Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (4 page)

Out of the corner of his eye, Charles noticed another Spanish three-decker edging around from behind the
San Nicolás
’s bow for a clear shot at the
Argonaut. My God, when will it stop?
He recognized her as the
San Josef,
112
guns. She towered over the
San Nicolás
and from the
Argonaut
looked like a mountain, masts seemingly reaching to the clouds. She was about halfway clear when her forward guns fired. The roundshot and grape ripped through the marching marines. The young marine lieutenant died instantly along with about half of his charges.

The mizzenmast, already much weakened, snapped with a loud crack at deck level and came crashing forward, braces, stays, yards, blocks, tackle, and all. Charles barely had a chance to duck before something heavy and solid swung down on the end of a rope and hit him a glancing blow to the side of his head. In a stunning blaze of pain, he dropped like deadweight to the deck. Instinctively, he scrambled to his feet on unsteady legs, tripped over a line, and fell again. The second time he gingerly pushed himself to a sitting position, where he struggled to penetrate the wool that seemed to have filled his brain. The huge
San Josef
was nearly clear, looming over
Argonaut
’s stern—beautiful, terrifying, and ready to finish off his crippled ship.

Charles stared, holding his breath as one by one the three decks of cannon were run out. He vaguely noted that
San Josef
’s mizzenchains had fouled themselves on the
San Nicolás’
s catheads by the bow. It hardly mattered. In an instant she would unleash at least fifty guns, including the thirty-six-pounders on her lower deck, and blast the beaten
Argonaut
to matchwood. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest and his hands began to shake uncontrollably. After a moment that seemed unending he exhaled and then breathed in again. He waited. Inexplicably, the massive thing neither fired nor moved nor even attempted to free herself from her sister. There was a brief commotion on her upper deck and what sounded like musket shots, but he couldn’t see what it was. Then
San Josef
hauled down her colors. Charles stared, dumbfounded. After a moment a slight figure in a British naval commodore’s uniform appeared at the quarterdeck railing, yelled something Charles couldn’t make out, and waved his hat.

Charles struggled to stand, but it took too much effort. He eased himself back down, wiped clear some blood that had run into his eye, and waved back.

TWO

C
HARLES TRIED TO WILL HIS SENSES TO WORK. A THROBBING
, splitting pain burned in the left side of his head above the temple, and for an instant he wondered if he were dead or alive. Had he really seen a British naval officer at the railing of the
San Josef,
or had he imagined it? There was no one there now. He had to be alive; it wouldn’t hurt so badly if he were dead. At least he didn’t think so.

In stages he became aware of the increasingly distant and isolated exchanges of cannon fire as at least some British warships pursued the scattered rear of the fleeing Spanish fleet. So he was alive and the commander of the
Argonaut,
or what remained of her. He tried to guess at the damage the ship had sustained. That she had been cruelly battered there was no question. Not a mast was standing, and he sensed from the sluggish way she rolled that she had taken on a great deal of water.
Christ, his head hurt!

“Well, this is a fine way to spend St. Valentine’s Day,” Daniel Bevan’s familiar voice sounded behind him. “Decided to sit down and take the rest of the day off, I see.”

Charles half-turned and smiled thinly at his friend. The movement brought a fresh stab of pain. He tentatively raised a hand to the area just above his ear to feel for the wound. “How bad is it? The ship, I mean.”

“Oh, it’s bad, very bad, Charlie,” Bevan said, kneeling beside him. He brushed Charles’s hand away and with both of his own carefully tilted his head to examine the injury. “We’re dismasted, without steerage, and sinking. But look at the bright side; it could be worse.”

“How? Ow!” Charles chirped. It felt like Bevan was poking at the side of his temple with a boarding pike.

“Hold still, you sissy. It would be worse if we’d already sunk, of course. Then you’d have to learn how to swim.” Bevan released Charles’s head and stood. “You’ll live to fight another day, Charlie. The Admiralty will be awfully sorry to hear it, though.”

Charles began shaking again, partly as a reaction to the intensity of the battle and partly from the cold that seemed to seep into his bones. Bevan removed his uniform jacket and draped it around his friend’s shoulders. “Come on,” he said, pulling Charles to his feet. “The admiral may come to visit, and we can’t have him find you sitting on your duff, bleeding all over the deck. It ain’t professional.” Charles stood unsteadily and leaned on Bevan’s broad shoulders for support. The tangled remains of the nearly destroyed ship were more evident from an upright position—
his
ship. He was responsible. “Oh, Lord,” he muttered, “the navy’s going to have my arse for this.”

“No, they’re not,” Bevan said earnestly. “You’ll be a hero. The navy always loves a long butcher’s bill. Shows you take your work seriously.” He led Charles over to a raised hatch cover and helped him sit on it. “All right, Charlie, you stay here. I’m going to fetch someone to come and fix you up.”

“Wait.” Charles grabbed Bevan’s arm. “How many?”

“Don’t know yet; we still have to count. The numbers will be high, though. But that’s what happens when you throw a tiny sixty-four in front of the whole Spanish navy.” Bevan gently pulled himself away and left to find someone to fetch the ship’s surgeon. Charles watched a party of sailors forward attempting to rig shearlegs so they might sway up a spar and lash it as a jury replacement to the stump of the former foremast. The midshipman he had left in charge of the gundecks—Winchester something, he remembered—seemed to be directing the effort. He noted that the younger man was working alongside the seamen, even grabbing a line and heaving on it himself. Most officers, especially midshipmen, relied on orders backed up by very real threats of punishment to get the men to do their duty. His attention was diverted as parties of crewmen appeared here and there, clearing wreckage and starting repairs. Four marines, probably all that were left, systematically moved across the deck from one body to the next, separating the dead from the still living. Some they dragged unceremoniously to a central location midships; others they lifted onto litters and carried below. He could hear the incessant clanking of the ship’s pumps as they labored to keep the
Argonaut
from sinking.

After a short time Bevan reappeared with the surgeon, a grizzled figure with a deeply veined nose, and an equally dissolute assistant who doubled as the ship’s barber. They wore long aprons, now far more red than white, and their hands and arms were likewise splattered with fresh blood. Both men smelled strongly of rum, and Charles had a clear idea of what they were doing while the battle was in progress.

“This won’t hurt a bit, sir,” the surgeon said, roughly tilting Charles’s head to the side and sponging a dank, vile liquid that stung like fire over his wound. “Hold still, you’ve got a nasty cut there.” The assistant produced a mug of frothy shaving soap and a straight-edged razor. He tilted Charles as far over to the side as he would go without falling, daubed soap liberally from ear to crown and into one eye, and began scraping at Charles’s temple with the blade.

From this position Charles heard Bevan say, “Look bright, Charlie. We have visitors.” Charles opened his unsoaped eye, and, from his position bent double sideways, he saw the ship of the line
Excellent
heave to and back her sails on the
Argonaut
’s lee side. Her gig was already in the water and pulling across. Charles recognized the gray-haired, slightly rotund form of Cuthbert Collingwood, the
Excellent
’s captain, in the bows. Collingwood was a senior post captain with a long and distinguished record. Bevan quickly left to greet him.

“Let me up, damn it,” Charles demanded. “I can’t see anyone like this.”

“It’ll be just a minute longer, sir; not half a minute,” the surgeon replied, forcing Charles’s head lower still. “All we have to do is sew you up. Don’t you worry, you won’t feel nothing.” The stab of a very large, very dull needle into the flesh on the side of his head would have made him jump if the barber/surgeon’s mate hadn’t anticipated it by clamping Charles in a headlock. “God damn, you whoreson sodomite, let me up!” he demanded, to no avail. He heard more than saw (“Keep your head down, you puppy, we’re almost there.”) Captain Collingwood come aboard and bellow, “Who’s in charge here? Where’s Captain Wood?”

“Captain Wood is dead, sir,” Bevan’s voice answered smartly. “Lieutenant Edgemont is in command. This way if you please.”

“Please, let me up,” Charles begged. He saw Collingwood’s shoes and white-stockinged legs in front of him. “No, no, stay as you are, sir,” he heard Collingwood say warmly. “Don’t even think about moving on my account. I only came to convey my compliments on your stand against the Spaniards, sir, my very best compliments. Truly a heroic stand. Our success in arms today is due in no small measure to you. And your health, sir, are you badly injured?”

“He’s as fit as a fiddle, sir,” the surgeon answered. “Only a scratch. Be as frisky as a newborned colt tomorrow. That is, if the mortification don’t set in. You mark my words.” He jerked a final knot in the sutures, nodding to his assistant to release his hold. Charles straightened and shot the two of them a killing look. Then he turned to Collingwood. “You are too kind, sir,” he managed, half-rising. “I, we, were only doing our duty. We had no choice.”

“Sit, sit,” Collingwood said, motioning impatiently with his hands. “No choice but to do your duty, of course. England expects no less. Your modesty becomes you.” Collingwood paused and looked around at the desolation around him. “What assistance can I offer? Men, supplies—you have only to ask.”

The surgeon applied a poultice and then began winding a long, once-white bandage around his patient’s head. Charles used the diversion to think as rapidly as he could. He hardly knew where to start. On the other hand, he didn’t want to appear unable to manage his ship. “I’d be very grateful for any support,” he said carefully. “I’m sure our able surgeon here is overwhelmed and would welcome help.”

“I’ll see to it immediately,” Collingwood responded, half-bowing. “You’re sure that’s all? You’re sure?” When Charles nodded, he said, “Yes, well, I must return; I have matters to attend to on my own ship. I’ll have our doctor sent over as soon as he’s free. Again, my heartiest congratulations on your success, Mr. Edgemont. The navy needs more officers like yourself, and you may rest assured that I will mention it to the admiral.” He started to depart, then momentarily turned back. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. The
Excellent
has taken possession of your two prizes. We will be more than happy to send them on for you.”

“Prizes?” Charles said. “What prizes?”

“The two Spanish seventy-fours, of course, the
San Ysidro
and
San Antonio.
They struck to you, did they not?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Charles answered. “I was too busy to notice.”

“Well, I noticed,” Collingwood said warmly, “and I’ll personally see you get credit for them. Good day to you, sir.”

As
Excellent
’s gig pulled away, Bevan turned to Charles and said, with a sense of awe in his voice, “Well, fancy that—Collingwood himself.”

Before Collingwood’s barge had returned to the
Excellent,
Charles saw a second boat approaching
Argonaut
’s entry port. After a moment, two elegantly dressed naval officers, one about Charles’s age and wearing the single epaulette of a naval commander, the other somewhat older and shorter with a commodore’s stripe on his sleeve, climbed up onto the deck. Charles recognized the slight, almost delicate-featured older man immediately as the one who had waved to him from the deck of the
San Josef.
He did not know who the man was, but sensed that he was someone unusually significant when he heard Bevan’s sharp intake of breath beside him.

“Who?” Charles asked softly as the two men crossed toward them.

“Captain Nelson,” Bevan whispered, standing rigidly erect. Charles immediately struggled unsteadily to his feet. He had heard of Nelson; everyone had. Some said he was the most aggressive and brilliant captain in the British navy. Others, and Charles had heard it often from less successful officers, his own Captain Wood among them, were of the opinion that much of Nelson’s fame was empty talk, inspired by the man himself to enhance his own reputation.

The two men quickly crossed the quarterdeck and stopped in front of Charles. “At last we meet in person,” the commodore said with genuine warmth. “I am Horatio Nelson, and this is my friend, Commander Edward Berry. I beg to know your name, sir.” The voice was calm, slightly high-pitched, authoritative.