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

‘No!’ Lieutenant Tufnell protested.

‘I can’t believe it, Sharpe,’ the major said, but his face showed that he did believe it. ‘I mean, the baron, yes! He’s a foreigner. But Cromwell?’

‘I’ve no doubt it was the baron’s idea, sir. He probably talked to all the convoy’s captains when they were waiting in Bombay and found his man in Cromwell. Now they’ve stolen the passengers’ jewellery, sold the ship and deserted. Why else has the baron gone to the Revenant? Why didn’t he stay with the rest of the passengers?’ He almost called him Pohlmann, but remembered just in time.

Dalton sat on the empty table. ‘Cromwell was looking after a watch for me,’ he said sadly. ‘Rather a valuable one that belonged to my dear father. It kept uncertain time, but it was precious to me.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Nothing we can do,’ Dalton said bleakly. ‘We’ve been fleeced, Sharpe, fleeced!’

‘Not by Cromwell, surely!’ Tufnell said in wonderment. ‘He was so proud of being English!’

‘It’s just that he loves money more than his country,’ Sharpe said sourly.

‘And you told me yourself that he could have tried harder to evade the Revenant,’ Dalton pointed out to Tufnell.

‘He could, sir, he could,’ Tufnell admitted, appalled at Cromwell’s betrayal.

They went to Ebenezer Fairley’s cabin and the merchant grunted when he heard Sharpe’s tale, but did not seem unduly surprised. ‘I’ve seen folk beggar their own families for a slice of profit. And Peculiar was always a greedy man. Come in, the three of you. I’ve got brandy, wine, rum and arrack that needs drinking before those French buggers find it.’

‘I hope Cromwell was not carrying any of your valuables?’ Dalton asked solicitously.

‘Do I look like a blockhead?’ Fairley demanded. ‘He tried! He even told me I had to give him my valuables under Company rules, but I told him not to be such a damned fool!’

‘Quite,’ Dalton said, thinking of his father’s watch. Sharpe said nothing.

Fairley’s wife, a plump and motherly woman, expressed a hope that the French would provide supper. ‘It’ll be nothing fancy, mother,’ Fairley warned his wife, ‘not like we’ve been getting in the cuddy. It’ll be burgoo, don’t you reckon, Sharpe?’

‘I imagine so, sir.’

‘God knows how their lordships will like that!’ Fairley said, jerking his head up towards Lord William’s cabin before offering Sharpe a sly glance. ‘Not that her ladyship seems to mind mucking it.’

‘I doubt she’ll like burgoo,’ Dalton said earnestly.

It was almost nightfall before the French had emptied the Calliope of all they wanted. They took powder, cordage, spars, food, water and all the Calliope’s boats, but left the cargo intact for that, like the ship itself, would be sold in Mauritius. The last boat rowed back to the warship, then the Frenchman loosed her topsails and chanting seamen hauled out the foresails to catch the wind and turn the ship westwards as the other sails were loosed. Men waved from the quarterdeck as the black and yellow ship drew away.

‘Gone towards the Cape of Good Hope,’ Tufnell said morosely. ‘Looking for the China traders, I don’t doubt.’

The Calliope, now with the French tricolour hoisted above the Company ensign, began to move. She went slowly at first, for her prize crew was small and it took them over half an hour to loose all the Indiaman’s sails, but by dusk the great ship was sailing smoothly eastwards in a light wind.

Two of the Calliope’s own seamen were allowed to bring supper to the passengers and Fairley invited the major, Tufnell and Sharpe to eat in his cabin. The meal was a pot of boiled oats thickened with salt beef fat and dried fish that Fairley declared was the best meal he had yet eaten on board. He saw his wife’s distaste. ‘You ate worse than this when we were first married, mother.’

‘I cooked for you when we were first married!’ she answered indignantly.

‘You think I’ve forgotten?’ Fairley asked, then spooned another mouthful of burgoo.

The light was fading in the cabin as they ate supper, but none of the prize crew bothered to ascertain whether any of the passengers were using lanterns and so Fairley lit every lamp he could find and hung them in the stern windows. ‘There are supposed to be British ships in this ocean,’ he declared, ‘so let them see us.’

‘Give me some lanterns,’ Sharpe said, ‘and I’ll hang them in the baron’s window.’

‘Good lad,’ Fairley said.

‘And you might as well sleep there, Sharpe,’ the major said. ‘I can give you a blanket.’

‘We’ll give you a blanket, lad, and sheets,’ Fairley insisted, and his wife opened a travelling chest and handed Sharpe a heap of bedding while Fairley fetched two lanterns from the passageway outside his cabin. ‘Do you need a tinderbox?’

‘I have one,’ Sharpe said.

‘At least you get a good cabin for a day or two,’ Fairley said, ‘though God knows how we’ll make out in Mauritius. Bed bugs and French lice, I dare say. I was in Calais once for a night and I’ve never seen a room so filthy. You remember that, mother? You were costive for a week afterwards.’

‘Henry!’ Mrs Fairley remonstrated.

Sharpe climbed the stairs and took possession of Pohlmann’s big empty cabin. He lit the two lanterns, placed them on the stern seat, then made the bed. The tiller ropes creaked. He opened one of the windows, banging the frame to loosen the swollen wood, and stared down at the Calliope’s flattened wake. A thin moon lit the sea and silvered some small clouds, but no ships were visible. Above him a Frenchman laughed on the poop deck. Sharpe took off his sabre and coat, but he was too tense to sleep and so he just lay on the bed and stared at the white-painted planks above him and thought of Grace next door. He supposed that she and her husband would sleep apart, as they had on every other night, and he wondered how he could let her know that he was now ensconced in luxury.

Then he became aware of raised voices coming from the neighbouring quarters and he swung off the bed and crouched beside the thin wooden partition. There were at least three men in the foremost cabin, all speaking in French. Sharpe could make out Lord William’s voice, which sounded angry, but he had no idea of what was being said. Perhaps his lordship was complaining about the food, and that thought made Sharpe smile. He went back to the bed and just then Lord William yelped. It was an odd sound, like a dog. Sharpe was on his feet again, bracing himself against the slow roll of the ship. There was a silence. Once more Sharpe crouched by the flimsy wooden partition and heard a French voice saying a word over and over. Bee-joo, it sounded like. Lord William spoke, his voice muffled, then grunted as if he had been hit in the belly and had all the wind driven from him.

Sharpe heard the door between Lord William’s two cabins open and close. There was a click as the locking hook was dropped into its eye. A Frenchman’s voice sounded again, this time from the stern cabin that shared the wide window with Sharpe’s makeshift quarters. Lady Grace answered him in French, apparently protesting, then she screamed.

Sharpe stood. He expected to hear Lord William intervene, but there was silence, then Grace gave a second scream which was abruptly stifled and Sharpe hurled himself at the partition. He could have gone into the corridor and back into the next-door cabin, but breaking down the panelled partition was the quickest way to reach Grace and so he hammered it with his shoulder and the thin wood splintered and Sharpe tore his way through, bellowing as though he went into battle.

Which he did, for Lieutenant Bursay was on the bed where he was holding down Lady Grace. The tall lieutenant had torn her dress open at the neck and was now trying to rip it further while, at the same time, keeping one hand over her mouth. He turned to see Sharpe, but he was much too slow, for Sharpe was already on the lieutenant’s broad back with his left hand tangled in Bursay’s greasy hair. He hauled the Frenchman’s head back and chopped the side of his right hand onto the lieutenant’s neck. He hit him once, twice, then Bursay heaved Sharpe off and twisted to swing a huge fist. Someone hammered on the cabin door, but Bursay had locked it.

Bursay had taken off his coat and sword belt, but he seized the cutlass handle, dragged the blade free and slashed at Sharpe. Lady Grace was hunched at the head of the bed, clutching the remnants of her dress to her neck. There were pearls scattered on the bed. Bursay had evidently come to plunder Lord William’s possessions and found Grace the most delectable.

Sharpe threw himself back through the ruins of the bulkhead. His own sabre was on the bed and he dragged it from the scabbard and swung the blade as the big Frenchman clambered through the splintered panels. Bursay parried the stroke, then, as the sound of the blades still echoed in the cabin, he charged at Sharpe.

Sharpe tried to spear the sabre into Bursay’s belly, but the lieutenant contemptuously swatted the steel away and punched the hilt of the cutlass into Sharpe’s head. The blow made Sharpe reel, scattering his vision with sparks and darkness as he fell backwards. He rolled desperately to his right as the cutlass chopped down into the deck, then he swung the sabre in a wild, backhanded and clumsy stroke that did no damage, but served to make Bursay step back. Sharpe scrambled to his feet, his head still ringing, and heard the locked door between Lord William’s two cabins being broken down. Bursay grinned. He was so tall that he had to stoop beneath the deck beams, but he was confident, for he had hurt Sharpe, who was staggering slightly. The cutlass hilt had drawn blood which trickled from Sharpe’s forehead down his cheek. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, knowing that this brute of a man was just as savage and quick as he was himself. The lieutenant ducked under a beam and lunged at Sharpe, who parried, then Bursay snarled and charged, the cutlass sweeping like a reaping hook, and Sharpe threw himself back against the cabin’s forward bulkhead and the Frenchman knew he had won, except that Sharpe bounced back from the wall, his sabre held like a spear, and stretched forward so that the curved tip ripped into Bursay’s throat. Sharpe swerved to his left to avoid the cutlass’s heavy riposte and it seemed to him that his thrust had not done any real damage, for he had felt no resistance to the blade, but Bursay was wavering and blood was pouring down his coat. The Frenchman’s right arm fell so that the cutlass tip struck the deck. He stared at Sharpe with an expression of puzzlement and put his left hand to his neck where the blood was pulsing dark and then, with a lurch, he fell to his knees and made a gurgling sound. A marine kicked through the shattered bulkhead and stared wide-eyed at the big lieutenant, who was looking up at Sharpe in faint surprise. Then, as if pole-axed, Bursay fell hard forward and a wash of blood spilt across the deck and vanished between the cracks.

The marine raised his musket, but just then an authoritative voice snapped in French and the man lowered the gun. Major Dalton thrust the marine aside and saw Bursay’s body which was still twitching. ‘You did this?’ the major asked, kneeling and lifting the lieutenant’s head, then dropping it swiftly as more blood welled from the wound in the neck.

‘What else was I to do with him?’ Sharpe asked belligerently. He wiped the sabre’s tip on the hem of his coat, then pushed past the marine and peered through the broken bulkhead to see that Lady Grace was still crouched on the bed, her hands at her throat, shaking. ‘It’s all right, my lady,’ he said, ‘it’s over.’

She stared at him. Dalton spoke in French to the marine, evidently ordering the man to report to the quarterdeck, then Lord William peered round the shattered partition, saw the corpse and looked up at Sharpe’s bloodied face. ‘What …’ he began, but then was bereft of words. There was a graze on Lord William’s cheek where he had been struck by Bursay. The Frenchman was unmoving now. Lady Grace was still sobbing, gasping huge breaths, then whimpering.

Sharpe tossed his sabre onto Pohlmann’s bed, and stepped past Lord William. ‘It’s all right, my lady,’ he said again, ‘he’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘He’s dead.’

A silk embroidered dressing gown, presumably Lord William’s, was hung over the foot of the bed and Sharpe tossed it to Lady Grace. She draped it about her shoulders, then began shaking again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Nothing for you to be sorry about, my lady,’ Sharpe said.

‘You will leave this cabin, Sharpe,’ Lord William said coldly. He was shaking slightly and a trickle of blood traced his jawbone.

Lady Grace turned on her husband. ‘You did nothing!’ she spat at him. ‘You did nothing!’