1805

A tall, curly-haired officer rose from the table at which he had been writing. His dark and handsome features were disfigured by a broad, puckered scar which dragged down the corner of his left eye and split his cheek. His eyes met those of Drinkwater.

'So, Captain;' he said in flawless English, 'we meet again…' He indicated a chair, dismissed Leroux and sat down, his hand rubbing his jaw, his eyes fastened on his prisoner. For a moment or two Drinkwater thought the intelligence reports might have been wrong—Santhonax wore an elaborate, gold-embroidered uniform that was more naval than military—but he was soon made aware of Santhonax's status and the reason for Leroux's deference.

'I recollect you reminded me that it was the fortune of war that I was your prisoner when we last had the pleasure of meeting.' Santhonax's tone was heavily ironic. Drinkwater said nothing. 'I believe the more apt English expression to be 'a turning of tables', eh?'

Santhonax rose and went to a cabinet on which a decanter and glasses stood in a campaign case. He filled two glasses and handed one to Drinkwater.

Drinkwater hesitated.

'It is good cognac, Captain Drinkwater.'

'Thank you.'

'Good. We have known each other too long to be hostile. I see you too have been wounded…'

Santhonax inclined his head in an imitative gesture, indicating Drinkwater's mangled shoulder.

'A shell wound, m'sieur, received off Boulogne and added to the scars you gave me yourself.'

'Touché.' Santhonax paused and sipped his cognac, never taking his eyes off Drinkwater, as though weighing him up. 'Not 'm'sieur', Captain, but Colonel, Colonel and Aide-de-Camp to His Imperial Majesty.'

'My congratulations,' Drinkwater said drily.

'And you are to be congratulated too, I believe. You have been commanding the frigate Antigone.' He paused, he had commanded her himself once. 'That is something else we have in common. She was a fine ship.'

'She is a fine ship, Colonel.'

'Yes. I watched her wear off San Sebastian a week or two ago. You and Blackwood of the Euryalus are well known to us.'

'You are no longer in the naval service, Colonel,' said Drinkwater attempting to steer the conversation. 'Could that be because it has no future?'

The barb went home and Drinkwater saw the ice in Santhonax's eyes. But the former agent was a master of self-control. 'Not at all, Captain. As you see from my present appointment, I have not severed my connections with the navy.'

'It occurs to me, however, that you may still be a spy…' He was watching Santhonax closely. That fine movement, no more than a flicker of the muscles that controlled the pupils of his eyes, was perceptible to the vigilant Drinkwater. There was no doubt that Santhonax was in Cadiz at the behest of his Imperial master. As an aide-de-camp Santhonax would be allowed the privileges of reporting direct to Napoleon. Even the Commander-in- Chief of the Combined Fleet, Vice-Admiral Villeneuve, would have to report to Paris through the Minister of Marine, Decrès.

Santhonax attempted to divert the conversation. 'You are still suspiciously minded, Captain Drinkwater, I see. There is little work for a spy here. The Combined Fleets of France and Spain are not as useless as you English would sometimes like to assume. They have twice crossed the Atlantic, ravaging the sugar islands off the West Indies, recovered British possessions in the islands, and fought an engagement with the British fleet…'

'In which with overwhelming force you managed to lose two ships…'

'In which the Spanish managed to lose two ships, Captain, and following which the British admiral is being tried for failure to do his utmost. I recall the last time this occurred it was found necessary to shoot him…'

Drinkwater mastered the anger mounting in him. Losing his temper would do no good. Besides, an idea was forming in his head. At that moment it was no more than a flash of inspiration, an intuition of opportunity, and it was laid aside in the need to mollify. He remained silent.

Santhonax seemed to relax. He sat back in his chair, although he still regarded Drinkwater with those unwavering eyes.

'Tell me, Captain, when you took Antigone, did you discover a portrait of my wife?'

'I did.'

'And… what became of it?'

'I kept it. You might have had it back had you not so unceremoniously left us off the Cape. It was removed from its stretcher, rolled up, and is still on board the Antigone. If I was to be liberated I should send it back to you as a mark of my gratitude.'

Santhonax barked a short laugh. 'Ha! But you were not on board Antigone when the Spanish Guarda Costa took you, were you, Captain? Where were you going?'

'It would be no trouble to send for the canvas, Colonel, most of my effects remain on board…'

'I asked', broke in Santhonax, his eyes hardening again, 'where you were going?'

'I was transferring to another ship, Colonel, the Thunderer, seventy-four.'

Santhonax raised one ironic eyebrow. 'Another promotion, eh? What a pity you were asleep the other morning. Our ally's vigilance has deprived Nelson of a captain.'

Drinkwater kept his temper and again remained silent.

'Tell me, Captain, is it correct that Admiral Louis's squadron is in Gibraltar?'

The idea sparked within Drinkwater again. Santhonax's intention was almost certainly similar to that when he had exerted pressure on de Winter in the autumn of '97. He was an aggressive French imperialist, known to be Bonapartist and a familiar of Napoleon's. Surely it was the French Emperor's intention that the Combined Fleet should sail? Even with those reports that Napoleon had broken up the camp at Boulogne, every indication was that he wanted the fleet of Villeneuve at sea. It was clear that Santhonax's question was loaded. The French were not certain about Louis, not absolutely certain, although the movements of British ships were reported to them regularly from Algegiras. Santhonax wanted extra confirmation, perhaps as added information with which to cajole Villeneuve as he had so successfully worked on de Winter.

And if Napoleon wanted Villeneuve at sea, so too did Nelson!

Anything, therefore, that smoothed Villeneuve's passage to sea was assisting that aim and, if he consciously aided the schemes of Napoleon, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that the fleet that lay over the horizon to the west was equally anxious for the same result.

'Come, Captain,' urged Santhonax, 'we know that there are British line-of-battle ships in Gibraltar. Are they Louis's?'

'Yes.' Drinkwater answered monosyllabically, as though reluctant to reply.

'Which ships?'

Drinkwater said nothing. 'It is not a difficult matter to ascertain, Captain, and the information may make the stay of you and your friends,' Santhonax paused to lend the threat weight, 'a little pleasanter by your co- operation.'

Drinkwater sighed, as though resigning himself to his fate. He endeavoured to appear crestfallen. 'Canopus, Queen, Spencer, Tigre and Zealous.'

'Ah, a ninety-eight, an eighty and three seventy-fours…'

'You are well informed, Colonel Santhonax.' Santhonax ignored the ironic compliment.

'And Calder, he has gone back to England in a frigate?'

'No, he has gone back to England in a battleship, the Prince of Wales; and the Donegal was to go to Gibraltar to join Louis.'

'You have been most informative, Captain.'

Drinkwater shrugged with the disdain he felt Santhonax would expect, and added, 'It is still a British fleet,