatives, including one made for him on the bomb-vessel Virago that had been painted and was a tolerable likeness to the real thing, he felt that such a disfigurement was unlikely to enable him to secure the young woman as his wife. He cursed his luck. The wound that had seemed such an honourable mark in his boyhood now struck him for what it really was, a part of him that was gone for ever, its absence making him abnormal, abominable. How foolish it now seemed to consider it in any other way. The pride with which he had borne home his iron hook now appeared ridiculous. He had seen the pity in Catriona’s eyes together with the disgust. As he recollected the circumstances it seemed that her revulsion had over-ridden her pity. He was maimed; there was no other way to look at the matter. Certainly that harridan of an aunt would point out James Quilhampton had no prospects, no expectations, no fortune and no left hand!

  But she had been undeniably pleasant to him, surely. He pondered the matter, turning over the events of their brief acquaintanceship, recollecting the substance of her half-dozen letters that led him to suppose she, at least, viewed his friendship if not his suit with some favour. Reasoning thus he raised himself out of his despondency only to slump back into it when he considered the uncertainty of his fate. He was in such a brown study that the quartermater of the watch had to call his attention to the masthead’s hail.

  ‘Deck! Deck there!’

  ‘Eh? What? What is it?’

  ‘Eight sail to the norrard, sir!’

  ‘What d’you make of ’em?’

  ‘Clean torps’ls, sir, Frenchmen!’

  ‘Pass word for the captain!’ Quilhampton shouted, scrambling up on the rail with the watch glass and jamming himself against the mizen shrouds. Within minutes Drinkwater was beside him.

  ‘Where away, Mr Q?’

  ‘I can’t see them from the deck, sir . . . wait! One, two . . . six . . . eight, sir. Eight sail and they are French!’

  Drinkwater levelled his own glass and studied the newcomers as they sailed south, tier after tier of sails lifting over the horizon until he could see the bulk of their hulls and the white water foaming under their bows as they manoeuvred into line abreast.

  ‘Casting a net to catch us,’ he said, adding, ‘six of the line and two frigates to match or better us.’ In the prevailing westerly breeze escape to the north was impossible. But the enemy squadron was sailing south, for the Spanish coast, the Straits of Gibraltar or the Mediterranean itself. Which? And why south if the main strength of the Combined Fleet had gone north? Perhaps it had not; perhaps Villeneuve had
got past the cordon of British frigates and into Ferrol or Corunna, or back into the Mediterranean. Perhaps this detachment of ships was part of Villeneuve’s fleet, an advance division sent out to capture the British frigates that were Barham’s eyes and ears. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. God only knew what the truth was.

  Drinkwater suddenly knew one thing for certain: he had seen at least one of the approaching ships before. The scarlet strake that swept aft from her figurehead was uncommon. She was Allemand’s Magnanime, and there too was the big Majestueux. It was the Rochefort Squadron, back from the West Indies and now heading south!

  ‘Mr Rogers!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Make sail!’ Drinkwater closed his glass with a snap. ‘Starboard tack, stuns’ls aloft and alow, course sou’ by east!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  ‘Mr Quilhampton!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘A good man aloft with a glass. I want to know the exact progress of this chase and I don’t want to lose M’sieur Allemand a second time.’

  He fell to pacing the deck, occasionally turning and looking astern at the enemy whose approach had been slowed by Antigone’s increase in sail. The British frigate would run south ahead of the French squadron. It was not Drinkwater’s business to engage a superior enemy, nor to risk capture. It was his task to determine whither M. Allemand was bound and for what reason. It was also necessary to let Collingwood, off Cadiz, know that a powerful enemy division was at sea and cruising on his lines of communication.

  Drinkwater could not be expected to have more than the sketchiest notion of the true state of affairs during the last week of July and the first fortnight in August. But his professional observations and deductions were vital in guiding his mind to its decisions and, like half a dozen fellow cruiser captains, he played his part in those eventful weeks. Unknown to Drinkwater and after the action with Calder’s fleet, Villeneuve had gone to Vigo Bay to land his wounded and refit his damaged ships. From Vigo he had coasted to Ferrol where the fast British seventy-four Dragon had spotted his ships at anchor. More French and Spanish ships had joined his fleet and he sailed from Ferrol on 13 August, being sighted by the Iris whose captain concluded from the Combined Fleet’s westerly course that it was attempting a junction with the Rochefort Squadron before turning north. However, events turned out otherwise, for the wind was foul for the Channel. Villeneuve missed Allemand, encountered what he thought was part of a strong British force but was in fact Dragon and some frigates, swung south and arrived off Cape St Vincent on the 18th. Breaking up a small British convoy and forcing aside Vice-Admiral Collingwood’s few ships, Villeneuve’s Combined Fleet of thirty-six men-of-war passed into the safety of the anchorage behind the Mole of Cadiz. That evening Collingwood’s token force resumed its blockade.

  Drinkwater had tenaciously hung on to Allemand’s flying squadron, running ahead of his frigates as the French commodore edged eastwards and then, apparently abandoning the half-hearted chasing off of the British cruiser, turning away for Vigo Bay. As soon as Drinkwater ascertained the French commander’s intentions he made all sail to the south, arriving off Cadiz twenty-four hours after Villeneuve. He called away his barge and put off to HMS Dreadnought, Collingwood’s flagship, to report the presence of the Rochefort ships at Vigo, expecting Collingwood’s despatches for the Channel immediately.

  Instead the dour Northumbrian looked up from his desk, his serious face apparently unmoved by Drinkwater’s news.

  ‘Have you looked into Cadiz, Captain Drinkwater? No? I thought not.’ Collingwood sighed, as though weary beyond endurance. ‘Villeneuve’s whole fleet passed into the Grand Road yesterday . . .’

  ‘I am too late then, sir.’

  ‘With the chief news, yes.’ Collingwood did not smile, but the tone of his tired voice was kindly.

  ‘And my orders?’

  ‘I have four ships of the line here, Captain, to blockade thirty to forty enemy men of war. You will remain with us.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ Drinkwater turned to go.

  ‘Oh, Captain . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘From your actions you appear an officer of energy. I should be pleased to see your frigate close inshore.’

  Drinkwater acknowledged the vice-admiral’s veiled compliment gravely. In the weeks to come he was to learn that this had been praise indeed.

  Chapter 15

  August–October 1805

  Nelson

  ‘The tower of San Sebastian bearing south-a-half-west, sir.’ Hill straightened up from the pelorus vanes.

  ‘Very well!’ Drinkwater closed his Dolland glass with a snap, pocketed it and jumped down from the carronade slide. He took a look over Gillespy’s shoulder as the boy’s pencil dotted his final full stop.

  ‘You make a most proficient secretary, Mr Gillespy,’ he said, patting the boy’s shoulder in a paternal gesture that spoke of his high spirits. He turned to the first lieutenant. ‘Wear ship, Sam!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Sail trimmers, stand by!’

  Antigone’s company were at their quarters, the frigate cleared for action as she took her daily look into Cadiz harbour. The hills of Spain almost surrounded them, green and brown, spreading from the town of Rota to the north, to the extremity of the Mole of Cadiz, that long barrier which separated the anchorage of the Combined Fleets of France and Spain from the watching and waiting British. From Antigone’s quarterdeck the long mole had fore-shortened and disappeared behind the white buildings of the town of Cadiz which terminated in the tower of San Sebastian. The tower had fallen abaft their beam and ahead of them the islets of Los Cochinos, Las Puercas, El Diamante and La Galera barred their passage. Beyond the islets, beneath the distant blue-green summit of the Chiclana hill, the black mass of the Combined Fleet lay, safely at anchor.

  Drinkwater turned to Midshipman Frey, busy with paint-box and paper at the rail. ‘You will have to finish now, Mr Frey.’ He looked from the masts of the enemy to the hurried watercolour executed by the midshipman. ‘You do justice to the effects of the sunshine on the water.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Frey and Gillespy exchanged glances. The captain was very complimentary this morning.

  ‘Ready to wear, sir,’ reported Rogers.

  Drinkwater, his hands behind his back, drew a lungful of air. ‘Very well, Sam. See to it.’ He felt unusually expansive this bright morning, deriving an enormous sense of satisfaction from his advanced post almost under the very guns of Cadiz itself. He knew that Antigone had joined the fleet at a fortuitous moment and that Collingwood was desperately short of frigates. As soon as the admiral had seen Villeneuve into Cadiz he had sent off his fastest frigate, the Euryalus, commanded by one of the best cruiser captains in the navy, the Honourable Henry Blackwood. Blackwood was to inform Cornwallis off Ushant, and then Barham at the Admiralty in London. The departure of Euryalus left Collingwood with only one other frigate and the bomb-vessel Hydra until Drinkwater’s arrival with Antigone. Their present task, although not so very different from their duties of the last eighteen months, seemed more crucial. There was an inescapable sense of expectancy in the fleet off southern Spain. Among the captains of the line-of-battleships cruising offshore this manifested itself in frustration. Collingwood was not an expansive man. His orders to his fleet were curt. The ship’s commanders were forbidden to visit each other, there was to be no dining together, no gossip; just the remorseless business of forming line, wearing, tacking and, from time to time, running for Gibraltar or Tetuan for water, meat and other necessaries.

  But close up to the entrance of Cadiz, Drinkwater was blissfully unconcerned. He had no desire to exchange stations, for it was here, opinion held, that an action would soon occur. He was not sure whence came these rumours. There was some extraordinary communication between the ships of a fleet that made even the Admiralty telegraph seem slow. Collingwood had been reinforced by the ships of Admiral Bickerton which Nelson had left in the Mediterranean when he chased the Toulon Fleet to t
he West Indies. Bickerton, his health in ruins, had gone home, but his ships had brought rumour from east of Gibraltar, while the regular logistical communication with Gibraltar ensured that news from Spain gradually permeated the fleet. It was a curious thing, reflected Drinkwater, as Antigone completed her turn and the after-sail was reset, that what began in a fleet as rumour was often borne out as fact a few days or weeks later.

  ‘Ship’s on the starboard tack, sir,’ reported Rogers.

  ‘Very well.’ Drinkwater crossed the deck and watched the white walls of Cadiz slowly open out on the larboard beam, exposing the long mole to the south as the frigate beat out of Cadiz bay.

  ‘Mr Frey, make ready the signal for “The enemy has topgallant masts hoisted and yards crossed”.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Drinkwater idly watched Lieutenant Mount parading his marines for their daily inspection. He was reluctant to go below and break his mood by a change of scenery. Instead he continued his walk. They knew here, off Cadiz, that Pitt’s alienation of Spain had been countered by the acquisition of Austria as an ally, and that there was word of a Russian and Austrian army taking the field. He learned also that the commander of the Rochefort Squadron that had so lately pursued him had been Commodore Allemand, promoted after the departure of Missiessy for Paris. What had become of Allemand now, no one seemed certain.