Victory

entire ship.

Throughout the day’s action they would be sweating here in the dimness using copper scoops to make up the cartridges to feed the guns, lit by specially sealed lanthorns and getting news only through the powder-monkey chain.

Finally, water was sluiced and sand scattered liberally along the gun-decks. In the bloody carnage of close- quarter fighting it would give much-needed grip to bare feet.

And quietly in the orlop, the lowest deck of all, Beatty the surgeon took charge of the cockpit, the space at the after end outside the midshipmen’s berth. Chests were brought and he laid out his instruments: bullet extractors, fleams, forceps, ligatures – and the saws and knives to sever limbs. Tubs were placed nearby to take these ‘wings and limbs’ and carboys of oil of turpentine were opened to seal the stumps.

As far as it was possible, HMS Victory was now ready for the fight. The first lieutenant, Quilliam, reported to Captain Hardy that all was complete and the hands were stood down. The next time they would be called upon was when the ship beat to quarters.

‘Sir, hands to breakfast?’ suggested Quilliam.

‘Make it so,’ Hardy replied.

The men scrambled noisily below – with the galley fire out there would be no hot food but ship’s biscuits, cheese and grog were acceptable fare with the enemy in sight, and there was much to contemplate and talk about over the mess tables. At the day’s end, which places would be vacant, which cheery faces would never be seen again?

Pasco glanced at Bowden. ‘You’ve been on watch, m’ lad,’ he said, with a smile. ‘I’d advise you to duck below while you can, shift into your fighting rig and get a bite to eat. Come back in an hour.’

Grateful, Bowden made his way down to the gunroom, now bare and stark. His sea-chest, like the others, had been struck below and he wedged himself up against the massive transom knee to munch his rations.

Around him were his shipmates, some keeping to themselves in inner reflection, others conversing in low tones. He did not feel like talking and finished his meal with an orange that Pasco had slipped him from the wardroom, sipping sparingly on a tin cup of grog.

As for shifting into fighting rig, even if he wished it he could not – all his gear was in his sea-chest in the hold. This included his dirk, but earlier he had resolved that in the event of a boarding he’d snatch up a cutlass, a much more effective weapon, from an open arms-chest. There was therefore little he could do to pass the time before . . .

Except . . . He had a slate on a string. He balanced it on his knee, pulled out a signal form and his pencil and composed his thoughts.

‘Dear Uncle,’ he began, at a loss for words in the rush of impressions.

Villeneuve is sighted this morning at dawn ESE five leagues. Capt Hardy estimates 33 French and Spanish in line of battle to the S. And what a parcel of lubbers they look too! As would give apoplexy to Ad^m Cornwallis, I should think.

We’ve clear’d for action and the men are in great heart, as well they should with Ld Nelson in company.

He chewed his pencil, trying to think what to say, but it was too weighty an affair for small-talk and, besides, what exactly was he writing? A midshipman’s dutiful letter to his benefactor – or his last words on earth to his family? Who knew when they would receive this? Others had begun their letters weeks before with the object of adding a last-minute postscript to go out in the mail with the dispatches that the commander-in-chief would be sending to the Admiralty just before battle was joined.

At this time, dear Uncle, I think of you and my family but, be assured, should it be by God’s good grace I shall fall in this action then I die in a most noble cause, and know that I will not disgrace your love and name. Do not grieve – it will be to no purpose.

His eyes stung and he caught himself, finishing,

Remember me to my friends. I bid you all farewell and put my life into the hands of the One who made me. Amen.

When Bowden returned to the poop it seemed so crowded. Besides the signal crew, the Royal Marines were assembling there, nearly three dozen of them. Captain Adair flashed him a confident smile as he checked his men’s equipment.

Bowden picked up the signal log. It had been fairly busy, mostly admonitions to individual ships to make more sail and take station. The two columns were now formed and heading for the waiting enemy line, but so slowly in the calm.

‘I say, aren’t the Crapauds sailing more than usually ahoo?’ Adair remarked, shielding his eyes and gazing across the glittering sea where the aspect of the enemy masts and sails was slowly changing.

‘Ha!’ said Pasco in amazement. ‘I do believe they’re putting about and running back to Cadiz!’

‘Be damned! Our Nel will be in a right taking if they get away,’ Pollard, another signal midshipman sniffed, his glass up on the leaders.

Victory’s bow, however, was resolutely tracking the new head of the enemy line, which was puzzling. From animated discussions the previous night, Bowden had understood that Nelson’s intention was to punch through the centre, and here he was, apparently abandoning his plan.

Then Victory beat to quarters – the martial thunder of the drummers at the hatchways started, the staccato rhythm of ‘Heart of Oak’. Sailors scrambled up from below to man the guns.

A first-rate like Victory had the greatest fire-power of anything afloat: three decks of guns each ranged the entire length of the ship on both sides, the heaviest on the lowest – a broadside of half a ton of cold iron, more if double-shotted at close quarters. And there was the secondary armament: a fourth level of twelve-pounders on the quarterdeck, more on the fo’c’sle, including the giant sixty-eight-pounder carronades.

Already at his station for quarters, Bowden stood aside as the marines formed up with muskets, ready to be employed from this vantage-point. Most of the 140 of their number were below decks serving at the guns.