Читать книгу Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe’s Trafalgar, Sharpe’s Prey, Sharpe’s Rifles - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 15

Sharpe went to Cromwell’s cabin as the Revenant was lowering the first of her boats. The cabin door was ajar, but Cromwell was not inside. Sharpe tried to lift the big chest’s lid, but it was locked. He went back to the quarterdeck, but the captain was not there either and the first French longboat was already pulling towards the Calliope.

Sharpe hurried back to the captain’s cabin where he found Lord William standing irresolute. His lordship disliked speaking to Sharpe, but forced himself to sound civil. ‘Have you seen Cromwell?’

‘He’s disappeared,’ Sharpe said curtly as he stooped to the chest. The large size of the keyhole suggested the lock was Indian-made, which was good, for Indian locks were simple to pick, but he knew it could well be a European lock with an Indian faceplate which could prove trickier. He fished in his pocket and brought out a short length of bent steel that he inserted into the lock.

‘What’s that?’ Lord William asked.

‘A picklock,’ Sharpe said. ‘I’ve always carried one. Before I became respectable I used to earn my living this way.’

Lord William sniffed. ‘Hardly something to boast about, Sharpe.’ He paused, expecting Sharpe to answer, but the only sound was the small scraping of the pick against the lock’s levers. ‘Maybe we should wait for Cromwell?’ Lord William suggested.

‘He’s got valuables of mine in here,’ Sharpe said, probing with the steel to discover the levers. ‘And the bloody Frogs will be here soon. Move, you awkward bastard!’ This last was to the first lever rather than to Lord William.

‘You will find a bag of cash in there, Sharpe,’ Lord William said. ‘It was too large to conceal, so I permitted Cromwell …’ His voice tailed away as he realized he was explaining too much. He hesitated as the first lever clicked dully, then watched as Sharpe, holding that lever back with the blade of his folding knife, worked on the second. ‘You say you entrusted valuables to Cromwell?’ Lord William enquired, sounding surprised, as if he could not imagine Sharpe possessing anything worthy of such protection.

‘I did,’ Sharpe said, ‘more fool me.’ The second lever slipped back and Sharpe heaved up the chest’s heavy lid.

The stench of old unwashed clothes assailed him. He grimaced, then threw aside a filthy boat cloak and layers of dirty shirts and undergarments. Cromwell, it seemed, washed nothing aboard the Calliope, but simply let the laundry accrete in the chest until he reached shore. Sharpe tossed more and more garments aside until he had reached the chest’s bottom. There were no jewels. No diamonds, no rubies, no emeralds. No bag of cash. ‘The bastard,’ he said bitterly, and unceremoniously pushed past Lord William to seek Cromwell on deck.

He was too late. The captain was already at the maindeck entry port where he was greeting a tall French naval officer who was resplendent in a gilded blue coat, red waistcoat, blue breeches and white stockings. The Frenchman took off his salt-stained cocked hat as a courtesy to Cromwell. ‘You yield the ship?’ he asked in good English.

‘Don’t have much bloody choice, do I?’ Cromwell said, glancing at the Revenant, which had opened four of her gunports to deter anyone aboard the Calliope from attempting a futile resistance. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Capitaine Montmorin.’ The Frenchman bowed. ‘Capitaine Louis Montmorin and you have my sympathy, monsieur. And you are?’

‘Cromwell,’ Cromwell grunted.

Montmorin, the French captain of whom Captain Joel Chase had spoken so admiringly, now talked to his seamen who had followed him up the Calliope’s side to fill the ship’s waist. Once he had given them their orders he looked back to Cromwell. ‘Do I have your word, Captain, that neither you nor your officers will attempt anything rash?’ He waited until Cromwell had offered a grudging nod, then smiled. ‘Then your crew will go to the forecastle, you and your officers will retire to your quarters and all passengers will return to their cabins.’ He left Cromwell by the entry port and climbed to the quarterdeck. ‘I apologize for the inconvenience, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said courteously, ‘but you must go to your cabins. You, gentlemen’ – he had turned to look at Sharpe and Dalton who were the only men on the quarterdeck in military uniform – ‘you are British officers?’

‘I am Major Dalton.’ Dalton stepped forward, then gestured to Sharpe who still stood beside the wheel. ‘And that is my colleague, Mister Sharpe.’

Dalton had begun to draw his claymore to offer a formal surrender, but Montmorin frowned and shook his head as if to suggest he required no such gesture. ‘Do you give me your word that you will obey my orders, Major?’

‘I do,’ Dalton said.

‘Then you may keep your swords.’ Montmorin smiled, but his elegant courtesy was given an edge of steel by three French marines in blue coats who now climbed to the quarterdeck and pointed their muskets at Dalton.

The major stepped back, gesturing that Sharpe should join him. ‘Stay with me,’ he said softly.

Montmorin had now registered Lady Grace’s presence and he greeted her by removing his hat again and offering a sweeping bow. ‘I am sorry, ma’am, that you should be inconvenienced.’ Lady Grace appeared not to notice the Frenchman’s existence, but Lord William spoke to Montmorin in fluent French, and whatever he said seemed to amuse the French captain who bowed a second time to Lady Grace. ‘No one,’ Montmorin announced in a loud voice, ‘will be molested. So long as you co-operate with the prize crew. Now, ladies and gentlemen, to your cabins if you please.’

‘Captain!’ Sharpe called. Montmorin turned and waited for Sharpe to speak. ‘I want Cromwell,’ Sharpe said and started towards the quarterdeck steps. Cromwell looked alarmed, but then a French marine barred Sharpe’s path.

‘To your cabin, monsieur,’ Montmorin insisted.

‘Cromwell!’ Sharpe called and he tried to force his way past the marine, but a second bayonet faced him and Sharpe was driven back.

Pohlmann and Mathilde, alone among the stern passengers, had not been on the quarterdeck when the Frenchmen came aboard, but now they emerged and with them was the Swiss servant who was no longer dressed in sombre grey but wore a sword like any gentleman. He greeted Montmorin in fluent French and the Revenant’s captain offered the so-called servant a deep bow, and then Sharpe saw no more because the French marines were ushering the passengers off the deck and Sharpe reluctantly followed Dalton to the major’s cabin, which was twice the size of Sharpe’s quarters and partitioned with wood instead of canvas. It was furnished with a bed, bureau, chest and chair. Dalton gestured that Sharpe should sit on the bed, hung his sword and belt on the back of the door and uncorked a bottle. ‘French brandy,’ he said unhappily, ‘to console ourselves for a French victory.’ He poured two glasses. ‘I thought you’d be more comfortable here than down in the ship’s cellar, Sharpe.’

‘It’s kind of you, sir.’

‘And to be truthful,’ the elderly major said, ‘I’d be glad of some company. I fear these next hours are liable to be tedious.’

‘I fear they will, sir.’

‘Mind you, they can’t keep us cooped up for ever.’ He handed Sharpe a glass of brandy, then peered through the porthole. ‘More boats arriving, more men. Horrible-looking rogues. I don’t know about you, Sharpe, but I thought Cromwell didn’t try over-hard to escape. Not that I’m any sailor, of course, but Tufnell told me there were other sails we might have set. Skyscrapers, I think he called them. Can that be right? Skyscrapers and studdingsails?’

‘I don’t think Peculiar tried at all, sir,’ Sharpe said morosely. Indeed, Sharpe believed that this empty spot of an empty ocean had been a rendezvous and that Cromwell had deliberately lost the convoy and then purposefully sailed here in the knowledge that the Revenant would be waiting for him. The English captain had put on a feeble display of attempting to escape, and a meagre show of defiance when Montmorin came aboard, but Sharpe still reckoned the Calliope had been sold long before the Revenant hove into sight.

‘But we’re not seamen, you and I,’ Dalton said, then frowned as boots tramped on the deck above, evidently inside Pohlmann’s quarters in the roundhouse. Something heavy fell on the deck, then there was a scraping sound. ‘Dear me,’ Dalton said, ‘now they’re looting us.’ He sighed. ‘Lord knows how long it’ll be before we’ll be paroled and I did so hope to be home by autumn.’

‘It’ll be cold in Edinburgh, sir,’ Sharpe said.

Dalton smiled. ‘I’ll have forgotten what it’s like to feel the cold. What place do you call home, Sharpe?’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘I’ve only ever lived in London and Yorkshire, sir, and I don’t know that either’s home. The army’s my real home.’

‘Not a bad home, Sharpe. You could do much worse.’

The brandy made Sharpe’s head swim and he refused a second glass. The ship, oddly silent, rocked in a long swell. Sharpe edged to the porthole to see that the French seamen had taken the spare spars from the Calliope’s main deck and were now floating the great lengths of timber across to the Revenant, towing them behind longboats, while other craft were carrying back casks of wine, water and food. The French warship was at least half as long again as the Calliope and her decks were much higher. Her gunports were all closed now, but she still looked sinister as she rose and fell on the ocean swell. The copper at her water line looked bright, suggesting she had recently scraped her bottom clean.

Footsteps sounded in the narrow passageway and there was a sudden knock on the door. ‘Come!’ Major Dalton called, expecting one of his fellow passengers, but it was Capitaine Louis Montmorin who ducked under the low door, followed by an even taller man dressed in the same red, blue and white uniform. The two tall Frenchmen made the cabin seem very small.

‘You are the senior English officer aboard?’ Montmorin asked Dalton.

‘Scottish,’ Dalton bristled.

‘Pardonnez-moi.’ Montmorin was amused. ‘Permit me to name Lieutenant Bursay.’ The captain indicated the huge man who loomed just inside the door. ‘Lieutenant Bursay will be captain of the prize crew that will take this ship to Mauritius.’ The lieutenant was a gross-looking creature with an expressionless face that had been first scarred by smallpox, then by weapons. His right cheek was pitted blue with powder burns, his greasy hair hung lank over his collar and his uniform was stained with what looked like dried blood. He had huge hands with blackened palms, suggesting he had once earned his living in the high rigging, while at his side hung a broad-bladed cutlass and a long-barrelled pistol. Montmorin spoke to the lieutenant in French, then turned back to Dalton. ‘I have told him, Major, that in all matters concerning the passengers he is to consult with you.’

‘Merci, Capitaine,’ Dalton said, then looked at the huge Bursay. ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’

Bursay offered Dalton a flat stare for a few seconds. ‘Non,’ he finally grunted.

‘But you speak French?’ Montmorin asked Dalton.

‘Passably,’ Dalton conceded.

‘That is good. And you may be assured, monsieur, that no harm will come to any passenger so long as you all obey Lieutenant Bursay’s orders. Those orders are very simple. You are to stay below decks. You may go anywhere in the ship, except on deck. There will be armed men guarding every hatchway, and those men have orders to shoot if any of you disobey those simple orders.’ He smiled. ‘It will be three, perhaps four days to Mauritius? Longer, I fear, if the wind does not improve. And, monsieur, allow me to tell you how sincerely I regret your inconvenience. C’est la guerre.’

Montmorin and Bursay left and Dalton shook his head. ‘This is a sad business, Sharpe, a sad business.’

The noise overhead, from Pohlmann’s cabins, had stopped and Sharpe looked up. ‘Do you mind if I make a reconnaissance, sir?’

‘A reconnaissance? Not on deck, I hope? Good Lord, Sharpe, do you think they’d really shoot us? It seems very uncivilized, don’t you think?’

Sharpe did not answer, but instead went out into the passageway and, followed by Dalton, climbed the narrow stairs to the roundhouse. The door to the cuddy was open and inside Sharpe found a disconsolate Lieutenant Tufnell staring at an almost empty room. The chairs had been taken, the chintz curtains removed and the chandelier carried away. Only the table which was fixed to the deck and had presumably been too heavy to move in a hurry still remained. ‘The furniture belonged to the captain,’ Tufnell said, ‘and they’ve stolen it.’

‘What else have they stolen?’ Dalton asked.

‘Nothing of mine,’ Tufnell said. ‘They’ve taken cordage and spars, of course, and some food, but they’ve left the cargo. They can sell that, you see, in Mauritius.’

Sharpe went back into the passage and so to Pohlmann’s door which, though shut, was not locked and all his suspicions were confirmed when he pushed open the door, for the cabin was empty. The two silk-covered sofas were gone, Mathilde’s harp had disappeared, the low table was no more and only the sideboard and the bed, both monstrously heavy, were still nailed to the deck. Sharpe crossed to the sideboard and pulled open its doors to find it had been stripped of everything except empty bottles. The sheets, blankets and pillows were gone from the bed, leaving only a mattress. ‘Damn him,’ Sharpe said.

‘Damn who?’ Dalton had followed Sharpe into the cabin.

‘The Baron von Dornberg, sir.’ Sharpe decided not to reveal Pohlmann’s true identity, for Dalton would doubtless demand to know why Sharpe had not uncovered the impostor before, and Sharpe did not think that he could answer that question satisfactorily. Nor did he know whether such a revelation could have saved the ship, for Cromwell was just as guilty as Pohlmann. Sharpe led the major and Tufnell down the stairs to Cromwell’s quarters to find them swept as clean as Pohlmann’s cabin. The dirty clothes were gone, the books had been taken from the shelves and the chronometer and barometer were no longer in the small cupboard. The big chest had vanished. ‘And damn goddamn bloody Cromwell too,’ Sharpe said. ‘Damn him to hell.’ He did not even bother to look in the cabin occupied by Pohlmann’s ‘servant’, for he knew that would be as bare as this. ‘They sold the ship, sir,’ he said to Dalton.

‘They did what?’ The major looked appalled.

‘They sold the ship. The baron and Cromwell. Damn them.’ He kicked the table leg. ‘I can’t prove it, sir, but it was no accident we lost the convoy, and no accident that we met the Revenant.’ He rubbed his face tiredly. ‘Cromwell believes the war is lost. He thinks we’re going to be living under French sufferance, if not French rule, so he sold himself to the winners.’

‘No!’ Lieutenant Tufnell protested.

‘I can’t believe it, Sharpe,’ the major said, but his face showed that he did believe it. ‘I mean, the baron, yes! He’s a foreigner. But Cromwell?’

‘I’ve no doubt it was the baron’s idea, sir. He probably talked to all the convoy’s captains when they were waiting in Bombay and found his man in Cromwell. Now they’ve stolen the passengers’ jewellery, sold the ship and deserted. Why else has the baron gone to the Revenant? Why didn’t he stay with the rest of the passengers?’ He almost called him Pohlmann, but remembered just in time.

Dalton sat on the empty table. ‘Cromwell was looking after a watch for me,’ he said sadly. ‘Rather a valuable one that belonged to my dear father. It kept uncertain time, but it was precious to me.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Nothing we can do,’ Dalton said bleakly. ‘We’ve been fleeced, Sharpe, fleeced!’

‘Not by Cromwell, surely!’ Tufnell said in wonderment. ‘He was so proud of being English!’

‘It’s just that he loves money more than his country,’ Sharpe said sourly.

‘And you told me yourself that he could have tried harder to evade the Revenant,’ Dalton pointed out to Tufnell.

‘He could, sir, he could,’ Tufnell admitted, appalled at Cromwell’s betrayal.

They went to Ebenezer Fairley’s cabin and the merchant grunted when he heard Sharpe’s tale, but did not seem unduly surprised. ‘I’ve seen folk beggar their own families for a slice of profit. And Peculiar was always a greedy man. Come in, the three of you. I’ve got brandy, wine, rum and arrack that needs drinking before those French buggers find it.’

‘I hope Cromwell was not carrying any of your valuables?’ Dalton asked solicitously.

‘Do I look like a blockhead?’ Fairley demanded. ‘He tried! He even told me I had to give him my valuables under Company rules, but I told him not to be such a damned fool!’

‘Quite,’ Dalton said, thinking of his father’s watch. Sharpe said nothing.

Fairley’s wife, a plump and motherly woman, expressed a hope that the French would provide supper. ‘It’ll be nothing fancy, mother,’ Fairley warned his wife, ‘not like we’ve been getting in the cuddy. It’ll be burgoo, don’t you reckon, Sharpe?’

‘I imagine so, sir.’

‘God knows how their lordships will like that!’ Fairley said, jerking his head up towards Lord William’s cabin before offering Sharpe a sly glance. ‘Not that her ladyship seems to mind mucking it.’

‘I doubt she’ll like burgoo,’ Dalton said earnestly.

It was almost nightfall before the French had emptied the Calliope of all they wanted. They took powder, cordage, spars, food, water and all the Calliope’s boats, but left the cargo intact for that, like the ship itself, would be sold in Mauritius. The last boat rowed back to the warship, then the Frenchman loosed her topsails and chanting seamen hauled out the foresails to catch the wind and turn the ship westwards as the other sails were loosed. Men waved from the quarterdeck as the black and yellow ship drew away.

‘Gone towards the Cape of Good Hope,’ Tufnell said morosely. ‘Looking for the China traders, I don’t doubt.’

The Calliope, now with the French tricolour hoisted above the Company ensign, began to move. She went slowly at first, for her prize crew was small and it took them over half an hour to loose all the Indiaman’s sails, but by dusk the great ship was sailing smoothly eastwards in a light wind.

Two of the Calliope’s own seamen were allowed to bring supper to the passengers and Fairley invited the major, Tufnell and Sharpe to eat in his cabin. The meal was a pot of boiled oats thickened with salt beef fat and dried fish that Fairley declared was the best meal he had yet eaten on board. He saw his wife’s distaste. ‘You ate worse than this when we were first married, mother.’

‘I cooked for you when we were first married!’ she answered indignantly.

‘You think I’ve forgotten?’ Fairley asked, then spooned another mouthful of burgoo.

The light was fading in the cabin as they ate supper, but none of the prize crew bothered to ascertain whether any of the passengers were using lanterns and so Fairley lit every lamp he could find and hung them in the stern windows. ‘There are supposed to be British ships in this ocean,’ he declared, ‘so let them see us.’

‘Give me some lanterns,’ Sharpe said, ‘and I’ll hang them in the baron’s window.’

‘Good lad,’ Fairley said.

‘And you might as well sleep there, Sharpe,’ the major said. ‘I can give you a blanket.’

‘We’ll give you a blanket, lad, and sheets,’ Fairley insisted, and his wife opened a travelling chest and handed Sharpe a heap of bedding while Fairley fetched two lanterns from the passageway outside his cabin. ‘Do you need a tinderbox?’

‘I have one,’ Sharpe said.

‘At least you get a good cabin for a day or two,’ Fairley said, ‘though God knows how we’ll make out in Mauritius. Bed bugs and French lice, I dare say. I was in Calais once for a night and I’ve never seen a room so filthy. You remember that, mother? You were costive for a week afterwards.’

‘Henry!’ Mrs Fairley remonstrated.

Sharpe climbed the stairs and took possession of Pohlmann’s big empty cabin. He lit the two lanterns, placed them on the stern seat, then made the bed. The tiller ropes creaked. He opened one of the windows, banging the frame to loosen the swollen wood, and stared down at the Calliope’s flattened wake. A thin moon lit the sea and silvered some small clouds, but no ships were visible. Above him a Frenchman laughed on the poop deck. Sharpe took off his sabre and coat, but he was too tense to sleep and so he just lay on the bed and stared at the white-painted planks above him and thought of Grace next door. He supposed that she and her husband would sleep apart, as they had on every other night, and he wondered how he could let her know that he was now ensconced in luxury.

Then he became aware of raised voices coming from the neighbouring quarters and he swung off the bed and crouched beside the thin wooden partition. There were at least three men in the foremost cabin, all speaking in French. Sharpe could make out Lord William’s voice, which sounded angry, but he had no idea of what was being said. Perhaps his lordship was complaining about the food, and that thought made Sharpe smile. He went back to the bed and just then Lord William yelped. It was an odd sound, like a dog. Sharpe was on his feet again, bracing himself against the slow roll of the ship. There was a silence. Once more Sharpe crouched by the flimsy wooden partition and heard a French voice saying a word over and over. Bee-joo, it sounded like. Lord William spoke, his voice muffled, then grunted as if he had been hit in the belly and had all the wind driven from him.

Sharpe heard the door between Lord William’s two cabins open and close. There was a click as the locking hook was dropped into its eye. A Frenchman’s voice sounded again, this time from the stern cabin that shared the wide window with Sharpe’s makeshift quarters. Lady Grace answered him in French, apparently protesting, then she screamed.

Sharpe stood. He expected to hear Lord William intervene, but there was silence, then Grace gave a second scream which was abruptly stifled and Sharpe hurled himself at the partition. He could have gone into the corridor and back into the next-door cabin, but breaking down the panelled partition was the quickest way to reach Grace and so he hammered it with his shoulder and the thin wood splintered and Sharpe tore his way through, bellowing as though he went into battle.

Which he did, for Lieutenant Bursay was on the bed where he was holding down Lady Grace. The tall lieutenant had torn her dress open at the neck and was now trying to rip it further while, at the same time, keeping one hand over her mouth. He turned to see Sharpe, but he was much too slow, for Sharpe was already on the lieutenant’s broad back with his left hand tangled in Bursay’s greasy hair. He hauled the Frenchman’s head back and chopped the side of his right hand onto the lieutenant’s neck. He hit him once, twice, then Bursay heaved Sharpe off and twisted to swing a huge fist. Someone hammered on the cabin door, but Bursay had locked it.

Bursay had taken off his coat and sword belt, but he seized the cutlass handle, dragged the blade free and slashed at Sharpe. Lady Grace was hunched at the head of the bed, clutching the remnants of her dress to her neck. There were pearls scattered on the bed. Bursay had evidently come to plunder Lord William’s possessions and found Grace the most delectable.

Sharpe threw himself back through the ruins of the bulkhead. His own sabre was on the bed and he dragged it from the scabbard and swung the blade as the big Frenchman clambered through the splintered panels. Bursay parried the stroke, then, as the sound of the blades still echoed in the cabin, he charged at Sharpe.

Sharpe tried to spear the sabre into Bursay’s belly, but the lieutenant contemptuously swatted the steel away and punched the hilt of the cutlass into Sharpe’s head. The blow made Sharpe reel, scattering his vision with sparks and darkness as he fell backwards. He rolled desperately to his right as the cutlass chopped down into the deck, then he swung the sabre in a wild, backhanded and clumsy stroke that did no damage, but served to make Bursay step back. Sharpe scrambled to his feet, his head still ringing, and heard the locked door between Lord William’s two cabins being broken down. Bursay grinned. He was so tall that he had to stoop beneath the deck beams, but he was confident, for he had hurt Sharpe, who was staggering slightly. The cutlass hilt had drawn blood which trickled from Sharpe’s forehead down his cheek. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, knowing that this brute of a man was just as savage and quick as he was himself. The lieutenant ducked under a beam and lunged at Sharpe, who parried, then Bursay snarled and charged, the cutlass sweeping like a reaping hook, and Sharpe threw himself back against the cabin’s forward bulkhead and the Frenchman knew he had won, except that Sharpe bounced back from the wall, his sabre held like a spear, and stretched forward so that the curved tip ripped into Bursay’s throat. Sharpe swerved to his left to avoid the cutlass’s heavy riposte and it seemed to him that his thrust had not done any real damage, for he had felt no resistance to the blade, but Bursay was wavering and blood was pouring down his coat. The Frenchman’s right arm fell so that the cutlass tip struck the deck. He stared at Sharpe with an expression of puzzlement and put his left hand to his neck where the blood was pulsing dark and then, with a lurch, he fell to his knees and made a gurgling sound. A marine kicked through the shattered bulkhead and stared wide-eyed at the big lieutenant, who was looking up at Sharpe in faint surprise. Then, as if pole-axed, Bursay fell hard forward and a wash of blood spilt across the deck and vanished between the cracks.

The marine raised his musket, but just then an authoritative voice snapped in French and the man lowered the gun. Major Dalton thrust the marine aside and saw Bursay’s body which was still twitching. ‘You did this?’ the major asked, kneeling and lifting the lieutenant’s head, then dropping it swiftly as more blood welled from the wound in the neck.

‘What else was I to do with him?’ Sharpe asked belligerently. He wiped the sabre’s tip on the hem of his coat, then pushed past the marine and peered through the broken bulkhead to see that Lady Grace was still crouched on the bed, her hands at her throat, shaking. ‘It’s all right, my lady,’ he said, ‘it’s over.’

She stared at him. Dalton spoke in French to the marine, evidently ordering the man to report to the quarterdeck, then Lord William peered round the shattered partition, saw the corpse and looked up at Sharpe’s bloodied face. ‘What …’ he began, but then was bereft of words. There was a graze on Lord William’s cheek where he had been struck by Bursay. The Frenchman was unmoving now. Lady Grace was still sobbing, gasping huge breaths, then whimpering.

Sharpe tossed his sabre onto Pohlmann’s bed, and stepped past Lord William. ‘It’s all right, my lady,’ he said again, ‘he’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘He’s dead.’

A silk embroidered dressing gown, presumably Lord William’s, was hung over the foot of the bed and Sharpe tossed it to Lady Grace. She draped it about her shoulders, then began shaking again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Nothing for you to be sorry about, my lady,’ Sharpe said.

‘You will leave this cabin, Sharpe,’ Lord William said coldly. He was shaking slightly and a trickle of blood traced his jawbone.

Lady Grace turned on her husband. ‘You did nothing!’ she spat at him. ‘You did nothing!’

‘You’re hysterical, Grace, hysterical. The man hit me!’ he protested to anyone who would listen. ‘I tried to stop him, he hit me!’

‘You did nothing!’ Lady Grace said again.

Lord William summoned Lady Grace’s maid who, like him, had been under the marine’s guard in the day cabin. ‘Calm her down, for Christ’s sake,’ he told the girl, then jerked his head to indicate that Sharpe should leave the bedroom.

Sharpe stepped back through the ruined bulkhead to discover that most of the great cabin’s passengers had come upstairs and were now staring at Bursay’s corpse. Ebenezer Fairley shook his head in wonder. ‘When you do a job, lad,’ the merchant said, ‘you do it proper. Can’t be a drop of blood left in him! Most of it’s dripped down onto our bed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sharpe said.

‘Not the first blood I’ve seen, lad. And worse things happen at sea, they tell me.’

‘You should all leave!’ Lord William had come into Pohlmann’s quarters. ‘Just leave!’ he snapped pettishly.

‘This ain’t your room,’ Fairley growled, ‘and if you were a half a man, my lord, neither Sharpe nor this corpse would be here.’

Lord William gaped at Fairley, but just then Lady Grace, her hair ragged, stepped over the splinters of the partition. Her husband tried to push her back, but she shook him off and stared down at the corpse, then up at Sharpe. ‘Thank you, Mister Sharpe,’ she said.

‘Glad I could be of service, my lady,’ Sharpe replied, then turned and braced himself as Major Dalton led a Frenchman into the crowded cabin. ‘This is the new captain of the ship,’ Dalton said. ‘He’s an officier marinier, which I think is the equivalent of our petty officer.’

The Frenchman was an older man, balding, with a face weathered and browned by long service at sea. He had no uniform, for he was not a wardroom officer, but evidently a senior seaman who seemed quite unmoved by Bursay’s death. It was plain that the marine had already explained the circumstance for he asked no questions, but simply made a clumsy and embarrassed bow to Lady Grace and muttered an apology.

Lady Grace acknowledged the apology in a voice still shaking from fear. ‘Merci, monsieur.’

The officier marinier spoke to Dalton who translated for Sharpe’s benefit. ‘He regrets Bursay’s actions, Sharpe. He says the man was an animal. He was a petty officer till a month ago, when Montmorin promoted him. He told him he was on his honour to behave like a gentleman, but Bursay had no honour.’

‘I’m forgiven?’ Sharpe asked, amused.

‘You defended a lady, Sharpe,’ Dalton said, frowning at Sharpe’s light tone. ‘How can any reasonable man object?’

The Frenchman made arrangements for a sheet of canvas to be nailed over the broken partition and for the lieutenant’s body to be taken away. He also insisted that the lanterns be removed from the window.

Sharpe stood the lanterns on the empty sideboard. ‘I’ll sleep in here,’ he announced, ‘just in case any other bloody Frenchman gets lonely.’ Lord William opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. The corpse was taken away and a piece of frayed sailcloth nailed over the partition. Then Sharpe slept in Pohlmann’s bed as the ship sailed on, taking him to captivity.

The next two days were tedious. The wind was light so the ship rolled and made slow progress, so slow that Tufnell guessed it would take nearer six days to reach Mauritius, and that was good, for it meant there was more time for a British warship to see the great captured Indiaman wallowing in the long swells. None of the passengers could go on deck and the heat in the cabins was stifling. Sharpe passed the time as best he could. Major Dalton lent him a book called Tristram Shandy, but Sharpe could make neither head nor tail of it. Just lying and staring at the ceiling was more rewarding. The barrister tried to teach Sharpe backgammon, but Sharpe was not interested in gambling and so Fazackerly went off to find more willing prey. Lieutenant Tufnell showed him how to tie some knots, and that passed some hours between the meals which were all burgoo enlivened with dried peas. Mrs Fairley embroidered a shawl, her husband growled and paced and fretted, Major Dalton attempted to compile an accurate account of the battle at Assaye which needed Sharpe’s constant advice, the ship sailed slowly on and Sharpe did not see Lady Grace during the daytime.

She came to his cabin on the second night, arriving while he was asleep and waking him by putting a hand on his mouth so he did not cry out. ‘The maid’s asleep,’ she whispered, and in the silence that followed Sharpe could hear Lord William’s drug-induced snores beyond the makeshift canvas screen.

She lay beside Sharpe, one leg across his, and did not speak for a long time. ‘When he came in,’ she finally whispered, ‘he said he wanted my jewels. That was all. My jewels. Then he told me he was going to cut William’s throat if I didn’t do what he wanted.’

‘It’s all right,’ Sharpe tried to soothe her.

She shook her head abruptly. ‘And then he told me that he hated all aristos. That was what he said, “aristos”, and said we should all be guillotined. He said he was going to kill us both and claim that William had attacked him and that I had died of a fever.’

‘He’s the one feeding the fishes now,’ Sharpe said. He had heard a splash the previous morning and knew it was Bursay’s body being launched into eternity.

‘You don’t hate aristos, do you?’ Grace asked after a long pause.

‘I’ve only met you, your husband and Sir Arthur. Is he an aristo?’

She nodded. ‘His father’s the Earl of Mornington.’

‘So I like two out of three,’ Sharpe said. ‘That’s not bad.’

‘You like Arthur?’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘I don’t know that I like him, but I’d like him to like me. I admire him.’

‘But you don’t like William?’

‘Do you?’

She paused. ‘No. My father made me marry him. He’s rich, very rich, and my family isn’t. He was reckoned a good match, a very good match. I liked him once, but not now. Not now.’

‘He hates me,’ Sharpe said.

‘He’s frightened of you.’

Sharpe smiled. ‘He’s a lord, though, isn’t he? And I’m nothing.’

‘You’re here, though,’ Grace said, kissing him on the cheek, ‘and he isn’t.’ She kissed him again. ‘And if he found me here I would be ruined. My name would be a disgrace. I would never see society again. I might never see anyone again.’

Sharpe thought of Malachi Braithwaite and was grateful that the secretary was mewed up in the steerage where he could not add to his suspicions of Sharpe and Lady Grace. ‘You mean your husband would kill you?’ Sharpe asked her.

‘He’d like to. He might.’ She thought about it. ‘But he’d probably have me declared mad. It isn’t difficult. He’d hire expensive doctors who’d call me an hysterical lunatic and a judge would order me locked away. I’d spend the rest of my short life shut in a wing of the Lincolnshire house being spoon-fed medicines. Only the medicines would be mildly poisonous so that, mercifully, I wouldn’t live long.’

Sharpe turned to look at her, though it was so dark that he could see little but the blur of her face. ‘He could really do that?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘but I stay safe by behaving very correctly, and by pretending that William doesn’t take whores and mistresses. And, of course, he wants an heir. He was overjoyed when our son was born, but has hated me ever since he died. Which doesn’t stop him trying to give me another.’ She paused. ‘So my best hope of staying alive is to give him a son and to behave like an angel, and I swore I would do both, but then I saw you and I thought why not lose my wits?’

‘I’ll look after you,’ Sharpe promised.

‘Once we’re off this boat,’ she said quietly, ‘I doubt we’ll ever meet again.’

‘No,’ Sharpe protested, ‘no.’

‘Shh,’ she whispered, and covered his mouth with hers.

By dawn she was gone. The view from the stern window was unchanged. No British warship was in pursuit, there was just the endless Indian Ocean stretching away to a hazed horizon. The wind was fresher so that the ship rolled and thumped, dislodging the chess pieces that Major Dalton had arrayed on the stern seat in a plan of the battle of Assaye. ‘You must tell me,’ the major said, ‘what happened when Sir Arthur was unhorsed.’

‘I think you must ask him, Major.’

‘But you know as much as he, surely?’

‘I do,’ Sharpe agreed, ‘but I doubt he’s fond of telling the story, or of having it told. You might do better to say he fought off a group of the enemy and was rescued by his aides.’

‘But is that true?’

‘There’s truth in it,’ Sharpe said and would say no more. Besides, he could not remember exactly what had happened. He remembered sliding off his horse and slashing the sabre in hay-making cuts; he remembered Sir Arthur being dazed and standing in the shelter of a cannon’s wheel and he remembered killing, but what he remembered clearest of all was the Indian swordsman who had deserved to kill him, for the man had swung his tulwar in a scything stroke that had struck the nape of Sharpe’s neck. That stroke should have beheaded Sharpe, but he had been wearing his hair in the soldier’s queue, bound around a leather bag that would normally have been filled with sand, only instead Sharpe had concealed the great ruby from the Tippoo Sultan’s hat in the bag and the big jewel had stopped the tulwar cold. The blow had released the ruby and Sharpe remembered how, when the vicious fight was over, Sir Arthur had picked up the stone and held it out to him with a puzzled expression. The general had been too confused to recognize what it was and probably thought it was nothing but a prettily coloured pebble that Sharpe had collected. Goddamn Cromwell had the pretty pebble now.

‘What was Sir Arthur’s horse called?’ Dalton asked.

‘Diomed,’ Sharpe said. ‘He was very fond of that horse.’ He could remember the gush of blood that spilt onto the dry ground when the pike was pulled from Diomed’s chest.

Dalton questioned Sharpe till late afternoon, making notes for his memoir. ‘I have to do something with my retirement, Sharpe. If ever I see Edinburgh again.’

‘Are you not married, sir?’

‘I was. A dear lady. She died.’ The major shook his head, then stared wistfully through the stern window. ‘We had no children,’ he said softly, then frowned as a sudden rush of feet sounded from the quarterdeck. A voice could be heard shouting, and a heartbeat later the Calliope yawed to larboard and the sails hammered like guns firing. One by one the sails were sheeted home and the ship, after momentarily wallowing in the swells, was sailing smooth again, only this time she was beating up into the wind on a course as near northerly as the small crew could hold. ‘Something’s excited the Frenchies,’ the major said.

No one knew what had caused the northwards turn, for no other ship was visible from the cabin portholes, though it was possible a lookout high in the rigging had seen some topsails on the southern horizon. The motion of the ship was more uncomfortable now for she was slamming into the waves and heeling over. Then, when the supper was carried to the passengers, the officier marinier ordered that no lights were to be shown, and promised that anyone who disobeyed him would be thrust down into the ship’s hold where foetid seawater slopped and rats ruled.

‘So there is another ship,’ Dalton said.

‘But has she seen us?’ Sharpe wondered.

‘Even if she has,’ Dalton said gloomily, ‘what can we do?’

Sharpe prayed it was the Pucelle, Captain Chase’s French-built warship that was as quick a sailor as the Revenant. ‘There is one thing,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I need Tufnell,’ Sharpe said, and he went down to the officers’ quarters in the great cabin and hammered on the lieutenant’s door and, after a brief conversation, took the lieutenant and Dalton to Ebenezer Fairley’s cabin.

The merchant was robed for bed and had a tasselled nightcap falling over the left side of his face, but he listened to Sharpe, then grinned. ‘Come on in, lad. Mother! You’ll have to get up again. We’ve got some mischief to make.’

The problem was a lack of tools, but Sharpe had his pocket knife, Tufnell had a short dagger and the major produced a dirk and the three men first pulled up the painted canvas carpet in Fairley’s sleeping cabin, then attacked a floorboard.

The board was made of oak over two inches thick. It was old oak, seasoned and hard, but Sharpe could see no alternative except to make a hole in the deck and hope that it was in the right place. The men took it in turns to hack and scratch and carve and cut the wood, while Mrs Fairley produced a kitchen steel from a travelling chest and periodically sharpened the three blades that were slowly, so very slowly, digging through the plank.

They made two cuts, a foot apart, and it took till well past midnight to cut through the board and lift the section out. They worked in the dark, but once the hole was made Fairley lit a lantern that he shielded with one of his wife’s cloaks and the three men peered into the darkness below. At first Sharpe could see nothing. He could hear the grating of the tiller rope, but he could not see it, and then, when Fairley dropped the lantern into the hole, he saw the great hemp rope just a foot or so away. Every few seconds the taut rope would move an inch or more and the creaking sound would echo through the stern.

The rope was fastened to the tiller which was the bar that turned the Calliope’s great rudder. From the tiller the rope went to both sides of the ship where it ran through pulleys before returning to the centre of the ship where two more pulleys led the rope up to the ship’s wheel which was really two wheels, one in front of the other, so that as many men as possible could heave on the spokes when the ship was in heavy seas and high winds. The twin wheels were connected by a hefty wooden drum round which the tiller rope was tightly wound so that a turn of the wheel pulled on the rope and transferred the motion to the tiller bar. Cut that rope and the Calliope would be rudderless for a while.

‘But when to cut it, eh?’ Fairley asked.

‘Wait for daylight,’ Dalton suggested.

‘It’ll take some cutting,’ Sharpe said, for the rope was near three inches thick. It ran in a space between the main and lower decks and Fairley put the canvas carpet back into place, not only to disguise the hole, but to keep the rats from coming up into his cabin.

‘How long will it take to replace that rope?’ the merchant asked Tufnell.

‘A good crew could do it in an hour.’

‘They’ll have some good seamen,’ the merchant said, ‘so we’d best not waste their efforts now. We’ll see what morning brings.’

That night brought no Lady Grace. Perhaps, Sharpe thought, she had already looked into Pohlmann’s cabin and found Sharpe absent. Or perhaps Lord William was awake and watchful, wondering if a rescue was closing on the night-shrouded Calliope, so Sharpe wrapped himself in a blanket and slept until a fist knocked on his door to announce the breakfast burgoo. ‘There’s a ship on the starboard bow, sir,’ the seaman who had brought the cauldron said softly. ‘You can’t see it from here, but she’s there all right. One of ours, too.’

‘Navy?’

‘We reckons she is, sir. So it’s a race to Mauritius now.’

‘How close is she?’

‘Seven, eight miles? Fair ways, sir, and she has to tack to cut us off so it’ll be precious close, sir.’ He lowered his voice even more. ‘The Froggies have taken down their ensign, so we’re flying our old colours, but that won’t help ’em if it’s a warship. She’ll come and look at us anyway. Ensigns don’t mean nothing when there’s prize money to be gained.’

The news had spread through the ship, elating the passengers and alarming the French crew who tried to coax their prize into showing her best speed, but to the passengers in the stern, who could neither see the other ship nor determine what happened on the Calliope’s deck, it was a slow and agonizing morning. Lieutenant Tufnell suggested that the two ships must be on converging courses and that the Calliope had the advantage of the wind, but it was bitterly frustrating not knowing for sure. They all wanted to cut the tiller rope, but knew that if they severed it too soon the French might have time to make a repair.

No dinner was served at midday and perhaps it was that small hardship which persuaded Sharpe that the rope was best cut. ‘We can’t tell when the best moment is,’ he argued, ‘so let’s give the buggers a headache now.’

No one demurred. Fairley pulled back the carpet and Sharpe thrust his sabre into the hole and sawed the blade back and forth on the rope. The rope kept moving, not by much, but enough to ensure that it was difficult keeping the sabre on the same spot, but Sharpe grunted and sweated as he tried to find the leverage to bring all his strength onto the blade.

‘Shall I try?’ Tufnell asked.

‘I’m managing,’ Sharpe said. He could not see the rope, but he knew he had the blade deep in its fibres now, for the blade was being tugged back and forth with the rudder’s small movements. His right arm was on fire from the wrist to the shoulder, but he kept the blade sawing and suddenly felt the tension vanish as the ravaged hemp unravelled. The rudder squealed on its pintles as Sharpe drew the sabre back through the hole and collapsed in exhaustion against the foot of Fairley’s bed.

The Calliope, with no pressure on the rudder to resist her weather-helm, swung ponderously into the wind. There were frantic shouts on deck, the sound of bare feet going to the sheets and then the blessed noise of the sails slatting and banging as they flapped uselessly in the wind.

‘Cover the hole,’ Fairley ordered, ‘quick! Before the buggers see it.’

Sharpe moved his feet so they could drop the carpet into place. The ship jerked as the French used the headsails to bring her round, but without the rudder’s pressure she stubbornly went back into irons, and the sails again hammered at the masts. The helmsman would be spinning the wheel that suddenly had no load, and then there was a rush of feet going down the companionways and Sharpe knew the French were at last exploring the tiller lines.

There was a knock on Fairley’s door and, without waiting to be bidden, Lord William entered the cabin. ‘Does anyone know,’ he asked, ‘what precisely is happening?’

‘We cut the tiller ropes,’ Fairley said, ‘and I’ll thank your lordship to keep quiet about it.’ Lord William blinked at that brusque request, but before he could say anything there was the sound of a distant gun. ‘I reckon that’s the end of it,’ Fairley said happily. ‘Come on, Sharpe, let’s go and see what you wrought.’ He held out a big hand and hauled Sharpe to his feet.

None of the prize crew tried to stop them going on deck, indeed the Frenchmen were already hauling down the Calliope’s original ensign which they had hoped would fool their pursuer into thinking that the Indiaman was still under British command.

And now they really were under British command for, coming slowly towards the Calliope and furling her sails as she glided ever nearer, was another great bluff-sided warship painted yellow and black. Her beakhead was a riot of gilded wood supporting a figurehead that showed an ecstatic-faced lady graced with a halo, carrying a sword and dressed in silver-painted armour, though her breastplate was curiously truncated to reveal a pinkly naked bosom. ‘The Pucelle,’ Sharpe said in delight. Joan of Arc had come to the rescue of the British.

And the Calliope, for the second time in five days, was taken.