When the mind had sufficiently recovered from the shock and excitement of battle, and had time to turn from “the pity of it” and the chill of terror left by the sight of that terrific struggle, those who were left alive could see the hapless vessel in all its majesty of horror. Till now we had thought of nothing but self-defence, but when the firing ceased we could turn our attention to the dilapidated state of the ship, which let in the water at a hundred leaks and was beginning to sink, threatening to bury us all, living and dead, at the bottom of the sea. The English had scarcely taken possession when a shout arose from our sailors, as from one man:

“To the pumps!”

All who were able flew to the pumps and labored hard at them; but these ineffectual machines turned out much less water than poured in. Suddenly a shriek even more appalling than any we had heard before filled us with horror. I have said that the wounded had been carried down into the hold which, being below the water line, was secure from the inroads of the cannon shot. But the water was fast gaining there, and some sailors came scrambling up the hatchways exclaiming that the wounded were being drowned. The greater part of the crew hesitated between continuing to pump and running down to rescue the hapless wretches; and God knows what would have happened if an English crew had not come to our assistance. They not only carried up the wounded to the second and third deck but they lent a hand at the pumps and their carpenters set to work to stop the leaks in the ship’s sides.

Utterly tired out, and thinking too that Don Alonso might need my services, I returned to the cabin. As I went I saw some Englishmen hoisting the English flag at the bows of the Trinidad. As I dare to believe that the amiable reader will allow me to record my feelings, I may say that this incident gave me something to think of. I had always thought of the English as pirates or sea-highwaymen, as a race of adventurers not worthy to be called a nation but living by robbery. When I saw the pride with which they hauled up their flag, saluting it with vociferous cheering; when I perceived the satisfaction it was to them to have made a prize of the largest vessel that, until then, had ever sailed the seas, it struck me that their country, too, was dear to them, that her honor was in their hands and I understood that in that land—to me so mysteriously remote—called England, there must be, as in Spain, honorable men, a paternal king, mothers, daughters, wives, and sisters of these brave mariners—all watching anxiously for their return and praying to God for victory.

I found my master in the cabin, somewhat calmer. The English officers who had come on board treated ours with the most distinguished courtesy and, as I heard, were anxious to transfer the wounded on board their own ship. One of these gentlemen went up to my master as if recognizing him, bowed to him, and addressing him in fairly-good Spanish, reminded him of an old acquaintanceship. Don Alonso responded gravely to his advances and then enquired of him as to some of the details of the battle.

“But what became of our reserve? What did Gravina do?” asked my master.

“Gravina withdrew with some of his ships,” replied the English officer.

“Only the Rayo and Neptuno came to our assistance of all the front line?”

“Four French ships—the Duguay-Trouin, the Mont Blanc, the Scipion, and the Formidable were the only ones that kept out of the action.”

“But Gravina—where was Gravina?” Don Alonso persisted.

“He got off in the PrÍncipe de AstÚrias; but as he was chased I do not know whether he reached Cadiz in safety.”

“And the San Ildefonso?”

“She struck.”

“And the Santa Ana?”

“Struck too.”

“Good God!” cried my master, unable to conceal his indignation. “But you did not take the Nepomuceno?”

“Yes, that too.”

“Are you sure of that? With Churruca?”

“He was killed,” said the Englishman with sincere regret.

“Killed—Churruca killed!” exclaimed Don Alonso in grievous bewilderment. “And the Bahama—she was saved—the Bahama must have been able to reach Cadiz in safety.”

“She was taken too.”

“Taken! And Galiano? He is a hero and a cultivated gentleman.”

“He was,” said the Englishman sadly, “but he too is dead.” “And the MontaÑes with Alcedo?”

“Killed, killed.”

My master could not control his emotion and as, at his advanced age, presence of mind is lacking at such terrible moments, he suffered the slight humiliation of shedding a few tears as he remembered his lost friends. Nor are tears unbecoming to a noble soul; on the contrary, they reveal a happy infusion of delicate feeling, when combined with a resolute temper. My master’s tears were manly tears, shed after he had done his duty as a sailor; but, hastily recovering from this paroxysm of grief, and anxious to retort on the Englishman by some pain equal to that he had caused, he said:

“You too have suffered, no doubt, and have lost some men of mark?”

“We have suffered one irreparable loss,” said the English officer in accents as deeply sad as Don Alonso’s. “We have lost our greatest man, the bravest of the brave—our noble, heroic, incomparable Nelson.”

And his fortitude holding out no better than my master’s he made no attempt to conceal his anguish of grief; he covered his face with his hands and wept with the pathetic frankness of incontrollable sorrow for his leader, his guardian, and his friend.

Nelson, mortally wounded at an early stage of the battle by a gun-shot—the ball piercing his chest and lodging in the spine—had simply said to Captain Hardy: “They have done for me at last, Hardy.” He lingered till the evening, not losing any details of the battle, and his naval and military genius only failed him with the last breath of his shattered body. Though suffering agonies of pain, he still dictated his orders and kept himself informed of the manoeuvres of both fleets; and when at length he was assured that victory was on the side of the English, he exclaimed: “Thank God, I have done my duty!” A quarter of an hour later the greatest sailor of the age breathed his last. The reader will forgive me this digression.

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.

As the day advanced the Prince attempted once more to take the SantÍsima Trinidad in tow, but with no better success than before. Our situation was no worse, although the tempest raged with undiminished fury, for a good deal of the mischief had been patched up, and we thought that if the weather should mend the hulk, at any rate, might be saved. The English made a great point of it, for they were very anxious to take the largest man-of-war ever seen afloat into Gibraltar as a trophy; so they willingly plied the pumps by night and by day and allowed us to rest awhile. All through the day of the 22nd the sea continued terrific, tossing the huge and helpless vessel as though it were a little fishing-boat, and the enormous mass of timber proved the soundness of her build by not simply falling to pieces under the furious lashing of the waters. At some moments she rolled over so completely on her beam ends that it seemed as though she must go to the bottom, but suddenly the wave would fly off in smoke, as it were, before the hurricane, the ship, righting herself, rode over it with a toss of her mighty prow—which displayed the Lion of Castile—and we breathed once more with the hope of escaping with our lives.

On all sides we could see the scattered fleets; many of the ships were English, severely damaged and striving to gain shelter under the coast. There were Frenchmen and Spaniards too, some dismasted, others in tow of the enemy. Marcial recognized the San Ildefonso. Floating about were myriads of fragments and masses of wreck—spars, timbers, broken boats, hatches, bulwarks, and doors—besides two unfortunate sailors who were clinging to a plank, and who must have been swept off and drowned if the English had not hastened to rescue them. They were brought on board more dead than alive, and their resuscitation after being in the very jaws of death was like a new birth to them.

That day went by between agonies and hopes—now we thought nothing could save the ship and that we must be taken on board an Englishman then again we hoped to keep her afloat. The idea of being taken into Gibraltar as prisoners was intolerable, not so much to me perhaps as to men of punctilious honor and sensitive dignity like my master whose mental anguish at the thought must have been intolerable. However, all the torment of suspense, at any rate, was relieved by the evening when it was unanimously agreed that if we were not transferred to an English ship at once, to the bottom we must go with the vessel, which now had five feet of water in the hold. Uriarte and Cisneros took the announcement with dignified composure, saying that it mattered little to them whether they perished at once or were prisoners in a foreign land. The task was at once begun in the doubtful twilight, and as there were above three hundred wounded to be transferred it was no easy matter. The available number of hands was about five hundred, all that were left uninjured of the original crew of eleven hundred and fifteen before the battle. We set to work promptly with the launches of the Trinidad and the Prince, and three other boats belonging to the English. The wounded were attended to first; but though they were lifted with all possible care they could not be moved without great suffering, and some entreated with groans and shrieks to be left in peace, preferring immediate death to anything that could aggravate and prolong their torments. But there was no time for pity, and they were carried to the boats as ruthlessly as the cold corpses of their comrades had been flung into the sea.

Uriarte and Cisneros embarked in the English captain’s gig, but when they urged my master to accompany them he obstinately refused, saying that he wished to be last to leave the sinking ship. This I confess disturbed me not a little, for as by this time, the hardy patriotism which at first had given me courage had evaporated, I thought only of saving my life, and to stay on board a foundering vessel was clearly not the best means to that laudable end. Nor were my fears ill founded, for not more than half the men had been taken off when a dull roar of terror echoed through the ship.

“She is going to the bottom—the boats, to the boats!” shouted some, and there was a rush to the ship’s side, all looking out eagerly for the return of the boats. Every attempt at work or order was given up, the wounded were forgotten, and several who had been brought on deck dragged themselves to the side in a sort of delirium, to seek an opening and throw themselves into the sea. Up through the hatchways came a hideous shriek which I think I can hear as I write, freezing the blood in my veins and setting my hair on end. It came from the poor wretches on the lowest deck who already felt the waters rising to drown them and vainly cried for help—to God or men—who can tell! Vainly indeed to men, for they had enough to do to save themselves. They jumped wildly into the boats, and this confusion in the darkness hindered progress. One man alone, quite cool in the midst of the danger, remained in the state cabin, paying no heed to all that was going on around him, walking up and down sunk in thought, as though the planks he trod were not fast sinking into the gulf below. It was my master. I ran to rouse him from his stupefaction. “Sir,” I cried, “we are drowning!”

Don Alonzo did not heed me, and if I may trust my memory he merely said without looking round: “How Paca will laugh at me, when I go home after such a terrible defeat!”

“Sir, the ship is sinking!” I insisted, not indeed exaggerating the danger, but in vehement entreaty.

My master looked at the sea, at the boats, at the men who were blindly and desperately leaping overboard; I looked anxiously for Marcial and called him as loudly as I could shout. At the same time I seemed to lose all consciousness of where I was and what was happening. I turned giddy and I could see nothing. To tell how I was saved from death I can only trust to the vaguest recollections, like the memory of a dream, for in fact I fairly swooned with terror. A sailor, as I fancy, came up to Don Alonso while I was speaking to him; in his strong arms I felt myself lifted up and when I somewhat recovered my wits I found myself in one of the boats, propped up against my master’s knees, while he held my head in his hands with fatherly care and kindness. Marcial held the tiller and the boat was crowded with men.

Looking up I saw, apparently not more than four or five yards away, the black side of our ship sinking fast; but through the port-holes of the deck that was still above water I could see a dim light—that of the lamp which had been lighted at dusk and which still kept unwearied watch over the wreck of the deserted vessel. I still could hear the groans and cries of the hapless sufferers whom it had been impossible to remove and who were within a few feet of the abyss while, by that dismal lamp they could see each other’s misery and read each other’s agony in their eyes.

My fancy reverted to the dreadful scene on board—another inch of water would be enough to overweight her and destroy the little buoyancy that was left her. How far did those poor creatures understand the nearness of their fate? What were they saying in this awful moment? If they could see us safe in our boat—if they could hear the splash of our oars, how bitterly must their tortured souls complain to Heaven! But such agonizing martyrdom must surely avail to purify them of all guilt, and the grace of God must fill that hapless vessel, now when it was on the point of disappearing for ever!

Our boat moved away; and still I watched the shapeless mass—though I confess that I believe it was my imagination rather than my eyes that discerned the Trinidad through the darkness, till I believe I saw, against the black sky, a huge arm reaching down to the tossing waters—the effect no doubt of my imagination on my senses.