Alternate Generals (34 page)

Pierre looked puzzled and somewhat panicked. "But Admiral, that will put us in the path of the
Victory
."

"Turn, dammit. Now!" he bellowed.

The ship made a sudden lurch to the left and turned into the wind. Please God, prayed Nelson, don't let her miss her stays. The
Bucentaure
hesitated for a moment, then the remaining sails filled and she swung around, heading in the opposite direction of his own line. The two lines were so close now that the new course brought them directly next to the
Victory
.

"Now men, pour it on!" Nelson was screaming and waving his arm, cutlass in hand, as if he was ready to lead a boarding party.

The two ships pounded each other with broadside after broadside. Nelson watched his first lieutenant clutch his chest and fall. Then he noticed that the enemy's rigging was thick with marines shooting muskets. A sharp pain in his right shoulder briefly distracted him, but soon his mind was back on the battle at hand. His other ships had maintained formation and were making use of the disorder he had caused in the British line. A quick glance over his port rail showed that Devereaux was easily handling the three battle ships that had been cut off and would likely be joining the main body soon. Inspection of the Spanish action, however, revealed chaos. Only time would tell there.

Nothing to worry about now except
Victory
. He smiled at his own pun. The heated action continued with his own ship giving at least as much as it was getting. His crew cheered spontaneously as the opponent's mainmast fell lengthwise across her bow, the canvas covering many gun ports.

With redoubled effort, his gun crews worked furiously, firing shot after shot into the enemy ship. Both ships had ceased forward movement now and the
Victory
was drifting toward the French flagship. Incoming musket fire had stopped as all available hands, marines included, were trying to cut away the fallen sails and clear the gunports. Nelson was really enjoying this battle and was only distantly aware of the throbbing pain in his shoulder. Then, as he scanned the English warship, he caught sight of Hardy standing at the stump of the mainmast waving his arms furiously.

"There you are, you bastard," he said quietly to himself. He relished the evident misery of his foe. "We will see how qualified you are to command a ship-of-the-line." He raised his voice once again. "Pierre, sweep the deck with grape and prepare to board."

This time Captain Gaspard did not hesitate. The marines stood ready, muskets and cutlasses in hand, while the starboard gun crews prepared to attack with pikes and boarding axes. Meanwhile, the larboard guns belched out a murderous swarm of grapeshot, doing little damage to the
Victory
, but decimating the men on deck. The ships were now touching at the bows, and lines with grappling hooks were being cast and secured.

"One more round, double load," roared the admiral. "Then we board!"

The last blast was devastating to the English crew and Nelson saw Hardy go down. Then his men swarmed onto the
Victory
, screaming like the possessed. When they reached the enemy deck they fought ferociously, hacking, stabbing, chopping . . . But the men of the
Victory
were not ready to strike their colors. Their fighting was just as savage and the battle was yet to be decided. Nelson made his way forward, intending to join in the fray, when the captain stood in his path.

"Admiral, you are wounded," Gaspard said pointing to Nelson's bloody right shoulder.

"It is nothing, Pierre. Get out of the way, now. I must join the men."

"This is an order I cannot obey. Even if you were not wounded, I would not permit you to board that ship until the colors are struck. You may be the admiral of the fleet, but I am still captain of the
Bucentaure
. Come, now. I will take you to the surgeon."

Nelson started to protest but realized that he was feeling very weak. "Very well. I agree to stay out of the melee. But I will not go below until
Victory
strikes."

"You are stubborn, my friend, but I will grant your wish."

The two officers stood side by side, leaning against the rail, and watched the fighting rage back and forth. Another English ship came up to help
Victory
but was engaged by the
Redoutable
and so
Victory
and
Bucentaure
were left to resolve their own conflict.

A musket ball struck the rail and sent a shower of small splinters into both men's faces. They looked at each other, each thinking the other had been wounded. "This is too warm work to last very long, Pierre."

"Yes, Admiral," replied Gaspard, then noticed how weak and pale Nelson looked. "You are still bleeding badly. If you will not go below then I will bring the surgeon here." Not waiting for a response, the captain hurried away.

Nelson felt his legs buckling under him and had to struggle to keep from losing consciousness. Maybe if I sit on the deck it will be easier to stay awake, he thought but the attempt left him lying on his back. As the light faded from his eyes he thought he heard his men cheering "They've struck! The
Victory
has surrendered!
Vive l'Amiral
!"

Horatio Nelson opened his eyes and saw that he was in his cabin with Captain Gaspard bending over him. "Pierre. Did we . . . ?"

"Victory, Admiral. Five of the English ships escaped, fifteen were taken, six went to the bottom. The Spanish did quite well, actually. As you know, in death, the
Santissima Trinidad
crippled three of the enemy. The rest were fought to a standstill and, with the aid of Captain Devereaux's squadron, managed to capture or drive them all off. All of the escaping ships were from that engagement. Our triumph here was complete. Not one English vessel did we allow to break free. Your plan to cut off their lead ships was totally successful. And your ingenious plan to ram the
Victory
 . . ."

"That was no plan, Pierre."

"Shhh, you are very weak. I know that. But the others think anything that worked so perfectly to disrupt the enemy must have been a plan. We will not spoil their enthusiasm. After all, even the great Napoleon benefits from occasional strokes of luck, no?"

At this point the surgeon came in. "Do not make him talk too much, Captain, he has lost a great deal of blood and I do not wish for him to be weakened even further." Then he addressed the admiral. "A musket ball passed through the axilla, the fleshy part of your armpit."

"Well, Doctor," Nelson replied. "At least it is on the right side. I couldn't bear losing my one good arm."

The doctor loosened the bandages and examined the wound. "I'm afraid there is still bleeding inside. A major artery may have been nicked. I would open you up but already you have lost too much blood. All I can do is pack it and hope."

"I'm sure you will do your duty, Doctor." Nelson turned back to Gaspard and smiled. "So the
Victory
has struck. I thought I might have been dreaming."

"Oh yes, Admiral. But I did not accept the surrender."

"Why not? You are the captain. The prize is yours."

"I thought that this is an honor that you have earned. But we will discuss that in a moment. First I must know your orders. As you know, the way is now cleared for the invasion of England. This,
l'Empereur
wishes to do as soon as possible. But many of our ships and most of the prizes are in great need of repair."

"Pierre, listen to me," Nelson pleaded gripping his friend's arm with an air of desperation. "You must anchor. I feel a great blow coming on. All must anchor and batten down."

"I will make it so. Now, if you will stay awake for a few moments I have someone who wishes to see you."

Nelson lay there feeling his strength drain away and realized that he was having trouble breathing. His thoughts turned to Clara. His beautiful Clara. How she would grieve if he didn't return. He also thought about the battle. To triumph was supreme, but did he really want to be instrumental in the invasion of his homeland? What homeland? A homeland that had forsaken him. Ah, well, it didn't matter now. At least Hardy was dead.

"Admiral Nelson."

Pierre's voice brought him back. He opened his eyes and saw two shadowy figures standing over his bed. "Is that you, Pierre?"

"Yes. I have with me the captain of the
Victory
who wishes to surrender his sword to you."

"Hardy? I thought I saw you die."

The other figure spoke. "Not dead, Horatio, I just slipped in some blood. Here," Hardy said in disgust and tossed his sword onto the foot of the bed. "I feel no honor in surrendering to the biggest traitor in English history."

Nelson gasped in a breath and coughed out, "Kiss my ass, Hardy." Then he closed his eyes.

"But Admiral Dumanior, Admiral Nelson gave the order to anchor," Captain Gaspard protested.

"Admiral Nelson is dead, Captain. Now I am in charge of the fleet. We are needed for the invasion of England. Do you think I will let the order of a dead Englishman interfere with the Emperor's plans? Give the signal for all ships to sail."

Pierre gave the order to his surviving lieutenant and noticed that the wind was picking up.

Sam hated the New York office, but it was better than being penniless and sober or, even worse, lynched in Missouri.

In his youth he had fantasized about the carefree adventures that he would enjoy as an adult, adventures which didn't require a bankroll or public acceptance.

I was a damned fool back then
, he mused to himself as he chuckled sardonically,
just like the rest of the whole human race.

The curmudgeon really had no cause to complain. Things would have been much worse if James Gordon Bennett and the New York
Herald
hadn't bailed him out of the financial catastrophes that had befallen him over the past few years.

Whatever made me think that writing a moderately successful boy's adventure like
Tom Sawyer
or
The Prince and the Pauper
ever meant that I was going to be a best-selling novelist, let alone a success? Damn, I was a fool!

After the disappointing sales of
Life on the Mississippi
, Samuel Clemens had hocked everything to finance the publication of his even more ill-advised fictional endeavor,
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
, only to receive the worst reviews in U.S. publishing history and threats on his life had forced him to migrate northward. His wife opted to remain behind and join in with his detractors.

I know how to write, or at least I did when I wrote that book
, he mused.
Ain't anybody ever read something in dialect before? Huck and Jim don't know grammar the way I do. A simpleton should have seen that.

Sam took a pull from the bottle of bourbon that he kept on his desk at all times. It was part of his deal with Bennett that a new one would be provided on every third day if the bottle it was replacing was not yet empty. This condition was in place so as to keep the down-on-his-luck columnist in reasonably sober condition at least some of the time so that he would be available to write an occasional column, feature, or whatever else his publishing master desired.

Sam thanked his dubious maker that no one ever bothered to check if the dregs of the old bottles were composed of bourbon or flat sarsaparilla that had been poured in to replace its previously more spirited liquid contents.

No matter how much money he has, he's just another damned fool!
Sam thought of Bennett as he drained the bourbon bottle on this its second day of term.
Serves him right for taking pity on a Missouri has-been, or never was, or whatever!

Bennett had discovered Clemens in the gutter outside of the Water Club and recognized him from a picture that had been run in his very own New York
Herald
. Taking pity on the once promising writer, Bennett offered him a job, ever eager to add a new and exciting, if not controversial, name to his paper's masthead in order to compete with Pulitzer's burgeoning news empire.

Holding the bottle up to the light in order to ascertain its emptiness, Clemens made a mental note to pick up a bottle of sarsaparilla as soon as possible, shrugged, and conceded,
Well, I guess it could be worse.

The invasive sound of waddling footsteps approaching the writer's semi-private domain afforded him barely enough time to ditch the bottle in the concealed safety of the desk's bottom drawer until its contents were safely restored to the status of not quite empty.

Two seconds later Marshall, Bennett's personally appointed bourbon sergeant at arms, barged into the writer's office with nary a knock nor an apology.

"The President is dead," the Features Editor said matter-of-factly.

Crap!
Sam thought to himself,
is this how far I've fallen? Obituary hack?

As if reading the recalcitrant writer's thought, Marshall quickly corrected the writer's misassumption while placing an envelope on the desk in front of him.

"Don't give me that look," the Features Editor said sternly. "The obit is already done. For some reason Bennett said you should be given enough time to do a proper memorial, and since June 25 is less than two months away what could possibly be a better occasion."

"Huh?" Clemens said, quickly trying to clear his head enough so that he could comprehend his assignment.

Marshall shook his head and put his hands on his hips as if he was straining to keep his temper while talking to a simpleton.

"June 25 is the anniversary of the Little Big Horn," he explained condescendingly. "Bennett thought it would be the perfect opportunity for his favorite has-been author of the American people to sing the praises of the dearly departed president. Remember, he was a friend of this paper and the publisher. So it better be good."

Marshall pivoted and was about to leave when Clemens called after him. "How did he die?"

Marshall stopped at the door, his hand on the knob, ready to close the door behind him. "Sort of ironic. He was killed by an arrow shot by some crazed Indian guide . . . but you don't have to worry about that, no matter how it conveniently lends itself to poetic justice. Make him a legend. Legends don't die."