The Victory (49 page)

Some of the ships of the van began firing also, though they
were too far ahead of the
Victory
to hope to hit her, and they
soon gave it up in favour of firing at the
Africa,
who was
passing them as she came down from the northward, alone.

A hole appeared in
Victory's main
topgallant, and almost
at once the French began firing their broadsides.

‘
She must be getting pounded, sir,' Osborne said anxiously.
Victory
sailed on unflinchingly, aiming for a gap in the line.

‘
She'll pass astern of the flagship,' Weston said. 'What's
that ship behind her? Oh yes, the
Redoutable.
See, she's
trying to close the gap. There's one French captain who
knows his business, anyway.'

‘
They're going to collide!' cried Osborne. Moments later,
Victory's
bows hit those of the
Redoutable
with a crash they
could hear quite clearly across the water; and she ground on,
forcing the
Redoutable
round to starboard. Then with a roar,
Victory
opened fire at last, smashing the beautiful gilded stern
of the
Bucentaure
into splinters with an entire port broadside,
and pumping her starboard broadside into the
Redoutable.

The
Temeraire,
immediately behind
Victory,
broke the line
to the rear of the
Redoutable
and lay up on her starboard
side, and the
Fougeux
ran up on the
Temeraire's
other side, so that the four ships were locked together, side by side, their
yards touching, pounding each other with their guns. The
familiar pall of smoke began to obscure the scene.

The rear of the combined fleet was catching up with the
centre, where the action was taking place, but the vanguard
was sailing away out of reach. Weston and his officers
watched in amazement as the enemy van held to its course,
expecting every moment that they would turn to help their
colleagues, but apart from firing at the
Africa, the
smallest of
the English ships of the line, as she passed, they seeined to
want no part of the battle.

Weston's view of the battle was now limited to tantalising
glimpses whenever the smoke rolled away. One glimpse
revealed the magnificent
Santisma Trinidad
with all three of
her masts down, hanging over the side so that her huge bulk rolled helplessly like a gigantic log. The
Belleisle,
too, was
completely dismasted, but she had cut her wreckage away and
was still firing at anything that came within range. The
slower of the English ships were now joining battle with the
fresh ships from the enemy's rearguard, so that the struggle
in the centre was constantly renewed. But it was plain who
was getting the worst of it, and after two hours, ships of the
Combined began to strike their colours.

There were men in the water now, and Weston tacked the
Nemesis
nimbly here and there to pick them up. A stray shot
whined past and parted a forestay, and the boatswain's party
went running forward to reeve a new one. Even on the fringes
of the battle, Weston reflected, one was not entirely safe.

‘
Sir, I think the enemy van's turning,' said Acton, the third
lieutenant. Weston trained his glass on the distant ships.

‘
I think you're right. I wonder how long it will take them?
It took them three hours to change course yesterday.'

‘
Good God!' Osborne said in disgust, 'they're trying to
tack, instead of wearing. Haven't they any more sense than
that, with the wind so light?'

‘
They'll be in trouble,' Acton predicted. 'Yes, look, that
one's lost her steerage way. She's all aback! Now what'll they
do?’

It took an hour for all the ships to turn. Some had to hoist
out boats and tow themselves round; two others collided, and
one lost a foremast; but at last they were on the opposite tack,
and heading southwards on the windward side of the battle.
All the ships of Nelson's column were now engaged except the
Spartiate
and the
Minotaur,
which now altered course to stand in the way of the enemy van, shewing their teeth and
offering battle. Seeing this, all but the first four of the enemy
ships hauled their wind and hovered about out of range; and
even those four, after exchanging fire with the two English
ships, thought better of it, and continued
oh
their south
westerly course, away to safety.

*

The
Royal Sovereign,
having lost her masts, signalled for the
Euryalus
to take her in tow. At the southernmost end of the battle, the French
Achille,
which had been fighting with her
English namesake and the
Prince,
had set fire to her own
rigging by using musketry in the crosstrees, and Weston took
the
Nemesis
to offer help. A ship on fire was no longer an
enemy ship: her crew must be taken off, if possible.

Before he reached her, however, Weston saw that the
Pickle
was already on the spot, and several other ships had
sent boats, and seeing that his immediate presence would only
hamper them, he looked around for some other ship that
might need his assistance.

Nearby was the
Cetus,
not at present engaged, her stern
battered and shapeless, her fore- and main-topmasts gone,
and a working-party still labouring to secure the mizzen
mast. Haworth was on the quarterdeck, and Weston hauled
his wind and hailed him.

‘Is everything all right, sir?’

Haworth grinned. 'Some minor damage, as you see. How
many have struck?'

‘Fourteen or so, I think. None of ours, of course.'

‘
I should hope not.' He jerked his thumb over his shoulder
at the
Furieux. 'We
have a prize, too, you see.'

‘
Congratulations, sir. Have you heard what happened to
the
Africa?'

‘
No. Did she manage to get into action?'

‘Oh, yes, sir. But she found the
Santisma Trinidad
already
dismasted, so Digby sent a lieutenant on board to receive her surrender. The Spanish admiral told him politely that it was a
mistake, that he hadn't struck, and escorted the lieutenant
back over the side.’

Haworth grinned. 'Poor old Digby.'

‘
I haven't had any better luck,' Weston said ruefully. 'No
prize for me yet. Do you need any help, sir?'

‘
No thank you, Weston. I shall need your help later to
celebrate, however, when we get back to Spithead.'

‘
What a story we'll have to tell!' Weston said, grinning.
‘There never was a battle like this!’

The
Pickle's
boats were now heading back for her side, and
there was room for another rescuer on the spot, so Weston touched his hat to Haworth, gave the order to come before
the wind, and the
Nemesis
turned away from
Cetus's
side to
head for the burning
Achille.

*

The mizzen-mast was secured, the immediate danger over,
and Haworth was able to turn his attention to other matters.

‘
Shot hole below the waterline, sir,' said the carpenter.
‘We're plugging it, sir, but we're taking in water. Could we
have four more men on the pumps, sir?'

‘
Mr Angevin's dead, sir,' said young Morpurgo, a mess
age he had been trying to deliver to the captain for half
an hour at least. 'He was dead when they got him below.
Mr Parry says he must have died instantly, sir, shot in the
chest.'

‘
You're wounded yourself,' Haworth remembered, seeing
the crust of blood on the boy's forehead, and feeling, now that
he had the leisure, the savage, sickening pain in his own lower
back.

‘
I'm all right, sir, but what about you?' Morpurgo said
anxiously, seeing Howarth's grimace of pain as he tried to
straighten.

Styles was hailing from the quarterdeck of the
Furieux.

‘
All secure, sir,' he called. 'Things are pretty bad here, though, sir. I could do with some more men, if you could
spare 'em.'

‘I'll see what I can do,' Haworth said. 'Do your best for the
moment, Mr Styles. You had better send the unwounded
French officers here, for safety's sake. Mr Tyler, see to it, will
you? And let me know as soon as we are ready to make sail again. I'm going below for a few minutes, to see how things are in the cockpit. Mr Morpurgo, you had better come with me, and have that wound attended to.’

On the lower deck, the smoke had almost cleared, and the light coining in through the gunports gave more illumination than usual. The crews were still standing to their guns in readiness for further action, but Haworth was glad to see that the division officers were releasing them in turn to drink at
scuttles. They were all dog-weary, but they straightened up as the captain passed, looking to him trustfully for guidance and
praise.

‘Well done, my lads,' he called to them. 'We've given the Frogs a trouncing, and taken ourselves a prize, and we may still have the chance to take another, God willing!’

One or two of them managed a cheer, and the others
grinned at each other, thinking no doubt of prize-money and Portsmouth whores.

Down again, and the orlop deck was hellish, dark except for the pools of lamplight, stifling hot, the air thick with the
smell of sweat and the coppery, butchery reek of blood. From
out of the darkness came the tormented moans of mutilated men. There were wounded everywhere, sitting on benches,
lying on the deck, propped against the ship's knees; some
were crying out with living pain, others silent with shock, or locked in the solitude of approaching death.

But others were still cheerful, making light of their wounds
for the sake of their reputations or the spirits of their neigh
bours, cheering whenever any piece of news was passed down
to them of the battle. Here was one man, his face indistin
guishable beneath a mask of blood, grinning painfully
through broken lips, and knuckling his forehead as Haworth approached.

‘Well, Bullen, what's happened to you?' Haworth said, recognising the Captain of the Foretop at the last moment.

‘
Got hit in the face, sir, by running a cleat, when the
foretop went down,' he mumbled. He had some teeth missing,
too, by the look of it.