My Lady Pirate (32 page)

terrified; Gray could see it in his eyes, in his stance, in the color of his skin.

“Muster your signals party, Mr. Stern, and be quick about it,” the admiral said. “I have a number of messages I will be making directly, is that understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Very well then, Lieutenant. Now, come with me.” Already, midshipmen were scurrying

from the lockers with armloads of colorful flags. Gray joined them, noting their nervousness that he, their admiral, was in their midst. “Are you ready, my young lads?”

“Aye, sir!” they cried in chorus.

He crossed his arms, tugged at his earring and angled his head to one side as though lost in thought. “The first signal I should like to make,” he said pensively, “is to
Triton,
to be repeated to the convoy beyond. And make haste, Mr. Stern, as you must warm up for the work you shall soon have to perform for me!”

“Aye, sir!”

“To the convoy:
continue sailing with all haste for England.
With any luck, they’ll be safely away before Villeneuve sees them, but if not, I doubt he will be fool enough to chase after them and thus weaken his own strength as a massed fighting unit. Make the signal directly, Lieutenant, we haven’t all day, you know!”

The signals were hauled skyward, bursting from
Harleigh's
masts, clawing at the wind.

Puffs of smoke plumed from the leading French frigate, a half mile away now and closing fast.

Another ball plowed the sea, twenty feet beyond
Harleigh'
s taffrail. Seconds later, the sharp report echoed across the waves.

“My second signal. Make to Captain Lord in
Triton: Prepare for battle and make more

sail.
”

Sir Graham watched the French frigate running out her bow chaser. “The third. Make to our frigates
Chatham
and
Cricket. Prepare for battle and take station to windward of
Triton.”

The Frenchman fired again. The ball splashed into the sea just aft of
Harleigh's
rudder.

More flags darted skyward, the little midshipman trying desperately to keep the pages of his signals book from fluttering in the wind. He glanced at his admiral, that man so far removed from his own lowly rank that he might have been a god, and found Sir Graham smiling at him.

The admiral winked. “Cheer up, Mr. Marshall, I have not even
begun
to work you yet!”

“Signal from
Triton
, sir! Acknowledged!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gray saw Captain Warner fidgeting with impatience.

“Signal from
Chatham
, sir! Acknowledged!”

The admiral gave a barely perceptible nod. And then he saw the pile of signal flags lying on the deck, the flag-lieutenant and the midshipman standing ready, an anxious marine positioned nearby, and Captain Warner regarding him anxiously. He saw nearly three hundred men all watching him, wondering what he would do—and how he would get them out of this.

“Cricket
acknowledged, sir!”

And then he gazed up at the halyards on each side of the ship, the fathoms and fathoms of ropes and flags, the party of loyal men, all anxious and ready to convey his barrage of signals to an unsuspecting fleet.

Another half hour and
Triton
would reach him. Another ten minutes and he estimated the convoy would be well out of sight of Villeneuve’s fleet. Another minute, maybe two, and

Harleigh
would be trading fire with the first of the enemy frigates.

“Are you ready, Lieutenant Stern?”

“Aye sir, as ready as I’ll ever be!”

“Very well, then, let us proceed. And do ensure that my messages can be viewed from every angle.
These
messages are for the benefit of our fine French friends.”

He put his hands behind his back, and when he looked at Lieutenant Stern, his eyes were

gleaming with wicked humor, his mouth curving in a smile and his jaw dimpling with delight.

“My first signal is general and to the Fleet:
All hands prepare for divine worship.
”

“Uh—all hands prepare for divine worship, sir?”

“Just make the signal, boy, and be quick about it!”

Aboard the frigate
Cricket,
an excitable lieutenant with nineteen years behind him seized his captain’s arm and pointed wildly. “Signals from Sir Graham aboard
Harleigh,
sir! Look!”

Captain Roger Young grabbed his telescope. Quick-thinking and competent, he’d had his

ship cleared for action before he’d even received his admiral’s signal and now, sweating, bare-backed gun crews stared up from their huge cannon and as one swung to look at the signals bursting from the frigate
Harleigh
.

“What the devil?” the captain said.

“Can you make them out, sir?”

“Of course not, lieutenant, they are all mumbo jumbo to me! Midshipman Beauregard! Yes,

you with the damned French name! Can you make out that signal the admiral is flying?”

The little midshipman opened his signals book, pushing through the spray-damp pages to

look up the meaning of each flag. Bracing his legs against the leaping deck beneath him, he slowly began to spell out the message. “It”—shaking his head, he turned bleak and confused eyes upon his captain—“it makes no sense, sir!”

“Read it!”

The boy puckered his brow, his high-pitched and still-youthful voice laboring over the

message: “Signal from
flag.
It says”—he looked up at his captain, confused— “
All
—
hands
—

make
—
ready—for
—
divine—worship.”

“What?”

Thunder cleaved the air as the French frigates opened fire upon
Harleigh.

“It says, ‘All hands make ready for divine worship,’ sir—”

“Damn you, I know what you said, surely it must be some mistake!”

“No, sir, it’s in the book—”

Another gun boomed from the French ship, raising a burst of spray off
Cricket's
quarter, and Captain Young clenched his fists as he willed more speed from his vessel.

“Look, sir, another signal!”

“Read it, Mr. Beauregard!”

“Prepare
—
to
—” he hunched his shoulders, screwed up his face, stuck his neck out—“this can’t be right!—
take
—
on stores.
And another—
B
—
L
—
A
—C—
K
— What?
Blackbeard
Forever?
Sir, what does that mean, ‘Blackbeard Forever?’ Wait, another! It’s an easy one, number 2045 ... but it doesn’t make any sense!”

“READ IT!”

Beyond
Harleigh,
the leading French frigate hove to, suspicious and obviously confused by the barrage of flags, their messages undecipherable without a signals book, breaking from the British ship’s ensigns.

The boy screwed up his face and looked at his captain, his expression stating his opinion that Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer had clearly lost his mind. “It says,
Can you spare an anchor-stock?
”

But Captain Young was staring past him, his eyes intense, hard; the next signal was already at
Harleigh's
masts, equally ridiculous, equally nonsensical, fluttering in beautiful bursts of color for all the world to see. And as the second of the French frigates hove to and stood off, unsure about whom the English frigate was signaling to over the horizon, Captain Young figured out just what his admiral was about.

Of course the signals made no sense. They weren't meant to. Falconer was buying time by

trying to make the enemy believe he had a greater force than he actually did. Buying time. For himself, his frigates, the convoy—for all of them.

“Bonaparte’s
blood
!” he swore, laughing, and then, to the poor little midshipman, “make signal to
Harleigh,
Mr. Starkey.
Acknowledge!
”

He glanced aft, but the massive flagship
Triton
was already overtaking him, a fortress of checkerboard sides and hungry guns towering above the sea, crowned by acres of sail and strung with an array of brightly colored flags streaming in the wind as she charged forward to collect her admiral.

###

apprehension clawed at his gut.
Sacre bleu!
He didn’t like this, didn’t like it one bit.

He lowered the glass. “All those signals . . . whatever do they mean?”

“Je ne sais pas,
sir,” his flag-captain responded. “But were I to hazard a guess, I would say that English frigate is calling for assistance, maybe, to that fleet whose sails we can just see over the horizon?”

“I am confused. I must know what those signals mean!”

The captain gave a shrug. Between the emperor’s threats, insults, and orders, the deplorable state of the Combined Franco-Spanish Fleet, the constant confrontations with his officers, the Spaniards, and that most bone-chilling fear of all—the fear of the dreaded English Admiral Nelson, the clever, cunning, fierce Admiral Nelson who would never rest until he had run them down at last—Villeneuve had lost his nerve.

The alarming news that his English nemesis was
not
looking for them in Egypt as he’d been led to believe— but had chased them clear across the Atlantic—had sent Villeneuve fleeing the West Indies in blatant disobedience of the Emperor’s orders that they remain there to wait for reinforcements.

Napoleon would
not
be happy . . .

“That British battleship and its three meager frigates will pose us no threat, sir,” the French flag-captain assured his panicky admiral. “Our seven frigates will make short work of them. And as for Nelson, you have eluded him once again—I know what you are thinking, sir, that that frigate is summoning
his
assistance, but surely, the English admiral is still foolishly searching for you in the Indies—”

Villeneuve swung on his captain. “Surely, you don’t think that is
Nelson
that frigate is signaling to, do you?”

“Oh, no, sir, surely not! Besides, if those sails out there were Nelson’s fleet, you know as well as I do that he’d be running
toward,
not away from us—”

Villeneuve was falling apart. “Well, I’m not taking any chances!
Mon Dieu, Capitaine,
don’t just stand there! Signal our frigates to attack immediately, and for one of Gravina’s battleships to go with them in case that Englishman is too much for them!”

“And the rest of us, sir?”

“Continue on our present course for Europe!”

###

To the wild cheers of seven hundred men, Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer clambered up

the sides of his flagship, saluted the quarterdeck, and shook hands with Captain Colin Lord.

Then, the two senior officers of the fleet strode briskly to the helm, where they watched the big Spanish battleship detach herself from the Franco-Spanish fleet and turn her massive bows toward them.

“Ready for a pell-mell battle, Captain Lord?”

“Aye, sir. You’ll not find my men lacking this day.”

“Yes, well, we’ll show those French buggers yet, eh, Colin?” The admiral clapped a hand

across his flag-captain’s shoulders to encourage him in the face of the terrible odds. “Besides, I have a strategy that cannot fail. . . .”

Captain Lord sure hoped he did, for even as the two stood watching, a frigate was detaching itself from the enemy fleet and turning her bows on them.

Another.

He took a deep and steadying breath. It was going to be a pell-mell battle, indeed.

VICTORY, June 13th
,
1805

My Dear Lady Hamilton,

I have learned the French fleet passed to leeward of Antigua on Saturday last, standing to
the Northward and no doubt steering for Europe. My opinion is firm that something has made
them resolve to leave these islands and proceed directly for Europe, but at least I leave the
Indies knowing Britain’s holdings here are secure. As you may believe, my dearest, beloved
angel, your Nelson is very sad at not having got at the Enemy here, but I shall hound them all
the way back to Europe where I hope to bring them to glorious battle at last and annihilate
them. Then, my beloved, I shall return to you crowned with glory, and the only reward I ask will
be my dear Emma’s love. Oh, if not for the wrong information given me by that damned
Brereton, I would have been at them days ago, and your own dear Nelson would have been
forever immortalized— “Sir?”

Nelson was just putting the third emphatic bold line beneath
angel
and
forever immortalized
when the lieutenant’s words jolted him back to awareness. “Mr. Pasco!”

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to give you a start—”

“No, no, Mr. Pasco, it is
my
fault for not having heard your arrival. Pray, what is it?”

Reddening a bit, he curled his arm around the letter, hiding his words from the young lieutenant with all the guilty protectiveness of an adolescent in love.

“The captain’s respects, sir, and the masthead has just sighted the Pirate Queen’s schooner closing rapidly to windward. She seems to be in utmost haste, sir.”

“The
Pirate Queen?
Whatever is she doing here, she is supposed to be with Sir Graham . . .”

Trailing off, Nelson jumped to his feet, blanching as his swift mind put two and two together.

“Oh, dear God—Falconer . . . the convoy—
Villeneuve!”

Flinging down his pen, the admiral grabbed his hat and charged out of the cabin.

###

The sky was bleak and gray, with low-hanging clouds dragging behind the darkness of

night. The ocean was still, tense, expectant, the swells filing endlessly past, lifting up the debris