Nelson

by John Sugden

  It was about four in the afternoon of 21 July, after the admiral’s final pre-attack meeting with his captains, that Bowen’s Terpsichore led the crowded frigates on their journey around the northeastern tip of Tenerife to reach their station some two miles off the fort at the Paso Alto. Bowen was the only captain who knew the island and Troubridge went with him during this final approach. When the frigates got underway, trailing the additional boats they needed to make a landing, Nelson followed with the ships of the line.

  The distance was longer than they anticipated, but in the first hour of the 22nd the squadron closed upon its target, helped by a breeze at its back. With lights extinguished, the frigates took their positions, and filled and lowered their boats under cover of complete darkness. Nearly a thousand men gathered about the Terpsichore and then pulled hopefully and silently for the shore. The men were short of marines, but Nelson had dressed some of the sailors in red coats with white cross-belts and given them badges for their caps to create the impression of a greater military force. They carried their arms and scaling ladders, and sledgehammers, broad axes, wedges and spikes to batter their way through obstacles or to manipulate and immobilise guns. Linked by towropes to prevent dispersal, the boats struggled onwards through two miles of dark, difficult sea, aiming for a beach to the southwest of the fort.

  The ships of the line slipped quietly behind the frigates about three hours later, but with the exception of the light-draught mortar launch, which had advanced to support the landing, there was little likelihood that the squadron’s guns would play much of a part at the range involved. Nelson knew that the attack would depend upon those boats Troubridge was leading ashore.

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  Local seamen knew the area to be one of turbulent winds and strong currents, and both were against Troubridge that night. A strong gale funnelled along the Bufadero valley, northeast of the Paso Alto, and out towards the advancing boats, feeding the swell and churning the sea about them. Closer inshore, where the boats were to skirt the beach till they reached the landing place, it was calmer but the current was strong. The assault force should have landed before daylight, but dawn found it still offshore with only the leading boats close to the Paso Alto and all the men weary through heaving at their oars.

  Moreover, despite all precautions against discovery the British ships had been seen by vigilant Spanish lookouts. Even as first light showed in the eastern sky lusty alarm bells and three warning cannon shots stirred the sleeping inhabitants of Santa Cruz. The commandant general soon had messengers galloping furiously inland to raise the militia, and soldiers scrambling to their posts. Some manned batteries in the town, while others joined a party of French sailors and began stumbling through the half-light along a steep, rocky, bending path that climbed up to the Altura ridge overlooking the town’s northeastern flank. The Paso Alto fort itself, though a substantial work with a semicircular front overlooking the beach, was not as formidable as the British believed. It mounted only eight guns, instead of the twenty-six Nelson had supposed, but as Troubridge’s boats approached the battery was being prepared for action.7

  Troubridge may have seen defenders running to their posts, and certainly heard the alarm from the town. From his boats the shore, gently unveiled by the departing darkness, looked awesome in the new day, its steep-sided, rugged volcanic ridges running seawards to terminate in jagged heights. Weighing his chances, Troubridge made two decisions. The first was to call off the landing. After their gruelling pull the men were turned back.

  While the boats reassembled around the frigates, Troubridge, Oldfield and Bowen went aboard the Theseus to report to Sir Horatio. We know from a private letter that he was disappointed, and regretted not commanding the amphibious attack himself. Troubridge, he believed, had given up too easily, and he had a point. For though Guitierrez remained calm, his militia were still coming in, his few disposable troops had many assailable points to cover and the citizens were close to panic. Merchants were stripping the custom house of their goods, and the streets thronged with donkeys and people groaning under the weight of salvaged possessions, trunks, mattresses and bags. In the growing heat of a summer day, women herded out of Santa Cruz on foot, fleeing inland to the Laguna. This, if ever, was the moment to attack, but it was a moment that had been allowed to pass.

  At its first major test, Nelson’s system of drawing captains into his plans and encouraging individual initiative had actually failed. Indeed, in view of Troubridge’s seminal role in conceiving the enterprise his need to return ‘to consult with me what was best to be done’ must have struck Nelson as odd. The culture of command could not be changed overnight, however. Fremantle at Alassio and Collingwood and Saumarez at Cape St Vincent had shown how even fine captains declined to act without the specific approval of a superior officer. Now that rigidity had influenced Troubridge. It was not Nelson’s way, but nor was it his practice to reprimand honest service. He received Troubridge sympathetically, commiserated in his obvious disappointment and listened to what he had to propose. The captain of the Culloden had been rebuffed, but not beaten. He told Nelson that if a different landing was made, at the mouth of the Barranco de Bufadero just east of the Paso Alto, the men might yet scale the heights above the fort and force it to surrender. At least he was willing to try, even at this stage. That was his second decision.8

  Nelson consented, and ordered the frigates and the Fox cutter further inshore, until they were almost six hundred yards from the beach and within gun range of the enemy fort. After ten in the morning, in the full glare of day, the boats rowed to the shore again. The little opposition to the landing was dispersed with a ‘smart fire’ and soon Troubridge’s men were dragging their boats upon a black, stony beach and toiling up the steep Jurada height in front of them, heaving one or two three-pounders over the pathless, fractured ground as they went. It was dreadful work. The wind had dropped, leaving the climbers exposed to the merciless sun as they made their precipitous ascent. The mountain stones twisted this way and that or gave way beneath the exertion of weight, and the hill was ‘so perpendicular that it was an impossibility for us to fight or to run away without falling down the rocks right into the sea’. Canteens of water, wine or spirits, which some had slung over their shoulders, were drained or discarded as encumbrances, and when the weary adventurers reached the summit fifteen hundred feet or more up they were dehydrated and exhausted, without water, food or shelter. Though they gamely raised colours, and prepared defensible positions, Miller recalled that ‘even on plain ground we could scarcely have moved forward’. Some men fainted, one died, and their leader, Troubridge, still debilitated by a recent illness, became so sick that he seemed likely to follow.9

  Worse still, their effort was in vain. From the top of the Jurada they could now see that a deep gully divided them from their objective, the Altura height above the Paso Alto. In any case, as they realised before finishing their climb, the Altura had already been occupied. A party of Spaniards and Frenchmen from the town had reached the ridge and fanned along its crest above the fort, muskets in hand, and some of them dropped down to a light battery that supported the Paso Alto from behind a malevolent mountain parapet. There was nothing to be done except exchange a largely ineffectual fire with field guns. Far below in the blue bay rode the ships but they were of no help. The mortar launch fired some shells at the Paso Alto but without obvious success.

  Despite terrific exertions, the British were in an impossible position. Men were dropping from heat and exhaustion, and a night on the heights would have killed more than could be spared. Some ventured part way down into the gully to gather grapes or replenish canteens at a rancid pool, enduring a largely ineffective enemy fire, but the Altura height was simply beyond their grasp. Some still had the spirit to fight. ‘Bad as we were,’ wrote a participant from the Theseus, ‘we certainly would have [made] a trial of attacking the enemy had the valley not been so unadvantage [disadvantageous] to us.’ But the captains understood the Spaniards were p
osted too powerfully for ‘the bravest men’. For the second time, perhaps, Troubridge had made a mistake. He had aborted the first landing, and lost valuable time, and now he had mistaken the configuration of the heights. For the second time he retreated. Trying to mask their intentions the British torturously struggled back to the beach, Captain Oldfield gallantly bringing up the rear with his marines. Two men fell to their deaths in the descent, but by ten that night the survivors were back on board their ships, two or three dying of exhaustion. Early the following morning Nelson withdrew his ships. Miller was visibly dissatisfied, while Troubridge looked ‘almost dead with fatigue’.10

  The vision of wealth and glory that had led them to Tenerife should have faded there. It should have, but it did not.

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  As if to augur a deepening disaster, the weather deteriorated and blustering north easterlies hammered the ships as they stood off Tenerife under close-reefed topsails. The Culloden lost her main topsail in dancing, wind-lashed seas. On the morning of the 24th the Leander joined them at last, but that proved no blessing. The reinforcement, and Captain Thompson’s familiarity with Tenerife, encouraged Nelson to stay when he should have gone. Equally unfortunate, the arrival of the Leander revived the suspicions and wariness of their enemies. As one Spanish officer wrote, the Leander’s appearance ‘convinced me that a vigorous attack was intended. I consequently made every preparation.’11

  Nelson had never treated the attack lightly. His planning had been careful and detailed, and the officers picked men, the victors of Cape St Vincent. They could have been successful but for adverse weather and irresolution. But they had been repulsed, not defeated. They had lost only a handful of men and no vessel had suffered damage. Perhaps that was the trouble. So much more had been expected.

  Many years before, at the Turks’ Islands in the West Indies, Nelson had been in this situation and had handled it with admirable circumspection. He had landed his men, found his enemies too strongly entrenched and withdrawn without loss. So far, nothing more had happened at Tenerife. Unfortunately, Nelson was now a national hero and the toast of the fleet. He was a man of whom so much was expected. As Captain Sir James Saumarez had written to his family back in March, ‘Be not surprised if, with our desperate commodore, you hear of our taking the whole Spanish fleet . . .’ Nelson had talked confidently of taking Tenerife, and been entrusted with a formidable squadron. Immense expectations had been aroused. To go back now with nothing, with barely a shot fired or received in anger, might have been judicious and scrupulously professional but it would also have been hugely demoralising. The unkind would insinuate that little had been done and Nelson too easily balked. That he had failed to deliver. Nelson’s pride and sense of national honour rebelled at the thought. Though the lure of that wealth sitting there in warehouses, ready for the taking, may have bore on some, to Nelson it did not matter any more. He lingered about Tenerife looking for redemption like a hungry wolf around a fold.12

  The other captains shared his dilemma, and it was they, in that process of democratic command Nelson was fostering, who urged him forward. Late on the 22nd a German inhabitant of Santa Cruz was brought in, and the next day Miller and Fremantle interviewed him aboard the Seahorse, using Betsy as an interpreter. Betsy, who spoke French, Italian and German, wrote in her diary that the deserter revealed that the Spaniards had ‘no force’ in Santa Cruz, and were ‘all crying and trembling’ at the prospect of being attacked. Miller recorded that the German ‘assured’ him the town could ‘easily’ be captured. He (rightly) pointed out that the Spaniards were weak in regulars, and (incorrectly) predicted that the militia would refuse to turn out. He even said that fifty of the regulars in Santa Cruz were Dutch or German, who would come over to the British. Moreover, he had detailed information about the layout of the town and offered himself as a guide. Desperate to salvage something, the captains decided that Fremantle, who had the greatest influence with Nelson, would be their spokesman. The result was a council of war the same day in which the captains recommended storming the town.13

  Though even the garrulous German, duly enlisted as a pilot, shrank from the idea of a frontal attack on Santa Cruz, Nelson was inclined to try it. With the entire island roused it was a gamble, but the admiral’s standing with his men was now more at stake than ever. If he retreated when senior captains felt success still within their grasp, the damage to that glittering reputation might be considerable. He could return now, and make a case for a judicious withdrawal, but in that case no one would know what the outcome of an attack might have been. Some, no doubt, would always have suspected, like the captains, that greater courage might have prevailed, and that Nelson had been defeated by his fears. It was not a reputation he wanted, for himself or his country. He had no gift of hindsight, and that German might be right. But if the town could be taken, it would only be by a desperate and dangerous assault, and there could only be one commander for it.

  Nelson approved the attack, though with a sense of deep foreboding. ‘My pride suffered,’ he later admitted, ‘and although I felt the second attack as a forlorn hope, yet the honour of our country called for the attack, and that I should command it. I never expected to return.’14

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  That same sense passed like an icy wind through the squadron’s officers as word of the attack spread. Men thought of their parents, wives and children, of the affairs they needed to order, and of home.

  Captain Bowen of the Terpsichore, who had known Nelson in the Leeward Islands, had made a fortune in prize money and won honour in frigate actions. He talked continually of his native Devon, and the comfortable retirement that he supposed was waiting for him just around the corner. John Gibson of the Fox cutter was an older, greyheaded man, but life had been improving for him too. Now, after years as a lieutenant, his ability was being recognised. Elliot was loud in his praises and Jervis regarded Gibson as ‘a most meritorious and confidential officer’ and promoted him commander. At last Gibson felt able to offer a shred of security to his only daughter back in Hastings.15

  By contrast, Lieutenant George Thorp of the Terpsichore was only nineteen, ‘a fine young man’ according to Collingwood. In background and character he resembled William Hoste of the Theseus. The son of the Reverend Robert Thorp of Gateshead, George had got his commission six months before, and had every expectation of being made ‘post’. He loved the service, and the men who worked beside him. ‘The Juno is a goddess,’ he had written at the age of thirteen, ‘and all who belong to her are angels.’ Now, after a fine record with Captains Hood and Bowen, he drew upon his deepest reserves of courage. The letter he sent his parents bore the character of a will. ‘Going to storm Santa Cruz,’ wrote the boy. ‘As I think there is a chance of my never returning, I leave this directed to you, expressing my gratitude and affection, and the very high sense I have of your care and concern for me, and also to Lady Drake [George’s patron] . . . As I never intentionally did wrong, I do not feel afraid, and I think you will have the satisfaction of saying your boy has done his duty . . . My best adieux to you, all I care for in the world.’ George feared, but could not have known, that he would be dead within hours.16

  The plan was to feint towards the Paso Alto, as if to land on the northeastern flank of the town again, and then to strike directly at the centre of the defences, powering through with a packed column of men. They would seize the mole, fight their way into the main square, and regroup for an assault upon the citadel with thirty-foot scaling ladders. Much was against them. Although the feint might wrong-foot the Spaniards to an extent, there was no chance of totally surprising them, and the guns of those frontal defences posed an awful risk. The hope was that by striking swiftly at the mole out of the dark they could create ‘panic and confusion’ and breach the first defences without suffering too heavily.17

  At five or five-thirty in the evening of 24 July, amid freshening breezes, Nelson’s demonstration to the northeast began. The Theseus was too late taking up its position, so
Captain Miller’s plans for a more elaborate diversion had to be shelved. He had constructed a dummy eighteen-pounder from casks and canvas, and planned to float it towards the Paso Alto to fuel enemy fears that the fort was again to be the focus of an attack. As it was the ships stationed themselves off the Barranco de Bufadero as before, with the frigates closer to the beach, and mounted a simple demonstration. After two hours the mortar launch and frigates opened an earnest but generally unsuccessful fire, managing in the process to score a hit on the ramparts. The Spaniards replied, throwing shots over the ships, and as night blanketed the contest both sides continued to blast away blindly. Frightened of the British landing in force, the Spanish gunners showered the beach with grape shot.

  Nelson dined with some of his officers aboard the Seahorse. Helping to serve at the table, Betsy Fremantle was reassured by the relaxed and confident table talk, as was intended, and went to bed satisfied that her husband was in no great danger. Throughout the fleet many of the men also appeared in good spirits, trusting the judgement of their officers, but the captains’ faces were merely brave ones for none underestimated the uncertainty ahead. As the sun slipped down behind the peaks of Tenerife, and the silence was broken by the occasional bark of guns to starboard, Nelson retired to his cabin on the Theseus. At eight, with three hours to go, he scratched a letter he knew might be his last. It was not to Fanny, but to his commander-in-chief, beseeching him to care for his stepson:

  . . . this night I, humble as I am, command the whole destined to land under the batteries of the town, and tomorrow my head will probably be crowned with either laurel or cypress. I have only to recommend Josiah Nisbet to you and my country. With every affectionate wish for your health, and every blessing in this world, believe me your faithful, Horatio Nelson. The Duke of Clarence, should I fall in the service of my king and country, will, I am confident, take a lively interest for my son-in-law, on his name being mentioned.18