1805

spirits up, Tregembo, and tell Mr Q the same.'

'Aye, zur. Mr Gillespy ain't too good, zur, by the bye…'

'No talk!' The orderly, red-faced with fury, shoved Tregembo towards the door.

'Very well,' acknowledged Drinkwater. 'But there's very little I can do about it,' he muttered as, once again, the door slammed and he was left alone with his thoughts.

Meat and wine arrived at midday. He walked with the others after the hour of siesta, finding Quilhampton downcast and Gillespy in poor spirits. Today it seemed as if Frey was bearing the burden of cheering his fellow prisoners. At sunset a silent Tregembo brought him bread, cheese and wine. As the shadows darkened in the tiny room, Drinkwater found his own morale dropping. In the end it became irresistible not to think of his family and the 'blue-devils' settled on his weary mind. He did not bother to light his candle but climbed into the bed and tried to sleep. A convent bell tolled away the hours but he had fallen asleep when his door was opened. He woke with a start and lay staring into the pitch-darkness. He felt suddenly fearful, remembering Wright's death in the Temple. He reached for his sword.

'Get dressed please, Capitaine.'

'Guillet?'

'Please to 'urry, m'sieur.'

'What the devil d'you want?'

'Please, Capitaine. I 'ave my orders. Dress and come quickly with no noise.' Guillet was anxious about something. Fumbling in the dark Drinkwater found his clothes and his sword. Guillet must have seen the slight gleam of the scabbard mountings. 'Not your sword, Capitaine…'

Drinkwater left it on his bed and followed Guillet into the corridor. At the door of the guardroom Guillet collected a cloak and handed it to Drinkwater. Drinkwater threw the heavy garment over his shoulders.

'Allez…'

They crossed the courtyard and, with Guillet taking his arm, passed the sentry into the street. 'Please, Capitaine, do not make to escape. I have a loaded pistol and orders to shoot you.'

'Whose orders? Colonel Santhonax's? Do not forget, Lieutenant Guillet, that I have given my parole.' Drinkwater's anger was unfeigned and Guillet fell silent. Was it Santhonax's purpose to have him murdered in an alleyway?

They were walking down a gentle hill, the cobbled roadway descending in low steps, the blank walls of houses broken from time to time by dimly perceived wrought-iron gates opening onto courtyards. He could see the black gleam of water ahead and they emerged onto a quay. Drinkwater smelt decaying fish and a row of gulls, disturbed by the two officers, flapped away over the harbour. Guillet hurried him to a flight of stone steps. Drinkwater looked down at the waiting boat and the oars held upright by its crew. The lieutenant ordered him down the steps. He scrambled down, pushed by Guillet and sat in the stern-sheets. The bow was shoved off, the oars were lowered and bit into the water. The chilly night air was unbelievably reviving.

A mad scheme occurred to him of over-powering Guillet, seizing his pistol and forcing the boat's crew to pull him out to Euryalus. But what would become of Quilhampton and the others? The French, who had treated them reasonably so far, might not continue to do so if he escaped. In any case the plan was preposterous. The lift of the boat, as the water chuckled under the bow and the oars knocked gently against the thole pins, evoked a whole string of emotional responses. The thought that Santhonax was ruthless enough to have him murdered was cold comfort. Yet Guillet seemed to be pursuing orders of a less extreme nature. Nevertheless Drinkwater acknowledged the fact that, removed from his frigate, he was as impotent as an ant underfoot.

The boat was pulled out into the Grande Rade, among the huge hulls and towering masts of the Combined Fleet. Periodically a sentry or a guard-boat challenged them and Guillet answered with the night's countersign. A huge hull reared over them. Even in the gloom Drinkwater could see it was painted entirely black. He guessed her to be Spanish. Then, beyond her, he saw the even bigger bulk of a mighty ship. He could make out the greyer shade of lighter paint along her gun-decks. He counted four of these and was aware that he was looking at the greatest fighting ship in the world, the Spanish navio Santissima Trinidad.

He was still staring at her as the oarsmen eased their stroke. He looked round as they ran under the stern of a smaller ship. From the double line of lighted stern windows she revealed herself as a two-decker. The light from the windows made reading her name difficult, but he saw enough to guess the rest.

Bucentaure.

Guillet had brought him, in comparative secrecy, to Villeneuve's flagship.

Chapter Nineteen Villeneuve

16-17 October 1805 

Vice-Admiral Pierre Charles Jean Baptiste Silvestre de Villeneuve sat alone in the great cabin of the Bucentaure. He stared at the miniature of his wife. He had painted it himself and it was not so much her likeness that he was looking at, as the remembrance of her as she had been on the day he had done it. He sighed resignedly and slipped the enamel disc in the pocket of his waistcoat. His eye fell on the letter lying on the table before him. It was dated a few days earlier and written by an old friend from Bayonne.

My dear friend,

I write to tell you news that will not please you but which you may otherwise not learn until it is brought to you by one who will not be welcome. I learned today that our Imperial master has despatched Admiral Rosily to Cadiz to take over the command from you. My old friend, I know you as undoubtedly the most accomplished officer and the most able tactician, whatever people may say, that the navy possesses. I recall to you the honour of the flag of our country…

Vice-Admiral Villeneuve picked up the letter and, holding it by a corner, burnt it in the candelabra that stood upon the table. The ash floated down upon the polished wood and lay upon Admiral Gravina's latest daily report of the readiness of the Spanish Fleet. Of all his flag-officers Gravina was the only one upon whom he could wholly rely. They were both of the nobility; they understood one another. Villeneuve clenched his fist and brought it down on the table top. It was on Gravina that would fall the responsibility of his own answer to defeating the tactics of Nelson. But he might yet avoid a battle with Nelson…

The knock at the cabin door recalled him to the present. 'Entrez!'

Lieutenant Guillet, accompanied by the officer of the watch, Lieutenant Fournier, announced the English prisoner. The two stood aside as Drinkwater entered the brilliantly lit cabin from the gloom of the gun-deck with its rows of occupied hammocks.

The two officers exchanged glances and Fournier addressed a question to the admiral. Villeneuve seemed irritated and Drinkwater heard his own name and the word 'parole'. The two withdrew with a scarcely concealed show of reluctance.

'Please sit, Captain Drinkwater,' said Villeneuve indicating a chair. 'Do you also find young men always know best?' he smiled engagingly and, despite their strange meeting, Drinkwater warmed to the man. He was aware once again that the two of them were of an age. He smiled back.

'It is a universal condition, Your Excellency.'

'Tell me, Captain. What would British officers be doing in our circumstances?' Villeneuve poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Drinkwater.

Drinkwater took the glass. 'Thank you, sir. Much as we are doing. Taking a glass of wine and a biscuit or two in the evening at anchor, then taking their watch or turning in.'

The two men sat for a while in silence, Drinkwater patiently awaiting disclosure of the reason for this strange rendezvous. Villeneuve seemed to be considering something, but at last he said, 'Colonel Santhonax tells me you are an officer of great experience, Captain Drinkwater. He would not have been pleased that we are talking like this.'

Villeneuve's remark was an opening, Drinkwater saw, a testing of the ground between them. On what he