'Capitaine Drinkwater, mon amiral…'
'Ah, Captain…' Villeneuve addressed him. 'I do not wish to dishonour you, but what do you interpret from those signals to the west?' He held out a night-glass and Drinkwater was aware of his anxiety. It was clearly Villeneuve's besetting sin in the eyes of his subordinates.
He could see nothing at first and then he focused the telescope and saw pin-points of light and the graceful arc of a rocket trail. 'British frigates signalling, sir.' That much must be obvious to Villeneuve.
But he was saved from further embarrassment by a burst of rockets shooting aloft from the direction of the Principe de Asturias. From the sudden flurry of activity and the repetition of the Spanish admiral's name, Drinkwater gathered Gravina was signalling the presence of enemy ships even closer than the two cruisers Drinkwater could see on the horizon. Bucentaure's quarterdeck came to sudden and furious activity. Her own rockets roared skywards in pairs and the order was given to go to general quarters and clear for action. Other admirals in the Combined Fleet set up their night signals. The repeating frigates to leeward joined in a visual spectacle better suited to a victory parade than the escape of a hunted fleet, Drinkwater thought, as he was hustled below.
'Branle-bas-de-combat!' officers were roaring at the hatchways and the drummers were beating the rantan opening the Générale. The Bucentaure burst into a noisy and spontaneous life, lent a nightmare quality as her people surged on deck and to their stations in the gun-decks, lowering the bulkheads that obstructed the long batteries of heavy artillery that gleamed dully from the fitful lights of the swinging battle lanterns. Drinkwater did not fight the tide of humanity but waited, observing the activity. The noise was deafening, but otherwise the men knew their places and, although not as fast as the ruthlessly trained crew of a British seventy-four, Bucentaure's eighty cannon were soon ready for action. Drinkwater made his way below.
The messing area of the orlop that formed a tiny square of courtyard outside his and the other warrant officers' cabins had been transformed. A number of chests had been pulled into its centre and covered with a piece of sail. A separate chest supported the instrument cases of the Bucentaure's two surgeons. The senior of these two men, Charles Masson, had treated Drinkwater with some consideration and addressed him in English, which he spoke quite well. Drinkwater had come to like the man and, as he retired to his cabin in search of Gillespy, he nodded at him.
'It has come to the time of battle, then, m'sieur?' Masson tested the edge of a curette and looked up at the English captain standing stooped and cock-headed under the low beams.
'Soon, now, I think, M'sieur Masson, soon…'
Chapter Twenty-One
Trafalgar
Nathaniel Drinkwater lay unsleeping through the long October night. He was tormented by the thought of the hours to come, of how he might have been preparing the Thunderer for action. Alone, without the necessity of reassuring the now sleeping Gillespy or the disturbance of Bucentaure's people who stood at their quarters throughout the small hours, he reflected on his ill-fortune. Such a mischance as his capture had happened in a trice to sea-officers; it was one of the perils of the profession; but this reflection did not make it any easier to bear as he lay inactive in a borrowed cot aboard the enemy flagship. There was nothing he could do except await the outcome of events.
Even these were by no means certain. Gravina's signals of the previous evening had obviously been those of panic. No British cruisers had come close, but those distant rockets seen by Drinkwater meant that the Combined Fleet was being shadowed. The response of the French and Spanish admirals in throwing out rocket signals themselves had undoubtedly attracted the attention of Blackwood's watch-dogs. Connecting Blackwood's Inshore Squadron with the main fleet, Nelson would have look-out ships at intervals, and these would pass on Blackwood's messages. God grant that Nelson had seen them and that he would come up before Villeneuve slipped through the Gut of Gibraltar and into the Mediterranean.
Drinkwater did not like to contemplate too closely what might happen to himself. He had to summon up all his reserves of fortitude and rehearse for his own comfort all the argument he had put to little Gillespy as guaranteeing their safety. But they did not reassure him. The worst aspect of his plight was his inability to influence events. Never in his life had he been so passive. The sea-service had placed a continual series of demands upon his skill and experience so that, although he was a victim of events, he had always had a chance of fighting back. To perish in the attempt was one thing; to be annihilated without being able to lift a finger struck him as being particularly hard to bear.
Some time in the night the Bucentaure's company were stood down from their stations. Drinkwater heard them come below and his gloom increased. To a man used from boyhood to living on board ship he had no difficulty in gauging their mood. They were grim, filled with a mixture of anxiety and hope. They were also unusually subdued and few settled to sleep. Drinkwater tried to judge the course that the Bucentaure was sailing on. He could feel a low ground swell gently lifting and rolling the ship. That would not significantly have altered its direction since he had observed it the previous evening. He felt it coming up almost abeam, but lifting the starboard quarter first: Villeneuve was edging away towards the Strait.
He must have slept, for he was startled by the drums again rappelling the Générale and the petty officers crying 'Branle-bas-de-combat!' at the hatchways. The orlop emptied of men and then others came down, the sinister denizens of this area of perpetual night: Surgeon Masson, his assistants and mates. Shortly after this a light and playful rattle of a snare drum and the tweeting of fifes could be heard. Cries of 'Vive le Commandant!' and 'Vive l'Empereur!' were shouted by Bucentaure's company as Villeneuve and his suite toured the ship. A sentry came half-way down the orlop ladder and announced something to the surgeon.
'What is the news, M'sieur Masson?' Drinkwater asked.
'One of our frigates has signalled the enemy is in sight.'
'Ah… d'you hear that, Mr Gillespy?'
'Yes, sir.' The boy was pale, but he managed a brave smile. 'Do you think that will be the Euryalus, sir, or the main body of the fleet?'
'To be candid, Mr Gillespy, I do not know.'
The boy nodded and swallowed. 'Do you know, sir, that Euryalus was slain in a wood when gathering intelligence for the Trojans?'
'No, Mr Gillespy, I'm afraid I did not know that.' The arcane fact surprised Drinkwater and then he reflected that the boy might make a better academic than a sea-officer.
'The Trojans were defeated, sir…' Gillespy pointed out, as if seeking some parallel with present events.