1805

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!'

PART THREE Battle

'Now, gentlemen, let us do something today which the world may talk of hereafter.'

VICE-ADMIRAL COLLINGWOOD TO HIS OFFICERS, HMS Royal Sovereign, forenoon, 21st October 1805

'The enemy… will endeavour to envelop our rear, to break through our line and to direct his ships in groups upon such of ours as he shall have cut off, so as to surround them and defeat them.'

VICE-ADMIRAL VILLENEUVE TO HIS CAPTAINS, Standing Orders given on board the Bucentaure, Toulon Road, 21st December 1804

Chapter Seventeen Santhonax

14 October 1805 

Lieutenant Don Juan Gonzalez de Urias of His Most Catholic Majesty's Dragoons of Almansa flicked the stub of a cigar elegantly away with his yellow kid gloves and beckoned two of his troopers. Without a word he indicated the sea-chests of the British and the men lifted them and took them under an archway. Motioning his prisoners to follow, he led them through the arch to the street where a large black carriage awaited them. Dragoons with cocked carbines flanked the door of the carriage and behind them Drinkwater caught sight of the curious faces of children and a wildly barking dog. The five Britons clambered into the coach, Drinkwater last, in conformance with traditional naval etiquette. Tregembo was muttering continual apologies, feeling awkward and out of place at being in such intimate contact with 'gentlemen'. Drinkwater was compelled to tell him to hold his tongue. Behind them the door slammed shut and the carriage jerked forward. On either side, their gleaming sabres drawn, a score of De Urias's dragoons formed their escort.

For a while they sat in silence and then they were clear of the town, rolling along a coast-road from which the sea could be seen. None of them looked at the orange groves or the cork oaks that grew on the rising ground to the north; they all strove for a glimpse of the blue sea and the distant brown mountains of Africa. The sight of a sail made them miserable as they tried to make out whether it was one of the sloops Collingwood had directed to blockade coastal trade with Cadiz.

'Sir,' said Quilhampton suddenly, 'if we leapt from the coach, we could signal that brig for a boat…'

'And have your other hand cut off in the act of waving,' said Drinkwater dismissively. 'No, James. We are prisoners being escorted to Cadiz. For the time being we shall have to submit to our fate.'

This judgement having been pronounced by the captain produced a long and gloomy silence. Drinkwater, however, was pondering their chances. Freedom from the awful cell at Tarifa had revived his spirits. For whatever reason the French wanted them at Cadiz, it was nearer to the British battle-fleet than Tarifa and an opportunity might present itself for them to escape.

'Beg pardon, sir,' put in Quilhampton.

'Yes, James?'

'Did you say 'Santhonax', sir, when we were in the stable yard? Is that the same cove that we took prisoner at Al Mukhra?'

'I believe so, yes.'

'I remember him. He escaped off the Cape… D'you remember him, Tregembo?'

'Aye, zur, I do. The Cap'n and I know him from away back.' Tregembo's eyes met those of Drinkwater and the old Cornishman subsided into silence.

Piqued by this air of mystery, Frey asked, 'Who is he sir?'

Drinkwater considered; it would do no harm to tell them. Besides, they had time to kill, the jolting of the coach was wearisome, and it is always the balm of slaves and prisoners to tell stories.

'He is a French officer of considerable merit, Mr Frey. A man of the stamp of, say, Captain Blackwood. He was, a long time ago, a spy, sent into England to foment mutiny among the fleet at the Nore. He used a lugger to cross the Channel and we chased him, I recollect, Tregembo. He shot part of our mast down…'

'That's right, zur,' added Tregembo turning on the junior officers, 'but we was only in a little cutter, the Kestrel, twelve popguns. We had 'im in the end though, zur.' Tregembo grinned.

'Aye. At Camperdown,' mused Drinkwater, calling into his mind's eye that other bloody October day eight years earlier.

'At Camperdown, sir? There were French ships at Camperdown?' asked Frey puzzled.

'No, Mr Frey. Santhonax was sent from Paris to stir the Dutch fleet to activity. I believe him to have been instrumental in forcing Admiral De Winter to sail from the Texel. Tregembo and I were still in the Kestrel, cruising off the place, one of Duncan's lookouts. When the Dutch came out Santhonax had an armed yacht at his disposal. We fought and took her, and Santhonax was locked up in Maidstone Gaol.' Drinkwater sighed. It all seemed so long ago and there was the disturbing image of the beautiful Hortense swimming into his mind. He recollected himself; that was no part of what he wanted to tell his juniors about Santhonax.

'Unfortunately,' he went on, 'whilst transferring Santhonax to the hulks at Portsmouth, much as we are travelling now…'

'He escaped,' broke in Quilhampton, 'just as we might…'

'He spoke unaccented and near perfect English, James,' countered Drinkwater tolerantly, ignoring Quilhampton's exasperation. 'How good is your Spanish, eh?'

'I take your point, sir, and beg your pardon.'

Drinkwater smiled. 'No matter. But that is not the end of the story, for Mr Quilhampton and I next