Billy Ruffian

THIRTEEN Victory or Death 1805

No other fleet in Britain's long naval history approached a major battle with a keener sense of anticipation or with a greater confidence in its ability to win than did the British fleet off Cape Trafalgar in October 1805. Many of those present had already taken part in sea battles or single-ship actions and were fully aware of the dangers but, as one of the Bellerophon's crew later wrote, 'I can assure you I felt not the least fear of death during the action, which I attribute to the general confidence of victory which I saw all round me.'

There were many reasons for this widespread feeling of invincibility. The first and most obvious was that the British seamen knew that they were superior to their enemy in every essential respect. In particular they were superior in seamanship, shiphandling and gunnery, all of which were crucial in the confusion of a sea battle. Unlike the ships of France and Spain which, apart from the brief and desperate foray to the West Indies, had spent years blockaded in their naval bases, the British ships at Trafalgar had been more or less constantly at sea since the outbreak of the war with France. Their officers were experienced in navigating and keeping station in all weathers and in some of the most treacherous waters in the world. Their crews were constantly drilled in gunnery and their accuracy in firing from a moving platform and their rate of fire were formidable. Moreover the British not only knew the weaknesses of their enemy but were used to winning. In the past ten years British fleets had been victorious in a succession of battles, notably those of the Glorious First of June, Cape St Vincent, Camperdown, the Nile and Copenhagen. And in Nelson they had a commander-in-chief in whom they had total confidence and who inspired a devotion and loyalty among all ranks which had a remarkably unifying effect.

A less obvious but equally powerful reason for the determination and spirit of the British seamen was that they truly believed that they were fighting for the defence of their country and for their homes and families. When the Bellerophon left Plymouth in September 1804 the entire south coast was in a state of readiness to repel the invasion flotilla which Napoleon had gathered in the French ports. Every English sailor knew that the navy was all that stood between Napoleon's armies and the conquest of their country. Collingwood spoke for many when he wrote that he felt 'as if the welfare of all England depended on us alone'. There was also a strong feeling among British sailors that they wanted to put an end to the dreary task of blockading the enemy ports, and to confront and defeat the enemy once and for all so that they could return home to their anxiously waiting families. What they dreaded was that the enemy would elude them. Much of this is summed up by the reaction of the Bellerophon's, Lieutenant Cumby when the combined fleet of French and Spanish ships was first sighted coming out of harbour:

Our joy at the prospect this afforded of an opportunity of bringing the enemy's fleet to action, and consequently terminating the blockade which we had been so long and so disagreeably employ'd was considerably checked by the apprehension that it was merely a feint on their part and having no intention of giving us battle that they would re-enter the harbour of Cadiz so soon as they discovered us in pursuit.

Cumby was not to be disappointed. Indeed he was the first man in the fleet on 19 October to observe the signal from the British ship on the horizon that the enemy had put to sea. Nelson had deliberately kept his fleet of twenty-seven ships of the line out of sight of Cadiz in order to encourage them to venture forth and to prevent them knowing how many British warships were in the vicinity. He relied on a line of frigates and an advanced squadron of ships of the line to keep him informed of any enemy movement.

At dawn on 19 October the frigates Euryalus and Sirius were keeping their usual watch on the masts of the enemy ships gathered in the harbour of Cadiz. They were so close to the shore that a midshipman in one of the frigates was able to see the ripples of waves breaking on the beaches of the bay. As the sky lightened in the east the lookouts on the frigates noted that the enemy ships had their topsails hoisted, a sure sign that they were preparing to get under way. At 7 o'clock the Sirius hoisted the signal flags 370, which, in the revised signal code devised by Popham, signified: 'Enemy ships are coming out of port.' The Euryalus passed the signal on to the frigate Phoebe waiting on the horizon, and from the Phoebe the message was passed on to the Naiad, then on to the ships of the advanced squadron: first the Defence, then on to the Colossus and then the Mars which was the last in the long line stretching from Cadiz to the main fleet 50 miles away.

It was such a lovely morning, with a clear sky and light winds, that Nelson had invited Collingwood and several of his captains, including John Cooke, to come on board the Victory and dine with him. In answer to Nelson's signal the Bellerophon had left her station and was setting sail towards the flagship when Lieutenant Cumby spotted the signal flags flying at the masthead of the Mars on the distant horizon. He distinctly made out the numeral signal 370 and immediately passed on this crucial information to Captain Cooke, asking his permission to repeat it. Cooke carefully examined the distant ship with his telescope but only the topgallant masts of the Mars were visible above the horizon and he could not make out the colour of the signal flags. He was unwilling to repeat a signal of such importance while a doubt remained but said he would do so if any of the other people who were staring at the Mars through their telescopes would confirm Cumby's interpretation of the signal. Cumby was convinced of what he had seen because he knew from long experience that he had unusually strong eyesight but unfortunately none of the other officers or signalmen were prepared to endorse his opinion. And so he had 'the mortification to be disappointed in my anxious wish that Bellerophon should be the first to repeat such a delightful intelligence to the Admiral.'

Cumby knew that the Mars would now make the distant signal 370 which was made with a flag, a ball and a pennant at different mastheads and was much easier to make out because it did not depend on the colours being recognised. Sure enough the Mars hauled down the coloured flags, fired several guns to attract attention and hoisted the distant signal which left no one in any doubt of the message. Before the Bellerophon could repeat this the Victory acknowledged the signal and then hoisted the signal for a general chase to the south-east. The time was 9.30 am. Every ship in the fleet shook out the reefs in their sails, made all sail possible and headed for the Straits of Gibraltar because, with the wind from the north-west, Nelson presumed that Villeneuve was heading for the Mediterranean. Throughout the rest of the morning and all through the afternoon the British sailed in pursuit of an enemy which was only visible to the most distant of the British frigates. At sunset Nelson instructed the Bellerophon and four of the fastest ships in the fleet to sail on ahead during the night, each carrying a light in order to keep in touch. There was an air of impatience on every vessel and Captain Cooke was so concerned at missing the enemy that he suggested to Cumby that one or other of them should remain constantly on deck until they brought the enemy to action. Cumby agreed, and volunteered to take the first two watches. He remained on the quarterdeck until midnight when Cooke came up to relieve him.

At daylight on 20 October there was no sign of the enemy and Nelson ordered the fleet to haul the wind and head northwards. During the course of the morning the weather closed in. A fresh breeze brought rain and an enveloping, thick, damp fog. The ships hove to, each adjusting their sails and taking in reefs where necessary so they could keep their correct stations. By midday they were heeling over under squally showers, the rain sweeping across the decks, pouring off sails and dripping off the hats of the officers huddled on the quarterdecks. On the Bellerophon they were unable to see the signals of the distant frigates but Cumby was heartened to see the Victory send a signal to Captain Blackwood of the Euryalus, ordering him to keep the enemy in sight during the night. 'This cheered us with the hope of an action in the morning and according to our previous arrangement Captain Cooke remained on deck till twelve o'clock and he relieved me again at four without anything happening.' During the night the rain died away and the wind dropped to the lightest of airs but there was an increasingly heavy swell from the west, the forerunner of a storm which was heading across the Atlantic. Those on deck observed the frequent flashes of blue lights and fires from the frigates which indicated that they could see the lights of the enemy fleet.

Cumby had retired to his cabin and had been asleep for less than two hours when he was rudely awakened by his friend Overton, the ship's master: 'Cumby my boy, turn out,' he shouted. 'Here they are all ready for you; three and thirty sail of the line close under our lee . . .' Cumby hurriedly got dressed but before going on deck he knelt down by the side of his cot and prayed to the great God of battles for a glorious victory and 'committed myself individually to his all wise disposal and begging his gracious protection and favour for my dear wife and children, whatever his unerring wisdom might see fit to order for myself.' He was later to reflect with a feeling of pride that his own prayer was remarkably similar to the prayer which Nelson committed to paper before the battle.

Lieutenant Cumby came on deck to find the crews of every ship staring at the eastern horizon which was filled with the masts and sails of warships silhouetted against the soft light of dawn. As the sun rose and illuminated the enemy fleet, the watching sailors could clearly see the colours of the flags and ensigns flying above the extended line of white sails: the blue, white and red of the French flags mingling with the rich red and amber of the Spanish flags. They were nearly 12 miles away and although the British fleet had the weather gauge the wind was so light that it was evident to all present that it would be several hours before the two fleets met. The Bellerophon's log-book gives no hint of the excitement felt on board the ship but simply notes, 'at daylight observed the Enemy's Fleet to leeward bearing ENE' and follows this with a list of the signals hoisted by the Victory as Nelson prepared his fleet for the long-awaited encounter. At 6.10 he ordered them to form the order of sailing. This was followed by an order to 'Bear up in succession on the course set by the Admiral.' The Victory slowly swung round and headed east-north-east in the direction of the enemy ships on the horizon. As the other ships followed her example a third signal was hoisted to the masthead of the flagship. It was signal 13: 'Prepare for battle.' On the Bellerophon and on every other ship in the fleet the orders were given to beat to quarters and clear for action.

Villeneuve was also preparing for action. Ever since he had heard the news that Napoleon intended to relieve him of his command and that Vice-Admiral Rosily was on his way to replace him, he had determined to venture forth and save his reputation by leading the Combined Fleet into battle. But he did so with a heavy heart. In theory his thirty-three ships of the line should have been more than a match for Nelson's twenty-seven but he knew only too well how unprepared his forces were. Writing from Cadiz to Decrès, the Minister of Marine, back in August, he had revealed his deep concerns about Napoleon's ambitious plans: 'I beg of you to believe that nothing can equal the despair that I am suffering from them and the horror of the situation in which I find myself.' He warned that the state of equipment of his ships, and the lack of co-operation and intelligence 'did not allow of encountering the slightest obstacles without suffering irreparable injuries, dispersion and the ruin of the project, making us the laughing-stock of Europe.' His forebodings were backed up by the conclusions of a Council of War which he called on board his flagship Bucentaur on 8 October: All present recognised that the ships of the two allied nations are for the most part badly armed, through the weakness of their crews; that many of them have not yet exercised their crews at all at sea . . . and that the enemy in the offing is much more powerful than ours.'

Now that he was at sea Villeneuve put a brave face on the situation. His final instructions to his captains issued on the morning of the battle were as resolute as could be expected in the circumstances. What is particularly interesting about these instructions is that he anticipated with remarkable accuracy the method of attack which Nelson would adopt: 'The enemy will not confine himself to forming in a line of battle parallel with our own and in engaging us in an artillery duel.' This of course was the traditional way in which sea battles were fought. Recalling, perhaps, the tactics used by the British in previous actions, he warned his captains that the enemy 'will endeavour to envelop our rear, to break through our line and to direct his ships in groups upon such of ours as he shall have cut off, so as to surround and defeat them.' He reminded them that 'a captain who is not under fire is not at his post', and concluded, 'every effort must be exerted to go to the assistance of the ships assailed and to close on the flagship, which will set the example.'

In the great cabin of the Bellerophon Captain Cooke and Lieutenant Cumby had breakfast together as they usually did at 8 o'clock. When they had finished their meal and the captain's servants had removed their plates Captain Cooke told Cumby that he had something which he wanted to show him. He unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to Cumby. It was Nelson's memorandum to all his captains in which he set out his instructions for the conduct of the battle. It began, 'I have made up my mind that the order of sailing is to be the order of battle . . .' and went on to describe how he intended to cut through the enemy line near the centre and then turn and overpower all the enemy ships from the centre to the rear of their line before the vessels at the front of the line could come to the rescue of their beleaguered and outnumbered ships at the centre and rear. Nelson had originally intended to attack with his fleet arranged in three lines but, as both fleets were smaller than he anticipated, he changed this to two lines. He would lead the weather column into action and Collingwood would lead the lee column. His memorandum concluded, 'Captains are to look to their particular Line as their rallying point. But, in case Signals can neither be seen or perfectly understood, no Captain can do very wrong if he places his Ship alongside that of an Enemy.'

When Cumby had finished reading the document Cooke asked him whether he understood the Admiral's instructions. Cumby told him that they were so distinct and explicit that it was quite impossible that they could be misunderstood. Cooke expressed his satisfaction at this and said that he wanted Cumby to be aware of the instructions so that he would know how to proceed in case he, the captain, should be 'bowl'd out' during the action. Cumby recorded his reply: 'On this I observed that it was very possible that the same shot which disposed of him might have an equally tranquilizing effect on me and under that idea I submitted to him the expediency of the Master (as being the only other officer who in such case would remain on the Quarter Deck) being also apprised of the Admiral's instructions.' Cooke immediately agreed with this and Overton was summoned to the great cabin and he too read through Nelson's memorandum. Only one of the three men present would live to see the day out.

It was now time for the first lieutenant to carry out his duty of inspecting the ship, so that he could report back to the captain that all was in order and the ship was ready for action. Most of the gun crews had stripped to the waist and had handkerchiefs bound tightly around their heads and over their ears to deaden the noise of the guns. Some of the men were sharpening their cutlasses in readiness for boarding or repelling boarders when the time came. On reaching the lower deck Cumby made his way along the line of guns and gun crews until he reached George Saunders, the ship's fifth lieutenant, who was in charge of the seven foremost guns. Saunders drew his attention to some of the gun barrels 'where the zeal of the seamen had led them to chalk in large characters on their guns the words, "Victory or Death": a very gratifying mark of the spirit with which they were going to their work.'

The same spirit was evident throughout the ship. One of the midshipmen later wrote, 'One would have thought that the people were preparing for a festival rather than a combat, and no dissatisfaction was expressed except at the state of the weather, which was calm, and prevented our quickly nearing the enemy.' The slow speed at which the two opposing fleets approached each other was one of the most memorable features of the battle for those who took part in it. With the westerly breeze behind them, the British ships set all possible sail but so light was the wind that most of them were averaging no more than 2 or 3 knots. This meant that six hours elapsed between the first sighting of the Combined Fleet and the moment when the ships were close enough to open fire.

Surprisingly, with such an extended time to wait for battle to be joined, the British sailors remained remarkably cheerful. The music no doubt helped. Several ships had bands on board. These varied considerably in size and quality: a few captains had bands made up of professional musicians and several ships were able to muster some volunteer musicians from their crews, but everyone later recalled the sound of stirring tunes thumping across the calm water. 'Rule Britannia', 'Hearts of Oak' and 'God Save the King' were played with patriotic fervour and it is recorded that the band on the Tonnant, the ship immediately ahead of the Bellerophon, played 'Britons, Strike Home', a tune popular among the seamen at the time. No doubt the thought of prize money also kept many sailors' spirits up. The midshipman who remarked that people seemed to be preparing for a festival also noted that, 'so confident were our people of success, that though we were bearing down on a superior fleet, they were employed in fixing on the number of their prizes, and pitching upon that which should fall to the lot of each of our ships.' Although an ordinary seaman could expect no more than a tiny proportion of the value of any ship captured (for every £1,000 of a captain's share of a prize, a seaman's share in a 74 was around £2) there was always the hope that it would be enough for them to retire from the sea and find an easier life ashore.

At 11 o'clock the enemy fleet was still some 3 miles distant. Captain Cooke reckoned that they would not be in action for an hour or more and so gave the order for the men to be piped to dinner. The ship's cook and his assistants had been warned to have a meal ready around this time, on the basis that 'Englishmen would fight all the better for having a comfortable meal.' While the men ate their meals crouched beside the guns, Captain Cooke joined the officers in the wardroom. Situated below the great cabin this was normally lined with cabins and dominated by a long table in the centre of the room. With the bulkheads forming the cabins removed and the table and chairs stowed below, the space was eerily empty, apart from the six guns run out at the gunports and made fast, ready for action. The only flat surface was the rudderhead and they used this as a table for their makeshift meal of cold meats.

Most of the crew were still eating when there was the sound of cheering from those on deck and more distant cheering from other ships in the fleet. A signal had been hoisted on the Victory which had caused some excitement. The 19-year-old John Franklin (later to make his name as an Arctic explorer) was the signal midshipman in the Bellerophon and from his position on the poop he had noted the signal flags and worked out the message. It read 'England expects that every man will do his duty.' In some quarters the message was received with impatience, the seamen muttering that they had always done their duty and Collingwood complaining that he wished Nelson would stop signalling because they all knew what they had to do. However Lieutenant Cumby recorded that the message 'produced the most animating and inspiriting effect on the whole fleet'.

They were now only a mile or so from the enemy's line. A slight shift in the wind direction earlier had prompted Villeneuve to order the Combined Fleet to wear and form a line of battle on the port tack. This manoeuvre would have been carried out with military precision by the British fleet but it had led to considerable confusion among the Allied ships and their line was in still in some disorder. Nevertheless the spectacle of thirty-three line of battle ships, viewed broadside on and stretching across the calm water for nearly 2 miles, was both daunting and magnificent. The enemy ships were illuminated by the full glare of the midday sun, which glinted on the barrels of hundreds of guns emerging from rows and rows of gunports. The formidable power of the massive black hulls, enlivened with horizontal bands of yellow and white and red, provided a sharp contrast with the carnival spirit of the multi-coloured flags and pennants. 'I suppose no man ever before saw a sight of such beauty' wrote Captain Codrington of the Orion and he called all his lieutenants up on deck to witness a scene they were unlikely ever to see again.

At 2 minutes before noon the French ship Fougueux opened fire on the Royal Sovereign with a full broadside. Collingwood's flagship was fresh from the dockyard and her clean copper bottom enabled her to draw ahead of the slower ships following her. On the Bellerophon they watched her break through the enemy line and singlehandedly engage the Fougueux and the Santa Ana, the flagship of one of the Spanish admirals. The Belleisle, Mars and Tonnant followed her into action, and then it was the turn of the Bellerophon to face the enemy broadsides. Captain Cooke had originally decided that he would hold his fire until they were in the act of passing through the enemy's line but, while still some distance away, the Bellerophon came under such fierce and accurate fire that men were going down and masts and rigging were in serious danger. Cooke gave the order to open fire without further ado. This gave the beleaguered crew a chance to retaliate and also provided a protective screen of gunpowder smoke so that the ship was not such an easy target for the enemy gunners.

The Bellerophon cut through the enemy line at 12.30, receiving fire from both sides and passing close under the stern of the Spanish 74-gun ship Monarca. The Spaniard received the full force of the pent-up energy of the Bellerophon s crew. Two broadsides from the carriage guns and three devastating salvoes from the deadly carronades on the upper deck caused crippling damage and temporarily silenced her. The Bellerophon was moving in for the kill when the topgallant sails of another ship appeared above the billowing smoke to leeward. They were on a collision course. Captain Cooke ordered the sails to be backed in order to check their progress but it was too late. They just had time to read the name L'Aigle inscribed on her stern before they crashed into her, the Bellerophon s starboard bow hitting her port quarter, and the yards of both ships becoming entangled.

L'Aigle was one of the new batch of French 74-gun ships and, while nothing like as powerful as the flagship L'Orient which the Bellerophon had faced at the Nile, she was a formidable opponent. She was bigger than the Bellerophon, had higher calibre guns (40- and 24-pounders compared with the Bellerophon's 32s and 18s) and was commanded by Captain Gourrege who proved a determined and heroic commander. She also had 150 soldiers on board who lined the bulwarks and were posted in the tops, and subjected the Bellerophon to a hail of musket fire and grenades. On the poop deck, the quarterdeck and in the waist of the Bellerophon men were falling fast. The officers were always prime targets in such circumstances and when Cumby looked up and saw that the French soldiers had marked out Captain Cooke and were directing their fire at him, he urged him to remove his distinctive epaulettes. Cooke's reply was, 'It is now too late to take them off. I see my situation, but I will die like a man.' Cooke then sent Cumby below to give directions to the gun crews.

The Bellerophon was now under sustained fire from three enemy ships in addition to L'Aigle. They were the Spanish ships San Juan Nepomuceno and Bahama and the French ship Swiftsure.

To be attacked by the Swiftsure was a strange stroke of fate. She was a sister ship of the Bellerophon, having been built to a Slade design of the Elizabeth class and launched at Wells shipyard at Deptford in 1787, the year after the Bellerophon's launch. She had fought at the Battle of the Nile and had taken the place of the Bellerophon alongside the massive French flagship L'Orient when the dismasted Bellerophon had been forced to break off the action. In 1801 she had been captured in the Mediterranean by a squadron led by Admiral Ganteaume and the French had retained her British name.

It is unlikely that there was anyone on the Bellerophon who was aware of, or cared too much about, the past history of the Swiftsure at this moment. She was flying a French ensign and, together with L'Aigle and the Spanish ships, she was rapidly reducing the Bellerophon to a shambles.

The ship's log-book records that at 1 pm the main and mizen topmasts fell over the side. This would have caused a chaotic scene, with a tangle of rigging, yards and sails strewn across the deck and dragging alongside. Captain Cooke was hit at precisely 1.11 pm according to the log-book. An eye witness described the moment of his death:

He had discharged his pistols very frequently at the enemy, who as often attempted to board, and he had killed a French officer on his own quarterdeck. He was in the act of reloading his pistols (and upon the very same plank where Captain Pasley lost his leg on the 1st of June) when he received two musket-balls in the breast. He immediately fell, and upon the quartermaster going up and asking him if he should take him down below, his answer was, 'No, let me lie quietly one minute. Tell Lieutenant Cumby never to strike.'

Having checked on the gun crews below deck, Cumby was returning along the main deck when he met his friend and messmate Edward Overton, the master. His leg was dreadfully shattered and he was being carried by two men. Cumby had to turn aside and give some directions and was about to climb the ladder to the quarterdeck when a quartermaster told him that the captain was very badly wounded and he believed he was dead.

Cumby now assumed command of the ship. There was no question of surrendering but things did not look promising. In fact the Bellerophon was in a more perilous situation than any other British ship in the battle with the possible exception of the Beileide. The Bellerophon was under fire from a ship astern of her, another ship ahead of her, and a ship on her port beam. She was hampered by the wreckage of two topmasts, and on her starboard side she was still entangled with L'Aigle whose crew continued to rake the decks with musket fire and to hurl grenades through gunports, before preparing to board. Because the upper deck and poop deck of L'Aigle were considerably higher than the Bellerophons decks the French soldiers were able to pick off the British sailors one by one and Cumby found that there were only a handful of his crew still standing on the exposed upper decks. He immediately ordered these survivors to take cover below and mustered a group of armed seamen and marines under the half deck in readiness to repel the boarders who were massing along the sides of the French ship.

Five of the French seamen climbed onto the Bellerophon's spritsail yard and were heading towards her bowsprit when a seaman named McFarlane had the presence of mind to release the spritsail brace which supported the spar. The yard-arm tipped down under the weight of the boarders and they were all thrown into the sea. John Franklin, who had miraculously survived the hail of musket balls on the poop, observed a number of French sailors grabbing hold of the Bellerophon's rail in an attempt to board her but their hands were so savagely beaten by the British sailors that they were forced to let go and fell between the ships and were crushed or drowned. Franklin also recorded an act of manic bravery typical of that day. Christopher Beaty, a veteran sailor who was yeoman of the signals, became so exasperated at seeing the Bellerophon's ensign shot away three times, that he grabbed hold of the largest Union Jack he could find, climbed up the mizen rigging, spread out the flag as wide as possible and made fast the four corners to the shrouds. According to an eye-witness account, 'The French riflemen in the tops and on the poop of L'Aigle, seeing what he was about, and seemingly in admiration of such daring conduct, suspended their fire for the few seconds that he remained aloft; this forebearance on the part of the enemy being the more noble, as they had previously picked off every man that appeared before the Bellerophon's mizen-mast.'

Meanwhile the gun crews below deck were working with the same disciplined and deadly effectiveness which they displayed when engaged in gunnery practice. Amidst the swirling clouds of gunsmoke, the flash and thunderous explosions of each gun and the savage recoil of the guns on their carriages, the men went through their well-rehearsed routine of loading, aiming and firing, with devastating effect on the enemy ships who came within range. So close were some of the gunports to those of L'Aigle on the lower deck that men were fighting hand to hand at the ports, seizing each other's ramrods and attacking each other with cutlasses. In addition to the gunfire of the ships on all sides the Bellerophon's crew was at the mercy of the grenades which were being lobbed through the ports, causing devastating injuries. One grenade which exploded in the lower deck killed or injured twenty-five men, some of whom were dreadfully scorched. One of the men was so horribly burnt that, instead of going to see the surgeon, he ran aft screaming and threw himself out of one of the stern ports into the sea.

Cumby intercepted a grenade which he found on the gangway with its fuse burning and threw it overboard, but another grenade nearly ended the life of the Bellerophon and her entire crew. It was thrown into a gunport on the lower deck and exploded in the gunner's store room. The blast blew off the door of the store, set fire to the contents, and also blew open the door of the passage leading to the ship's magazine. Cumby described what happened next: 'most providentially this door was so placed with respect to that opening from the passage into the magazine that the same blast which blew open the store-room door, shut to the door of the magazine otherwise we must all in both ships inevitably have been blown up together.' The gunner acted with remarkable coolness in the circumstances. He was aware that if word spread that there was a fire in the vicinity of the magazine there was likely to be widespread panic. He therefore sought out Lieutenant Saunders, quietly explained the problem and requested some men to bring buckets of water to extinguish the fire. Saunders promptly detailed a few men to accompany the gunner back to the store room. They managed to put out the fire without anyone else being aware of the acute danger the ship had been in.

In spite of the devastation caused by the muskets and grenades of L'Aigle, the disciplined gunnery of the Bellerophon's crew began to take its toll, the 32-pounders tearing into the hull and gunports of the French ship at point-blank range, dismounting their guns and causing carnage among their gun crews. After a while the gunports of the L'Aigle were lowered and she stopped firing altogether from her lower deck. At 1.40 pm her crew hoisted her jib and she slowly pulled clear, enduring a tremendous raking fire from the Bellerophon as she went. She drifted down onto the Revenge, fired two broadsides at her, and then found her way barred by the Defiance, whose captain, Sir Philip Durham, later recalled, 'L'Aigle appeared to have been severely handled by some other ship. She was, however, quite ready for action and defended herself most gallantly for some time.' Cumby noted that soon after 2 o'clock the French ship hauled down her colours and surrendered to the Defiance. Her commander Captain Gourrège was mortally wounded and 270 of her crew were killed or wounded.

The Bellerophon was by now totally unmanageable. Not only were the main and mizen topmasts hanging over the side, but the jib-boom, the spanker boom and gaff were also shot away and not a single brace or bowline was serviceable. However, as the smoke cleared away in the lull following the departure of L'Aigle, Lieutenant Cumby saw that the Monarca, the first ship which they had engaged as they cut through the enemy line, was drifting nearby and had hauled down her colours. He immediately ordered a prize crew to take a boat, row across and take possession of her. The surgeon took the opportunity of the break in the gunfire to send a message to Cumby. He said that the cockpit was so crowded with wounded men that it was impossible for him to undertake any major operations. He begged to be allowed to bring those wounded men requiring amputations up into the captain's cabin. Cumby gave him permission to do so on the understanding that he must take the wounded men back to the cockpit if they were approached by any enemy ships.

One of the wounded men was Captain Wemyss, the captain of the Bellerophon's marines and a good friend of Cumby. Wemyss had survived the first onslaught of the musket fire from L'Aigle and had remained at his post on deck until he was hit in the arm. He was coming up the quarterdeck ladder with blood streaming from his shattered arm when he met Cumby who was trying to avoid speaking to any friends and messmates who were wounded in case his distress at their plight distracted him from carrying out his duty as commanding officer. However he felt it would be unkind not to speak to his friend.

'Wemyss, my good fellow,' he said, 'I'm sorry you've been wounded but I trust you will do well.'

To which Wemyss replied cheerfully, 'It is a mere scratch and I shall have to apologise to you by and by for having left the deck on so trifling occasion.' He was then entering the cabin to have his arm amputated. He later died from his wound. While the surgeons struggled to deal with the dozens of wounded sailors and marines, the officers organised groups of men to clear the wreckage on the deck and cut away the shattered topmasts and sails which were hanging overboard on trailing lengths of rigging. At 4 o'clock Cumby spotted five enemy ships from the unscathed van of their fleet tacking and making off to windward. He ordered the captain's cabin to be cleared and at 4.10 they fired every gun which could be brought to bear on the fleeing ships. One of them, a Spanish two-decker, was cut off and surrendered to the Minotaur, but the remaining four escaped. Shortly after 5 o'clock the Bellerophon's guns finally fell silent. The battle was effectively over.

Cumby noted that no fewer than nineteen of the enemy's line of battle ships had surrendered. One of them, the 74-gun Achille, was on fire, with flames and black smoke belching from her decks and gunports. Her crew were frantically abandoning ship and the British ship Prince had lowered her boats to pick up men from the water but the fire reached the magazine before everyone got clear. An eye witness recorded the horrific scene which followed:

In a moment the hull burst into a cloud of smoke and fire. A column of vivid flame shot up to an enormous height in the atmosphere and terminated by expanding into an immense globe, representing for a few seconds, a prodigious tree in flames, speckled with many dark spots, which the pieces of timber and bodies of men occasioned while they were suspended in the clouds.

At 5.30 the Bellerophon took possession of a second prize, the Spanish 74-gun ship Bahama. This was one of the ships which had fired on the Bellerophon as she cut through the enemy line and she had subsequently been on the receiving end of some devastating gunfire from the Bellerophon when approaching her from the stern at the height of the battle. The Bahama had then been attacked by the Colossus, had lost her mainmast and suffered the death of her captain who was shot in the head. The ship was such a shambles and had suffered such heavy casualties that her surviving officers decided to haul down her colours and surrender.

During the height of the battle a dense cloud of gunsmoke had blanketed the fighting ships as effectively as sea fog so that it was impossible for their crews to see anything clearly beyond the ships in the immediate vicinity. But, as the light westerly breeze blew away the smoke, a scene of utter devastation was revealed. The Combined Fleet, which had presented such a magnificent and colourful spectacle in the morning sunlight, was no more. Great ships with towering sails had been reduced to crippled hulks drifting helplessly on the Atlantic swell. The magnificent Spanish flagship Santisima Trinidad, of 140 guns, had been totally dismasted, and so had Villeneuve's flagship the Bucentaure, and the French ships Algeciras and Intrépide. The hulls of most of the enemy ships which had been on the receiving end of British gunnery were smashed and disfigured, their decks littered with dead and wounded bodies, the blood streaming from the scuppers. There was wreckage everywhere floating among the ships: broken masts and spars, hatches, capstan bars, gunport lids, hen coops, and barely recognisable fragments of figureheads, balustrades and stern decorations. Rowing among the wreckage were numerous boats searching for survivors, the sailors following the cries for help and heaving the bedraggled bodies aboard.

It was not till dusk that they became aware on the Bellerophon that Nelson had been killed. Collingwood had been forced to shift his flag to the frigate Euryalus because the Royal Sovereign had lost two of her masts, making it impossible for him to hoist signals. In the gathering dusk Cumby observed that the Euryalus was now carrying the lights of commander-in-chief and that there were no lights on board the Victory, 'from which we were left to draw the melancholy inference that our gallant our beloved Chief the incomparable Nelson had fallen.' Nelson had received his fatal wound at 1.35, half an hour after Captain Cooke had fallen. He had been walking on the quarterdeck of the Victory with Captain Hardy at his side when he was shot by a musketeer stationed in the mizentop of the French ship Redoubtable. The musket ball had entered his left shoulder, penetrated his chest, punctured his lung and lodged in his spine. He fell to the deck and when Hardy turned he was being lifted up by two seamen and the sergeant-major of marines. He told Hardy that they had done for him at last and that his backbone had been shot through. He was taken below to join the other wounded men in the cockpit and died three hours later at 4.30 pm.

The news spread slowly from ship to ship and had a profound effect on officers and men alike. One sailor later wrote that he was both sorry and glad that he had never set eyes on Nelson because 'all the men in our ships who have seen him are such soft toads, they have done nothing but blast their eyes, and cry, ever since he was killed.' Others were so stricken by his death that they could scarcely bring themselves to talk about it. There is a revealing passage in Cumby's letter to this effect: '. . . but so unwilling were we to believe what we could scarcely bring ourselves to doubt that I actually went on board the Euryalus the next morning and breakfasted with Admiral Collingwood from whom I received orders without being once told or even once asking the question whether Lord Nelson was slain.'

Collingwood had known Nelson for nearly thirty years and they had developed a mutual respect and affection for each other. It seems likely that he was so heartbroken by the death of his friend that he could not bring himself to speak of it for fear of breaking down in front of a subordinate officer. He showed his true feelings in his official despatch to the Admiralty which, like his letters home, reveals a sensitivity and warmth which he rarely betrayed to those around him. He wrote, 'My heart is rent with the most poignant grief for the death of a friend, to whom, by many years' intimacy ... I was bound by the strongest ties of affection - a grief to which even the glorious occasion in which he fell does not bring the consolation which perhaps it ought.'

On the Bellerophon they had worked steadily through the night, clearing away the wreckage strewn across the deck. The carpenters stopped up the holes caused by enemy gunfire and carried out emergency repairs, and the seamen refitted the damaged rigging. During the course of the morning after the battle they managed to get up jury topmasts and set sail. The ship was manageable again, which was just as well because the weather was deteriorating fast. The wind had risen during the night and was now blowing a fresh gale with frequent squalls of rain. By the evening it was evident, from the increasingly ominous swell from the west and the racing clouds overhead, that a big storm was heading their way. Before darkness fell Lieutenant Cumby ordered the crew to assemble on deck where he had the painful duty of reading the funeral service over the bodies of his friend Overton, and Captain John Cooke of whom he later wrote, 'more zeal, judgement and gallantry could not have been displayed than marked his conduct from the moment we saw the enemy to the close of his honourable and valuable life.' The two bodies were committed to the deep and the men wept for them and for the other shipmates they had lost during the battle. Out of a crew of 540, the Bellerophon had lost 27 men killed and 123 wounded. It was not the highest casualty list on the British side (the Victory had lost 57 killed and 102 wounded, the Colossus 40 dead and 160 wounded) but it was higher than average and reflected the fact that, for the third time in her life, the ship had been at the heart of the action in a major sea battle.

The total number of casualties on the British side was 449 killed and 1,242 wounded, out of a total strength of some 18,000 men. The French and Spanish losses were reckoned to be 4,408 dead and 2,545 wounded, the unduly high number of fatalities being partly explained by the fact that hundreds of men both fit and wounded were drowned when their ships sank or were wrecked in the storm after the battle. As John Keegan has pointed out in his masterly analysis of the battle, the casualty toll on both sides (about 8,500 killed and wounded, or 17 per cent of those present) was very much lower than the horrendous number of casualties suffered in Napoleon's land battles. There were 55,000 dead and wounded at Waterloo, out of 192,000 soldiers who took part (29 per cent of the total), and 78,000 casualties (35 per cent of those present) at Borodino. Nevertheless, as Keegan also points out, the Battle of Trafalgar was a massacre in terms of sea battles. Nelson's tactics, designed to produce a decisive and overwhelming victory, succeeded in doing just that, and in the process more men were killed and wounded than in any sea fight in the previous 250 years.