A Royal Likeness (41 page)

But Nelson’s genius plan called for the British fleet to separate into two lines and dive directly through the enemy’s fleet, splitting it into three sections and firing on the aft and stern of the ships it passed by. The British ships would have all of the advantage while the French and Spanish ships spent time tacking around to a new position.

As they neared their first target, Brax used a telescope to just make out the words
Santa Ana
on her stern.

The
Santa Ana
has no chance,
he thought.

But to the starboard side of
Royal Sovereign,
a French-flagged ship was tacking quickly around, and to his surprise, fired a broadside at them from what was obviously too far a distance to cause any damage. Most of the shot fell short into the ocean.

Admiral Collingwood stood nearby and unfurled his own telescope to better see the ship that had fired upon them.

“Fougueux.
Why would any naval officer give an order to fire that far back?” He shook his head. “Damned waste of rounds, it is.
Fougueux
will regret its stupidity.”

Royal Sovereign
continued on its single-minded path straight into the enemy’s fleet, with
Victory
about a half hour behind it. As the man-of-war inched its way toward the line, more enemy ships joined the
Fougueux
in firing on it, but their aim was too high and their ships were not positioned well to conduct a direct attack.

Brax stood alongside Collingwood and Rotheram, who had joined
the admiral on deck. Both the admiral and the captain wore enormous grins at their impending engagement, Collingwood’s irritation with Nelson, Brax, and anyone else entirely forgotten. Collingwood clapped the captain on the shoulder. “Rotheram, what would Nelson give to be here!” he said, nodding back to where
Victory’s
line trailed theirs.

Royal Sovereign
steered its way through the narrow gap between
Fougueux
and
Santa Ana,
and at a command from Captain Rotheram, unleashed a thunderous broadside into the
Santa Ana,
sending over one hundred cannonballs plus grapeshot ripping into the whole length of the gun decks of the Spanish ship.

From a pocket, Collingwood pulled a shiny apple and casually took a bite.

It was eleven minutes past noon.

The battle had officially begun.

From the poop deck of
Victory,
Nelson and Hardy, along with a contingent of several other officers including Darden, watched the engagement unfold before them.

Nelson shook his head. “See how that noble fellow Collingwood carries his ship into action. Not an ounce of cowardice in the man. Our turn next, eh, Mr. Hardy?”

“Indeed yes, sir, and none too soon.”

Royal Sovereign
disappeared in a cloud of smoke from guns firing not only from its own decks, but from those of
Fougueux, Santa Ana,
and other ships that had gathered round the British man-of-war.

Nelson’s ragged column of ships was slowly pressing its way into the enemy line about a half mile north of where
Royal Sovereign
had broken through. As she neared shooting range, several of the enemy’s ships had turned to position and opened fire. Most of the French and Spanish gunners were aiming high, causing damage to
Victory’s
sails and rigging and not to the ship itself, but the growing sea swell soon made their aim wildly inaccurate and they decided to focus on another, smaller British ship pulling up to join
Victory.

Victory,
however, had already sustained some damage without firing a single shot herself. One of her topmasts had been completely shot away, and parts of other masts had been brought down
or were bouncing across the upper decks. Further compounding the ship’s problems was a shot that smashed the wheel, leaving the ship out of control.

“Lieutenant Hastings!” Hardy barked. “Organize a team of men to control the tiller by hand down below. Coordinate for messengers to run my directions down to them.”

Darden saluted, his tar-stained palm turned toward his face. He soon found himself assembling a team of forty men to haul the enormous tiller beam in accordance with instructions that were raced down minute-by-minute via messengers. The tiller turned the rudder, which was the source of the ship’s precise steering. They could see nothing, buried down inside
Victory,
so the timing of messages from above was as critical as the men’s ability to obey the commands instantly. Fortunately, when crisis came to a man-of-war, few men had the temerity to disobey any superior officer’s orders.

Darden stripped off his jacket and shirt, already soaked with sweat, and joined the team of men in their hot and heavy work until he thought they were working well in tandem. One wag modified a sea shanty, and soon all of the men were singing a new version of “Spanish Ladies” in rhythm to the tiller’s movement.

Darden rolled his eyes and laughed at their mocking of him. Although discipline was strict, most officers didn’t mind sailors poking fun at them in song. It usually prevented other, more serious rebellion.

Once the tiller crew was in good working order, Darden sought out the ship’s carpenter and issued orders to have the ship’s wheel repaired straightaway, then raced back to the upper deck.

Nelson and Hardy had moved from the poop deck jutting over the rear portion of the ship down to the quarterdeck. The enemy’s fire was still being directed chiefly at the rigging, but was pointed
so high as to be basically unnoticed on the exposed decks. Only two men had been wounded up here, and as they were carried, bleeding, past Darden to the orlop, he could see that they had been wounded by musket fire from an opposing ship, not cannon-shot.

Thank God Marguerite is safely ensconced in the bread room, and will have no reason to witness not only these two wounded men, but the carnage that is sure to ensue. Assisting the surgeon, what a notion!

Far below Lieutenant Hastings, Marguerite and the medical men waited wordlessly in the dimly lit operating theatre. An eerie period of silence passed, punctuated by the distant, muffled sounds of cannon fire. Then, the sound of hurried steps preceded two men brought down in the arms of comrades. Marguerite ran forward to inspect them. Both were bleeding so profusely that Marguerite couldn’t quite tell where their wounds originated.

Not that it mattered. Mr. Beatty’s assistants stepped in front of her and instructed the men to deposit the wounded sailors on two of the three operating tables that had been set up. She sighed and sank down on a stool. Perhaps she was to be of no use after all.

But the grunts and cries of the injured men piqued her concern and she quietly approached one of the operating tables. The patient lay there, groaning, moving his head back and forth in delirium. His wrists and ankles were held down by the sailors who had brought him to the orlop, and they were offering words of encouragement such as were possible to a man in extreme pain. Some of the blood had been smeared away, but what was left was combined with sweat and grime, and made for an ugly, muddy-looking trail across the man’s bare torso that emitted a sharp, acrid smell. At least it was now obvious that the injury was in his left shoulder.

Mr. Beatty gave instruction to Mr. Westemburg on how to fish for the bullet. The assistant plunged his index finger and thumb into the poor man’s gaping wound, eliciting a great cry of agony as the patient struggled against his restraints.

“I don’t feel it, sir,” the assistant said helplessly to Mr. Beatty.

“Let me try,” Mr. Beatty said, not unkindly.

Westemburg removed his fingers, now bright red and dripping, and wiped them on his trousers.

Now Mr. Beatty thrust his large index finger into the man’s shoulder and attempted to feel for the musket ball. By this time, the sailor was howling and begging to be shot in the head to end his misery.

“Aha!” Mr. Beatty raised his own soiled hand and proudly showed off the nugget now lodged between his thumb and forefinger. “I have it! Simple bit of surgery, that.”

The injured man raised his head to see that the ball had indeed been removed from his shoulder, groaned, and fell unconscious.

“Sew it closed, put a bandage on it, then put him off to the side,” Mr. Beatty instructed. “Mrs. Ashby can point out a place for recovery.”

Mr. Beatty moved to the next table where Mr. Smith was, but the assistant there just shook his head.

The surgeon looked around, irritated. “Where’s the sailmaker?” He gestured to the dead man’s companions. “Go find him. Tell him to send someone to stay down here for the duration.”

Marguerite stood rooted to her spot. Not another sea burial! She didn’t think she could watch another one. She was just beginning to realize that Darden was right. Assisting the surgeon was going to be much more grisly work than mixing plasters and applying ointments to men who had merely taken a lashing on their backs.

“Miss? Where do we put Pearce?” One of the sailors had tapped her shoulder.

“What? Oh, lay him on the canvas over in that corner. I’ll tend to him.”

Unfortunately, the man’s compatriots carried him over and dropped him rather clumsily, stirring him out of unconsciousness and resulting in more cries of anguish. Marguerite brought him a tin cup of beer and lifted his head so he could drink it. Tears leaked from the man’s eyes as he fell back from slaking his thirst. He grabbed Marguerite’s hand with his right one.

“Can you scribe?” he asked.

“Yes, I can.”

“I need you to write to my wife, tell her what happened. Tell her I love her and I’m right sorry about the wench from the Fox
and Hounds Inn. Tell her my messmates will raise money from my belongings and send it to her.”

“But, Pearce, you’re not going to die. The surgeon removed your bullet.”

“‘Course I’m gonna die. Nobody leaves the ship’s surgeon without a missing arm, leg, or eye. And since I’ve got all of those, it means I’m done for.”

Marguerite thought the man was becoming delirious and tried to comfort him as best she could. But he refused all encouragement shy of having his letter written. Even the sound of cannon fire from far above them did not seem to penetrate his determination. So Marguerite ran as quickly as she could to the other end of the deck to find Mr. Burke, the purser, to buy some stationery, a quill, and ink, with a promise on Darden’s name that it would be paid for later. To her great surprise, using Darden’s name got her a large sheaf of parchment, several quills, and a pot of ink.

She wrote Pearce’s letter according to his dictation, and he seemed to settle down and rest after making her swear to send it off once they returned to England.

“I promise, but it’s a better chance that I’ll be handing this letter back to you, and you can deliver it to your wife yourself.”

“Maybe.” Pearce drifted off to sleep and Marguerite went back to join Mr. Beatty. Before she could open her mouth to ask him a question about the selling of a sailor’s belongings, a series of massive explosions occurred in a way that seemed to hurtle straight over them. Had they been struck already? Was she to die so quickly?

Marguerite grabbed the edge of a table, her ears ringing. “What’s happened? Are we sinking?”

The surgeon smiled. “No, my dear, that’s just
Victory
giving the enemy a taste of what’s to come. Captain Hardy must have ordered a rapid broadside.”

“What’s that?” Marguerite massaged her neck under her ears. They were completely stopped up and she could hardly hear the surgeon’s reply.

“All of the guns on one side of the ship are timed to fire in quick succession down the line. It creates confusion for whatever enemy
ship is fired upon, because its crew can’t react quickly enough to it. That’s the only one you’ll hear, though, because by now it’s too chaotic on the gun decks to coordinate it again. But I think it’s time for these.” He picked up a wrapped ball of linen strips, tore one off, and tore the strip into smaller pieces, handing Marguerite two of them and more to his assistants.

“Put these in your ears. Crew members who don’t plug their ears often end up deaf.”

Marguerite took the proffered pieces of cloth, wadded them, and put them in her ears, wondering if the damage had not already been done. The surgeon plugged his own ears before turning to stare at the steps leading to the lower gun deck, waiting for more casualties to arrive.

Darden had to admire Nelson’s resolve and bravery. The admiral stood straight, his right sleeve pinned across his chest, just below the paste replicas of his honors and marks of command. The real ones stayed stowed safely away. Wearing these decorations made him an easy target for enemy sharpshooters, but still the admiral stood boldly on deck, as though he had not a care in the world.

It was even more impressive given Nelson’s apparent determination to break the enemy’s line by colliding with one of its ships. His rapid-fire steering orders were accepted by Hardy and relayed down below nearly instantaneously by the communication chain Darden had established, enabling
Victory
to maintain precise steering despite her lack of a wheel.

Thank God I have done my duty well thus far, he thought.

As they neared closer to the enemy ship that Darden was certain they were to collide with, he could see activity on that ship’s deck. A man who appeared to be its commander held the French imperial eagle over his head, shaking it and shouting something to his men that must have inspired courage in them, for they cheered, picked up their muskets, and began firing at
Victory’s
deck.

Darden responded without needing direction from Nelson or Hardy, signaling to one of the countless marines on deck to open fire at will. Darden watched as the red-jacketed men quickly
loaded their muskets with gunpowder and shot, took aim through the hail of bullets coming in around them, and fired almost concurrently with one another. The simultaneous flash of flame from their muzzles blinded Darden for a moment, but he blinked away the light and went to a gun chest to pull out a pistol and tuck it into his waistband.