fighting galleys: Greek against Persian, Roman against Phoenician, but without the elegance, its authenticity betrayed by the flash and roar of the explosions.
And it was by their light he saw Nelsonâs barge assailed by a much larger vessel, a gun brig under sweeps, its decks crowded with men waving swords, pikes and pistols, and yelling their frenzied invocations to St James. Gathering his shattered wits, Nathan made a swift appraisal of his remaining strength â above a score of men, though several like him, clutching wounds. He stumbled back to the helm and issued a stream of orders that had them falling to the oars, most still, marvellously, hanging from the rowlocks.Setting his teeth against the pain, he folded the mess of skin and cloth back over his wound and stood with one hand on the tiller, the other at his hip like some mincing fop on the Haymarket, save that fops did not normally mince with one leg soaked in blood from hip to heel; he could feel it squelching in his ill-fitting shoe. They rounded the stern of the brig and swarmed up the side that was not engaged. Nathan was past swarming, but he heaved himself laboriously aboard, helped by an undignified push from the mad axeman.
Prebble, he noted, had taken the lead with the inspiring, if surprising cry of âGod and Saint George!â which clearly marked him as a gentleman of breeding and religious inclination. Nathanâs own exhortations were of a less devout nature but he suspected his men needed no officer, pious or profane, to teach them the basics of this bloody business. They cleared the decks of the brig in the first wild rush and followed the boarders into the Admiralâs barge.
Pausing at the rail, Nathan glanced down and saw Nelson again. He was still on his feet but hard pressed, his face wild and bloodied; and in that instant he saw him fall, swamped by a horde of charging men. Then Nathan jumped â
â into a heaving, slashing, kicking, swearing, brutish brawl of bodies. God, St George and St James were buried under a stream of Saxon and Spanish profanity. It was too frenzied, too one-sided to last. The Spaniards, caught between two fires, sought refuge in surrender, or the sea. Nathan fought his way through the press of wounded or exhausted â or exhilarated â men, thinking to find one dead Admiral, only to find two living ones: Nelson, withtwo swords now, and a man he introduced, with whimsical formality, as the Spanish Admiral Don Miguel Irigoyen, who had taken charge of the gunboats. He was curiously amiable, and as over-excited as his captor, and they were bowing and exchanging compliments like a pair of dowagers at a ball. Suddenly sickened, Nathan turned away, and found a thwart to sit upon, poking gingerly at his wound.
After a moment he became aware that something was amiss â something other than his damaged hip. The
Thunder
had stopped firing. He could see her masts against the sky but they were no longer illuminated by the flash of mortar or howitzer. And the
Urchin
, too, was silent.
Nathan was not the only one to have noticed. Nelson was looking decidedly less cheerful. Wearily, they took the Spanish brig in tow and rowed across the intervening stretch of water to the dormant volcano, where a distraught Mr Gourly confessed that his precious mortar was dismounted and could no longer be brought to bear, while the howitzer was useless, he said, as he had always known it would be, at such a range.
Nelson was clearly unimpressed.
âAnd can you not advance any closer?â he demanded coldly.
For answer another shot skimmed off the surface of the water and smashed into the hull of the battered vessel. Her timbers were sprung, the lieutenant explained, and they were taking water â already above a foot in the well. And without the mortar ⦠he shrugged helplessly.
And so, with obvious reluctance, Nelson called off the attack.
âWe will try again tonight,â Nathan heard him
And it was by their light he saw Nelsonâs barge assailed by a much larger vessel, a gun brig under sweeps, its decks crowded with men waving swords, pikes and pistols, and yelling their frenzied invocations to St James. Gathering his shattered wits, Nathan made a swift appraisal of his remaining strength â above a score of men, though several like him, clutching wounds. He stumbled back to the helm and issued a stream of orders that had them falling to the oars, most still, marvellously, hanging from the rowlocks.Setting his teeth against the pain, he folded the mess of skin and cloth back over his wound and stood with one hand on the tiller, the other at his hip like some mincing fop on the Haymarket, save that fops did not normally mince with one leg soaked in blood from hip to heel; he could feel it squelching in his ill-fitting shoe. They rounded the stern of the brig and swarmed up the side that was not engaged. Nathan was past swarming, but he heaved himself laboriously aboard, helped by an undignified push from the mad axeman.
Prebble, he noted, had taken the lead with the inspiring, if surprising cry of âGod and Saint George!â which clearly marked him as a gentleman of breeding and religious inclination. Nathanâs own exhortations were of a less devout nature but he suspected his men needed no officer, pious or profane, to teach them the basics of this bloody business. They cleared the decks of the brig in the first wild rush and followed the boarders into the Admiralâs barge.
Pausing at the rail, Nathan glanced down and saw Nelson again. He was still on his feet but hard pressed, his face wild and bloodied; and in that instant he saw him fall, swamped by a horde of charging men. Then Nathan jumped â
â into a heaving, slashing, kicking, swearing, brutish brawl of bodies. God, St George and St James were buried under a stream of Saxon and Spanish profanity. It was too frenzied, too one-sided to last. The Spaniards, caught between two fires, sought refuge in surrender, or the sea. Nathan fought his way through the press of wounded or exhausted â or exhilarated â men, thinking to find one dead Admiral, only to find two living ones: Nelson, withtwo swords now, and a man he introduced, with whimsical formality, as the Spanish Admiral Don Miguel Irigoyen, who had taken charge of the gunboats. He was curiously amiable, and as over-excited as his captor, and they were bowing and exchanging compliments like a pair of dowagers at a ball. Suddenly sickened, Nathan turned away, and found a thwart to sit upon, poking gingerly at his wound.
After a moment he became aware that something was amiss â something other than his damaged hip. The
Thunder
had stopped firing. He could see her masts against the sky but they were no longer illuminated by the flash of mortar or howitzer. And the
Urchin
, too, was silent.
Nathan was not the only one to have noticed. Nelson was looking decidedly less cheerful. Wearily, they took the Spanish brig in tow and rowed across the intervening stretch of water to the dormant volcano, where a distraught Mr Gourly confessed that his precious mortar was dismounted and could no longer be brought to bear, while the howitzer was useless, he said, as he had always known it would be, at such a range.
Nelson was clearly unimpressed.
âAnd can you not advance any closer?â he demanded coldly.
For answer another shot skimmed off the surface of the water and smashed into the hull of the battered vessel. Her timbers were sprung, the lieutenant explained, and they were taking water â already above a foot in the well. And without the mortar ⦠he shrugged helplessly.
And so, with obvious reluctance, Nelson called off the attack.
âWe will try again tonight,â Nathan heard him
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