1805 (32 page)

He looked for the British frigates. Astern he could see the schooner
Pickle
and the trim little cutter
Entreprenante
. Then he caught sight of
Euryalus
, obeying the conventions of formal war, her guns unemployed as she towed what Drinkwater thought at first was a prize but then realised was the
Royal Sovereign
, Collingwood's dismasted flagship.

‘God's bones,' he muttered to himself, aware that this was a day the like of which he hoped he would never see again. The shattered hulls of ships lay all around, British, French and Spanish. Some still bore their own colours; none that he would see bore the British colours underneath the Spanish or French, although he could distinguish several British prizes. Masts and yards, sails and great heaps of rigging lay over their sides and trailed in the oily water while the whole mass rolled and ground together on the swell that rolled impassively from the west.

‘Wind,' he muttered, ‘there will be a wind soon,' and the thought sent him below, in search of his few belongings among the shambles.

He found he could retrieve only his journal, coat, hat and glass. He and one of Atcherley's marines brought up the body of Gillespy. Drinkwater wrapped the body in his own cloak and found a couple of shot left in the upper deck garlands. They bound the boy about with loose line and lifted the sad little bundle onto the rail. Had Drinkwater not agreed to Gillespy accompanying him on the
Bucentaure
he would be alive now, listening in Cadiz to the distant thunder of the guns in company with Frey and Quilhampton. The marine took off his shako and Drinkwater recited the familiar words of the Anglican prayer of committal. Then they rolled Gillespy into the water.

‘He is in good company,' he murmured to himself, but his voice was drowned in a vast explosion. To the north the ship that had taken fire, the French
Achille
, blew apart as the fire reached her magazine. The blast rolled over the sea and hammered their already wounded ear-drums, bringing with it the first hint of a freshening breeze.

Captain Atcherley's prize crew consisted of less than half a dozen men, besides himself. They had locked the private cabins of Villeneuve and his senior officers, asked for and obtained the parole of
those remaining officers capable of posing a threat, and locked the magazines and spirit rooms. Following Drinkwater's advice, some food was found and served out to all, irrespective of nationality. As the battle began to die out around them, Masson came on deck. His clothes were completely soaked in blood, his pale face smudged with gore and drawn with exhaustion.

‘Did you notice,' he said to Drinkwater, ‘how the raking fire mostly took off men's heads? It is curious, is it not, Captain?'

Drinkwater looked at him, seeing the results of terrible strain. Masson sniffed and said, ‘Thank you for your assistance.'

‘It was nothing. I could not stand idle.' Drinkwater paused, not wishing to seem to patronise defeated men. ‘They were brave men,' he said simply.

Masson nodded. ‘That is their only epitaph.' The surgeon slumped down between two guns and within a minute had fallen fast asleep.

Atcherley joined Drinkwater on the poop, watching the last of the fighting.

‘My God, they have made a mess of us, by heaven!' exclaimed Atcherley when he saw the damage to the masts of the British ships. ‘If the wind gets up we'll be caught on a dead lee shore.'

‘I believe it will get up, Captain Atcherley, and we would do well to take some precautions.' Drinkwater was staring through his glass.

‘Is that
Victory
? She is a wreck, look . . .' He handed the glass to Atcherley.

‘Yes . . . and Collingwood's flag is down from the
Royal Sovereign
's masthead . . .'

The two men looked at one another. There was little left of
Royal Sovereign
's masts, but they had seen Collingwood's flag there ten minutes ago, atop the stump of the foremast with a British ensign hoisted to the broken stump of the main. Had Collingwood been killed? And then they saw the blue square go up to the masthead of the
Euryalus
.

‘He has shifted his flag to the frigate,' said Atcherley betraying a sense of relief.

‘But why?' asked Drinkwater. ‘Surely Nelson would not permit that?'

But further conjecture was distracted by a movement to the south-east. They could see ships making sail, running clear of the pall of smoke. Drinkwater trained his glass. He knew the leading vessel; it was Gravina's flagship.

‘God's bones!' Drinkwater watched as the
Principe de Asturias
led some ten or eleven ships out of the Allied line, making all possible sail
in the direction of Cadiz. The Spanish grandee had finally deserted his chief, Drinkwater thought, not knowing that Gravina lay below with a shattered arm, nor that his second, Rear-Admiral Magon, galled by a dozen musket balls, had finally been cut in two by a round shot. At the time it seemed like the final betrayal of Villeneuve.

Under their stern passed a British launch, commanded by a master's mate and engaged in carrying prize crews about the shattered remnants of the Combined Fleet. Atcherley stared at her as she made her way amongst the floating wreckage of the great ships of three nations that lay wallowing upon the heaving sea.

‘Good God, sir, I believe those fellows to be crying!'

Drinkwater levelled his glass on the straining oarsmen. There could be no mistake. He could see awful grimaces upon the faces of several men, and streaked patches where tears had washed the powder soot from their cheeks. ‘Good God!'

‘Boat 'hoy!' Atcherley hailed.

The elderly master's mate called his men to stop pulling and looked up at the two officers standing under the British ensign hoisted over the French.

‘What ship's that?'

‘The French admiral,
Bucentaure
,' called Atcherley, proudly adding, ‘prize to the
Conqueror
. What is the matter with your men?'

‘Matter? Have ye not heard the news?'

‘News? What news beyond that of victory?'

‘Victory? Ha!' The mate spat over the side. ‘Why, Nelson's dead . . . d'you hear? Nelson's dead . . .'

The wind began to rise at sunset when
Conqueror
beat up to reclaim her prize, ranging to weather of her. Pellew sent a boat with a lieutenant and more men to augment Atcherley's pathetic prize crew. Drinkwater scrambled up onto
Bucentaure
's rail and hailed Pellew.

‘Have the kindness, sir, to report Captain Drinkwater as having rejoined the fleet. I was taken off Tarifa and held a prisoner aboard this ship!'

‘Ah!' cried Pellew waving his hat in acknowledgement. ‘We wondered where you had got to, Drinkwater. Stockham won't be complaining! He drove The
Prince of the Asturias
off the
Revenge
! We've seventeen prizes but lost Lord Nelson!'

‘I heard. A bad day for England!'

‘Indeed. Will you look after
Bucentaure
then? 'tis coming on to blow!'

‘She is much damaged but we shall do our best!'

‘Splendid. I shall take you in tow!' Pellew waved his hat and jumped down onto his own deck. His lieutenant, Richard Spear, touched his hat to Drinkwater.

‘I have orders to receive a line, sir.'

‘Carry on, sir, and be quick about it . . . Who the devil is Stockham, d'you know Mr Atcherley?'

‘John Stockham, sir? Yes, he's first luff of the
Thunderer
. He'll get his step in rank for this day's work.'

‘I expect so,' said Drinkwater flatly, moving towards the compass in order to determine their position. In the last light of day Cape Trafalgar was a dark smudge on the eastward horizon to leeward.

Astern of the
Conqueror
the
Bucentaure
dragged and snubbed at the hemp cable. The wind backed round to south-south-west and increased to gale force by midnight. British and French alike laboured for two hours to haul an undamaged cable out of the hold and forward, onto an anchor. In the blackness of the howling night they were briefly aware of other ships; of the soaring arcs of rockets signalling distress; of the proximity of wounded leviathans in a similar plight to themselves. But many of these wallowed helplessly untowed, their mastless hulks rolling in the troughs of the seas which quickly built up to roll the broken ships closer to the shallows off the cape. From
Euryalus
Collingwood had thrown out the night signal to wear. Those ships which were able complied, but most simply lay a-hull, broached to and waiting for the dawn.

Short of sleep and starved of adequate food, Drinkwater nevertheless spent the night on deck, directing the labours of his strange crew in their efforts to save the
Bucentaure
from the violence of the gale. Atcherley and Spear deferred to him naturally; the French were familiar with him and he had earned their respect, if not their trust, from his exertions at the side of Masson during the battle. While
Conqueror
inched them to windward, away from the shoals off Cape Trafalgar, they cut away the rigging and wreckage of
Bucentaure
's masts. But her battered hull continued to ship water which drained to her bilges, sinking her deeper and deeper into the water. Of her huge crew and the many soldiers on board – something not far short of eight hundred men – scarcely ten score were on their feet at the end of the action. Many of these fell exhausted at the pumps.

Daylight revealed a fearful sight. Ahead of them, her reefed topsails straining under the continued violence of the gale that had now become a storm, Pellew's ship tugged and strained at the tow-rope, jerking it tight until the water was squeezed out of the lay of the rope.
Bucentaure
would move forward and the rope would dip into a wave, then come tight again as she dragged back, jerking the stern of
Conqueror
and making her difficult to handle. But by comparison they were fortunate. There were other ships in tow, British and Allied, all struggling to survive the smashing grey seas as they rolled eastwards, streaked white with spume and driving them inexorably to leeward. Already the unfortunate were amongst the shoals and shallows of the coast.

All day they were witness to this tragedy as men who had escaped the fire of British cannon were dashed to their deaths on the rocks and beaches of the Spanish coast. As darkness came on again the wind began to veer, allowing Pellew to make a more southerly course. But
Bucentaure
's people were becoming increasingly feeble and their efforts to keep the water from pouring into her largely failed. Spirits rose, however, on the morning of the 23rd, for the wind dropped and the sky cleared a little as it veered into the north-west. Drinkwater was below eating a mess of what passed for porridge when Spear burst in.

‘Sir! There are enemy ships under way. They seem to be making some sort of an effort to retake prizes!'

Drinkwater followed the worried officer on deck and trained his glass to the north-east. He could see the blue-green line of the coast and the pale smudge that was Cadiz.

‘There, sir!'

‘I have them.' He counted the topsails: ‘Four line-of-battle ships, five frigates and two brigs!'

Had Gravina remembered his obligation to Villeneuve, Drinkwater wondered? But there were more pressing considerations.

‘Get forrard, Mr Spear, and signal
Conqueror
that the enemy is in sight!'

Drinkwater spent the next two hours in considerable anxiety. The strange ships were coming up fast, all apparently undamaged in the battle. He recognised the French
Neptune
and the Spanish
Rayo
.

Spear came scrambling aft with the news that Pellew had seen the approaching enemy and intended casting loose the tow. There was nothing Drinkwater could do except watch
Conqueror
make sail and stand to windward, to join the nine other British warships able to manoeuvre and work themselves between the enemy and the majority of the prizes.

Bucentaure
began to roll and wallow to leeward, continuing to ship water. On deck Drinkwater watched the approach of the enemy, the leading ship with a commodore's broad pendant at her masthead. It
was not Gravina but one of the more enterprising of the escaped French captains who was leading this bold sortie. The leading ship was a French eighty, and she bore down on
Bucentaure
as the stricken vessel drifted away from the protection of the ten British line-of-battle ships. As she luffed to windward of them they read her name:
Indomptable
.

The appearance of the Franco–Spanish squadron revived the crew of the
Bucentaure
. One of her lieutenants requested that Drinkwater released them from their parole and he had little alternative but to agree. A few moments later, boats from
Indomptable
were alongside and the
Bucentaure
's lieutenant were representing the impossibility of saving the former French flagship. ‘
Elle est finie
,' Drinkwater heard him say, and they began to take out of the
Bucentaure
all her crew, including the wounded. For an hour and a half the boats of the
Indomptable
ferried men from the
Bucentaure
with great difficulty. The sea was still running high and damage was done to the boats and to their human cargo. Drinkwater summoned Atcherley and Spear.

‘Gentlemen,' he said, ‘I believe the French to be abandoning the ship. If we remain we have still an anchor and cable. We might yet keep her a prize. It is only a slender chance, but I do not wish to be retaken prisoner just yet.'

The two officers nodded agreement. ‘volunteers only, then,' added Drinkwater as the French lieutenant approached.

‘It is now you come to boats,
Capitaine
.'

‘
Non, mon ami
. We stay, perhaps we save the ship.'