1805 nd-6

by Ричард Вудмен

  '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, although 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 what 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.

  'Capitaine Drinkwater, mon amiral…'

  'Ah, Captain…' Villeneuve addressed him. 'I do not wish to dishonour you, but what do you interpret from those signals to the west?' He held out a night-glass and Drinkwater was aware of his anxiety. It was clearly Villeneuve's besetting sin in the eyes of his subordinates.

  He could see nothing at first and then he focused the telescope and saw pin-points of light and the graceful arc of a rocket trail. 'British frigates signalling, sir.' That much must be obvious to Villeneuve.

  But he was saved from further embarrassment by a burst of rockets shooting aloft from the direction of the Principe de Asturias. From the sudden flurry of activity and the repetition of th
e Spanish admiral's name, Drinkwater gathered Gravina was signalling the presence of enemy ships even closer than the two cruisers Drinkwater could see on the horizon. Bucentaure's quarterdeck came to sudden and furious activity. Her own rockets roared skywards in pairs and the order was given to go to general quarters and clear for action. Other admirals in the Combined Fleet set up their night signals. The repeating frigates to leeward joined in a visual spectacle better suited to a victory parade than the escape of a hunted fleet, Drinkwater thought, as he was hustled below.

  'Branle-bas-de-combat!' officers were roaring at the hatchways and the drummers were beating the rantan opening the Générale. The Bucentaure burst into a noisy and spontaneous life, lent a nightmare quality as her people surged on deck and to their stations in the gun-decks, lowering the bulkheads that obstructed the long batteries of heavy artillery that gleamed dully from the fitful lights of the swinging battle lanterns. Drinkwater did not fight the tide of humanity but waited, observing the activity. The noise was deafening, but otherwise the men knew their places and, although not as fast as the ruthlessly trained crew of a British seventy-four, Bucentaure's eighty cannon were soon ready for action. Drinkwater made his way below.

  The messing area of the orlop that formed a tiny square of courtyard outside his and the other warrant officers' cabins had been transformed. A number of chests had been pulled into its centre and covered with a piece of sail. A separate chest supported the instrument cases of the Bucentaure's two surgeons. The senior of these two men, Charles Masson, had treated Drinkwater with some consideration and addressed him in English, which he spoke quite well. Drinkwater had come to like the man and, as he retired to his cabin in search of Gillespy, he nodded at him.

  'It has come to the time of battle, then, m'sieur?' Masson tested the edge of a curette and looked up at the English captain standing stooped and cock-headed under the low beams.

  'Soon, now, I think, M'sieur Masson, soon…'

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Trafalgar

  21 October 1805

  Nathaniel Drinkwater lay unsleeping through the long October night. He was tormented by the thought of the hours to come, of how he might have been preparing the Thunderer for action. Alone, without the necessity of reassuring the now sleeping Gillespy or the disturbance of Bucentaure's people who stood at their quarters throughout the small hours, he reflected on his ill-fortune. Such a mischance as his capture had happened in a trice to sea-officers; it was one of the perils of the profession; but this reflection did not make it any easier to bear as he lay inactive in a borrowed cot aboard the enemy flagship. There was nothing he could do except await the outcome of events.

  Even these were by no means certain. Gravina's signals of the previous evening had obviously been those of panic. No British cruisers had come close, but those distant rockets seen by Drinkwater meant that the Combined Fleet was being shadowed. The response of the French and Spanish admirals in throwing out rocket signals themselves had undoubtedly attracted the attention of Blackwood's watch-dogs. Connecting Blackwood's Inshore Squadron with the main fleet, Nelson would have look-out ships at intervals, and these would pass on Blackwood's messages. God grant that Nelson had seen them and that he would come up before Villeneuve slipped through the Gut of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean.

  Drinkwater did not like to contemplate too closely what might happen to himself. He had to summon up all his reserves of fortitude and rehearse for his own comfort all the argument he had put to little Gillespy as guaranteeing their safety. But they did not reassure him. The worst aspect of his plight was his inability to influence events. Never in his life had he been so passive. The sea-service had placed a continual series of demands upon his skill and experience so that, although he was a victim of events, he had always had a chance of fighting back. To perish in the attempt was one thing; to be annihilated without being able to lift a finger struck him as being particularly hard to bear.

  Some time in the night the Bucentaure's company were stood down from their stations. Drinkwater heard them come below and his gloom increased. To a man used from boyhood to living on board ship he had no difficulty in gauging their mood. They were grim, filled with a mixture of anxiety and hope. They were also unusually subdued and few settled to sleep. Drinkwater tried to judge the course that the Bucentaure was sailing on. He could feel a low ground swell gently lifting and rolling the ship. That would not significantly have altered its direction since he had observed it the previous evening. He felt it coming up almost abeam, but lifting the starboard quarter first: Villeneuve was edging away towards the Strait.

  He must have slept, for he was startled by the drums again rappelling the Générale and the petty officers crying 'Branle-bas-de-combat!' at the hatchways. The orlop emptied of men and then others came down, the sinister denizens of this area of perpetual night: Surgeon Masson, his assistants and mates. Shortly after this a light and playful rattle of a snare drum and the tweeting of fifes could be heard. Cries of 'Vive le Commandant!' and 'Vive l'Empereur!' were shouted by Bucentaure's company as Villeneuve and his suite toured the ship. A sentry came half-way down the orlop ladder and announced something to the surgeon.

  'What is the news, M'sieur Masson?' Drinkwater asked.

  'One of our frigates has signalled the enemy is in sight.'

  'Ah… d'you hear that, Mr Gillespy?'

  'Yes, sir.' The boy was pale, but he managed a brave smile. 'Do you think that will be the Euryalus, sir, or the main body of the fleet?'

  'To be candid, Mr Gillespy, I do not know.'

  The boy nodded and swallowed. 'Do you know, sir, that Euryalus was slain in a wood when gathering intelligence for the Trojans?'

  'No, Mr Gillespy, I'm afraid I did not know that.' The arcane fact surprised Drinkwater and then he reflected that the boy might make a better academic than a sea-officer.

  'The Trojans were defeated, sir…' Gillespy pointed out, as if seeking some parallel with present events.

  'Come, sir, that is no way to talk… Why, what of Antigone? Who the devil was she?'

  'The daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta, sir. She buried the body of her brother after her uncle had ordered it to be left exposed and he had her bricked up behind a wall…'

  'Enough of that, Mr Gillespy.' He fell silent. It was true that his own Antigone might as well be bricked up, stuck, as she was, with Louis off Gibraltar. If the Combined Fleet got through the Strait unmolested it would come upon the lone Antigone cruising to the eastward watching the eastern horizon for Salcedo! He groaned aloud, 'Oh, God damn it!'

  'Are you all right, sir? Gillespy came forward solicitiously, but drew back at the sight of the captain's set face.

  'Perfectly, Mr Gillespy,' Drinkwater said grimly, 'I am damning my ill-fortune.'

  'I'm hungry, sir,' Gillespy said after a little, but this feeble appeal was lost in a sudden canting of the Bucentaure. Drinkwater strained to hear orders on deck but it was impossible as the hull creaked about them and the constant wash of the sea beyond the ship's side shut out any noise from the upper deck.

  'We're wearing… God damn it, we're wearing, Mr Gillespy… yes, yes certainly we are… wait… see, we're steady again…' He gauged the way the hull reacted to the swell. It rolled them from the other side now, the larboard side. They were heading north and the rush of water past the hull was much less than it had been the day before. Either they had reduced sail or the wind had dropped significantly.

  'What does it mean, sir?'

  'I don't know,' snapped Drinkwater, trying to answer that very question himself. 'Either that Louis has appeared ahead of the Combined Fleet, or that Villeneuve has abandoned his intention and wishes to return to Cadiz… in which case I judge that the answer to your question is that our friends have sighted the main body of Lord Nelson's fleet.' As he spoke, Drinkwater's voice increased in strength with mounting conviction.

  'By God!' he added, knowing Villeneuve's vacillation, 'that must be the explanation.' He smil
ed at the boy. 'I think you will have something to tell your grandchildren, my boy!'

  Half an hour later Lieutenant Guillet appeared. He wore full dress uniform and was formally polite.

  'Capitaine Drinkwater, I am ordered by His Excellency Vice-Admiral Villeneuve to remind you of your parole and the courtesy done you by permitting you to keep your sword. It is also necessary that I ask you that you will do nothing during the action to prejudice this ship. Without these assurances I 'ave orders to confine you in irons.' It was a rehearsed speech and he could see the hand of Magendie as well as the courtliness of Villeneuve.

  'Lieutenant Guillet, it would dishonour both myself and my country if I was not to conform to your request. I assure you that both myself and my midshipman will do nothing to interfere with the Bucentaure. Will you convey my compliments to His Excellency and I thank you for your kind attentions to us and wish you good fortune in the hours ahead.'

  They exchanged bows and Guillet departed. The forenoon dragged on. Drinkwater wrote in his journal and comforted the starving Gillespy. A strange silence hung over the groaning fabric of the warship, permeating down through her decks and hatchways. Even the men awaiting the arrival of the wounded in the orlop talked among themselves in whispers. About mid-morning they heard a muffled shout, drowned immediately in a terrific rumbling sound that startled them after the long and heavy silence.

  'Running out the guns,' Drinkwater explained to Gillespy.

  'Capitaine, will you come to the deck at once…' It was Guillet, his appearance hurried and breathless.

  Drinkwater rose and put on his hat. He turned to Gillespy. 'Remain here, Mr Gillespy. You are in no circumstances to leave the orlop.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Drinkwater followed Guillet up through the lower gun-deck. It was flooded by shafts of sunshine coming in through the open gunports. Every cannon was run out and the crews squatted expectantly round them, one or two peering through at the approaching British. Lieutenants and aspirants paced along their divisions and a murmur ran up and down the guns. Guillet and Drinkwater emerged on deck and Guillet led him directly to where Villeneuve, Magendie and Prigny were staring westwards. His heart beating furiously, Drinkwater followed the direction of their telescopes.