Chase came nimbly down the steps, glanced once at the pitching barge, then stepped gracefully onto the rear thwart. “It’ll be a stiff pull, Hopper.”
“It’ll be easy enough, sir, easy enough.”
Chase took the tiller himself while Hopper sat at an oar. It was indeed a hard pull and a long one, but the barge crept past the intervening ships and Sharpe could stare up at their massive striped sides. From the white and red barge, low down among the swells, the ships looked vast, cumbersome and indestructible.
“I also brought you,” Chase grinned at Sharpe, “because your inclusion will annoy Lord William. He doubtless thinks he should have been invited, but bless me, how he would bore Nelson!” Chase waved to an officer high on the stern of a seventy-four. “That’s the Leviathan,” he told Sharpe, “under Harry Bayntun. He’s a prime fellow, prime! I served with him in the old Bellona. I was only a youngster, but they were happy days, happy days.” The swell lifted the Leviathan’s stern, revealing an expanse of green copper and trailing weed. “Besides,” Chase went on, “Nelson can be useful to you.”
“Useful?”
“Lord William don’t like you,” Chase said, not bothering that he was being overheard by Hopper and Clouter who had the two stroke oars nearest the stern, “which means he’ll try and obstruct your career. But I know Nelson’s a friend of Colonel Stewart, and Stewart’s one of your strange riflemen, so perhaps his lordship will put in a word for you? Of course he will, he’s the very soul of generosity.”
It took a half-hour to reach the flagship, but at last Chase steered the barge into the Victory’s starboard flank and one of his men hooked onto its chains so that the small boat was held just beneath another ladder as steep and perilous as the one Sharpe had descended on the Pucelle. A gilded entryway was halfway up the ladder, but its door was closed, meaning Sharpe must climb all the way to the top. “You first, Sharpe,” Chase said. “Jump and cling on!”
“God help me,” Sharpe muttered. He stood on a thwart, twisted the cutlass out of his way, and leaped for the ladder when the barge was heaved up by a wave. He clung on desperately, then climbed past the entryway’s gilded frame. A hand reached down from the weather deck and hauled him through the entry port where a line of bosun’s mates waited to welcome Chase with their whistles.
Chase was grinning as he scrambled up the side. A lieutenant, immaculately uniformed, saluted him, then inclined his head when Sharpe was introduced. “You’re most welcome, sir,” the lieutenant told Chase. “Another seventy-four today is a blessing from heaven.”
“It’s good of you to let me join the celebrations,” Chase said, removing his hat to salute the quarterdeck. Sharpe hurriedly followed suit as the bosun’s whistles made their strange twittering sound. The Victory’s upper decks were crowded with gunners, sail-handlers and marines who ignored the visitors, though one older man, a sailmaker, judging from the big needles thrust into his gray hair which was bundled on top of his head, did bob down as Chase was led toward the quarterdeck. Chase stopped, clicked his fingers. “Prout, isn’t it? You were on the Bellona with me.”
“I remembers you, sir,” Prout said, tugging the hair over his forehead, “and you was just a boy, sir.”
“We grow old, Prout,” Chase said. “We grow damned old! But not too old to give the Dons and Frenchmen a drubbing, eh?”
“We shall beat ‘em, sir,” Prout said.
Chase beamed at his old shipmate, then went to the quarterdeck, which was thickly crowded with officers who politely removed their hats as Chase and Sharpe were ushered aft past the great wheel and under the poop to the admiral’s quarters, which were guarded by a single marine in a short red jacket crossed by a pair of pipe-clayed belts. The lieutenant opened the door without knocking and led Chase and Sharpe through a small sleeping cabin which had been stripped of its furniture and then, again without knocking, into a massive cabin that stretched the whole width of the ship and was lit by the wide array of stern windows. This cabin had also been emptied of its furniture, so that only a single table was left on the black and white checkered canvas floor. Two massive guns, already equipped with their flintlocks, stood on either side of the table.
Sharpe was aware of two men silhouetted against the stern window, but he could not distinguish which was the admiral until Chase put his hat under his arm and offered a bow to the smaller man who was seated at the table. The light was bright behind the admiral and Sharpe still could not see him clearly and he hung back, not wanting to intrude, but Chase turned and gestured him forward. “Allow me to name my particular friend, my lord. Mister Richard Sharpe. He’s on his way to join the Rifles, but he paused long enough to save me from an embarrassment in Bombay and I’m monstrous grateful.”
“You, Chase? An embarrassment? Surely not?” Nelson laughed and gave Sharpe a smile. “I’m most grateful to you, Sharpe. I would not have my friends embarrassed. How long has it been, Chase?”
“Four years, my lord.”
“He was one of my frigate captains,” Nelson said to his companion, a post captain who stood at his shoulder. “He commanded the Spritely and took the Bouvines a week after leaving my command. I never had the chance to congratulate you, Chase, but I do now. It was a creditable action. You know Blackwood?”
“I’m honored to make your acquaintance,” Chase said, bowing to the Honorable Henry Blackwood who commanded the frigate Euryalus.
“Captain Blackwood has been hanging onto the enemy’s apron strings ever since they left Cadiz,” Nelson said warmly, “and you’ve drawn us together now, Blackwood, so your work’s done.”
“I trust I shall have the honor of doing more, my lord.”
“Doubtless you will, Blackwood,” Nelson said, then gestured at the chairs. “Sit, Chase, sit. And you, Mister Sharpe. Tepid coffee, hard bread, cold beef and fresh oranges, not much of a breakfast, I fear, but they tell me the galley’s been struck.” The table was set with plates and knives among which the admiral’s sword lay in its jeweled scabbard. “How are your supplies, Chase?”
“Low, my lord. Water and beef for two weeks, maybe?”
“‘Twill be long enough, long enough. Crew?”
“I pressed a score of good men from an Indiaman, my lord, and have sufficient.”
“Good, good,” the admiral said, then, after his steward had brought coffee and food to the table, he questioned Chase about his voyage and the pursuit of the Revenant. Sharpe, sitting to the admiral’s left, watched him. He knew the admiral had lost the sight of one eye, but it was hard to tell which, though after a while Sharpe saw that the right eye had an unnaturally large and dark pupil. His hair was white and tousled, framing a thin and extraordinarily mobile face that reacted to Chase’s story with alarm, pleasure, amusement and surprise. He interrupted Chase rarely, though he did stop the tale once to request that Sharpe carve the beef. “And perhaps you’ll cut me some bread as well, Mister Sharpe, as a kindness? My fin, you understand,” and he touched his empty right sleeve that was pinned onto a jacket bright with jeweled stars. “You’re very kind,” he said when Sharpe had obeyed. “Do go on, Chase.”
Sharpe had expected to be awed by the admiral, to be struck dumb by him, but instead he found himself feeling protective of the small man who emanated a fragile air of vulnerability. Even though he was sitting, it was clear he was a small man, and very thin, and his pale, lined face suggested he was prone to sickness. He looked so frail that Sharpe had to remind himself that this man had led his fleets to victory after victory, and that in every fight he had been in the thick of the battle, yet he gave the impression that the slightest breeze would knock him down.
The admiral’s apparent frailty made the most immediate impression on Sharpe, but it was the admiral’s eyes that had the stronger effect, for whenever he looked at Sharpe, even if it was merely to request a small service like another piece of buttered bread, it seemed that Sharpe became the most important person in the world at that moment. The glance seemed to exclude everything
and everyone else, as though Sharpe and the admiral were in collusion. Nelson had none of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s coldness, no condescension, and gave no impression of believing himself to be superior; indeed it seemed to Sharpe that at that moment, as the fleet lumbered toward the enemy, Horatio Nelson asked nothing from life except to be seated with his good friends Chase, Blackwood and Richard Sharpe. He touched Sharpe’s elbow once. “This talk must be tedious to a soldier, Sharpe?”
“No, my lord,” Sharpe said. The discussion had moved on to the admiral’s tactics this day and much of it was beyond Sharpe’s comprehension, but he did not care. It was enough to be in Nelson’s presence and Sharpe was swept by the little man’s infectious enthusiasm. By God, Sharpe thought, but they would not just beat the enemy fleet this day, but pound it into splinters, hammer it so badly that no French or Spanish ship would ever dare sail the world’s seas again. Chase, he saw, was reacting the same way, almost as though he feared Nelson would weep if he did not fight harder than he had ever fought before.
“Do you put your men in the tops?” Nelson asked, clumsily attempting to remove the peel of an orange with his one hand.
“I do, my lord.”
“I do fear that the musket wads will fire the sails,” the admiral said gently, “so I would rather you did not.”
“Of course not, my lord,” Chase said, immediately yielding to the modest suggestion.
“Sails are only linen, after all,” Nelson said, evidently wanting to explain himself further in case Chase had been offended by the order. “And what do we put inside tinderboxes? Linen! It is horribly flammable.”
“I shall respect your wishes gladly, my lord.”
“And you comprehend my greater purpose?” the admiral asked, referring to his earlier discussion of tactics.
“I do, my lord, and applaud it.”
“I shall not be happy with less than twenty prizes, Chase,” Nelson said sternly.
“So few, my lord?”
The admiral laughed and then, as another officer entered the cabin, stood. Nelson was at least a half-foot shorter than Sharpe who, standing like the others, had to stoop beneath the beams, but the newcomer, who was introduced as the Victory’s captain, Thomas Hardy, was a half-foot taller than Sharpe again and, when he spoke to Nelson, he bent over the little admiral like a protective giant.
“Of course, Hardy, of course,” the admiral said, then smiled at his guests. “Hardy tells me it is time to strike down these bulkheads. We are being evicted, gentlemen. Shall we retreat to the quarterdeck?” He led his guests forward, then, seeing Sharpe hang back, he turned and took his elbow. “Did you serve under Sir Arthur Wellesley in India, Sharpe?”
“I did, my lord.”
“I met him after his return and enjoyed a notable conversation, though I confess I found him rather frightening!” The admiral’s tone made Sharpe laugh, which pleased Nelson. “So you’re joining the 95th, are you?”
“I am, my lord.”
“That is splendid!” The admiral, for some reason, seemed particularly pleased by this news. He ushered Sharpe through the door, then walked him across to the hammock nettings on the larboard side of the quarterdeck. “You’re fortunate indeed, Mister Sharpe. I know William Stewart and count him among my dearest and closest friends. You know why his rifle regiment is so good?”
“No, my lord,” Sharpe said. He had always thought that the newfangled 95th was probably made of the army’s leavings and was dressed in green because no one wanted to waste good red cloth on its soldiers.
“Because they’re intelligent,” the admiral said enthusiastically. “Intelligent! It is a quality sadly despised by the military, but intelligence does have its uses.” He looked up at Sharpe’s face, peering at the tiny blue-flecked marks on Sharpe’s scarred cheek. “Powder scars, Mister Sharpe, and I note you are still an ensign. Would I offend you by suspecting that you once served in the ranks?”
“I did, my lord.”
“Then you have my warmest admiration, indeed you do,” Nelson said energetically, and his admiration seemed entirely genuine. “You must be a remarkable man,” the admiral added.
“No, my lord,” Sharpe said, and he wanted to say that Nelson was the man to admire, but he did not know how to phrase the compliment.
“You’re modest, Mister Sharpe, and that is not good,” Nelson said sternly. To Sharpe’s surprise he found he was alone with the admiral. Chase, Blackwood and the other officers stood on the starboard side while Nelson and Sharpe paced up and down under the larboard hammock nettings. A dozen seamen, grinning at their admiral, had begun collapsing the paneled bulkheads so that no enemy shot could turn them into lethal splinters that could sweep the quarterdeck. “I am not in favor of modesty,” Nelson said, and once again the admiral was overwhelming Sharpe with a flattering intimacy, “and you doubtless find that surprising? We are told, are we not, that modesty is among the virtues, but modesty is not a warrior’s virtue. You and I, Sharpe, have been forced to rise from a lowly place and we do not achieve that by hiding our talents. I am a country clergyman’s son and now?” He waved his one hand at the far enemy fleet, then unconsciously touched the four brilliant stars, the jeweled decorations of his orders of knighthood, that glinted on the left breast of his coat. “Be proud of what you have done,” he said to Sharpe, “then go and do better.”
“As you will, my lord.”
“No,” Nelson said abruptly, and for a moment he looked desperately frail again. “No,” he repeated, “for in bringing these two fleets together, Sharpe, I will have done my life’s work.” He looked so forlorn that Sharpe had a ridiculous urge to comfort the admiral. “Kill those ships,” Nelson went on, gesturing at the enemy fleet filling the eastern horizon, “and Bonaparte and his allies can never invade England. We shall have caged the beast in Europe, and what will be left for a poor sailor to do then, eh?” He smiled. “But there will be work for soldiers, and you, I know, are a good one. Just remember, though, you must hate a Frenchman like the very devil!” The admiral said this with a venomous force, showing his steel for the first time. “Never let go of that sentiment, Mister Sharpe,” he added, “never!” He turned back to the waiting officers. “I am keeping Captain Chase from his ship. And it will be time for you to go soon, Blackwood.”
“I shall stay a while longer, if I may, my lord?” Blackwood said.
“Of course. Thank you for coming, Chase. I’m sure you had more important business to attend to, but you have been kind. Will you accept some oranges as a gift? They’re fresh out from Gibraltar.”
“I should be honored, my lord, honored.”
“You do me honor by joining us, Chase. So lay alongside and hit away. Hit away. We shall make them wish they had never seen our ships!”
Chase descended into his barge in a kind of trance. A net of oranges, enough to feed half a regiment, lay on the barge’s bottom boards. For a time, as Hopper stroked back down the line of warships, Chase just sat silent, but then he could contain himself no longer. “What a man!” he exclaimed. “What a man! My God, we’re going to do some slaughter today! We shall murder them, murder them!”
“Amen,” Hopper said.
“Praise the Lord,” Clouter volunteered.
“What did you think of him, Sharpe?” Chase asked.
Sharpe shook his head, almost lost for words. “What was it you said, sir? That you would follow him into the throat of hell? By God, sir, I’d follow that man into the belly of hell and down to its bowels too.”
“And if he led us,” Chase said reverently, “we would win there, just as we shall win this day.”
If they ever got into battle. For the wind was still light, desperately light, and the fleet sailed slow as haystacks. It seemed to Sharpe that they could never reach the enemy, and then he was sure of it, for an hour after he and Chase regained the Pucelle’s deck, the combined enemy fleet turned clumsily around to sail back northward. They were heading for Cadiz in a last attempt to escape Nelson whose shi
ps, their white wings spread, ghosted toward hell in a wind so light that it seemed the very heavens were holding their breath.
The Pucelle’s band, more enthusiastic than it was skilled, played “Hearts of Oak,” “Nancy Dawson,” “Hail Britannia,” “Drops of Brandy” and a dozen other tunes, most of which Sharpe did not know. He did not know many of the words either, but the sailors bellowed them out, not bothering to disguise the coarsest verses even though Lady Grace was on the quarterdeck. Lord William, when one particularly obscene song echoed up from the weather deck, remonstrated with Captain Chase, but Chase pointed out that some of his men were about to be silenced forever and he was in no temper to bridle their tongues now. “Your ladyship can go to the hold now?” he suggested.
“I am not offended, Captain,” Lady Grace said. “I know when to be deaf.”
Lord William, who had chosen to wear a slim sword and had a long-barreled pistol bolstered at his waist, stalked to the starboard rail and stared at Admiral Collingwood’s column that lay a little more than a mile southward. Collingwood’s big three-decker, the Royal Sovereign, newly come from England with her freshly coppered bottom, was sailing faster than the other ships so that a gap had opened between her and the rest of Collingwood’s squadron.
The French and Spanish seemed no nearer, though when Sharpe extended his glass and looked at the enemy fleet he saw that their hulls were now above the horizon. They showed no flags yet and their gunports were still closed, for the battle, if one ever ensued, was still two or three hours away. Some of the ships were painted black and yellow like the British fleet, others were black and white, two were all black, while some were banded with red. Lieutenant Haskell had commented that they were attempting to form a line of battle, but their attempts were clumsy, for Sharpe could see great gaps in the fleet which looked like clumps of ships strung along the horizon. One ship did stand out, for, maybe a third of the way from the front of the line, there was a towering vessel with four gundecks. “The Santisima Trinidad,” Haskell told Sharpe, “with at least one hundred and thirty guns. She’s the largest ship in the world.” Even at such a distance the Spaniard’s hull looked like a cliff, but a cliff pierced with gunports. Sharpe tracked the French line, looking for the Revenant, but there were so many black-and-yellow two-decked ships that he could not distinguish her.
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