Battle Fleet (2007) (21 page)

Now all our guns, from 12 pounders through to 32 pounders and carronades, had these new flintlocks. Once the gun was loaded and primed the gun captain simply pulled a lanyard on the lock and the gun immediately went off.

We knew, from the evidence of captured enemy warships, that their gunners had no such advantage. We had always been able to fire much faster than our foes and now we could do so with greater accuracy. Such details I drew on to comfort me during that long autumn night before the battle. I did not fall asleep until well after the larboard watch had been roused at four. We
midshipmen were woken soon after, and I felt full of trepidation for the day ahead. I bade Robert farewell, but he was so matter of fact it only occurred to me later that I might not set eyes on him again.

The wind had picked up during the night but it had died down by the time I came up to the poop deck. Clouds blocked the moon and obscured the creeping dawn. I felt grateful for my thick coat, and a stab of pity for the ordinary seamen in their sailor’s slops.

Pasco informed me that earlier that morning the signal had been given for our fleet to form into two columns behind HMS
Victory
and Admiral Collingwood’s flagship HMS
Royal Sovereign
. We were there at the head – the most powerful ship in the Royal Navy – ready to tear a hole in the enemy line.

Standing in the cold of the morning, I knew we would bear the brunt of enemy fire for the whole of our initial attack. I wished we could be third or fourth ship back, even eighth or ninth, but I wouldn’t dream of saying that to Pasco. Despite the cold aggravating his rheumatism, he was in high spirits.

On the poop we constantly swept the horizon for new signals from our frigates, who were tailing the enemy, just out of range of their guns. The Combined Fleet was heading south at full sail, intent on outrunning us and escaping into the Mediterranean.

But even now, with land in the misty distance, I knew we would get to them. Soon after first light we caught a glimpse of the enemy on the eastern horizon. The wind was in our favour rather than theirs, and that heavy swell coming in from the west would carry us towards them.

As we gained on our quarry, we saw them more clearly. Among them was the Spanish first rate,
Santisima Trinidad
. She was said to be the biggest man-o’-war in the world. Even from a distance she looked formidable. I hoped we would not have to engage with her, but knowing Lord Nelson and the way he fought, I feared he would head straight for her. Pasco had a word of reassurance. ‘The
Santisima Trinidad
’s said to have a hundred and thirty guns, but don’t worry, the crew are bound to be a complete shambles. Probably swept them out of the gutters and inns of Cadiz earlier this week. A ship like that’s wasted on them, really.’

There was something reassuringly ramshackle about the Combined Fleet. They sailed in disarray, with little attempt to keep formation. Even from a distance I could see that it would be a miracle if they got through the day without a collision somewhere along the line.

At seven that morning we were given the order to hoist the signal:

BEAR UP AND STEER COURSE EAST NORTHEAST.

Then, shortly after:

PREPARE FOR BATTLE.

It was thrilling to be the first to know the signals for the rest of the fleet – to know what Lord Nelson was thinking before anyone else.

Nelson joined us on the poop deck and scanned the eastern horizon with his telescope. I noticed how he had aged since I had first seen him four years earlier at Copenhagen. The years at sea had taken their toll, and left their mark on his weary, weather-beaten face. It was often said that a life at sea aged a man like no other occupation. I wasn’t sure of this. I suspected working in a cotton mill or down a mine would shorten a man’s life far more than being a sailor, but for a gentleman, certainly, it was an arduous calling.

I noticed something else about him. Although he affected his usual nonchalance in the face of danger, he had forgotten to wear his sword. Officers of any rank were never seen on deck without their swords. Clearly he was too important to have this pointed out to him.

I saw that he was wearing his every decoration, badge of honour and insignia of rank. I felt vulnerable to enemy marksmen in my midshipman’s coat and hat. He was a flaming beacon on a black night to sharpshooters in the enemy tops.

‘Clear for action,’ he commanded, and before he returned to his cabin the marine drummer had started to
beat his call to quarters. The ship was in chaos for ten minutes, as the guns were rolled out, the sails doused with water, sand scattered on the decks and the fine furniture of the officers’ cabins stowed in the hold.

I mentioned Nelson’s medals to Pasco, and how they made him an obvious target. He seemed mildly affronted. ‘You wouldn’t understand, Witchall. A lad of your low-breeding. Those who are born to command invite danger without a care. It gives the people heart and the fire to fight with courage.’

I thought perhaps he was teasing me, but I never did know with Pasco.

Captain Hardy and Mr Beatty, the ship’s surgeon, came on to the poop. They were deep in conversation about Nelson’s medals too. ‘I’m not going to raise it with him, are you?’ said Hardy.

With
Victory
ready to fight, Nelson took a tour of the ship. He walked along the fo’c’sle and the quarterdeck, stopping to speak to each of the gun crews stationed there. He had a word of encouragement for everyone, even the powder monkeys. When he reached the end of his rounds, and stood by the companionway to the poop, the whole crew erupted in a great cheer. He turned to acknowledge them and seemed to wipe away a tear from his eye. It was a telling glimpse of the real man. I wondered if, as a young midshipman, one of his
captains had ever advised him to build a carapace over his feelings. He had risen to command a whole fleet yet could still be moved to tears by the affection of his men.

From the poop deck the Admiral continued to survey the enemy fleet, all the while making little observations to Hardy, and his two secretaries, Mr Scott and Dr Scott. Mr Beatty was with them too, taking the air before he began the ghastly business of treating the wounded that were sure to flood into his surgery on the orlop deck. I wondered if I would end up on the table we had dined on, having my leg or arm sawn off, with only a leather gag to bite on to divert me from the agony.

Pasco distracted me. ‘Look at them, Witchall,’ he said, gesturing towards the Combined Fleet. ‘They’re turning back to Cadiz.’ This was a sight that gave heart to every British sailor. Although the horizon was covered with enemy ships, they still feared to fight us. ‘No matter,’ said Pasco. ‘We’ll catch them and give them a thrashing whichever way they’re heading.’

The manoeuvre was clumsily done. ‘Bloody shambles,’ snorted the Lieutenant a while later. He was clearly delighted in the incompetence of his enemy. ‘The whole fleet is bowed towards the centre. If a Royal Navy fleet sailed in such poor formation, the Admiral would have his Captains’ guts for garters.’

Straight line or not, they still looked a formidable wall of men-o’-war to me, and soon they would be
unleashing their cannon fire upon us.

Pasco continued to mock.

‘Oh, and look at this. If you train your telescope on them, you’ll see they have no pattern of colour. When we get close, they’ll not know who’s the enemy.’

Our own fleet had all been painted in ‘Nelson’s checkerboard’ – black hull with yellow bands running along the gun decks. This would make it plain in the heat and smoke of battle who was friend or foe. Lord Nelson had even instructed his Captains to paint the steel hoops around their masts yellow not black, to ensure correct identification in close-quarter fighting. ‘Most of the enemy ships have black hoops,’ said Pasco, who was greatly impressed with this attention to detail.

As we drew nearer, the officers on the quarterdeck began to fret that the wind would drop entirely. Then, the Combined Fleet would be able to retreat again into Cadiz and our chance to destroy them would be lost.

Still we pressed on, the wind rattling sails and flags, the ship’s band playing ‘Heart of Oak’ and ‘Rule, Britannia’. Occasionally the wind would change and we would hear the band on the
Temeraire
behind us, mingling with our musicians to make an unholy row.

I stood there on the crowded poop deck, among the officers, marines and sailors, alone with my thoughts. Would we be raked? I had been on a ship that was raked,
and having enemy shot enter the bow and traverse the whole length of the ship was terrifying. With so many ships to fight, it was also possible that we would be ‘doubled’ – attacked on both sides, so our gun crews would have to fire the larboard and starboard guns both at once, rather than double up on one side, which was the usual custom.

I tried to banish these thoughts but could not. When the wind carried the drums and pipes of the enemy ships towards us, I knew the battle was about to begin.

Admiral Nelson walked up to Pasco and declared, ‘I shall now amuse the fleet with a signal.’

With a twinkle in his eye, he said, ‘“ENGLAND CONFIDES THAT EVERY MAN WILL DO HIS DUTY.”’ After a pause he added, ‘You must be quick, for I have one more to make, which is for “CLOSE ACTION”.’

I thought this a brilliant message, though hardly amusing. He was letting his loyal crews know that their country had every faith in their courage. Then Lieutenant Pasco made a daring suggestion. ‘If your Lordship will permit me to substitute the word “expects” for “confides”, the signal will sooner be completed, because the word “expects” is in the vocabulary and the word “confides” must be spelled.’

Nelson replied, ‘That will do, Pasco, make it directly.’

I thought that a poor idea. We all knew what was
expected of us, and the ordinary sailors knew that they would be shot dead by a marine or officer if they flinched from their duty.

Pasco and I fetched the flags from the lockers by the stern rail, and within a couple of minutes they were hauled up our mizzenmast.

I was wrong about the signal. No sooner had it been raised than a huge cheer erupted from both the
Victory
and the ships surrounding us. I hoped that the sound would roll across the waves towards the French and Spanish and scare the daylights out of them.

Soon after the signal was made we heard the first shots fired against us. They reached our ears from the tail end of the Combined Fleet, where Admiral Collingwood was leading his column. We could make out plumes of water falling short of his ship the
Royal Sovereign
. ‘Why do they waste their shot and powder with such profligacy?’ said Pasco. ‘These are not men of calibre, Witchall. We shall make an easy meal of them.’

That first enemy barrage was the cue for the British ships to unfurl their flags, and all along the line I could see bright pennants and ensigns fluttering from our
sterns and mastheads. It was a magnificently defiant sight and I hoped it would unnerve the enemy.

As we grew nearer, I could see some of their ships had hung a large wooden cross from the spanker boom behind the mizzenmast. ‘It’s the Spanish custom,’ said Pasco. ‘Scoundrels think God’s on their side. They’ll soon find out he isn’t.’

Maybe God wasn’t on anyone’s side? Maybe God was angry with us all?

We saw the
Royal Sovereign
break through the enemy line a mile or so to our north. Robert had told me the
Sovereign
had recently had a copper bottom fitted to her wooden hull to hinder the accumulation of marine creatures and seaweed, and this helped speed her through the water. She was a good quarter of a mile ahead of the next British ship in the line.

As Collingwood’s flagship reached the enemy, we saw, then heard, his guns roar in an almighty broadside. Whichever ship he passed was being raked, and I offered up a prayer to God to spare us from such a hideous fate. Within minutes, the area around the
Royal Sovereign
was so obscured with smoke we could only see the tops of the masts.

Nelson turned to his small group of confidants and declared, ‘See how that noble fellow Collingwood takes his ship into action.’

The Admiral was always quick to praise his fellows,
from officers to ships’ boys. Most officers, let alone captains and admirals, were not in the habit of handing out praise.

Fire from the enemy line started to fall regularly in front of our bows. They were wasting their shot on us too. Then two of their shots landed behind us, and I felt a tingle of fear. We were in range. The hour of battle was upon us.

It seemed foolhardy to be heading in single file into the fire of so many enemy warships, all broadside on to us, every cannon on their larboard side at their disposal. Then I had a glimpse into Lord Nelson’s genius. We were coming in bow and stern to the swell, which gently lifted us up and down. The Combined Fleet, on the other hand, were side on to these great waves, and rolled deeply with every motion of the sea. In such conditions, until we were almost upon them, it would be difficult for them to fire accurately and sheer good luck to land a shot on our ships.