1805 (19 page)

To the southward of the three frigates the Combined Fleet straggled in a long line of twenty ships and a few distant frigates. Since they had hove to, they had adjusted their course, edging away from the British frigates which, in order to hold the wind, were also diverging to the north-west. Prowse made the signal to tack and
Sirius
began to ease round on the enemy rear. She was holding the fluky wind better than either
Antigone
or
Égyptienne
. A few minutes later the mist closed down again. Drinkwater set his courses in an attempt to catch up with
Sirius
and lost contact with the
Égyptienne
. He heard gunfire to the south and then the sound of a heavier cannonade to the south-east. Next to him Rogers was beside himself with impatience and frustration.

‘God damn it, God damn it,' he muttered, grinding the fist of one hand into the palm of the other.

‘For God's sake relax, Sam. You'll have apoplexy else.'

‘This is agony, sir . . .'

‘Steer for the guns, Mr Hill.' It was agonising for Drinkwater too. But whereas all Rogers had to do was wait for a target to present itself, Drinkwater worried about the presence of other ships, dreading a collision. Ahead of them the noise of cannon-fire was growing louder and more persistent. Then, once again, the fog rolled back, revealing broad on their larboard bow the shape of a battleship. This time the enemy were ready for them.

The roar of forty cannon fired in a ragged broadside split the air. The black hull of the 80-gun vessel towered over them as Rogers roared, ‘Fire!'

Antigone
's puny broadside rattled and thudded against the stranger's hull as they saw the red and yellow of Spain and an admiral's flag at her mainmasthead. The wind of the battleship's broadside passed them like a tornado but most of the shot whistled overhead,
parting ropes and holing sails. One casualty occurred in the main-top and the main-mast was wounded by two balls, but the
Antigone
escaped the worst effects of such a storm of iron. As the great ship vanished in the mist Drinkwater read her name across the stern:
Argonauta
.

Then there were other ships passing them, the
Terrible
and
America
, both disdaining to fire on a frigate, and Drinkwater realised that the Combined Fleet had tacked and were standing north. In the confusion he wondered what on earth Calder was doing, and whether the British admiral had observed this movement. Then the outbreak of a general cannonade told him that the two fleets were still in contact, and the sudden appearance of spouts of water near them convinced him that the British fleet were just beyond the line of the enemy and that
Antigone
was in the line of fire of the British guns.

A little after five in the afternoon they made contact again with the
Sirius
. Both frigates then hauled round and stood towards the gunfire. Once they caught a glimpse of the action and, from what could be discerned, the two fleets were engaged in a confusing mêlée.

‘I don't know what the devil to make of it, damned if I do,' remarked Hill tensely, his tone expressing the frustration they all felt.
Antigone
continued to edge down in the mist until darkness came, although the gunfire continued for some time afterwards.

‘What in God Almighty's name are we doing?' asked Rogers, looking helplessly round the quarterdeck.

‘Why nothing, Mr Rogers,' said Hill, who was finding the first lieutenant's constant moaning a trifle tedious. To windward of the group of officers Captain Drinkwater studied the situation, privately as mystified as his officers. On the day following the action the weather had remained hazy and the two fleets had manoeuvred in sight of each other. Both had been inactive, as though licking their wounds. After the utter confusion of the 22nd, the British were pleased to find themselves masters of two Spanish prizes. It was also clear that they had badly damaged several more. However, the British ships
Windsor Castle
and
Malta
were themselves in poor condition and preparing to detach for England and a dockyard.

The wind had held, the Combined Fleet remained with the advantage of the weather gauge, and Calder waited for Villeneuve to attack. But the allied commander hesitated.

‘All I've had to do today,' remarked Rogers in one of his peevish outbursts, ‘is report another three casks of pork as being rotten! I ask
you, is that the kind of work fit for a King's sea-officer?'

Although the question had been rhetorical it had brought forth a
sotto voce
comment from Midshipman Glencross for which the young man had been sent to the foremasthead to cool his heels and guard his tongue. As Drinkwater had written in his journal, the last days had been
inconclusive if our task is to annihilate the enemy
. And today, it seemed, was to be worse. The wind had shifted at dawn and every ship in the British fleet hourly expected Calder to form his line, station his frigates to windward for the repeating of his signals, and to bear down upon the enemy. As hour after hour passed and the wind increased slowly to a fresh breeze and then to a near gale, nothing happened. Villeneuve's fleet edged away to the north. By six o'clock in the evening the Combined Fleet was out of sight.

‘Well,' remarked Lieutenant Fraser as he took over the deck and the hands were at last stood down from their quarters, ‘at least we stopped them getting into Ferrol, but it's no' cricket we're playing. I wonder what they'll think o'this in London?'

‘Dear God, how many more?'

‘Best part of the ground tier, sir, plus a dozen other casks among the batch shipped aboard off Ushant. I'd guess some of that pork was pickled back in the American War.'

Drinkwater sighed. Rogers might be exaggerating, but then again it was equally possible that he was not. ‘If we ain't careful, Sam, we'll be obliged to request stores; just at the moment that would be intolerable. Apart from anything else we must wait on this rendezvous a day or two more.'

‘D'you think there's going to be a battle then? After that farting match last week? There's a rumour that Calder is going to be called home to face a court-martial,' Rogers said, a note of irreverent glee in his voice.

‘I'm damned if I know where these infernal rumours start,' Drinkwater said sharply. ‘You should know better than believe 'em.'

Rogers shrugged. ‘Well, it's not my problem, sir, whereas these casks of rotten pork are.'

‘Damn it!' Drinkwater rose, his chair squeaking backwards with the violence of his movement. ‘Damn it! D'you know Sam,' he said, unlocking the spirit case and pouring two glasses of rum, ‘I've never felt so uncomfortable before. That business the other day was shameful. We should never have let the French get away unmolested. God knows what'll come of it . . . we don't know where the devil they are now. The only ray of hope is that Calder has joined forces with Gardner or Cornwallis if he's back on station, and that Nelson's rejoined 'em from the West Indies. With that concentration off Ushant, at least the Channel will be secure, but it is the uncertainty of matters that unsettles me.'

Rogers nodded his agreement. ‘Worse than a damned fog.'

‘But you want to know about the pork,' Drinkwater sighed. ‘How many weeks can we last out at the present rate?'

Rogers shrugged, considered for a moment and said, ‘Ten, possibly eleven.'

‘Very well. I'll see what I can do about securing some from another ship in due course.'

‘Beg pardon, sir, but what are
our
orders?'

‘Well, we are to sit tight here on Calder's rendezvous for a week.
Aeolus
and
Phoenix
are within a hundred miles of us, with the seventy-four
Dragon
not so far. We are intended to observe Ferrol,' Drinkwater opened one of the charts that lay, almost permanently now, upon his table top. He laid his finger on a spot a hundred miles north-north-west of Cape Finisterre, ‘The four of us are holding Calder's old post between us while he retires on the Channel Fleet in case Villeneuve makes his expected push for the Channel.'

‘And if Villeneuve obliges and the Channel Fleet does no better than Calder did t'other day, then I'd say Boney had a better than even chance of getting his own way in the Dover Strait.'

‘I doubt if Cornwallis would let him . . .'

‘But you said yourself, sir, that Cornwallis might not yet be back at sea. What's Gardner's fighting temper?'

‘We'll have little enough to worry about if Nelson's back . . .'

‘But maybe he isn't. And even Nelson could be fooled by a fog. 'Tis high summer, just what the bloody French want. I reckon they'd be across in a week.'

Drinkwater fell silent. He was not of sufficiently different an opinion to contradict Rogers. He poured them each another glass.

‘To be candid, Sam, things look pretty black.'

‘Like the Earl of Hell's riding boots.'

No such strategic considerations preoccupied James Quilhampton as, for the duration of his watch and in the absence of the captain, he paced the weather side of the quarterdeck. His mind was far from the cares of the ship, daydreaming away his four hours on deck as
Antigone
rode the blue waters of the Atlantic under easy sail. He was wholly given to considering his circumstances in so far as they were affected by Miss Catriona MacEwan. From time to time, as he walked up and down, his right hand would clasp the stump of his left arm and he would curse the iron hook that he wore in place of a left hand. Although he possessed several alternatives, including one made for him on the bomb-vessel
Virago
that had been painted and was a tolerable likeness to the real thing, he felt that such a disfigurement was unlikely to enable him to secure the young woman as his wife. He cursed his luck. The wound that had seemed such an honourable mark in his boyhood now struck him for what it really was, a part of him that was gone for ever, its absence making him abnormal, abominable. How foolish it now seemed to consider it in any other
way. The pride with which he had borne home his iron hook now appeared ridiculous. He had seen the pity in Catriona's eyes together with the disgust. As he recollected the circumstances it seemed that her revulsion had over-ridden her pity. He was maimed; there was no other way to look at the matter. Certainly that harridan of an aunt would point out James Quilhampton had no prospects, no expectations, no fortune and no left hand!

But she had been undeniably pleasant to him, surely. He pondered the matter, turning over the events of their brief acquaintanceship, recollecting the substance of her half-dozen letters that led him to suppose she, at least, viewed his friendship if not his suit with some favour. Reasoning thus he raised himself out of his despondency only to slump back into it when he considered the uncertainty of his fate. He was in such a brown study that the quartermater of the watch had to call his attention to the masthead's hail.

‘Deck! Deck there!'

‘Eh? What? What is it?'

‘Eight sail to the norrard, sir!'

‘What d'you make of 'em?'

‘Clean torps'ls, sir, Frenchmen!'

‘Pass word for the captain!' Quilhampton shouted, scrambling up on the rail with the watch glass and jamming himself against the mizen shrouds. Within minutes Drinkwater was beside him.

‘Where away, Mr Q?'

‘I can't see them from the deck, sir . . . wait! One, two . . . six . . . eight, sir. Eight sail and they are French!'

Drinkwater levelled his own glass and studied the newcomers as they sailed south, tier after tier of sails lifting over the horizon until he could see the bulk of their hulls and the white water foaming under their bows as they manoeuvred into line abreast.

‘Casting a net to catch us,' he said, adding, ‘six of the line and two frigates to match or better us.' In the prevailing westerly breeze escape to the north was impossible. But the enemy squadron was sailing south, for the Spanish coast, the Straits of Gibraltar or the Mediterranean itself. Which? And why south if the main strength of the Combined Fleet had gone north? Perhaps it had not; perhaps Villeneuve had got past the cordon of British frigates and into Ferrol or Corunna, or back into the Mediterranean. Perhaps this detachment of ships was part of Villeneuve's fleet, an advance division sent out to capture the British frigates that were Barham's eyes and ears. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. God only knew what the truth was.

Drinkwater suddenly knew one thing for certain: he had seen at least one of the approaching ships before. The scarlet strake that swept aft from her figurehead was uncommon. She was Allemand's
Magnanime
, and there too was the big
Majestueux
. It was the Rochefort Squadron, back from the West Indies and now heading south!