“I trust I shall have the honor of doing more, my lord.”

“Doubtless you will, Blackwood,” Nelson said, then gestured at the chairs. “Sit, Chase, sit. And you, Mister Sharpe. Tepid coffee, hard bread, cold beef and fresh oranges, not much of a breakfast, I fear, but they tell me the galley’s been struck.” The table was set with plates and knives among which the admiral’s sword lay in its jeweled scabbard. “How are your supplies, Chase?”

“Low, my lord. Water and beef for two weeks, maybe?”

“‘Twill be long enough, long enough. Crew?”

“I pressed a score of good men from an Indiaman, my lord, and have sufficient.”

“Good, good,” the admiral said, then, after his steward had brought coffee and food to the table, he questioned Chase about his voyage and the pursuit of the Revenant. Sharpe, sitting to the admiral’s left, watched him. He knew the admiral had lost the sight of one eye, but it was hard to tell which, though after a while Sharpe saw that the right eye had an unnaturally large and dark pupil. His hair was white and tousled, framing a thin and extraordinarily mobile face that reacted to Chase’s story with alarm, pleasure, amusement and surprise. He interrupted Chase rarely, though he did stop the tale once to request that Sharpe carve the beef. “And perhaps you’ll cut me some bread as well, Mister Sharpe, as a kindness? My fin, you understand,” and he touched his empty right sleeve that was pinned onto a jacket bright with jeweled stars. “You’re very kind,” he said when Sharpe had obeyed. “Do go on, Chase.”

Sharpe had expected to be awed by the admiral, to be struck dumb by him, but instead he found himself feeling protective of the small man who emanated a fragile air of vulnerability. Even though he was sitting, it was clear he was a small man, and very thin, and his pale, lined face suggested he was prone to sickness. He looked so frail that Sharpe had to remind himself that this man had led his fleets to victory after victory, and that in every fight he had been in the thick of the battle, yet he gave the impression that the slightest breeze would knock him down.

The admiral’s apparent frailty made the most immediate impression on Sharpe, but it was the admiral’s eyes that had the stronger effect, for whenever he looked at Sharpe, even if it was merely to request a small service like another piece of buttered bread, it seemed that Sharpe became the most important person in the world at that moment. The glance seemed to exclude everything and everyone else, as though Sharpe and the admiral were in collusion. Nelson had none of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s coldness, no condescension, and gave no impression of believing himself to be superior; indeed it seemed to Sharpe that at that moment, as the fleet lumbered toward the enemy, Horatio Nelson asked nothing from life except to be seated with his good friends Chase, Blackwood and Richard Sharpe. He touched Sharpe’s elbow once. “This talk must be tedious to a soldier, Sharpe?”

“No, my lord,” Sharpe said. The discussion had moved on to the admiral’s tactics this day and much of it was beyond Sharpe’s comprehension, but he did not care. It was enough to be in Nelson’s presence and Sharpe was swept by the little man’s infectious enthusiasm. By God, Sharpe thought, but they would not just beat the enemy fleet this day, but pound it into splinters, hammer it so badly that no French or Spanish ship would ever dare sail the world’s seas again. Chase, he saw, was reacting the same way, almost as though he feared Nelson would weep if he did not fight harder than he had ever fought before.

“Do you put your men in the tops?” Nelson asked, clumsily attempting to remove the peel of an orange with his one hand.

“I do, my lord.”

“I do fear that the musket wads will fire the sails,” the admiral said gently, “so I would rather you did not.”

“Of course not, my lord,” Chase said, immediately yielding to the modest suggestion.

“Sails are only linen, after all,” Nelson said, evidently wanting to explain himself further in case Chase had been offended by the order. “And what do we put inside tinderboxes? Linen! It is horribly flammable.”

“I shall respect your wishes gladly, my lord.”

“And you comprehend my greater purpose?” the admiral asked, referring to his earlier discussion of tactics.

“I do, my lord, and applaud it.”

“I shall not be happy with less than twenty prizes, Chase,” Nelson said sternly.

“So few, my lord?”

The admiral laughed and then, as another officer entered the cabin, stood. Nelson was at least a half-foot shorter than Sharpe who, standing like the others, had to stoop beneath the beams, but the newcomer, who was introduced as the Victory’s captain, Thomas Hardy, was a half-foot taller than Sharpe again and, when he spoke to Nelson, he bent over the little admiral like a protective giant.

“Of course, Hardy, of course,” the admiral said, then smiled at his guests. “Hardy tells me it is time to strike down these bulkheads. We are being evicted, gentlemen. Shall we retreat to the quarterdeck?” He led his guests forward, then, seeing Sharpe hang back, he turned and took his elbow. “Did you serve under Sir Arthur Wellesley in India, Sharpe?”

“I did, my lord.”

“I met him after his return and enjoyed a notable conversation, though I confess I found him rather frightening!” The admiral’s tone made Sharpe laugh, which pleased Nelson. “So you’re joining the 95th, are you?”

“I am, my lord.”

“That is splendid!” The admiral, for some reason, seemed particularly pleased by this news. He ushered Sharpe through the door, then walked him across to the hammock nettings on the larboard side of the quarterdeck. “You’re fortunate indeed, Mister Sharpe. I know William Stewart and count him among my dearest and closest friends. You know why his rifle regiment is so good?”

“No, my lord,” Sharpe said. He had always thought that the newfangled 95th was probably made of the army’s leavings and was dressed in green because no one wanted to waste good red cloth on its soldiers.

“Because they’re intelligent,” the admiral said enthusiastically. “Intelligent! It is a quality sadly despised by the military, but intelligence does have its uses.” He looked up at Sharpe’s face, peering at the tiny blue-flecked marks on Sharpe’s scarred cheek. “Powder scars, Mister Sharpe, and I note you are still an ensign. Would I offend you by suspecting that you once served in the ranks?”

“I did, my lord.”

“Then you have my warmest admiration, indeed you do,” Nelson said energetically, and his admiration seemed entirely genuine. “You must be a remarkable man,” the admiral added.

“No, my lord,” Sharpe said, and he wanted to say that Nelson was the man to admire, but he did not know how to phrase the compliment.

“You’re modest, Mister Sharpe, and that is not good,” Nelson said sternly. To Sharpe’s surprise he found he was alone with the admiral. Chase, Blackwood and the other officers stood on the starboard side while Nelson and Sharpe paced up and down under the larboard hammock nettings. A dozen seamen, grinning at their admiral, had begun collapsing the paneled bulkheads so that no enemy shot could turn them into lethal splinters that could sweep the quarterdeck. “I am not in favor of modesty,” Nelson said, and once again the admiral was overwhelming Sharpe with a flattering intimacy, “and you doubtless find that surprising? We are told, are we not, that modesty is among the virtues, but modesty is not a warrior’s virtue. You and I, Sharpe, have been forced to rise from a lowly place and we do not achieve that by hiding our talents. I am a country clergyman’s son and now?” He waved his one hand at the far enemy fleet, then unconsciously touched the four brilliant stars, the jeweled decorations of his orders of knighthood, that glinted on the left breast of his coat. “Be proud of what you have done,” he said to Sharpe, “then go and do better.”