Tested by Fate (18 page)

Time and the wind would be against the British, creating a chance by which the Spaniards, passing round his rear, could rejoin into a formidable whole. With both wings of the Grand Fleet reunited, Don José could then choose to retire, making for his
intended landfall, or come round again to oppose the enemy as a vastly superior force. If he chose to run, Sir John’s only option would be to pursue at a distinct disadvantage.

“They’re going to get away,” said Nelson suddenly. He could see the course they were steering, and could calculate the
triangulation
and tell where each ship would be in an hour’s time. Only Troubridge, and perhaps
Orion
, would fetch even the Spanish back markers. They would never head off the enemy flagship.

“Don José may choose to fight, sir.”

“No,” replied Nelson, who was wondering if it was already too late to change things. “The Dons are not like us, Ralph. Even with greater numbers they’ll run.”

Nelson had a sinking feeling in his breast. Ever since he had
listened
to his uncle Maurice recount his tale of the fight at Cape Francis Viego, he had yearned for a day like this. Whether it was to match his uncle or outshine him, he didn’t know, but he did feel that his whole life had been a preparation for this moment: his visions of a brilliant destiny could be fulfilled or destroyed here. There was a solution, but it was so dangerous to his name and
reputation
that it took several moments of contemplation before he could bring himself to articulate it. Someone had to check the flight of the Spaniards; someone would have to supply a base and create a triangle, to cut them off and make them do battle. Succeed, and he would have fulfilled that vision he had had on the way back from India. Fail and he would be derided for a fool and very likely never command a squadron again. He would be like those sad cases he had seen in Bath, the so-called “yellow admirals,” incompetents who had risen to the rank by mere survival, but who would never be trusted with a command. What decided Nelson was the knowledge that, after this day, he would have to look at himself in the mirror. There was no way he could face looking at the reflection of a man he thought of as a moral coward. He spoke very slowly. “Captain Millar, I require you to wear out of the line.”

“Sir?” said Millar, eyebrows shooting up, since that was to turn away from the enemy.

“We will come round full circle and slip between
Diadem
and
Excellent
. Once through and in open water, I wish you to put me across the bows of those Spaniards.”

Millar realised what Nelson was about in putting his ship in front of the fleeing Dons. He also knew, as much as his commodore, what failure would mean. To pull out of the line to disobey orders, not only those of his commanding admiral but those of the
Fightin
g
Instructions. Nelson was putting his whole career on the line, possibly along with that of every officer aboard the ship.

“I feel it is my duty to point out the consequences, sir.”

“Do you wish those orders in writing, sir?” he asked Millar, softly, so his voice did not carry to the other officers on the
quarterdeck
, Lieutenants Hardy and Berry.

“No, sir. I merely wish to make sure you know the hazards.”

“I know what I hazard if I
don’t
act so, Millar, and so do you. The Dons will get away. You do agree, don’t you?” Millar nodded. Nelson put as much into his voice as he could, seeking to persuade a man he esteemed as a friend and admired as a sailor. “Then take it in writing. At least you will have the protection of that if we fail. The blame will fall on me.”

“Fail, sir!” exclaimed Millar, in a voice that could be heard all over the quarterdeck. “I never thought to hear that word on your lips. Mr Hardy, hands to man the braces.”

Hardy possessed a voice to go with his stocky build. The order roared out and men moved. On the command the ropes holding the yards were hauled round, at the same time as the great wheel swung, the rudder biting so that
Captain
came up to take the wind and clear the line. The sails were then backed to bring her head round, then sheeted home and lashed off to take the wind on her larboard side, pushing the ship forward beam on to the wind.

Nelson raised his hat as HMS
Diadem
sailed past them, then heard Millar order the yards hauled round once more as the
quartermaster
put down his helm. Now
Captain
was sailing into the wind at an angle that had Nelson looking left into the stern
casements
of
Diadem
, with the bowsprit and figurehead of Collingwood
in
Excellent
to his right. Within minutes Millar was through, sailing away from his consorts, Nelson’s hat off to exchange a salute, his ears full of the cheers that Collingwood must have encouraged. He could see Troubridge had tacked at the head of the Spanish line, and was coming up hand over fist to join him.

“Flag signalling,” cried Berry.

All the officers watched as various ships’ numbers were hauled aloft to break out at the
Victory
’s masthead. Orders were sent to
Excellent
,
Blenheim
,
Orion
, and
Prince
George
. That was followed by the message instructing them to support HMS
Captain
. Nelson felt a release of tension, of which he had been unaware in the
excitement
and trepidation of his actions. The responsibility was no longer his: Admiral Jervis had approved.

Nelson allowed himself one more look around at the ships
holding
their course to follow Troubridge and those moving directly to his support. He felt his heart swell with the certainty that the fleet would be victorious. That he might not survive didn’t matter. If he expired in the moment of triumph he would have achieved the
single
most important aim of his life, making it worthwhile.

“Lay me alongside the enemy, Captain Millar,” he cried, in a voice that travelled the whole length of the ship.

B
EFORE THOSE WORDS
had died away the closest Spanish ship,
San
Salvador
, opened up, her guns aimed forward to take
Captain
, her whole side wreathed in smoke. Nelson was elated, even though some of the balls struck home, making the frame of the 74 shudder. He was in action.

“Note the time,” said Millar to Hoste, acting as his signal
midshipman
, looking at his commodore to see if he should reply.

Nelson shook his head, seeing that
San
Salvador
had held her course, more intent on evasion than fighting. “I believe we may lay that ship ahead by the board.” He pointed at the towering
four-decker
that would be unable to avoid them. “If my memory serves me well, she is the
Santissima
Trinidad
.”

“Allus the same with little fellers,” said one of the quarterdeck gunners, to his gun captain. “They allus want to pick a fight with the biggest bastard in the room.”

“An’ how many times have you see the big one taken down?” the gun captain replied. “Old Nellie will have her over, you mark my words, mate.”

The approach was close to silent, though ropes creaked, timbers groaned, and some warriors whispered prayers. Aloft, men were
taking
in sail, leaving only the high topsails to give steerage way. Nets were being rigged in their place to catch anything falling from above. Extra chains had been fitted to the masts to stop them going
completely
by the board, and Pierson, the marine officer, had his men in place, up in the caps, main fore and mizzen masts, with muskets ready to play across the enemy deck.

The Spanish ship, knowing that a fight was unavoidable, had replicated everything that had happened in the British 74, albeit without the same efficiency or speed, the loss of sail slowing her progress. She loomed up, two decks higher than
Captain
,
the great
gilded poop so tall that the men who stood on it were invisible. It was always like this before the guns spoke, that terrible period of waiting as two vessels designed for destruction approached each other.

Don José de Córdoba could not have ordered the first salvo, a ragged affair that came from the forward lower deck cannon, the only ones that would bear, 36-pounders, the largest calibre on the ship. The side of the
Santissima
Trinidad
vanished as the smoke
billowed
skywards to hide the upper works. Several spouts of water shot up yards from the British hull to blow away on the breeze. Two balls struck home, making
Captain
stagger, but it was a wooden hull, built to take heavy shot, so they did little harm. The
four-decker
began to turn away, so that her course would run parallel to Nelson’s, inviting a gun-for-gun duel that
Captain
would struggle to win.

“
Culloden
has a press of sail on, sir,” cried Berry, pointing south to where Thomas Troubridge, ignoring easier targets, was coming up hand over fist to the aid of Nelson.

“Then we shall be more than evenly matched when he is with us, Captain Millar, two 74s to a 136.”

“Permission to open fire, sir. I’d like to get the first true salvo in to disrupt the aim of their gunners.”

“Make it so, Captain Millar.”

Every gun was loaded and already run out, the crews with
bandannas
round their ears kneeling ready to reload, and the gun captain stood poised over his flintlock, ready to trigger a spark that would ignite the powder in the touch hole. It was the same on the lower decks, in the glimmer of light emitted by a string of fighting lanterns plus a small amount that came through the portholes. It was just enough to show the eyes of the men and pick up the rouge of the planking, which would show no blood.

Marine sentries stood at the companionways so that no one, panicked by noise or the proximity of death, could run.
Captain
, cleared for action, showed a clean sweep fore and aft, right from the peak of the bow to the stern where the cabins had stood, walls,
stoves, and furniture, all now struck below. The animals had been heaved over the side into the ship’s boats, and were now well away from the noise and fury of the coming contest.

Behind each group of guns stood a blue-coated officer, in
command
of his division. He had the task of controlling the gunnery, trying to ensure that weapons didn’t fire simultaneously. Better rolling fire than a single blast. Underneath their hats they, too, wore bandannas, an attempt to protect their eardrums from the
stupefying
sound of the blast.

“Fire!” yelled Millar.

They didn’t all go off at once, the timbers wouldn’t stand it. Instead the fire rolled down the side, each gun firing within two seconds as the one before it recoiled. The ship shook from stern post to figurehead and the smoke blew back over the deck, the acrid smell of powder and saltpetre catching in the throat. But that slowed nothing. The crew was as well drilled as any in the fleet. On the recoil two bars were shoved under the carriage to hold it steady against the roll of the ship. The first thing down the muzzle was the swab necessary to clear the residue of used powder. That was
followed
by the charge, already pricked by the gun captain so that a small quantity covered and penetrated the touchhole. It was rammed down the muzzle, next the ball chipped and rounded before the battle so its flight would be true. Last to go in was the wad, tamped down to provide a seal that the blasting charge could act against.

The crew hauled on the tackles as one, pulling the cannon into its firing position, black menacing muzzle out of the porthole,
carriage
hauled right up to the rings fixed to the ship’s side. Timing his action to the gun preceding his, the gun captain would lean
forward
again to trigger his flintlock. If that failed there was slowmatch to ignite the powder, to make it hiss and flame, the fire igniting the charge behind the ball. Within half a second the gun would spew forth destruction, sending out a heavy ball and a streak of orange fire mixed with black smoke, the trail of the exploding powder. The ball, well aimed and properly fired, with the right charge of
powder
, arced across the gap between the ships, glanced off an open
port lid. Unseen by those who had fired it, the ball ricocheted through, taking an enemy gun on the muzzle, dismounting the metal, smashing the wood of the carriage, trapping and maiming half the crew and killing two on another gun crew with wood
splinters
gouged out from the deck.

The noise was tremendous, a continuous barrage of sound and fury that made verbal orders impossible. On both vessels the
officers
walked slowly down the line of their cannons, touching each gun captain’s shoulder to control the rate of fire, trying to ignore the effect of enemy shot on their own vessel, the way the timbers of the side suddenly cracked open, parts of the wood detaching to fly like spears across the deck. Men screamed and men died, with extra hands ready to take their places at the guns or to drag them away to the less than tender ministrations of the surgeon.

And all the while the ship’s boys raced back and forth to the gunner, carrying powder charges. Others, not powder monkeys, were given the task of replenishing shot from the locker, a chain of small hands that kept the racks full by each gun. Some had buckets of water, and ladles with which to try to quench the thirst of the gunners, who, after just a few salvoes, were black from head to foot, their skin and hair singed by hot flashing powder.

Aim as they might on the first salvo, it was rate of fire that counted, the sheer volume of shot coming in from the British ship enough to suppress the Spaniard’s reply.
Captain
was making little headway, wallowing on an Atlantic swell. Fire on the down roll and the balls hit the enemy hull. Fire on the up roll and the shot could go anywhere from the bulwarks to the rigging. The Dons laboured under the same conditions, and though they could not manage the same rate of fire, they had more guns and the damage they did was telling.

Blocks and pulleys cascaded down and whole yards were blown out of their chains, falling to rip through the netting and slamming into the deck, careering on to damage flesh and blood as well as wood. Backstay hawsers snapped, ropes parted, and shrouds were shredded, with the foremast the first to go. It snapped above the
cap like a matchstick, falling sideways, a creaking, groaning lament that could be heard above the pounding of the cannon, taking with it several men, some to die smashed on the deck, others tipped
overboard
into a sea from which there was little prospect of rescue.

On the quarterdeck Nelson stood rock still. Having brought HMS
Captain
into action, he was now no more than a figurehead. Others carried the fight to the enemy, but few were as exposed as he. There were several ways to die, and each man aboard knew them well. On deck a musket ball might fell you, or a stray roundshot cut you in half. Every cannon on the deck was a lethal weapon to those who fired it as well as to the enemy. Free of its breaching it would pulverise flesh, blasted from its carriage it could maim and kill. But of all the deadly things to face, splinters were the most lethal,
malignant
shards of wood, some bigger than the men they struck, some so small they were barely visible, capable of lopping off a limb or inflicting wounds that were nearly always fatal.

Through the smoke it was hard to see, but Nelson knew from what he could hear that
Captain
, with
Culloden
having come up in support, was inflicting as much damage as she was taking, and that was considerable. But the price was high. The mainmast followed the foremast, so fouling the way on the ship that a party with axes had to be formed to cut it away. The wheel was gone, shot away, taking the quartermaster and two of his assistants with it. In the lull that followed the
Santissima
Trinidad
hauled clear, this before the next Spanish ship came up to engage. Millar ordered Lieutenant Josiah Nisbet away from his quarterdeck cannon to take an
instruction
below, to alert the men on the relieving tackles, heavy hawsers that worked the rudder, that the steering of the ship was now their responsibility.

Josiah shot down the companionway, immediately struck by the way the sound was muted. Looking along the open lower decks it seemed as if he was gazing into hell. Smoke hung in the air, illuminated by the orange flashes of firing cannon. There were dead men, and wounded, screaming for mercy, bleeding copiously, unceremoniously hauled away either to die or be tended in the
cockpit. There, with only lantern light to work by, the surgeon used his probes, knives and saws, up to his arms in blood, lopping off limbs, rough sewing gashes, with only a swift slop of rum to ease any pain, that and a leather strap between the teeth of his patient. Hardly surprising that the lad took a little longer to return to the deck.

He emerged to find his ship fully engaged against another enemy, trading shot with a crew fresh and prepared. The air was full of
missiles
, chain, and bar shot intended for the rigging but just as effective in slicing through men. And there, in the middle of the
quarterdeck
, stood his stepfather, in his uniform coat, one epaulette hanging off and half the rim of his hat blown clean away.

“Hot work, Josiah,” he said, clearly happy.

Another almighty crack, another wrenching lament, before the mizzen mast began to fall. It didn’t come all the way, but held by the mass of torn rigging that had once held up the other masts, it settled at a crazy angle, the gaff boom jamming into the poop to form a triangle of useless wood. Men rushed to secure it, lashing it to any solid object to stop it doing more damage.

Looking back at
Culloden
, when the wind gusted enough to clear the smoke, Nelson could envisage what his ship must look like. Wallowing and useless,
Culloden
had fallen out of the battle,
rudder
shot away and not more than a stump of any mast standing. It was easy to imagine blood flowing out through the scantlings by the gallon, but whatever the cost, Troubridge could be proud. He had done his job.

“Enemy approaching on our larboard quarter,” shouted Millar. “All hands stand by to engage.”

“
Excellent
is coming up to help us, sir,” cried Josiah.

She was, too, with enough aloft still to overhaul the enemy. By the time
Captain
opened fire with a ship they knew to be
San
Nicolas
, Collingwood had put up his helm to place himself no more than twenty feet from her beam, opening up with a salvo of
gunnery
that tore the Spaniard apart. Great chunks flew from her side into the air; the rigging was shredded on the second salvo, and on
the third the lower ports were smashed in, the clang of metal on metal so loud it was audible across the intervening water.

To the rear of that
Prince
George
had engaged the three-decker
San
Josef
. One Spanish ship sought to edge away from Collingwood, with what few tattered bits of canvas she still had aloft. The
San
Josef
was
seeking to get across the bows of
Prince
George
, to a point where she could pour fire into an enemy who would struggle to respond. Instead she ran foul of her own consort, checking her way so comprehensively that
Excellent
shot past to cheers from
Captain
.

“Captain Millar,” called Nelson.

“Sir?”

“We are useless in the line,” he shouted, pointing to the
nearest
enemy. “Please be so good as to put us at a point where we can board that ship.”

“Mr Nisbet, pray return below again and ask Mr Hooper to put the rudder hard a-larboard.”

It was agonisingly slow, the way that
Captain
inched towards the
San
Nicolas
, both ships firing ragged salvoes. But Millar had done just the right thing, using the run of the sea to put his prow right in line with the poop of the enemy vessel. Men gathered around their leaders, with knives, clubs, muskets, and pikes. Pierson,
leading
the marine detachment, had his men lined up as if on parade, ready to put their first fusillade into whatever resistance formed itself on the Spaniard’s deck.