Sharpe's Trafalgar Read online

  “My husband is a poor sailor,” Lady Grace said calmly.

  “And you, my lady, are not?” Pohlmann asked.

  “I like the sea,” she said, almost indignantly. “I have always liked the sea.”

  Cromwell laughed. “They say, my lady, that those who would go to sea for pleasure would visit hell as a pastime.”

  She shrugged, as if what others said made no difference to her. Major Dalton took up the burden of the conversation. “Have you ever been seasick, Sharpe?”

  “No, sir, I’ve been lucky.”

  “Me neither,” Dalton said. “My mother always believed beefsteak was a specific against the condition.”

  “Beefsteak, fiddlesticks,” Cromwell growled. “Only rum and oil will serve.”

  “Rum and oil?” Pohlmann asked with a grimace.

  “You force a pint of rum down the patient’s throat and follow it with a pint of oil. Any oil will do, even lamp oil, for the patient will void it utterly, but next day he’ll feel lively as a trivet.” Cromwell turned a jaundiced eye on Lady Grace. “Should I send the rum and oil to your cabin, my lady?”

  Lady Grace did not even bother to reply. She gazed at the paneling where a small oil painting of an English country church swayed to the ship’s motion.

  “So how long will this storm last?” Mathilde asked in her accented English.

  “Storm?” Cromwell cried. “You think this is a storm? This, ma’am, is nothing but a blow. Nothing but a morsel of wind and rain that will do no harm to man or ship. A storm, ma’am, is violent, violent! This is gentle to what we might meet off the Cape.”

  No one had the stomach for a dessert of suet and currants, so instead Pohlmann suggested a hand of whist in his cabin. “I have some fine brandy, Captain,” he said, “and if Major Dalton is willing to play we can make a foursome? I know Sharpe won’t play.” He indicated himself and Mathilde as the other players, then smiled at Lady Grace. “Unless I could persuade you to play, my lady?”

  “I don’t,” she said in a tone suggesting that Pohlmann had invited her to wallow in his vomit. She stood, somehow managing to stay graceful despite the lurching of the ship, and the men immediately pushed their chairs back and stepped aside to let her leave the cabin.

  “Stay and finish your wine, Sharpe,” Pohlmann said, leading his whist players out.

  Sharpe was left alone in the cuddy. He finished his wine, then fetched the decanter from its metal frame on the sideboard, and poured himself another glass. Night had fallen and the frigate, anxious that the convoy should not scatter in the darkness, was firing a gun every ten minutes. Sharpe told himself he would stay for three guns, then make his way into the fetid hold and try to sleep.

  Then the door opened and Lady Grace came back into the cuddy.

  She had a scarf about her neck, hiding the pearls and the smooth white skin of her shoulders. She gave Sharpe an unfriendly glance and ignored his awkward greeting. Sharpe expected her to leave straightaway, assuming she had merely come to fetch something she had left in the cuddy, but to his surprise she sat in Cromwell’s chair and frowned at him. “Sit down, Mister Sharpe.”

  “Some wine, my lady?”

  “Sit down,” she said firmly.

  Sharpe sat at the opposite end of the table. The empty brass chandelier swung from the beam, reflecting flashes of the candlelight that came from the two shielded lanterns on the bulkheads. The nickering flames accentuated the high bones of Lady Grace’s face. “How well do you know the Baron von Dornberg?” she asked abruptly.

  Sharpe blinked, surprised by the question. “Not well, my lady.”

  “You met him in India?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where?” she demanded peremptorily. “How?”

  Sharpe frowned. He had promised not to give away Pohlmann’s identity, so he would need to treat Lady Grace’s insistence tactfully. “I served with a Company exploring officer for a while, ma’am,” he said, “and he frequently rode behind enemy lines. That’s when I met P-the baron.” He thought for a second or two. “I maybe met him four times, perhaps five?”

  “Which enemy?”

  “The Mahrattas, ma’am.”

  “So he was a friend to the Mahrattas?”

  “I imagine so, ma’am.”

  She stared at him as if she was weighing the truth of his words. “He seems very attached to you, Mister Sharpe.”

  Sharpe almost swore as the wine glass slid away from him and fell over the fiddle. The glass smashed on the floor, splashing wine across the canvas rug. “I did him a service, ma’am, the last time we met. It was after a fight.”

  “He was on the other side?” she interrupted him.

  “He was with the other side, ma’am,” Sharpe said carefully, disguising the truth that Pohlmann had been the general commanding the other side. “And he was caught up in the rout. I could have captured him, I suppose, but he didn’t seem to pose any harm, so I let him go. He’s grateful for that, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and seemed about to stand.

  “Why, ma’am?” Sharpe asked, hoping she would stay.

  She relaxed warily, then stared at him for a long time, evidently considering whether to answer, then let go of the table and shrugged. “You heard the captain’s conversation with the baron tonight?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “They appear as strangers to each other?”

  “Indeed they do,” Sharpe agreed, “and Cromwell told me as much himself.”

  “Yet almost every night, Mister Sharpe, they meet and talk. Just the two of them. They come in here after midnight and sit across the table from each other and talk. And sometimes the baron’s manservant is here with them.” She paused. “I frequently find it hard to sleep and if the night is fine I will go on deck. I hear them through the skylight. I don’t eavesdrop,” she said acidly, “but I hear their voices.”

  “So they know each other a great deal better than they pretend?” Sharpe said.

  “So it would seem,” she answered.

  “Odd, ma’am,” Sharpe said.

  She shrugged as if to suggest that Sharpe’s opinion was of no interest to her. “Perhaps they merely play backgammon,” she said distantly.

  She again looked as though she would leave and Sharpe hurried to keep the conversation going. “The baron did tell me he might go to live in France, ma’am.”

  “Not London?”

  “France or Hanover, he said.”

  “But you can hardly expect him to confide in you,” she said scornfully, “on the basis of your very slight acquaintance.” She stood.

  Sharpe pushed back his chair and hurried to open the door. She nodded thanks for his courtesy, but a sudden wave heaved the Calliope and made Lady Grace stagger and Sharpe instinctively put a hand out to check her and the hand encircled her waist and took her weight so that she was leaning against him with her face just inches from his. He felt a terrible desire to kiss her and he knew she would not object for, though the ship steadied, she did not step away. Sharpe could feel her slender waist beneath the soft material of her dress. His mind was swimming because her eyes, so large and serious, were on his, and once again, as he had the very first time he glimpsed her, he sensed a melancholy in her face, but then the quarterdeck door banged open and Cromwell’s steward swore as he carried a tray toward the cuddy. Lady Grace twisted from Sharpe’s arm and, without a word, went through the door.

  “Raining buckets, it is,” the steward said. “A bloody fish would drown on deck, I tell you.”

  “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, “bloody hell.” He picked the decanter up by the neck, tipped it to his mouth and drained it.

  The wind and rain stayed high throughout the night. Cromwell had shortened sail at nightfall and those few passengers who braved the deck at dawn found the Calliope plunging beneath low dark clouds from which black squalls hissed across a white-capped sea. Sharpe, lacking a greatcoat, and unwilling to soak his coat or shirt, went on deck bare-
chested. He turned toward the quarterdeck and respectfully bowed his head in acknowledgment of the unseen captain, then half ran and half walked toward the forecastle where the breakfast burgoo waited to be fetched. He found a group of sailors at the galley, one of them the gray-haired commander of number five gun, who greeted Sharpe with a tobacco-stained grin. “We’ve lost the convoy, sir.”

  “Lost it?”

  “Gone to buggery, ain’t it?” The man laughed. “And not by accident if I knows a thing about it.”

  “And what do you know about it, Jem?” a younger man asked.

  “More’n you know, and more’n you’ll ever learn.”

  “Why no accident?” Sharpe asked.

  Jem ducked his head to spit tobacco juice. “The captain’s been at the wheel since midnight, sir, so he has, and he’s been steering us hard south’ards. Had us on deck in dark of night, hauling the sails about. We be running due south now, sir, instead of sou’west.”

  “The wind changed,” a man observed.

  “Wind don’t change here!” Jem said scornfully. “Not at this time of year! Wind here be steady as a rock out of the nor’east. Nine days in ten, sir, out the nor’east. You don’t need to steer a ship out of Bombay, sir. You clear the Balasore Roads, hang your big rags up the sticks, and this wind’ll blow you to Madagascar straight as a ball down a tavern alley, sir.”

  “So why has he turned south?” Sharpe asked.

  “Because we’re a fast ship, sir, and it was grating Peculiar’s nerves to be tied to them slow old tubs of the convoy. You watch him, sir, he’ll have us hanging our shirts in the rigging to catch the wind and we’ll fly home like a seagull.” He winked. “First ship home gets the best prices for the cargo, see, sir?”

  The cook ladled the burgoo into Sharpe’s cauldron and Jem opened the forecastle door for Sharpe who almost collided with Pohlmann’s servant, the elderly man who had been so relaxed on his master’s sofa on the first night Sharpe had visited the cabin.

  “Pardonnez-moi,” the servant said instinctively, stepping hastily back so that Sharpe did not spill the burgoo down his gray clothes.

  Sharpe looked at him. “Are you French?”

  “I’m Swiss, sir,” the man said respectfully, then stood aside, though he still looked at Sharpe, who thought the man’s eyes were not like a servant’s eyes. They were like Lord William’s eyes, confident, clever and knowing. “Good morning, sir,” the servant said respectfully, offering a slight bow, and Sharpe stepped past him and carried the steaming burgoo down the rain-slicked main deck toward the aft companionway.

  Cromwell chose that moment to appear at the quarterdeck rail and, just as Jem had forecast, he wanted every stitch of sail aloft. He bellowed at the topmen to start climbing, then took a speaking trumpet from the rail and hailed the first lieutenant who was making his way forward. “Fly the jib boom spritsail, Mister Tufnell. Lively now! Mister Sharpe, you’ll oblige me by getting dressed. This is an Indiaman, not some sluttish Tyne collier.”

  Sharpe went below to eat breakfast and when he came back to the deck, properly dressed, Cromwell had gone to the poop from where he was watching north for fear that the Company frigate might appear to order him back to the convoy, but neither Cromwell, nor the men aloft, saw any sign of the other ships. It appeared that Cromwell had escaped the convoy and could now let Calliope show her speed. And show it she did, for every sail that had been handed at nightfall was now back on the yards, stretching to the wet wind, and the Calliope seemed to churn the sea to cream as she raced southward.

  The wind moderated during the day and the clouds scudded themselves ragged so that by nightfall the sky was again clear and the sea was blue green instead of gray. There was an air of ebullience on board, as though by freeing itself of the convoy the Calliope had brightened everyone’s life. There was the sound of laughter in steerage, and cheers when Tufnell rigged wind scoops to air out the fetid decks. Passengers joined the seamen in dances below the forecastle as the sun sank in a blaze of orange and gold.

  Pohlmann brought Sharpe a cigar before supper. “I won’t invite you to eat with us tonight,” he said. “Joshua Fazackerly is donating the wine, which means he will feel entitled to bore us all with his legal recollections. It will likely prove a tedious meal.” He paused, blowing a plume of smoke toward the mainsail. “You know why I liked the Mahrattas? There were no lawyers among them.”

  “No law, either,” Sharpe said.

  Pohlmann gave him a sideways glance. “True. But I like corrupt societies, Richard. In a corrupt society the biggest rogue wins.”

  “So why go home?”

  “Europe is being corrupted,” Pohlmann said. “The French talk loudly of law and reason, but beneath the talk there is nothing but greed. I understand greed, Richard.”

  “So where will you live?” Sharpe asked. “London, Hanover or France?”

  “Maybe in Italy? Maybe Spain? No, not Spain. I could not stomach the priests. Maybe I shall go to America? They say rogues do well there.”

  “Or perhaps you’ll live in France?”

  “Why not? I have no quarrel with France.”

  “You will if the Revenant finds us.”

  “The Revenant?” Pohlmann asked innocently.

  “French warship,” Sharpe said.

  Pohlmann laughed. “It would be like, how do you say? Finding a needle in a haystack? Although I have always thought it would be easy to find a needle in a haystack. Simply take a girl onto the stack and make love, and you could be quite certain the needle will find her bum. Have you ever made love on a haystack?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t recommend it. It is like those beds the Indian magicians sleep on. But if you do, Richard, make sure you are the one on top.”

  Sharpe gazed out across the darkening ocean. There were no white-caps any more, just an endless vista of slow-heaving waves. “How well do you know Cromwell?” He blurted the question out, torn between a reluctance to raise the German’s suspicions and a desire not to believe in those suspicions at all.

  Pohlmann gave Sharpe a glance full of curiosity and not a little hostility. “I scarcely know the man,” he answered stiffly. “I met him once or twice when he was ashore in Bombay, because it seemed sensible if we were to get decent accommodation, but otherwise I know him about as well as you do. Why do you ask?”

  “I was wondering if you knew him well enough to find out why he left the convoy?”

  Pohlmann laughed, his suspicions allayed by Sharpe’s explanation. “I don’t think I know him that well, but Mister Tufnell tells me we are to sail to the east of Madagascar while the convoy goes to the west. We shall make faster time, he reckons, and be home at least two weeks ahead of the other ships. And that will increase the value of the cargo in which the captain has a considerable interest.” Pohlmann drew on the cigar. “You disapprove of his initiative?”

  “There’s safety in numbers,” Sharpe said mildly.

  “There’s safety in speed, too. Tufnell says we should make at least ninety miles a day now.” The German threw the remains of his cigar overboard. “I must change for supper.”

  There was something wrong, Sharpe reckoned, but he could not place it. If Lady Grace was right, then Pohlmann and the captain talked frequently, but Pohlmann claimed he scarcely knew Cromwell, and Sharpe was inclined to believe her ladyship, though for the life of him he could not see how it affected anyone other than Pohlmann and Cromwell.

  Two days later land was sighted far to the west. The shout from the masthead brought a rush of passengers to the starboard rail, though no one could see the land unless they were willing to climb into the high rigging, but a belt of thick cloud on the horizon showed where the distant coast lay. “Cape East on Madagascar,” Lieutenant Tufnell announced, and all day the passengers stared at the cloud as though it portended something significant. The cloud was gone the following day, though Tufnell told Sharpe they were still following the Madagascar coast which now lay well beyond the horizon
. “The next landfall will be the African shore,” Tufnell said, “and there we’ll find a quick current to carry us round to Cape Town.”

  The two men spoke on the darkened quarterdeck. It was well past midnight on the second day since the sighting of Cape East and the third night in succession that Sharpe had gone in the small hours to the quarterdeck in hope that Lady Grace would be on the poop. He needed to ask permission to be on the quarterdeck, but the watch officer had welcomed his company every night, unaware why Sharpe wanted to be there. The Lady Grace had not appeared on either of the first two nights, but as Sharpe now stood beside the lieutenant he heard the creak of a door and the sound of soft shoes climbing the stairs to the poop deck. Sharpe waited until the lieutenant went to talk with the helmsman, then he turned and went to the poop deck himself.

  A thin saber-curve of moon glistened on the sea and offered just enough light for Sharpe to see Lady Grace, swathed in a dark cloak, standing beside the stern lantern. She was alone, with no maid to chaper-one her, and Sharpe joined her, standing a pace to her left with his hands, like hers, on the rail and he stared, like her, at the smooth, moon-silvered wake that slipped endlessly into the dark. The great mizzen driver sail loomed pale above them.

  Neither spoke. She glanced at him when he joined her, but did not walk away. She just stared at the ocean.

  “Pohlmann,” Sharpe said very quietly, for two panes of the cuddy’s skylight were open and he did not want to be overheard if anyone was below, “claims he does not know Captain Cromwell.”

  “Pohlmann?” Lady Grace asked, frowning at Sharpe.

  “The Baron von Dornberg is no baron, my lady.” Sharpe was breaking his word to Pohlmann, but he did not care, not when he was standing close enough to smell Lady Grace’s perfume. “His name is Anthony Pohlmann and he was once a sergeant in a Hanoverian regiment that was hired by the East India Company, but he deserted. He became a freelance soldier instead, and a very good one. He was the commander of the enemy army at Assaye.”

  “Their commander?” She sounded surprised.