A midday meal was served to Drinkwater in his dark and malodourous cabin. Eating alone he was reminded of his time as a midshipman in the equally stinking orlop of the British frigate Cyclops. The thought made him call for Gillespy. The only response was from the sentry, who put a finger to his lips and indicated the boy asleep in a corner of the orlop, curled where one of Bucentaure’s massive futtocks met the deck.
Guillet did not reappear in the afternoon and, after lying down for an hour, Drinkwater rose. The ship had become strangely quiet, the disorder of the forenoon was gone. The sentry let him pass and he went on deck, passing a body of men milling in the lower and upper gun-decks. As he emerged into a watery sunshine he was aware of the admiral’s flag at the masthead lifting to seawards; an easterly wind had come at last!
On the quarterdeck a reception party which included Captain Magendie, his officers and a military guard was welcoming a short, olive-skinned grandee with a long nose. He courteously swept his hat from his head in acknowlegement of the compliments done him, revealing neatly clubbed hair.
Lieutenant Guillet hurried across the deck and took Drinkwater’s arm. ‘Please, Capitaine, is it not for you to be ’ere now.’
‘Who was that man, Lieutenant?’ asked Drinkwater suffering himself to be hastened below.
‘Don Frederico Gravina. Now, Capitaine, please you must go to your cabin and to stay.’
‘Why?’
‘Why, Mon Dieu, Capitaine, the order to sail, it is being made.’
But the Combined Fleet did not sail. At four o’clock in the afternoon of 17th October the easterly wind fell away to a dead calm, and Drinkwater sat in his tiny cabin listening to the details of Mr Gillespy’s family.
Chapter 20
18–21 October 1805
Nelson’s Watch-Dogs
Drinkwater woke with the calling of Bucentaure’s ship’s company. He was denied the privilege of breakfasting with the officers and it was clear that he was not permitted to leave the hutch of a cabin he had been allocated. Nevertheless he was not required to be locked in, and by sitting in the cabin with a page of his journal before him he amused himself by getting Gillespy to attempt to deduce what was going on above them from the noises they could hear.
To a man who had spent most of his life on board ship this was not difficult, although for Gillespy the task, carried out in such difficult circumstances under the eye of his captain, proved an ordeal. There was a great deal of activity in the dark and stinking orlop deck. Further forward were the damp woollen curtains of the magazine and much of the forenoon was occupied by the bare-foot padding past of the Bucentaure’s powder monkeys as they scrambled below for the ready-made cartridges. These were supplied by the gunner and his mates whose disembodied hands appeared with their lethal packages through slits in the curtains. Parties of seamen were carrying up cannon balls from the shot lockers and from time to time a gun-captain came down to argue some technicality with the gunner. The junior officers, or aspirants, were also busy, running hither and thither on errands for the lieutenants and other officers.
‘What do you remark as the most significant difference, Mr Gillespy, between these fellows and our own, eh?’ Drinkwater asked.
‘Why . . . I don’t know, sir. They make a deal of noise . . .’
Drinkwater looked pleased. ‘Exactly so. They are a great deal noisier and many officers would judge ’em as inferior because of that; but remark something else. They are also excited and cheerful. I’d say that, just like our fellows, they’re spoiling for a fight, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes. I suppose so, sir.’ A frown crossed a boy’s face. ‘Sir?’
‘Mmmm?’ Drinkwater looked up from his journal.
‘What will happen to us, sir, if this ship goes into battle?’
‘Well, Mr Gillespy, that’s a difficult question. We will not be allowed on deck and so, by the usages of war, will be required to stay here. Now do not look so alarmed. This is the safest place in the ship. Very few shot will penetrate this far and, although the decks above us may be raked, we shall be quite safe. Do not forget that instances of ships actually being sunk by gunfire are rare.
‘So, let us examine the hypothesis of a French victory. If this is the case we shall be no worse off, for we may have extra company and that will make things much the merrier. On the other hand, assuming that it is a British victory, which circumstances, I might add, I have not the slightest reason to doubt, then we shall find ourselves liberated. Even if the ship is not taken we shall almost certainly be exchanged. We shall not be the first officers present in an enemy ship when that ship is attacked by our friends.’ He smiled as reassuringly as he could. ‘Be of good heart, Mr Gillespy. You may well have something to tell your grandchildren ere long.’
Gillespy nodded. ‘You said that to me before, sir, when the French squadron got out of Rochefort.’
‘Did I? I had forgotten.’ The captain took up his pen again and bent over his journal.
This remark made Gillespy realise the great distance that separated them. He found it difficult to relate to this man who had shown him such kindness after the harshness of Lord Walmsley. In his first days on board Antigone it had seemed impossible that the captain who stood so sternly immobile on the quarterdeck could actually have children of his own. Gillespy could not imagine him as a father. Then he was made aware from the comments of the crew that Drinkwater had done something rather special in getting them out of Mount’s Bay and from that moment the boy made it his business to study him. The attentions paid him by the captain had been repaid by a dog-like devotion. Even captivity had seemed tolerable and not at all frightening in the company of Captain Drinkwater. But bereft of that presence, Gillespy had felt all the terrors conceivable to a lonely and imaginative mind. He had implored Quilhampton to request he be allowed to join the captain. Quilhampton acceded to the boy’s request, aware that their captors were in any event likely to separate him and the midshipmen from Drinkwater. In due course Drinkwater would probably be exchanged and Gillespy might have a better chance with the captain. He and Frey would have to rely upon their own resources. James Quilhampton was determined not to remain long in captivity. Let the Combined Fleet sail, as everyone said they would, and he would make an attempt to escape, for the thought of Catriona spurred him on.
Now Gillespy waited patiently for Drinkwater to stop writing notes, watching the men of the Bucentaure who messed in the orlop coming below for their midday meal. He listened to their conversation, recognising a word or phrase here and there, and recalling some of the French his Dominie had caned into him in Edinburgh all those months ago.
‘I think, sir,’ he said after a while in a confidential whisper, ‘the wind has failed . . . They are laughing at one of the Spanish officers who must have come on board . . . I cannot make out his name . . . Grav . . . something.’
‘Gravina?’
‘Yes, yes that is it. Do you know what ‘mañana’ means sir, in Spanish?’
‘Er, “tomorrow”, I believe, Mr Gillespy, why?’
‘And “al mar” must be something to do with the sea; because that fellow there, with the bright bandana and the ear-rings, he keeps throwing his arm in the air and declaiming “mañana al mar”.’ He frowned again, ‘I suppose he’s imitating this Spanish officer.’
‘That is most perceptive of you, Mr Gillespy. If you are right then Gravina has been aboard and announced “tomorrow to sea”.’ Drinkwater paused reflectively, ‘Let us hope to God that you are right.’
He smiled again, encouraging the boy, yet aware that they might not survive the next few days, that ships might not be easily sunk by gunfire but ordinary fire, if it took them, might blow them apart as it had L’Orient at Abukir. Staring at the fire-screens round the entrances to the powder magazines, Drinkwater felt the sweat of pure fear prickle his back. Down here they would be caught like rats in a trap.
Towards evening Lieutenant Guillet came to see them. His neck linen was grubby and he looke
d tired after an active day, but he was courteous enough to apologise for ignoring them and clearly in optimistic spirits.
‘Your duty has the greater call upon you than we do, Lieutenant,’ said Drinkwater calmly.
‘You are permitted ’alf-an-hour on deck, Capitaine. And you also,’ he added to Gillespy, ‘and then I am to take you to the General.’
Drinkwater saw Gillespy frown. ‘Admiral Villeneuve, Mr Gillespy. Recall how I told you the French and Spanish use the terms interchangeably.’
The boy nodded and they followed Guillet on deck. The contrast with the previous day was startling. Amidships Bucentaure’s boat had been hoisted on the booms. All the ropes were coiled away on their pins and aloft the robands of the harbour stow had been cast off the sails. A light breeze was again stirring from the eastward. Some of the ships had moved, warped down nearer the islets at the entrance of the harbour. The air of expectancy hanging over the fleet after the exertions of the day was almost tangible. The inactivity would now begin to pray on men’s minds, and until the order was given to weigh, every man in that vast armada, some twenty thousand souls, would withdraw inside himself to consult the oracles in his heart as to his future in this world.
Drinkwater felt an odd and quite inexplicable lightness of spirit. Whenever the Bucentaure cleared for action he knew he too would be a victim to fear, but for the moment he felt strangely elated. He was no longer in any doubt that in the next day or so there was going to be a battle.
After his exercise period, Drinkwater was taken to Villeneuve’s cabin. There was no secrecy about the interview; it was conducted in the presence of several other high-ranking officers among whom Drinkwater recognised Flag-Captain Magendie and Villeneuve’s Chief-of-Staff, Captain Prigny. Another officer was in Rear-Admiral’s uniform. He wore a silver belt around his waist and an air of permanent exasperation.
‘Contre-Amiral Magon . . . Capitaine de frégate Drinkwater Charles . . .’
Magon bowed imperceptibly and regarded Drinkwater with intense dislike. Drinkwater felt he attracted more than his fair share of malice and was not long in discovering that Magon disapproved of Villeneuve’s holding Drinkwater on his flagship. Drinkwater’s knowledge of French was poor, but Magon’s powers of dramatic and expressive gesture were eloquent.
Villeneuve was mastering his anger and humiliation with difficulty and Drinkwater glimpsed something of the problems he suffered in his tenure of command of the Combined Fleet. Eventually Magon ceased his diatribe, turned in disgust and affected to ignore the rest of the proceedings by staring fixedly out of the stern windows.
‘Captain Drinkwater informs me, gentlemen,’ Villeneuve said in English, ‘that Nelson’s attack will be as I outlined to you in my standing orders before leaving Toulon. If you wish to question him further he is at your disposal . . .’
Drinkwater opened his mouth to protest that he had done nothing so dishonourable as to reveal Lord Nelson’s plan of attack but, seeing the difficulties Villeneuve was under, he shut his mouth again.
‘Excuse, Capitaine, mais, er, ’ow are you certain Nelson will make this attack, eh?’ Captain Magendie asked. ‘ ’Ave you seen ’is orders to ’is escadre?’
‘No, m’sieur.’ It was beyond his power and the limit of his honour to help Villeneuve now.
A silence hung in the cabin and Drinkwater met Villeneuve’s eyes. Whatever his defects as a leader, the man possessed personal courage of a high order. Alone of all his officers. Drinkwater thought. Villeneuve was the one man who knew what lay in wait for them beyond the mole of Cadiz.
Drinkwater woke with a start. The Bucentaure was alive with shouts and cries, the squeal of pipes and the rantan of a snare drum two decks above. For a second Drinkwater thought the ship was on fire and then he heard, or rather felt through the fabric of the ship, two hundred pairs of feet begin to stamp around the capstan. But it was to be a false alarm, athough when he went on deck that evening there were fewer ships in the road. The wind had again dropped and Guillet was in a bad temper, his exertions of the previous day seemingly for nothing.
‘Some of your ships got out, Lieutenant,’ remarked Drinkwater, indicating the absence of a few of their neighbours of the previous night.
‘Nine, Capitaine, now anchored off Rota.’
Drinkwater looked aloft at Villeneuve’s flag and then at the sky, unconsciously rubbing his shoulder as he did so. ‘You will have an easterly wind in the morning, I think.’ He turned to Gillespy. ‘What is tomorrow, Mr Gillespy. Sunday, ain’t it?’
‘Yes, sir, Sunday, the twentieth . . .’
‘Well, Mr Gillespy, you must remark it . . . What is that in French, Lieutenant, in your new calendar, eh?’
‘Le vingt-huitième Vendémiare, An Quatorze . . .’
‘What have Nelson’s frigates been doing today, Lieutenant? Will you tell us that?’
Guillet grinned. ‘Not coming into the ’arbour, Capitaine. Yesterday we send boats down to the entrance. Your frigate Euryalus, she does not come so close, and today with our ships going to Rota she does not engage.’
‘That should not surprise you, Lieutenant Guillet. It is her business to watch.’ Drinkwater added drily, ‘And Nelson? What of him?’
‘We ’ave not seen your Nelson, Capitaine,’ Guillet’s tone was almost sneering.
On his way below, Drinkwater realised that Lieutenant de Vaisseau Guillet did not fear Nelson and that the Combined Fleet would sail with confidence. If Guillet thought that, then it was probable that many of the junior officers thought the same. ‘Do you also find,’ Villeneuve had asked, ‘young men always know best?’ Drinkwater re-entered his cabin. He stretched himself on the cot, his hands behind his head, and stared unseeing at the low deck beams above. The strange sense of elation and excitement remained.
The following morning there was no doubt about their departure. Even in the orlop the slap of waves upon the hull indicated a wind, and soon the movement of the deck indicated Bucentaure was getting under way. Slowly the slap of waves became a hiss and bubbling rush of water. The angle of heel increased and the whole fabric of the ship responded.
‘We’re turning,’ Drinkwater muttered, as Gillespy came anxiously to his doorway. The two remained immobile, the usual courtesies of the morning forgotten, their eyes staring, unwanted sensors in the gloom of the orlop, while their other faculties told them what was happening. A bump and thump came from forward and above.
‘Anchor fished, catted and lashed against the fore-chains . . . We must be . . . yes, starboard tack, ’tis a north-easterly wind then . . . Ah, we’re fetching out of the lee of the Mole . . .’
The Bucentaure began to pitch, gently at first and then settling down to the regularity of the Atlantic swells as they rolled in from the west.
‘We’re clear of San Sebastian now,’ Drinkwater whispered, trying to visualise the scene. Outside the door the sentry staggered, the movement unfamiliar to him.
Gillespy giggled and Drinkwater grinned at him, as much to see the boy in good spirits as at the lack of sea-legs on the part of the soldier. After about an hour of progress the angle of the deck altered and the ship began a different motion.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘We are hove-to. Waiting for the other ships to come out.’
Evidence of this hiatus came a few minutes later when men came down to their messes for breakfast. Bucentaure’s company had divided into their sea-watches. The battleship was leading the Combined Fleet to sea.
It was afternoon before they were allowed to emerge from the orlop. Lieutenant Guillet appeared. ‘You please to come on deck now, Capitaine.’ There was the undeniable gleam of triumph in his eyes. ‘The Combined Fleet is at sea, and there is no sight of your Nelson.’
Drinkwater ascended the companion ladders through the gun-decks. Men looked at him curiously, sharing the same elation as Guillet. Drinkwater’s finely tuned sensibilities could detect high morale when he encountered it. Their worst fears had not materialised. But w
hat interested him more was the weather when he finally reached the rail in the windward gangway. The wind had gone to the south-west, it was overcast and drizzling.
‘Voila, Capitaine Drinkwater!’ Guillet extended an arm that swept around the Bucentaure in a gesture that embraced forty ships, adding with a fierce pride, ‘C’est magnifique!’
The Combined Fleet lumbered to the southward, topsails reefed, yards braced sharp up on the starboard tack, in five columns, the colours of their hulls faded in the drizzle.
‘The Corps de Bataille,’ Guillet indicated proprietorially, pointing ahead, ‘it is led by Vice-Admiral de Alava in the Santa Ana, we are in the centre and Rear-Admiral Dumanoir commands the rear in the Formidable . . .’
‘And Gravina?’
‘Ah, the Captain-General leads the Corps de Réserve with Magon as his support.’
‘And you steer south, Lieutenant . . for the Mediterranean I presume.’
Guillet shrugged dismissively, ‘Per’aps.’
‘And you will be lucky with the wind. I think it will be veering very soon to the north-west.’ Drinkwater pointed to a patch of blue sky from which the grey cumulus drew back.
‘Where is Nelson, Capitaine?’ Guillet asked with a grin. ‘Eh?’
‘When the weather clears, Lieutenant, you may well find out.’ Drinkwater fervently hoped he was right.
He was not permitted to see the horizon to windward swept of the drizzle to become sharp and clear against the sudden lightening of the sky. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, as the bells of the battleships sounded their four double-chimes that marked the change of watch, when the wind hauled aft. The limit of the visible horizon extended abruptly many miles to the west. From the mastheads of the French and Spanish men-o’-war the six grey topsails of two British frigates could be seen as they lay hull down over the horizon. They were Nelson’s watch-dogs.
It had been dark for several hours when Guillet reappeared, demanding Drinkwater’s immediate attendance upon the quarterdeck. Wrapping his cloak around him he followed the French officer, emerging on deck in the dim glow of the binnacle. The wind had freshened a little and ahead of them they could see the battle lanterns of the next ship. Casting a glow over the after-deck, their own lanterns shone, together with Villeneuve’s command lantern in the mizen top. These points of light only emphasised the blackness of the night to Drinkwater as he stumbled on the unfamiliar deck. But a few minutes later he could pick out details and see that the great arch of the sky was studded with stars.
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