Lieutenant Otero ordered a final quixotic charge, perhaps hoping to kill Lord Cochrane, but his men would not obey. A rebel officer shouted at the stern guard to surrender. Sharpe, the handle of his cutlass slippery with blood, climbed to thicken the ranks of the rebels who now made a threatening semicircle about the frigate’s last defenders.
“Surrender, sir!” Lord Cochrane called. “You’ve done well! I salute you! Now, I beg you, no more killing!”
Lieutenant Otero crossed himself then, bitterly, threw down his sword. There was a clatter of falling guns and blades as his men followed his example. An army officer, disgusted, hurled his own sword overboard so he would not have to surrender it to rebels. A ship’s boy wept, not because he was wounded, but because of the shame of losing the fight. A rebel slashed at the ensign’s halyard and the bright flag of Spain fluttered down.
“Where are the pumps?” Cochrane shouted in urgent and execrable Spanish. It seemed an odd way to celebrate victory, but then the frigate lurched, and Sharpe, to his horror, realized that the Espiritu Santo, just like the burning Mary Starbuck, was sinking. “The pumps!” Cochrane shouted.
“This way!” Sharpe jumped down to the poop, then to the waist. From there he slithered down a rope to the gundeck where the main pumps were situated. He saw that the explosion of the Mary Starbuck had made a terrible slaughter on the gundeck. Until the moment the whaler blew up, the frigate’s gunners had been firing point-blank through open hatches into the wooden hull that had been grinding against the Spanish warship, but the explosion had speared flame and debris through the open gun hatches to fan slaughter through the low-beamed deck. Two of the frigate’s guns had been blown clean off their carriages. One dismounted gun was lying atop a dying, screaming man. Cochrane killed the man with an efficient slice of his sword, then shouted at his men to start the pumps working.
“Chippy! Find me the chippy!” Cochrane roared. The carpenter was fetched and ordered to discover the extent of the damage to the frigate’s hull, then to start immediate repairs. The wounded Spanish gunners moaned. The frigate was already listing so far over that roundshot were rolling across her deck. “Can’t talk now, bloody boat’s sinking,” Cochrane said to Sharpe. “We’ll all be dead if we don’t watch it. Pump, you bastards! Pump! Put the prisoners to work! Pump! Well done, Jorge! Well fought, Liam! But start pumping or we’ll all be sucking the devil’s tits before this day’s done!” Cochrane, ducking under the gundeck’s beams, scattered praise and humor among his victorious men. He set the rear pump working and peered down into the orlop deck where the women and children cowered. “Not flooded yet, good! Maybe there’s hope. Christ, but that bugger should never have exploded. Are you Spanish?” This last question was addressed to Sharpe, shouted as Cochrane climbed nimbly back up to the bloody and wreckage-strewn main deck.
“English.”
“Are you now?” Cochrane brushed ineffectively at the powder stains on his green uniform coat. “I suppose I’ve got to take the proper surrender from their poor bastard of a Captain. Rotten luck for him. He fought well. Ardiles, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Sharpe said, “he’s a good man,” then took a pace backward as Captain Ardiles, his face stricken, walked with fragile dignity toward Lord Cochrane. The Spanish Captain had retrieved his sword, but only so that he could offer it in surrender to his victor. Ardiles held the sword hilt forward, the gesture of surrender, but he could not bring himself to speak the proper words.
Cochrane touched the hilt, his gesture of acceptance, then pushed the weapon back to Ardiles. “Keep it, Captain. Your men fought well, damned well.” His Spanish was enthusiastic, but clumsy. “I also need your help if we’re to save the ship. I’ve sent a carpenter down to the bilge, but your man will know the timbers better than he will. The pumps are going. That damned explosion must have sprung some of the timbers! Would you fetch your ladies up? They’ll not be harmed, I give you my word. And where’s the gold?”
“There is no gold,” Ardiles said very stiffly.
Cochrane, who had been speaking and moving with a frenetic energy, now stopped still as a statue and stared openmouthed at Ardiles. Then, a second later, he looked quizzically at Sharpe who confirmed the bad news with a nod. “Goddamn!” Cochrane said, though without any real bitterness. “No gold? You mean I just blunted a sword for nothing!” He gave a great billow of laughter that turned into a whoop of alarm as the Espiritu Santo gave another creaking jolt to starboard. A cutlass slid down the canted deck to clash into the scuppers. “Help me!” Cochrane said to Ardiles, and suddenly the two men disappeared, lost in technical discussion, while beneath Sharpe’s feet the pumps clattered to pulse puny jets of water over the side.
Somehow they stopped the ship from sinking, though it took the best part of that day to do it. Cochrane’s men salvaged the mainsail that had fallen overboard when the mainmast fell and from it cut great squares of canvas. They sewed the squares together to make a huge pad that was then dragged under the ship by means of cables which were first looped under the frigate’s bows, then dragged back under her hull till the huge pad of material was fothered up against the sprung timbers. The explosion on board the whaler had driven in a section of the frigate’s hull, but once the canvas fother was in place the pumps at last could begin to win the battle. Behind them, on an ocean scattered with the flotsam of battle, the Mary Starbuck gave a last hiss of steam as she sank.
On board the captured Espiritu Santo the wounded were treated. The surgeon worked on deck, tossing the amputated limbs overboard. A step behind the surgeon was the Espiritu Santo’s Chaplain, who gave the final unction to dying seamen. To those who were dying in too much pain the Chaplain gave a quietus with a narrow blade. Once dead, the shriven sailors were sewn into hammocks weighted with roundshot. The last stitch, by custom, was forced through the corpse’s nose to make certain he was truly dead. None of the corpses twitched in protest. Instead, after a muttered prayer, they were all slid down to the sea’s bed.
“What a resurrection there’ll be on the Day of Judgment!” Cochrane, his emergency work done, had asked Sharpe and Harper to join him on the frigate’s quarterdeck from where they watched the miserable procession of dead splashing over the side. “Just think of Judgment Day,” Cochrane said exuberantly, “when the sea gives up its dead and all those sailormen pop out of the waves and start hollering for a tot of rum and a heavenly whore.” His Lordship had protuberant eyes, a strong nose, full lips and an excited, energetic manner. “Christ,” he hit Sharpe on the back, “but that was a close thing! They’re the best fighters I’ve ever seen on a Spanish ship!”
“Ardiles’s great ambition was to fight you,” Sharpe explained. “He trained his men for years. All he wanted to do was to fight and beat you.”
“Poor bastard. I sneak up on him like a rat, and he was dreaming of an honest broadside-to-broadside battle, eh?” Cochrane seemed genuinely sympathetic, “but a broadside pounding match was exactly what I wanted to avoid! I thought that sneaking up like a rat would do less damage to this ship, now look at it! No mainmast and half a bottom blown away!” He sounded remarkably cheerful despite the appalling damage. “You didn’t give me the honor of your name, sir,” he said to Sharpe, whereas the truth was that he had not given Sharpe a moment of time to make any kind of introduction.
“Lieutenant Colonel Richard Sharpe.” Sharpe decided to go full fig with his introduction. “And this is my particular friend, Regimental Sergeant Major Patrick Harper.”
Cochrane stared at both men with a moment’s disbelief that vanished as he decided Sharpe must be telling the truth. “Are you, by God?” Cochrane, flatteringly, had evidently heard of the Rifleman. “You are?”
“Yes, my Lord, I am.”
“And I’m Thomas, Tommy, or Cochrane, and not ‘my Lord.’ I was once a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath, till the buggers couldn’t stand my company so they turfed me out. I also had the honor of being held prisoner in the Fleet prison, and I was once a membe
r of Parliament, and let me tell you, Sharpe, that the company in prison is a damned sight more rewarding than that available in His Fat Majesty’s House of Commons which is packed full of farting lawyers. I also once had the honor of being a Rear Admiral in His Fat Majesty’s Navy, but they didn’t like my opinions any more than the Order of the Bath liked my company, so they threw me out of the navy too, so now I have the signal honor to be Supreme Admiral, Great Lord, and chief troublemaker of the Navy of the Independent Republic of Chile.” He gave Sharpe and Harper an elaborate bow. “Pity about the Mary Starbuck. I bought her off a couple of Nantucket Yankees with the very last cash I possessed. I thought I’d get my money back by capturing the Holy Spirit. Awful damned name for a ship. Why do the dagoes choose such names? You might as well call a ship Angel-Fart. They should give their boats real names, like Revenge or Arse-Kicker or Victory. Are you really Richard Sharpe?”
“I truly am,” Sharpe confessed.
“Then just what the hell are the two of you doing on this ship?”
“We were thrown out of Chile. By a man called Bautista.”
“Oh, well done!” Cochrane said happily. “First class! Well done! You must be on the side of the angels if that piece of half-digested gristle doesn’t like you. But what about that sniveling turd Blair? Didn’t he try to protect you?”
“He seemed to be on Bautista’s side.”
“Blair’s a greedy bastard,” Cochrane observed gloomily. “If we ever get off this ship alive you should look him up and give him a damned good thrashing.” His Lordship’s gloom seemed justified for, despite the fothering and the pumping, the condition of the damaged frigate seemed to be suddenly worsening. The wind was rising and the seas were steeper, conditions that made the damaged hull pound ever harder into the waves. “The fother’s shifting,” Cochrane guessed. He had turned the Espiritu Santo northward and the captured frigate was running before the wind and current, yet even so her progress was painfully slow because of the damaged hull and the amount of wreckage that still trailed overboard.
Cochrane’s sailing master, an elderly and lugubrious Scot named Fraser, threw a trailing log overboard. The log was attached to a long piece of twine which was knotted at regular intervals. Fraser let the twine run through his hands and counted the knots as they whipped past his fingers, timing them all the while on a big pocket watch. He finally snapped the watch shut and began hauling the log back. “Three knots, my Lord, that’s all.”
“Christ help us,” Cochrane said. He frowned at the sea, then at the rigging. “But we’ll speed up as we get the damage cleared. Eight days, say?”
“Ten,” the sailing master said doubtfully, “maybe twelve, but more probably never, my Lord, because she’s taking water like a colander.”
“Five guineas says we’ll make it in eight days,” Cochrane said cheerfully.
“Eight days to what?” Sharpe asked.
“To Valdivia, of course,” Cochrane exclaimed.
“Valdivia?” Sharpe was astonished that Cochrane was trying to reach an enemy haven. “You mean there isn’t a harbor closer than that?”
“There are hundreds of closer harbors,” Cochrane said blithely, “thousands of harbors. Millions! There are some of the best natural harbors in the world on this coast, Sharpe, and they’re all closer than Valdivia. The damned coast is thick with harbors. There are more harbors here than a man could wish for in a thousand storms! Isn’t that so, Fraser?”
“Aye, it is, my Lord.”
“Then why go to an enemy harbor?” Sharpe asked.
“To capture it, of course, why else?” Cochrane looked at Sharpe as though the Rifleman was mad. “We’ve got a ship, we’ve got men, we’ve got weapons, so what the hell else should we be doing?”
“But the ship’s sinking!”
“Then the bloody ship might as well do something useful before it vanishes.” Cochrane, delighted with having surprised Sharpe, whooped with laughter. “Enjoy yourself, Sharpe. If we take Valdivia, all Chile is ours! We’re launched for death or victory, we’re sailing for glory, and may the Devil take the hindmost!” He rattled off the old clichés of the French wars in a mocking tone, but there was a genuine enthusiasm on his face as he spoke. Here was a man, Sharpe thought, who had never tired of battle, but reveled in it, and perhaps only felt truly alive when the powder was stinking and the swords were clashing. “We’re sailing for glory!” Cochrane whooped again, and Sharpe knew he was under the command of a genial maniac who planned to capture a whole country with nothing but a broken ship and a wounded crew.
Sharpe had met Spain’s devil, and his name was Cochrane.
The wind rose the next day. It shrieked in the broken rigging so that the torn shrouds and halyards streamed horizontally ahead of the laboring frigate as she thumped in slow agony through the big green seas. Both rebel and royalist seamen manned the pumps continually, and even the officers took their turns at the blistering handles. Sharpe and Harper, restored to grace as passengers, nevertheless worked the sodden handles for three muscle-torturing hours during the night. Besides the women and children, only Cochrane and Captain Ardiles were spared the agony of the endless pumps. Ardiles, suffering the pangs of defeat, had closeted himself in his old cabin which Cochrane, with a generosity that seemed typical of the man, had surrendered to his beaten opponent.
In the gray morning, when the wind was whistling to blow the wavetops ragged, Lord Cochrane edged the broken frigate nearer to land so that, at times, a dark sliver on the eastern horizon betrayed high ground. He had not wanted to close the coast, for fear that the captured Espiritu Santo might be seen by a Spanish pinnace or fishing boat that could warn Valdivia of his approach, but now he sacrificed that caution for the security of land. “If worse comes to worst,” he explained, “then perhaps we might be able to beach this wreck in the channels. Though God knows if we’d survive them.”
“Channels?” Sharpe asked.
Cochrane showed Sharpe a chart which revealed that the Chilean coast, so far as it was known, was a nightmare tangle of islands and hidden seaways. “There are thousands of natural harbors if you can get into the channels,” Cochrane explained, “but the channel entrances are as wicked as any in the world. As dreadful as the western coast of Scotland! There are cliffs on this coast that are as tall as mountains! And God only knows what’s waiting inside the channels. This is unexplored country. The old maps said that monsters lived here, and maybe they do, for no one’s ever explored this coast. Except the savages, of course, and they don’t count. Still, maybe the O’Higgins will find us first.”
“Is she close?”
“Christ only knows where she is, though she’s supposed to rendezvous with us off Valdivia. I’ve left a good man in charge of her, so perhaps he’ll have the wits to come south and look for us if we’re late, and if he does, and finds us sinking, then he can take us off.” He stared bleakly at the chart which he had draped over the Espiritu Santo’s shot-torn binnacle. “It’s a devil of a long way to Valdivia,” he said under his breath.
Sharpe heard a sigh of despair in Cochrane’s voice. “You’re not serious about Valdivia, are you?” Sharpe asked.
“Of course I am.”
“You’re going to attack with this broken ship?”
“This and the O’Higgins.”
“For God’s sake,” Sharpe protested, “Valdivia Harbor has more fortresses than London!”
“Aye, I know. Fort Ingles, Fort San Carlos, Fort Amargos, Corral Castle, Fort Chorocomayo, Fort Niebla, the Manzanera Island batteries and the quay guns,” Cochrane rattled off the list of fortifications with an irritating insouciance, as though such defenses were flimsy obstacles that were bound to fall before his reputation. “Say two thousand defenders in all? Maybe more.”
“Then why, for God’s sake?” Sharpe gestured at the exhausted men who stared dull-eyed at the threatening seas that roared up astern of the damaged frigate, hissed down her flanks, then rushed ahead in great gouts of wind-blown chaos.
“I have to attack Valdivia, Sharpe, because my lords and masters of the independent Chilean government, whom God preserve, have ordered me to attack Valdivia.” Cochrane suddenly sounded glum, but offered Sharpe a rueful grin. “I know that doesn’t make sense, at least not till you understand that the government owes me a pile of money that they desperately don’t want to pay me.”
“That still doesn’t make sense,” Sharpe said.
“Ah,” Cochrane frowned. “Try it this way. The government promised me hard cash for every Spanish ship I captured, and I’ve taken sixteen so far, and the buggers don’t want to honor the contract! They don’t even want to pay my crews their ordinary wages, let alone the prize money. So instead of paying up they’ve ordered me to attack Valdivia. Now do you understand?”
“They want you to be killed?” Sharpe could only suppose that with Cochrane’s death the debt due to him would be canceled.
“They probably wouldn’t overmuch object to my death,” Cochrane confessed, “except that it might encourage the damned Spaniards, so I suspect that the reasoning behind their order is slightly more subtle. They don’t want to pay me, so they have issued me an impossible order. Now, if I refuse to obey the order they’ll send me packing for disobedience, and refuse to give me my cash as a punishment for that disobedience, but if, on the other hand, I dutifully attack and fail, they’ll accuse me of incompetence and punish me by confiscating the money they owe me. Either way they win and I am royally buggered. Unless, of course,” Cochrane paused, and an impudent, wonderful grin crossed his face.
“Unless you win,” Sharpe continued the thought.
“Oh, aye, that’s the joy of it!” Cochrane slapped the rail of the quarterdeck. “My God, Sharpe, but that would be something! To win!” He paused, frowning. “Why was there no gold on this boat?”