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