Harry Turtledove - Alternate Generals

“Look at the Santissima Trinidad, Pierre.”

The captain also viewed the scene.

“My God, Admiral. They are being hammered by three English battleships. See how they fight! All four decks firing both sides. What an action! But how long can they stand it?”

“Not even that great floating fortress will endure long under such combined fire. As you can see, the English have positioned themselves so that at least one ship can rake the Santissima at all times. But come. We have our own battle to fight. Are the midshipmen prepared to carry out the special orders?”

“All is in readiness, but the men are reluctant. After all, only a madman would set fire to his own ship and cut down a yardarm during a fight.”

The admiral smiled.

“Only a madman. Perhaps they are right. But they will carry out the order when it is given? The timing on this is crucial.”

“Yes, Admiral. They are your men and would leap out of the rigging if you ordered it.”

“Well, let us hope it doesn’t come to that.” He watched the lead ship of the enemy, the Leviathan, turn and start down the French line, vigorously engaging his own lead ship. This continued with the second English ship, then the third. When Leviathan was in range, its bow guns opened up on the Bucentaure. A few shots struck home, others passed menacingly overhead.

“Now, Captain, give the order!” Nelson screamed.

Within seconds a fire sprung up beneath the foremast and the maintop yard came crashing down. The ship fell off from the wind, opening a large gap in the line.

Instantly the Leviathan wore again and made straight for the gap, followed by the rest of the English line.

Once the Leviathan was committed to its course, Nelson gave the order for the fire to be extinguished.

The yard was already cut free and pushed overboard.

Now Bucentaure and Leviathan were about to exchange broadsides. Here’s where the real fight begins, he thought.

He felt the rippling rumble as his great guns fired in succession. The shock of the enemy’s return fire was staggering, tearing great gashes in the deck and throwing up showers of deadly splinters. He saw a promising young midshipman crumple to the floor, a two-foot long, razor sharp piece of oak protruding from the back of his neck.

The headless corpse of a sailor fell out of the rigging and landed at his feet.

But the admiral remained calm, his mind racing to the next series of orders. This is my element, he thought.

As long as these men will fight, I will lead them.

“Prepare to wear to the larboard. As soon as the third ship, I believe it is the Vanguard, passes through, we will close the gap. Have the men on deck lie down when we start. Captain.

She will be able to give us a punishing rake across our bow as we turn. But then we will have them. Captain Devereaux must move soon or the trap will not close.”

They watched the second ship pass, exchanging broadsides while in range, then the Vanguard approached. Nelson gripped the rail, tightly, the knuckles on his left hand turning white.

“Get ready…” get ready…. now!”

The deck was a flurry of activity as men ran around hauling halyards and belaying. Then most lay flat on the deck.

The Bucentaure pointed its bow straight towards the Vanguard while Admiral Nelson stood there defiantly, braced for the broadside .

There was an enormous blast sending shock waves to the heart of the vessel. But the blast did not come from the Vanguard. Nelson looked beyond to see a brilliant conflagration in the middle of the Spanish squadron.

“Dear God! Pierre! It’s the Santissima Trinidadi She’s exploded! The magazine must have caught. And look.

The three English ships she was fighting have all been dismasted. This will help us win today but. God, what a price.”

The blast was so tremendous that both fleets were stunned and every man stopped what he was doing. There was silence, broken only by the great splashes made by shattered masts and yards falling into the water from the vast height to which they had been exploded. By the time the fighting resumed, the Vanguard had missed its chance to rake Bucentaure.

Now the flagship was preparing to rake the stern of the Vanguard as it moved across her rear. The men on board the English ship realized their position and ran about wildly, trying to change course. Nelson ordered the firing to resume and the men cheered as the enemy’s main-topmast came down in a tangle of cloth, wood and rope. Two more broadsides were delivered before the Vanguard was out of range, one of which crippled the rudder.

The admiral now turned his attention to the rest of the English line. The fourth English ship had realized the situation and wore to the south, continuing along the rest of the French line, but the three that had gone through were now cut off from the main body. Nelson checked the rear of his line and saw that Captain Devereaux had indeed led the last four ships to the leeward, closing the trap.

The new lead enemy ship had just dealt Bucentaure a withering broadside and the admiral felt the jarring from an explosion below decks. One of our guns blew, he thought, then heard a sick cracking sound from the foremast. He stood helpless and watched as it fell.

“Clear the wreckage!” he ordered.

“Cut it loose. Cut the halyards!” The men worked feverishly but the tangle was too great. His heart sank as Hardy moved up in the Victory. He knew they had lost most of their headway.

Then he made a decision.

“Captain! Helm hard to larboard!”

Pierre looked puzzled and somewhat panicked.

“But Admiral, that will put us in the path of the Victory.”

“Turn, dammit. Now!” he bellowed.

The ship made a sudden lurch to the left and turned into the wind. Please God, prayed Nelson, don’t let her miss her stays. The Bucentaure hesitated for a moment, then the remaining sails filled and she swung around, heading in the opposite direction of his own line. The two lines were so close now that the new course brought them directly next to the Victory.

“Now men, pour it on!” Nelson was screaming and waving his arm, cutlass in hand, as if he was ready to lead a boarding party.

The two ships pounded each other with broadside after broadside. Nelson watched his first lieutenant clutch his chest and fall. Then he noticed that the enemy’s rigging was thick with marines shooting muskets. A sharp pain in his right shoulder briefly distracted him, but soon his mind was back on the battle at hand. His other ships had maintained formation and were making use of the disorder he had caused in the British line. A quick glance over his port rail showed that Devereaux was easily handling the three battle ships that had been cut off and would likely be joining the main body soon. Inspection of the Spanish action, however, revealed chaos. Only time would tell there.

Nothing to worry about now except Victory. He smiled at his own pun. The heated action continued with his own ship giving at least as much as it was getting. His crew cheered spontaneously as the opponent’s mainmast fell lengthwise across her bow, the canvas covering many gun ports.

With redoubled effort, his gun crews worked furiously, firing shot after shot into the enemy ship. Both ships had ceased forward movement now and the Victory was drifting toward the French flagship. Incoming musket fire had stopped as all available hands, marines included, were trying to cut away the fallen sails and clear the gun ports. Nelson was really enjoying this battle and was only distantly aware of the throbbing pain in his shoulder.

Then, as he scanned the English warship, he caught sight of Hardy standing at the stump of the mainmast waving his arms furiously.

“There you are, you bastard,” he said quietly to himself.