SHARPE’S TRAFALGAR. Bernard Cornwell. Sharpe’s Trafalgar: Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Trafalgar, October 21, 1805

A British sailor, his pigtail hanging almost to his waist, had watched the murder. “Were you supposed to do that, sir?”

“He wanted to learn to swim,” Sharpe said, bolstering the pistol.

“Frogs should be able to swim, sir,” the seaman said. “It’s their nature.” He stood beside Sharpe and stared down into the water. “But he can’t.”

“So he’s not a very good Frog,” Sharpe said.

“Only he looked rich, sir,” the sailor reproved Sharpe, “and we could have searched him before he went swimming.”

“Sorry,” Sharpe said, “I didn’t think.”

“And he’s drowning now,” the sailor said.

Vaillard splashed desperately, but his struggles only drove him under. Had he told the truth about his protected status as a diplomat? Sharpe was not sure, but if Vaillard had spoken the truth then it was better that he should drown here than be released to spread his poison in Paris. “Cadiz is that way!” Sharpe shouted down at the drowning man, pointing eastward, but Vaillard did not hear him. Vaillard was dying.

Pohlmann was already dead. Sharpe found the Hanoverian on the quarterdeck where he had shared the danger with Montmorin and had been killed early in the battle by a cannon ball that tore his chest apart. The German’s face, curiously untouched by blood, seemed to be smiling. A swell lifted the Revenant, rocking Pohlmann’s body. “He was a brave man,” a voice said, and Sharpe looked up to see it was Capitaine Louis Montmorin. Montmorin had yielded the ship to Chase, offering his sword with tears in his eyes, but Chase had refused to take the sword. He had shaken Montmorin’s hand instead, commiserated with the Frenchman and congratulated him on the fighting qualities of his ship and crew.

“He was a good soldier,” Sharpe said, looking down into Pohlmann’s face. “He just had a bad habit of choosing the wrong side.”

As had Peculiar Cromwell. The Calliope’s captain still lived. He looked scared, as well he might, for he faced trial and punishment, but he straightened when he saw Sharpe. He did not look surprised, perhaps because he had already heard of the Calliope’s fate. “I told Montmorin not to fight,” he said as Sharpe walked toward him. Cromwell had cut his long hair short, perhaps in an attempt to change his appearance, but there was no mistaking the heavy brows and long jaw. “I told him this fight was not our business. Our business was to reach Cadiz, nothing else, but he insisted on fighting.” He held out a tar-stained hand. “I am glad you live, Ensign.”

“You? Glad I live?” Sharpe almost spat the words into Cromwell’s face. “You, you bastard!” He seized Cromwell’s blue coat and rammed the man against the splintered gunwale planking beneath the poop. “Where is it?” he shouted.

“Where’s what?” Cromwell rejoined.

“Don’t bugger me, Peculiar,” Sharpe said. “You bloody well know what I want, now where the hell is it?”

Cromwell hesitated, then seemed to crumple. “In the hold,” he muttered, “in the hold.” He winced at the thought of this defeat. He had sold his ship because he believed the French would rule the world, and now he was in the middle of shattered French hopes. Near a score of French and Spanish ships had been taken and not a British ship had been lost but Peculiar Cromwell was lost.

“Clouter!” Sharpe saw the blood-streaked man climbing to the quarterdeck. “Clouter!”

“Sir?”

“What happened to your hand?” Sharpe asked. The tall black man had a blood-soaked rag twisted about his left hand.

“Cutlass,” Clouter said curtly. “Last man I fought. Took three fingers, sir.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He died,” Clouter said.

“You can hold this?” Sharpe asked, offering Clouter the hilt of his pistol. Clouter nodded and took the gun. “Take this bastard down to the hold,” Sharpe said, gesturing at Cromwell. “He’s going to give you some bags of jewels. Bring the stones to me and I’ll give you some for saving my life. There’s also a watch that belongs to a friend of mine, and I’d like both those, but if you find anything else, it’s yours.” He pushed Cromwell into the black man’s embrace. “And if he gives you any trouble, Clouter, kill the bastard!”

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