up there,” Harper warned more seriously. “Filthy bad.”
Sharpe went on deck a few moments later to find that conditions were indeed bad. The ocean was a white shambles, blown ragged by a freezing wind that came slicing off the icesheets which lay to the south. The Espiritu Santo, its sails furled down to mere dark scraps, labored and thumped and staggered against the weather's malevolence. Sharpe, tired of being cooped up in the stinking 'tweendecks, and wanting some fresh air, steadied himself against the quarterdeck's starboard carronade. There were few other people on deck, merely a handful of sailors who crouched in the lee scuppers, two men who were draped in tarpaulin capes by the wheel, and a solitary cloaked figure who clung to a shroud on the weather side of the poop.
The cloaked man, seeing Sharpe, carefully negotiated a passage across the wet and heaving deck, and Sharpe, to his astonishment, saw that it was the reclusive Captain Ardiles, who had not been seen by any of the passengers since the Espiritu Santo had left Saint Helena.
“Cape Horn!” Ardiles shouted, pointing off to starboard.
Sharpe stared. For a long time he could see nothing, then an explosion of shredded water betrayed where a black scrap of rock resisted the pounding waves.
“That's the last scrap of good earth that many a sailorman saw before he drowned!” Ardiles spoke with a gloomy relish, then clutched at the tarred rigging as the Espiritu Santo fell sideways into the green heart of a wave's trough. He waited till the frigate had recovered and was laboring up a great slope of savaged white sea. “So what did you think of Napoleon?” Ardiles asked Sharpe.
Sharpe hesitated, wanting his answer to be precise. “He put me in mind of a man who has played a hugely successful joke on people he despises.”
Ardiles, who had flat, watchful eyes in a hungry, cadaverous face, thought about Sharpe's answer, then shrugged. “Maybe. But I think he should have been executed for his joke.”
Sharpe said nothing. He could see the waves breaking on Cape Horn more clearly now, and could just make out the loom of a black cliff beyond the battered water. God, he thought, but this is a fearful place.
“They made me sick!” Ardiles said suddenly.
“Sick?” Sharpe had only half heard Ardiles's scathing words and had assumed that the frigate's Captain was talking about the seasickness that afflicted most of the army officers.
“Ruiz and the others! Fawning over that man! Jesus! But Bonaparte was our enemy. He did enough damage to Spain! If it were not for Bonaparte you think there'd be any rebellion in South America? He encouraged it! And how many more Spaniards will die for that man's evil? Yet these bastards bowed and scraped to him. Given half a chance they'd have licked his bum cleaner than a nun's finger!”
Sharpe staggered as the ship rolled. A rattle of sleet and foam shot down the deck and slammed into the poop. “I can't say I wasn't impressed by meeting Bonaparte!” he shouted in defense of the Spanish army officers. “He's been my enemy long enough, but I felt privileged to be there. I even liked him!”
“That's because you're English! Your women weren't raped by those French bastards, and your children weren't killed by them!” Ardiles stared balefully into the trough of a scummy wave that roared under the Espiritu Santos counter. "So what did you talk about when you were alone with him?”
“Waterloo.”
“Just Waterloo?” Ardiles seemed remarkably suspicious.
“Just that,” Sharpe said, with an air of irritation, for it was none of Ardiles's business what he and a stricken Emperor had discussed.
Ardiles, sensing he had offended Sharpe, changed the subject by waving a hand toward the cabins where Ruiz's artillery officers sheltered from the storm in their vomit-rinsed misery. “What do you think of officers who don't share their men's discomforts?”
Sharpe believed that officers who abandoned their men were
Sharpe went on deck a few moments later to find that conditions were indeed bad. The ocean was a white shambles, blown ragged by a freezing wind that came slicing off the icesheets which lay to the south. The Espiritu Santo, its sails furled down to mere dark scraps, labored and thumped and staggered against the weather's malevolence. Sharpe, tired of being cooped up in the stinking 'tweendecks, and wanting some fresh air, steadied himself against the quarterdeck's starboard carronade. There were few other people on deck, merely a handful of sailors who crouched in the lee scuppers, two men who were draped in tarpaulin capes by the wheel, and a solitary cloaked figure who clung to a shroud on the weather side of the poop.
The cloaked man, seeing Sharpe, carefully negotiated a passage across the wet and heaving deck, and Sharpe, to his astonishment, saw that it was the reclusive Captain Ardiles, who had not been seen by any of the passengers since the Espiritu Santo had left Saint Helena.
“Cape Horn!” Ardiles shouted, pointing off to starboard.
Sharpe stared. For a long time he could see nothing, then an explosion of shredded water betrayed where a black scrap of rock resisted the pounding waves.
“That's the last scrap of good earth that many a sailorman saw before he drowned!” Ardiles spoke with a gloomy relish, then clutched at the tarred rigging as the Espiritu Santo fell sideways into the green heart of a wave's trough. He waited till the frigate had recovered and was laboring up a great slope of savaged white sea. “So what did you think of Napoleon?” Ardiles asked Sharpe.
Sharpe hesitated, wanting his answer to be precise. “He put me in mind of a man who has played a hugely successful joke on people he despises.”
Ardiles, who had flat, watchful eyes in a hungry, cadaverous face, thought about Sharpe's answer, then shrugged. “Maybe. But I think he should have been executed for his joke.”
Sharpe said nothing. He could see the waves breaking on Cape Horn more clearly now, and could just make out the loom of a black cliff beyond the battered water. God, he thought, but this is a fearful place.
“They made me sick!” Ardiles said suddenly.
“Sick?” Sharpe had only half heard Ardiles's scathing words and had assumed that the frigate's Captain was talking about the seasickness that afflicted most of the army officers.
“Ruiz and the others! Fawning over that man! Jesus! But Bonaparte was our enemy. He did enough damage to Spain! If it were not for Bonaparte you think there'd be any rebellion in South America? He encouraged it! And how many more Spaniards will die for that man's evil? Yet these bastards bowed and scraped to him. Given half a chance they'd have licked his bum cleaner than a nun's finger!”
Sharpe staggered as the ship rolled. A rattle of sleet and foam shot down the deck and slammed into the poop. “I can't say I wasn't impressed by meeting Bonaparte!” he shouted in defense of the Spanish army officers. “He's been my enemy long enough, but I felt privileged to be there. I even liked him!”
“That's because you're English! Your women weren't raped by those French bastards, and your children weren't killed by them!” Ardiles stared balefully into the trough of a scummy wave that roared under the Espiritu Santos counter. "So what did you talk about when you were alone with him?”
“Waterloo.”
“Just Waterloo?” Ardiles seemed remarkably suspicious.
“Just that,” Sharpe said, with an air of irritation, for it was none of Ardiles's business what he and a stricken Emperor had discussed.
Ardiles, sensing he had offended Sharpe, changed the subject by waving a hand toward the cabins where Ruiz's artillery officers sheltered from the storm in their vomit-rinsed misery. “What do you think of officers who don't share their men's discomforts?”
Sharpe believed that officers who abandoned their men were
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