Lieutenant George Brown, who was with Pasco, remembered it slightly differently:
I was on the poop and quarter-deck whilst preparations for the fight were going on, and saw Lord Nelson, Captain Blackwood, and some other Captains of the frigates, in earnest conversation together, and a slip of paper in the hand of the former (which Captain Blackwood had looked at), yet I have no recollection that I ever saw it pass through other hands till it was given to Pasco, who, after referring to the telegraph signal book, took it back to his Lordship, and it was then that, I believe, the substitution of the words took place. I think (though not sure), the substitution was ‘expects’ for the word ‘confides’, the latter word not being in the telegraph book, and I think the word ‘England’ had been previously substituted for ‘Nelson’ for the same reason, at the suggestion of Captain Blackwood.
Whatever the truth, it still took thirty-one flags to spell out the message. They were hoisted by John Roome, a former barge hand who had been press-ganged in 1803. Without seagoing skills, he had been classed as a landsman on joining the Victory, but had been promoted to signaller because of his smartness and intelligence. Roome hauled the flags up as soon as he was told, but the wind was so light that they hung limply from the yardarm and were difficult for the rest of the fleet to read. It was some time before the other ships succeeded in deciphering Nelson’s message.
Initial reaction was mixed, when at length they understood it. ‘What is Nelson signalling about?’ demanded Collingwood. ‘We all know what we have to do.’
The Ajax shared his view, as Second Lieutenant Ellis discovered when he read out Nelson’s words to the men on the main-deck.
I delivered with becoming dignity the sentence, rather anticipating that the effect on the men would be to awe them by its grandeur. Jack, however, did not appreciate it, for there were murmurs from some, whilst others in an audible whisper murmured, ‘Do our duty! Of course we’ll do our duty! I’ve always done mine, haven’t you? Let us come alongside of ’em, and we’ll soon show whether we’ll do our duty.’ Still, the men cheered vociferously – more, I believe, from love and admiration of their Admiral and leader than from a full appreciation of this well-known signal.
On the Euryalus, they took little notice of the message at all, beyond transmitting it to other ships and recording it in the log. Reading about it in the papers later, Midshipman Hercules Robinson was puzzled to learn that the message had been received with rapture throughout the fleet. ‘Why, it was noted in the signal-book and in the log, and that was all about it in our ship till we heard of our alleged transports on our return to England.’
But most ships reacted more positively. The Britannia, Neptune, Belleisle, Polyphemus and Dreadnought all gave three hearty cheers, outdoing each other from ship to ship. The men of the Prince cheered as well, as did the crew of the Bellerophon, chalking ‘Victory or Death!’ on their guns for good measure. On the Victory herself, as Surgeon William Beatty remembered, they were particularly enthusiastic:
It is impossible adequately to describe by any language the lively emotions excited in the crew of the Victory when this propitious communication was made known to them: confidence and resolution were strongly portrayed in the countenance of all, and the sentiment generally expressed to each other was that they would prove to their Country that day how well British Seamen could ‘do their duty’ when led to battle by their revered Admiral.
What the seventy-one foreigners aboard the Victory made of it, Beatty did not record. Hans Yaule, for instance, was Swiss, press-ganged from a merchant ship after incautiously stepping ashore at the Thames. Men like Yaule had little personal interest in the outcome of a battle between the English and the French, beyond hoping they would still be alive to see it. Nor had Lamberd Myers from Hamburg or Dominick Dubine from Italy or Samuel Lovitt from America, all similarly forced into the Royal Navy against their will. For them, the approaching battle was simply part of a nightmare that had begun when the press gang laid hold of them, a nightmare that showed no sign of coming to an end. If they fought for a British victory, it was in the hope of receiving their discharge and being released from bondage, rather than any great love for England.
Others had even more mixed feelings. ‘John Packet’ was one of four Frenchmen aboard the Victory and at forty-seven one of the older members of the crew. Originally from Le Havre, he had been taken by the press gang and was now an able seaman, about to bear arms against his own people. So too were Jean Baptish and Jean Dupuis of Nantes – Dupuis had actually volunteered for the Royal Navy, though not necessarily to fight his fellow countrymen.
From Philadelphia, Richard Collins had been pressed into fighting for the British, but William Thompson had taken the king’s bounty and was a volunteer. Ironically, Collins had been promoted to able seaman while Thompson, seven years his senior, was still only an ordinary seaman. From New York, William Sweet too was an ordinary seaman. Of the twenty-two Americans aboard the Victory, two were classed as landsmen and the rest as able or ordinary seamen, apart from Tom Bailey, who enjoyed the rank of gunner’s mate.
From Canada, John Graham and master’s mate Sam Spencer. From India, John Thomas and John Callaghan (it was the navy’s habit to anglicise unpronounceable names). From Africa, George Ryan, and from the West Indies, John Summers, John François, George Ogilvie and Jonathan Hardy. From Norway, Malta, Portugal and Holland, from Brazil, Sweden, Sicily and Denmark, all sorts and conditions of men lay aboard the Victory, preparing for battle and wondering what on earth they had got themselves into. This wasn’t their fight. They had no quarrel with the French. Why, they must have asked themselves, was this happening to them?
On the other side, the British sailors in the French and Spanish fleets viewed the approaching battle with equally mixed feelings. Some had been pressed into enemy service, but quite a few were deserters from the Royal Navy, as out of place in the combined fleet as the French and Americans were in Nelson’s. Villeneuve alone had eighteen Royal Navy deserters aboard his ship, who had fled from Gibraltar and ended up in Cadiz. They had been kept together on the Bucentaure and served two of the guns on the lower deck. They could hardly have been looking forward to the fight. If they weren’t killed outright, they stood a good chance of being taken prisoner by their own countrymen. They would be shown no mercy if they were captured. It would be the yardarm for them, with no chance of reprieve.
There were also plenty of Irish on the enemy side, who loathed the English for reasons of their own. Chief among them was Captain Henry Macdonnell, who commanded the 100-gun Rayo. He had left Ireland at sixteen to join the European coalition against the British during the American war. He had served in the Regimiento de Hibernia at the siege of Gibraltar, later transferring to the Spanish navy. Macdonnell was officially retired, but had returned to service because the Spanish were desperately short of officers. He was the most senior of the Irish in the Spanish fleet, all of them fighting for the same ideal as the English – the right of small islands to run their own affairs without interference from a bullying neighbour.
The Irish remembered particularly the words of Robert Emmet, executed in 1803 for leading a rebellion against British rule. ‘Let no man write my epitaph,’ he had announced at his trial. ‘When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written.’ Emmet had been publicly beheaded next day, his blood lapped up by dogs. It was for his epitaph that the Irish in the Spanish fleet were preparing now to fight the English.
The fight would not be long delayed. From his position at the very rear of the line, Commodore Churruca surveyed the oncoming British with dismay. They were advancing exactly as Nelson had planned, two columns aiming straight for the enemy to cut their fleet into three sections, each of which could then be destroyed piecemeal, denied support from the other two. It was a very daring manoeuvre, only attempted because the British understood the enemy’s weaknesses and had full confidence in their own ships and men. It wo
uld be a disaster for the French and Spanish if it was allowed to succeed.
To Churruca, the solution was obvious. The leading ten ships of the combined fleet were already clear of the British, pressing on towards Cadiz. Villeneuve should long ago have ordered them to wear round, returning under full sail to attack the British in the flank. He should have sent the signal hours ago. But no signal had been forthcoming.
‘The French admiral does not, will not, grasp it,’ complained Churruca. ‘He has only to act boldly, only to order the van ships to wear round at once and double on the rear squadron. That will place the enemy themselves between two fires.’
In gloom and rage, muttering ‘Perdidos’ to himself, Churruca summoned his crew on deck for a pep talk before the battle. He held a short service first, the men baring their heads while the padre gave them absolution. Then Churruca addressed them from the quarterdeck:
My sons, in the name of the God of Battles I promise eternal happiness to all those who fall today doing their duty. On the other hand, if I see any man shirking I will have him shot on the spot. If the scoundrel escapes my eye, or that of the gallant officers I have the honour to command, be assured of this, that bitter remorse will dog the wretch for the rest of his days, for so long as he crawls through whatever remains of his miserable and dishonoured existence.
Churruca concluded by calling three cheers for the king.
Among the French, there was less talk of cowardice as the British approached, more of patriotism. The Spanish ships each had a large wooden cross hanging over the taffrail, but the French put more faith in the Imperial eagles given to every ship after Napoleon’s coronation. On the Bucentaure, the eagle was in the charge of two midshipmen who were to guard it throughout the battle. Villeneuve paraded it around the deck first, followed by his officers, as Captain Jean Magendie remembered:
It is impossible to display greater enthusiasm and eagerness for the fray than was shown and evinced by all the officers, sailors and soldiers of the Bucentaure, each one of us putting our hands between the Admiral’s and renewing our oath upon the Eagle entrusted to us by the Emperor, to fight to the last gasp; and shouts of ‘Vive l’Empereur, vive l’Amiral Villeneuve’ were raised once more.
The men then returned to their posts as the British bore down. The eagle was given a place of honour at the foot of the mainmast.
The battle was just a few minutes away now. Among the British, telescopes were out on every ship, scanning the enemy line for a sight of Villeneuve’s flag. It was important to identify the enemy’s command vessel, but there was nothing in the anonymous array of French and Spanish ships to indicate which one was Villeneuve’s. He would raise his flag in due course, but he hadn’t done so yet. Observing the four-deck Santissima Trinidad in the middle of the line, Nelson guessed that the French admiral would be in one of the three ships sailing immediately astern. He gave the order to steer that way, using the Santissima’s bow as an aiming marker.
It was a race now to see which of the two British columns would reach the enemy first. At the moment, it was looking like Collingwood, well ahead of the rest in the Royal Sovereign. But there were ships in both columns that sailed badly, forcing the leaders to hold back. Some were leaky, others long overdue for a refit. Unlike the new ships just out from England, their hulls were encrusted with seaweed and barnacles, severely reducing their speed through the water. Even with studding sails out – extensions to the yards to catch every last breath of wind – they were making slower progress than they wished.
But they were still advancing steadily, so close to the enemy now that the shooting could not long be delayed. Aboard the Orion, Captain Codrington finished the turkey leg he had been eating and turned his full attention towards the French. On the Bellerophon, Captain Cooke, Lieutenant Cumby and the other officers completed the lunch of cold meat they had been enjoying on the rudder head – their tables and chairs had been cleared away – and did the same. On the Victory, the men swallowed the last of the raw pork that had been issued to them and took a final swig of wine, bracing themselves for the fight. Aboard the Conqueror, Captain Israel Pellew sent his red-coated Marines below, to keep them out of harm’s way until they were needed. One or two newly arrived ships were even completing the painting of the lower masts that Nelson had ordered long ago, hurriedly whitewashing them to distinguish them from the black-hooped masts of the enemy.
Ahead, the race to reach the enemy was going to be won by Collingwood’s ship. All eyes were on the Royal Sovereign as she pushed forward alone. British, French and Spanish alike, no one could tear their eyes away. Nearer the enemy line and nearer, almost within range now, almost within killing distance, the Royal Sovereign billowed on – while deep in her belly at least one young man tensed miserably, wishing he was back on the farm in Hampshire, safely at home with his plough.
It was getting on for noon now, just a few minutes short of the hour. The clock had still not reached 12 by most accounts when a sudden ripple of flashes twinkled prettily from the French ship Fougueux. It was followed moments later by a corresponding roll of thunder across the water. The British watched fascinated as the sea around the Royal Sovereign suddenly erupted into fountains of spray and spume. The first shots had been fired from the enemy line. The Battle of Trafalgar had begun.
CHAPTER 34
BATTLE IS JOINED
Undaunted, the Royal Sovereign pressed on, oblivious to the French broadside, oblivious to anything except the urge to get in among the enemy and break their line as soon as possible. Fresh out from England, her copper bottom free of barnacles, she sliced through the water ‘like a frigate’, speeding forward as quickly as the wind would allow. The Sovereign was at her most vulnerable now, within range of the enemy guns, yet unable to return fire while sailing directly towards them. She was several hundred yards ahead of the next British ship, attacking the combined fleet all on her own. It was do or die for the Royal Sovereign, steering a solitary course while the rest of Collingwood’s column struggled to catch up.
In the other column, Admirals Nelson and Northesk followed Collingwood’s example and raised their flags immediately the shooting started. So did the French and Spanish admirals, with the exception of Villeneuve, whose flag appears to have become tangled up. They all watched intently as the Royal Sovereign continued towards the enemy, aiming for the gap between the Santa Ana and the Fougueux. Several ships were firing at her, beginning to score hits. The Sovereign pushed on regardless, her men lying flat on the deck as shot tore through the rigging. By some accounts, she was nearly a mile ahead of the next British ship as she reached the enemy line, a feat without parallel in naval history.
‘Steer straight for the Frenchman and take his bowsprit,’ was Collingwood’s only command as the gap closed. He was determined to break the enemy line or die in the attempt.
The Fougueux had been moving forward to close the gap between herself and the Santa Ana, but changed her mind as the Royal Sovereign bore down. Seeing that the British intended to smash through regardless, she backed her sails at the last minute to avoid a collision. The Royal Sovereign carried straight on and just squeezed through, almost shaving the Santa Ana’s stern in the process. It was the moment the Royal Sovereign’s gunners had been waiting for.
Each gun fired in turn, straight into the unprotected stern of the Santa Ana, raking the length of the Spanish ship from a distance of only a few yards. The guns were double – or treble-shotted, primed for maximum damage at close range. The havoc they wrought was devastating. When the last gun had fired and the Royal Sovereign was safely through the enemy line, the Santa Ana’s stern had been shattered and scores of her men lay dead or wounded. Fourteen of her guns had been disabled as well, with just one broadside.
‘See how that noble fellow Collingwood carries his ship into action!’ observed Nelson delightedly from the other column.
‘What would Nelson give to be here!’ Collingwood told his flag-captain, equally delightedly.
But
they hadn’t finished yet. Turning hard aport, the Royal Sovereign quickly drew alongside the Santa Ana, so close that their yardarms touched across the water. The Sovereign’s gunners hurriedly reloaded while the Santa Ana’s struggled across to the other side of their ship, pushing through a mass of torn and mangled bodies to reinforce the men on the starboard guns. It was a race to see which ship could fire first. With almost fifty guns already loaded and still working on the starboard side, the Spanish won.
The Royal Sovereign reeled under the impact, heeling ‘two strakes out of the water’ as the shots thudded home. The Spanish had been badly hurt, but they were nowhere near beaten. There was still plenty of fight left in them.
Other ships were coming to their rescue. The Fougueux, Indomptable, San Leandro and San Justo all closed in on the Royal Sovereign, subjecting her to a withering fire from different directions. The crossfire was so heavy that French and Spanish cannon balls smacked into each other above the British sailors’ heads. British ships were approaching too, peering anxiously into the smoke to see if Collingwood’s flag was still flying among so many hostile ships.
Through it all, Collingwood remained unperturbed, ‘pacing up and down on the poop munching an apple’ as shots flew all around. His ship was a mess now, with halyards dropping away and a top-gallant studding-sail hanging down over the gangway hammocks. Collingwood called Lieutenant Clavell to help him clear it out of the way. The two men carefully rolled the sail up and stowed it in one of the ship’s boats. Practical as ever, Collingwood told Clavell they would need the sail some other day. He was a reassuring presence in a battle, soothing everyone around him with his unruffled manner as the fighting raged.
‘Dear old Cuddie,’ one midshipman recalled, ‘walking the break of the poop, with his little triangular gold-laced cocked hat, tights, silk stockings, and buckles, musing over the progress of the fight and munching an apple.’
Trafalgar Page 23
