Admiral's slight and
passion-worn figure stands at the
parting of
the ways. He had the
audacity of
genius, and a prophetic
inspiration.
The modern naval man must feel that the time has come for the
tactical practice of the great sea officers of the past to be laid
by in the
temple of
august memories. The fleet
tactics of the
sailing days have been governed by two points: the
deadly nature
of a raking fire, and the dread, natural to a
commander dependent
upon the winds, to find at some crucial moment part of his fleet
thrown
hopelessly to leeward. These two points were of the very
essence of sailing
tactics, and these two points have been
eliminated from the modern tactical problem by the changes of
propulsion and
armament. Lord Nelson was the first to disregard
them with
conviction and
audacity sustained by an unbounded trust
in the men he led. This
conviction, this
audacity and this trust
stand out from
amongst the lines of the
celebratedmemorandum,
which is but a
declaration of his faith in a crushing superiority
of fire as the only means of
victory and the only aim of sound
tactics. Under the difficulties of the then existing conditions he
strove for that, and for that alone, putting his faith into
practice against every risk. And in that
exclusive faith Lord
Nelson appears to us as the first of the moderns.
Against every risk, I have said; and the men of to-day, born and
bred to the use of steam, can hardly realize how much of that risk
was in the weather. Except at the Nile, where the conditions were
ideal for engaging a fleet moored in
shallow water, Lord Nelson was
not lucky in his weather. Practically it was nothing but a quite
unusual
failure of the wind which cost him his arm during the
Teneriffe
expedition. On Trafalgar Day the weather was not so much
unfavourable as
extremely dangerous.
It was one of these covered days of fitful
sunshine, of light,
unsteady winds, with a swell from the
westward, and hazy in
general, but with the land about the Cape at times distinctly
visible. It has been my lot to look with
reverence upon the very
spot more than once, and for many hours together. All but thirty
years ago, certain
exceptional circumstances made me very familiar
for a time with that bight in the Spanish coast which would be
enclosed within a straight line drawn from Faro to Spartel. My
well-remembered experience has convinced me that, in that corner of
the ocean, once the wind has got to the
northward of west (as it
did on the 20th,
taking the British fleet aback), appearances of
westerly weather go for nothing, and that it is
infinitely more
likely to veer right round to the east than to shift back again.
It was in those conditions that, at seven on the morning of the
21st, the signal for the fleet to bear up and steer east was made.
Holding a clear
recollection of these
languid easterly sighs
rippling
unexpectedly against the run of the smooth swell, with no
other
warning than a ten-minutes' calm and a queer darkening of the
coast-line, I cannot think, without a gasp of
professional awe, of
that fateful moment. Perhaps personal experience, at a time of
life when
responsibility had a special
freshness and importance,
has induced me to
exaggerate to myself the danger of the weather.
The great Admiral and good
seaman could read aright the signs of
sea and sky, as his order to prepare to
anchor at the end of the
day
sufficiently proves; but, all the same, the mere idea of these
baffling easterly airs, coming on at any time within half an hour
or so, after the firing of the first shot, is enough to take one's
breath away, with the image of the rearmost ships of both divisions
falling off, unmanageable, broadside on to the westerly swell, and
of two British Admirals in
desperate jeopardy. To this day I