Sharpe's Trafalgar (17 page)

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 colors, 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 saber 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 saber 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 fibers 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 unraveled. The rudder
squealed on its pintles as Sharpe drew the saber 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 around, 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 toward 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 armor, 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.

The first Pucelle crewman to board the Calliope was Captain Joel Chase himself who
scrambled nimbly up the merchantman’s side to the cheers of the liberated passengers.
The officier marinier, having no sword to surrender, stoically offered Chase a marlin
spike instead. Chase grinned, took the spike, then gallantly returned it to the officier
marinier who resignedly led his men into imprisonment below decks while Chase doffed his
hat, shook hands with the passengers on the main deck and tried to answer a dozen questions
all at once. Malachi Braithwaite stood apart from the happy passengers, staring morosely
at Sharpe on the quarterdeck. The secretary had been sequestered in steerage ever since
the French took the ship and he must have been suffering pangs of jealousy at the thought of
Sharpe being in the stern with Lady Grace.

“There’s a happy naval captain,” Ebenezer Fairley said. He had come to stand beside
Sharpe on the quarterdeck and was staring down at the throng of steerage passengers
surrounding Chase. “He’s just made a fortune in prize money, but mind you he’ll have to
fight for it proper now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think the lawyers won’t want their share?” Fairley asked sourly. “The East India
Company will have lawyers saying that the Frogs never took the ship properly so it can’t
be a prize, and Chase’s prize agent will have another set of lawyers arguing the opposite
and between them they’ll keep the court busy for years and make themselves rich and
everyone else poor.” He sniffed. “I suppose I could hire a lawyer or two myself, seeing as
how a deal of the cargo is mine, but I won’t bother. Yon captain’s welcome to the prize so
far as I’m concerned. I’d rather he got the cash than some blood-sucking lawyer.” Fairley
grimaced. “I once had a good idea on how we could mightily improve the prosperity of
Britain, Sharpe. My notion was that every man of property could kill one lawyer a year
without fear of penalty. Parliament wasn’t interested, but then, Parliament’s full of
blood-suckers.”

Captain Chase extricated himself from the main-deck throng and climbed to the
quarterdeck where the first person he saw was Sharpe. “My dear Sharpe!” Chase cried, his
face lighting up. “My dear Sharpe! We are equal now, eh? You rescue me, I rescue you. How
are you?” He clasped Sharpe’s hand in both his, was introduced to Fairley, then glimpsed
Lord William Hale. “Oh God, I’d forgotten he was on board. How are you, my lord? You’re well?
Good, good!” In fact Lord William had not answered the captain, though he was eager to speak
with him privately, but Chase spun away and took Tufnell’s arm and the two seamen embarked
on a long discussion about how the Calliope had first fallen prey to the Revenant. A party
of Calliope sailors went below to mend the tiller ropes, while some Pucelles, led by
Hopper, the big man who commanded Captain Chase’s gig, hoisted a British ensign above the
French flag.

Lord William, visibly irritated at being ignored by Chase, was waiting to catch the
captain’s attention, but something Tufnell said caused Chase to ignore his lordship and
turn back to the other passengers. “I want to know everything you can tell me,” Chase said
urgently, “about the man posing as the Baron von Dornberg’s servant.”

Most of the passengers looked puzzled. Major Dalton commented that the baron had been
a decent sort of chap, a bit loud-mouthed, but that no one had really remarked on the
servant. “He kept himself to himself,” Dalton said.

“He spoke French to me once,” Sharpe said.

“He did?” Chase spun around eagerly.

“Only the once,” Sharpe said, “but he spoke English and German too. Claimed he was Swiss.
But I don’t know that he was really a servant at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was wearing a sword, sir, when he left the ship. Not many servants wear swords.”

“Hanoverian servants might,” Fairley said. “Foreign folk, strange ways.”

“So what do we know about the baron?” Chase asked.

“He was a buffoon,” Fairley growled.

“He was decent enough,” Dalton protested, “and he was generous.”

Sharpe could have provided a far more detailed answer, but he was still reluctant to
admit that he had deceived the Calliope for so long. “It’s a strange thing, sir,” he said
instead to Chase, “and I didn’t really think about it lentil after the baron had left the
ship, but he looked just like a fellow called Anthony Pohlmann.”

“Did he, Sharpe?” Dalton asked, surprised.

“Same build,” Sharpe said. “Not that I ever saw Pohlmann except through a telescope.”
Which was not true, but Sharpe had to cover his tracks.

“Who,” Chase interrupted, “is Anthony Pohlmann?”

“He’s a Hanoverian soldier, sir, who led the Mahratta armies at Assaye.”

“Sharpe,” Chase said seriously, “are you sure?”

“He looked like him,” Sharpe replied, reddening, “very like.”

“God save me,” Chase said in his Devonian accent, then frowned in thought. Lord William
approached him again, but Chase distractedly waved his lordship away and Lord William,
already insulted by the captain’s disregard, looked even more offended. “But the main
point,” Chase went on, “is that von Dornberg and his servant, if he is a servant, are now on
the Revenant. Hopper!”

“Sir?” the bosun called from the main deck.

“I want all Pucelles back on board fast, but you wait with my barge. Mister Horrocks!
Here, please!” Horrocks was the Pucelle’s fourth lieutenant who would command the small
prize crew, just three men, that Chase would leave aboard the Calliope. The men were not
needed to sail the ship, for Tufnell and the Calliope’s own seamen could do that, but they
were to stay aboard the Indiaman to register Chase’s claim on the vessel which would now
sail to Cape Town where the French prisoners would be given into the care of the British
garrison and the ship could be revictualed for its journey back to Britain and the
waiting lawyers. Chase gave Horrocks his orders, stressing that he was to accede to
Lieutenant Tufnell in all matters of sailing the Calliope, but he also instructed
Horrocks to select twenty of the Calliope’s best seamen and press them into the Pucelle.
“I don’t like doing it,” he told Sharpe, “but we’re short-handed. Poor fellows won’t be
happy, but who knows? Some may even volunteer.” He did not sound hopeful. “What about you,
Sharpe? Will you sail with us?”

“Me, sir?”

“As a passenger,” Chase hurriedly explained. “We’re going your way, as it happens,
and you’ll reach England far quicker by sailing with me than staying aboard this scow. Of
course you want to come. Clouter!” he called to one of his barge crew in the ship’s waist.
“You’ll bring Mister Sharpe’s dunnage on deck. Lively now! He’ll show you where it is.”

Sharpe protested. “I should stay here, sir,” he said. “I don’t want to be in your way.”

“Don’t have time to discuss it, Sharpe,” Chase said happily. “Of course you’re coming
with me.” The captain at last turned to Lord William Hale who had been growing ever more
angry at Chase’s lack of attention. Chase walked away with his lordship as Clouter, the big
black man who had fought so hard on the night Sharpe had first met Chase, climbed to the
quarterdeck. “Where do we go, sir?” Clouter asked.

“The dunnage will wait for a while,” Sharpe answered. He did not want to leave the
Calliope, not while Lady Grace was aboard, but first he would have to invent some pressing
excuse to refuse Chase’s invitation. He could think of none offhand, but the thought of
abandoning Lady Grace was unbearable. If the worst came to the worst, he decided, he
would risk offending Chase by simply refusing to change ships.

Chase was now pacing up and down beneath the poop, listening to Lord William who was
doing most of the talking. Chase was nodding, but eventually the captain seemed to shrug
resignedly, then turned abruptly to rejoin Sharpe. “Damn,” he said bitterly, “damn and
double damn. You still standing here, Clouter? Go and fetch Mister Sharpe’s dunnage!
Nothing too heavy. No pianofortes or four poster beds.”

“I told him to wait,” Sharpe said.

Chase frowned. “You’re not going to argue with me, are you, Sharpe? I have quite enough
troubles. His bloody lordship claims he needs to reach Britain swiftly and I couldn’t deny
that we’re on our way into the Atlantic.”

“The Atlantic?” Sharpe asked, astonished.

“Of course! I told you I was going your way. And besides, that’s where the Revenant is
gone. I’ll swear on it. I’m even risking my reputation on it. And Lord William tells me he
is carrying government dispatches, but is he? I don’t know. I think he just wants to be
on a larger and safer ship, but I can’t refuse him. I’d like to, but I can’t. Damn his eyes.
You’re not listening to this, are you, Clouter? These are words for your superiors and
betters. Damn! So now I’m hoisted with bloody Lord William Hale and his bloody wife, their
bloody servants and his bloody secretary. Damn!”

“Clouter,” Sharpe said energetically, “lower-deck steerage, larboard side. Hurry!”
He almost sang as he jumped down the stairs. Grace was going with him!

Sharpe hid his elation as he made his farewells. He was sorry to part from Ebenezer
Fairley and from Major Dalton, both of whom pressed invitations on him to visit their
homes. Mrs. Fairley clasped Sharpe to her considerable bosom and insisted he took a
bottle of brandy and another of rum with him. “To keep you warm, dear,” she said, “and to
stop Ebenezer from guzzling them.”

A longboat from the Pucelle carried the pressed men away from the Calliope. They were
mostly the youngest seamen and they went to replace those of Chase’s crew who had succumbed
to disease during the Pucelle’s long cruise. They looked morose, for they were exchanging
good wages for poor. “But we’ll cheer them up,” Chase said airily. “There’s nothing like a
dose of victory to cheer a tar.”

Lord William had insisted that his expensive furniture be taken to the Pucelle, but
Chase exploded in anger, saying that his lordship could either travel without
furniture or not travel at all, and his lordship had icily given way, though he did
convince Chase that his collection of official papers must go with him. Those were all
brought from his cabin and taken to the Pucelle, then Lord William and his wife left the
Calliope without making any farewells. Lady Grace looked utterly distraught as she left.
She had been weeping and was now making a huge effort to appear dignified, but she could
not help giving Sharpe a despairing glance as she was lowered by a rope and tackle into
Chase’s barge. Malachi Braithwaite clambered down the Calliope’s side after her and gave
Sharpe a venomously triumphant look as if to suggest that he would now enjoy Lady Grace’s
company while Sharpe was marooned on the Calliope. Lady Grace gripped the gunwale of the
barge with a white-knuckled hand, then the wind snatched at her hat, lifting its brim, and
as she caught the hat she saw Sharpe swing out of the entry port and begin to clamber down
the ship’s side and, for a heartbeat, an expression of pure joy showed on her face.
Braithwaite, seeing Sharpe come down the ladder, gaped in astonishment and looked as
though he wanted to protest, but his mouth just opened and closed like a gaffed fish. “Make
space, Braithwaite,” Sharpe said, “I’m keeping you company.”

“Good-bye, Sharpe! Write to me!” Dalton called.

“Good luck, lad!” Fairley boomed.

Chase descended the ladder last and took his place in the sternsheets. “All together
now!” Hopper shouted and the oarsmen dug in their red and white blades and the barge slid
away from the Calliope.

The stench of the Pucelle reached across the water. It was the smell of a huge crew
crammed into a wooden ship, the stink of unwashed bodies, of body waste, of tobacco, tar,
salt and rot, but the ship herself loomed high and mighty, a great sheer wall of gunports,
crammed with men, powder and shot.

“Good-bye!” Dalton called a last time.

And Sharpe joined the hunter, seeking revenge, going home.

“I hate having women on board,” Chase said savagely. “It’s bad luck, you know that?
Women and rabbits, both bring bad luck.” He touched the polished table in his day cabin to
avert the ill fortune. “Not that there aren’t women on board already,” he admitted.
“There’s at least six Portsmouth whores down below who I’m not supposed to know about, and I
suspect one of the gunners has his wife hidden away, but that ain’t the same as having her
ladyship and her maid out on the open deck feeding the crew’s filthy fantasies.”

Sharpe said nothing. The elegant cabin stretched the whole width of the ship and was lit
by a wide stern window through which he could see the far-off Calliope already hull down on
the horizon. The windows were curtained in flowered chintz which matched the cushions
spread along the window seat, and the deck was carpeted with canvas painted in a black and
white checkerboard pattern. There were two tables, a sideboard, a deep leather armchair, a
couch and a revolving bookcase, though the air of genteel domesticity was somewhat
spoiled by the presence of two eighteen-pounder cannons that pointed toward red-painted
gunports. Forward of the day cabin, and on the ship’s starboard side, were Chase’s
sleeping quarters, while forward on the larboard side was a dining cabin that could seat
a dozen in comfort. “And I’ll be damned if I’ll move out for Lord goddamn bloody Hale,” Chase
grumbled, “though he plainly expects me to. He can go back to the first lieutenant’s
quarters and his damned wife can go into the second lieutenant’s cabin, which is how they
sailed from Calcutta. Lord knows why they sleep apart, but they do. I shouldn’t have told you
that.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Sharpe said.

“The bloody secretary can go in Horrocks’s cabin,” Chase decided. Horrocks was the
lieutenant who had been made prize master of the Calliope. “And the first lieutenant can
have the master’s cabin. He died three days ago. No one knows why. He tired of life, or life
tired of him. God alone knows where the second will go. He’ll turf out the third, I suppose,
who’ll kick out someone else, and so on down to the ship’s cat that will get chucked
overboard, poor thing. God, I hate having passengers, especially women! You’ll have my
quarters.”