Trafalgar

by Nicholas Best

  Collingwood was impressed by his guest, much more so than he had been expecting. In Villeneuve he recognised a professional sailor much like himself. ‘Admiral Villeneuve is a well-bred man, and I believe a very good officer: he has nothing in his manner of the offensive vapouring and boasting which we, perhaps too often, attribute to Frenchmen.’

  But Villeneuve’s calm exterior must have belied his inner feelings. Good officer or not, he had failed miserably in what he had set out to do. He was on the Euryalus’s deck one day, leaning against a capstan, when he fell into conversation with Philip Durham, captain of the Defiance.

  ‘Sir,’ Villeneuve asked him, ‘were you in Sir Robert Calder’s action?’

  Durham confirmed that he was.

  Villeneuve sighed. ‘I wish Sir Robert and I had fought it out that day. He would not be in his present position, or I in mine.’

  True enough. If Villeneuve had fought Calder and won, he could have pressed on to Boulogne as ordered. If he had appeared off Boulogne on the day Napoleon marched his army down to the waterfront, the army would have crossed safely to England. If Villeneuve had had ships under his command of the calibre of Nelson’s, there never would have been a Battle of Trafalgar and Great Britain would be a French dominion by now. If, if, if. But none of it had happened, and now it never would.

  The Victory was heading for Gibraltar, under tow from the Neptune. She arrived on the evening of 28 October and dropped anchor in Rosia Bay. Next day, her wounded were carried ashore, some to be buried later in the Trafalgar cemetery. Nelson’s body remained on board in its cask. A discharge of air from his corpse had lifted the lid off three days after his death, frightening the daylights out of the sentry. It was later rumoured that the brandy had been drawn off and drunk by the crew before the cask was refilled.

  As the men had feared, there had been a move to transfer Nelson to another ship for the journey back to England, but it had come to nothing in the end. The authorities had conceded that the Victory should have the honour. Marine James Bagley applauded the decision in a letter to his sister:

  They have behaved very well to us. They wanted to take Lord Nelson from us, but we told Captain as we brought him out we would bring him home; so it was so, and he was put in a cask of spirits.

  But they could not start for a while yet. They needed several days to erect proper jury masts and fit new rigging. By 2 November, the Victory was ready for sea again and was ordered to leave her anchorage to make room for other crippled ships. She sailed for Morocco to take on fresh water, but was forced back by a change in the wind. She finally left Gibraltar on 3 November, towed now by the Polyphemus, with orders to make all possible speed back to Portsmouth.

  The Revenge too had headed for Gibraltar after the battle, carrying a shipload of prisoners. The Spanish were to be returned to Spain in an exchange of captives, but the French prisoners were mistakenly put ashore at Gibraltar as well. Among them were Jeanette and her husband, happy to be together again. The Revenge’s lieutenant was sorry to see Jeanette go:

  We all considered her a fine woman. On leaving the ship, most, if not all of us, gave her a dollar, and she expressed her thanks as well as she was able, and assured us that the name of our ship would always be remembered by her with the warmest gratitude.

  Jeanette had been a hit on the lower deck as well. ‘On leaving our ship, her heart seemed overwhelmed with gratitude,’ remembered William Robinson. ‘She shed abundance of tears and could only now and then, with a deep sigh, exclaim “Les bons Anglois’’.’ The crew all missed her after she had gone. It had been a long time since any of them had seen a woman.

  Along the Spanish coast, the bodies were beginning to pile up, washed ashore by the swell. From Cape Trafalgar all the way up to Cadiz, more arrived with every tide, drifting aimlessly in the shallows amid wreckage from the battle. Among them was William Ram, an Irish lieutenant from the Victory who had ripped the bandages from his own body in order to bleed to death more quickly.

  In Cadiz, wounded were coming ashore as well, so many of them that every carriage in the city had been commandeered and all the hospitals were filled to bursting point. Churches and convents had to be used for the overflow. Masses were being sung for the dead, offices besieged with enquiries about the missing. The city was full of distraught people – women in tears, Spanish sailors still in shock, French soldiers wandering the streets listlessly with nowhere to go. The calamity had hit them all.

  Arriving in Cadiz soon after the battle, an English merchant found the place in turmoil:

  Ten days after the battle, they were still employed bringing ashore the wounded; and spectacles were hourly displayed at the wharfs, and through the streets, sufficient to shock every heart not yet hardened to scenes of blood and human suffering. When, by the carelessness of the boatmen, and the surging of the sea, the boats struck against the stone piers, a horrid cry, which pierced the soul, arose from the mangled wretches on board.

  Many of the Spanish gentry assisted in bringing them ashore, with symptoms of much compassion, yet as they were finely dressed, it had something of the appearance of ostentation; if there could be ostentation at such a moment. It need not be doubted that an Englishman lent a willing hand to bear them up the steps to their litters, yet the slightest false step made them shriek out, and I even yet shudder at the remembrance of the sound.

  On the top of the pier the scene was affecting. The wounded were carried away to the hospitals in every shape of human misery, whilst crowds of Spaniards either assisted or looked on with signs of horror. Meanwhile their companions, who had escaped unhurt, walked up and down with folded arms and downcast eyes, whilst women sat upon heaps of arms, broken furniture and baggage, with their heads bent between their knees.

  I had no inclination to follow the litters of the wounded, yet I learned that every hospital in Cadiz was already full, and that convents and churches were forced to be appropriated to the reception of the remainder.

  If, leaving the harbour, I passed through the town to the Point, I still beheld the terrible effects of the battle. As far as the eye could reach, the sandy side of the isthmus bordering on the Atlantic was covered with masts and yards, the wrecks of ships, and here and there the bodies of the dead.

  There was little animosity towards the British for all this suffering. Those forced ashore by the storm received nothing but kindness from the Spanish. The prize crew of the Rayo were given food and drink as soon as they landed. Their officer found a carriage waiting for him, full of cordials and confectionery. Women and priests presented him with ‘delicacies of all sorts’ as the carriage drove him through the streets towards lodgings with a bed and clean linen. He found himself wondering if Spanish sailors wrecked off the English coast in similar circumstances would have had such a reception. Two Americans in his crew promptly deserted and were not seen again.

  On another prize ship, the British sent their former prisoners ashore first and followed later. They found the prisoners waiting for them with bread, figs and wine. A seaman from the Spartiate was so badly injured that he couldn’t stand up.

  One of the Spaniards, seeing the state I was in, was kind enough to get two or three more of his companions, and lifted me up in one of the bullock-carts in which they had brought down the provisions for us, and covered me up with one of their great ponchos, and he tapped me on the shoulder, and said ‘Bono English!’ And, being upon the cart, I was out of the wind and rain – for it blew a heavy gale of wind – and I felt myself quite comfortable, only my leg pained me a good deal; but, thanks be to God, I soon fell into a sound sleep, and, as I heard afterwards, the French soldiers came down and marched the rest of my shipmates up to Cadiz, and they put them into the Spanish prison. As for my part, I was taken up to Cadiz in the bullock-cart and my kind friend took me to his own house, and had me put to bed, where I found myself when I woke.

  The good relations were brokered by Captains Prowse and Blackwood, who had been sent to Cadiz under flags of truce
with an offer to repatriate the Spanish wounded. Marquis Solana, the town’s governor, was delighted. Inviting Blackwood to dinner, he sent Collingwood some wine and a supply of grapes, figs, melons and pomegranates in appreciation. Collingwood was delighted in his turn:

  Nothing can exceed the gratitude expressed by him for this act of humanity. All this part of Spain is in an uproar of praise and thankfulness to the English. Solana sent me a present of a cask of wine, and we have a free intercourse with the shore. Judge of the footing we are on, when I tell you he offered me his hospitals, and pledged the Spanish honour for the care and cure of our wounded men. Our officers and men who were wrecked in some prize ships were most kindly treated: all the country was on the beach to receive them, the priests and women distributing wine, and bread, and fruit amongst them. The soldiers turned out of their barracks to make lodging for them.

  It was a curious response to the defeat they had just suffered, but the Spanish had never wanted a war with the British. They had fought bravely at Trafalgar and had nothing to be ashamed of. Their relations with the British were often cordial – at Gibraltar, for instance, the officers frequently dined together, although they were supposed to be at war. The Spanish regretted Nelson’s death and contrasted Collingwood’s humane treatment of their wounded with the awfulness of the French, whom they accused of abandoning them in the heat of battle. It wasn’t long in fact before the Spanish were persuaded to change sides altogether and join the fight against Napoleon, something many of them had been waiting to do all along.

  CHAPTER 43

  TAKING THE NEWS TO ENGLAND

  West of Cadiz, the Pickle was making slow progress towards England. She was aiming to clear Cape St Vincent and then turn north up the Portuguese coast, but it was a hard slog against the weather. The Pickle had not been designed for such waters. Her crew of forty-two were often wet through for days at a time, so disaffected that they had twice threatened to desert to the French in the past two years.

  A quarter of the crew were Irish. Some had sworn on a book entitled The Rights of Ireland to ‘aid and assist Bonaparte with all his power and might on every occasion’. In January, Lieutenant Lapenotiere had asked the Admiralty for an extra corporal and six Marines to help him keep order, but no help had been forthcoming. The situation had improved of its own accord once Villeneuve put to sea, but the Pickle was still not a happy ship.

  She was approaching Cape St Vincent on 29 October when she met the sloop Nautilus coming the other way. The Nautilus’s captain came aboard and heard the news of Trafalgar. He immediately turned his ship about and set off for Lisbon to tell the British ambassador, leaving the Pickle to continue towards England.

  By 31 October, she was heading past Cape Finisterre into the Bay of Biscay when she sprang a leak forward. The pumps couldn’t work fast enough, so the crew had to form a human chain and bail the water out with buckets. They laboured all night but were still forced to throw four carronades overboard next morning, to lighten the ship and improve her stability. Even then the situation remained precarious. It was not until the evening of I November that Lapenotiere managed to get it under control again.

  Next day, the Pickle passed Ushant and entered the English Channel. She was within a day’s sailing of the Lizard when the weather played another cruel trick and the wind dropped away to nothing, leaving the Pickle becalmed. It was the last straw for Lapenotiere, with all of England waiting for the news that he had in his dispatches.

  Worse was to follow. The Nautilus was now heading for England as well. Captain John Sykes had decided that the news of Trafalgar was too important to be left to the Pickle alone, in case she was captured or sank on the way. After leaving a message for the British ambassador in Lisbon, the Nautilus had turned north and quickly caught up with the Pickle. They had spotted each other several times as they hurried towards home, each determined to be the one with the news. The race was on to see who would get there first.

  Further up the French coast, the rest of the Royal Navy still knew nothing of Trafalgar. The blockade of Boulogne remained as tight as ever, even though the bulk of the Grand Army had long since marched away. The Immortalité under Captain Owen lay at anchor outside the harbour, keeping a sharp eye on the inshore traffic. She was rewarded at the end of October with the unusual sight of a French pinnace approaching from the shore, with a small punt in tow.

  After setting the punt adrift within reach of the British, the pinnace retreated to shore. Intrigued, Owen sent a crew to investigate. They returned with the punt, which contained a short note from Commodore Robin, probably at the behest of Admiral La Crosse. Robin was pleased to inform the British that a brilliant victory had been won. ‘The Austrian army of 100,000 men is no more. General Mack is a prisoner at Ulm, and Prince Ferdinand is put to flight.’

  The British were thunderstruck. It couldn’t possibly be true. It was inconceivable that Mack could have surrendered. Surely the French were exaggerating, as they so often did?

  Midshipman Abraham Crawford echoed the general disbelief:

  An account that seemed so wholly improbable, and which, if true, would have been so ruinous to the allies, was scarcely credible. That an army, which had only quitted the vicinity of Boulogne in the early part of September, should have traversed such an extent of country – crossed rivers – forced defences – fought battles – and, after annihilating an army of 100,000 men, and capturing its commander-in-chief, have established itself in Ulm, the key of all the Austrian movements and positions, upon the strengthening and storing of which so much pains had been bestowed, and all in the brief space of six or seven weeks, seemed so far to exceed all that one had ever heard or read of in ancient or modern warfare, that the account was considered a fabrication, and wholly disbelieved.

  Captain Owen sent the French boat back with a politely sceptical note, expressing his opinion that the victory at Ulm was probably as illusory as other French triumphs that had later turned out to be nothing of the kind. The French read his letter and were outraged that he did not believe them.

  In Canterbury, the Reverend William Nelson was waiting for news of his brother and the British fleet. Rumours were flying in all directions, but nobody knew anything for certain. If there had been a victory, the church bells would surely have rung by now, sounding out across the town. Yet they remained stubbornly silent, with no message to impart. If there was anything to celebrate, no word of it had reached the authorities yet.

  The best place to find out what was happening was Bristow’s reading room on the Parade. Nelson went there at eight every morning to scan the newspapers and see what he could learn. The papers always had the news before anyone else. But there was nothing in them about a battle, no word of Lord Nelson’s fleet, or Villeneuve’s, either. Perhaps it was good news that there was no news. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Either way, they must surely hear something soon. It couldn’t be much longer now.

  Back at Merton after her visit to Canterbury, Emma Hamilton kept busy by supervising the remodelling of the kitchen, as agreed with Nelson during his last home leave. She also went up to London to oversee the redecoration of her house in Clarges Street. She had persuaded herself that Nelson would be home soon, retired for ever from the sea. She wanted Merton looking wonderful for him when he came.

  Emma couldn’t bear to be alone at such an anxious time. She prevailed on Nelson’s younger sister Susannah Bolton to keep her company at Merton. Susannah was ill, but came anyway. Emma was ill, too, so sick with worry that she had broken out in a rash. She spent some time in bed, suffering from nerves. Like William Nelson in Canterbury, she was longing for an end to the suspense – but the church bells at Merton were just as quiet as those at Canterbury. They hadn’t pealed out joyfully across the fields, as they would have done if there had been a great victory to report. Instead, they remained silent as the grave.

  In Downing Street, William Pitt was also feeling the strain. As Prime Minister, the waiting was probably worse for him than for anyone e
lse. He was worn out from long years of worry, growing sicker and more haggard by the day.

  The rear windows of No. 10 looked across to the Admiralty, giving Pitt a clear view of the shutter telegraph on the Admiralty roof. One line went to Deal in Kent; the other via the Royal Hospital, Chelsea and Putney Heath to the naval base at Portsmouth. Both lines were busy during daylight hours, constantly sending and receiving signals. The shutters never stopped chattering. But none of it ever culminated in the cheerful figure of Lord Barham skipping across the parade ground with glad tidings in his hand.

  What came instead, on the morning of 3 November, was a bundle of newspapers from the Continent. The papers were in Dutch, full of news about Napoleon. It was a Sunday, so there was no one around to translate for Pitt. Fortunately, Lord Malmesbury lived nearby, round the side of the Admiralty. Malmesbury was a former ambassador to The Hague and had spent a year learning the language in his youth.

  Pitt and Lord Mulgrave came to me in Spring Gardens about one o’clock, with a Dutch newspaper in which the capitulation of Ulm was inserted at full length. As they neither of them understood Dutch, and as all the offices were empty, they came to me to translate it, which I did as well as I could.

  The news could hardly have been worse. The fall of Ulm was a disaster of epic proportions. It meant that the alliance against Napoleon was defeated before it had even got off the ground. All the Prime Minister’s good work over the past year and a half had come to nothing. He slumped visibly as the implications began to sink in.

  I observed but too clearly the effect it had on Pitt, though he did his utmost to conceal it . . . His manner and look were not his own, and gave me, in spite of myself, a foreboding of the loss with which we were threatened.

  What it meant was another decade of war. Pitt was certain of it. Another ten years of Europe in turmoil, while Napoleon rampaged unrestricted from one end of the Continent to the other. Ten more years of strife, chaos and disorder, a prospect no responsible statesman could relish. It was particularly devastating for Pitt, after everything he had done to try to prevent it. His life’s work lay in ruins.