by Neil Oliver
Historians look back upon this period and call it “The Age of Nelson”—and it was. But it was also the time when the Royal Navy itself had come of age. Their systems worked and the service had become one for which victory was second nature, almost routine. Nelson was surrounded by other men of greatness like Cuthbert Collingwood, William Cornwallis, Adam Duncan, Samuel Hood, John Jervis and Augustus Keppel—and much of what he achieved was made possible by this atmosphere of success in which he came to maturity.
It’s almost traditional to imagine that life aboard the great ships of the line in the 18th century was one of unimaginable hardship, enlivened only by the occasional horror of a full-blown battle. But while it would certainly be a shock to most of us, it’s important to remember that for the mass of the population in the 18th century, life was unimaginably hard by our standards whether lived at sea or on land. The great warships required a crew of 800 men or more, and conditions aboard were of necessity cramped and lacking in any kind of luxury, but they gave men something to belong to and to fight for. Food rations were usually plentiful—if repetitive—and crews understood that the conditions demanded stiff discipline if the ship was to function as a successful fighting unit. The press-gangs were still in operation, plucking civilians out of their lives and spiriting them away to the sea without the chance to say good-bye to family, but in effect this was no more than the system of conscription that would survive well into the 20th century.
Men like Collingwood, Cornwallis and Nelson ruled by example rather than by fear, in any case. They impressed their men with their skill, ability and personal bravery—and along the way they inspired genuine admiration and fondness. In the case of Nelson, of course, it was love. Some quality of his personality enabled him to reach people of every station, and the attentions he paid, the many little kindnesses he extended to those around him, won him adoration that lasted all his life.
Despite the disaster of Egypt and the Battle of the Nile, Napoleon, too, remained a rising star, by sheer force of will. In December of 1799 he was made First Consul of the new French Consulate, and the following year crushed the Austrians at the Battle of Marengo. The nations of Europe were finding it easier to make peace with him than fight him. But always beyond his clutches was Britain—on the far side of that frustratingly narrow, yet impossibly wide “ditch” of an English Channel.
Britain made its own peace with France—the Peace of Amiens—in March 1802. Napoleon saw to it, however, that it was an unhappy interlude and spent the time preparing for his own further aggrandizement. The peace came to an end, as it had to eventually, in the May of 1803, and Napoleon at once unrolled his plans to add Britain to his empire. Soon an army 160,000 strong was gathering on the French coast. It would fall to the Royal Navy, and to Nelson, to make sure that those men would come no closer.
Looking out from Dover with a good telescope and a good eye it was possible to see the encampment of la Grande Armée—the Grand Army—spreading like mushrooms in the green fields. In harbors and ports the landing craft for the troops were being assembled. Menacing though these preparations were, the cool heads of the Admiralty understood one fact—something that was certainly known to Napoleon as well: it was impossible to bring an army across the Channel without control of the sea.
The Royal Navy’s initial solution to the problem was to keep the enemy ships trapped in all their harbors between Brest in the Bay of Biscay and Toulon in the Mediterranean. If they couldn’t get into the open sea, they couldn’t cause any trouble, far less clear the way for an invasion. The fulfilment of this objective was an achievement unequaled by seamen before or since.
While Nelson was given the task of monitoring the enemy navies in the relative calm of the Mediterranean, the job of hemming the French fleet, under the command of Admiral Ganteaume, into their base at Brest went to Cornwallis.
There is no one alive today who could begin to explain how Cornwallis and his men kept their fleet on station in those waters for month after month. The skills required to maintain mastery of the great timber ships of the line are long gone and will never be recovered. The conditions off the coast of Brest are challenging today for lone yachtsmen wishing only a safe passage. But the skills of navigation and seamanship required to keep an entire fleet of great ships of the line in position, static among those restless currents and ceaseless onshore winds, is beyond belief. Whenever the French sailors looked out, in fair weather or in foul, the British ships were there. That great blockade remains a unique accomplishment, testament to the skills of a lost world.
When Napoleon finally lost patience with it all and ordered the fleets of France and Spain to sail first to the West Indies in a feint, and then back to the Channel to attack the British, he was acting out of pure petulance. Even the most ardent Bonapartist would have to admit that Napoleon was a land mammal. He may have crowned himself Emperor in December 1804, but the golden circlet he placed upon his own head conferred no understanding of the ways of the sea. He thought it was all about force of numbers—that the commander of the largest fleet would carry the day. He was wrong, of course, and Nelson would shortly show him why.
Toward the end of March 1805, Admiral Pierre-Charles Villeneuve reluctantly brought his fleet out of Toulon and made for the West Indies as he’d been instructed. Nelson chased him there and then followed his trail back across the Atlantic without ever managing to bring him to battle. The British Admiral returned to England, to spend some time with Emma.
Collingwood was on station off the coast of Cadiz when Villeneuve appeared. The Vice-Admiral had only a few ships and so simply stood away to allow the French ships access to the harbor. For the British sailors it was a depressing moment. It looked as though they would now begin yet another fall and winter watching nothing happen at yet another enemy harbor. But Napoleon had reached the end of his tether and Villeneuve, believing he would shortly be replaced by his unhappy Emperor in any case, would shortly make one last roll of the dice.
Word of the French fleet’s arrival at Cadiz was sent to England, and to Nelson, aboard the frigate Euryalus. Her captain, Thomas Blackwood, delivered the news to Nelson himself.
It was before dawn but Nelson was already up and dressed: “I am sure you bring me news of the French and Spanish fleets and I think I shall yet have to beat them,” he said.
Blackwood left then, to inform the Admiralty. But Nelson was right. After just three weeks at home with his family, he had to leave and make his way to Portsmouth and the Victory. He joined the fleet off Cadiz on September 28 and, with all his famed diplomacy, gently replaced Collingwood in overall command.
The long game of cat and mouse came to an end at dawn on October 21. As the sun rose above Cape Trafalgar the players stepped out on to the stage. To the astonishment of the watching British ships, Villeneuve’s 33 sail emerged into open water.
Aboard the Royal Sovereign, Collingwood could hardly have seemed less impressed. When his servant entered his quarters just after daybreak he found his master shaving, just as he did every day.
“Have you seen the French fleet?” asked the Admiral, scraping more stubble from his chin with a slow, steady hand.
“No sir, I have not,” came the reply.
“Well, go and take at look at them,” said Collingwood. “And in a little while you’ll see a great deal more.”
While the sun balanced on the horizon, Nelson’s ships began the ponderously slow business of forming into the two divisions he had ordered. Although a heavy swell was rolling in from the ocean, there was precious little wind, and for many hours to come every movement of the fleet would be in slow motion.
Throughout the British fleet the men were called to breakfast as usual. As the morning wore on, and the approach toward the enemy continued, the officers were to be seen in full dress uniform—the more conspicuous the better as far as British gentlemen were concerned. In time of battle it was the duty of officers to show their confidence and their bravery by taking up highly visible po
sitions in full view of the foe. This was an era when nailing one’s colors to the mast demanded both bravery and a certain flair.
Audible above the roll and wash of the waves was the sound of bands playing upon the decks of warship after warship. There was almost an air of celebration already, before a shot had been fired. Still the molasses-slow advance continued. For men on the open decks it was bad enough, but at least they could look at the scene around them and take in the sight of the distant French and Spanish fleets. But for those waiting below in the gloom of the gun-decks it must have been next to intolerable. The wind was blowing no more than two or three knots and the fleets were closing upon each other at a speed slightly less than that required for a leisurely stroll. Men took turns to peer through the gun-ports and craned their necks to try to gauge the distance still to be traveled.
Aboard the Victory Nelson’s simmering excitement was palpable. If Collingwood was the living embodiment of sangfroid, then the Lord Admiral seemed ablaze with the thrill of it all. He entered every battle convinced he was certain to die—and today was no different. But his fatalism seemed to thrill him, freeing him from fear and driving him always toward the place where he felt the greatest danger lay. He had made his personal preparations in any case. That very morning he had added a codicil to his will asking that Emma Hamilton, and their daughter Horatia, be looked after by the nation in the event of his death. Into his journal he had written a prayer in which he offered up his life to the God he felt observed and judged his every move.
At around 11:30 a.m., fairly fizzing with boyish enthusiasm and desperate to be in the thick of the fray, he called his flag lieutenants to him.
“I will now amuse the fleet with a signal,” he told them. “Suppose we say, ‘Nelson confides that every man will do his duty.’”
The officers around him hesitated a moment, before one of them pointed out that since neither “Nelson” nor “confides” nor “duty” were in the standard code book, they would have to be spelt out letter by letter. To save time, wouldn’t it be better to start the signal with “England expects”?
Nelson agreed at once and the most famous battle signal ever made or read was hoisted to the Victory’s yards and mastheads.
It’s hard to know just how generally understood his signal was by the sailors who saw it. Better perhaps if he’d stuck to his guns and insisted on “Nelson expects.” For those thousands of men waiting on the ships around him, upon decks cleared of belongings and piled deep with sawdust to soak up their blood, were not fighting for their country. Here on the swell off Spain’s southwest coast, England was far away. They would fight and die for Nelson, because they loved him.
Aboard the Royal Sovereign Collingwood only remarked, “I wish Nelson would stop signaling. We all know what we have to do.”
After a short while the flags of “England expects” were pulled down and replaced with “Engage the enemy more closely.” This last would remain in place, limp for want of wind, until it was finally shot away.
In the end it took over six hours for the two fleets to come within firing range of one another. Collingwood led his own division of 15 ships from the front. As recently as July of that year the Royal Sovereign had been fitted with a brand-new copper bottom that gave her a smooth turn of speed unmatched by any other ship in the fleet.
Immediately to her stern were two 74s, the Belleisle and the Mars, then the 80-gun Tonnant and behind her the Bellerophon. Next in line came the Colossus, Achilles, Revenge, Polyphemus, Swiftsure, followed by the three-decker Dreadnought, Collingwood’s old flagship. Bringing up the rear of this leeward division were the Defiance, Thunderer, Defence and lastly the 98-gun Prince. But Collingwood’s new flagship had pulled well clear of the rest and was alone when a roar of guns ripped away the quiet of the morning, just a few minutes before noon.
From a range of 1,000 yards the French ship Fougeaux had unleashed a full broadside toward the Royal Sovereign.
The ships of the combined fleet were laid out before the approaching British in a gigantic, concave arc. Collingwood and the rest were therefore sailing into the enemy’s open arms and for 20 hellish minutes the Royal Sovereign was helplessly exposed to broadsides not just from the Fougeaux but also from every other enemy ship within range, perhaps as many as five of them. Collingwood coolly ordered his men to lie down on the decks while the round shot tore at the rigging above their heads.
Finally the distance was closed and the crews aboard the trailing British ships could see that the Royal Sovereign was making for the steadily closing gap between the Fougeaux and the Santa Anna, flagship of the Spanish Admiral, Ignatius d’Alava.
Nelson looked on proudly as his old friend showed them all how the job was to be done.
“See how that noble fellow Collingwood takes his ship into action,” he cried. “How I envy him!”
The Royal Sovereign unleashed a full broadside of her double-shotted port guns as she passed close by the Spaniard. Round shot fortified with wooden caskets of musket balls blasted through the Santa Anna’s hull, killing and maiming hundreds of her men and destroying a dozen and more of her guns. The rigging of both ships became entangled and they disappeared within the great clouds of smoke from their firing. For the next quarter of an hour at least, Collingwood’s ship fought the Battle of Trafalgar alone. Soon she was engaged with five enemy ships simultaneously, the firing so intense that round shot were seen colliding in midair and flattening against one another like mud pies before falling uselessly into the waves. Others flew (or were deflected) beyond their intended targets to cause death and damage aboard ships nearby. With elegant understatement Collingwood would say later: “I thought it a long time after I got through their Line before I found my friends about me.”
Gradually—as fast as the murmuring wind would allow—more great ships of the British line joined the fray. The Belleisle was next, second in Collingwood’s leeward division and commanded by Captain William Hargood. Once engaged, the Belleisle remained stuck in the thick of things for the duration of the battle, taking on first the Fougeaux and then being attacked by ship after ship until her predicament was no better than that of the Royal Sovereign, whom she’d come to aid. Finally she came alongside the Spanish 80-gun Argonauta, and was able to take her as a prize—but not without the loss of almost a quarter of her men. Heavy though it was, her death toll was far from being the worst aboard the British ships that day.
Steadily the pre-battle formations gave way until each ship was engaged in its own private war. This was no more than Nelson had expected—this was the way of things in battles at sea in the 18th century. What the Admiral also knew, however, was that his captains were the finest the world would ever see and needed no help to make the right decisions. He shone brightest of all during the last dozen years of his life, but he was among a dazzling galaxy of stars. When Nelson said he expected every man to do his duty, it was with absolute confidence. Once battle was joined, each captain fought alone—and within minutes nearly 60 ships were engaged in a hellish dance contained in a single square mile of sea. Nelson had asked for and predicted a “pell-mell battle” and that was what he got.
Now it was the turn of the Victory. She came within range of the French and Spanish guns around 20 minutes after the Royal Sovereign, and enemy round shot were soon finding their mark. John Scott, Nelson’s secretary, had been among the first aboard the flagship to die, almost cut in two by a cannonball as big as his head. As custom dictated, Nelson was pacing back and forth on the quarterdeck accompanied by his friend, and captain of the Victory, Thomas Hardy. A round shot passed so close between them that the air of its passing tugged at their clothes hard enough to briefly wind both men. Another shot shattered her steering wheel, and now 40 men had to control her direction by man-handling the tiller on the lower gun-deck.
She passed through the enemy line behind the Bucentaure, Villeneuve’s flagship, blasting her with the double-shotted carronade on her foredeck as she did so. The 68-pound b
all topped with a barrel containing 500 lead balls blasted through the glass windows of the Bucentaure’s stern and down the entire length of the ship. Moments later she gave the Frenchman the benefit of a full broadside of double-and even triple-shotted guns. The wave of iron swept away 400 men or more at a stroke, along with dozens of her guns. In an instant the French flagship had effectively ceased to exist as a fighting unit.
Nelson and Hardy were not to have it all their own way, of course. The French warship Neptune poured lethal fire into her, felling men and causing mayhem. But still the Victory’s gunners kept their cool, still the powder monkeys—little boys—dashed from gun to gun with their cartridges while blood sloshed around their ankles. When the French 74-gun Redoutable came into view, the Victory was able to let her have a full broadside from her starboard, while her larboard guns raked the hull of the massive Santissima Trinidad, largest warship of the age.
Unable to do much to prevent it, the Victory then rammed into the side of the Redoutable and careered along her side until both ships were lying together, facing in the same direction. The gun-crews aboard both ships continued the drill of loading and firing, loading and firing—blasting one another’s hulls from point-blank range.
Aboard the French ship, Captain Jean-Jacques Lucas was determinedly preparing his men to board the British ship. He had around 200 of his crew on the open deck, armed with muskets, cutlasses and anything else that came to hand. But the fact was that both ships were drifting helplessly now and it was in this condition that they came to a standstill in front of the British 98-gun Temeraire, commanded by Captain Eliab Harvey.