Trafalgar & Saragossa. Benito Pérez Galdós

      At last we reached the Santísima Trinidad. As we approached, the colossal mass loomed larger and larger, and when the launch pulled up alongside, lost in the black transparent void made where its vast shadow fell upon the water—when I saw the huge hulk lying motionless on the dark waves which gently plashed against the side—when I looked up and saw the three tiers of cannon with their threatening muzzles thrust through the port-holes—my excitement was changed to fear; I turned pale and sat silent and motionless by my master’s side.

      But when we went up the side and stood on deck my spirits rose. The intricate and lofty rigging, the busy scene on the quarter-deck, the open view of the sky and bay, the perfect order of everything on deck, from the hammocks lashed in a row to the bulwarks, to the capstans, shells, windsails and hatchways; the variety of uniforms—everything I saw, in short, amazed me to such a degree that for some time I stood blankly gazing at the stupendous structure heedless of all else. You can form no idea of any of those magnificent vessels, much less of the Santísima Trinidad, from the wretched prints I have seen of them. Still less, again, from the ships of war of the present day, covered with ponderous plates of iron, heavy looking, uninteresting and black, with no visible details on their vast sides, looking to me for all the world like enormous floating coffins. Invented by a materialistic age and calculated to suit the naval science of a time when steam has superseded manual labor, and the issue of a sea-fight is decided by the force and impetus of the vessels, our ships are now mere fighting-machines, while those of that day were literally Men-of-War, wielding all the implements of attack and defence but trusting mainly to skill and valor.

      I, who not only see, but observe, have always been in the habit of associating—perhaps to an extravagant extent—ideas and images, things and persons, which in appearance seem most dissimilar or antagonistic. When, at a later period, I saw the cathedrals—Gothic, as they call them—of Castile and of Flanders, and noted the impressive majesty with which those perfect and elaborate structures stand up among the buildings of more modern style, built only for utility—such as banks, hospitals, and barracks—I could never help remembering all the various kinds of vessels that I have seen in the course of a long life, and comparing the old ones to those Gothic cathedrals. Their curves, so gracefully prolonged, the predominance of vertical over horizontal lines, a certain indefinable poetry about them—not historical only but religious too—underlying the complication of details and the play of colors brought out by the caprices of the sunshine, are, no doubt, what led to this far-fetched association of ideas—the result in my mind of the romantic impressions of my childhood.

      The Santísima Trinidad had four decks; the largest ships in the World had but three. This giant, constructed at Havana, in 1769, of the finest woods of Cuba, could reckon thirty-six years of honorable service. She measured 220 feet from stem to stern, 58 feet in the waist, that is to say in width, and 28 feet deep from the keel to the deck, measurements which no other vessel at the time could approach. Her huge ribs, which were a perfect forest, supported four decks. When she was first built 116 port-holes gaped in her sides which were thick walls of timber; after she was enlarged in 1796 she had 130, and when she was newly fitted in 1805 she was made to carry 140 guns, cannons and carronades. The interior was a marvel of arrangement; there were decks for the guns, the forecastle for the crew, holds for stores of all kinds, state-cabins for the officers, the galley, the cock-pit and other offices. I was quite bewildered as I ran through the passages and endless nooks of this floating fortress. The stern cabins on the main deck were a little palace within, and outside like some fantastic castle; the galleries, the flag-turrets at the corners of the poop—exactly like the oriels of a Gothic tower—looked like huge cages open to the sea, whence the eye could command three quarters of the horizon.

      Nothing could be grander than the rigging—those gigantic masts thrust up to heaven like a menace to the storm. It was difficult to believe that the wind could have strength enough to fill those vast sails. The eye lost its way and became weary in gazing at the maze of the rigging with the shrouds, stays, braces, halyards, and other ropes used to haul and reef the various sails.

      I was standing lost in the contemplation of all these wonders when I felt a heavy hand on the nape of my neck; I thought the main-mast had fallen on the top of me. I turned round in alarm and gave a cry of horror at seeing a man who was now holding me by the ears as if he were going to lift me up by them. It was my uncle.

      “What are you doing here, Vermin!” he asked, in the amiable tone that was habitual with him. “Do you want to learn the service? Hark ye Juan,” he added, turning to a sailor of most sinister aspect, “send this landlubber up to the main-yard to take a walk there.”

      I excused myself as best I might from the pleasure of taking a walk on the main-yard, explaining that I was body-servant to Don Alonso Gutierrez de Cisniega and had come on board with him. Three or four sailors, my affectionate uncle’s particular friends, wanted to torment me so I decided on quitting their distinguished society and went off to the cabin in search of my master. An officer’s toilet is no less elaborate on board than on shore, and when I saw the valets busied in powdering the heads of the heroes they waited on, I could not help asking myself whether this was not, of all occupations, the least appropriate in a man-of-war, when every minute was precious and where everything that was not directly serviceable to the working of the ship was a hindrance. However, fashion was as tyrannical then as now, and even at such a moment as this enforced her absurd and inconvenient rules with inexorable rigor. The private soldiers even had to waste their valuable time in tying their pigtails, poor men! I saw them standing in a line, one behind another, each one at work on the pigtail of the man in front of him; by which ingenious device the operation was got through in a short space of time. Then they stuck on their fur hats, a ponderous head-piece the use of which no one was ever able to explain to me, and went to their posts if they were on duty or to pace the deck if they were not. The sailors did not wear this ridiculous queue of hair and I do not see that their very sensible costume has been altered to any great extent since that time.

      In the cabin I found my master eagerly conversing with the captain in command of the ship, Don Francisco Xavier de Uriarte, and the commander of the squadron, Don Baltasar Hidalgo de Cisneros. From what I overheard I could have no doubt that the French admiral had ordered the fleets to put out to sea the next morning.

      Marcial was highly delighted at this, and he and a knot of veteran sailors who held council on their own account in the forecastle, discoursed grandiloquently on the imminent fight. Their society suited me far better than that of my amiable uncle, for Marcial’s companions indulged in no horse-play at my expense; and this difference was of itself enough to mark the difference of training in the two classes of sailors; for the old sea-dogs were of the pure breed originally levied as voluntary recruits; while the others were pressed men, almost without exception lazy, refractory, of low habits, and ignorant of the service.

      I made much better friends with the former than with these and was always present at Marcial’s conferences. If I did not fear to weary the reader, I might report the explanation he gave us that day of the diplomatical and political causes of the war—a most comical parody of all he had heard said, a few nights previously, by Malespina at my master’s house. I learnt from him that my young mistress’ lover was on board the Nepomuceno.

      All these colloquies came round at last to the same point, the impending battle. The fleet was to sail out of the bay next morning—what joy! To ride the seas in this immense vessel—the largest in the world; to witness a fight at sea; to see what a battle was like, how cannon were fired, how the enemy’s ships were taken—what a splendid triumph! and then to return to Cadiz covered with glory.—To say afterwards to all who cared to hear: “Yes, I was there, I was on board, I saw it all. …” To tell Rosita too, describing the glorious scene, winning her attention, her curiosity, her interest.—To say to her: “Oh yes! I was in the most dangerous places and I was not afraid;”—and to see her turn pale with alarm, or faint, as she heard my tale of the horrors of the battle—and then to look down in contempt on all who would ask me: “Tell us, Gabrielito, was it so terrible after all?”—All this was more than enough to fire my imagination, and I may frankly say that I would not, that day, have changed places with Nelson himself.

      The morning of the 19th dawned, the day