Ричард Вудмен - 1805

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 ship 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 cutaway 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 towrope, 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 the 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 northwest. 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.