Four days had passed, and the date had shifted to May 25th, 1801.
Across the expanse of the English Channel, a formidable sight was taking shape. The French and Spanish Fleets sailed in unison. The combined forces boasted an impressive array – 120 ships of the line, flanked by 30 frigates and supported by 10 brigs.
At the helm of this fleet was the Flagship Orient commanded by Admiral Brueys d'Aigalliers. His reputation preceded him, earned through his adept operations in the Mediterranean Sea, where he had skillfully orchestrated the transportation of men and supplies to bolster the Egyptian campaign. Which resulted in Napoleon Bonaparte having assigned him to become the Admiral of the Fleet.
Amidst the creaking of sails and the rhythmic lapping of water against hulls, Admiral Brueys stood on the deck of his flagship, his gaze fixed on the horizon, towards the coast of Great Britain.
At any given moment, they would encounter the British English Channel Fleet. They have to be defeated in order for France to invade Great Britain, if they fail here, then invading Great Britain would prove to be impossible.
"Admiral!"
A familiar voice called yet Brueys' gaze remained fixed on the horizon, and then simply asked.
"What is it, Captain Casabianca?"
"Sir, a telegraph from Admiral Villeneuve. They've sighted a British frigate bearing southwest, approximately 2 nautical miles distant."
"2 nautical huh?" Brueys repeated. "That means we are getting closer to their fleet. If Admiral Villeneuve sighted them, so did the British."
"What is your order admiral?" Casabianca looked at him expectantly.
Brueys exhaled and turned to face Casabianca. "Prepare to man battle stations. Signal the fleet to assume a formation of battle line ahead."
"A vos ordres, Amiral," Casabianca acknowledged the order before swiftly turning on his heels to carry it out.[1]
The command resonated through the air, and the ship's crew sprang into action. A series of crisp orders and coordinated movements followed as the preparations for the impending engagement commenced.
The crews on each ship went about their tasks with a disciplined urgency. Rigging was checked, cannons were inspected and primed, and sails were adjusted to catch the optimal wind. Officers barked commands, and sailors scurried up and down the masts and decks.
Admiral Brueys watched the scene unfold, his gaze shifting from one ship to another. As the flagship Orient set the example, the rest of the fleet began to fall into formation.
It took almost forty-five minutes for the ships of the line to form a long, imposing line, which now stretched across the expanse of the Channel, ready to face whatever challenges the British fleet might present.
"Amiral!" Casabianca's voice carried over the deck, indicating that the battle line formation had been successfully established.
Brueys nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze shifting once again to the horizon. He brought his spyglass up and peered through its hole.
In view were the British ships of the lines, also in the line formation.
"Prepare to signal the fleet," Brueys commanded. "Inform them that we hold formation until further orders."
Casabianca relayed the orders to the crew responsible for signaling, and a series of flags began to flutter in the wind and electrical pulses, conveying the Admiral's message to the rest of the fleet.
On the horizon, the British ships of the line came into view, their imposing silhouettes mirroring the disciplined formation of the Franco-Spanish fleet.
As the two formations drew closer, a charged atmosphere enveloped the scene. The crews on both sides remained at their posts, their cannons manned but still unlit, their gaze fixed on the approaching adversary.
It was, after all, destined to become the most pivotal naval battle of the French Revolutionary Wars. Should the British emerge victorious in this naval clash, the French would be thwarted in their attempt to invade their homeland. Conversely, if the French managed to secure victory, they would gain the opportunity to successfully land their forces on enemy shores.
It's basically a battle that would decide the fate of their nations.
The French have a numerical advantage but it won't last long. The British who were conducting a loose blockade in Brest were chasing after them and would arrive in approximately thirty six hours.
The distance between the two fleets closed to around 800 meters, the vessels now passing along opposite and parallel to each other. The British ships maintained their disciplined formation, their gun ports closed, and their cannons silent. Similarly, the Franco-Spanish fleet upheld their battle line, awaiting the crucial moment to unleash their firepower.
"Prepare to fire a broadside," Brueys ordered.
The crew members assigned to the task sprang into action. Cannons were meticulously loaded with powder and shot and waited for orders.
"Feu!" Brueys commanded.[2]
The word reverberated across the decks of the Franco-Spanish ships. It was the signal they had been waiting for. In a synchronized display, the gun crews on each ship ignited the cannons' charges.
Thunderous booms erupted as the cannons roared to life, sending plumes of smoke billowing into the air. The decks of the ships vibrated beneath the force of the broadside, and the vessels recoiled slightly from the sheer power of the discharge.
From each ship, a line of fire belched forth, hurtling toward the British fleet. The projectiles soared through the air before crashing into the British's masts, hulls, and decks with resounding impacts. The water surrounding the British ships erupted in splashes and geysers as the cannonballs found their marks.
As the thunderous echoes of the Franco-Spanish broadside faded, the British ships of the line remained steadfast, their disciplined formation holding against the onslaught. The resilience of the British sailors was evident as they quickly regrouped, preparing to return fire with their own deadly broadside.
"Brace for impact!" Admiral Brueys shouted
The Franco-Spanish sailors tightened their grips on the ship's rigging and held onto anything secure as they prepared for the inevitable response from the British fleet. Moments later, the British cannons roared to life, and a barrage of cannonballs hurtled through the air in retaliation.
The impacts were deafening, as cannonballs slammed into the Franco-Spanish ships, tearing through wood and sending shrapnel and debris flying.
From there, it was a back-and-forth slugfest between the Franco-Spanish Navy against the British Navy.
As the battle raged on, it was evident that the British were highly skilled in naval battles, as they were able to fire more cannonballs in less than a minute than their Franco-Spanish counterparts. The British gunnery officers efficiently managed the firing sequence, maximizing the rate of fire and accuracy of their cannons.
The British English Channel Fleet lost ten ships of the line while the Franco-Spanish fleet lost 15. Still, the combined naval forces of the French and Spanish were still high. 145 to 100.
Peering through his spyglass, Admiral Brueys caught a glimpse of the unwavering resolve that emanated from the midst of dissipating black smoke aboard the British vessels. It was a testament to their commitment – a commitment that mirrored the fervor of his own fleet. They were entwined in a battle not merely for victory, but for the preservation of their homelands and the very essence of survival.
He had to defeat the British at all costs. Because if he didn't then the British would continue to harass the Republic of France through naval blockade and potentially stirring conflict in mainland Europe.
And then minutes later, the Franco-Spanish Flagship caught sight of the British English Channel Fleet flagship, the Royal Sovereign.
Admiral Brueys knew that to win this battle, they had to take down the flagship. Of course, that goes the same for the Franco-Spanish.
"Focus fire on the enemy flagship!" Brueys shouted.
Meanwhile, on the British side, Admiral William Cornwallis ordered the same to his men.
"I want fire on that French flagship!"
And then, in the heart of the raging sea battle, a tense silence descended upon the deck of both the Flagship Orient and the Royal Sovereign.
This was it, the deciding battle, the decider of fate.
"FEU!"
"FIRE!"
[1] A vos ordres, Amiral means At your orders, Admiral
[2] Feu means fire in French
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