Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe's Trafalgar, Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe's Rifles (16 page)

‘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.