Ричард Вудмен - 1805

'And several ships have gone to Gibraltar?' the admiral asked.

'Yes, sir.'

'Where is the Superb ?' asked Villeneuve. 'She had gone to England for repair, no?'

'She had not rejoined the fleet when I left it, sir.' Drinkwater felt a quickening of his pulse. All Villeneuve's questions emphasised his desire to hear that Nelson's fleet was weakened by dispersal.

The admiral nodded. 'Very well, Captain, thank you.' He rang a little bell and Guillet reappeared. Drinkwater rose and bowed to the admiral who was turning towards Santhonax, but Santhonax ignored Villeneuve.

'Captain Drinkwater!'

Drinkwater turned. 'Yes?'

'I am leaving… to rejoin the Emperor tonight. You will send the picture to the Rue Victoire will you not… when you return to your ship?' Santhonax was sneering at him. Drinkwater remembered Camelford's words: 'Shoot 'em both!'

'When I rejoin my ship…'

The two men stared at each other for a second. 'Until the next time, au revoir .'

Walking from the room Drinkwater heard a suppressed confrontation between the two men. As the door closed behind him he heard Santhonax quite clearly mention ' Le spectre de Nelson …'

Tregembo's brief visit the next morning disclosed little. 'They've got their t'gallants up, zur. Frogs and Dagoes all awaiting the order, zur… and pleased the Frogs'll be to go.'

'There's nothing new about that, Tregembo, they're always getting ready to go. It's the goin' they ain't so good at,' Drinkwater replied, lathering his face. 'But how the hell d'you know all this, eh?'

'There are Bretons in the guardroom, zur. I unnerstand 'em. Their talk, like the Kurnowic it is, zur…'

'Ahhh, of course.' Drinkwater smiled as he took the stropped razor from Tregembo, recalling Tregembo's smuggling past and the trips made to Brittany to evade the excise duty of His Majesty King George III. 'Keep your spirits up, Tregembo, and tell Mr Q the same.'

'Aye, zur. Mr Gillespy ain't too good, zur, by the bye…'

'No talk!' The orderly, red-faced with fury, shoved Tregembo towards the door.

'Very well,' acknowledged Drinkwater. 'But there's very little I can do about it,' he muttered as, once again, the door slammed and he was left alone with his thoughts.

Meat and wine arrived at midday. He walked with the others after the hour of siesta , finding Quilhampton downcast and Gillespy in poor spirits. Today it seemed as if Frey was bearing the burden of cheering his fellow prisoners. At sunset a silent Tregembo brought him bread, cheese and wine. As the shadows darkened in the tiny room, Drinkwater found his own morale dropping. In the end it became irresistible not to think of his family and the 'blue-devils' settled on his weary mind. He did not bother to light his candle but climbed into the bed and tried to sleep. A convent bell tolled away the hours but he had fallen asleep when his door was opened. He woke with a start and lay staring into the pitch-darkness. He felt suddenly fearful, remembering Wright's death in the Temple. He reached for his sword.

'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.

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 …