The Barbed Crown

Chapter 29





The Redoutable was indeed redoubtable, with 74 guns and 643 men, but it was just 170 feet long and small enough, I hoped, to steer clear of Nelson’s Victory, which was a deck higher, had 27 more cannon, 180 more sailors, and a tiger admiral out to finalize his place in history.

Like all warships, every corner of Redoutable was crowded as a hot kitchen. At night the ordinary seamen swung hip to hip in hammocks, a hive of snores and farts that made a mockery of modesty. By day they practiced the deadly battle ballet required to serve crowded guns without trampling one another. Every man had a duty he learned by rote, but every ship had more sailors than needed to fill the gaps of the coming dead.

The sensation belowdecks is of being corked in a crowded barrel. It’s dim as a cave because gunports are closed against waves in most weather. The sea smell is smothered by a musk of sweat, mildewed clothing, damp hammocks, salt-stained hemp rope and sails, wine, cheese, rum, bilge water, drowned rats, the pissdales where sailors pee, and the collected urine kept in tubs for washing clothes. A veteran connoisseur of naval imprisonment can pick out additional odors of oak, cooking coal, the ash of the ovens, tallow, tar, the heavy iron of the guns, and the pungent scent of gunpowder when that gingerly stored commodity is brought up to be fired in anger or practice. Vinegar and salt water, too, from attempts to wash things down, and vomit when the seas get rough. A call of nature is answered on the wooden seats of the head located under the bowsprit, where big swells mean a cold splashing. Sailors wipe with a tow rag, which is a rope with a ragged end that is rinsed by dragging it in the sea.

The nose mercifully becomes insensitive, eyes adjust like a cat, and a constant stooping waddle to avoid deck beams becomes second nature. I still manage to knock my head, however. Nor do I escape feeling trapped in a thick wooden box designed to absorb cannonballs weighing as much as thirty-six pounds. Such a ship is built around its guns, is run for its guns, and is jammed with guns: sailors eat on a plank suspended by ropes over the barrel of each weapon. The Redoutable could hurl nearly a half ton of metal at an enemy with a single broadside. If such statistics sound obsessive, understand that naval war is a merciless slamming until one side yields first, with flesh-and-blood humans sandwiched between the oak and iron. Artists paint it as epic glory, but I’d seen the belowdecks fury at the Battle of the Nile, and the result is actually perfect hell. The object is to smash, smash, and smash, in a frenzy that sustains its own mad logic.

It can be a handicap to know too much.

That’s why I was grateful to have signed on with a captain shy of cannonballs, who wanted to win with sharpshooters, grenades, and a charge of boarders. Unfortunately, I learned upon transfer that Jean-Jacques-Étienne Lucas is also a bantam rooster of a man brimming with belligerency. He greeted me as if I were a knight-errant, eager for the fray.

“The American marksman! I heard talk of you even in Paris, Monsieur Gage. You are perfect for my plans!”

“My real talent is as an observer.”

“The hero of Acre and Tripoli? Ha! Like all men of stoic courage, you are too modest.”

“No I’m not.”

“This will be a contest that will require every soul if we wish to prevail. I’ll tell the marines and soldiers you’ve fought Red Indians. It will inspire them.”

This didn’t sound good at all, but I couldn’t be surprised. Naval captains live their lives for a showdown such as this one, some enduring entire careers without the sting of battle to relieve the boredom. The kind of showdown looming comes once a century, and capture of an intact enemy could set up a captain up for life, once the prize was sold. Moreover, I remembered too late that men like Lucas frequently make up for shortness with ferocity. He had something to prove, whereas I had more reputation than I wanted.

The French and Spanish had a total of forty ships, thirty-three of them ships of the line, and twenty-six thousand men. This theoretically outweighed Britain’s thirty-three ships, twenty-seven of them ships of the line, and seventeen thousand men. The Spanish fleet included the four-deck, 136-gun Santisima Trinidad, the largest warship in the world, and the Combined Fleet had six hundred more cannon than the English. Properly employed, it should win a decisive victory.

Its crews, however, were depleted by sickness and desertion. They’d been harbor-bound so long that sailors had little practice firing in the roll of the sea. Even the simplest sailing maneuvers were exercises in confusion because there’d been no opportunity for training.

“We’ve one advantage, however,” Lucas explained, reviewing his own tactics by reciting them to me. I’d been allowed to bunk on an “English hammock,” or casket-like swinging cot near the wardroom, and wander the vessel without duties,

since I was trained in nothing but shooting. As a result, as

foreigner, diplomat, hanger-on, and friendless, I was the one person he could confide in without interrupting the chain of command.

“We have nine thousand more men than the British. Soldiers and landsmen, true, but why not use them as such? We’ll broadside, of course, but my real strategy is to grapple, kill every Englishman on the uppermost deck, and board. We’ll trap their gunners belowdecks and rain grenades on them until they surrender. This is where you excel, Ethan Gage.” He clapped me on the back. “You will use your rifle to assassinate every officer in your sights.”

“I admit I’ve been in a scrape or two,” I said politely. “But I really prefer talking things out, flirting with ladies, experimenting with electricity, and gambling at cards. Accordingly, I might actually be the most help below the waterline with the surgeon. It’s the safest place, I understand, and I’m clever enough to help with medical matters. If you keep me alive, I can write up your exploits in my memoirs.”

“Ha! I think you like to joke, Ethan Gage! You can’t describe the most glorious battle in naval history by hiding below. You’ll write your book after you kill all my enemies. I think I’ll send you up the mizzen, the mast closest to me and the quarterdeck, and you can shoot down the English captain. We’ll win renown together, as Lafayette and Washington did at Yorktown.”

Renown, as this exchange indicates, constantly gets me in trouble. “My advice is to keep a distance and save your ship for future duty. Nelson’s a bit of a madman. Already has his own coffin, just to give an idea of his mood. A charmer, though.” I aim to be fair.

“I’m tired of hearing about Nelson. Does he want the end of our navy? Fine. I want an end to him. He’s haunted Villeneuve since the Nile. Shoot Nelson, Gage, and I’ll put you in my book. And send you to Venice, too.”

So I reluctantly looked after my golden weapon, giving it a fresh cleaning and reflecting that gifts come with a price, as Napoleon knew when he armed me.

Someday historians will make sense of the maneuvering that followed our lumbering exit from Cadiz, but to me we were a meandering herd of sail without clear direction, waiting to be attacked. We weighed anchor on October 19, but a light and fickle breeze meant that only Admiral Magon and six ships managed to work their way to sea that day. It took until evening of the next day to get the entirety of the Combined Fleet, twenty-five French ships and fifteen Spanish, untangled from the anchorage and out into the Atlantic. Several had to be towed by their boats. The glacial pace of the sally allowed huge crowds to line the shore of Cadiz as ship after ship slowly got under way, the wails of women carrying eerily over the water with a call as old as war itself. They feared their men doomed to slaughter by the notoriously able and ruthless English.

The east wind that had released us swung to the south, blocking our intended route to Gibraltar and forcing the Combined Fleet west toward the British who lurked over the horizon. We watched anxiously for Nelson that first day. Finally, Sunday evening, October 20, a mild wind blew out of the west and enabled the Combined Fleet to turn and begin to straggle southeasterly toward the straits and, perhaps, escape. However, as the wind picked up that night, the untested vessels struggled to reduce sail with raw crews. A topman fell from the flagship Bucentaure. Our eager and sprightly Captain Lucas signaled we’d lower a boat to pick him up from the sea.

I was surprised the fellow could swim long enough to survive. Commanders discourage sailors from learning to swim because it makes them less likely to desert in port and more likely to fight heroically at sea to avoid death by drowning.

My father taught me to swim by pitching me into the Schuylkill and holding me off the dock with a pole. I didn’t appreciate the lesson at the time, but it’s served me since.

Redoutable’s rescue gained us a crewman but put us closer to the flagship than I preferred, making me worry I’d made a mistake by accidentally picking an enthusiastic officer. What if I wound up in the center of battle? No, I must trust to fate and take comfort that I was at least headed toward Gibraltar and the Mediterranean, my route to Astiza and Harry. Just a dozen miles to the east was Cape Trafalgar. If we could get past that protuberance, maybe we could outrun the English all the way to Italy.

Evening comes early off Spain in late October, the sun setting a quarter past five. The Combined Fleet struggled to sort into assigned order as it sailed into the dark. At nine o’clock a shout came across the water that British ships had been sighted somewhere to the southwest of us. Men rushed excitedly to the rail to peer into the dark, but nothing could be seen. We’d little idea where our own ships were, let alone those of the English, and lookouts were posted to avoid collision. The wind dropped and captains struggled to keep their place in line because some ships are naturally swift or slow. There were shouts, signal shots, rockets, and lanterns. Near eleven we almost collided with an allied vessel and learned we’d lost contact with the Bucentaure and had fallen in with the Spanish under Admiral Gravina. Since Redoutable was a sprightly sailor, Lucas asked, and was given permission, to lead the Spanish half of the fleet.

I was delighted. We were now at the front of the long line of battle, closest to Gibraltar, and as far from Villeneuve’s flagship and Nelson as possible. My plan was working. I went below to attempt some rest. A large swell kept the suspended coffin-like box that held my bed swinging, and it was something of a wrestling match to hoist myself into it so I could pointlessly lie swaying in the dark, anxious and sleepless like everyone else. All around me, officers shifted restlessly, muttering or praying in the dark.

The sea began to grow light at six A.M., the sky pearly from haze hanging over the ocean, which was as smooth as glass. We still had no idea where the British were, but Lucas gave the order to clear for action because the activity broke the tension. Men were grateful for something to do. Bare feet thumped, cannon rumbled, and gunports squealed as they were raised so muzzles could poke out.

Readying is the same for all navies. Hammocks were rolled into sausages and stowed into netting on the top deck as a bulwark against bullets. Nets were suspended over the top deck like an awning, to catch battle debris falling from the rigging above. The yardarms were linked to the masts with chains to keep them from being easily shot away and crushing men below. Masts, yards, rigging, blocks, and sails total 150 tons, and toppling this onto an enemy can be as devastating as a broadside to its hull.

The portable partitions that define cabins were broken down and stowed so incoming shot couldn’t turn them into clouds of splinters. All tables, chairs, chests, boxes, and bags were carried to the hold below. Powder was brought up, and cannonballs racked like black melons. Sand was strewn to provide traction against the blood. A surgical table was readied on the orlop deck, the steel saws of amputation clinking as they were laid out like fine cutlery. Nelson had mentioned how cold the steel was that took off his own arm and ordered that surgical instruments in the future be heated. I saw no such care on the French ship.

The four ship’s boats were lowered and towed behind so they wouldn’t be shot to pieces. Their “crew” became the live chickens and goats brought on board for fresh food, and sailors joked that the condemned animals might live longer than the men hoping to dine on them. It says something of French expectations that the cattle manger was empty. This fleet didn’t expect to be at sea long enough to enjoy any beef.

Muskets, pistols, pikes, and cutlasses were distributed, accentuating the seriousness of what was to come. Gunners readied scarves to pull around their ears against the cacophony of cannon fire. Shoes were stowed, trousers rolled up, and letters and mementoes entrusted to mates in the event the owners died.

I passed my long rifle around a company of curious marines.

“A gun as pretty as a woman.”

“Too long and clumsy for the mizzen-top platform, though.”

“And too long to load, American.”

“But accurate, no?” I asked. “I’ll make it work.” I didn’t tell them I had no intention of shooting anyone.

A last hot meal was cooked, and then the fires extinguished so that a hit on the coal stove wouldn’t ignite the ship.

I wandered to the quarterdeck, where officers peered westward through telescopes. Lookouts shouted from aloft. These topmen could count English sails coming over the horizon. I checked my watch. Did we have enough wind to outpace them?

“They have the weather gauge,” Lucas commented, as much to himself as me.

“What does that mean?”

“We’re both sailing southeast, but because the wind is from the west where Nelson is, it reaches the English first. They can use it to run down on us, but we cannot sail against it to come up on them. That means it’s their choice to fight or wait, and can time the battle to their advantage.”

I looked about. To the east, an orange sun was rising over the hills of Andalusia. To the west, it lit a line of British topsails about ten miles distant, far enough away that their hulls were still below the horizon.

“Redoutable is a fine sailor, but we’ve run ahead of our station,” Lucas added.

“I think it’s splendid we’re leading the fleet,” I encouraged. “Joining with your allies and demonstrating smart sailing. It’s the kind of initiative that works well for our eventual book.”

The Combined Fleet trailed like a ragged group of geese. While the breeze was light there was a heavy, ominous swell on the otherwise smooth ocean, a sign of disturbance hundreds of miles away.

“Storm coming,” the helmsman muttered. The barometer was falling as well.

“Maybe we should put on all sail and hurry on ahead to the Mediterranean,” I suggested. “We can scout for Villeneuve by getting to Gibraltar first.”

“No. We’re out of position,” the captain decided. “We’ll tack and return to the center where we were assigned.”

“What? And give up the lead?”

But he wasn’t listening to me, shouting orders instead that sent seamen scurrying to halyards and sheets. We ponderously came about and ran back down the line of Gravina’s ships to rejoin the French center, much closer to Villeneuve than I preferred. By the sword of Spartacus, battle seemed to suck me in like Newton’s gravity! Instead of being on the edge, I was once more in the middle.

I stewed. What other ship could I escape to? The answer was none.

The British ships, meanwhile, had turned ninety degrees and were sailing directly toward us. Because we continued to drift south, by the time they intercepted us they’d collide with Dumanoir’s division of ships in our rear, probably overwhelming that third of the Combined Fleet before we could turn to help.

So at eight A.M. on Monday, October 21, Villeneuve gave up our run for Gibraltar, as well as safety and sanity, and in the name of honor and courage ordered the entire fleet to turn and sail back toward Cadiz. This tactic would protect Dumanoir by putting our center abreast the oncoming British, but also make battle unavoidable. The showdown had finally come. The only good news I could see was that it would allow survivors of a defeat to seek refuge in the Spanish port. Turning around would also throw the Combined Fleet into confusion.

“Tack in this light wind? Villeneuve is no seaman,” Lucas muttered.

It was so difficult to turn the ships that it took two awkward hours for all the vessels to come about. The result, despite incessant and increasingly frantic signals from Villeneuve, was a ragged crescent of a formation instead of a neat line. It was as if our line of ships had formed a shallow bowl to catch the incoming two-twined fork of British warships. What wind there was pushed the English straight at us, while we drifted leeward toward Cape Trafalgar.

Even I knew our formation was disorganized. I felt trapped, awaiting execution on a morning that crawled like syrup. Lucas’s officers fell silent, unhappy but determined. Villeneuve had given up the initiative and embraced the collision that Nelson wanted.

Our entire ship was quiet. I could clearly hear the creak of tackle as Redoutable rolled in the swells. Officers’ orders drifted up from the stillness of the gun decks to be heard on the quarter. Water sloshed and hissed. The approaching British ships loomed closer, their canvas growing in height like building thunderheads.

Battle ensigns went up on each side, flapping lazily in the hazy air.

Nelson’s fleet had broken into two columns, each aimed at a different point of our struggling line. Higher and higher their masts rose, and then their bows appeared over the horizon, cannon bristling on either side like thorns. We could see the wink of red from jacketed marines. There was little sound from the British ships, either, but they were a magnificent sight. Every sail had been set to catch the whispers of wind. They were like birds stretching their wings, straining to rush down on us, and yet advancing slower than a walk. I’ve never known such agonizing tedium as that long morning. Two fleets waited to duel, and the wind had gone on leave. The world seemed glacial.

Yet slowly we drifted toward collision.

The sun was entirely lost now in milky overcast. At eleven thirty A.M., Villeneuve ordered French or Spanish pennants flown to identify each ship. Now there was a great rumble of drums, the soldiers aboard presenting arms. I snapped to attention without thinking about it, surprising myself, and looked about to see if anyone had noticed. None had, but I remembered Duhésme’s advice to join a unit, a cause, and a country. I was trapped, yet part of something, the thrill as oddly exciting as love.

Everyone was rigid from anticipation.

On the Spanish ships, a huge wooden cross was raised to hang from the mizzen boom, the religious symbol swaying over the taffrail at the ships’ rear. The French Catholics crossed themselves and kissed their own crucifixes.

On Redoutable, one of Napoleon’s new imperial eagles was brought from the captain’s cabin and presented to the crew to elicit shouts of “Vive l’empereur.” The standard was lashed to the mainmast.

The cheers gave spirit. The long months of chase and wait were finally over.

“You’d better take your place in the fighting top, Monsieur Gage,” Lucas said quietly behind me, making me jump.

I tilted my head back. “Up there?”

“As safe a place as any. Safer, if you use your rifle to good effect. Discourage the enemy by picking off his best men.”

I’d fixed a sling to my gun. Now I slung it over my shoulder, walked to the rail, and swung out over the ship’s side to stand on the wooden rails called chains, the water foamy far below. The tarred ropes attached there were reassuringly sticky, angling upward in a triangle to join the mizzenmast. My rifle bumped clumsily. I wore my worldly possessions: a few coins from Smith, the broken sword stub from Talleyrand, and my tomahawk, all tightly secured beneath my clothing.

Taking a breath, I began climbing the netlike ratlines that led aloft. The swells made the mast top pivot through ten degrees, and it was unnerving as we swayed. The higher I went, the wider the pendulum. I paused, steadied, took breath, and then kept going. Dozens of sharpshooters were doing the same. Looking neither up nor down but only where my hands must grab, I slowly ascended to the lubber’s hole next to the mast, clumsily squeezed through, and came up on the mizzen platform that would be my station. Ahead were similar platforms at main and foremast, crowded with soldiers. Each top extended three feet from the mast like a tree house, ratlines and rails giving security. The mast, wrapped with rope, was a comforting trunk at our back, extending far higher to more yards and sails above. A canvas screen had been lashed around the perimeter to hide us from view when we crouched to reload.

From here we would shoot to the enemy’s deck.

“It’s the American and his golden gun!”

“Now we’ll see if you shoot as fast as you talk, Gage.”

I had a splendid view of grandeur. Even Astiza, wise as she was about the insanity of war, would appreciate its beauty. I wished for the millionth time that she were beside me.

More than seventy ships were in view, sixty big enough to hammer it out in the main battle, and the fleets combined carried forty-one thousand men and thirty times the weight of artillery that would be used in a comparable land battle. We were riding the most complex, beautiful, and magnificent machines civilization had yet produced, works of art dedicated to the utter destruction of their counterpart. Each ship had acres of canvas, miles of ropes, and a city’s worth of stores. The English ships were painted like wasps, their black and yellow stripes broken by the yawning red mouths of gunport lids. The Combined Fleet was black and red. The clouds of canvas were massive as icebergs, and pennants seemed to float in the light breeze with the suspension of balloons. The Santisima Trinidad was a castle, looming over lesser ships.

The ships crawled, seeming almost frozen.

Then at last a signal ran up Villeneuve’s mast. “Open fire.”

A marine checked his watch. At noon, the first cannon boomed.