The sea ahead of the Pucelle was being pockmarked by shot, flicked by white spray or whipped by round shots skimming the waves, though so far none of those shots had come close to the Pucelle herself. The Temeraire, which had failed to overtake the Victory and was now sailing off her starboard quarter, was taking shots through her sails. Sharpe could see the holes appear like magic, making the ship’s whole spread of canvas quiver. A broken line whipped and flew wide. To Sharpe it seemed as though the Victory and Temeraire were sailing directly toward the Santisima Trinidad with its four smoke-wreathed decks of death. The sound of the enemy guns was loud now, punching over the water, sometimes in thunderous groups, more often single gun by single gun. “It’ll be ten or fifteen minutes before we’re in range, sir,” Clouter said, answering Sharpe’s unspoken question.
“Good luck, Clouter.”
The tall man grinned. “Ain’t a white man alive that can kill me, sir. No, sir, they done all they can to me, and now it’s me and my smasher’s turn.” He patted his carronade, his “smasher,” which was as ugly a weapon as any Sharpe had seen. It resembled an army mortar, though it was slightly longer in the barrel, and it squatted in its short carriage like a deformed cooking pot. The carriage had no wheels, but instead allowed the barrel to slide back, wood on greased wood. The gun’s wide muzzle gaped and its belly was crammed with one thirty-two-pound round shot and a wooden cask of musket balls. It was no pretty thing, nor was it accurate, but bring it within yards of an enemy ship and it could belch a flail of metal that could have torn the guts out of a battalion.
“A Scotsman invented it.” Sergeant Armstrong had appeared beside Sharpe. The sergeant sniffed as he looked at the vast pot on its carriage. “Heathen gun, sir. Heathen gunner, too,” he added, looking at Clouter. “If we boards an enemy, Clouter,” he said sternly, “you stay close to me.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Why close to you?” Sharpe asked Armstrong as they walked away from the carronade.
“Because when that black heathen starts to fight, sir, there ain’t a man born who dares stand in his way. A fiend, he is.” Armstrong sounded disapproving, but then, Clouter was palpably not a Northumbrian. “And you, sir?” Armstrong asked suspiciously. “Will you board with us?” What the sergeant really wanted to know was whether Sharpe planned to usurp his authority.
Sharpe could have insisted on commanding the marines, but he suspected they would fight better if Armstrong gave them their orders. Which meant Sharpe had little to do on the forecastle other than set an example, which was what most junior officers were doing when they were killed in battle. Armstrong knew what had to be done, the marines had been superbly trained by Llewellyn, and Sharpe had no mind to pace the forecastle showing a gentlemanly disdain for enemy fire. He would rather fight. “I’m going below,” he told Armstrong, “to draw a musket from stores.”
The enemy shots were still falling well short of the Pucelle as Sharpe went down the companionway and forward into the covered bow portion of the weather deck where he found the galley—usually a place where men gathered—empty, cold and deserted. The fires in the vast iron oven had all been doused and two of the ship’s cats were rubbing themselves against the blackened metal as if curious as to why their source of warmth was gone. The gunners sat by their guns. Once in a while a man would lift a gunport, letting in a bright wash of light, and lean out to peer toward the enemy.
Sharpe went on down to the lower deck which was as dim as a cellar though some light seeped from the wide windows of the stripped wardroom that lay at the stern. The ship’s biggest guns squatted here like tethered beasts behind their closed ports. The cannons were usually stored with their barrels fully elevated and then drawn tight to the ship’s sides, but now the barrels had been lowered to the fighting position and the carriages were standing well back from the ports. The sound of the enemy gunfire was muted so that it was little more than a dull grumble. Sharpe dropped down one more companionway to the orlop deck which was lit by shielded lanterns. He was below the water line now, and it was here that the ship’s magazines were guarded by marines armed with muskets, bayonets and orders to stop any unauthorized person from going through the double leather curtains that were dripping with sea water. Powder monkeys, some in felt slippers, but most barefooted, waited by the oviter curtain with their long tin canisters and Sharpe asked one of the boys to fetch him a pouch of musket ammunition and another of pistol shot while he went forrard to the small arms store and took a musket and pistol from the racks. The weight of the pistol made him think of Grace, safe now in the deep after hold. He tested both flints, found them secure.