Sharpe's Trafalgar by Bernard Cornwell Page B

alley,

    sir.”
    “So why has he turned south?” Sharpe asked.
    “Because we’re a fast ship, sir, and it was grating Peculiar’s nerves to be tied to them

    slow old tubs of the convoy. You watch him, sir, he’ll have us hanging our shirts in the

    rigging to catch the wind and we’ll fly home like a seagull.” He winked. “First ship home

    gets the best prices for the cargo, see, sir?”
    The cook ladled the burgoo into Sharpe’s cauldron and Jem opened the forecastle door

    for Sharpe who almost collided with Pohlmann’s servant, the elderly man who had been so

    relaxed on his master’s sofa on the first night Sharpe had visited the cabin.
    “Pardonnez-moi,” the servant said instinctively, stepping hastily back so that

    Sharpe did not spill the burgoo down his gray clothes.
    Sharpe looked at him. “Are you French?”
    “I’m Swiss, sir,” the man said respectfully, then stood aside, though he still looked at

    Sharpe, who thought the man’s eyes were not like a servant’s eyes. They were like Lord

    William’s eyes, confident, clever and knowing. “Good morning, sir,” the servant said

    respectfully, offering a slight bow, and Sharpe stepped past him and carried the

    steaming burgoo down the rain-slicked main deck toward the aft companionway.
    Cromwell chose that moment to appear at the quarterdeck rail and, just as Jem had

    forecast, he wanted every stitch of sail aloft. He bellowed at the topmen to start

    climbing, then took a speaking trumpet from the rail and hailed the first lieutenant who

    was making his way forward. “Fly the jib boom spritsail, Mister Tufnell. Lively now!

    Mister Sharpe, you’ll oblige me by getting dressed. This is an Indiaman, not some sluttish

    Tyne collier.”
    Sharpe went below to eat breakfast and when he came back to the deck, properly dressed,

    Cromwell had gone to the poop from where he was watching north for fear that the Company

    frigate might appear to order him back to the convoy, but neither Cromwell, nor the men

    aloft, saw any sign of the other ships. It appeared that Cromwell had escaped the convoy

    and could now let Calliope show her speed. And show it she did, for every sail that had been

    handed at nightfall was now back on the yards, stretching to the wet wind, and the Calliope

    seemed to churn the sea to cream as she raced southward.
    The wind moderated during the day and the clouds scudded themselves ragged so that by

    nightfall the sky was again clear and the sea was blue green instead of gray. There was an

    air of ebullience on board, as though by freeing itself of the convoy the Calliope had

    brightened everyone’s life. There was the sound of laughter in steerage, and cheers when

    Tufnell rigged wind scoops to air out the fetid decks. Passengers joined the seamen in

    dances below the forecastle as the sun sank in a blaze of orange and gold.
    Pohlmann brought Sharpe a cigar before supper. “I won’t invite you to eat with us

    tonight,” he said. “Joshua Fazackerly is donating the wine, which means he will feel

    entitled to bore us all with his legal recollections. It will likely prove a tedious

    meal.” He paused, blowing a plume of smoke toward the mainsail. “You know why I liked the

    Mahrattas? There were no lawyers among them.”
    “No law, either,” Sharpe said.
    Pohlmann gave him a sideways glance. “True. But I like corrupt societies, Richard. In a

    corrupt society the biggest rogue wins.”
    “So why go home?”
    “Europe is being corrupted,” Pohlmann said. “The French talk loudly of law and reason,

    but beneath the talk there is nothing but greed. I understand greed, Richard.”
    “So where will you live?” Sharpe asked. “London, Hanover or France?”
    “Maybe in Italy? Maybe Spain? No, not Spain. I could not stomach the priests. Maybe I shall

    go to America? They say rogues do well there.”
    “Or perhaps you’ll live in France?”
    “Why not? I have no quarrel with France.”
    “You