The War of Wars

by Robert Harvey

  The fleets were not evenly matched; the French had some 400 more guns than the British and double the number of men. But Nelson had compensated for this by his tactics, and his guns also fired twice as fast as the French and Spanish ones. The British were also vastly more experienced sailors than their enemies, who had for many months been cooped up in port. Slowly, elegantly, unhurriedly, the spears moved towards their targets in the centre of the great arc of the Franco-Spanish fleet.

  It was Collingwood’s glory that he arrived first beneath the sinister black hull of the Santa Anna. This was the moment of greatest danger. The huge ship and its neighbours were able to concentrate their fire on the British ship, which could not return it as its guns were not broadside to the enemy. The Fougueux behind the Santa Anna attempted to block Collingwood’s Royal Sovereign, which steered straight for it, as though to ram it. The Fougueux took evasive action to avoid collision.

  The Royal Sovereign broke the line between the stern of the Santa Anna and the bow of the Fougueux. Collingwood raked both ships broadside as he passed. ‘What would Nelson give to be here!,’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘How I envy him,’ said Nelson, observing from the head of his slower-moving line. That first British broadside disabled some fourteen guns and killed some 300 of the Santa Anna’s crew. Swinging her helm round, the Royal Sovereign came alongside the towering Spanish ship on the lee side; the Spanish captain replied with his own broadsides.

  Five ships were soon firing at the Royal Sovereign. For fifteen more minutes ‘that noble fellow Collingwood’, as Nelson dubbed him, was entirely alone in the action, and it was extraordinary that his ship was not destroyed. Then he was joined at last by the Belleisle, the Mars, the Tonnant, the Bellerophon and the Ajax coming up behind him in his column.

  Nelson’s column was now at last approaching the Franco-Spanish line. He had intended to attack the enemy flagship, the Bucentaure, but there was nothing to identify it, so he made for his old foe, the Santissima Trinidad. As the Victory approached, the French fired single shots to test whether she was within range. The seventh blew a hole in the Victory’s topsail. The British held their breath for two minutes more, and then a pandemonium of fire broke out from the enemy fleet as she approached.

  For nearly forty minutes more the Victory ploughed on, unable to return fire, under this hail of shot. At 500 yards’ distance the mizzen topmast came down. The ship’s wheel was disabled and its sails were shredded. A single shot killed eight marines in the poop and another struck a launch, showering splinters on Nelson and Hardy, who were standing on the quarter-deck. Another cannonball ripped Scott, Nelson’s secretary who was standing beside them, in two. ‘This is too warm work, Hardy, to last long,’ declared Nelson without emotion. Some fifty officers and men were killed in those first volleys.

  As they approached the French line they spotted Villeneuve’s flag flying aboard the Bucentaure, but the Victory could not veer towards it without exposing her side to fire from the Redoutable and the Neptune. ‘Take your choice,’ Nelson instructed Hardy. The Victory steered past the stern of the French flagship, and at last opened fire with a 50-gun broadside directly into the Bucentaure’s bow at point-blank range. Some twenty guns were disabled and 400 men killed.

  The Victory turned alongside the Redoutable, which closed her lower deck gun ports to avoid being boarded, the two ships becoming entangled. Meanwhile the Neptune, the Bucentaure, the Redoutable and the Santissima Trinidad were pouring fire into the Victory. But she was soon supported by the Téméraire, the next in line, then the British Neptune, the Leviathan, the Conqueror, the Africa and the Agamemnon. The van of the Franco-Spanish fleet meanwhile had sailed ahead, leaving two clusters of ships fighting about half a mile apart from each other, where Nelson’s and Collingwood’s squadrons had penetrated the French line.

  The Victory raked the Redoutable with broadsides, but its Captain Lucas was a formidable fighter. Although his ship was crippled, the sharpshooters he had placed in the tops were still firing lethally down on to the deck of the Victory. A French mariner called Guillemand, who was one of Lucas’s best marksmen, took up the story:

  The two decks were covered with dead bodies, which they had not time to throw overboard. I perceived Captain Lucas [his own captain] motionless at his post, and several wounded officers still giving orders. On the poop of the English vessel was an officer covered with orders, and with only one arm. From what I had heard of Nelson, I had no doubt that it was he. He was surrounded by several officers, to whom he seemed to be giving orders. I saw him quite exposed and close to me. I could even have taken aim at the men I saw, but I fired at hazard among the groups I saw of sailors and officers. All at once I saw great confusion on board the Victory; the men crowded round the officer whom I had taken for Nelson. He had just fallen, and was taken below, covered with a cloak.

  If this is accurate, and Guillemand indeed fired the fatal shot, he was not aiming specifically at Nelson but at a group of Englishmen, even though he had recognized the admiral.

  This is understandable. The sharpshooter was aiming at a distance of fifty yards in the heat of battle from one swaying ship on to the deck of another. Even an excellent marksman could not have been sure of his target. Nelson has been much faulted for so exposing himself to danger and wearing his decorations in battle. Yet his uniform was dusty and the decorations were stars sewn into it, not his usual glittering metal ones. The Frenchman claimed he recognized him from his single arm as well, something Nelson could not cover up. It is hard to believe that Nelson had a death wish, as some have alleged, or that he actually sought death on the field of battle. He was a man who loved glory and the acclaim of his countrymen: in destroying the enemy fleet as he intended to, he would already have acquired glory and a place in the affection of Britons to the end of his days, which he wanted to share with his beloved Emma and Horatia.

  Much more likely, for a man accustomed to leading his men by example, by exposing himself to their risks, by being in the thick of the action, by showing cool detachment in the face of great odds which allowed him to direct the course of the battle, he believed he could cheat death as he had so many times before. He knew the risks, but it was his style of leadership to seek to defy them. His place was at the head of his men, in undress uniform and decorations, so that he could be recognized by them and show that he did not fear the enemy nor should they.

  It was meaningless to talk of his staying out of battle and directing operations from afar. As had been shown in Parker’s case at Copenhagen, no admiral could direct operations where he could neither comprehend the course of the action nor expect to be obeyed by the captains in the thick of it. Once battle was joined it had to be carried through to the end in ship-to-ship engagements until one side or the other broke it off. This was not a land battle that could be directed from a hill with orders to various units to advance, retreat or redeploy.

  The very basis of Nelson’s extraordinary career and the esteem in which he was held by his fellow countrymen was that he exposed himself fearlessly to risk. Other naval commanders had done just the same – Howe at the Glorious First of June, Jervis at St Vincent, Duncan at Camperdown. History has not been kind to those who stayed at a safe distance. Young Blackwood was later to lament: ‘I wish to God he had yielded to my entreaties to come on board my ship. We should all have preserved a friend, and the country the greatest admiral that ever was, but he would not listen to it.’ But Nelson had no other choice than to lead his men and expose himself to risk.

  The bullet passed through his left shoulder, was deflected into his chest, ruptured an artery and shattered his spine. It could hardly have been more damaging. ‘They have done for me at last, Hardy,’ he said as he fell slowly. ‘My backbone is shot through.’ He covered his face with a handkerchief so as not to be recognized and dishearten his men. A marine and two sailors carried him down to the cockpit. His crew had little chance to observe what had happened. The fighting was as fierce as ever.

  Wit
h the deadly fire of the marksmen having all but cleared the top deck of the Victory, and much of the Redoutable itself wrecked and on the point of surrendering, the latter’s sailors tried desperately to board the British flagship without success. The French crew had fought with unbelievable tenacity and ferocity: of its complement of 643 men, 522 were killed or wounded, an extraordinarily high casualty rate, particularly for a smaller ship attacking a larger. Nearby the Temeraire had also attacked the Redoutable, coming under fire from the Fougueux and the French Neptune.

  However the French flagship proved less formidable. Badly damaged by the fire from the Victory and under attack from the Conqueror, Villeneuve surrendered, once its last mast fell. A marine officer, three marines and two sailors came aboard and found ‘a very tranquil, English-looking Frenchman, wearing a long-tailed uniform coat and green corduroy pantaloons’. The marine took Villeneuve and his two companions aboard his little launch, and tried to return to the Conqueror. He could not find it in the bedlam of fighting around him, so he escorted his eminent prisoner aboard the nearest English ship, the Mars.

  The Conqueror had taken on another giant ship, the Santissima Trinidad itself, which was also under fire from several others. The behemoth’s mainmast came crashing down, like a huge skyscraper at sea. A British officer recorded: ‘This tremendous fabric gave a deep roll, with a swell to leeward, then back to windward, and on her return every mast went by the board, leaving her an unmanageable hulk on the water. Her immense topsails had every reef out, her royals were sheeted home but lowered, and the falling of this majestic mass of spars, sails, and rigging plunging into the water at the muzzles of our guns was one of the most magnificent sights I ever beheld.’

  The giant Spanish ship threw a Union Jack over its side in surrender, but the Conqueror was off in search of new prey. So no one arrived to take possession until the Africa despatched a lieutenant who found a solitary Spanish survivor on the main deck. At that moment several ships of the Spanish van, which had at last tacked about, seemed to be coming to the rescue. So the Spaniard replied that the ship was still fighting, and the lieutenant hastily retreated to his boat unmolested. In the end the Santissima Trinidad was not rescued but was captured by another British ship, the Prince.

  In Collingwood’s battle cluster, his flagship was pounding away at the other giant Spanish ship, the Santa Anna, and beat it into submission. After an hour and a half, though, the Royal Sovereign was almost in as bad a state, with just its foremast left standing, and had to be taken in tow. Around Collingwood, the battle raged: the Belleisle took on three ships one after the other, including the Fougueux. The Belleisle was soon dismasted. The Mars came to her rescue, drawing off one of the attackers, but another French ship joined in. Undaunted, the Belleisle continued to pour shot into the nearest Frenchman, which struck its colours.

  Then the Leviathan and Polyphemus arrived, followed by the Swift-sure. The Mars went on to engage four ships simultaneously, a Frenchman on each side with a Spaniard behind reinforced by a Frenchman. The last’s broadside killed her captain, Duff. Codrington’s Orion closed silently into battle, under orders not to fire, until it was alongside a French ship; then bringing down all three of its masts in a devastating broadside, the Orion forced it to strike its colours. The Orion proceeded to attack L’Intrepide, which it also quickly forced to surrender. The Tonnant was engaged with the Algeciras, which attempted to board it; a single Frenchman succeeded in getting aboard and was captured. The Tonnant went on to capture two prizes.

  Perhaps the most desperate fight by a British ship was that of the Bellerophon, which, after breaking the enemy line, found herself under fire from a ship on either side, and three from behind. The ship was entirely dismasted and as her sails fell they caught fire. The captain and some 115 men were killed. But the wreck still fought on, and forced the Monarca to surrender. The Bellerophon then pounded the Aigle into submission; but as all her launches were out of action, an officer dived overboard, swam to the Aigle and climbed up her rudder chains to claim the prize. The Bellerophon – dubbed the ‘Billy Ruffian’ by her unclassically minded men – was later to play an even more fateful part in the Napoleonic saga.

  Aboard the Victory, the long, heroic, pathetic and tragic tableau of Nelson’s death was unfolding. When the ship’s surgeon reached his side, Nelson told him, ‘I am mortally wounded. You can do nothing for me, Beatty. I have but a short time to live.’ Beatty prodded the wound with his finger and realized his admiral was right. He was running a high temperature and desperately thirsty. ‘Drink, drink, fire, fire’ he kept repeating and was given lemonade, water and wine. He asked repeatedly for Hardy. The captain came after an hour during a lull in the fighting. ‘Well, Hardy, how goes the day with us?’ Nelson asked. Hardy replied that twelve or fourteen ships had surrendered. ‘I hope none of our ships have struck, Hardy?’

  ‘No, my Lord, there is no fear of that.’

  ‘I am a dead man, Hardy,’ the admiral replied. Hardy returned to his duties and Nelson turned back to the doctor: ‘All pain and motion behind my breast is gone and you know I am gone.’ Beatty concurred. ‘God be praised. I have done my duty,’ breathed Nelson. Meanwhile the counter-attack by the returning French van had been blunted by the Victory and other ships: three more prizes were taken. Hardy returned to inform Nelson that it was now certain that fourteen or fifteen prizes had been taken. ‘That is well. But I had bargained for twenty,’ was the grudging reply.

  Nelson’s seamanship and prescience remained to the last. The fleet, having comprehensively defeated its enemies, was now facing a more dangerous one still: catastrophe from the weather, a threat Collingwood, in the thick of battle, seemed to be neglecting. Nelson gave his last order. The growing swell, in spite of the fine weather, had alerted the great man that seriously bad weather was on the way: catastrophe threatened partially disabled British ships and wholly disabled prizes, which could be driven by the wind on to a lee shore. With all his energy Nelson suddenly called out, ‘Anchor, Hardy, anchor!’ Hardy remarked that Collingwood was now in charge. ‘Not while I live, I hope, Hardy. No, do you anchor, Hardy.’ After a while he said, ‘Don’t throw me overboard. You know what to do.’

  With the poignancy of a child facing an unknown threshold about to be crossed, Nelson called out for human comfort. ‘Kiss me, Hardy.’ The burly captain kissed his cheek. ‘Now I am satisfied. Thank God I have done my duty.’ Hardy leaned over to kiss him again on the forehead. ‘Who is that?’ ‘It is Hardy.’ ‘God bless you, Hardy.’

  After Hardy had left again for the quarter-deck, Nelson told the ship’s chaplain, who was rubbing his chest to ease his pain, ‘Remember that I leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter Horatia as a legacy to my country.’ He added a moment later, ‘I have not been a great sinner, doctor.’ He wept, repeating, ‘Thank God I have done my duty.’ His last words were ‘God and my country’. He died at about four o’clock.

  The battle raged on a little longer before Admiral Dumanoir called off the last four French ships still fighting. Fifteen minutes later the Spanish commander, Admiral Gravina, ordered his crippled remaining ten ships back to Cadiz. After about another half hour, the fighting ended. The ‘grim and awful scene’, as Codrington was later to describe it, was over. The fact that it had taken place at sea in those huge floating wooden stately homes that were the great ships of the time could not conceal the fearsome toll of the battle. More than 7,000 men had been killed or badly wounded altogether, the casualty levels of a major land battle. The decks were covered in blood, with bodies and limbs lying everywhere. The swelling sea itself was reddened and packed with floating corpses as the hulks of great and crippled vessels milled about directionless.

  Alongside the horror of the scene, awareness of a colossal British victory began to dawn on the men. Seventeen French and Spanish ships had been taken in all, and one had blown up spectacularly in battle. The remaining fifteen had escaped. The British had not lost a single ship, although several were badly maul
ed. The British had lost some 450 killed and 1,400 wounded, compared to 3,400 French dead and 1,200 wounded, and 1,000 Spaniards killed and 1,400 wounded. Some 4,000 prisoners had been taken.

  Of the remaining French and Spanish ships, eleven escaped to Cadiz while four were attacked a fortnight later by a British squadron off Cape Ortegal under Captain Richard Strachan, and were captured without a fight. Of the eleven, five attempted a breakout two days after Trafalgar, recapturing two of the British prizes, but three were lost in the gale. The remainder were virtual prisoners in port, and the French ships were eventually to be seized by the Spanish. The colossal fleet of thirty-three warships had been effectively annihilated. Although not quite as complete as the Battle of the Nile, it had been an overwhelming victory.

  The significance of Trafalgar went even further, although no one realized it at the time, for the French consoled themselves with the thought that their shipyards could always rebuild the fleet. It made a major contribution to the Spanish decision to turn against the French. Napoleon was only once to attempt a major naval engagement again – and that with caution. The plans for invading England would never be renewed. He would never consider the project seriously again. Trafalgar was to Britain what the Battle of Britain was in the 1940s – a lifting of the shadows of invasion, fighting in the towns and countryside of Britain and enemy occupation.

  The travails of those exhausted, exultant seamen were not over yet. As the dying Nelson had realized, with his last fevered ounce of seamanship, a fate almost as dangerous as an enemy fleet would soon be upon them. As though in heavenly rage at the the appalling suffering inflicted by man that day, a truly devastating gale struck the British fleet. Collingwood had decided to ignore Nelson’s orders to anchor, partly because some of the anchors aboard British ships had been lost in the fighting, and partly to move as far as possible from the dangerous lee shore of Spain, with its treacherous shoals at Trafalgar.