Trafalgar

by Nicholas Best

  Through his telescope, Dumanoir could see that the Bucentaure and Santissima Trinidad had been dismasted as well. Many other ships had lowered their colours and were surrendering to the British. Those still fighting were looking to Dumanoir for help. As soon as he was in range, he loosed off a few shots at the Victory and Téméraire to show that he was doing something. Some of the shots hit the Redoutable instead, killing a number of Frenchmen who had surrendered to the Téméraire. Whether he noticed or not, Dumanoir decided there was little to be gained from getting any more closely involved. He maintained his course instead.

  I continued towards our rearguard, which I found in part surrendered. I engaged twelve vessels in succession, four of which were three-deckers and gave us a hard time. Only thirteen French and Spanish vessels still remained on the field of battle, all of them surrendered. There were also fifteen English ships, of which only one had been dismasted. I was thus cut off from the rest of the combined fleet, which was sailing before the wind.

  The Neptuno, a Spanish ship, had tacked about with us but had been left a long way behind. She was surrounded by the enemy, dismasted and forced to surrender. My division, consisting now of only four disabled ships, was cut off to windward, the rest of the combined fleet being two leagues away and bearing off under full sail. To rejoin them, I would have had to tackle the English squadron, which remained intact between us. I would have been heading for certain destruction, with no prospect of doing any real damage to the enemy.

  Dumanoir’s division was not as badly hit as he made out. His own ship had suffered sixty-five casualties and was holed below the waterline, but two others had sustained no casualties at all, and the fourth only a few. Dumanoir decided nevertheless to distance his division from the battle and effect what repairs he could before reviewing the situation next day.

  His decision did not impress those still fighting under far worse conditions, as one captain bitterly recorded:

  We were all mixed together in total confusion. It was painfully apparent that the British flag predominated amongst the combatants, when at length Admiral Dumanoir’s division appeared under sail on the larboard tack. The French and Spanish were heartened by the sight. They invested all their hopes in Dumanoir’s division. But their hopes were dashed when the ships – the Formidable, Scipion, Duguay Trouin and Mont Blanc – edged off to windward and fired a few useless broadsides before departing the scene entirely.

  Unlike Dumanoir’s ships, dancing around the edges of the action, Captain Infernet of the Intrépide had sailed right into the middle of it, heading straight for the Bucentaure. It was a stupid thing to do, with Villeneuve’s ship already overwhelmed, but Infernet didn’t care. Like Captain Lucas of the Redoutable, he was of humble origin, risen on his merits. His instinct was always to head for the sound of the guns. Marquis Gicquel des Touches, one of the Intrépide’s lieutenants, admired his courage:

  It was into the thick of this fray that our Captain Infernet led us. He wanted, he said, to rescue Admiral Villeneuve and take him on board, and then to rally around us the ships still capable of fighting. It was a reckless, forlorn hope, a mad enterprise – and he himself did not doubt it. It was the pretext Infernet gave for continuing the fight. He would not have it said that the Intrépide had quit the battle while she could still fire a gun or hoist a sail. It was noble madness, but though we knew it, we all cheerfully supported him – and wish others had done the same!

  The Intrépide never got near the Bucentaure. She was set upon by the Leviathan, Africa, Agamemnon and Orion and attacked without mercy. Her port lids were shot away and she was quickly riddled below the waterline. Before long, her masts were tottering as well. It was as much as Infernet could do to keep the ship afloat, let alone rescue Villeneuve.

  From his post on the fo’c’sle, des Touches watched a British ship bearing down on them:

  While the fighting was very hot, the British Orion crossed our bows to rake us. I got my boarding party ready and sent a midshipman to the captain with a request to lay our ship aboard the Orion. Seeing the spirit of my men, I already imagined myself master of the British seventy-four, taking her into Cadiz with her colours under ours! I waited tensely, but the Intrépide did not change course, so I hurried to the quarterdeck myself.

  On the way, I found my midshipman lying flat on the deck, terrified at the sight of the Téméraire [des Touches probably meant the Britannia] which had come abreast of us within pistol shot and was thundering into us with her batteries. I treated my messenger as he deserved – gave him a hearty kick – and then continued aft to speak to the captain personally. By then though it was too late. The Orion swept across our bows, loosing off a murderous broadside, and we never got another chance.

  The French fought with great courage, but the outcome was never in doubt. The Intrépide’s masts were shot away and most of her guns disabled. She had eight feet of water in her hold and 306 men killed or wounded – almost half her crew. Even then, though, Captain Infernet refused to surrender. He had to be forcibly held down as the colours were lowered at length to prevent any further slaughter.

  Humphrey Senhouse, a lieutenant watching from the Conqueror, was full of admiration. ‘Her captain surrendered after one of the most gallant defences I ever witnessed. The Frenchman’s name was Infernet, a member of the Legion of Honour, and it deserves to be recorded in the memory of those who admire true heroism.’

  But that was little consolation to Infernet. He had sworn to Napoleon that he would defend his ship to the death. In despair, he was taken aboard the Orion with his eleven-year-old son – by French accounts, swimming across with the boy on his shoulders, by English, being fetched in the ship’s boat. Once on board, he was well received by Captain Codrington, who shared the general admiration for his gallant opponent. Infernet, he later told his wife:

  is much like us in his open manner, is a good sailor, and I have no doubt a good officer, has more delicacy in his conduct, although perhaps more boisterous in his manner, than any Frenchman I have before met with: and endeavours to make himself agreeable to all in the ship. He fought most stoutly, and had I not had the advantage over him of position and a ready fire whilst he was engaged with others, we should not have escaped as well as we did.

  Wretched and bedraggled, Infernet had been taken aboard the Orion with nothing to his name except the clothes on his back. A Canadian captain later gave him £100 to buy some more.

  Among the Spanish commanders, the situation was every bit as grim. They too had fought outstandingly, only to see their courage and sacrifice go for nothing as ship after ship was battered into submission, forced to surrender by the superior gunnery and seamanship of the British.

  Aboard the San Juan Nepomuceno, at the southern end of the battle, Commodore Cosma de Churruca had been full of gloom from the start, convinced that Villeneuve was leading them all to disaster. ‘Write to your friends that you are going into a battle that will be desperate and bloody,’ he had advised his nephew, who was on board with him. ‘Tell them also that they may be certain of this – I, for my part, will meet my death there. Tell them that I shall sink my ship rather than surrender. It is the last duty an officer owes his king and country.’ Churruca’s words were melodramatic, but he meant what he said. He would never allow his ship to be taken while he was still alive to prevent it.

  The San Juan was part of Gravina’s observer squadron, unable to get into the action until Collingwood’s column had smashed through the enemy line. Thereafter, Churruca had steered for the Bellerophon, only to be intercepted by the Tonnant, Defiance and Dreadnought. The San Juan had been hopelessly outgunned. Churruca himself was hit almost immediately in the thigh by a cannon ball, but insisted that the fight should go on. His last order before being taken below was for the colours to be nailed to the mast.

  He died a few minutes later, after leaving a farewell message for the bride he had married five months earlier. Without him, the crew swiftly lost heart. They conceded defeat when Lieute
nant Clement hailed them from the Tonnant to ask if they had struck. Clement’s boat was swamped before he could take possession, so the San Juan ended up surrendering to the Dreadnought instead.

  Aboard the Bahama, also part of the observer squadron, it was a similar story. Commodore Alcala Galiano exchanged a few shots with the Bellerophon at close range, then moved on to tackle the Colossus in an extended fight. Galiano was hit in the foot early on and gashed in the head by a splinter, but refused to go below. Like Churruca, he too had nailed his colours to the mast. He was standing on the quarterdeck at about 3 p.m. when the wind of a passing shot sent him staggering back and knocked the telescope out of his hand. His coxswain picked it up and was about to return it when a cannon ball cut him in two. Galiano himself was killed a moment later when another ball took off part of his head.

  A flag was hurriedly thrown over Galiano’s body, but too late to hide the truth from his men. News of the captain’s death spread rapidly around the ship. The Bahama had been holding her own in the fight with the Colossus, but with Galiano gone and other officers wounded, the crew began to waver. Galiano had been a brave man and a strict disciplinarian. Without his steadying hand, the men were less determined. After a hasty consultation, the surviving officers appear to have panicked, tearing down their flag instead of fighting on, and raising the Union Jack in its place. The Colossus then moved in smartly to take their surrender before they had a chance to change their minds.

  All of this was bad news for Admiral Gravina, the Spanish commander. His best officers were going down like ninepins, taking their flags with them. The British seemed to be everywhere, scattering all before them. Gravina himself had been badly wounded in the arm after a lengthy fight with several of Collingwood’s ships. He had been taken below to have the wound dressed, but had insisted on being carried back on deck, only to faint from loss of blood. He had recovered quickly and remained in command, with the help of his chief of staff Rear-Admiral Antonio de Escano.

  If that wasn’t enough, they were now in command of the whole fleet as well, supposed to rally the remaining ships and turn the battle in their favour. It was a hopeless task with the Santissima Trinidad dismasted, Villeneuve’s flag down and many other ships surrendering. Fighting had already ceased along much of the line. The only squadron still in contention was Gravina’s, and most of his ships were surrendering as well. It would only be reinforcing failure to carry on now.

  The alternative was to run for Cadiz, taking the remains of the fleet with him. It was not a happy prospect, but Gravina could see no other choice. Better that than surrendering meekly to the British. Better by far to escape while he still could, rather than lose every single ship to the enemy.

  Reluctantly, Gravina gave the order. The signal was hoisted to the masthead: all ships to rally on his. At the same time, with two of her masts wobbling alarmingly, the Principe de Asturias began to extricate herself from the battle, edging slowly away from the fight and pointing her bows towards the north-east, the direction of Cadiz.

  CHAPTER 40

  KISS ME, HARDY

  It was not only Gravina’s masts that had been hit. His sails were in tatters as well. The Principe de Asturias was so badly damaged that she would never make it back to Cadiz without a tow.

  The nearest frigate was the Themis. Downwind of the bigger ships, Captain Jugan had been lost in smoke for much of the battle, unable to see what was happening. He knew only that firing had ceased along much of the line, although he could hear at least one ship still in action.

  In a little time, about a quarter to five, the smoke had entirely drifted away and I made out the Principe de Asturias, Admiral Gravina’s flagship, dragging herself very slowly off to leeward with what remained of her ragged sails. In response to her signals, I immediately headed for the Principe and passed close astern of her.

  Jugan was ordered to take the Principe in tow, because her masts were threatening to come down at any moment.

  I obeyed as soon as possible, and at the same time all firing ceased as well. Several of our ships were now following the Neptune’s example and keeping close to the wind. They seemed to be waiting for Admiral Gravina to join them, so I towed the Spanish flagship in their direction.

  All the ships that could still move rallied to Gravina, steering away from the battle in the direction of Cadiz. They were followed immediately by the British. At the northern end of the line, the Conqueror changed course to intercept a French ship that was trying to escape with only a foremast still standing.

  Her Captain stood upon the poop, holding the lower corner of a small French jack, while he pinned the upper with his sword to the stump of the mizenmast. She fired two or three guns, probably to provoke a return, which might spare the discredit of a tame surrender. The Conqueror’s broadside was ready; but Captain Pellew exclaimed: ‘Don’t hurt the brave fellow; fire a single shot across his bow!’ Her Captain immediately lowered his sword, thus dropping the colours, and, taking off his hat, bowed his surrender.

  But the pursuit did not last long. With night coming on and many of their own ships damaged, the British were in no state for a lengthy chase. A signal from Collingwood to come to the wind soon brought them back. In all, eleven enemy ships were allowed to escape, limping towards Cadiz as fast as they could go. The smoke cleared after they had gone and the guns fell silent at last. Five hours after it had started, the great sea battle off Cape Trafalgar had finally come to an end.

  While this last act was being played out, Hardy had been to see Nelson again. Grasping the admiral by the hand, he congratulated him on a brilliant victory. He didn’t know how many enemy ships had surrendered, but he was sure it was fourteen or fifteen at least.

  ‘That is well,’ agreed Nelson, ‘but I bargained for twenty’. His mind was dwelling on the heavy swell. With so many ships dismasted or rudderless, the fleet might easily be driven aground after the battle and dashed to pieces on the rocks. Nelson had earlier signalled his captains to anchor at the close of day. He wanted to be sure the message had sunk in. ‘Anchor, Hardy,’ he reminded his captain. ‘Anchor!’

  ‘I suppose, my Lord, Admiral Collingwood will now take upon himself the direction of affairs.’

  ‘Not while I live, I hope, Hardy.’ Nelson struggled to raise himself from his makeshift bed. ‘No. Do you anchor, Hardy.’

  ‘Shall we make the signal, sir?’

  ‘Yes, for if I live, I’ll anchor.’

  But Nelson was not going to live. He told Hardy he would be dead in a few minutes. He was keen to avoid the usual fate of sailors killed in action. ‘Don’t throw me overboard, Hardy.’

  ‘Oh no! Certainly not!’

  ‘Then you know what to do. Take care of my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy. Take care of poor Lady Hamilton. Kiss me, Hardy.’

  Kneeling down, Hardy kissed him on the cheek. ‘Now I am satisfied,’ said Nelson. ‘Thank God I have done my duty.’

  After a minute or two, Hardy knelt again and kissed Nelson’s forehead.

  ‘Who is that?’ demanded Nelson.

  ‘It is Hardy.’

  ‘God bless you, Hardy.’

  Hardy returned sombrely to the quarterdeck, leaving Nelson with his steward, Burke the purser and Alexander Scott, the chaplain. Nelson’s voice was growing fainter by the minute. ‘Doctor,’ he insisted to Scott, ‘I have not been a great sinner. Remember, I leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter Horatia as a legacy to my country.’

  Scott rubbed his chest continually while the others fanned his face and moistened his lips. But Nelson was fading fast. He could hardly breathe now, let alone talk. ‘Thank God, I have done my duty,’ he kept repeating, until at length the words tailed off altogether. His attendants waited quietly, not wanting to disturb him, for another five minutes. Then his steward fetched the surgeon.

  Beatty felt Nelson’s hand. It was very cold, with no pulse in the wrist. His forehead was cold, too, but Nelson was still clinging to life. He opened his eyes briefly when Beatty touched his
brow.

  It couldn’t be much longer now. Beatty returned to the other casualties, but hadn’t been gone long when he was called back by the steward. With Scott rubbing his chest and Walter Burke supporting his shoulders, Horatio Nelson had died at 4.30 p.m., just as the last shots were being fired in the greatest naval victory his country had ever known.

  There was no time to grieve. The battle wasn’t over yet. Shooting was still sporadic. The Victory’s mizenmast was about to collapse and a fire aboard the French Achille was hopelessly out of control. With wreckage everywhere, ships drifting into each other and the wounded crying out for help, there was still plenty to do before the storm developing in the west came on.

  Hardy’s first priority was to report to Admiral Collingwood. Taking the only one of the Victory’s boats that hadn’t been shattered, he had himself rowed across to the Royal Sovereign. Collingwood’s eyes misted over at the news of Nelson’s death. Hardy told him that Nelson’s last order had been for the fleet to anchor after the battle.

  ‘Anchor the fleet!’ exclaimed Collingwood. ‘Why, it is the last thing I should have thought of.’ With so much else on his mind, Collingwood had not considered the dangers of running aground on the gathering swell. He wasn’t even sure that Nelson was right.

  While Hardy rowed over to the Royal Sovereign, Henry Blackwood of the Euryalus had come the other way, hurrying across to the Victory to see Nelson before he died. Nelson’s earlier forecast that he would never see him again was ringing in his ears. Scrambling up the Victory’s side, Blackwood asked for the admiral and was told he was still alive. He went straight down to the cockpit to discover it wasn’t true. Nelson had died a few minutes earlier and Blackwood had just missed him. Nelson’s gloomy prophecy had proved only too accurate.