1805

thought at first was a prize but then realised was the Royal Sovereign, Collingwood's dismasted flagship.

'God's bones,' he muttered to himself, aware that this was a day the like of which he hoped he would never see again. The shattered hulls of ships lay all around, British, French and Spanish. Some still bore their own colours; none that he could see bore the British colours underneath the Spanish or French, although he could distinguish several British prizes. Masts and yards, sails and great heaps of rigging lay over their sides and trailed in the oily water while the whole mass rolled and ground together on the swell that rolled impassively from the west.

'Wind,' he muttered, 'there will be a wind soon,' and the thought sent him below, in search of his few belongings among the shambles.

He found he could retrieve only his journal, coat, hat and glass. He and one of Atcherley's marines brought up the body of Gillespy. Drinkwater wrapped the body in his own cloak and found a couple of shot left in the upper deck garlands. They bound the boy about with loose line and lifted the sad little bundle onto the rail. Had Drinkwater not agreed to Gillespy accompanying him on the Bucentaure he would be alive now, listening in Cadiz to the distant thunder of the guns in company with Frey and Quilhampton. The marine took off his shako and Drinkwater recited the familiar words of the Anglican prayer of committal. Then they rolled Gillespy into the water.

'He is in good company,' he murmured to himself, but his voice was drowned in a vast explosion. To the north the ship that had taken fire, the French Achille, blew apart as the fire reached her magazine. The blast rolled over the sea and hammered their already wounded ear-drums, bringing with it the first hint of a freshening breeze.

Captain Atcherley's prize crew consisted of less than half a dozen men, besides himself. They had locked the private cabins of Villeneuve and his senior officers, asked for and obtained the parole of those remaining officers capable of posing a threat, and locked the magazines and spirit rooms. Following Drinkwater's advice, some food was found and served out to all, irrespective of nationality. As the battle began to die out around them, Masson came on deck. His clothes were completely soaked in blood, his pale face smudged with gore and drawn with exhaustion.

'Did you notice,' he said to Drinkwater, 'how the raking fire mostly took off men's heads? It is curious, is it not, Captain?'

Drinkwater looked at him, seeing the results of terrible strain. Masson sniffed and said, 'Thank you for your assistance.'

'It was nothing. I could not stand idle.' Drinkwater paused, not wishing to seem to patronise defeated men. 'They were brave men,' he said simply.

Masson nodded. 'That is their only epitaph.' The surgeon slumped down between two guns and within a minute had fallen fast asleep.

Atcherley joined Drinkwater on the poop, watching the last of the fighting.

'My God, they have made a mess of us, by heaven!' exclaimed Atcherley when he saw the damage to the masts of the British ships. 'If the wind gets up we'll be caught on a dead lee shore.'

'I believe it will get up, Captain Atcherley, and we would do well to take some precautions.' Drinkwater was staring through his glass.

'Is that Victory? She is a wreck, look…' He handed the glass to Atcherley.

'Yes… and Collingwood's flag is down from the Royal Sovereign's masthead…'

The two men looked at one another. There was little left of Royal Sovereign's masts, but they had seen Collingwood's flag there ten minutes ago, atop the stump of the foremast with a British ensign hoisted to the broken stump of the main. Had Collingwood been killed? And then they saw the blue square go up to the masthead of the Euryalus.

'He has shifted his flag to the frigate,' said Atcherley betraying a sense of relief.

'But why?' asked Drinkwater. 'Surely Nelson would not permit that?'

But further conjecture was distracted by a movement to the south-east. They could see ships making sail, running clear of the pall of smoke. Drinkwater trained his glass. He knew the leading vessel; it was Gravina's flagship.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater watched as the Principe de Asturias led some ten or eleven ships out of the Allied line, making all possible sail in the direction of Cadiz. The Spanish grandee had finally deserted his chief, Drinkwater thought, not knowing that Gravina lay below with a shattered arm, nor that his second, Rear-Admiral Magon, galled by a dozen musket balls, had finally been cut in two by a round shot. At the time it seemed like the final betrayal of Villeneuve.

Under their stern passed a British launch, commanded by a master's mate and engaged in carrying prize crews about the shattered remnants of the Combined Fleet. Atcherley stared at her as she made her way amongst the floating wreckage of the great ships of three nations that lay wallowing upon the heaving sea.

'Good God, sir, I believe those fellows to be crying!'

Drinkwater levelled his glass on the straining oarsmen. There could be no mistake. He could see awful grimaces upon the faces of several men, and streaked patches where tears had washed the powder soot from their cheeks. 'Good God!'

'Boat 'hoy!' Atcherley hailed.

The elderly master's mate called his men to stop pulling and looked up at the two officers standing under the British ensign hoisted over the French.

'What ship's that?'

'The French admiral, Bucentaure,' called Atcherley, proudly adding, 'prize to the Conqueror. What is the matter with your men?'

'Matter? Have ye not heard the news?'

'News? What news beyond that of victory?'

'Victory? Ha!' The mate spat over the side. 'Why, Nelson's dead… d'you hear? Nelson's dead…'

The wind began to rise at sunset when Conqueror beat up to reclaim her prize, ranging to weather of her. Pellew sent a boat with a lieutenant and more men to augment Atcherley's pathetic prize crew. Drinkwater scrambled up onto Bucentaure's rail and hailed Pellew.

'Have the kindness, sir, to report Captain Drinkwater as having rejoined the fleet. I was taken off Tarifa and held a prisoner aboard this ship!'

'Ah!' cried Pellew waving his hat in acknowledgement. 'We wondered where you had got to, Drinkwater. Stockham won't be complaining! He drove the Prince of the Asturias off the Revenge! We've seventeen prizes but lost Lord Nelson!'

'I heard. A bad day for England!'

'Indeed. Will you look after Bucentaure then? 'Tis coming on to blow!'

'She is much damaged but we shall do our best!'

'Splendid. I shall take you in tow!' Pellew waved his hat and jumped down onto his own deck. His lieutenant, Richard Spear, touched his hat to Drinkwater.

'I have orders to receive a line, sir.'

'Carry on, sir, and be quick about it… Who the devil is Stockham, d'you know Mr Atcherley?'

'John Stockham, sir? Yes, he's first luff of the Thunderer. He'll get his step in rank for this day's work.'

'I expect so,' said Drinkwater flatly, moving towards the compass in order to determine their position. In the last light of day Cape Trafalgar was a dark smudge on the eastward horizon to leeward.

Astern of the Conqueror the Bucentaure dragged and snubbed at the hemp cable. The wind backed round to south-south-west and increased to gale force by midnight. British and French alike laboured for two hours to haul an undamaged cable out of the hold and forward, onto an anchor. In the blackness of the howling night they were briefly aware of other ships; of the soaring arcs of rockets signalling distress; of the proximity of wounded leviathans in a similar plight to themselves. But many of these wallowed helplessly untowed, their mastless hulks rolling in the troughs of the seas which quickly built up to roll the broken ship closer to the shallows off the cape. From Euryalus Collingwood had thrown out the night signal to wear. Those ships which were able complied, but most simply lay a-hull, broached to and