by M. C. Muir
For a moment, he screwed his eyes and blinked in an attempt to focus on what he saw. If only he had his telescope with him.
Several miles to the south, entering the Solent, was what appeared to be a hulk, not dissimilar in size and shape to some of the aged and damaged ships chained together in Portsmouth Harbour – the repositories for prisoners both French and Spanish, and for convicts sentenced to transportation over the seas. But this vessel was neither anchored nor was it under tow. With a huge bulbous hull it was proceeding under jury rig and swimming, albeit very slowly, towards Spithead.
It can only be—! Oliver thought. Turning on his heels and sprinting from the beach, he hurried up the inclined track to his house on the hilltop. Arriving at the kitchen door quite out of breath, he quickly rubbed the sand from his feet on the course winter grass, pulled on his stockings and shoes and entered the house through the back door, almost knocking the kitchen maid off her feet. After grabbing his glass from the study he returned to the kitchen garden.
‘Dear God!’ he sighed, after focusing on the ship in the distance. It was as he had thought – His Majesty’s Ship, Victory, the 104-gun flag ship – Lord Nelson’s command at Trafalgar. Oliver shook his head in disbelief. Victory had been the pride of the British fleet. But look at it now!
If this is the condition of the victor, God help the enemy, Oliver thought.
His immediate inclination was to rush to Portsmouth. If only he had a ship on the water in order that he could see Victory at close quarters as it drifted in. But he knew the fighting ship would anchor at Spithead for powder and shot to be taken off before entering the harbour. Then he smiled at this thought, doubting there would be an ounce of powder left in her magazine, or shot of any size remaining on the ship. The victory she had won at Trafalgar would have exhausted all of that. He wondered if she would stay at Spithead or be towed through to the dockyard when the tide permitted. If so, he would visit her there. If she remained anchored on the waters of the Solent, by morning, the port authority’s barges would be in attendance with carpenters and shipwrights from the dockyard eager to make the necessary repairs to ensure she stayed afloat.
With word of Victory’s arrival, the waterfront would soon be abuzz with crowds. There were so many questions to be posed, and news about the battle would filter from the ship quicker than sand through the half-hour glass. Broadsheets would be printed and posted in shop windows, on lamp posts and on street corners, and special editions of the local newspaper sold on the streets. Undeterred, Oliver intended to join the throng in Portsmouth on the morrow.
Having discovered the captain standing by the wall in the cottage garden, Michael Casson walked down the grassy incline to join him, coughing into his hand to inform the captain of his presence.
‘Take a look,’ Oliver said, handing his steward the telescope without turning around. ‘Tell me what you see.’
Michael Casson quickly found the ship, steadied his view and studied it. ‘It’s Victory, ain’t it, Capt’n?’
‘Indeed,’ I believe it is,’ Oliver said.
‘Goodness! Look at the state of her,’ Casson exclaimed. And, as Victory swam further up the Solent, he could see the extent of much of the damage. ‘Almost everything shot away down to the weather deck. Bowsprit’s gone. Head and stern rails gone. Gunports shattered and pock marks all along her beam.’ He heaved a deep breath and adjusted his focus. ‘Chain plates shot through and mizzen mast gone with only a stump remaining. The main mast looks like it’s been shot through too. The main yard’s gone, and the main tops’l yard’s been shot away. The foremast is full of shot holes and it’s lost its mainyard. Spritsail and spritsail topsail yards gone too.’
‘Enough,’ Oliver called, he’d seen it for himself and he didn’t need to hear more.
‘See her main – looks like she’s sailing with French lace bent to the jury rig. What of her hull, I wonder? She’s riding low in the water. I’m surprised she’s made it home.’
Oliver nodded, accepted the glass and looked again confirming that everything Casson had said was true. As they watched, an undeniable gun salute was fired from the Portsmouth battlements where dozens of eyes, gazing through telescopes or squinting towards the returning warship, could hardly believe what they were seeing.
Bravely, the wounded ship replied with an explosive thunderous round from one of its massive 32-pound guns. At close range a shot from a 32- could penetrate two feet of solid oak.
Without taking his eyes from the shocking spectacle, Oliver Quintrell instructed his steward to again advise the stable to be ready to convey the pair of them to Ryde in the morning.
Wednesday, December 5th, 1805.
To the raucous cheers from the crowd of dockyard workers, three navy cutters, bearing the name of Victory on their transoms, moored at the King’s Stairs at the Royal Dockyard. Apart from the twelve oarsmen, the first boat carried several officers and midshipmen, their uniforms showing various states of battle weariness, their faces reflecting the same, plus several injured sailors.
On the jetty, marines stood ready to control the crowd but, as the public was not permitted to enter the dockyard, numbers were kept to a minimum. However, they were unable to stop the interest shown by the rope makers, sail makers, coopers, block-makers and every other mechanic employed within the yard.
After the senior officers had disembarked the first boat, three stretchers were carefully lifted from the thwarts and handed to the workers waiting on the stairs. With the tide being low, the bottom five stone steps were covered in fresh green weed. The badly injured men, barely protected from the cold by holed blankets, closed their eyes to the noise and confusion. There were more sick and wounded in the second boat – some plastered and bandaged, four supported by crutches but all with expressions that they were thankful to be back on English soil. They all needed help to mount the slippery staircase to the yard. Sitting in the third boat was a group of mechanics from the first rate. They were not identified by any uniform, though some carried the tools of their trade.
One of those men was a young shipwright. His grubby hands were empty and his face bore a wearied expression, but Captain Quintrell recognised him immediately.
‘Will. William Ethridge,’ he called, as the wright climbed up the Kings Stairs. The young man turned and scanned the crowd of onlookers to see who had hailed him. His face lit up when he recognised the captain.
‘Can you spare a few moments?’ Oliver called from the jetty.
‘Captain Quintrell, it would be my pleasure.’ Pushing his hair behind his ears, Will Etheridge climbed carefully, while assisting an injured seaman up and into the arms of a waiting porter. Then he headed to where the captain was waiting.
‘I was surprised to see you come ashore from Victory,’ Oliver said. ‘How is that so?’
The lad grinned, ‘I sailed back from Gibraltar with her after helping fix her up after the battle. You’d not believe the sorry state she was in when she was towed into Gibraltar Bay. Believe me, sir, she’s in a far better state now.’
Oliver found that hard to believe. ‘Walk with me for a moment. Let us find a less congested area to talk. There is much I need to hear.’
The pair walked across the yard, leaving the gathering crowds behind them.
‘And what of Lord Nelson?’ Oliver asked, as he slowed his pace.
‘His body is still aboard,’ Will said, lowering his eyes and his voice and glancing over his shoulder.
‘Are you leaving the ship here, Will?’ Oliver asked.
‘No, Captain, I’ve come ashore to deliver an order from the master shipwright for urgent materials needed on board. There is so much work still to be done.’ He sighed. ‘Because both the government and private stores in Gibraltar had been stripped clean there were insufficient supplies even to start some of the repair jobs. At the moment, Victory is barely seaworthy. Everyone was surprised we didn’t lose her on the Bay of Biscay.’
‘But you made it successfully.’
‘Where is Belleisle now?’ Oliver asked.
She parted company with us off Plymouth. Her captain decided she could not make it any further and took her into the naval yard to undergo the work there.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘How long before Victory is fit to sail again?’
The young shipwright was unsure. ‘Victory will likely be at Spithead for five days or more. If we can manage to keep her afloat, her yards can be hoisted and new canvas bent on, then she will head up the Channel to Chatham for major repairs. That’s where she was built, I heard.’
‘What are your intentions, Will?’ the Captain asked. ‘Do you plan to stay in Portsmouth and work here in the yard?’
‘No, sir, I intend to sail with Victory,’ he said. ‘I hope to get work in the Chatham Yard. I think they will need all the help they can get for many months to come.’
‘Let us find a quiet corner to sit,’ Oliver said. ‘I doubt the local taverns are an option. ‘I would like to hear more, if you have the time.’
The lad nodded cautiously, conscious of the errand he was on. But he welcomed the chance to speak with his previous captain, yet finding a suitable place to converse was not easy. The dockyard was milling with people from admirals in full dress uniforms to grubby salts pushing barrows of gravel or loading timber. Flat topped wagons loaded with rope, barrels of nails and tar trundled noisily across the cobbles. Crowds were flocking to the jetty around the Kings Stairs. Voices were growing louder by the minute. Inquisitive yard workers were eager for more news of HMS Victory since her arrival at Spithead. Across the courtyard, a regimental band was playing the national anthem, Britannia Rules the Waves. Cries of ‘Immortal Nelson,’ were heard.
Oliver indicated to an old 32-pound barrel that had lost its cascabel – no doubt blown clean off in a recent fight. The pair sat down on it.
‘First,’ Oliver began, ‘tell me about yourself, Will. It’s over six months since you left Perpetual.’
‘Aye, Captain. I wanted to see my mother in Hampshire. But she no longer lives at Buckler’s Hard. So I took work in the dockyard here. But after only a few weeks, an urgent call went out for carpenters and wrights to work in Gibraltar, so I volunteered to go back. As you know, I’d worked on the Rock before the epidemic. That was the time me and Mr Crosby and several other wrights sailed with you aboard Perpetual. When we left the colony, only a couple of skilled artisans remained there to attend to the Mediterranean Fleet.’
‘You were not concerned about the malignant fever, when you decide to return?’
Will shrugged his shoulders. ‘What was there to be afraid of?’ he asked. ‘The epidemic had been declared over, and besides, I had suffered from the fever and was told by both Dr Whipple and the government surgeon that I would not catch it again. Apart from that, I always liked the town and the people who made up the population. A real mixed bag. I was happy at the chance to go back and rekindle old friendships with some of the acquaintances I’d known there. Of course, at that time, no one could foresee the major battle that was going to blow the greatest ships of the British fleet apart.’ He paused for a second.
Although that opinion was not entirely correct and a confrontation had been mooted for a long time, Oliver did not interrupt, allowing the lad to continue at his own pace.
‘A week before the action took place, word reached the carpenter’s shop that the fleets were massing off Cadiz and a battle was looming. We were warned to make ready to repair damaged ships, the same as we had done for the Mediterranean Fleet. We were also warned that the damage could be more than usual, but nothing on the lines of what we were confronted with.’
‘Pray continue.’
‘’Twas on the morning of October 22nd, the semaphore tower on the Rock announced that the British fleet had won a victory over the combined French and Spanish navies.
‘We watched the arms on the signal tower flailing about as it dipped and rose continually. Of course we didn’t know what it was saying but the message was soon translated and the news of a great victory was quickly passed around. Everyone in the town was jubilant. You should have heard the cheers that rang out along Gibraltar’s waterfront and the sound of the bells ringing from all the colony’s churches. There was dancing on the streets and on the mole, and free ale was served in the taverns. There was no better feeling.’
Oliver’s thoughts jumped back to the time, more than a year earlier, when anchored in Gibraltar Bay, he too had watched the semaphore arms dancing and spinning and contemplated what crucial information those wooden slats were conveying.
While Will Ethridge’s expression was filled with enthusiasm, Oliver Quintrell remained unmoved. Once again, he allowed the boy to continue.
‘After that, we expected the ships to arrive in harbour later that day or, at least, on the following morning. Everyone waited. There was great excitement. They built bonfires on the mole and some kept vigils throughout the night. But no ships arrived and no one in Gibraltar could understand why.’
‘Was the fleet perhaps gathering off Cadiz to sail home?’ Oliver suggested.
‘Not so. We later learned it was due to a mighty storm that blew up the day after the battle. They said it was the type of storm that only blows once in every fifty years. The story goes that Admiral Nelson, knowing that a storm was imminent, ordered all ships, including the captured prizes, to drop anchor off Trafalgar, but when he fell, Admiral Collingwood ignored or didn’t fulfil that order.’
‘Be careful, young man,’ Oliver warned. ‘Those are libellous words.’
‘I am only relating what I heard, Captain.’ He paused a moment, then continued. ‘They said it was because of that changed order that many fighting ships failed to drop anchor before the storm arrived and were blown onto the rocks. Eight of the French and Spanish prizes ran aground or sank after the conflict.’ He sighed. ‘That was felt as a huge loss by almost every sailor aboard the British fleet who had risked his life for prize money – money he felt entitled to, but now would never receive a penny of.’
‘Hmm.’ The ill fortunes of war, Oliver thought.
‘The tragedy got worse,’ William said. ‘One of the Spanish war ships had picked up the survivors from another victim of the battle but it went down in the storm with one thousand men on board.’
Oliver had no response to that.
‘When did the fleet come in?’ he asked quietly.
‘As you know, Captain, it’s only forty miles from Cape Trafalgar to the Gates of Hercules then into Gibraltar Bay. Everyone waited anxiously for the victors to arrive, to sail into the harbour and drop anchor and for the real celebrations to begin. But after two days of waiting and wondering still nothing appeared – not a single vessel of any description.’ He shook his head. ‘We expected at least a few ships to have suffered some damage in the battle and be in need of repair. It was thought unlikely the fleet had won a glorious victory and headed home not having received a single scratch.’
Oliver watched a troubled expression cloud Will’s face. ‘At that time, we weren’t aware of the storm that had struck the Spanish Coast. We only got news of it when the first few ships were towed in.’
‘When did they arrive?’ Oliver enquired.
‘It was a full five days after the battle, the first ships limped into the Bay.’ He shook his head again. ‘The damage was shocking. And with their catheads blown away many ships were unable to drop anchor when they arrived. Masts, yards and rigging had been shot to shreds. As a result, several ships were towed in on the end of a cable. Once in the Bay, those that had lost their anchors were tied to another’s hull to prevent them from drifting onto the rocks, or to the mole or across to Algeciras.’
Oliver heaved a deep sigh. ‘Unimaginable. But what of Lord Nelson’s, Victory? Was she the first to come in?’
‘No, Belleisle had come in before her. She was first to enter Gibraltar Bay. We stood on the mole and watched her arrive. She was a shattered wreck – completely dismasted and her anchors gone. It was hard to image how she had made it back. The next day – six days after the victory was announced, other ships came in. Within a few days, we had six dismasted ships tied up against the mole, plus the few remaining prizes. Gibraltar Bay looked like a breaker’s yard.
‘And the flag ship? What of her?’
‘Victory was little better than the others. She was unable to sail and was towed in by Neptune an 80-gun ship. What a sorry state she was in.’
‘My goodness.’
‘And what of the Spanish ships from Algeciras, across the water?’ Oliver asked.
‘Word was they’d returned to Cadiz along with some of the French ships. It was far closer to Cape Trafalgar for them, and Cadiz has an excellent naval dockyard, as I am sure you know.’
‘But what of the men? So many killed and wounded.’
The lad looked grave. ‘The news was terrible and just got worse. I heard it said that more men died from drowning than from the battle itself. I don’t know how many were brought to Gibraltar. Sadly, the settlement did not have enough medical help to provide for their needs. The epidemic had deprived the town not only of medicines but of surgeons to treat the wounded. Most of the injured had to remain on the ships they’d served on, but with the hammocks shot to ribbons in the netting, there was nowhere for them to rest but on the decks. The bodies of those who died on the ships were thrown into the Bay. The few who died in Gibraltar were buried in the local cemetery.’
Mention of the awful place rekindled memories Oliver would have preferred to forget.
‘There was one good luck story,’ Will Ethridge related with renewed verve. ‘It came from the cockpit of one of the ships. Seems a sailor aboard Belleisle had been struck in the head by a bullet and was thought to be dead. He was almost tossed overboard with the others who’d died, when one of his mates noted he was still breathing. Though, for several days, he showed no signs of life, he made a sudden recovery when the bullet emerged from his mouth.’