Trafalgar: A Tale

by Benito Pérez Galdós

“This is serious,” said my master anxiously.

“It is more than serious,” said a surgeon who had come to examine him. Malespina, deeply depressed by finding himself in so evil a plight, and believing himself past all hope, had not even reported himself as wounded, but had crept away to this corner where he had given himself up to his reflections and memories. He believed that he was killed and he would not have the wound touched. The surgeon assured him that though it was dangerous it need not prove mortal, though he owned that if he did not get into port that night so that he might be properly treated on shore, his life, like that of the rest of the wounded, was in the greatest danger. The Santa Ana had lost ninety-seven men killed on the 21st, and a hundred and forty wounded; all the resources of the surgery were exhausted and many indispensable articles were altogether wanting. Malespina’s catastrophe was not the only one during the rescue, and it had been the will of Heaven that another man very near and dear to me should share his fate. Marcial had been wounded; though at first his indomitable spirit had kept him up and he hardly felt the pain and depression, before long he submitted to be carried down into the cock-pit, confessing that he was very badly hit. My master sent a surgeon to attend to him, but all he would say was that the wound would have been trifling in a man of five-and-twenty—but Marcial was past sixty.

Meanwhile the Rayo passed to leeward and we hailed her. Alava begged her to enquire of the Themis whether the captain thought he could get us into Cadiz, and when he roundly said, No, the Admiral asked whether the Rayo, which was almost unharmed, expected to get in safely. Her captain thought she might and it was agreed that Gardoqui, who was severely wounded, and several others, should be sent on board her, among them Don Rafael Malespina. Don Alonso obtained that Marcial should also be transferred to her in consideration for his age which greatly aggravated his case, and he sent me, too, in charge of them as page or sick-nurse, desiring me never to lose sight of them for an instant till I saw them safe in the hands of their family, at Cadiz, or even at Vejer. I prepared to obey him, though I tried to persuade my master that he too ought to come on board the Rayo for greater safety, but he would not even listen to such a suggestion.

“Fate,” he said, “has brought me on board this ship, and in it I will stay till it shall please God to save us or no. Alava is very bad, most of the officers are more or less hurt, and I may be able to be of some service here. I am not one of those who run away from danger; on the contrary, since the defeat of the 21st I have sought it; I long for the moment when my presence may prove to be of some use. If you reach home before me, as I hope you will, tell Paca that a good sailor is the slave of his country, that I am very glad that I came—that I do not regret it—on the contrary. Tell her that she is to be glad, too, when she sees me, and that my comrades would certainly have thought badly of me if I had not come. How could I have done otherwise? You—do you not think that I did well to come?”

“Of course, certainly,” I replied, anxious to soothe his agitation, “who doubts it?” For his excitement was so great that the absurdity of asking the opinion of a page-boy had not even occurred to him.

“I see you are a reasonable fellow,” he went on, much comforted by my admission. “I see you have a noble and patriotic soul. But Paca never sees anything excepting through her own selfishness, as she has a very odd temper and has taken it into her head that fleets and guns are useless inventions, she cannot understand why I.... In short, I know that she will be furious when she sees me and then—as we have not won the battle, she will say one thing and another—oh! she will drive me mad! However, I will not mind her. You—what do you say? Was I not right to come?”

“Yes, indeed, I think so,” I said once more: “You were very right to come. It shows that you are a brave officer.”

“Well then go—go to Paca, go and tell her so, and you will see what she will say,” he went on more excited than ever. “And tell her that I am safe and sound, and my presence here is indispensable. In point of fact, I was the principal leader in the rescue of the Santa Ana. If I had not trained those guns—who knows, who knows? You—what do you think? We may do more yet; if the wind favors us to-morrow morning we may rescue some more ships. Yes sir, for I have a plan in my head.... We shall see, we shall see. And so good bye, my boy. Be careful of what you say to Paca.”

“I will not forget,” said I. “She shall know that if it had not been for you we should not have recaptured the Santa Ana, and that if you are lucky you may still bring a couple of dozen ships into Cadiz.”

“A couple of dozen!—no man; that is a large number. Two ships, I say—or perhaps three. In short, I am sure I was right to join the fleet. She will be furious and will drive me mad when I get home again; but I was right, I say—I am sure I was right.” With these words he left me and I saw him last sitting in a corner of the cabin. He was praying, but he told his beads with as little display as possible, for he did not choose to be detected at his devotions. My master’s last speech had convinced me that he had lost his wits and, seeing him pray, I understood how his enfeebled spirit had struggled in vain to triumph over the exhaustion of age, and now, beaten in strife, turned to God for support and consolation. Doña Francisca was right; for many years my master had been past all service but prayer.