Nelson's Wake Read online

  ‘Lucky fellow,’ Oliver said, forcing a weak smile, though there was little to smile about in the story. He quickly changed the subject. ‘So how is it you sailed with the flag ship when she returned to England?’

  Will Ethridge’s expression changed again, this time his face filled with pride. Looking around, he explained: ‘At the start, when Gibraltar Bay began filling with damaged ships, most of the dockyard workers were spread around the fleet. Then one morning, several chippies and shipwrights were ordered to gather their tools and report to HMS Victory. I was one of those to be ordered to go aboard. The priority was to patch her up to make sure she didn’t sink in Gibraltar Bay then to make the necessary repairs so the ship, carrying the Admiral’s body, was able to sail to England. It was thought imperative to allow the country to share in the triumph. It was only then I learned that the Admiral’s body was still aboard. I’d noticed a huge water barrel – a leaguer, sitting on the quarterdeck. I was told Lord Nelson’s body was inside it.’

  ‘You saw the barrel on board?’

  ‘Aye, Captain. ‘It was sitting proud on the deck draped in Victory’s flag, you couldn’t miss it.’ As the tears welled in the young man’s eyes, Oliver looked away.

  ‘Indeed, it was a great victory but hardly a triumph with the Admiral dead.’ Oliver shook his head. ‘When news arrived in England, it was celebrated as glorious, marking the end to the sea war against Napoleon. But at such a terrible cost.’ He paused and looked towards Spithead and the damaged 104-gun warship that had been the pride of the British navy. It was currently surrounded by a flotilla of smaller craft.

  ‘Tell me, Will, having been aboard her, how do you rate the ship’s condition now?’

  Will Ethridge’s eyes were wide as he described the first rate ship of the line. ‘Even with the loss of much of her top hamper, she truly is a huge ship,’ he said. ‘Bigger that any of the sheer hulks used as prison ships in Portsmouth harbour that I have seen. Though the damage she suffered was not as devastating as in some of the other vessels, her condition was pitiful. Fifty shot holes were counted betwixt wind and water. It was only the thickness of Victory’s oaken hull that saved her from filling and being lost.

  ‘But it wasn’t until I went below that I saw the full extent of her injuries. Beams, knees and riders had been shot through. But, as I said, the Gibraltar dockyard did not have the timbers suitable for the shipwrights to replace those members. The starboard cathead had been completely shot away and the best bower anchor gone with it. Below deck, the bulkheads had either been shot through or tossed overboard when the ship was cleared for action. The stern windows of the great cabin had been raked which put paid to all the frames and glass, and the fine furnishing from the great cabin were smashed to matchwood. The same applied to the officers’ quarters on the deck below – they were unrecognisable. When the mizzen mast fell, it created its own damage crushing part of the deck and rails, and bringing down its rigging with it.’

  Oliver listened intently.

  ‘She had swallowed a lot of water and, though the pumps had been manned since the time of the battle, there were men still working on them both day and night when we went aboard. The pumping never stopped when we departed Gibraltar and I think it will go on until we are in the Chatham yard.’

  ‘What repairs were you engaged on?’ Oliver asked politely.

  ‘Our first job was to patch the leaks in the hull. We worked in the hold for most of the time – almost a full week, standing knee-deep in water. We even worked through the night by the light of lanterns. We caught a little sleep on the deck when we could. Then, when it was decided that sufficient had been done to make her seaworthy enough to sail home, the call went out for volunteers to sail with her back to England and continue the repair work on the voyage. I volunteered and was proud to be one of those chosen. So, here I am.’

  ‘Tell me about Lord Nelson, Will. What did you hear of the Admiral after he fell?’ the captain asked. ‘Was his death spoken of when you were aboard?’

  ‘The talk was non-stop,’ the carpenter replied. ‘Although it was spoken in whispers, when it passed around the mess. I was told that, while at sea off Trafalgar, immediately after the battle, the Admiral’s body was placed in the leaguer. Dr Beatty, Victory’s surgeon, attended to his Lordship and he ordered it to be filled with brandy. But before Nelson’s body was placed in it, his hair was cut off and his clothing removed. I am told he was dressed in only his shirt when he was submerged and the barrel sealed.’

  Oliver’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Some time later the brandy was drawn off and replaced with spirits of wine – pure alcohol – that was to preserve the body for the homeward voyage. I also heard that one of the marines, who was posted to stand guard through the night, was scared half out of his wits, when the top of the leaguer popped off.’

  The captain frowned.

  ‘The doctor said it was due to the gasses escaping the body as it decomposed.’

  ‘Continue,’ Oliver said, choosing to ignore the previous description.

  Before we sailed, an argument on Victory spilled over onto the mole about which ship should carry Lord Nelson’s body home. After the battle, Lord Collingwood had transferred his flag to the frigate, Euryalus and, as that ship was in sound condition, he ordered that Nelson’s remains should be carried home aboard the frigate and not on HMS Victory because of its sorry state.’

  ‘Perhaps a wise decision, if Victory was in danger of sinking.’

  ‘Not for the sailors who served Lord Nelson. There was an immediate outcry. It was led by Victory’s boatswain who argued that if their captain could not sail home with them: “They would go to the bottom with their sacred charge.” Those were his very words.’

  ‘Obviously Lord Collingwood conceded,’ Oliver noted, ‘and Lord Nelson’s body remained aboard Victory.’

  ‘I think his lordship had little alternative.’

  For a moment, the pair watched, as a group of women was allowed to enter the yard. They were met by two midshipmen who conducted them to the area on the dock, close to the Kings Steps, where some of the injured men were sitting. Their bandages indicated cracked skulls, broken arms and legs, and blinded eyes. The women’s wails and cries were a mixture of pain and joy on being reunited with their menfolk.’

  ‘What was the scene when you departed Gibraltar to sail home?’

  Will Ethridge thought for a moment. ‘There were crowds gathered around the Bay, along the mole, on the beaches and around the battlements. But despite the peal of church bells and shots being fired from the fort and the decks of the other damaged ships, the tone was sombre. There was no cheering. Every hat had been removed and most people stood in silence. Everyone was still shocked about what they had seen.

  ‘Once out of the Bay, our progress along the Strait was exceedingly slow as we headed towards Tarifa. Off Cape Trafalgar, just a few miles short of Cadiz, I saw things I found hard to believe.’

  Oliver listened intently.

  ‘Although two weeks has passed since the battle, wreckage was still piled up along the sandy beaches. And much tangled flotsam was still floating on the water – spars, masts, canvas, lockers – and bloated bodies, both inshore and far out to sea. Some of the dead had suffered dreadful injuries with loss of arms and legs, and worse. Some of the bodies had been ripped to shreds by the circling sharks. One poor soul had lost his head. It must have been blown clean off, but he was still wearing the full dress uniform of a French officer, yet there was not another mark on him. I heard the same fate befell George Duff, Captain of the Mars. His head was severed by a cannon ball. He was buried at sea with twenty-eight of his men who died with him on that same day.’

  The revelations were astounding.

  Will paused again in his recounting.

  ‘A time many will never forget,’ Oliver Quintrell said.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Are you able to continue?’

  The shipwright nodded. ‘So, we sailed west and
then north along the coast of Portugal to the Bay of Biscay. But despite a breeze of wind, we were unable to make any progress and Victory was put under tow for several days. Belleisle, though she was also in a poor state, was able to raise some canvas and proceeded slowly, hauling Victory in her wake.

  ‘With Bellerophon and Belleisle for company, Victory proceeded under part sail and part tow to the Channel. The two seventy-fours parted company with her near Plymouth as both ships were taking water and also in grave danger of sinking.

  ‘The voyage from Gibraltar took two weeks and never was the crew happier than when we sighted the Needles and entered the Solent, and to hear the guns firing from the Portsmouth ramparts.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘As we neared the port, the welcome was unbelievable. The cheers, of course, for Britain’s glorious victory against France and Spain, but also the tears shed for the Admiral, and for the hundreds of sailors and officers who had not returned.’

  ‘And never would,’ Oliver added. Having witnessed the spectacle from his house on the island, Oliver nodded. ‘And what will happen to Victory now?’ he asked. ‘Will she remain in Portsmouth to undergo the repairs she needs?’

  Will Ethridge shook his head. ‘The artisans have all been ordered to continue their work while she remains at Spithead – those include the chippies, shipwrights, riggers, coopers and sail makers – until the ship is deemed in a fit condition to sail to the Medway and enter the Chatham yard. That is where she will undergo major repairs.’

  ‘Is it your intention to sail with her?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Indeed, it is,’ the young shipwright replied adamantly.

  ‘And what will happen to Lord Nelson’s remains once you arrive in the Medway? It has been announced, from London, that urgent preparations are afoot to honour the Viscount with a state funeral. It being over four weeks since Lord Nelson fell; I imagine time is of the essence.’

  ‘I know nothing of that,’ the young man said. ‘All I can tell you is what I heard, that the body will remain aboard Victory until we make the Nore.’

  ‘And once there?’

  ‘An Admiralty barge will meet the ship and take the barrel up river to Greenwich. Before that, Lord Nelson’s body will be transferred to a real coffin. When it arrives at Greenwich, it will remain lying in state for three days for the public to pay their respects.’

  ‘A traditional wake.’ Oliver said.

  Will Ethridge nodded. ‘I don’t know what will happen from there,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, William,’ Oliver Quintrell said. ‘I appreciate the knowledge you have shared with me. Now you must attend to your duty, I have delayed you too long.’ The captain replaced his hat. ‘From my home on the Isle of Wight, I shall be watching the progress made while you are here, then when Victory departs Portsmouth, I intend to travel up to London by coach and pay my respects while the Admiral’s body is lying in state. I believe that the opportunity to mourn will attract quite a crowd. Good luck to you, young man. I would be pleased to receive you aboard my next command, should you choose to apply for a warrant.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain. Do you know what ship that will be?’

  ‘Not as yet. Until the fleet returns home, no commissions are being granted.’

  With that, Will Ethridge nodded, touched his blonde locks, turned and hurried across the cobbled courtyard to the Royal Dockyard’s workshops.

  Watching him depart, Oliver could not help but think back to the weeks and months he had spent, at the Greenwich Hospital, recovering from an injury that had deprived him of most of the fingers of his right hand. But one thing he remembered was the way the patients celebrated the death of one of their own kind – particularly the Irish sailors.

  A three day wake was necessary as an appropriate sign of respect. Three days was the time deemed sufficient to ensure the deceased was truly dead and not merely sleeping.

  Chapter 4

  HMS Victory at Spithead

  December 10th, 1805

  From the convenient observation post in his garden on the Isle of Wight, Oliver Quintrell checked frequently. He watched, as Victory’s masts were being stepped and the standing and running rigging attended to. Frayed lines were spliced and new ones rigged. Blocks were replaced, and new canvas bent to the yards that had withstood the strain of battle. But the captain was particularly looking for any indication the ship was preparing to sail from Spithead.

  He had already forewarned his wife that he intended to travel to London for the state funeral. He had also written to his sister advising her of this and requesting he stay with her, for several nights, at her house on Grosvenor Square.

  Victoria was anxious to know if invitations to the funeral service at St Pauls included wives, but as seating in the cathedral would be very limited, Oliver greatly doubted it. In turn, he questioned whether she would have been prepared to make the long and uncomfortable coach journey to London and to contend with the huge crowds that were expected to attend.

  The newssheets and local papers reporting the event had already attracted folk from around the country, not only from port towns on the south coast, but from Ireland and across the Scottish border. For over a week, seats on the daily coach service, departing from outside the George Hotel on Portsmouth’s High Street, had been completely booked, including the open space on the coach’s roof that offered no shelter from either wind or rain. Because of this, Oliver arranged to hire a post chaise for the journey.

  Every day, while Victory swung from her anchor, dozens of small craft visited the triple decker, circling its hull and appearing to bob respectful curtsies on the chop, much to the annoyance of the tradesmen working on the decks. Tempers flared as the coxswains of the flag ship’s own boats, and local barges had difficulty getting close to the hull to make deliveries of much needed materials – timber, nails, pitch, paint, tar, turpentine, even oakum; plus sufficient victuals to supply the vessel and crew for the passage along the Channel to the Medway.

  Undeterred, pilgrimages of endless visitors continued from first light until dusk, the boatmen making a tidy penny ferrying passengers out from the beaches and the Hard. Men, women and children were all anxious to get a close look at the much respected battle-scarred warship. With eyes and mouths opened in awe, they gazed up at the gigantean 104-gun ship, though from water-level, dwarfed beneath its bulbous hull, they were likely to see less than from the shore. In particular, the leaguer containing Lord Nelson’s body, draped in Victory’s colours and placed aft on the quarterdeck, was best seen through a telescope from the port’s battlements. But for the hundreds who made the short return trip and were able to claim they had seen first-hand evidence of the now famous sea battle, they had a tale to tell when they returned home.

  As the crowds and the number of pleasure boats increased over the days, Victory’s cutter was launched and a dozen marines balanced themselves between the thwarts, their muskets levelled at anyone approaching to within pistol shot. The sight of a pair of swivel guns fixed on the port and starboard gunwales and angled down towards the water, was sufficient to ward off many of the over ambitious.

  During the following days, work progressed, not only on Victory but on several other fighting ships anchored at Spithead and those that had made it recently into the Royal Navy Dockyard. With nothing new to observe, Oliver accepted an invitation to take morning tea at the house of Dr Whipple.

  Returning to the residence on High Street, Oliver was again welcomed by Jonathon Whipple. Mr Crosby, the carpenter was unable to be present and had sent his apologies. Like all the mechanics in the dockyard, his work was continuing unabated despite some outcry from the public that this entailed working on the Sabbath.

  Talk of ships and injured sailors dominated the early conversation. However, after only half an hour, the doctor was obliged to excuse himself to attend to a patient.

  Only when Dr Whipple left did Oliver have the opportunity to speak directly with the young woman who had said she was prepared to r
aise his daughter. Mrs Consuela Pilkington was initially embarrassed to speak directly with the captain about the arrangements, but with the more matronly carpenter’s wife alongside her for support, she quickly relaxed and quietly expressed her thanks and joy that the captain had put faith in her to take on the care of his ward.

  Had the Doctor not revealed to her that the child was, in fact, his daughter, and not his ward, he wondered.

  ‘Miss Olivia will be a sister for Charles,’ Connie Pilkington said.

  That was something Oliver had not considered but the idea pleased him.

  ‘And where is young Charles at this moment?’ he asked.

  ‘Dr Whipple enrolled him at the Naval Academy. During the week he remains there as a boarder. I miss him, but believe it is for the best.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Oliver said, but his tone was not convincing.

  Perhaps Dr Whipple’s choice of education for a future naval officer was better than a private tutor or local school. Yet the lad was only twelve years of age. If he entered the service now, he would enter as a young gentleman or Captain’s servant – third class. If however, he completed two years at the Naval Academy, studying geometry, trigonometry, geography, etcetera, he could be accepted into the service as a midshipman. This would give him an advantage over other boys of the same age.

  Oliver tried to convince himself that this was the best course to follow but, since returning to Portsmouth, Oliver had heard conflicting reports about the situation at the Academy including the fact it was facing imminent closure. With a lack of discipline and a surfeit of money to squander, the young aristocrats enrolled at the Academy were gaining little benefit from their time there, while endowing the institution with a bad name. It was something he intended to further investigate and would ask young Charles Goodridge for his opinion.