all, he had to survive. Because there had been treachery and Sharpe wanted revenge.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sharpe went to Cromwell’s cabin as the Revenant was lowering the first of her boats. The cabin door was ajar, but Cromwell was not inside. Sharpe tried to lift the big chest’s lid, but it was locked. He went back to the quarterdeck, but the captain was not there either and the first French longboat was already pulling towards the Calliope.
Sharpe hurried back to the captain’s cabin where he found Lord William standing irresolute. His lordship disliked speaking to Sharpe, but forced himself to sound civil. ‘Have you seen Cromwell?’
‘He’s disappeared,’ Sharpe said curtly as he stooped to the chest. The large size of the keyhole suggested the lock was Indian-made, which was good, for Indian locks were simple to pick, but he knew it could well be a European lock with an Indian faceplate which could prove trickier. He fished in his pocket and brought out a short length of bent steel that he inserted into the lock.
‘What’s that?’ Lord William asked.
‘A picklock,’ Sharpe said. ‘I’ve always carried one. Before I became respectable I used to earn my living this way.’
Lord William sniffed. ‘Hardly something to boast about, Sharpe.’ He paused, expecting Sharpe to answer, but the only sound was the small scraping of the pick against the lock’s levers. ‘Maybe we should wait for Cromwell?’ Lord William suggested.
‘He’s got valuables of mine in here,’ Sharpe said, probing with the steel to discover the levers. ‘And the bloody Frogs will be here soon. Move, you awkward bastard!’ This last was to the first lever rather than to Lord William.
‘You will find a bag of cash in there, Sharpe,’ Lord William said. ‘It was too large to conceal, so I permitted Cromwell …’ His voice tailed away as he realized he was explaining too much. He hesitated as the first lever clicked dully, then watched as Sharpe, holding that lever back with the blade of his folding knife, worked on the second. ‘You say you entrusted valuables to Cromwell?’ Lord William enquired, sounding surprised, as if he could not imagine Sharpe possessing anything worthy of such protection.
‘I did,’ Sharpe said, ‘more fool me.’ The second lever slipped back and Sharpe heaved up the chest’s heavy lid.
The stench of old unwashed clothes assailed him. He grimaced, then threw aside a filthy boat cloak and layers of dirty shirts and undergarments. Cromwell, it seemed, washed nothing aboard the Calliope, but simply let the laundry accrete in the chest until he reached shore. Sharpe tossed more and more garments aside until he had reached the chest’s bottom. There were no jewels. No diamonds, no rubies, no emeralds. No bag of cash. ‘The bastard,’ he said bitterly, and unceremoniously pushed past Lord William to seek Cromwell on deck.
He was too late. The captain was already at the maindeck entry port where he was greeting a tall French naval officer who was resplendent in a gilded blue coat, red waistcoat, blue breeches and white stockings. The Frenchman took off his salt-stained cocked hat as a courtesy to Cromwell. ‘You yield the ship?’ he asked in good English.
‘Don’t have much bloody choice, do I?’ Cromwell said, glancing at the Revenant, which had opened four of her gunports to deter anyone aboard the Calliope from attempting a futile resistance. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Capitaine Montmorin.’ The Frenchman bowed. ‘Capitaine Louis Montmorin and you have my sympathy, monsieur. And you are?’
‘Cromwell,’ Cromwell grunted.
Montmorin, the French captain of whom Captain Joel Chase had spoken so admiringly, now talked to his seamen who had followed him up the Calliope’s side to fill the ship’s waist. Once he had given them their orders he looked back to Cromwell. ‘Do I have your word, Captain, that neither you nor your officers will attempt anything rash?’ He waited until Cromwell had offered a grudging nod, then smiled. ‘Then your crew will go to the forecastle, you and your officers will retire to your quarters and all passengers will return to their cabins.’ He left Cromwell by the entry port and climbed to the quarterdeck. ‘I apologize for the inconvenience, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said courteously, ‘but you must go to your cabins. You, gentlemen’ – he had turned to look at Sharpe and Dalton who were the only men on the quarterdeck in military uniform – ‘you are British officers?’
‘I am Major Dalton.’ Dalton stepped forward, then gestured to Sharpe who still stood beside the wheel. ‘And that is my colleague, Mister Sharpe.’
Dalton had begun to draw his claymore to offer a formal surrender, but Montmorin frowned and shook his head as if to suggest he required no such gesture. ‘Do you give me your word that you will obey my orders, Major?’
‘I do,’ Dalton said.
‘Then you may keep your swords.’ Montmorin smiled, but his elegant courtesy was given an edge of steel by three French marines in blue coats who now climbed to the quarterdeck and pointed their muskets at Dalton.
The major stepped back, gesturing that Sharpe should join him. ‘Stay with me,’ he said softly.
Montmorin had now registered Lady Grace’s presence and he greeted her by removing his hat again and offering a sweeping bow. ‘I am sorry, ma’am, that you should be inconvenienced.’ Lady Grace appeared not to notice the Frenchman’s existence, but Lord William spoke to Montmorin in fluent French, and whatever he said seemed to amuse the French captain who bowed a second time to Lady Grace. ‘No one,’ Montmorin announced in a loud voice, ‘will be molested. So long as you co-operate with the prize crew. Now, ladies and gentlemen, to your cabins if you please.’
‘Captain!’ Sharpe called. Montmorin turned and waited for Sharpe to speak. ‘I want Cromwell,’ Sharpe said and started towards the quarterdeck steps. Cromwell looked alarmed, but then a French marine barred Sharpe’s path.
‘To your cabin, monsieur,’ Montmorin insisted.
‘Cromwell!’ Sharpe called and he tried to force his way past the marine, but a second bayonet faced him and Sharpe was driven back.
Pohlmann and Mathilde, alone among the stern passengers, had not been on the quarterdeck when the Frenchmen came aboard, but now they emerged and with them was the Swiss servant who was no longer dressed in sombre grey but wore a sword like any gentleman. He greeted Montmorin in fluent French and the Revenant’s captain offered the so-called servant a deep bow, and then Sharpe saw no more because the French marines were ushering the passengers off the deck and Sharpe reluctantly followed Dalton to the major’s cabin, which was twice the size of Sharpe’s quarters and partitioned with wood instead of canvas. It was furnished with a bed, bureau, chest and chair. Dalton gestured that Sharpe should sit on the bed, hung his sword and belt on the back of the door and uncorked a bottle. ‘French brandy,’ he said unhappily, ‘to console ourselves for a French victory.’ He poured two glasses. ‘I thought you’d be more comfortable here than down in the ship’s cellar, Sharpe.’
‘It’s kind of you, sir.’
‘And to be truthful,’ the elderly major said, ‘I’d be glad of some company. I fear these next hours are liable to be tedious.’
‘I fear they
