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 . . .
He blinked furiously, trying to hold back. It was by Nelson’s own act that he had been plucked as an unemployed commander and sent to the heights of glory that was post-captaincy. What had Nelson seen in him? Whatever it was, he had been sent for to join the illustrious band – he, Thomas Kydd, whose origins were as a pressed man, to know for ever that he had once been part of—
He couldn’t help it. The tears coursed down and sobs shook him. Then he felt an arm round his shoulders, tender, understanding. ‘It’s victory, Nicholas, but at such a cost . . .’
‘Dear fellow, in truth my grief is as yours – but nothing is surer than that Horatio Nelson’s memory will ever be immortal.’
Author’s Note
Although I have written ten books in the Kydd series, I approached the writing of this one with a little trepidation. The battle of Trafalgar was, after all, the grandest spectacle in naval history and has been the subject of many hundreds of books. How could I bring a new and fresh treatment to readers? In the end I decided that my focus would come from two vantage-points – that of newly promoted frigate captain Thomas Kydd, and Charles Bowden, a midshipman aboard Victory, who had served with Kydd before. It seemed appropriate that the book was written in 2009, the 250th anniversary of the ‘Year of Victories’ and the laying down of this noble ship’s keel.
As an aside, what struck me when I began my research was that so many Americans were fighting for King George III at the time: in the fleet as a whole there were some four hundred, and aboard Victory, twenty-two. It might appear puzzling that Americans were involved in the conflict, but it seems that before the United States Navy reached its full potential it was not uncommon for young sons of Uncle Sam to be placed in the Royal Navy for the priceless experience it offered.
As I worked on the manuscript my respect for Horatio Nelson – already huge – if anything, increased. Often, in hindsight, the decisions of a battle commander can be questioned, but Nelson, on so many counts, either made the correct decision or took a sound calculated gamble. He was definitely right, for instance, to chase the French across the Atlantic. If he had not been lied to by a Yankee merchant ship there might have been a Trafalgar in the Caribbean and there, wildly outnumbered, even Nelson might not have prevailed. So perhaps England was unknowingly saved by an American.
I commend to all my readers at least one visit to Victory, now preserved in perpetuity in Portsmouth Historic Dockyard. Apart from admiring the sheer size and lofty grace of what was the eighteenth-century equivalent of a nuclear aircraft carrier today, do use your imagination to go back in time and think about the people who manned her at Trafalgar. What could it have been like for boys as young as eleven in that hellish battle? And how could men stand to their guns in hideous conditions for up to six hours and then, in the moment of triumph, cry like babies at the loss of their commander?
As usual, I owe a debt of gratitude to many people. Space precludes naming them all but I would particularly like to mention Peter Goodwin, keeper and curator of HMS Victory, who unstintingly gave of his time and knowledge during my week-long location research in Portsmouth, and granted me complete access to the iconic vessel; Dr Dennis Wheeler of the University of Sutherland, whose analysis of the meteorological conditions during October 1805 provided invaluable insights; and Gordon Simmonds, from the Historical Maritime Society, who painstakingly re-created just how Victory’s signals team must have worked. And, of course, a huge vote of thanks goes to my wife and literary partner, Kathy, my editor at Hodder & Stoughton, Anne Clarke, and my agent, Carole Blake.