and then the fires extinguished so that a hit on the coal stove wouldn’t ignite the ship.
I wandered to the quarterdeck, where officers peered westward through telescopes. Lookouts shouted from aloft. These topmen could count English sails coming over the horizon. I checked my watch. Did we have enough wind to outpace them?
“They have the weather gauge,” Lucas commented, as much to himself as me.
“What does that mean?”
“We’re both sailing southeast, but because the wind is from the west where Nelson is, it reaches the English first. They can use it to run down on us, but we cannot sail against it to come up on them. That means it’s their choice to fight or wait, and can time the battle to their advantage.”
I looked about. To the east, an orange sun was rising over the hills of Andalusia. To the west, it lit a line of British topsails about ten miles distant, far enough away that their hulls were still below the horizon.
“Redoutable is a fine sailor, but we’ve run ahead of our station,” Lucas added.
“I think it’s splendid we’re leading the fleet,” I encouraged. “Joining with your allies and demonstrating smart sailing. It’s the kind of initiative that works well for our eventual book.”
The Combined Fleet trailed like a ragged group of geese. While the breeze was light there was a heavy, ominous swell on the otherwise smooth ocean, a sign of disturbance hundreds of miles away.
“Storm coming,” the helmsman muttered. The barometer was falling as well.
“Maybe we should put on all sail and hurry on ahead to the Mediterranean,” I suggested. “We can scout for Villeneuve by getting to Gibraltar first.”
“No. We’re out of position,” the captain decided. “We’ll tack and return to the center where we were assigned.”
“What? And give up the lead?”
But he wasn’t listening to me, shouting orders instead that sent seamen scurrying to halyards and sheets. We ponderously came about and ran back down the line of Gravina’s ships to rejoin the French center, much closer to Villeneuve than I preferred. By the sword of Spartacus, battle seemed to suck me in like Newton’s gravity! Instead of being on the edge, I was once more in the middle.
I stewed. What other ship could I escape to? The answer was none.
The British ships, meanwhile, had turned ninety degrees and were sailing directly toward us. Because we continued to drift south, by the time they intercepted us they’d collide with Dumanoir’s division of ships in our rear, probably overwhelming that third of the Combined Fleet before we could turn to help.
So at eight A.M. on Monday, October 21, Villeneuve gave up our run for Gibraltar, as well as safety and sanity, and in the name of honor and courage ordered the entire fleet to turn and sail back toward Cadiz. This tactic would protect Dumanoir by putting our center abreast the oncoming British, but also make battle unavoidable. The showdown had finally come. The only good news I could see was that it would allow survivors of a defeat to seek refuge in the Spanish port. Turning around would also throw the Combined Fleet into confusion.
“Tack in this light wind? Villeneuve is no seaman,” Lucas muttered.
It was so difficult to turn the ships that it took two awkward hours for all the vessels to come about. The result, despite incessant and increasingly frantic signals from Villeneuve, was a ragged crescent of a formation instead of a neat line. It was as if our line of ships had formed a shallow bowl to catch the incoming two-twined fork of British warships. What wind there was pushed the English straight at us, while we drifted leeward toward Cape Trafalgar.
Even I knew our formation was disorganized. I felt trapped, awaiting execution on a morning that crawled like syrup. Lucas’s officers fell silent, unhappy but determined. Villeneuve had given up the initiative and embraced the collision that Nelson wanted.
Our entire ship was quiet. I could clearly hear the creak of tackle as Redoutable rolled in the swells. Officers’ orders drifted up from the stillness of the gun decks to be heard on the quarter. Water sloshed and hissed. The approaching British ships loomed closer, their canvas growing in height like building thunderheads.
Battle ensigns went up on each side, flapping lazily in the hazy air.
Nelson’s fleet had broken into two columns, each aimed at a different point of our struggling line. Higher and higher their masts rose, and then their bows appeared over the horizon, cannon bristling on either side