Winds of Folly (44 page)

N
athan asked the Flag Captain if there was anything he could do.

‘You can stand next to the Commodore,' growled Miller, ‘and give them something bigger to aim at.'

Nathan felt like a passenger, which was more or less what he was. A Captain without a ship. But he was wearing a borrowed coat of Miller's, which would mark him out as a target. He wished he had kept his Army greatcoat now, but it had seemed disloyal on the quarterdeck of a British ship of the line. He was glad of the
sauve-tête
netting that had been strung up above the quarterdeck, to protect them from falling timbers. It would hide them from sharpshooters too, to some extent, and the smoke would help more.

He put it out of his mind.

The wind was light and there was hardly any sea running. At the last reading of the log they had been making a little under five knots. The fleet had cleared for action and the sea was strewn with empty casks and other debris, even live animals, for many were penned on deck and there was nowhere
else to put them. Steers, pigs and sheep could be seen swimming among the debris. There was even a cockerel on top of one of the casks and two miserable hens. This seemed unnecessary to Nathan, but then he had been attacked by a cockerel at the Battle of the Glorious First. It was his only wound – in that battle.

Culloden
was leading the line with the flagship somewhere in the centre.
Captain
was positioned towards the rear with just two ships behind her, the
Diadem
and the
Excellent
. The signals officer, Noble, pointed out that they were number thirteen in line.

Nathan stood at the weather rail gazing out towards the Spanish fleet – or at least that part of it that was to windward of them. He could see them clearly now, though he wished he had his glass. They were all bunched together, a forest of masts. Several of them were abreast of each other, masking each other's broadsides.

Then, as he watched, they began to wear on to the larboard tack.

‘They are coming up on our weather side,' Nelson said.

Nathan watched as slowly, ponderously, the Spanish ships came about. They would pass right along the British line, in the opposite direction, at a range of about 1,000 yards.

‘Why do we not close with the brutes?' Miller complained at Nathan's shoulder.

But the British were already sailing as close to the wind as they could, and the Spaniards clearly had no intention of coming any closer themselves.
Culloden
was already in action and one by one the ships in her wake followed suit as the Spaniards drew level with them. Nathan saw some hits, but not many. The sea between the two fleets was peppered with shot. As usual, the Spaniards seemed to be aiming high in a bid to bring down the British rigging. At eleven-thirty,
Captain
was in action, blazing away with her starboard broadside as the leading Spanish ships came within range.

For forty-five minutes the guns roared, pouring broadside after broadside into the Spanish ships as they sailed past in the opposite direction, like ducks in a row, Nathan thought. And like ducks, they kept bobbing along. He observed very few hits at this distance. Nelson was frowning fiercely. Nathan saw him shouting into Miller's ear but he could not hear what he was saying. His own ears were deafened by the thunder of the cannon. Men moved through the smoke in apparent silence, working the guns. They took some hits, mainly aloft, but he could not hear them, only see the effect. Blocks and tackle tumbling down from above in an eerie silence. Nelson had moved
Captain
slightly to leeward so he could keep the rest of the fleet in sight, but the whole of the centre of the line was wreathed in black smoke and they could barely see the mastheads. But at the head of the line
Culloden
was coming round on the tail of the Spanish fleet – snapping at their heels as they cruised steadily northward. And now the lookouts were shouting down to the quarterdeck. The flagship was signalling. Nathan moved closer to Noble so he could catch what orders were relayed.

‘Signal number eighty,' he shouted towards Nelson. ‘
Ships will tack in succession
.'

‘Tack in succession?' Nathan repeated. He caught Noble's eye and could see they were both thinking the same thing. Jervis clearly meant to keep his fleet in line. Each ship would sail to the point where
Culloden
had turned and then follow her round. But then they would be trailing the Spanish fleet, much as the British ships had trailed the Armada up the Channel at the time of Drake. And unless the Spaniards turned again, they would lose them. Already a gap of about half a mile had opened between
Culloden
and the next ship in the
British line. By the time
Captain
turned she would be two or three miles behind, effectively out of the battle. And she would not be the only one.

But Jervis must have realised this. The flagship was flying another signal. They all waited impatiently for Noble to tell them what it meant.

‘Signal number forty-one,' he sang out after consulting the book. ‘
Take suitable stations for mutual support and engage the enemy as coming up in succession
.'

‘What in God's name does that mean?' demanded Berry, bringing a glare from Miller. But no answer. Nor from Nelson who was gazing out at the Spaniards with his hands clenched behind his back. On this tack the last of them was just out of reach of his guns, but every minute widened the distance between them.

He said something. No one seemed to hear. Nelson turned and looked towards Captain Miller with his eyebrows raised slightly. He wore his green eye-patch under his hat, to shield his bad eye from the light, and it was difficult to read his expression. He raised his voice and this time Nathan heard him.

‘Do you hear me, Captain? Wear to starboard.'

The order was swiftly relayed down the deck to the hands at the braces, and as the yards came round the ship fell off the wind and dropped out of the line of battle. There was a different kind of silence now on the quarterdeck. The tension was almost palpable. It was unheard-of to drop out of the line of battle, even in fleet manoeuvres. But at the height of a battle, in the face of the enemy, it was unthinkable. It would mean a court martial, disgrace. They had shot Byng for less.

But Nelson was not running from the enemy. He was running towards it.

Round came the
Captain
's bows. Further. Round came her
yards. She was taking the wind on her larboard quarter now, her bows facing the enemy. Heading straight for the gap between
Diadem
and
Excellent
, the last two ships in line.

On her present course she would run straight for the centre of the Spanish division: the forest Nathan had remarked upon earlier where the biggest trees were gathered. The
Santissima Trinidad
, the largest ship afloat, four gun decks, 130 guns, the
San Josef
, the
Salvador del Mundo
, the
Mexicano
, all of 112 guns … several others he could not name.

He glanced astern. Not a single ship had broken line to follow them. They were all sailing on to the point at which
Culloden
had turned. Already
Captain
was closer to the Spanish fleet than to the British. And they were firing at her. The air was full of hurtling metal. Nathan could hear it now, smashing through their rigging. A forest in a gale. Bits of splintered timber were falling down on to the netting. Men were swarming aloft, making temporary repairs. The sails were full of holes but they still did their job, carrying them into the heart of the Spanish fleet. The gun crews standing silently by their loaded guns, waiting for the order to fire back. And then Nathan heard Nelson's voice again: ‘Take us straight for the flagship,' he said.

Dear God, as if they were not in enough trouble already! He was taking them straight at the
Santissima Trinidad
. She was blanketed in smoke and flame, but as the wind took it away Nathan could see her sides, bright yellow streaked in black like some massive hornet.

They were in amongst them now, firing both broadsides. The
Salvador del Mundo
on one side, the
Mexicano
on the other, the great walls of their gundecks rising like tall cliffs on either side. But that was the last he saw of them before they vanished in an eruption of fire and smoke. The noise was incredible. Smashing, splintering timbers. So much rigging had
fallen from above, the net was sagging under its weight. Part of it came down as he looked, bringing an avalanche of timber on to the deck. The
Captain
's gun crews worked in a silent intense fury. Loading, firing, sponging, worming. No need to take aim; they were too close to miss. But the ship was being shot to pieces around them. The fore topmast had gone and her jib, every yard seemed to be cock-a-bill, as if the ship was in mourning, the stays, halyards and sails torn to ribbons. Nathan looked around the shattered quarterdeck. There were bodies everywhere. The wheel was shot away, the helmsmen lying dead around it. The deck was slippery with blood, several guns disabled. He saw Nelson go down, bowled over by a huge chunk of timber, part of a splintered block. Miller caught him and set him on his feet. He dusted himself down but Nathan saw the pain on his face.

Still their guns were firing. Faster, much faster than the Spaniards'. But how long could they keep this up? They were hardly moving in the water now, and half a dozen Spanish ships were around them. They had hauled their wind, Nathan realised in some dim recess of his brain, hauled their wind to larboard.
Captain
had turned them, like a sheepdog turning a flock of sheep. Much good it would do her. For these were not sheep.

Then another ship came through the smoke, blazing away with both broadsides.

Culloden.

Troubridge had come up at the head of the British line.

He brought the 74 up between
Captain
and the flagship, mercifully diverting their fire. And there were others behind her. The
Blenheim
, the
Prince George
driving their blunt bows into the heart of the battle.

Nathan had lost his bearings. He did not know where they were in relation to the Spanish line. But here was a ship looming
up out of the smoke to larboard. ‘The
San Nicolas
,' someone shouted. It hardly seemed to matter. She had fouled another Spaniard on her windward side and the two were locked together by the yards, like two crippled stags. The
Captain
smashed into her starboard quarter. Her bowsprit was thrust over the Spanish poop like a long lance, the spritsail yard locked into her mizzen shrouds. God, what a mess, Nathan thought. What a bloody shambles.

Nelson was calling for boarders. Thank Christ Nathan had something to do at last. He drew his borrowed cutlass.

Men were pouring up from below armed with pistols and cutlasses, boarding pikes and tomahawks. Soldiers with them – men of the 11th and 69th Foot serving as Marines – with their muskets and bayonets. Some Austrians, too, in their white uniforms. That gave him a shock. God only knew where
they
had come from. For a moment Nathan had problems working out whose side they were on. The last time he had seen them had been at Castiglioni, shooting at him.

He followed Nelson to the bows. The Commodore drew his sword and climbed on to the anchor cathead. He had lost his hat, and with his shock of hair, even greying as it was, he looked like some little boy dressed up in a costume. His followers gathered below. Nathan knew some of them. Berry, Noble, Pearson, Tom Allen, the coxswain William Fearney … Nelson looked down at them, an expression of pure joy on his face.

‘Glory,' he said. ‘Glory – or a tomb at Westminster.'

They went in through the stern windows. One of the soldiers smashed them in with the butt of his musket. The cabin door was locked and men were on the other side firing through it, but they smashed it open and swept them aside, rushing up to the quarterdeck. Christ, if the
Captain
had been bad, this was far, far worse. There were more dead than living. Bits of
smashed body, limbs, heads … Nathan slipped on the blood. A soldier came rushing at him with a musket and bayonet but somebody shot him before he could use it. Nathan walked through it all, shocked, bemused. There was no one to fight. There was no fight in them. A Spanish officer gave Nelson his sword.

But they were still firing from somewhere. Nathan looked about him and saw that it was coming from the other ship, the one locked against the larboard side. A much bigger ship, rising above them. Nelson was rallying people to him, calling on them to board her.

Board another ship? It was impossible. Shaking his head, Nathan followed. Berry was helping the Commodore into the main chains and there were Spanish officers staring at them from the quarter rail, shouting that they had surrendered.

Nathan let his sword arm fall. He felt so tired. He had never felt this tired after a battle. It must be his wounds, he thought.

Nelson was taking another sword. He had two of them now. He gave them to his bargeman, Fearney, who put them under his arm.

‘Victory!' somebody shouted. Men were clapping each other on the shoulders, shaking hands. They were even shaking hands with the Spaniards.

Nathan climbed up the shrouds a little to look around. The gunfire seemed to have slackened somewhat. There were two more Spanish ships with British colours hanging above their own. It's over, he thought. Another battle won. And he was on the right side this time. He felt the wind on his cheek, a wind from the south-west, and wondered if it had a name.