A large part of the night was spent in listening to Malespina’s narrative and the experiences of other officers. They were interesting enough to keep me awake and I was so excited that I found great difficulty afterwards in going to sleep at all. I could not get the image of Churruca out of my mind as I had seen him, handsome and strong, at DoÑa Flora’s house. On that occasion, even, I had been startled by the expression of intense sadness on the hero’s features, as if he had a sure presentiment of his near and painful death. His noble life had come to an untimely end when he was only forty-four years old, after twenty-nine years of honorable service as a soldier, a navigator, and a man of science—for Churruca was all of these, besides being a noble and cultivated gentlemen. I was still thinking of all these things when, at length, my brain surrendered to fatigue and I fell asleep on the morning of the 23rd, my youthful nature having got the better of my excitement and curiosity. But in my sleep, which was long if not quiet, I was still haunted by nightmare visions, as was natural in my overwrought state of mind, hearing the roar of cannon, the tumult of battle and the thunder of billows; meanwhile I fancied I was serving out ammunition, climbing the rigging, rushing about between decks to encourage the gunners and even standing on the quarter-deck in command of the vessel. I need hardly say that in this curious but visionary battle I routed all the English past, present, or to come, with as much ease as though their ships were made of paper and their cannon-balls were bread-pills. I had a thousand men-of-war under my command, each larger than the Trinidad, and they moved before me with as much precision as the toy-ships with which I and my comrades had been wont to play in the puddles of la Caleta.

At last, however, all this glory faded away, which, as it was but a dream, is scarcely to be wondered at when we see how even the reality vanishes. It was all over when I opened my eyes and remembered how small a part I had actually played in the stupendous catastrophe I had witnessed. Still—strange to say—even when wide awake I heard cannon and the all-dreadful tumult of war, with shouts and a clatter that told of some great turmoil on deck. I thought I must still be dreaming; I sat up on the sofa on which I had fallen asleep; I listened with all my ears, and certainly a thundering shout of “God save the King” left no doubt in my mind that the Santa Ana was fighting once more.

I went out of the cabin and studied the situation. The weather had moderated; to the windward a few battered ships were in sight, and two of them, Englishmen, had opened fire on the Santa Ana which was defending herself with the aid of two others, a Frenchman and a Spaniard. I could not understand the sudden change in the aspect of affairs. Were we no longer prisoners of war? I looked up—our flag was flying in the place of the Union Jack. What could have happened?—or rather what was happening? For the drama was in progress.

On the quarter-deck stood a man who, I concluded, must be Alava, and though suffering from several wounds he still had strength enough to command this second action, which seemed likely enough to recover the honor his good ship had lost in the disaster of the first. The officers were encouraging the sailors who were serving those guns that could still be worked, while a detachment kept guard over the English, who had been disarmed and shut up in the lower deck. Their officers who had been our jailers were now become our prisoners.

I understood it all. The brave commander of the Santa Ana, Don Ignacio de Alva, seeing that we were within hail of some Spanish ships, which had come out of Cadiz in hope of rescuing some of our captured vessels and to take off the survivors from such as might be sinking, had addressed a stirring harangue to his disheartened crew who responded to his enthusiasm by a supreme effort. By a sudden rush they had disarmed the English who were in charge and hoisted the Spanish flag once more. The Santa Ana was free, but she had to fight for life, a more desperate struggle perhaps than the first had been.

This bold attempt—one of the most honorable episodes of the battle of Trafalgar—was made on board a dismasted ship, that had lost her rudder, with half her complement of men killed or wounded, and the other half in a wretched condition both moral and physical. However, the deed once done we had to face the consequences; two Englishmen, considerably battered no doubt, fired on the Santa Ana; but the AsÍs, the MontaÑes, and the Rayo—three ships that had got off with Gravina on the 21st—opportunely came to the rescue, having come out with a view to recapturing the prizes. The brave cripples rushed into the desperate action, with even more courage perhaps than into the former battle, for their unhealed wounds spurred them to fury and they seemed to fight with greater ardor in proportion as they had less life to lose.

All the incidents of the dreadful 21st were repeated before my eyes; the enthusiasm was tremendous, but the hands were so few that twice the will and energy were needed. This heroic action fills indeed but a brief page in history, for, by the side of the great event which is now known as the Battle of Trafalgar, such details are dwarfed or disappear altogether like a transient spark in a night of gloom and horror.

The next thing that happened to me personally cost me some bitter tears. Not finding my master at once I felt sure he was in some danger, so I went down to the upper gun-deck and there I found him, training a cannon. His trembling hand had snatched the linstock from that of a wounded sailor and he was trying, with the feeble sight of his right eye, to discover to what point in the foe he had better send the missile. When the piece went off he turned to me trembling with satisfaction, and said in a scarcely audible voice:

“Ah ha! Paca need not laugh at me now. We shall return to Cadiz in triumph.”

Finally we won the fight. The English perceived the impossibility of recapturing the Santa Ana when, besides the three ships already mentioned, two other Frenchmen and a frigate came up to her assistance in the very thick of the fray.

We were free, and by a glorious effort; but at the very moment of victory we saw most clearly the peril we were in, for the Santa Ana was now so completely disabled that we could only be towed into Cadiz. The French frigate Themis sent a cable on board and put her head to the North, but what could she do with such a deadweight in tow as the Santa Ana, which could do little enough to help herself with the ragged sails that still clung to her one remaining mast? The other ships that had supported her—the Rayo, the MontaÑes, and the San Francisco de AsÍs, were forced to proceed at full sail to the assistance of the San Juan and the Bahama, which were also in the hands of the English. There we were, alone, with no help but the frigate that was doing her best for us—a child leading a giant. What would become of us if the enemy—as was very probable—recovering from their repulse, were to fall upon us with renewed energy and reinforcements? However, Providence thought good to protect us; the wind favored us, and our frigate gently leading the way, we found ourselves nearing Cadiz.

Only five leagues from port! What an unspeakable comfort! Our miseries seemed ended; ere long we should set foot on terra firma, and though we brought news no doubt of a terrible disaster, we were bringing relief and joy to many faithful souls who were suffering mortal anguish in the belief that those who were returning alive and well had all perished.

The valor of the Spaniards did not avail to rescue any ships but ours, for they were too late and had to return without being able to give chase to the English ships that kept guard over the San Juan, the Bahama, and the San Ildefonso. We were still four leagues from land when we saw them making towards us. A southerly gale was blowing up and it was clear to all on board the Santa Ana that if we did not soon get into port we should have a bad time of it. Once more we were filled with anxiety; once more we lost hope almost in sight of safety, and when a few hours more on the cruel sea would have seen us safe and sound in harbor. Night was coming on black and angry; the sky was covered with dark clouds which seemed to lie on the face of the ocean, and the lurid flashes which lighted them up from time to time added terror to the gloom. The sea waxing in fury every instant, as if it were not yet satiated, raved and roared with hungry rage, demanding more and yet more victims. The remnant of the mighty fleet which a short time since had defied its fury combined with that of the foe was not to escape from the wrath of the angry element which, implacable as an ancient god and pitiless to the last, was as cruel to the victor as to the conquered.

I could read the signs of deep depression in the face not only of my master but of the Admiral, Alava, who, in spite of his wounds, still kept on his feet and signalled to the frigate to make all possible speed; but, instead of responding to his very natural haste, the Themis prepared to shorten sail so as to be able to keep before the gale. I shared the general dismay and could not help reflecting on the irony with which Fate mocks at our surest calculations and best founded hopes, on the swiftness with which she flings us from happy security to the depth of misery. Here we were, on the wide ocean, that majestic emblem of human life. A gust of wind and it is completely transformed, the light ripple which gently caressed the vessel’s side swells into a mountain of water that lashes and beats it, the soft music of the wavelets in a calm turns to a loud, hoarse voice, threatening the frail bark which flings itself into the waters as though its keel were unable to balance it, to rise the next moment buffeted and tossed by the very wave that has lifted it from the abyss. A lovely day ends in a fearful night, or, on the other hand, a radiant moon that illumines an infinite sky and soothes the soul, pales before an angry sun at whose light all nature quakes with dismay.

We had experienced all these viscissitudes, and in addition, those which are the result of the will of man. We had suffered shipwreck in the midst of defeat; after escaping once we had been compelled to fight again, this time with success; and then, when we thought ourselves out of our troubles, when we hailed Cadiz with delight, we were once more at the mercy of the tempest which had treacherously deluded us only to destroy us outright. Such a succession of adverse fortune seemed monstrous—it was like the malignant aberrations of a divinity trying to do all the harm he could devise to us hapless mortals—but it was only the natural course of things at sea, combined with the fortune of war. Given a combination of these two fearful forces and none but an idiot can be astonished at the disasters that must ensue.

Another circumstance contributed to my master’s distress of mind, and to mine too, that evening. Since the rescue of the Santa Ana Malespina had disappeared. At last, after seeking him everywhere, I discovered him lying in a heap on a sofa in the cabin. I went up to him and saw that he was very pale; I spoke to him but he could not answer. He tried to move but fell back gasping.

“Are you wounded?” I asked. “I will fetch some one to attend to you.”

“It is nothing,” he said. “Can you get me some water?”

I went at once for my master.

“What is the matter—this wound in your hand?” said he, examining the young officer.

“It is more than that,” replied Don Rafael sadly, and he put his hand to his right side close by his sword-belt. And, then, as if the effort of pointing out his wound and speaking those few words had been too much for his weakened frame, he closed his eyes and neither spoke nor moved for some minutes.

“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.

We left the ship according to orders. Don Rafael and Marcial with the rest of the wounded officers were carefully let down into the boats by the strong-armed sailors. The violence of the sea made this a long and difficult business, but at last it was done and two boat loads were pulled off to the Rayo. The passage, though short was really frightful; but at last, though there were moments when it seemed to me that we must be swallowed up by the waves, we got alongside of the Rayo and with great difficulty clambered on board.