1805 nd-6 Page 18

  'Get dressed please, Capitaine.'

  'Guillet?'

  'Please to 'urry, m'sieur.'

  'What the devil d'you want?'

  'Please, Capitaine. I 'ave my orders. Dress and come quickly with no noise.' Guillet was anxious about something. Fumbling in the dark Drinkwater found his clothes and his sword. Guillet must have seen the slight gleam of the scabbard mountings. 'Not your sword, Capitaine…'

  Drinkwater left it on his bed and followed Guillet into the corridor. At the door of the guardroom Guillet collected a cloak and handed it to Drinkwater. Drinkwater threw the heavy garment over his shoulders.

  'Allez…'

  They crossed the courtyard and, with Guillet taking his arm, passed the sentry into the street. 'Please, Capitaine, do not make to escape. I have a loaded pistol and orders to shoot you.'

  'Whose orders? Colonel Santhonax's? Do not forget, Lieutenant Guillet, that I have given my parole.' Drinkwater's anger was unfeigned and Guillet fell silent. Was it Santhonax's purpose to have him murdered in an alleyway?

  They were walking down a gentle hill, the cobbled roadway descending in low steps, the blank walls of houses broken from time to time by dimly perceived wrought-iron gates opening onto courtyards. He could see the black gleam of water ahead and they emerged onto a quay. Drinkwater smelt decaying fish and a row of gulls, disturbed by the two officers, flapped away over the harbour. Guillet hurried him to a flight of stone steps. Drinkwater looked down at the waiting boat and the oars held upright by its crew. The lieutenant ordered him down the steps. He scrambled down, pushed by Guillet and sat in the stern-sheets. The bow was shoved off, the oars were lowered and bit into the water. The chilly night air was unbelievably reviving.

  A mad scheme occurred to him of over-powering Guillet, seizing his pistol and forcing the boat's crew to pull him out to Euryalus. But what would become of Quilhampton and the others? The French, who had treated them reasonably so far, might not continue to do so if he escaped. In any case the plan was preposterous. The lift of the boat, as the water chuckled under the bow and the oars knocked gently against the thole pins, evoked a whole string of emotional responses. The thought that Santhonax was ruthless enough to have him murdered was cold comfort. Yet Guillet seemed to be pursuing orders of a less extreme nature. Nevertheless Drinkwater acknowledged the fact that, removed from his frigate, he was as impotent as an ant underfoot.

  The boat was pulled out into the Grande Rade, among the huge hulls and towering masts of the Combined Fleet. Periodically a sentry or a guard-boat challenged them and Guillet answered with the night's countersign. A huge hull reared over them. Even in the gloom Drinkwater could see it was painted entirely black. He guessed her to be Spanish. Then, beyond her, he saw the even bigger bulk of a mighty ship. He could make out the greyer shade of lighter paint along her gun-decks. He counted four of these and was aware that he was looking at the greatest fighting ship in the world, the Spanish navio Santissima Trinidad.

  He was still staring at her as the oarsmen eased their stroke. He looked round as they ran under the stern of a smaller ship. From the double line of lighted stern windows she revealed herself as a two-decker. The light from the windows made reading her name difficult, but he saw enough to guess the rest.

  Bucentaure.

  Guillet had brought him, in comparative secrecy, to Villeneuve's flagship.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Villeneuve

  16-17 October 1805

  Vice-Admiral Pierre Charles Jean Baptiste Silvestre de Villeneuve sat alone in the great cabin of the Bucentaure. He stared at the miniature of his wife. He had painted it himself and it was not so much her likeness that he was looking at, as the remembrance of her as she had been on the day he had done it. He sighed resignedly and slipped the enamel disc in the pocket of his waistcoat. His eye fell on the letter lying on the table before him. It was dated a few days earlier and written by an old friend from Bayonne.

  My dear friend,

  I write to tell you news that will not please you but which you may otherwise not learn until it is brought to you by one who will not be welcome. I learned today that our Imperial master has despatched Admiral Rosily to Cadiz to take over the command from you. My old friend, I know you as undoubtedly the most accomplished officer and the most able tactician, whatever people may say, that the navy possesses. I recall to you the honour of the flag of our country…

  Vice-Admiral Villeneuve picked up the letter and, holding it by a corner, burnt it in the candelabra that stood upon the table. The ash floated down upon the polished wood and lay upon Admiral Gravina's latest daily report of the readiness of the Spanish Fleet. Of all his flag-officers Gravina was the only one upon whom he could wholly rely. They were both of the nobility; they understood one another. Villeneuve clenched his fist and brought it down on the table top. It was on Gravina that would fall the responsibility of his own answer to defeating the tactics of Nelson. But he might yet avoid a battle with Nelson…

  The knock at the cabin door recalled him to the present. 'Entrez!'

  Lieutenant Guillet, accompanied by the officer of the watch, Lieutenant Fournier, announced the English prisoner. The two stood aside as Drinkwater entered the brilliantly lit cabin from the gloom of the gun-deck with its rows of occupied hammocks.

  The two officers exchanged glances and Fournier addressed a question to the admiral. Villeneuve seemed irritated and Drinkwater heard his own name and the word 'parole'. The two withdrew with a scarcely concealed show of reluctance.

  'Please sit, Captain Drinkwater,' said Villeneuve indicating a chair. 'Do you also find young men always know best?' he smiled engagingly and, despite their strange meeting, Drinkwater warmed to the man. He was aware once again that the two of them were of an age. He smiled back.

  'It is a universal condition, Your Excellency.'

  'Tell me, Captain. What would British officers be doing in our circumstances?' Villeneuve poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Drinkwater.

  Drinkwater took the glass. 'Thank you, sir. Much as we are doing. Taking a glass of wine and a biscuit or two in the evening at anchor, then taking their watch or turning in.'

  The two men sat for a while in silence, Drinkwater patiently awaiting disclosure of the reason for this strange rendezvous. Villeneuve seemed to be considering something, but at last he said, 'Colonel Santhonax tells me you are an officer of great experience, Captain Drinkwater. He would not have been pleased that we are talking like this.'

  Villeneuve's remark was an opening, Drinkwater saw, a testing of the ground between them. On what he said now would depend how much the enemy admiral confided in him. 'I know Colonel Santhonax to be a spy, Your Excellency. As an aide to your Emperor I assume he enjoys certain privileges of communication with His Majesty.' He paused to lend his words weight, 'I would imagine that could be a grave embarrassment to you, sir, particularly as Colonel Santhonax is not without considerable experience as a seaman. I would say, sir, that he shared something of the prejudices of your young officers.'

  'You are very—what is the English word? Shrewd, eh?—Yes, that is it.' Villeneuve smiled again, rather sadly, Drinkwater thought. 'Do you believe in destiny, Captain?'

  Drinkwater shrugged. 'Not destiny, sir. Providence, perhaps, but not destiny.'

  'Ah, that is because you are not from an ancient family. A Villeneuve died with Roland at the Pass of Roncesvalles; a Villeneuve died in the Holy Land and went to battle with your Coeur-de-Lion, and a Villeneuve led the lances of Aragon with Bayard. I was the ninety-first Villeneuve to be a Knight of Malta and yet I saw the justice of the Revolution, Captain. I think as an Englishman you must find that difficult to understand, eh?'

  'Perhaps less than you think, sir. My own fortunes have been the other way. My father was a tenant farmer and I am uncertain of my origins before my grandfather. I would not wholly disapprove of your Revolution…'

  'But not our Empire, eh, Captain?'

  Drinkwater shrugged. 'I d
o not wish to insult you, sir, but I do not approve of the Emperor's intentions to invade my country'

  Villeneuve was obviously also thinking of Napoleon for he said. 'Do you know what Santhonax is doing, Captain?'

  'I imagine he has gone to Paris to report to His Imperial Majesty on the state of the fleet you command. And possibly…' he broke off, then, thinking it was worth a gamble, added, 'to tell the Emperor that he has succeeded in persuading you to sail.'

  'Bon Dieu!' The blood drained from Villeneuve's face. 'H… how did you…?'

  Villeneuve hesitated and Drinkwater pressed his advantage. 'As I said, Your Excellency, I know Santhonax for what he is. Did he kill Captain Wright in the Temple?'

  The colour had not yet returned to the admiral's face. 'Is that what they say in England? That Santhonax murdered Wright?'

  'No, they say he was murdered, but by whom only a few suspect.'

  'And you are one of them, I think.'

  Drinkwater shrugged again. 'On blockade duty, sir, there is ample time to ponder…' he paused seeing the admiral's puzzled look, 'er, to think about things.'

  'Ah, yes, I understand. Your navy has a talent for this blockading. It is very tedious, is it not?'

  'Very, sir…'

  'And your ships? They wear out also?'

  Drinkwater nodded, 'Yes.'

  'And the men?'

  Drinkwater held the admiral's gaze. It was no simple matter to convey to a Frenchman, even of Villeneuve's intelligence, the balance of the stubborn tenacity of a national character against a discipline that did not admit weakness. Besides, it was not his intention to appear over-confident. 'They wear out too, sir,' he said smiling.

  Looking at the Englishman, Villeneuve noticed his hand go up under his coat to massage his shoulder. 'You have been wounded, Captain?'

  'Several times…'

  'Are you married?'

  'Yes. I have two children.'

  'I also am married… This war; it is a terrible thing.'

  'I should not be here, sir, were it not for your Combined Fleet,' Drinkwater said drily.

  'Ah, yes… the Combined Fleet. What is your opinion of the Combined Fleet, Captain?'

  'It is difficult to judge, sir. But I think the ships good, particularly, with respect, the Spanish line-of-battle ships. The French are good seamen, but lack practice; the Spanish…' he shrugged again.

  'Are beggars and herdsmen, the most part landsmen and soldiers,' Villeneuve said with sudden and unexpected vehemence. He stood up and began to pace with a slow dignity back and forwards between the table and the stern windows with an abstraction that Drinkwater knew to reveal he often did thus. 'And the officers are willing, but inexperienced. One cruise to the West Indies and they think they are masters of the oceans. They are all fire or venom because they think Villeneuve a fool! Do you know why I brought you here tonight, Captain, eh? No? Because it is not possible that I talk freely to my own officers! Only Gravina comprehends my position and he has troubles too many to speak of with his own court and that parvenu Godoy, the "Prince of Peace"!' Villeneuve's contempt filled him with a blazing indignation. 'Oh, yes, Captain, there is destiny,' he paused and looked down at Drinkwater, then thrust his pointing arm towards the windows. 'Out on the sea is Nelson and here, here is Villeneuve!' He stabbed his own chest with the same finger. Drinkwater sat quietly as Villeneuve took two more turns across the cabin then calmed himself, refilled the glasses and sat down again.

  'How will Nelson attack, Captain?' He paused as Drinkwater protested, then held up his hand. 'It is all right, Captain, I know you to be a man of honour. I will tell you as I told my captains before we left Toulon. He will attack from windward if he can, not in line, but so as to concentrate his ships in groups upon a division of our fleet which he will annihilate with overwhelming force.' He slammed his right hand down flat upon the table making the candles gutter and raising a little whirl of grey ash. 'It was done at Camperdown and he did it to us at Abukir…' Again Villeneuve paused and Drinkwater watched him silently. The admiral had escaped from that terrible battle, Napoleon accounting him a lucky man, a man of destiny to be taken up to run at the wheels of the Imperial chariot.

  'But it has never been done in the open sea with Nelson in command of a whole fleet,' Villeneuve went on, staring abstractedly into the middle distance. Drinkwater realised he was a sensitive and imaginative man and pitied him his burden. Villeneuve suddenly looked at him. 'That is how it will happen, yes?'

  'I think so, sir.'

  'If you were me, how would you counter it?'

  'I… er, I don't know… It has never been my business to command a fleet, sir…'

  Villeneuve's eyes narrowed and Drinkwater suddenly saw that the man did not lack courage, whatever might be said of him. 'When it is time for you to command a fleet, Captain, remember there is always an answer; but what you will lack is the means to do it…' He stood up again. 'Had I your men in my ships, Captain, I would astonish Napoleon!'

  The admiral tossed off his second glass and poured a third, offering the wine to Drinkwater.

  'Thank you, Your Excellency. But how would you answer this attack?' Drinkwater was professionally curious. It was a bold question, but Villeneuve did not seem to regard it as such and Drinkwater realised the extremity of the French admiral's loneliness and isolation. In any case Drinkwater was a prisoner, his escape from the heart of the Combined Fleet so unlikely that Villeneuve felt safe in using the opportunity to see the reaction to his plan of at least one British officer.

  'A squadron of reserve, Captain, a division of my fleet kept detached to weather of my line and composed of my best ships, to reinforce that portion of my fleet which receives—how do you say?—the weight, no…'

  'The brunt?'

  'Yes, the brunt of your attack.'

  Drinkwater considered Villeneuve's scheme. It was innovative enough to demonstrate his originality of thought, yet it had its defects.

  'What if your enemy attacks the squadron of reserve?'

  'Then the fleet tacks to its assistance, but I do not think this will happen. Your Nelson will attack the main line.' He smiled wryly and added, 'He may ignore the special division as being a badly manoeuvred part of the general line.'

  'And if you are attacked from leeward…'

  'Then the advantage is even more in our favour, yes.'

  'But, Excellency, who have you among your admirals to lead this important division?'

  'Only Gravina, Captain, on whom I can absolutely depend.' Villeneuve's face clouded over again. For a moment he had been visualising his counter-stroke to Nelson's attack, seeing the moving ships, hearing the guns and realising his dream: to save the navy of France from humiliation and raise it to the heights to which Suffren had shown it could be elevated. He sighed, obviously very tired.

  'So you intend to sail, sir?' Drinkwater asked quietly. 'To offer battle to Nelson?'

  'If necessary.' Villeneuve's reply was guarded, cautious, even uncertain, Drinkwater concluded, observing the admiral closely.

  'But battle will be necessary if you wish to enter the Channel.'

  'Perhaps…' There was an indifference now; Drinkwater felt the certainty of his earlier deliberations.

  'Perhaps you are hoping to return to the Mediterranean?' he ventured. 'I hear his Imperial Majesty has withdrawn his camp from Boulogne?'

  'Diable!' Villeneuve had paled again. 'How is this known? Do you know everything that comes to me?'

  He rose, very angry and Drinkwater hurriedly added, 'Pardon, Excellency. It was only a guess… I, I made a guess…'

  'A guess!' For a second Villeneuve's face wore a look of astonishment. Then his eyes narrowed a little. 'Santhonax was right, Captain Drinkwater, you are no fool. If I have to fight I will, but I have twice eluded Nelson and…' He shrugged, 'perhaps I might do it again.'

  Drinkwater relaxed. He had been correct all along in his assumptions. The two men's eyes met. They seemed bound in an intensity of feeling, like the eyes of fe
ncers of equal skill where pure antagonism had given way to respect, and only a superficial enmity prevented friendship. Then one of the fencers moved his blade, a tiny feinting movement designed to suggest a weakness, a concern.

  'I think you might,' said Drinkwater in a voice so low that it was not much above a whisper. It was a terrible gamble, Drinkwater knew, yet he conceived it his duty to chance Nelson not missing the Combined Fleet.

  For what seemed an age a silence hung in the cabin, then Villeneuve coughed and signalled their intimacy was at an end. 'After this conversation, Captain, I regret that you cannot leave the ship. You have given your parole and I will endeavour to make your stay comfortable.'

  Drinkwater opened his mouth to protest. A sudden chilling vision of being on the receiving end of British broadsides overwhelmed him and he felt real terror cause his heart to thump and his face to blanch.

  It was Villeneuve's turn to smile: 'You did not believe in destiny, Captain; remember?' Then he added, 'Santhonax wished that I left you to rot in a Spanish gaol.'

  Drinkwater woke confused. After leaving Villeneuve he had been conducted to a small cabin intended for a warrant officer below the water-line on the orlop deck of the Bucentaure. A sentry was posted outside and for a long time he lay wide awake thinking over the conversation with Villeneuve, his surroundings both familiar and horribly alien. Eventually he had slept and he woke late, disgruntled, hungry and unable for some seconds to remember where he was. His lack of clothing made him feel irritable and the mephitic air of the unventilated orlop gave him a headache made worse by the strange smells of the French battleship. When he opened his door and asked for food he found the moustached sentry singularly unhelpful.