Ричард Вудмен - 1805

' Contre-Amiral Magon… Capitaine de frégate Drinkwater Charles…'

Magon bowed imperceptibly and regarded Drinkwater with intense dislike. Drinkwater felt he attracted more than his fair share of malice and was not long in discovering that Magon disapproved of Villeneuve's holding Drinkwater on his flagship. Drinkwater's knowledge of French was poor, but Magon's powers of dramatic and expressive gesture were eloquent.

Villeneuve was mastering his anger and humiliation with difficulty and Drinkwater glimpsed something of the problems he suffered in his tenure of command of the Combined Fleet. Eventually Magon ceased his diatribe, turned in disgust and affected to ignore the rest of the proceedings by staring fixedly out of the stern windows.

'Captain Drinkwater informs me, gentlemen,' Villeneuve said in English, 'that Nelson's attack will be as I outlined to you in my standing orders leaving Toulon. If you wish to question him further he is at your disposal…'

Drinkwater opened his mouth to protest that he had done nothing so dishonourable as to reveal Lord Nelson's plan of attack but, seeing the difficulties Villeneuve was under, he shut his mouth again.

' 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.