Redoutable’s rescue gained us a crewman but put us closer to the flagship than I preferred, making me worry I’d made a mistake by accidentally picking an enthusiastic officer. What if I wound up in the center of battle? No, I must trust to fate and take comfort that I was at least headed toward Gibraltar and the Mediterranean, my route to Astiza and Harry. Just a dozen miles to the east was Cape Trafalgar. If we could get past that protuberance, maybe we could outrun the English all the way to Italy.
Evening comes early off Spain in late October, the sun setting a quarter past five. The Combined Fleet struggled to sort into assigned order as it sailed into the dark. At nine o’clock a shout came across the water that British ships had been sighted somewhere to the southwest of us. Men rushed excitedly to the rail to peer into the dark, but nothing could be seen. We’d little idea where our own ships were, let alone those of the English, and lookouts were posted to avoid collision. The wind dropped and captains struggled to keep their place in line because some ships are naturally swift or slow. There were shouts, signal shots, rockets, and lanterns. Near eleven we almost collided with an allied vessel and learned we’d lost contact with the Bucentaure and had fallen in with the Spanish under Admiral Gravina. Since Redoutable was a sprightly sailor, Lucas asked, and was given permission, to lead the Spanish half of the fleet.
I was delighted. We were now at the front of the long line of battle, closest to Gibraltar, and as far from Villeneuve’s flagship and Nelson as possible. My plan was working. I went below to attempt some rest. A large swell kept the suspended coffin-like box that held my bed swinging, and it was something of a wrestling match to hoist myself into it so I could pointlessly lie swaying in the dark, anxious and sleepless like everyone else. All around me, officers shifted restlessly, muttering or praying in the dark.
The sea began to grow light at six A.M., the sky pearly from haze hanging over the ocean, which was as smooth as glass. We still had no idea where the British were, but Lucas gave the order to clear for action because the activity broke the tension. Men were grateful for something to do. Bare feet thumped, cannon rumbled, and gunports squealed as they were raised so muzzles could poke out.
Readying is the same for all navies. Hammocks were rolled into sausages and stowed into netting on the top deck as a bulwark against bullets. Nets were suspended over the top deck like an awning, to catch battle debris falling from the rigging above. The yardarms were linked to the masts with chains to keep them from being easily shot away and crushing men below. Masts, yards, rigging, blocks, and sails total 150 tons, and toppling this onto an enemy can be as devastating as a broadside to its hull.
The portable partitions that define cabins were broken down and stowed so incoming shot couldn’t turn them into clouds of splinters. All tables, chairs, chests, boxes, and bags were carried to the hold below. Powder was brought up, and cannonballs racked like black melons. Sand was strewn to provide traction against the blood. A surgical table was readied on the orlop deck, the steel saws of amputation clinking as they were laid out like fine cutlery. Nelson had mentioned how cold the steel was that took off his own arm and ordered that surgical instruments in the future be heated. I saw no such care on the French ship.
The four ship’s boats were lowered and towed behind so they wouldn’t be shot to pieces. Their “crew” became the live chickens and goats brought on board for fresh food, and sailors joked that the condemned animals might live longer than the men hoping to dine on them. It says something of French expectations that the cattle manger was empty. This fleet didn’t expect to be at sea long enough to enjoy any beef.
Muskets, pistols, pikes, and cutlasses were distributed, accentuating the seriousness of what was to come. Gunners readied scarves to pull around their ears against the cacophony of cannon fire. Shoes were stowed, trousers rolled up, and letters and mementoes entrusted to mates in the event the owners died.
I passed my long rifle around a company of curious marines.
“A gun as pretty as a woman.”
“Too long and clumsy for the mizzen-top platform, though.”
“And too long to load, American.”
“But accurate, no?” I asked. “I’ll make it work.” I didn’t tell them I had no intention of shooting anyone.
A last hot meal was cooked, and then the fires extinguished so that a hit on the coal stove wouldn’t ignite the ship.
I wandered to the quarterdeck, where officers peered westward through telescopes. Lookouts shouted from aloft. These topmen could count English sails coming over the horizon. I checked my watch. Did we have enough wind to outpace them?
“They have the weather gauge,” Lucas commented, as much to himself as me.
“What does that mean?”
“We’re both sailing southeast, but because the wind is from the west where Nelson is, it reaches the English first. They can use it to run down on us, but we cannot sail against it to come up on them. That means it’s their choice to fight or wait, and can time the battle to their advantage.”
I looked about. To the east, an orange sun was rising over the hills of Andalusia. To the west, it lit a line of British topsails about ten miles distant, far enough away that their hulls were still below the horizon.
“Redoutable is a fine sailor, but we’ve run ahead of our station,” Lucas added.
“I think it’s splendid we’re leading the fleet,” I encouraged. “Joining with your allies and demonstrating smart sailing. It’s the kind of initiative that works well for our eventual book.”
The Combined Fleet trailed like a ragged group of geese. While the breeze was light there was a heavy, ominous swell on the otherwise smooth ocean, a sign of disturbance hundreds of miles away.
“Storm coming,” the helmsman muttered. The barometer was falling as well.
“Maybe we should put on all sail and hurry on ahead to the Mediterranean,” I suggested. “We can scout for Villeneuve by getting to Gibraltar first.”
“No. We’re out of position,” the captain decided. “We’ll tack and return to the center where we were assigned.”
“What? And give up the lead?”
But he wasn’t listening to me, shouting orders instead that sent seamen scurrying to halyards and sheets. We ponderously came about and ran back down the line of Gravina’s ships to rejoin the French center, much closer to Villeneuve than I preferred. By the sword of Spartacus, battle seemed to suck me in like Newton’s gravity! Instead of being on the edge, I was once more in the middle.
I stewed. What other ship could I escape to? The answer was none.
The British ships, meanwhile, had turned ninety degrees and were sailing directly toward us. Because we continued to drift south, by the time they intercepted us they’d collide with Dumanoir’s division of ships in our rear, probably overwhelming that third of the Combined Fleet before we could turn to help.
So at eight A.M. on Monday, October 21, Villeneuve gave up our run for Gibraltar, as well as safety and sanity, and in the name of honor and courage ordered the entire fleet to turn and sail back toward Cadiz. This tactic would protect Dumanoir by putting our center abreast the oncoming British, but also make battle unavoidable. The showdown had finally come. The only good news I could see was that it would allow survivors of a defeat to seek refuge in the Spanish port. Turning around would also throw the Combined Fleet into confusion.
“Tack in this light wind? Villeneuve is no seaman,” Lucas muttered.
It was so difficult to turn the ships that it took two awkward hours for all the vessels to come about. The result, despite incessant and increasingly frantic signals from Villeneuve, was a ragged crescent of a formation instead of a neat line. It was as if our line of ships had formed a shallow bowl to catch the incoming two-twined fork of British warships. What wind there was pushed the English straight at us, while we drifted leeward toward Cape Trafalgar.
Even I kne
w our formation was disorganized. I felt trapped, awaiting execution on a morning that crawled like syrup. Lucas’s officers fell silent, unhappy but determined. Villeneuve had given up the initiative and embraced the collision that Nelson wanted.
Our entire ship was quiet. I could clearly hear the creak of tackle as Redoutable rolled in the swells. Officers’ orders drifted up from the stillness of the gun decks to be heard on the quarter. Water sloshed and hissed. The approaching British ships loomed closer, their canvas growing in height like building thunderheads.
Battle ensigns went up on each side, flapping lazily in the hazy air.
Nelson’s fleet had broken into two columns, each aimed at a different point of our struggling line. Higher and higher their masts rose, and then their bows appeared over the horizon, cannon bristling on either side like thorns. We could see the wink of red from jacketed marines. There was little sound from the British ships, either, but they were a magnificent sight. Every sail had been set to catch the whispers of wind. They were like birds stretching their wings, straining to rush down on us, and yet advancing slower than a walk. I’ve never known such agonizing tedium as that long morning. Two fleets waited to duel, and the wind had gone on leave. The world seemed glacial.
Yet slowly we drifted toward collision.
The sun was entirely lost now in milky overcast. At eleven thirty A.M., Villeneuve ordered French or Spanish pennants flown to identify each ship. Now there was a great rumble of drums, the soldiers aboard presenting arms. I snapped to attention without thinking about it, surprising myself, and looked about to see if anyone had noticed. None had, but I remembered Duhésme’s advice to join a unit, a cause, and a country. I was trapped, yet part of something, the thrill as oddly exciting as love.
Everyone was rigid from anticipation.
On the Spanish ships, a huge wooden cross was raised to hang from the mizzen boom, the religious symbol swaying over the taffrail at the ships’ rear. The French Catholics crossed themselves and kissed their own crucifixes.
On Redoutable, one of Napoleon’s new imperial eagles was brought from the captain’s cabin and presented to the crew to elicit shouts of “Vive l’empereur.” The standard was lashed to the mainmast.
The cheers gave spirit. The long months of chase and wait were finally over.
“You’d better take your place in the fighting top, Monsieur Gage,” Lucas said quietly behind me, making me jump.
I tilted my head back. “Up there?”
“As safe a place as any. Safer, if you use your rifle to good effect. Discourage the enemy by picking off his best men.”
I’d fixed a sling to my gun. Now I slung it over my shoulder, walked to the rail, and swung out over the ship’s side to stand on the wooden rails called chains, the water foamy far below. The tarred ropes attached there were reassuringly sticky, angling upward in a triangle to join the mizzenmast. My rifle bumped clumsily. I wore my worldly possessions: a few coins from Smith, the broken sword stub from Talleyrand, and my tomahawk, all tightly secured beneath my clothing.
Taking a breath, I began climbing the netlike ratlines that led aloft. The swells made the mast top pivot through ten degrees, and it was unnerving as we swayed. The higher I went, the wider the pendulum. I paused, steadied, took breath, and then kept going. Dozens of sharpshooters were doing the same. Looking neither up nor down but only where my hands must grab, I slowly ascended to the lubber’s hole next to the mast, clumsily squeezed through, and came up on the mizzen platform that would be my station. Ahead were similar platforms at main and foremast, crowded with soldiers. Each top extended three feet from the mast like a tree house, ratlines and rails giving security. The mast, wrapped with rope, was a comforting trunk at our back, extending far higher to more yards and sails above. A canvas screen had been lashed around the perimeter to hide us from view when we crouched to reload.
From here we would shoot to the enemy’s deck.
“It’s the American and his golden gun!”
“Now we’ll see if you shoot as fast as you talk, Gage.”
I had a splendid view of grandeur. Even Astiza, wise as she was about the insanity of war, would appreciate its beauty. I wished for the millionth time that she were beside me.
More than seventy ships were in view, sixty big enough to hammer it out in the main battle, and the fleets combined carried forty-one thousand men and thirty times the weight of artillery that would be used in a comparable land battle. We were riding the most complex, beautiful, and magnificent machines civilization had yet produced, works of art dedicated to the utter destruction of their counterpart. Each ship had acres of canvas, miles of ropes, and a city’s worth of stores. The English ships were painted like wasps, their black and yellow stripes broken by the yawning red mouths of gunport lids. The Combined Fleet was black and red. The clouds of canvas were massive as icebergs, and pennants seemed to float in the light breeze with the suspension of balloons. The Santisima Trinidad was a castle, looming over lesser ships.
The ships crawled, seeming almost frozen.
Then at last a signal ran up Villeneuve’s mast. “Open fire.”
A marine checked his watch. At noon, the first cannon boomed.
CHAPTER 30
Perched a hundred feet above the sea, I had a strange sense of detachment as the battle began. I felt wedged into a box seat, watching an elaborate stage production. The long, greasy swells kept us sharpshooters lazily rocking as if we were nested in a tree, the ships moving with the stately sway of giraffes. The quick thud of the French and Spanish guns seemed disconnected from this nautical minuet at first, too excited to fit the panorama’s languorous mood. But the gunfire slowly rose in frequency to become a rolling thunder, its urgency reminding me why we were here. The ocean began to erupt from splashing cannonballs. The shooting also settled the crews of the Combined Fleet, putting them to work. They cheered each rippling broadside, gray-white clouds of gunsmoke hanging like fog because there was almost no breeze to disperse it. As a result our hulls were gradually shrouded, and the shooting became half-blind.
The British ships sailed directly toward us in ominous silence, firing not a shot. Many of the French and Spanish cannons initially missed, demonstrating their lack of practice, and the Nelson columns glided ahead in a corridor of geysers. As the distance narrowed to five hundred yards, however, accuracy grew. I began to see splinters fly, ropes snap, and holes open up in sails, perforated into lace. Seven different vessels blasted away at the lead ship of Nelson’s southern column, chips spinning as if she were being whittled.
“Royal Sovereign,” a French marine sergeant reported after peering through his glass. “Not Nelson, but someone just as eager. Collingwood, perhaps.”
“Where’s Nelson then?”
He pointed to the lead ship of the northerly column, every possible sail set as it drifted downwind. “The one coming for us.”
Lucas had failed me, putting us in the path of the dangerous admiral instead of on the battle’s periphery.
You can never find a coward when you need one.
Fifteen minutes after the opening shots to the south the Victory came under our own fire, our guns rippling and our ship heeling to their kick. But the English flagship sailed majestically on, utterly silent, masts scraping heaven, sails swelling like a proud chest, and its sides bulging like a bicep and studded with guns. We were frantic to stop the enemy flagship before it pierced our line, and yet it seemed impervious to anything we did. Guns roared in broadside after broadside, and the sound boomed up to us in claps of air. Sailors’ ears would bleed even when wrapped in kerchiefs, and some would go deaf for days or a lifetime.
Finally, our attempt to slow and blind the enemy by blasting away at its rigging became successful. The studding sails that extended from the main yards of Victory were shot away, fluttering down like tumbling ducks. The foresail turned to ribbons. With stays cut, the miz
zen topsail of the English ship snapped and tumbled, hanging awkwardly against lower lines and poised like an arrow at the helm below. A cannonball bounced off one of the English anchors and it sagged.
I could see the blue-coated English officers standing stiffly on their quarterdeck with little to do but demonstrate courage. The flagship’s great wheel disintegrated in a cloud of splinters. They flinched and stayed standing, even as the helmsmen died. The fresh black and yellow paint was beginning to be gouged with scars of raw wood. Nonetheless, Victory swung to starboard, obviously steered from somewhere below, and calmly passed down our line. Damnation! The perfect place to pierce our line was between Bucentaure, directly ahead, and Redoutable. This was as bad luck as at the Nile.
Victory seemed almost impervious to the punishment it was taking, plowing ahead through a rain of cannonballs, but then a group of red-coated marines suddenly tumbled like pins in a bowl. A still-cradled ship’s boat erupted into pieces, its planks whirling like scythes. I heard English screams. Surely they’d turn away? The enemy flagship was taking a terrible pounding, and maybe we could really hammer it to a halt before Nelson achieved his melee. But no, for the first time the Victory’s port batteries let loose in return as she cruised down our line, the wood of French ships flinching from their punch. Stout wood quivered. Masts reeled.
Redoutable had yet to receive any fire.
My mouth was dry, and I had to remember to swallow.
Then Victory turned again, to pierce our formation, and slid into a fog of French gunsmoke to slip at no more than walking pace between Villeneuve’s flagship and our own Redoutable. The three-decker was only eight feet higher, but it seemed to tower over us. The English were so close that I could clearly hear the calls of the British helmsman below, a calm, “Steady! Steady as she goes!” The hats of the officers were visible through the smoke as they paced like toy soldiers in a toy courtyard. The French marines began to fire at them.
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