Julian Stockwin - Victory

Except . . . He had a slate on a string. He balanced it on his knee, pulled out a signal form and his pencil and composed his thoughts.

‘Dear Uncle,’ he began, at a loss for words in the rush of impressions.

Villeneuve is sighted this morning at dawn ESE five leagues. Capt Hardy estimates 33 French and Spanish in line of battle to the S. And what a parcel of lubbers they look too! As would give apoplexy to Ad mCornwallis, I should think.

We’ve clear’d for action and the men are in great heart, as well they should with Ld Nelson in company.

He chewed his pencil, trying to think what to say, but it was too weighty an affair for small-talk and, besides, what exactly was he writing? A midshipman’s dutiful letter to his benefactor – or his last words on earth to his family? Who knew when they would receive this? Others had begun their letters weeks before with the object of adding a last-minute postscript to go out in the mail with the dispatches that the commander-in-chief would be sending to the Admiralty just before battle was joined.

At this time, dear Uncle, I think of you and my family but, be assured, should it be by God’s good grace I shall fall in this action then I die in a most noble cause, and know that I will not disgrace your love and name. Do not grieve – it will be to no purpose.

His eyes stung and he caught himself, finishing,

Remember me to my friends. I bid you all farewell and put my life into the hands of the One who made me. Amen.

When Bowden returned to the poop it seemed so crowded. Besides the signal crew, the Royal Marines were assembling there, nearly three dozen of them. Captain Adair flashed him a confident smile as he checked his men’s equipment.

Bowden picked up the signal log. It had been fairly busy, mostly admonitions to individual ships to make more sail and take station. The two columns were now formed and heading for the waiting enemy line, but so slowly in the calm.

‘I say, aren’t the Crapauds sailing more than usually ahoo?’ Adair remarked, shielding his eyes and gazing across the glittering sea where the aspect of the enemy masts and sails was slowly changing.

‘Ha!’ said Pasco in amazement. ‘I do believe they’re putting about and running back to Cadiz!’

‘Be damned! Our Nel will be in a right taking if they get away,’ Pollard, another signal midshipman sniffed, his glass up on the leaders.

Victory ’s bow, however, was resolutely tracking the new head of the enemy line, which was puzzling. From animated discussions the previous night, Bowden had understood that Nelson’s intention was to punch through the centre, and here he was, apparently abandoning his plan.

Then Victory beat to quarters – the martial thunder of the drummers at the hatchways started, the staccato rhythm of ‘Heart of Oak’. Sailors scrambled up from below to man the guns.

A first-rate like Victory had the greatest fire-power of anything afloat: three decks of guns each ranged the entire length of the ship on both sides, the heaviest on the lowest – a broadside of half a ton of cold iron, more if double-shotted at close quarters. And there was the secondary armament: a fourth level of twelve-pounders on the quarterdeck, more on the fo’c’sle, including the giant sixty-eight-pounder carronades.

Already at his station for quarters, Bowden stood aside as the marines formed up with muskets, ready to be employed from this vantage-point. Most of the 140 of their number were below decks serving at the guns.

The great ship settled to a watchful expectancy as she closed slowly with the enemy. Out on the beam were the frigates, their last service for their commander-in-chief to act as repeaters for signals sent by the flagship in the thick of the fight. They would otherwise stay outside the conflict.

A flurry of signals caught Bowden’s eye. They were from Royal Sovereign out on the lee column, instructing the line to sail on a larboard line of bearing. ‘What does Collingwood mean?’ Bowden asked Robins quietly, anxious not to show ignorance in front of Lieutenant Pasco, standing four-square at the front of the poop.

‘Not for me t’ say, but my guess is that Old Cuddy is giving leave to his ships to take on the enemy at will, not as a formed column. I dare to say he knows his business.’

Bowden nodded in understanding. The ships strung out were now going to fall on the rear individually, to envelop it, and there was Royal Sovereign well ahead of the others, aimed like a lance at the last third of the line. Before long they would be the first under fire.

It was galling, the snail-pace approach made even worse by a further drop in the slight breeze. How ironic, he mused, this calm before the storm that was certainly coming, when they needed the breezes so much in order to close before they could be shot to pieces.

Their bow-wave now was barely a ripple, their speed that of the stolid pace of a rank of soldiers on the battlefield tramping towards the opposing lines. But theirs was not to face the crackle of muskets: ahead were the massed broadsides of a wall of ships a whole five miles long, which they must endure head-on without firing a shot in return.

Over to starboard the lee division was nearing the enemy line. Villeneuve must open fire soon, but first his fleet had to hoist colours to accept battle – and thereby reveal which of the great ships was his flagship. It was nearing midday with the line a mile ahead when the colours broke free.

Instantly telescopes were up and searching. ‘There! Near dead centre!’ The pennants of a French commander-in-chief were at the main-mast head of an eighty-gun battleship next after the unmistakable bulk of the Santissima Trinidad , a four-decker and the largest ship in the world.

Then Victory ’s band struck up – ‘Britons Strike Home’! The lusty rhythm was taken up gleefully:

The Gallic fleet approaches us nigh, boys,

Some now must conquer, some now must die, boys . . . !

From another ship came ‘Rule, Britannia’, and ‘Heart of Oak’ thumped out from a third. In the stillness a defiance of the worst the foe could bring against them echoed across the water.

Bowden saw then that Victory had altered course. No longer stretching out for the van, she had thrown over her helm and was heading directly for Villeneuve’s flagship. So the plan would stand as before: a concentrated drive at the very vitals of the enemy.

‘How curious!’ Robins murmured. ‘Shall we ever know why?’

‘Why what?’ Bowden asked.

‘Well, some would say that Nelson was waiting for Villeneuve to show himself before going straight at him. Others might believe that the entire purpose of his attack on the van was a feint to discourage ’em from turning back to rescue their centre.’

‘And you think . . . ?’

‘It might simply be,’ drawled the signals master’s mate, lowering his telescope, ‘that he couldn’t bear to see them return to Cadiz and made to fling himself before them, but when he could see that battle would be joined after all he fell back on his original design to cut out and destroy their commander. So, which is it to be?’

There was little time to ponder. With scattered flat thuds away to the right the opening shots of the battle were made at Collingwood in Royal Sovereign , heading his column. Bowden dared a quick move to the break of the poop to look down on the quarterdeck as though to check something but what he really wanted was a glimpse of the famous hero as he carried England’s fleet into battle.

Nelson was standing with his secretary and others, Hardy at his side, all watching developments intensely. Men waiting silently at the guns followed his gaze. Then came a succession of dull thuds and the rear of the enemy disappeared in gun-smoke.