1805 nd-6

by Ричард Вудмен

  'Gentlemen,' he said, 'I believe the French to be abandoning the ship. If we remain we have still an anchor and cable. We might yet keep her a prize. It is only a slender chance, but I do not wish to be retaken prisoner just yet.'

  The two officers nodded agreement. 'Volunteers only, then,' added Drinkwater as the French lieutenant approached.

  'It is now you come to boats, Capitaine.'

  'Non, mon ami. We stay, perhaps we save the ship.'

  The lieutenant appeared to consider this for some moments and then shrugged.

  'Ver' well. I too will stay.'

  So a handful of men remained aboard the Bucentaure as the Allied squadron made sail, refusing battle with the ten British ships. Drinkwater watched them hauling off their retaken ships, the Spanish Neptuno and the great black bulk of the Santa Ana, the latter towed by a brig, scraps of sails and the Spanish ensign rehoisted on what remained of her masts. Hardly had Indomptable taken in her boats than the wind backed suddenly and increased with tremendous strength from the west-southwest. Immediately Bucentaure's leeway increased and as the afternoon wore on the pale smudge of Cadiz grew swiftly larger and more distinct. They could see details: the towers of the partly rebuilt cathedral, the belfry of the Carmelite convent, the lighthouse at San Sebastian and, along the great bight of Cadiz Bay from beyond Rota in the north to the Castle of St Peter to the southward, the wrecked hulks of the Combined Fleet being pounded to matchwood in the breakers.

  As they drove ashore, Drinkwater had soundings taken, and at about three in the afternoon he had the anchor let go in a last attempt to save the ship. The fluke bit and Bucentaure snubbed round at the extremity of the cable to pitch head to sea as the wind blew again with storm force. They could see the British ships in the offing and around them some of the vessels that had sailed from Cadiz that morning. They had run for the shelter of the harbour as the wind began to blow, but several had not made it and had been forced to anchor like themselves.

  Bucentaure's anchor held for an hour before the cable parted. Drinkwater called all her people on deck and they stood helplessly in the waist as the great ship drove again to leeward, beam on to the sea, rolling heavily as ton after ton of water poured on board. The rocks of Cape San Sebastian loomed towards them.

  'Call all your men together, Mr Spear,' Drinkwater said quietly as the Bucentaure rose on the back of a huge wave. The heavy swell, enlarged by the violence of the storm, increased its height as its forward momentum was sapped by the rising sea-bed. Its lower layers were slowed and its upper surface tore onwards, rolling and toppling with its own instability, bearing the huge bulk of the Bucentaure upon its collapsing back.

  In a roar of white water, as the spray whipped across her canting deck, the ship struck, her whole hull juddering with the impact. Water foamed all about her, thundering and tearing over the reef beyond the Bucentaure. Then it was receding, pouring off the exposed rocks as the trough sucked out and the stricken battleship lolled over. Suddenly she began to lift again as the next breaker took her, a white-flecked avalanche of water that rose above her splintered rail.

  'Hold on!' shouted Drinkwater, and the urgency of the cry communicated itself to British and French alike. Then it broke over them, intensely cold, driving the breath from their bodies and tearing them from their handholds. Drinkwater felt the pain in his shoulder muscles as the cold and the strain attacked them. He clung to an eyebolt, holding his breath as the red lights danced before his eyes and his lungs forced him to inhale. He gasped, swallowing water, and then he was in air again and, unbelievably, Bucentaure was moving beneath them. He struggled upright and stared about him. Not fifty yards away the little bluff of Cap San Sebastian rushed past. Beneath its lighthouse crowds of people watched the death throes of the ship. Bucentaure had torn free, carried over the reef at a tangent to the little peninsula of the cape. He looked about the deck. There were less men than there had been. God alone knew how many had been swept into the sea by that monstrous wave.

  For twenty minutes the ship drifted to leeward, into slightly calmer water. But every moment she sank lower and, half an hour later, had stuck fast upon the Puercas Reef. Drinkwater looked around him, knowing the long travail was over at last. In the dusk, boats were approaching from a French frigate anchored in the Grande Rade with the remnants of Gravina's escaped detachment. He turned to Spear and Atcherley. They were both shivering from cold and wet.

  'Well, gentlemen, it seems we are not to perish, although we have lost your prize.'

  Atcherley nodded. 'In the circumstances, sir, it is enough.' The marine officer looked at the closing boats with resignation.

  'I suppose we must be made prisoners now,' said Spear dejectedly.

  'Yes, I suppose so,' replied Drinkwater shortly, aware of the dreadful ache in his right shoulder and that beneath his feet Bucentaure was going to pieces.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Gibraltar

  November-December 1805

  'Were you received by the Governor-General at Cadiz, Captain?' asked Vice-Admiral Collingwood, leaning from his chair to pat the head of a small terrier by his side.

  'The Marquis of Solana granted me several interviews, sir, and treated all the British prize crews with the utmost consideration.'

  Collingwood nodded. 'I am very pleased to hear it.' Collingwood's broad Northumbrian accent struck a homely note to Drinkwater's ears after his captivity.

  '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 s
aid. '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 Ca
ptain 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 Twenty-Four

  The Martyr of Rennes

  April 1806

  '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 home coming Drinkwater had dreamed of, but Elizabeth had cosseted him back to full health.