Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe's Trafalgar, Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe's Rifles (12 page)

‘And were you?’ Sharpe asked, suddenly jealous of the man. ‘Were you delicate?’

‘I froze him.’

‘You’re good at that.’

‘And in the morning,’ she said, ‘I will have to be good at it again.’

‘Yes, my lady, you will.’

She smiled, acknowledging that he understood the necessary deception. ‘But it won’t be light,’ she said, ‘for another three hours.’

‘Four, more like.’

‘And I’ve been wanting to explore the ship,’ she said. ‘All I ever see is the roundhouse, the cuddy and the poop deck.’

He took her hand. ‘It’ll be pitch black below.’

‘I think that would probably help,’ she said gravely. She took her hand from his. ‘You go first,’ she said, ‘and I’ll follow. I’ll meet you on the main deck.’

And so he waited below the break of the quarterdeck and she did follow and he led her below and there they forgot their suspicions of Pohlmann and Cromwell.

Who, most probably, Sharpe thought when the dawn came and he lay astonished and alone again in his bed, had been playing backgammon. He closed his eyes, amazed at his happiness and praying that this voyage could last for ever.

Two mornings later a sail was sighted, the first since the
Calliope
had left the convoy. It was dawn and the sky above unseen Madagascar was still dark when a topman saw the first sunlight reflect from a distant sail off the starboard bow. Captain Cromwell, summoned from his cabin by Lieutenant Tufnell, appeared agitated. He was wearing a flannel nightgown and his long hair was twisted into a bun at the nape of his neck. He stared at the strange ship’s sails through an ancient telescope. ‘It ain’t a native ship,’ Sharpe heard him say. ‘They’re proper topsails. Christian canvas, that.’ Cromwell ordered the main-deck guns to be unlashed. Powder was brought up from the magazines while Cromwell changed into his usual uniform. Tufnell went to the mainmast crosstrees equipped with a telescope. He stared for a long time, then shouted that he thought the distant vessel was a whaler. Cromwell seemed relieved, but left the powder charges on deck just in case the strange ship proved to be a privateer.

It was the best part of an hour before the distant ship could be seen from the
Calliope
’s deck and its presence brought the passengers on deck to stare at the stranger. Like the glimpse of land, this was a break in the journey’s tedium and Sharpe gazed with the rest, though he had an advantage over most of the passengers, for he possessed a telescope. The instrument was a marvel, a beautiful spyglass made by Matthew Berge of London and inscribed with the date of the battle of Assaye. Sir Arthur Wellesley had given the telescope to Sharpe, with his thanks engraved above the date, though he had been his usual distant and diffident self as he handed the glass over. ‘I would not have you think I was unmindful of the service you did me,’ the general had said awkwardly.

‘I was just glad to be there, sir,’ Sharpe had answered just as awkwardly.

Sir Arthur had forced himself to say something more. ‘Remember, Mister Sharpe, that an officer’s eyes are more valuable than his sword.’

‘I’ll remember that, sir,’ Sharpe said, reflecting that the general would have been dead without Sharpe’s sabre. Still, he supposed the advice was good. ‘And thank you, sir,’ Sharpe had said and remembered being obscurely disappointed with the telescope. He had reckoned that a good sword would have been a better reward for saving the general’s life.

Sir Arthur had frowned, but Campbell, one of his aides, had tried to be friendly. ‘So you’re off to join the Rifles, Sharpe?’

‘I am, sir.’

Sir Arthur had cut the conversation short. ‘You’ll be happy there, I’m sure. Thank you, Mister Sharpe. Good day to you.’

And thus Sharpe had become the ungrateful possessor of a telescope that would have been the envy of richer men. He trained it now on the strange ship, which, to his untutored eye, looked a good deal smaller than the
Calliope
. She was certainly no warship, but appeared to be a small merchantman.

‘She’s a Jonathon!’ Tufnell called from aloft, and Sharpe edged the glass leftwards and saw a faded ensign flying at the far ship’s stern. The flag looked very like the red-and-white-striped banner of the East India Company, but then the wind lifted it and he saw the stars in its upper quadrant and realized she was an American.

Major Dalton had come down to the main deck and now stood beside Sharpe who politely offered the Scotsman the use of the telescope. The major stared at the American ship. ‘She’s carrying powder and shot to Mauritius,’ he said.

‘How do you know, sir?’

‘Because that’s what they do. No French merchantman dare sail in these waters, so the damned Americans supply Mauritius with weaponry. And they have the nerve to call themselves neutral! Still, I’ve no doubt they turn a fine profit, which is all that matters to them. This is a very fine glass, Sharpe!’

‘It was a gift, Major.’

‘A handsome one.’ Dalton handed the glass back and frowned. ‘You look tired, Sharpe.’

‘Not been sleeping that well, Major.’

‘I pray you’re not sickening. The Lady Grace is also looking very peaky. I do hope there isn’t ship fever on board. I recall a brigantine coming into Leith when I was a child and there can’t have been more then three men alive on her, and they were near death’s door. They couldn’t land, of course, poor things. They had to anchor off and let the sickness run its course, which left them all dead.’

The American, confident that the
Calliope
presented no threat, sailed close to the great Indiaman and the two ships inspected each other as they passed in mid ocean. The American ship was half the
Calliope
’s length and her main deck was crammed with the longboats that her crew used to stalk and kill whales. ‘Doubtless she’ll drop her cargo on Mauritius,’ Major Dalton observed, ‘then head for the Southern Ocean. A hard life, Sharpe.’

The American crew returned the
Calliope
’s waves, then she was past and the folk on board the Indiaman could read the whaler’s name and hailing port, which were painted in blue and gold on handsome stern boards. ‘The
Jonah Coffin
out of Nantucket,’ Dalton said. ‘What extraordinary names they do pick!’

‘Like Peculiar Cromwell?’

‘There is that!’ Dalton laughed. ‘But I can’t imagine our captain painting his name on his boat’s stern, can you? By the way, Sharpe, I’ve donated a pickled tongue for dinner.’

‘Generous of you, sir.’

‘And I owe you a recompense for all the help you’ve been to me,’ Dalton said, referring to his long conversations with Sharpe about the war against the Mahrattas which the major planned to write about in his retirement, ‘so why don’t you join us at noon? The captain’s agreed to let us eat on the quarterdeck!’ Dalton sounded excited, as if dining in the open air would prove a special treat.

‘I don’t want to intrude, Major.’

‘No intrusion, no intrusion! You shall be my guest. I’ve also donated some wine and you can help drink it. Red coat, I fear, Sharpe. Dinner might be a mere cold collation, but Peculiar rightly insists there are no shirtsleeves on the quarterdeck.’

Sharpe had an hour before the dinner was to be served and he went below to brush the red coat and, to his astonishment, found Malachi Braithwaite seated on his travelling chest. The secretary was becoming ever more morose as the voyage continued and now looked up at Sharpe with resentful eyes.

‘Lost your own quarters, Braithwaite?’ Sharpe asked brusquely.

‘I wanted to see you, Sharpe.’ The secretary seemed nervous, unable to meet Sharpe’s eyes.

‘You could have found me on deck,’ Sharpe said and waited, but Braithwaite said nothing, just watched as Sharpe draped the red coat over the edge of the hanging cot and began to brush it vigorously. ‘Well?’ Sharpe asked.

Braithwaite still hesitated. His right hand was fiddling with a loose thread hanging from the sleeve of his faded black coat, but he finally summoned the courage to look at Sharpe, opened his mouth to speak, then lost his courage and closed it again. Sharpe scrubbed at a patch of dirt and finally the secretary found his voice. ‘You entertain a woman at nights,’ he blurted out accusingly.

Sharpe laughed. ‘What if I do? Didn’t they teach you about women at Oxford?’

‘A particular woman,’ Braithwaite said in a tone so filled with resentment that he sounded like a spitting serpent.

Sharpe put the brush on top of his barrel of arrack and turned on the secretary. ‘If you’ve got something to say, Braithwaite, then bloody say it.’

The secretary reddened. The fingers of his right hand were now drumming on the edge of the chest, but he forced himself to continue the confrontation. ‘I know what you’re doing, Sharpe.’

‘You don’t know a bloody thing, Braithwaite.’

‘And if I inform his lordship, as I should, then you can be assured that you will have no career in His Majesty’s army.’ It had taken almost all Braithwaite’s courage to voice the threat, but he was encouraged by a rancour that was eating him like a tapeworm. ‘You’ll have no career, Sharpe, none!’

Sharpe’s face betrayed no emotion as he stared at the secretary, but he was privately appalled that Braithwaite had discovered his secret. Lady Grace had been in this squalid cabin for two nights running, coming long after dark and leaving well before dawn, and Sharpe had thought no one had noticed. They had both believed they were being discreet, but Braithwaite had seen and now he was bitter with envy. Sharpe picked up the brush. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘And I’ll ruin her too,’ Braithwaite hissed, then started violently back as Sharpe threw down the brush and turned on him. ‘And I know you deposited valuables with the captain!’ the secretary went on hurriedly, holding up both hands as if to ward off a blow.

Sharpe hesitated. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Everyone knows. It’s a ship, Sharpe. People talk.’

Sharpe looked into the secretary’s shifty eyes. ‘Go on,’ he said softly.

‘My silence can be purchased,’ Braithwaite said defiantly.

Sharpe nodded as though he were considering the bargain. ‘I’ll tell you how I’ll buy your silence, Braithwaite, a silence, by the way, about nothing because I don’t know what you’re talking about. I reckon Oxford addled your brain, but let’s suppose, just for a minute, that I think I know what you’re suggesting. Shall we agree to that?’

Braithwaite nodded cautiously.

‘And a ship is a very small place, Braithwaite,’ Sharpe said, seating himself beside the gangly secretary, ‘and you can’t escape me on board this ship. And that means that if you open your sordid mouth to tell anyone anything, if you say even one bloody word, then I’ll kill you.’

‘You don’t understand . . .’

‘I do understand,’ Sharpe interrupted, ‘so shut your mouth. In India, Braithwaite, there are men called
jettis
who kill by wringing their victims’ necks like chickens.’ Sharpe put his hands on Braithwaite’s head and began to twist it. ‘They twist it all the bloody way round, Braithwaite.’

‘No!’ the secretary gasped. He fumbled at Sharpe’s hands with his own, but he lacked the strength to free himself.

‘They twist it till their victim’s eyes are staring out over his arse and his neck gives way with a crack.’

‘No!’ Braithwaite could barely speak, for his neck was being twisted hard round.

‘It’s not really a crack,’ Sharpe went on in a conversational tone, ‘more a kind of grating creak, and I’ve often wondered if I could do it myself. It’s not that I’m afraid of killing, Braithwaite. I wouldn’t have you think that. I’ve killed men with guns, with swords, with knives and with my bare hands. I’ve killed more men, Braithwaite, than you can imagine in your worst nightmare, but I’ve never wrung a man’s neck till it creaked. But I’ll start with you. If you do anything to hurt me, or anything to hurt any lady I know, then I’ll twist your head like a cork in a bloody bottle, and it’ll hurt. My God, it’ll hurt.’ Sharpe gave the secretary’s neck a sudden jerk. ‘It’ll hurt more than you know, and I promise you that it will happen if you say so much as one single bloody word. You’ll be dead, Braithwaite, and I won’t give a rat’s droppings about doing it. It’ll be a real pleasure.’ He gave the secretary’s neck a last twist, then let go.

Braithwaite gasped for breath, massaging his throat. He gave Sharpe a scared glance, then tried to stand, but Sharpe hauled him back onto the chest. ‘You’re going to make me a promise, Braithwaite,’ Sharpe said.

‘Anything!’ All the fight had gone from the man now.

‘You’ll say nothing to anybody. And I’ll know if you do, I’ll know, and I’ll find you, Braithwaite. I’ll find you and I’ll wring your scrawny neck like a chicken.’

‘I won’t say a word!’

‘Because your accusations are false, aren’t they?’

‘Yes.’ Braithwaite nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, they are.’

‘You’re having dreams, Braithwaite.’

‘I am, I am.’

‘Then go. And remember I’m a killer, Braithwaite. When you were at Oxford learning to be a bloody fool I was learning how to kill folk. And I learned well.’

Braithwaite fled and Sharpe stayed seated. Damn, he thought, damn and damn and damn again. He reckoned he had frightened the secretary into silence, but Sharpe was still scared. For if Braithwaite had found out, who else might discover their secret? Not that it mattered for Sharpe, but it mattered mightily to Lady Grace. She had a reputation to lose. ‘You’re playing with fire, you bloody fool,’ he told himself, then retrieved his brush and finished cleaning his coat.

Pohlmann seemed surprised that Sharpe should be a guest at dinner, but he greeted him effusively and shouted at the steward to fetch another chair onto the quarterdeck. A trestle table had been placed forward of the
Calliope
’s big wheel, spread with white linen and set with silverware. ‘I was going to invite you myself,’ Pohlmann told Sharpe, ‘but in the excitement of seeing the Jonathon I quite forgot.’

There was no precedence at this table, for Captain Cromwell was not dining with his passengers, but Lord William made sure he took the table’s head, then cordially invited the baron to sit beside him. ‘As you know, my dear baron, I am compiling a report on the future policy of His Majesty’s government towards India and I would value your opinion on the remaining Mahratta states.’