said in a low voice, ‘I have requested you to comply with my wishes. If needs be, I can insist.’
‘No need to insist, sir,’ Sharpe said, for, in truth, Cromwell was right in suggesting that every sharp-eyed sailor in the ship would note the badly hidden jewels. Each and every day Sharpe was aware of the stones, and they were a burden to him and would stay a burden until he could sell them in London, and that burden would be lifted if he yielded the stones into the Company’s keeping. Besides, he had been reassured by the fact that Pohlmann had entrusted so many jewels to the captain’s keeping. If Pohlmann, who was nobody’s fool, trusted Cromwell then Sharpe surely could.
Cromwell gave him a small pair of scissors and Sharpe cut the hem of his coat. He did not reveal the stones in his waistband, nor in his boots, for they were not obvious to even a searching glance, but he did place on the table a growing heap of rubies, diamonds and emeralds that he stripped from the red coat’s seams.
Cromwell separated the stones into three piles, then weighed each pile on a small and delicate balance. He carefully noted the results, locked the jewels away, then gave Sharpe a receipt which both he and Sharpe had signed. ‘I thank you, Mister Sharpe,’ Cromwell said gravely, ‘for you have made my mind easier. The purser will find a seaman who can sew up your coat,’ he added, standing.
Sharpe also stood, ducking his head under the low beams. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I’ve no doubt I’ll see you at dinner soon. The baron seems fond of your company. You know him well?’
‘I met him once or twice in India, sir.’
‘He seems a strange man, not that I know him at all. But an aristocrat? Dirtying his hands with trade?’ Cromwell shuddered. ‘I suppose they do things differently in Hanover.’
‘I imagine they do, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mister Sharpe.’ Cromwell tucked his keys into a pocket and nodded to indicate that Sharpe could leave.
Major Dalton was on the quarterdeck, revelling in the gun practice. ‘No one’s matched your marksmanship, Sharpe,’ the Scotsman said. ‘I’m proud of you! Upholding the honour of the army.’
Lady Grace gave Sharpe one of her disinterested glances, then turned back to look at the horizon. ‘Tell me, sir,’ Sharpe said to the major, ‘would you trust an East India captain?’
‘If you can’t trust such a man, Sharpe, then the world is coming to an end.’
‘We wouldn’t want that, sir, would we?’
Sharpe gazed at Lady Grace. She stood beside her husband, lightly touching his arm to keep her balance on the swaying deck. Dog and cat, he thought.
And he felt like being scratched.
CHAPTER THREE
The boredom on the ship was palpable.
Some passengers read, but Sharpe, who still found reading difficult, obtained no relief from the few books he borrowed from Major Dalton, who spent his time making notes for a memoir he planned to write about the war against the Mahrattas. ‘I doubt anyone will read it, Sharpe,’ the major admitted modestly, ‘but it would be a pity if the army’s successes were not recorded. You would oblige me with your best recollections?’
Some of the men passed the time by practising with small arms or fighting mock duels with sword and sabres up and down the main deck until they were running with sweat. During the second week of the voyage there was a sudden enthusiasm for target practice, using the ship’s heavy sea-service muskets to fire at empty bottles hurled into the waves, but after five days Captain Cromwell declared that the fusillades were depleting the Calliope’s powder stores and the pastime ceased. Later that week a seaman claimed to have spied a mermaid at dawn and for a day or two the passengers hung on the rails vainly searching the empty sea for another glimpse. Lord William scornfully denied the existence of such creatures, but Major Dalton had seen one when he was a boy. ‘It was exhibited in Edinburgh,’ he told Sharpe, ‘after the poor creature had washed ashore on Inchkeith Rock. It was a very dark room, I remember, and she was somewhat hairy. Bedraggled, really. She was very ill-smelling, but I recall her tail and seem to remember she was very well endowed above.’ He blushed. ‘Poor lass, she was dead as a bucket.’
A strange sail was sighted one morning and there was an hour’s excitement as the gun crews mustered, the convoy clumsily closed up and the Company frigate set her studdingsails to investigate the stranger, which turned out to be an Arab dhow on course for Cochin and certainly no threat to the big Indiamen.
The passengers in the stern, the rich folk who inhabited the roundhouse and the great cabin, played whist. Another group played the game in steerage, but Sharpe had never learned to play and, besides, was not tempted to wager. He was aware that large sums were being won and lost, and though it was forbidden by the Company rules, Captain Cromwell made no objection. Indeed he sometimes played a hand himself. ‘He wins,’ Pohlmann told Sharpe, ‘he always wins.’
‘And you lose?’
‘A little.’ Pohlmann shrugged as though it did not matter.
Pohlmann was sitting on one of the lashed guns. He often came and talked with Sharpe, usually about Assaye where he had suffered such a great defeat. ‘Your William Dodd,’ he told Sharpe, ‘claimed that Sir Arthur was a cautious general. He isn’t.’ He always called Dodd ‘your William Dodd’, as though the renegade redcoat had been a colleague of Sharpe’s.
‘Wellesley’s bull-headed,’ Sharpe said admiringly. ‘He sees a chance and snatches it.’
‘And he’s gone home to England?’
‘Sailed last year,’ Sharpe said. Sir Arthur, as befitted his rank, had sailed on the Trident, Admiral Rainier’s flagship, and was probably in Britain by now.
‘He will be bored at home,’ Pohlmann said.
‘Bored? Why?’
‘Because our dour Captain Cromwell is right. Britain cannot fight France in Europe. She can fight her at the ends of the world, but not in Europe. The French army, my dear Sharpe, is a horde. It is not like your army. It doesn’t depend on jailbirds, failures and drunkards, but is conscripted. It is therefore huge.’
Sharpe grinned. ‘The jailbirds, failures and drunkards cooked your goose.’
‘So they did,’ Pohlmann acknowledged without taking offence, ‘but they cannot stand against the vast armies of France. No one can. Not now. And when the French decide to build a proper navy, my friend, then you will see the world dance to their tunes.’
‘And you?’ Sharpe asked. ‘Where will you be dancing?’
‘Hanover?’ Pohlmann suggested. ‘I shall buy a big house, fill it with women and watch the world from my windows. Or perhaps I shall live in France. The women are more beautiful there and I have learned one thing in my life, Sharpe, and that is that women do like money. Why do you think Lady Grace married Lord William?’ He jerked his head towards the quarterdeck where Lady Grace, accompanied by her maid, walked up and down. ‘How goes your campaign with the lady?’
‘It doesn’t,’ Sharpe grunted, ‘and there isn’t a campaign.’
Pohlmann laughed. ‘Then why do you accept my invitations to supper?’
The truth, and Sharpe knew it, was that he was obsessed with the Lady Grace. From the moment he woke in the morning until he finally slept he thought of little but her. She seemed untouchable, unemotional, unapproachable, and that only made his obsession worse. She had spoken to him once, then never again, and when Sharpe did meet her at suppertime in the captain’s cuddy and tried to engage her in conversation she turned away as though his presence offended her.
Sharpe