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

‘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 enquired, 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 maindeck 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 co-operate 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 towards 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 sombre grey 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 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.’