1805

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.