Ричард Вудмен - 1805

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 Captain 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.'

'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.

'I have been languishing in bed for six weeks.'

'Well I am glad that you could come in answer to my summons, Nathaniel.' He passed the decanter across the polished table. 'I have a commission for you before you rejoin your ship.'

Drinkwater returned the decanter after refilling his glass. He nodded. 'I am fit enough, my Lord, to be employed on any service. Besides,' he added with his old grin, 'I am obliged to your Lordship… personally'

'Ah, yes. Your brother.' Dungarth blew a reflective ring of tobacco smoke at the ceiling. 'He was at Austerlitz, you know. His report of the confusion on the Pratzen Heights made gloomy reading.'

'God bless my soul… at Austerlitz.' The news of Napoleon's great victory over the combined forces of Austria and Russia, following so hard upon the surrender of another Austrian army at Ulm, seemed to have off-set the hard-won achievements of Trafalgar, destroying at a stroke Pitt's carefully erected alliance of the Third Coalition.

'Aye, Austerlitz. It killed Pitt as surely as Trafalgar killed Nelson.'

Both men remained silent for a moment and Drinkwater thought of the tired young man with the loose stockings.

'It was the one thing Pitt dreaded, you know, a great French victory… and at the expense of three armies.' Dungarth shook his head. The victory over the Russo-Austrian army had taken place on the first anniversary of Napoleon's coronation as Emperor and had had all the impact of a fatal blow to British foreign policy. Worn out with responsibility and disappointment, Pitt had died just over a month later.

'I believe,' Dungarth continued with the air of a man choosing his words carefully, 'that Pitt foresaw the destruction of Napoleon himself as the only way to achieve lasting peace in Europe.'

'Is that why he sent Camelford to attempt his murder?'

Dungarth nodded. 'I think so. It was done without approval; a private arrangement. Perhaps Pitt could not face the future if Napoleon destroyed an allied army. Pitt chose badly by selecting Camelford, but I imagine the strength of family obligation seemed enough at the time; besides, Pitt was out of office.' Dungarth sipped his port.

'The attempt was not secret, though. I recall D'Auvergne and Cornwallis both alluding to the fact that something was in the wind,' said Drinkwater, intrigued.

'No, it was not kept secret enough, a fact from which Napoleon has made a great deal of capital. D'Auvergne shipped Camelford into France from Jersey, and Cornwallis knew of the plan, on a private basis, you understand. Billy-go-tight no more likes blockading than does poor Collingwood now left to hold the Mediterranean.' Dungarth refilled his glass.