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 Santos 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 Riflemen. “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 member 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?”