by Seth Hunter
Nathan swallowed. He was inclined to prevaricate but knew it would not do, not when he had laid the chart so brazenly before them. He nodded, with a much greater confidence than he felt.
‘Very well then, we will go straight at ’em.’ Nelson looked around the circle of faces and smiled. ‘Do not worry about the dark, gentlemen. It will be light enough when five hundred guns are firing at us. Thank you – and may God be with you all.’
Whether or not God was with them, for once the wind was. A steady onshore breeze carried them clear into the mouth of the bay under a full press of sail. Nathan, with no particular duties, took himself aloft to observe the French preparations.
The battle fleet stretched across the bay in one long line for about a mile, with less than half a cable’s length between each ship. And in the shallower waters beyond were the frigates – three, no, four of them – and two smaller vessels. Nathan focused on each of them in turn. Yes. He felt his heart lurch. She was tucked away at the rear of the French line, right up against the Inner Shoal. She had a slightly different rig, but he was sure of it. The Unicorn. He gazed at her for some time while various conflicting emotions chased across his mind. The strongest was the continuing sense of loss – and regret for leaving her in the care of his first lieutenant while he played games of cloak and sword in Venice.
And yet it was his exploits in Venice that had surely led him here, where there was at least some hope of winning her back.
He turned his attention back to the main battle fleet – the chief obstacle to this ambition. Thirteen sail of the line. Exactly the same number as the British fleet, save that three of Nelson’s ships – Swiftsure, Alexander and Culloden – had yet to join them. They had been sent on scouting missions and were still several miles behind. Nelson, of course, would not wait for them.
Nathan wondered again at the Admiral’s state of mind. He had an impatience for death or glory that was akin to Bonaparte’s, but if anything, more frenzied. Perhaps because he was seventeen or eighteen years older than Bonaparte and in poor health. And, of course, there was the frustration of that long, desperate chase.
‘By this time tomorrow I shall have gained a peerage – or a tomb in Westminster Abbey,’ he had told Berry as he rose from dinner.
Either way, he must be confident of victory, for their lordships would not care to bury him at Westminster if he led his men to defeat. And for most of those men, of course, the alternatives were much less glorious. A pocketful of prize money and the thanks of a grateful nation – or a watery grave off the coast of Egypt. And God help you if you were wounded.
Nathan focused his mind and his glass on the line of French ships. There was a great deal of activity both in and out of the water. Scores of boats were moving about from ship to ship and also between the ships and the shore – and all loaded with men. Why? Nathan could see no obvious reason for these transfers. But every ship had her guns run out, all along the line, and there was little movement aloft. It was clear that they meant to meet the British attack where they lay – at anchor.
He felt the ship heel unexpectedly to leeward and wrapped his arm more firmly about the futtock shroud. They were hauling sharply to the wind to weather the foul ground to seaward of the island, where the Meshuda had gone aground. Even from where he sat, 100 feet above the deck, Nathan could hear the voice of the seaman in the bows casting the lead. Fifteen fathoms, thirteen, eleven …
He studied the gap between the nearest Frenchman and the island. Scarcely more than a cable’s length – 250 yards, perhaps, and most of it shoal water. Was there room enough to pass? And even if there was, they would take a terrific pounding from the guns on the island. Nathan could see the gun crews there, stacking up the reserves of powder and shot, and there was enough smoke in the air to suggest that they were heating it up. Red-hot shot. If a single British ship ran aground, it would all be over, for there was no room for any other to pass.
Zealous was leading the line, but Goliath was coming up beside her on her larboard bow, as if racing her for the honour. By God, they were never going to run through the gap two abreast … He could see the lofty figure of Sam Hood at the con of the Zealous, cool as you please, doffing his hat to Tom Foley on the Goliath. Like a pair of swells at the races. And then the wind took the hat and blew it overboard.
Then, from behind the French line, a small brig appeared under full sail, heading straight for them – or as straight as the wind would allow – as if she planned to take on the entire British fleet. What could she be playing at? Then Nathan realised. She was trying to lure them onto the shoals. He almost shouted a warning, though they could not possibly have heard him.
The brig was almost within gunshot now, but neither of the British ships took the slightest notice of her. They continued to run on, neck and neck, heading for the gap at the front of the French line.
Then suddenly the French opened fire. One moment they were sitting there, like ducks in a row, the next the whole French van exploded in a fury of fire and smoke. As the long rolling roar died away, Nathan trained his glass on the Zealous. Several large holes had appeared in her topsails. They looked like cabbage leaves when the caterpillars have been at them. The French were aiming high, as usual, and with chain shot, doing their damnedest to wreck the rigging before the British were in a position to fire back. It made sense of a sort, for in these waters, even if they brought down a single spar, it might easily cause a ship to run aground. But their gunnery was poor. They were firing most of the shot into thin air – Nathan could see the splashes where it was falling back into the sea. He checked his watch. Almost half after six, the fiery sun sliding beneath the westerly horizon and leaving a crimson stain that seemed to spread across the surface of the sea towards the scene of battle. Nathan wondered if he would live to see it rise. He trained his glass once more on the gundeck of the nearest Frenchman and saw something else, something he had not noticed before.
They had only run out the guns on the seaward side. The guns facing landward were obscured by piles of what looked like luggage. Boxes and bags – even furniture. What in God’s name were they up to? The guns were there, but almost hidden by all this junk. Certainly they were not manned, or even unloosed, and the gunports were firmly closed. He looked at the next ship in line, and the next, and the next. They were all the same. They were so sure they could not be attacked from any direction but the sea, they had used the landward side to stack furniture.
He slid down the backstay so fast he near took the skin off his palms. But when he reported what he had discovered, he found they knew it already. Nelson had spotted it from well out to sea, even from the deck and with only one eye to see by.
‘They will live to regret it,’ he said.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Nathan asked Berry, feeling like a junior midshipman, just come aboard, though even snotties usually had some duty or other to take their minds off the thought of imminent death or mutilation.
‘You have done enough with your chart,’ Berry assured him. ‘I do not know how we could have proceeded without you.’ Then, after a small pause … ‘But if you have nothing better to do, you can stand as close to the Admiral as he will permit, for he is only a little fellow, you know, and you are such a great lofty lout, you may be able to take some of the heat from him.’
He left Nathan to make of this what he would. In truth, it was not greatly to his satisfaction. Something of the sort had been said to him before – at the Battle of St Vincent, when Nelson was only a Captain. This, it seemed, was to be his role in life for as long as he was without a ship – to stand next to Nelson whenever he was in action, to deflect or absorb whatever pieces of iron, timber or other deadly weaponry were flung at him.
After taking a few moments to reflect upon this imposition, he climbed a little way up the starboard mizzen shrouds to see what was happening at the head of the British line. Goliath had taken the lead and was almost through the gap. The lead French ship was firing at her with every gun
she could bring to bear, but the guns on the island remained strangely silent. And now she was crossing the French line, raking the lead ship with her broadside. But something checked her. Was she aground? No. Her sheet anchor seemed to have come loose and it must be dragging along the bottom – Nathan could see men struggling to cast it loose from the cathead. But it slowed her down considerably, and Hood seized his chance and pushed Zealous ahead of her, bringing her up on the inner side of the French line and pouring his broadside into the lead ship at pointblank range.
Goliath passed behind her – so close as to almost scrape her sides – and lay along the next French ship in line. And three others followed them round – Orion, Theseus and Audacious. The whole of the French van was now wreathed in smoke and flame.
And then Vanguard brought her starboard broadside to bear – and they were in the thick of it.
They moored beside the third ship in the French line – Nathan could not see her name but she was a two-decker, a 74, so they were equally matched. But the next ship was still not engaged and she had come round slightly on her cable to bring the whole of her broadside to bear on the British flagship. A hail of shot swept the gundeck and for a while they were hard pressed. Then Minotaur raced past them on the seaward side to join the fight, and through the smoke Nathan saw another British 74, on the inshore side of the line, pounding the first of their opponents at very close range. There were eight British ships now engaged, attacking the first five French ships in the line from both sides. And on the landward side, so far as Nathan could see, the French did not have a single gun in action.
It was dark now. But Nelson was right – the French line seemed to be lit by a giant flickering bonfire, darting flashes of flame in every direction. You almost choked on the smoke, eyes streaming, ears deafened by the constant roar of the guns. Shouting, sweating faces loomed like apparitions, or figures from some ghastly carnival, some times pouring with blood, always shouting, unheard. Instructions were given by bawling directly in someone’s ear or making frantic signs which were as often as not misunderstood. Nelson had his head bent over the chart from the Meshuda, studying it by the light of the binnacle. Nathan moved slightly towards him, remembering Berry’s instruction, though he felt fairly confident that no sharp shooter would be able to pick out the Admiral through the smoke and the gloom. And in that moment Nelson was hit.
Nathan actually saw the shot strike him, high in the fore head. It was a piece of langridge – the scrap metal the French used to rip the British sails apart. Inexplicably, they were still using it, though it hardly mattered at this stage of the battle.
‘Oh Christ,’ Nathan said as he bent over him. There was a great gash in his forehead – Nathan could see the white gleam of bone – both eyes were gone and his face was drenched in blood.
But his lips were moving and Nathan put his ear close to them so he could hear.
‘I am killed,’ he whispered. ‘Remember me to my wife.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Victory
They appeared within seconds. Nelson’s people, the men who followed him from ship to ship. Shocked, disbelieving, united in their grief. They raised him gently from the deck. His face and chest were drenched with blood and it was still pumping out through that ghastly wound. It looked as if he had been scalped. A great flap of skin hung over his eyes, and by the light of the guns Nathan thought he could see his brains through the blood.
‘Take him below,’ said Berry. He gave Nathan a look of agonised reproach.
They both followed the cortège below, down into the orlop and through to the cockpit. It was crowded with wounded men, sitting or lying amidst a shambles of the dead and the dying, with a team of sawbones doing their best – or worst – by the light of the swaying lanterns.
‘Jefferson may be able to save him yet,’ said Berry.
Jefferson, Nathan recalled, was the principal surgeon. A good surgeon, by all accounts, unlike most of them. But he could not perform miracles.
‘I’ll not be served first,’ croaked the corpse, and they almost dropped him.
Nathan stared at that impossible mask of blood and torn flesh, and the lips moved again.
‘I’ll await my turn, along with the others.’
Happily no one took a blind bit of notice, and after poking around in the wound and lifting up the flap of skin, Dr Jefferson announced that the wound was superficial and there was ‘no immediate danger’.
There was wide rejoicing among his followers, but Nelson had difficulty in believing it, even when Jefferson stitched him up and wrapped a bandage around the wound. He asked if they would send for the chaplain, and also for his secretary, Mr Comyn, so that he might dictate a last message for his wife. He was clearly in a great deal of distress, possibly because the bandage covered his eyes and he was in total darkness, hearing only the screams of the wounded and the roar of the guns.
But now there was another sound. Very like cheering.
‘Go and ask Berry what is happening,’ Nelson commanded one of his followers, for the Captain had returned to the quarterdeck.
Moments later, Berry himself came and knelt down by the Admiral’s side.
He had ‘pleasing intelligence’ to report, he said. The Spartiate had ceased firing. He had sent the first lieutenant with a party of Marines to take possession of her – ‘and he sent back this’.
He pressed the hilt of a sword into the Admiral’s hand.
‘It is the French commander’s,’ he announced, as Nelson ran his fingers down the steel, ‘and I have received news that the Aquilon and the Peuple Souverain have also struck.’
He looked around at the throng of people gathered about the wounded Admiral and raised his voice: ‘It would appear that victory has already declared itself in our favour.’
The impact of this speech and the cheering that followed was somewhat spoiled by Dr Jefferson’s brisk request that the Admiral being in no immediate danger, perhaps they would care to remove him, and themselves, from the cockpit so that he could get on with his work.
After some discussion among the Admiral’s servants, it was decided to carry him to the breadroom, which was thought to be spacious enough for his needs and far removed from the din of battle so that he might dictate his letters in peace.
Nathan left them to it and followed Berry back on deck. It seemed to be a good deal brighter than when he had left it. Then he saw that the French flagship appeared to be on fire. By its ruddy light, and the continuous flash of the guns, he gazed upon a scene that he knew would stay in his mind for as long as he lived. Ship upon ship lay dead in the water, many dismasted, their hulls riddled with shot, the sea around them heaving with debris: spars, whole masts and sodden canvas, shattered launches, half-filled with water, bodies and blood.
The British line seemed as badly damaged as the French – and Nathan could see the Bellerophon – the old ‘Billy Ruffian’ as she was known by the hands – drifting helplessly away to the north with all of her masts gone. Nelson had ordered his Captains to fly the white ensign instead of the blue so it might be the better seen in the poor light, and it was still streaming from the flagpole at her stern. Then, from out of the darkness in her wake came two more ships, also flying the white ensign but quite undamaged: the Swiftsure and the Alexander, the two 74s Nelson had left behind. They headed straight for the centre of the French line and began to pour their broadsides into the burning three-decker.
‘By God, what is this?’ demanded a familiar voice.
Nathan turned. Nelson had come on deck. His head was still wrapped in bandages and the whole of his upper body was soaked in blood. He looked like a walking corpse, but he had pulled up a corner of his bandage so he could see out of his good eye and he was looking towards the growing conflagration in the French centre.
‘It is the Orient, sir,’ said Berry, ‘the French flagship.’
‘They said on the Spartiate that she was repainting,’ said someone else. ‘Her poop was full of oil jars a
nd buckets of paint.’
‘Send Galway with the ship’s boats,’ Nelson instructed the Flag Captain. ‘Tell him to lay off her and save all the men we can.’
‘There is only one boat left, sir,’ Berry told him. ‘The rest are riddled with shot.’
‘Then send that. And let us hope others do the same.’
But it was too late. The flames grew ever more fierce, racing up her tarred rigging and along her newly painted sides. By the light of the fire, Nathan could see almost the whole of the French line stretching off to the far side of the bay. Six ships had struck their colours. He could even see the names at the stern. Conquérant, Guerrier, Spartiate … warlike names, inspiring names. Then the Orient blew up.
The explosion was so massive, they heard later that the French troops heard it in Rosetta, ten miles away. Nearer to hand it was like a thunderclap from Hell. It seemed to stun both fleets into silence. The firing stopped completely. Total darkness reigned. And in the darkness, from the sky, the debris fell. Masts and yards, charred cables and timbers, fragments of metal, and the burned and shattered bodies …
The battle resumed within minutes and went on, spasmodic ally, through the night. Nathan joined Lieutenant Galway in the launch and spent the hours till dawn helping to pluck men out of the water. They picked up seventy who had jumped before the explosion and were clinging to the wreckage. The total crew, they said, had been over a thousand.
Nathan was still in the launch at first light, a little after four. By then most of those they pulled from the water were dead. And they were surrounded by dead and dying ships. No fewer than seven had struck their colours and two more had drifted into the shoals. Shattered and dismasted, they reminded Nathan of the prison hulks he had seen as a child among the shoals and marshes of the Medway.
But the Medway had never seen such a sun. It rose from the sea like the God of Judgement on the last day of the Apocalypse: blazing, angry, red as blood, hurling its fiery rays like spears through the lingering smoke. And as if in defiance, the firing resumed.
