The firing ceased, and the English took possession of the conquered vessel.
XII
When the mind had sufficiently recovered from the shock and excitement of battle, and had time to turn from “the pity of it” and the chill of terror left by the sight of that terrific struggle, those who were left alive could see the hapless vessel in all its majesty of horror. Till now we had thought of nothing but self-defence, but when the firing ceased we could turn our attention to the dilapidated state of the ship, which let in the water at a hundred leaks and was beginning to sink, threatening to bury us all, living and dead, at the bottom of the sea. The English had scarcely taken possession when a shout arose from our sailors, as from one man:
“To the pumps!”
All who were able flew to the pumps and labored hard at them; but these ineffectual machines turned out much less water than poured in. Suddenly a shriek even more appalling than any we had heard before filled us with horror. I have said that the wounded had been carried down into the hold which, being below the water line, was secure from the inroads of the cannon shot. But the water was fast gaining there, and some sailors came scrambling up the hatchways exclaiming that the wounded were being drowned. The greater part of the crew hesitated between continuing to pump and running down to rescue the hapless wretches; and God knows what would have happened if an English crew had not come to our assistance. They not only carried up the wounded to the second and third deck but they lent a hand at the pumps and their carpenters set to work to stop the leaks in the ship’s sides.
Utterly tired out, and thinking too that Don Alonso might need my services, I returned to the cabin. As I went I saw some Englishmen hoisting the English flag at the bows of the Trinidad. As I dare to believe that the amiable reader will allow me to record my feelings, I may say that this incident gave me something to think of. I had always thought of the English as pirates or sea-highwaymen, as a race of adventurers not worthy to be called a nation but living by robbery. When I saw the pride with which they hauled up their flag, saluting it with vociferous cheering; when I perceived the satisfaction it was to them to have made a prize of the largest vessel that, until then, had ever sailed the seas, it struck me that their country, too, was dear to them, that her honor was in their hands and I understood that in that land—to me so mysteriously remote—called England, there must be, as in Spain, honorable men, a paternal king, mothers, daughters, wives, and sisters of these brave mariners—all watching anxiously for their return and praying to God for victory.
I found my master in the cabin, somewhat calmer. The English officers who had come on board treated ours with the most distinguished courtesy and, as I heard, were anxious to transfer the wounded on board their own ship. One of these gentlemen went up to my master as if recognizing him, bowed to him, and addressing him in fairly-good Spanish, reminded him of an old acquaintanceship. Don Alonso responded gravely to his advances and then enquired of him as to some of the details of the battle.
“But what became of our reserve? What did Gravina do?” asked my master.
“Gravina withdrew with some of his ships,” replied the English officer.
“Only the Rayo and Neptuno came to our assistance of all the front line?”
“Four French ships—the Duguay-Trouin, the Mont Blanc, the Scipion, and the Formidable were the only ones that kept out of the action.”
“But Gravina—where was Gravina?” Don Alonso persisted.
“He got off in the Príncipe de Astúrias; but as he was chased I do not know whether he reached Cádiz in safety.”
“And the San Ildefonso?”
“She struck.”
“And the Santa Ana?”
“Struck too.”
“Good God!” cried my master, unable to conceal his indignation. “But you did not take the Nepomuceno?”
“Yes, that too.”
“Are you sure of that? With Churruca?”
“He was killed,” said the Englishman with sincere regret.
“Killed—Churruca killed!” exclaimed Don Alonso in grievous bewilderment. “And the Bahama—she was saved—the Bahama must have been able to reach Cádiz in safety.”
“She was taken too.”
“Taken! And Galiano? He is a hero and a cultivated gentleman.”
“He was,” said the Englishman sadly, “but he too is dead.”
“And the Montañes with Alcedo?”
“Killed, killed.”
My master could not control his emotion and as, at his advanced age, presence of mind is lacking at such terrible moments, he suffered the slight humiliation of shedding a few tears as he remembered his lost friends. Nor are tears unbecoming to a noble soul; on the contrary, they reveal a happy infusion of delicate feeling, when combined with a resolute temper. My master’s tears were manly tears, shed after he had done his duty as a sailor; but, hastily recovering from this paroxysm of grief, and anxious to retort on the Englishman by some pain equal to that he had caused, he said:
“You too have suffered, no doubt, and have lost some men of mark?”
“We have suffered one irreparable loss,” said the English officer in accents as deeply sad as Don Alonso’s. “We have lost our greatest man, the bravest of the brave—our noble, heroic, incomparable Nelson.”
And his fortitude holding out no better than my master’s he made no attempt to conceal his anguish of grief; he covered his face with his hands and wept with the pathetic frankness of incontrollable sorrow for his leader, his guardian, and his friend.
Nelson, mortally wounded at an early stage of the battle by a gunshot—the ball piercing his chest and lodging in the spine—had simply said to Captain Hardy: “They have done for
