The boat moved on—but whither? Not Marcial himself knew where he was steering her to. The darkness was so complete that we lost sight of the other boats and the lights on board the Prince were as invisible through the fog, as though a gust of wind had extinguished them. The waves ran so high and the squalls were so violent that our frail bark made very little way, but thanks to skilful steering she only once shipped water. We all sat silent, most of us fixing a melancholy gaze on the spot where we supposed our deserted comrades were at this moment engaged in an agonizing death-struggle. In the course of this passage I could not fail to make, as was my habit, certain reflections which I may venture to call philosophical. Some may laugh at a philosopher of fourteen; but I will not heed their laughter; I will try to write down the thoughts that occupied me at this juncture. Children too can think great thoughts and at such a moment, in face of such a spectacle, what brain but an idiot’s could remain unmoved.

There were both English and Spaniards in our boat—though most Spaniards—and it was strange to note how they fraternized, helping and encouraging each other in their common danger, and quite forgetting that only the day before they had been killing each other in hideous fight, more like wild beasts than men. I looked at the English who rowed with as good a will as our own sailors, I saw in their faces the same tokens of fear or of hope, and above all the same expression, sacred to humanity, of kindness and fellowship which was the common motive of all. And as I noted it I said to myself: “Good God! why are there wars? Why cannot these men be friends under all the circumstances of life as they are in danger? Is not such a scene as this enough to prove that all men are brothers?”

But the idea of nationality suddenly occurred to me to cut short these speculations, and my geographical theory of islands. “To be sure,” said I to myself, “the islands must need want to rob each other of some portion of the land, and that is what spoils everything. And indeed there must be a great many bad men there who make wars for their own advantage, because they are ambitious and wish for power, or are avaricious and wish for wealth. It is these bad men who deceive the rest—all the miserable creatures who do the fighting for them; and to make the fraud complete, they set them against other nations, sow discord and foment envy—and here you see the consequences. I am certain”—added I to myself, “that this can never go on; I will bet two to one that before long the inhabitants of the different Islands will be convinced that they are committing a great folly in making such tremendous wars, and that a day will come when they will embrace each other and all agree to be like one family.” So I thought then; and now, after sixty years of life, I have not seen that day dawn.

The launch labored on through the heavy sea. I believe that if only my master would have consented Marcial would have been quite ready to pitch the English overboard and steer the boat to Cadiz or the nearest coast, even at the imminent risk of foundering on the way. I fancy he had suggested something of the kind to Don Alonso, speaking in a low voice, and that my master wished to give him a lesson in honor, for I heard him say:

“We are prisoners, Marcial—we are prisoners.” The worst of it was that no vessel came in sight. The Prince had moved off, and no light on either side told us of the existence of an English ship. At last, however, we descried one at some distance and a few minutes later the vague outline came in sight of a ship before the storm, to our windward, and on the opposite tack to ours. Some thought it was a Frenchman, others said it was English; Marcial was sure she was a Spaniard. We pulled hard to meet her and were soon within speaking distance. Our men hailed her and the answer was in Spanish.

“It is the San Agustin” said Marcial.

“The San Agustin was sunk,” said Don Alonso; “I believe it is the Santa Ana which was also captured.” In fact, as we got close, we all recognized the Santa Ana which had gone into action under the command of Alava. The English officers in charge immediately prepared to take us on board, and before long we were all safe and sound on deck.

The Santa Ana, 112 guns, had suffered severely, though not to such an extent as the SantÍsima Trinidad; for, though she had lost all her masts and her rudder, the hull was fairly sound. The Santa Ana survived the battle of Trafalgar eleven years, and would have lived much longer if she had not gone to the bottom for want of repairs in the bay of Havana, in 1816. She had behaved splendidly in the fight. She was commanded, as I have said, by Vice-admiral Alava leader of the van which, as the order of battle was altered, became the rear. As the reader knows, the line of English ships led by Collingwood attacked the Spanish rear while Nelson took the centre. The Santa Ana, only supported by the Fougueux, a Frenchman, had to fight the Royal Sovereign and four other English ships; and in spite of their unequal strength one side suffered as much as the other, for Collingwood’s ship was the first to retire and the Euryalus took her place. By all accounts the fighting was terrific, and the two great ships, whose masts were almost entangled, fired into each other for six hours until Alava and Gardoqui, both being wounded (Alava subsequently died), five officers and ninety-seven sailors being killed, besides more than 150 wounded, the Santa Ana was forced to surrender. The English took possession of her, but it was impossible to work her on account of her shattered condition, and the dreadful storm that rose during the night of the 21st; so when we went on board she was in a very critical, though not a desperate situation, floating at the mercy of the wind and waves and unable to make any course. From that moment I was greatly comforted by seeing that every face on board betrayed a dread of approaching death. They were all very sad and quiet, enduring with a solemn mien the disgrace of defeat and the sense of being prisoners. One circumstance I could not help observing, and that was that the English officers in charge of the ship were not by a great deal so polite or so kind as those sent on board the Trinidad; on the contrary, among those on the Santa Ana were some who were both stern and repellent, doing all they could to mortify us, exaggerating their own dignity and authority, and interfering in everything with the rudest impertinence. This greatly annoyed the captured crew, particularly the sailors; and I fancied I overheard many alarming murmurs of rebellion which would have been highly disquieting to the English if they had come to their ears.

Beyond this there is nothing to tell of our progress that night—if progress it can be called when we were driven at the will of the wind and waves, sailless and rudderless. Nor do I wish to weary the reader with a repetition of the scenes we had witnessed on board the Trinidad, so I will go on to other and newer incidents which will surprise him as much as they did me.

I had lost my liking for hanging about the deck and poop, and as soon as we got on board the Santa Ana I took shelter in the cabin with my master, hoping to get food and rest, both of which I needed sorely. However, I found there many wounded who required constant attention and this duty, which I gladly fulfilled, prevented my getting the sleep which my wearied frame required. I was engaged in placing a bandage on Don Alonso’s arm when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I turned round and saw a tall young officer wrapped in a large blue cloak whom I did not immediately recognize; but after gazing at him for a few seconds, I exclaimed aloud with surprise; it was Don Rafael Malespina, my young mistress’s lover.

My master embraced him affectionately and he sat down by us. He had been wounded in the shoulder, and was so pale from fatigue and loss of blood that his face looked quite altered. His presence here filled me with strange sensations—some of which I am fain to own were anything rather than pleasing. At first I felt glad enough indeed to see any one I knew and who had come out alive from those scenes of horror, but the next moment my old aversion for this man rose up, as strong as ever in my breast, like some dormant pain reviving to torment me after an interval of respite. I confess with shame that I was sorry to see him safe and sound, but I must do myself the justice to add that the regret was but momentary, as brief as a lightning flash—a flash of blackness, as I may say, darkening my soul; or rather a transient eclipse of the light of conscience which shone clearly again in the next instant. The evil side of my nature for a moment came uppermost; but I was able to suppress it at once and drive it down again to the depths whence it had come. Can every one say as much?

After this brief mental struggle I could look at Malespina, glad that he was alive and sorry that he was hurt; and I remember, not without pride, that I did all I could to show him my feelings. Poor little mistress! How terrible must her anguish have been all this time. My heart overflowed with pitiful kindness at the thought—I could have run all the way to Vejer to say: “SeÑorita DoÑa Rosa, your Don Rafael is safe and sound.”

The luckless Malespina had been brought on board the Santa Ana from the Nepomuceno, which had also been captured, and with so many wounded on board that it had been necessary, as we learnt, to distribute them or they must have perished of neglect. When the father and his daughter’s fiancÉ had exchanged the first greetings and spoken of the absent ones on shore, the conversation turned on the details of the battle. My master related all that had occurred on board the Trinidad and then he added: “But no one has told me exactly what has become of Gravina. Was he taken prisoner, or has he got off to Cadiz?”

“The Admiral,” said Malespina, “stood a terrific fire from the Defiance and the Revenge. The Neptune, a Frenchman, came to her assistance with the San Ildefonso and the San Justo; but our enemies were reinforced by the Dreadnought, the Thunderer, and the Polyphemus; so that resistance was hopeless. Seeing the PrÍncipe de AstÚrias with all her tackle cut, her masts overboard and her sides riddled with balls, while Gravina himself and EscaÑo, his second in command, were both wounded, they resolved on giving up the struggle which was quite in vain for the battle was lost. Gravina hoisted the signal to retire on the stump of a mast and sailed off for Cadiz, followed by the San Justo, the San Leandro, the MontaÑes and three others; only regretting their inability to rescue the San Ildefonso which had fallen into the hands of the enemy.” “But tell us what happened on board the Nepomuceno,” said my master, deeply interested. “I can hardly believe that Churruca can be dead; and, though every one tells me that he is, I cannot help fancying that that wonderful man must still be alive somewhere on earth.”

But Malespina told him that it had been his misfortune to see Churruca killed and said he would relate every detail. A few officers gathered round him while I, as curious as they could be, was all ears in order not to lose a syllable.

“Even as we came out of Cadiz,” said Malespina, “Churruca had a presentiment of disaster. He had voted against sailing out to sea, for he knew the inferiority of our armament, and he also had little confidence in Villeneuve’s skill and judgment. All his predictions were verified—all, even to his own death: for there is no doubt that he had foreseen it as surely as he did our defeat. On the 19th he had said to Apodaca, his brother-in-law, before going on board: ‘Sooner than surrender my ship, I will blow her up or go to the bottom. That is the duty of every man who serves his king and country.’ And the same day, writing to a friend, he said: ‘If you hear that my ship is taken you will know that I am dead.’

“Indeed it was legible in his sad grave face that he looked forward to nothing but a catastrophe. I believe that this conviction, and the absolute impossibility of avoiding defeat while feeling himself strong enough for his own part, seriously weighed upon his mind, for he was as capable of great deeds as he was of noble thoughts.

“Churruca’s was a religious as well as a superior mind. On the 21st, at eleven in the morning, he called up all the soldiers and crew; he bid them all kneel and said to his chaplain in solemn tones: ‘Fulfil your function, holy Father, and absolve these brave souls that know not what this fight may have in store for them.’ When the priest had pronounced absolution Churruca desired them to stand up, and speaking in friendly but audible tones he added: ‘My children all:—In God’s name I promise heavenly bliss to all who die doing their duty. If one of you shirks it he shall be shot on the spot; or, if he escapes my notice or that of the gallant officers I have the honor to command, his remorse shall pursue him so long as he crawls through the rest of his miserable and dishonored days.’

“This harangue, as eloquent as it was wise, combining the ideas of religion and of military duty, filled every man on board with enthusiasm. Alas for all these brave hearts!—wasted like gold sunk at the bottom of the ocean! Face to face with the English, Churruca watched Villeneuve’s preliminary manoeuvres with entire disapproval, and when the signal was given for the whole fleet to turn about—a manoeuvre which, as we know, reversed the order of battle—he told his captain in so many words that this blunder had lost us the day. He immediately understood the masterly plan struck out by Nelson of cutting our line through the centre from the rear, and engaging the whole fleet at once, dealing with our ships in separate divisions so that they could not assist each other.

“The Nepomuceno was at the end of the line. The Royal Sovereign and the Santa Ana opened fire and then all the ships in turn came into action. Five English vessels under Collingwood attacked our ship; two, however, passed on and Churruca had only three to deal with.

“We held out bravely against these odds till two in the afternoon, suffering terribly, however, though we dealt double havoc on the foe. Our Admiral seemed to have infused his heroic spirit into the crew and soldiers, and the ship was handled and the broadsides delivered with terrible promptitude and accuracy. The new recruits had learnt their lesson in courage in no more than a couple of hours’ apprenticeship, and our defence struck the English not merely with dismay but with astonishment.

“They were in fact forced to get assistance and bring up no less than six against one. The two ships that had at first sailed past now returned, and the Dreadnought came alongside of us, with not more than half a pistol-shot between her and our stern. You may imagine the fire of these six giants pouring balls and small shot into a vessel of 74 guns. But our ship seemed positively to grow bigger in proportion to the desperate bravery of her defenders. They themselves seemed to grow in strength as their courage mounted, and seeing the dismay we created in an enemy six times as strong, we could have believed ourselves something more than men.

“Churruca, meanwhile, who was the brain of us all, directed the action with gloomy calmness. Knowing that only care and skill could supply the place of strength he economized our fire, trusting entirely to careful aim, and the consequence was that each ball did terrible havoc on the foe. He saw to everything, settled everything, and the shot flew round him and over his head without his ever once changing color even. That frail and delicate man, whose beautiful and melancholy features looked so little fitted to dare such scenes of terror, inspired us all with unheard-of courage, simply by a glance of his eye.

“However, it was not the will of God that he should escape alive from that storm of fire. Seeing that no one could hit one of the enemy’s ships which was battering us with impunity, he went down himself to judge of the line of fire and succeeded in dismasting her. He was returning to the quarter-deck when a cannon ball hit his right leg with such violence as almost to take it off, tearing it across the thigh in the most frightful manner. We rushed to support him and our hero sank into my arms. It was a fearful moment. I still fancy I can feel his heart beating under my hand—a heart which, even at that terrible moment, beat only for his country. He sank rapidly. I saw him make an effort to raise his head, which had fallen forward on his breast; I saw him try to force a smile while his face was as white as death, and he said, in a voice that was scarcely weaker than usual: ‘It is nothing—go on firing.’

“His spirit revolted against death and he did all he could to conceal the terrible sufferings of his mutilated frame, while his heart beat more feebly every instant. We wanted to carry him down into the cabin, but nothing would persuade him to quit the quarter-deck. At last he yielded to our entreaties and understood that he must give up the command. He called for Moyna, his lieutenant, and was told that he was dead; then he called for the officer in command of the first battery, and the latter though himself seriously wounded at once mounted the quarter-deck and assumed the command.

“But from that moment the men lost heart; from giants they shrank to pigmies; their courage was worn out and it was plain that we must surrender. The consternation that had possessed me from the instant when our hero fell into my arms had not prevented my observing the terrible effect that this disaster had produced in the minds of all. A sudden paralysis of soul and body seemed to have fallen on the crew; they all stood petrified and speechless and the grief of losing their beloved leader quite overpowered the disgrace of surrender.

“Quite half of the men were dead or wounded; most of the guns were past serving; all the masts except the main-mast were gone by the board and the rudder could not be used. Even in this deplorable plight we made an attempt to follow the PrÍncipe de AstÚrias which had given the signal to retreat, but the Nepomuceno was mortally wounded and could not move nor steer. Even then, in spite of the wrecked state of the ship, in spite of the dismayed condition of the men, in spite of a concurrence of circumstances to render our case hopeless, not one of the six English captains attempted to board us. They respected our ship even when she was at their mercy.

“Churruca, in the midst of his agony, ordered that the flag should be nailed to the mast, for the ship should never surrender so long as he breathed. The delay alas! could be but brief, for Churruca was going rapidly, and we who supported him only wondered that a body so mangled could still breathe; it was his indomitable spirit that kept him alive added to a resolute determination to live, for he felt it his first duty. He never lost consciousness till the very end, nor complained of his sufferings, nor seemed to dread his approaching death; his sole care and anxiety was that the crew should not know how dangerous his condition was, so that no one should fail in his duty. He desired that the men should be thanked for their heroic bravery, spoke a few words to his brother-in-law, Ruiz de Apodaca, and, after sending a message to his young wife he fixed his thoughts on God, whose name we heard frequently on his parched lips, and died with the calm resignation of a just man and the fortitude of a hero; bereft of the satisfaction of victory but with no angry sense of defeat. In him duty and dignity were equally combined, and discipline was second only to religion. As a soldier he was resolute, as a man he was resigned, and without a murmur or an accusing word he died as nobly as he had lived. We looked at his body, not yet cold, and it seemed all a delusion—he must surely wake to give us our orders; and we wept with less fortitude than he had shown in dying, for in him we had lost all the valor and enthusiasm that had borne us up.

“Well, the ship struck; and when the officers from the six vessels that had destroyed her came on board each claimed the honor of receiving the sword of our dead hero. Each exclaimed: ‘He surrendered to me!’—and for a few minutes they eagerly disputed the victory, each for the ship he represented. Then they asked the officer who had taken the command to which of the Englishmen he had struck. ‘To all,’ he replied. ‘The Nepomuceno would never have surrendered to one.’

“The English gazed with sincere emotion on the body of the hapless Churruca, for the fame of his courage and genius was known to them and one of them spoke to this effect: ‘A man of such illustrious qualities ought never to be exposed to the risks of battle; he should be kept to live and serve the interests of science and navigation.’ Then they prepared for dropping him overboard, the English marines and seamen forming a line of honor alongside of the Spaniards; they behaved throughout like noble-minded and magnanimous gentlemen.

“The number of our wounded was very considerable, and they were transferred on board other English or captured ships. It was my lot to be sent to this one which has suffered worse than most; however, they count more on getting her into Gibraltar than any other, now that they have lost the Trinidad which was the finest and most coveted of our ships.”

Thus ended Malespina’s narrative which was attentively listened to as being that of an eye-witness. From what I heard I understood that a tragedy just as fearful as that I myself had seen had been enacted on board every ship of the fleet. “Good God!” said I to myself, “what infinite misery! and all brought about by the obstinacy of a single man!” And child as I was, I remember thinking: “One man, however mad he may be, can never commit such extravagant follies as whole nations sometimes plunge into at the bidding of a hundred wise ones.”