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The battle just off Cape Trafalgar was heating up into a violent conflict: gunfire, cannon and smoke. As planned, the two British columns were converging in the now-becalmed French-Spanish fleet whose captains and commanders had had the pleasure of the first volley of fire and had much relished it.
Several extremities of several ships were lying scattered across their decks; Conqueror had already lost its jibboom, which its topmen had hastily, but not hastily enough, scrambled up to furl; Neptune's anchor had been bent double from a shot from the Hermione and Temeraire had taken a pounding from Redoubtable's larboard guns, resulting in splinters scattered in the netting, for which the deck crews would have been profoundly grateful if they had had been in a position to think about it.
So far a very pleased Admiral Villeneuve was standing on the Bucentaure's quarterdeck considering his prior thoughts for the enemy's Admiral of the Fleet. Perhaps not so great after all, he though swiftly, and glanced downwards to the cockpit where Dupuytren was now residing, waiting for his first casualty. How he would relish allowing the surgeon know of this success.
It was nearly an hour into the afternoon watch as Bucentaure hammered her cannon to the British flagship and Redoubtable rounded to the starboard. To Redoubtable's starboard other British ships were flocking but far slower than their original speed and Villeneuve gave the order to run up which told Redoubtable to continue with her pounding of Victory, which Bucentaure would now also join.
It was working. Both ships working on the British flagship was causing much confusion to their enemy. Each French ship was no more than four hundred yards from the Victory and Bucentaure delivered a devastating raking broadside, blowing splinters and exposing inner decks in her wake.
Admiral Villeneuve disappeared below decks and appeared with a French imperial eagle as her guns continued to hammer and pound and he held it aloft on the quarter deck minutes later.
"I will it onto the enemy ship and we will take it back there!" A cheer came from those who had heard him and the French made preparations for boarding Victory.
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Juana Margill shivered in her garments. She still had the remnants of makeup and most of her clothing, having made it through the night virtually unscathed. One or two skirmishes perhaps but she had survived. She was in a unique situation: never before would she do what she was about to do (now, having located her target, this would be imminent) and if her timing was out she wouldn't be in a position to do anything again.
What had led her to the hold? Intrigue, that's what. Had he seen her? Juana doubted it. But then little got past Robert Young. Or, more correctly aboard this ship, Stephen Maturin. The latter had intrigued her too: why had Young chosen to disguise himself using that particular name, one that was so well known to her it could have been her own…?
But, in the stead of any lady of the night, any good one at least, she would not be telling when finally Wickham she did encounter. William Wickham! Her mind considered him with scorn. It had taken a few moments of shock for Juana to take in the sight of him, working steadily above board, and a couple of moments more to assimilate him into her plan. Wickham! That despicable rogue! That cad. That bescumberer! She now knew what it was precisely she needed to do and the pleasure would be all hers.
From her position near under the main deck's hatch, hidden from sight and bereft of garments which would delay her in her task Seniorita Margill looked up and waited. She knew the location of both of those she sought but the problem was the timing. She needed to wait for a moment when, if it came, the flagship was living up to its name against the French fleet when the crew's attention would be diverted to its upmost. When that would be wasn't at all certain at the present moment.
She could see Captain Hardy, his face firm as he issued orders, stood strong as a position of power and checked the stations of the men before him. How Juana wished she had taken proper interest in naval or military strategy, but to her something seemed amiss with the Lord Admiral, who was standing next to the Captain officiously.
But what in the name of all that was holy was Nelson doing? It seemed illogical to her that he should be wearing his full uniform, complete with epaulettes and medals for anyone to see! Surely there would be other ways to inspire nationalistic pride into the men other than being such an obvious target for the…enemy.
Consigning her lubberish knowledge to the depths of her mind, Juana Margill counted the shots being fired by the Victory and then the shots received by the enemy. They were winning this one-on-one battle. She put her hand on the pistol that had, up until now, remained a closely guarded secret (to everyone) in her undergarments and withdrew it, holding it firmly to her bosom. She glanced up at the Captain and the Admiral again, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the heat of battle. Now. Now was the time for her to act.
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Cicely had made it to the main deck, paused as Philip Dixon hared back to his gun crew and paused, as the starboard guns erupted thunderously. Jerking to one side she nearly fell back down the steps she had just ascended and held onto the outer edge, saving herself though tearing into her hand flesh, over the now-healing burn.
Gaining a foothold she surveyed the deck. She had half a plan, one which involved her muscling in on the sail-top work – risky she knew as the French were firing into the masts, but one which meant she would be able to locate James and see Nelson. Cicely had considered reporting straight to Jellicoe but thought better of it after her beating.
The steps to the quarter deck were still intact on the starboard side – the flight larboard was half-destroyed – so she chanced a dash towards them and up to the mizzen mast. The midshipman overseeing the mizzenlads there glanced at Cicely's hastening. She stopped once she had been seen and saluted.
"Yes? I didn't expect more hands."
"I've come from Doctor Beatty," Cicely lied. "Lieutenant Williams sent me." Midshipman Barton narrowed his eyes Aubrey-like and Cicely hung her head slightly deferentially. "Begging your pardon, sir," she added, as a measure of insurance. Robert Cutts Barton looked aloft. They still had masses of sails, sheets and shrouds to stow from the ship's glorious entrance and it wasn't as if Lieutenant Williams had the time to announce his relocation of a man, they were in the middle of a ferocious battle after all.
"Up," he shouted, pointing to the rigging. Cicely scrambled to her feet and, gripping the rope between her knees, got herself to the first shroud, helping the floundering landsman who was struggling to tie it fast. She clung to the rigging momentarily as a cannon flew between the mizzen and main masts before catching her breath: not for the near miss but because she had seen the red hair of her friend on the deck below.
Cicely swallowed again, before concentrating on the task in hand, looking down every so often following James's gait. From what she could tell he was still assigned to his role as a deck hand and as such, was busy, along with others, in clearing the decks of debris; wood shards, bullet shot and, most importantly, dousing any sparks which may cause a fire.
An strangled cry caused Cicely to look down – some of the deckhands were rolling around in agony as splinters from a cannon ball exploding against the middle of the upper gun deck threw up fresh oak, some of which had lodged into a variety of body parts. James was hit, rolling around on the floor, gripping his foot.
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Half an hour after Admiral Villeneuve of the combined French-Spanish fleet had issued a challenge to his men to recapture a French eagle which he would throw onto the Victory's main deck and the Bucentaure was in difficulty. Far from being able to board the enemy flagship the admiral was now engaged fighting three English ships, namely Neptune, Conqueror and Temeraire.
The ships had turned so they were now parallel to the French flagship and, with accuracy and precision, were dealing back the trouble the French had bombarded their flagship with less than an hour before. To Bucentaure's prow, on a northern footing Redoubtable and Victory were matching one another, cannon ball for cannon ball, bullet for bullet. Just.
Villeneuve knew he would have to depend on the strength of each individual captain to maintain the combat at such close quarters and, with the wind so light, the ships at either end of the crescent would have difficulty in going about to assist with the destruction that was taking place in the centre. He tried not to rub his head lest he show anything other than strength to his men and cause unsteadiness as they, now, were feeling the brunt of English firepower.
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Throwing the last of the stays around the shroud Cicely began a hasty descent down. That James had been working close to the Lord Admiral, on the quarter deck, couldn't be overlooked.
"Hey!" A voice behind her, namely that of the topman whom she had begun to assist, made Cicely turn and the man gestured up to the next shroud, whose original men had been shot away by Redoubtable's pistol-shots from their rigging. Cicely continued downwards and away from the shouting man, who was now trying to alert Barton to her descent.
If she could get James below decks, Ciccely reasoned, if he was with the doctor, then he wouldn't be able to assassinate Nelson. If it was indeed he who was the assassin, a part of her mind added. She hammered down the steps which she had climbed fifteen minutes before and made for James, but another man, hurrying from the fo'c'sle, was also running towards him, past the other injured landsmen, limping and stumbling around.
As Cicely neared the man held out his hand which James took, and got up clumsily. Why would this man be there, doing this…?
"Get out of here, Cicely!" cried James as she hurried closer.
"No!" shouted back Cicely as she watched his eyes flick towards the Admiral through the melee. It felt bizarre standing there, confronting James when, for so many weeks she had played out how she would stop Lord Nelson's assassin. It was if, were she to look aloft, Cicely thought distractedly, she might see herself looking down and her, James, the man behind him, the battle.
"Stephen Maturin." The man who was still supporting – or rather gripping – James spoke out now, looking at her coldly. "Better for you to turn around and go back to the heavens."
"Cicely!" shrieked James desperately. "Go!"
"No!" shouted back Cicely, repeating her assertion. "I won't let you do it James! I won't let you murder the Admiral." She watched his eyes betray his uncertainty. So, she had been right, in the end, who the assassin was, but now, when it came to it, James did not have it in him to actually carry it out.
"Cicely Hollum," intoned the man holding James. "How good to meet you at last!" Cicely ignored him, ignoring too the fact that he knew exactly who she was for he had just removed a pistol from his tunic.
"You are to kill Nelson?" William Wickham laughed. "But I thought…" She looked at James, confused now at the spectacle.
"You believed that! He couldn't do it, and I knew it too." James swung round, is pain turning to outrage as the man who had recruited him to do the job was now laughing at him scornfully. "You believed that was your task? You believed that you had the strength of body and courage to be like your father? Ha!" Without warning James grabbed the pistol from the man and held it in a shaky hand. Instead of fighting back or protesting the man just laughed again.
"James, no!" shrieked Cicely and made a step towards it. James levelled the pistol at her, drawing back the lock before angling it at Lord Nelson. "NO!"
Cicely's scream was cut short however as Wickham made a run for her but, before he could take more than a couple of steps he collapsed. Behind him, Jean-Baptiste Lebec held a section of blown-away mast.
"Go, go!" he shouted towards Cicely as James held the pistol up again. He pulled the trigger. But Cicely had already begun her sprint towards Nelson. She barrelled past the more robust Captain Hardy and leapt towards the Lord Admiral, the latter too astonished that a landsman was launching himself towards him. Both fell and, a bullet lodged in her stomach, Cicely tumbled to the deck.
Twenty feet away James Fillings crumpled after the shot, falling to his knees as blood began to pool around his legs upon the deck and then a stream of red saliva. Lebec withdrew his dagger from his body.
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From a hill high above the port of Cadiz the company of the 105th rifles had upped their camp and were assembled, waiting for further orders to depart. The soldiers were getting a little restless, though they dared not show their discomfort before their commanding officer. They were to march, Major Blunt had informed them, and their journey would be long and arduous and many of them were eager to get several miles under their feet.
"There'll be a bloody day out there, that's for sure." Blunt took a leg and leaned it against a boulder. He and Sergeant Harker had a glorious view of the sea, of the Atlantic Ocean, lit with heaven-sent light from the heavens on this autumn midday.
"And we will do the same on land," replied Harker, hands on hips. He knew that the men were anxious and he was determined to make it known to his commander.
"I'm not sure," replied Blunt, still resting his leg, "the General has a different arena: we have to march to Spain, or sail to her. We have to go by foot, billet with local people. Nelson has command of the seven seas. He can sail where he wants." He lowered his leg and glanced towards his men. "We'd better get going before the sun sets," he added.
At last, thought Patrick Harker with relief; he had wondered at how slow the Major had taken to take up the camp and though he must have had his reasons Richard Blunt had not shared them with him. Harker made a few steps in the direction of the regiment, his arm aching at the recent injury. Blunt took a step with him. Then something occurred to Sergeant Harker.
"One thing I wanted to ask you, Richard," he began.
"Yes, Pat?"
"Private Young, who turned out to be a lassie? You know, she gave our Rosita such a pretty thing. She'll be fighting out there as ever as fierce as she did with me." He jerked his head coastwards.
"Aye. Probably so."
"Remind me of her name?"
"Cicely," replied Blunt, assessing his regiment. They were fit to go, they were ready. "Cicely Maturin." For they were in for a long march. "What of it?"
"Yes, that's right, because you called her Mrs Maturin," he replied thoughtfully. Blunt sighed. He knew that Patrick Harker rarely took time to share the scenic route of a conversation without very good reason, but it didn't stop it from being so damned frustrating.
"Get to the bloody point, Pat!"
"The man who met us when we were under siege, who gave us instruction to head east…?"
"Yes, Pat?"
"What was his name…?" Blunt paused for a moment before looking aghast.
"Oh, bloody hell!"
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Juana Margill retreated into the shadows. There was nothing that could have been done to help ether Fillings or Maturin now. The man who had struck William Wickham – how she wished it could have been her – had disappeared leaving the confusion of the battle to fill in the voids that the incident had caused and now, looking at the place where Nelson had been standing Robert Young's body lay, motionless.
Seniorita Margill held her head in her un-pistolled hand and rubbed her forehead before saying a few brief quiet words for his passing. And then she looked up. She had a traitor to find: Wickham, who she was going to finish off there and then as he lay unconscious was unconscious no more, probably roaming the ship. With the pistol that James had wrested from him. Possibly seeking her.
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It was nearly two in the afternoon. While many of the English ships were successfully fighting the enemy ships Captain Jack Aubrey was watching with increasing dismay the Victory being overpowered by the might of the French Redoubtable.
Cannon after cannon shot into her top bows, into her masts and rigging, the deck showered with bullets, the air thick with smoke and sweat. What had done for her was the force of the grenades, being hurled by topmen from the rigging, taking pre-assembled incendiaries from covered baskets placed high in the mid-sections.
From his eyeglass Aubrey could see that the captain had ordered the boarding party to prepare – the guns had been pushed forward so as to clear a way for the gun crews to go over the edge and make it to Victory's deck. It was catastrophic, Jack knew, but he had had the temerity (with respect to his orders) or the common sense (with respect to seamanship) to edge closer, to the stern-line of the Victory to the North of the windward column.
All of the French or Spanish ships who had managed to fight with the little wind that day were already engaged, and by not having fought with the rest of the ships, thereby offering a degree of cover, HMS Surprise was in a uniquely advantageous position.
"Clear the decks! Prepare to engage!" He shouted the orders to Mowett, who relayed it to the lieutenants, allowing it to trickle through the hierarchy.
His orders were to not engage the French or Spanish ships, and not to fight in the battle. However what they were not, were not to defend the Royal Navy's flagship from utter annihilation. He would stand for punishment, Aubrey decided, he would ask for a court martial to defend his action. He saluted the ensign, catching his hand on his tunic, the lapel turning over and Jack Aubrey glanced down briefly.
The capstan heaved under raw, aching muscle and Surprise, having the wind advantage, approached from the starboard bow of the Redoubtable and fired on the exposed French crew with a carronade, causing many casualties. It was the linchpin. Within half an hour Captain Lucas would surrender and Victory would win her battle, and, in turn, the day.
What the crew of the Surprise heard, between the captain's issuing of orders, as he discovered a small nasturtium embroidered in scarlet thread and next to it a four-leafed clover.
"Dammit, Robert Young, dammit!"