1805 (34 page)

Drinkwater was acutely conscious that he would not be part of the ritual. He knew that, in his heart, he would live to regret not being instrumental in an event which was epochal. Yet he was far from being alone. Apart from Quilhampton and Frey, there was not a man in Admiral Louis's squadron that was not mortified to have been sitting in Gibraltar Bay when Lord Nelson was dying off Cape Trafalgar. They could not reconcile themselves to their ill-luck. At least, Drinkwater consoled himself, he had been a witness to the battle. It did not occur to him that he had in any way contributed to the saving of a single life by his assisting Masson in the cockpit of the
Bucentaure
. His mind shied away from any contemplation of that terrible place, unwilling to burden itself with the responsibility of poor Gillespy's death. He knew that remorse would eventually compel him to face his part in the boy's fate, but events pressed him too closely in the refitting of
Irresistible
for him to relax yet. Once they sailed, he knew, reaction would set in; for the moment, he was glad to have something constructive to do and to know that neither Quilhampton nor Frey had come to any harm.

A knock at his cabin door broke into his train of thought and he was glad of the interruption. ‘Enter!'

Drinkwater looked up from the pool of lamp-light illuminating the litter of papers upon the table.

‘Yes. Who is it?' The light from the lamp blinded him to the darkness elsewhere in the cabin. The white patches of a midshipman's collar caught the reflected light and suddenly he saw that it was Lord Walmsley who stepped out of the shadows. Drinkwater frowned. ‘What the devil d'you want?' he asked sharply.

‘I beg pardon, sir, but may I speak with you?'

Drinkwater stared coldly at the young man. Since his brief, unexpected appearance on the
Bucentaure
, Drinkwater had given Walmsley no further thought.

‘Well, Mr Walmsley?'

‘I . . . I, er, wished to apologise, sir . . .' Walmsley bit his lip, ‘to apologise, sir, and ask if you would accept me back . . .'

Drinkwater studied the midshipman. He sensed, rather than saw, a change in him. Perhaps it was the lamp-light illuminating his face, but he seemed somehow older. Drinkwater knitted his brow, recalling that Walmsley had killed Waller. He dismissed his momentary sympathy.

‘I placed you on board
Canopus
, Mr Walmsley, under Rear-Admiral Louis. The next thing I know is that you are on
Conqueror
. Then you come here wearing sack-cloth and ashes. It will not do, sir. No, it really will not do.' Drinkwater leaned forward in dismissal of the midshipman, but Walmsley persisted.

‘Sir, I beg you give me a hearing.'

Drinkwater looked up again, sighed and said, ‘Go on.'

Walmsley swallowed and Drinkwater saw that his face was devoid of arrogance. He seemed chastened by something.

‘Admiral Louis had me transferred, sir. I was put on board
Conqueror
 . . .'

‘Why?' Drinkwater broke in sharply.

Walmsley hesitated. ‘The admiral said . . .'

‘Said what?'

Walmsley was trembling, containing himself with a great effort: ‘That my character was not fit, sir. That I should be broke like a horse before I could be made a seaman . . .' Walmsley hung his head, unable to go on. A silence filled the cabin.

‘How old are you?'

‘Nineteen, sir.'

‘And Captain Pellew, what was his opinion of you?'

Walmsley mastered his emotion. The confession had clearly cost
him a great deal, but it was over now. ‘Captain Pellew had given me no marks of his confidence, sir. My present position is not tolerable.'

‘And why have you suddenly decided to petition me, sir? Do you consider me to be
easy
?' Drinkwater raised his voice.

‘No, sir. But the events of recent weeks have persuaded me that I should better learn my business from you, sir.'

‘Do you have a sudden desire to learn your business, Mr Walmsley? I had not noticed your zeal commend you before.'

‘No, sir . . . but the events of recent weeks, sir . . . I am . . . I can offer no explanation beyond saying that the battle has had a profound effect upon me. So many good fellows going . . . the sight of so many dead . . .'

It struck Drinkwater that the young man was sincere. He remembered him vomiting over the shambles of the
Bucentaure
's gun-deck and supposed the battle might have had some redeeming effect upon Walmsley's character. Whether reformed or not, Walmsley watched by a vigilant Drinkwater might be better than Walmsley abusing his rank and privileges with men who had fought with such gallantry off Cape Trafalgar.

‘Very well, Mr Walmsley,' Drinkwater reached for a clean sheet of paper, ‘I will write to Captain Pellew on your behalf.'

‘So you finally came home in a frigate?' Lord Dungarth looked at his single dinner guest through a haze of blue tobacco smoke.

‘Aye, my Lord, only to miss
Antigone
sent in convoy with the West India fleet, and then go down with the damned marsh ague . . .'

Dungarth looked at Drinkwater's face, cocked at its curious angle and pale from the effects of the recent fever. It had not been the homecoming Drinkwater had dreamed of, but Elizabeth had cosseted him back to full health.

‘I have been languishing in bed for six weeks.'

‘Well I am glad that you could come in answer to my summons, Nathaniel.' He passed the decanter across the polished table. ‘I have a commission for you before you rejoin your ship.'

Drinkwater returned the decanter after refilling his glass. He nodded. ‘I am fit enough, my Lord, to be employed on any service. Besides,' he added with his old grin, ‘I am obliged to your Lordship . . . personally.'

‘Ah, yes. Your brother.' Dungarth blew a reflective ring of tobacco smoke at the ceiling. ‘He was at Austerlitz, you know. His report of the confusion on the Pratzen Heights made gloomy reading.'

‘God bless my soul . . . at Austerlitz.' The news of Napoleon's great victory over the combined forces of Austria and Russia, following so hard upon the surrender of another Austrian army at Ulm, seemed to have off-set the hard-won achievements of Trafalgar, destroying at a stroke Pitt's carefully erected alliance of the Third Coalition.

‘Aye, Austerlitz. It killed Pitt as surely as Trafalgar killed Nelson.'

Both men remained silent for a moment and Drinkwater thought of the tired young man with the loose stockings.

‘It was the one thing Pitt dreaded, you know, a great French victory . . . and at the expense of three armies.' Dungarth shook his head. The victory over the Russo–Austrian army had taken place on the first anniversary of Napoleon's coronation as Emperor and had had all the impact of a fatal blow to British foreign policy. Worn out with responsibility and disappointment, Pitt had died just over a month later.

‘I believe,' Dungarth continued with the air of a man choosing his
words carefully, ‘that Pitt foresaw the destruction of Napoleon himself as the only way to achieve lasting peace in Europe.'

‘Is that why he sent Camelford to attempt his murder?'

Dungarth nodded. ‘I think so. It was done without approval; a private arrangement. Perhaps Pitt could not face the future if Napoloen destroyed an allied army. Pitt chose badly by selecting Camelford, but I imagine the strength of family obligation seemed enough at the time; besides, Pitt was out of office.' Dungarth sipped his port.

‘The attempt was not secret, though. I recall D'Auvergne and Cornwallis both alluding to the fact that something was in the wind,' said Drinkwater, intrigued.

‘No, it was not kept secret enough, a fact from which Napoleon has made a great deal of capital. D'Auvergne shipped Camelford into France from Jersey, and Cornwallis knew of the plan, on a private basis, you understand. Billy-go-tight no more likes blockading than does poor Collingwood now left to hold the Mediterranean.' Dungarth refilled his glass.

‘Poor Collingwood talked of coming home,' remarked Drinkwater, taking the decanter.

‘He will be disappointed, I fear. Pitt was right, I think: almost anything was acceptable to end this damnable war, so that he and Cornwallis and Collingwood and all of us could go home and enjoy an honourable retirement.'

‘And Camelford's death,' asked Drinkwater, ‘
was
that an act fomented by French agents?'

Dungarth filled his glass again. ‘To be honest I do not know. Camelford was a rake-hell and a philanderer. What he got up to on his own account I have no idea.' Dungarth sipped his port and then changed the subject. ‘I understand you met our old friend Santhonax at Cadiz?'

Drinkwater recounted the circumstances of their meeting. ‘I suppose that, had Santhonax not recognised my name on the
Guarda Costa
report, I might still be rotting in a cell at Tarifa.'

‘Or on your way to a French dépot like Verdun.'

‘I was surprised he departed suddenly before the action.'

‘I believe he too was at Austerlizt, though on the winning side.' Dungarth's smile was ironic. ‘Napoleon recalled several officers from Cadiz. We received reports that they passed through Madrid. I think the Emperor's summons may have saved you from a fate worse than a cell at Tarifa or even Verdun.'

‘A fact of which I am profoundly sensible,' Drinkwater replied.
‘Now what of this new service, my Lord?'

The ironic look returned to Dungarth's face. ‘A duty I think you will not refuse, Nathaniel. I have a post-chaise calling for you in an hour. You are to proceed to Reading and then to Rye where a lugger awaits you.'

‘A lugger?'

‘A cartel, Nathaniel. You will pick up a prisoner at Reading. He has been exchanged for four post-captains.'

Drinkwater remembered Quilhampton's multiplication table of exchange. He frowned. ‘An admiral, my Lord?'

‘Precisely, Nathaniel. Vice-Admiral Pierre de Villeneuve. He wishes to avoid Paris and he mentioned you specifically.'

‘You are awake, sir?' Drinkwater looked at Villeneuve opposite, his face lit by the flickering oil-lamp set in the chaise's buttoned-velvet side.

Admiral Villeneuve nodded. ‘Yes, Captain, I am awake.'

‘We do not have far to go now,' said Drinkwater. The pace of the chaise was smooth and fast as it crossed the levels surrounding Rye. A lightening in the east told of coming daylight and Drinkwater was anxious to have his charge below decks before sunrise.

‘You are aware that I wish to be landed at Morlaix?' Villeneuve's tone was anxious, even supplicating.

‘Indeed yes, sir. I have specific instructions to that effect,' Drinkwater replied tactfully. Then he added, ‘You have nothing to fear, sir. I am here to see you safe ashore.'

Villeneuve made as though to speak, then thought better of it. After a silence he asked, ‘Have you seen your wife, Captain?'

‘Yes.' Drinkwater did not add that he had been prostrated by fever and that Elizabeth had born his delirium with her customary fortitude.

‘You are fortunate. I hope that I may soon see my own. If . . .' he began, then again stopped and changed the subject. ‘I recall', he said with a firmer tone to his voice, ‘that we spoke of destiny. Do you remember?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘I was present at the funeral of Lord Nelson, Captain. Do you not think that remarkable?'

‘No more than the man whose interment you honoured, sir.'

Villeneuve's sigh was audible. He said something to himself in French. ‘Do you think we were disgraced, Captain?'

‘No, sir. Lord Nelson's death was proof that you defended your flag
to the utmost. I myself was witness to it.'

‘It was a terrible responsibility. Not the defeat – I believe victory was earned by you British – but the decision to sail . . . to set honour against safety and to let honour win . . . terrible . . .'

‘If it is any consolation, sir, I do not think that Lord Nelson intended leaving you unmolested in Cadiz. I believe it was his intention to attack you in Cadiz itself if necessary.'

Villeneuve smiled sadly. ‘That is kind of you, Captain. But the decision to send many brave men to their deaths was mine, and mine alone. I must bear that burden.'

Villeneuve fell silent again and Drinkwater began to pay attention to their appoach to Rye. Then, as the chaise slowed, Villeneuve said suddenly, ‘
You
played your part, Captain, you and Santhonax and Admiral Rosily who was already coming to replace me . . .'

‘
I
sir? How was that?'

But the chaise jerked to a stop, the door was flung open and the opportunity to elaborate lost. They descended onto a strip of windswept wooden-piled quay and Drinkwater was occupied with the business of producing his documents and securing his charge aboard the cartel-lugger
Union
. An hour later, as the lugger crossed Rye bar, he went below to find something to eat and renew his talk with Villeneuve. But the French admiral had rolled himself in a cloak and gone to sleep.