1805

died with Roland at the Pass of Roncesvalles,' Drinkwater remembered him saying as, behind him, the great tricolour came fluttering down on deck.

Bucentaure had struck her colours.

Chapter Twenty-Two Surrender and Storm

21-22 October 1805 

Drinkwater stood dazed. At times the surrounding smoke cleared and he caught brief glimpses of other ships. On their starboard quarter a British seventy-four was slowly turning—it had been she that had last raked Bucentaure—and, to windward, yet another was looming towards them. Beneath his feet the deck rolled and Drinkwater came to his senses, instinct telling him that the swell was building up all the time. He turned. Ahead of them another British battleship was swinging, presumably she too had raked Bucentaure, though now she was ranging up to leeward of the Santissima Trinidad. And still from the weather side British battleships were coming into action! Drinkwater felt his blood run chill.

'God!' he muttered to himself, 'what a magnificent bloody risk Nelson took!' And he found himself shaking again, his vision blurred, as around the shattered Bucentaure the thunder of battle continued to reverberate. Then suddenly a double report sounded from Bucentaure's own cannon. Two guns on the starboard quarter barked a continued defiance at the British ship that had just raked them. Drinkwater saw splinters dance from her hull and an officer point and shout, clearly outraged by such conduct after striking. He saw muzzles run out and the yellow and scarlet stab of flame. The shot tore over his head and, with a crash, what was left of the Bucentaure's foremast came down. The two quarter- guns fell silent.

Drinkwater clambered aft. No one stopped him. Men slumped wounded or exhausted around the guns, their faces drained of expression. Bucentaure's company had been shattered into its individual fragments of humanity. Pain and defeat had done their work: she was incapable of further resistance. He hesitated to climb to the poop. This was not his moment, and yet he wished to offer Villeneuve some comfort. On her after- deck officers were waving white handkerchiefs at the British battleship. He turned away below. It was not his business to accept Bucentaure's surrender. He reached the lower gun-deck. Running forward from aft came a party of British seamen led by two midshipmen.

'Come, Mr Hicks, we've a damned Frog here!'

Drinkwater turned at the familiar voice. The young officer was partially silhouetted against the light from the shattered stern, but his drawn sword gleamed and from the rapidity of his advance Drinkwater took alarm. His hand went to his own hanger, whipping out the blade.

'Stand still, God damn you!' he roared. 'I'm a British officer!'

'Good God!'

Recognition came to the two men at the same time.

'Captain Drinkwater, sir… I, er, I beg your pardon…'

'Mr Walmsley… you and your men can put up your weapons. Bucentaure is finished.'

'So I see…' Walmsley looked round him, his face draining of colour as his eyes fell on an entire gun crew who had lost their heads. Alongside them lay Lieutenant Guillet. He had been cut in half.

'Oh Christ!' Lord Walmsley put his hand to his mouth and the vomit spurted between his fingers.

'I was a prisoner of the French admiral, gentlemen. I am obliged to you for my liberty,' Drinkwater said, affecting not to notice Walmsley's confusion.

'Midshipman William Hicks, sir, of the Conqueror, Captain Israel Pellew.' The second midshipman introduced himself, then turned as more men came aboard led by a marine officer. 'This is Captain James Atcherley, sir, of the same ship.'

The ridiculous little ceremony was performed and the scarlet-coated Atcherley was acquainted with the fact that Captain Drinkwater, despite his coatless appearance and blood-stained shirt, was a British officer.

'Come, sir, I will take you to the admiral.' They clambered onto the upper deck and Drinkwater stood aside to allow Atcherley to precede him onto the poop.

'No, no, it is your task, Captain,' Drinkwater said as Atcherley demurred. 'He speaks good English.'

He followed the marine officer. Villeneuve lowered the glass through which he had been studying some distant event and turned towards the knot of British officers.

'To whom have I the honour of surrendering?' Villeneuve asked.

Atcherley stepped forward: 'To Captain Pellew of the Conqueror.'

'I am glad to have struck to the fortunate Sir Edward Pellew.'

'It is his brother, sir,' said Atcherley.

'His brother! What! Are there two of them? Hélas!'

Atcherley refused the proffered sword. Captain Magendie shrugged. 'Fortune de la guerre. I am now three times a prisoner of you British.'

'I shall secure the ship's magazines, sir,' Atcherley said. 'You shall retain your swords until able to surrender them to someone of sufficient rank—' he turned—'unless Captain Drinkwater would receive them?'

Drinkwater shook his head. 'No Captain Atcherley. I have in no way contributed to today's work and am bound by my word to Admiral Villeneuve. Do you do as you suggest.' He acknowledged the tiny bow made in his direction by Villeneuve.

'In that case, sir,' said Atcherley, addressing the French officers, 'I should be obliged if you would descend to the boat.' He looked round. The Conqueror had disappeared in the smoke, joining in the mêlée round the huge Santissima Trinidad that had not yet struck to her many enemies.

'I shall convey you to Mars, sir,' he nodded at the next British ship looming up on the quarter. Atcherley turned to Drinkwater. 'Will you come, sir?'

Drinkwater shook his head. 'Not yet, Captain Atcherley. I have some effects to gather up.' He had no desire to witness Villeneuve's final humiliation.

'Very well, sir… come, gentlemen…'

Villeneuve turned to Drinkwater. 'Captain, we fought well. I hope you will not forget that.'

'Never, sir.' Drinkwater was moved by the nobility of the defeated admiral.

Villeneuve stared at the north. 'Dumanoir wore but then turned away,' he said with quiet resignation. 'See, there, the van is deserting me.' Without another word Villeneuve followed Magendie from the deck.

Drinkwater found himself almost alone upon Bucentaure's poop. A few seamen and petty officers sat or squatted, resting their heads upon their crossed arms in attitudes of dejection.

Exhausted, concussed and hungry, they had given up. Drinkwater watched Villeneuve, Magendie and Prigny pulled away to the Mars in Conqueror's cutter. Lord Walmsley sat in the stern, his hand on the tiller. Drinkwater leaned on the rail. Despite Bucentaure's surrender the battle still raged about her. He watched Dumanoir's unscathed ships standing away to the north, feeling an immense and traitorous sympathy for the unfortunate Villeneuve. It occurred to him to seek the other part of Villeneuve's miscarried strategy and he looked southward to identify Gravina. But astern the battle continued, a vast milling mêlée of ships, their flanks belching fire and destruction, their masts and yards continuing to fall amid clouds of grey powder smoke. Ahead too, the hounds were closing round the Santissima Trinidad, and one of Dumanoir's squadron, the Spanish Neptuno, had been cut off and taken. Away to the north a dense column of black smoke billowed up from an unidentifiable ship on fire.

He looked for the British frigates. Astern he could see the schooner Pickle and the trim little cutter Entreprenante. Then he caught sight of Euryalus, obeying the conventions of formal war, her guns unemployed as she towed what Drinkwater