Meanwhile Majestic had attacked Heureux, still further down the line, and had run her jib-boom into the French ship's rigging. She was also exposed to the fire of Tonnant. Her Captain was killed and she suffered terrible casualties. But her First Lieutenant succeeded in getting her free and continued to fight her with great gallantry, attacking, unsupported, Mercure, the fourth ship from the French rear.
Unable to see what was happening, except in his immediate vicinity by the orange flashes of the guns, Roger now had depression added to his personal fears; for he could judge the progress of the battle only by the crushing defeat of Bellerophon. He would have been even more depressed had he known that at about eight o'clock. Nelson had been struck on the head just above his old wound by a piece of the chain shot used by the French to cut through enemy ships' sails and rigging. The metal cut the Admiral's forehead to the bone, causing a long flap of flesh and a stream of blood to come down over his good eye and blind him completely. Believing that he had received a mortal wound, he sent last messages to his wife and several of his Captains.
Plunged into total darkness, he could not be persuaded, even by his Principal Surgeon, that the wound was only superficial. Yet if he had died then it would have been as he had always wished, for he had hardly been taken to the cockpit when news that victory was assured was brought to him. The ships in the French van, dismasted and with huge, gaping holes in them, had been reduced to corpse-littered hulks. Conquerant had been the first to strike her flag, Guerrier followed at eight-thirty, Aquilon soon after. Spartiate had ceased to fire and Peuple Souverain, having broken from her moorings, had drifted ashore in flames. The French centre—Franklin, L'Orient, Tonnant and Heureux—were now surrounded by a superior concentration of British ships that was pouring broadside after broadside into them and, as the night wore on, must be pounded into surrender.
UOrient had Alexander on one side of her and Swiftsure on the other. White to the gills, Roger remained on the poop of the flagship, expecting every moment that a cannon ball would cut him in half or take off his head. In the heat of battle Brueys had found no use for him; so he could only stand there with his eyes smarting and half choked by the acrid fumes from the gunpowder. Through gaps in the smoke he caught glimpses of the deck. In places the bulwarks had been shot away; here and there cannon had been overturned. Broken spars and cut ropes fallen from aloft were inextricably mixed with scores of dead and dying. The screams of the wounded rent the air every moment, making the night hideous. There was blood everywhere.
At a little before nine o'clock a longboat not far from Roger caught fire. He had b$en helping to bandage a wounded sailor. The man suddenly jerked his head forward, spewed blood and died; so Roger let the body fall back. Running to the burning boat, he helped several other men cut her away. When he returned to the poop someone told him that the gallant Brueys had been killed by a cannon ball. Audacious had now joined in the attack on VOrient', so broadsides from three ships were raking her, while musket balls fired by marines in their fighting tops came whistling down at a sharp angle to take their toll of the exposed French sailors. Her upper decks were now a shambles, nearly all the guns on them having been put out of action, but the greater part of those on her lower decks continued to fire and her surviving officers had no thought of surrender.
Two more of her boats were set alight and extinguished, the fire then started on the poop. While lying inactive in the bay she had been painting ship, and much of the paint on her stern was still wet. The flames caught it and ran quickly up the tarred rigging. An attempt was made to put out the fire, but British cannon balls had destroyed the nearest fire-fighting appliances and rows of water-buckets and were crashing through the stern rails every moment. By half past nine the after part of the poop was well ablaze, lighting up a scene of most appalling carnage and confusion. In the lurid glare of the flames Roger caught sight of Commodore Casabianca. He was lying wounded and near him the deck was burning but his ten-year-old son, who had come on the voyage as a cabin-boy, was clinging to his hand, refusing to leave him.
Suddenly Roger took a decision. Two-thirds of the ship's company were now either dead or wounded. By a miracle, as it seemed to him, he was one of the remaining third. But his immunity could not last much longer. With Brueys dead and no one knowing any more what his neighbour was doing, why should he remain to be slaughtered? Better to go over the side and take his chance in the water. Stumbling through the blinding smoke, he found one of the poop ladders and slithered down it into the well of the ship.
Tripping over a legless corpse, he was thrown against an overturned gun. Beyond it was a great rent in the bulwark, where the gunport had been. Heaving himself up, he lurched towards it. At that moment a thought struck him. Bonaparte's despatch!
During the five and a half months since he had left England he had been unable to send home a single report or piece of intelligence of any value. Perhaps even worse in Mr. Pitt's view, instead of carrying out his instructions to do anything he could to hamper Bonaparte's success and rise to power he had, in small ways, rendered him many useful services. Here was a chance to make good his apparent negligence and to serve his country to some purpose. It was very probable that in the despatch Bonaparte had not only described his occupation of Cairo but had also informed the Directors of his future intentions.
Swinging round, Roger stepped over the legless body, jumped another, slipped in a pool of blood, fell, picked himself up and made for the entrance under the poop that led to the dead Admiral's cabin. The passage was in darkness, except for the flickering light of the still-thundering guns. He groped his way along it and into the great stern cabin where, eight hours before, he had been laughing and talking with Brueys and his officers round the big dining table. It was bright as day inside the cabin, for the fire had already caught the woodwork of the stern galley outside the semi-circle of tall, sloping windows.
Adjacent to the big cabin was a smaller one that Brueys used as an office and in which he had received Roger. As Roger thrust open the door he heard a sudden movement, then saw that a terrified man was crouching in one of the far corners.
He was dressed as a civilian, so Roger guessed him to be either Brueys's secretary or a super-cargo. The one thing he could not afford was for a Frenchman to be able to identify him afterwards and state that he had made off with the despatch, and there was just a possibility that this man might survive the battle. His own life might be forfeit if he let the man live; so he pulled a pistol from his sash, intending to kill him.
' What . . . what are you about to do, monsieur? ' gasped the trembling wretch.
The idea of pistolling a defenceless man in cold blood went horribly against the grain with Roger and a way of making his theft appear a commendable action suddenly occurred to him. With a frown he said, ' For lurking here like a coward I ought to shoot you. But I fear L'Orient must soon surrender, so I have come here to prevent a despatch that I delivered to Admiral Brueys this afternoon from falling into the hands of the English.' Then, turning his pistol on the lock of a stout cabinet in which he had seen Brueys put the despatch, he fired it.
The lock was shattered and after a sharp pull the doors of the cabinet came open. Inside there were rows of pigeon-holes filled with papers. Roger soon recognized the despatch from its size and unbroken seals. Quickly he undid his tunic, thrust the despatch inside and, without another glance at the poor devil he had spared, left the cabin.
Out on the open deck the scene was even more ghastly than when he had left it, for during the past five minutes the fire on the poop had trebled in size and now had the mizzenmast, with its yards and gear, burning like a huge candle. The fierce light of the flames lit a much greater area of the ship and the writhing figures half obscured by smoke might well have been in Dante's Inferno. But Roger's only thought now was to save himself.
Noticing a rope that led out through a gap in the bulwarks, he grabbed it with both hands, gave a quick look to make certain there was no wreckage in
the sea below the gap, then sat down, turned on his stomach and thrust himself outward. The rope, having been cut, was not secured to anything on board. In consequence instead of his being able, as he had hoped, to clamber down it, he went hurtling down, hit the bulge of the ship's side with a most frightful thump, bounced off it and landed with a great splash in the sea.
For what seemed an age he went down, down, down, until he thought that his lungs would burst. But at last he began to rise and surfaced, gasping and gulping. As soon as he had shaken the water from his eyes, he got his bearings. There, within twenty feet of him, towered the gargantuan L'Orient, many of her lower guns still belching fire and smoke, but her stern now ablaze. Turning, he struck out for the nearest British ship.
She was no great distance away, and he was a strong swimmer. In spite of being weighed down by his sodden clothes, he reached her after ten minutes of steady effort. But it was another matter to get aboard her. Had he had the voice of ten men and shouted himself hoarse he would still have been unable to make himself heard above the deafening thunder of the guns. Even if he had, her crew, giving every thought to their duties at their action stations, would not have left them to throw him a rope.
After swimming half round the ship he found himself facing her anchor chain. Gratefully, he grasped and clung to it, praying that, until some chance arose of his getting into the ship, he would not be hit by a stray bullet or flying piece of debris. Fortunately, as it was the height of summer, the sea was warm; so he stood no risk of having to let go the chain from numbed limbs and hands.
For the next half-hour, from sea-level, he watched the battle. The British ships continued to fire relentlessly on their foe. Fewer and fewer guns from L'Orient replied, and the whole of her stern became a raging furnace. Soon after ten it was evident that orders had been given to abandon ship, as those of her crew who still survived began to jump into the water. At ten-fifteen the flames reached her main magazine and she blew up. The explosion was so terrific that it was heard as far away as Alexandria. Masses of burning debris were shot hundreds of feet into the air, to descend on the decks of the British ships that had brought doom upon her, or to hiss fiercely in the water.
The blast and a great tidal wave wrenched Roger from his hold on the cable. He was again submerged and had to fight his way to the surface. When he came up it was pitch dark and utterly silent. The magnitude of the explosion had so shaken the combatants on both sides that they spontaneously ceased to serve the guns. It was not until nearly ten minutes later that a French ship resumed the battle by again opening fire.
Had L'Orient not blown up she would have proved the most valuable prize ever taken by the British, for in her hold she carried £600,000 in ingots of gold looted from the new Swiss and Roman Republics and, in addition, the huge treasure in gold and gems that Bonaparte had stolen from the Knights of Malta. These were to have been his treasure chest for the conquest of the East; so it was a shattering blow to him that the whole of this great wealth should have gone down with L'Orient to the bottom of Aboukir Bay.
But Roger was thinking only of his own survival. Swimming round and round in the darkness he again, at length, hit the anchor cable and clung on to it. Soon after, fires ignited by the flaming debris falling on to British ships, and a renewal of the firing, intermittently lit the scene.
Some three hundred of the survivors in L'Orient had jumped into the sea before she blew up; upon which Audacious, to the cable of which ship Roger later earned he had been clinging, put out several boats to pick up as many as they could. Seeing this, Roger swam to the nearest boat and, to his immense relief, was hauled aboard. A quarter of an hour later he and a number of others who had been rescued were hoisted in through the lower ports of Audacious, herded to one end of her tier deck and, under guard, kept there for the remainder of the night.
The battle continued sporadically until 3 a.m., and was resumed for a while after dawn. Vice-Admiral Villeneuve in his flagship, Guillaume Tell, one other ship-of-the-line, Genereux, and a frigate, made sail and got away. It was later said that they would not have escaped had Nelson not been temporarily incapacitated by his wound, and so unable to direct the later stages of the battle. As it was, despite Zealous's crippled state, gallant Sam Hood gave chase, but no other British ship was in a condition to support him; so he was recalled.
Daylight revealed the fruits of victory. Eleven of the thirteen French ships-of-the-line had been captured or destroyed. Out of some eight thousand French sailors, over five thousand were dead and the majority of the remainder were prisoners. It was possibly the most bloody sea battle ever fought and the greatest triumph for British sea power since the defeat of the Spanish Armada. It made the Mediterranean henceforth, for over a century, a British lake; and the French Navy was so completely shattered that seven years elapsed before, in combination with a large Spanish Fleet, it again dared challenge Nelson at Trafalgar.
During that night Roger had no inkling of all this, apart from the knowledge that his countrymen had proved victorious. He had mounted his horse long before dawn that morning at Damanhur, ridden thirty miles to Alexandria, talked with Kleber, ridden on to Aboukir, gone aboard the flagship, delivered his despatch to Brueys, sustained over five hours of appalling anxiety and a further three of hideous battle.
When going overboard he had hurt himself badly and the exertion of swimming and clinging to the cable had drained away his last reserves of strength. He was hardly able any longer to think coherently, yet sufficiently able to realize that he was in some danger: for in no circumstances, while he remained among the French prisoners, must he give away the fact that he was English. Wondering vaguely what new problems and perils he might have to face next day, he slumped down on the hard deck, utterly exhausted, and, almost instantly, was asleep.
The One Who Got Away
The personnel of Audacious were so fully occupied preparing the dead for burial, tending their wounded, clearing away wreckage, and stopping holes torn in the side of the ship by French cannon balls, that it was mid-morning before they had time to give any attention to their prisoners. Roger was roused by movement all round him and found that half a dozen Jack-tars, supervised by a Lieutenant, were serving out a ration of ship's biscuits and a drink of water, dipped from buckets.
He eagerly swallowed the few mouthfuls of brackish water, but was not sufficiently hungry to tackle the biscuits. It was very cold down there on the tier deck; so his clothes had not yet dried out, and his right arm and hip, with which he had hit the bulge of L'Orient when going overboard, were stiff and painful.
Looking about him he saw in the dim light some fifty officers and men in the same wretched state as himself: their clothes torn and sodden, their faces begrimed and their hair in rats'-tails. With some twenty others, who had been picked up and taken to other ships, they were the only survivors of the eight hundred men who the day before had manned the mighty L'Orient.
When the ration had been served the Lieutenant sat himself down on an upturned barrel and, using a crate for a table, produced some sheets of paper. A Petty Officer then marshalled the prisoners into a queue for examination. The Lieutenant spoke little French, but all he asked each man was his name, rank and ship; then he wrote them down. When Roger's turn came he drew himself to his full height and replied in French:
'Breuc, Colonel on the Staff of French Army headquarters, Cairo, and aide-de-camp to the General-in-Chief.'
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The Lieutenant gave him a surprised look, took down what he had said and put a large cross against his name, then told him to stand aside with another French officer who had been singled out from the ratings. By the time all the names had been taken, the group of officers numbered five, with one Midshipman. A Sergeant of Marines beckoned them to follow him and took them to the bread-room, where they were locked in.
There, while agreeing that they were lucky to be alive, they commiserated with one another on the defeat their Fleet had sustained and speculated gloomily about
their future as prisoners-of-war. Roger produced his share of apparent despondency, but inwardly he was now in excellent spirits. Apart from his right arm and side being badly bruised and aching, he had come through the terrible night unscathed and rosy prospects lay ahead of him.
He had known that he had to do no more than say he was one of Bonaparte's aides-de-camp to ensure his being brought before a senior officer for questioning. From that it should be only a step to securing a private interview with Admiral Nelson, to whom alone he was prepared to disclose his true identity. None of the prisoners had so far been searched, presumably because it was thought that they would have only small, private possessions on them. He still had the despatch concealed under his tunic and even should it be taken from him before he got to the Admiral that would not prevent it from being sent to Nelson with him. All he had to do was guard against anyone, French or British, finding out that he was an Englishman, and that should present no great difficulty.
Then, once he had had his interview with the Admiral, good-bye to Egypt. Kleber would report that he had left Alexandria to deliver the despatch to Brueys on the afternoon that the British Fleet had been sighted. Bonaparte would assume that he had been either killed or captured during the battle, and what more perfect explanation could there be for not returning to him? Now that he had captured Cairo and had virtually subdued Egypt, it was certain that he would proceed with his ambitious schemes. The Directory had ordered him to occupy the Red Sea ports, and it was highly probable that, having secured them, he would use them as bases for a descent on India. Alternatively, he might first turn north to conquer Syria. But, whichever he did, India would be his ultimate objective, and to conquer the whole of the East must take him several years.
Roger had had more than enough of deserts and battles, and now he could get Nelson to send him home, either as an important prisoner who would be well treated, or under another name in a merchant ship. Even if at a later date he wished to return to France he would still be able to do so with a clean bill as a Frenchman, because # he could say that he had been held as a prisoner in England. Even Talleyrand could have no reason to suspect that his capture had not been genuine.
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