The Iberian Flame

Chapter 29

Renzi ate his breakfast in his room, from one window able to take in a seaward view touched by a shy morning gilding the sails of the Inshore Squadron, catching the sunlight with stark clarity. From a smaller pane, he could see the anchored French battleships, illuminated on the other side, ominously darker.

Then, as he watched, he nearly dropped his spoon in surprise. From first one of the French battleships, then quickly the others, sail appeared, topsails with courses ready in their gear. They were putting to sea.

He held his breath. In a very short while action would be joined off Cadiz for the first time since Trafalgar – and again the British were outnumbered.

It was a shocking sight. Longing for a telescope, he stood and watched it unfold before him, heart in mouth for what was about to take place.

With the gentle north-easterly it was fair for the open sea directly, and once under way courses were set and they picked up speed, taking station on one of the big eighty-gun ships-of-the-line and making for the centre of the outer harbour.

Renzi turned his attention to the British fleet. There were two hoists up on the flagship and as he watched another soared. The admiral was in a taking – no scouting French frigate had warned of the sortie. Were the enemy trusting to a surprise lunge to sea?

But then came an even more extraordinary turn of events. In the precise centre of the wide bay, the lead French ship-of-the-line put over its helm, unbelievably making not for the open sea but the passage leading to the inner harbour, deeper into the enfolding defences of Cadiz.

Renzi couldn’t sit down until he knew what was coming to pass – it made no sense, for the British could never enter the outer harbour against fire from the six massive fortresses.

The stately passage of the squadron took them within just a half-mile and he saw them in startling definition in the morning light. As they passed, he noted the straggling progress of some, gun-ports open, as if expecting an engagement, but also the dark streaks on their canvas that told of long stowage and little sea-time.

Then he understood. He was watching the last survivors of Trafalgar, still here after their fleeing those years before. And the admiral flying his flag in the largest had to be Rosily, whose dispatch by Bonaparte to replace Villeneuve for being too timid had precipitated the battle.

A shiver went through Renzi. This was the wreckage of history, left behind from a great event in the past. And a token of the ferocious effectiveness of the Royal Navy’s blockade that never once, over those years, had these vessels been let loose on Britain’s sea lanes.

They passed on, into the widening inner harbour. After reaching nearly to the opposite shore they shortened sail and all became clear: they were joining the small gaggle of masts and yards that was all he could see of the Spanish naval base.

But what did it mean?