“Vice Admiral Nelson’s compliments, sir,” Lieutenant Connors said, scarce able to conceal his excitement, “and we’re to bear north northwest to join his fleet.”

“Nelson!” Chase said the name with awe. “Nelson! By God, Nelson!”

The officers actually cheered. Sharpe stared at them in astonishment. For over two months they had pursued the Revenant, using every ounce of seamanship to close on her, yet now, ordered to abandon the chase, they cheered? The enemy ship was just to sail away?

“We’re a gift from heaven, Sharpe,” Chase explained. “A ship of the line? Of course Nelson wants us. We add guns! We’re in for a battle, by God, we are too! Nelson against the Frogs and the Dons, this is heaven!”

“And the Revenant?” Sharpe asked.

“If we don’t catch her,” Chase asked airily, “what does it matter?”

“It might matter in India.”

“That’ll be the army’s problem,” Chase said dismissively. “Don’t you understand, Sharpe? The enemy fleet’s out! We’re going to pound them to splinters! No one can blame us for abandoning a chase to join battle. Besides, it’s Nelson’s decision, not mine. Nelson, by God! Now we’re in good company!” He danced another brief and clumsy hornpipe before picking up his speaking trumpet to call out the orders that would turn the Pucelle toward the British fleet that lay beyond the horizon, but before he could even draw breath a shout came from the main crosstrees that another fleet was visible on the northern horizon.

“Stand on,” Chase ordered the quartermaster at the wheel, then ran for the main shrouds, followed by a half-dozen officers. Sharpe went more slowly. He climbed the rain-soaked ratlines, negotiated the lubber’s hole and trained his telescope north, but he could see nothing except a wind-broken sea and a mass of clouds on the horizon.

“The enemy.” Captain Llewellyn of the marines had arrived beside Sharpe on the maintop’s grating. He breathed the words. “My God, it’s the enemy.”

“And the Revenant will join them!” Chase said. “That’s my guess. They’ll be as glad of Montmorin’s company as Nelson is of ours.” He turned and grinned at Sharpe. “You see? We may not have lost her after all!”

The enemy? Sharpe could still see nothing but clouds and sea, but then he realized that what he had mistaken for a streak of dirty white cloud on the horizon was in fact a mass of topsails. A fleet of ships was on that horizon and sailing straight toward his glass so that their sails coalesced into a blur. God alone knew how many ships were there, but Chase had said that the combined navies of France and Spain had put out to sea. “I see thirty,” Lieutenant Haskell said uncertainly, “maybe more.”

“And they’re coming south,” Chase said, puzzled. “I thought the rascals were supposed to be going north to cover the invasion?”

“It’s French navigators,” Lieutenant Peel, the rotund man who had sung so beautifully at the concert, said. “They think Britain’s off Africa.”

“They can sail to China so long as we catch them,” Chase said, then collapsed his telescope and disappeared down the futtock shrouds. Sharpe stayed in the maintop until a squall of rain blotted the far fleet from view.

The Pucelle turned westward, but the fickle wind turned with her so that she had to beat her way out into the Atlantic, thumping the cold waves to spatter spray down the holy-stoned decks. The enemy fleet was soon lost to sight, but Chase’s course took the Pucelle past two more frigates which formed the fragile chain connecting Nelson’s fleet with the enemy. The frigates were the scouts, the cavalry, and, having found the enemy, they stayed with her and sent messages back down the long windy links of their chain. Connors watched the bright colored flags and passed on their news. The enemy, he reported, was still sailing south and the Euryalus had counted thirty-three ships of the line and five frigates, but two hours later the total was increased by one ship of the line because the Revenant, as Chase had foreseen, had been ordered to join the enemy’s fleet.

“Thirty-four prizes!” Chase said exultantly. “My God, we’ll hammer them!”

The last link in the chain was not a single-decked frigate, but a ship of the line which, to Sharpe’s amazement, was identified even before her hull showed above the horizon. “It’s the Mars,” Lieutenant Haskell said, peering through his glass. “I’d know that mizzen topsail anywhere.”

“The Mars?” Chase’s spirits were flying high to the heavens now. “Georgie Duff, eh! He and I were midshipmen together, Sharpe. He’s a Scotsman,” he added as though that were relevant. “Big fellow, he is, big enough to be a prize fighter! I remember his appetite! Never had enough to eat, poor fellow.”

A string of flags appeared at the Mars’s mizzen. “Our number, sir,” Connors reported, then waited a few seconds. “What brings you home in such a hurry?”

“Give Captain Duff my compliments,” Chase said happily, “and tell him I knew he’d need some help.” The signal lieutenant dragged flags from their lockers, a midshipman bent them on to the halliard and a seaman hauled them up.

“Captain Duff assures you, sir, that he will not permit us to come to any harm,” Connors reported after a moment.

“Oh, he’s a good fellow!” Chase said, delighted with the insult. “A good fellow.”

An hour later another cloud of sail appeared, only this one was on the western horizon and it grew from a blurred smear into the massed sails of a fleet. Twenty-six ships of the line, not counting the Mars or the Pucelle, were sailing northward and Chase took his ship toward the head of the line while his officers crowded at the quarterdeck’s lee rail and gazed at the far ships. Lord William and Lady Grace, both bundled in heavy cloaks, had come on deck to see the British fleet.

“There’s the Tonnant!” Chase exulted. “See her? A lovely ship, just lovely! An eighty-four. She was captured at the Nile. God, I remember seeing her come into Gibraltar afterward, all her topmasts gone and blood crusted at her scuppers, but don’t she look wonderful now? Who has her?”

“Charles Tyler,” Haskell said.

“What a good fellow he is, to be sure! And is that the Swiftsure?”

“It is, sir.”

“My God, she was at the Nile too. Ben Hallowell had her then. Dear Ben. She’s under Willy Rutherford now,” he said to Sharpe, as though Sharpe would know the name, “and he’s a good fellow, a capital fellow! Look at that copper on the Royal Sovereign”. New, eh? She’ll be sailing quick as you like.” He was pointing to one of the bigger warships, a great brute with three gundecks and Sharpe, peering through his glass, could see the bright gleam of her newly coppered hull whenever she leaned to the wind. The other ships, when they tilted to the breeze, showed a band of copper turned green by the sea, but the Royal Sovereign’s lower hull shone like gold. “She’s Admiral Collingwood’s flagship,” Chase told Sharpe, “and he’s a good fellow. Not as nice as his dog, but a good fellow.”

To Chase they were all good fellows. There was Billy Hargood who was sailing the Belleisle, a seventy-four that had been captured from the French, and Jimmy Morris of the Colossus and Bob Moorsom of the Revenge. “Now there’s a fellow who knows how to train a ship,” Chase said warmly. “Wait till you see her in battle, Sharpe! She can fire broadsides faster than anyone.”

“The Dreadnought’s faster!’ Peel suppested.

“The Revenge is much quicker!” Haskell said, irritated by the second lieutenant’s comment.

“The Dreadnought’s quick, no doubt of it, she’s quick.” Chase tried to mediate between his senior lieutenants. He pointed out the Dreadnought to Sharpe, who saw another three-decker. “Her guns are quick,” Chase said, “but she’s painful slow on the wind. John Conn has her, doesn’t he?”