Battle Fleet (2007) (23 page)

I looked at all his medals still glittering there, but could see no wound. But there was a small hole in the top of his shoulder. The shot must have come from one of the
Redoutable
’s fighting tops, and sliced through his body.

‘Hurry,’ said Hardy, and they picked him up. ‘Witchall, go with them. Render any necessary assistance.’ Nelson
grimaced with pain as they lifted him, but he still had the presence of mind to tell us, ‘Cover my face and jacket with a handkerchief. I have one in my pocket. I do not want the people to see me. It may distract them from their duty.’

So we did. Hardy produced a large cloth from Nelson’s pocket and I did my best to hold it in place as we clumsily manoeuvred him down the companionways into the bowels of the
Victory
. Even at this early stage of the battle they were slippery with blood, as many a wounded man had made this journey before us. Below the weather deck I noticed how hot the gun decks were, and began to cough in the acrid smoke. Nelson’s fear of being noticed by his men was unfounded. No one took so much as a second glance at us.

The cockpit of the orlop deck, where the surgeon William Beatty was performing his agonising duty, was like a scene from some lower circle of hell. One man, who was having his leg removed on the table, thrashed about like a newly caught fish. Three of Beatty’s assistants struggled to hold him down. Even with the wooden bit between his clenched teeth he still made the most distressing noise. Other men, awaiting attention and laid along the strakes, were screaming or cursing horribly. One sailor, his arm already gone and dressed with tar to stop it bleeding, was singing ‘Heart of Oak’ at the top of his voice, to drive the pain from his mind.

Beatty was crouched close by, examining a marine whom he quickly decided was dead. Before we could call him, wounded men recognised the Admiral, and started to shout out, ‘Mr Beatty. Lord Nelson is here. Mr Beatty. The Admiral is wounded.’

Beatty came at once, and had us carry Nelson away from the cockpit to a quieter, less crowded area close to our midshipmen’s berth. It was so dark here, we almost dropped him, as we stumbled on debris underfoot. We laid him down against the strakes, and Beatty set about his work. Nelson was already becoming confused, and asked who he was. ‘Ah, Beatty,’ he said. ‘You can do nothing for me. I have but a short time to live; my back is shot through.’

My task over, I left the safety of the orlop deck to return to the carnage of the poop deck. I looked over to the Admiral and knew I would not see him alive again.

Climbing the companionways up to the weather deck my legs felt like lead, as they had on that dreadful spring morning outside Copenhagen four years ago when I was brought from the belly of HMS
Elephant
to be hanged.

On the gun decks I could see we were jammed up against the hull of the
Redoutable
, and in many places the crews had not room to run out their guns. On the lower deck they fired up, through the hull, and on the upper deck, they fired down. Whatever ghastly slaughter was taking place inside the
Victory
, it would
be nothing compared to the bloodshed on the
Redoutable
. Being so close to the enemy carried its own special risks. I saw men on our gun decks throwing water through the gun ports, attempting to put out fires they had started inside the hull of the enemy ship. If the
Redoutable
was set ablaze, we could catch fire too.

On all the gun decks there were cannons overturned and destroyed on their carriages. These guns were the victims of what the men called ‘a slaughtering one’ – an enemy shot that had come in straight through a port and wiped out an entire gun crew.

I picked my way through the bodies and over to the companionway up to the upper gun deck. Here I stood aside for another wounded man being carried down. It was Pasco. He was bleeding badly along his right side and the sleeve of his right arm was soaked in blood. ‘Grapeshot,’ he said. ‘Peppered with the stuff.’

‘Can I help?’ I asked weakly. I did not want to leave him.

‘Back to the poop deck, Witchall,’ he said, tugging on to my sleeve. ‘Hold fast. Do your duty. Good thing you weren’t there. We would both have caught it.’

It was almost a relief to emerge from the companionway into the open air, for the noise was so great by the guns that men could only communicate by making signs to each other. I could see that the poop deck and quarterdeck were almost deserted. They had become
the most dangerous place on the ship.

As if to confirm my fears, there on the quarterdeck I saw the most hideous sight. One of our gunners was going about his duty when a shot caught his hand and ripped it from his wrist. Horror-struck, he held the bleeding stump up to look at it and a second later a cannon ball caught him in the chest and took his head clean from his shoulders. Two marines ran from cover, gathered what was left of him and cast him overboard.

To our larboard I could see another vessel, where blood was running from the scuppers and down the top-sides. The sight of it nearly made me vomit, and I had to steady myself on the ship’s rail.

By now, the things I was seeing no longer seemed real. The battle was turning into a strange nightmare. On I went, sleepwalking to my fate, whatever that would be.

Shot thudded down from above, close to my feet. I danced clumsily out of the way, then Captain Hardy emerged from the cover by the shattered ship’s wheel and pulled me beneath. ‘Stay here for now, Witchall. There’s no point making signals in this fug.’

It was true. We could scarcely see the
Redoutable
through the smoke of the guns, let alone one of our own ships.

We crouched for a while, and there came a steady thump and CRUMP of explosions as men in the
Redoutable
’s tops threw down grenades on our
companionways, wrecking our carefully tended decks. All that work, caulking the planking and rubbing fingers to the bone with holystones, was now wasted.

The
Redoutable
stopped raining down fire. ‘Have they struck?’ said Hardy. ‘Perhaps their men have stopped firing because there is no one left to fire at?’ said a lieutenant. That was true. Only bodies remained visible on our weather deck.

Hardy shouted down to the upper gun deck, commanding our starboard batteries to cease fire. There was a strange silence on the ship, broken occasionally by the rumble of guns from our larboard crews, firing at enemy ships on their side. Had we won this particular battle? Then, through the screaming and cannon fire, we heard a piercing cry – ‘
A l’abordage!
’

‘They’re coming aboard,’ said Hardy. ‘Come on, Witchall, let’s see what you’re made of!’

We ran out from cover with a party of marines. One immediately fell to the deck, a victim of musket fire. The rest looked above, and discharged their muskets towards their comrade’s assassin, but we could not see who had fired the shot.

I ran to our starboard rail and peered over, expecting to see men from the
Redoutable
swarming up the side of our ship. But before I could take a proper look a shot whistled past my ear and I ducked behind the rail. ‘Never mind that,’ said Hardy, ‘they’re coming
over the mainmast.’

Towards the waist of the ship they had swung the mainsail yardarm around to act as a bridge for their boarders. Through the smoke I could see men swarming up the ratlines and out on to the yard, armed with cutlasses, boarding axes and pistols. Our marines had seen them too, and directed their musket fire on the yard. Our attackers fell in such numbers the others lost heart and turned tail. Our men kept up their fire as the enemy clambered down and some chose to plunge to the deck rather than face being felled by a musket.

Now it was safer to lean over the sides, we fired at the deck below. I pointed my pistol at an officer and saw him drop to his knees.

But another hail of grenades from the masts above drove us back into the shelter of the poop deck. How much longer could we hold off another assault? There were so few of us still alive on the upper deck of the
Victory
.

‘This is how I will die,’ I thought. A midshipman fighting shoulder to shoulder with Captain Hardy. I would go out in a blaze of glory and damn the enemy to hell!

‘Let us hope Collingwood’s column is faring better,’ said Hardy, to no one in particular.

But we were not done for, not yet. Close to our starboard side we heard an almighty broadside. The
Redoutable
rocked and trembled in the water so
violently there could be no doubt that she was the victim of this attack. One of the marines raised his head to look at what was happening, and was felled at once with a musket shot through the temple. That was how I would like to die, I thought. No spilled guts, no ripped off limbs. No agonising struggle with gangrene …

The
Redoutable
shook again – jolted by another broadside. ‘It must be one of ours – come up beside her. We’re saved for now!’ said Hardy. I moved to look, but the Captain pulled me back as a shot thudded into the woodwork close to my head. ‘That one had your name on it, Witchall,’ he said.

I couldn’t see which ship had come to our aid, but could make out she was a first rate like us, as she towered above the
Redoutable
. I marvelled at the courage of the French sailors – two great warships had made a vice to trap her between them, and still she fought on. Minutes before, her Captain must have thought he had all but captured us – the greatest prize in the British fleet. Now, they were certain to be massacred.

A midshipman ran through a hail of fire towards us. Hardy didn’t miss a trick. ‘Look boys,’ he said to the marines, and pointed to where we’d seen flashes from enemy muskets. The marines fired. Two, then three men fell from the rigging. The midshipman arrived, breathless. He seemed elated to still be alive. ‘Lord Nelson is calling for you, sir,’ he said to Hardy.

‘Tell him I shall be with him presently,’ replied the Captain.

‘Lord Nelson is still alive, sir!’ I said. ‘Perhaps his injuries are not as serious as we feared?’ Hardy shook his head.

He shouted orders that our crews were to load their guns triple shot and with reduced powder. We did not want our own cannon fire to penetrate the
Redoutable
and go through to damage our friends on the other side of her. Then he sprinted out on to the quarterdeck and down below.

The ferocity of the cannon fire died down. The smoke that had made it seem we were fighting in dense cloud and semi-darkness began to clear. Through the haze, to the south, I could see a squadron of French and Spanish ships heading towards us. Were these reinforcements, or merely the van, cut off from the centre early in the battle, and now heading back to aid their comrades? Why had they left it this late? And would they still make a difference? Seeing them I was sure everything was lost. All our struggles had been for nothing. Exhausted after several hours of heavy fighting, we would have to face fresh ships and start all over again.

I stood up and walked back on to the poop deck, my station in battle. Although we were still tangled up with the
Redoutable
, the barrage of grenades and musket fire from her tops had ceased. I stood awhile on the stern,
watching our enemy approach. Through the mist I could see four? Five? No, seven men-o’-war bearing down on us. They would be upon us in less than half an hour.

Then I heard cheering drifting across the water. That must mean someone had surrendered! Was it us or was it them? Across the water I could see a French flag being lowered from the mast of a nearby 74. This was one victory to us, at least.

A moment later I heard something else that gladdened my heart. ‘Witchall,’ yelled Captain Hardy from the quarterdeck, ‘come here at once.’ I ran over. ‘The
Redoutable
has struck. Take a party of men on board to put down that fire in the bow. I don’t want us going up in flames.’

As I prepared to leave, I saw that Robert had appeared on deck. I should have felt elated to see he had survived the battle, but numbness prevailed. Now he was overseeing a party of tars who were clearing rubble from the deck. Hardy saw him too. ‘Neville, go with Witchall to the
Redoutable
,’ he said. ‘Make sure he keeps out of mischief.’

I was still anxious about the enemy warships coming at us from the south. But the wind had dropped, and they had made little headway. Two, I saw, had collided and lagged behind the others as their crews tried to untangle rigging and spars. ‘Never mind them,’ I
thought, ‘we’re
winning
!’

Before me, on the
Redoutable
, was a tangle of netting, fallen masts and canvas. I knew that she was sandwiched between another British man-o’-war, but beyond that, there was yet another warship jammed against her. A French or Spanish ship, I was sure. We were four great warships locked together – perhaps three thousand men, bludgeoning each other to death. What a hideous way to wage war. But then, what ways of waging war weren’t hideous?

I called over three sailors and two marines, and we set off over the starboard side and on to the deck of the
Redoutable
. I dreaded to think what I would find on the ship, and I feared the reception I would receive from the French crew.