1805 (23 page)

For a while they sat in silence and then they were clear of the town, rolling along a coast-road from which the sea could be seen. None of them looked at the orange groves or the cork oaks that grew on the rising ground to the north; they all strove for a glimpse of the blue sea and the distant brown mountains of Africa. The sight of a sail made them miserable as they tried to make out whether it was one of the sloops Collingwood had directed to blockade coastal trade with Cadiz.

‘Sir,' said Quilhampton suddenly, ‘if we leapt from the coach, we could signal that brig for a boat . . .'

‘And have your other hand cut off in the act of waving,' said Drinkwater dismissively. ‘No, James. We are prisoners being escorted to Cadiz. For the time being we shall have to submit to our fate.'

This judgement having been pronounced by the captain produced a long and gloomy silence. Drinkwater, however, was pondering their chances. Freedom from the awful cell at Tarifa had revived his spirits. For whatever reason the French wanted them at Cadiz, it was nearer to the British battle-fleet than Tarifa and an opportunity might present itself for them to escape.

‘Beg pardon, sir,' put in Quilhampton.

‘Yes, James?'

‘Did you say “Santhonax”, sir, when were were in the stable yard? Is that the same cove that we took prisoner at Al Mukhra?'

‘I believe so, yes.'

‘I remember him. He escaped off the Cape . . . D'you remember him, Tregembo?'

‘Aye, zur, I do. The Cap'n and I know him from away back.' Tregembo's eyes met those of Drinkwater and the old Cornishman subsided into silence.

Piqued by this air of mystery, Frey asked, ‘Who is he sir?'

Drinkwater considered; it would do no harm to tell them. Besides, they had time to kill, the jolting of the coach was wearisome, and it is always the balm of slaves and prisoners to tell stories.

‘He is a French officer of considerable merit, Mr Frey. A man of the stamp of, say, Captain Blackwood. He was, a long time ago, a spy, sent into England to foment mutiny among the fleet at the Nore. He used a lugger to cross the Channel and we chased him, I recollect, Tregembo. He shot part of our mast down . . .'

‘That's right, zur,' added Tregembo turning on the junior officers, ‘but we was only in a little cutter, the
Kestrel
, twelve pop-guns. We had 'im in the end though, zur.' Tregembo grinned.

‘Aye. At Camperdown,' mused Drinkwater, calling into his mind's eye that other bloody October day eight years earlier.

‘At Camperdown, sir? There were French ships at Camperdown?' asked Frey puzzled.

‘No, Mr Frey. Santhonax was sent from Paris to stir the Dutch fleet to activity. I believe him to have been instrumental in forcing Admiral De Winter to sail from the Texel. Tregembo and I were still in the
Kestrel
, cruising off the place, one of Duncan's look-outs. When the Dutch came out Santhonax had an armed yacht at his disposal. We fought and took her, and Santhonax was locked up in Maidstone Gaol.' Drinkwater sighed. It all seemed so long ago and there was the disturbing image of the beautiful Hortense swimming into his mind. He recollected himself; that was no part of what he wanted to tell his juniors about Santhonax.

‘Unfortunately,' he went on, ‘whilst transferring Santhonax to the hulks at Portsmouth, much as we are travelling now . . .'

‘He escaped,' broke in Quilhampton, ‘just as we might . . .'

‘He spoke unaccented and near perfect English, James,' countered Drinkwater tolerantly, ignoring Quilhampton's exasperation. ‘How
good is your Spanish, eh?'

‘I take your point, sir, and beg your pardon.'

Drinkwater smiled. ‘No matter. But that is not the end of the story, for Mr Quilhampton and I next encountered Edouard Santhonax when he commanded our own frigate
Antigone
in the Red Sea. He was in the act of re-storing her after careening and we took her one night, in a cutting-out expedition, and brought both him and his frigate out together from the Sharm Al Mukhra. Most of the guns were still ashore and we were caught in the Indian Ocean by a French cruiser from Mauritius. We managed to fight her off but in the engagement Santhonax contrived to escape by diving overboard and swimming to his fellow countryman's ship. We were saved by the timely arrived of the
Telemachus
, twenty-eight, commanded by an old messmate of mine.'

‘And that was the last time you saw him, sir?'

‘Yes. But not the last time I heard of him. After Napoleon extricated himself from Egypt and returned from Paris a number of officers that had done him singular services were rewarded. Santhonax was one of them. He transferred, I believe, to the army, not unknown in the French and Spanish services,' he said in a didactic aside for the information of the two young midshipmen who sat wide-eyed at the Captain's tale, ‘who often refer to their fleets as “armies” and their admirals as “captains-general”. Now, I suppose, he has recognised my name and summoned me to Cadiz.'

‘I think he may want information from you, sir,' said Quilhampton seriously.

‘Very probably, Mr Q. We shall have to decide what to tell him, eh?'

‘Sir,' said Gillespy frowning.

‘Yes, Mr Gillespy?'

‘It is a very strange story, sir. I mean the coincidences . . . almost as if you are fated to meet . . . if you see what I mean, sir.'

Drinkwater smiled at the boy who had flushed scarlet at expressing this fantasy.

‘So I have often felt, Mr Gillespy; but in truth it is not so very remarkable. Consider, at the time Tregembo, Mr Q and I were fighting this fellow in the Red Sea, Sir Sydney Smith was stiffening the defences of Acre and thwarting Boney's plans in the east. A little later Sir Sydney fell into Bonaparte's hands during a boat operation off Havre, along with poor Captain Wright, and the pair of them spent two years in The Temple prison in Paris,' he paused, remembering
Camelford's revelations about the connection of Santhonax with the supposed suicide. ‘The two of them escaped and Wright was put in command of the sloop-of-war
Vinejo
, only to be captured in a calm by gunboats in the Morbihan after a gallant defence. He was returned to the Temple . . .'

‘Where Bonaparte had him murdered,' put in Quilhampton.

Drinkwater ignored the interruption. Poor Quilhampton was more edgy than he had been a few days earlier. Presumably the strain of playing Dutch uncle to this pair of boys had told on his nerves. ‘Very probably,' he said, ‘but I think the events not dissimilar to my own encounters with Santhonax; a sort of personal antagonism within the war. It may be fate, or destiny, or simply coincidence.' Or witchcraft, he wanted to add, remembering again the auburn hair of Hortense Santhonax.

Silence fell again as the coach rocked and swayed over the unmade road and the dragoons jingled alongside. From time to time De Urias would ride up abreast of the window and peer in. After several hours they stopped at a roadside
taverna
where a change of horses awaited them. The troopers had a meal from their saddlebags, watered their horses and remounted. For some English gold Drinkwater found in his breeches pocket he was able to buy some cold meat and a little rot-gut wine at an inflated price. The inn-keeper took the money, bit it and, having pocketed the coin, made an obscene gesture at the British.

‘We are not popular,' observed Quilhampton drily, with a lordly indifference that persuaded Drinkwater he was recovering his spirits after the morning's peevishness. They dozed intermittently, aware that as the coast-road swung north the distant sea had become wave-flecked under a fresh westerly breeze. Drinkwater was awakened by Quilhampton from one of these states of semiconsciousness that was neither sleep nor wakefulness but a kind of limbo into which his mind and spirit seemed to take refuge after the long, unremitting months of duty and the hopelessness of captivity.

‘Sir, wake up and look, sir.'

From the window he realised they were headed almost north, running across the mouth of a bay. To the west he could see distant grey squares, the topsails of Nelson's look-out ships, keeping contact with the main fleet out of sight over the horizon to the westward. The thought made him turn to his companions.

‘Gentlemen, I must caution you against divulging any information to our enemy. They are likely to question us all, individually. You
have nothing to fear,' he said to young Gillespy. ‘You simply state that you were a midshipman on your first voyage and know nothing.' He regretted the paternal impulse that had made the child his note-taker. ‘You may say I was an old curmudgeon, Mr Gillespy, and that I told you nothing. Midshipmen are apt to hold that opinion of their seniors.' He smiled and the boy smiled uncertainly back. At least he could rely upon Frey and Quilhampton.

They crossed the back of a hill that fell to a headland whereon stood a tall stone observation tower. A picket of
Guarda Costa
horses and men were nearby and they turned and holloaed at the coach and its escort as it swept past.

‘I recognise where we are,' said Drinkwater suddenly. ‘That is Cape Trafalgar. Have we changed horses again?'

‘Twice while you were dozing, sir.'

‘Good God!' It was already late afternoon and the sun was westering behind great banks of cloud. On their right, above the orange and olive groves, Drinkwater caught sight of the Chiclana hill. They crossed a river and passed through a small town.

‘Look sir, soldiers!' said Frey a little later as the coach slowed. They could hear De Urias shouting commands and swearing. Drinkwater looked out of the window but the nearest trooper gestured for him to pull his head in; he was not permitted to stare. The coach increased speed again and they were jolting through a bivouac of soldiers. Drinkwater recognised the bell-topped shakoes of French infantry and noted the numerals ‘67' and ‘16'. Someone saw his face and raised a shout: ‘
Hey, Voilà Anglais
 . . . !'

The cooking fires of the two battalions drew astern as they began to go downhill and then they pulled up. Drinkwater saw water on either side of them before a dragoon opened each door and the window blinds were drawn. The trooper said something to them in Spanish from which they gathered that any attempt to see any more would be met by a stern measure. The doors were slammed and, in darkness, they resumed the last miles of their journey from Tarifa, aware that the coach was traversing the long mole of Cadiz.

They were hurried into their new place of incarceration. The building seemed to be some kind of a barracks and they were taken into a bare corridor and marched swiftly along it. Two negligent French sentries made a small concession to De Urias's rank as they halted by a door. A turnkey appeared, the door was unlocked and the two midshipmen, Tregembo and Quilhampton were motioned to enter. De Urias
restrained Drinkwater whose quick glance inside the cell revealed it as marginally cleaner than the hole at Tarifa, but still unsuitable for the accommodation of officers.

‘Lieutenant, I protest; the usages of war do not condemn officers doing their duty to kennels fit for malefactors!'

It was clear that the protest, which could not have failed to be understood by the Spanish officer, fell on deaf ears. As the turnkey locked the door De Urias motioned Drinkwater to follow him again. They emerged into a courtyard covered by a scrap of grey sky. The wind was still in the west, Drinkwater noted. As they crossed the square he saw a pair of horses with rich shabraques being held by an orderly outside a double door beneath a colonnade. The door was flanked by two sentries. Drinkwater's eye spotted the grenadier badges and the regimental number ‘67' again. They passed through the door. A group of officers were lounging about a table. One, in full dress, stood up from where he half sat on the end of the heavy table.

‘Ah,' he said, smiling almost cordially, ‘
le capitaine anglais. Bienvenu à Cadiz
!' The officer bowed from the waist, his gaudy shako tucked under his arm. ‘
Je suis Lieutenant Leroux, Le Soixante-septième Régiment de Ligne
.'

‘
Bravo, Leroux
!' There was an ironic laugh from his fellow officers which Leroux ignored. He twirled a moustache. ‘
Allez, Capitaine
 . . .'

Ignoring De Urias, Drinkwater followed the insouciant Leroux up a flight of stairs and to a door at the end of another corridor. At the door Leroux paused and Drinkwater was reminded of a midshipman preparing to enter the cabin of an irascible captain. Leroux coughed, knocked and turned his ear to the door. Then he opened it, crashed to attention and announced Drinkwater. He stood aside and Drinkwater entered the room.

A tall, curly-haired officer rose from the table at which he had been writing. His dark and handsome features were disfigured by a broad, puckered scar which dragged down the corner of his left eye and split his cheek. His eyes met those of Drinkwater.

‘So, Captain,' he said in flawless English, ‘we meet again . . .' He indicated a chair, dismissed Leroux and sat down, his hand rubbing his jaw, his eyes fastened on his prisoner. For a moment or two Drinkwater thought the intelligence reports might have been wrong – Santhonax wore an elaborate, gold-embroidered uniform that was more naval than military – but he was soon made aware of Santhonax's status and the reason for Leroux's deference.

‘I recollect you reminded me that it was the fortune of war that I
was your prisoner when we last had the pleasure of meeting.' Santhonax's tone was heavily ironic. Drinkwater said nothing. ‘I believe the more apt English expression to be “a turning of tables”, eh?'

Santhonax rose and went to a cabinet on which a decanter and glasses stood in a campaign case. He filled two glasses and handed one to Drinkwater.

Drinkwater hesitated.

‘It is good cognac, Captain Drinkwater.'

‘Thank you.'