Nathaniel Drinkwater was not given to flights of wild imagination. He was too aware of the difficulties and dangers that beset every seaman. But during his long years of service intuition and cogent reasoning had served him well. He was reminded of the weary weeks of stalking the Dutch before Camperdown and how conviction of the accuracy of his forebodings had sustained him then. He called Mullender to clear the table and while he waited for the wind to rise he opened his journal, eager to get down this train of logic which had stemmed from some dim perception that lingered from his strange awakening.
8th January, he wrote, and added carefully, aware that he had still not become accustomed to the new year, 1805. Off the Ile d’Oléron in a calm. Woke with great apprehension that the day . . . He paused, scratched out the last word and added: year is pregnant with great events . . .
‘If you are going to record your prophecies,’ he muttered to himself, pleased with his improving technique with Elizabeth’s pen, ‘you might as well make ’em big ones.’
It seems to me that a descent upon the British Isles might best be achieved by the French in first making a rendezvous . . .
But he got no further. There was a knock at the cabin door and Midshipman Wickham reappeared.
‘Lieutenant Quilhampton’s compliments, sir, and the wind’s freshening from the east.’
The wind did not keep its early promise. By noon Antigone lay becalmed off the Ile d’Oléron, in full view of the French anchorage and with the tide setting her down towards the Basque Road; at one in the afternoon she had been brought to her anchor and Drinkwater was studying the enemy through his glass from the elevation of the mizen top. Beside him little Mr Gillespy was making notes at the captain’s dictation.
‘The usual force, Mr Gillespy: Majestueux, four seventy-fours, the three heavy frigates and two brig-corvettes. Nothing unusual in that, eh?’ he said kindly.
‘No, sir,’ the boy squeaked, somewhat nonplussed at finding himself aloft with the captain. Gillespy had not supposed captains ascended rigging. It did not seem part of their function.
‘But what makes today of more than passing interest,’ Drinkwater continued, mouthing his words sideways as he continued to stare through the glass, ‘is that they are taking aboard stores . . . d’you have that, Mr Gillespy?’
‘Stores,’ the boy wrote carefully, ‘yes, sir.’
‘Troops . . .’
‘Troops . . . yes, sir.’
‘And, Mr Gillespy,’ Drinkwater paused. The cloudless sky let sunlight pour down upon the stretch of blue water between the green hills of the island and the main. The brilliantly clear air made his task easy and the sunlight glanced off the dull breeches of cannon. There was no doubt in Drinkwater’s mind that Missiessy was going to break out to the West Indies and take back those sugar islands over which Britain and France had been squabbling for two generations. ‘Artillery, Mr Gillespy, artillery . . . one “t” and two “ll”s.’
He closed his glass with a snap and turned his full attention to the boy. He was not so very many years older than his own son, Richard.
‘What d’you suppose we’d better do now, eh?’
‘Tell the admiral, sir?’
‘First class, my boy.’ Drinkwater swung himself over the edge of the top and reached for the futtocks with his feet. He began to descend, pausing as his head came level with the deck of the top. Gillespy regarded the captain’s apparently detached head with surprise.
‘I think, Mr Gillespy, that in the coming months you may see things to tell your grandchildren about.’
Midshipman Gillespy stared at the empty air where the captain’s head had just been. He was quite bewildered. The idea of ever having grandchildren had never occurred to him.
The wind freshened again at dusk, settling to a steady breeze and bringing even colder air off the continent. Antigone stood offshore in search of Doris and, at dawn on the 9th, Drinkwater spoke to Campbell, informing him of the preparations being made by the French. Two hours later Antigone was alone apart from the distant topgallants of Doris in the north, as Campbell made off to warn Graves.
‘Full and bye, Mr Hill, let us stop up that gap. I mislike those cloud banks building up over the land. We may not be able to stop the Frogs getting out but, by God, we must not lose touch with ’em.’
‘Indeed not, sir.’
The wind continued light and steady throughout the day and at dawn on the 10th they were joined by the schooner Felix commanded by Lieutenant Richard Bourne, brother of Drinkwater’s late lieutenant of the Melusine. Bourne announced that he had met Campbell and told him of Graves’s whereabouts. Campbell had ordered Felix to stand by Antigone and act under Drinkwater’s directions as a dispatch-boat in the event of Graves not turning up in time to catch Missiessy. Having an independent means of communicating such intelligence as he might glean took a great deal of weight off Drinkwater’s mind. He had only to hang onto Missiessy’s skirts now, and with such a smart ship and a crew tuned to the perfection expected of every British cruiser, he entertained few worries upon that score.
As the day wore on, the wind began to increase from the east and by nightfall was a fresh breeze. Drinkwater stretched out on his cot, wrapped in his cloak, and slept fitfully. An hour before dawn he was awakened and struggled on deck in a rising gale. As daylight grew it revealed a sky grey with lowering cloud. It was bitterly cold. The islands were no longer green, they were grey and dusted with snow. In the east the sky was even more threatening, leaden and greenish. Aloft the watch were shortening down, ready for a whole gale by mid-morning. Drinkwater was pleased to see Rogers already on deck.
‘Don’t like the smell of it, sir.’
‘Happen you’re right, Sam. What worries me more is what our friends are doing.’
‘Sitting Quiberon (he pronounced it ‘Key-ber-ron’) hoisting in fresh vittals.’
‘I ken the Captain means the French,’ put in Lieutenant Fraser joining them and reporting the first reef taken in the topsails. Fraser ignored Rogers’s jaundiced look.
Drinkwater levelled his glass at the north point of Oléron. ‘I do indeed, gentlemen, and here they are!’
The two officers looked round. Beyond the point of the island the white rectangles of topsails were moving as Missiessy’s frigates led his squadron to sea.
‘Mr Frey!’
‘Sir?’
‘Make to Felix, three-seven-zero.’
Drinkwater ignored Rogers’s puzzled frown but heard Fraser mutter in his ear, ‘Enemy coming out of port.’
A few minutes later the little schooner was scudding to the north-west with the news for Graves, or Campbell, or whoever else would take alarm from the intelligence.
‘Heave the ship to, Mr Rogers. Let us see what these fellows are going to do.’ He again raised the glass to his eye and intently studied the approaching enemy. The heavy frigates led out first. Bigger than Antigone, though not dissimilar in build, he tried to identify them, calling for Mr Gillespy, his tablet and pencil.
‘And clear the ship for action, Mr Rogers. Beat to quarters if you please!’
He ignored the burst of activity, concentrating solely on the enemy. He recognised the Infatigable, so similar in name to Pellew’s famous frigate. All three frigates seemed to be holding back, not running down upon the solitary Antigone as Drinkwater had expected. He could afford to hold his station for a little longer. Ah, there were the little brig-corvettes, exact replicas of the Bonaparte. He counted the gun-ports; yes, eight a side, 16-gun corvettes all right. But then came the battleships, with Missiessy’s huge three-decked 120-gun flagship, the Majestueux in the van. He heard the whistles of surprise from the hands now at their action stations and grinned to himself. This was what they had all been waiting for.
Astern of the Majestueux came four 74-gun battleships. All were now making sail as they altered course round the point, and fore-shortened towards Antigone. One of the seventy-fours was detaching, moving out of line. He watched intently, sensing
that this movement had something to do with himself. As the battleship drew ahead of the others the frigates made sail and within a few minutes all four leading ships were racing towards him, the gale astern of them and great white bones in their teeth. He shut his telescope with a snap and dismissed Gillespy to his action station. Hill and Rogers were staring at him expectantly.
‘Hoping to make a prize of us, I believe,’ Drinkwater said. ‘Put the ship before the wind, Mr Hill.’
The helm came up and Antigone turned away. The braces clicked through the blocks as the yards swung on their parrels about the slushed topmasts and the apparent wind over the deck diminished. As the frigate steadied on her course, Drinkwater raised his glass once more.
Led by the seventy-four, the French ships were overhauling them rapidly. Drinkwater looked carefully at the relative angles between them. He longed to know the names and exact force of each of his antagonists and felt a sudden thrill after all the long months of waiting and worrying. For Drinkwater such circumstances were the mainspring of his being. The high excitement of handling an instrument as complex, as deadly, yet as vulnerable as a ship of war, in a gale of wind and with a superior enemy to windward, placed demands upon him that acted like a drug. For his father and brother the love of horseflesh and speed had provided the anodyne to the frustrations and disappointments of life; but for him only this spartan and perilous existence would do. This was the austere drudgery of his duty transformed into a dangerous art.
He looked astern once more. Beyond the advancing French division the remaining French ships had disappeared. A great curtain of snow was bearing down upon them, threatening to obscure everything.
Chapter 11
January–March 1805
The Snowstorm
Drinkwater stepped forward and held out his hand for Rogers’s speaking trumpet. As Antigone scudded before the wind he could make himself understood with little difficulty.
‘D’you hear, there! Pay attention to all my orders and execute them promptly. No one shall fire until I order it. All guns are to double shot and load canister on ball. All gun-captains to see their pieces aimed before they fire. I want perfect silence at all times. Any man in breach of this will have a check shirt.’ He paused to let his words sink in. An excited cheer or shout might transform his intended audacity into foolhardiness. ‘Very well, let us show these shore-squatting Frogs what happens to ’em when they come to sea. Lieutenant Quilhampton!’
‘Sir?’
‘Abandon your guns for the moment, Mr Q. I want you on the fo’c’s’le head listening. If you hear anything, indicate with your arm the direction of the noise as you do when signalling the anchor cable coming home.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater turned to the sailing master. ‘Well, Mr Hill, take a bearing of that French seventy-four and the instant the snow shuts him from view, heave the ship to. In the meantime try and lay us in his track.’
Hill turned away and peered over the taffrail, returning to the binnacle to order an alteration of course to the north. Drinkwater also turned to watch the approaching French. He was only just in time to catch a glimpse of them before they vanished. They were well clear of the land now, catching the full fury of the gale and feeling the effects of carrying too much canvas in their eagerness to overtake Antigone. Then they were gone, hidden behind a white streaked curtain of snow that second by second seemed to cut off the edge of their world in its silent approach.
‘Now, Hill! Now!’
‘Down helm! Main-braces there! Leggo and haul!’ Antigone began to turn back into the wind. As men hauled in on the fore and mizen braces to keep the frigate sailing on a bowline, the main-yards were backed against the wind, opposing the action of the other masts and checking her, so she lay in wait for the oncoming French. Drinkwater turned his attention to Quilhampton who had clambered up into the knightheads and had one ear cocked into the wind. Antigone bucked in the rising sea, her way checked and every man standing silent at his post.
‘ ’Tis a wonderful thing, discipline,’ he heard Hill mutter to Rogers, and the first lieutenant replied with characteristic enthusiasm, ‘Aye, for diabolical purposes!’ And then the snow began to fall upon the deck.
‘Keep the decks wet with sea-water, Mr Rogers. Get the firemen to attend to it.’ He had not thought of the dangers of slush. Men losing their footing would imperil the success of his enterprise and wreak havoc when they opened fire. The snow seemed to deaden all noise so that the ship rose and fell like a ghost as minute succeeded minute. Drinkwater walked forward to the starboard hance. He wondered what the odds were upon them being run down. Even if they were, he consoled himself, mastering the feeling of rising panic that always preceeded action, they would seriously jeopardise Missiessy’s escape and the Admiralty would approve of that.
‘Sir!’ Quilhampton’s voice hissed with urgent sibilance and he looked up to see the lieutenant’s iron hook pointing off to starboard. For an instant Drinkwater hesitated, his mind uncertain. Then he heard shouting, the creak of rigging and the hiss of a bow wave. The shouting was not urgent, they themselves were undetected, but on board the Frenchman petty officers were lambasting an unpractised crew. And then he saw the ship, looking huge and black, the white patches of her sails invisible in the snow.
‘Main-braces!’ he hissed with violent urgency. ‘Up helm!’
Drinkwater had no alternative but to risk being raked by the Frenchman’s broadside. If the crew of the enemy battleship were at their guns, a single discharge would cripple the British frigate. But he hoped fervently that they would not see Antigone in so unexpected a place; that the novelty of being at sea would distract their attention inboard where, he knew, a certain amount of confusion was inevitable after so long a period at anchor. Besides, he could not risk losing control of his ship by attempting to tack from a standing start. Hove-to with no forward motion, Antigone would jib at passing through the wind and probably be caught ‘in irons’.
A group of marines were at the spanker brails, hauling in the big after-sail as Antigone turned, gathering way and answering her helm. At the knightheads Quilhampton’s raised arm indicated he still had contact with the enemy. They steadied the ship dead before the wind. Drinkwater went forward to stand beside Quilhampton and listen. The frigate was scending in the following sea and Drinkwater knew the wind, already at gale force, had not finished rising. If he was to achieve anything it would have to be soon. He strained his ears to hear. Above the creak of Antigone’s fabric and the hiss and surge of her bow-wave he caught the muffled sound of orders, orders passed loudly and with some urgency as though the giver of those instructions was anxious, and the recipients slow to comprehend. There were a few words he recognised: ‘Vite! Vite!’ and ‘Allez!’ and the obscenity ‘Jean-Foutre!’ of some egalitarian officer in the throes of frustration. And then suddenly he saw the flat surface of the huge stern with its twin rows of stern windows looming through the snow. Drinkwater raced aft.
‘Stand by larbowlines! Give her the main course!’
Then they could all see the enemy as a sudden rent in the snow opened up a tiny circle of sea. The gun-captains were frantically spiking their guns round to aim on the bow and Drinkwater looked up to see an officer on the battleship’s quarter. He was waving his hat at them and shouting something.
‘By God, he thinks we’re one of his own frigates come too close!’
Drinkwater watched the relative angles between the two ships. There was a great flogging and rattle of blocks as the main clew-garnets were let run and the waisters hauled down the tacks and sheets of the main-course. The relative angle began to open and someone on the French battleship realised his mistake.
He heard someone scream ‘Merde!’ and ordered Antigone’s course altered to starboard. Standing by the larboard hance he screwed up one eye.
‘Fire!’
The blast and roar of the guns rolled over them, the thunderous climax of Drinkwater’s mad enterprise. The yellow f
lashes from the cannon muzzles were unnaturally bright in the gloom as the snow closed round them once again. He caught a glimpse of the enemy’s name in large gilt roman script across her stern: Magnanime.
The smoke from the guns hung in the air, drifting forward slowly then suddenly gone, whipped away. The gunners were swabbing, reloading and hauling out, holding up their hands when they were ready. The sound of enemy guns barked out of the obscurity and they were alone again, shut into their own tiny world, and the snow was falling thicker than ever.
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