1805

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Perhaps less than you think, sir. My own fortunes have been the other way. My father was a tenant farmer and I am uncertain of my origins before my grandfather. I would not wholly disapprove of your Revolution . . .’

  ‘But not our Empire, eh, Captain?’

  Drinkwater shrugged. ‘I do not wish to insult you, sir, but I do not approve of the Emperor’s intentions to invade my country.’

  Villeneuve was obviously also thinking of Napoleon for he said. ‘Do you know what Santhonax is doing, Captain?’

  ‘I imagine he has gone to Paris to report to His Imperial Majesty on the state of the fleet you command. And possibly . . .’ he broke off, then, thinking it was worth a gamble, added, ‘to tell the Emperor that he has succeeded in persuading you to sail.’

  ‘Bon Dieu!’ The blood drained from Villeneuve’s face. ‘H . . . how did you . . . ?’

  Villeneuve hesitated and Drinkwater pressed his advantage. ‘As I said, Your Excellency, I know Santhonax for what he is. Did he kill Captain Wright in the Temple?’

  The colour had not yet returned to the admiral’s face. ‘Is that what they say in England? That Santhonax murdered Wright?’

  ‘No, they say he was murdered, but by whom only a few suspect.’

  ‘And you are one of them, I think.’

  Drinkwater shrugged again. ‘On blockade duty, sir, there is ample time to ponder . . .’ he paused seeing the admiral’s puzzled look, ‘er, to think about things.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I understand. Your navy has a talent for this blockading. It is very tedious, is it not?’

  ‘Very, sir . . .’

  ‘And your ships? They wear out also?’

  Drinkwater nodded, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the men?’

  Drinkwater held the admiral’s gaze. It was no simple matter to convey to a Frenchman, even of Villeneuve’s intelligence, the balance of the stubborn tenacity of a national character against a discipline that did not admit weakness. Besides, it was not his intention to appear over-confident. ‘They wear out too, sir,’ he said smiling.

  Looking at the Englishman, Villeneuve noticed his hand go up under his coat to massage his shoulder. ‘You have been wounded, Captain?’

  ‘Several times . . .’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Yes. I have two children.’

  ‘I also am married . . . This war; it is a terrible thing.’

  ‘I should not be here, sir, were it not for your Combined Fleet,’ Drinkwater said drily.

  ‘Ah, yes . . . the Combined Fleet. What is your opinion of the Combined Fleet, Captain?’

  ‘It is difficult to judge, sir. But I think the ships good, particularly, with respect, the Spanish line-of-battle ships. The French are good seamen, but lack practice; the Spanish . . .’ he shrugged again.

  ‘Are beggars and herdsmen, the most part landsmen and soldiers,’ Villeneuve said with sudden and unexpected vehemence. He stood up and began to pace with a slow dignity back and forwards between the table and the stern windows with an abstraction that Drinkwater knew to reveal he often did thus. ‘And the officers are willing, but inexperienced. One cruise to the West Indies and they think they are masters of the oceans. They are all fire or venom because they think Villeneuve a fool! Do you know why I brought you here tonight, Captain, eh? No? Because it is not possible that I talk freely to my own officers! Only Gravina comprehends my position and he has troubles too many to speak of with his own court and that parvenu Godoy, the “Prince of Peace”!’ Villeneuve’s contempt filled him with a blazing indignation. ‘Oh, yes, Captain, there is destiny,’ he paused and looked down at Drinkwater, then thrust his pointing arm towards the windows. ‘Out on the sea is Nelson and here, here is Villeneuve!’ He stabbed his own chest with the same finger. Drinkwater sat quietly as Villeneuve took two more turns across the cabin then calmed himself, refilled the glasses and sat down again.

  ‘How will Nelson attack, Captain?’ He paused as Drinkwater protested, then held up his hand. ‘It is all right, Captain, I know you to be a man of honour. I will tell you as I told my captains before we left Toulon. He will attack from windward if he can, not in line, but so as to concentrate his ships in groups upon a division of our fleet which he will annihilate with overwhelming force.’ He slapped his right hand down flat upon the table making the candles gutter and raising a little whirl of grey ash. ‘It was done at Camperdown and he did it to us at Abukir . . .’ Again Villeneuve paused and Drinkwater watched him silently. The admiral had escaped from that terrible battle, Napoleon accounting him a lucky man, a man of destiny to be taken up to run at the wheels of the Imperial chariot.

  ‘But it has never been done in the open sea with Nelson in command of a whole fleet,’ Villeneuve went on, staring abstractedly into the middle distance. Drinkwater realised he was a sensitive and imaginative man and pitied him his burden. Villeneuve suddenly looked at him. ‘That is how it will happen, yes?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘If you were me, how would you counter it?’

  ‘I . . . er, I don’t know . . . It has never been my business to command a fleet, sir . . .’

  Villeneuve’s eyes narrowed and Drinkwater suddenly saw that the man did not lack courage, whatever might be said of him. ‘When it is time for you to command a fleet, Captain, remember there is always an answer; but what you will lack is the means to do it . . .’ He stood up again. ‘Had I your men in my ships, Captain, I would astonish Napoleon!’

  The admiral tossed off his second glass and poured a third, offering the wine to Drinkwater.

  ‘Thank you, Your Excellency. But how would you answer this attack?’ Drinkwater was professionally curious. It was a bold question, but Villeneuve did not seem to regard it as such and Drinkwater realised the extremity of the French admiral’s loneliness and isolation. In any case Drinkwater was a prisoner, his escape from the heart of the Combined Fleet so unlikely that Villeneuve felt safe in using the opportunity to see the reaction to his plan of at least one British officer.

  ‘A squadron of reserve, Captain, a division of my fleet kept detached to weather of my line and composed of my best ships, to reinforce that portion of my fleet which receives – how do you say? – the weight, no . . .’

  ‘The brunt?’

  ‘Yes, the brunt of your attack.’

  Drinkwater considered Villeneuve’s scheme. It was innovative enough to demonstrate his originality of thought, yet it had its defects.

  ‘What if your enemy attacks the squadron of reserve?’

  ‘Then the fleet tacks to its assistance, but I do not think this will happen. Your Nelson will attack the main line.’ He smiled wryly and added, ‘He may ignore the special division as being a badly manoeuvred part of the general line.’

  ‘And if you are attacked from leeward . . .’

  ‘Then the advantage is even more in our favour, yes.’

  ‘But, Excellency, who have you among your admirals to lead this important division?’

  ‘Only Gravina, Captain, on whom I can absolutely depend.’ Villeneuve’s face clouded over again. For a moment he had been visualising his counter-stroke to Nelson’s attack, seeing the moving ships, hearing the guns and realising his dream: to save the navy of France from humiliation and raise it to the heights to which Suffren had shown it could be elevated. He sighed, obviously very tired.

  ‘So you intend to sail, sir?’ Drinkwater asked quietly. ‘To offer battle to Nelson?’

  ‘If necessary.’ Villeneuve’s reply was guarded, cautious, even uncertain. Drinkwater concluded, observing the admiral closely.

  ‘But battle will be necessary if you wish to enter the Channel.’

  ‘Perhaps . . .’ There was an indifference now; Drinkwater felt the certainty of his earlier deliberations.

  ‘Perhaps you are going to return to the Mediterranean?’ he ventured. ‘I hear his Imperial Majesty has withdrawn his camp from Boulogne?’

  ‘Diable!’ Villeneuve had paled again. �
��How is this known? Do you know everything that comes to me?’

  He rose, very angry and Drinkwater hurriedly added, ‘Pardon, Excellency. It was only a guess . . . I, I made a guess . . .’

  ‘A guess!’ For a second Villeneuve’s face wore a look of astonishment. Then his eyes narrowed a little. ‘Santhonax was right, Captain Drinkwater, you are no fool. If I have to fight I will, but I have twice eluded Nelson and . . .’ He shrugged, ‘perhaps I might do it again.’

  Drinkwater relaxed. He had been correct all along in his assumptions. The two men’s eyes met. They seemed bound in an intensity of feeling, like the eyes of fencers of equal skill where pure antagonism had given way to respect, and only a superficial enmity prevented friendship. Then one of the fencers moved his blade, a tiny feinting movement designed to suggest a weakness, a concern.

  ‘I think you might,’ said Drinkwater in a voice so low that it was not much above a whisper. It was a terrible gamble, Drinkwater knew, yet he conceived it his duty to chance Nelson not missing the Combined Fleet.

  For what seemed an age a silence hung in the cabin, then Villeneuve coughed and signalled their intimacy was at an end. ‘After this conversation, Captain, I regret that you cannot leave the ship. You have given your parole and I will endeavour to make your stay comfortable.’

  Drinkwater opened his mouth to protest. A sudden chilling vision of being on the receiving end of British broadsides overwhelmed him and he felt real terror cause his heart to thump and his face to blanch.

  It was Villeneuve’s turn to smile: ‘You did not believe in destiny, Captain; remember?’ Then he added, ‘Santhonax wished that I left you to rot in a Spanish gaol.’

  Drinkwater woke confused. After leaving Villeneuve he had been conducted to a small cabin intended for a warrant officer below the water-line on the orlop deck of the Bucentaure. A sentry was posted outside and for a long time he lay wide awake thinking over the conversation with Villeneuve, his surroundings both familiar and horribly alien. Eventually he had slept and he woke late, disgruntled, hungry and unable for some seconds to remember where he was. His lack of clothing made him feel irritable and the mephitic air of the unventilated orlop gave him a headache made worse by the strange smells of the French battleship. When he opened his door and asked for food he found the moustached sentry singularly unhelpful.

  ‘I don’t want your damned bayonet for my breakfast,’ muttered Drinkwater pushing the dully gleaming weapon aside. He pointed to his mouth. ‘Manger,’ he said hopefully. The sentry shook his head and Drinkwater retreated into the miserable cabin.

  A few minutes later, however, the debonair Guillet appeared, immaculately attired as befitted the junior officer of a flagship, and conducted Drinkwater courteously to the gunroom where a number of the officers were breakfasting. They looked at him curiously and Drinkwater felt ill at ease in clothes in which he had slept. However he took coffee and some biscuit, observing that for a fleet in port the officers’ table was sparsely provided. His presence clearly had something of a dampening effect, for within minutes only he and Guillet remained at the table.

  ‘I should be obliged if I could send ashore for my effects, Lieutenant . . . I would like to shave . . .’ He mimed the action, at which Guillet held up his hand.

  ‘No, Captain, please it is already that I ’ave sent for your . . .’ he motioned over his own clothes, stuck for the right word.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

  They were not long in coming and they arrived together with Mr Gillespy.

  ‘Good Lord, Mr Gillespy, what the devil do you do here, eh?’ The boy remained silent and in the bad light it took Drinkwater a moment to see that he was controlling himself with difficulty. ‘Come, sir, I asked you a question . . .’

  ‘P . . . please, sir . . .’ He pulled a note from his pocket and held it out. Drinkwater took it and read.

  Sir,

  The boy is much troubled by your absence. Permission has been obtained from our captors that he mayjoinyou wherever you have been taken and I have presumed to send him to you, believing this to be the best thing for him. We are well and in good spirits.

  It was signed by James Quilhampton. He could hardly have imagined Drinkwater was on board the enemy flagship. ‘Lieutenant Guillet . . . please have the kindness to return this midshipman to my lieutenant . . .’

  ‘Oh, no, sir . . . please, please . . .’ Drinkwater looked at the boy. His lower lip was trembling, his eyes filled with tears. ‘Please, sir . . .’

  ‘Brace up, Mr Gillespy, pray remember who and where you are.’ He paused, allowing the boy to pull himself together, and turned towards Guillet. ‘What are your orders regarding this young officer?’

  Guillet shrugged. His new duty was becoming irksome and he was regretting his boasted ability to speak English. ‘The admiral ’e is a busy man, Capitaine. ’E says if the, er, midshipman is necessary to you, then he ’as no objection.’

  Drinkwater turned to the boy again. ‘Very well, Mr Gillespy, you had better find yourself a corner of the orlop.’

  ‘And now, Capitaine, perhaps you will come with me onto the deck, yes?’

  Drinkwater was ushered on deck, Guillet brushing aside the boy in his ardour to show the English prisoner the puissant might of the Combined Fleet. Drinkwater emerged on deck, his curiosity aroused, his professional interest fully engaged. He was conducted to the starboard waist and allowed to walk up and down on the gangway in company with Guillet. The lieutenant was unusually expansive and Drinkwater considered he was acting on orders from a higher authority. It was difficult to analyse why Villeneuve should want an enemy officer shown his command. He must know Drinkwater was experienced enough to see its weaknesses as well as its strengths; no seaman could fail to do that.

  The deck of the Bucentaure was crowded with milling seamen and soldiers as the last of the stores were brought aboard. The last water casks were being filled and there were obvious preparations for sailing being made on deck and in the rigging. Boats were out under the bows of the nearest ships, singling up the cables fastened to the buoys laid in the Grande Rade.

  ‘Over there,’ said Guillet pointing to a 74-gun two-decker, ‘le Berwick a prize from the Royal Navy, and there, the Swiftsure, also once a ship of your navy,’ Guillet smiled, ‘and, of course, we also ’ave one other ship of yours to our credit, but we could not bring it with us,’ he laughed, ‘His Majesty’s sloop Diamond Rock!’

  Guillet seemed to think this a great joke and Drinkwater remembered hearing of Commodore Hood’s bold fortifying of the Diamond Rock off Martinique which had been held for some time before the overwhelming force of Villeneuve’s fleet was brought to bear on it.

  ‘I heard the garrison fought successive attacks off for nineteen hours without water in a tropical climate, Lieutenant, and that they capitulated upon honourable terms. Is that not so?’ Guillet appeared somewhat abashed and Drinkwater changed the subject, ‘Who is that extraordinary officer who has just come aboard?’

  ‘Ah, that is Capitaine Infernet of the Intrépide.’ Drinkwater watched a tall, flamboyant officer with a boisterous air climb on deck. ‘ ’E went to sea a powder monkey,’ Guillet went on, ‘and ’as escaped death a ’hundred times, even when ’is ship it blows apart. ’E speaks badly but ’e fights well . . .’

  ‘And who is that meeting him?’

  ‘That is my capitaine, Jean Jacques Magendie, commandant of the Bucentaure.’

  ‘Ah, and that man?’ Drinkwater indicated a small, energetic officer with the epaulettes of a Capitaine de Vaisseau.

  ‘Ah, that’, said Guillet in obvious admiration, ‘is Capitaine Lucas of the Redoutable.’

  ‘You obviously admire him, Lieutenant. Why is that?’

  Guillet shrugged. ‘He is a man most clever, and ’is crew and ship most, er, ’ow do you say it . . . er, very good?’

  ‘Efficient?’

  ‘Oui. That is right: efficient.’

  Drinkwater turned away, Infernet was looking at
him and he did not wish to draw attention to himself. He stared out over the crowded waters of Cadiz, the great battleships surrounded by small boats. He saw the massive hull of the four-decked Spanish ship Santissima Trinidad. ‘that is the Santissima Trinidad, is it not?’ Guillet nodded. ‘She is Admiral Gravina’s flagship?’

  ‘No,’ said Guillet, ‘the Captain-General ’as ’is flag aboard the Principe de Asturias of one ’undred and twelve guns. The Santissima Trinidad flies the flag of Rear-Admiral Don Baltazar Cisneros. The ship moored next to ’er, she is the Rayo of one ’undred guns. She may interest you, Capitaine; she is commanded by Don Enrique Macdonnell. ’E is an Irishman who became a Spanish soldier to kill Englishmen. ’E fought in the Regimento de Hibernia against you when your American colonies bring their revolution. Later ’e is a sailor and when Gravina called for volunteers, Don Enrique comes to command the Rayo.’

  ‘Most interesting. The Rayo is newly commissioned then?’

  ‘Yes. And the ship next astern is the Neptuno. She is Spanish. We also ’ave the Neptune. She is’, he looked round, ‘there, alongside the Pluton . . .’

  ‘We also have our Neptune, Lieutenant. She is commanded by Thomas Fremantle. He is rather partial to killing Frenchmen.’ Drinkwater smiled. ‘We also have our Swiftsure . . . but all this is most interesting . . .’

  They spent the morning in this manner, talking always about ships and seamen, Drinkwater making mental notes and storing impressions of the final preparations of the Combined Fleet. He had a vague notion that they might be of value, yet was aware that he would find it impossible to pass them to his friends whose topsails, he knew, were visible from only a few feet up Bucentaure’s rigging. But what was more curious was the strong conviction he had formed that it was Villeneuve himself who wished him to see all this.