become evident to the government. The major obstacles to that ambition are the remaining Mahratta states, particularly those governed by Holkar. Let me be specific. Can those states prevent us from annexing their territory?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Be explicit, please.’ Lord William had drawn a clean sheet of paper towards him and had the pen poised.
Sharpe took a deep breath. ‘They are brave men, my lord,’ he said, risking an irritated glance, ‘but that ain’t enough. They don’t understand how to fight in our way. They think the secret is artillery, so what they do, sir, is line up all their guns in a great row and put the infantry behind them.’
‘We don’t do that?’ Lord William asked, sounding surprised.
‘We put the guns at the sides of the infantry, sir. That way, if the other infantry attacks, we can rake them with crossfire. Kill more men that way, my lord.’
‘And you,’ Lord William said acidly as his pen raced over the paper, ‘are an expert on killing. Go on, Sharpe.’
‘By putting their guns in front, sir, they give their own infantry the idea that they’re protected. And when the guns fall, sir, which they always do, the infantry lose heart. Besides, sir, our lads fire muskets a good deal faster than theirs, so once we’re past the guns it’s really just a matter of killing them.’ Sharpe watched the pen scratch, waited until his lordship dipped it into the inkwell again. ‘We like to get close, my lord. They shoot volleys at a distance, and that’s no good. You have to march up close, very close, till you can smell them, then start firing.’
‘You’re saying their infantry lack the discipline of ours?’
‘They lack the training, sir.’ He thought about it. ‘And no, they’re not as disciplined.’
‘And doubtless,’ Lord William said pointedly, ‘they do not use the lash. But what if their infantry was properly led? By Europeans?’
‘It can be good then, sir. Our sepoys are as good, but the Mahrattas don’t take well to discipline. They’re raiders. Pirates. They hire infantry from other states, and a man never fights so well when he’s not fighting for his own. And it takes time, my lord. If you gave me a company of Mahrattas I’d want a whole year to get them ready. I could do it, but they wouldn’t like it. They’d rather be horsemen, my lord. Irregular cavalry.’
‘So you do not think we need take Monsieur Vaillard’s errand to Paris too seriously?’
‘I wouldn’t know, my lord.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. Did you recognize Pohlmann, Sharpe?’
The question took Sharpe utterly by surprise. ‘No,’ he blurted with too much indignation.
‘Yet you must have seen him’ – Lord William paused to sort through the papers – ‘at Assaye.’ He found the name which, Sharpe suspected, he had never forgotten.
‘Only through a telescope, my lord.’
‘Only through a telescope.’ Lord William repeated the words slowly. ‘Yet Chase assures me you were very certain in your identification of him. Why else would this man-of-war be racing through the Atlantic?’
‘It just seemed obvious, my lord,’ Sharpe said lamely.
‘The workings of your mind are a constant mystery to me, Sharpe,’ Lord William said, writing as he spoke. ‘I shall, of course, moderate your opinions by talking to more senior men when I reach London, but your jejune thoughts will make a first draft possible. Perhaps I shall talk to my wife’s distant cousin, Sir Arthur.’ The pen scratched steadily. ‘Do you know where my wife is this afternoon, Mister Sharpe?’
‘No, my lord,’ Sharpe said, and was about to ask how he could be expected to know, but bit his tongue in case he heard the wrong answer.
‘She has a habit of vanishing,’ Lord William said, his grey eyes now steady on Sharpe.
Sharpe said nothing. He felt like a mouse under a cat’s gaze.
Lord William turned to look at the bulkhead which divided the dining cabin from Sharpe’s cabin. He could have been gazing at the picture of Chase’s old frigate, the Spritely, which hung there. ‘Thank you, Sharpe,’ he said, looking back at last. ‘Close the door firmly, will you? The latch is imperfectly aligned with its socket.’
Sharpe left. He was sweating. Did Lord William know? Had Braithwaite really written a letter? Jesus, he thought, Jesus. Playing with fire. ‘Well?’ Captain Chase had come to stand beside him, an amused expression on his face.
‘He wanted to know about the Mahrattas, sir.’
‘Don’t we all?’ Chase enquired sweetly. He looked up at the sails, leaned to see the compass, smiled. ‘The ship’s orchestra is giving a concert tonight on the forecastle,’ he said, ‘and we’re all invited to attend after supper. Do you sing, Sharpe?’
‘Not really, sir.’
‘Lieutenant Peel sings. It’s a pleasure to hear him. Captain Llewellyn should sing, being Welsh, but doesn’t, and the lower-deck larboard gun crews make a splendid choir, though I shall have to order them not to sing the ditty about the admiral’s wife for fear of offending Lady Grace, yet even so it should be a wonderful evening.’
Grace had left his cabin. Sharpe closed the door, shut his eyes and felt the sweat trickle beneath his shirt. Playing with fire.
Two mornings later there was an island visible far off to the south and west. The Revenant must have passed quite close to the island in the night, but at dawn she was well to its north. Cloud hung above the small scrap of grey which was all Sharpe could see of the island’s summit through his telescope. ‘It’s called St Helena,’ Chase told him, ‘and belongs to the East India Company. If we weren’t otherwise engaged, Sharpe, we’d make a stop there for water and vegetables.’
Sharpe gazed at the ragged scrap of land isolated in an immensity of ocean. ‘Who lives there?’
‘Some miserable Company officials, a handful of morose families, and a few wretched black slaves. Clouter was a slave there. You should ask him about it.’
‘You freed him?’
‘He freed himself. Swam out to us one night, climbed the anchor cable and hid away till we were at sea. I’ve no doubt the East India Company would like him back, but they can whistle in the wind for him. He’s far too good a seaman.’
There were a score of black seamen like Clouter aboard, another score of lascars, and a scattering of Americans, Dutchmen, Swedes, Danes and even two Frenchmen. ‘Why would a man be called Clouter?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Because he clouted someone so hard that the man didn’t wake up for a week,’ Chase said, amused, then took the speaking trumpet from the rail and hailed Clouter who was among the men lounging on the forecastle. ‘Would you like me to put in to St Helena, Clouter? You can visit your old friends.’
Clouter mimed cutting his throat and Chase laughed. It was small gestures like that, Sharpe reckoned, that made the Pucelle a happy ship. Chase was easy in command and that ease did not diminish his authority, but simply
