SHARPE’S DEVIL. Bernard Cornwell

He was helpless, he was penniless, and he had just come ten thousand bloody miles for nothing.

The frigate, with its cargo of gold, sailed on that evening’s tide. Sharpe and Harper were put to work on a capstan that raised one of the anchors, then sent down to the gundeck where they helped to stack nine- and twelve-pounder shots in the ready racks about the frigate’s three masts. They worked till their muscles were sore and sweat was stinging their eyes, but they had no other choice. The dice had rolled badly, there was no other explanation, and the two men must knuckle under. Which did not mean they had to be subservient. A huge scarred beast of a man, a one-eyed seaman who was an evident leader of the forecastle, came to look them over, and such was the man’s power that the Bosun’s mates quietly edged back into the shadows when he gestured them away.

“My name’s Balin,” the huge man said, “and you’re English.”

“I’m English,” Sharpe said, ”he’s Irish.”

Balin jerked his head to order Harper aside. “I’ve no quarrel with the Irish,” he said, “but I’ve no love for Englishmen. Though mind you,” he took a step forward, ducking under the deck beams, “I like English clothes. That’s a fine coat, Englishman. I’ll take it.” He held out a broad hand. Two score of seamen made a ring to hide what happened from any officers who might come down to the deck. “Come on!” Balin insisted.

“I don’t want trouble,” Sharpe spoke very humbly, “I just want to get home safely.”

“Give me your coat,” Balin said, “and there’s no trouble.”

Sharpe glanced left and right at the unfriendly faces in the gundeck’s gloom. Night had fallen, and the only lights were a few glass-shielded lanterns that hung above the guns, and the flickering flames made the seamen’s faces even more grim than usual. “If I give you the coat,” Sharpe asked, “you’ll keep me from trouble?”

“I’ll cuddle you to sleep, diddums,” Balin said, and the men laughed.

Sharpe nodded. He took off the fine green coat and held it out to the massive man. “I don’t want trouble. My friend and I just want to get home. We didn’t ask to be here, we don’t want to be here, and we don’t want to make enemies.”

“Of course you don’t,” Balin said scornfully, reaching for the good kerseymere coat, and the moment his hand took hold of the material Sharpe brought up his right boot, hard and straight, the kick hidden by the coat until the instant it slammed into Balin’s groin. The big man grunted, mouth open, and Sharpe rammed his head forward, hearing and feeling the teeth break under his forehead’s blow. He had his hands in Balin’s crotch now, squeezing, and Balin began to scream. Sharpe let go with one hand and used that hand like an axe on the big man’s neck. Once, twice, harder a third time, and finally Balin went down, bleeding and senseless. Sharpe kicked him, breaking a rib, then slammed the heel of his right boot into the one-eyed face, thus breaking Balin’s nose. The seaman’s hand fluttered on the deck, so for good measure Sharpe stamped on the fingers, shattering them. Then he stooped, plucked a good bone-handled knife from Balin’s belt, picked his coat up from the deck and looked around. “Does anyone else want an English coat?” Harper had stunned a man who tried to intervene, and now stooped and took that man’s knife for himself. The other seamen backed away. Balin groaned horribly, and Sharpe felt a good deal better as well as a good deal safer. From now on, he knew, he and Harper would be treated with respect. They might have made enemies, but those enemies would be exceedingly cautious from now on.

That night, as the frigate’s bows slathered into the great rollers and exploded spray past the galley and down to the guns in the ship’s waist, Sharpe and Harper sat by the beakhead and watched the clouds shred past the stars. “Do you think that shithead Bautista invented the letter?” Harper asked.

“No.”

“So it was Boney who wrote it?” Harper sounded disappointed.

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