“It is the San Agustín,” said Marcial.
“The San Agustín was sunk,” said Don Alonso; “I believe it is the Santa Ana which was also captured.” In fact, as we got close, we all recognized the Santa Ana which had gone into action under the command of Álava. The English officers in charge immediately prepared to take us on board, and before long we were all safe and sound on deck.
The Santa Ana, 112 guns, had suffered severely, though not to such an extent as the Santísima Trinidad; for, though she had lost all her masts and her rudder, the hull was fairly sound. The Santa Ana survived the battle of Trafalgar eleven years, and would have lived much longer if she had not gone to the bottom for want of repairs in the bay of Havana, in 1816. She had behaved splendidly in the fight. She was commanded, as I have said, by Vice-admiral Álava leader of the van which, as the order of battle was altered, became the rear. As the reader knows, the line of English ships led by Collingwood attacked the Spanish rear while Nelson took the centre. The Santa Ana, only supported by the Fougueux, a Frenchman, had to fight the Royal Sovereign and four other English ships; and in spite of their unequal strength one side suffered as much as the other, for Collingwood’s ship was the first to retire and the Euryalus took her place. By all accounts the fighting was terrific, and the two great ships, whose masts were almost entangled, fired into each other for six hours until Álava and Gardoqui, both being wounded (Álava subsequently died), five officers and ninety-seven sailors being killed, besides more than 150 wounded, the Santa Ana was forced to surrender. The English took possession of her, but it was impossible to work her on account of her shattered condition, and the dreadful storm that rose during the night of the 21st; so when we went on board she was in a very critical, though not a desperate situation, floating at the mercy of the wind and waves and unable to make any course. From that moment I was greatly comforted by seeing that every face on board betrayed a dread of approaching death. They were all very sad and quiet, enduring with a solemn mien the disgrace of defeat and the sense of being prisoners. One circumstance I could not help observing, and that was that the English officers in charge of the ship were not by a great deal so polite or so kind as those sent on board the Trinidad; on the contrary, among those on the Santa Ana were some who were both stern and repellent, doing all they could to mortify us, exaggerating their own dignity and authority, and interfering in everything with the rudest impertinence. This greatly annoyed the captured crew, particularly the sailors; and I fancied I overheard many alarming murmurs of rebellion which would have been highly disquieting to the English if they had come to their ears.
Beyond this there is nothing to tell of our progress that night—if progress it can be called when we were driven at the will of the wind and waves, sailless and rudderless. Nor do I wish to weary the reader with a repetition of the scenes we had witnessed on board the Trinidad, so I will go on to other and newer incidents which will surprise him as much as they did me.
I had lost my liking for hanging about the deck and poop, and as soon as we got on board the Santa Ana I took shelter in the cabin with my master, hoping to get food and rest, both of which I needed sorely. However, I found there many wounded who required constant attention and this duty, which I gladly fulfilled, prevented my getting the sleep which my wearied frame required. I was engaged in placing a bandage on Don Alonso’s arm when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I turned round and saw a tall young officer wrapped in a large blue cloak whom I did not immediately recognize; but after gazing at him for a few seconds, I exclaimed aloud with surprise; it was Don Rafael Malespina, my young mistress’s lover.
My master embraced him affectionately and he sat down by us. He had been wounded in the shoulder, and was so pale from fatigue and loss of blood that his face looked quite altered. His presence here filled me with strange sensations—some of which I am fain to own were anything rather than pleasing. At first I felt glad enough indeed to see anyone I knew and who had come out alive from those scenes of horror, but the next moment my old aversion for this man rose up, as strong as ever in my breast, like some dormant pain reviving to torment me after an interval of respite. I confess with shame that I was sorry to see him safe and sound, but I must do myself the justice to add that the regret was but momentary, as brief as a lightning flash—a flash of blackness, as I may say, darkening my soul; or rather a transient eclipse of the light of conscience which shone clearly again in the next instant. The evil side of my nature for a moment came uppermost; but I was
