On all sides we could see the scattered fleets; many of the ships were English, severely damaged and striving to gain shelter under the coast. There were Frenchmen and Spaniards too, some dismasted, others in tow of the enemy. Marcial recognized the San Ildefonso. Floating about were myriads of fragments and masses of wreck—spars, timbers, broken boats, hatches, bulwarks, and doors—besides two unfortunate sailors who were clinging to a plank, and who must have been swept off and drowned if the English had not hastened to rescue them. They were brought on board more dead than alive, and their resuscitation after being in the very jaws of death was like a new birth to them.
That day went by between agonies and hopes—now we thought nothing could save the ship and that we must be taken on board an Englishman then again we hoped to keep her afloat. The idea of being taken into Gibraltar as prisoners was intolerable, not so much to me perhaps as to men of punctilious honor and sensitive dignity like my master whose mental anguish at the thought must have been intolerable. However, all the torment of suspense, at any rate, was relieved by the evening when it was unanimously agreed that if we were not transferred to an English ship at once, to the bottom we must go with the vessel, which now had five feet of water in the hold. Uriarte and Cisneros took the announcement with dignified composure, saying that it mattered little to them whether they perished at once or were prisoners in a foreign land. The task was at once begun in the doubtful twilight, and as there were above three hundred wounded to be transferred it was no easy matter. The available number of hands was about five hundred, all that were left uninjured of the original crew of eleven hundred and fifteen before the battle.
We set to work promptly with the launches of the Trinidad and the Prince, and three other boats belonging to the English. The wounded were attended to first; but though they were lifted with all possible care they could not be moved without great suffering, and some entreated with groans and shrieks to be left in peace, preferring immediate death to anything that could aggravate and prolong their torments. But there was no time for pity, and they were carried to the boats as ruthlessly as the cold corpses of their comrades had been flung into the sea.
Uriarte and Cisneros embarked in the English captain’s gig, but when they urged my master to accompany them he obstinately refused, saying that he wished to be last to leave the sinking ship. This I confess disturbed me not a little, for as by this time, the hardy patriotism which at first had given me courage had evaporated, I thought only of saving my life, and to stay on board a foundering vessel was clearly not the best means to that laudable end. Nor were my fears ill founded, for not more than half the men had been taken off when a dull roar of terror echoed through the ship.
“She is going to the bottom—the boats, to the boats!” shouted some, and there was a rush to the ship’s side, all looking out eagerly for the return of the boats. Every attempt at work or order was given up, the wounded were forgotten, and several who had been brought on deck dragged themselves to the side in a sort of delirium, to seek an opening and throw themselves into the sea. Up through the hatchways came a hideous shriek which I think I can hear as I write, freezing the blood in my veins and setting my hair on end. It came from the poor wretches on the lowest deck who already felt the waters rising to drown them and vainly cried for help—to God or men—who can tell! Vainly indeed to men, for they had enough to do to save themselves. They jumped wildly into the boats, and this confusion in the darkness hindered progress. One man alone, quite cool in the midst of the danger, remained in the state cabin, paying no heed to all that was going on around him, walking up and down sunk in thought, as though the planks he trod were not fast sinking into the gulf below. It was my master. I ran to rouse him from his stupefaction. “Sir,” I cried, “we are drowning!”
Don Alonzo did not heed me, and if I may trust my memory he merely said without looking round:
“How Paca will laugh at me, when I go home after such a terrible defeat!”
“Sir, the ship is sinking!” I insisted, not indeed exaggerating the danger, but in vehement entreaty.
My master looked at the sea, at the boats, at the men who were blindly and desperately leaping overboard; I looked anxiously for Marcial and called him as loudly as I could shout. At the same time I seemed to lose all consciousness of where I was and what was happening. I turned giddy and I could see nothing. To tell how I was saved from death I can only trust to the vaguest recollections, like the
