Iago!â
Nathan found his pistols, cocked and fired them one after the other, but it was like throwing stones into the advancing sea. There was no visible effect and the sea kept coming.
The British sailors in the bows were buried under the first wave, but the rest of his crew had dropped their oars and taken up their weapons. Pistols flashed in the darkness, their loud reports providing the percussion for the frenzied clash of steel and the harsher cries of the men. One man, almost as big as the late, lamented Connor, was wielding a broad axe like a Saxon warrior of old, while emitting a great roar, rising and falling with each stroke. Nathan threw his pistols one after the other at a man seeking unfair advantage by climbing up the rigging, and had the satisfaction of seeing the second bounce off his head, causing him to lose his hold and fall backwards into the sea. Then he took up his sword and hurled himself into the fray.
It was his second mistake of the night, for their attacker, after backing oars, had come at them again from astern. Half a dozen Spaniards had leaped aboard before Nathan realised what was afoot. He turned to meet them but was taken aback by the fury of the attack and could only retreat, desperately parrying with sword and dirk as hetried to keep his footing on planks now greasy with blood. He saw the pike thrust coming, but as he twisted to avoid it, he felt a savage stab of pain in his left hip. It was violent enough to bring him to his knees but he parried the next blow with the metal guard on his sword and stabbed upwards with his dirk. A scream of pain and his assailant fell back.
Nathan struggled to his feet but was knocked down again in the rush of his own men as they moved to tackle this new threat in their rear. By the time he found his feet again, the remaining Spaniards had been forced back into their own boat or swept into the sea. Then there was a flash and a roar at his shoulder and he whirled round to see the young sailing master, Prebble, bent over the starboard swivel gun. He had fired at point-blank range into the Spanish boat and was already leaping across to its twin on the opposite gunwale, heaving it around across his startled shipmates. They threw themselves down across the thwarts an instant before he fired and Nathan, who had sensibly dived with them, heard the wind of the grapeshot above his head before his ears were assailed by the roar of the explosion. The canvas bag of shot, torn in shreds, distributed two dozen leaden musket balls down the length of the crippled Spanish vessel, and what was left of her drifted away into the darkness.
Nathan put a hand to his hip and felt the sticky mess of blood, but at least it was not pumping out of a severed artery and the bone felt sound enough. He tugged off his stock and pressed it against the wound. Then he looked about him. All along the line of his miniature fleet, battle was joined. A tangle of boats and oars, strugglingfigures â in the water and out â a wreath of smoke like a sea fog, palely gleaming in the moon light. And through it, the stabbing orange flash of pistols and muskets and occasionally something more substantial.
And in one of these brighter flashes, to his complete astonish ment, he saw Nelson. He was standing in the stern of a barge, a sword in one hand, a pistol in the other, his teeth bared in a snarl of rage. Then the darkness closed on him and Nathan wondered if it was some spectre of his imagining. But no. Another flash and a roar and he saw him again, hatless now, his hair streaming about his ears. Nathan felt a momentary exhilaration, then wonder. What in Godâs name was he about? An Admiral hurling himself into a fight like this, like some young midshipman anxious to make his name.
He had brought up reinforcements, but so had the Spaniards. There must have been more than fifty small boats engaged in this frenzied, vicious brawl off the shores of Cadiz, like some ancient battle of the
Nathan found his pistols, cocked and fired them one after the other, but it was like throwing stones into the advancing sea. There was no visible effect and the sea kept coming.
The British sailors in the bows were buried under the first wave, but the rest of his crew had dropped their oars and taken up their weapons. Pistols flashed in the darkness, their loud reports providing the percussion for the frenzied clash of steel and the harsher cries of the men. One man, almost as big as the late, lamented Connor, was wielding a broad axe like a Saxon warrior of old, while emitting a great roar, rising and falling with each stroke. Nathan threw his pistols one after the other at a man seeking unfair advantage by climbing up the rigging, and had the satisfaction of seeing the second bounce off his head, causing him to lose his hold and fall backwards into the sea. Then he took up his sword and hurled himself into the fray.
It was his second mistake of the night, for their attacker, after backing oars, had come at them again from astern. Half a dozen Spaniards had leaped aboard before Nathan realised what was afoot. He turned to meet them but was taken aback by the fury of the attack and could only retreat, desperately parrying with sword and dirk as hetried to keep his footing on planks now greasy with blood. He saw the pike thrust coming, but as he twisted to avoid it, he felt a savage stab of pain in his left hip. It was violent enough to bring him to his knees but he parried the next blow with the metal guard on his sword and stabbed upwards with his dirk. A scream of pain and his assailant fell back.
Nathan struggled to his feet but was knocked down again in the rush of his own men as they moved to tackle this new threat in their rear. By the time he found his feet again, the remaining Spaniards had been forced back into their own boat or swept into the sea. Then there was a flash and a roar at his shoulder and he whirled round to see the young sailing master, Prebble, bent over the starboard swivel gun. He had fired at point-blank range into the Spanish boat and was already leaping across to its twin on the opposite gunwale, heaving it around across his startled shipmates. They threw themselves down across the thwarts an instant before he fired and Nathan, who had sensibly dived with them, heard the wind of the grapeshot above his head before his ears were assailed by the roar of the explosion. The canvas bag of shot, torn in shreds, distributed two dozen leaden musket balls down the length of the crippled Spanish vessel, and what was left of her drifted away into the darkness.
Nathan put a hand to his hip and felt the sticky mess of blood, but at least it was not pumping out of a severed artery and the bone felt sound enough. He tugged off his stock and pressed it against the wound. Then he looked about him. All along the line of his miniature fleet, battle was joined. A tangle of boats and oars, strugglingfigures â in the water and out â a wreath of smoke like a sea fog, palely gleaming in the moon light. And through it, the stabbing orange flash of pistols and muskets and occasionally something more substantial.
And in one of these brighter flashes, to his complete astonish ment, he saw Nelson. He was standing in the stern of a barge, a sword in one hand, a pistol in the other, his teeth bared in a snarl of rage. Then the darkness closed on him and Nathan wondered if it was some spectre of his imagining. But no. Another flash and a roar and he saw him again, hatless now, his hair streaming about his ears. Nathan felt a momentary exhilaration, then wonder. What in Godâs name was he about? An Admiral hurling himself into a fight like this, like some young midshipman anxious to make his name.
He had brought up reinforcements, but so had the Spaniards. There must have been more than fifty small boats engaged in this frenzied, vicious brawl off the shores of Cadiz, like some ancient battle of the
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