Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3 - Bernard Cornwell

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from the outside, but inside the ship the stink was no longer noticed. In the forecastle the ship’s last three goats were milked for the captain’s supper. In the bilge the water slopped. Rats were born, fought and died in the hold’s deep darkness. In the magazine a gunner sewed powder bags for the guns, oblivious of a whore who plied her trade between the two leather screens that protected the magazine’s door from an errant spark. In the galley the cook, one-eyed and syphilitic, shuddered at the smell of some badly salted beef, but put it in the cauldron anyway, while in his cabin at the stern of the weather deck Captain Llewellyn dreamed of leading his marines in a glorious charge that would capture the Revenant. Four bells of the afternoon watch sounded. On the quarterdeck a seaman cast the log, a lump of wood, and let the line trail fast from its reel. He counted the knots in the line as they vanished over the rail, chanting the numbers aloud while an officer peered at a pocket watch. Captain Chase went to his day cabin and tapped the barometer. Still rising. The off-duty watch slept in their hammocks, swaying together like so many cocoons. The carpenter scarfed a piece of oak into a gun carriage while in Chase’s sleeping cabin an ensign and a lady lay in each other’s arms.

      ‘Did you kill him?’ Lady Grace asked Sharpe in a whisper.

      ‘Would it matter if I did?’

      She traced a finger down the scar on his face. ‘I hated him,’ she whispered. ‘From the day he came into William’s employment he just watched me. He would drool.’ She shuddered suddenly. ‘He told me if I went to his cabin he would keep silent. I wanted to slap him. I almost did, but I thought he’d tell William everything if I struck him, so I just walked away. I hated him.’

      ‘And I killed him,’ Sharpe said softly.

      She said nothing for a while, then she kissed the tip of his nose. ‘I knew you did. The very moment William asked me where he was I knew you had killed him. Was it really quick?’

      ‘Not very,’ Sharpe admitted. ‘I wanted him to know why he was dying.’

      She thought about that for a while, then decided she did not mind if Braithwaite’s end had been slow and painful. ‘No one’s killed for me before,’ she said.

      ‘I’d carve my way through a bloody army for you, lady,’ Sharpe said, then again remembered Braithwaite’s claim that he had left a letter for Lord William and again dismissed his fears, reckoning that the claim had been nothing more than a desperate effort by a doomed man to cling onto life. He would not mention it to Lady Grace.

      The sun westered, casting the intricate shadow of shrouds and halliards and sails and masts on the green sea. The ship’s bell counted the half-hours. Three seamen were brought before Captain Chase, accused of various sins, and all three had their rum rations suspended for a week. A marine drummer boy cut his hand playing with a cutlass and the surgeon bandaged it, then clipped him about the ear for being a bloody little fool. The ship’s cats slept by the galley stove. The purser smelt a cask of water, recoiled from its stench, but chalked a sign on the barrel decreeing that it was drinkable.

      And just after the sun set, when the west was a furnace blaze, a last bright ray was reflected off a distant sail.

      ‘Sail on the larboard quarter!’ the lookout shouted. ‘Sail on the larboard quarter.’

      Sharpe did not hear the cry. At that moment he would not have heard the last trump, but the rest of the ship heard the news and seemed to quiver with excitement. For the hunt was not lost, it still ran, and the quarry was again in sight.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

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      The happy days followed.

      The far ship was indeed the Revenant. Chase had never seen the French warship at close quarters and, try as he might, he could not bring the Pucelle near enough to see her name, but some of the seamen pressed from the Calliope recognized the cut of the Frenchman’s spanker sail. Sharpe stared through his glass and could see nothing strange about that vast sail which hung at the stern of the enemy ship, but the seamen were certain it had been ill-repaired and, as a consequence, hung unevenly. Now the Frenchman raced the Pucelle homewards. The ships were almost twins and neither could gain an advantage on the other without the help of weather and the god of winds sent them an equal share.

      The Revenant was to the west and the two ships sailed northwest to clear the great bulge of Africa and Chase reckoned that would grant the Pucelle an advantage once they were north of the equator for then the Frenchman must come eastwards to make his landfall. At night Chase worried he would lose his prey, but morning after morning she was there, ever on the same bearing, sometimes hull down, sometimes nearer, and none of Chase’s seamanship could close the gap any more than Montmorin’s skills could open it. If Chase edged westwards to try and narrow the distance between them then the French ship would inch ahead and Chase would revert to his previous course and curse the lost ground. He prayed constantly that Montmorin would turn eastwards to offer battle, but Montmorin resisted the temptation. He would take his ship to France, or at least to a harbour belonging to France’s ally, Spain, and the men he carried would spur the French into another attempt to make India a British graveyard.

      ‘He’ll still have to get through our blockade,’ Chase said after supper one evening, then shrugged and tempered his optimism. ‘Though that shouldn’t be difficult.’

      ‘Why not?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘It ain’t a close blockade off Cadiz,’ Chase explained. ‘The big ships stay well out to sea, beyond the horizon. There’ll only be a couple of frigates inshore and Montmorin will brush those aside. No, we have to catch him.’ The captain frowned. ‘You can’t move a pawn sideways, Sharpe!’

      ‘You can’t?’ They spoke during the first watch which, perversely, ran from eight in the evening until midnight, a time when Chase craved company, and Sharpe had become accustomed to sharing brandy with the captain who was teaching him to play chess. Lord William and Lady Grace were frequent guests, and Lady Grace enjoyed playing the game and was evidently good at it, for she always made Chase frown and fidget as he stared at the board. Lord William preferred to read after supper, though he did once deign to play against Chase and checkmated him inside fifteen minutes. Holderby, the fifth lieutenant, was a keen player, and when he was invited for supper he liked helping Sharpe play against Chase. Sharpe and Lady Grace scrupulously ignored each other during those evenings.

      The trade winds blew them northwards, the sun shone, and Sharpe would ever remember those weeks as bliss. With Braithwaite dead, and Lord William Hale immersed in the report he was writing for the British government, Sharpe and Lady Grace were free. They used circumspection, for they had no choice, yet Sharpe still suspected the ship’s crew knew of their meetings. He dared not use her cabin, for fear that Lord William might demand entrance, but she would go to his, gliding across the darkened quarterdeck in a black cloak and usually waiting for the brief commotion as the watch changed until she slipped through Sharpe’s unlocked door which lay close enough to the first lieutenant’s quarters, where Lord William slept, for folk to assume it was there she went, but even so it was hard to remain unseen by the helmsmen. Johnny Hopper, the bosun of Chase’s crew, grinned at Sharpe knowingly, and Sharpe had to pretend not to notice, though he also reckoned the secret was safe with the crew for they liked him and universally disliked the contemptuous Lord William. Sharpe and Grace told each other that they were being discreet, but night after night and even sometimes by day they risked discovery. It was reckless, but neither could resist. Sharpe was delirious with love, and he loved her all the more because she made light of the vast gulf that separated them. She lay with him one afternoon, when a scrap of sunlight spearing through a chink in the scuttle’s deadlight was scribing an oval shape on the opposite bulkhead, and she mentally added up the number of rooms in her Lincolnshire house. ‘Thirty-six,’ she decided, ‘though that doesn’t include the front hall or the servants’ quarters.’

      ‘We never counted them at home either,’ Sharpe said, and grunted when she dug his ribs with

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