1805

by Richard Woodman

  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 Régiment 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 Algeçiras. 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.’

  Chapter 18

  15–16 October 1805

  The Spectre of 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, he 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 we can expect, 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.