Offshore, the two English frigates watching for him had now been joined by three more frigates, a brig and a schooner. To the west, the seventy-four-gun Defence was a speck on the horizon, ready to signal Villeneuve’s escape to the Agamemnon, and thence via the Colossus and the Mars to Lord Nelson on the Victory, fifty miles out to sea. ‘I am confident you will not let these gentry slip through our fingers,’ Nelson had told one of the frigate captains. ‘We shall give a good account of them, although they may be very superior in numbers.’ Nelson was relying on the frigates to warn him the moment the enemy left harbour.
The Agamemnon had only just joined his fleet from England. On her way south, she had been intercepted by Captain Allemand’s Rochefort squadron, still prowling the waters off Finisterre. The French had chased the Agamemnon for seventy miles and would have caught her if the British hadn’t jettisoned equipment and drinking water to increase their speed. The French had also chased the accompanying frigate L’Aimable, as a twelve-year-old midshipman cheerfully recounted to his mother:
I hope you are all well at home and I am sure will be very glad to hear from me, but you were very near losing me on the 10th of this month, for we were chased by the French Squadron and were very near being come up with, but we cut away two of our boats and one anchor and hove two or three hundred shot overboard . . . We were so deep we could not sail until we staved in nine butts of water and pumped it out, and cut the boats adrift. Besides all, there was a very heavy squall came, and we had all sails set and were very near going down. She laid down on her beam ends for several minutes . . . Do not fret about me, for if you cared no more for the French than I, you would care very little about them. Give my love to father, brothers and sisters. Success to William and his rabbits . . . Your ever affectionate son, Charles.
But Allemand’s force was too small to do any real damage to the British. The only real damage would come from Villeneuve, still biding his time in Cadiz. Nelson’s frigates cruised past the harbour mouth every day, looking for signs of movement from the enemy fleet. They sailed so close inshore that they could smell the land and count the French and Spanish ships one by one. But there was no sign of the ships preparing to depart. The wind remained westerly and their masts devoid of sails. There was nothing the British could do about it except sit and wait for events to develop, as develop they surely must.
The waiting was the worst part. They all knew what to do when the enemy appeared; they had rehearsed the drill ad infinitum. But the waiting was difficult to bear, day after day of nothing happening, when all they wanted to do was have the fight and get it over with. No one on the British side was enjoying the waiting.
The men were kept busy from morning till night to take their minds off their worries. They had plenty of music aboard the fleet and were encouraged to dance the hornpipe regularly, to keep themselves fit. The Victory had an amateur-dramatic group as well, as did most ships on the blockade. The officers of the Britannia managed to stage three different plays that October. Columbus, or A World Discovered was performed on 9 October, with elaborate sets made by the ship’s carpenter. Catherine and Petruchio followed a few days later, accompanied by a short piece, The Village, written by 2nd Lieutenant Halloran of the Marines. The stage was Lord Northesk’s fore-cabin, with the partitions removed so that the audience on the main deck could enjoy the show. The girls were played by midshipmen with rouged cheeks and wigs made from teased-out rope ends. The crew stared open-mouthed, trying to remember what a woman looked like. It gave them something to think about while they waited for the enemy to emerge from harbour.
But the enemy showed no sign of moving. The wind remained stubbornly in the west, leaving Villeneuve with little prospect of putting to sea. His plan was to slip out on the first easterly breeze and sail far into the Atlantic. He would then turn round and allow the October gales to blow his fleet past Gibraltar into the Mediterranean. He would have liked to escape under cover of darkness, but there was no moon at the moment and his crews couldn’t find their way out of harbour without a moon. So he would have to leave in daylight, in full view of the English frigates waiting for him outside.
The wind continued from the west for ten days without a break. It did not begin to change until the evening of 17 October. Even then it remained variable, reducing in strength and blowing in every direction until the afternoon of 18 October. Then it shifted and blew steadily from the east for a spell, the first time since Villeneuve’s council of war that the French and Spanish had had any realistic chance of getting their ships out of harbour.
As if to confirm that this was the moment, Villeneuve had received a message that day from the Spanish in Algeciras, across the bay from Gibraltar. Rear-Admiral Louis’ detachment of six British warships had been spotted sailing through the Straits into the Mediterranean. If Nelson was short of six ships, this was clearly the right time for Villeneuve’s fleet to put to sea. There was never going to be any time better.
Villeneuve consulted Gravina, who declared the Spanish ready to sail that afternoon. Signals were hoisted for all personnel ashore to rejoin their ships at once. They did so with alacrity, according to a French officer, even the ones who were sick: ‘Our invalids, soldiers and sailors, forsook the hospitals; they rushed to the quay in crowds to embark.’ No one wanted to be left behind if they were going into action at last.
The plan was for Rear-Admiral Magon to sail first, with an advance force of seven ships of the line. They were to drive the English frigates away and reconnoitre out to sea, looking for the rest of Nelson’s fleet. While Magon was doing that, the remainder of Villeneuve’s force would work its way out of harbour. The operation would be complex and time-consuming, with a total of thirty-three capital ships and little room to manoeuvre.
Villeneuve intended to sail that afternoon, in the hope of being out by dark. To everyone’s frustration, though, the wind dropped again at 4 p.m. and remained erratic throughout the night. It did not pick up again until early next morning, 19 October. Then, at last, Villeneuve was able to give the signal they had all been waiting for: ‘Make sail and proceed.’
Magon weighed anchor at once and broke out his topsails. Others followed suit, slipping their moorings in the dawn light and moving one by one towards the harbour mouth. The wind wasn’t as strong as they had hoped. Several ships were forced to lower rowing boats to tow them out to sea. There was confusion too as to whether Villeneuve’s signal applied only to Magon’s ships or the whole fleet. Some ships weighed anchor, others remained where they were. Without a stronger wind, most of them could not move anyway.
But enough ships were moving to alert the British. The frigate Sirius was closest inshore. Captain William Prowse was watching the enemy through his telescope. Shortly after 6 a.m., he sent a message to Captain Blackwood, further out on the Euryalus: ‘Enemy have their topsails hoisted.’ A little later, as soon as he was certain what was happening, Prowse signalled again. He sent signal number 370, one of the most compelling in the book: ‘The Enemy’s ships are coming out of port, or are getting under sail.’
Blackwood responded at once. With three spare frigates at his disposal, he ordered the Phoebe and Naiad westwards, to serve as relay stations between his own ship and the Defence on the horizon. Then he told the Weazle to sail immediately for Gibraltar, to warn Admiral Louis’ six ships that Villeneuve was at sea. ‘Make all possible sail,’ he ordered the Weazle’s captain, ‘with safety to the masts.’
The frigates scattered obediently. The Phoebe headed west, firing a gun every three minutes to alert the Defence on the horizon. She was already flying the three flags of signal 370 from her masthead. They were soon identified by the Defence and transmitted in turn to the Agamemnon, Colossus and Mars. From there, the signal was seen shortly after 9 a.m. by Lieutenant William Cumby of the Bellerophon:
I immediately reported this to Captain Cooke and asked his permission to repeat it. The Mars at that time was so far from us that her topgallant-masts alone were visible abo
ve the horizon; consequently the distance was so great for the discovery of the colours of the flags that Captain Cooke said he was unwilling to repeat a signal of so much importance unless he could clearly distinguish the flags himself, which on looking through his glass he declared himself unable to do.
The very circumstances of the importance of the signal, added to my own perfect conviction of the correctness of my statement founded on long and frequent experience of the strength of my own sight, induced me again to urge Captain Cooke to repeat it, when he said if any other person of the many whose glasses were now fixed on the Mars would confirm my opinion he would repeat it. None of the officers or signalmen, however, were bold enough to assent positively, as I did, that the flags were number 370, and I had the mortification to be disappointed in my anxious wish that the Bellerophon should be the first to repeat such delightful intelligence to the Admiral.
Even as Cumby fretted, the Mars hauled the flags down again. He guessed what would happen next. ‘Now she will make the distant signal 370,’ he announced. Distant signals were used when flags were too far away for the colours to be distinguished. The distant signal for 370 comprised a flag, ball and pendant flown from different mastheads. Sure enough, a flag, ball and pendant appeared on the Mars and Cumby was proved right. The enemy were putting to sea.
The Bellerophon moved at once to repeat the signal, but was beaten to it by the Victory, which had also spotted the ball and pendant. Lord Nelson promptly followed it up with two signals of his own. Addressed to the entire British fleet, the first said simply: ‘General chase, south-east.’ The second said: ‘Prepare for battle.’
CHAPTER 30
LAST LETTERS HOME
With one accord, the British turned and set their sails. They were aiming for the Straits of Gibraltar. It was the obvious place to intercept the French before they could slip through and escape into the Mediterranean.
There was very little wind as they set out. The battle was unlikely to happen that day. It would take the fleets all day just to catch sight of each other, let alone come to quarters. There would be no actual fighting until next morning at the earliest.
Nelson understood this as well as anyone. He remained on deck for a while, chatting to the other officers while the fleet got under way. Then he left them to it and went below to spend some time alone in his cabin, composing himself for the ordeal that lay ahead.
At his writing desk, he sat down and wrote to Emma. It would be his last chance before the battle:
Victory, October 19th, 1805, Noon, Cadiz, ESE 16 leagues.
My dearest beloved Emma, the dear friend of my bosom. The Signal has been made that the Enemy’s Combined Fleet are coming out of Port. We have very little Wind, so that I have no hopes of seeing them before tomorrow. May the God of Battles crown my endeavours with success. At all events, I will take care that my name shall ever be most dear to you and Horatia, both of whom I love as much as my own life. And as my last writing before the Battle will be to you, so I hope in God that I shall live to finish my letter after the Battle. May Heaven bless you prays your
Nelson & Bronte
Having signed the letter with his full title, Nelson wrote another to Horatia, acknowledging her as his daughter for the first time:
My dearest Angel,
I was made happy by the pleasure of receiving your letter of September 19th, and I rejoice to hear that you are so very good a girl, and love my dear Lady Hamilton, who most dearly loves you. Give her a kiss for me. The Combined Fleets of the Enemy are now reported to be coming out of Cadiz, and therefore I answer your letter, my dearest Horatia, to mark to you that you are ever uppermost in my thoughts. I shall be sure of your prayers for my safety, conquest, and speedy return to dear Merton, and our dearest good Lady Hamilton. Be a good girl, mind what Miss Connor says to you. Receive, my dearest Horatia, the affectionate parental blessings of your Father,
Nelson & Bronte.
Others were writing, too. Aboard the Euryalus, much closer to the enemy, Captain Henry Blackwood took advantage of the drop in the wind to pen a quick note to his wife Harriet:
What think you, my own dearest love? At this moment the enemy are coming out, and as if determined to have a fair fight; all night they have been making signals, and the morning shewed them to us getting under sail. They have thirty-four sail of the Line and five frigates. Lord Nelson has but twenty-seven sail of the Line with him; the rest are at Gibraltar, getting water. Not that he has not enough to bring them to close action; but I want him to have so many as to make this the most decisive battle that was ever fought, and which may bring us lasting peace and all its blessings.
Within two hours, though our fleet was sixteen leagues off, I have let Lord Nelson know of their coming out, and have been enabled to send a vessel to Gibraltar, which will bring Admiral Louis and the ships there.
At this moment (happy sight) we are within four miles of the enemy, and talking to Lord Nelson by means of Sir H. Popham’s signals, though so distant, but reached along by the rest of the frigates of the Squadron.
You see dearest, I have time to write to you, and to assure you that to the latest moment of my breath, I shall be as much attached to you as man can be. It is odd how I have been dreaming all night of carrying home dispatches. God send me such good luck. The day is fine, and the sight magnificently beautiful. I expect before this hour tomorrow to carry General Decrès on board the Victory in my barge, which I have just painted nicely for him.
Like many in the British fleet, Blackwood had been reading the newspapers from home, which claimed Villeneuve had been dismissed. His replacement was assumed to be Admiral Decrès. Blackwood was rather hoping so, because he knew and liked Decrès, who had been his prisoner in 1802. In truth, though, Villeneuve was still in command, and still in Cadiz. By midday on 19 October, only nine of his ships had managed to clear the harbour. The tide was too strong for the rest and the wind had dropped to nothing. It was not the swift exit he needed so badly.
His own ship still lay at anchor, as did Admiral Gravina’s. Some of the lighter vessels were being towed towards the harbour mouth, their crews straining at the oars as they struggled to make headway. The ships could only leave one at a time, which did nothing to aid the fleet’s progress. There were reefs outside the harbour and dangerous cross-currents. The ships already out had made little attempt to chase away the watching British frigates. It was as much as they could do to keep station while they waited for the remainder to emerge. Only two of them were from Rear-Admiral Magon’s advance force. The rest were miscellaneous vessels that had managed to slip out one way or another.
By mid-afternoon, Villeneuve was forced to abandon any hope of getting his fleet out before dusk. His strategy now was to tow or warp as many ships as possible towards the harbour mouth, ready for another attempt next morning. The breeze came off the land in the early morning. If the ships were in the right place, they could catch it and sail on the tide before the wind dropped again. Villeneuve worked his men long into the evening to get the fleet into position, ready for a quick start next day.
Dawn on 20 October brought thick clouds that blotted out the sun. The wind was coming mostly from the south. Villeneuve gave the order to sail at 6 a.m. An hour later he told his fleet to prepare for battle. By 8 a.m., all the ships were under canvas except the Rayo, which was having trouble raising anchor. Outside the harbour, the nine ships under Rear-Admiral Magon had lost formation during the night but were hurriedly re-establishing contact in the daylight.
All of Cadiz turned out to watch the fleet go. The quays and harbour walls were thronged with spectators, anxiously wishing them well. It was a Sunday, and the churches were crowded all day with distraught families praying for the safe return of their menfolk. At the sailors’ church, the Iglesia del Carmen, the crowds were so great that they could only be admitted in relays. At the Oratorio de San Felipe Neri, the archbishop himself spent much of the day on his knees before the high altar. The fleet’s departure
was a time of high emotion for the people of Cadiz. They were under no illusion as to what would happen when the Royal Navy caught up with it. They could only pray that the men in their own family would be spared, whatever might happen to anyone else.
The ships were a fine sight as they inched out of harbour. Pride of place went to the Santissima Trinidad, at four decks and 140 guns the biggest warship in the world. Her sides were painted with four long red lines and thin ribbons of white. The Santa Ana and Principe de Asturias carried 112 guns each, and the Rayo 100. They were complemented by another twenty-nine ships of the line, five frigates and two brigs – a total of forty vessels in all. It was the largest formation of warships to sail out of Cadiz since the days of the Spanish Armada.
Of Nelson’s fleet there was no sign. The only British ships in sight were Blackwood’s frigates, which had withdrawn to a safe distance as soon as the enemy emerged. The French lookouts scanned every quarter, searching nervously for a host of British sails, but saw none. Wherever the British were, they were keeping a low profile as their enemies put to sea.
The weather worsened as the morning drew on. The wind veered to the south-west, bringing squalls and drizzle. It was a baptism of fire for the untrained seamen, struggling with unwieldy sails 150 feet above the tossing sea. The Bucentaure promptly lost a man overboard and was lucky to see him recovered by the Redoutable, sailing next-astern. Other crews floundered as well. The wind was against them for Gibraltar. They were forced to steer west-north-west instead, as close to the wind as they could manage.
The last ship cleared the harbour at noon. An hour later, the wind shifted to the west, enabling the whole fleet to go about. Villeneuve signalled the battle squadron to form three columns on the starboard tack, with flagships in the centre of their divisions. They spent the rest of the afternoon trying to do what he said, but without much success. By 6 p.m., ships were milling about in all directions, their officers quietly cursing as the unskilled sailors struggled to bring the vessels under control.
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