1805

Chapter Ten The Rochefort Squadron

'Signal from Flag, sir,' Midshipman Wickham's cheerful face poking round the door was an affront to Drinkwater's seediness as he woke from a doze.

'Eh? Well? What o'clock is it?'

'Four bells, sir,' Wickham said, then, seeing the captain's apparent look of incomprehension added, 'in the afternoon, sir'.

'Thank you, Mr Wickham,' said Drinkwater drily, now fully awake. 'I shall be up directly.'

They had received and acknowledged the signal by the time Drinkwater reached the quarterdeck. Lieutenant Fraser handed him the slate as he touched his hat. Drinkwater had grown to like the ruddy Scotsman with his silent manner and dry humour. Drinkwater read the message scribbled on the slate. Midshipman Wickham was already copying it out into the Signal Log.

Very well, Mr Fraser, we will close on Doris and see if Campbell has any specific orders for us. In the meantime watch the admiral for further signals.'

'Aye, sir.'

Drinkwater eased his right shoulder. Of all the stations to be consigned to during the winter months, the west coast of France with its damp procession of gales was possibly the worst for his wound. He drew the cloak closer around him and began to pace the deck, from the hance to the taffrail, casting an eye across the grey, white-streaked waves that separated him from the rest of the squadron. He watched the half-dozen ships of Rear-Admiral Sir Thomas Graves jockeying into line ahead, their yards braced up on the larboard tack as they began to move away to the north-north-westwards and the shelter of Quiberon Bay where they were to take in stores and water.

The two frigates Doris and Antigone, being late arrivals at this outpost of the Channel Fleet, were left to watch Rear-Admiral Missiessy's ships anchored off Rochefort, in the shelter of the Basque Roads. Drinkwater turned his attention to the eastwards. On the horizon he could make out the blue blur of the Ile d'Oléron behind which the French squadron was anchored, comfortably secure under the lee of the island, the approach of its mooring blocked by batteries. He had reconnoitred them several times, sailing Antigone under the guns of the French batteries and carrying out manoeuvres between Oléron and the surrounding islands. It was, he admitted to himself a piece of braggadocio; but it was good for the men, enabling them to demonstrate before the eyes of the French their abilities. Best of all, it broke the monotony of blockade duty. They had received fire from the land batteries and from the floating battery the enemy had anchored off Oléron which mounted huge heavy mortars and long cannon of the heaviest calibres, together with furnaces for heating shot. Beyond the batteries they had countered the ships of Missiessy's squadron anchored in two neat lines. They appeared so securely moored that their situation seemed permanent, but Drinkwater knew that this was an illusion. There were French squadrons like Missiessy's in all the major French and Spanish ports, joined now, since the declaration of war against Great Britain, by the splendid ships of the Spanish navy. Nor were they entirely supine. Missiessy had sortied in the previous August, only being turned back by the appearance of Vice-Admiral Sir Robert Calder with a stronger force. From the Texel to Toulon the naval forces of the enemy were now united under the imperial eagle of France. Against this mass of shipping the British blockade was maintained unrelentingly. The ships of Keith, Cornwallis, Calder, Collingwood and Nelson watched each of the enemy ports, detaching squadrons like that of Graves's to close up the gaps.

Now that Graves had been driven off his station for want of the very necessaries of life itself, the Rochefort squadron of Missiessy was checked by the rather feeble presence of a pair of 36-gun frigates, Antigone and Doris.

'Doris signalling, sir.'

'Ah, I rather thought she might.' Drinkwater waited patiently while his people did their work and deciphered the numerical signal streaming from Doris's lee yardarms. As senior officer it was up to Campbell of the Doris to decide how best to carry out their duties. Drinkwater listened to the dialogue between Wickham and Frey as the import of Campbell's intentions became clear.

'One-two-two.'

'Permission to part company…'

'Eight-seven-three.'

'To…'

'Seven-six-six.'

'See…'

'Two-four-nine.'

'Enemy… er, "Permission to part company to see enemy", sir.'

'Very well, Mr Frey. Thank you. You may lay me a course, Mr Fraser. Shake out the fore-course, if you please, let us at least give the impression of attending to our duty with alacrity.'

'Verra well, sir.' Fraser grinned back at the captain. He was beginning to like this rather stern Englishman.

Drinkwater woke in the darkness of pre-dawn with the conviction that something was wrong. He listened intently, fully awake, for some sound in the fabric of the ship that would declare its irregularity. There was nothing. They had reduced sail at the onset of the early January darkness and hove-to. Their leeway during the night should have put them between Oléron and the Ile de Ré at dawn, in a perfect position to reconnoitre Missiessy's anchorage with all the daylight of the short January day to beat offshore again. The westerly wind had dropped after sunset and it was inconceivable that their leeway had been excessive, even allowing for the tide.

Then it occurred to him that the reason for his awakening was something entirely different; his shoulder had stopped aching. He smiled to himself in the darkness, stretched luxuriously and rolled over, composing himself for another hour's sleep before duty compelled him to rise. And then suddenly he was wide awake, sitting bolt upright in his cot. An instant later he was feeling for his breeches, stockings and shoes. He stumbled across the cabin in his haste, fumbling for the clean shirt that Mullender should have left. If his shoulder was not aching it meant the air was drier. And if the air was drier it meant only one thing, the wind was hauling to the eastward. He pulled on his coat, wound a muffler around his neck to suppress the quinsy he had felt coming on for several days and, pulling on his cloak, went on deck.

The dozing sentry jerked to attention at this untimely appearance of the captain. As he emerged, Drinkwater knew immediately his instinct was right. Above the tracery of the mastheads the stars were coldly brilliant, the cloudy overcast of yesterday had vanished. A figure detached itself from the group around the binnacle. It was Quilhampton.

'Morning, sir. A change in the weather. Dead calm for the last half-hour and colder.'

'Why did you not call me, Mr Q?' asked Drinkwater with sudden asperity.

'Sir? But sir, your written orders said to call you if the wind freshened… I supposed that you were concerned with an increase in our leeway, sir, not… not a calm, sir. The ship is quite safe, sir.'

'Damn it, sir, don't patronise me!'

'I beg pardon, sir.' Even in the darkness Quilhampton was obviously crestfallen.

Drinkwater took a turn or two up and down the deck. He realised that the wind had not yet got up, that his apprehensions were not yet fully justified. 'Mr Q!'

'Sir?'

'Forgive my haste, Mr Q.'

'With pleasure, sir. But I assure you, sir, that I would have called you the instant I thought that the ship was in any danger.'

'It is not the ship that concerns me, James. It is the enemy!'

'The enemy, sir?'

'Yes, the enemy. In an hour from now the wind will be easterly and in two hours from now Missiessy, if he's half the man I think him to be, will be ordering his ships to sea. Now d'you understand?'

'Yes… yes I do. I'll have the watch cast loose the t'gallants ready to set all sail the moment it's light, sir.'

'That's the spirit. And I'll go below and break my fast. I've a feeling that this will be a long day.'

Over his spartan breakfast of skillygolee, coffee and toast, Drinkwater thought over the idea that had germinated from the seeds sown during his extraordinary conversation with Mr Pitt. He knew that he would not consciously have reasoned a grand strategy for the French by himself, but that game of shuttlecock with ideas at Walmer had produced the only convincing answer to the conundrum of Napoleon's intentions. It was clear that the French would not move their vast armies across the Channel until they had a fleet in the vicinity. Now, with Admiral Ver Huel's Dutch ships joining a Combined Franco-Spanish fleet, the pre-posterous element of such a grand design was diminishing. Drinkwater did not attempt to unravel the reasoning behind Pitt's deliberate provocation of Spain. It seemed only to undermine the solid foundation of Britain's defence based upon the Channel Fleet off Brest and the understanding that, if the enemy they blockaded escaped, then every British squadron fell back upon the chops of the Channel. In this grand strategy there still remained the factor of the unexpected. Navigationally the mouth of the Channel was difficult to make, particularly when obstructed by an enemy fleet. For the French Commander-in-Chief a passage round Scotland offered nothing but advantages: prevailing fair winds, a less impeded navigation, the element of surprise and the greater difficulty for the British of watching his movements. In addition the fleets of other nations could be more readily added. Russia, for instance, still not wholly committed to defying the new Emperor of France, perhaps the Danes, and certainly the Dutch. Worst of all was the consideration that the enemy might be in the Strait of Dover while the British waited for them off the Isles of Scilly. And the only place from which to launch such an attack was the West Indies, where the French might rendezvous, blown there by favourable winds to recuperate and revictual from friendly islands.

Nathaniel Drinkwater was not given to flights of wild imagination. He was too aware of the difficulties and dangers that beset every seaman. But during his long years of service intuition and cogent reasoning had served him well. He was reminded of the weary weeks of stalking the Dutch before Camperdown and how conviction of the accuracy of his forebodings had sustained him then. He called Mullender to clear the table and while he waited for the wind to rise he opened his journal, eager to get down this train of logic which had stemmed from some dim perception that lingered from his strange awakening.

8th January, he wrote, and added carefully, aware that he had still not become accustomed to the new year,1805. Off the Ile d'Oléron in a calm. Woke with great apprehension that the day… He paused, scratched out the last word and added: year is pregnant with great events…

'If you are going to record your prophecies,' he muttered to himself, pleased with his improving technique with Elizabeth's pen, 'you might as well make 'em big ones.'

It seems to me that a descent upon the British Isles might best be achieved by the French in first making a rendezvous…

But he got no further. There was a knock at the cabin door and Midshipman Wickham reappeared.

'Lieutenant Quilhampton's compliments, sir, and the wind's freshening from the east.'

The wind did not keep its early promise. By noon Antigone lay becalmed off the He d'Oléron, in full view of the French anchorage and with the tide setting her down towards the Basque Road; at one in the afternoon she had been brought to her anchor and Drinkwater was studying the enemy through his glass from the elevation of the mizen top. Beside him little Mr Gillespy was making notes at the captain's dictation.

'The usual force, Mr Gillespy: Majestueux, four seventy-fours, the three heavy frigates and two brig-corvettes. Nothing unusual in that, eh?' he said kindly.

'No, sir,' the boy squeaked, somewhat nonplussed at finding himself aloft with the captain. Gillespy had not supposed captains ascended rigging. It did not seem part of their function.

'But what makes today of more than passing interest,' Drinkwater continued, mouthing his words sideways as he continued to stare through the glass, 'is that they are taking aboard stores… d'you have that, Mr Gillespy?'

'Stores,' the boy wrote carefully, 'yes, sir.'

'Troops…'

'Troops… yes, sir.'

'And, Mr Gillespy,' Drinkwater paused. The cloudless sky let sunlight pour down upon the stretch of blue water between the green hills of the island and the main. The brilliantly clear air made his task easy and the sunlight glanced off the dull breeches of cannon. There was no doubt in Drinkwater's mind that Missiessy was going to break out to the West Indies and take back those sugar islands over which Britain and France had been squabbling for two generations. 'Artillery, Mr Gillespy, artillery… one "t" and two "ll"s.'

He closed his glass with a snap and turned his full attention to the boy. He was not so very many years older than his own son, Richard.

'What d'you suppose we'd better do now, eh?'

'Tell the admiral, sir?'

'First class, my boy.' Drinkwater swung himself over the edge of the top and reached for the futtocks with his feet. He began to descend, pausing as his head came level with the deck of the top. Gillespy regarded the captain's apparently detached head with surprise.

'I think, Mr Gillespy, that in the coming months you may see things to tell your grandchildren about.'

Midshipman Gillespy stared at the empty air where the captain's head had just been. He was quite bewildered. The idea of ever having grandchildren had never occurred to him.

The wind freshened again at dusk, settling to a steady breeze and bringing even colder air off the continent. Antigone stood offshore in search of Doris and, at dawn on the 9th, Drinkwater spoke to Campbell, informing him of the preparations being made by the French. Two hours later Antigone was alone apart from the distant topgallants of Doris in the north, as Campbell made off to warn Graves.

'Full and bye, Mr Hill, let us stop up that gap. I mislike those cloud banks building up over the land. We may not be able to stop the Frogs getting out but, by God, we must not lose touch with 'em.'

'Indeed not, sir.'

The wind continued light and steady throughout the day and at dawn on the 10th they were joined by the schooner Felix commanded by Lieutenant Richard Bourne, brother of Drinkwater's late lieutenant of the Melusine. Bourne announced that he had met Campbell and told him of Graves's whereabouts. Campbell had ordered Felix to stand by Antigone and act under Drinkwater's directions as a dispatch-boat in the event of Graves not turning up in time to catch Missiessy. Having an independent means of communicating such intelligence as he might glean took a great deal of weight off Drinkwater's mind. He had only to hang onto Missiessy's skirts now, and with such a smart ship and a crew tuned to the perfection expected of every British cruiser, he entertained few worries upon that score.

As the day wore on, the wind began to increase from the east and by nightfall was a fresh breeze. Drinkwater stretched out on his cot, wrapped in his cloak, and slept fitfully. An hour before dawn he was awakened and struggled on deck in a rising gale. As daylight grew it revealed a sky grey with lowering cloud. It was bitterly cold. The islands were no longer green, they were grey and dusted with snow. In the east the sky was even more threatening, leaden and greenish. Aloft the watch were shortening down, ready for a whole gale by mid-morning. Drinkwater was pleased to see Rogers already on deck.

'Don't like the smell of it, sir.'

'Happen you're right, Sam. What worries me more is what our friends are doing.'

'Sitting in Quiberon (he pronounced it 'Key-ber-ron') hoisting in fresh vittals.'

'I ken the Captain means the French,' put in Lieutenant Fraser joining them and reporting the first reef taken in the topsails. Fraser ignored Rogers's jaundiced look.

Drinkwater levelled his glass at the north point of Oleron. 'I do indeed, gentlemen, and here they are!'

The two officers looked round. Beyond the point of the island the white rectangles of topsails were moving as Missiessy's frigates led his squadron to sea.

'Mr Frey!'

'Sir?'

'Make to Felix, three-seven-zero.'

Drinkwater ignored Rogers's puzzled frown but heard Fraser mutter in his ear, 'Enemy coming out of port.'

A few minutes later the little schooner was scudding to the north-west with the news for Graves, or Campbell, or whoever else would take alarm from the intelligence.

'Heave the ship to, Mr Rogers. Let us see what these fellows are going to do.' He again raised the glass to his eye and intently studied the approaching enemy. The heavy frigates led out first. Bigger than Antigone, though not dissimilar in build, he tried to identify them, calling for Mr Gillespy, his tablet and pencil.

'And clear the ship for action, Mr Rogers. Beat to quarters if you please!'

He ignored the burst of activity, concentrating solely on the enemy. He recognised the Infatigable, so similar in name to Pellew's famous frigate. All three frigates seemed to be holding back, not running down upon the solitary Antigone as Drinkwater had expected. He could afford to hold his station for a little longer. Ah, there were the little brig-corvettes, exact replicas of the Bonaparte.

He counted the gun-ports; yes, eight a side, 16-gun corvettes all right. But then came the battleships, with Missiessy's huge three-decked 120-gun flagship, the Majestueux in the van. He heard the whistles of surprise from the hands now at their action stations and grinned to himself. This was what they had all been waiting for.

Astern of the Majestueux came four 74-gun battleships. All were now making sail as they altered course round the point, and foreshortened towards Antigone. One of the seventy-fours was detaching, moving out of line. He watched intently, sensing that this movement had something to do with himself. As the battleship drew ahead of the others the frigates made sail and within a few minutes all four leading ships were racing towards him, the gale astern of them and great white bones in their teeth. He shut his telescope with a snap and dismissed Gillespy to his action station. Hill and Rogers were staring at him expectantly.

'Hoping to make a prize of us, I believe,' Drinkwater said. 'Put the ship before the wind, Mr Hill.'

The helm came up and Antigone turned away. The braces clicked through the blocks as the yards swung on their parrels about the slushed topmasts and the apparent wind over the deck diminished. As the frigate steadied on her course, Drinkwater raised his glass once more.

Led by the seventy-four, the French ships were overhauling them rapidly. Drinkwater looked carefully at the relative angles between them. He longed to know the names and exact force of each of his antagonists and felt a sudden thrill after all the long months of waiting and worrying. For Drinkwater such circumstances were the mainspring of his being. The high excitement of handling an instrument as complex, as deadly, yet as vulnerable as a ship of war, in a gale of wind and with a superior enemy to windward, placed demands upon him that acted like a drug. For his father and brother the love of horse-flesh and speed had provided the anodyne to the frustrations and disappointments of life; but for him only this spartan and perilous existence would do. This was the austere drudgery of his duty transformed into a dangerous art.

He looked astern once more. Beyond the advancing French division the remaining French ships had disappeared. A great curtain of snow was bearing down upon them, threatening to obscure everything.

Chapter Eleven The Snowstorm

Drinkwater stepped forward and held out his hand for Rogers's speaking trumpet. As Antigone scudded before the wind he could make himself understood with little difficulty.

'D'you hear, there! Pay attention to all my orders and execute them promptly. No one shall fire until I order it. All guns are to double shot and load canister on ball. All gun-captains to see their pieces aimed before they fire. I want perfect silence at all times. Any man in breach of this will have a check shirt.' He paused to let his words sink in. An excited cheer or shout might transform his intended audacity into foolhardiness. 'Very well, let us show these shore-squatting Frogs what happens to 'em when they come to sea. Lieutenant Quilhampton!'

'Sir?'

'Abandon your guns for the moment, Mr Q. I want you on the fo'c's'le head listening. If you hear anything, indicate with your arm the direction of the noise as you do when signalling the anchor cable coming home.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater turned to the sailing master. 'Well, Mr Hill, take a bearing of that French seventy-four and the instant the snow shuts him from view, heave the ship to. In the meantime try and lay us in his track.'

Hill turned away and peered over the taffrail, returning to the binnacle to order an alteration of course to the north. Drinkwater also turned to watch the approaching French. He was only just in time to catch a glimpse of them before they vanished. They were well clear of the land now, catching the full fury of the gale and feeling the effects of carrying too much canvas in their eagerness to overtake Antigone. Then they were gone, hidden behind a white streaked curtain of snow that second by second seemed to cut off the edge of their world in its silent approach.

'Now, Hill! Now!'

'Down helm! Main-braces there! Leggo and haul!' Antigone began to turn back into the wind. As men hauled in on the fore and mizen braces to keep the frigate sailing on a bowline, the main-yards were backed against the wind, opposing the action of the other masts and checking her, so she lay in wait for the oncoming French. Drinkwater turned his attention to Quilhampton who had clambered up into the knightheads and had one ear cocked into the wind. Antigone bucked in the rising sea, her way checked and every man standing silent at his post.

''Tis a wonderful thing, discipline,' he heard Hill mutter to Rogers, and the first lieutenant replied with characteristic enthusiasm, 'Aye, for diabolical purposes!' And then the snow began to fall upon the deck.

'Keep the decks wet with sea-water, Mr Rogers. Get the firemen to attend to it.' He had not thought of the dangers of slush. Men losing their footing would imperil the success of his enterprise and wreak havoc when they opened fire. The snow seemed to deaden all noise so that the ship rose and fell like a ghost as minute succeeded minute. Drinkwater walked forward to the starboard hance. He wondered what the odds were upon them being run down. Even if they were, he consoled himself, mastering the feeling of rising panic that always preceded action, they would seriously jeopardise Missiessy's escape and the Admiralty would approve of that.

'Sir!' Quilhampton's voice hissed with urgent sibilance and he looked up to see the lieutenant's iron hook pointing off to starboard. For an instant Drinkwater hesitated, his mind uncertain. Then he heard shouting, the creak of rigging and the hiss of a bow wave. The shouting was not urgent, they themselves were undetected, but on board the Frenchman petty officers were lambasting an unpractised crew. And then he saw the ship, looking huge and black, the white patches of her sails invisible in the snow.

'Main-braces!' he hissed with violent urgency. 'Up helm!'

Drinkwater had no alternative but to risk being raked by the Frenchman's broadside. If the crew of the enemy battleship were at their guns, a single discharge would cripple the British frigate. But he hoped fervently that they would not see Antigone in so unexpected a place; that the novelty of being at sea would distract their attention inboard where, he knew, a certain amount of confusion was inevitable after so long a period at anchor. Besides, he could not risk losing control of his ship by attempting to tack from a standing start. Hove-to with no forward motion, Antigone would jib at passing through the wind and probably be caught 'in irons'.

A group of marines were at the spanker brails, hauling in the big after-sail as Antigone turned, gathering way and answering her helm. At the knightheads Quilhampton's raised arm indicated he still had contact with the enemy. They steadied the ship dead before the wind. Drinkwater went forward to stand beside Quilhampton and listen. The frigate was scending in the following sea and Drinkwater knew the wind, already at gale force, had not finished rising. If he was to achieve anything it would have to be soon. He strained his ears to hear. Above the creak of Antigone's fabric and the hiss and surge of her bow-wave he caught the muffled sound of orders, orders passed loudly and with some urgency as though the giver of those instructions was anxious, and the recipients slow to comprehend. There were a few words he recognised: 'Vite! Vite!' and 'Allez!' and the obscenity 'Jean-Foutre!' of some egalitarian officer in the throes of frustration. And then suddenly he saw the flat surface of the huge stern with its twin rows of stern windows looming through the snow. Drinkwater raced aft.

'Stand by larbowlines! Give her the main course!'

Then they could all see the enemy as a sudden rent in the snow opened up a tiny circle of sea. The gun-captains were frantically spiking their guns round to aim on the bow and Drinkwater looked up to see an officer on the battleship's quarter. He was waving his hat at them and shouting something.

'By God, he thinks we're one of his own frigates come too close!'

Drinkwater watched the relative angles between the two ships. There was a great flogging and rattle of blocks as the main clew-garnets were let run and the waisters hauled down the tacks and sheets of the main-course. The relative angle began to open and someone on the French battleship realised his mistake.

He heard someone scream 'Merde!' and ordered Antigone's course altered to starboard. Standing by the larboard hance he screwed up one eye.

'Fire!'

The blast and roar of the guns rolled over them, the thunderous climax of Drinkwater's mad enterprise. The yellow flashes from the cannon muzzles were unnaturally bright in the gloom as the snow closed round them once again. He caught a glimpse of the enemy's name in large gilt roman script across her stern: Magnanime.

The smoke from the guns hung in the air, drifting forward slowly then suddenly gone, whipped away. The gunners were swabbing, reloading and hauling out, holding up their hands when they were ready. The sound of enemy guns barked out of the obscurity and they were alone again, shut into their own tiny world, and the snow was falling thicker than ever.

'Fire!' yelled Rogers and the second broadside was discharged into the swirling wraiths of white. Antigone's deck took a sudden cant as her stern lifted and she drove violently forward. Down went her bow, burying itself to the knightheads, a great cushion of white water foaming up around her.

'Too much canvas, sir!' yelled Hill. Drinkwater nodded.

'Secure the guns and shorten down!'

It took the combined efforts of fifty men to furl the mainsail. The huge, unreefed sail, set to carry them alongside the Magnanime, threatened to throw them off the yard as they struggled. In the end Lieutenant Fraser went aloft and the great sail was tamed and the process repeated with the fore-course. At the end of an hour's labour Antigone had hauled her yards round and lay on the starboard tack, her topsails hard reefed and her topgallant masts sent down as the gale became a storm and Drinkwater edged her north to report the break-out of Missiessy and the fact that he had lost contact with the enemy in the snow and violent weather.

Antigone was able to hold her new course for less than an hour. Laughing and chaffing each other, the watch below had been piped down when they were called again. Drinkwater regained the deck to find the wind chopping rapidly round, throwing up a high, breaking and confused sea that threw the ship over and broke on board in solid green water. For perhaps fifteen minutes the wind dropped, almost to a calm while the snow continued to fall. The ship failed to answer her helm as she lost way. The men milled about in the waist and the officers stood apprehensive as they tried to gauge the new direction from which the wind would blow. A few drops of rain fell, mingled with wet snow flakes.

'Sou'wester!' Hill and Drinkwater shouted together. 'Stand by! Man the braces!'

It came with the unimaginable violence that only seamen experience. The squall hit Antigone like a gigantic fist, laying her sails aback, tearing the fore-topsail clean from its bolt ropes and away to leeward like a lost handkerchief. The frigate lay over under the air pressure in her top-hamper and water bubbled in through her closed gun-ports. From below came the crash and clatter of the mess kids and coppers on the galley stove, together with a ripe torrent of abuse hurled at the elements by the cook and his suddenly eloquent mates.

'Lee braces, there! Look lively my lads! Aloft and secure that raffle!'

With a thunderous crack and a tremble that could be felt throughout the ship the main-topmast sprang at the instant the main-topsail also blew out of its bolt ropes, and then the first violent spasm of the squall was past and the wind steadied, blowing at a screaming pitch as they struggled to bring the bucking ship under control again.

The gale blew for several days. The rain gave way to mist and the mist, on the morning of the 15th, eventually cleared. On the horizon to the north Drinkwater and Hill recognised the outline of the Ile d'Yeu and debated their next move. Felix must by now have communicated the news of Missiessy's break-out to Graves, in which case Graves would have withdrawn towards Cornwallis off Ushant. But supposing something had happened to Bourne and the Felix? After such an easterly wind Graves would be worried that Missiessy had gone, and gone at a moment when, through sheer necessity, his own back had been turned. Graves would have returned to Rochefort and might be waiting there now, unable to get close inshore to see into the Basque Road, for fear of the continuing gale catching him on a lee shore.

'He'd be locking the stable door after the horse had gone,' said Hill reflectively.

'Quite so,' replied Drinkwater. 'And we could fetch the Ile de Ré on one tack under close-reefed topsails to clarify the situation. If Graves is not there we will have lost but a day in getting to Cornwallis. Very well,' Drinkwater made up his mind, clapped his hand over his hat and fought to keep his footing on the tilting deck. 'Course south-east, let us look into the Basque Road and see if Graves has regained station.'

On the morning of the 16th they found Graves off the Ile d'Oléron having just been informed by the Felix of Missiessy's departure. In his search for the admiral, Bourne had also run across the French squadron heading north. During a long morning of interminable flag hoists it was established that this encounter had occurred after Drinkwater's brush with the enemy and therefore established that Missiessy's task was probably to cause trouble in Ireland. This theory was lent particular force by Drinkwater's report that troops were embarked. It was a tried strategy of the French government and the signalling system was not capable of conveying Drinkwater's theory about the West Indies. In truth, on that particular morning, with the practical difficulties in handling the ship and attending to the admiral, Drinkwater himself was not overconfident that he was right. Besides, there was other news that permeated the squadron during that blustery morning, news more closely touching themselves. In getting into Quiberon Bay to warn Graves, the Don's had found the admiral already gone. Struggling seawards again, Doris had struck a rock and, after great exertions by Campbell and his people, had foundered. Felix had taken off her crew and all were safe, but the loss of so fine a frigate and the escape of Missiessy cast a shadow over the morale of the squadron. Afterwards Drinkwater was to remember that morning as the first of weeks of professional frustration; when it seemed that providence had awarded its laurels to the Imperial eagle of France, that despite the best endeavours of the Royal Navy, the weeks of weary and remorseless blockade, the personal hardships of every man-jack and boy in the British fleet, their efforts were to come to naught.

But for the time being Graves's squadron had problems of its own. The morning of signalling had thrown them to leeward and in the afternoon they were unable to beat out of the bay and compelled to anchor. When at last the weather moderated, Graves reported to Cornwallis, only to find Sir William in ailing health, having himself been driven from his station to shelter in Torbay. For a while the ships exchanged news and gossip. Cornwallis was said to have requested replacement, while it was known that Admiral Latouche-Tréville had died at Toulon and been replaced by Admiral Villeneuve, the only French flag-officer to have escaped from Nelson's devastating attack in Aboukir Bay. Of what had happened to Missiessy no one was quite sure, but it was certain that he had not gone to Ireland. A few weeks later it was common knowledge that he had arrived at Martinique in the West Indies.

Chapter Twelve The Look-Out Frigate

'Well, Mr Gillespy, you seem to be making some progress.' Drinkwater closed the boy's journal. 'Your aunt would be pleased, I'm sure,' he added wryly, thinking of the garrulous Mistress MacEwan. 'I have some hopes of you making a sea-officer.'

'Thank you, sir.' The boy looked pleased. He had come out of his shell since the departure of Walmsley, and Drinkwater knew that Frey had done much to protect him from the unimaginative and over-bearing Glencross. He also knew that James Quilhampton kept a close eye on the boy, ever mindful of Gillespy's relationship with Catriona MacEwan; while Lieutenant Fraser lost no opportunity to encourage a fellow Scot among the bear-pit of Sassenachs that made up the bulk of the midshipmen's berth. He was aware that he had been staring at the boy for too long and smiled.

'I trust you are quite happy?' he asked, remembering again how this boy reminded him of his own son. He should not care for Richard Madoc to go to sea with a man who did not take some interest in him.

'Oh yes, sir.'

'Mmmm.' The removal of Walmsley's influence charged that short affirmative with great significance. Drinkwater remembered his own life in the cockpit. It had not been happy.

'Very well, Mr Gillespy. Cut along now, cully.'

The boy turned away, his hat tucked under his arm, the small dirk in its gleaming brass scabbard bouncing on his hip. The pity of his youth and circumstance hit Drinkwater like a blow. The boy's account of the action with the Magnanime read with all the fervent patriotism of youth. There was much employment of unworthy epithets. The Frogs had run from the devastating (spelt wrongly) thunder of our glorious cannon. It was the language of London pamphleteers, a style that argued a superiority of ability Drinkwater did not like to see in one so young. It was not Gillespy's fault, of course; he was subject to the influence of his time. But Drinkwater had suffered enough reverses in his career to know the folly of under-estimation.

The Magnanime had been commanded by Captain Allemand, he had discovered, one of the foremost French naval officers. It was too easy to assume that because the major part of their fleets was blockaded in harbour they were not competent seamen. With Missiessy's squadron at sea, several hundred Frenchmen would be learning fast, to augment the considerable number of French cruisers already out. Drinkwater sighed, rose and poured himself a glass of blackstrap. He was at a loss to know why he was so worried. There were captains and admirals senior to him whose responsibilities far exceeded his own. All he had to do was to patrol his cruising area, one of a cloud of frigates on the look-out for any enemy movements, who linked the major units of the British fleet, ready to pass news, to pursue or strike at enemy cruisers, and hold the Atlantic seaboard of France and Spain under a constant vigilance.

It was all very well, Drinkwater ruminated, in theory. But the practicalities were different as the events of January had shown. To the east the French Empire was under the direction of a single man. Every major military and naval station was in contact with Napoleon, whose policy could be quickly disseminated by interior lines of communication. No such factors operated in Great Britain's favour. Britain was standing on the defensive. She had no army to speak of and what she had of one was either policing the raw new industrial towns of the Midlands or preparing to go overseas on some madcap expedition to the east under Sir James Craig. Her government was shaky and the First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord Melville, was to be impeached for corruption. Her dispersed fleets were without quick communication, every admiral striving to do his best but displaying that fatal weakness of disagreement and dislike that often ruined the ambitions of the mighty. Orde, off Cadiz, hated Nelson, off Toulon, and the sentiment was returned with interest. Missiessy at sea was bad enough (and Drinkwater still smarted from a sense of failure to keep contact with the French, despite the weather at the time), but the spectre of more French battleships at sea worried every cruiser commander. With that thought he poured a second glass of wine. He doubted Ganteaume would get out of Brest, but Gourdon might give Calder the slip at Ferrol, and Villeneuve might easily get past Nelson with his slack and provocative methods. And that still left the Spanish out of the equation. They had ships at Cartagena and Cadiz, fine ships too…

His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the cabin door. 'Enter!'

Rogers came in followed by Mr Lallo. There was enough in the expressions on their faces to know that they brought bad news. 'What is it, gentlemen?'

'It's Waller, sir…'

'He had a bad fit this morning, sir,' put in Lallo, 'I had confined him to a straitjacket, sir, but he got loose, persuaded some accomplice to let him go.' Lallo paused.

'And?'

'He went straight to the galley, sir, picked up a knife and slashed both his wrists. He was dead by the time I'd got to him.'

'Good God.' A silence hung in the cabin. Drinkwater thought of Waller defying him at Nagtoralik Bay and of how far he had fallen. 'Who let him go?'

'One of his damned whale-men, I shouldn't wonder,' said Rogers.

'Yes. That is likely. I suppose he may still have commanded some influence over them. There is little likelihood that we will discover who did it, Mr Lallo.'

The surgeon shrugged. 'No, sir. Well he's dead now and fit only for the sail-maker to attend.'

'You had better see to it, Mr Rogers.'

It was one of the ironies of the naval service, Drinkwater thought as he stood by the pinrail where the fore-sheet was belayed, that a man killed honourably in battle might be hurriedly shoved through a gun-port to avoid incommoding his mates as they plied their murderous trade, while a man whose death was as ignominious as Waller's, was attended by all the formal pomp of the Anglican liturgy. Casting his eyes over Antigone's assembled crew, the double irony hit him that only a few would be even vaguely familiar with his words. The half-dozen negroes, three Arabs and sixty Irishmen might even resent their being forced to witness a rite that, in Waller's case, might be considered blasphemous. He doubted any of the others, the Swede, Norwegians, three renegade Dutchmen and Russians, understood the words. Nevertheless he ploughed on, raising his voice as he read from Elizabeth's father's Prayer Book.

'We therefore commit…' he nodded at the burial party who raised the board upon which Waller's corpse lay stiffly sewn into his hammock under the ensign, 'his body to the deep…'

The prayer finished he closed the book and put his hat on. The officers followed suit. 'Square away, Mr Rogers, let us continue with our duties.'

He turned away and walked along the gangway as the main-yards were hauled, and was in the act of descending the companionway when he was halted by the masthead look-out.

'Deck there! Sail-ho! Broad on the lee quarter!'

Drinkwater shoved the Prayer Book in his tail-pocket and pulled out his Dolland pocket glass. It was a frigate coming up hand over fist from the southward, carrying every stitch of canvas the steady breeze allowed. Even at a distance they could see bunting streaming to leeward.

'She's British, anyway.' Of that there could be little doubt and within half an hour a boat danced across the water towards them.

'Boat ahoy!'

'Fisgard!' came the reply, and Drinkwater nodded to his first lieutenant.

'Side-party, Mr Rogers.' He turned to Frey who was consulting his lists.

'Captain Lord Mark Kerr, sir.'

'Bloody hell,' muttered Rogers as he called out the marine guard and the white-gloved side-boys to rig their fancy baize-covered man-ropes. Captain Lord Kerr hauled himself energetically over the rail and seized Drinkwater's hand.

'Drinkwater ain't it?'

'Indeed sir,' said Drinkwater, meeting his lordship as an equal upon his own quarterdeck.

'The damnedest thing, Drinkwater. Villeneuve's out!'

'What?'

Kerr nodded. 'I was refitting in Gib when he passed the Strait. I got out as soon as I could; sent my second luff up the Med to tell Nelson…'

'You mean Nelson wasn't in pursuit?' Drinkwater interrupted.

Kerr shook his head. 'No sign of him. I reckon he's off to the east again, just like the year one…'

'East. Good God he should be going west. Doesn't he know Missiessy's at Martinique waiting for him?'

'The devil he is!' exclaimed Kerr, digesting this news. 'I doubt Nelson knows of it. By God, that makes my haste the more necessary!'

'What about Orde, for God's sake?'

'He was victualling off Cadiz. Fell back when Villeneuve approached.'

'God's bones!'

Kerr came to a decision. In the circumstances it did not seem to matter which was the senior officer, they were both of one mind. 'I'm bound to let Calder know off Ferrol, and then to Cornwallis off Ushant. I daresay Billy-go-tight will send me on to the Admiralty.'

'Billy's ashore, now. Been relieved by Lord Gardner,' interrupted Drinkwater. 'And what d'you want me to do? Cruise down towards the Strait and hope that Nelson comes west?'

Kerr nodded, already turning towards the rail. 'First rate, Drinkwater. He must realise his mistake soon, even if my lieutenant ain't caught up with him. The sooner Nelson knows that Missiessy's out as well, the sooner we might stop this rot from spreading.' He held out his hand and relaxed for an instant. 'When I think how we've striven to maintain this damned blockade, only to have it blown wide open by a minute's ill-fortune!'

'My sentiments exactly. Good luck!' Drinkwater waved his hastening visitor over the side. Something of the urgency of Kerr's news had communicated itself to the ship, for Antigone was under way to the southward even before Kerr had reached Fisgard.

As soon as Drinkwater had satisfied himself that Antigone set every inch of canvas she was capable of carrying, he called Rogers and Hill below, spreading his charts on the table before him. He outlined the situation and the import of his news struck home.

'By God,' said Rogers, 'the Frogs could outflank us!' Drinkwater suppressed a smile. The very idea that they could be bested by a handful of impudent, frog-eating 'mounseers' seemed to strike Rogers with some force. His lack of imagination was, Drinkwater reflected, typical of his type. Hill, on the other hand, was more ruminative.

'You say Nelson's gone east, sir, chasing the idea of a French threat to India again?'

'Something of that order, Mr Hill.'

'While in reality the West India interests will already be howling for Pitt's blood. Who's in the West Indies at the moment? Cochrane?'

'And Dacres, with no more than a dozen of the line between them,' added Rogers.

'If Missiessy and Villeneuve combine with whatever cruisers the French have already got out there, I believe that we may be in for a thin time. Meanwhile we have to edge down to the Strait. What strikes me as paramount is our need to tell Nelson what is happening. I dare not enter the Med for fear of missing him, so we must keep station off Cape Spartel until Nelson appears. He may then close on the Channel in good time if the French have to recross the Atlantic. If Gardner holds the Channel and Nelson cruises off the Orkneys, we may yet stop 'em.'

'If not,' said Hill staring down at the chart, 'then God help us all.'

'Amen to that,' said Drinkwater.

They did not meet Orde but five days later they found his sloop Beagle cruising off Cape Spartel, having observed the passage of Villeneuve's fleet and now lying in wait for Nelson. From Beagle Drinkwater learned that Villeneuve had been reinforced by Spanish ships from Cadiz under Admiral Gravina and that Beagle had lost contact when the Combined Fleet headed west.

'I knew it!' Drinkwater had muttered to himself when he learned this. He promptly ordered Beagle to rejoin Orde who was, he thought, falling back on the Channel to reinforce Lord Gardner. As Beagle's sails disappeared over the horizon to the north and the Atlas Mountains rose blue in the haze to the east, Drinkwater remarked to Quilhampton and Fraser:

'There is nothing more we can do, gentlemen, until his lordship arrives.'

During the first week of May the wind blew westerly through the Strait of Gibraltar, foul for Nelson slipping out into the Atlantic. Drinkwater decided to take advantage of it and enter the Strait. He was extremely anxious about the passage of time as day succeeded day and Nelson failed to appear. If there was no news of Nelson at Gibraltar, he reasoned, he could wait there and still catch his lordship. In addition Gibraltar might have news carried overland, despite the hostility of the Spanish.

Off Tarifa they spoke to a Swedish merchant ship which had just left Gibraltar. There was no news of Nelson but much of a diplomatic nature. Russia was again the ally of Great Britain and Austria was dallying with Britain's overtures. However, there was an even more disturbing rumour that Admiral Ganteaume had sailed from Brest. That evening the wind fell light, then swung slowly into the east. At dawn the following day the topgallants of a fleet were to be seen, and at last Drinkwater breakfasted in the great cabin of Victory, in company with Lord Nelson.

It was a hurried meal. Drinkwater told Nelson all he knew, invited to share the admiral's confidence as much for the news he brought as for the high regard Nelson held him in after his assistance at the battle of Copenhagen.

'My dear Drinkwater, I have been in almost perpetual darkness as Hardy here will tell you. I had for some time considered the West Indies a likely rendezvous for the fleets of France and Spain. Would to God I had had some news. I have been four months, Drinkwater, without a word, four months with nothing from the Admiralty. They tell me Melville is out of office… My God, I hoped for news before now.' The admiral turned to his flag-captain. 'How far d'you think he's gone, Hardy?'

'Villeneuve, my Lord?'

'Who else, for God's sake!'

Hardy seemed unmoved by his lordship's bile and raised his eyebrows reflectively, demonstrating a stolidity that contrasted oddly with the little admiral's feverish anxiety. 'He has a month's start. Even the French can cross the Atlantic in a month.'

'A month. The capture of Jamaica would be a blow which Bonaparte would be happy to give us!'

'Do you follow him there, my Lord?' Drinkwater asked.

'I had marked the Toulon Fleet for my own game, Captain; you say Orde has fallen back from Cadiz?'

'It seems so, my Lord.'

'Then Gardner will not greatly benefit from my ships.' He paused in thought, then appeared to make up his mind. He suddenly smiled, his expression flooded with resolution. He whipped the napkin from his lap and flung it down on the table, like a gauntlet.

'They're our game, Hardy, damn it. Perhaps none of us would wish exactly for a West India trip; but the call of our country is far superior to any consideration of self. Let us try and bag Villeneuve before he does too much damage, eh gentlemen?'

'And the Mediterranean, my Lord?' asked Hardy.

'Sir Richard Bickerton, Tom, we'll leave him behind to guard the empty stable and watch Salcedo's Dons in Cartagena.' Nelson raised his coffee cup and they toasted the enterprise.

'You may keep us company to Cadiz, Captain, I shall look in there and see what Orde is about before I sail west.'

Orde was not off Cadiz, but his storeships were, and Nelson plundered them freely in Lagos Bay. Then intelligence reached the British fleet from Admiral Donald Campbell in the Portuguese Navy that confirmed Drinkwater's information. Campbell also brought the news that a British military expedition with a very weak escort under Admiral Knight was leaving Lisbon, bound into the Mediterranean. Nelson therefore ordered his foulest-bottomed battleship, the Royal Sovereign, together with the frigate Antigone, to see the fleet of transports clear of the Strait of Gibraltar.

Thus it was with something of a sense of anti-climax and of belonging to a mere side-show that Antigone's log for the evening of 11th May 1805 read: Bore away in company R-Ad Knight's convoy. Cape St Vincent NW by N distant 7 leagues. Parted company Lord Nelson. Lord Nelson's fleet chasing to the westward.

Chapter Thirteen Calder's Action

'Fog, sir.'

'So I see.' Captain Drinkwater nodded to Lieutenant Quilhampton as he came on deck and stared round the horizon. The calm weather of the last few days had now turned cooler; what had first been a haze had thickened to mist and now to fog. 'Take the topsails off her, Mr Q. No point in chafing the gear to pieces.' So, her sails furled and her rigging dripping, Antigone lay like a log upon the vast expanse of the Atlantic which heaved gently to a low ground swell that told of a distant wind but only seemed to emphasise their own immobility.

Captain and third lieutenant fell to a companionable pacing of the deck, discussing the internal details of the ship.

'Purser reported another rotten cask of pork, sir.'

'From the batch shipped aboard off Ushant?'

'Yes, sir.'

'That makes seven.' Drinkwater cursed inwardly. He had been delighted to have been victualled and watered off Ushant after returning from the Strait of Gibraltar and Admiral Knight's convoy. Lord Gardner had been particular to ensure that all the cruising frigates were kept well stocked, but if they found many more bad casks of meat then his lordship's concern might be misplaced.

'I was just wondering, sir,' said Quilhampton conversationally, 'whether I'd rather be here than off Cadiz with Collingwood. Which station offers the best chance of action?'

'Difficult to say, James,' said Drinkwater, dropping their usual professional formality. 'When Gardner detached Collingwood to blockade Cadiz it was because he thought that Villeneuve and Gravina might have already returned there. When the report proved false, Collingwood sent two battleships west to reinforce Nelson and returned us to Calder. Opinion seems to incline towards keeping as many ships to the westward of the Bay of Biscay as possible. Prowse of Sirius told me the other day that both Calder and the Ushant squadron have virtually raised their separate blockades and are edging westwards in the hope of catching Villeneuve.'

'D'you think it will affect us, sir?'

Drinkwater shrugged. 'Not if my theory is right. Villeneuve will head more to the north and pass round Scotland. Besides, we don't know if Nelson caught up with him. Perhaps there has already been a battle in the West Indies.' He paused. 'What is it, James?'

Quilhampton frowned. 'I thought I heard… no, it's nothing. Wait! There it is again!'

Both men paused. As they listened the creaking of Antigone's gear seemed preternaturally loud. 'Gunfire!'

'Wait!' Drinkwater laid his hand on Quilhampton's arm. 'Wait and listen.' Both men leaned over the rail, to catch the sound nearer the water, unobstructed by the noises of the ship. The single concussion came again, followed at intervals by others. 'Those are minute guns, James! And since we know the whereabouts of Calder…'

'Villeneuve?'

'Or Nelson, perhaps. But we must assume the worst. My theory is wrong if you are right. And they have a wind. Perhaps we will too in an hour.'

He looked aloft at the pendant flying from the mainmast head. It was already beginning to lift a trifle. Drinkwater crossed the deck and stared into the binnacle. The compass card oscillated gently but showed clearly that the breeze was coming from the west.

'You know, James, that report we had that Ganteaume got out of Brest proved false.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, perhaps Villeneuve is coming back to spring Ganteaume from the Goulet and then make his descent upon the Strait of Dover.'

'Possibly, sir,' replied Quilhampton, unwilling to argue, and aware that Drinkwater must be allowed his prerogative. In Quilhampton's youthful opinion the Frogs were not capable of that kind of thing.

Drinkwater knew of the young officer's scepticism and said, 'Lord Barham has the same opinion of the French as myself, Mr Q, otherwise he would not have gone to all the trouble of ensuring they were intercepted.'

Thus mildly rebuked, Quilhampton realised his minutes of intimacy with the captain were over. While Drinkwater considered what to do until the breeze gave them steerage way, Quilhampton considered that, as far as second lieutenants were concerned, it did not seem to matter if Lord Melville or Lord Barham were in charge of the Admiralty; the lot of serving officers was still a wretched one.

The breeze came from the west at mid-morning. Setting all sail, Drinkwater pressed Antigone to the east-north-east. Then, at six bells in the forenoon watch there was a brief lifting of the visibility. To the north-west they made out the pale square of sails over the shapes of hulls, while to the north-east they saw Calder's look-out ship, Defiance. Both Antigone and Defiance threw out the signal for an enemy fleet in sight and fired guns. Drinkwater knew that Calder could not be far away. Immediately upon making his signal, Captain Durham of the Defiance turned his ship away, squaring her yards before the wind and retiring on the main body of the fleet. Taking his cue, Drinkwater ordered studding sails set and attempted to cross the enemy's van and rejoin his own admiral. Shortly after this the fog closed in again, although the breeze held and Drinkwater cleared the frigate for action.

'We seem destined to go into battle blind, Sam,' he said to the first lieutenant as Rogers took his post on the quarterdeck. 'Snow in January and bloody fog in July and this could be the decisive battle of the war, for God's sake!'

Rogers grunted his agreement. 'Only the poxy French could conjure up a bloody fog at a moment like this.'

Drinkwater grinned at Rogers's prejudice. 'It could be providence, Sam. What does the Bible say about God chastising those he loves best?'

'Damned if I know, sir, but a fleet action seems imminent and we're going to miss it because of fog!'

Drinkwater felt a spark of sympathy for Rogers. Distinguishing himself in such an action was Rogers's only hope of further advancement.

'Look, sir!' Another momentary lifting of the fog showed the French much nearer to them now, crossing their bows and holding a steadier breeze than reached Antigone.

'We shall be cut off, damn it,' muttered Drinkwater, suddenly realising that he might very well be fighting for his life within an hour. He turned on Rogers. 'Sam, serve the men something at their stations. Get food and grog into them. You have twenty minutes.'

It proved to be a very long twenty minutes to Drinkwater. In fact it stretched to an hour, then two. Drinkwater had seen no signals from Calder and had only a vague idea of the admiral's position. All he did know was that the French fleet lay between Antigone and the British line-of-battle ships. At about one in the afternoon the fog rolled back to become a mist, thickening from time to time in denser patches, so that they might see three-quarters of a mile one minute and a ship's length ahead the next. Into this enlarged visible circle the dim and sinister shapes of a battle-line emerged, led by the 80-gun Argonauta, flying the red and gold of Castile.

'It is the Combined Fleet, by God,' Drinkwater muttered as he saw the colours of Spain alternating with the tricolour of France. He spun Antigone to starboard, holding her just out of gunshot as she picked up the stronger breeze that had carried the enemy thus far.

A vague shape to the north westward looked for a little like the topsails of a frigate and Drinkwater hoped it was Sirius. At six bells in the afternoon watch he decided to shorten sail, hauled his yards and swung north, crossing the Spanish line a mile ahead of the leading ship which was flying an admiral's flag. Rogers was looking at him expectantly. At extreme range it seemed a ridiculous thing to do but he nodded his permission. Rogers walked the line of the larboard battery, checking and sighting each gun, doing what he was best at.

As he reached the aftermost gun he straightened up. 'Fire!'

Antigone shook as the guns recoiled amid the smoke of their discharge and their crews swabbed, loaded and rammed home. She trembled as the heavy carriages were hauled out through the open ports again and their muzzles belched fire and iron at the long-awaited enemy. As the smoke from the second broadside cleared they were rewarded by an astonishing sight. Little damage seemed to have been inflicted upon the enemy at the extremity of their range, but the Combined Fleet was heaving to.

'Probably thinks that Calder's just behind us out of sight,' Rogers put in, rubbing his hands with glee.

Drinkwater wore Antigone round and immediately the yards were squared they made out the shapes of two frigates on their larboard bow, dim, ghostly vessels close-hauled as they approached from the east.

'The private signal, Mr Frey, and look lively!' He did not want to be shot at as he retreated ahead of the French, and already he recognised Sirius with her emerald-green rail.

The colours of flags clarified as the ships closed and Drinkwater turned Antigone to larboard to come up on Sirius's quarter. The second British frigate, Égyptienne, loomed astern. Drinkwater saw Prowse step up on the rail with a speaking trumpet. 'Heard gunfire, Drinkwater. Was that you?'

'Yes! The Combined Fleet is just to windward of us!'

'Form line astern of the Égyptienne. Calder wants us to reconnoitre!'

'Aye, aye!' Drinkwater jumped down from the mizen chains. 'Back the mizen tops'l, Mr Hill. Fall in line astern of the Égyptienne.' Drinkwater watched Sirius disappear into a fog patch and the second frigate ghosted past. For one glorious moment at about seven bells in the afternoon the fog lifted and the mist rolled back, giving both fleets a glimpse of each other. Astern of the three westward-heading British frigates, the British fleet of fifteen ships-of-the-line was standing south-south-west on the starboard tack, their topgallants set above topsails, but with their courses clewed up. From Sir Robert Calder's 98-gun flagship, the Prince of Wales, flew the signal to engage the enemy. This was repeated from the masthead of his second in command, Rear-Admiral Stirling, on board the Glory.

To the southward of the three frigates the Combined Fleet straggled in a long line of twenty ships and a few distant frigates. Since they had hove to, they had adjusted their course, edging away from the British frigates which, in order to hold the wind, were also diverging to the north-west. Prowse made the signal to tack and Sirius began to ease round on the enemy rear. She was holding the fluky wind better than either Antigone or Égyptienne. A few minutes later the mist closed down again. Drinkwater set his courses in an attempt to catch up with Sirius and lost contact with the Égyptienne. He heard gunfire to the south and then the sound of a heavier cannonade to the south-east. Next to him Rogers was beside himself with impatience and frustration.

'God damn it, God damn it,' he muttered, grinding the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.

'For God's sake relax, Sam. You'll have apoplexy else.'

'This is agony, sir…'

'Steer for the guns, Mr Hill.' It was agonising for Drinkwater too. But whereas all Rogers had to do was wait for a target to present itself, Drinkwater worried about the presence of other ships, dreading a collision. Ahead of them the noise of cannon-fire was growing louder and more persistent. Then, once again, the fog rolled back, revealing broad on their larboard bow the shape of a battleship. This time the enemy were ready for them.

The roar of forty cannon fire in a ragged broadside split the air. The black hull of the 80-gun vessel towered over them as Rogers roared, 'Fire!'

Antigone's puny broadside rattled and thudded against the stranger's hull as they saw the red and yellow of Spain and an admiral's flag at her mainmasthead. The wind of the battleship's broadside passed them like a tornado but most of the shot whistled overhead, parting ropes and holing sails. One casualty occurred in the main-top and the main-mast was wounded by two balls, but the Antigone escaped the worst effects of such a storm of iron. As the great ship vanished in the mist Drinkwater read her name across the stern: Argonauta.

Then there were other ships passing them, the Terrible and America, both disdaining to fire on a frigate, and Drinkwater realised that the Combined Fleet had tacked and were standing north. In the confusion he wondered what on earth Calder was doing, and whether the British admiral had observed this movement. Then the outbreak of a general cannonade told him that the two fleets were still in contact, and the sudden appearance of spouts of water near them convinced him that the British fleet were just beyond the line of the enemy and that Antigone was in the line of fire of the British guns.

A little after five in the afternoon they made contact again with the Sirius. Both frigates then hauled round and stood towards the gunfire. Once they caught a glimpse of the action and, from what could be discerned, the two fleets were engaged in a confusing mêlée.

'I don't know what the devil to make of it, damned if I do,' remarked Hill tensely, his tone expressing the frustration they all felt. Antigone continued to edge down in the mist until darkness came, although the gunfire continued for some time afterwards.

'What in God Almighty's name are we doing?' asked Rogers, looking helplessly round the quarterdeck.

'Why nothing, Mr Rogers,' said Hill, who was finding the first lieutenant's constant moaning a trifle tedious. To windward of the group of officers Captain Drinkwater studied the situation, privately as mystified as his officers. On the day following the action the weather had remained hazy and the two fleets had manoeuvred in sight of each other. Both had been inactive, as though licking their wounds. After the utter confusion of the 22nd, the British were pleased to find themselves masters of two Spanish prizes. It was also clear that they had badly damaged several more. However, the British ships Windsor Castle and Malta were themselves in poor condition and preparing to detach for England and a dockyard.

The wind had held, the Combined Fleet remained with the advantage of the weather gauge, and Calder waited for Villeneuve to attack. But the allied commander hesitated.

'All I've had to do today,' remarked Rogers in one of his peevish outbursts, 'is report another three casks of pork as being rotten! I ask you, is that the kind of work fit for a King's sea-officer?'

Although the question had been rhetorical it had brought forth a sotto voce comment from Midshipman Glencross for which the young man had been sent to the foremasthead to cool his heels and guard his tongue. As Drinkwater had written in his journal, the last days had been inconclusive if our task is to annihilate the enemy. And today, it seemed, was to be worse. The wind had shifted at dawn and every ship in the British fleet hourly expected Calder to form his line, station his frigates to windward for the repeating of his signals, and to bear down upon the enemy. As hour after hour passed and the wind increased slowly to a fresh breeze and then to a near gale, nothing happened. Villeneuve's fleet edged away to the north. By six o'clock in the evening the Combined Fleet was out of sight.

'Well,' remarked Lieutenant Fraser as he took over the deck and the hands were at last stood down from their quarters, 'at least we stopped them getting into Ferrol, but it's no' cricket we're playing. I wonder what they'll think o'this in London?'

Chapter Fourteen The Fog of War

'Dear God, how many more?'

'Best part of the ground tier, sir, plus a dozen other casks among the batch shipped aboard off Ushant. I'd guess some of that pork was pickled back in the American War.'

Drinkwater sighed. Rogers might be exaggerating, but then again it was equally possible that he was not. 'If we ain't careful, Sam, we'll be obliged to request stores; just at the moment that would be intolerable. Apart from anything else we must wait on this rendezvous a day or two more.'

'D'you think there's going to be a battle then? After that farting match last week? There's a rumour that Calder is going to be called home to face a court-martial,' Rogers said, a note of irreverent glee in his voice.

'I'm damned if I know where these infernal rumours start,' Drinkwater said sharply. 'You should know better than believe 'em.'

Rogers shrugged. 'Well, it's not my problem, sir, whereas these casks of rotten pork are.'

'Damn it!' Drinkwater rose, his chair squeaking backwards with the violence of his movement. 'Damn it! D'you know Sam,' he said, unlocking the spirit case and pouring two glasses of rum, 'I've never felt so uncomfortable before. That business the other day was shameful. We should never have let the French get away unmolested. God knows what'll come of it… we don't know where the devil they are now. The only ray of hope is that Calder has joined forces with Gardner or Cornwallis if he's back on station, and that Nelson's rejoined 'em from the West Indies. With that concentration off Ushant, at least the Channel will be secure, but it is the uncertainty of matters that unsettles me.'

Rogers nodded his agreement. 'Worse than a damned fog.'

'But you want to know about the pork,' Drinkwater sighed. 'How many weeks can we last out at the present rate?'

Rogers shrugged, considered for a moment and said, 'Ten, possibly eleven.'

'Very well. I'll see what I can do about securing some from another ship in due course.'

'Beg pardon, sir, but what are our orders?'

'Well, we are to sit tight here on Calder's rendezvous for a week. Aeolus and Phoenix are within a hundred miles of us, with the seventy-four Dragon not so far. We are intended to observe Ferrol.' Drinkwater opened one of the charts that lay, almost permanently now, upon his table top. He laid his finger on a spot a hundred miles north-north-west of Cape Finisterre, 'The four of us are holding Calder's old post between us while he retires on the Channel Fleet in case Villeneuve makes his expected push for the Channel.'

'And if Villeneuve obliges and the Channel Fleet does no better than Calder did t'other day, then I'd say Boney had a better than even chance of getting his own way in the Dover Strait.'

'I doubt if Cornwallis would let him…'

'But you said yourself, sir, that Cornwallis might not yet be back at sea. What's Gardner's fighting temper?'

'We'll have little enough to worry about if Nelson's back…'

'But maybe he isn't. And even Nelson could be fooled by a fog. 'Tis high summer, just what the bloody French want. I reckon they'd be across in a week.'

Drinkwater fell silent. He was not of sufficiently different an opinion to contradict Rogers. He poured them each another glass.

'To be candid, Sam, things look pretty black.'

'Like the Earl of Hell's riding boots.'

No such strategic considerations preoccupied James Quilhampton as, for the duration of his watch and in the absence of the captain, he paced the weather side of the quarterdeck. His mind was far from the cares of the ship, daydreaming away his four hours on deck as Antigone rode the blue waters of the Atlantic under easy sail. He was wholly given to considering his circumstances in so far as they were affected by Miss Catriona MacEwan. From time to time, as he walked up and down, his right hand would clasp the stump of his left arm and he would curse the iron hook that he wore in place of a left hand. Although he possessed several alternatives, including one made for him on the bomb-vessel Virago that had been painted and was a tolerable likeness to the real thing, he felt that such a disfigurement was unlikely to enable him to secure the young woman as his wife. He cursed his luck. The wound that had seemed such an honourable mark in his boyhood now struck him for what it really was, a part of him that was gone for ever, its absence making him abnormal, abominable. How foolish it now seemed to consider it in any other way. The pride with which he had borne home his iron hook now appeared ridiculous. He had seen the pity in Catriona's eyes together with the disgust. As he recollected the circumstances it seemed that her revulsion had over-ridden her pity. He was maimed; there was no other way to look at the matter. Certainly that harridan of an aunt would point out James Quilhampton had no prospects, no expectations, no fortune and no left hand!

But she had been undeniably pleasant to him, surely. He pondered the matter, turning over the events of their brief acquaintanceship, recollecting the substance of her half-dozen letters that led him to suppose she, at least, viewed his friendship if not his suit with some favour. Reasoning thus he raised himself out of his despondency only to slump back into it when he considered the uncertainty of his fate. He was in such a brown study that the quartermaster of the watch had to call his attention to the masthead's hail.

'Deck! Deck there!'

'Eh? What? What is it?'

'Eight sail to the norrard, sir!'

'What d'you make of 'em?'

'Clean torps'ls, sir, Frenchmen!'

'Pass word for the captain!' Quilhampton shouted, scrambling up on the rail with the watch glass and jamming himself against the mizen shrouds. Within minutes Drinkwater was beside him.

'Where away, Mr Q?'

'I can't see them from the deck, sir… wait! One, two… six… eight, sir. Eight sail and they are French!'

Drinkwater levelled his own glass and studied the newcomers as they sailed south, tier after tier of sails lifting over the horizon until he could see the bulk of their hulls and the white water foaming under their bows as they manoeuvred into line abreast.

'Casting a net to catch us,' he said, adding, 'six of the line and two frigates to match or better us.' In the prevailing westerly breeze escape to the north was impossible. But the enemy squadron was sailing south, for the Spanish coast, the Straits of Gibraltar or the Mediterranean itself. Which? And why south if the main strength of the Combined Fleet had gone north? Perhaps it had not; perhaps Villeneuve had got past the cordon of British frigates and into Ferrol or Corunna, or back into the Mediterranean. Perhaps this detachment of ships was part of Villeneuve's fleet, an advance division sent out to capture the British frigates that were Barham's eyes and ears. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. God only knew what the truth was.

Drinkwater suddenly knew one thing for certain: he had seen at least one of the approaching ships before. The scarlet strake that swept aft from her figurehead was uncommon. She was Allemand's Magnanime, and there too was the big Majestueux. It was the Rochefort Squadron, back from the West Indies and now heading south!

'Mr Rogers!'

'Sir?'

'Make sail!' Drinkwater closed his glass with a snap. 'Starboard tack, stuns'ls aloft and alow, course sou' by east!'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

'Mr Quilhampton!'

'Sir?'

'A good man aloft with a glass. I want to know the exact progress of this chase and I don't want to lose M'sieur Allemand a second time.'

He fell to pacing the deck, occasionally turning and looking astern at the enemy whose approach had been slowed by Antigone's increase in sail. The British frigate would run south ahead of the French squadron. It was not Drinkwater's business to engage a superior enemy, nor to risk capture. It was his task to determine whither M. Allemand was bound and for what reason. It was also necessary to let Collingwood, off Cadiz, know that a powerful enemy division was at sea and cruising on his lines of communication.

Drinkwater could not be expected to have more than the sketchiest notion of the true state of affairs during the last week of July and the first fortnight in August. But his professional observations and deductions were vital in guiding his mind to its decisions and, like half a dozen fellow cruiser captains, he played his part in those eventful weeks. Unknown to Drinkwater and after the action with Calder's fleet, Villeneuve had gone to Vigo Bay to land his wounded and refit his damaged ships. From Vigo he had coasted to Ferrol where the fast British seventy-four Dragon had spotted his ships at anchor. More French and Spanish ships had joined his fleet and he sailed from Ferrol on 13 August, being sighted by the Iris whose captain concluded from the Combined Fleet's westerly course that it was attempting a junction with the Rochefort Squadron before turning north. However, events turned out otherwise, for the wind was foul for the Channel. Villeneuve missed Allemand, encountered what he thought was part of a strong British force but was in fact Dragon and some frigates, swung south and arrived off Cape St Vincent on the 18th. Breaking up a small British convoy and forcing aside Vice-Admiral Collingwood's few ships, Villeneuve's Combined Fleet of thirty-six men-of-war passed into the safety of the anchorage behind the Mole of Cadiz. That evening Collingwood's token force resumed its blockade.

Drinkwater had tenaciously hung on to Allemand's flying squadron, running ahead of his frigates as the French commodore edged eastwards and then, apparently abandoning the half-hearted chasing off of the British cruiser, turning away for Vigo Bay. As soon as Drinkwater ascertained the French commander's intentions he made all sail to the south, arriving off Cadiz twenty-four hours after Villeneuve. He called away his barge and put off to HMS Dreadnought, Collingwood's flagship, to report the presence of the Rochefort ships at Vigo, expecting Collingwood's despatches for the Channel immediately.

Instead the dour Northumbrian looked up from his desk, his serious face apparently unmoved by Drinkwater's news.

'Have you looked into Cadiz, Captain Drinkwater? No? I thought not.' Collingwood sighed, as though weary beyond endurance. 'Villeneuve's whole fleet passed into the Grand Road yesterday…'

'I am too late then, sir.'

'With the chief news, yes.' Collingwood did not smile, but the tone of his tired voice was kindly.

'And my orders?'

'I have four ships of the line here, Captain, to blockade thirty to forty enemy men of war. You will remain with us.'

'Very well, sir.' Drinkwater turned to go.

'Oh, Captain…'

'Sir?'

'From your actions you appear an officer of energy. I should be pleased to see your frigate close inshore.'

Drinkwater acknowledged the vice-admiral's veiled compliment gravely. In the weeks to come he was to learn that this had been praise indeed.

Chapter Fifteen Nelson

'The tower of San Sebastian bearing south-a-half-west, sir,' Hill straightened up from the pelorus vanes.

'Very well!' Drinkwater closed his Dolland glass with a snap, pocketed it and jumped down from the carronade slide. He took a look over Gillespy's shoulder as the boy's pencil dotted his final full stop.

'You make a most proficient secretary, Mr Gillespy,' he said, patting the boy's shoulder in a paternal gesture that spoke of his high spirits. He turned to the first lieutenant. 'Wear ship, Sam!'

'Aye, aye, sir. Sail trimmers, stand by!'

Antigone's company were at their quarters, the frigate cleared for action as she took her daily look into Cadiz harbour. The hills of Spain almost surrounded them, green and brown, spreading from the town of Rota to the north, to the extremity of the Mole of Cadiz, that long barrier which separated the anchorage of the Combined Fleets of France and Spain from the watching and waiting British. From Antigone's quarterdeck the long mole had fore-shortened and disappeared behind the white buildings of the town of Cadiz which terminated in the tower of San Sebastian. The tower had fallen abaft their beam and ahead of them the islets of Los Cochinos, Las Puercas, El Diamante and La Galera barred their passage. Beyond the islets, beneath the distant blue-green summit of the Chiclana hill, the black mass of the Combined Fleet lay, safely at anchor.

Drinkwater turned to Midshipman Frey, busy with paint-box and paper at the rail. 'You will have to finish now, Mr Frey.' He looked from the masts of the enemy to the hurried watercolour executed by the midshipman. 'You do justice to the effects of the sunshine on the water.'

'Thank you, sir.' Frey and Gillespy exchanged glances. The captain was very complimentary this morning.

'Ready to wear, sir,' reported Rogers.

Drinkwater, his hands behind his back, drew a lungful of air. 'Very well, Sam. See to it.' He felt unusually expansive this bright morning, deriving an enormous sense of satisfaction from his advanced post almost under the very guns of Cadiz itself. He knew that Antigone had joined the fleet at a fortuitous moment and that Collingwood was desperately short of frigates. As soon as the admiral had seen Villeneuve into Cadiz he had sent off his fastest frigate, the Euryalus, commanded by one of the best cruiser captains in the navy, the Honourable Henry Blackwood. Blackwood was to inform Cornwallis off Ushant, and then Barham at the Admiralty in London. The departure of Euryalus left Collingwood with only one other frigate and the bomb-vessel Hydra until Drinkwater's arrival with Antigone. Their present task, although not so very different from their duties of the last eighteen months, seemed more crucial. There was an inescapable sense of expectancy in the fleet off southern Spain. Among the captains of the line-of-battleships cruising offshore this manifested itself in frustration. Collingwood was not an expansive man. His orders to his fleet were curt. The ship's commanders were forbidden to visit each other, there was to be no dining together, no gossip; just the remorseless business of forming line, wearing, tacking and, from time to time, running for Gibraltar or Tetuan for water, meat and other necessaries.

But close up to the entrance of Cadiz, Drinkwater was blissfully unconcerned. He had no desire to exchange stations, for it was here, opinion held, that an action would soon occur. He was not sure whence came these rumours. There was some extraordinary communication between the ships of a fleet that made even the Admiralty telegraph seem slow. Collingwood had been reinforced by the ships of Admiral Bickerton which Nelson had left in the Mediterranean when he chased the Toulon Fleet to the West Indies. Bickerton, his health in ruins, had gone home, but his ships had brought rumour from east of Gibraltar, while the regular logistical communication with Gibraltar ensured that news from Spain gradually permeated the fleet. It was a curious thing, reflected Drinkwater, as Antigone completed her turn and the after-sail was reset, that what began in a fleet as rumour was often borne out as fact a few days or weeks later.

'Ship's on the starboard tack, sir,' reported Rogers.

'Very well.' Drinkwater crossed the deck and watched the white walls of Cadiz slowly open out on the larboard beam, exposing the long mole to the south as the frigate beat out of Cadiz bay.

'Mr Frey, make ready the signal for "The enemy has topgallant masts hoisted and yards crossed".'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater idly watched Lieutenant Mount parading his marines for their daily inspection. He was reluctant to go below and break his mood by a change of scenery. Instead he continued his walk. They knew here, off Cadiz, that Pitt's alienation of Spain had been countered by the acquisition of Austria as an ally, and that there was word of a Russian and Austrian army taking the field. He learned also that the commander of the Rochefort Squadron that had so lately pursued him had been Commodore Allemand, promoted after the departure of Missiessy for Paris. What had become of Allemand now, no one seemed certain.

Drinkwater crossed the deck and began pacing the windward side, deep in thought. There was only one cloud on the horizon and that was their dwindling provisions. They had found more pork rotten, a quantity of flour and dried peas spoiled, and the purser and Rogers were reminding him daily of their increasingly desperate need to revictual. Despite Bickerton's ships, Collingwood was still outnumbered. He had hoped that events would have come to some sort of crux before now, but it seemed that Villeneuve delayed as long as possible in Cadiz. All coastal trade had ceased since Collingwood had detached a couple of small cruisers to halt it in an effort to starve Villeneuve out, and much of the business of supplying Cadiz with food was being carried out in Danish ships. It was known that things inside the town were becoming desperate: there seemed little love lost between the French and Spaniards and it was even rumoured that a few Frenchmen had been found murdered in the streets.

'Main fleet's in sight, sir,' reported Quilhampton, breaking his train of thought and forcing him to concentrate upon the matter in hand. He nodded at Frey.

'Very well. Mr Frey, you may make the signal'

The rolled-up flags rose off the deck and were hoisted swiftly on the lee flag-halliards. The signal yeoman jerked the ropes and the flags broke out, streaming gaily to leeward and informing Collingwood of the latest moves of Villeneuve.

'Deck there! Vessels to the north…'

They watched the approach of the strangers with interest as they stood away from the Dreadnought. Collingwood threw out no signals for their interception and they were identified as more reinforcements for the British squadron securing Villeneuve in Cadiz, reinforcements from Ushant under Vice-Admiral Calder.

'Well, Sam,' remarked Drinkwater, 'that's one rumour that is untrue.'

'What's that, sir?'

'You said that Calder was going to be court-martialled and here he is as large as life.'

'Oh well, I suppose that shuts the door on Villeneuve then.'

'I wonder,' mused Drinkwater.

My dearest husband, Drinkwater read, Elizabeth's two-month-old letter having found its way to him via one of Calder's ships: I have much to tell and you will want to know the news of the war first. We are in a fever here and have been for months. The French Invasion is expected hourly and the town is regularly filled with the militia and yeomanry which, from the noise they make, intend to behave most valiantly, but of which I hold no very great expectations. We hear horrid tales of the French. Billie has taught us all how to load and fire a blunderbuss and I can assure you that should they come they will find the house as stoutly defended as a handful of women and a legless boy can make it. The children thrive on the excitement, Richard particularly, he is much affected by the sight of any uniform…

You will have heard of the Coalition with Austria. Much is expected of it, though I know not what to think at the moment. We are constantly disturbed by the passage of post-chaises and couriers on the Portsmouth Road that the turmoil makes it impossible to judge the true state of affairs and indeed to know whether anyone is capable of doing so …

There was much more, and with it newspapers and other gossip that had percolated through the officers' correspondence to the gunroom. There had been a movement by the Brest fleet under Ganteaume which had engaged British ships off Point St Matthew and seemed to have followed some direct instruction of the Emperor Napoleon's. It was conjectured that a similar order had gone out to Villeneuve, but the accuracy of this was uncertain.

The news was already old. He felt his own fears for his family abating. The uncertainty of the last months was gone. Whatever French intentions were, it was clear that the two main fleets of the enemy were secured, the one in Brest, the other in Cadiz. This time the doors of the stables were double-bolted with the horses inside.

'Beg pardon, sir, but Mr Fraser says to tell you that Euryalus is approaching.'

'Euryalus?' Drinkwater looked up from the log-book in astonishment at Midshipman Wickham. 'Are you certain?'

'I believe so, sir.'

'Oh.' He exchanged glances with Hill. 'We are superceded, Mr Hill.'

'Yes,' Hill replied flatly.

'Very well, Mr Wickham, I'll be up directly.' He signed the log and handed it back to the sailing master.

Half an hour later Drinkwater received a letter borne by a courteous lieutenant from the Euryalus. He read it on deck:

Euryalus

Off Cadiz

27th September 1805

Dear Drinkwater,

I am indebted to you for so ably holding the forward post off San Sebastian. However I am ordered by Vice-Ad. Collingwood to direct you to relinquish the station to myself and to proceed to Gibraltar where you will be able to make good the deficiency in your stores. You are particularly to acquaint General Fox of the fact that Lord Nelson is arriving shortly to take command of His Majesty's ships and vessels before Cadiz, and it is his Lordship's particular desire that his arrival is attended with no ceremony and the news is kept from Admiral Decrès as long as possible.

May good fortune attend your endeavours. Lose not a moment.

Henry Blackwood.

Drinkwater looked at the lieutenant. 'Tell Captain Blackwood that I understand his instructions… Does he think that Decrès commands at Cadiz?'

The lieutenant nodded. 'Yes, sir. Captain Blackwood has come directly from London. Lord Nelson is no more than a day behind us in Victory…'

'But Decrès, Lieutenant, why him and not Villeneuve?'

'I believe, sir, there were reports in London that Napoleon is replacing Villeneuve, sir. Admiral Decrès was named as his successor.'

Drinkwater frowned. 'But Decrès is Minister of Marine. Does this mean the game is not yet played out?'

'Reports from Paris indicate His Imperial Majesty still has plans for his fleets, although I believe the French have decamped from Boulogne.'

'Good Lord. Very well, Lieutenant, we must be about our business. My duty to Captain Blackwood.'

'So,' muttered Drinkwater to himself as he watched the Euryalus's boat clear the ship's side, 'the horse may yet kick the stable door down.'

'Port, Captain Drinkwater?'

'Thank you, sir,' Drinkwater unstoppered the decanter and poured the dark wine into his gleaming crystal glass. Despite the war the Governor of Gibraltar, General Fox, kept an impressive table. He had dined to excess. He passed the decanter to the infantry colonel next to him.

'So,' said the Governor, 'Nelson does not want us to advertise his arrival to the Dons, eh?'

'That would seem to be his intention, sir.'

'It would frighten Villeneuve. I suppose Nelson wants to entice them out for a fight, eh?'

'I think that would be Lord Nelson's intention, General, yes.' He remembered his conversation with Pitt all those months ago.

'Let's hope he doesn't damn well lose 'em this time then.' There was an embarrassed silence round the table.

'Is Villeneuve still in command at Cadiz, sir?' Drinkwater asked, breaking the silence. 'There was, I believe, a report that Napoleon had replaced him.'

Fox exchanged glances with the port admiral, Rear-Admiral Knight. 'We have not heard anything of the kind, though if Boney wants anything done he'd be well advised to do so.'

'The fleet is pleased to have Nelson out, I daresay,' put in Knight.

'Yes, Sir John. I believe his arrival will electrify the whole squadron.'

'Collingwood's a fine fellow,' said Fox, 'but a better bishop than an admiral. Pass the damn thing, John.'

Sir John Knight had his fist clamped round the neck of the decanter, withholding it from the Governor to signal his displeasure at having a fellow admiral discussed before a junior captain.

'Vice-Admiral Collingwood is highly regarded, sir,' Drinkwater remarked loyally, disliking such silly gossip about a man who was wearing himself out in his country's service. Fox grunted and Drinkwater considered that his contradiction of a General Officer might have been injudicious. Knight rescued him.

'I believe you will be able to sail and rejoin the fleet by noon tomorrow, Drinkwater.'

'I hope so, Sir John.'

'Well you may reassure Lord Nelson that he has only to intimate his desire to us and we shall regard it as a command. At this important juncture in the war it is essential that we all cooperate…'

'A magnificent sight is it not? May I congratulate you on being made post, sir.'

'Thank you… I er, forgive me, your face is familiar…'

'Quilliam, sir, John Quilliam. We met before Copenhagen…'

'On board Amazon … I recollect it now. You are still awaiting your step?'

'Yes. But resigned to my fate. To be first lieutenant of Victory is a better berth than many. Come, sir, his Lordship will see you at once and does not like to be kept waiting.'

Drinkwater followed Quilliam across Victory's immaculate quarterdeck, beneath the row of fire-buckets with their royal cipher and into the lobby outside Lord Nelson's cabin. A minute later he was making his report to the Commander-in-Chief and delivering Sir John Knight's documents to him. The little admiral greeted him cordially. The wide, mobile mouth smiled enthusiastically, though the skin of his face seemed transparent with fatigue. But the single eye glittered with that intensity that Drinkwater had noted before Copenhagen.

'And you say it is still Villeneuve that commands at Cadiz, Captain?'

'I have learned nothing positive to the contrary, my Lord, but you well know the state of news.'

'Indeed I do.' Nelson paused and reflected a moment. 'Captain Drinkwater, I am obliged to you. I am reorganising my fleet. Rear-Admiral Louis is here, in the Canopus and I am attaching you to his squadron which is to leave to victual in Gibraltar. I know that you have come from there and I wish that you should station your frigate to the eastward of The Rock. I apprehend that Salcedo may break out from Cartegena and I am in my usual desperation for want of frigates.'

The order came like a blow to Drinkwater and his face must have shown something of his disappointment. 'My dear Drinkwater, I have no other means of keeping the fleet complete in provisions and water, but by this means. You may return with Louis but I cannot afford to have him cut off from my main body.'

Drinkwater subdued his disappointment. 'I understand perfectly, my Lord,' he said.

Nelson came round the table to escort Drinkwater to the door with his customary civility and in a gesture that made intimates of all his subordinates.

'We shall have a battle, Drinkwater. I know it. I feel it. And we shall all do our duty to the greater glory of our King and Country!'

And Drinkwater was unaccountably moved by the sincere conviction of this vehement little speech.

Drinkwater looked astern. The sails of Rear-Admiral Louis's squadron were purple against the sunset. Drinkwater wondered if Lord Walmsley had transferred from the Leopard with the rear-admiral. He did not greatly care. What he felt most strongly was a sense of anti-climax, and he felt it was common throughout all of Louis's squadron. He crossed the deck and looked at the log.

Thursday 3rd October 1805.6 p.m. Bore up from the Straits of Gibraltar in company Canopus, Rear-Ad. Louis, Queen, Spencer, Zealous and Tigre. Wind westerly strong breeze. At sunset handed t'gallants.

'Very well, Mr Fraser, call me if you are in any doubt whatsoever.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' From his tone Fraser sounded depressed too.

Chapter Sixteen Tarifa

'It's a ship's launch, sir.'

'I believe you to be right, Mr Hill. Very well, back the mizen topsail until she comes up.'

The knot of curious officers waited impatiently. For over a week Antigone had cruised east of Gibraltar, half hoping and half fearing that Salcedo would try and effect a juncture with Villeneuve. The only thing that could satisfy them would be orders to return to Cadiz. Was that what the launch brought them?

'There's a lieutenant aboard, sir,' observed Fraser. 'Aye, and a wee midshipman.'

The launch lowered its mainsail and rounded under Antigone's stern. A moment later a young lieutenant scrambled over the rail and touched his hat to Drinkwater.

'Captain Drinkwater?'

'Yes. You have brought us orders?'

The officer held out a sealed packet which Drinkwater took and retired with to his cabin. In a fever of impatience he opened the packet. A covering letter from Louis instructed him to comply with the enclosed orders and wished him every success in his 'new appointment'. Mystified, he tore open Nelson's letter.

Victory

Off Cadiz

10th October 1805

My Dear Drinkwater

I am sensible of the very great services rendered by you before Copenhagen and the knowledge that you were exposed to, and suffered from, the subsequent attack on Boulogne. It is your name that I call to mind at this time. Poor Sir Robert Calder has been called home to stand trial for his actions in fuly last. I cannot find it in me to send him in a frigate and am depriving the fleet of the Prince of Wales to do honour to him. Brown of the Ajax and Letchmere of the Thunderer are also to go home as witnesses and it is imperative I have experienced captains in these ships. Leave your first lieutenant in command. Louis has instructions to transfer a lieutenant from one of his ships. You may bring one of your own, together with two midshipmen, but no more. These orders will come by the Entreprenante cutter, but she has orders to return immediately. Therefore hire a barca longa and join Thunderer without delay.

Nelson and Brontë

'God bless my soul!' He was to transfer immediately into a seventy-four! 'How damnably providential!' he muttered, then recalled himself. He would be compelled to leave most of his effects…

'Mullender!' He began bawling orders. 'Rogers! Pass word for the first lieutenant!' He sat down and wrote out a temporary commission for Rogers, interrupting his writing to shout additional wants to his steward. Then he shouted for Tregembo and sent him off with a bewildering series of orders without an explanation.

Rogers knocked and entered.

'Come in, Sam. I am writing out your orders. You are to take command. This lieutenant is staying with you. I am transferring to Thunderer. You may send over my traps when you rejoin the fleet… Hey! Tregembo! Pass word for my coxswain, damn it! Ah, Tregembo, there you are. Tell Mr Q and Midshipmen Frey and Gillespy to pack their dunnage… oh, yes, and you too… Sam, set course immediately for Gibraltar. Take that damned launch in tow… Come, Sam, bustle! Bustle!' He shooed the first lieutenant out of the cabin. Rogers's mouth gaped, but Drinkwater took little notice. He was trying to think of all the essential things he would need, amazed at what he seemed to have accumulated in eighteen months' residence.

'Mullender! God damn it, where is the fellow?'

He would take Frey because he was useful, and Gillespy out of pity. He could not leave the child to endure Rogers's rough tongue. James Quilhampton he would have to take. If he did not he doubted if Quilhampton, like Tregembo, would ever forgive him the omission.

Antigone hove to off Europa Point and Drinkwater and his party transferred to the launch. The midshipman in command of the boat hoisted the lugsails and set his course for Gibraltar. Drinkwater looked back to see the hands swarming aloft.

'God bless my soul!' he said again. The cheer carried to him over the water and he stood up and doffed his hat. An hour later, still much moved by the sudden change in his circumstances, he stood before Louis.

'Sorry to lose you, Drinkwater, but I wish you well. I am fearful that my ships will miss the battle and I told Lord Nelson so, but…' the admiral shrugged his shoulders. 'No matter. I have hired a local lugger to take you down the coast. It is all that is available but the passage will not be long and you will not wish to delay for something more comfortable, eh?'

'Indeed not, sir. I am obliged to you for your consideration.'

By that evening, in a fresh westerly breeze, the barca longa was beating out of Gibraltar Bay. Below, in what passed for a cabin, Drinkwater prepared to sleep in company with Quilhampton and his two midshipmen.

'We must make the best of it, gentlemen,' he said, but he need not have worried. The events of the day had tired him and, shorn for a time of the responsibilities of command, he fell into a deep sleep.

He was awakened by a sharp noise and a sudden shouting. Against the side of the lugger something heavy bumped.

'By God!' he shouted, throwing his legs clear of the bunk, 'there's something alongside!' In the darkness he heard Quilhampton wake. 'For God's sake, James, there's something wrong!' The unmistakable sound of a scuffle was going on overhead and suddenly it fell quiet. Drinkwater had tightened the belt of his breeches and had picked up a pistol when the hatch from the deck above was thrown back and the grey light of dawn flooded the mean space.

A moustachioed face peered down at them from behind the barrel of a gun. 'Arriba!'

Drinkwater lowered his pistol; there was no point in courting death. He scrambled on deck where a swarthy Spaniard twisted the flintlock from his grasp. They were becalmed off the town of Tarifa and the Guarda Costa lugger that had put off from the mole lay alongside, her commander and crew in possession of the deck of the barca longa. A glance forward revealed Tregembo still struggling beneath three Spaniards. 'Belay that, Tregembo!'

'Buenos Dias, Capitán.' A smirking officer greeted his emergence on deck, while behind him Quilhampton and Frey struggled over the hatch-coaming swearing. The master of the barca longa was secured by two Spanish seamen and had obviously revealed the nature of his passengers. For a second Drinkwater suspected treachery, but the Gibraltarian shrugged.

'Eet is not my fault, Captain… the wind… eet go,' he said.

'That's a damned fine excuse.' Drinkwater expelled his breath in a long sigh of resignation. Any form of resistance was clearly too late.

'Wh… what is the matter?' Little Gillespy's voice piped as he came on deck behind Frey, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The Spanish officer pointed at him, looked at Drinkwater and burst out laughing, exchanging a remark with his men that was obviously obscene.

'We are prisoners, Mr Gillespy,' said Drinkwater bitterly. 'That is what is the matter.'

'Preesoners,' said the Coast Guard officer, testing the word for its aptness, 'si, Capitán, preesoners,' and he burst out laughing again.

Had he not had Quilhampton and Tregembo with him and felt the necessity of bearing their ill-luck with some degree of fortitude in front of the two midshipmen, Drinkwater afterwards thought he might have gone mad that day. As it was he scarcely recollected anything about the ignominious march through the town beyond a memory of curious dark eyes and high walls with overhanging foliage. Even the strange smells were forgotten in the stench of the prison in which the five men were unceremoniously thrown. It was a large stone-flagged room, lined with decomposed straw. A bucket stood, half-full, in a corner and the straw moved from the progress through it of numerous rats. Drinkwater assumed it must be the Bridewell of the local Alcaid, emptied for its new inmates.

Conversation between the men was constrained by their respective ranks as much as their circumstances. Tregembo, with customary resource, commenced the murder of the rats while James Quilhampton, knowing the agony through which Drinkwater was going, proved his worth by reassuring the two midshipmen, especially Gillespy, that things would undoubtedly turn out all right.

'There will be a battle soon and Nelson will have hundreds of Spaniards to exchange us for,' he kept saying. 'Now, Mr Gillespy, do you know how many Spanish seamen you are worth, eh? At the present exchange rate you are worth three. What d'you think of that, eh? Three seamen for each of you reefers, four for me as a junior lieutenant, one for Tregembo and fifteen for the captain. So all Nelson has to do is take twenty-six Dagoes and we're free men!'

It went on all day, utterly exhausting Quilhampton, while Drinkwater paced up and down, for they drew back for him, clearing a space as though the cell was a quarterdeck and the free winds of the Atlantic blew over its stinking flagstones. Once or twice he stopped, abstracted, his fists clenched behind his back, his head cocked like one listening, though in reality from his mangled shoulder. They would fall silent then, until he cursed under his breath and went on pacing furiously up and down.

Towards evening, as darkness closed in, the heavy bolts of the door were drawn back and a skin of bitter wine and a few hunks of dark bread were passed in on a wooden platter. But that was all. Darkness fell and the place seemed to stink more than ever. Drinkwater remained standing, wedged into a corner, unable to compose his mind in sleep. But he must have slept, for he woke cramped, as another platter of bread and more raw wine appeared. They broke their fast in silence and an hour later the bolts were drawn back again. The Coast Guard officer beckoned Drinkwater to follow and led him along a passage, up a flight of stone steps and through a heavy wooden door. A strip of carpet along another passage suggested they had left the prison. The officer threw open a further door and Drinkwater entered a large, white-walled room. A window opened onto a courtyard in which he could hear a fountain playing. Leaves of some shrub lifted in the wind. On the opposite wall, over a fireplace, a fan of arms spread out. A table occupied the centre of the room, round which were set several chairs. Two were occupied. In one sat a tall dragoon officer, his dark face slashed by drooping moustaches, his legs encased in high boots. His heavy blue coat was faced with sky-blue and he wore yellow leather gloves. A heavy, curved sabre hung on its long slings beside his chair. He watched Drinkwater through a blue haze of tobacco smoke from the cigar he was smoking.

The other man was older, about sixty, Drinkwater judged, and presumably the Alcaid or the Alcalde. The Coast Guard officer made some form of introduction and the older man rose, his brown eyes not unkind. He spoke crude English with a heavy accent.

'Good day, Capitán. I am Don Joaquín Alejo Méliton Pérez, Alcalde of Tarifa. Here', he indicated the still-seated cavalry officer, 'is Don Juan Gonzalez De Urias of His Most Catholic Majesty's Almansa Dragoons. Please to take a seat.'

'Thank you, señor.'

'I too have been prisoner. Of you English. When you are defending Gibraltar under General Elliott.'

'Don Perez, I protest, my effects… my clothes…' he grasped his soiled shirt for emphasis, but the old man raised his hand.

'All your clothes and equipments are safe. I ask you here this morning to tell me your name. Don Juan is here coming from Cadiz. He is to take back your name and the ship that you are capitán from… This you must tell me, please.'

The Alcalde picked up a quill and dipped it expectantly in an ink-pot.

'I am Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater, Don Pérez, of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Antigone ...'

At this the hitherto silent De Urias leaned forward. Drinkwater heard the name Antigone several times. The two men looked at him with apparently renewed interest.

'Please, you say your name, one time more.'

'Drink-water…'

'Eh?' The Alcalde looked up, frowned and mimed the act of lifting a glass and sipping from it, 'Agua,'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Drink-water.'

'Absurdo!' laughed the cavalry officer, pulling the piece of paper from the Alcalde, then taking his quill and offering them to Drinkwater who wrote the information in capital letters and passed it back.

Don Juan De Urias stared at the letters and pronounced them, looked up at Drinkwater, then thrust himself to his feet. The two men exchanged a few words and the officer turned to go. As he left the room the Coast Guard officer returned and motioned Drinkwater to follow him once again.

He was returned to the cell and it was clear that much speculation had been in progress during his absence.

'Beg pardon, sir,' said Quilhampton, 'but could you tell us if…'

'Nothing has happened, gentlemen, beyond an assurance that our clothes are safe and that Cadiz is being informed of our presence here.'

Drinkwater saw Quilhampton's eyes light up. 'Perhaps, sir, that means our release is the nearer…'

It was an artificially induced hope that Quilhampton himself knew to be foolish, but the morale of the others should not be allowed to drop.

'Perhaps, Mr Q, perhaps…'

They languished in the cell for a further two days and then they were suddenly taken out into a stable yard and offered water and the contents of their chests with which to prepare themselves for a journey, the Alcalde explained. When they had finished they were more presentable. Drinkwater felt much better and had retrieved his journal from the chest. The Alcalde returned, accompanied by Don Juan De Urias.

'Don Juan has come', the Alcalde explained, 'to take you to Cadiz. You are known to our ally, Capitán.'

Drinkwater frowned. Had the French summoned him to Cadiz?

'Who knows me, señor?'

Perez addressed a question to De Urias who pulled from the breast of his coat a paper. He unfolded it and held it out to Drinkwater. It was in Spanish but at the bottom the signature was in a different hand.

'Santhonax!'