“To get at the San Josef, it seemed beyond a hope;
Out then our admiral spoke, and well his words our blood could stir—
‘In, boarders, to their seventy-four! We’ll make a bridge of her.’ ”
The “bridge” was soon taken; but a steady fire of musketry was poured upon them from the San Josef. Nelson directed his people to fire into the stern, and sending for more boarders, led the way up the main-chains, exclaiming, “Westminster Abbey or victory!” In a few moments the officers and crew surrendered; and on the quarter-deck of a Spanish first-rate he received the swords of the vanquished, which he handed to William Fearney, [pg 9]one of his bargemen, who tucked them, with the greatest sang-froid, in a perfect sheaf under his arm. The Victory came up at the moment, and saluted the conquerors with hearty cheers.
It will be hardly necessary here to point out the altered circumstances of naval warfare at the present day. A wooden vessel of the old type, with large and numerous portholes, and affording other opportunities for entering or climbing the sides, is a very different affair to the modern smooth-walled iron vessel, on which a fly would hardly get a foothold, with few openings or weak points, and where the grappling-iron would be useless. Apart from this, with heavy guns carrying with great accuracy, and the facilities afforded by steam, we shall seldom hear, in the future, of a fight at close quarters; skilful manœuvring, impossible with a sailing vessel, will doubtless be more in vogue.
ROCKS NEAR CAPE ST. VINCENT.
Meantime, the Victory had not been idle. In conjunction with two of the fleet, she had succeeded in silencing the Salvador del Mundi, a first-rate of 112 guns. When, after the fight, Nelson went on board the Victory, Sir John Jervis took him to his arms, and insisted that he should keep the sword taken from the Spanish rear-admiral. When it was hinted, during some private conversation, that Nelson’s move was unauthorised, [pg 10]Jervis had to admit the fact, but promised to forgive any such breach of orders, accompanied with the same measure of success.
The battle had now lasted from noon, and at five p.m. four Spanish line-of-battle vessels had lowered their colours. Even the great Santissima Trinidada might then have become a prize but for the return of the vessels which had been cut off from the fleet in the morning, and which alone saved her. Her colours had been shot away, and she had hoisted English colours in token of submission, when the other ships came up, and Cordova reconsidered his step. Jervis did not think that his fleet was quite equal to a fresh conflict; and the Spaniards showed no desire to renew the fight. They had lost on the four prizes, alone, 261 killed, and 342 wounded, and in all, probably, nearly double the above. The British loss was seventy-three killed, and 227 wounded.
Of Trafalgar and of Nelson, both day and man so intimately associated with our good ship, what can yet be said or sung that has gone unsaid, unsung?—how when he left Portsmouth the crowds pressed forward to obtain one last look at their hero—England’s greatest hero—and “knelt down before him, and blessed him as he passed;”[7] that beautiful prayer, indited in his cabin, “May the great God whom I worship grant to my country, and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory, and may no misconduct in any one tarnish it, and may humanity after victory be the predominant feature of the British fleet,” or the now historical signal which flew from the mizen top-gallant mast of that noble old ship, and which has become one of the grand mottoes of our tongue, are facts as familiar to every reader as household words.