1805 (26 page)

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.

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 upon 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 tellyou news that will not please you but whichyou 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 said now would depend how much the enemy admiral confided in him. ‘I know Colonel Santhonax to be a spy, Your Excellency. As an aide to your Emperor I assume he enjoys certain privileges of communication with His Majesty.' He paused to lend his words weight, ‘I would imagine that could be a grave embarrassment to you, sir, particularly as Colonel Santhonax is not without considerable experience as a seaman. I would say, sir, that he shared something of the prejudices of your young officers.'

‘You are very – what is the English word? Shrewd, eh? – Yes, that is it.' Villeneuve smiled again, rather sadly, Drinkwater thought. ‘Do you believe in destiny, Captain?'

Drinkwater shrugged. ‘Not destiny, sir. Providence, perhaps, but not destiny.'

‘Ah, that is because you are not from an ancient family. A Villeneuve died with Roland at the Pass of Roncesvalles; a Villeneuve died in the Holy Land and went to battle with your Coeur-de-Lion, and a Villeneuve led the lances of Aragon with Bayard. I was the ninety-first Villeneuve to be a Knight of Malta and yet I saw the justice of the Revolution, Captain. I think as an Englishman you must find that difficult to understand, eh?'

‘Perhaps less than you think, sir. My own fortunes have been the
other way. My father was a tenant farmer and I am uncertain of my origins before my grandfather. I would not wholly disapprove of your Revolution . . .'

‘But not our Empire, eh, Captain?'

Drinkwater shrugged. ‘I do not wish to insult you, sir, but I do not approve of the Emperor's intentions to invade my country.'

Villeneuve was obviously also thinking of Napoleon for he said. ‘Do you know what Santhonax is doing, Captain?'

‘I imagine he has gone to Paris to report to His Imperial Majesty on the state of the fleet you command. And possibly . . .' he broke off, then, thinking it was worth a gamble, added, ‘to tell the Emperor that he has succeeded in persuading you to sail.'

‘
Bon Dieu
!' The blood drained from Villeneuve's face. ‘H . . . how did you . . . ?'

Villeneuve hesitated and Drinkwater pressed his advantage. ‘As I said, Your Excellency, I know Santhonax for what he is. Did he kill Captain Wright in the Temple?'

The colour had not yet returned to the admiral's face. ‘Is that what they say in England? That Santhonax murdered Wright?'

‘No, they say he was murdered, but by whom only a few suspect.'

‘And you are one of them, I think.'

Drinkwater shrugged again. ‘On blockade duty, sir, there is ample time to ponder . . .' he paused seeing the admiral's puzzled look, ‘er, to think about things.'

‘Ah, yes, I understand. Your navy has a talent for this blockading. It is very tedious, is it not?'

‘Very, sir . . .'

‘And your ships? They wear out also?'

Drinkwater nodded, ‘Yes.'

‘And the men?'

Drinkwater held the admiral's gaze. It was no simple matter to convey to a Frenchman, even of Villeneuve's intelligence, the balance of the stubborn tenacity of a national character against a discipline that did not admit weakness. Besides, it was not his intention to appear over-confident. ‘They wear out too, sir,' he said smiling.

Looking at the Englishman, Villeneuve noticed his hand go up under his coat to massage his shoulder. ‘You have been wounded, Captain?'

‘Several times . . .'

‘Are you married?'

‘Yes. I have two children.'

‘I also am married . . . This war; it is a terrible thing.'

‘I should not be here, sir, were it not for your Combined Fleet,' Drinkwater said drily.

‘Ah, yes . . . the Combined Fleet. What is your opinion of the Combined Fleet, Captain?'

‘It is difficult to judge, sir. But I think the ships good, particularly, with respect, the Spanish line-of-battle ships. The French are good seamen, but lack practice; the Spanish . . .' he shrugged again.

‘Are beggars and herdsmen, the most part landsmen and soldiers,' Villeneuve said with sudden and unexpected vehemence. He stood up and began to pace with a slow dignity back and forwards between the table and the stern windows with an abstraction that Drinkwater knew to reveal he often did thus. ‘And the officers are willing, but inexperienced. One cruise to the West Indies and they think they are masters of the oceans. They are all fire or venom because they think Villeneuve a fool! Do you know why I brought you here tonight, Captain, eh? No? Because it is not possible that I talk freely to my own officers! Only Gravina comprehends my position and he has troubles too many to speak of with his own court and that parvenu Godoy, the “Prince of Peace”!' Villeneuve's contempt filled him with a blazing indignation. ‘Oh, yes, Captain, there
is
destiny,' he paused and looked down at Drinkwater, then thrust his pointing arm towards the windows. ‘Out on the sea is Nelson and here, here is Villeneuve!' He stabbed his own chest with the same finger. Drinkwater sat quietly as Villeneuve took two more turns across the cabin then calmed himself, refilled the glasses and sat down again.

‘How will Nelson attack, Captain?' He paused as Drinkwater protested, then held up his hand. ‘It is all right, Captain, I know you to be a man of honour. I will tell you as I told my captains before we left Toulon. He will attack from windward if he can, not in line, but so as to concentrate his ships in groups upon a division of our fleet which he will annihilate with overwhelming force.' He slapped his right hand down flat upon the table making the candles gutter and raising a little whirl of grey ash. ‘It was done at Camperdown and he did it to us at Abukir . . .' Again Villeneuve paused and Drinkwater watched him silently. The admiral had escaped from that terrible battle, Napoleon accounting him a lucky man, a man of destiny to be taken up to run at the wheels of the Imperial chariot.

‘But it has never been done in the open sea with Nelson in command of a whole fleet,' Villeneuve went on, staring abstractedly into the middle distance. Drinkwater realised he was a sensitive and
imaginative man and pitied him his burden. Villeneuve suddenly looked at him. ‘That is how it will happen, yes?'

‘I think so, sir.'

‘If you were me, how would you counter it?'

‘I . . . er, I don't know . . . It has never been my business to command a fleet, sir . . .'

Villeneuve's eyes narrowed and Drinkwater suddenly saw that the man did not lack courage, whatever might be said of him. ‘When it is time for you to command a fleet, Captain, remember there is always an answer; but what you will lack is the means to do it . . .' He stood up again. ‘Had I
your
men in
my
ships, Captain, I would astonish Napoleon!'

The admiral tossed off his second glass and poured a third, offering the wine to Drinkwater.

‘Thank you, Your Excellency. But how would you answer this attack?' Drinkwater was professionally curious. It was a bold question, but Villeneuve did not seem to regard it as such and Drinkwater realised the extremity of the French admiral's loneliness and isolation. In any case Drinkwater was a prisoner, his escape from the heart of the Combined Fleet so unlikely that Villeneuve felt safe in using the opportunity to see the reaction to his plan of at least one British officer.

‘A squadron of reserve, Captain, a division of my fleet kept detached to weather of my line and composed of my best ships, to reinforce that portion of my fleet which receives – how do you say? – the weight, no . . .'

‘The brunt?'

‘Yes, the brunt of your attack.'

Drinkwater considered Villeneuve's scheme. It was innovative enough to demonstrate his originality of thought, yet it had its defects.

‘What if your enemy attacks the squadron of reserve?'

‘Then the fleet tacks to
its
assistance, but I do not think this will happen. Your Nelson will attack the main line.' He smiled wryly and added, ‘He may ignore the special division as being a badly manoeuvred part of the general line.'

‘And if you are attacked from leeward . . .'

‘Then the advantage is even more in our favour, yes.'

‘But, Excellency, who have you among your admirals to lead this important division?'

‘Only Gravina, Captain, on whom I can absolutely depend.' Villeneuve's face clouded over again. For a moment he had been
visualising his counter-stroke to Nelson's attack, seeing the moving ships, hearing the guns and realising his dream: to save the navy of France from humiliation and raise it to the heights to which Suffren had shown it could be elevated. He sighed, obviously very tired.

‘So you intend to sail, sir?' Drinkwater asked quietly. ‘To offer battle to Nelson?'

‘If necessary.' Villeneuve's reply was guarded, cautious, even uncertain. Drinkwater concluded, observing the admiral closely.

‘But battle
will
be necessary if you wish to enter the Channel.'

‘Perhaps . . .' There was an indifference now; Drinkwater felt the certainty of his earlier deliberations.

‘Perhaps you are going to return to the Mediterranean?' he ventured. ‘I hear his Imperial Majesty has withdrawn his camp from Boulogne?'