Sharpe's Trafalgar (14 page)

“I am busy, Fairley, busy.” Cromwell did not look at the merchant.

“Can you outrun her?”

“If I am left in peace to practice my trade, perhaps.”

“What about my cash?” Lord William demanded. He had joined his wife on deck.

“The French,” Cromwell decreed, “do not make war on private individuals. The ship and
its cargo might be lost, but they will respect private property. If I have time, my lord,
I will unlock my cabin. But for now, gentlemen, perhaps you will all let me sail this ship
without yapping at me?”

Sharpe glanced at Lady Grace, but she ignored him and he looked back at the French
warship. Fairley thumped the rail in his frustration. “That bloody Frenchman will make a
tidy profit,” the merchant said bitterly. “This hull and cargo must be worth sixty
thousand pound. Sixty thousand! Maybe more.”

Twenty for the French, Sharpe thought, twenty for Pohlmann and twenty for Cromwell, a
captain who fervently believed the war was lost and that the French would win. A captain
who had declared that a man must make his fortune before the French took over the world. And
twenty thousand pounds was a real fortune, a sum on which a man could live forever.
“They’ve still got to catch us,” Sharpe tried to reassure Fairley, “and they’ll have to get
the ship and its cargo back to France. That won’t be easy.”

Fairley shook his head. “Doesn’t work like that, Mister Sharpe. They’ll take us to
Mauritius and sell the cargo there. There are plenty of neutrals ready to buy this cargo.
And like as not they’ll sell the ship too. Next thing you know she’ll be called the George
Washington and be sailing out of Boston.” He spat across the rail. The tiller ropes creaked
as Cromwell demanded yet another correction.

“What about us?” Sharpe asked.

“They’ll send us home,” Fairley said, “eventually. Don’t know about you or the major,
seeing as you’re in uniform. They might put you in prison.”

“They’ll parole us, Sharpe,” Dalton reassured the younger man, “and we’ll live at
liberty in Port Louis. I hear it’s a pleasant kind of place. And a good-looking young
fellow like you will find a surfeit of bored young ladies.”

The Revenant, for it could be no other ship, fired again. Sharpe saw a monstrous billow
of white smoke appear high on her bows and a few seconds later the sound of the cannon came
rumbling across the water. A fountain of white spray showed a half-mile short of the
Calliope.

“Closer,” Dalton grunted.

“We should fire back,” Fairley growled.

“She’s too big for us,” Dalton said sadly.

The two ships were on converging courses and the Calliope was still ahead, but
Cromwell’s frequent course corrections were slowing her. “A few shots into her rigging
might slow her down,” Fairley suggested.

“We’ll soon be showing her our stern,” Dalton said. “No guns will bear.”

“Then move a gun,” Fairley said angrily. “Good God, there must be something we can
do!”

The Revenant fired again and this time the ball bounced across the waves like a stone
skipping across a pond and finally sank a quarter-mile short of the Calliope. “The gun’s
getting warmer,” Dalton said. “Another minute or two and she’ll be thumping us.”

Lady Grace abruptly walked across the deck to stand between Dalton and Sharpe.
“Major”—she spoke very loudly, so that her husband would know she talked to the respectable
Dalton and not to Sharpe—”you think he will catch us?”

“I pray not, ma’am,” Dalton said, removing his cocked hat. “I pray not.”

“We won’t fight?” she asked.

“We cannot,” Dalton said.

She was wearing wide skirts that, because of her closeness to Sharpe, crushed up against
his trousers and he felt her fingers tap his leg. He surreptitiously dropped his hand and
she clutched it fiercely, unseen by anyone. “But the French will treat us well?” she asked
Dalton.

“I am sure they will, my lady,” the major said, “and there are a score of gentlemen
aboard this ship ready to protect you.”

Grace dropped her voice to scarce above a whisper and, at the same time, gripped Sharpe’s
fingers so hard that it hurt. “Look after me, Richard,” she murmured, then turned and walked
back to her husband.

Major Dalton followed her, evidently eager to add more reassurance, and Ebenezer
Fairley offered Sharpe a crooked grin. “So that’s how it is, eh?”

“What is?” Sharpe asked, not looking at the merchant.

“My family always had good ears. Good ears and good eyes. You and her, eh?”

“Mister Fairley ... “ Sharpe began to protest.

“Don’t be daft, lad. I’m not going to say a word. But you’re a sly one, aren’t you? And
so’s she. Good for you, lad, and good for her too. So she ain’t as bad as I thought, eh?” He
frowned suddenly as Cromwell demanded another tweak of the wheel. “Cromwell!” Fairley
turned angrily on the captain. “Stop fiddling with the rudder, man!”

“I’ll thank you to go below, Mister Fairley,” Cromwell said calmly. “This is my
quarterdeck.”

“A fair piece of the cargo is mine!”

“If you do not go below, Fairley, I shall have the bosun escort you.”

“Damn your insolence,” Fairley growled, but obediently left the deck.

The Revenant fired again and this time the round shot sank within a few yards of the
Calliope’s counter and close enough to spray the gilded stern with water. Cromwell had seen
the fountain of water show above his taffrail and its proximity made up his mind. “Haul
down the colors, Mister Tufnell.”

“But, sir ... “

“Haul down the colors!” Cromwell bellowed angrily at Tufnell. “Point her upwind,” he
added to the helmsman. The ensign came flapping down from the mizzen gaff and, at the same
time, the Calliope turned her bows right around into the wind so that all the great sails
hammered against the masts and rigging like demented wings. “Furl sails!” Cromwell
shouted. “Lively now!”

The wheel turned to and fro by itself, responding to the surges of water that beat
against the rudder. Cromwell glowered at his passengers on the quarterdeck. “I
apologize,” he snarled, sounding anything other than apologetic.

“My cash,” Lord William demanded.

“Is safe!” Cromwell snapped. “And I have work to do before the Frenchies arrive.” He
stalked off the deck.

It took a few minutes for the Revenant to catch up with the Calliope, but then the French
warship hove to off the starboard quarter and lowered a boat. The rail of the French ship
was thick with men who stared at their rich prize. All French seamen dreamed of a fat
Indiaman loaded with valuables, but Sharpe doubted that any Frenchman had ever gained a
prize as easily as this. This ship had been given to the French. He could not prove it, but
he was certain of it, and he turned to stare at Pohlmann who, catching his eye, offered a
rueful shrug.

Bastard, Sharpe thought, bastard. But for now he had other things to worry about. He
must stay near her ladyship and he must be wary of Braithwaite, but, above all, he had to
survive. Because there had been treachery and Sharpe wanted revenge.

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 toward 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 inquired, 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 main-deck 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 cooperate 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 toward 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 somber gray 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 forever.” 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 meager 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 cither’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-barreled pistol.
Monhnorin 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.