was not surprised. Davey played the long game, too. What’s more, he probably listened to gossip among patients at Haslar Naval Hospital.
“Maybe Napoleon has greater plans in…” He gulped, realizing their destination. “…right here in coastal France?”
“And those plans might be…”
“A channel crossing of soldiers, protected by the Combined Fleet,” Davey finished. He looked around, not sure whether he had succeeded or failed. “I hear comments like that from the men I tend,” he said, half apologetically.
“I believe you are entirely correct, Davey,” Able said. He looked in each lad’s face. “We deliver messages. This message to Admiral Calder is of vital importance.” He saw their nods; they understood. “I think we will be asked to join Calder’s fleet and sail into battle against Villeneuve.”
Tots, ever practical, voiced what he knew they were all thinking. “Master…I mean, Captain, we have no guns, not even a carronade.”
More serious nods all around. “We have speed and maneuverability,” Able said quietly. “Never forget that. And we all know how to sail.”
“Was that too much?” he asked later of Angus, when it was just the two of them on deck and the others in their berths.
“It was perfect,” Ogilvie said. “You were born to teach.” He chuckled. “Well, among one or two other things.”
Flying Avon’s signal – Admiralty Dispatches – the Mercury sailed alongside HMS Prince of Wales, Admiral Calder’s flagship, the morning of July nineteenth. Able’s heart pounded as he handed the tarry bag to the admiral, Smitty standing beside him in the sumptuously furnished cabin. Captain Ogilvie had elected to remain aboard the Mercury. “It’s not my moment,” he said in explanation. “You’re the captain commanding.”
Admiral Calder kept them standing and offered no refreshment. Able hadn’t expected any. Calder read the dispatch, read it again and sighed. “What new intelligence have you, concerning the whereabout of the Combined Fleet?” He tapped the dispatch. “This is dated six days ago.”
“Admiral, yesterday the captain of a fishing boat from Santander told me he had seen both French and Spanish warships heading north on a course for Cape Finisterre, the day previous,” Able said. “He counted twenty-seven ships.”
“To my fifteen ships of the line and two frigates,” Calder said. “Are you certain you understood his Spanish?”
“I speak proficient Spanish, sir.”
“And I am to advance and engage the Combined Fleet.”
This was not a question. Even had it been, Able would not have presumed to respond. He stood at respectful attention.
“And who might you be?”
“The Mercury. Captain Saint Anthony’s old yacht.”
“What uniform is this lad wearing?”
“He is one of my students from St. Brendan the Navigator School in Portsmouth, sir,” Able said. “This is their uniform.”
“Aye, the bastard workhouse boys,” Admiral Calder said.
“Indeed, sir. I am one of those bastards, too,” Able said, keeping his tone cordial. “Admiral Gambier has assigned us messenger duty on an intermittent basis.”
He had to give the palm to Admiral Calder. The man could have been really rude. He could have turned his back on Able and Smitty. Instead, he tossed the orders on his desk and turned to the man beside him who was watching the whole business with a certain air of amused detachment.
“Captain Cuming, these…these…I know you have a nickname, Master Six. It’s been all around the fleet.”
“Gunwharf Rats, sir?”
“Aye, that was it. Captain Rose told me that himself, and with some admiration, I might add. We shall see how well your Gunwharf Rats acquit yourselves in battle. Will, assign them a position in our fleet and give such orders as you feel necessary.”
“Aye, sir. Do you want to summon captains here?”
“See to it. Good day, Master Six.”
Relieved to be on deck again, Able felt no reservations from Captain Cuming. To the captain’s question about victuals, Able said they could use hard bread and cheese. Captain Cuming directed Smitty to follow a midshipman below deck again to the commissary, then turned his attention to Able.
“What’d’ye think, Captain Six. Did you ask the fishermen about the general condition of the Combined Fleet?”
“I did, sir,” Able replied. “He said the ships had that tired look. You know what I mean.”
“I do. Anything else?”
“He had the same surmise I did, that probably many of the crew were sick with one or another of those Caribbean fevers.”
“Our chances?”
“Probably close to equal, sir, even with the larger numbers. These are weakened men.”
Smitty returned with a gunny sack and chewing on a bit of dried sausage, from the look of it.
“Off you go, Captain Six,” Captain Cuming said. “Sail close enough to us. We’ll use