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  1805

  Mariner’s Library Fiction Classics

  STERLING HAYDEN

  Voyage: A Novel of 1896

  BJORN LARSSON

  The Celtic Ring

  SAM LLEWELLYN

  The Shadow in the Sands

  RICHARD WOODMAN

  The Darkening Sea

  Endangered Species

  Wager

  The Nathaniel Drinkwater Novels

  (in chronological order):

  An Eye of the Fleet

  A King’s Cutter

  A Brig of War

  The Bomb Vessel

  The Corvette

  1805

  Baltic Mission

  In Distant Waters

  A Private Revenge

  Under False Colours

  The Flying Squadron

  Beneath the Aurora

  The Shadow of the Eagle

  Ebb Tide

  1805

  Richard Woodman

  This edition published 2001

  by Sheridan House Inc.

  145 Palisade Street

  Dobbs Ferry, NY 10522

  www.sheridanhouse.com

  Copyright © 1985 by Richard Woodman

  First published in Great Britain 1985 by

  John Murray (Publishers) Ltd

  First published in the United States of America 1987

  By Walker and Co. under the title Decision at Trafalgar

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,

  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,

  without the prior permission in writing of Sheridan House.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Woodman, Richard, 1944-

  1805: a Nathaniel Drinkwater novel/Richard Woodman

  p.cm.—(Mariner’s library fiction classics)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-57409-101-4 (pbk : alk. paper)

  1. Drinkwater, Nathaniel (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  2. Great Britain—History, Naval—19th century—Fiction.

  3. Trafalgar, Battle of, 1805—Fiction.

  4. Napoleonic Wars, 1800-1815—Fiction.

  I. Title. II. Series

  PR6073.0617 A17 2001

  823’ .914—dc21

  2001034840

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Liz and Brian Bell

  Contents

  PART ONE: BLOCKADE

  1 The Club-Haul

  2 The Antigone

  3 The Spy Master

  4 Foolish Virgins

  5 Ruse de Guerre

  6 The Secret Agent

  7 The Army of the Coasts of the Ocean

  8 Stalemate

  9 Orders

  PART TWO: BREAK-OUT

  10 The Rochefort Squadron

  11 The Snowstorm

  12 The Look-out Frigate

  13 Calder’s Action

  14 The Fog of War

  15 Nelson

  16 Tarifa

  PART THREE: BATTLE

  17 Santhonax

  18 The Spectre of Nelson

  19 Villeneuve

  20 Nelson’s Watch-Dogs

  21 Trafalgar

  22 Surrender and Storm

  23 Gibraltar

  24 The Martyr of Rennes

  Author’s Note

  PART ONE

  Blockade

  ‘Let us be master of the Channel for six hours and we are masters of the world.’

  NAPOLEON TO ADMIRAL LATOUCHE-TRÉVILLE July 1804

  ‘I do not say, my Lords, that the French will not come. I only say they will not come by sea.’

  EARL ST VINCENT TO THE HOUSE OF LORDS 1804

  Chapter 1

  March 1804

  The Club-Haul

  ‘Sir! Sir!’

  Midshipman Frey threw open the door of the captain’s cabin with a precipitate lack of formality. The only reply to his urgent summons from the darkness within was the continuous creaking of the frigate as she laboured in the heavy sea.

  ‘Sir! For God’s sake wake up, sir!’

  The ship staggered as a huge wave broke against her weather bow and sluiced over the rail into her waist. It found its way below by a hundred different routes. Outside the swinging door the marine sentry swore, fighting the impossibility of remaining upright. Frey stumbled against the leg of a chair overset by the violence of the ship’s movement. He found the cabin suddenly illuminated as a surge of white water hissed up under the counter and reflected the pale moonlight through the stern windows. Mullender, the captain’s steward, would catch it for not dropping the sashes if one of the windows was stove in, the boy thought irrelevantly as he shoved the chair aside and groped to starboard where, over the aftermost 18-pounder gun, the captain’s cot swung.

  ‘Sir! Please wake up!’

  Frey hesitated. Pale in the gloom, Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater’s legs stuck incongruously out of the cot. Still in breeches and stockings they seemed appendages not consonant with the dignity of a post-captain in the Royal Navy. Frey reached out nervously then drew back hurriedly as the legs began to flail of their own accord, responding to the squealing of the pipes at the hatchways and the sudden cry for all hands taken up by the sentries at their unstable posts about the ship.

  ‘Eh? What the devil is it? Is that you, Mr Frey?’

  The cot ceased its jumping and Captain Drinkwater’s face, haggard with fatigue, peered at the midshipman. ‘Why was I not called before?’

  ‘I had been calling you for some time . . .’

  ‘What’s amiss?’ The captain’s tone was sharp.

  ‘Mr Quilhampton’s respects . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve to tack, sir. Immediately, sir. Mr Quilhampton apprehends we are embayed!’

  ‘God’s bones!’ The sleep drained from Drinkwater’s face with the dawning of comprehension. Beyond the bulkhead the ship had come to urgent life with the dull thunder of a hundred pairs of feet being driven on deck by the bosun’s mates.

  ‘My hat and cloak, Mr Frey. On deck at once, d’you hear me!’ Drinkwater forced his feet into his buckled shoes and tugged on his coat, stumbling to leeward as the frigate lurched again. He shoved past the midshipman and swore as his shin connected with the overset chair-leg. He swore a second time as he bumped into the marine sentry sliding across the desk in an attempt to avoid part of the larboard watch tumbling up from the berth-deck below via the after-ladder.

  By the time Frey had collected the captain’s hat and cloak he emerged onto an almost deserted gun-deck. The purser’s dips glimmered, casting dull gleams on the fat, black breeches of the double-lashed 18-pounder cannon and the bright-work on the stanchions. A few round shot remained in the garlands, but most had been dislodged and rolled down to leeward where they rumbled up and down amid a dark swirl of water. Mr Frey paused in the creaking emptiness of the berth-deck.

  ‘All hands means you too, younker. Get your arse on deck instanter, God damn you!’

  Frey doubled up the ladder with a blaspheming Lieutenant Rogers at his heels. The first lieutenant had only roused himself from a drunken slumber with the greatest difficulty. He did not like being shown up in front of the whole ship’s company and Frey’s belated appearance served to cover his tardiness.

  The first thing Drinkwater noticed when he reached the upper deck was the strength of the wind. He had gone below less than two hours earlier with the ship riding out a south-westerly gale under easy sail on the larboard tack. Hill, the sailing master, had observed their latitude earlier as being ten leagues south of the Lizard and the ship was holding a course of west-north-west. Even allowing for considerabl
e leeway Drinkwater could not see that Mr Quilhampton’s fears were justified. He had left orders to be called at eight bells when, with both watches, they could tack to the southward and hope to come up with the main body of the Channel Fleet under Admiral Cornwallis somewhere west of Ushant.

  Quilhampton’s face was suddenly in front of him. The strain of anxiety was plain even in the moonlight; clear too was the relief at Drinkwater’s appearance.

  ‘Well, Mr Q?’ Drinkwater shouted at the dripping figure.

  ‘Sir, a few minutes ago the scud cleared completely. I’m damned certain I saw land to leeward . . . or something confounded like it.’

  ‘Have you seen the twin lights of the Lizard?’ Drinkwater shouted, a worm of uncertainty uncoiling itself in his belly.

  ‘Half an hour ago we couldn’t see much, sir. Heavy, driving rain . . .’

  ‘Then it cleared like this?’

  ‘Aye, sir, and the wind veered a point or two . . .’

  It was on Drinkwater’s tongue to ask why Quilhampton had not called him, but it was not the moment to remonstrate. He crossed quickly to the binnacle, aware by the grunts of the helmsmen that they were having the devil of a time holding the frigate on course. A glance confirmed his fears. The veering wind had cast the ship’s head to the north-west and if that latitude was in error he did not dare contemplate further.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Frey.’ He flung the boat-cloak over his shoulder and very nearly lost it in the violence of the wind. The scream of air rushing through the rigging had a diabolical quality that Drinkwater did not ever remember hearing before in a quarter-century of sea-service. He looked aloft. Both the fore and main topsails were hard-reefed and a small triangle of a spitfire staysail strained above the fo’c’s’le. Even so the ship was over-canvased, almost on her beam ends as spume tore over her deck stinging the eyes and causing the cheeks to ache painfully.

  ‘Look, sir! Look!’

  Quilhampton’s arm pointed urgently as he fought to retain his footing on the canting deck. Drinkwater slithered to the lee rail as the look-out took up the cry.

  ‘Land! Land! Land on the lee bow!’

  Rogers cannoned into him. ‘She’ll never stay in this sea, sir!’

  Drinkwater smelt the rum on his stale breath, but agreed with him. ‘Aye, Sam, and there’s no room to wear.’ He paused, gathered his breath and shouted his next order so there could be no mistake. ‘We must club-haul!’

  ‘Club-haul? Jesus!’

  ‘Amen to that, Mr Rogers,’ Drinkwater said sarcastically. ‘Now, Mr Q. D’you get the mizen topmen and the gunners below to rouse out the top cable in the starboard tier. Open the port by number nine gun and haul it forward outside all. Clap it on the starboard sheet-anchor. Ah, Mr Gorton,’ Drinkwater addressed the second lieutenant who had come up with the master. ‘Mr Gorton, you on the fo’c’s’le with the bosun. Get Q’s cable made fast and the anchor cleared away. I shall rely upon you to let the anchor go when I give the word.’ Gorton turned away with Quilhampton and both officers hurried off.

  ‘I hope your confidence ain’t misplaced, sir.’ Rogers stared after the figures of the two young men.

  ‘Both demonstrated their resource in the Greenland Sea, Sam. Besides, I want you amidships to pass my orders in case they ain’t heard.’ Drinkwater refused to be drawn by Roger’s touchiness respecting his two juniors. For all his obvious disabilities Drinkwater had dragged Lieutenant Rogers off the poop of an ancient bomb-vessel and placed him on the quarterdeck of one of the finest frigates in the service, so he had little cause to complain of partiality. ‘See that the men are at their stations and all ropes will run clear.’ That at least was something Rogers would do superbly and with a deal of invective to spur the men’s endeavours.

  ‘Well, Mr Hill?’

  ‘I’ve told two of my mates off into the hold to sound the well and Meggs is mustering a party at the pumps. If you open number nine port she’ll be taking water all the while.’

  ‘That,’ replied Drinkwater shouting, ‘is a risk we’ll have to take.’

  There was little either captain or master could do until the preparations were completed. The ship was rushing through the water at a speed that, under other circumstances, they would have been proud of.

  ‘Is it Mount’s Bay, d’you think?’ Hill’s concern was clear. He, too, was worried about that latitude. ‘We haven’t sighted the Lizard lights, sir.’

  ‘No.’ Drinkwater hauled himself gingerly into the leeward mizen rigging and felt the wind catch his body as a thing of no substance. He clung on grimly and stared out to starboard. The thin veil of cloud which showed the gibbous moon nearly at the full was sufficient to extend a pale light upon the waves as the wind tore their breaking crests to shreds and sent the spume downwind like buckshot. With the greatest difficulty he made out what might have been the grey line of a cliff out on the starboard beam. He could only estimate its distance with difficulty. Perhaps a mile, perhaps not so much.

  Then the moon sailed into a clear patch of sky. It was suddenly very bright and what Drinkwater saw caused his mouth to go dry.

  A point or two on their starboard bow, right in their track as they sagged to leeward, rose a huge grey pinnacle of rock. In the moonlight its crags and fissures stood out starkly, and at its feet the breakers pounded white. But in the brief interval in the cloud Drinkwater became aware of something else. Atop the rock, perched upon its highest crag, a buttress and wall reared sheer from the cliff. Immediately he knew their position and that the danger to the ship and her company was increased a hundredfold. For beneath the ancient abbey on St Michael’s Mount, stretching round onto their windward bow, the breakers pounded white upon the Mountamopus shoal.

  There are few periods of anxiety greater in their intensity than that of a commander whose ship is running into peril, waiting for his people to complete their preparations. On the one hand experience and judgement caution him not to attempt a manoeuvre until everything is ready; upon the other instinct cries out to be released into immediate action. Yet, as the sweat prickled between his shoulder blades, Drinkwater knew that to act hastily was to court disaster. If the ship failed in stays there would be no second chance. It was useless to speculate upon the erroneous navigation that had brought them to this point, or why Rogers stank of rum, or, indeed, whether the two were connected. All these thoughts briefly crossed his mind in the enforced hiatus that is every captain’s lot once orders have been given.

  He looked again at the mount. The moon had disappeared now under a thick mantle of cloud, but they were close enough for its mass to loom over them, an insubstantial-looking lightening of the darkness to leeward, skirted about its base by the breakers that dashed spray half-way up its granite cliffs. This sudden proximity made his heart skip and he looked along the waist where men had been clustered in a dark group, hauling on the messenger that pulled the heavy cable along the ship’s side. He could imagine their efforts being thwarted by the protruberances of the channels, the dead-eyes, the bead-blocks and all the other rigging details that at this precise moment seemed so much infernal nuisance. God, would they never finish?

  The wind shrieked mercilessly and the frigate lay over so that he felt a terrible concern for that open gun-port into which, without a shadow of doubt, the sea would be sluicing continuously. He was unable to hear any noise above the storm and hoped that the pumping party were hard at it.

  ‘Ready, sir!’

  After the worry the word came aft and took him by surprise. It was Rogers, his face a pale blur of urgency abruptly illuminated as, again, the cloud was torn aside and the moon shone brightly. The light fell on the frigate, the sea and St Michael’s Mount, sublime in its terrifying majesty.

  ‘Stations for stays!’ He left Rogers to bawl the order through the speaking trumpet, took Hill by the elbow and forced him across the deck. ‘We’ll take the wheel, Mr Hill. It’ll need the coolest heads tonight.’ He sensed Hill’s bewilderment as to what had gone wrong with the navi
gation.

  Captain and sailing master took over the head-wheel, the displaced quartermasters moving across the deck to assist the gunners to haul the main-yard.

  ‘Ease down the helm, Mr Hill!’ Drinkwater could feel the vibration of the hull as it rushed through the water, transmitted up from the rudder through the stock and tiller via the tiller ropes which creaked with the strain upon them. The ship lay over as she began to turn into the wind. A sea hit her larboard bow and threw her back a point. Drinkwater watched the angled compass card serenely illuminated by the yellow oil lamp, quietly obeying the timeless laws of natural science amid the elemental turmoil of the wind and sea.

  Drinkwater raised his voice: ‘Fo’c’s’le there! Cut free the anchor! Let the cable run!’

  Rogers took up the cry, bawling the first part forward and the latter part below to the party at the gun-port and by the cable-compressors. Drinkwater was dimly aware of a flurry of activity on the fo’c’s’le and the hail that the anchor was gone. Behind him one of the two remaining helmsmen muttered, ‘Shit or bust, mateys!’

  ‘I hope it holds,’ said Hill.

  ‘It’ll hold, Mr Hill. ’Tis sand and rock. The rock may part the cable in a moment or two but she’ll hold long enough.’ He wished he possessed the confidence he expressed. He could feel the cable rumbling through the port, there was no doubt about that strange sensation coming up through the thin soles of his shoes. Rogers was crouched at the companionway and suddenly straightened.

  ‘Half cable veered, sir!’

  Sixty fathoms of thirteen-inch hemp. Not enough, not yet. Drinkwater counted to three, then: ‘Nip her!’

  ‘I believe,’ said Drinkwater to cover the extremity of his fear that in the next few seconds the anchor might break out or the cable part,’ I believe at this point when staying, both the French and the Spanish invoke God as a matter of routine.’