by Roger Busby
Day Twelve
Oooo – eeee – OOEEE
What the hell!
I’m awake in an instant. Eyes snapping so wide my face goes tight.
WHAT THE HELL!
I jump up from the bunk and am immediately pitched headlong into the bulkhead. Only it’s not the bulkhead, it’s the deck; jumped up and hit me.
What the hell’s going on!
I scramble to my feet; everything bucking and swaying in pitch darkness. Now I realise the howling noise is the wind, shrieking through the rigging, and I cling onto an upright as the deck rears up again. And this time it just hangs there for long agonising moments before righting again.
Black water comes sloshing in a torrent as a hatchway springs open, drenching me. I’m gasping in panic. Oh sweet mother of God, we’re sinking!
I’m on my hands and knees, scrambling for the opening. Through the square I can see scudding clouds, ripped and torn by the howling wind
Oooo – eee – OOEEE
Please, Jesus, don’t let me drown.
I come out on the open deck, which is canted over, and I’m looking directly down into a boiling cauldron, spray stinging my face.
For pity’s sake, don’t let me drown!
Agonisingly, the deck rights itself and begins a slow transition in the opposite direction. I can see naked masts describing an arc across the wild, tattered sky. We’re plunging the other way now, the deck rising up at a terrific angle. I grab onto a stanchion, arms and legs wrapped around it in a bear hug, my head bursting in abject terror. This is it, Johnny boy, next wave’s going to take you down! Just let go…make it quick.
I’m about to give in to the paralysis of fear and let go, when an arm grabs me around the waist and pulls me back, hauling me under the shelter of the poop deck rail. I see Jim Collins face, streaming with water, his hair plastered to his skull. He’s holding out a tarpaulin coat and yelling into the wind: Bit of a blow come up, Mr Pretty, you’d best put this on or you’ll catch your death
Clutching at each other, we stumble up the poop ladder to the aft conning position. Henry Blackwood has the deck, his oilskin streaming, a knot of officers huddled around him as he issues a string of orders. Quite amazing, this veteran seaman, calm and deliberate as he calls for the manoeuvring sails to be braced just so to keep her head into the teeth of the gale. You would think nothing was amiss.
Ten sailors are wrestling the wheel which suddenly spins free throwing them off balance with a yelp of alarm.
Steady lads (Blackwood) Rudder’s out of the water when she pitches. Hold her steady and she’ll grip.
And thankfully, she does, plunging her bow into the spray and climbing a mountainous wave. In the malevolent half light the sea heaves and boils like black mud. Its as if the elements are wreaking revenge on these puny humans who have so defiled their sister. Dirty grey streaks of foam lay across the deep troughs, all around a marching expanse of ridges and valleys of angry water.
The wind pulls at my eyelids as the frigate labours to the top of a huge swell and I catch a glimpse of the scattered fleet, stumps of masts like blasted trees, wallowing at the mercy of the sea.
And the awful truth occurs to me; we’re only five miles off the coast, no sea room to ride this out, even for a ship in tip top condition. I’m thankful my scribing duties have kept me aboard the Euryalis. In the outer screen during the battle, the frigate has not been damaged and is in good shape to cope with the storm. Blackwood, her captain, is the best ship handler in the fleet and that gives me a flicker of confidence. But out there, on the jury-rigged hulks, powerless to resist the raging storm, the situation must be desperate as towlines and anchor chains part under the strain. I offer a silent prayer for the poor wretches.
Have you ever been aboard a shattered sailing ship in a savage storm? I didn’t think so. Well, it’s like no other earthly experience, pure unadulterated mind numbing terror. Unlike a modern warship with power in abundance to challenge the might of the storm, the sailing ship relies on the skill and guile of her crew to harness the very power which is doing its level best to smash it to match sticks. The balance is always on a knife edge.
This is a sou’ wester, the worst kind, Came up out of nowhere and hit the crippled fleet with hurricane force.
Slowly, desperately, the Euryalis finds the measure of the sea, and with creaking, groaning timbers, rides in a steady pitch and roll, the forecastle deep in water at every plunge, foam boiling down the scuppers and sloshing over the side. Rain lashes the deck in a merciless drumbeat and masses of dark grey clouds tumble violently overhead.
From my perch, clinging to the step of the mizzenmast, I shout in Jim Collins’ ear:
How much of this can we take?
He grins
This ain’t nothing to worry her…she’s a fine ship.
I just hope he’s right.
And as if to prove a point, the deck rears up again, lurches to starboard as the frigate staggers under a particularly violent gust and I’m looking straight down into the sea again. Just hanging there for what seems an eternity.
Oh Jesus, here it comes again!
Agonisingly slowly, the Euryalis heaves herself back onto an even keel in response to the calm appeal of her captain:
Steady lads, hold her steady now.
And it strikes me that this rolling, pitching, lurching is not just the action of the sea, its death working up momentum. I wish Mr Ping was here to weave his Da Lu magic, mine is totally exhausted. I’m praying for a miracle.
Somebody yelling:
Get aloft, dammit, back that sail so we get some purchase if you don’t want this old girl to go down.
The ship rolls to starboard and back again, a terrifyingly sharp roll, but at least a familiar pattern, not the lurching stagger which drives the wedge of fear deeper into my throat.
The sound of the wind is a sorrowful whine, plucking at the rigging:
Oooooo eeeee oooo EEEE
Jim cups his hand to my ear, shouting:
Got to make sure she don’t broach to…get sideways on to the sea…would turn us over.
Thanks for telling me.
The song of the storm rises in intensity and the screaming banshee toying with us drowns the rest of Jim’s lesson in practical seamanship out. Flying scud blinds me for a moment, and when I clear my eyes, we’re leaping into the next wave which rises up ahead like a block of flats, solid and menacing. My heart is in my mouth and Jim’s words are coming through again as the wind pauses for breath.
…see if the wind can toss us sideways long enough, we’re sure to lose headway and go over…
Then I see it. Through the mountains of water, through a rent in the misty wall, spray spuming across the forecastle in clouds; out there, the finger of the bowsprit pointing to it as Blackwood coaxes the Euryalis to ride the huge wave like a surfer, something dark and vast, up ahead, off the larboard bow..
A gust of wind sends the frigate skidding to the left and I can see it more clearly now, wallowing in a deep trough, an immense whale, black and lumpy, bearing down on us, waves breaking over it in showers of foam. As we swing away, it passes close on our starboard side, rolling and plunging and trailing a froth of bubbles. I blink and look around, see the shock in everybody’s eyes. That’s not some stranded sea monster. The awful truth hits me like a blow to the stomach. The thing is the bottom of a capsized ship
Day Thirteen
Of course, in the parallel universe of the Daily Chronicle newsroom, the back bench (that’s what we call the editorial heavyweights) are oblivious to the fact that I have almost been consigned to the deep-six, and the victorious British fleet, so lauded in the comment columns, is now scattered to hell and back by the vicious storm.
The screaming hurricane has eased a little and I am getting used to the more regular pitch and roll as the Euryalis settles into her stride again. With his usual generosity, captain Blackwood offered me his cabin to snatch some rest, and I’m we
dged in a corner, see-sawing with the motion of the ship, watching the huge waves pass us by from the stern gallery windows and wondering if we will see a ring of bright clear sky as the eye of the storm passes overhead, when the sat phone bleats.
John?
What now Harry?
The suits want to make the most of this.
Oh yeah?
Want to launch a public appeal, a big campaign to raise mega bucks for a Nelson memorial.
Sounds like Big Billy rides again.
No, no, these guys are on the level. Sam Foreacre’s taken over the reins pro tem and he’ll keep their feet on the ground. They’re even talking about writing to the Pope, see if he can make our boy a saint.
I thought you had to be a Catholic first.
What’s that got to do with anything? We’re talking about the peoples’ saint, nothing religious.
What kind of memorial?
Oh, I don’t know, something big and impressive. The shops are already full of Nelson eye-patches and Trafalgar tee shirts; there’s St George’s flag flying everywhere and McDonalds are doing s special three-decker Victory burger. It’s a whole industry sprung up and going like an express train. Nelson fever grips the nation, that’s today’s lead.
Excuse me while I throw up.
Listen, John, don’t knock it, son. What’s the harm in an outpouring of emotion? Tacky, yeah, but patriotic as hell. We’re on a roll with this one, big state funeral; there won’t be a dry eye in the land.
So what d’you want me to do H? Rattle a collecting tin around the fleet?
Ha, very funny. No we need more quotes from our fighting heroes for the fundraising special, sixty-four page glossy. Get Collingwood to say something stirring, “nation’s saviour slain in his prime”, something along those lines would do nicely. What the hell’s that noise, sounds like you’re in a washing machine.
That’s a storm, Harry. You remember, like the one that blew down all the trees at Boreham Wood.
No need to get sarky, John, paper’s got to come out, whatever the weather.
Yeah, well I’m kind of preoccupied with staying alive right now, H, but just as soon as this mother stops doing the river-dance on my head, I’ll get you some humdingers.
That’s my boy. Don’t take your foot off the gas now son, your wagon’s hitched to a star. You’re almost as famous as Nelson.
Oh sure
I’ve got people here would gnaw off their right arm for your by-line and sacks of fan mail. We’re proud of you John.
I said I’d get you quotes, Harry, you don’t have to give me a snow job.
Yeah, well some of it’s true, mostly your compadres want to kill you for hogging all the glory. Oh and on that note, I’ve got something here off the rip-and-read that’ll amuse you. Just came in on the AFP wire, syndicated piece from Le Moniteur, how the Frenchies won the battle and Frog One capped Nelson in a duel. I’ll PDF it to you, it’ll give you a giggle.
There’s nothing like a good piece of creative journalism to take your mind off your predicament. As the storm does its scary thing outside, I cradle the laptop and when the PDF lands I open up the file and read:
Nelson killed in duel with Villeneuve
English fleet destroyed at Trafalgar
The English fleet is annihilated, Nelson is no more. Indignant at being inactive in port while their brave brothers in arms were gaining laurels in Germany, Admirals Villeneuve and Gravina resolved to put to sea and give the English a fight.
They were superior in number, forty five to our thirty three, but what is that to men determined to fight and win? Nelson did everything to avoid a battle, he attempted to escape into the Mediterranean, but we chased him, and caught him off Trafalgar.
The French and Spanish vied with each other to get into the action first. Admirals Villeneuve and Gravina were both anxious to get their ships alongside Victory, the English Admiral’s ship. Fortune, so constant to the Emperor, did not favour either of them, the Santissima Trinidad was the fortunate ship. In vain the English Admiral tried to avoid action, but the Spanish Admiral Oliva prevented his escape and lashed his vessel to the English flagship. The English ship was one of a hundred and sixty-eight guns, the Santissima Trinidad was but a seventy-four. Lord Nelson adopted a new system, afraid of meeting us in the old way, which he knows we have superiority of skill, as we proved by our victory over Sir Robert Calder, and attempted a new way of fighting. For a short while he confused us, but what can confuse his Imperial Majesty’s navy for long? We fought yard arm to yard arm, gun to gun.
Three hours did we fight in this manner, the English began to be dismayed; they found it impossible to resist us, but our brave sailors were tired of this slow means of gaining victory and decided to board her. Their cry was “al’abordage!” Their courage was irresistible.
At that moment, two ships, one French and one Spanish, boarded the Temeraire, the English fell back in astonishment and fright. We rushed to their flag staff and struck their colours. All were so anxious to bring the news to their own ship, that they jumped overboard and the English ship, by this unfortunate act by our brave sailors and their allies, was able, by the assistance of two more ships, to escape, only to sink later.
Meanwhile, Nelson still resisted. It was now a race to see who should be the first to board and have the honour of taking him, French or Spanish. Two Admirals on each side disputed the honour and boarded the ship at the same moment.
Villeneuve flew onto the quarterdeck, and with the usual generosity of the French, he carried a brace of pistols in his hands. He knew the Admiral had lost his arm, and could not use his sword, so he offered a pistol to Nelson. They fought, and at the second shot, Nelson fell. He was immediately carried below. Oliva, Gravina and Villeneuve attended him with the accustomed French humanity. Meanwhile, fifteen English ships of the line had struck, four more were obliged to follow their example and another blew up. Our victory was now complete, and we prepared to take possession of the prizes, but the elements were by this time unfavourable to us and a dreadful storm came on.
Gravina made his escape in his own ship at the beginning of it, but the Commander in Chief and the Spanish Admiral were unable to do this and remained on board the Victory. The storm was long and dreadful, but our ships being so well manoeuvred, rode out the gale. The English, being much more damaged, were driven ashore, and many of them were wrecked. At length the gale ceased, thirteen of the French and Spanish line returned safely to Cadiz, the other twenty have, no doubt, gone to some other ports and will soon be reported. We shall repair our damage as soon as possible, and then go again in pursuit of the enemy, and afford them more proof of our determination to wrest from them the Empire of the Seas, and to comply with his Imperial Majesty’s demand of ships, colonies and commerce. Our loss was trifling while that of the English was immense, We have, however, to lament the absence of Admiral Villeneuve, whose courage carried him beyond the strict bounds of prudence, and, by boarding the English Admiral’s ship, prevented him from returning to his own.
Having acquired so decisive a victory, we wait with impatience the Emperor’s order to sail to the enemies shore, destroy the rest of his navy, and thus complete the triumphant work we have so brilliantly begun.
I read this with amusement and disbelief, but all the while I’m getting a sneaking regard for the journalist who wrote it. Was he under the cosh, writing to order? Did he really believe it? Was the battle just white noise with no impact on the indoctrinated reality of the super state. Who knows? There’s no way I can get into his skull and poke around in his mind looking for answers to that one. But for a piece of enterprising journalism, it is just superb. The unswerving strength and conviction, the devices employed to turn such obvious defeat into almost plausible victory; the inventive melodrama of the Villeneuve v Nelson duel. Wow.
I’ve pulled a few strokes in my time, but this guy is out of my league, and when I compare his sleight of hand
with my own humble efforts on the Sid Rawlings saga, I take my hat off to him.
The way things are shaping up, it looks as if we’re going to lose more ships to the storm than we did in the battle. As the gale subsides, I’m topsides again watching Collingwood peer anxiously through his glass at his scattered flock.
Before the worst of it, fourteen of the prizes had been towed westward to achieve sea room and had gathered around the shattered Royal Sovereign which was being towed by the Neptune, but when the weather worsened the tow ropes parted and they were carried to leeward again to be wrecked on the shore.
Now the reports are coming in thick and fast. The sea is still lively, but the storm has all but abated and as I sift through the SITREPS a few of the more graphic accounts catch me eye. Fearing for their own safety, the captains of the Prince and Neptune cleared the Santissima Trinidad and scuttled the majestic pride of the Spanish navy along with four other of the captured ships. The Redoubtable sank astern of the Swiftsure whilst under tow at the height of the storm, her capsized keel no doubt the chilling sight we saw drift by. Reinforcements arrive. The Donegal and Melpomene take over destroying the hulks and the Defiance, after a long struggle to preserve the Aigle, was forced to give up and watch the mighty French battleship disintegrate on the shoals. Royal Soverign and Mars lost their foremasts, and on the other side, Gravina, who made it into Cadiz before the worst of the weather struck, was immediately ordered out again into the teeth of the gale, his ship, the Prince of Astoria was dismasted and limped back into port. Captain Capel saved the French ships Swiftsure and Bahama and shepherding them with his own ship, the Phoebe stood for Gibraltar. The remnants of the Combined Fleet, the Rayo and Indomptable were driven ashore and wrecked. Achille, the French eighty-four, blew up and the Pickle rescued a hundred and sixty of her crew. Of the ships, which managed to anchor to ride out the gale, the French cruiser Berwick was under the wing of the Donegal when the French prisoners broke free and in an act of sheer madness, cut he cable sending their ship ploughing onto the shoals of St Lucar. Captain Malcolm immediately cut the cable of the Donegal and stood after the Berwick in a desperate rescue bid, but when the French ship struck, three hundred souls perished. Later while the Donegal was riding at anchor off Cadiz in mountainous seas, a Spanish prisoner fell overboard and two British tars dived into the treacherous waves in a vain rescue bid, to the astonishment of the Spaniards on board.
When I get a moment I sift through the stack of action reports and draw up a battle tally for Collingwood. It goes like this.
Spanish ship San Ildefonso 74 guns, captured, sent to Gibraltar
Sapnish ship San Juan Nepomuceno, 74, captured, sent to Gibraltar
Spanish ship Bahama, 74, captured, sent to Gibraltar
French ship Swiftsure, 74, captured, sent to Gibraltar
Spanish ship[ Monarea, 74, wrecked off San Lucar
French ship Fougeux, 74, wrecked off Trafalgar
French ship Indomptable, 84, wrecked off Rota
French ship Bucentaure, 80, wrecked on the Porques
Spanish ship San Francisco de Asis, 74, wrecked off Rota
Spanish ship El Rayo, 100, wrecked off San Lucar
Spanish ship Neptuno, 84, wrecked between Rota and Catolina
French ship Argonaute, 74, ashore at Cadiz
French ship Berwick, 74, wrecked off San Lucar
French ship Aigle, 74, wrecked off Rota
French ship Achille. 74, burned during action
French ship Intrepide, 74, burned by Britannia
Spanish ship San Augustine, 74, burned by Leviathan
Spanish ship Santissima Trinidad, 140, sunk by Prince and Neptune
French ship Redoubtable, 74, sunk astern of Swiftsure
Spanish ship Argonauta, 80, sunk by Ajax
Spanish ship Santa Anna, 112, in Cadiz, disabled
French ship Algeziras, 74, in Cadiz, disabled
French ship Pluton, 74, in Cadiz, sunk
Spanish ship San Juste, 74, in Cadiz, dismasted
Spanish ship San Leandro, 64, in Cadiz, dismasted
Spanish ship Neptune, 84, in Cadiz, dismasted
French ship Heros, 74, in Cadiz, dismasted
Spanish ship Principe d’Asturias, 112, in Cadiz, dismasted
Spanish ship Montanez, 74, in Cadiz, dismasted
French ship Formidable, 80, hauled South and escaped
French ship Mont Blanc, 74, escaped
French ship Scipion, 74, escaped
French ship Dugnay Trouin, 74, escaped.
Battle tally: At Gibraltar, four; Destroyed, sixteen, In Cadiz, wrecked, six; In Cadiz serviceable, three; Escaped south, four. Total thirty-three.
I’m just finishing the list when Jim Collins comes into the cabin nd tells me the boat from the Pickle is off the stern gangway, ready to take us back.
I find Admiral Collingwood on the quarterdeck. His face is gaunt and his eyes have sunk deep into their sockets. He looks as if he’s aged twenty years in as many hours. He gives me a firm handshake.
Thank you for your trouble, Mr Pretty, I only wish your cruise could have been a happier one. Still, for what it’s worth, you have earned my respect.
I hang onto his hand for moment longer than strictly necessary
No thanks needed, Admiral, it has been an honour. I’m sorry for your loss, not just Lord Nelson, but so many of your men. I just hope I can do their sacrifice justice.
A thin smile touches his lips
I doubt you can, Mr Pretty, words cannot express the ultimate sorrow of war, but don’t quote me on that.
We get back to the Pickle and John Lepenotiere is waiting at the gangway. He gives us the ball-bearing stare.
Just where the hell have you two been
Day Fourteen
The humdingers
Remember I promised Harry some salty vox pops for his glossy Trafalgar Tribute supplement? You’ll have read most of them. The blood and glory tales of Britain’s finest. The nail biting, heart rending personal accounts of young men suddenly thrust into the staggering, mind numbing maelstrom of war at sea. Every mothers’ son the hero of an grateful nation. Journalistic vignettes so artfully crafted that I bet your heart swelled with pride over the cornflakes. So before the rosy glow fades away, let me treat you to the real humdingers, the ones hat ended up on the chief sub’s spike and never saw the light of day.
Warrant Officer Joshua Hammond. Gunner. HMS Victory
How do you fight with a cutlass? Very carefully. See, in the right hands the navy issue cutlass, twenty eight inch blade, iron grip and hand guard, is he finest weapon you can get for close quarter combat. In the wrong hands through…well you can rip your stockings just as easy as that.
I had this old sea daddy once, oldest lieutenant in the fleet he was, thought he’d show me a thing or two with his fancy engraves Admiralty officers’ sword. Snapped it off with one chop of my trusty old cutlass. He never forgave me.
The point I’m making here, is it doesn’t matter a tinker’s cuss what kind of weapon you’ve got, if you don’t know how to get the best out of it, you’re going to end up in the hurt locker. And you can forget fancy fencing and poncy swordplay, basically, the cutlass is a slash and thrust weapon, which will give and take punishment in equal proportions. The trick is to give more than you take.
I’ll let you into a little secret now. Most people don’t know this, but when you’re in a sword fight, you don’t just rely on your weapon, like hey teach you in the combat schools. You’ve got to use the hand guard to knock his teeth out, your feet to kick him in the knee caps and your elbows and shoulders to take the wind out of his sails. Forget the sword twirlers and tomahawk jugglers, that’s just for show. When it comes to the real thing, you’ve got to use every trick in the book to put your man down; like it was second nature. He comes at you with a blade; you don’t mess around trading steel. Duck quick and stick your fingers in his eyes, or stab your hand into h
is Adam’s apple, that’ll put him down faster than Joe Crow. You’ve got to be quick on your feet all the time, duck and weave, so when you do give him the chop, you don’t get blood all over your shoes.
Get him where he least expects it. He’s watching your blade, so kick him in the nuts, whatever you’ve got to do to drop him fast, or you’re going to get your nice clean shirt all messed up, and I tell you, blood stains are the very devil to wash out.
Let me give you a for instance. Like when we boarded the old Redoubtable back there. I didn’t just jump in screaming blue murder like the rest of ‘em. OI stood on the gunwale and sized it up first. Get ready, chose your moment, pick your spot and then go for it. See I know your average frog is a pansy swordsman, all flash and dash. Got all the moves down pat; the moulinets, the sword exercises, right and left guard, thrust and parry, head attack, leg attack and the returns. The cheek and flank attacks, the compound attacks and returns, right through to the assault. You don’t have top tell me any of that. I’ve got it all up here (taps his temple) and you know why? When I was at Whale Island, I practically wrote the manual, the Petty Officers’ Drill Book. Back when Fanshaw was the swordmaster there, legend in his own lifetime. Only he taught me one thing you won’t find in the book, float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. That’s the trick with the old cutlass…comes from cuttle axe by the way, some sort of ancient clubbing weapon…so like I said, you need to be light on your feet, bobbing and weaving while the frog’s doing his set piece routine. Must have taken a dozen or so out in that little skirmish, and not so much as a scratch to show for it. That’s how you fight with a cutlass, my friend, with finesse. Now with all this going on around you, odds are you’re going to get spattered with somebody else’s blood, no matter how careful you are. So here’s a tip. You’ve got blood on your shirt; stretch the cloth over a basin good and taut, sprinkle salt on the stain, sea salt is best, heat up a pan and pour boiling water through it and it’ll come up good as new. Here’s another couple for good measure. Never turn your back on a frog, and never, never dance with the Admiral’s daughter. That’s the gospel according to Josh Hammond. Says it all
Sifu Ha Chu Peng aka Mr Ping. Cook. HMS Victory
Long time ago in China…two thousand years ago, Sun Tzu wrote The Art of War. Appear where they cannot go…head for where they least expect you. My family is a warrior dynasty and the text was handed down, generation to generation, father to son, to be guarded and never to be revealed to outsiders. But I’m not ashamed to say I broke the sacred tradition. I translated Sun Tzu for Lord One Eye because he understood the beauty of it. I see him when I take his meals and sometimes we talk, the Admiral and the cook, funny no? But little by little I teach him Sun Tzu’s tactics…In the case of those who are skilled in attack; their opponents do not know where to defend. In the case of those who are skilled in defence, their opponents do not know where to attack. Fullness and emptiness, like the hourglass. When the sand is in the top half, the only place it can go is to the bottom. Exactly how empty or full each side is depends on the position of the glass. As one half becomes emptier, the other half becomes fuller. You cannot get one result without the other happening. The body and the mind of the warrior is like the hour glass, when one part is empty, the other is full, there is always a balance between the two. On being attacked, the Sun Tzu warrior leads his opponent into a false sense of security by removing all resistance. He lets he attacker land on emptiness which disperses he attacker’s force and confounds him. Then, like the san in the hour glass, the warrior turns his emptiness to fullness to disable his opponent. The yin and the yang. He meets his opponent’s ballistic force with a yin response and as the attacker’s energy changes from yang to yin he unleashes an attack with just enough yang energy to overcome his opponent. Yin is full of potential yang energy and yang is full of potential yin energy. Catch an opponent off guard and you gain the advantage. While your attacker tries to recover, you are able to attack for he has already sealed his own fate. The moment your opponent’s withdrawal is impossible, lead the attack to nothingness by absorbing and deflecting the energy and commence your own attack. The two must be simultaneous. It matters not if it is two men or ten thousand men fighting, the principles are the same. The difference is just a matter of numbers. Lord One Eye understood this. He was the only outsider to whom I have ever revealed the secret and he used it well. The battle of Trafalgar was a Sun Tzu classic. But who am I to tell you this. I am Mr Ping the cook. How would I know such things?
Jim Collins. Midshipman. HMS Pickle
It’s all very confusing. I had this idea in my head of how it was going to be, you know? Lots of action and excitement, leading me men, showing courage. Only that was all make-believe, I can see that now. It was nothing like that. I mean I didn’t feel like I was me anymore…like I was looking down on myself, watching myself doing all these things, running around, pistols, swords, tomahawks, anything that came to hand; just doing things I never imagined I’d be doing; like I was someone else. Then when he got shot, His Lordship, I just couldn’t believe it. I mean it wasn’t supposed to be like that. That wasn’t the picture in my head at all. After that, everything was like a blur. I mean, I remember we boarded the Frenchie and I’ve heard people say I fought ‘em like a tiger, only I don’t remember any of it, not really. It’s like a dream…a bad dream. If I close my eyes I can see his face, you know, pale, like all the blood drained out of it…Lord Nelson, and his eyes are like huge, like rock pools of black water and I’m drowning in them. It was not supposed to be like that. I remember twisting buttons off his coat to remind me it was real, I don’t know why I did that. I remember seeing the light going out in his eyes, like a candle guttering, and all I was thinking is …this can’t be, this isn’t right! The rest of it, well, I really don’t remember. You tell me I did all sorts of things, and I believe you, but really I don’t remember. The best way I can describe it is like when I was a nipper on the ferry boat and the fog came rolling across the river, the sea mist coming on, folding over me until I was nowhere, just scared and nowhere. That’s the best I can say. I can’t seem to get it straight in my head. It’s all very confusing
Day Fifteen
We’re going home.
Admiral Collingwood just came on board with the official dispatches sealed in a blue pouch and gave Lapenotiere his sailing orders. Seems we’re the first to leave the squadron and make best speed back to England. Quite an honour for the Pickle.
They’re patching up the rest of the fleet as best they can, the poor old Victory, minus masts and rigging is heading for the Gibraltar shipyards under tow and the other first-rates look sorry for themselves as carpenters and shipwrights swarm over them to make and mend the damage from the battle and the storm.
To tell the truth, I’m not sorry to be leaving. In the aftermath, everyone has come down from the high of victory, and a brooding mood has fallen over the fleet. Now that they have time to reflect, there’s a lot of grieving going on. Look at their faces, and all you see is the thousand yard stare. I’ve a feeling there’s a whole lot more victims of Trafalgar than Collingwood has collected in his casualty reports.
Even before the Admiral’s barge shoves off, I can hear the clank of the capstan bringing the anchor up, and the slap of bare feet on the deck as sea-duty-men get to work. The Pickle quivers as the sails unfurl and I think to myself: Yes, I’m not sorry to be leaving this God forsaken place.
Five hours out, and I’m squatting on the main-deck hatch cover, scribbling some ideas for a mood piece, when the masthead lookout, old eagle eyes, sings out.
Deck…sail ho
Lapenotiere is at the Q deck rail
Where away?
Starboard beam cap’n, five miles yonder I reckon.
What do you make her, Croll?
Them, cap’n . Four ships of the line…Frenchies I’d wager.
Lapenotiere is peering th
rough his glass. One word escapes from his lips, hissed like an oath.
Dumanoir.
He calls his officers to his cabin for an impromptu briefing and I tag along, making note.
Gentlemen, we’ve got four sail on the starboard beam, and my guess is its that yellow cur Dumanoir sniffing the air. Now we can show him a clean pair of heels and go about our business, or we can throw him a bone to chew on
I do a quick mental recap. Admiral Dumanoir who slunk into Cadiz with the van of the Combined Fleet rather than tangle with Nelson, putting to sea again like a jackal to see if he can pick off some prizes whilst the British lick their wounds. Sounds about right.
Lapenotiere looks from one to the other, meeting each eye.
Now, my lads, I happen to know Admiral Strachan’s squadron is cruising about twenty miles to seaward of our present position, give or take, so what I’m thinking is: if we can lure the Frenchies far enough out, Sir Robert can mop them up. If we have the audacity to take on four of the line, they’re going to be so busy chasing us down, the trap will be sprung before they know it. Frenchies never could resist easy pickings.
He looks around again, gauging reaction.
Now I know it’s a risk, a chancy business to be sure. They land a broadside, and we’ll be matchsticks. On the other hand, if we can pull it off, it would be a mighty fine pleasure to give that son-of-a-bitch a bloody nose.
There’s a general murmur of assent at that; seems they all agree it’s a risk worth taking, a ten gun schooner up against four battleships with seventy plus cannon apiece. Am I the only one thinking it’s a kamikaze run?
Jim Collins reads the alarm on my face. He gives me a grin.
See, we’re plenty agile and can run closer to the wind than the potbellies. We get in close enough for them Frenchcies to get our scent strong in their nostrils; they’ll be after us like a pack on the hunt. But the skipper’s a wily fox all right. They won’t best us, you’ll see.
Perched at the masthead, Croll sings out again. They’re still hull down, but he’s matched the distant ships to the identification chart etched into his retina.
Formidable …Duguay Truin…Mont Blank…Scipion…
Its Dumanoir all right; the whole nine yards.
Back on deck Lapenotiere takes another long look through his glass, weighing up the possibilities, then turns to face us, his jaw set.
That’s it then, let’s give ‘em the Nelson touch, my friends. Beat to quarters Mr Collins.
Then to the quartermaster on the helm
Bring her head up two points and we’ll take some weigh off. Run up the colours Mr Jones, let the dog see the rabbit.
Pickle plunges and slows, the trailing edge of her spread of canvas fluttering as the wind spills out. Slowly the sails of the French ships loom larger as they change course to intercept.
I find Lapenotiere in his cabin. He’s poring over a chart, working out the angles of our running plot with a pair of dividers.
Ah, Mr Pretty, and you thought the show was over
I give him a halfhearted smile
Life’s full of surprises, are you sure Strachan’s out there?
Sure would be a tad too positive, Admiral Collingwood gave me his co-ordinates so hopeful would be more accurate. Question is, how far can we run before they catch us? We’re going to need to get in close so we command their full attention before we turn tail. It’ll be a close run thing to be sure.
What if it doesn’t work?
Ah well, in that case I’ll see you at the court martial, Mr Pretty, recklessly endangering His Majesty’s ship, or more likely we’ll meet up at the bottom of the sea.
The range is closing, and now we can make out the upper-works of the Formidable with the naked eye, gun-ports cranked open, cannon run out. The four French ships are fanning out to box us in and the intercept point is coming up fast on the track.
Lapenotiere has the con.
Time to give his nose a tweak…ready on the guns. Fire on the up-roll.
The pop of the Pickle’s puny cannon is met with a flash from the Formidable’s bow chasers as she turns to head us off. Great spouts of water leap up as the shots straddle us, the French gunners groping for our range. Mont Blank is positioning for a broadside.
Wait for it…wait for it!
Lapenotiere is calculating the range to a whisker; as the door closes, we’ll sneak through the crack. The helmsman’s hands are sweaty on the wheel and I can almost feel the Mont Blank’s gunners delight. We’re a sitting duck.
Hard a larboard…hit the sails…every stitch!
The roar or the broadside rolls across the sea like thunder, and I picture the gunners squinting through the smoke, expecting a swirl of debris, blinking in astonishment. The bug they were sure to squash has gone.
Pickle bounds forward like a racehorse and we turn to see plumes of water leap up in a pattern dead astern, where we were just a moment ago, heavy metal splashing harmlessly into the sea.
We’ve wounded French pride, sure enough. Now the chase is on.
Jim’s right, the fore and aft schooner can hug the wind closer than the square riggers, but the Formidable is still gaining on us, the only guns to bear, the bow chasers, blazing away furiously. They’ve dialled in our range and the shots are peppering canvas, trying o bring our mainsheet down. We’ve got their full attention all right.
The skipper urges his steed on, projecting his willpower into the straining rigging.
Come on, my beauty, you can do it.
I look back. They’re still gaining on us.
I’ve never been much of a one for praying. During the battle itself I held my nerve fairly well. Terrified, yes, but concentrating on doing my job, recording what I saw going on around me. This is different. This is personal. I’m part of the action this time and I’m trying to recall some words of comfort, some mantra to give me strength. Hail Mary, full of grace…Ohm du shanty, anterik shanty…snatches of prayers all jumbled up. The reality of it keeps coming back. We’re racing four battleships with enough firepower to blow us to kingdom come
They’re firing grape and canister at maximum range, trying to pull us down.
Scipion and Duguay-Trouin have crept up on our starboard flank and we’ll soon be within range of their guns too, caught in the pincer. Looks like Lapenotiere’s gamble isn’t going to pay off.
We’re as close to the wind as we can get, eating up sea miles. Croll on his perch, our human version of over-the-horizon-radar, watching for the first sign of Admiral Strachan’s task force. Nightfall or sea fog would be handy right now, but neither is in the offing. A volley of shot rattles across the deck and John Lapenotiere plays the last card in his hand.
Lighten ship!
The crew jump to it. The cannon go first, tipped overboard, then the stores. If we do make it, we’re going to go hungry for the rest of the voyage.
The guns and ammo go splashing into the sea and Pickle lifts her head and sniffs a little closer to the wind.
Still they’re gaining on us.
Hammocks, spare sails, hatch covers go next. Anything that isn’t nailed down goes over the side. We’re frantically stripping her to the bones; running on empty.
Shot from the bow chasers whistle through the rigging. Only needs one of those to find the mark and we’re finished.
Oh God our help in ages past….
Jesus. I’m getting desperate.
Through the scope I can see the faces of the men on the forecastle of the Formidable working the cannons. I even think I can make out the figure of that popinjay Dumanoir himself, in his trademark cocked hat, peering intently at us and urging his gunners on. The sight is so unnerving that a shiver runs down my spine and I have to lower the glass, my hand is shaking so badly. My shirt is clammy with cold sweat. I’ve got this awful feeling we’re not going to make it, and with the guns gone, when they close with us, we’re defenceless. After rubbing his nose in it, you can bet you
r bottom dollar Dumanoir won’t give us the opportunity to surrender. He’ll enjoy sending us to the bottom.
Oh hear us when we cry to thee….
Oh come on! Get a grip.
Like a stallion suddenly released from the bit, Pickle lunges ahead, a racing yacht now, light and free heeled over, gunwale awash, white water spuming down the scuppers. Agonisingly, imperceptibly, we’re pulling away. The volleys, already on maximum elevation, are falling short now, splashing into the sea astern. Maybe…just maybe we’re going to pull it off after all.
John Lapenotiere with a grin on his face.
You didn’t think we were going to make it, did you Mr Pretty?
Tell you the truth, captain, when that last volley came in, I thought we were a gonner.
Oh ye of little faith
Well, you’ve got to admit it was touch and go
Yes indeed, it was always a gamble, and we’re not out of the woods yet. Got to stay just tantalisingly close enough to hold their full attention. Where the hell’s Strachan.
He cups his hands to his mouth.
Masthead!
Aye, captain.
Keep a sharp look out Croll
It’s a mind game now.
Lapenotiere, the wily seaman, holds the Pickle just out of reach, yet tantalisingly close enough for the French to keep putting out ranging shots in the hope of a lucky hit. The four battleships plough on in dogged pursuit and Pickle lifts her skirts occasionally and flirts with danger, but there is no doubt on board that we have the edge now and the frustration of the enemy is palpable. Lapenotiere is playing to Dumanoir’s weakness. The French Admiral who ducked Trafalgar has invested too much in the chase to turn away now. His pride won’t let him; he’d lose too much face.
It’s a psychological mind game.
Now that I’ve got my nerves under control, I’m jotting notes for a follow up feature on this battle of wits, the iron discipline of the Pickle’s crew, the frantic pyrotechnics of our pursuers give me a kind of David and Goliath theme and I’m absorbed with the wordplay.
The intro goes like this:
Don’t play poker with John Lapenotiere.
He’ll take you to the cleaners.
And that’s the way he runs his ship, a trim little schooner with the unlikely name of Pickle – like a hand of five-card stud.
When he sits down to trade cards with four French heavyweights, he knows his hand is the weakest at the table. Yet this astute gambler bluffs it out without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. Watches them fold, one by one, and scoops the pot.
Now transform the green baize of the card table into a stretch of empty ocean. The players, state of the art warships. The game, a grudge match after a famous battle. Will he still win?
You bet your life he will. In a former incarnation the Pickle had a different name, more suited to the baby of Nelson’s victorious squadron. And Lapenotiere, a mere Lieutenant is her captain. When what’s left of the French fleet decide to take him on, poker-man John and his little ship are perfect partners. They play their hand right down to the wire, never blinking once. You see, before she signed on with the Navy, the petite Pickle was called The Sting.
I’m writing this down, getting into the swing, when there’s a sudden cry from the masthead. Croll can’t hide his excitement.
Sail off the larboard bow cap’n!
Lapenotiere, calm as you please
What d’you make of ‘em Croll?
First rates I reckon, your honour. Got to be ours by the cut of their jib.
The captain allows himself a grunt of satisfaction. Turns to the deck watch.
OK, gentlemen, time to deliver our present to Admiral Strachan.
Majestically, or so it seems, the British squadron hoves into sight. It’s the task force, all right. Four of the line, the eighty gun Caesar; Hero, Courageous and Namur, all seventy-fours, flanked by four frigates. No sooner do they see our signal than they change course to intercept.
When they realise they’ve been suckered into a trap, the French captains hit the panic button. Mont Blank and Scipion spill their wind and fall back. Formidable and Duguay-Trouin veer away and scramble to regroup.
Poker John is watching this was some satisfaction.
Call themselves seamen; I wouldn’t take a skiff out on the Serpentine with any one of them.
Strachan is bearing down in tight formation, cleared for action.
They can wriggle and squirm as much as they like, Sir Robert has the weather gage and the firepower. It’s just a matter of time.
We press on, saluting Caesar as she passes to windward. Bunting flutters from the flagship’s halyards.
God’s speed, little ship. We will deal with these dogs.
The hourglass turns and turns again. Way behind us now, the patches of sail begin to merge as Strachan runs down his quarry. We hear the rumble of gunfire and a cheer goes up from the duty watch. Dumanoir is getting his comeuppance.
As dusk falls, an orange glow flickers in the sky, and we hear later, that true to form, the French strike their colours with little resistance. The infamous Dumanoir and his cadre of captains surrender their swords to the boarding parties and the last remnant of the Combined Fleet is captured intact, four first rate prizes, to be rechristened and pressed into service with the Royal Navy.
But that is not our concern. In true naval tradition, someone has salted away a keg of rum during the “lighten ship” routine and the petty officers are preparing a generous grog ration to toast our captain and our new course.
This time we’re homeward bound for sure.
Day Sixteen
You can tell we’re approaching the coast of England by the state of the sea. Not the swell, roll and chop of the waves on this blustery November morning, but the flotsam swirling around. Tree trunks, chunks of wood, packing cases, barrels, bits of rope, evil lumps of tar, raw sewage and dead fish; all the detritus of a voracious maritime trading nation the environmentalists are up in arms about. The great dustbin of the sea swallows it all.
Off The Lizard, a flotilla of small boats comes out to greet us, mostly unwieldy Cornish crabbers with patched grey sails, making heavy weather against the autumn rip tide. We’re heartened by this patriotic gesture, until it suddenly dawns on me when the flashguns start popping, that this isn’t an armada of well-wishers at all; these are press boats loaded with Fleet Street sharks on a feeding frenzy, jostling each other for the best angle on the return of the conquering heroes. If we still had our cannon, I’d ask Lapenotiere to sink the lot of them.
We nose into Falmouth Roads on a chill wind that cuts to the bone, when a battered beam trawler nudges alongside and unfurls a huge banner.
WELCOME HOME JOHN PRETTY – THE CHRON CRUSADER
I’m cringing with embarrassment.
Lapenotiere, hunched in his blue woollen cloak, looks amused at the antics of the fourth estate
Friends of yours, Mr Pretty?
Not so you’d notice, captain. Look more like a bunch of pirates to me.
Well, we’re still a King’s ship on active duty. A few musket rounds might rattle ‘em.
Not worth wasting ammo on that lot, just smile and nod and don’t answer any of their daft questions.
Oh, I’ll leave the gentlemen of the press to you, my friend, I’ve got to get to London poste-haste with the dispatches or the good Lords of the Admiralty will skin my hide.
The trawler nudges closer, and looking down, I see the unmistakable grinning face of Harry Oakes. Oh boy, I’m back in the world.
I’m ducking out of covering Nelson’s funeral.
I just don’t have the stomach for the charade, you know, all the pomp and circumstance, all the movers and shakers getting in on the act.
Harry wants me to do a first person retrospective on the death scene. Oh not ghoulish, you understand, but tasteful, an eye witness account of the passing of a hero is the way he put it to me; a journalistic high dive, the st
uff of legends, a word picture to go with the paintings the famous artists are rushing out to meet the jingoistic demand.
I’m passing on that one too. I’ll give him my notes, and the tapes, and someone else can write it up. Seems funny to be even thinking of bowing out when I’m supposed to be the hard-boiled hack, the seen-it-all war correspondent with a brick for a heart and printers’ ink running through my veins, but I’ve got too much respect for my shipmates to stoop that low, just to give our readers a vicarious thrill. They deserve better, so I guess I’m all written out on that one too.
What am I doing? Moping about the Fleet Street taverns, regaling my peers with lurid tales of Trafalgar whilst the wine flows? Revelling in my own notoriety as he first scribe to go into battle with the Fleet? No, I’m taking all my accumulated leave and jumping ship, taking off to some quiet backwater to get my head back together and re-charge my batteries. Well at least that was the intention, only when it comes to it, and we get the word that the refurbished Vic has docked at Sheerness with Nelson’s body on board, I can’t tear myself away from the story that has preoccupied my waking moments for the past six months. Like the rest of the nation, I’ll pay my respects.
Like I said, I had no intention of attending Nelson’s funeral. If it had been in my gift, I would have gone for a simple ceremony at sea, not the three-ring-circus the powers-that-be have planned. But then I don’t do funerals well, and the nation would have felt cheated if they didn’t get their day or glory. Nelson was not just a run of the mill hero to them, he was the hero of the day and if the people demanded a spectacle, who am I to deny them.
So against my better judgement, I go down to Greenwich in my own time and from force of habit, make the following notes:
Tuesday, December 24. They bring him up the river in the Chatham yacht, a slow and melancholy progress, marked by the salutes of the vessels at anchor in the wide reaches of the Thames, dipping their flags to half mast. The batteries on the forts at Tilbury and Gravesend fire their guns as the yacht passes and the bells of riverside churches toll, a muffled peal echoing in her wake. At Woolwich, troops from the Arsenal line he shore, heads bowed, arms reversed and a regimental band plays a funeral dirge. The days of military mourning have begun.
As he had requested, Nelson’s body resides in the box fashioned from the mast of L’Orient which is then lowered into an elm casket and encased in lead, soldered air tight at the seams. The whole thing is then lowered into a large elm coffin complete with the adornments of his rank. Going to be a four-coffin funeral.
The Painted Hall. They bring him back to home soil at Greenwich and there he lies in state for two weeks over the Christmas holiday under the great oval decoration of Thornhill’s signature ceiling painting depicting Peace and Liberty triumphing over Tyranny in the Painted Hall. It’s an Oscar winning performance with an all-star cast as the great and the good file past.
Wednesday January 8. Early in the morning a procession of four-horse coaches, blinds rolled down, leaves the Admiralty and wends its way to Greenwich, carrying the official mourners, and as the crowds begin to gather for the last act in the tragedy, the Life Guards form a protective perimeter around the Painted Hall.
At noon, the coffin, draped in black velvet, is carried from the painted chamber to the Northern gate leading down to the river where the barges are already moored, and lifted aboard the state barge. At that moment, the great bell over the South East collonade tolls a funereal peal.
The boats move off, their progress up the river ticked off by minute guns, arriving at Whitehall steps at half past three where the coffin is carried with military honours under a sable canopy bearing Nelson’s armorial insignia. Following the bier, the procession makes its way to the Admiralty where the coffin is placed in the Captain’s Room to the left of the Great Hall. Forty-six candles in ornate sconces light the room and six large candles are placed around the coffin on which rests Nelson’s coronet and cushion. Sitting beside the coffin is The Reverend Richard Scott, the Vic’s chaplain, eyes bleary, as his marathon vigil draws to a close.
Notes for follow up story lines: Crowds flock to the river bank as the waterborne procession comes into sight, climbing onto walls and rooftops for better vantage points and surging around the Admiralty. Surrounding streets are gridlocked with carriages. Looks like the whole of London has turned out. When the barge arrives at Whitehall steps there is a sudden hailstorm of such ferocity that a boat sinks off Lambeth Bridge, four drowned. Nelly Miffin, wife of a carpenter in Shoe Lane (possible pick up pic) falls into the river at The Temple with a child in her arms; both drowned. A boat with a party of seven on board capsizes opposite Somerset House. Speeding hackneys in the Strand knock down an elderly woman and a three-year-old child, both DOA. Seems like that rapacious old sea devil is still reaching out from the deeps off Cape Tafalgar to claim his victims.
Thursday January 9. The last day. In the moonlit winter morning, the pavements shimmering with frost, the crowds begin to gather before sunrise. By the time the day dawns, fine an bright, the throng is ten deep lining the route from the Admiralty to St Paul’s Cathedral. Military formations take up crowd control positions.
There’s a hiccup when they discover the carriage designed to bear Nelson’s body is too wide to pass through the archway into the Admiralty courtyard and the coffin has to be unceremoniously manhandled out into the street and loaded onto the bier. At ten-thirty the procession moves off along the troop lined route, even the Mary-le-Bone Volunteers have turned out a thousand men for the occasion.
Four regiments of infantry lead the procession at the slow march, bearing their standards, the cavalcade so long that it takes four hours from first to last to arrive at St Paul’s, the coffin, uncovered on the raised plinth of the carriage, the Royals in their gold ceremonial coaches, bands playing solemn music, streets packed with onlookers memorising a moment in history to recount to their grandchildren. Nelson’s funeral, I was there. At Temple Bar the gates of the City are thrown open and the Lord Mayor, bare headed and on horseback, falls into line immediately behind The Prince of Wales to pay homage to a man so revered by the City Fathers.
At St Paul’s the troops peel off to join the honour guard lining the steps and a few minutes after one o’clock the Great Western door opens to receive the funeral party and troopers from the Guards regiments rest solemnly on their reversed arms down the cavern of the cathedral itself, from the aisle to the dome and the gate of the choir. St Paul’s is packed to bursting and the West London regiment of militia moves in to safeguard the rows of VIP seats and man the doors.
The procession enters St Paul’s. Two naval captains, Thomas Benyon and John Laforet each flanked by a brace of lieutenants lead the mourners bearing the Royal Navy’s standard and guidon, followed by the Prince of Wales in scarlet and gold lace, the Dukes, Clarence, in naval uniform, and Cumberland, in blue and gold, each with white ribbon on the shoulder to denote the Knighthood to which they belong. The VIPs move into their places; sixty members of the House of Commons are there, forty from The Lords; a hundred naval officers, fifty military chiefs and an equal number of clergy. Bringing up the rear, the sombre sight of forty-eight war pensioners from Greenwich, all clad in black gowns and carrying black staves.
I’m sleep walking through this miasma of ritual, just going through the motions. Then something happens which jerks me wide awake, angry and resentful. I flash my press pass at the barrier at the foot o St Paul’s steps to escape from the crush of the crowd and I take a few steps when I see the coffin is being carried, not by the chosen few from the Vic’s crew as had been promised, but by the undertaker’s pall bearers. I’m suddenly outraged. It feels like a slap in the face.
I take a few more steps, the voice of protest boiling up inside me, when a cry from the crowd stops me in my tracks.
Hey mate! Over here!
I look around, and there they are, wedged in the crush of people, the familiar faces of the V
ictory’s crew, half a dozen shipmates who have hitched up from Sheerness. I pick out Josh Hammond, head and shoulders above the crowd, Jim Collins at his side, and Mr Ping squeezed in behind him. I feel my cheeks flush. I’m angry and ashamed. These are my friends being pushed back by the line of troops, and more to the point, men who fought side by side with Nelson. I’m not standing for it.
I grab one of the media minders shepherding the press party and tell him in no uncertain terms that the Chron is going to disembowel him if he doesn’t pull rank at the cordon. He doesn’t want any hassle, not today, so he agrees, provided I vouch for them and gives me a handful of red rota passes, and then orders the troopers to let them through.
Thanks, Mr Pretty…
Jim Collins grips my hand.
They wouldn’t let us pass…
He has a black eye from a musket butt to the face.
All we wanted to do was say our goodbyes.
Hammond, immaculate as ever, looks peeved.
They were going to throw us in the Black Maria, scribbles…
He balls a huge fist.
Only I talked them out of it.
A bundle tucked under his arm catches my eye.
What’s that you’ve got there, Josh?
Ensign from the Vic, we wanted him to have it.
Jim Collins, the purple bruise spreading down his cheek:
We were going to like…drape it over the coffin
And that’s the instant when I get the idea, a sudden flash of pure inspiration. The guards have turned to face the crowd and the minder has his hands full with the press party. With a bit of luck we might just pull off a stroke of genius.
I give out the press passes and link arms with them.
Quick, come on…there’s still time. We’ll show these lily livers.
I hustle them inside St Paul’s, brandishing our passes, and we race up the stone stairs to the press vantage point in the dome gallery. The scribes already corralled there look startled when we burst in.
I glance over the parapet thinking: Just in time.
Down below in the centre of the dome, right beneath us, the coffin is being placed on a raised platform over the open grave. The organ begins a mournful dirge and the Dean, the Bishop of Lincoln in full regalia intones the funeral service.
Stepping back, I gesture to the others and in one sweep of our arms we unfurl the bundle and the Vic’s shot shredded battle ensign sails out over the congregation.
All eyes swivel upwards and a collective gasp reverberates around the dome..
Spreading the tattered ensign, we raise our hands to our foreheads in a last salute, the Vic’s crewmen and me, and ripples of flashguns explode from the press perch opposite. That’s the shot they’ve been waiting for. That iconic image which will go around the world, make every front page with the caption: Navy vets gatecrash funeral for Trafalgar Tribute.
And I’m right there, slap bang in the middle of the picture.
Leaving St Paul’s the Vic’s men are soon swallowed up in the surging throng, but I’ve spotted another familiar face, a bowed figure, hurrying away. I do a double take, but it’s him all right, cheeks sunken, white as a ghost. Villeneuve, the defeated French Admiral. I elbow my way through the crowd, hoping to catch him, but he’s already disappeared.
Standing outside, I blink twice, dazzled for a moment by the harsh winter sunlight, and suddenly the whole scene takes on the surreal quality of a media event. I see cherry pickers lofting cameras high above the crowd to capture every scintilla of the drama, snaking cables lashed together with gaffer tape, the satellite trucks and canteen wagons. The reverential tones of the heavyweight TV presenters wheeled out for the occasion. The big screens in the parks to cater for the overspill.
I’m pinching myself. Hard to believe just two months have passed since I was a terrified participant at the Battle of Trafalgar. Already the mind numbing horror of wholesale slaughter is becoming a soft focussed, prime time spectacular. Someone, somewhere is already snapping up the movie rights.
Epilogue
Embedded, it’s in the head. I was the first reporter to go into combat cheek by jowl with the Royal Navy's finest, so I can tell you what it’s like, the breathtaking icy plunge as you’re pitch-forked into battle. Not just an observer from a cosy rear echelon press centre, but right there, as it happens, feeling it, the smell, the taste, the vivid kaleidoscope of images, the flywheel of the mind running amok, the whole gamut of emotions.
Yes, embedded is in the head all right, lingering long after the event, a constant reminder of the time you were a whisker from death. Ask any veteran of close order combat and they will tell you the same story; from that moment on, everything in life is an anti-climax.
So it is with me. Back home the story runs and runs, and as the Chron’s star writer, I contribute my share of front page leads.
Emma snubbed as Bill makes Earl
The saddest of them all, Emma Hamilton’s heart-broken slide into despair, the debters’ prison and a pauper’s death. Nelson made provision for her and their daughter Horatia in his will, but the grieving Emma seemed incapable of managing her own affairs and the money frittered away. Several of the tabloids tried to buy her up, but she slammed the door in their faces. I went to see her only once, a brief interlude in her misery. She told me Nelson had mentioned me in his letters and begged me to describe his last hours. For her sake, I put plenty of gloss on my recollection, and left feeling drained. I didn’t write up the interview, told the paper I’d been rebuffed like all the rest. To have described her grief would have been just too cruel. Someone else did the fireside chat with his brother, the Reverend William Nelson on the great honour of inheriting a hero’s title. I couldn’t stomach that either.
Mystery shrouds Frog One’s death
We got a Reuters flash that Admiral Villeneuve, returned to France under a POW exchange, had been found dead in a roadside tavern. Did he plunge the knife into his own chest in a fit of black depression, or was he bumped off by one of vindictive Bonaparte’s assassins? I pleaded with Harry to let me go across the Channel and find the answers to the crossword addict’s last puzzle, but he wouldn’t hear of it. If les flicks caught me snooping they’d lock me up and throw away the key. He was probably right.
Like I said, embedded lives on in the head, becomes a state of mind. Sometimes in the dead of night, I still feel the Vic’s deck shudder under me as we take an incoming broadside. On the bus, on the tube, I see the faces of my shipmates, the gunners, the seamen, and pressed men, ordinary everyday faces just like you and me. Only we have a special bond, we fought at Trafalgar.
I’m in the newsroom for our regular brainstorming session with Harry Oakes. He calls us his “young lions on the prowl”, this clutch of feature writers lounging around, tossing out ideas.
Harry raps the table.
Now listen up boys, the anniversay of Trafalgar is coming up the schedule like an express train, so let’s get our thinking caps on. Lots of rose-tinted mileage in this one, back to the good old days when we actually had a Navy worth crowing about.
He hands out copies of an MOD press release in which defence cuts axing a dozen of so warships have been cunningly buried in a welter of hyperbole heralding Trafalgar celebrations.
See this, Navy’s putting on a Fleet Review at Spithead if they can scrape up enough ships. Bit of a sick joke now the French outguns us. Still, there’s a Son-et-Lumiere to look forward to. Beacons blazing across the land, and they’ve even made a replica of some little ship called HMS Pickle to come sailing in with the glad tidings. So there’s plenty to get your teeth into.
Someone groans
Jesus, H, not the dreaded British disease again! When are we going to stop raking over past glories? If you’ll pardon the pun, Nelson’s been done to death.
Harry’s lip curls
It’s a cast iron circulation winner, and the suits in ad-land are calling the shots, so quit moani
ng and come up with a new angle, unless you want to go back on general news, plenty of vacancies on the graveyard shift, chasing ambulances.
The next day Harry comes across and perches on the edge of my desk. This is ominous; his eyrie is less than twenty feet away but he routinely communicates with his staffers by e-mail. I see he has a printout of my Trafalgar treatment in his hand.
I ran this “embedded” idea of yours past the backbench, John…
A grin spreads across his face
They love it; bought the whole package, hook line and sinker, Reporting Trafalgar in the raw. Congratulations, the story’s all yours son.
I can see from his beaming expression that he’s expecting some response, and suddenly I feel just a little overawed at the prospect. Butterflies flutter in my stomach, but I try to stay nonchalant.
That’s great, H, I’ll work up a storyboard.
He claps me on the shoulder.
That’s my boy; make it hot and strong, lots of human interest. You never know, might even be a book in it.
As Harry walks away my thoughts are already racing. I reach into my pocket and take out the little talisman I keep there, turn it over in my hand.
It’s a gold naval button, the fouled anchor surrounded by an Admiral’s laurel leaves. The button Jimmy Collins pressed into my hand as we huddled together on the Orlop deck of the Vic.
The button from Nelson’s coat.
THE END
From the author:
I hope you have enjoyed reading Embedded @ Trafalgar as much as I enjoyed writing it, please if you have any comments or would like to get in touch you can contact me via twitter, my web site or Facebook. Any mistakes are my own and I duly apologise for them.
Other Titles by: Roger Busby
Trafalgar - Dispatches
South Bank Blue
High Jump
Crackshot
Snowman
The Hunter
Fading Blue
Garvey's Code
New Face in Hell
Pattern of Violence
A Reasonable Man
Deadlock
The Frighteners
Robbery blue
Main Line Killer
Authors Website: Roger Busby.Com
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Biography:
BUSBY, Roger (Charles). British. Born in Leicester, 24 July 1941. Educated at Bishop Vesey's Grammar School for Boys; Aston University, Birmingham, certificate in journalism, 1968. Married Maureen-Jeanette Busby in 1968. Journalist, Caters News Agency, Birmingham, 1959-66, and Birmingham Evening Mail, 1966-73. Since 1973, 1976 Force Information Officer, Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, Exeter. Lieutenant Commander RNR Sea Cadet Corps 1977 - 2012.