Victory

order and to secure the prizes, taking the helpless in tow and trying to shape course for Gibraltar. Kydd had men away as prize crew and, with the rest, had had to manhandle messengers and heavy hawsers in the rising sea.

The dead weight of the heavy battleship in tow was a sore trial for the delicate-lined L’Aurore, and as darkness fell, it had turned into a nightmare, the jerking and surging straining her bitts and the increasing swell now abeam making sheer existence a misery. What it must have been like for the helpless wounded in the bowels of the capture was beyond imagining.

By morning the barometer had dropped precipitously a whole two inches and driving squalls of heavy rain made working aloft a slippery death-trap, and then as the bluster intensified, reefs had to be taken in by the depleted and exhausted crew.

The day wore on and they struggled south, but an inshore current of some strength was setting relentlessly to the north, destroying their gains even as the long hours passed.

The wind increased, white combers on the back of the great swell crashing with force on the ship’s side. In the afternoon breakers were sighted through the veils of rain – these were the treacherous sandbanks that ranged far out from the Spanish coast, exposed by the deep scend of the swell.

It got worse: a developing fresh gale, coupled with the relentless urging of the swell out of the west, was creating every mariner’s dread – a dead lee shore. Now the struggle was for survival, a desperate clawing off from the shoreline against the wind.

Night drew in, and with it torrential rain and a raging whole gale that screamed and moaned in the rigging as if the souls of the slain were haunting them. Two seamen were swept from the lower shrouds in a particularly savage roll. They disappeared into the white torn murk with no possible hope of rescue. Another two suffered injury before the terrible night was over.

Kydd shuddered. That, with the piteous sight of Fougueux driving ashore and breaking up on the shoals, her pitiful cargo of helpless wounded to perish in the pounding surf, would stay in stark clarity in his mind for ever.

Yet incredibly their time of trial had not been over: the violent squalls backed to the south-west during the night, and when morning came it brought a sight that was as unexpected as it was unthinkable.

From Cadiz an enemy heavy squadron of six battleships and more frigates were clawing their way out into the wild weather to renew the fight.

Caught scattered over the sea in battle-damaged ships and others with prizes, the British were in no condition to face a fresh engagement – but they did. Collingwood signalled his dispositions: those with prizes under tow would continue on while any that were able would close on him and confront the squadron.

With scraps of sail, jury-rigged masts and men dropping with fatigue, they went for the enemy, and where their ships were in such desperate condition they made up for it by consummate seamanship and transparent resolution. The squadron turned about and retreated on Cadiz, their honour satisfied with the retaking of a couple of the worst-damaged prizes.

The weather clamped in yet again, intense white squalls under dark grey-green clouds slashed with lightning, visibility dangerously impaired time and again so close to the reefs and banks of Trafalgar. It hammered at the worn ships for days.

The prizes were now a liability – not only that but if the weather moderated there was every chance of an even bigger sortie by the emboldened Spanish. Reluctantly, Collingwood gave the order to abandon them, but this brought problems of its own for each prize had to be cleared of its pitiful cargo of wounded and others in numbers quite capable of a rising to seize a small frigate. It took adroit boatwork to transfer the prisoners and find somewhere for them.

When it was over L’Aurore was packed with suffering humanity and sullen captives – but they were now making headway south. Slowly but surely the victorious, grief-stricken, mutilated but ultimately triumphant fleet crept over the seas to Gibraltar.

There, the worst afflicted were brought alongside the mole and at last the casualties found rest – or burial in the little graveyard.

Kydd quietly went aboard Victory, her ship’s company and the small dockyard labouring to fit her for the final voyage home. He was met by Bowden, who gravely took him to see the gaping wounds she had suffered, his own place of trial, and then below to where their commander-in-chief had breathed his last.

Admiral Collingwood had earlier sent his dispatches home in the little Pickle schooner but the Mediterranean Squadron would remain at its post. No glorious homecoming for the ships that had fought the greatest battle in all sea history, they would be repaired and ordered out again to stand once more as England’s enduring shield.

Except HMS Victory. She would be sent home bearing the body of Lord Nelson – escorted by the smallest frigate that Collingwood could spare.

The tinny sound of a distant band intruded into Kydd’s thoughts and brought him back to the present. The ceremonial barge had reached the embankment where Lord Hood was standing and, amid the melancholy strains of the Dead March from Saul, the coffin was prepared for lifting.

It was done. Kydd clapped his hat on and turned, meeting the solemn eyes of his officers. ‘Carry on, please,’ he said, and went below to his cabin.

It was over. The world was now a different place. The ‘Great Fear’ that had seized England since Bonaparte had set in motion his invasion plan was now lifted from northern sheep-herders, midland ironmasters and the powerful financiers in the City of London.

What lay ahead? Had the tide turned or were endless years of conflict still to come until one or the other triumphed?

And the Royal Navy without Horatio Nelson. It was beyond conceiving, the absence of such a figure at the summit of the profession beckoning each and every man to deeds of valour and standards of conduct that had forged a weapon of the sea that stood so far in advance of every other.

The pricking of a tear caught him unawares. He had seen common seamen weeping at the news, officers making their excuses, but he had known the man himself, the warmth, iron strength and utter devotion to duty, and to think . . .