“The very same,” said I. “But no one has been able to tell me for certain what became of him.”
“He was one of a party in the second boat which could not get to shore; some of those who were whole and strong contrived to escape, and among them that young officer’s father; but all the wounded were drowned, as you may easily suppose, as the poor souls of course could not swim to land.”
I was shocked to hear of Don Rafael’s death, and the thought of the grief it would be to my hapless and adored little mistress quite overcame me, choking every mean and jealous feeling.
“What a dreadful thing!” I exclaimed. “And is it my misfortune to have to carry the news to his sorrowing friends? But, tell me, are you certain of the facts?”
“I saw his father with my own eyes, lamenting bitterly and telling all the details of the catastrophe with such distress it was enough to break your heart. From what he said he seemed to have saved everybody on board the boat, and he declared that if he had saved his son it would have been at the cost of the lives of all the others, so he chose, on the whole, to preserve the lives of the greatest number, even in sacrificing that of his son, and he did so. He must be a singularly humane man, and wonderfully brave and dexterous.” But I was so deeply distressed that I could not discuss the subject. Marcial dead, Malespina dead! What terrible news to take home to my master’s house. For a moment my mind was almost made up not to return to Cádiz; I would leave it to chance or to public rumor to carry the report to the sad hearts that were waiting in such painful suspense. However, I was bound to present myself before Don Alonso and give him some account of my proceedings.
At length we reached Rota and there embarked for Cádiz. It is impossible to describe the commotion produced by the report of the disaster to our fleet. News of the details had come in by degrees, and by this time the fate of most of our ships was known, though what had become of many men and even whole crews had not been ascertained. The streets were full of distressing scenes at every turn, where someone who had come off scot-free stood telling off the deaths he knew of, and the names of those who would be seen no more. The populace crowded down to the quays to see the wounded as they came on shore, hoping to recognize a father, husband, son or brother. There were episodes of frantic joy mingled with shrieks of dismay and bitter cries of disappointment. Too often were hopes deceived and fears confirmed, and the losers in this fearful lottery were far more numerous than the winners. The bodies thrown up on the shore put an end to the suspense of many families, while others still hoped to find those they had lost among the prisoners taken to Gibraltar.
To the honor of Cádiz be it said never did a community devote itself with greater willingness to the care of the wounded, making no distinctions between friends and foes but hoisting the standard, as it were, of universal and comprehensive charity. Collingwood, in his narrative, does justice to this generosity on the part of my fellow-countrymen. The magnitude of the disaster had deadened all resentment, but is it not sad to reflect that it is only in misfortune that men are truly brothers?
In Cádiz I saw collected in the harbor the whole results of the conflict which previously, as an actor in it, I had only partially understood, since the length of the line and the manœuvring of the vessels would not allow me to see everything that happened. As I now learned—besides the Trinidad—the Argonauta, 92 guns, Captain Don Antonio Pareja, and the San Augustín, 80 guns, Don Felipe Cagigal, had been sunk. Gravina had got back into Cádiz with the Príncipe de Astúrias, as well as the Montañes, 80 guns, commanded by Alcedo, who with his second officer Castaños, had been killed; the San Justo, 76 guns, Captain Don Miguel Gastón; the San Leandro, 74, Captain Don José Quevedo; the San Francisco, 74, Don Luis Flores; and the Rayo, 100, commanded by Macdonell. Four of these had gone out again on the 23rd to recapture the vessels making for Gibraltar; and of these, two, the San Francisco and the Rayo were wrecked on the coast. So, too, was the Monarca, 74 guns, under Argumosa, and the Neptuno, 80 guns; and her heroic commander, Don Cayetano Valdés, who had previously distinguished himself at Cape St. Vincent, narrowly escaped with his life. The Bahama had surrendered but went to pieces before she could be got into Gibraltar; the San Ildefonso, 74 guns, Captain Vargas, was taken to England, while the San Juan Nepomuceno was left for many years at Gibraltar, where she was regarded as an object of veneration and curiosity. The Santa Ana had come safely into Cádiz the very night we were taken off her.
The English too lost some fine ships, and not a few of their gallant officers shared Nelson’s glorious fate.
With regard to the French it need not be said that they had suffered as severely as we had. With the exception of the four ships that withdrew under Dumanoir without showing fight—a stain which the Imperial navy could not for a long time wipe out—our allies behaved splendidly. Villeneuve, only caring to efface in one day the remembrance of all his mistakes, fought desperately to the last and was carried off a prisoner to Gibraltar. Many of their officers were
