Trafalgar: A Tale

by Benito Pérez Galdós

It may seem strange that we did not know the fate of many of the ships of the combined fleets. But nothing could be more natural than our ignorance, considering the great length of our front and the plan of isolated fights contrived and carried out by the English. Their vessels had got mixed up with ours and the ships fought at close quarters; the one which had engaged us hid the rest of the squadron from view, besides which the dense smoke prevented our seeing anything that was not quite close to us. Towards nightfall and before the firing had altogether ceased, we could distinguish a few ships in the offing, looking like phantoms; some with half their rigging gone, and others completely dismasted. The mist, the smoke and, indeed, our own wearied and bewildered brains, would not allow us to distinguish whether they were our own or the enemy’s, and as, from time to time the glare of a broadside in the distance lighted up the lugubrious scene, we could see that the fight was still going on to a desperate end between detached groups of ships, while others were flying before the wind without aim or purpose, and some of ours were being towed by the English to the South.

Night fell, increasing the misery and horror of our situation. It might have been hoped that Nature at least would be on our side after so much disaster; but, on the contrary, the elements lashed us with their fury as though Heaven thought our cup of misfortune was not yet full. A tremendous storm burst and the winds and waves tossed and buffeted our ship in their fury and, as she could not be worked, she was utterly at their mercy. The rolling was so terrible that it was very difficult even to work the pumps, and this, combined with the exhausted condition of the men, made our condition grow worse every minute. An English vessel, which as we learnt was the Prince, tried to take us in tow; but her efforts were in vain and she was forced to keep off for fear of a collision which would have been fatal to both. Meanwhile it was impossible to get anything to eat, and I was dying of hunger, though the others seemed insensible to anything but the immediate danger and gave no thought to this important matter. I dared not ask for a piece of bread even, for fear of seeming greedy and troublesome; but at the same time, I must confess—and without shame—I looked out sharply to see if there were any place where I might hope to find any kind of eatable stores. Emboldened by hunger, I made free to inspect the hold where the biscuit-boxes were kept, and what was my astonishment at finding Marcial there before me, stowing himself with every thing he could lay his hands on. The old man’s wound was not serious, and though a ball had carried away his right foot, as this was only the lower end of his wooden leg the mishap only left him a little more halt than before.

“Here, Gabrielillo,” he said, giving me a heap of biscuits, “take these. No ship can sail without ballast.” And then he pulled out a bottle and drank with intense satisfaction. As we went out of the biscuit-room we saw that we were not the only visitors who had made a raid upon it; on the contrary, it was very evident that it had been well pillaged not long since.

Having recruited my strength I could now think of trying to make myself useful by lending a hand at the pumps or helping the carpenters. They were laboriously repairing some of the damage done, aided by the English, who watched all our proceedings; indeed, as I have since learnt, they kept an eye on every one of our sailors, for they were afraid lest we should suddenly mutiny and turn upon them to recapture the vessel; in this, however, the enemy showed more vigilance than common-sense, for we must indeed have lost our wits before attempting to recover a ship in such a condition. However, the “great-coats” were everywhere at once, and we could not stir without being observed.

Night fell, and as I was perishing with cold I quitted the deck where I could scarcely bear myself besides incurring constant risk of being swept overboard by a wave, so I went down into the cabin. My purpose was to try to sleep a little while—but who could sleep in such a night? The same confusion prevailed in the cabin as on deck. Those who had escaped unhurt were doing what they could to aid the wounded, and these, disturbed by the motion of the vessel which prevented their getting any rest, were so pitiable a sight that it was impossible to resign one’s self to sleep. On one side, covered with the Spanish flag, lay the bodies of the officers who had been killed; and in the midst of all this misery, surrounded by so much suffering, these senseless corpses seemed really to be envied. They alone on board the Trinidad were at rest, to them nothing mattered now: fatigue and pain, the disgrace of defeat, or physical sufferings. The standard which served them as a glorious winding-sheet shut them out, as it were, from the world of responsibility, of dishonor, and of despair, in which we were left behind. They could not care for the danger the vessel was in, for to them it was no longer anything but a coffin.

The officers who were killed were Don Juan Cisniega, a lieutenant in the navy, who was not related to my master, in spite of their identity of name; Don Joaquin de Salas and Don Juan Matute, also lieutenants; Don José Graullé, lieutenant-colonel in the army; Urias, lieutenant in command of a frigate, and midshipman Don Antonio de Bobadilla. The sailors and marines whose corpses lay strewn about the gun-decks and upper-deck amounted to the terrible number of four hundred.

Never shall I forget the moment when the bodies were cast into the sea, by order of the English officer in charge of the ship. The dismal ceremony took place on the morning of the 22nd when the storm seemed to be at its wildest on purpose to add to the terrors of the scene. The bodies of the officers were brought on deck, the priest said a short prayer for this was no time for elaborate ceremonial, and our melancholy task began. Each wrapped in a flag, with a cannon-ball tied to his feet, was dropped into the waves without any of the solemn and painful emotion which under ordinary circumstances would have agitated the lookers-on. Our spirits were so quelled by disaster that the contemplation of death had become almost indifference. Still, a burial at sea is more terribly sad than one on land. We cover the dead with earth and leave him there; those who loved him know that there is a spot where the dear remains are laid and can mark it with a slab, a cross, or a monument; but at sea—the body is cast into that heaving, shifting waste; it is lost forever as it disappears; imagination cannot follow it in its fall—down, down to the fathomless abyss; it is impossible to realize that it still exists at the bottom of the deep. These were my reflections as I watched the corpses vanish—the remains of those brave fighting-men, so full of life only the day before—the pride of their country and the joy of all who loved them.

The sailors were thrown overboard with less ceremony; the regulation is that they shall be tied up in their hammocks, but there was no time to carry this out. Some indeed were wrapped round as the rules require, but most of them were thrown into the sea without any shroud or ball at their feet, for the simple reason that there were not enough for all. There were four hundred of them, more or less, and merely to clear them overboard and out of sight every able-bodied man that was left had to lend a hand, so as to get it done as quickly as possible. Much to my horror I saw myself forced to offer my services in the dismal duty, and many a dead man dropped over the ship’s side at a push from my hand helping other and stronger ones.

One incident—or rather coincidence—occurred which filled me with horror. A body horribly mauled and mutilated had been picked up by two sailors, and just as they lifted it one or two of the by-standers allowed themselves to utter some of those coarse and grim jests which are always offensive, and at such a moment revolting. I know not how it was that this poor wretch was the only one which moved them so completely to lose the sense of reverence due to the dead, but they exclaimed: “He has been paid out for old scores—he will never be at his tricks again,” and other witticisms of the same kind. For a moment my blood rose, but my indignation suddenly turned to astonishment mingled with an indescribable feeling of awe, regret, and aversion, when, on looking at the mangled features of the corpse, I recognized my uncle. I shut my eyes with a shudder, and did not open them again till the splash of the water in my face told me that he had disappeared forever from mortal ken. This man had been very cruel to me, very cruel to his sister; still, he was my own flesh and blood, my mother’s brother; the blood that flowed in my veins was his, and that secret voice which warns us to be charitable to the faults of our own kith and kin could not be silenced after what I had seen, for at the moment when I recognized him I had perceived in those blood-stained features some reminder of my mother’s face, and this stirred my deepest feelings. I forgot that the man had been a brutal wretch, and all his barbarous treatment of me during my hapless childhood. I can honestly declare—and I venture to do so though it is to my own credit—that I forgave him with all my heart and lifted up my soul to God, praying for mercy on him for all his sins.

I learnt afterwards that he had behaved gallantly in the fight, but even this had not won him the respect of his comrades who, regarding him as a low sneak, never found a good word for him—not even at that supreme moment when, as a rule, every offence is forgiven on earth in the belief that the sinner is rendering an account to his Maker.