The Price of Glory (34 page)

“Steady the helm! Everything being manned, haul taut!” Above a hundred men, every man that was not at the guns, hauling at the braces and the sailing master peering anxiously aloft, the speaking trumpet raised and lowered, raised and lowered like an automaton. “Clear away the head bowlines! Lay the headyards square! Shift over the headsheets!” The wind now directly aft and the yards braced in. “Haul aboard! Haul out!”

And they were on the starboard tack, heading out into the open sea.

Nathan looked over to the
Brutus
and tried to put himself in the position of her unknown captain. He had two clear choices: he could come round on to the same tack as the
Unicorn
and keep the weather gauge or he could continue on his present course and cross the frigate's stern. He would figure on firing two, possibly three broadsides before she moved out of his range. But he might take just as many from the
Unicorn
on his approach and he could not be sure if the British captain would resume his former course the moment they weathered the cape. No, Nathan was sure the Frenchman would come round upon the same tack. He was counting on it.

She was visibly closer now; she must have gained almost a thousand yards while the Unicorn clawed free of the headland. He could see her figurehead clearly, the noble Roman warrior, helmed and armoured: “the noblest Roman of them all” as Mark Antony had proclaimed, with the bloodied corpse lodged safely at his feet. Brutus. Why did the name trouble him so? Then he remembered the actor Talma at that infamous dinner party and the story he had told about the tragedy by Voltaire. It seemed like a dream now, an absurd flight of fancy. If he had known then that his own Brutus was awaiting him off the coast of Genoa …

But he was become as whimsical as Mr. Blake, seeing some divine significance in every trivial coincidence.

Even so, it was an unfortunate, disturbing memory and he wished he had not had it. He stared out across that diminishing stretch of sea and focused on more practical issues. A mile now or less—and still she came on. And with a return of his superstitions he felt a sense of impending doom, as if this was long planned.

A tongue of flame leapt out from the Frenchman's bow—and another, the twin report rolling out over the sea towards him even as he saw the two splashes off his starboard bow. Barely fifty yards short. He looked to the headland. They were almost clear now but there were rocks on the chart for at least another three hundred yards, just below the surface of the water. He must hold his present course for another two or three minutes longer and then …

She was coming round! At last the
Brutus
was coming round. He could see the length of her larboard broadside with the guns run out—and something else, too, something he had not seen before: a broad purple stripe running below the gunports. What a strange thing to do, he thought, for purple was the colour of the imperial toga—hardly a Republican gesture. But then he remembered that it was also the colour of Mark Antony's mantle that he had used to cover the corpse of his slain rival, when he found him on the hills above Philippi.

Still, it was a strange thing to do—and a strange thing for Nathan to be thinking about at such a time. But as usual in such critical situations, when Death was at his shoulder, he felt a part of himself floating free, detachedly observing his own actions and feelings, too, as if his soul was taking notes before its imminent release.

Both ships were now running almost parallel at a distance of a little over a mile and heeling slightly to larboard. Nathan felt a moment's exultation, for the
Brutus
carried her guns very close to the waterline—it was an inherent defect of the razee as a class—and on this tack it brought them even closer. It would be difficult, at this range, for her guns to fire high. But then he glanced along his own gundeck and saw that at least half of them were wedged up against the gunports and unable to bear.

“Ease the helm!” he called out. And then to the first lieutenant: “Mr. Duncan, fire as you bear.”

But even as he passed on the order, the
Brutus
erupted in a rippling broadside and Nathan steeled himself to stand rigid, unblinking, as a score or so of iron balls with a combined weight of over three hundred pounds came hurtling over the sea towards him. But he had been right. They were falling short—fifty or sixty yards short … All but one, the one freak shot that skipped up from the sea and struck the spritsail yard of the
Unicorn
at the exact point it was joined to the bowsprit, bringing it crashing down into the sea on their lee side and the sail with it, where it lay like a sodden white corpse, a great sea anchor dragging them round by the head, unable to bring a single gun to bear and the wind wafting them gently on to the rocks at the foot of Capo Mele.

There were men already rushing forward with axes and knives to hack at the braces and lifts that still attached the shattered spar to the bowsprit, but for the moment the
Unicorn
lay helpless off the point and Nathan looked to the razee, bracing himself for the next shattering broadside for she was closer now and had their range. But to his utter astonishment he saw that she was turning away, luffing round to the south-west as close to the wind as she could lie. He stared at her, uncomprehendingly—and then he heard the cheers and looked the other way—and saw the line of ships approaching out of the haze to the north: five, no six ships-of-war emerging from behind the headland, out of the Bay of Alassio, close-hauled with their guns run out and the blue ensign of Admiral Jervis streaming proudly at the stern.

With a rattle of chain and a definitive splash, the
Unicorn
's best bower anchor plunged into the tranquil, almost transparent waters of the Bay of Alassio, and a moment later her captain, resplendent in his full dress uniform, stepped down into his waiting barge for the short journey to the
Agamemnon,
64, where he was to report to the commodore of the British squadron; for this was not, as it transpired, the full Mediterranean fleet under Admiral Jervis but a mere detachment sent to keep watch upon the port of Genoa. Moored beside the
Agamemnon
in line abreast were two frigates: the
Inconstant,
36, and the
Tartar,
28, and a little closer to the coast, the
Speedy
brig, which appeared to be sending boats ashore. Two more frigates, the
Meleager
and the
Blanche
had been sent in pursuit of the
Brutus,
though with little hope of catching her, in Nathan's opinion, before she found a safe haven under the guns of Cap Ferrat.

He settled himself into the sternsheets of his barge, carefully positioning his sword so that it did not discomfort either himself or Signor Grimaldi who sat beside him. He was nervous, for it must have been clear to every man in the squadron that not only had he been running from a fight with an enemy only marginally superior in weight of broadside, at least in the view of the British Navy, but that he had made a thorough hash of it. He could only hope that the commodore would form a tolerant view when he had cast his eyes upon the Admiralty orders lodged in Nathan's breast pocket. He had also brought the mail out from England—it rested in two large bags at his feet—which might win him a warmer welcome.

Despite his unease, Nathan studied the
Agamemnon
with keen interest as the barge came round her stern for though she was lightly armed for a ship of the line, she was one of the fastest ships in the fleet: it was said that she could outsail anything she could not outgun and outgun anything she could not outsail. But she appeared to have suffered some damage aloft—she had a spar rigged for a top-mast on main and mizzen—and as they drew closer he saw that her stern gallery was stove in and the starboard gallery entirely carried away. Still, they had let the steps down and dressed them in white rope, out of respect for Signor Grimaldi if not Nathan, and they came aboard to the shrill wail of the boatswain's call and the stamp and crash of a marine guard and the commodore awaiting them on the quarterdeck.

Any satisfaction Nathan might have derived from this courtesy was swiftly dispelled by his opening remark: “Well, sir, I see you have had the misfortune of tripping upon your horn,” which was clearly intended to be appreciated by as many that were within earshot and was rewarded with an entirely predictable level of mirth. Although the wretched state of the
Agamemnon
's stern tempted Nathan to respond that at least he had not fallen upon his arse as
they
clearly had, he wisely refrained, confining himself to a bashful grin and thanking the commodore for saving him from further embarrassment.

“Not at all, not at all, glad to be of assistance,” said he, in a more kindly manner. Captain Nelson was an odd-looking fellow, Nathan thought: small and slightly built, almost delicate in appearance for one who had the reputation of being an accomplished seaman and fighter. Nathan had read with admiration of his dogged pursuit of the 84-gun
Ça Ira
shortly before the Battle of Genoa, raking her time and again before the admiral called him off for fear he would take on the entire French fleet by himself. He had been made post back in the American War at the age of twenty, astonishingly young for one without influence or title to his name, for though his uncle had also been a captain in the service, his father was a country clergyman in Norfolk. He must now be in his late thirties but there was still a youthful, eager look about him: though his appearance was not improved, in Nathan's opinion, by a green eyeshade which he wore under his hat and which cast a sickly pall over his features.

When Nathan introduced Signor Grimaldi, the commodore's look suggested he knew rather more of his occupation than Nathan's discreet signal had conveyed.

“We had better adjourn to my cabin,” he proposed, “though I wish it were in a better state to receive you.”

This in reference to the shambles that greeted them when they went below—many of the windows boarded up and the rest newly glazed, the frames unpainted, the upholstery stripped, the floor-boards exposed and half the cabin curtained off with velvet drapes. He was halfway through repairing the damage caused by a storm, Nelson explained: “The worst storm I have known in the Med, which forced us to run before it on bare poles but had us well pooped before it was done and came pouring through the stern windows.” Which information was probably more revealing to Nathan than it was to Signor Grimaldi who nonetheless treated the commodore with an obsequious regard entirely lacking in his manner aboard the
Unicorn
.

They made themselves as comfortable as they could, and Nelson removed his hat and eyeshade to reveal a rather more pleasing countenance than had appeared on the deck when it was coloured green, though he seemed to have a slight cast in one eye. Nathan recalled that he had read something in the
Gazette
about his being wounded while serving ashore at the Siege of Calvi in '94: a cannonball had struck a sandbag and hurled a storm of sand and stones into his face, permanently depriving him of the sight of his right eye. There had been some debate in the service about the incident and whether a naval captain serving ashore was entitled to the rank and remuneration of a brigadier, as Nelson had apparently desired. At any rate, a few months later, he had been appointed an honorary colonel of marines in recognition of this and other services—with the remuneration that came with it—so perhaps he felt it was worth the loss. He still had the other eye and the wound did not appear to have much disfigured him.

Nathan presented his Admiralty orders. “I also have a letter that I was to give to Admiral Jervis,” he said, “or whoever was commanding in his absence.”

“That,” said Nelson, holding out his hand, “would be me.”

He slit open the seal and studied it in silence for a while. Then he looked at the other document and moved his eye from one to the other, as if to compare the two.

“Well,” he said. “Well, well, well.”

There was a knock upon the door and the purser entered with the rest of his mail.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I will just take a quick look through these. I am eager, as you might imagine, for news from home.”

But he skimmed through it with alacrity, setting aside some bulky packages that appeared to be of a more personal nature and opening only those that contained the Admiralty seal. While he applied himself to their contents, Nathan and Grimaldi were served with port wine and sweetmeats by his steward who addressed them with easy familiarity in a strong Norfolk accent, asking them if they knew Burnham Thorpe. He appeared quite put out when they confessed they did not. Many of the crew were from the Norfolk coast, he informed them sociably, having followed “his worship” to war in high hopes that it would prove more profitable than smuggling, in which, thus far, they had been disappointed. The tenor of these remarks finally penetrated the commodore's consciousness and he looked up sharply and instructed the fellow to be off with him and take his unwanted opinions with him, which appeared not to dismay the steward in the slightest, for he favoured Nathan with a broad wink before departing.

“I am afraid I allow the fellow too much latitude,” the commodore informed them, “and he takes advantage of it, but I have known his family since I was a boy.” He pushed his correspondence aside. “So, Signor Grimaldi, I am informed that you are to go into Genoa.”

Nathan wondered if the Admiralty had thought to inform him rather more comprehensively than they had thought to inform Nathan. It was entirely possible.

“I was there a few months ago,” confided the commodore. “Magnificent. Never seen so much marble. Marble everywhere. Superior in many ways to Naples.” Grimaldi smiled politely but Nathan wondered privately if he considered this so great a compliment. “Met the Doge,” the commodore continued impressively. “Signor Brignole. A worried man. Did my best to reassure him but he's caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, as it were.”