you as a repeater. Are your lads up to a fleet action?”
“We’ll find out,” Able said. Smitty had already tossed the sack to the Mercury, bobbing far below the Prince of Wales. He climbed down the chains after it. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised, sir.”
Admiral Calder’s blockaders sailed through a moon-filled night for Cape Finisterre, and spotted the Combined Fleet before noon on the twenty-second of July. The winds were good, but they jostled for position until the battle began in late afternoon. Fog became an unwelcome combatant, rolling in thick, but dispersing into maddening patches until entire crews were disoriented.
Twice the Mercury darted in close so Avon March could read the signals from the Prince of Wales, as taken down by Davey Ten this time. Losing not a moment, Avon raised the flags and signaled to Whitticombe at the wheel, his eyes burning chips of fire, to take her out to the farthest ship needing the signal. Who knew the little fellow had so much heart in him? Grace Saint Anthony knew. Able reckoned he owed his fellow instructor a rum toddy toast, when they made port.
Able stood behind Whitticome, a hand on the boy’s shoulder, as he followed Smitty’s directions, spoken with confidence. Whitticombe trembled with the noise of guns all around, but calmed under Able’s steadying hand.
Ogilvie stood by Tots at the sheets, both of them braced against the railing as the Mercury bent to the wind, sailed through the fleet with signals flying, and retreated out of harm’s way, until the next summons, and the next.
Even Able was hard put to maintain his steady composure when the Malta, close by and surrounded by five Spanish warships, blasted all cannon port and starboard at the same time. “What a show!” Whitticombe shouted. “Isn’t this the best, Master?”
“Undoubtedly,” Able replied, his ears ringing. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
Not a minute too soon it was dark and done. The ships broke off, the Combined Fleet leaving behind the San Rafael and the Firme as British prizes, and trying to escape toward the Cape, as near as Calder’s fleet could make out in the gathering murk.
The confusion in the smoke and fog was so great that the big guns kept firing for another hour. “Should we take a cease-fire signal through the fleet?” Avon asked.
“Not unless Admiral Calder insists,” Able said. “I personally don’t have a death wish.”
He couldn’t help smiling at Avon’s obvious disappointment. Was I ever that young, Euclid? he asked his brain. The answer was an undignified guffaw.
It was quickly obvious that the Malta and Windsor Castle were among the badly damaged. The Mercury bobbed near Prince of Wales, watching for signals. One came as darkness neared: Report now.
“Affirm, Avon,” he said. “Tots, take us close to Prince of Wales. Smitty, come with me.”
Prince of Wales looked like all ships of the line after a battle. Able noted spars gone, the rigging torn. He looked closer, eyes wide. The rudder was sheared off. Carpenters were already busy jury-rigging some sort of replacement.
“All we got is a rip in the jibsail,” Smitty said.
“We were moving fast,” Able replied. “Doing what Calder wanted.”
What Admiral Calder wanted now – and he minced no words – was someone who could speak Spanish. “They claim not to understand us. Take Mercury in close and for the Lord’s sake, wear your hanger.”
“Sir, I have an acting surgeon on board. Should I take him?” Able asked.
“How old is he?” Calder asked, enjoying the moment, despite his obvious cares.
“Fourteen, sir.”
“Why not? Aye, take him.” Calder’s look softened. “Your Rats did well today.”
“Will we engage tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Calder said, but he spoke too quickly. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“Message for the Firme, sir?”
“Tell the blinking captain to surrender his sword to you. Tell him a boarding party of Marines will be there soon. Tell him to…to do whatever they demand, whether he understands them or not.”
That made perfectly no sense, but Able knew the feeling of utter exhaustion, the moment an action ended. He saluted and returned to the Mercury with Smitty. Grateful Meridee had insisted he take the blamed thing along, he buckled on his sword belt and hooked on the cutlass.
Smitty had alerted Davey, who waited on deck with his medical kit slung over his shoulder. “You’ll see more than you want to, but they need our help,” Able said. “Come with us, Smitty. Angus, take the wheel.”
Davey nodded. “I’ll make you proud, Captain Six.”
“You already do.”
No one aboard the Firme challenged the Mercury as the