Tested by Fate

by David Donachie

  He emerged to find his ship fully engaged against another enemy, trading shot with a crew fresh and prepared. The air was full of missiles, chain, and bar shot intended for the rigging but just as effective in slicing through men. And there, in the middle of the quarterdeck, stood his stepfather, in his uniform coat, one epaulette hanging off and half the rim of his hat blown clean away.

  “Hot work, Josiah,” he said, clearly happy.

  Another almighty crack, another wrenching lament, before the mizzen mast began to fall. It didn’t come all the way, but held by the mass of torn rigging that had once held up the other masts, it settled at a crazy angle, the gaff boom jamming into the poop to form a triangle of useless wood. Men rushed to secure it, lashing it to any solid object to stop it doing more damage.

  Looking back at Culloden, when the wind gusted enough to clear the smoke, Nelson could envisage what his ship must look like. Wallowing and useless, Culloden had fallen out of the battle, rudder shot away and not more than a stump of any mast standing. It was easy to imagine blood flowing out through the scantlings by the gallon, but whatever the cost, Troubridge could be proud. He had done his job.

  “Enemy approaching on our larboard quarter,” shouted Millar. “All hands stand by to engage.”

  “Excellent is coming up to help us, sir,” cried Josiah.

  She was, too, with enough aloft still to overhaul the enemy. By the time Captain opened fire with a ship they knew to be San Nicolas, Collingwood had put up his helm to place himself no more than twenty feet from her beam, opening up with a salvo of gunnery that tore the Spaniard apart. Great chunks flew from her side into the air; the rigging was shredded on the second salvo, and on the third the lower ports were smashed in, the clang of metal on metal so loud it was audible across the intervening water.

  To the rear of that Prince George had engaged the three-decker San Josef. One Spanish ship sought to edge away from Collingwood, with what few tattered bits of canvas she still had aloft. The San Josef was seeking to get across the bows of Prince George, to a point where she could pour fire into an enemy who would struggle to respond. Instead she ran foul of her own consort, checking her way so comprehensively that Excellent shot past to cheers from Captain.

  “Captain Millar,” called Nelson.

  “Sir?”

  “We are useless in the line,” he shouted, pointing to the nearest enemy. “Please be so good as to put us at a point where we can board that ship.”

  “Mr Nisbet, pray return below again and ask Mr Hooper to put the rudder hard a-larboard.”

  It was agonisingly slow, the way that Captain inched towards the San Nicolas, both ships firing ragged salvoes. But Millar had done just the right thing, using the run of the sea to put his prow right in line with the poop of the enemy vessel. Men gathered around their leaders, with knives, clubs, muskets, and pikes. Pierson, leading the marine detachment, had his men lined up as if on parade, ready to put their first fusillade into whatever resistance formed itself on the Spaniard’s deck.

  Berry was already out on the bowsprit, edging on to the spirit sail yard as the two ships collided, sword in hand, yelling like a banshee, preparing to jump. Around him Nelson could see other old Agamemnons: Thorpe, Warren, Sykes, and Thompson, both Johns, and Francis Cook. Beside him, swearing loudly, stood William Fearny, one of his bargemen, normally the quietest soul in creation, now raring to get into the fight.

  “Permission to lead the boarding party, sir?”

  Nelson turned to answer Millar, his look almost pleading. “We cannot both leave the deck, Ralph, and I cannot stay while there is a fight. My nature couldn’t bear it.”

  The silent exchange lasted only a few seconds, enough for Ralph Millar to impart his opinion that commodores had no right to lead boarding parties. But then neither, really, had captains. Behind them Berry was swinging his sword, driving down the heads of those who would stop him, allowing those behind him to drop on to the poop and take them on. Marine muskets were fired and reloaded to clear the enemy deck of opposition. And the ship was spinning slowly, now locked into the San Nicolas, hanging on to the enemy stern. Millar smiled, touched his hat, and went back to his station.

  “To me,” Nelson called, leading a group of men forward to the quarter-gallery windows, now nestled up against a point where the bulwarks were smashed open. A marine stepped forward and smashed the glass, Nelson immediately leading his party—seamen, marines, and three midshipmen—through. They found themselves in a small cabin with a locked door. That, too, fell to the butt of a musket, allowing his party into the fore part of the great cabin, led by a wild-eyed commodore, repeatedly shouting, “Death or Westminster Abbey!”

  “Heads!” Nelson yelled, pushing one midshipman one way, a second the other, then diving himself for one of the bulkheads as a fusillade of musket balls, mixed with the sound of shattering glass, came through the skylight above their heads.

  “Marines, clear them!”

  That order was aimed at the rest of the party, still exiting from the quarter gallery. The muskets were up and fired almost before the words were out of his mouth, a salvo that killed several men and aided Berry, still fighting desperately on the poop. Nelson was already out of the cabin on to the open deck, heading for a companionway full of Spanish sailors. He discharged his own pistol, before turning it to use as a club, felling a man who had been stabbing his pike towards one of his mids.

  He had to step back to get his sword free, then lunged immediately, missing his main target in his haste but taking another enemy sailor in the thigh, enough of a wound to make the fellow collapse in a heap. In a fight that is a mêlée, all the swordsmanship practised on deck counts for nothing. This was hacking, jabbing work, with the hilt just as vital as the blade, close-quarters fighting in which instinct, or a flash of something in the corner of an eye, counted for as much as skill.

  It was that which alerted him to the swinging club. Even though his sword sliced into it, the jarring up his arm was painful. Keeping his embedded sword aloft exposed his assailant’s lower body and a swift kick in the groin doubled him over. It was his own club that finished him, retrieved and swung by Nelson so hard he could hear the fellow’s skull crack open. A pike, pointed and serrated, shot past his nose, missing him by a fraction as he fought to dislodge his sword. Thorpe, who had jammed a hand on to the shaft just in time, unbalancing the pikeman, had disrupted the enemy aim. The blade of Nelson’s sword sliced up under the pikeman’s throat, cutting through his neck so hard that his head nearly came off.

  Fighting their way up the companionway was hard, a compact mass of British facing an even more dense crowd of Spaniards. Willpower won out over numbers, aided by the first sight of sunlight at the enemy back. Jab—cut—jab—cut, slice—parry—jam the hilt into a face, kick, bite, scratch, anything to keep the forward momentum. Nelson was soaked with sweat, his mouth dry and his arms aching. But he was leading his men to a point where the enemy must break, which they did with a suddenness that nearly had him falling on to his knees.

  He emerged on to the deck to find Berry in occupation of the poop, in the act of hauling down the Spanish flag. Odd that the lower deck guns were still firing, unaware of what was happening above their heads, still trying to fight Prince George, probably convinced that she had stopped firing through their efforts rather than the dropping of the Spanish ensign, unaware that the British ship was now concentrating its fire on the San Josef; this while their officers, on the deck, were in the act of surrendering their swords; this while all fighting had ceased on the upper and maindecks.

  “God bless you, Berry,” Nelson croaked. “She is ours.”

  “A party below, sir, to still those guns.”

  “Make it so, Mr Berry.”

  Berry hadn’t made it to the companionway when the fusillade of musket fire swept across the deck, fired from the cabins of the San Josef, still stuck fast to San Nicolas, scything through a party of sailors and marines celebrating their victory. Several fell i
n such a way as to make Nelson think them dead. But that was not foremost in his mind.

  “To me, lads,” he shouted, waving his sword, which gathered every available man. “Marines form up and give them a volley. Mr Hardy, a party at the hatches to keep those below in check.”

  Pierson had his red-coated bullocks in line and ready within half a minute, their fusillade poured into the area from which the gunfire had come. Nelson followed the musket balls at a rush, jumping from the bulwarks of one Spanish ship, a Second Rate, on to the main chains of another, to grapple his way on to a First Rate three-deck 112-gun ship.

  Berry was with him, using main force to push his commodore up high enough to get over the bulwark of the bigger vessel. Nelson was shouting, his cracked voice sounding mad. He emerged on to the deck prepared to kill everyone in sight, only to find a line of Spanish officers, swords extended, waiting to surrender to him. One, on his knees, informed him in stilted English that his admiral was dying. Nelson took his hand to lift him to his feet, and requested of him in even worse Spanish that all the ship’s officers should be informed of the surrender.

  A salvo from Prince George slammed into the side of the San Josef, to remind Nelson that a battle was still in progress.

  “Berry, the flag, cut it down.”

  Berry rushed to obey as Nelson took the swords, handing them to Giddings, who, with an air about him of studied calm, tucked them under his arm.

  “They’ve struck already, sir,” Berry shouted, from the poop.

  “Then show yourself to Prince George, but don’t get your head blown off doing it.”

  Thorpe grabbed his hand and shook it, gazing into Nelson’s astounded face. “You don’t know it, do you, yer honour, what you’ve done? I’m shaking your hand now while I has the chance. When this gets out they’ll be queuing up.”

  “Victory, sir,” cried Berry, bloodstained but unbowed, pointing to the approaching flagship, fast coming down on the three closely entwined warships, Captain, San Josef, and San Nicolas. The rigging was full of sailors. On the quarterdeck Nelson could see Admiral Jervis, Captain Calder, and all the flag officers. As they came abreast Sir John raised his hat, and led, in the most flattering fashion, the cheers of every man aboard his ship.

  Chapter Nineteen

  EMMA HAMILTON read Nelson’s letter for the third time that morning, trying to imagine the battle that had taken place a month before, not helped by the way her correspondent played down what must have been a bloody affair. The Spaniards had been soundly trounced, those not taken forced to run for the shelter of Cadiz.

  Both she and Sir William had had other letters, from London, that told of how the news of the victory had been greeted. The bells had rung, gold medals had been struck, and every civic body in the land vied to give one of the heroes the freedom of their city. Sir John Jervis had been raised to the peerage, and was now Earl St Vincent. Nelson had become both a rear admiral and a Knight of the Bath. And those letters also told of that new raree-show that was enacted in all the pleasure gardens and playhouses: Nelson’s Patent Bridge for the Taking of First Rates, in which the feat of crossing one ship to take another, never before achieved, was played endlessly to an adoring, patriotic audience.

  Sir William had been right all those years ago, when he had introduced Horatio Nelson as a man of exceptional ability. Emma began a reply couched in warm terms that would, of course, include a fond wish that a British fleet should once more come to Naples, and that Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson would lead it.

  Fanny Nelson, staying in Bath with her husband’s father, couldn’t deal with the letters she received. They were too numerous. Everyone who knew Admiral Nelson wanted to write with praise of his actions. But so did many who had never made an acquaintance: people from all over the country who had read of his exploits in the newspapers, eager to tell her that her husband, by his actions and his application, had saved the nation.

  She had letters from him, too, in which she knew he had played down the blood and danger, more eager to tell her that her son had behaved well, that money would flow from the battle: head money for the enemy sailors captured, gun money for the guns, as well as prize money for the ships themselves.

  With Captain a near wreck he had shifted his flag to HMS Theseus and hoisted his blue pennant at the mizzen, the flag of his new rank. It worried her that the acclaim he had garnered didn’t seem to satisfy him, and that he was already talking of a new adventure which, if it succeeded, would eclipse the fame he had already acquired. Together with the Reverend Edmund Nelson she pored over maps to locate an island somewhere off the coast of Africa she had never heard of: Tenerife.

  There is always a moment before going into action when a sailor faces the prospect of death, convinced that this is his day to succumb. Pessimism abounds at the moment of composition, when it is easy to conjure up images of those you love and cherish: family, friends, fellow officers, and seamen in a world in which you no longer exist. Nelson had written just such a letter off Portugal in February, and he was writing another off Tenerife in July. That pessimism, in Nelson’s experience, usually evaporated as soon as he turned his mind to more practical things. But not on this occasion! Not for the recently promoted and knighted Rear Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson KB!

  First mooted after the victory at Cape St Vincent by a junior admiral keen to enhance his already glowing reputation, the operation to take the island had been viewed with confidence. Tenerife lacked a full garrison; what forts it had were weak and under-gunned. Land a substantial force, take those forts and invest the main port of Santa Cruz, and it would only be a matter of time before the island fell, there being no hope of relief from Spain who had seen its Grand Fleet soundly beaten six months previously.

  Surprise, a vital element of the plan, was lost when the weather turned against him: a strong gale allied to a foul current meant his frigate commanders couldn’t land their troops in the dark. The next attempt involved landing forces in broad daylight while the line-of-battle ships pounded Santa Cruz. This was frustrated by a flat calm that had him wearing to and fro off the bay called the Lion’s Mouth, unable to aid the progress of Troubridge, who battered uselessly against the hillside forts until he was forced to withdraw, re-embarking his landing parties, weary and unsuccessful.

  When proposed, Nelson’s latest plan, a direct attack on the town via the mole that protected the harbour, caused even his bravest subordinate to pale, making him wonder if it was a product of his vanity rather than sound tactical sense. With the success against the Grand Fleet he was loath to return to Admiral Jervis, now Earl St Vincent, without a triumph under his belt. The last time he had seen him his irascible commander in chief had been up to his ears in the suppression of mutiny, the tidewash of the insurrections at Spithead and the Nore, which had led to the unpleasantness of two hangings.

  Nelson was glad to be away from that, an impossible conundrum. He sympathised with the sailors’ demands while at the same time deploring the methods chosen to effect change. And in a fleet at sea, which might face battle at any time, sentiment had to take second place to the maintenance of efficiency. He hoped another resounding success would do more to stifle discontent in the fleet than any number of yardarm ropes.

  “Gentlemen, I shall lead this attack. Please be assured that my desire to do so has no bearing on the conduct of any officer in this room. I think you know my character, and will readily understand that I find it ten times closer to hell to be a mere observer, rather than a participant.”

  The numerous nodding heads reassured him. There would be no jealousies, but he would have been cheered by more smiles. “I intend to anchor off the town and give every indication of my intention to bombard. Conscious of the difficulties, and not wishing to keep his troops under heavy cannon fire, the Spanish commander must assume another landing and I hope will reinforce his forts, thus denuding the town. In darkness complete, which at this time of year will be close to midnight, we will take to the boats and secure the mole. Fro
m there we will attack and take Santa Cruz, manning the walls on the landward side to repel any attempt at a counter attack.”

  Plans for timing, numbers to be employed, which boats to take which parties, marines or sailors, signals, both to advance and retire, used up most of the afternoon, so that when the captains left to return to their own ships it was time to stand into the bay. Now it was dark in his great cabin and, with all his affairs in order, Nelson took his sword and pistols from Tom Allen and went on deck. His sight, once it was accustomed to darkness illuminated by stars, alighted on an officer preparing to board one of the boats.

  “Lieutenant Nisbet, a word, if you please?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do I observe by your dress that you are about to embark?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “You know that I lead the attack?”

  “I look forward to the honour of accompanying you, sir.”

  “Josh, what if we were both to fall? What would become of your poor mother? The care of this ship is yours. Stay, therefore, and take charge of her.”

  “Theseus must take care of itself. I’ll go with you tonight if never again.”

  “I cannot insist,” Nelson responded softly, but sadly, hiding his foreboding. “Not for an answer I myself would have given.”

  He could feel the wind on his face, and the swell lifting and dropping the ship under his feet, neither a good omen for what would be a difficult task even on a calm windless night. At least the Spanish governor had fallen for his ploy. They had observed a great number of men departing Santa Cruz for the forts, lessening the numbers he and his men would have to face.

  Troubridge and Waller would be embarking the left flank party from Culloden. Captains Freemantle, Thompson, and Bowen would join him in the central division once he was in the boats from Theseus, and young Sam Hood and his own flag captain, Ralph Millar, would take the right. Movement was always preferable to being stationary: better to worry about keeping your footing when getting into a boat than standing on the deck thinking of the ball from musket or cannon that might kill you.