1805

beams above. The strange sense of elation and excitement remained.

The following morning there was no doubt about their departure. Even in the orlop the slap of waves upon the hull indicated a wind, and soon the movement of the deck indicated Bucentaure was getting under way. Slowly the slap of waves became a hiss and bubbling rush of water. The angle of heel increased and the whole fabric of the ship responded.

'We're turning,' Drinkwater muttered, as Gillespy came anxiously to his doorway. The two remained immobile, the usual courtesies of the morning forgotten, their eyes staring, unwanted sensors in the gloom of the orlop, while their other faculties told them what was happening. A bump and thump came from forward and above.

'Anchor fished, catted and lashed against the fore-chains… We must be… yes, starboard tack, 'tis a north- easterly wind then… Ah, we're fetching out of the lee of the Mole…'

The Bucentaure began to pitch, gently at first and then settling down to the regularity of the Atlantic swells as they rolled in from the west.

'We're clear of San Sebastian now,' Drinkwater whispered, trying to visualise the scene. Outside the door the sentry staggered, the movement unfamiliar to him.

Gillespy giggled and Drinkwater grinned at him, as much to see the boy in good spirits as at the lack of sea- legs on the part of the soldier. After about an hour of progress the angle of the deck altered and the ship began a different motion.

'What is it, sir?'

'We are hove-to. Waiting for the other ships to come out.'

Evidence of this hiatus came a few minutes later when men came down to their messes for breakfast. Bucentaure's company had divided into their sea-watches. The battleship was leading the Combined Fleet to sea.

It was afternoon before they were allowed to emerge from the orlop. Lieutenant Guillet appeared. 'You please to come on deck now, Capitaine.' There was the undeniable gleam of triumph in his eyes. 'The Combined Fleet is at sea, and there is no sight of your Nelson.'

Drinkwater ascended the companion ladders through the gun-decks. Men looked at him curiously, sharing the same elation as Guillet. Drinkwater's finely tuned sensibilities could detect high morale when he encountered it. Their worst fears had not materialised. But what interested him more was the weather when he finally reached the rail in the windward gangway. The wind had gone to the south-west, it was overcast and drizzling.

'Voila, Capitaine Drinkwater!' Guillet extended an arm that swept around the Bucentaure in a gesture that embraced forty ships, adding with a fierce pride, 'C'est magnifique,'

The Combined Fleet lumbered to the southward, topsails reefed, yards braced sharp up on the starboard tack, in five columns, the colours of their hulls faded in the drizzle.

'The Corps de Bataille,' Guillet indicated proprietorially, pointing ahead, 'it is led by Vice-Admiral de Alava in the Santa Ana, we are in the centre and Rear-Admiral Dumanoir commands the rear in the Formidable…'

'And Gravina?'

'Ah, the Captain-General leads the Corps de Réserve with Magon as his support.'

'And you steer south, Lieutenant… for the Mediterranean I presume.'

Guillet shrugged dismissively, 'Per'aps.'

'And you will be lucky with the wind. I think it will be veering very soon to the north-west.' Drinkwater pointed to a patch of blue sky from which the grey cumulus drew back.

'Where is Nelson, Capitaine?' Guillet asked with a grin. 'Eh?'

'When the weather clears, Lieutenant, you may well find out.' Drinkwater fervently hoped he was right.

He was not permitted to see the horizon to windward swept of the drizzle to become sharp and clear against the sudden lightening of the sky. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, as the bells of the battleships sounded their four double-chimes that marked the change of watch, when the wind hauled aft. The limit of the visible horizon extended abruptly many miles to the west. From the mastheads of the French and Spanish men-o'-war the six grey topsails of two British frigates could be seen as they lay hull down over the horizon. They were Nelson's watch- dogs.

It had been dark for several hours when Guillet reappeared, demanding Drinkwater's immediate attendance upon the quarterdeck. Wrapping his cloak around him he followed the French officer, emerging on deck in the dim glow of the binnacle. The wind had freshened a little and ahead of them they could see the battle lanterns of the next ship. Casting a glow over the after-deck, their own lanterns shone, together with Villeneuve's command lantern in the mizen top. These points of light only emphasised the blackness of the night to Drinkwater as he stumbled on the unfamiliar deck. But a few minutes later he could pick out details and see that the great arch of the sky was studded with stars.

'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

21 October 1805 

Nathaniel Drinkwater lay unsleeping through the long October night. He was tormented by the thought of the