Sharpe’s Trafalgar: The Battle of Trafalgar, 21 October 1805

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘I shall try. Plant a couple in a warm spot of the garden and who knows?’ Chase poured coffee and stretched out his long legs. He was curious why Sharpe, a man in his late twenties, should only be an ensign, but he made the enquiry with an exquisite tact and once he discovered that Sharpe had been promoted from the ranks he was genuine in his admiration. ‘I once had a captain who’d come up through the hawsehole,’ he told Sharpe, ‘and he was damned good! Knew his business. Understood what went on in the dark places where most captains dare not look. I reckon the army’s lucky in you, Sharpe.’

‘I’m not sure they think so, sir.’

‘I shall whisper in some ears, Sharpe, though if I don’t catch the Revenant there’ll be precious few who’ll listen to me.’

‘You’ll catch her, sir.’

‘I pray so, but she’s a fast beast. Fast and slippery. All French ships are. God knows, the buggers can’t sail them, but they do know how to build ’em. French ships are like French women, Sharpe. Beautiful and fast, but hopelessly manned. Have some mustard.’ Chase pushed the jar across the table, then petted a skinny black kitten as he stared past the palm trees towards the sea. ‘I do like coffee,’ he said, then pointed out to sea. ‘There’s the Calliope.’

Sharpe looked, but all he could see was a mass of shipping far out in the harbour beyond the shallower water which was busy with scores of bumboats, launches and fishing craft.

‘She’s the one drying her topsails,’ Chase said, and Sharpe saw that one of the far ships had hung out her topmost sails, but at this distance she looked like the other dozen East Indiamen that would sail home together to protect themselves against the privateers who haunted the Indian Ocean. From the shore they looked like naval ships, for their hulls were banded black and white to suggest that massive broadsides were concealed behind closed gunports, but the ruse would not mislead any privateer. Those ships, their hulls stuffed with the riches of India, were the greatest prizes any corsair or French naval captain could wish to take. If a man wanted to live and die rich then all he needed to do was capture an Indiaman, which is why the great ships sailed in convoy.

‘Where’s your ship, sir?’ Sharpe asked.

‘Can’t see her from here.’ Chase said. ‘She’s careened on a mudbank on the far side of Elephanta Island.’

‘Careened?’

‘Tipped on her side so we can polish her bum.’

‘What’s she called?’

Chase looked abashed. ‘Pucelle,’ he said.

‘Pucelle? Sounds French.’

‘It is French, Sharpe. It means a virgin.’ Chase pretended to be offended as Sharpe laughed. ‘You’ve heard of la Pucelle d’Orléans?’ he asked.

‘No, sir.’

‘The maid of Orleans, Sharpe, was Joan of Arc, and the ship was named for her and I just trust she doesn’t end up like Joan, burned to a crisp.’

‘But why would you name a boat for a Frenchwoman, sir?’ Sharpe asked.

‘We didn’t. The Frogs did. She was a French boat till Nelson took her at the Nile. If you capture a ship, Sharpe, you keep the old name unless it’s really obnoxious. Nelson took the Franklin at the Nile, an eighty-gun thing of great beauty, but the navy will be damned if it has a ship named after a traitorous bloody Yankee so we call her the Canopus now. But my ship kept her name, and she’s a lovely beast. Lovely and fast. Oh my God, no.’ He sat up straight, staring towards the road. ‘Oh, God, no!’ These last words were prompted by the sight of an open carriage that had slowed and now stopped just beyond the garden gate. Chase, who had been genial until this moment, suddenly looked bitter.

A man and a woman were seated in the carriage which was driven by an Indian dressed in yellow and black livery. Two native footmen, arrayed in the same livery, now hurried to open the carriage door and unfold the steps, allowing the man, who was dressed in a white linen jacket, to step down to the pavement. A beggar immediately swung on short crutches and calloused stumps towards the carriage, but one of the footmen fended the man off with a sharp kick and the coachman completed the rout with his whip. The white-jacketed man was middle-aged and had a face that reminded Sharpe of Sir Arthur Wellesley. Maybe it was the prominent nose, or perhaps it was the cold and haughty look the man wore. Or perhaps it was just that everything about him, from his carriage to the liveried servants, spoke of privilege.

‘Lord William Hale,’ Chase said, investing every syllable with dislike.

‘Never heard of him.’

‘He’s on the Board of Control,’ Chase explained, then saw Sharpe’s raised eyebrow. ‘Six men, Sharpe, who are appointed by the government to make certain that the East India Company doesn’t do anything foolish. Or rather that, if it does, no blame attaches itself to the government.’ He looked sourly at Lord William who had paused to speak with the woman in the carriage. ‘That’s his wife and I’ve just brought the two of them from Calcutta so they could go home on the same convoy as yourself. You should pray they aren’t on the Calliope.’

Lord William was grey-haired and Sharpe assumed his wife would also be middle-aged, but when she lowered her white parasol Sharpe had a clear view of her ladyship and the breath was checked in his throat. She was much younger than Lord William, and her pale, slender face had a haunting beauty, almost a sadness, that struck Sharpe with the force of a bullet. He stared at her, entranced by her.

Chase smiled at Sharpe’s smitten expression. ‘She was born Grace de Laverre Gould, third daughter of the Earl of Selby. She’s twenty years younger than her husband, but just as cold.’

Sharpe could not take his eyes from her ladyship, for she was truly beautiful; breathtakingly, achingly, untouchably beautiful. Her face was pale as ivory, sharp-shadowed as she leaned towards her husband, and framed by heavy loops of black hair that were pinned to appear artless, but which even Sharpe could tell must have taken her maid an age to arrange. She did not smile, but just gazed solemnly into her husband’s face. ‘She looks sad rather than cold,’ Sharpe said.

Chase mocked the wistfulness in Sharpe’s voice. ‘What does she have to be sad about? Her beauty is her fortune, Sharpe, and her husband is as rich as he is ambitious as he is clever. She’s on her way to being wife of the Prime Minister so long as Lord William doesn’t put a foot wrong and, believe me, he steps as lightly as a cat.’

Lord William concluded the conversation with his wife, then gestured for a footman to open Chase’s gate. ‘You might have taken a house with a carriage drive,’ he admonished the naval captain as he strode up the short path. ‘It’s devilish annoying being pestered by beggars every time one makes a call.’

‘Alas, my lord, we sailors are so inept on land. I cannot entice your wife to take some coffee?’

‘Her ladyship is not well.’ Lord William ran up the verandah steps, gave Sharpe a careless glance, then held a hand towards Chase as if expecting to be given something. He must have noted the blood that was still crusted in Chase’s fair hair, but he made no mention of it. ‘Well, Chase, can you settle?’

Chase reluctantly found the big leather bag which held the coins he had taken from Nana Rao and counted out a substantial portion that he gave to Lord William. His lordship shuddered at the thought of handling the grubby currency, but forced himself to take the money and pour it into his coat’s tail pockets. ‘Your note,’ he said, and handed Chase a scrap of paper. ‘You haven’t received new orders, I suppose?’

‘Alas no, my lord. We are still ordered to find the Revenant.’

‘I was hoping you’d be going home instead. It is crucial I reach London quickly.’ He frowned, then, without another word, turned away.

‘You did not give me a chance, my lord,’ Chase said, ‘to introduce my particular friend, Mister Sharpe.’

Lord William bestowed a second brief look at Sharpe and his lordship saw nothing to contradict his first opinion that the ensign was penniless and powerless, for he merely looked, calculated and glanced away without offering any acknowledgement, but in that brief meeting of eyes Sharpe had received an impression of force, confidence and arrogance. Lord William was a man who had more than his share of power, he wanted more and he would not waste time on those who had nothing to give him.

‘Mister Sharpe served under Sir Arthur Wellesley,’ Chase said.

‘As did many thousands of others, I believe,’ Lord William said carelessly, then frowned. ‘There is a service you can do me, Chase.’

‘I am, of course, entirely at your lordship’s convenience,’ Chase said politely.

‘You have a barge and a crew?’

‘All captains do,’ Chase said.

‘We must reach the Calliope. You could take us there?’

‘Alas, my lord, I have promised Mr Sharpe the barge,’ Chase said, ‘but I am sure he will gladly share it with you. He too is bound for the Calliope.’

‘I’d be happy to help,’ Sharpe said.

Lord William’s expression suggested that Sharpe’s help was the last thing he would ever require. ‘We shall let our present arrangements stand,’ he told Chase and, wasting no more time, stalked away.

Chase laughed softly. ‘Share a boat with you, Sharpe? He’d rather sprout wings and fly.’

‘I wouldn’t mind sharing a boat with her,’ Sharpe said, staring at the Lady Grace who was gazing fixedly ahead as a score of beggars whimpered a safe distance from the coachman’s stinging whip.

‘My dear Sharpe,’ Chase said, watching the carriage draw away, ‘you will be sharing that lady’s company for at least four months and I doubt you will even see her. Lord William claims she suffers from delicate nerves and is averse to company. I had her on board the Pucelle for near a month and might have seen her twice. She sticks to her cabin, or else walks the poop at night when no one can accost her, and I will wager you a month of your wages to a year of mine that she will not even know your name by the time you reach England.’

Sharpe smiled. ‘I don’t wager.’

‘Good for you,’ Chase said. ‘Like a fool I played too much whist in the last month. I promised my wife I wouldn’t plunge heavily, and God punished me for it. Dear me, what a fool I am! I played almost every night between Calcutta and here and lost a hundred and seventy guineas to that rich bastard. My own fault,’ he admitted ruefully, ‘and I won’t succumb again.’ He reached out to touch the wood of the table top as if he did not trust his own resolve. ‘But cash is always short, isn’t it? I’ll just have to capture the Revenant and earn myself some decent prize money.’