Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe’s Trafalgar, Sharpe’s Prey, Sharpe’s Rifles

‘You don’t speak Latin, do you? There’s an advantage. And you don’t know trade either, but you can learn that a damned sight easier than you can learn Latin.’

‘I like being a soldier.’

‘Aye, I can see that. And Dalton tells me you’re good at it. But one day, Sharpe, some halfwit like William Hale will make peace with the French because he’s too damned scared of defeat and on that day the army will spit you out like a biscuit weevil.’ He felt inside a waistcoat pocket stretched tight across a paunch that remained undiminished by the ship’s execrable food. ‘Here.’ He passed Sharpe a slip of pasteboard. ‘It’s what my wife calls a carte de visite. Call on me when you want a job.’ The card gave Fairley’s address, Pallisser Hall. ‘I grew up near that house,’ Fairley said, ‘and my father used to clean out its gutters with his bare hands. Now it’s mine. I bought his lordship out.’ He smiled, pleased with himself. ‘There’s no storm coming. Peculiar’s got fleas in his trousers, that’s all. And so he should.’

‘He should?’

‘I’m not happy that we lost the convoy, Sharpe. I don’t approve, but on board ship it’s Peculiar’s word that counts, not mine. You don’t buy a dog and bark yourself, Sharpe.’ He fished a pocket watch out and clicked open its lid. ‘Almost dinner time. The remnants of that tongue, no doubt.’

Midday came and still nothing explained Cromwell’s nervousness. Pohlmann appeared on deck, but went nowhere near the captain, and a few minutes later Lady Grace, attended by her maid, took the air before going to the cuddy for dinner. The wind was lighter than it had been for days, making the Calliope rock in the swell, and some pale-faced passengers were clinging to the lee rail. Lieutenant Tufnell was reassuring. There was no storm coming, he said, for the glass in the captain’s cabin was staying high. ‘The wind’ll be back,’ he told the passengers on the main deck.

‘Are we turning west today?’ Sharpe asked.

‘Tomorrow, probably,’ Tufnell said, ‘southwest, anyway. I rather think our gamble hasn’t paid off and that we should have gone through the Straits. Still, we’re a quick sailor and we should make up the time in the Atlantic.’

‘Sail ho!’ a lookout called from the mainmast. ‘Sail on the larboard bow!’

Cromwell snatched up a speaking trumpet. ‘What kind of sail?’

‘Topsail, sir, can’t see more.’

Tufnell frowned. ‘A topsail means a European ship. Perhaps another Jonathon?’ He looked up at Cromwell. ‘You want to wear ship, sir?’

‘We shall stand on, Mister Tufnell, we stand on.’

‘Wear ship?’ Sharpe asked.

‘Turn away from whoever it is,’ Tufnell said. ‘It don’t matter if it’s a Jonathon, but we don’t want to be playing games with a Frenchie.’

‘The Revenant?’ Sharpe suggested.

‘Don’t even say the name,’ Tufnell answered grimly, reaching out to touch the wooden rail to avert the ill fortune of Sharpe’s suggestion. ‘But if we wore now we could outrun her. She’s coming upwind, whoever she is.’

The lookout shouted again. ‘She’s a French ship, sir.’

‘How do you know?’ Cromwell called back.

‘Cut of her sails, sir.’

Tufnell looked pained. ‘Sir?’ he appealed to Cromwell.

‘The Pucelle is a French-made ship, Mister Tufnell,’ Cromwell snapped. ‘Most likely it’s the Pucelle. We stand on.’

‘Powder on deck, sir?’ Tufnell asked.

Cromwell hesitated, then shook his head. ‘Probably another whaler, Mister Tufnell, probably another whaler. Let us not become unduly excited.’

Sharpe forgot his dinner and climbed to the foredeck where he trained his telescope on the approaching ship. It was still hull down, but he could see two layers of sails above the skyline and make out the flattened shape of the foresails as they fought to gain a purchase on the wind. He lent the glass to the sailors who crowded the foredeck and none liked what they saw. ‘That ain’t the Pucelle,’ one grunted. ‘She’s got a dirty streak on her fore topsail.’

‘Could have washed the sail,’ another suggested. ‘Captain Chase ain’t a man to let dirt stay on a sail.’

‘Well, if it ain’t the Pucelle,’ the first man said, ‘it’s the Revenant, and we shouldn’t be standing on. Shouldn’t be standing on. Don’t make sense.’

Tufnell had gone to the maintop with his own telescope. ‘French warship, sir!’ he called down to the quarterdeck. ‘Black hoops on the mast!’

‘The Pucelle has black hoops,’ Cromwell shouted back. ‘Can you see her flag?’

‘No, sir.’

Cromwell stood irresolute for a moment, then gave an order to the helmsman so that the Calliope clumsily turned towards the west. Sailors ran to man the sheets, trimming the great sails to the wind’s new angle.

‘She’s turning with us, sir!’ Tufnell shouted.

The Calliope was going faster now and her bluff bows were thumping into the waves, and each thump sent a tremor through her tons of oak timbers. The passengers were silent. Sharpe stared through the telescope and saw that the far ship’s hull was above the horizon now and it was painted black and yellow like a wasp.

‘French colours, sir!’ Tufnell shouted.

‘Peculiar left it too bloody late,’ a seaman near Sharpe said. ‘Bloody man thinks he can walk on water.’

Sharpe turned and stared across the main deck at Peculiar Cromwell. Maybe, he thought, the captain had been expecting this. Morgen früh, Sharpe thought, morgen früh, only the rendezvous had come a few minutes late, but then he dismissed the idea. Surely Cromwell had not expected this? But then Sharpe saw Pohlmann gazing forrard with a glass and he remembered that Pohlmann had once commanded French officers. Had he stayed in touch with the French after Assaye? Was he allied with the French? No, Sharpe thought, no. It seemed unthinkable, but then Lady Grace came to the quarterdeck rail and she stared straight at Sharpe, looked pointedly at Cromwell, then back to Sharpe and he knew she was thinking the same unthinkable thought. ‘Are we going to fight?’ a passenger asked.

A seaman laughed. ‘Can’t fight a French seventy-four! And she’ll have big guns, not like our eighteen-pounders.’

‘Can we outrun her?’ Sharpe asked.

‘If we’re lucky.’ The man spat overboard.

Cromwell kept giving the helmsman orders, demanding a point closer to the wind or three points off the wind, and to Sharpe it seemed that the captain was trying to coax the last reserves of speed from the Calliope, but the sailors on the foredeck were disgusted. ‘Just slows us down,’ one of them explained. ‘Every time you turn the rudder it slows you. He should leave well alone.’ He looked at Sharpe. ‘I should hide that glass, sir. Some Frenchie would like that, and yon ship has the legs of us.’

Sharpe ran below. He would have to fetch his jewels from Cromwell’s cabin, but there were other things he also wanted to save and so he stuffed the precious telescope inside his shirt and tied his red officer’s sash across it, then he pulled on his red coat, buckled his sword belt and pushed the pistol into his trouser pocket. Other passengers were trying to hide their more valuable possessions, the children were crying, and then, far away, muffled by distance and the ship’s hull, Sharpe heard a gun.

He climbed back to the main deck and asked Cromwell’s permission to be on the quarterdeck. Cromwell nodded, then looked with amusement at Sharpe’s sabre. ‘Expecting a fight, Mister Sharpe?’

‘Can I retrieve my valuables from your cabin, Captain?’ Sharpe asked.

Cromwell scowled. ‘All in good time, Sharpe, all in good time. I’m busy now and will thank you to let me try and save the ship.’

Sharpe went to the rail. The French ship still looked a long way off, but now Sharpe could see the seas breaking white at the enemy’s stem and a shredding puff of smoke drifting just ahead of its bows. ‘They fired’ – Major Dalton, his heavy claymore at his waist, joined Sharpe at the rail – ‘but the ball fell a long mile short. Tufnell says they weren’t trying to hit us, they just want us to heave to.’

Ebenezer Fairley came to Sharpe’s other side. ‘We should have stayed with the convoy,’ he spat in disgust.

‘A ship like that,’ Dalton said, gazing at the French warship’s massive flank which was thick with gunports, ‘could have chewed up the whole convoy.’

‘We’d have sacrificed the Company frigate,’ Fairley said. ‘That’s what the frigate is for.’ He drummed nervous fingers on the rail. ‘She’s a fast sailor.’

‘So are we,’ Major Dalton said.

‘She’s bigger,’ Fairley said brusquely, ‘and bigger ships sail faster than small ones.’ He turned. ‘Captain!’