Victory

Chapter 13

There was a distinct touch of autumn about the unruly bluster that met the men-o’-war under full sail down-Channel on their way to confront the enemy. L’Aurore fared worst. Needing to keep with the battleships in the fresh gale she wore canvas that had her sore-pressed and her boatswain worried.

But there was a fierce pride aboard to be part of the most famous battle-fleet of the age. There would be yarns a-plenty on their return, and if there was the historic clash-at-arms everyone expected, then was this not their duty, the reason for their being? There had been no desertions among the men on liberty, the extraordinary scenes at Nelson’s embarkation witnessed by many of them. It was clear that they had been affected, and Kydd felt that the ship’s spirit was now as exalted as his own.

He went below, allowing Tysoe to remove his streaming oilskins and grateful for a hot negus. ‘What’s that you have, Nicholas?’ he asked, seeing Renzi absorbed in a handwritten sheet.

‘Oh, in the mail – from my worthy friend Mr Wordsworth. He’s a poet of a wild and romantical nature, as you’ll agree, but much given to self-reflection. In this he’s asking my opinion on his musing about the present peril. Listen:

‘“Yea, to this hour I cannot read a Tale

Of two brave vessels matched in deadly fight,

And fighting to the death, but I am pleased

More than a wise man ought to be; I wish,

Fret, burn, and struggle, and in soul am there.”’

Renzi gave a half-smile. ‘If you knew the fellow and the way he’s changed his turbulent ways you’d find it a singular sentiment, my friend.’

Kydd snorted. ‘Really? I defy anyone o’ true heart to stand mumchance in these times – and wasn’t he all for glorying in the Revolution?’

‘As I indicated, his views have altered,’ Renzi said defensively, and laid down the paper. ‘On quite another subject,’ he went on offhandedly, ‘did you by chance notice your sister in Portsmouth at all?’

‘Cecilia? When I was in Guildford she wasn’t there, somewhere in Ireland, I thought. Er, why do you ask?’

‘I’d swear I saw her on shore when we left, waving and calling out. I couldn’t catch what she shouted in the hullabaloo.’

‘I didn’t see her,’ Kydd said, then added slyly, ‘Are you sure it wasn’t just a wish-child?’

‘I saw her well enough,’ Renzi said abruptly and, for a fleeting moment, wondered if indeed he had dreamed it. Then again she might have just arrived in England and hurriedly come to see them both off. Or was it only for her brother?

A stab of longing pierced him – was it his name she had shouted? Did this mean . . . ?

But, then, it couldn’t be – she would have received the letter of release by now. The hope died.

Two more ships-of-the-line, Ajax and Thunderer, joined the few hove-to off Plymouth and, without delay, the group got under way again. The weather moderated before dusk and a workmanlike north-westerly sent them foaming through the waves.

They sighted the well-known Rock of Lisbon and at dawn the next day Cape St Vincent. L’Aurore was detached to go ahead to reach Admiral Collingwood with orders to refrain from gun salutes when Lord Nelson joined: there was to be no indication to watchers ashore that Collingwood was being reinforced.

L’Aurore raised them cruising some fifteen miles to seaward of the old Spanish port. A beautiful and terrifying sight: sombre lines of battleships – twenty, thirty of them, the most powerful British fleet Kydd had ever seen, more than twice as many as had fought at the Nile, the most fearsome weapon ever wielded by one man.

He passed his message, and when Nelson joined towards evening there were no seventeen-gun salutes, no hoisting of colours, simply a general joy running throughout the fleet.

On the following day, one by one, the captains of the various ships were rowed to Victory and welcomed aboard. ‘Ah, Mr Kydd,’ Nelson said warmly, standing in glittering full-dress at the gold-leafed entry port, ‘do enjoy our little birthday party, sir.’

In the splendour of the admiral’s dining cabin, he found that the birthday was in fact Lord Nelson’s own, his forty-seventh. Remarkably therefore, Kydd realised, Victory must be herself close to fifty years old.

It was an evening to remember: the glitter of crystal and silver on the huge mahogany table, the blaze of gold lace and decorations, and the meeting of men whose names were already famous: Harvey of Temeraire, Fremantle of Neptune, Berry of Agamemnon, Duff of Mars – and the frigate captains: Blackwood of Euryalus, Prowse of Sirius, Dundas of Naiad and more, all standing with a glass and chatting amiably.

When Nelson entered he went up to Fremantle and teasingly held up a letter brought out by him from England. ‘You’re expecting a happy event, sir – what is your desire, a boy or girl?’

‘A girl would gratify, my lord.’

‘Then be content, dear fellow,’ Nelson said, handing it over. ‘And Betsey confides she would be in doubts of your health should we venture past the strait.’

He passed on to other captains and seemed to revel in the warmth and fellowship that filled the cabin. ‘Shall we dine?’ he announced, after a discreet prompt from his steward.

The meal was declared a great success and, mellowed by wine, Kydd relaxed back in his chair as the table was cleared.

Nelson, seated at the centre, called for attention. ‘Now, gentlemen! As is my way I would have you in no doubt as to my strategicals. Let me be plain with you – we are now twenty-nine of-the-line. If the enemy delay, which I doubt, they bid fair to make increase to forty-six, even fifty, while in return it would be foolish of us to expect more than a dozen further.’

There was calm confidence in the faces as he continued: ‘What I seek is not a victory. Not even a glorious triumph. Nothing short of annihilating the enemy will satisfy. All shall be devoted to such an end.’

He had their rapt attention now. ‘My very greatest desire is to entice the enemy from port. Only when he is out in the open sea in his full numbers can I think to destroy him utterly. Therefore my fleet will lie fifty miles to the west and a token force only will remain in view of the port. The motions of the enemy, however, will be communicated to me in every detail by the watching inshore frigates and a line of repeating ships.’

There were nods of agreement: every encouragement was needed to ensure the enemy ventured out and was dealt with once and for all, or the threat would persist for many more months, years even.

‘Now to your battle instructions. Gentlemen, let us assume the enemy ventures out in strength and he forms line-of-battle. No day is too long to arrange our line to be formed to oppose them, supposing we are thirty or forty sail.’

Kydd frowned: at a cable apart – a couple of hundred yards – forty ships amounted to a line six or seven miles long, an impossibly unwieldy thing to manoeuvre by the wind to bring up parallel to the enemy line.

‘Therefore I propose to dispense with the old ways. We shall not form line-of-battle. Instead we will throw our force straight at ’em. Pierce their line and bring on a mêlée as will see our ships at their best.’

A murmur went about the table. Nelson was completely disregarding the hallowed Fighting Instructions issued by the Admiralty, which specified that to confront an enemy line it was necessary to form up in parallel and smash away in broadsides until they yielded.

Breaking the line had been done before, however: Rodney at the Saintes, Duncan at Camperdown, even Nelson himself at St Vincent, but always as a chance opportunity, never as a deliberate plan.

‘This is how it will be accomplished. In the event we approach from the windward there will be two divisions, weather and lee. The weather shall attack ahead of the enemy flag in the centre, the lee on signal will bear up to fall severally upon their rear.

‘The assault will be swift – under full sail to stuns’ls, the order of sailing to be the order for battle – for I wish a victory over the enemy flag and rear before their van are able to reverse their course to succour them. Is this clear?’

There was a hush as the implications of the novel strategy were digested, then admiring gasps as it penetrated. By throwing his fleet at the foe on sight, without the formality of juggling positions to form an opposing line, the enemy line was to be chopped into thirds.

The vanguard was effectively to be isolated from the fight when the line was broken at the centre by the weather division, turning it into a close-range free-for-all. The rear third would be dealt with in detail by the lee division, all before the leading enemy ships had time to put about and come to the aid of the others.

In essence, the stately line-of-battle and its exchanging of broadsides were to be replaced by a brawling, one-on-one fight, which Nelson determined to win.

It was daring, reckless even, for the oncoming British divisions would be under fire from the broadsides of the entire enemy line as they approached without the opportunity to fire back. But when they reached and broke the enemy line . . .

‘A most marvellous plan, sir!’ Keats said, in open admiration.

‘Genius! Nothing less will serve to describe it!’

The comments were fulsome. Nelson’s trust in the resolution and capability of each captain was both tribute and compliment. And at its core – that the battle was to be transformed from a fleet action into a spectacular series of individual combats – the strategy tapped the very spirit of aggression that Nelson had inculcated.

He held up his hand. ‘Something must be left to chance, for nothing is sure in a sea fight. In the smoke and confusion signals may be missed, but this I say to you – no captain can do very wrong if he places his ship alongside that of an enemy.’

‘Pray God they sail, and soon!’ cried Moorsom of Revenge, punching the air.

‘And a leading wind as will see us close aboard ’em before they wake up!’ another added.

Wine circulated again and, glasses charged, Nelson spoke for them all: ‘I trust, gentlemen, in English valour. We are enough in England if true to ourselves!’

A roar of agreement arose – and Kydd knew what it was to be one of that band of brothers.

The following day was spent bringing together the fleet that the ships had joined. The men-o’-war lay to as orders criss-crossed by boat: there was much to arrange. This far into hostile waters it was not practical to hazard supply by store-ships and therefore the commander-in-chief had no option other than to send parts of his fleet to Gibraltar for provisions and Tetuan for water.

The first detachment set out, and with Rear Admiral Calder recalled to England, and five away on replenishment, an expectation of forty sail was looking less and less likely. However, this was Nelson’s command and a rising charge of pride was bringing the fleet together in a way that mere orders could not. Almost immediately, those who had not done so began painting ship in the distinctive ‘Nelson chequer’, which had a warlike black hull with vivid yellow along the line of the guns, the gun-ports themselves deadly black squares.

Captain Blackwood called his frigate captains aboard Euryalus. A bluff, energetic officer, he wasted no time. ‘We have our orders: the watch on Cadiz – others will get the observations to the admiral.’

He went on, ‘An inshore squadron of three sail-of-the-line lies ten or twelve miles in the offing, there to tempt Villeneuve, and more are spaced along out to where the fleet cruises, fifty miles or more to the west. It’s our duty to let Nelson know every movement of the enemy. For this we’ll be using your usual Admiralty signals but as well, Captain Popham’s telegraph code.’

It was nothing short of fantastical: Nelson was going to shape the battle in person but over lines of communication at the same distance as from London to Brighton, receiving priceless intelligence in minutes that would enable him to make his approach to the unsuspecting enemy precisely as he chose.

Other details concerned signals to be made at night or in fog, and Blackwood closed with handing a hastily sketched Pennant Board to each that detailed the distinguishing pennants of each ship in the fleet, necessary for the addressing of signals to individual vessels.

‘Then to our station, gentlemen!’

L’Aurore left the fleet in company with the other frigates and, during the night, closed with the moon-cast Spanish coast. At dawn they began their watch, cruising slowly three or four miles offshore, the tiny handful of frigates endlessly passing each other off the ancient city.

Cadiz was well-known to English sailors: here it was that Francis Drake had ‘singed the King of Spain’s beard’ more than two hundred years previously and blockades had been frequent since. The port was within a rocky peninsula on which stood a city of white stone, surrounded by vicious half-tide rocks but low enough to reveal an ominous forest of naked masts within the inner harbour.

Navigation was perilous in these shallow seas, which allowed entire blockading fleets to anchor offshore with impunity but at the same time hid a chain of sprawling reefs as much as three or four miles out to sea.

In the days that followed there was no sparing the ships, for missing the enemy putting to sea would be a catastrophe beyond imagination. Each morning, as the fragrance of the sun-kissed land came out to them, one or other of the frigates would close with the entrance at the fort of San Sebastian and look in. Oared gunboats once issued out to exchange shots but otherwise there was no disputing their presence.

This close, the tall, square Tavira Tower was in plain sight, the mirador that gave the Spaniards a sweeping vista some twenty miles out to sea.

Day by day the watch continued.

A blustery autumnal north-westerly forced the frigates seaward for a time, but also made it dead foul for leaving Cadiz. As the weather moderated they quickly closed again with the white-fringed shore.

A Swedish merchantman put to sea and was intercepted by L’Aurore. The affable master made no bones about what he had seen: deep within the harbour in the inner roads he had noted soldiers embarking in the Combined Fleet and talk alongshore had it that they were merely waiting for an easterly and would be putting to sea.

Kydd lost no time in setting in motion the communications line. They were equipped with monster signal flags fourteen feet across to be perceived a full ten miles distant. The new telegraph code proved its worth in detailing his intelligence but it took skill to handle the huge flags among the entangling lines of rigging.

It was becoming clear that a move was imminent: sharp eyes had spotted that sails had been bent to the yards and signal towers up and down the coast were unusually busy. Had they succeeded in deceiving Villeneuve that he faced only the handful of ships of the Inshore Squadron instead of Nelson, with his fleet being quietly reinforced out of sight? Were they misled by reports from Spanish watchers of Gibraltar that the five detached to store and water had, in fact, seriously weakened the British Fleet?

With thirty-five ships-of-the-line available to him, Villeneuve must have realised that if he was going to break out then it must be now – and when the north-westerly died and was replaced by the whisper of a variable easterly towards evening, even the humblest landman aboard L’Aurore knew what to expect the following day.

With the first delicate light of morning came the electrifying sight of the ships deep in the harbour rigged for sea. Sail to topgallants, fighting topsails, all were bent to the yards ready to set in a trice. And the dense pattern of masts was changing: they were opening up, separating. The ships were warping – the Combined Fleet was coming out.

Kydd’s signal flags – the longed for number 370, ‘Enemy’s ships are leaving port’ – soared up. Five miles away Euryalus acknowledged and relayed it on to the Inshore Squadron. Soon, fifty miles away, Lord Nelson would at long last be receiving the dramatic news he craved.

The winds were light but still in the east. It was taking a long time for Villeneuve’s fleet to reach open water and tension grew. Everything now depended on the frigates: if the French disappeared into the vastness of the ocean once again, it would be a calamity beyond bearing.

Blackwood sent the sloop Weazle flying for Gibraltar to alert the storing battleships while the little schooner Pickle went north to spread the word. The first French frigates were emerging, their mission only too obvious – to destroy the impudent English watchers and allow the battle-fleet to slip away.

L’Aurore was long cleared for action; now she went to quarters, her men standing resolutely by her guns. Blackwood had divided his forces in the light winds, two luring the frigates away while the rest stood out ready to shadow the rest of the enemy.

L’Aurore was given new orders. It was vital that the commander-in-chief received negative intelligence – that the seas north and south did not contain an enemy squadron summoned by shore telegraph on its way to reinforce Villeneuve. Thus one of the precious frigates was dispatched north while L’Aurore hauled to the wind for the run south.

It would be the harshest of luck to miss the coming contest, but Kydd’s mission was to go no further than the entrance to the Strait of Gibraltar and then return by the shortest possible route, assuming any reinforcements sent for from Cartagena would not delay.

They hugged the land up to the one promontory and turning point between Cadiz and the strait, a fearful journey with the scattered reefs. L’Aurore showed true breeding, though, and they raised the bleak sand-spit within a few hours; further inland there was a bluff cliff with a tower. This was marked on the chart as Torre de Meca and the turning point – Cabo Taraf-al-Gar, Trafalgar on Kydd’s chart.

He was struck with a sense of poignancy that reached out to him from the lonely place, in the light airs the sinister gurgling of a roiling counter-current adding to the sense of desolation. The chart had a neat entry noting the current, adding that this was known locally as the ‘Risa de Cabo’, the laughter of the cape.

There were no reinforcements; Kydd sighted Cape Spartel on the African side of the strait and his mission was accomplished. He lost no time in wearing round for the return, dreading what he might find.

The unpredictable weather had turned squally and wet; towards the end of the day he had made it back to Cadiz through the curtains of rain and ragged bluster – and the port was empty. The enemy had left, taking with it the shadowing British frigates.

Kydd was in a desperate quandary as to what to do next but then, to his vast relief, there was a hail from a lookout. To the westward, out of sight from the deck, a fleet had been sighted.

Whether it was Nelson or the French didn’t matter: his duty was clear. As they bore down on the mass of ships an outlying frigate saw them, its challenge showing bright and clear against the dark grey of the clouds. It was the English Sirius.

Kydd closed with the vessel and, in a terse hail, was told developments. The enemy had been hampered in leaving by fluky winds and once to sea had suffered even further from the adverse winds. In all they were thirty-three of-the-line and five frigates and were heading south, towards the Strait of Gibraltar.

Lord Nelson, still in communication, was racing to intercept. Their immediate duty was to stay with the enemy fleet at all costs through the coming night, for it was now fast becoming a certainty that it would be the next day when that fateful clash would come.

Bowden had slept little during the dark hours of the middle watch – the irregular bass creaking at the rudder stock and endless shrill working of the steering tackle sheaves seemed more than usually intrusive. But he knew the real reason: as the day dawned it would unveil either an innocent, empty horizon or the dread sight of an enemy battle-fleet.

Unlike the majority aboard he had served under Lord Nelson in a major fleet action, the Nile, and knew at first hand of the chaos and injury, terror and fatigue – and the callous working of Fate that decreed this one go on to fame and glory and another be struck down.

He was not in a state of mortal fear of the new day for he had long ago concluded that his profession would always require he stand resolute in the face of personal danger, and if he was to aspire to higher things, an unreasoning terror would for ever be a millstone around the neck.

His problem was a sensitive and active imagination that had to be crushed in times of crisis, but now, lying in his hammock in the reeking blackness, it was galloping at full stretch, his restless mind reaching for certainties and assurance for the coming day.

It helped to serve under an unquestioned hero such as Nelson, whose only worry seemed to be that the enemy was not prepared to stand and fight. Now, there was a leader and an example! How could any fail to be inspired by his clarity of purpose, the single-minded objective of victory – and the warm humanity that underlay them?

And there was Captain Kydd, who had risen from fore-mast hand to frigate captain and was as much a natural seaman as Nelson. Bowden had seen L’Aurore’s name on the Pennant Board; at that very moment Kydd was somewhere out in the night, dogging Villeneuve, and whether or not the foe was there in the morning depended largely on whether he and the other frigate captains had done their job.

Or . . . during the night the French might very well have taken fright and returned to port as they had done so often before. Then all talk of a mighty clash would be so much vapour and dreams.

But then again . . . Villeneuve might have slipped his pursuers and was now ranging swiftly north to trigger the invasion.

Bowden tossed and turned restlessly until eventually a ship’s corporal came with his lanthorn to call the watch. He dressed quickly and made his way up the hatchways through the gun-decks of stirring men.

It was a moonless night with the pale immensity of canvas above and the muffled plash of the wake below. The cosy warmth of his hammock was soon forgotten in the chill night breezes. After the usual muted jocularity of handover, his friend Bulkeley, clearly of a mind for rest as he went through the ritual, hurried below.

Lieutenant Pasco was having an irritable exchange with the quartermaster. The officer appeared disinclined to indulge in trivialities and Bowden had to pace the decks alone in the long hours before an imperceptible lightening hinted at the coming sunrise.

The light increased, wave by wave extending out, the anonymity of early dawn slowly infused with colour until the technical requirement for daybreak was met – that a grey goose could be seen at a mile. Then the lookout’s thrilling hail came nearly simultaneously from a half-dozen throats – the enemy fleet was sighted!

There was now no more speculation, no more questioning: the French had not fled back to port, they had not vanished into the vastness of the ocean. Somewhere, soon, there would be enacted the greatest sea battle the world had ever seen.

In the whisper-quiet morning breeze, it was a long hour before they could be seen from the deck but then, stark against the fast brightening eastern sky, the topgallants and upper rigging of countless men-o’-war stretched from one side of the horizon to the other.

By now Victory’s decks were alive with men gazing out over the placid sea. Some mounted the shrouds to get a better view, but in laughing, devil-may-care high spirits – as if they were at a village fair instead of readying to fight for their lives.

Bowden stood at ease next to the wheel, still on watch. Nelson came on deck, avidly taking in the spectacle he had yearned for over so long a time.

‘A brave sight, my lord,’ Pasco said diffidently, offering his officer-of-the-watch telescope.

Nelson seemed not to hear as he focused on the distant masts.

Captain Hardy appeared and stood next to him. ‘I conceive they cannot escape us now, sir,’ he said gravely. ‘And we shall give them a drubbing such as all the world may notice.’

‘I shall not be satisfied with less than twenty taken, Hardy.’ He lifted his head to sniff at the wind. It was calm – barely enough to kick up more than wavelets that sparkled in the misty sunshine, the picture of peace and serenity. Yet underneath, a long, heavy swell rolled in massively towards the land, token of a great storm out in the Atlantic and certain to be heading for them.

‘A west-sou’-westerly,’ he mused, and threw a light-hearted smile at Hardy. ‘It couldn’t be bettered.’

There were knowing looks about the quarterdeck. For the enemy it was going to be difficult. Heading south as they were they had no choice – the shoals and rocks of Spain to the east, and to the west the British Fleet advancing on them, forcing them into a passive defence, the line-of-battle.

Nelson’s plans, on the other hand, had given his fleet the weather gage; upwind from his opponents he could choose the manner and direction of his strike, and everyone knew now how this was to develop.

‘Let’s be about our business then, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Mr Pasco, I’ll trouble you to close up your signals crew – there’s a mort of work to be done.’

‘I have the ship, then, Mr Pasco,’ said Captain Hardy, releasing the officer-of-the-watch, who wasted no time in nodding to Bowden, transforming him in that instant from lowly midshipman-of-the-watch to a far more important signal midshipman.

Bowden mounted the ladder to his station – the poop-deck. Higher even than the quarterdeck, it afforded a magnificent all-round view of the ship forward to the bowsprit and on either side out to the ships in company. He tried to put away the thought that this was also probably the most exposed position on board.

King, the yeoman of signals, was already at the flag lockers, and the rest of the crew mustered quickly. The mizzen signal halliards were cast off and shaken free, an able seaman sent to verify others on the fore and main. The signals log was initialled and begun – and the first signal order of the day came from the quarterdeck: ‘Form the order of sailing in two columns.’

Robins, the master’s mate, flicked the pages of the Admiralty signal code expertly. ‘Number seventy-two!’ he called to the signals yeoman, who pulled out the two blue and white flags and thrust them at a pair of seamen to toggle on in the right order.

Robins pointed upwards immediately – this was not a difficult ‘lift’ to check. The seamen hauled lustily and the hoist soared up. Checking the expensive fob watch his father had presented to him, Bowden scrawled in the log that the signal had been made at six a.m. Then, glancing out to the fleet, he noted down the acknowledgements as they came.

This signal had essentially been to call the fleet to order after the loose formation of the night. Then, with a chill, Bowden remembered that the order of sailing was also the order of battle and, sure enough, it was closely followed by the order to bear up and sail east. Nelson’s first signals of the day were to lunge at the foe.

The next made it formal – number thirteen, ‘Prepare for battle’, which put into effect a two-pronged charge into the very centre of the massed enemy fleet, the lee column to the right led by Admiral Collingwood in Royal Sovereign and tasked to cut through and envelop the rear. Sailing parallel, the weather column to Collingwood’s left would be led by the commander-in-chief in Victory, seeking in one move to take on the enemy flagship and isolate his van.

It was becoming obvious, however, that unless the breeze picked up it would be many hours before they could hope to grapple and every sail possible was set, including the cumbersome stunsails, temporary extensions to the yardarms.

The sun rose above the horizon, strengthening and lifting a dreamy opalescent mist through which the stately progress of the Combined Fleet seemed a fairy argosy. Nelson ascended to the poop with Hardy to take advantage of its panorama of enemy and friend, the two staying in amiable conversation while the ship was piped to clear for action.

The well-practised evolution turned Victory into bedlam: teams of men stripped mess-decks and cabins of every comfort and piece of furniture that might be splintered by gunfire, struck them down into the hold or cast them overboard.

Next it was necessary to clear away some of the stanchions in the gun-decks with heavy mallets to provide more room to serve the guns, as well as unshipping inessential ladders until each of the three gun-decks was clear from stem to stern.

All hammocks were passed up and stowed, tightly rolled, in the nettings at the sides of the ship, protection against musket-balls. A net was stretched over the fo’c’sle and quarterdeck to catch falling wreckage from aloft while the two cutters at the davits aft were lowered and towed, other boats remaining on their skid beams.

The boatswain and his party were everywhere, laying out stores in strategic places for the repair of rigging torn by the French, notorious for firing high, together with preventer shrouds and braces, which duplicated vital lines. Where the tons weight of the lower yards was suspended at the mast, chain slings were secured. A lucky shot by the enemy at this point could end in unravelled rope and the heavy yard crashing down on the quarterdeck and men at the guns.

A spare tiller was brought and relieving tackles provided to work the steering from the tiller directly if the ship’s wheel was damaged. The carpenter and his crew laid out their tools and ensured that the narrow passageway circling the orlop at the waterline was clear. In action his duty was to make his rounds to watch for the sudden bursting in of a shot strike and then to move fast to stem the inward rush of sea with shot plugs, lead sheeting and bracing.

And the great guns were readied: gun-captains collected their pouches from the store with their quill firing tubes, prickers and reamers, spare gun-flints and slow-match. A slung powder-horn completed their outfit. Each then went to his gun and ensured the great beast was able to do its duty. Were the ready-use shot garlands fully populated by balls? Was there a salt-box with two cartridges in place waiting? Wads in the overhead net? The gun-lock was fitted and tried, equipment mustered in the racks – worms, wad-hooks, crows. Side tackles were ranged along and a training tackle applied to the rear of the gun.

The gun-decks were provided with arms-chests: pistols, muskets and cutlasses. All that was needed to board the enemy – or to repel boarders. In the centre of the deck broached casks of water and vinegar were placed at regular intervals.

Meanwhile the gunner and his mates unlocked the Grand Magazine and the powder rooms, passing through fearnought flapped screens and moving along cramped, lead-lined passages in felt slippers to the most dangerous place aboard. The smallest spark here would mean instant destruction and death not only for the men inside but the entire ship.

Throughout the day’s action they would be sweating here in the dimness using copper scoops to make up the cartridges to feed the guns, lit by specially sealed lanthorns and getting news only through the powder-monkey chain.

Finally, water was sluiced and sand scattered liberally along the gun-decks. In the bloody carnage of close-quarter fighting it would give much-needed grip to bare feet.

And quietly in the orlop, the lowest deck of all, Beatty the surgeon took charge of the cockpit, the space at the after end outside the midshipmen’s berth. Chests were brought and he laid out his instruments: bullet extractors, fleams, forceps, ligatures – and the saws and knives to sever limbs. Tubs were placed nearby to take these ‘wings and limbs’ and carboys of oil of turpentine were opened to seal the stumps.

As far as it was possible, HMS Victory was now ready for the fight. The first lieutenant, Quilliam, reported to Captain Hardy that all was complete and the hands were stood down. The next time they would be called upon was when the ship beat to quarters.

‘Sir, hands to breakfast?’ suggested Quilliam.

‘Make it so,’ Hardy replied.

The men scrambled noisily below – with the galley fire out there would be no hot food but ship’s biscuits, cheese and grog were acceptable fare with the enemy in sight, and there was much to contemplate and talk about over the mess tables. At the day’s end, which places would be vacant, which cheery faces would never be seen again?

Pasco glanced at Bowden. ‘You’ve been on watch, m’ lad,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I’d advise you to duck below while you can, shift into your fighting rig and get a bite to eat. Come back in an hour.’

Grateful, Bowden made his way down to the gunroom, now bare and stark. His sea-chest, like the others, had been struck below and he wedged himself up against the massive transom knee to munch his rations.

Around him were his shipmates, some keeping to themselves in inner reflection, others conversing in low tones. He did not feel like talking and finished his meal with an orange that Pasco had slipped him from the wardroom, sipping sparingly on a tin cup of grog.

As for shifting into fighting rig, even if he wished it he could not – all his gear was in his sea-chest in the hold. This included his dirk, but earlier he had resolved that in the event of a boarding he’d snatch up a cutlass, a much more effective weapon, from an open arms-chest. There was therefore little he could do to pass the time before . . .

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^m Cornwallis, 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.

Bowden could feel the tension but the sight of the great man affected him powerfully – the tigerish confidence radiating out, the utter single-minded pursuit of victory. They simply could not fail!

He slipped back and stood tall before the seamen and marines, feeling the age-old battle-lust build. Then he heard behind him someone mount the poop ladder. It was Nelson, followed by Hardy.

Now able to see completely around the battlefield he minutely inspected the enemy position, the ships loyally in their wake and finally Collingwood’s column, in action.

‘Mr Pasco!’ he called.

‘My lord?’

‘I wish to make a signal to the fleet. Be quick, for I have one more to make, which is for close action.’

‘Sir?’ said Pasco, poised to take the communication.

‘You shall telegraph . . . let me see . . . “England confides . . . that every man will do his duty.”’

‘Aye aye, my lord,’ Pasco said, and Robins hurried over with the telegraph code book. Pasco found the place, then stopped and said, ‘If your lordship would permit me to substitute “expects” for “confides” the signal will soon be completed, because the word “expects” is in the vocabulary but “confides” must be spelt.’

Nelson, distracted, agreed. ‘That will do, Pasco, make it directly.’

‘Sir.’

After giving the order to first hoist the telegraph flag, the signals lieutenant found the first number and told it to Robins, who chalked it on the slate and shouted, ‘Two-five-three!’

The yeoman of signals yanked out the flags from the locker and toggled them on to the halliards, spilling them clear for Pasco to check.

‘Hoist!’ The first lift of the signal soared up, and as it did so, Pasco found the next. ‘Two-six-nine!’ It was bent on to another halliard and one by one the hoists ascended. When it was completed Bowden noted the signal and time, then waited for the acknowledgements from the fleet.

While this was being done, Nelson was watching the lee column close in on the enemy, Royal Sovereign now nearly hidden in gun-smoke. ‘See how that noble fellow Collingwood takes his ship into action! How I envy him!’ he exclaimed to Hardy.

The first crump of shots sounded from ahead – Victory was now under fire herself. From this point on she would be the focus of aim for a hundred – two hundred – gun-captains and her ordeal was just beginning.

Another signal. ‘Engage the enemy more closely’ – ‘Number sixteen!’ This was the last that Nelson could be sure would be seen and was hoisted at the main-mast head, where it remained.

With barely suppressed emotion the admiral said, ‘Now I can do no more. We must trust to the Great Disposer of All Events, and the justice of our cause.’ He and Hardy descended to the quarterdeck and began a slow pacing up and down between the main-mast and the wheel.

Ahead, the enemy line was now a loose succession of ships, their details clear and forbidding, and it wasn’t long until the first ball struck Victory, reaching out in violence and punching loudly through the main topgallant sail.

Soon after, several other enemy ships joined in, the sound of firing building as the deadly cannonade intensified. Strikes could now be heard forward, and the whirr and slam of invisible projectiles overhead were chilling.

A quick shriek came as a seaman paid with his life for doing his duty; other anonymous screams penetrated above the continuous fearful thunder of guns from now six or eight ships, furiously hammering at the oncoming column. It was a race that would turn on whether the ships now at their mercy were smashed to submission and stopped, or whether they could get inside the enemy firing arc, pierce the line and deliver a battle-winning raking of the stern and bow each side as they passed through.

On the poop Bowden’s vitals froze at the awful feeling of exposure: at the ship’s side there were only deal boarding and rolled hammocks to keep out the storm of shot and, with nothing to do but keep at his post, a rising feeling of helplessness threatened to engulf him.

One of the marines was knocked sprawling as if kicked by a horse and his musket slid across the deck. He sobbed, writhing, and Adair motioned to another two to take him below.

Imitating Pasco, Bowden began a regular calm pacing. A strange detachment stole over him, a feeling of unreality that separated him from the chaos and fear. Through his feet he sensed Victory’s own guns opening up, their heavy thump quite distinct from the sharp concussion of a shot-strike. Nothing now could be seen of the enemy except the upper masts above the smoke – but Villeneuve’s pennons were still giving Victory her mark.

Bowden reached the poop rail and glanced down on the quarterdeck. One unfortunate had taken a ball squarely, his body flung grotesquely, its half-human features and an appalling amount of blood-soaked innards scattered widely. Nelson looked on sadly as it was dragged away.

Straightening, Bowden turned back, suddenly acutely aware of the whites of the eyes of the files of marines. Then, as if in a dream, the entire rank was torn down in a welter of blood and kicking limbs. Choking sobs were cut off and parts of half-clothed bodies were left lying on each other, like so many joints in a butcher’s shop.

The carnage was indescribable but the remaining marines held firm until a breathless midshipman arrived from the quarterdeck, ordering Captain Adair to disperse his men about the ship. Eight men killed with one shot! It couldn’t go on.

But it did: with the splinters still flying from a boat hit by a round-shot, Victory’s wheel was smashed, the big first-rate now in an uncontrollable lurch towards the enemy line until emergency tackles on the tiller in the gunroom could be rigged – but the ship fought on with undiminished fury.

Bowden felt the wind buffet of a cannon-ball. Next to him a seaman turned, apparently with a question: his mouth opened, and as it did so, blood spurted in a gush of scarlet from where his arm had been – carried off invisibly and without warning. The man gave a piteous moan and sank to his knees.

Dispassionately Bowden recognised that the intensity of the slaughter was such that it was more reasonable not to expect to survive – at some point one of the invisible whirling scythes of death would seek him out and put an end to his existence. Strangely, he felt peace, the resolution of hope against fear, but a deep sadness that for him the future was now shut off.

A seaman beside him was suddenly spun around, falling without a sound, and as he was dragged to the side there was an ear-splitting crack aloft. When Bowden looked up to see, his world turned dark and he was savagely pressed down.

It was some seconds before he realised he was suffocating under a smother of canvas. Near panic with claustrophobia he struggled for his knife and in a frenzy sawed and hacked at the cloth until the smoky daylight emerged.

A seaman helped him out; the mizzen topmast had been shot away and hung along the side suspended by the upper rigging, the sail draped over the poop. ‘Axes! Get this clear!’ he roared. ‘You, Clayton – on the lee side, Nicolson on the weather!’

He worked a bayonet free from a dead hand and began sawing at the tarred strands of a shroud. Panting, he stopped to look out – there was gun-smoke everywhere, a rain of splinters and stranded lines whipping down, but what froze him was the awesome sight of the enemy ships so very close.

Wreathed in smoke with livid gun-flash stabbing, they lay across Victory’s path but she was steering now for a gap astern of Villeneuve’s flagship and its next in line. Mesmerised by the terrible sight, he saw other ships beyond the gap equally as big and quite untouched.

The noise was appalling – a crescendo of violence that paralysed his thoughts. Hacking away the remains of the fallen rigging in a demented fury, he was utterly unprepared for what happened next.

The guns were falling silent.

He stared forward – they had at long last passed inside the firing arcs of the enemy guns. These could no longer bear on their ship and the long agony of her approach was over. The ornamented stern of the flagship – the name Bucentaure in gilt across it – now lay quiet and unresisting as Victory glided inexorably forward into the gap.

A furious cheering began, for now a terrible revenge would be taken on the enemy. Her guns ceased their fire. Bowden knew that they were being reloaded with double shot and wicked canister for what was to come; the enemy must know it too – he felt a wash of pity, for in all conscience they were only doing their duty.

But war was a merciless dictator – he could see French boarders forlornly massing, but right forward on the fo’c’sle Victory’s boatswain was carefully sighting along the immense bulk of the sixty-eight-pounder carronade, the firing lanyard in his hand.

The distance narrowed; heroes stood in Bucentaure, still firing muskets, anything – aware of what Fate would bring they must know what was to happen in the next moments. The magnificent arch of stern windows loomed, a diamond-shaped tricolour escutcheon in its centre, the midday sun glinting on its interior appointments – and the boatswain yanked on the gun-lock lanyard.

The entire structure dissolved in a deadly blast of glass and splinters, a cloud of reeking dust and fragments bursting out to flutter down on Victory’s decks. Then, as they passed slowly, the three decks of guns below began their frightful rolling crash.

At point-blank range and double-shotted, they fired in succession into the length of the wounded ship, smashing their lethal iron balls into the holocaust of its gun-decks. Shrieks and screams came from the dense, acrid gun-smoke but the cannonade mercilessly went on and on until an entire fifty-gun broadside had crashed into Villeneuve’s flagship.

Victory glided on beyond. Then her opposite broadside opened up to pound a vague shape in the drifting gun-smoke.

As Bowden saw the last rigging-entangled wreckage over the side he was knocked staggering by the sudden grinding lurch of a collision to starboard. He steadied himself and twisted round to see a French ship-of-the-line locked solid into Victory’s side. She appeared very ready for the encounter, her decks crowded with men; he could just make out her stern and the name Redoutable in gold.

Victory fought back: her marines levelled their muskets and blazed away at the swarming men assembling for boarding – but the ship’s tumblehome, the inward curving of her side – formed an unbridgeable cleft between the two vessels.

Muffled blasts from below told of terrible gun duels fought in the blackness of the touching sides and then came a hail of French musket fire from the vessel’s fighting tops. Grenades arced down causing dreadful injuries on Victory’s decks and the vicious whuup of musketry intensified.

Pasco appeared out of the smoke, his face working in agony before he crumpled, blood smearing the deck. But Bowden couldn’t help him – he and King were frantically reloading muskets for Midshipman Pollard, who’d ransacked the marines’ arms-chest for any remaining weapons.

As the wounded signal-lieutenant was dragged away they kept up a furious fire on Redoutable in a mechanical frenzy, aiming at the darting figures in the tops that were making a slaughter-house of Victory’s decks. This drew venomous fire in return, and as King handed over a loaded musket he was killed instantly with a bullet to the forehead.

The main-yard of the French ship jerked, teetered and then fell – hacked away by quick-thinking matelots who had made for themselves a perfect bridge across the chasm. With incredulous cheers the French swarmed up onto the yard and began racing across.

It was a complete about-face in fortunes: with so many of Victory’s upper-deck defenders brought down there was now the unthinkable possibility that the English flagship herself would be taken.

Captain Adair sprinted up with a file of marines and took position directly opposite to open fire. The leaders of the boarding fell into the yawning crevasse to a hideous death, crushed by the working together of the two hulls.

Those following hesitated – fatally. The boatswain had forced the starboard sixty-eight-pounder carronade around and blasted five hundred musket balls into their midst. They fell back, their triumphant battle-cries turning instantly to the screams of the dying. And at that moment Adair took a ball in the neck and pitched forward, dead.

Then a miracle came in the looming shape of Temeraire, which had been the next ship astern of Victory and now came up against the other side of Redoutable with a ponderous crash. Her carronades immediately took dreadful toll and then, together with Victory, her great guns in broadside smashed together into the vitals of the hapless ship.

It was a brutal slaughter but insanely the brave Frenchmen fought on until the blood-soaked hulk was in ruins – and her colours were struck.

A full-throated cheer roared out, redoubled when Victory’s men came to realise the perilous margin of their triumph. Bowden, stunned by the impact of the last hour, reeled over to the poop rail to watch Nelson taking the surrender. He couldn’t see him in the cheering crowds so he turned back wearily to the three men remaining standing on the poop.

Then urgent shouts came from the fo’c’sle – bearing down on them was the van of the enemy, fresh ships that were at last turning back to come to the aid of their centre. Yet Victory’s sacrificing had successfully pierced the line and other British ships, Neptune, Britannia, Leviathan, all had crowded through and now steered to face them. There would be no rescue.

Another burst of wild cheering broke out – it was the Bucentaure hauling down her colours, the commander-in-chief Villeneuve now a prisoner. And ahead the giant Santissima Trinidad, mauled by three English battleships was battered into submission and capitulated.

A wide-eyed seaman hurried up the ladder and blurted breathlessly, ‘L’tenant Pasco desires ’e should be told, how is y’ signals crew?’

‘He needs to know if we’re able to work signals,’ Robins said, looking about him. ‘Er, I’m senior hand. We’re still flagship and will need signals – I’ll see he gets ’em.’ He paused and added with gravity, ‘Mr Bowden, I’d be obliged should you inform L’tenant Pasco as we shall close up a team directly.’

The poop was a ruin of draped ropes and wreckage from aloft but the flag locker was still intact and somewhere signal halliards not shot away would be found. Bowden clattered down the ladder to the quarterdeck. It was in name and appearance a battlefield – decks torn up, shattered guns, wreckage and sanded blood-stains everywhere, but the men were still serving their guns and in the rigging passing stoppers to hold together vital shot-torn lines.

It took cold courage of an exceptional quality to leave the relative safety of the deck and mount the shrouds to expose their bodies in full view of snipers, staying to work there while a tempest of lethal langrel and chain-shot ripped through in an attempt to disable their ship.

At the main-hatchway the only ladder left in action was slippery with blood – it was by this route that the unfortunates were carried below.

On the gun-deck there was a different kind of hell: in the reeking, thunderous dimness it was the remorseless pain and labour of loading and heaving out the massive guns in a never-ending cycle. At any moment there could be the sudden eruption of a round-shot through the side in unstoppable killing violence.

In these acrid, smoke-filled confines the battle was being fought – and won – by the same gunners whose skill and tenacity had kept up a deadly fire the enemy could never match.

Bowden paused, awestruck at so much violence and noise in a confined space. The visceral rumble of the guns as they were run out, the squeals of their trucks as a counterpoint, their iron, now truly hot after hours of action, producing a violent recoil, some leaping insanely to strike the deckhead beams, their tons weight falling again with an appalling crash at extreme hazard to the tired men serving them.

The middle gun-deck was the same, a torment of clamour and darkness, and then to the lower gun-deck with the biggest guns of all, three-ton monsters chest-high to a man, bellowing out with a lightning flash and clap of thunder that hammered at the senses.

But nothing prepared Bowden for the Hades that was the orlop. No smoke hid the reality of suffering. The pitiless gleam of lanthorns played on the carpet of maimed bodies, the retching, moaning, bloody humanity waiting for their turn on stage – the concentration of light on the midshipmen’s mess table, where Surgeon Beatty was working on a spreadeagled man, who writhed and shrieked.

He finished his task. Bowden saw a brief glimpse of a piece of limb tossed into a tub with a meaty thump while the raw, pulsing stump was dealt with and the body, mad with pain, carried off by the loblolly boys. Straightening, Beatty wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and moved off to select the next, resembling an angel of death in his black smock, caked with blood and body fluids.

Bowden gulped, and in the gloom began stepping over the wretches in every state of agony, from uncontrollable convulsions to a deadly pale stillness. One man lay panting, his hands over the obscenity of his entrails, patiently waiting to die; another was propped up, his brutally mangled face unrecognisable, sobbing quietly. Everywhere Bowden looked, others were heroically controlling their suffering.

The blast and thunder of the guns on deck above was mercifully drowning the inhuman screeches and tormented moaning, but it was a scene that would stay with him for ever.

‘Er, L’tenant Pasco?’ he asked weakly, of a passing surgeon’s assistant.

‘There,’ the man said irritably, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Bowden gingerly made his way over to the larboard side where a pair of lanthorns glimmered.

He saw Pasco by their light – but something about the tension in the group next to him caused him to hesitate. He made out Scott, the chaplain, and Burke, the purser, supporting someone against a broad knee at the ship’s side, one in a lace shirt with no indication of rank.

It was Nelson. Bowden’s gaze froze. Their cherished commander-in-chief was wounded. He couldn’t look away from the slight form, clearly in agony but with his eyes closed, Scott rubbing his chest and others hovering.

Bowden remembered himself and moved to Pasco, lying full length on an old sail close by with his eyes shut. Crouching down, he said, ‘L’tenant Pasco, sir. Sir – it’s Bowden, come to report.’

Not sure if he’d been heard, he was about to repeat it when Pasco stirred and groaned, feeling tenderly for his right side and arm. ‘Report then, Mr Bowden,’ he said hoarsely. For some reason the guns above had just ceased their heavy rumble and thunderclap din.

‘Mr Robins is certain he’ll have a signals team together directly, sir.’

‘As will serve a flagship?’

‘He’s confident it will be so, sir.’

In the cessation of noise a faint but clear burst of cheering could be heard from above. ‘How goes the battle, then?’

‘We’ve taken Redoutable, Villeneuve and his flagship, and – and others I can’t name. We’ve won a famous victory, I believe, sir.’

Pasco slumped back with a smile. Bowden asked diffidently, ‘You’re wounded, sir?’

‘A grape-shot in the starb’d side is all,’ Pasco said, biting his lip. ‘Nothing as will stop me coming on deck when the sawbones lets me.’

Lowering his voice, Bowden ventured, ‘That’s Lord Nelson, sir. Is he – does he fare well, at all?’

‘I don’t know to be sure. The medical gentlemen are looking very grave, so I suppose it’s serious enough.’

Another muffled burst of cheering came down, longer than the first.

A peevish voice intervened: ‘What is the cause of that?’ It was Nelson, trying to rise.

Pasco levered himself up and told him, ‘It seems yet another enemy ship has struck to us, my lord. I have it from Mr Bowden here.’

‘That is good,’ Nelson said, his voice weak and gasping, clearly gratified. Scott helped him to a sip of lemonade and continued rubbing, while Burke on the other side held his shoulders.

Bowden rose to go but felt Pasco’s hand urgently on his ankle. ‘Sir?’

‘Hunker down, lad.’ Doing as he was told he felt Pasco fiddle at his back. ‘I thought so. Take off your coat.’

As Bowden tried to do so it stuck to him and a burning pain made him gasp.

‘You’ve taken a knock yourself, did you not know? Something’s laid open your back, younker.’

In the heat of the action he hadn’t noticed, but now a dull throb underlay the sharp burn.

‘Stay – sit down here. We’ll get the doctor to look at it when he’s able.’

‘Sir, it’s only a—’

‘No sense in taking chances now the battle’s won. Do as I say.’

Obediently he sat next to Pasco and tried to keep the horror of the infernal regions at bay. He was so close he couldn’t help but hear Nelson’s agitated plea. ‘Hardy! Will no one bring Hardy to me?’ he groaned. ‘He must be killed. Surely he is destroyed.’

Time dragged, and for Bowden the sight of Nelson in such agony was trying beyond reason. Those caring for him continued to murmur that Hardy would come as soon as he could, but it did not seem to ease his anxiety.

At length a figure came cautiously down the ladder. ‘Sir, I’m desired by Captain Hardy to assure you he is unharmed and will be down to see you presently.’

Nelson, his eyes closed and clearly semi-conscious, asked who it was brought the message. ‘It’s Mr Bulkeley, my lord,’ the purser said loudly.

‘It is his voice,’ Nelson said, almost in surprise. Then, rising above his pain, he turned unseeing eyes to the midshipman and added, ‘Remember me to your father, if you please.’

Later there was whispering among those who held him and the surgeon was sent for. ‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Ah, Beatty. I’ve sent for you to say that all power of motion below my breast is gone and you very well know I can live but for a short time.’

The surgeon carefully tested for feeling in Nelson’s legs, but the commander-in-chief whispered, ‘Ah, Beatty, I’m too certain of it. Scott and Burke have tried it already. You know I am gone.’

Beatty straightened slowly, finding the words with difficulty. ‘My lord, unhappily for our country nothing can be done for you.’ He turned his head away quickly, the glitter of tears caught in the lanthorn light.

Nelson subsided but said calmly, ‘I know it. I feel something rising in my breast which tells me. God be praised, I have done my duty.’

Cold with horror, Bowden heard it all and sat unspeaking until Victory’s captain came below.

‘Well, Hardy,’ Nelson whispered, after he was told of his arrival, ‘how goes the day with us?’

‘Very well, my lord,’ Hardy said softly, taking his hand. ‘We’ve got twelve or fourteen of the enemy’s ships in our possession but five of their van have tacked and show an intention of bearing down on Victory. I’ve therefore called two or three of our ships round us and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing.’

‘That is well, but I bargained on twenty.’ Nelson choked and recovered, a spasm of anxiety causing him to try to raise himself. ‘Anchor, Hardy, anchor!’ he panted wretchedly.

The captain frowned. ‘I suppose, my lord, Admiral Collingwood will now take upon himself the direction of affairs.’

‘Not while I live, I hope, Hardy!’ Nelson gasped forcefully. ‘No, do you anchor, Hardy.’

‘Shall we then make the signal, sir?’

‘Yes – for if I live, I’ll anchor!’

The spasm past, Nelson lay back but spoke once more. ‘Don’t throw me overboard, Hardy.’

Shocked, Hardy answered, ‘Oh, sir, no – certainly not!’

After a few moments Nelson rallied and said, his weak voice charged with feeling, ‘Take care of my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy – do take care of poor Lady Hamilton.’

The effort seemed to exhaust him but he went on faintly, ‘Kiss me, Hardy.’

His friend knelt and kissed him on the cheek, and Nelson murmured, ‘Now I am satisfied. Thank God I have done my duty.’

Hardy stood for a minute or two, his face a mask, then knelt again and kissed him once more. ‘Who is that?’ Nelson whispered.

‘It is Hardy, my lord.’

‘God bless you, Hardy,’ Nelson said feebly.

The captain of Victory then left.

Bowden could not tear his eyes away from the scene; he saw the faithful Scott lean down as Nelson said weakly, ‘Doctor, I have not been a great sinner.’ The chaplain, overcome, could not speak and Nelson went on, ‘Remember, I leave Lady Hamilton and my daughter Horatia as a legacy to my country.’

Slipping in and out of consciousness he muttered, ‘Never forget Horatia,’ and again, ‘Thank God I have done my duty.’

A little time passed, then Scott called out, distraught. Beatty was with his assistants but came immediately. He took Nelson’s wrist and felt the forehead, then stiffly rose, shaking his head. He stood for a moment, looking down on the still figure. Then, collecting himself, he looked about him.

Catching sight of Bowden sitting against the side he stepped across. ‘Sir, are you able to walk?’

Bowden nodded, speechless.

‘Then you shall have the infinitely melancholy duty to inform the captain that his lordship is no more and, consequently, his flag needs must be hauled down.’