Sharpe's Trafalgar (29 page)

“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 ships, 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.

Some of the men were writing letters, using their guns as desks. Others wrote wills. Few
could write, but those who could took the dictation of others and the letters were taken
down to the safety of the orlop deck. The wind stayed feeble; indeed it seemed to Sharpe
that the great swells coming from the west heaved the ships on with more effect than the
wind. Those seas were monstrously long, looking like great smooth hills that ran silent and
green toward the enemy. “I fear,” Chase said, coming to Sharpe’s side, “that we are in for a
storm.”