The Barbed Crown

Chapter 27





I did my best by meeting with the other side in the great cabin of the French flagship Bucentaure, a new, eighty-gun two-decker moored in Cadiz. This port in Spain’s southwest corner, guarding the approaches to Gibraltar, was where the French had retreated after the Cape Finisterre fight with British admiral Robert Calder on July 23. As the warship swung at anchor its stern windows gave a panoramic view of a secure harbor, the white city and its gray forts occupying a peninsula that gives protection from Atlantic rollers and English ships. By the same token it’s a difficult pocket to work out from, since the prevailing wind is from the sea and the mouth is a tangle of shoals. This gave the French and Spanish fleet an excuse to dither. While the admirals talked I kept imagining Nelson’s cannonballs smashing through all that window glass, screeching the length of the hull and bouncing like marbles.

It was October 8, 1805. The wind had shifted briefly to blow from the brown Iberian hills, and so Admiral Pierre de Villeneuve called his French and Spanish admirals to a council of war to see if they should weigh and sail. With Napoleon having abandoned his plan to invade England, Villeneuve’s new orders were to proceed to the Mediterranean and harass Austrian possessions from there. The question was when, whether, or how to obey this directive. There were fourteen of us in the low-beamed cabin: seven French officers, six Spanish, and me.

I’d appeared as miracle or plague, depending on whom you asked, transferred from British frigate under flag of truce to a Spanish cutter and transported into the enemy harbor. I presented myself as diplomat, envoy, and man of peace, an American working for France and England and thus suspect but useful to all sides. I had papers from both countries and my Jaeger rifle from Napoleon to prove my bona fides, not to mention a broken sword hilt from Talleyrand and twenty pounds in English sovereigns I’d wheedled out of Smith. Indicative of the desperation and depression of the Combined Fleet commanders was that they decided to hear what I had to say. When no alternative is attractive, even Ethan Gage gets an audience.

The mood was tense. The Spanish officers were reluctant allies at best, forced by Napoleon’s bullying of their nation’s King Carlos to side with France. The French were no happier, frustrated that their desperate need for supplies and repairs was met with excuses and delay by the Cadiz shipyards. The Spanish merchants demanded cash, which the French captains didn’t have. The French needed supplies and men for forty ships from the two nations combined, which the Spanish couldn’t fulfill. Now the admirals stared balefully at me because I’d brought more unwelcome word. Nelson was returning to the blockading British fleet and bringing enough warships to allow the English to risk a full-scale battle.

“Surely the British are running low on supplies and must put into Gibraltar to get more,” Villeneuve said with more hope than sense. He’d none of Nelson’s dash, but instead a double chin, receding hair, and fretful hands. He seemed doggedly dutiful but a conscientious administrator instead of a warrior.

“He might send a few at a time,” I said, “but he’ll keep enough on station to make a fight of it. His plan is to break up your formation and create a pell-mell battle, concentrating his firepower on just part of your fleet until it’s smashed. Then he’ll go after the rest.”

“Just as I predicted,” Villeneuve told his officers. “He’ll send a column to break our line like Admiral Rodney did more than two decades ago. We must maintain a tight formation to destroy him as he approaches, our broadsides against his bows.”

“Yes, you’ll have the advantage at the beginning, and Nelson will have his turn when his ships pierce your formation.”

“If we retain formation, he will never penetrate.” Again, more hope than sense.

“Or, since we’ve no practice maintaining such formation, we should wait in Cadiz harbor,” said Spanish admiral Frederico Gravina, who looked fiercer than the commander in chief but also had a reputation for sober realism. “Let the winter storms drive the British away, and we can slip through Gibraltar in a lull. To sally out now is to play Nelson’s game.”

“Waiting and hiding might not work, either.” I explained that Smith, Fulton, and Congreve hoped to bring their torpedoes and rockets to Cadiz. “I know it sounds unsporting, but the inventors hope to burn your entire fleet without a cannon being fired. It’s deviously clever, and might have succeeded at Boulogne except for the treachery of a French policeman.”

They looked at me as if I were raving, so I plunged on.

“Nelson, on the other hand, wants to gut you with cannon fire. A slugging match is far more glorious, and he’s mad for fame. Even the common sailors think God is on their side over Spanish Catholics and French atheists, and the tars are as belligerent as their admiral. They’re drilled tight as a drum.”

Gravina looked suspicious. “Why is he telling us this?”

My best credential was honesty. “Napoleon sent me to England in hopes I could get Nelson to stand down, since the French have suspended their invasion plans. I failed. Now Sidney Smith has sent me to Cadiz to warn you of Nelson and shake your confidence. He wants to foment disunion between your two nations. But that’s not why I’m really here. Emma Hamilton thinks her lover will die in any fight and wants me to forestall one.”

“Emma Hamilton?”

“Nelson’s mistress. She wants him home.”

Now the admirals wondered if I was performing a comedy. It’s not my fault I get sent on errands by eccentrics and lunatics.

“I’ve made something of a bollocks of being a double agent,” I went on, “and having seen a lot of war, saving countless lives seems the one useful thing I might salvage out of the past year and a half that I’ve been tangled in great events. I’m sure every wife in Cadiz shares Emma’s sentiment.”

“And your reward as an emissary of peace?”

“I’m trying to get to Venice to find my family. The British promised me passage if I persuade you.” I shrugged. “Nelson’s arrival isn’t what you wanted to hear, but is it not an excuse to hesitate?”

Villeneuve sighed. “And how do you propose we do that, Monsieur Gage? Napoleon has already expressed frustration with my prudence.”

“Just admit to the British that you prefer to avoid battle and don’t intend to molest England. The July battle demonstrated your mettle. Now propose a naval truce. With Bonaparte occupied in Austria and winter coming on, cooler heads can prevail. Peace has to start with someone, and why not you, Admiral? Send me back with a white flag. I negotiated Rochambeau’s surrender in Saint-Domingue and helped with the sale of Louisiana. I had a modest role in the Treaty of Mortefontaine. While people are forever dissatisfied with me, I’m really simply moderate, as well as a Franklin man, an electrician, and a good father when not losing my son abroad or sending him down a chimney.”

“Bah,” said Admiral Magon, who remembered me from Boulogne as I remembered him. He was the one who’d dutifully given the order that led to the disastrous drownings, and had the aggressive features of a pugnacious officer in a way Villeneuve could only envy. Part of leadership depends on looks. I also noted that the officer who had followed Napoleon’s foolish order of a naval exercise in a storm had been promoted, while the man who wisely refused, Bruix, had been shunted aside. “This man is a spy and a sycophant who pretended to have saved our emperor from drowning. He hangs about fleets and armies to make his fortune. Now he wants us to give up like cowards to please his British masters.”

“I did save him, and if you want evidence of his favor, examine my Jaeger rifle. People find me indispensable, when not shooting at me. A good drinking companion, too.”

“He comes with no letter from Nelson, no rank, and no retinue.”

“I have a handkerchief from Lady Hamilton, a pendant from Napoleon, and common sense. War is only logical when you can win it.”

“This is ridiculous,” Admiral Pierre Dumanoir said. “He’s here to betray us. Look at his face. There’s no character there.”

In a twist of fate, it was the Spanish who came to my aid.

“If what the American says is true, and Bonaparte is marching on Austria, why are we risking our nation’s ships for an invasion that will never happen?” Commodore Ignacio Alava asked his colleagues. “This Gage claims to know Nelson; why not send a counterproposal? We’ve nothing to lose and he can buy us time while we train and refit. We can’t sail anyway. The barometer is falling. A gale is coming.”

“All the more reason to get out of this trap of a harbor now,” countered Dumanoir. “We’ve a brief window of favorable wind; let’s follow orders and escape to the Mediterranean before Nelson can stop us.”

“We can’t escape because we don’t have adequate supplies, repairs, men, or training,” volleyed back Commodore Dionisio Galiano, another Spaniard. “Half our crews are soldiers with no sea experience at all. A fifth of your French sailors are sick. If the British catch us, we’ll be destroyed. I think this opportunist represents opportunity. Let him talk while we train.”

“Such hesitancy may be the habit of the Spanish navy, but not of the French,” Magon growled. “In Spain they may count what they don’t have, but in France we win by putting to use what we do have.”

Galiano laughed. “When was the last time the French navy won?”

I felt like the guest at an unhappy marriage. This group had no confidence in me, or each other. “Hard to fight Nelson with unready ships,” I volunteered.

“All know the courage of Spain,” Villeneuve tried, “and a demonstration of that courage would be to sail now, while the wind blows fair. I know we’re not ready for a final battle, but staying in this wretched port is not helping us get there.” He pointed at me. “I fear infernal rockets and torpedoes. I met Fulton in Paris and consider him in league with the devil. His boats smoke like volcanoes and sneak about under the sea.”

Gravina disagreed. “The barometer is falling. This east wind will soon disappear and a westerly gale could drive our fleet onto the rocks of Cape Trafalgar. Waiting isn’t cowardice. It’s prudence.”

Villeneuve saw an opening. “Perhaps it is not the glass, but the courage of certain persons that is falling.”

The Spanish admiral leaped to his feet as if on a spring, hand on sword. “Then let us test my courage!” Half the table followed, with a scrape of swords half lifted.

The French admiral stayed in his chair. “That was ill said,” he said mildly. “We’re talking strategy, not courage. Please, sit down.”

“The Spanish navy led the way fighting Calder off Cape Finisterre,” Gravina muttered. His fellow Spaniards nodded. But then he did sit, honor restored, and I saw that Villeneuve had successfully provoked him. Maybe the French admiral was smarter than I thought. “We’ll prove our valor again by leading you to sea, Admiral, Nelson be damned.”

“We sail not for combat,” said Villeneuve, seeking to satisfy both sides, “but to redeploy and refit in the Mediterranean. If a westerly gale is coming, we need to get to the Straits of Gibraltar so it can blow us through.”

I was alarmed. Such an escape would prolong the naval campaign for months or years. It would also infuriate Nelson and put the Combined Fleet between Astiza and me. “Maybe I can negotiate your free passage under flag of truce,” I stalled. “Reporting my failure if I must, but surely being on my way. I’m no coward, but as a neutral American, this isn’t my fight. And fight you shall have if you try to make Gibraltar without agreement from Nelson. Thank you for listening, gentlemen, but having exhausted your hospitality, I will now return to the British.”

“No,” said Villeneuve, more decisive toward me than toward Nelson. “I don’t trust you. This Gage will stay with us while I write Paris for instructions on what to do with him. If he’s truly Napoleon’s pet, let the emperor tell us so.”

“But I’m a diplomat!” Such instructions could take weeks, and who knows who might dictate them? Talleyrand, seeking revenge for my stealing of his cloak? Or Réal, on advice from Pasques? “Let me report your courage to England and the world. I’m thinking of writing a book.”

“Certainly not, English spy.” The admiral stood, as confident of bullying me as he was bullied by the specter of Nelson. “England will see our courage soon enough. And we never intended to let you travel from our war council back to the enemy. We wanted to hear what you had to say, but you’ve been on far too many sides.”

“That’s what we concluded about Gage at Boulogne,” Magon said. “Napoleon said he was a puppet, but I don’t trust him.”

“Then he shares our fate,” said Villeneuve. “You want to help France, Monsieur Gage? Until new orders come, I hereby impress you into the French navy.”

The other officers smiled at this jolly idea.

“What? I’m no sailor!”

“Neither are three quarters of the men on my ships. If we win through to the Mediterranean, we’ll give you passage to Venice. Can you swim?”

“Quite well, actually. Admiral Magon may not admit it, but I did save Napoleon.”

“Then we’ll keep you in irons until we’re out to sea, so there’s no chance for you deserting overboard and betraying us.”

This was disaster. In trying to foil Napoleon’s coronation I’d enhanced it, and in trying to prevent a battle I’d been drafted into it. A messenger of fate? I couldn’t control my own.

But my protests seemed to be the best humor they’d had in weeks.

I might have felt better about being conscripted if the relatives of the Spanish sailors and soldiers showed more confidence at the likely outcome of a battle. Instead, the final unwilling recruits were marched down the streets to the departing men-of-war dragging a train of weeping women and snot-nosed children behind. Cadiz treated what should have been a triumphal procession like a funeral. Churches were jammed with families saying prayers for loved ones. At Iglesia del Carmen, so many tried to crowd inside that people were admitted in relays. At the High Altar of the Oratorio de San Felipe Nerei, Archbishop Utrera spent an entire day on his knees. As men were rowed to their vessels, tradeswomen, laundresses, and prostitutes who’d visited the ships were transferred back ashore, and, as they passed the men, they joined the lamentation. Whores counted their money as if it might be their last.

None of this gave me confidence.

Being chained on the main gun deck, peering at the world through a gunport, gave me time to think carefully about my own wretched chances. Villeneuve seemed a decent chap, obedient but not terribly imaginative, and thus a lamb for Nelson’s lion. The Bucentaure would be the English admiral’s primary target in hopes of decapitating the command of the Combined Fleet. It was likely to be in the thick of the fighting and to take a terrible pounding.

Unless I could contrive a way to hide in the hold, I needed a safer ship.