Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe's Trafalgar, Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe's Rifles (45 page)
Read Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe's Trafalgar, Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe's Rifles Online
Authors: Bernard Cornwell
Tags: #Fiction / Historical / General, #Fiction, #Historical, #War & Military, #Action & Adventure, #Fiction / Action & Adventure
The
Pucelle
, when it raked the ship alongside the
Victory
, was stealing the
Temeraire
’s thunder. The
Redoutable
was commanded by a fiery Frenchman called Lucas, probably the ablest French captain at Trafalgar, who had trained his crew in a novel technique aimed solely at boarding and capturing an enemy ship. When the
Victory
closed on his much smaller ship he shut his gunports and massed his men on deck. His rigging was filled with marksmen who rained a dreadful fire onto the
Victory
, and it was one of those men who shot Nelson. Lucas virtually cleared the
Victory
’s upper decks of men, but just as he was assembling his crew to board the British flagship, the
Temeraire
sailed past and emptied her carronades into the boarders. The ‘
Saucy
’ also raked Lucas’s ship which was, anyway, being pounded by the
Victory
’s lower-deck guns. That finished Lucas’s fight. The
Redoutable
was captured, but had been so damaged by gunfire that she sank in the subsequent storm. The
Victory
lost 57 men dead, including Nelson, and had 102 wounded. The
Redoutable
, in contrast, had 22 of her 74 guns dismounted and, from a crew of 643, had 487 killed and 81 wounded. That extraordinarily high casualty rate (88%) was caused by gunnery, not musketry. Other enemy ships suffered similar high casualty rates. The
Royal Sovereign
’s opening broadside (double-shotted) raked the French
Fougueux
and killed or injured half her crew in that one blow. When the
Victory
, later in the battle, raked Villeneuve’s flagship, the
Bucentaure
, she dismounted twenty of her eighty guns and again killed or wounded half the crew.
The disparity in casualty rates was extraordinary. The British lost 1,500 men, either killed or wounded, while the French and Spanish casualties were about 17,000; testimony to the horrific effectiveness of British gunnery. Several British ships were raked, as the fictional
Pucelle
was, but none recorded the high casualties suffered aboard the enemy ships that found themselves bow or stern on to a British broadside. The
Victory
suffered the highest casualty list of the British fleet, while probably the most battered of all the British ships, the
Belleisle
, which sailed into the southern mêlée and was raked more than once, losing all her masts and bowsprit, suffered only 33 men killed and 93 wounded. Fourteen of the enemy ships lost more than a hundred men killed, while only fourteen British ships had ten or more men killed. One British ship, HMS
Prince
, she who ‘sailed like a haystack’, had no casualties at all, probably because her slow speed kept her from battle until late in the afternoon when few enemies were capable of putting up much resistance. The imbalance of casualties disguises the tenacity with which most of the enemy fought. They were being decimated by superior British gunnery, yet they stubbornly stuck to their guns. Most of the French and Spanish crews were ill-trained, some had no prior experience of fighting at sea, yet they did not lack for courage.
The
Victory
’s high casualty rate was partly caused by Lucas’s tactics of drenching her with musket fire and partly because she was the first British ship into the northern part of the enemy’s fleet and so fought alone for a brief time. She was also flying the admiral’s pennant and so became a target for several enemy ships. Collingwood’s flagship, the
Royal Sovereign
, first into the southern part of the enemy fleet and also flying an admiral’s pennant, lost 47 men dead and had 94 wounded, the greatest casualties of any ship in Collingwood’s squadron. Admirals led from the front.
The battle was truly decisive. It so shocked the morale of the French and Spanish navies that neither recovered for the remainder of the Napoleonic wars. British sea power was supreme, and stayed so until the beginning of the twentieth century. Nelson, more than any man, imposed Britain on the nineteenth-century world. It is often said that his tactics were revolutionary, and so they were in the context of eighteenth-century naval warfare where the accepted mode of fighting one fleet against another was to form parallel lines of battle and fight it out broadside to broadside. Yet, in 1797, off Camperdown, Admiral Duncan had formed his fleet of sixteen British battleships into two squadrons that he sailed straight into the broadsides of eighteen Dutch ships of the line, and by battle’s end he had captured eleven of those ships and lost none of his own. This is not to denigrate Nelson, who had proved his resourcefulness time and again, but it suggests the Royal Navy was open to innovative thinking in those desperate years. It was also extraordinarily confident. By sailing his squadrons directly at the enemy line, Nelson, like Duncan before him, was gambling that his ships could survive continuous raking. They did, and proceeded to mangle the enemy. At Trafalgar, for at least twenty minutes at the opening of the battle, the British ships could not fire a single shot, while a dozen of the enemy could fire at will. Nelson knew that, risked that and was certain he could win despite that. It was not until the Royal Navy fought the US Navy in the war of 1812 that British gunnery met its equal, but the US Navy did not deploy battleships and so could only be a minor nuisance to a worldwide fleet which was by then globally preeminent.
Did any man serve at both Trafalgar and Waterloo? I know of only one. Don Miguel Ricardo Maria Juan de la Mata Domingo Vincente Ferre Alava de Esquivel, mercifully known as Miguel de Alava, was an officer in the Spanish navy in 1805 and served aboard the Spanish admiral’s flagship, the
Principe de Asturias
. That ship fought nobly at Trafalgar and, though she was hurt badly, managed to avoid capture and escaped back to Cadiz. Four years later Alava had become an officer in the Spanish army. Spain had changed sides by then, and the Spanish army was allied with the British army under Sir Arthur Wellesley, the future Duke of Wellington, as it fought in the Peninsula, and General de Alava was appointed Wellington’s Spanish liaison officer and the two became extremely close friends, a friendship that endured till their deaths. De Alava stayed with Wellington until the end of the Peninsular War when he was appointed the Spanish ambassador to the Netherlands and so was able to join the allies at the Battle of Waterloo where he remained at Wellington’s side throughout the day. He had no need to be there, yet his presence was undoubtedly a help to Wellington who trusted de Alava’s judgement and valued his advice. Nearly all of Wellington’s aides were killed or wounded, yet he and de Alava survived unhurt. So Miguel de Alava fought against the British at Trafalgar and for them at Waterloo, a strange career indeed. Sharpe joins de Alava in surviving that remarkable double.
I am enormously grateful to Peter Goodwin, the Historical Consultant, Keeper and Curator of HMS
Victory
, for his notes on the manuscript, and to Katy Ball, Curator at Portsmouth Museums and Records Office. The errors which survive are all my own, or can be blamed on Richard Sharpe, a soldier adrift in a strange nautical world. He will be back on land soon, where he belongs, and will march again.
Richard Sharpe and
the Expedition to Copenhagen,
1807
For Jarl, Gerda, Bo, and Christine
C
APTAIN HENRY WILLSEN OF
His Majesty’s Dirty Half Hundred, more formally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponent’s saber. He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his saber’s blade was raised in the position known to the fencing masters as the
quarte basse
and the knowledgeable spectators thought the parry was feeble. A surprised murmur sounded, for Willsen was good. Very good. He had been attacking, but it was apparent he had been slow to see his taller opponent’s counter and now he was in disorganized retreat. The taller man pressed, swatting the
quarte basse
aside and lunging so that Willsen skittered backward, his slippers squeaking with a staccato judder on the wooden floor which was liberally scattered with French chalk. The very sound of the slippers on the chalked wood denoted panic. The sabers clashed harshly again, the taller man stamped forward, his blade flickering, clanging, reaching, and Willsen was countering in apparent desperation until, so fast that those watching could scarce follow his blade’s quick movement, he stepped to one side and riposted at his opponent’s cheek. There seemed little power in the riposte, for its force all came from Willsen’s wrist rather than from his full arm, but the saber’s edge still struck the taller man with such might that he lost his balance. He swayed, right arm flailing, and Willsen gently touched his weapon’s point to his opponent’s chest so that he toppled to the floor.
“Enough!” the Master-at-Arms called.
“God’s teeth.” The fallen man swept his blade at Willsen’s ankles in a fit of pique. The blow was easily blocked and Willsen just walked away.
“I said enough, my lord!” the Master-at-Arms shouted angrily.
“How the devil did you do that, Willsen?” Lord Marsden pulled off the padded leather helmet with its wire visor that had protected his face. “I had you on your damned ass!”
Willsen, who had planned the whole passage of the fight from the moment he made a deliberately soft
quarte basse
, bowed. “Perhaps I was just fortunate, my lord?”
“Don’t patronize me, man,” Lord Marsden snapped as he climbed to his feet. “What was it?”
“Your disengagement from the
sixte
was slow, my lord.”
“The devil it was,” Lord Marsden growled. He was proud of his ability with foil or saber, yet he knew Willsen had bested him easily by feigning a squeaking retreat. His lordship scowled, then realized he was being ungracious and so, tucking the saber under his arm, held out a hand. “You’re quick, Willsen, damned quick.”
The handful of spectators applauded the show of sportsmanship. They were in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms, an establishment on London’s Jermyn Street where wealthy men could learn the arts of pugilism, fencing and pistol shooting. The hall was a high bare room lined with racks of swords and sabers, smelling of tobacco and liniment, and decorated with prints of prize fighters, mastiffs and racehorses. The only women in the place served drinks and food, or else worked in the small rooms above the hall where the beds were soft and the prices high.
Willsen pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his long fair hair. He bowed to his beaten opponent, then carried both sabers to the weapon rack at the side of the hall where a tall, very thin and extraordinarily handsome captain in the red coat and blue facings of the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards was waiting. The guardsman, a stranger to Willsen, tossed away a half-smoked cigar as Willsen approached. “You fooled him,” the Captain said cheerfully.
Willsen frowned at the stranger’s impertinence, but he answered politely enough. Willsen, after all, was an employee in Horace Jackson’s Hall and the Guards Captain, judging by the elegant cut of his expensive uniform, was a patron. The sort of patron, moreover, who could not wait to prove himself against the celebrated Henry Willsen. “I fooled him?” Willsen asked. “How?”
“The
quarte basse
,” the guardsman said, “you made it soft, am I right?”
Willsen was impressed at the guardsman’s acuity, but did not betray it. “Perhaps I was just fortunate?” he suggested. He was being modest, for he had the reputation of being the finest swordsman in the Dirty Half Hundred, probably in the whole army and maybe in the entire country, but he belittled his ability, just as he shrugged off those who reckoned he was the best pistol shot in Kent. A soldier, Willsen liked to say, should be a master of his arms and so he practiced assiduously and prayed that one day his skill would be useful in the service of his country. Until that time came he earned his captain’s pay and, because that was not sufficient to support a wife, child and mess bill, he taught fencing and pistol-shooting in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms. Jackson, an old pugilist with a mashed face, wanted Willsen to leave the army and join the establishment full-time, but Willsen liked being a soldier. It gave him a position in British society. It might not be a high place, but it was honorable.
“There’s no such thing as luck,” the guardsman said, only now he spoke in Danish, “not when you’re fighting.”
Willsen had been turning away, but the change of language made him look back to the golden-haired Guards Captain. His first careless impression had been one of privileged youth, but he now saw that the guardsman was probably in his early thirties and had a cynical, knowing cast to his devil-may-care good looks. This was a man, Willsen thought, who would be at home in a palace or at a prizefight. A formidable man too, and one who was of peculiar importance to Willsen, who now offered the guardsman a half-bow. “You, sir,” he said respectfully, “must be Major the Honorable John Lavisser?”
“I’m Captain Lavisser,” Captain and Major Lavisser said. The Guards gave their officers dual ranks; the lower one denoted their responsibility in the regiment while the higher was an acknowledgment that any Guards officer was a superior being, especially when compared to an impoverished swordsman from the Dirty Half Hundred. “I’m Captain Lavisser,” the Honorable John Lavisser said again, “but you must call me John. Please.” He still spoke in Danish.
“I thought we were not to meet till Saturday?” Willsen said, taking off his fencing slippers and pulling on boots.
“We’re to be companions for a fair time”—Lavisser ignored Willsen’s hostility—“and it’s better, I think, that we should be friends. Besides, are you not curious about our orders?”
“My orders are to escort you to Copenhagen and see you safe out again,” Willsen responded stiffly as he pulled on his red coat. The wool of the coat was faded and its black cuffs and facings were scuffed. He strapped on his seven-guinea sword, unhappily aware of the valuable blade that hung from Lavisser’s slings, but Willsen had long learned to curb his envy at the inequalities of life, even if he could not entirely forget them. He knew well enough that his captaincy in the Dirty Half Hundred was worth £1,500, exactly what it cost to purchase a mere lieutenancy in the Guards, but so be it. Willsen had been taught by his Danish father and English mother to trust in God, do his duty and accept fate, and fate had now decreed he was to be the companion of a man who was the son of an earl, a guardsman, and an aide to Prince Frederick, Duke of York, who was the second son of George III and Commander in Chief of the British army.
“But don’t you want to know why we are going to Copenhagen?” Lavisser asked.
“I have no doubt I shall be informed at the proper time,” Willsen said, his manner still stiff.
Lavisser smiled and his thin, saturnine face was transformed with charm. “The proper time, Willsen, is now,” he said. “Come, at least allow me to buy you supper and reveal the mysteries of our errand.”
In truth Captain Willsen was intrigued. He had served twelve years in the British army and had never heard a shot fired in anger. He yearned to distinguish himself and now, quite suddenly, a chance had arisen because an officer was needed to escort the Duke of York’s aide to Copenhagen. That was all Willsen knew, though his commanding officer had hinted that his facility with small arms might be a great advantage. Willsen had been worried at first, fearing that he would be fighting against his father’s people, but he had been assured that the danger in Copenhagen came from the French, not the Danes, and that assurance had permitted Willsen to accept the responsibility, just as it had piqued his curiosity. Now Lavisser was offering to explain and Willsen, who knew he had been churlish, nodded. “Of course. It will be a pleasure to dine with you, sir.”
“My name is John,” Lavisser insisted as he led Willsen down the staircase to the street. Willsen half expected to find a carriage waiting, but it appeared Lavisser was on foot even though a small chill rain was falling. “Hard to believe it’s July,” Lavisser grumbled.
“It will be a bad harvest,” Willsen remarked.
“I thought we might get a bite at Almack’s,” Lavisser suggested, “and maybe play a hand afterward?”
“I never wager,” Willsen answered, and even if he did he could never have afforded the high stakes at Almack’s.
“How very wise you are,” Lavisser said. They were both speaking English again. “And I thought it might please you if we had a word with Hanssen before supper.”
“Hanssen?”
“The first secretary at the Danish embassy,” Lavisser explained. He gave his companion an earnest look. “I want to be quite certain that our activities are not prejudicial to Denmark. Hanssen’s a decent man and I’ve always found his advice very sound.”
Willsen shared the desire to avoid upsetting Denmark and so he rather liked the idea of talking to someone from the embassy, but his innate caution came to the fore. “Are we supposed to be revealing our purposes to the Danish government?”
“Of course we’re not and of course we shan’t.” Lavisser stopped and unleashed his dazzling smile on Willsen. “Sir David told me you expressed scruples about visiting Denmark? Is that right? Believe me, my dear Willsen, I feel the same. My mother’s family live there and I will do nothing, nothing, that places them in jeopardy.” He paused, then his voice became, if anything, even more earnest. “If you and I cannot bring Denmark and Britain into a closer friendship, my dear Willsen, then we have no business going there, none. I merely seek general reassurances from Hanssen. I want news of the political situation in Denmark. I want to know what pressures the French are applying. The French are the irritants, but aren’t they always? And of course Hanssen will want to know the purpose of our visit, but we shall merely say we are visiting families. What could be more innocent?” Lavisser smiled, walked on and Willsen, reassured, followed the tall guardsman across the street. A crossing sweeper, a skinny boy with a running sore on his forehead, sprinted to brush a horse dropping out of Lavisser’s path. The guardsman spun a careless sixpence toward the lad, then led Willsen down an alleyway. “Would it offend you if we visited Hanssen by his servants’ entrance?” Lavisser asked. “Only with the Baltic so tremulous you can be sure that the damned Frogs will be watching his front door.”
“The French? In London?”
“They have agents everywhere,” Lavisser said, “even London. But not, I think, in this alley.”
The alley was noisome and dark. It culminated in a gate that stood ajar and led into a bleak narrow yard that was made even darker by the day’s dense clouds and the surrounding walls. The yard’s cobbles were half covered in rubbish that was being loaded onto a handcart by a tall, heavyset man who seemed surprised to see two red-coated officers invade his grubby domain. He hastily stood aside, snatched off his ragged hat and tugged his forelock as the two officers stepped gingerly through the yard’s filth.
“Would you be averse to feminine company after supper?” Lavisser asked.
“I’m a married man, Captain,” Willsen said severely.
“Do call me John, please.”
Willsen was made uncomfortable by the invitation to such familiarity. “I’ll not stay after supper,” he said awkwardly, edging past the cart.
Henry Willsen was one of the finest swordsmen in the British army and his skill with a pistol would have been the envy of any duellist, but he had no defense against the attack which erupted as soon as he had passed the rubbish cart. The tall man kicked Willsen in the back of one knee and, as the officer fell, his assailant stabbed upward with a knife that slid between Willsen’s ribs. The blade sank to the hilt and the man held it there, supporting Willsen who was gasping suddenly as his right hand groped for the hilt of his cheap sword. He managed to take hold of the weapon, though feebly, but Captain Lavisser, who had turned when the tall man attacked, just smiled and knocked Willsen’s hand aside. “I don’t think you need that, Harry,” he said.
“You . . .” Willsen tried to speak, but his lungs were filling with blood. He began to choke and his eyes widened as he shook his head.
“I do apologize, my dear Willsen,” Lavisser said, “but I’m afraid your presence in Copenhagen would be a most dreadful embarrassment.” The Guards officer stepped hurriedly back as the big man, who had been supporting Willsen’s weight with his knife, jerked the blade free. Willsen slumped and his attacker dropped beside him and slashed the knife across his throat. Willsen began to make choking noises as he jerked spasmodically on the cobbles. “Well done,” Lavisser said warmly.
“Easy work,” the big man grunted. He stood, wiping the blade on his dirty coat. He was very tall, very broad in the chest and had the scarred knuckles of a pugilist. His face was pitted with pox scars, his nose had been broken and ill set at least once, and his eyes were like stones. Everything about him declared that he was from as low a gutter as could bear life and just to look at him was to be glad that the gallows stood tall outside Newgate Prison.
“He’s still alive.” Lavisser frowned at Willsen.
“Not for long, he ain’t,” the big man said, then stamped hard on Willsen’s chest. “Not now, he ain’t.”
“You are an example to us all, Barker,” Lavisser said, then stepped close to the lifeless Willsen. “He was a very dull man, probably a Lutheran. You’ll take his cash? Make it look like a robbery?”
Barker had already begun cutting the dead man’s pockets open. “You think they’ll find another bugger to go with us?” he asked.
