Trafalgar

by Nicholas Best

  All eyes turned now towards the Achille, burning furiously from end to end. The fire had begun in the foretop, where an arms chest had exploded. The foretop had collapsed before the French could get the flames under control, apparently destroying the ship’s fire engine as it fell. The flames had then spread unchecked and were threatening to burn the entire ship down to the waterline. The British were doing all they could to take off survivors, but they were worried that the Achille’s powder magazine would blow as well, taking everyone with it. To add to the danger, her guns were still loaded and going off at random, ignited by the heat. The Achille was a hazard to all the ships around her as she drifted out of control on the swell.

  The French were even more worried than the British. With the Achille’s captain dead, Sub-Lieutenant Alphonse Cauchard had opened the bilge cocks to flood the ship before ordering all hands on deck. He set them to work throwing debris overboard for the men to cling to when they abandoned ship. They were desperate to escape. Those who could swim were already stripping off and jumping into the sea, determined to put a safe distance between themselves and the ship before she blew. The rest were still on board, terrified of the flames, terrified also of the water. There was nothing they could do, nowhere they could run to. They knew they were all doomed unless a miracle came to save them.

  Among those trapped on board were at least two women, one of them the young wife of a maintopman. Jeanne Caunant, known as Jeanette, had been ordered ashore when the fleet left Cadiz, but had remained aboard, apparently disguised as a sailor. She had worked in the forward magazine during the battle, handing up powder for the guns. As soon as the firing stopped she had gone to look for her husband, only to discover that the ladders to the main deck had been removed or shot away. Jeanette was trapped below as fire engulfed the ship. With dead and dying all around, everyone else on deck and the bilge flooding rapidly, she ran to and fro in shock, not knowing what to do. She was still undecided when the deck above her burned away and the guns began to fall through. Hurrying to the ship’s stern, she climbed out through a gun port, preferring to brave the water rather than be crushed by a gun or scorched to death.

  Grabbing hold of the rudder chain, Jeanette worked her way round to the back of the rudder and huddled there for some time, praying for the ship to blow up and put her out of her misery. Instead, the lead lining of the rudder-trunk began to melt as the flames caught hold. It dripped down in a molten cascade, burning her neck, shoulders and legs dreadfully. She would be scalded to death if she stayed there any longer. The only refuge now was the sea.

  Stripping naked, Jeanette plunged in. She floundered towards a group of crew members clinging to a flimsy piece of wreckage. They weren’t pleased to see her. One of them bit and kicked her to make her go away. Fortunately for Jeanette, another man saw her distress and swam over with a length of plank. He placed it under her arms to keep her afloat. By her own account, she was still clinging to it two hours later when a boat from the Naiad found her at last and picked her up.

  The Achille had long gone by then. The ship blew up about 5.30 p.m., taking most of her crew with her. In one mighty explosion, so loud that they heard it in Cadiz, the powder magazine went up, flinging bodies and debris high into the air in a great ball of smoke and fire. Most of those still aboard were killed instantly. The onlookers could do nothing except wince in horror as the bodies twisted helplessly through the air before plummeting back into the sea. The British could scarcely bear to watch, as one officer aboard the Defence remembered:

  It was a sight the most awful and grand that can be conceived. In a moment the hull burst into a cloud of smoke and fire. A column of vivid flame shot up to an enormous height in the atmosphere and terminated by expanding into an immense globe, representing, for a few seconds, a prodigious tree in flames, speckled with many dark spots, which the pieces of timber and bodies of men occasioned while they were suspended in the clouds.

  Jeanette’s husband was probably among them. She herself was more dead than alive, badly blistered by the molten lead. A British sailor gave her his trousers when she was hauled into the Naiad’s boat. Another gave her his coat and a third a handkerchief for her head. She was taken to the Pickle, already overflowing with French survivors. The tiny schooner had somehow managed to cram 160 Frenchmen on board, many of them stark naked. Jeanette was sent to join them, miserable and wretched without her husband. The headroom below was only four foot three, which could only have added to her distress.

  In all, perhaps 200 of the Achille’s crew survived the disaster. Some were taken aboard the Euryalus, where they recovered their spirits with astonishing rapidity. Midshipman Hercules Robinson remembered ‘getting hold of a dozen of her men who were hoisted into the air out of the exploding ship, cursing their fate, sacre-ing, tearing their hair, and wiping the gunpowder and the salt water from their faces; and how, in the evening these same fellows, having got their supper and grog and dry clothes, danced for the amusement of our men under the half-deck’.

  Robinson also helped save a black pig, which scrambled gratefully aboard the Euryalus in the belief that it had been rescued, only to discover that its faith in the Royal Navy was wholly misplaced. There were pork chops all round for supper that night.

  Aboard the Belleisle, a mile away, there were too many casualties for anyone to think of dancing, or even enjoying the victory. With no masts and men lying wounded everywhere, the Belleisle had problems enough just keeping afloat. The first concern for most people in the immediate aftermath of the battle was to find out who among their friends had been killed, and who were still alive.

  ‘Eager enquiries were expressed and earnest congratulations exchanged, at this joyful moment,’ recalled Lieutenant Paul Nicolas. ‘The officers came to make their report to the Captain, and the fatal results cast a gloom over the scene of our triumph.’ Among the officers, the first lieutenant had predicted his own death at breakfast that morning and had indeed been killed, as had the junior lieutenant and many others. Paul Nicolas went to see their bodies:

  These gallant fellows were lying beside each other in the gun-room preparatory to their being committed to the deep; and here many met to take a last look at their departed friends, whose remains soon followed the promiscuous multitude, without distinction of either rank or nation, to their wide ocean grave. In the act of launching a poor sailor over the poop, he was discovered to breathe. He was, of course, saved, and after being a week in hospital the ball, which had entered at his temple, came out of his mouth.

  The upper deck presented a confused and dreadful appearance: masts, yards, sails, ropes and fragments of wreck were scattered in every direction; nothing could be more horrible than the scene of blood and mangled remains with which every part was covered, and which, from the quantity of splinters, resembled a shipwright’s yard strewed with gore.

  From our extensive loss – thirty-four killed and ninety-six wounded – our cockpit exhibited a scene of suffering which rarely occurs. I visited this abode of suffering with the natural impulse which led many others thither – namely, to ascertain the fate of a friend or companion. So many bodies in such a confined space and under such distressing circumstances would affect the most obdurate heart. My nerves were but little accustomed to such trials but even the dangers of battle did not seem more terrific than the spectacle before me.

  On a long table lay several men anxiously looking for their turn to receive the surgeon’s care, yet dreading the fate he might pronounce. One subject was undergoing amputation, and every part was heaped with sufferers: their piercing shrieks and expiring groans were echoed through this vault of misery: and even at this distant period the heartsickening picture is alive in my memory. What a contrast to the hilarity and enthusiastic mirth which reigned in this spot the preceding evening.

  At 5 p.m., Captain Hargood summoned the Belleisle’s surviving officers to tea in his cabin. They were glad to be asked. The smoke had left them all parched, and they were exhausted, physically a
nd mentally. Hargood also invited a Spanish officer, the second captain of the Argonauta, who had come aboard to surrender. The man was a little bemused to find himself attending this most English of ceremonies with the battle still sputtering outside.

  Tea was barely over when a lieutenant from the Entreprenante arrived with the news of Nelson’s death. He could hardly have dispensed more gloom.

  The melancholy tidings spread through the ship in an instant, and its paralysing effect was wonderful. Our Captain had served under the illustrious chief for years, and had partaken in the anxious pursuit of the enemy across the Atlantic, with the same officers and crew. ‘Lord Nelson is no more!’ was repeated with such despondency and heartfelt sorrow that every one seemed to mourn a parent. All exertion was suspended: the veteran sailor indulged in silent grief; and some eyes evinced that tenderness of heart is often concealed under the roughest exterior. [Even the Spanish captain] joined in our regret.

  It was the same across the rest of the fleet, although not everyone heard the news at once. Aboard the Royal Sovereign, a sailor named Sam gave an account of it to his father in a letter home.

  Our dear Admiral Nelson is killed! So we have paid pretty sharply for licking ’em. I never sat [sic] eyes on him myself, for which I am both sorry and glad; for, to be sure, I should like to have seen him – but then, all the men in our ship who have seen him are such soft toads they have done nothing but blast their eyes, and cry, ever since he was killed. God bless you! Chaps that fought like the devil sit down and cry like a wench.

  Sam himself had lost three fingers in the battle, but didn’t even notice until it was over. Fortunately for him, they were on his left hand.

  Aboard the Bellerophon, they did not know what had happened, but guessed something was amiss when darkness fell and no lights shone from the Victory. With the Royal Sovereign crippled, Collingwood transferred his flag to the frigate Euryalus at the end of the battle. After dark, he carried the lights of the commander-in-chief as well, which confirmed to the rest of the fleet that Nelson must have been killed. Even then, though, they didn’t want to believe it. An officer going aboard the Euryalus next morning had breakfast with Collingwood and received his orders without either of them even mentioning the subject.

  On the Victory herself, they felt the loss worst of all, but still had no time to mourn. The mizenmast had come crashing down after Nelson’s death and the other two were threatening to follow. The crew were struggling to secure them with runners and tackles. Midshipman Pollard was with them, helping to oversee the rigging of a temporary jury mast. Once it had been done, he was summoned to the wardroom and congratulated by Captain Hardy and the other officers for avenging Lord Nelson’s death.

  While all that was going on, Admiral Villeneuve came aboard, expecting to dine with Lord Nelson. The Royal Marines hastily produced a guard of honour under Second Lieutenant Rotely. In full dress uniform, ‘as if on parade on shore’, the men stood smartly to attention and presented arms as the enemy commander stepped onto the deck. ‘What cannot the English do?’ Villeneuve demanded in astonishment, as he acknowledged their salute.

  Elsewhere, men were still in shock from the battle, reeling from the horror of everything they had seen and heard during the past few hours.

  Aboard the Leviathan, they spoke of Thomas Main, whose arm had been shot off while he manned a gun on the fo’c’sle. Refusing all help, Main made his own way down to the surgeon and insisted on waiting his turn, although more badly hurt than most. He sang ‘Rule, Britannia’ in a firm, steady voice as the surgeon sawed off the rest of his arm near the shoulder, conducting himself with great composure throughout.

  On the Victory, seventeen-year-old Midshipman William Rivers had similarly waited his turn, cutting pieces of flesh and bone from his own leg until the surgeon had time to amputate it. The midshipman also submitted without a murmur. ‘It is nothing at all. I thought it had become much worse.’

  On another ship, they remembered a man cut off at the knees by a passing shot. His body was blown overboard, but his legs remained upright on deck ‘with all the firmness and animation of life’.

  On the Britannia, a shot had struck the muzzle of a gun, killing or wounding almost the entire crew. Among them ‘was a man named Pilgrim, an Italian, who was stooping to take up a shot for the gun, when it was split, and both his arms were blown off’.

  Aboard the Achilles, Marine Stephen Humphries remembered the bad behaviour of a seaman at breakfast, pushing and shoving to get an extra helping of rice from the copper.

  The first round shot from the enemy, that told amongst the crew, caught this fellow just on the side of his head, and smashed it to pieces; and his tongue was dashed against the still-hot copper, where it stuck and remained a long time. This was talked of as a judgement upon him for many a day after.

  Aboard the Revenge, the ship’s cobbler had been knocked out when his head collided with another man’s under gunfire.

  No one doubted but that he was dead. As it is customary to throw overboard those who, in an engagement, are killed outright, the poor cobbler, amongst the rest, was taken to the porthole to be committed to the deep, without any other ceremony than shoving him through the port: but, just as they were about to let him slip from their hands into the water, the blood began to circulate, and he commenced kicking. Upon this sign of returning to life, his shipmates soon hauled the poor snob in again and, though wonderful to relate, he recovered so speedily that he actually fought the battle out.

  On the Conqueror, they had cleared for action in a hurry that morning, throwing equipment overboard rather than carrying it down to the hold. They had thrown the ship’s dog as well, a Sardinian pointer belonging to an officer. The dog hadn’t fallen into the sea, however. It had managed to survive somehow and was discovered after the battle ‘lodged on the ridge of the swinging-boom on the side engaged’. With guns going off all round it and the French firing into the ship’s side, the dog had been in the thick of the action all day. It emerged without a scratch, but was noticeably subdued as the crew hauled it inboard again.

  On every ship, men lay listless and weary, riven by their exertions. They had fought magnificently and won a brilliant victory, but there was little euphoria among the exhausted survivors. Even their own survival left them unmoved. Four hundred and forty-nine of their comrades had been killed and another 1,214 wounded, many of whom would die in the days to come. Among the dead was Lord Nelson, the greatest naval commander the English had ever produced. There seemed little to celebrate as the men struggled to come to terms with what had happened. For most of them, it was enough that they were still in one piece as night closed in and the long, dreadful day came to an end at last.

  CHAPTER 41

  THE STORM AFTER THE BATTLE

  Morning brought little respite. The fleet was still in shock from the battle. The men wanted only to sit and rest for a while, gradually recovering from their ordeal. But there was no rest for any of them with squalls coming on and the barometer rapidly falling. The fight had to go on, against the elements now, rather than the French and Spanish.

  Captain Prigny, Villeneuve’s chief of staff, was amazed at the Royal Navy’s composure.

  The act that astonished me the most was when the action was over. It came on to blow a gale of wind, and the English immediately set to work to shorten sail and reef the topsails, with as much regularity and order as if their ships had not been fighting a dreadful battle. We were all in amazement, wondering what the English seamen could be made of.

  Nursing his wounded leg aboard the Euryalus, Admiral Collingwood had all sorts of problems to deal with before the weather got any worse. He had spent most of the night on deck, ‘now and then tugging at the waistband of his unmentionables . . . his only food a few biscuits, an apple and a glass of wine every four hours’. Collingwood’s immediate priority was to regroup his scattered forces and get the damaged vessels and prize ships back to Gibraltar as soon as possible. With so many casualties in
men and materiel, it was the obvious course to take. But the wind was against Gibraltar for most of the day and he also needed to maintain the blockade of Cadiz. His overriding duty was to keep up the pressure on Cadiz, to prevent the enemy from emerging again. With only twelve ships of the line still fully operational, Collingwood didn’t have nearly enough vessels for everything he had to do.

  To make matters worse, Collingwood had not anchored his ships after the battle, as Nelson had wanted. He had ordered them westwards instead, away from the treacherous coastline. He had changed his mind later, only to discover that many ships couldn’t anchor anyway because their cables had been shot away. His fleet was all over the place as a result, widely scattered by the time dawn broke on the day after the battle.

  Most ships were heading west as ordered, towing their prizes towards a rendezvous with the Royal Sovereign out to sea. But some had anchored and a few were already in trouble, as Nelson had forecast. The Fougueux had lost her tow to the frigate Phoebe and was drifting inexorably towards the shore. She ran aground later and was smashed to pieces on the rocks. With heavy seas and the wind whipping up from the south, Collingwood was worried that other ships would suffer a similar fate before the day was out.

  Aboard the Victory, they spent the early part of the morning repairing the rigging and reinforcing the remaining masts while they still had the chance. They understood the dangers as well as Collingwood. The men worked hard, but their minds were not on their work as they laboured. The Victory was an unhappy ship that morning, with fifty-seven men dead, 102 wounded and their beloved admiral lying stiff and cold below.

  Many went down to see him before his body was removed for the journey back to England. Among them was Louis Rotely of the Royal Marines, who was one of the first to pay his respects. Rotely wanted a lock of Nelson’s hair as a memento, but found that Captain Hardy had got there before him. In accordance with Nelson’s wishes, Hardy had cut off the admiral’s queue for Lady Hamilton. All that remained was a small tuft at the back of his neck which Rotely promptly removed for himself. He also got hold of Nelson’s breeches and stockings and kept them for the rest of his life.