1805

by Richard Woodman

  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,’ acknowedged 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-deck. 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.

  Chapter 19

  16–17 October 1805

  Villeneuve

  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 upon 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 tellyou news that will not please you but whichyou 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?’