Ramage fainted twice more before Jackson and Stafford had the wound washed clean. Stafford went up on deck to get a bandage from one of the drawers in the capstan head.
After he and Jackson argued how the bandage should be tied, Ramage ended up looking like a pale milkmaid with a scarf tied round her head.
Stafford took a small bottle from a pocket. "I asked Mr Bowen about the cut and he said to give you a drop of this, sir."
"What is it?"
"Brandy, sir."
"Hate brandy," Ramage said, a note of firmness coming back to his voice. "Give me a drink of water and then help me up on deck."
"I don't think -" Jackson started saying hastily.
"For God's sake, this is only a cut!" Ramage said crossly.
On the quarterdeck, in a refreshing breeze, Ramage began to feel better. Southwick had furled the courses, topsails and topgallants but now, with no sails to steady them, the heavy swell waves were making the two frigates grind together.
"Get Hill and Martin back over here, and pass the word to Aitken that as soon as all the wounded and prisoners are across, we are going to cast him off. Oh yes, you'll have about a hundred prisoners. You'll need guards. Tell Aitken to send back fifty men."
"Easier if I go across myself, sir," Southwick said, and bustled down the quarterdeck ladder.
The master was back in less than ten minutes. "I've told Orsini he can come back on board," he reported. "When the poor lad saw you being carried off dripping blood, he thought you were dying, if not dead."
"I'd come back to haunt him," Ramage growled. "Now, is Aitken ready? Right, unhitch those grapnels. Cut them adrift, if you have to; we won't be boarding anyone else today."
Ramage sat down on the breech of one of the carronades. Southwick gave him his telescope and he swept it along the former line of battle. Complete sections were still blotted out by banks of smoke, but British colours above French flew from several of the French 74s. All of Nelson's ships, even the slow sailers, had arrived in the battle, picked their opponents and gone into action. And so had Collingwood's column: there were no British ships to windward of the line.
God, what a battle! He could see that the French admiral's flagship, the Bucentaure, was dismasted and her hull badly damaged: masts and yards were spread across the deck as though thrown there by a wilful hand. The gigantic Santissima Trinidad was also dismasted, and so was the Redoutable, which with the Bucentaure had engaged the Victory. Nor had Nelson's flagship escaped: she had lost her mizenmast. Many other ships had lost masts, but it was impossible to identify them.
He looked to the northward. Yes, three or four of the leading French ships had turned back as though intending at last to help the centre and rear, but Ramage guessed their hearts were not in it: they were working their way out to windward of the line, while a dozen other ships, both French and Spanish, were making off to leeward, obviously bolting for Cadiz.
Twenty ships? He reckoned that by the time all the smoke had cleared and the gale of which the mare's-tails were warning actually arrived, twenty French and Spanish ships would have been captured or destroyed.
By now the Hasard had drifted clear; the heart-stopping grinding of the two hulls had ended, although, with no sails set to steady her, the Calypso was rolling so badly that Ramage was having to brace himself on the carronade.
Southwick lurched over, hard put to balance himself against the irregular movement.
"All the prisoners are now safely under guard: I've four men with musketoons watching 'em, too. Bowen says none of our wounded are in a dangerous condition. One o' those Frenchmen you brought out of Brest with Lady Sarah, the one called Louis, had a couple of nasty cutlass slashes, but Bowen's sewn him up. Bowen's starting on the Frenchmen now. Says he has time to put a few stitches in that cut o' yours, sir."
Ramage waved away the idea.
"Sir," Southwick said firmly, "it's a nasty cut and it'll scar badly if you don't have it stitched. It'll scare the life out of Lady Sarah if she sees it . . ."
Southwick turned away, having played his trump card, and a few minutes later a shaky Ramage came across to the quarterdeck rail. "All right, keep an eye on things while I go down and see Bowen. I'll only be a few minutes . . ."
Why were his knees so weak, more like the leather hinge on a flail? Nor was it easy to balance himself. He cursed as his sword scabbard caught between his legs. His sword? He remembered slashing at some Frenchman with it, and he was holding it when that fellow hit him with the musket. Well, Aitken or Jackson must have picked it up and put it back in the scabbard. It seemed silly going down to get your head sewn up with a sword slung round your waist. . .
Twenty minutes later, five painful stitches in his scalp and both stitches and gash hidden by a neatly tied bandage, Ramage sat in the chair at his desk and cursed the weather: already it was becoming gusty, the cloud thickening from the west. Just what Lord Nelson had anticipated in his signal that the fleet was to prepare to anchor at the close of day.
But all those prizes - could they be anchored? With the Spanish coast less than thirty miles to leeward, if the gale lasted more than a few hours most of the prizes would end up wrecked on the beaches . . .
Aitken had enough men to sail the Hasard thank goodness, although none of the admirals would care much about a prize frigate ... not with the largest ship in the world, the Santissima Trinidad, drifting with no masts . . .
He listened carefully. The rumble of gunfire was dying down now. The previous summer thunder of massed broadsides had changed to occasional broadsides, like a dreaming dog fitfully growling in its sleep.
There was nothing more for him to do apart from making sure the Calypso and the Hasard were ready for the gale that would reach them at nightfall. He clasped his head before calling to the sentry: "Pass the word for Mr Southwick."
Before the master could be called, the sentry was announcing: "Mr Orsini, sir, says it's urgent."
The young midshipman was excited. "The commander-in-chief's flag, sir: it's been hauled down!"
Ramage fingered the bandage round his head. "What do you mean by that?"
"Lord Nelson's flag, sir: it was flying from the mainmasthead of the Victory but it's been hauled down. There's just her ensign and the Union Flag that His Lordship ordered all the ships to fly during the battle."
Perhaps the Victory was so badly damaged that Lord Nelson had shifted his flag to another ship. He might have called a frigate alongside: Blackwood, for instance.
"Have you had a good look at all the other ships?"
Orsini nodded. "Yes, sir, including the frigates. Vice-Admiral Collingwood's blue ensign is still hoisted at the fore t'gallant masthead of the Royal Sovereign."
It could only mean one thing, but Ramage tried to avoid thinking about it. Had Lord Nelson had a premonition about his death? Could that flag halyard have been cut by a shot?
"How long ago did you first notice the flag wasn't flying?"
"About five minutes, sir. As soon as I noticed, I started examining all the other ships, in case he had shifted his flag."
Five minutes: time enough to reeve a new halyard or hoist the flag on another one. If not to the mainmasthead, then from a yard: from anywhere that it could be seen. But this had not been done.
The commander-in-chief's flag had been struck. It seemed that someone (presumably Captain Hardy) had waited until the fighting was finished, knowing the effect it would have on everyone in the British fleet.
Lord Nelson was dead; he must have been killed in the battle. He would never again hear that high-pitched voice with its Norfolk accent: he would never be able to listen to the stream of ideas, plans, orders: never again realize that he was in the company of the most brilliant man ever to wear a naval uniform.