Sharpe's Trafalgar by Bernard Cornwell
“Captain! Sir! Captain!” It was Harry Collier, erupting into sight on the weather deck from beneath the quarterdeck.
“Calm down, Mister Collier,” Chase said. “The ship isn’t on fire, is it?”
“No, sir. It’s Mister Braithwaite, sir, he’s dead, sir!” Everyone on the quarterdeck stared down at the small boy.
“Go on, Mister Collier,” Chase said. “He can’t have just died! Men don’t just die. Well, the master did, but he was old. Braithwaite was young. Did he fall? Was he strangled? Did he kill himself? Enlighten me.”
“He fell in the hold, sir, looks like he broke his neck. Off the ladder, sir.”
“Careless,” Chase said, and turned away.
Lord William frowned, did not know what to say, so turned on his heel and stalked back toward the dining cabin, then thought better of it and hurried back to the railing. “Midshipman?”
“Sir?” Collier hauled off his cocked hat. “My lord?”
“Was there a piece of paper in his hand?”
“I didn’t see, sir.”
“Then pray look, Mister Collier, pray look,” Lord William said, “and bring it to my cabin if you find such a thing.” He walked away again. Lady Grace looked at Sharpe who met her eye, kept his expression neutral, then turned to gaze up the mainmast.
The body was brought onto the deck. It was plain that poor Braithwaite had slipped off the ladder and fallen, breaking his neck in the process, but it was strange, the surgeon commented with a frown, that the secretary had dislocated both his arms.
“Caught them in the ladder’s rungs?” Sharpe suggested.
“That could be so, that could be so,” Pickering allowed. He did not seem convinced, but nor was he minded to probe the mystery. “But at least it was a quick end.”
“One hopes so,” Sharpe said piously.
“Probably struck his head on a barrel.” Pickering twisted the corpse’s head, looking for a mark, but finding none. He stood up, dusting his hands. “Happens once every voyage,” he said cheerfully, “sometimes more. We have practical jokers, Mister Sharpe, who like to grease the rungs with soap. Usually when they believe the purser might be using a ladder. It usually ends with a broken leg and much hilarity, but our Mister Braithwaite was less fortunate.” He wrenched the dislocated arms back into place. “Ugly sort of bugger, wasn’t he?”
Braithwaite’s body was stripped and then placed in his sleeping cot and the sailmaker sewed a stretch of old, frayed sailcloth as a lid for the makeshift coffin. The final stitch, as was customary, was threaded through the corpse’s nose to make certain he was truly dead. Three eighteen-pounder cannon balls had been placed in the coffin that was laid on a plank beside the starboard entry port.
Chase read the service for the dead. The Pucelle’s officers, hats off, stood respectfully about the makeshift coffin which had been covered with a British flag. Lord William and Lady Grace stood beside the entry port. “We therefore commit his body to the deep,” Chase read solemnly, “to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at his coming shall change our vile body that it might be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.” Chase closed the prayer book and looked at Lord William who nodded his thanks, then spoke a few well-chosen words that described Braithwaite’s excellent moral character, his assiduity as a confidential secretary and Lord William’s fervent hopes that Almighty God would receive the secretary’s soul into a life of eternal bliss. “His loss,” Lord William finished, “is a sad, sad blow.”
“So it is,” Chase said, then nodded at the two seamen who crouched beside the plank and they obediently lifted it so that the coffin slid out from beneath the flag. Sharpe heard the edge of the cot strike against the sill of the entry port, then there was a splash.
Sharpe looked at Lady Grace, who looked back, expressionless.
“Hats on,” Chase said.
The officers went away to their duties while the seamen carried away the flag and plank. Lady Grace turned toward the quarterdeck steps and Sharpe, left alone, went to the rail and stared down into the sea.
“The Lord giveth”—Lord William Hale was suddenly beside Sharpe—”and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Sharpe, astonished that his lordship should deign to speak to him, was silent for a few seconds. “I’m sorry about your secretary, my lord.”
Lord William looked at Sharpe who was again struck by his lordship’s resemblance to Sir Arthur Wellesley. The same cold eyes, the same hooked nose that looked like a hawk’s beak, but something in Lord William’s face now suggested amusement, as though his lordship was privy to information that Sharpe did not possess. “Are you really sorry, Sharpe?” Lord William asked. “That’s good of you. I spoke well of him just now, but what else could I say? In truth he was a narrow man, envious, inefficient and inadequate to his duties and I doubt the world will much regret his passing.” Lord William pulled his hat on as if to walk away, then turned back to Sharpe. “It occurs to me, Sharpe, that I never thanked you for the service you did for my wife on the Calliope. That was remiss of me, and I apologize. I also thank you for that service, and will thank you further if we do not speak of it again.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Lord William walked away. Sharpe watched him, wondering if there was some game being played that he was unaware of. He remembered Braithwaite’s claim to have left a letter among Lord William’s papers, then dismissed that idea as a lie. Sharpe reckoned he was seeing dangers where there were none and so he shrugged the conversation away and climbed, first to the quarterdeck and then to the poop where he stood at the taffrail and watched the wake dissipate in the sea.
He heard the footsteps behind him and knew who they belonged to before she came to the rail where, like him, she stared at the sea. “I’ve missed you,” she said softly.
“And I you,” Sharpe said. He gazed at the ship’s wake which rippled the place where a shrouded body sank under a stream of bubbles toward an unending darkness.
“He fell?” Lady Grace asked.
“So it seems,” Sharpe said, “but it must have been a very quick death, which is a blessing.”
“Indeed it is,” she said, then turned to Sharpe. “I find the sun tire-somely hot.”
“Maybe you should go below. My cabin is cooler, I think.”
She nodded, looked into his eyes for a few seconds, then abruptly turned and went.
Sharpe waited five minutes, then followed.
The Pucelle, if anyone could have seen her from out where the flying fish splashed down into the waves, looked beautiful that afternoon. Warships were not elegant. Their hulls were massive, making their masts seem disproportionately short, but Captain Chase had hung every sail high in the wind and those royals, studdingsails and skyscrapers added enough bulk aloft to balance the big yellow and black hull. The gilding on her stern and the silver paint on her figurehead reflected the sun, the yellow on her flanks was bright, her deck was scrubbed pale and clean, while the water broke white at her stem and foamed briefly behind. Her seventy-four massive guns were hidden.
The rot and damp and rust and stench could not be detected 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 caldron 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
“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 smelled 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 8
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 homeward. 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 eastward 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 westward 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 eastward to offer battle, but Montmorin resisted the temptation. He would take his ship to France, or at least to a harbor 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 northward, 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 an elbow. They lay on blankets spread on the floor, for the hanging cot was too narrow. “So how many servants have you got?” he asked.
“In the country? Twenty-three, I think, but that’s just in the house. And in London? Fourteen, and then there are the coachmen and stable boys. I’ve no idea how many of those there are. Six or seven perhaps?”
“I lose count of mine, too,” Sharpe said, then flinched. “That hurt!”
“Shh!” she whispered. “Chase will hear. Did you ever have a servant?”
“A little Arab boy,” Sharpe said, “who wanted to come to England with me. But he died.” He lay silent, marveling at the touch of her skin on his. “What does your maid think you’re doing?”
“Lying down in the dark with orders not to be disturbed. I say the sun give
He smiled. “So what will you do when it rains?”
“I’ll say the rain gives me a headache, of course. Not that Mary cares. She’s in love with Chase’s steward, so she’s glad I don’t need her. She haunts his pantry.” Grace ran a finger down Sharpe’s belly. “Maybe they’ll run away to sea together?”
Sometimes it seemed to Sharpe that he and Grace had run away to sea, and they played a game where they pretended the Pucelle was their private ship and its crew their servants and that they would forever be sailing forgiving seas under sunny skies. They never spoke of what waited at journey’s end, for then Grace must go back to her lavish world and Sharpe to his place, and he did not know whether he would ever see her again. “We are like children, you and I,” Grace said more than once, a note of wonder in her voice, “irresponsible, careless children.”
In the mornings Sharpe exercised with the marines, in the afternoons he slept, and in the evening he ate his supper with Chase, then waited impatiently until Lord William was in his laudanum-induced sleep and Grace could come to his door. They would talk, sleep, make love, talk again. “I haven’t had a bath since Bombay,” she said one night with a shudder.
“Nor have I.”
“But I’m used to having baths!’ she said.
“You smell good to me.”
“I stink,” she said. “I stink, and the whole ship stinks. And I miss walking. I love to walk in the country. If I had my way I would never see London again.”
“You’d like the army,” Sharpe said. “We’re always going for long walks.”