night, Mister Sharpe, they meet and talk. Just the two of them. They
come in here after midnight and sit across the table from each other and talk. And
sometimes the baron’s manservant is here with them.” She paused. “I frequently find it hard
to sleep and if the night is fine I will go on deck. I hear them through the skylight. I don’t
eavesdrop,” she said acidly, “but I hear their voices.”
“So they know each other a great deal better than they pretend?” Sharpe said.
“So it would seem,” she answered.
“Odd, ma’am,” Sharpe said.
She shrugged as if to suggest that Sharpe’s opinion was of no interest to her. “Perhaps
they merely play backgammon,” she said distantly.
She again looked as though she would leave and Sharpe hurried to keep the conversation
going. “The baron did tell me he might go to live in France, ma’am.”
“Not London?”
“France or Hanover, he said.”
“But you can hardly expect him to confide in you,” she said scornfully, “on the basis
of your very slight acquaintance.” She stood.
Sharpe pushed back his chair and hurried to open the door. She nodded thanks for his
courtesy, but a sudden wave heaved the Calliope and made Lady Grace stagger and Sharpe
instinctively put a hand out to check her and the hand encircled her waist and took her
weight so that she was leaning against him with her face just inches from his. He felt a
terrible desire to kiss her and he knew she would not object for, though the ship
steadied, she did not step away. Sharpe could feel her slender waist beneath the soft
material of her dress. His mind was swimming because her eyes, so large and serious,
were on his, and once again, as he had the very first time he glimpsed her, he sensed a
melancholy in her face, but then the quarterdeck door banged open and Cromwell’s steward
swore as he carried a tray toward the cuddy. Lady Grace twisted from Sharpe’s arm and,
without a word, went through the door.
“Raining buckets, it is,” the steward said. “A bloody fish would drown on deck, I tell
you.”
“Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, “bloody hell.” He picked the decanter up by the neck, tipped it
to his mouth and drained it.
The wind and rain stayed high throughout the night. Cromwell had shortened sail at
nightfall and those few passengers who braved the deck at dawn found the Calliope plunging
beneath low dark clouds from which black squalls hissed across a white-capped sea. Sharpe,
lacking a greatcoat, and unwilling to soak his coat or shirt, went on deck bare-chested.
He turned toward the quarterdeck and respectfully bowed his head in acknowledgment of
the unseen captain, then half ran and half walked toward the forecastle where the
breakfast burgoo waited to be fetched. He found a group of sailors at the galley, one of
them the gray-haired commander of number five gun, who greeted Sharpe with a
tobacco-stained grin. “We’ve lost the convoy, sir.”
“Lost it?”
“Gone to buggery, ain’t it?” The man laughed. “And not by accident if I knows a thing
about it.”
“And what do you know about it, Jem?” a younger man asked.
“More’n you know, and more’n you’ll ever learn.”
“Why no accident?” Sharpe asked.
Jem ducked his head to spit tobacco juice. “The captain’s been at the wheel since
midnight, sir, so he has, and he’s been steering us hard south’ards. Had us on deck in dark
of night, hauling the sails about. We be running due south now, sir, instead of
sou’west.”
“The wind changed,” a man observed.
“Wind don’t change here!” Jem said scornfully. “Not at this time of year! Wind here be
steady as a rock out of the nor’east. Nine days in ten, sir, out the nor’east. You don’t need
to steer a ship out of Bombay, sir. You clear the Balasore Roads, hang your big rags up the
sticks, and this wind’ll blow you to Madagascar straight as a ball down a tavern
come in here after midnight and sit across the table from each other and talk. And
sometimes the baron’s manservant is here with them.” She paused. “I frequently find it hard
to sleep and if the night is fine I will go on deck. I hear them through the skylight. I don’t
eavesdrop,” she said acidly, “but I hear their voices.”
“So they know each other a great deal better than they pretend?” Sharpe said.
“So it would seem,” she answered.
“Odd, ma’am,” Sharpe said.
She shrugged as if to suggest that Sharpe’s opinion was of no interest to her. “Perhaps
they merely play backgammon,” she said distantly.
She again looked as though she would leave and Sharpe hurried to keep the conversation
going. “The baron did tell me he might go to live in France, ma’am.”
“Not London?”
“France or Hanover, he said.”
“But you can hardly expect him to confide in you,” she said scornfully, “on the basis
of your very slight acquaintance.” She stood.
Sharpe pushed back his chair and hurried to open the door. She nodded thanks for his
courtesy, but a sudden wave heaved the Calliope and made Lady Grace stagger and Sharpe
instinctively put a hand out to check her and the hand encircled her waist and took her
weight so that she was leaning against him with her face just inches from his. He felt a
terrible desire to kiss her and he knew she would not object for, though the ship
steadied, she did not step away. Sharpe could feel her slender waist beneath the soft
material of her dress. His mind was swimming because her eyes, so large and serious,
were on his, and once again, as he had the very first time he glimpsed her, he sensed a
melancholy in her face, but then the quarterdeck door banged open and Cromwell’s steward
swore as he carried a tray toward the cuddy. Lady Grace twisted from Sharpe’s arm and,
without a word, went through the door.
“Raining buckets, it is,” the steward said. “A bloody fish would drown on deck, I tell
you.”
“Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, “bloody hell.” He picked the decanter up by the neck, tipped it
to his mouth and drained it.
The wind and rain stayed high throughout the night. Cromwell had shortened sail at
nightfall and those few passengers who braved the deck at dawn found the Calliope plunging
beneath low dark clouds from which black squalls hissed across a white-capped sea. Sharpe,
lacking a greatcoat, and unwilling to soak his coat or shirt, went on deck bare-chested.
He turned toward the quarterdeck and respectfully bowed his head in acknowledgment of
the unseen captain, then half ran and half walked toward the forecastle where the
breakfast burgoo waited to be fetched. He found a group of sailors at the galley, one of
them the gray-haired commander of number five gun, who greeted Sharpe with a
tobacco-stained grin. “We’ve lost the convoy, sir.”
“Lost it?”
“Gone to buggery, ain’t it?” The man laughed. “And not by accident if I knows a thing
about it.”
“And what do you know about it, Jem?” a younger man asked.
“More’n you know, and more’n you’ll ever learn.”
“Why no accident?” Sharpe asked.
Jem ducked his head to spit tobacco juice. “The captain’s been at the wheel since
midnight, sir, so he has, and he’s been steering us hard south’ards. Had us on deck in dark
of night, hauling the sails about. We be running due south now, sir, instead of
sou’west.”
“The wind changed,” a man observed.
“Wind don’t change here!” Jem said scornfully. “Not at this time of year! Wind here be
steady as a rock out of the nor’east. Nine days in ten, sir, out the nor’east. You don’t need
to steer a ship out of Bombay, sir. You clear the Balasore Roads, hang your big rags up the
sticks, and this wind’ll blow you to Madagascar straight as a ball down a tavern