SHARPE’S DEVIL. Bernard Cornwell

More men died. The sailcloth shroud of one man tore when he was jettisoned overboard and the roundshot that should have dragged his body to the seabed fell free. The corpse, in its gray bag, floated behind the ship as a reminder of just how slowly the Espiritu Santo was sailing. She was limping north, traveling scarcely faster than a half-shrouded body. At dusk the corpse was still there, its face bobbing up and down from the green waves in mocking obeisance, but then, in a churning horror of foam and savagery, a great black and white beast, with fangs like saw blades, erupted out of the deep to carry the corpse away. Sharpe, who did not see the attack, was inclined to dismiss the story as another monstrous invention, but Cochrane confirmed it. “It was a killer whale,” he told Sharpe with a shudder, “nasty things.” Some of Cochrane’s men swore the whale’s coming was an evil omen, and as the day waned it seemed they must be right, for the ship had begun to settle again, this time ever deeper. The pumps and buckets were losing the battle.

Still they fought, none harder than Cochrane’s band of seasoned fighters. They were a strange piratical mixture of criollos, mestizos, Spaniards, Irish, Scots, Englishmen, Americans and even a handful of Frenchmen. They reminded Sharpe yet again of Napoleon’s observation about the world being filled with troubled men, accustomed to war, who only waited for a leader to bring them together to assault the citadels of respectable property. Cochrane’s seamen, good fighters all, were as savage as their master. “They fight for money,” Cochrane told Sharpe. “Some, a few, are here to free their country, but the rest would fight for whichever side paid the largest wages. Which is another reason I need to capture Valdivia. I need its treasury to pay my rascals.”

Yet, next dawn, under a gray, sad sky from which a thin, spiteful rain leached like poison, the frigate was lower in the water than it had been all week. The carpenters suggested that more planks had sprung and suggested heading for land. Cochrane gloomily agreed, but then, just as he had given up hope, a strange sail was seen to northward.

“God help us now,” an Irish sailor said to Harper.

“Why’s that?” Harper, seeing the sail, anticipated a rescue.

“Because if that’s a Spanish ship then we’re all dead men. We don’t have a broadside, so they’ll either stand off and pound us down into lumpy gravy, or else take us all prisoner, and there’ll be no mercy shown to us in Valdivia. They’ll have a priest bellowing in our ears while the firing squad sends us all to Abraham’s bosom. That’s if they don’t just hang us from their yardarms first to save the cost of the powder and balls. Jesus, but I should have stayed in Borris, so I should.”

Cochrane ran to the foremast and climbed to the crosstrees where he settled himself with a telescope. There was a long, agonizing wait, then His Lordship sent a cheer rippling down the deck. “It’s the O’Higgins, my boys! It’s the O’Higgins!” The relief was as palpable as if a flight of rescuing angels had descended from heaven.

Cochrane’s flagship had come south to search for its Admiral, and the men on the Espiritu Santo were saved. To fight again.

Captain Ardiles, with the Espiritu Santa’s crew and passengers, was ferried across to the Chilean flagship. The transfers were made in longboats that crashed hard against the Espiritu Santa’s side as the prisoners climbed down precarious scrambling nets. The women and children, terrified of the nets, were lowered into the longboats with ropes.

For every prisoner or passenger carried to the O’Higgins, a seaman came back. The O’Higgins also sent food, water and two portable pumps that were lowered into the Espiritu Santa’s bilges. Fresh strong arms took over the pumping and suddenly the tired and leaking ship was filled with a new life and hope.

Cochrane, so closely snatched from shipwreck, was ebullient again. He welcomed the reinforcements aboard the Espiritu Santo, hurrahed as their new pumps began spewing water overboard, and insisted on sending obscenely cheerful messages to his own flagship. When he became bored with that occupation he paced the quarterdeck with a bottle of wine in one hand and a cigar in the other. “You never told me, Sharpe,” he hospitably offered a drink from the bottle, “just why Bautista threw you out of Chile. Surely not because you wanted to filch Vivar’s corpse?”

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