Tested by Fate (21 page)

“Gentlemen,” Nelson continued, referring to that disgraceful episode, “is there one of us present who has not wondered if we’d share Admiral Byng’s fate at some time in our career? I am the
Admiral. That risk is mine. I would ask you to obey the orders I give you in writing and put aside all thoughts of what consequences might attend upon failure.”

Nelson rarely raised his voice in company, his even temper being one of his great qualities, but he did know how to be emphatic. “Why? Because we cannot fail. We have ships and men that have been at sea for years. Our gun crews achieve a rate of fire that will be double that of our enemies. Not a day goes by that does not include practice in boarding. In short, gentlemen, we are
professional
naval officers. Our opponents have been decimated by the guillotine and politics, and are led by a bullock, a blue-coated one, I grant you, but a soldier nevertheless, and like to be a buffoon on water.”

Some applauded, others grinned. Fat-faced Louis cried, “Hear him.”

“Our fleet will be split into three divisions. The pair closest to the enemy battleships, wherever we find them, will engage them immediately, the third will seek to destroy the transports. Since the object of the French plan is to carry troops to whatever destination they have in mind, defending those will become a priority. The first two divisions must and will interpose themselves between the
transports
and the enemy flag. We will make them fight their way through to provide succour.

“My signals lieutenant will give you the outline of a set of flags each, relevant to your own ship. But we all know that flags can be obscured. I therefore expect you to act according to your outline instructions without recourse to a command from me. These, too, will be in writing.”

There was more to discuss, a dozen different outlines. Where would the enemy be? Would it be day or night? The sea-state would have a bearing, as would wind direction. Would the French have an anchorage under their lee to which they could run for safety? What if they split their forces? Nelson had to make sure that every one of his inferior officers understood that their ships were instruments
of war; that an individual loss was acceptable, given a positive result to the battle. The conference broke up in a happy mood.

What followed was the worst sixty days of Nelson’s life, a
seemingly
fruitless voyage around the Mediterranean. His instructions from St Vincent, to find and destroy the enemy, fell on the hurdle of his lack of frigates. They were the eyes of the fleet, able swiftly to seek likely rendezvous, the bays and harbours where the French might congregate, then report back to an admiral who could mount an attack. He had too few for an expanse of water that stretched from Gibraltar to the Black Sea.

Bonaparte threatened Malta, Tuscany, Naples, the Adriatic, Tunis, Algiers, Egypt, and the rest of the Ottoman Empire. If there was a grand design, it was secret. Nelson sailed to Alexandria, only to find the anchorage devoid of French shipping. On his return to the Straits of Messina he heard that Malta had fallen to the French, but that Bonaparte was no longer there. He had disappeared again! Faced with a frightened King Ferdinand, still at peace with France, he had to use subterfuge to keep his ships victualled, using what frigates and sloops he had to scour the seas while he remained
inactive
at Syracuse.

Reports came in of sightings at every corner of the Inland Sea. Thomas Hardy, now master and commander of the brig
Mutine
, spoke with a Ragusan trader in the Adriatic who had sighted a fleet heading east. Was this Bonaparte? Had Nelson guessed right about Alexandria, only arriving too soon to catch a slow-sailing convoy of four hundred transports?

Off they sailed again, Nelson sick, so great was his anxiety. Hailed as a hero in England for his exploits at St Vincent, forgiven for heroic failure at Tenerife, he knew that whatever reputation he enjoyed would disappear like a puff of smoke from a chimney if he failed to find Bonaparte. How confident he had been at those early conferences, how foolish his plans seemed now.

And this voyage to Egypt seemed just as fruitless as the first. Two ships had looked into Alexandria only to find its harbours
empty, a fact signalled to Nelson as soon as the fleet came in sight. It was with a heavy heart that the Admiral ordered a signal to turn eastwards for what he suspected to be a futile search of the
coastline
.

“Frigates,” he said to Tom Allen, as his bovine servant served him a solitary dinner. “When they cut me open, Tom, they will find that word engraved on my heart. If I had half a dozen, I’d have Bonaparte.”

Allen regarded the man he served with an experienced eye,
wondering
if he should say something. Nelson was so jumpy he daren’t knock one salver into another. The slightest unusual noise made him jerk round to look, evidence of the tension he was harbouring in what he thought was a calm demeanour. He had heard that Frank Lepée had never feared to advise Nelson or to tell him he was wrong. But Lepée had been shown the cabin door, which was the last thing Tom Allen wanted. Serving the Admiral was a soft billet, which he was not about to sacrifice. Let the Admiral tie himself in knots, it was no job of a servant to act the doctor.

The food lay uneaten on the plate, to get cold and congeal. Nelson, looking at it, was inclined to see his career in a similar light. He knew from the faces of the ship’s officers that they felt the same. They had started out with high hopes under a commander who never missed a chance for action. This was the place to be; he was the man to be with, yet it had all fallen flat. Berry, he knew, would be above him with his officers, eating a silent repast, thinking the same as his admiral, that they had missed the boat.

All those admirals at home, above him on the list, would be crowing now, telling all who would listen what folly it had been to appoint such a junior and vainglorious character to command.
People
who had treated him as a hero six months before would shun him now, the man who couldn’t find an armada of over four
hundred
ships. And just where was Bonaparte, a man who had taken on the features of a demon in Nelson’s mind? He was attacking
something
somewhere, and the man ordered to stop him was in the wrong place.

Nelson started to shake. Was it a recurrence of the malaria, a disease which always came to attack him when his spirits were low? Or was it just the lack of sleep, endless nights spent lying in his cot gnawing at the problems he faced both professionally and
personally
? Tom Allen, had he dared, would have told him to eat, which he had scarce done for a week.

The scraping of a dozen chairs, followed by the sound of
running
feet, distracted Nelson but did nothing to dent a miserable, sickly mood that had him close to seeking rest. Even the
peremptory
knock on his cabin door failed to rouse him and he left Allen to respond. But the flushed, excited face of Midshipman Hoste, sent to give him a message, set his heart racing.

“
Zealous
signalling, sir. The enemy is in Aboukir Bay, fifteen sail moored in line of battle.”

A
T THOSE WORDS
the enervating malaise fell away. The whole ship was alive with cheering by the time he made the deck. From his position in the line Nelson could see little of his leading vessels, but he trusted to the ships in the van to take the
appropriate
action, Foley in
Goliath
and Sam Hood in
Zealous
. It was after 1:30, and raking the high masts that lay in Aboukir Bay with a
telescope
, their hulls cut off by a headland, he began to make his calculations. He had already sent a frigate ahead to lay off and repeat signals to his leading vessels, which would attack unless he issued orders to desist. Was that wise?

Hood and Foley would barely make the bay before sunset, and the rest of his ships would engage in the increasing gloom, the last ships in the line going into battle in darkness. That particularly applied to
Alexander
and
Swiftsure
, straining to catch up, having been detached to look into Alexandria. A night battle was always a chancy affair, with the exercise of command impossible. And the French were anchored in a strong defensive position. But Horatio Nelson had laid out his principles, which were based on an abiding trust in his captains and a deep faith in the men they commanded.

“Captain Berry, be so good as to signal to the squadron,
prepare
for action.”

“Sir,” Berry replied, beaming.

“My dinner is on the board, and I intend that this day it should be eaten. If you wish you may join me.”

Information came in piecemeal over the next five hours: signals from the frigate standing off to pass orders, through speaking trumpets over the taffrail of HMS
Minotaur
sailing ahead of
Vanguard
, through excited midshipmen sent by their captains in boats, and all that was allied to what his own lookouts could see. Nelson perceived
that the French Admiral, de Brueys, had anchored with his strongest vessels to the rear of his flagship, the 120-gun
L’
Orient
. The vessels closest to the approaching British squadron were the weakest in his fleet.

By the amount of activity on the beach there appeared to be numerous shore parties, some of whom would struggle to get back to their ships before battle commenced. There were also gaps between the anchored ships large enough for a 74 to sail through, so orders went out to all ships to prepare sheet anchors that would hold the warships by the stern and keep steady and true whatever fire they poured on the enemy.

“Monsieur de Brueys is not anticipating a fight today, Mr Hoste.”

The youngster fixed Nelson with his huge soft brown eyes. With his now spotty skin, no one could look less the warrior and, indeed, so small had Hoste been that Nelson had worried for him when he first came to sea. He had grown now, and was nearing an age to sit for lieutenant. As for fighting, he was apparently a right Tartar when it came to fisticuffs.

“He will get one, sir, won’t he?”

“It would be interesting to know what would prevent such a thing.”

Hoste knew he was being tested, just as he knew that there were no traps in the examination. “We lack charts, sir, so there may be shoal water that would run us aground.”

Nelson smiled. “There’s enough for the French.”

“There might also be shore batteries, given all the men that have vacated the ships.”

“Well spotted, Mr Hoste.” The youngster talked on,
mentioning
the lack of light, the possibility of the unexpected, as Nelson listened. “And given all this, and assuming you were Monsieur de Brueys, what would you have done?”

“I’d want to fight in open water, sir. I’d have put to sea as soon as I spotted our topsails.”

Nelson lifted his telescope then, and fixed it on the Admiral’s
pennant flying at the masthead of
L’Orient
.
“So would I, Mr Hoste, so would I.”

Goliath
was just edging
Zealous
to be first into the bay, both ships with leadsmen casting for sandbars. Captain Tom Foley could hear Sam Hood over the gunfire exhorting his men to greater efforts as they rounded the headland protecting the anchorage. The cannon fire came from a French sloop inshore, trying by its pinpricks to
persuade
either of the captains to pursue it into water shallow enough to run them aground. Foley had made his way to the forepeak, to raise his glass and look at the enemy, the sides of the vessels aglow and orange in the light of a sinking sun. In 27 years, much had changed about the midshipman who had challenged his admiral to a pissing contest, but he still had sharp, bird-like eyes and tidy
features
, even if they were lined with age.

Foley could see men hurrying about the deck of the lead French ship,
Le
Guerrier
. He could also see that, with the tide running east, she was straining on her single forward anchor cable. There wasn’t much tidal movement in the Mediterranean, a rise of two feet or so, but there was enough. That meant his enemy, when the tide turned, would swing through an arc of 180 degrees. The deduction that followed was simple.
Le
Guerrier
had to have enough water under her keel to do that, which meant that ahead of that anchor cable was a whole ship’s length of water deep enough for
Goliath
to sail through.

“Quartermaster,” he yelled, “bring her head round and point me to the shore. I want to shave that anchor cable.” More softly, he added to the midshipman at his side, “Get off a signal to the flag and tell him of my intentions, and ask the premier to take us down to topsails.”

The whole bay was bathed in orange light, the tops of the wavelets pink instead of white. Nelson’s lookouts had told him of
Goliath
’s change of course. Silently he blessed his luck in having such men along with him, men who understood not only his orders
but also his philosophy: that it was necessary to look for all
advantage
and take it without recourse to a higher authority. Foley was going to sail inside the French line, and take his opponent on a side that was likely undefended.

The first boom of cannon fire rippled through the twilight air, and Nelson heard Berry order that the time, 6:28 p.m., be noted. His nerves were jumping again, worried that Foley might ground his ship and leave himself at the mercy of shore batteries. Hands clenched, he willed his lookouts to yell that he was through, but whole minutes went by without a sound. Looking round, Nelson realised that the whole ship was holding its breath.

“
Goliath
’s through,” came the yell, “with
Zealous
in her wake.”

“Signal to all captains, Mr Berry, to hoist out distinguishing lights.”

Within minutes men on every ship had raced aloft to lash lanterns to the upper masts, combinations and colours that could be noted. Now Nelson knew that neither he nor those to his rear, in the pitch black of a moonless night, would fire into their own. Over the next hour, as darkness fell, he watched the lanterns of
Orion
,
Audacious
, and
Theseus
follow Foley’s lead and take the French on the inshore side of the bay, pouring into them a pounding rate of gunfire that sent visible parts of the ships flying into the air.

Sixth in line, Nelson ordered Berry to stay on the open flank, sailing straight ahead to take station of the third ship in the French line,
Le
Spartiate
, reducing to topsails just before commencing to fight. High flaring lanterns, clear against a black sky, told Nelson that
Theseus
was bombarding the other flank.

Berry dropped the sheet anchor to hold his stern,
Vanguard
within pistol shot of the enemy, then gave the order to open fire. The Frenchman, with guns that could be put to good effect, had already raked him twice with two quick salvoes but that rate of fire did not survive the first British broadside. It was only by the flash of cannon fire that Nelson saw what damage his flagship did; that and the sound of screaming men.

He saw in one flash that the mainmast was going, taking with it rigging, spars, chains, and men. Parts of the bulwarks of the French ship flew off, exposing those on deck to the withering fire of the next salvo. He could imagine the hell between decks on both sides, so much worse for the enemy than for his gunners toiling below. There would be men here dead and dying, but not as many as on
Sparti
ate
and that was what counted. Eight ships now battered five Frenchmen. In the flashes of gunfire they could see that
Spartiate
was completely dismasted, its bulwarks in shreds, the deck covered in men whole or in bits, glistening blood running out of the
scuppers
. Wisely, those to his rear had passed him to seaward to take on unengaged enemies further up the line.

That was where he should be, opposite the largest ship in the battle, and the enemy Admiral. Nelson was just about to request Berry to haul up the stern anchor and move on to face
L’Orient
when he was felled by a tremendous blow to the head that sent him flying backwards into his flag captain’s arms. The pain was instant, as was the certain knowledge that he was going to die. As if from a mile away he could hear voices around him, commands to get him below to the surgeon.

“I am killed,” he croaked, as Berry lowered him to the deck. “Remember me to my wife.”

How stupid those words sounded once he had uttered them, how pointless and futile. But for all that, if he was going to die he had God to thank that it was at this hour. Battle would still rage, but he knew de Brueys would not beat him, that what had happened already presaged a great victory. He could pass on in the heat of
battle
like James Wolfe, and there was nothing he would have wished for more if he could not have life. And perhaps, if God were kinder still, he too would, like his hero, expire at a moment of triumph.

He did know that he was blind; the eye that had survived the shattering of stones at Calvi, and which had been milky ever since, gave him only a dim view of what was happening around him. The other was just blackness, with warm blood running down to give a salty taste to his parched mouth.

Arms lifted him and he recognised the voice of Giddings in his ear. “You’ll be all right, your honour, when we get you below.”

Berry reached forward to lift a long patch of skin off Nelson’s face, pinning it back to the forehead from which it had been sliced. Other arms took him and, jerking, eyes closed, Nelson was carried below to the cockpit, lit by shuddering lanterns and full of the dull boom of cannon fire and the screams and moans of wounded sailors. Above their heads gun carriages rumbled out, blasted forth, then groaned as they were flung back by the recoil.

“Mr Jefferson, the Admiral,” Giddings yelled, lowering Nelson so that he could stand supported on his own two feet.

“No,” said Nelson, opening his eyes and realising that he could still see. Jefferson was up to his armpits in blood and gore, the area around his feet awash and shiny red, sprinkled with limbs that the surgeon had already sawn off. “Let me wait my turn.”

“Your honour,” insisted Giddings.

“There’s near a hundred men in here, I fancy, Giddings, all as good as their admiral.”

Giddings didn’t argue, but by supporting Nelson more fully he allowed the other sailor to detach himself and go to the surgeon. Nelson was laid on some sacks by the time Jefferson came and probed the huge gash. He announced that the wound was
deceptive
, not as bad as it looked, and that Nelson was in no immediate peril. Unconvinced, his admiral sent for the parson, Mr Comyn, so that messages could be written now, to be sent to his wife and his second-in-command.

Lying on his sacks, with the bleeding ceased but the pain increasing, Nelson listened to a stream of messages, slowly but surely coming round to the view that he was indeed going to live.
Spartiate
struck at 8:30, and here before him, as Jefferson stitched his wound, stood Berry with the French Captain’s sword, plus the news that two other Frenchmen had been struck, while three more, including
L’Orient
, would shortly be overcome.

To get him away from the noise of men wounded and dying and the rumbling of cannon overhead they shifted Nelson to the
bread room, and there, deep in the bowels of the ship, in a room lined with tin to keep out rats, he heard the depth of his victory increase at what seemed no more than ten-minute intervals. Demanding pen and paper, Nelson began to write his despatch to the First Lord.

The door opened and Berry was there once more, to tell him that
L
’
Orient
appeared to be on fire. “Her cabin is ablaze, sir, and I can’t see they have left the means to check it while they remain under bombardment.”

Nelson struggled to get up, but failed. He felt weak, but his voice was strong. “Help me, Berry. We must see if we can save her.”

“The doctor, sir—”

“Is not your superior, Captain Berry.” Nelson grinned to take the sting out of the words. “I must see for myself.”

He arrived on deck to be told that three more Frenchmen had been struck, an almost unbelievable result. Berry took him to the side and pointed out the flames leaping about the stern of the French flagship, a conflagration that illuminated it all the way to the bowsprit and bathed the whole bay in an ethereal light. In the water
hundreds
of heads bobbed, some clinging to wreckage, others swimming or floundering.

“Captain Berry, get boats out to rescue survivors!”

It was light enough to see
Swiftsure
and
Alexander
, late arrivals at the battle, pouring a merciless barrage into the stern of the French flagship. If they had the means to stop the blaze the pounding of British cannon prevented them from doing so. The poop was a mass of flames but brave men on the lower deck were still working her guns, replying to the two British 74s. Nelson pointed this out to
the crowd of officers and mids surrounding him. “Look hard,
gentlemen
. We do not have an exclusive call on bravery and honour.”