‘Your decision to return the Spanish wounded and the expedition with which it was done undoubtedly obtained our release, sir. I must make known my personal thanks to you.’
‘It is no matter,’ Collingwood said wearily. ‘Did you obtain any knowledge of the state of the ships still in Cadiz?’
Drinkwater nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Admiral Rosily arrived to find his command reduced to a handful of frigates. Those ships which escaped the action off Trafalgar were almost all destroyed in their attempt to retake the prizes on the twenty-third last. Although they got both the Neptuno and Santa Ana back into port, both are very badly damaged. However, it cost them the loss of the Indomptable which went ashore off Rota and was lost with her company and most of the poor fellows off the Bucentaure. The San Francisco parted her cables and drove on the rocks at Santa Catalina. As you know, the Rayo and Monarca were wrecked after their action with Leviathan and Donegal. I believe Gravina’s Principe de Asturias to be the only ship of force fit for sea now left in Cadiz.’
‘And Gravina? Do you know the state of his health, Captain?’
‘Not precisely, sir, but he was severely wounded and it was said that he may yet lose an arm . . . May I ask the fate of Admiral Villeneuve, sir?’
‘Villeneuve? Ah, yes, I see from your report that you made his acquaintance while in Cadiz. He was sent home a prisoner in the Euryalus. What manner of man did you judge him?’
‘Personally courageous, sir, if a little lacking in resolve. But he was a perceptive and able seaman, well fitted to judge the weight of opposition against him. I do not believe he was ever in doubt as to the outcome of an action, although he entertained some hopes of eluding you . . .’
‘Eluding us?’ Collingwood raised an incredulous eyebrow.
‘Yes, sir. And he had devised a method of counter-attacking, for he knew precisely by what method Lord Nelson would make his own attack.’
‘How so?’
Drinkwater explained the function of the reserve squadron to bear down upon the spearhead of Nelson’s advance.
‘A bold plan,’ said Collingwood when he had finished, ‘and you say Villeneuve had argued the manner of our own attack?’
‘Yes, sir. I believe that his fleet might have had more success had the wind been stronger and Gravina been able to hold the weather position.’
‘Hmmm. As it was, they put up a stout and gallant defence. Admiral Villeneuve seems a well-bred man and I believe a very good officer. He has nothing in his manner of the offensive vapouring and boasting which we, perhaps too often, attribute to Frenchmen.’
‘The Spaniards are less tolerant, sir,’ Drinkwater said. ‘The French were not well received in Cadiz after the battle. There was bad blood between them before the action. I believe relations were much worse afterwards.’
Collingwood nodded. ‘You will have heard that a squadron under Sir Richard Strachan caught Dumanoir’s four ships and took them on the third.’
‘Then the enemy is utterly beaten,’ said Drinkwater, perceiving properly the magnitude of the victory for the first time.
‘Carthage is destroyed,’ Collingwood said with quiet satisfaction, ‘It would have pleased Lord Nelson . . .’ The admiral fell silent.
Drinkwater also sat quietly. He did not wish to intrude upon Collingwood’s grief for his dead friend. In the few hours he had been at Gibraltar since the Donegal landed him from Cadiz, Drinkwater had learned of the grim reaction within the British fleet to the death of Nelson. At first men exhausted with battle had sat and wept, but now the sense of purpose with which the little one-armed admiral had inspired his fleet had been replaced. Instead there was a strange, dry-eyed emotion, affecting all ranks, that prevented any levity or triumphant crowing over a beaten foe. This strange reticence affected Drinkwater now, as he sat in the great cabin of HMS Queen, to which Collingwood had shifted his flag, and waited for the new Commander-in-Chief to continue the interview. The little terrier raised its head and licked its master’s hand.
‘Yes, Captain Drinkwater,’ said Collingwood at last, ‘we have gained a great victory, but at a terrible cost . . . terrible!’ He sighed and then pulled himself together. ‘Perhaps we can go home soon . . . eh, Captain, home . . . but not before we’ve cornered Allemand and blockaded Salcedo in Cartegena, eh? Which brings me to you.’ Collingwood paused and referred to some papers on his desk. ‘We have lost not only Lord Nelson but several post-captains. I am endeavouring to have the Admiralty make promotions among the most deserving officers; many distinguished themselves. Quilliam, first of the Victory, for instance, and Stockham of the Thunderer . . .’ He fixed his tired eyes upon Drinkwater.
Drinkwater wondered how much of Collingwood’s exhaustion was due to his constant battle to placate and oblige people of all stations in his extensive and responsible command. He leaned forward.
‘I understand perfectly, sir. Stockham has earned and deserves his captaincy.’
Collingwood smiled. ‘Thank you, Captain. No doubt the Admiralty will find him a frigate in due course, but you see my dilemma.’
‘Perfectly, sir. I shall be happy to return to the Antigone.’
‘That will not be possible. I have sent her in quest of Allemand. Louis put a commander into her and, for the moment, you will have to undertake other duties.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Drinkwater had no time to digest the implications of this news beyond realising that a stranger was using his cabin and that poor Rogers would be put out.
Collingwood continued: ‘I am putting you in command of the Swiftsure, prize, Captain Drinkwater. It should give you a measure of satisfaction that she was once a British ship of the line. I believe you returned from Cadiz with three other prisoners from your own frigate?’
‘Yes, sir, Lieutenant Quilhampton and Midshipman Frey, and my man Tregembo.’
‘Very well. They will do for a beginning and I shall arrange for a detachment from the fleet to join you forthwith.’ Collingwood paused to consider something. ‘We shall have to rename her, Captain Drinkwater. We already have a Swiftsure. We shall call her Irresistible . . . I will have a commission drawn up for you and until your frigate comes in with news of Allemand you will find your talents in great demand.’
Drinkwater rose. ‘It is an apt name, sir,’ he said smiling, ‘one that I think even our late enemies might have approved . . .’ He paused as Collingwood frowned. ‘The Dons were much impressed by the spectacle of British ships continuing the blockade of Cadiz even after the battle. I apprehend the enemy expected us to have suffered too severe a blow.’
‘We did, my dear sir, in the loss of our chief, but to have withdrawn the blockade would not have been consistent with his memory.’ Collingwood’s words of dismissal were poignant with grief for his fallen friend.
Drinkwater sat in the dimly lit cabin of the Irresistible and read the sheaf of orders that had come aboard earlier that evening. Outside the battered hulk of the ship, the wind whined in from the Atlantic, moving them gently even within the shelter of the breakwater, so that the shot-torn fabric of the ship groaned abominably. He laid down the formal effusion of praise from both Houses of Parliament that he had been instructed to read to the assembled ship’s company tomorrow morning. It was full of the usual pompous Parliamentary cant. There was a notice that Vice-Admiral Collingwood was elevated to the peerage and a list of confirmed promotions that would bring joy to half the ships that crammed Gibraltar Bay, making good the damage inflicted by the Combined Fleet and the great gale.
Drinkwater was acutely conscious that he would not be part of the ritual. He knew that, in his heart, he would live to regret not being instrumental in an event which was epochal. Yet he was far from being alone. Apart from Quilhampton and Frey, there was not a man in Admiral Louis’s squadron that was not mortified to have been sitting in Gibraltar Bay when Lord Nelson was dying off Cape Trafalgar. They could not reconcile themselves to their ill-luck. At least, Drinkwater consoled himself, he had been a witness to the battle. It did
not occur to him that he had in any way contributed to the saving of a single life by his assisting Masson in the cockpit of the Bucentaure. His mind shied away from any contemplation of that terrible place, unwilling to burden itself with the responsibility of poor Gillespy’s death. He knew that remorse would eventually compel him to face his part in the boy’s fate, but events pressed him too closely in the refitting of Irresistible for him to relax yet. Once they sailed, he knew, reaction would set in; for the moment, he was glad to have something constructive to do and to know that neither Quilhampton nor Frey had come to any harm.
A knock at his cabin door broke into his train of thought and he was glad of the interruption. ‘Enter!’
Drinkwater looked up from the pool of lamp-light illuminating the litter of papers upon the table.
‘Yes. Who is it?’ The light from the lamp blinded him to the darkness elsewhere in the cabin. The white patches of a midshipman’s collar caught the reflected light and suddenly he saw that it was Lord Walmsley who stepped out of the shadows. Drinkwater frowned. ‘What the devil d’you want?’ he asked sharply.
‘I beg pardon, sir, but may I speak with you?’
Drinkwater stared coldly at the young man. Since his brief, unexpected appearance on the Bucentaure, Drinkwater had given Walmsley no further thought.
‘Well, Mr Walmsley?’
‘I . . . I, er, wished to apologise, sir . . .’ Walmsley bit his lip, ‘to apologise, sir, and ask if you would accept me back . . .’
Drinkwater studied the midshipman. He sensed, rather than saw, a change in him. Perhaps it was the lamp-light illuminating his face, but he seemed somehow older. Drinkwater knitted his brow, recalling that Walmsley had killed Waller. He dismissed his momentary sympathy.
‘I placed you on board Canopus, Mr Walmsley, under Rear-Admiral Louis. The next thing I know is that you are on Conqueror. Then you come here wearing sack-cloth and ashes. It will not do, sir. No, it really will not do.’ Drinkwater leaned forward in dismissal of the midshipman, but Walmsley persisted.
‘Sir, I beg you give me a hearing.’
Drinkwater looked up again, sighed and said, ‘Go on.’
Walmsley swallowed and Drinkwater saw that his face was devoid of arrogance. He seemed chastened by something.
‘Admiral Louis had me transferred, sir. I was put on board Conqueror . . .’
‘Why?’ Drinkwater broke in sharply.
Walmsley hesitated. ‘The admiral said . . .’
‘Said what?’
Walmsley was trembling, containing himself with a great effort: ‘That my character was not fit, sir. That I should be broke like a horse before I could be made a seaman . . .’ Walmsley hung his head, unable to go on. A silence filled the cabin.
‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen, sir.’
‘And Captain Pellew, what was his opinion of you?’
Walmsley mastered his emotion. The confession had clearly cost him a great deal, but it was over now. ‘Captain Pellew had given me no marks of his confidence, sir. My present position is not tolerable.’
‘And why have you suddenly decided to petition me, sir? Do you consider me to be easy?’ Drinkwater raised his voice.
‘No, sir. But the events of recent weeks have persuaded me that I should better learn my business from you, sir.’
‘Do you have a sudden desire to learn your business, Mr Walmsley? I had not noticed your zeal commend you before.’
‘No, sir . . . but the events of recent weeks, sir . . . I am . . . I can offer no explanation beyond saying that the battle has had a profound effect upon me. So many good fellows going . . . the sight of so many dead . . .’
It struck Drinkwater that the young man was sincere. He remembered him vomiting over the shambles of the Bucentaure’s gun-deck and supposed the battle might have had some redeeming effect upon Walmsley’s character. Whether reformed or not, Walmsley watched by a vigilant Drinkwater might be better than Walmsley abusing his rank and privileges with men who had fought with such gallantry off Cape Trafalgar.
‘Very well, Mr Walmsley,’ Drinkwater reached for a clean sheet of paper, ‘I will write to Captain Pellew on your behalf.’
Chapter 24
April 1806
The Martyr of Rennes
‘So you finally came home in a frigate?’ Lord Dungarth looked at his single dinner guest through a haze of blue tobacco smoke.
‘Aye, my Lord, only to miss Antigone sent in convoy with the West India fleet, and then go down with the damned marsh ague . . .’
Dungarth looked at Drinkwater’s face, cocked at its curious angle and pale from the effects of the recent fever. It had not been the homecoming Drinkwater had dreamed of, but Elizabeth had cosseted him back to full health.
‘I have been languishing in bed for six weeks.’
‘Well I am glad that you could come in answer to my summons, Nathaniel.’ He passed the decanter across the polished table. ‘I have a commission for you before you rejoin your ship.’
Drinkwater returned the decanter after refilling his glass. He nodded. ‘I am fit enough, my Lord, to be employed on any service. Besides,’ he added with his old grin, ‘I am obliged to your Lordship . . . personally.’
‘Ah, yes. Your brother.’ Dungarth blew a reflective ring of tobacco smoke at the ceiling. ‘He was at Austerlitz, you know. His report of the confusion on the Pratzen Heights made gloomy reading.’
‘God bless my soul . . . at Austerlitz.’ The news of Napoleon’s great victory over the combined forces of Austria and Russia, following so hard upon the surrender of another Austrian army at Ulm, seemed to have off-set the hard-won achievements of Trafalgar, destroying at a stroke Pitt’s carefully erected alliance of the Third Coalition.
‘Aye, Austerlitz. It killed Pitt as surely as Trafalgar killed Nelson.’
Both men remained silent for a moment and Drinkwater thought of the tired young man with the loose stockings.
‘It was the one thing Pitt dreaded, you know, a great French victory . . . and at the expense of three armies.’ Dungarth shook his head. The victory over the Russo–Austrian army had taken place on the first anniversary of Napoleon’s coronation as Emperor and had had all the impact of a fatal blow to British foreign policy. Worn out with responsibility and disappointment, Pitt had died just over a month later.
‘I believe,’ Dungarth continued with the air of a man choosing his words carefully, ‘that Pitt foresaw the destruction of Napoleon himself as the only way to achieve lasting peace in Europe.’
‘Is that why he sent Camelford to attempt his murder?’
Dungarth nodded. ‘I think so. It was done without approval; a private arrangement. Perhaps Pitt could not face the future if Napoloen destroyed an allied army. Pitt chose badly by selecting Camelford, but I imagine the strength of family obligation seemed enough at the time; besides, Pitt was out of office.’ Dungarth sipped his port.
‘The attempt was not secret, though. I recall D’Auvergne and Cornwallis both alluding to the fact that something was in the wind,’ said Drinkwater, intrigued.
‘No, it was not kept secret enough, a fact from which Napoleon has made a great deal of capital. D’Auvergne shipped Camelford into France from Jersey, and Cornwallis knew of the plan, on a private basis, you understand. Billy-go-tight no more likes blockading than does poor Collingwood now left to hold the Mediterranean.’ Dungarth refilled his glass.
‘Poor Collingwood talked of coming home,’ remarked Drinkwater, taking the decanter.
‘He will be disappointed, I fear. Pitt was right, I think: almost anything was acceptable to end this damnable war, so that he and Cornwallis and Collingwood and all of us could go home and enjoy an honourable retirement.’
‘And Camelford’s death,’ asked Drinkwater, ‘was that an act fomented by French agents?’
Dungarth filled his glass again. ‘To be honest I do not know. Camelford was a rake-hell and a philanderer. What he got up to on his own account I have n
o idea.’ Dungarth sipped his port and then changed the subject. ‘I understand you met our old friend Santhonax at Cadiz?’
Drinkwater recounted the circumstances of their meeting. ‘I suppose that, had Santhonax not recognised my name on the Guarda Costa report, I might still be rotting in a cell at Tarifa.’
‘Or on your way to a French dépot like Verdun.’
‘I was surprised he departed suddenly before the action.’
‘I believe he too was at Austerlizt, though on the winning side.’ Dungarth’s smile was ironic. ‘Napoleon recalled several officers from Cadiz. We received reports that they passed through Madrid. I think the Emperor’s summons may have saved you from a fate worse than a cell at Tarifa or even Verdun.’
‘A fact of which I am profoundly sensible,’ Drinkwater replied. ‘Now what of this new service, my Lord?’
The ironic look returned to Dungarth’s face. ‘A duty I think you will not refuse, Nathaniel. I have a post-chaise calling for you in an hour. You are to proceed to Reading and then to Rye where a lugger awaits you.’
‘A lugger?’
‘A cartel, Nathaniel. You will pick up a prisoner at Reading. He has been exchanged for four post-captains.’
Drinkwater remembered Quilhampton’s multiplication table of exchange. He frowned. ‘An admiral, my Lord?’
‘Precisely, Nathaniel. Vice-Admiral Pierre de Villeneuve. He wishes to avoid Paris and he mentioned you specifically.’
‘You are awake, sir?’ Drinkwater looked at Villeneuve opposite, his face lit by the flickering oil-lamp set in the chaise’s buttoned-velvet side.
Admiral Villeneuve nodded. ‘Yes, Captain, I am awake.’
‘We do not have far to go now,’ said Drinkwater. The pace of the chaise was smooth and fast as it crossed the levels surrounding Rye. A lightening in the east told of coming daylight and Drinkwater was anxious to have his charge below decks before sunrise.
‘You are aware that I wish to be landed at Morlaix?’ Villeneuve’s tone was anxious, even supplicating.
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