“Why didn’t you send it?” Sharpe asked.
Braithwaite looked offended at Sharpe’s curt tone. “We’re to be shipmates,” he explained earnestly, “for how long? Three, four months? And I don’t travel in the stern like his lordship, but have to sleep in the steerage, and lower steerage at that! Not even main-deck steerage.” He plainly resented that humiliation. The secretary was dressed as a gentleman, with a fashionable high stock and an elaborately tied cravat, but the cloth of his black coat was shiny, the cuffs were frayed and the collar of his shirt was darned. “Why should I make unnecessary enemies, Mister Sharpe?” Braithwaite asked. “If I scratch your back, then maybe you can do me a service.”
“Such as?”
Braithwaite shrugged. “Who knows what eventuality might arise?” he asked airily, then turned to watch the Baron von Dornberg come back down the forecastle steps. “They say he made a fortune in diamonds,” Braithwaite murmured to Sharpe, “and his servant isn’t expected to travel in steerage, but has a place in the great cabin.” He spat that last information, then composed his face and stepped forward to intercept the baron. “Malachi Braithwaite, confidential secretary to Lord William Hale,” he introduced himself as he raised his hat, “and most honored to meet your lordship.”
“The honor and pleasure are entirely mine,” the Baron von Dornberg answered in excellent English, then returned Braithwaite’s courtesy by removing his tricorne hat and making a low bow. Straightening, he looked at Sharpe and Sharpe found himself staring into a familiar face, though now that face was decorated with a big waxed mustache. He looked at the baron, and the baron looked astonished for a second, then recovered himself and winked at Sharpe.
Sharpe wanted to say something, but feared he would laugh aloud and so he simply offered the baron a stiff nod.
But von Dornberg would have none of Sharpe’s formality. He spread his powerful arms and gave Sharpe a bear-like embrace. “This is one of the bravest men in the British army,” he told his woman, then whispered in Sharpe’s ear. “Not a word, I beg you, not a pippy squeak.” He stepped back. “May I name the Baroness von Dornberg? This is Mister Richard Sharpe, Mathilde, a friend and an enemy from a long time ago. Don’t tell me you travel in steerage, Mister Sharpe?”
“I do, my lord.”
“I am shocked! The British do not know how to treat their heroes. But I do! You shall come and dine with us in the captain’s cuddy. I shall insist on it!” He grinned at Sharpe, offered Mathilde his arm, inclined his head to Braithwaite and walked on.
“I thought you said you didn’t know him!” Braithwaite said, aggrieved.
“I didn’t recognize him with his hat on,” Sharpe said. He turned away, unable to resist a grin. The Baron von Dornberg was no baron, and Sharpe doubted he had traded for any diamonds, no matter how many he carried, for von Dornberg was a rogue. His true name was Anthony Pohlmann and he had once been a sergeant in the Hanoverian army before he deserted for the richer service of an Indian prince, and his talent for war had brought him ever swifter promotion until, for a time, he had led a Mahratta army that was feared throughout central India. Then, one hot day, his forces met a much smaller British army between two rivers at a village called Assaye, and there, in an afternoon of dusty heat and red-hot guns and bloody slaughter, Anthony Pohlmann’s army had been shredded by sepoys and Highlanders. Pohlmann himself had vanished into the mystery of India, but now he was here on the Calliope as a celebrated passenger.
“How did you meet him?” Braithwaite demanded.
“Can’t remember now,” Sharpe said vaguely. “Somewhere or other. Can’t really remember.” He turned to stare at the shore. The land was black now, punctured by sparks of firelight and outlined by a gray sky smeared with a city’s smoke. He wished he was back there, but then he heard Pohlmann’s loud voice and turned to see the German introducing his woman to Lady Grace Hale.
Sharpe stared at her ladyship. She was above him, on the quarterdeck, seemingly oblivious of the folk crowded on the main deck below. She offered Pohlmann a limp hand, inclined her head to the fair-haired woman and then, without a word, turned regally away. “That is Lady Grace,” Braithwaite told Sharpe in an awed voice.