Sharpe's Trafalgar by Bernard Cornwell
Sharpe rubbed the bruise on his forehead and tried to work out the weight of shot that the Pucelle could fire, but Collier was ahead of him. “We can throw 972 pounds of metal with each broadside, sir, and we’ve got two sides,” he added helpfully, “as you may have noticed. And we’ve got the six carronades, sir, and they can throw thirty-two pounds apiece plus a cask of musket balls as well, which will make a Frenchman weep, sir. Or so I’m told, sir. Mind your head, sir.” Which meant, Sharpe thought, that this one ship could throw more round shot in a single broadside than all the combined batteries of the army’s artillery at the battle of Assaye. It was a floating bastion, a crushing killer of the high seas, and this was not even the largest warship afloat. Some ships, Sharpe knew, carried over a hundred guns, and again Collier had the answers, trained in them because, like all midshipmen, he was preparing for his lieutenant’s examination. “The navy’s got eight first rates, sir, that’s ships with a hundred or more guns—watch that low beam, sir—fourteen second rates, which carry about ninety or more cannon, and a hundred and thirty of these third rates.”
“You call this a third rate?” Sharpe asked, astonished.
“Down here, sir, watch your head, sir.” Collier vanished into another companionway, sliding down the ladder’s uprights, and Sharpe followed more slowly, using the rungs, to find himself in a dark, dank, low-ceilinged deck that stank foully and was dimly lit by a scatter of glass-shielded lanterns. “This is the orlop deck, sir. Mind your head. It’s called the cockpit as well, sir. Watch that beam, sir. We’re just about under water here, sir, and the surgeon has his rooms down there, beyond the magazines, and we all prays, sir, we never end under his knife. This way, sir. Mind your head.” He showed Sharpe the cable tiers where the anchor ropes were flaked down, the two leather-curtained magazines that were guarded by red-coated marines, the spirit store, the surgeon’s lair where the walls were painted red so that the blood did not show, the dispensary, and the midshipmen’s cabins that were scarce bigger than dog kennels, then he took Sharpe down a final ladder into the massive hold where the ship’s stores were piled in vast heaps of casks. Only the bilge lay beneath and a mournful sucking, interrupted by a clatter, told Sharpe that men were even now pumping it dry. “We hardly ever stop the six pumps,” the midshipman said, “because as tight as you build ‘em, sir, the sea do get in.” He kicked at a rat, missed, then scrambled back up the ladder. He showed Sharpe the galley beneath the forecastle, introduced him to master-at-arms, cooks, bosuns, gunner’s mates, the carpenter, then offered to take Sharpe up the mainmast.
“I’ll not bother today,” Sharpe said.
Collier took him to the wardroom where he was named to a half-dozen officers, then back to the quarterdeck and aft, past the great double wheel, to a door that led directly into Captain Chase’s sleeping cabin. It was, as the captain had said, a small room, but it was paneled with varnished wood, had a canvas carpet on the floor and a scuttle to let in the daylight. Sharpe’s sea chest took up one wall, and Collier now helped him rig the hanging cot. “If you’re killed, sir,” the boy said earnestly, “then this will be your coffin.”
“Better than the one the army would give me,” Sharpe said, throwing his blankets into the cot. “Where’s the first lieutenant’s cabin?” he asked.
“Forrard of this one, sir.” Collier indicated the forward bulkhead. “Just beyond there, sir.”
“And the second lieutenant’s?” Sharpe asked, knowing that was where Lady Grace would be sleeping.
“Weather deck, sir. Aft. By the wardroom,” Collier said. “There’s a hook for your lantern there, sir, and you’ll find the captain’s quarter gallery is aft through that door, sir, and on the starboard side.”
“Quarter gallery?” Sharpe asked.
“Latrine, sir. Drops direct into the sea, sir. Very hygienic. Captain Chase says you’re to share it, sir, and his steward will look after you, you being his guest.”
“You like Chase?” Sharpe asked, struck by the warmth in the midshipman’s voice.
“Everyone likes the captain, sir, everyone,” Collier said. “This is a happy ship, sir, which is more than I can say for many, and permit me to remind you that captain’s supper is at the end of the first dogwatch. That’s four bells, sir, seeing as how the dogwatches are only two hours apiece.”
“What is it now?”
“Just past two bells, sir.”
“So how long till four bells?”
Collier’s small face showed astonishment that anyone should need to ask such a question. “An hour, sir, of course.”
“Of course,” Sharpe said.
Chase had invited six other guests to join him for supper. He could hardly avoid asking Lord William Hale and his wife, but he confided in Sharpe that Haskell, the first lieutenant, was a terrible snob who had flattered Lord William all the way from Calcutta to Bombay. “So he can damn well do it again now,” Chase said, glancing at his first lieutenant, a tall, good-looking man, who was bending close to Lord William and evidently drinking in every word. “And this is Llewellyn Llewellyn,” Chase said, drawing Sharpe toward a red-faced man in a scarlet uniform coat. “A man who does nothing by halves and is the captain of our marines, which means that if the Frogs board us I’m relying on Llewellyn Llewellyn and his rogues to throw them overboard. Is your name really Llewellyn Llewellyn?”
“We are descended from the lineage of ancient kings,” Captain Llewellyn said proudly, “unlike the Chase family, which, unless I am very much mistaken, were mere servants of the hunt.”
“We hunted the bloody Welsh out,” Chase said, smiling. It was plain that the two were old friends who took a delight in mutual insult. “This is my particular friend, Llewellyn, Richard Sharpe.”
The marine captain shook Sharpe’s hand energetically and expressed the hope that the ensign would join him and his men for some musketry training. “Maybe you can teach us something?” the captain suggested.
“I doubt it, Captain.”
“I could use your help,” Llewellyn said enthusiastically. “I’ve a lieutenant, of course, but the lad’s only sixteen. Doesn’t even shave! Not sure he can wipe his own bum. It’s good to have another redcoat aboard, Sharpe. It raises the tone of the ship.”
Chase laughed, then drew Sharpe on to meet the last guest, the ship’s surgeon, who was a plump man called Pickering. Malachi Braithwaite had been talking to the surgeon and he looked uncomfortable as Sharpe was introduced. Pickering, whose face was a mass of broken blood vessels, shook Sharpe’s hand. “I trust we never meet professionally, Ensign, for there ain’t a great deal I can do except carve you up and mutter a prayer. I do the latter very prettily, if that’s a consolation. I say, she does look better.” The surgeon had turned to look at Lady Grace who was in a low-cut dress of very pale blue with an embroidered collar and hem. There were diamonds at her throat and more diamonds in her black hair which was pinned so high that it brushed the beams of Chase’s cabin whenever she moved. “I hardly saw her when she was aboard before,” Pickering said, “but she seems a good deal more lively now. Even so, she’s unwelcome.”
“Unwelcome?” Sharpe asked.
“Monstrous ill luck to have women on board, monstrous ill luck.” Pickering reached up and superstitiously touched a beam. “But I must say she’s decorative. There’ll be some odious things being said in the fo’c’sle tonight, I can tell you. Ah well, we must survive what the good Lord sends us, even if it is a woman. Our captain tells us you are a celebrated soldier, Sharpe!”
“He does?” Sharpe asked. Braithwaite had stepped back, signifying he wanted no part in the conversation.
“First into the breach and all that sort of stuff,” Pickering said. “As for me, my dear fellow, as soon as the guns begin to sound I scamper down to the cockpit where no French shot can reach me. You know what the trick of a long life is, Sharpe? Stay out of range. There! Good medical advice, and free!”
The food at Captain Chase’s table was a great deal better than
“Why not?”
“Accuracy’s no good on a ship! The things are always heaving up and down to spoil your aim. No, the thing to do is to pour a lot of fire onto the enemy’s deck and pray not all of it is wasted. Which reminds me, we’ve got some new toys aboard. Seven-barrel guns! Monstrous things! They spit out seven half-inch balls at once. You must try one.”
“I’d like that.”
“I’d like to see some seven-barrel guns in the fighting tops,” Llewellyn said eagerly. “They could do some real damage, Sharpe, real damage!”
Chase had overheard Llewellyn’s last remark, for he intervened from the table’s far end. “Nelson won’t allow muskets in the fighting tops, Llewellyn. He says they set the sails on fire.”
“The man is wrong,” Llewellyn said, offended, “just plain wrong.”
“You know Lord Nelson?” Lady Grace asked the captain.
“I served under him briefly, milady,” Chase said enthusiastically, “too briefly. I had a frigate then, but, alas, I never saw action under his lordship’s command.”
“I pray God we see no action now,” Lord William said piously.
“Amen,” Braithwaite said, breaking his silence. He had spent most of the meal gazing dumbly at Lady Grace and flinching whenever Sharpe spoke.
“By God I hope we do see action!” Chase retorted. “We have to stop our German friend and his so-called servant!”
“Do you think you can catch the Revenant?” Lady Grace asked.
“I hope so, milady, but it’ll be touch and go. He’s a good seaman, Montmorin, and the Revenant’s a quick ship, but her bottom will be a deal more fouled than ours.”
“It looked clean to me,” Sharpe said.
“Clean?” Chase sounded alarmed.-
“No green copper at the water line, sir. All bright.”
“Wretched man,” Chase said, meaning Montmorin. “He’s scrubbed his hull, hasn’t he? Which will make him harder to catch. And I made a wager with Mister Haskell that we’d meet with him on my birthday.”
“And when is that?” Lady Grace asked.
“October 21st, ma’am, and by my reckoning we should be somewhere off Portugal by then.”
“She won’t be off Portugal,” the first lieutenant suggested, “for she won’t be sailing direct to France. She’ll put into Cadiz, sir, and my guess is we’ll catch her during the second week in October, somewhere off Africa.”
“Ten guineas rides on the result,” Chase said, “and I know I have forsworn gambling, but I shall happily pay you so long as we do catch her. Then we’ll have a rare fight, milady, but let me assure you that you will be safe below the water line.”
Lady Grace smiled. “I am to miss all the entertainment aboard, Captain?”
That brought laughter. Sharpe had never seen her ladyship so relaxed in company. The candles glinted off her diamond earrings and necklace, from the jewels on her fingers and from her bright eyes. Her vivacity was captivating the whole table, all except for her husband who wore a slight frown as though he feared his wife had drunk too much of the blackstrap or the Miss Taylor. Sharpe was assailed with the jealous thought that perhaps she was responding to the handsome and genial Chase, but just as he felt that envy she glanced down the table and briefly caught his eye. Braithwaite saw it and stared down at his plate.
“I have never entirely understood,” Lord William said, breaking the moment’s mood, “why you fellows insist on taking your ships up close to the enemy and battering their hulls. Easier, surely, to stand off and destroy their rigging from a distance?”
“That’s the French way, my lord,” Chase said. “Bar shot, chain shot and round shot, fired on the uproll and intended to take out our sticks. But once they’ve dismasted us, once we’re lying like a log in the water, they still have to take us.”
“But if they have masts and sails and you do not,” Lord William pointed out, “why can they not just pour their broadsides into your stern?”
“You assume, my lord, that while our notional Frenchman is trying to unmast us, we are doing nothing.” Chase smiled to soften his words. “A ship of the line, my lord, is nothing more than a floating artillery battery. Destroy the sails and you still have a gun battery, but dismount the cannons, splinter its decks and kill the gunners and you have denied the ship its very purpose of existence. The French try to give us a long-range haircut, while we get up close and mangle their vitals.” He turned to Lady Grace. “This must be tiresome, milady, men talking of battle.”
“I have become used to it these past weeks,” Grace said. “There was a Scottish major on the Calliope who was ever trying to persuade Mister Sharpe to tell us such tales.” She turned to Sharpe. “You never did tell us, Mister Sharpe, what happened when you saved my cousin’s life.”
“My wife has become excessively interested in one of her remoter cousins,” Lord William interrupted, “ever since he gained some small notoriety in India. Extraordinary how a dull fellow like Wellesley can rise in the army, isn’t it?”
“You saved Wellesley’s life, Sharpe?” Chase asked, ignoring his lordship’s sarcasm.
“I don’t know about that, sir. I probably just kept him from being captured.”
“Is that how you got that scar?” Llewellyn asked.
“That was at Gawilghur, sir.” Sharpe wished the conversation would veer away to another subject and he tried desperately to think of something to say which might steer it in a new direction, but his mind was floundering.
“So what happened?” Chase demanded.
“He was unhorsed, sir,” Sharpe said, reddening, “in the enemy ranks.”
“He was not by himself, surely?” Lord William asked.
“He was, sir. Except for me, of course.”
“Careless of him,” Lord William suggested.
“And how many enemy?” Chase asked.
“A good few, sir.”
“And you fought them off?”
Sharpe nodded. “Didn’t have much choice really, sir.”
“Stay out of range!” the surgeon boomed. “That’s my advice! Stay out of range!”
Lord William complimented Captain Chase on the concoction of oranges and Chase boasted of his cook and steward, and that started a general discussion on the problem of reliable servants that only ended when Sharpe, as the junior officer present, was asked to give the loyal toast.
“To King George,” Sharpe said, “God bless him.”
“And damn his enemies,” Chase added, tossing back the glass, “especially Monsieur Vaillard.”
Lady Grace pushed her chair back. Captain Chase tried to stop her retiring, saying that she was most welcome to breathe the cigar smoke that was about to fill the cabin, but she insisted on leaving and so the whole table stood.
“You will not object, Captain, if I walk on your deck for a while?” Lady Grace asked.
“I should be delighted to have it so honored, milady.”
Brandy and cigars were produced, but the company did not stay long. Lord William suggested a hand of whist, but Chase had lost oo much on his first voyage with his lordship and explained he had decided to give u
“I don’t want to keep you up, sir.”
“I’ll turf you out when I’m tired. Here.” He gave Sharpe a glass, then led the way into the more comfortable day cabin. “Lord, but that William Hale is a bore,” he said, “though I confess I was surprised by his wife. Never seen her so lively! Last time she was aboard I thought she was going to wilt and die.”
“Maybe it was the wine tonight?” Sharpe suggested.
“Maybe, but I hear tales.”
“Tales?” Sharpe asked warily.
“That you not only rescued her cousin, but that you rescued her? To the detriment of one French lieutenant who now sleeps with his ancestors?”
Sharpe nodded, but said nothing.
Chase smiled. “She seems the better for the experience. And that secretary of his is a gloomy bird, isn’t he? Scarce a damn word all night and he’s an Oxford man!” To Sharpe’s relief Chase left the subject of Lady Grace and instead inquired whether Sharpe would consider putting himself under Captain Llewellyn’s command and so become an honorary marine. “If we do catch the Revenant,” Chase said, “we’ll be trying to capture her. We might hammer her into submission”—he put out a hand and surreptitiously touched the table—”but we still might have to board her. We’ll need fighting men if that happens, so can I count on your help? Good! I’ll tell Llewellyn that you’re now his man. He’s a thoroughly first-rate fellow, despite being a marine and a Welshman, and I doubt he’ll pester you overmuch. Now, I must go on deck and make certain they’re not steering in circles. You’ll come?”
“I will, sir.”
So Sharpe was now an honorary marine.
The Pucelle used every sail that Chase could cram onto her masts. He even rigged extra hawsers to stay the masts so that yet more canvas could be carried aloft and hung from spars that jutted out from the yards. There were studdingsails and skyscrapers, staysails, royals, spritsails and topsails, a cloud of canvas that drove the warship westward. Chase called it hanging out his laundry, and Sharpe saw how the crew responded to their captain’s enthusiasm. They were as eager as Chase to prove the Pucelle the fastest sailor on the sea.