Sharpes Devil   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

"We are spreading confusion!" Cochranehappily explained to Sharpe. "We're pretending to be annoyed because they're not responding to our signal!"

"Another shot, my Lord?" Midshipman Almante, who was not a day over thirteen, asked eagerly.

"We must not overegg the pudding, Mister Almante. Let the enemy worry for a few moments."

The smoke from the stern gun drifted across the wildly heaving swell. The two ships were close to land now, close enough for great drifting mats of rust-brown weed to be thick in the water. Gulls screamed about the rigging. Two horsemen suddenly appeared on the headland's skyline, evidently galloping to get a closer look at the two approaching boats.

"Nelson was always seasick until battle was imminent," Cochrane said suddenly.

"You knew Nelson?" Sharpe asked.

"I met him several times. In the Mediterranean." Cochrane paused to train his telescope on the two riders. “They're worried about us, but they can't be seeing much. The sun's almost dead behind us. A strange little man."

"Nelson?"

"'Go for them, he told me, 'just go for them! Damn the niceties, Cochrane, just go and fight! And he was right! It always works. Oh, damn." The curse, spoken mildly, was provoked by the appearance of a small boat that was sailing out of the harbor and was clearly intending to intercept the Kitty and O'ffiggins. Cochrane had half-expected such a guard boat, but plainly his disguise would have been easier to preserve if none had been despatched. "They are nervous, aren't they," he said to no one in particular, then walked to the quarterdeck's rail and picked up a speaking trumpet. "No one is to speak in any language but Spanish. You will not shout a greeting to the guard boat. You may wave at them, but that is all!" He turned sharply. "Spanish naval dress, gentlemen!"

Blue coats, cocked hats and long swords were fetched up from Cochrane's cabin and issued to every man on the quarterdeck. Harper, pleased to have a coat with epaulettes, strutted up and down. Fraser, dwarfed by his naval coat, scowled at the helm while Cochrane, his cocked hat looking oddly piratical, lit a cigar and pretended to feel no qualms about the imminent confrontation. The third Lieutenant, a man called Cabral who, though a fierce Chilean patriot, had been born in Spain, was deputed to be the Kittys, spokesman. "Though remember, Lieutenant," Cochrane admonished him, "we're called the Nino, and the O'Higgins is now the Cristoforo." Cochrane glowered at the approaching boat which, under a bellying red sail, contained a dozen uniformed men.