1805

'A squadron of reserve, Captain, a division of my fleet kept detached to weather of my line and composed of my best ships, to reinforce that portion of my fleet which receives—how do you say?—the weight, no…'

'The brunt?'

'Yes, the brunt of your attack.'

Drinkwater considered Villeneuve's scheme. It was innovative enough to demonstrate his originality of thought, yet it had its defects.

'What if your enemy attacks the squadron of reserve?'

'Then the fleet tacks to its assistance, but I do not think this will happen. Your Nelson will attack the main line.' He smiled wryly and added, 'He may ignore the special division as being a badly manoeuvred part of the general line.'

'And if you are attacked from leeward…'

'Then the advantage is even more in our favour, yes.'

'But, Excellency, who have you among your admirals to lead this important division?'

'Only Gravina, Captain, on whom I can absolutely depend.' Villeneuve's face clouded over again. For a moment he had been visualising his counter-stroke to Nelson's attack, seeing the moving ships, hearing the guns and realising his dream: to save the navy of France from humiliation and raise it to the heights to which Suffren had shown it could be elevated. He sighed, obviously very tired.

'So you intend to sail, sir?' Drinkwater asked quietly. 'To offer battle to Nelson?'

'If necessary.' Villeneuve's reply was guarded, cautious, even uncertain, Drinkwater concluded, observing the admiral closely.

'But battle will be necessary if you wish to enter the Channel.'

'Perhaps…' There was an indifference now; Drinkwater felt the certainty of his earlier deliberations.

'Perhaps you are hoping to return to the Mediterranean?' he ventured. 'I hear his Imperial Majesty has withdrawn his camp from Boulogne?'

'Diable!' Villeneuve had paled again. 'How is this known? Do you know everything that comes to me?'

He rose, very angry and Drinkwater hurriedly added, 'Pardon, Excellency. It was only a guess… I, I made a guess…'

'A guess!' For a second Villeneuve's face wore a look of astonishment. Then his eyes narrowed a little. 'Santhonax was right, Captain Drinkwater, you are no fool. If I have to fight I will, but I have twice eluded Nelson and…' He shrugged, 'perhaps I might do it again.'

Drinkwater relaxed. He had been correct all along in his assumptions. The two men's eyes met. They seemed bound in an intensity of feeling, like the eyes of fencers of equal skill where pure antagonism had given way to respect, and only a superficial enmity prevented friendship. Then one of the fencers moved his blade, a tiny feinting movement designed to suggest a weakness, a concern.

'I think you might,' said Drinkwater in a voice so low that it was not much above a whisper. It was a terrible gamble, Drinkwater knew, yet he conceived it his duty to chance Nelson not missing the Combined Fleet.

For what seemed an age a silence hung in the cabin, then Villeneuve coughed and signalled their intimacy was at an end. 'After this conversation, Captain, I regret that you cannot leave the ship. You have given your parole and I will endeavour to make your stay comfortable.'

Drinkwater opened his mouth to protest. A sudden chilling vision of being on the receiving end of British broadsides overwhelmed him and he felt real terror cause his heart to thump and his face to blanch.

It was Villeneuve's turn to smile: 'You did not believe in destiny, Captain; remember?' Then he added, 'Santhonax wished that I left you to rot in a Spanish gaol.'

Drinkwater woke confused. After leaving Villeneuve he had been conducted to a small cabin intended for a warrant officer below the water-line on the orlop deck of the Bucentaure. A sentry was posted outside and for a long time he lay wide awake thinking over the conversation with Villeneuve, his surroundings both familiar and horribly alien. Eventually he had slept and he woke late, disgruntled, hungry and unable for some seconds to remember where he was. His lack of clothing made him feel irritable and the mephitic air of the unventilated orlop gave him a headache made worse by the strange smells of the French battleship. When he opened his door and asked for food he found the moustached sentry singularly unhelpful.

'I don't want your damned bayonet for my breakfast,' muttered Drinkwater pushing the dully gleaming weapon aside. He pointed to his mouth. 'Manger,' he said hopefully. The sentry shook his head and Drinkwater retreated into the miserable cabin.

A few minutes later, however, the debonair Guillet appeared, immaculately attired as befitted the junior officer of a flagship, and conducted Drinkwater courteously to the gunroom where a number of the officers were breakfasting. They looked at him curiously and Drinkwater felt ill at ease in clothes in which he had slept. However he took coffee and some biscuit, observing that for a fleet in port the officers' table was sparsely provided. His presence clearly had something of a dampening effect, for within minutes only he and Guillet remained at the table.

'I should be obliged if I could send ashore for my effects, Lieutenant… I would like to shave…' He mimed the action, at which Guillet held up his hand.

'No, Captain, please it is already that I 'ave sent for your…' he motioned over his own clothes, stuck for the right word.

'Thank you, Lieutenant.'

They were not long in coming and they arrived together with Mr Gillespy.

'Good Lord, Mr Gillespy, what the devil do you do here, eh?' The boy remained silent and in the bad light it took Drinkwater a moment to see that he was controlling himself with difficulty. 'Come, sir, I asked you a question…'

'P… please, sir…' He pulled a note from his pocket and held it out. Drinkwater took it and read.

Sir,

The boy is much troubled by your absence. Permission has been obtained from our captors that he may pin you wherever you have been taken and I have presumed to send him to you, believing this to be the best thing for him. We are well and in good spirits.

It was signed by James Quilhampton. He could hardly have imagined Drinkwater was on board the enemy flagship. 'Lieutenant Guillet… please have the kindness to return this midshipman to my lieutenant…'

'Oh, no, sir… please, please…' Drinkwater looked at the boy. His lower lip was trembling, his eyes filled with tears. 'Please, sir…'

'Brace up, Mr Gillespy, pray remember who and where you are.'

He paused, allowing the boy to pull himself together, and turned towards Guillet. 'What are your orders regarding this young officer?'

Guillet shrugged. His new duty was becoming irksome and he was regretting his boasted ability to speak English. 'The admiral 'e is a busy man, Capitaine. 'E says if the, er, midshipman is necessary to you, then he 'as no objection.'

Drinkwater turned to the boy again. 'Very well, Mr Gillespy, you had better find yourself a corner of the orlop.'

'And now, Capitaine, perhaps you will come with me onto the deck, yes?'

Drinkwater was ushered on deck, Guillet brushing aside the boy in his ardour to show the English prisoner the puissant might of the Combined Fleet. Drinkwater emerged on deck, his curiosity aroused, his professional interest fully engaged. He was conducted to the starboard waist and allowed to walk up and down on the gangway in company with Guillet. The lieutenant was unusually expansive and Drinkwater considered he was acting on orders from a higher authority. It was difficult to analyse why Villeneuve should want an enemy officer shown his command. He must know Drinkwater was experienced enough to see its weaknesses as well as its strengths; no seaman could fail to do that.